“Scotty” was a little clerk in one of our most northern Indian trading stations. He had applied for a position with us in Inverness and had come over in steerage to Halifax. From there he had traveled by train to Montreal, then to Winnipeg, Prince Albert and Le Pas. Finally he had been transported by canoe five hundred miles to his new Post. He landed one afternoon in August and introduced himself to the trader.
I happened to be there at the time. His luggage consisted of a small hand bag, much the worse for the wear, and a large flat wooden box. He was very silent during the evening meal and left us immediately afterwards.
An hour or so later, just as night was falling, a weird scream smote our ears. It came from somewhere in the bush and sounded like the haunting wail of something inhuman. “God, a banshee!” murmured the trader, crossing himself. I thought of a strange night bird—a prowling wolf—a lonely Indian dog. Then it came again, this time louder. We left the shack and walked in the direction of the noise. Meanwhile the wail, after echoing faster and faster, had changed into one continuous screech.