Half-Way-House, far over the Height-of-Land on the James Bay watershed, the bitter December wind drove around the whitewashed log buildings in swirls of powdery snow. In the post clearing outside the dog-stockade the tepees of Crees in for the Christmas trade stood deep in drifts. Around the roaring stove in the trade-house lounged a group of red trappers filling the long room with smoke as they gloomily discussed in Cree the news brought by the freshly arrived winter mail-team from the southern posts. Behind the huge slab trade-counter sat Nicholson, the factor, and his clerk buried in papers, weeks old, blazoned with accounts of the world war raging since August; for mail from outside came but twice a year to Half-Way-House, marooned in the wilderness of Rupert Land.
Presently the yelping of huskies announced the arrival of another team. Dog-bells jingled in front of the building. The low guttural of the Crees about the stove ceased as heads turned to inspect the newcomer. Then the door of the trade-house opened, admitting a tall figure crusted with snow from moccasins to hood.
"Quey! Quey!" came the greetings from the loungers, for the voyageur was well known at Half-Way-House.
"Quey! Quey!" he threw out as he strode to the counter.
"Hello, Joe! I didn't expect to see you till spring!"
The factor turned from his paper to shake hands over the counter with the tall trapper.
"I thought you said you were going to winter in the Sinking Lake country and wouldn't get in for Christmas?"
"I cum from de Sinkeen Lak' in seex sleep; I got nice fur for you."
"Nice fur, eh? Black fox?"
"Tree of dem," said the Cree, his small black eyes snapping with pride. The loungers who had moved to the counter to shake hands with the voyageur and hear the talk, grunted in surprise.
"Too bad! Too bad, Joe!" The factor shook his head. "We've sad news from Quebec. War across the Big Water! Nobody buys fur! Prices all gone to smash!"
The dark face of the Indian changed with disappointment.
"How? What you spik?"
"The Great Father in England fights the Germans," explained the factor. "Mail-team just in with new prices for the Company posts. I'm sorry, Joe, I can't allow you much on your skins."
"I got plentee marten an' feesher-cat," the Indian muttered in his chagrin.
"Too bad, furs all gone down; bad times for the Company, bad for the Injun."
"A-hah!" The dazed Cree sighed, thinking of the rich fur pack outside on his sled and the long days he had toiled for it on his trap-lines in distant ice-locked valleys.
"What you geeve now for black fox?"
"Can't give you half last year's price; nobody buys 'em; they've all gone to war. Canada sends soldiers too, to fight for the King, the Great Father, across the Big Water."
"A-hah!" The tall trapper listened in amazement. Then he asked:
"How long dees fight las'?"
"No one knows, Joe. It's the worst war the world has seen and it may last a long time. The Big English Chief says three years."
"Fur no good w'ile de fight las'?"
"No, fur won't be worth much for some time."
"A-hah! " The Cree sighed heavily and went out to look after his dogs.
For two days Joe Lecroix—although a full-blooded Cree, his family had acquired the French name generations before—listened silently to the lamentation of the trappers at Half-Way-House. It was destined to be a sad Christmas indeed for those who had journeyed from their winter camps for the revel that the Great Company annually provides for its children of the snows. And long before the trails went soft in April there would be many a tepee in Rupert Land that had not known flour or tea in moons.
But Joe Lecroix did not trade his black fox and marten skins. While the Crees smoked, mourning over the hard times, his active mind was busy. He had long credit at the post; in fact, had never been in debt since he swung out for himself as a youth, and so could hold his fur.
One morning he drove his team of half-breed Ungava huskies, loaded with his outfit and fur pack, up to the trade-house. Entering the store he asked for provisions for three weeks.
"What, Joe, you ain't goin' back before Christmas?" asked Nicholson in surprise.
"No, I travel sout'. No good hunt fur dees long snows," answered the Indian dryly.
"South? What do you mean?"
"Fur too cheap! I got no woman to feed. I t'ink I go to Kebec and see de sojer."
"Why, you're crazy, man!" cried the amazed factor. "It's four hundred miles to the Transcontinental at Weymontechene and it's the same back. They don't want Injuns; they won't take you."