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"Now!" yelled Cummins again. The wilderness song, that was known from Athabasca to Hudson's Bay, burst forth in a savage enthusiasm that reached to the skies: "Oh, ze cariboo-oo-oo, ze cariboo-oo-oo, He roas' on high, Jes' under ze sky, Ze beeg white cariboo-oo-oo!" Cummins drew his revolver and blazed fiercely into the air. "Now!" he shrieked.
The fires were lighted at dusk, and Williams himself started the first of those wild songs of the Northland the song of the caribou, as the flames leaped up into the dark night. "Oh, ze cariboo-oo-oo, ze cariboo-oo-oo, He roas' on high, Jes' under ze sky. air-holes beeg white cariboo-oo-oo!" "Now!" he yelled. "Now all together!"
"Oh, ze cariboo-oo-oo, ze cariboo-oo-oo, He brown 'n' juice 'n' sweet! Ze cariboo-oo-oo, he ver' polite He roas' on high, Jes' under ze sky, He ready now to come 'n' eat!" With yells that rose above the last words of the song, Mukee and his Crees tugged at their poles, and the roasted caribou fell upon the snow.
In an instant he perceived the strange effect of his music, and his bow raced across the strings of his violin in a rhythm swift and buoyant, his voice rising shrill and clear in words familiar to them all: "Oh, ze cariboo-oo-oo, ze cariboo-oo-oo, He roas' on high, Jes' under ze sky, Ze beeg white cariboo-oo-oo!" With a yell Cummins joined in, waving his arms and leaping in the firelight.
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