it would
take to wear through civilization's veneer and leave one content in the
lodges of forest wilds. Gradually I became aware of my sulky canoeman's
presence on the other side of the camp-fire. The man had not joined the
revels of the other _voyageurs_ but sat on his feet, oriental style,
gazing as intently at the flames as if spellbound by some fire-spirit.

"What's wrong with that fellow, anyhow?" I asked a veteran trader, who
was taking last pulls at a smoked-out pipe.

"Sick--home-sick," was the laconic reply.

"You'd think he was near enough nature here to feel at home! Where's his
tribe?"

"It ain't his tribe he wants," explained the trader.

"What, then?" I inquired.

"His wife, he's mad after her," and the trader took the pipe from his
teeth.

"Faugh!" I laughed. "The idea of an Indian sentimental and love-sick for
some fat lump of a squaw! Come! Come! Am I to believe that?"

"Don't matter whether you do, or not," returned the trader. "It's a
fact. His wife's a Sioux chief's daughter. She went north with a gang of
half-breeds and hunters last month; and he's been fractious crazy ever
since."

"What's his name?" I called, as my informant vanished behind the tent
flaps.

Again that mouthful of Indian syllables, unintelligible and unspeakable
for me was tumbled forth. Then I turned to the fantastic figures
carousing around the other camp fire. One form, in particular, I seemed
to distinguish from the others. He was gathering the Indians in line for
some native dance and had an easy, rakish sort of grace, quite different
from the serpentine motions of the redskins. By a sudden turn, his
profile was thrown against the fire and I saw that he wore a pointed
beard. He was no Indian; and like a flash came one of those strange,
reasonless intuitions, which precede, or proceed from, the slow motions
of the mind. Was this the _avant-courier_ of the Hudson's Bay, delayed,
like ourselves, by the storm? I had hardly spelled out my own suspicion,
when to the measured beatings of the tom-tom, gradually becoming faster,
and with a low, weird, tuneless chant, like the voices of the forest,
the Indians began to tread a mazy, winding pace, which my slow eyes
could not follow, but which in a strange way brought up memories of
snaky convolutions about the naked body of some Egyptian
serpent-charmer. The drums beat faster. The suppressed voices were
breaking in shrill, wild, exultant strains, and the measured tread ha