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"It iss gettin' late, Bartong; don't you think it would be as well to camp here?" asked MacSweenie. The bowman ceased rowing, and the crew followed his example, while he glanced inquiringly up at the sky and round his limited horizon, as guides and seamen are wont to do when asked for an opinion as to professional movements.
While Mozwa was thus engaged with the leader of the expedition, their guide Bartong was wandering among the wigwams and making himself agreeable to the natives, who, because of his mixed blood and linguistic powers, regarded him as a half-brother. "Who is this man Nazinred that our leader is always talking about?" he asked of the old chief while seated in his tent.
They sufficed, indeed, for his square, solid, easy-going, matter-of-fact interpreter, Donald Mowat; and for his chief fisherman, guide, and bowman, Bartong, as well as for his other men, but they failed to satisfy himself, and he longed with a great longing for some congenial soul with whom he might hold sweet converse on something a little higher than "buttons."
"A good man," replied Isquay, who was tender-hearted, and could not speak of him without moist eyes. "He was a good hunter. None of the young men could equal him. And he was kind. He always had plenty of things to give me and Adolay." "They say he did not love war," remarked Bartong. "No; he hated it: but he was brave, and a good fighter the best in the tribe.
Then, indeed, MacSweenie, dropping the role of leader, assumed that of bon camarade; and Mowat, descending from the dignity of steersman, enlarged upon his experiences in other days; and Bartong, still retaining his dignity however, relaxed his anxious frown and listened with an air of intelligent appreciation that charmed every speaker, and induced the belief that he could cap every anecdote and story if he only chose to open his mouth; while the men divided their sympathies between the narratives, the tobacco-pipes, and the music of the frying-pan and bubbling kettle.
"He is one of our chiefs, one of our boldest braves " "But not so brave as he looks," interrupted Magadar, who was present; "he is fonder of peace than of fighting." "Foolish man!" exclaimed Bartong, with a smile so peculiar that Magadar did not feel quite sure that his remark was sincere. "But has he not left your tribe? I heard our steersman say something about that."
Having questioned the old chief a little more on this point, he wandered off into other subjects, and finally left intending to visit the wife of Nazinred on his way back to camp. Isquay was sitting beside her niece Idazoo, embroidering a moccasin, when Bartong entered, squatted on a deerskin unceremoniously, and began to fill his pipe. "What kind of a man is your husband?" asked the guide.
"We should arrive at the Ukon to-morrow, if my calculations are right or nixt day, whatever," said MacSweenie to his interpreter and steersman, as he sat smoking his pipe beside him. "Bartong is of the same opeenion," returned Mowat, "so between you we should come right. But Bartong is not quite sure about it himself, I think. At least he won't say much."
The oars are necessarily stopped, and the voices hushed, while the bowman, standing erect, with a long pole in hand, tries to penetrate the thick mysterious darkness that seems to be the very gate of Erebus. Bartong stood ready to thrust the head of the boat off any rocks that might suddenly appear in their course, or give the order to "back all" should the water become too shallow.
Both Nazinred and Mozwa said something about meetin' us, if we came to settle, though I paid little attention at the time. But are ye sure, Bartong, that this is the lake?" "I know not. It is not unlikely. If it is the lake, it is small, and we will soon come to the end of it. If it is not the lake, an' turns out to be big, we can camp on the shore. The night will be fine."
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