Naza! Naza! Naza!
From: The Last Of The Plainsmen
It was a waiting day at Fort Chippewayan. The lonesome, far-northern
Hudson's Bay Trading Post seldom saw such life. Tepees dotted the banks
of the Slave River and lines of blanketed Indians paraded its shores.
Near the boat landing a group of chiefs, grotesque in semi-barbaric,
semicivilized splendor, but black-browed, austere-eyed, stood in savage
dignity with folded arms and high-held heads. Lounging on the grassy
bank were white men, traders, trappers and officials of the post.
All eyes were on the distant curve of the river where, as it lost
itself in a fine-fringed bend of dark green, white-glinting waves
danced and fluttered. A June sky lay blue in the majestic stream;
ragged, spear-topped, dense green trees massed down to the water;
beyond rose bold, bald-knobbed hills, in remote purple relief.
A long Indian arm stretched south. The waiting eyes discerned a black
speck on the green, and watched it grow. A flatboat, with a man
standing to the oars, bore down swiftly.
Not a red hand, nor a white one, offered to help the voyager in the
difficult landing. The oblong, clumsy, heavily laden boat surged with
the current and passed the dock despite the boatman's efforts. He swung
his craft in below upon a bar and roped it fast to a tree. The Indians
crowded above him on the bank. The boatman raised his powerful form
erect, lifted a bronzed face which seemed set in craggy hardness, and
cast from narrow eyes a keen, cool glance on those above. The silvery
gleam in his fair hair told of years.
Silence, impressive as it was ominous, broke only to the rattle of
camping paraphernalia, which the voyager threw to a level, grassy bench
on the bank. Evidently this unwelcome visitor had journeyed from afar,
and his boat, sunk deep into the water with its load of barrels, boxes
and bags, indicated that the journey had only begun. Significant, too,
were a couple of long Winchester rifles shining on a tarpaulin.
The cold-faced crowd stirred and parted to permit the passage of a
tall, thin, gray personage of official bearing, in a faded military
"Are you the musk-ox hunter?" he asked, in tones that contained no
The boatman greeted this peremptory interlocutor with a cool laugh--a
strange laugh, in which the muscles of his face appeared not to play.
"Yes, I am the man," he said.
"The chiefs of the Chippewayan and Great Slave tribes have been
apprised of your coming. They have held council and are here to speak
At a motion from the commandant, the line of chieftains piled down to
the level bench and formed a half-circle before the voyager. To a man
who had stood before grim Sitting Bull and noble Black Thunder of the
Sioux, and faced the falcon-eyed Geronimo, and glanced over the sights
of a rifle at gorgeous-feathered, wild, free Comanches, this
semi-circle of savages--lords of the north--was a sorry comparison.
Bedaubed and betrinketed, slouchy and slovenly, these low-statured
chiefs belied in appearance their scorn-bright eyes and lofty mien.
They made a sad group.
One who spoke in unintelligible language, rolled out a haughty,
sonorous voice over the listening multitude. When he had finished, a
half-breed interpreter, in the dress of a white man, spoke at a signal
from the commandant.
"He says listen to the great orator of the Chippewayan. He has summoned
all the chiefs of the tribes south of Great Slave Lake. He has held
council. The cunning of the pale-face, who comes to take the musk-oxen,
is well known. Let the pale-face hunter return to his own
hunting-grounds; let him turn his face from the north. Never will the
chiefs permit the white man to take musk-oxen alive from their country.
The Ageter, the Musk-ox, is their god. He gives them food and fur. He
will never come back if he is taken away, and the reindeer will follow
him. The chiefs and their people would starve. They command the
pale-face hunter to go back. They cry Naza! Naza! Naza!"
"Say, for a thousand miles I've heard that word Naza!" returned the
hunter, with mingled curiosity and disgust. "At Edmonton Indian runners
started ahead of me, and every village I struck the redskins would
crowd round me and an old chief would harangue at me, and motion me
back, and point north with Naza! Naza! Naza! What does it mean?"
"No white man knows; no Indian will tell," answered the interpreter.
"The traders think it means the Great Slave, the North Star, the North
Spirit, the North Wind, the North Lights and the musk-ox god."
"Well, say to the chiefs to tell Ageter I have been four moons on the
way after some of his little Ageters, and I'm going to keep on after
"Hunter, you are most unwise," broke in the commandant, in his
officious voice. "The Indians will never permit you to take a musk-ox
alive from the north. They worship him, pray to him. It is a wonder you
have not been stopped."
"Who'll stop me?"
"The Indians. They will kill you if you do not turn back."
"Faugh! to tell an American plainsman that!" The hunter paused a steady
moment, with his eyelids narrowing over slits of blue fire. "There is
no law to keep me out, nothing but Indian superstition and Naza! And
the greed of the Hudson's Bay people. I am an old fox, not to be fooled
by pretty baits. For years the officers of this fur-trading company
have tried to keep out explorers. Even Sir John Franklin, an
Englishman, could not buy food of them. The policy of the company is to
side with the Indians, to keep out traders and trappers. Why? So they
can keep on cheating the poor savages out of clothing and food by
trading a few trinkets and blankets, a little tobacco and rum for
millions of dollars worth of furs. Have I failed to hire man after man,
Indian after Indian, not to know why I cannot get a helper? Have I, a
plainsman, come a thousand miles alone to be scared by you, or a lot of
craven Indians? Have I been dreaming of musk-oxen for forty years, to
slink south now, when I begin to feel the north? Not I."
Deliberately every chief, with the sound of a hissing snake, spat in
the hunter's face. He stood immovable while they perpetrated the
outrage, then calmly wiped his cheeks, and in his strange, cool voice,
addressed the interpreter.
"Tell them thus they show their true qualities, to insult in council.
Tell them they are not chiefs, but dogs. Tell them they are not even
squaws, only poor, miserable starved dogs. Tell them I turn my back on
them. Tell them the paleface has fought real chiefs, fierce, bold, like
eagles, and he turns his back on dogs. Tell them he is the one who
could teach them to raise the musk-oxen and the reindeer, and to keep
out the cold and the wolf. But they are blinded. Tell them the hunter
Through the council of chiefs ran a low mutter, as of gathering thunder.
True to his word, the hunter turned his back on them. As he brushed by,
his eye caught a gaunt savage slipping from the boat. At the hunter's
stern call, the Indian leaped ashore, and started to run. He had stolen
a parcel, and would have succeeded in eluding its owner but for an
unforeseen obstacle, as striking as it was unexpected.
A white man of colossal stature had stepped in the thief's passage, and
laid two great hands on him. Instantly the parcel flew from the Indian,
and he spun in the air to fall into the river with a sounding splash.
Yells signaled the surprise and alarm caused by this unexpected
incident. The Indian frantically swam to the shore. Whereupon the
champion of the stranger in a strange land lifted a bag, which gave
forth a musical clink of steel, and throwing it with the camp articles
on the grassy bench, he extended a huge, friendly hand.
"My name is Rea," he said, in deep, cavernous tones.
"Mine is Jones," replied the hunter, and right quickly did he grip the
proffered hand. He saw in Rea a giant, of whom he was but a stunted
shadow. Six and one-half feet Rea stood, with yard-wide shoulders, a
hulk of bone and brawn. His ponderous, shaggy head rested on a bull
neck. His broad face, with its low forehead, its close-shut mastiff
under jaw, its big, opaque eyes, pale and cruel as those of a jaguar,
marked him a man of terrible brute force.
"Free-trader!" called the commandant "Better think twice before you
join fortunes with the musk-ox hunter."
"To hell with you an' your rantin', dog-eared redskins!" cried Rea.
"I've run agin a man of my own kind, a man of my own country, an' I'm
goin' with him."
With this he thrust aside some encroaching, gaping Indians so
unconcernedly and ungently that they sprawled upon the grass.
Slowly the crowd mounted and once more lined the bank.
Jones realized that by some late-turning stroke of fortune, he had
fallen in with one of the few free-traders of the province. These
free-traders, from the very nature of their calling, which was to defy
the fur company, and to trap and trade on their own account--were a
hardy and intrepid class of men. Rea's worth to Jones exceeded that of
a dozen ordinary men. He knew the ways of the north, the language of
the tribes, the habits of animals, the handling of dogs, the uses of
food and fuel. Moreover, it soon appeared that he was a carpenter and
"There's my kit," he said, dumping the contents of his bag. It
consisted of a bunch of steel traps, some tools, a broken ax, a box of
miscellaneous things such as trappers used, and a few articles of
flannel. "Thievin' redskins," he added, in explanation of his poverty.
"Not much of an outfit. But I'm the man for you. Besides, I had a pal
onct who knew you on the plains, called you 'Buff' Jones. Old Jim Bent
"I recollect Jim," said Jones. "He went down in Custer's last charge.
So you were Jim's pal. That'd be a recommendation if you needed one.
But the way you chucked the Indian overboard got me."
Rea soon manifested himself as a man of few words and much action. With
the planks Jones had on board he heightened the stern and bow of the
boat to keep out the beating waves in the rapids; he fashioned a
steering-gear and a less awkward set of oars, and shifted the cargo so
as to make more room in the craft.
"Buff, we're in for a storm. Set up a tarpaulin an' make a fire. We'll
pretend to camp to-night. These Indians won't dream we'd try to run the
river after dark, and we'll slip by under cover."
The sun glazed over; clouds moved up from the north; a cold wind swept
the tips of the spruces, and rain commenced to drive in gusts. By the
time it was dark not an Indian showed himself. They were housed from
the storm. Lights twinkled in the teepees and the big log cabins of the
trading company. Jones scouted round till pitchy black night, when a
freezing, pouring blast sent him back to the protection of the
tarpaulin. When he got there he found that Rea had taken it down and
awaited him. "Off!" said the free-trader; and with no more noise than a
drifting feather the boat swung into the current and glided down till
the twinkling fires no longer accentuated the darkness.
By night the river, in common with all swift rivers, had a sullen
voice, and murmured its hurry, its restraint, its menace, its meaning.
The two boat-men, one at the steering gear, one at the oars, faced the
pelting rain and watched the dim, dark line of trees. The craft slid
noiselessly onward into the gloom.
And into Jones's ears, above the storm, poured another sound, a steady,
muffled rumble, like the roll of giant chariot wheels. It had come to
be a familiar roar to him, and the only thing which, in his long life
of hazard, had ever sent the cold, prickling, tight shudder over his
warm skin. Many times on the Athabasca that rumble had presaged the
dangerous and dreaded rapids.
"Hell Bend Rapids!" shouted Rea. "Bad water, but no rocks."
The rumble expanded to a roar, the roar to a boom that charged the air
with heaviness, with a dreamy burr. The whole indistinct world appeared
to be moving to the lash of wind, to the sound of rain, to the roar of
the river. The boat shot down and sailed aloft, met shock on shock,
breasted leaping dim white waves, and in a hollow, unearthly blend of
watery sounds, rode on and on, buffeted, tossed, pitched into a black
chaos that yet gleamed with obscure shrouds of light. Then the
convulsive stream shrieked out a last defiance, changed its course
abruptly to slow down and drown the sound of rapids in muffling
distance. Once more the craft swept on smoothly, to the drive of the
wind and the rush of the rain.
By midnight the storm cleared. Murky cloud split to show shining,
blue-white stars and a fitful moon, that silvered the crests of the
spruces and sometimes hid like a gleaming, black-threaded peak behind
the dark branches.
Jones, a plainsman all his days, wonderingly watched the moon-blanched
water. He saw it shade and darken under shadowy walls of granite, where
it swelled with hollow song and gurgle. He heard again the far-off
rumble, faint on the night. High cliff banks appeared, walled out the
mellow, light, and the river suddenly narrowed. Yawning holes,
whirlpools of a second, opened with a gurgling suck and raced with the
On the craft flew. Far ahead, a long, declining plane of jumping
frosted waves played dark and white with the moonbeams. The Slave
plunged to his freedom, down his riven, stone-spiked bed, knowing no
patient eddy, and white-wreathed his dark shiny rocks in spume and
Next: The Land Of The Musk-ox
Previous: Snake Gulch