Heading
west-northwest, the band travelled swiftly with all the enthusiasm of
untested courage. North winds cut their faces like whip-lashes. The
first night out there was not enough snow to make a wind-break of the
drifts; so the sleighs were piled on edge to windward, dogs and men
lying heterogeneously in their shelter. When morning came, one of the
Indian guides had deserted. The way became barer. Frozen swamps
across which the storm wind swept with hurricane force were succeeded
by high, rocky barrens devoid of game, unsheltered, with barely enough
stunted shrubbery for the whittling of chips that cooked the morning
and night meals. In a month the travellers had not accomplished ten
miles a day. Where deer were found the Indians halted to gorge
themselves with feasts. Where game was scarce they lay in camp,
depending on the white hunters. Within three weeks rations had
dwindled to one partridge a day for the entire company. The Indians
seemed to think that Hearne's white servants had secret store of food
on the sleighs. The savages refused to hunt. Then Hearne suspected
some ulterior design. It was to drive him back to the fort by famine.
Henceforth, he noticed on the march that the Indians always preceded
the whites and secured any game before his men could fire a shot. One
night toward the end of November the savages plundered the sleighs.
Hearne awakened in amazement to see the company marching off, laden
with guns, ammunition, and hatchets.
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