We were somewhat surprised by Peluk's generosity in bringing two native runners with him, for we had expected that they would leave us and return after a run of perhaps a few miles; but they did not, and took turns in tirelessly leading the way. It is one of the characteristics of even first-class dog teams that they will travel faster when a runner is ahead, exactly as if this human pacemaker stimulates them to greater effort. The shaman for the greater part of the time rode in princely state, lolling back in the rear end of his sled upon our tent and wrapped in a great red fox robe, blanket lined. Now and then when the “going was good,” it was possible for Jack or I to ride while the others ran behind clinging to the handlebars.
We had not expected to halt, due to the late hour of our starting, until we reached our proposed camping site; but promptly at one o'clock the shaman uttered a loud shout that brought us to a standstill, and tumbled out of his sled. It was in a small clump of timber where fuel was easily obtainable and his two followers immediately began making preparations to start a file.
“No good hurry go fast,” Peluk explained. “Make camp early. Very good rest hour. Have tea. Good smoke. Good eat.”
And so we contented ourselves as best we could, although the shaman prolonged our stop to nearly an hour and a half, gossiping in fragmentary English sentences, but never addressing the two natives who throughout the halt spoke scarcely a word to him or each other, preserving a stony silence. And yet, when we resumed our march and traveled through the afternoon, we were not sorry when we came to our camping place at an early hour, for our muscles had not come back to long endurance. We were glad to halt in the shadow of the great trees.
Here again the shaman's foresight was proven by the fact that it was scarcely necessary to unpack all our sled to make the camp complete. With that celerity and order that is learned only through the making of many camps, in less than twenty minutes the tent was pitched, fragrant pine boughs deeply laid over the snow for a carpet, the stove up and roaring, and the shaman cooking our supper. One of his men fell to cutting dead wood outside and the other to caring for the two dog teams that swarmed round his legs as he opened the dog salmon and partitioned it out, watchful that each animal got its share.
The shaman was in his most jovial, kindly mood as he squatted over the stove watchful of kettle, frying pan and coffeepot.
“Sometimes,” he said reminiscently, as he poked the fire, “think like take long game trail again. When li'l boy go many trails, many sleeps. But now—mebbe too fat, ummh?” he laughed and looked up at us with his sharp black eyes full of amusement. “Pant all same old fat dog! No can run fast. Much better like ride.” He regarded me appraisingly and flattered me with, “You heap strong. Run good. No get too tired. Old man, too. Got gray head. Wise head. Same as old fox, ummh?”
I sat thinking hopefully of the possibilities of inducing him to either continue with us farther or letting me know how I could reach the place where the white man with the scarred face had met his end; but my calculated, careful efforts to lead the conversation in that direction were futile. Patiently I recurred to the subject of the long trails again and again, even while we ate supper with keen appetites, and the shaman's two followers squatted in the corners of the crowded little tent silently stowing away their food; but I gained nothing. I persevered after the meal was over and we lounged on the outspread blankets and furs and smoked. I tried to exercise diplomacy.
“Peluk,” I suggested, “maybe if you went with us a day or two more, you could find game of some sort—perhaps caribou, maybe moose. Why not come farther?”
“Me like go. But” he began, and then stopped and fell to staring at the candle burning in its cleft stick, at the ridge pole of the tent, at the vent hole of the stove that blazed like a huge round eye full upon his massive, rugged face.
I fell to persuasion, and Jack did his best to assist my argument.
“We like your company, old sport,” he said, and the shaman smiled at him as if appreciating his friendliness.
“No,” he said at last. “No can always do what mebbe like to do. Lady Malitka speak, and—must do what lady say do. She say can come one sleep. No can come two or many more sleeps.”