On the following morning the seventeen boats commenced the descent of the Winnipeg river, while I remained at the Portage-du-Rat to await the arrival of the chief of the Expedition from Fort Francis.  Each succeeding day brought a fresh brigade of boats under the guidance of one of my late canoe-men; and finally Thomas Hope came along,-seemingly enjoying life to the utmost—­pork was plentiful, and as for the French there was no need to dream of them, and he could sleep in peace in the midst of fifty white soldiers.  During six days I remained at the little Hudson Bay Company’s post at the Rat Portage, making short excursions into the surrounding lakes and rivers, fishing below the rapids of the Great Chute; and in the evenings listening to the Indian stories of the lake as told by my worthy host, Mr. Macpherson, a great portion of whose life had been spent in the vicinity.

One day I went some distance away from the fort to fish at the foot of one of the great rapids formed by the Winnipeg River as it runs from the Lake of the Woods.  We carried our canoe over two or three portages, and at length reached the chosen spot.  In the centre of the river an Indian was floating quietly in his canoe, casting every now and then a large hook baited with a bit of fish into the water.  My bait consisted of a bright spinning piece of metal, which I had got in one of the American cities on my way through Minnesota.  Its effect upon the fish of this lonely region was marvellous; they had never before been exposed to such a fascinating affair, and they rushed at it with avidity.  Civilization on the rocks had certainly a better time of it, as far as catching fish went, than barbarism in the canoe.  With the shining thing we killed three for the Indian’s one.  My companion, who was working the spinning bait while I sat on the rock, casually observed, pointing to the Indian, “He’s a Windigo.”

“A what?” I asked.

“A Windigo.”

“What is that?”

“A man that has eaten other men.”

“Has this man eaten other men?”

“Yes; a long time ago he and his band were starving, and they killed and ate forty other Indians who were starving with them.  They lived through the winter on them, and in the spring he had to fly from Lake Superior because the others wanted to kill him in revenge; and so he came here, and he now lives alone near this place.”

The Windigo soon paddled over to us, and I had a good opportunity of studying his appearance.  He was a stout, low-sized savage, with coarse and repulsive features, and eyes fixed sideways in his head like a Tartar’s.  We had left our canoe some distance away, and my companion asked him to put us across to an island.  The Windigo at once consented:  we got into his canoe, and he ferried us over.  I don’t know the name of the island upon which he landed us, and very likely it has got no name, but in my mind, at least, the rock and the Windigo will always be associated with that celebrated individual of our early days, the King of the Cannibal Islands.  The Windigo looked with wonder at the spinning bait, seeming to regard it as a “great medicine;” perhaps if he had possessed such a thing he would never have been forced by hunger to become a Windigo.