Snowdrift: A Story of the Land of the Strong Cold

By James B. Hendryx

'Snowdrift' is a romantic adventure novel starring the eponymous heroine and her lover, Carter Brent. Snowdrift was raised by a Native American tribe, and thought herself to be partly of their bloodline. One day, she encountered Brent, an alcoholic and gambler, who has a penchant for finding gold (and losing it right away due to his vices).

• Language: English
• Publisher: DigiCat
• Release date: Jul 21, 2022
• ISBN: 8596547091035

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James B. Hendryx

Snowdrift

A Story of the Land of the Strong Cold

EAN 8596547091035

DigiCat, 2022

Contact: [e-mail]

Table of Contents

A PROLOGUE

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER X

CHAPTER XI

CHAPTER XII

CHAPTER XIII

CHAPTER XIV

CHAPTER XV

CHAPTER XVI

CHAPTER XVII

CHAPTER XVIII

CHAPTER XIX

CHAPTER XX

CHAPTER XXI

CHAPTER XXII

CHAPTER XXIII

CHAPTER XXIV

A PROLOGUE

Table of Contents

I

Murdo MacFarlane, the Hudson's Bay Company's trader at Lashing Water post, laid aside his book and glanced across the stove at his wife who had paused in her sewing to hold up for inspection a very tiny shirt of soft wool.

I tell you it's there! It's bound to be there, he announced with conviction. Just waitin' for the man that's man enough to go an' get it.

Margot nodded abstractedly and deftly snipped a thread that dangled from a seam of a little sleeve. She had heard this same statement many times during the three years of their married life, and she smiled to herself as Molaire, her father, who was the Company's factor at Lashing Water, laid aside his well thumbed invoice with a snort of disgust. She knew her two men well, did Margot, and she could anticipate almost word for word the heated argument that was bound to follow. Without rising she motioned to Tom Shirts, the Company Indian, to light the great swinging lamp. And as the yellow light flooded the long, low trading room, she resumed her sewing, while Molaire hitched his chair nearer the stove and whittled a pipeful of tobacco from a plug.

There ye go again with ye're tomrot an' ye're foolishness! exploded the old Frenchman, as he threw away his match and crowded the swelling tobacco back into the bowl of his pipe. Always babblin' about the gold. Always wantin' to go an' find out for ye'reself it ain't there.

"But I'm tellin' you it is there," insisted MacFarlane.

Where is it, then? Why ain't it be'n got?

Because the right man ain't gone after it.

An' ye're the right man, I suppose! Still lackin' of twenty-five years, an' be'n four years in the bush; tellin' me that's be'n forty years in the fur country, an' older than ye before ever I seen it. Ye'll do better to ferget this foolishness an' stick to the fur like me. I've lived like a king in one post an' another—an' when I'm old I'll retire on my pension.

An' when I'm old, if I find the gold, I'll ask pension of no man. It ain't so much for myself that I want gold—it's for them—for Margot, there, an' the wee Margot in yon. He nodded toward the door of the living room where the year-old baby lay asleep.

Molaire shrugged: Margot has lived always in the bush. She needs no gold, an' the little one needs no gold. Gold costs lives. Come, Margot, speak up! Would ye send ye're man to die in the barrens for the gold that ain't there?

Margot paused in her sewing and smiled: I am not sending him into the barrens, she said. If he goes, I go, and the little Margot, too. If one dies, we all die together. But there must be gold there. Has not Murdo read it in books? And we have heard rumors of gold among the Indians.

Read it in books! sniffed Molaire. Rumors among Injuns! Ye better stick to fur, boy. Ye take to it natural. There's no better judge of fur in all the traders I've had. Before long the Company'll make ye a factor.

As young Murdo MacFarlane filled and lighted his pipe, his eyes rested with burning intensity upon his young wife. When finally he spoke it was half to himself, half to Molaire: When the lass an' I were married, back yon, to the boomin' of the bells of Ste. Anne's, I vowed me a vow that I'd do the best 'twas in me to do for her. An' I vowed it again when, a year later, the bells of Ste. Anne's rang out at the christening of the wee little Margot. Is it the best a man can do—to spend his life in the buyin' of fur for a wage, when gold 'twould pay for a kingdom lies hid in the sands for the takin'?

Molaire's reply was interrupted by a sound from without, and the occupants of the room looked at each other in surprise. For it was February and the North lay locked in the iron grip of the strong cold. Since mid-afternoon the north wind had roared straight out of the Arctic, driving before it a blue-white smother of powder-dry snow particles that cut and seared the skin like white-hot steel filings. MacFarlane was half way across the floor when the door opened and a man, powdered white from head to foot, stepped into the room in a swirl of snow fine as steam. With his hip he closed the door against the push of the wind, and advancing into the room, shook off his huge bear-skin mittens and unwound the heavy woolen scarf that encircled his parka hood and muffled his face to the eyes. The scarf, stiff with ice from his frozen breath, crackled as it unwound, and little ice-chips fell to the floor.

Ha, it's Downey, who else? Lad, lad, what a night to be buckin' the storm! cried the trader.

Corporal Downey, of the Royal North-West Mounted Police, grinned as he advanced to the stove. It was buck the storm to Lashin' Water post, or hole up in a black spruce swamp till it was over. She looks like a three days' storm, an' I prefer Lashin' Water.

Ye're well in time for supper, Corporal, welcomed Molaire, and the longer the storm lasts the better. For now we'll have days an' nights of real whist. We've tried to teach Tom Shirts to play, but he knows no more about it now than he knows about the ten commandments—an' cares less. So we've be'n at it three-handed. But three-handed whist is like a three-legged dog—it limps.

Neseka, the squaw, looked in from the kitchen to announce supper, and after ordering Tom to attend to the Corporal's dogs, Molaire clapped his hands impatiently to attract the attention of MacFarlane and Downey who were beating the snow from the latter's moose hide parka. Come, insisted the old man, ye're outfit'll have plenty time to dry out. The supper'll be cold, an' we're losin' time. We've wasted a hand of cards already.

Is the gold bug still buzzin' in your bonnet, Mac? asked Downey, as Molaire flourished the keen bladed carving knife over the roasted caribou haunch.

Aye, answered the young Scotchman. An' when the rivers run free in the spring, I'll be goin' to get it.

A long moment of silence followed the announcement during which the carving knife of Molaire was held suspended above the steaming roast. The old man's gaze centered upon his son-in-law's face, and in that moment he knew that the younger man's decision had been made, and that nothing in the world could change it. The words of Margot flashed through his brain: If he goes, I go, and the little Margot, too. If one dies, we all die together. His little daughter, the light of his life since the death of her mother years before—and the tiny wee Margot who had snuggled her way into his rough old heart to cheer him in his old age—going away—far and far away into the God-knows-where of bitter cold and howling blizzard—and all on a fool's errand! The keen blade bit the roast to the bone, raised, dripping red juice, and bit again.

"Mon Dieu, what a fool! breathed the old man, and as if in final appeal, turned to Corporal Downey, who had known him long, and who had guessed what was passing in his mind. Tell him, Downey, you know the North beyond the barrens. Tell him he is a fool!"

And Downey who was not old in years but very wise in the ways of men, smiled. He liked young Murdo MacFarlane, but he was a Scotchman himself and he knew the hard-headedness of the breed.

Well, a man ain't always a fool because he goes huntin' for gold. That's accordin'. Where is this gold, Mac? An' how do you know it's there?

It's there, all right—gold and copper, too. Didn't Captain Knight try to find it? And Samuel Hearne?

Yes, broke in Molaire, an' Knight's bones are bleachin' on Marble Island with his ships on the bottom of the Bay, an' Hearne came back empty handed.

That's why the gold is still there, answered MacFarlane.

Where 'bouts is it? insisted Downey.

Up in the Coppermine River country, to the north and east of Bear Lake.

How do you know?

The Injuns had chunks of it. That's what sent Knight and Hearne after it.

How long ago?

Captain Knight started in 1719, an' Hearne about fifty years later.

Gosh! exclaimed Downey. Ain't that figurin' quite a ways back?

Gold don't rot. If it was there then, it's there now. It's never been brought out.

"Yes—if it was there. But, maybe it ain't there an' never was—what then?"

I talked with an Injun, a year back, that said he had seen an Injun from the North that had seen some Eskimos that had dishes made of yellow metal.

He was prob'ly lyin', observed Downey, or the Injun that told him was lyin'. I've be'n north to the coast a couple of times, an' I never seen no Injuns nor Eskimos eatin' out of no gold dishes yet.

Maybe it's because you've stuck to the Mackenzie, where the posts are. Have you ever crossed the barrens straight north—between the Mackenzie an' the Bay?

No, answered Downey, dryly, an' I hope to God I don't never have to. You've got a good thing here with the Company, Mac. If I was you I'd stick to it, anyways till I seen an Injun with some gold. I never seen one yet—an' I don't never expect to. An' speakin' of Injuns reminds me, I passed a camp of 'em this forenoon.

A camp of 'em! exclaimed Molaire, in surprise. Who were they? My Injuns are all on the trap lines.

These are from the North somewheres. I couldn't savvy their lingo. They ain't much good I guess. They're non-treaty Injuns—wanderers. They wanted to know where a post was, an' I told 'em. They'll prob'ly be in to trade when the storm lets up.

That evening old Molaire played whist badly. His heart was not in the game, for try as he would to keep his mind on the cards, in his ears was the sound of the dull roar of the wind, and his thoughts were of the future—of the long days and nights to come when his loved ones would be somewhere far in the unknown North, and he would be left alone with his Company Indians in the little post on Lashing Water.

II

All night the storm roared unabated and, as is the way of Arctic blizzards, the second day saw its fury increased. During the morning the four played whist. There had been no mention of gold, and old Molaire played his usual game with the result that when Neseka called them to dinner, he and MacFarlane held a three-game lead over Downey and Margot. The meal over, they returned to the cards. The first game after dinner proved a close one, each side scoring the odd in turn, while the old Frenchman, as was his custom, analyzed each hand as the cards were being shuffled for the next deal. Finally he scored a point and tied the score. Then he glared at his son-in-law: An' ye'd of finessed your ten-spot through on my lead of hearts we'd of made two points an' game! he frowned.

How was I to know? MacFarlane paused abruptly in the midst of his deal and glanced in surprise toward the door which swung open to admit four Indians who loosened the blankets that covered them from head to foot and beat the snow from them as they advanced toward the stove. Three of them carried small packs of fur. The fourth was a young squaw, straight and lithe as a panther, and as she loosened the moss-bag from her shoulders, a thin wail sounded from its interior.

A baby! cried Margot, as MacFarlane made his way to the counter, his eyes upon the packs of fur. She stooped and patted her own little one who was rolling about upon a thick blanket spread on the floor. The squaw smiled, and fumbling in the depths of the bag drew forth a tiny brown-red mite which ceased crying and stared stolidly at the cluster of strange white faces. What a terrible day for a baby to be out! continued the white woman, as she pushed a chair near to the stove. Again the squaw smiled and seating herself, turned her back upon the occupants of the room and proceeded to nurse the tiny atom.

Meanwhile MacFarlane was trying by means of the Cree language to question the three bucks who stood in solemn line before the counter, each with his pack of fur before him. Downey tried them with the Blackfoot tongue, and the Jargon, while old Molaire and Tom Shirts added half a dozen dialects from nearer the Bay. But no slightest flicker of comprehension crossed the face of any one of them. Presently the young squaw arose and placed her baby upon the blanket beside the white child where the two little mites sat and stared at each other in owlish solemnity. As she advanced toward the counter MacFarlane addressed her in Cree. And to the surprise of all she spoke to him in English: We buy food, she said, indicating the packs of fur.

Where did you come from? queried the trader. An' how is it that you talk English an' the rest of 'em can't talk nothin'?

We come from far to the northward, she answered. I have been to school at the mission. These are Dog Ribs. They have not been to school. I am of the Yellow Knives. My man was drowned in a rapids. He was name Bonnetrouge. He was a Dog Rib so I live with these.

Why don't you trade at your own post? asked MacFarlane, suspiciously. Is it because you have a debt there that you have not paid?

No. We have no debt at any post. We are only a small band. We move about all the time. We do not like to stay in one place like the rest. We see many new rivers, and many lakes, and we go to many places that the others do not know. We have no debt at any post, we trade as we go and pay with skins for what we buy.

One of them wanderin' bands, observed Downey. I've run across two or three of 'em here an' there. They camp a while somewheres an' then, seems like, they just naturally get restless an' move on.

The squaw nodded: The police is right. We do not like to stay and trap in one place. I have seen many new things, and many things that even the oldest man has not seen.

MacFarlane opened the packs and examined their contents, fur by fur, laying them in separate piles and paying for each as he appraised it in brass tokens of made beaver. The three bucks looked on in stolid indifference but MacFarlane noted that the eyes of the squaw followed his every movement.

As a general rule the agents of the Hudson's Bay Company deal fairly with the Indians in the trading of the common or standard skins, and MacFarlane was no exception. It was in a spirit of fun, to see what the squaw would do, that he counted out thirty made beaver in payment for a large otter skin.

The Indian woman shook her head: No, that is a good otter. He is worth more. And with a smile the Scotchman counted ten additional tokens into the pile, whereat the squaw nodded approval and the trading proceeded. When at last it was finished the squaw took entire charge of the purchasing, pausing only now and then, to consult one or the other of the Indians in their own tongue, and in her selection of only the essentials, MacFarlane realized that he was dealing with that rarest of northern Indians, one who possessed sound common sense and the force of character to reject the useless trinkets so dear to the Indian heart.

While the bucks were making up their packs the squaw plunged her hand into the bottom of the moss-bag from which she had taken the baby, and drew out a single skin. For a long time she stood holding the skin in one hand while with the other she stroked its softly gleaming surface. MacFarlane and Molaire gazed at the skin in fascination while Margot rose from the blanket where she had been playing with the two babies, and even Corporal Downey who knew little of skins crowded close to feast his eyes on the jet black pelt whose hairs gleamed with silver radiance. In all the forty years of his trading Molaire had handled fewer than a dozen such skins—a true black fox, taken in its prime, so that the silvered hairs seemed to emit a soft radiance of their own—a skin to remember, and to talk about. Then the squaw handed the pelt to MacFarlane and smiled faintly as she watched the trader examine it almost hair by hair.

Where did you get it? he asked.

I trapped it far to the northward, in the barren grounds, upon a river that has no name. It is a good skin.

Did you trap it yourself?

Yes. I am a good trapper. My man was a good trapper and he showed me how. These are good trappers, too, she indicated the three Indians, And all the rest who are with us. There are thirty of us counting the women and children. But we have not had good luck. That is all the fur we have caught, she pointed to the skins MacFarlane had just bought, Those and the little black fox. When the storms stops we will go again into the barren grounds, and we must have food, or, if we have bad luck again, some of us will die.

Why do you go to the barren grounds? asked MacFarlane. The trappin' is better to the eastward, or to the westward.

The squaw shrugged: My man he had been to school a little, but mostly he had worked far to the westward along the coast of the sea—among the white men who dig for gold. And he heard men talk of the gold that lies in the barren grounds and northward to the coast of the frozen sea. So he went back to the country of his people, far up on the Mackenzie, and he told the men of the gold and how it was worth many times more than the fur. But the old men would not believe him and many of the young men would not, but some of them did, and these he persuaded to go with him and hunt for the gold. It was when they were crossing through the country of my people that I saw him and he saw me and we were married. That was two years ago and since then we have traveled far and have seen many things. Then my husband was drowned in a rapids, and I have taken his place. I will not go back to my people. They were very angry when I married Bonnetrouge, for the Yellow Knives hate the Dog Ribs. Even if they were not angry I would not go back, for my husband said there is gold in the barren grounds. He did not lie. So we will go and get the gold.

There's your chance, Mac, grinned Corporal Downey, You better throw in with 'em an' get in on the ground floor.

But MacFarlane did not smile. Instead, he spoke gravely to the woman: An' have you found any gold in the barrens?

The squaw shrugged, and glanced down at the babies. When she looked up again her eyes were upon the little fox skin. How much? she asked.

MacFarlane considered. Holding the pelt he stroked its glossy surface with his hand. Here was a skin of great value. He had heard many traders and factors boast of the black, and the silver grey fox skins they had bought at ridiculously low price—and they were men who did not hesitate to give full value for the common run of skins. Always, with the traders, the sight of a rare skin arouses a desire to obtain it—and to obtain it at the lowest possible figure. And MacFarlane was a trader. He fixed upon a price in his mind. He raised his eyes, but the squaw was not looking at him and he followed her glance to the blanket where the two babies, the red baby and the white baby—his own baby and Margot's, were touching each other gravely with fat pudgy hands.

He opened his lips to mention the price, but closed them again as a new train of thought flashed through his mind. How nearly this woman's case paralleled his own. The imagination of each was fired by the lure of gold, and both were scoffed at by their people for daring to believe that there was still gold in the earth to be had for the taking. Then, there was the matter of the babies——

When finally MacFarlane spoke it was to mention a sum three times larger than the one that he had fixed upon in his mind—a sum that caused old Molaire to snort and sputter and to stamp angrily up and down the room.

The squaw nodded gravely: You are a good man, she said, simply. You have dealt fairly. Sometime, maybe you will know that Wananebish does not forget.

Two hours later, when the price of the pelt had been paid and the supplies all made into packs and carried to the toboggans that had been left before the door, the Indians wrapped their blankets about them and prepared to depart.

As the Indian woman wrapped the baby in warm woolens, Margot urged her to remain until the storm subsided, but the woman declined with a smile: No. These are my people. I will go with them. Where one goes, all go.

But the baby! This is a terrible storm to take a baby into.

The baby is warm. She does not know that it storms. She is one of us. Where we go, she goes, too.

As the Indians filed through the door into the whirling white smother the young squaw stepped to the counter for a last look at her black fox skin. She raised it in her hand, drew it slowly across her cheek, stroked it softly, and then returned it to the counter, taking deliberate care to lay it by itself apart from the other skins. Then she turned and was swallowed up in the storm as MacFarlane closed the door behind her.

Ye could of bought it for half the price! growled old Molaire, as his son-in-law returned to the card table.

Aye, answered the younger man as he resumed his cards. But the Company has still a good margin of profit. They're headin' for the barrens, an' if, as she said, they have bad luck some of 'em would die. An' you know who would be the first to go—it would be the babies. I'm glad I done as I did. I'll sleep better nights.

And I'm glad, too, added Margot, as she reached over and patted her husband's hand, And so is papa way down in his heart. But he loves to have people think he is a cross old bear—and bears must growl.

Corporal Downey grinned at the twinkle that appeared in old Molaire's eyes, and the game proceeded until Neseka called them to supper. MacFarlane paused at the counter and raised the fox skin to the light. And as he did so, a very small, heavy object rolled from its soft folds and thudded upon the boards. Slowly MacFarlane laid down the skin and, picking up the object, carried it close under the swinging lamp, where he held it in his open palm. Curiously the others crowded about and stared at the dull yellow lump scarcely larger than the two halves of a split pea. For a long moment there was silence and then MacFarlane turned to Corporal Downey: What was it you said, he asked, about sticking to my job until I saw an Injun with some gold?

III

The north wind moaned and soughed about the eaves of the low log trading post on Lashing Water. Old Molaire rose from his place by the stove, crossed the room, and threw open the door. Seconds passed as he stood listening to the roar of the wind in the tree tops, heedless of the fine powdering of stinging snow particles that glistened like diamond points upon his silvery hair and sifted beneath his shirt collar. Then he closed the door and returned to his chair beside the stove. Corporal Downey watched in silence while the old man filled his pipe. He threw away the match and raised his eyes to the officer: It was a year ago, d'ye mind, an' just such a storm—when that squaw came bringin' her black fox skin, and her nugget of damned gold.

It would be about a year, agreed Downey, gravely nodding his head. I made this patrol in February.

It's just a year—the thirteenth of the month. I'll not be forgetting it.

An' have you had no word?

The old factor shook his head: No word. They left in May—with the rivers not yet free of running ice. Two light canoes. Margot could handle a canoe like a man.

You'll prob'ly hear from 'em on the break-up this spring. Maybe they'll give it up an' come back.

Molaire shook his head: Ye don't know Murdo MacFarlane, he said, He'll never give up. He swore he would never return to Lashin' Water without gold. He's Scotch—an' stubborn as the seven-year itch.

I'm Scotch, grinned Downey, hoping to draw the old man into an argument and turn his thoughts from the absent ones. But he would not be drawn. For a long time he smoked in silence while outside the wind howled and moaned and sucked red flames high into the stovepipe.

She'd be two years old, now, Molaire said, An' maybe talkin' a bit. Maybe they've taught her to say grand-père. Don't you think she might be talkin' a little?

I don't know much about 'em. Do they talk when they're two?

The old factor pondered: "Why—it seems to me she did—the other Margot. But—it's a long time ago—yet it