Sishetakushin explained to Bob that unless this was done the Great
Spirit would punish them by driving all other bears beyond the reach
of their guns and traps in future.
For several days a storm had been threatening, and that night it broke
with all the terrifying fury of the north. The wind shrieked through
the forest and shook the wigwam as though it would tear it away. The
air was filled with a swirling, blinding mass of snow and any one
venturing a dozen paces from the lodge could hardly have found his way
back to it again. For three days the storm lasted, and the Indians
turned these three days into a period of feasting. A big kettle of
bear's meat always hung over the fire, and surrounding it pieces of
the meat were impaled upon sticks to roast. It seemed to Bob as though
the Indians would never have enough to eat.
Finally the storm cleared, and then it was discovered that the
ptarmigans and rabbits, which had been so plentiful and constituted
their chief source of food supply, had disappeared as if by magic. Not
a ptarmigan fluttered before the hunter, and no rabbit tracks broke
the smooth white snow beneath the bushes.
The jerked venison was gone and the only food remaining was the bear
meat. A hurried consultation was held, and it was decided to push on
still farther to the northward in the hope of meeting the invisible
herds of caribou that somewhere in those limitless, frozen barrens
were wandering unmolested.
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