the last rapid we portaged the country had flattened out. Wide
marshes extended along the south bank of the river, with now and then a
low hill of drift. The north side was followed by a low ridge of
drift, well wooded. We landed for luncheon on the south bank, at the
foot of a wooded knoll, and there we made an interesting discovery,
namely, the remains of an old Indian camp and the ruins of two large
birch-bark canoes. In November, at Northwest River Post, I heard the
story of those canoes.

Twelve years before, it appears, the band of Indians that had camped
there, being overtaken by early ice, was forced to abandon its canoes
and make a dash for the Post. Game was scarce, and the fish had gone
to deeper waters. The Indians pushed desperately on overland, but one
by one they fell, until at last the gaunt fiend, Starvation, had
claimed them all. Since that time no Indian has ever travelled that
trail--the route to Michikamau upon which we had stumbled was thereupon
abandoned. The Indians believe the trail is not only unlucky, but
haunted; that if while on it they should escape Starvation--that
terrible enemy which nearly always dogs them so closely--they are
likely to encounter the spirits of them that died so many years ago.

Not knowing anything of this tragic story, we merrily ate our luncheon
on the very spot where others in desperation had faced death. It was
to us an old Indian camp, and an additional reason for believing we
were on the right trail, that was all. While we ate, the sun came out
brilliantly, and we resumed our paddling feeling ready for almost
anything that might happen. And something soon did happen--something
that made the day the most memorable so far of the trip.

No rapids intercepted our progress, and in an hour we had paddled three
miles, when, at a place where the river widened, a big woodland stag
caribou suddenly splashed into the water from the northern shore, two
hundred yards ahead. I seized my rifle, and, without waiting for the
canoe to stop, fired. The bullet went high. The caribou raised his
head and looked at us inquisitively. Then Hubbard fired, and with the
dying away of the report of his rifle, George and I shouted: "You hit
'im, Hubbard; you've got 'im!" The wounded caribou sank half way to his
knees, but struggled to his feet again. As he did so, Hubbard sent
another shot at him, but missed. Slowly the big deer turned, and began
to struggle up the bank. Aga