And the Red Gods call for you!"

Again the silence. The northern lights flashed and swept in
fantastic shapes across the sky, illuminating the fir tops in the
valley and making the white lichens gleam on the barren hill above
us. We thought of the lake ahead with its old wigwams, and the
promise it held out of an easy trail to Michikamau made us feel
sure that the worst part of our journey was ended. Thus we sat
supremely happy and content until long past midnight, when we went
to our tent and our bed of fragrant spruce boughs, to be lulled
asleep by the murmuring waters of the creek below.

The brooks into which Goose Creek divided near our camp of course
would not permit of canoeing, and the morning after our feast
(August 4) we portaged through a swamp into the lake that fed the
southerly one. We called this small body of water Mountaineer
Lake, because the Mountaineer Indians had been there. Besides
numerous cuttings and the remains of wigwams, we found the ruins of
a drying stage where they had cured meat or fish. From Goose Camp
to the lake shore George carried the canoe, and Hubbard and I each
a pack. Then while George and I returned for the remaining packs,
Hubbard waited by the lake. As be sat there alone, a caribou waded
into the water less than a hundred feet away, stopped and looked
fearlessly at him for a few moments, and then walked leisurely off
into the woods.

"It seemed as if he wanted to shake hands with me," Hubbard said
when he told us of the incident. He had to let the deer depart in
peace, because both rifles were back with the last loads at Goose
Camp, and his pistol was in his bag. Needless to say, we were