Chapter Thirteen.Difficulties of Various Kinds overcome.When the bright warm days and cool starry nights of the Indian summer gave place to the sharp days and frosty nights of early winter—when young ice formed on the lakes and rendered canoeing impossible, and the ducks and geese had fled to warmer climes, and the Frost King had sent his first messengers of snow to cover the wilderness with a winding-sheet and herald his return to the Winter Palace—then it was that the banished Red River settlers began to feel the pinch of poverty and to understand the full extent of the calamity that had befallen them.We have not space to follow them through all the details of that winter at Jack River. Some died, all suffered more or less; but they had to endure it, for escape from the country to the civilised world was even more difficult and hopeless than escape from the dreaded wilds of Siberia. The men hunted, fished under the ice, trapped, and sustained themselves and their families in life during the long, dreary winter; the only gain being that they became more or less expert at the Red-man’s work and ways of life.Only two of the Indians remained with them to help them over their difficulties—namely, Okématan and Kateegoose, with their respective squaws. These last were invaluable as the makers of moccasins and duffle socks and leathern coats, without which existence in such a climate would have been impossible. They also imparted their knowledge in such matters to the squaws of the white men.There was one friend, however, who did not remain with the settlers when things began to look dismal around them. This was the amiable, musical, story-telling La Certe. That tender-hearted man could not endure the sight of human distress. If he could not relieve it, he felt constrained to shut his eyes to it and to flee from it. At the first indication of the approach of winter he had come to old McKay with that peculiarly mild, humble, deprecatory expression of countenance with which he was wont to preface an appeal for assistance of some sort.“What iss it you will be wantin’now?” demanded the old man, rather testily, for he had an aversion to the half-breed’s sneaking ways. “Surely you will not be wantin’ more powder an’ shot efter the supply I gave you last week?”O no! nothing could be further from the mind of La Certe. He had plenty of ammunition and provisions. He had only come to say that he was going back to—to—Red River.“Weel, weel,” returned the Highlander, “there is no call for hesitation, man, in tellin’ me that. I will not be breakin’ my heart when ye are gone. I suppose that now ye hev got the best the season can supply, ye think the comforts o’ the Settlement will be more to your taste.”The remonstrative expression on La Certe’s face deepened. The idea of his own taste or comfort had not once entered his head: but he had a wife and child whom he was bound to consider, and he had a hut—a home—in Red River which he felt constrained to look after. Besides, he had social duties of many kinds which claimed attention.“I’ve no doubt ye hev,” said McKay, with a short sarcastic laugh, “an’ ye will attend to them too—I’ll be bound. But ye did not come here, I suppose, to take a tender farewell o’ me. What iss it you will be wantin’? Oot wi’ it, man!”“There is a canoe—” said La Certe, with some hesitation.“There iss many a canoe!” returned McKay with a peculiar grin.“True, but there is one on the shore now, close to the flat rock which—”“My own canoe!” interrupted the other, “what will ye be wantin’ wi’ that?”La Certe did not wish to appear greedy, but the season was late, and his own canoe was not in a very fit condition to carry a family round the shores of a lake so large as Lake Winnipeg. Would the white father lend his canoe to him? It could not be wanted much longer that Fall, and the one he would leave behind him was an excellent canoe for ordinary fishing and hunting purposes. He would be quite willing to hire the canoe or to pay the full price for it if any accident should happen to it.“No,” said McKay, firmly. “No, La Certe; your hiring means borrowing, and your payin’ means owin’ a debt for the remainder o’ your natural life. I will see you at the bottom o’ Lake Winnipeg before I will be lending you my canoe.”La Certe smiled sadly, and gazed at the cap with which his hands played, as if appealing to it for sympathy.With an aspect of the profoundest resignation he made his bow and left the Presence.But La Certe was not in the least put out by this failure. He went to his tent, and recounted the interview to his squaw, who, when he entered, was in the act of giving her child, a creature of about four years of age, one or two draws of her pipe, to let it taste how nice it was.Smoking in calm placidity, the amiable pair discussed the subject. The conclusion they came to was, as usual, harmonious.“I think he will agree to lend it next time I go to him,” said La Certe, hopefully.“He will give in,” replied Slowfoot, decidedly.The four-year-old could not understand the subject, and made no comment; but it howled for another smoke, and got it.La Certe was wrong, and his wife was right—as usual. Old McKay did not agree to “lend” his canoe the “next time,” or the next again, but he did “give in” at last, more, perhaps, to get rid of the half-breed’s importunity than because of good-will, and sold the canoe to him—on credit.When that winter was over, the Hudson’s Bay Company again encouraged the settlers to return, under promise of protection, and the spring found the persevering people, in spite of all difficulties and previous failures, busy putting into the ground what little seed they possessed, and otherwise cultivating the soil.Some of them there were, however, who, after lending a hand in this work, determined to provide second strings to their bows by following the buffalo-hunters to the plains. These were chiefly the young and strong men, such as Dan Davidson and his brother Peter, Fergus McKay, Antoine Dechamp, and Jacques Bourassin, among many others.La Certe also went, as well as his squaw and the four-year-old. He managed the thing characteristically thus.When the half-breeds were making preparations for their spring hunt, he paid a visit to Duncan McKay, who was busy at the time helping his father and brother to rebuild their house. Indeed the edifice was almost rebuilt, for the erection of small wooden houses does not usually take long.“You’ve come to beg, borrow, or steal, no doubt,” said Cloudbrow, who was worthy of his nickname, for he was as short of temper as Duncan senior.No, La Certe had come to do none of these things, he said, with a conciliatory smile.“Well, then, you can’t have come to buy or to ask advances,” growled Duncan; “for you see that our store and all we possessed has been burnt by your precious countrymen.”La Certe knew this, and professed himself profoundly grieved as well as indignant with his countrymen. No, he did not come to buy or to borrow, but to hire. The McKays had still some horses left, and carts. Could they not spare a horse and cart to him on hire?“No, we can do nothing of the sort,” said Duncan shortly, resuming his axe and work. “You can go to the Company. Perhaps they will trust you—though they are fools if they do.”La Certe was regretful, but not cast down. He changed the subject, commented on the building that was going on, the prospects of a good harvest, and finally took refuge in that stale old subject, the weather. Then he said in a casual way—as if it had just occurred to him—“By the way—that knife that my wife got from Marie Blanc—”Young McKay stopped, and looked quickly up for a moment, with a slight flush, but instantly resumed work.“Well,” he said, quietly, “what about the knife?”“Would you like to have it—my wife bade me inquire?”“Why shouldIlike to have it?” he asked carelessly.“Oh! I thought it was yours,” said La Certe.“You are mistaken. I said it was very like mine. But it isnotmine—and I have no wish for what does not belong to me.”“Of course not. Well, I must be going,” said the half-breed, preparing to leave. “I wished much to have your horse and cart, for they are both good, and I would offer you 4 pounds for the trip, which, you know, is double the usual charge, for I never grudge a good price for a good thing.”“Yes, all the more when you hev no intention to pay it,” said McKay with a laugh. “However, since you seem so anxious, and offer so good a price, I am willing to oblige you this time, in the hope that you are really becoming an honest man!”The half-breed was profuse in his thanks, and in his assurance that Cloudbrow’s hopes would certainly not be disappointed.Having thus attained his chief object, our arch-beggar went off to obtain provisions. Those which had been supplied him the previous autumn by young McKay had been quite consumed by himself and his friends—for the man, you see, had a liberal heart and hand.But his first attempts were unsuccessful. He wanted ammunition. To go to the plains without ammunition was obviously useless. He wanted food—sugar, tea, flour, pork. To go to the plains without these would be dreary work. But men knew La Certe’s character, and refused him. One after another he tried his friends. Then he tried them again. Then he tried comparative strangers. He could not try his enemies, for, strange to say, he had none. Then he went over them all again.At last, by indomitable perseverance, he managed to wear out the patience of one of his friends, who believed in the restoration of the incorrigible, and he found himself fully equipped to take the field with his hard-working comrades.It may be remarked here that the buffalo runners generally went on the credit system, trusting to a successful hunt to pay off their debts, and leave them supplied with food for the winter. But, then, most of these men were in earnest, and meant to pay off their debts loyally. Whereas La Certe—good, humorous, easy-going man—had not the slightest intention of paying his debts at all!
When the bright warm days and cool starry nights of the Indian summer gave place to the sharp days and frosty nights of early winter—when young ice formed on the lakes and rendered canoeing impossible, and the ducks and geese had fled to warmer climes, and the Frost King had sent his first messengers of snow to cover the wilderness with a winding-sheet and herald his return to the Winter Palace—then it was that the banished Red River settlers began to feel the pinch of poverty and to understand the full extent of the calamity that had befallen them.
We have not space to follow them through all the details of that winter at Jack River. Some died, all suffered more or less; but they had to endure it, for escape from the country to the civilised world was even more difficult and hopeless than escape from the dreaded wilds of Siberia. The men hunted, fished under the ice, trapped, and sustained themselves and their families in life during the long, dreary winter; the only gain being that they became more or less expert at the Red-man’s work and ways of life.
Only two of the Indians remained with them to help them over their difficulties—namely, Okématan and Kateegoose, with their respective squaws. These last were invaluable as the makers of moccasins and duffle socks and leathern coats, without which existence in such a climate would have been impossible. They also imparted their knowledge in such matters to the squaws of the white men.
There was one friend, however, who did not remain with the settlers when things began to look dismal around them. This was the amiable, musical, story-telling La Certe. That tender-hearted man could not endure the sight of human distress. If he could not relieve it, he felt constrained to shut his eyes to it and to flee from it. At the first indication of the approach of winter he had come to old McKay with that peculiarly mild, humble, deprecatory expression of countenance with which he was wont to preface an appeal for assistance of some sort.
“What iss it you will be wantin’now?” demanded the old man, rather testily, for he had an aversion to the half-breed’s sneaking ways. “Surely you will not be wantin’ more powder an’ shot efter the supply I gave you last week?”
O no! nothing could be further from the mind of La Certe. He had plenty of ammunition and provisions. He had only come to say that he was going back to—to—Red River.
“Weel, weel,” returned the Highlander, “there is no call for hesitation, man, in tellin’ me that. I will not be breakin’ my heart when ye are gone. I suppose that now ye hev got the best the season can supply, ye think the comforts o’ the Settlement will be more to your taste.”
The remonstrative expression on La Certe’s face deepened. The idea of his own taste or comfort had not once entered his head: but he had a wife and child whom he was bound to consider, and he had a hut—a home—in Red River which he felt constrained to look after. Besides, he had social duties of many kinds which claimed attention.
“I’ve no doubt ye hev,” said McKay, with a short sarcastic laugh, “an’ ye will attend to them too—I’ll be bound. But ye did not come here, I suppose, to take a tender farewell o’ me. What iss it you will be wantin’? Oot wi’ it, man!”
“There is a canoe—” said La Certe, with some hesitation.
“There iss many a canoe!” returned McKay with a peculiar grin.
“True, but there is one on the shore now, close to the flat rock which—”
“My own canoe!” interrupted the other, “what will ye be wantin’ wi’ that?”
La Certe did not wish to appear greedy, but the season was late, and his own canoe was not in a very fit condition to carry a family round the shores of a lake so large as Lake Winnipeg. Would the white father lend his canoe to him? It could not be wanted much longer that Fall, and the one he would leave behind him was an excellent canoe for ordinary fishing and hunting purposes. He would be quite willing to hire the canoe or to pay the full price for it if any accident should happen to it.
“No,” said McKay, firmly. “No, La Certe; your hiring means borrowing, and your payin’ means owin’ a debt for the remainder o’ your natural life. I will see you at the bottom o’ Lake Winnipeg before I will be lending you my canoe.”
La Certe smiled sadly, and gazed at the cap with which his hands played, as if appealing to it for sympathy.
With an aspect of the profoundest resignation he made his bow and left the Presence.
But La Certe was not in the least put out by this failure. He went to his tent, and recounted the interview to his squaw, who, when he entered, was in the act of giving her child, a creature of about four years of age, one or two draws of her pipe, to let it taste how nice it was.
Smoking in calm placidity, the amiable pair discussed the subject. The conclusion they came to was, as usual, harmonious.
“I think he will agree to lend it next time I go to him,” said La Certe, hopefully.
“He will give in,” replied Slowfoot, decidedly.
The four-year-old could not understand the subject, and made no comment; but it howled for another smoke, and got it.
La Certe was wrong, and his wife was right—as usual. Old McKay did not agree to “lend” his canoe the “next time,” or the next again, but he did “give in” at last, more, perhaps, to get rid of the half-breed’s importunity than because of good-will, and sold the canoe to him—on credit.
When that winter was over, the Hudson’s Bay Company again encouraged the settlers to return, under promise of protection, and the spring found the persevering people, in spite of all difficulties and previous failures, busy putting into the ground what little seed they possessed, and otherwise cultivating the soil.
Some of them there were, however, who, after lending a hand in this work, determined to provide second strings to their bows by following the buffalo-hunters to the plains. These were chiefly the young and strong men, such as Dan Davidson and his brother Peter, Fergus McKay, Antoine Dechamp, and Jacques Bourassin, among many others.
La Certe also went, as well as his squaw and the four-year-old. He managed the thing characteristically thus.
When the half-breeds were making preparations for their spring hunt, he paid a visit to Duncan McKay, who was busy at the time helping his father and brother to rebuild their house. Indeed the edifice was almost rebuilt, for the erection of small wooden houses does not usually take long.
“You’ve come to beg, borrow, or steal, no doubt,” said Cloudbrow, who was worthy of his nickname, for he was as short of temper as Duncan senior.
No, La Certe had come to do none of these things, he said, with a conciliatory smile.
“Well, then, you can’t have come to buy or to ask advances,” growled Duncan; “for you see that our store and all we possessed has been burnt by your precious countrymen.”
La Certe knew this, and professed himself profoundly grieved as well as indignant with his countrymen. No, he did not come to buy or to borrow, but to hire. The McKays had still some horses left, and carts. Could they not spare a horse and cart to him on hire?
“No, we can do nothing of the sort,” said Duncan shortly, resuming his axe and work. “You can go to the Company. Perhaps they will trust you—though they are fools if they do.”
La Certe was regretful, but not cast down. He changed the subject, commented on the building that was going on, the prospects of a good harvest, and finally took refuge in that stale old subject, the weather. Then he said in a casual way—as if it had just occurred to him—
“By the way—that knife that my wife got from Marie Blanc—”
Young McKay stopped, and looked quickly up for a moment, with a slight flush, but instantly resumed work.
“Well,” he said, quietly, “what about the knife?”
“Would you like to have it—my wife bade me inquire?”
“Why shouldIlike to have it?” he asked carelessly.
“Oh! I thought it was yours,” said La Certe.
“You are mistaken. I said it was very like mine. But it isnotmine—and I have no wish for what does not belong to me.”
“Of course not. Well, I must be going,” said the half-breed, preparing to leave. “I wished much to have your horse and cart, for they are both good, and I would offer you 4 pounds for the trip, which, you know, is double the usual charge, for I never grudge a good price for a good thing.”
“Yes, all the more when you hev no intention to pay it,” said McKay with a laugh. “However, since you seem so anxious, and offer so good a price, I am willing to oblige you this time, in the hope that you are really becoming an honest man!”
The half-breed was profuse in his thanks, and in his assurance that Cloudbrow’s hopes would certainly not be disappointed.
Having thus attained his chief object, our arch-beggar went off to obtain provisions. Those which had been supplied him the previous autumn by young McKay had been quite consumed by himself and his friends—for the man, you see, had a liberal heart and hand.
But his first attempts were unsuccessful. He wanted ammunition. To go to the plains without ammunition was obviously useless. He wanted food—sugar, tea, flour, pork. To go to the plains without these would be dreary work. But men knew La Certe’s character, and refused him. One after another he tried his friends. Then he tried them again. Then he tried comparative strangers. He could not try his enemies, for, strange to say, he had none. Then he went over them all again.
At last, by indomitable perseverance, he managed to wear out the patience of one of his friends, who believed in the restoration of the incorrigible, and he found himself fully equipped to take the field with his hard-working comrades.
It may be remarked here that the buffalo runners generally went on the credit system, trusting to a successful hunt to pay off their debts, and leave them supplied with food for the winter. But, then, most of these men were in earnest, and meant to pay off their debts loyally. Whereas La Certe—good, humorous, easy-going man—had not the slightest intention of paying his debts at all!
Chapter Fourteen.Treachery in the Air.At this time the half-breeds of the colony of Red River formed a small party compared with the numbers to which they multiplied in after years, and the band of hunters who annually went to the plains to chase the buffalo was proportionally small. Nevertheless, they were numerous enough to constitute a formidable band, capable of holding their own, when united, against any band of wandering Indians who might feel disposed to attack them. They were a brave, hardy race of men, but of course there were some black sheep among them like La Certe.About sixty or a hundred miles from the Settlement, the party, under command of Antoine Dechamp, found the buffalo, and preparations were at once made to attack them. It was dusk, however, when the herds were discovered, so that the hunt had to be postponed to the following day.A small clump of bushes afforded wood enough for camp-fires. The carts were ranged in a circle with the trains outward. Sentries were posted; the horses were secured; the kettles put on; pipes lighted; and noise, laughter, song and story, mingled with the shrill voices of children, were heard far on into the night.Among the children, if we may venture so to class them, were Archie and Billie Sinclair—though we suspect that Archie would have claimed, and with some reason, to be classed with the men. They belonged to the camp-fire, which formed a centre to the party composed of Dan and Peter, Fergus, Dechamp, and Fred Jenkins the sailor. The latter, who it was thought had come out to the country by way of a skylark rather than as a settler, had followed the hunters, bent, he said, on firing a broadside into a buffalo. He had brought with him a blunderbuss, which he averred had been used by his great-grandfather at the battle of Culloden. It was a formidable old weapon, capable of swallowing, at one gulp, several of the bullets which fitted the trading guns of the country. Its powers of scattering ordinary shot in large quantity had proved to be very effective, and had done such execution among flocks of wild-fowl, that the Indians and half-breeds, although at first inclined to laugh at it, were ultimately filled with respect.“I doubt its capacity for sending ball straight, however,” remarked Dan to Jenkins, who was carefully cleaning out the piece, “especially if charged with more than one ball.”“No fear of it,” returned the sailor, with a confident air. “Of course it scattered the balls about six yards apart the only time I tried it with a lot of ’em, but that was at fifty yards off, an’ they tell me that you a’most ram the muzzle against the brutes’ sides when chasin’ buffalo. So there’s no room to scatter, d’ee see, till they get inside their bodies, and when there it don’t matter how much they scatter.”“It’s well named a young cannon by La Certe,” said Peter Davidson, who, like the seaman, was out on his first buffalo-hunt. “I never heard such a roar as it gave that time you brought down ten out of one flock of ducks on the way up here.”“Ay, Peter, she barked well that time,” remarked the sailor, with a grin, “but, then there was a reason. I had double-shotted her by mistake.”“An’ ye did it too without an aim, for you had both eyes tight shut at the time,” remarked Fergus. “Iss that the way they teach ye to shoot at sea?”“In course it is,” replied Jenkins, gravely. “That’s the beauty o’ the blunderbuss. There’s no chance o’ missin’, so what ’ud be the use o’ keepin’ yer eyes open, excep’ to get ’em filled wi’ smoke. You’ve on’y got to point straight, an’ blaze away.”“I did not know that you use the blunderbuss in your ships at all,” said Dechamp, with a look of assumed simplicity.“Ho yes, they do,” said Jenkins, squinting down the bell-mouthed barrel, as if to see that the touch-hole was clear. “Aboard o’ one man-o’-war that I sailed in after pirates in the China seas, we had a blunderbuss company. The first-leftenant, who was thought to be queer in his head, he got it up.“The first time the company was ranged along the deck he gave the order to load with ball cartridges. There was twenty-six of us, all told.“‘We’ve got no cartridges for ’em, sir,’ whispered the man nearest him.“‘If you don’t obey orders,’ growled the leftenant ’tween his teeth, ‘I’ll have ye strung up for mutiny every man Jack of you—load!’ he repeated in a kind of a yell.“We had our or’nary belts and pouches on, so we out wi’ the or’nary cartridges—some three, some four,—an’, biting off the ends, poured in the powder somehow, shoved in the balls anyhow, an’ rammed the whole consarn down.“‘Present—fire!’ roared the leftenant.“Bang! went the six an’ twenty blunderbusses, an’ when the smoke cleared away there was fourteen out o’ the twenty-six men flat on their backs. The rest o’ us was raither stunned, but hearty.“‘Take these men below,’ cried the leftenant, ‘an’ send fourteen strong men here. We don’t want weaklings forthiscompany.’“After that we loaded in moderation, an’ got on better.”“And the pirates—what didtheythink o’ the new weapon?” asked Peter Davidson, with an amused expression.“O! they couldn’t stand it at all,” answered the sailor, looking up from his work, with a solemnity that was quite impressive. “They stood fire only once. After that they sheered off like wild-cats. I say, Mistress La Certe, how long is that lobscouse—or whatever you call it,—goin’ to be in cookin’?” Slowfoot gave vent to a sweet, low giggle, as she lifted the kettle off the hook, and thus gave a practical answer to the question. She placed before him the robbiboo, or pemmican, soup, which the seaman had so grievously misnamed.During the time that the hunters were appeasing their appetites, it was observed that Antoine Dechamp, the leader of the expedition, was unusually silent and thoughtful, and that he betrayed a slight look of anxiety. It therefore did not surprise Dan Davidson, when the supper was nearly ended, that Dechamp should rise and leave the fire after giving him a look which was a silent but obvious invitation to follow.Dan obeyed at once, and his leader, conducting him between the various camp-fires, led him outside the circle of carts.A clear moon lit up the prairie all round, so that they could see its undulating sweep in every direction.“Anything wrong, Antoine?” asked Dan in a low voice, when they were out of earshot of the camp.“Nothing wrong, Dan.”“Surely,” continued the other, while Dechamp paused as if in perplexity, “surely there can be no chance of Red-skins troubling us on a clear night like this. I can distinguish every bush for miles around.”“There is no fear o’ Red-skins. No, I am not troubled about them. It is matters concerning yourself that trouble me.”“How’s that? What do you mean, Antoine?”“Is your brother-in-law-to-be, Duncan McKay, coming to join us this spring?” asked Dechamp.“I believe he is—after he has helped his father a bit longer wi’ the farm. Why do you ask?”“Well, to say truth, I can’t give you a very good reason for my bein’ anxious. Only I can’t help havin’ my ears open, and I’ve heard some talk among the lads that makes me fear for the young man. They say, or hint, that he knows more about the murder o’ poor Perrin than he chooses to tell. I’ve not been quite able to find out what makes them suspect him, but they do suspect him, an’ it would be well to warn him not to come here, for you know there are many opportunities to commit murder on a buffalo-hunt!”The incident of the knife, and of Duncan McKay’s significant glance, at once flashed across Davidson’s mind, and he felt a terrible sinking of the heart when the suspicion, once before roused within him, seemed now to be confirmed. He resolved, however, to reveal his thoughts to no one—specially not to Elspie.“I think it a shame,” he said, “that men should allow such rumours to circulate, when nothing certain has arisen to rouse suspicion. That affair of the knife was clearly explained when young McKay declared that it was not his, though it looked like it. If he knew anything about the murder, would he not have been certain to have told us long ago? And, surely, you cannot suppose that Duncan killed Perrin with his own hand? Speak, Dechamp! Why do you shake your head?”“I know nothing,” returned the leader. “What right have I to suppose anything? I only know that men’s deeds are often mysterious and unaccountable, and that our men have strong suspicion. For myself, I have no opinion. Duncan McKay is probably innocent, for he and Perrin were not enemies. I hope he is so, but I advise you to stop his coming to the camp just now if you can. His life may depend on it.”“I cannot stop him,” returned Dan, with a perplexed look. “He is headstrong, as you know, and if he has made up his mind to come, nothing will stop him.”“Perhaps if he knew his life would be in danger—that might stop him.”“I doubt it; but I will give him the chance. I will ride back to Red River without delay, and warn him.”“Good. When will you start?”“To-night. The moon is clear and will not set till morning. I shall be well on my way by that time.”“Will you ride alone?”“No, there may be bad Indians about. I will ask Okématan or Fergus McKay to ride with me. Why did you not speak to Fergus instead of to me?”“Because he has not been spoken to by any one,” answered Dechamp; “and I would not be the first to put suspicion into his head about his own brother. Besides, your head is clearer; and your interest in Duncan, for Elspie’s sake, is greater than his, no doubt.”“Well, you may be right, Antoine. At all events if I take Fergus with me I shall send him back before reaching the Settlement, and say nothing whatever about my reason for going there. ‘Pressing business,’ you know, will be sufficient.”“I’m not so sure of that,” returned Dechamp with a laugh. “Men are apt to want to know the nature of ‘pressing business.’ However, it may be as well to take Fergus. At any rate you cannot have Okématan, for he is not in camp, he left soon after we pitched, and I know has not yet returned.”“It matters not. Fergus will do better. He is more companionable.”Returning to camp, Dan Davidson made the proposal to Fergus McKay. That worthy was, as he said, ready for anything, and the two were soon mounted. They were also well armed, for the risk of meeting a party of hostile Indians was not altogether out of the question, though improbable. Each horseman carried his blanket and provision wallet, his gun, a long knife almost equal to an ancient Roman sword, and a cavalry pistol—revolvers not having been invented at that time: at least they had not come into general use. Thus provided for all contingencies, they set forth.As we have said, the night was clear and fine, so that the plains were open to view in all directions, save where a few scattered clumps of willows and small trees grew like islets in the ocean.“It iss this that I like better than farming,” said Fergus, as the fresh horses carried them swiftly and lightly over the prairie waves, and down into the grassy hollows, now swerving to avoid a badger-hole, or clearing a small shrub with a little bound. “I do think that man wass intended to live in the wilderness, an’ not to coop himself up in the cities like rabbits in their holes.”“Why, Fergus, you should have been born a savage,” said Dan.“Ay, it iss savitch I am that I wass not born a savitch,” returned Fergus with a grim smile. “What in all the world iss the use of ceevilisation if it will not make people happy? A man wants nothing more than a goot supper an’ a goot bed, an’ a goot shelter over him, an’ it is a not five hunderd pound a year that we will want to buy that—whatever.”“But surely man wants a little more than that, Fergus. He wants breakfast and dinner usually, as well as supper, and a few comforts besides, such as tea and sugar—at least the women do—besides pipes an’ baccy—to say nothing of books.”“Oo ay, I will not be denyin’ that. But we’ve no need for wan half the luxuries o’ ceevilisation. An’ ye know ferry weel, Tan, that my sister Elspie would be content to live wi’ you in a ferry small hoose, and the bare necessaries of life, but here you are forced to put off the merritch because our hooses wass burnt, and you are obleeged to wait till you get a sort o’ palace built, I suppose, and a grand farm set a-goin’.”“Indeed, Fergus, you touch me on a sore point there, but with all your scorn of luxury, I’m sure you’d be the last man to let his sister marry a fellow who could take her only to a hut or a wigwam.”“You are right, Tan. Yet I hev spent many a comfortable night in a hut an’ a wigwam since I came to Red River. I wish the place wass more peaceable.”“It will never be more peaceable as long as there are two rival companies fighting for the furs,” said Davidson; “but there’s worse than that goin’ on, for some of the Indians, it seems, are mad at the agreement made between them and Lord Selkirk.”“Wow! that iss a peety. Where heard ye that?”“I heard it from La Certe, whose wife Slowfoot, you know, is a Cree Indian. It seems that the Crees have always claimed Red River as their lands; but when Lord Selkirk came to make a treaty with the natives he found some Saulteaux livin’ on the soil, an’ his lordship, in ignorance, gave them an interest in the treaty, though they were mere visitors—an’ indeed don’t even claim to be owners of the soil—their lands lying far to the east of Red River.”“Well,” continued Dan, guiding his horse carefully down the next hollow, for the moon had gone behind a cloud just then, “when the Crees found out what had been done, they were naturally very angry—an’ I don’t wonder—an’ they threaten now to expel the Saulteaux from Red River altogether, an’ the white men along wi’ them, unless the names of the Saulteaux chiefs are wiped out o’ the contract, an’ the annual payment made to the Crees alone.”“That iss bad, Taniel, ferry bad,” said Fergus, as they reached the bottom of the hollow and began to ascend the succeeding undulation, “an’ I am all the more sorry to hear it because our goot frund Okématan is a Cree.”“Ay, Fergus, he is a great chief of the Crees, and a man of considerable influence among his people. I should not like to have him for an enemy.”“Stop!” said Fergus in a whisper at that moment, laying his hand on Davidson’s arm.Dan drew rein at once and looked at his friend, but could not clearly see his face, for the moon was still behind thick drifting clouds.They had just risen high enough on the prairie wave, which they had been ascending, to be able to see over it, and Dan could perceive by the outstretched neck of his companion that he was gazing intently at something directly in front.“What do you see, Fergus?” he asked in a low voice.“Do you see nothin’, Taniel?” was the Highlander’s reply.“Why, yes. I see the plains stretching away to the horizon—an’ dark enough they are, too, at this moment. I also see a few small clumps that look like bushes here an’ there.”“Don’t you see the clump that’s nearest to you—right foment your nose?” said the other.“Of course I do,” and he stopped abruptly, for at that moment he saw a spark in the clump referred to—a spark so small that it might have been taken for a glow-worm, had such a creature existed there.“Savitches!” whispered the Highlander. “Let’s get into the hollow as fast as we can.”This retrograde movement was soon effected, and the friends dismounted.“Now, Fergus, what’s the best thing to be done?”“I will be leavin’ that to you, Taniel, for you’ve a clearer head than mine.”“We dare not ride forward,” said Dan, as if communing with himself, “an’ it would be foolish to make a long détour to escape from something until we know there is something worth escaping from. My notion is that we hobble or picket our horses here, and go cautiously forward on foot to see what it is.”“You’ll be doin’ what ye think best, Captain Taniel, an’ you will find that private Fergus will back you up—whatever.”This being settled, the two men picketed their steeds in the hollow, fastened their guns to the saddles, as being too cumbrous for a creeping advance, and, armed only with their long knivesand pistols, reascended the prairie wave. With feet clothed in soft moccasin, and practised by that time in the art of stealthy tread, they moved towards the summit noiseless as ghosts.On gaining the ridge they sank slowly down into the tall grass and disappeared.After a prolonged and somewhat painful creep on hands and knees the two men reached the edge of the clump of bushes already referred to.Before reaching it they discovered, from the sound of voices, that a party of some kind was encamped there; but, of course, as they knew not who, it became needful to proceed with extreme caution. When they gained the edge of the clump, and raised their heads over a low bush-covered bank, they beheld a sight which was not calculated to cheer them, for there, in the centre of the bush, encircling a very small fire, sat a war-party of about fifty painted and befeathered braves of the Cree Indians. They were engaged in council at the moment.A creeping sensation about their scalps was experienced by the two eavesdroppers on observing that they had passed not a hundred yards from a sentinel who occupied a low knoll on their left.Neither Dan nor Fergus dared to speak—not even to whisper. Still less did they dare to move; for a few moments after they reached the bank just referred to, the moon came out from behind the clouds and flooded the whole scene as with the light of day.There was nothing left for it, therefore, except to lie still and listen. But this gave them small comfort; for, although quite within earshot of the war-party, the language spoken was utterly unintelligible to either of them.Their eyes, however, were not so useless as their ears, for they could clearly see each warrior as he rose to harangue his comrades, and, from the vindictive expression of their faces as well as their frequent pointing in the direction of the buffalo-hunters it was abundantly evident that an attack upon them was being discussed.At last, after many braves had spoken, a chief of tall and noble mien arose. His back was towards the two spies, but the moment they heard his voice they turned their heads and gazed at each other in speechless amazement, for the voice was quite familiar.No word did they dare to utter, but Fergus made formations with his lips of a most extravagant nature, which, however, clearly spelt “Okématan.” When he had finished, he nodded and turned his gaze again on the Crees.Both men now understood that treachery was in the wind, and that a night attack was highly probable; and, of course, they felt desperately anxious to jump up and fly back to the camp to warn their comrades—for their only fear was a surprise. The half-breeds being far more numerous than the Indians, and well entrenched, there could be no fear for them if prepared.Just then, as if to favour them, the moon retired behind a huge black cloud.Without a moment’s hesitation Dan began to creep away back, closely followed by Fergus. They gave a wide berth of course to the sentinel, and soon regained the hollow where the horses had been left. Here they breathed more freely.“Who would have thought this of Okématan?” muttered Dan, as he hastily tightened his saddle-girths.“Therascal!” exclaimed Fergus, in deep tones of indignation.“You must gallop back to camp at once, Fergus,” said Dan, as they mounted. “I will go on to Red River alone.”“What! will you not be coming with me?” asked the Highlander, in some surprise.“There is no need, for there will be no fighting,” returned the other. “Our fellows far outnumber the Red-skins, and when the latter find that we have been warned, and are on our guard, they won’t attack us, depend on it. But you’ll have to ride fast, for when such fellows make up their minds to strike they don’t usually waste time in delivering the blow. My business presses, Imustgo on.”A minute later, and Dan Davidson was galloping towards the Settlement alone, while Fergus made the best of his way back to the camp of the buffalo runners.
At this time the half-breeds of the colony of Red River formed a small party compared with the numbers to which they multiplied in after years, and the band of hunters who annually went to the plains to chase the buffalo was proportionally small. Nevertheless, they were numerous enough to constitute a formidable band, capable of holding their own, when united, against any band of wandering Indians who might feel disposed to attack them. They were a brave, hardy race of men, but of course there were some black sheep among them like La Certe.
About sixty or a hundred miles from the Settlement, the party, under command of Antoine Dechamp, found the buffalo, and preparations were at once made to attack them. It was dusk, however, when the herds were discovered, so that the hunt had to be postponed to the following day.
A small clump of bushes afforded wood enough for camp-fires. The carts were ranged in a circle with the trains outward. Sentries were posted; the horses were secured; the kettles put on; pipes lighted; and noise, laughter, song and story, mingled with the shrill voices of children, were heard far on into the night.
Among the children, if we may venture so to class them, were Archie and Billie Sinclair—though we suspect that Archie would have claimed, and with some reason, to be classed with the men. They belonged to the camp-fire, which formed a centre to the party composed of Dan and Peter, Fergus, Dechamp, and Fred Jenkins the sailor. The latter, who it was thought had come out to the country by way of a skylark rather than as a settler, had followed the hunters, bent, he said, on firing a broadside into a buffalo. He had brought with him a blunderbuss, which he averred had been used by his great-grandfather at the battle of Culloden. It was a formidable old weapon, capable of swallowing, at one gulp, several of the bullets which fitted the trading guns of the country. Its powers of scattering ordinary shot in large quantity had proved to be very effective, and had done such execution among flocks of wild-fowl, that the Indians and half-breeds, although at first inclined to laugh at it, were ultimately filled with respect.
“I doubt its capacity for sending ball straight, however,” remarked Dan to Jenkins, who was carefully cleaning out the piece, “especially if charged with more than one ball.”
“No fear of it,” returned the sailor, with a confident air. “Of course it scattered the balls about six yards apart the only time I tried it with a lot of ’em, but that was at fifty yards off, an’ they tell me that you a’most ram the muzzle against the brutes’ sides when chasin’ buffalo. So there’s no room to scatter, d’ee see, till they get inside their bodies, and when there it don’t matter how much they scatter.”
“It’s well named a young cannon by La Certe,” said Peter Davidson, who, like the seaman, was out on his first buffalo-hunt. “I never heard such a roar as it gave that time you brought down ten out of one flock of ducks on the way up here.”
“Ay, Peter, she barked well that time,” remarked the sailor, with a grin, “but, then there was a reason. I had double-shotted her by mistake.”
“An’ ye did it too without an aim, for you had both eyes tight shut at the time,” remarked Fergus. “Iss that the way they teach ye to shoot at sea?”
“In course it is,” replied Jenkins, gravely. “That’s the beauty o’ the blunderbuss. There’s no chance o’ missin’, so what ’ud be the use o’ keepin’ yer eyes open, excep’ to get ’em filled wi’ smoke. You’ve on’y got to point straight, an’ blaze away.”
“I did not know that you use the blunderbuss in your ships at all,” said Dechamp, with a look of assumed simplicity.
“Ho yes, they do,” said Jenkins, squinting down the bell-mouthed barrel, as if to see that the touch-hole was clear. “Aboard o’ one man-o’-war that I sailed in after pirates in the China seas, we had a blunderbuss company. The first-leftenant, who was thought to be queer in his head, he got it up.
“The first time the company was ranged along the deck he gave the order to load with ball cartridges. There was twenty-six of us, all told.
“‘We’ve got no cartridges for ’em, sir,’ whispered the man nearest him.
“‘If you don’t obey orders,’ growled the leftenant ’tween his teeth, ‘I’ll have ye strung up for mutiny every man Jack of you—load!’ he repeated in a kind of a yell.
“We had our or’nary belts and pouches on, so we out wi’ the or’nary cartridges—some three, some four,—an’, biting off the ends, poured in the powder somehow, shoved in the balls anyhow, an’ rammed the whole consarn down.
“‘Present—fire!’ roared the leftenant.
“Bang! went the six an’ twenty blunderbusses, an’ when the smoke cleared away there was fourteen out o’ the twenty-six men flat on their backs. The rest o’ us was raither stunned, but hearty.
“‘Take these men below,’ cried the leftenant, ‘an’ send fourteen strong men here. We don’t want weaklings forthiscompany.’
“After that we loaded in moderation, an’ got on better.”
“And the pirates—what didtheythink o’ the new weapon?” asked Peter Davidson, with an amused expression.
“O! they couldn’t stand it at all,” answered the sailor, looking up from his work, with a solemnity that was quite impressive. “They stood fire only once. After that they sheered off like wild-cats. I say, Mistress La Certe, how long is that lobscouse—or whatever you call it,—goin’ to be in cookin’?” Slowfoot gave vent to a sweet, low giggle, as she lifted the kettle off the hook, and thus gave a practical answer to the question. She placed before him the robbiboo, or pemmican, soup, which the seaman had so grievously misnamed.
During the time that the hunters were appeasing their appetites, it was observed that Antoine Dechamp, the leader of the expedition, was unusually silent and thoughtful, and that he betrayed a slight look of anxiety. It therefore did not surprise Dan Davidson, when the supper was nearly ended, that Dechamp should rise and leave the fire after giving him a look which was a silent but obvious invitation to follow.
Dan obeyed at once, and his leader, conducting him between the various camp-fires, led him outside the circle of carts.
A clear moon lit up the prairie all round, so that they could see its undulating sweep in every direction.
“Anything wrong, Antoine?” asked Dan in a low voice, when they were out of earshot of the camp.
“Nothing wrong, Dan.”
“Surely,” continued the other, while Dechamp paused as if in perplexity, “surely there can be no chance of Red-skins troubling us on a clear night like this. I can distinguish every bush for miles around.”
“There is no fear o’ Red-skins. No, I am not troubled about them. It is matters concerning yourself that trouble me.”
“How’s that? What do you mean, Antoine?”
“Is your brother-in-law-to-be, Duncan McKay, coming to join us this spring?” asked Dechamp.
“I believe he is—after he has helped his father a bit longer wi’ the farm. Why do you ask?”
“Well, to say truth, I can’t give you a very good reason for my bein’ anxious. Only I can’t help havin’ my ears open, and I’ve heard some talk among the lads that makes me fear for the young man. They say, or hint, that he knows more about the murder o’ poor Perrin than he chooses to tell. I’ve not been quite able to find out what makes them suspect him, but they do suspect him, an’ it would be well to warn him not to come here, for you know there are many opportunities to commit murder on a buffalo-hunt!”
The incident of the knife, and of Duncan McKay’s significant glance, at once flashed across Davidson’s mind, and he felt a terrible sinking of the heart when the suspicion, once before roused within him, seemed now to be confirmed. He resolved, however, to reveal his thoughts to no one—specially not to Elspie.
“I think it a shame,” he said, “that men should allow such rumours to circulate, when nothing certain has arisen to rouse suspicion. That affair of the knife was clearly explained when young McKay declared that it was not his, though it looked like it. If he knew anything about the murder, would he not have been certain to have told us long ago? And, surely, you cannot suppose that Duncan killed Perrin with his own hand? Speak, Dechamp! Why do you shake your head?”
“I know nothing,” returned the leader. “What right have I to suppose anything? I only know that men’s deeds are often mysterious and unaccountable, and that our men have strong suspicion. For myself, I have no opinion. Duncan McKay is probably innocent, for he and Perrin were not enemies. I hope he is so, but I advise you to stop his coming to the camp just now if you can. His life may depend on it.”
“I cannot stop him,” returned Dan, with a perplexed look. “He is headstrong, as you know, and if he has made up his mind to come, nothing will stop him.”
“Perhaps if he knew his life would be in danger—that might stop him.”
“I doubt it; but I will give him the chance. I will ride back to Red River without delay, and warn him.”
“Good. When will you start?”
“To-night. The moon is clear and will not set till morning. I shall be well on my way by that time.”
“Will you ride alone?”
“No, there may be bad Indians about. I will ask Okématan or Fergus McKay to ride with me. Why did you not speak to Fergus instead of to me?”
“Because he has not been spoken to by any one,” answered Dechamp; “and I would not be the first to put suspicion into his head about his own brother. Besides, your head is clearer; and your interest in Duncan, for Elspie’s sake, is greater than his, no doubt.”
“Well, you may be right, Antoine. At all events if I take Fergus with me I shall send him back before reaching the Settlement, and say nothing whatever about my reason for going there. ‘Pressing business,’ you know, will be sufficient.”
“I’m not so sure of that,” returned Dechamp with a laugh. “Men are apt to want to know the nature of ‘pressing business.’ However, it may be as well to take Fergus. At any rate you cannot have Okématan, for he is not in camp, he left soon after we pitched, and I know has not yet returned.”
“It matters not. Fergus will do better. He is more companionable.”
Returning to camp, Dan Davidson made the proposal to Fergus McKay. That worthy was, as he said, ready for anything, and the two were soon mounted. They were also well armed, for the risk of meeting a party of hostile Indians was not altogether out of the question, though improbable. Each horseman carried his blanket and provision wallet, his gun, a long knife almost equal to an ancient Roman sword, and a cavalry pistol—revolvers not having been invented at that time: at least they had not come into general use. Thus provided for all contingencies, they set forth.
As we have said, the night was clear and fine, so that the plains were open to view in all directions, save where a few scattered clumps of willows and small trees grew like islets in the ocean.
“It iss this that I like better than farming,” said Fergus, as the fresh horses carried them swiftly and lightly over the prairie waves, and down into the grassy hollows, now swerving to avoid a badger-hole, or clearing a small shrub with a little bound. “I do think that man wass intended to live in the wilderness, an’ not to coop himself up in the cities like rabbits in their holes.”
“Why, Fergus, you should have been born a savage,” said Dan.
“Ay, it iss savitch I am that I wass not born a savitch,” returned Fergus with a grim smile. “What in all the world iss the use of ceevilisation if it will not make people happy? A man wants nothing more than a goot supper an’ a goot bed, an’ a goot shelter over him, an’ it is a not five hunderd pound a year that we will want to buy that—whatever.”
“But surely man wants a little more than that, Fergus. He wants breakfast and dinner usually, as well as supper, and a few comforts besides, such as tea and sugar—at least the women do—besides pipes an’ baccy—to say nothing of books.”
“Oo ay, I will not be denyin’ that. But we’ve no need for wan half the luxuries o’ ceevilisation. An’ ye know ferry weel, Tan, that my sister Elspie would be content to live wi’ you in a ferry small hoose, and the bare necessaries of life, but here you are forced to put off the merritch because our hooses wass burnt, and you are obleeged to wait till you get a sort o’ palace built, I suppose, and a grand farm set a-goin’.”
“Indeed, Fergus, you touch me on a sore point there, but with all your scorn of luxury, I’m sure you’d be the last man to let his sister marry a fellow who could take her only to a hut or a wigwam.”
“You are right, Tan. Yet I hev spent many a comfortable night in a hut an’ a wigwam since I came to Red River. I wish the place wass more peaceable.”
“It will never be more peaceable as long as there are two rival companies fighting for the furs,” said Davidson; “but there’s worse than that goin’ on, for some of the Indians, it seems, are mad at the agreement made between them and Lord Selkirk.”
“Wow! that iss a peety. Where heard ye that?”
“I heard it from La Certe, whose wife Slowfoot, you know, is a Cree Indian. It seems that the Crees have always claimed Red River as their lands; but when Lord Selkirk came to make a treaty with the natives he found some Saulteaux livin’ on the soil, an’ his lordship, in ignorance, gave them an interest in the treaty, though they were mere visitors—an’ indeed don’t even claim to be owners of the soil—their lands lying far to the east of Red River.”
“Well,” continued Dan, guiding his horse carefully down the next hollow, for the moon had gone behind a cloud just then, “when the Crees found out what had been done, they were naturally very angry—an’ I don’t wonder—an’ they threaten now to expel the Saulteaux from Red River altogether, an’ the white men along wi’ them, unless the names of the Saulteaux chiefs are wiped out o’ the contract, an’ the annual payment made to the Crees alone.”
“That iss bad, Taniel, ferry bad,” said Fergus, as they reached the bottom of the hollow and began to ascend the succeeding undulation, “an’ I am all the more sorry to hear it because our goot frund Okématan is a Cree.”
“Ay, Fergus, he is a great chief of the Crees, and a man of considerable influence among his people. I should not like to have him for an enemy.”
“Stop!” said Fergus in a whisper at that moment, laying his hand on Davidson’s arm.
Dan drew rein at once and looked at his friend, but could not clearly see his face, for the moon was still behind thick drifting clouds.
They had just risen high enough on the prairie wave, which they had been ascending, to be able to see over it, and Dan could perceive by the outstretched neck of his companion that he was gazing intently at something directly in front.
“What do you see, Fergus?” he asked in a low voice.
“Do you see nothin’, Taniel?” was the Highlander’s reply.
“Why, yes. I see the plains stretching away to the horizon—an’ dark enough they are, too, at this moment. I also see a few small clumps that look like bushes here an’ there.”
“Don’t you see the clump that’s nearest to you—right foment your nose?” said the other.
“Of course I do,” and he stopped abruptly, for at that moment he saw a spark in the clump referred to—a spark so small that it might have been taken for a glow-worm, had such a creature existed there.
“Savitches!” whispered the Highlander. “Let’s get into the hollow as fast as we can.”
This retrograde movement was soon effected, and the friends dismounted.
“Now, Fergus, what’s the best thing to be done?”
“I will be leavin’ that to you, Taniel, for you’ve a clearer head than mine.”
“We dare not ride forward,” said Dan, as if communing with himself, “an’ it would be foolish to make a long détour to escape from something until we know there is something worth escaping from. My notion is that we hobble or picket our horses here, and go cautiously forward on foot to see what it is.”
“You’ll be doin’ what ye think best, Captain Taniel, an’ you will find that private Fergus will back you up—whatever.”
This being settled, the two men picketed their steeds in the hollow, fastened their guns to the saddles, as being too cumbrous for a creeping advance, and, armed only with their long knivesand pistols, reascended the prairie wave. With feet clothed in soft moccasin, and practised by that time in the art of stealthy tread, they moved towards the summit noiseless as ghosts.
On gaining the ridge they sank slowly down into the tall grass and disappeared.
After a prolonged and somewhat painful creep on hands and knees the two men reached the edge of the clump of bushes already referred to.
Before reaching it they discovered, from the sound of voices, that a party of some kind was encamped there; but, of course, as they knew not who, it became needful to proceed with extreme caution. When they gained the edge of the clump, and raised their heads over a low bush-covered bank, they beheld a sight which was not calculated to cheer them, for there, in the centre of the bush, encircling a very small fire, sat a war-party of about fifty painted and befeathered braves of the Cree Indians. They were engaged in council at the moment.
A creeping sensation about their scalps was experienced by the two eavesdroppers on observing that they had passed not a hundred yards from a sentinel who occupied a low knoll on their left.
Neither Dan nor Fergus dared to speak—not even to whisper. Still less did they dare to move; for a few moments after they reached the bank just referred to, the moon came out from behind the clouds and flooded the whole scene as with the light of day.
There was nothing left for it, therefore, except to lie still and listen. But this gave them small comfort; for, although quite within earshot of the war-party, the language spoken was utterly unintelligible to either of them.
Their eyes, however, were not so useless as their ears, for they could clearly see each warrior as he rose to harangue his comrades, and, from the vindictive expression of their faces as well as their frequent pointing in the direction of the buffalo-hunters it was abundantly evident that an attack upon them was being discussed.
At last, after many braves had spoken, a chief of tall and noble mien arose. His back was towards the two spies, but the moment they heard his voice they turned their heads and gazed at each other in speechless amazement, for the voice was quite familiar.
No word did they dare to utter, but Fergus made formations with his lips of a most extravagant nature, which, however, clearly spelt “Okématan.” When he had finished, he nodded and turned his gaze again on the Crees.
Both men now understood that treachery was in the wind, and that a night attack was highly probable; and, of course, they felt desperately anxious to jump up and fly back to the camp to warn their comrades—for their only fear was a surprise. The half-breeds being far more numerous than the Indians, and well entrenched, there could be no fear for them if prepared.
Just then, as if to favour them, the moon retired behind a huge black cloud.
Without a moment’s hesitation Dan began to creep away back, closely followed by Fergus. They gave a wide berth of course to the sentinel, and soon regained the hollow where the horses had been left. Here they breathed more freely.
“Who would have thought this of Okématan?” muttered Dan, as he hastily tightened his saddle-girths.
“Therascal!” exclaimed Fergus, in deep tones of indignation.
“You must gallop back to camp at once, Fergus,” said Dan, as they mounted. “I will go on to Red River alone.”
“What! will you not be coming with me?” asked the Highlander, in some surprise.
“There is no need, for there will be no fighting,” returned the other. “Our fellows far outnumber the Red-skins, and when the latter find that we have been warned, and are on our guard, they won’t attack us, depend on it. But you’ll have to ride fast, for when such fellows make up their minds to strike they don’t usually waste time in delivering the blow. My business presses, Imustgo on.”
A minute later, and Dan Davidson was galloping towards the Settlement alone, while Fergus made the best of his way back to the camp of the buffalo runners.
Chapter Fifteen.A Friend in Need is a Friend indeed.Whether or not Okématan was as thorough a rascal as Fergus McKay thought him will be best shown by harking back, and setting down a little of what was said by some of the Cree braves at the time that Fergus and Dan were eavesdropping.Standing in a dignified attitude worthy of an ancient Roman, with his blanket thrown toga-fashion over one shoulder, one of the braves looked round on the warrior band with a dark scowl before he began. His comrades were evidently impressed by his looks. Whether owing to a freak of fancy, a spice of eccentricity, or simple vanity, we know not, but this brave had, among other ornamental touches to his visage, painted his nose bright red. The effect on his brother braves was solemnising. It was not so impressive to his white observers, as it suggested to them the civilised toper.“The great white chief,” began Rednose, with a slow deliberation that was meant to convey a settled and unalterable conviction, “is a fool!”“Waugh!” exclaimed the audience with emphasis, for the language was strong, and uttered with intense vigour, and that quite accorded with their tastes, so they agreed with the sentiment without regard to its signification. This species of rhetoric, and its effects, are sometimes observed in connection with civilised gatherings.The great white chief thus irreverently referred to, we regret to say, was Lord Selkirk.“The great white chief,” continued Rednose, availing himself of the force of emphatic repetition, “is a fool! He is a child! He knows nothing! He comes across the great salt lake from the rising sun, with the air and aspect of an owl, thinking to teach us—the great Cree nation—wisdom!”“Waugh!” from the audience, one of whom, having a cold in his head, sneezed inadvertently, and was scowled at by the orator for full two minutes in absolute silence. If that Cree warrior—he was on his first war-path—possessed anything akin to the feelings of the Paleface he must have suffered martyrdom.“Every one knows,” continued the orator, resuming, “that the Crees are wise. They can tell a fox from a buffalo. They understand the difference between fire and water. No Paleface sage needs to come from the rising sun to tell them to eat when they are hungry—to drink when they are dry. But this Paleface chief comes with the eyes of the great northern owl, and says he comes to do us good. And how does he begin to do us good?”Here there was a very decided “Waugh!” as though to say, “Ay, that’s the question,” and then a solemn pause for more—during which the man with the cold drew the reins very tight.“How does he begin to do us good?” proceeded the orator. “By entering into an agreement withusfor the use ofourlands—and asking our enemies the Saulteaux to take part in that agreement!”The sounds of indignation and ferocity that followed this statement are not translatable. After a gaze of unutterable meaning round the circle Rednose went on—“This,thisis the way in which the owl-eyed chief of the Palefaces begins to do us good! If this is the way he begins, in what way will he continue, and,”—here his voice deepened to a whisper—“how will he end?”The ideas suggested by his question were so appalling that for some minutes the orator appeared unable to find words to go on, and his audience glared at him in dread anticipation, as though they expected him to explode like a bomb-shell, but were prepared to sit it out and take the consequences. And he did explode, after a fashion, for he suddenly raised his voice to a shout that startled even the sentinel on the distant knoll, and said—“I counsel war to the knife! The great white chief—the owl-eyed fool!—will not blot from our agreement the names of the Saulteaux chiefs—chiefs! there are no Saulteaux chiefs. All their braves are cowards, on the same dead level of stupidity, and their women are—are nothing, fit for nothing, can do nothing, and must soon come to nothing! What then? The duty of Cree warriors lies before us. We will drive the Saulteaux into Lake Winnipeg and the Palefaces off the face of the earth altogether! Waugh!”Having thus given vent to the opinions and feelings that consumed him, Rednose sat down, his audience breathed freely, the distant sentinel recovered his composure, and the young novitiate brave with the cold in his head sneezed with impunity.It would be tedious to recount all that was said at that council of war. The next brave that rose to “address the house” very much resembled the first speaker, both in sentiment and personal appearance, except that he had chosen sky-blue for his nose instead of red. The only additional matter that he contributed worth noting was the advice that they should begin their bloody work by an immediate attack, in the dead of night, on the camp of the buffalo runners.This advice was hailed with a good many “Waughs,” as well as approving nods and looks, and it seemed as if the plan were about to be carried into action without delay, when, as we have seen, Okématan arose to address the assemblage.Okématan was a great chief—much greater in the estimation of his tribe than the whites with whom he had been associating in Red River were aware of. He had purposely reserved his address till near the conclusion.“The Cree warriors,” he said, with an air of quiet dignity that was far more effective than the more energetic tones and gestures of the previous speakers, “know very well that the Cree nation considers itself the wisest in creation. Far be it from Okématan to say otherwise, for he does not know. Okématan is a child! His eyes are only beginning to open!”He paused at this point, and looked round with solemn dignity; and the braves, unaccustomed to such self-depreciative modes of address, gazed at him with equal solemnity, not unmingled with surprise, though the latter feeling was carefully concealed.“When the last great palaver of the Cree braves was held on the Blue-Pine Ridge,” continued Okématan, “the chiefs chose me to go to Red River, and learn all that I could find out about the Palefaces and their intentions. I went, as you know. I attached myself to a family named Daa-veed-sin, and I have found out—found out much about the Palefaces—much more that I did not know before, though Iama chief of the Cree nation.”Okématan looked pointedly at Rednose as he said this. After a brief pause he continued—“The great white chief,” (meaning Lord Selkirk), “isnota fool. It is true that he is not a god; he is a man and a Paleface, subject to the follies and weaknesses of the Palefaces, and not quite so wise as it is possible to be, but he is a good man, and wishes well to the Indian. I have found weaknesses among the Palefaces. One of them is that their chiefs plan—sometimes wisely, sometimes foolishly—but they leave the carrying out of their plans to other men, and sometimes these other men care for nobody but themselves. They tell lies, they mislead the great white chief, and tell him to do what is wrong.“So it was when our agreement came to be made. The great white chief found, when he came to Red River, a few families of Saulteaux whom we had permitted to hunt on our lands. He thought the land belonged to the Saulteaux as well as to the Crees. He was mistaken, ignorant; he knew no better, and the Palefaces who did know, did not put light into him; so the names of Saulteaux chiefs were put in the writing. Then the great white chief went away across the great salt lake to the lands of the rising sun, leaving his small chiefs to carry out his plans. Some of these areverysmall chiefs, unfit to carry out any plans. Others are bad small chiefs, that will carry out only such plans as are sure to benefit themselves. It is these men with whom we have to deal. It is these who deserve to be swept off the face of the earth.”A number of emphatic nods and “waughs” at this point showed that Okématan had at last touched a key-note with which his braves could shout in harmony.“But,” resumed the chief impressively, “we cannot sweep them off the earth; we cannot even sweep them off the banks of Red River. We might easily sweep the Saulteaux into Lake Winnipeg if we thought it worth while to try, but the Palefaces—never! Okématan has travelled far to the south and seen the Palefaces there. They cannot be counted. They swarm like our locusts; they darken the earth as our buffaloes darken the plains. They live in stone wigwams. I have seen one of their wigwams that was big enough to hold all the Crees’ wigwams bundled together. If we killed or scalped all the Palefaces in Red River the great white chief would come over the great salt lake with an army that would swallow us up as the buffalo swallows up a tuft of grass.“Besides,” continued Okématan, with a slight touch of pathos in his tone, “there are good and bad men among the Palefaces, just as there are good and bad among ourselves. I have dwelt for many moons with a tribe called Scosh-min. Okématan loves the Scosh-min. They speak a wonderful language, and some of them are too fond of fire-water; but their braves fear nothing, and their squaws are pretty and work hard—almost as hard as our squaws—though they are not quite as good-looking as ours. They are too white—their faces are like buffalo fat!”A “Waugh,” which might be translated “Hear, hear,” greeted this statement of opinion.“Now,” continued our chief, “if we swept away all the people of Red River, we would sweep away the good Scosh-min, which would be foolish, and we would gain nothing in the end, but would bring worse trouble on our heads. My counsel, therefore, is for peace. I advise that we should let the buffalo runners and the people of Red River alone; send a message with our grievances to the great white chief; ask him to come back over the great salt lake to put things right, and, in the meantime, wait with patience; attend to our own business; hunt, fish, eat, drink, sleep, and be happy.”Having delivered his harangue, Okématan sat down amid murmurs of mingled applause and disapprobation. It was evident that he had created a serious division of opinion in the camp, and it seemed as if on the impression made by the next speaker would depend the great question of peace or war.Presently an old warrior arose, and a profound silence followed, for they held him in great respect.“My braves,” said the old man sententiously, “I have lived long, and my fighting days are nearly over. If wisdom has not accumulated on my head it must be my own fault, for I have had great experience both of war and peace—more of war, perhaps, than of peace. And the opinion that I have come to after long and very deep consideration is this: if there is something to fight for, fight—fight well; if there is nothing to fight for, don’t fight—don’t fight at all.”The old man paused, and there were some “Waughs” of approval, for the truth contained in his profound conclusion was obvious even to the stupidest Red-skin of the band—supposing that a stupid brave among Crees were possible!“I have also lived to see,” continued the old man, “that revenge is nothing—nothing at all, and therefore not worth fighting for.”As this was flying straight in the face of the most cherished of Red-skins’ beliefs, it was received in dead though respectful silence.“My young braves do not believe this. I know it. I have been young myself, and I remember well how pleasant revenge was to me, but I soon found that the pleasure of revenge did not last. It soon passed away, yet the deed of revenge did not pass away, and sometimes the deed became to my memory very bitter—insomuch that the pleasantness was entirely swallowed up and forgotten in the bitterness. My young braves will not believe this, I know. They go on feeling; they think on feeling; they reason on feeling; they trust to feeling. It is foolish, for the brain was given to enable man to think and judge and plan. You are as foolish as if you were to try to smell with your mouth and eat with your nose. But it is the way of youth. When experience teaches, then you will come to know that revenge is not worth fighting for—its pleasantness will pass away, but the bitter it leaves behind will never pass away.“What is the meaning of revenge?” continued this analytical old savage. “What is the use of it? Does it not mean that we give up all hope of getting what we want, and wildly determine to get what pleasure is still possible to us by killing those who have thwarted us? And when you have killed and got all the pleasure there is, what does it come to? Your enemy is dead, and scalped. What then? He does not know that he is dead. He does not care that he is dead and scalped. You cannot keep him alive for ever killing and scalping him. But you have made his wife and children miserable. What of that? It was not his wife and children who opposed you, therefore you have revenged yourself on the wrong persons. He does not know that you have rendered his wife and children miserable, and does not care; therefore, I ask, why are you pleased? If your enemy was a good man, your revenge has only done him a kindness, for it has sent him to the happy hunting grounds before his time, where you will probably never meet him to have the pleasure of being revenged on him there. If he was a bad man, you have sent him to the world of Desolation, where he will be waiting to receive you when you get there, and where revenge will be impossible, for men are not allowed to kill or scalp there. At least if they are I never heard of it—and I am an old man now.“There is nothing, then, to fight for with the Palefaces of Red River, and my counsel is, like that of Okématan, that we should decide on peace—not war.”Whatever may have been the private opinion of the braves as to this new and very unexpected style of address, the effect of it was pacific; for, after a little more palaver, the peace-party carried the day—or, rather the night—and, next morning, the Cree warriors went back to their tents and hunting avocations, leaving Okématan to return to the camp of his friends the buffalo runners.
Whether or not Okématan was as thorough a rascal as Fergus McKay thought him will be best shown by harking back, and setting down a little of what was said by some of the Cree braves at the time that Fergus and Dan were eavesdropping.
Standing in a dignified attitude worthy of an ancient Roman, with his blanket thrown toga-fashion over one shoulder, one of the braves looked round on the warrior band with a dark scowl before he began. His comrades were evidently impressed by his looks. Whether owing to a freak of fancy, a spice of eccentricity, or simple vanity, we know not, but this brave had, among other ornamental touches to his visage, painted his nose bright red. The effect on his brother braves was solemnising. It was not so impressive to his white observers, as it suggested to them the civilised toper.
“The great white chief,” began Rednose, with a slow deliberation that was meant to convey a settled and unalterable conviction, “is a fool!”
“Waugh!” exclaimed the audience with emphasis, for the language was strong, and uttered with intense vigour, and that quite accorded with their tastes, so they agreed with the sentiment without regard to its signification. This species of rhetoric, and its effects, are sometimes observed in connection with civilised gatherings.
The great white chief thus irreverently referred to, we regret to say, was Lord Selkirk.
“The great white chief,” continued Rednose, availing himself of the force of emphatic repetition, “is a fool! He is a child! He knows nothing! He comes across the great salt lake from the rising sun, with the air and aspect of an owl, thinking to teach us—the great Cree nation—wisdom!”
“Waugh!” from the audience, one of whom, having a cold in his head, sneezed inadvertently, and was scowled at by the orator for full two minutes in absolute silence. If that Cree warrior—he was on his first war-path—possessed anything akin to the feelings of the Paleface he must have suffered martyrdom.
“Every one knows,” continued the orator, resuming, “that the Crees are wise. They can tell a fox from a buffalo. They understand the difference between fire and water. No Paleface sage needs to come from the rising sun to tell them to eat when they are hungry—to drink when they are dry. But this Paleface chief comes with the eyes of the great northern owl, and says he comes to do us good. And how does he begin to do us good?”
Here there was a very decided “Waugh!” as though to say, “Ay, that’s the question,” and then a solemn pause for more—during which the man with the cold drew the reins very tight.
“How does he begin to do us good?” proceeded the orator. “By entering into an agreement withusfor the use ofourlands—and asking our enemies the Saulteaux to take part in that agreement!”
The sounds of indignation and ferocity that followed this statement are not translatable. After a gaze of unutterable meaning round the circle Rednose went on—
“This,thisis the way in which the owl-eyed chief of the Palefaces begins to do us good! If this is the way he begins, in what way will he continue, and,”—here his voice deepened to a whisper—“how will he end?”
The ideas suggested by his question were so appalling that for some minutes the orator appeared unable to find words to go on, and his audience glared at him in dread anticipation, as though they expected him to explode like a bomb-shell, but were prepared to sit it out and take the consequences. And he did explode, after a fashion, for he suddenly raised his voice to a shout that startled even the sentinel on the distant knoll, and said—
“I counsel war to the knife! The great white chief—the owl-eyed fool!—will not blot from our agreement the names of the Saulteaux chiefs—chiefs! there are no Saulteaux chiefs. All their braves are cowards, on the same dead level of stupidity, and their women are—are nothing, fit for nothing, can do nothing, and must soon come to nothing! What then? The duty of Cree warriors lies before us. We will drive the Saulteaux into Lake Winnipeg and the Palefaces off the face of the earth altogether! Waugh!”
Having thus given vent to the opinions and feelings that consumed him, Rednose sat down, his audience breathed freely, the distant sentinel recovered his composure, and the young novitiate brave with the cold in his head sneezed with impunity.
It would be tedious to recount all that was said at that council of war. The next brave that rose to “address the house” very much resembled the first speaker, both in sentiment and personal appearance, except that he had chosen sky-blue for his nose instead of red. The only additional matter that he contributed worth noting was the advice that they should begin their bloody work by an immediate attack, in the dead of night, on the camp of the buffalo runners.
This advice was hailed with a good many “Waughs,” as well as approving nods and looks, and it seemed as if the plan were about to be carried into action without delay, when, as we have seen, Okématan arose to address the assemblage.
Okématan was a great chief—much greater in the estimation of his tribe than the whites with whom he had been associating in Red River were aware of. He had purposely reserved his address till near the conclusion.
“The Cree warriors,” he said, with an air of quiet dignity that was far more effective than the more energetic tones and gestures of the previous speakers, “know very well that the Cree nation considers itself the wisest in creation. Far be it from Okématan to say otherwise, for he does not know. Okématan is a child! His eyes are only beginning to open!”
He paused at this point, and looked round with solemn dignity; and the braves, unaccustomed to such self-depreciative modes of address, gazed at him with equal solemnity, not unmingled with surprise, though the latter feeling was carefully concealed.
“When the last great palaver of the Cree braves was held on the Blue-Pine Ridge,” continued Okématan, “the chiefs chose me to go to Red River, and learn all that I could find out about the Palefaces and their intentions. I went, as you know. I attached myself to a family named Daa-veed-sin, and I have found out—found out much about the Palefaces—much more that I did not know before, though Iama chief of the Cree nation.”
Okématan looked pointedly at Rednose as he said this. After a brief pause he continued—
“The great white chief,” (meaning Lord Selkirk), “isnota fool. It is true that he is not a god; he is a man and a Paleface, subject to the follies and weaknesses of the Palefaces, and not quite so wise as it is possible to be, but he is a good man, and wishes well to the Indian. I have found weaknesses among the Palefaces. One of them is that their chiefs plan—sometimes wisely, sometimes foolishly—but they leave the carrying out of their plans to other men, and sometimes these other men care for nobody but themselves. They tell lies, they mislead the great white chief, and tell him to do what is wrong.
“So it was when our agreement came to be made. The great white chief found, when he came to Red River, a few families of Saulteaux whom we had permitted to hunt on our lands. He thought the land belonged to the Saulteaux as well as to the Crees. He was mistaken, ignorant; he knew no better, and the Palefaces who did know, did not put light into him; so the names of Saulteaux chiefs were put in the writing. Then the great white chief went away across the great salt lake to the lands of the rising sun, leaving his small chiefs to carry out his plans. Some of these areverysmall chiefs, unfit to carry out any plans. Others are bad small chiefs, that will carry out only such plans as are sure to benefit themselves. It is these men with whom we have to deal. It is these who deserve to be swept off the face of the earth.”
A number of emphatic nods and “waughs” at this point showed that Okématan had at last touched a key-note with which his braves could shout in harmony.
“But,” resumed the chief impressively, “we cannot sweep them off the earth; we cannot even sweep them off the banks of Red River. We might easily sweep the Saulteaux into Lake Winnipeg if we thought it worth while to try, but the Palefaces—never! Okématan has travelled far to the south and seen the Palefaces there. They cannot be counted. They swarm like our locusts; they darken the earth as our buffaloes darken the plains. They live in stone wigwams. I have seen one of their wigwams that was big enough to hold all the Crees’ wigwams bundled together. If we killed or scalped all the Palefaces in Red River the great white chief would come over the great salt lake with an army that would swallow us up as the buffalo swallows up a tuft of grass.
“Besides,” continued Okématan, with a slight touch of pathos in his tone, “there are good and bad men among the Palefaces, just as there are good and bad among ourselves. I have dwelt for many moons with a tribe called Scosh-min. Okématan loves the Scosh-min. They speak a wonderful language, and some of them are too fond of fire-water; but their braves fear nothing, and their squaws are pretty and work hard—almost as hard as our squaws—though they are not quite as good-looking as ours. They are too white—their faces are like buffalo fat!”
A “Waugh,” which might be translated “Hear, hear,” greeted this statement of opinion.
“Now,” continued our chief, “if we swept away all the people of Red River, we would sweep away the good Scosh-min, which would be foolish, and we would gain nothing in the end, but would bring worse trouble on our heads. My counsel, therefore, is for peace. I advise that we should let the buffalo runners and the people of Red River alone; send a message with our grievances to the great white chief; ask him to come back over the great salt lake to put things right, and, in the meantime, wait with patience; attend to our own business; hunt, fish, eat, drink, sleep, and be happy.”
Having delivered his harangue, Okématan sat down amid murmurs of mingled applause and disapprobation. It was evident that he had created a serious division of opinion in the camp, and it seemed as if on the impression made by the next speaker would depend the great question of peace or war.
Presently an old warrior arose, and a profound silence followed, for they held him in great respect.
“My braves,” said the old man sententiously, “I have lived long, and my fighting days are nearly over. If wisdom has not accumulated on my head it must be my own fault, for I have had great experience both of war and peace—more of war, perhaps, than of peace. And the opinion that I have come to after long and very deep consideration is this: if there is something to fight for, fight—fight well; if there is nothing to fight for, don’t fight—don’t fight at all.”
The old man paused, and there were some “Waughs” of approval, for the truth contained in his profound conclusion was obvious even to the stupidest Red-skin of the band—supposing that a stupid brave among Crees were possible!
“I have also lived to see,” continued the old man, “that revenge is nothing—nothing at all, and therefore not worth fighting for.”
As this was flying straight in the face of the most cherished of Red-skins’ beliefs, it was received in dead though respectful silence.
“My young braves do not believe this. I know it. I have been young myself, and I remember well how pleasant revenge was to me, but I soon found that the pleasure of revenge did not last. It soon passed away, yet the deed of revenge did not pass away, and sometimes the deed became to my memory very bitter—insomuch that the pleasantness was entirely swallowed up and forgotten in the bitterness. My young braves will not believe this, I know. They go on feeling; they think on feeling; they reason on feeling; they trust to feeling. It is foolish, for the brain was given to enable man to think and judge and plan. You are as foolish as if you were to try to smell with your mouth and eat with your nose. But it is the way of youth. When experience teaches, then you will come to know that revenge is not worth fighting for—its pleasantness will pass away, but the bitter it leaves behind will never pass away.
“What is the meaning of revenge?” continued this analytical old savage. “What is the use of it? Does it not mean that we give up all hope of getting what we want, and wildly determine to get what pleasure is still possible to us by killing those who have thwarted us? And when you have killed and got all the pleasure there is, what does it come to? Your enemy is dead, and scalped. What then? He does not know that he is dead. He does not care that he is dead and scalped. You cannot keep him alive for ever killing and scalping him. But you have made his wife and children miserable. What of that? It was not his wife and children who opposed you, therefore you have revenged yourself on the wrong persons. He does not know that you have rendered his wife and children miserable, and does not care; therefore, I ask, why are you pleased? If your enemy was a good man, your revenge has only done him a kindness, for it has sent him to the happy hunting grounds before his time, where you will probably never meet him to have the pleasure of being revenged on him there. If he was a bad man, you have sent him to the world of Desolation, where he will be waiting to receive you when you get there, and where revenge will be impossible, for men are not allowed to kill or scalp there. At least if they are I never heard of it—and I am an old man now.
“There is nothing, then, to fight for with the Palefaces of Red River, and my counsel is, like that of Okématan, that we should decide on peace—not war.”
Whatever may have been the private opinion of the braves as to this new and very unexpected style of address, the effect of it was pacific; for, after a little more palaver, the peace-party carried the day—or, rather the night—and, next morning, the Cree warriors went back to their tents and hunting avocations, leaving Okématan to return to the camp of his friends the buffalo runners.
Chapter Sixteen.An Evening in the Camp.It was daybreak when Fergus McKay galloped into camp with the startling news that an attack by hostile Indians might be expected that day or the following night. He was, of course, unaware of the fact that the peace-making Okématan had been unwittingly following his tracks at a more leisurely pace.Some readers may think that the Indian, with his traditional power of following a trail, should have observed and suspected the fresh track of the hunter, but it must be remembered that some hundreds of buffalo runners had passed over the same track a day or two previously, and that Hawkeye, or Pathfinder himself, would have become helpless in the midst of such trampled confusion. Besides, Okématan had no reason to suspect that he had been followed; still less that the camp of the war-party had been accidentally discovered.“Now, boys,” said Fergus, after detailing his adventures during the night, “we will hev to give up all notion o’ buffalo runnin’ this day an’ putt the camp in a state o’ defence.”There was a good deal of grumbling at this, especially among some of the younger men; for they were very keen to commence the sport, and had not much belief in the power of a small band of savages to do them harm. Some of them even suggested that half of their number should remain behind to guard the camp while the other half should go after the buffalo. This proposal, however, was not received with favour, as it would certainly be a matter of disagreement which half was to go out, and which to remain behind!“Where is Kateegoose?” asked Dechamp at this crisis.“Stuffin’ ’imself, of course!” said Fred Jenkins, amid a general laugh. “I’ve noticed, since we set sail on this trip, that Kateegoose always turns out at daybreak, lights the galley fire, an’ begins the dooties o’ the day by stuffin’ ’imself.”“Ay, and I’ve noticed,” observed one of the young hunters, “that it takes a deal o’ stuffin’ to fill him out properly, for he keeps on at it most part o’ the day.”“Except,” remarked another, “when he stops to smoke what o’ the stuffin’ has been already shoved down.”“Moreover,” added the seaman, “I’ve noticed that François La Certe always keeps ’im company. He’s a sympathetic sort o’ man is François, fond o’ helpin’ his mates—specially when they’re eatin’ an’ smokin’.”At this moment Kateegoose, having been called, came forward. He was an ill-favoured savage, with various expressions on his ugly visage which were not so much Nature’s gifts as the result of his own evil passions. Jealousy was one of them, and he had often turned a green eye on Okématan. There were indications about his mouth and fingers, as he came forward, that justified the commentaries on his habits, and betrayed recent acquaintance with fat pork.“You hear the reports that have just been brought in?” said Dechamp.“Kateegoose hears,” was the laconic answer.“Kateegoose is a Cree,” continued Dechamp; “he knows the spirit that dwells in the hearts of his tribe. What does he think?”“The thoughts of the Indian are many and deep. He has for many moons watched the behaviour of Okématan, and he has long suspected that the heart of the serpent dwells in the breast of that chief. Now he is sure.”“But what about your people?” demanded the camp-chief. “They are not at war with us. Are they all villains because one among them turns out to be bad?”Kateegoose drew himself up with a look of dignity, and pouted his greasy lips as he replied—“The Crees have always been a brave and true and upright people. They never attack friends until, by their conduct, these friends have become enemies. But the Crees are human. They are not perfect—neither are the Palefaces. There are bad men among them—a few; not many—as well as young men and foolish. Sometimes, when on the war-path, a clever bad man can reason with them till he blinds them, and they are ready to do wrong. It may be so now. Okématan is clever. Kateegoose does not know what to advise.”“Kateegoose was not asked to advise,” returned Dechamp sternly. “He may return to his tent.”Thus summarily dismissed, this hanger-on or camp-follower returned to his pork and pipe with a feeling that somehow he had failed to make the exact impression on the leader that he desired. La Certe, however, consoled him, and helped him to continue the duties of the day.“Come with me, McKay,” said Dechamp, after giving all needful directions regarding the safety of the camp. “I don’t believe that rascal Kateegoose. He’s a greedy idler, something like La Certe, but by no means so harmless or good-natured. Moreover, I find it hard to believe that Okématan has turned traitor.”“I agree with you,” said Fergus. “It iss ferry hard to believe that a man who has been so long among us, and got such a good character, should suddenly turn against us—an’ that, too, without provocation. But what will you be sayin’ to what Taniel and myself has seen with our two eyes?”“It looks bad, I confess,” answered Dechamp, as they paced to and fro in a retired part of the camp; “but you must remember that your two eyes are not your two ears, and that you heard nothing that you could understand.”“Fery true, Dechamp. But the language of the eye is sometimes as clear and understandable as the language of the ear. No wan could mistake the meanin’ o’ some o’ the warriors when they scowled an’ pointed in the direction of our camp here, an’ gripped the handles o’ their scalpin’ knives and tomahawks. Moreover, Okématan also pointed in the same direction, though I am bound to say he did not grip his knife. Whether he scowled or not I do not know, for he was standin’ wi’ his back to us.”“Well, I cannot tell. I’m not willin’ to believe Okématan a traitor; but what you have seen is enough to make me put the camp in defence instead of startin’ out to hunt—”At that moment the sharp click of a gun was heard as a neighbouring sentry put his piece on full cock.Dechamp and Fergus hastened towards him.“Have a care, André; don’t be too quick with your gun,” said the former. “I see only one man coming. He can do us no harm.”As the approaching figure drew near, it was seen to be that of an Indian on horseback. He rode carelessly at a jog-trot.“It looks like Okématan!” said Dechamp, glancing at his companion in surprise.“It iss Okématan,” returned Fergus.Before another word could be spoken, a shot was heard in the camp, and horse and man were seen to roll upon the ground. The latter rose immediately, but the horse lay stiff—evidently shot dead. For a few seconds profound silence followed the incident, as if men were too much taken by surprise to think and act. Then, when the dismounted Indian was seen to walk leisurely, as if unhurt, towards them, there was a hubbub in the camp, while men, women, and boys ran towards the spot whence the shot seemed to have been fired, but no one was to be found there. Only a very faint puff of smoke overhead told where the marksman had stood. It had been a well-chosen spot, where a low bush or two mingled with several carts that had been rather carelessly drawn up, and several horses had been picketed together. These had afforded concealment enough for at least a few moments.The tent of La Certe was not far from this corner. At the time the shot was heard, the self-indulgent half-breed was inside, recumbent on his back in the enjoyment of a pipe.“That’s odd,” he said to Slowfoot, who was seated opposite to her lord scraping the remnants of something out of a tin kettle with the point of a scalping-knife. “Somebody’s gun gone off by accident, I suppose. I hear some one at our fire. Look out, Slowfoot, and ask what has happened.”Slowfoot finished the scraping of the kettle before obeying; then lifted the curtain that closed the opening of their tent, and peeped out.“It is Kateegoose—loading his gun, I think.”La Certe got up, with a sigh of regret at the necessity for exertion, and, lifting the curtain-door, stepped out.“What are they firing at, Kateegoose?”The Indian did not know. Some one, he thought, might have let off his gun by accident. He thought it wise, however, to be ready, and had just sent the ramrod down the barrel of his gun to make sure that it was loaded with ball. To make still surer that all was ready, the Indian shook the priming out of the pan of his gun, wiped it, and re-primed. Then he laid the weapon down by his side, and resumed the pipe which he had apparently laid down to enable him to perform these operations more conveniently, and, at the same time, with more safety.At that moment Dechamp walked smartly towards the fire in front of La Certe’s tent.“Does Kateegoose know who fired that shot?” he asked with a keen glance, for his suspicions had been aroused.“Some one over there,” answered the Indian languidly, as he pointed in the right direction.“It does not need a medicine-man to tell me that,” said Dechamp, sternly. “I heard the shot, and saw the smoke. Have you any idea who fired it, La Certe?”“I have not,” replied the half-breed. “I was lying in my tent when I heard it. Kateegoose was smoking beside the fire. We both thought it was an accident, or some one trying his gun, till we heard the shouting and running. Then I jumped up, seized my gun, and sprang out to see what it was all about. I found Kateegoose equally on thequi vive. He was shoving his ramrod down to make sure his gun was loaded when you came up. What is it all about?”“Only that the horse of Okématan has been shot under him by some one, and that there is a would-be murderer in the camp.”“Okématan! Has the traitor ventured to return?” exclaimed Kateegoose, with an expression of surprise that was very unusual in an Indian.“Ay, he has ventured,” responded Dechamp, “and some one has ventured to fire at him with intent to kill. By good luck he was a bad shot. He missed the man, though he hit and killed the horse. But I shall find the rascal out before long—he may depend on that!”So saying, the commandant left the spot.“Do you know anything about this?” asked La Certe, turning full on the Indian.“Kateegoose is not a medicine-man. He cannot be in two places at once. He knows nothing.”For a sly man La Certe was wonderfully credulous. He believed the Indian, and, returning to his tent, lay down again to finish the interrupted pipe.“Kateegoose was trying his gun to see if it was loaded,” he said to his better half.“That’s a lie,” returned Slowfoot, with that straightforward simplicity of diction for which she was famous.“Indeed! What, then, was he doing, my Slowfoot?”“He wasloadinghis gun—not trying it.”“Are you sure?”“Am I sure that our little child loves tobacco?”“Well, I suppose you are. At any rate, the child often asks you for a pipe, and gets it too. Hm! if Kateegoose fired that shot he must be a bad man. But our chief is sure to find it out—and—it is no business of mine. Fetch me the tobacco, Slowfoot.”That same morning, Archie Sinclair was seated beside his brother, Little Bill, in the tent that was shared by Fred Jenkins and several young half-breeds. He was alone with his brother, Jenkins having gone out with the blunderbuss to assist, if need be, in the defence of the camp. He was manufacturing a small bow for his brother to amuse himself with while he should be away “seein’ the fun,” as he said, with the hunters. The instant the sailor left, however, he looked at Billie mysteriously and said, in a low voice—“Little Bill, although you’re not good for much with your poor little body, you’ve got a splendid headpiece, and are amazing at giving advice. I want advice just now very bad. You’ve heard what they’ve all been saying about this shot that was fired at Okématan, and some o’ the men say they think it must have been Kateegoose that did it. Now, Billie, I amsurethat it was Kateegoose that did it.”“Oh!” exclaimed Little Bill, making his eyes and mouth into three round O’s. “How d’ye know that? Did you see him do it?”“No—it’s that that bothers me. If I had seen him do it I would have gone straight and told Dechamp, but I didn’t quite see him, you see. I was in Lamartine’s cart at the time, rummagin’ about for a piece o’ wood to make this very bow, an’ the moment I heard the shot I peeped out, an’ saw—nothing!”“That wasn’t much,” remarked Little Bill, innocently.“Ay, but I soon saw something,” continued Archie, with increasing solemnity; “I saw Kateegoose coming slinking round among the carts, as if he wanted not to be seen. I saw him only for a moment—gliding past like a ghost.”“It’s a serious thing,” said Little Bill, musing gravely, “to charge a man with tryin’ to kill another man, if that’s all you’ve got to tell, for you know it’s a way the Red-skins have of always glidin’ about as if they was for ever after mischief.”“But that’s not all, Little Bill,” returned his brother, “for I’m almost certain that I saw a little smoke comin’ out o’ the muzzle of his gun as he passed—though I couldn’t exactly swear to it.”Archie had overrated his brother’s powers in the way of advice, for, although they talked the matter over for some time, they failed to arrive at any satisfactory conclusion.Meanwhile Okématan, having entered the camp, was met by Dechamp, and led by him to a retired part.“You have an enemy here, Okématan,” he said, inquiringly.“It would seem so,” returned the Indian gravely. “Friends do not shoot each other’s horses; and if the poor horse had not tossed his head when the shot was fired, his rider would have bit the dust.”“I fear it looks something like that,” said Dechamp; “but I hope Okématan believes thatIknow nothing of the matter—nor can I tell who the cowardly villain is that did it.”“Okématan knows that,” answered the Indian, sternly. “No half-breed fired the shot.”“There is no Indian in the camp but Kateegoose,” rejoined the other, quickly; “surely you don’t think that a man of your own tribe would try to kill you?”“I know not. Kateegoose hates me. No other man in the camp hates me.”“It is strange—unaccountable,” returned Dechamp. “If the Indian did it, he shall forfeit his horse and leave the camp. But tell me,”—here the half-breed commandant turned a searching gaze on his companion, “why did Okématan leave us, and spend all night alone on the prairie? Did he spend the night in conversation with the buffalo—or in the company of his departed forefathers?”No sign of surprise, or of any other emotion, was visible on the countenance of the Red-man as he replied: “Okématan went out to meet a party of his tribe on the war-path.”Dechamp was not so successful in concealing his own surprise at this answer.“Does the Cree chief,” he asked, with something of doubt in his tone and look, “choose the hours of night to consult with warriors about secret assaults and surprises on friends?”“He does not!” answered the Indian, decidedly but calmly—though he was unquestionably astonished at being questioned so pointedly and correctly as to his recent proceedings, and felt that he must have been followed. He was not the man, however, to betray his feelings, or to commit himself in any way; therefore he took refuge in silence.“Come now, Okématan,” said his companion in a confidential tone. “Don’t let a misunderstanding arise between you and me. What is this that I have heard? You spent last night, as you admit, with a party of Crees on the war-path. You were seen and heard, and the men of the camp think you have turned traitor, and they are even now expecting an attack from this war-party. Is it true that we are to be attacked?”“You say I washeard,” answered the Indian, looking the half-breed straight in the face. “If so, those who heard must know what I said.”“Nay, they did indeed hear, but they did not understand, for they know not your language; but they know the language of signs, and, by the looks and gestures of the warriors, they guessed what was said and planned.”“Is it likely,” asked the Indian in a low voice, “that Okématan would return to your camp alone, and put himself in your power, if an attack was intended?”“True, true,” returned Dechamp with a hearty air; “and, to say truth, I myself did not—do not—believe you false. If you tell me the truth, Okématan, and give me your word that this report is a mistaken one, I will believe you and trust you.”The Indian seemed pleased with the assurance thus heartily given, but still maintained his dignified gravity, as he said—“Okématanalwaystells the truth. He had hoped that the folly of some young braves of his tribe should never have been known to any one; but since it has been found out, he will tell all he knows to his pale-faced brother.”Hereupon he related all that had transpired at the council of war, and the final success of his own speech, with that of the old warrior, in producing a peaceful solution.“But are you sure they will follow your advice?” asked Dechamp.“Yes, Okématan is quite sure.”“Well, then, as I said, I will trust you,” returned Dechamp, extending his hand, which the Indian gravely grasped; “and I will give you undeniable proof, by giving my young men orders to start after the buffalo at once—without further delay.”
It was daybreak when Fergus McKay galloped into camp with the startling news that an attack by hostile Indians might be expected that day or the following night. He was, of course, unaware of the fact that the peace-making Okématan had been unwittingly following his tracks at a more leisurely pace.
Some readers may think that the Indian, with his traditional power of following a trail, should have observed and suspected the fresh track of the hunter, but it must be remembered that some hundreds of buffalo runners had passed over the same track a day or two previously, and that Hawkeye, or Pathfinder himself, would have become helpless in the midst of such trampled confusion. Besides, Okématan had no reason to suspect that he had been followed; still less that the camp of the war-party had been accidentally discovered.
“Now, boys,” said Fergus, after detailing his adventures during the night, “we will hev to give up all notion o’ buffalo runnin’ this day an’ putt the camp in a state o’ defence.”
There was a good deal of grumbling at this, especially among some of the younger men; for they were very keen to commence the sport, and had not much belief in the power of a small band of savages to do them harm. Some of them even suggested that half of their number should remain behind to guard the camp while the other half should go after the buffalo. This proposal, however, was not received with favour, as it would certainly be a matter of disagreement which half was to go out, and which to remain behind!
“Where is Kateegoose?” asked Dechamp at this crisis.
“Stuffin’ ’imself, of course!” said Fred Jenkins, amid a general laugh. “I’ve noticed, since we set sail on this trip, that Kateegoose always turns out at daybreak, lights the galley fire, an’ begins the dooties o’ the day by stuffin’ ’imself.”
“Ay, and I’ve noticed,” observed one of the young hunters, “that it takes a deal o’ stuffin’ to fill him out properly, for he keeps on at it most part o’ the day.”
“Except,” remarked another, “when he stops to smoke what o’ the stuffin’ has been already shoved down.”
“Moreover,” added the seaman, “I’ve noticed that François La Certe always keeps ’im company. He’s a sympathetic sort o’ man is François, fond o’ helpin’ his mates—specially when they’re eatin’ an’ smokin’.”
At this moment Kateegoose, having been called, came forward. He was an ill-favoured savage, with various expressions on his ugly visage which were not so much Nature’s gifts as the result of his own evil passions. Jealousy was one of them, and he had often turned a green eye on Okématan. There were indications about his mouth and fingers, as he came forward, that justified the commentaries on his habits, and betrayed recent acquaintance with fat pork.
“You hear the reports that have just been brought in?” said Dechamp.
“Kateegoose hears,” was the laconic answer.
“Kateegoose is a Cree,” continued Dechamp; “he knows the spirit that dwells in the hearts of his tribe. What does he think?”
“The thoughts of the Indian are many and deep. He has for many moons watched the behaviour of Okématan, and he has long suspected that the heart of the serpent dwells in the breast of that chief. Now he is sure.”
“But what about your people?” demanded the camp-chief. “They are not at war with us. Are they all villains because one among them turns out to be bad?”
Kateegoose drew himself up with a look of dignity, and pouted his greasy lips as he replied—
“The Crees have always been a brave and true and upright people. They never attack friends until, by their conduct, these friends have become enemies. But the Crees are human. They are not perfect—neither are the Palefaces. There are bad men among them—a few; not many—as well as young men and foolish. Sometimes, when on the war-path, a clever bad man can reason with them till he blinds them, and they are ready to do wrong. It may be so now. Okématan is clever. Kateegoose does not know what to advise.”
“Kateegoose was not asked to advise,” returned Dechamp sternly. “He may return to his tent.”
Thus summarily dismissed, this hanger-on or camp-follower returned to his pork and pipe with a feeling that somehow he had failed to make the exact impression on the leader that he desired. La Certe, however, consoled him, and helped him to continue the duties of the day.
“Come with me, McKay,” said Dechamp, after giving all needful directions regarding the safety of the camp. “I don’t believe that rascal Kateegoose. He’s a greedy idler, something like La Certe, but by no means so harmless or good-natured. Moreover, I find it hard to believe that Okématan has turned traitor.”
“I agree with you,” said Fergus. “It iss ferry hard to believe that a man who has been so long among us, and got such a good character, should suddenly turn against us—an’ that, too, without provocation. But what will you be sayin’ to what Taniel and myself has seen with our two eyes?”
“It looks bad, I confess,” answered Dechamp, as they paced to and fro in a retired part of the camp; “but you must remember that your two eyes are not your two ears, and that you heard nothing that you could understand.”
“Fery true, Dechamp. But the language of the eye is sometimes as clear and understandable as the language of the ear. No wan could mistake the meanin’ o’ some o’ the warriors when they scowled an’ pointed in the direction of our camp here, an’ gripped the handles o’ their scalpin’ knives and tomahawks. Moreover, Okématan also pointed in the same direction, though I am bound to say he did not grip his knife. Whether he scowled or not I do not know, for he was standin’ wi’ his back to us.”
“Well, I cannot tell. I’m not willin’ to believe Okématan a traitor; but what you have seen is enough to make me put the camp in defence instead of startin’ out to hunt—”
At that moment the sharp click of a gun was heard as a neighbouring sentry put his piece on full cock.
Dechamp and Fergus hastened towards him.
“Have a care, André; don’t be too quick with your gun,” said the former. “I see only one man coming. He can do us no harm.”
As the approaching figure drew near, it was seen to be that of an Indian on horseback. He rode carelessly at a jog-trot.
“It looks like Okématan!” said Dechamp, glancing at his companion in surprise.
“It iss Okématan,” returned Fergus.
Before another word could be spoken, a shot was heard in the camp, and horse and man were seen to roll upon the ground. The latter rose immediately, but the horse lay stiff—evidently shot dead. For a few seconds profound silence followed the incident, as if men were too much taken by surprise to think and act. Then, when the dismounted Indian was seen to walk leisurely, as if unhurt, towards them, there was a hubbub in the camp, while men, women, and boys ran towards the spot whence the shot seemed to have been fired, but no one was to be found there. Only a very faint puff of smoke overhead told where the marksman had stood. It had been a well-chosen spot, where a low bush or two mingled with several carts that had been rather carelessly drawn up, and several horses had been picketed together. These had afforded concealment enough for at least a few moments.
The tent of La Certe was not far from this corner. At the time the shot was heard, the self-indulgent half-breed was inside, recumbent on his back in the enjoyment of a pipe.
“That’s odd,” he said to Slowfoot, who was seated opposite to her lord scraping the remnants of something out of a tin kettle with the point of a scalping-knife. “Somebody’s gun gone off by accident, I suppose. I hear some one at our fire. Look out, Slowfoot, and ask what has happened.”
Slowfoot finished the scraping of the kettle before obeying; then lifted the curtain that closed the opening of their tent, and peeped out.
“It is Kateegoose—loading his gun, I think.”
La Certe got up, with a sigh of regret at the necessity for exertion, and, lifting the curtain-door, stepped out.
“What are they firing at, Kateegoose?”
The Indian did not know. Some one, he thought, might have let off his gun by accident. He thought it wise, however, to be ready, and had just sent the ramrod down the barrel of his gun to make sure that it was loaded with ball. To make still surer that all was ready, the Indian shook the priming out of the pan of his gun, wiped it, and re-primed. Then he laid the weapon down by his side, and resumed the pipe which he had apparently laid down to enable him to perform these operations more conveniently, and, at the same time, with more safety.
At that moment Dechamp walked smartly towards the fire in front of La Certe’s tent.
“Does Kateegoose know who fired that shot?” he asked with a keen glance, for his suspicions had been aroused.
“Some one over there,” answered the Indian languidly, as he pointed in the right direction.
“It does not need a medicine-man to tell me that,” said Dechamp, sternly. “I heard the shot, and saw the smoke. Have you any idea who fired it, La Certe?”
“I have not,” replied the half-breed. “I was lying in my tent when I heard it. Kateegoose was smoking beside the fire. We both thought it was an accident, or some one trying his gun, till we heard the shouting and running. Then I jumped up, seized my gun, and sprang out to see what it was all about. I found Kateegoose equally on thequi vive. He was shoving his ramrod down to make sure his gun was loaded when you came up. What is it all about?”
“Only that the horse of Okématan has been shot under him by some one, and that there is a would-be murderer in the camp.”
“Okématan! Has the traitor ventured to return?” exclaimed Kateegoose, with an expression of surprise that was very unusual in an Indian.
“Ay, he has ventured,” responded Dechamp, “and some one has ventured to fire at him with intent to kill. By good luck he was a bad shot. He missed the man, though he hit and killed the horse. But I shall find the rascal out before long—he may depend on that!”
So saying, the commandant left the spot.
“Do you know anything about this?” asked La Certe, turning full on the Indian.
“Kateegoose is not a medicine-man. He cannot be in two places at once. He knows nothing.”
For a sly man La Certe was wonderfully credulous. He believed the Indian, and, returning to his tent, lay down again to finish the interrupted pipe.
“Kateegoose was trying his gun to see if it was loaded,” he said to his better half.
“That’s a lie,” returned Slowfoot, with that straightforward simplicity of diction for which she was famous.
“Indeed! What, then, was he doing, my Slowfoot?”
“He wasloadinghis gun—not trying it.”
“Are you sure?”
“Am I sure that our little child loves tobacco?”
“Well, I suppose you are. At any rate, the child often asks you for a pipe, and gets it too. Hm! if Kateegoose fired that shot he must be a bad man. But our chief is sure to find it out—and—it is no business of mine. Fetch me the tobacco, Slowfoot.”
That same morning, Archie Sinclair was seated beside his brother, Little Bill, in the tent that was shared by Fred Jenkins and several young half-breeds. He was alone with his brother, Jenkins having gone out with the blunderbuss to assist, if need be, in the defence of the camp. He was manufacturing a small bow for his brother to amuse himself with while he should be away “seein’ the fun,” as he said, with the hunters. The instant the sailor left, however, he looked at Billie mysteriously and said, in a low voice—
“Little Bill, although you’re not good for much with your poor little body, you’ve got a splendid headpiece, and are amazing at giving advice. I want advice just now very bad. You’ve heard what they’ve all been saying about this shot that was fired at Okématan, and some o’ the men say they think it must have been Kateegoose that did it. Now, Billie, I amsurethat it was Kateegoose that did it.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Little Bill, making his eyes and mouth into three round O’s. “How d’ye know that? Did you see him do it?”
“No—it’s that that bothers me. If I had seen him do it I would have gone straight and told Dechamp, but I didn’t quite see him, you see. I was in Lamartine’s cart at the time, rummagin’ about for a piece o’ wood to make this very bow, an’ the moment I heard the shot I peeped out, an’ saw—nothing!”
“That wasn’t much,” remarked Little Bill, innocently.
“Ay, but I soon saw something,” continued Archie, with increasing solemnity; “I saw Kateegoose coming slinking round among the carts, as if he wanted not to be seen. I saw him only for a moment—gliding past like a ghost.”
“It’s a serious thing,” said Little Bill, musing gravely, “to charge a man with tryin’ to kill another man, if that’s all you’ve got to tell, for you know it’s a way the Red-skins have of always glidin’ about as if they was for ever after mischief.”
“But that’s not all, Little Bill,” returned his brother, “for I’m almost certain that I saw a little smoke comin’ out o’ the muzzle of his gun as he passed—though I couldn’t exactly swear to it.”
Archie had overrated his brother’s powers in the way of advice, for, although they talked the matter over for some time, they failed to arrive at any satisfactory conclusion.
Meanwhile Okématan, having entered the camp, was met by Dechamp, and led by him to a retired part.
“You have an enemy here, Okématan,” he said, inquiringly.
“It would seem so,” returned the Indian gravely. “Friends do not shoot each other’s horses; and if the poor horse had not tossed his head when the shot was fired, his rider would have bit the dust.”
“I fear it looks something like that,” said Dechamp; “but I hope Okématan believes thatIknow nothing of the matter—nor can I tell who the cowardly villain is that did it.”
“Okématan knows that,” answered the Indian, sternly. “No half-breed fired the shot.”
“There is no Indian in the camp but Kateegoose,” rejoined the other, quickly; “surely you don’t think that a man of your own tribe would try to kill you?”
“I know not. Kateegoose hates me. No other man in the camp hates me.”
“It is strange—unaccountable,” returned Dechamp. “If the Indian did it, he shall forfeit his horse and leave the camp. But tell me,”—here the half-breed commandant turned a searching gaze on his companion, “why did Okématan leave us, and spend all night alone on the prairie? Did he spend the night in conversation with the buffalo—or in the company of his departed forefathers?”
No sign of surprise, or of any other emotion, was visible on the countenance of the Red-man as he replied: “Okématan went out to meet a party of his tribe on the war-path.”
Dechamp was not so successful in concealing his own surprise at this answer.
“Does the Cree chief,” he asked, with something of doubt in his tone and look, “choose the hours of night to consult with warriors about secret assaults and surprises on friends?”
“He does not!” answered the Indian, decidedly but calmly—though he was unquestionably astonished at being questioned so pointedly and correctly as to his recent proceedings, and felt that he must have been followed. He was not the man, however, to betray his feelings, or to commit himself in any way; therefore he took refuge in silence.
“Come now, Okématan,” said his companion in a confidential tone. “Don’t let a misunderstanding arise between you and me. What is this that I have heard? You spent last night, as you admit, with a party of Crees on the war-path. You were seen and heard, and the men of the camp think you have turned traitor, and they are even now expecting an attack from this war-party. Is it true that we are to be attacked?”
“You say I washeard,” answered the Indian, looking the half-breed straight in the face. “If so, those who heard must know what I said.”
“Nay, they did indeed hear, but they did not understand, for they know not your language; but they know the language of signs, and, by the looks and gestures of the warriors, they guessed what was said and planned.”
“Is it likely,” asked the Indian in a low voice, “that Okématan would return to your camp alone, and put himself in your power, if an attack was intended?”
“True, true,” returned Dechamp with a hearty air; “and, to say truth, I myself did not—do not—believe you false. If you tell me the truth, Okématan, and give me your word that this report is a mistaken one, I will believe you and trust you.”
The Indian seemed pleased with the assurance thus heartily given, but still maintained his dignified gravity, as he said—
“Okématanalwaystells the truth. He had hoped that the folly of some young braves of his tribe should never have been known to any one; but since it has been found out, he will tell all he knows to his pale-faced brother.”
Hereupon he related all that had transpired at the council of war, and the final success of his own speech, with that of the old warrior, in producing a peaceful solution.
“But are you sure they will follow your advice?” asked Dechamp.
“Yes, Okématan is quite sure.”
“Well, then, as I said, I will trust you,” returned Dechamp, extending his hand, which the Indian gravely grasped; “and I will give you undeniable proof, by giving my young men orders to start after the buffalo at once—without further delay.”