overland, but one by one they fell, until at last the gaunt fiend,
Starvation, had claimed them all. Since that time no Indian has
ever travelled that trail--the route to Michikamau upon which we
had stumbled was thereupon abandoned. The Indians believe the
trail is not only unlucky, but haunted; that if while on it they
should escape Starvation--that terrible enemy which nearly always
dogs them so closely--they are likely to encounter the spirits of
them that died so many years ago.

Not knowing anything of this tragic story, we merrily ate our
luncheon on the very spot where others in desperation had faced
death. It was to us an old Indian camp, and an additional reason
for believing we were on the right trail, that was all. While we
ate, the sun came out brilliantly, and we resumed our paddling
feeling ready for almost anything that might happen. And something
soon did happen--something that made the day the most memorable so
far of the trip.

No rapids intercepted our progress, and in an hour we had paddled
three miles, when, at a place where the river widened, a big
woodland stag caribou suddenly splashed into the water from the
northern shore, two hundred yards ahead. I seized my rifle, and,
without waiting for the canoe to stop, fired. The bullet went
high. The caribou raised his head and looked at us inquisitively.
Then Hubbard fired, and with the dying away of the report of his
rifle, George and I shouted: "You hit 'im, Hubbard; you've got
'im!" The wounded caribou sank half way to his knees, but struggled
to his feet again. As he did so, Hubbard sent another shot at him,
but missed. Slowly the big deer turned, and began to struggle up
the bank. Again Hubbard and I fired, but both shots went low.