Part 10 (1/2)

”But, why wouldn't it be just as easy to figure it in dollars?” asked the boy.

McTavish laughed. ”There were several reasons, although, with the government paying treaty in cash nowadays, the Indians are beginning to know something of money. But the main reason is that when the made beaver was first invented, no one seems to know just when or where or by whom, there was no money in the country--everything was traded or bartered for some other thing. And because the skin, and particularly the beaver skin, was the thing most bartered by Indians, the unit of value came to be known as a 'skin' or 'made beaver.' Another reason why money has never been popular with us is because of its destructibility.

Take this post, for instance. Suppose we were compelled to s.h.i.+p silver dollars back and forth between here and Edmonton? Ten thousand of them would weigh close to six hundred pounds! Six hundred pounds would mean, on scows, six pieces--and mighty valuable pieces too, to be loaded and unloaded a dozen times, carried over portages, shot through dangerous rapids, carried up and down slippery river banks and across slippery planks to the scows. Suppose one of these pieces were dropped overboard by one of the none too careful half-breed rivermen? The Company would lose just so many dollars. Or, suppose the riverman very conveniently dropped the piece into the water where he could recover it again? A dollar is a dollar--it can be spent anywhere. But suppose that the piece contained only a supply of these bra.s.s 'made beaver'--the whole ten thousand would only make one piece--and if it dropped into the river the Company would lose only so much bra.s.s. Then if the riverman afterward recovered it, instead of finding himself possessed of dollars which he could spend anywhere, he would only have a hundred pounds or so of bra.s.s tokens whose value had been cancelled. And, again, the expense of transportation, even granted the consignment arrived safely at its destination, would be against the dollar. One hundred pounds, where freight costs sixteen cents a pound to move, is much cheaper to move than six hundred pounds.”

”Yes,” agreed Connie, ”but how about using paper money?”

”Worse, and more of it!” exclaimed McTavish. ”In the first place the piece, or package, would be lighter and of greater value--therefore much easier to make away with. Some lone bandit, or gang of bandits, might find it well worth their while to hold up the scow brigade and make off with that little piece. And, besides, until very recently, the Indians have had no sense of the value of paper money. An Indian cannot see why one piece of paper should be worth five dollars, and another exactly like it in size and colour should be worth ten, or twenty, or fifty--and another piece of paper be worth nothing at all. I am sure no one at the posts would welcome the carrying on of business upon a cash basis--I know I should not. The Canadian North is the cleanest land in the world, in so far as robbery is concerned, thanks to the Mounted. But with its vast wilderness for hiding places and its lack of quick transportation and facility for spreading news, I am afraid it would not long remain so, if it became known that every trading post possessed its cash vault. As it is, the goods of the North, in a great measure, protect themselves from theft by their very bulk. A man could hardly expect to get out of this country, for instance, with even a very few packs of stolen fur. The Mounted would have him before he could get half way to the railroad.”

”It seems funny,” grinned Connie, ”to find an outfit that doesn't like to do business for cas.h.!.+”

”Funny enough, till you know the reason--then, the most natural thing in the world. And, there is yet one more reason--take the treaty money. The Indians bring the treaty money to us and buy goods with it. We make the profit on the goods--but if they had bought those same goods for fur--we would have made the profit on the fur, also--and primarily, we are a fur company--although every year we are becoming more and more of a trading company and a land company. I am glad I shall not live to see the last of the fur trade--I love the fur--it speaks a language I know.”

A short time later the company broke up, Berl Hansen returned to his own quarters, and Connie and 'Merican Joe were given the spare room in the factor's house where for the first time since leaving Dawson they slept under a roof.

CHAPTER VIII

BAIT--AND A BEAR

The business of outfitting for the balance of the winter occupied two whole days and when it was finished down to the last item Connie viewed the result with a frown. ”It's going to take two trips to pack all that stuff. And by the time we make two trips and build a cabin besides, we won't have much time left for trapping.”

”Where you headin' for?” queried McTavish.

”Somewhere over on the Coppermine,” answered the boy. ”I don't know just where--and I guess it don't make much difference.”

The big Scotchman laughed. ”No, lad, it won't make no great difference.

What put it in your head to trap on the Coppermine?”

”Why, the truth is, it isn't so much the trapping I'm interested in. I want to try my hand at prospecting over there.”

”Gold?”

”Yes--mainly.”

McTavish shook his head forebodingly.

Connie smiled. ”You don't believe there's any gold there?” he asked.

”'Gold's where you find it,' you know.”

”There must be lots of it there, then. n.o.body's ever found it. But, it's a bad time of year to be hittin' for the Coppermine country. It's bleak, an' barren, an' storm ridden. An' as for trappin' you'll find nothin'

there to trap but foxes this time of year, an' you won't be able to do any prospectin' till summer. You might better trap in closer to the post this winter, an' when the lake opens you can take a York boat an' a canoe an' cover most of the distance by water.”

Connie frowned. ”I started out for the Coppermine,” he began, but the factor interrupted him with a gesture.

”Sure you did--an' you'll get there, too. It's this way, lad. You're a sourdough, all right, I knew that the minute I saw you. An' bein' a sourdough, that way, you ain't goin' to do nothin' that it ain't in reason to do. There's a deal of difference between a determination to stick to a thing an' see it through in the face of all odds when the thing you're stickin' to is worth doin'; an' stickin' to a thing that ain't worth doin' out of sheer stubbornness. The first is a fine thing an' the second is a foolish thing to do.”

”I guess that's right,” agreed Connie, after a moment of silence.

”Of course it's right!” interrupted McTavish. ”You ought to find a good trappin' ground down along the south sh.o.r.e, somewheres between the Blackwater and Lake Ste. Therese. Ought to be plenty of caribou in there too, an' what with droppin' a few nets through the ice, an' what you can bring in with your rifles you won't need to draw in your belts none.”