The Walrus Hunters | Page 5

toy, he went in for quite a broadside of puffs, looking round at his friendly foe with a "ho!" between each, and surrounding his head with an atmosphere of smoke.
Suddenly he stopped, laid down the pipe, rose up, and, looking as if he had forgotten something, retired into the bush.
The Indian took up the discarded pipe, and for the first time displayed a few wrinkles about the corners of his eyes as he put it between his lips.
Presently Cheenbuk returned, somewhat paler than before, and sat down in silence with a look, as if of regret, at the skeleton-goose.
Without any reference to what had passed, the Indian turned to his companion and said, "Why should the men of the ice fight with the men of the woods?"
"Why?" asked Cheenbuk, after a few moments' profound meditation, "why should the men of the woods attack the men of the ice with their fire-spouters?"
This question seemed to puzzle the Indian so much that he proceeded to fill another pipe before answering it. Meanwhile the Eskimo, being more active-minded, continued--
"Is it fair for the men of the woods to come to fight us with fire-spouters when we have only spears? Meet us with the same weapons, and then we shall see which are the best men."
The Indian looked at his companion solemnly and shook his head.
"The strongest warriors and the best fighters," he said, "are not always the best men. He who hunts well, keeps his wives supplied with plenty of food and deerskin robes, and is kind to his children, is the best man."
Cheenbuk looked suddenly in the face of his sententious companion with earnest surprise in every feature, for the sentiments which had just been expressed were in exact accordance with his own. Moreover, they were not what he expected to hear from the lips of a Dogrib.
"I never liked fighting," he said in a low voice, "though I have always been able to fight. It does nobody any good, and it always does everybody much harm, for it loses much blood, and it leaves many women and children without food-providers--which is uncomfortable for the men who have enough of women and children of their own to hunt for. But," continued the youth with emphasis, "I always thought that the men of the woods loved fighting."
"Some of them do, but I hate it!" said the Indian with a sudden look of such ferocity that the Eskimo might have been justified in doubting the truth of the statement.
The flash, however, quickly disappeared, and a double wreath of smoke issued from his nose as he remarked quietly, "Fighting lost me my father, my two brothers, and my only son."
"Why, then, do you still come against us with fire-spouters?" asked Cheenbuk.
"Because my people will have it so," returned the red man. "I do what I can to stop them, but I am only one, and there are many against me."
"I too have tried to stop my people when they would fight among themselves," returned the Eskimo in a tone of sympathy; "but it is easier to kill a walrus single-handed than to turn an angry man from his purpose."
The Indian nodded assent, as though a chord had been struck which vibrated in both bosoms.
"My son," he said, in a patronising tone, "do not cease to try. Grey hairs are beginning to show upon my head; I have seen and learned much, and I have come to know that only he who tries, and tries, and tries again to do what he knows is right will succeed. To him the Great Manitou will give his blessing."
"My father," replied the other, falling in readily with the fictitious relationship, "I will try."
Having thus come to a satisfactory agreement, this Arctic Peace Society prepared to adjourn. Each wiped his knife on the grass and sheathed it as he rose up. Then they shook hands again after the fashion of the pale-faces, and departed on their respective ways. The red man returned to the wigwams of his people, while the young Eskimo, descending the river in his kayak, continued to hunt the white-whale and pursue the feathered tribes which swarmed in the creeks, rivulets, and marshes that bordered the ice-encumbered waters of the polar seas.
CHAPTER TWO.
WARUSKEEK.
Alas for the hopes and efforts of good men! At the very time that Cheenbuk and the Indian were expressing their detestation of war, elsewhere a young Eskimo was doing his best to bring about that unhappy and ruinous condition of things.
He was an unusually strong young Arctic swashbuckler, with considerably more muscle than brains, a restless spirit, and what may be styled a homicidal tendency. He was also tyrannical, like many men of that stamp, and belonged to the same tribe as Cheenbuk.
Walrus Creek was the summer residence of the tribe of Eskimos to