Chapter Twenty Four.A Desperate Situation.Awaking next morning much refreshed, but with a keen appetite for more grouse, Dan Davidson sat up and reflected. He felt that, although refreshed, the great weakness resulting from excessive loss of blood still rendered him almost helpless, and he knew that making new blood was a process that required good feeding and considerable time. What, then, was to be done?He had scarcely asked himself the question when a rustle in the bushes near him caused him to look quickly round and seize his gun. But the noise was not repeated, and nothing could be seen to justify alarm. Still Dan felt that the sound justified caution; he therefore kept his gun handy, and loosened in its sheath the scalping-knife which he always carried in his belt—for eating purposes, not for scalping.Thus he sat for nearly an hour with an uncomfortable sensation that danger of some sort lurked near him, until he almost fell asleep. Then, rousing himself he proceeded to breakfast on the bones and scraps of the previous night’s supper.While thus engaged he tried to make up his mind what course he ought to pursue—whether to remain where he was until his friends should have time to find him—for he felt sure that Okématan would escape and reach the Settlement, in which case a search for him would certainly be set on foot—or whether he should make a desperate effort to stagger on, and ultimately, if need be, creep towards home. The pain of his wound was now so great as to render the latter course almost impossible. He therefore resolved to wait and give his friends time to institute a search, trusting to another shot at willow-grouse for a supply of food.He had scarcely made up his mind to this plan when the rustling in the bushes was repeated again. Seizing his gun, which he had laid down, Dan faced round just in time to see the hindquarters and tail of a large grey wolf disappearing in the bushes.To say that he felt considerable alarm when he saw this is not to stamp him with undue timidity, for he would have rejoiced to have had the wolf in his clutches, then and there, and to engage in single combat with it, weak though he was. What troubled him was his knowledge of the fact that the mean spirited and sly brute was noted for its apparent sagacity in finding out when an intended victim was growing too feeble to show fight—either from wounds or old age—and its pertinacity and patience in biding the time when an attack could be made with safety.Had this horrible creature discerned, by some occult knowledge, that the sands in his glass were running low? Was it to be his fate to face his glaring murderer until he had not vital power left to grapple with it, or to guard his throat from its hideous fangs? These were questions which forced themselves upon him, and which might well have caused the stoutest heart to shrink from the threatened and terrible doom.In the strength of his emotion he had almost fired at a venture at the spot where the brute had disappeared; but luckily the remembrance that it was his last charge of ammunition came to him in time, and he had the resolution to restrain himself even when his finger was on the trigger.Dan now perceived that he must not venture to remain on the spot where he had passed the night, because, being surrounded on three sides by shrubbery, it afforded his grisly foe an opportunity to approach from any quarter, and spring on him the moment he should find him off his guard.There was a natural bank of earth out on the plain about three or four hundred yards off, with neither trees nor bushes near it. The bank was not more than four feet high, and the top slightly overhung its base, so that it afforded some slight protection from the sun. To this spot Dan resolved to betake himself, and immediately began the journey—for a journey it surely was, seeing that the hunter had to do it on hands and knees, lifting his gun and pushing it before him, each yard or so, as he went along. The inflammation of his wound rendered the process all the slower and more painful, and a burning thirst, which he had no means of slaking, added to his misery.By the time he had passed over the short distance, he was so much exhausted that he fell at the foot of the bank almost in a swoon.Evidently the wolf imagined that its time had now come, for it sneaked out of the wood when the hunter fell, and began cautiously to advance. But Dan saw this, and, making a desperate effort, arose to a sitting posture, leaned his back against the bank, and placed his gun across his knees.Seeing this, the wolf sat down on its haunches, and coolly began to bide its time.“Ha! you brute!” muttered Dan, “I could easily stop your mischief if my strength wasn’t all gone. As it is, I dare not give you my last shot till you are so close that you can look down the barrel o’ my gun.”From this point a watch of endurance began on both sides—the brute, of course, unaware of the deadly weapon which its intended victim held, and the man fully aware of the fact that if he should venture to lie down and sleep, his doom would be sealed.It is impossible for any one who has not had trial of similar experiences to imagine the rush of thought and feeling that passed through the brain and breast of Dan Davidson during the long dreary hours of that terrible day. Sometimes he fell into a half-dreamy condition, in which his mind leaped over forests and ocean to bonnie Scotland, where his days of childhood were spent in glorious revelry on her sunny banks and braes. At other times the memory of school-days came strong upon him, when play and lessons, and palmies were all the cares he had; or thoughts of Sabbaths spent with his mother—now in the church, now in the fields, or at the cottage door learning Bible stories and hearing words of wisdom and the story of the crucified One from her lips. Then the scene would change, and he was crossing the stormy ocean, or fighting with Red-skins, or thundering after the buffalo on the wide prairies. But through all the varied fabric of his thoughts there ran two distinct threads, one golden, the other black. The first we need hardly say was Elspie McKay; the second was that awful wolf which sat there glaring at him with a hang-dog expression, with the red tongue hanging out of its mouth, and from which he never for a moment allowed his eyes to wander.As evening began to draw on, the situation became terrible, for Dan felt that the little strength he had left was fast sinking. The efforts by which he had succeeded in rousing himself in the earlier parts of the day were failing of their effect. Then a strange and sudden change occurred, for, while he knew that the end of the trial was rapidly approaching, he began to experience a feeling of indifference—the result, no doubt, of excessive weariness—and almost a wish that all was over. Nevertheless, whenever that wolf moved, or changed its position ever so little, the instinct of self-preservation returned in full force, and Dan, pulling himself together, prepared to defend himself desperately to the last gasp.While the two were thus glaring at each other, Dan was startled and thoroughly aroused from his irresistible lethargy by a loud report.Next moment he saw the wolf extended dead upon the plain.
Awaking next morning much refreshed, but with a keen appetite for more grouse, Dan Davidson sat up and reflected. He felt that, although refreshed, the great weakness resulting from excessive loss of blood still rendered him almost helpless, and he knew that making new blood was a process that required good feeding and considerable time. What, then, was to be done?
He had scarcely asked himself the question when a rustle in the bushes near him caused him to look quickly round and seize his gun. But the noise was not repeated, and nothing could be seen to justify alarm. Still Dan felt that the sound justified caution; he therefore kept his gun handy, and loosened in its sheath the scalping-knife which he always carried in his belt—for eating purposes, not for scalping.
Thus he sat for nearly an hour with an uncomfortable sensation that danger of some sort lurked near him, until he almost fell asleep. Then, rousing himself he proceeded to breakfast on the bones and scraps of the previous night’s supper.
While thus engaged he tried to make up his mind what course he ought to pursue—whether to remain where he was until his friends should have time to find him—for he felt sure that Okématan would escape and reach the Settlement, in which case a search for him would certainly be set on foot—or whether he should make a desperate effort to stagger on, and ultimately, if need be, creep towards home. The pain of his wound was now so great as to render the latter course almost impossible. He therefore resolved to wait and give his friends time to institute a search, trusting to another shot at willow-grouse for a supply of food.
He had scarcely made up his mind to this plan when the rustling in the bushes was repeated again. Seizing his gun, which he had laid down, Dan faced round just in time to see the hindquarters and tail of a large grey wolf disappearing in the bushes.
To say that he felt considerable alarm when he saw this is not to stamp him with undue timidity, for he would have rejoiced to have had the wolf in his clutches, then and there, and to engage in single combat with it, weak though he was. What troubled him was his knowledge of the fact that the mean spirited and sly brute was noted for its apparent sagacity in finding out when an intended victim was growing too feeble to show fight—either from wounds or old age—and its pertinacity and patience in biding the time when an attack could be made with safety.
Had this horrible creature discerned, by some occult knowledge, that the sands in his glass were running low? Was it to be his fate to face his glaring murderer until he had not vital power left to grapple with it, or to guard his throat from its hideous fangs? These were questions which forced themselves upon him, and which might well have caused the stoutest heart to shrink from the threatened and terrible doom.
In the strength of his emotion he had almost fired at a venture at the spot where the brute had disappeared; but luckily the remembrance that it was his last charge of ammunition came to him in time, and he had the resolution to restrain himself even when his finger was on the trigger.
Dan now perceived that he must not venture to remain on the spot where he had passed the night, because, being surrounded on three sides by shrubbery, it afforded his grisly foe an opportunity to approach from any quarter, and spring on him the moment he should find him off his guard.
There was a natural bank of earth out on the plain about three or four hundred yards off, with neither trees nor bushes near it. The bank was not more than four feet high, and the top slightly overhung its base, so that it afforded some slight protection from the sun. To this spot Dan resolved to betake himself, and immediately began the journey—for a journey it surely was, seeing that the hunter had to do it on hands and knees, lifting his gun and pushing it before him, each yard or so, as he went along. The inflammation of his wound rendered the process all the slower and more painful, and a burning thirst, which he had no means of slaking, added to his misery.
By the time he had passed over the short distance, he was so much exhausted that he fell at the foot of the bank almost in a swoon.
Evidently the wolf imagined that its time had now come, for it sneaked out of the wood when the hunter fell, and began cautiously to advance. But Dan saw this, and, making a desperate effort, arose to a sitting posture, leaned his back against the bank, and placed his gun across his knees.
Seeing this, the wolf sat down on its haunches, and coolly began to bide its time.
“Ha! you brute!” muttered Dan, “I could easily stop your mischief if my strength wasn’t all gone. As it is, I dare not give you my last shot till you are so close that you can look down the barrel o’ my gun.”
From this point a watch of endurance began on both sides—the brute, of course, unaware of the deadly weapon which its intended victim held, and the man fully aware of the fact that if he should venture to lie down and sleep, his doom would be sealed.
It is impossible for any one who has not had trial of similar experiences to imagine the rush of thought and feeling that passed through the brain and breast of Dan Davidson during the long dreary hours of that terrible day. Sometimes he fell into a half-dreamy condition, in which his mind leaped over forests and ocean to bonnie Scotland, where his days of childhood were spent in glorious revelry on her sunny banks and braes. At other times the memory of school-days came strong upon him, when play and lessons, and palmies were all the cares he had; or thoughts of Sabbaths spent with his mother—now in the church, now in the fields, or at the cottage door learning Bible stories and hearing words of wisdom and the story of the crucified One from her lips. Then the scene would change, and he was crossing the stormy ocean, or fighting with Red-skins, or thundering after the buffalo on the wide prairies. But through all the varied fabric of his thoughts there ran two distinct threads, one golden, the other black. The first we need hardly say was Elspie McKay; the second was that awful wolf which sat there glaring at him with a hang-dog expression, with the red tongue hanging out of its mouth, and from which he never for a moment allowed his eyes to wander.
As evening began to draw on, the situation became terrible, for Dan felt that the little strength he had left was fast sinking. The efforts by which he had succeeded in rousing himself in the earlier parts of the day were failing of their effect. Then a strange and sudden change occurred, for, while he knew that the end of the trial was rapidly approaching, he began to experience a feeling of indifference—the result, no doubt, of excessive weariness—and almost a wish that all was over. Nevertheless, whenever that wolf moved, or changed its position ever so little, the instinct of self-preservation returned in full force, and Dan, pulling himself together, prepared to defend himself desperately to the last gasp.
While the two were thus glaring at each other, Dan was startled and thoroughly aroused from his irresistible lethargy by a loud report.
Next moment he saw the wolf extended dead upon the plain.
Chapter Twenty Five.Adventures of Fergus and his Friends.In order to account for the sudden death recorded in the last chapter, we must turn aside to follow for a little the fortunes of Fergus McKay.It will be remembered that the vigorous Highlander, after overturning the Indian canoe and running his own canoe on shore, was seized by the neck, while in the act of reaching forward to grasp his gun, and captured.Now, Fergus was of an unusually knowing and wily nature. He possessed what some would call more than his share of readiness in action and sagacity in counsel, though his ordinary reticence and sluggishness of manner concealed those qualities to some extent.Being endued, also, with more than the average allowance of that bodily strength for which his countrymen are famous, his first impulse was to exert his powers and show fight, but he had been taken suddenly at a disadvantage and thrown on his back into the bottom of the canoe, and at least three pair of very muscular hands grasped his throat and other parts of his person. That they were strong hands he felt; that they belonged to big strong savages he had every reason to believe—though it was too dark to see—and that scalping-knives and tomahawks were handy to them he knew to be highly probable. He therefore promptly made up his mind as to his course of action, and at once began to play his part. Making a very feeble resistance—just enough, in short, to deceive—he begged for mercy in soft, rather tremulous and very abject tones. True, his language was English—at least that sort of English to which the mountaineers of Scotland are addicted—but he trusted to the tone and manner of his speech, not to the sense, which Saulteaux, he knew, could not be expected to understand.“Oh! then, don’t be hard on me. Don’t kill me, goot shentlemen,” he whined. “It iss a poor worthless thing I am—whatever!”These remarks, and a few similar appeals for mercy, were accompanied with many dismal groans, as his captors were dragging him up the bank of the stream. Pausing for a moment, one of them produced a cord, with which they proceeded to bind their cowardly and unresisting prisoner.Whether the Indians were deceived by their victim’s tones and manner, and the soft condition of his carefully relaxed muscles, we cannot tell, but it seemed as if such were the case, for some of the brief remarks made by his captors had in them a smack of undisguised contempt, and when the cord was being put round his arms he felt that the grip of his captors was slightly relaxed.Now or never was his chance! Hurling the men on either side of him right and left, he delivered two random blows in front, one of which happily took effect on a savage chest, the other on a savage nose, and cleared the way in that direction. With a bound like that of one of his own mountain deer, he cleared the bank, and plunged into the river.In ordinary circumstances an attempt of this kind would have been worse than useless, for the Indians would not only have jumped into their canoes and overtaken the fugitive, but some of them would have run down the bank of the stream to prevent a landing. Some such attempt was indeed made on the present occasion, but the intense darkness was in favour of Fergus, and the searching canoes only ran into each other, while the searchers on land were still more at a disadvantage.Now, Fergus McKay was as much at home in water as an otter or a musk-rat. Indeed he had been known among his playmates in the old country as the “Water-rat.” When, therefore, he plunged into the river, as described, he took care to hold his breath as if for a long dive, and drifted with the current a considerable distance as motionless as a dead man. The Indians listened intently, of course; for his coming to the surface; for the breathing, and, it might be, for the splashing that would be natural after such a leap, but no breathing or splashing met their ears, for when Fergus put up his head, far down the stream, he only let out his nose and mouth for a gentle inspiration, and sank again.“It iss circumventin’ you at your own trade, fightin’ you wi’ your own claymore, that I will be doin’,” he thought, as he rose a second time, and swam softly with the stream.Fergus had the advantage of being well acquainted with the river in which he was swimming, as well as with the lands in its neighbourhood, and he knew that there was a certain bend in the stream which it would take the canoe of Okématan a considerable time to traverse. By cutting across a narrow neck of land there was, therefore, a possibility of his intercepting the canoe.The Saulteaux, of course, might have also taken advantage of this circumstance, but they could have done so only on foot, and they knew that without canoes they could not arrest the progress of the fugitives.Reaching the spot where he wished to land, by intuition almost, the Highlander soon found himself on the bank, squeezed the water out of his garments, and set off as quickly as he dared in such darkness. By good fortune he happened to cross a hunter’s track or path—like a sheep-run—with which he was familiar, and, by following it, was able to advance much more rapidly. In a short time he again came out on the left bank of the river. There he sat down on a boulder to listen. Profound was his attention to every sound—as profound, almost, as his anxiety, for he knew that if the canoe should have already passed he would be obliged to make his way back to the Settlement on foot by a straight course, which meant a slow, toilsome march, scrambling through pathless woods, wading morasses, and swimming across rivers.He had been seated thus for about half-an-hour, and in his impatience was giving way to despondency, when the plash of water smote upon his ear. Cocking the said ear attentively, he was rewarded with another smite, and, in a few minutes, distinctly heard the sound of paddles.He put his hands to his mouth forthwith, and uttered a peculiar cry.Instantly the sound of the paddles ceased as Archie Sinclair, looking over his shoulder, said—“Did you hear that, Oké?”Before Oké could reply, the cry was repeated.“It is Fer-gus,” said the Indian, answering to the cry, and steering in the direction whence it came. “Are you sure, Oké?”“Okématan never speaks till he is sure—waugh!”“H’m! I’m not so sure o’that,” muttered the boy to himself.A few seconds put the matter at rest, for the voice of the Highlander was heard, as they cautiously drew near, saying—“Iss ityou?”“I think it is!” replied Archie; “why, man, where are you? I can see nothing.”“Wow! man, but I am gled,” said Fergus; “just follow your nose, Archie, an’ you’ll be all right.”Another moment, and the canoe was checked by Fergus, who had stepped into the water to prevent its being injured against the stones.“You better gie me the paddle, Archie, an’ sit beside Little Bill. It iss tired o’ paddlin’ you will be by now.”“But where is Dan?” asked Archie as he complied with this request.“That iss more than I can tell you, boy, but he’s safe enough I doubt not, for I heard him gie a cheer as he jamp into the wuds, an’ it’s beyont the power o’ a mortal Red-skin to chase an active man on a night like this.”Thereupon Fergus gave a brief account of all that had happened after the canoes were parted—as far as he knew it—and then an earnest council of war was held as to what was the best course to pursue in the circumstances. Being the youngest brave, (for Little Bill was ignored in this matter), Archie was invited to give his opinion first. This was well, because, being enthusiastic and irrepressible, he would probably have given his opinion first at any rate.“My opinion is,” he said, promptly, “that we turn right-about, and go back to find Dan, even though we should have to fight the whole Saulteaux nation!”“That iss well spoken,” said Fergus with something of sarcasm in his tone; “but as we hev only two guns amang us, a tomahawk, an’ a knife or two, without any claymores at all, I would like to know what we are to fecht with? Moreover, what is to become o’ Little Bill when we are fechtin’? It issmyopeenion that we put the command o’ our expeedition in the hands of Okématan, an’ leave him to do what he thinks best.”“Arch-ee is a true brave,” said the Indian, “but he is young. When the wrinkles of age are on his brow he will be a great chief. Okématan’s heart is with him to turn back and fight, but wisdom says, go to the Settlement, get men, and return as fast as you can.”“Then the sooner we set about it the better, for when wan’s mind is made up, talk iss only lost time.”With that he shoved the canoe off into the stream, and paddling was resumed with redoubled vigour.They proceeded in silence till the blush of rosy day in the east dispelled the intense darkness. Then, pulling ashore, they kindled a small fire, and, while the chief re-gummed the seams of the canoe, which leaked a little, the others prepared and ate a hasty breakfast.They were still engaged with this meal, and discussing, not very hopefully, the possibility of reaching Red River Settlement and returning in time to render relief to Dan—supposing that he should require relief—when the sound of fast-dipping paddles was heard beyond the bend of the river just below them.Another moment, and four large canoes, each manned by eight men, swept into view, their red sides glowing in the morning sun, and their occupants driving the water behind them in foam by the vigour of their strokes.At first it was supposed that this was another band of Indians proceeding, possibly, to join that from which they had just escaped; but the fugitives were speedily undeceived by the appearance of the men as they drew nearer.“I would be thinkin’ that the man in the bow o’ the first canoe is Antoine Dechamp,” said Fergus, as he stood peering over the bushes at the advancing brigade.“I’m sure it’s Dechamp. I’d know him a mile off,” said Archie.“Ay, an’ they hev got sight o’ the smoke of our fire, too,” added Fergus.“It is Dechamp,” said Okématan, decisively, as he stepped into the open and held up his hand to the new arrivals.A cheer was raised by those in the canoes when the Cree chief was recognised, and the flotilla, coming on at full speed, soon reached the bank.Explanations were speedily exchanged, and our fugitives learned that news had been carried to the Settlement of the approach of the very band of Saulteaux whom they had encountered, and a band of fiery young men, led by Dechamp, had come out to meet them for the purpose of asking them whether they meant their visit to be friendly, or whether they wished to measure their strength with the men of Red River; as, if so, a sample had come out for the express purpose of accommodating them!On hearing the news that Okématan and Fergus had to give, the men—most of whom were half-breeds connected with Cree families—gave a cheer and voted for an immediate advance against the Saulteaux. This, after very brief palaver, was unanimously agreed to.“You’ll not object to return with us, I suppose?” asked Dechamp of Fergus.“Iss it objectin’ to a fecht you will mean?”“Well—it’s not unlikely that there may be something of the sort going if we meet.”“Did you ever hear of a McKay objectin’ to a fecht, Antoine?”Dechamp laughed.“Well,” he said, “I know Okématan won’t object to turn back, and show us the way to the place where he met the reptiles.”“Okématan was on his way to seek for help,” said the Indian quietly.Every one being agreed on this point, the whole band re-embarked, and proceeded on their way up the river. They advanced rapidly, for although the stream was against them it was so sluggish as to be scarcely appreciable, and by keeping near to the banks they were not delayed by it at all.Towards the afternoon the place where the struggle had taken place was reached, but no Saulteaux were to be seen. They had taken their departure, and, from the fact that several small things belonging to them had been left behind, it seemed not unlikely that they had obtained information of the expedition sent out against them, and had departed in haste.“It iss of no use,” said Fergus, when this became evident, “for us to keep up a stern-chase after them. They have got too much of a start, so it seems to me, boys, we could not do better than follow up the tracks of Daniel Davidson an’ make sure that he has got clear away from them.”To this proposal there was much objection at first, for it involved some of the party quitting the canoes and journeying no one could tell how far through the woods on foot.“Besides,” said one, “Dan is quite able to take care of himself, and if he got off in the dark, as you tell us he did, there’s not a man in the Saulteaux nation could come up with him either in dark or light.”“That may be all fery true, my frund,” returned Fergus, “nevertheless I’m goin’ to follow up his track, for it is sure that he took no proveesions wi’ him, an’ it was too dark for me to see if he escaped wi’ his gun. Dan is a strong man, but the strongest man will be findin’ himself in diffeeculties without grub. It iss followin’ up his trail I will be doin’, wi’ some proveesions on my back, if wan or two o’ you will go wuth me.”“I will go,” said Archie Sinclair, promptly, “if some o’ you will promise to take care o’ Little Bill.”A laugh greeted this offer, and half-a-dozen of the men at once agreed to take good care of the invalid.“Moreover,” said Dechamp, “whoever goes need not go further than the Pine Portage. The party on foot will have found out, before the canoes reach that, whether Dan has got clear off, and they can rejoin the canoes at the Portage. So, Fergus, I’ll join your party too. Who else will go?”Okématan and Jacques Bourassin here stepped forward, but none of the others seemed disposed to undertake the tramp.“There iss enough of us—whatever,” remarked the Highlander as he and the others put some provisions into their wallets and shouldered their guns. “You will be our leader, Antoine Dechamp. It iss yourself that knows the outs an’ ins o’ the land better than any of us—except Okématan, may be—but I dar’ say he’s not as weel acquaint wi’ the Red River woods as wi’ the plains.”The chief bowed a dignified assent to this proposition, which, however, he hardly understood.Dechamp, being accustomed to lead, accepted the position at once, stepped off on the trail of Dan, which had been made distinctly visible when he went crashing through the underwood the day before. Fergus followed, and Bourassin came third.“Now, then,” said Archie, looking into the chief’s face, “come along, Oké. You and I will form the rearguard, which is the position of danger and honour in warfare o’ this sort—at least if it isn’t, it ought to be. Take care o’ yourself, Little Bill. We’ll soon find Dan. Good-bye.”So saying, the rearguard of the column vanished into the forest, and the others, returning to their canoes, began to descend the river.Archie was nearer the mark than he imagined when he said they would soon find Dan. The distance which it had taken our hero so long to traverse in the dark was comparatively short, and the light was only beginning to fade when they came to the edge of the wood where Dan had spent the night.Dechamp, of course, was first to come upon his encampment, and the instant he entered it he observed the open space giving a view of the plain beyond. He also saw the wolf sitting on his haunches about two hundred yards off.Quick as the lightning flash his gun flew to his shoulder. Dechamp was a first-rate shot. He fired, and, as we have seen, the wolf stretched himself in death upon the plain.Thus was Dan Davidson rescued at almost the eleventh hour.
In order to account for the sudden death recorded in the last chapter, we must turn aside to follow for a little the fortunes of Fergus McKay.
It will be remembered that the vigorous Highlander, after overturning the Indian canoe and running his own canoe on shore, was seized by the neck, while in the act of reaching forward to grasp his gun, and captured.
Now, Fergus was of an unusually knowing and wily nature. He possessed what some would call more than his share of readiness in action and sagacity in counsel, though his ordinary reticence and sluggishness of manner concealed those qualities to some extent.
Being endued, also, with more than the average allowance of that bodily strength for which his countrymen are famous, his first impulse was to exert his powers and show fight, but he had been taken suddenly at a disadvantage and thrown on his back into the bottom of the canoe, and at least three pair of very muscular hands grasped his throat and other parts of his person. That they were strong hands he felt; that they belonged to big strong savages he had every reason to believe—though it was too dark to see—and that scalping-knives and tomahawks were handy to them he knew to be highly probable. He therefore promptly made up his mind as to his course of action, and at once began to play his part. Making a very feeble resistance—just enough, in short, to deceive—he begged for mercy in soft, rather tremulous and very abject tones. True, his language was English—at least that sort of English to which the mountaineers of Scotland are addicted—but he trusted to the tone and manner of his speech, not to the sense, which Saulteaux, he knew, could not be expected to understand.
“Oh! then, don’t be hard on me. Don’t kill me, goot shentlemen,” he whined. “It iss a poor worthless thing I am—whatever!”
These remarks, and a few similar appeals for mercy, were accompanied with many dismal groans, as his captors were dragging him up the bank of the stream. Pausing for a moment, one of them produced a cord, with which they proceeded to bind their cowardly and unresisting prisoner.
Whether the Indians were deceived by their victim’s tones and manner, and the soft condition of his carefully relaxed muscles, we cannot tell, but it seemed as if such were the case, for some of the brief remarks made by his captors had in them a smack of undisguised contempt, and when the cord was being put round his arms he felt that the grip of his captors was slightly relaxed.
Now or never was his chance! Hurling the men on either side of him right and left, he delivered two random blows in front, one of which happily took effect on a savage chest, the other on a savage nose, and cleared the way in that direction. With a bound like that of one of his own mountain deer, he cleared the bank, and plunged into the river.
In ordinary circumstances an attempt of this kind would have been worse than useless, for the Indians would not only have jumped into their canoes and overtaken the fugitive, but some of them would have run down the bank of the stream to prevent a landing. Some such attempt was indeed made on the present occasion, but the intense darkness was in favour of Fergus, and the searching canoes only ran into each other, while the searchers on land were still more at a disadvantage.
Now, Fergus McKay was as much at home in water as an otter or a musk-rat. Indeed he had been known among his playmates in the old country as the “Water-rat.” When, therefore, he plunged into the river, as described, he took care to hold his breath as if for a long dive, and drifted with the current a considerable distance as motionless as a dead man. The Indians listened intently, of course; for his coming to the surface; for the breathing, and, it might be, for the splashing that would be natural after such a leap, but no breathing or splashing met their ears, for when Fergus put up his head, far down the stream, he only let out his nose and mouth for a gentle inspiration, and sank again.
“It iss circumventin’ you at your own trade, fightin’ you wi’ your own claymore, that I will be doin’,” he thought, as he rose a second time, and swam softly with the stream.
Fergus had the advantage of being well acquainted with the river in which he was swimming, as well as with the lands in its neighbourhood, and he knew that there was a certain bend in the stream which it would take the canoe of Okématan a considerable time to traverse. By cutting across a narrow neck of land there was, therefore, a possibility of his intercepting the canoe.
The Saulteaux, of course, might have also taken advantage of this circumstance, but they could have done so only on foot, and they knew that without canoes they could not arrest the progress of the fugitives.
Reaching the spot where he wished to land, by intuition almost, the Highlander soon found himself on the bank, squeezed the water out of his garments, and set off as quickly as he dared in such darkness. By good fortune he happened to cross a hunter’s track or path—like a sheep-run—with which he was familiar, and, by following it, was able to advance much more rapidly. In a short time he again came out on the left bank of the river. There he sat down on a boulder to listen. Profound was his attention to every sound—as profound, almost, as his anxiety, for he knew that if the canoe should have already passed he would be obliged to make his way back to the Settlement on foot by a straight course, which meant a slow, toilsome march, scrambling through pathless woods, wading morasses, and swimming across rivers.
He had been seated thus for about half-an-hour, and in his impatience was giving way to despondency, when the plash of water smote upon his ear. Cocking the said ear attentively, he was rewarded with another smite, and, in a few minutes, distinctly heard the sound of paddles.
He put his hands to his mouth forthwith, and uttered a peculiar cry.
Instantly the sound of the paddles ceased as Archie Sinclair, looking over his shoulder, said—
“Did you hear that, Oké?”
Before Oké could reply, the cry was repeated.
“It is Fer-gus,” said the Indian, answering to the cry, and steering in the direction whence it came. “Are you sure, Oké?”
“Okématan never speaks till he is sure—waugh!”
“H’m! I’m not so sure o’that,” muttered the boy to himself.
A few seconds put the matter at rest, for the voice of the Highlander was heard, as they cautiously drew near, saying—
“Iss ityou?”
“I think it is!” replied Archie; “why, man, where are you? I can see nothing.”
“Wow! man, but I am gled,” said Fergus; “just follow your nose, Archie, an’ you’ll be all right.”
Another moment, and the canoe was checked by Fergus, who had stepped into the water to prevent its being injured against the stones.
“You better gie me the paddle, Archie, an’ sit beside Little Bill. It iss tired o’ paddlin’ you will be by now.”
“But where is Dan?” asked Archie as he complied with this request.
“That iss more than I can tell you, boy, but he’s safe enough I doubt not, for I heard him gie a cheer as he jamp into the wuds, an’ it’s beyont the power o’ a mortal Red-skin to chase an active man on a night like this.”
Thereupon Fergus gave a brief account of all that had happened after the canoes were parted—as far as he knew it—and then an earnest council of war was held as to what was the best course to pursue in the circumstances. Being the youngest brave, (for Little Bill was ignored in this matter), Archie was invited to give his opinion first. This was well, because, being enthusiastic and irrepressible, he would probably have given his opinion first at any rate.
“My opinion is,” he said, promptly, “that we turn right-about, and go back to find Dan, even though we should have to fight the whole Saulteaux nation!”
“That iss well spoken,” said Fergus with something of sarcasm in his tone; “but as we hev only two guns amang us, a tomahawk, an’ a knife or two, without any claymores at all, I would like to know what we are to fecht with? Moreover, what is to become o’ Little Bill when we are fechtin’? It issmyopeenion that we put the command o’ our expeedition in the hands of Okématan, an’ leave him to do what he thinks best.”
“Arch-ee is a true brave,” said the Indian, “but he is young. When the wrinkles of age are on his brow he will be a great chief. Okématan’s heart is with him to turn back and fight, but wisdom says, go to the Settlement, get men, and return as fast as you can.”
“Then the sooner we set about it the better, for when wan’s mind is made up, talk iss only lost time.”
With that he shoved the canoe off into the stream, and paddling was resumed with redoubled vigour.
They proceeded in silence till the blush of rosy day in the east dispelled the intense darkness. Then, pulling ashore, they kindled a small fire, and, while the chief re-gummed the seams of the canoe, which leaked a little, the others prepared and ate a hasty breakfast.
They were still engaged with this meal, and discussing, not very hopefully, the possibility of reaching Red River Settlement and returning in time to render relief to Dan—supposing that he should require relief—when the sound of fast-dipping paddles was heard beyond the bend of the river just below them.
Another moment, and four large canoes, each manned by eight men, swept into view, their red sides glowing in the morning sun, and their occupants driving the water behind them in foam by the vigour of their strokes.
At first it was supposed that this was another band of Indians proceeding, possibly, to join that from which they had just escaped; but the fugitives were speedily undeceived by the appearance of the men as they drew nearer.
“I would be thinkin’ that the man in the bow o’ the first canoe is Antoine Dechamp,” said Fergus, as he stood peering over the bushes at the advancing brigade.
“I’m sure it’s Dechamp. I’d know him a mile off,” said Archie.
“Ay, an’ they hev got sight o’ the smoke of our fire, too,” added Fergus.
“It is Dechamp,” said Okématan, decisively, as he stepped into the open and held up his hand to the new arrivals.
A cheer was raised by those in the canoes when the Cree chief was recognised, and the flotilla, coming on at full speed, soon reached the bank.
Explanations were speedily exchanged, and our fugitives learned that news had been carried to the Settlement of the approach of the very band of Saulteaux whom they had encountered, and a band of fiery young men, led by Dechamp, had come out to meet them for the purpose of asking them whether they meant their visit to be friendly, or whether they wished to measure their strength with the men of Red River; as, if so, a sample had come out for the express purpose of accommodating them!
On hearing the news that Okématan and Fergus had to give, the men—most of whom were half-breeds connected with Cree families—gave a cheer and voted for an immediate advance against the Saulteaux. This, after very brief palaver, was unanimously agreed to.
“You’ll not object to return with us, I suppose?” asked Dechamp of Fergus.
“Iss it objectin’ to a fecht you will mean?”
“Well—it’s not unlikely that there may be something of the sort going if we meet.”
“Did you ever hear of a McKay objectin’ to a fecht, Antoine?”
Dechamp laughed.
“Well,” he said, “I know Okématan won’t object to turn back, and show us the way to the place where he met the reptiles.”
“Okématan was on his way to seek for help,” said the Indian quietly.
Every one being agreed on this point, the whole band re-embarked, and proceeded on their way up the river. They advanced rapidly, for although the stream was against them it was so sluggish as to be scarcely appreciable, and by keeping near to the banks they were not delayed by it at all.
Towards the afternoon the place where the struggle had taken place was reached, but no Saulteaux were to be seen. They had taken their departure, and, from the fact that several small things belonging to them had been left behind, it seemed not unlikely that they had obtained information of the expedition sent out against them, and had departed in haste.
“It iss of no use,” said Fergus, when this became evident, “for us to keep up a stern-chase after them. They have got too much of a start, so it seems to me, boys, we could not do better than follow up the tracks of Daniel Davidson an’ make sure that he has got clear away from them.”
To this proposal there was much objection at first, for it involved some of the party quitting the canoes and journeying no one could tell how far through the woods on foot.
“Besides,” said one, “Dan is quite able to take care of himself, and if he got off in the dark, as you tell us he did, there’s not a man in the Saulteaux nation could come up with him either in dark or light.”
“That may be all fery true, my frund,” returned Fergus, “nevertheless I’m goin’ to follow up his track, for it is sure that he took no proveesions wi’ him, an’ it was too dark for me to see if he escaped wi’ his gun. Dan is a strong man, but the strongest man will be findin’ himself in diffeeculties without grub. It iss followin’ up his trail I will be doin’, wi’ some proveesions on my back, if wan or two o’ you will go wuth me.”
“I will go,” said Archie Sinclair, promptly, “if some o’ you will promise to take care o’ Little Bill.”
A laugh greeted this offer, and half-a-dozen of the men at once agreed to take good care of the invalid.
“Moreover,” said Dechamp, “whoever goes need not go further than the Pine Portage. The party on foot will have found out, before the canoes reach that, whether Dan has got clear off, and they can rejoin the canoes at the Portage. So, Fergus, I’ll join your party too. Who else will go?”
Okématan and Jacques Bourassin here stepped forward, but none of the others seemed disposed to undertake the tramp.
“There iss enough of us—whatever,” remarked the Highlander as he and the others put some provisions into their wallets and shouldered their guns. “You will be our leader, Antoine Dechamp. It iss yourself that knows the outs an’ ins o’ the land better than any of us—except Okématan, may be—but I dar’ say he’s not as weel acquaint wi’ the Red River woods as wi’ the plains.”
The chief bowed a dignified assent to this proposition, which, however, he hardly understood.
Dechamp, being accustomed to lead, accepted the position at once, stepped off on the trail of Dan, which had been made distinctly visible when he went crashing through the underwood the day before. Fergus followed, and Bourassin came third.
“Now, then,” said Archie, looking into the chief’s face, “come along, Oké. You and I will form the rearguard, which is the position of danger and honour in warfare o’ this sort—at least if it isn’t, it ought to be. Take care o’ yourself, Little Bill. We’ll soon find Dan. Good-bye.”
So saying, the rearguard of the column vanished into the forest, and the others, returning to their canoes, began to descend the river.
Archie was nearer the mark than he imagined when he said they would soon find Dan. The distance which it had taken our hero so long to traverse in the dark was comparatively short, and the light was only beginning to fade when they came to the edge of the wood where Dan had spent the night.
Dechamp, of course, was first to come upon his encampment, and the instant he entered it he observed the open space giving a view of the plain beyond. He also saw the wolf sitting on his haunches about two hundred yards off.
Quick as the lightning flash his gun flew to his shoulder. Dechamp was a first-rate shot. He fired, and, as we have seen, the wolf stretched himself in death upon the plain.
Thus was Dan Davidson rescued at almost the eleventh hour.
Chapter Twenty Six.Home-Coming and Bargaining.The return of the hunting party to Red River Settlement was an illustration of the uncertainty of all human affairs. They went forth rejoicing in all the strength of youth and manhood; they returned in sorrow, with one at least of the strong men reduced to the last stage of weakness.We would not be understood to refer to this in a pessimistic spirit. On the contrary, the optimistic view suggests the very same idea of uncertainty, though in a pleasant aspect; for does not many a day that dawns in cloud and rain progress to brilliant sunshine? while equally true it is that many a life which begins in sorrow culminates in joy.Okématan, who was intensely philosophical and inquisitive, had been carrying on a semi-speculative conversation with Billie on this very subject while descending the Red River towards Prairie Cottage—much to the perplexity of the invalid, who scarce knew how to answer the chief’s queries, and greatly to the interest of Archie, who wondered at Little Bill’s powers of reply.“By the way,” said Archie, “when you two have settled that knotty point, will you tell me who is to take the news of Dan’s accident to Mrs Davidson? We’ll have to carry him up to the house, you know, on a blanket ’tween two poles, an’ she’ll be sure to think that he’s dead, or has been killed, an’ that’ll half-killher, it’ll give her such a fright. Somebody will have to go on ahead and tell her.”“I will, if you like,” said Billie; “if you’ll only carry me up to the garden gate and set me down, I can easily walk up the path.”This proposal had just been agreed to when the whole flotilla of canoes paddled up alongside of the bank close under Prairie Cottage.It was evening at the time. The Davidson family was at supper, and as the canoes had approached very quietly, with Dan in the leading one, no person stood on the bank to welcome them.“It’s as well they don’t know,” said Archie, jumping on shore. “Now, Little Bill, come along, and I’ll carry you to the gate while they’re arranging matters for Dan.”Seated at the foot of the family table was Peter Davidson. He could see the garden path through the window.“Hallo! mother,” he exclaimed, dropping his knife and fork, “there is Little Bill or his ghost coming up the track.”“Impossible, Peter,” said the good lady, with, however, a look of anxiety which showed she believed that, or something else, to be quite possible.“Look for yourself, mother,” cried Peter, springing up and running out.“ItisBillie,” said Jessie, reflecting her mother’s anxiety; “what can have brought them back so soon?”Peter re-entered at the moment with Little Bill in his arms. He set the boy down and again ran out.Taking the widow’s trembling hand in both of his, Billie addressed her as “mother,” like the rest of the family.“Dan has been hurt,” he said, in his soft way, “and he’s come home to get well. They will bring him up directly.”“Is he too ill to walk?” asked the widow.“No, not too ill—but too weak,” answered the matter-of-fact Billie. “Indeed he is not ill at all, but he has lost aheapof blood, for they shot him.”Jessie waited to hear no more, but immediately followed Peter, and the small servant Louise followed suit; leaving the widow in a half-fainting condition with the boy. But she did not remain long thus, for just then old Duncan McKay entered by the back-door.“It will be bad news you’ve been hearin’, Mrs Davidson,” he said, in some surprise, pouring out a glass of water as he spoke, and considerately handing it to the widow.“Yes—O yes! I’ve just heard that Dan has been shot.”“Bless my soul!” exclaimed the horrified old man, almost falling into a chair. “Iss—iss he tead?”“No, thank God—only weak from loss of blood. He’ll be here directly.”“That iss goot news—whatever; for as long as there’s life there’s hope.”Trying to comfort himself, as well as his friend, with this truism, the old man staggered out of the house in search of those who had gone before.Soon a sad procession was seen coming up the path, led by Archie. Four men carried Dan on a rudely-extemporised litter. His bloodless face and lips gave him the appearance of death, but the glow in his eyes told of still unexhausted life.“I’ll be all right, mother,” he said feebly, as they laid him on his bed. “I only want food and rest. Thank God—home at last!”As he spoke, a quiet step was heard, and Elspie, with a face as pale as his own, knelt by his bedside and took his hand.That touch was the first impulse the youth received towards decided recovery. Old McKay perceived the change in his countenance.“Yes, yes! ay, ay!” he exclaimed, pacing violently up and down the room, “he wants nothin’ but victuals an’ rest—steaks an’ shops, and plenty o’ whusky an’ water—hot. Don’t be croodin’ about him an’ botherin’ him. Come away, and leave him to his mother, an’ send for the doctor. Has no wan gone for him yet?”“Yes; Peter has just started. I heard the clatter of his horse’s feet,” said Jessie.“It iss not the doctor that will put him right, whatever,” muttered the old man, as he left the room, followed by most of the family.And the doctor himself held the same opinion; for he said, on returning to the reception hall after seeing his patient—“It will be a considerable time before he recovers, for the fountain of life had been well-nigh drained when he fortunately extemporised that tourniquet. But there’s no fear of him: all that he wants is food, rest, and peace of mind.”“An’ whusky, doctor,” added old McKay. “Don’t forget the best pheesic; an’ I hev goot store of it, too, in my cellar at Ben Nevis.”“I’m not so sure about the whisky, Mr McKay,” returned the doctor with a laugh. “I think we shall manage to pull him through without that.”The other requisites for recovery were applied without stint at Prairie Cottage; for, despite the misfortune which had attended the cultivation of the soil, the Davidsons had a little money, which enabled them to buy provisions and other necessaries, obtainable from the Hudson Bay Company, and thus tide over the disastrous year in greater comfort than fell to the lot of many of the other settlers.Thus Dan was well looked after. His brother Peter found the food—at least much of it—on the prairie and in the woods; his sister Jessie cooked it; Louise helped, looked on, and learned; home afforded rest; Elspie supplied the peace of mind—at least as much of it as it was possible for a fellow-mortal to supply; and his mother superintended all. Add to this that Archie Sinclair cheered him with miscellaneous gossip; that Little Bill read to him, or entertained him with serious talk and grave speculation; that André Morel and his sister often entertained him with song; that on such occasions Jenkins, the sailor, frequently amused him with nautical tales; that old Peg sometimes came from Ben Nevis to gaze at him tenderly; and that Okématan came to glare at him more or less affectionately—and we have said enough to warrant the conclusion that Dan Davidson had a pretty good time of it in spite of his weak condition.Nevertheless Dan was not quite happy. He could not get rid of the memory of Henri Perrin’s murder, and the terrible thought that Elspie’s brother Duncan had some sort of guilty knowledge of it. These thoughts he buried deep, however, in his own breast, and even tried to forget them. Vain effort! for does it not stand to reason that the thing we strive most earnestly to forget is the very thing which, by that effort, we are fixing with a deeper stamp on memory?François La Certe was somewhat exercised about the same question, about the same time.That estimable member of the colony was seated one fine day on the banks of the river fishing for goldeyes—a small fish about the size of a plump herring. His amiable spouse was helping, or rather fishing with him. It was a fine healthy, contemplative occupation; one that admirably suited their tendency to repose, and at the same time filled them with that virtuous sensation which awaits those who know that they are engaged in useful occupation—for were not goldeyes the best of eating?Branches of trees were their primitive rods, twine their simple lines, grasshoppers their bait, and a violent jerk their method.“Slowfoot!” said La Certe.“My husband!” or some such Indian phrase, answered the woman.“I have been wondering for a long time now why—hi!—no! I thought there was something at my bait—but it was deception. Nothing is so unreal as the bite of the goldeye—when it is not there. It brings to mind the lights in the sky of winter, which dance and shoot—and yet they are not. Hi! ho!—I have him. I was mistaken. I thought the fishwasnot—but it was.”While speaking La Certe sent a small fish with bursting violence on the grass behind him. Almost at the same moment Slowfoot landed another, with less violence and more coolness.“What was I saying, Slowfoot?” asked the half-breed, when the hooks had been re-baited, and their eyes were riveted on their respective floats.“Nothing that any one could remember,” answered his truthful spouse.“Now I remember—ho! was that another?”“No, it was not,” answered his matter-of-fact helpmate.“Where is our child?” asked the father, with that wayward wandering of mind which is a not uncommon characteristic of genius.“Smoking in the tent,” answered the mother.“And with my pipe, no doubt,” said the father, laying down his rod and searching in the bag in which he was wont to carry, among other things, his pipe and tobacco.A cry of pain from the tent in question—which was close behind the pair—apprised the parents that something was wrong. Immediately their first and only one issued with a tobacco pipe in one hand and a burnt finger on the other. It came to the father for sympathy, and got it. That is to say, La Certe put the burnt finger in his mouth for a moment, and uttered some guttural expressions of sympathy. Having thus fulfilled duty and relieved conscience, he exchanged the finger for the pipe-stem, and began to smoke. The spoiled, as well as despoiled, child uttered a howl of indignation, and staggered off to its mother; but she received it with a smile of affectionate indifference, whereupon the injured creature went back to the tent, howling, and, apparently, howled itself to sleep.Again La Certe broke the piscatorial spell that had settled down on them, and, taking up the thread of discourse where he had dropped it, repeated his statement that he had been wondering for a long time why Cloudbrow,aliasyoung Duncan McKay, was so sharp and fierce in denying that he knew anything about the murder of Henri Perrin.“Hee! hee!” was Slowfoot’s significant reply.“Can Slowfoot not guess?” he asked, after attending to a hopeful nibble, which came to nothing.“Slowfoot need not guess; sheknows,” said the woman with an air of great mystery.“What does Slowfoot know?”The woman’s answer to this was a look of exceeding slyness. But this did not content her lord, who, after repeated questions, and a threat to resort to extreme measures in case of continued refusal, drew from her a distinct answer.“Slowfoot knows that CloudbrowkilledPerrin.”“Sh!” exclaimed La Certe, with a look of real concern, “I am not yet tired of you, Slowfoot; and if old McKay hears you say that he will shoot you.”“Slowfoot is not a fool,” retorted the woman: “the old man will never hear her say that. What has Slowfoot got to do with it? She can hold her tongue!”“She can do that, for certain,” returned her husband with good-natured sarcasm. “In that, as in many things, she excels other women. I would never have married her had it not been so. But how do you come to be so sure?”“I know the knife,” returned the woman, becoming more literal as she went on, “and Marie Blanc knows it. Her husband once got the loan of it from Cloudbrow, and she looked at it with care, because she had never seen such a knife before. She knew all its marks. Why does Cloudbrow deny that it is his? Because it was Cloudbrow who killed Perrin. If it had been anybody else he would have known it, and he would have said so—for he wasthere.”“How know you that he was there?”“Marie Blanc knows. She netted the snowshoes that Cloudbrow wore, and she saw the footprints.”“But pairs of snowshoes are very like each other,” objected La Certe.“Very like. Yes; but did ever two shoes have the same mends in the same places of the netting, where it had been broken, and the same marks on the frames?”“Never. It will go hard with Cloudbrow if this is true.”“It will go hard with him whether it is true or not,” returned the woman; “for some of the friends of Perrin believe it to be true, and swear—”The disappearance of Slowfoot’s float at this moment stopped her swearing, and brought the conversation to an abrupt end. The landing of another goldeye prevented its resumption.Having caught more than enough for a good supper, this easy-going pair leaned their rods against a tree, and ascended the bank towards their tent, which was an ordinary conical Indian wigwam, composed partly of leather and partly of birch-bark, with a curtain for a door and a hole in the top for a window; it also served for a chimney.On the way they encountered one of the poor Swiss immigrants, who, having a wife and family, and having been unsuccessful in buffalo-hunting, and indeed in all other hunting, was in a state which bordered on starvation.“You have been lucky,” said the Switzer, eyeing La Certe’s fish greedily.“Sometimes luck comes to us—not often,” answered the half-breed. “Have you caught any?”“Yes, two small ones. Here they are. But what are these among three children and a wife? I know not how to fish,” said the mountaineer disconsolately.The fact was not surprising, for the poor man was a watchmaker by trade, and had never handled rod or gun till he was, as it were, cast adrift in Rupert’s Land.“I will sell you some of my fish,” said La Certe, who on all occasions had a keen eye for a bargain.“Good! I am ready to buy,” said the poor fellow, “but I have not much to spend. Only last week I gave my silver watch for eight gallons of wheat. I meant it for seed, but my wife and children were starving, so we were have no seed and only five shillings to spare.”“Well, my friend,” said La Certe, “fish is very scarce just now, but you may have five goldeyes for your five shillings.”“O! that is too much,” remonstrated the Switzer.“No, no,” interrupted the half-breed, amiably, “by no means—but if you really think it too much fish for the money I will give you four goldeyes!”“Come, you know I don’t mean that,” returned the other, with a cynical smile. “Make it six, and I will agree. And here is a pinch of snuff in to the bargain.”He pulled out a box as he spoke, and opened it.“Ha!” said La Certe, helping himself. “I love snuff, and so does my wife. Do you not?”Slowfoot answered, “Hee! hee!” and helped herself to as much as a good broad finger and thumb could grasp, after which she sneezed with violence.“Now, behold! my friend—a-wheesht!” said La Certe, sneezing a bass accompaniment to Slowfoot’s treble. “I will give you a catfish—a whole catfish for—a-wheesht!—for that box and snuff.”The Switzer shook his head.“Nay,” he said. “The snuff you may have, but the box was the gift of a friend, and I am loath to part with it. Besides, the box is of little real value.”“You may have the head of the catfish for the snuff, and the whole catfish for the box,” said La Certe, with the firmness of a man who has irrevocably made up his mind—for there are none so firm of purpose as the weak and vacillating when they know they have got the whip-hand of any one! “And, behold! I will be liberal,” he added. “You shall have another goldeye into the bargain—six goldeyes for the five shillings and a whole catfish for the box and snuff—voilà!” The poor Switzer still hesitated.“It is a great deal to give for so little,” he said.“That may be true,” said the other, “but I would not see my family starve for the satisfaction of carrying a snuff-box and five shillings in my pocket.”This politic reference to the starving family decided the matter; the poor Switzer emptied his pockets with a sigh, received the fish, and went on his way, leaving La Certe and Slowfoot to return to their wigwam highly pleased with their bargain. As must have been noted by the reader long ere now, this like-minded couple did not possess a conscience between them—at least, if they did, it must at that time have been a singularly shrunken and mummified one, which they had managed to keep hidden away in some dark and exceedingly un-get-at-able chamber of the soul.Commercially speaking, however, they had some ground for satisfaction; for at that time the ordinary price of a catfish, which is a little larger than a haddock, was threepence.Awakening the juvenile La Certe to the blissful realisation that a good “square” meal was pending, Slowfoot ordered it to fill and light the pipe for the father, while she set about preparing the fish for supper.
The return of the hunting party to Red River Settlement was an illustration of the uncertainty of all human affairs. They went forth rejoicing in all the strength of youth and manhood; they returned in sorrow, with one at least of the strong men reduced to the last stage of weakness.
We would not be understood to refer to this in a pessimistic spirit. On the contrary, the optimistic view suggests the very same idea of uncertainty, though in a pleasant aspect; for does not many a day that dawns in cloud and rain progress to brilliant sunshine? while equally true it is that many a life which begins in sorrow culminates in joy.
Okématan, who was intensely philosophical and inquisitive, had been carrying on a semi-speculative conversation with Billie on this very subject while descending the Red River towards Prairie Cottage—much to the perplexity of the invalid, who scarce knew how to answer the chief’s queries, and greatly to the interest of Archie, who wondered at Little Bill’s powers of reply.
“By the way,” said Archie, “when you two have settled that knotty point, will you tell me who is to take the news of Dan’s accident to Mrs Davidson? We’ll have to carry him up to the house, you know, on a blanket ’tween two poles, an’ she’ll be sure to think that he’s dead, or has been killed, an’ that’ll half-killher, it’ll give her such a fright. Somebody will have to go on ahead and tell her.”
“I will, if you like,” said Billie; “if you’ll only carry me up to the garden gate and set me down, I can easily walk up the path.”
This proposal had just been agreed to when the whole flotilla of canoes paddled up alongside of the bank close under Prairie Cottage.
It was evening at the time. The Davidson family was at supper, and as the canoes had approached very quietly, with Dan in the leading one, no person stood on the bank to welcome them.
“It’s as well they don’t know,” said Archie, jumping on shore. “Now, Little Bill, come along, and I’ll carry you to the gate while they’re arranging matters for Dan.”
Seated at the foot of the family table was Peter Davidson. He could see the garden path through the window.
“Hallo! mother,” he exclaimed, dropping his knife and fork, “there is Little Bill or his ghost coming up the track.”
“Impossible, Peter,” said the good lady, with, however, a look of anxiety which showed she believed that, or something else, to be quite possible.
“Look for yourself, mother,” cried Peter, springing up and running out.
“ItisBillie,” said Jessie, reflecting her mother’s anxiety; “what can have brought them back so soon?”
Peter re-entered at the moment with Little Bill in his arms. He set the boy down and again ran out.
Taking the widow’s trembling hand in both of his, Billie addressed her as “mother,” like the rest of the family.
“Dan has been hurt,” he said, in his soft way, “and he’s come home to get well. They will bring him up directly.”
“Is he too ill to walk?” asked the widow.
“No, not too ill—but too weak,” answered the matter-of-fact Billie. “Indeed he is not ill at all, but he has lost aheapof blood, for they shot him.”
Jessie waited to hear no more, but immediately followed Peter, and the small servant Louise followed suit; leaving the widow in a half-fainting condition with the boy. But she did not remain long thus, for just then old Duncan McKay entered by the back-door.
“It will be bad news you’ve been hearin’, Mrs Davidson,” he said, in some surprise, pouring out a glass of water as he spoke, and considerately handing it to the widow.
“Yes—O yes! I’ve just heard that Dan has been shot.”
“Bless my soul!” exclaimed the horrified old man, almost falling into a chair. “Iss—iss he tead?”
“No, thank God—only weak from loss of blood. He’ll be here directly.”
“That iss goot news—whatever; for as long as there’s life there’s hope.”
Trying to comfort himself, as well as his friend, with this truism, the old man staggered out of the house in search of those who had gone before.
Soon a sad procession was seen coming up the path, led by Archie. Four men carried Dan on a rudely-extemporised litter. His bloodless face and lips gave him the appearance of death, but the glow in his eyes told of still unexhausted life.
“I’ll be all right, mother,” he said feebly, as they laid him on his bed. “I only want food and rest. Thank God—home at last!”
As he spoke, a quiet step was heard, and Elspie, with a face as pale as his own, knelt by his bedside and took his hand.
That touch was the first impulse the youth received towards decided recovery. Old McKay perceived the change in his countenance.
“Yes, yes! ay, ay!” he exclaimed, pacing violently up and down the room, “he wants nothin’ but victuals an’ rest—steaks an’ shops, and plenty o’ whusky an’ water—hot. Don’t be croodin’ about him an’ botherin’ him. Come away, and leave him to his mother, an’ send for the doctor. Has no wan gone for him yet?”
“Yes; Peter has just started. I heard the clatter of his horse’s feet,” said Jessie.
“It iss not the doctor that will put him right, whatever,” muttered the old man, as he left the room, followed by most of the family.
And the doctor himself held the same opinion; for he said, on returning to the reception hall after seeing his patient—
“It will be a considerable time before he recovers, for the fountain of life had been well-nigh drained when he fortunately extemporised that tourniquet. But there’s no fear of him: all that he wants is food, rest, and peace of mind.”
“An’ whusky, doctor,” added old McKay. “Don’t forget the best pheesic; an’ I hev goot store of it, too, in my cellar at Ben Nevis.”
“I’m not so sure about the whisky, Mr McKay,” returned the doctor with a laugh. “I think we shall manage to pull him through without that.”
The other requisites for recovery were applied without stint at Prairie Cottage; for, despite the misfortune which had attended the cultivation of the soil, the Davidsons had a little money, which enabled them to buy provisions and other necessaries, obtainable from the Hudson Bay Company, and thus tide over the disastrous year in greater comfort than fell to the lot of many of the other settlers.
Thus Dan was well looked after. His brother Peter found the food—at least much of it—on the prairie and in the woods; his sister Jessie cooked it; Louise helped, looked on, and learned; home afforded rest; Elspie supplied the peace of mind—at least as much of it as it was possible for a fellow-mortal to supply; and his mother superintended all. Add to this that Archie Sinclair cheered him with miscellaneous gossip; that Little Bill read to him, or entertained him with serious talk and grave speculation; that André Morel and his sister often entertained him with song; that on such occasions Jenkins, the sailor, frequently amused him with nautical tales; that old Peg sometimes came from Ben Nevis to gaze at him tenderly; and that Okématan came to glare at him more or less affectionately—and we have said enough to warrant the conclusion that Dan Davidson had a pretty good time of it in spite of his weak condition.
Nevertheless Dan was not quite happy. He could not get rid of the memory of Henri Perrin’s murder, and the terrible thought that Elspie’s brother Duncan had some sort of guilty knowledge of it. These thoughts he buried deep, however, in his own breast, and even tried to forget them. Vain effort! for does it not stand to reason that the thing we strive most earnestly to forget is the very thing which, by that effort, we are fixing with a deeper stamp on memory?
François La Certe was somewhat exercised about the same question, about the same time.
That estimable member of the colony was seated one fine day on the banks of the river fishing for goldeyes—a small fish about the size of a plump herring. His amiable spouse was helping, or rather fishing with him. It was a fine healthy, contemplative occupation; one that admirably suited their tendency to repose, and at the same time filled them with that virtuous sensation which awaits those who know that they are engaged in useful occupation—for were not goldeyes the best of eating?
Branches of trees were their primitive rods, twine their simple lines, grasshoppers their bait, and a violent jerk their method.
“Slowfoot!” said La Certe.
“My husband!” or some such Indian phrase, answered the woman.
“I have been wondering for a long time now why—hi!—no! I thought there was something at my bait—but it was deception. Nothing is so unreal as the bite of the goldeye—when it is not there. It brings to mind the lights in the sky of winter, which dance and shoot—and yet they are not. Hi! ho!—I have him. I was mistaken. I thought the fishwasnot—but it was.”
While speaking La Certe sent a small fish with bursting violence on the grass behind him. Almost at the same moment Slowfoot landed another, with less violence and more coolness.
“What was I saying, Slowfoot?” asked the half-breed, when the hooks had been re-baited, and their eyes were riveted on their respective floats.
“Nothing that any one could remember,” answered his truthful spouse.
“Now I remember—ho! was that another?”
“No, it was not,” answered his matter-of-fact helpmate.
“Where is our child?” asked the father, with that wayward wandering of mind which is a not uncommon characteristic of genius.
“Smoking in the tent,” answered the mother.
“And with my pipe, no doubt,” said the father, laying down his rod and searching in the bag in which he was wont to carry, among other things, his pipe and tobacco.
A cry of pain from the tent in question—which was close behind the pair—apprised the parents that something was wrong. Immediately their first and only one issued with a tobacco pipe in one hand and a burnt finger on the other. It came to the father for sympathy, and got it. That is to say, La Certe put the burnt finger in his mouth for a moment, and uttered some guttural expressions of sympathy. Having thus fulfilled duty and relieved conscience, he exchanged the finger for the pipe-stem, and began to smoke. The spoiled, as well as despoiled, child uttered a howl of indignation, and staggered off to its mother; but she received it with a smile of affectionate indifference, whereupon the injured creature went back to the tent, howling, and, apparently, howled itself to sleep.
Again La Certe broke the piscatorial spell that had settled down on them, and, taking up the thread of discourse where he had dropped it, repeated his statement that he had been wondering for a long time why Cloudbrow,aliasyoung Duncan McKay, was so sharp and fierce in denying that he knew anything about the murder of Henri Perrin.
“Hee! hee!” was Slowfoot’s significant reply.
“Can Slowfoot not guess?” he asked, after attending to a hopeful nibble, which came to nothing.
“Slowfoot need not guess; sheknows,” said the woman with an air of great mystery.
“What does Slowfoot know?”
The woman’s answer to this was a look of exceeding slyness. But this did not content her lord, who, after repeated questions, and a threat to resort to extreme measures in case of continued refusal, drew from her a distinct answer.
“Slowfoot knows that CloudbrowkilledPerrin.”
“Sh!” exclaimed La Certe, with a look of real concern, “I am not yet tired of you, Slowfoot; and if old McKay hears you say that he will shoot you.”
“Slowfoot is not a fool,” retorted the woman: “the old man will never hear her say that. What has Slowfoot got to do with it? She can hold her tongue!”
“She can do that, for certain,” returned her husband with good-natured sarcasm. “In that, as in many things, she excels other women. I would never have married her had it not been so. But how do you come to be so sure?”
“I know the knife,” returned the woman, becoming more literal as she went on, “and Marie Blanc knows it. Her husband once got the loan of it from Cloudbrow, and she looked at it with care, because she had never seen such a knife before. She knew all its marks. Why does Cloudbrow deny that it is his? Because it was Cloudbrow who killed Perrin. If it had been anybody else he would have known it, and he would have said so—for he wasthere.”
“How know you that he was there?”
“Marie Blanc knows. She netted the snowshoes that Cloudbrow wore, and she saw the footprints.”
“But pairs of snowshoes are very like each other,” objected La Certe.
“Very like. Yes; but did ever two shoes have the same mends in the same places of the netting, where it had been broken, and the same marks on the frames?”
“Never. It will go hard with Cloudbrow if this is true.”
“It will go hard with him whether it is true or not,” returned the woman; “for some of the friends of Perrin believe it to be true, and swear—”
The disappearance of Slowfoot’s float at this moment stopped her swearing, and brought the conversation to an abrupt end. The landing of another goldeye prevented its resumption.
Having caught more than enough for a good supper, this easy-going pair leaned their rods against a tree, and ascended the bank towards their tent, which was an ordinary conical Indian wigwam, composed partly of leather and partly of birch-bark, with a curtain for a door and a hole in the top for a window; it also served for a chimney.
On the way they encountered one of the poor Swiss immigrants, who, having a wife and family, and having been unsuccessful in buffalo-hunting, and indeed in all other hunting, was in a state which bordered on starvation.
“You have been lucky,” said the Switzer, eyeing La Certe’s fish greedily.
“Sometimes luck comes to us—not often,” answered the half-breed. “Have you caught any?”
“Yes, two small ones. Here they are. But what are these among three children and a wife? I know not how to fish,” said the mountaineer disconsolately.
The fact was not surprising, for the poor man was a watchmaker by trade, and had never handled rod or gun till he was, as it were, cast adrift in Rupert’s Land.
“I will sell you some of my fish,” said La Certe, who on all occasions had a keen eye for a bargain.
“Good! I am ready to buy,” said the poor fellow, “but I have not much to spend. Only last week I gave my silver watch for eight gallons of wheat. I meant it for seed, but my wife and children were starving, so we were have no seed and only five shillings to spare.”
“Well, my friend,” said La Certe, “fish is very scarce just now, but you may have five goldeyes for your five shillings.”
“O! that is too much,” remonstrated the Switzer.
“No, no,” interrupted the half-breed, amiably, “by no means—but if you really think it too much fish for the money I will give you four goldeyes!”
“Come, you know I don’t mean that,” returned the other, with a cynical smile. “Make it six, and I will agree. And here is a pinch of snuff in to the bargain.”
He pulled out a box as he spoke, and opened it.
“Ha!” said La Certe, helping himself. “I love snuff, and so does my wife. Do you not?”
Slowfoot answered, “Hee! hee!” and helped herself to as much as a good broad finger and thumb could grasp, after which she sneezed with violence.
“Now, behold! my friend—a-wheesht!” said La Certe, sneezing a bass accompaniment to Slowfoot’s treble. “I will give you a catfish—a whole catfish for—a-wheesht!—for that box and snuff.”
The Switzer shook his head.
“Nay,” he said. “The snuff you may have, but the box was the gift of a friend, and I am loath to part with it. Besides, the box is of little real value.”
“You may have the head of the catfish for the snuff, and the whole catfish for the box,” said La Certe, with the firmness of a man who has irrevocably made up his mind—for there are none so firm of purpose as the weak and vacillating when they know they have got the whip-hand of any one! “And, behold! I will be liberal,” he added. “You shall have another goldeye into the bargain—six goldeyes for the five shillings and a whole catfish for the box and snuff—voilà!” The poor Switzer still hesitated.
“It is a great deal to give for so little,” he said.
“That may be true,” said the other, “but I would not see my family starve for the satisfaction of carrying a snuff-box and five shillings in my pocket.”
This politic reference to the starving family decided the matter; the poor Switzer emptied his pockets with a sigh, received the fish, and went on his way, leaving La Certe and Slowfoot to return to their wigwam highly pleased with their bargain. As must have been noted by the reader long ere now, this like-minded couple did not possess a conscience between them—at least, if they did, it must at that time have been a singularly shrunken and mummified one, which they had managed to keep hidden away in some dark and exceedingly un-get-at-able chamber of the soul.
Commercially speaking, however, they had some ground for satisfaction; for at that time the ordinary price of a catfish, which is a little larger than a haddock, was threepence.
Awakening the juvenile La Certe to the blissful realisation that a good “square” meal was pending, Slowfoot ordered it to fill and light the pipe for the father, while she set about preparing the fish for supper.
Chapter Twenty Seven.Visit from Sioux brought to a disastrous Close.Happening to hear of the bargain which we have just described, and being under the impression that it might be good for La Certe’s spirit to receive a mild reproof, Mr Sutherland paid him a visit.The Scotch Elder was, for a long time, the only man fitted to perform the duties of a minister to his countrymen in that out-of-the-world colony, and, being a true man of God, he could not hear of gross injustice, or heartless conduct, without some slight attempt to open the other’s eyes to his sin.It may well be understood that, in the nature of things and the state of the country, the solitary Elder’s duties were by no means light or agreeable. Indeed he would have had no heart to cope with them and with the difficulties they entailed, had he not remembered that the battle was not his, but the Lord’s, and that he was only an instrument in the all-powerful hand of the Spirit of God. His own weapons were the Word, Prayer, and the name of Jesus.But it was not given to him to see much fruit of his visit to La Certe at that time. The half-breed, besides asserting himself to be a “Catholic,” (by which he meant a Roman Catholic), and, therefore, in no way amenable to Sutherland’s jurisdiction, received his remonstrances with philosophical arguments tending to prove that men were meant to make the best of circumstances as they found them, without any regard to principles—which, after all, were not very seriously held or practised by any one, he thought—especially in Red River.As for Slowfoot, she listened with evident interest and curiosity to the strange teaching and exhortations of the Elder, but when appealed to for some sort of opinion on the various points touched, she replied with an imbecile “Hee! hee!” which was not encouraging.However, the good man had sown the seed faithfully and kindly. The watering thereof and the sprouting were, he knew, in the hands of the Master.Rising to take leave, the Elder put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a large clasp-knife.“Why, that’s my knife that I lost!” exclaimed La Certe in surprise; “where did you find it?”“I found it on my table at home, where you left it that time you came to ask for some tobacco. Now, observe, if I did not seriously hold and practise the principle of honesty, I would have made the best of circumstances as I found them, and would have put the knife in my pocket instead of returning it to you.”La Certe laughed, and Slowfoot said, “Hee! hee!” while the juvenile La Certe availed itself of the opportunity to draw the pipe gently from its father’s hand and have a whiff.“I have a message to you from the Governor,” continued the Elder, taking a piece of paper out of his pocket.“For me!” exclaimed La Certe, in surprise.“Yes. He heard that you are hard up just now, and that you are going up the river a considerable distance to hunt—is not that so?”“Yes, that is true. We start off to-morrow.”“Well, then, he gave me this order for some supplies of powder and shot, twine and hooks, with some cloth, beads, and such like for Slowfoot.”“That is very good of the Governor—very considerate,” said La Certe with a pleased look.“Very good,” said Sutherland. “Now, La Certe, suppose it true that men are meant to make the best of circumstances as they find them, and that I was a man without any regard to principle, I might have drawn these supplies from the store for you, and used them myself, and you would not have been a bit the wiser.”Again the half-breed laughed, and admitted the truth of the proposition, while Slowfoot expressed her belief, (whatever it was), in a more than usually emphatic “Hee! hee!”Returning home from his apparently useless errand, Sutherland met Fred Jenkins with a gun on his shoulder. The seaman was accompanied by Archie Sinclair.“Well, Jenkins,” he said, heartily, “you must be like a fish out o’ water in these regions. Don’t you feel a longing, sometimes, for the roar of the gale and the smell o’ the salt sea?”“Can’t say as I does, Mr Sutherland. I’ve bin used to accommodate myself to circumstances, dee see, ever since I was a small shaver; so nothin’ comes exactly amiss to me—”“O Fred! how can you tell thumpers like that?” interrupted the forward Archie. “Isn’t Elise Morel a miss to you? and Elspie, and Jessie Davidson?”“Clap a stopper on your mug, you young scape grace!” retorted the seaman, who had some doubt as to whether the boy’s putting Elise Morel’s name first was intentional or an accident. “As I was a-going to say, sir, I was always fond o’ changes, an’ the rollin’ plains come to me as pleasant, though not quite so familiar, as the rollin’ sea.”“That’s a satisfactory state o’ mind, anyhow,” returned the Elder. “But where away now?—to cater for the pot, I dare say.”“Well, no, not exactly—though I’ve no objection to do that too in the by-goin’. But we’ve heard a report that a band o’ Sioux are goin’ to visit the Settlement, and as there’s a lot o’ their enemies, the Saulteaux, knocking about, I’ve bin sent to the fort by old McKay to see if they’ve heard about the Sioux comin’, an’ if there’s likely to be a scrimmage, so as we may clear for action, d’ee see?”“I see; and I hope there will be no need to clear for action. I’m glad to see Archie with you too,” said Sutherland, “but surprised; for I don’t remember when I saw him without Little Bill on his back or at his side.”“O, as to that, Little Bill has forsaken me,” said Archie, “or I have forsaken him—I’m not sure which—since Dan Davidson’s accident, for he does little else but sit at Dan’s bedside, readin’ to him or talking with him.”“The dear little fellow could not be better employed,” remarked the Elder.“The dear little fellow could bemuchbetter employed,” retorted the boy, with unexpected decision. “He could be rambling about the plains or in the bush with me, getting strength to his muscles and fresh air to his lungs, an’ health to his body—to say nothing of his soul.”“Why, you are becoming jealous, lad,” said Sutherland, with a laugh.“No, I’m notbecomingjealous; I’m jealous already,” returned the boy, with an air that was half jocular, half serious. “However, I’ll exercise patience a little longer, but I’m determined not to let Little Bill be sacrificed for the sake of sick-nursing.”With this announcement of his unalterable resolve to stand to his guns, and a “Brayvo, youngster!” from Jenkins, they parted and went on their several ways.It was found, when Fort Garry was reached, that the rumour of a visit from the Sioux Indians was correct, and that some preparation was being made for their reception, as well as precautions against any mischief that might be contemplated, though there was not much to be apprehended on that score, for the Sioux were believed to be among the bravest as well as the most powerful of the nations east of the Rocky Mountains, and less addicted to treachery or cruelty than most other tribes.Two days later the Sioux made their appearance. They formed only a small band of warriors, but were a wild-looking though fine set of men; erect, muscular, tall fellows, with the free bearing of practised warriors, and in all the paint, charcoal, feathers, and leather-costume, bear-claw collars, etcetera, peculiar to the western wilderness.Their object, they said, was to smoke the pipe of peace with their enemies the Saulteaux, and to see with their own eyes the wonderful things that by report the Palefaces were doing in Red River.“The Sioux have heard,” said their principal chief, at a palaver with the Governor, “that the Palefaces are building wooden Wigwams in number like the stones on the shores of Lake Winnipeg; that they are growing much grain; that they have set up many strange things which they compel the wind to work for them, and so grind their grain; that they have great heaps of powder and ball, and big wigwams that are bursting with things that the Sioux love to exchange for the meat and skins of the buffalo and other beasts great and small. We have come to see all this with our own eyes, for most of us are young men who have only heard of such things from our fathers. Waugh!”Of course everything was said to encourage this laudable desire for knowledge. The visitors were shown over the fort. Food was given to them, and tobacco; then the pipe of peace was smoked with a band of Saulteaux, which chanced to be on a friendly visit to the settlement at the time, after which, as was customary on such occasions, both parties mixed together and strolled about to see the settlers.One party of them found their way to Prairie Cottage. At some of the houses nearer the fort they had learned the method of lifting the latch of a door so as to obtain entrance. Finding no one outside at the cottage, they entered the central hall with the soft, quiet tread of the panther. As no one chanced to be there, they continued their explorations with childlike simplicity, and thus most unexpectedly found themselves in the bedroom of Dan Davidson, where Little Bill had just read himself and his brother-invalid into a sound sleep. Both wakened up at once, and the boy sat bolt upright in blazing astonishment, but Dan, who had heard of their arrival in the Settlement, received them with a few words of welcome.Fortunately for all parties, Okématan presented himself just then, having, while at work in the garden, seen the party of Sioux arrive. He did his best to act the host, explaining to the visitors the cause of Dan’s weakness, and, by Dan’s directions, offering them tobacco and pipes.While they were thus engaged, old McKay entered.“I saw you comin’, lads,” he said, heartily. “What cheer? what cheer?” he added, shaking hands with them all round.The Sioux were obviously much pleased with their reception, especially when Mrs Davidson, Jessie, and Elspie, who had been out walking, returned and joined the party.After showing the Indians everything in the house, old McKay—who constituted himself their guide,—took them out to see the live stock and the farm. He led them first into the garden.It chanced at this time that there was a “snake in the grass” not far off. This was no other than the bad Indian Kateegoose.Why some people are what we call naturally bad, like Kateegoose, while others are what we call naturally good, like Okématan, is a mystery the investigation of which we propose postponing to a more convenient season. Of course no sane person will maintain that this mystery frees fallen man from responsibility. If it did, we could no longer hang for murder. It would be the bounden duty of every judge, in that case, to acquit every murderer with “Poor fellow, it was his fate; he could not help it!” and send him away with a pat on the shoulder, and an order for coffee and buns, perhaps, in his pocket. As none but sane persons, however, will read my book, it is not necessary to enlarge further on this head.Certain it is that Kateegoose was “bad”—obdurately bad—had been so from his very cradle, if he ever had one, which is doubtful, and bade fair to continue so to his grave. Sutherland had button-holed him more than once, but apparently in vain. It is only fair to the savage to say that he listened patiently to the Elder’s remonstrances, and attentively to his exhortations, and assumed an aspect of mild contrition that might or might not have been sincere—as far as appearance went.Now, it unfortunately happened that among the Sioux braves there was a man who had done Kateegoose a deadly injury of some sort, which nothing short of blood could wipe out. Kateegoose, in familiar parlance, spotted him at once, and dogged his steps through the Settlement, watching his opportunity for revenge. In savage life this dogging process would not have been possible, but in a comparatively crowded settlement, and in the midst of all the surprising novelties that surrounded the Palefaces, it was all too easy; for Kateegoose took care to keep as much as possible in the background, and well under cover of houses, cottages, carts, stacks, and wigwams; besides which he had painted his face in such a manner, and so modified his costume, that his own acquaintances among the settlers—he had no friends—failed to recognise him. They, in their comparative ignorance of savage life, set him down as one of the visitors, while the visitors, if they noticed him at all, esteemed him one of the cross-breeds of the Settlement.The only man who saw through the disguise of Kateegoose was Okématan, who could not understand why he had adopted it, and who resolved to keep a sharp eye on him.The enemy of Kateegoose was one of the younger Sioux chiefs. He led the party which visited Prairie Cottage.The garden of the Cottage, at its lower end towards the river, approached close to the confines of a thick coppice. It formed the extremity of a belt of woodland which at that time bordered the river. There a small summer-house had been erected by Dan and Peter Davidson for the benefit of their mother and their sister Jessie.Kateegoose, while dogging his foe, recognised this as a spot very suitable for his fell purpose, as the contiguous wood afforded a ready means of escape after the deed should be done.While old McKay was conducting the Sioux slowly through the garden, Kateegoose glided swiftly through the thicket to the spot where the summer-house stood, and took up a position behind it, so that the party in making the round of the garden would necessarily pass close to him.From the window of Dan’s room, Little Bill observed part of these mysterious movements and suspected mischief. Without uttering a word he left the room, opened the front door, and gave a low whistle, which had been set up as a private signal between him and Okématan. In a few seconds the Cree chief was by his side.“Oké, there’s mischief intended. You’ll have to be quick,” he said, quickly explaining what he had seen.“Rejoin the party at once,” he added, “and look out—sharp.”The chief nodded and walked away. So swift, yet so quiet, had been his movements that none of the whites of the party had observed his departure from them. The Sioux, however, had noticed it, and their suspicions were aroused, especially when they saw him rejoin the party, and observed that he walked rather closer to them than before. But they were proud warriors and refused by word, look, or movement, to indicate their suspicions. They carried bows in their hands, arrows in their quivers, tomahawks and scalping-knives in their belts, but they scorned to make any visible demonstration of being on guard in the midst of Paleface friends, though they gave intense and undivided attention to the movements of Okématan.This concentration of attention on the wrong man was, of course, rather favourable to the designs of Kateegoose, so that, when the party passed the summer-house, he was enabled to spring upon his enemy, unobserved for the first moment, with knife upraised. But the stab from which the Sioux chief could not have escaped was rendered harmless by the prompt action of Okématan, who threw up his left arm, turned the blow aside, and received a slight wound in doing so.There was no time to repeat the blow. With a yell of mingled defiance and disappointment the would-be assassin leaped the garden fence, bounded into the thicket, and disappeared. A flight of Sioux arrows entered the bush almost the moment after. The young chief and his friends also leaped the fence, and followed in pursuit.The Sioux were swift and agile undoubtedly, but so was Kateegoose, and he had the advantage of knowing the ground, while the trail—by which, in ordinary circumstances, the Red-man can track his enemy through the forest—was not available there in consequence of its being so mingled up with the crossing and re-crossing of the innumerable tracks of settlers. The result was that Kateegoose made his escape.The Colonists were very indignant at the perpetration of this cowardly act, for it compromised their character for hospitality; and, if they could have laid hands on the savage at the time, it is not impossible that Lynch-law might have been applied to him. The Governor also was greatly annoyed, and in the afternoon of the following day made the visitors a number of presents, besides providing for them a feast; but all his good intentions were spoiled by Kateegoose, who had the audacity to come forward and deliberately shoot his foe while the Sioux were at meat. The ball passed quite through the Sioux chief’s body, and wounded the man who was next to him. After this dastardly act the villain fled, and again got safe away.The enraged Sioux, seizing their weapons, would have wreaked their vengeance on the Saulteaux, if they could have discovered any; but these wily savages had cleared away at the first note of alarm, and not one was to be found. To have attacked the whites with so small a party would have been useless as well as unjust. They therefore left the colony in fierce anger.It chanced that La Certe had pitched his tent the day before on a stream not far-distant from the colony. The Sioux had to pass that way, and, espying the wigwam, turned aside to wreak their vengeance on whomsoever it might contain. Fortunately the owner of the mansion and his wife had gone out fishing in a canoe, and taken the child with them. All that the Sioux could do, therefore, was to appropriate the poor man’s goods and chattels; but as the half-breed had taken his gun, ammunition, and fishing-tackle with him, there was not much left to appropriate. Having despoiled the mansion, they set fire to it and went their way.Returning in the evening, La Certe found his house a heap of ashes, and himself reduced to a state of destitution. This being his normal state, however, he was not profoundly affected. Neither was his wife; still less was his child.He said no word, but carried the contents of the canoe on shore. His wife, equally reticent, helped him. His child, lighting its father’s pipe, sat down to smoke and look on.They turned the canoe bottom up to serve as a partial shelter; they kindled a huge fire before it; they set up three large fat ducks to roast in front of it, and were soon busy with a simple but satisfying supper. After washing this down with an unstimulating draught of pure water, they put the baby to bed under the bow of the canoe, filled their pipes, and sat down before the ruddy blaze to mingle their hopes, joys, prospects, and sorrows in a halo of smoke—the very personification of primitive contentment and felicity.
Happening to hear of the bargain which we have just described, and being under the impression that it might be good for La Certe’s spirit to receive a mild reproof, Mr Sutherland paid him a visit.
The Scotch Elder was, for a long time, the only man fitted to perform the duties of a minister to his countrymen in that out-of-the-world colony, and, being a true man of God, he could not hear of gross injustice, or heartless conduct, without some slight attempt to open the other’s eyes to his sin.
It may well be understood that, in the nature of things and the state of the country, the solitary Elder’s duties were by no means light or agreeable. Indeed he would have had no heart to cope with them and with the difficulties they entailed, had he not remembered that the battle was not his, but the Lord’s, and that he was only an instrument in the all-powerful hand of the Spirit of God. His own weapons were the Word, Prayer, and the name of Jesus.
But it was not given to him to see much fruit of his visit to La Certe at that time. The half-breed, besides asserting himself to be a “Catholic,” (by which he meant a Roman Catholic), and, therefore, in no way amenable to Sutherland’s jurisdiction, received his remonstrances with philosophical arguments tending to prove that men were meant to make the best of circumstances as they found them, without any regard to principles—which, after all, were not very seriously held or practised by any one, he thought—especially in Red River.
As for Slowfoot, she listened with evident interest and curiosity to the strange teaching and exhortations of the Elder, but when appealed to for some sort of opinion on the various points touched, she replied with an imbecile “Hee! hee!” which was not encouraging.
However, the good man had sown the seed faithfully and kindly. The watering thereof and the sprouting were, he knew, in the hands of the Master.
Rising to take leave, the Elder put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a large clasp-knife.
“Why, that’s my knife that I lost!” exclaimed La Certe in surprise; “where did you find it?”
“I found it on my table at home, where you left it that time you came to ask for some tobacco. Now, observe, if I did not seriously hold and practise the principle of honesty, I would have made the best of circumstances as I found them, and would have put the knife in my pocket instead of returning it to you.”
La Certe laughed, and Slowfoot said, “Hee! hee!” while the juvenile La Certe availed itself of the opportunity to draw the pipe gently from its father’s hand and have a whiff.
“I have a message to you from the Governor,” continued the Elder, taking a piece of paper out of his pocket.
“For me!” exclaimed La Certe, in surprise.
“Yes. He heard that you are hard up just now, and that you are going up the river a considerable distance to hunt—is not that so?”
“Yes, that is true. We start off to-morrow.”
“Well, then, he gave me this order for some supplies of powder and shot, twine and hooks, with some cloth, beads, and such like for Slowfoot.”
“That is very good of the Governor—very considerate,” said La Certe with a pleased look.
“Very good,” said Sutherland. “Now, La Certe, suppose it true that men are meant to make the best of circumstances as they find them, and that I was a man without any regard to principle, I might have drawn these supplies from the store for you, and used them myself, and you would not have been a bit the wiser.”
Again the half-breed laughed, and admitted the truth of the proposition, while Slowfoot expressed her belief, (whatever it was), in a more than usually emphatic “Hee! hee!”
Returning home from his apparently useless errand, Sutherland met Fred Jenkins with a gun on his shoulder. The seaman was accompanied by Archie Sinclair.
“Well, Jenkins,” he said, heartily, “you must be like a fish out o’ water in these regions. Don’t you feel a longing, sometimes, for the roar of the gale and the smell o’ the salt sea?”
“Can’t say as I does, Mr Sutherland. I’ve bin used to accommodate myself to circumstances, dee see, ever since I was a small shaver; so nothin’ comes exactly amiss to me—”
“O Fred! how can you tell thumpers like that?” interrupted the forward Archie. “Isn’t Elise Morel a miss to you? and Elspie, and Jessie Davidson?”
“Clap a stopper on your mug, you young scape grace!” retorted the seaman, who had some doubt as to whether the boy’s putting Elise Morel’s name first was intentional or an accident. “As I was a-going to say, sir, I was always fond o’ changes, an’ the rollin’ plains come to me as pleasant, though not quite so familiar, as the rollin’ sea.”
“That’s a satisfactory state o’ mind, anyhow,” returned the Elder. “But where away now?—to cater for the pot, I dare say.”
“Well, no, not exactly—though I’ve no objection to do that too in the by-goin’. But we’ve heard a report that a band o’ Sioux are goin’ to visit the Settlement, and as there’s a lot o’ their enemies, the Saulteaux, knocking about, I’ve bin sent to the fort by old McKay to see if they’ve heard about the Sioux comin’, an’ if there’s likely to be a scrimmage, so as we may clear for action, d’ee see?”
“I see; and I hope there will be no need to clear for action. I’m glad to see Archie with you too,” said Sutherland, “but surprised; for I don’t remember when I saw him without Little Bill on his back or at his side.”
“O, as to that, Little Bill has forsaken me,” said Archie, “or I have forsaken him—I’m not sure which—since Dan Davidson’s accident, for he does little else but sit at Dan’s bedside, readin’ to him or talking with him.”
“The dear little fellow could not be better employed,” remarked the Elder.
“The dear little fellow could bemuchbetter employed,” retorted the boy, with unexpected decision. “He could be rambling about the plains or in the bush with me, getting strength to his muscles and fresh air to his lungs, an’ health to his body—to say nothing of his soul.”
“Why, you are becoming jealous, lad,” said Sutherland, with a laugh.
“No, I’m notbecomingjealous; I’m jealous already,” returned the boy, with an air that was half jocular, half serious. “However, I’ll exercise patience a little longer, but I’m determined not to let Little Bill be sacrificed for the sake of sick-nursing.”
With this announcement of his unalterable resolve to stand to his guns, and a “Brayvo, youngster!” from Jenkins, they parted and went on their several ways.
It was found, when Fort Garry was reached, that the rumour of a visit from the Sioux Indians was correct, and that some preparation was being made for their reception, as well as precautions against any mischief that might be contemplated, though there was not much to be apprehended on that score, for the Sioux were believed to be among the bravest as well as the most powerful of the nations east of the Rocky Mountains, and less addicted to treachery or cruelty than most other tribes.
Two days later the Sioux made their appearance. They formed only a small band of warriors, but were a wild-looking though fine set of men; erect, muscular, tall fellows, with the free bearing of practised warriors, and in all the paint, charcoal, feathers, and leather-costume, bear-claw collars, etcetera, peculiar to the western wilderness.
Their object, they said, was to smoke the pipe of peace with their enemies the Saulteaux, and to see with their own eyes the wonderful things that by report the Palefaces were doing in Red River.
“The Sioux have heard,” said their principal chief, at a palaver with the Governor, “that the Palefaces are building wooden Wigwams in number like the stones on the shores of Lake Winnipeg; that they are growing much grain; that they have set up many strange things which they compel the wind to work for them, and so grind their grain; that they have great heaps of powder and ball, and big wigwams that are bursting with things that the Sioux love to exchange for the meat and skins of the buffalo and other beasts great and small. We have come to see all this with our own eyes, for most of us are young men who have only heard of such things from our fathers. Waugh!”
Of course everything was said to encourage this laudable desire for knowledge. The visitors were shown over the fort. Food was given to them, and tobacco; then the pipe of peace was smoked with a band of Saulteaux, which chanced to be on a friendly visit to the settlement at the time, after which, as was customary on such occasions, both parties mixed together and strolled about to see the settlers.
One party of them found their way to Prairie Cottage. At some of the houses nearer the fort they had learned the method of lifting the latch of a door so as to obtain entrance. Finding no one outside at the cottage, they entered the central hall with the soft, quiet tread of the panther. As no one chanced to be there, they continued their explorations with childlike simplicity, and thus most unexpectedly found themselves in the bedroom of Dan Davidson, where Little Bill had just read himself and his brother-invalid into a sound sleep. Both wakened up at once, and the boy sat bolt upright in blazing astonishment, but Dan, who had heard of their arrival in the Settlement, received them with a few words of welcome.
Fortunately for all parties, Okématan presented himself just then, having, while at work in the garden, seen the party of Sioux arrive. He did his best to act the host, explaining to the visitors the cause of Dan’s weakness, and, by Dan’s directions, offering them tobacco and pipes.
While they were thus engaged, old McKay entered.
“I saw you comin’, lads,” he said, heartily. “What cheer? what cheer?” he added, shaking hands with them all round.
The Sioux were obviously much pleased with their reception, especially when Mrs Davidson, Jessie, and Elspie, who had been out walking, returned and joined the party.
After showing the Indians everything in the house, old McKay—who constituted himself their guide,—took them out to see the live stock and the farm. He led them first into the garden.
It chanced at this time that there was a “snake in the grass” not far off. This was no other than the bad Indian Kateegoose.
Why some people are what we call naturally bad, like Kateegoose, while others are what we call naturally good, like Okématan, is a mystery the investigation of which we propose postponing to a more convenient season. Of course no sane person will maintain that this mystery frees fallen man from responsibility. If it did, we could no longer hang for murder. It would be the bounden duty of every judge, in that case, to acquit every murderer with “Poor fellow, it was his fate; he could not help it!” and send him away with a pat on the shoulder, and an order for coffee and buns, perhaps, in his pocket. As none but sane persons, however, will read my book, it is not necessary to enlarge further on this head.
Certain it is that Kateegoose was “bad”—obdurately bad—had been so from his very cradle, if he ever had one, which is doubtful, and bade fair to continue so to his grave. Sutherland had button-holed him more than once, but apparently in vain. It is only fair to the savage to say that he listened patiently to the Elder’s remonstrances, and attentively to his exhortations, and assumed an aspect of mild contrition that might or might not have been sincere—as far as appearance went.
Now, it unfortunately happened that among the Sioux braves there was a man who had done Kateegoose a deadly injury of some sort, which nothing short of blood could wipe out. Kateegoose, in familiar parlance, spotted him at once, and dogged his steps through the Settlement, watching his opportunity for revenge. In savage life this dogging process would not have been possible, but in a comparatively crowded settlement, and in the midst of all the surprising novelties that surrounded the Palefaces, it was all too easy; for Kateegoose took care to keep as much as possible in the background, and well under cover of houses, cottages, carts, stacks, and wigwams; besides which he had painted his face in such a manner, and so modified his costume, that his own acquaintances among the settlers—he had no friends—failed to recognise him. They, in their comparative ignorance of savage life, set him down as one of the visitors, while the visitors, if they noticed him at all, esteemed him one of the cross-breeds of the Settlement.
The only man who saw through the disguise of Kateegoose was Okématan, who could not understand why he had adopted it, and who resolved to keep a sharp eye on him.
The enemy of Kateegoose was one of the younger Sioux chiefs. He led the party which visited Prairie Cottage.
The garden of the Cottage, at its lower end towards the river, approached close to the confines of a thick coppice. It formed the extremity of a belt of woodland which at that time bordered the river. There a small summer-house had been erected by Dan and Peter Davidson for the benefit of their mother and their sister Jessie.
Kateegoose, while dogging his foe, recognised this as a spot very suitable for his fell purpose, as the contiguous wood afforded a ready means of escape after the deed should be done.
While old McKay was conducting the Sioux slowly through the garden, Kateegoose glided swiftly through the thicket to the spot where the summer-house stood, and took up a position behind it, so that the party in making the round of the garden would necessarily pass close to him.
From the window of Dan’s room, Little Bill observed part of these mysterious movements and suspected mischief. Without uttering a word he left the room, opened the front door, and gave a low whistle, which had been set up as a private signal between him and Okématan. In a few seconds the Cree chief was by his side.
“Oké, there’s mischief intended. You’ll have to be quick,” he said, quickly explaining what he had seen.
“Rejoin the party at once,” he added, “and look out—sharp.”
The chief nodded and walked away. So swift, yet so quiet, had been his movements that none of the whites of the party had observed his departure from them. The Sioux, however, had noticed it, and their suspicions were aroused, especially when they saw him rejoin the party, and observed that he walked rather closer to them than before. But they were proud warriors and refused by word, look, or movement, to indicate their suspicions. They carried bows in their hands, arrows in their quivers, tomahawks and scalping-knives in their belts, but they scorned to make any visible demonstration of being on guard in the midst of Paleface friends, though they gave intense and undivided attention to the movements of Okématan.
This concentration of attention on the wrong man was, of course, rather favourable to the designs of Kateegoose, so that, when the party passed the summer-house, he was enabled to spring upon his enemy, unobserved for the first moment, with knife upraised. But the stab from which the Sioux chief could not have escaped was rendered harmless by the prompt action of Okématan, who threw up his left arm, turned the blow aside, and received a slight wound in doing so.
There was no time to repeat the blow. With a yell of mingled defiance and disappointment the would-be assassin leaped the garden fence, bounded into the thicket, and disappeared. A flight of Sioux arrows entered the bush almost the moment after. The young chief and his friends also leaped the fence, and followed in pursuit.
The Sioux were swift and agile undoubtedly, but so was Kateegoose, and he had the advantage of knowing the ground, while the trail—by which, in ordinary circumstances, the Red-man can track his enemy through the forest—was not available there in consequence of its being so mingled up with the crossing and re-crossing of the innumerable tracks of settlers. The result was that Kateegoose made his escape.
The Colonists were very indignant at the perpetration of this cowardly act, for it compromised their character for hospitality; and, if they could have laid hands on the savage at the time, it is not impossible that Lynch-law might have been applied to him. The Governor also was greatly annoyed, and in the afternoon of the following day made the visitors a number of presents, besides providing for them a feast; but all his good intentions were spoiled by Kateegoose, who had the audacity to come forward and deliberately shoot his foe while the Sioux were at meat. The ball passed quite through the Sioux chief’s body, and wounded the man who was next to him. After this dastardly act the villain fled, and again got safe away.
The enraged Sioux, seizing their weapons, would have wreaked their vengeance on the Saulteaux, if they could have discovered any; but these wily savages had cleared away at the first note of alarm, and not one was to be found. To have attacked the whites with so small a party would have been useless as well as unjust. They therefore left the colony in fierce anger.
It chanced that La Certe had pitched his tent the day before on a stream not far-distant from the colony. The Sioux had to pass that way, and, espying the wigwam, turned aside to wreak their vengeance on whomsoever it might contain. Fortunately the owner of the mansion and his wife had gone out fishing in a canoe, and taken the child with them. All that the Sioux could do, therefore, was to appropriate the poor man’s goods and chattels; but as the half-breed had taken his gun, ammunition, and fishing-tackle with him, there was not much left to appropriate. Having despoiled the mansion, they set fire to it and went their way.
Returning in the evening, La Certe found his house a heap of ashes, and himself reduced to a state of destitution. This being his normal state, however, he was not profoundly affected. Neither was his wife; still less was his child.
He said no word, but carried the contents of the canoe on shore. His wife, equally reticent, helped him. His child, lighting its father’s pipe, sat down to smoke and look on.
They turned the canoe bottom up to serve as a partial shelter; they kindled a huge fire before it; they set up three large fat ducks to roast in front of it, and were soon busy with a simple but satisfying supper. After washing this down with an unstimulating draught of pure water, they put the baby to bed under the bow of the canoe, filled their pipes, and sat down before the ruddy blaze to mingle their hopes, joys, prospects, and sorrows in a halo of smoke—the very personification of primitive contentment and felicity.