science
from the Canadian peddlers; and thither in December, 1770, he finds his
way, after two futile attempts to set out. Matonabbee, great chief of
the Chippewyans, is his guide,--Matonabbee, who brings furs from the
Athabasca, and is now accompanied by a regiment of wives to act as
beasts of burden in the sledge traces, camp servants, and cooks.
Hearne sets out in midwinter in order to reach the Coppermine River in
summer, by which he can descend to the Arctic in canoes. Storm or
cold, bog or rock, Matonabbee keeps fast pace, so fast he reaches the
great caribou traverse before provisions have dwindled and in time for
the spring hunt. Here all the Indian hunters of the north gather twice
a year to hunt the vast herds of caribou going to the seashore for
summer, back to the Up Country for the winter, herds in countless
thousands upon thousands, such multitudes the clicking of the horns
sounds like wind in a leafless forest, the tramp of the hoofs like
galloping cavalry. Store of meat is laid up for Hearne's voyage by
Matonabbee's Indians; and a band of warriors joins the expedition to go
down Coppermine River. If Hearne had known Indian customs as well as
he knew the fur trade, he would have known that it boded no good when
Matonabbee ordered the women to wait for his return in the Athabasca
country of the west. Absence of women on the march meant only one of
two things, a war raid or hunt, and which it was soon enough Hearne
learned. They had come at last, on July 12, 1771, on Coppermine River,
a mean little stream flowing over rocky bed in the Barren Lands of the
Little Sticks (Trees), when Hearne noticed, just above a cataract, the
domed tepee tops of an Eskimo camp. It was night, but as bright as day
in the long light of the North. Instantly, before Hearne could stop
them, his Indians had stripped as for war, and fell upon the sleeping
Eskimo in ruthless massacre. Men were brained as they dashed from the
domed tents, women speared as they slept, children dispatched with less
thought than the white man would give to the killing of a fly. In vain
Hearne, {297} with tears in his eyes, begged the Indians to stop. They
laughed him to scorn, and doubtless wondered where he thought they
yearly got the ten thousand beaver pelts brought to Churchill. A few
days later, July 17, 1771, Hearne stood on the shores of the Arctic,
heaving to the tide and afloat with ice; but the horrors of the
massacre had robbed him