R.M. Ballantyne

The Buffalo Runners

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter One.

A Tale of the Red River Plains.

Help!

A blizzard was blowing wildly over the American prairies one winter day in the earlier part of the present century.

Fresh, free and straight, it came from the realms of Jack Frost, and cold—bitterly cold—like the bergs on the Arctic seas, to which it had but recently said farewell.

Snow, fine as dust and sharp as needles, was caught up bodily by the wind in great masses—here in snaky coils, there in whirling eddies, elsewhere in rolling clouds; but these had barely time to assume indefinite forms when they were furiously scattered and swept away as by the besom of destruction, while earth and sky commingled in a smother of whitey-grey.

All the demons of the Far North seemed to have taken an outside passage on that blizzard, so tremendous was the roaring and shrieking, while the writhing of tormented snow-drifts suggested powerfully the madness of agony.

Two white and ghostly pillars moved slowly but steadily through all this hurly-burly in a straight line. One of the pillars was short and broad; the other was tall and stately. Both were very solid—agreeably so, when contrasted with surrounding chaos. Suddenly the two pillars stopped—though the gale did not.

Said the short pillar to the tall one—

“Taniel Tavidson, if we will not get to the Settlement this night; it iss my belief that every one o’ them will perish.”

“Fergus,” replied the tall pillar, sternly, “they shall not perish if I can help it. At all events, if they do, I shall die in the attempt to save them. Come on.”

Daniel Davidson became less like a white pillar as he spoke, and more like a man, by reason of his shaking a good deal of the snow off his stalwart person. Fergus McKay followed his comrade’s example, and revealed the fact—for a few minutes—that beneath the snow-mask there stood a young man with a beaming countenance of fiery red, the flaming character of which, however, was relieved by an expression of ineffable good-humour.

The two men resumed their march over the dreary plain in silence. Indeed, conversation in the circumstances was out of the question. The brief remarks that had been made when they paused to recover breath were howled at each other while they stood face to face.

The nature of the storm was such that the gale seemed to rush at the travellers from all quarters at once—including above and below. Men of less vigour and resolution would have been choked by it; but men who don’t believe in choking, and have thick necks, powerful frames, vast experience, and indomitable wills are not easily choked!

“It blows hard—whatever,” muttered Fergus to himself, with that prolonged emphasis on the last syllable of the last word which is eminently suggestive of the Scottish Highlander.

Davidson may have heard the remark, but he made no reply.

Day declined, but its exit was not marked by much difference in the very feeble light, and the two men held steadily on. The moon came out. As far as appearances went she might almost as well have stayed in, for nobody saw her that night. Her mere existence somewhere in the sky, however, rendered the indescribable chaos visible. Hours passed by, but still the two men held on their way persistently.

They wore five-feet-long snow-shoes. Progress over the deep snow without these would have been impossible. One traveller walked behind the other to get the benefit of his beaten track, but the benefit was scarcely appreciable, for the whirling snow filled each footstep up almost as soon as it was made. Two days and a night had these men travelled with but an hour or two of rest in the shelter of a copse, without fire, and almost without food, yet they pushed on with the energy of fresh and well-fed men.

Nothing but some overpowering necessity could have stimulated them to such prolonged and severe exertion. Even self-preservation might have failed to nerve them to it, for both had well-nigh reached the limit of their exceptional powers, but each was animated by a stronger motive than self. Fergus had left his old father in an almost dying state on the snow-clad plains, and Davidson had left his affianced bride.

The buffalo-hunt had failed that year; winter had set in with unwonted severity and earlier than usual. The hunters, with the women and children who followed them in carts to help and to reap the benefit of the hunt, were starving. Their horses died or were frozen to death; carts were snowed up; and the starving hunters had been scattered in making the best of their way back to the Settlement of Red River from which they had started.

When old McKay broke down, and his only daughter Elspie had firmly asserted her determination to remain and die with him, Fergus McKay and Daniel Davidson felt themselves to be put upon their mettle—called on to face a difficulty of the most appalling nature. To remain on the snow-clad prairie without food or shelter would be death to all, for there was no living creature there to be shot or trapped. On the other hand, to travel a hundred miles or so on foot—and without food, seemed an impossibility. Love, however, ignores the impossible! The two young men resolved on the attempt. They were pretty well aware of the extent of their physical powers. They would put them fairly to the test for once—even though for the last time! They prepared for the old man and his daughter a shelter in the heart of a clump of willows, near to which spot they had found a group of the hapless hunters already dead and frozen.

Here, as far from the frozen group as possible, they made an encampment by digging down through the snow till the ground was reached. As much dried wood as could be found was collected, and a fire made. The young men left their blankets behind, and, of the small quantity of provisions that remained, they took just sufficient to sustain life. Then, with cheery words of encouragement, they said good-bye, and set out on their journey to the Settlement for help.

The object at which they aimed was almost gained at the point when we introduce them to the reader.

“Taniel!” said Fergus, coming to a sudden halt.

“Well?” exclaimed the other.

“It iss sleepy that I am. Maybe if I wass to lie down—”

He ceased to speak. Davidson looked anxiously into his face, and saw that he had already begun to give way to irresistible drowsiness. Without a moment’s hesitation he seized the Highlander by the throat, and shook him as if he had been a mere baby.

“Iss it for fightin’ ye are?” said Fergus, whose good-nature was not proof against such rough and unexpected treatment.

“Yes, my boy, that’s just what I am for, and I think you’ll get the worst of it too.”

“What iss that you say? Ay, ay! You will hev to bend your back then, Taniel, for it iss not every wan that can give Fergus McKay the worst of it!”

Davidson made no reply, but gave his comrade a shake so violent that it put to flight the last vestige of his good-humour and induced him to struggle so fiercely that in a few minutes the drowsiness was also, and effectually, driven away.

“You’ll do now,” said Davidson, relaxing his grip and panting somewhat.

“Ay, Taniel, I will be doin’ now. An’ you’re a frund in need whatever,” returned the restored Highlander with a smile of appreciation.

About an hour later the travellers again stopped. This time it was Davidson who called a halt.

“Fergus,” he said, “we have been successful so far, thank God. But we must part here. Half-an-hour will take me to my father’s house, and I want you to go down to the hut of François La Certe; it is nearer than our house, you know—and get him to help you.”

“Surely, Tan, that will be wasted time,” objected the Highlander. “Of all the lazy useless scamps in Rud Ruver, François La Certe iss the laziest an’ most useless.”

“Useful enough for our purpose, however,” returned Davidson. “Send him up to Fort Garry with a message, while you lie down and rest. If you don’t rest, you will yourself be useless in a short time. La Certe is not such a bad fellow as people think him, specially when his feelings are touched.”

“That may be as you say, Tan. I will try—whatever.”

So saying, the two men parted and hurried on their several ways.

Chapter Two.

A Lazy Couple described—and roused.

François La Certe was seated on the floor of his hut smoking a long clay pipe beside an open wood fire when Fergus McKay approached. His wife was seated beside him calmly smoking a shorter pipe with obvious enjoyment.

The man was a Canadian half-breed. His wife was an Indian woman. They were both moderately young and well matched, for they thoroughly agreed in everything conceivable—or otherwise. In the length and breadth of the Settlement there could not have been found a lazier or more good-natured or good-for-nothing couple than La Certe and his spouse. Love was, if we may venture to say so, the chief element in the character of each. Love of self was the foundation. Then, happily, love of each other came next. Rising gracefully, the superstructure may be described as, love of tobacco, love of tea, love of ease, and love of general comfort, finishing off with a top-dressing, or capital, of pronounced, decided, and apparently incurable love of indolence. They had only one clear and unmistakable hatred about them, and that was the hatred of work. They had a child about four years of age which was like-minded—and not unlike-bodied.

In the wilderness, as in the city, such individuals are well-known by the similarity of their characteristics. It is not that they can’t work, but they won’t work—though, of course, if taxed with this disposition they would disclaim it with mild indignation, or an expression of hurt remonstrance, for they are almost too lazy to become enraged. “Take life easy, or, if we can’t take it easy, let us take it as easy as we can,” is, or ought to be, their motto. In low life at home they slouch and smile. In high life they saunter and affect easy-going urbanity—slightly mingled with mild superiority to things in general. Whatever rank of life they belong to they lay themselves out with persistent resolution to do as little work as they can; to make other people do as much work for them as possible; to get out of life as much of enjoyment as may be attainable—consistently, of course, with the incurable indolence—and, to put off as long as may be the evil day which, they perceive or suspect, must inevitably be coming.

The curious thing about this race of beings is, that, whether in high or low station, they are never ashamed of themselves—or of their position as drones in the world’s hive. They seem rather to apologise for their degradation as a thing inevitable, for which they are not accountable—and sometimes, in the case of the rich, as a thing justifiable.

“I’m glad I did not go to the plains this fall,” said La Certe, stirring the logs on the fire with his toe and emitting a prolonged sigh of mingled smoke and contentment, while a blast from the bleak nor’-west shook every blackened rafter in his little hut.

“Heel hee!” responded his wife, whose Indian name—translated—was Slowfoot, and might have been Slowtongue with equal propriety, for she was quite an adept at the art of silence. She frequently caused a giggle to do duty for speech. This suited her husband admirably, for he was fond of talking—could tell a good story, sing a good song, and express his feelings in a good hearty laugh.

“Yes, it will be hard for the poor boys who have gone to the plains, the weather is so awful, to say nothing of the women.”

“Ho,” replied Slowfoot—though what she meant to express by this no mortal knows—nor, perhaps, cares. It meant nothing bad, however, for she smiled seraphically and sent forth a stream of smoke, which, mingling with that just emitted by her husband, rose in a curling harmony to the roof.

Slowfoot was not a bad-looking woman as North American Indians go. She was brown unquestionably, and dirty without doubt, but she had a pleasant expression, suggestive of general good-will, and in the budding period of life must have been even pretty. She was evidently older than her husband, who might, perhaps, have been a little over thirty.

“I should not wonder,” continued La Certe, “if the buffalo was drove away, and the people starved this year. But the buffalo, perhaps, will return in time to save them.”

“Hm!” responded the wife, helping herself to some very strong tea, which she poured out of a tin kettle into a tin mug and sweetened with maple sugar.

“Do you know if Cloudbrow went with them?” asked the half-breed, pushing forward his mug for a supply of the cheering beverage.

“No, he stopped in his house,” replied the woman, rousing herself for a moment to the conversational point, but relapsing immediately.

The man spoke in patois French, the woman in her native Cree language. For convenience we translate their conversation as near as may be into the English in which they were wont to converse with the Scotch settlers who, some time before, had been sent out by the Earl of Selkirk to colonise that remote part of the northern wilderness.

La Certe’s father was a French Canadian, his mother an Indian woman, but both having died while he was yet a boy he had been brought or left to grow up under the care of an English woman who had followed the fortunes of the La Certe family. His early companions had been half-breeds and Indians. Hence he could speak the English, French, and Indian languages with equal incorrectness and facility.

“You don’t like Cloudbrow,” remarked the man with an inquiring glance over the rim of his mug. “Why you not like him?”

“Hee! hee!” was Slowfoot’s lucid reply. Then, with an unwonted frown on her mild visage, she added with emphasis—

“No! I not like him.”

“I know that,” returned the husband, setting down his mug and resuming his pipe, “but why?”

To this the lady answered with a sound too brief to spell, and the gentleman, being accustomed to his wife’s little eccentricities, broke into a hilarious laugh, and assured her that Cloudbrow was not a bad fellow—a capital hunter and worthy of more regard than she was aware of.

“For,” said he, “Cloudbrow is willing to wait till spring for payment of the horse an’ cart I hired from him last year. You know that I could not pay him till I go to the plains an’ get another load of meat an’ leather. You will go with me, Slowfoot, an’ we will have grand times of it with buffalo-humps an’ marrow bones, an’ tea an’ tobacco. Ah! it makes my mouth water. Give me more tea. So. That will do. What a noise the wind makes! I hopes it won’t blow over the shed an’ kill the horse. But if it do I cannot help that. Cloudbrow could not ask me to pay for what the wind does.”

There came another gust of such violence, as he spoke, that even Slowfoot’s benignant expression changed to a momentary glance of anxiety, for the shingles on the roof rattled, and the rafters creaked as if the hut were groaning under the strain. It passed, however, and the pair went on smoking with placid contentment, for they had but recently had a “square” meal of pemmican and flour.

This compost when cooked in a frying-pan is exceedingly rich and satisfying—not to say heavy—food, but it does not incommode such as La Certe and his wife. It even made the latter feel amiably disposed to Cloudbrow.

This sobriquet had been given by the half-breeds to a young Scotch settler named Duncan McKay, in consequence of the dark frown which had settled habitually on his brow—the result of bad temper and unbridled passion. He was younger brother to that Fergus who has already been introduced to the reader. Having been partially trained, while in Scotland, away from the small farm-house of his father, and having received a better education, Duncan conceived himself to stand on a higher level than the sedate and uneducated Fergus. Thus pride was added to his bad temper. But he was not altogether destitute of good points. What man is? One of these was a certain reckless open-handedness, so that he was easily imposed on by the protestations and assurances of the sly, plausible, and lazy La Certe.

The couple were still engaged in smoking, quaffing tea, and other intellectual pursuits, when they heard sounds outside as of some one approaching. Another moment, and the door burst open, and a man in white stepped in. He saluted them with a familiar and hasty “bonjour,” as he stamped and beat the snow vigorously from his garments.

“What? Antoine Dechamp!” exclaimed La Certe, rising slowly to welcome his friend; “you seem in hurry?”

“Ay—in great hurry! They are starving on the plains! Many are dead! Davidson has come in! He is more than half-dead! Can hardly tell the news! Drops asleep when he is speaking! Luckily I met him when going home in my cariole! Okématan, the Indian, was with me. So he got out, and said he would pilot Davidson safe home! He said something about Fergus McKay, which I could not understand, so I have come on, and will drive to Fort Garry with the news! But my horse has broke down! Is yours in the stable?”

Dechamp was a sturdy young half-breed and an old playmate of La Certe. He spoke with obvious impatience at the delay caused by having so much to tell.

“Is your horse in the stable?” he demanded sharply a second time, while his friend began, with exasperating composure, to assure him that it was, but that the horse was not his.

“Cloudbrow is its owner,” he said, “and you know if anything happens to it he will —. Stay, I will get you lantern—”

He stopped, for Dechamp, observing a large key hanging on the wall, had seized it and rushed out of the hut without waiting for a lantern.

“Strange, how easy some men get into a fuss!” remarked La Certe to his surprised, but quiet, spouse as he lighted a large tin lantern, and went to the door. Looking out with an expression of discomfort, he put on his cap, and prepared to face the storm in the cause of humanity. He held the lantern high up first, however, and peered under it as if to observe the full extent of the discomfort before braving it. Just then a furious gust blew out the light.

“Ha! I expected that,” he said, with a sigh that was strongly suggestive of relief, as he returned to the fire to relight the lantern.

On going the second time to the door he observed the form of his friend leading the horse past—both of them looking dim and spectral through the driving snow.

“Dechamp have good eyes!” he remarked, halting on the threshold. “There is light enough without the lantern; besides—ha! there, it is out again! What a trouble it is! Impossible to keep it in—such a night!”

“Hee! hee!” giggled Slowfoot, who was busy refilling her pipe.

La Certe was still standing in a state of hesitancy, troubled by a strong desire to help his friend, and a stronger desire to spare himself, when he was thrown somewhat off his wonted balance by the sudden reappearance of Dechamp, leading, or rather supporting, a man.

Need we say that it was Fergus McKay, almost blind and dumb from exhaustion, for the parting from Dan Davidson which we have mentioned had proved to be the last straw which broke them both down, and it is probable that the frozen corpse of poor Dan would have been found next day on the snow, had he not been accidentally met by Dechamp, and taken in charge by the Indian Okématan. Fergus, having a shorter way to go, and, perhaps, possessing a little more vitality or endurance, had just managed to stagger to La Certe’s hut when he encountered the same man who, an hour previously, had met and saved his companion further down the Settlement.

The moment Fergus entered the hut, he looked wildly round, and opened his mouth as if to speak. Then he suddenly collapsed, and fell in a heap upon the floor, scattering flakes of snow from his person in all directions.

La Certe and his wife, though steeped in selfishness, were by no means insensible to the sufferings of humanity when these were actually made visible to their naked eyes. Like many—too many—people, they were incapable of being impressed very deeply through their ears, but could be keenly touched through the eyes. No sooner did they behold the condition of Fergus—who was well-known to them—than they dropped their apathetic characters as though they had been garments.

In her haste Slowfoot let fall her pipe, which broke to atoms on the floor—but she heeded it not. La Certe capsized his mug of tea—but regarded it not; and while the former proceeded to remove the shawl from Fergus’s neck and chafe his cold hands, the latter assisted Dechamp to drag the exhausted man a little nearer to the fire, and poured a cup of warm tea down his throat.

Their efforts, though perchance not as wisely directed as they might have been, were so vigorously conducted that success rewarded them. Fergus soon began to show signs of returning animation. A hunter of the western wilderness is not easily overcome, neither is he long of reviving, as a rule, if not killed outright.

They set him up in a sitting posture with his back against a box, and his feet towards the fire. Heaving a deep sigh, Fergus looked round with a bewildered, anxious expression. In a moment intelligence returned to his eyes, and he made a violent attempt to rise, but Dechamp held him down.

“Let me up!” he gasped, “life and death are in the matter—if it iss not death already—”

“Be still, Fergus McKay,” said Dechamp, with that firmness of manner and tone which somehow command respect; “I know all about it. Take one bit of bread, one swig more of tea, and you go with me to Fort Garry, to tell the Gov’nor what you know. He will send help at once.”

Great was the relief of Fergus when he heard this. Submitting to treatment like an obedient child, he was soon fit to stagger to the sleigh or cariole, into which he was carefully stuffed and packed like a bale of goods by La Certe and his wife, who, to their credit be it recorded, utterly ignored, for once, the discomforts of the situation.

Fergus was asleep before the packing was quite done. Then Dechamp jumped in beside him, and drove off in the direction of the Hudson’s Bay Company’s establishment, Fort Garry, while our worthy couple returned to their hut to indulge in a final and well-earned pipe and a mug of the strongest possible tea.

Chapter Three.

To the Rescue.

Winnipeg city, with its thousands of inhabitants, now covers the spot to which Antoine Dechamp drove his friend Fergus McKay.

At the time we write of, the only habitation there was Fort Garry, a solitary stone building of some strength, but without regular troops of any kind, and held only by a few employés of the Hudson’s Bay Company, who were there only in the capacity of fur-traders.

Here the Governor of the colony received the unexpected guests with hospitality; heard the tale of Fergus with a sympathetic ear, and at once organised a rescue-expedition with dog-sledges and provisions.

While this was being done at the fort, Dan Davidson was similarly employed at Prairie Cottage, the residence of his mother, who, since the death of her husband—a farmer from the Scottish Lowlands—had managed her farm with the aid of her two sons, Dan and Peter; the latter being a youth of seventeen. She was also assisted by her only daughter, Jessie, who was over thirteen years of age, and already esteemed an authority on the subjects of poultry, cookery, and dairy produce. A small servant—a French half-breed named Louise—completed the household of the widow Davidson.

On reaching home, Dan, like Fergus McKay, experienced difficulties that he had not counted on, for his overtaxed strength fairly broke down, and he found himself almost incapable at first of telling his tale of disaster. Then, when he tried to go about the needful preparations for rescue, he found himself unable to resist drowsiness, and if he ventured to sit down for a moment he fell sound asleep at once.

Those who have experienced this condition know how overwhelming and intensely disagreeable it is, especially if resistance to it is rendered imperative by a matter of life or death. Davidson struggled bravely against it of course, but the struggle had already been so long continued that his efforts were now in vain.

Starting up from the supper which Jessie had spread before him, and which he was languidly attempting to eat, he said, almost fiercely, “Where is the wash-tub, Louise?”

The surprised little domestic pointed to the article in question.

“Here; fetch some cold water.”

“It is full,” said Louise with a strong French accent and a pretty lisp.

Without the ceremony even of throwing back his collar Dan plunged his head into the water, and, after steeping it for a few seconds, drew it out refreshed.

His younger brother entered the room at that moment.

“Peter,” he said, drying his head violently with a jack-towel, “have you got the sledge ready, and the provisions packed, and the empty sledge wi’ the buffalo-robes?”

“Ay—all ready,” answered the other, for he was a sprightly, willing youth, who rejoiced in any unexpected demand on his superabundant energies. “But I say, Dan, you are quite unfit to start off again without rest.”

He looked in his brother’s face anxiously, for Dan had seated himself once more to his food, but seemed unable to deal with it properly. “Why, you’ve got the knife and fork in the wrong hands, Dan! You must have an hour’s rest before we start.”

“Impossible,” returned the other with a dazed look, as he seized a mug of water and drank it off. “An hour’s delay may mean death to Elspie and old Duncan McKay.”

“But let me start off at once,” returned Peter, eagerly. “I’ve a pretty good guess, from your description, where you left them. Besides, the gale is not so bad now. After an hour’s sleep you will be able to start fresh, maybe overtake me. Jess will be sure to waken you in—”

He stopped, for his brother’s head had bent slowly forward while he was speaking, and now rested on his arms on the table. The worn-out man was sound asleep.

“Just leave him, Peter, and be off wi’ the dogs,” said Mrs Davidson. “Okématan will keep you in the right track. I’ll be sure to wake him in time to catch you up.”

“No, mother, not without his leave,” said the youth, firmly. “Dan! Dan! rouse up, old boy! Shall we start without you?”

“Yes, yes—I’m ready,” said the poor fellow, starting up and swaying to and fro like a drunken man; “but—I say, Peter, I’m done for. I depend on you, lad, to keep me up to the scratch. Lay the dog-whip across my shoulders if I try to lie down. Promise me that. D’ee hear!”

“Yes, I understand,” returned the youth with intense earnestness. “Now look here, Dan, you know me: will you trust me?”

“Of course I will,” answered Dan with a languid smile.

“Well, then; come along, we’ll rescue Elspie—you may depend on that. Okématan and I will look after you and see that all goes right. Come.”

He took his brother by the arm, and led him unresistingly away, followed by the dark-skinned Indian, who, with the usual reticence of his race, had stood like a brown statue, silently observing events.

Jessie Davidson, who was a fair and comely maiden, touched him on the arm as he was passing out—

“Oh! take care of him, Okématan,” she said, anxiously.

Okématan replied “Ho!” in a sort of grunt. It was an expressively uttered though not very comprehensible reply; but Jessie was satisfied, for she knew the man well, as he had for a considerable time been, not exactly a servant of the house, but a sort of self-appointed hanger-on, or unpaid retainer. For an Indian, he was of a cheerful disposition and made himself generally useful.

When they were outside, it was found that the gale had abated considerably, and that the moon was occasionally visible among the clouds which were driving wildly athwart the heavens, as though the elemental war which had ceased to trouble the earth were still raging in the sky.

“Peter,” said the brother, as they stood for a moment beside two Indian sledges, one of which was laden with provisions, the other empty—“Peter, don’t forget your promise. Lay the whip on heavy. Nothing else will keep me awake!”

“All right! Sit down there for a moment. We’re not quite ready yet.”

“I’d better not. No! I will stand till it’s time to start,” returned Dan with a dubious shake of his head.

“Didn’t you say you would trust me?”

“Yes, I did, old boy.”

“Does it look like trusting me to refuse the very first order I give you? What an example to Okématan! I am in command, Dan. Do as you’re bid, sir, and sit down.”

With a faint smile, and a still more dubious shake of the head, Dan obeyed. He sat down on the empty sledge and the expected result followed. In a few seconds he was asleep.

“Now we’ll pack him in tight,” observed his brother, as he and the Indian stretched the sleeper at full length on the sledge, wrapped him completely up in the warm buffalo-robes, and lashed him down in such a way that he resembled a mummy, with nothing visible of him except his mouth and nose.

Four strong large dogs were attached to each sledge in tandem fashion, each dog having a little collar and harness of its own. No reins were necessary. A track beaten in the soft snow with his snow-shoes by the Indian, who stepped out in front, was guide enough for them; and a tail-line attached to the rear of each sledge, and held by the drivers, sufficed to restrain them when a stretch of hard snow or ice tempted them to have a scamper.

The road thus beaten over the prairie by Okématan, though a comparatively soft one, was by no means smooth, and the rough motion would, in ordinary circumstances, have rendered sleep impossible to our hero; but it need hardly be said that it failed to disturb him on the present occasion. He slept like an infant throughout the whole night; cared nothing for the many plunges down the prairie waves, and recked not of the frequent jerks out of the hollows.

Hour after hour did Peter Davidson with his silent companion trudge over the monotonous plains—hope in the ascendant, and vigour, apparently, inexhaustible. The dogs, too, were good and strong. A brief halt now and then of a few minutes sufficed to freshen them for every new start. Night passed away, and daylight came in with its ghostly revelations of bushes that looked like bears or buffaloes, and snow-wreaths that suggested the buried forms of frozen men.

Then the sun arose and scattered these sombre visions of early morning with its gladdening, soul-reviving rays.

At this point the rescue-party chanced to have reached one of those bluffs of woodland which at that time speckled the plains—though they were few indeed and far between.

“Breakfast,” said Peter, heaving a profound sigh as he turned about and checked the teams, for at that point he happened to be in advance beating the track.

Okématan expressed his entire concurrence with an emphatic “Ho!” The wearied dogs lay down in their tracks, shot out their tongues, panted, and looked amiable, for well they knew the meaning of the word “breakfast” and the relative halt.

The sudden stoppage awoke the sleeper, and he struggled to rise.

“Hallo! What’s wrong? Where am I? Have the Redskins got hold o’ me at last?”

“Ay, that they have. At least one Red-skin has got you,” said Peter. “Have a care, man, don’t struggle so violently. Okématan won’t scalp you.”

The sound of his brother’s voice quieted Davidson, and at once restored his memory.

“Cast me loose, Peter,” he said; “you’re a good fellow. I see you have brought me along wi’ you, and I feel like a giant refreshed now, tho’ somewhat stiff. Have we come far?”

“I don’t know how far we’ve come, but I know that we’ve been pegging along the whole night, and that we must have breakfast before we take another step. It’s all very well for you, Dan, to lie there all night like a mere bag o’ pemmican enjoying yourself, but you must remember that your brother is mortal, and so are the dogs, to say nothing o’ the Red-skin.”

While he was speaking, the youth undid the fastenings, and set his brother free, but Dan was far too anxious to indulge in pleasantries just then. After surveying the landscape, and coming to a conclusion as to where they were, he took a hurried breakfast of dried meat—cold. The dogs were also treated to a hearty feed, and then, resuming the march, the rescuers pushed on with renewed vigour—Dan Davidson now beating the track, and thus rendering it more easy for those who came behind him.

All that day they pushed on almost without halt, and spent the next night in a clump of willows; but Dan was too anxious to take much rest. They rose at the first sign of daybreak, and pushed on at their utmost speed, until the poor dogs began to show signs of breaking down; but an extra hour of rest, and a full allowance of food kept them up to the mark, while calm weather and clear skies served to cheer them on their way.

Chapter Four.

Tells of Love, Duty, Starvation, and Murder.

Pushing on ahead of them, with that sometimes fatal facility peculiar to writers and readers, we will now visit the couple whom Dan and his party were so anxious to rescue.

A single glance at Elspie McKay would have been sufficient to account to most people for the desperate anxiety of Daniel Davidson to rescue her from death, for her pretty sparkling face and ever-varying expression were irresistibly suggestive of a soul full of sympathy and tender regard for the feelings of others.

Nut-brown hair, dark eyes, brilliant teeth, and many more charms that it would take too much time and room to record still further accounted for the desperate determination with which Dan had wooed and won her.

But to see this creature at her best, you had to see her doing the dutiful to her old father. If ever there was a peevish, cross-grained, crabbed, unreasonable old sinner in this world, that sinner was Duncan McKay, senior. He was a widower. Perhaps that accounted to some extent for his condition. That he should have a younger son—also named Duncan—a cross ne’er-do-weel like himself—was natural, but how he came to have such a sweet daughter as Elspie, and such a good elder son as Fergus, are mysteries which we do not attempt to unravel or explain. Perhaps these two took after their departed mother. We know not, for we never met her. Certain it is that they did not in the least resemble their undeparted father—except in looks, for McKay senior had been a handsome man, though at the time we introduce him his good looks, like his temper, had nearly fled, and he was considerably shrivelled up by age, hard work, and exposure. The poor man was too old to emigrate to a wilderness home when he had set out for the Red River Colony, and the unusual sufferings, disappointments, and hardships to which the first settlers were exposed had told heavily on even younger men than he.

Elspie’s love for her father was intense; her pity for him in his misfortunes was very tender; and, now that he was brought face to face with, perhaps, the greatest danger that had ever befallen him, her anxiety to relieve and comfort him was very touching. She seemed quite to forget herself, and the fact that she might perish on the bleak plains along with her father did not seem even to occur to her.

“It wass madness to come here, whatever,” said the poor old man, as he cowered over the small fire, which his son Fergus had kindled before leaving, and which Elspie had kept up with infinite labour and difficulty ever since.

The remark was made testily to himself, for Elspie had gone into the surrounding bush, axe in hand, to find, if possible, and cut down some more small pieces of firewood. When she returned with an armful of dry sticks, he repeated the sentiment still more testily, and added—“If it wass not for Tuncan, I would have been at home this night in my warm bed, wi’ a goot supper inside o’ me, instead o’ freezin’ an’ starvin’ oot here on the plain among the snow. It’s mischief that boy wass always after from the tay he wass born.”

“But you know that poor Duncan could not guess we were to have such awful weather, or that the buffalo would be so scarce. Come now, dear daddy,” said the cheery girl, as she heaped on wood and made a blaze that revived the old man, “I’ll warm up some more of the tea. There’s a very little left—and—and—it surely won’t be long till God sends Daniel and Fergus back to us with food.”

Old McKay was somewhat mollified by her manner, or by the fire, or by the prospect of relief held out, for his tone improved decidedly.

“Try the bag again, lass,” he said, “maybe you’ll find a crumb or two in the corners yet. It will do no harm to try.”

Obediently poor Elspie tried, but shook her head as she did so.

“There’s nothing there, daddy. I turned it inside out last time.”

“Wow! but it’s ill to bear!” exclaimed old Duncan, with a half-suppressed groan.

Meanwhile his daughter put the tin kettle on the fire and prepared their last cup of tea. When it was ready she looked up with a peculiar expression on her face, as she drew something from her pocket.

“Look here, daddy,” she said, holding up a bit of pemmican about the size of a hen’s egg.

The old man snatched it from her, and, biting off a piece, began to chew with a sort of wolfish voracity.

“I reserved it till now,” said the girl, “for I knew that this being the second night, you would find it impossible to get to sleep at all without something in you, however small. If you manage to sleep on this and the cup of hot tea, you’ll maybe rest well till morning—and then—”

“God forgive me!” exclaimed the old man, suddenly pausing, as he was about to thrust the last morsel into his mouth; “hunger makes me selfish. I wass forgettin’ that you are starvin’ too, my tear. Open your mouth.”

“No, father, I don’t want it. I really don’t feel hungry.”

“Elspie, my shild,” said old Duncan, in a tone of stern remonstrance, “when wass it that you began to tell lies?”

“I’m telling the truth, daddy. I did feel hungry yesterday, but that has passed away, and to-day I feel only a little faint.”

“Open your mouth, I’m tellin’ you,” repeated old Duncan in a tone of command which long experience had taught Elspie promptly to obey. She received the morsel, ate it with much relish, and wished earnestly for more.

“Now, you’ll lie down and go to sleep,” she said, after her father had washed down the last morsel of food with the last cup of hot tea, “and I’ll gather a few more sticks to keep the fire going till morning. I think it is not so cold as it was, and the wind is quite gone. They have been away five days now, or more. I think that God, in His mercy, will send us relief in the morning.”

“You are a goot lass, my tear,” said the old man, allowing himself to be made as comfortable as it was in his daughter’s power to accomplish; “what you say is ferry true. The weather feels warmer, and the wind is down. Perhaps they will find us in the mornin’. Goot-night, my tear.”

It was one of the characteristics of this testy old man, that he believed it quite possible for a human being to get on quite well enough in this world without any distinct recognition of his Maker.

Once, in conversation with his youngest son and namesake Duncan junior, he had somehow got upon this subject, not by any means in a reverential, but in an argumentative, controversial spirit, and had expressed the opinion that as man knew nothing whatever about God, and had no means of finding out anything about Him, there was no need to trouble one’s head about Him at all.

“I just go about my work, Tuncan,” he said, “an’ leave preachin’ an’ prayin’ an’ psalm-singin’ to them that likes it. There’s Elspie, now. She believes in God, an’ likes goin’ to churches an’ meetin’s, an’ that seems to make her happy. Ferry goot—I don’t pelieve in these things, an’ I think I’m as happy as hersel’.”

“Humph!” grunted the son in a tone of unconcealed contempt; “if ye are as happy as hersel’, faither, yer looks give the lie to your condeetion, whatever. An’ there’s this great dufference between you an’ her, that she’s not only happy hersel’, but she does her best to mak other folk happy—but you, wi’ your girnin’ an’ snappin’, are always doin’ the best ye can to mak everybody aboot ye meeserable.”

“Tuncan,” retorted the sire, with solemn candour, “it iss the same compliment I can return to yoursel’ with interest, my boy—whatever.”

With such sentiments, then, it is not remarkable that Duncan McKay senior turned over to sleep as he best could without looking to a higher source than earth afforded for help in his extremity. Happily his daughter was actuated by a better spirit, and when she at last lay down on her pile of brushwood, with her feet towards the fire, and her head on a buffalo robe, the fact of her having previously committed herself and her father to God made her sleep all the sounder.

In another clump of wood not many miles distant from the spot where the father and daughter lay, two hunters were encamped. One was Duncan McKay, to whom we have just referred as being in discord with his father. The other was a Canadian named Henri Perrin.

Both men were gaunt and weakened by famine. They had just returned to camp from an unsuccessful hunt, and the latter, being first to return, had kindled the fire, and was about to put on the kettle when McKay came in.

“I’ve seen nothing,” remarked McKay as he flung down his gun and then flung himself beside it. “Did you see anything?”

“No, nothing,” answered Perrin, breaking off a piece of pemmican and putting it into the pot.

“How much is left?” asked McKay.

“Hardly enough for two days—for the two of us; four days perhaps for one!” answered the other.

McKay looked up quickly, but the Canadian was gazing abstractedly into the pot. Apparently his remark had no significance. But McKay did not think so. Since arriving in the colony he had seen and heard much about deception and crime among both Indians and half-breeds. Being suspicious by nature, he became alarmed, for it was evident enough, as Perrin had said, that food to last two men for three days would last one man for six, and the one who should possess six days’ provisions might hope to reach the Settlement alive, even though weakened by previous starvation.

The dark expression which had procured for Duncan McKay junior the sobriquet of Cloudbrow from La Certe and his wife, deepened visibly as these thoughts troubled his brain, and for some time he sat gazing at the fire in profound abstraction.

Young McKay was not by any means one of the most depraved of men, but when a man is devoid of principle it only requires temptation strong enough, and opportunity convenient, to sink him suddenly to the lowest depths. Starvation had so far weakened the physique of the hunters that it was obviously impossible for both of them to reach the Settlement on two days’ short allowance of food. The buffalo had been driven away from that neighbourhood by the recent storm, and the hope of again falling in with them was now gone. The starving hunters, as we have said, had broken up camp, and were scattered over the plains no one could tell where. To find them might take days, if not weeks; and, even if successful, of what avail would it be to discover groups of men who were in the same predicament with themselves? To remain where they were was certain and not far-distant death! The situation was desperate, and each knew it to be so. Yet each did not take it in the same way. McKay, as we have said, became abstracted and slightly nervous. The Canadian, whatever his thoughts, was calm and collected, and went about his culinary operations as if he were quite at ease. He was about to lift the pot off the hook that suspended it over the fire, when his companion quietly, and as if without any definite purpose, took up his gun.

Perrin observed the action, and quickly reached out his hand towards his own weapon, which lay on the ground beside him.

Quick as lightning McKay raised his gun and fired. Next moment his comrade lay dead upon the ground—shot through the heart!

Horror-struck at what he had done, the murderer could scarcely believe his eyes, and he stood up glaring at the corpse as if he had been frozen to death in that position. After standing a long time, he sat down and tried to think of his act and the probable consequences.

Self-defence was the first idea that was suggested clearly to him; and he clung to it as a drowning man is said to cling to a straw. “Was it not clear,” he thought, “that Perrin intended to murder me? If not, why so quick to grip his gun? If I had waited it would have been me, not Perrin, that would be lying there now!”

His memory reminded him faithfully, however, that when he first thought of taking up his gun, Conscience had sternly said,—“Don’t.” Why should Conscience have spoken thus, or at all, if his motive had been innocent?

There are two ways in which a wicked man gets rid of conscientious troubles—at least for a time. One way is by stout-hearted defiance of God, and ignoring of Conscience altogether. The other is by sophistical reasoning, and a more or less successful effort to throw dust in his own eyes.

Duncan McKay took the latter method. It is an easy enough method—especially with the illogical—but it works indifferently, and it does not last long.

Conscience may be seared; may be ignored; may be trampled on, but it cannot be killed; it cannot even be weakened and is ever ready at the most unseasonable and unexpected times to start up, vigorous and faithful to the very end, with its emphatic “Don’t!” and “No!”

Dragging the body out of the camp, McKay returned to take his supper and reason the matter out with himself.

“I could not help myself,” he thought; “when I took up my gun I did not intend to kill the man.”

Conscience again reminded him of its “Don’t!”

“And would not every man in Rud Ruver justify me for firing first in self-defence?”

Conscience again said “No!”

Here the hunter uttered a savage oath, to which Conscience made no reply, for Conscience never speaks back or engages in disputation.

We need not attempt further to analyse the workings of sophistry in the brain of a murderer. Suffice it to say that when the man had finished his supper he had completely, though not satisfactorily, justified himself in his own eyes. There was, he felt, a disagreeable undercurrent of uneasiness; but this might have been the result of fear as to how the Canadian half-breeds and friends of the slain man would regard the matter in the event of its being found out.

There was reason for anxiety on this head, for poor Perrin was a great favourite among his comrades, while Cloudbrow was very much the reverse.

Having finished the supper which he had purchased at such a terrible price, the young man gathered his things together, packed the provisions on his back, put on his snow-shoes and left the scene of the murder.

Although a dark night, there was sufficient moon-light to enable him to pick his steps, but he had not advanced more than two miles when he came upon the track of a party that had preceded him. This rendered the walking more easy, and as he plodded along he reflected that the wolves would soon find Perrin’s body, and, by tearing it to pieces render recognition of the victim impossible.

Suddenly it occurred to him that if any of the scattered band of hunters should come on the camp before the wolves had time to do their work, the print of his snow-shoes might tell a tale—for snowshoes were of various shapes and sizes, and most of his companions in the Settlement might be pretty well acquainted with the shape of his. The danger of such a contretemps was not great, but, to make quite sure that it should not occur, he turned round and walked straight back on his track to the camp he had just left—thus obliterating, or, rather, confusing the track, so as to render recognition improbable. As he walked over it a third time, in resuming his march to the Settlement, all danger on this ground, he considered, was effectually counteracted. Of course, when he reached the tracks of the party before mentioned, all trace of his own track was necessarily lost among these.

That “murder will out” is supposed to be an unquestionable truism. We nevertheless question it very much; for, while the thousands of cases of murder that have been discovered are obvious, the vast number, it may be, that have never been found out are not obvious, however probable.

The case we are now describing seemed likely to belong to the class which remains a mystery till altogether forgotten. Nevertheless Nemesis was on the wing.

While Duncan McKay junior was thus pushing his way over the plains in the direction of Red River Settlement, two poor half-breed women were toiling slowly over the same plains behind him, bound for the same haven of hoped-for and much-needed rest and refreshment. The poor creatures had been recently made widows. The husband of one, Louis Blanc, had been killed by Indians during this hunt; that of the other, Antoine Pierre, had met his death by being thrown from his horse when running the buffalo. Both women were in better condition than many of the other hunters’ wives, for they had started on the homeward journey with a better supply of meat, which had not yet been exhausted.

It happened that Marie Blanc and Annette Pierre came upon McKay’s camp soon after he left it the second time. Here they prepared to spend the night, but, on discovering marks of fresh blood about, they made a search, and soon came on the unburied corpse of the murdered man, lying behind a bush. They recognised it at once, for Perrin had been well-known, as well as much liked, in the Settlement.

Neither of the women was demonstrative. They did not express much feeling, though they were undoubtedly shocked; but they dug a hole in the snow with their snow-shoes, and buried the body of the hunter therein—having first carefully examined the wound in his breast, and removed the poor man’s coat, which exhibited a burnt hole in front, as well as a hole in the back, for the bullet had gone quite through him.

Then they returned to the camp, and made a careful examination of it; but nothing was found there which could throw light on the subject of who was the murderer. Whether a comrade or an Indian had done the deed there was nothing to show; but that a murder had been committed they could not doubt, for it was physically almost impossible that a man could have shot himself in the chest, either by accident or intention, with one of the long-barrelled trading guns in use among the buffalo-hunters.

Another point, justifying the supposition of foul play, was the significant fact that Perrin’s gun, with his name rudely carved on the stock, still lay in the camp undischarged.

“See—here is something,” said one woman to the other in the Cree tongue, as they were about to quit the camp.

She held up a knife which she had found half buried near the fire.

“It is not a common scalping-knife,” said the other woman. “It is the knife of a settler.”

The weapon in question was one of the large sheath-knives which many of the recently arrived settlers had brought with them from their native land. Most of these differed a little in size and form from each other, but all of them were very different from the ordinary scalping-knives supplied by the fur-traders to the half-breeds and Indians.

“I see no name on it—no mark,” said the woman who found it, after a critical inspection. Her companion examined it with equal care and similar result.

The two women had at first intended to encamp at this spot, but now they determined to push forward to the Settlement as fast as their exhausted condition permitted, carrying the knife, with the coat and gun of the murdered man, along with them.

Chapter Five.

Saved.

Duncan McKay senior was dreaming of, and gloating over, the flesh-pots of Red River, and his amiable daughter was rambling over the green carpet of the summer prairies, when the sun arose and shone upon the bushes which surrounded their winter camp—Starvation Camp, as the old man had styled it.

There is no saying how long Duncan would have gloated, and the fair Elspie wandered, if a hair of the buffalo robe on which the former lay had not entered his nostril, and caused him to sneeze.

Old McKay’s sneeze was something to be remembered when once heard. Indeed it was something that could not be forgotten! From the profoundest depths of his person it seemed to burst, and how his nose sustained the strain without splitting has remained one of the mysteries of the Nor’-West unto this day. It acted like an electric shock on Elspie, who sat bolt upright at once with a scared look that was quite in keeping with her tousled hair.

“Oh! daddy, what a fright you gave me!” Elspie said, remonstratively.

“It iss goot seventeen years an’ more that you hev had to get used to it, whatever,” growled the old man. “I suppose we’ve got nothin’ for breakfast?”

He raised himself slowly, and gazed at Elspie with a disconsolate expression.

“Nothing,” returned the girl with a look of profound woe.

It is said that when things are at the worst they are sure to mend. It may be so: the sayings of man are sometimes true. Whether or not the circumstances of Elspie and old McKay were at the worst is an open question; but there can be no doubt that they began to mend just about that time, for the girl had not quite got rid of her disconsolate feelings when the faint but merry tinkle of sleigh-bells was heard in the frosty air.

The startled look of sudden surprise and profound attention is interesting to behold, whether in old or young. It is a condition of being that utterly blots out self for a brief moment in the person affected, and allows the mind and frame for once to have free unconscious play.

Elspie said, “Sh!—” and gazed aside with wide and lustrous eyes, head a little on one side, a hand and forefinger slightly raised, as if to enforce silence, and her graceful figure bent forward—a petrifaction of intensely attentive loveliness.

Old McKay said “Ho!” and, with both hands resting on the ground to prop him up, eyes and mouth wide open, and breath restrained, presented the very personification of petrified stupidity.

Another moment, and the sound became too distinct to admit of a doubt.

“Here they are at long last!” exclaimed the old man, rising with unwonted alacrity for his years.

“Thank God!” ejaculated Elspie, springing up and drawing a shawl round her shoulders, at the same time making some hasty and futile attempts to reduce the confusion of her hair.

It need scarcely be said that this was the arrival of the rescue-party of which Daniel Davidson was in command. Before the starving pair had time to get fairly on their legs, Daniel strode into the camp and seized Elspie in his arms.

We need not repeat what he said, for it was not meant to be made public, but no such reticence need trouble us in regard to old Duncan.

“Hoot! Taniel,” said he, somewhat peevishly, “keep your coortin’ till efter breakfast, man! It iss a wolf that will be livin’ inside o’ me for the last few tays—a hungry wolf too—an’ nothin’ for him to eat. That’s right, Okématan, on wi’ the kettle; it iss yourself that knows what it iss to starve. Blow up the fire, Peter Tavidson. You’re a cliver boy for your age, an’ hes goot lungs, I make no doubt.”

“That I have, Mr McKay, else I should not be here,” said the lad, laughing, as he knelt before the embers of the fire, and blew them into a blaze.

“Wow! Dan, hev ye not a pit pemmican handy?” asked McKay. “It iss little I care for cookin’ just now.”

“Here you are,” said Dan, taking a lump of the desired article from his wallet and handing it to the impatient man; at the same time giving a morsel to Elspie. “I knew you would want it in a hurry, and kept it handy. Where is Duncan? I thought he was with you.”

“So he wass, Taniel, when you left us to go to Rud Ruver, but my son Tuncan was never fond o’ stickin’ to his father. He left us, an’ no wan knows where he iss now. Starvin’, maybe, like the rest of us.”

“I hope not,” said Elspie, while her sire continued his breakfast with manifest satisfaction. “He went off to search for buffalo with Perrin and several others. They said they would return to us if they found anything. But, as they have not come back, we suppose they must have been unsuccessful. Did you meet any of the poor people on the way out, Dan?”

“Ay, we met some of them,” replied the hunter, in a sad tone. “All struggling to make their way back to the Settlement, and all more or less starving. We helped them what we could, but some were past help; and we came upon two or three that had fallen in their tracks and died in the snow. But we have roused the Settlement, and there are many rescue-parties out in all directions now, scouring the plains.”

“You hev stirred it enough, Okématan,” said old McKay, referring to the kettle of food which was being prepared. “Here, fill my pannikin: I can wait no longer.”

“Whenever you have finished breakfast we must start off home,” said Davidson, helping Elspie to some of the much-needed and not yet warmed soup, which was quickly made by mixing pemmican with flour and water. “I have brought two sleds, so that you and your father may ride, and we will carry the provisions. We never know when the gale may break out again.”

“Or when heavy snow may come on,” added Peter, who was by that time busy with his own breakfast.

Okématan occupied himself in stirring the contents of the large kettle, and occasionally devouring a mouthful of pemmican uncooked.

An hour later, and they were making for home almost as fast as the rescue-party had travelled out—the provisions transferred to the strong backs of their rescuers—old McKay and Elspie carefully wrapped up in furs, reposing on the two sledges.

Chapter Six.

Discord and Deceit, Etcetera.

It was found, on their arrival at the home of Duncan McKay senior, that Duncan junior had got there before them, he having been met and brought in by one of the settlers who had gone out with his cariole to do what he could for the hunters. The two women who discovered the body of Perrin, however, had not yet arrived, and nothing was known of the murder in the Settlement.

“It iss little troubled you wass, what came over us,” remarked old Duncan angrily, on entering his house, and finding his younger son engaged with a pipe beside the kitchen fire.

“An’ how could I know where you wass; efter I had been huntin’ for nothin’ for two days?” retorted his son. “Wass I to think you would be stoppin’ in the lame camp till you died? Wass it not more likely that some wan would find you an’ bring you in—as they did?”

“No thanks to you that they did, Tuncan, whatever. Where did you leave the other boys?”

“How should I know?” returned the son sharply; “they dropped off—wan here an’ wan there—sayin’ they would try for a buffalo in wan place or another, or, that they would rest awhile; an’ so I wass left by myself. I found it quite enough to look efter number wan.”

“It hes always been as much, that, as ye could manitch, Tuncan, even when things wass goin’ easy,” said the old man with a sarcastic laugh, that induced the young man to rise and quit the room.

He went towards a small shop, or store, as such places were styled in the Nor’-West. It fell to his lot in the family arrangements to look after and manage this store. Indeed the youth’s anxiety for the ease and comfort of “number wan” had induced him to select the post as being a part of the family duties that was peculiarly suited to himself.

On reaching the store he went straight to a large roll of Canadian twist tobacco, cut off a piece, refilled his pipe, and, sitting down on a bale began or, rather, continued to smoke. He had not been seated long when the door opened, and the head of a half-breed peeped cautiously in with an uncommonly sly look.

“That you, François La Certe?” said McKay rather sternly, for he knew the man well. “What iss it you will be wantin’ now?”

François wanted many things—things almost too numerous to mention; but, first, he would pay his debts to Cloudbrow.

“Come, that’s something new,” said McKay with a cynical laugh. “You must have come by a fortune, or committed a robbery before ye would be so honest. How much are you goin’ to pay?”

“The sledge that you lent me, I have brought back,” said the half-breed with a deprecatory air.

“So, you call returning a loan paying your debts?” said Duncan.

La Certe did not quite say that, but he thought it bore some resemblance to a payment to account, and at all events was proof of his good intentions.

“And on the strength of that you’ll want plenty more credit, I hev no doubt.”

“No—not plenty,” said La Certe, with the earnest air of a man who is exposing his whole soul to inspection, and who means to act this time with the strictest sincerity, to say nothing of honesty. “It is only a little that I want. Not much. Just enough to keep body and soul from sayin’ good-bye.”

“But you have not paid a fraction of your old debt. How will you be expectin’ to meet the new one?”

Oh! La Certe could easily explain that. He was going off immediately to hunt and trap, and would soon return with a heavy load, for there were plenty of animals about. Then in the spring, which was near at hand, he meant to fish, or go to the plains with the hunters, and return laden with bags of pemmican, bales of dried meat, and buffalo-robes enough to pay off all his debts, and leave something over to enable him to spend the winter in luxurious idleness.

“And you expect me to believe all that nonsense?” said McKay, sternly.

La Certe was hurt. Of course he expected to be believed! His feelings were injured, but he was of a forgiving disposition and would say no more about it. He had expected better treatment, however, from one who had known him so long.

“A trip to the plains requires more than powder and shot,” said the store-keeper; “where will you be goin’ to get a horse an’ cart? for you can hev mine no longer.”

“Dechamp, he promise to sole me a horse, an’ Mrs Davis’n will loan me a cart,” returned the half-breed, with lofty independence.

“Hm! an’ you will be returnin’ the cart an’ payin’ for the horse when the hunt is over, I suppose?”

Yes, that was exactly the idea that was in La Certe’s brain, and which, he hoped and fully expected, to reduce to practice in course of time—if Duncan McKay would only assist him by making him a few advances at that present time.

“Well, what do you want?” asked McKay, getting off the bath.

The half-breed wanted a good many things. As he was going off in the course of a few days, and might not be able to return for a long time, he might as well take with him even a few things that he did not absolutely need at the moment. Of course he wanted a good supply of powder, shot, and ball. Without that little or nothing could be done. Then a new axe, as his old one was much worn—the steel almost gone—and it was well-known that a trapper without an axe was a very helpless creature. A tin kettle was, of course, an absolute necessity; and the only one he possessed had a small hole in it. A few awls to enable him to mend his bark canoe when open water came, and a couple of steel traps, some gun-flints, and, O yes, he had almost forgotten a most essential thing—twine to make a net, and some fish-hooks.

“It iss a regular outfit you will be wanting,” remarked the store-keeper, as he handed over the various articles.

O no—not a regular one—only a very little one, considering the length of time he should be away, and the wealth with which he would return. But again he suddenly remembered that he had forgotten something else.

“Well, what iss it?”

Some glover’s needles and sinews for making leather coats and moccasins. Needles and thread and scissors, for it was quite clear that people could not live without suitable clothing. A new capote, also, and—and—a yard or two of scarlet cloth with a few beads.

As he made the last request, La Certe attempted to speak insinuatingly, and to look humble.

“Come, that iss pure extravagance,” said McKay, remonstrating.

La Certe could not, dare not, face his wife without these articles. He pleaded earnestly. “Slowfoot is so clever wi’ the needle,” he said. “See! she send you a pair of moccasins.”

The wily man here drew from the breast of his capote a pair of beautifully made moccasins, soft as chamois leather, and richly ornamented with dyed quills of the porcupine.

McKay laughed; nevertheless he swallowed the bait and was pleased. He finally handed the goods to La Certe, who, when he had obtained all that he could possibly squeeze out of the store-keeper, bundled up the whole, made many solemn protestations of gratitude and honest intentions, and went off to cheer Slowfoot with the news of his success.

It chanced that Antoine Dechamp, the very man about whom he had been talking to Duncan McKay, had dropped in to see him and his spouse, and was sitting beside the fire smoking when he entered. Displaying his possessions with much pride, he assured Dechamp that he had paid for the whole outfit, and meant to return in the spring a rich man with means enough to buy a horse and cart, and start with the buffalo-hunters for the plains.

“You have a horse to sell—they say?” he remarked to his friend in a careless way.

“Yes—and a good one too,” answered Dechamp.

“Well, if you will loan him to me in the spring, I will pay for him when I come back. It takes all I have to fit me out to start, you see.”

Dechamp did not quite see his way to that—but there was plenty of time to think over it!

“Have you heard,” said Dechamp, willing to change the subject, “there is some talk that Perrin has been killed? George McDermid was out, like many others, huntin’ about for the starvin’ people, an’ he came across the wives of Blanc and Pierre—poor things! they’re widows now, for Blanc and Pierre are both dead. Well, the women had well-nigh given in. I had dropped down, they were so tired, and were crawlin’ on their hands and knees when McDermid found them. I didn’t hear all the outs and ins of it, but there is no doubt that poor Perrin has been murdered, for he was shot right through the breast.”

“Perhaps he shot hisself,” suggested La Certe.

“No—that could not be, for the women have brought his coat, which shows that the ball went in at the breast and came straight out at the back. If he had shot himself he must have pulled the trigger with his toe, an’ then the ball would have slanted up from his breast to somewhere about his shoulders.”

“It was a Saulteaux, may be,” said Slowfoot, who had been listening with all the eagerness of a gossip.

“There were no marks of Redskins’ snow-shoes about,” returned Dechamp, “an’ the tracks were too confused to make them out. A knife was found, but there were no marks about it to tell who owned it—only it was a settler’s knife, but there are lots of them about, an’ many have changed hands since the settlers came.”

At the time we write of, the colony of Red River of the north was in a very unhappy and disorganised condition. There were laws indeed, but there was no authority or force sufficiently strong to apply the laws, and discord reigned because of the two great fur companies—the Hudson’s Bay, and the Nor’-West—which opposed each other with extreme bitterness, carrying fire-water, dissension, and disaster all over the wilderness of Rupert’s Land. Happily the two companies coalesced in the year 1821, and from that date, onward, comparative peace has reigned under the mild sway of the Hudson’s Bay Company.

But at the period which we describe the coalition had not taken place, and many of the functionaries of the Hudson’s Bay Company in Red River, from the Governor downward, seem to have been entirely demoralised, if we are to believe the reports of contemporary historians.

Some time previous to this, the Earl of Selkirk—chiefly from philanthropic views, it is said—resolved to send a colony to Red River. At different times bands of Scotch, Swiss, Danes, and others, made their appearance in the Settlement. They had been sent out by the agents of the Earl, but there was a great deal of mismanagement and misunderstanding, both as to the motives and intentions of the Earl. The result was that the half-breeds of Red River—influenced, it is said, by the Nor’-West Company—received the newcomers with suspicion and ill-will. The Indians followed the lead of the half-breeds, to whom they were allied. Not only was every sort of obstruction thrown in the way of the unfortunate immigrants, but more than once during those first years they were driven from the colony, and their homesteads were burned to the ground.

There must have been more than the usual spirit of indomitable resolution in those people, however, for notwithstanding all the opposition and hardship they had to endure, they returned again and again to their farms, rebuilt their dwellings, cultivated their fields, and, so to speak, compelled prosperity to smile on them—and that, too, although several times the powers of Nature, in the shape of grass hoppers and disastrous floods, seemed to league with men in seeking their destruction.

Perhaps the Scottish element among the immigrants had much to do with this resolute perseverance. Possibly the religious element in the Scotch had more to do with it still.

The disastrous winter which we have slightly sketched was one of the many troubles with which not only the newcomers, but all parties in the colony, were at this time afflicted.

Chapter Seven.

Vixen Delivered and Wolves Defeated.

With much labour and skill had the Davidsons and McKays erected two timber cottages side by side in the land of their adoption.

These two families were among the first band of settlers. They were very different in character—one being Highland, the other Lowland Scotch, but they were more or less united by sympathy, intermarriage, and long residence beside each other on the slopes of the Grampian Hills, so that, on the voyage out, they made a compact that they should stick by each other, and strive, and work, and fight the battle of life together in the new land.

All the members of the Davidson family were sterling, sedate, hearty, and thorough-going. Daniel and Peter were what men style “dependable” fellows, and bore strong resemblance to their father, who died almost immediately after their arrival in the new country. Little Jessie was like her mother, a sort of bottomless well of sympathy, into which oceans of joy or sorrow might be poured without causing an overflow—except, perchance, at the eyelids—and out of which the waters of consolation might be pumped for evermore without pumping dry. The idea of self never suggested itself in the presence of these two. The consequence was that everybody adored them. It was rather a selfish adoration, we fear, nevertheless it was extremely delightful—to the adorers, we mean—and doubtless not unpleasant to the adored.

The love of God, in Christ, was the foundation of their characters.

Of the McKay family we cannot speak so confidently. Elspie, indeed, was all that could be desired, and Fergus was in all respects a sterling man; but the head of the family was, as we have seen, open to improvement in many respects, and Duncan junior was of that heart-breaking character which is known as ne’er-do-weel. Possibly, if differently treated by his father, he might have been a better man. As it was, he was unprincipled and hasty of temper.

Little wonder that, when thrown together during a long voyage—to an almost unknown land—Elspie McKay and Daniel Davidson should fall into that condition which is common to all mankind, and less wonder that, being a daring youth with a resolute will, Daniel should manage to induce the pliant, loving Elspie, to plight her troth while they were gazing over the ship’s side at the first iceberg they met. We may as well hark back here a little, and very briefly sketch the incident. It may serve as a guide to others.

The two were standing—according to the report of the bo’s’n, who witnessed the whole affair—“abaft the main shrouds squintin’ over the weather gangway.” We are not quite sure of the exact words used by that discreditable bo’s’n, but these are something like them. It was moon-light and dead calm; therefore propitious, so far, to Daniel’s design—for Daniel undoubtedly had a design that night, obvious to his own mind, and clearly defined like the great iceberg, though, like it too, somewhat hazy in detail.

“What a glorious, magnificent object!” exclaimed Elspie, gazing in wonder at the berg, the pinnacles of which rose considerably above the mast-head.

“Yes, very glorious, very magnificent!” said Daniel, gazing into the maiden’s eyes, and utterly regardless of the berg.

“I wonder how such a huge mass ever manages to melt,” said Elspie—for the human mind, even in pretty girls, is discursive.

“I wonder it does not melt at once,” said Dan, with pointed emphasis.

“What do you mean?” she asked, turning her eyes in considerable astonishment from the berg to the man.

“I mean,” said he, “that under the influence of your eyes the iceberg ought to melt straight away. They have melted my heart, Elspie, and That has been an iceberg, I find, till now.”

He seized her hand. It had all come on so suddenly that poor Elspie was quite unprepared for it. She turned as if to fly, but Daniel put his arm round her waist and detained her.

“Elspie, dearest Elspie, it must be settled now—or—.” He would not—could not—say “never.”

“O Daniel, don’t!” entreated Elspie.

But Daniel did.

“Bray-vo!” exclaimed the bo’s’n with enthusiasm, for he was a sympathetic man, though unprincipled in the matter of eavesdropping.

That cut it short. They retired precipitately from the weather gangway abaft the main shrouds, and sought refuge in a sequestered nook near the companion-hatch, which was, in name as well as in every other way, much more suited to their circumstances. The steersman had his eye on them there, but they fortunately did not know it.

Apologising for this reminiscence, we return to the thread of our story.

Mrs Davidson was seated at breakfast one morning, with all her family around her in Prairie Cottage. She had named it thus because, from one of the windows, there was to be had a peep of the prairies lying beyond the bushes by which it was surrounded.

Old McKay had named his cottage Ben Nevis, either because the country around was as flat as a pancake, or out of sheer contradictiousness.

“Have they found out anything more about the murder of that poor fellow Perrin?” asked Mrs Davidson. “More than four months have passed since it happened.”

“Nothing more, mother,” said Dan, who now filled his father’s chair. “As you say, four months have passed, and one would think that was time enough to discover the murderer, but, you see, it is nobody’s business in particular, and we’ve no regular police, and everybody is far too busy just now to think about it. In fact, not many people in these parts care much about a murder, I fear.”

“Ah if they went to see Perrin’s old mother,” said Jessie, “it would oblige them to care a great deal, for he was her only son.”

“Ay, her only child!” added Mrs Davidson.

While she was yet speaking, it so happened that Duncan McKay junior himself entered the room, with that over-done free-and-easiness which sometimes characterises a man who is ill at ease.

“Whose only child are you speaking about, Mrs Davidson?” he asked carelessly.

“Mrs Perrin’s,” she replied, with a familiar nod to the visitor, who often dropped in on them casually in this way.

The reply was so unexpected and sudden, that McKay could not avoid a slight start and a peculiar expression, in spite of his usual self-command. He glanced quickly at Dan and Peter, but they were busy with their food, and had apparently not noticed the guilty signs.

“Ah, poor thing,” returned the youth, in his cynical and somewhat nasal tone, “it iss hard on her. By the way, Dan, hev ye heard that the wolves hev killed two or three of McDermid’s horses that had strayed out on the plains, and Elspie’s mare Vixen iss out too. Some of us will be going to seek for her. The day bein’ warm an’ the snow soft, we hev a good chance of killin’ some o’ the wolves. I thought Peter might like to go too.”

“So Peter does,” said the youth, rising and brushing the crumbs off his knees: “there’s nothing I like better than to hunt down these sneaking, murderous brutes that are so ready to spring suddenly unawares on friend or foe.”

Again Duncan McKay cast a quick inquiring glance at Peter, but the lad was evidently innocent of any double meaning. It was only a movement, within the man-slayer, of that conscience which “makes cowards of us all.”

“Louise!” shouted Dan, as he also rose from the table.

“Oui, monsieur,” came, in polite deferential tones, from the culinary department, and the little half-breed maiden appeared at the door.

“Did you mend that shot-bag last night?”

“Oui, monsieur.”

“Fetch it here, then, please; and, Jessie, stir your stumps like a good girl, and get some food ready to take with us.”

“Will you tell me the precise way in which good girls stir their stumps?” asked Jessie; “for I’m not quite sure.”

Dan answered with a laugh, and went out to saddle his horse, followed by his brother and Duncan McKay.

“Rescuing seems to be the order of the day this year,” remarked Peter, as they walked towards the stable behind the cottage. “We’ve had a good deal of rescuing men in the winter, and now we are goin’ to rescue horses.”

“Rescuing is the grandest work that a fellow can undertake,” said Dan, “whether it be the body from death or the soul from sin.”

“What you say iss true—whatever,” remarked McKay, whose speech, although not so broad as that of his father, was tinged with similar characteristics. “It will be better to rescue than to kill.”

This was so obvious a truism that his companions laughed, but Duncan had uttered it almost as a soliloquy, for he was thinking at the moment of poor Perrin, whose body had long since been brought to the Settlement and buried. Indeed thoughts of the murdered man were seldom out of his mind.

Meanwhile, far out on the lonesome and still snow-covered prairie the steed which they were going to rescue stood on a low mound or undulation of the plain surrounded by wolves. It was a pitiful sight to see the noble mare, almost worn-out with watching and defending herself, while the pack of those sneaking hounds of the wilderness sat or stood around her licking their chops and patiently biding their time.

They formed a lean, gaunt, savage-looking crew, as they sat there, calculating, apparently, how long their victim’s strength would hold out, and when it would be safe to make a united and cowardly rush.

One wolf, more gaunt and rugged and grey than the others, with black lips and red tongue and bloodshot eyes, moved about the circle uneasily as if trying to screw up its craven spirit to the sticking point. The others evidently regarded this one as their leader, for they hung back from him a little, and kept a watchful eye on his movements. So did Vixen, the mare. She kept her tail always turned towards him, looking savagely back at him with her great eyes glittering, her ears laid flat, and her heels ready.

Poor Vixen! Elspie had given her the name when in a facetious frame of mind, as being descriptive of the very opposite of her character, for she was gentle as a lamb, tender in the mouth, playful in her moods, and sensitive to a degree both in body and spirit. No curb was ever needed to restrain Vixen, nor spur to urge her on. A chirp sent an electric thrill through her handsome frame; a “Quiet, Vic!” sufficed to calm her to absolute docility. Any child could have reined her in, and she went with springy elasticity as though her limbs were made of vivified steel and indiarubber. But she was getting old, and somehow the wolves seemed to be aware of that melancholy fact. They would not have troubled her in the heyday of her youth!

An impatient howl from one of the pack seemed to insinuate that the grey old leader was a coward. So he was, but evidently he did not relish being told so, for he uncovered his glittering fangs and made a sudden dash at the mare.

With a whisk of the tail worthy of her best days, she lashed out behind and planted both her pretty little feet on the ribs of the grey chief with such a portentous whack that he succumbed at once. With a gasp, and a long-drawn wail, he sank dead upon the snow; whereupon his amiable friends—when quite sure of his demise—tore him limb from limb and devoured him.

This was a fortunate respite for Vixen, most of whose remaining strength and pluck had been thrown into that magnificent fling. Old Duncan, had he seen it, would probably have styled it a “goot Highland fling.”

But the respite was not of long duration. Their leader formed but a mouthful to each of the pack.

When done, they returned to encircle their victim again, lick their chops, and wait.

Evening was drawing on, and a sort of grey desolation seemed to be creeping over the plains.

A decided thaw had been operating all that day, rendering the snow soft. If the mare had only known the advantage thus given to her, a successful effort at escape might have been made. When snow on the prairie is frozen with a hard crust on the surface, the light wolf can run easily on the top of it, while the heavy horse breaks through at every stride and is soon knocked up. The case is reversed when a thaw softens the surface, for then the short-legged wolf flounders helplessly in its depths, while the long-limbed and powerful horse can gallop through it with comparative ease. But the good mare, intelligent though she was, did not consider this fact, and the wolves, you may be sure, did not enlighten her. Besides, by that time she was well-nigh worn-out, and could not have made a vigorous run for life even over a good course.

Gradually, a worthy lieutenant of the old grey chief began to show symptoms of impatience, and the hungry circle closed in. Vixen looked up and whinnied slightly. It seemed a pitiful appeal for help from the human friends who had cared for her so well and so long. Perchance it was the last wail of despair—a final farewell to the green fields and the flowering plains of memory.

Whatever it was, an answer came in the form of several dark specks on the horizon. Vixen saw them, and whinnied again in a decidedly different tone. The wolves also saw them, and moved about uneasily.

On came the black specks, increasing in size as they drew near. The wolves looked at each other inquiringly, moved still more uneasily, appeared to hold a consultation, and finally drew off to a neighbouring knoll, as if to await the result of this unlooked-for interruption, and return to business when it was past.

The intelligence of the lower animals is great—in some cases very great—but it does not amount to reason. If it did, those wolves would not have sat there, in the pride of physical strength and personal freedom, calmly awaiting their doom, while Daniel and Peter Davidson, Duncan McKay junior, Okématan the Cree Indian, another Indian named Kateegoose, and Jacques Bourassin, a half-breed, came thundering down towards them like infuriated centaurs.

At last they seemed to realise the truth that “discretion is the better part of valour,” and began to retire from the scene—slowly at first.

Vixen, recognising friends, trotted off with reviving strength, and a high head and tail to meet them. Seeing this, Dan, who led the party, drew rein so as to allow the steeds to recover breath before the final burst.

The wolves, with that presumption which is usually found to be the handmaid of ignorance, halted, and sat down again to watch the progress of events. Fatal self-confidence! They little knew the deep duplicity of man!

“O you stupid brutes!” murmured Dan to himself, advancing in a somewhat sidling manner as if he meant to pass them. They evidently believed this to be his intention until they saw the six horsemen turn their steeds straight in their direction and charge them at full gallop with a yell that drove rapid conviction to their brains.

Then, with tails between legs and ears flat they fled. But it was too late. The horses scattered the soft snow with comparative ease. The wolves plunged through it with difficulty. First to overtake them was Peter Davidson. He put the muzzle of his gun to the side of the grey lieutenant, and shot him through the heart. His brother Dan, selecting another of the pack, pointed at the ear and blew out its brains. Okématan, partial to the weapons of his forefathers, sent an arrow through the ribs of a third, while Kateegoose transfixed a fourth. Duncan McKay shot a fifth, and Bourassin knocked over a sixth at comparatively long range, his horse being too poor or too tired to come fairly up with the pack.

There was no wasting of powder, shot, or shaft in this affair. Each man was an expert with his weapon, and cool as the proverbial cucumber, though considerably excited. Loading as they ran, they fitted and shot again, stretching six more of the enemy on the plain. Then they pulled up and suffered the rest to escape, being afraid to leave Vixen out of sight behind them, for that happy creature, following and enjoying the sport as long as she could, found that her powers were too much exhausted to permit of her keeping up with the chase.

“She’s not fit to travel another mile,” said Dan, stroking her glossy neck and allowing her to rub her nose affectionately on his shoulder.

“That iss true, whatever,” assented Duncan. “I think we could not do better than camp on the nearest bluff.”

This was agreed to by all. Provision for one meal, it will be remembered, had been prepared at Prairie Cottage in the morning. A hunter’s meal, when properly divided, makes two or three average meals, and a hunter’s powers of endurance are proverbial. Each man had his blanket strapped to his saddle. Branches of various kinds of trees make a good mattress, and the air of the prairie is well-known to conduce to appetite and slumber.

With such environment it is scarcely necessary to add that the hunters enjoyed themselves, and that Vixen had a restful night, probably without even a dream about hungry wolves.

Chapter Eight.

Stirring Events Described.

The proverbial slip ’twixt the cup and the lip, and the well-known uncertainty of all human affairs, received striking illustration in the person and prospects of our hero, Daniel Davidson, not long after the events narrated in the last chapter.

Up to this period the unfortunate colonists of the Red River Settlement had led a life chiefly of disappointment and disaster. Although everything had been done for them by their patron the Earl of Selkirk with the best intentions, the carrying out of his plans had been frustrated by the feuds of the rival fur companies, the misunderstandings and the jealousies of Indians and half-breeds, and, to some extent, by the severity of the climate. An open rupture took place between them and the North-westers. Encounters between the contending parties occurred, in which several on both sides were killed, and at last the North-Westers, attacking the settlers in force, drove them from the colony and burnt their dwellings and homesteads.

Retreating to the north end of Lake Winnipeg, the colonists found refuge at Jack River—three hundred miles distant. From this place they were ultimately recalled by the Hudson’s Bay Company, which took them under its protection. Returning to Red River, the unfortunate but persevering people proceeded to resume their farming operations. But the prospect before them was gloomy enough. The lawless proceedings of the rival companies had convulsed the whole Indian country, and the evil seemed to culminate in the Red River Colony, to which retired servants of the fur-traders, voyageurs, adventurers, and idlers gravitated as to a centre; so that there was little prospect of their being allowed to prosecute their agricultural operations in peace.

The dissensions at last became so great that a large proportion of the new settlers, including many of the Scotch Highlanders, dispersed to seek a precarious livelihood among the Indians, on the prairies bordering the waters of the Missouri, or to sustain themselves and their families by fishing in the distant lakes, and hunting on their shores.

On the advent of spring, however, most of these returned to the colony, with renewed hope in agriculture, and set to work—every man, woman, and child—to get some seed into the ground.

But at this point an event occurred which threw the colony into great consternation, and induced vigorous action on the part of Lord Selkirk, which was the first step towards more peaceful times.

The North-West party, consisting chiefly of half-breeds, had augmented to upwards of three hundred warriors. It would be more correct, perhaps, to style them banditti; for they had penetrated through every part of Rupert’s Land, set law at defiance, pillaged and destroyed many of the establishments of their rivals, and kept the whole country in a state of ferment and alarm.

One band of these men, numbering between sixty and seventy, advanced upon Red River Colony. They were a motley crew, all mounted on horseback and armed with guns, spears, tomahawks, bows, and scalping-knives, besides which they were painted and plumed à la sauvage, and were in the habit when rushing to battle, of yelling like the Red-men whose blood mingled with that of the White-man in their veins.

What was the precise intention of these men at this time it is difficult to say, but it was not difficult to see that peace was not their object.

Governor Semple, of the Hudson’s Bay Company, a mild, just, and much respected man, was in charge of the colony at the time.

Daniel Davidson was engaged in a very important conversation with old Duncan McKay at the time the formidable troop of North-Westers swept through the settlements. The old man was seated in the hall, parlour, drawing-room—or whatever you choose to call it—of Ben Nevis House. It was an uncarpeted, unpainted, unadorned room with pine plank flooring, plank walls, a plank ceiling, a plank table, and a set of plank chairs. Ornament was dispensed with in the hall of Ben Nevis House; for although Elspie would fain have clothed it with a little feminine grace, its proprietor would not hear of such proposals.

“Stick as many gimcracks as you like about your own room, Elspie,” he had remarked when the first attempt was made, “but leave me my hall in peace. It iss quite pleased with it I am as it iss.”

Opposite the door of the hall there was a large open fireplace without a grate. Doors all round the walls of the hall opened into the other rooms of the establishment. Above what would have been the mantelpiece, had one existed, there was a row of tobacco pipes. Old Duncan was a great smoker. Indeed he would have been almost unrecognisable without his pipe. He was smoking when Daniel Davidson visited him, in order to hold the very important conversation to which we have referred.

“It iss as you say, Taniel,” remarked the old man, frowning at his pipe, which was not drawing properly. “Marrit life iss more to be desired than single blessedness, whatever, an’ it is a my opeenion that you will do more work with Elspie helpin’ you, than by yourself. When iss it you will be wantin’ to call me your father?”

The old man asked the question with a somewhat humorous smile, for he was, to say truth, not a little proud of the staid, sensible, and strong young fellow who aspired to his daughter’s hand—besides, the pipe was drawing well by that time.

“As soon as you like,” answered Dan, “or, rather, as soon as Elspie likes. You see, things are beginning to look a little more hopeful now. People who seem to know best—or seem to think they do—tell us that the Nor’-Westers are beginning to see that a colony here won’t interfere in any way with their business; a good deal of seed has been sown, and, if all goes well, we may look for a better year than we have yet had; therefore I don’t see why we should wait any longer.”

“Your observations are ferry true. There iss just wan little word you mention that requires consideration,” returned the old man with a brow wrinkled so as to suggest profound sagacity of thought. “You said ‘if all goes well.’ But supposin’, for the sake of argument, that all does not go well—what then?”

“Why, then,” answered the young man with a laugh, “we shall be no worse off than other people, who have to make the best of things as they find them.”

“No doubt—no doubt—that iss the true an’ pheelosophical way to look at the matter. But don’t you think, Taniel, that it would be as well to putt off till our munister arrives? I would not be havin’ my daughter marrit without a munister if I can help it. An’ you know his Lordship has promised more than wance to send us wan. He will not be long o’ coming now.”

“Yes, a minister has been promised again an’ again,” returned Dan, somewhat bitterly, “an’ I suppose he will go on promising again and over again, but I have not much faith in these promises. The Earl has too many agents who are not as true as himself. I would rather not delay my marriage on that account. What ails you at Mr Sutherland?”

“Well, Taniel, I hev nothing to say against Muster Sutherland. He iss a ferry goot man—I will not be denyin’ that, but—he iss not an ordained munister.”

“What of that?” retorted Dan. “He is an ordained elder of the Church of Scotland, and that is much the same thing. And he is a good, Christian man, respected by every one in the Settlement.”

“Well, well, Taniel; hev it your own way,” returned old Duncan with a resigned look. “Of course, it would have been pleesanter if he had been a regular munister, whatever; but, as you say, my boy, ‘what of that?’ So, as things look a little more peaceable than they wass—though not ferry much—I will be—”

He was interrupted at this point by the sudden entrance of Jacques Bourassin with the astounding intelligence that a band of North-Westers had gone up the Settlement to attack Fort Garry.

“Hoot! nonsense, man!” exclaimed old McKay, starting up and flinging his pipe away in the excitement of the moment.

“No—not nonsense!” said Bourassin in broken English; “it be true. I knows it. I come to say that we go to the fort to help them.”

“Right, boy, right!” exclaimed the old man, hastily belting on his capote. “Fergus! Tuncan!—Elspie! where are these boys?”

“In the stable, father. I saw them just—”

“Let them saddle all the nags—quick,” cried the old man. “Taniel, you better—”

He stopped; for Daniel had already run out to saddle and mount his own horse.

In a few minutes a cavalcade of a dozen powerful young fellows, headed by old Duncan McKay, and armed with guns, were galloping at full speed in the direction of Fort Garry.

But before this cavalcade had set out, the rencontre at the fort had already taken place, and been fatally decided.

The approach of the enemy had been announced to those nearest the scene of action by the women and children of that part of the Settlement, who were seen running about in frantic alarm trying to hide themselves, and some of them seeking refuge in the fort.

Among these were two brothers named Sinclair. One of them, Archie by name, was a stout healthy fellow of twelve or thereabouts, the other was a thin delicate boy of ten, whose illness, whatever it was, had reduced him to skin and bone, taken all the colour out of his cheeks, and rendered him quite unable to run or play like other boys. They had recently become orphans, their father and mother, who were among the most recent arrivals, having died suddenly within a few weeks of each other. When the alarm of the threatened attack was given, the brothers were amusing themselves on the sunny side of the cottage which had been for only one year their happy home.

In a moment Archie took his brother on his back and scampered away with him to a place near the river, and hid him in a hollow under the bank, where they had been wont to play at grizzly bears and hunters.

Meanwhile Governor Semple, with several gentlemen and attendants, walked out to meet the party of half-breeds and Indians, not to offer battle, but for the purpose of parlance and conciliation. It is admitted, however, that Governor Semple committed a grave error of judgment in allowing his small party to carry arms. They numbered only twenty-eight in all, and, being untrained, could have had no chance in an open fight with such opponents. If the Governor had gone out unarmed with only one or two attendants, he would, it was thought, have appealed irresistibly to the honour of the party.

As it was, when the Hudson’s Bay party drew near they thought the look of their opponents so suspicious that the Governor halted his men, and they stood in a group as if in consultation. Seeing this, the half-breeds divided themselves into two bodies, and commenced firing from behind some willows—at first a shot or two, and then a merciless volley. No fewer than twenty-one of the twenty-eight fell to rise no more, among whom were the Governor himself; Mr Wilkinson, his secretary: Captain Rogers, a mineralogist; Mr White, the surgeon; Mr Holt, of the Swedish navy, and Mr McLean, a principal settler.

Indeed the whole party would have probably been killed and the settlers massacred at that time, but for the courageous interposition of the chief of the half-breeds, Cuthbert Grant, who, at the risk of his life, stood between the settlers and their foes, only one of which last was killed.

When old McKay and his party drew near to the scene, the massacre was completed, and most of his little band—which had been slightly augmented on the way up—turned right-about, and rode away to defend their respective homes.

But the warrior spirit of old McKay and his sons had been roused. They refused to turn tail, and, in company with Dan and Peter Davidson, made a furious charge into a detached party of the half-breeds which they chanced to encounter. They scattered them like sheep, though they did not succeed in killing any. Then they also wheeled round and galloped back to their respective homes.

“Come, Elspie, tear,” said the old man as he dismounted, “putt what ye value most in your pocket an’ come away. The duvles are down on us, and we are not able to hold out in Ben Nevis. The settlers must choin altogether, an’ do the best we can to defend ourselves.”

While he was speaking, the Highlander was busy stuffing some of the smaller of his household goods into his pockets—amongst them a large quantity of tobacco.

Meanwhile Fergus hastened to the stable to saddle Vixen for Elspie, while the poor girl ran to her room and secured some small objects which she valued—among them a miniature portrait of her mother, and a Bible which the good lady had given to her a short time before her death. There was no money, and no valuable documents had to be looked after, so that preparations for fight were soon completed.

Now there was a member of old Duncan McKay’s household who has not yet been introduced to the reader, but whose character and influence in the household were such as to demand special notice. This member was an old woman named Peg. Probably this was an abbreviation of Peggy, but we cannot tell. Neither can we say what her surname was, for we never heard it, and no one spoke of the old creature by any other name than that of “Old Peg.”

Although Old Peg was by no means feeble—indeed, judged by her capacities, she might have been pronounced middle-aged, for she could walk about the house all day, actively engaged in miscellaneous self-imposed duties, and could also eat like a man and sleep like a dormouse—she was, nevertheless, withered, and wrinkled, and grey, and small. Her exact age nobody knew—and, for the matter of that, nobody seemed to care.

Extreme amiability and self-obliteration were the chief characteristics of Old Peg. She was silent by nature, and deaf as a post—whether by art or nature we know not; probably both. Well, no—on second thoughts, not quite as deaf as a post, for by means of severe shouting she could be made to hear.

Smiles and nods, however, were her chief means of communication with the outer world. When these failed, a yell might be tried with advantage.

No one of the McKay household ever thought of giving Old Peg anything in the shape of work to do, for the very good reason that, being an extremely willing horse, she was always working; and she possessed a peculiar faculty of observation, which enabled her to perceive, long before any one else, what ought to be done, and the right time to do it, so that, when any one bounced round with the sudden intention of telling her to do anything, Old Peg was found to have done it already, or to be in the act of doing it. It is almost superfluous to say that she patched and mended the household garments, washed the most of things washable, sewed the sewable, darned the sock, and, generally, did-up the whole McKay family. When not engaged in definite or specific work, she had a chronic sock-knitting which helped to fill up and round off the corners of her leisure hours.

Old Peg had been the nurse, consecutively, of Fergus, Elspie, and Duncan junior. She was now equivalent to their second mother, having nursed their first mother to the end with faithful untiring affection, and received from the dying woman a solemn commission never to forsake Duncan senior or his progeny.

No sentiment of a religious nature ever escaped Old Peg, but it was observed that she read her Bible regularly, and was occasionally found asleep on her knees—greatly to the amusement of that irritable old rascal, Duncan senior, and to the gratification of Elspie, who came to the conclusion that the old woman must have learned well off by heart such words as—“Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do; do it with thy might.” “Do good to all men as thy hand findeth opportunity.” “Be clothed with humility.” “Trust in the Lord at all times.” Probably Elspie was right, for she judged of people in the old-fashioned way, namely, “by their fruits.” Her judgment of the two Duncans on this principle, by the way, could not have been very exalted, but we cannot tell. She was much too loyal and loving a daughter and sister to give any sign or opinion.

At the time of the sudden call to flight just described, the McKay family had totally forgotten Old Peg in their hurry. Elspie was the first to miss her.

“Old Peg!” she exclaimed—almost screamed—while Fergus was assisting her to mount Vixen, “where is she?”

“I’ll find her,” said Fergus, “and bring her on in the cart. You be off after father. We’ve no time to lose.”

“Be sure you bring her, Fergus,” said Elspie.

“All right; no fear!”

Thus assured, Elspie was about to gallop away after her father—who had started in advance, to overtake and stop the Prairie Cottage family, so that they might travel in one band—when the clatter of hoofs was heard, and next moment Dan Davidson galloped round the corner of the house.

“I came back for you, Elspie,” he said, pulling up. “Why did you not come on with your father?”

“I expected to overtake him, Dan. You know Vixen is swift. Besides, I missed Old Peg, and delayed a few minutes on her account. Is she with your party?”

“No—at least I did not see her. But she may have been in the cart with Louise. Shall I look for her while you gallop on?”

“No; Fergus has promised to find and bring her after us. Come, I am ready.”

The two galloped away. As they did so young Duncan issued from the stable behind the house, leading out his horse. He was in no hurry, having a good mount. At the same time Fergus came out at the back-door of the house shouting, “Old Peg! Hallo! old woman, where are ye?”

“Hev ye seen her, Duncan?” he asked impatiently.

“It iss seekin’ high an’ low I hev been, an’ it iss of no use shoutin’, for she hears nothin’.”

“I’m sure I saw her in the cart wi’ the Davidsons,” said Duncan.

“Are you sure?” asked Fergus.

“Weel, I did not pass quite close to them, as I ran up here for my horse on hearin’ the news,” replied Duncan; “but I am pretty sure that I saw her sittin’ beside Louise.”

“Hm! that accoonts for her not being here,” said Fergus, running into the stable. “Hold on a bit, Duncan. I’ll go with ye in a meenit.”

In the circumstances he was not long about saddling his horse. A few minutes more, and the brothers were galloping after their friends, who had got a considerable distance in advance of them by that time, and they did not overtake them till a part of the Settlement was reached where a strong muster of the settlers was taking place, and where it was resolved to make a stand and face the foe.

Here it was discovered, to the consternation of the McKay family, that Old Peg was not with the Davidson party, and that therefore she must have been left behind!

“She must be found and rescued,” exclaimed Elspie, on making the discovery.

“She must!” echoed Dan Davidson: “who will go back with me?”

A dozen stout young fellows at once rode to the front, and old McKay offered to take command of them, but was overruled and left behind.

Chapter Nine.

Old Peg.

Meanwhile, accustomed to think and act for herself, Old Peg, on the first alarm, had made up her mind to do her fair share of work quietly.

She did not require to be told that danger threatened the family and that flight had been resolved on. A shout from some one that Nor’-Westers were coming, coupled with the hasty preparations, might have enlightened a mind much less intelligent than that of the old woman. She knew that she could do nothing to help where smart bodily exercise was needed, but, down by the creek close by, there was a small stable in which a sedate, lumbering old cart-horse dwelt. The horse, she felt sure, would be wanted. She could not harness it, but she could put a bridle on it and lead it up to the house.

This animal, which was named Elephant on account of its size, had been totally forgotten by the family in the hurry of departure.

Old Peg found the putting of a bridle on the huge creature more difficult work than she had expected, and only succeeded at last by dint of perseverance, standing on three or four bundles of hay, and much coaxing—for the creature had evidently taken it into its head that the old woman had come there to fondle it—perhaps to feed it with sugar after the manner of Elspie.

She managed the thing at last, however, and led the horse up towards the house.

Now, while she had been thus engaged the family had left, and the half-breeds—having combined their forces—had arrived.

Ben Nevis was the first house the scoundrels came to. Dismounting, and finding the place deserted, they helped themselves to whatever was attractive and portable—especially to a large quantity of Canada twist tobacco, which old Duncan had found it impossible to carry away. Then they applied fire to the mansion, and, in a wonderfully short time Ben Nevis was reduced to a level with the plain. Another party treated Prairie Cottage in a similar manner.

It was when the first volume of black smoke rose into the sky that Old Peg came to the edge of the bushes that fringed the creek and discovered that Ben Nevis had suddenly become volcanic! She instantly became fully aware of the state of matters, and rightly judged that the family must have escaped, else there would have been some evidence of resistance.

Fortunately the old woman had not yet passed quite from the shelter of the bushes. She drew back with a degree of caution worthy of a Red-skin, leading the horse with her. When well out of sight she paused for the purpose of meditation. What was now to be done! As we have said, she possessed decision of character in an eminent degree. She never at any time had taken long to make up her mind; she was not going to begin now, though the position was probably the most perplexing that she had ever experienced. Suddenly she raised her head and laughed.

In the circumstances it would not have been surprising had hysteria seized Old Peg, but there was nothing hysterical in her nature. Calm, cool, calculating courage dominated her every thought and feeling, but the idea of what she was driven to in her old age had tickled her fancy. Leading the big cart-horse close up to a bank, she prepared to mount him—having previously broken off a good strong switch from a neighbouring bush.

Never before in her life had Peg mounted a steed of any kind whatever. She knew the lady’s position on horseback by sight, of course, but not by practice. To attempt it even with a side-saddle would have been impossible; but Elephant was barebacked. Fortunately he was fat and broad, and without a visible back-bone. Old Peg at once made up her mind, and, climbing the bank, scrambled on his back in gentleman’s position. It was more comfortable than she had dared to hope.

But now an unexpected difficulty met her. Elephant declined to move! She pulled at his bridle, and he turned sluggishly, but he would not advance. Peg administered a sounding whack with the switch. She might as well have hit a neighbouring tree. Elephant’s hide was like that of his namesake, and he had no feelings to speak of that could be touched, or hurt, or worked upon.

In this dilemma the old woman had recourse to a weapon with which her broad bosom was at all times furnished. She drew a large pin, and drove the point into Elephant’s flank. The result was instantaneous. Up went his hindquarters, and Peg found herself sprawling on his bushy mane. She held on to that, however, and, gradually working her way back, regained her old position—thankful that she had not been thrown to the ground.

Another result was that Elephant condescended to walk. But this was not enough. Escape at such a pace was impossible. Old Peg prodded him again—this time on the shoulder, for she rightly conjectured that he could not well kick up with his fore-legs. But he might rear! The thought caused her to grasp the bushy mane with both hands and hold on. He did not rear, but he trotted, and poor Old Peg came to the conclusion that there were disagreeable novelties in life, even for her.

When Elephant at length burst out of the fringe of wood and gained the track that followed the course of the river, she was immediately seen by the plunderers, who laughed at the strange rider but did not follow her, with the exception of one man—an Indian, painted and feathered,—who started in pursuit, hoping, possibly, for an easy scalp.

He soon came close up, and, being armed with a bow, sent an arrow in advance of him. The shaft was well aimed. It grazed the flank of Elephant, inflicting a painful wound. This woke up the old horse surprisingly, so that it not only broke into a gallop, but set off at racing speed as it used to do when young. The Indian was badly mounted, and gradually lost ground, whereupon he sent after the fugitives several more arrows which all fell wide of the mark.

The change to Old Peg was as a reprieve from death! The trot had almost dislocated her bones, and shaken her up like an addled egg, and the change to racing speed afforded infinite relief. She could scarcely credit her senses, and she felt a tendency to laugh again as she glanced over her shoulder. But that glance removed the tendency, for it revealed the Indian warrior, in all his paint and feathers and streaming scalp-locks, in hot pursuit, while the whiz of another arrow close past her ear convinced our heroine that it was not a dream.

The jolting to which the poor old creature was subjected had disturbed her costume not a little. Her shawl came nearly off, and, holding on by one pin, fluttered like a flag of defiance. Her slippers, which were of the carpet pattern, were left behind on the prairie to perplex the wolves, and her voluminous hair—once a rich auburn, but now a pearly grey—having escaped its cap and fastenings, was streaming out gaily in the breeze, as if to tempt the fingers and knife of the pursuer.

A stern-chase is a long one, whether ashore or afloat. Pursuer and pursued went rapidly down the Settlement until they came in sight of the band which had come to rescue Peg. They received her with a wild cheer of surprise and joy, which turned the Red-skin to the right-about, and sent him back to his friends much faster than he had come.

On receiving his report, the half-breeds at once dashed off in pursuit of the settlers, and did not draw rein until they reached the place where the Scotchmen had made a stand. The latter were greatly outnumbered, at least in fighting men, but they showed such a resolute front, that Cuthbert Grant, the half-breed leader, again interfered to prevent bloodshed if possible. After calming his men, and advising forbearance, he turned to Duncan McKay senior, who was the settlers’ spokesman, and said—

“If you will go peaceably away out of the colony, we will spare you, but if you show fight your blood be on your own heads, for I cannot restrain my men much longer.”

“Iss it sparin’ us you will be talkin’ of, Cuthbert Grant?” answered the Highlander, with scorn. “Wow! but if it wass not for the weemen an’ children that’s with us, you would hev a goot chance o’ bein’ in need o’ sparin’ yoursels; an’ it iss not much o’ the blood o’ the Grants, either, that’s in your veins, or ye would scorn to consort wi’ such fire-raisin’ cut-throats. It iss the fortune of war—whatever, and we can’t affoord to leave our weemen an’ bairns defenceless. So we accept your terms, if we are not hindered from carryin’ away our arms.”

“Carry away whatever you like,” replied Grant, quietly, “only be off at once, or I’ll not answer for the consequences.”

Thus the angry Highlander was dismissed, and in the end the unfortunate settlers, being a second time driven into exile, took refuge, as before, at Jack River.

Chapter Ten.

Archie and Little Bill do Wonders.

We change the scene now to the margin of a small lake embosomed like a gem in the great wilderness of the Far North.

It is autumn. The sun is bright, the air is calm and clear. There is a species of warm haze which, paradoxically, does not seem to interfere with the clearness, and a faint zephyr which appears rather to emphasise than break the calm. It sends a soft cat’s-paw now and then across parts of the lake, and thus, by contrast, brings into greater prominence the bright reflection of trees and cloudland mirrored in its depths. Instead of being the proverbial “dead” calm, it is, if we may so put it, rather a lively, cheerful calm.

The liveliness of it is vastly increased by hundreds of water-fowl, which disport themselves on the surface of the lake, as if coquetting with their own reflections, or whistle round its margin while busy on the feeding-grounds.

Myriads of mosquitoes were wont there to murmur their maddening career in search of blood, but, happily, at the period we write of, an incidental and premonitory night-frost had relegated these to the graves of their forefathers, or to the mansions of Hiberna—we know not, and care not, which.

We have styled the lake a “little” one, but we must remind the reader that we use the expression in an American sense, and that where lakes are two and three hundred miles long, a little one can well afford to be twenty or thirty miles in diameter, with, perchance, a boundless horizon. The lake in question, however, was really a little one—not more than two miles in length or breadth, with the opposite shore quite visible, and a number of islets of various sizes on its bosom—all more or less wooded, and all, more rather than less, the temporary homes of innumerable wild-fowl, among which were noisy little gulls with pure white bodies and bright red legs and bills.

On the morning in question—for the sun was not yet much above the horizon—a little birch-bark canoe might have been seen to glide noiselessly from a bed of rushes, and proceed quietly, yet swiftly, along the outer margin of the bed.

The bow-paddle was wielded by a stout boy with fair curly hair. Another boy, of gentle mien and sickly aspect, sat in the stern and steered.

“Little Bill,” said the stout boy in a low voice, “you’re too light. This will never do.”

“Archie,” returned the other with a languid smile, “I can’t help it, you know—at least not in a hurry. In course of time, if I eat frightfully, I may grow heavier, but just now there’s no remedy except the old one of a stone.”

“That’s true, Little Bill,” responded Archie with a perplexed look, as he glanced inquiringly along the shore; “nevertheless, if thought could make you heavier, you’d soon be all right, for you’re a powerful thinker. The old remedy, you see, is not available, for this side of the lake is low and swampy. I don’t see a single stone anywhere.”

“Never mind, get along; we’ll come to one soon, I dare say,” said the other, dipping his paddle more briskly over the side.

The point which troubled Archie Sinclair was the difference in weight between himself and his invalid brother, which, as he occupied the bow, resulted in the stern of the light craft being raised much too high out of the water. Of course this could have been remedied by their changing places, but that would have thrown the heavier work of the bow-paddle on the invalid, who happened also to be the better steersman of the two. A large stone placed in the stern would have been a simple and effective remedy, but, as we have seen, no large stone was procurable just then.

“It didn’t much matter in the clumsy wooden things at Red River,” said Archie, “but this egg-shell of Okématan’s is very different. Ho! there’s one at last,” he continued with animation as they rounded a point of land, and opened up a small bay, on the margin of which there were plenty of pebbles, and some large water-worn stones.

One of these having been placed in the stern of the canoe, and the balance thus rectified, the voyage was continued.

“Don’t you think that breakfast on one of these islets would be nice?” said Billie.

“Just the very thing that was in my mind, Little Bill,” answered his brother.

It was a curious peculiarity in this sturdy youth, that whatever his invalid brother wished, he immediately wished also. Similarly, when Billie didn’t desire anything, Archie did not desire it. In short Billie’s opinion was Archie’s opinion, and Billie’s will was Archie’s law. Not that Archie had no will or opinion of his own. On the contrary, he was quite sufficiently gifted in that way, but his love and profound pity for the poor and almost helpless invalid were such that in regard to him he had sunk his own will entirely. As to opinions—well, he did differ from him occasionally, but he did it mildly, and with an openness to conviction which was almost enviable. He called him Bill, Billie, or Little Bill, according to fancy at the moment.

Poor boys! The sudden death of both parents had been a terrible blow to them, and had intensified the tenderness with which the elder had constituted himself the guardian of the younger.

When the Scotch settlers were banished from the colony, pity, as well as friendship for their deceased parents, induced the Davidson family to adopt the boys, and now, in exile, they were out hunting by themselves to aid in replenishing the general store of provisions.

It need scarcely be said that at this period of the year the exiled colonists were not subjected to severe hardships, for the air was alive with wild-fowl returning south from their breeding-grounds, and the rivers and lakes were swarming with fish, many of them of excellent quality.

“This will do—won’t it?” said Archie, pointing with his paddle to an islet about a hundred yards in diameter.

“Yes, famously,” responded Little Bill, as he steered towards a shelving rock which formed a convenient landing-place.

The trees and shrubs covered the islet to the water’s edge with dense foliage, that glowed with all the gorgeous colouring for which North American woods in autumn are celebrated. An open grassy space just beyond the landing-place seemed to have been formed by nature for the express purpose of accommodating picnic parties.

“Nothing could have been better,” said Archie, drawing up the bow of the canoe, and stooping to lift his brother out.

“I think I’ll try to walk—it’s such a short bit,” said Billie.

“D’ye think so? well, I’ve no doubt you can do it, Little Bill, for you’ve got a brave spirit of your own, but there’s a wet bit o’ moss you’ll have to cross which you mayn’t have noticed. Would you like to be lifted over that, and so keep your moccasins dry?”

“Archie, you’re a humbug. You’re always trying to make me give you needless trouble.”

“Well, have it your own way, Little Bill. I’ll help you to walk up.”

“No, carry me,” said Billie, stretching out his arms; “I’ve changed my mind.”

“I will, if you prefer it, Little Bill,” said Archie, lifting his brother in his strong arms and setting him down on the convenient spot before referred to.

Billie was not altogether helpless. He could stand on his weak legs and even walk a little without support, but to tramp through the woods, or clamber up a hill, was to him an absolute impossibility. He had to content himself with enjoyments of a milder type. And, to do him justice, he seemed to have no difficulty in doing so. Perhaps he owed it to his mother, who had been a singularly contented woman and had taught Billie from his earliest years the truth that, “contentment, with godliness, is great gain.” Billie did not announce his belief in this truth, but he proclaimed it unwittingly by the more powerful force of example.

Breakfast is a pleasant meal at any time if the operator be hungry, but who shall describe the delights of breakfast when eaten in company with several thousand wild-fowl, in a romantic wilderness with fresh air laden with the perfumes of the vegetable kingdom encircling the person; the glorious sunshine dazzling the eyes; the sweet songs of animated nature thrilling the ears, and the gentle solicitations of an expectant appetite craving within? Words are wasted in such an effort. We feel constrained to leave it—as we have not seldom left many a thing before now—to the reader’s more or less vivid imagination.

A blazing fire of pine-logs boiled two tin kettles and roasted two fat wild-ducks. In one of the kettles Archie compounded and stirred robbiboo—of which, perhaps, the less said the better. In the other, Billie infused a small quantity of tea. The roasting ducks—split open, impaled on sticks and set up before the fire—looked after themselves till they began to burn, when they were turned by Archie and again neglected for a few minutes.

It was a glorious meal in all respects, and even Billie, whose appetite was moderately strong, enjoyed it immensely—none the less that he had asked a blessing on it before beginning, and all the more that he sympathised fully with his brother in his possession of an amazing—a shamelessly robust—capacity for food.

“Now, we’ll go to work,” remarked Archie, wiping his mouth with a sigh of contentment, (he had nothing else to wipe it with!) after finishing the last spoonful of robbiboo, the last limb of duck and the last mug of tea.

Such a remark at such a period in the entertainment caused Billie to laugh.

“Why, Archie, you’ve been at work this half-hour, and there’s nothing left to go to work upon now.”

“You know quite well, Little Bill, that I refer to the day’s work. What is it to be? Provisions must be got if the camp is not to starve, and you and I are bound to do our share. Shall we go to Willow Point and shoot ducks and geese, or cross the lake and trawl for fish?”

“Both,” answered the invalid with decision. “We’ll do both. We will paddle to Willow Point, and try for jack-fish on the way.”

“Just so—the very thing, Little Bill. Are you ready to start?”

Billie professed himself quite ready. Archie took him on his back, replaced him in the stern of the canoe in company with the big stone, and then stepped gently into his own place at the bow, where a common trading gun, with the old-fashioned flint lock and single barrel, rested against the gunwale. Pushing off they soon left Breakfast-isle far behind them, and crept swiftly along by the margin of the reeds.

On the way Billie cast out his fishing-line. It was a strong cod-line, with a great cod-hook attached and a lump of fat pork on it; for Archie, in the fervour of hope coupled with piscatorial ignorance and a sanguine disposition, had strongly advised his brother to err, if err he must, on the safe side, and be prepared for anything, from a great lake-serpent to a fresh-water whale.

No civilised fish would have deigned to give a second thought to the obvious deception which a mass of indigestible pork presented, but fish of the backwoods—especially in the early years of this century—were not suspicious. An enormous pike, or “jack-fish,” coveted that bait and took it. Not only so, but it took the great cod-hook and ten inches of the line besides.

A shout such as Billie had not uttered for many months announced the fact.

“Hi! hold on, Archie! Back water! I say, I’d believe I had hanked the bottom if it didn’t tug in such a lively way!”

“Pay out line, Little Bill!” cried the other, looking over his shoulder with blazing eyes, but unable to render any assistance owing to the small size and crank nature of the canoe. “Stay, I’ll turn about and become steersman, while you play the—whew! It’s a whale! I say—ease off!”

“Ease off!” cried Billie in desperation; “how can I ease off, with only a few yards o’ the line left?”

“Pitch the reel back to me then. I’ll manage it!” cried Archie, who had converted the bow of the canoe into the stern—both ends being alike—by the simple process of turning himself round and sitting with his face towards his brother.

What Archie had styled the reel was simply a piece of stick with the line wound round it. His brother pitched it to him with one hand while the desperate jerking of the other—indeed of his whole body—told at once of the size and the impatience of the fish.

Unwinding the line in haste, Archie fastened the extreme end of it to two spare paddles and flung them overboard.

“Now, Little Bill,” he said; “you may let him have his head, and if you can’t hold on without risking the line just let it go.”

As he spoke the captive made another rush—not very frantic indeed, for the pike is a sluggish creature in all waters—but with a steady persistency that meant resolution of purpose. In a few seconds our invalid was compelled to let go, and, the line tightening, the paddles disappeared with a jerk.

Soon after they reappeared, and the boys paddled towards them with a cheer, picked them up and the battle was renewed.

It would be tedious to recount all the incidents of that fight. We can only say that after a struggle that lasted an hour—according to the younger brother; two hours and a half, according to the elder—a pike of about four feet in length was hauled into the canoe.

“That’s enough of fishing for one day,” remarked Billie, wiping his heated brow.

“Quite enough,” assented the other; “shall we make for Willow Point now, Little Bill?”

“Yes. We will try the shooting now.”

In accordance with this plan, the direction of the canoe was changed, and, early in the afternoon, the young hunters found themselves alongside of a low point of rocks which stretched well out into the lake, leaving a deep bay on either side. The extreme end of the point consisted of naked rock, but the greater part of it was covered with a dense under-growth of low willow bushes.

Here they disembarked, and Archie, as before, carried his brother to the highest part of the low point, where a piece of green sward, free from bushes, formed an attractive resting-place.

“Sit there now, Billie, till I get some brush, an’ make yourself useful by cutting out goose heads. See, here are some branches o’ the right sort ready to hand. No doubt some Redskins have been at work here before us.”

He picked up some pieces of wood which Nature had formed more or less to resemble the heads and necks of geese. By a very slight use of the knife Billie converted these into excellent portraits. When he had finished half-a-dozen of them, his brother had cut and brought to the spot a number of bushy branches about two or three feet high. These were soon stuck into the ground in a small circle so as to resemble a growing bush, behind, or, rather, in the midst of which, they could effectually conceal themselves by crouching.

While this was being constructed the elder brother went down to the edge of the water and made half-a-dozen mud-heaps well within gunshot, which when the artificial heads and necks were attached to them, formed such exact counterparts of geese that the wild birds might well be excused for mistaking them for friends. Indeed tyros at this work have been known to fire at such decoys believing them to be genuine birds.

Even while they were thus engaged one and another flock of ducks and geese passed them on their way to warmer climes; of course sheering off as they passed. But when the arrangement was completed, and the two boys, crouching low, gazed at the horizon with eager looks, the wild birds no longer avoided the spot. On the contrary, seeing the decoys, they rather inclined to pass close to the place.

In flying down a river, or along the margin of a lake, wild birds may diverge a little to follow the sinuosities of bank or shore, but they will not get out of the way of a projecting promontory; they rather make a short cut by crossing over it.

The young hunters had not to wait long.

“There’s a flock of geese coming,” said Archie in a whisper, though the birds were at the moment some miles away. “Take the first shot, Little Bill.”

They had only one gun between them.

“I don’t like to,” said Billie, “that thing gave me such an awful kick last time, and I can’t stand it now.”

“O! there’s no fear, I put in only a small charge of powder-and-shot, on purpose. It won’t kick hard this time. Try.”

“Well, I’ll try,” said Billie, taking the gun.

“Aim well in advance, Bill. They fly fast, and primin’ gets damp sometimes.”

A flock of small geese was approaching. The boys became dumb, but they had remarkably speaking eyes.

Animated by curiosity, the flock descended to observe the decoys. How often that feeling of curiosity has proved fatal—not only to feathered geese!

Little Bill raised his gun. Puff! went the priming. Bang! went the charge. One of the birds, describing a beautiful curve, fell with bursting violence on the ground.

“Well done, Billie,” cried his brother enthusiastically as he leaped over the sheltering brush and ran to secure the prize. “A few like that will give a supper to the whole camp. Now, then,” he added on returning, “you’ll try again.”

“No, Archie. It’s your turn now—and the thing did give me a tremendous kick.”

“But I will put in still less powder this time, Little Bill, and less shot too, so you’ll have to be careful of your aim. See, there’s another flock coming—there, take it, and down with you. I do believe they are big fellows.”

Thus encouraged, Billie took the gun and crouched low. His brother was right. It was a flock of the great grey geese of Canada which now approached. The hearts of both boys beat high, for they were not only actuated by what is termed the sporting tendency, but by the desire to contribute their fair share to the general larder of their friends, who were encamped a considerable distance off at the other end of the lake.

“Okématan will open his eyes if we take back a goose or two like these; why, they are swans almost!” whispered Archie, as the birds approached in the form of an angle. “Take the big fat one on the left—the one now squintin’ down at the decoys.”

Billie obeyed, and fired. The result was, in a manner, threefold. First, the boy’s aim was so good that the big fat fellow dropped like a stone not three yards from their position. Second, the hitherto silent and symmetrically arranged flock went into dire confusion and sheered off in trumpeting convulsions; and, third, a scattering shot, having found its billet in the head of another goose immediately behind the first one, caused it to plunge right into the camp, straight for the head of Little Bill. Archie, ignorant of this, was in the very act of leaping over the brush to secure the first goose, and had fortunately got in front of his brother at the right moment when the second goose caught him on the shoulder and knocked him into the poor invalid’s arms.

He was stunned at first, and rose in a few moments in some degree of mental confusion; but he was not much the worse for the accident and greatly rejoiced at his fortunate escape, as well as the splendid shooting, of Little Bill.

It must not be supposed that the brothers continued to shoot at this rate. Comparatively few flocks of geese passed over Willow Point that day, but numerous flocks of wild-ducks did, and before evening had put an end to their work, they had secured a fair canoe-load of game.

That night they lighted their camp-fire among the neighbouring willows; feasted luxuriously on part of the day’s hunt; lay down side by side under one blanket, with the upturned canoe partially covering them; dreamed at first of Okématan, gazing in wonder at their load, and, afterwards, of being knocked head over heels by an enormous grey goose whose persistent pugnacity was only equalled by its strange incapacity to achieve its murderous ends.

Ultimately Oblivion came to their rescue, and the young hunters fell into a dreamless slumber, with the smoking camp-fire sending an occasional gleam of ruddy light on their recumbent forms, and the dark sky with its hosts of twinkling stars serving for a gorgeous canopy.

Chapter Eleven.

Shows some of the Troubles of Pioneer Colonists.

Okématan was not the only person who opened his eyes on the return of the Sinclair boys to camp next day with their heavily laden canoe. The Davidson and McKay families were much more emphatic in their astonishment, for the boys, they knew, had not hitherto performed any exploits in shooting. They had not supposed them gifted with even ordinary powers as sportsmen, and had imagined that the poor invalid little Bill was utterly helpless. On the other hand, Okématan was not unacquainted with the sudden rise to unexpected celebrity of Indian boys in his tribe, and knew something about the capacity of even cripples to overcome difficulties when driven by that stern taskmaster, Necessity.

The abundant supply of provisions thus unexpectedly received was very acceptable, because during the day on which the boys were absent, a fresh band of immigrants had arrived on their way to Red River, and one party of these, hailing from Switzerland, had come on to the little lake where our Scotch friends were encamped, for the purpose of consulting as to their future movements—for it was evident that it would be dangerous as well as useless for them to proceed to Red River in the existing state of affairs. The leader of the party was a fair-haired youth, who could speak English very well.

The Scotch families were having their mid-day meal around the camp-fires, when the Switzers arrived and introduced themselves. Of course they were made heartily welcome by Mr Sutherland, who acted as spokesman for his countrymen.

“We are unfortunate,” said the leader of the new arrivals, whose name was André Morel. “We hoped that the severe climate would be our only foe to fight with—especially in a land where the people are so few.”

Sutherland—whose sedate and quiet manner was consistent with his position as an elder and spiritual guide of his countrymen at that time—smiled gravely, shook his head, and stroked his chin.

“You will find,” he said, “that whatever part of this world you go to, the passions of man are always more deadly in their consequences than surroundings, or climates, or anything else.”

“H’m! what you say iss ferry true,” remarked old McKay, who was busy picking the drum-stick of a wild-goose at the moment. “If it wass not for the jealousy an’ ill-will o’ the North-Westers we should hev been at this goot hour in our comfortable houses amang the green fields of Rud Ruver.”

“Wheesht! faither!” interposed Duncan junior, “Mr Sutherland wass speakin’, an’ ye’ve stoppit him.”

“An’ what if I hev, Tuncan? Can he not continoo to speak when I hev done?” retorted the old man, resuming his drum-stick.

“You are right, Mr McKay,” said the elder. “But for the unfortunate jealousies of the two Companies, we might have been in very different circumstances to-day. If the North-Westers could only see that the establishment of a colony in Red River would in no way hinder the fur-trade, we could all get along peaceably enough together. But it seems to have been ordained that man shall reach every good thing through much tribulation.”

“I do not agree wi’ you at all, Muster Sutherland,” said old McKay. “There iss many of rich people in this world, who hev all that hert can wush, an’ are born to it without hevin’ any treebulation at all.”

“But I did not say ‘all that heart could wish,’ Mr McKay. I said ‘every good thing’.”

“Well, an’ iss not wealth a goot thing, Muster Sutherland?”

“Only if God’s blessing goes along with it,” returned the elder. “If it does not, wealth is a curse.”

“H’m! I wush I had a little more o’ that curse—whatever,” answered the irreverent old man.

“Besides,” continued Sutherland, not noticing the remark, “the rich are by no means exempt from tribulation. They are sometimes afflicted with bad children; not infrequently with bad health, which doctors, at two or three guineas a visit, cannot cure, and many of them are much troubled with poverty!”

“You are talking in ruddles now, Muster Sutherland,” said old Duncan, who, having finished the drum-stick and its duplicate, was preparing his pipe for action.

“It is not much of a riddle, Mr McKay. I suppose you consider a man with ten thousand a year rich, and a man with two hundred poor.”

“Well, yes; I wull not be denyin’ that.”

“Well—if the rich man spends ten thousand and fifty pounds a year and never has anything to spare or to lay by, is he not miserably poor—poor in spirit as well as in purse? For, at the end of the year his purse is empty, and he is in debt. On the other hand, if the man with two hundred a year spends one hundred and fifty, gives away twenty, and lays by thirty every year, is he not rich?”

“Ferry true, Muster Sutherland,” said McKay, with a peculiar smile, as he emitted his first whiff. “I wull not be arguin’ wi’ you, for you always get the best of it. Nevertheless, it is my opeenion that we’ve had treebulation enough in Rud Ruver since we came oot, an’ I would be ferry gled of a luttle prosperity now—if only by way of a pleesant change.”

Recurring to this subject a few days later, young Morel asked Dan Davidson, while they were paddling back to camp together one evening with the proceeds of a day’s hunt: “Has your life in the colony, since the beginning, been as bad as old McKay made it out the other day?”

“Well, making due allowance for the old man’s use of strong language, his account of matters has not been much overdrawn,” answered Dan, who, in virtue of his superior canoe-craft, acted the part of steersman. “You see, when we came out here we expected, like you, that all would be plain sailing, except as regarded climate and ordinary difficulties, but our eyes were soon opened to the true state of things. Instead of the wilderness, with a few peaceful inhabitants living under the mild sway of the Hudson Bay Company, we found another company, apparently as strong as the Hudson’s Bay one, in violent opposition. They regarded our coming as likely to ruin their trade, for Lord Selkirk was a share holder in the Hudson’s Bay Company, and it was supposed his object in planting the colony was to advance his scheme of monopolising the whole fur-trade of the Far West. I cannot myself see how this colony could injure the fur-trade; but, anyhow, I know that the opposition has affected the colonists very severely, for we have been deceived by the contending parties, and misled, and delayed or thwarted in all our operations.

“At the very outset, on our arrival, a band of the Nor’-Westers, composed of half-breeds and Indians, warned us that our presence was unwelcome, and tried to frighten us away by their accounts of the savage nature of the natives. Then the fear of perishing for want of food induced a lot of us to take their advice, leave the farms allotted to us, and go to a place called Pembina, about seventy miles distant from the colony, there to spend the long and hard winter in tents, according to the Indian fashion, and live on the produce of the chase.”

“I should have thought that was a pleasant way of spending the first winter,” remarked André Morel, who, besides being young, was strong and enthusiastic.

“So thought some of us at first,” returned Dan, “but when we found that the thermometer fell to somewhere between 40 and 50 degrees below zero; that walking in snow-shoes, trapping, hunting buffalo, and shooting, were not to be learned in a few days; and when we saw our women and children dependent sometimes on the charity of Indians, and reduced almost to starvation, we changed our minds as to the pleasure of the thing. However, if the school was rough, it made the scholars all the quicker, and now I think that most of us are equal to the Redskins themselves at their own work.

“When that winter came to an end,” continued Dan, “we returned to Red River, in the month of May, wiser men, thoroughly determined to plant and sow, and make ourselves independent of the savages. But hunger followed us, for fish were scarce that season; so were roots and berries; and, if it had not been for a kind of parsnip which grows wild in the plains, and a species of eatable nettle, I do believe some of us would have gone under altogether.”

“And did your first sowing turn out well?” asked the young Swiss, who having been bred a watchmaker, had only hazy notions as to farming.

“Ay, there was a gleam of prosperity there that led us to hope great things for the future,” answered Dan; “but the gleam did not continue. Why, one fellow, not far from our place, sowed four quarts of wheat, and reaped twelve and a half bushels; but we had terrible trouble to save our crops from the birds. In the Spring and Fall, blackbirds and wild pigeons pass over the prairies on their way north or south, in immense numbers. They pass in such numbers that they could, I do believe, swallow our whole harvest, if they got only a grain a-piece. The berries failed them that year, an’ men, women, and children had to work hard wi’ guns, bird-nets, and rattles, from morning to night, to say nothing o’ scarecrows. We had resolved never to go near Pembina again, but what we saved of the harvest was little more than enough for seed, so we were forced to try it for another winter. Troubles again awaited us there. The half-breeds and Indians—who had been kind at first—became jealous. A plot was discovered to murder two of our party who had undertaken to hunt, so we were obliged to buy our provisions at a high price, and even to barter away our clothing to avoid starvation, and we returned half-naked to the Settlement the following spring. Then, coming upon us in armed bands and superior numbers, they drove us out of the Settlement altogether at last, and we came here to Jack River to spend the winter as we best could. After that we went back and struggled on for some time, but now, here have they a second time banished us! What the end is to be, who can tell?”

“Truly, if such be the country I have come to, I will go back to my native land and make watches,” remarked the Swiss in a tone from which the sanguine element had almost entirely disappeared.

Chapter Twelve.

Round the Camp-Fires.

Had any one been watching the camp-fires of the banished colonists that night, the last idea that would have entered the observer’s mind would have been that of suffering or distress.

The night was brilliantly fine, and just cold enough to make the blazing fires agreeable without being necessary—except, indeed, as a means of cooking food. The light of these fires, shining through the green, yellow, and golden foliage, and illuminating the sunburnt faces of men, women, and children, gave to the scene a strain of the free, the wild, and the romantic, which harmonised well with the gypsy-like appearance of the people, and formed a ruddy contrast to the pure cold light of the innumerable stars overhead, which, with their blue-black setting, were reflected in the neighbouring lake.

Over every fire pots and kettles were suspended from tripods, or rested on the half-burned logs, while impaled wild-fowl roasted in front of it. Food being in great abundance, hearts were light in spite of other adverse circumstances, and men and women, forgetting to some extent the sufferings of the past and the dark prospects of the future, appeared to abandon themselves to the enjoyment of the present.

The children, of course, were full of glee, and not altogether empty of mischief; and there were fortunately no infants of age so tender as to induce a squalling protest against the discomforts of a situation which could be neither understood nor appreciated.

“It iss a pleesant night, whatever,” remarked old McKay, lighting his pipe with a brand plucked from the fire which his family and the Davidsons shared in common; “an’ if it wass always like this, it iss myself that would not object to be a rud savitch.”

“I don’t know that a rud savitch is much worse than a white wan,” growled Duncan junior, in an under-tone.

“What iss that you say?” demanded the old man with a look of suspicion, for his hearing was imperfect.

“Surely the water must be boiling now, daddy?” said Elspie, by way of checking the conversation.

“I don’t know whuther it iss boilin’ or not,” answered Duncan senior, applying another brand to his pipe.

“Archie, boy!” exclaimed Dan Davidson, “you’re letting that goose roast to a cinder.”

“No, Dan, I’m not—but Billie can’t a-bear meat underdone, so it’s better to blacken the outside than have the inside raw.”

“Who iss that singing? Wheesht, boys,” said Fergus McKay, turning his head a little on one side as if to listen.

There was profound silence for a few moments as a rich manly voice was heard to swell forth from the neighbourhood of one of the camp-fires.

“It comes from the camp of the Switzers, I think,” said Elspie McKay.

“I know it,” said Jessie Davidson, who was seated on a log beside her friend. “It is François La Certe. He came to our meeting-place in Red River, you know, just after Cuthbert Grant and his men left us, and, hearing that we were starting off to Jack River again, he resolved to follow. I heard him tell Slowfoot to get ready to go along with us.”

“I wonder why he came?” said Mrs Davidson, coming out of her tent at the moment, and joining the party round the fire.

“He did not say,” answered Jessie.

“He did not require to say,” remarked Duncan McKay, with a sarcastic laugh. “Every wan knows that wherever there iss a chance of gettin’ ammunition and plenty of victuals for nothing, there La Certe iss certain to be found. He knew that we would be sure to hev plenty at this season o’ the year, an’ that we would not see him an’ his wife sterve when our kettles wass full. Iss not that so, Okématan? You know him best.”

Thus appealed to, the Indian, whose usual expression was one of intense gravity, shut his eyes, opened his mouth, displayed his superb teeth, and uttered a low chuckle, but made no further reply.

It was enough. Those who understood Okématan and his ways were well aware that he thought La Certe uncommonly sly.

The half-breed had indeed followed the expelled colonists in the belief that they would certainly possess plenty of powder and shot—which he had not the means of purchasing. He also knew that the whole of Rupert’s Land swarmed with game in autumn and spring, and that the Scotch were an open-handed race when approached in the right way. Putting these things together, he carefully gummed his canoe, put his wife and child into it—also some of the provision which had been supplied to him by Duncan McKay junior—and followed the settlers over Lake Winnipeg to Jack River.

Here, finding that a new party of immigrants had arrived, who were necessarily unacquainted with his little peculiarities, La Certe attached himself to them and made himself agreeable. This he could do very well, for the Switzers understood his bad French, as well as his good tuneful voice, and appreciated his capacity for telling a story.

“Did you never,” he said to André Morel, after his song was finished, “hear of how my old mother saved her whole tribe from death one time in the Rocky Mountains?”

“Never,” Morel replied with a somewhat sceptical but good-natured smile.

“No! I wonder much, for every one in this land heard about it, an’ I thought the news must have spread over Europe and—and, perhaps Africa. Well, I will tell you. Where is my baccy-bag?”

“Never mind, fill your pipe from mine,” said Morel, tossing him a little bag of the coveted weed.

“Thank you. Well, you must know that my mother had a beautiful voice—O! much more beautiful than mine. Indeed, I do not joke, so you need not laugh. It was so sweet that men were always forced to listen till she was done. They could not help it.”

“Did they ever want to help it?” asked Morel quietly.

“O yes—as you shall hear. Well, one day my mother was living with all our tribe—I say our tribe because my mother was an Indian—with all our tribe, in a great dark gorge of the Rocky Mountains. The braves had gone out to hunt that day, but my mother stayed behind with the women and children. I was a little foolish child at that time—too young to hunt or fight. My father—a French Canadian—he was dead.

“We knew—my mother and I—that the braves would be home soon. We expected them every minute. While we were waiting for them, my mother went into the bush to pick berries. There she discovered a war-party of our enemies. They were preparing to attack our village, for they knew the men were away, and they wanted the scalps of the women and children. But they did not know the exact spot where our wigwams were pitched, and were just going, after a feed, to look for it.

“My mother ran home with the news, and immediately roused the camp, and made them get ready to fly to meet the returning men.

“‘But, my daughter,’ said an old chief, who had stayed in camp, ‘our enemies are young and active; they will quickly overtake us before we meet our men.’

“‘No,’ said my mother, ‘I will stop them. Get ready, and set off quickly.’

“She then ran back on her trail—my mother was a tremendous runner—superb! She came to a narrow place where our enemies would have to pass. A very thick tree grew there. She climbed it, and hid among the branches. It projected beyond a precipice and overhung a stream. Soon after that she saw the enemy advancing, step by step, slowly, cautiously, like men who dread an ambush, and with glances quick and solemn from side to side, like men who see a foe in every stump and stone.”

La Certe paused at this point. He was an adept at story-telling. His voice had slowed by degrees and become increasingly deep and solemn as he proceeded.

“Now,” continued he, in a higher tone, “my mother did not fear that they would see her if they looked up when they passed the tree. She was too well hidden for that; but she was not sure what the effect of her voice would be, for she had never tried it in that way before. However, she was full of courage. She resembled me in that—bold as a lion! She began to sing. Low and soft at the beginning, like a dream of song.

“At the first note the Indians halted—every man; each in the position in which he was fixed. If a foot was up he kept it up. If both feet were down he left them down. The feet that were up came slowly to the ground when the Indians got tired, but no one took another step. My mother’s voice was a weird voice. It sounded as if the place from which it came was nowhere—or anywhere—or everywhere! Slowly the painted heads turned from side to side as far as they could go, and the glaring eyes turned a little further. A creeping fear came over them. They trembled. They turned pale. That could be easily seen through the paint. My mother saw it! She became more courageous and sang out in her most pathetic strain. The Indians wept. That was quite visible. My mother saw it. Her great object was to delay the attack until our men had time to arrive. She tried a war-song, but that was not so successful. It was too commonplace. Besides, in her energy she shook the branches, and that drew attention to the tree. My mother thought that she was in danger then; but fortune favoured her. It always favours the brave. I know this from experience.

“She had just come to a terrific whoop in the war-song when she slipped off her branch and the whoop increased to a death-yell as she went crashing headlong through the branches and down into the stream at the foot of the precipice.

“Water! water!” exclaimed La Certe at this point, holding out both hands. “I can never pass this part of my story without burning thirst!”

A mug of water was handed him.

“Poor fellow—have some brandy in it,” said a sympathetic hearer, hastily getting out his bottle.

La Certe held out his mug impatiently for the brandy, drained the mug, and cleared his voice.

“Was—was your mother killed?” asked the sympathiser, earnestly.

“Killed? No. Impossible! My mother could not be killed because her destiny was not yet fulfilled. No: there was a deep pool right under the tree. She fell into that with a plunge that echoed from cliff to cliff. The Indians were profoundly superstitious. All Indians are not so, but these Indians were. They waited not for more. They turned and fled as if all the evil spirits in the Rocky Mountains were chasing them. They reached their wigwams breathless, and told their squaws that one of the spirits of a mountain stream had sat among the branches of a tree and sung to them. It had told them that the right time for attacking their foes had not yet come. Then it sang them a war-song descriptive of their final victory, and, just after uttering a tremendous war-whoop, it had dived back into its native stream.”

“Well done!” exclaimed an enthusiastic Canadian.

“But what became of your mother?” asked Morel.

“Oh! she swam ashore. My mother was a splendid swimmer. I know it, for she taught me.”

“Was it a long swim?” asked a sceptical sailor, who was one of the emigrants.

“How?—what mean you?” demanded La Certe, sternly.

“I only want to know if she took long to swim ashore out o’ that pool,” said the sceptic, simply.

La Certe cast on him a glance of suspicion, and replied that his mother had found no difficulty in getting out of the pool.

“Is the old lady alive yet?” asked the pertinacious sceptic.

“Of course not. She died long long ago—thirty years ago.”

“What! before you was born? That’s strange, isn’t it?”

“No, but you not understand. I suppose my speech is not plain to you. I said three years ago.”

“Ah! that’s more like it. I only missed what you said,” returned the sceptic, whose name was Fred Jenkins, “for I’ve lived a while in France, and understand your lingo pretty well. Pass that goose, Morel, if you have left anything on it. This air o’ the wilderness beats the air o’ the sea itself for givin’ a fellow a twist.”

The remarks of Jenkins, while they did not absolutely destroy the confidence of the Swiss party, shook it enough to show the wily half-breed that he must do something if possible to re-establish his credit. He therefore volunteered another song, which was gladly accepted and highly appreciated; for, as we have said, La Certe possessed a really good and tuneful voice, and these immigrants were a musical people.

While this was going on at the Swiss camp-fires an incident occurred at the fire round which the McKay-Davidson party was assembled, which deserves particular notice.

Old McKay was giving some directions to Fergus; Duncan junior was seated opposite Dan Davidson, smoking his pipe, and Elspie had gone into her tent, when Slowfoot, the spouse of La Certe, drew near.

“Come along, old girl,” exclaimed McKay senior. “It iss some baccy you will be wantin’, I’ll wager.”

Slowfoot did not reply in words, but the smile upon her face was eloquent.

“Come away, then,” continued the hospitable Highlander. “You shall hev a pipe of it, whatever.”

He handed her a large plug of tobacco, and the woman, sitting down close to young Duncan, produced her pipe, and drew out a knife for the purpose of cutting up the tobacco.

“Hallo!” exclaimed Duncan, “where did you get hold o’ my knife?”

He stopped abruptly—a little confused in spite of himself. For the moment he had quite forgotten that the knife had been left in the camp where he had slain Perrin, and the sudden sight of it had thrown him off his guard. It was now too late to unsay the words, but not too late to mislead his hearers.

“I got it from Marie Blanc,” said Slowfoot with a look of surprise. “Does the knife belong to Cloudbrow?”

“I think it does. I’m almost sure it iss mine. Let me see it,” returned Duncan, taking the knife from the woman’s hand, and examining it with cool and critical deliberation.

“No,” continued he, “it iss not mine, but very like one that I lost—so like that I felt sure at first it wass mine.”

Men who lie, usually overact their part. Duncan glanced suspiciously at Dan to see how he took the explanation as he returned the knife to Slowfoot, and Dan observed the glance, as being uncalled for—unnatural—in the circumstances.

Dan was by no means of a suspicious nature, nevertheless the glance haunted him for many a day after that. Suspicion once aroused is a ghost which is not easily laid. He tried to shake it off, and he carefully, loyally, kept it confined in his own breast; but, do what he would, he could not banish entirely from his mind that Duncan McKay—the brother of his Elspie—had some sort of guilty knowledge of the murder of poor Henri Perrin.

Chapter Thirteen.

Difficulties of Various Kinds overcome.

When the bright warm days and cool starry nights of the Indian summer gave place to the sharp days and frosty nights of early winter—when young ice formed on the lakes and rendered canoeing impossible, and the ducks and geese had fled to warmer climes, and the Frost King had sent his first messengers of snow to cover the wilderness with a winding-sheet and herald his return to the Winter Palace—then it was that the banished Red River settlers began to feel the pinch of poverty and to understand the full extent of the calamity that had befallen them.

We have not space to follow them through all the details of that winter at Jack River. Some died, all suffered more or less; but they had to endure it, for escape from the country to the civilised world was even more difficult and hopeless than escape from the dreaded wilds of Siberia. The men hunted, fished under the ice, trapped, and sustained themselves and their families in life during the long, dreary winter; the only gain being that they became more or less expert at the Red-man’s work and ways of life.

Only two of the Indians remained with them to help them over their difficulties—namely, Okématan and Kateegoose, with their respective squaws. These last were invaluable as the makers of moccasins and duffle socks and leathern coats, without which existence in such a climate would have been impossible. They also imparted their knowledge in such matters to the squaws of the white men.

There was one friend, however, who did not remain with the settlers when things began to look dismal around them. This was the amiable, musical, story-telling La Certe. That tender-hearted man could not endure the sight of human distress. If he could not relieve it, he felt constrained to shut his eyes to it and to flee from it. At the first indication of the approach of winter he had come to old McKay with that peculiarly mild, humble, deprecatory expression of countenance with which he was wont to preface an appeal for assistance of some sort.

“What iss it you will be wantin’ now?” demanded the old man, rather testily, for he had an aversion to the half-breed’s sneaking ways. “Surely you will not be wantin’ more powder an’ shot efter the supply I gave you last week?”

O no! nothing could be further from the mind of La Certe. He had plenty of ammunition and provisions. He had only come to say that he was going back to—to—Red River.

“Weel, weel,” returned the Highlander, “there is no call for hesitation, man, in tellin’ me that. I will not be breakin’ my heart when ye are gone. I suppose that now ye hev got the best the season can supply, ye think the comforts o’ the Settlement will be more to your taste.”

The remonstrative expression on La Certe’s face deepened. The idea of his own taste or comfort had not once entered his head: but he had a wife and child whom he was bound to consider, and he had a hut—a home—in Red River which he felt constrained to look after. Besides, he had social duties of many kinds which claimed attention.

“I’ve no doubt ye hev,” said McKay, with a short sarcastic laugh, “an’ ye will attend to them too—I’ll be bound. But ye did not come here, I suppose, to take a tender farewell o’ me. What iss it you will be wantin’? Oot wi’ it, man!”

“There is a canoe—” said La Certe, with some hesitation.

“There iss many a canoe!” returned McKay with a peculiar grin.

“True, but there is one on the shore now, close to the flat rock which—”

“My own canoe!” interrupted the other, “what will ye be wantin’ wi’ that?”

La Certe did not wish to appear greedy, but the season was late, and his own canoe was not in a very fit condition to carry a family round the shores of a lake so large as Lake Winnipeg. Would the white father lend his canoe to him? It could not be wanted much longer that Fall, and the one he would leave behind him was an excellent canoe for ordinary fishing and hunting purposes. He would be quite willing to hire the canoe or to pay the full price for it if any accident should happen to it.

“No,” said McKay, firmly. “No, La Certe; your hiring means borrowing, and your payin’ means owin’ a debt for the remainder o’ your natural life. I will see you at the bottom o’ Lake Winnipeg before I will be lending you my canoe.”

La Certe smiled sadly, and gazed at the cap with which his hands played, as if appealing to it for sympathy.

With an aspect of the profoundest resignation he made his bow and left the Presence.

But La Certe was not in the least put out by this failure. He went to his tent, and recounted the interview to his squaw, who, when he entered, was in the act of giving her child, a creature of about four years of age, one or two draws of her pipe, to let it taste how nice it was.

Smoking in calm placidity, the amiable pair discussed the subject. The conclusion they came to was, as usual, harmonious.

“I think he will agree to lend it next time I go to him,” said La Certe, hopefully.

“He will give in,” replied Slowfoot, decidedly.

The four-year-old could not understand the subject, and made no comment; but it howled for another smoke, and got it.

La Certe was wrong, and his wife was right—as usual. Old McKay did not agree to “lend” his canoe the “next time,” or the next again, but he did “give in” at last, more, perhaps, to get rid of the half-breed’s importunity than because of good-will, and sold the canoe to him—on credit.

When that winter was over, the Hudson’s Bay Company again encouraged the settlers to return, under promise of protection, and the spring found the persevering people, in spite of all difficulties and previous failures, busy putting into the ground what little seed they possessed, and otherwise cultivating the soil.

Some of them there were, however, who, after lending a hand in this work, determined to provide second strings to their bows by following the buffalo-hunters to the plains. These were chiefly the young and strong men, such as Dan Davidson and his brother Peter, Fergus McKay, Antoine Dechamp, and Jacques Bourassin, among many others.

La Certe also went, as well as his squaw and the four-year-old. He managed the thing characteristically thus.

When the half-breeds were making preparations for their spring hunt, he paid a visit to Duncan McKay, who was busy at the time helping his father and brother to rebuild their house. Indeed the edifice was almost rebuilt, for the erection of small wooden houses does not usually take long.

“You’ve come to beg, borrow, or steal, no doubt,” said Cloudbrow, who was worthy of his nickname, for he was as short of temper as Duncan senior.

No, La Certe had come to do none of these things, he said, with a conciliatory smile.

“Well, then, you can’t have come to buy or to ask advances,” growled Duncan; “for you see that our store and all we possessed has been burnt by your precious countrymen.”

La Certe knew this, and professed himself profoundly grieved as well as indignant with his countrymen. No, he did not come to buy or to borrow, but to hire. The McKays had still some horses left, and carts. Could they not spare a horse and cart to him on hire?

“No, we can do nothing of the sort,” said Duncan shortly, resuming his axe and work. “You can go to the Company. Perhaps they will trust you—though they are fools if they do.”

La Certe was regretful, but not cast down. He changed the subject, commented on the building that was going on, the prospects of a good harvest, and finally took refuge in that stale old subject, the weather. Then he said in a casual way—as if it had just occurred to him—

“By the way—that knife that my wife got from Marie Blanc—”

Young McKay stopped, and looked quickly up for a moment, with a slight flush, but instantly resumed work.

“Well,” he said, quietly, “what about the knife?”

“Would you like to have it—my wife bade me inquire?”

“Why should I like to have it?” he asked carelessly.

“Oh! I thought it was yours,” said La Certe.

“You are mistaken. I said it was very like mine. But it is not mine—and I have no wish for what does not belong to me.”

“Of course not. Well, I must be going,” said the half-breed, preparing to leave. “I wished much to have your horse and cart, for they are both good, and I would offer you 4 pounds for the trip, which, you know, is double the usual charge, for I never grudge a good price for a good thing.”

“Yes, all the more when you hev no intention to pay it,” said McKay with a laugh. “However, since you seem so anxious, and offer so good a price, I am willing to oblige you this time, in the hope that you are really becoming an honest man!”

The half-breed was profuse in his thanks, and in his assurance that Cloudbrow’s hopes would certainly not be disappointed.

Having thus attained his chief object, our arch-beggar went off to obtain provisions. Those which had been supplied him the previous autumn by young McKay had been quite consumed by himself and his friends—for the man, you see, had a liberal heart and hand.

But his first attempts were unsuccessful. He wanted ammunition. To go to the plains without ammunition was obviously useless. He wanted food—sugar, tea, flour, pork. To go to the plains without these would be dreary work. But men knew La Certe’s character, and refused him. One after another he tried his friends. Then he tried them again. Then he tried comparative strangers. He could not try his enemies, for, strange to say, he had none. Then he went over them all again.

At last, by indomitable perseverance, he managed to wear out the patience of one of his friends, who believed in the restoration of the incorrigible, and he found himself fully equipped to take the field with his hard-working comrades.

It may be remarked here that the buffalo runners generally went on the credit system, trusting to a successful hunt to pay off their debts, and leave them supplied with food for the winter. But, then, most of these men were in earnest, and meant to pay off their debts loyally. Whereas La Certe—good, humorous, easy-going man—had not the slightest intention of paying his debts at all!

Chapter Fourteen.

Treachery in the Air.

At this time the half-breeds of the colony of Red River formed a small party compared with the numbers to which they multiplied in after years, and the band of hunters who annually went to the plains to chase the buffalo was proportionally small. Nevertheless, they were numerous enough to constitute a formidable band, capable of holding their own, when united, against any band of wandering Indians who might feel disposed to attack them. They were a brave, hardy race of men, but of course there were some black sheep among them like La Certe.

About sixty or a hundred miles from the Settlement, the party, under command of Antoine Dechamp, found the buffalo, and preparations were at once made to attack them. It was dusk, however, when the herds were discovered, so that the hunt had to be postponed to the following day.

A small clump of bushes afforded wood enough for camp-fires. The carts were ranged in a circle with the trains outward. Sentries were posted; the horses were secured; the kettles put on; pipes lighted; and noise, laughter, song and story, mingled with the shrill voices of children, were heard far on into the night.

Among the children, if we may venture so to class them, were Archie and Billie Sinclair—though we suspect that Archie would have claimed, and with some reason, to be classed with the men. They belonged to the camp-fire, which formed a centre to the party composed of Dan and Peter, Fergus, Dechamp, and Fred Jenkins the sailor. The latter, who it was thought had come out to the country by way of a skylark rather than as a settler, had followed the hunters, bent, he said, on firing a broadside into a buffalo. He had brought with him a blunderbuss, which he averred had been used by his great-grandfather at the battle of Culloden. It was a formidable old weapon, capable of swallowing, at one gulp, several of the bullets which fitted the trading guns of the country. Its powers of scattering ordinary shot in large quantity had proved to be very effective, and had done such execution among flocks of wild-fowl, that the Indians and half-breeds, although at first inclined to laugh at it, were ultimately filled with respect.

“I doubt its capacity for sending ball straight, however,” remarked Dan to Jenkins, who was carefully cleaning out the piece, “especially if charged with more than one ball.”

“No fear of it,” returned the sailor, with a confident air. “Of course it scattered the balls about six yards apart the only time I tried it with a lot of ’em, but that was at fifty yards off, an’ they tell me that you a’most ram the muzzle against the brutes’ sides when chasin’ buffalo. So there’s no room to scatter, d’ee see, till they get inside their bodies, and when there it don’t matter how much they scatter.”

“It’s well named a young cannon by La Certe,” said Peter Davidson, who, like the seaman, was out on his first buffalo-hunt. “I never heard such a roar as it gave that time you brought down ten out of one flock of ducks on the way up here.”

“Ay, Peter, she barked well that time,” remarked the sailor, with a grin, “but, then there was a reason. I had double-shotted her by mistake.”

“An’ ye did it too without an aim, for you had both eyes tight shut at the time,” remarked Fergus. “Iss that the way they teach ye to shoot at sea?”

“In course it is,” replied Jenkins, gravely. “That’s the beauty o’ the blunderbuss. There’s no chance o’ missin’, so what ’ud be the use o’ keepin’ yer eyes open, excep’ to get ’em filled wi’ smoke. You’ve on’y got to point straight, an’ blaze away.”

“I did not know that you use the blunderbuss in your ships at all,” said Dechamp, with a look of assumed simplicity.

“Ho yes, they do,” said Jenkins, squinting down the bell-mouthed barrel, as if to see that the touch-hole was clear. “Aboard o’ one man-o’-war that I sailed in after pirates in the China seas, we had a blunderbuss company. The first-leftenant, who was thought to be queer in his head, he got it up.

“The first time the company was ranged along the deck he gave the order to load with ball cartridges. There was twenty-six of us, all told.

“‘We’ve got no cartridges for ’em, sir,’ whispered the man nearest him.

“‘If you don’t obey orders,’ growled the leftenant ’tween his teeth, ‘I’ll have ye strung up for mutiny every man Jack of you—load!’ he repeated in a kind of a yell.

“We had our or’nary belts and pouches on, so we out wi’ the or’nary cartridges—some three, some four,—an’, biting off the ends, poured in the powder somehow, shoved in the balls anyhow, an’ rammed the whole consarn down.

“‘Present—fire!’ roared the leftenant.

“Bang! went the six an’ twenty blunderbusses, an’ when the smoke cleared away there was fourteen out o’ the twenty-six men flat on their backs. The rest o’ us was raither stunned, but hearty.

“‘Take these men below,’ cried the leftenant, ‘an’ send fourteen strong men here. We don’t want weaklings for this company.’

“After that we loaded in moderation, an’ got on better.”

“And the pirates—what did they think o’ the new weapon?” asked Peter Davidson, with an amused expression.

“O! they couldn’t stand it at all,” answered the sailor, looking up from his work, with a solemnity that was quite impressive. “They stood fire only once. After that they sheered off like wild-cats. I say, Mistress La Certe, how long is that lobscouse—or whatever you call it,—goin’ to be in cookin’?” Slowfoot gave vent to a sweet, low giggle, as she lifted the kettle off the hook, and thus gave a practical answer to the question. She placed before him the robbiboo, or pemmican, soup, which the seaman had so grievously misnamed.

During the time that the hunters were appeasing their appetites, it was observed that Antoine Dechamp, the leader of the expedition, was unusually silent and thoughtful, and that he betrayed a slight look of anxiety. It therefore did not surprise Dan Davidson, when the supper was nearly ended, that Dechamp should rise and leave the fire after giving him a look which was a silent but obvious invitation to follow.

Dan obeyed at once, and his leader, conducting him between the various camp-fires, led him outside the circle of carts.

A clear moon lit up the prairie all round, so that they could see its undulating sweep in every direction.

“Anything wrong, Antoine?” asked Dan in a low voice, when they were out of earshot of the camp.

“Nothing wrong, Dan.”

“Surely,” continued the other, while Dechamp paused as if in perplexity, “surely there can be no chance of Red-skins troubling us on a clear night like this. I can distinguish every bush for miles around.”

“There is no fear o’ Red-skins. No, I am not troubled about them. It is matters concerning yourself that trouble me.”

“How’s that? What do you mean, Antoine?”

“Is your brother-in-law-to-be, Duncan McKay, coming to join us this spring?” asked Dechamp.

“I believe he is—after he has helped his father a bit longer wi’ the farm. Why do you ask?”

“Well, to say truth, I can’t give you a very good reason for my bein’ anxious. Only I can’t help havin’ my ears open, and I’ve heard some talk among the lads that makes me fear for the young man. They say, or hint, that he knows more about the murder o’ poor Perrin than he chooses to tell. I’ve not been quite able to find out what makes them suspect him, but they do suspect him, an’ it would be well to warn him not to come here, for you know there are many opportunities to commit murder on a buffalo-hunt!”

The incident of the knife, and of Duncan McKay’s significant glance, at once flashed across Davidson’s mind, and he felt a terrible sinking of the heart when the suspicion, once before roused within him, seemed now to be confirmed. He resolved, however, to reveal his thoughts to no one—specially not to Elspie.

“I think it a shame,” he said, “that men should allow such rumours to circulate, when nothing certain has arisen to rouse suspicion. That affair of the knife was clearly explained when young McKay declared that it was not his, though it looked like it. If he knew anything about the murder, would he not have been certain to have told us long ago? And, surely, you cannot suppose that Duncan killed Perrin with his own hand? Speak, Dechamp! Why do you shake your head?”

“I know nothing,” returned the leader. “What right have I to suppose anything? I only know that men’s deeds are often mysterious and unaccountable, and that our men have strong suspicion. For myself, I have no opinion. Duncan McKay is probably innocent, for he and Perrin were not enemies. I hope he is so, but I advise you to stop his coming to the camp just now if you can. His life may depend on it.”

“I cannot stop him,” returned Dan, with a perplexed look. “He is headstrong, as you know, and if he has made up his mind to come, nothing will stop him.”

“Perhaps if he knew his life would be in danger—that might stop him.”

“I doubt it; but I will give him the chance. I will ride back to Red River without delay, and warn him.”

“Good. When will you start?”

“To-night. The moon is clear and will not set till morning. I shall be well on my way by that time.”

“Will you ride alone?”

“No, there may be bad Indians about. I will ask Okématan or Fergus McKay to ride with me. Why did you not speak to Fergus instead of to me?”

“Because he has not been spoken to by any one,” answered Dechamp; “and I would not be the first to put suspicion into his head about his own brother. Besides, your head is clearer; and your interest in Duncan, for Elspie’s sake, is greater than his, no doubt.”

“Well, you may be right, Antoine. At all events if I take Fergus with me I shall send him back before reaching the Settlement, and say nothing whatever about my reason for going there. ‘Pressing business,’ you know, will be sufficient.”

“I’m not so sure of that,” returned Dechamp with a laugh. “Men are apt to want to know the nature of ‘pressing business.’ However, it may be as well to take Fergus. At any rate you cannot have Okématan, for he is not in camp, he left soon after we pitched, and I know has not yet returned.”

“It matters not. Fergus will do better. He is more companionable.”

Returning to camp, Dan Davidson made the proposal to Fergus McKay. That worthy was, as he said, ready for anything, and the two were soon mounted. They were also well armed, for the risk of meeting a party of hostile Indians was not altogether out of the question, though improbable. Each horseman carried his blanket and provision wallet, his gun, a long knife almost equal to an ancient Roman sword, and a cavalry pistol—revolvers not having been invented at that time: at least they had not come into general use. Thus provided for all contingencies, they set forth.

As we have said, the night was clear and fine, so that the plains were open to view in all directions, save where a few scattered clumps of willows and small trees grew like islets in the ocean.

“It iss this that I like better than farming,” said Fergus, as the fresh horses carried them swiftly and lightly over the prairie waves, and down into the grassy hollows, now swerving to avoid a badger-hole, or clearing a small shrub with a little bound. “I do think that man wass intended to live in the wilderness, an’ not to coop himself up in the cities like rabbits in their holes.”

“Why, Fergus, you should have been born a savage,” said Dan.

“Ay, it iss savitch I am that I wass not born a savitch,” returned Fergus with a grim smile. “What in all the world iss the use of ceevilisation if it will not make people happy? A man wants nothing more than a goot supper an’ a goot bed, an’ a goot shelter over him, an’ it is a not five hunderd pound a year that we will want to buy that—whatever.”

“But surely man wants a little more than that, Fergus. He wants breakfast and dinner usually, as well as supper, and a few comforts besides, such as tea and sugar—at least the women do—besides pipes an’ baccy—to say nothing of books.”

“Oo ay, I will not be denyin’ that. But we’ve no need for wan half the luxuries o’ ceevilisation. An’ ye know ferry weel, Tan, that my sister Elspie would be content to live wi’ you in a ferry small hoose, and the bare necessaries of life, but here you are forced to put off the merritch because our hooses wass burnt, and you are obleeged to wait till you get a sort o’ palace built, I suppose, and a grand farm set a-goin’.”

“Indeed, Fergus, you touch me on a sore point there, but with all your scorn of luxury, I’m sure you’d be the last man to let his sister marry a fellow who could take her only to a hut or a wigwam.”

“You are right, Tan. Yet I hev spent many a comfortable night in a hut an’ a wigwam since I came to Red River. I wish the place wass more peaceable.”

“It will never be more peaceable as long as there are two rival companies fighting for the furs,” said Davidson; “but there’s worse than that goin’ on, for some of the Indians, it seems, are mad at the agreement made between them and Lord Selkirk.”

“Wow! that iss a peety. Where heard ye that?”

“I heard it from La Certe, whose wife Slowfoot, you know, is a Cree Indian. It seems that the Crees have always claimed Red River as their lands; but when Lord Selkirk came to make a treaty with the natives he found some Saulteaux livin’ on the soil, an’ his lordship, in ignorance, gave them an interest in the treaty, though they were mere visitors—an’ indeed don’t even claim to be owners of the soil—their lands lying far to the east of Red River.”

“Well,” continued Dan, guiding his horse carefully down the next hollow, for the moon had gone behind a cloud just then, “when the Crees found out what had been done, they were naturally very angry—an’ I don’t wonder—an’ they threaten now to expel the Saulteaux from Red River altogether, an’ the white men along wi’ them, unless the names of the Saulteaux chiefs are wiped out o’ the contract, an’ the annual payment made to the Crees alone.”

“That iss bad, Taniel, ferry bad,” said Fergus, as they reached the bottom of the hollow and began to ascend the succeeding undulation, “an’ I am all the more sorry to hear it because our goot frund Okématan is a Cree.”

“Ay, Fergus, he is a great chief of the Crees, and a man of considerable influence among his people. I should not like to have him for an enemy.”

“Stop!” said Fergus in a whisper at that moment, laying his hand on Davidson’s arm.

Dan drew rein at once and looked at his friend, but could not clearly see his face, for the moon was still behind thick drifting clouds.

They had just risen high enough on the prairie wave, which they had been ascending, to be able to see over it, and Dan could perceive by the outstretched neck of his companion that he was gazing intently at something directly in front.

“What do you see, Fergus?” he asked in a low voice.

“Do you see nothin’, Taniel?” was the Highlander’s reply.

“Why, yes. I see the plains stretching away to the horizon—an’ dark enough they are, too, at this moment. I also see a few small clumps that look like bushes here an’ there.”

“Don’t you see the clump that’s nearest to you—right foment your nose?” said the other.

“Of course I do,” and he stopped abruptly, for at that moment he saw a spark in the clump referred to—a spark so small that it might have been taken for a glow-worm, had such a creature existed there.

“Savitches!” whispered the Highlander. “Let’s get into the hollow as fast as we can.”

This retrograde movement was soon effected, and the friends dismounted.

“Now, Fergus, what’s the best thing to be done?”

“I will be leavin’ that to you, Taniel, for you’ve a clearer head than mine.”

“We dare not ride forward,” said Dan, as if communing with himself, “an’ it would be foolish to make a long détour to escape from something until we know there is something worth escaping from. My notion is that we hobble or picket our horses here, and go cautiously forward on foot to see what it is.”

“You’ll be doin’ what ye think best, Captain Taniel, an’ you will find that private Fergus will back you up—whatever.”

This being settled, the two men picketed their steeds in the hollow, fastened their guns to the saddles, as being too cumbrous for a creeping advance, and, armed only with their long knives and pistols, reascended the prairie wave. With feet clothed in soft moccasin, and practised by that time in the art of stealthy tread, they moved towards the summit noiseless as ghosts.

On gaining the ridge they sank slowly down into the tall grass and disappeared.

After a prolonged and somewhat painful creep on hands and knees the two men reached the edge of the clump of bushes already referred to.

Before reaching it they discovered, from the sound of voices, that a party of some kind was encamped there; but, of course, as they knew not who, it became needful to proceed with extreme caution. When they gained the edge of the clump, and raised their heads over a low bush-covered bank, they beheld a sight which was not calculated to cheer them, for there, in the centre of the bush, encircling a very small fire, sat a war-party of about fifty painted and befeathered braves of the Cree Indians. They were engaged in council at the moment.

A creeping sensation about their scalps was experienced by the two eavesdroppers on observing that they had passed not a hundred yards from a sentinel who occupied a low knoll on their left.

Neither Dan nor Fergus dared to speak—not even to whisper. Still less did they dare to move; for a few moments after they reached the bank just referred to, the moon came out from behind the clouds and flooded the whole scene as with the light of day.

There was nothing left for it, therefore, except to lie still and listen. But this gave them small comfort; for, although quite within earshot of the war-party, the language spoken was utterly unintelligible to either of them.

Their eyes, however, were not so useless as their ears, for they could clearly see each warrior as he rose to harangue his comrades, and, from the vindictive expression of their faces as well as their frequent pointing in the direction of the buffalo-hunters it was abundantly evident that an attack upon them was being discussed.

At last, after many braves had spoken, a chief of tall and noble mien arose. His back was towards the two spies, but the moment they heard his voice they turned their heads and gazed at each other in speechless amazement, for the voice was quite familiar.

No word did they dare to utter, but Fergus made formations with his lips of a most extravagant nature, which, however, clearly spelt “Okématan.” When he had finished, he nodded and turned his gaze again on the Crees.

Both men now understood that treachery was in the wind, and that a night attack was highly probable; and, of course, they felt desperately anxious to jump up and fly back to the camp to warn their comrades—for their only fear was a surprise. The half-breeds being far more numerous than the Indians, and well entrenched, there could be no fear for them if prepared.

Just then, as if to favour them, the moon retired behind a huge black cloud.

Without a moment’s hesitation Dan began to creep away back, closely followed by Fergus. They gave a wide berth of course to the sentinel, and soon regained the hollow where the horses had been left. Here they breathed more freely.

“Who would have thought this of Okématan?” muttered Dan, as he hastily tightened his saddle-girths.

“The rascal!” exclaimed Fergus, in deep tones of indignation.

“You must gallop back to camp at once, Fergus,” said Dan, as they mounted. “I will go on to Red River alone.”

“What! will you not be coming with me?” asked the Highlander, in some surprise.

“There is no need, for there will be no fighting,” returned the other. “Our fellows far outnumber the Red-skins, and when the latter find that we have been warned, and are on our guard, they won’t attack us, depend on it. But you’ll have to ride fast, for when such fellows make up their minds to strike they don’t usually waste time in delivering the blow. My business presses, I must go on.”

A minute later, and Dan Davidson was galloping towards the Settlement alone, while Fergus made the best of his way back to the camp of the buffalo runners.

Chapter Fifteen.

A Friend in Need is a Friend indeed.

Whether or not Okématan was as thorough a rascal as Fergus McKay thought him will be best shown by harking back, and setting down a little of what was said by some of the Cree braves at the time that Fergus and Dan were eavesdropping.

Standing in a dignified attitude worthy of an ancient Roman, with his blanket thrown toga-fashion over one shoulder, one of the braves looked round on the warrior band with a dark scowl before he began. His comrades were evidently impressed by his looks. Whether owing to a freak of fancy, a spice of eccentricity, or simple vanity, we know not, but this brave had, among other ornamental touches to his visage, painted his nose bright red. The effect on his brother braves was solemnising. It was not so impressive to his white observers, as it suggested to them the civilised toper.

“The great white chief,” began Rednose, with a slow deliberation that was meant to convey a settled and unalterable conviction, “is a fool!”

“Waugh!” exclaimed the audience with emphasis, for the language was strong, and uttered with intense vigour, and that quite accorded with their tastes, so they agreed with the sentiment without regard to its signification. This species of rhetoric, and its effects, are sometimes observed in connection with civilised gatherings.

The great white chief thus irreverently referred to, we regret to say, was Lord Selkirk.

“The great white chief,” continued Rednose, availing himself of the force of emphatic repetition, “is a fool! He is a child! He knows nothing! He comes across the great salt lake from the rising sun, with the air and aspect of an owl, thinking to teach us—the great Cree nation—wisdom!”

“Waugh!” from the audience, one of whom, having a cold in his head, sneezed inadvertently, and was scowled at by the orator for full two minutes in absolute silence. If that Cree warrior—he was on his first war-path—possessed anything akin to the feelings of the Paleface he must have suffered martyrdom.

“Every one knows,” continued the orator, resuming, “that the Crees are wise. They can tell a fox from a buffalo. They understand the difference between fire and water. No Paleface sage needs to come from the rising sun to tell them to eat when they are hungry—to drink when they are dry. But this Paleface chief comes with the eyes of the great northern owl, and says he comes to do us good. And how does he begin to do us good?”

Here there was a very decided “Waugh!” as though to say, “Ay, that’s the question,” and then a solemn pause for more—during which the man with the cold drew the reins very tight.

“How does he begin to do us good?” proceeded the orator. “By entering into an agreement with us for the use of our lands—and asking our enemies the Saulteaux to take part in that agreement!”

The sounds of indignation and ferocity that followed this statement are not translatable. After a gaze of unutterable meaning round the circle Rednose went on—

“This, this is the way in which the owl-eyed chief of the Palefaces begins to do us good! If this is the way he begins, in what way will he continue, and,”—here his voice deepened to a whisper—“how will he end?”

The ideas suggested by his question were so appalling that for some minutes the orator appeared unable to find words to go on, and his audience glared at him in dread anticipation, as though they expected him to explode like a bomb-shell, but were prepared to sit it out and take the consequences. And he did explode, after a fashion, for he suddenly raised his voice to a shout that startled even the sentinel on the distant knoll, and said—

“I counsel war to the knife! The great white chief—the owl-eyed fool!—will not blot from our agreement the names of the Saulteaux chiefs—chiefs! there are no Saulteaux chiefs. All their braves are cowards, on the same dead level of stupidity, and their women are—are nothing, fit for nothing, can do nothing, and must soon come to nothing! What then? The duty of Cree warriors lies before us. We will drive the Saulteaux into Lake Winnipeg and the Palefaces off the face of the earth altogether! Waugh!”

Having thus given vent to the opinions and feelings that consumed him, Rednose sat down, his audience breathed freely, the distant sentinel recovered his composure, and the young novitiate brave with the cold in his head sneezed with impunity.

It would be tedious to recount all that was said at that council of war. The next brave that rose to “address the house” very much resembled the first speaker, both in sentiment and personal appearance, except that he had chosen sky-blue for his nose instead of red. The only additional matter that he contributed worth noting was the advice that they should begin their bloody work by an immediate attack, in the dead of night, on the camp of the buffalo runners.

This advice was hailed with a good many “Waughs,” as well as approving nods and looks, and it seemed as if the plan were about to be carried into action without delay, when, as we have seen, Okématan arose to address the assemblage.

Okématan was a great chief—much greater in the estimation of his tribe than the whites with whom he had been associating in Red River were aware of. He had purposely reserved his address till near the conclusion.

“The Cree warriors,” he said, with an air of quiet dignity that was far more effective than the more energetic tones and gestures of the previous speakers, “know very well that the Cree nation considers itself the wisest in creation. Far be it from Okématan to say otherwise, for he does not know. Okématan is a child! His eyes are only beginning to open!”

He paused at this point, and looked round with solemn dignity; and the braves, unaccustomed to such self-depreciative modes of address, gazed at him with equal solemnity, not unmingled with surprise, though the latter feeling was carefully concealed.

“When the last great palaver of the Cree braves was held on the Blue-Pine Ridge,” continued Okématan, “the chiefs chose me to go to Red River, and learn all that I could find out about the Palefaces and their intentions. I went, as you know. I attached myself to a family named Daa-veed-sin, and I have found out—found out much about the Palefaces—much more that I did not know before, though I am a chief of the Cree nation.”

Okématan looked pointedly at Rednose as he said this. After a brief pause he continued—

“The great white chief,” (meaning Lord Selkirk), “is not a fool. It is true that he is not a god; he is a man and a Paleface, subject to the follies and weaknesses of the Palefaces, and not quite so wise as it is possible to be, but he is a good man, and wishes well to the Indian. I have found weaknesses among the Palefaces. One of them is that their chiefs plan—sometimes wisely, sometimes foolishly—but they leave the carrying out of their plans to other men, and sometimes these other men care for nobody but themselves. They tell lies, they mislead the great white chief, and tell him to do what is wrong.

“So it was when our agreement came to be made. The great white chief found, when he came to Red River, a few families of Saulteaux whom we had permitted to hunt on our lands. He thought the land belonged to the Saulteaux as well as to the Crees. He was mistaken, ignorant; he knew no better, and the Palefaces who did know, did not put light into him; so the names of Saulteaux chiefs were put in the writing. Then the great white chief went away across the great salt lake to the lands of the rising sun, leaving his small chiefs to carry out his plans. Some of these are very small chiefs, unfit to carry out any plans. Others are bad small chiefs, that will carry out only such plans as are sure to benefit themselves. It is these men with whom we have to deal. It is these who deserve to be swept off the face of the earth.”

A number of emphatic nods and “waughs” at this point showed that Okématan had at last touched a key-note with which his braves could shout in harmony.

“But,” resumed the chief impressively, “we cannot sweep them off the earth; we cannot even sweep them off the banks of Red River. We might easily sweep the Saulteaux into Lake Winnipeg if we thought it worth while to try, but the Palefaces—never! Okématan has travelled far to the south and seen the Palefaces there. They cannot be counted. They swarm like our locusts; they darken the earth as our buffaloes darken the plains. They live in stone wigwams. I have seen one of their wigwams that was big enough to hold all the Crees’ wigwams bundled together. If we killed or scalped all the Palefaces in Red River the great white chief would come over the great salt lake with an army that would swallow us up as the buffalo swallows up a tuft of grass.

“Besides,” continued Okématan, with a slight touch of pathos in his tone, “there are good and bad men among the Palefaces, just as there are good and bad among ourselves. I have dwelt for many moons with a tribe called Scosh-min. Okématan loves the Scosh-min. They speak a wonderful language, and some of them are too fond of fire-water; but their braves fear nothing, and their squaws are pretty and work hard—almost as hard as our squaws—though they are not quite as good-looking as ours. They are too white—their faces are like buffalo fat!”

A “Waugh,” which might be translated “Hear, hear,” greeted this statement of opinion.

“Now,” continued our chief, “if we swept away all the people of Red River, we would sweep away the good Scosh-min, which would be foolish, and we would gain nothing in the end, but would bring worse trouble on our heads. My counsel, therefore, is for peace. I advise that we should let the buffalo runners and the people of Red River alone; send a message with our grievances to the great white chief; ask him to come back over the great salt lake to put things right, and, in the meantime, wait with patience; attend to our own business; hunt, fish, eat, drink, sleep, and be happy.”

Having delivered his harangue, Okématan sat down amid murmurs of mingled applause and disapprobation. It was evident that he had created a serious division of opinion in the camp, and it seemed as if on the impression made by the next speaker would depend the great question of peace or war.

Presently an old warrior arose, and a profound silence followed, for they held him in great respect.

“My braves,” said the old man sententiously, “I have lived long, and my fighting days are nearly over. If wisdom has not accumulated on my head it must be my own fault, for I have had great experience both of war and peace—more of war, perhaps, than of peace. And the opinion that I have come to after long and very deep consideration is this: if there is something to fight for, fight—fight well; if there is nothing to fight for, don’t fight—don’t fight at all.”

The old man paused, and there were some “Waughs” of approval, for the truth contained in his profound conclusion was obvious even to the stupidest Red-skin of the band—supposing that a stupid brave among Crees were possible!

“I have also lived to see,” continued the old man, “that revenge is nothing—nothing at all, and therefore not worth fighting for.”

As this was flying straight in the face of the most cherished of Red-skins’ beliefs, it was received in dead though respectful silence.

“My young braves do not believe this. I know it. I have been young myself, and I remember well how pleasant revenge was to me, but I soon found that the pleasure of revenge did not last. It soon passed away, yet the deed of revenge did not pass away, and sometimes the deed became to my memory very bitter—insomuch that the pleasantness was entirely swallowed up and forgotten in the bitterness. My young braves will not believe this, I know. They go on feeling; they think on feeling; they reason on feeling; they trust to feeling. It is foolish, for the brain was given to enable man to think and judge and plan. You are as foolish as if you were to try to smell with your mouth and eat with your nose. But it is the way of youth. When experience teaches, then you will come to know that revenge is not worth fighting for—its pleasantness will pass away, but the bitter it leaves behind will never pass away.

“What is the meaning of revenge?” continued this analytical old savage. “What is the use of it? Does it not mean that we give up all hope of getting what we want, and wildly determine to get what pleasure is still possible to us by killing those who have thwarted us? And when you have killed and got all the pleasure there is, what does it come to? Your enemy is dead, and scalped. What then? He does not know that he is dead. He does not care that he is dead and scalped. You cannot keep him alive for ever killing and scalping him. But you have made his wife and children miserable. What of that? It was not his wife and children who opposed you, therefore you have revenged yourself on the wrong persons. He does not know that you have rendered his wife and children miserable, and does not care; therefore, I ask, why are you pleased? If your enemy was a good man, your revenge has only done him a kindness, for it has sent him to the happy hunting grounds before his time, where you will probably never meet him to have the pleasure of being revenged on him there. If he was a bad man, you have sent him to the world of Desolation, where he will be waiting to receive you when you get there, and where revenge will be impossible, for men are not allowed to kill or scalp there. At least if they are I never heard of it—and I am an old man now.

“There is nothing, then, to fight for with the Palefaces of Red River, and my counsel is, like that of Okématan, that we should decide on peace—not war.”

Whatever may have been the private opinion of the braves as to this new and very unexpected style of address, the effect of it was pacific; for, after a little more palaver, the peace-party carried the day—or, rather the night—and, next morning, the Cree warriors went back to their tents and hunting avocations, leaving Okématan to return to the camp of his friends the buffalo runners.

Chapter Sixteen.

An Evening in the Camp.

It was daybreak when Fergus McKay galloped into camp with the startling news that an attack by hostile Indians might be expected that day or the following night. He was, of course, unaware of the fact that the peace-making Okématan had been unwittingly following his tracks at a more leisurely pace.

Some readers may think that the Indian, with his traditional power of following a trail, should have observed and suspected the fresh track of the hunter, but it must be remembered that some hundreds of buffalo runners had passed over the same track a day or two previously, and that Hawkeye, or Pathfinder himself, would have become helpless in the midst of such trampled confusion. Besides, Okématan had no reason to suspect that he had been followed; still less that the camp of the war-party had been accidentally discovered.

“Now, boys,” said Fergus, after detailing his adventures during the night, “we will hev to give up all notion o’ buffalo runnin’ this day an’ putt the camp in a state o’ defence.”

There was a good deal of grumbling at this, especially among some of the younger men; for they were very keen to commence the sport, and had not much belief in the power of a small band of savages to do them harm. Some of them even suggested that half of their number should remain behind to guard the camp while the other half should go after the buffalo. This proposal, however, was not received with favour, as it would certainly be a matter of disagreement which half was to go out, and which to remain behind!

“Where is Kateegoose?” asked Dechamp at this crisis.

“Stuffin’ ’imself, of course!” said Fred Jenkins, amid a general laugh. “I’ve noticed, since we set sail on this trip, that Kateegoose always turns out at daybreak, lights the galley fire, an’ begins the dooties o’ the day by stuffin’ ’imself.”

“Ay, and I’ve noticed,” observed one of the young hunters, “that it takes a deal o’ stuffin’ to fill him out properly, for he keeps on at it most part o’ the day.”

“Except,” remarked another, “when he stops to smoke what o’ the stuffin’ has been already shoved down.”

“Moreover,” added the seaman, “I’ve noticed that François La Certe always keeps ’im company. He’s a sympathetic sort o’ man is François, fond o’ helpin’ his mates—specially when they’re eatin’ an’ smokin’.”

At this moment Kateegoose, having been called, came forward. He was an ill-favoured savage, with various expressions on his ugly visage which were not so much Nature’s gifts as the result of his own evil passions. Jealousy was one of them, and he had often turned a green eye on Okématan. There were indications about his mouth and fingers, as he came forward, that justified the commentaries on his habits, and betrayed recent acquaintance with fat pork.

“You hear the reports that have just been brought in?” said Dechamp.

“Kateegoose hears,” was the laconic answer.

“Kateegoose is a Cree,” continued Dechamp; “he knows the spirit that dwells in the hearts of his tribe. What does he think?”

“The thoughts of the Indian are many and deep. He has for many moons watched the behaviour of Okématan, and he has long suspected that the heart of the serpent dwells in the breast of that chief. Now he is sure.”

“But what about your people?” demanded the camp-chief. “They are not at war with us. Are they all villains because one among them turns out to be bad?”

Kateegoose drew himself up with a look of dignity, and pouted his greasy lips as he replied—

“The Crees have always been a brave and true and upright people. They never attack friends until, by their conduct, these friends have become enemies. But the Crees are human. They are not perfect—neither are the Palefaces. There are bad men among them—a few; not many—as well as young men and foolish. Sometimes, when on the war-path, a clever bad man can reason with them till he blinds them, and they are ready to do wrong. It may be so now. Okématan is clever. Kateegoose does not know what to advise.”

“Kateegoose was not asked to advise,” returned Dechamp sternly. “He may return to his tent.”

Thus summarily dismissed, this hanger-on or camp-follower returned to his pork and pipe with a feeling that somehow he had failed to make the exact impression on the leader that he desired. La Certe, however, consoled him, and helped him to continue the duties of the day.

“Come with me, McKay,” said Dechamp, after giving all needful directions regarding the safety of the camp. “I don’t believe that rascal Kateegoose. He’s a greedy idler, something like La Certe, but by no means so harmless or good-natured. Moreover, I find it hard to believe that Okématan has turned traitor.”

“I agree with you,” said Fergus. “It iss ferry hard to believe that a man who has been so long among us, and got such a good character, should suddenly turn against us—an’ that, too, without provocation. But what will you be sayin’ to what Taniel and myself has seen with our two eyes?”

“It looks bad, I confess,” answered Dechamp, as they paced to and fro in a retired part of the camp; “but you must remember that your two eyes are not your two ears, and that you heard nothing that you could understand.”

“Fery true, Dechamp. But the language of the eye is sometimes as clear and understandable as the language of the ear. No wan could mistake the meanin’ o’ some o’ the warriors when they scowled an’ pointed in the direction of our camp here, an’ gripped the handles o’ their scalpin’ knives and tomahawks. Moreover, Okématan also pointed in the same direction, though I am bound to say he did not grip his knife. Whether he scowled or not I do not know, for he was standin’ wi’ his back to us.”

“Well, I cannot tell. I’m not willin’ to believe Okématan a traitor; but what you have seen is enough to make me put the camp in defence instead of startin’ out to hunt—”

At that moment the sharp click of a gun was heard as a neighbouring sentry put his piece on full cock.

Dechamp and Fergus hastened towards him.

“Have a care, André; don’t be too quick with your gun,” said the former. “I see only one man coming. He can do us no harm.”

As the approaching figure drew near, it was seen to be that of an Indian on horseback. He rode carelessly at a jog-trot.

“It looks like Okématan!” said Dechamp, glancing at his companion in surprise.

“It iss Okématan,” returned Fergus.

Before another word could be spoken, a shot was heard in the camp, and horse and man were seen to roll upon the ground. The latter rose immediately, but the horse lay stiff—evidently shot dead. For a few seconds profound silence followed the incident, as if men were too much taken by surprise to think and act. Then, when the dismounted Indian was seen to walk leisurely, as if unhurt, towards them, there was a hubbub in the camp, while men, women, and boys ran towards the spot whence the shot seemed to have been fired, but no one was to be found there. Only a very faint puff of smoke overhead told where the marksman had stood. It had been a well-chosen spot, where a low bush or two mingled with several carts that had been rather carelessly drawn up, and several horses had been picketed together. These had afforded concealment enough for at least a few moments.

The tent of La Certe was not far from this corner. At the time the shot was heard, the self-indulgent half-breed was inside, recumbent on his back in the enjoyment of a pipe.

“That’s odd,” he said to Slowfoot, who was seated opposite to her lord scraping the remnants of something out of a tin kettle with the point of a scalping-knife. “Somebody’s gun gone off by accident, I suppose. I hear some one at our fire. Look out, Slowfoot, and ask what has happened.”

Slowfoot finished the scraping of the kettle before obeying; then lifted the curtain that closed the opening of their tent, and peeped out.

“It is Kateegoose—loading his gun, I think.”

La Certe got up, with a sigh of regret at the necessity for exertion, and, lifting the curtain-door, stepped out.

“What are they firing at, Kateegoose?”

The Indian did not know. Some one, he thought, might have let off his gun by accident. He thought it wise, however, to be ready, and had just sent the ramrod down the barrel of his gun to make sure that it was loaded with ball. To make still surer that all was ready, the Indian shook the priming out of the pan of his gun, wiped it, and re-primed. Then he laid the weapon down by his side, and resumed the pipe which he had apparently laid down to enable him to perform these operations more conveniently, and, at the same time, with more safety.

At that moment Dechamp walked smartly towards the fire in front of La Certe’s tent.

“Does Kateegoose know who fired that shot?” he asked with a keen glance, for his suspicions had been aroused.

“Some one over there,” answered the Indian languidly, as he pointed in the right direction.

“It does not need a medicine-man to tell me that,” said Dechamp, sternly. “I heard the shot, and saw the smoke. Have you any idea who fired it, La Certe?”

“I have not,” replied the half-breed. “I was lying in my tent when I heard it. Kateegoose was smoking beside the fire. We both thought it was an accident, or some one trying his gun, till we heard the shouting and running. Then I jumped up, seized my gun, and sprang out to see what it was all about. I found Kateegoose equally on the qui vive. He was shoving his ramrod down to make sure his gun was loaded when you came up. What is it all about?”

“Only that the horse of Okématan has been shot under him by some one, and that there is a would-be murderer in the camp.”

“Okématan! Has the traitor ventured to return?” exclaimed Kateegoose, with an expression of surprise that was very unusual in an Indian.

“Ay, he has ventured,” responded Dechamp, “and some one has ventured to fire at him with intent to kill. By good luck he was a bad shot. He missed the man, though he hit and killed the horse. But I shall find the rascal out before long—he may depend on that!”

So saying, the commandant left the spot.

“Do you know anything about this?” asked La Certe, turning full on the Indian.

“Kateegoose is not a medicine-man. He cannot be in two places at once. He knows nothing.”

For a sly man La Certe was wonderfully credulous. He believed the Indian, and, returning to his tent, lay down again to finish the interrupted pipe.

“Kateegoose was trying his gun to see if it was loaded,” he said to his better half.

“That’s a lie,” returned Slowfoot, with that straightforward simplicity of diction for which she was famous.

“Indeed! What, then, was he doing, my Slowfoot?”

“He was loading his gun—not trying it.”

“Are you sure?”

“Am I sure that our little child loves tobacco?”

“Well, I suppose you are. At any rate, the child often asks you for a pipe, and gets it too. Hm! if Kateegoose fired that shot he must be a bad man. But our chief is sure to find it out—and—it is no business of mine. Fetch me the tobacco, Slowfoot.”

That same morning, Archie Sinclair was seated beside his brother, Little Bill, in the tent that was shared by Fred Jenkins and several young half-breeds. He was alone with his brother, Jenkins having gone out with the blunderbuss to assist, if need be, in the defence of the camp. He was manufacturing a small bow for his brother to amuse himself with while he should be away “seein’ the fun,” as he said, with the hunters. The instant the sailor left, however, he looked at Billie mysteriously and said, in a low voice—

“Little Bill, although you’re not good for much with your poor little body, you’ve got a splendid headpiece, and are amazing at giving advice. I want advice just now very bad. You’ve heard what they’ve all been saying about this shot that was fired at Okématan, and some o’ the men say they think it must have been Kateegoose that did it. Now, Billie, I am sure that it was Kateegoose that did it.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Little Bill, making his eyes and mouth into three round O’s. “How d’ye know that? Did you see him do it?”

“No—it’s that that bothers me. If I had seen him do it I would have gone straight and told Dechamp, but I didn’t quite see him, you see. I was in Lamartine’s cart at the time, rummagin’ about for a piece o’ wood to make this very bow, an’ the moment I heard the shot I peeped out, an’ saw—nothing!”

“That wasn’t much,” remarked Little Bill, innocently.

“Ay, but I soon saw something,” continued Archie, with increasing solemnity; “I saw Kateegoose coming slinking round among the carts, as if he wanted not to be seen. I saw him only for a moment—gliding past like a ghost.”

“It’s a serious thing,” said Little Bill, musing gravely, “to charge a man with tryin’ to kill another man, if that’s all you’ve got to tell, for you know it’s a way the Red-skins have of always glidin’ about as if they was for ever after mischief.”

“But that’s not all, Little Bill,” returned his brother, “for I’m almost certain that I saw a little smoke comin’ out o’ the muzzle of his gun as he passed—though I couldn’t exactly swear to it.”

Archie had overrated his brother’s powers in the way of advice, for, although they talked the matter over for some time, they failed to arrive at any satisfactory conclusion.

Meanwhile Okématan, having entered the camp, was met by Dechamp, and led by him to a retired part.

“You have an enemy here, Okématan,” he said, inquiringly.

“It would seem so,” returned the Indian gravely. “Friends do not shoot each other’s horses; and if the poor horse had not tossed his head when the shot was fired, his rider would have bit the dust.”

“I fear it looks something like that,” said Dechamp; “but I hope Okématan believes that I know nothing of the matter—nor can I tell who the cowardly villain is that did it.”

“Okématan knows that,” answered the Indian, sternly. “No half-breed fired the shot.”

“There is no Indian in the camp but Kateegoose,” rejoined the other, quickly; “surely you don’t think that a man of your own tribe would try to kill you?”

“I know not. Kateegoose hates me. No other man in the camp hates me.”

“It is strange—unaccountable,” returned Dechamp. “If the Indian did it, he shall forfeit his horse and leave the camp. But tell me,”—here the half-breed commandant turned a searching gaze on his companion, “why did Okématan leave us, and spend all night alone on the prairie? Did he spend the night in conversation with the buffalo—or in the company of his departed forefathers?”

No sign of surprise, or of any other emotion, was visible on the countenance of the Red-man as he replied: “Okématan went out to meet a party of his tribe on the war-path.”

Dechamp was not so successful in concealing his own surprise at this answer.

“Does the Cree chief,” he asked, with something of doubt in his tone and look, “choose the hours of night to consult with warriors about secret assaults and surprises on friends?”

“He does not!” answered the Indian, decidedly but calmly—though he was unquestionably astonished at being questioned so pointedly and correctly as to his recent proceedings, and felt that he must have been followed. He was not the man, however, to betray his feelings, or to commit himself in any way; therefore he took refuge in silence.

“Come now, Okématan,” said his companion in a confidential tone. “Don’t let a misunderstanding arise between you and me. What is this that I have heard? You spent last night, as you admit, with a party of Crees on the war-path. You were seen and heard, and the men of the camp think you have turned traitor, and they are even now expecting an attack from this war-party. Is it true that we are to be attacked?”

“You say I was heard,” answered the Indian, looking the half-breed straight in the face. “If so, those who heard must know what I said.”

“Nay, they did indeed hear, but they did not understand, for they know not your language; but they know the language of signs, and, by the looks and gestures of the warriors, they guessed what was said and planned.”

“Is it likely,” asked the Indian in a low voice, “that Okématan would return to your camp alone, and put himself in your power, if an attack was intended?”

“True, true,” returned Dechamp with a hearty air; “and, to say truth, I myself did not—do not—believe you false. If you tell me the truth, Okématan, and give me your word that this report is a mistaken one, I will believe you and trust you.”

The Indian seemed pleased with the assurance thus heartily given, but still maintained his dignified gravity, as he said—

“Okématan always tells the truth. He had hoped that the folly of some young braves of his tribe should never have been known to any one; but since it has been found out, he will tell all he knows to his pale-faced brother.”

Hereupon he related all that had transpired at the council of war, and the final success of his own speech, with that of the old warrior, in producing a peaceful solution.

“But are you sure they will follow your advice?” asked Dechamp.

“Yes, Okématan is quite sure.”

“Well, then, as I said, I will trust you,” returned Dechamp, extending his hand, which the Indian gravely grasped; “and I will give you undeniable proof, by giving my young men orders to start after the buffalo at once—without further delay.”

Chapter Seventeen.

The Buffalo-Hunt.

In accordance with the assurance given to Okématan Antoine Dechamp at once gave orders to make preparation for an immediate start after the buffalo—much to the satisfaction of the hunters, especially the young ones.

Buffaloes—or, to speak more correctly, bisons—roamed over the North American prairies at the time we write of in countless thousands; for the Indians, although extremely wasteful of animal life, could not keep their numbers down, and the aggressive white-man, with his deadly gun and rifle, had only just begun to depopulate the plains. Therefore the hunters had not to travel far before coming up with their quarry.

In a very brief space of time they were all drawn up in line under command of their chosen leader, who, at least up to the moment of giving the signal for attack, kept his men in reasonably good order. They had not ridden long when the huge ungainly bisons were seen like black specks on the horizon.

Still the horsemen—each armed with the muzzle-loading, single-barrelled, flint-lock gun of the period—advanced cautiously, until so near that the animals began to look up as if in surprise at the unwonted intrusion on their great solitudes.

Then the signal was given, the horses stretched out at the gallop, the buffalo began to run—at first heavily, as if great speed were impossible to them; but gradually the pace increased until it attained to racing speed. Then the hunters gave the rein to their eager steeds, and the long line rushed upon the game like a tornado of centaurs.

From this point all discipline was at an end. Each man fought for his own hand, killing as many animals as he could, so that ere long the plain was strewn with carcases, and the air filled with gunpowder smoke.

We have said that all the hunters set out, but this is not strictly correct, for three were left behind. One of these had fallen sick; one had sprained his wrist, and another was lazy. It need scarcely be told that the lazy one was François La Certe.

“There is no hurry,” he said, when the hunters were assembling for the start; “plenty of time. My horse has not yet recovered from the fatigues of the journey. And who knows but the report of the buffalo being so near may be false? I will wait and see the result. To-morrow will be time enough to begin. Then, Slowfoot, you will see what I can do. Your hands shall be busy. We will load our cart with meat and pemmican, pay off all our debts, and spend a happy winter in Red River. What have you got there in the kettle?”

“Pork,” answered Slowfoot with characteristic brevity.

“Will it soon be ready?”

“Soon.”

“Have you got the tea unpacked?”

“Yes.”

“Send me your pipe.”

This latter speech was more in the tone of a request than a command, and the implied messenger from the opposite side of the fire was the baby—Baby La Certe. We never knew its name, if it had one, and we have reason to believe that it was a female baby. At the time, baby was quite able to walk—at least to waddle or toddle.

A brief order from the maternal lips sent Baby La Certe toddling round the fire towards its father, pipe in hand; but, short though the road was, it had time to pause and consider. Evidently the idea of justice was strongly developed in that child. Fair wage for fair work had clearly got hold of it, for it put the pipe which was still alight, in its mouth and began to draw!

At this the father smiled benignly, but Slowfoot made a demonstration which induced a rather prompt completion of the walk without a reasonable wage. It sucked vigorously all the time, however, being evidently well aware that François was not to be feared.

At that moment the curtain of the tent lifted, and little Bill Sinclair limped in. He was a favourite with La Certe, who made room for him, and at once offered him the pipe, but Billie declined.

“No, thank you, La Certe. I have not learned to smoke yet.”

“Ha! you did not begin young enough,” said the half-breed, glancing proudly at his own offspring.

We may explain here once for all that, although he had lived long enough in the colony to understand French, Billie spoke to his friend in English, and that, although La Certe understood English, he preferred to speak in French.

“What have you been doing?” he asked, when the boy had seated himself.

“I’ve been shooting at a mark with my bow and arrow—brother Archie made it for me.”

“Let me see—yes, it is very well made. Where is brother Archie?”

“Gone after the buffalo.”

“What!—on a horse?”

“He could not go very well after them on foot—could he?” replied the boy quietly. “Dan Davidson lent him a horse, but not a gun. He said that Archie was too young to use a gun on horseback, and that he might shoot some of the people instead of the buffalo, or burst his gun, or fall off. But I don’t think so. Archie can do anything. I know, for I’ve seen him do it.”

“And so he has left you in camp all by yourself. What a shame, Billie!”

“No, François, it is not a shame. Would you have me keep him from the fun just because I can’t go? That would indeed be a shame, wouldn’t it?”

“Well, perhaps you’re right, Billie.”

“I know I’m right,” returned the boy, with a decision of tone that would have been offensive if it had not been accompanied with a look of straightforward gentleness that disarmed resentment. “But, I say, François, why are you not out with the rest?”

“Oh, because—because—Well, you know, my horse is tired, and—and, I’m not quite sure that the buffalo really have been seen as near as they say. And I can go to-morrow just as well. You see, Billie, there is no need to hurry oneself.”

“No, I don’t see that. I think there’s always need for hurry, specially with men like you. I know the reason you don’t go out better than yourself, François.”

“Yes—what is it?” asked the half-breed with a slight laugh.

“It’s laziness. That’s what it is, and you should be ashamed of yourself.”

The large mild eyes and low voice, and pale earnest face of the plain-spoken invalid were such that it would have been impossible for any one to be offended with him, much less La Certe, whose spirit of indignation it was almost impossible to arouse. He winced a little at the home-thrust, however, because he knew it to be true.

“You’re hard on me, Little Bill,” he said with a benignant look, as he picked a stick from the fire and inserted its glowing end in his pipe.

“No, I’m not hard,” returned the boy gravely. Indeed he was always grave, and seldom laughed though he sometimes smiled faintly at the jokes and quips of his volatile brother and Fred Jenkins the seaman: “I’m not half hard enough,” he continued; “I like you, François, and that’s the reason why I scold you and try to get you to mend. I don’t think there’s such a lazy man in the whole Settlement as you. You would rather sit and smoke and stuff yourself with pork all day than take the trouble to saddle your horse and get your gun and go out with the rest. Why are you so lazy, François?”

“I’m sure I don’t know, Little Bill, unless it be that I’m born to be lazy. Other people are born, I suppose, to be active and energetic. They like activity and energy, and so they do it. I like repose and quiet, and—so I do that. Not much difference after all! We both do what we like best!”

Little Bill was perplexed. Although philosophical in tendency he had not had sufficient experience in sophistical reasoning to enable him to disentangle the sinuosities of bad logic. But he was a resolute little fellow, and not easily quelled.

“What would happen,” he asked, “if everybody in the world did as you do?”

“Well, I suppose everybody would enjoy themselves. There would be no more fightings or wars, or any trouble of that sort, if everybody would only take things easy and smoke the pipe of peace.”

“Hm! I don’t know about that,” returned the boy, doubtfully; “but I’m quite sure there would not be much pemmican in Red River this winter if all the hunters were like you. I wonder you’re not ashamed, François. Sometimes I think that you’re not worth caring about; but I can’t help it, you know—we can’t force our likings one way or other.”

La Certe was a good deal taken aback. He was not indeed unaccustomed to plain speaking, and to the receipt of gratuitous abuse; but his experience invariably was to associate both with more or less of a stern voice and a frowning brow. To receive both in a soft voice from a delicate meek-faced child, who at the same time professed to like him, was a complete novelty which puzzled him not a little.

After a few minutes’ profound consideration, he put out his pipe and arose quickly with something like an appearance of firmness in his look and bearing.

Slowfoot, whose utter ignorance of both French and English prevented her understanding the drift of the recent conversation, was almost startled by the unfamiliar action of her lord.

“Where go you?” she asked.

“To follow the buffalo,” answered La Certe, with all the dignity of a man bursting with good resolutions.

“Are you ill?” asked his wife, anxiously.

To this he vouchsafed no reply, as he raised the curtain and went out.

Little Bill also went out, and, sitting down on a package, watched him with his large solemn eyes, but said never a word until the half-breed had loaded his gun and mounted his horse. Then he said: “Good luck to you, François!”

La Certe did not speak, but with a grave nod of his head rode slowly out of the camp. Little Bill regarded him for a moment. He had his bow and a blunt-headed arrow in his hand at the time. Fitting the latter hastily to the bow he took a rapid shot at the retreating horseman. The arrow sped well. It descended on the flank of the horse with considerable force, and, bounding off, fell to the ground. The result was that the horse, to La Certe’s unutterable surprise, made a sudden demivolt into the air—without the usual persuasion—almost unseated its rider, and fled over the prairie like a thing possessed!

A faint smile ruffled the solemnity of Little Bill at this, but it vanished when he heard a low chuckle behind him. Wheeling round, he stood face to face with Slowfoot, whose mouth was expanded from ear to ear.

“Clever boy!” she said, patting him on the back, “come into the tent and have some grub.”

She said this in the Cree language, which the boy did not understand, but he understood well enough the signs with which the invitation was accompanied. Thanking her with an eloquent look, he re-entered the tent along with her.

Chapter Eighteen.

Adventures of Archie and the Seaman.

Meanwhile the buffalo-hunt progressed favourably, and the slaughter of animals was considerable.

But there were two members of that hunt whose proceedings were not in exact accord with the habits and laws of the chase, as usually conducted on the Red River plains. These were the seaman Jenkins and Archie Sinclair.

A mutual attachment having sprung up between these two, they had arranged to keep together during the chase; and when the signal for attack was given by Dechamp, as before related, they had “set sail,” according to Jenkins, fairly well with the rest. But they had not gone more than a few hundred yards when the boy observed that his nautical friend was hauling at both reins furiously, as if desirous of stopping his horse. Having a gun in one hand he found the operation difficult.

Archie therefore reined in a little.

“Bad luck to it!” growled Jenkins, as his young friend drew near, “the jaws o’ this craft seem to be made o’ cast-iron, but I’ll bring him to if I should haul my arms out o’ the sockets. Heave-to, my lad! Maybe he’ll be willin’ to follow a good example.”

Archie pulled up, and, as the seaman had hoped, the hard-mouthed steed stopped, while the maddened buffalo and the almost as much maddened hunters went thundering on, and were soon far ahead of them.

“What’s wrong, Jenkins?” asked Archie, on seeing the sailor dismount.

“Not much, lad; only I want to take a haul at the main brace. Here, hold my gun a bit, like a good chap; the saddle, you see, ain’t all right, an’ if it was to slew round, you know, I’d be overboard in a jiffy. There, that’s all right. Now, we’ll up anchor, an’ off again. I know now that the right way to git on board is by the port side. When I started from Red River I was goin’ to climb up on the starboard side, but Dan Davidson kep’ me right—though he had a good laugh at me. All right now. Hand me the gun.”

“Do you mean to say, Jenkins, that you never got on a horse till you came to Red River?” asked Archie, with a laugh, as they galloped off in pursuit of the hunters, who were almost out of sight by that time.

“Well, you’ve no occasion to laugh, lad,” returned the seaman. “I’ve bin at sea ever since I was a small shaver, scarce half as long as a handspike, so I ain’t had many opportunities, d’ee see, for we don’t have cavalry at sea, as a rule—always exceptin’ the horse marines.

“Then I’m afraid you’ll find runnin’ the buffalo somewhat difficult,” returned the boy. “Not that I know anything about it myself, for this is the first time I’ve been out; an’ even now Dan won’t let me use a gun; but I’ve often heard the men talkin’ about it! an’ some o’ them have complained that they have found it uncommon difficult to load when at full gallop—specially when the horse is hard in the mouth.”

“I make no manner o’ doubt you’re right, lad, but I’ve got my sea-legs on now, so to speak; leastwise I’ve got used to ridin’ in the trip out here, as well as used to steerin’ wi’ the tiller-ropes in front, which seems to me right in the teeth o’ natur’, though I couldn’t see how it could well be otherwise. But I confess that my chief difficulty is the ordnance, for it interferes a good deal wi’ the steerin’. Hows’ever—‘never ventur’ never win,’ you know. I never expected to take up a noo purfession without some trouble.”

As he spoke, the seaman’s horse—a large brown chestnut—put its foot in a hole, and plunged forward with great violence, barely escaping a fall.

“Hold on!” shouted Archie in alarm.

“Hold on it is!” sang out the sailor in reply.

And hold on it was, for he had the chestnut round the neck with both arms. Indeed he was sitting, or lying, on its neck altogether.

“It ain’t an easy job,” he gasped, while he struggled to regain the saddle, “when a fellow gets hove on to the bowsprit this way, to git fairly back on the main-deck again. But a Jenkins never was beaten in fair fight. That’s all right. Now then, Archie, you’re an obleegin’ cove. Do git down an’ pick up the gun for me. You see, if I git down it’s a tryin’ job to git up again—the side o’ this here craft bein’ so steep an’ so high out o’ the water. Thank’ee; why, boy, you jump down an’ up like a powder-monkey. It ain’t broke, is it?”

“No. It seems all right,” answered the boy, as he handed the gun to its owner. “But if you let it go like that often, it won’t be much worth when the run’s over.”

“Let it go, boy?” repeated the sailor. “It was either let it or myself go, an’ when it comes to a toss up o’ that sort, Fred Jenkins knows how to look arter number one.”

It will be seen from all this that our seaman was not quite so much at home on the prairie as on the sea. Indeed, if the expression be permissible, he was very much at sea on that undulating plain, and did not take so kindly to the green waves of the rolling prairie as to the heaving billows of the restless ocean; but, as Archie remarked, he was fast getting broke in.

The incidents which we have mentioned, however, were but the commencement of a series of disasters to poor Jenkins, which went far to cure him of a desire to excel in the “noo purfession,” and to induce a somewhat violent longing for a return to his first love, the ocean.

“I can’t think what ever could have made you want to come out here,” said Archie, as they continued to follow up the still distant hunters.

“What was it made yourself want to come out, lad?” asked the sailor.

“It wasn’t me that wanted to come. It was father, you know, an’ of course I had to follow,” said the boy in a tone which induced his friend to say hastily, and in a tone of sympathy—

“Ah, poor lad, I forgot you was a orphing. Well, you see, I think it must ha’ bin a love o’ change or a love o’ discontent, or suthin’ o’ that sort, as brought me cruising in these here waters, for I can’t say what else it was. You see I was born a sort o’ ro–oh—”

“Look out! a badger-hole!” shouted the boy.

His warning would have been too late, but the chestnut fortunately leaped over the danger instead of stumbling into it, and its rider was only partially shaken out of his seat.

“It’s well,” he said, when fairly settled down again to an easy gallop, “that the tiller-ropes are stout else I’d ha’ bin over the starn this time instead of out on the bowsprit. Let me see, what was I sayin’ of?”

“Somethin’ about your bein’ born a sort of ‘ro–oh—,’ though what that may be I haven’t a notion.”

“Ah! jist so—I was born a sort o’ rover (when this long-legged brute took the badger-hole), an’ I’ve bin to every quarter o’ the globe a’most, but if I’d lived to the age o’ Methooslum I’d never ha’ thought o’ comin’ here,—for the good reason that I knowed nothin’ o’ its existence,—if I hadn’t by chance in a furrin port fallen in wi’ André Morel, an’ took an uncommon fancy to him. You see, at the time, I was—well, I was no better nor I should be; p’raps a deal wuss, an’ Morel he meets me, an’ says—‘Hallo, my lad,’ says he, ‘where away?’

“I looked at him gruff-like a moment or two, for it seemed to me he was raither too familiar for a stranger, but he’s got such a pleasant, hearty look with him—as you know—that I couldn’t feel riled with ’im, so ‘I’m goin’ on the spree,’ says I.

“‘All right,’ says he, ‘I’m with ’ee, lad. D’ye know the town?’

“‘No more than a Mother Carey’s chicken,’ says I. ‘Come along, then,’ says he; ‘I’ll tak’ ’ee to a fust-rate shop.’

“So off we went arm in arm as thick as two peas, an’ after passin’ through two or three streets he turns into a shop that smelt strong o’ coffee.

“‘Hallo! mate,’ says I, ‘you’ve made some sort o’ mistake. This here ain’t the right sort o’ shop.’

“‘O yes, it is,’ says he, smilin’, quite affable-like. ‘The best o’ tipple here, an’ cheap too. Come along. I’ve got somethin’ very partikler to say to you. Look here, waiter—two cups o’ coffee, hot an’ strong, some buttered toast, an’ no end o’ buns, etceterer.’

“Wi’ that he led me to a seat, an’ we sat down. I was so took aback an’ amused that I waited to see what would foller an’ what he’d got to say that was so partikler—but, I say, Archie, them buffalo runners has got the wind o’ us, an’ are showin’ us their heels, I fear.”

“Never fear,” returned the boy, rising in his stirrups and shading his eyes to look ahead. “They do seem to be leavin’ us a bit, but you see by the dust that the buffalo are holdin’ away to the right, so if we keep still more to the right an’ cut round that knoll, I think we’ll be safe to catch them up. They’re doin’ good work, as the carcasses we’ve passed and the rattle o’ shots clearly show. But get on wi’ your story, Jenkins.”

“Well, it ain’t much of a story, lad. What Morel had to say was that he’d arranged wi’ an agent o’ Lord Selkirk to come out to this country; an’ he was goin’ out wi’ a lot o’ his relations, an’ was beatin’ up for a few good hands, an’ he liked the look o’ me, an’ would I agree to go wi’ him?

“Well, as you may believe, this was a poser, an’ I said I’d think over it, an’ let him know next day. You see, I didn’t want to seem to jump at it too eager-like, though I liked the notion, an’ I had neither wife, nor sweetheart, nor father or mother, to think about, for I’m a orphing, you see, like yourself, Archie—only a somewhat bigger one.

“Well, when we’d finished all the coffee, an’ all the buns, an’ all the etceterers, he began to advise me not to ha’ nothin’ more to do wi’ grog-shops. I couldn’t tell ’ee the half o’ what he said—no, nor the quarter—but he made such a impression on me that I was more than half-convinced. To say truth, I was so choke-full o’ coffee an’ buns, an’ etceterers, that I don’t believe I could ha’ swallowed another drop o’ liquor.

“‘Where are ye goin’ now?’ says he, when we’d done.

“‘Back to my ship,’ says I.

“‘Come an’ ha’ tea to-morrow wi’ me an’ my sister,’ says he, ‘an’ we’ll have another talk about Rupert’s Land.’

“‘I will,’ says I.

“‘Six o’clock, sharp,’ says he.

“‘Sharp’s the word,’ says I.

“An’, sure enough, I went to his house sharp to time next day, an’ there I found him an’ his sister. She was as pretty a craft as I ever set eyes on, wi’ a modest look an’ long fair ringlets—just borderin’ on nineteen or thereaway—but you know her, Archie, so I needn’t say no more.”

“What! is that the same woman that’s keeping house for him now in Red River?”

“Woman!” repeated the sailor, vehemently; “she’s not a woman—she’s a angel is Elise Morel. Don’t speak disrespectful of her, lad.”

“I won’t,” returned Archie with a laugh; “but what was the upshot of it all?”

“The upshot of it,” answered the seaman, “was that I’ve never touched a drop o’ strong drink from that day to this, an’ that I’m now blown entirely out o’ my old courses, an’ am cruisin’ arter the buffalo on the plains o’ Rupert’s Land.”

At this point, their minds being set free from the consideration of past history, they made the discovery that the buffalo runners were nowhere to be seen on the horizon, and that they themselves were lost on the grassy sea.

“What shall we do?” said the boy, when they had pulled up to consider their situation. “You see, although I came out here a good while before you did,” he added, half apologetically, “I’ve never been out on the plains without a guide, and don’t know a bit how to find the way back to camp. The prairie is almost as bad as the sea you’re so fond of, with a clear horizon all round, and nothing worth speaking of to guide us. An’ as you have never been in the plains before, of course you know nothing. In short, Jenkins, I greatly fear that we are lost! Why, what are you grinning at?”

The terminal question was induced by the fact that the tall seaman was looking down at his anxious companion with a broad smile on his handsome sunburnt countenance.

“So we’re lost, are we, Archie?” he said, “like two sweet babes on the prairie instead of in the woods. An’ you think I knows nothin’. Well, p’r’aps I don’t know much, but you should remember, lad, that an old salt wi’ a compass in his wes’kit-pocket is not the man to lose his reck’nin’. I’ve got one here as’ll put us all right on that score, for I was careful to take my bearin’s when we set sail, an’ I’ve been keepin’ an eye on our course all the way. Make your mind easy, my boy.”

So saying, the sailor pulled out the compass referred to, and consulted it. Then he pulled out a watch of the warming-pan type, which he styled a chronometer, and consulted that also; after which he looked up at the clouds—seamanlike—and round the horizon, especially to windward, if we may speak of such a quarter in reference to a day that was almost quite calm.

“Now, Archie, boy, the upshot o’ my cogitations is that with a light breeze on our starboard quarter, a clear sky overhead, an’ a clear conscience within, you and I had better hold on our course for a little longer, and see whether we can’t overhaul the runners. If we succeed, good and well. If not, why, ’bout-ship, and homeward-bound is the sailin’ orders. What say ’ee, lad?”

“I say whatever you say, Jenkins. If you’re sure o’ the way back, as I’ve no doubt you are, why, there couldn’t be greater fun than to go after the buffalo on our own account. And—I say, look there! Isn’t that somethin’ like them on the top o’ the far bluff yonder? A fellow like you, wi’ sharp sailor-eyes, ought to be able to make them out.”

“You forget, lad, that I ain’t a buffalo runner, an’ don’t know the cut o’ the brutes’ jibs yet. It does look like somethin’. Come, we’ll go an’ see.” Putting their horses to the gallop, the two curiously matched friends, taking advantage of every knoll and hollow, succeeded in getting sufficiently near to perceive that a small herd was grazing quietly in a grassy bottom between two prairie waves. They halted at once for consultation.

“Now, then, Archie,” said the sailor, examining the priming of his gun, “here we are at last, a-goin’ to begin a pitched battle. There’s this to be said for us, that neither you nor me knows rightly how to go to work, both on us havin’ up to this time bin trained, so to speak, on hearsay. But what o’ that? In the language o’ the immortial Nelson, ‘England expec’s every man to do his dooty.’ Now it seems to me my dooty on the present occasion is to lay myself alongside of a buffalo an’ blaze away! Isn’t that the order o’ battle?”

“Yes. But don’t go for a bull, and don’t go too close for fear he turns sharp round an’ catches you on his horns. You know the bulls are apt to do that sometimes.”

“Trust me, lad, I’ll keep clear o’ the bulls.”

“And you understand how to re-load?” asked the boy.

“O yes, all right. Dan put me thro’ the gunnery practice on the way out, an’ I went through it creditably. Only a slight hitch now and then. Two or three balls in the mouth ready to spit into the gun—”

“Not all at once, though, Jenkins.”

“In course not, lad: one at a time: no ramming; hit the butt on the saddle; blaze away; one down, another come on—eh?”

“That’s it,” said Archie, eager for the fray. “How I wish Dan had let me have a gun!”

“Safer not, lad. An’ keep well in rear, for I may be apt to fire wide in the heat of action.”

With this final caution, the mariner put his gun on full cock, shook the reins, and trotted quietly forward until he saw that the buffalo had observed him. Then, as he afterwards expressed it, he “clapped on all sail-stuns’ls alow and aloft, and sky-scrapers—and went into action like a true blue British tar, with little Archie Sinclair full sail astern.”

He did not, however, come out of action with as much éclat as he went into it, but justice obliges us to admit that he came out victorious.

We cannot do better than give his own description of that action as related beside the camp-fire that night, to a circle of admiring friends.

“Well, you must know,” he began, after finishing his supper and lighting his pipe, “that long-legged frigate o’ mine that Dan calls a chestnut—though a cocoanut would be more like the thing, if you take size into account—he’s as keen for the chase as a small boy arter a butterfly, an’ before I could say ‘Jack Robinson,’ a’most, he had me into the middle o’ the herd an’ alongside o’ the big bull. Any one could tell it was him, in spite o’ the dust we kicked up, by reason o’ the side-glance o’ his wicked little eye, his big hairy fore’id, an’ his tail stickin’ out stiff like a crook’d spankerboom.

“In course I was not a-goin’ to fire into him, so I gave the frigate a dig wi’ my heels—tho’ I’d got no irons on ’em—an’ tried to shove up alongside of a fat young cow as was skylarkin’ on ahead. As we went past the bull he made a vicious dab wi’ his horn, and caught the frigate on her flank—right abaft the mizzen chains, like. Whew! you should ha’ seen what a sheer she made right away to starboard! If it hadn’t bin that I was on the look-out, I’d ha’ bin slap overboard that time, but I see’d the squall comin’, an’, seizin’ my brute’s mane, held on like a monkey wi’ hand an’ leg.

“Well, before I knew where I was, the cocoan— I mean the chestnut, had me alongside the cow. I stuck the muzzle a’most into her ribs, and let drive. Down she went by the head, fairly scuttled, an’ I could hear young Archie givin’ a wild cheer astern.”

“‘That’s the way to go it, Jenkins!’ he yelled. ‘Load again.’

“But it was easier said than done, I can tell you. You see, I’ve bin brought up to cartridges all my life, an’ the change to pullin’ a stopper out o’ a horn wi’ your teeth, pourin’ the powder into your left hand, wi’ the gun under your left arm, an’ the pitchin’ o’ the frigate, like as if it was in a cross sea, was raither perplexin’. Hows’ever, it had to be done, for I was alongside of another cow in a jiffy. I nigh knocked out two o’ my front teeth in tryin’ to shove the stopper in my mouth. Then, when I was pourin’ the powder into my hand, I as near as could be let fall the gun, which caused me to give a sort of gasp of anxiety, when two o’ the three bullets dropped out o’ my mouth, but I held on to the third wi’ my teeth. Just then a puff o’ wind blew the powder out o’ my hand into the buffalo’s eyes, causin’ her to bellow like a fog-horn, an’ obleegin’ me to pour out another charge. I did it hastily, as you may well believe, an’ about three times what I wanted came out. Hows’ever, I lost a deal of it in pourin’ it into the gun; then I spat the ball in, gettin’ another nasty rap on the teeth as I did so, but I’d bit the ball so that it stuck half-way down.

“It was no time to think o’ trifles. I gave the butt an extra bang on the pommel to send the ball home, shoved the muzzle right in among the hair an’ pulled the trigger. There was a bang that sounded to me as if the ship’s magazine had blown up. It was followed by a constellation o’ fire-works and—Archie Sinclair must tell you what happened arter that, for I misremember the whole on it. The fire-works closed the scene to me.”

Archie, nothing loath, and with glistening eyes, took up the narrative at this point, while the hero of the hour rekindled his pipe.

“The fact is,” he said, “the gun had burst—was blown to atoms; not a bit o’ the barrel left, and a great lump o’ the stock struck Jenkins on the head, stunned him, and tumbled him off his horse.”

“That was the magazine explosion and fire-works,” explained Jenkins.

“But the queer thing was,” continued Archie, “that the buffalo fell dead, and, on examining it, we found that a bit o’ the barrel had been driven right into its brain.”

“Ay, boy, but it was queerer still that none o’ the pieces struck me or my horse ’cept that bit o’ the stock. An’ I’m none the worse, barrin’ this lump on the head, that only serves to cock my hat a little more to one side than seems becomin’ to a sober-minded man.”

“We were sorry to be able to bring away so little o’ the meat,” said Archie, with the gravity of an old hunter; “but, you see, it was too late to send a cart for it after we got back.”

“Never mind,” said Dan Davidson, when the narrative was brought to a close, “you have done very well for a beginning.”

“Moreover,” added Fergus, “it iss a goot feast the wolves will be havin’ on the plains this night, an’ so, Archie, I’ll be wishin’ ye better luck next time.”

Chapter Nineteen.

Bright Hopes terminate in Furious War.

Turning once again to the colony at Red River, we introduce the reader to the Scotch settlers in the autumn of the year—at a time when there was some appearance of the commencement of a season of prosperity, after all the troubles that had befallen and surrounded, and well-nigh overwhelmed them in time past.

The Davidson and McKay families had re-established themselves on their farms, rebuilt their houses and planted their fields, and splendid crops of all kinds were now flourishing, ready for spade and sickle.

The soil was found to be excellent. In after years, forty-fold was no uncommon return. In one case, for a bushel of barley sown, fifty-six bushels were reaped; and from a bushel of seed potatoes were obtained one hundred and forty-five bushels! Industry, however, had not at that time been rewarded with such encouraging results, but there was sufficient to indicate cheering prospects in the near future, and to gladden the hearts of the pioneer settlers.

As a good number of these had, under the depressing influence of disappointment and failure in the past, neglected to sow extensively, not a few families were forced again to winter at Pembina, and draw their supplies from the chase to avoid consuming all the seed which alone ensured them against famine. Among these were the Swiss families, most of whom, being watch and clock makers, pastry-cooks, mechanics and musicians, were not well adapted for agricultural pursuits. Perhaps they were as ill-adapted for the chase, but seed takes time to sow and grow, whereas animals need no prolonged nursing—at least from man—and are quickly killed if one can shoot.

The young leader of the Switzers, however, André Morel, soon left his party at Pembina under the care of his lieutenant, and returned to Red River Settlement, bent on mastering the details of husbandry, so as to be able afterwards to direct the energies of his compatriots into a more profitable occupation than the chase.

For this purpose, he sought and obtained employment with the Davidsons in the new and enlarged edition of Prairie Cottage. His sister, Elise, was engaged by old McKay to act as companion and assistant to his daughter Elspie. Both the curly-haired André and the fair, blue-eyed Elise, proved to be invaluable acquisitions in the households in which they had found a home, for both were lively, intelligent companions, hard workers at whatever they undertook, and were possessed of sweet melodious voices. André also performed on the violin, an instrument which has played a prominent part in the wild Nor’-West ever since the white-man set down his foot there.

“What do you think, Elspie, of my brother’s plan, of taking the farm just below this one, after he has had enough experience to be able to work it himself?” asked Elise.

“It will be very nice to have him settled so near us. Do you think he will take the whole of it?”

“I think so. You see, the terms on which the Earl has granted the land are so easy, and the supplies of goods, oatmeal, clothing, and farm implements sent us so generous, that André finds he will have money enough to enable him to start. Then, that strong, good-natured seaman, Fred Jenkins, has actually agreed to serve as a man on the farm for a whole year for nothing, except, of course, his food and lodging. Isn’t it generous of him?”

“Do you know why he is going to serve him for nothing?” asked Elspie, with a quick look and smile.

“No—I do not,” returned fair little Elise with an innocent look. “Do you?”

“O no—of course I don’t; I can only guess,” replied her companion with a light laugh. “Perhaps it is because he knows his services as a farm servant can’t be worth much at first.”

“There you are wrong,” returned Elise, stoutly. “No doubt he is ignorant, as yet, about sowing and reaping and the like, but he is wonderfully strong—just like a giant at lifting and carrying-and he has become quite knowing about horses, and carting, and such things. All that he stipulates for is that he shall board in our house. He says he’ll manage, somehow, to make enough money to buy all the clothes he wants.”

“What a delightful kind of servant,” said Elspie, with an arch look, which was quite thrown away on Elise, “and so disinterested to do it without any reason.”

“O! but he must have some reason, you know,” rejoined Elise. “I shouldn’t wonder if it was out of gratitude to my brother who was very kind to him—so he says—the first time they met.”

“Did he say that was his reason?” asked Elspie quickly.

“No, he did not say so, but he has said more than once that he feels very grateful to my brother, and it has just occurred to me that that may be his reason. It would be very natural—wouldn’t it?”

“Oh, very natural!—very!” returned the other. “But d’you know, Elise, I don’t like your brother’s plan at all.”

“No! why?”

“Because, don’t you see, foolish girl, that it will take you away from me? You will, of course, want to keep house for your brother, and I have become so used to you, short though our intercourse has been, that I don’t see how I can get on at all without you?”

“Never mind, Elspie, dear. It will be a long while before André is ready to take the farm. Besides, by that time, you know, you and Dan will be married, so you won’t miss me much—though I confess I should like you to miss me a little.”

Elspie sighed at this point. “I suspect that our marriage will not be so soon as you think, Elise,” she said. “Dan has tried to arrange it more than once, but there seems to be a fate against it, for something always comes in the way!”

“Surely nothing will happen this time,” said the sympathetic Elise. “Everything begins to prosper now. The crops are beautiful; the weather is splendid; the house is ready to begin to—all the logs are cut and squared. Your father is quite willing, and Dan wishing for the day—what more could you desire, Elspie?”

“Nothing; all seems well, but—” She finished the sentence with another sigh.

While the two friends were thus conversing in the dairy, old McKay and Dan Davidson were talking on the same subject in the hall of Ben Nevis.

“It iss a curious fact, Taniel,” said the old man, with a pleased look, “that it wass in this fery room in the old hoose that wass burnt, and about the same time of the year, too, that you would be speakin’ to me about this fery thing. An’ I do not think that we will be troubled this time wi’ the Nor’-Westers, whatever—though wan never knows what a tay may bring furth.”

“That is the very reason, sir,” said Davidson, “that I want to get married at once, so that if anything does happen again I may claim the right to be Elspie’s protector.”

“Quite right, my boy, quite right; though I must say I would like to wait till a real munister comes out; for although Mr Sutherland iss a fery goot man, an’ an elder too, he iss not chust exactly a munister, you know, as I have said before. But have it your own way, Tan. If my little lass is willin’, old Tuncan McKay won’t stand in your way.”

That night the inhabitants of Red River lay down to sleep in comfort and to dream, perchance, of the coming, though long delayed, prosperity that had hitherto so often eluded their grasp.

Next day an event occurred which gave the poor settlers new cause for grief amounting almost to despair.

Dan Davidson and Elspie were walking on the verandah in front of Ben Nevis at the time. It was a warm sunny afternoon. All around looked the picture of peace and prosperity.

“Does it not seem, Dan, as if all the troubles we have gone through were a dark dream—as if there never had been any reality in them?” said Elspie.

“It does indeed seem so,” responded Dan, “and I hope and trust that we shall henceforth be able to think of them as nothing more than a troubled dream.”

“What iss that you will be sayin’ about troubled dreams?” asked old McKay, coming out of the house at the moment.

“We were just saying, daddy, that all our troubles seem—”

“Look yonder, Tan,” interrupted the old man, pointing with his pipe-stem to a certain part of the heavens. “What iss it that I see? A queer cloud, whatever! I don’t remember seein’ such a solid cloud as that in all my experience.”

“It is indeed queer. I hope it’s not what Fred Jenkins would call a ‘squall brewin’ up,’ for that wouldn’t improve the crops.”

“A squall!” exclaimed Jenkins, who chanced to come round the corner of the house at the moment, with a spade on his shoulder. “That’s never a squall—no, nor a gale, nor a simoon, nor anything else o’ the sort that I ever heard of. Why, it’s growin’ bigger an’ bigger!”

He shaded his eyes with his hand, and looked earnestly at the object in question, which did indeed resemble a very dense, yet not a black, cloud. For some moments the four spectators gazed in silence. Then old McKay suddenly dropped his pipe, and looked at Dan with an expression of intense solemnity.

“It iss my belief,” he said in a hoarse whisper, “that it is them wee deevils the grasshoppers!”

A very few minutes proved old McKay’s surmise to be correct. Once before, the colony had been devastated by this plague, and the memory of the result was enough to alarm the most courageous among the settlers who had experienced the calamity, though the new arrivals, being ignorant, were disposed to regard the visitation lightly at first. McKay himself became greatly excited when the air became darkened by the cloud, which, ever increasing in size, rapidly approached.

“Haste ye, lads,” he cried to some of the farm-servants who had joined the group on the verandah, “get your spades, picks, an’ shovels. Be smart now: it is not possible to save all the crops, but we may try to save the garden, whatever. Follow me!”

The garden referred to was not large or of great importance, but it was a favourite hobby of the Highlander, and, at the time, was in full bloom, luxuriant with fruit, flower, and vegetable. To save it from destruction at such a time, McKay would have given almost anything, and have gone almost any lengths. On this occasion, not knowing what to do, yet impelled by his eagerness to do something, he adopted measures that he had heard of as being used in other lands. He ordered a trench to be cut and filled with water on the side of his garden nearest the approaching plague, which might—if thoroughly carried out—have been of some use against wingless grasshoppers but could be of no use whatever against a flying foe. It would have taken an army of men to carry out such an order promptly, and his men perceived this; but the master was so energetic, so violent in throwing off his coat and working with his own hand at pick and shovel, that they were irresistibly infected with his enthusiasm, and set to work.

Old Duncan, did not, however, wield pick or shovel long. He was too excited for that. He changed from one thing to another rapidly. Fires were to be kindled along the line of defence, and he set the example in this also. Then he remembered that blankets and other drapery had been used somewhere with great effect in beating back the foe; therefore he shouted wildly for his daughter and Elise Morel.

“Here we are, father: what can we do?”

“Go, fetch out all the blankets, sheets, table-cloths, an’ towels in the house, girls. It iss neck or nothin’ this tay. Be smart, now! Take men to help ye.”

Two men were very busy there piling up little heaps of firewood, namely, Dan Davidson and Fred Jenkins. What more natural than that these two, on hearing the order given about blankets and table-cloths, etcetera, should quit the fires and follow Elspie and Elise into the house!

In the first bedroom into which they entered they found Archie and Billie Sinclair, the latter seated comfortably in an arm-chair close to a window, the former wild with delight at the sudden demand on all his energies. For Archie had been one of the first to leap to the work when old McKay gave the order. Then he had suddenly recollected his little helpless brother, and had dashed round to Prairie Cottage, got him on his back, run with him to Ben Nevis Hall, placed him as we have seen in a position to view the field of battle, and then, advising him to sit quietly there and enjoy the fun, had dashed down-stairs to resume his place in the forefront of battle!

He had run up again for a moment to inquire how Little Bill was getting on, when the blanket and sheet searchers found them.

“All right,” he exclaimed, on learning what they came for; “here you are. Look alive! Don’t stir, Little Bill!”

He hurled the bedding from a neighbouring bedstead as he spoke, tore several blankets from the heap, and tumbled rather than ran down-stairs with them, while the friends he had left behind followed his example.

By that time all the inmates and farm-servants of Prairie Cottage had assembled at Ben Nevis Hall, attracted either by sympathy or curiosity as to the amazing fracas which old McKay was creating. Of course they entered into the spirit of the preparations, so that when the enemy at last descended on them they found the garrison ready. But the defenders might as well have remained quiet and gone to their beds.

Night was drawing near at the time, and was, as it were, precipitated by the grasshoppers, which darkened the whole sky with what appeared to be a heavy shower of snow.

The fires were lighted, water was poured into the trench, and the two households fought with blanket, sheet, counterpane, and towel, in a manner that proved the courage of the ancient heroes to be still slumbering in men and women of modern days.

But what could courage do against such overwhelming odds? Thousands were slaughtered. Millions pressed on behind.

“Don’t give in, lads,” cried the heroic and desperate Highlander, wielding a great green blanket in a way that might have roused the admiration if not the envy of Ajax himself. “Keep it up, Jenkins!”

“Ay, ay, sir!” responded the nautical warrior, as he laid about him with an enormous buffalo robe, which was the only weapon that seemed sufficiently suited to his gigantic frame; “never say die as long as there’s a shot in the locker.”

Elise stood behind him, lost in admiration, and giving an imbecile flap now and then with a towel to anything that happened to come in front of her.

Elspie was more self-possessed. She tried to wield a jack-towel with some effect, while Dan, Fergus, Duncan junior, Bourassin, André Morel, and others ably, but uselessly, supported their heroic leader. La Certe, who chanced to be there at the time, went actively about encouraging others to do their very best. Old Peg made a feeble effort to do what she conceived to be her duty, and Okématan stood by, calmly looking on—his grave countenance exhibiting no symptom of emotion, but his mind filled with intense surprise, not unmingled with pity, for the Palefaces who displayed such an amount of energy in attempting the impossible.

That self-defence, in the circumstances, was indeed impossible soon became apparent, for the enemy descended in such clouds that they filled up the half-formed ditch, extinguished the fires with their dead bodies, defied the blanket-warriors, and swarmed not only into the garden of old Duncan McKay but overwhelmed the whole land.

Darkness and exhaustion from the fight prevented the people of Ben Nevis Hall and Prairie Cottage from at first comprehending the extent of the calamity with which they had thus been visited, but enough had been seen to convince McKay that his garden was doomed. When he at last allowed the sad truth to force itself into his mind he suffered Elspie to lead him into the house.

“Don’t grieve, daddy,” she said, in a low comforting tone; “perhaps it won’t be as bad as it seems.”

“Fetch me my pipe, lass,” he said on reaching his bedroom.

“Goot-night to you, my tear,” he added, on receiving the implement of consolation.

“Won’t you eat—or drink—something, daddy dear?”

“Nothing—nothing. Leave me now. We hev had a goot fight, whatever, an’ it iss to bed I will be goin’ now.”

Left alone the old man lay down in his warrior-harness, so to speak, lighted his pipe, smoked himself into a sort of philosophical contempt for everything under the sun, moon, and stars, and finally dropped his sufferings, as well as his pipe, by falling into a profound slumber.

Next morning when the people of Red River arose, they became fully aware of the disaster that had befallen them. The grasshoppers had made what Jenkins styled a clean sweep from stem to stern. Crops, gardens, and every green herb in the settlement had perished; and all the sanguine hopes of the long-suffering settlers were blighted once more.

Before passing from this subject it may be as well to mention that the devastating hosts which visited the colony at this time left behind them that which turned out to be a worse affliction than themselves. They had deposited their larvae in the ground, and, about the end of the June following, countless myriads of young grasshoppers issued forth to overrun the fields. They swarmed in such masses as to be two, three, and—in some places near water—even four inches deep. Along the rivers they were found in heaps like sea-weed, and the water was almost poisoned by them. Every vegetable substance was devoured—the leaves and even bark of trees were eaten up, the grain vanished as fast as it appeared above ground, everything was stripped to the bare stalk, and ultimately, when they died in myriads, the decomposition of their dead bodies was more offensive than their living presence.

Thus the settlers were driven by stress of misfortune once again to the plains of Pembina, and obliged to consort with the Red-men and the half-breeds, in obtaining sustenance for their families by means of the gun, line, trap, and snare.

Chapter Twenty.

Little Bill becomes a Difficulty.

We must now pass over another winter, during which the Red River settlers had to sustain life as they best might—acquiring, however, in doing so, an expertness in the use of gun and trap and fishing-line, and in all the arts of the savages, which enabled them to act with more independence, and to sustain themselves and their families in greater comfort than before.

Spring, with all its brightness, warmth, and suggestiveness had returned to cheer the hearts of men; and, really, those who have never experienced the long six-or-eight-months’ winter of Rupert’s Land can form no conception of the feelings with which the body—to say nothing of the soul—opens up and expands itself, so to speak, in order to receive and fully appreciate the sweet influences of spring.

For one thing, seven or eight months of cold, biting, steely frost causes one almost to forget that there ever was such a thing as summer heat, summer scents, summer sounds, or summer skies. The first thaw is therefore like the glad, unexpected meeting of a dear old friend; and the trumpet voice of the first goose, the whirring wing of the first duck, and the whistle of the first plover, sounds like the music of the spheres to one’s long unaccustomed ears. Then the trickle of water gives one something like a new sensation. It may be but a thread of liquid no thicker than a pipe-stem faintly heard by an attentive ear tinkling in the cold depths far under the ice or snow, but it is liquid, not solid, water. It is suggestive of motion. It had almost been forgotten as a sound of the long past which had forsaken the terrestrial ball for ever.

It does not take a powerful imagination to swell a tiny stream to a rivulet, a river, a lake, a mighty ocean. Shut your eyes for a moment, and, in memory, the ice and snow vanish; the streams flow as in the days of old; flowers come again to gladden the eyes and—but why trouble you, good reader, with all this? We feel, sadly, that unless you have tasted the northern winter no description, however graphic, will enable you to drink in the spirit of the northern spring.

About this time Okématan, the Cree chief, took it into his head that he would go a-hunting.

This last word does not suggest to a dweller in the wilderness that crossing of ploughed lands on horseback, and leaping of hedges, etcetera, which it conveys to the mind of an Englishman. The Cree chief’s notion of spring-hunting was, getting into a birch-bark canoe, with or without a comrade, and going forth on the lakes and rivers of the wilderness with plenty of powder and shot, to visit the native home of the wild-goose, the wild-duck, the pelican, the plover, and the swan.

For such a trip not much is essential. Besides the gun and ammunition referred to, Okématan carried a blanket, a hatchet, several extra pairs of moccasins, a tin kettle in which to boil food, a fire-bag for steel, flint, and tinder, with a small supply of tobacco.

On hearing of his intention, Dan Davidson resolved to accompany him. Dan had by that time associated so much with the chief that he had learned to speak his language with facility. Indeed nearly all the settlers who had a turn for languages had by that time acquired a smattering more or less of Indian and French.

“You see,” said Dan to the chief, “there is not much doing on the farm just now, and I want to see a little of the country round about, so, if you don’t object to my company, I’d like to go.”

“The Cree chief will be proud to have the company of the Paleface chief,” replied the Indian, with grave courtesy.

Dan wanted to say “All right,” but was ignorant of the Cree equivalent for that familiar phrase; he therefore substituted the more sober and correct, “It is well.”

“But,” said he, “you must not call me a Paleface chief, for I am only an ordinary man in my own land—what you would call one of the braves.”

“Okématan is thought to have a good judgment among his people,” returned the Indian, “though he has not the snows of many winters on his head, and he thinks that if Dan’el had stayed in the wigwams of his people beyond the Great Salt Lake, he would have been a chief.”

“It may be so, Okématan, though I doubt it,” replied Dan, “but that is a point which cannot now be proved. Meanwhile, my ambition at present is to become a great hunter, and I want you to teach me.”

The chief, who was gratified by the way in which this was put, gladly agreed to the proposal.

“There is another man who would like to go with us,” said Davidson. “My friend, Fergus McKay, is anxious, I know, to see more of the lands of the Indian. You have no objection to his going, I suppose?—in another canoe of course, for three would be too many in your small canoe.”

Okématan had no objection.

“Three would not be too many in the canoe,” he said, “but two are better for hunting.”

“Very good. But we will want a fourth to make two in each canoe. Whom shall we invite?”

“Okématan’s counsel is,” answered the chief, “to take a brave who is young and strong and active; whose eye is quick and his hand steady; whose heart never comes into his throat when danger faces him; whose face does not grow pale at the sight of approaching death; whose heart is as the heart of the grisly bear for courage, and yet tender as the heart of a Paleface squaw; whose hand can accomplish whatever his head plans, and whose tongue is able to make a sick man smile.”

Davidson smiled to himself at this description, which the chief uttered with the sententious gravity that would have characterised his speech and bearing in a council of war.

“A most notable comrade, good Okématan; but where are we to find him, for I know nobody who comes near to that description.”

“He dwells in your own wigwam,” returned the chief.

“In Prairie Cottage?” exclaimed the other with a puzzled air. “You can’t mean my brother Peter, surely, for he is about as grave as yourself.”

“Okématan means the young brave who loves his little brother.”

“What! Archie Sinclair?” exclaimed Dan, with a surprised look. “I had no idea you had so high an opinion of him.”

“Okématan has seen much of Arch-ee: has watched him. He sees that he thinks nothing of himself; that he thinks always for the sick brother, Leetle Beel, and that he will yet be a great chief among the Palefaces.”

“Well, now you come to mention it, there is something about Archie that puts him high above other boys; and I suppose his unselfishness has much to do with it; but don’t you think he’s too young, and hardly strong enough?”

“He is not young. He is fifty years old in wisdom. He is very strong for his size, and he is willing, which makes his strength double.”

“But he will never consent to leave Little Bill,” said Dan.

“Okématan had fears of that,” returned the Indian, with, for the first time, a look of perplexity on his face. “If Arch-ee will not go without Leetle Beel, Leetle Beel must go too.”

It was found, on inquiry, that they were right in their surmise. When the proposal was made to Archie that afternoon by Dan, the boy’s eyes seemed to light up and dance in his head at the prospect. Then the light suddenly went out, and the dancing ceased.

“Why, what’s the matter, Archie?” asked his friend.

“Can’t go. Impossible!” said Archie.

“Why not?”

“Who’s to look after Little Bill, I should like to know, if I leave him?”

“Elspie, of course,” said Dan, “and Elise, to say nothing of Jessie, mother, and brother Peter.”

Archie shook his head.

“No,” he said, “no! I can’t go. Elspie is all very well in her way, and so is Elise, but they can’t carry Little Bill about the fields and through the bush on their backs; and Peter wouldn’t; he’s too busy about the farm. No—ever since mother died, I’ve stuck to Little Bill through thick and thin. So I won’t go.”

It was so evident that Archie Sinclair’s mind was made up and fixed, and also so obvious that a delicate little boy would be a great encumbrance on a hunting expedition that Dan thought of attempting the expedient of winning Little Bill himself over to his side. He had no difficulty in doing that, for Billie was to the full as amiable and unselfish as his brother. After a short conversation, he made Billie promise to do his very best to induce Archie to go with the hunters and leave him behind.

“For you know, Little Bill,” said Dan in conclusion, and by way of consoling him, “although nobody could take such good care of you as Archie, or make up to you for him, Elspie would take his place very well for a time—.”

“O yes, I know that well enough,” said the poor boy with some enthusiasm; “Elspie is always very good to me. You’ve no notion how nice she is, Dan.”

“Hm! well, I have got a sort of a half notion, maybe,” returned Dan with a peculiar look. “But that’s all right, then. You’ll do what you can to persuade Archie, and—there he is, evidently coming to see you, so I’ll go and leave you to talk it over with him.”

Billie did not give his brother time to begin, but accosted him on his entrance with—“I’m so glad, Archie, that you’ve been asked to go on this hunting expe—”

“O! you’ve heard of it, then?”

“Yes, and I want you to go, very very much, because—because—”

“Don’t trouble yourself with becauses, Little Bill, for I won’t go. So there’s an end of it—unless,” he added, as if a thought had suddenly occurred to him, “unless they agree to take you with them. They might do worse. I’ll see about that.”

So saying, Archie turned about, left the room as abruptly as he had entered it, and sought out Okématan. He found that chief sitting in La Certe’s wigwam, involved in the mists of meditation and tobacco-smoke, gazing at Slowfoot.

That worthy woman—who, with her lord and little child, was wont to forsake her hut in spring, and go into the summer-quarters of a wigwam—was seated on the opposite side of a small fire, enduring Okématan’s meditative gaze, either unconsciously or with supreme indifference.

“Hallo! Oké,”—thus irreverently did Archie address the chief—had any one else ventured to do so, he might possibly have been scalped—“Hallo! Oké, I’ve been huntin’ for you all round. You’re worse to find than an arrow in the grass.”

It may be said, here, that Archie had learned, like some of the other settlers, a smattering of the Cree language. How he expressed the above we know not. We can only give the sense as he would probably have given it in his own tongue.

“Okématan’s friends can always find him,” answered the Indian with a grave but pleased look.

“So it seems. But I say, Oké, I want to ask a favour of you. Dan Davidson tells me you want me to go a-hunting with you. Well, I’m your man if you’ll let me take Little Bill with me. Will you?”

“Leetle Beel is not strong,” objected the Indian.

“True, but a trip o’ this sort will make him strong perhaps. Anyhow, it will make him stronger.”

“But for a sick boy there is danger,” said the chief. “If Arch-ee upsets his canoe in a rapid, Arch-ee swims on shore, but Leetle Beel goes to the bottom.”

“Not as long as Arch-ee is there to hold him up,” returned the boy.

“Waugh!” exclaimed the Indian.

“Humph!” remarked the boy. “What d’ye mean by ‘Waugh,’ Oké?”

“Okématan means much that it is not in the power of the tongue to tell,” replied the Indian with increasing gravity; and as the gravity increased the cloudlets from his lips became more voluminous.

“Arch-ee hopes, nevertheless, that the tongue of Oké may find power to tell him a little of what he thinks.”

This being in some degree indefinite, the chief smoked in silence for a minute or two, and gazed at Slowfoot with that dreamy air which one assumes when gazing into the depths of a suggestive fire. Apparently inspiration came at last—whether from Slowfoot or not we cannot tell—for he turned solemnly to the boy.

“Rain comes,” he said, “and when sick men get wet they grow sicker. Carrying-places come, and when sick men come to them they stagger and fall. Frost often comes in spring, and when sick men get cold they die. Waugh!”

“Humph!” repeated the boy again, with a solemnity quite equal to that of the Red-man.

“When rain comes I can put up an umbrella—an umbrella. D’you know what that is?”

The Indian shook his head.

“Well it’s a—a thing—a sort of little tent—a wigwam, you know, with a stick in the middle to hold on to and put it up. D’you understand?”

An expression of blank bewilderment, so to speak, settled on the chief’s visage, and the lights of intelligence went out one by one until he presented an appearance which all but put the boy’s gravity to flight.

“Well, well, it’s of no use my tryin’ to explain it,” he continued. “I’ll show it to you soon, and then you’ll understand.”

Intelligence began to return, and the chief looked gratified.

“What you call it?” he asked—for he was of an inquiring disposition— “a bum-rella?”

“No, no,” replied the other, seriously, “an umbrella. It’s a clever contrivance, as you shall see. So, you see, I can keep the rain off Little Bill when he’s in the canoe, and on shore there are the trees, and the canoe itself turned bottom up. Then, at carryin’ places, I can carry Little Bill as well as other things. He’s not heavy and doesn’t struggle, so we won’t leave him to stagger and fall. As to frost—have we not hatchets, and are there not dead trees in the forest? Frost and fire never walk in company, so that Little Bill won’t get cold and die, for we’ll keep him warm—waugh!”

When human beings are fond of each other disagreement seldom lasts long. Okématan had taken so strong a fancy to Archie that he felt it impossible to hold out; therefore, being a man of strong common sense, he did not attempt the impossible.

Thus it came to pass that, two days later, a couple of birch-bark canoes were launched on the waters of Red River, with Dan Davidson in the stern of one and Fergus McKay acting as his bowman. Okématan took the stern of the other, while Archie Sinclair wielded the bow-paddle, and Little Bill was placed in the middle on a comfortable green blanket with the celebrated “bum-rella” erected over him to keep off, not the rain, but, the too glorious sunshine.

Chapter Twenty One.

An Auspicious Beginning and Suspicious Ending.

Let loose in the wilderness! How romantic, how inexpressibly delightful, that idea seems to some minds! Ay, even when the weight of years begins to stiffen the joints and slack the cords of life the memory of God’s great, wild, untrammelled, beautiful wilderness comes over the spirit like a refreshing dream and restores for a time something like the pulse of youth.

We sometimes think what a joy it would be if youth could pass through its blessings with the intelligent experience of age. And it may be that this is to be one of the joys of the future, when man, redeemed and delivered from sin by Jesus Christ, shall find that the memory of the sorrows, sufferings, weaknesses of the past shall add inconceivably to the joys of the present. It may be so. Judging from analogy it does not seem presumptuous to suppose and hope that it will be so.

“Sufficient unto the day,” however, is the joy thereof.

When the two canoes pushed off and swept rapidly over the fair bosom of Red River, the heart of Archie Sinclair bounded with a feeling of exultant joy which it would have been very hard indeed to convince him was capable of increase, while the bosom of his invalid brother was filled with a sort of calm serenity which constituted, in his opinion at the time being, a quite sufficient amount of felicity.

When we add that the other hunters were, in their several ways, pretty much in the same condition as the boys, we have said enough to justify the remark that their circumstances were inexpressibly delightful.

Proceeding some distance up stream they finally diverged into a minor tributary which led to waters that were swarming with water-fowl and other game.

“This is a grand burst, Little Bill,” said Archie, as he plied his paddle vigorously, and glanced over his shoulder at the invalid behind him.

“Prime!” answered Billie. “Isn’t it?” he added, with a backward glance at Okématan.

“Waugh!” replied the reticent savage.

“Ay, ‘Waugh!’ that’s all you’ll get out of him when he’s puzzled,” said Archie; “though what he means by it is more than I know. You must speak respectable English to a Red-skin if you want to convince him. Why, if he had understood you literally, you know—and obeyed you—he’d have had something to do immediately with the lock of his gun.”

“I have often wondered, Archie,” returned his brother with a languid smile, “what a lot you manage to say sometimes with nothing in it.”

“Ha! ha!—ho! ho! what a wag you’re becoming, Little Bill. But I thank ’ee for the compliment, for you know it’s only philosophers that can say an awful lot without a’most sayin’ anything at all. Look at Oké there, now, what a depth of stupidity lies behind his brown visage; what bucketsful of ignorance swell out his black pate, but he expresses it all in the single word ‘Waugh!’ because he’s a philosopher. If he was like La Certe, he’d jabber away to us by the hour of things he knows nothin’ about, and tell us long stories that are nothin’ less than big lies. I’m glad you think me a philosopher, Little Bill, for it takes all the philosophy I’ve got to keep me up to the scratch of goin’ about the world wi’ you on my back. Why, I’m a regular Sindbad the Sailor, only I’m saddled with a young man o’ the plains instead of an old man of the sea. D’ee understand what I’m saying, Oké?”

The chief, who understood little more than that his own name and that of La Certe were mentioned, nodded his head gravely and allowed the corners of his mouth to droop, which was his peculiar way of smiling—a smile that might have been unintelligible to his friends had it not been relieved and interpreted by a decided twinkle in his eyes.

While they were conversing, the two canoes had rounded a rocky point and swept out upon a lake-like expanse in the river, which was perfectly smooth and apparently currentless. Several islets studded its calm breast and were reflected in the clear water. These were wooded to the water’s edge, and from among the sedges near their margin several flocks of wild-fowl sprang up in alarm and went off in fluttering confusion.

It chanced that just then a trumpet-like note was heard overhead, as a flock of wild geese passed the spot and came suddenly close within range of the canoes which had been concealed from them by the bushes that fringed the river.

Guns were seized at once by the bowmen in each canoe, but Archie was smarter than Fergus. Before the Highlander had got the weapon well into his hands the boy fired and one of the flock fell into the river with a heavy plunge.

Little Bill signalised the successful shot with a high-toned cheer, and the Indian with a low-toned “Waugh,” while Fergus made a hurried and therefore bad, shot at the scared flock.

“That wass a fery good shot, Archie,” remarked Fergus, as the canoes ranged up alongside of the dead bird.

“Yours was a very good one, too, Fergus,” returned the boy; “only not quite straight.”

The smile on the face of Okématan proved that he understood the drift of the reply, and that this was the style of humour he appreciated so highly in his young friend. We civilised people may wonder a little at the simplicity of the savage, but when we reflect that the chief had been born and bred among the solemnities of the wilderness, and had been up to that time wholly unacquainted with the humours and pleasantries that sometimes accompany juvenile “cheek,” our wonder may perhaps be subdued.

“This would be a splendid place to camp for the rest of the day,” suggested Davidson, while they rested on their paddles after the goose had been secured. “We must lay in a small stock of fresh provisions, you know, if we are to push on to-morrow or next day to our hunting ground. What say you, Okématan?” he added in Cree, turning to their guide.

“The will of the Paleface chief is the wish of Okématan. Let him speak.”

“Well, then, I vote for encamping on the small island over there, in the middle o’ the lake—for it’s far more like a lake than a river hereabouts—that one over which the hawk is hovering.”

“I vote for it too,” said Archie.

“So do I,” chimed in Little Bill.

“I will be sayin’ ditto to that,” put in Fergus.

“Moreover,” suggested Dan, “I vote for roasting the goose at once.”

“Ay, and eating him right away,” said Archie. As the invalid followed this up with a feeble cheer, the proposal was carried into effect without delay.

The islet was low and flat, and so thickly covered with bush that it afforded a most enticing spot for a night-encampment. There was also plenty of dead wood on it, with which to replenish the fire, and various peeps through sundry openings afforded exquisite views of woodland and river with which to charm the eyes. Over all, the sun was pouring his noontide rays in a glorious flood.

We need not waste time in going into the details of the feast that followed: how the goose was delightfully plump and tender—especially tender to teeth that would have scarcely observed the difference if it had been tough—how, in addition to the goose, they had wild-ducks enough—shot earlier in the day—to afford each one a duck to himself, leaving a brace over, of which Okématan ate one, as well as his share of the goose, and seemed to wish that he might eat the other, but he didn’t, for he restrained himself; how they drank tea with as much gusto and intemperance as if it had been a modern “afternoon”; and how, after all was over, the Red-man filled the pipe-head on the back of his iron tomahawk and began to smoke with the air of a man who meant business and regarded all that had gone before as mere child’s-play.

The afternoon was well advanced when the feast was concluded, for appetites in the wilderness are not easily or soon satisfied.

“I feel tight,” said Billie with a sigh and something of pathos in his tone, when he at last laid down his knife—we cannot add fork, for they scorned such implements at that time.

“That’s right, Little Bill,” said Archie, “try another leg or wing—now, don’t shake your head. We’ve come on this trip a-purpose to make you fat an’ strong. So you must—here, try this drum-stick. It’s only a little one, like yourself, Billie.”

“True, Archie, but I’m too little to hold it. I feel like an egg now.”

“Hallo! Oké, are you overcome already?” asked Archie.

“The sun sinks to rest at night and the birds go to sleep. If we intend to hunt we must begin now.”

“It’s always the way,” returned the boy with an air of discontent; “whenever a fellow gets into a state of extreme jollity there’s sure to be something bothersome to come and interrupt us. Obfusticate your faculties with some more smoke, Oké, till Billie and I finish our tea. We can’t shoot with half-empty stomachs, you know.”

“They must be three-quarters full by this time—whatever,” remarked Fergus, wiping his clasp-knife on the grass.

Just then, Dan Davidson, who had gone to explore the islet, returned with the information that some hunters must have recently visited the same place, for he had discovered the remains of an encampment at the extreme eastern side, which looked as if it had been recently occupied, for bones of wild-fowl were scattered about, the meat on which was neither dried nor decayed.

On hearing this, Okématan rose quickly, put out his pipe, and stuck the tomahawk in his belt. The sluggish good-natured air of contentment with which he had been smoking vanished; the half-sleepy eyes opened, and a frown rested on his brow as he said, shortly—

“Okématan goes to look.”

“May I go with you?” asked Dan.

“No. Okématan goes alone. It is known that a band of Saulteaux have been seen. They are roused just now by the actions of the great white chief and the words of my Nation. Rest here till I come. Go on eating. If they are here they may be watching us now.”

“D’ee hear that, Little Bill? You’ve got to go on eating,” said Archie. “Our guide commands it. If you disobey, the rascally Saulteaux will come down upon us somehow.”

But Archie’s light-heartedness was not shared by his older companions. They knew too well that the disturbed state of the country at the time, and especially the ill-will engendered between the Crees and Saulteaux by the ill-advised action of Lord Selkirk’s agents, rendered an explosion not improbable at any time, and a certain feeling of disappointment came over them when they reflected that the hunting expedition, which they had entered on with so much enthusiastic hope, might perhaps be brought to an abrupt close.

“If there’s to be any fighting I shall only be in your way,” said the invalid in a tone in which there was much of sadness, though none of fear.

“Not a bit of it, Little Bill,” returned Dan, quickly. “You’ll be in nobody’s way in the canoes. You’re as light as a feather. If we had even to take to the bush, Archie could run with you; an’ when he gets tired, Fergus and I would think no more o’ you than a grasshopper.”

“Iss it carryin’ him you will be taalkin’ of?” said Fergus. “Ay, ay! I would be forgettin’ that he wass on my back if I had him there.”

As he spoke, the Indian returned to the camp with the cat-like tread so characteristic of the Red-man.

“A big band has been here,” he said. “They slept on the island last night, and the signs show that they do not come as friends.”

“Are you sure of that?” asked Dan.

“Okématan is sure of nothing. Even the sun may not rise to-morrow.”

“Had we not better, then, return at once to the Settlement, and tell what we have seen?” said Dan.

“If we did, the Saulteaux would see us and give chase. Their canoes are big and have strong men in them. They would overtake us soon and our scalps would be swinging at their belts to-morrow.”

“Not pleesant to think of—whatever,” said Fergus.

“What, then, do you advise?” asked Dan. “You understand the ways of the wilderness, and we will follow your lead.”

The chief appeared to think for a few moments.

“We will remain where we are,” he said; “only we will send the boys off in one of the canoes, as if to shoot some ducks for us. The Saulteaux will think that we are lazy, idle men, who like to lie in camp and sleep or smoke while the boys hunt for us. When night comes we will escape in the dark and go down the river to warn the settlers.”

“But what if they attack us before night comes on?” asked Dan.

“They will not do that,” answered the Indian, gravely. “They know that we are well supplied with powder and shot. They know that some one must lead in every attack, and that such leaders would be doomed to death. Saulteaux do not love death. They prefer life. They will not come till it is dark.”

“Ha! ha!” laughed Fergus, who seemed greatly tickled with the latter part of the chief’s observation, “fery goot! ho! fery goot!—they do not love death, an’ it iss life they will be preferrin’. Ay, ay! It iss the Heelandman that will be of much the same opeenion, only, when fightin’ hes got to be done, he’s not afraid to do it in daylight.”

“He may not be afraid, Fergus,” said Dan, “yet I suspect that the Red-man’s tactics are often the wisest, for what would be the use of making an attack in daylight, at the cost of several lives, when the attack might be made quite as well, if not better, at night, without the loss, perhaps, of any life at all?”

“I will not be sayin’,” returned Fergus, who was of an argumentative disposition, “anything at all about attackin’ by day or by night. I will only be remarkin’ that the Heelandman iss like the savitch in that he prefers life to death.”

“Come along to the fire, Fergus,” said Dan, laughing; “I will argue that out with you.”

“It will be difficult to argue, then, for there iss no argument in it at all. It is only a statement of opeenion.”

“Well, but surely it is possible to controvert your opinion! Besides, we are somewhat exposed where we stand. Even an arrow might reach us from the near bank.”

“Never you fear, Tan. They will not be so foolish as to fire now, instead of attack at night. They are sly—whatever.”

While the two friends were thus conversing, the Cree chief was arranging the smaller of the canoes for the use of the young hunters—that is, he took out all the lading, making it so light that it would skim over the water like an egg-shell with the slightest impulse of the paddle.

“You’ll have to put a big stone in the stern, Oké,” said Archie, “to make up for Little Bill’s lightness—”

“For your heaviness, you mean,” interrupted the invalid.

“No; I mean what I say, Billie, for you are light-headed as well as light-hearted—a sort o’ human balloon, ready to go up like a rocket at any time—so that even an or’nary man like me weighs you down. Besides, Oké, he steers better than me and I shoot better than him. Also, I like the hardest work, so I always take the bow.”

Arranging things according to directions, the Indian held the canoe steady while the brothers stepped carefully in—for they had learned from experience that the birch-bark canoe, besides being easily broken, is apt to overturn on small provocation.

“Let not Arch-ee go near the river-bank on either side,” said the chief in a warning voice, as he was about to shove the frail bark out upon the glassy water. “The Saulteaux might catch him. And let him not go far up or down stream. Let him keep among the reeds round the island. There are many ducks there. Shoot plenty, as if Arch-ee had no suspicion—no fear of Indians.”

“I say, Oké,” demanded the lad, with what was meant for an overwhelming frown, “do you mean to hint that I have any fear of the Indians?”

“Okématan has the belief that Arch-ee never knew fear at all,” returned the chief, earnestly; “that he has the courage of the young buffalo-bull.”

“Well, I’m not quite so sure o’ that,” returned the boy, with a modest look. “I would not myself put it quite so strong, you know. But you’re a wise chief, and I hope you’ve got a lot of brothers as wise as yourself. Good-bye, Oké—shove off. Now, then, mind how you steer, Little Bill.”

Chapter Twenty Two.

Circumventing the Red-Skins.

For some time the brothers paddled about the sedgy shore of the small islet on which the camp had been pitched, now setting up a flock of ducks and then slipping into the heart of some reeds and concealing themselves until a good chance was obtained at a passing flock of geese.

Archie Sinclair soon laid in enough provision to serve the party for a few meals, for his hand was steady and his eye true.

“Little Bill,” he said, looking back after one of his successful shots, “you must take a shot now. We will go right-about-face, and convert the bow into the stern in the usual way. See, catch hold of the gun.”

“No, Arch-ee, as Oké calls you, I won’t; I’m quite content to look on, for your gun kicks like a Mexican mule. Besides, it’s easy work to steer, and seeing you panting and toiling in the bow makes it seem all the easier. Just you keep blazin’ away, old man. But, I say, where shall I steer to now? I’m tired o’ steering among the reeds. Let us push out into the clear water.”

“You heard what Oké said,” objected Archie; “we must keep well clear o’ both shores.”

“I know that,” returned Billie, “but he did not forbid us to try the reeds round the other islands; there’s a much bigger one, not a quarter of a mile up stream. I think there are some beautiful sedges there where geese are likely to live. I’m sure I would choose to live in such a place if I was a goose.”

“O! then, we must go, Little Bill, for I think it would be hard to keep any one out of his native home.”

So saying, he dipped his paddle with vigour, and the light bark shot swiftly over the glancing water.

The sun was beginning to descend towards the western horizon when they drew near to the island, and several flocks of water-fowl had already sprung alarmed from the reeds, when Archie caught sight of a black-and-red-painted visage peering at him from among the bushes.

The boy’s heart seemed to bound into his throat and his first impulse was to turn the canoe and fly, but Archie’s mind was quicker even than his hand or eye. All he had ever heard or read of the cool stoicism of the Red-man seemed to flash across his memory, and, with a violent effort, he crushed back the shout that rose to his lips. He could not indeed suppress the look of sudden surprise that swept across his expressive face, but he cleverly adapted it to circumstances.

“Look, look! Little Bill,” he exclaimed, eagerly, pointing right over the Indian’s head at a flock of geese that opportunely appeared at the moment in the far distance. “Crouch, Bill, lie low, I’ll call them. Steer a little more to the left and keep her so.”

Thereupon he began a vociferous imitation of the sounds with which Indians are wont to call to geese that may chance to be flying past at a distance. The obedient Billie steered as directed, and thus the canoe was slowly sheered off a little from the shore. It was cleverly done. Whether the savage was deceived or not we cannot tell, but he showed no sign of intention to move or act, though he was within easy range of the boys.

“Little Bill,” said Archie, in a low voice, such as one might use when anxious not to alarm game, “can you do what you’re bid at once and exactly?”

“I can try,” was the quiet answer.

“Well, then, try your best, Little Bill; for our lives may depend on our action now. Keep your eyes fixed on that flock o’ geese as long as they’re in sight. Don’t look at the shore, whatever I do or say. Look at anything you like, but not at the shore. There’s a Red-skin there. I’ve seen him, though he thinks I haven’t. Now, steer right round and go back the way we have just come, only keep always edging a little off-shore.”

As he said this Archie raised himself from his crouching attitude, laid down his gun and resumed his paddle, and in his ordinary free-and-easy tones exclaimed—

“We’ve lost that chance, Little Bill—more’s the pity.”

“Never mind,” answered Billie in the same tone, being resolved to act his part well, “there’s lot’s more where these came from. Better luck next time. Where away now?”

“Keep her just as you go, you’re far enough out now. We should start some ducks here.”

Thus speaking, and with the air of a leisurely man enjoying himself—with infinite contentment on his ruddy countenance, and with much concern in his agitated soul—Archie took the canoe straight past the very spot where the Indian lay concealed. He felt that audacity was the safest line of action, for he knew that if the savage meant mischief, to pretend absolute ignorance of his existence would be less likely to draw a shot than sudden flight—which, however swiftly carried out, could by no means equal the flight of a bullet. Besides, it was of the utmost importance that he should reach the encampment and report what he had seen without the Indian becoming aware that he had been discovered.

In order to effect his purpose, he not only repassed the hiding-place of the savage but actually shot and picked up another duck while still within range of the enemy’s gun. Then he directed his brother to steer still more off the island, but very slowly.

“We’re in no hurry, you see, Little Bill; you haven’t looked at the shore, I hope?”

“Never once.”

“Ha! ha!” laughed Archie in high glee at the success of this his first experiment in backwoods warfare; “you’re a trump, Little Bill!”

“I’d rather be a trump than a trumpet, Archie. If there are more Red-skins about, laughing like that will be sure to rouse them.”

“Never fear, Billie, my boy. You do as I tell ’ee. We must keep up the game a bit longer yet. It won’t do to hurry back till the sun is lower, so we’ll go over to that small island there an’ have a try for another duck. There’s sure to be nobody on such a small island as that. Afterwards we’ll drop down in an off-hand, idle-like way to the encampment. It’ll be natural to do this when the evenin’s beginning to set in, an’ so we’ll stump them Red-skins at their own game. D’ee understand?”

“Yes. You’re a clever chap, Archie.”

In pursuance of this deeply laid plan, the brothers crossed over to the small islet referred to, and, after apparently amusing themselves there for a short time, dropped down stream in a leisurely way, reaching the encampment before the evening had fairly set in.

A council of war was immediately held.

“You were right in your guess, Okématan,” said Davidson. “The reptiles will be down on us to-night no doubt. What course does the Cree chief advise?”

“Okématan advises that the kettle be boiled, the duck roasted, and a good big supper eaten.”

“It iss fery pleasant advice, no doubt,” said Fergus with a broad and rather sarcastic grin, “but it iss not warlike!”

“It seems not a bad preparation for war, anyhow,” said Dan; “and what after that?”

“The two boys will sleep and rest while food is preparing,” continued the chief. “The moon will set before we have done eating, and it will be very dark. The Saulteaux will not attack while the light lasts. When it is quite dark we will go.”

“If we fix to leave and they chance to attack at the same time, it iss meetin’ them we will be, Okématan,” said Fergus.

To this remark the Indian vouchsafed no reply.

“Well, well, Muster Okématan, it iss your own business; you will know best yourself. I will see to stowin’ away my supper—whatever.”

By the time supper was over, the moon had descended into a bank of black clouds on the horizon, and profound darkness brooded over land and water. It was a night such as an attacking party would hail as being most suitable for its work, and of course was proportionately unsuitable for the attacked. The Indian chief displayed no more concern about it than if nothing unusual were pending. After supper, however, he directed that the canoes should be launched and loaded. At the same time he gathered together as much wood as he could, and heaped it on the fire.

“You seem determined to give them plenty of light to do their work,” remarked Davidson.

“They will wait till our fire burns low,” said the chief. “By that time they will think we are asleep. A sleeping foe is not dangerous. They will come—slowly; step by step; with wide eyes glancing from side to side, and no noise, sly as foxes; timid as squaws! But by that time we will be far on our way back to Red River!”

“Ay—if we do not meet them comin’ to attack us,” said Fergus.

“And how shall we proceed!” asked Dan.

“As we came,” answered the chief. “Okématan, with the two boys, will lead. Dan-ell an’ Fergus will follow. Come.”

Led by their guide, the party passed out of the firelight into the dense thicket by which the spot was encompassed almost completely, so that the only visible sign of the encampment from outside was the forks of flame and sparks which rose high above the bushes.

On reaching the shore they found the two boys holding the canoes, close to the land. So intense was the darkness that they could not see the boys or canoes at all till close beside them. Without uttering a word, or making a sound with their moccasined feet, they stepped into the canoes, pushed gently off and glided, ghost-like, into the vast obscurity.

Chapter Twenty Three.

A Midnight Chase, and Dan in Extremity.

For some time they advanced in absolute silence, dipping their paddles so as to make no noise whatever; Dan following as close as possible in the wake of the chief, for it was one of those nights which people describe as being so dark that one cannot see one’s hand before one’s face.

On reaching the lower end of the lake-like expansion where the river narrowed suddenly and the stream began to be felt, it was discovered that the enemy was in advance of them—that, anticipating some such attempt at escape, they had stationed an ambush at the narrows to cut off their retreat.

Archie was naturally the first to make this discovery, being in the bow of the canoe. He heard no sound, but suddenly there loomed out of the darkness another canoe close to them—so close that they were on the point of running into it when the sharp-witted boy saw it, and, with an adroit turn of his paddle prevented a collision. Then he ceased to paddle, and held his breath. Not knowing what to do next he wisely did nothing, but left matters to Oké and fate!

As they passed, the steersman in the strange canoe uttered something in a low tone. Evidently he mistook them for his friends.

“Sh!” was Okématan’s prompt reply—or the Indian equivalent for that caution.

They glided silently and slowly past, but the suspicion of the strange Indian had obviously been aroused, for the paddles of his canoe were heard to gurgle powerfully. Hearing this, Okématan made a stroke that sent his canoe ahead like an arrow, and Archie, who appreciated the situation, seconded the movement.

“Stop!” exclaimed the strange Indian, in the Saulteaux tongue, but the Cree chief did not feel the duty of obedience strongly upon him just then. On the contrary, he put forth all his strength, but quietly, for he remembered that Dan Davidson was behind.

As there was now no need for concealment, the pursuer uttered a shrill war-whoop which was immediately answered and repeated until the woods rang with the fiendish sound, while half-a-dozen canoes dashed out from the banks on either side, and sought to bar the river.

“Now, Arch-ee,” said the Cree chief in a low voice, “paddle for your life and be a man!”

“I’ll be two men, if you like, Oké,” answered the boy, whose courage was of that type which experiences something almost like desperate glee in the presence of imminent danger.

The canoe, obedient to the double impulse and the power of the current, was soon out of hearing of the pursuers.

“O! if I only had a paddle I might help you,” said Little Bill eagerly.

“Yes, an’ bu’st your biler, or explode your lungs, or something o’ that sort,” said his brother. “No, no, Little Bill; you sit there like a lord or an admiral, an’ leave men like Oké an’ me to do all the dirty work.”

While he spoke thus flippantly it is but justice to say that Archie was never more anxiously in earnest in his life, and that he strained at his paddle with a degree of energy that made him, perhaps, more than equal to many an average man. So that the canoe forged well ahead of the pursuers and finally got to a part of the river where three islets divided it into several channels, rendering further pursuit in the dark useless if not impossible.

Their comrades, however, were not so fortunate. Left behind by the sudden spurt of his leader, Davidson and his companion exerted themselves to overtake him, but the canoes of the enemy, which were just too late to cut off the retreat of Okématan, were in time to intercept the second canoe. In this emergency Dan swerved aside, hoping to get to the bank before the Saulteaux could discover his exact whereabouts. His intentions were thwarted by the want of caution in his companion.

“Iss it to the land ye are going?” asked Fergus.

“Yes—it’s our only chance,” whispered Dan.

“It iss my opeenion—” murmured the Highlander.

“Hush!” ejaculated Dan.

But the caution came too late. A listening Red-skin overheard the sounds, and, with a sudden dash was alongside of them. He did not, however, know the vigour of the men with whom he had to deal. While he was in the very midst of a triumphant war-whoop, Dan cut him over the head with the paddle so violently that the instrument became splinters, and the whoop ceased abruptly. At the same time Fergus caught hold of the bow of the enemy’s canoe with an iron grasp, and, giving it a heave that might have put Samson to shame, fairly overturned it.

“Ye can wet your whustle now—whatever,” he muttered.

As he spoke, the canoe ran with extreme violence against the invisible bank. At the same moment a random volley was fired from the canoes in rear. Fear lest they should wound or kill a comrade probably caused them to send the whizzing bullets rather high, but for one instant the flame revealed the position of the fugitives, and those who had reserved their fire took better aim.

“Take to the bush, Fergus!” cried Dan, as he grasped his gun and leaped into the shallow water.

The Highlander stooped to lay hold of his weapon, which lay in the bow of the canoe, just as another volley was fired. The act was the means of saving his life, for at least half-a-dozen bullets whizzed close over his head. Before he could recover himself a strong hand grasped his neck and flung him backwards. Probably a desperate hand-to-hand fight would have ensued, for Fergus McKay had much of the bone, muscle, and sinew, that is characteristic of his race, but a blow from an unseen weapon stunned him, and when his senses returned he found himself bound hand and foot lying in the bottom of a canoe. He could tell from its motion, that it was descending the river.

Meanwhile Dan Davidson, under the impression that his comrade was also seeking safety in the bush, did his best to advance in circumstances of which he had never yet had experience, for, if the night was dark on the open bosom of the river, it presented the blackness of Erebus in the forest. Dan literally could not see an inch in advance of his own nose. If he held up his hand before his face it was absolutely invisible.

In the haste of the first rush he had crashed through a mass of small shrubbery with which the bank of the stream was lined. Then on passing through that he tumbled head over heels into a hollow, and narrowly missed breaking his gun. Beyond that he was arrested by a tree with such violence that he fell and lay for a minute or two, half-stunned. While lying thus, experience began to teach him, and common sense to have fair-play.

“A little more of this,” he thought, “and I’m a dead man. Besides, if it is difficult for me to traverse the forest in the dark, it is equally difficult for the savages. My plan is to feel my way step by step, with caution. That will be the quietest way, too, as well as the quickest. You’re an excited fool, Dan!”

When a man begins to think, and call himself a fool, there is some hope of him. Gathering himself up, and feeling his gun all over carefully, to make sure that it had not been broken, he continued to advance with excessive caution, and, in consequence, was ere long a considerable distance from the banks of the river, though, of course, he had but a hazy idea as to what part of the country he had attained, or whither he was tending.

As the first excitement of flight passed away, Dan began to feel uneasy prickings of conscience at having so hastily sought safety for himself, though, upon reflection, he could not accuse himself of having deserted his comrades. Okématan and the boys, he had good reason to believe—at least to hope—had succeeded in evading the foe, and Fergus he supposed had landed with himself, and was even at that moment making good his escape into the forest. To find him, in the circumstances, he knew to be impossible, and to shout by way of ascertaining his whereabouts he also knew to be useless as well as dangerous, as by doing so he would make his own position known to the enemy.

He also began to feel certain pricking sensations in his right leg as well as in his conscience. The leg grew more painful as he advanced, and, on examination of the limb by feeling, he found, to his surprise, that he had received a bullet-wound in the thigh. Moreover he discovered that his trousers were wet with blood, and that there was a continuous flow of the vital fluid from the wound. This at once accounted to him for some very unusual feelings of faintness which had come over him, and which he had at first attributed to his frequent and violent falls.

The importance of checking the haemorrhage was so obvious, that he at once sat down and did his best to bind up the wound with the red cotton kerchief that encircled his neck. Having accomplished this as well as he could in the dark, he resumed his journey, and, after several hours of laborious scrambling, at last came to a halt with a feeling of very considerable, and to him unusual, exhaustion.

Again he sat down on what seemed to be a bed of moss, and began to meditate.

“Impossible to go further!” he thought. “I feel quite knocked up. Strange! I never felt like this before. It must have been the tumbles that did it, or it may be that I’ve lost more blood than I suppose. I’ll rest a bit now, and begin a search for Fergus by the first streak of dawn.”

In pursuance of this intention, the wearied man lay down, and putting his head on a mossy pillow, fell into a profound sleep, which was not broken till the sun was high in the heavens on the following day.

When at last he did awake, and attempted to sit up, Dan felt, to his surprise and no small alarm, that he was as weak as a child, that his leg lay in a pool of coagulated gore, and that blood was still slowly trickling from the wound in his thigh.

Although disposed to lie down and give way to an almost irresistible tendency to slumber, Dan was too well aware that death stared him in the face to succumb to the feeling without a struggle. He therefore made a mighty effort of will; sat up; undid the soaking bandage, and proceeded to extemporise a sort of tourniquet with it and a short piece of stick.

The contrivance, rude as it was, proved effectual, for it stopped the bleeding, but Dan could not help feeling that he had already lost so much blood that he was reduced almost to the last stage of exhaustion, and that another hour or two would probably see the close of his earthly career. Nothing, perhaps, could have impressed this truth upon him so forcibly as his inability to shout when he tried to do so.

In the faint hope that Fergus might be within call, he raised his voice with the full knowledge that he ran the risk of attracting a foe instead of a comrade. The sound that complied with the impulse of his will would have made him laugh if he had not felt an amazing and unaccountable disposition to cry. Up to that period of his life—almost from his earliest babyhood—Dan Davidson’s capacious chest had always contained the machinery, and the power, to make the nursery or the welkin ring with almost unparalleled violence. Now, the chest, though still capacious, and still full of the machinery, seemed to have totally lost the power, for the intended shout came forth in a gasp and ended in a sigh.

It was much the same when he essayed to rise. His legs almost refused to support him; everything appeared to swim before his eyes, and he sank down again listlessly on the ground. For the first time, perhaps, in his life, the strong man had the conviction effectually carried home to him that he was mortal, and could become helpless. The advantage of early training by a godly mother became apparent in this hour of weakness, for his first impulse was to pray for help, and the resulting effect—whether men choose to call it natural or supernatural—was at least partial relief from anxiety, and that degree of comfort which almost invariably arises from a state of resignation.

After a brief rest, the power of active thought revived a little, and Dan, again raising himself on one elbow, tried to rouse himself to the necessity of immediate action of some sort if his life was to be saved.

The spot on which he had lain, or rather fallen down, on the preceding night happened to be the fringe of the forest where it bordered on an extensive plain or stretch of prairie land. It was surrounded by a dense growth of trees and bushes, except on the side next the plain, where an opening permitted of an extensive view over the undulating country. No better spot could have been chosen, even in broad daylight, for an encampment, than had been thus fallen upon by the hunter in the darkness of night.

But the poor man felt at once that this advantage could be of no avail to him, for in the haste of landing he had thought only of his gun, and had left his axe, with the bag containing materials for making fire, in the canoe. Fortunately he had not divested himself of his powder-horn or shot-pouch, so he was not without the means of procuring food, but of what use could these be, he reflected, if he had not strength to use them?

Once again, in the energy of determination, he rose up and shouldered his gun with the intention of making his way across the plain, in the hope that he might at all events reach the wigwam of some wandering Indian, but he trembled so from excessive weakness that he was obliged to give up the attempt, and again sank down with feelings akin to despair.

To add to his distress, hunger now assailed him so violently that he would have roasted and eaten his moccasins—as many a starving man had done before him, though without much benefit—but even this resource was denied him for the want of fire, and raw moccasin was not only indigestible but uneatable!

Still, as it seemed his only hope, he gathered a few dry twigs and sticks together, drew the charge from his gun and sought to kindle some mossy lichen into flame by flashing the priming in the pan of the lock. Recent rains had damped everything, however, and his attempts proved abortive. Fortunately the weather was warm, so that he did not suffer from cold.

While he was yet labouring assiduously to accomplish his purpose, the whir of wings was heard overhead. Glancing quickly up, he perceived that a small flock of willow-grouse had settled on the bushes close to him. He was not surprised, though very thankful, for these birds were numerous enough and he had heard them flying about from time to time, but that they should settle down so near was exceedingly opportune and unexpected.

With eager haste and caution he rammed home the charge he had so recently withdrawn—keeping his eyes fixed longingly on the game all the time. That the birds saw him was obvious, for they kept turning their heads from side to side and looking down at him with curiosity. By good fortune grouse of this kind are sometimes very stupid as well as tame. They did not take alarm at Dan’s motions, but craned their necks and seemed to eye him with considerable curiosity. Even when he tried to take aim at them their general aspect suggested that they were asking, mentally, “What next?”

But Dan found that he could not aim. The point of the gun wavered around as it might have done in the hands of a child.

With a short—almost contemptuous—laugh at his ridiculous incapacity, Dan lowered the gun.

Stupid as they were, the laugh was too much for the birds. They spread their wings.

“Now or never!” exclaimed Dan aloud. He pointed his gun straight at the flock; took no aim, and fired!

The result was that a plump specimen dropped almost at his feet. If he had been able to cheer he would have done so. But he was not, so he thanked God, fervently, instead.

Again the poor man essayed to kindle a fire, but in trying to do this with gunpowder he made the startling discovery that he had only one more charge in his powder-horn. He therefore re-loaded his gun, wiped out the pan and primed with care, feeling that this might be the last thing that would stand between him and starvation. It might have stood between him and something worse—but of that, more hereafter.

Starving men are not particular. That day Dan did what he would have believed to have been, in him, an impossibility—he drank the blood of the bird and ate its flesh raw!

“After all,” thought he, while engaged in this half-cannibalistic deed, “what’s the difference between raw grouse and raw oyster?”

It is but right to add that he did not philosophise much on the subject. Having consumed his meal, he lay down beside his gun and slept the sleep of the weary.

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.

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 it you?”

“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 iss my opeenion 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-kill her, 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.

“It is Billie,” 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 a heap of 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 fish was not—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, alias young 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; she knows,” 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 Cloudbrow killed Perrin.”

“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 was there.”

“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 be much better 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 not becoming jealous; 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.

Chapter Twenty Eight.

Very Perplexing Interviews with Little Bill.

Things in the colony had at this time come to what may be styled a complicated pass, for distress and starvation were rampant on the one hand, while on the other hand the weather was superb, giving prospect at last of a successful harvest.

The spring buffalo-hunt had been but partially successful, so that a number of the buffalo runners had to make arrangements to support themselves by fishing during the autumn in lakes Winnipeg and Manitoba.

In these great fresh-water seas there is an unlimited quantity of rich and finely flavoured whitefish, or Titameg, besides other fish. But Titameg are only to be caught in large quantities during autumn, and of course much of the success of fishing depends on weather—one gale sometimes visiting the fishermen with ruin—ruin all the more complete that the nets which may be carried away have in many cases to be paid for out of the produce of the season’s fishing.

In addition to the buffalo-hunters, who were obliged to support themselves by fishing, there was a large number of idle half-breeds, of a much lower type than these plain hunters, who had to betake themselves to the same pursuit. These were the “ne’er-do-weels” of the colony; men who, like La Certe, with more or less—usually less—of his good-nature, seemed to hold that all the industrious people in the world were created to help or to support them and their families. Of course when the industrious people were unsuccessful, these idlers were obliged to work for their living, which, being unaccustomed to do anything energetic, they found it hard and difficult to do, and generally regarded themselves as the harshly used victims of a tyrannous fate.

There was one thing, however, at which these idlers were very expert and diligent—they begged well, and with persistency. No wonder; for their lives often depended on their persistent and successful begging. The Company and the private storekeepers were always more or less willing to risk their goods by advancing them on credit. Before the summer was over, most of these people had got their supplies and were off to the fishing grounds, regardless of the future, with large quantities of tea and tobacco, and happy as kings are said to be—but never are, if history be true!

Among these, of course, was La Certe. That typical idler had made the most of his misfortunes. Everybody had heard what the Sioux had done to him, and everybody had pitied him. Pity opens the heart, and that opens the hand; and, when the poor man entered a store with the polite manner of a French Canadian and the humble aspect of a ruined man, he scarcely required to beg. One man lent him a tent. Another lent him a canoe. From the Company’s store at Fort Garry he received a fair outfit of nearly all that he could require. Further down the Settlement there was a private store-keeper with a jovial countenance.

“O it was a sad, sad sight!” he said to this man on entering the store—“so very sad to see my tent in ashes, and nothing left—nothing—absolutely!” The jovial man was moved. He gave La Certe what he asked for—even pressed things on him, and also bestowed on him a considerable “gratuity.”

Still further down the Settlement the unfortunate man found the store, or shop, of another friend. This man was saturnine of countenance, but moderately liberal of heart. La Certe approached him with an air so pitiful that the saturnine man melted like snow in the sunshine or wax under heat.

“I have heard of your loss,” he said, “and I will give you credit this time, La Certe, though you are so bad at paying your debts. But I won’t give you much.”

“I do not want much,” returned the afflicted man in tones of deep humility—“only a little—a very little.”

By asking much more than he required, La Certe obtained as much as he wanted from the saturnine man, and thus he finally started for Lake Winnipeg with a canoe laden, almost to sinking, with the good things of this life.

The fineness of that summer brought forth the fruits of the earth in great luxuriance, and it really seemed as if at last the Scotch settlers were going to reap some reward for all their prolonged perseverance and industry. The long rest, the good feeding, the sunshine of nature, and the starlight of Elspie’s eyes had a powerful effect on Dan Davidson’s health, so that, by the time autumn arrived and the prospects of a splendid harvest became more certain every day, he had recovered much of his usual strength of body and vigour of mind.

Little Bill also felt the genial influences around him, and, to the intense joy of Archie, became visibly fatter and stronger, while his large blue eyes lost some of that wistfully solemn appearance with which they had been wont to gaze inquiringly into people’s faces.

One afternoon Billie, having walked to the summer house in the Prairie Cottage garden, along with Archie, was left alone there at his own request, for, unlike other boys, he was fond of occasional solitary meditation.

“Now mind, Little Bill—you whistle if you want me,” said Archie, when about to leave him. “I’ll hear you, for I’m only going to the carpenter’s shed.”

“I will, Archie, if I want you; but I don’t think I shall, for I can walk by myself now, quite easily, as far as the house.”

But Little Bill was not destined to be left to solitary meditations that day, for his brother had not left him more than a few minutes when a footstep was heard on the path outside, and next moment Fred Jenkins presented himself at the opening of the summer-house. The face of the mariner betrayed him, for he was too honest by nature to dissemble effectively.

“Well, Fred, how are you? You seem a little disappointed, I think.”

“Not exactly disappointed, Little Bill, but sort o’ ways scumbusticated, so to speak—perplexed, if I may say so. Kind o’ ways puzzled, d’ee see?”

There was something very amusing in the manner of the strapping seaman as he sat down beside the puny little boy, with a bashful expression on his handsome face, as if he were about to make a humiliating confession.

“What troubles you, Jenkins?” asked Billie, with the air of a man who is ready to give any amount of advice, or, if need be, consolation.

The seaman twisted his eyebrows into a complex form, and seemed uncertain how to proceed. Suddenly he made up his mind.

“Was you ever in love, Little Bill?” he asked abruptly, and with a smile that seemed to indicate a feeling that the question was absurd.

“O yes,” answered the boy quite coolly. “I’ve been in love with brother Archie ever since I can remember.”

Jenkins looked at his little friend with a still more complicated knot of puzzlement in his eyebrows, for he felt that Billie was scarcely fitted by years or experience to be a useful confidant. After resting his hands on his knees, and his eyes on the ground, for some time, he again made up his mind and turned to Billie, who sat with his large eyes fixed earnestly on the countenance of his tall friend, wondering what perplexed him so much, and waiting for further communications.

“Little Bill,” said Jenkins, laying a large hand on his small knee, “in course you can’t be expected to understand what I wants to talk about, but there’s nobody else I’d like to speak to, and you’re such a knowin’ little shaver that somehow I felt a kind of—of notion that I’d like to ask your advice—d’ee see?”

“I see—all right,” returned Billie; “though I wonder at such a man as you wanting advice from the like of me. But I’ll do what I can for you, Jenkins, and perhaps I know more about the thing that troubles you than you think.”

“I’m afraid not,” returned the seaman, with a humorous twinkle in his eye. “You see, Billie, you never wanted to get spliced, did you?”

“Spliced! What’s that?”

“Well, I should have said married.”

“O no! I don’t think the thought of that ever did occur to me. I’m sorry, Jenkins, but I really cannot give you advice on that subject.”

“H’m! I’m not so sure o’ that, Little Bill. You’re such a practical little chap that I do believe if you was put to it you’d be able to—see, now. If you happened to want to marry a nice little gal, what would you do?”

“I would ask her,” said Little Bill, promptly.

“Jus’ so; but that is what I have not got courage to do.”

Jenkins laughed at the expression of blazing surprise with which the boy received this statement.

“Have not got courage!” he repeated; and then, after a pause—“Have all the stories you have told me, then, been nothing but lies!”

“What stories, Billie?”

“Why, such as that one about the pirates in the Java seas, when ten of them attacked you and you were obliged to kill four, and all the rest ran away?”

“No, Billie—that was no lie: it was quite true. But, then, these blackguards were cowards at bottom, and they saw that I’d got a brace o’ double-barrelled pistols in my belt, and was pretty well up in the cutlass exercise.”

“And that time when you led a storming party against the fort in South America, and was the only one left o’ the party, and fought your way all alone in through the breach till the troops came up and carried you on with a rush, and—and—was all about that untrue?”

“Not a bit of it, Billie, though I wouldn’t have you think I was boastin’ about it. I only gave you the bare facts, which, like bare poles, is as much as a ship can stand sometimes.”

“An’ that time you jumped overboard in Port Royal among the sharks to save the little girl?”

“That’s a fact, if ever there was one,” said the seaman quickly, “for the dear child is alive this good day to swear to it if need be.”

“Yet you tell me,” continued Little Bill, “that you have not the courage to ask a nice little girl to marry you?”

“That’s exactly how the matter stands, Billie.”

It was now Billie’s turn to look perplexed.

“Who is this nice little girl?” he asked abruptly, as if the answer to that question might help to explain the enigma.

“Well—it’s Elise Morel; an’, mind, not a soul knows about that but you an’ me, Little Bill.”

“But—but Elise is not a little girl. She’s a big woman!”

Jenkins laughed as he explained that seamen sometimes had a habit—mistaken, it might be—of calling even big women “nice little gals” when they chanced to be fond of them.

“And are you really afraid to ask Elise to marry you?” asked the boy, earnestly.

“I suspect that’s what’s the matter wi’ me,” replied the sailor, with a modest look.

“I always thought that nothing could frighten you,” said Billie, in a somewhat disappointed tone, for it seemed to him as if one of his idols were shaking on its pedestal. “I can’t understand it, for I would not be afraid to ask her—if I wanted her.”

At this Jenkins again laughed, and said that he believed him, and that Billie would understand these things better when he was older.

“In the meantime, Little Bill,” he continued, “I haven’t got the heart of a Mother Carey’s chicken. I could stand afore a broadside without winkin’, I believe; I think I could blow up a magazine, or fight the French, as easy as I could eat my breakfast a’most, but to ask a pure, beautiful angel like Elise to marry me, a common seaman—why, I hasn’t got it in me. Yet I’m so fond o’ that little gal that I’d strike my colours to her without firin’ a single shot—”

“Does Elise want to marry you?” asked Billie.

“Oh, that’s the very pint!” said the seaman with decision. “If I could only make sure o’ that pint, I’d maybe manage to come up to the scratch. Now, that’s what I wants you to find out for me, Little Bill, an’ I know you’re a good little shaver, as’ll do a friend a good turn when you can. But you must on no account mention—”

He was going to have said, “You must on no account mention that I was blabbing to you about this, or that I wanted to find out such a thing,” when the sudden appearance of Elise’s lap-dog announced the fact that its mistress was approaching.

With a flushed face the bold seaman sprang up and darted out, as if to attack one of those pirates of the Java seas who had made so powerful an impression on Little Bill’s mind. But his object was escape—not attack. Lightly vaulting the garden fence, he disappeared into the same thicket which, on another occasion, had afforded opportune refuge to Kateegoose. A few moments later Elise turned into the walk, and stood before the summer-house.

“You here, Little Bill!” she exclaimed on entering, “I am very glad to find you, for I have been alone all the morning. Everybody is away—in the fields, I suppose—and I don’t like being alone.”

“Was you ever in love, Elise?” asked the boy with a solemn countenance.

The girl laughed heartily, and blushed a little.

“What a strange question, Billie,” she said; “why do you ask?”

“Well, it’s not easy to explain all at once; but—but I want to know if you want to be married?”

Elise laughed again, and, then, becoming suddenly grave, asked seriously why Billie put such foolish questions.

“Because,” said Little Bill, slowly, and with an earnest look, “Jenkins is very anxious to know if you are fond of him, and he actually says that he’s afraid to ask you to marry him! Isn’t that funny? I said that even I would not be afraid to ask you, if I wanted you—How red you are, Elise! Have you been running?”

“O no,” replied the girl, sheltering herself under another laugh; “and what did he say to that?”

“He said a great many things. I will try to remember them. Let me see—he said: ‘I haven’t got the heart of a Mother Carey’s chicken,’—(he didn’t tell me who Mother Carey is, but that’s no matter, for it was only one of her chickens he was speaking of);—‘I could stand afore a broadside without winkin’,’—(I give you his very words, Elise, for I don’t quite understand them myself);—‘I could blow up a magazine,’ he went on, ‘or fight the French, as easy as I could eat my breakfast, a’most, but to ask a pure an’ beautiful angel like Elise’—yes, indeed, you needn’t shake your head; he said these very words exactly—‘a pure an’ beautiful angel like Elise to marry me, a common seaman, why, I hasn’t got it in me. Yet I’m so fond o’ that little gal that I’d strike my colours to her without firin’ a single shot.’ Now, do you understand all that, Elise? for I don’t understand the half of it.”

“O yes, I understand a good deal of it, though some of it is indeed puzzling, as you say. But how did you come to recollect it all so well, Little Bill?”

“Because he said he wanted me to help him, and to find out if you wanted to marry him, so I paid particular attention to what he said, and—”

“Did he tell you to tell me all this?” asked Elise abruptly, and with sudden gravity.

“O dear, no; but as he wanted me to find it out for him, and said that not a soul knew about the matter but me, I thought the simplest way would be to tell you all he said, and then ask you straight. He was going to tell me something more, very particularly, for he was just saying, in a very solemn tone, ‘You must on no account mention—’ when your little dog bounced in and Jenkins bounced out, leaving the rest of it unsaid.”

“Then he has just left you?” said Elise.

“Just a moment or two before you came up. I think he must have seen some sort of beast in the wood, and gone in chase of it, he bolted in such a hurry, so I don’t know yet what I was not to mention.”

“Now, Little Bill,” said Elise with great seriousness of tone and manner, “you must not tell Mr Jenkins one word of the conversation that you and I have had just now.”

“What! not a single word?”

“Not one. You understand?”

“Yes, but, if he asks me, I must answer something, you know, and I must not tell lies.”

“Quite true, Billie. You must not tell lies on any account whatever. Now, listen. If he asks you about our conversation this morning, you must say that I told you you were never to open your lips about the subject again either to me or to him or to anybody. Mr Jenkins is an honourable man, and will not ask you a single question after that.”

“Then I’m not to tell him whether you want to marry him?”

“How can you tell him what you don’t know?”

“Well, but, I mean that you’re not going to tell me, so that I might tell him?”

“Certainly not.”

“Not a word to him and not a word to you—nor to anybody! Not even to Archie!”

“Yes. That is exactly what you must promise me.”

“This is a very unpleasant state of things,” said Little Bill, with a sad and puzzled countenance, “but of course I promise, for it is your affair, you know.”

It was a notable fact, which Little Bill did not fail to note—but did not dare to mention—that after that date there was a distinct change of demeanour in Elise Morel towards the handsome sailor—whether in his favour or otherwise it was impossible to tell.

Meanwhile, events were pending which were destined to exercise a very powerful influence over the fortunes of the Red River Colony, and, indeed, over the condition of the whole of Rupert’s Land.

Chapter Twenty Nine.

The Fishery Disasters.

One fine day, when summer had merged into autumn, and things in Red River appeared to be advancing favourably, and Dan Davidson had recovered his strength, and Little Bill was fairly well, it occurred to Okématan that he would like to go to Lake Winnipeg, and see how the settlers who had gone to the fishery there, were getting on.

You see, the Cree chief was an observant savage, and, before returning to his tribe, had made up his mind to see all the phases in the life of the new Palefaces who had thus come to take possession of the land.

He was a remarkably independent fellow, and as he served the Davidsons for nothing except his food—which he did not count, as he could easily have supplied himself with victuals by means of his line, bow, and gun—he did not deem it necessary to ask leave of absence. He merely went to the house one morning, and announced his intention of going to Lake Winnipeg to fish.

“I will go with you,” said Dan, to whom the announcement was made.

“An’ so will I,” said Fred Jenkins, who chanced to be conversing with Dan at the time—“that is, if they can spare me just now.”

“The canoe of Okématan,” said the chief, “holds no more than three. He wishes to take with him Arch-ee and Leetil Bill.”

“Very well,” returned Dan, “there’s no objection to that, for there is not much doing on the farm at this moment, and Archie has worked hard all the summer, so he deserves a holiday. We will just make up the same party that started last time, only that Fergus and I will take a somewhat bigger canoe so as to accommodate you, Jenkins.”

“Thankee. Though I am big—unfort’nitly—I can stow myself away in small compass, an’ I’ve larned how, when there ain’t overmuch grub, to git along fairly well on short allowance. When d’ee trip your anchor?—I mean, when do ye start?”

“When to-morrow’s sun touches the tree-tops in the east,” said the Indian chief.

“All right, Okématan, I’m your man—after layin’ in a breakfast-cargo.”

According to this arrangement the two canoes pushed off at daybreak the following morning, from the wharf at the foot of the garden of Prairie Cottage, and began the descent of the Red River, which, after flowing between twenty and thirty miles northward, enters the mighty bosom of Lake Winnipeg. Okématan and Archie occupied their old places in the stern and bow of the chief’s canoe, with Little Bill in the middle—this time using a paddle, for his strength had greatly increased. The other canoe was steered by Dan; Fergus acted bowman, and Jenkins sat between them, also wielding a paddle.

That night they encamped on the banks of the river, for their progress had been slow, owing to sundry visits which had to be paid to settlers on the way down.

“Well, now,” observed the sailor, as he stood by the camp-fire smoking his pipe contemplatively, “I find that as circumstances change about in this world men’s minds are apt to go ’bout-ship along wi’ them.”

“That sounds a terribly profound speech, Fred,” said Archie, who was busy at his very usual occupation of whittling an arrow for his brother. “Did your father teach it you, or did you crib it from a copy-book?”

“No, I raither think,” retorted the seaman quietly, “that I got it from your grandmother by the father’s side.”

“What may be the circumstance that has caused your mind to go about-ship just now?” asked Dan, stirring the fire under the robbiboo-kettle.

“Well, it’s in regard to them there canoe-paddles. Although they do seem small, compared with oars, I find they’re quite big enough to do the work, and although I’ve bin trained from a youngster to handle the oar, an’ go like a crab with my back the way I’m pullin’, it do seem more sensible-like to sit wi’ one’s face to the front and drive ahead;—anyhow, it’s more comfortable and satisfactory.”

“Look out, Jenkins!” exclaimed Little Bill, “else your duck won’t be satisfactory—it’s burnin’ now.”

“O, never mind,” remarked Fergus, lighting his pipe. “It iss havin’ it well done he would be fond of.”

“Ay, but not over-done,” cried the seaman, snatching the duck in question from before the blaze and turning its other side—for they used no spits in the Nor’-West in those days, but cooked one side at a time—nay, even carved off and ate part of the cooked side while the other side was roasting.

Next day they came out on the ocean-like expanse of the great lake, and steered along its western shores until they reached the fishery, where numbers of rudely-constructed wigwams and a few tents sheltered the fishing community.

They had just returned from a successful visit to the nets when the visitors arrived, and all was animation and rejoicing at the successful take. Jacques Bourassin was the first man they met on landing, and he was enthusiastic about the prospects before them. Slowfoot was the first woman, and she was quite satisfied—in that amiable state of mental and physical felicity in which it is so easy to believe that “all is for the best.” Her husband soon after appeared. He, of course, was also greatly pleased. He had joined the fishers because he believed that plenty of food, tea, and tobacco would be going amongst them. He was not mistaken.

“You will come to my tent,” he said, in the wealth of his hospitality; “we have plenty of good fish, a very little meat, some tobacco, and oceans of tea!”

The six visitors accepted the invitation, and were soon made acquainted with all the gossip of the community.

“Does it always smoke?” whispered Little Bill to his brother.

The “it” referred to was Baby La Certe, which had, as usual, possessed itself of its father’s pipe when the mother was not watching.

“I’m not sure, Little Bill, but I think that it does its best.”

It was observed, especially by Fred Jenkins, that the tea-drinking which went on at this place was something marvellous.

“There’s that squaw sittin’ there,” he said, “she’s bin an’ swigged three pannikins o’ tea while I’ve bin looking at her—an’ it’s as black as ink. What’s that brown stuff they put into it, does any one know?”

“That? Why, it is maple sugar,” answered Archie, “an’ capital stuff it is to eat too.”

“Ah, I know that, for I’ve ate it in lump, but it can’t be so good in tea, I fancy, as or’nary brown or white sugar; but it’s better than fat, anyhow.”

“Fat!” exclaimed Little Bill, “surely you never heard of any one taking fat in tea, did you?”

“Ay, that I did. Men that move about the world see strange things. Far stranger things than people invent out o’ their own brains. Why, there was one tribe that I saw in the East who putt fat in the tea, an’ another putt salt, and after they’d swallowed this queer kind of tea-soup, they divided the leaves among themselves an’ chawed ’em up like baccy.”

The evident delight with which these half-breeds and more than half-Indians swallowed cup after cup of the blackest and bitterest tea, proved beyond question their appreciation of the article, and afforded presumptive evidence at least that tea is not in their case as poisonous as we are taught to believe.

But it was not, as Jenkins remarked, all fair weather, fun, and tea at the fishery. After the six visitors had been there for a week, shooting and assisting in the canoes, and at the nets, there came a night when the forces of Nature declared war against the half-breeds and those settlers who had cast in their lot with them at that time.

Jenkins, Okématan, and Archie had been out with their guns that day—the last having been promoted to the use of the dangerous weapon—and in their wanderings had about nightfall come upon a family of half-breeds named Dobelle, a good-natured set, who lived, like La Certe, on the laissez faire principle; who dwelt in a little log-hut of their own construction within the margin of the forest, not far from the shore of the great lake.

This family, though claiming to be Christian and civilised, was little better than vagrant and savage. They were to some extent as independent as the brute creation around them—though of course they betrayed the inherent weakness of mankind in being unable to exist happily without tea, sugar, and tobacco. For the rest, their wants were few and easily satisfied. Snares provided willow-grouse and rabbits; traps gave them furs and the means of purchasing guns and powder. Their log-hut was only an occasional residence. Wherever night overtook them they were at home. They camped on the open plains, in the woods, among the rocks, and on the margins of rivers and lakes. Healthy, happy, and heedless, the Dobelle family cared for nothing apparently, but the comfort of the passing hour; regarded the past as a convenient magazine from which to draw subjects for gossip and amusement, and left the future to look after itself.

There were in the hut, when the three visitors entered, old Dobelle, his wife, a daughter of eighteen, another of four, and two sons of twenty and twenty-two respectively.

“It looks like dirty weather,” said Jenkins on entering; “will you let us come to an anchor here for a bit?”

“Give us shelter?” explained Archie, who doubted old Dobelle’s ability to understand nautical language.

“You are welcome,” said the half-breed, making way politely, and pointing to places on the floor where the visitors were expected to squat. For there was no furniture in that mansion; the fire was kindled in the middle of its one room; the family sat around it on deer and buffalo skins, and the smoke alike of pipe and fire found egress at the crevices in the roof.

With kind hospitality Madame Dobelle poured some black tea into cups of birch-bark, and, on plates of the same material, spread before them the remains of a feast of roasted fish.

While eating this, various questions were put as to the success of the fishery.

“Yes—we have been very successful,” said old Dobelle. “No bad weather to speak of, and plenty of fish. Our good fortune is great.”

“But it won’t last long,” said the eldest son, who seemed to be the only growler in the family.

“N’importe—we will enjoy it while it lasts,” said the younger son.

“Yes, truly we will,” remarked Madame Dobelle. Whereupon the daughter of eighteen smiled, and the daughter of four giggled.

“What does Okématan think?” asked the host.

Thus appealed to, the chief gave it as his opinion that something was going to happen, for the sky in the nor’-west looked uncommonly black. Having given utterance to this cautious remark he relapsed into silence.

As if to justify his opinion, a tremendous clap of thunder seemed to rend the heavens at that moment, and, a few minutes later, a heavy shower of rain fell.

“Well that we got inside before that came on,” said Archie. “I hope it won’t come on to blow, else we shall be storm-stayed here.”

The weather seemed to be in a lively mood that night, for as the thunder had promptly answered to Okématan’s observation, so now the wind replied to Archie’s remark, by rushing up the natural avenue which extended from the hut to the lake and almost bursting in the door.

“See to the ropes, boys,” said old Dobelle, glancing uneasily at the roof.

The young men arose, went out, regardless of weather, and secured with additional care a couple of stout ropes with which the tendency of the roof to fly away was restrained.

“Did it ever come off?” asked Archie with some curiosity, as the young men returned and resumed their pipes.

“Yes—twice, and both times it was night,” answered Madame Dobelle, “and we were flooded out and had to camp under the trees.”

“Which was not comfortable,” added the old man. Another clap of thunder seemed to corroborate what he said, and a blast of wind followed, which caused the whole fabric of the hut to shudder. Jenkins looked inquiringly at the roof.

“No fear of it,” said old Dobelle; “the ropes are strong.”

Thus assured, the visitors continued their meal with equanimity, regardless of the storm that soon began to rage with great fury, insomuch that the door required a prop to keep it up and rain began to trickle in through crevices in the roof and drop here and there upon the party. When one such drop chanced to fall on old Dobelle’s nose, his younger son arose, and, fastening a piece of birch-bark to the rafters, caught the drop and trained it with its followers to flow towards an unoccupied place in one corner, which, being accidentally lower than the rest of the floor, formed a convenient receptacle for superfluous water.

At the same time Madame Dobelle made a shakedown of pine-branches in another corner for her visitors, for it was obvious that they would have to spend the night there, even although their own tent was not far-distant.

By that time the storm was raging with unwonted violence. Nevertheless the Dobelle family smoked on in placid contentment. When the time for repose arrived, Madame Dobelle and her eldest girl retired to a box-bed in a corner of the hut which was screened off—not very effectually—by a curtain of birch-bark. The two brothers lay down in another corner. The three visitors disposed themselves in the third, and, as the fourth was monopolised by the rain-rivulet, old Dobelle lay down on one side of the fire in the centre of the room, while the four-year-old girl reposed on the other.

During the night the accumulation of tobacco-smoke with fire-smoke produced a suffocating effect, but no one was capable of suffocation apparently, for they all smoked on—except Archie, who, as we have said, had not acquired the habit. Even the four-year-old girl, like Baby La Certe, had a pull now and then at its father’s pipe, and, from sundry white emanations from the crevices in the bark curtains, it was evident that the ladies behind these were enjoying themselves in the same way during the intervals of repose.

Next morning was fine, and the three sportsmen returned to the fishery to find that the storm had made an almost clean sweep of the nets. It had carried most of them away; torn others to pieces, and almost ruined the whole colony of fishermen; the ruin being all the more complete that most of the nets had been received on credit, and were to be paid for chiefly by the results of the autumn fishery.

La Certe was one of the chief sufferers; nevertheless, to judge from his looks, La Certe did not suffer much! He had brought a considerable amount of provision with him, as we have said, and, finding that one of his nets had been washed ashore, he proceeded very leisurely to mend it, while he smoked and assisted Slowfoot to consume pemmican and tea.

About this time a mysterious message was sent to Dan Davidson from Red River by an Indian, requiring his immediate return. The sender of the message was Elspie McKay; the summons was therefore obeyed at once.

As nothing further could be done at the fishery that autumn, the other members of the expedition, and most of the fishers, returned with Dan to the colony.

Chapter Thirty.

The Trial for Murder.

“Dan,” said Elspie, as, seated in the summer-house after the arrival of the sportsmen, these two held a meeting, “I have called you back to tell you of a very terrible thing which has been said of my dear brother Duncan, and which you must contradict at once, and then find out how it was that the false report arose, and have the matter cleared up.”

“Dear Elspie,” returned Dan, “I think I know what you are going to tell me.”

“Have you heard the report, then?” said Elspie, turning pale, “and—and do you believe it?”

“I have suspected—I have—but let me hear first what the report is, and who it came from.”

“I got it from Annette Pierre, and I am sure she would not have told it me if she did not think it true; but, then, poor Annette is not very intelligent, and she may be—must be—mistaken. She says that it was Duncan who killed poor Henri Perrin, and that some of the half-breeds are determined to avenge the death of their comrade. Now, it cannot be true; and I want you at once to go and ferret out the truth, so as to prove the report false.”

“Have you spoken to Duncan on the subject?” asked Dan.

“No, I cannot bear to let him imagine even for a moment that I could believe him guilty of murder—that I even suspected him of it. But you say you have heard something, Dan—that you suspect something. What is it?”

“It is difficult to say, Elspie dear. I, too, have heard the rumour that has come to your ears, and I have seen—but it is useless talking of our mere conjectures. I will go at once and ferret out all about it if possible. My first business will be to see Annette and get from her all that she knows. Where is Duncan?”

“In the wheat-field. They have begun to shear to-day, and, as the crop is heavy, they will be glad of your help.”

Dan went to the field, after visiting Annette Pierre, and lent good assistance to the shearers, but, like Elspie, he found that he had not courage to say anything to Duncan that would indicate his suspicion. He longed to put the question straight to him, but could not prevail on himself to do so.

Next morning, however, he and Elspie were both saved the necessity of doing such violence to their feelings, by the arrival of two men from Fort Garry. They were members of a sort of police force that the Company had enrolled, and had come to arrest Duncan McKay junior, on the charge of murder!

There was not much of law in the colony at that time, but it was felt that something had to be done in the way of governing a settlement which was rapidly increasing, and in which Lynch and mob law would certainly be applied if regularly constituted authority did not step in. As the murder of Perrin had created great indignation among the half-breeds, and the feeling about it was increasing, the Company resolved to clear the matter up by having the supposed murderer tried. Duncan was accordingly lodged in one of the bastions of Fort Garry, where, when visited by the Governor, he firmly denied his guilt.

The arrest of his younger son on such a charge fell very heavily on poor Duncan McKay senior—more heavily than those who knew him would have expected. It touched not only his feelings but his pride; for was he not a lineal descendant of that Fergus McKay who had been a chief in one of the Western Isles of Scotland—he could not tell which, but no matter—at that celebrated period of Scottish history when the great Norse king, Harold Fairhair, had made a descent on the Scottish coast and received one of the few thorough thrashings that darkened his otherwise successful career?

“O! Tuncan, Tuncan, my boy!” cried the old man, shoving his hands deeper into his breeches pockets, and apostrophising his imprisoned son as he walked up and down in the privacy of his own bedroom. “O that wan o’ the name should come to such disgrace! An’ it’s denyin’ it you will be, whether you are guilty or innocent. O Tuncan, Tuncan! you wass ever notorious for tellin’ lies—an’ a troublesome boy all round—whatever.”

But when the old man went to Fort Garry and visited his son, he stifled his pathetic feelings, and appeared before him with all the offended dignity of an injured member of the great clan McKay.

“Are you guilty, Tuncan?” he asked, sternly.

“No, I’m innocent,” answered the youthful Highlander, with a brow quite as stern and a manner as dignified as the old one.

“You will hev to prove that—whatever.”

“No—they will hev to prove me guilty,” retorted the son.

“I wish I could believe ye, Tuncan.”

“It iss not of much consequence whether ye believe me or not, father. You are not to be my chudge—whatever.”

“That is goot luck for you, Tuncan, for if I wass your chudge I would be bound to condemn you—you wass always so fond o’ tellin’ lies.”

“It iss true what you say, father. It iss a chip o’ the old block that I am—more’s the peety.” At this point the door of the prison opened, and Elspie was ushered in.

“You here, father!” she exclaimed in evident surprise. “I had hoped to see Duncan alone.”

“It iss alone with him you’ll soon be,” replied the Highlander, putting on his hat. “Goot tay, Tuncan, my boy, an’ see that you’ll be tellin’ the truth, if ye can, when ye come to be tried.”

To this the youth made no reply.

“O Duncan!” said the girl, when her father had retired, “how came they to invent such lies about you?”

The tender way in which this was said, and the gentle touch on his arm, almost overcame the stubborn man, but he steeled himself against such influences.

“What can I say, Elspie?” he replied. “How can I tell what iss the reason that people tell lies?”

“But it is lies, isn’t it, Duncan?” asked the poor girl, almost entreatingly.

“You say that it iss lies—whatever, an’ I will not be contradictin’ you. But when the trial comes on you will see that it cannot be proved against me, Elspie—so keep your mind easy.”

With this rather unsatisfactory assurance, Elspie was fain to rest content, and she returned home a little, though not much, easier in her mind.

To make the trial quite fair and regular, a jury of twelve men, chosen by lot from a large number, was empanelled, and as many witnesses as possible were examined. These last were not numerous, and it is needless to say that Annette Pierre and Marie Blanc were the chief. But despite their evidence and the strong feeling that existed against the prisoner, it was found impossible to convict him, so that in the end he was acquitted and set free. But there were men in the colony who registered a vow that Cloudbrow should not escape. They believed him to be guilty, in spite of the trial, and made up their minds patiently to bide their time.

It now seemed as if at last a measure of prosperity were about to dawn upon the farmers in that distant land, and, as usual on such occasions of approaching prosperity, Dan Davidson and Duncan McKay senior began to talk of the wedding which had been so long delayed.

“I wass thinkin’, Tan,” remarked the old man one morning, while walking in the verandah with his after-breakfast pipe, “that I will be getting in the crops pretty soon this year, an’ they’re heavy crops too, so that we may look forward to a comfortable winter—whatever.”

“True, and as our crops are also very good, thank God, I begin now to hope that Elspie may see her way to—”

“See her way!” exclaimed McKay with some asperity: “she will hev to see her way when I tell her to open her eyes an’ look!”

“Nay, but there are two to this bargain,” said Dan, good-humouredly. “I would not consent to have her on such terms. She must fix and arrange everything without constraint from any one—not even from you, Duncan McKay.”

“Oh! fery goot!” retorted the old man with a touch of sarcasm; “you know fery well what Elspie will be sayin’ to that, or you would not be so ready to let it rest with her. Yes, yes, she is safe to see her way to go the way that you want her to go.”

It was a strange coincidence that at the very time these two were conversing on this subject in the verandah of Ben Nevis Hall, Mrs Davidson and Elspie were discussing the very same subject in an upper room of Prairie Cottage. We refrain from giving the details, however, as it would be unpardonable to reveal such matters. We will merely state that the conclusions to which the ladies came were very similar to those arrived at by the gentlemen.

But delay was still destined to be an element in the cup of this unfortunate couple.

When the harvest had been gathered in that year, there came what old McKay called a visitation which, with its consequences, recalls irresistibly the words of our great Scottish poet—“the best-laid schemes o’ mice and men gang aft a-gley.” This visitation was a plague of mice. The whole colony was infested with them. Like the grasshoppers, the mice devoured everything. The grain after being stacked was almost totally destroyed by them. The straw, the very stubble itself, was cut to atoms. The fields, the woods, the plains, seemed literally alive with this new visitor, and the result would have been that most of the settlers would again have been driven to spend another dreary winter in trapping and hunting with the Indians at Pembina, if it had not been for the fortunate circumstance that the buffalo runners had been unusually successful that year. They returned from the plains rejoicing,—their carts heavily laden with buffalo-robes and innumerable bags of pemmican.

Chapter Thirty One.

Retribution.

Owing to the success of the buffalo runners, the winter passed away in comparative comfort. But, as we have said, some of the settlers who had been ruined by the failure of the fisheries and the depredations of the mice, and who did not share much in the profits of the autumn hunt, were obliged once again to seek their old port of refuge at Pembina.

Among these was the Swiss family Morel. André went, because he did not wish to remain comparatively idle in the colony during the long months of winter. Elise went for the purpose of keeping house—perhaps we should say keeping hut—for André. Fred Jenkins went because he wanted to learn more about Indian ways and customs, as well as to perfect himself in the art of hunting the buffalo—that was all!

There were some who did not believe what the bold seaman said. Elise Morel was one of these—perhaps the most unbelieving amongst them.

Indeed, she laughed quite hilariously when his motive was reported to her by Billie Sinclair the day before they started.

“Why do you laugh so?” inquired Little Bill, who was always more or less in a state of surprise when he got upon this subject with Elise.

“It is not easy to say, Billie,” answered the girl, with another pleasant little laugh, “but it is so funny that a sailor should take such a fancy to come out here, so far away from his native element, and find so much interest in snow-shoe walking and Indian customs.”

“Yes, isn’t it?” responded the boy, “and him such a fine big man, too, who has gone through so much, and seen so many lands, and been in such a lot o’ fights with pirates, and all that kind of thing. I can’t understand him at all. I wish I understood him better, for I like him very much. Don’t you?”

Elise was so much taken up with what she was doing at the time that she could not answer the question, and Billie was in such a wandering state of mind that he neglected to press it!

Daniel Davidson also went to Pembina that winter, because he could not bear to press the subject of his marriage just after the destruction of his and old McKay’s crops by mice—a disaster which told rather heavily on both families. When winter had passed away, he, along with many others, returned to the colony and made preparations for going out to the plains for the spring hunt with the buffalo runners.

“You will better not be goin’ wi’ them,” said Duncan McKay senior to his younger son, some days before the hunters had arranged to set out. “It will not be safe after your trial, for the half-breeds are mad at you, Tuncan.”

If the old man had been wise enough to have left his son alone, Duncan junior would probably have remained where he was; but the mere offer of advice roused in him the spirit of opposition, and that reference to the half-breeds decided him.

“If all the half-breeds in Rud River wass to go as mad as buffalo-bulls wi’ their tails cut off, I would go,” said Duncan junior, with quiet decision of tone and manner, as he lighted his pipe.

“Ay, it iss that same you would do if you wass to be hanged to-morrow for doin’ it, Tuncan,” returned the old man testily, as he fired cloudlets in rapid succession from his compressed lips.

Duncan junior was equally firm in replying to his sister’s remonstrances later in the day.

“You know, dear Duncan,” she said, “that, although I believe you to be quite innocent, most of the half-breeds are of the opposite opinion, and some of them are very revengeful, especially when they think they have been deceived or unjustly treated.”

“I do not fear the half-breeds,” replied the youth gruffly.

“Of course you don’t, Duncan, but you know that, though most of them are good, trusty men, some are mean fellows, who would not hesitate to shoot you in the smoke and confusion of the hunt. Do give up the idea, for my sake, dear.”

“I would do much for your sake, Elspie, but not this, for it iss showin’ the white feather I am, they will be sayin’, and, as father often says, that iss what must never be true of a McKay.”

Accordingly, Duncan junior mounted his horse, and accompanied Dan, Peter, Fergus, Okématan, Morel, Jenkins, and others to the plains, where they found that the main body of the hunters, under Antoine Dechamp, had arrived just before them. Kateegoose was also there, and La Certe, who once more tried his fortune at the chase under all the advantages of a new cart and horse, a new gun, and a new outfit—all received on credit—to be paid for by the proceeds of the chase, as the creditors, hoping against hope, tried to believe; never to be paid for at all, as the easy-going La Certe more than half suspected—though he was far too honest a man to admit that even to himself.

Of course, Slowfoot was with him—amiable, meek, and silent as ever. And so was Baby La Certe, a five-year-old by that time, and obviously a girl with a stronger penchant than ever for tobacco!

“The buffalo have been found already,” said Dechamp to Dan Davidson, as the latter rode into camp at the head of his party. “Bourassin has just come in with the report that they are in great numbers away to the nor’-west, so we will make a fair start first thing in the morning.”

As he spoke, Dechamp glanced with evident surprise at Duncan McKay.

“Why did you let him come?” he said in an under-tone to Dan, as they were tying up the horses.

“How could I prevent him?” replied Dan.

Next morning all was bustle, eager expectation, and lively conversation in the camp. Archie was there again, promoted to the condition of a full-fledged hunter by the possession of a gun. Little Bill was there also. He had improved so much in health and strength that he was permitted to ride with the runners on a pony; but was to content himself with viewing the battle from afar—that is, well in rear.

“Now, Little Bill,” said Archie, with the seriousness of a grandfather, as they galloped with the hunters over the rolling plains, across which were streaming the first beams of the rising sun, “you must promise me to keep well in rear, and on no account to join in the chase. It’s of no use to go in without a gun, you know, and there is great risk when in the thick of it, that you may come across a bullet or two. You’ll have all the fun without the danger, Little Bill.”

“All right, old boy; I’ll do my best.”

“Hallo, Archie!” cried Jenkins, galloping up alongside, with the blunderbuss in his left hand, “I’ve bin lookin’ for you, lad. It’s not easy to spy out a friend in such a shoal o’ queer craft. Are ’ee goin’ to sail alongside o’ me this bout?”

“Of course I am, Fred. A man that can steer his way by compass over such a sea o’ grass is worth holding on to.”

“Well, then, heave ahead. We’ll hunt in couples. I see they’re gettin’ into line o’ battle, which means that the enemy’s in view.”

The sailor was right. Buffalo were seen grazing in the far distance, and the cavalcade was getting into line so as to advance in good order.

As on a former occasion, they approached at a slow pace until the animals began to lift their heads and throw inquiring glances in the direction from which the mounted host came. Then the word was given to trot, and, finally, to charge.

The rush on this occasion was even more tremendous than on the former, for there were considerably more men, and a larger herd of buffalo.

The lumbering heavy gait of the latter at the first start did not suggest the racing speed to which the clumsy creatures attained when they were hard pressed. Soon the dropping shots of the fast riders swelled into the rattling musketry of the real fight, and ere long the plain became strewed with dead and wounded animals, while smoke and dust obscured the air.

There was no order maintained after the first onset. Every man seemed to fight for his own hand. Crossing and re-crossing and firing recklessly in all directions, it seemed a very miracle that no fatal accidents occurred. Minor ones there were. Archie and his nautical comrade witnessed a few of these.

“I say, look at Bourassin!” exclaimed the former, pointing to the left with his nose—both hands being fully engaged with gun and bridle.

The seaman’s eye turned in the direction indicated, and he beheld Bourassin’s horse stopped by the hairy forehead of a buffalo-bull, while Bourassin himself was in the act of describing a magnificent parabolic curve over the buffalo’s back. He alighted on his back, fortunately on a low bush, a yard or two beyond the buffalo’s tail.

“Killed!” exclaimed Jenkins, anxiously, as he turned his horse in the direction of the fallen man.

But the seaman was wrong. The hunter did indeed lie flat and motionless for a few seconds—which was just as well, for it gave the bull time to toss off the horse, turn, and leap over the prostrate man in continuing its flight; but in another moment Bourassin was on his feet, soon caught his trembling horse, remounted, and continued the chase.

A little further on they saw Peter Davidson’s horse put his foot in a badger-hole, the result of which was that the horse rolled over in one direction, while the expert Peter, tumbling cleverly to one side, rolled away in another direction like a Catherine-wheel. Both horse and man arose unhurt, and, like Bourassin, continued the chase.

“Necks ain’t easy broke in this here country,” remarked the seaman, as Archie pushed past him in pursuit of a fat young cow.

“Not often. Necks are tough, you see, and ground is mostly soft,” cried Archie, as he fired and dropped the cow.

“Who’s that away to the right, ridin’ like a madman after a calf?” asked Jenkins, overtaking Archie, who was recharging his gun at the gallop.

“Who—where?” cried the boy, looking impatiently round.

“Keep cool, lad! Whatever condition you chance to be in, whether of danger or safety, always keep cool. For why?—it makes you comfortable, or more fit for action, as the case may be. See, the fellow over there half-hidden by smoke.”

“Why, that’s Duncan McKay. You might know him by his hat.”

“I ain’t a good judge o’ hats,” remarked the seaman, as he fired at a bull and missed it. “Ha! that comes o’ firin’ at long range,” he said. “It was at least six yards off, an’ I can’t count on the old blunderbuss beyond five. Better luck next time!”

“Hallo! Jenkins, did you hear that?”

“What?”

“That shriek? I’m sure some one has been hurt.”

“Very likely, lad. There’s many a cropper a-goin’ on just now, an’ we can’t all expect to come off scot-free.”

“The voice sounded like that of Fergus,” said Archie, “but I can see nothing for smoke now. Is that a man on the ground over there?”

“Don’t know, Archie. Out o’ the way, lad; there’s another chance. Must get closer this time.”

The tide of the chase swept on with irresistible fury, and not one of all the band saw that the man who had fallen did not rise.

Following close in rear, and profoundly excited with this new and wild experience of life, came Little Bill, galloping along on his pony.

The poor boy had either greatly benefited by his recent adventures, or a change had taken place in his constitution, for he rode with ease, and found that he could walk considerable distances without the old weary feeling of exhaustion.

As Little Bill passed over the prairie, which resembled a field of battle where, not men, but buffaloes had been the combatants, he came suddenly upon the dismounted hunter, who lay prone upon his face.

“Poor man!” thought Little Bill, pulling up and dismounting, “he seems to have been badly stunned.”

Stooping down he turned the fallen man over on his back with some difficulty, and then discovered, to his consternation, that it was young Duncan McKay, and that blood was flowing from a wound in his side.

The shock at first deprived Billie of the power to do anything, but in a very few minutes his strong common sense returned, and his first act was to open Duncan’s coat and stanch the wound. This he accomplished by means of a strip torn off the poor man’s cotton shirt, and the long red worsted belt with which the hunter’s capote was bound. Then he took from his pocket a small bottle of water, with which he had provided himself in case of need, and poured a little into Duncan’s mouth.

The result of these operations was that the fallen man opened his eyes after a while, raised himself on one elbow, and looked round in a dazed manner.

“What iss it that has come over me?” he asked, faintly.

“You have fallen off your horse, I think,” answered the boy, “and I—I’m afraid a bullet has wounded you in the side.”

“Bullet! Side!” exclaimed Duncan, looking quickly down at the bandage, and attempting to rise. “Little Bill, you must—”

He stopped; seemed to grow faint, and fell down; but quickly raised himself again on one elbow and looked round.

“Shot!—dying!” he muttered; then turning to the boy—“Stay by me, Little Bill. Don’t leave me here all alone.”

“No, I won’t leave you, unless—perhaps it would be better if I rode back to camp for help.”

“True, true. It’s my only chance,” said the poor man, faintly. “Go, Billie, and go quick. Put something under my head. And—stay—leave your gun with me.”

“I’m so sorry I haven’t got one, but here is my bottle of water; you may want that, and—”

He stopped, for Duncan had evidently fainted again.

The poor boy was terribly alarmed at this. He had wit enough to perceive that prompt action was needed, for his friend was in very great danger, while the buffalo runners were by that time out of sight in front, and the camp was far behind. In this crisis Billie acted with decision. First making the bandage over the wound more secure, and pouring a little more water into the mouth of the wounded man, he went to a clump of willows, and cut a stout switch, then, remounting, he turned on his track and made straight for the camp as fast as his willing pony could be made to lay hoof to the ground.

Arrived there, to his great relief he found the Cree chief Okématan, for that eccentric individual had, owing to some unknown reason, refrained from joining in the hunt that day. La Certe was also there.

In a few minutes, mounted on a fresh horse, Little Bill was galloping over the prairie, acting as guide to Okématan, while La Certe followed them, driving a cart with a couple of buffalo-robes in it.

That night, instead of rejoicing in the camp of the buffalo runners after their successful hunt, there was uneasiness and gloom, for Duncan McKay lay in his tent dangerously wounded, and it was generally believed that the shot which laid him low had been fired not by accident, but with deliberate intent to kill.

Chapter Thirty Two.

Suffering and its Results.

When the news that young Duncan had been shot was brought to Ben Nevis, the effect on his father was much more severe than might have been expected, considering their respective feelings towards each other.

It was late in the evening when the news came, and the old man was seated in what he styled his smoking-room, taking his evening glass of whisky and water.

“Elspie,” he said, in a subdued voice, on being told, “help me up to my bed.”

This was so very unusual a request that Elspie was somewhat alarmed by it, as well as surprised—all the more so that the old man left the room without finishing either his pipe or glass. Still, she did not suppose that anything serious would come of it. A night’s rest, she thought, would do away with the evils of the shock.

“Dear father,” she said, as she kissed him at parting, “do believe that God is waiting to be gracious: that He really means it when He says, ‘Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.’ And, consider—we have no reason to suppose that dear Duncan’s wound is very dangerous.”

“Goot-night, Elspie,” was all the reply.

Next morning McKay did not make his appearance at the usual breakfast-hour, and, on going to his room, they found him lying speechless in his bed, suffering under a stroke of paralysis.

He soon recovered the power of speech, but not the use of his limbs, and it became evident ere long that the poor man had received a shock which would probably cripple him for life. Whatever may have been his secret thoughts, however, he carefully concealed them from every one, and always referred to his complaint as, “this nasty stiff feeling about the legs which iss a long time of goin’ away—whatever.”

In a few days, Fergus returned from the plains, bringing his brother in a cart, which had been made tolerably easy by means of a springy couch of pine-branches. They did not tell him at first of his father’s illness, lest it should interfere with his own recovery from the very critical condition in which he lay. At first he took no notice of his father’s non-appearance, attributing it to indifference; but when he began slowly to mend, he expressed some surprise. Then they told him.

Whatever may have been his thoughts on the subject, he gave no sign, but received the information—as, indeed, he received nearly all information at that time—in absolute silence.

Fortunately, the bullet which struck him had passed right through his side, so that he was spared the pain, as well as the danger, of its extraction. But, from his total loss of appetite and continued weakness, it was evident that he had received some very severe, if not fatal, internal injury. At last, very slowly, he began to grow a little stronger, but he was a very shadow or wreck of his former self. Nevertheless, the more sanguine members of the family began to entertain some faint hope of his recovery.

Of course, during these first days of his weakness his sister Elspie nursed him. She would, if permitted, have done so night and day, but in this matter she had to contend with one who was more than a match for her. This was Old Peg, the faithful domestic.

“No, no, dearie,” said that resolute old woman, when Elspie first promulgated to her the idea of sitting up all night with Duncan, “you will do nothin’ of the sort. Your sainted mother left your father an’ Fergus an’ yourself to my care, an’ I said I would never fail you, so I can’t break my promise by letting you break your health. I will sit up wi’ him, as I’ve done many a time when he was a bairn.”

It thus came to pass that Elspie nursed her brother by day, and Old Peg sat up with him at night. Of course the duties of the former were considerably lightened by the assistance rendered by various members of the family, as well as friends, who were ever ready to sit by the bedside of the wounded man and read to or chat with him. At such times he was moderately cheerful, but when the night watches came, and Old Peg took her place beside him, and memory had time to commence with him undisturbed, the deed of which he had had been guilty was forced upon him; Conscience was awakened, and self-condemnation was the result. Yet, so inconsistent is poor humanity that self-exculpation warred with self-condemnation in the same brain! The miserable man would have given all he possessed to have been able to persuade himself that his act was purely one of self-defence—as no doubt to some extent it was, for if he had not fired first Perrin’s action showed that he would certainly have been the man-slayer. But, then, young McKay could not shut his eyes to the fact that premeditation had, in the first instance, induced him to extend his hand towards his gun, and this first act it was which had caused all the rest.

Often during the wakeful hours of the night would the invalid glance at his nurse with a longing desire to unburden his soul to her, but whenever his eye rested on her calm, wrinkled old visage, and he thought of her deafness, and the difficulty of making her understand, he abandoned his half-formed intention with a sigh. He did not, indeed, doubt her sympathy, for many a time during his life, especially when a child, had he experienced the strength and tenderness of that.

After attending to his wants, it was the habit of Old Peg to put on a pair of tortoise-shell spectacles and read. Her only book was the Bible. She read nothing else—to say truth, at that time there was little else to read in Red River. The first night of her watch she had asked the invalid if he would like her to read a few verses to him.

“You may if you like, Peg,” he had replied. “You know it iss little I care for releegion, for I don’t believe in it, but you may read if you like—it may amuse me, an’ will help to make the time pass—whatever.”

Thus the custom was established. It was plain that the old woman counted much on the influence of the simple Word of God, without comment, for every time she opened the Bible she shut her eyes and her lips moved in silent prayer before she began to read.

The invalid was greatly tickled with this little preliminary prayer, and would have laughed aloud if he had not been too weak to do so. As time went on, however, he became interested in the Gospel narratives in spite of himself, and he began to experience some sort of relish for the evening reading—chiefly because, as he carefully explained to Elspie, “the droning o’ the old wumman’s voice” sent him to sleep.

Meanwhile the other invalid—Duncan senior—progressed as slowly as did his son. The nursing of him was undertaken chiefly by Jessie Davidson—the sympathetic Jessie—who was established as an inmate of Ben Nevis pro tem, for that very purpose. She was ably seconded—during part of each day—by Billie Sinclair, between whom and the old Highlander there grew up at that time a strong friendship. For many weeks poor old McKay was confined to his bed, and then, when allowed to rise, he could only walk across his room with the aid of the strong arm of his stalwart son Fergus. To sit at his open window and look out at his garden was his principal amusement, and smoking a long clay pipe his chief solace. Like Duncan junior, old Duncan was quite willing to hear the Bible read to him now and then, by Jessie Davidson and more especially by Little Bill; but the idea of deriving any real comfort from that book never for a moment entered his head.

One day Elspie came to him and said:

“Daddy, Dan wants to see you to-day, if you feel well enough.”

“Surely, my tear. It iss not the first time he will be seein’ me since I got the stroke.”

“He has brought you a present—something that he has made—which he hopes will be useful to you.”

“What is it, Elspie?”

“You shall see. May I tell him to come in and bring it with him?”

“Surely, my tear. Let him come in. It iss always goot for sore eyes to see himself—whatever.”

Elspie went out. A few minutes later there was heard in the passage a strange rumbling sound.

“What in all the world iss that?” said the old man to Little Bill, who happened to be his companion at the time.

“It sounds like wheels, I think,” said Billie.

The door opened as he spoke, and Dan Davidson entered, pushing before him an invalid chair of a kind that is familiar enough in the civilised world, but which was utterly unknown at that time in those regions.

“Goot-mornin’, Tan; what hev you got there? Iss it a surprise you will be givin’ me?”

“It is a chair, sir, which will, I hope, add a good deal to your comfort,” said Dan. “I made it myself, from the memory-model of one which I once saw in the old country. See, I will show you how it acts. Push me along, Jessie.”

Dan sat down in the chair as he spoke, and his sister Jessie, who entered at the moment, pushed him all about the room with the greatest ease.

“Well, well!” said the amused invalid. “Ye are a clever man, Taniel. It iss a goot contrivance, an’ seems to me fery well made. Could Little Bill push it, think ye? Go an’ try, boy.”

Little Bill found that he could push Dan in the chair as easily as Jessie had done it.

“But that is not all,” said Dan. “See—now I will work the chair myself.”

So saying he laid his hands on the two large wheels at either side—which, with a little wheel behind, supported the machine—and moved it about the room, turned it round, and, in short, acted in a very independent manner as to self-locomotion.

“Well, now, that iss goot,” exclaimed the pleased invalid. “Let me try it, Tan.”

In his eagerness the poor man, forgetting for a moment his helpless condition, made an effort to rise, and would certainly have fallen off the chair on which he was seated if Elspie had not sprung to his assistance.

“Come, there’s life in you yet!” said Dan as he assisted the old man into the wheel-chair. “Put your hands—so. And when you want to turn sharp round you’ve only to pull with one hand and push with—”

“Get along with you,” interrupted the old man, facetiously giving the chair a swing that caused all who stood around him to leap out of his way: “will you hev the presumption to teach a man that knew how to scull a boat before you wass born? But, Taniel,” he added, in a more serious tone, “we must hev one like this made for poor Tuncan.”

As this was the first reference which McKay had made to his younger son since his illness—with the exception of the daily inquiry as to his health—it was hailed as an evidence that a change for the better was taking place in the old man’s mind. For up to that period no one had received any encouragement to speak of, or enter into conversation about, Duncan junior.

“You are right,” returned Dan. “I have been thinking of that, and have even laid in the wood to make a similar chair for him. But I fear he won’t be able to use it for some time to come. Elspie was thinking, if you don’t object, to have your bedroom changed to one of the rooms on the ground floor, so that you could be wheeled into the garden when so inclined.”

“Yes, daddy,” said Elspie, taking up the discourse; “we can put you into the room that corresponds with Duncan’s room at the other end of the house, so that you and he will be able to meet after your long illness. But there is another contrivance which Dan has been making for us—not for you, but for Old Peg. Tell daddy about it, Dan.”

“Like the chair,” said Dan, “it is no novelty, except in this out-o’-the-way place. You see, I have noticed that Old Peg is rather deaf—”

“Well, Tan,” interrupted old McKay with a benignant smile, “it iss not much observation that you will be requirin’ to see that!”

“Just so. Well, I also observed that it gives Duncan some trouble to speak loud enough to her. So I have invented a sort of ear-trumpet—a tin pipe with an ear-piece at one end and a mouth-piece at the other, which I hope may make things easier.”

“Hev ye not tried it yet?” asked McKay.

“Not yet. I’ve only just brought it.”

“Go down, lad, an’ try it at wanse, an’ let me know what the upshot iss.”

Down they all went accordingly, leaving Duncan senior alone.

They found Old Peg in the act of administering beef-tea refreshment—or something of that sort—to the invalid. Peter Davidson and Archie Sinclair were there also, paying him a visit.

“Hallo, Little Bill!” said Archie as his brother entered. “You here! I guessed as much. Your passion for nursing since you attended Dan is outrageous. You do more nursing in this house, I do believe, than Elspie and Jessie and Old Peg put together. What d’ee mean by it, Bill? I get no good of you at all now!”

“I like it, Archie, and I’m training myself to nurse you when you get ill or old!”

“Thank ’ee for nothin’, Little Bill, for I don’t mean to become either ill or old for some time to come; but, I say, are they goin’ to perform an operation on Old Peg’s head?”

This was said in consequence of Elspie shouting to the old woman to let her put something into her ear to cure deafness.

“Cure deafness!” she exclaimed, with a faint laugh, “nothin’ will ever cure my deafness. But I can trust you, dearie, so do what you please.”

“Shut your eyes, then.”

“And open your mouth!” said Archie to Little Bill in a low voice.

Old Peg did as she was bid. Dan, approaching behind her, put the small end of the tube into her right ear—which was the best one—and Elspie, putting her mouth to the other end, spoke to her in her soft, natural voice.

The effect was amusing. Old Peg dropped into her chair as if paralysed, and gazed from one to another in mute amazement.

“Eh! dearie. Did I ever think to hear the sweet low voice o’ Elspie like as it was when she was a bairn! Most amazin’!” she said. “Let me hear’t again.”

The operation was repeated, and it was finally found that, by means of this extemporised ear-trumpet, the poor creature once more became a conversable member of society. She went about the house the remainder of that day in a quite excited state, asking questions of everybody, and putting the end of the instrument to their mouths for an answer. Archie even declared that he had caught her alone in the back-kitchen shoving the cat’s head into the mouth-piece of the instrument, and pinching its tail to make it mew.

It was two days after the occurrence of these incidents that the old woman was seated by Duncan’s bedside, gazing through her tortoise-shell glasses at the well-thumbed Bible, when her patient, who had been very restless, looked up and spoke.

“Can I do anything for ye, dearie?” said Old Peg, putting the trumpet-end into her ear, and handing the mouth-piece to Duncan.

“You—you hear much better now, Old Peg?” said the sick man, in his natural voice.

“Ay, much, much better; thanks to the Lord—and to Mr Daniel.”

“If Daniel had not thought of it,” said the invalid, quite gravely, “do you think that the Lord would hev sent the machine to you?”

“He might or He might not,” returned the old woman, promptly. “It’s not for me to say, nor yet to guess on that point. But this I do know for certain—if the Lord hadna’ thought upon Mr Daniel, then Mr Daniel wouldna’ have been here to think upon me.”

Duncan made no reply, and for some time remained quite silent. Then he spoke again.

“Peg, what wass it that you would be reading to me last night—something about a malefactor, I’m thinking.”

“Ay, it was about the robbers that was crucified on each side o’ the Lord. One o’ them reviled the Lord as he was hangin’ there, the other found forgiveness, for he was led to see what a lost sinner he was, and repented and confessed his sins.”

“That is fery strange,” said Duncan, after a few moments’ thought. “Do you think, Peg, that the robber that was forgiven wass a—a murderer?”

“I have little doubt o’t,” answered Peg, “for I’ve heard say that they think very little o’ human life in them Eastern countries. But whatever he was, the blood of Jesus Christ was able to cleanse him.”

“Ay, but if he was a murderer, Peg, he did not deserve to be forgiven.”

“My bairn,” said the old woman, with something of motherly tenderness in her tone, “it’s not them that deserve to be forgiven that are forgiven, but them that see that they don’t deserve it. Didna’ this robber say that he was sufferin’ for his sins justly? That, surely, meant that he deserved what he was getting, an’ how is it possible to deserve both condemnation an’ forgiveness at the same time? But he believed that Jesus was a king—able and willing to save him though he did not deserve it, so he asked to be remembered, and he was remembered. But lie down now, bairn, an’ rest: Ye are excitin’ yoursel’, an’ that’s bad for ye.”

A week or so after the conversation above recorded, Dan brought a wheel-chair for Duncan, similar to the one he had made for his father. As Duncan had been getting out of bed for several days before, Dan found him dressed and sitting up. He therefore lifted him into the chair at once, and wheeled him out into the garden, where a blaze of warm sunshine seemed to put new life into the poor invalid.

It had been pre-arranged that old McKay should be brought down that same day to his new room, and that he should also be wheeled into the garden, so as to meet his son Duncan, without either of them being prepared for the meeting.

“I don’t feel at all sure that we are right in this arrangement,” Elspie had said; but Dan and Fergus, and Mrs Davidson and Jessie had thought otherwise, so she was overruled.

Archie was deputed to attend upon Duncan junior, and Little Bill obtained leave to push the chair of old McKay. The younger man was wheeled under the shade of a tree with his back to the house, and left there. Then the family retired out of the way, leaving Archie to attend the invalid.

A few minutes after young Duncan had been placed, Little Bill pushed his charge under the same tree, and, wheeling the chair quickly round, brought father and son suddenly face to face.

The surprise was great on both sides, for each, recollecting only the man that had been, could hardly believe in the reality of the ghost that sat before him.

“Father!” exclaimed Duncan at last.

But the old man answered not. Some strong feeling was evidently surging within him, for his mouth was tightly pursed and his features worked strangely. Suddenly he burst into tears, but the weakness was momentary. With an effort that seemed to concentrate the accumulated energy of all the McKays from Adam downwards, he again pursed his mouth and looked at his younger son with a stern persistent frown, worthy of the most rugged of Highlanders in his fiercest mood.

Duncan was inexpressibly touched.

“Father,” said he again, “I’ve been a baad, baad son to you.”

“Tuncan,” retorted the old man, in a husky but firm voice, “I’ve been a baad, baad father to you.”

“Let us shake hands—whatever,” said the son.

The two silently grasped each other’s hands with all the little strength that remained to them. Then old McKay turned suddenly to his henchman.

“Little Bill,” said he, in a tone that was not for an instant to be disregarded, “shove me down to the futt of the garden—you rascal!”

With a promptitude little short of miraculous the Highlander was wheeled away, and thus the momentous meeting was abruptly brought to a close.

Chapter Thirty Three.

Matrimonial Plans and Prospects.

Time passed by, as time is rather apt to do, and still the feud between the rival fur companies continued, to the detriment of the Indians and the fur-trade, the unsettling of Red River Settlement, and the demoralisation more or less of all concerned.

Men who would gladly have devoted all their energies to the arts of peace, became more or less belligerent in spirit, if not in act, and many were forced to take sides in the controversy—some siding with the Nor’-Westers and others with the Hudson’s Bay Company.

With the merits of their contentions we do not propose to meddle. We confine ourselves to facts.

One important fact was that our hero Daniel Davidson took the side of the Hudson’s Bay Company. Being a stout fellow, with a good brain, a strong will, an independent spirit, and a capable tongue, he was highly appreciated by the one side and considerably hated by the other, insomuch that some of the violent spirits made dark suggestions as to the propriety of putting him out of the way. It is not easy, however, or safe, to attempt to put a strong, resolute man out of the way, and his enemies plotted for a considerable time in vain.

The unsettled state of the colony, and the frequent failure of the crops had, as we have seen, exerted an evil influence for a long time on poor Dan’s matrimonial prospects, and at last, feeling that more settled times might yet be in the remote future, and that, as regarded defence and maintenance, it would be on the whole better both for Elspie and himself that they should get married without delay, he resolved to take the important step, and, as old McKay remarked, have it over.

“You see, Taniel,” said the old man, when the subject was again broached, “it iss of no use hangin’ off an’ on in this fashion. Moreover, this nasty stiff leg o’ mine is so long of getting well that it may walk me off the face o’ the earth altogether, an’ I would not like to leave Elspie till this matter iss settled. Tuncan also iss a little better just now, so what say you to have the weddin’ the month after next? Mr Sutherland will be back from the Whitehorse Plains by then, an’ he can tie the knot tight enough—whatever. Anyway, it iss clear that if we wait for a munister o’ the Auld Kirk, we will hev to wait till doomsday. What say you, Taniel?”

It need hardly be said that Dan had nothing whatever to say in objection to this scheme. It was therefore settled—under the proviso, of course, that Elspie had no objection. Dan went off at once to see Elspie, and found that she had no objection, whereupon, after some conversation, etcetera, with which we will not weary the reader, he sought out his friend Fred Jenkins, to whom he communicated the good news, and treated him to a good many unanswerable reasons why young people should not delay marriage when there was any reasonable prospect of their getting on comfortably in life together.

The sailor agreed with effusive heartiness to all that he said, and Dan thought while he was speaking—orating—as one of the American settlers would have expressed it—that Jenkins wore a peculiar expression on his manly countenance. Attributing it to unusual interest in the event, he continued—

“Now, Fred, I want you to be my best-man—”

“Unpossible—quite unpossible,” interrupted the seaman with a grave shake of the head.

“How—impossible!”

“Ab-so-lutely unpossible.”

“But why? Explain yourself, Fred.”

“’Cause it’s only a bachelor as can be a best-man to a bachelor—ain’t it?”

“I believe so, though I’m no authority in such matters; but surely that is a matter of no importance, for you are a bachelor, you know.”

“True, that’s what I am to-day, but I won’t be that long, for I am goin’ to be married next month, so I won’t be available, d’ee see, the month after.”

“You—married!—to whom?” exclaimed Dan in amazement.

“Well, that’s a point blank shot right between wind an’ water. Hows’ever, I suppose I can’t go wrong in tellin’ you, Dan, for it’s all settled, though not a soul knows about it except Little Bill, an’ yourself, an’ her brother.”

“But I don’t know about it yet,” returned Dan. “Who is it?”

“A angel—pure an’ unmixed—come straight down from heaven a-purpus to marry poor, unedicated, sea-farin’ Fred Jenkins, an’ her terrestrial name is Elise Morel!”

Dan laughed while he congratulated the modest seaman, and admitted the strength of his difficulty.

“D’you know, Fred, I’ve had a suspicion for some time past that you had a leaning in that direction?”

“So have I, Dan, had an uncommon strong suspicion for a very long time past, not only that I had a leanin’ that way, but a regular list to port, an’ now I’m fairly over on my beam-ends!”

“But, surely, it must have come upon you very sudden at last,” said Dan. “How was it?”

“Sudden! I should just think it did—like a white squall in the Mediterranean, or a hurricane in the China seas. This is how it was. I’d bin cruisin’ about her—off an’ on—for a considerable time, tryin’ to make up my mind to go into action, an’ screwin’ my courage up to the stickin’ pint by recallin’ all the fine sentiments that has carried Jack-tars through fire an’ smoke, shot and shell since the world began—‘England expects every man to do his dooty,’—‘Never say die,’—‘Hookey Bunkum,’ an’ such like. But it warn’t no manner o’ use, for I’m an’ outrageous coward wi’ the gals, Dan. So, in a sort o’ despair, I sailed away this very mornin’ into the plantation at the futt o’ your garden, intendin’ to cool myself an’ think over it, when, who should I see almost hull down on my lee bow but the enemy—Elise herself!

“Well, I changed my course at once; bore straight down on her, an’ soon overhauled her, but the nearer I came the more did my courage run out, so I gradooally begun to take in sail an drop astarn. At last I got savage, ‘You’re a fool, Jenkins!’ says I to myself. ‘That’s a fact!’ says su’thin’ inside o’ me.

“Now, if that su’thin’ had kep’ quiet, I do believe that I’d have gone about-ship an’ showed her my heels, but that su’thin’, whatever it was, set up my dander. ‘Now then,’ says I, ‘haul taut the main brace! Up wi’ the t’gall’nt-s’ls an’ sky-scrapers! “England expects,” etceterer!’

“Afore you could say Jack Robinson, I was along side—grapplin’-irons hove into her riggin’, and a broadside fired. The way I gave it her astonished even myself. Nelson himself could scarce ha’ done it better! Well, she struck her colours at the first broadside, an’ somehow—I never could make out exactly how—we was sittin’ on the stump of a tree with her head on my rough unworthy buzzum. Think o’ that! Dan, her head—the head of a Angel! Give us your flipper, mate.”

“I congratulate you, Jenkins, with all my heart,” said Dan, grasping the seaman’s flipper, and giving it a hearty shake. “So now, I must look out for another best-man. Morel will do for me, I think, and you can have my brother Peter, no doubt. But could we not manage to have both weddings on the same day?”

“Impossible,” answered the seaman, promptly. “Couldn’t wait.”

“But we might compromise the matter. I might have mine a little sooner and you could have yours a little later.”

Still Jenkins shook his head. “Not fair-play,” he said. “All the advantage on your side. However, we might consider it. Hold a sort o’ drum-head court-martial over it, with Elise and Elspie as judges.”

When the said court-marital—as Dan called it—was held, the compromise was agreed to, and it was finally fixed that six weeks thereafter the two couples should be united in Ben Nevis Hall.

But the current of these parallel streams of true love was not yet destined to run smooth—as the next chapter will show.

Chapter Thirty Four.

A New Disaster.

“I mean to go off to-morrow on a shooting trip to the lake,” said Dan Davidson to Archie Sinclair. “I’ve had a long spell at farming operations of late, and am tired of it. The double wedding, you know, comes off in six weeks. So I want to have one more run in the wilderness in all the freedom of bachelorhood. Will you go with me?”

“‘Unpossible,’ as Jenkins would say,” answered Archie. “Nothing would please me better, but, duty before pleasure! I’ve promised to spend a week along wi’ Little Bill at the Whitehorse Plains. Billie has taken a great fancy to that chief o’ the half-breeds, Cuthbert Grant, and we are goin’ to visit him. I’ve no doubt that Little Bill would let me off, but I won’t be let off.”

“Then I must ask Okématan to go with me,” said Dan.

“You needn’t trouble yourself, for I heard him say that he was goin’ off to see some o’ his relations on important business—a great palaver o’ some sort—and Elise told me this morning that she saw him start yesterday.”

“Morel is too busy with his new farm to go,” rejoined Dan, “and Jenkins is too busy helping Morel. Perhaps Dechamp or Bourassin may be more at leisure. I will go see.”

But on search being made, neither Dechamp nor Bourassin was to be found, and our hero was returning home with the intention of taking a small hunting canoe and going off by himself, when he chanced to meet with La Certe.

That worthy seemed unusually depressed, and returned Dan’s greeting with very little of his habitual cheerfulness.

“What’s wrong with you, François?” asked Dan, anxiously.

“Domestic infelicity,” answered La Certe, with a sorrowful shake of the head.

“What! surely Slowfoot has not taken to being unkind to you?”

“O no! Slowfoot could not be unkind, but she is unhappy; she has lost her cheerful looks; she does not take everything as she once did; she does not now let everything go anyhow with that cheerful resignation which was once her delightful characteristic. She no longer hands the pipe of peace to our little one—indeed she refuses to let it have the pipe at all, though the poor child cries for it, and comes to me secretly, when Slowfoot is out of the way, to beg for a draw. Then, she scolds me—no, she does not scold. Slowfoot cannot scold. She is too amiable—but she remonstrates, and that is worse than scolding, for it enlists myself against myself. O! I am now miserable. My days of peace are gone!”

“This is all very sad, La Certe,” said Dan, in a tone of sympathy. “What does she remonstrate about?”

“About my laziness! She does it very kindly, very gently—so like her old self!—but she does it. She says, ‘Husband; we have gone on this way too long. We must change. You must change. You are lazy!’”

“Well, La Certe,” said Dan, “I’m afraid that Slowfoot is right.”

“I know she is right!” retorted the half-breed, with more of exasperation in his manner than his friend had ever before seen in him. “When that which is said of one is false, one can afford to smile, but when it is true what can one say? Yet it is hard—very hard. You are full of energy; you love to expend it, and you search for work. It is natural—and what is natural must be right. So, I am full of laziness. I love to indulge it, and I search for repose. That is also natural, and what is natural must be right. Voilà!”

“Then I suppose your love for repose,” returned Dan, “will oblige you to decline an offer which I thought of making to you.”

“What is that?”

“To go with me on a shooting expedition to Lake Winnipeg for a week or two.”

“O no! I will not decline that,” returned La Certe, brightening up. “Shooting is not labour. It is amusement, with labour sufficient to make after-repose delightful. And I will be glad to leave my home for a time, for it is no longer the abode of felicity.”

This having been satisfactorily arranged, preparations made, and Slowfoot advised of her husband’s intention, Dan went to Ben Nevis Hall next morning to bid farewell to Elspie for a brief period. He found only old McKay in the Hall, Elspie having gone up the Settlement, or down the Settlement—the man did not know which—to call on a friend.

“See that ye will not be long o’ comin’ back, Tan,” he said. “There will be a good many arranchments to make, you see.”

“I hope to be back in three weeks at latest,” said Dan, “if all goes well.”

“Ay, if all goes well,” repeated the old man, thoughtfully. “As Elspie says sometimes, ‘We never know what a day may bring furth.’ Well, well, see that you will not be upsetting your canoe, for canoes are cranky things—whatever.”

In a short time our hero and La Certe found themselves floating once more on the calm breast of the mighty inland sea.

It was afternoon. The circumstances were eminently conducive to the felicity which is derivable from repose, and thus admirably suited to the tastes of La Certe. An unruffled sheet of glassy water lay spread out to the north-western horizon, which not only doubled the canoe and its occupants, but reflected the golden glory of the sun, and mirrored every fleecy cloudlet in the bright blue sky. A mere dip of the paddles now and then served to give impulse to the light, and literal, bark. Genial warmth pervaded the atmosphere, and little white gulls floated almost motionless on outspread wings, or sloped hither and thither with lazy flap, while ever and anon the whistling wings of passing wild-fowl gave promise of occupation to their guns, to say nothing of their kettles.

On their third day out, towards evening, they went ashore on the lee-side of a rocky point where some bushes and trees seemed to offer firewood and shelter.

“This will do,” said Dan, as he stepped lightly out on a shelving rock and held the canoe while his companion took out the lading. “Plenty dry sticks and lots of moss for bedding.”

“Truly, that is so,” returned La Certe. “It is a place in which Slowfoot would rejoice to repose, and the little one to smoke its pipe.”

“You forget,” said Dan. “The little one is no longer allowed that luxury.”

“No, I forgot not. But I reflect that it is possible to give her many a draw on the sly.”

The fire was soon kindled, ducks were roasting in front of it, and the kettle boiling above it. The tea had been infused, and La Certe, while filling his pipe, was blinking good-will at all around, when the notes of a voyageur-song were heard like an echo in the far distance.

Gradually the song grew louder, and soon a canoe rounded the point, and came in sight of the camp-fire. It was what used to be called a north-canoe, of the largest size, made of birch-bark, and contained a crew of ten men.

The song and the paddling stopped simultaneously when the camp was observed, and the men appeared to hold a consultation. Their hesitation, however, was very brief. Suddenly, breaking again into song, they ran the canoe to shore, and landed.

“We are bound for Red River,” said their chief to Dan. “Just come from Canada. We suppose you don’t object to our camping beside you. It is a convenient spot.”

Of course the two hunters had no objection whatever to fraternise with the strangers from Canada, and in a short time another large fire was sending its myriad sparks up into the darkening sky like a gigantic roman-candle.

During supper the strangers made themselves very agreeable. After supper, two of the stoutest of them arose, as if to go into the bush for more firewood. Suddenly these threw themselves upon and seized Dan and his comrade, who were reclining quietly on the ground. Before either could make even an attempt at self-defence they were overpowered by the Canadians, and held forcibly down, while their arms were securely bound to their sides with strips of deerskin.

“It is useless to struggle, Dan Davidson,” said the chief, when this was being accomplished. “We know you as a bitter opponent of the Nor’-westers, and we intend to carry you where your power to do mischief will be ended.”

“Who are you? and under whose authority do you act?” demanded Dan, angrily.

“Who I am is a matter of no interest to you, Dan. I act under my own authority, and I may just as well tell you, at the beginning, that if you and your comrade choose to submit peaceably, we will treat you reasonably well;—if not, we will find means to quiet you, even though we should be driven to do it wi’ that.”

The man pointed significantly to a gun which leant against a neighbouring tree. His meaning could not be misunderstood.

That night, Dan and La Certe were fastened to a tree by cords which allowed of their moving about freely within a small space, but their arms were not unbound. Here they were allowed to make themselves as comfortable as possible in the circumstances. Their bed, being mossy, was well enough, but the distracted state of their minds—especially Dan’s—may be imagined.

“La Certe,” said Dan, when the camp-fire had burned low, and the stars were shining on them through the leaves, and all was still, save an occasional snore from the Nor’-westers.

La Certe groaned in reply.

Poor Dan was not in a mood to comfort him or anybody else at that moment, and did not follow up his remark.

“La Certe,” he said again, after a quarter of an hour.

“Well?”

“Do you remember John Bourke?”

“Yes, yes. I remember him, but I care not for him. My own sorrows are too great.”

“Do you recollect,” continued Dan, regardless of this despairing remark, “that a good while ago the Nor’-westers took him prisoner, when he was wounded after a skirmish with them, and carried him to Canada—treating him with great barbarity on the way. There he was put in jail, but, as nothing could be proved against him, he was liberated, and then tried to return to his family in Red River, but the Nor’-westers caught him again, imprisoned him, sent him a second time to Canada, and had him tried at the Court of the King’s Bench, although his only crime was that of resisting the North-West Company. He was acquitted, and, after terrible sufferings from which he never quite recovered and a three years’ absence, he rejoined his family in Red River.”

“Yes, O yes! I know it all,” groaned La Certe.

“Well,” continued Dan, bitterly, “his fate is not unlikely to be ours.”

The poor half-breed made no reply to this. For some time he lay quite still, and his comrade had almost fallen into an uneasy slumber, when he was awakened by La Certe breaking out into a soliloquy in which he apostrophised his absent wife.

“O my Slowfoot!” he murmured. “Shall we never meet again on earth? Yes, you are right. I have been lazy! I am lazy. I suppose that this is punishment for my sin. But it is hard to bear, and very heavy—is it not?—for only following one’s nature in longing for repose. O! why was I born? Why was our little one born, to enjoy for so brief a time the delights of smoke, and then have it denied her—except on the sly, when with her miserable father, who will never see her more—perhaps.”

He paused for a few minutes, and then broke out again.

“Yes, my Slowfoot—you are right. I must reform. I will cast off my sloth as a garment—even—even though I should go naked all the rest of my days! I will work—energise! I will—”

“Hold your tongue, La Certe, and listen,” said Dan in a low, stern voice.

“I am all attention,” returned the poor man in a similarly low tone.

“Are you game to fight, if you get the chance?”

“Game to fight!” echoed the other—“to fight for my Slowfoot, my little one, my smoke, and my repo— I mean my—my—new—”

“Speak lower, man, and listen to a plan I have in my head.”

Here Dan spoke so low that he could not be heard at all, save only by his companion; but that is of little consequence, for the plan, whatever it might have been, was never carried out.

Next day the Nor’-west party with their two prisoners paddled away towards the mouth of the grand turbulent Winnipeg River, and began to traverse the weary wilderness-route of rivers and lakes, which at that time formed the only direct means of communication between the frontiers of Canada and “Rupert’s Land.”

Chapter Thirty Five.

The Last.

Eagerly, earnestly, doggedly, did Daniel Davidson and François La Certe watch for a favourable opportunity to escape from their captors, but they waited and watched in vain, for their captors were cruel, suspected them of the intention to escape, and were consequently careful to prevent even an attempt being made. They never freed their wrists from strong cords; kept knives and axes out of their way; tethered them to a tree each night, and watched them continually.

Can it be wondered at that, in the circumstances, our unfortunate hero became almost insane? The wedding-day had been fixed before he left Red River; preparations were being made for the great event, and it was pretty well understood that Dan had gone off hunting with the view, chiefly, to be out of people’s way till the day should arrive. They would scarcely begin to notice his prolonged absence till the day approached. Then, no doubt, when too late, and he should be far on the way to Canada, they would in some alarm send out parties to search for him.

Dan became desperate, but he was gifted with an unusual power of self-control, so that, beyond a very stern expression, his countenance betrayed no sign of the terrible conflict that was raging within—a conflict in which mortal hatred of mankind in general and an overwhelming desire to kill or be killed formed elements. Ah! reader, poor human beings have many and many a time in the past been brought to this terrible condition. God grant that we and ours may never know what it is to tremble on the brink of madness because of the combined influence of gross injustice and horrible cruelty. To do the Nor’-westers justice, they were unaware of the intensity of the pain they were inflicting. They had only captured a powerful enemy, and meant, by keeping a tight hold of him, to render him powerless in the future—that was all!

As for La Certe, they had no intention of taking him to Canada. They only meant to carry him so far on the road, that, when set free, it would be impossible for him to get back to the colony in time to give effective warning to Dan’s friends.

One afternoon the voyagers put ashore at one of the numerous portages which obstruct the navigation of that route to Canada, and, after unloading the canoe and lifting her out of the water, they proceeded to carry the lading across to the still water above the rapids which rendered this portage necessary.

Although bound, the prisoners were by no means freed from labour. The cords had been so arranged that they could use the paddle while in the canoe; while, on the portages, although unable to load themselves, they were quite able to carry a load which others placed on their shoulders. On this occasion Dan was first sent off with a load, and then La Certe and some of the others followed. When he reached the upper end of the portage, Dan flung down his load, and, from his elevated position, gazed wistfully down the valley through which the waters of the Winnipeg River roared and seethed among jagged rocks as far as the eye could reach. It was a wild majestic scene, but no thought of its grandeur touched the mind of the poor prisoner. He thought only of escape. His intimate knowledge, however, of the terrific power of rushing water told him that there could be no escape in that direction.

“Oh! if my arms were only free, I would risk it!” he murmured, as he raised his hands and looked at the powerful thongs of hide with which they were bound—thongs which were always drawn tighter when he landed, to render an attempt at escape more hopeless. Then he glanced at the rushing river beside him. A sheer precipice of full thirty feet descended from the spot on which he stood to the edge of the flood. Just below there was a whirlpool, and beyond that began the first of the series of falls and rapids which were avoided by means of the portage. Half-mad though he was, he did not dream of attempting such a leap with bound hands. He would wait, and continue to hope for a more favourable opportunity, but the possibility of such an opportunity was now growing very faint indeed, for even if he did escape, and had a canoe to use, it was by that time barely possible to accomplish the journey in time for the wedding-day. But although his hope of being in time had pretty well died out, his whole heart was still concentrated on the simple desire to escape.

A rush of despair came upon the poor youth just then, and the idea of ending his misery by taking his own life occurred to him for a fleeting moment, as he gazed wistfully around on water, wood, and sky, and observed the laden and toiling men who were slowly clambering up the steep towards him—La Certe being in front.

Just then an object among the grass at his feet attracted his attention. Stooping, he picked it up and found it to be a scalping-knife!—dropped, probably, long before by some passing Indians or voyageurs, for it was very rusty.

With a bounding heart and a wild rush of blood to his temples, he sprang towards a tree: stuck the point of the knife into it; held the handle with his teeth; sawed the thongs across its edge once or twice—and was free!

His first impulse was to bound into the woods, but the thought of his comrade arrested him. La Certe was already close at hand. Running towards him he said, quickly, “Drop your load! Now or never!” and cut his bonds at once. Then, turning, he sprang towards the woods. But from the very opening through which he meant to plunge into the tangled thicket, there issued the leader of the Nor’-westers and two of his men. The chief was armed with a gun, which he immediately presented. With the instinct of bush-warriors the two prisoners dodged behind rocks, and made for the higher ground which Dan had recently quitted. Here a sheer precipice barred further progress. There was no way of escape but the river. They ran to the edge and looked down. La Certe shrank back, appalled. Dan glanced quickly round to see if there was any other opening. Then there came over his spirit that old, old resolve which has, in the moment of their extremity, nerved so many men to face danger and death, from the days of Adam downward.

“Now, La Certe,” he said, grasping his comrade’s hand: “Farewell! Death or Freedom! Tell Elspie my last thoughts were of her!”

Almost before the half-breed could realise what was said, Dan had leaped over the cliff and disappeared in the raging torrent. A few seconds later he was seen to rise in the whirlpool below the first cataract, and to buffet the stream vigorously, then he disappeared a second time. Before La Certe could make out whether his friend rose again, he was seized from behind, and dragged from the brink of the precipice.

Swift as the hunted stag springs from his covert, and bounds over every obstacle with speed and apparent ease, so sprang the chief of the Nor’-westers down the rugged path which led to the foot of the series of rapids, and the lower end of the portage. There was good grit in the man, morally and physically, for he was bent on a rescue which involved considerable danger.

Throwing off his capote, and tightening his belt, he stood on a ledge just below the last fall, intently watching the water.

The fall was not high, but it was deep, and rushed into a large dark basin with terrible velocity, causing the tormented foam-speckled water to circulate round its edges. In a few moments the form of Dan was seen to shoot down the fall and disappear in the basin. The chief stooped, but did not spring until, not far from him, the apparently inanimate form reappeared on the surface and began to circle slowly round among the flecks of foam. Then he plunged, swam out with powerful strokes, and quickly returned to the shore with Dan in his grasp.

Soon they were surrounded by the other voyageurs, who had left La Certe to look after himself,—not caring much, in the excitement of the moment, whether he escaped or not.

“He is dead,” said one; “he breathes not; and see how his face is bruised and cut.”

“And his chest, too,” said another. “I think his ribs have been broken. Poor fellow! It was a wild, a reckless jump!”

“Keep back, and let him have air,” said the chief, who was doing his best, according to his knowledge, to resuscitate Dan.

Presently La Certe arrived, panting.

“O! he is gone! My comrade, my friend, is dead!” he exclaimed, clenching his hands, and gazing at the pale, bruised face.

“You are wrong,” exclaimed the chief, testily. “Out of the way, man! See! his eyelids quiver.”

And so they did; and so also quivered his lips, and then a sigh came—faint and feeble—then stronger, and at last Dan opened his eyes and thanked God that his life had been spared. But when he recovered sufficiently to realise his true position as being again a captive, the feeling of despair returned.

That night they encamped a mile above the upper end of the portage. At supper the two prisoners were allowed to sit by the camp-fire and eat with their hands free.

“Monsieur,” said the guide to Dan, respectfully, “you see it is impossible to escape. Why compel us to bind you? Give me your word of honour that you will not try, and your limbs may then remain as free as mine.”

“I give you my word of honour,” answered Dan, with a sardonic smile, “that till after breakfast to-morrow I will not try, for I need rest and food; but after that, I give you my word that I will never cease to try.”

With this promise the guide was fain to rest content, and that night Dan and his friend were allowed to sleep untethered, which they did soundly.

Next morning they were roused in gentler tones than usual, and not required to work—as had been the case hitherto—before breakfast. In short, there was an evident change in the feelings of their captors towards them, founded largely, no doubt, on admiration of Dan’s reckless courage; but that did not induce them in the least degree to relax their vigilance, for the moment the hour of truce had passed, the chief advanced towards Dan with the thongs to bind him.

For one moment Dan felt an impulse to knock the man down, and then fight the whole party until death should end the matter; but the good-humoured look on his jailer’s face, the fact that the man had saved his life the day before, and the certainty of defeat with such odds against him, induced him to quell the evil spirit and to hold out his hands.

“Pardon, Monsieur,” said the chief, with the politeness of a French half-breed. “I am sorry you refuse to give me your parole. I would rather see you like the rest of us; but my orders are strict, and I must obey.”

Before Dan could reply, a sound struck on their ears, which caused the whole party to listen, immovable and in perfect silence.

It was the wild, plaintive, beautiful song of the voyageur which had floated to them on the morning air, softened by distance to a mere echo of sweet sound. After listening intently for a few moments, the guide said gently: “Voyageurs.”

Again they listened to the familiar sound, which increased in volume and strength as it approached, proving that the voyageurs were descending the river towards them. As yet nothing could be seen, for a thickly-wooded point intervened. Presently the song burst on them in full resonant chorus; at the same moment two large north-canoes—in all the brilliancy of orange-coloured bark, painted bows and sterns, red-bladed paddles, with crews of scarlet-capped or bare-headed men swept round the point with quick stroke, in time to the rapid measure.

A cheer was the irrepressible impulse of the men on shore, causing the newcomers to stop and listen.

“Perhaps,” said Dan, “they may be your foes of the Hudson’s Bay Company.”

“That may be so,” returned the Nor’-west Chief, gravely.

The unfurling of an “H.B.C.” (Hudson’s Bay Company) flag proved that it was so, to a certainty, and the depressed Nor’-westers did not cheer again; but the H B C men came on, paddling with wild vigour and cheering hilariously.

“They seem in great spirits,” growled the Nor’-west leader. “We are almost as strong as they, boys, and have the advantage of woods and cliffs. Shall we fight and keep our prisoners?”

“What is that white thing in the bow of the first canoe?” said one of the men.

“It looks like a flag,” said another.

“If so, it is a flag of truce,” observed Dan. “They have something to say, and do not want to fight.”

“That may be trite, but we won’t let you be at the conference,” returned the leader, sternly. “Come, four of you, lead them out of earshot. Take your guns, and use them if need be.”

Four powerful fellows at once obeyed the order, and led the prisoners, who had been once more bound, into the woods. Once again Dan was tempted to offer fierce resistance, but he knew that the Hudson’s Bay men were yet too far off to be able to hear shouts—at least to understand the meaning of them—and that it would be useless to resist such a guard. He therefore submitted to be led a mile or so into the woods, and finally was permitted to sit down with La Certe under a tree to await the result of the conference.

They had not to wait long. In less than half-an-hour one of the younger among the Nor’-westers came bounding towards them, waving his cap and shouting.

“You are free, Messieurs—free!” he cried, seizing both prisoners by the hands. “We are no longer enemies!”

“Free! What do you mean?” demanded Dan, who fancied that the young man must have gone mad.

“The companies have joined!” he cried, excitedly. “They are one! We are all friends now; but come and see and hear for yourself.”

Filled with wonder, and some small degree of hope, Dan and La Certe followed the young man, accompanied by their guards, who were not less mystified than themselves. Arrived at their camping-place, they found that the canoes had brought a Chief Trader—or officer of the Hudson’s Bay Company—who was conveying to Red River, and the interior of Rupert’s Land generally, the good news of a momentous historical event, namely, the union of the two companies.

The important event here referred to, namely, the coalition between the two great rival companies, which took place in 1821, was the death-blow to party strife over the whole of Rupert’s Land, and also inaugurated the dawn of lasting prosperity in the Red River Colony.

“Cut their bonds,” said the Chief Trader, as the prisoners approached.

No touch of the surgeon’s knife ever effected a cure more speedily.

“I congratulate you, young sir,” said the Trader, grasping Dan’s hand: “you are now free, for I understand that your loss of liberty had nothing to do with crime, and the rival companies are no longer opponents; they are friends. Indeed, we have been married, so to speak, and are now one. I am on my way to Red River with the good news.”

“When do you start?” asked Dan, abruptly.

“Well, if you mean from this spot,” answered the Trader, somewhat surprised as well as amused at the eagerness of the question, “I start at once. Indeed, I would not have landed here had I not seen your party. You appear to be anxious. Why do you ask?”

“Because it is of the utmost importance to me that I should be in Red River on a certain date, and I fear that that is all but impossible now.”

Dan then explained, as briefly as possible, his circumstances. Fortunately, the Trader was a sympathetic man. He ordered his crews to embark at once and bade the two captives take a brief, if not an affectionate, farewell of their late captors.

“I cannot promise you to push on,” he said, “at a rate which will satisfy you—or even accomplish the end you have in view—but I will do the best I can, without overworking my men. I fear, however, that you will have to make up your mind to a delayed wedding!”

“If you will only do your best for a day or two,” said Dan, “until we reach the mouth of this river, that will do, for there my own hunting canoe was left; and, once in that, La Certe and I can go ahead and tell them you are coming.”

“Nay, that would be requiting me ill—returning evil for good—to take the wind out of my sails and make my news stale,” returned the Trader, with a good-natured laugh.

“True, I did not think of that,” said Dan. “Then we will say not a word about it until you arrive.”

“Yes, we will be dumb,” added La Certe. “Even Slowfoot shall fail to drag it out of me!”

And thus it was arranged. The (late) Nor’-westers continued their voyage to Canada, and the Hudson’s Bay men resumed their descent of the Winnipeg River.

Arrived at the great lake, the anxious pair did not wait even to rest, but at once embarked in their little hunting canoe.

“I’m sorry you are such an unpresentable bridegroom,” said the Trader, when they were about to separate. He referred to the cuts and bruises with which poor Dan’s countenance was temporarily disfigured.

“Never mind,” returned our hero, with a laugh, “wait till you see the bride; she will more than make up for the shortcomings of the groom. Adieu!—au revoir!” They pushed off, and now began a race against time, which, in the matters at least of perseverance, persistency, hard labour, and determination, beat all the records of bicyclists and horsemen from the beginning of time. Cyclists have frequent down-hills to help and rest them; Dan and his friend had no such aids. It was all either dead level or upstream. Dick Turpin and the rider to Ghent, (we forget his name), only killed their horses. Dan and François nearly killed themselves—not only with hard work and no rest, but with profound anxiety, for the wedding hour was rapidly approaching and they were still far from home!

While these events were transpiring in the wilderness, things were going smoothly enough in the Colony.

“I will be thinkin’,” said old Duncan McKay, one fine evening as he sat in his invalid chair, beside Duncan junior, who was woefully reduced and careworn, despite the attentions of the sympathetic Jessie Davidson, who was seated near him on a rustic seat beside Elspie—

“I will be thinkin’ that Tan an’ La Certe are stoppin’ longer away than iss altogither seemly. Tan should have been here two or three days before the weddin’.”

“He will likely be time enough for his own weddin’—whatever,” remarked Duncan junior. “Don’t you think so, Miss Jessie?”

“I think it likely,” answered the girl with a smile.

“He is sure to be in time,” said Elspie, with emphasis.

“We niver can be sure of anything in this world, my tear,” remarked old Duncan, becoming oracular in tone. “How do you know he iss so sure?”

“Because Dan never breaks his word,” returned Elspie, with an air of decision that would have gratified Dan immensely had he been there to see it.

“Fery true, my tear,” rejoined the Highlander, “but there are many other things that interfere with one’s word besides the will. He might tie, you know, or be trowned, or his gun might burst and render him helpless for life, if it did not kill him altogither. It iss an uncertain world at the best—whatever.”

Archie Sinclair, who joined them—with his brother, Little Bill, by his side, not on his back—was of the same opinion as Elspie, but Billie shook his head, looked anxious, and said nothing—for he felt that his friend was running things much too close.

At a later hour that same evening, the other members of the two families—who dropped in to make inquiries—began to express anxiety, and Okématan, who called just to see how things were getting on, shook his head and looked owlish. Old Peg said nothing, but she evidently thought much, to judge from the deepening wrinkles on her forehead.

As for Fred Jenkins, he was too much taken up with Elise Morel to think much about anything, but even he at last grew anxious, and when the wedding morning finally dawned, and no Dan made his appearance, something like consternation filled the hearts of all within the walls of Ben Nevis Hall and Prairie Cottage. Elspie appeared to feel less than the others, but the truth was that she only controlled herself better.

“He only wants to take us by surprise,” she said, and, under the strength of that opinion, she robed herself for the wedding. Only her gravity and the pallor of her cheeks told of uneasiness in her mind.

“Muster Sutherland said he would come soon after breakfast,” observed old Duncan, uneasily. “He should hev been here now,—for we need his advice sorely.”

“Here he iss,” exclaimed Fergus, starting up and hurrying forward to welcome the good old Elder.

Mr Sutherland’s advice was decided, and promptly given. Both weddings should be deferred and all the young men must turn out in an organised search without a moment’s delay!

It was amazing to find that every one had been of exactly the same opinion for some time past, but no one had dared to suggest a course of action which implied a belief that Dan might be in imminent danger, if not worse.

Now that the ice had been broken, however, all the youth of the neighbourhood volunteered for service, and a plan of search was being hastily formed under the direction of the Elder, when two men in a canoe were seen to paddle very slowly to the landing-place at the foot of the garden. After hauling the end of their canoe on shore, they walked, or rather staggered, up towards the house.

One of them tripped and fell, and seemed from his motions as if he thought it was not worth while to rise again. The other, paying no attention to his companion, came on.

“Pless my soul!” exclaimed old McKay, “it iss Tan—or his ghost—whatever!”

And so it was! Dirty, bruised, scratched, battered, and soaking wet, Daniel Davidson appeared to claim his beautiful bride. And he did not come in vain, for, regardless of propriety and everything else, Elspie ran forward with a little shriek and flung herself into his arms.

“I have kept my promise, Elspie.”

“I knew you would, Dan! I said you would.”

“Tan, you rascal! come here.”

The youth obeyed, languidly, for it was evident that he was thoroughly exhausted.

“My poy,” said the Highlander, touched by Dan’s appearance, “you hev been in the watter!”

“Not exactly, father, but last night’s thunderstorm caught us, and we had no time to seek shelter.”

“An’ it iss fightin’ you hev been?”

“With water and rocks only,” said Dan.

“Well, well, go into the house now, and change your clo’es. Dry yourself, an’ get somethin’ to eat, for you are used up altogither.”

Elspie took his hand, and led him away. Meanwhile La Certe, having gathered himself up and staggered to the front, was seized upon and questioned unmercifully. Then he also was taken into the house and fed; after which both men were made to lie down and rest.

Having slept for six hours Dan awakened, and rose up to be married! Fred Jenkins and Elise were—as the jovial tar expressed it—turned off at the same time.

It was customary in Rupert’s Land at that time, as it is customary in many remote lands, no doubt, at the present day, to celebrate every wedding with a feast and a dance. Feasts are very much alike in substance, if not in detail, everywhere. We refrain from describing that which took place in Ben Nevis Hall at that time, further than to say that it was superb. The dancing was simple: it consisted chiefly of the Highland Fling danced by the performer according to taste or imagination.

But that it was eminently satisfactory to all concerned was clearly evinced by the appearance of the whole party—the elegant ease with which Fergus McKay did it; the tremendous energy with which Jacques Bourassin tried it; the persistent vigour with which André Morel studied it; the facility with which Elise acquired it—under Elspie’s tuition; the untiring perseverance with which Archie and Little Bill did something like it—for the latter had quite recovered, and was fit to hold his own, almost, with any one; the charming confusion of mind with which Fred Jenkins intermingled the sailor’s hornpipe with it; the inimitable languor with which La Certe condescended to go through it; the new-born energy with which Slowfoot footed it; the side-splitting shrieks with which Old Peg regarded it; the uproarious guffaws with which the delighted old Duncan hailed it; the sad smile with which that weak and worn invalid Duncan junior beheld it; and, last, but not least, the earnest mental power and conspicuous physical ability with which Dan Davidson attempted something which Charity personified might have supposed to bear a distant resemblance to it.

The music was worthy of the dancing, for the appointed performer had, owing to some occult cause, failed to turn up, and a volunteer had taken his place with another fiddle, which was homemade, and which he did not quite understand. A small pig with feeble intellect and disordered nerves might have equalled—even surpassed—the tones of that violin, but it could not hope to have beaten the volunteer’s time. That, performed on a board by the volunteer’s foot, automatically, beat everything that we have ever heard of in the musical way from the days of Eden till now.

Only four members of the two households failed to take a violently active part in that festive gathering. Jessie Davidson had conveniently sprained her ankle for the occasion, and thus was set free to sit between the wheeled chairs of the two Duncans, and act as a sympathetic receptacle of their varied commentaries. Her mother, being too stout for active service, sat beside them and smiled universal benignity. Her little maid, Louise, chanced to be ill. Peter Davidson’s case, however, was the worst. He had gone off in company with Okématan to visit a camp of Cree Indians, intending to be back in time, but his horse had gone lame while yet far from home, and as it was impossible to procure another at the time, he was fain to grin and bear it. Meanwhile Antoine Dechamp had been pressed into the service, and took his place as best-man to Fred Jenkins—a position which he filled to admiration, chiefly owing to the fact that he had never served in such a capacity before.

Late on the following evening La Certe sat by his own fireside, somewhat exhausted by the festivities of the day before, and glaring affectionately at Slowfoot, who was stirring something in a pot over the fire. The little one—rapidly becoming a big one, and unquestionably by that time a girl—crouched at her father’s side, sound asleep, with her head resting on his leg. She no longer cried for a pull at her father’s pipe.

“Have you heard that Kateegoose is dead?” asked Slowfoot.

“No—how did he die?”

“He was met on the plains by enemies, killed, and scalped.”

“That is sad—very sad,” said La Certe.

“The world is well rid of him,” observed Slowfoot; “he was a bad man.”

“Yes,” responded her lord; “it is necessary to get rid of a bad man somehow—but—but it is sad—very sad—to kill and scalp him.”

La Certe passed his fingers softly among the locks of his sleeping child as if the fate of Kateegoose were suggestive! Then, turning, as from a painful subject, he asked—

“Does our little one never smoke now?”

“No—never.”

“Does she never wish for it?”

“Slowfoot cannot tell what our little one wishes,” was the reply, “but she never gets it.”

La Certe pondered for some time, and then asked—

“Does my Slowfoot still like work?”

“She likes it still—likes it better.”

“And she does it—sometimes?”

“Yes, often—always.”

“Why?”

“Because Mr Sutherland advises me—and I like Mr Sutherland.”

“Does my Slowfoot expect me to like work too, and to do it?” asked La Certe with a peculiar glance.

“We cannot like what we don’t like, though we may do it,” answered the wife, drawing perilously near to the metaphysical, “but Slowfoot expects nothing. She waits. My François is not a child. He can judge of all things for himself.”

“That is true, my Slowfoot; and, do you know,” he added, earnestly, “I have had hard work—awfully hard work—killing work—since I have been away, yet it has not killed me. Perhaps you will doubt me when I tell you that I, too, rather like it!”

“That is strange,” said Slowfoot, with more of interest in her air than she had shown for many a day. “Why do you like it?”

“I think,” returned the husband, slowly, “it is because I like Dan Davidson. I like him very much, and it was to please him that I began to work hard, for, you know, he was very anxious to get home in time to be at his own wedding. So that made me work hard, and now I find that hard work is not hard when we like people. Is it not strange, my Slowfoot?”

“Yes. Your words are very like the words of Mr Sutherland to-day. It is very strange!”

Yet, after all, it was not so very strange, for this worthy couple had only been led to the discovery of the old, well-known fact that— “Love is the fulfilling of the law.”

There was yet another of those whose fortunes we have followed thus far who learned the same lesson.

About the same time that the events just described took place in Red River, there assembled a large band of feathered and painted warriors in a secluded coppice far out on the prairie. They had met for a grave palaver. The subject they had been discussing was not war, but peace. Several of the chiefs and braves had given their opinions, and now all eyes were turned towards the spot where the great chief of all was seated, with a white-man beside him. That great chief was Okématan. The Paleface was Peter Davidson.

Rising with the dignity that befitted his rank, Okématan, in a low but telling voice, delivered himself, as follows:

“When Okématan left his people and went to live for a time in the wigwams of the Palefaces, he wished to find out for himself what they wanted in our land, and why they were not content to remain in their own land. The answer that was at first given to my questions seemed to me good—a reply that might have even come from the wise heads of the Cree Nation; but, after much palaver, I found that there was contradiction in what the Palefaces said, so that I began to think they were fools and knew not how to talk wisely. A Cree never reasons foolishly—as you all know well—or, if he does, we regard him as nobody—fit only to fight and to die without any one caring much. But as I lived longer with the Palefaces I found that they were not all fools. Some things they knew and did well. Other things they did ill and foolishly. Then I was puzzled, for I found that they did not all think alike, as we do, and that some have good hearts as well as good heads. Others have the heads without the hearts, and some have the hearts without the heads—Waugh!”

“Waugh!” repeated the listening braves, to fill up the pause here, as it were, with a note of approval.

“The Palefaces told me,” continued Okématan with great deliberation, as if about to make some astounding revelations, “that their land was too small to hold them, and so they came away. I told them that that was wise; that Cree Indians would have done the same. But then came the puzzle, for they told me that there were vast tracts of land where they lived with plenty of lakes, rivers, and mountains, in which there was nobody—only fish and birds and deer. Then I said, ‘You told me that your land was too small to hold you; why did you not go and live on these mountains, and fish and shoot and be happy?’ To this they answered that those fine lands were claimed by a few great chiefs, who kept them for their own shooting and fishing, and drove out all the braves with their wives and families and little ones to crowd upon the shores of the great salt-water lake, and live there on a few fish and shells—for even there the great chiefs would not allow them to have all the fishing, but kept the best of it for themselves! Or, if they did not like that, the poor braves were told to go and live in what they called cities—where there are thousands of wigwams crowded together, and even piled on the top of each other,—but I think the Palefaces were telling lies when they said that—Waugh!”

Again there were many “Waughie” responses, mingled with numerous “Ho’s!” of astonishment, and a few other sounds that seemed to indicate disbelief in Okématan’s veracity.

“What,” continued Okématan, with considerable vehemence, “what would my braves do if Okématan and a few of the Cree chiefs were to take all the lands of Red River, and all the buffalo, and all the birds and beasts to themselves, and drive the braves with their families to the shores of Lake Winnipeg, to live there on fish, or die, or leave the country if they did not like it! What would they do?”

Okématan’s voice increased in fervour, and he put the finishing question with an intensity that called forth a chorus of “Waughs!” and “Ho’s!” with a glittering of eyes, and a significant grasping of scalping-knives and tomahawks that rendered further reply needless.

“Would you not scorn us,” he continued, “scalp us, tear out our eyes, roast us alive?—but no—the Cree Nation loves not cruelty. You would merely pat us on the head, and tell us to go and make moccasins, and boil the kettle with the squaws!

“Then, when I began to know them better, I found that all the Paleface chiefs over the great salt lake are not greedy and foolish. Some are open-handed and wise. I also found that there is a tribe among them, who lived chiefly in the mountain lands. These are very kind, very brave, very wise, and very grave. They do not laugh so loud as the others, but when they are amused their eyes twinkle and their sides shake more. This tribe is called Scos-mins. I love the Scos-mins! I lived in the wigwam of one. He is old and fierce, but he is not bad, and his heart is large. In his house were some other Scos-mins—braves and squaws. They were very kind to me. This is one of them.”

The flashing eyes of the entire party were turned upon Peter Davidson, who, however, had presence of mind enough to gaze at the cloudless heavens with immovable solemnity and abstraction.

“There are two others, whom I look upon as sons. One is named Arch-ee; the other Leetil Beel. Now,” continued Okématan, after a pause, “my advice is that we should teach the Paleface chiefs over the great salt lake a lesson, by receiving the poor braves who have been driven away from their own lands and treating them as brothers. Our land is large. There is room for all—and our chiefs will never seize it. Our hearts are large; there is plenty of room there too.

“The Great Spirit who rules over all inclines my heart to go and dwell with the Palefaces until I understand them better, and teach them some of the wisdom of the Red-man. I shall return to Red River to-morrow, along with my Paleface brother whose name is Pee-ter, and while I am away I counsel my braves and brothers to dwell and hunt and fish together in love and peace.”

How it fared with Okématan on his self-imposed mission we cannot tell, but we do know that from 1821—the date of the auspicious coalition before mentioned—the sorely tried colony began steadily to prosper, and, with the exception of the mishaps incident to all new colonies, and a disastrous flood or two, has continued to prosper ever since. Civilisation has made rapid and giant strides, especially during the later years of the century. The wave has rushed far and deep over the old boundaries, and now the flourishing city of Winnipeg, with its thousands of inhabitants, occupies the ground by the banks of the Red River, on which, not many years ago, the old Fort Garry stood, a sort of sentinel-outpost, guarding the solitudes of what was at that time considered a remote part of the great wilderness of Rupert’s Land.

The End.

Preface.

Note: Plan of this Miscellany.

There is a vast amount of interesting information, on almost all subjects, which many people, especially the young, cannot attain to because of the expense, and, in some instances, the rarity of the books in which it is contained.

To place some of this information, in an attractive form, within the reach of those who cannot afford to purchase expensive books, is the principal object of this Miscellany.

Truth is stranger than fiction, but fiction is a valuable assistant in the development of truth. Both, therefore, shall be used in these volumes. Care will be taken to insure, as far as is possible, that the facts stated shall be true, and that the impressions given shall be truthful.

As all classes, in every age, have proved that tales and stories, are the most popular style of literature, each volume of the series (with, perhaps, one or two exceptions) will contain a complete tale, the heroes and actors in which, together with the combination of circumstances in which they move, shall be more or less fictitious.

In writing these volumes, the author has earnestly endeavoured to keep in view the glory of God and the good of man.

Chapter One.

Describes Home-Coming, and shows that Matters whispered in the Drawing-Room are sometimes loudly proclaimed Below-Stairs.

It was late on a winter evening when our hero, William Osten, arrived in England, in company with his two friends and former messmates, Bunco and Larry O’Hale.

When a youth returns to his native land, after a long absence which commenced with his running away to sea, he may perhaps experience some anxieties on nearing the old home; but our hero was not thus troubled, because, his father having died during his absence, and his mother having always been tender-hearted and forgiving, he felt sure of a warm reception.

Our hero was so anxious to see his mother, that he resolved to travel by the night-coach to his native town of B—, leaving his companions to follow by the mail in the morning. Railways, although in use throughout the country, had not at that time cut their way to the town of B—. Travellers who undertook to visit that part of the land did so with feelings somewhat akin to those of discoverers about to set out on a distant voyage. They laid in a stock of provisions for the journey, and provided great supply of wraps for all weathers. When Will Osten reached the coach-office, he found that all the inside places were taken.

“You’ll have to go aloft, sir,” said the coachman, a stout and somewhat facetiously inclined individual, who, observing something of the sailor in Will’s costume and gait, suited his language to his supposed character; “there’s only one berth left vacant, on the fogs’l ’longside o’ myself.”

“Well, I’ll take it,” said Will.

Five minutes afterwards the guard shouted “all right,” and they set off.

“Do you happen to know many of the people in the town of B—?” said Will to the coachman, as they emerged from the suburbs and dashed out upon a long tract of moorland.

“Know many of ’em, sir,” said the man, tipping the off-leader on the flank by way of keeping his hand in; “I should ’ope I does; it’s two year, this very day, since I came to this ’ere part o’ the country, and I’ve got married in B— to a ’ooman as knows everythink and everybody, so, of course, I knows everythink and everybody, too.”

“Then you have heard of a Mrs Osten, no doubt, a widow lady?” said Will.

“Wot, the widder o’ that grumpy old gen’lman as died last year, leavin’, they say, a big estate in furrin parts?”

Will felt a tendency to seize the man by the throat, and tumble him off his box into the road, but on second thoughts he restrained himself and said—

“She is the widow of a gentleman with whom I was intimately acquainted. I did not know anything about his having estates abroad.”

“I axe your pardon, sir,” said the man, a little abashed by Will’s grave manner; “didn’t know they wos friends of yours. No offence, I ’ope. The old lady is raither low since her husband’s death—for it wos somewhat sudden—an’ they do say she’s never got over the runnin’ away of her only son—at least so my wife says, an’ she ought to know, for she’s bin intimate with the family for many years, an’ knows the ooman as nussed the boy—”

“What, Maryann?” exclaimed Will.

“The same. You seems to know ’em all, sir.”

“Yes, I know them well. Is Maryann still with my—with Mrs Osten?”

“Yes, sir, she is, an’ wot’s more, she aint likely to quit in a ’urry. W’y, sir, that ’ooman ’as ’ad no fewer than six hoffers of marriage, an’ ’as refused ’em all for love of the old lady. My wife, she says to me the other night, when she wos a-washin’ of the baby in the big bread can—you see, sir, the washin’ tub’s gone and sprung a leak, an’ so we’re redoosed to the bread can—Well, as I wos a-sayin’, my wife says to me—‘Richards,’ says she, ‘it’s my belief that Marryhann will never marry, for her ’art an’ soul is set upon Mrs Osten, an’ she’s got a strange feelin’ of sartinty that Master Will, as she calls the runaway boy, will come back to comfort ’is mother an’ look arter the furrin estates. No, Richards, mark my words, Maryhann will never marry.’”

“‘It may be so, Jemimar,’ says I,—Did you speak, sir?” said the coachman, turning sharp round on hearing Will utter an exclamation of surprise.

“Is your wife’s name Jemima?”

“Yes, it is; d’you ’appen to know her, too?”

“Well, I think I do, if she is the same person who used to attend upon Mrs Osten—a tall and—thin—and and—somewhat—”

“Stiff sort of woman—hout with it, sir, you’ll not ’urt my feelins. I didn’t marry Jemimar for her beauty, no, nor yet for her money nor her youth, for she aint young, sir—older than myself a long way. I took her for her worth, sir, her sterlin’ qualities. You know, sir, as well as I do, that it aint the fattest an’ youngest ’osses as is the best. Jemimar is a trump, sir, without any nonsense about her. Her capacity for fryin’ ’am, sir, an’ bilin’ potatoes is marvellous, an’ the way she do dress up the baby (we’ve only got one, sir) is the hadmiration of the neighbour’ood.”

“You said something just now about the deceased Mr Osten’s estate. Can you tell me how he came by it?”

“No, sir, I can’t. That’s the only thing that my wife ’as failed to fathom. There’s somethink mysterious about it, I think, for Missis Hosten she won’t speak to Marryhann on the subjec’, an’ all she knows about it is that the lawyer says there’s an estate somewheres in furrin parts as needs lookin’ arter. The lawyer didn’t say that to Maryhann, sir, of course, but she’s got a ’abit of hairin’ ’er ears at key’oles an’ over’ears things now an’ then.”

Further conversation on this point was here stopped by the arrival of the coach at the end of a stage, and when the journey was resumed with fresh horses, Will felt inclined to sleep. He therefore buttoned up his coat tight to the chin, fixed his hat well down on his brows, and put himself into one of those numerous attitudes of torture with which “outsides” were wont to beguile the weary hours of night in coaching days. When the sun rose next morning, Will was still in that state of semi-somnolence which causes the expression of the countenance to become idiotic and the eyes owlish. At last the chimneys of his native town became visible, and in a short time he found himself standing before the well-remembered house tapping at the old door, whose panels—especially near the foot—still bore the deep marks of his own juvenile toes.

It is not necessary to drag the reader through the affecting scene of meeting between mother and son. Two days after his arrival we find them both seated at tea in the old drawing-room drinking out of the old mug, with the name “William” emblazoned on it, in which, in days gone by, he was wont to dip his infantine lips and nose. Not that he had selected this vessel of his own free will, but his mother, who was a romantic old lady, insisted on his using it, in order to bring back to her more vividly the days of his childhood, and Will, in the fulness of his heart, said he would be glad to drink tea out of the coal-scuttle if that would give her pleasure. The good lady even sent to the lumber-room for the old arm-chair of his babyhood, but as neither ingenuity nor perseverance could enable him to squeeze his stout person into that, he was fain to content himself with an ordinary chair.

“Now, dear mother,” said Will, commencing the fifth slice of toast, under pressure (having eaten the fourth with difficulty), “you have not yet told me about this wonderful estate which everybody seems to know of except myself.”

“Ah! darling Will,” sighed Mrs Osten, “I have avoided the subject as long as possible, for I know it is to be the cause of our being separated again. But there is no help for it, because I promised your dear father when he was dying that I would tell you his wishes in regard to it, and that I would not attempt to dissuade you from doing your duty. Well, you remember uncle Edward, I suppose?”

“His name—yes,” said Will, “but I never knew anything else about him. I had nothing to remember or to forget, except, indeed, that he got the name of being a wild scapegrace, something like myself!”

“Like yourself, darling,” exclaimed the old lady, with a look of indignation—“no indeed! Have not you repented and come back, like a good prodigal son; and didn’t the dear beautiful letter that you wrote from that awful island—what’s its name—where you were all but eaten alive—”

“The coral island,” suggested Will.

“Yes, the coral island—didn’t that dear letter give more delight to your beloved father than any letter he ever received in his life, and more than made up to him for your running away, and cheered him to his last hour, whereas uncle Edward was wicked to the last—at least so it is said, but I don’t know, and it’s not right to speak ill of the dead. Well, as I was going to say, uncle Edward died in some outlandish place in North America, I never can remember the name, but it’s in the papers, so you’ll see it—somewhere on the other side of the something mountains—I forget—”

“Rocky, perhaps.”

“Yes, that’s it, the Rocky Mountains, and I wish they were not so rocky, for your sake, darling, for you’ve got to go there and take possession (or serve yourself heir to, or something of that sort) of the property. Not that it’s large, so they say (I wish with all my heart it did not exist at all), but they tell me there is gold on it, though whether it is lying on the fields or down in holes I’m sure I don’t know, and oh dear, I don’t care, for it entails your going away again, my darling boy.”

Here the poor old lady broke down, and, throwing her arms round Will’s neck—regardless of the fact that in so doing she upset and broke one of her best china tea-cups—wept upon his bosom.

Such was the manner of the announcement of the news in the drawing-room.

In the kitchen the same subject was being discussed by a select party, consisting of Maryann, Mr Richards the coachman, his spouse Jemima—formerly Scrubbins—the baby Richards—who has already been referred to as being reduced in the matter of his ablutions to a bread can—and Larry O’Hale with his faithful Indian friend Bunco.

“To think,” said Maryann, with a quiet laugh, as she handed a cup of tea to Bunco—“to think that I should ever come for to sit at tea with a live red Indian from Ameriky—not that he’s red either, for I’m sure that hany one with eyes in their ’ead could see that he’s only brown.”

“Ah, my dear, that’s ’cause he’s changed colour,” said Larry, pushing in his cup for more tea. “He wasn’t always like that. Sure, when I first know’d Bunco he was scarlet—pure scarlet, only he took a fancy one day, when he was in a wild mood, to run his canoe over the falls of Niagara for a wager, an’, faix, when he came up out o’ the wather after it he was turned brown, an’s bin that same ever since.”

“Gammon,” exclaimed Maryann.

“Sure ye don’t misdoubt me word, Maryann,” said Larry reproachfully; “isn’t it true, Bunco?”

“Yoos a norribable liar, Larry,” answered Bunco with a broad grin.

Richards the coachman, who had been for some minutes too busy with the buttered toast and bacon to do more than listen and chuckle, here burst into a loud guffaw and choked himself partially. Jemima and Maryann also laughed, whereupon the baby, not to be outdone, broke suddenly into a tremendous crow, and waved its fat arms so furiously that it overturned a tea-cup and sent the contents into Bunco’s lap. This created a momentary confusion, and when calm was restored, Mrs Richards asked Maryann “if hanythink noo ’ad turned up in regard to the estate?” which she seemed to know so much about, but in regard to which she was, apparently, so unwilling to be communicative.

“Not so, Jemimar,” said Maryann, with a look of offended dignity, “unwillin’ to speak I am not, though unable I may be—at least I was so until yesterday, but I have come to know a little more about it since Master Will came ’ome while I chanced to be near—”

Maryann hesitated a moment, and Richards, through a mouthful of toast, muttered “the keyhole.”

“Did you speak, sir?” said Maryann, bridling.

“No, oh! no, not by no means,” replied Richards, “only the crust o’ this ’ere toast is rayther ’ard, and I’m apt to growl w’en that’s so.”

“If the crust is ’ard, Mr Richards, your teeth is ’arder, so you ought to scrunch ’em without growling.”

“Brayvo, my dear,” exclaimed Larry, coming to the rescue; “you’re more nor match for him, so be marciful, like a good sowl, an’ let’s hear about this estate, for it seems to me, from what I’ve heard, it must be somewhere in the neighbourhood of Bunco’s native place.”

Maryann, darting a look of mingled defiance and triumph at Richards, who became more than ever devoted to the toast and bacon, proceeded—

“Well, as I was a-sayin’, I ’eard Mrs Osten say to Master Will that his uncle Edward—as was a scape somethin’ or other—had died an’ left a small estate behind the Rocky Mountains in Ameriky or Afriky, I aint sure which.”

“Ameriky, my dear,” observed Larry.

“An’ she said as ’ow they ’ad discovered gold on it, which could be picked up in ’andfuls, an’ it was somewhere near a place called Kally somethin’—”

“Calliforny?” cried Larry.

“Yes, that was it.”

“I towld ye that, Bunco!” exclaimed the Irishman, becoming excited; “go on, dear.”

“Well, it seems there’s some difficulties in the matter, wich I’m sure don’t surprise me, for I never ’eard of things as ’ad to do with estates and law as didn’t create difficulties, and I’m thankful as I’ve got nothin’ to do with none of such things. Well, the end of it all is that, w’en master was dyin’, he made missis swear as she’d urge Master Will to go to see after things hisself, an’ missis, poor dear, she would rather let the estate and all the gold go, if she could only keep the dear boy at ’ome, but she’s faithful to her promise, an’ advises him to go—the sooner the better—because that would let him come back to her all the quicker. Master Will, he vowed at first that he would never more leave her, and I b’lieve he was in earnest, but when she spoke of his father’s wish, he gave in an’ said he would go, if she thought it his dooty so for to do.”

“Hooray!” shouted Larry, jumping up at this point, and performing a species of war-dance for a few moments, and then sitting down and demanding another supply of tea. “Didn’t I tell ye, Bunco, that the order would soon be up anchor an’ away again! It’s Wanderin’ Will he’s been named, an’ Wanderin’ Will he’ll remain, that’s as plain as the nose on me face.”

“No doubt the nose on your face is very plain—the plainest I ever did see,” said Maryann sharply,—“but you’re quite wrong about Master Will, for he’s very anxious to get married, I can tell you, an’ wants to settle down at ’ome, like a sensible man, though it does grieve my ’eart to think of the creetur as has took him in in furrin parts.”

“Get married!” exclaimed Larry, Jemima, and Richards in the same breath.

“Yes, get married,” replied Maryann, very full of the importance of her keyhole discoveries, and not willing to make them known too readily.

“How did you come to know that, Maryhann?” asked Jemima; “are you sure of it?”

“How I came for to know it,” replied the other, “is nobody’s business (she paused a moment and looked sternly at Richards, but that sensible man continued to gaze steadfastly at his plate and to ‘scrunch’ crusts with grave abstraction), and, as to its bein’ true, all I can say is I had it from his own lips. Master Will has no objection to my knowing what he tells his mother—as no more he shouldn’t, for Jemimar, you can bear me witness that I’ve been a second mother to him, an’ used to love him as if he were my own—though he was a aggrawatin’ hinfant, an’ used to bump his ’ead, an’ skin his knees, an’ tear his clothes, an’ wet his feet, in a way that often distracted me, though I did my very best to prevent it; but nothink’s of any use tryin’ of w’en you can’t do it; as my ’usband, as was in the mutton-pie line, said to the doctor the night afore he died—my ’eart used to be quite broke about him, so it did; but that’s all past an’ gone—well, as I was a-sayin’, Master Will he told his mother as ’ow there was a young lady (so he called her) as ’ad won his ’art, an’ she was a cannibal as lived on a coal island in the Paphysic Ocean. Then he told her some stories about the coal island as made my blood run cold, and said his Flora behaved like a heroine in the midst of it all.”

At this point Larry and Bunco exchanged meaning glances, and the former gave vent to a soft whistle, which he accompanied with a wink.

“I’m sure,” continued Maryann, “it’s past my comprehension; for instead of being dreadfully shocked, as I had expected, Mrs Osten threw her arms round Master Will’s neck and blessed him and the cannibal, too, and said she hoped to be spared to see ’em united, though she wouldn’t like them to remain on the coal island in the Paphysic. I do assure you, Jemimar,” continued Maryann, putting the corner of her apron to her eyes, “it quite gave me a turn, and I was nearly took bad w’en I ’eard it. Master Will, he made his mother promise to keep it to herself, as, he said, not a soul in the world knew of it but him and her—”

Mr Richards coughed at this point, and appeared to be engaged in a severe conflict with an untractable crust, which caused Maryann to stop suddenly and look at him. But Larry again came to the rescue by saying—

“Why, Maryann, my dear, ye’ve bin an’ mistook a good deal of what you’ve heard, intirely. This Flora Westwood is no cannibal, but wan o’ the purtiest bit craturs I iver had the good luck to set eyes on; as white as a lily, wid cheeks like the rose, not to spake of a smile an’ a timper of an angel. She’s a parson’s daughter, too, an’ lives on a coral island in the Pacific Ocean, where the people is cannibals, no doubt, as I’ve good raison to know, for they ait up a lot o’ me shipmates, and it was by good luck they didn’t ait up myself and Master Will too—though I do belaive they’d have found me so tough that I’d have blunted their teeth an’ soured on their stummicks, bad luck to them. But it’s surprised that I am to hear about this. Ah, then, Master Will, but ye’re a sly dog—more cunnin’ than I took ye for. Ye threw dust in the eyes of Larry O’Hale, anyhow.”

Poor Maryann appeared much relieved by this explanation, although she felt it to be consistent with her dignity that she should throw considerable doubt on Larry’s statement, cross-question him pretty severely, and allow herself to be convinced only after the accumulation of an amount of evidence that could not be resisted.

“Well, now, that accounts for the way in which his mother received the news,” said Maryann.

“It is a strange story,” remarked Jemima.

“Uncommon,” observed Richards.

Bunco said nothing, but he grinned from ear to ear.

At that moment, as if it were aware of the climax at which the party had arrived, the baby, without a single note of warning, set up a hideous howl, in the midst of which the bell rang, and Maryann rose to answer it.

“Master Will wants to speak to you, Mr Hale, and to Mr Bunco, too,” she said on returning.

“Come along, Mister Bunco,” said Larry, “that’ll be the order to trip our anchors.”

“My friends,” said Will Osten, when the two were seated on the corners of their respective chairs in the drawing-room, “I sent for you to say that circumstances have occurred which render it necessary that I should visit California. Do you feel inclined to join me in this trip, or do you prefer to remain in England?”

“I’m yer man,” said Larry.

“So’s me,” added Bunco.

“I thought so,” said Will, smiling; “we have been comrades together too long to part yet. But I must start without delay, and mean to go by the plains and across the Rocky Mountains. Are you ready to set off on short notice?”

“In half an hour av ye plaze, sur,” said Larry.

Bunco grinned and nodded his head.

“The end of the week will do,” said Will, laughing; “so be off and make your preparations for a long and rough trip.”

In pursuance of this plan, Will Osten and his two staunch followers, soon after the date of the above conversation, crossed the Atlantic, traversed the great Lakes of Canada to the centre of North America, purchased, at the town of Saint Pauls, horses, guns, provisions, powder, shot, etcetera, for a long journey, and found themselves, one beautiful summer evening, galloping gaily over those wide prairies that roll beyond the last of the backwood settlements, away into the wild recesses of the Western Wilderness.

Chapter Two.

Describes a Burst over the Western Prairie, and introduces a New Character, also a Hunt, and a Great Feast.

Wandering Will and his companions laid the reins on the necks of their half-tamed horses and galloped wildly away over the western prairie. Perhaps it was the feeling of absolute freedom from human restraints that excited them to the galloping and shouting condition of maniacs; perhaps it was the idea of sweeping over unbounded space in these interminable plains, or the influence of the fresh air around, the sunny blue sky overhead, and the flower-speckled sward underfoot—perhaps it was all these put together, but, whatever the cause, our three travellers commenced their journey at a pace that would have rendered them incapable of further progress in a few hours had they kept it up. Their state of mind was aptly expressed, at the end of one of these wild flights, by Larry, who exclaimed, as he reined in—

“Ah, then, it’s flyin’ I’ll be in a minit. Sure av I only had a pair o’ wings no bigger than a sparrow’s, I cud do it aisy.”

“Yoo’s a goose, Larry,” observed Bunco.

“Faix if I was it’s mesilf as would fly away an’ lave you to waller on the dirty earth ye belongs to,” retorted the other.

“Dirty earth!” echoed Will Osten, gazing round on the plains of bright green grass that waved in the soft air with something like the gentle heavings of the sea. “Come, let’s have another!”

They stretched out again at full gallop and swept away like the wind itself.

“Hooroo!” shouted Larry O’Hale, wildly throwing out both arms and rising in his stirrups; “look here, Bunco, I’m goin’ to fly, boy!”

Larry didn’t mean to do so, but he did fly! His horse put its foot in a badger-hole at that moment and fell. The rider, flying over its head, alighted on his back, and remained in that position quite motionless, while his alarmed comrades reined up hastily and dismounted.

“Not hurt, I hope,” said Will, anxiously.

“Och! ha! gintly, doctor, take me up tinderly,” gasped the poor man as they raised him to the perpendicular position, in which he stood for nearly a minute making very wry faces and slowly moving his shoulders and limbs to ascertain whether any bones were fractured.

“I do belave I’m all right,” he said at length with a sigh of relief; “have a care, Bunco, kape yer paws off, but take a squint at the nape o’ me neck an’ see if me back-bone is stickin’ up through me shirt-collar.”

“Me no can see him,” said the sympathetic Bunco.

“That’s a blissin’ anyhow. I only wish ye cud feel him, Bunco. Doctor, dear, did ye iver see stars in the day-time?”

“No, never.”

“Then ye’d better make a scientific note of it in yer book, for I see ’em at this good minit dancin’ about like will-o’-the-wisps in a bog of Ould Ireland. There, help me on to the back o’ the baste—bad luck to the badgers, say I.”

Thus muttering to himself and his comrades, half exasperated by the stunning effects of his fall, yet rather thankful to find that no real damage was done, Larry remounted, and all three continued their journey with not much less enjoyment, but with abated energy.

Thus much for the beginning. Availing ourselves of an author’s privilege to annihilate time and space at pleasure, we change the scene. The three travellers are still riding over the same prairie, but at the distance of a hundred miles or so from the spot where the accident above described took place.

It was evening. The sun was gradually sinking in the west—far beyond that “far west” to which they had penetrated. The wanderers looked travel-stained, and appeared somewhat fatigued, while their horses advanced with slow steps and drooping heads. Two pack-horses, which had been procured by them with an additional supply of necessaries at a solitary fort belonging to the fur-traders of that region, were driven by Larry, whose voice and action seemed to indicate that he and they were actuated by different sentiments and desires.

“Of all the lazy bastes,” he exclaimed, giving one of the horses a tremendous cut over the flank that startled it into temporary life, “I iver did see—but, och! what’s the use—there’s niver a dhrop o’ wather in this wilderness. We may as well lie down an’ die at wance.”

“Hush, Larry,” said Will Osten, “don’t talk lightly of dying.”

“Lightly is it? Well, now, there’s nothin’ light about me from the sole o’ me fut to the top o’ the tallest hair on me head, an’ the heaviest part about me is the heart, which feels like lead intirely. But cheer up, Larry, yer owld grandmother always said ye was born to be hanged, so of coorse ye can’t be starved—that’s a comfort, anyhow!”

“What think you, Bunco,” said Will Osten, turning to his dark-skinned companion, “shall we encamp on this arid part of the plain and go waterless as well as supperless to rest, or shall we push on? I fear the horses will break down if we try to force them much further.”

“Water not be far-off,” said Bunco curtly.

“Very well, we shall hold on.”

In silence they continued to advance until the sun was descending towards the horizon, when there suddenly appeared, on the brow of an eminence, the figure of a solitary horseman. Sharply defined as he was against the bright sky, this horseman appeared to be of supernaturally huge proportions—insomuch that the three travellers pulled up by tacit consent, and glanced inquiringly at each other.

“It’s a ghost at last!” muttered the superstitious Irishman, whose expression of countenance showed that he was not by any means in a jesting humour.

“Ghost or not, we must be prepared to meet him,” said Will, loosening a large hunting-knife in its sheath and examining the priming of his rifle.

The strange horseman had evidently observed the party, for he presently descended the rising ground and rode slowly towards them. In doing so he passed out of the strong light, and consequently assumed more ordinary proportions, but still when he drew near, it was evident that he was a man of immense size. He rode a black steed of the largest and most powerful description; was clad in the leathern hunting-shirt, belt, leggings, moccasins, etcetera, peculiar to the western hunter, and carried a short rifle in the hollow of his right arm.

“Good-evening, strangers,” he said, in a tone that savoured of the Yankee, but with an easy manner and good-humoured gravity that seemed to indicate English extraction. “Goin’ far?”

“To California,” said Will, smiling at the abrupt commencement of the conversation.

“H’m, a longish bit. Come far?”

“From England.”

“H’m, a longish bit, too. Lost and starvin’, I see.”

“Not exactly, but pretty nearly so,” said Will. “I had entertained the belief, presumptuous if you will, that I could find my way in any part of the wilderness by means of a sextant and pocket compass, and, to say truth, I don’t feel quite sure that I should have failed, but before I had a sufficient opportunity of testing my powers, one of our baggage horses rolled down the bank of a creek and broke my sextant. In trying to save him I rolled down along with him and smashed my compass, so I have resigned the position of guide in favour of my friend here, who, being a native, seems to possess a mysterious power in the matter of finding his way.”

“From the other side of the mountains?” asked the strange horseman, glancing at Bunco.

“Yoo’s right,” said Bunco, with a grin.

There was a slight touch of humour in the grave stern countenance of the stranger as he replied in a language which was quite unintelligible to Will and Larry, but which appeared to create wonderful sensations in the breast of Bunco, who for some minutes continued to talk with much volubility and eagerness.

“You appear to be old friends?” said Will, inquiringly, to the stranger.

“Not ’xactly,” he replied, “but I’ve trapped on the west side o’ the mountains, and the Redskin is excited a bit at meetin’ with a man who knows his nation and his name. I’ve heard of him before. He was thought a brave warrior by his tribe, but it is so long since he disappeared from the face o’ the ’arth that they’ve given him up for dead. His wife was alive last fall. I saw her myself, and she has steadily refused to marry any of the young braves—at least she had refused so to do up to the time I left; but there’s no calc’latin’ what these Redskins will do. However, I’ve comforted this one wi’ the news.”

“With your leave, Mister Trapper,” said Larry, breaking in impatiently at this point, “may I suggest that when you’re quite done talkin’ we should continue our sarch for grub an’ wather, for at present our stummicks is empty an’ our mouths is dry!”

“Have you no food?” asked the trapper.

“None,” answered Will; “we finished our last scrap of meat yesterday morning, and have been hoping and expecting to fall in with buffalo ever since, for the signs around show that they cannot be far distant.”

“You are right; I am even now followin’ their trail, for, like yourselves, I’m well-nigh starvin’. Not had a bite for three days.”

“Ye don’t look like it!” said Larry, gazing at the man in some surprise.

“Perhaps not, nevertheless it’s a fact, so we’ll push on an’ try to find ’em before sundown.”

Saying this, the stalwart trapper gave the rein to his stead and galloped away over the plains, followed as close as possible by the wearied travellers.

The pace was hard on the horses, but there was need for haste, because the sun was close on the horizon, and as far as the eye could reach no buffalo were to be seen. Ere long the character of the prairie changed, the arid ground gave place to more fertile land, here and there clumps of willows and even a few small trees appeared, while, in the far distance, a line of low bushes ran across the country.

“Water dere,” said Bunco.

“The Redskin’s right,” observed the trapper, slackening his speed a little; “’tis his natur’ to know the signs o’ the wilderness. Does his hawk-eye see nothing more?”

“Bufflo!” exclaimed Bunco, as he drew up and gazed intently at a particular spot in the wilderness.

“Ay, lad, it is buffalo an’ no mistake. I know’d I should find ’em there,” said the trapper, with a quiet chuckle, as he examined the priming of his rifle. “Now, friends, we’ll have to approach them quietly. You’d better catch up the halters o’ your pack-horses, Mister Irishman—”

“Larry O’Hale at your sarvice, Mister Trapper.”

“Benjamin Hicks at yours, Mister O’Hale, but I’m better known as Big Ben! And now,” he continued, “keep well in rear, all of you, an’ follow me down in the bottom there, between the ridges. Don’t out o’ cooriosity go exposin’ yourselves to the buffalo. In the meantime keep quiet, and let your mouths water at the thought o’ fat steaks and marrow-bones.”

Benjamin Hicks galloped along the bottom of the hollow for a considerable distance; then, dismounting, hobbled his horse by tying its two fore feet together with a piece of rope. Thus hampered, it could hop about in an awkward fashion and feed, while its master advanced on foot. With rapid strides he proceeded some distance further along the bottom, and then ascended the ridge in a stooping position. On nearing the summit he crept on hands and knees, and, on gaining it, he sank like a phantom into the grass and disappeared.

The party who followed him stopped on reaching the spot where the horse had been left, and for some time waited in excited and silent expectation, listening for the report of the hunter’s rifle. Despite the caution given them, however, they could not long refrain from attempting to see what was going on. After waiting a few minutes, Will Osten hobbled his horse and crept up the side of the ridge, which might be more correctly described as an undulating prairie-wave. Bunco and Larry followed his example. When they all lay flat among the grass on the summit and raised their heads cautiously, the sight that met their eyes sent a thrill of delight to their hearts.

It was still the boundless prairie, indeed, but its uniform flatness was broken by innumerable knolls and hillocks, of varied extent, which looked like islands in a green sea. Some were covered with clusters of white pines, others with low bushes. Rich grass waved gently in the evening breeze, giving to the whole scene an air of quiet motion. Not far distant flowed the little stream already referred to, and as this reflected the gorgeous golden clouds that were lit up by the setting sun, it appeared like a stream of liquid fire meandering over the plains, while, far, far away on the hazy and glowing horizon—so far that it seemed as if a whole world lay between—a soft blue line was faintly visible. It might have been mistaken for the distant sea, or a long low cloud of azure blue, but Will Osten knew that, however unlike to them it might appear, this was in reality the first glimpse of the Rocky Mountains! The pleasantest sight of all, however, was a group of ten or a dozen buffalo, which grazed, in all the lazy ease of fancied security, at the side of a knoll not more than three hundred yards distant. As our travellers lay, with bated breath and beating hearts, gazing at these animals, dreaming of feasting on fat things, and waiting for a shot, they became aware of a low murmuring sound somewhat resembling distant thunder, but softer and more continuous. On scanning the plains more intently they perceived that here and there were other scattered groups of buffalo, more or less concealed by knolls, while in the extreme distance a black line, which they had at first mistaken for bushes, proved to be an immense herd of living creatures, whose pawings and bellowings reached them like a faint murmur.

Suddenly the animals close to them sprang into the air as if they had received an electric shock. At the same instant a white cloudlet of smoke rose above the grass, and a few seconds later the sharp crack of the trapper’s rifle broke on their ears. The huge ungainly brutes bounded away, leaving one of their number behind. He writhed violently, and then lay gently down. A moment of suspense followed, for he might rise again and run beyond pursuit, as buffalo often do under a deadly wound! But no! he curled his tail, gasped once or twice, and rolled over on his side.

Knives were out in a moment, and the whole party rushed like wolves upon the prey. First, they rolled the animal upon his brisket, slit his hide along the spine, peeled it down one side, and cut off a piece large enough to form a wrapper for the meat. Next the flesh on each side of the spine was pared off, and the tongue cut out. The axe was then applied to his ribs—the heart, the fat, the tender loins and other parts were taken out; then the great marrow-bones were cut from his legs, and the whole being wrapped in the green hide, was slung on a pole, and carried by Will Osten and the trapper to the nearest suitable camping ground. This was on the edge of a grove of white pine by the side of the clear rivulet under the shade of a woody hill. Here, before darkness had completely set in, Will and his new friend kindled a great fire and prepared supper, while Larry and Bunco went off to fetch and tether the horses.

Now, reader, you must understand that it was no light duty which lay before the wanderers that evening. They had to make up for a good many missed meals. The word “ravenous” scarcely indicates their condition! They were too hungry to lose time, too tired to speak. Everything, therefore, was done with quiet vigour. Steaks were impaled on pieces of stick, and stuck up before the fire to roast. When one side of a steak was partially done, pieces of it were cut off and devoured while the other was cooking. At the expense of a little burning of the lips, and a good deal of roasting of the face, the severe pangs of hunger were thus slightly allayed, then each man sat down before the blaze with his back against a tree, his hunting-knife in one hand, a huge rib or steak in the other, and quietly but steadily and continuously devoured beef!

“Och! when did I iver ait so much before?” exclaimed Larry, dropping a peeled rib.

“What! not goin’ to give in yet?” said Big Ben, setting up another rib to roast; “why, that’ll never do. You must eat till daylight, if you would be fit to travel in the prairie. Our wild meat never pains one. You may eat as much as you can hold. That’s always the way we do in the far west. Sometimes we starve for six or eight days at a time, and then when we get plenty, we lay in good store and pack it well down, always beginnin’ wi’ the best pieces first, for fear that some skulkin’ Redskin should kill us before we’ve had time to enjoy them. See here, you’ve only had the first course; rest a bit while I prepare the second.”

While he spoke, Ben was breaking up the marrow-bones with his hatchet, and laying bare the beautiful rolls of “trappers’ butter” within. Having extracted about a pound of marrow, he put it into a gallon of water, and, mixing along with it a quantity of the buffalo’s blood and a little salt, set it on the fire to boil. In a short time this savoury soup was ready. Turn not up your noses at it, “ye gentlemen of England, who live at home at ease,” (though, by the way, we doubt the reality of that “ease,” which causes so much dyspepsia amongst you that good food becomes unpalatable and strong food nauseous), but believe us when we tell you that the soup was super-excellent.

“Musha!” exclaimed Larry, when he tasted the first spoonful, “I feel exactly as if I had ait nothin’ at all yit—only goin’ to begin!” And with that he and his comrades attacked and consumed the soup until their faces shone again with grease and gladness.

“That’ll do now,” said Larry in a decided tone, as he rose and stretched himself, preparatory to filling his beloved pipe—“not a dhrop nor a bite more on any account.”

“Is you stuffed full?” asked Bunco.

“Pretty nigh,” replied Larry, glancing at his friend with an inquiring look; “seems to me that you have overdone it.”

“Me is pretty tight,” said Bunco languidly.

“Come, come,” cried the trapper, “don’t shirk your victuals. There’s one more course, and then you can rest if you have a mind to.”

So saying, the indefatigable man took up the intestines of the buffalo, which had been properly prepared for the purpose, turned them inside out, and proceeded to stuff them with strips of tender loin well salted and peppered. The long sausage thus hastily made was hung in festoons before the fire, and roasted until it was thoroughly browned. Portions were then cut off and set down before the company. When each thought of beginning he felt as though the swallowing of a single bite were utterly impossible, but when each had actually begun he could not stop, but continued eating until all was finished, and then wished for more, while Benjamin Hicks chuckled heartily to witness the success of his cookery and the extent of his friends’ powers.

Ah, it is all very well, reader, for you to say “Humph! nonsense,” but go you and wander for a year or two among the Rocky Mountains, acquire the muscles of a trapper and the digestion of an ostrich, then starve yourself for a few days, and get the chance of a “feed” such as we have feebly described, and see whether you won’t come home (if you ever come home) saying, “Well, after all, truth is strange, stranger than fiction!”

It need scarcely be said that the solace of the pipe was sought immediately after the meal was concluded by Will, Larry, and Bunco; but Big Ben did not join them. He had starved longer than they, and intended, as he said, to eat all night!

“Well,” observed Larry, as he extended himself at full length before the blaze, and resting his right elbow on the ground and his head on his hand, smoked in calm felicity; “I’ve often found that there’s nothin’ like tiredness to make a man enjoy rest, but, faix, it’s this night I’ve larned, as I niver did before, that there’s nothin’ like starvation to mak wan enjoy his victuals.”

“Eight, Larry,” said Will Osten with a laugh; “upon my word I think it would be worth while to live always on the plan of missing our meals each alternate day, in order to enjoy them more thoroughly on the other days.”

“If city men would go on that plan,” observed the trapper, gravely tearing the flesh from a rib with his teeth, and speaking at the same time, “there would be no use for doctors.”

“Ah, then, think of that now; wouldn’t it be a rail hard case for the poor doctors?” said Larry, with a sly glance at Will.

Bunco grinned at this, and observed that it was “time for hims be go sleep.” Whereupon he rolled his blanket about him and lay down with his feet to the fire. Will Osten also lay down and fell asleep almost immediately. Larry, too, stretched himself out in repose, leaving Big Ben still engaged with the buffalo beef.

The night was rather cold. In course of time Will Osten awoke, and called to the trapper to mend the fire, which he did, and then resumed his former occupation. Once or twice after that, one and another of the slumberers awoke, and, looking up sleepily for a few seconds, beheld the enduring man still hard at work. The last to lift his head that night was Larry. The puzzled Irishman gazed in mute amazement during the unusually long period of half a minute, for Benjamin Hicks still sat there, glittering in the light of the camp-fire, grave as a Redskin, and busy as ever with the bones!

Chapter Three.

Relates how Big Ben became a Travelling Companion, and how a Big Bear was Captured—Discussions and Misfortunes.

To the great satisfaction of Will Osten and his friends, it was discovered that Benjamin Hicks was a wandering trapper, whose avocations led him to whatever part of the wilderness was most likely to produce furs, and who had no particular objection to take a trip across the mountains with our adventurers. Indeed Big Ben thought no more of a ride of several hundreds of miles than most men do of an afternoon walk, and, if particular business did not prevent him, he was always ready to undertake a “venture” so long as it was, in his opinion, justifiable and likely to pay.

“You see, sir,” he said, as he and Will cantered together along the base of a low hill one evening, “it’s not that I’m of an unsettled natur’, but I’ve bin born to this sort o’ life, an’ it would be no manner o’ use in me tryin’ to change it. Once upon a time I used to think o’ settlin’ in one of the back settlements—that was when my poor old mother was alive. I used to live with her and take care of her after my father’s death. Then I married and thought I was fairly fixed down for life, but one night when I chanced to be out looking after my traps, a war-party o’ Injuns attacked the village and killed every soul in it. At least so it was said at the time, but afterwards I met a lad who had escaped, an’ he told me that he had seen my mother and wife killed, but that a few of the men escaped as well as him.”

The trapper’s voice deepened as he spoke, and he paused.

“Was it long ago?” asked Will, in a tone of sympathy.

“Ten years now,” answered Ben, sadly—“though it seems to me but yesterday. For many a day after that I tried to find the trail o’ the Redskins that did it, but never succeeded, thank God. If I had, it would only have ended in the spillin’ of more blood, without any good comin’ of it. It is long now since I left off thirstin’ for revenge, but I suppose I’ll never cease wishin’ that—that—well, well, God’s will be done,” he added, as if rousing himself out of a sad reverie, “I’m not used to speak about this, but somehow whenever I meet with white men o’ the right sort in the plains or mountains, I always feel a kind o’ longin’ to let my tongue wag raither too free. However, as I was goin’ to say, I’ve been a wanderer since then, goin’ where I think I can be o’ use to myself or others; and so, as you don’t appear to be overly knowin’ about the trail across the mountains, I’ll go with ’ee a bit o’ the way an’ pint it out, if you have no objections.”

“No objections!” echoed Will; “I’ll be delighted to have your company, and would be only too glad if you could go all the way.”

“Who knows but I might be willin’ to go if I was asked,” said the trapper, with a slight approach to a smile.

“Are you in earnest?” asked Will Big Ben not only admitted that he was in earnest, but said that he was quite ready to start at once, if they would only consent to diverge from their route about thirty miles to a small outpost belonging to the fur-traders, where he had deposited a lot of peltries, which he wished to convert into supplies for the journey. This was readily agreed to, and, accordingly, next day about noon, they came in sight of Rocky Mountain Fort—so-called because of its being situated in a somewhat wild glen, near the verge of one of the eastern spurs of the Rocky Mountains.

While the fort was still far distant, though in sight, Larry O’Hale uttered a sudden exclamation, and pointed to a black spot lying on the side of one of the numerous mounds with which the country was diversified.

“A black bear,” said the trapper, quietly.

“Have at ye then!” shouted Larry, as he drove his heels against the ribs of his steed and went off at full gallop.

“Stay, Bunco, let him have all the glory to himself,” cried Will, laughing.

Bunco, who had started to follow, reined up, and all three cantered to the top of a neighbouring height, whence they could clearly see the country for many miles in all directions.

Meanwhile the enthusiastic Larry had descended into a hollow, to leeward of the bear. Along this he trotted smartly, following its windings and keeping carefully out of sight, until he judged himself to be nearly opposite to the spot where the bear lay, then breaking into a gallop he turned at right angles to his former course, bounded over the ridge that had concealed him, and rushed furiously on his victim. The bear was a young one, but nearly full grown. On beholding the horseman it rose on its hind legs and showed all its formidable teeth.

“Och! is it laughin’ ye are?” exclaimed Larry, bringing forward the muzzle of his gun, “it’s cryin’ ye’ll be before long.”

As he spoke the piece exploded. Whether it was that his finger had pressed the trigger too soon, or that the aim, owing to the pace, was unsteady, we know not, but Larry missed; the ball hit the ground just in front of the bear, and drove such a quantity of earth into his facs, eyes, and mouth, that he shook his head with a spluttering cough which ended in a savage growl, but, on beholding the wild Irishman charging down on him with the ferocity and thunder of a squadron of heavy dragoons, he dropt on his fore-legs, turned tail, and fled. Larry tried to re-load while pursuing, but, owing to the uneven nature of the ground, which required him to devote earnest attention to the badger-holes, he could not manage this. Without knowing very well what to do, he continued the chase, meditating as to whether it were better to try to ride over the bear, or to attempt the breaking of its skull with the butt end of his gun. As, however, it was all he could do to keep pace with the brute, he found either alternative impossible.

“Ochone! what’ll I do wid ye?” cried the perplexed man, in despair.

The bear, as if in reply, glanced aside at him and grinned horribly.

“I do belaive it’s laughin’ again at me! Git on, ye baist,” (to his horse), “sure ye’re four times as big, an’ ought to run faster.”

Larry forgot to do his steed the justice to add that it carried fourteen stone weight on its back. The poor man tried hard to overtake the bear, but failed to gain an inch on him. To make matters worse, he observed that the brute was edging towards a wood which lay on his right. Seeing this he diverged a little, and, by making a dive into a hollow, he managed to cut off its retreat in that direction. Rocky Mountain Fort, which lay on his left, was now within half a mile of him, and he could see some of its inhabitants, who had observed the party coming from the plains, standing at the gate of the fort watching the chase with much interest. A glance over his shoulder showed him that his travelling companions were in view behind. Keenly alive to the fact that he should be overwhelmed with ridicule if he failed, the now desperate man conceived the bold idea of driving the bear into the fort! He felt that this feat was not beyond the bounds of possibility, for the bear was beginning to flag a little, while his hardy steed was still in good wind. He therefore applied the whip with greater energy, and soon came alongside of the bear, which attempted to turn to the right, but Paddy had become a good and alert horseman by that time, and was on his other side in an instant. Again the bear tried to double, and again his enemy checked him and urged him on. Thus they progressed until they drew near to the gate of the fort. This was now deserted, for the fur-traders soon understood the game that the wild horseman was playing, and made way for the entrance of the stranger. At last the bear came so close to the walls of the fort that it observed the open gateway. A way of escape was here—it evidently imagined—so it went through at full gallop! It was immediately met by a house. Turning quickly round, it was met by another house. Dashing aside, it was brought up by a wall. As a last resource it ran behind a pile of cut firewood and stuck its head into a hole, just as Larry O’Hale bounded through the gateway with a wild cheer of triumph. Will Osten, Big Ben, and Bunco quickly followed, and the gates were shut by the men of the fort.

But the victory was by no means completed. The question still remained, How was the enemy to be made prisoner? One of the fur-traders seized it by the tail and tried to draw it out. He failed to do more than draw forth a tremendous growl. Another fur-trader, aided by Larry, came to the assistance of the first, and, by their united power, plucked Bruin out of the hole like a cork out of a bottle. He turned with fury on his enemies, two of whom sprang back, overturning Larry in the act. At that moment one of the fur-traders, a stalwart Canadian, leaped upon the bear, grasped him by the throat, and tried to strangle him. One of the others, seeing this, caught at the brute’s legs and tumbled him on his side, for which he was rewarded with a scratch which tore his right arm open from the elbow to the wrist. The hands of the stout Canadian were at the same time severely lacerated by the brute’s claws. During the brief moments in which this struggle lasted, Big Ben had leaped from his steed; detached the stout line which always hung at his saddle-bow; made a noose as deftly as if he had been a British tar or a hangman, and passed it quickly over the bear’s muzzle. Drawing it tight he took a turn round its neck, another round its fore-legs, and a third round the body. After this the work of subjugation was easy, and Bruin was finally reduced to slavery.

We know not, good reader, what you may think of this incident, but we beg to assure you that, in its essence, it is a fact, and that that bear was afterwards sent to England to suck its paws in a menagerie, and delight the eyes and imaginations of an admiring public.

Again we change the scene to the heart of the Rocky Mountains, in which, after many days of toil and trouble, heat and cold, hunger and thirst, difficulty and danger, our travellers found themselves at the close of a bright and beautiful day.

“I think,” said Will Osten, reining up by the side of a copse which crowned the brow of an eminence, “that this seems a good camping place.”

“There is not a better within ten mile of us,” said Big Ben, dismounting. “This is the spot I have been pushing on for all day, so let us to work without delay. We have a hard day before us to-morrow, and that necessitates a hard feed an’ a sound sleep to-night. Them’s the trapper’s cure for all ills.”

“They cure many ills, doubtless,” observed Will, as he removed the saddle from his jaded steed.

Larry, whose duty it was to cut firewood, remarked, as he administered his first powerful blow to a dead tree, that “grub and slumber at night was the chief joys o’ life, and the only thing that could be compared to ’em was, slumber and grub in the mornin’!” To which sentiment Bunco grinned hearty assent, as he unloaded and hobbled the pack-horses.

Soon the camp was made. The fire roared grandly up among the branches of the trees. The kettle sent forth savoury smells and clouds of steam. The tired steeds munched the surrounding herbage in quiet felicity, and the travellers lay stretched upon a soft pile of brushwood, loading their pipes and enjoying supper by anticipation. The howling of a wolf, and the croaking of some bird of prey, formed an appropriate duet, to which the trickling of a clear rill of ice-cold water, near by, constituted a sweet accompaniment, while through the stems of the trees they could scan—as an eagle does from his eyrie high up on the cliffs—one of the grandest mountain scenes in the world, bathed in the soft light of the moon in its first quarter.

“’Tis a splendid view of God’s handiwork,” said the trapper, observing the gaze of rapt admiration with which Will Osten surveyed it.

“It is indeed most glorious,” responded Will, “a scene that inclines one to ask the question, If earth be so fair, what must heaven be?”

“It aint easy to answer that,” said the trapper gravely, and with a slight touch of perplexity in a countenance which usually wore that expression of calm self-reliance peculiar to men who have thorough confidence in themselves. “Seems to me that there’s a screw loose in men’s thoughts when they come to talk of heaven. The Redskins, now, think it’s a splendid country where the weather is always fine, the sun always shining, and the game plentiful. Then the men of the settlement seem to have but a hazy notion about its bein’ a place of happiness, but they can’t tell why or wherefore in a very comprehensible sort o’ way, and, as far as I can see, they’re in no hurry to get there. It seems in a muddle somehow, an’ that’s a thing that surprises me, for the works o’ the Almighty—hereaway in the mountains—are plain and onderstandable, so as a child might read ’em; but man’s brains don’t seem to be such perfect work, for, when he comes to talk o’ God and heaven, they appear to me to work as if they wor out o’ jint.”

The trapper was a naturally earnest, matter-of-fact man, but knew little or nothing of the Christian religion, except what he had heard of it from the lips of men who, having neither knowledge of it nor regard for it themselves, gave a false report both of its blessed truths and its workings. He glanced inquiringly at our hero when he ceased to speak.

“What is your own opinion about heaven?” asked Will Big Ben looked earnestly at his companion for a few seconds and said—

“Young man, I never was asked that question before, an’ so, of course, never made a straightforward reply to it. Nevertheless, I think I have a sort of notion on the pint, an’ can state it, too, though I can’t boast of havin’ much larnin’. Seems to me that the notion of the men of the settlements isn’t worth much, for few o’ them can tell ye what they think or why they think it, except in a ramblin’ way, an’ they don’t agree among themselves. Then, as for the Redskins, I can’t believe that it’s likely there will be such work as shootin’ an’ fishin’ in heaven. So I’m inclined to think that we know nothin’ about it at all, and that heaven will be nothin’ more nor less than bein’ with God, who, bein’ the Maker of the soul an’ body, knows what’s best for both, and will show us that at the proper time. But there are mysteries about it that puzzle me. I know that the Almighty must be right in all He does, yet He permits men to murder each other, and do worse than that.”

“I agree with you, Ben,” said Will Osten, after a moment’s reflection. “That everything in heaven will be perfect is certain. That we don’t at present see how this is to be is equally certain, and the most certain thing of all is, that the very essence of heaven will consist in being ‘for ever with the Lord.’ I don’t wonder at your being puzzled by mysteries. It would be strange indeed were it otherwise, but I have a book here which explains many of these mysteries, and shows us how we ought to regard those which it does not explain.”

Here Will Osten drew a small volume from the breast-pocket of his coat.

“The Bible?” said the trapper.

“Part of it at all events,” said Will. “It is the New Testament. Come, let us examine it a little.”

The youth and the trapper sat down and began to read the New Testament together, and to discuss its contents while supper was being prepared by their comrades. After supper, they returned to it, and continued for several hours to bend earnestly over the Word of God.

In the wild remote part of the Rocky Mountains where their camp was made, neither trappers nor Indians were wont to ramble. Even wild beasts were not so numerous there as elsewhere, so that it was deemed unnecessary to keep watch during the night. But a war-party of Indians, out on an expedition against another tribe with whom they were at deadly feud, chanced to traverse the unfrequented pass at that time in order to make a short cut, and descend from an unusual quarter, and so take their enemies by surprise.

Towards midnight—when the rocky crags and beetling cliffs frowned like dark clouds over the spot where the travellers lay in deepest shade, with only a few red embers of the camp-fire to throw a faint lurid light on their slumbering forms—a tall savage emerged from the surrounding gloom, so stealthily, so noiselessly, and by such slow degrees, that he appeared more like a vision than a reality. At first his painted visage only and the whites of his glittering eyes came into view as he raised his head above the surrounding brushwood and stretched his neck in order to obtain a better view of the camp. Then slowly, inch by inch, almost with imperceptible motion, he crept forward until the whole of his gaunt form was revealed. A scalping-knife gleamed in his right hand. The camp was strewn with twigs, but these he removed one by one, carefully clearing each spot before he ventured to rest a knee upon it. While the savage was thus engaged, Larry O’Hale, who was nearest to him, sighed deeply in his sleep and turned round. The Indian at once sank so flat among the grass that scarcely any part of him was visible. Big Ben, who slept very lightly, was awakened by Larry’s motions, but having been aroused several times already by the same restless individual, he merely glanced at his sleeping comrade and shut his eyes again.

Well aware that in such a camp there must assuredly be at least one who was acquainted with the ways and dangers of the wilderness, and who, therefore, would be watchful, the savage lay perfectly still for more than a quarter of an hour; then he raised his head, and, by degrees, his body, until he kneeled once more by the side of the unconscious Irishman. As he raised himself a small twig snapt under his weight. The face of the savage underwent a sudden spasmodic twitch, and his dark eye glanced sharply from one to another of the sleepers, while his fingers tightened on the hilt of his knife, but the rest of his body remained as rigid as a statue. There was no evidence that the sound had been heard. All remained as still and motionless as before, while the savage bent over the form of Larry O’Hale and gazed into his face.

But the snapping of that little twig had not been unobserved. The trapper’s eyes were open, and his senses wide awake on the instant. Yet, so tutored was he in the ways and warfare of the wilderness that no muscle of his huge frame moved, and his eyes were closed again so quickly that the glance of the savage, sharp though it was, failed to detect the fact of his having awakened. The busy mind of Big Ben was active, however, while he lay there. He saw that the savage was armed, but the knife was not yet raised to strike. He saw, also, that this man was in his war paint, and knew that others were certainly around him, perhaps close to his own back, yet he did not dare to look round or to make the slightest movement. His spirit was on fire with excitement, but his body lay motionless as if dead, while he rapidly considered what was to be done. Presently the savage removed a corner of the blanket which covered Larry’s broad chest and then raised his knife. In another moment the trapper’s rifle sent forth its deadly contents, and the Indian fell across the Irishman in the agonies of death.

Instantly the other sleepers sprang to their feet and seized their arms, but before they had time to use them they were surrounded by the whole band of savages, and, amid a hurricane of whoops and yells, were overpowered and pinioned. Larry, with the fiery zeal of his countrymen, struggled like a madman, until one of the savages gave him a blow on the head with the flat of his tomahawk to quiet him, but the others, who knew that to struggle against overpowering odds would only make matters worse, at once surrendered.

“It is all over with us now,” exclaimed Will Osten, bitterly; “if we had only had the chance of a good fight beforehand, it would have been some comfort!”

“When you have lived longer in the wilderness, lad,” said Big Ben, “you’ll not give way to despair so easily.”

These remarks were made as they sat on the grass while the Indians were engaged in catching and saddling the horses. Soon after our travellers were assisted to mount, having their wrists tied behind their backs; and thus, with armed savages around them, they were led away prisoners—they knew not whither.

Chapter Four.

Shows that the Tables are turned, and that Good and Bad Fortune continue to Commingle.

One fortunate circumstance attending the capture of Wandering Will and his friends was that the Indians happened to follow the route which they had been pursuing, so that, whatever might be their ultimate fate, in the meantime they were advancing on their journey.

Big Ben took occasion to point this out to his comrades the next night, when, after a severe day’s ride, they were allowed to sit down and eat a scanty meal surrounded by the Indian warriors. No fire was lighted, for the savages knew they were now approaching their enemies’ country. Their food, which consisted of dried buffalo meat, was eaten cold. In order to enable the captives to feed themselves, their hands had been loosed and refastened in front instead of behind them, but this did not in any degree improve their chance of escape, for they were guarded with extreme vigilance.

“You see, Mr Osten,” said Big Ben, in a low tone, “it’s a piece of good luck that they’ve brought us this way, ’cause when we leave them we have nought to do but continue our journey.”

“Leave them!” exclaimed Will in surprise. “How shall we manage to leave them?”

“By escapin’,” answered the trapper. “How it is to be gone about no man can tell, for man is only mortal an’ don’t know nothin’ about the futur’, but we’ll find that out in good time.”

“I hope we may,” returned Will sadly, as he gazed round on the stern faces of the savages, who ate their frugal meal in solemn silence; “but it seems to me that our case is hopeless.”

“Faix, that’s what meself thinks too,” muttered Larry between his teeth, “for these cords on me wrists would howld a small frigate, an’ there’s a black thief just forenint me, who has never tuk his eyes off me since we wos catched. Ah, then, if I wor free I would make ye wink, ye ugly rascal. But how comes it, Mister Trapper, that ye seem to be so sure o’ escapin’?”

“I’m not sure, but I’m hopeful,” replied Big Ben, with a smile.

“Hopeful!” repeated the other, “it’s disapinted ye’ll be then. Haven’t ye often towld me that thim blackguards roast an’ tear and torture prisoners nowadays just as bad as they ever did?”

“I have.”

“Well,—d’ye think them Redskins look as if they would let us off, seein’ that we’ve shot wan of them already?”

“They don’t.”

“Sure, then, yer hope stands on a bad foundation, an’ the sooner we make up our minds to be skivered the better, for sartin am I that our doom is fixed. Don’t ’ee think so, Bunco?”

The worthy appealed to was busily engaged in tearing to pieces and devouring a mass of dried buffalo meat, but he looked up, grinned, and nodded his head, as if to say that he believed Larry was right, and that in his opinion being roasted, torn, tortured, and skivered was rather a pleasant prospect than otherwise.

“I have two reasons for bein’ hopeful,” observed Big Ben, after a short silence. “One is that I never got into a scrape in my life that I didn’t get out of somehow or another, and the other reason is that I have observed signs on the trees that tell me the enemies, for whom the Redskins are seeking, are aware of their bein’ on the trail and will give them a warm reception, perhaps sooner than they expect.”

“What signs do you refer to?” asked Will Osten. “I see no sign of man having been here.”

“Perhaps not, and by good luck neither do the Injuns, for why, they can’t read handwritin’ as is not meant for ’em, but I know somethin’ of the tribe they are after, an’ one or two small marks on the trees tell me that they are not far distant. No doubt they will attack the camp at night.”

“Ochone!” groaned Larry, “an’ won’t they brain an’ scalp us wid the rest, an’ our hands tied so that we can’t do nothin’ to help ourselves?”

“It is possible they may,” returned the trapper; “and if they do we can’t help it, but let me warn you all, comrades, if we are attacked suddenly, let each man drop flat on the grass where he sits or stands. It is our only chance.”

Poor Larry O’Hale was so overcome by the gloomy prospects before him that he dropped flat on his back then and there, and gave vent to a grievous sigh, after which he lay perfectly still, gazing up at the stars and thinking of “Ould Ireland.” Being possessed of that happy temperament which can dismiss care at the shortest possible notice, and being also somewhat fatigued, he soon fell sound asleep. His companions were about to follow his example when they heard a whizzing sound which induced them suddenly to sink down among the grass. At the same moment an appalling shriek rudely broke the silence of the night, and two of the sentinels fell, transfixed with arrows. One of these lay dead where he fell, but the other sprang up and ran quickly, with staggering gait, after his comrades, who at the first alarm had leaped up and bounded into the nearest underwood, followed by a shower of arrows. That these deadly messengers had not been sent after them in vain was evinced by the yells which succeeded their discharge. A moment after, several dark and naked forms glided swiftly over the camp in pursuit. One of these, pausing for one moment beside the dead Indian, seized him by the hair, passed his knife swiftly round the head so as to cut the skin all round, tore off the scalp, and stuck it under his girdle as he leaped on in pursuit.

Fortunately the prisoners were not observed. Larry on being awakened by the yell had half raised himself, but, recollecting Big Ben’s caution, dropped down again and remained perfectly still. The attacking party had, of course, seen the sentinels fall and the rest of the warriors spring up and dart away, and naturally supposing, doubtless, that no one would be so foolish as to remain in the camp, they had passed on without discovering the prisoners. When they had all passed, and the sounds of the fight were at a little distance, Big Ben leaped up and exclaimed:—

“Comrades, look sharp, moments are golden. They’ll be back like a shot! Here, Larry, grip this in yer hand an’ stick the point of it agin’ that tree.”

While he spoke in a cool, calm, almost jocular tone, the trapper acted with a degree of rapidity and vigour which showed that he thought the crisis a momentous one. With his fettered hands he plucked the knife from the girdle of the dead Indian and gave it to Larry O’Hale, who at once seized it with his right hand, and, as directed, thrust the point against the stem of a neighbouring tree. The trapper applied the stout cords that bound him to its edge, and, after a few seconds of energetic sawing, was free. He instantly liberated his companions.

“Now, lads,” said he, “down the stream and into the water as fast as you can.”

Our hero and Larry, being utterly ignorant of the manners and habits of the people amongst whom they were thrown, obeyed with the docility of little children—showing themselves, thereby, to be real men! Bunco, before darting away, seized an Indian gun, powder-horn, and shot-belt which had been left behind. The attack had been so sudden and unexpected that many of the savages had found it as much as they could do to save themselves, leaving their arms behind them. Of course, therefore, no one had thought of encumbering himself with the weapons of the prisoners. Big Ben had thought of all this. His wits had long been sharpened by practice. He also knew that his white comrades would think only of escaping, and that there was no time to waste in telling them to look after their weapons. Giving them, therefore, the general direction to rush down the banks of the stream and get into the water, he quietly but quickly seized his own piece and the guns of our hero and the Irishman, together with one of the large powder-horns and bullet-pouches of the war-party; also two smaller horns and pouches. The securing of these cost him only a few seconds. When Will Osten and Larry had run at full speed for several hundred yards down the stream which flowed near to the spot where the war-party had encamped, they stopped to take breath and receive further instructions. The active trapper and Bunco were at their heels in a moment.

“You forgot your guns,” said the trapper, with a quiet chuckle, handing one to Larry and the other to Will.

“What nixt?” asked Larry, with a strange mixture of determination and uncertainty in his tone—the former being founded on his character, the latter on his ignorance.

“Follow me. Don’t touch a twig or a blade o’ grass on the banks, an’ make as little noise as you can. Running water leaves no trail.”

Saying this, Big Ben stepped into the stream, which was a small shallow one, and flowed for nearly half a mile through a sort of meadow among the mountains. Down this they all waded, carefully avoiding the banks, until they reached a narrow part where the stream tumbled over a precipice. Here the trapper paused, and was about to give some directions to his comrades, when the sound of constrained breathing was heard near to him. With a sudden demonstration of being about to fire, he turned and cocked his gun. The sharp click was no sooner heard than three Indians burst out from beneath the bushes which overhung the water, and, springing up the bank, fled for their lives. The trapper could not refrain from chuckling.

“These,” said he, “are some of the rascals that caught us, making their escape by the same way that we are, but they don’t know the ground as well as I do, and apparently have got perplexed at the top o’ the fall. ’Tis well. If the Redskins pursue, they will find the trail here as clear as a king’s highway—see what a gap in the bushes they have made in their fright at the sound o’ my lock! Well, well, it’s not many men that have pluck to keep quiet wi’ that sound in their ears, and the muzzle pointed at their heads! All we have to do now is to descend the precipice without disturbing the shrubs, and then—”

A sound of horses galloping arrested him.

“Hist! don’t move!”

At that moment about a dozen of the horses belonging to the war-party came thundering down along the banks of the stream. They had broken loose, and were flying from the Indians who had attempted to catch them. On nearing the precipice, over which the stream leaped with noisy petulance, the snorting steeds drew up in alarm, as if undecided which way to turn.

“A rare chance!” cried the trapper. “Every man for himself—keep well up the hill, comrades? an’ hem them in.”

Saying this, he ran up the bank, the others followed, and, in a few minutes, they drove the steeds into a corner, from which they made a sudden rush, but as the long halter of each was trailing at its side, no difficulty was experienced in securing several of them as they passed by. Next moment the fugitives were mounted and hastening away from the scene of their late adventure as fast as the rugged nature of the ground would permit.

It is not necessary that we should follow our adventurers in all their windings through the mighty fastnesses of the far West. Suffice it to say that they made good their escape from the Indians, and that, for many days, they travelled through scenes so beautiful and varied that they have been spoken of by those who know them well as a perfect paradise. Every description of lovely prospect met their admiring eyes in endless succession, but so wary were the lower animals, and so few the human inhabitants, that those realms were to all appearance absolute solitudes—created, apparently, for no end or purpose. Nevertheless, there was enough there to tell the Christian philosopher that God had made the deserts for the enjoyment of His creatures, for, although not always visible or audible, myriads of living beings were there—from the huge buffalo and grizzly bear to the sand-fly and mosquito—which rejoiced in the green pastures and luxuriated beside the sweet waters of the land.

One afternoon the travellers came upon a small plain, which reminded them somewhat of the prairies. The first glance showed them that it was crowded with buffalos. Instantly a sensation of wild excitement passed through their frames, and showed itself in various ways. The Irishman uttered a shout of delight, and suggested an immediate onslaught; but it is due to his wisdom to say that the shout was a subdued one, and the suggestion was humbly made. Our hero became restless and flushed, while the eyes of Bunco and Big Ben alone served as outlets to the fire which burned within. The plain was surrounded by low wooded hills, and had a lake on one side winding with many an inlet amongst the hills and into the plain, while here and there a tiny promontory, richly clothed with pines and aspens, stretched out into the water. Among the bluffs, or wooded islets of the plain, were to be seen several herds of bulls feeding about a mile off, and other bands in the distance.

“Tighten your girths,” said Big Ben, dismounting. The horse which the trapper had secured, though not his own, was almost equal to it in point of size and strength. He eyed it with evident satisfaction as he tightened the girth, saying that if it wasn’t for the difference in colour he would have thought it was the old one. The others having also seen to their harness mounted, and the cavalcade advanced at a walking pace into the plain. When they arrived within quarter of a mile of the largest band, the buffalo began to move slowly off. The scattered groups, seeing the horsemen, drew together, and, soon forming a large band, went off at a slow lumbering canter. The trapper, breaking into a trot, led the way, taking care to increase his speed gently, so as to gain on them insensibly, until he had got within about two hundred yards of the nearest, when he went off at full speed with a wild hurrah! The others followed, brandishing their arms and cheering in the excitement of the moment, while they hammered the horses’ ribs violently with their unarmed heels. As they closed with them, the herd broke into separate bands, and each man, selecting the animal nearest to him, pursued it with reckless indifference to badger-holes. Fortunately for the riders, the horses, being accustomed to the work, knew the danger, and kept a sharp look-out on their own account. Soon several shots told that the slaughter had begun, but each hunter was quickly separated from the other, and none knew aught of the success of the rest until the pun was over.

There was something particularly ludicrous in the appearance of the bulls as they lumbered along in their heavy gallop; their small hindquarters, covered with short hair, being absurdly disproportioned to the enormous front with its hump and shaggy main. As they galloped along, their fringed dewlaps and long beards swayed from side to side, and their little eyes glanced viciously as they peeped from out a forest of hair at the pursuing foe. One of the bulls suddenly took it into his head to do more than peep! He raised his tail stiff in the air—a sign of wicked intentions—turned round, and received Larry’s horse on his forehead. Larry described the segment of a pretty large circle in the air, and fell flat on his back; but he jumped up unhurt, caught his horse, which was only a little stunned, and, remounting, continued the pursuit of the bull and killed it. He then pulled up, and looked round to see how it fared with his companions. Ben and Bunco were not in sight, but he observed Will Osten in hot pursuit of a large wolf. With a wild cheer, he made after him, and, by making a détour, came in front of the wolf, and turned it. Will fired at it quite close, but missed. Larry, who had reloaded, also fired and missed. Then they loaded and fired again, without success; so they endeavoured to ride over the animal, which they succeeded in doing, as well as in running against each other violently more than once, but without hurting the wolf, which dodged between the horses’ legs, snarling viciously. This game went on until the horses began to get exhausted. Then the wolf made straight off over the plain, and gained the mountains, still hotly followed, however, until it became evident to the pursuers that their steeds were blown, and that the wolf was distancing them at every stride.

When they at length unwillingly pulled up, the shades of evening were beginning to descend on the scene, and neither buffalo nor comrades were within range of their vision.

“Humph! we’ve got lost because of that rascal,” grumbled Will Osten.

“Bad luck to it!” exclaimed his companion.

“Have you any idea of the way back?” asked Will, with a look of perplexity.

“Not in the laste,” said Larry; “it’s always the way, when a man goes on a wild-goose chase he’s sure to come to grief, an’ a wild-wolf chase seems to belong to the same family.”

Will was too much vexed to reply, so he urged his steed to a gallop, and tried to retrace his way to the little plain, but the more they wandered the deeper did they appear to stray into the mountains.

Meanwhile, the trapper and Bunco, having cut off the best parts of the animals they had killed, made their encampment on the highest bluff they could find near the lake, and prepared supper; looking out now and then for their absent comrades. As the evening wore on they became anxious, and went out to search for them, but it was not till the following morning that they were discovered, almost falling out of their saddles from exhaustion, and wandering about they scarce knew whither. Conducting them to the camp, the trapper and Bunco gave them food, and then allowed them to sleep until the sun was high, after which, with recruited energies and spirits, they resumed their journey.

Thus they travelled for many a day—now scaling rugged mountain passes where it seemed doubtful whether the horses would be able to clamber, anon traversing rich meadows, and frequently meeting with and shooting deer, bears, Rocky Mountain goats, and the other wild inhabitants of the region. But, in course of time, they reached a particularly barren part of the mountains, to travel through which was a matter of extreme difficulty, while, to add to their hardships, game became very scarce.

One evening they met with an adventure of a rather warm description, through the carelessness of Larry, which well-nigh cost them their lives. They had reached a forest of small pines, through which they proceeded several miles, and then, finding that the trees grew so close together as to render progress very difficult, they resolved to encamp where they were, and, accordingly, cut down a clear space, in one part of which they fastened the horses, and at the other end made the camp. The weather had for a considerable time been hot and dry, and mosquitoes and gadflies were very troublesome. They therefore lighted a fire for the horses as well as for themselves, in order to let the poor creatures get the benefit of the smoke which, as long as it lasted, effectually cleared away the flies. It was Larry’s duty that night to hobble and secure the horses, but Larry was fatigued, and particularly anxious to commence supper with as little delay as possible. He therefore fastened the horses so insecurely that one of them got loose, and, without being perceived, kicked about some of the blazing embers in his anxiety to get into the thickest of the smoke, and so find relief from his tormentors. These embers set fire to the dry moss. While the travellers were busy with supper, they were startled by a loud, crackling sound. Before any of them could jump up, they heard a roar, which was followed by a mighty illumination. One of the neighbouring pines had caught fire, and blazed up as if it had been gun-cotton. The moment was critical. The little wind there was blew from the burning tree towards the spot where they sat. They had scarcely realised what had occurred when another and another of the trees flashed up, for, although green, they burned like the driest timber. To unloose and drive the horses out of danger, and carry off their camp equipage in time, was impossible. Big Ben, seeing this at a glance, seized his axe and shouted to the others to assist. He sprang at the intervening trees, and, exerting his enormous strength to the uttermost, cut them down as if they had been willow-wands—fortunately they were small; some of them were lopped through with a single crashing blow. Our hero was not slow to emulate Ben, and, although not so expert, he did such good execution that in a few minutes there was a wide gap between the camp and the burning trees.

But the horses, meanwhile, were in danger of being suffocated, and the dry moss under foot was burning so fiercely that the fire threatened to spread in spite of their exertions. Seeing this, Bunco and Larry—first casting loose the horses—ran with their kettles and mugs to a neighbouring stream for water, which they poured on the moss. By this time they were nearly surrounded by fire and smoke; the flames roared with appalling fury; the horse that had done all the mischief got burnt about the legs, threw himself down in the very midst of the fire and rolled in agony. Axes and kettles were instantly dropped, and all sprang to the rescue; grasped the creature by the head and tail, but could not drag him out. In desperation, Larry seized a stick, and so belaboured him that he leaped up and rushed out of the smoke and flames, terribly singed, indeed, but not much hurt otherwise. After this the fire was again attacked, and gradually its progress was cut off, so that our travellers were ultimately enabled to remove to a place of safety. But the flames had only been checked; they soon spread again, and, away to leeward of them, set the whole region on fire. From their new encampment that night, they could see rolling clouds of smoke mingling with tongues of flame which shot up, ever and anon, above the trees, and brought out in strong relief, or cast into deep shadow, the crags, gorges, and caverns of the mountains—presenting a scene of terrible devastation and indescribable sublimity.

Chapter Five.

Describes a Quiet Nook, and shows how Larry came by a Double Loss, besides telling of Wonderful Discoveries of more Kinds than One.

We must guard the reader, at this point, from supposing that our adventurers were always tumbling out of frying-pans into fires, or that they never enjoyed repose. By no means. The duty which lies upon us, to recount the most piquant and stirring of the incidents in their journeying, necessitates the omission of much that is deeply interesting, though unexciting and peaceful.

For instance,—on one occasion, Larry and Bunco were deputed to fish for trout, while our hero and the trapper went after deer. The place selected by the anglers was a clear quiet pool in a small but deep rivulet, which flowed down the gentle slope of a wooded hill. The distant surroundings no doubt were wild enough, but the immediate spot to which we refer might have been a scene in bonnie Scotland, and would have gladdened the heart of a painter as being his beau idéal, perhaps, of a “quiet nook.” The day was quiet too; the little birds, apparently, were very happy, and the sun was very bright—so bright that it shone through the mirror-like surface of the pool right down to the bottom, and there revealed several large fat trout, which were teazed and tempted and even exhorted to meet their fate, by the earnest Larry. The converse on the occasion, too, was quiet and peaceful. It was what we may style a lazy sort of day, and the anglers felt lazy, and so did the fish, for, although they saw the baits which were held temptingly before their noses, they refused to bite. Trout in those regions are not timid. We speak from personal experience. They saw Larry and Bunco sitting astride the trunk of a fallen tree, with their toes in the water, bending earnestly over the pool, just as distinctly as these worthies saw the fish; but they cared not a drop of water for them! Larry, therefore, sought to beguile the time and entertain his friend by giving him glowing accounts of men and manners in the Green Isle. So this pleasant peaceful day passed by, and Pat’s heart had reached a state of sweet tranquillity, when, happening to bend a little too far over the pool, in order to see a peculiarly large trout which was looking at him, he lost his balance and fell into it, head first, with a heavy plunge, which scattered its occupants right and left! Bunco chuckled immensely as he assisted to haul him out, and even ventured to chaff him a little.

“Yoo’s good for dive, me tink.”

“True for ye, lad,” said Larry, smiling benignantly, as he resumed his seat on the tree-trunk, and squeezed the water out of his garments. “I was always good at that an’ it’s so hot here that I took a sudden fancy to spaik to the fishes, but the dirty spalpeens are too quick for me. I do belaive they’re comin’ back! Look there at that wan—six pound av he’s an ounce.”

Not only did the six-pounder return to the pool almost immediately after Larry left it, but a large number of his brethren bore him company, and took up their former position as if nothing had happened. Nay, more, the surprise had apparently so far stirred them up and awakened them to a perception of their opportunities, that the six-pounder languidly swallowed Bunco’s hook and was in a moment whisked out of his native pool and landed on the bank,—for the anglers fished with stout cord and unbending rods!

“Musha! but ye’ve got ’im,” exclaimed Larry.

“Yoos better take noder dive,” suggested his friend.

“Hooroo!” shouted Larry, as he whipped another large fish out of the pool.

This, however, was the last for some time. The trout, ere long, appeared to have settled down into their former lazy condition, and the anglers’ hopes were sinking, when it suddenly occurred to the Irishman, that if the fish were stirred up with a pole they might be again roused to an appreciation of their advantages. Accordingly a pole was cut, the trout were judiciously stirred up, and several of them actually took the bait in the course of the afternoon—whether under the influence of the unwonted excitement we do not pretend to say, but certain it is that before sunset an excellent dish was secured for supper!

Equally peaceful and pleasant were the experiences of our hero and the trapper on that tranquil day. They wandered about in a state of silent happiness all the forenoon; then they shot a grizzly bear, the claws and teeth of which were claimed by Will, as he had drawn first blood. After that a deer chanced to come within range of the trapper, who brought it down, cut off the best parts of the meat, and, kindling a fire on the spot, sat down with his companion to a fat venison steak and a pipe.

“This sort o’ life is what I calls happiness,” said Big Ben, puffing out a cloud, through the hazy curls of which he gazed at a sunny landscape of unrivalled beauty.

“So it is,” assented Will Osten, with enthusiasm.

“An’ yet,” pursued Big Ben, thoughtfully, “when I come to think on’t, this sort o’ life would be no happiness to an old man, or to a weak one.”

“No, nor to a woman,” added Will.

“Not so sure o’ that,” said the trapper; “I’ve know’d Injun women as was about as good hunters as their husbands, an’ enjoyed it quite as much.”

“That may be so, Ben, but women of the civilised world would scarcely think this a happy sort of life.”

“P’raps not,” returned Ben. “Happiness is a queer thing, after all. I’ve often thought that it’s neither huntin’ nor farmin’, nor fair weather nor foul, that brings it about in the heart o’ man or woman, but that it comes nat’ral to man, woman, and child, when they does what is best suited to their minds and bodies, and when they does it in the right way.”

“Which is very much like saying,” observed Will, “that happiness consists in obeying the laws of God, both natural and revealed.”

“Just so,” assented the trapper, after a few moments’ consideration, “though I never quite thought of it in that light before.”

Thus they conversed—or, rather, in somewhat similar strains they chatted, for they did not pursue any subject long, but allowed their minds to rove where fancy led—until evening began to close; then they carried their meat into camp and closed the day with a sumptuous feast of fish, flesh, and fowl, round a blazing fire, while the stream, which formed their beverage, warbled sweet music in their ears.

This, reader, is a specimen of one of their quiet days, and many such they had; but as these days of peace bore no proportion to the days of toil and trouble, we must beg you to be content with the account of this one as a fair sample of the rest, while we carry you over the Rocky Mountains and bear you down their western slopes towards the Pacific Ocean.

The mountains being crossed, the future course of our travellers was down hill, but in some respects it was more toilsome than their uphill journey had been. The scenery changed considerably in respect of the character of its vegetation, and was even more rugged than heretofore, while the trees were larger and the underwood more dense. Many a narrow escape had Will and his friends during the weeks that followed, and many a wild adventure, all of which, however, terminated happily—except one, to which we now request attention.

They had reached the Fraser River—that celebrated stream of British Columbia which waters a country that was destined in after years to become one of the great gold-mining regions of the world. On the afternoon of which we write, the party rode with difficulty down the rugged banks of the river, which, roaring through a narrow valley, had overflowed its banks, so that the trail was completely covered, the horses being frequently up to the girths in water. In the course of the day they came to a place where the trail passed along the face of a lofty cliff of crumbling slate. The path was only just wide enough for the horses to pass. On the right rose a perpendicular precipice. On the left, a few yards below, the swollen waters of the Fraser roared and boiled down their rocky bed with tremendous velocity. On turning a projection they found the track barred by a huge rock which had recently slipped down the mountain side. As it was impossible to pass the obstacle either above or below, there was nothing for it but to cut down trees, use them as levers, and dislodge the mass. It was discovered, when they dismounted to undertake this task, that Larry O’Hale was amissing. Will Osten had just uttered an exclamation of surprise, and the others had not had time to reply to the question, “Hallo! what’s become of Larry?” when that worthy’s voice was heard shouting in the distance, and his horse’s hoofs were heard clattering along the narrow track as he approached at full gallop.

“Hooroo! howld on, doctor; hi’ Bunco an’ Ben, look here. Goold, avic, goold, I’ve got it at long last, sure enough!”

“You’ve got rid of your senses at last,” said Will, as his comrade almost rode him down. “Have a care, man! What makes you ride at such a pace?”

“Goold! goold! goold!” cried the excited Irishman, plucking a little bag from his breast, leaping off his horse, and pouring the contents—a mass of glittering lumps and particles—on a flat stone. “Didn’t I tell ye I was born to make my fortin’ out o’ goold? There’s plenty more where that comed from. Come back an’ I’ll show ’ee the place!”

“I’m sorry to disappoint you, Larry,” said Will, examining the so-called gold, “but I have seen this stuff before, and I believe it to be a substance which is not worth its weight in brass. Many poor fellows have been deceived by it before now.”

Larry’s face elongated very much at this. “What say you, Ben?” he inquired.

“I fear me that it an’t worth picking up,” replied the trapper, fingering the shining particles. “Leastwise I once collected a bag o’ the same an’ showed it to a man in the settlements who got the credit o’ bein’ a knowin’ fellow in regard to metals. He told me it was somethin’ that I don’t remember the name of, but worth nothing, so I heaved it away.”

Thus doubly assured, Larry sighed deeply as he collected the shining metal into the bag, and stood eyeing it disconsolately. At this point Bunco chuckled.

“Worse luck to it,” cried Larry, starting and tossing the bag violently into the stream, where it sank and vanished for ever. Little did any of the party imagine, at that time, that they had actually cast away some hundred pounds worth of pure gold, yet such was actually the case!

As it left Larry’s hand, the bag touched the nose of his horse, which shied, slipped over the bank, fell into the river, and was swept away. Instantly they all clapped their shoulders to the big stone, and pushed with such good-will that it slipped and went crashing into the stream, while the party went off at full speed after the horse. The poor animal was found at last stranded amid a mass of driftwood, with its saddle and baggage gone, but beyond this and the fright, no harm was done.

“Misfortin’s niver come single. ’Tis always the way. Howsiver, niver say die; better luck nixt time; ye’ll make yer fortin’ yit, av ye only parsevair an’ kape up yer heart, ould boy.” Thus soliloquising, the unfortunate man remounted his wet and bare-backed steed, and rode away.

Time and tide are usually understood to wait for no man; we therefore decline to wait either for time or tide, but, sweeping onward in advance of both, convey our readers at once to the sea coast near Vancouver’s Island, where our adventurers arrived after an unusual share of toil and trouble, and found a small craft about to sail for California—took passage in her, and, in due time, arrived at San Francisco. The gold-fever had just set in there. The whole town was in an uproar of confusion. Excitable men had given up their ordinary work, or shut their shops, and gone off to the diggings. Ships were lying idle in the bay, having been deserted by their crews, who had gone to the same point of attraction, and new arrivals were constantly swelling the tide of gold-seekers. Here Will Osten found his father’s agent—a staid old gentleman of Spanish extraction, who, being infirm as well as old, was fever-proof. Being somewhat taciturn, however, and rendered irritable by the upheavings of social life which were going on around him, he only vouchsafed the information that the estate which belonged to the late Mr Osten was near the goldfields; that it was not a rich one by any means, and that his advice to Will was to go and see it for himself. Accepting the advice, our hero expended the greater part of his remaining cash in purchasing provisions, etcetera, for the journey to the Sacramento River. By steamer they accomplished the first part of it, and on horseback progressed north-eastward until they drew near to the mighty mountain range named the Sierra Nevada.

On the way they had more than enough of company, for men of every clime and of all ages, between sixteen and fifty, were travelling on every description of horse and mule in the same direction. From most of these, however, they parted on reaching the entrance to the narrow valley in which the estate was said to lie.

“Is it far up the valley?” asked Will Osten of the landlord of the last ranche, or inn (a small hovel) in which they had passed the night.

“Not far,” replied the innkeeper, a shrewd intelligent Yankee, with a touch of the nasal tone for which the race is noted; “guess it’s about three leagues off.”

“A wild gloomy sort o’ place, no doubt?” asked Larry.

“Rayther. It’ll stand tamin’ a bit. There’s nobody lives in the whole valley ’xcept a band o’ miners who have been prospectin’ all over it an’ locatin’ themselves in the house without leave.”

“Locatin’, is it?” exclaimed Larry, “faix, it’s vacatin’ it they’ll be, widout so much as ‘by yer lave,’ this night.”

“Have they found much gold, do you know?” asked Will Osten.

“Believe not,” replied the innkeeper. “It’s not a likely place—though there may be some, for gold has been found below this, as you would see, I s’pose, when you passed the diggers on Cocktail Creek.”

Bidding the host good-bye, our hero and his friends rode off to take possession of the estate. They were well armed, for, in these days, might, not right, was the law of the land.

It was evening before they reached the head of the valley where stood the house or wooden cottage which had been the abode of Will’s eccentric old relative. The scenery was savage and forbidding in the extreme. Lofty mountains rose on every side, and only a small portion of the land in the neighbourhood of the dwelling had been brought under cultivation. The house itself was a low long-shaped building, and stood on the banks of a stream which gushed and tumbled furiously along its rocky bed, as if in hot haste to escape from the dark mountain gorges which gave it birth. A hut near by was the residence of an old native who had been the owner’s only servant, and a few cattle grazing in the meadow behind the house were tended by him with as much solicitude as though his late master had been still alive. The only cheering point in the scene was a gleam of ruddy light which shot from a window of the house and lost itself in the deepening gloom of evening.

“A most lugubrious spot,” said Will, surveying it sadly as he rode forward.

“Faix, I’d recommend ye to sell it to the miners for whativer it’ll fetch,” said Larry, in a disappointed tone.

“They’re a jovial set of squatters, whatever else they may be,” said Big Ben, as an uproarious chorus issued from the house. “Hallo! Bunco, what d’ye hear, lad?”

Bunco’s visage displayed at that moment a compound expression of surprise and deep attention. Again the chorus swelled out and came down on the breeze, inducing Bunco to mutter a few words to Big Ben in his native tongue.

“What is it?” inquired Will, eagerly, on beholding the huge frame of the trapper quivering with suppressed laughter.

“Nothin’, nothin’,” said Ben, dismounting, “only the redskin’s ears are sharp, and he has heard surprisin’ sounds. Go with him on foot. I’ll hold the horses.”

“Come ’long, foller me quick as you can,” said Bunco, in a whisper—“no take gum?—no use for dem.”

Filled with surprise and curiosity, Will and Larry followed their comrade, who went straight towards the window from which the light streamed. A voice was heard singing within, but it was not loud, and the air could not be distinguished until the chorus burst forth from, a number of powerful lungs:—

“Hearts of oak are our ships, Jolly tars are our men—”

At the first note, Larry sprang past his companions, and peeped into the room. The sight that met his gaze was indeed well calculated to strike him dumb, for there, in a circle on the floor, with the remains of a roast of beef in the centre—red-shirted, long-booted, uncombed, and deeply bronzed—sat six old comrades, whom they had not seen for such a length of time that they had almost forgotten their existence—namely, Captain Dall, long David Cupples, old Peter, Captain Blathers, Muggins, and Buckawanga! They were seated, in every variety of attitude, round a packing-box, which did duty for a table, and each held in his hand a tin mug, from which he drained a long draught at the end of the chorus. The last shout of the chorus was given with such vigour that Larry O’Hale was unable to restrain himself. He flung open the door, leaped into the room with a cheer and a yell that caused every man to spring up and seize the nearest weapon, and Captain Dall, in a burst of fiery indignation, was in the act of bringing a huge mass of firewood down on the Irishman’s skull when Will Osten sprang in and arrested his arm. At the same moment Muggins recognised his old messmate, and, rushing at him, seized him with a hug worthy of a black bear!

To describe the scene of surprise, confusion, and delight that followed were impossible. The questions put that were never answered; the answers given to questions never put; the exclamations; the cross purposes; the inextricable conglomeration of past, present, and future history—public, personal, and local; uttered, ejaculated and gasped, in short, or incomplete, or disjointed sentences—all this baffles description. After a few minutes, however, they quieted down, and, while the new arrivals attacked the roast of beef, their former messmates talked incessantly, and all at once!

“You’re the laird of a splendid estate of rocks and scrub,” said Captain Dall to Will.

“Not to mention the river,” replied Will, smiling.

“Without fish in it, ha!” groaned Cupples.

“But lots o’ goold,” suggested Larry, with a wink; “give us a drop o’ yer grog, lads, it’s dry work meetin’ so many friends all at wanst.”

“Nothin’ but water here!” said Muggins.

“What! wos ye singin’ like that on cowld wather?”

“We wos!” returned Muggins.

“An’ what’s more,” said Old Peter, “we’ve got used to it, an’ don’t feel the want of grog at all. ‘What’s in a name,’ as Jonathan Edwards says in his play of ‘Have it yer own way,’ or somethin’ like that. Why, if you call it grog an’ make believe, it goes down like—like—”

“Wather,” suggested Larry; “well, well, let’s have a drop, whativer it is.”

“But how comes it to pass,” inquired Will, “that we should all meet here just as people are made to do in a novel, or at the end of the last scene in a play?”

“Nothing more natural,” said Captain Blathers. “You know, when we were cast adrift by the scoundrels that took my ship, Captain Dall, Mr Cupples, and I, made the coast, and got to San Francisco, where we remained, working at what we could, to scrape together a little money before leaving for England, as we had no heart for the goldfields. Some months after that we were surprised to see Old Peter and Muggins wandering about the town like beggars. They had come in a small craft from South America, and were very glad to join us. We were soon persuaded by them to go to the goldfields, and were about to start when we heard of this estate that had been left to a Mr Osten by his brother. I made inquiries, found it was your father it was left to, and, having heard from Muggins of your father’s death, I wrote a letter to let you know we were here, and to ask advice—which letter, by the way, is about half seas over to England by this time, if all’s well. Then we agreed to come here, and prospect for gold all over the estate—the which we have done, but without much luck as yet, I’m sorry to say.”

“But you have not yet accounted for the appearance of Buckawanga?” said Will.

“Oh, as to that, Muggins recognised him one day in the street. We found he had come over from them rascally Cannibal Islands, in the service of a missionary—”

“What!” exclaimed Will, dropping his knife and fork.

“The missionary, you know,” said Captain Dall; “Mr Westwood, who—”

“Is he—is his family—in San Francisco?” asked Will, recovering himself and pretending to be busy with his supper.

“Ay, he is on his way to England—waiting for a ship, I believe; but Buckawanga prefers the goldfields, and so, has come with us, as you see.”

“Are the Westwoods well—all of them?”

“So far as we know, they are. But in regard to the gold hereabouts—”

“Ay, that’s the thing,” said Larry, who had glanced at our hero with twinkling eyes when reference was made to the Westwoods; “nothin’ like goold to warm the heart of a poor man an’ gladden the eyes of a rich wan. It’s that same as’ll interest the doctor most.”

“Well,” resumed the captain, “as I was about to say—”

“Didn’t I hear you say something about going to San Francisco for fresh supplies and more tools a few minutes ago?” asked Will, abruptly.

“You did; we are short of provender and hard up for tools. I meant to start to-morrow, but now that you’ve come I’ll delay—”

“We’ll not delay an hour,” cried Will, with unusual energy. “It will never do to waste time here when people are making fortunes all round us. The rest of the party can remain to prospect—but you and I, captain, will start for San Francisco to-morrow!”

“Ho, ho!” said Larry to himself that night, as he smoked his pipe after retiring to rest; “it’s neck or nothin’ is it—never ventur’ never win, is the word? Well, well, ’tis the way o’ the world. My blessin’ go wid ye, doctor.” With this benediction on his lips he turned round, shook the ashes out of his pipe and went to sleep.

Chapter Six.

In which Will makes a Retrograde Movement, and things come to a Pretty Pass—A Sudden and Decisive Step.

Next morning, true to his word, Will Osten started off to retrace his steps to San Francisco, much to the regret as well as surprise of all his friends, except Larry O’Hale and Bunco, both of whom, being aware of his motive, chuckled mightily in their sleeves but wisely said nothing. Will was accompanied by Captain Dall and Mr Cupples, the former of whom gave him an account of his adventures since the period of their separation in the South Seas. As most of these adventures, however, were not particularly striking, and as they do not bear upon our tale, we will not inflict them on the reader, but merely refer to that part of the captain’s career which was mixed up with our hero’s new possessions in the Grizzly Bear Gulch, as his valley was named.

“You see, doctor,” said Captain Dall, as they cantered easily over the soft turf of a wide plain, which, a little beyond the entrance to the gulch, spread out for a considerable distance along the base of the Sierra Nevada, “you see, when we discovered that this valley, or gulch, as they call it here, was yours—or your father’s, which I suppose means the same thing—Captain Blathers, Mr Cupples, Muggins, Old Peter, and I held a council of war, and came to the conclusion that we would go up an’ have a look at it, hopin’ to find gold, but first of all we went to the regular diggin’s on the Sacramento River to learn how to wash out the dirt an’ make enough to keep us goin’. When we had done this an’ lined our pockets with enough of gold-dust to set us up, we started for Grizzly Bear Gulch, where we found nobody but Old Timothy, the native that had been your uncle’s servant.”

“Timothy,” said Will, “was that his name?”

“No, but he could not tell us his name, for the good reason that he does not understand a word of English, so we christened him Timothy, and he answers to it. The old man cut up rusty at first, and seemed disposed to drive us away, but by howling the name of Osten into his ears and giving him a little gold, we converted him into a friend, and got him to allow us to squat in the empty house. Then we went off prospecting, and found gold, sure enough, in the stream in front of the door, but there was not much in the places we tried—little more than enough to pay.”

“Then you don’t think much of the property, I suppose,” said Will, “for it is evident that in regard to agriculture it is not worth a straw?”

“I’m not so sure of that,” returned the captain. “What do you think, Mr Cupples?”

The mate, whose melancholy tones and expressions had increased with his shore-going experiences, said that he did not know; that he was no judge of such matters, but that gold might be found in quantity, and, if so, the place would be worth something!

“A safe conclusion,” said the captain, laughing; “but that is just the point. Gold has turned up in all directions near the valley, and why should we not find it there? Besides, there is a pretty fair bit of land under cultivation, and vegetables fetch fabulous prices at the diggin’s; in addition to which there are a good many cattle on the ground, and provisions of all kinds are as good as gold just now—so, you see, I think that even if we don’t find more of the dust on it, there is some chance that you may raise the wind by the property if you act wisely.”

“Well, we shall see,” said Will; “at all events I intend to make the most of my opportunities—and, talking of that, Captain Dall, as I see that Mr Cupples is lagging behind, a word in your ear—I’ll tell you a secret.”

Hereupon our hero made the captain his confidant; told him of the object of his journey, and begged his advice and assistance, both of which the worthy man agreed to give him, to any extent, at any time, and under all circumstances—proving the sincerity of his assurances on the spot by at once offering several pieces of advice. One of these was, that Will should hasten on the consummation of his wishes without delay. This, as may be believed, was so consonant with Will’s own opinion that he accepted it at once, and acted upon it then and there, as far as was possible, by plying whip and spur so vigorously that his steed skimmed over the plain more like a swallow than a quadruped.

Progressing thus they were not long in reaching the city of Sacramento, which was four or five days’ journey from Grizzly Bear Gulch. Here they embarked in a small schooner, and descended the noble Sacramento River, into which all the other rivers in California flow. Thence they coasted along the bay of San Francisco, which is a land-locked sea of more than forty miles in length, and, finally, anchored off the town of the same name. And a wonderful town it was! The news of the discovery of gold had drawn so many thousands of ships and men to the port, that the hamlet of former days had become a city of tents and iron and wooden edifices of every kind. Gold can indeed work wonders—and never was its power more wonderfully displayed than in the rapid growth of San Francisco.

But our hero took small note of such matters. He was bent on a mission which engrossed his whole soul and all his faculties, and the fear that the Westwoods had found a homeward-bound ship, and perhaps had already set sail, induced him to go about everything he did in feverish haste. During the few weeks that had passed since he last saw it, the town had so changed its features that Will could scarce find his way, but at last he managed to discover the office of the agent who had advised him to go and see his property. Mr Zulino, as he was named, received his visitor with his wonted crustiness mingled with surprise, which was somewhat increased when he found that Will could not give a very comprehensible reason for his sudden return to the city. He could give no information as to the Westwoods, knew nothing about them, but advised that Will should make inquiry at the principal hotels in the town and at the shipping office, adding that he believed one of the ships which had long been lying in the port, unable to sail for want of hands, had at last succeeded in getting up a crew, and was to sail in a day or two for England, but he did not know her name or anything about her.

“It is plain we can make nothing out of Mr Zulino,” said Will, with a look of chagrin, on quitting the office. “Come, let us go hunt up the hotels.”

“Agreed,” cried Captain Dall. Mr Cupples groaned his readiness to follow, so they set off.

All that day the three wandered about the city into every hotel and shipping office, and every public place they could find, until they were thoroughly exhausted, but without success.

“Now, doctor,” said the captain, wiping his heated brow, “if we are to gain our ends, it is plain that we must feed. I feel like a ship’s hold without a cargo. See, here is a comfortable-looking inn; let us go and stow away something solid, have a pipe, and then turn in, so as to go at it fresh to-morrow morning early.”

“Very well,” said Will, languidly; “but I cannot rest, so do you go and order something while I try to cool myself by taking a stroll up this hill; I’ll be back before supper is ready.”

“I will go with you,” said Mr Cupples, gloomily.

Poor Will would have gladly gone alone, but as he had no good reason for declining the companionship of his tall and solemn friend, he merely said “Very good,” and walked away. Passing over the hill they came to a neat little cottage with a small garden in front, in which were a variety of flowers that evidently were well tended. The windows and doors of the cottage were invitingly open. As they passed the garden-gate a voice suddenly exclaimed, “Walk in.”

They stopped abruptly, looked at the open door, and then at each other in surprise.

“Walk in,” repeated the voice, louder than before.

“Well, really, I don’t see why we should refuse so pressing an invitation,” said Will with a smile.

“You may go in; I’ll wait for you,” said Mr Cupples.

In another minute our hero was in the lobby of the cottage, and then he discovered,—on the words “walk in” being reiterated very gruffly,—that it was a grey parrot which had been thus taught to use the language of hospitality! Will laughed, and was about to turn on his heel when he observed a female reclining on a couch in one of the rooms. She looked up quickly on hearing his step and laugh, and Will, hesitating for a moment, advanced with the intention of explaining and apologising.

“Forgive my apparent intrusion, madam,” he said, “but your parrot deceived—what!—am I—Flora—Miss Westwood!” he exclaimed in amazement, leaping forward and seizing her hand.

“Mr Osten!” said Flora, with a look of unfeigned surprise, “can it be—I—I—did not know—really—”

Now, reader, it would be ungenerous were we to give you a detailed account of all the absurd things that were uttered at the commencement of the conversation. Suffice it to say that Will and Flora stammered and blushed, and grew hot and cold, and tried to look cool and failed, signally, and then, feeling how very awkward their position was, made a desperate effort to be commonplace, and so began to talk with intense solicitude about “the weather!” Will soon perceived, however, that in the circumstances this was utterly ridiculous, so he made another effort and asked about Flora’s father and mother, and then, happy thought, he suddenly remembered Buckawanga, and began to descant upon him, after which he naturally slid into ships and voyaging, and so came abruptly to the question:—

“By the way, Miss Westwood, is it true that you are trying to secure a passage to England just now?”

“We have succeeded in securing one,” said Flora, with a deep blush and a peculiar look. “We sail to-morrow.”

“To-morrow!” cried Will, in consternation.

There was for a moment a great swelling of something in our hero’s breast; then a sudden thought occurred, “Never venture never—;” next instant he seized Flora’s hand. “Oh, Miss West— Flora, dearest Flora—forgive—nay, do not turn away, I entreat, I beseech—”

“Old rascal!” exclaimed a stern voice at his back at that moment.

Will sprang up, burning with anger, and turning sharply round, observed the parrot gazing at him in mute surprise.

“Walk in—old rascal,” repeated the bird.

Will laughed, but there was a touch of bitterness in his tone as he turned again to Flora, who had risen from the couch.

“This is an awkward interruption, Flo—Miss Westwood, but necessity constrains me. I must, I will speak now, if—bear with me, dear girl, I did not mean to be rude, but—”

A footstep was heard in the passage.

“Supper will be cooling, I fear,” said the hollow voice of Mr Cupples. “Oh! I beg pardon. I did not know—I—”

Will turned, and rushed at his friend with savage intentions. At the same moment the figure of a man darkened the doorway. Mr Cupples vanished out of the house, Flora glided away, and Will Osten found himself face to face with Mr Westwood!

It might have been expected that the scene which followed would have been an embarrassing one, but such was not the case. Our hero had reached that point of nervous and mental turmoil and exasperation in which extremes meet. As the strong current of a river meets the rush of the rising tide, and at a certain point produces dead calm, so the conflicting currents in Will’s bosom reached the flood, and he became desperately serene, insomuch that he held out his hand to Mr Westwood, and, with a smile of candour and a tone of deep earnestness, explained “the situation,” and made “a clean breast of it.” The result was, that Mr and Mrs Westwood received his advances favourably, but, being naturally cautious and solicitous about the happiness of their daughter, they pointed out that it was impossible to come to any conclusion at that time, because, in the first place, Will was, by his own showing, a poor wanderer with only the prospect of an income at his mother’s death, and without professional practice; and, in the second place, as they were to set sail for England on the morrow, there was no time left even for consideration. Mr Westwood, therefore, said that he could not permit Will to see Flora again, except to bid her farewell, and advised him to have patience until he should return to England, where, he said frankly, he would be happy to see him. Will thereupon left the cottage, in a state of distraction, to lay his case before Captain Dall.

“So you see, captain,” he added, after detailing all the circumstances, “there is only one course open to me, and that I am resolved to pursue. I shall sail for England in the—the what’s the name of the ship the Westwoods are to sail in?”

“Don’t know,” answered the captain.

“Of course not—no matter. We shall find out. She sails to-morrow at all events, and I go with her. You will go back with Mr Cupples to Grizzly Bear Gulch, work the gold, make what you can out of it, pay yourselves, and hold the estate for me. I’ll get that legally arranged to-night. You’ll tell my comrades how sorry I am to leave them so abruptly, but under the circumstances they will—”

“Softly,” interrupted Captain Dall; “if all this is to be settled to-night, we had better set about it at once, and not waste time with words.”

“Right, captain. Let us off to search for the captain of the ship.”

Leaving Mr Cupples to eat the supper alone, our hero and his friend went out in hot haste, and soon found themselves in the presence of the captain of the Roving Bess, which was to sail next day.

“By the way,” whispered Will to his friend, as they were entering the room in which the skipper sat, “do you happen to have any cash? for I have only twenty pounds.”

“Not a rap,” whispered the captain.

“You are the captain of the Roving Bess, I am told?” said Will, addressing a big rawboned man, who sat at a table solacing himself with a glass of spirits and water and a cigar.

“Ya–a–s, Cap’n Bra–a–o–wn, at y’r sarvice.”

Captain Brown drawled this out so slowly that one might have supposed he did it on principle, as a sort of general protest against the high-pressure speed and hurry that influenced every one around him.

“You have passengers going, I understand?”

“Ya–a–s. Reverend genlm’n an’ two ladies.”

“Can you take another?”

“A dozen mo–a–r, if need be.”

“Then put my name down. How much is the passage fare?”

“Fo–a–g–sl two hundred, cabin three hundred pa–o–unds.”

“What!” exclaimed Will.

Captain Brown smiled. “You see,” said he, “it c–a–unt be done for less—ha— ’Bliged to give fa-bu-lous wages to crew, and only too thankful to get ’em at any price. Provisions cost their weight, a-most, in gold.”

“Will you be here an hour hence?” asked our hero.

“Ya–a–s, two hours hence,” drawled Captain Brown, lighting a fresh cigar at the stump of the old one.

Will Osten linked his arm through that of Captain Dall, and hurried him into the street.

“Now to the agent,” he said. “If he fails me, all is lost—stay! no; I can offer to work my passage. That did not occur to me till now. I shall keep it in reserve.”

A few minutes more and they stood in the presence of Mr Zulino.

“Is it possible,” said Will, with an anxious expression of face, “to sell the property in Grizzly Bear Gulch immediately?”

The dry visage of the agent wrinkled into a sarcastic smile as he replied “Ha! I see, you are like all the rest—wish to turn everything into gold. Well, it is possible to sell it, I make no doubt, because it is well situated and will increase in value; but what, do you mean by immediately?”

“To-night,” said Will.

“Impossible.”

“What’s to be done?” cried our hero, turning to Captain Dall with a look of such perplexity and disappointment that even the hard heart of Mr Zulino was touched.

“Why such haste?” he inquired.

“Because business of the most urgent kind requires that I should embark for England in a vessel which sails to-morrow, and I have not money enough to pay for my passage.”

“I can lend you some on the property, at a high rate of interest,” said the agent.

“Then do so, my dear sir,” said Will earnestly, “at any rate of interest you choose, and I will sign any papers you may require. My friend here, Captain Dall, will see that you are regularly paid. I assure you that I shall never forget the obligation.”

“Follow me,” said Mr Zulino, rising and putting on his hat.

He led them to the office of a man who appeared to be connected with the law, and who drew up a paper which, being duly signed and witnessed, Mr Zulino put in his pocket, at the same time handing Will Osten a cheque for four hundred pounds.

“Now, captain,” said Will, with a deep sigh of relief, as they, once more issued into the street, “we’ll go and enjoy our supper.”

Next morning Will Osten, with a small portmanteau containing his little all in his hand, and accompanied by Captain Dall and Mr Cupples, pushed his way through the crowded streets to the quay, where a boat awaited him.

“Once more, Captain Dall,” he said, turning round and grasping his friend’s hand, “farewell! I am sorry—more so than I can tell—to leave you. May God prosper you wherever you go. Remember my messages to our friends at the gulch. Tell Larry and Bunco, and the trapper especially, that I feel almost like a criminal for giving them the slip thus. But how can I help it?”

“Of course, of course,” said Captain Dall, returning the hearty squeeze of Will’s hand, “how could you? Love, like necessity, has no law—or, rather, itself is a law which all must obey. Good-bye, lad, and good luck attend ee.”

Silently shaking hands with Mr Cupples, whose lugubrious expression seemed appropriate to the occasion, Will leaped into the boat and was soon rowing over the bay to the spot where the Roving Bess lay with her anchor tripped and her sails loose. On approaching, he saw that Mr Westwood and his wife were pacing the quarterdeck, but Flora was not visible, the reason being that that busy little woman was down in her father’s berth putting it to rights—arranging and re-arranging everything, and puzzling her brains with numerous little contrivances which were all meant to add to the comfort and snugness of the place—wonderfully ingenious contrivances, which could not have emanated from the brain of any woman but one who possessed a warm heart, an earnest soul, a sweet face, and a turned-up nose! She was a good deal dishevelled about the head, in consequence of her exertions, and rather flushed, and her eyes were a little moist. Perhaps she was sad at the thought of leaving San Francisco—but no—she was leaving no friends behind her there. That could not have been the cause!

The little round port-hole of the berth was open, and she stopped ever and anon in the midst of her operations to look out and listen to the variety of shouts and songs that came from the boats, vessels, and barges in the bay. Suddenly she stopped, turned her head the least bit to one side, and listened intently.

“My dear,” said Mr Westwood to his wife, standing on the deck and leaning over the bulwarks, exactly above the open port near to which Flora stood, “can that be Mr Osten in yonder boat?”

Flora’s bosom heaved, and her colour vanished.

“I think it is—stay—no—it looks like—yes, it is he,” said Mrs Westwood.

Flora’s face and neck became scarlet.

Presently the plash of oars were heard near the vessel, and next moment a boat approached, but not from such a quarter as to be visible from the port-hole.

“Mind your starboard oar,” said a deep voice, which caused Flora’s heart to beat against her chest, as if that dear little receptacle of good thoughts and warm feelings were too small to contain it, and it wanted to get out.

“Good morning, Mr Osten,” cried Mr Westwood, looking down.

“Good morning, sir,—good morning, Mrs Westwood,” answered Will, looking up.

“It is very kind of you to take the trouble to come off to bid us good-bye,” said Mr Westwood.

Flora trembled a little, and leaned upon the side of the berth.

“I have not come to say good-bye,” said Will (Flora’s eyes opened wide with astonishment), “I am going—fend off, men, fend off, mind what you are about—I am going,” he said, looking up with a smile, “to sail with you to England.”

A peculiar gleam shot from Flora’s eyes; the blood mantled again on her brow, and, sinking into a chair, she pressed her hands to her face and buried her head in her father’s pillow!

Chapter Seven.

Rambling Reminiscences of Absent Friends, and a Happy Termination.

On the evening of a cold December day—the last day of the year—many months after the occurrence of the events narrated in the last chapter, old Mrs Osten sat in her drawing-room, toasting her toes before a cheerful fire. The widow looked very happy, and, to say truth, she had good reason for being so, for her stalwart son had come home to her safe and sound, and was at that moment sitting by her side talking in a most amazing way about his Flora—referring to her as a sort of captive bird which had now no chance of escaping, saying that he meant to take her to Paris, and Switzerland, and Rome, and in summer to the English Lakes, and Killarney, and the Scotch Highlands.

“In fact, mother,” said Will, “after that little event comes off, which is fixed to take place next week, I mean to act the part of Wandering Will over again under entirely new and much more interesting circumstances. Ah! mother,” he continued with enthusiasm, “how little did I think, when I was travelling through the wild regions of the far west, that I was being led to the spot where I should find such a wife!”

“Yes, dear, you were indeed led,” said Mrs Osten, “for that wild region was the very last place in the world to which you would have thought of going to look for a good wife, had you been guided by your own wisdom.”

“True, mother, most true. Gold is much more plentiful in that land than wives, either good or bad. I wonder how my old comrades are getting on there now. You remember Larry, mother, and Bunco. How I wish I could have had them all here at our wedding! You would have delighted in old Captain Dall, and Captain Blathers, too, he’s not a bad fellow though rather wild, but Big Ben would have pleased you most—by the way, this is the last night of the year. I doubt not they will be remembering me to-night, and drinking my health in clear cold water from the crystal springs of the Sierra Nevada. Come, I will pledge them in the same beverage,” said Will, seizing a glass of water that stood at his elbow; “may success, in the highest sense of the word, attend them through life.”

“Amen,” murmured the widow, as Will drained the glass; “I hope they may get plenty of gold without catching the gold-fever, which is just another name for the love of gold, and that, you know, is the root of all evil. But go on telling me about your adventures, Will; I never tire of hearing you relate them.”

“Well, mother, I’ll begin again, but if you will be for ever interrupting me with questions and remarks about Flora, I shall never get to the end of them. Now, then, listen.”

Hereupon Will began to talk, and his mother to listen, with, we need scarcely say, intense interest.

Thus was the last night of that year passed in the drawing-room. Let us see how it was spent in the kitchen.

“Yes, Jemimar,” said Maryann, with her mouth full of buttered toast, “I always said it, and I always thought it, and I always knowed it, that Master Will would come ’ome, and marry a sweet beautiful young lady, which ’as come true, if ever a profit spoke, since the day of Jackariah—let me fill your cup, my dear, p’raps you’ll ’and me the kettle, Richards.”

The worthy coachman rose with alacrity to obey, and Jemima accepted the proffered cup of tea in the midst of a vain attempt to quiet the baby Richards, which happened to be unusually restive that night.

“To think, too,” continued Maryann with a laugh, “that I should ’ave gone an’ mistook the dear creetur at first for a cannibal!”

“Maryhann,” said Jemima, solemnly, “I don’t believe there’s no such things as cannibals.”

“No more do I, Jemimar—did you speak, Mr Richards?” inquired Maryann, with a sudden assumption of dignity.

The coachman, who was devotedly engaged with his fifth slice of buttered toast, protested solemnly that he had not spoken, but admitted that he had experienced a tendency to choke—owing to crumbs—just at the point when Maryann happened to allude to the cannibals. Maryann had a suspicion that the tendency to choke was owing to other causes than crumbs; but as she could not prove her point, and as the baby Richards took it into his head at that moment to burst into an unaccountable and vehement fit of laughter, she merely tossed her head, and resumed her observations.

“No, Jemimar, nothing will ever convince me that there are any savages so depravated as to prefer a slice of ’uman flesh to a good beefsteak, an’ it’s my belief that that himperent Irishman, Larry O’Ale, inwented it all to gammon us.”

“I quite agree with you, Maryhann,” said Jemima, who indeed always agreed with any proposition her friend chose to put forth; “an’ I ’old that it is contrairy to ’uman reason to imagin such beastliness, much less to do it.”

Here Richards had the temerity to observe that he wasn’t quite sure that such things were never done; “for,” said he, “I ’eard Mr Osten himself say as ’ow he’d seen ’em do it, an’ surely he wouldn’t go for to tell a lie.” At which remark Jemima advised him to hold his tongue, and Maryann replied, with an expression of scorn, that she wondered to ’ear ’im. Did he suppose Master Will didn’t sometimes indulge in a little ’armless jesting like other people? She would have added more, but unfortunately the crumbs got into Richards’ throat again, causing that sceptical man to grow red in the face, and give vent to sounds like mild choking.

“’Owever,” observed Jemima, “it don’t matter now, as Mr William and ’is bride are safe ’ome again, and if Mr O’Ale also was fond of a joke, like other people, there is no ’arm in that. Poor fellow, I ’ope ’e’s well, an’ Mr Bunco too, though he is a Red Hindian.”

“’Ear ’ear!” said Richards, suddenly seizing his cup; “let us drink their ’ealth, an’ the ’ealth of all their comrades, for this is the last night of the year, an’ by all accounts they won’t likely be spendin’ it in the midst o’ such comforts an’ blessin’s as we does. Come, lasses, drink it merrily, fill yer glasses, let the teapot circle round.”

The tone in which this proposal was made, and the fact that it was the last night of the year, induced Maryann to respond, with gracious condescension:—

“Well, Richards, I’m agreeable.”

“Here, then,” said Richards, raising his cup on high, “I give you the ’ealth of Mr Larry O’Ale, Mr Bunco, an’ all absent friends—wishin’ ’em luck, an’ lots o’ gold.”

“An’ a ’appy deliverance from these ’orrible countries,” added Maryann.

“I agree with you, Maryhann,” said Jemima, draining her cup to the dregs in honour of the toast.

But how did Larry and his friends spend that last night of the year in the far-off golden land? Let Larry speak for himself, in a letter which was received by Will Osten, many months afterwards, and which we now give verbatim et literatim.

The letter in question was written in a remarkably cramped hand, on several very dirty sheets of blue ruled foolscap, folded with much care and crookedness, and fastened with a red wafer which bore the distinct impression of an extremely hard knuckle. It ran thus:—

“Grizlie bar gultch first janooary.

“Dear mister osten, i taik up my pen, the its litil i has to do wid sitch things, to let yoo no that this coms hopin’ your al wel as it leeves us—barrin bunko who overait hiself last nite at super but hees al rite again, yool be glad to larn that we hav diskivered lots o goold. wan day whin i wos up the straim i thowt id tri me luk in a hole, an faix didnt i turn up a nugit o puer goold as big as my hid. i tuk it down to the hous an’ didnt we spind a nite over it! its glad i was we had no likker for i do belaive weed have all got rorin drunk, as it was, sure we danced haf the nite to the myoosik of a kitle drum—an owld tin kitle it was, but we didnt mind that, niver a taist, for the nugit kep up our sperits. Wel, we wint an turned up the hole kuntry after that, an’ got heeps o goold. yool niver belaive it—there was nugits o’ all sises from a pay to a pitaity. Kaptin dal wint to sanfransisky last munth an hees paid of the det to mister zooleeno, interest an all, so yoor free, an’ theres a big sum in the bank, but i dont no ritely how much, but Kaptin dal is to rite yoo soon as to that an’ a good many other things, he’s too much exited about the nugit just now to midle wid the pen, so he’s maid me his depity, dee see, an its that saim im allways willin to be, for im at all times as kool as a kookumber, an had a first-rate eddikashun—good luk to the parish praist, anyhow—theres a good skreed to begin wid, an’ so as theres enuff in this part o’ me leter to kaip ye thinkin till dinner, ill just go out an have another dig in the straim an resoom me pen when i cum bak.

“Wel, mister osten, as i wor saying, ive returned havin got nothin, bad skran to it, but a few small bits like a thimble, howsumeiver, that samell pay for sharpnin the tools, i now sit down to resoom me pen, as i said before i got up, but och! if ye heerd the row the other boys is goin on wid, yed find it as diffikilt to read this as i do to spel it. but niver mind, that saim dont mater much, for, as i said before, im allways kooll.

“Wel—youve no notion what a work we hav wid the goold, bekais, dee see, weer pikin it up in handfulls, sumtimes wid a nugit, now an again, like yer fist, an the boys is raither exited, for ov koorse they kant al keep as kool as me—but let that pas. as I wor sayin, the row is diffinin for that blakgird Buckywangy is spinin a yarn as long as the mane yard o a sivinty-fore about wan o’ thim spalpeens in the kanible ilands as had his unkles darters waitin maid, as wor a slaiv, hashed up, wid two litle boys an a pig, into what hees got the face to call a Irish stu, an it didnt sit lit on the Kanibles stumick for the raisin they forgot the pepper—its not aisy to write wid sich blarny ringin’ in wans eers—an the boys larfin too as loud, amost as the nigers yel in the Kanible islands—be the way, that minds me o purty miss westwood as we met thair. its mistress osten sheel be by this no doubt, plaiz give her Larry’s best respeks, an its wishin her good luck i am, an the saim to yersilf.

“Yool be glad to heer that buncos found his wife, he wint away south for three or fore weeks, an brot her bak wid him, an she hadnt married nobody in his absence, the its urgin her purty hard they was. shees patchin a pair o me owld breeches at this minit while I write them lines, an is uncomon usful wid her needle, capn blathers says he had no notion before that wimin was so nisisary to man. but hees a dirty owld bachiler. the traper tawks o laivin us, im sory to say. hees a good harted man an a rail broth of a boy is big ben, but he dont take kindly to goold diggin, thats not to say he kant dig. hees made more nor most of us, an more be token he gave the most of it away to a poor retch of a feller as kaim hear sik an starvin on his way to sanfransisky. but big bens heart is in the roky mountins, i kan see that quite plain, i do belaiv he has a sowl above goold, an wood raither katch foxes an bars, he sais heel stop another month wid us an then make traks for his owld hants—just like the way we sailors long for the say after a spree on shore, the i must say non of us say-dogs have any longin as yit to smel salt water, big ben sais that this sort o work is nother good for body nor sowl—an, dee no, i half belaiv hees rite, for kool the i am i feels a litle feverish sometimes, i wos goin to tel ye a anikdot about mister cupples an a brown bar, but the boys are off to the straim again, so i must stop, but il resoom ritein after tay—hopin yool exkuse my fraquint interupshuns, mister ostin, il go.

“Wel, heer i am again—just comed in wid a failin about my inside like a botimles pitt, but thats aisy kured. il taik up the pen after tay, only i want to tell ye weer in luk agin, i got fore nugits as big as walnuts, and heeps o smal wans, an the rest has got a dale o goold wan way or other, now for super.

“There, the pitts fild up now. wel, whair was i. och! yes, it was about mister cupples an the brown bar. you must no that hees got the fever pritty bad, has mister cupples—the goold fever i mean, an goes off an owr or too before the rest of us waiks up of a mornin, but he dont make no more goold, which owld peter—yoo remimber owld peter, mister ostin—sais is a spechiel visitashun for his beein avaridgious. anyhow, he gits les slaip than the rest of us an no more goold. wel, as i wor sayin, he wint off wan mornin up the straim, an it so hapind that big ben and bunco wint in the saim direkshun. in the afternoon, as they was comin home, they turned off the trak an sot down to rest a bit. who shood they see comin along the trak soon arter but mister cupples. he was cumin along slow—meditatin like—for he always comed back slow from digin, as if he was loth to leav, but wint thair kuik enuff, anyhow, close behind him wos trotin a big brown bar. the bar didnt see him, by raisin that the trak was krookit and the skrub thik; but it was goin fast, and had almost overhawled mister cupples whin he wos cloas to the place whair the too men was hidin. heers fun, sais the traper, kokin his gun. bunco he grin’d, but didnt spaik. yool remimber, mister osten, bunco had a way of his own o grinin widout spaikin, but big ben sais his eyes more nor makes up for his tung. wel, just as he comes fornint the too men, mister cupples he heers a sound o futsteps behind him, an stops an turns round, heed no gun nor nothin wotsomiver wid him, havin left all the tools at the place he was digin. in a moment round the corner cums the bar ful swing, it was a sharp turn, and the site o the mate kuite took him aback, for he got up on his hind legs and showed al his grinders, mister cupples was also much took by surprise, but he suddently shook his fist in the bar’s face, an shoutid, ha, yoo raskal, as if he wor spaikin to a fellar creetur. whether it wos the length o the mate’s face, or not bein yoosed to convarsashun, no wan nos; but the bar he ’bout ship, clapt on all sail, and stood away up the gulch at the rait o 15 or 20 nots, while mister cupples he looked after him chuklin, an bunco and big ben too was larfin fit to bust their sides, the they larfed inside, like, for fear o diskiverin thimselves, but when big ben see the bar cleering off like that he up wid his gun, let drive, an put a bal kuite nate in the bak of his skul if mister cupples wasnt afeerd o the bar, he got a most awful frite by the shot, for yoo must no theres bin a dale o murtherin going on at the digins of lait, tho, be good luk, its not cum our way as yet, so he turned and run like al posesed. yoo no what long leggs hees got, faix, he cleerd the ground wid them like a peir o kumpasses, an he was out o site in no time, an cum heer pantin and blowin like a broken-winded steem-ingin. soon after that, big ben cum in wid the skin o the bar over his shoulder, and bunco caryin his too hams to smok, for bar hams ant bad aitin, let me tel yoo, if yoor hungry an not partickler. of koorse mister cupples hasnt had the life of a dog since, for the boys are for iver jokin him amost out of his siven sensis about that bar.

“This is about all iv got to tell, mister osten, not but that i cud go on for paiges an paiges yit, given ee odds an ends o smal tawk an ginral nuse, for whin i wance begin wid the pen i niver no when to stop—its awthership il taik to, maybe, if iver i git into diffikultys—but its ov no yoos spinin out a yarn when its done, so il stop now, wishin ye all helth an hapines, wid the saim from all yer owld frinds at the grizlie bar gultch digins. they bid me say thail never forgit the hapy days theyve spent wid ye in the south says, an the forests of south ameriky an the roky mountins. but them days is all past an gon now. sure i sometimes feel as if the hole thing was a draim. dont you, mister osten. wid best wishes, yoors til deth.

“Larry o hale.”

“p.s.—Plaze give my apologys to yoor muther for forgitin to send my respeks to her. also to maryan, whos a dasent woman av she wasnt so fond o’ fitein. also to richards an’ his beter haf gemima. Shees a good sowl too av she wasnt aflikted wid too ardint a desir to wair some of her husbands garmints. so no more at present from L.o.h.”

We can add little to the record so graphically penned by Larry O’Hale, and it were well, perhaps, that, having spun our yarn out to the end, we should follow his example and write no more. But we feel that it would be unjust to the memory of our hero were we to dismiss him without a “few words” as to his subsequent career.

It happens sometimes, though we believe not frequently, that those who begin life with what may be called a wild burst settle down at last into quiet domestic men, whose chief delight it is to “fight their battles o’er again” with sympathetic comrades, and to “wander in dreams.” Such was the case with Will Osten. Flora acted the part of a best-bower anchor to him all through life, and held him fast; but, if the whole truth must be told, it is our duty to add that Will did not strain hard at the cable! He rode easily in the calm harbour of home, which was seldom ruffled with gales—matrimonial or otherwise.

The success of his Californian estate was so great that, besides setting up in life the most of the comrades who had followed his fortunes, it placed himself beyond the necessity of working for his daily bread. Will did not, however, lead an idle life on that account. He recognised the great truth that he was answerable to his Creator for the management of his time and talents just as much as the man who has to earn his bread in the sweat of his brow, and he made it his chief aim in life to act the part of a faithful steward. That he did not succeed in this to the full extent of his wishes is certain, nevertheless his success must have been considerable if we are to believe the opinion of his friends, who used to say of him, with enthusiasm, that he was a blessing to the community in the midst of which he dwelt, for, in imitation of the Master whom he served, he went about continually doing good.

In process of time, several little boats (if we may be allowed the expression) appeared in the harbour and cast anchor alongside of Will; or, rather, attached themselves to the anchor which held him fast; and Flora was quite able to hold them all—though it must be admitted that she had infinitely more trouble with the little boats than she had with the big ship, for they had all wandering wills of their own, and, from the time of their first appearance, evinced a strong tendency to strain with tremendous vigour at their cables. Indeed, on several occasions, one or two of the boats attempted actually to cut their cables and make off, as the old ship had done before them, but Will’s wisdom and Flora’s winning ways prevailed, and it was found that, having been trained in the way in which they should go from the commencement, they did not depart from that way when they grew old.

In reference to the early existence of this little flotilla, we may, with propriety, quote the opinion of Maryann—than whom there could not be a better witness, for she dwelt in Will’s house, and nursed them all as she had nursed their father before them—superintended, of course, by old Mrs Osten, who dwelt in a cottage of her own hard by, and watched the rise and progress of her descendants for many a year with keen felicity. Maryann, in talking over matters with her faithful bosom friend, was wont to say:—

“Yes, Jemimar, I never had two opinions about it, they’re the beautifulest an’ sweetest children I ever did ’ave had to do with—just as Master Will, their papa, was simularly so; but I’m free to confess that they all has a surprisin’ sperrit. There’s Master William, now (I can’t abear to call him Will, because that was the name as ’is father went by, and I ’old that in a sense it is sacred), there’s Master William, though ’e’s only jist out o’ frocks an’ frilled trousers, and noo into blue tights an’ brass buttons, there ’e is, goin’ about the country on a pony as isn’t much bigger than a Noofoundland dog, but goes over the ’edges an ditches in a way as makes my blood to curdle an’ my skin to creep, with that dear boy on ’is back and ’is tail flyin be’ind, an’ shoutin’ with a sort of wild delight that I do think is wicked—I do indeed, Jemimar, I give you my word I think it sinful, though, of course, ’e dont mean it so, poor child, and ’is father cheerin’ ’im on in a way that must sear ’is conscience wuss than a red ’ot iron, w’ich ’is mother echoes too! it is quite past my compre’ension. Then ’e comes ’ome sich a figur, with ’oles in ’is trousers an’ ’is ’ats squeezed flat an’ ’is jackets torn. But Master Charles aint a bit better. Though ’e’s scarcely able to walk ’e can ride like a jockey, an’ needs more mendin’ of ’is clo’se than any six ordinary boys. Miss Flora, too, would be just as wild if she weren’t good and bidable, w’ich is ’er salvation; an’ the baby—oh! you wouldn’t believe it! didn’t I catch that hinfant, only the other day, tryin’ to throw a summerset in its bed, in imitation of Master William, an’ yesterday morning I caught Master Charles trying to teach it to ’ang on to the clo’se-rope in the nursery by its toes! It’s an awful trainin’ the poor things is gettin’—an’ the only comfort I ’ave in ’em is, that their dear mother do constantly teach ’em the Bible—w’ich condemns all sich things,—an’ she do manage to make ’em fond o’ wisitin’ an’ considerin’ of the poor.”

To which observations Jemima, holding up her hands and gazing at her bosom friend in sympathy, would reply that her own sentiments was hidentically simular, that things in general was to her most amazin’, and that there was no accountin’ for nothin’ in this life, but that w’atever came of it she ’oped the family would live long an’ ’appy in a world, w’ich was, she must confess, a most perplexing mixture of good and evil, though of course she wasn’t rightly able to understand or explain that, but she was sure of this anyhow, that, although she was by no means able to explain ’erself as well as she could wish, she knew that she wished well to every one who stuck to the golden rule like Mr and Mrs Osten.

With which sentiment, good reader, we shall conclude this chronicle of the life and adventures of Wandering Will, and respectfully bid you farewell.

The End.

Chapter One.

The Alarm.

Whitewing was a Red Indian of the North American prairies. Though not a chief of the highest standing, he was a very great man in the estimation of his tribe, for, besides being possessed of qualities which are highly esteemed among all savages—such as courage, strength, agility, and the like—he was a deep thinker, and held speculative views in regard to the Great Manitou (God), as well as the ordinary affairs of life, which perplexed even the oldest men of his tribe, and induced the younger men to look on him as a profound mystery.

Indeed the feelings of the latter towards Whitewing amounted almost to veneration, for while, on the one hand, he was noted as one of the most fearless among the braves, and a daring assailant of that king of the northern wilderness, the grizzly bear, he was, on the other hand, modest and retiring—never boasted of his prowess, disbelieved in the principle of revenge, which to most savages is not only a pleasure but a duty, and refused to decorate his sleeves or leggings with the scalp-locks of his enemies. Indeed he had been known to allow more than one enemy to escape from his hand in time of war when he might easily have killed him. Altogether, Whitewing was a monstrous puzzle to his fellows, and much beloved by many of them.

The only ornament which he allowed himself was the white wing of a ptarmigan. Hence his name. This symbol of purity was bound to his forehead by a band of red cloth wrought with the quills of the porcupine. It had been made for him by a dark-eyed girl whose name was an Indian word signifying “light heart.” But let it not be supposed that Lightheart’s head was like her heart. On the contrary, she had a good sound brain, and, although much given to laughter, jest, and raillery among her female friends, would listen with unflagging patience, and profound solemnity, to her lover’s soliloquies in reference to things past, present, and to come.

One of the peculiarities of Whitewing was that he did not treat women as mere slaves or inferior creatures. His own mother, a wrinkled, brown old thing resembling a piece of singed shoe-leather, he loved with a tenderness not usual in North American Indians, some tribes of whom have a tendency to forsake their aged ones, and leave them to perish rather than be burdened with them. Whitewing also thought that his betrothed was fit to hold intellectual converse with him, in which idea he was not far wrong.

At the time we introduce him to the reader he was on a visit to the Indian camp of Lightheart’s tribe in Clearvale, for the purpose of claiming his bride. His own tribe, of which the celebrated old warrior Bald Eagle was chief, dwelt in a valley at a considerable distance from the camp referred to.

There were two other visitors at the Indian camp at that time. One was a Wesleyan missionary who had penetrated to that remote region with a longing desire to carry the glad tidings of salvation in Jesus to the red men of the prairie. The other was a nondescript little white trapper, who may be aptly described as a mass of contradictions. He was small in stature, but amazingly strong; ugly, one-eyed, scarred in the face, and misshapen; yet wonderfully attractive, because of a sweet smile, a hearty manner, and a kindly disposition. With the courage of the lion, Little Tim, as he was styled, combined the agility of the monkey and the laziness of the sloth. Strange to say, Tim and Whitewing were bosom friends, although they differed in opinion on most things.

“The white man speaks again about Manitou to-day,” said the Indian, referring to the missionary’s intention to preach, as he and Little Tim concluded their midday meal in the wigwam that had been allotted to them.

“It’s little I cares for that,” replied Tim curtly, as he lighted the pipe with which he always wound up every meal.

Of course both men spoke in the Indian language, but that being probably unknown to the reader, we will try to convey in English as nearly as possible the slightly poetical tone of the one and the rough Backwoods’ style of the other.

“It seems strange to me,” returned the Indian, “that my white brother thinks and cares so little about his Manitou. He thinks much of his gun, and his traps, and his skins, and his powder, and his friend, but cares not for Manitou, who gave him all these—all that he possesses.”

“Look ’ee here, Whitewing,” returned the trapper, in his matter-of-fact way, “there’s nothing strange about it. I see you, and I see my gun and these other things, and can handle ’em; but I don’t know nothin’ about Manitou, and I don’t see him, so what’s the good o’ thinkin’ about him?”

Instead of answering, the red man looked silently and wistfully up into the blue sky, which could be seen through the raised curtain of the wigwam. Then, pointing to the landscape before them, he said in subdued but earnest tones, “I see him in the clouds—in the sun, and moon, and stars; in the prairies and in the mountains; I hear him in the singing waters and in the winds that scatter the leaves, and I feel him here.”

Whitewing laid his hand on his breast, and looked in his friend’s face.

“But,” he continued sadly, “I do not understand him, he whispers so softly that, though I hear, I cannot comprehend. I wonder why this is so.”

“Ay, that’s just it, Whitewing,” said the trapper. “We can’t make it out nohow, an’ so I just leaves all that sort o’ thing to the parsons, and give my mind to the things that I understand.”

“When Little Tim was a very small boy,” said the Indian, after a few minutes’ meditation, “did he understand how to trap the beaver and the martin, and how to point the rifle so as to carry death to the grizzly bear?”

“Of course not,” returned the trapper; “seems to me that that’s a foolish question.”

“But,” continued the Indian, “you came to know it at last?”

“I should just think I did,” returned the trapper, a look of self-satisfied pride crossing his scarred visage as he thought of the celebrity as a hunter to which he had attained. “It took me a goodish while, of course, to circumvent it all, but in time I got to be—well, you know what, an’ I’m not fond o’ blowin’ my own trumpet.”

“Yes; you came to it at last,” repeated Whitewing, “by giving your mind to things that at first you did not understand.”

“Come, come, my friend,” said Little Tim, with a laugh; “I’m no match for you in argiment, but, as I said before, I don’t understand Manitou, an’ I don’t see, or feel, or hear him, so it’s of no use tryin’.”

“What my friend knows not, another may tell him,” said Whitewing. “The white man says he knows Manitou, and brings a message from him. Three times I have listened to his words. They seem the words of truth. I go again to-day to hear his message.”

The Indian stood up as he spoke, and the trapper also rose.

“Well, well,” he said, knocking the ashes out of his pipe, “I’ll go too, though I’m afeared it won’t be o’ much use.”

The sermon which the man of God preached that day to the Indians was neither long nor profound, but it was delivered with the intense earnestness of one who thoroughly believes every word he utters, and feels that life and death may be trembling in the balance with those who listen. It is not our purpose to give this sermon in detail, but merely to show its influence on Whitewing, and how it affected the stirring incidents which followed.

Already the good man had preached three times the simple gospel of Jesus to these Indians, and with so much success that some were ready to believe, but others doubted, just as in the days of old. For the benefit of the former, he had this day chosen the text, “Let us run with patience the race that is set before us, looking unto Jesus.” Whitewing had been much troubled in spirit. His mind, if very inquiring, was also very sceptical. It was not that he would not—but that he could not—receive anything unless convinced. With a strong thirst after truth, he went to hear that day, but, strange to say, he could not fix his attention. Only one sentence seemed to fasten firmly on his memory: “It is the Spirit that quickeneth.” The text itself also made a profound impression on him.

The preacher had just concluded, and was about to raise his voice in prayer, when a shout was heard in the distance. It came from a man who was seen running over the prairie towards the camp, with the desperate haste of one who runs for his life.

All was at once commotion. The men sprang up, and, while some went out to meet the runner, others seized their weapons. In a few seconds a young man with bloodshot eyes, labouring chest, and streaming brow burst into their midst, with the news that a band of Blackfoot warriors, many hundred strong, was on its way to attack the camp of Bald Eagle; that he was one of that old chief’s braves, and was hasting to give his tribe timely warning, but that he had run so far and so fast as to be quite unable to go another step, and had turned aside to borrow a horse, or beg them to send on a fresh messenger.

“I will go,” said Whitewing, on hearing this; “and my horse is ready.”

He wasted no more time with words, but ran towards the hollow where his steed had been hobbled, that is, the two front legs tied together so as to admit of moderate freedom without the risk of desertion.

He was closely followed by his friend Little Tim, who, knowing well the red man’s staid and self-possessed character, was somewhat surprised to see by his flashing eyes and quick breathing that he was unusually excited.

“Whitewing is anxious,” he said, as they ran together.

“The woman whom I love better than life is in Bald Eagle’s camp,” was the brief reply.

“Oho!” thought Little Tim, but he spoke no word, for he knew his friend to be extremely reticent in regard to matters of the heart. For some time he had suspected him of what he styled a weakness in that organ. “Now,” thought he, “I know it.”

“Little Tim will go with me?” asked the Indian, as they turned into the hollow where the horses had been left.

“Ay, Whitewing,” answered the trapper, with a touch of enthusiasm; “Little Tim will stick to you through thick and thin, as long as—”

An exclamation from the Indian at that moment stopped him, for it was discovered that the horses were not there. The place was so open that concealment was not possible. The steeds of both men had somehow got rid of their hobbles and galloped away.

A feeling of despair came over the Indian at this discovery. It was quickly followed by a stern resolve. He was famed as being the fleetest and most enduring brave of his tribe. He would run home.

Without saying a word to his friend, he tightened his belt, and started off like a hound loosed from the leash. Little Tim ran a few hundred yards after him at top speed, but suddenly pulled up.

“Pooh! It’s useless,” he exclaimed. “I might as well run after a streak o’ greased lightnin’. Well, well, women have much to answer for! Who’d iver have thowt to see Whitewing shook off his balance like that? It strikes me I’ll sarve him best by lookin’ after the nags.”

While the trapper soliloquised thus he ran back to the camp to get one of the Indian horses, wherewith to go off in search of his own and that of his friend. He found the Indians busy making preparations to ride to the rescue of their Bald Eagle allies; but quick though these sons of the prairie were, they proved too slow for Little Tim, who leaped on the first horse he could lay hold of, and galloped away.

Meanwhile Whitewing ran with the fleet, untiring step of a trained runner whose heart is in his work; but the way was long, and as evening advanced even his superior powers began to fail a little. Still he held on, greatly overtaxing his strength. Nothing could have been more injudicious in a prolonged race. He began to suspect that it was unwise, when he came to a stretch of broken ground, which in the distance was traversed by a range of low hills. As he reached these he reduced the pace a little, but while he was clambering up the face of a rather precipitous cliff, the thought of the Blackfoot band and of the much-loved one came into his mind; prudence went to the winds, and in a moment he was on the summit of the cliff, panting vehemently—so much so, indeed, that he felt it absolutely necessary to sit down for a few moments to rest.

While resting thus, with his back against a rock, in the attitude of one utterly worn out, part of the missionary’s text flashed into his mind: “the race that is set before us.”

“Surely,” he murmured, looking up, “this race is set before me. The object is good. It is my duty as well as my desire.”

The thought gave an impulse to his feelings; the impulse sent his young blood careering, and, springing up, he continued to run as if the race had only just begun. But ere long the pace again began to tell, producing a sinking of the heart, which tended to increase the evil. Hour after hour had passed without his making any perceptible abatement in the pace, and the night was now closing in. This however mattered not, for the full moon was sailing in a clear sky, ready to relieve guard with the sun. Again the thought recurred that he acted unwisely in thus pressing on beyond his powers, and once more he stopped and sat down.

This time the text could not be said to flash into his mind, for while running, it had never left him. He now deliberately set himself to consider it, and the word “patience” arrested his attention.

“Let us run with patience,” he thought. “I have not been patient. But the white man did not mean this kind of race at all; he said it was the whole race of life. Well, if so, this is part of that race, and it is set before me. Patience! patience! I will try.”

With childlike simplicity the red man rose and began to run slowly. For some time he kept it up, but as his mind reverted to the object of his race his patience began to ooze out. He could calculate pretty well the rate at which the Blackfoot foes would probably travel, and knowing the exact distance, perceived that it would be impossible for him to reach the camp before them, unless he ran all the way at full speed. The very thought of this induced him to put on a spurt, which broke him down altogether. Stumbling over a piece of rough ground, he fell with such violence that for a moment or two he lay stunned. Soon, however, he was on his legs again, and tried to resume his headlong career, but felt that the attempt was useless. With a deep irrepressible groan, he sank upon the turf.

It was in this hour of his extremity that the latter part of the preacher’s text came to his mind: “looking unto Jesus.”

Poor Whitewing looked upwards, as if he half expected to see the Saviour with the bodily eye, and a mist seemed to be creeping over him. He was roused from this semi-conscious state by the clattering of horses’ hoofs.

The Blackfoot band at once occurred to his mind. Starting up, he hid behind a piece of rock. The sounds drew nearer, and presently he saw horsemen passing him at a considerable distance. How many he could not make out. There seemed to be very few. The thought that it might be his friend the trapper occurred, but if he were to shout, and it should turn out to be foes, not only would his own fate but that of his tribe be sealed. The case was desperate; still, anything was better than remaining helplessly where he was. He uttered a sharp cry.

It was responded to at once in the voice of Little Tim, and next moment the faithful trapper galloped towards Whitewing leading his horse by the bridle.

“Well, now, this is good luck,” cried the trapper, as he rode up.

“No,” replied the Indian gravely, “it is not luck.”

“Well, as to that, I don’t much care what you call it—but get up. Why, what’s wrong wi’ you?”

“The run has been very long, and I pressed forward impatiently, trusting too much to my own strength. Let my friend help me to mount.”

“Well, now I come to think of it,” said the trapper, as he sprang to the ground, “you have come a tremendous way—a most awful long way—in an uncommon short time. A fellow don’t think o’ that when he’s mounted, ye see. There now,” he added, resuming his own seat in the saddle, “off we go. But there’s no need to overdrive the cattle; we’ll be there in good time, I warrant ye, for the nags are both good and fresh.”

Little Tim spoke the simple truth, for his own horse which he had discovered along with that of his friend some time after parting from him, was a splendid animal, much more powerful and active than the ordinary Indian horses. The steed of Whitewing was a half-wild creature of Spanish descent, from the plains of Mexico.

Nothing more was spoken after this. The two horsemen rode steadily on side by side, proceeding with long but not too rapid strides over the ground: now descending into the hollows, or ascending the gentle undulations of the plains; anon turning out and in to avoid the rocks and ruts and rugged places; or sweeping to right or left to keep clear of clumps of stunted wood and thickets, but never for a moment drawing rein until the goal was reached, which happened very shortly before the break of day.

The riding was absolute rest to Whitewing, who recovered strength rapidly as they advanced.

“There is neither sight nor sound of the foe here,” murmured the Indian.

“No, all safe!” replied the trapper in a tone of satisfaction, as they cantered to the summit of one of the prairie waves, and beheld the wigwams of Bald Eagle shining peacefully in the moonlight on the plain below.

Chapter Two.

The Surprise and Combat.

How frequently that “slip ’twixt the cup and the lip” is observed in the affairs of this life! Little Tim, the trapper, had barely pronounced the words “All safe,” when an appalling yell rent the air, and a cloud of dark forms was seen to rush over the open space that lay between the wigwams of the old chief Bald Eagle and a thicket that grew on its westward side.

The Blackfoot band had taken the slumbering Indians completely by surprise, and Whitewing had the mortification of finding that he had arrived just a few minutes too late to warn his friends. Although Bald Eagle was thus caught unprepared, he was not slow to meet the enemy. Before the latter had reached the village, all the fighting men were up, and armed with bows, scalping-knives, and tomahawks. They had even time to rush towards the foe, and thus prevent the fight from commencing in the midst of the village.

The world is all too familiar with the scenes that ensued. It is not our purpose to describe them. We detest war, regarding it in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred as unnecessary. Sufficient to say here that the overwhelming numbers of the Blackfoot Indians were too much for their enemies. They soon began to overpower and drive them back towards the wigwams, where the poor women and children were huddled together in terror.

Before this point had arrived, however, Whitewing and Little Tim were galloping to the rescue. The former knew at a glance that resistance on the part of his friends would be hopeless. He did not therefore gallop straight down to the field of battle to join them, but, turning sharply aside with his friend, swept along one of the bottoms or hollows between the undulations of the plain, where their motions could not be seen as they sped along. Whitewing looked anxiously at Little Tim, who, observing the look, said:—

“I’m with ’ee, Whitewing, niver fear.”

“Does my brother know that we ride to death?” asked the Indian in an earnest tone.

“Yer brother don’t know nothin’ o’ the sort,” replied the trapper, “and, considerin’ your natur’, I’d have expected ye to think that Manitou might have some hand in the matter.”

“The white man speaks wisely,” returned the chief, accepting the reproof with a humbled look. “We go in His strength.”

And once again the latter part of the preacher’s text seemed to shoot through the Indian’s brain like a flash of light—“looking unto Jesus.”

Whitewing was one of those men who are swift to conceive and prompt in action. Tim knew that he had a plan of some sort in his head, and, having perfect faith in his capacity, forbore to advise him, or even to speak. He merely drew his hunting-knife, and urged his steed to its utmost speed, for every moment of time was precious. The said hunting-knife was one of which Little Tim was peculiarly fond. It had been presented to him by a Mexican general for conspicuous gallantry in saving the life of one of his officers in circumstances of extreme danger. It was unusually long and heavy, and, being double-edged, bore some resemblance to the short, sword of the ancient Romans.

“It’ll do some execution before I go down,” thought Tim, as he regarded the bright blade with an earnest look.

But Tim was wrong. The blade was not destined to be tarnished that day.

In a very few minutes the two horsemen galloped to the thicket which had concealed the enemy. Entering this they dashed through it as fast as possible until they reached the other side, whence they could see the combatants on the plain beyond. All along they had heard the shouts and yells of battle.

For one moment Whitewing drew up to breathe his gallant steed, but the animal was roused by that time, and it was difficult to restrain him. His companion’s horse was also nearly unmanageable.

“My brother’s voice is strong. Let him use it well,” said the chief abruptly.

“Ay, ay,” replied the little trapper, with an intelligent chuckle; “go ahead, my boy. I’ll give it out fit to bu’st the bellows.”

Instantly Whitewing shot from the wood, like the panther rushing on his prey, uttering at the same time the tremendous war-cry of his tribe. Little Tim followed suit with a roar that was all but miraculous in its tone and character, and may be described as a compound of the steam-whistle and the buffalo bull, only with something about it intensely human. It rose high above the din of battle. The combatants heard and paused. The two horsemen were seen careering towards them with furious gesticulations. Red Indians seldom face certain death. The Blackfoot men knew that an attack by only two men would be sheer insanity; the natural conclusion was that they were the leaders of a band just about to emerge from the thicket. They were thus taken in rear. A panic seized them, which was intensified when Little Tim repeated his roar and flourished the instrument of death, which he styled his “little carving-knife.” The Blackfeet turned and fled right and left, scattering over the plains individually and in small groups, as being the best way of baffling pursuit.

With that sudden access of courage which usually results from the exhibition of fear in a foe, Bald Eagle’s men yelled and gave chase. Bald Eagle himself, however, had the wisdom to call them back.

At a council of war, hastily summoned on the spot, he said—

“My braves, you are a parcel of fools.”

Clearing his throat after this plain statement, either for the purpose of collecting his thoughts or giving his young warriors time to weigh and appreciate the compliment, he continued—

“You chase the enemy as thoughtlessly as the north wind chases the leaves in autumn. My wise chief Whitewing, and his friend Leetil Tim—whose heart is big, and whose voice is bigger, and whose scalping-knife is biggest of all—have come to our rescue alone. Whitewing tells me there is no one at their backs. If our foes discover their mistake, they will turn again, and the contempt which they ought to pour on themselves because of their own cowardice they will heap on our heads, and overwhelm us by their numbers—for who can withstand numbers? They will scatter us like small dust before the hurricane. Waugh!”

The old man paused for breath, for the recent fight had taken a good deal out of him, and the assembled warriors exclaimed “Waugh!” by which they meant to express entire approval of his sentiments. “Now it is my counsel,” he continued, “that as we have been saved by Whitewing, we should all shut our mouths, and hear what Whitewing has got to say.”

Bald Eagle sat down amid murmurs of applause, and Whitewing arose.

There was something unusually gentle in the tone and aspect of the young chief on this occasion.

“Our father, the ancient one who has just spoken words of wisdom,” he said, stretching forth his right hand, “has told you the truth, yet not quite the truth. He is right when he says that Leetil Tim and I have come to your rescue, but he is wrong when he says we come alone. It is true that there are no men at our backs to help us, but is not Manitou behind us—in front—around? It was Manitou who sent us here, and it was He who gave us the victory.”

Whitewing paused, and there were some exclamations of approval, but they were not so numerous or so decided as he could have wished, for red men are equally unwilling with white men to attribute their successes directly to their Creator.

“And now,” he continued, “as Bald Eagle has said, if our foes find out their mistake, they will, without doubt, return. We must therefore take up our goods, our wives, and our little ones, and hasten to meet our brothers of Clearvale, who are even now on their way to help us. Our band is too small to fight the Blackfeet, but united with our friends, and with Manitou on our side for our cause is just, we shall be more than a match, for them. I counsel, then, that we raise the camp without delay.”

The signs of approval were much more decided at the close of this brief address, and the old chief again rose up.

“My braves,” he said, “have listened to the words of wisdom. Let each warrior go to his wigwam and get ready. We quit the camp when the sun stands there.”

He printed to a spot in the sky where the sun would be shining about an hour after daybreak, which was already brightening the eastern sky.

As he spoke the dusky warriors seemed to melt from the scene as if by magic, and ere long the whole camp was busy packing up goods, catching horses, fastening on dogs little packages suited to their size and strength, and otherways making preparation for immediate departure.

“Follow me,” said Whitewing to Little Tim, as he turned like the rest to obey the orders of the old chief.

“Ay, it’s time to be lookin’ after her,” said Tim, with something like a wink of one eye, but the Indian was too much occupied with his own thoughts to observe the act or appreciate the allusion. He strode swiftly through the camp.

“Well, well,” soliloquised the trapper as he followed, “I niver did expect to see Whitewing in this state o’ mind. He’s or’narily sitch a cool, unexcitable man. Ah! women, you’ve much to answer for!”

Having thus apostrophised the sex, he hurried on in silence, leaving his horse to the care of a youth, who also took charge of Whitewing’s steed.

Close to the outskirts of the camp stood a wigwam somewhat apart from the rest. It belonged to Whitewing. Only two women were in it at the time the young Indian chief approached. One was a good-looking young girl, whose most striking feature was her large, earnest-looking, dark eyes. The other was a wrinkled old woman, who might have been any age between fifty and a hundred, for a life of exposure and hardship, coupled with a somewhat delicate constitution, had dried her up to such an extent that, when asleep, she might easily have passed for an Egyptian mummy. One redeeming point in the poor old thing was the fact that all the deep wrinkles in her weather-worn and wigwam-smoked visage ran in the lines of kindliness. Her loving character was clearly stamped upon her mahogany countenance, so that he who ran might easily read.

With the characteristic reserve of the red man, Whitewing merely gave the two women a slight look of recognition, which was returned with equal quietness by the young woman, but with a marked rippling of the wrinkles on the part of the old. There still remained a touch of anxiety caused by the recent fight on both countenances. It was dispelled, however, by a few words from Whitewing, who directed the younger woman to prepare for instant flight. She acted with prompt, unquestioning obedience, and at the same time the Indian went to work to pack up his goods with all speech. Of course Tim lent efficient aid to tie up the packs and prepare them for slinging on horse and dog.

“I say, Whitewing,” whispered Tim, touching the chief with his elbow, and glancing at the young woman with approval—for Tim, who was an affectionate fellow and anxious about his friend’s welfare, rejoiced to observe that the girl was obedient and prompt as well as pretty—“I say, is that her?”

Whitewing looked with a puzzled expression at his friend.

“Is that her—the girl, you know?” said Little Tim, with a series of looks and nods which were intended to convey worlds of deep meaning.

“She is my sister—Brighteyes,” replied the Indian quietly, as he continued his work.

“Whew!” whistled the trapper. “Well, well,” he murmured in an undertone, “you’re on the wrong scent this time altogether, Tim. Ye think yerself a mighty deal cliverer than ye are. Niver mind, the one that he says he loves more nor life’ll turn up soon enough, no doubt. But I’m real sorry for the old ’un,” he added in an undertone, casting a glance of pity on the poor creature, who bent over the little fire in the middle of the tent, and gazed silently yet inquiringly at what was going on. “She’ll niver be able to stand a flight like this. The mere joltin’ o’ the nags ’ud shake her old bones a’most out of her skin. There are some Redskins now, that would leave her to starve, but Whitewing’ll niver do that. I know him better. Now then”—aloud—“have ye anything more for me to do?”

“Let my brother help Brighteyes to bring up and pack the horses.”

“Jist so. Come along, Brighteyes.”

With the quiet promptitude of one who has been born and trained to obey, the Indian girl followed the trapper out of the wigwam.

Being left alone with the old woman, some of the young chief’s reserve wore off, though he did not descend to familiarity.

“Mother,” he said, sitting down beside her and speaking loud, for the old creature was rather deaf, “we must fly. The Blackfeet are too strong for us. Are you ready?”

“I am always ready to do the bidding of my son,” replied this pattern mother. “But sickness has made me old before my time. I have not strength to ride far. Manitou thinks it time for me to die. It is better for Whitewing to leave me and give his care to the young ones.”

“The young ones can take care of themselves,” replied the chief somewhat sternly. “We know not what Manitou thinks. It is our business to live as long as we can. If you cannot ride, mother, I will carry you. Often you have carried me when I could not ride.”

It is difficult to guess why Whitewing dropped his poetical language, and spoke in this matter-of-fact and sharp manner. Great thoughts had been swelling in his bosom for some time past, and perchance he was affected by the suggestion that the cruel practice of deserting the aged was not altogether unknown in his tribe. It may be that the supposition of his being capable of such cruelty nettled him. At all events, he said nothing more except to tell his mother to be ready to start at once.

The old woman herself, who seemed to be relieved that her proposition was not favourably received, began to obey her son’s directions by throwing a gay-coloured handkerchief over her head, and tying it under her chin. She then fastened her moccasins more securely on her feet, wrapped a woollen kerchief round her shoulders, and drew a large green blanket around her, strapping it to her person by means of a broad strip of deerskin. Having made these simple preparations for whatever journey lay before her, she warmed her withered old hands over the embers of the wood fire, and awaited her son’s pleasure.

Meanwhile that son went outside to see the preparations for flight carried into effect.

“We’re all ready,” said Little Tim, whom he met not far from the wigwam. “Horses and dogs down in the hollow; Brighteyes an’ a lot o’ youngsters lookin’ after them. All you want now is to get hold o’ her, and be off; an’ the sooner the better, for Blackfoot warriors don’t take long to get over scares an’ find out mistakes. But I’m most troubled about the old woman. She’ll niver be able to stand it.”

To this Whitewing paid little attention. In truth, his mind seemed to be taken up with other thoughts, and his friend was not much surprised, having come, as we have seen, to the conclusion that the Indian was under a temporary spell for which woman was answerable.

“Is my horse at hand?” asked Whitewing.

“Ay, down by the creek, all ready.”

“And my brother’s horse?”

“Ready too, at the same place; but we’ll want another good ’un—for her, you know,” said Tim suggestively.

“Let the horses be brought to my wigwam,” returned Whitewing, either not understanding or disregarding the last remark.

The trapper was slightly puzzled, but, coming to the wise conclusion that his friend knew his own affairs best, and had, no doubt, made all needful preparations, he went off quietly to fetch the horses, while the Indian returned to the wigwam. In a few minutes Little Tim stood before the door, holding the bridles of the two horses.

Immediately afterwards a little Indian boy ran up with a third and somewhat superior horse, and halted beside him.

“Ha! that’s it at last. The horse for her,” said the trapper to himself with some satisfaction; “I knowed that Whitewing would have everything straight—even though he is in a raither stumped condition just now.”

As he spoke, Brighteyes ran towards the wigwam, and looked in at the door. Next moment she went to the steed which Little Tim had, in his own mind, set aside for “her,” and vaulted into the saddle as a young deer might have done, had it taken to riding.

Of course Tim was greatly puzzled, and forced to admit a second time that he had over-estimated his own cleverness, and was again off the scent. Before his mind had a chance of being cleared up, the skin curtain of the wigwam was raised, and Whitewing stepped out with a bundle in his arms. He gave it to Little Tim to hold while he mounted his somewhat restive horse, and then the trapper became aware—from certain squeaky sounds, and a pair of eyes that glittered among the folds of the bundle that he held the old woman in his arms!

“I say, Whitewing,” he said remonstratively, as he handed up the bundle, which the Indian received tenderly in his left arm, “most of the camp has started. In quarter of an hour or so there’ll be none left. Don’t ’ee think it’s about time to look after her?”

Whitewing looked at the trapper with a perplexed expression—a look which did not quite depart after his friend had mounted, and was riding through the half-deserted camp beside him.

“Now, Whitewing,” said the trapper, with some decision of tone and manner, “I’m quite as able as you are to carry that old critter. If you’ll make her over to me, you’ll be better able to look after her, you know. Eh?”

“My brother speaks strangely to-day,” replied the chief. “His words are hidden from his Indian friend. What does he mean by ‘her’?”

“Well, well, now, ye are slow,” answered Tim; “I wouldn’t ha’ believed that anything short o’ scalpin’ could ha’ took away yer wits like that. Why, of course I mean the woman ye said was dearer to ’ee than life.”

“That woman is here,” replied the chief gravely, casting a brief glance down at the wrinkled old visage that nestled upon his breast—“my mother.”

“Whew!” whistled the trapper, opening his eyes very wide indeed. For the third time that day he was constrained to admit that he had been thrown completely off the scent, and that, in regard to cleverness, he was no better than a “squawkin’ babby.”

But Little Tim said never a word. Whatever his thoughts might have been after that, he kept them to himself, and, imitating his Indian brother, maintained profound silence as he galloped between him and Brighteyes over the rolling prairie.

Chapter Three.

The Massacre and the Chase.

The sun was setting when Whitewing and his friend rode into Clearvale. The entrance to the valley was narrow, and for a short distance the road, or Indian track, wound among groups of trees and bushes which effectually concealed the village from their sight.

At this point in the ride Little Tim began to recover from the surprise at his own stupidity which had for so long a period of time reduced him to silence. Riding up alongside of Whitewing, who was a little in advance of the party, still bearing his mother in his arms, he accosted him thus—

“I say, Whitewing, the longer I know you, the more of a puzzle you are to me. I thowt I’d got about at the bottom o’ all yer notions an’ ways by this time, but I find that I’m mistaken.”

As no question was asked, the red man deemed no reply needful, but the faintest symptom of a smile told the trapper that his remark was understood and appreciated.

“One thing that throws me off the scent,” continued Little Tim, “is the way you Injins have got o’ holdin’ yer tongues, so that a feller can’t make out what yer minds are after. Why don’t you speak? why ain’t you more commoonicative?”

“The children of the prairie think that wisdom lies in silence,” answered Whitewing gravely. “They leave it to their women and white brothers to chatter out all their minds.”

“Humph! The children o’ the prairie ain’t complimentary to their white brothers,” returned the trapper. “Mayhap yer right. Some of us do talk a leetle too much. It’s a way we’ve got o’ lettin’ off the steam. I’m afeard I’d bust sometimes if I didn’t let my feelin’s off through my mouth. But your silent ways are apt to lead fellers off on wrong tracks when there’s no need to. Didn’t I think, now, that you was after a young woman as ye meant to take for a squaw—and after all it turned out to be your mother!”

“My white brother sometimes makes mistakes,” quietly remarked the Indian.

“True; but your white brother wouldn’t have made the mistake if ye had told him who it was you were after when ye set off like a mad grizzly wi’ its pups in danger. Didn’t I go tearin’ after you neck and crop as if I was a boy o’ sixteen, in the belief that I was helpin’ ye in a love affair?”

“It was a love affair,” said the Indian quietly.

“True, but not the sort o’ thing that I thowt it was.”

“Would you have refused to help me if you had known better?” demanded Whitewing somewhat sharply.

“Nay, I won’t say that,” returned Tim, “for I hold that a woman’s a woman, be she old or young, pretty or ugly, an’ I’d scorn the man as would refuse to help her in trouble; besides, as the wrinkled old critter is your mother, I’ve got a sneakin’ sort o’ fondness for her; but if I’d only known, a deal o’ what they call romance would ha’ bin took out o’ the little spree.”

“Then it is well that my brother did not know.”

To this the trapper merely replied, “Humph!”

After a few minutes he resumed in a more confidential tone—

“But I say, Whitewing, has it niver entered into your head to take to yourself a wife? A man’s always the better of havin’ a female companion to consult with an’ talk over things, you know, as well as to make his moccasins and leggin’s.”

“Does Little Tim act on his own opinions?” asked the Indian quickly.

“Ha! that’s a fair slap in the face,” said Tim, with a laugh, “but there may be reasons for that, you see. Gals ain’t always as willin’ as they should be; sometimes they don’t know a good man when they see him. Besides, I ain’t too old yet, though p’raps some of ’em thinks me raither short for a husband. Come now, don’t keep yer old comrade in the dark. Haven’t ye got a notion o’ some young woman in partikler?”

“Yes,” replied the Indian gravely.

“Jist so; I thowt as much,” returned the trapper, with a tone and look of satisfaction. “What may her name be?”

“Lightheart.”

“Ay? Lightheart. A good name—specially if she takes after it, as I’ve no doubt she do. An’ what tribe does—”

The trapper stopped abruptly, for at that moment the cavalcade swept out of the thicket into the open valley, and the two friends suddenly beheld the Indian camp, which they had so recently left, reduced to a smoking ruin.

It is impossible to describe the consternation of the Indians, who had ridden so far and so fast to join their friends. And how shall we speak of the state of poor Whitewing’s feelings? No sound escaped his compressed lips, but a terrible light seemed to gleam from his dark eyes, as, clasping his mother convulsively to his breast with his left arm, he grasped his tomahawk, and urged his horse to its utmost speed. Little Tim was at his side in a moment, with the long dagger flashing in his right hand, while Bald Eagle and his dusky warriors pressed close behind.

The women and children were necessarily left in the rear; but Whitewing’s sister, Brighteyes, being better mounted than these, kept up with the men of war.

The scene that presented itself when they reached the camp was indeed terrible. Many of the wigwams were burned, some of them still burning, and those that had escaped the fire had been torn down and scattered about, while the trodden ground and pools of blood told of the dreadful massacre that had so recently taken place. It was evident that the camp had been surprised, and probably all the men slain, while a very brief examination sufficed to show that such of the women and children as were spared had been carried off into slavery. In every direction outside the camp were found the scalped bodies of the slain, left as they had fallen in unavailing defence of home.

The examination of the camp was made in hot haste and profound silence, because instant action had to be taken for the rescue of those who had been carried away, and Indians are at all times careful to restrain and hide their feelings. Only the compressed lip, the heaving bosom, the expanding nostrils, and the scowling eyes told of the fires that raged within.

In this emergency Bald Eagle, who was getting old and rather feeble, tacitly gave up the command of the braves to Whitewing. It need scarcely be said that the young chief acted with vigour. He with the trapper having traced the trail of the Blackfoot war-party—evidently a different band from that which had attacked Bald Eagle’s camp—and ascertained the direction they had taken, divided his force into two bands, in command of which he placed two of the best chiefs of his tribe. Bald Eagle himself agreed to remain with a small force to protect the women and children. Having made his dispositions and given his orders, Whitewing mounted his horse; and galloped a short distance on the enemy’s trail; followed by his faithful friend. Reining up suddenly, he said—

“What does my brother counsel?”

“Well, Whitewing, since ye ask, I would advise you to follow yer own devices. You’ve got a good head on your shoulders, and know what’s best.”

“Manitou knows what is best,” said the Indian solemnly. “He directs all. But His ways are very dark. Whitewing cannot understand them.”

“Still, we must act, you know,” suggested the trapper.

“Yes, we must act; and I ask counsel of my brother, because it may be that Manitou shall cause wisdom and light to flow from the lips of the white man.”

“Well, I don’t know as to that, Whitewing, but my advice, whatever it’s worth, is, that we should try to fall on the reptiles in front and rear at the same time, and that you and I should go out in advance to scout.”

“Good,” said the Indian; “my plan is so arranged.”

Without another word he gave the rein to his impatient horse, and was about to set off at full speed, when he was arrested by the trapper exclaiming, “Hold on? here’s some one coming after us.”

A rider was seen galloping from the direction of the burned camp. It turned out to be Brighteyes.

“What brings my sister?” demanded Whitewing.

The girl with downcast look modestly requested leave to accompany them.

Her brother sternly refused. “It is not woman’s part to fight,” he said.

“True, but woman sometimes helps the fighter,” replied the girl, not venturing to raise her eyes.

“Go,” returned Whitewing. “Time may not be foolishly wasted. The old ones and the children need thy care.”

Without a word Brighteyes turned her horse’s head towards the camp, and was about to ride humbly away when Little Tim interfered.

“Hold on, girl! I say, Whitewing, she’s not so far wrong. Many a time has woman rendered good service in warfare. She’s well mounted, and might ride back with a message or something o’ that sort. You’d better let her come.”

“She may come,” said Whitewing, and next moment he was bounding over the prairie at the full speed of his fiery steed, closely followed by Little Tim and Brighteyes.

That same night, at a late hour, a band of savage warriors entered a thicket on the slopes of one of those hills on the western prairies which form what are sometimes termed the spurs of the Rocky Mountains, though there was little sign of the great mountain range itself, which was still distant several days’ march from the spot. A group of wearied women and children, some riding, some on foot, accompanied the band. It was that which had so recently destroyed the Indian village. They had pushed on with their prisoners and booty as far and as fast as their jaded horses could go, in order to avoid pursuit—though, having slain all the fighting men, there was little chance of that, except in the case of friends coming to the rescue, which they thought improbable. Still, with the wisdom of savage warriors, they took every precaution to guard against surprise. No fire was lighted in the camp, and sentries were placed all round it to guard them during the few hours they meant to devote to much-needed repose.

While these Blackfeet were eating their supper, Whitewing and Little Tim came upon them. Fortunately the sharp and practised eyes and intellects of our two friends were on the alert. So small a matter as a slight wavering in the Blackfoot mind as to the best place for encamping produced an effect on the trail sufficient to be instantly observed.

“H’m! they’ve took it into their heads here,” said Little Tim, “that it might be advisable to camp an’ feed.”

Whitewing did not speak at once, but his reining up at the moment his friend broke silence showed that he too had observed the signs.

“It’s always the way,” remarked the trapper with a quiet chuckle as he peered earnestly at the ground which the moon enabled him to see distinctly, “if a band o’ men only mention campin’ when they’re on the march they’re sure to waver a bit an’ spoil the straight, go-ahead run o’ the trail.”

“One turned aside to examine yonder bluff,” said the Indian, pointing to a trail which he saw clearly, although it was undistinguishable to ordinary vision.

“Ay, an’ the bluff didn’t suit,” returned Tim, “for here he rejoins his friends, an’ they go off agin at the run. No more waverin’. They’d fixed their eyes a good bit ahead, an’ made up their minds.”

“They are in the thicket yonder,” said the Indian, pointing to the place referred to.

“Jist what I was goin’ to remark,” observed the trapper. “Now, Whitewing, it behoves us to be cautious. Ay, I see your mind an’ mine always jumps togither.”

This latter remark had reference to the fact that the Indian had leaped off his horse and handed the reins to Brighteyes. Placing his horse also in charge of the Indian girl, Tim said, as the two set off—

“We have to do the rest on fut, an’ the last part on our knees.”

By this the trapper meant that he and his friend would have to creep up to the enemy’s camp on hands and knees, but Whitewing, whose mind had been recently so much exercised on religious matters, at once thought of what he had been taught about the importance of prayer, and again the words, “looking unto Jesus,” rushed with greater power than ever upon his memory, so that, despite his anxiety as to the fate of his affianced bride and the perilous nature of the enterprise in hand, he kept puzzling his inquiring brain with such difficulties as the absolute dependence of man on the will and leading of God, coupled with the fact of his being required to go into vigorous, decisive, and apparently independent action, trusting entirely to his own resources.

“Mystery,” thought the red man, as he and his friend walked swiftly along, taking advantage of the shelter afforded by every glade, thicket, or eminence; “all is mystery!”

But Whitewing was wrong, as many men in all ages have been on first bending their minds to the consideration of spiritual things. All is not mystery. In the dealings of God with man, much, very much, is mysterious, and by us in this life apparently insoluble; but many things—especially those things that are of vital importance to the soul—are as clear as the sun at noonday. However, our red man was at this time only beginning to run the spiritual race, and, like many others, he was puzzled.

But no sign did he show of what was going on within, as he glided along, bending his keen eyes intently on the Blackfoot trail.

At last they came to the immediate neighbourhood of the spot where it was rightly conjectured the enemy lay concealed. Here, as Tim had foretold, they went upon their knees, and advanced with the utmost caution. Coming to a grassy eminence they lay flat down and worked their way slowly and painfully to the top.

Well was it for them that a few clouds shrouded the moon at that time, for one of the Blackfoot sentinels had been stationed on that grassy eminence, and if Whitewing and the trapper had been less expert in the arts of savage war, they must certainly have been discovered. As it was, they were able to draw off in time and reach another part of the mound where a thick bush effectually concealed them from view.

From this point, when the clouds cleared away, the camp could be clearly seen in the vale below. Even the forms of the women and children were distinguishable, but not their faces.

“It won’t be easy to get at them by surprise,” whispered the trapper. “Their position is strong, and they keep a bright lookout; besides, the moon won’t be down for some hours yet—not much before daybreak.”

“Whitewing will take the prey from under their very noses,” returned the Indian.

“That won’t be easy, but I’ve no doubt you’ll try, an’ sure, Little Tim’s the man to back ye, anyhow.”

At that moment a slight rustling noise was heard. Looking through the bush, they saw the Blackfoot sentinel approaching. Instantly they sank down into the grass, where they lay so flat and still that it seemed as if they had vanished entirely from the scene.

When the sentinel was almost abreast of them, a sound arose from the camp which caused him to stop and listen. It was the sound of song. The missionary—the only man the Blackfoot Indians had not slain—having finished supper, had gathered some of the women and children round him, and, after an earnest prayer, had begun a hymn of praise. At first the Blackfoot chief was on the point of ordering them to cease, but as the sweet notes arose he seemed to be spell-bound, and remained a silent and motionless listener. The sentinel on the mound also became like a dark statue. He had never heard such tones before.

After listening a few minutes in wonder, he walked slowly to the end of the mound nearest to the singers.

“Now’s our chance, Whitewing,” said the trapper, rising from his lair.

The Indian made no reply, but descended the slope as carefully as he had ascended it, followed by his friend. In a short time they were back at the spot where the horses had been left in charge of Brighteyes.

Whitewing took his sister aside, and for a few minutes they conversed in low tones.

“I have arranged it all with Brighteyes,” said the Indian, returning to the trapper.

“Didn’t I tell ’ee,” said Tim, with a low laugh, “that women was good at helpin’ men in time o’ war? Depend upon it that the sex must have a finger in every pie; and, moreover, the pie’s not worth much that they haven’t got a finger in.”

To these remarks the young chief vouchsafed no answer, but gravely went about making preparations to carry out his plans.

While tying the three horses to three separate trees, so as to be ready for instant flight, he favoured his friend with a few explanations.

“It is not possible,” he said, “to take more than three just now, for the horses cannot carry more. But these three Brighteyes will rescue from the camp, and we will carry them off. Then we will return with our braves and have all the rest—if Manitou allows.”

The trapper looked at his friend in surprise. He had never before heard him make use of such an expression as the last. Nevertheless, he made no remark, but while the three were gliding silently over the prairie again towards the Blackfoot camp he kept murmuring to himself: “You’re a great puzzle, Whitewing, an’ I can’t make ye out nohow. Yet I make no doubt yer right. Whativer ye do comes right somehow; but yer a great puzzle—about the greatest puzzle that’s comed across my tracks since I was a squallin’ little babby-boy!”

Chapter Four.

Circumventing the Blackfeet.

On reaching the neighbourhood of the Blackfoot camp, Whitewing, and his companions crept to the top of the eminence which overlooked it, taking care, however, to keep as far away as possible from the sentinel who still watched there.

Brighteyes proved herself to be quite as expert as her male companions in advancing like a snake through the long grass, though encumbered with a blanket wrapped round her shoulders. The use of this blanket soon became apparent. As the three lay prone on their faces looking down at the camp, from which the sound of voices still arose in subdued murmurs, the young chief said to his sister—

“Let the signal be a few notes of the song Brighteyes learned from the white preacher. Go.”

Without a word of reply, the girl began to move gently forward, maintaining her recumbent position as she went, and gradually, as it were, melted away.

The moon was still shining brightly, touching every object with pale but effective lights, and covering hillocks and plains with correspondingly dark shadows. In a few minutes Brighteyes had crept past the young sentinel, and lay within sight—almost within ear shot of the camp.

Much to her satisfaction she observed that the Indians had not bound their captives. Even the missionary’s hands were free. Evidently they thought, and were perhaps justified in thinking, that escape was impossible, for the horses of the party were all gathered together and hobbled, besides being under a strong guard; and what chance could women and children have, out on the plains on foot, against mounted men, expert to follow the faintest trail? As for the white man, he was a man of peace and unarmed, as well as ignorant of warriors’ ways. The captives were therefore not only unbound, but left free to move about the camp at will, while some of their captors slept, some fed, and others kept watch.

The missionary had just finished singing a hymn, and was about to begin to read a portion of God’s Word when one of the women left the group, and wandered accidentally close to the spot where Brighteyes lay. It was Lightheart.

“Sister,” whispered Brighteyes.

The girl stopped abruptly, and bent forward to listen, with intense anxiety depicted on every feature of her pretty brown face.

“Sister,” repeated Brighteyes, “sink in the grass and wait.”

Lightheart was too well trained in Indian ways to speak or hesitate. At once, but slowly, she sank down and disappeared. Another moment, and Brighteyes was at her side.

“Sister,” she said, “Manitou has sent help. Listen. We must be wise and quick.”

From this point she went on to explain in as few words as possible that three fleet horses were ready close at hand to carry off three of those who had been taken captive, and that she, Lightheart, must be one of the three.

“But I cannot, will not, escape,” said Lightheart, “while the others and, the white preacher go into slavery.”

To this Brighteyes replied that arrangements had been made to rescue the whole party, and that she and two others were merely to be, as it were, the firstfruits of the enterprise. Still Lightheart objected; but when her companion added that the plan had been arranged by her affianced husband, she acquiesced at once with Indian-like humility.

“I had intended,” said Brighteyes, “to enter the Blackfoot camp as if I were one of the captives, and thus make known our plans; but that is not now necessary. Lightheart will carry the news; she is wise, and knows how to act. Whitewing and Leetil Tim are hid on yonder hillock like snakes in the grass. I will return to then, and let Lightheart, when she comes, be careful to avoid the sentinel there—”

She stopped short, for at the moment a step was heard near them. It was that of a savage warrior, whose sharp eye had observed Lightheart quit the camp, and who had begun to wonder why she did not return.

In another instant Brighteyes flung her blanket round her, whispered to her friend, “Lie close,” sprang up, and, brushing swiftly past the warrior with a light laugh—as though amused at having been discovered—ran into camp, joined the group round the missionary, and sat down. Although much surprised, the captives were too wise to express their feelings. Even the missionary knew enough of Indian tactics to prevent him from committing himself. He calmly continued the reading in which he had been engaged, and the Blackfoot warrior returned to his place, congratulating himself, perhaps, on having interrupted the little plan of one intending runaway.

Meanwhile Lightheart, easily understanding her friend’s motives, crept in a serpentine fashion to the hillock, where she soon found Whitewing—to the intense but unexpressed joy of that valiant red man.

“Will Leetil Tim go back with Lightheart to the horses and wait, while his brother remains here?” said the young chief.

“No, Little Tim won’t,” growled the trapper, in a tone of decision that surprised his red friend. “Brighteyes is in the Blackfoot camp,” he continued, in growling explanation.

“True,” returned the Indian, “but Brighteyes will escape; and even if she fails to do so now, she will be rescued with the others at last.”

“She will be rescued with us, just now,” returned Little Tim in a tone so emphatic that his friend looked at him with an expression of surprise that was unusually strong for a redskin warrior. Suddenly a gleam of intelligence broke from his black eyes, and with the soft exclamation, “Wah!” he sank flat on the grass again, and remained perfectly still.

Brighteyes found that it was not all plain sailing when she had mingled with her friends in the camp. In the first place, the missionary refused absolutely to quit the captives. He would remain with them, he said, and await God’s will and leading. In the second place, no third person had been mentioned by her brother, whose chief anxiety had been for his bride and the white man, and it did not seem to Brighteyes creditable to quit the camp after all her risk and trouble without some trophy of her prowess. In this dilemma she put to herself the question, “Whom would Lightheart wish me to rescue?”

Now, there were two girls among the captives, one of whom was a bosom friend of Lightheart; the other was a younger sister. To these Brighteyes went, and straightway ordered them to prepare for flight. They were of course quite ready to obey. All the preparation needed was to discard the blankets which Indian women are accustomed to wear as convenient cloaks by day. Thus unhampered, the two girls wandered about the camp, as several of the others had occasionally been doing. Separating from each other, they got into the outskirts in different directions. Meanwhile a hymn had been raised, which facilitated their plans by attracting the attention of the savage warriors. High above the rest, in one prolonged note, the voice of Brighteyes rang out like a silver flute.

“There’s the signal,” said Little Tim, as the sweet note fell on his listening ear.

Rising as he spoke, the trapper glided in a stooping posture down the side of the hillock, and round the base of it, until he got immediately behind the youthful sentinel. Then lying down, and creeping towards him with the utmost caution, he succeeded in getting so near that he could almost touch him. With one cat-like bound, Little Tim was on the Indian’s back, and had him in his arms, while his broad horny hand covered his mouth, and his powerful forefinger and thumb grasped him viciously by the nose.

It was a somewhat curious struggle that ensued. The savage was much bigger than the trapper, but the trapper was much stronger than the savage. Hence the latter made fearful and violent efforts to shake the former off; while the former made not less fearful, though seemingly not quite so violent, efforts to hold on. The red man tried to bite, but Tim’s hand was too broad and hard to be bitten. He tried to shake his nose free, but unfortunately his nose was large, and Tim’s grip of it was perfect. The savage managed to get just enough of breath through his mouth to prevent absolute suffocation, but nothing more. He had dropped his tomahawk at the first onset, and tried to draw his knife, but Tim’s arms were so tight round him that he could not get his hand to his back, where the knife reposed in his belt. In desperation he stooped forward, and tried to throw his enemy over his head; but Tim’s legs were wound round him, and no limpet ever embraced a rock with greater tenacity than did Little Tim embrace that Blackfoot brave. Half choking and wholly maddened, the savage suddenly turned heels over head, and fell on Tim with a force that ought to have burst him. But Tim didn’t burst! He was much too tough for that. He did not even complain!

Rising again, a sudden thought seemed to strike the Indian, for he began to run towards the camp with his foe on his back. But Tim was prepared for that. He untwined one leg, lowered it, and with an adroit twist tripped up the savage, causing him to fall on his face with tremendous violence. Before he could recover, Tim, still covering the mouth and holding tight to the nose, got a knee on the small of the savage’s back and squeezed it smaller. At the same time he slid his left hand up to the savage’s windpipe, and compressed it. With a violent heave, the Blackfoot sprang up. With a still more violent heave, the trapper flung him down, bumped his head against a convenient stone, and brought the combat to a sudden close. Without a moment’s loss of time, Tim gagged and bound his adversary. Then he rose up with a deep inspiration, and wiped his forehead, as he contemplated him.

“All this comes o’ your desire not to shed human blood, Whitewing,” he muttered. “Well, p’raps you’re right—what would ha’ bin the use o’ killin’ the poor critturs. But it was a tough job!”—saying which, he lifted the Indian on his broad shoulders, and carried him away.

While this fight was thus silently going on, hidden from view of the camp by the hillock, Whitewing crept forward to meet Brighteyes and the two girls, and these, with Lightheart, were eagerly awaiting the trapper. “My brother is strong,” said Whitewing, allowing the faintest possible smile to play for a moment on his usually grave face.

“Your brother is tough,” returned Little Tim, rubbing the back of his head with a rueful look; “an’ he’s bin bumped about an’ tumbled on to that extent that it’s a miracle a whole bone is left in his carcass. But lend a hand, lad; we’ve got no time to waste.”

Taking the young Blackfoot between them, and followed by the silent girls, they soon reached the thicket where the horses had been left. Here they bound their captive securely to a tree, and gave him a drink of water with a knife pointed at his heart to keep him quiet, after which they re-gagged him. Then Whitewing led Lightheart through the thicket towards his horse, and took her up behind him. Little Tim took charge of Brighteyes. The young sister and the bosom friend mounted the third horse, and thus paired, they all galloped away.

But the work that our young chief had cut out for himself that night was only half accomplished. On reaching the rendezvous which he had appointed, he found the braves of his tribe impatiently awaiting him.

“My father sees that we have been successful,” he said to Bald Eagle, who had been unable to resist the desire to ride out to the rendezvous with the fighting men. “The great Manitou has given us the victory thus far, as the white preacher said he would.”

“My son is right. Whitewing will be a great warrior when Bald Eagle is in the grave. Go and conquer; I will return to camp with the women.”

Thus relieved of his charge, Whitewing, who, however, had little desire to achieve the fame prophesied for him, proceeded to fulfil the prophecy to some extent. He divided his force into four bands, with which he galloped off towards the Blackfoot camp. On nearing it, he so arranged that they should attack the camp simultaneously at four opposite points. Little Tim commanded one of the bands, and he resolved in his own mind that his band should be the last to fall on the foe.

“Bloodshed may be avoided,” he muttered to himself; “an’ I hope it will, as Whitewing is so anxious about it. Anyhow, I’ll do my best to please him.”

Accordingly, on reaching his allotted position, Tim halted his men, and bided his time.

The moon still shone over prairie and hill, and not a breath of air stirred blade or leaf. All in nature was peace, save in the hearts of savage man. The Blackfoot camp was buried in slumber. Only the sentinels were on the alert. Suddenly one of these—like the war-horse, who is said to scent the battle from afar—pricked his ears, distended his nostrils, and listened. A low, muffled, thunderous sort of pattering on the plain in front. It might be a herd of buffaloes. The sentinel stood transfixed. The humps of buffaloes are large, but they do not usually attain to the size of men! The sentinel clapped his hand to his mouth, and gave vent to a yell which sent the blood spirting through the veins of all, and froze the very marrow in the bones of some! Prompt was the reply and turn-out of the Blackfoot warriors. Well used to war’s alarms, there was no quaking in their bosoms. They were well named “braves.”

But the noise in the camp prevented them from hearing or observing the approach of the enemy on the other side till almost too late. A whoop apprised the chief of the danger. He divided his forces, and lost some of his self-confidence.

“Here comes number three,” muttered Little Tim, as he observed the third band emerge from a hollow on the left.

The Blackfoot chief observed it too, divided his forces again, and lost more of his self-confidence.

None of the three bands had as yet reached the camp, but they all came thundering down on it at the same time, and at the same whirlwind pace.

“Now for number four,” muttered Little Tim. “Come boys, an’ at ’em!” he cried, unconsciously paraphrasing the Duke of Wellington’s Waterloo speech.

At the some time he gave utterance to what he styled a Rocky Mountain trapper’s roar, and dashed forward in advance of his men, who, in trying to imitate the roar, intensified and rather complicated their own yell.

It was the last touch to the Blackfoot chief, who, losing the small remnant of his self-confidence, literally “sloped” into the long grass, and vanished, leaving his men to still further divide themselves, which they did effectually by scattering right and left like small-shot from a blunderbuss.

Great was the terror of the poor captives while this brief but decisive action lasted, for although they knew that the assailants were their friends, they could not be certain of the issue of the combat. Naturally, they crowded round their only male friend, the missionary.

“Do not fear,” he said, in attempting to calm them; “the good Manitou has sent deliverance. We will trust in Him.”

The dispersion of their foes and the arrival of friends almost immediately followed these words. But the friends who arrived were few in number at first, for Whitewing had given strict orders as to the treatment of the enemy. In compliance therewith, his men chased them about the prairie in a state of gasping terror; but no weapon was used, and not a man was killed, though they were scattered beyond the possibility of reunion for at least some days to come.

Before that eventful night was over the victors were far from the scene of victory on their way home.

“It’s not a bad style o’ fightin’,” remarked Little Tim to his friend as they rode away; “lots o’ fun and fuss without much damage. Pity we can’t do all our fightin’ in that fashion.”

“Waugh!” exclaimed Whitewing; but as he never explained what he meant by “waugh,” we must leave it to conjecture. It is probable, however, that he meant assent, for he turned aside in passing to set free the Blackfoot who had been bound to a tree. That red man, having expected death, went off with a lively feeling of surprise, and at top speed, his pace being slightly accelerated by a shot—wide of the mark and at long range—from Little Tim.

Three weeks after these events a number of Indians were baptised by our missionary. Among them were the young chief Whitewing and Lightheart, and these two were immediately afterwards united in marriage. Next day the trapper, with much awkwardness and hesitation, requested the missionary to unite him and Brighteyes. The request was complied with, and thenceforward the white man and the red became more inseparable than ever. They hunted and dwelt together—to the ineffable joy of Whitewing’s wrinkled old mother, whose youth seemed absolutely to revive under the influence of the high-pressure affection brought to bear on a colony of brown and whitey-brown grand-children by whom she was at last surrounded.

The doubts and difficulties of Whitewing were finally cleared away. He not only accepted fully the Gospel for himself, but became anxious to commend it to others as the only real and perfect guide in life and comfort in death. In the prosecution of his plans, he imitated the example of his “white father,” roaming the prairie and the mountains far and wide with his friend the trapper, and even venturing to visit some of the lodges of his old foes the Blackfoot Indians, in his desire to run earnestly, yet with patience, the race that had been set before him—“looking unto Jesus.”

Full twenty years rolled by, during which no record, was kept of the sayings or doings of those whose fortunes we have followed thus far. At the end of that period, however, striking incidents in their career brought the most prominent among them again to the front—as the following chapters will show.

Chapter Five.

The Mountain Fortress.

In one of those numerous narrow ravines of the Rocky Mountains which open out into the rolling prairies of the Saskatchewan there stood some years ago a log hut, or block-house, such as the roving hunters of the Far West sometimes erected as temporary homes during the inclement winter of those regions.

With a view to render the hut a castle of refuge as well as a home, its builder had perched it close to the edge of a nearly inaccessible cliff overhanging one of those brawling torrents which carry the melting snows of the great rocky range into one of the tributaries of the Saskatchewan river. On what may be called the land side of the hut there was a slight breastwork of logs. It seemed a weak defence truly, yet a resolute man with several guns and ammunition might have easily held it against a considerable band of savages.

One fine morning about the time when the leaves of the forest were beginning to put on their gorgeous autumnal tints, a woman might have been seen ascending the zigzag path that led to the hut or fortress.

She was young, well formed, and pretty, and wore the Indian costume, yet there was something in her air and carriage, as well as the nut-brown colour of her hair, which told that either her father or her mother had been what the red men term a “pale-face.”

With a light, bounding step, very different from that of the ordinary Indian squaw, she sprang from rock to rock as if in haste, and, climbing over the breastwork before mentioned, entered the hut.

The interior of the little fortress was naturally characteristic of its owner. A leathern capote and leggings hung from a nail in one corner; in another lay a pile of buffalo robes. The rough walls were adorned with antlers of the moose and other deer, from the various branches of which hung several powder-horns, fire-bags, and bullet-pouches. Near the rude fireplace, the chimney of which was plastered outside and in with mud, was a range of six guns, of various patterns and ages, all of which, being well polished and oiled, were evidently quite ready for instant service. Beside them hung an old cavalry sabre. Neither table nor chairs graced the simple mansion; but a large chest at one side served for the former, and doubtless contained the owner’s treasures, whatever these might be, while three rough stools, with only nine legs among them, did service for the latter.

The action of the young woman on entering was somewhat suggestive of the cause of her haste. Without a moment’s delay, she seized a powder-horn and bullet-pouch, and began to charge the guns, some with ball, others with slugs, as fast as she could. There was a cool, quiet celerity in her proceedings which proved that she was accustomed to the handling of such weapons.

No one looking upon the scene would have guessed that Softswan, as she was poetically named, was a bride, at that time in the midst of the honeymoon.

Yet such was the case. Her husband being the kindliest, stoutest and handsomest fellow in all that region had won her heart and hand, had obtained her parents’ consent, had been married in the nearest settlement by a travelling missionary, and had carried off his pretty bride to spend the honeymoon in his mountain fortress. We can scarcely call it his home, however, for it was only, as we have said, a temporary residence—the Rocky Mountains, from the Gulf of Mexico to the Arctic Circle, being his home.

While the Indian bride was engaged in charging the firearms, a rifle-shot was heard to echo among the surrounding cliffs. It was followed by a cry, as if some one had been wounded, and then there arose that terrible war-whoop of the red men which, once heard, can never be forgotten, and which inspires even the bravest with feelings of at least anxiety.

That Softswan was not free from alarm was pretty evident from the peculiar curl of her pretty eyebrows, but that the sounds did not unnerve her was also obvious from the quiet though prompt way in which she gathered up all the loaded firearms, and bore them swiftly to the breastwork in front of the cabin. Arranging the guns in a row at her side, so as to be handy, the girl selected one, laid it on the parapet, and carefully examined the priming. Having satisfied herself that it was all right, she cocked the piece, and quietly awaited the issue of events.

The weapon that Softswan had selected was not picked up at haphazard. It was deliberately chosen as being less deadly than the others, the charge being a few slugs or clippings of lead, which were not so apt to kill as rifle bullets; for Softswan, as her name might suggest was gentle of spirit, and was influenced by none of that thirst for blood and revenge which characterised some of her Indian relatives.

After a time the poor girl’s anxiety increased, for well she knew that a whoop and a cry such as she had heard were the sure precursors of something worse. Besides, she had seen the footprints of Blackfoot Indians in the valley below, and she knew from their appearance that those who had made them were on the war-path, in which circumstances savages usually dismiss any small amount of tender mercies with which they may have been naturally endowed.

“Oh why, why you’s not come home, Big Tim?” she exclaimed at last, in broken English.

It may be well to explain at once that Big Tim, who was the only son of Little Tim, had such a decided preference for the tongue of his white father, that he had taught it to his bride, and refused to converse with her in any other, though he understood the language of his mother Brighteyes quite as well as English.

If Big Tim had heard the pathetic question, he would have flown to the rescue more speedily than any other hunter of the Rocky Mountains, for he was the swiftest runner of them all; but unfortunately he was too far off at that moment to hear; not too far off, however, to hear the shot and cry which had alarmed his bride.

From the position which Softswan occupied she could see and command every portion of the zigzag approach to the hut so that no one could reach her without being completely exposed to her fire if she were disposed to dispute the passage. As we have said, the hut stood on a cliff which overhung the torrent that brawled through the gorge, so that she was secure from attack in rear.

In a few minutes another rifle-shot was heard, and the war-whoop was repeated, this time much nearer than before.

With compressed lips and heightened colour, the solitary girl prepared to defend her castle. Presently she heard footsteps among the thick bushes below, as if of some one running in hot haste. Softswan laid her finger on the trigger, but carefully, for the advancing runner might be her husband. Oh why did he not shout to warn her? The poor girl trembled a little, despite her self-restraint, as she thought of the danger and the necessity for immediate action.

Suddenly the bushes on her left moved, and a man, pushing them aside, peeped from among them. He was a savage, in the war-paint and panoply of a Blackfoot brave. The spot to which he had crept was indeed the nearest to the hut that could be reached in that direction, but Softswan knew well that an impassable chasm separated her from the intruder, so she kept well concealed behind the breastwork, and continued to watch him through one of the peep-holes made in it for that purpose. She might have easily shot him, for he was within range, but her nature revolted from doing so, for he seemed to think that the hut was untenanted, and, instead of looking towards her place of concealment, leaned over the cliff so as to get a good view of the lower end of the zigzag track where it entered the woods.

Could he be a foe to the approaching Indians, or one of them? thought the poor girl, rendered almost desperate by doubt and indecision.

Just then a man burst out of the woods below with a defiant shout, and sprang up the narrow track. It was Big Tim. The savage on the cliff pointed his rifle at him. Indecision, doubt, mercy were instantly swept away, and with the speed of the lightning flash the girl sent her charge of slugs into the savage. He collapsed, rolled over the cliff, and went crashing into the bushes underneath, but instantly sprang up, as if unhurt, and disappeared, just as a dozen of his comrades burst upon the scene from the woods below.

The echoing report of the gun and the fall of their companion evidently disconcerted the aim of the savages, for their scattering fire left the bounding Tim untouched. Before they could reload, Softswan sent them a present of another charge of slugs, which, the distance being great, so scattered itself as to embrace nearly the whole party, who thereupon went wounded and howling back into the forest.

“Well done, my soft one!” exclaimed Big Tim, as he took a flying leap over the low breastwork, and caught his bride in his arms, for even in that moment of danger he could not help expressing his joy and thankfulness at finding her safe and well, when he had half expected to find her dead and scalped, if he found her at all.

Another moment, and he was kneeling at the breastwork, examining the firearms and ready for action.

“Fetch the sabre, my soft one,” said Big Tim, addressing his bride by the title which he had bestowed on her on his wedding-day.

The tone in which he said this struck the girl as being unusually light and joyous, not quite in keeping with the circumstance of being attacked by overwhelming odds; but she was becoming accustomed to the eccentricities of her bold and stalwart husband, and had perfect confidence in him. Without, therefore, expressing surprise by word or look, she obeyed the order.

Unsheathing the weapon, the hunter felt its edge with his thumb, and a slight smile played on his features as he said—

“I have good news for the soft one to-day.”

The soft one looked, but did not say, “Indeed, what is it?”

“Yes,” continued the youth, sheathing the sabre; “the man with the kind heart and the snowy pinion has come back to the mountains. He will be here before the shadows of the trees grow much longer.”

“Whitewing?” exclaimed Softswan, with a gleam of pleasure in her bright black eyes.

“Just so. The prairie chief has come back to us, and is now a preacher.”

“Has the pale-face preacher com’ vis him?” asked the bride, with a slightly troubled look, for she did not yet feel quite at home in her broken English, and feared that her husband might laugh at her mistakes, though nothing was further from the mind of the stout hunter than to laugh at his pretty bride. He did indeed sometimes indulge the propensity in that strange conventional region “his sleeve,” but no owl of the desert was more solemn in countenance than Big Tim when Softswan perpetrated her lingual blunders.

“I know not,” he replied, as he renewed the priming of one of the guns. “Hist! did you see something move under the willow bush yonder?”

The girl shook her head.

“A rabbit, no doubt,” said the hunter, lowering the rifle which he had raised, and resuming his easy unconcerned attitude, yet keeping his keen eye on the spot with a steadiness that showed his indifference was assumed.

“I know not whether the pale-face preacher is with him,” he continued. “Those who told me about him could only say that a white man dressed like the crows was travelling a short distance in advance of Whitewing, but whether he was one of his party or not, they could not tell. Indeed it is said that Whitewing has no party with him, that he travels alone. If he does, he is more reckless than ever, seeing that his enemies the Blackfeet are on the war-path just now; but you never know what a half-mad redskin will do, and Whitewing is a queer customer.”

Big Tim’s style of speech was in accordance with his half-caste nature—sometimes flowing in channels of slightly poetic imagery, like that of his Indian mother; at other times dropping into the very matter-of-fact style of his white sire.

“Leetil Tim vill be glad,” said Softswan.

“Ay, daddy will be pleased. By the way, I wonder what keeps him out so long? I half expected to find him here when I arrived. Indeed, I made sure it was him that tumbled yon Blackfoot off the cliff so smartly. You see, I didn’t know you were such a plucky little woman, my soft one, though I might have guessed it, seeing that you possess all the good qualities under the sun; but a man hardly expects his squaw to be great on the war-path, d’ye see?”

Softswan neither smiled nor looked pleased at the compliment intended in these words.

“Me loves not to draw bloods,” she said gravely, with a pensive look on the ground.

“Don’t let that disturb you, soft one,” said her husband, with a quiet laugh. “By the way he jumped after it I guess he has got no more harm than if you’d gin him an overdose o’ physic. But them reptiles bein’ in these parts makes me raither anxious about daddy. Did he say where he meant to hunt when he went off this morning?”

“Yes; Leetil Tim says hims go for hunt near Lipstock Hill.”

“Just so; Lopstick Hill,” returned Tim, correcting her with offhand gravity.

“But me hears a shote an’ a cry,” said the girl, with a suddenly anxious look.

“That was from one o’ the redskins, whose thigh I barked for sendin’ an arrow raither close to my head,” said the young man.

“But,” continued his bride, with increasing anxiety, “the shote an’ the cry was long before you comes home. Pr’aps it bees Leetil Tim.”

“Impossible,” said Big Tim quickly; “father must have bin miles away at that time, for Lopsuck Hill is good three hours’ walk from here as the crow flies, an’ the Blackfeet came from the opposite airt o’ the compass.”

The young hunter’s prolonged silence after this, as well as the expression of his face, showed that he was not quite as easy in his mind as his words implied.

“Did the cry seem to be far off?” he asked at last quickly.

“Not far,” returned his wife.

Without speaking, Big Tim began to buckle on the cavalry sabre, not in the loosely-swinging cavalry fashion, but closely and firmly to his side, with his broad waistbelt, so that it might not impede his movements. He then selected from the arms a short double-barrelled gun, and, slinging a powder-horn and shot-pouch over his shoulders, prepared to depart.

“Now listen, my soft one,” he said, on completing his arrangements. “I feel a’most sartin sure that the cry ye heard was not daddy’s; nevertheless, the bare possibility o’ such a thing makes it my dooty to go an’ see if it was the old man. I think the Blackfeet have drawed off to have a palaver, an’ won’t be back for a bit, so I’ll jist slip down the precipice by our secret path; an’ if they do come back when I’m away, pepper them well wi’ slugs. I’ll hear the shots, an’ be back to you afore they can git up the hill. But if they should make a determined rush, don’t you make too bold a stand agin ’em. Just let fly with the big-bore when they’re half-way up the track, an’ then slip into the cave. I’ll soon meet ye there, an we’ll give the reptiles a surprise. Now, you’ll be careful, soft one?”

Soft one promised to be careful, and Big Tim, entering the hut, passed out at a back door, and descended the cliff to the torrent below by a concealed path which even a climbing monkey might have shuddered to attempt.

Meanwhile Softswan, re-arranging and re-examining her firearm, sat down behind the breastwork to guard the fort.

The sun was still high in the heavens, illuming a magnificent prospect of hill and dale and virgin forest, and glittering in the lakelets, pools, and rivers, which brightened the scene as far as the distant horizon, where the snow-clad peaks of the Rocky Mountains rose grandly into the azure sky.

The girl sat there almost motionless for a long time, exhibiting in her face and figure at once the keen watchfulness of the savage and the endurance of the pale-face.

Unlike many girls of her class, she had at one period been brought for a short time under the influence of men who loved the Lord Jesus Christ and esteemed it equally a duty and a privilege to urge others to flee from the wrath to come and accept the Gospel offer of salvation—men who themselves had long before been influenced by the pale-face preacher to whom Softswan had already referred. The seed had, in her case, fallen into good ground, and had brought forth the fruit of an earnest desire to show good-will to all with whom she had to do. It had also aroused in her a hungering and thirsting for more knowledge of God and His ways.

It was natural, therefore, as she gazed on the splendid scene spread out before her, that the thoughts of this child of the backwoods should rise to contemplation of the Creator, and become less attentive to inferior matters than circumstances required.

She was recalled suddenly to the danger of her position by the appearance of a dark object, which seemed to crawl out of the bushes below, just where the zigzag track entered them. At the first glance it seemed to resemble a bear; a second and more attentive look suggested that it might be a man. Whether bear or man, however, it was equally a foe, at least so thought Softswan, and she raised one of the guns to her shoulder with a promptitude that would have done credit to Big Tim himself.

But she did not fire. The natural disinclination to shed blood restrained her—fortunately, as it turned out,—for the crawling object, on reaching the open ground, rose with apparent difficulty and staggered forward a few paces in what seemed to be the form of a drunken man. After one or two ineffectual efforts to ascend the track, the unfortunate being fell and remained a motionless heap upon the ground.

Chapter Six.

A Strange Visitor.

Curious mingling of eagerness, hope, and fear rendered Softswan for some minutes undecided how to act as she gazed at the fallen man. His garb was of a dark uniform grey colour, which she had often heard described, but had not seen until now. That he was wounded she felt quite sure, but she knew that there would be great danger in descending to aid him. Besides, if he were helpless, as he seemed to be, she had not physical strength to lift him, and would expose herself to easy capture if the Blackfeet should be in ambush.

Still, the eager and indefinable hope that was in her heart induced the girl to rise with the intention of descending the path, when she observed that the fallen man again moved. Rising on his hands and knees, he crept forward a few paces, and then stopped. Suddenly by a great effort, he raised himself to a kneeling position, clasped his hands, and looked up.

The act sufficed to decide the wavering girl. Leaping lightly over the breastwork, she ran swiftly down until she reached the man, who gazed at her in open-mouthed astonishment. He was a white man, and the ghastly pallor of his face, with a few spots of blood on it and on his hands, told that he had been severely wounded.

“Manitou seems to have sent an angel of light to me in my extremity,” he gasped in the Indian tongue.

“Come; me vill help you,” answered Softswan, in her broken English, as she stooped and assisted him to rise.

No other word was uttered, for even with the girl’s assistance it was with the utmost difficulty that the man reached the breastwork of the hut, and when he had succeeded in clambering over it, he lay down and fainted.

After Softswan had glanced anxiously in the direction of the forest, and placed one of the guns in a handy position, she proceeded to examine the wounded stranger. Being expert in such matters, she opened his vest, and quickly found a wound near the region of the heart. It was bleeding steadily though not profusely. To stanch this and bind it up was the work of a few minutes. Then she reclosed the vest. In doing so she found something hard in a pocket near the wound. It was a little book, which she gently removed as it might interfere with the bandage. In doing so she observed that the book had been struck by the bullet which it deflected, so as to cause a more deadly wound than might otherwise have been inflicted.

She was thus engaged when the patient recovered consciousness, and, seizing her wrist, exclaimed, “Take not the Word from me. It has been my joy and comfort in all my—”

He stopped on observing who it was that touched his treasure.

“Nay, then,” he continued, with a faint smile, as he released his hold; “it can come to no harm in thy keeping, child. For an instant I thought that rougher hands had seized it. But why remove it?”

Softswan explained, but, seeing how eager the man was to keep it, she at once returned the little Bible to the inner pocket in which it was carried when not in use. Then running into the hut she quickly returned with a rib of venison and a tin mug of water.

The man declined the food, but drained the mug with an air of satisfaction, which showed how much he stood in need of water.

Much refreshed, he pulled out the Bible again, and looked earnestly at it.

“Strange,” he said, in the Indian tongue, turning his eyes on his surgeon-nurse; “often have I heard of men saved from death by bullets being stopped by Bibles, but in my case it would seem as if God had made it a key to unlock the gates of the better land.”

“Does my white father think he is going to die?” asked the girl in her own tongue, with a look of anxiety.

“It may be so,” replied the man gently, “for I feel very, very weak. But feelings are deceptive; one cannot trust them. It matters little, however. If I live, it is to work for Jesus. If I die, it is to be with Jesus. But tell me, little one, who art thou whom the Lord has sent to succour me?”

“Me is Softswan, daughter of the great chief Bounding Bull,” replied the girl, with a look of pride when she mentioned her father, which drew a slight smile from the stranger.

“But Softswan has white blood in her veins,” he said; “and why does she sometimes speak in the language of the pale-face?”

“My mother,” returned the girl in a low, sad tone, “was pale-face womans from the Saskatchewan. Me speaks English, for my husban’ likes it.”

“Your husband—what is his name!”

“Big Tim.”

“What!” exclaimed the wounded man with sudden energy, as a flush overspread his pale face; “is he the son of Little Tim, the brother-in-law of Whitewing the prairie chief?”

“He is the son of Leetil Tim, an’ this be hims house.”

“Then,” exclaimed the stranger, with a pleased look, “I have reached, if not the end of my journey, at least a most important point in it, for I had appointed to meet Whitewing at this very spot, and did not know, when the Blackfoot Indian shot me, that I was so near the hut. It looked like a mere accident my finding the track which leads to it near the spot where I fell, but it is the Lord’s doing. Tell me, Softswan, have you never heard Whitewing and Little Tim speak of the pale-face missionary—the Preacher, they used to call me?”

“Yes, yes, oftin,” answered the girl eagerly. “Me tinks it bees you. Me very glad, an’ Leetil Tim he—”

Her speech was cut short at this point by a repetition of the appalling war-whoop which had already disturbed the echoes of the gorge more than once that day.

Naturally the attention of Softswan had been somewhat distracted by the foregoing conversation, and she had allowed the Indians to burst from the thicket and rush up the track a few paces before she was able to bring the big-bore gun to bear on them.

“Slay them not, Softswan,” cried the preacher anxiously, as he tried to rise and prevent her firing. “We cannot escape them.”

He was too late. She had already pressed the trigger, and the roar of the huge gun was reverberating from cliff to cliff like miniature thunder; but his cry had not been too late to produce wavering in the girl’s wind, inducing her to take bad aim, so that the handful of slugs with which the piece had been charged went hissing over the assailants’ heads instead of killing them. The stupendous hissing and noise, however, had the effect of momentarily arresting the savages, and inducing each man to seek the shelter of the nearest shrub.

“Com queek,” cried Softswan, seizing the preacher’s hand. “You be deaded soon if you not com queek.”

Feeling the full force of this remark, the wounded man, exerting all his strength, arose, and suffered himself to be led into the hut. Passing quickly out by a door at the back, the preacher and the bride found themselves on a narrow ledge of rock, from one side of which was the precipice down which Big Tim had made his perilous descent. Close to their feet lay a great flat rock or natural slab, two yards beyond which the ledge terminated in a sheer precipice.

“No escape here,” remarked the preacher sadly, as he looked round. “In my present state I could not venture down such a path even to save my life. But care not for me, Softswan. If you think you can escape, go and—”

He stopped, for to his amazement the girl stooped, and with apparent ease raised the ponderous mass of rock above referred to as though it had been a slight wooden trap-door, and disclosed a hole large enough for a man to pass through. The preacher observed that the stone was hinged on a strong iron bar, which was fixed considerably nearer to one side of it than the other. Still, this hinge did not account for the ease with which a mere girl lifted a ponderous mass which two or three men could not have moved without the aid of levers.

But there was no time to investigate the mystery of the matter, for another ringing war-whoop told that the Blackfeet, having recovered from their consternation, had summoned courage to renew the assault.

“Down queek!” said the girl, looking earnestly into her companion’s face, and pointing to the dark hole, where the head of a rude ladder, dimly visible, showed what had to be done.

“It does not require much faith to trust and obey such a leader,” thought the preacher, as he got upon the ladder, and quickly disappeared in the hole. Softswan lightly followed. As her head was about to disappear, she raised her hand, seized hold of a rough projection on the under surface of the mass of rock, and drew it gently down so as to effectually close the hole, leaving no trace whatever of its existence.

While this was going on the Blackfeet were advancing up the narrow pathway with superlative though needless caution, and no small amount of timidity. Each man took advantage of every scrap of cover he could find on the way up, but as the owner of the hut had taken care to remove all cover that was removable, they did not find much, and if the defenders had been there, that little would have been found to be painfully insufficient, for it consisted only of rugged masses and projections of rock, none of which could altogether conceal the figure of a full-grown man. Indeed, it seemed inexplicable that these Indians should have made this assault in broad day, considering that Indians in general are noted for their care of “number one,” are particularly unwilling to meet their foes in fair open fight, and seldom if ever venture to storm a place of strength except by surprise and under the cover of night.

The explanation lay partly in the fact that they were aware of the advance of friends towards the place, but much more in this, that the party was led by the great chief Rushing River, a man possessed of that daring bulldog courage and reckless contempt of death which is usually more characteristic of white than of red men.

When the band had by galvanic darts and rushes gained the last scrap of cover that lay between them and the little fortress, Rushing River gave vent to a whoop which was meant to thrill the defenders with consternation to the very centre of their being, and made a gallant rush, worthy of his name, for the breastwork. Reaching it in gasping haste, he and his braves crouched for one moment at the foot of it, presumably to recover wind and allow the first fire of the defenders to pass over their heads.

But no first fire came, and Rushing River rolled his great black eyes upward in astonishment, perhaps thinking that his whoop had thrilled the defenders off the face of the earth altogether!

Suspense, they say, is less endurable than actual collision with danger. Probably Rushing River thought it so, for next moment he raised his black head quickly. Finding a hole in the defences, he applied one of his black eyes to it and peeped through. Seeing nothing, he uttered another whoop, and vaulted over like a squirrel, tomahawk in hand, ready to brain anybody or anything. Seeing nobody and nothing in particular, except an open door, he suspected an ambush in that quarter, darted round the corner of the hut to get out of the doorway line of fire, and peeped back.

Animated by a similar spirit, his men followed suit. When it became evident that no one meant to come out of the hut Rushing River resolved to go in, and did so with another yell and a flourish of his deadly weapon, but again was he doomed to expend his courage and violence on air, for he possessed too much of natural dignity to expend his wrath on inanimate furniture.

Of course one glance sufficed to show that the defenders had flown, and it needed not the practised wit of a savage to perceive that they had retreated through the back door. In his eagerness to catch the foe, the Indian chief sprang after them with such a rush that nothing but a stout willow, which he grasped convulsively, prevented him from going over the precipice headlong—changing, as it were, from a River into a Fall—and ending his career appropriately in the torrent below.

When the chief had assembled his followers on the limited surface of the ledge, they all gazed around them for a few seconds in silence. On one side was a sheer precipice. On another side was, if we may so express it, a sheerer precipice rising upward. On the third side was the steep and rugged path, which looked sufficiently dangerous to arrest all save the mad or the desperate. On the fourth side was the hut.

Seeing all this at a glance, Rushing River looked mysterious and said, “Ho!”

To which his men returned, “How!” “Hi!” and “Hee!” or some other exclamation indicative of bafflement and surprise.

Standing on the trap-door rock as on a sort of pulpit, the chief pointed with his finger to the precipitous path, and said solemnly—

“Big Tim has gone down there. He has net the wings of the hawk, but he has the spirit of the squirrel, or the legs of the goat.”

“Or the brains of the fool,” suggested a follower, with a few drops of white blood in his veins, which made him what boys call “cheeky.”

“Of course,” continued Rushing River, still more solemnly, and scorning to notice the remark, “of course Rushing River and his braves could follow if they chose. They could do anything. But of what use would it be? As well might we follow the moose-deer when it has got a long start.”

“Big Tim has got the start, as Rushing River wisely says,” remarked the cheeky comrade, “but he is hampered with his squaw, and cannot go fast.”

“Many pale-faces are hampered by their squaws, and cannot go fast,” retorted the chief, by which reply he meant to insinuate that the few drops of white blood in the veins of the cheeky one might yet come through an experience to which a pure Indian would scorn to submit. “But,” continued the chief, after a pause to let the stab take full effect, “but Softswan is well known. She is strong as the mountain sheep and fleet as the mustang. She will not hamper Big Tim. Enough! We will let them go, and take possession of their goods.”

Whatever the chief’s followers might have thought about the first part of his speech, there was evidently no difference of opinion as to the latter part. With a series of assenting “Ho’s,” “How’s,” “Hi’s,” and “Hee’s,” they returned with him into the hut, and began to appropriate the property, commencing with a cold haunch of venison which they discovered in the larder, and to which they did ample justice, sitting in a circle on the floor in the middle of the little room.

Leaving them there, we will return to Softswan and her new friend.

“The place is very dark,” remarked the preacher, groping cautiously about after the trap-door was closed as above described.

“Stan’ still; I vill strik light,” said Softswan.

In a few moments sparks were seen flying from flint and steel, and after one or two unsuccessful efforts a piece of tinder was kindled. Then the girl’s pretty little nose and lips were seen of a fiery red colour as she blew some dry grass and chips into a flame, and kindled a torch therewith.

The light revealed a small natural cavern of rock, not much more than six feet high and ten or twelve wide, but of irregular shape, and extending into obscurity in one direction. The only objects in the cave besides the ladder by which they entered it were a few barrels partially covered with deerskin, an unusually small table, rudely but strongly made, and an enormous mass of rock enclosed in a net of strong rope which hung from an iron hook in the roof.

The last object at once revealed the mystery of the trap-door. It formed a ponderous counterpoise attached to the smaller section of the stone slab, and so nearly equalised the weight on the hinge that, as we have seen, Softswan’s weak arm was sufficient to turn the scale.

The instant the torch flared up the girl stuck it into a crevice in the wall, and quickly grasping the little table, pushed it under the pendent rock. It reached to within half an inch of the mass. Picking up two broad wooden wedges that lay on the floor, she thrust them between the rock and the table, one on either side, so as to cause it to rest entirely on the table, and thus by removing its weight from the iron hook, the slab was rendered nearly immovable. She was anxiously active in these various operations, for already the Indians had entered the hut and their voices could be distinctly heard overhead.

“Now,” she whispered, with a sigh of relief, “six mans not abil to move the stone, even if he knowed the hole is b’low it.”

“It is an ingenious device,” said the preacher, throwing his exhausted form on a heap of pine branches which lay in a corner. “Who invented it—your husband?”

“No; it was Leetil Tim,” returned the girl, with a low musical laugh. “Big Tim says hims fadder be great at ’ventions. He ’vent many t’ings. Some’s good, some’s bad, an’ some’s funny.”

The preacher could not forbear smiling at this account of his old friend, in spite of his anxiety lest the Indians who were regaling themselves overhead should discover their retreat. He had begun to put some questions to Softswan in a low voice when he was rendered dumb and his blood seemed to curdle as he heard stumbling footsteps approaching from the dark end of the cavern. Then was heard the sound of some one panting vehemently. Next moment a man leaped into the circle of light, and seized the Indian girl in his arms.

“Thank God!” he exclaimed fervently; “not too late! I had thought the reptiles had been too much for thee, soft one. Ah me! I fear that some poor pale-face has—” He stopped abruptly, for at that moment Big Tim’s eye fell upon the wounded man. “What!” he exclaimed, hastening to the preacher’s side; “you have got here after all?”

“Ay, young man, through the goodness of God I have reached this haven of rest. Your words seem to imply that you had half expected to find me, though how you came to know of my case at all is to me a mystery.”

“My white father,” returned Big Tim, referring as much to the preacher’s age and pure white hair as to his connection with the white men, “finds mystery where the hunter and the red man see none. I went out a-purpose to see that it was not my daddy the Blackfoot reptiles had shot and soon came across your tracks, which showed me as plain as a book that you was badly wounded. I followed the tracks for a bit, expectin’ to find you lyin’ dead somewheres, when the whoops of the reptiles turned me back. But tell me, white father, are you not the preacher that my daddy and Whitewing used to know some twenty years agone?”

“I am, and fain would I meet with my former friends once more before I die.”

“You shall meet with them, I doubt not,” replied the young hunter, arranging the couch of the wounded man more comfortably. “I see that my soft one has bandaged you up, and she’s better than the best o’ sawbones at such work. I’ll be able to make you more comfortable when we drive the reptiles out o’—”

“Call them not reptiles,” interrupted the preacher gently. “They are the creatures of God, like ourselves.”

“It may be so, white father; nevertheless, they are uncommon low, mean, sneakin’, savage critters, an’ that’s all that I’ve got to do with.”

“You say truth, Big Tim,” returned the preacher, “and that is also all that I have got to do with; but you and I take different methods of correcting the evil.”

“Every man must walk in the ways to which he was nat’rally born,” rejoined the young hunter, with a dark frown, as the sound of revelry in the hut overhead became at the moment much louder; “my way wi’ them may not be the best in the world, but you shall see in a few minutes that it is a way which will cause the very marrow of the rep—of the dear critters—to frizzle in their bones.”

Chapter Seven.

Big Tim’s Method with Savages.

“I sincerely hope,” said the wounded man, with a look of anxiety, “that the plan you speak of does not involve the slaughter of these men.”

“It does not” replied Big Tim, “though if it did, it would be serving them right, for they would slaughter you and me—ay, and even Softswan there—if they could lay hold of us.”

“Is it too much to ask the son of my old friend to let me know what his plans are? A knowledge of them would perhaps remove my anxiety, which I feel pressing heavily on me in my present weak condition. Besides, I may be able to counsel you. Although a man of peace, my life has been but too frequently mixed up with scenes of war and bloodshed. In truth, my mission on earth is to teach those principles which, if universally acted on, would put an end to both;—perhaps I should have said, my mission is to point men to that Saviour who is an embodiment of the principles of Love and Peace and Goodwill.”

For a few seconds the young hunter sat on the floor of the cave in silence, with his hands clasped round his knees, and his eyes cast down as if in meditation. At last a smile played on his features, and he looked at his questioner with a humorous twinkle in his eyes.

“Well, my white father,” he said, “I see no reason why I should not explain the matter to my daddy’s old friend; but I’ll have to say my say smartly, for by the stamping and yells o’ the rep—o’ the Blackfeet overhead, I perceive that they’ve got hold o’ my case-bottle o’ rum, an’ if I don’t stop them they’ll pull the old hut down about their ears.

“Well, you must know that my daddy left the settlements in his young days,” continued Big Tim, “an’ took to a rovin’ life on the prairies an’ mountains, but p’r’aps he told you that long ago. No? Well, he served for some time at a queer sort o’ trade—the makin’ o’ fireworks; them rediklous things they call squibs, crackers, rockets, an’ Roman candles, with which the foolish folk o’ the settlements blow their money into smoke for the sake o’ ticklin’ their fancies for a few minutes.

“Well, when he came here, of course he had no use for sitch tomfooleries, but once or twice, when he wanted to astonish the natives, he got hold o’ some ’pothicary’s stuff an’ wi’ gunpowder an’ charcoal concocted some things that well-nigh drove the red men out o’ their senses, an’ got daddy to be regarded as a great medicine-man. Of course he kep’ it secret how he produced the surprisin’ fires—an’, to say truth, I think from my own experience that if he had tried to explain it to ’em they could have made neither head nor tail o’t. For a long time arter that he did nothin’ more in that way, till one time when the Blackfeet came an’ catched daddy an’ me nappin’ in this very hut and we barely got off wi’ the scalps on our heads by scrambling down the precipice where the reptiles didn’t like to follow. When they left the place they took all our odds an’ ends wi’ them, an’ set fire to the hut. Arter they was gone we set to work an’ built a noo hut. Then daddy—who’s got an amazin’ turn for inventin’ things—set to work to concoct suthin’ for the reptiles if they should pay us another visit. It was at that time he thought of turnin’ this cave to account as a place o’ refuge when hard pressed, an’ hit on the plan for liftin’ the big stone easy, which no doubt you’ve obsarved.”

“Yes; Softswan has explained it to me. But what about your plan with the Indians?” said the preacher.

“I’m comin’ to that,” replied the hunter. “Well, daddy set to work an’ made a lot o’ fireworks—big squibs, an’ them sort o’ crackers, I forget what you call ’em, that jumps about as if they was not only alive, but possessed with evil spirits—”

“I know them—zigzag crackers,” said the preacher, somewhat amused.

“That’s them,” cried Big Tim, with an eager look, as if the mere memory of them were exciting. “Well, daddy he fixed up a lot o’ the big squibs an’ Roman candles round the walls o’ the hut in such a way that they all p’inted from ivery corner, above an’ below, to the centre of the hut, right in front o’ the fireplace, so that their fire should all meet, so to speak, in a focus. Then he chiselled out a lot o’ little holes in the stone walls in such a way that they could not be seen, and in every hole he put a zigzag cracker; an’ he connected the whole affair—squibs, candles, and crackers—with an instantaneous fuse, the end of which he trained down, through a hole cut in the solid rock, into this here cave; an’ there’s the end of it right opposite to yer nose.”

He pointed as he spoke to a part of the wall of the cavern where a small piece of what seemed like white tape projected about half an inch from the stone.

“Has it ever been tried?” asked the preacher, who, despite his weak and wounded condition, could hardly restrain a laugh as the young hunter described his father’s complicated arrangements.

“No, we han’t tried it yet, ’cause the reptiles haven’t bin here since, but daddy, who’s a very thoroughgoin’ man, has given the things a complete overhaul once a month ever since—’cept when he was away on long expeditions—so as to make sure the stuff was dry an in workin’ order. Now,” added the young man, rising and lighting a piece of tinder at the torch on the wall, “it’s about time that we should putt it to the test. If things don’t go wrong, you’ll hear summat koorious overhead before long.”

He applied a light to the quick-match as he spoke, and awaited the result.

In order that the reader may observe that result more clearly, we will transport him to the scene of festivity in the little fortress above.

As Big Tim correctly surmised, the savages had discovered the hunter’s store of rum just after eating as much venison as they could comfortably consume. Fire-water, as is well known, tells with tremendous effect on the excitable nerves and minds of Indians. In a very few minutes it produced, as in many white men, a tendency to become garrulous. While in this stage the savages began to boast, if possible, more than usual of their prowess in chase and war, and as their potations continued, they were guilty of that undignified act—so rare among red men and so common among whites—of interrupting and contradicting each other.

This condition is the sure precursor of the quarrelsome and fighting stage of drunkenness. They had almost reached it, when Rushing River rose to his feet for the purpose of making a speech. Usually the form of the chief was as firm as the rock on which he stood. At this time, however, it swayed very slightly to and fro, and in his eyes—which were usually noted for the intensity of their eagle glance—there was just then an owlish blink as they surveyed the circle of his braves.

Indeed Rushing River, as he stood there looking down into the upturned faces, observed—with what feelings we know not—that these braves sometimes exhibited a few of the same owlish blinks in their earnest eyes.

“My b–braves,” said the chief; and then, evidently forgetting what he intended to say, he put on one of those looks of astonishing solemnity which fire-water alone is capable of producing.

“My b–braves,” he began again, looking sternly round the almost breathless and expectant circle, “when we left our l–lodges in the m–mountains this morning the sun was rising.”

He paused, and this being an emphatic truism, was received with an equally emphatic “Ho” of assent.

“N–now,” continued the chief, with a gentle sway to the right, which he corrected with an abrupt jerk to the left, “n–now, the sun is about to descend, and w–we are here!”

Feeling that he had made a decided point, he drew himself up and blinked, while his audience gave vent to another “Ho” in tones which expressed the idea—“waiting for more.” The comrade, however, whose veins were fired, or chilled, with the few drops of white blood, ventured to assert his independence by ejaculating “Hum!”

“Bounding Bull,” cried the chief, suddenly shifting ground and glaring, while he breathed hard and showed his teeth, “is a coward. His daughter Softswan is a chicken-hearted squaw; and her husband Big Tim is a skunk—so is Little Tim his father.”

These remarks, being thoroughly in accord with the sentiments of the braves, were received with a storm of “Ho’s,” “How’s,” “Hi’s,” and “Hee’s,” which effectually drowned the cheeky one’s “Hum’s,” and greatly encouraged the chief, who thereafter broke forth in a flow of language which was more in keeping with his name. After a few boastful references to the deeds of himself and his forefathers, he went into an elaborate and exaggerated description of the valorous way in which they had that day stormed the fort of their pale-face enemies and driven them out; after which, losing somehow the thread of his discourse, he fell back on an appallingly solemn look, blinked, and sat down.

This was the signal for the recurrence of the approving “Ho’s” and “Hi’s,” the gratifying effect of which, however, was slightly marred when silence was restored by a subdued “Hum” from the cheeky comrade.

Directing a fierce glance at that presumptuous brave, Rushing River was about to give vent to words which might have led on to the fighting stage, when he was arrested, and, with his men, almost petrified, by a strange fizzing noise which seemed to come from the earth directly below them.

Incomprehensible sounds are at all times more calculated to alarm than sounds which we recognise. The report of a rifle, the yell of a foe, could not have produced such an effect on the savages as did that fizzing sound. Each man grasped his tomahawk, but sat still, and turned pale. The fizzing sound was interspersed with one or two cracks, which intensified the alarm, but did not clear up the mystery. If they had only known what to do they would have done it; what danger to face, they would have faced it; but to sit there inactive, with the mysterious sounds increasing, was almost intolerable.

Rushing River, of all the band, maintained his character for reckless hardihood. He sat there unblenched and apparently unmoved, though it was plain that he was intensely watchful and ready. But the foe assailed him where least expected. In a little hole right under the very spot on which he sat lay one of the zigzag crackers. Its first crack caused the chief, despite his power of will and early training, to bound up as if an electric battery had discharged him. The second crack sent the eccentric thing into his face. Its third vagary brought it down about his knees. Its fourth sent it into the gaping mouth of the cheeky one. At the same instant the squibs and candles burst forth from all points, pouring their fires on the naked shoulders of the red men with a hiss that the whole serpent race of America might have failed to equal, while the other zigzags went careering about as if the hut were filled with evil spirits.

To say that the savages yelled and jumped, and stamped and roared, were but a tame remark. After a series of wild bursts, in sudden and violent confusion which words cannot describe, they rushed in a compact body to the door. Of course they stuck fast. Rushing River went at them like a battering-ram, and tried to force them through, but failed. The cheeky comrade, with a better appreciation of the possibilities of the case, took a short run and a header right over the struggling mass, à la harlequin, and came down on his shoulders outside, without breaking his neck.

Guessing the state of things by the nature of the sounds, Big Tim removed the table from under the ponderous weight, lifted the re-adjusted trap-door, and, springing up, darted into the hut just in time to bestow a parting kick on the last man that struggled through. Running to the breastwork, he beheld his foes tumbling, rushing, crashing, bounding down the track like maniacs—which indeed they were for the time being—and he succeeded in urging them to even greater exertions by giving utterance to a grand resonant British cheer, which had been taught him by his father, and had indeed been used by him more than once, with signal success, against his Indian foes.

Returning to the cavern after the Indians had vanished into their native woods, Big Tim assisted the preacher up the ladder, and, taking him into the hut after the smoke of the fireworks had cleared away, placed him in his own bed.

“You resemble your father in face, Big Tim, but not in figure,” said the missionary, when he had recovered from the exhaustion caused by his recent efforts and excitement.

“My white father says truth,” replied the hunter, with slightly humorous glances at his huge limbs. “Daddy is little, but he is strong—uncommon strong.”

“He used to be so when I knew him,” returned the preacher, “and I dare say the twenty years that have passed since then have not changed him much, for he is a good deal younger than I am—about the same age, I should suppose, as my old friend Whitewing.”

“Yes, that’s so,” said the hunter; “they’re both about five-an’-forty or there-away, though I doubt if either o’ them is quite sure about his age. An’ they’re both beginning to be grizzled about the scalp-locks.”

“Your father, although somewhat reckless in his disposition,” continued the preacher, after a pause, “was a man of earnest mind.”

“That’s a fact, an’ no mistake,” returned Big Tim, examining a pot of soup which his bride had put on the fire to warm up for their visitor. “I doubt if ever I saw a more arnest-minded man than daddy, especially when he tackles his victuals or gets on the track of a grizzly b’ar.”

The missionary smiled, in spite of himself, as he explained that the earnestness he referred to was connected rather with the soul and the spiritual world than with this sublunary sphere.

“Well, he is arnest about that too,” returned the hunter. “He has often told me that he didn’t use to trouble his head about such matters long ago, but after that time when he met you on the prairies he had been led to think a deal more about ’em. He’s a queer man is daddy, an’ putts things to ye in a queer way sometimes. ‘Timmy,’ says he to me once—he calls me Timmy out o’ fondness, you know—‘Timmy,’ says he, ‘if you comed up to a great thick glass wall, not very easy to see through, wi’ a door in it, an’ you was told that some day that door would open, an’ you’d have to go through an’ live on the other side o’ that glass wall, you’d be koorious to know the lie o’ the land on the other side o’ that wall, wouldn’t you, and what sort o’ customers you’d have to consort wi’ there, eh?’

“‘Yes, daddy,’ says I, ‘you say right, an’ I’d be a great fool if I didn’t take a good long squint now an’ again.’

“‘Well, Timmy,’ says he, ‘this world is that glass wall, an’ death is the door through it, an’ the Bible that the preacher gave me long ago is the Book that helps to clear up the glass an’ enable us to see through it a little better; an’ a Blackfoot bullet or arrow may open the door to you an’ me any day, so I’d advise you, lad, to take a good squint now an’ again.’ An’ I’ve done it, too, Preacher, I’ve done it, but there’s a deal on it that I don’t rightly understand.”

“That I do not wonder at, my young friend; and I hope that if God spares me I may be able to help you a little in this matter. But what of Whitewing? Has he never tried to assist you?”

“Tried! He just has; but the chief is too deep for me most times. He seems to have a wonderful grip o’ these things himself, an’ many a long palaver he has wi’ my daddy about ’em. Whitewing does little else, in fact but go about among his people far an’ near tellin’ them about their lost condition and the Saviour of sinners. He has even ventur’d to visit a tribe o’ the Blackfeet, but his great enemy Rushin’ River has sworn to scalp him if he gets hold of him, so we’ve done our best to hold him back—daddy an’ me—for it would be of no use preachin’ to such a double-dyed villain as Rushin’ River.”

“That is one of the things,” returned the preacher, “that you do not quite understand, Big Tim, for it was to such men as he that our Saviour came. Indeed, I have returned to this part of the country for the very purpose of visiting the Blackfoot chief in company with Whitewing.”

“Both you and Whitewing will be scalped if you do,” said the young hunter almost sternly.

“I trust not,” returned the preacher; “and we hope to induce your father to go with us.”

“Then daddy will be scalped too,” said Big Tim—“an’ so will I, for I’m bound to keep daddy company.”

“It is to be hoped your gloomy expectations will not be realised,” returned the preacher. “But tell me, where is your father just now?”

“Out hunting, not far off,” replied the youth, with an anxious look. “To say truth, I don’t feel quite easy about him, for he’s bin away longer than usual, or than there’s any occasion for. If he doesn’t return soon, I’ll have to go an’ sarch for him.”

As the hunter spoke the hooting of an owl was distinctly heard outside. The preacher looked up inquiringly, for he was too well acquainted with the ways of Indians not to know that the cry was a signal from a biped without wings. He saw that Big Tim and his bride were both listening intently, with expressions of joyful expectation on their faces.

Again the cry was heard, much nearer than before.

“Whitewing!” exclaimed the hunter, leaping up and hastening to the door.

Softswan did not move, but continued silently to stir the soup in the pot on the fire.

Presently many footsteps were heard outside, and the sound of men conversing in low tones. Another moment, and a handsome middle-aged Indian stood in the doorway. With an expression of profound sorrow, he gazed for one moment at the wounded man; then, striding forward, knelt beside him and grasped his hand.

“My white father!” he said.

“Whitewing!” exclaimed the preacher; “I little expected that our meeting should be like this!”

“Is the preacher badly hurt?” asked the Indian in a low voice.

“It may be so; I cannot tell. My feelings lead me to—to doubt—I was going to say fear, but I have nothing to fear. ‘He doeth all things well.’ If my work on earth is not done, I shall live; if it is finished, I shall die.”

Chapter Eight.

Netting a Grizzly Bear.

As it is at all times unwise as well as disagreeable to involve a reader in needless mystery, we may as well explain here that there would have been no mystery at all in Little Tim’s prolonged absence from his fortress, if it had not been that he was aware of the intended visit of his chum and brother-in-law, Whitewing, and his old friend the pale-faced missionary, and that he had promised to return on the evening of the day on which he set off to hunt or on the following morning at latest.

Moreover, Little Tim was a man of his word, having never within the memory of his oldest friend been known to break it. Thus it came to pass that when three days had passed away, and the sturdy little hunter failed to return, Big Tim and his bride first became surprised and then anxious. The attack on the hut, however, and the events which we have just related, prevented the son from going out in search of the father; but now that the Blackfeet had been effectually repulsed and the fortress relieved by the arrival of Whitewing’s party, it was resolved that they should organise a search for the absentee without an hour’s delay.

“Leetil Tim,” said Whitewing decisively, when he was told of his old friend’s unaccountable absence, “must be found.”

“So say I,” returned Big Tim. “I hope the Blackfoot reptiles haven’t got him. Mayhap he has cut himself with his hatchet. Anyhow, we must go at once. You won’t mind our leaving you for a bit?” he added, turning to the missionary; “we will leave enough o’ redskins to guard you, and my soft one will see to it that you are comfortable.”

“Think not of me,” replied the preacher. “All will go well, I feel assured.”

Still further to guard the reader from supposing that there is any mystery connected with the missionary’s name or Little Tim’s surname, we think it well to state at once that there is absolutely none. In those outlandish regions, and among that primitive people, the forming of names by the mere combination of unmeaning syllables found small favour. They named people according to some striking quality or characteristic. Hence our missionary had been long known among the red men of the West as the Preacher, and, being quite satisfied with that name, he accepted it without making any attempt to bamboozle the children of the woods and prairies with his real name, which was—and is—a matter of no importance whatever. Tim likewise, being short of stature, though very much the reverse of weak or diminutive, had accepted the name of “Little Tim” with a good grace, and made mention of no other; his son naturally becoming “Big Tim” when he outgrew his father.

A search expedition having been quickly organised, it left the little fortress at once, and defiled into the thick woods, led by Whitewing and Big Tim.

In order that the reader may fully understand the cause of Little Tim’s absence, we will take the liberty of pushing on in advance of the search party, and explain a few matters as we go.

It has already been shown that our little hunter possessed a natural ingenuity of mind. This quality had, indeed, been noticeable when he was a boy, but it did not develop largely till he became a man. As he grew older his natural ingenuity seemed to become increasingly active, until his thirst for improving on mechanical contrivances and devising something new became almost a passion. Hence he was perpetually occupied in scheming to improve—as he was wont to say—the material condition of the human race, as well as the mental.

Among other things, he improved the traps of his Indian friends, and also their dwellings. He invented new traps, and, as we have seen, new methods of defending dwellings, as well as of escaping when defence failed. His name, of course, became well known in the Indian country, and as some of his contrivances proved to be eminently useful, he was regarded far and near as a great medicine-man, who could do whatever he set his mind to. Without laying claim to such unlimited powers, Little Tim was quite content to leave the question of his capacity to scheme and invent as much a matter of uncertainty in the minds of his red friends as it was in his own mind.

One day there came to the Indian village, in which he dwelt at the time with his still pretty though matronly wife Brighteyes, one of the agents of a man whose business it was to collect wild animals for the menageries of the United States and elsewhere. Probably this man was an ancestor of Barnum, for he possessed a mind which seemed to be capable of conceiving anything and sticking at nothing. He found a man quite after his own heart when he discovered Little Tim.

“I want a grizzly b’ar,” he said, on being introduced to the hunter.

“There’s plenty of ’em in these parts,” said Tim, who was whittling a piece of wood at the time.

“But I want a full-grown old ’un,” said the agent.

“Well,” remarked Tim, looking up with an inquiring glance for a moment, “I should say there’s some thousands, more or less, roamin’ about the Rockies, in all stages of oldness—from experienced mammas to great-grandmothers, to say nothin’ o’ the old gentlemen; but you’ll find most of ’em powerful sly an’ uncommon hard to kill.”

“But I don’t want to kill ’em; I want one of ’em alive,” said the agent.

At this Little Tim stopped whittling the bit of stick, and looked hard at the man.

“You wants to catch one alive?” he repeated.

“Yes, that’s what’s the matter with me exactly. I want it for a show, an’ I’m prepared to give a good price for a big one.”

“How much?” asked the hunter.

The stranger bent down and whispered in his ear. Little Tim raised his eyebrows a little, and resumed whittling.

“But,” said he, after a few moments’ vigorous knife-work, “what if I should try, an’ fail?”

“Then you get nothing.”

“Won’t do,” returned the little hunter, with a slow shake of the head. “I’m game to tackle difficulties for love or money, but not for nothin’. You’ll have to go to another shop, stranger.”

“Well, what will you try it for?” asked the agent, who was unwilling to lose his man.

“For quarter o’ the sum down, to be kep’ whether I succeed or fail, the balance to be paid when I hand over the goods.”

“Well, stranger,” returned the agent, with a grim smile, “I don’t mind if I agree to that. You seem an honest man.”

“Sorry I can’t return the compliment,” said Little Tim, holding out his hand. “So cash down, if you please.”

The agent laughed, but pulled out a huge leathern bag, and paid the stipulated sum in good undeniable silver dollars.

The hunter at once made preparation for his enterprise. Meanwhile the agent took up his abode in the Indian village to await the result.

After a night of profound meditation in the solitude of his wigwam, Little Tim set to work and cut up several fresh buffalo hides into long and strong lines with which he made a net of enormous mesh and strength. He arranged it in such a way, with a line run round the circumference, that he could draw it together like a purse. With this gigantic affair on his shoulder, he set off one morning at daybreak into the mountains. He met the agent, who was an early riser, on the threshold of the village.

“What! goin’ out alone, Little Tim?” he said.

“Yes; b’ars don’t like company, as a rule.”

“Don’t you think I might help you a bit?”

“No, I don’t. If you stop where you are, I’ll very likely bring the b’ar home to ’ee. If you go with me, it’s more than likely the b’ar will take you home to her small family!”

“Well, well, have it your own way,” returned the agent, laughing.

“I always do,” replied the hunter, with a grin.

Proceeding a day’s journey into the mountains, our adventurous hunter discovered the track of a bear, which must, he thought be an uncommonly large one. Selecting a convenient tree, he stuck four slender poles into the ground, under one of its largest branches. Over these he spread his net, arranging the closing rope—or what we may term the purse-string—in such a way that he could pass it over the branch of the tree referred to. This done, he placed a large junk of buffalo-meat directly under the net, and pegged it to the ground.

Thereafter Little Tim ascended the tree, crept out on the large limb until he reached the spot where the line had been thrown over it, directly above his net. There, seating himself comfortably among the branches, he proceeded to sup and enjoy himself, despite the unsavoury smell that arose from the half-decayed buffalo-meat below.

The limb of the tree was so large and suitable that while a fork of it was wide enough to serve for a table, a branch which grew upwards formed a lean to the hunter’s back, and another branch, doubling round most conveniently, formed a rest for his right elbow. At the same time an abrupt curl in the same branch constituted a rest for his gun. Thus he reclined in a natural one-armed rustic chair, with his weapons handy, and a good supper before him.

“What could a man wish more?” he muttered to himself, with a contented expression of face, as he fixed a square piece of birch-bark in the fork of the branch, and on this platter arranged his food, commenting thereon as he proceeded: “Roast prairie hen. Capital grub, with a bit o’ salt pork, though rather dry an’ woodeny-like by itself. Buffalo rib. Nothin’ better, hot or cold, except marrow-bones; but then, you see, marrow-bones ain’t just parfection unless hot, an’ this is bound to be a cold supper. Hunk o’ pemmican. A safe stand-by at all times. Don’t need no cookin’, an’ a just proportion o’ fat to lean, but doesn’t do without appetite to make it go down. Let me be thankful I’ve got that, anyhow.”

At this point Little Tim thought it expedient to make the line of his net fast to this limb of the tree. After doing so, he examined the priming of his gun, made a few other needful arrangements, and then gave himself up to the enjoyment of the hour, smiling benignly to the moon, which happened to creep out from behind a mountain peak at the time, as if on purpose to irradiate the scene.

“It has always seemed to me,” muttered the hunter, as well as a large mouthful of the prairie hen would permit—for he was fond of muttering his thoughts when alone; it felt more sociable, you see, than merely thinking them—“It has always seemed to me that contentment is a grand thing for the human race. Pity we hasn’t all got it!”

Inserting at this point a mass of the hunk, which proved a little too large for muttering purposes, he paused until the road was partially cleared, and then went on—“Of course I don’t mean that lazy sort o’ contentment that makes a man feel easy an’ comfortable, an’ quite indifferent to the woes an’ worries of other men so long as his own bread-basket is stuffed full. No, no. I means that sort o’ contentment that makes a man feel happy though he hasn’t got champagne an’ taters, pigeon-pie, lobscouse, plum-duff, mustard an’ jam at every blow-out; that sort o’ contentment that takes things as they come, an’ enjoys ’em without grumpin’ an’ growlin’ ’cause he hasn’t got somethin’ else.”

Another hunk here stopping the way, a somewhat longer silence ensued, which would probably have been broken as before by the outpouring of some sage reflections, but for a slight sound which caused the hunter to become what we may style a human petrifaction, with a half-chewed morsel in its open jaws, and its eyes glaring.

A few seconds more, and the sound of breaking twigs gave evidence that a visitor drew near. Little Tim bolted the unchewed morsel, hastily sheathed his hunting-knife, laid one hand on the end of his line, and waited.

He had not to wait long, for out of the woods there sauntered a grizzly bear of such proportions that the hunter at first thought the moonlight must have deceived him.

“Sartinly it’s the biggest that I’ve ever clapped eyes on,” he thought but he did not speak or move. So anxious was he not to scare the animal, that he hardly breathed.

Bruin seemed to entertain suspicions of some sort, for he sniffed the tainted air once or twice, and looked inquiringly round. Coming to the conclusion, apparently, that his suspicions were groundless, he walked straight up to the lump of buffalo-meat and sniffed it. Not being particular, he tried it with his tongue.

“Good!” said the bear—at least if he did not say so, he must have thought so, for next moment he grasped it with his teeth. Finding it tethered hard and fast, he gathered himself together for the purpose of exercising main force.

Now was Little Tim’s opportunity. Slipping a cord by which the net was suspended to the four stakes, he caused it to descend like a curtain over the bear. It acted most successfully, insomuch that the animal was completely enveloped.

Surprised, but obviously not alarmed, Bruin shook his head, sniffed a little, and pawed the part of the net in front of him. The hunter wasted no time. Seeing that the net was all right, he pulled with all his might on the main rope, which partly drew the circumference of the net together. Finding his feet slightly trammelled, the grizzly tried to move off, but of course trod on the net, tripped, and rolled over. In so doing he caught sight of the hunter, who was now enabled to close the mouth of the net-purse completely.

Being by that time convinced, apparently, that he was the victim of foul play, the bear lost his temper, and tried to rise. He tripped as before, came down heavily on his side, and hit the back of his head against a stone. This threw him into a violent rage, and he began to bounce.

At all times bouncing is ineffectual and silly, even in a grizzly bear. The only result was that he bruised his head and nose, tumbled among stones and stumps, and strained the rope so powerfully that the limb of the tree to which it was attached was violently shaken, and Little Tim was obliged to hold on to avoid being shaken off.

Experience teaches bears as well as fools. On discovering that it was useless to bounce, he sat down in a disconsolate manner, poked as much as he could of his nose through one of the meshes, and sniggered at Little Tim, who during these outbursts was naturally in a state of great excitement. Then the bear went to work leisurely to gnaw the mesh close to his mouth.

The hunter was not prepared for this. He had counted on the creature struggling with its net till it was in a state of complete exhaustion, when, by means of additional ropes, it could be so wound round and entangled in every limb as to be quite incapable of motion. In this condition it might be slung to a long pole and carried by a sufficient number of men to the small, but immensely strong, cage on wheels which the agent had brought with him.

Not only was there the danger of the bear breaking loose and escaping, or rendering it necessary that he should be shot, but there was another risk which Little Tim had failed at first to note. The scene on which he had decided to play out his little game was on the gentle slope of a hill, which terminated in a precipice of considerable height, and each time the bear struggled and rolled over in his network purse, he naturally gravitated towards the precipice, over which he was certain to go if the rope which held him to the tree should snap.

The hunter had just become thoroughly alive to this danger when, with a tremendous struggle, the bear burst two of the meshes in rear, and his hind-quarters were free.

Little Tim seized his gun, feeling that the crisis had come. He was loath to destroy the creature, and hesitated. Instead of backing out of his prison, as he might easily have done, the bear made use of his free hind legs to make a magnificent bound forward. He was checked, of course, by the rope, but Tim had miscalculated the strength of his materials. A much stronger rope would have broken under the tremendous strain. The line parted like a piece of twine, and the bear, rolling head over heels down the slope, bounded over the precipice, and went hurling out into space like a mighty football!

There was silence for a few seconds, then a simultaneous thud and bursting cry that was eminently suggestive.

“H’m! It’s all over,” sighed Little Tim, as he slid down the branch to the ground.

And so it was. The bear was effectually killed, and the poor hunter had to return to the Indian village crestfallen.

“But hold on, stranger,” he said, on meeting the agent; “don’t you give way to despair. I said there was lots of ’em in these parts. You come with me up to a hut my son’s got in the mountains, an’ I’ll circumvent a b’ar for you yet. You can’t take the cart quite up to the hut but you can git near enough, at a place where there’s a Injin’ friend o’ mine as’ll take care of ye.”

The agent agreed, and thus it came to pass that at the time of which we now write, Little Tim was doing his best to catch a live bear, but, not liking to be laughed at even by his son in the event of failure, he had led him and his bride to suppose that he had merely gone out hunting in the usual way.

It was on this expedition that Little Tim had set forth when Whitewing was expected to arrive at Tim’s Folly—as the little hut or fortress had come to be named—and it was the anxiety of his friends and kindred at his prolonged absence which resulted, as we have seen, in the formation and departure of a search expedition.

Chapter Nine.

A Daring Exploit.

To practised woodsmen like Whitewing and Big Tim it was as easy to follow the track of Little Tim as if his steps had been taken through newly-fallen snow, although very few and slight were the marks left on the green moss and rugged ground over which the hunter had passed.

Six picked Indians accompanied the prairie chief, and these marched in single file, each treading in the footsteps of the man in front with the utmost care.

At first the party maintained absolute silence. Their way lay for some distance along the margin of the brawling stream which drained the gorge at the entrance of which Tim’s Folly stood. The scenery around them was wild and savage in the extreme, for the higher they ascended, the narrower became the gorge, and the masses of rock which had fallen from the frowning cliffs on either side had strewn the lower ground with shapeless blocks, and so impeded the natural flow of the little stream that it became, as it were, a tormented and foaming cataract.

At the head of the gorge the party came to a pass or height of land, through which they went with caution, for, although no footsteps of man had thus far been detected by their keen eyes save those of Little Tim, it was not beyond the bounds of possibility that foes might be lurking on the other side of the pass. No one, however, was discovered, and when they emerged at the other end of the pass it was plain that, as Big Tim remarked, the coast was clear, for from their commanding position they could see an immeasurable distance in front of them, over an unencumbered stretch of land.

The view from this point was indeed stupendous. The vision seemed to range not only over an almost limitless world of forests, lakes, and rivers—away to where the haze of the horizon seemed to melt with them into space—but beyond that to where the great backbone of the New World rose sharp, clear, and gigantic above the mists of earth, until they reached and mingled with the fleecy clouds of heaven. To judge from their glittering eyes, even the souls of the not very demonstrative Indians were touched by the scene. As for the prairie chief, who had risen to the perceptions of the new life in Christ he halted and stood for some moments as if lost in contemplation. Then, turning to the young hunter at his side, he said softly—

“The works of the Lord are great.”

“Strange,” returned Big Tim, “that you should use the very same words that I’ve heard my daddy use sometimes when we’ve come upon a grand view like that.”

“Not so strange when I tell you,” replied Whitewing, “that these are words from the Book of Manitou, and that your father and I learned them together long ago from the preacher who now lies wounded in your hut.”

“Ay, ay! Daddy didn’t tell me that. He’s not half so given to serious talk as you are, Whitewing, though I’m free to admit that he does take a fit o’ that sort now an’ again, and seems raither fond of it. The fact is, I don’t quite understand daddy. He puzzles me.”

“Perhaps Leetil Tim is too much given to fun when he talks with Big Tim,” suggested the red chief gravely, but with a slight twinkle in his eyes, which told that he was not quite destitute of Little Tim’s weakness—or strength, as the reader chooses.

After a brief halt the party descended the slope which led to the elevated valley they had now reached, and, having proceeded a few miles, again came to a halt because the ground had become so rocky that the trail of the hunter was lost.

Ordering the young men to spread themselves over the ground, Whitewing went with Big Tim to search over the ridge of a neighbouring eminence.

“It is as I expected,” he said, coming to a sudden stand, and pointing to a faint mark on the turf. “Leetil Tim has taken the short cut to the Lopstick Hill, but I cannot guess the reason why.”

Big Tim was down on his knees examining the footprints attentively.

“Daddy’s futt, an’ no mistake,” he said, rising slowly. “I’d know the print of his heel among a thousand. He’s got a sort o’ swagger of his own, an’ puts it down with a crash, as if he wanted to leave his mark wherever he goes. I’ve often tried to cure him o’ that, but he’s incurable.”

“I have observed,” returned the chief, with, if possible, increased gravity, “that many sons are fond of trying to cure their fathers; also, that they never succeed.”

Big Tim looked quickly at his companion, and laughed.

“Well, well,” he said, “the daddies have a good go at us in youth. It’s but fair that we should have a turn at them afterwards.”

A sharp signal from one of the young Indians in the distance interrupted further converse, and drew them away to see what he had discovered. It was obvious enough—the trail of the Blackfoot Indians retiring into the mountains.

At first Big Tim’s heart sank, for this discovery, coupled with the prolonged absence of his father, suggested the fear that he had been waylaid and murdered. But a further examination led them to think—at least to hope—that the savages had not observed the hunter’s trail, owing to his having diverged at a point of the track further down, where the stony nature of the ground rendered trail-finding, as we have seen, rather difficult. Still, there was enough to fill the breasts of both son and friend with anxiety, and to induce them to push on thereafter swiftly and in silence.

Let us once again take flight ahead of them, and see what the object of their anxiety is doing.

True to his promise to try his best, the dauntless little hunter had proceeded alone, as before, to a part of the mountain region where he knew from past experience that grizzlies were to be easily found. There he made his preparations for a new effort on a different plan.

The spot he selected for his enterprise was an open space on a bleak hillside, where the trees were scattered and comparatively small. This latter peculiarity—the smallness of the trees—was, indeed, the only drawback to the place, for few of them were large enough to bear his weight, and afford him a secure protection from his formidable game. At last however, he found one,—not, indeed, quite to his mind, but sufficiently large to enable him to get well out of a bear’s reach, for it must be remembered that although some bears climb trees easily, the grizzly bear cannot climb at all. There was a branch on the lower part of the tree which seemed quite beyond the reach of the tallest bear even on tiptoe.

Having made his disposition very much as on the former occasion, Little Tim settled himself on this branch, and awaited the result.

He did not, however, sit as comfortably as on the previous occasion, for the branch was small and had no fork. Neither did he proceed to sup as formerly, for it was yet too early in the day to indulge in that meal.

His plan this time was, not to net, but to lasso the bear; and for that purpose he had provided four powerful ropes made of strips of raw, undressed buffalo hide, plaited, with a running noose on each.

“Now,” said Little Tim, with a self-satisfied smirk, as he seated himself on the branch and surveyed the four ropes complacently, “it’ll puzzle the biggest b’ar in all the Rocky Mountains to break them ropes.”

Any one acquainted with the strength of the material which Tim began to uncoil would have at once perceived that the lines in question might have held an elephant or a small steamer.

“I hope,” murmured Tim, struggling with a knot in one of the cords that bound the coils, “I hope I’ll be in luck to-day, an’ won’t have to wait long.”

Little Tim’s hope reached fruition sooner than he had expected—sooner even than he desired—for as he spoke he heard a rustle in the bushes behind him. Looking round quickly, he beheld “the biggest b’ar, out o’ sight, that he had iver seen in all his life.” So great was his surprise—we would not for a moment call it alarm—that he let slip the four coils of rope, which fell to the ground.

Grizzly bears, it must be known, are gifted with insatiable curiosity, and they are not troubled much with the fear of man, or, indeed, of anything else. Hearing the thud of the coils on the ground, this monster grizzly walked up to and smelt them. He was proceeding to taste them, when, happening to cast his little eyes upwards, he beheld Little Tim sitting within a few feet of his head. To rise on his hind legs, and solicit a nearer interview, was the work of a moment. To the poor hunter’s alarm, when he stretched his tremendous paws and claws to their utmost he reached to within a foot of the branch. Of course Little Tim knew that he was safe, but he was obliged to draw up his legs and lay out on the branch, which brought his head and eyes horribly near to the nose and projecting tongue of the monster.

To make matters worse, Tim had left his gun leaning against the stem of the tree. He had his knife and hatchet in his belt, but these he knew too well were but feeble weapons against such a foe. Besides, his object was not to slay, but to secure.

Seeing that there was no possibility of reaching the hunter by means of mere length of limb, and not at that time having acquired the art of building a stone pedestal for elevating purposes, the bear dropped on its four legs and looked round. Perceiving the gun, it went leisurely up and examined it. The examination was brief but effective. It gave the gun only one touch with its paw, but that touch broke the lock and stock and bent the barrel so as to render the weapon useless.

Then it returned to the coil of ropes, and, sitting down, began to chew one of them, keeping a serious eye, however, on the branch above.

It was a perplexing situation even for a backwoodsman. The branch on which Tim lay was comfortable enough, having many smaller branches and twigs extending from it on either side, so that he did not require to hold on very tightly to maintain his position. But he was fully aware of the endurance and patience of grizzly bears, and knew that, having nothing else to do, this particular Bruin could afford to bide his time.

And now the ruling characteristic of Little Tim beset him severely. His head felt like a bombshell of fermenting ingenuity. Every device, mechanical and otherwise, that had ever passed through his brain since childhood, seemed to rush back upon him with irresistible violence in his hopeless effort to conceive some plan by which to escape from his present and pressing difficulty—he would not, even to himself, admit that there was danger. The more hopeless the case appeared to him, the less did reason and common-sense preside over the fermentation. When he saw his gun broken, his first anxiety began. When he reflected on the persistency of grizzlies in watching their foes, his naturally buoyant spirits began to sink and his native recklessness to abate. When he saw the bear begin steadily to devour one of the lines by which he had hoped to capture it, his hopes declined still more; and when he considered the distance he was from his hut, the fact that his provision wallet had been left on the ground along with the gun, and that the branch on which he rested was singularly unfit for a resting-place on which to pass many hours, he became wildly ingenious, and planned to escape, not only by pitching his cap to some distance off so as to distract the bear’s attention, and enable him to slip down and run away, but by devising methods of effecting his object by clockwork, fireworks, wings, balloons—in short, by everything that ever has, in the history of design, enabled men to achieve their ends.

His first and simplest method, to fling his cap away, was indeed so far successful that it did distract the bear’s attention for a moment, but it did not disturb his huge body, for he sat still, chewing his buffalo quid leisurely, and, after a few seconds, looked up at his victim as though to ask, “What d’you mean by that?”

When, after several hours, all his attempts had failed, poor Little Tim groaned in spirit, and began to regret his having undertaken the job; but a sense of the humorous, even in that extremity, caused him to give vent to a short laugh as he observed that Bruin had managed to get several feet of the indigestible rope down his throat, and fancied what a surprise it would give him if he were to get hold of the other end of the rope and pull it all out again.

At last night descended on the scene, making the situation much more unpleasant, for the darkness tended to deceive the man as to the motions of the brute, and once or twice he almost leaped off the branch under the impression that his foe had somehow grown tall enough to reach him, and was on the point of seizing him with his formidable claws. To add to his troubles, hunger came upon Tim about his usual supper-time, and what was far worse, because much less endurable, sleep put in a powerful claim to attention. Indeed this latter difficulty became so great that hunger, after a time, ceased to trouble him, and all his faculties—even the inventive—were engaged in a tremendous battle with this good old friend, who had so suddenly been converted into an implacable foe. More than once that night did Little Tim, despite his utmost efforts, fall into a momentary sleep, from which each time he awoke with a convulsive start and sharp cry, to the obvious surprise of Bruin, who, being awakened out of a comfortable nap, looked up with a growl inquiringly, and then relapsed.

When morning broke, it found the wretched man still clutching his uneasy couch, and blinking like an owl at the bear, which still lay comfortably on the ground below him. Unable to stand it any longer, Tim resolved to have a short nap, even if it should cost him his life. With this end in view, he twined his arms and legs tightly round his branch. The very act reminded him that his worsted waistbelt might be twined round both body and branch, for it was full two yards long. Wondering that it had not occurred to him before, he hastily undid it, lashed himself to the branch as well as he could, and in a moment was sound asleep. This device would have succeeded admirably had not one of his legs slowly dropped so low down as to attract the notice of the bear when it awoke. Rising to its full height on its hind legs, and protruding its tongue to the utmost, it just managed to touch Tim’s toe. The touch acted liked an electric spark, awoke him at once, and the leg was drawn promptly up.

But Tim had had a nap, and it is wonderful how brief a slumber will suffice to restore the energies of a man in robust health. He unlashed himself.

“Good mornin’ to ’ee,” he said, looking down. “You’re there yet, I see.”

He finished the salutation with a loud yawn, and stretched himself so recklessly that he almost fell off the branch into the embrace of his expectant foe. Then he looked round, and, reason having been restored, hit upon a plan of escape which seemed to him hopeful.

We have said that the space he had selected was rather open, but there were scattered over it several large masses of rock, about the size of an ordinary cart, which had fallen from the neighbouring cliffs. Four of these stood in a group at about fifty yards’ distance from his tree.

“Now, old Caleb,” he said, “I’ll go in for it, neck or nothin’. You tasted my toes this mornin’. Would you like to try ’em again?”

He lowered his foot as he spoke, as far down as he could reach. The bear accepted the invitation at once, rose up, protruded his tongue as before, and just managed to touch the toe. Now it is scarcely needful to say that a strong man leading the life of a hunter in the Rocky Mountains is an athlete. Tim thought no more of swinging himself up into a tree by the muscular power of his arms than you would think of stepping over a narrow ditch. When the bear was standing in its most upright attitude, he suddenly swung down, held on to the branch with his hands, and drove both his feet with such force against the bear’s chin that it lost its balance and fell over backwards with an angry growl. At the same moment Tim dropped to the ground, and made for the fallen rocks at a quicker rate than he had ever run before. Bruin scrambled to his feet with amazing agility, looked round, saw the fugitive, and gave chase. Darting past the first rock, it turned, but Little Tim, of course, was not there. He had doubled round the second, and taken refuge behind the third mass of rock.

Waiting a moment till the baffled bear went to look behind another rock, he ran straight back again to his tree, hastily gathered up his ropes, and reascended to his branch, where the bear found him again not many minutes later.

“Ha! HA! you old rascal!” he shouted, as he fastened the end of a rope firmly to the branch, and gathered in the slack so as to have the running noose handy. “I’ve got you now. Come, come along; have another taste of my toe!”

This invitation was given when the bear stood in his former position under the tree and looked up. Once again it accepted the invitation, and rose to the hunter’s toe as a salmon rises to an irresistible fly.

“That’s it! Now, hold on—just one moment. There!”

As Tim finished the sentence, he dropped the noose so deftly over the bear’s head and paws that it went right down to his waist. This was an unlooked-for piece of good fortune. The utmost the hunter had hoped for was to noose the creature round the neck. Moreover, it was done so quickly that the monster did not seem to fully appreciate what had occurred, but continued to strain and reach up at the toe in an imbecile sort of way. Instead, therefore, of drawing the noose tight, Little Tim dropped a second noose round the monster’s neck, and drew that tight. Becoming suddenly alive to its condition, the grizzly made a backward plunge, which drew both ropes tight and nearly strangled it, while the branch on which Tim was perched shook so violently that it was all he could do to hold on.

For full half an hour that bear struggled fiercely to free itself, and often did the shaken hunter fear that he had miscalculated the strength of his ropes, but they stood the test well, and, being elastic, acted in some degree like lines of indiarubber. At the end of that time the bear fell prone from exhaustion, which, to do him justice, was more the result of semi-strangulation than exertion.

This was what Little Tim had been waiting for and expecting. Quietly but quickly he descended to the ground, but the bear saw him, partially recovered, no doubt under an impulse of rage, and began to rear and plunge again, compelling his foe to run to the fallen rocks for shelter. When Bruin had exhausted himself a second time, Tim ran forward and seized the old net with which he had failed to catch the previous bear, and threw it over his captive. The act of course revived the lively monster, but his struggles now wound him up into such a ravel with the two lines and the net that he was soon unable to get up or jump about, though still able to make the very earth around him tremble with his convulsive heaves. It was at once a fine as well as an awful display of the power of brute force and the strength of raw material!

Little Tim would have admired it with philosophic interest if he had not been too busy dancing around the writhing creature in a vain effort to fix his third rope on a hind leg. At last an opportunity offered. A leg burst one of the meshes of the net. Tim deftly slipped the noose over it, and made the line fast to the tree. “Now,” said he, wiping the perspiration from his brow, “you’re safe, so I’ll have a meal.”

And Little Tim, sitting down on a stone at a respectful distance, applied himself with zest to the cold breakfast of which he stood so very much in need.

He was thus occupied when his son with the prairie chief and his party found him.

It would take at least another chapter to describe adequately the joy, surprise, laughter, gratulation, and comment which burst from the rescue party on discovering the hunter. We therefore leave it to the reader’s imagination. One of the young braves was at once sent off to find the agent and fetch him to the spot with his cage on wheels. The feat, with much difficulty, was accomplished. Bruin was forcibly and very unwillingly thrust into the prison. The balance of the stipulated sum was honourably paid on the spot, and now that bear is—or, if it is not, ought to be—in the Zoological Gardens of New York, London, or Paris, with a printed account of his catching, and a portrait of Little Tim attached to the front of his cage!

Chapter Ten.

Snakes in the Grass.

It was a sad but interesting council that was held in the little fortress of “Tim’s Folly” the day following that on which the grizzly bear was captured.

The wounded missionary, lying in Big Tim’s bed, presided. Beside him, with an expression of profound sorrow on his fine face, sat Whitewing, the prairie chief. Little Tim and his big son sat at his feet. The other Indians were ranged in a semicircle before him.

In one sense it was a red man’s council, but there were none of the Indian formalities connected with it, for the prairie chief and his followers had long ago renounced the superstitions and some of the practices of their kindred.

Softswan was not banished from the council chamber, as if unworthy even to listen to the discussions of the “lords of creation,” and no pipe of peace was smoked as a preliminary, but a brief, earnest prayer for guidance was put up by the missionary to the Lord of hosts, and subjects more weighty than are usually broached in the councils of savages were discussed.

The preacher’s voice was weak, and his countenance pale, but the wonted look of calm confidence was still there.

“Whitewing,” he said, raising himself on one elbow, “I will speak as God gives me power, but I am very feeble, and feel that the discussion of our plans must be conducted chiefly by yourself and your friends.”

He paused, and the chief, with the usual dignity of the red man, remained silent, waiting for more. Not so Little Tim. That worthy, although gifted with all the powers of courage and endurance which mark the best of the American savages, was also endowed with the white man’s tendency to assert his right to wag his tongue.

“Cheer up, sir,” he said, in a tone of encouragement, “you mustn’t let your spirits go down. A good rest here, an’ good grub, wi’ Softswan’s cookin’—to say nothin’ o’ her nursin’—will put ye all right before long.”

“Thanks, Little Tim,” returned the missionary, with a smile; “I do cheer up, or rather, God cheers me. Whether I recover or am called home is in His hands; therefore all shall be well. But,” he added, turning to the chief, “God has given us brains, hands, materials, and opportunities to work with, therefore must we labour while we can, as if all depended on ourselves. The plans which I had laid out for myself He has seen fit to change, and it now remains for me to point out what I aimed at, so that we may accommodate ourselves to His will. Sure am I that with or without my aid, His work shall be done, and, for the rest—’though He slay me, yet will I trust in Him.”

Again he paused, and the Indians uttered that soft “Ho!” of assent with which they were wont to express approval of what was said.

“When I left the settlements of the white men,” continued the preacher, “my object was twofold: I wished to see Whitewing, and Little Tim, and Brighteyes, and all the other dear friends whom I had known long ago, before the snows of life’s winter had settled on my head, but my main object was to visit Rushing River, the Blackfoot chief, and carry the blessed Gospel to his people, and thus, while seeking the salvation of their souls, also bring about a reconciliation between them and their hereditary foe, Bounding Bull.”

“It’s Rushin’ River as is the enemy,” cried Little Tim, interrupting, for when his feelings were excited he was apt to become regardless of time, place, and persons, and the allusion to his son’s wife’s father—of whom he was very fond—had roused him. “Boundin’ Bull would have bin reconciled long ago if Rushin’ River would have listened to reason, for he is a Christian, though I’m bound to say he’s somethin’ of a queer one, havin’ notions of his own which it’s not easy for other folk to understand.”

“In which respect, daddy,” remarked Big Tim, using the English tongue for the moment, and allowing the smallest possible smile to play on his lips, “Bounding Bull is not unlike yourself.”

“Hold yer tongue, boy, else I’ll give you a woppin’,” said the father sternly.

“Dumb, daddy, dumb,” replied the son meekly.

It was one of the peculiarities of this father and son that they were fond of expressing their regard for each other by indulging now and then in a little very mild “chaff,” and the playful threat to give his son a “woppin’”—which in earlier years he had sometimes done with much effect—was an invariable proof that Little Tim’s spirit had been calmed, and his amiability restored.

“My white father’s intentions are good,” said Whitewing, after another pause, “and his faith is strong. It needs strong faith to believe that the man who has shot the preacher shall ever smoke the pipe of peace with Whitewing.”

“With God all things are possible,” returned the missionary. “And you must not allow enmity to rankle in your own breast, Whitewing, because of me. Besides, it was probably one of Rushing River’s braves, and not himself, who shot me. In any case they could not have known who I was.”

“I’m not so sure o’ that,” said Big Tim. “The Blackfoot reptile has a sharp eye, an’ father has told me that you knew him once when you was in these parts twenty years ago.”

“Yes, I knew him well,” returned the preacher, in a low, meditative voice. “He was quite a little boy at the time—not more than ten years of age, I should think, but unusually strong and brave. I met him when travelling alone in the woods, and it so happened that I had the good fortune to save his life by shooting a brown bear which he had wounded, and which was on the point of killing him. I dwelt with him and his people for a time, and pressed him to accept salvation through Jesus, but he refused. The Holy Spirit had not opened his eyes, yet I felt and still feel assured that that time will come. But it has not come yet, if all that I have heard of him be true. You may depend upon it, however, that he did not shoot me knowingly.”

Both Little and Big Tim by their looks showed that their belief in Rushing River’s future reformation was very weak, though they said nothing, and the Indians maintained such imperturbable gravity that their looks gave no indication as to the state of their minds.

“My white father’s hopes and desires are good,” said Whitewing, after another long pause, during which the missionary closed his eyes, and appeared to be resting, and Tim and his son looked gravely at each other, for that rest seemed to them strongly to resemble death. “And now what does my father propose to do?”

“My course is clear,” answered the wounded man, opening his eyes with a bright, cheerful look. “I cannot move. Here God has placed me, and here I must remain till—till I get well. All the action must be on your part, Whitewing, and that of your friends. But I shall not be idle or useless as long as life and breath are left to enable me to pray.”

There was another decided note of approval from the Indians, for they had already learned the value of prayer.

“The first step I would wish you to take, however,” continued the missionary, “is to go and bring to this hut my sweet friend Brighteyes and your own mother, Whitewing, who, you tell me, is still alive.”

“The loved old one still lives,” returned the Indian.

“Lives!” interposed Little Tim, with emphasis, “I should think she does, an’ flourishes too, though she has shrivelled up a bit since you saw her last. Why, she’s so old now that we’ve changed her name to Live-for-ever. She sleeps like a top, an’ feeds like a grampus, an’ does little else but laugh at what’s goin’ on around her. I never did see such a jolly old girl in all my life. Twenty years ago—that time, you remember, when Whitewing carried her off on horseback, when the village was attacked—we all thought she was on her last legs, but, bless you sir, she can still stump about the camp in a tremblin’ sort o’ way, an’ her peepers are every bit as black as those of my own Brighteyes, an’ they twinkle a deal more.”

“Your account of her,” returned the preacher, with a little smile, “makes me long to see her again. Indeed, the sight of these two would comfort me greatly whether I live or die. They are not far distant from here, you say?”

“Not far. My father’s wish shall be gratified,” said Whitewing. “After they come we will consult again, and my father will be able to decide what course to pursue in winning over the Blackfeet.”

Of course the two Tims and all the others were quite willing to follow the lead of the prairie chief, so it was finally arranged that a party should be sent to the camp of the Indians, with whom Brighteyes and Live-for-ever were sojourning at the time—about a long day’s march from the little fortress—and bring those women to the hut, that they might once again see and gladden the heart of the man whom they had formerly known as the Preacher.

Now, it is a well-ascertained and undoubtable fact that the passion of love animates the bosoms of red men as well as white. It is also a curious coincidence that this passion frequently leads to modifications of action and unexpected, sometimes complicated, results and situations among the red as well as among the white men.

Bearing this in mind, the reader will be better able to understand why Rushing River, in making a raid upon his enemies, and while creeping serpent-like through the grass in order to reconnoitre previous to a night attack, came to a sudden stop on beholding a young girl playing with a much younger girl—indeed, a little child—on the outskirts of the camp.

It was the old story over again. Love at first sight! And no wonder, for the young girl, though only an Indian, was unusually graceful and pretty, being a daughter of Little Tim and Brighteyes. From the former, Moonlight (as she was named) inherited the free-and-easy yet modest carriage of the pale-face, from the latter a pretty little straight nose and a pair of gorgeous black eyes that seemed to sparkle with a private sunshine of their own.

Rushing River, although a good-looking, stalwart man in the prime of life, had never been smitten in this way before. He therefore resolved at once to make the girl his wife. Red men have a peculiar way of settling such matters sometimes, without much regard to the wishes of the lady—especially if she be, as in this case, the daughter of a foe. In pursuance of his purpose, he planned, while lying there like a snake in the grass, to seize and carry off the fair Moonlight by force, instead of killing and scalping the whole of the Indians in Bounding Bull’s camp with whom she sojourned.

It was not any tender consideration for his foes, we are sorry to say, that induced this change of purpose, but the knowledge that in a night attack bullets and arrows are apt to fly indiscriminately on men, women, and children. He would have carried poor Moonlight off then and there if she had not been too near the camp to permit of his doing so without great risk of discovery. The presence of the little child also increased the risk. He might, indeed, have easily “got rid” of her, but there was a soft spot in that red man’s heart which forbade the savage deed—a spot which had been created at that time, long, long ago, when the white preacher had discoursed to him of “righteousness and temperance and judgment to come.”

Little Skipping Rabbit, as she was called, was the youngest child of Bounding Bull. If Rushing River had known this, he would probably have hardened his heart, and struck at his enemy through the child, but fortunately he did not know it.

Retiring cautiously from the scene, the Blackfoot chief determined to bide his time until he should find a good opportunity to pounce upon Moonlight and carry her off quietly. The opportunity came even sooner than he had anticipated.

That night, while he was still prowling round the camp, Whitewing accompanied by Little Tim and a band of Indians arrived.

Bounding Bull received them with an air of dignified satisfaction. He was a grave, tall Indian, whose manner was not at all suggestive of his name, but warriors in times of peace do not resemble the same men in times of war. Whitewing had been the means of inducing him to accept Christianity, and although he was by no means as “queer” a Christian as Little Tim had described him, he was, at all events, queer enough in the eyes of his enemies and his unbelieving friends to prefer peace or arbitration to war, on the ground that it is written, “If possible, as much as lieth in you, live peaceably with all men.”

Of course he saw that the “if possible” justified self-defence, and might in some circumstances even warrant aggressive action. Such, at all events, was the opinion he expressed at the solemn palaver which was held after the arrival of his friends.

“Whitewing,” said he, drawing himself up with flashing eyes and extended hand in the course of the debate, “surely you do not tell me that the Book teaches us to allow our enemies to raid in our lands, to carry off our women and little ones, and to burn our wigwams, while we sit still and wait till they are pleased to take our scalps?”

Having put this rather startling question, he subsided as promptly as he had burst forth.

“That’s a poser!” thought the irreverent Little Tim, who sympathised with Bounding Bull, but he said nothing.

“My brother has been well named,” replied the uncompromising Whitewing; “he not only bounds upon his foes, but lets his mind bound to foolish conclusions. The Book teaches peace—if possible. If it be not possible, then we cannot avoid war. But how can we know what is possible unless we try? My brother advises that we should go on the war-path at once, and drive the Blackfeet away. Has Bounding Bull tried his best to bring them to reason? has he failed? Does he know that peace is impossible?”

“Now look here, Whitewing,” broke in Little Tim at this point. “It’s all very well for you to talk about peace an’ what’s possible. I’m a Christian man myself, an’ there’s nobody as would be better pleased than me to see all the redskins in the mountains an’ on the prairies at peace wi’ one another. But you won’t get me to believe that a few soft words are goin’ to make Rushin’ River all straight. He’s the sworn enemy o’ Boundin’ Bull. Hates him like pison. He hates me like brimstone, an’ it’s my opinion that if we don’t make away wi’ him he’ll make away wi’ us.”

Whitewing—who was fond of silencing his opponents by quoting Scripture, many passages of which he had learned by heart long ago from his friend the preacher—did not reply for a few seconds. Then, looking earnestly at his brother chief, he said—

“With Manitou all things are possible. A soft answer turns away wrath.”

Bounding Bull pondered the words. Little Tim gave vent to a doubtful “humph”—not that he doubted the truth of the Word, but that he doubted its applicability on the present occasion.

It was finally agreed that the question should not be decided until the whole council had returned to Tim’s Folly, and laid the matter before the wounded missionary.

Then Little Tim, being freed from the cares of state, went to solace himself with domesticity.

Moonlight was Indian enough to know that females might not dare to interrupt the solemn council. She was also white woman enough to scorn the humble gait and ways of her red kindred, and to run eagerly to meet her sire as if she had been an out-and-out white girl. The hunter, as we have said, rather prided himself in keeping up some of the ways of his own race. Among other things, he treated his wife and daughter after the manner of white men—that is, well-behaved white men. When Moonlight saw him coming towards his wigwam, she bounded towards him. Little Tim extended his arms, caught her round the slender waist with his big strong hands, and lifted her as if she had been a child until her face was opposite his own.

“Hallo, little beam of light!” he exclaimed, kissing her on each cheek, and then on the point of her tiny nose.

“Eyes of mother—heart of sire,

Fit to set the world on fire.”

Tim had become poetical as he grew older, and sometimes tried to throw his flashing thoughts into couplets. He spoke to his daughter in English, and, like Big Tim with his wife, required her to converse with him in that language.

“Is mother at home?”

“Yes, dear fasser, mosser’s at home.”

“An’ how’s your little doll Skippin’ Rabbit?”

“Oh! she well as could be, an’ a’most as wild too as rabbits. Runs away from me, so I kin hardly kitch her sometime.”

Moonlight accompanied this remark with a merry laugh, as she thought of some of the eccentricities of her little companion.

Entering the wigwam, Little Tim found Brighteyes engaged with an iron pot, from which arose savoury odours. She had been as lithe and active as Moonlight once, and was still handsome and matronly. The eyes, however, from which she derived her name, still shone with undiminished lustre and benignity.

“Bless you, old woman,” said the hunter, giving his wife a hearty kiss, “you’re as fond o’ victuals as ever, I see.”

“At least my husband is, so I keep the pot boiling,” retorted Brighteyes, with a smile, that proved her teeth to be as white as in days of yore.

“Right, old girl, right. Your husband is about as good at emptying the pot as he is at filling it. Come, let’s have some, while I tell you of a journey that’s in store for you.”

“A long one?” asked the wife.

“No, only a day’s journey on horseback. You’re goin’ to meet an old friend.”

From this point her husband went on to tell about the arrival and wounding of the preacher, and how he had expressed an earnest desire to see her.

While they were thus engaged, the prairie chief was similarly employed enlightening his own mother.

That kind-hearted bundle of shrivelled-up antiquity was seated on the floor on the one side of a small fire. Her son sat on the opposite side, gazing at her through the smoke, with, for an Indian, an unwonted look of deep affection.

“The snows of too many winters are on my head to go on journeys now,” she said, in a feeble, quavering voice. “Is it far that my son wants me to go?”

“Only one day’s ride towards the setting sun, thou dear old one.”

Thus tenderly had Christianity, coupled with a naturally affectionate disposition, taught the prairie chief to address his mother.

“Well, my son, I will go. Wherever Whitewing leads I will follow, for he is led by Manitou. I would go a long way to meet that good man the pale-face preacher.”

“Then to-morrow at sunrise the old one will be ready, and her son will come for her.”

So saying, the chief rose, and stalked solemnly out of the wigwam.

Chapter Eleven.

The Snakes make a Dart and Secure their Victims.

While the things described in the last chapter were going on in the Indian camp, Rushing River was prowling around it, alternately engaged in observation and meditation, for he was involved in complicated difficulties.

He had come to that region with a large band of followers for the express purpose of scalping his great enemy Bounding Bull and all his kindred, including any visitors who might chance to be with him at the time. After attacking Tim’s Folly, and being driven therefrom by its owner’s ingenious fireworks, as already related, the chief had sent away his followers to a distance to hunt, having run short of fresh meat. He retained with himself a dozen of his best warriors, men who could glide with noiseless facility like snakes, or fight with the noisy ferocity of fiends. With these he meant to reconnoitre his enemy’s camp, and make arrangements for the final assault when his braves should return with meat—for savages, not less than other men, are dependent very much on full stomachs for fighting capacity.

But now a change had come over the spirit of his dream. He had suddenly fallen in love, and that, too, with one of his enemy’s women. His love did not, however, extend to the rest of her kindred. Firm as was his resolve to carry off the girl, not less firm was his determination to scalp her family root and branch.

As we have said, he hesitated to attack the camp for fear that mischief might befall the girl on whom he had set his heart. Besides, he would require all his men to enable him to make the attack successfully, and these would not, he knew, return to him until the following day. The arrival of Whitewing and Little Tim with their party still further perplexed him.

He knew by the council that was immediately called, and the preparations that followed, that news of some importance had been brought by the prairie chief, and that action of some sort was immediately to follow; but of course what it all portended he could not divine, and in his uncertainty he feared that Moonlight—whose name of course he did not at that time know—might be spirited away, and he should never see her again. Really, for a Red Indian, he became quite sentimental on the point and half resolved to collect his dozen warriors, make a neck-or-nothing rush at Bounding Bull, and carry off his scalp and the girl at the same fell swoop.

Cooler reflection, however, told him that the feat was beyond even his powers, for he knew well the courage and strength of his foe, and was besides well acquainted with the person and reputation of the prairie chief and Little Tim, both of whom had foiled his plans on former occasions.

Greatly perplexed, therefore, and undetermined as to his course of procedure, Rushing River bade his followers remain in their retreat in a dark part of a tangled thicket, while he should advance with one man still further in the direction of the camp to reconnoitre.

Having reached an elevated spot as near to the enemy as he dared venture without running the risk of being seen by the sentinels, he flung himself down, and crawled towards a tree, whence he could partially observe what went on below. His companion, a youth named Eaglenose, silently followed his example. This youth was a fine-looking young savage, out on his first war-path, and burning to distinguish himself. Active as a kitten and modest as a girl, he was also quick-witted, and knew when to follow the example of his chief and when to remain inactive—the latter piece of knowledge a comparatively rare gift to the ambitious!

After a prolonged gaze, with the result of nothing gained, Rushing River was about to retire from the spot as wise as he went, when his companion uttered the slightest possible hiss. He had heard a sound. Next instant the chief heard it, and smiled grimly. We may remark here in passing that the Blackfoot chief was eccentric in many ways. He prided himself on his contempt for the red man’s love for paint and feathers, and invariably went on the war-path unpainted and unadorned. In civilised life he would certainly have been a Radical. How far his objection to paint was influenced by the possession of a manly, handsome countenance, of course we cannot tell.

To clear up the mystery of the sound which had thrilled on the sharp ear of Eaglenose, we will return to the Indian camp, where, after the council, a sumptuous feast of venison steaks and marrow-bones was spread in Bounding Bull’s wigwam.

Moonlight not being one of the party, and having already supped, said to her mother that she was going to find Skipping Rabbit and have a run with her. You see, Moonlight, although full seventeen years of age, was still so much of a child as to delight in a scamper with her little friend, the youngest child of Bounding Bull.

“Be careful, my child,” said Brighteyes. “Keep within the sentinels; you know that the great Blackfoot is on the war-path.”

“Mother,” said Moonlight, with the spirit of her little father stirring in her breast, “I don’t fear Rushing River more than I do the sighing of the wind among the pine-tops. Is not my father here, and Whitewing? And does not Bounding Bull guard our wigwams?”

Brighteyes said no more. She was pleased with the thorough confidence her daughter had in her natural protectors, and quietly went on with the moccasin which she was embroidering with the dyed quills of the porcupine for Little Tim.

We have said that Moonlight was rather self-willed. She would not indeed absolutely disobey the express commands of her father or mother, but when she had made no promise, she was apt to take her own way, not perceiving that to neglect or to run counter to a parent’s known wishes is disobedience.

As the night was fine and the moon bright, our self-willed heroine, with her skipping playmate, rambled about the camp until they got so far in the outskirts as to come upon one of the sentinels. The dark-skinned warrior gravely told her to go back. Had she been any other Indian girl, she would have meekly obeyed at once; but being Little Tim’s daughter, she was prone to assert the independence of her white blood, and, to say truth, the young braves stood somewhat in awe of her.

“The Blackfoot does not make war against women,” said Moonlight, with a touch of lofty scorn in her tone. “Is the young warrior afraid that Rushing River will kill and eat us?”

“The young warrior fears nothing,” answered the sentinel, with a dark frown; “but his chief’s orders are that no one is to leave or enter the camp, so Moonlight must go home.”

“Moonlight will do as she pleases,” returned the girl loftily. At the same time, knowing that the man would certainly do his duty, and prevent her from passing the lines, she turned sharply round, and walked away as if about to return to the camp. On getting out of the sentinel’s sight, however, she stopped.

“Now, Skipping Rabbit,” she said, “you and I will teach that fellow something of the art of war. Will you follow me?”

“Will the little buffalo follow its mother?” returned the child.

“Come, then,” said Moonlight, with a slight laugh; “we will go beyond the lines. Do as I do. You are well able to copy the snake.”

The girl spoke truly. Both she and Skipping Rabbit had amused themselves so often in imitating the actions of the Indian braves that they could equal if not beat them, at least in those accomplishments which required activity and litheness of motion. Throwing herself on her hands and knees, Moonlight crept forward until she came again in sight of the sentinel. Skipping Rabbit followed her trail like a little shadow. Keeping as far from the man as possible without coming under the observation of the next sentinel, they sank into the long grass, and slowly wormed their way forward so noiselessly that they were soon past the lines, and able to rise and look about with caution.

The girl had no thought of doing more than getting well out of the camp, and then turning about and walking boldly past the young sentinel, just to show that she had defeated him, but at Skipping Rabbit’s suggestion she led the way to a neighbouring knoll just to have one look round before going home.

It was on this very knoll that Rushing River and Eaglenose lay, like snakes in the grass.

As the girls drew near, chatting in low, soft, musical tones, the two men lay as motionless as fallen trees. When they were within several yards of them the young Indian glanced at his chief, and pointed with his conveniently prominent feature to Skipping Rabbit. A slight nod was the reply.

On came the unconscious pair, until they almost trod on the prostrate men. Then, before they could imagine what had occurred, each found herself on the ground with a strong hand over her mouth.

It was done so suddenly and effectually that there was no time to utter even the shortest cry.

Without removing their hands for an instant from their mouths, the Indians gathered the girls in their left arms as if they had been a couple of sacks or bundles, and carried them swiftly into the forest, the chief leading, and Eaglenose stepping carefully in his footsteps. It was not a romantic or lover-like way of carrying off a bride, but Red Indian notions of chivalry may be supposed to differ from those of the pale-faces.

After traversing the woods for several miles they came to the spot where Rushing River had left his men. They were unusually excited by the unexpected capture, and, from their animated gestures and glances during the council of war which was immediately held, it was evident to poor Moonlight that her fate would soon be decided.

She and Skipping Rabbit sat cowering together at the foot of the tree where they had been set down. For one moment Moonlight thought of her own lithe and active frame, her powers of running and endurance, and meditated a sudden dash into the woods, but one glance at the agile young brave who had been set to watch her would have induced her to abandon the idea even if the thought of leaving Skipping Rabbit behind had not weighed with her.

In a few minutes Rushing River left his men and approached the tree at the foot of which the captives were seated.

The moon shone full upon his tall figure, and revealed distinctly every feature of his grave, handsome countenance as he approached.

The white spirit of her father stirred within the maiden. Discarding her fears, she rose to meet him with a proud glance, such as was not often seen among Indian girls. Instead of being addressed, however, in the stern voice of command with which a red warrior is apt to speak to an obstreperous squaw, he spoke in a low, soft respectful tone, which seemed to harmonise well with the gravity of his countenance, and thrilled to the heart of Moonlight. She was what is familiarly expressed in the words “done for.” Once more we have to record a case of love at first sight.

True, the inexperienced girl was not aware of her condition. Indeed, if taxed with it, she would probably have scorned to admit the possibility of her entertaining even mild affection—much less love—for any man of the Blackfoot race. Still, she had an uneasy suspicion that something was wrong, and allowed an undercurrent of feeling to run within her, which, if reduced to language, would have perhaps assumed the form, “Well, but he is so gentle, so respectful, so very unlike all the braves I have ever seen; but I hate him, for all that! Is he not the enemy of my tribe?”

Moonlight would not have been a daughter of Little Tim had she given in at once. Indeed, if she had known that the man who spoke to her so pleasantly was the renowned Rushing River—the bitter foe of her father and of Bounding Bull—it is almost certain that the indignant tone and manner which she now assumed would have become genuine. But she did not know this; she only knew from his dress and appearance that the man before her was a Blackfoot, and the knowledge raised the whole Blackfoot race very much in her estimation.

“Is the fair-faced maiden,” said Rushing River, referring to the girl’s comparatively light complexion, “willing to share the wigwam of a Blackfoot chief?”

Moonlight received this very decided and unusually civil proposal of marriage with becoming hauteur, for she was still ruffled by the undignified manner in which she had been carried off.

“Does the fawn mate with the wolf?” she demanded. “Does the chief suppose that the daughter of Little Tim can willingly enter the lodge of a Blackfoot?”

A gleam of surprise and satisfaction for a moment lighted up the grave countenance of the chief.

“I knew not,” he replied, “that the maiden who has fallen into my hands is a child of the brave little pale-face whose deeds of courage are known all over the mountains and prairies.”

This complimentary reference to her father went far to soften the maiden’s heart, but her sense of outraged dignity required that she should be loyal to herself as well as to her tribe, therefore she sniffed haughtily, but did not reply.

“Who is the little one?” asked the chief, pointing to Skipping Rabbit, who, in a state of considerable alarm, had taken refuge behind her friend, and only peeped at her captor.

Moonlight paused for a few seconds before answering, uncertain whether it would be wiser to say who she was, or merely to describe her as a child of the tribe. Deciding on the former course, in the hope of impressing the Blackfoot with a sense of his danger, she said—

“Skipping Rabbit is the daughter of Bounding Bull.” Then, observing another gleam of surprise and triumph on the chief’s face, she added quickly, “and the Blackfoot knows that Bounding Bull and his tribe are very strong, very courageous, and very revengeful. If Moonlight and Skipping Rabbit are not sent home at once, there will be war on the mountains and the plains, for Whitewing, the great chief of the prairies, is just now in the camp of Bounding Bull with his men. Little Tim, as you know, is terrible when his wrath is roused. If war is carried into the hunting-grounds of the Blackfeet, many scalps will be drying in our lodges before the snows of winter begin to descend. If evil befalls Skipping Rabbit or Moonlight, before another moon is passed Rushing River himself, the chicken-hearted chief of the Blackfeet, will be in the dust with his fathers, and his scalp will fringe the leggings of Little Tim.”

We have given but a feeble translation of this speech, which in the Indian tongue was much more powerful; but we cannot give an adequate idea of the tone and graceful gesticulation of the girl as, with flashing orbs and heightened colour, she delivered it. Yet it seemed to have no effect whatever on the man to whom it was spoken. Without replying to it, he gently, almost courteously, took the maiden’s hand, and led her to a spot where his men were stationed.

They were all on horseback, ready for an immediate start. Two horses without riders stood in the midst of the group. Leading Moonlight to one of these, Rushing River lifted her by the waist as if she had been a feather, and placed her thereon. Skipping Rabbit he placed in front of Eaglenose. Then, vaulting on to his own steed, he galloped away through the forest, followed closely by the whole band.

Now it so happened that about the same hour another band of horsemen started from the camp of Bounding Bull.

Under the persuasive eloquence of Little Tim, the chief had made up his mind to set out for the fortress without waiting for daylight.

“You see,” Tim had said, “we can’t tell whether the preacher is goin’ to live or die, an’ it would be a pity to risk lettin’ him miss seein’ the old woman and my wife if he is goin’ to die; an’ if he isn’t goin’ under this time, why, there’s no harm in hurryin’ a bit—wi’ the moon, too, shinin’ like the bottom of a new tin kettle in the sky.”

The chief had no objections to make. There were plenty of men to guard the camp, even when a few were withdrawn for the trip. As Whitewing was also willing, the order to mount and ride was given at once.

The absence of Moonlight and Skipping Rabbit had not at the time been sufficiently prolonged to attract notice. If they had been thought of at all, it is probable they were supposed to be in one or other of the wigwams. As the moon could not be counted on beyond a certain time, haste was necessary, and thus it came to pass that the party set forth without any knowledge of the disappearance of the girls.

The “dear old one” was fain to journey like the rest on horseback, but she was so well accustomed to that mode of locomotion that she suffered much less than might have been expected. Besides, her son had taken care to secure for her the quietest, meekest, and most easy-going horse belonging to the tribe—a creature whose natural spirit had been reduced by hardship and age to absolute quiescence, and whose gait had been trained down to something like a hobby-horse amble.

Seated astride of this animal, in gentleman fashion, the mother of Whitewing swayed gently to and fro like a partially revived mummy of an amiable type, with her devoted son on one side and Little Tim on the other, to guard against accidents.

It chanced that the two parties of horsemen journeyed in nearly opposite directions, so that every hour of the night separated them from each other more and more.

It was not until Whitewing’s party had proceeded far on their way to Tim’s Folly that suspicion began to be aroused and inquiry to be made in the camp. Then, as the two girls were nowhere to be found, the alarm spread; the warriors sallied out, and the trail of the Blackfeet was discovered. It was not, however, until daylight came to their aid that the Indians became fully aware of their loss, and sent out a strong band in pursuit of their enemies, while a messenger was despatched in hot haste to inform Little Tim and Bounding Bull that Moonlight and Skipping Rabbit had been spirited away.

Chapter Twelve.

The Pursuit, Failure, Despair.

Ever dreaming of the thunderbolt that was about to be launched, Whitewing, Little Tim, Bounding Bull, and the rest of the party arrived at the little fortress in the gorge.

They found Big Tim on the qui vive, and Brighteyes with Whitewing’s mother was soon introduced to the wounded preacher.

The meeting of the three was impressive, for not only had they been much attached at the time of the preacher’s former visit, but the women were deeply affected by the sad circumstances in which they found their old friend.

“Not much changed, I see, Brighteyes,” he said, as the two women sat down on the floor beside his couch. “Only a little stouter; just what might have been expected. God has been kind to you—but, indeed, God is kind to all, only some do not see or believe in the kindness. It is equally kindness in Him whether He sends joy or sorrow, adversity or prosperity. If we only saw the end from the beginning, none of us would quarrel with the way. Love has induced Him to lay me low at present. You have another child, I am told, besides Big Tim?”

“Yes, a daughter—Moonlight we call her,” said Brighteyes, with a pleased look.

“Is she here with you?”

“No; we left her in the camp.”

“And my good old friend,” he said, turning on his couch, and grasping the withered hand of Whitewing’s mother, “how has she prospered in all these years?”

The “old one,” who was, as we have said, as deaf as a post, wrinkled her visage up into the most indescribable expression of world-embracing benignity, expanded her old lips, displayed her toothless gums, and chuckled.

“The dear old one,” said her son, “bears the snows of many winters on her head. Her brain could not now be touched by the thunders of Niagara. But the eyes are still bright inlets to her soul.”

“Bright indeed!” exclaimed the preacher, as he gazed with deep interest at the old face; “wonderful, considering her great age. I trust that these portals may remain unclosed to her latest day on earth.”

He was still talking to Whitewing about her when a peculiar whistle was heard outside, as of some water-bird.

Instantly dead silence fell upon all present, and from the fixed gaze and motionless attitude of each it was evident that they anxiously expected a repetition of the sound. It was not repeated, but a moment later voices were heard outside, then a hurried step, and next instant Big Tim sprang into the room.

“A messenger from the camp!” he cried. “Moonlight and Skipping Rabbit have been carried off by Blackfeet.”

It could easily be seen at that moment how Bounding Bull had acquired his name. From a sitting posture he sprang to his feet at one bound, darted through the doorway of the hut, cleared the low parapet like a deer, and went down the zigzag path in a succession of leaps that might have shamed a kangaroo. Little Tim followed suit almost as vigorously, accompanying his action with a leonine roar. Big Tim was close on his heels.

“Guard the fort, my son,” gasped Little Tim, as he cut the thong that secured his horse at the bottom of the track; “your mother’s life is precious, and Softswan’s. If you can quit safely, follow up.”

Leaping into the saddle, he was next instant on the track of the Indian chief, who had already disappeared.

Hurrying back to the hut, Big Tim proceeded to make hasty preparation for the defence of the place, so that he might be able to join his father. He found the prairie chief standing with closed eyes beside the couch of the preacher, who with folded hands and feeble voice was praying to God for help.

“Is Whitewing indifferent to the misfortunes of his friends,” he said somewhat sharply, “that he stands idly by while the Blackfoot robbers carry off our little ones?”

“My son, be not hasty,” returned the chief. “Prayer is quite as needful as action. Besides, I know all the land round here—the direction which this youth tells me the enemy have taken, and a short cut over the hills, which will enable you and me to cross the path your father must take, and join him, so that we have plenty of time to make arrangements and talk before we go on the war-path.”

The cool, calm way in which the chief spoke, and especially the decided manner in which he referred to a short cut and going on the war-path, tended to quiet Big Tim.

“But what am I to do?” he said, with a look of perplexity. “There are men enough here, no doubt, to hold the place agin a legion o’ Blackfeet, but they have no dependable leader.”

“Here is a leader on whom you can depend; I know him well,” said Whitewing, pointing to the warrior who had brought the news from the camp. “He is a stranger to you, but has been long in my band, and was left by me in the camp to help to guard it in our absence. With him there, I should have thought the stealing of two girls impossible, but he has explained that mystery by telling me that Moonlight crept out of the camp like a serpent, unknown to all, for they found her trail. With Wolf in command and the preacher to give counsel and pray, the women have no cause for fear.”

Somewhat reassured, though he still felt uneasy at the thought of leaving Softswan behind him, Big Tim went about his preparations for the defence of the fortress and the rescue of his sister. Such preparations never take much time in the backwoods. In half an hour Wolf and his braves were ready for any amount of odds, and Big Tim was following the prairie chief through the intricacies of the mountains.

These two made such good use of their time that they were successful in intercepting and joining the war-party, which Bounding Bull, with his friend and ally Little Tim, were leading by forced marches on the trail of the Blackfeet.

Rushing River was well aware, however, that such a party would soon be following him. He therefore had advanced likewise by forced marches, because his object was not so much to meet his enemy as to secure his bride. Only let him place her in the safe keeping of his mother with the main body of his tribe, and he would then return on his steps with pleasure, and give battle to his foe.

In this object he was successful. After several days’ march he handed over Moonlight and Skipping Rabbit to the care of an old woman, whose countenance was suggestive of wrinkled leather, and whose expression was not compatible with sweetness. It was evident to the captives that Rushing River owed his manly bearing and his comparatively gentle manners not to his mother but to the father, whose scalp, alas! hung drying in the smoke of a foeman’s wigwam.

During the forced march the Blackfoot chief had not once opened his lips to the girl he loved. He simply rode by her side, partly perhaps to prevent any sudden attempt at flight, and certainly to offer assistance when difficulties presented themselves on their pathless journey through the great wilderness. And on all such occasions he offered his aid with such grave and dignified gentleness that poor Moonlight became more and more impressed, though, to do her justice, she fought bravely against her tendency to fall in love with her tribal foe.

On reaching home Rushing River, instead of leading his captive to his own wigwam, conducted her, as we have said, to that of his mother. Then, for the first time since the day of the capture, he addressed her with a look of tenderness, which she had never before received except from Little Tim, and, in a minor degree, from her brother.

“Moonlight,” he said, “till my return you will be well cared for here by my mother—the mother of Rushing River.”

Having said this, he lifted the leathern door of the lodge and went out instantly.

Moonlight had received a terrible shock. Turning quickly to the old woman, she said—

“Was that Rushing River?”

“That,” replied the old woman, with a look of magnificent pride, “is my son, Rushing River—the brave whose name is known far and wide in the mountains and on the plains; whose enemies tremble and grow pale when they hear of him, and who when they see him become dead—or run away!”

Here, then, was a discovery that was almost too much for the unfortunate captive, for this man was the deadly foe of her father and of her brother’s father-in-law, Bounding Bull. He was also the sworn enemy of her tribe, and it now became her stern duty, as a true child of the western wilderness, to hate with all her soul the man whom she loved!

Under the impulse of her powerful feelings she sat down, covered her face with her little hands, and—no, she did not burst into tears! Had she been a civilised beauty perhaps she might have done so, but she struggled for a considerable time with Spartan-like resolution to crush down the true feelings of her heart. Old Umqua was quite pleased with the effect of her information, ascribing it as she did to a wrong cause, and felt disposed to be friendly with the captive in consequence.

“My son has carried you off from the camp of some enemy, I doubt not?” she said, in kindly tones.

Moonlight, who had by that time recovered her composure, replied that he had—from the camp of Bounding Bull, whose little daughter he had captured at the same time, and added that she herself was a daughter of Little Tim.

It was now Umqua’s turn to be surprised.

“What is that you tell me?” she exclaimed. “Are you the child of the little pale-face whose name extends from the regions of snow to the lands of the hot sun?”

“I am,” replied Moonlight, with a look of pride quite equal to and rather more lovely than that of the old woman.

“Ha!” exclaimed Umqua, “you are a lucky girl. I see by my son’s look and manner that he intends to take you for his wife. I suppose he has gone away just now, for I saw he was in haste, to scalp your father, and your brother, and Bounding Bull, and all his tribe. After that he will come home and take you to his wigwam. Rushing River is very brave and very kind to women. The men laugh at him behind his back—they dare not laugh before his face—and say he is too kind to them; but we women don’t agree with that. We know better, and we are fondest of the kind men, for we see that they are not less brave than the others. Yes, you are a lucky girl.”

Moonlight was not as deeply impressed with her “luck” as the old lady expected, and was on the point of bursting out, after the manner of savages, into a torrent of abuse of the Blackfoot race in general, and of Rushing River in particular, when the thought that she was a captive and at the mercy of the Blackfeet fortunately restrained her. Instead of answering, she cast her eyes on the ground and remained stolidly silent, by which conduct she got credit for undeserved modesty.

“Where is the little one of that serpent Bounding Bull?” asked Umqua, after a brief silence.

“I know not” replied Moonlight, with a look of anxiety. “When we arrived here Skipping Rabbit was separated from me. She journeyed under the care of a youth. They called him, I think, Eaglenose.”

“Is Skipping Rabbit the child’s name?”

“Then Skipping Rabbit will skip more than ever, for Eaglenose is a funny man when not on the war-path, and his mother is a good woman. She does not talk behind your back like other women. You have nothing to fear for Skipping Rabbit. Come with me, we will visit the mother of Eaglenose.”

As the two moved through the Indian camp, Moonlight noticed that the men were collecting and bridling their horses, cleaning and sharpening their weapons, and making preparations generally for an expedition on a large scale. For a moment a feeling of fear filled her heart as she recalled Umqua’s remarks about scalping her kindred; but when she reflected how well able her sturdy little father and big brother and Bounding Bull were to take care of themselves, she smiled internally, and dismissed her fears.

Long before they reached Eaglenose’s mother’s wigwam, Moonlight was surprised to hear the well known voice of Skipping Rabbit shouting in unrestrained peals of merry laughter. On entering, the cause thereof was at once apparent, for there sat Eaglenose beside his mother (whose nose, by the way, was similar to his own) amusing the child with a home-made jumping-jack. Having seen a toy of this kind during one of his visits to the settlements of the pale-faces, the Blackfoot youth had made mental notes of it, and on his return home had constructed a jumping-jack, which rendered him more popular in his tribe—especially with the youngsters—than if he had been a powerful medicine-man or a noted warrior.

When Moonlight entered, Skipping Rabbit was standing in front of Eaglenose with clasped hands and glittering eyes, shrieking with delight as the absurd creature of wood threw up its legs and arms, kicked its own head, and all but dislocated its own limbs. Catching sight of her friend, however, she gave vent to another shriek with deeper delight in it, and, bounding towards her, sprang into her arms.

Regarding this open display of affection with some surprise, and rightly ascribing it to the influence of white blood in Bounding Bull’s camp, Umqua asked Eaglenose’s mother if the men were getting ready to go on the war-path.

“I know not. Perhaps my son knows.”

Thus directly referred to, Eaglenose, who was but a young warrior just emancipated from boyhood, and who had yet to win his spurs, rose, and, becoming so grave and owlish that his naturally prominent feature seemed to increase in size, said sententiously—

“It is not for squaws to inquire into the plans of men, but as there is no secret in what we are going to do, I may tell you, mother, that women and children have not yet learned to live on grass or air. We go just now to procure fresh meat.”

So saying, the stripling pitched the jumping-jack into the lap of Skipping Rabbit, and strode out of the lodge with the pomposity of seven chiefs!

That night, when the captives were lying side by side in Umqua’s wigwam, gazing at the stars through the hole which was left in the top for the egress of the smoke, Moonlight said to her little friend—

“Does the skipping one know that it is Rushing River who has caught us and carried us away?”

The skipping one said that she had not known, but, now that she did know, she hated him with all her heart.

“So do I,” said Moonlight firmly. But Moonlight was wrong, for she hated the man with only a very small portion of her heart, and loved him with all the rest. It was probably some faint recognition of this fact that induced her to add with the intense energy of one who is resolved to walk in the path of duty—“I hate all the Blackfeet!”

“So do I,” returned the child, and then pausing, slowly added, “except”—and paused again.

“Well, who does the skipping one except?”

“Eaglenose,” replied the skipper promptly. “I can’t hate him, he is such a very funny brave.”

After a prolonged silence Moonlight whispered—

“Does Skipping Rabbit sleep?”

“No.”

“Is there not something in the great medicine-book that father speaks so much about which teaches that we should love our enemies?”

“I don’t know,” replied the little one. “Bounding Bull never taught that to me.”

Again there was silence, during which Moonlight hoped in a confused sort of way that the teaching might be true. Before she could come to a conclusion on the perplexing point both she and her little friend were in that mysterious region where the human body usually ceases to be troubled by the human mind.

When Bounding Bull and Little Tim found that the Blackfoot chief had escaped them, they experienced what is often termed among Christians a great trial of faith. They did not indeed express their thoughts in language, but they could not quite prevent their looks from betraying their feelings, while in their thoughts they felt sorely tempted to charge God with indifference to their feelings, and even with something like cruelty, in thus permitting the guilty to triumph and the innocent to suffer. The state of mind is not, indeed, unfamiliar to people who are supposed to enjoy higher culture than the inhabitants of the wilderness. Even Whitewing’s spirit was depressed for a time, and he could offer no consolation to the bereaved fathers, or find much comfort to himself; yet in the midst of all the mental darkness by which he was at that time surrounded, two sentences which the pale-face missionary had impressed on him gleamed forth now and then, like two flickering stars in a very black sky. The one was, “Shall not the Judge of all the earth do right?” the other, “He doeth all things well.” But he did not at that time try to point out the light to his companions.

Burning with rage, mingled somewhat with despair, the white hunter and the red chief returned home in hot haste, bent on collecting a force of men so strong that they would be enabled to go forth with the absolute certainty of rescuing their children, or of avenging them by sweeping the entire Blackfoot nation, root and branch, off the face of the earth; and adorning the garments of their braves with their scalp-locks for ages to come.

It may be easily believed that they did not waste time on the way. Desperate men cannot rest. To halt for a brief space in order to take food and sleep just sufficient to sustain them was all the relaxation they allowed themselves. This was, of course, simply a process of wearing out their strength, but they were very strong men, long inured to hardships, and did not easily wear out.

One night they sat round the camp fire, very weary, and in silence. The fire was low and exceedingly small. Indeed, they did not dare to venture on a large one while near the enemy’s country, and usually contented themselves with a supper of cold, uncooked pemmican. On this night, however, they were more fatigued than usual—perhaps depression of spirit had much to do with it—so they had kindled a fire and warmed their supper.

“What are the thoughts of Bounding Bull?” said Little Tim, at length breaking silence with something like a groan.

“Despair,” replied the chief, with a dark frown; “and,” he added, with a touch of hesitation, “revenge.”

“Your thoughts are not much different from mine,” returned the hunter.

“My brothers are not wise,” said Whitewing, after another silence. “All that Manitou does to His children is good. I have hope.”

“I wish my brother could give me some of his hope. What does he rest his hope on?” asked Little Tim.

“Long ago,” answered the chief, “when Rushing River was a boy, the white preacher spoke to him about his soul and the Saviour. The boy’s heart was touched. I saw it; I knew it. The seed has lain long in the ground, but it is sure to grow, for it must have been the Spirit of Manitou that touched him; and will He not finish the work that He begins? That is my hope.”

The chief’s eyes glittered in the firelight while he spoke. His two companions listened with grave attention, but said no word in reply. Yet it was evident, as they lay down for a few hours’ rest, that the scowl of revenge and the writing of despair had alike in some measure departed from the brow of each.

Chapter Thirteen.

The Powerful Influence of Bad Weapons and of Love.

While the bereaved parents were thus hastening by forced marches to their own camp, a band of Blackfeet was riding in another direction in quest of buffalo, for their last supply of fresh meat had been nearly consumed. Along with them they took several women to dry the meat and otherwise prepare it. Among these were poor Moonlight and her friend Skipping Rabbit, also their guardian Umqua.

Ever since their arrival in camp Rushing River had not only refrained from speaking to his captives, but had carefully avoided them. Moonlight was pleased at first but at last she began to wonder why he was so shy, and, having utterly failed in her efforts to hate him, she naturally began to feel a little hurt by his apparent indifference.

Very different was the conduct of Eaglenose, who also accompanied the hunting expedition. That vivacious youth, breaking through all the customs and peculiarities of Red Indian etiquette, frequently during the journey came and talked with Moonlight, and seemed to take special pleasure in amusing Skipping Rabbit.

“Has the skipping one,” he said on one occasion, “brought with her the little man that jumps?” by which expression he referred to the jumping-jack.

“Yes, he is with the pack-horses. Does Eaglenose want to play with him?”

Oh, she was a sly and precocious little rabbit, who had used well her opportunities of association with Little Tim to pick up the ways and manners of the pale-faces—to the surprise and occasional amusement of her red relations, whom she frequently scandalised not a little. Well did she know how sensitive a young Indian brave is as to his dignity, how he scorns to be thought childish, and how he fancies that he looks like a splendid man when he struts with superhuman gravity, just as a white boy does when he puts a cigar between his unfledged lips. She thought she had given a tremendous stab to the dignity of Eaglenose; and so she had, yet it happened that the dignity of Eaglenose escaped, because it was shielded by a buckler of fun so thick that it could not easily be pierced by shafts of ridicule.

“Yes; I want to play with him,” answered the youth, with perfect gravity, but a twinkle of the eyes that did not escape Skipping Rabbit; “I’m fond of playing with him, because he is your little husband, and I want to make friends with the husband of the skipping one; he is so active, and kicks about his arms and legs so well. Does he ever kick his little squaw? I hope not.”

“Oh yes, sometimes,” returned the child. “He kicked me last night because I said he was so like Eaglenose.”

“The little husband did well. A wooden chief so grand did not like to be compared to a poor young brave who has only begun to go on the war-path, and has taken no scalps yet.”

The mention of war-path and scalps had the effect of quieting the poor child’s tendency to repartee. She thought of her father and Little Tim, and became suddenly grave.

Perceiving and regretting this, the young Indian hastily changed the subject of conversation.

“The Blackfeet,” he said, “have heard much about the great pale-faced chief called Leetil Tim. Does the skipping one know Leetil Tim?”

The skipping one, whose good humour was quite restored at the mere mention of her friend’s name, said that she not only knew him, but loved him, and had been taught many things by him.

“I suppose he taught you to speak and act like the pale-faced squaws?” said Eaglenose.

“I suppose he did,” returned the child, with a laugh, “and Moonlight helped him. But perhaps it is also because I have white blood in me. My mother was a pale-face.”

“That accounts for Skipping Rabbit being so ready to laugh, and so fond of fun,” said the youth.

“Was the father of Eaglenose a pale-face?” asked the child.

“No; why?”

“Because Eaglenose is as ready to laugh and as fond of fun as Skipping Rabbit. If his father was not a pale-face, he could not I think, have been very red.”

What reply the youth would have made to this we cannot tell, for at that moment scouts came in with the news that buffalo had been seen grazing on the plain below.

Instantly the bustle of preparation for the chase began. The women were ordered to encamp and get ready to receive the meat. Scouts were sent out in various directions, and the hunters advanced at a gallop.

The region through which they were passing at the time was marked by that lovely, undulating, park-like scenery which lies in some parts between the rugged slopes of the mountain range and the level expanse of the great prairies. Its surface was diversified by both kinds of landscape—groups of trees, little knolls, stretches of forest, and occasional cliffs, being mingled with wide stretches of grassy plain, with rivulets here and there to add to the wild beauty of the scene.

After a short ride over the level ground the Blackfeet came to a fringe of woodland, on the other side of which they were told by the scouts a herd of buffalo had been seen browsing on a vast sweep of open plain.

Riding cautiously through the wood, they came to the edge of it and dismounted, while Rushing River and Eaglenose advanced alone and on foot to reconnoitre.

Coming soon to that outer fringe of bushes, beyond which there was no cover, they dropped on hands and knees and went forward in that manner until they reached a spot whence a good view of the buffalo could be obtained. The black eyes of the two Indians glittered, and the red of their bronzed faces deepened with emotion as they gazed. And truly it was a sight well calculated to stir to the very centre men whose chief business of life was the chase, and whose principal duty was to procure food for their women and children, for the whole plain away to the horizon was dotted with groups of those monarchs of the western prairies. They were grazing quietly, as though such things as the rattle of guns, the whiz of arrows, the thunder of horse-hoofs, and the yells of savages had never sounded in their ears.

The chief and the young brave exchanged impressive glances, and retired in serpentine fashion from the scene.

A few minutes later, and the entire band of horsemen—some with bows and a few with guns—stood at the outmost edge of the bushes that fringed the forest land. Beyond this there was no cover to enable them to approach nearer to the game without being seen, so preparation was made for a sudden dash.

The huge rugged creatures on the plain continued to browse peacefully, giving an occasional toss to their enormous manes, raising a head now and then, as if to make sure that all was safe, and then continuing to feed, or giving vent to a soft low of satisfaction. It seemed cruel to disturb so much enjoyment and serenity with the hideous sounds of war. But man’s necessities must be met. Until Eden’s days return there is no deliverance for the lower animals. Vegetarians may reduce their theories to practice in the cities and among cultivated fields, but vegetarians among the red men of the Far West or the squat men of the Arctic zone, would either have to violate their principles or die.

As Rushing River had no principles on the subject, and was not prepared for voluntary death, he gave a signal to his men, and in an instant every horse was elongated, with ears flat nostrils distended, and eyes flashing, while the riders bent low, and mingled their black locks with the flying manes.

For a few seconds no sound was heard save the muffled thunder of the hoofs, at which the nearest buffaloes looked up with startled inquiry in their gaze. Another moment, and the danger was appreciated. The mighty host went off with pig-like clumsiness—tails up and manes tossing. Quickly the pace changed to desperate agility as the pursuing savages, unable to restrain themselves, relieved their feelings with terrific yells.

As group after group of astonished animals became aware of the attack and joined in the mad flight the thunder on the plains swelled louder and louder, until it became one continuous roar—like the sound of a rushing cataract—a bovine Niagara! At first the buffaloes and the horses seemed well matched, but by degrees the superiority of the latter became obvious, as the savages drew nearer and nearer to the flying mass. Soon a puff or two of smoke, a whistling bullet and a whizzing arrow told that the action had begun. Here and there a black spot struggling on the plain gave stronger evidence. Then the hunters and hunted became mixed up, the shots and whizzing were more frequent, the yells more terrible, and the slaughter tremendous. No fear now that Moonlight, and Skipping Rabbit, and Umqua, and all the rest of them, big and little, would not have plenty of juicy steaks and marrow-bones for many days to come.

But all this was not accomplished without some damage to the hunters. Here and there a horse, having put his foot into a badger-hole, was seen to continue his career for a short space like a wheel or a shot hare, while his rider went ahead independently like a bird, and alighted—anyhow! Such accidents, however, seldom resulted in much damage, red skin being probably tougher than white, and savage bones less brittle than civilised. At all events, nothing very serious occurred until the plain was pretty well strewn with wounded animals.

Then it was that Eaglenose, in his wild ambition to become the best hunter of the tribe, as well as the best warrior, singled out an old bull, and gave chase to him. This was wanton as well as foolish, for bulls are dangerous and their meat is tough. What cared Eaglenose for that? The spirit of his fathers was awakened in him (a bad spirit doubtless), and his blood was up. Besides, Rushing River was close alongside of him, and several emulous braves were close behind.

Eaglenose carried a bow. Urging his steed to the uttermost he got close up to the bull. Fury was in the creature’s little eyes, and madness in its tail. When a buffalo bull cocks its tail with a little bend in the middle thereof, it is time to “look out for squalls.”

“Does Eaglenose desire to hunt with his fathers in the happy hunting-grounds?” muttered Rushing River.

“Eaglenose knows not fear,” returned the youth boastfully.

As he spoke he bent his bow, and discharged an arrow. He lacked the precision of Robin Hood. The shaft only grazed the bull’s shoulder, but that was enough. A Vesuvian explosion seemed to heave in his capacious bosom, and found vent in a furious roar. Round he went like an opera-dancer on one leg, and lowered his shaggy head. The horse’s chest went slap against it as might an ocean-billow against a black rock, and the rider, describing a curve with a high trajectory, came heavily down upon his eagle nose.

It was an awful crash, and after it the poor youth lay prone for a few minutes with his injured member in the dust—literally, for he had ploughed completely through the superincumbent turf.

Fortunately for poor Eaglenose, Rushing River carried a gun, with which he shot the bull through the heart and galloped on. So did the other Indians. They were not going to miss the sport for the sake of helping a fallen comrade to rise.

When at last the unfortunate youth raised his head he presented an appearance which would have justified the change of his name to Turkeycocknose, so severe was the effect of his fall.

Getting into a sitting posture, the poor fellow at first looked dazed. Then observing something between his eyes that was considerably larger than even he had been accustomed to, he gently raised his hand to his face and touched it. The touch was painful, so he desisted. Then he arose, remounted his steed, which stood close to him, looking stupid after the concussion, and followed the hunt, which by that time was on the horizon.

But something worse was in store for another member of the band that day. After killing the buffalo bull, as before described, the chief Rushing River proceeded to reload his gun.

Now it must be known that in the days we write of the firearms supplied to the Nor’-west Indians were of very inferior quality. They were single flint-lock guns, with blue-stained barrels of a dangerously brittle character, and red-painted brass-mounted stocks, that gave them the appearance of huge toys. It was a piece of this description which Rushing River carried, and which he proceeded to reload in the usual manner—that is, holding the gun under his left arm, he poured some powder from a horn into his left palm; this he poured from his palm into the gun, and, without wadding or ramming, dropped after the powder a bullet from his mouth, in which magazine he carried several bullets so as to be ready. Then driving the butt of the gun violently against the pommel of the saddle, so as to send the whole charge home and cause the weapon to prime itself, he aimed at the buffalo and fired.

Charges thus loosely managed do not always go quite “home.” In this case the ball had stuck half-way down, and when the charge exploded the gun burst and carried away the little finger of the chief’s left hand. But it did more. A piece of the barrel struck the chief on the head, and he fell from his horse as if he had been shot.

This catastrophe brought the hunt to a speedy close. The Indians assembled round their fallen chief with faces graver, if possible, than usual. They bound up his wounds as well as they could, and made a rough-and-ready stretcher out of two poles and a blanket, in which they carried him into camp. During the greater part of the short journey he was nearly if not quite unconscious. When they at length laid him down in his tent, his mother, although obviously anxious, maintained a stern composure peculiar to her race.

Not so the captive Moonlight. When she saw the apparently dead form of Rushing River carried into his tent, covered with blood and dust, her partially white spirit was not to be restrained. She uttered a sharp cry, which slightly roused the chief, and, springing to his side, went down on her knees and seized his hand. The action was involuntary and almost momentary. She recovered herself at once, and rose quickly, as grave and apparently as unmoved as the reddest of squaws. But Rushing River had noted the fact, and divined the cause. The girl loved him! A new sensation of almost stern joy filled his heart. He turned over on his side without a look or word to any one, and calmly went to sleep.

We have already said, or hinted, that Rushing River was a peculiar savage. He was one of those men—perhaps not so uncommon as we think—who hold the opinion that women are not made to be mere beasts of burden, makers of moccasins and coats, and menders of leggings, cookers of food, and, generally, the slaves of men. One consequence was that he could not bear the subdued looks and almost cringing gait of the Blackfoot belles, and had remained a bachelor up to the date of our story.

He preferred to live with his mother, who, by the way, was also an exception to the ordinary class of squaws. She was rudely intellectual and violently self-assertive, though kind-hearted withal.

That night when his mother chanced to be alone in the tent, he held some important conversation with her. Moonlight happened to be absent at a jumping-jack entertainment with Skipping Rabbit in the tent of Eaglenose, the youth himself being the performer in spite of his nose! Most of the other women in the camp were at the place where the buffalo were being cut up and dried and converted into pemmican.

“Mother,” said Rushing River, who in reality had been more stunned than injured—excepting, of course, the little finger, which was indeed gone past recovery.

“My son,” said Umqua, looking attentively in the chief’s eyes.

“The eagle has been brought down at last. Rushing River will be the same man no more. He has been hit in his heart.”

“I think not, my son,” returned Umqua, looking somewhat anxious. “A piece of the bad gun struck the head of Rushing River, but his breast is sound. Perhaps he is yet stunned, and had better sleep again.”

“I want not sleep, mother,” replied the chief in figurative language; “it is not the bursting gun that has wounded me, but a spear of light—a moonbeam.”

“Moonlight!” exclaimed Umqua, with sudden intelligence.

“Even so, mother; Rushing River has at last found a mate in Moonlight.”

“My son is wise,” said Umqua.

“I will carry the girl to the camp of mine enemy,” continued the chief, “and deliver her to her father.”

“My son is a fool,” said Umqua.

“Wise, and a fool! Can that be possible, mother?” returned the chief with a slight smile.

“Yes, quite possible,” said the woman promptly. “Man can be wise at one time, foolish at another—wise in one act, foolish in another. To take Moonlight to your tent is wise. I love her. She has brains. She is not like the young Blackfoot squaws, who wag their tongues without ceasing when they have nothing to say and never think—brainless ones!—fools! Their talk is only about each other behind-backs and of feeding.”

“The old one is hard upon the young ones,” said the chief gravely; “not long ago I heard the name of Umqua issue from a wigwam. The voice that spoke was that of the mother of Eaglenose. Rushing River listens not to squaws’ tales, but he cannot stop his ears. The words floated to him with the smoke of their fire. They were, ‘Umqua has been very kind to me.’ I heard no more.”

“The mother of Eaglenose is not such a fool as the rest of them,” said Umqua, in a slightly softer tone; “but why does my son talk foolishness about going to the tents of his enemy, and giving up a girl who it is easy to see is good and wise and true, and a hard worker, and not a fool?”

“Listen, mother. It is because Moonlight is all that you say, and much more, that I shall send her home. Besides, I have come to know that the pale-face who was shot by one of our braves is the preacher whose words went to my heart when I was a boy. I must see him.”

“But Bounding Bull and Leetil Tim will certainly kill you.”

“Leetil Tim is not like the red men,” returned the chief; “he does not love revenge. My enemy Bounding Bull hunts with him much, and has taken some of his spirit. I am a red man. I love revenge because my fathers loved it; but there is something within me that is not satisfied with revenge. I will go alone and unarmed. If they kill me, they shall not be able to say that Rushing River was a coward.”

“My son is weak; his fall has injured him.”

“Your son is strong, mother. His love for Moonlight has changed him.”

“If you go you will surely die, my son.”

“I fear not death, mother. I feel that within me which is stronger than death.”

Chapter Fourteen.

In which Plans, Prospects, Love, Dangers, and Perplexities are dealt with.

Three days after the conversation related in the last chapter, a party on horseback, numbering five persons, left the Blackfoot camp, and, entering one of the patches of forest with which the eastern slopes of the mountains were clothed, trotted smartly away in the direction of the rising sun.

The party consisted of Rushing River and his mother, Moonlight, Skipping Rabbit, and Eaglenose.

The latter, although still afflicted with a nose the swelled condition of which rendered it out of all proportion to his face, and interfered somewhat with his vision, was sufficiently recovered to travel, and also to indulge his bantering talk with the “skipping one,” as he called his little friend. The chief was likewise restored, excepting the stump of the little finger, which was still bandaged. Umqua had been prevailed on to accompany her son, and it is only just to the poor woman to add that she believed herself to be riding to a martyr’s doom. The chief however, did not think so, else he would not have asked her to accompany him.

Each of the party was mounted on a strong horse, except Skipping Rabbit, who bestrode an active pony more suited to her size. We say bestrode, because it must ever be borne in remembrance that Red India ladies ride like gentlemen—very much, no doubt, to their own comfort.

Although Rushing River had resolved to place himself unarmed in the power of his enemy, he had no intention of travelling in that helpless condition in a country where he was liable to meet with foes, not only among men but among beasts. Besides, as he carried but a small supply of provisions, he was dependent on gun and bow for food. Himself, therefore, carried the former weapon, Eaglenose the latter, and both were fully armed with hatchet, tomahawk, and scalping-knife.

The path—if such it may be called—which they followed was one which had been naturally formed by wild animals and wandering Indians taking the direction that was least encumbered with obstructions. It was only wide enough for one to pass at a time, but after the first belt of woodland had been traversed, it diverged into a more open country, and finally disappeared, the trees and shrubs admitting of free passage in all directions.

While in the narrow track the chief had headed the little band. Then came Moonlight, followed by Umqua and by Skipping Rabbit on her pony, Eaglenose bringing up the rear.

On emerging, however, into the open ground, Rushing River drew rein until Moonlight came up alongside of him. Eaglenose, who was quick to profit by example—especially when he liked it—rode up alongside of the skipping one, who welcomed him with a decidedly pale-face smile, which showed that she had two rows of bright little teeth behind her laughing lips.

“Is Moonlight glad,” said the chief to the girl, after riding beside her for some time in silence, “is Moonlight glad to return to the camp of Bounding Bull?”

“Yes, I am glad,” replied the girl, choosing rather to answer in the matter-of-fact manner of the pale-faces than in the somewhat imaginative style of the Indians. She could adopt either, according to inclination.

There was a long pause, during which no sound was heard save the regular patter of the hoofs on the lawn-like turf as they swept easily out and in among the trees, over the undulations, and down into the hollows, or across the level plains.

“Why is Moonlight glad?” asked the chief.

“Because father and mother are there, and I love them both.”

Again there was silence, for Moonlight had replied some what brusquely. The truth is that, although rejoicing in the prospect of again seeing her father and mother, the poor girl had a lurking suspicion that a return to them meant final separation from Rushing River, and—although she was too proud to admit, even to herself, that such a thought affected her in any way—she felt very unhappy in the midst of her rejoicing, and knew not what to make of it. This condition of mind, as the reader knows, is apt to make any one lower than an angel somewhat testy!

On coming to a rising ground, up which they had to advance at a walking pace, the chief once more broke silence in a low, soft voice—

“Is not Moonlight sorry to quit the Blackfoot camp?”

The girl was taken by surprise, for she had never before heard an Indian—much less a chief—address a squaw in such a tone, or condescend to such a question. A feeling of self-reproach induced her to reply with some warmth—

“Yes, Rushing River, Moonlight is sorry to quit the lodges of her Blackfoot friends. The snow on the mountain-tops is warmed by the sunshine until it melts and flows down to the flowering plains. The heart of Moonlight was cold and hard when it entered the Blackfoot camp, but the sunshine of kindness has melted it, and now that it flows towards the grassy plains of home, Moonlight thinks with tenderness of the past, and will never forget.”

Rushing River said no more. Perhaps he thought the reply, coupled with the look and tone, was sufficiently satisfactory. At all events, he continued thereafter to ride in profound silence, and, checking his steed almost imperceptibly, allowed his mother to range up on the other side of him.

Meanwhile Eaglenose and Skipping Rabbit, being influenced by no considerations of delicacy or anything else, kept up a lively conversation in rear. For Eaglenose, like his chief, had freed himself from some of the trammels of savage etiquette.

It would take up too much valuable space to record all the nonsense that these two talked to each other, but a few passages are worthy of notice.

“Skipping one,” said the youth, after a brief pause, “what are your thoughts doing?”

“Swelled-nosed one,” replied the child, with a laugh at her own inventive genius, “I was thinking what a big hole you must have made in the ground when you got that fall.”

“It was not shallow,” returned the youth, with assumed gravity. “It was big enough to have buried a rabbit in, even a skipping one.”

“Would there have been room for a jumping-jack too?” asked the child, with equal gravity; then, without waiting for an answer, she burst into a merry laugh, and asked where they were travelling to.

“Has not Moonlight told you?”

“No, when I asked her about it yesterday she said she was not quite sure, it would be better not to speak till she knew.”

“Moonlight is very wise—almost as wise as a man.”

“Yes, wiser even than some men with swelled noses.”

It was now the youth’s turn to laugh, which he did quite heartily, for an Indian, though with a strong effort to restrain himself.

“We are going, I believe,” he said, after a few moments’ thought, “to visit your father, Bounding Bull. At least the speech of Rushing River led Eaglenose to think so, but our chief does not say all that is in his mind. He is not a squaw—at least, not a skipping one.”

Instead of retorting, the child looked with sudden anxiety into the countenance of her companion.

“Does Rushing River,” she asked, with earnest simplicity, “want to have his tongue slit, his eyes poked in, his liver pulled out, and his scalp cut off?”

“I think not,” replied Eaglenose, with equal simplicity, for although such a speech from such innocent lips may call forth surprise in a civilised reader, it referred, in those regions and times, to possibilities which were only too probable.

After a few minutes’ thought the child said, with an earnest look in her large and lustrous eyes, “Skipping Rabbit will be glad—very glad—to see her father, but she will be sorry—very sorry—to lose her friends.”

Having now made it plain that the feelings of both captives had been touched by the kindness of their captors, we will transport them and the reader at once to the neighbourhood of Bounding Bull’s camp.

Under the same tree on the outskirts which had been the scene of the girls’ capture, Rushing River and Eaglenose stood once more with their companions, conversing in whispers. The horses had been concealed a long way in rear, to prevent restiveness or an incidental neigh betraying them.

The night was intensely dark and still. The former condition favoured their enterprise, but the latter was unfavourable, as it rendered the risk of detection from any accidental sound much greater.

After a few minutes’ talk with his male companion, the chief approached the tree where the females stood silently wondering what their captors meant to do, and earnestly hoping that no evil might befall any one.

“The time has come,” he said, “when Moonlight may help to make peace between those who are at war. She knows well how to creep like the serpent in the grass, and how to speak with her tongue in such a way that the heart of the listener will be softened while his ear is charmed. Let Moonlight creep into the camp, and tell Bounding Bull that his enemy is subdued; that the daughter of Leetil Tim has conquered him; that he wishes for friendship, and is ready to visit his wigwam, and smoke the pipe of peace. But tell not that Rushing River is so near. Say only that Moonlight has been set free; that Manitou of the pale-faces has been whispering in the heart of Rushing River, and he no longer delights in revenge or wishes for the scalp of Bounding Bull. Go secretly, for I would not have the warriors know of your return till you have found out the thoughts of the chief. If the ear of the chief is open and his answer is favourable, let Moonlight sound the chirping of a bird, and Rushing River will enter the camp without weapons, and trust himself to the man who was once his foe. If the answer is unfavourable, let her hoot like the owl three times, and Rushing River will go back to the home of his fathers, and see the pleasant face of Moonlight no more.”

To say that Moonlight was touched by this speech would give but a feeble description of her feelings. The unusual delicacy of it for an Indian, the straightforward declaration implied in it and the pathetic conclusion, would have greatly flattered her self-esteem, even if it had not touched her heart. Yet no sign did she betray of emotion, save the somewhat rapid heaving of her bosom as she stood with bowed head, awaiting further orders.

“Moonlight will find Skipping Rabbit waiting for her here beside this tree. Whether Bounding Bull is for peace or war, Rushing River returns to him his little one. Go, and may the hand of Manitou guide thee.”

He turned at once and rejoined Eaglenose, who was standing on guard like a statue at no great distance.

Moonlight went immediately and softly into the bushes, without pausing to utter a single word to her female companions, and disappeared.

Thereupon the chief and his young brave lay down, and, resting there in profound silence, awaited the result with deep but unexpressed anxiety.

Well did our heroine know every bush and rock of the country around her. With easy, soundless motion she glided along like a flitting shadow until she gained the line of sentries who guarded the camp. Here, as on a former occasion, she sank into the grass, and advanced with extreme caution. If she had not possessed more than the average capacity of savages for stalking, it would have been quite impossible for her to have eluded the vigilance of the young warriors. As it was, she narrowly escaped discovery, for, just as she was crossing what may he termed the guarded line, one of the sentinels took it into his head to move in her direction. Of course she stopped and lay perfectly flat and still, but so near did the warrior come in passing that his foot absolutely grazed her head. But for the intense darkness of the night she would have inevitably been caught.

Creeping swiftly out of the sentinel’s way before he returned, she gained the centre of the camp, and in a few minutes was close to her father’s wigwam. Finding a little hole in the buffalo-skins of which it was chiefly composed, she peeped in.

To her great disappointment, Little Tim was not there, but Brighteyes was, and a youth whom she knew well as one who was about to join the ranks of the men, and go out on his first war-path on the first occasion that offered.

Although trained to observe the gravity and reticence of the Indian, this youth was gifted by nature with powers of loquacity which he found it difficult to suppress. Knowing this, Moonlight felt that she dared not trust him with her secret, and was much perplexed how to attract her mother’s attention without disturbing him. At last she crept round to the side of the tent where her mother was seated, opposite to the youth. Putting her lips to another small hole which she found there, she whispered “Mother,” so softly that Brighteyes did not hear, but went calmly on with her needlework, while the aspirant for Indian honours sent clouds of tobacco from his mouth and nose, and dreamed of awful deeds of daring, which were probably destined to end also in smoke.

“Mother!” whispered Moonlight again.

The whisper, though very slightly increased, was evidently heard, for the woman became suddenly motionless, and turned slightly pale, while her lustrous eyes gazed at the spot whence the sound had come.

“What does Brighteyes see?” asked the Indian youth, expelling a cloud from his lips and also gazing.

“I thought I heard—my Moonlight—whisper.”

A look of grave contempt settled on the youth’s visage as he replied—

“When love is strong, the eyes are blind and the ears too open. Brighteyes hears voices in the night air.”

Having given utterance to this sage opinion with the sententious solemnity of an oracle, or the portentous gravity of “an ass”—as modern slang might put it—the youth resumed his pipe and continued the stupefaction of his brain.

The woman was not sorry that her visitor took the matter thus, for she had felt the imprudence of having betrayed any symptom of surprise, whatever the sound might be. When, therefore, another whisper of “Mother!” was heard, instead of looking intelligent, she bestowed some increased attention on her work, yawned sleepily once or twice, and then said—

“Is there not a council being held to-night?”

“There is. The warriors are speaking now.”

“Does not the young brave aspire to raising his voice in council?”

“He does,” replied the youth, puffing with a look of almost superhuman dignity, “but he may not raise his voice in council till he has been on the war-path.”

“I should have thought,” returned Brighteyes, with the slightest possible raising of her eyebrows, “that a brave who aims so high would find it more pleasant to be near the council tent talking with the other young braves than to sit smoking beside a squaw.”

The youth took the hint rather indignantly, rose, and strode out of the tent in majestic silence.

No sooner was he gone than Moonlight darted in and fell into her mothers arms. There was certainly more of the pale-face than of the red man’s spirit in the embrace that followed, but the spirit of the red man soon reasserted itself.

“Mother,” she said eagerly and impressively, “Rushing River is going to be my husband!”

“Child,” exclaimed the matron, while her countenance fell, “can the dove mate with the raven? the rabbit with the wolf?”

“They can, for all I care or know to the contrary,” said Moonlight—impelled, no doubt, by the spirit of Little Tim. “But” she continued quickly, “I bear a message to Bounding Bull. Where is he?”

“Not in the camp, my daughter. He has gone to the block-house to see the preacher.”

“And father. Is he here?”

“No, he has gone with Bounding Bull. There is no chief in the camp just now—only the young braves to guard it.”

“How well they guard it—when I am here!” said the girl, with a laugh; then, becoming intensely earnest, she told her mother in as few words as possible the object of her visit, concluding with the very pertinent question, “Now, what is to be done?”

“You dare not allow Rushing River to enter the camp just now,” said Brighteyes. “The young men would certainly kill him.”

“But I must not send him away,” returned the perplexed Moonlight. “If I do, I—I shall never—he will never more return.”

“Could you not creep out of camp as you crept in and warn him?”

“I could, as far as the sentinels are concerned, for they are little better than owls; but it is growing lighter now, and the moon will be up soon—I dare not risk it. If I were caught, would not the braves suspect something, and scour the country round? I know not what to do, yet something must be done at once.”

For some minutes the mother and daughter were silent, each striving to devise some method of escaping from their difficulty. At last Brighteyes spoke.

“I see a way, my child,” she said, with more than her wonted solemnity, even when discussing grave matters. “It is full of danger, yet you must take it, for I see that love has taken possession of my Moonlight’s heart, and—there is no withstanding love!”

She paused thoughtfully for a few moments, and then resumed—

“One of your father’s horses is hobbled down in the willow swamp. He put it there because the feeding is good, and has left no one to guard it because the place is not easily found, as you know, and thieves are not likely to think of it as a likely place. What you must do is to go as near our lines as you dare, and give the signal of the owl. Rushing River will understand it, and go away at once. He will not travel fast, for his heart will be heavy, and revenge to him is no longer sweet. That will give you time to cross the camp, creep past the sentinels, run down to the swamp, mount the horse, and go by the short cuts that you know of until you get in front of the party or overtake them. After that you must lead them to the block-house,” (Brighteyes never would consent to call it Tim’s Folly after she understood the meaning of the name), “and let the chief manage the rest. Go. You have not a moment to lose.”

She gave her daughter a final embrace, pushed her out of the tent and then sat down with the stoicism of a Red Indian to continue her work and listen intently either for the savage yells which would soon indicate the failure of the enterprise, or the continued silence which would gradually prove its success.

Chapter Fifteen.

Plot and Counterplot.

Moonlight sauntered through the camp carelessly at first with a blanket over her head after the manner of Indian women; but on approaching the outskirts, nearest to the spot where Rushing River was concealed, she discarded the blanket, sank into the grass like a genuine apparition, and disappeared. After creeping a short way, she ventured to give the three hoots of the owl.

An Indian brave, whose eyes were directed sentimentally to the stars, as though he were thinking of his lady-love—or buffalo steaks and marrow-bones—cocked his ears and lowered his gaze to earth, but as nothing more was to be seen or heard, he raised his eyes and thoughts again to love—or marrow-bones.

Very different, as may be supposed, was the effect of those three hoots upon Rushing River, as he lay on the grass in perfect silence, listening intently. On hearing the sounds, he sprang up as though an arrow had pierced him, and for a few moments the furious glare of a baffled savage gleamed in his dark eyes, as he laid a hand on his tomahawk; but the action was momentary, and in a short time the look passed away. It was succeeded by a calm aspect and demeanour, which seemed to indicate a man devoid of all feeling—good or bad.

“Skipping Rabbit,” he said, taking the hand of the child in his, and patting her head, “you are soon to be with your father—and with Moonlight. Rushing River goes back to his people. But the skipping one must not move from this tree till some of her people come to fetch her. There is danger in moving—perfect safety in sitting still.”

He moved as if about to go, but suddenly turned back and kissed the child. Then he muttered something in a low tone to his companions, and strode into the dark forest.

Umqua then advanced and gave the little one a tremendous hug. She was evidently struggling to suppress her feelings, for she could hardly speak as she said—

“I—I must go, dear child. Rushing River commands. Umqua has no choice but to obey.” She could say no more, but, after another prolonged hug, ran rapidly away.

Hitherto Eaglenose had stood motionless, looking on, with his arms folded. Poor boy! he was engaged in the hardest fight that he had yet experienced in his young life, for had he not for the first time found a congenial playmate—if we may venture to put it so—and was she not being torn from him just as he was beginning to understand her value? He had been trained, however, in a school where contempt of pain and suffering was inculcated more sternly even than among the Spartans of old.

“Skipping one,” he said, in a low, stern voice, “Eaglenose must leave you, for his chief commands, but he will laugh and sing no more.”

Even through her tears the skipping one could scarce forbear smiling at the tone in which this was uttered. Fortunately, her face could not be seen.

“O yes, you will laugh and sing again,” she said, “when your nose is better.”

“No, that cannot be,” returned the youth, who saw—indeed the child intended—nothing humorous in the remark. “No, I will never more laugh, or pull the string of the jumping-jack; but,” he added, with sudden animation, as a thought struck him, “Eaglenose will bring the jumping-jack to the camp of Bounding Bull, and put it in the hands of the skipping one, though his scalp should swing for it in the smoke of her father’s wigwam.”

He stooped, took the little face between his hands, and kissed it on both cheeks.

“Don’t—don’t leave me,” said the child, beginning to whimper.

“The chief commands, and Eaglenose must obey,” said the youth.

He gently unclasped the little hands, and silently glided into the forest.

Meanwhile Moonlight, utterly forgetting amid her anxieties the arrangement about Skipping Rabbit, sauntered back again through the camp till she reached the opposite extremity, which lay nearest to the willow swamp. The lines here were not guarded so carefully, because the nature of the ground rendered that precaution less needful. She therefore managed to pass the sentinels without much difficulty, and found, as she had been told, that one of her father’s horses was feeding near the willow swamp. Its two fore-legs were fastened together to prevent it straying, so that she caught it easily. Having provided herself with a strong supple twig, she cut the hobbles, vaulted lightly on the horse’s back, and went off at a smart gallop.

Moonlight did not quite agree with her mother as to the effect of disappointment on her lover. Although heaviness of heart might possibly induce him to ride slowly, she thought it much more likely that exasperation of spirit would urge him to ride with reckless fury. Therefore she plied her switch vigorously, and, the light increasing as she came to more open ground, she was able to speed swiftly over a wide stretch of country, with which she had been familiar from childhood, in the hope of intercepting the Blackfoot chief.

After a couple of hours’ hard riding, she came to a narrow pass through which she knew her lover must needs go if he wished to return home by the same path that had led him to the camp of his enemy. Jumping quickly from her steed, she went down on her knees and examined the track. A sigh of relief escaped her, for it was evident that no one had passed there that day towards the west. There was just a bare possibility, however, that the chief had taken another route homeward, but Moonlight tried hard to shut her eyes to that fact, and, being sanguine of temperament she succeeded.

Retiring into a thicket, she tied her horse to a tree, and then returned to watch the track.

While seated there on a fallen tree, thinking with much satisfaction of some of her recent adventures, she suddenly conceived a little plot, which was more consistent with the character of Skipping Rabbit than herself, and rose at once to put it into execution. With a knife which she carried in her girdle she cut and broke down the underwood at the side of the track, and tramped about so as to make a great many footmarks. Then, between that point and the thicket where her steed was concealed, she walked to and fro several times, cutting and breaking the branches as she went, so as to make a wide trail, and suggest the idea of a hand-to-hand conflict having taken place there. She was enabled to make these arrangements all the more easily that the moon was by that time shining brightly, and revealing objects almost as clearly as if it had been noonday.

Returning to the pass, she took off the kerchief with which she usually bound up her luxuriant brown hair, and placed it in the middle of the track, with her knife lying beside it. Having laid this wicked little trap to her satisfaction, she retired to a knoll close at hand, from which she could see her kerchief and knife on the one hand and her horse on the other. Then she concealed herself behind the trunk of a tree.

Now it chanced at that very time that four of the young braves of Bounding Bull’s camp, who had been sent out to hunt were returning home laden with venison, and they happened to cross the trail of Moonlight at a considerable distance from the pass just mentioned. Few things escape the notice of the red men of the west. On seeing the trail, they flung down their loads, examined the prints of the hoofs, rose up, glared at each other, and then ejaculated “Hough!” “Ho!” “Hi!” “Hee!” respectively. After giving vent to these humorous observations, they fixed the fresh meat in the forks of a tree, and, bending forward, followed up the trail like bloodhounds.

Thus it happened that at the very time when Moonlight was preparing her practical joke, or surprise, for Rushing River, these four young braves were looking on with inexpressible astonishment, and preparing something which would indeed be a surprise, but certainly no joke, to herself and to all who might chance to appear upon the scene. With mouths open and eyes stretched to the utmost, these Bounding Bullers—if we may so call them—lay concealed behind a neighbouring mound, and watched the watcher.

Their patience was not put to a severe test. Ere long a distant sound was heard. As it drew near it became distinctly like the pattering sound of galloping steeds. The heart of Moonlight beat high, as she drew closer into the shelter of the tree and clasped her hands. So did the hearts of the Bounding Bullers, as they drew closer under the brow of the mound, and fitted arrows to their bows.

Moonlight was right in her estimate of the effect of disappointment on her lover. He was evidently letting off superfluous steam through the safety-valve of a furious pace. Presently the cavalcade came sweeping into the pass, and went crashing through it—Rushing River, of course, in advance.

No cannon ball was ever stopped more effectually by mountain or precipice than was our Indian chief’s career by Moonlight’s kerchief and knife. He reined in with such force as to throw his steed on its haunches, like the equestrian statue of Peter the Great; but, unlike the statuesque animal, Rushing River’s horse came back to the position of all-fours, and stood transfixed and trembling. Vaulting off, the chief ran to the kerchief, and picked it up. Then he and Eaglenose examined it and the knife carefully, after which they turned to the track through the bushes. But here caution became necessary. There might be an ambuscade. With tomahawk in one hand, and scalping-knife in the other, the chief advanced slowly, step by step, gazing with quick intensity right and left as he went. Eaglenose followed, similarly armed, and even more intensely watchful. Umqua brought up the rear, unarmed, it is true, but with her ten fingers curved and claw-like, as if in readiness for the visage of any possible assailant, for the old woman was strong and pugnacious as well as kindly and intellectual.

All this was what some people call “nuts” to Moonlight. It was equally so to the Bounding Bullers, who, although mightily taken by surprise, were fully alive to the fact that here were two men and two women of their hated Blackfoot foes completely at their mercy. They had only to twang their bowstrings and the death-yells of the men would instantly resound in the forest. But burning curiosity as to what it could all mean, and an intense desire to see the play out, restrained them.

Soon Rushing River came upon the tied-up horse, and of course astonishment became intensified, for in all his varied experience of savage warfare he had never seen the evidence of a deadly skirmish terminate in a peacefully tied-up horse.

While he and his companions were still bending cautiously forward and peering around, the hoot of an owl was heard in the air. Eaglenose looked up with inquiring gaze, but his chief’s more practised ear at once understood it. He stood erect, stuck his weapons into his belt, and, with a look of great satisfaction, repeated the cry.

Moonlight responded, and at once ran down to him with a merry laugh. Of course there was a good deal of greeting and gratulation, for even Indians become demonstrative at times, and Moonlight had much of importance to tell.

But now an unforeseen difficulty came in the way of the bloody-minded Bullers. In the group which had been formed by the friendly evolutions of their foes, the women chanced to have placed themselves exactly between them and the men, thus rendering it difficult to shoot the latter without great risk of injury, if not death, to the former, for none of them felt sufficiently expert to emulate William Tell.

In these circumstances it occurred to them, being courageous braves, that four men were more than a match for two, and that therefore it would be safer and equally effective to make a united rush, and brain their enemies as they stood.

No sooner conceived than acted on. Dispensing with the usual yell on this occasion, they drew their knives and tomahawks, and made a tremendous rush. But they had reckoned too confidently, and suffered the inevitable disgrace of bafflement that awaits those who underrate the powers of women. So sudden was the onset that Rushing River had not time to draw and properly use his weapons, but old Umqua, with the speed of light, flung herself on hands and knees in front of the leading Buller, who plunged over her, and drove his head against a tree with such force that he remained there prone and motionless. Thus the chief was so far ready with his tomahawk that a hastily-delivered blow sent the flat of it down on the skull of the succeeding savage, and, in sporting language, dropped him. Thus only two opponents were left, of whom Eaglenose choked one and his chief felled the other.

In ordinary circumstances the victors would first have stabbed and then scalped their foes, but we have pointed out that the spirit of our chief had been changed. He warned Eaglenose not to kill. With his assistance and that of the women, he bound the conquered braves, and laid them in the middle of the track, so that no one could pass that way without seeing them. Then, addressing the one who seemed to be least stunned, he said—

“Rushing River is no longer at war with Bounding Bull. He will not slay and scalp his young men; but the young men have been hasty, and must suffer for it. When your friends find you and set you free, tell them that it was Rushing River who brought Skipping Rabbit to her father and left her near the camp.”

“If Rushing River is no longer at war with Bounding Bull,” returned the fallen savage sulkily, “how comes it that we have crossed the trail of a war-party of Blackfeet on their way to the block-house of the pale-face?”

This question roused both surprise and concern in the Blackfoot chief, but his features betrayed no emotion of any kind, and the only reply he condescended to make was a recommendation to the youth to remember what he had been told.

When, however, he had left them and got out of hearing, he halted and said—

“Moonlight has travelled in the region of her father’s fort since she was a little child. Will she guide me to it by the shortest road she knows!”

The girl of course readily agreed, and, in a few minutes, diverging from the pass, went off in another direction where the ground permitted of their advancing at a swift gallop.

We must turn now to another part of those western wilds, not far from the little hut or fortress named.

In a secluded dell between two spurs of the great mountain range, a council of war was held on the day of which we write by a party of Blackfoot Indians. This particular band had been absent on the war-path for a considerable time, and, having suffered defeat, were returning home rather crestfallen and without scalps. In passing near the fortress of Little Tim it occurred to them that they might yet retrieve their character by assaulting that stronghold and carrying off the booty that was there, with any scalps that chance might throw in their way.

That night the prairie chief, Little and Big Tim, Bounding Bull, and Softswan were sitting in a very disconsolate frame of mind beside their friend the pale-face preacher, whose sunken eye and hollow cheek told of his rapidly approaching end. Besides the prospect of the death of one whom they had known and loved so long, they were almost overwhelmed by despair at the loss of Moonlight and Skipping Rabbit, and their failure to overtake and rescue them, while the difficulty of raising a sufficient number of men at the time to render an attempt upon the Blackfoot stronghold possible with the faintest hope of success still further increased their despair.

Even the dying missionary was scarcely able to give them hope or encouragement, for by that time his voice was so weak that he could only utter a word or two at long intervals with difficulty.

“The clouds are very dark, my father,” said Whitewing.

“Very dark,” responded his friend, “but on the other side the sun is shining brightly.”

“Sometimes I find it rather hard to believe it,” muttered Little Tim.

Bounding Bull did not speak, but the stern look of his brow showed that he shared the feelings of the little hunter. Big Tim was also silent but he glanced at Softswan, and she, as if in reply to his thoughts, said, “He doeth all things well.”

“Ha!” exclaimed the missionary, with a quick glance of pleased surprise at the girl; “you have learned a good lesson, soft one. Treasure it. ‘He doeth all things well.’ We may think some of them dark, some even wrong, but—‘Shall not the Judge of all the earth do right?’”

Silence again ensued, for they were indeed very low, yet they had by no means reached the lowest point of human misery. While they were sitting there the Blackfoot band, under cover of the night, was softly creeping up the zigzag path. Great events often turn on small points. Rome was saved by the cackling of geese, and Tim’s Folly was lost by the slumbering of a goose! The goose in question was a youth, who was so inflated with the miraculous nature of the deeds which he intended to do that he did not give his mind sufficiently to those which at that time had to be done. He was placed as sentinel at the point of the little rampart furthest from the hut and nearest the forest. Instead of standing at his post and gazing steadily at the latter, he sat down and stared dreamily at the future. As might have been expected, the first Blackfoot that raised his head cautiously above the parapet saw the dreamer, tapped his cranium, and rendered him unconscious. Next moment a swarm of black creatures leaped over the wall, burst open the door of the hut and, before the men assembled there could grasp their weapons, overpowered them by sheer weight of numbers. All were immediately bound, except the woman and the dying man.

Thus it happened that when Rushing River arrived he found the place already in possession of his own men.

“I will go up alone,” he said, “to see what they are doing. If they have got the fire-water of the pale-faces they might shoot and kill Moonlight in their mad haste.”

“If Rushing River wishes to see his men, unseen by them, Moonlight can guide him by a secret way that is known only to her father and her father’s friends,” said the girl.

The chief paused, as if uncertain for a moment how to act. Then he said briefly, “Let Moonlight lead; Rushing River will follow.”

Without saying a word, the girl conducted her companion round by the river’s bed, and up by the secret path into the cavern at the rear of the little fortress. Here Eaglenose and Umqua were bidden to remain, while the girl raised the stone which covered the upper opening of the cave, and led the chief to the back of the hut whence issued the sound of voices, as if raised in anger and mutual recrimination.

Placing his eye to a chink in the back door, the Blackfoot chief witnessed a scene which filled him with concern and surprise.

Chapter Sixteen.

The Last.

The sight witnessed by Rushing River was one which might indeed have stirred the spirit of a mere stranger, much more that of one who was well acquainted with, and more or less interested in, all the actors in the scene.

Seated on the floor in a row, with their backs against the wall of the hut, and bound hand and foot were his old enemies Bounding Bull, Little Tim and his big son, and Whitewing, the prairie chief. In a corner lay a man with closed eyes, clasped hands, and a face, the ashy paleness of which indicated the near approach of death, if not its actual presence. In him he at once recognised the preacher, who, years ago, had directed his youthful mind to Jesus, the Saviour of mankind.

In front of these stood one of the warriors of his own nation, brandishing a tomahawk, and apparently threatening instant destruction to Little Tim, who, to do him justice, met the scowls and threats of the savage with an unflinching gaze. There was, however, no touch of pride or defiance in Tim’s look, but in the frowns of Bounding Bull and Big Tim we feel constrained to say that there were both pride and defiance. Several Blackfoot Indians stood beside the prisoners with knives in their hands, ready at a moment’s notice to execute their leader’s commands. Rushing River knew that leader to be one of the fiercest and most cruel of his tribe. Softswan was seated at the feet of the missionary, with her face bowed upon her knees. She was not bound, but a savage stood near to watch her. Whitewing’s old mother sat or rather crouched, close to her.

What had already passed Rushing River of course could only guess. Of what followed his ears and eyes took note.

“You look very brave just now,” said the Blackfoot leader, “but I will make you change your looks before I take your scalps to dry in the Blackfoot wigwams.”

“You had better take our lives at once,” said Big Tim fiercely, “else we will begin to think that we have had the mischance to fall into the hands of cowardly squaws.”

“Wah!” exclaimed Bounding Bull, with a nod of assent as he directed a look of scorn at his adversary.

“Tush, tush, boy,” said Little Tim to his son reprovingly, in an undertone. “It ill becomes a man with white blood in his veins, an’ who calls hisself a Christian, to go boastin’ like an or’nary savage. I thowt I had thrashed that out of ’ee when ye was a small boy.”

“Daddy,” remonstrated Big Tim, “is not Softswan sittin’ there at his marcy?”

“No, lad, no. We are at the marcy of the Lord, an’ His marcies are everlastin’.”

A faint smile flickered on the lips of the missionary at that moment, and, opening his eyes, he said solemnly—

“My son, hope thou in God, for thou shalt yet praise Him who is the health of thy countenance and thy God.”

The savage leader was for the moment startled by the words, uttered in his own language, by one whom he had thought to be dead, but recovering himself quickly, he said—

“Your trust will be vain, for you are now in my power, and I only spare you long enough to tell you that a Blackfoot brave has just met us, who brings us the good news of what our great Blackfoot chief did when he crept into the camp of Bounding Bull and carried away his little daughter from under his very nose, and also the daughter of Leetil Tim. Wah! Did I not say that I would make you change your looks?”

The savage was so far right that this reference to their great loss was a terrible stab, and produced considerable change of expression on the faces of the captives; but with a great effort Bounding Bull resumed his look of contempt and said that what was news to the Blackfoot leader was no news to him, and that not many days would pass before his warriors would pay a visit to the Blackfoot nation.

“That may be so,” retorted the savage, “but they shall not be led by Bounding Bull, for his last hour has come.”

So saying, the Blackfoot raised his tomahawk, and advanced to the chief, who drew himself up, and returned his glare of hate with a smile of contempt. Softswan sprang up with a shriek, and would have flung herself between them, but was held back by the savage who guarded her. At that moment the back door of the hut flew open, and Rushing River stood in the midst of them.

One word from him sent all the savages crestfallen out of the hut. He followed them. Returning alone a few seconds later, he passed the astonished captives, and, kneeling down by the couch of the missionary, said, in tones that were too low to be heard by the others—

“Does my white father remember Rushing River?”

The missionary opened his eyes with a puzzled look of inquiry, and gazed at the Indian’s face.

“Rushing River was but a boy,” continued the chief, “when the pale-face preacher came to the camp of the Blackfeet.”

A gleam of intelligence seemed to shoot from the eyes of the dying man.

“Yes, yes,” he said faintly; “I remember.”

“My father,” continued the chief, “spoke to Rushing River about his sins—about the Great Manitou; about Jesus, the Saviour of all men, and about the Great Spirit. Rushing River did not believe then—he could not—but the Great Spirit must have been whispering to him since, for he believes now.”

A look of quiet joy settled on the preacher’s face while the chief spoke.

Rousing himself with an effort, he said, as he turned a glance towards the captives—

“If you truly love Jesus, let these go free.”

The chief had to bend down to catch the feebly-spoken words. Rising instantly, he drew his knife, went to Little Tim, and cut the thongs that bound him. Then he cut those of Big Tim and Whitewing, and lastly those of Bounding Bull.

He had scarcely completed the latter act when his old enemy suddenly snatched the knife out of his hand, caught him by the right arm with a vice-like grasp, and pointed the weapon at his heart.

“Bounding Bull,” he said fiercely, “knows not the meaning of all this, but he knows that his child is in the Blackfoot camp, and that Rushing River is at his mercy.”

No effort did Rushing River make to avert the impending blow, but stood perfectly still, and, with a look of simple gravity, said—

“Skipping Rabbit is not in the Blackfoot camp. She is now in the camp of her kindred; and Moonlight,” he added, turning a glance on Little Tim, “is safe.”

“Your face looks truthful and your tone sounds honest, Rushing River,” said Little Tim, “but the Blackfeet are clever at deceiving, and the chief is our bitter foe. What surety have we that he is not telling lies? Rushing River knows well he has only to give a signal and his red reptiles will swarm in on us, all unarmed as we are, and take our scalps.”

“My young men are beyond hearing,” returned the chief. “I have sent them away. My breast is open to the knife in the hand of Bounding Bull. I am no longer an enemy, but a follower of Jesus, and the preacher has told us that He is the Prince of peace.”

At this the prairie chief stepped forward.

“Friends,” he said, “my heart is glad this day, for I am sure that you may trust the word of Rushing River. Something of his change of mind I have heard of in the course of my wanderings, but I had not been sure that there was truth in the report till now.”

Still Bounding Bull maintained his grasp on his old foe, and held the knife in readiness, so that if there should be any sudden attempt at rescue, he, at least, should not escape.

The two Tims, Little and Big, although moved by Whitewing’s remarks, were clearly not quite convinced. They seemed uncertain how to view the matter, and were still hesitating when Rushing River again spoke.

“The pale-faces,” he said, “do not seem to be so trustful as the red men. I have put myself in your power, yet you do not believe me. Why, then, does not Bounding Bull strike his ancient enemy? His great opportunity has come. His squaws are waiting in his wigwam fur the scalp of Rushing River.”

For the first time in his life Bounding Bull was rendered incapable of action. In all his extensive experience of Indian warfare he had never been placed in such a predicament. If he had been an out-and-out heathen, he would have known what to do, and would have done it at once—he would have gratified revenge. Had Rushing River been an out-and-out heathen, he never would have given him the chance he now possessed of wreaking his vengeance. Then the thought of Skipping Rabbit filled his heart with tender anxiety, and confused his judgment still more. It was very perplexing! But Rushing River brought the perplexity to an end by saying—

“If you wish for further proof that Rushing River tells no lies, Moonlight will give it. Let her come forward.”

Little Tim was beginning to think that the Blackfoot chief was, as he expressed it, somewhat “off his head,” when Moonlight ran into the room, and seized him with her wonted energy round the neck.

“Yes, father, it’s all true. I am safe, as you see, and happy.”

“An’ Skippin’ Rabbit?” said Little Tim.

“Is in her own wigwam by this time.”

As she spoke in the Indian tongue, Bounding Bull understood her. He at once let go his hold of his old foe. Returning the knife to him, he grasped his right hand after the manner of the pale-faces, and said—

“My brother.”

By this time Eaglenose and Umqua had appeared upon the scene, and added their testimony to that of their chief. While they were still engaged in explanation, a low wail from Softswan turned their attention to the corner where the preacher lay.

The prairie chief glided to the side of his old friend, and kneeled by the couch. The others clustered round in solemn silence. They guessed too surely what had drawn forth the girl’s wail. The old man lay, with his thin white locks scattered on the pillow, his hands clasped as if in prayer, and with eyes nearly closed, but the lips moved not. His days of prayer and striving on this earth were over, and his eternity of praise and glory had begun.

We might here, appropriately enough, close our record of the prairie chief and the preacher, but we feel loath to leave them without a few parting words, for the good work which the preacher had begun was carried on, not only by Whitewing, but, as far as example went—and that was a long way—by Little and Big Tim and their respective wives, and Bounding Bull, as well as by many of their kindred.

After the preacher’s remains had been laid in the grave at the foot of a pine-tree in that far western wilderness, Little Tim, with his son and Indian friends, followed Bounding Bull to his camp, where one of the very first persons they saw was Skipping Rabbit engaged in violently agitating the limbs of her jumping-jack, to the ineffable delight of Eaglenose.

Soon after, diplomatic negotiations were entered into between the tribe of Bounding Bull and the Blackfeet, resulting in a treaty of peace which bid fair to be a lasting treaty, at least as lasting as most other human treaties ever are. The pipe of peace was solemnly smoked, the war-hatchet was not less solemnly buried, and a feast on a gigantic scale, was much more solemnly held.

Another result was that Rushing River and Moonlight were married—not after the simple Indian fashion, but with the assistance of a real pale-faced missionary, who was brought from a distance of nearly three hundred miles, from a pale-face pioneer settlement, for the express purpose of tying that knot along with several other knots of the same kind, and doing what in him lay to establish and strengthen the good work which the old preacher had begun.

Years passed away, and a fur-trading establishment was sent into those western regions, which gradually attracted round it a group of Indians, who not only bartered skins with the traders, but kept them constantly supplied with meat. Among the most active hunters of this group were our friends Little and Big Tim, Bounding Bull, Rushing River, and Eaglenose. Sometimes these hunted singly, sometimes in couples, not unfrequently all together, for they were a very sociable band.

Whitewing was not one of them, for he devoted himself exclusively to wandering about the mountains and prairies, telling men and women and children of the Saviour of sinners, of righteousness and judgment to come—a self-appointed Red Indian missionary, deriving his authority from the Word of God.

But the prairie chief did not forsake his old and well-tried friends. He left a hostage in the little community, a sort of living lodestone, which was sure to bring him back again and again, however far his wanderings might extend. This was a wrinkled specimen of female humanity, which seemed to be absolutely incapable of extinction because of the superhuman warmth of its heart and the intrinsic hilarity of its feelings! Whoever chanced to inquire for Whitewing, whether in summer or in winter, in autumn or in spring, was sure to receive some such answer as the following: “Nobody knows where he is. He wanders here and there and everywhere; but he’ll not be absent long, for he always turns up, sooner or later, to see his old mother.”

Yes, that mummified old mother, that “dear old one,” was a sort of planet round which Brighteyes and Softswan and Moonlight and Skipping Rabbit and others, with a host of little Brighteyes and little Softswans, revolved, forming a grand constellation, which the men of the settlement gazed at and followed as the mariners of old followed the Pole star.

The mention of Skipping Rabbit reminds us that we have something more to say about her.

It so happened that the fur trader who had been sent to establish a post in that region was a good man, and, strange to say, entertained a strong belief that the soul of man was of far greater importance than his body. On the strength of this opinion he gathered the Indians of the neighbourhood around him, and told them that, as he wished to read to them out of the Word of the Great Manitou, he would hold a class twice a week in the fur-store; and, further, that if any of them wished to learn English, and read the Bible of the pale-faces for themselves, he was quite willing to teach them.

Well, the very first pupil that came to the English class was Skipping Rabbit, and, curiously enough, the very second was Eaglenose.

Now it must be remembered that we have said that years had passed away. Skipping Rabbit was no longer a spoiled, little laughing child, but a tall, graceful, modest girl, just bursting into womanhood. She was still as fond as ever of the jumping-jack, but she slily worked its galvanic limbs for the benefit of little children, not for her own—O dear no! Eaglenose had also grown during these years into a stalwart man, and his chin and lower jaws having developed considerably, his nose was relatively much reduced in appearance. About the same time Brighteyes and Softswan, naturally desiring to become more interesting to their husbands, also joined this class, and they were speedily followed by Moonlight and Bounding Bull. Rushing River also looked in, now and then, in a patronising sort of way, but Whitewing resolutely refused to be troubled with anything when in camp save his mother and his mother-tongue.

It will not therefore surprise the reader to be told that Eaglenose and the skipping one, being thus engaged in a common pursuit, were naturally, we may even say unavoidably, thrown a good deal together; and as their philological acquirements extended, they were wont at times to air their English on each other. The lone woods formed a convenient scene for their intercourse.

“Kom vis me,” said Eaglenose to Skipping Rabbit one day after school.

“Var you goes?” asked the girl shyly—yet we might almost say twinklingly.

“Don’ know. Nowhars. Everywhars. Anywhars.”

“Kim ’long, den.”

“Skipping one,” said Eaglenose—of course in his own tongue, though he continued the sentence in English—“de lunguish of de pale-fass am diffikilt.”

“Yes—’most too diffikilt for larn.”

“Bot Softswan larn him easy.”

“Bot Softswan have one pale-fass hubsind,” replied the girl, breaking into one of her old merry laughs at the trouble they both experienced in communicating through such a “lunguish.”

“Would the skipping one,” said Eaglenose, with a sharp look, “like to have a hubsind?”

The skipping one looked at her companion with a startled air, blushed, cast down her eyes, and said nothing.

“Come, sit down here,” said the Indian, suddenly reverting to his native tongue, as he pointed to the trunk of a fallen tree.

The girl suffered herself to be led to the tree, and sat down beside the youth, who retained one of her hands.

“Does not the skipping one know,” he said earnestly, “that for many moons she has been as the sun in the sky to Eaglenose? When she was a little one, and played with the jumping-jack, her eyes seemed to Eaglenose like the stars, and her voice sounded like the rippling water after it has reached the flowering prairie. When the skipping one laughed, did not the heart of Eaglenose jump? and when she let drops fall from her stars, was not his heart heavy? Afterwards, when she began to think and talk of the Great Manitou, did not the Indian’s ears tingle and his heart burn? It is true,” continued the youth, with a touch of pathos in his tone which went straight to the girl’s heart, “it is true that Eaglenose dwells far below the skipping one. He creeps like the beetle on the ground. She flies like the wild swan among the clouds. Eaglenose is not worthy of her; but love is a strong horse that scorns to stop at difficulties. Skipping Rabbit and Eaglenose have the same thoughts, the same God, the same hopes and desires. They have one heart—why should they not have one wigwam?”

Reader, we do not ask you to accept the above declaration as a specimen of Indian love-making. You are probably aware that the red men have a very different and much more prosaic manner of doing things than this. But we have already said that Eaglenose was an eccentric youth; moreover, he was a Christian, and we do not feel bound to account for the conduct or sentiments of people who act under the combined influence of Christianity and eccentricity.

When Skipping Rabbit heard the above declaration, she did indeed blush a little. She could not help that, we suppose, but she did not look awkward, or wait for the gentleman to say more, but quietly putting her arm round his neck, she raised her little head and kissed that part of his manly face which lay immediately underneath his eagle nose!

Of course he was not shabby enough to retain the kiss. He understood it to be a loan, and returned it immediately with interest—but—surely we have said enough for an intelligent reader!

Not many days after that these two were married in the fur-store of the traders. A grand feast and a great dance followed, as a matter of course. It is noteworthy that there was no drink stronger than tea at that merry-making, yet the revellers were wonderfully uproarious and very happy, and it was universally admitted that, exclusive of course of the bride and bridegroom, the happiest couple there were a wrinkled old woman of fabulous age and her amiable son—the Prairie Chief.

The End.

Chapter One.

A Tale of the Red River Flood.

Opens the Ball.

If ever there was a man who possessed a gem in the form of a daughter of nineteen, that man was Samuel Ravenshaw; and if ever there was a girl who owned a bluff, jovial, fiery, hot-tempered, irascible old father, that girl was Elsie Ravenshaw.

Although a gem, Elsie was exceedingly imperfect. Had she been the reverse she would not have been worth writing about.

Old Ravenshaw, as his familiars styled him, was a settler, if we may use such a term in reference to one who was, perhaps, among the most unsettled of men. He had settled with his family on the banks of the Red River. The colony on that river is now one of the frontier towns of Canada. At the time we write of, it was a mere oasis in the desert, not even an offshoot of civilisation, for it owed its existence chiefly to the fact that retiring servants of the Hudson’s Bay Fur Company congregated there to spend the evening of life, far beyond the Canadian boundary, in the heart of that great wilderness where they had spent their working days, and on the borders of that grand prairie where the red man and the buffalo roamed at will, and the conventionalities of civilised life troubled them not.

To this haven of rest Samuel Ravenshaw had retired, after spending an active life in the service of the fur-traders, somewhat stiffened in the joints by age and a rough career, and a good deal soured in disposition because of promotion having, as he thought, been too long deferred.

Besides Elsie, old Ravenshaw possessed some other gems of inferior lustre. His wife Maggie, a stout, well-favoured lady, with an insufficient intellect and unbounded good humour, was of considerable intrinsic value, but highly unpolished. His second daughter, Cora, was a thin slip of sixteen years, like her mother in some respects—pretty, attractive, and disposed to take life easily. His eldest son, Victor, a well-grown lad of fourteen, was a rough diamond, if a diamond at all, with a soul centred on sport. His second son, Anthony, between five and six, was large and robust, like his father. Not having been polished at that time, it is hard to say what sort of gem Tony was. When engaged in mischief—his besetting foible—his eyes shone like carbuncles with unholy light. He was the plague of the family. Of course, therefore, he was the beloved of his parents.

Such were the chief inmates of Willow Creek, as old Ravenshaw styled his house and property.

It was midwinter. The owner of Willow Creek stood at his parlour window, smoking and gazing. There was not much to look at, for snow had overwhelmed and buried the landscape, fringed every twig of the willows, and obliterated the frozen river.

Elsie was seated by the stove, embroidering a pair of moccasins.

“Victor is bringing down some of the lads to shoot to-day, father,” she said, casting a furtive glance at her sire.

“Humph! that boy does nothing but shoot,” growled the old man, who was a giant in body if not in spirit. “Who all is he bringing?”

“There’s John Flett, and David Mowat, and Sam Hayes, and Herr Winklemann, and Ian Macdonald, and Louis Lambert—all the best shots, I suppose,” said Elsie, bending over her work.

“The best shots!” cried Mr Ravenshaw, turning from the window with a sarcastic laugh. “Louis Lambert, indeed, and Winklemann are crack shots, and John Flett is not bad, but the others are poor hands. Mowat can only shoot straight with a crooked gun, and as for that half-cracked schoolmaster, Jan Macdonald, he would miss a barn door at fifty paces unless he were to shut his eyes and fire at random, in which case he’d have some chance—”

“Here they is; the shooters is comin’. Hooray!” shouted Master Anthony Ravenshaw, as he burst into the room with a scalping-knife in one hand and a wooden gun in the other. “An’ I’s goin’ to shoot too, daddy!”

“So you are, Tony, my boy!” cried the old trader, catching up the pride of his heart in his strong arms and tossing him towards the ceiling. “You shall shoot before long with a real gun.”

Tony knocked the pipe out of his father’s mouth, and was proceeding to operate on his half-bald head with the scalping-knife, when Cora, who entered the room at the moment, sprang forward and wrenched the weapon from his grasp.

“We’ll give them dinner after the shooting is over, shan’t we, father?” asked Cora.

“Of course, my dear, of course,” replied the hospitable old gentleman, giving the pride of his heart a sounding kiss as he put him down. “Set your mother to work on a pie, and get Miss Trim to help you with a lot of those cakes you make so famously.”

As he spoke there was a sudden clattering in the porch. The young men were taking off their snow-shoes and stamping the snow from off their leggings and moccasined feet.

“Here we are, father!” cried a bright, sturdy youth, as he ushered in his followers. “Of course Elsie has prepared you for our sudden invasion. The fact is that we got up the match on the spur of the moment, because I found that Ian had a holiday.”

“No explanation required, Victor. Glad to see you all, boys. Sit down,” said Mr Ravenshaw, shaking hands all round.

The youths who were thus heartily welcomed presented a fine manly appearance. They were clad in the capotes, leggings, fur caps, moccasins, and fingerless mittens usually worn by the men of the settlement in winter.

That tall handsome fellow, with the curly black hair and flashing eyes, who bears himself so confidently as he greets the sisters, is Louis Lambert. The thickset youth behind him, with the shock of flaxen hair and imperceptible moustache, is Herr Winklemann, a German farmer’s son, and a famed buffalo-hunter. The ungainly man, of twenty-four apparently—or thereabouts—with the plain but kindly face, and the frame nearly as strong as that of the host himself, is Ian Macdonald. In appearance he is a rugged backwoodsman. In reality he is the schoolmaster of that part of the widely-scattered colony.

The invitation to sit down was not accepted. Daylight was short-lived in those regions at that season of the year. They sallied forth to the work in hand.

“You’ve had the target put up, Cora?” asked Victor, as he went out.

“Yes, in the old place.”

“Where is Tony?”

“I don’t know,” said Cora, looking round. “He was here just now, trying to scalp father.”

“You’ll find him at the target before you, no doubt,” said Elsie, putting away her moccasins as she rose to aid in the household preparations.

The target was placed against the bank of the river, so that the bullets might find a safe retreat. The competitors stood at about a hundred yards’ distance in front of it. The weapons used were single-barrelled smooth-bores, with flint locks. Percussion locks had not at that time come into fashion, and long ranges had not yet been dreamed of.

“Come, open the ball, Lambert,” said Victor.

The handsome youth at once stepped forward, and old Mr Ravenshaw watched him with an approving smile as he took aim. Puff! went the powder in the pan, but no sound followed save the peal of laughter with which the miss-fire was greeted. The touch-hole was pricked, and next time the ball sped to its mark. It hit the target two inches above the bull’s-eye.

The “well done” with which the shot was hailed was cut short by an appalling yell, and little Tony was seen to tumble from behind the target. Rolling head over heels, he curled himself round in agony, sprang up with a spasmodic bound, dropped upon his haunches, turned over a complete somersault, fell on his back with a fearful shriek, and lay dead upon the snow!

The whole party rushed in consternation towards the boy, but before they had reached him he leaped up and burst into a fit of gleeful laughter, which ended in a cheer and a savage war-whoop as he scampered up the track which led to the house, and disappeared over the brow of the river’s bank.

“The imp was joking!” exclaimed Mr Ravenshaw, as he stopped and wiped the cold perspiration from his brow.

At that moment a Red Indian appeared on the scene, in his blanket robe, paint, and feathers. Attracted by the shot, he had come to look on. Now, the old fur-trader’s nerves had received a tremendous shock, and the practical jest which the pride of his heart had perpetrated had roused the irascibility of his nature, so that an explosion became unavoidable. In these circumstances the arrival of the Indian seemed opportune, for the old gentleman knew that this particular savage was a chief, and had visited the colony for the purpose of making inquiries into the new religion reported to be taught by certain white men in black garments; and Mr Ravenshaw, besides having very little regard for missionaries, had a very strong contempt for those Indians who became their disciples. He therefore relieved himself on the red man.

“What do you want here, Petawanaquat?” he demanded sternly, in the language of the Indian.

“The Little Wolf,” replied the Indian, referring to himself, for such was the interpretation of his name, “wishes to see how his white brothers shoot.”

“Let the Little Wolf put his tail between his legs and be gone,” cried the angry old man. “He is not wanted here. Come, be off!”

The chief looked straight in the eyes of the trader with a dark scowl, then, turning slowly on his heel, stalked solemnly away.

There was an irrepressible laugh at this episode as the group of marksmen returned to their former position. Mr Ravenshaw, however, soon left them and returned home. Here he found Miss Trim in a state of considerable agitation; she had just encountered the redskin! Miss Trim was a poor relation of Mrs Ravenshaw. She had been invited by her brother-in-law to leave England and come to Red River to act as governess to Tony and assistant-companion in the family. She had arrived that autumn in company with a piano, on which she was expected to exercise Elsie and Cora. Petawanaquat, being the first “really wild and painted savage” she had seen, made a deep impression on her.

“Oh, Mr Ravenshaw, I have seen such an object in the garden!” she exclaimed, in a gushing torrent—she always spoke in a torrent—“and it was all I could do to stagger into the house without fainting. Such eyes! with black cheeks and a red nose—at least, it looked red, but I was in such a state that I couldn’t make sure whether it was the nose or the chin, and my shoe came off as I ran away, having broken the tie in the morning. And such a yell as it gave!—the creature, not the shoe-tie—but I escaped, and peeped out of the upper window—the one in the gable, you know, with the green blind, where you can see the garden from end to end, and I found it had disappeared, though I can’t understand—”

“Tut, tut, Miss Trim; how you do gallop! Was it a beast?” asked the old trader.

“A beast? No; a man—a savage.”

“Oh! I understand; it was that scoundrel Petawanaquat,” said Sam Ravenshaw, with a laugh; “he’s Little Wolf by name, and a big thief by practice, no doubt. You needn’t fear him, however, he’s not so dangerous as he looks, and I gave him a rebuff just now that will make him shy of Willow Creek.—Ha, Tony, you rascal! Come here, sir.”

Tony came at once, with such a gleeful visage that his father’s intended chastisement for the recent practical joke ended in a parental caress.

Bitterly did Ian Macdonald repent of his agreeing to join the shooting party that day. Owing to some defect in his vision or nervous system, he was a remarkably bad shot, though in everything else he was an expert and stalwart backwoodsman, as well as a good scholar. But when his friend Victor invited him he could not refuse, because it offered him an opportunity of spending some time in the society of Elsie Ravenshaw, and that to him was heaven upon earth! Little of her society, however, did the unfortunate teacher enjoy that day, for handsome Louis Lambert engrossed not only Elsie, but the mother and father as well. He had beaten all his competitors at the target, but, to do him justice, did not boast of that; neither did he make any reference to the fact that Ian had twice missed the target, though he did not spare the bad shooting of some of the other youths; this, no doubt, because he and Ian had been fast friends for many years. Jealousy—at least on the part of Ian—now seemed about to interfere with the old friendship. Moreover, Lambert had brought to Mrs Ravenshaw a gift of a collar made of the claws of a grizzly bear, shot by himself in the Rocky Mountains. Elsie admired the collar with genuine interest, and said she would give anything to possess one like it. Cora, with the coquettishness of sixteen, said, with a laugh and a blush, that she would not accept such a ridiculous thing if it were offered to her. Ian Macdonald groaned in spirit, for, with his incapacity to shoot, he knew that Elsie’s wish could never be gratified by him.

Seeing that Lambert was bent on keeping Elsie as much as possible to himself, Ian devoted himself to Cora, but Cora was cross. Feeling it up-hill work, he soon rose to say good-bye, and left Willow Creek before the others.

“Don’t look so crestfallen, man,” said old Mr Ravenshaw heartily, as he shook hands; “it’s nobler work to teach the young idea how to shoot than to be able to hit a bull’s-eye.”

“True, but he who cannot hit a bull’s-eye,” returned Ian, with a smile, “can scarcely be expected to touch a maiden’s—I mean a grizzly’s heart.”

A shout of laughter from Lambert greeted him as he left the house. His way home lay over the frozen bed of the river. Victor accompanied him part of the way.

“That was a strange slip for an unromantic fellow like you to make about a maiden’s heart, Ian,” said Victor, looking up at the rugged countenance of his friend.

“‘Unromantic,’ eh? Well, I suppose I am.”

“Of course you are,” said Victor, with the overweening assurance of youth. “Come, let’s sit down here for a few minutes and discuss the point.”

He sat down on a snowdrift; Ian kicked off his snowshoes and leaned against the bank.

“You’re the most grave, sensible, good-natured, matter-of-fact, unsentimental, unselfish fellow I ever met with,” resumed Victor. “If you were a romantic goose I wouldn’t like you half as much as I do.”

“Men are sometimes romantic without being geese,” returned Ian; “but I have not time to discuss that point just now. Tell me, for I am anxious about it, have you spoken to your father about selling the field with the knoll to my father?”

“Yes, and he flatly refused to sell it. I’m really sorry, Ian, but you know how determined my father is. Once he says a thing he sticks to it, even though it should be to his own disadvantage.”

“That’s bad, Victor, very bad. It will raise ill-blood between them, and estrange our families. You think there’s no chance?”

“None whatever.”

“One more word before we part. Do you know much about that redskin whom your father called Petawanaquat?”

“Not much, except that he has come from a considerable distance to make inquiries, he says, about the Christian religion. He has been prowling about our place for a few days, and father, who has no great love to missionaries, and has strong suspicions of converted Indians, has twice treated him rather roughly.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, Victor. These fellows are sometimes very revengeful. If you’ll be advised by me you’ll keep a sharp eye upon Petawanaquat. There, I’ll say no more. You know I’m not an alarmist. Good-bye.”

“Good-bye, old boy.”

“I say.”

“Well?”

“It was an awfully bad shot, that last of mine.”

“It was,” admitted Victor, with a laugh, “to miss a thing as big as a door at a hundred yards is only so-so.”

“No chance of improvement, I fear,” said Ian, with a sigh.

“Oh, don’t say that,” replied Victor. “Practice, perseverance, and patience, you know, overcome every—”

“Yes, yes. I know that well. Good-bye.” They shook hands again, and were soon striding over the snow to their respective homes.

Chapter Two.

Conflicting Elements and a Catastrophe.

Hoary winter passed away, and genial spring returned to rejoice the land.

In a particularly amiable frame of mind, old Ravenshaw went out one morning to smoke.

Everything had gone well that morning. Breakfast had been punctual; appetite good; rheumatics in abeyance; the girls lively; and Miss Trim less of a torrent than was her wont. Mrs Ravenshaw’s intellect had more than once almost risen to the ordinary human average, and Master Tony had been better—perhaps it were more correct to say less wicked—than usual.

Old Ravenshaw was what his friends styled a heavy smoker, so was his kitchen chimney; but then the chimney had the excuse of being compelled to smoke, whereas its owner’s insane act was voluntary.

Be not afraid, reader. We have no intention of entering into an argument with smokers. They are a pigheaded generation. We address those who have not yet become monomaniacs as regards tobacco.

In order to the full enjoyment of his pipe, the old gentleman had built on a knoll what Elsie styled a summer-house. Regardless of seasons, however—as he was of most things—her father used this temple at all seasons of the year, and preferred to call it a smoking box. Now, as this smoking-box, with its surroundings, had much to do with the issues of our story, we bring it under particular notice. It resembled a large sentry-box, and the willow-clad knoll on which it stood was close to the river. Being elevated slightly above the rest of the country, a somewhat extended view of river and plain was obtainable therefrom. Samuel Ravenshaw loved to contemplate this view through the medium of smoke. Thus seen it was hazy and in accord with his own idea of most things. The sun shone warmly into the smoking-box. It sparkled on the myriad dew-drops that hung on the willows, and swept in golden glory over the rolling plains. The old gentleman sat down, puffed, and was happy. The narcotic influence operated, and the irascible demon in his breast fell sound asleep.

How often do bright sunshine and profound calm precede a storm? Is not that a truism—if not a newism. The old gentleman had barely reduced himself to quiescence, and the demon had only just begun to snore, when a cloud, no bigger than a man’s body, arose on the horizon. Gradually it drew near, partially obscured the sky, and overshadowed the smoking-box in the form of Angus Macdonald, the father of Ian. (The demon ceased snoring!)

“Coot tay to you, sir,” said Angus. “You will pe enchoyin’ your pipe this fine mornin’.”

“Yes, Angus, I am,” replied Ravenshaw, with as much urbanity as he could assume—and it wasn’t much, for he suspected the cause of his neighbour’s visit—“you’d better sit down and light your own.”

Angus accepted the invitation, and proceeded to load with much deliberation.

Now it must be known that the Highlander loved the view from that knoll as much as did his neighbour. It reminded him of the old country where he had been born and bred on a hill-top. He coveted that willow knoll intensely, desiring to build a house on it, and, being prosperous, was willing to give for it more than its value, for his present dwelling lay somewhat awkwardly in the creek, a little higher up the river, so that the willows on the knoll interfered vexatiously with his view.

“It’s a peautiful spote this!” observed Angus, after a few preliminary puffs.

“It is,” answered the old trader curtly, (and the demon awoke).

Angus made no rejoinder for a few minutes, but continued to puff great clouds with considerable emphasis from his compressed lips. Mr Ravenshaw returned the fire with interest.

“It’ll no pe for sellin’ the knowl, ye are?” said Angus.

The demon was fairly roused now.

“No, Angus Macdonald,” said the trader sternly, “I’ll not sell it. I’ve told you already more than once, and it is worse than ill-judged, it is impertinent of you to come bothering me to part with my land.”

“Ho! inteed!” exclaimed Angus, rising in wrath, and cramming his pipe into his vest pocket; “it is herself that will pe pothering you no more spout your dirty land, Samyool Ruvnshaw.”

He strode from the spot with a look of ineffable scorn, and the air of an offended chieftain.

Old Ravenshaw tried to resume his tranquillity, but the demon was self-willed, and tobacco had lost its power. There were more clouds, however, in store for him that morning.

It so fell out that Ian Macdonald, unable to bear the suspense of uncertainty any longer, and all ignorant of his father’s visit to the old trader, had made up his mind to bring things to a point that very morning by formally asking permission to pay his addresses to Elsie Ravenshaw. Knowing the old man’s habits, he went straight to the smoking-box. If he had set out half an hour sooner he would have met his own father and saved himself trouble. As it was, they missed each other.

Mr Ravenshaw had only begun to feel slightly calmed when Ian presented himself, with a humble, propitiatory air. The old man hated humility in every form, even its name. He regarded it as a synonym for hypocrisy. The demon actually leaped within him, but the old man had a powerful will. He seized his spiritual enemy, throttled, and held him down.

“Good-morning, Mr Ravenshaw.”

“Good-morning.”

Nothing more was said by either for a few minutes. Ian was embarrassed. He had got up a set speech and forgotten it. He was shy, but he was also resolute. Drawing himself up suddenly he said, with an earnest, honest look, “Mr Ravenshaw, I love your daughter,” (there was only one daughter in Ian’s estimation!) “and I come to ask leave to woo her. If, by earnest devotion and—”

“Ian Macdonald,” interrupted the old gentleman, in a voice of suppressed anger, “you may save yourself and me the trouble of more talk on this subject. Your father has just been here wanting me to sell him this knoll. Now, look here,” (he rose, and stepping out of the smoking-box, pointed to Angus Macdonald’s house, which was full in view), “you see that house, young man. Mark what I say. I will sell this knoll to your father, and give my daughter to you, when you take that house, and with your own unaided hands place it on the top of this knoll!”

This was meant by the old trader as a bitterly facetious way of indicating the absolute hopelessness of the case. Ian accepted it in that light, for he was well aware that Samuel Ravenshaw’s firmness—or obstinacy—was insurmountable. He did not despair, however; true love never does that; but he felt tremendously cast down. Without a word or look of reproach he turned and walked slowly away.

Once again the old trader sought comfort in his pipe, but found none. Besides feeling extremely indignant; with the Macdonalds, father and son, for what he styled their presumption, he was now conscious of having treated both with undue severity. Dashing his pipe on the ground, he thrust both hands into his coat pockets, and returned towards his dwelling. On the way he unfortunately met Petawanaquat in one of his fields, leaning composedly over a gate. That intelligent redskin had not yet finished his inquiries at the missionary village. He had appeared more than once at Willow Creek, and seemed to hover round the old trader like a moth round a candle. The man was innocent of any evil intent on this occasion, but Ravenshaw would have quarrelled with an angel just then.

“What are you doing here? Be off!” he said sternly.

The Indian either did not or would not understand, and the old man, seizing him by the arm, thrust him violently through the gateway.

All the hot blood of the Petawanaquats, from Adam downwards, seemed to leap through the red man’s veins and concentrate in his right hand as he turned fiercely on the trader and drew his scalping-knife. Quick as lightning Ravenshaw hit out with his fist, and knocked the Indian down, then, turning on his heel, walked away.

For a moment Petawanaquat lay stunned. Recovering, he arose, and his dark glittering eyes told of a purpose of deadly revenge. The trader was still in sight. The Indian picked up his gun, glided swiftly behind a tree, and took a long steady aim. Just then little Tony rushed from the house and leaped into his father’s arms, where he received an unusually warm embrace, for the trader wanted some sort of relief for his feelings. The Indian’s finger was pressing the trigger at the moment. Death was very near Samuel Ravenshaw just then, but the finger relaxed and the gun was lowered. A more terrible form of revenge had flashed into the mind of the savage. Gliding quietly from his position, he entered the willows and disappeared.

Meanwhile Angus Macdonald returned in no very amiable mood to his own house. It was a small house; had been built by its owner, and was, like most of the other houses of the colony at that time, a good solid log structure—a sort of Noah’s ark on a small scale. It stood on a flat piece of mother earth, without any special foundation except a massive oblong wooden frame to which all the superstructure was attached. You might, if strong enough, have grasped it by the ridge-pole and carried it bodily away without tearing up any foundation or deranging the fabric. It was kept in order and managed by an elderly sister of Angus, named Martha, for Angus was a widower. His only son Ian dwelt in the school-house, a mile farther up the river.

Martha’s strong point was fowls. We are too ignorant of that subject to go into particulars. We can only say that she was an adept at fowls. Martha’s chickens were always tender and fat, and their eggs were the largest and freshest in Red River. We introduce these fowls solely because one of them acted a very important part on a very critical occasion. As well might the geese who saved Rome be omitted from history as Martha Macdonald’s Cochin-China hen which—well, we won’t say what just yet. That hen was frightfully plain. Why Cochin-China hens should have such long legs and wear feather trousers are questions which naturalists must settle among themselves. Being a humorous man, Angus had named her Beauty. She was a very cross hen, and her feather unmentionables fitted badly. Moreover, she was utterly useless, and never laid an egg, which was fortunate, for if she had laid one it would have been an egregious monstrosity. She was obviously tough. If they had slain her for the table they would have had to cut her up with a hand-saw, or grind her into meal to fit her for use. Besides all this, Beauty was a widow. When her husband died—probably of disgust—she took to crowing on her own account. She received Angus with a crow when he entered the house after his interview with Ravenshaw, and appeared to listen intently as he poured his sorrows into his sister’s ear.

“It’s up at the knowl I’ve peen, Martha, an’ I left Samyool Ruvnshaw there in a fery pad temper—fery pad inteed. He’ll come oot of it, whatever.”

“An’ he’ll not be for sellin’ you the knowl?” asked Martha.

“No, he won’t,” replied Angus.

From this point they went off into a very long-winded discussion of the pros and cons of the case, which, however, we will spare the reader, and return to Willow Creek. The bed of the creek, near to the point where it joined the Red River, was a favourite resort of Master Tony. Thither he went that same afternoon to play.

Having observed the child’s habits, Petawanaquat paddled his canoe to the same point and hid it and himself among the overhanging bushes of the creek. In the course of his gambols Tony approached the place. One stroke of the paddle sent the light birch-bark canoe like an arrow across the stream. The Indian sprang on shore. Tony gave him one scared look and was about to utter an appalling yell, when a red hand covered his mouth and another red hand half throttled him.

Petawanaquat bundled the poor child into the bottom of his canoe, wrapped a leather coat round his head, spread a buffalo robe over him, gave him a smart rap on the head to keep him quiet, and paddled easily out into the stream. Steadily, but not too swiftly, he went down the river, down the rapids, and past the Indian settlement without attracting particular notice. Once the buffalo robe moved; the paddle descended on it with a sounding whack, and it did not move again. Before night closed, the Indian was paddling over the broad bosom of Lake Winnipeg.

Of course, Tony was soon missed; his haunts were well known; Miss Trim traced his footprints to the place where he had been seized, saw evidences of the struggle, the nature of which she correctly guessed, and came shrieking back to the house, where she went off into hysterics, and was unable to tell anything about the matter.

Fortunately, Victor was there; he also traced the footsteps. Instead of returning home he ran straight to the school-house, which he reached out of breath.

“Come, Ian, come!” he gasped. “Tony’s been carried off—Petawanaquat! Bring your canoe and gun; all the ammunition you can lay hands on!”

Ian asked for no explanations; he ran into the house, shouldered a small bag of pemmican, gave his gun and ammunition to Victor, told his assistant to keep the school going till his return, and ran with his friend down to the river, where his own birch canoe lay on the bank.

A few minutes sufficed to launch it. Both Ian and Victor were expert canoe-men. Straining their powers to the utmost, they were soon far down the Red River, in hot pursuit of the fugitive.

Chapter Three.

The Pursuit begins.

There is something delightfully exhilarating in a chase, whether it be after man or beast. How the blood careers! How the nerves tingle! But you know all about it, reader. We have said sufficient.

There was enough of righteous indignation in Victor’s bosom to have consumed Petawanaquat, and ground enough to justify the fiercest resolves. Was not the kidnapper a redskin—a low, mean, contemptible savage? Was not the kidnapped one his brother—his “own” brother? And such a brother! One of a thousand, with mischief enough in him, if rightly directed, to make half a dozen ordinary men! The nature of the spirit which animated Victor was obvious on his compressed lips, his frowning brows, his gleaming eyes. The strength of his muscles was indicated by the foam that fled from his paddle.

Ian Macdonald was not less excited, but more under self-control than his friend. There was a fixed look in his plain but pleasant face, and a tremendous sweep in his long arms as he plied the paddle, that told of unfathomed energy. The canoe being a mere egg-shell, leaped forward at each quick stroke “like a thing of life.”

There was no time to lose. They knew that, for the Indian had probably got a good start of them, and, being a powerful man, animated by the certainty of pursuit sooner or later, would not only put his strength but his endurance to the test. If they were to overtake him it must be by superhuman exertion. Lake Winnipeg was twenty miles off. They must catch up the Indian before he reached it, as otherwise it would be impossible to tell in which direction he had gone.

They did not pause to make inquiries of the settlers on the banks by the way, but they hailed several canoes, whose occupants said they had seen the Indian going quietly down stream some hours before—alone in his canoe!

“Never mind, Vic, push on,” said Ian; “of course he would make Tony lie flat down.”

The end of the settlement was passed, and they swept on into the wilderness beyond. Warming to their work, they continued to paddle hour after hour—steadily, persistently, with clockwork regularity of stroke, but never decreasing force. To save time they, as it were, cut off corners at the river-bends, and just shaved the points as they went by.

“Have a care, Ian!” exclaimed Victor, at one of these places, as his paddle touched the bottom. “We don’t draw much water, to be sure, but a big stone might—hah!”

A roar of dismay burst from the youth and his companion as the canoe rasped over a stone.

We have said that the birch canoe was an egg-shell. The word is scarcely figurative. The slightest touch over a stone has a tendency to rip the bark of such a slender craft, or break off the resinous gum with which the seams are pitched. Water began to pour in.

“Too bad!” exclaimed Victor, flinging his paddle ashore, as he stepped over the side into water not much above his ankles, and pulled the canoe slowly to land.

“An illustration of the proverb, ‘The more haste the less speed,’” sighed Ian, as he stepped into the water and assisted in lifting the canoe tenderly to dry ground.

“Oh, it’s all very well for you to take it philosophically, but you know our chance is gone. If it was your brother we were after you wouldn’t be so cool.”

“He is Elsie’s brother,” replied Ian, “and that makes me quite as keen as if he were my own, besides keeping me cool. Come, Vic, don’t be cross, but light the fire and get out the gum.”

While he spoke Ian was actively untying a bundle which contained awls and wattape, a small pliable root, with which to repair the injury. The gum had to be melted, so that Victor found some relief to his feelings in kindling a fire. The break was not a bad one. With nimble fingers Ian sewed a patch of bark over it. While that was being done, Victor struck a light with flint and steel, and soon had a blazing firebrand ready.

“Hand it here, Vic,” said Ian.

He covered the stitches with melted gum, blew the charcoal red-hot, passed it here and there over the old seams where they exhibited signs of leakage, and in little more than half an hour had the canoe as tight as a bottle. Once more they embarked and drove her like an arrow down stream.

But precious time had been lost, and it was dark when they passed from the river and rested on the bosom of the mighty fresh-water sea.

“It’s of no use going on without knowing which shore the redskin has followed,” said Ian, as he suddenly ceased work and rested his paddle on the gunwale.

“It’s of no use to remain where we are,” replied the impatient Victor, looking back at his comrade.

“Yes, it is,” returned Ian, “the moon will rise in an hour or so and enable us to make observations; meanwhile we can rest. Sooner or later we shall be compelled to rest. It will be a wise economy of time to do so now when nothing else can be done.”

Victor was so tired and sleepy by that time that he could scarcely reply. Ian laughed quietly, and shoved the canoe among some reeds, where it lay on a soft bed. At the same time he advised his companion to go to sleep without delay.

More than half asleep already, he obeyed in silence, waded to the shore, and sat down on a bank to take off his moccasins. In this position and act he fell asleep.

“Hallo!” exclaimed Ian, coming up with the paddles and pemmican bag; “too soon, Vic, too soon, lad,” (he tumbled him over on the bank); “come, one mouthful of grub first, then off with the moccasins, and down we go.”

Victor picked himself up with a yawn. On ordinary occasions a backwoodsman pays some little attention to the comforts of his encampment, but our heroes were in no condition to mind such trifles. They pulled off their wet moccasins, indeed, and put on dry ones, but having done that they merely groped in the dark for the flattest piece of ground in the neighbourhood, then each rolled himself in his blanket and lay, or rather fell, down.

“Hah!” gasped Victor.

“Wa’s wrong?” sighed Ian faintly.

“Put m’ shoulder ’n a puddle, ’at’s all,” lisped Victor.

“T’ke’t out o’ the purl, then—oh!” groaned Ian.

“W’as ’e marrer now, eh?” sighed Victor.

“On’y a big stone i’ m’ ribs.”

“Shove’t out o’ y’r ribs ’en an’ ’old y’r tongue.”

Profound slumber stopped the conversation at this point, and the frogs that croaked and whistled in the swamps had it all to themselves.

Deep tranquillity reigned on the shores of Lake Winnipeg during the midnight hours, for the voices of the frogs served rather to accent than to disturb the calm. Stars twinkled at their reflections in the water, which extended like a black mirror to the horizon. They gave out little light, however, and it was not until the upper edge of the full moon arose that surrounding objects became dimly visible. The pale light edged the canoe, silvered the rocks, tipped the rushes, and at last, touching the point of Ian’s upturned nose, awoke him. (See Frontispiece).

He leaped up with a start instantly, conscious of his situation, and afraid lest he had slept too long.

“Hi! lève! lève! awake! up!” he exclaimed in a vigorous undertone.

Victor growled, turned on his other side with a deep sigh, wanted to be let alone, became suddenly conscious, and sprang up in alarm.

“We’re too late!”

“No, we’re not, Vic. The moon is just rising, but we must be stirring. Time’s precious.”

Victor required no urging. He was fully alive to the situation. A few minutes sufficed to get the canoe ready and roll up their blankets, during the performance of which operations they each ate several substantial mouthfuls of pemmican.

Looking carefully round before pushing off the canoe to see that nothing was forgotten, Ian observed some chips of wood on the beach close at hand.

“See, Vic!” he said eagerly; “some one has been here—perhaps the Indian.”

They examined the chips, which had been recently cut. “It’s not easy to make out footprints here,” said Ian, going down on his knees the better to observe the ground; “and so many settlers and Indians pass from time to time, having little boys with them too, that—. I say, look here, Vic, this little footmark might or might not be Tony’s, but moccasins are so much alike that—”

“Out o’ the light, man; if you were made o’ glass the moon might get through you. Why, yes, it is Tony’s moccasin!” cried Victor, in eager excitement. “I know it by the patch, for I saw Elsie putting it on this very morning. Look, speak, man! don’t you see it? A square patch on the ball of the right foot!”

“Yes, yes; I see it,” said Ian, going down on his knees in a spirit of semi-worship, and putting his nose close to the ground.

He would fain have kissed the spot that had been pressed by a patch put on by Elsie, but he was “unromantic,” and refrained.

“Now,” he said, springing up with alacrity, “that settles the question. At least it shows that there is strong probability of their having taken the left shore of the lake.”

“Come along, then, let’s after them,” cried Victor impatiently, pushing off the canoe.

The moment she floated—which she did in about four inches of water—they stepped swiftly yet gently into her; for bark canoes require tender treatment at all times, even when urgent speed is needful. Gliding into deep water, they once more dipped their paddles, deep and fast, and danced merrily over the moonlit sea—for a sea Lake Winnipeg certainly is, being upwards of three hundred miles long, and a gathering together of many waters from all parts of the vast wilderness of Rupert’s Land.

After two hours of steady work they paused to rest.

“Now, Ian,” said Victor, leaning against the wooden bar at his back, and resting his paddle across the canoe, “Venus tells me that the sun is about to bestir himself, and something within me tells me that empty space is a bad stomachic; so, out with the pemmican bag, and hand over a junk.”

Ian drew his hunting-knife, struck it into the mass of meat, and chipped off a piece the size of his fist, which he handed to his comrade.

Probably our readers are aware that pemmican is made of dried buffalo meat pounded to shreds and mixed with melted fat. Being thus half-cooked in the making, it can be used with or without further cookery. Sewed up in its bag, it will keep good for months, or even years, and is magnificent eating, but requires a strong digestion. Ian and Victor were gifted with that requisite. They fed luxuriously. A draught from the crystal lake went down their unsophisticated throats like nectar, and they resumed their paddles like giants refreshed.

Venus mounted like a miniature moon into the glorious blue. Her perfect image went off in the opposite direction, for there was not the ghost of a zephyr to ruffle the deep. Presently the sun followed in her wake, and scattered the battalions of cloudland with artillery of molten gold. Little white gulls, with red legs and beaks, came dipping over the water, solemnly wondering at the intruders. The morning mists rolling along before the resistless monarch of day confused the visible world for a time, so that between refraction and reflection and buoyant spirits Victor Ravenshaw felt that at last he had found the realms of fairyland, and a feeling of certainty that he should soon rescue his brother filled him with exultation.

But the exultation was premature. Noon found them toiling on, and still no trace of the fugitives was to be seen.

“What if we have overshot them?” said Victor.

“Impossible,” answered Ian, “the shore is too open for that, and I have been keeping a sharp look-out at every bend and bay.”

“That may be true, yet Petawanaquat may have kept a sharper look-out, and concealed himself when he saw us coming. See, here is a creek. He may have gone up that. Let us try. Why! there is a canoe in it. Hup! drive along, Ian!”

The canoe seemed to leap out of the water under the double impulse, and next moment almost ran down another canoe which was half hidden among the reeds. In it sat an old Indian named Peegwish, and a lively young French half-breed named Michel Rollin. They were both well known to our adventurers; old Peegwish—whose chief characteristic was owlishness—being a frequent and welcome visitor at the house of Ian’s father.

“You ’pears to be in one grand hurray,” exclaimed Rollin, in his broken English.

Ian at once told the cause of their appearance there, and asked if they had seen anything of Petawanaquat.

“Yes, oui, no—dat is to say. Look ’ere!”

Rollin pushed the reeds aside with his paddle, and pointed to a canoe lying bottom up, as if it had been concealed there.

“Ve’s be come ’ere after duck, an’ ve find dat,” said the half-breed.

An immediate investigation showed that Petawanaquat had forsaken his canoe and taken to the woods. Ian looked troubled. Peegwish opened his owlish eyes and looked so solemn that Victor could scarce forbear laughing, despite the circumstances. It was immediately resolved to give chase. Peegwish was left in charge of the canoes. The other three soon found the track of the Red Man and followed it up like blood-hounds. At first they had no difficulty in following the trail, being almost as expert as Indians in woodcraft, but soon they came to swampy ground, and then to stony places, in which they utterly lost it. Again and again did they go back to pick up the lost trail, and follow it only to lose it again.

Thus they spent the remainder of that day until night put a stop to their exertions and crushed their hopes. Then, dispirited and weary, they returned to the canoes and encamped beside them.

Peegwish was engaged in roasting a duck when they arrived.

“What a difference between the evening and the morning,” said Victor, as he flung himself down beside the fire.

“Dat is troo, an’ vat I has obsarve oftin,” said Rollin, looking earnestly into a kettle which rested on the fire.

“Never mind, Vic,” said Ian heartily, “we’ll be at it again to-morrow, bright and early. We’re sure to succeed in the long-run. Petawanaquat can’t travel at night in the woods any more than we can.”

Old Peegwish glared at the fire as though he were pondering these sayings deeply. As he understood little or no English, however, it is more probable that his astute mind was concentrated on the roasting duck.

Chapter Four.

A Discovery—The Chase Continued on Foot.

To bound from the depths of despair to the pinnacles of hope is by no means an uncommon experience to vigorous youth. When Victor Ravenshaw awoke next morning after a profound and refreshing sleep, and looked up through the branches at the bright sky, despondency fled, and he felt ready for anything. He was early awake, but Peegwish had evidently been up long before him, for that wrinkled old savage had kindled the fire, and was seated on the other side of it wrapped in his blanket, smoking, and watching the preparation of breakfast. When Victor contemplated his solemn eyes glaring at a roasting duck, which suggested the idea that he had been sitting there and glaring all night, he burst into an uncontrollable fit of laughter.

“Come, I say, Vic,” said Ian, roused by this from a comfortable nap, “if you were a hyena there might be some excuse for you, but being only a man—forgive me, a boy—you ought to have more sense than to disturb your friends so.”

“Oui, yes; dat is troo. Vraiment, it is too bad,” growled Rollin, sitting up and stretching himself. “Howsomewhatever, it is time to rise. Oui!”

“I should think it was,” retorted Victor; “the sun is already up, and you may be sure that Petawanaquat has tramped some miles this morning. Come, Peegwish, close your eyes a bit for fear they jump out. What have you got to give us, eh? Robbiboo, ducks, and—no, is it tea? Well, we are in luck to have fallen in with you.”

He rested his head on his hand, and lay looking at the savage with a pleased expression, while Rollin rose and went off to cut more firewood.

The robbiboo referred to was a sort of thick soup made of pemmican boiled with flour. Without loss of time the party applied themselves to it. When appetite was partially appeased Ian propounded the question, What was to be done?

“Follow up the trail as fast as we can,” said Victor promptly.

“Dat is bon advise,” observed Rollin. “Hand over de duck, Peegvish, an’ do try for shut your eyes. If you vould only vink it vould seem more comfortabler.”

Peegwish did not smile, but with deepened gravity passed the duck.

“I’m not so sure of the goodness of the advice,” said Ian. “To go scampering into the woods on a chase that may lead us we know not where or how long, with only a small quantity of provisions and ammunition, and but one gun, may seem energetic and daring, but it may not, perhaps, be wise.”

Victor admitted that there was truth in that, and looked perplexed.

“Nevertheless, to give up at this point, and return to the settlement for supplies,” he said, “would be to lose the advantage of our quick start. How are we to get over the difficulty?”

“Moi, I can you git out of de difficulty,” said Rollin, lighting his pipe with a business air. “Dis be de vay. Peegvish et me is out for long hunt vid much pemmican, poodre an’ shote. You make von ’greement vid me et Peegvish. You vill engage me; I vill go vid you. You can take vat you vill of our tings, and send Peegvish back to de settlement for tell fat ye bees do.”

This plan, after brief but earnest consideration, was adopted. The old Indian returned to Willow Creek with pencil notes, written on birch bark, to old Samuel Ravenshaw and Angus Macdonald, and the other three of the party set off at once to renew the chase on foot, with blankets and food strapped to their backs and guns on their shoulders—for Rollin carried his own fowling-piece, and Victor had borrowed that of Peegwish.

As happened the previous day, they failed several times to find the trail of the fugitives, but at last Ian discovered it, and they pushed forward with renewed hope. The faint footmarks at first led them deep into the woods, where it was difficult to force a passage; then the trail disappeared altogether on the banks of a little stream. But the pursuers were too experienced to be thrown off the scent by such a well-known device as walking up stream in the water. They followed the brook until they came to the place where Petawanaquat had once more betaken himself to dry land. It was a well-chosen spot; hard and rocky ground, on which only slight impressions could be left, and the wily savage had taken care to step so as to leave as slight a trail as possible; but the pursuers had sharp and trained eyes. Ian Macdonald, in particular, having spent much of his time as a hunter before setting up his school, had the eyes of a lynx. He could distinguish marks when his companions could see nothing until they were pointed out, and although frequently at fault, he never failed to recover the trail sooner or later.

Of course they lost much time, and they knew that Petawanaquat must be rapidly increasing the distance between them, but they trusted to his travelling more leisurely when he felt secure from pursuit, and to his being delayed somewhat by Tony, whom it was obvious he had carried for long distances at a stretch.

For several days the pursuers went on with unflagging perseverance and ever-increasing hope, until they at last emerged from the woods, and began to traverse the great prairie. Here the trail diverged for a considerable distance southward, and then turned sharply to the west, in which direction it went in a straight line for many miles, as if Petawanaquat had made up his mind to cross the Rocky Mountains, and throw poor Tony into the Pacific!

The travellers saw plenty of game—ducks, geese, plover, prairie-hens, antelopes, etcetera,—on the march, but they were too eager in the pursuit of the savage to be turned aside by smaller game. They merely shot a few ducks to save their pemmican. At last they came to a point in the prairie which occasioned them great perplexity of mind and depression of spirit.

It was on the evening of a bright and beautiful day—one of those days in which the air seems fresher and the sky bluer, and the sun more brilliant than usual. They had found, that evening, that the trail led them away to the right towards one of the numerous clumps of woodland which rendered that part of the prairie more like a nobleman’s park than a wild wilderness.

On entering the bushes they perceived that there was a lakelet embosomed like a gem in the surrounding trees. Passing through the belt of woodland they stood on the margin of the little lake.

“How beautiful!” exclaimed Ian, with a flush of pleasure on his sunburnt face. “Just like a bit of Paradise.”

“Did you ever see Paradise, that you know so well what it is like?” asked Victor of his unromantic friend.

“Yes, Vic, I’ve seen it many a time—in imagination.”

“Indeed, and what like was it, and what sort of people were there?”

“It was like—let me see—the most glorious scene ever beheld on earth, but more exquisite, and the sun that lighted it was more brilliant by far than ours.”

“Not bad, for an unromantic imagination,” said Victor, with much gravity. “Were there any ducks and geese there?”

“Yes, ducks; plenty of them, but no geese; and nobler game—even lions were there, so tame that little children could lead them.”

“Better and better,” said Victor; “and what of the people?”

Ian was on the point of saying that they were all—men, women, and children—the exact counterparts of Elsie Ravenshaw, but he checked himself and said that they were all honest, sincere, kind, gentle, upright, and that there was not a single cynical person there, nor a—

“Hush! what sort of a bird is that?” interrupted Victor, laying his hand on Ian’s arm and pointing to a small patch of reeds in the lake.

There were so many birds of various kinds gambolling on the surface, that Ian had difficulty in distinguishing the creature referred to. At last he perceived it, a curious fat-bodied little bird with a pair of preposterously long legs, which stood eyeing its companions as if in contemplative pity.

“I know it not,” said Ian; “never saw it before.”

“We’ll bag it now. Stand back,” said Victor, raising his gun.

The above conversation had been carried on in a low tone, for the friends were still concealed by a bush from the various and numerous birds which disported themselves on the lake in fancied security and real felicity.

The crash of Victor’s gun sent them screaming over the tree-tops—all save the fat creature with the long legs, which now lay dead on the water.

“Go in for it, Rollin, it’s not deep, I think,” said Victor.

“Troo, but it may be dangeroose for all dat,” replied the half-breed, leaning his gun against a tree. “Howsomewhatever I vill try!”

The place turned out, as he had suspected, to be somewhat treacherous, with a floating bottom. Before he had waded half way to the dead bird the ground began to sink under him. Presently he threw up his arms, went right down, and disappeared.

Both Ian and Victor started forward with the intention of plunging into the water, but they had not reached the edge when Rollin reappeared, blowing like a grampus. They soon saw that he could swim, and allowed him to scramble ashore.

This misadventure did not prevent them from making further attempts to secure the bird, which Victor, having some sort of naturalistic propensities, was eager to possess. It was on going round the margin of the lake for this purpose that they came upon the cause of the perplexities before mentioned. On the other side of a point covered with thick bush they came upon the remains of a large Indian camp, which had evidently been occupied very recently. Indeed, the ashes of some of the fires, Rollin declared, were still warm; but it was probably Rollin’s imagination which warmed them. It was found, too, that the trail of Petawanaquat entered this camp, and was there utterly lost in the confusion of tracks made everywhere by many feet, both large and small.

Here, then, was sufficient ground for anxiety. If the savage had joined this band and gone away with it, the pursuers could of course follow him up, but, in the event of their finding him among friends, there seemed little or no probability of their being able to rescue the stolen child. On the other hand, if Petawanaquat had left the Indians and continued his journey alone, the great difficulty that lay before them was to find his point of departure from a band which would naturally send out hunters right and left as they marched along.

“It’s a blue look-out any way you take it,” remarked poor Victor, with an expression worthy of Peegwish on his countenance.

“I vish it vas blue. It is black,” said Rollin.

Ian replied to both remarks by saying that, whether black or blue, they must make the best of it, and set about doing that at once. To do his desponding comrades justice, they were quite ready for vigorous action in any form, notwithstanding their despair.

Accordingly, they followed the broad trail of the Indians into the prairie a short way, and, separating in different directions round its margins, carefully examined and followed up the tracks that diverged from it for considerable distances, but without discovering the print of the little moccasin with Elsie’s patch, or the larger footprint of Tony’s captor.

“You see, there are so many footprints, some like and some unlike, and they cross and recross each other to such an extent that it seems to me a hopeless case altogether,” said Victor.

“You don’t propose to give it up, do you?” asked Ian.

“Give it up!” repeated Victor, almost fiercely. “Give up Tony? NO! not as long as I can walk, or even crawl.”

“Ve vill crawl before long, perhaps,” said Rollin; “ve may even stop crawling an’ die at last, but ve must not yet give in.”

In the strength of this resolve they returned to the lakelet when the sun went down, and encamped there. It is needless to say that they supped and slept well notwithstanding—or notwithforstanding, as Rollin put it. Rollin was fond of long words, and possessed a few that were his own private property. Victor had a dream that night. He dreamt that he caught sight of an Indian on the plains with Tony on his shoulder; that he gave chase, and almost overtook them, when, to save himself, the Indian dropped his burden; that he, Victor, seized his rescued brother in a tight embrace, and burst into tears of joy; that Tony suddenly turned into Petawanaquat, and that, in the sharp revulsion of feeling, he, Victor, seized the nose of the savage and pulled it out to a length of three yards, twisted it round his neck and choked him, thrust his head down into his chest and tied his arms in a knot over it, and, finally, stuffing him into a mud-puddle, jumped upon him and stamped him down. It was an absurd dream, no doubt, but are not dreams generally absurd?

While engaged in the last mentioned humane operation, Victor was awakened by Ian.

“It’s time to be moving,” said his comrade with a laugh. “I would have roused you before, but you seemed to be so busily engaged with some friend that I hadn’t the heart to part you sooner.”

The whole of that day they spent in a fruitless effort to detect the footprints of Petawanaquat, either among the tracks made by the band of Indians or among those diverging from the main line of march. In so doing they wandered far from the camp at the lakelet, and even lost sight of each other. The only result was that Ian and Rollin returned in the evening dispirited and weary, and Victor lost himself.

The ease with which this is done is scarcely comprehensible by those who have not wandered over an unfamiliar and boundless plain, on which the clumps of trees and shrubs have no very distinctive features.

Victor’s comrades, however, were alive to the danger. Not finding him in camp, they at once went out in different directions, fired shots until they heard his answering reply, and at last brought him safely in.

That night again they spent on the margin of the little lake, and over the camp-fire discussed their future plans. It was finally assumed that Petawanaquat had joined the Indians, and resolved that they should follow up the trail as fast as they could travel.

This they did during many days without, however, overtaking the Indians. Then the pemmican began to wax low, for in their anxiety to push on they neglected to hunt. At last, one evening, just as it was growing dark, and while they were looking out for a convenient resting-place, they came on the spot where the Indians had encamped, evidently the night before, for the embers of their fires were still smoking.

Here, then, they lay down with the pleasing hope, not unmingled with anxiety, that they should overtake the band on the following day.

Chapter Five.

Tony becomes a Redskin, and the Pursuers change their Game.

When Petawanaquat joined the band of Indians, of whom we left Victor Ravenshaw and his comrades in eager pursuit, he deemed it advisable for various reasons to alter the costume and general appearance of his captive, and for that purpose took him to a sequestered spot in the bushes outside the camp.

Poor Tony had at first shrunk from his captor with inexpressible horror, but when he found that the Indian did not eat him his mind was calmed. As time advanced, and he perceived that Petawanaquat, although stern and very silent, took much pains to assist him on his long marches, and, above all, fed him with a liberal hand, his feelings changed considerably, and at last he began to regard the taciturn red man with something like fondness. Petawanaquat made no positive effort to gain the child’s affections; he never fondled him, and seldom spoke, save for the purpose of giving a brief command, which Tony always obeyed with miraculous promptitude. The utmost that can be said is that the savage was gentle and supplied his wants. Could a civilised man have done much more?

It may be well to remark in passing that Tony, having associated a good deal with Indian boys in Red River, could speak their language pretty well. The Indian, of course, spoke his own tongue correctly, while Tony spoke it much as he spoke his own—childishly. As the reader probably does not understand the Indian language, we will give its equivalent as spoken by both in English.

On reaching the sequestered spot above referred to, Petawanaquat sat down on a fallen tree and made the wondering child stand up before him.

“The white man’s boy must become an Indian,” he said solemnly.

“How zat poss’ble?” demanded the child with equal solemnity.

“By wearing the red man’s clothes and painting his face,” returned his captor.

“Zat’ll be jolly,” said Tony, with a smile of hearty approval.

How he expressed the word “jolly” in the Indian tongue we cannot tell, but he conveyed it somehow, for the Indian’s lips expanded in a grim smile, the first he had indulged in since the day of the abduction.

The process by which Tony was transformed was peculiar. Opening a little bundle, the Indian took therefrom a small coat, or capote, of deer-skin; soft, and of a beautiful yellow, like the skin of the chamois. It was richly ornamented with porcupine-quill-work done in various colours, and had fringes of leather and little locks of hair hanging from it in various places. Causing Tony to strip, he put this coat on him, and fastened it round his waist with a worsted belt of bright scarlet. Next he drew on his little legs a pair of blue cloth leggings, which were ornamented with beads, and clothed his feet in new moccasins, embroidered, like the coat, with quill-work. Tony regarded all this with unconcealed pleasure, but it did not seem to please him so much when the Indian combed his rich curly hair straight down all round, so that his face was quite concealed by it. Taking a pair of large scissors from his bundle, the Indian passed one blade under the hair across the forehead, gave a sharp snip, and the whole mass fell like a curtain to the ground. It was a sublimely simple mode of clearing the way for the countenance—much in vogue among North American savages, from whom it has recently been introduced among civilised nations. The Indian then lifted the clustering curls at the back, and again opened the scissors. For a few moments his fingers played with the locks as he gazed thoughtfully at them; then, apparently changing his mind, he let them drop, and put the scissors away.

But the toilet was not yet complete. The versatile operator drew from his bundle some bright-red, yellow ochre, and blue paint, with a piece of charcoal, and set to work on Tony’s countenance with all the force of a Van Dyck and the rich colouring of a Rubens. He began with a streak of scarlet from the eyebrows to the end of the nose. Skipping the mouth, he continued the streak from the lower lip down the chin, under which it melted into a tender half-tint made by a smudge of yellow ochre and charcoal. This vigorous touch seemed to rouse the painter’s spirit in Petawanaquat, for he pushed the boy out at arm’s length, drew himself back, frowned, glared, and breathed hard. Three bars of blue from the bridge of the nose over each cheek, with two red circles below, and a black triangle on the forehead, were touched in with consummate skill and breadth. One of the touches was so broad that it covered the whole jaw, and had to be modified. On each closed upper eyelid an intensely black spot was painted, by which simple device Tony, with his azure orbs, was made, as it were, to wink black and gaze blue. The general effect having thus been blocked in, the artist devoted himself to the finishing touches, and at last turned out a piece of work which old Samuel Ravenshaw himself would have failed to recognise as his son.

It should have been remarked that previous to this, Petawanaquat had modified his own costume. His leggings were fringed with scalp-locks; he had painted his face, and stuck a bunch of feathers in his hair, and a gay firebag and a tomahawk were thrust under his belt behind.

“Ho!” he exclaimed, with a look of satisfaction, “now Tony is Tonyquat, and Petawanaquat is his father!”

“When will zoo take me back to my own fadder?” asked Tony, emboldened by the Indian’s growing familiarity.

No reply was given to this, but the question seemed to throw the red man into a savage reverie, and a dark frown settled on his painted face, as he muttered, “The Little Wolf meant to take the white man’s life, but he was wise: he spared his life and took his heart. His revenge is sweeter. Wah!”

Tony failed to catch the meaning of this, but fearing to rouse the anger of his new father, he held his tongue. Meanwhile the Indian put the child on a stump a few yards off in front of him, filled his pipe, lighted it, placed an elbow on each knee, rested his chin on his doubled fists, and glared at his handiwork. Tony was used to glaring by that time, though he did not like it. He sat still for a long time like one fascinated, and returned the stare with interest.

At last the Indian spoke.

“Is Tonyquat a Christian?”

Somewhat surprised but not perplexed by the question Tony answered, “Ho, yis,” promptly.

The Indian again looked long and earnestly at the child, as if he were considering how far such a juvenile mind might be capable of going into a theological discussion.

“What is a Christian?” asked the Indian abruptly.

“A Kist’n’s a dood boy,” replied Tony; then, dropping his eyes for a moment in an effort to recall past lessons, he suddenly looked up with an intelligent smile, and said, “Oh, yis, I ’memers now. Elsie teach me a Kist’n boy’s one what tries to be like de Lord—dood, kind, gentle, fo’givin’, patient, an’ heaps more; zat’s what a Kist’n is.”

The Indian nodded approvingly. This accorded, as far as it went, with what he had learned from the missionaries of Red River, but his mind was evidently perplexed. He smoked, meditated a considerable time, and glared at Tony in silence; then said suddenly—

“Tonyquat, your father is not a Christian.”

“My fadder would knock zoo down if zoo say dat to hims face,” replied the child confidently.

This seemed so palpable a truth that the Indian nodded several times, and grinned fiendishly.

“Do Christians swear, an’ drink, and fight, and get angry till the blood makes the face blue, and strike with the fist?” asked Petawanaquat.

“Oh, no—never,” replied Tony, adopting that shocked tone and look which Elsie was in the habit of using when anything wicked was propounded to her; “dey’s always dood, like Josuf an’ Abel an’ Sam’l, an’ Cain, an’ David, an’ Saul—”

Tony stopped short, with an indistinct idea that he was mixing pattern characters.

“Ho!” muttered the savage, with a gleam of triumph in his eyes, “Petawanaquat has got his heart.”

“Eh, zoo got ’im by heart a’ready? Took me long, long time to git ’em by heart,” said Tony, with a look of admiration, which was sadly marred by the paint. “Me’s not got ’em all off yet. But you’s clever, an’—an’—big.”

The Indian’s smile became a sad one, and his look was again perplexed, as he rose and returned to the camp, followed by his adopted son. It was obvious that no light was to be thrown on his religious difficulties, whatever they were, by Tonyquat.

After leaving the lakelet on the plains, the Indian travelled for several days with his friends; and then parting from them, went towards the west, to rejoin his family. This point of divergence the pursuers had missed, and when they overtook the Indian band, they found, to their intense regret, that the kidnapper had escaped them.

“We will hold on with the redskins,” said Ian Macdonald, while sitting in council with his companions after this discovery. “The chief tells me that buffaloes have been reported in a spot which lies in the direction we must follow to recover the trail. This advantage we now possess, however: we know where Petawanaquat is going—thanks to his so-called friends here, who don’t seem to care much about him—and as he believes he has distanced all pursuers, he will now journey slower than before. Besides, we must help to kill a buffalo or two, our meat being nearly done. What say you, Vic?”

“I say what you say, of course, though I’d rather set off ahead of the band, and push on as fast as we can.”

“Vich means dat youth bees impetoous toujours,” said Rollin.

In pursuance of this plan they journeyed with the Indians for three days, when an event occurred which modified their plans considerably. This was the discovery one afternoon of a broad trail, made by the passage of numerous carts and horsemen over the prairie.

“Buffalo-runners!” exclaimed Rollin, when they came upon the track.

“From Red River!” cried Victor.

“Even so, boys,” said Ian.

The Indian chief, who led the party, held the same opinion, and added that they were evidently journeying in the same direction with themselves. This rendered it necessary that they should make a forced march during the night, it being otherwise impossible for men on foot to overtake a party of horsemen. Towards midnight of the same day they had the satisfaction of seeing their campfires in the distance. Soon afterwards they were within the circle of the camp, where men were still smoking and eating round the fires, and women and children were moving busily about.

“Why, there are John Flett and David Mowat,” exclaimed Victor, as several of the men came forward to meet the party.

“An’ Hayes, an’ Vinklemann,” cried Rollin.

Another minute and they were shaking hands amid a chorus of surprised and hearty questions and replies.

“Is Louis Lambert with you?” asked Victor, after mutual explanations had been given.

“No,” said David Mowat, with a laugh, “he’s got other fish to fry at home.”

Poor Ian winced, for he at once pictured to himself Elsie as the mermaid hinted at.

“Now, boys, I’m going to ask some of you to make a sacrifice,” said Ian. “We had intended to follow up this chase on foot, but of course will be able to accomplish our end sooner on horseback. I want three of you to lend us your horses. You’re sure to be well paid for them by Sam Ravenshaw and my father. I’ll guarantee you that—”

“We want no guarantee,” interrupted John Flett, “and we have spare horses enough in the camp to mount you without giving up our own; so make your mind easy.”

“Zat is troo,” said Herr Winklemann; “ve has goot horse to spare; buff’lo-runners every von. Bot you mus’ stay vid us von day for run ze buff’lo an’ git supply of meat.”

Victor and his friends at once agreed to this, all the more readily that the possession of horses would now enable them easily to overtake the fugitives. Accordingly, they sat down to a splendid supper of robbiboo, and continued to eat, chat, and quaff tea far into the following morning, until nature asserted herself by shutting up their eyelids.

The band with which our adventurers were now associated was composed of a motley crew of Red River half-breeds, out for the great spring buffalo hunt. It consisted of nearly 700 hunters, as many women, more than 400 children, and upwards of 1000 carts, with horses and draught oxen, besides about 700 buffalo-runners, or trained hunting-horses, and more than 500 dogs. These latter, although useless in the spring hunt, were, nevertheless, taken with them, fed, and cared for, because of their valuable qualities as draught animals for light sledges in winter.

Some of the hunters were steady-going and respectable enough; others were idle, thriftless fellows, who could not settle to farming in the colony, and even in the chase were lazy, bad hunters. The women were there for the purpose of attending to camp duties—cooking, dressing the buffalo skins, making bags from the animals’ green hides, with the hair left on the outside, and filling the same with pemmican.

This substance, as we have elsewhere remarked, is by no means unpalatable; it is very nutritious, and forms the chief food of the hundreds of voyageurs who traverse Rupert’s Land in boats and canoes during the open season of the year. It must be understood, however, that the compost is not attractive in appearance. It is made in the open air by women who are not very particular in their habits. Hence, during windy weather, a modicum of dust is introduced into it. Even stray leaves and twigs may get into it at times, and it is always seasoned more or less profusely with buffalo hairs. But these are trifles to strong and hungry men.

Two trips to the plains were made annually by these hunters. The proceeds of the spring hunt were always sold to supply them with needed clothing, ammunition, etcetera, for the year. The “fall or autumn hunt” furnished them with their winter stock of food, and helped to pay off their debts, most of them being supplied on credit. Sometimes the fall hunt failed, in which case starvation stared the improvident among them in the face, and suffering, more or less severe, was the lot of all.

Little, however, did the reckless, jovial half-breeds care for such considerations on the occasion about which we write. It was the spring hunt. The year was before them. Health rolled in the veins and hope revelled in the breasts of all as they mounted their steeds, and sallied forth to the chase.

Ah! it was a memorable day for Victor, when, at early dawn, he vaulted into the saddle of the horse lent to him, and went off to hunt the buffalo.

The said horse began by standing straight up on its hind legs like a man! Victor held on by the mane. Reversing the process, it pointed its tail to the sky. Victor stood in the stirrups. It swerved to the right, it swerved to the left, but Victor swerved with it accommodatingly. He was a splendid horseman. Finding that out at last, the steed took the bit in its teeth and ran away. Victor let it run—nay, he whacked its sides and made it run. Dozens of wild fellows were curvetting and racing around him. It was his first hunt. Mad with excitement, he finally swept away from his comrades with a series of war-whoops that would have done credit to the fiercest redskin on the North American plains.

Chapter Six.

Describes a Great Hunt.

The huge bison, or buffalo, of the North American prairie is gregarious; in other words, it loves society and travels in herds. These herds are sometimes so vast as absolutely to blacken the plains for miles around.

The half-breed buffalo-hunters of Red River were also gregarious. From the moment of their quitting the settlements they kept together for mutual help and protection. Although a free, wild, and lawless set, they found it absolutely necessary for hunting purposes to organise themselves, and thus by voluntary submission to restraint, unwittingly did homage to Law! On a level plain at a place called Pembina, three days out from Red River, the whole camp squatted down; the roll was called, and rules and regulations for the journey were agreed upon and settled. Then ten captains were named, the senior being Baptiste Warder, an English half-breed, a fine bold-looking and discreet man of resolute character, who was thus elected the great war chief of the little army. As commander-in-chief Baptiste had various duties to perform, among others to see that lost property picked up about the camp should be restored to its owner through the medium of a public crier, who went his rounds every evening. Each captain had ten stout fellows under him to act as soldiers or policemen. Ten guides were also appointed, each of whom led the camp day about and carried its flag or standard. The hoisting of the flag each morning was the signal for raising the camp. Half an hour was the time allowed to get ready, unless, any one being sick or animals having strayed, delay became necessary. All day the flag remained up; its being lowered each evening was the signal for encamping. Then the captains and their men arranged the order of the camp. The carts as they arrived moved to their appointed places, side by side, with the trains outwards, and formed a circle, inside of which, at one end, the tents were pitched in double and triple rows, the horses, etcetera, being tethered at the other end. Thus they were at all times ready to resist attack from Indians.

Among other rules laid down on this occasion at starting were the following:—

No hunting to be allowed on the Sabbath day. No party to fork off, lag behind, or go before, without permission. No hunter or party to run buffalo before the general order, and every captain in turn to mount guard with his men and patrol the camp. The punishments for offenders were, like themselves, rather wild and wasteful. For a first offence against the laws, a culprit was to have his saddle and bridle cut up! For the second, his coat to be taken and cut up; and for the third he was to be flogged. A person convicted of theft was to be brought to the middle of the camp, and have his or her name loudly proclaimed three times, with the word “thief” added each time.

It was the third week out from the settlement when the hunters met with Victor Ravenshaw and his friends, yet up to that day they had failed to find the buffalo, and were well-nigh starving. The intelligence, therefore, that scouts had at length discovered game, had filled the camp with joy.

After having taken a little of the mettle out of his steed, as related in the last chapter, Victor caused him to make a wide circuit on the plain, and came up behind the line of hunters just as they topped a prairie undulation, or wave, and sighted the buffalo. It was a grand array, the sight of which thrilled the young sportsman to the heart. Full four hundred huntsmen, mounted on fresh and restive steeds, were slowly advancing, waiting eagerly for the word to start. Baptiste Warder, their chief, was in front with his telescope, surveying the game and the ground. Victor pushed in between Ian and Rollin, who rode near the centre of the impatient line. The wild cattle blackened the plain at the distance of about a mile and a half from them.

“Surely they must have seen us by this time,” said Victor, in a voice of suppressed agitation.

“Have you got your powder-horn and bullets handy?” asked Ian.

“Yes; all right.”

“Put ’im in de mout, de mout,” said Rollin quickly.

The half-breed here referred to a habit of the hunters, who carry several bullets in their mouths to facilitate loading while running at full speed. The method is simple. The hunter merely pours powder into his left palm, transfers it to his gun, drops a bullet from his mouth into the muzzle, hits the butt smartly on his pommel, which at once sends the charge home and forces priming into the pan, and thus is ready for another shot.

Victor, having forgotten all about this, immediately put three bullets into his mouth, his gun being already loaded.

“Don’t swallow them!” said Ian.

“Swallow your own advice,” growled Victor.

“Start!” shouted Captain Warder.

The welcome signal sent an electric thrill along the line. It was promptly obeyed, first at a slow trot, then at a hard gallop. The low rumbling thunder of their tramp was in keeping with the wild eager looks of the half-savage hunters. They had approached to within four or five hundred yards before the buffalo-bulls curved their tails into marks of interrogation and began to paw the ground. Another moment, and the mighty herd took to flight. Then the huntsmen let loose their eager steeds. As squadrons of dragoons charge into the thick of battle, these wild fellows bore down with grand momentum on the buffalo bands. The very earth seemed to tremble when they charged, but when the herd sprang away in the frenzy of terror it was as though a shock of earthquake had riven the plains. Right into the careering mass the horsemen rushed. Shots began—here, there, and everywhere, until a rattle of musketry filled the air, while smoke, dust, shouts, and bellowing added to the wild confusion. The fattest animals were selected, and in an incredibly short space of time a thousand of their carcasses strewed the plain.

The men who were best mounted of course darted forward in advance and secured the fattest cows. They seldom dropped a mark to identify their property. These hunters possess a power of distinguishing the animals they have slain during a hot and long ride, which amounts almost to an instinct—even though they may have killed from ten to twelve animals. An experienced hunter on a good horse will perform such a feat during one race. He seldom fires till within three or four yards of his prey, and never misses. A well-trained horse, the moment it hears the shot, springs on one side to avoid stumbling over the buffalo. An awkward or shy horse will not approach nearer than ten or fifteen yards. Badly mounted men think themselves well off if they secure two or three animals during one run.

As the battle continued, the very air was darkened with dust and smoke. Of course such a fight could not rage without casualties. There were, in truth, many hairbreadth and some almost miraculous escapes, for the ground was rocky and full of badger-holes. Twenty-three horses and riders were seen at one moment all sprawling on the ground. One horse was gored by a bull and killed on the spot: two other horses fell over it and were disabled. One rider broke his shoulder-blade, another burst his gun by careless loading, and lost three fingers, while another was struck on the knee by a spent ball. The wonder was, not that so many, but that so few, were hurt, when it is considered that the riders were dashing about in clouds of dust and smoke, crossing and recrossing each other in all directions, with shots firing right and left, before, behind—everywhere—in quick succession. The explanation must be that, every man being a trained marksman, nearly every bullet found its billet in a buffalo’s body.

With his heart in his mouth, as well as his bullets, Victor Ravenshaw entered into the wild mêlée, scarce knowing what he was about. Although inexperienced, he knew well what to do, for many a time had he listened to the stories of buffalo-hunters in times past, and had put all their operations in practice with a wooden gun in mimic chase. But it was not easy to keep cool. He saw a fat animal just ahead of him, pushed close alongside; pointed his gun without raising it to his shoulder, and fired. He almost burnt the animal’s hair, so near was he. The buffalo fell and his horse leaped to one side. Victor had forgotten this part of the programme. He was nearly unseated, but held on by the mane and recovered his seat.

Immediately he poured powder into his palm—spilling a good deal and nearly dropping his gun from under his left arm in the operation—and commenced to reload while at full speed. He spat a ball into the muzzle, just missed knocking out some of his front teeth, forgot to strike the butt on the pommel of the saddle, (which omission would have infallibly resulted in the bursting of the gun had it exploded), pointed at another animal and drew the trigger. It missed fire, of course, for want of priming. He remembered his error; corrected it, pointed again, fired, and dropped another cow.

Elated with success, he was about to reload when a panting bull came up behind him. He seized his bridle, and swerved a little. The bull thundered on, mad with rage; its tail aloft, and pursued by Michel Rollin, who seemed as angry as the bull.

“Hah! I vill stop you!” growled the excited half-breed as he dashed along.

Animals were so numerous and close around them that they seemed in danger, at the moment, of being crushed. Suddenly the bull turned sharp round on its pursuer. To avoid it the horse leaped on one side; the girths gave way and the rider, saddle and all, were thrown on the bull’s horns. With a wild toss of its head, the surprised creature sent the man high into the air. In his fall he alighted on the back of another buffalo—it was scarcely possible to avoid this in the crowd—and slipped to the ground. Strange to say, Rollin was not hurt, but he was effectually thrown out of the running for that time, and Victor saw him no more till evening. We relate no fanciful or exaggerated tale, good reader. Our description is in strict accordance with the account of a credible eye-witness.

For upwards of an hour and a half the wild chase was kept up; the plain was strewn with the dead and dying, and horsemen as well as buffaloes were scattered far and wide.

Victor suddenly came upon Ian while in pursuit of an animal.

“What luck!” he shouted.

“I’ve killed two—by accident, I think,” said Ian, swerving towards his comrade, but not slackening his pace.

“Capital! I’ve killed three. Who’s that big fellow ahead after the old bull?”

“It’s Winklemann. He seems to prefer tough meat.”

As Ian spoke the bull in question turned suddenly round, just as Rollin’s bull had done, and received Winklemann’s horse on its hairy forehead. The poor man shot from the saddle as if he had been thrown from a catapult, turned a complete somersault over the buffalo, and fell on his back beyond. Thrusting the horse to one side, the buffalo turned and seemed to gore the prostrate German as it dashed onward.

Puffing up at once, both Victor and Ian leaped from their horses and hastened to assist their friend. He rose slowly to a sitting posture as they approached, and began to feel his legs with a troubled look.

“Not much hurt, I hope?” said Ian, kneeling beside him. “No bones broken?”

“No, I think not; mine leks are fery vell, but I fear mine lunks are gone,” answered the German, untying his belt.

It was found, however, on examination, that the lungs were all right, the bull’s horn having merely grazed the poor man’s ribs. In a few minutes his horse was caught, and he was able to remount, but the trio were now far behind the tide of war, which had swept away by that time to the horizon. They therefore determined to rest content with what they had accomplished and return to camp.

“What a glorious chase!” exclaimed Victor as they rode slowly back; “I almost wish that white men might have the redskin’s heaven and hunt the buffalo for ever.”

“You’d soon grow tired of your heaven,” said Ian, laughing. “I suspect that the soul requires occupation of a higher kind than the pursuing and slaying of wild animals.”

“No doubt you are right, you learned philosopher; but you can’t deny that this has been a most enjoyable burst.”

“I don’t deny anything. I merely controvert your idea that it would be pleasant to go on with this sort of thing for ever.”

“Hah! de more so, ven your back is almost broke and your lunks are goréd.”

“But your ‘lunks’ are not ‘goréd,’” said Victor. “Come, Winklemann, be thankful that you are alive.—By the way, Ian, where are the animals you killed?”

“We are just coming to one. Here it is. I threw my cap down to mark it, and there is another one, a quarter of a mile behind it. We have plenty of meat, you see, and shall be able to quit the camp to-morrow.”

While the friends were thus jogging onwards, the hunt came to an end, and the hunters, throwing off their coats and turning up their sleeves, drew their scalping-knives, and began the work of skinning and cutting up the animals. While thus engaged their guns and bridles lay handy beside them, for at such times their Indian enemies are apt to pounce on and scalp some of them, should they chance to be in the neighbourhood. At the same time the carts advanced and began to load with meat and marrow-bones. The utmost expedition was used, for all the meat that they should be obliged to leave on the field when night closed in would be lost to them and become the property of the wolves. We know not what the loss amounted to on this occasion. But the gain was eminently satisfactory, no fewer than 1375 tongues, (as tit-bits and trophies), being brought into camp.

Is it to be wondered at that there were sounds of rejoicing that night round the blazing camp-fires? Need we remark that the hissing of juicy steaks sounded like a sweet lullaby far on into the night; that the contents of marrow-bones oiled the fingers, to say nothing of the mouths, cheeks, and noses, of man, woman, and child? Is it surprising that people who had been on short allowance for a considerable time past took advantage of the occasion and ate till they could hardly stand?

Truly they made a night of it. Their Indian visitors, who constituted themselves camp-followers, gorged themselves to perfect satisfaction, and even the dogs, who had a full allowance, licked their lips that night with inexpressible felicity.

Chapter Seven.

Some of the Shadows of a Buffalo-Hunter’s Life.

In order to give the women time to prepare some pemmican for them, Victor Ravenshaw and his companions agreed to spend another day with the hunters, and again, as a matter of course, followed them to the chase.

The same wild pursuit, accompanied by accidents, serious and serio-comic, took place, and success again attended the hunt, but the day did not end so happily, owing to an event which filled the camp with great anxiety. It happened at the close of the day.

The men were dropping into camp by twos and threes, wearied with hard work, more or less covered with dust and blood, and laden with buffalo tongues. Carts, also, were constantly coming in, filled with meat. The women were busy cutting up and drying the meat in the sun, or over a slow fire, melting down fat, pounding the dried meat with stones, and manufacturing bags out of the raw hides. Chatting and merry laughter resounded on all sides, for pemmican and bales of dried meat meant money, and they were coining it fast.

Towards sunset a band of several hunters appeared on the ridge in front of the camp, and came careering gaily towards it. Baptiste Warder, the mighty captain, led. Victor, Ian, Rollin, Winklemann, Flett, Mowat, and others followed. They dashed into camp like a whirlwind, and sprang from their steeds, evidently well pleased with the success of the day.

“Had splendid sport,” said Victor, with glittering eyes, to one of the subordinate captains, who addressed him. “I killed ten animals myself, and Ian Macdonald missed fifteen; Winklemann dropped six, besides dropping himself—”

“Vat is dat you zay?” demanded the big German, who was divesting himself of some of the accoutrements of the chase.

“I say that you tumbled over six buffaloes and then tumbled over yourself,” said Victor, laughing.

“Zat is not troo. It vas mine horse vat tombled. Of course I could not go on riding upon noting after mine horse vas down.”

At supper Herr Winklemann was quieter than usual, and rather cross. His propensity to tumble seemed to be a sore subject with him, both as to body and mind. He made more than one cutting remark to Victor during the meal. After supper pipes were of course lighted, and conversation flowed freely. The only two who did not smoke were Ian Macdonald and, strange to say, Winklemann. That worthy German was a brilliant exception to his countrymen in the matter of tobacco. Victor, under the influence of example, was attempting in a quiet way to acquire the art, but with little success. He took to the pipe awkwardly.

“Vat vor you smok?” asked Winklemann, in a tone of contempt to Victor. “It is clear zat you do not loike it.”

“How d’you know that I don’t like it?” asked Victor, with a blush and a laugh.

“Becowse your face do show it. Ve does not make faces at vat ve loikes.”

“That may be,” retorted Victor, somewhat sharply. “Nevertheless, I have earned a hunter’s right to enjoy my pipe as well as the rest of you.”

“Bon, bon, c’est vrai—true,” cried Rollin, letting a huge cloud escape from his lips.

“Bah! doos killing buffalo give you right to do voolishness? Do not try for deceive yourself. You loike it not, bot you tink it makes you look loike a man. Zat is vat you tink. Nevair vas you more mistouken. I have seen von leetle poy put on a pair of big boots and tink he look very grand, very loike him fadder; bot de boots only makes him look smaller dan before, an’ more foolish. So it is vid de pipe in de mout of de beardless poy.”

Having thrown this apple of discord into the midst of the party, Winklemann shut his mouth firmly, as if waiting for a belligerent reply. As for Victor, he flushed again, partly from indignation at this attack on his liberty to do as he pleased, and partly from shame at having the real motive of his heart so ruthlessly exposed. Victor was too honest and manly to deny the fact that he had not yet acquired a liking for tobacco, and admitted to himself that, in very truth, his object in smoking was to appear, as he imagined, more like a man, forgetful or ignorant of the fact that men, (even smokers), regard beardless consumers of tobacco as poor imitative monkeys. He soon came to see the habit in its true light, and gave it up, luckily, before he became its slave. He would have been more than mortal, however, had he given in at once. Continuing, therefore, to puff with obstinate vigour, he returned to the charge.

“Smoking is no worse than drinking, Winklemann, and you know that you’re fond of beer.”

“Bon!” said Rollin, nodding approval.

“Vat then?” cried the German, who never declined a challenge of any kind, and who was fond of wordy war; “doos my sin joostify yours? Bot you is wrong. If smoking be not worse dan trinking, it is less excusable, for to trink is natural. I may apuse mine power an’ trink vat is pad for me, but den I may likewise trink vat is coot for me. Vit smoking, no; you cannot smok vat is coot; it is all pad togeder. Von chile is porn; vell, it do trink at vonce, vidout learning. Bot did any von ever hear of a chile vat cry for a pipe ven it was porn?”

The laugh with which this question was greeted was suddenly arrested by the sound of a galloping steed. Every one sprang up and instinctively seized a weapon, for the clatter of hoofs had that unmistakable character which indicates desperate urgency. It was low and dull at first, but became suddenly and sharply distinct as a rider rose over the ridge to the left and bore madly down on the camp, lashing his horse with furious persistency.

“It’s young Vallé,” exclaimed Captain Baptiste, hastening to meet him.

Vallé, who was a mere youth, had gone out with his father, Louison Vallé, and the rest of the hunters in the morning. With glaring eyes, and scarce able to speak, he now reined in his trembling steed, and told the terrible news that his father had been killed by Sioux Indians. A party of half-breeds instantly mounted and dashed away over the plains, led by the poor boy on a fresh horse. On the way he told the tale more fully.

We have already said that when skinning the buffalo late in the evening, or at a distance from camp, the hunters ran considerable risk from savages, and were more or less wary in consequence. It was drawing towards sunset when Louison Vallé perceived that night would descend before he could secure the whole of the animals he had shot, and made up his mind to the sacrifice. While busily engaged on a buffalo, he sent his son, on his own horse, to a neighbouring eminence, to watch and guard against surprise. Even while the father was giving directions to the son, a party of Sioux, armed with bows and arrows, were creeping towards him, snake-like, through the long grass. These suddenly rushed upon him, and he had barely time to shout to his son, “Make for the camp!” when he fell, pierced by a shower of arrows. Of course, the savages made off at once, well knowing that pursuit was certain. The murderers were twelve in number. They made for the bush country. Meanwhile, the avengers reached the murdered man. The body was on its back, just as it had fallen. Death must have relieved the unfortunate hunter before the scalp had been torn from his skull.

It was the first time that Victor Ravenshaw had looked upon a slain man. Many a time and oft had he read, with a thrill of interest, glowing descriptions of fights in which isolated acts of courage, or heroism, or magnanimity on the battle-field, coupled with but slight reference to the killed and wounded, had blinded his perceptions as to the true nature of the game of war. Now his eyes beheld the contorted form of one with whose manly aspect he had been familiar in the settlement, scarcely recognisable in its ghastliness, with blue lips, protruding eyeballs, and a horrid mass of coagulated blood where the once curling hair had been. Victor’s ears were still ringing with the deadly shriek that had burst from Vallé’s wife when she heard the dreadful news—just as he and his party galloped out of the camp. He knew also that the dead hunter left several young children to be pinched by dire poverty in future years for want of their natural bread-winner. These and many similar thoughts crowded on his throbbing brain as he gazed at the new and terrible sight, and his eyes began for the first time to open to truths which ever after influenced his opinions while reading of the so-called triumphs of war.

“Vengeance!” was now the cry, as the hunters left the place in hot pursuit.

They knew that the savages could not be far off, and that they were unmounted, but they also knew that if they succeeded in gaining the larger portions of thick bush with which some parts of that region were covered it would be impossible to follow them up. Moreover, it was growing dark, and there was no time to lose.

In a few minutes Ian and Victor were left alone with two men who had agreed to look after the body of the murdered man.

Sadly and silently they assisted in laying the corpse in a cavity of the rocks, and covering it over with large stones to protect it from wolves, and then prepared to leave the spot.

“Will they succeed, think you, in overtaking the murderers?” asked Victor of one of the men.

“Succeed? Ay, no fear of that!” replied the hunter, with a vindictive scowl. “It’s not the first time some of them have been out after the Sioux.”

“We will ride back to camp, Vic,” said Ian, rousing himself from a reverie; “it is no part of our duty to assist in executing vengeance. If the camp were assailed we should indeed be bound to help defend it, but there are more than enough men out to hunt down these murderers. If a cart is not already on its way for the corpse we will send one. Come.”

That night the avengers returned; they had overtaken and shot down eight of the Sioux,—the remaining four gained the bushes and escaped. None of themselves were hurt, but one had a narrow escape, an arrow having passed between his shirt and skin.

Next day Victor and his friends prepared to leave the hunters and resume the chase of Petawanaquat, but they were arrested by one of those terrific thunderstorms which occasionally visit the prairies. They were already mounted and on the point of taking leave, when the air darkened suddenly, the sky became overcast, lightning began to flash in vivid gleams, and a crash of thunder seemed to rend the earth and heavens.

Presently Herr Winklemann, who meant to ride with the parting guests a short way, and was also mounted, uttered a shout, and immediately horse and man rolled upon the plain. The man rose slowly, but the horse lay still—killed by lightning! By the same flash, apparently, another horse was struck dead.

“Vell, you has tomble very often vid me,” said the German, contemplating the fallen steed, “bot you vill tomble again no mor.”

“Oui, he is mort,” sighed Rollin, looking down.

After this first burst there was a considerable lull, but appearances were so gloomy that departure was delayed.

Soon after, the storm burst with a degree of violence that the oldest hunter said he had never before witnessed. Lightning, wind, rain, thunder, seemed to have selected the spot for a battle-ground. Although the camp was pitched on comparatively high and rocky ground, the deluge was so great that in the course of ten minutes nearly everything was afloat. (See Note 1.) The camp was literally swimming, and some of the smaller children were with difficulty saved from drowning. So furious was the wind that the tents were either thrown down or blown to ribbons. During the storm three of the Indian tents, or lodges, were struck by lightning. In one of these a Canadian was killed; in another all the inmates—an Indian, his wife, two children, and two dogs—were killed, and a gun beside them was melted in several parts as though it had been lead.

Then there fell a shower of hail, the stones of which were solid angular pieces of ice larger than a hen’s egg, by which some of the people were severely wounded before they found shelter under the carts and overturned tents.

It was a terrible display of the power of God, and yet, strange to say, so far is such a scene incapable of influencing man’s fallen nature for good, that occasions such as these, when the camp is in disorder, are often taken advantage of by Indians to approach and steal the horses.

Being well aware of this propensity of the red man, Baptiste Warder and his captains kept a sharp look-out. It was well they did so, for, after the storm, a formidable band of Sioux was discovered within a short distance of the camp.

Their wily chief was, however, equal to the occasion. He assumed the rôle of an injured man. He had come to remonstrate with the half-breeds, and charge them with cruelty.

“My warriors,” said he, “killed only one of your people, and for that one you murdered eight of my braves.”

The half-breeds spoke the chief fairly, however, and entertained him and his followers hospitably, so that the affair was amicably settled, and they went away in peace. But dark eyes had met in deadly hatred during the conference.

The party of Indians who had joined the hunters with Victor and his comrades were Saulteaux, (Pronounced Sotoes), and the bitter enemies of the Sioux. Some time after the Sioux had taken their departure, a band of about fifty of these Saulteaux left the camp stealthily, and pursued a detached party of their foes for about ten miles. They overtook them at a small stream. The unsuspecting Sioux prepared to swim over to them, mistaking them at first for friends, but a volley which killed three undeceived them. The fire was instantly returned and a smoke raised to alarm the country. The Saulteaux retreated, while the Sioux, gathering force, pursued, and it is probable that the whole of the assailants would have been scalped if night had not favoured them. In this raid seven Sioux were killed and three wounded. Of the Saulteaux three were killed and four wounded.

Again the camp was visited by enraged and armed Sioux to the number of 300, who challenged the Saulteaux to come forth man to man, and fight it out. The latter declined, and the half-breeds, many of whom were related by marriage to the Saulteaux, managed to patch up a hollow peace between them.

At last Victor, Ian, and Rollin got away, glad to have done both with buffalo and savages. They now possessed three good horses, a supply of fresh provisions, and plenty of ammunition. Thus provided they galloped off with light hearts over the boundless plains, and soon left the camp of the hunters far behind them.

Chapter Eight.

The Chase Continued, and Brought to a Fiery Termination.

With the unerring certainty of blood-hounds, the three friends now settled down to the pursuit of Petawanaquat. From the Saulteaux Indians they had received an exact description of the spot where the fugitive had parted from them; they had, therefore, little difficulty in finding it. Still less difficulty had they in following up the trail, for the grass was by that time very long, and a horse leaves a track in such grass which, if not very obvious to unaccustomed eyes, is as plain as a highway to the vision of a backwoods hunter or a redskin.

Over the prairie waves they sped, with growing excitement as their hopes of success increased; now thundering down into the hollows, anon mounting the gentle slopes at full swing, or rounding the clumps of trees that here and there dotted the prairie like islets in an interminable sea of green; and ever, as they rounded an islet or topped a prairie wave, they strained their eyes in earnest expectation of seeing the objects of their pursuit on the horizon, but for several days they raced, and gazed, and hoped in vain. Still they did not lose confidence, but pressed persistently on.

“Our horses are fresh and good,” said Victor as they reined in to a gentle trot on the brow of a knoll to rest for a few minutes, “and Petawanaquat’s horse, whether good or bad, is double-weighted—although, to be sure, Tony is not heavy.”

“Besides,” said Ian, “the redskin does not dream now of pursuit; so that, pressing on as we do, we must overtake him ere long.”

“Voilà, de buffalo!” said Rollin, pointing to a group of these huge creatures, in the midst of which two bulls were waging furious war, while the cows stood by and looked on. “Shall ve go an’ chase dem?”

“No, Rollin; we have more important game to chase,” said Victor, whose conscience, now that he was free from the exciting influences of the camp, had twinged him more than once for his delay—even although it was partly justifiable—while the image of poor Tony, with outstretched, appealing hands on a flying horse behind a savage, was ever before him. “Come on come on!”

He switched his horse, and went skimming down the slope, followed by his comrades.

Soon they came to a place where the ground was more broken and rocky.

“Voilà! a bar! a bar!” shouted the excitable half-breed; “com, kill him!”

They looked, and there, sure enough, was an object which Rollin declared was a large grizzly bear. It was a long way off, however, and the ground between them seemed very broken and difficult to traverse on horseback. Ian Macdonald thought of the bear’s claws, and a collar, and Elsie, and tightened his reins. Then he thought of the risk of breaking a horse’s leg if the bear should lead them a long chase over such ground, and of the certain loss of time, and of Petawanaquat pushing on ahead. It was a tempting opportunity, but his power of self-denial triumphed.

“No, Rollin, we have no time to hunt.”

“Behold!” exclaimed Rollin again; “more buffalo!”

They had swept past the stony ground and rounded a clump of trees, behind which a small herd of animals stood for a few seconds, staring at them in mute amazement. These snorted, set up their tails, and tore wildly away to the right. This was too much. With a gleeful yell, Rollin turned to pursue, but Victor called to him angrily to let the buffalo be. The half-breed turned back with a sigh.

“Ah, vell! ve must forbear.”

“I say, Vic,” remarked Ian, with a significant smile, “why won’t you go after the buffalo?”

Victor looked at his friend in surprise.

“Surely,” he said, “it is more important as well as more interesting to rescue one’s brother than to chase wild animals!”

“True, but how does that sentiment accord with your wish that you might spend eternity in hunting buffalo?”

“Oh, you know,” returned Victor, with a laugh, “when I said that I wasn’t thinking of—of—”

He switched his horse into a wilder gallop, and said no more. He had said quite enough. He was not the only youth in North America and elsewhere who has uttered a good deal of nonsense without “thinking.” But then that was long ago. Youths are wiser now!

On the evening of that day, when the sun went down, and when it became too dark to follow the trail, and, therefore, unsafe to travel for fear of stumbling into badger-holes, the three friends pulled up beside a clump of wood on the margin of a little stream, and prepared their encampment.

Little did they imagine, while busy with the fire and kettle, how nearly they had gained their end, yet how disastrously they had missed it. Well for man, sometimes, that he is ignorant of what takes place around him. Had the three pursuers known who was encamped in a clump of trees not half a mile beyond them, they would not have feasted that night so heartily, nor would they have gone to sleep with such calm placidity.

In the clump of trees referred to, Petawanaquat himself sat smoking over the dying embers of the fire that had cooked his recently devoured supper, and Tony, full to repletion, lay on his back gazing at him in quiet satisfaction, mingled slightly with wonder; for Tony was a philosopher in a small way, and familiarity with his father’s pipe had failed to set at rest a question which perplexed his mind, namely, why men should draw smoke into their mouths merely to puff it out again!

When the pipe and the camp-fire had burnt low, Tony observed, with much interest, that the Indian’s eyes became suddenly fixed, that his nostrils dilated, his lips ceased to move, the cloud that had just escaped from them curled round the superincumbent nose and disappeared without being followed by another cloud, and the entire man became rigid like a brown statue. At that point Tony ceased to think, because tired nature asserted her claims, and he fell sound asleep.

The practised ear of the Indian had detected the sound of horses’ feet on the prairie. To any ordinary man no sound at all would have been perceptible save the sighing of the night wind. Petawanaquat, however, not only heard the tramp, but could distinguish it from that of buffalo. He rose softly, ascertained that Tony was asleep, turned aside the bushes, and melted into darkness among the trees. Presently he emerged on the plain at the other side of the clump, and there stood still. Patience is one of the red man’s characteristics. He did not move hand or foot for half an hour, during which time, despite the distance of the neighbouring clump, he could easily make out the sound of an axe chopping wood, and even heard human voices in conversation. Then a gleam of light flickered among the trees, and the kindling camp-fire of our three friends became visible.

The Indian now felt comparatively safe. He knew that, whoever the new arrivals might be, they were unsuspicious of his presence in the vicinity, and had encamped for the night. He also knew that when men are busy with supper they are not very watchful, especially when danger is not expected. He, therefore, gave them another quarter of an hour to prepare supper, and then moved stealthily over the plain towards them.

On gaining the shelter of the trees, Petawanaquat advanced with cat-like caution, until he could clearly see the travellers. He recognised them instantly, and a dark frown settled on his features. His first thought was to steal their horses, and thus leave them incapable of pursuing further, but Ian Macdonald was too much of a backwoodsman to give a foe the opportunity to do this. The horses were tethered close beside the fire. Then the Indian thought of shooting them, but his gun being a single-barrel, such as was sold to the Indians by the fur-traders, could only dispose of one horse at a time, thus leaving the other two to his incensed enemies, who would probably capture him before he could reload or regain his own camp. With a feeling of baffled rage he suddenly thought of murder. He could easily kill Ian Macdonald, could probably reload before Rollin should overtake him, and as for Victor, he was nothing! Quick as thought the Indian raised his gun, and took a long steady aim at Ian’s forehead.

The contemplative schoolmaster was looking at the fire, thinking of Elsie at the time. He smiled as he thought of her. Perhaps it was the smile that checked the savage perhaps it was the words, “Thou shalt not kill,” which had been sounded in his ears more than once during the past winter by the missionary. At all events, the fatal trigger was not drawn. Ian’s contemplations were not disturbed, the gun was lowered, and the savage melted once more into the deep shade of the thicket.

Returning to his own camp in the same cat-like manner as before, Petawanaquat quietly but quickly packed his provisions, etcetera, on his horse. When all was ready he tried to awaken Tony, but Tony slept the sleep of infancy and comparative innocence. The Indian pushed him, kicked him, even lifted him up and shook him, before he awoke. Then, expressing astonishment at having to resume the journey at so early an hour, the child submitted silently to orders.

In a few minutes the Indian led his horse down to the rivulet close at hand, crossed it with Tony, half asleep, clinging to his back, ascended the opposite bank, and gained the level plain. Here he mounted, with Tony in front to guard against the risk of his falling off in a state of slumber, and galloped away.

Fortunately for him, the moon had risen, for red men are not a whit better than white at seeing in the dark. Indeed, we question the proverbial capacity of cats in that way. True, the orb of night was clouded, and only in her first quarter, but she gave light enough to enable the horseman to avoid dangers and proceed at full speed. Thus, while the pursuers snored, the pursued went scouring over the prairies, farther and farther towards the fair west.

Michel Rollin, being a lively, restless character, used generally to be up before his comrades in the mornings, and gratified an inquisitive propensity by poking about. In his pokings he discovered the trail of the midnight visitor, and thereupon set up a howl of surprise that effectually roused Ian and Victor. These, guns in hand, rushed, as they fancied, to the rescue.

“What a noisy goose you are!” said Victor, on learning the cause of the cry.

“There is reason for haste, however,” said Ian, rising from a close inspection of the trail. “Some one has been here in the night watching us. Why he didn’t join us if a friend, or kill us if an enemy, puzzles me. If there were horse-tracks about I should say it must have been Petawanaquat himself. Come, we must mount and away without breakfast.”

They went off accordingly, and soon traced the Indian’s original track to the place where he had encamped. Petawanaquat had taken the precaution to pour water on his fire, so as to cool the ashes, and thus lead to the supposition that he had been gone a considerable time, but Ian was not to be so easily deceived. The moment he had examined the extinct fire, and made up his mind, he leaped up and followed the trail to the spot where the Indian had mounted.

“Now then, mount, boys!” he cried, vaulting into the saddle, “no time to lose. The redskin seems to have a good horse, and knows we are at his heels. It will be a straight end-on race now. Hup! get along!”

Their course at first lay over a level part of the plain, which rendered full speed possible; then they came to a part where the thick grass grew rank and high, rendering the work severe. As the sun rose high, they came to a small pond, or pool.

“The rascal has halted here, I see!” cried Ian, pulling up, leaping off, and running to the water, which he lifted to his mouth in both hands, while his panting horse stooped and drank. “It was very likely more for Tony’s sake than for his own. But if he could stop, so can we for a few minutes.”

“It vill make de horses go more better,” said Rollin, unstrapping the pemmican bag.

“That’s right,” cried Victor, “give us a junk—a big one—so—thanks, we can eat it as we go.”

Up and away they went again, urging their horses now to do their utmost, for they began to hope that the day of success had surely arrived.

Still far ahead of his pursuers, the Indian rode alone without check or halt, to the alarm of Tony, who felt that something unusual had occurred to make his self-appointed father look so fierce.

“What de matter?” he ventured to ask. “Nobody chase us.”

“Let Tonyquat shut his mouth,” was the brief reply. And Tony obeyed. He was learning fast!

Suddenly the air on the horizon ahead became clouded. The eyes of the savage dilated with an expression that almost amounted to alarm. Could it be fire? It was—the prairie on fire! As the wind blew towards him, the consuming flames and smoke approached him at greater speed than he approached them. They must soon meet. Behind were the pursuers; in front the flames.

There was but one course open. As the fire drew near the Indian stopped, dismounted, and tore up and beat down a portion of the grass around him. Then he struck a light with flint and steel and set fire to the grass to leeward of the cleared space. It burned slowly at first, and he looked anxiously back as the roar of the fiery storm swelled upon his ear. Tony looked on in mute alarm and surprise. The horse raised its head wildly and became restive, but the Indian, having now lighted the long grass thoroughly, restrained it. Presently he sprang on its back and drew Tony up beside him. Flames and smoke were now on both sides of him. When the grass was consumed to leeward he rode on to the blackened space—not a moment too soon, however. It was barely large enough to serve as a spot of refuge when the storm rolled down and almost suffocated horse and riders with smoke. Then the fire at that spot went out for want of fuel, and thus the way was opened to the coal-black plain over which it had swept. Away flew the Indian then, diverging sharply to the right, so as to skirt the fire, (now on its windward side), and riding frequently into the very fringe of flame, so that his footprints might be burnt up.

When, some hours later, the pursuers met the fire, they went through the same performance in exactly the same manner, excepting that Victor and Rollin acted with much greater excitement than the savage. But when they had escaped the flames, and rode out upon the burnt prairie to continue the chase, every trace of those of whom they were in pursuit had completely vanished away.

Chapter Nine.

Meteorological Changes and Consequences, and a Grand Opportunity Misimproved.

It must not be supposed that the life of a backwoodsman is all pleasure and excitement. Not wishing to disappoint our readers with it, we have hitherto presented chiefly its bright phases, but truth requires that we should now portray some of the darker aspects of that life. For instance, it was a very sombre aspect indeed of prairie-life when Victor Ravenshaw and his party crossed a stony place where Victor’s horse tripped and rolled over, causing the rider to execute a somersault which laid him flat upon the plain, compelling the party to encamp there for three days until he was sufficiently recovered to resume the journey. Perhaps we should say the chase, for, although the trail had been lost, hope was strong, and the pursuers continued to advance steadily in what they believed to be the right direction.

The aspect of things became still more dreary when the fine weather, which was almost uninterrupted as summer advanced, gave way to a period of wind and rain. Still, they pushed on hopefully. Michel Rollin alone was despondent.

“It is a wild goose chase now,” he remarked sulkily one day, while the wet fuel refused to kindle.

That same night Victor half awoke and growled. He seldom awoke of his own accord. Nature had so arranged it that parents, or comrades, usually found it necessary to arouse him with much shouting and shaking—not unfrequently with kicks. But there was a more powerful influence than parents, comrades, or kicks at work that night. Being tired and sleepy, the party had carelessly made their beds in a hollow. It was fair when they lay down. Soon afterwards, a small but exceedingly heavy rain descended like dew upon their unprotected heads. It soaked their blankets and passed through. It soaked their garments and passed through. It reached their skins, which it could not so easily pass through, but was stopped and warmed before being absorbed. A few uneasy turns and movements, with an occasional growl, was the result—nothing more. But when the density of the rain increased, and the crevices in the soil turned into active water-courses, and their hollow became a pool, Victor became, as we have said, half-awake. Presently he awoke completely, sat up, and scratched his head. It was the power of a soft and gentle but persistent influence triumphantly asserted.

“W’ass-’e-marrer?” asked Ian, without moving.

“Why,” (yawning), “Lake Winnipeg is a trifle to this,” said Victor.

“O-gor-o-sleep,” returned Ian.

“Niagara have com to de plains!” exclaimed Rollin, rising to a sitting posture in desperation. “It have been rush ’longside of me spine for two hours by de cloke. Oui.”

This aroused Ian, who also sat up disconsolate and yawned.

“It’s uncomfortable,” he remarked.

No one replied to so ridiculously obvious a truth, but each man slowly rose and stumbled towards higher ground. To add to their discomfort the night was intensely dark; even if wide awake they could not have seen a yard in front of them.

“Have you found a tree?” asked Victor.

“Oui—yes—to be sure,” said Rollin angrily. “Anyhow von branch of a tree have found me, an’ a’most split my head.”

“Where is it?—speak, Ian; I can see nothing. Is it—ah! I’ve found it too.”

“Vid yoos head?” inquired Rollin, chuckling.

Victor condescended not to reply, but lay down under the partial shelter of the tree, rolled himself up in his wet blanket, and went to sleep. His companions followed suit. Yes, reader, we can vouch for the truth of this, having more than once slept damp and soundly in a wet blanket. But they did not like it, and their spirits were down about zero when they mounted at grey dawn and resumed the chase in a dull, dreadful drizzle.

After a time the aspect of the scenery changed. The rolling plain became more irregular and broken than heretofore, and was more studded with patches of woodland, which here and there almost assumed the dignity of forests.

One evening the clouds broke; glimpses of the heavenly blue appeared to gladden our travellers, and ere long the sun beamed forth in all its wonted splendour. Riding out into a wide stretch of open country, they bounded away with that exuberance of feeling which is frequently the result of sunshine after rain.

“It is like heaven upon earth,” cried Victor, pulling up after a long run.

“I wonder what heaven is like,” returned Ian musingly. “It sometimes occurs to me that we think and speak far too little of heaven, which is a strange thing, considering that we all hope to go there in the long-run, and expect to live there for ever.”

“Oh! come now, Mr Wiseman,” said Victor, “I didn’t mean to call forth a sermon.”

“Your remark, Vic, only brings out one of the curious features of the case. If I had spoken of buffalo-hunting, or riding, or boating, or even of the redskin’s happy hunting-grounds—anything under the sun or above it—all would have been well and in order, but directly I refer to our own heaven I am sermonising!”

“Well, because it’s so like the parsons,” pleaded Victor.

“What then? Were not the parsons, as you style them, sent to raise our thoughts to God and heaven by preaching Christ? I admit that some of them don’t raise our thoughts high, and a few of them help rather to drag our thoughts downward. Still, as a class, they are God’s servants; and for myself I feel that I don’t consider sufficiently what they have to tell us. I don’t wish to sermonise; I merely wish to ventilate my own thoughts and get light if I can. You are willing to chat with me, Vic, on all other subjects; why not on this?”

“Oh! I’ve no objection, Ian; none whatever, only it’s—it’s—I say, there seems to me to be some sort of brute moving down in the woods there. Hist! let’s keep round by that rocky knoll, and I’ll run up to see what it is.”

Victor did not mean this as a violent change of subject, although he was not sorry to make the change. His attention had really been attracted by some animal which he said and hoped was a bear. They soon galloped to the foot of the knoll, which was very rugged—covered with rocks and bushes. Victor ascended on foot, while his comrades remained at the bottom holding his horse.

The sight that met his eyes thrilled him. In the distance, on a wooded eminence, sat a huge grizzly bear. The size of Victor’s eyes when he looked back at his comrades was eloquently suggestive, even if he had not drawn back and descended the slope toward them on tiptoe and with preternatural caution.

“A monstrous grizzly!” he exclaimed in a hoarse whisper—though the bear was at beast half a mile off on the other side of the knoll.

The eyes of Ian surpassed those of Victor in the matter of dilation.

“Did he see you?”

“No; he was nibbling his paws when I gave him my last look.”

“Now, comrades,” said Ian, whose usually calm demeanour had given place to intense, yet suppressed excitement, “it may seem selfish—though I hope it is not—when I ask you to leave that bear entirely to me. You know, Vic, that your sister Elsie once expressed a wish for a grizzly-bear collar, and at the time I inwardly resolved to get her one, of my own procuring, if I could. It is a whim, you know, but, in the circumstances, I do hope that—that—”

“Ah! it is for une dame—une affair of de heart. Bon! You shall go in an’ vin,” said the gallant Rollin.

“I don’t know,” said Victor dubiously; “it seems to me rather hard to give up my chance of the first grizzly I’ve ever seen. However, I’m willing to do so on one condition—that Rollin and I go as near you as may be without interfering. You know—excuse me, Ian—what an awful bad shot you are. If you were to miss, you know—which you’re sure to do—and we were not there—eh?”

“All right, you shall go with me; but have a care, no helping of me except in case of dire necessity.”

This being agreed to, they made a wide circuit to reach a hollow. In its shelter they galloped swiftly towards the woodland, near the margin of which the bear had been seen. Arrived at a point which they judged to be near the animal, they dismounted, fastened up their horses, and prepared for war.

There were no encumbrances to lay aside, for they travelled in the simplest possible costume, but Ian drew the charge of his gun, wiped the piece carefully out with a bit of rag, made sure that the touch-hole was clear, fixed in a new flint, and loaded carefully with ball. The others acted similarly.

“Empty de pan an’ prime again ven you gits near,” said Rollin.

Ian made some uncalled-for reference to eggs and the education of Rollin’s grandmother, tightened his belt, felt that the hatchet and scalping-knife were handy behind him, and set off on his adventure, followed by his companions at a considerable distance.

On drawing near to the outer edge of the woods he stooped slightly, and trod with the extreme caution of an Indian. Indeed, no red man could have beaten Ian at woodcraft—except, of course, in the matter of shooting. He felt this defect keenly as he glided along, but never faltered for an instant. Elsie smiled at him as visibly as if she had been there. His mind was made up.

At the edge of the wood he saw the rough spot where the bear had been seen, but no bear was visible. He felt a sinking of the heart. “It must have heard me and run away,” he thought, and hurried forward. The actual spot where it had been seen was reached, but Bruin was not there. Disappointment rendered Ian somewhat impatient. He entered the bushes beyond the knoll hastily. The bear had only changed its position, and was wagging its head and nibbling its paws on the other side of these bushes. It heard a footstep, ceased to nibble and wag, and looked up inquiringly. Suddenly Macdonald burst through the bushes and stood before him.

It is an open question whether the man or the beast was the more surprised, for the former had given up all hope by that time. But the bear was first to recover self-possession, and advanced to meet the intruder.

It is well known that the king of the western wilds is endowed with more than average ferocity and courage. He may perhaps let you alone if you let him alone, but if you take him by surprise he is not prone to flee. The bear in question was a magnificent specimen, with claws like the fingers of a man. Even in that moment of extreme peril Ian saw these claws strung together and encircling Elsie’s neck.

We say that the peril was extreme, for not only was the hunter a bad shot, but the hunted was a creature whose tenacity of life is so great that one shot, even if well placed, is not sufficient to kill it outright.

No one knew all this better than Ian Macdonald, but Elsie smiled approval, and Ian, being a matter-of-fact, unromantic fellow, clenched his teeth with a snap and went down on one knee. The bear quickened his pace and came straight at him. Ian raised his gun. Then there came a gush of feeling of some sort at his heart. What if he should miss? What if the gun should miss fire? Certain death! he well knew that. He took deadly aim when the monster was within a few yards of him and fired at the centre of its chest. The ball took effect on the extreme point of its nose, coursed under the skin over its forehead, and went out at the back of its head.

Never before was a shot taken with a more demonstrative expression of rage. To say that the bear roared would be feeble. A compounded steam-whistle and bassoon might give a suggestive illustration. The pain must have been acute, for the creature fell on its knees, drove its nose into the ground, and produced a miniature earthquake with a snort. Then it sprang up and rushed at its foe. Ian was reloading swiftly for his life. Vain hope. Men used to breech-loaders can scarce understand the slow operations of muzzle-loaders. He had only got the powder in, and was plucking a bullet from his pouch. Another moment and he would have been down, when crack! crack! went shots on either side of him, and the bear fell with a ball from Victor in its heart and another from Rollin in its spine.

Even thus fatally wounded it strove to reach its conquerors, and continued to show signs of ungovernable fury until its huge life went out.

Poor Ian stood resting on his gun, and looking at it, the picture of despair.

“You hit him after all,” said Victor, with a look of admiration at his friend, not on account of the shooting, but of his dauntless courage. “And of course,” he continued, “the grizzly is yours, because you drew first blood.”

Ian did not reply at once, but shook his head gravely.

“If you and Rollin had not been here,” he said, “I should have been dead by this time. No, Vic, no. Do you think I would present Elsie with a collar thus procured? The bear belongs to you and Rollin, for it seems to me that both shots have been equally fatal. You shall divide the claws between you, I will have none of them.”

There was bitterness in poor Ian’s spirit, for grizzly bears were not to be fallen in with every day, and it might be that he would never have another opportunity. Even if he had, what could he do?

“I don’t believe I could hit a house if it were running,” he remarked that night at supper. “My only chance will be to wait till the bear is upon me, shove my gun into his mouth, and pull the trigger when the muzzle is well down his throat.”

“That would be throttling a bear indeed,” said Victor, with a laugh, as he threw a fresh log on the fire. “What say you, Rollin?”

“It vould bu’st de gun,” replied the half-breed, whose mind, just then, was steeped in tobacco smoke. “Bot,” he continued, “it vould be worth vile to try. Possiblement de bu’stin’ of de gun in his troat might do ver vell. It vould give him con—con—vat you call him? De ting vat leetil chile have?”

“Contrariness,” said Victor.

“Contradictiousness,” suggested Ian; “they’re both good long words, after your own heart.”

“Non, non! Con—convulsions, dat is it. Anyhow it vould injure his digestiveness.”

“Ha! ha! yes, so it would,” cried Victor, tossing off a can of cold water like a very toper. “Well, boys, I’m off to sleep, my digestiveness being uninjured as yet. Good-night.”

“What! without a pipe, Vic?”

“Come, now, don’t chaff. To tell you the truth, Ian, I’ve been acting your part lately. I’ve been preaching a sermon to myself, the text of which was given to me by Herr Winklemann the night before we left the buffalo-runners, and I’ve been considerably impressed by my own preaching. Anyhow, I mean to take my own advice—good-night, again.”

Ian returned “good-night” with a smile, and, lying down beside him, gazed long and thoughtfully through the trees overhead at the twinkling, tranquil stars. Michel Rollin continued to smoke and meditate for another hour. Then he shook the ashes out of his pipe, heaped fresh logs on the declining fire, and followed his comrades to the land of Nod.

Chapter Ten.

Fate of the Buffalo-Hunters.

In vain did the pursuers search after the lost Tony. Finding it impossible to rediscover the trail, they made for the nearest post of the fur-traders, from whom they heard of an Indian who had passed that way in the direction of the Rocky Mountains, but the traders had taken no special notice of the boy, and could tell nothing about him. They willingly, however, supplied the pursuers with provisions on credit, for they knew Victor’s father well by repute, and allowed them to join a party who were about to ascend the Saskatchewan river.

On being further questioned, one of the traders did remember that the hair of the boy seemed to him unusually brown and curly for that of a redskin, but his reminiscences were somewhat vague. Still, on the strength of them, Victor and Ian resolved to continue the chase, and Rollin agreed to follow. Thus the summer and autumn passed away.

Meanwhile a terrible disaster had befallen the buffalo-hunters of the Red River.

We have said that after disposing of the proceeds of the spring hunt in the settlement, and thus securing additional supplies, it is the custom of the hunters to return to the plains for the fall or autumn hunt, which is usually expected to furnish the means of subsistence during the long and severe winter. But this hunt is not always a success, and when it is a partial failure the gay, improvident, harum-scarum half-breeds have a sad time of it. Occasionally there is a total failure of the hunt, and then starvation stares them in the face. Such was the case at the time of which we write, and the improvident habits of those people in times of superabundance began to tell.

Many a time in spring had the slaughter of animals been so great that thousands of their carcasses were left where they fell, nothing but the tongues having been carried away by the hunters. It was calculated that nearly two-thirds of the entire spring hunt had been thus left to the wolves. Nevertheless, the result of that hunt was so great that the quantity of fresh provisions—fat, pemmican, and dried meat—brought into Red River, amounted to considerably over one million pounds weight, or about two hundred pounds weight for each individual, old and young, in the settlement. A large proportion of this was purchased by the Hudson’s Bay Company, at the rate of twopence per pound, for the supply of their numerous outposts, and the half-breed hunters pocketed among them a sum of nearly 1200 pounds. This, however, was their only market, the sales to settlers being comparatively insignificant. In the same year the agriculturists did not make nearly so large a sum—but then the agriculturists were steady, and their gains were saved, while the jovial half-breed hunters were volatile, and their gains underwent the process of evaporation. Indeed, it took the most of their gains to pay their debts. Thus, with renewed supplies on credit, they took the field for the fall campaign in little more than a month after their return from the previous hunt.

It is not our purpose to follow the band step by step. It is sufficient to say that the season was a bad one; that the hunters broke up into small bands when winter set in, and some of these followed the fortunes of the Indians, who of course followed the buffalo as their only means of subsistence.

In one of these scattered groups were Herr Winklemann and Baptiste Warder—the latter no longer a captain, his commission having lapsed with the breaking up of the spring hunt. The plains were covered with the first snows. The party were encamped on a small eminence whence a wide range of country could be seen.

“There is a small herd on the horizon,” said Baptiste, descending from the highest part of the hillock towards the fire where the German was seated eating a scrap of dried meat.

“Zat is vell. I vill go after dem.”

He raised his bulky frame with a sigh, for he was somewhat weak and dispirited—the band with which he hunted having been at the starving-point for some days. Winklemann clothed himself in a wolf-skin, to which the ears and part of the head adhered. A small sledge, which may be described as a long thin plank with one end curled up, was brought to him by a hungry-looking squaw. Four dogs were attached to it with miniature harness made to fit them. When all was ready the hunter flung himself flat on his face at full length on the sledge, cracked his whip, and away went the dogs at full speed. Herr Winklemann was armed only with bow and arrows, such weapons being most suitable for the work in hand.

Directing his course to a small clump of trees near to which the buffalo were scraping away the yet shallow snow to reach their food, he soon gained the shelter of the bushes, fastened up the dogs, and advanced through the clump to the other side.

It was a fine sight to a hungry man. About a dozen animals were browsing there not far out of gunshot. Winklemann at once went down on all-fours, and arranged the large wolf-skin so that the legs hung down over his own legs and arms, while the head was pulled over his eyes like a hood. Thus disguised, he crept into the midst of the unsuspicious band.

The buffalo is not afraid of wolves. He treats them with contempt. It is only when he is wounded, or enfeebled by sickness or old age, that his sneaking enemy comes and sits down before him, licking his chops in the hope of a meal.

A fat young cow cast a questioning glance at Winklemann as he approached her. He stopped. She turned aside and resumed her feeding. Then she leaped suddenly into the air and fell quivering on the snow, with an arrow up to the feathers in her side. The hunter did not rise. The animals near to the cow looked at her a moment, as if in surprise at her eccentric behaviour, and then went on feeding. Again the hunter bent his bow, and another animal lay dying on the plain. The guardian bull observed this, lifted his shaggy head, and moved that subtle index of temper, his tail. An ill-directed arrow immediately quivered in his flank. With a roar of rage he bounded into the air, tossed up his heels, and seeing no enemy on whom to wreak his vengeance—for the wolf was crouching humbly on the snow—he dashed wildly away, followed by the rest of the astonished herd.

The whole camp had turned out by that time to resume their journey, and advanced joyfully to meet the returning hunter. As they passed one of the numerous clumps of wood with which the plains were studded, another herd of buffalo started suddenly into view. Among other objects of interest in the band of hunters, there happened to be a small child, which was strapped with some luggage on a little sled and drawn by two dogs. These dogs were lively. They went after the buffalo full swing, to the consternation of the parents of the child. It was their only child. If it had only been a fragment of their only child, the two dogs could not have whisked it off more swiftly. Pursuit was useless, yet the whole band ran yelling after it. Soon the dogs reached the heels of the herd, and all were mixed pell-mell together,—the dogs barking, the sled swinging to and fro, and the buffalo kicking. At length a bull gored one of the dogs; his head got entangled in the harness, and he went off at a gallop, carrying the dog on his horns, the other suspended by the traces, and the sled and child whirling behind him. The enraged creature ran thus for full half a mile before ridding himself of the encumbrance, and many shots were fired at him without effect. Both dogs were killed, but, strange to say, the child was unhurt.

The supply of meat procured at this time, although very acceptable, did not last long, and the group with which Winklemann was connected was soon again reduced to sore straits. It was much the same with the scattered parties elsewhere, though they succeeded by hard work in securing enough of meat to keep themselves alive.

In these winter wanderings after the buffalo, the half-breeds and their families had travelled from 150 to 200 miles from the colony, but in the midst of their privations they kept up heart, always hoping that the sudden discovery of larger herds would ere long convert the present scarcity into the more usual superabundance. But it was otherwise ordained. On the 20th of December there was a fearful snowstorm, such as had not been witnessed for years. It lasted several days, drove the buffalo hopelessly beyond the reach of the hunters, and killed most of their horses. What greatly aggravated the evil was the suddenness of the disaster. According to the account of one who was in Red River at the time, and an eye-witness, the animals disappeared almost instantaneously, and no one was prepared for the inevitable famine that followed. The hunters were at the same time so scattered that they could render each other no assistance. Indeed, the various groups did not know whereabouts the others were. Some were never found. Here and there whole families, despairing of life, weakened by want, and perishing with cold, huddled themselves together for warmth. At first the heat of their bodies melted the snow and soaked their garments. These soon froze and completed the work of destruction. They died where they lay. Some groups were afterwards discovered thus frozen together in a mass of solid ice.

While the very young and the feeble succumbed at once, the more robust made a brave struggle for life, and, as always happens in cases of extreme suffering, the good or evil qualities of men and women came out prominently to view. The selfish, caring only for themselves, forsook their suffering comrades, seized what they could or dared, and thus prolonged awhile their wretched lives. The unselfish and noble-hearted cared for others, sacrificed themselves, and in many cases were the means of saving life.

Among these last were Baptiste Warder and Winklemann.

“I vill valk to de settlement,” said the latter, one morning towards the middle of January, as he rose from his lair and began to prepare breakfast.

“I’ll go with you,” said Warder. “It’s madness to stop here. Death will be at our elbow anyhow, but he’ll be sure to strike us all if we remain where we are. The meat we were lucky enough to get yesterday will keep our party on short allowance for some time, and the men will surely find something or other to eke it out while we push on and bring relief.”

“Goot,” returned the German; “ve vill start after breakfast. My lecks are yet pretty strong.”

Accordingly, putting on their snow-shoes, the two friends set out on a journey such as few men would venture to undertake, and fewer could accomplish, in the circumstances.

On the way they had terrible demonstration of the extent of suffering that prevailed among their friends.

They had not walked twenty miles when they came on tracks which led them to a group—a father, mother, and two sons—who were sitting on the snow frozen to death. In solemn silence the hunters stood for a few minutes and looked at the sad sight, then turned and passed on. The case was too urgent to permit of delay. Many lives hung on their speedy conveyance of news to the settlement. They bent forward, and with long swinging strides sped over the dreary plains until darkness—not exhaustion—compelled them to halt. They carried with them a small amount of pemmican, about half rations, trusting to meet with something to shoot on the way. Before daylight the moon rose. They rose with it and pushed on. Suddenly they were arrested by an appalling yell. Next moment a man rushed from a clump of trees brandishing a gun. He stopped when within fifty yards, uttered another demoniacal yell, and took aim at Warder.

Quick as thought the ex-captain brought his own piece to his shoulder. He would have been too late if the gun of his opponent had not missed fire.

“Stop! ’tis Pierre Vincent!” cried Winklemann, just in time to arrest Warder’s hand.

Vincent was a well-known comrade, but his face was so disfigured by dirt and blood that they barely recognised him. He flung away his gun when it snapped, and ran wildly towards them.

“Come! come! I have food, food! ha! ha! much food yonder in the bush! My wife and child eat it! they are eating eating now! ha! ha!”

With another fierce yell the poor maniac—for such he had become—turned off at a tangent, and ran far away over the plains.

They made no attempt to follow him; it would have been useless. In the bush they found his wife and child stone-dead. Frequently during that terrible walk they came on single tracks, which invariably showed that the traveller had fallen several times, and at length taken to creeping. Then they looked ahead, for they knew that the corpse of a man or woman was not far in advance of them.

One such track led them to a woman with an infant on her back. She was still pretty strong, and trudged bravely over the snow on her snow-shoes, while the little one on her back appeared to be quite content with its lot, although pinched-looking in the face.

The men could not afford to help her on. It would have delayed themselves. The words “life and death” seemed to be ringing constantly in their ears. But they spoke kindly to the poor woman, and gave her nearly all their remaining stock of provisions, reserving just enough for two days.

“I’ve travelled before now on short allowance,” said Warder, with a pitiful smile. “We’re sure to come across something before long. If not, we can travel empty for a bit.”

“Goot; it vill make us lighter,” said Winklemann, with a grave nod.

They parted from the woman, and soon left her out of sight behind. She never reached the settlement. She and the child were afterwards found dead within a quarter of a mile of Pembina. From the report of the party she had left, this poor creature must have travelled upwards of a hundred miles in three days and nights before sinking in that terrible struggle for life.

Warder and his companion did not require to diverge in order to follow these tracks. They all ran one way, straight for Red River—for home! But there were many, very many, who never saw that home again.

One exception they overtook on their fourth day. She was a middle-aged woman, but her visage was so wrinkled by wigwam smoke, and she had such a stoop, that she seemed very old indeed.

“Why, I know that figure,” exclaimed Warder, on sighting her; “it’s old Liz, Michel Rollin’s Scotch mother!”

So it turned out. She was an eccentric creature, full of life, fire, and fun, excessively short and plain, but remarkably strong. She had been forsaken by her nephew, she said. Michel, dear Michel, would not have left her in the lurch if he had been there. But she would be at home to receive Michel on his return. That she would! And she was right. She reached the settlement alive, though terribly exhausted.

Warder and Winklemann did not “come across” anything except one raven, but they shot that and devoured it, bones and all. Then they travelled a day without food and without halt. Next day they might reach the settlement if strength did not fail, but when they lay down that night Warder said he felt like going to die, and Winklemann said that his “lecks” were now useless, and his “lunks” were entirely gone!

Chapter Eleven.

To the Rescue.

Elsie and Cora Ravenshaw were seated at a table in Willow Creek, with their mother and Miss Trim, repairing garments, one night in that same inclement January of which we have been writing.

Mr Ravenshaw was enjoying his pipe by the stove, and Louis Lambert was making himself agreeable. The old man was a little careworn. No news had yet been received of Tony or of Victor. In regard to the latter he felt easy; Victor could take care of himself, and was in good company, but his heart sank when he thought of his beloved Tony. What would he not have given to have had him smashing his pipe or operating on his scalp at that moment.

“It is an awful winter,” observed Elsie, as a gust of wind seemed to nearly blow in the windows.

“I pity the hunters in the plains,” said Cora. “They say a rumour has come that they are starving.”

“I heard of that, but hope it is not true,” observed Lambert.

“Oh! they always talk of starving,” said old Ravenshaw. “No fear of ’em.”

At that moment there was a sound of shuffling in the porch, the door was thrown open, and a gaunt, haggard man, with torn, snow-sprinkled garments, pale face, and bloodshot eyes, stood pictured on the background of the dark porch.

“Baptiste Warder!” exclaimed Lambert, starting up.

“Ay, what’s left o’ me; and here’s the remains o’ Winklemann,” said Warder, pointing to the cadaverous face of the starving German, who followed him.

Need we say that the hunters received a kindly welcome by the Ravenshaw family, as they sank exhausted into chairs. The story of starvation, suffering, and death was soon told—at least in outline.

“You are hungry. When did you eat last?” asked Mr Ravenshaw, interrupting them.

“Two days ago,” replied Warder, with a weary smile.

“It seems like two veeks,” observed the German, with a sigh.

“Hallo! Elsie, Cora, victuals!” cried the sympathetic old man, turning quickly round.

But Elsie, whose perceptions were quick, had already placed bread and beer on the table.

“Here, have a drink of beer first,” said the host, pouring out a foaming glass.

Warder shook his head. Winklemann remarked that, “beer vas goot, ver goot, but they had been used to vatter of late.”

“Ah!” he added, after devouring half a slice of bread while waiting for Cora to prepare another; “blessed brod an’ booter! Nobody can know vat it is till he have starve for two veek—a—I mean two days; all de same ting in my feel—”

The entrance of a huge bite put a sudden and full stop to the sentence.

“Why did you not stop at some of the houses higher up the river to feed?” asked Lambert.

Warder explained that they meant to have done so, but they had missed their way. They had grown stupid, he thought, from weakness. When they lost the way they made straight for the river, guided by the pole-star, and the first house they came in sight of was that of Willow Creek.

“How can the pole-star guide one?” asked Cora, in some surprise.

“Don’t you know?” said Lambert, going round to where Cora sat, and sitting down beside her. “I will explain.”

“If I did know I wouldn’t ask,” replied Cora coquettishly; “besides, I did not put the question to you.”

“Nay, but you don’t object to my answering it, do you?”

“Not if you are quite sure you can do so correctly.”

“I think I can, but the doubts which you and your sister so often throw on my understanding make me almost doubt myself,” retorted Lambert, with a laughing glance at Elsie. “You must know, then, that there is a constellation named the Great Bear. It bears about as much resemblance to a bear as it does to a rattlesnake, but that’s what astronomers have called it. Part of it is much more in the shape of a plough, and one of the stars in that plough is the pole-star. You can easily distinguish it when once you know how, because two of the other stars are nearly in line with it, and so are called ‘pointers.’ When you stand looking at the pole-star you are facing the north, and of course, when you know where the north is, you can tell all the other points of the compass.”

It must not be supposed that the rest of the party listened to this astronomical lecture. The gallant Louis had sought to interest Elsie as well as Cora, but Elsie was too much engrossed with the way-worn hunters and their sad tale to think of anything else. When they had eaten enough to check the fierce cravings of hunger they related more particulars.

“And now,” said Warder, sitting erect and stretching his long arms in the air as if the more to enjoy the delightful sensation of returning strength, “we have pushed on at the risk of our lives to save time. This news must be carried at once to the Governor. The Company can help us best in a fix like this.”

“Of course, of course; I shall send word to him at once,” said his host.

“All right, Baptiste,” said Lambert, coming forward, “I expected you’d want a messenger. Here I am. Black Dick’s in the stable. He’ll be in the cariole in ten minutes. What shall I say to the Governor?”

“I’ll go with you,” answered Warder.

“So vill I,” said Winklemann.

“You’ll do nothing of the sort,” retorted Ravenshaw. “You both need rest. A sound sleep will fit you to do your work more actively in the morning. I myself will go to the fort.”

“Only one can go, at least in my cariole,” remarked Lambert, “for it only holds two, and no one can drive Black Dick but myself.”

Baptiste Warder was immoveable; it ended in his going off in the cariole with Lambert to inform the governor of the colony, who was also chief of the Hudson’s Bay Company in Red River, and to rouse the settlement. They had to pass the cottage of Angus Macdonald on the way.

“Oh! wow!” cried that excitable old settler when he heard the news. “Can it pe possible? So many tead an’ tying. Oh! wow!—Here, Martha! Martha! where iss that wuman? It iss always out of the way she iss when she’s wantit. Ay, Peegwish, you will do equally well. Go to the staple, man, an’ tell the poy to put the mare in the cariole. Make him pe quick; it’s slow he iss at the best, whatever.”

Lambert did not wait to hear the remarks of Angus, but drove off at once. Angus put on his leather coat, fut cap, and mittens, and otherwise prepared himself for a drive over the snow-clad plains to Fort Garry, where the Governor dwelt, intending to hear what was going to be done, and offer his services.

With similarly benevolent end in view, old Ravenshaw harnessed his horse and made for the same goal, regardless alike of rheumatism, age, and inclement weather. At a certain point, not far from the creek, the old trader’s private track and that which led to the house of Angus Macdonald united, and thereafter joined the main road, which road, by the way, was itself a mere track beaten in the snow, with barely room for two carioles to pass. Now, it so happened that the neighbours came up to the point of junction at the same moment. Both were driving hard, being eager and sympathetic about the sufferings of the plain-hunters. To have continued at the same pace would have been to insure a meeting and a crash. One must give way to the other! Since the affair of the knoll these two men had studiously cut each other. They met every Sabbath day in the same church, and felt this to be incongruous as well as wrong. The son of the one was stolen by savages. The son of the other was doing his utmost to rescue the child. Each regretted having quarrelled with the other, but pride was a powerful influence in both. What was to be done? Time for thought was short, for two fiery steeds were approaching each other at the rate of ten miles an hour. Who was to give in?

“I’ll see both carioles smashed to atoms first!” thought Ravenshaw, grinding his teeth.

“She’ll tie first,” thought Angus, pursing his lips.

The instinct of self-preservation caused both to come to a dead and violent halt when within six yards of the meeting-point. A happy thought burst upon Angus at that instant.

“Efter you, sir,” he said, with a palpable sneer, at the same time backing his horse slightly.

It was an expression of mock humility, and would become an evidence of superior courtesy if Ravenshaw should go insolently on. If, on the other hand, he should take it well, a friendly reference to the roads or the weather would convert the sneer into a mere nasal tone.

“Ah, thanks, thanks,” cried Mr Ravenshaw heartily, as he drove past; “bad news that about the plain-hunters. I suppose you’ve heard it.”

“Ay, it iss pad news—ferry pad news inteed, Mister Ruvnshaw. It will pe goin’ to the fort ye are?”

“Yes; the poor people will need all the help we can give them.”

“They wull that; oo ay.”

Discourse being difficult in the circumstances, they drove the remainder of the way in silence, but each knew that the breach between them was healed, and felt relieved. Angus did not, however, imagine that he was any nearer to his desires regarding the knoll. Full well did he understand and appreciate the unalterable nature of Sam Ravenshaw’s resolutions, but he was pleased again to be at peace, for, to say truth, he was not fond of war, though ready to fight on the smallest provocation.

Baptiste Warder was right in expecting that the Company would lend their powerful aid to the rescue.

The moment the Governor heard of the disaster, he took immediate and active steps for sending relief to the plains. Clothing and provisions were packed up as fast as possible, and party after party was sent out with these. But in the nature of things the relief was slow. We have said that some of the hunters and their families had followed the Indians and buffalo to a distance of between 150 and 200 miles. The snow was now so deep that the only means of transport was by dog-sledges. Dogs, being light and short-limbed, can travel where horses cannot, but even dogs require a track, and the only way of making one on the trackless prairie, or in the forest, is by means of a man on snow-shoes, who walks ahead of the dogs and thus “beats the track.” The men employed, however, were splendid and persevering walkers, and their hearts were in the work.

Both Samuel Ravenshaw and Angus Macdonald gave liberally to the cause; and each obtaining a team of dogs, accompanied one of the relief parties in a dog-cariole. If the reader were to harness four dogs to a slipper-bath, he would have a fair idea of a dog-cariole and team. Louis Lambert beat the track for old Ravenshaw. He was a recognised suitor at Willow Creek by that time. The old gentleman was well accustomed to the dog-cariole, but to Angus it was new—at least in experience.

“It iss like as if she was goin’ to pathe,” he remarked, with a grim smile, on stepping into the machine and sitting down, or rather reclining luxuriously among the buffalo robes.

The dogs attempted to run away with him, and succeeded for a hundred yards or so. Then they got off the track, and discovered that Angus was heavy. Then they stopped, put out their tongues, and looked humbly back for the driver to beat the track for them.

A stout young half-breed was the driver. He came up and led the way until they reached the open plains, where a recent gale had swept away the soft snow, and left a long stretch that was hard enough for the dogs to walk on without sinking. The team was fresh and lively.

“She’d petter hold on to the tail,” suggested Angus.

The driver assented. He had already left the front, and allowed the cariole to pass him, in order to lay hold of the tail-line and check the pace, but the dogs were too sharp for him. They bolted again, ran more than a mile, overturned the cariole, and threw its occupant on the snow, after which they were brought up suddenly by a bush.

On the way the travellers passed several others of the wealthy settlers who were going personally to the rescue. Sympathy for the plain-hunters was universal. Every one lent a willing hand. The result was that the lives of hundreds were saved, though many were lost. Their sufferings were so great that some died on their road to the colony, after being relieved at Pembina. Those found alive had devoured their horses, dogs, raw hides, leather, and their very moccasins. Mr Ravenshaw and his neighbour passed many corpses on the way, two of which were scarcely cold. They also passed at various places above forty sufferers in seven or eight parties, who were crawling along with great difficulty. To these they distributed the provisions they had brought with them. At last the hunters were all rescued and conveyed to the settlement—one man, with his wife and three children, having been dug out of the snow, where they had been buried for five days and nights. The woman and children recovered, but the man died.

Soon after this sad event the winter began to exhibit unwonted signs of severity. It had begun earlier, and continued later than usual. The snow averaged three feet deep in the plains and four feet in the woods, and the cold was intense, being frequently down to forty-five degrees below zero of Fahrenheit’s scale, while the ice measured between five and six feet in thickness on the rivers.

But the great, significant, and prevailing feature of that winter was snow. Never within the memory of man had there been such heavy, continuous, persistent snow. It blocked up the windows so that men had constantly to clear a passage for daylight. It drifted up the doors so that they were continually cutting passages for themselves to the world outside. It covered the ground to such an extent that fences began to be obliterated, and landmarks to disappear, and it weighted the roofs down until some of the weaker among them bid fair to sink under the load.

“A severe winter” was old Mr Ravenshaw’s usual morning remark as he went to the windows, pipe in hand, before breakfast. To which his better half invariably replied, “Never saw anything like it before;” and Miss Trim remarked, “It is awful.”

“It snows hard—whatever,” was Angus Macdonald’s usual observation about the same hour. To which his humble and fast friend Peegwish—who assisted in his kitchen—was wont to answer, “Ho!” and glare solemnly, as though to intimate that his thoughts were too deep for utterance.

Thus the winter passed away, and when spring arrived it had to wage an unusually fierce conflict before it gained the final victory over ice and snow.

Chapter Twelve.

Victory!

But before that winter closed, ay, before it began, a great victory was gained, which merits special mention here. Let us retrace our steps a little.

One morning, while Ian Macdonald was superintending the preparation of breakfast in some far-away part of the western wilderness, and Michel Rollin was cutting firewood, Victor Ravenshaw came rushing into camp with the eager announcement that he had seen the footprints of an enormous grizzly bear!

At any time such news would have stirred the blood of Ian, but at that time, when the autumn was nearly over, and hope had almost died in the breast of our scholastic backwoodsman, the news burst upon him with the thrilling force of an electric shock.

“Now, Ian, take your gun and go in and win,” said Victor with enthusiasm, for the youth had been infected with Rollin’s spirit of gallantry.

“You see,” Rollin had said to Victor during a confidential tête-à-tête, “ven a lady is in de case ye must bow de head. Ian do love your sister. Ver goot. Your sister do vish for a bar-claw collar. Ver goot. Vell, de chance turn up at last—von grizzly bar do appear. Who do shot ’im? Vy, Ian, certaintly. Mais, it is pity he am so ’bominibly bad shot!”

Victor, being an unselfish fellow, at once agreed to this; hence his earnest advice that Ian should take his gun and go in and win. But Ian shook his head.

“My dear boy,” he said, with a sigh, “it’s of no use my attempting to shoot a bear, or anything else. I don’t know what can be wrong with my vision, I can see as clear and as far as the best of you, and I’m not bad, you’ll allow, at following up a trail over hard ground; but when it comes to squinting along the barrel of a gun I’m worse than useless. It’s my belief that if I took aim at a haystack at thirty yards I’d miss it. No, Vic, I must give up the idea of shooting altogether.”

“What! have you forgotten the saying, ‘Faint heart never won fair lady?’” exclaimed Victor, in surprise.

“Nay, lad, my memory is not so short as that, neither is my heart as faint as you seem to think it. I do intend to go in and win, but I shall do it after a fashion of my own, Vic.”

Rollin, who came up at the moment and flung a bundle of sticks on the fire, demanded to know what “vas the vashion” referred to.

“That I won’t tell you at present, boys,” said Ian; “but, if you have any regard for me, you’ll make me a solemn promise not in any way to interfere with me or my plans unless you see me in actual and imminent danger of losing my life.”

“Jus’ so,” said Rollin, with a nod, “ye vill not step in to de reskoo till you is at de very last gasp.”

Having obtained the requisite promise, Ian set off with his comrades to examine the bear’s track. There could be but one opinion as to the size of the grizzly which had made it. As Victor had said, it was enormous, and showed that the animal had wandered about hither and thither, as if it had been of an undecided temperament. Moreover the track was quite fresh.

Of course there was much eager conversation about it among the friends; carried on in subdued tones and whispers, as if they feared that the bear might be listening in a neighbouring bush. After discussing the subject in every point of view, and examining the tracks in every light, they returned to the camp, at Victor’s suggestion, to talk it over more fully, and make preparations for the hunt. Ian, however, cut short their deliberations by reminding his comrades of their promise, and claiming the strict fulfilment of it.

“If this thing is to be undertaken by me,” he said, “I must have it all my own way and do the thing entirely by myself.”

“Nobody objects to your having it all your own way,” retorted Victor, somewhat testily, “but why should you be so secret about it? Why not give a fellow some sort of idea what your plan is, so that, if we can’t have the pleasure of helping you, we may at least enjoy the comfort of thinking about it?”

“No, Vic, no. I won’t give you a hint, because my plan is entirely new, and you would laugh at it; at least it is new to me, for I never heard of its having been attempted with grizzlies before, though I have heard of it in connection with other bears. Besides, I may fail, in which case the less that is known about my failure the better. Only this much will I say, the idea has been suggested to me by the formation of the land hereabouts. You know there is a gap or pass in the rocks just ahead of us, through which the bear seems to have passed more than once in the course of his rambles. Well, that gap is the spot where I will make my attempt. If you follow me to that gap I will at once return to camp and let you manage the matter yourselves.”

“Well, well, do as you please,” said Victor, with a laugh, “and the sooner you set about it the better. Rollin and I will ride away some miles in the opposite direction and see if we can’t get hold of a wild goose for supper.”

“Ha! perhaps de grizzly vill get hold of anoder and a vilder goose for supper,” said Rollin, with a shake of his head.

When his companions had departed, Ian Macdonald cleaned his gun carefully and loaded with ball; then placing his axe in his belt beside his scalping-knife, he proceeded with long and rapid strides towards the gap or pass above referred to. The bear’s track led through this pass, which was a narrow cut, not more than thirty feet wide, in a steep rocky ridge with which the country at that place was intersected for a considerable distance. The ridge itself, and the pass by which it was divided, were thickly covered with trees and dense undergrowth.

The floor of the pass was level, although rugged, and the rocks on either side rose in a sheer precipice, so that whoever should attempt to penetrate without wings to the region beyond must needs go by that narrow cut.

Arrived at the middle of the pass, where it was narrowest, Ian leant his gun against the precipice on one side, took off his coat, tucked up his sleeves, grasped his axe, and attacked a mighty tree. Like Ulysses of old, he swung the axe with trenchant power and skill. Huge chips flew circling round. Ere long a goodly tree creaked, groaned, and finally fell with a crash upon the ground. It was tough work. Ian heaved a sigh of satisfaction and wiped his streaming brow as he surveyed the fallen monarch. There was another king of the same size near to the opposite precipice, which he felled in the same way. Both monarchs mingled and severely injured their royal heads in the middle of the pass, which thus became entirely blocked up, for our woodsman had so managed that the trees fell right across it.

Next, Ian attacked the united heads, and with great labour hewed a passage through them, near to a spot where a large boulder lay. Selecting another forest king, Ian cut it so that one end of it fell on the boulder. The result of all this hewing and guiding of the falling monarchs was that the only available track through the pass was a hole about four feet in diameter, with a tree of great weight suspended above it by the boulder.

To chop off the branches and convert this latter tree into a log did not take long. Neither did it take much time or exertion to fashion a sort of support, or trigger, in the shape of a figure 4, immediately under the log, so as to obstruct the hole before mentioned. But to lower the log gently from the boulder on to this trigger without setting it off was a matter of extreme difficulty, requiring great care and much time, for the weight of the log was great, and if it should once slip to the ground, ten Ian Macdonalds could not have raised it up again. It was accomplished at last, however, and several additional heavy logs were leaned upon the main one to increase its weight.

“If he returns this way at all, he will come in the evening,” muttered Ian to himself, as he sat down on a stump and surveyed his handiwork with a smile of satisfaction. “But perhaps he may not come back till morning, in which case I shall have to watch here all night, and those impatient geese in the camp will be sure to disturb us on the plea that they feared I had been killed—bah! and perhaps he won’t come at all!”

This last idea was not muttered; it was only thought, but the thought banished the smile of satisfaction from Ian’s face. In a meditative mood he took up his gun, refreshed the priming and slightly chipped the flint, so as to sharpen its edge and make sure of its striking fire.

By that time it was long past noon, and the hunter was meditating the propriety of going to a neighbouring height to view the surrounding country, when a slight noise attracted his attention. He started, cocked his gun, glared round in all directions, and held his breath.

The noise was not repeated. Gradually the frown of his brows melted, the glare of his eyes abated, the tension of his muscles was relaxed, and his highly-wrought feelings escaped in a long-drawn sigh.

“Pshaw ’twas nothing. No bear in its senses would roam about at such an hour, considering the row I have been kicking up with hacking and crashing. Come, I’ll go to the top of that crag, and have a look round.”

He put on his coat and belt, stuck his axe and knife into the latter, shouldered his gun, and went nimbly up the rocky ascent on his left.

Coming out on a clear spot at the crag which had attracted him, he could see the whole pass beneath him, except the spot where his trap had been laid. That portion was vexatiously hidden by an intervening clump of bushes. Next moment he was petrified, so to speak, by the sight of a grizzly bear sauntering slowly down the pass as if in the enjoyment of an afternoon stroll.

No power on earth—except, perhaps, a glance from Elsie—could have unpetrified Ian Macdonald at that moment. He stood in the half-crouching attitude of one about to spring over the cliff—absolutely motionless—with eyes, mouth, and nostrils wide open, as if to afford free egress to his spirit.

Not until the bear had passed slowly out of sight behind the intervening bushes was he disenchanted. Then, indeed, he leaped up like a startled deer, turned sharp round, and bounded back the way he had come, with as much caution and as little noise as was compatible with such vigorous action.

Before he had retraced his steps ten yards, however, he heard a crash! Well did he know what had caused it. His heart got into his threat somehow. Swallowing it with much difficulty, he ran on, but a roar such as was never uttered by human lungs almost stopped his circulation. A few seconds brought Ian within view of his trap, and what a sight presented itself!

A grizzly bear, which seemed to him the hugest, as it certainly was at that moment the fiercest, that ever roamed the Rocky Mountains, was struggling furiously under the weight of the ponderous tree, with its superincumbent load of logs. The monster had been caught by the small of the back—if such a back can be said to have possessed a small of any kind—and its rage, mingled as it must have been with surprise, was awful to witness.

The whole framework of the ponderous trap trembled and shook under the influence of the animal’s writhings. Heavy though it was, the bear shook it so powerfully at each spasm of rage, that it was plainly too weak to hold him long. In the event of his breaking out, death to the trapper was inevitable.

Ian did not hesitate an instant. His chief fear at the moment was that his comrades at the camp might have heard the roaring—distant though they were from the spot—and might arrive in time to spoil, by sharing, his victory.

Victory? Another struggle such as that, and victory would have rested with the bear! Ian resolved to make sure work. He would put missing out of the question. The tremendous claws that had already worked a small pit in the earth reminded him of the collar and of Elsie. Leaping forward, he thrust the point of his gun into the ear of the infuriated animal and pulled the trigger. He was almost stunned by the report and roar, together with an unwonted shock that sent him reeling backward.

We know not how a good twist-barrelled gun would behave if its muzzle were thus stopped, but the common Indian gun used on this occasion was not meant to be thus treated. It was blown to pieces, and Ian stood gazing in speechless surprise at the fragment of wood remaining in his hand. How far it had injured the bear he could not tell, but the shot had not apparently abated its power one jot, for it still heaved upwards in a paroxysm of rage, and with such force as nearly to overthrow the complex erection that held it down. Evidently there was no time to lose.

Ian drew his axe, grasped it with both hands, raised himself on tiptoe, and brought it down with all his might on the bear’s neck.

The grizzly bear is noted for tenacity of life. Ian had not hit the neck-bone. Instead of succumbing to the tremendous blow, it gave the handle of the axe a vicious twist with its paw, which jerked the hunter violently to the ground. Before he could recover himself, the claws which he coveted so much were deep in his right thigh. His presence of mind did not forsake him even then. Drawing his scalping-knife, he wrenched himself round, and twice buried the keen weapon to the haft in the bear’s side.

Just then an unwonted swimming sensation came over Ian; his great strength seemed suddenly to dissipate, and the bear, the claw collar, even Elsie, faded utterly from his mind.

The stars were shining brightly in the calm sky, and twinkling with pleasant tranquillity down upon his upturned countenance when consciousness returned to Ian Macdonald.

“Ah, Vic!” he murmured, with a long sad sigh; “I’ve had such a splendid dream!”

“Come, that’s right, old boy. Here, have another mouthful,” said Victor, holding a tin can to his friend’s lips. “It’s only tea, hot and strong—the best thing in the world to refresh a wounded man; and after such a fight—”

“What!” exclaimed Ian, starting and sitting bolt upright, while he gazed in the faces of his two comrades. “Is it true? Have I killed the—the—grizzly?”

“Killed him!” exclaimed Victor, rising; “I should think you have.”

“Killed ’im!” echoed Rollin. “You’s killed ’im two or tree time over; vy, you’s axed ’im, stabbed ’im, shotted ’im, busted ’im, squashed ’im—ho!—”

“Am I much damaged?” inquired Ian, interrupting, for he felt weak.

“Oh! no—noting whatsocomever. Only few leetil holes in you’s legs. Be bedder in a veek.”

“Look here,” said Victor, kneeling beside the wounded man and presenting to him a piece of wood on which were neatly arranged a row of formidable claws. “I knew you would like to see them.”

“How good of you, Vic! It was thoughtful of you, and kind. Put them down before me—a little nearer—there,—so.”

Ian gazed in speechless admiration. It was not that he was vain of the achievement; he was too sensible and unselfish for that; but it was such a pleasure to think of being able, after all, and in spite of his bad shooting, to present Elsie with a set of claws that were greatly superior to those given to her mother by Louis Lambert—the finest, in short, that he had ever seen.

Chapter Thirteen.

A Cunning Device ends in Failure Followed by Destruction.

In a previous chapter it has been told how the long hard winter of that year, (1826), had passed away, after an unwontedly severe tussle with the spring. The prophets of the land now began to hold up their heads and look owlishly wise, for their predictions were evidently about to be fulfilled.

Had not old Sam Ravenshaw said all through the winter that “something would come of it”? Was it not the daily remark of Angus Macdonald that such a state of things, “could not go on for ever—whatever”? Had not Peegwish glared prophecy with a degree of solemnity that rendered words not only impossible, but unnecessary? and had not Miss Trim asserted that dreadful consequences of some sort were sure to follow?

Dreadful consequences did follow, and they began with a fine warm day. For a considerable time the fields of snow had been subjected to the influence of the blazing sun, and had been greatly diminished in depth. The day in question, however, was so very warm that Louis Lambert was induced to take his horse and gun with a view to wolf-hunting on the plains. The hard crust formed on the snow’s surface by the partial meltings of early spring is sufficiently strong to bear the weight of a wolf, but will not support a horse. Wolves, therefore, roam about with ease and at will at that period, while horses are obliged to keep to beaten tracks. When, however, the thaws set in, the case is reversed. The wolf, with his short limbs, flounders laboriously in the drifts of soft snow, while the horse, with his long and powerful legs, can gallop in spite of these. Thus wolf-hunting becomes, for a time, possible.

Louis Lambert was fond of the chase. He was also fond of courting, and, resolving to combine the two, galloped away to the abode of old Ravenshaw. He had been there so often of late that he felt half ashamed of this early morning visit. Lovers easily find excuses for visits. He resolved to ask if Herr Winklemann had been seen passing that morning, as he wished his companionship on the plains—the shallow deceiver!

“Good-morning, Cora,” he said, on entering the hall.

Elsie, who stood at the window with her back to the door, turned quickly round.

“Oh, I beg pardon,” he said, with a slightly confused air; “I thought you were Cora, and—”

“Well,” interrupted Elsie, with a hurt look that accorded ill with a twinkle in her eyes; “I think you might know the difference between me and Cora by this time, though you only saw my back.”

“Ah, Elsie!” returned the youth, as he shook hands, “you ought in fairness to make allowance for the effects of spring. You know full well that the glare of the sun on the snow half blinds a fellow, so that even when, when—”

“Come, now, don’t search about in your empty brain for one of your unmeaning compliments, but say at once what brings you here at so early an hour. Has a war party of Sioux come down on us, or is the river about to break up?”

“War-parties of Sioux are no doubt prowling about the plains somewhere,” returned Lambert, with a smile, “and the ice will go soon if this heat continues; but neither of these things brought me here. The truth is, I came to ask if Winklemann has been seen to pass your windows this morning?”

“The truth?” repeated Elsie, with a searching look.

“Well,” replied the youth, with a laugh, “I came also to see you and—and—Cora.”

“And father also, I suppose?”

“Why, Elsie, you are unusually sharp this morning; but I really do wish to know if Winklemann has been seen, because he had left home when I passed his house, and I want him to hunt with me.”

“Then I may tell you that he passed our window not ten minutes before your arrival, going in the direction of the Lower Fort. He rides fast, as you know, so if you would catch him up you must follow quickly.”

The young man stood for a moment undecided, then, perceiving that Elsie gave him no encouragement to remain, he bade her adieu and rode away.

“Louis is remarkably fond of coming here,” said Elsie to Cora, who entered the room a few minutes later, “but he did not come to see us this morning. He only came to ask after Herr Winklemann.”

Cora laughed, but gave no further evidence of the state of her mind.

Just then Peegwish the Indian entered. He walked towards the sisters with that solemn dignity of manner peculiar to the North American savage, but the intensified solemnity of his looks and a certain unsteadiness in his gait rather marred the dignity.

“Peegwish,” said Elsie, going towards him with a grieved look, “you have been drinking beer again.”

The Indian protested, in very bad English, that he had not tasted beer since the previous Christmas; whereupon Elsie proceeded to administer an earnest reproof to the muddled hypocrite, for she was really anxious to save him from the destruction which had already overtaken many of his red brethren through the baleful influence of fire-water; but Peegwish was just then in no condition to appreciate her remarks. To all she said his only reply was that he wanted “bally.”

“You want bally?” returned Elsie, with a puzzled look.

“Yis—bally,” he repeated, and a gleam of indescribable slyness broke like a sunbeam on his solemn visage as he said it.

“What can he mean by bally, Cora?”

“Perhaps he means barley.”

“Ho!” exclaimed the Indian, with emphasis, by which he meant, “You’re right.”

But Elsie had no barley to give him. She tried to find out what he wanted to do with the barley, but Peegwish was not communicative. The gleam of cunning faded from his mahogany countenance, and he relapsed into a state of impenetrable wisdom, in which condition he retired, and betook himself to the upper part of the settlement, near Fort Garry, in quest of “bally.” Here he found the people in a state of considerable excitement owing to the sudden and unusual rise of the river.

At Fort Garry the Assinaboine River joins the Red River, and flows with it into Lake Winnipeg. At the period of which we write, (the month of May), both rivers were yet covered with the icy garment—between four and five feet thick—under which they had gone to rest five or six months before. The vast accumulation of snow which had fallen that winter was melted so fast that the Red River had risen with terrible rapidity, and it was obvious, from the ominous complainings of the “thick-ribbed ice,” that a burst-up of unwonted violence was impending. The strength of the ice, however, was so great that it rose with the swelling waters without breaking until nearly on a level with the top of the river banks. In some places, where the banks were low, the pent-up floods broke forth and swamped the land, but as yet little damage had been done.

Of course the alarm of the settlers was considerable. Rumours of former floods which had devastated the surrounding plains were rife, and those of the people whose houses stood on the lower grounds began to remove their goods and chattels to higher places. Others delayed doing so in the belief that the river would not rise much higher, at all events that it would subside as soon as the ice broke up and cleared away to Lake Winnipeg. Some there were whose dwellings stood on high ground, and who professed to have no belief in floods at all.

In other circumstances Peegwish would have noted the state of things that prevailed, but at that time his faculties were steeped in beer. For some days past they had been in this condition, but his supply was exhausted, and people who knew his propensity refused to give him more. Peegwish, therefore, being a somewhat resolute savage, resolved to adopt a course which would render him independent. Chuckling to himself at the depth and cunning of his intended course of action, he went among the farmers begging for “bally”! Some to whom he appealed treated him facetiously, others turned him away from their doors, being too anxious about the impending flood to listen to him. At last he found a soft-hearted soul in the person of Michel Rollin’s mother, old Liz, who dwelt in a very small log-hut on a knoll at a considerable height above the river.

“What d’ee want wi’ the barley?” demanded old Liz, who, besides being amiable, had a feeling of kindness for the man with whom her absent son had for years been in the habit of hunting.

“To heat ’im,” replied the Indian.

“To eat it,” echoed the sturdy little woman; “weel, come in. I can spare some, but dinna mak’ a noise, Daddy’s sleepin’.”

The savage entered with solemn though wavering caution. Old though she was, Liz had a living father. He was so very ancient, that if he had dwelt in Egypt he would probably have been taken for a live mummy. He sat in the chimney corner, in an arm-chair to which Liz had tied him to prevent his falling into the fire. He smiled and nodded at the fire when awake, and snored and nodded at it when asleep. Beyond this, and a grateful recognition of his daughter’s attentions, he did and said nothing. Gazing at Daddy, Peegwish fell into an owlish reverie, from which he was aroused by old Liz putting a small sack of barley on the ground before him. The Indian received it with thanks, threw it on his shoulder, and with an expression of unalterable determination on his visage, returned to his own home.

The home of Peegwish was dilapidated like himself. It stood on a portion of ground belonging to Angus Macdonald, and was very near to the river’s brink. It was a mere log-cabin of the smallest dimensions, having one low door and one glassless window. The window also served the purpose of a chimney. Its furniture was in keeping with its appearance—a stool, a couple of blankets, two little heaps of brushwood for beds, a kettle or two, a bag of pemmican, an old flint gun, two pairs of snow-shoes, a pair of canoe-paddles, a couple of very dirty bundles, and an old female. The latter was the dirtiest piece of furniture in the establishment. She was sister to Peegwish, and was named by him Wildcat.

Despite appearances, the hut was comfortably warm, for Wildcat—who, to do her justice, had been grossly misnamed—was fond of heat. She devoted the chief part of her existence to the collection of fuel, most of the remainder being spent in making moccasins, etcetera, and cooking.

“Put on the pot, Wildcat,” said Peegwish on entering, as he threw down the sack of barley.

The woman obeyed with alacrity. The fire burned on the earthen floor in primitive style. Erecting three sticks over it in the tripod form, she hung a pot therefrom, filled it with water, and awaited further orders. Knowing her brother’s cast of mind well, she refrained from questioning, though she perceived from the peculiar cunning of his looks that something unusual occupied his mind. Peegwish saw that Wildcat’s curiosity was aroused, and resolved to keep it in that condition. He had learned the fact that beer was made from barley, and had resolved, thenceforth, to brew his own beer; but no hint of this did he permit to escape him. He even went to the other extreme, and became unusually communicative on subjects remote from beer. He told how that the people up the river were being frightened by the rise in the water; how he had met Lambert and Winklemann going to hunt wolves; how these Nimrods had been obliged to change their minds and turn back for the purpose of looking after their property; and, in short, he wandered as far from the subject of beer and brewing as possible.

His reference to the rise of the river, however, turned Wildcat’s thoughts to the fact that the ice in their immediate neighbourhood had been forced up in a manner that caused her some anxiety. She mentioned her fears to Peegwish, but that worthy was too deeply immersed in his experiments just then to care much for anything else. To her remarks he merely replied by a solemn shake of the head and an owlish gaze into the big pot.

Soon the water in the pot began to boil. Peegwish put in a large proportion of barley, lighted his pipe, and sat down to await the result with the patience of a Stoic. Wildcat sat beside him with equal patience. An hour passed, Peegwish dipped a wooden spoon into the pot and tasted. The result was not satisfactory—it burnt his lips. He let the spoonful cool, and tried again. The liquid was marvellously like barley-broth, with which delicacy he was well acquainted. Another hour passed; again he dipped the spoon, and again met with disappointment, for his brew was not yet beer. The sun went down, the moon arose, the stars came out, and still Peegwish and Wildcat sat watching and dozing over the big pot.

At last the former bade the latter watch alone while he slept. He lay back where he sat and slumbered instantly. Wildcat obeyed orders by heaping fresh logs on the fire and following suit. They snored in concert.

The night advanced; the uneasy grindings of the ice increased; the tinkling of a thousand snow-born rills filled the air with liquid melody. The sub-glacial murmuring of many waters filled many hearts with anxious care, and numerous households near the river’s brink sat up the live-long night to watch—perhaps to pray. Intermittent cracking of the ice kept up the sound, as it were, of spattering musketry, and occasional loud reports were interspersed like the thunder of heavy guns.

At grey dawn Peegwish awoke, looked slowly round, observed his sister asleep, and seized her by the nose. She awoke, rose hastily, and stirred the fire. An inspection of the big pot showed that its contents had become barley porridge. Even Peegwish’s imagination failed to regard it as beer. But Peegwish had been somewhat sobered by his sleep. Hearing the ominous sounds on the river he jumped up and ran outside. The sight that presented itself was sufficiently alarming. During the night the water had risen six feet, and the ice had been raised to a level with the floor of the Indian’s hut. But this was not the worst. A short tongue of land just above the hut had up to that time formed a sort of breakwater to the dwelling. Now, however, the ice had been forced quite over the barrier by the irresistible pressure behind, and even while he gazed a great wedge of ice, nearly five feet thick and several yards in length, was being reared up like a glittering obelisk, and forced slowly but surely down upon the hut.

Peegwish had not recovered from his first surprise when the obelisk broke off by its own weight and fell in a mass of ruins, whilst the ice behind kept thrusting with terrible force towards him.

If Peegwish was sluggish by nature his malady was evidently not incurable. He uttered a shout, and leaped back into his hut like a panther. His sister came out, gave one glance at the river, became wild-cattish for the first time in her life, and sprang after her brother.

A few seconds later and the pair reappeared, bearing some of their poor possessions to a place of safety higher up the bank. They returned for more, and in a very few minutes had the whole of their worldly wealth removed from their doomed edifice. Then they sat down on the bank, and sadly watched the destruction of their home.

From their point of view they could see that the main body of ice on the river was still unbroken, and that it was merely a huge tongue, or needle, which had been thrust up at that point by the form of the land above referred to. The shattered masses were soon forced against the side of the hut. There was a slight pause and a creaking of timbers; then the ice slipped upwards and rose above the roof. More ice came down from above—slowly grinding. Again there was a pause. The creaking timbers began to groan, the hut leaned gently over. One of the door-posts snapped, the other sloped inwards, the roof collapsed, the sides went in, the ice passed over all, and the hut of Peegwish was finally obliterated from off the face of the earth. So, a giant with his foot might slowly and effectually crush the mansion of a snail!

Chapter Fourteen.

The Flood begins to do its Work.

“It is very sad that the hut of poor Peegwish has been carried away,” observed Miss Martha Macdonald, while presiding at the breakfast-table.

“Yes, it iss fery sad,” responded Angus Macdonald, in a somewhat unamiable tone; “but it iss more sad that he will pe living in our kitchen now, for that wuman Wildcat must pe there too, and it iss not coot for Wildcat to live in the kitchen. She will pe too fond of the kitchen altogether, an’ she will pe a greater thief than our own cawtie, for she is more omniferous an’ not so easy to scare.”

“But cook is as good as a weasel at watching cats,” returned Martha, with a smile; “and it is reason we have to be thankful we have no heavier trouble, Angus, for many of the people up the river are driven out of their houses.”

“What you say iss true, Martha. Just pefore breakfast I met that Cherman crater, Winklemann, ridin’ to the mission-house for help. The ice would pe scrapin’ the end of his gardin, he was tellin’ me, an’ if the ruver would pe risin’ another fut it would come into the house. He says the people are goin’ off to the mountain like flocks of sheep, carryin’ their coots and trivin’ their cattle pefore them. It is fery pad times, whatever.”

In the parlour of Willow Creek House the breakfast party enlarged on the same theme.

“Things look serious,” observed Samuel Ravenshaw, as he commenced his third egg. “If the water rises at this rate much longer, not only the houses that stand low on the river banks, but the whole settlement will be in danger. It is said that four houses and a barn were swept away last night by the force of the ice somewhere above the mission premises, and that about sixty people slept in the church.”

“It is well that our house stands high,” said Mrs Ravenshaw. “Don’t you think, Sam, that we might have the barn prepared, in case some of our neighbours have to leave their houses?”

“The barn is ready, mother,” said Elsie. “Father and I have been arranging it all the morning with the aid of Peegwish, poor fellow, who has been sent to us by Macdonald.”

“Ay, and it’s as trim as an hospital,” added Mr Ravenshaw; “but I hope it won’t be wanted. The ice is now clearing away. When it is gone, the river will be sure to fall.—Tell the boy to saddle the horse, Cora,” continued the old gentleman, attacking his fourth egg. “I shall ride up to see how Winklemann gets on. Lambert is helping him.”

“Is Lambert’s own house safe?” asked Elsie, with a glance at her sister.

“Safe enough just now,” replied her father; “for it stands much higher and further back.”

“Don’t forget old Liz Rollin,” said Elsie. “Her hut stands high, but if things get worse she will be in danger, and there is no one to look after her, you know.”

“No fear of my forgetting the mother of the man who is helping to search for my dear boy,” returned Ravenshaw, “besides, old Liz is not without friends. Both Louis and Winklemann have promised to keep their eyes on her.”

This reference to the mother of Michel Rollin turned the thoughts of the party into a channel that was very familiar, for the lost Tony and his brother were seldom absent from their thoughts. Of late, however, they had ceased to talk much of the absent ones, because, as months flew by without any tidings, their anxieties increased, and as their fears increased they felt less inclined to talk hopefully. Long before the breaking up of the ice Mr Ravenshaw had sent off an expedition at his own cost in search of the searchers. It consisted of a trusty Indian and two half-breeds. They were to cross the plains towards the Saskatchewan district, and make inquiries among the fur-traders there; but nothing had yet been heard of them, and although the face and figure of Tony were never absent from the old man’s memory, his name was not now so frequently on his lips.

A sigh from Miss Trim revealed clearly the nature of her thoughts. Poor Miss Trim! Her occupation was almost gone since Tony’s disappearance. Besides losing the terrible and specific task of teaching Tony his lessons, the amiable lady had lost the general duty of keeping Tony in order, putting right what Tony had put wrong, and, generally, undoing what Tony did. She also missed painfully those little daily attentions to her hands and shins, which were rendered necessary in consequence of Tony’s activity with his nails and the toes of his boots, to say nothing of his teeth. For many weeks past—it seemed to her years—Miss Trim had not bandaged a cut, or fomented a bruise, or mollified a scratch with ointment. She absolutely felt as though she had suffered bereavement.

The silence which had descended on the breakfast-table was not broken until Mr Ravenshaw’s horse was reported ready at the door. On his way to the main road the old gentleman had to pass close to the summer-house on the knoll so much coveted by Angus Macdonald. There he reined up a few minutes. The position commanded an extensive view, and the aspect of the river was sufficiently alarming. The ice, which by that time had broken up, was rolling and crashing along with inconceivable force before the impetuous torrent. The water had risen to such a height that the lower lands were completely inundated. That it was still rising was made obvious by the fact that the rolling masses at the river-sides were being thrust higher and higher on obstructing points, carrying bushes and trees before them. Even while he gazed a lofty elm that grew on a low part of Angus Macdonald’s property was overthrown as if it had been a mere twig, and swept away. Several young maple and oak trees further down shared the same fate a few minutes later.

The house of Angus was full in view. It occupied a mound nearly, though not quite, as high as the knoll on which he stood, and was still, like his own dwelling, far above the reach of the raging flood. The spot where the hut of Peegwish had stood was by that time deep below the surface of the ice-torrent.

Mr Ravenshaw did not remain long in contemplation. The weather, which had been stormy, became suddenly cold, and a blinding fall of sleet induced him to button his greatcoat up to the chin as he hastened away.

Arriving at the mission station after a gallop of several miles, he found a state of things which almost beggars description. Men, women, and children were hurrying to and fro, laden with their chief valuables, or driving carts loaded with household goods, which they deposited on the mission premises for safety, preparatory to the desertion of houses, which was expected to take place on the morrow. Goods of every description were scattered about in wild confusion, for many of the people were half mad with alarm. The missionary, with his assistants, was doing his best to reduce the chaos to order.

Farther up the river Mr Ravenshaw encountered Herr Winklemann bearing a huge arm-chair on his shoulders. “Mine hause is toomed!” he said.

“Doomed? I hope not. Where are you going with the chair?”

“To zee hause of old Liz.”

Without waiting for a rejoinder the stout German hurried on, and was soon lost to view among the bushes. Ravenshaw followed him shortly afterwards, and found old Liz arranging and piling away the belongings of Winklemann, who, after depositing the arm-chair by the side of the fire opposite the corner occupied by Daddy, had returned to his doomed house for more. Anxious to know in what condition his friend’s house was, the old gentleman took the road to it. The house of old Liz, as we have said, stood high, and well back from the river. It had been made a place of refuge by the nearest neighbours, and was not only filled but surrounded by goods and furniture, as well as live stock. A dense mass of willow bushes, by which the little hut was surrounded, completely shut out the view all round, except backward, in the direction of the prairie, so that Ravenshaw did not come in sight of the spot where the flood had already commenced its work of destruction until he had traversed a footpath for nearly a quarter of a mile. Many wet and weary settlers passed him, however, with their possessions on their backs, and here and there groups of women and children, to all of whom he gave a cheering word of hope and encouragement.

On clearing the bushes the full extent of desolation was presented to view. The river here had overflowed its banks, so that a large part of the country wore the aspect of a lake. Knolls and slight eminences, which in happier times had been scarcely observable, now stood boldly out as conspicuous islets, while many farmhouses were either partly submerged or stood on the margin of the rising waters which beat against them. There was a strong current in some places, elsewhere it was calm; but the river itself was clearly traceable by the turmoil of crashing ice and surging water which marked its course. Men and women were seen everywhere—in the water and out of it—loading carts or barrows with their property, and old people, with children, looked on and shivered, for the thermometer had fallen to five degrees below the freezing-point of Fahrenheit’s scale, as indicated by the thermometer at the parsonage. The sleet had ceased, and the wind had fallen, but dark masses of clouds hurried athwart the lowering sky, and the dreary character of the scene was heightened by the poor cattle, which, being turned out of their warm places of shelter, stood on knolls or in the water and lowed piteously.

One of the most conspicuous objects of the scene, from Ravenshaw’s point of view, was poor Winklemann’s house—a small one which stood on a low spot already surrounded by water. In front of it was Winklemann himself, wading through the flood, without coat or hat, and carrying a large bundle in his arms.

“What have you got there?” asked Ravenshaw, as German went staggering past.

“Mine moder,” he replied, and hurried on.

Herr Winklemann had a mother—as old as the hills, according to his own report, and any one who beheld her feeble frame and wrinkled visage might well have believed him. With tender regard for her welfare her stout son had refrained from removing or even alarming her until the last moment, partly from fear that fright and the removal might do her serious injury, and partly from the hope that the flood had reached its highest point; but when the danger to his dwelling became great he resolved to carry her to the hut of old Liz, and, as a preliminary step, had removed her old arm-chair, as we have seen, to be ready for her reception. On returning to the house, however, he found that a portion of the river bank above had unexpectedly given way, diverging the flood a little in that part, so that his dwelling was already a foot deep in water. The old woman, however, lay safely on the bed where Winklemann had placed her, and was either unconscious of, or indifferent to what was going on. She did indeed look a little surprised when her son wrapped the blanket, on which she lay, completely round her, and took her up in his arms as if she had been a little child, but the look of surprise melted into a humorous smile as he drew the last fold over her face. She clearly believed it to be one of her dear boy’s little practical jokes, and submitted without a murmur.

Staggering through the flood with her, as we have said, Winklemann carried her to the cottage of old Liz, who received her with tender care, helped to place her in the big chair, and remembering Daddy’s tendency to fall into the fire, tied her securely therein.

Meanwhile Winklemann ran back to his house, where he found Mr Ravenshaw and Louis Lambert assisting several men to secure it on its foundations by tying it with ropes to the nearest trees.

Joining these, he lent his powerful aid; but a power greater than his was at work, which could not be resisted. Not only did the water rise at an alarming rate and rush against the house with tremendous violence, but great cakes of ice bore down on it and struck it with such force as to make every timber tremble. Like all the other houses of the settlement, it was built entirely of wood, and had no other foundation than the levelled ground on which its framework stood.

When the water rose considerably above his knees, and ice-floes threatened to sweep him away, Mr Ravenshaw thought it was time for an elderly gentleman to retire. The others continued for some time longer securing the ropes and, with poles, turning aside the ice; but ere long they also were driven to the higher ground, and compelled to stand idly by and watch the work of destruction.

“You’ve got everything out, I fancy?” asked Lambert.

“Everyt’ing,” replied Winklemann, with a deep sigh; “not’ing is left but zee hause.”

“An’ that won’t be left long,” observed Mr Ravenshaw, as a huge mass of ice went against its gable-end like a battering-ram.

It seemed to be the leader of a fresh battalion of the destroyer. A succession of ice-floes ran against the house and trees to which it was fastened. An additional rush of water came down at the same time like a wave of the sea. Every one saw that the approaching power was irresistible. The wave, with its ice-laden crest, absolutely roared as it engulfed the bushes. Two goodly elms bowed their heads into the flood and snapped off. The ropes parted like packthread; the building slewed round, reeled for a moment with a drunken air, caught on a shallow spot, and hung there.

“Ach! mine goot old hause—farvell!” exclaimed Winklemann, in tones of deepest pathos.

The house bowed as if in recognition of the old familiar voice, sloped into deeper water, gurgled out its latest breath, like a living thing, through its doors and windows, and sank beneath the wreck and ruin of its old surroundings.

It was what men aptly term a clean sweep, but Winklemann’s was not the only house that succumbed to the flood on that occasion. Many besides himself were rendered homeless. That night, (the 4th of May), the waters rose four feet, and the settlers even on the higher grounds began to think of flight.

Chapter Fifteen.

The Flood continues to do its Work.

Rapidly and steadily did the waters of the Red River rise, until, overflowing all their banks, they spread out into the plains, and gradually settler after settler retired before the deluge, each forsaking his home at the last moment, and going off in quest of higher ground with his cattle and property.

These high places were not numerous, for the whole region was very level. Many settlers discovered at that time a number of features in the colony which had been unrecognised before, and found refuge on spots which had never been observed as lying above the dead level of the plains. Even these spots were not all safe. Many of them were speedily submerged, and those who had fled to them sought refuge on the still higher knolls, which soon became inconveniently crowded. Some miles from the river there was an elevation of ground named the “Little Mountain,” and to this many of the people repaired. It was about as deserving of its title as is a molehill; nevertheless it proved a safe asylum in the end.

Louis Lambert was driven from his home the day after that on which the house of his friend Winklemann was destroyed. His house was a stout one of two storeys, and, owing to its position, was less exposed to the current of the flood than many other dwellings. Confident of its strength and the security of its position, its owner had carried all his goods and furniture to the upper storey, but on returning, after assisting his friend, he found the water in it so high that he feared it might be set afloat—as some of the houses had already been—and finally made up his mind to remove. But where should he remove to? That was the question.

“To zee hause of old Liz,” observed his friend. “It is close to hand, an’ zere is yet room.”

This was true, but Lambert’s inclinations turned in the direction of Willow Creek; he therefore protested there was not room.

“No, no,” he said; “it’s not fair to crowd round old Liz as we are doing. I’ll ride down to Ravenshaw’s and see if there is room on his ground to place my property. There will be plenty of time. Even if the water should go on rising, which I hope it won’t, my house can’t float for many hours. Meanwhile, if you’ll fetch round the boat, and place some of the heavy goods in it, you’ll be doing me a good turn.”

“Vell, vell,” muttered the German, as he looked after his friend with a quiet smile and a shake of the head, “dere is no madness like lof! Ven a man falls in lof he becomes blind, qvite blind!”

The blind one, meanwhile, mounted his steed and galloped away on the wings of “lof.” Lambert was a reckless rider, and an impatient though good-natured fellow. He dashed at full speed through shallow places, where the floods were creeping with insidious, tide-like persistency over the farm-lands, and forded some of the creeks, which almost rendered swimming unavoidable; but in spite of his daring he was compelled to make many a vexatious détour in his headlong course down to Willow Creek. On the way his mind, pre-occupied though it was, could not escape being much affected by the scenes of devastation through which he passed. Everywhere near the river houses were to be seen standing several feet deep in water, while their owners were either engaged in conveying their contents in boats and canoes to the nearest eminences, or removing them from such eminences in carts to spots of greater security. Some of the owners of these deserted houses had become so reckless or so despairing under their misfortunes, that they offered to sell them for merely nominal sums. It is said that some of them changed hands for so small a sum as thirty shillings or two pounds.

Cantering round the corner of a fence, Lambert came within a hundred yards of a house round which the water was deep enough to float a large boat. Here he observed his friends, John Flett and David Mowat, embarking household goods into a large canoe out of the parlour window. Riding into the water, Lambert hailed them.

“Hallo, Flett, d’ee want help?”

“Thank ’ee, no; this is the last load. Got all the rest down to the church; the minister is lettin’ us stow things in the loft.”

“You’re in too great haste, Flett,” returned Lambert. “The water can’t rise much higher; your place is sure to stand.”

“Not so sure o’ that, Louis; there’s a report brought in by a redskin that all the country between the sources of the Assinaboine and Missouri is turned into a sea, and the waters o’ the Missouri itself are passing down to Lake Winnipeg. He says, too, that a whole village of redskins has been swept away.”

“Bah! it’s not true,” said Lambert.

“True or false,” rejoined Flett, resuming his work, “it’s time for me to clear out o’ this.”

Forsaking the road, which he had hitherto attempted to follow, Lambert now stretched out at full gallop into the plains. He came to a small creek and found that the simple wooden bridge had been washed away, and that the waters of the river were driving its tiny current in the wrong direction. In a fit of impatience he applied the whip to his steed, which, being a fiery one, rushed furiously at the creek. Fire does not necessarily give an untrained horse power to leap. The animal made an awkward attempt to stop, failed, made a still more awkward attempt to jump, failed again, and stumbled headlong into the creek, out of which he and his master scrambled on the opposite side.

Lambert shook himself, laughed, leaped into the saddle, and went off again at full speed. He came to the mission station, but did not stop there. It still stood high above the waters, and was crowded with settlers. Not far from it was a spot of rising ground, which was covered with more than a hundred tents and wigwams belonging to Canadian and half-breed families. Passing on, he came upon other scenes of destruction, and finally arrived at the abode of old Mr Ravenshaw. It, like the mission premises, still stood high above the rising flood. The family were assembled in the chief sitting-room, old Ravenshaw enjoying a pipe, while the ladies were variously occupied around him.

“You’ve heard the report brought by the Indian about the flood, I fancy?”

“Oh, yes; but I give no ear to reports,” said the old gentleman, emitting an indignant puff of smoke; “they often end like that.”

“True; nevertheless, it’s as well to be prepared,” said Lambert, with a glance at Elsie and Cora, who sat together near the window; “and I’ve come to beg for house-room for my goods and chattels, for the old house is not so safe as I had thought.”

“There’s plenty of room in the barn for people in distress,” said Elsie, with a glance at her sister.

“Or in the cow-house,” added Cora, with a laugh and a slight toss of her head; “we’ve had the cattle removed on purpose to make room for you.”

“How considerate! And the cow-house of Willow Creek, with its pleasant associations, is a palace compared to the hall of any other mansion,” said the gallant Louis.

A crash was heard outside just then. On looking from the windows, a great cake of ice about five feet thick, with a point like a church spire, was seen attempting, as it were, to leap the lower end of the garden-fence. It failed; but on making a second attempt was more successful. The fence went slowly down, and the spire laid its head among the vegetables, or rather on the spot where the vegetables would have been had the season been propitious. It was accompanied by a rush of water.

The sight was viewed with comparative composure by old Mr Ravenshaw, but his better half took it less quietly, and declared that they would all be drowned.

“I hope not!” exclaimed Miss Trim fervently, clasping her hands.

“We’re high and dry just now, Louis,” said Mr Ravenshaw gravely, “but Willow Creek won’t be a place of refuge long if the rise goes on at this rate. See, my neighbour is beginning to show signs of uneasiness, though the ground on which he stands is not much lower than my own.”

As he spoke, the old fur-trader pointed to the house of Angus Macdonald, where a large cart was being loaded with his property.

Angus himself entered at the moment to beg leave to remove some of his valuables to his friend’s barn.

“It iss not the danger, you see, Muster Ruvnshaw, that troubles me; it iss the watter. There are some things, as the leddies fery well know, will pe quite destroyed py watter, an’ it is puttin’ them out of harm’s way that I will pe after.”

“Put whatever you like in the barn, Macdonald,” said Mr Ravenshaw promptly; “Elsie and I have had it and the other outhouses prepared. You are heartily welcome. I hope, however, that the water won’t rise much higher.”

“The watter will rise higher, Muster Ruvnshaw,” returned Angus, with the decision of an oracle; “an’ it will pe goot for us if it will leave our houses standin’ where they are. Peegwish will be tellin’ me that; an’ Peegwish knows what he iss apout when he is not trunk, whatever.”

Peegwish did indeed know what he was about. At the very time that Angus was speaking about him, Peegwish, feeling convinced that Macdonald’s house was in danger, was on his way to the mission station, which he knew to be a place of greater safety, and where he felt sure of a welcome, for the Reverend Mr Cockran—in charge at the time—had a weakness for the old hypocrite, and entertained strong hopes of bringing about his reformation. For two days he stayed in the parsonage kitchen, smoking his pipe, revelling in the odds and ends, such as knuckle-bones, stray bits of fat and tripe, which fell to his lot, and proudly exhibiting himself in one of the minister’s cast-off black coats, which contrasted rather oddly with a pair of ornamented blue leggings and a scarlet sash. When not busy in the kitchen, he went about among the homeless settlers assembled round the mission, sometimes rendering a little help, oftener causing a good deal of obstruction, and vainly endeavouring to obtain beer, while he meditated sadly now and then on his failure in the brewing line.

At the end of these two days, however, a great change took place at the mission station, for the flood continued steadily to increase until it reached the church and parsonage, and drove the hundreds of people who had assembled there away to the more distant knolls on the plains. Mr Cockran, with his household and Sabbath scholars, besides a few of the people, resolved to stick to the church as long as it should stick to the ground, and Peegwish remained with them. He had unbounded confidence in the good missionary, and still more unbounded confidence in the resources of the parsonage kitchen. Wildcat was similarly impressed.

At last the water rose to the church itself and beat against the foundations of the parsonage, for the current was very strong and had carried away some of the fences. All the people were thus obliged to take refuge in the church itself, or in the parsonage.

On the 13th of May there were very few dry spots visible on or near the banks of the Red River. Dozens of houses had been carried away, and were either destroyed or stranded on localities far from their original sites. As far as the eye could reach, the whole region had been converted into a mighty lake, or rather sea; for in the direction of the plains the waters seemed to join the horizon. Everywhere this sea was studded with islets and knolls, which grew fewer and smaller as the floods increased. Here and there piles of floating firewood looked like boats with square-sails in the distance, while deserted huts passed over the plains with the stream like fleets of Noah’s arks!

When the water began to touch the parsonage, its owner gave orders to collect timber and make preparation for the erection of a strong stage as a final place of refuge.

“Come,” said he to Peegwish, when his orders were being carried out; “come, get your canoe, Peegwish, and we will pay a visit to the poor fellows on the knoll up the river.”

The Indian waded to a spot close by, where his canoe was fastened to a post, and brought it to the door, after the fashion of a gondolier of Venice. The faithful Wildcat took the bow paddle; the clergyman stepped into the middle of the craft and sat down.

They shot swiftly away, and were soon out of sight. The day was calm and warm, but the sky had a lurid, heavy appearance, which seemed to indicate the approach of bad weather. Paddling carefully along to avoid running against sunk fences, they soon came into the open plains, and felt as though they had passed out upon the broad bosom of Lake Winnipeg itself. Far up the river—whose course was by that time chiefly discernible by empty houses, and trees, as well as bushes, half-submerged—they came in sight of a stage which had been erected beside a cottage. It stood only eighteen inches out of the water, and here several women and children were found engaged in singing Watts’ hymns. They seemed quite comfortable, under a sort of tarpaulin tent, with plenty to eat, and declined to be taken off, though their visitors offered to remove them one at a time, the canoe being unable to take more. Further up, the voyagers came to the hut of old Liz.

This hut was by that time so nearly touched by the water that all the people who had formerly crowded round it had forsaken it and made for the so-called mountain. Only Liz herself remained, and Herr Winklemann, to take care of their respective parents.

“Do you think it safe to stay?” asked the clergyman, as he was about to leave.

“Safe, ya; qvite safe. Besides, I have big canoe, vich can holt us all.”

“Good-bye, then, and remember, if you want anything that I can give you, just paddle down to the station and ask for it. Say I sent you.”

“Ya, I vill go down,” said Herr Winklemann gratefully. And Herr Winklemann did go down, much to his own subsequent discomfiture and sorrow, as we shall see.

Meanwhile Mr Cockran reached the knoll which he had set out to visit. It was of considerable extent, and crowded with a very miscellaneous, noisy, and quarrelsome crew, of all sorts, ages, and colours, in tents and wigwams and extemporised shelters.

They received the clergyman heartily, however, and were much benefited by his visit, as was made apparent by the complete though temporary cessation of quarrelling.

The elements, however, began to quarrel that evening. Mr Cockran had intended to return home, but a gale of contrary wind stopped him, and he was fain to accept the hospitality of a farmer’s tent. That night the storm raged with fury. Thunder and lightning added to the grandeur as well as to the discomfort of the scene. Some time after midnight a gust of wind of extreme fury threw down the farmer’s tent, and the pole hit the farmer on the nose! Thus rudely roused, he sprang up and accidentally knocked down Peegwish, who happened to be in his way. They both fell on the minister, who, being a powerful man, caught them in a bear-like grasp and held them, under the impression that they had overturned the tent in a quarrel while he was asleep.

At that moment a cry of fire was raised. It was found that a spark from a tent which stood on the windward side of the camp had caught the long grass, and a terrestrial conflagration was added to the celestial commotions of the night. It was a moment of extreme peril, for the old grass was plentiful and sufficiently dry to burn. It is probable that the whole camp would have been destroyed but for a providential deluge of rain which fell at the time and effectually put the fire out.

Of course Mr Cockran became very anxious about those he had left at home, for the storm had increased the danger of their position considerably. Happily, with the dawn the gale moderated. The improvement did not, indeed, render canoeing safe, for the white-crested waves of that temporary sea still lashed the shores of the new-made islet; but the case was urgent, therefore the clergyman launched his canoe, and, with Peegwish and the faithful Wildcat, steered for the station.

Chapter Sixteen.

Winklemann and Old Liz get into Trouble.

At the parsonage, before the storm had fairly begun, the canoe party was thought of with considerable anxiety, for Mrs Cockran knew how frail the craft was in which her husband had embarked, and among the sixty-three persons who had taken refuge with her not one was capable of taking command of the rest in a case of emergency. Great, therefore, was her satisfaction when Herr Winklemann appeared in his canoe with a request for a barrel of flour.

“You shall have one,” said Mrs Cockran, “and anything else you may require; but pray do not leave me to-night. I can give you a comfortable bed, and will let you go the moment my husband returns. I fully expect him this evening.”

“Madam,” answered the gallant Winklemann, with a perplexed look, “you is vere goot, bot de gale vill be rise qvickly, an’ I dares not leaf mine moder vidout protection.”

“Oh! but just stay for an hour or two,” entreated Mrs Cockran, “and show the people how to go on with the stage. Perhaps my husband may return sooner than we expect. Perhaps the storm may not come on; many such threatenings, you know, come to nothing.”

Winklemann looked anxiously up at the sky and shook his head, but the entreaties of the lady prevailed. The good-natured German consented to remain for a “ver leetle” time, and at once set about urging on and directing the erection of the stage. This stage was planned to be a substantial platform about thirty feet square, supported on posts firmly driven into the ground, so that the water might pass freely under it. In the event of the parsonage becoming untenable it would form a refuge of comparative safety.

It was while Winklemann was busily engaged on the stage that the storm broke forth which compelled the clergyman to spend the night on the islet, as already described. Of course the storm also forced Winklemann to remain at the station. But that impulsive youth’s regard for his “moder” would not permit of his giving in without a struggle. When he saw that the gale increased rapidly, he resolved to start off without delay. He launched his canoe; a half-breed in his employment managed the bow paddle, but they found that their united strength was insufficient to drive the craft more than a hundred yards against wind and waves. Returning to the station, Winklemann engaged two additional men to aid him, but the increasing gale neutralised the extra force. After a vain struggle the canoe was hurled back on the knoll, a wave caught the bow, overturned it, and threw the men into the water at the very door of the parsonage.

The canoe was partially broken. Time was required to repair it. Time also gave the gale opportunity to gather power, and thus the chafing German was compelled to spend the night at the station.

Meanwhile, those men whom he had left behind him spent a terrible night, but the brunt of the trouble fell upon old Liz.

Poor old Liz! She was a squat piece of indomitable energy, utterly regardless of herself and earnestly solicitous about every one else.

When the storm commenced, her dwelling had begun to show symptoms of instability. This fact she carefully concealed from Daddy and old Mrs Winklemann, who remained in their respective chairs smiling at each other, for both were accustomed to good treatment from their children, and regarded life in general from a sunny point of view. They knew that something very unusual was going on, but the old frau said—or thought—to herself, “My boy will look after me!” while Daddy said, or thought, “Liz knows all about it.” Happy trustful spirits! Enviable pair!

Having informed the pair that she was going away for a minute or two to look after something outside, old Liz left them. She found herself up to the knees in water, of course, the moment she passed the doorway. From an outhouse she procured a strong rope. This she fastened to a large iron ring in the side of the hut, and attached the other end to a thick tree whose branches overshadowed it. Even during the brief time she was thus engaged the flood increased so rapidly, and the rising wind blew so wildly, that the poor creature was almost carried off her short legs. But old Liz had a powerful will, and was strong-hearted. Having accomplished her object, and lost for ever her frilled cap in so doing, she struggled back towards the door of the hut. A passing billet of firewood tripped her up and sent her headlong into the flood. She disappeared, but emerged instantly, with glaring eyes, gasping mouth, and streaming hair. A resolute rush brought her to the door-step; she seized the door-post, and was saved.

“Hech! but it’s an awfu’ time,” gasped old Liz, as she wrung the water from her garments.—“Comin’, Daddy! I’ll be their this meenit. I’ve gotten mysel’ a wee wat.”

“What’s wrang?” asked Daddy, in a feeble voice, as his ancient daughter entered.

“It’s only a bit spate, Daddy. The hoose is a’maist soomin’, but ye’ve nae need to fear.”

“I’m no’ feared, Liz. What wad I be feared o’ whan ye’re there?”

“Ver is mine boy?” demanded old Mrs Winklemann, looking round.

“He’s gane to the kirk for floor. Ne’er fash yer heed aboot him. He’ll be back afore lang.”

The old woman seemed content, though she did not understand a word of Liz’s Scotch.

“Bless mine boy,” she said, with a mild smile at Daddy, who replied with an amiable nod.

But this state of comparative comfort did not last long. In half an hour the water came over the threshold of the door and flooded the floor. Fortunately the old couple had their feet on wooden stools and thus escaped the first rush, but old Liz now felt that something must be done to keep them dry. There was a low table in the room. She dragged it out and placed it between the couple, who smiled, under the impression, no doubt, that they were about to have their evening meal.

“Daddy, I’m gaun to pit yer legs on the table. It’ll be mair comfortabler, an’ll keep ye oot o’ the wat.”

Daddy submitted with a good grace, and felt more easy than usual, the table being very little higher than his chair. Mrs Winklemann was equally submissive and pleased. Covering the two pairs of legs with a blanket, old Liz produced some bread and cheese, and served out rations thereof to keep their minds engaged. She plumed herself not a little on the success of the table-and-legs device, but as the water rose rapidly she became anxious again, though not for herself. She waded about the hut with supreme indifference to the condition of her own lower limbs. At last she mounted upon the bed and watched, as the water rose inch by inch on the legs of the two chairs.

“What wull I do whan it grups them?” she muttered, experiencing that deep feeling of anticipation with which one might watch the gradual approach of fire to gunpowder.

The objects of her solicitude snored pleasantly in concert.

“It’ll kill them wi’ the cauld, to say naething o’ the start,” continued the old woman with deepening, almost desperate, anxiety. “Oh man, man, what for did ye leave us?”

This apostrophe was addressed to the absent Winklemann.

One inch more, five minutes longer, and the flood would reach the bodies of the old couple. Liz looked round wildly for some mode of delivering them, but looked in vain. Even if her strength had been adequate, there was no higher object in the room to which she could have lifted them. The bed, being a truckle one, and lower than the chairs, was already submerged, and old Liz herself was coolly, if not calmly, seated in two inches of water. At the very last moment deliverance came in an unexpected manner. There was a slight vibration in the timbers of the hut, then a sliding of the whole edifice. This was followed by a snap and a jolt: the ring-bolt or the rope had gone, and old Liz might, with perfect propriety, have exclaimed, in the words of the sea song, “I’m afloat! I’m afloat! and the Rover is free!”

For one moment her heart failed; she had read of Noah’s ark, but had never quite believed in the stability of that mansion. Her want of faith was now rebuked, for the old hut floated admirably, as seamen might say, on an even keel. True, it committed a violent assault on a tree at starting, which sent it spinning round, and went crashing through a mass of drowned bushes, which rendered it again steady; but these mishaps only served to prove the seaworthiness of her ark, and in a few minutes the brave little woman revived. Splashing off the bed and spluttering across the room, she tried to open the door with a view to see what had happened and whither they were bound, for the two windows of the mansion were useless in this respect, being fitted with parchment instead of glass. But the door was fast, and refused to open.

“We’ll a’ be lost!” exclaimed Daddy, in alarm, for he had been awakened by the shock against the tree, and was now slightly alive to their danger.

“Ver is mine boy?” asked the old frau, in a whimpering voice.

“Nae fear o’ ’ee,” said Liz, in a soothing tone. “Him that saved Noah can save us.”

“Open the door an’ see where we are, lassie,” said the old man.

“It’ll no’ open, Daddy.”

“Try the wundy, then.”

“I’m sweer’d to break the wundy,” said Liz. “Losh, man, I’ll try the lum!”

The chimney, to which old Liz referred, was capacious enough to admit a larger frame than hers. Moreover, it was a short one, and the fire had long ago been drowned out. With the enthusiasm of an explorer, the little woman stooped and entered the fireplace. She felt about inside for a few moments, and in doing so brought down an enormous quantity of soot. Immediately there was a tremendous coughing in the chimney.

“Lassie! lassie! come oot! Ve’ll be chokit,” cried Daddy, in alarm.

“Hoots, man, hand yer gab,” was the polite reply.

Liz was not to be easily turned from her purpose. Raising one leg up she found a crevice for her right foot, and the aged couple beheld the old creature, for the first time, in the attitude of a danseuse, standing on one toe. Next moment the remaining leg went up, and she disappeared from view. If there had been any one outside, the old woman would have been seen, two minutes later, to emerge from the chimney-top with the conventional aspect of a demon—as black as a Zulu chief, choking like a chimpanzee with influenza, and her hair blowing freely in the wind. Only those who have intelligently studied the appearance of chimney-sweeps can form a proper idea of her appearance, especially when she recovered breath and smiled, as she thought of her peculiar position.

But that position was one which would have damped the courage of any one except old Liz. The storm was beginning to grow furious; the sun, which had already set, was tingeing the black and threatening clouds with dingy red. Far as the eye could reach, the once green prairie presented an angry sea, whose inky waves were crested and flecked with foam, and the current was drifting the hut away into the abyss of blackness that seemed to gape on the horizon.

“What see ye, Liz?” cried Daddy, bending a little, so as to send his voice up the chimney.

“I see naethin’ but watter; watter everywhere,” said Liz, unconsciously quoting the Ancient Mariner, and bending so as to send her reply down. She did more; she lost her balance, and sent herself down to the bottom of the chimney, where she arrived in a sitting posture with a flop, perhaps we should say a squash, seeing that she alighted in water, which squirted violently all over her sooty person.

This sudden reappearance astonished the aged couple almost more than it surprised Liz herself, for she could not see herself as they saw her.

“Hech! but that was a klyte; but ne’er heed, Daddy. I’m nane the waur. Eh, but I’ll ha’e to clean mysel’,” said old Liz, rising slowly and going straight to a corner cupboard, whence she took a slab of soap, and began to apply it vigorously, using the entire room, so to speak, as a wash-tub. The result was unsatisfactory; beginning the process as a pure black, she only ended it as an impure mulatto, but she was content, and immediately after set herself to fasten the aged pair more securely in their chairs, and to arrange their limbs more comfortably on the table; after that she lighted a candle and sat down on the sloppy bed to watch.

Thus that household spent the night, rocked, as it were, on the cradle of the deep.

At daylight Herr Winklemann rose from his sleepless couch at the parsonage, and finding that the wind had moderated, launched his canoe. He left the mission station just an hour before Mr Cockran returned to it.

Anxious was the heart of the poor youth as he wielded the paddle that morning, and many were the muttered remarks which he made to himself, in German, as he urged the canoe against wind and current. As he neared home his fears increased. On reaching a certain part from which he had been wont to descry the chimney of old Liz’s hut, he perceived that the familiar object was gone, and uttered a mighty roar of horror.

The half-breed in the bow ceased paddling, and looked back in alarm.

“Git on, you brute!” shouted Winklemann, at the same time exerting his great strength as though he meant to urge the light craft out of the water into the air.

A few minutes more and they swept round into the space where the hut had once stood. There was nothing left but the bit of rope that had been made fast to the ring-bolt. Poor Winklemann let his paddle drop and sank almost double with his face in his hands.

“Mine moder,” was all he could say, as he groaned heavily. In a few seconds he recovered with a start and bade the man in the bow paddle for his life.

Winklemann, of course, knew that the house must have floated downwards with the current, if it had not been utterly overwhelmed. He directed his search accordingly, but the breadth of land now covered by the flood caused the currents to vary in an uncertain manner, as every ridge, or knoll, or hollow in the plains modified them. Still, there could be only one general direction. After a few minutes of anxious reflection the bereaved man resolved to keep by the main current of the river. He was unfortunate in this, for the hut, in commencing its adventurous career, had gone off in the direction of the plains. All day he and his companion paddled about in search of the lost family, but in vain. At night they were forced to return to the parsonage for a little food and rest, so as to fit them for a renewal of the search on the following morning.

At the mission station they found Mr Cockran, with his wife and forty of his people, established on the stage. Early in the day the water had burst into the parsonage, and soon stood a foot deep on the floor, so that the pastor deemed it high time to forsake it and take to the last refuge. It was a crowded stage, and great was the anxiety of many of the mothers upon it lest their little ones should be thrust over the edge into the water. No such anxiety troubled the little ones themselves. With that freedom from care which is their high privilege, they even gambolled on the brink of destruction.

Next day was the Sabbath. To go to church was impossible. There were three and a half feet of water in that building. The day was fine, however, and sunny. The pastor, therefore, had service on the stage, and being an earnest, intelligent man, he made good use of the floods and the peculiarity of their circumstances to illustrate and enforce his discourse.

Long before the hour of worship had arrived, however, poor Winklemann went off in his canoe, and spent the whole of that day, as he spent several succeeding days, in anxious, diligent, hopeful, but finally despairing search for his lost old “moder.”

Chapter Seventeen.

The Waves still rise, and Miss Trim comes to Grief.

On the night of the 15th the gale broke out again with redoubled fury, and the stage at the mission station was shaken so much by the violence of the waves and wind that fears were entertained of its stability, despite its great strength. The water rose six inches during that night, and when the vast extent of the floods is taken into account, this rise was prodigious. The current was also so strong that it was feared the church itself, with the property and people in its loft, would be swept away.

Towards daylight a boat was seen approaching. It turned out to be that of Mr Ravenshaw, containing himself and Lambert, with a crew from Willow Creek. The house of the old gentleman had, he said, much water in the lower rooms, so that he had been driven to its upper floor; but he felt sure of its strength, having himself helped to lay its foundations. Knowing the danger of those who dwelt in the parsonage, he had come to offer an asylum to as many as his house would hold. But Mr Cockran declined to quit his post. The gale was by that time abating, the cheering daylight increasing; and as he had a large boat of his own moored to a neighbouring post, he preferred to remain where he was. Mr Ravenshaw therefore ordered Louis to hoist the sail, and bidding adieu to the clerical party, returned to Willow Creek.

Of all the household there, Miss Trim had viewed the approach of the water with the greatest anxiety and Mrs Ravenshaw with the greatest philosophy. Miss Trim, being an early riser, was the first to observe the enemy on the morning of its entrance. She came down-stairs and found the water entering the house quietly by the sides, oozing from under the boards and secretly creeping along till it covered the floors. She rushed up-stairs to alarm Mr Ravenshaw, and met that active old gentleman coming down. He set to work at once to rescue his goods on the lower floor, while Miss Trim, in great excitement, went and roused the girls, who leaped up at once. Then she went to Mrs Ravenshaw’s room.

“Oh, Mrs Ravenshaw, get up quick; the flood is coming in at last—over the floors—through the chinks—up the seams—everywhere—do—do get up! We shall all be—”

She stopped. A long-drawn sigh and a gentle “hush!” was all the reply vouchsafed by Mrs Ravenshaw.

A quarter of an hour later Miss Trim came nervously back. “It’s rushing in now like anything! Oh, do get up! We may have to fly! The boards of the floor have been forced up, and they’ve had to take the door off its hinges—”

She stopped again. Mrs Ravenshaw, with placid face and closed eyes, had replied with another gentle “hush–sh!”

Descending once more, Miss Trim was met by a sudden stream, which had burst in the back door. Rushing again into the old lady’s bedroom, she cried vehemently, “Woman! won’t you get up?”

“Why should I?” asked the other in a sleepy tone. “Isn’t Samuel looking after it?”

“Of course he is, but—”

“Well, well,” interrupted the old lady, a little testily, “if he’s there it’s all right. He knows what to do, I don’t. Neither do you, Miss Trim; so pray go away and let me sleep.”

Poor Miss Trim retired discomfited. Afterwards when the family were driven to the upper storey of the dwelling she learned to regard things with something of Mrs Ravenshaw’s philosophy.

One morning at daylight there was a calm so profound that the sleepers at Willow Creek were not awakened until the sun rose in a cloudless sky and glittered over the new-born sea with ineffable splendour. It was a strange and sad though beautiful sight. Where these waters lay like a sheet of glass, spreading out to the scarce visible horizon, the grass-waves of the prairie had rolled in days gone by. There were still some knolls visible, some tops of trees and bushes, like islets on the sea, and one or two square masses of drift-wood floating slowly along with the now imperceptible current, like boats under full sail. Here and there could be seen several wooden houses and barns, some of which had come down from the upper parts of the settlement, like the hut of old Liz, and were stranded awkwardly on shoals, while others were still drifting over the watery waste.

All this was clearly visible from the windows of the upper room, in which slept the sisters Elsie and Cora, and presented itself to the former when she awoke like a vision of fairyland. Unable to believe her eyes, she rubbed them with her pretty little knuckles, and gazed again.

“How beautiful!” she exclaimed.

The exclamation awoke Cora, who sat up and yawned. Then she looked at her sister, and being only half-awake, smiled in an imbecile manner.

“Isn’t it?” asked Elsie.

“Splendid!” replied Cora, turning to the windows. “Oh, I’m so sleepy!”

She sank on the pillow again and shut her eyes.

“Come, Cora, let us finish the discussion we began last night about Louis Lambert,” said Elsie, with an arch smile.

“No, I won’t! Let me sleep. I hate Louis Lambert!” said Cora, with a shake of her uppermost shoulder.

Elsie laughed and rose; she was already dressed. Mr Ravenshaw had on the previous night ordered both his daughters to lie down in their clothes, as no one could tell what might happen to the house at any moment. The flood had not yet begun to abate; Elsie could tell that, as she sat arranging her hair, from the sound of water gurgling through the lower rooms.

We have said that the Ravenshaws had been driven by the floods to the upper floor of their residence. This floor consisted of three bedrooms and a lumber-room. One of the bedrooms was very small and belonged to the sisters, to whose sole use it was apportioned. For convenience, the other two rooms were set apart on this occasion as the male and the female rooms of the establishment, one being used by as many of the women as could get comfortably into it, the other by the men. The overflow of the household, including those neighbours who had sought refuge with the family, were accommodated in the adjoining barn, between which and the main building communication was kept up by means of a canoe, with Peegwish and Wildcat as the ferrymen. The lumber-room having had most of its lumber removed, was converted into a general hall, or salon, where the imprisoned family had their meals, received their friends, and discussed their trials. It was a rather dusty place, with sloping roof, no ceiling, and cross-beams, that caused cross tempers in those who ran against them. In one corner a door, removed from its hinges, did duty as a dresser. In another Mr Ravenshaw had erected a small stove, on which, being rather proud of his knowledge of cookery, he busied himself in spoiling a good deal of excellent food. A couple of planks, laid on two trunks, served for a table. Such cooking utensils and such portions of light furniture as were required had been brought up from the rooms below, that which was left having been weighted with large stones to prevent its being carried away, for the lower doors and windows had been removed to prevent their being driven in or out, as the case might be.

So complete was the destruction everywhere, that Samuel Ravenshaw had passed into a gleeful state of recklessness, and appeared to enjoy the fun of thus roughing it rather than otherwise, to the amusement of his amiable wife, who beheld his wasteful and daring culinary efforts without a murmur, and to the horror of Miss Trim, who was called upon to assist in and share the triumphs as well as the dangers of these efforts.

“Fetch the pepper now, Miss Trim. That’s it, thank ’ee.—Hallo! I say, the top has come off that rascally thing, and half the contents have gone into the pan!”

He was engaged in frying a mess of pemmican and flour, of which provender he had secured enough to stand a siege of at least six months’ duration.

“Never mind,” he continued; “in with more flour and more pemmican. That’s your sort. It’ll make it taste more like curry, which is hot enough, in all conscience.”

“But pepper is not like curry,” said Miss Trim, who had a brother in India, and was consequently a secondhand authority on Indian affairs. “Curry is hot, no doubt, and what one may call a seasoning; but it has not the flavour of pepper at all, and is not the colour of it, and—”

“Yes, yes, I know all about that, Miss Trim. Why, there’s a box of it, isn’t there, in the little cupboard on the stair? I quite forgot it. Fetch it, please, and we’ll have real pemmican curry; and rouse up my lazy girls as you pass. Don’t disturb Mrs R, though. The proverb says, ‘Let sleeping’—no, I don’t mean that exactly. By the way, don’t slip on the stair. The water’s about up to that cupboard. Mind, there are six feet water or more in the passage now, and if—”

He stopped, for Miss Trim had already left the room, just as Lambert entered it.

The cupboard to which Miss Trim had been sent was an angular one, let into the wall to utilise a crooked corner. The step of the stair immediately below it was the last dry one of the flight. From that step to the bottom was held by the flood, which gurgled oilily through the deserted basement. Descending to that step with caution, and gazing anxiously at her own image reflected below, she opened the cupboard door.

Now, it chanced that Angus Macdonald’s Cochin-China hen, having been driven from its own home by the flood, had strayed into Mr Ravenshaw’s house and established itself, uninvited, in the cupboard. It received Miss Trim with a croak of indignation and a flutter. Starting back with a slight, “Oh!” the poor lady fell; and who shall adequately describe, or even imagine, the effects of that fall? Many a time had Miss Trim descended that stair and passage on her feet, but never until then had she done so on her back, like a mermaid or a seal! Coming to the surface immediately, she filled the house with a yell that almost choked the hearers, caused old Ravenshaw to heave the pemmican curry into the lap of Lambert, and induced Lambert himself to leap down-stairs to the rescue like a harlequin. The bold youth had to swim for it! A gurgle at the far end of the passage told where Miss Trim was going down, like wedding announcements, for the third and last time. Lambert went in like an otter, caught the lady in his arms, and bore her to the staircase, and thence to the upper floor in a few minutes. She was at once taken to the sisters’ bedroom, and there restored to life and lamentation.

“My dear,” said Mr Ravenshaw to his wife when she appeared, “you’d better look after our breakfast—I’ve made a mess of it, and I’ll go over to Angus Macdonald and invite him and his household to come and stay with us. Their house must be almost afloat by this time.”

The old gentleman hailed Peegwish, who was outside in the canoe at the moment.

That would-be brewer at once made for the house, paddled his canoe through the doorway and up the passage to the staircase, where Wildcat, who managed the bow paddle, held on by the bannister while Mr Ravenshaw embarked. Reissuing from the doorway, they made for their neighbour’s residence.

Macdonald’s house had indeed become almost uninhabitable. It stood so deep in the water that only the upper windows were visible. The chimneys and roofs of some of the outhouses formed, with the main building and a few tree-tops, a small Archipelago.

“You are fery kind, Mr Ruvnshaw,” said Angus from an upper window, beneath which the canoe floated. “It iss not improbaple that my house will pe goin’ down the river like a post, but that iss nothing—not anything at all—when there will pe such a destruction goin’ on all over the settlement whatever. It iss fery coot of you, oo ay. I will put my fuddle into the canoe, an’ my sister she will pe ready at wance.—Wass you ready, Martha?”

A voice from the interior intimated that Miss Martha would be, “ready in two minutes.”

“Pe quick, then,” said Macdonald, looking inwards while he lowered his violin, to which he was passionately attached, into the canoe, “you hef not much time to waste, Martha, for it wass time we will pe goin’.”

In a few minutes Angus Macdonald’s house was abandoned to its fate, and himself and sister, with a couple of domestics, were added to the number of refugees who crowded to the abode of hospitable Sam Ravenshaw.

“Hef you forgotten the cawtie?” asked Angus of his sister, while assisting her to land on the steps from which Miss Trim had taken her dive.

“No, Angus, I’ve got it in my basket, but I fear the poor old hen has been lost. It’s all over the house I sought for it before comin’ away, but—”

A triumphant cackle from the cupboard overhead interrupted Miss Martha.

“Ha! ha!” shouted Mr Ravenshaw; “thats where the sound came from this morning! And I do believe it must have been that brute which caused Miss Trim to fall into the water.”

With a twinkle in his eye, the old gentleman related the incident of the morning, while Angus, with a grim expression, kept his eye on Beauty, who gazed inquiringly out at the half-open door of her retreat.

“It iss a pad craitur you’ve peen—fery pad—ever since I got you, but it iss no more mischief you will pe dooin’ after this—whatever.”

Angus seized the unfortunate hen by the neck as he spoke, and flung it along the passage, where it fell into the water, and went cackling and choking through the doorway.

Beauty’s powers were varied as well as surprising. Although thus, for the first time in her life, compelled to take to the water, she swam as well as any duck, and went straight off as if by instinct, to the forsaken house. From the window of the lumber-room Angus saw her reach it, scramble, somehow, on to its roof, and there utter a crow of defiance that would have done credit to her defunct husband. There was one other object besides his own house and surroundings which Angus saw from that window. It was the smoking-box on the willow-clad knoll, which formed a separate island in the flood. The sight stirred up unpleasant recollections. He turned from the window, and gave his attention to the substantial breakfast to which his host invited him.

The greater part of that day was spent in rearranging the habitable parts of Willow Creek, and placing the more delicate valuables further out of danger. At night candles were lighted, fresh wood was heaped up in the stove, and the lumber-room became comparatively comfortable.

“Will you play us a tune, Angus?” said Louis Lambert, drawing a stool between Elsie and Cora and sitting down. “The ladies, you know, never tire of your music.”

“I hef not anything new,” replied Angus, with becoming modesty; “but if the leddies wass willin’ to listen to some o’ the old tunes, my fuddle an’ I will try what we can do.”

“We love the old tunes best,” said Cora.

As every one else echoed the sentiment, Angus, nothing loath, began to discourse sweet sounds, which, to say truth, were indeed very sweet, and mingled not inharmoniously with the sound of waters which gurgled gently underneath.

Angus could play Scotch reels in a manner that made dancing almost unavoidable, but he preferred slow, plaintive music, and on this occasion indulged his taste to the full, so as to fling a mantle of quiescence and pathos over the family circle.

Samuel Ravenshaw had retired to a darkish corner to enjoy his pipe, but the music awoke sad memories. The lost Tony came vividly before him, and beside his darling boy arose the dark form of the Red Man, whose mode of taking his revenge had been to him so terrible, all the more terrible that the nature of the old man was secretive in regard to sorrow. His joys he was ever ready to share with every one, but his griefs he smothered in his own breast, and scorned to let his countenance betray his heart.

No one knew how much he suffered. Perhaps Elsie understood him best. At all events she had become more earnest and thoughtful in her attentions after that dark day when her little brother was spirited away. Leaving Lambert to Cora, she went over to her father, sat down beside him, and, laying her head upon his shoulder, listened with a sort of melancholy pleasure to the sweet strains of the violin.

They were suddenly and rudely awakened from this state of quiescence by a blinding flash of lightning, followed almost instantaneously by a tremendous clap of thunder which sounded like colliding worlds overhead, and then rolled away in deep mutterings of discontent. This was repeated at short intervals, then the rain and hail came down in torrents, and the wind rose so that soon the waves began to beat violently on the house. The day which had begun so calmly ended in furious storm—emblematic of many a day in every human life.

Seated there with feelings of awe and anxiety, the Ravenshaw household passed the night in silence.

And still the waters of the Red River continued to rise—slowly, it is true, and inch by inch instead of foot by foot—until these settlers in the great wilderness began to think, with something akin to superstitious fear, of that mighty deluge which had been sent to submerge the world in the days of old.

Chapter Eighteen.

Old Ravenshaw goes Exploring and Rescuing.

Another fine calm day came to comfort the victims of the flood in the midst of that tempestuous time, with its April character of mingled storm and sunshine. The rise in the water on the previous night had been almost imperceptible. Feeling, therefore, somewhat easier in his mind, old Mr Ravenshaw determined to embark in his boat for the purpose of paying a visit to those unfortunates who, after being driven from their homes, had taken refuge on the imperceptible eminence which had been styled “The Mountain.” Taking with him Lambert and a stout crew, he embarked from his upper bedroom window, bade his wife and daughters an affectionate adieu, hoisted his sail, and pushed off.

The hoisting of the sail was a mere matter of form.

“It’s of no use at present, but will be ready to catch the first puff that may favour us,” observed the old gentleman, as he sat down and took the tiller. “Give way, lads.”

The oars were dipped, and the Willow Creek mansion was soon but a speck on the horizon of the watery waste.

And now the old fur-trader learned the full extent of the desolation with which it had pleased God to visit the settlement at that time. While taken up with the cares and anxieties connected with Willow Creek, he was of course aware that terrible destruction, if not death, must have been going on around him; but now, when he rowed over the plains, saw the state of things with his own eyes, and heard the accounts of many settlers, some of whom he rescued from positions of danger, the full extent of the damage done by the great flood of 1826 was borne powerfully in upon his mind.

The varied stories which some had to tell of their escapes, others of their losses, and all, of their sufferings, were sad as well as interesting. Some of the people had taken shelter in garrets or on stages, where they had to wait anxiously till some boat or canoe should turn up to rescue them. Some had been surprised by the sudden rise of the flood at night while asleep, and had wakened to find themselves and their beds afloat. Two men who had gone to sleep on a rick of hay found themselves next morning drifting with the current some three miles below the spot where they had lain down. Others, like old Liz, had been carried off bodily in their huts. Not a few had been obliged to betake themselves to the housetops until help came. Some there were who took to swimming, and saved themselves by clinging to the branches of trees; yet, strange to say, during the whole course of that flood only one man lost his life. (See Note 1.)

It was very different, however, with regard to the lower animals. When at its height the water spread out on each side of the river to a distance of six miles, and about fourteen miles of its length, so that not only were many horses, cattle, pigs, and poultry drowned in the general stampede, but the pretty little ground squirrels were driven out of their holes, and along with rats, mice, snakes, and insects, perished in thousands. Even the frogs discovered that too much of a good thing is bad, for they found no rest for the soles of their feet, except floating logs, planks, and stray pieces of furniture, on which many of them were seen by our voyagers gazing contemplatively at the situation.

Everywhere houses and barns were seen floating about, their owners gone, but with dogs and cats in the doorways and windows, and poultry on the roofs; and the barking, mewing, and cackling of these, with the squealing of sundry pigs, tended to increase the general desolation. Such of the contents of these houses as had been left behind in the flight were washed out of them, and the waters were sprinkled here and there with bedsteads, chairs, tables, feather-beds, and other property, besides the carcasses of dead animals.

At certain points of the river, where there were shallows towards which the currents set, carts, carioles, boxes, carriages, gigs, fencing, and property of every description were stranded in large quantities and in dire confusion, but much of the wreck was swept onward and engulfed in Lake Winnipeg.

The unfortunate settlers found refuge ultimately, after being driven from knoll to knoll, on the higher ground of the Assinaboine, on the Little Mountain, and on a low hill twelve miles from the settlement.

On his way to the Little Mountain Mr Ravenshaw touched at the mission station. Here the various groups in the garret of the parsonage, the gallery of the church, and on the stage, were greatly reduced in numbers, many of the refugees having availed themselves of the visits of several settlers and gone off to the mountain in their boats or canoes, with what of their property they had managed to save.

Among those who remained there was a marked spirit of cheerful submission.

“You see,” said the pastor, in reply to an observation of Mr Ravenshaw on this point, “I have endeavoured to impress upon my poor people that mere quiet submission to the inevitable is not a Christian characteristic, that men of all creeds and nations may and do thus submit, and that it is the special privilege of the follower of Jesus to submit cheerfully to whatever befalls—pleasant or otherwise—because he has the promise that all things shall work together for his good.”

“Humph!” said the trader with a shrug of his shoulders; “it seems to me that some of us don’t avail ourselves much of our privilege.”

The pastor could scarcely repress a laugh at the grumpy tone in which his visitor spoke.

“You are right, Mr Ravenshaw, none of us come nearly up to the mark in our Christian course. The effort to do so constitutes much of the battle that we have to fight, but our comfort is, that we shall be more than conquerors in the long-run. There sits a widow now,” he continued, pointing to an Indian woman seated on the stage who was busy making a pair of moccasins for a little child that played by her side, “who is fighting her battle bravely at present. Not a murmur has yet escaped her lips, although she has lost all her possessions—except her boy.”

“Ah! except her boy!” The old trader did not speak. He only thought of Tony and quickly changed the drift of the conversation.

Soon after leaving the mission station a breeze sprang up; the sail filled; the oars were pulled in, and they went more swiftly on. Ere long they sighted the stage on which the women had been previously discovered singing hymns. They did not sing now. Their provisions were failing, their hopes of an abatement in the flood were dying out, and they no longer refused to accept deliverance from their somewhat perilous position.

“Have you seen anything of Herr Winklemann lately?” asked Lambert of one of the women.

“Nothing; but John Flett and David Mowat passed our stage yesterday in a canoe, and they told us that the hut of old Liz Rollin has been carried away with her and her father and Winklemann’s mother, and they say that her son has been seen in a small canoe rangin’ about by himself like a madman searchin’ for her.”

“The moment we reach the Mountain I’ll get hold of a canoe and go in search of him,” said Lambert.

“Right, boy! right!” said Ravenshaw; “I fear that something may have happened to the poor lad. These small canoes are all very well when you can run ashore and mend ’em if they should get damaged, but out here, among sunk posts and fences, and no land to run to, it is dangerous navigation.—Hist! Did ye hear a cry, lads?”

The men ceased to talk, and listened intently, while they gazed round the watery waste in all directions.

Besides a stranded house here and there, and a few submerged trees, nothing was to be seen on the water save the carcasses of a few cattle, above which a couple of ravens were wheeling slowly.

The cry was not repeated.

“Imagination,” muttered old Ravenshaw to himself, after Lambert had given a lusty shout, which, however, elicited no reply.

“It must have been; I hear nothing,” said Lambert, looking round uneasily.

“Come, out oars again, lads,” said the old gentleman, as the sail flapped in the failing breeze. “Night will catch us before we reach—. Hallo! back your oars—hard! Catch hold of ’im.”

A living creature of some sort came out from behind a floating log at that moment, and was almost run down. The man at the bow oar leaned over and caught it. The yell which followed left no shadow of doubt as to the nature of the creature. It was a pig. During the next two minutes, while it was being hauled into the boat, it made the air ring with shrieks of concentrated fury. Before dismissing this pig, we may state that it was afterwards identified by its owner, who said it had been swept way from his house two days before, and must therefore have been swimming without relief for eight-and-forty hours.

“That accounts for the cry you heard,” said Louis Lambert, when the screams subsided.

“No, Louis; a pig’s voice is too familiar to deceive me. If it was not imagination, it was the voice of a man.”

The old trader was right. One of the objects which, in the distance, resembled so closely the floating carcass of an ox was in reality an overturned canoe, and to the stern of that canoe Herr Winklemann was clinging. He had been long in the water, and was almost too much exhausted to see or cry. When the boat passed he thought he heard voices. Hope revived for a moment, and he uttered a feeble shout, but he failed to hear the reply. The canoe happened to float between him and the boat, so that he could not see it as it passed slowly on its course.

Poor Winklemann! In searching wildly about the wide expanse of water for his lost mother, he had run his canoe violently against the top rail of a fence. The delicate birch bark was ripped off. In another minute it sank and turned bottom up. It was a canoe of the smallest size, Winklemann having preferred to continue his search alone rather than with an unwilling companion. The German was a good swimmer; a mere upset might not have been serious. He could have righted the canoe, and perhaps clambered into it over the stern, and baled it out. But with a large hole in its bottom there was no hope of deliverance except in a passing boat or canoe. Clinging to the frail craft, the poor youth gazed long and anxiously round the horizon, endeavouring the while to push the wreck towards the nearest tree-top, which, however, was a long way off.

By degrees the cold told on his huge frame, and his great strength began to fail. Once, a canoe appeared in the distance. He shouted with all his might, but it was too far off. As it passed on out of sight he raised his eyes as if in prayer, but no sound escaped his compressed lips. It was noon when the accident occurred. Towards evening he felt as though his consciousness were going to forsake him, but the love of life was strong; he tightened his grasp on the canoe. It was just then that he heard the voices of Ravenshaw’s party and shouted, but the cry, as we have said, was very feeble, and the poor fellow’s sense of hearing was dulled with cold and exhaustion, else he would have heard Lambert’s reply.

“Oh! mine moder! mine moder!” he sighed, as his head drooped helplessly forward, though his fingers tightened on the canoe with the convulsive grasp of a drowning man.

Night descended on the water. The moon threw a fitful gleam now and then through a rift in the sailing clouds. All was still and dark and desolate above and around the perishing man. Nothing with life was visible save a huge raven which wheeled to and fro with a solemn croak and almost noiseless wing.

But the case of Winklemann was not yet hopeless. His chum, Louis Lambert, could not shake himself free from a suspicion that the cry, which had been put down to imagination, might after all have been that of some perishing human being—perhaps that of his friend. Arrived at the Little Mountain, Louis lost no time in obtaining a canoe, also an Indian to take the bow paddle.

The mountain, which was a mere undulation of the prairie, presented a strange scene at that time. Many settlers—half-breeds, Canadians, and Indians—were encamped there; some under tents of various sizes, others under upturned boats and canoes; not a few under the wider canopy of the heavens. Intermingled with the men, women, and children, were horses, cattle, sheep, pigs, poultry, dogs, cats, and pets of the feathered tribe, besides goods, household furniture, carts, etcetera, so that no words can adequately describe the scene. It was confusion worse confounded!

Many were the hospitable proposals made here to Louis Lambert that he should remain all night, for he was a general favourite, but to all these he turned a deaf ear, and set out on a searching expedition, in the canoe, just after the sun had gone down.

At first he made as straight as he could for the place where Mr Ravenshaw had fancied he heard the cry, but on consideration came to the conclusion that, as the current must have carried all floating objects considerably farther down the settlement by that time, he ought to change his course. Soon it grew too dark to see objects distinctly, but an occasional gleam of moonshine came to his aid. He passed several floating barns and cow-houses, but found them empty. He also nearly ran against several dead animals, but the silent Indian in the bow was wary and vigilant. Hope was at last beginning to die within Louis’s breast, when he observed a raven circling round some floating object.

“Ho! there’s something yonder. Strike out, old copper-nose,” he exclaimed, as he directed the canoe towards it.

The light craft cut the water like a knife, and was quickly alongside.

“Why, it is a canoe, bottom up. Have a care. Ha! hold on!”

Lambert nearly overturned his own canoe as he made a sudden grasp at something, and caught a man by the hair.

“Hallo! I say, let go your canoe and hold on to me,” cried Lambert, in excitement, but the man spoken to made no reply, and would not let go the wrecked canoe.

Lambert therefore hauled him powerfully and slowly alongside until his visage was level with the gunwale. Just then a gleam of moonlight broke forth and revealed the face of Herr Winklemann! The difficulties that now beset the rescuers were great, for the poor German, besides being stupefied, had grasped his canoe with tremendous power, and could not be detached. To get an active and living man out of the water into a birch canoe is no easy matter; to embark a half-dead one is almost impossible; nevertheless Lambert and his red-skinned comrade managed to do it between them. Raising his unconscious friend as far out of the water as possible, Louis caught one of his hands and wrenched it from its hold. Meanwhile the Indian leaned out of the opposite side of the canoe so as to balance it. Another violent wrench freed the other hand. It also freed Winklemann’s spirit to some extent, and called it back to life, for he exclaimed, “Vat is dat?” in a tone of faint but decided surprise.

“Here, lay hold of my neck,” said Lambert, in a peremptory voice.

Winklemann obeyed. Lambert exerted all his strength and heaved. The Indian did not dare to lend a hand, as that would have upset the canoe, but he leaned still farther over its other side as a counterpoise. At last Lambert got his friend on the edge, and tumbled him inboard. At the same moment the Indian adroitly resumed his position, and Winklemann was saved!

“You’ll soon be all right,” said Lambert, resuming his paddle. “Haven’t swallowed much water, I hope?”

“No, no,” said Winklemann faintly; “mine lunks, I do tink, are free of vatter, but mine lecks are stranchly qveer. I hav no lecks at all! ’Pears as if I vas stop short at zee vaist!”

Herr Winklemann said no more, but was swiftly borne, in a state of semi-consciousness, to his friends on the Little Mountain. (See Note 2.)

Chapter Nineteen.

The Red Man receives a Visitor, cogitates deeply, and acts with Decision.

We return now, to the red man, who, with his captive, spent the greater part of that winter on the slopes of the Rocky mountains, in a valley between two spurs of the range which merged gradually into the prairie.

In this sequestered spot Petawanaquat could, by turning to the right hand, seek the rugged haunts of the grizzly near and the Rocky Mountain goat; or, by turning to the left, ride after the buffalo on his own undulating plains. Here the Indian instructed Tony in all the mysteries of the hunter’s craft, showed him how to set traps for wolves and foxes, and snares for rabbits, and taught him how to use the gun, and how to follow the tracks of game in the snow. He also made him a little bow, with a sheaf of blunt-headed arrows, and a pair of snow-shoe frames, the interstices of which were filled up by the red man’s wife.

Petawanaquat had only one wife, named Meekeye. He might have had half a dozen wives if he had chosen, because he was a strong, able, and successful hunter, which is equivalent to saying he was, for an Indian, a rich man, and among the Indians there is no legal limit, we believe, to the number of a man’s wives. But our red man seemed to think one quite enough. He was very good to her—which is more than can be said, alas! of many white men. He never failed to bring her the tit-bits of all animals slain in the chase. He never beat her if she grew weary on the march, as too many of his savage countrymen are wont to do, but, on the contrary, relieved her of part of her burden, and, as a rule, carried the heaviest part of the family baggage on his own shoulders or sledge. Moreover, when on a visit with his furs to the stores of the fur-traders, he never failed to consult Meekeye as to every purchase that he made, and invariably gladdened her heart with gifts of scarlet cloth and white enamelled beads, and brilliant ribbons and little circular mirrors, which were deemed ample in size, though hardly big enough to display to advantage the point of an average nose. In short, Petawanaquat was quite un-Indian and chivalrous in his attentions to his squaw, who repaid him with faithful service, and, above all, with loving looks from the orbs which had originated her name.

Some people may think the loving looks produced the chivalry; others that the chivalry caused the looks. Whichever way it was, the result was mutual felicity. The red man had no family, hence Meekeye took to Tony with something of the fervour of a mother. Tony soon reciprocated. At first he indulged some of his mischievous tendencies, but, being only smiled at when he was naughty, found that the interest of being bad was gone, and ere long gave it up.

In the presence of his new father he never dared to be other than absolute perfection. Petawanaquat’s solemnity was too much for him. Thus it came to pass that Tony was soon thoroughly broken in. Meekeye taught him to make leggings and to ornament moccasins, for the boy was omnivorous in his thirst for knowledge. He swallowed everything with avidity, including immense quantities of food, so that his frame and mind developed together in a marvellous manner.

Of course the red man did not take Tony with him on his longest hunting expeditions, but he took him considerable distances from home notwithstanding, and showed him the “far west” sport in all its phases, insomuch that Tony, who could scarcely sit a trotting horse in the settlements, became Tonyquat the Fearless in the course of time—could ride bare-backed steeds with ease, and could send his little arrows into the flank of a buffalo with as much coolness, if not as much force, as his instructor.

Tony even got the length of drawing first blood from a grizzly bear. It happened thus:—

He was out with Petawanaquat one day, in a narrow defile of the mountains. The Indian carried his gun; the boy his bow. Tony’s quiver contained two sorts of arrows, one set shod with iron, and sharp, the other set not only blunt, but with a lumpy wooden head, meant not to pierce but to stun birds.

“Ho, look here!” exclaimed Tony, fitting a blunt arrow to the string, and pointing up at a tree, among the branches of which sat a bird resembling a grey hen in size and colour.

Petawanaquat stopped, let the butt of his gun fall to the ground, rested his hands on the muzzle, and smiled approval.

The arrow flew, hit the bird on its astonished eye, and brought it down.

“Good! Tonyquat will be a great chief,” said the red man, with another grave nod.

“Ho, look there!” whispered Tony, glaring in the direction of a thicket while he fitted a sharp arrow to his bow.

Turning quickly, the Indian saw a grizzly bear rise from behind a rock and look at the hunters inquiringly. Before he could raise his gun he heard a twang, and next moment saw an arrow quivering in the bear’s neck. The roar of the enraged animal and the report of his own gun commingled. Another instant, and Tony found himself in the midst of the tree out of which he had just brought the grey bird, hurled there by Petawanaquat, who was himself not a moment too soon in climbing to the same place of refuge. From this point of vantage the Indian, having carried his gun up with him, fired several deadly shots, and killed the bear, whose claws Tony afterwards wore in commemoration of the event.

This was but one of the varied and stirring adventures which befell our little hero while under the care of his red-skinned captor.

What passed in the mind of the Indian during that winter Tony had little opportunity of knowing, for he was remarkably taciturn, though at night, when smoking the calumet over his wigwam fire, the thoughtful expression of his face, and occasional troubled look on his brows, suggested the idea that he was ill at ease. He frequently gazed at his captive as if about to speak to him seriously, but as often seemed to abandon the idea with something like a sigh.

One evening, however, Petawanaquat seemed more troubled than usual, and held frequent earnest consultations with Meekeye in an undertone, in the midst of which Tony could distinguish a few words, such as “tracks,” “white strangers,” “encampment,” etcetera. Before going to rest the Indian smoked an extra pipe, and then said—

“Tonyquat is a brave boy!”

“Yes,” answered Tony, with an air of gravity quite equal to that of his red father. The few months he had been in captivity had indeed wrought an almost miraculous change in the child. His ideas were much more manly. Even his speech had lost its childish lisp, and he had begun to express himself somewhat in the allegorical language of the American Indian. Under the influence of a will stronger than his own he had proved himself an apt scholar.

“Tonyquat is a boy who keeps his word?” continued the other, with a keen glance.

Tony turned his large eyes full on the Indian.

“Has my Indian father ever found Tonyquat telling lies?”

To this Petawanaquat said “Good,” and smoked his pipe with increasing vigour, while Tony sat with his hands clasped over one knee, gazing sternly at the fire, as though he were engaged in consulting on matters of life and death. He glanced, however, for one instant at Meekeye, to see that she observed his staid demeanour. The same glance revealed to Tony the fact that Meekeye’s right foot was rather near the fire, with the red-hot end of a log close to it. Tony’s own left foot chanced to rest on the other and unburnt end of the same log. A very gentle motion on his part sufficed to bring Meekeye’s toes and the fire into contact. She drew back with a sudden start, but was too much of an Indian to scream. Tony was enough of one to remain motionless and abstracted like a brown statue. The slightest possible twitch at one corner of Petawanaquat’s mouth showed that he had observed the movement, but his brow did not relax as he said—

“Tonyquat must make his red father a promise. White men are coming here. They travel towards the setting sun. If they hear the voice of Tonyquat they will take him away.”

“Will they take me to my own father?” cried Tony, forgetting his rôle in the excitement of the moment.

“Petawanaquat has said that the white strangers travel towards the setting sun. Red River lies in the direction of the rising sun. Would Tonyquat like to go with white strangers into the mountains?”

Tony was most emphatic in his denial of entertaining any such desire, and declared with his wonted candour that he loved Petawanaquat and Meekeye next to his own father and mother.

“If this be so,” returned the Indian, “Tonyquat must be dumb when the white men speak to him. He must know nothing. His voice must be more silent than the waters of a lake when the wind is dead.”

Tony promised to be as dumb as a stone, as ignorant as a new-born infant, and as quiet as a dead man. He then questioned the Indian about the white men, but obtained no further information than that Petawanaquat had come on their camp unexpectedly the day before, had observed them secretly from among the bushes, knew that the route they were pursuing would infallibly lead them to his wigwam, and that therefore he had hurried home to be ready for them. He could not tell who the white men were. They looked like traders—that was all he knew, or, at least, chose to communicate.

That night Meekeye repainted Tony’s neck and face with considerable care; dyed his luxuriant hair with grease and charcoal; touched up his eyebrows with the same, and caused him to dirty his hands effectively with mud and ashes.

Next morning, a little after sunrise, the twinkle of bells, the yelping of dogs, and the cracking of whips were heard. Petawanaquat and Tony had just time to step out of the tent when a cariole, somewhat in the form of a slipper-bath, drawn by four dogs, dashed up to the door. The dogs, being fresh and young, took to fighting. Their driver, who wore a head-dress with horns, belaboured the combatants and abused them in French, while a tall, quiet-looking man arose from the furs of the cariole, and, mounting the slope on which the Indian stood to receive him, advanced towards the wigwam. Some minutes later another team of dogs with a provision-sled and driver came rattling up.

“What cheer?” said the tall man heartily, as he held out his hand.

“Wat-chee?” replied Petawanaquat, grasping the hand, and repeating the phrase as he had learnt it in the settlements.

The tall man was very affable, and at once revealed the object of his journey. He was a missionary, he said, and was making a tour among the native tribes of that region to preach the good news of salvation from sin and its consequences through Jesus Christ the Son of God.

Petawanaquat listened with grave intelligence, but with the reticence of an Indian.

“Some tribes of Indians, I have been told, are encamped not far from this spot,” said the missionary through his interpreter.

Petawanaquat admitted that such was the case, and that some lodges of Indians were pitched in the mountains not two days’ march from his tent.

The missionary entered the wigwam and sat down. He gradually introduced the subject of his mission, and endeavoured to bring it home to the Indian and his wife, who, however, replied in very brief sentences. He also addressed Tony, but that sharp child seemed to be less impressionable than a pine stump, and refused to utter a word on any subject. The missionary, however, was a true man, with the love of God burning brightly in his breast. Although slightly disappointed he was not discouraged. He spoke of Christ crucified with great earnestness, and commended the Christian virtues—among others the duty of forgiving, nay, even loving, one’s enemies, and especially of returning good for evil. He also dwelt much on the wickedness of harbouring revengeful feelings, and on the sweetness and blessedness of doing good to others—enforcing his arguments on the latter point by quoting the Saviour’s own words, “Whatsoever ye would that men should do to you, do ye even so to them.”

Still the red man listened with stolid composure, Meekeye with apparent indifference, and Tony with absolute vacancy, so that the missionary, after offering up a silent prayer, went on his way with a sad feeling at his heart that his labour with that family of savages had been in vain. He comforted himself, however, with the reflection that it is written, “Your labour is not in vain in the Lord.”

And he was right. His labour had not been in vain, though it was not given to him at that time to see the fruit thereof.

We have said that Petawanaquat had smoked and pondered deeply in the evenings that winter over his wigwam fire. His slightly enlightened mind had been busy with those difficult problems about good and evil, God and man, which seem to exercise all earnest souls more or less in every land, savage as well as civilised. The revenge which he had taken on Mr Ravenshaw was sweet—very sweet, for his indignation against that irascible old gentleman was very bitter; justifiably so, he thought. But the clergyman at Red River had enlightened the red man’s conscience, and conscience being once aroused cannot easily be put to sleep again. His reasoning powers told him that the revenge which he had taken was far in excess of the injury which he had received. This was unjust, and conscience told him that injustice was wrong. The great Manitou Himself could not be unjust. Had He not taken the guilt of man on Himself in the person of Jesus, in order that, without injustice, He might be the justifier of sinners? Injustice is wrong, reiterated conscience again and again; but revenge is sweet, thought the Indian.

Now this visit of the missionary had cleared the mind of Petawanaquat to some extent. It was a new idea to him that returning good for evil was sweeter than revenge. He coupled this thought with the fact that the Saviour had laid down His life for His enemies, and the result was that a change, gradual but decided, was wrought in the red man’s sentiments. The seed thus sown by the wayside fell into good ground. Unlike ordinary seed, it bore fruit during the winter, and that fruit ripened into action in the spring.

“Tonyquat,” said the red man one morning, after much of the snow had left the ground, “your Indian father intends to start on a long journey to-morrow.”

“Petawanaquat,” replied Tony, “your white-faced son is ready to follow.”

It must be understood that Tony’s language was figurative, for at the time he was speaking his “white” face was changed so much by paint and smoke that it quite equalled that of his adopted father in dirty brownness.

“Meekeye will get ready,” continued the Indian. “Our journey shall be towards the rising sun.”

The result of this order was that on the following day the Indian’s leather tent was taken down, wrapped up into a bundle, and fastened to a couple of poles along with the rest of the family property. One end of each of these poles was fastened to a horse like shafts; the other ends were left to trail on the ground, the load resting between these ends and the steed’s tail. It was, as it were, a cart without wheels or body. Meekeye mounted the horse after the fashion of a man. Petawanaquat and Tony together mounted another steed. Three dogs formed part of the establishment. These were harnessed to little poles like those of the horse, and each dragged a little load proportioned to his size. Thus they left the spur of the Rocky Mountains and travelled over the plains towards Red River settlement.

About the same time, and with the same destination in view, and not far distant from the same region, another party on horseback commenced their journey towards the rising sun.

The two parties ultimately met—but these and other matters we shall reserve for our next chapter.

Chapter Twenty.

A Terrible Disaster and a Joyful Meeting.

We left Ian Macdonald, it will be remembered, far away in the western wilderness, suffering from the wounds received during his memorable and successful combat with a grizzly bear. These wounds were much more serious than had at first been supposed, and, despite the careful nursing of Vic Ravenshaw and Michel Rollin, he grew so weak from loss of blood that it became evident to all of them that they should have to take up their abode in that wild unpeopled spot for a considerable period of time. They therefore planned and built a small log-hut in a wood well stocked with game, and on the margin of a little stream where fish abounded.

At first Victor resolved to ride to the nearest fort of the fur-traders and fetch a doctor, or the means of conveying their wounded friend to a place where better attendance and shelter were to be had, but insurmountable difficulties lay in the way. There were no doctors in the land! The nearest abode of civilised man was several hundred miles distant, and neither he nor Rollin knew the way to any place whatever. They had depended entirely on Ian as a guide, and now that he was helpless, so were they! It would have been difficult for them even to have found their way back to the Red River Settlement without the aid of the scholastic backwoodsman. They were constrained, therefore, to rest where they were, hoping from day to day that Ian would regain strength sufficient to bear the fatigue of a journey. Thus the winter slowly slipped away, and wild-fowl—the harbingers of spring—were beginning to awake the echoes of the northern woods before Ian felt himself strong enough to commence the journey homewards.

That winter, with all its vicissitudes, hopes, fears, adventures, and pleasures, we must pass over in absolute silence, and re-introduce our three friends on the evening of a fine spring day, while riding over a sweep of prairie land in the direction of a thick belt of forest.

“The river must be somewhere hereabouts,” said Ian, reining up on an eminence, and gazing earnestly round him.

“Vas you ever here before?” asked Rollin.

“Ay, once, but not at this precise spot. I don’t quite recognise it. I hope my long illness has not damaged my memory.”

“If we don’t reach the river soon,” said Victor, with something of weariness in his tone, “this poor brute will give in.”

Victor referred to his horse, which had been reduced by some unknown disease to skin and bone.

“However, I’m well able to walk,” he continued, more cheerfully; “and it can’t be long before we shall fall in with the river, and some Indians, who will sell or lend us a canoe.”

“Ah! my cheval is not much more better dan your von,” said Rollin; and he spoke the truth, for his horse was afflicted with the same disease that had attacked that of Victor. Ian’s steed, however, was in excellent condition.

That night the invalid horses were freed from all their troubles by a pack of wolves while their owners were asleep. They had been “hobbled” so carelessly that they had broken loose and strayed far from the encampment. Being weak they fell an easy prey to their sneaking enemies.

Next day, however, the three friends reached the river of which they were in search, found a family of Indians there who bartered with them a canoe and some provisions for the remaining horse, and continued their homeward journey by water.

For a time all went well. The river was in high flood, for the snow-fall there, as elsewhere, had been unusually heavy, but all three were expert voyageurs, and succeeded in steering past difficulties of all kinds, until one afternoon, when good fortune seemed to forsake them utterly. They began by running the canoe against a sunk tree, or snag, and were obliged to put ashore to avoid sinking. The damage was, however, easily remedied; and while Ian was busy with the repairs his comrades prepared a hot dinner, which meal they usually ate cold in the canoe. Next they broke a paddle. This was also easily replaced. After that they ventured to run a rapid which almost proved too much for them; it nearly overturned the canoe, and filled it so full of water that they were compelled to land again, unload, and empty it.

“Dat is too bad,” observed Rollin, with a growl of discontent.

“It might have been worse,” said Ian.

“Bah!” returned Rollin.

“Pooh!” ejaculated Victor.

“Very good,” said Ian; “I only hope the truth of my remark mayn’t be proved to both of you.”

It has been asserted by the enemies of Ian Macdonald that the catastrophe which followed was the result of a desire on his part to prove the truth of his own remark, but we acquit him of such baseness. Certain it is, however, that the very next rapid they came to they ran straight down upon a big stone over which the water was curling in grand fury.

“Hallo!” shouted Ian, in sudden alarm, dipping his paddle powerfully on the right.

“Hi!” yelled Rollin, losing his head and dipping wildly on the same side—which was wrong.

“Look out!” roared Victor.

He might as well have roared “Look in,” for any good that could have come of it. There was a crash; the canoe burst up and doubled down, the bow was hurled high in the air, the rest of it lay out limp, and disappeared. Rollin went clean over the rock, Victor went round it, and Ian, after grasping it for a second, went under it apparently, for, like the canoe, he disappeared. That rapid treated these voyagers roughly. Of the three, Michel Rollin appeared to suffer most. After sending him round the stone in a rush of foam that caused his arms and legs to go round like a mad windmill, it sucked him down, rubbed his head on the boulders at the bottom, shot him up feet foremost into the air, received him on its raging breast again, spun him round like a teetotum, and, at last, hurled him almost contemptuously upon a sandbank at its foot.

Ian and Victor also received a severe buffeting before gaining the same sandbank, where they faced each other in a blaze of surprise and horror!

Unable to find words to express their feelings, they turned simultaneously, and waded in silence from the sandbank to the shore.

Here a consultation of the most doleful character that can be imagined was entered into.

“Everything lost,” said Ian, sitting down on a bank, and wringing the water out of his garments.

“Not even a gun saved,” said Victor gravely.

“No, nor von mout’ful of pemmican,” cried Rollin, wildly grasping his hair and glaring.

The poor fellow seemed to his friends to have gone suddenly mad, for the glare of despair turned to a grin of wild amusement, accompanied by a strange laugh, as he pointed straight before him, and became, as it were, transfixed.

Turning to look in the direction indicated, they beheld a small Indian boy, absolutely naked, remarkably brown, and gazing at them with a look of wonder that was never equalled by the most astonished owl known to natural history.

Seeing that he was observed, the boy turned and fled like an antelope. Rollin uttered a yell, and bounded away in pursuit. The half-breed could easily have caught him, but he did not wish to do so. He merely uttered an appalling shriek now and then to cause the urchin to increase his speed. The result was that the boy led his pursuer straight to the wigwam of his father, which was just what Rollin wanted. It stood but a short distance from the scene of the wreck.

And now, when, to all appearance, they had reached the lowest turn in the wheel of fortune, they were raised to the highest heights of joy, for the Indian proved to be friendly, supplied them with provisions to continue their journey, and gave them a good bow and quiver of arrows on their simple promise to reward him if he should visit them at Red River in the course of the summer. He had not a canoe to lend them, however. They were therefore constrained to complete their journey over the prairies on foot.

“You see, I said that things might be worse,” said Ian, as they lay on their backs beside each other that night after supper, each rolled in his blanket and gazing complacently at the stars.

“Yes, but you did not say that they might also be better. Why did not your prophetic soul enable you to see further and tell of our present state of comparative good fortune, Mr Wiseman?” asked Victor with a sigh of contentment.

“I did not prophesy, Vic; I only talked of what might be.”

“Vat is dat you say? vat might be?” exclaimed Rollin. “Ah! vat is is vorse. Here am me, go to bed vidout my smok. Dat is most shockable state I has yet arrive to.”

“Poor fellows!” said Ian, in a tone of commiseration.

“You indeed lose everything when you lose that on which your happiness depends.”

“Bah!” ejaculated Rollin, as he turned his back on his comrades and went to sleep.

A feeling of sadness as well as drowsiness came over Victor as he lay there blinking at the stars. The loss of their canoe and all its contents was but a small matter compared with the failure of their enterprise, for was he not now returning home, while Tony still remained a captive with the red man? Ian’s thoughts were also tinged with sadness and disappointment on the same account. Nevertheless, he experienced a slight gleam of comfort as the spirit of slumber stole over him, for had he not, after all, succeeded in killing a grizzly bear, and was not the magnificent claw collar round his neck at that very moment, with one of the claw-points rendering him, so to speak, pleasantly uncomfortable? and would he not soon see Elsie? and—. Thought stopped short at this point, and remained there—or left him—we know not which.

Again we venture to skip. Passing over much of that long and toilsome journey on foot, we resume the thread of our tale at the point when our three travellers, emerging suddenly from a clump of wood one day, came unexpectedly to the margin of an unknown sea!

“Lak Vinnipeg have busted hisself, an’ cover all de vorld,” exclaimed Rollin, with a look of real alarm at his companions.

“The Red River has overflowed, and the land is flooded,” said Ian, in a low solemn voice.

“Surely, surely,” said Victor, in sudden anxiety, “there must have been many houses destroyed, since the water has come so far, but—but, father’s house stands high.”

Ian’s face wore a troubled look as he replied—

“Ay, boy, but the water has come more than twelve miles over the plains, for I know this spot well. It must be deep—very deep—at the Willow Creek.”

“Vat shall ye do vidout bot or canoe?”

Rollin’s question was not heeded, for at that moment two canoes were seen in the distance coming from the direction of Lake Winnipeg. One was paddled by an Indian, the other by a squaw and a boy. They made straight for the spot where our travellers were standing. As they drew near, Victor hailed them. The boy in the bow of the foremost canoe was observed to cease paddling. As he drew nearer, his eyes were seen to blaze, and eager astonishment was depicted on his painted face. When the canoe touched land he leaped of it, and, with a yell that would have done credit to the wildest redskin in the prairie, rushed at Victor, leaped into his arms, and, shouting “Vic! Vic!” besmeared his face with charcoal, ochre, vermilion, and kisses!

To say that Victor was taken by surprise would be feeble language. Of course he prepared for self-defence, at the first furious rush, but the shout of “Vic!” opened his eyes; he not only submitted to be kissed, but returned the embrace with tenfold interest, and mixed up the charcoal, ochre, and vermilion with his mouth and pose and Tony’s tears of joy.

Oh, it was an amazing sight, the meeting of these brothers. It is hard to say whether the eyes or the mouth of the onlookers opened widest. Petawanaquat was the only one who retained his composure. The eyes of Meekeye were moistened despite her native stoicism, but her husband stood erect with a grave sad countenance, and his blanket folded, with his arms in classic fashion, on his breast. As for Rollin, he became, and remained for some time, a petrifaction of amazement.

When the first burst was over, Victor turned to Petawanaquat, and as he looked at his stern visage a dark frown settled on his own, and he felt a clenching of his fists, as he addressed the Indian in his native tongue.

“What made you take him away?” he demanded indignantly.

“Revenge,” answered the red man, with dignified calmness.

“And what induces you now to bring him back?” asked Victor, in some surprise.

“Forgiveness,” answered Petawanaquat.

For a few moments Victor gazed at the calm countenance of the Indian in silent surprise.

“What do you mean?” he asked, with a puzzled look.

“Listen,” replied the Indian slowly. “Petawanaquat loves revenge. He has tasted revenge. It is sweet, but the Indian has discovered a new fountain. The old white father thirsts for his child. Does not the white man’s Book say, ‘If your enemy thirst, give him drink?’ The red man brings Tonyquat back in order that he may heap coals of fire on the old white father’s head. The Great Spirit has taught Petawanaquat that forgiveness is sweeter than revenge.”

He stopped abruptly. Victor still looked at him with a puzzled expression.

“Well,” he said, smiling slightly, “I have no doubt that my father will forgive you, now that you have brought back the child.”

A gleam, which seemed to have a touch of scorn in it, shot from the Indian’s eye as he rejoined—

“When Petawanaquat brings back Tonyquat, it is a proof that he forgives the old white father.”

This was all that the Indian would condescend to say. The motives which had decided him to return good for evil were too hazy and complex for him clearly to understand, much less explain. He took refuge, therefore, in dignified silence.

Victor was too happy in the recovery of his brother to push the investigation further, or to cherish feelings of ill-will. He therefore went up to the Indian, and, with a smile of candour on his face, held out his hand, which the latter grasped and shook, exclaiming “Wat-chee!” under the belief that these words formed an essential part of every white man’s salutation.

This matter had barely been settled when a man came out of the woods and approached them. He was one of the Red River settlers, but personally unknown to any of them. From him they heard of the condition of the settlement. Of course they asked many eager questions about their own kindred after he had mentioned the chief points of the disastrous flood.

“And what of my father, Samuel Ravenshaw?” asked Victor anxiously.

“What! the old man at Willow Creek, whose daughter is married to Lambert?”

“Married to Lambert!” exclaimed Ian, turning deadly pale.

“Ay, or engaged to be, I’m not sure which,” replied the man. “Oh, he’s all right. The Willow Creek house stands too high to be washed away. The family still lives in it—in the upper rooms.”

“And Angus Macdonald, what of him?” asked Ian.

“An’ ma mère—my moder, ole Liz Rollin, an’ ole Daddy, has you hear of dem?” demanded Rollin.

At the mention of old Liz the man’s face became grave.

“Angus Macdonald and his sister,” he said, “are well, and with the Ravenshaws, I believe, or at the Little Mountain, their house being considered in danger; but old Liz Rollin,” he added, turning to the anxious half-breed, “has been carried away with her hut, nobody knows where. They say that her old father and the mother of Winklemann have gone along with her.”

Words cannot describe the state of mind into which this information threw poor Michel Rollin. He insisted on seizing one of the canoes and setting off at once. As his companions were equally anxious to reach their flooded homes an arrangement was soon come to. Petawanaquat put Tony into the middle of his canoe with Victor, while Ian took the bow paddle. Michel took the steering paddle of the other canoe, and Meekeye seated herself in the bow.

Thus they launched out upon the waters of the flood, and, bidding adieu to the settler who had given them such startling information, were soon paddling might and main in the direction of the settlement.

Chapter Twenty One.

Return of the Lost One.

It chanced that, on the morning of the arrival of Victor and his comrades at the margin of the flood, Peegwish went a-fishing.

That astute Indian was fond of fishing. It suited his tastes and habits; it was an art which was admirably adapted to his tendencies. Peegwish was, naturally as well as by training, lazy, and what could be more congenial to a lazy man than a “gentle art” which involved nothing more than sitting on a river bank smoking a pipe and awaiting a bite? It had a spice of intellectuality about it too, for did it not foster a spirit of meditation, contemplation, and even of philosophical speculation—when he chanced to be awake? Moreover, it saved him from harder labour, and shut the mouths of those ill-natured people who objected to drones, and had a tendency to reproach them, for was he not assiduously procuring for men and women a portion of that nourishment without which labour would be impossible?

The peculiar action of the flood had favoured Peegwish in regard to his beloved art, for, whereas in former days he was obliged to get up from his lair and go down to the river bank to fish, now he had nothing more to do than open the window and cast out his line, and Wildcat was close at hand to fetch him a light when his pipe chanced to go out, which it frequently did, for the red old savage slept much. When, therefore, we say that Peegwish went a-fishing, it must be understood that he merely left his seat by the stove in the upper room at Willow Creek and opened the window.

Wildcat was as fond of fishing as her brother, but there were a few difficulties in her way which did not exist in his. Water had to be drawn, wood to be chopped, moccasins and leggings and coats to be made, as well as meals to be cooked. She was, therefore, compelled to fish in moderation.

“Bring a light,” said Peegwish, in that tone of mild entreaty with which he was wont to make his wants known.

There being no one else in the room at the moment, Wildcat obeyed.

Peegwish looked into the room for a moment, and extended his left hand for the piece of lighted stick; with his right hand he held his line. Suddenly that hand received an amazing tug. Peegwish unintentionally scattered the firebrand, dropped his pipe from his lips, and uttered a shout, while with both hands he held on to the jerking line.

One of Mr Ravenshaw’s largest pigs had been swept out of the outhouse lofts. Struggling with the stream, he passed under the window of the storeroom, and came across the line of Peegwish with his tail. Every one must be familiar with the tendency of tails in general to shut down when touched. The unfortunate pig obeyed the natural law, and the line continued to slip until the hook was reached, when, of course, the natural result followed. There could be no hope of escape, for the tail was remarkably tough and the line strong. Peegwish held on stoutly. Wildcat lent her aid. The jerking on the tail depressed the snout of the pig, whose shrieks, being thus varied by intermittent gurgles, rendered the noise more appalling, and quickly drew the whole household to the windows.

Unfortunately there were none there but women—Mr Ravenshaw and the other men being still absent with the boat. The canoe had also been sent off that morning for a load of firewood, so that the only way of relieving the pig was to haul him in at the window. But he was too heavy to be thus treated, and as Peegwish did not wish to break his line and lose his hook he could only hold on in despair, while Elsie and Cora, with their mother and Wildcat, stood by helpless and horrified, yet amused, by the novelty of the situation and the frightful noise.

While this scene was being enacted at Willow Greek, Victor, with the recovered Tony and the rest of them, were drawing quickly near.

Deeply though the hearts of most of these wanderers were filled with anxious fears, they could not help being impressed with the scenes of desolation—deserted and submerged homesteads, wreck and ruin—through which they passed. At one moment the two canoes were skimming over the waters of a boundless lake; at another they were winding out and in among the trees of a submerged bit of woodland. Presently they found themselves among house tops, and had to proceed cautiously for fear of sunken fences, and then out they swept again over the wide sheet of water, where the once familiar prairie lay many feet below.

The maple-trees were by that time in full leaf, and the rich green verdure of bush and tree was bursting out on all sides, when not submerged. Swallows skimmed about in hundreds, dipping the tips of their blue wings in the flood, as though to test its reality, while flocks of little yellow birds—like canaries, but rather larger, with more black on their wings—flitted from bush to tree or from isle to isle. The month of May in those regions is styled the “flower month,” and June the “heart-berry month,” but flowers and heart-berries were alike drowned out that year in Red River of the North, and none of the wonted perfumes of the season regaled the noses of our voyagers as they returned home.

“There they are at last!” exclaimed Victor, with sparkling eyes, “the elms on the knoll. D’ye see them, Tony? I do believe I see the smoking-box. But for the bushes we might see the chimneys of Willow Creek.”

Tony’s excitement was great, but the effect of his late training was seen in the suppression of all feeling, save that which escaped through the eyes. Paint and charcoal concealed the flush on his cheeks effectually.

“Tonyquat sees,” he replied.

Victor received this with a loud laugh, but Tony, although annoyed, did not lose his dignity, which the red man in the stern of the canoe observed with a look of pride and satisfaction.

Michel Rollin, in the other canoe, close alongside, was observed to hold up his hand.

“Hush!” he said, turning his head as if to listen. “I do hear someting—someting not meloderous.”

“Is it melliferous, then?” asked Vic, with a smile.

But Rollin made no reply. He was far from jesting, poor fellow, at that moment. The thought of his old mother and grandfather, and fears as to their fate, weighed heavily on his heart, and took all the fun out of him.

“It sounds like pigs,” said Ian.

“Oui. Dey be killin’ porkers,” said Rollin, with a nod, as he dipped his paddle again and pushed on.

As they drew near, the excitement of the voyagers increased, so did their surprise at the prolonged and furious shrieking. Gradually the vigour of their strokes was strengthened, until they advanced at racing speed. Finally, they swept round the corner of the old house at Willow Creek, and burst upon the gaze of its inhabitants, while Peegwish and the pig were at the height of their struggles.

Mrs Ravenshaw chanced to be the first to observe them.

“Ian Macdonald!” she shouted, for his form in the bow of the leading canoe was the most conspicuous.

“Victor!” cried the sisters, with a scream that quite eclipsed the pig.

They rushed to another window, under which the canoes were pulled up.

“Oh! Victor, Victor,” cried Mrs Ravenshaw, with a deadly faintness at her heart; “you haven’t found—”

“Mother!” cried Tony, casting off his Indian reserve and starting up with a hysterical shout, “Mother!”

“Tony!” exclaimed everybody in the same breath, for they all knew his voice, though they did not believe their eyes.

It was only four feet or so from the canoe to the window. Mrs Ravenshaw leaned over and seized Tony’s uplifted hands. Elsie and Cora lent assistance. A light vault, and Tony went in at the window, from which immediately issued half-stifled cries of joy. At that moment Peegwish uttered a terrible roar, as he fell back into the room with the broken line in his hand, accidentally driving Wildcat into a corner. A last supreme effort had been made by the pig. He had broken the hook, and went off with a final shriek of triumph.

Thus, amid an appropriate whirlwind of confusion, noise, and disaster, was the long-lost Tony restored to his mother’s arms!

Seated calmly in the stern of his canoe, Petawanaquat observed the scene with a look of profound gravity. His revenge was complete! He had returned to his enemy the boy of whom he had become so fond that he felt as though Tony really were his own son. He had bowed his head to the dictates of an enlightened conscience. He had returned good for evil. A certain feeling of deep happiness pervaded the red man’s heart, but it was accompanied, nevertheless, by a vague sense of bereavement and sadness which he could not shake off just then.

Quite as calmly and as gravely sat Ian Macdonald. His eyes once more beheld Elsie, the angel of his dreams, but he had no right to look upon her now with the old feelings. Her troth was plighted to Lambert. It might be that they were already married! though he could not bring himself to believe that; besides, he argued, hoping against hope, if such were the case, Elsie would not be living with her father’s family. No, she was not yet married, he felt sure of that; but what mattered it? A girl whose heart was true as steel could never be won from the man to whom she had freely given herself. No, there was no hope; and poor Ian sat there in silent despair, with no sign, however, of the bitter thoughts within on his grave, thoughtful countenance.

Not less gravely sat Michel Rollin in the stern of his canoe. No sense of the ludicrous was left in his anxious brain. He had but one idea, and that was—old Liz! With some impatience he waited until the ladies inside the house were able to answer his queries about his mother. No sooner did he obtain all the information they possessed than he transferred Meekeye to her husband’s canoe, and set off alone in the other to search for the lost hut—as Winklemann had done before him.

Meanwhile the remainder of the party were soon assembled in the family room on the upper floor, doing justice to an excellent meal, of which most of them stood much in need.

“Let me wash that horrid stuff off your face, darling, before you sit down,” said Miss Trim to Tony.

The boy was about to comply, but respect for the feelings of his Indian father caused him to hesitate. Perhaps the memory of ancient rebellion was roused by the old familiar voice, as he replied—

“Tonyquat loves his war-paint. It does not spoil his appetite.”

It was clear from a twinkle in Tony’s eye, and a slight motion in his otherwise grave face, that, although this style of language now came quite naturally to him, he was keeping it up to a large extent on purpose.

“Tonyquat!” exclaimed Mrs Ravenshaw, aghast with surprise, “what does the child mean?”

“I’ll say Tony, mother, if you like it better,” he said, taking his mother’s hand.

“He’s become a redskin,” said Victor, half-amused, half-anxious.

“Tony,” said Miss Trim, whose heart yearned towards her old but almost unrecognisable pupil, “don’t you remember how we used to do lessons together and play sometimes?”

“And fight?” added Cora, with a glance at Ian, which caused Elsie to laugh.

“Tonyquat does not forget,” replied the boy, with profound gravity. “He remembers the lessons and the punishments. He also remembers dancing on the teacher’s bonnet and scratching the teacher’s nose!”

This was received with a shout of delighted laughter, for in it the spirit of the ancient Tony was recognised.

But Ian Macdonald did not laugh. He scarcely spoke except when spoken to. He seemed to have no appetite, and his face was so pale from his long illness that he had quite the air of a sick man.

“Come, Ian, why don’t you eat? Why, you look as white as you did after the grizzly had clawed you all over.”

This remark, and the bear-claw collar on the youth’s neck, drew forth a question or two, but Ian was modest. He could not be induced to talk of his adventure, even when pressed to do so by Elsie.

“Come, then, if you won’t tell it I will,” said Victor; and thereupon he gave a glowing account of the great fight with the bear, the triumphant victory, and the long illness, which had well-nigh terminated fatally.

“But why did you not help him in the hunt?” asked Elsie of Victor, in a tone of reproach.

“Because he wouldn’t let us; the reason why is best known to himself. Perhaps native obstinacy had to do with it.”

“It was a passing fancy; a foolish one, perhaps, or a touch of vanity,” said Ian, with a smile, “but it is past now, and I have paid for it.—Did you make fast the canoe?” he added, turning abruptly to the Indian, who was seated on his buffalo robe by the stove.

Without waiting for an answer he rose and descended the staircase to the passage, where poor Miss Trim had nearly met a watery grave.

Here the canoe was floating, and here he found one of the domestics.

“Has the wedding come off yet?” he asked in a low, but careless, tone, as he stooped to examine the fastening of the canoe.

“What wedding?” said the domestic, with a look of surprise.

“Why, the wedding of Mr Ravenshaw’s daughter.”

“Oh no, Mr Ian. It would be a strange time for a wedding. But it’s all fixed to come off whenever the flood goes down. And she do seem happy about it. You see, sir, they was throw’d a good deal together here of late, so it was sort of natural they should make it up, and the master he is quite willin’.”

This was enough. Ian Macdonald returned to the room above with the quiet air of a thoughtful schoolmaster and the callous solidity of a human petrifaction. Duty and death were the prominent ideas stamped upon his soul. He would not become reckless or rebellious. He would go through life doing his duty, and, when the time came, he would die!

They were talking, of course, about the flood when he returned and sat down.

Elsie was speaking. Ian was immediately fascinated as he listened to her telling Victor, with graphic power, some details of the great disaster—how dwellings and barns and stores had been swept away, and property wrecked everywhere, though, through the mercy of God, no lives had been lost. All this, and a great deal more, did Elsie and Cora and Mrs Ravenshaw dilate upon, until Ian almost forgot his resolve.

Suddenly he remembered it. He also remembered that his father’s house still existed, though it was tenantless, his father and Miss Martha having gone up to see friends at the Mountain.

“Come, Vic,” he exclaimed, starting up, “I must go home. The old place may be forsaken, but it is not the less congenial on that account. Come.”

Victor at once complied; they descended to the canoe, pushed out from the passage, and soon crossed the flood to Angus Macdonald’s dwelling.

Chapter Twenty Two.

The “Impossible” Accomplished.

And what a dwelling Angus Macdonald’s house had become!

“What a home-coming!” exclaimed Ian, thinking, in the bitterness of his soul, of Elsie as well as the house.

“It’s awful!” said Victor, with a sympathetic glance at his friend.

The desolation was indeed complete—symbolic, Ian thought, of the condition of his own heart. Besides having eight or ten feet of water on its walls, all the lower rooms were utterly wrecked. A heavy log, ready for the saw-pit, had come down with the torrent, and, taking upon it the duties of a battering-ram, had charged the parlour window. Not only did it carry this bodily into the room, but it forced it into the passage beyond, where it jammed and stuck fast. The butt of this log, projecting several feet from the window, had intercepted straw and hay to such an extent that a miniature stack was formed, in which all sorts of light articles of furniture and débris had been caught. With the stubborn determination of a Celt, Angus had refused to remove his main door, which faced up stream. The result was that the flood removed it for him with a degree of violence that had induced Miss Martha to exclaim, “The house is goin’ at last!” to which Angus had replied doggedly.

“Let it go. It will hef to go some day, whatever.” But the house had not gone. It was only, as we have said, the main door which went, and was hurled through the passage into the kitchen, where it charged the back door, wrenched it off, and accompanied it to Lake Winnipeg with a tail of miscellaneous cooking utensils. Only shreds of the back windows remained hanging by twisted hinges to the frames, telling with mute eloquence of heroic resistance to the last gasp. Whatever had not been removed by Angus from the ground-floor of his house had been swept out at the windows and doorways, as with the besom of destruction.

Paddling in through the front door, the two friends disembarked from their canoe on the staircase, and ascended to the upper floor. Here everything betokened a hurried departure. Furniture was strewn about in disorder; articles of clothing were scattered broadcast, as if Miss Martha and her maid had been summoned to sudden departure, and had rummaged recklessly for their most cherished possessions. In the principal bedroom, on the best bed, stood Beauty in her native ugliness—the only living thing left to do the honours of the house.

“What a brute!” exclaimed Victor.

He seized a saucepan that stood handy, and hurled it at her. Beauty was equal to the emergency; she leaped up, allowed the pan to pass under her, fled shrieking through the window, and took refuge on the top of the house.

“I’m glad you missed her, Vic,” said Ian, in a slightly reproachful tone; “she’s an old friend of the family, and a harmless thing.”

“Miss Trim would not agree with you in your opinion of her,” returned Victor, with a laugh; “but I’m also glad I missed her. It was a sudden impulse that I couldn’t resist, and you know a fellow is scarcely accountable for his impulses.”

“True; not for his impulses, but he is very accountable for actions resulting from impulse. If you had killed Beauty I should have had an irresistible impulse to pitch you over the window. If I were to do so in such circumstances would you hold me unaccountable?”

“I’m not sure,” said Victor, with a grim smile. “But we’ll change the subject; I don’t like argument when I’m likely to get the worst of it. It’s plain that you can do no good here, I therefore propose that we return to Willow Creek, take the small boat, and go up to the Mountain to see father, taking Tony and Petawanaquat along with us.”

Ian shook his head with an expression of sadness that surprised his friend.

“No, Vic, no; my work with you in search of your brother is done, my father’s home now claims my chief care. You are wrong in saying I can do no good here; look round at the wreck and mess. There is much to be done. Now I tell you what I’ll do. I’ll remain here all day and all night too. You will return home and send me the little punt, if it can be spared, for I shall have to row to the outhouses a good deal, and round the house too. As you see, nothing can be done without a craft of some sort. Send Peegwish with it, without Wildcat, she would only be in the way.”

Victor tried to induce his friend to change his mind, but Ian was immoveable. He therefore returned to Willow Creek in the canoe, and sent Peegwish back with the punt—a tub-like little boat, with two small oars or sculls.

Left alone, Ian Macdonald leaned on the sill of a window in the gable of the house, from which he could see the house at Willow Creek, and sighed deeply. “So then,” he thought, “all my hopes are blighted; my air castles are knocked down, my bear-hunting has been in vain; Elsie is engaged to Louis Lambert!”

There was no bitterness in his heart now, only a feeling of profound loneliness. As he raised himself with another sigh, the top of the window tipped off his cap, which fell into the water. He cared little for the loss, but stood watching the cap as it floated slowly away with the current, and compared its receding form with his dwindling joys. The current, which was not strong there, carried the cap straight to the knoll several hundred yards off, on which stood the smoking-box of old Sam Ravenshaw, and stranded it there.

The incident turned the poor youth’s mind back to brighter days and other scenes, especially to the last conversation which he had held with the owner of the smoking-box. He was mentally enacting that scene over again when Peegwish pulled up to the house and passed under the window.

“Come along, you old savage,” said Ian, with a good-humoured nod; “I want your help. Go round to the front and shove into the passage. The doorway’s wide enough.”

Peegwish, who was fond of Ian, replied to the nod with a hideous smile. In a few minutes the two were busily engaged in collecting loose articles and bringing things in general into order.

While thus engaged they were interrupted by Beauty cackling and screaming with tremendous violence. She was evidently in distress. Running up a ladder leading to the garret, Ian found that the creature had forced her way through a hole in the roof, and entangled herself in a mass of cordage thrown in a heap along with several stout ropes, or cables, which Angus had recently bought with the intention of rigging out a sloop with which to traverse the great Lake Winnipeg. Setting the hen free, Ian returned to his work.

A few minutes later he was again arrested suddenly, but not by Beauty this time. He became aware of a peculiar sensation which caused a slight throbbing of his heart, and clearly proved that, although lacerated, or even severely crushed, that organ was not quite broken!

He looked round at Peegwish, and beheld that savage glaring, as if transfixed, with mouth and eyes equally wide open.

“Did you feel that, Peegwish?”

Yes, Peegwish had felt “that,” and said so in an awful whisper without moving.

“Surely—no, it cannot have been the—”

He stopped short. There was a low, grinding sound, accompanied by a strange tremor in the planks on which they stood, as if the house were gradually coming alive! There could be no mistake. The flood had risen sufficiently to float the house, and it was beginning to slide from its foundations!

“Peegwish,” he said, quickly dropping the things with which he had been busy, “is there a stout rope anywhere? Oh, yes; I forgot,” he added, springing towards the attic. “Blessings on you, Beauty, for having guided me here!”

In a few seconds a stout rope or cable was procured. The end of this Ian ran out at the main doorway, round through the parlour window, and tied it in a trice. The other end he coiled in the punt, and soon made it fast to a stout elm, under whose grateful shade Angus Macdonald had enjoyed many a pipe and Martha many a cup of tea in other days. The tree bent slowly forward; the thick rope became rigid. Ian and Peegwish sat in the boat anxiously looking on.

In that moment of enforced inaction Ian conceived an idea! Thought is quick, quicker than light, which, we believe, has reached the maximum of “express speed” in material things. By intermittent flashes, so rapid that it resembled a stream of sparks, the whole plan rushed through his mind, from conception to completion. We can only give a suggestive outline, as follows. The knoll, the smoking-box, the smoker, his words, “Mark what I say. I will sell this knoll to your father, and give my daughter to you, when you take that house, and with your own unaided hands place it on this knoll!” The impossible had, in the wondrous course of recent events, come just within the verge of possibility—a stout arm, a strong will, coupled with a high flood—“There is a tide in the affairs of men, which, taken at the flood,”—immortal and prophetic bard! There could be no chance of Elsie now, but even to win the right to claim her if she had been willing was better than nothing. In any case old Angus and the knoll would be united!

“Peegwish!” shouted Ian, turning on the unfortunate ex-brewer with a flushed face and blazing eyes that caused him to shrink in alarm, “can you sit still and do nothing?”

“Eh?” exclaimed Peegwish, in surprise.

“Bah!” said Ian, seizing the sculls.

The punt whirled round, leaped over the water, dashed through the doorway, and went crashing into the staircase. Before Peegwish could pick himself up, Ian had vanished up the stairs. The savage found him a moment later wildly selecting a rope from the heap that lay on the floor of the attic. As Peegwish entered, Ian suddenly turned on him with a gaze of increased intensity. Had the young man gone mad? Peegwish felt very uncomfortable. He had some reason to! Another thought had flashed into Ian’s mind—the words “your own unaided hands” troubled him. Peegwish could be kept out of the boat, but he could not be kept from rendering aid of some sort, in some way or other. There was but one resource.

Ian sprang on Peegwish like a lion. The savage was both bold and strong, but he was elderly, and Ian was young and bolder; besides, he had the unusual strength of a half-madman at that moment. Down went the ex-brewer. He struggled hard. Ian crushed him in his arms, raised him, crammed him into a chair, seized a pliant rope and bound him therewith, winding him and the chair round and round in his haste—for there was no time to tie knots—until he resembled a gigantic spool of ravelled thread. Not a moment too soon! There was a snap outside; the rope was gone! A grind, a slide, and then a lurch, as of a ship at sea.

Ian is on the staircase now, in the punt, and out upon the flood with a stout rope fast to the stern and to the door-post. Panting from his recent exertions, and half-wild with the mingled excitement, danger, novelty, and fun of the thing, he draws two or three long breaths as he grasps the sculls and looks quickly round.

The house moves sluggishly, probably retarded by sunken shrubs, or dragging débris connected with the foundation. This is somewhat of a relief. There is time. He pulls ahead till the rope tightens, and then stands up in the punt to observe the situation critically. The current is bearing him straight towards the knoll. So far well; but there are two slightly diverging currents on right and left, caused by the knoll itself, which are so strong that if the house should get fairly into either of them no power that he possessed could prevent its being swept, on the one hand, into the main current of the Red River, on the other hand away over the flooded plains. To watch with lynx eyes the slightest tendency to divergence on the part of the house now absorbs his whole being. But thought again intervenes. What if he should be observed by those at Willow Creek, and they should send assistance? horror! But by good fortune all the males at the Creek have departed, and none are left but women. He casts one of the lynx glances in that direction—no one is coming. He breathes again, freely. Suddenly the house diverges a little to the right. Away flies the punt to the left, and he is just about to bend to the sculls with the force of Goliath, when he perceives his mistake—the divergence was to the left! In agonies of haste he shoots to the other side, where he discovers that the divergence must have been in his own excited brain, for the house still holds on the even tenor of its way; and Ian, puffing straight ahead, tightens the rope, and helps it on its voyage.

Presently there is a sudden, and this time a decided divergence to the right—probably caused by some undercurrent acting on the foundations. Away goes the punt in the opposite direction, and now Goliath and David together were babes to Ian! Talk of horse-power. Elephanto-hippopotamus-Power is a more appropriate term. The muscles of his arms rise up like rolls of gutta-percha; the knotted veins stand out on his flushed forehead, but all in vain—the house continues to diverge, and Ian feeling the game to be all but lost, pulls with the concentrated energy of rage and despair. The sculls bend like wands, the rowlocks creak, the thole-pins crack. It won’t do. As well might mortal man pull against Niagara falls.

At this moment of horrible disappointment the house touches something submerged—a post, a fence, a mound; he knows not nor cares what—which checks the divergence and turns the house back in the right direction.

What a rebound there is in Ian’s heart! He would cheer if there were a cubic inch of air to spare in his labouring chest—but there is not, and what of it remains must be used in a tough pull to the opposite side, for the sheer given to the building has been almost too strong. In a few minutes his efforts have been successful. The house is bearing steadily though slowly down in the right direction.

Ian rests on his oars a few seconds, and wipes his heated brow.

So—in the great battle of life we sometimes are allowed to pause and breathe awhile in the very heat of conflict; and happy is it for us if our thoughts and hearts go out towards Him whose love is ever near to bless those who trust in it.

He is drawing near to the knoll now, and there seems every chance of success; but the nearer he draws to the goal the greater becomes the risk of divergence, for while the slack water at the head of the knoll becomes slacker, so that the house seems to have ceased moving, the diverging currents on either side become swifter, and their suction-power more dangerous. The anxiety of the pilot at this stage, and his consequent shooting from side to side, is far more trying than his more sustained efforts had been.

At last the punt reaches the smoking-box, which itself stands in several feet of water, for the ground of the knoll is submerged, its bushes alone being visible. There is only the length of the rope now between our hero and victory! In that length, however, there are innumerable possibilities. Even while he gazes the house bumps on something, slews round, and is caught by the current on the right. Before Ian has time to recover from his agony of alarm, and dip the sculls, it bumps again and slews to the left; a third favouring bump sends it back into the slack water. The combined bumps have given an impulse to the house under the influence of which it bears straight down upon the knoll with considerable force. Its gable-end is close to the smoking-box. Entranced with expectancy Ian sits in the punt panting and with eyes flashing. There is a sudden shock! Inside the house Peegwish and his chair are tumbled head over heels. Outside, the gable has just touched—as it were kissed—the smoking-box, Elsie’s “summer-house;” Beauty, flapping her wings at that moment on the ridge-pole, crows, and Angus Macdonald’s dwelling is, finally and fairly, hard and fast upon Sam Ravenshaw’s knoll.

Chapter Twenty Three.

Found and Saved.

Now it must not be imagined that old Liz, after being carried away by the flood, submitted to her fate without a struggle. It was not in her nature to give in without good reason. She did not sit down and wring her hands, or tear her hair, or reproach her destiny, or relieve her feelings by venting them on the old couple under her charge. In short, she did not fall back in her distress on any of the refuges of the imbecile.

Her first care was to arrange Daddy and Mrs Winklemann in such a manner that they could sleep with some degree of comfort in their chairs. This she did by means of pillows and blankets, and, after accomplishing it, sat down on the wet bed to contemplate the pair. Her satisfaction was soon marred, however, by the discovery that Mrs Winklemann was given to kicking in her sleep. In one of the spasmodic lunges with her lower limbs she gave Daddy’s legs such a shake that the old gentleman was half awakened by the surprise.

It will be remembered that the pair were seated vis-à-vis in their respective arm-chairs, with a low table between them, and their legs resting thereon. To prevent a recurrence of the kick Liz put a piece of broken plank between them on the table, and by means of a rope wound round legs and table, effectually restrained the unruly members.

She then returned to her place on the soaking truckle-bed, and, leaning her wet shoulders against the wall, endeavoured to think what was to be done when the return of day should enable her to act. To act was easy to Liz, but thought was difficult. In attempting it she fell sound asleep. Her shape helped her; she did not require to lie down. Her head merely dropped on one of her fat shoulders. The rotundity of her frame rendered a collapse impossible. Thus she slept and snored until daylight shone through the parchment windows—until Daddy awoke her with a gasping cough.

“Hough! Hi! Liz, there’s sumthin’ wrang wi’ my legs!”

“Hoots! haud yer gab!” cried his polite daughter, leaping from her damp couch into the water, with no other evidence of feeling than a sharp “Hech!” as the cold element laved her limbs. “There’s naethin’ wrang wi’ yer legs, only I’ve tied them to the table to keep them frae tum’lin’ aff.”

“Mine boy, have he comin’ back?” asked Mrs Winklemann, who was awakened by the conversation.

“Na; he’s no come back yet, but he’ll be here afore lang, nae doot. Be quiet noo, like guid bairns. I canna let yer legs doon yet, for the floor’s dreedfu’ wat. There!” she added, casting loose the ropes and arranging the limbs more comfortably; “jist let them lie where they are, and I’ll gie ye yer brekfists in a meenit.”

She was as good as her word. In a few minutes the submissive pair were busy with bread and cheese, which, with a little cold water, was the only breakfast poor Liz had to give them.

While the morning meal was being dispensed the anxious little woman thrust a bite or two into her own mouth, and ate as she moved about. Then she told the old people she was “gauin’ up the lum to look aboot her.” Without more ado she dipped into the fireplace and disappeared up the chimney.

Her surprise on reaching this point of vantage was very great. The cottage was no longer driven over the bosom of a wide sea, but floated quietly in a calm basin surrounded by trees. During the night it had been carried far down in the direction of Lake Winnipeg, and had got entangled in one of the clumps of wood with which some parts of that region were studded. The hut had been so completely thrust into the copse that it was quite encompassed by foliage, and nothing of the surrounding country was visible from the chimney-top. The only thing that remained obvious to old Liz was the fact that the hut still floated, and was held in position by a stout branch which had caught the roof.

We have said that thought—that is, profound or consecutive thought—was a trouble to old Liz. Her mind leaped in an interjectional, flashing manner. Her actions were impulsive. A tall tree, a squirrel, and a bird’s-eye view flashed into her brain at the same moment. She desired the last, and proceeded to act like the second, by seizing a limb of the first, which hung conveniently at her elbow. But her emulation of the squirrel was not very successful, for, although a strong frame and powerful will are useful in climbing tall trees, petticoats, even when short, are against that operation. It is needless to say, however, that in the case of old Liz difficulties were only met to be overcome. In five or ten minutes she stood with dishevelled hair, bleeding hands, and torn garments, among the topmost branches of the tall tree, and surveyed the world beneath with feelings of mingled surprise and dismay. There was evidently no abatement of the flood. On her left hand lay a boundless lake; on her right there spread out a little archipelago of trees and bushes. While she gazed her eye was arrested by two dark specks on the horizon. Could they be boats? Yes; they moved! Clearly they must be either boats or canoes.

One of the old woman’s intellectual flashes occurred at this point. There was a fishing-rod in the hut below, a primitive one, such as Adam might have used in Eden—the branch of a tree.

Down came old Liz, much faster than she went up; slipping, scratching, rending, grasping, and clutching, until she gained the chimney, down which she went unceremoniously, alighting as formerly, with a squash which not only alarmed but besprinkled the old couple.

Liz caught up the rod, tied an apron to it, and then, using it as a lance, charged the fireplace. It stuck, of course, but Liz was in no mood to be baffled. She bent the rod powerfully and forced it up. Following it, she emerged from the chimney, and, with a spirit worthy of Excelsior, bore her banner to the tall tree-top, and fastened it to the topmost bough with the last remnant of her torn neckerchief.

It was in the morning of the day about which we now write, that Victor Ravenshaw and his friends arrived at the settlement. We have said that Michel Rollin set off alone in a canoe in search of his mother the moment he obtained sufficient information to enable him to act. At first he paddled wildly over the watery plain, as if mere exertion of muscle would accomplish his end, but soon he began to consider that without giving definite direction to his energies he could not hope for success. He therefore made straight for the mission station, where he found Mr Cockran’s family and people encamped on the stage, the minister himself being away in his canoe visiting some of his scattered flock, and offering them such comfort as only those can who truly trust in Christ. Here he was advised to go to the Mountain, to which place it was probable his mother and grandfather would have been conveyed if picked up by any passing boat or canoe.

Deciding to do so, he paddled away at once with diminishing hopes and a heavy heart, for the evidences of total destruction around him were terribly real. He had not gone far when a canoe appeared on the horizon. There was one figure in it. As it drew near the figure seemed familiar. Nearer still, and he recognised it.

“Vinklemann!”

“Michel!”

The friends arrested their canoes by grasping hands.

“I seek for ma mère,” said the half-breed.

“I for mine moder,” returned the German.

A hurried consultation ensued. It was of no use going to the Mountain. Winklemann had just come from it, having failed to find his mother. He was still suffering from the effects of his recent accident, but he could not wait. He would continue the search till he died. Rollin was of the same mind, though neither he nor his friend appeared likely to die soon. They resolved to continue the search together.

Both of them were thoroughly acquainted with the Red River plains in all directions, but Rollin was more versed in the action of water. The greater part of his boyhood had been spent in canoeing and hunting expeditions with his father, from whom he inherited the French tongue and manners which showed so much more powerfully than the Scotch element in his composition. After his father’s death he had consorted and hunted much with Peegwish, who spoke Indian and French, but remarkably little English. Peegwish was also a splendid canoe-man, so that Rollin had come to study with great intelligence the flow and effect of currents of water, whether deep or shallow, narrow or broad. Hence when Winklemann related circumstantially all he had done, he shook his head and gave it as his opinion that he had not gone the right way to work at all, and that, according to the lie of the land and the height of the flood, it was certain the hut must have been carried far below that part of the settlement in the direction of the lower fort.

Poor Winklemann was so worn out with unsuccessful searching that he was only too glad to follow wherever Michel Rollin chose to lead. Hence it came to pass that in the afternoon of the same day the searchers came in view of the tall tree where old Liz had hoisted her flag of distress.

“Voilà!” exclaimed Michel, on first catching sight of the ensign.

“Vat is dat?” said his companion, paddling closer alongside of his friend, and speaking in a hoarse whisper.

“It look like a flag,” said Rollin, pushing on with increased vigour. “There’s something like one crow below it,” he added, after a short time.

“It have stranch voice for von crow,” said the German.

He was right. The yell of triumphant joy uttered by old Liz when she saw that her signal had been observed was beyond the imitative powers of any crow. As the poor creature waved her free arm, and continued to shout, while her loose hair tossed wildly round her sooty face, she presented a spectacle that might well have caused alarm not unmixed with awe even in a manly breast; but there was a certain tone in the shouts which sent a sudden thrill to the heart of Rollin, causing him, strange to say, to think of lullabies and infant days! With eyeballs fixed on the tree-top, open-mouthed and breathing quick, he paddled swiftly on.

“Michel,” said Winklemann, in a whisper, even hoarser than before, “your moder!”

Rollin replied not, but gave a stentorian roar, that rolled grandly over the water.

Why was it that old Liz suddenly ceased her gesticulations, lifted her black brows in unutterable surprise, opened her mouth, and became a listening statue? Did she too recognise tones which recalled other days—and the puling cries of infancy? It might have been so. Certain it is that when the shout was repeated she broke down in an effort to reply, and burst into mingled laughter and tears, at the same time waving her free arm more violently than ever.

This was too much for the branch on which she had been performing. It gave way, and old Liz suddenly came down, as sailors have it, “by the run.” She crashed through the smaller branches of the tree-top, which happily broke her fall, bounded from mass to mass of the thicker foliage below, and finally came down on a massive bough which, shunting her clear of the tree altogether, and clear of the hut as well, sent her headlong into the water.

With something like frozen blood and marrow, Michel witnessed the fall. A few seconds more and his canoe went crashing through the leafy screen that hid the hut. Old Liz was up and floundering about like a black seal, or mermaid. She could not swim, but, owing to some peculiarity of her remarkable frame, she could not sink. Her son was at her side in a moment, seized her, and tried to kiss her. In his eagerness the canoe overturned, and he fell into her arms and the water at the same time.

It was a joyful though awkward meeting. Much water could not quench the love wherewith the poor creature strained Michel to her heart. Winklemann came up in time to rescue both, and dragged them to the door-step of the floating hut, the door of which he burst open with a single kick, and sprang in.

Who shall attempt to describe the meeting that followed? We ask the question because we feel unequal to the task. There issued from the hut a roll of German gutturals. Winklemann, rushing through two feet of water, seized his mother’s hand and fell on his knees beside her. He was thus, of course, submerged to the waist; but he recked not—not he! Michel and old Liz entered, dripping like water-nymphs, and sat down on the soppy bed. Daddy, impressed with the idea that a good practical joke was being enacted, smiled benignantly like a guardian angel.

“Now den, zee night draws on. Ve must be gone,” said Winklemann, turning to Rollin; “git zee canoes ready—qveek!”

Both canoes were soon got ready; blankets and pillows were spread in the centre of each. Mrs Winklemann was lifted carefully into one; Daddy, as carefully, into the other. Old Liz quietly took her seat in the bow of Daddy’s canoe; her son sat down in the stern, while Herr Winklemann took charge of that which contained his mother.

“No room to take any of de property to-night, ma mère,” said Michel.

“Hoots! niver heed,” replied Liz.

“No, I vill not heed. Moreover, Veenklemann and moi ve vill retoorn demorrow.”

As he spoke he chanced to look up and saw the apron which had guided him to the spot waving gently at the tree-top. In a few seconds he was beside it. Cutting the staff free, he descended and stuck it in the bow of his canoe as a trophy. Thus they paddled away from the old home.

It was night when they reached the camp of the settlers on the Little Mountain. The homeless people were busy with their evening meal, and, sad though their case was, the aspect of things just then did not convey the idea of distress. The weather was fine; camp-fires blazed cheerfully lighting up bronzed and swarthy men, comely women, and healthy children, with a ruddy glow, while merry laughter now and then rose above the general hum, for children care little for unfelt distress, and grown people easily forget it in present comfort. Ruined though they were, many of them felt only the warmth of the hour.

There was a shout of welcome when Winklemann’s canoe was observed emerging from surrounding darkness, and a cheer burst from those who first heard the glad news—“The old folk saved!” But that was a mere chirp to the roar of congratulation that rang out when the little party landed, and the rescuers strode into camp bearing the rescued in their arms.

Chapter Twenty Four.

A Surprising Discovery—And More.

When Ian Macdonald had seen his father’s house fairly stranded on the knoll, and had made it fast there with innumerable ropes, thin and thick, as the Lilliputians secured Gulliver, he bethought him that it was high time to visit the Little Mountain, to which his father had gone on at that time, and inform him of the amazing fact.

Before setting off, however, common propriety required that he should look in at Willow Creek in passing, not only to let them know what had occurred, if they had not already observed it, but to ask if there was any message for Mr Ravenshaw.

First releasing Peegwish, who now regarded him as a maniac, he embarked with him in the punt, and rowed over.

It was by that time approaching the afternoon. Before that—indeed before the house of Angus had gone afloat—Tony, Victor, and Petawanaquat had gone off to the Little Mountain in search of Mr Ravenshaw. Those of the family who remained behind had been so busy about their various avocations, that no one had observed the sudden removal of their neighbour’s dwelling.

“Cora! quick! come here!” cried Elsie, in a tone that alarmed her sister. “Am I dreaming?”

Cora looked out at the window, where the other stood as if petrified. “Angus Macdonald’s house on the knoll!” she screamed.

The scream brought her mother and Miss Trim hurriedly into the room. They stared in speechless amazement, and rubbed their eyes, but they could not rub the house of Angus Macdonald off the knoll.

“There comes Ian in the punt,” said Cora; “he will explain it.”

“He seems to be miserable enough about it if one may judge from the expression of his face,” observed Miss Trim.

Poor Ian was indeed profoundly miserable. The excitement of the recent event over, his mind insisted on reverting to his forlorn condition. “So near,” he thought, “and yet to miss her! Old Ravenshaw could not refuse her to me now, but of what avail is his consent without Elsie’s? Ah, Lambert! you’re a lucky fellow, and it is shameful in me to wish it were otherwise when it makes Elsie happy.”

Ian now tried to act philosophically, but it would not do. In the upper room he gave the ladies a brief account of his adventure. He spoke in a cold, passionless manner, without looking once at Elsie. Of course, he did not reveal the motives that had influenced him. When he had finished he rose abruptly to leave.

“Don’t go yet,” said Mrs Ravenshaw, “there’s a bit of carpentering that I want done, and there is not a man left at the house to do it. The last gale loosened some of the shingles on the roof, and one of them slipped down to-day, so that the place leaks.—Go, Elsie, and show him the shingle near the attic window.”

Ian looked at Elsie, and his resolves vanished like smoke. He went meekly to the attic.

“You are much changed,” said Elsie, “since you went on this trip.”

“Changed? Not for the worse, I hope,” said Ian.

“Well, scarcely for the better,” returned the girl with a smile. “See, here is the window, and the loose shingle is close to the sill. You won’t require to go out on the roof. There is father’s tool-box. If you want anything some of us will be in the room below. You may call, or come down.”

“Stay, Elsie,” said the youth, turning abruptly on her. “You say I am changed. Well, perhaps I am. I’ve gone through pretty severe hardships since we parted, and the injuries I received on gaining this have left their mark.”

He touched, as he spoke, the splendid bear-claw collar which still graced his neck.

“I doubt not you have suffered,” returned Elsie, in a softened tone, “but you are now well, or nearly so, and your reason is not a sufficient one to account for your being rude to all your old friends, and taking no interest in anything.”

“Am I, then, so rude, so callous?” rejoined Ian, drawing his hand across his brow. “Ah! Elsie, if—if—but what am I saying? Forgive me! I think that grizzly must have touched my brain when he had me under his paw. There can be no harm, however, in telling you that a wish, lightly expressed by you long ago, has been the motive power which led to the procuring of this collar. Will you accept it of me now? It is but a trifle, yet, being a bad hunter, and more used to grammars than to guns, it cost me no trifle of anxiety and trouble before I won it. I am afraid that the hope of procuring it for you had almost as much to do with cheering me on as the hope of finding Tony. Nay, don’t refuse it, Elsie, from one who has known you so long that he feels almost as if he might regard you as a sister.”

He took off the collar as he spoke, and, with a return of his wonted heartiness, presented it to Elsie. There was something in his manner, however, which induced her to blush and hesitate.

“Your kindness in searching for Tony we can never forget or repay,” she said quickly, “and—and—”

She paused.

“Well, well,” continued Ian, a little impatiently; “I did not mean to talk of Tony just now. Surely you won’t refuse a gift from so old a friend as I on the eve of my departure for Canada?”

“For Canada!” echoed Elsie, in surprise.

“Yes. I leave the instant I can get my affairs in Red River settled.”

“And you return?”

“Never!”

Elsie looked at the youth in undisguised astonishment. She, too, began to suspect that a claw of the collar must have touched his brain.

“But why hesitate?” continued Ian. “Surely you cannot refuse me so simple a favour! Even Lambert himself would approve of it in the circumstances.”

“Lambert!” exclaimed Elsie, with increasing amazement; “what has Lambert got to do with it?”

It was now Ian’s turn to look surprised.

“Forgive me if I have touched on a forbidden subject; but as every one in the settlement seems to know of your engagement to Lambert, I thought—”

“My engagement!” interrupted Elsie. “It is Cora who is engaged to Lambert.”

A sudden and mighty shock seemed to fall on Ian Macdonald. He slightly staggered, paled a little, then became fiery red, leaped forward, and caught the girl’s hand.

“Elsie! Elsie!” he exclaimed, in tones of suppressed eagerness, “will—will you accept the collar?”

He put it over her head as he spoke, and she blushed deeply, but did not refuse it.

“And, Elsie,” he added, in a deeper voice, drawing her nearer, “will you accept the hunter?”

“No,” answered Elsie, with such an arch smile; “but I would accept the schoolmaster if he were not going away to Canada for—”

She did not finish the sentence, because something shut her mouth.

“You’re taking a very long time to that shingle,” called Mrs Ravenshaw from below. “Have you got everything you want, Ian?”

“Yes,” replied Ian promptly; “I’ve got all that the world contains.”

“What’s that you say?”

“It will soon be done now, mother,” cried Elsie, breaking away with a soft laugh, and hurrying down-stairs.

She was right. A few minutes sufficed to put the loose shingle to rights, and then Ian descended to the room below.

“What a time you have been about it!” said Cora, with a suspicious glance at the young man’s face; “and how flushed you are! I had no idea that fixing a loose shingle was such hard work.”

“Oh yes, it’s tremendously hard work,” said Ian, recovering himself; “you have to detach it from the roof, you know, and it is wonderful the tenacity with which nails hold on sometimes; and then there’s the fitting of the new shingle to the—”

“Come, don’t talk nonsense,” said Cora; “you know that is not what kept you. You have been telling some secret to Elsie. What was it?”

Instead of answering, Ian turned with a twinkle in his eyes, and asked abruptly:

“By the way—when does Louis Lambert return?”

It was now Cora’s turn to flush.

“I don’t know,” she said, bending quickly over her work; “how should I know? But you have not answered my question.—Oh! look there!”

She pointed to the doorway, where a huge rat was seen seated, looking at them as if in solemn surprise at the trifling nature of their conversation.

Not sorry to have a reason for escaping, Ian uttered a laughing shout, threw his cap at the creature, missed, and rushed out of the room in chase of it. Of course he did not catch it; but, continuing his flight down-stairs, he jumped into the punt, pushed through the passage, and out at the front door. As he passed under the windows he looked up with a smile, and saw Cora shaking her little fist at him.

“You have not improved in your shooting,” she cried; “you missed the rat.”

“Never mind,” he replied, “Lambert will fetch his rifle and hunt for it; and, I say, Cora, ask Elsie to explain how shingles are put on. She knows all about it.”

He kissed his hand as he turned the corner of the house, and rowed away.

A dark shadow falling over him at the moment caused him to turn round, and there, to his amazement, stood one of his father’s largest barns! It had been floated, like many other houses, from its foundation, and, having been caught by a diverging current, had been stranded on the lawn at the side of Mr Ravenshaw’s house so as to completely shut out the view in that direction.

Intense amusement followed Ian’s feeling of surprise. His first impulse was to return and let the inmates of Willow Creek know what had occurred; but be thinking himself that they would find it out the first time they chanced to look from the windows on that side of the house, and observing that the day was advancing, he changed his mind and rowed away in the direction of the plains, chuckling heartily as he meditated on the very peculiar alterations which the flood had effected on the properties of his father and Samuel Ravenshaw, to say nothing of the probable result in regard to his own future.

A stiffish breeze sprang up soon after he left. Being a fair wind, he set up a rag of sail that fortunately chanced to be in the punt, and advanced swiftly on his voyage to the Little Mountain.

On their way to the same place, at an earlier part of the day, Victor and Tony, with Petawanaquat and Meekeye, touched at the mission station. Many of the people were still on the stage, but Mrs Cockran, finding that the water had almost ceased to rise, and that the parsonage still stood fast, returned to the garret of her old home. Here she received Victor and the recovered Tony with great delight. It chanced to be about the period which Tony styled feeding-time, so that, although Victor was anxious to reach his father as soon as possible, he agreed to remain there for an hour or so. While they were enjoying the hospitality of the garret, Petawanaquat was entertained in a comparatively quiet corner of the stage, by a youth named Sinclair, a Scotch half-breed, who had been a pupil in Ian Macdonald’s school, and, latterly, an assistant.

Petawanaquat had made the acquaintance of young Sinclair on his first visit to Red River. They were kindred spirits. Both were earnest men, intensely desirous of finding out truth—truth in regard to everything that came under their notice, but especially in reference to God and religion. This grave, thoughtful disposition and earnest longing is by no means confined to men of refinement and culture. In all ranks and conditions among men, from the so-called savage upwards, there have been found more or less profound thinkers, and honest logical reasoners, who, but for the lack of training, might have become pillars in the world of intellect.

Both Sinclair and Petawanaquat were naturally quiet and modest men, but they were not credulous. They did not absolutely disbelieve their opponents, or teachers; but, while giving them full credit for honesty and sincerity—because themselves were honest and sincere—they nevertheless demanded proof of every position advanced, and utterly refused to take anything on credit. Bigoted men found them “obstinate” and “troublesome.” Capable reasoners found them “interesting.” Sinclair possessed a considerable amount of education, and spoke the Indian language fluently. Petawanaquat, although densely ignorant, had an acute and logical mind.

To look at them as they sat there, spoon in hand, over a pan of burgout, one would not readily have guessed the drift of their conversation.

“It almost broke my heart,” said Sinclair, “when I heard you had stolen Mr Ravenshaw’s boy, and words cannot express my joy that you have repented and brought him back. What induced you to steal him?”

“My bad heart,” replied the Indian.

“Was it then your good heart that made you bring him back?” asked Sinclair, with a keen glance at his friend.

“No; it was the voice of the Great Spirit in Petawanaquat that made him do it. The voice said, ‘Forgive! Return good for evil!’”

“Ah; you learned these words here, and have been pondering them.”

“Petawanaquat heard them here; he did not learn them here,” returned the red man quietly. “Listen!” he continued with a sudden glow of animation on his countenance, “My brother is young, but he knows much, and is wise. He will understand his friend. In the mountains I pitched my tent. It was a lonely spot. No trappers or Indians came there, but one day in winter a paleface came. He was a servant of the Great Spirit. He talked much. I said little, but listened. The paleface was very earnest. He spoke much of Jesus. He told the story of His love, His sufferings, His death. He spoke of little else. When he was gone I asked Jesus to forgive me. He forgave. Then I was glad, but I looked at Tonyquat and my spirit was troubled. Then it was that I heard the voice of the Great Spirit. It did not fall on my ear: it fell upon my heart like the rippling of a mountain stream. It said, ‘Send the child back to his father.’ I obeyed the Voice, and I am here.”

With sparkling eyes Sinclair stretched out his right hand, and, grasping that of the red man, said in a deep voice—“My brother!”

Petawanaquat returned the grasp in silence. Before either of them could resume the conversation they were interrupted by Victor shouting from a window of the parsonage to fetch the canoe.

A few minutes later they were again on their way.

Chapter Twenty Five.

Brings Things to a Point.

While Tony was being received at the old home, as already related, and Michel Rollin and Winklemann were rescuing their mothers, and Ian Macdonald was busy transplanting his father’s house, Mr Samuel Ravenshaw was sitting disconsolate on the Little Mountain.

Lest the reader should still harbour a false impression in regard to that eminence, we repeat that the Little Mountain was not a mountain; it was not even a hill. It was merely a gentle elevation of the prairie, only recognisable as a height because of the surrounding flatness.

Among the settlers encamped on this spot the children were the most prominent objects in the scene, because of their noise and glee and mischievous rapidity of action. To them the great floods had been nothing but a splendid holiday. Such camping out, such paddling in many waters, such games and romps round booths and tents, such chasing of cattle and pigs and poultry and other live stock, and, above all, such bonfires! It was a glorious time! No lessons, no being looked after, no restraint of any kind. Oh! it was such fun!

It was the sight of this juvenile glee that made Mr Ravenshaw disconsolate. Seated in the opening of a tent he smoked his pipe, and looked on at the riotous crew with a tear in each eye, and one, that had overflowed, at the point of his nose. The more these children laughed and shouted the more did the old gentleman feel inclined to weep. There was one small boy—a half-breed, with piercing black eyes and curly hair, whose powers of mischief were so great that he was almost equal to the lost Tony. He did his mischief quietly, and, as it were, with restrained enthusiasm. For instance, this imp chanced to be passing a group of Canadian buffalo-hunters seated round one of the camp-fires enjoying a can of tea. One of them raised a pannikin to his lips. The imp was at his elbow like a flash of light; the elbow was tipped, by the merest accident, and half of the tea went over the hunter’s legs. The awful look of hypocritical self-condemnation put on by the imp was too much for the hunter, who merely laughed, and told him to “get along” which he did with a yell of triumph. Old Mr Ravenshaw felt a strong desire to embrace that boy on the spot, so vividly did he bring before his mind his beloved Tony!

Sometimes the older people in that miscellaneous camp emulated the children in riotous behaviour. Of course, in such an assemblage there were bad as well as good people, and some of the former, taking advantage of the unprotected state of things, went about the camp pilfering where opportunity offered. One of these was at last caught in the act, and the exasperated people at once proceeded to execute summary justice. The thief was a big, strong, sulky-looking fellow. He was well known as an incorrigible idler, who much preferred to live on the labours of other men than to work. The captor was Baptiste Warder, the half-breed chief who had acted so conspicuous a part in the buffalo hunt of the previous season.

“Let’s string him up,” cried John Flett, as Warder, grasping the thief’s collar, led him into the middle of the camp.

But there were two objections to this proceeding. First, it was deemed too severe for the offence, and, second, there was not a tree or a post, or any convenient object, whereon to hang him.

“Roast him alive!” suggested David Mowat, but this also was laughed at as being disproportioned to the offence.

“Duck him!” cried Sam Hayes.

This was hailed as a good proposal, though some were of opinion it was too gentle. However, it was agreed to, with this addition, that the culprit’s capote should be cut to pieces. In order to accomplish the latter part of the ceremony with more ease, one of the men removed the capote by the simple process of ripping the back up to the neck, and slitting the sleeves with a scalping-knife. The man here showed a disposition to resist, and began to struggle, but a quiet squeeze from Warder convinced him that it was useless. He was then seized by four men, each of whom, grasping an arm or a leg, carried him down to the water’s edge. They passed Mr Ravenshaw in the opening of his tent. He rose and followed them.

“Serves him right,” said the old gentleman, on hearing who it was, and what he had done.

“Ay, he’s done worse than that,” said one of the men who carried him. “It’s only last Sunday that he stole a blanket out of old Renton’s tent, and that, too, when Mr Cockran was holding service here; but we’ll put a stop to such doings. Now, then, heave together—one, two, three—”

The four powerful men hurled the thief into the air with vigour. He went well up and out, came down with a sounding splash, and disappeared amid shouts of laughter. He rose instantly, and with much spluttering regained the shore, where he was suffered to depart in peace by the executioners of the law, who returned quietly to their tents.

Mr Ravenshaw was left alone, moralising on the depravity of human nature. The sun was setting in a blaze of golden light, and tipping the calm waters of the flood with lines of liquid fire. Turning from the lovely scene with a sigh, the old trader was about to return to his tent when the sound of a voice arrested him. It came from a canoe which had shot suddenly from a clump of half-submerged trees by which it had been hitherto concealed.

As the canoe approached, Mr Ravenshaw ascended a neighbouring mound to watch it. Soon it touched the shore, and three of its occupants landed—an Indian and two boys. A woman who occupied the bow held the frail bark steady. The Indian at once strode up towards the camp. In doing so he had to pass the mound where Mr Ravenshaw was seated on a ledge of rock. He looked at the trader, and stopped. At the same moment the latter recognised Petawanaquat!

If a mine had been sprung beneath his feet he could not have leaped up with greater celerity. Then he stood for a moment rooted to the spot as if transformed into stone—with mouth open and eyes glaring.

To behold his enemy standing thus calmly before him, as if they had only parted yesterday and were on the best of terms, with no expression on his bronzed visage save that of grave solemnity, was almost too much for him! He grasped convulsively the heavy stick which he usually carried. The thought of the foul wrong done him by the red man rushed into his memory with overwhelming force. It did not occur to him to remember his own evil conduct! With a roar of rage worthy of a buffalo bull he rushed towards him. The red man stood firm. What the result would have been if they had met no one can tell, for at that moment an Indian boy ran forward and planted himself right in front of the angry man.

“Father!”

Mr Ravenshaw dropped his cudgel and his jaw, and stood aghast! The painted face was that of a savage, but the voice was the voice of Tony!

The old man shut his mouth and opened his arms. Tony sprang into them with a wild cheer that ended in a burst of joyful tears!

The way in which that boy hugged his sire and painted his face all over by rubbing his own against it was a sight worth seeing.

It had been a concerted plan between Tony and Victor that the latter was to keep a little in the background while the former should advance and perplex his father a little before making himself known, but Tony had over-estimated his powers of restraint. His heart was too large for so trifling a part. He acted up to the promptings of nature, as we have seen, and absolutely howled with joy.

“Don’t choke him, Tony,” remonstrated Victor; “mind, you are stronger than you used to be.”

“Ha! Choke me?” gasped Mr Ravenshaw; “try it, my boy; just try it!”

Tony did try it. But we must not prolong this scene. It is enough to say that when Tony had had his face washed and stood forth his old self in all respects—except that he looked two or three sizes larger, more sunburnt, and more manly—his father quietly betook himself to his tent, and remained there for a time in solitude.

Thereafter he came out, and assuming a free-and-easy, off-hand look of composure, which was clearly hypocritical, ordered tea. This was soon got ready, and the joyful party seated themselves round the camp-fire, which now sent its ruddy blaze and towering column of sparks into the darkening sky.

Victor was not long in running over the chief outlines of their long chase, and also explained the motives of the red man—as far as he understood them—in bringing Tony back.

“Well, Vic,” said Mr Ravenshaw, with a puzzled look, “it’s a strange way of taking his revenge of me. But after all, when I look at him there, sucking away at his calumet with that pleased, grave face, I can’t help thinkin’ that you and I, Christians though we call ourselves, have something to learn from the savage. I’ve been mistaken, Vic, in my opinion of Petawanaquat. Anyhow, his notion of revenge is better than mine. It must be pleasanter to him now to have made us all so happy than if he had kept Tony altogether, or put a bullet through me. It’s a clever dodge, too, for the rascal has laid me under an obligation which I can never repay—made me his debtor for life, in fact. It’s perplexing, Vic; very much so, but satisfactory at the same time.”

There were still more perplexing things in store for old Samuel Ravenshaw that night.

“But why did you not bring Ian Macdonald along with you, Vic?” he asked. “I expect his father here this evening from Fort Garry, where he went in the morning for some pemmican.”

Before Victor had time to reply, Ian himself stepped out of the surrounding darkness. Just previous to this the party had been joined by Herr Winklemann and Michel Rollin, who, after seeing their respective mothers made as comfortable as possible in the circumstances, had been going about the camp chatting with their numerous friends. Louis Lambert had also joined the circle, and Peegwish stood modestly in the background.

“Come along, Ian, we were just talking of you,” said Mr Ravenshaw heartily, as he rose and extended his hand, for the disagreeables of his last meeting with the young man had been obliterated by the subsequent kindness of Ian in going off to aid in the search for Tony.

Ian returned the grasp with good will, but he soon destroyed the good understanding by deliberately, and it seemed unwisely, referring to the two points which still rankled in the old man’s breast.

“Tut, man,” said Mr Ravenshaw, a little testily, “why drag in the subjects of the knoll and my Elsie to-night, of all nights in the year?”

“Because I cannot avoid it,” said Ian. “Events have occurred to-day which compel me to speak of them—of the knoll, at least.”

“Oh, for the matter of that,” interrupted the old gentleman angrily, “you may speak of Elsie too, and the old woman, and Cora, and all the household to boot, for all that I care.”

“I come here to claim a right,” went on Ian, in a calm voice. “It is well known that Samuel Ravenshaw is a man of his word; that what he promises he is sure to perform; that he never draws back from an agreement.”

This speech took Mr Ravenshaw by surprise. He looked round until his eyes rested on Tony. Then he said, in a slightly sarcastic tone—

“What you say is true. Even Tony knows that.”

“Tonyquat knows that what Ian says of his white father is true,” said the boy.

At the name Tonyquat, which was the only word of the sentence he understood, Petawanaquat cast a look of affection on Tony, while his father and the others burst into a laugh at the child’s sententious gravity. But Tony maintained his Indian air, and gazed solemnly at the fire.

“Well, go on, Ian,” said the old gentleman, in somewhat better humour.

“You remember our last meeting in the smoking-box on the knoll?” continued Ian.

“Too well,” said the other, shortly.

“Part of what you said was in the following words: ‘Mark what I say. I will sell this knoll to your father, and give my daughter to you, when you take that house, and with your own unaided hands place it on the top of this knoll!’”

“Well, you have a good memory, Ian. These are the words I used when I wished to convince you of the impossibility of your obtaining what you wanted,” said Mr Ravenshaw, with the determined air of a man who is resolved not to be turned from his purpose.

“What you wanted to convince me of,” rejoined Ian, “has nothing to do with the question. It is what you said that I have to do with.”

Again the irascible fur-trader’s temper gave way as he said—

“Well, what I said I have said, and what I said I’ll stick to.”

“Just so,” returned Ian, with a peculiar smile, “and, knowing this, I have come here to claim the knoll for my father and Elsie for myself.”

This was such a glaring absurdity in the old gentleman’s eyes that he uttered a short contemptuous laugh. At that moment Angus Macdonald appeared upon the scene. His look of amazement at beholding his son may be imagined. Angus was not, however, demonstrative.

He only stepped across the fire, and gave Ian a crushing squeeze of the hand.

“It iss fery glad to see you I am, my poy, but it is taken py surprise I am, whatever. An’ ho!” (as his eyes fell on Tony), “it iss the child you hef found. Well, it iss a happy father you will pe this night, Mr Ruvnshaw. I wish you choy. Don’t let me stop you, whatever. It wass something interesting you would pe telling these chentlemen when I came up.”

“I was just going to tell them, father,” said Ian, resting a hand on his sire’s shoulder, “that I have come straight from Willow Creek with the news that this day I have, with my own unaided hands,”—he cast a sidelong glance at the old gentleman—“transported your house to Mr Ravenshaw’s knoll, and have asked Elsie Ravenshaw to be my wife, and been accepted.”

“Moreover,” continued Ian, in a calm, steady tone, “my father’s biggest barn has, without any assistance from any one, stranded itself on Mr Ravenshaw’s lawn!”

“Bless me, Ian, iss it jokin’ ye are?”

“No, father. It’s in earnest I am.”

Good reader, the aspect of the party—especially of old Ravenshaw and Angus—on hearing these announcements is beyond our powers of description; we therefore prefer to leave it to your own vivid imagination.

Chapter Twenty Six.

The Last.

A change—like the flashing colours of a kaleidoscope; like the phantoms of a dream! Red River settlement is dry again, or drying; but ah! what a scene of wreck and ruin! It looks as if the settlement had been devastated by fire and sword as well as water. Broken-down houses, uprooted fences and trees, piles of débris, beds and boxes, billets of wood and blankets, habiliments and hay, carioles and cordage and carcasses of cattle, all mixed up more or less, and cemented together with mud. Nearly every house in the settlement had been destroyed.

Of course many a day passed after the great catastrophe before Red River was itself again, with its river confined to the proper channel, and its prairies rolling with grass-waves; but it was not long before the energetic inhabitants returned to their labours and their desolated houses to begin the world anew. About the 1st of May the flood began; by the 20th of the same month it had reached its height, and on the 22nd the waters began to assuage. On that day they had made a decided fall of two inches. The height to which the waters had risen above the level of ordinary years was fifteen feet. The flood subsided very gradually. About the middle of June the ploughs were at work again, and the people busy sowing what was left to them of their seed-barley and potatoes.

Among the busiest of the busy at that bustling time was Peegwish. While others were hard at work clearing, rebuilding, ploughing, and sowing, our noble savage was fishing. The labour of this occupation consisted chiefly in staring at his line, while he sat on a mud-heap on the river bank, and smoked in the pleasant sunshine. Occasionally he roused himself to haul out a goldeye. Wildcat assisted him ably in his labours, and still more ably in the after consumption of the goldeyes. Angus Macdonald discovered them thus occupied, and had difficulty in resisting his desire to pitch the lazy fellow into the river.

“What wass you doin’ there?” he cried. “Wass it wastin’ your time wi’ small fush you will pe doin’, an’ every wan else workin’ hard? Go an’ putt the ox in the cart an’ haul watter. Look sharp!”

Angus concluded with some deep gutturals in Gaelic which we cannot translate, and Peegwish, rising hastily, went off to do as he was bid. But Peegwish was a poor water-drawer. The ox turned out to be more obstinate than himself, and also more callous, for when it became fatigued with hauling the water-barrel to and fro, it stopped at the foot of the slope near a corner of the garden, and refused to budge. Peegwish lashed it, but it did not feel—at all events, it did not care. He tried to wheedle it, but failed: he became abusive, and used bad language to the ox, but without success. He was in the height of his distress when Petawanaquat passed by with a load of firewood on his shoulder. The red man having been reconciled to his old enemy, had remained at Red River, partly to assist him, partly to see the end of the flood, and partly to be near his friend Sinclair and his adopted son Tonyquat. From the latter he could not tear himself away.

The Indian stood and gazed solemnly at his brother savage for some minutes, then he threw down his load, and entering the garden, cut the remains of a cabbage which had survived the flood. With this he went to the ox and held it to its nose. The animal advanced; the Indian retreated a few steps. The ox advanced again in the hope of obtaining a savoury mouthful, but the Indian still retreated. Thus, step by step, the slope was ascended!

“Wah!” said Petawanaquat, with a grave look, as he handed the cabbage to Peegwish, who profited by the lesson, and gained his ends.

“She’s fery lazy,” muttered Angus to himself—referring to Peegwish—as he went up the river bank towards the knoll, where his house now stood triumphantly, “fery lazy; more lazy than—than—”

Failing to find a just comparison, he tailed off in expressive but untranslatable Gaelic.

“Goot tay to you, Muster Ruvnshaw,” said Angus, on reaching the summit of the knoll. “It wass fery goot of you, whatever, to let my hoose stand here.”

“Don’t mention it, Angus,” said the old gentleman, removing his pipe with one hand, and extending the other. “It would be difficult to prevent it remaining where it is now. Besides, I passed my word, you know, and that cannot be broken. Come, sit down. I’m thankful your house was so considerate as to spare my smoking-box, though it has given it a shove of a few feet to the south’ard. In other respects the house is an advantage, for while it has not hurt the view, it serves to protect my box from the quarter which used to be exposed to east winds. But there is one stipulation I have to make Angus, before the bargain is closed.”

“An’ what may that pe?” asked Angus, with a shade of anxiety.

“That this smoking-box and the ground on which it stands, together with the footpath leading up to it, shall remain my property as long as I live.”

Angus smiled. He had the peculiarity of turning the corners of his mouth down instead of up when he did so, which gave a remarkably knowing look to his smile.

“You shall pe fery welcome,” he said. “And now, Muster Ruvnshaw, I came here to say a word for my poy. You know it iss natural that Ian will pe getting anxious apout the wedding. It iss impatient he will pe, whatever. He is a little shy to speak to you himself, and he will pe botherin’ me to—”

“All right, Angus, I understand,” interrupted Mr Ravenshaw. “You know both he and Lambert are busy removing your barn from my lawn. When that is finished we shall have the weddings. My old woman wants ’em to be on the same day, but nothing can be done till the barn is removed, for I mean to have the dance on that lawn on the double-wedding day. So you can tell them that.”

Angus did tell them that, and it is a remarkable fact which every one in the establishment observed, that the unsightly barn, which had so long disfigured the lawn at Willow Creek, disappeared, as if by magic, in one night, as Cora put it, “like the baseless fabric of a vision!”

Time passed, and changed the face of nature entirely. Wrecks were swept away; houses sprang up; fences were repaired; crops waved on the fields of Red River as of yore, and cattle browsed on the plains; so that if a stranger had visited that outlying settlement there would have been little to inform his eyes of the great disaster which had so recently swept over the place. But there would have been much to inform his ears, for it was many a day before the interest and excitement about the great flood went down. In fact, for a long time afterwards the flood was so much in the thoughts and mouths of the people that they might have been mistaken for the immediate descendants of those who had swarmed on the slopes of Ararat.

Let us now present a series of pictures for the reader’s inspection.

The first is a little log-hut embosomed in bushes, with a stately tree rising close beside it. Flowers and berries bedeck the surrounding shrubbery, pleasant perfumes fill the air. A small garden, in which the useful and ornamental are blended, environs the hut. The two windows are filled with glass, not parchment. A rustic porch, covered with twining plants, conceals the door, and a general air of tidiness marks all the surroundings. Need we say more to convince the intelligent reader that this is the hut of old Liz? It occupies the spot where it was deposited by the flood, the family having been allowed to remain there.

Under the genius of Herr Winklemann and Michel Rollin the old hut has displayed some characteristics of the cactus in sending forth offshoots from its own body. An offshoot in the rear is the kitchen; another on the right is a mansion, as large nearly as the parent, in which Winklemann has placed his mother, to the great relief of Daddy, who never forgot, and with difficulty forgave, the old woman’s kicking habits when their legs reposed together on the table. It must be added, however, that the old people live on good terms, and that Mrs Winklemann frequently visits Daddy, and smokes with him. The offshoot on the left, built by Michel, is a stable, and an excrescence beyond is a cow-house. There, are fowls in front of the hut, and flour, sugar, pork, and tea within, so it may be concluded that the families are now in comfort.

When the improvements just mentioned were completed, Michel Rollin, unable to settle down, had arranged with Peegwish and Wildcat to go off on a fishing expedition.

Before starting he entered the hut, and said to Winklemann, who was filling his “moder’s” pipe for her—

“You vill be here ven I come back? You vill not leave the ol’ peepil?”

“No; I vill stope till you retoorns. Be sure I vill take care of zee old vons. But dere is not much fear of anodor flood joost now.”

“What says he, Liz?” asked old Daddy, with a hand to his ear. “Speak oot.”

“Oh, he’s jist haverin’ aboot the flood. He says there’s nae fear o’ anither flood, an’ I think he’s aboot right.”

“I’m no sae sure o’ that,” returned Daddy, whose memory for the past was much stronger than for current events. “It’s been said, on the best authority, that there was a seemilar flood i’ the year seeventeen hunner an’ seeventy-sax, anither in seeventeen ninety, an’ anither in aughteen hunner an’ nine.”

“Hoots! haud yer gab. What div ye ken aboot floods?”

Daddy, hearing nothing, and believing from the pleasant expression of Liz’s countenance that she appreciated his remarks, nodded to Mrs Winklemann cheerily, and smiled.

“Ha!” laughed her son; “you is von stranch being, old Liz—ver stranch.”

Having finished the filling of his “moder’s” pipe and lighted it for her, Herr Winklemann arose and followed his friend Michel out of the hut.

Let us look at another picture.

It is a pair of cottages close to each other, and about a stone’s cast from the farm at Willow Creek. The buildings are new, and much alike in form and size. There are well-tilled fields around, and fat cattle and a few sheep. The insides of these mansions have not much to boast of in the way of ornament, but there is enough to display the influence, the good taste, and the refinement of woman.

Immediately after the abating of the waters Ian Macdonald and Louis Lambert set to work to build these houses, and you may be sure they were not long about it, for the tyrannical old father-in-law elect not only compelled them to take down the barn on the lawn before the weddings, but also to build houses for their brides.

And after the knots were tied and the dance on the lawn at Willow Creek was over, and the happy couples were fairly established in their own homes, they kept open house for a long time, and interchanged innumerable visits between Bearclaw Cottage, (that was Ian’s), and Hunter’s Lodge, (that was Lambert’s), and the Ark on Ararat, (that was the house of Angus), and Willow Creek, insomuch that Tony was heard one day to inform Miss Trim confidentially that he found it difficult to tell where he lived, or which was his proper home—and Miss Trim confessed that she was in much the same condition of mind.

“What an amazing time we have passed through!” said Miss Trim, referring to the flood, at one of their social gatherings.

“Yes,” said Victor hastily, for he knew that Miss Trim was on the point of delivering one of her parenthetical and pointless orations, “it was indeed an amazing time! Such boating on the plains, and such camping out! To say nothing of tumbling into the water and being half drowned.”

“By the way,” asked Ian, “was not poor John Flett nearly drowned about the beginning of the flood?”

“Of course he was,” said Mr Ravenshaw, “and if it had not been for your father he and his family would have been lost altogether. Is not that so, Angus?”

“Well, it iss droont he would have been in all probabeelity,” said Angus, “for he was on the wrong road when I met him, an’ he couldn’t find the right wan, whatever. Shon Flett iss a good man, but he iss also foolish. You see, when the watter came on him so strong that his hoose began to slup away, he took two of his oxen an’ he tied them together wi’ ropes, an’ put planks on their backs, which he also tied; ay! an’ so he made a sort of livin’ stage, on which he sat his wife and four children; two of them wass poys and the other two wass girls, whatever. The frightened craters went about the best way they could, sometimes wadin’ an’ sometimes sweemin’, an’ Shon, he wass leadin’ them wi’ a line roond their horns, an’ he wass wadin’ an’ sweemin’ also. I came across them wi’ my post an’ took them in. That was just pefore we saw the hoose on fire floatin’ down the river.”

“The house on fire!” exclaimed Cora; “I did not hear of that.”

“No wonder,” said Lambert. “There have been so many strange incidents and hairbreadth escapes during the flood that we won’t likely hear about them all for many a day to come.”

“But what about the house on fire?” asked Victor; “was any one in it?”

“No, it was only a house that had been left somewhat hastily by its owners, who must have forgot to put out the fire or capsized something over it. At all events the house was seen floating down stream at night, and a splendid sight it was, burning furiously, with the flames glittering in the water that swept it away.”

“How sad!” said Elsie, whose mind dwelt on the evil rather than on the picturesque aspect of the incident.

“I can’t imagine what ever was the cause of the flood,” remarked Mrs Ravenshaw.

“Well, my dear,” said her husband, in a somewhat oracular tone, “no one can certainly tell what caused it, but my own opinion is that it was caused by the unusual wetness of the fall. You remember how it rained; well, when the lakes and rivers were as full as they could hold, and the ground was soaking like a full sponge, the winter came on us suddenly and set all fast, thus preventing the water getting away. Then came the snow, also unusually heavy. Then came a late spring with a sudden burst of warm weather, and a south wind for several days in succession, turning all this accumulation into water. Red Lake, Otter-tail Lake, and Lake Travers overflowed, as you know; the Red River ice burst up and jammed against the solid ice of Lake Winnipeg, which stopped the current, and thus caused the overflow. That’s my notion about the flood. Whether it’s right or no, who can tell?”

“Your observations, sir, are fery goot, whatever,” said Angus, taking an unusually long draw at his pipe.

Turn we now to look upon one more picture. It is on the shores of the great lake—Lake Winnipeg. There among a tangled but picturesque mass of reeds and bushes, a canoe is resting on the reeds, and, not far from it, a rude structure of boughs and bark has been set up. It is open in front, and before it burns a large fire, whose light, however, is paled by the effulgence of the glorious sun as it dips into the lake.

Petawanaquat is there, seated with a book on his knee, and a dignified, yet slightly perplexed expression on his face. His friend Sinclair is there too, teaching him to read the Word of God. Meekeye, faithful partner and sympathiser with the red man, is also there; and beside them reclines our friend Tony. That child’s taste for hunting is strong. Having been—according to Miss Trim’s report—a very good boy and remarkably diligent at his lessons, he has been granted a holiday and permission to go a-hunting with his red father. He is tired after the day’s hunt, and reclines placidly awaiting supper, which Meekeye with downcast look prepares.

Having spent two hours over the Book that evening, Petawanaquat closed it slowly and looked up.

“You find it rather difficult to understand,” said Sinclair, with a pleasant smile.

The red man rose, drew himself up, and, turning his black eyes, like the eagle, on the flashing sun, stretched out his hand.

“My brother,” he said, “beholds the sun. Can he tell where it comes from, or whither it goes? No; but he understands that the Great Spirit guides its course, and he is satisfied. When Petawanaquat was a child he understood very little. He is a man now, and understands a little more. When the Great Spirit takes him up yonder, no doubt his mind shall be made bigger, and it shall be filled. The book that the Great Spirit has sent is very big. Some things in it are hard to understand, but the greatest thing of all is not hard. There is but one thing needful. Is not Jesus the one thing? Petawanaquat wishes to live for ever. To know the Great Spirit and Jesus is to live for ever. Petawanaquat has lived long and seen much. He has seen men torture men like evil spirits. He has seen scalps torn from men and women. He has seen little ones dashed against the stones. The spirit of Petawanaquat has groaned within him—he knew not why—perhaps the Great Spirit was speaking to him in his heart. ‘Shall these deeds of evil never have an end?’ he asked, but there was no answer. Now, an answer has come. Jesus is the Saviour from sin. All things shall be put under Him. When that time comes all things shall be good. At present good and evil are mixed.”

The red man paused a moment, with a slightly troubled look, but the shadow passed like a fleeting cloud as he dropped his arm, and, with an air of simple humility, sat down again beside his friend.

“Petawanaquat is only a child,” he added; “at present he is only learning. In good time he shall know all.”

The sun’s last rays were still gilding the horizon and flickering on the waves of Winnipeg when the tired hunters lay down to rest. Gradually the camp-fire lost its ruddy glow; the evening breeze died slowly down; one by one the stars came out, and the soft curtain of night, descending like a gentle spirit on the wilderness, hid the red man and his comrades from mortal eyes, and wrapped them in profound repose.

The End.

ENDNOTE

Note 1. This is no picture of the fancy, but true in all its details.

Note 2. Twenty-six years later, in 1852, Red River Settlement was visited by a flood very similar in its main features to that of 1826, above described; and it is a curious coincidence that only one man lost his life during the latter flood; also, that the waters of the floods of both years began to subside on exactly the same date.

Chapter One.

The Hunters.

It was on a cold winter morning long ago, that Robin Gore, a bold hunter of the backwoods of America, entered his parlour and sat him down to breakfast.

Robin’s parlour was also his dining-room, and his drawing-room, besides being his bedroom and his kitchen. In fact, it was the only room in his wooden hut, except a small apartment, opening off it, which was a workshop and lumber-room.

Robin’s family consisted of himself, and his wife, and his son Roy, who was twelve years of age—and his daughter Nelly, who was eight, or thereabout. In addition to these, his household comprised a nephew, Walter and an Irishman, Larry O’Dowd. The former was tall, strong, fearless, and twenty. The latter was stout, short, powerful, and forty.

The personal history of Robin Gore, to the point at which we take it up, runs briefly thus:—

He had been born in a backwood’s settlement, had grown up and married in the little hamlet in which he had been born, and hunted around it contentedly until he was forty years of age. But, as population increased, he became restive. He disliked restraint; resolved to take his wife and family into the wilderness and after getting his nephew and an Irish adventurer to agree to accompany him, carried his resolution into effect.

He travelled several hundreds of miles into the woods—beyond the most remote settlement—built three wooden huts, surrounded them with a tall stockade, set up a flagstaff in the centre thereof, and styled the whole affair, “Fort Enterprise.”

“I’m sorry to bring you to such a lonesome spot, Molly, my dear,” said Robin, as he sat on the trunk of a fallen tree on the afternoon of the day on which he arrived at the scene of his future home; “it’ll be rayther tryin’ at first, but you’ll soon get used to it, and we won’t be bothered hereaway wi’ all the new-fangled notions o’ settlement folk. We’ll dwell in the free wilderness, where there are no tyrannical laws to hamper a man, an’ no nonsensical customs to fix the fashion of his coat an’ leggins. Besides, you’ll have Roy an’ Nelly an’ Walter an’ Larry to keep you company, lass, not to mention our neighbours to look in upon now and again.”

“Very true, Robin,” replied the wife, “I have no doubt it will be quite cheery and homelike in course of time.”

She looked out upon the broad bosom of the lake which lay before the site of their forest home, and sighed. It was evident that Mrs Gore had a strong partiality for the laws and customs which her husband abhorred.

The “neighbours” to whom Robin referred lived in a leather tent twenty miles distant from the Fort. They were an Indian, named “The Black Swan,” his wife, named “The White Swan,” and a half-caste trapper, whose proper name was unknown to all save himself. His cognomen in the wilderness was “Slugs,” a name which originated in his frequent use of clipped pieces of lead instead of shot in the loading of his gun.

But to return to the point from which we started:—

It was on a cold winter morning that Robin Gore entered his parlour and sat him down to breakfast.

It was not only cold—very cold; colder than ever was experienced in our favoured British isles—but it was also very dark. Robin had risen before daybreak in order to visit his traps, and shoot some game as early in the day as possible. The larder chanced to be nearly empty that day, a fact which was all the more to be regretted that it was New Year’s day, and, as Robin remarked, “that day didn’t occur more than once in the year.” This statement Larry O’Dowd disputed, affirming that it occurred “at laste twice ivery year—wance at the beginnin’ an’ wance at the end of it!”

“Come along, lad,” said Robin, trimming the candle as his nephew Walter entered, “we’ll ha’ to make the most of our time to-day, for we dine at sharp five p.m., an’ our dinner—leastwise the most of it—is at this moment alive an’ kickin’, if it’s not sleepin’, in the forest, and has got to be found and shot yet. Hallo! boy, where are you bound for?”

“For the woods, father, with you and Walter,” replied his son Roy, sitting down and coolly helping himself to a portion of bear’s meat with which the hunter was regaling himself.

“Nonsense, boy,” said Robin, somewhat gruffly.

“You’ll not be able to keep up with us,” added Walter, “for we’ve little time before us, an’ a long way to go.”

“If I break down I can turn back,” retorted Roy.

“Very good; please yourself;” said Robin in a tone of indifference, although his glance seemed to indicate that he was not sorry to see his boy determined to attempt an expedition which he knew from experience would be very trying to a lad of his years.

Breakfast over, the three hunters clothed themselves in habiliments suitable to the climate—leathern coats and trousers which were impervious to the wind; cloth leggings to keep the snow from the trousers; leather mocassins, or shoes with three pairs of blanket socks inside of them; fur-caps with ear-pieces; leather mittens with an apartment for the fingers and a separate chamber for the thumb, powder-horns, shot-pouches, guns, and snow-shoes. These latter were light wooden frames, netted across with deerskin threads, about five feet long and upwards of a foot wide. The shoes were of this enormous size, in order that they might support the wearers on the surface of the snow, which was, on an average, four feet deep in the woods. They were clumsy to look at, but not so difficult to walk in as one might suppose.

In silence the three hunters entered the dark woods in front of Fort Enterprise. Robin went first and beat the track, Walter followed in his footsteps, Roy brought up the rear. The father sank about six inches at every step, but the snow which fell upon his snow-shoes was so fine and dry, owing to the intense frost, that it fell through the net-work of the shoes like dust. Walter and Roy, treading in the footsteps, had less labour in walking, but Walter, being almost as strong as his uncle, took his turn at beating the track every two hours.

Through the woods they went, over mound and hollow, across frozen swamp and plain, through brush and break, until near noon, when they halted for rest and refreshment. While Walter cut firewood, Robin and Roy cleared away the snow, using their snow-shoes as shovels, and prepared their meal. It was simple; a few mouthfuls of dried meat and a tin can of hot tea—the backwoodsman’s greatest luxury, next to his pipe. It was short, too. Half an hour sufficed to prepare and consume it.

“Let’s see, now, what we have got,” said Robin, counting the game before resuming the march.

“More than enough,” said Walter, lighting his pipe for a hurried whiff, “ten brace of white grouse, four rabbits, six red foxes and a black one, and two wolves. We can’t eat all that.”

“Surely we won’t eat the foxes and wolves!” cried Roy, laughing.

“Not till we’re starvin’,” replied his father. “Come, let’s go on—are ye tired, lad?”

“Fresh as Walter,” said the boy, proudly.

“Well, we won’t try you too much. We’ll just take a sweep round by the Wolf’s Glen, an’ look at the traps there—after which make for home and have our New Year’s dinner. Go ahead, Walter, and beat the track; it is your turn this time.”

Without speaking, Walter slipped his feet into the lines of his snow-shoes, extinguished his pipe, and led the way once more through the pathless forest.

Chapter Two.

The Starved Indian.

In the depths of the same forest, and not far from the locality to which we have introduced our reader, a Red Indian was dragging his limbs wearily along over the untrodden snow.

The attenuated frame of this son of the soil, his hollow cheeks and glaring eye-balls, his belt drawn with extreme tightness round his waist, to repress the gnawings of hunger, as well as his enfeebled gait, proved that he was approaching the last stage of starvation.

For many weeks Wapaw had been travelling in the woods, guided on his way by the stars, and by those slight and delicate signs of the wilderness—such as the difference of thickness in the bark on the north, from that on the south side of a tree—which are perceptible only to the keen eye of an Indian, or a white man whose life has been spent in the wilderness.

But Wapaw was a very different man when he quitted his tribe from what he was at the time we introduce him to our reader. Strong, wiry, upright, and lithe as a panther, he left his wigwam and his wife, and turned his face towards the rising sun; but the season was a severe one, and game was scarce; from the very beginning of his journey he had found it difficult to supply himself with a sufficiency of food. Towards the middle of it he was on short allowance, and much reduced in strength; and now near its termination, he was, as we have said, almost in the last stage of starvation.

Fort Enterprise was Wapaw’s goal. He had never been there before, but from the description of the place and its locality, given by those of his kindred who had visited Robin Gore, he was able to direct his march with unerring certainty towards it. Of course, as he drew near to it he could not ascertain his exact distance—whether he was a day or several days’ journey off—but from the tracks of Robin’s snow-shoes, which he crossed more than once, he guessed that he was nearing the Fort, and pushed on with renewed hope and energy.

Robin, however, was an active hunter. He often made long and rapid marches from his lonely dwelling—sometimes staying away a week or two at a time even in winter; so that Wapaw thought himself nearer Fort Enterprise than he really was when he first discovered the bold hunter’s tracks. When, at length, he did arrive at less than a day’s journey from the Fort, he was not aware of its close proximity, and, having tasted nothing whatever for two days, he felt the approach of that terrible state of exhaustion which precedes death.

It was a somewhat stormy day when the poor Indian’s strength finally broke down. Hitherto he had pushed forward with some degree of hope, but on the morning of this day a broken branch caught his snow-shoe and tripped him. At any other time the fall would have been a trifle, but in his weak condition it acted like the last straw which breaks the camel’s back. Wapaw rose with difficulty, and brushing the snow from his eyes, looked earnestly at his snow-shoes, well knowing that if they had been broken in the fall his power of advancing would have been taken away and his fate sealed, for he had neither strength nor energy left to repair them. They were uninjured, however; so he once more attempted to stagger on.

A slight rising ground lay before him. To ascend this was a labour so great that he almost sank in the midst of it. He reached the top, however, and gazed eagerly before him. He had gazed thus at the top of every rising ground that he had reached during the last two days, in the hope of seeing some sign of the Fort.

A deep sigh escaped him as he rested his hands on the muzzle of his gun, and his grave countenance was overspread with a look of profound melancholy. For the first time in his life, the once stout and active Wapaw had reached the point of giving way to despair. A wide open plain stretched out before him. The cold wind was howling wildly across it, driving the keen snow-drift before it in whirling clouds. Even a strong man might have shrunk from exposing himself on such a plain and to such a blast on that bitter arctic day. Wapaw felt that in his case to cross it would be certain death; so, with the calm philosophy of a Red Indian, he made up his mind to lay him down and die!

His manner of preparing for his end was somewhat singular. Turning aside into the woods, he set about making an encampment with as much vigour as he could summon up. Clearing away the snow from the roots of a large spreading pine-tree, he strewed branches on the ground, and thus made a rude couch. On this he spread his blanket. Then he cut some firewood with the axe that hung at his side, and soon kindled, by means of flint, steel, and tinder, a good fire. Seating himself before the warm blaze, the exhausted man rested awhile, with his legs drawn together and his head resting on his knees.

He sat so long thus that he nearly fell asleep. Presently he roused himself, and proceeded to make a close examination of his wallet and firebag—the latter being a beautifully ornamented pouch, which Indians and fur-traders wear at their belts, for the purpose of containing the materials for producing fire, besides pipes and tobacco.

Poor Wapaw had already searched his wallet and firebag twice, without finding a crumb of food or a morsel of tobacco. He knew well that they were empty, yet he turned them inside out, and examined the seams and corners with as much earnestness as if he really expected to find relief from his sufferings there.

There was no expression of pain on the red man’s face—only a look of profound melancholy.

He laid aside the firebag after a little while, and then quietly drew his knife, and cut a piece of leather from the skirt of his hunting coat.

The leather had been dried and smoked, and contained no substance whatever that could sustain life. Wapaw was aware of this—nevertheless he singed a portion of it until it was reduced almost to ashes, and mingling a little snow with this, ate it greedily.

Then, raising his eyes to the sky with a long earnest gaze, he sat immovable, until the sinking fire and the increasing cold recalled his wandering faculties.

There was a wild, glassy look about the Indian’s eyes now, which probably resulted from exhaustion. He seemed to struggle several times to rouse himself before he succeeded; shuddering with intense cold, he crept to the little pile of firewood, and placed several billets on the fire, which speedily blazed up again, and the dying man cowered over it, regardless of the smoke which ever and anon wreathed round his drooping head.

In a few minutes Wapaw started up as if new energy had been infused into him. He placed his gun, axe, firebag, and powder-horn by themselves on the ground; then he wrapped himself in his blanket and lay slowly down beside them with his feet towards the fire. For a few minutes he lay on his back, gazing earnestly upwards, while his lips moved slowly, but no sound issued from them. Then he turned wearily on his side, and, covering his head with the blanket and turning his face towards the ground, he resigned himself to death.

But God had ordained that, at that time, the red man should not die.

About the time when he lay down, our hunters emerged upon the plain which had caused the Indian to despair.

“It’s of no use goin’ farther,” observed Robin, as he and his companions stood at the edge of the forest and looked across the plain; “the wind blows too hard, and the drift is keen; besides there ain’t much to be got hereaway, even in seasons of plenty.”

“Father! is that smoke risin’ over the bluff yonder?” asked Roy, pointing with his finger as he spoke.

“No doubt of it, lad.”

“Indians, may be,” said Walter.

Robin shook his head. “Don’t think so,” said he, “for the redskins don’t often come to see me at this time o’ the year. But we’ll go see; an’ look to your primin’, lads—if it’s a war-party we’ll ha’ to fight, mayhap, if we don’t run.”

The three hunters crossed the plain in the teeth of the howling drift, and cautiously approached the bluff referred to by Roy, and from behind which the smoke ascended.

“It’s a camp fire,” whispered Robin, as he glanced back at his companions, “but I see no one there. They must have just left the place.”

There was a shade of anxiety in the hunter’s voice as he spoke, for he thought of Fort Enterprise, its defenceless condition, and the possibility of the Indians having gone thither.

“They can’t have gone to the Fort,” said Walter, “else we should have seen their tracks on the way hither.”

“Come,” said Robin, stepping forward quickly, “we can see their tracks now, anyhow, and follow them up, and if they lead to the Fort.”

The hunter did not finish his sentence, for at that moment he caught sight of the recumbent form of Wapaw in the camp.

“Hist! A redskin alone, and asleep! Well, I never did ’xpect to see that.”

“Mayhap, he’s a decoy-duck,” suggested Walter. “Better look sharp out.”

Robin and Roy heeded not the caution. They at once went forward, and the father lifted the blanket from the Indian’s head.

“Dead!” exclaimed Roy, in a solemn tone.

“Not yet, lad! but I do b’lieve the poor critter’s a’most gone wi’ starvation. Come, bestir you, boys—rouse up the fire, and boil the kettle.”

Walter and Roy did not require a second bidding. The kettle was ere long singing on a blazing fire. The Indian’s limbs were chafed and warmed; a can of hot tea was administered, and Wapaw soon revived sufficiently to look up and thank his deliverers.

“Now, as good luck has it, I chanced to leave my hand-sled at the Wolf’s Glen. Go, fetch it, Roy,” said Robin.

The lad set off at once, and, as the glen was not far distant, soon returned with a flat wooden sledge, six feet long by eighteen inches broad, on which trappers are wont to pack their game in winter. On this sledge Wapaw was firmly tied, and dragged by the hunters to Fort Enterprise.

“Hast got a deer, father?” cried little Nelly, as she bounded in advance of her mother to meet the returning party.

“No, Nelly—’tis dearer game than that.”

“What? a redskin!” exclaimed Dame Gore in surprise; “is he dead?”

“No, nor likely to die,” said Robin, “he’s in a starvin’ state though, an’ll be none the worse of a bit of our New Year’s dinner. Here is game enough for one meal an’ more; come, lass, get it ready as fast as may be.”

So saying the bold hunter passed through the Fort gate, dragging the red man behind him.

Chapter Three.

Preparations for a Feast.

“Why so grave, Robin?” inquired Mrs Gore, when her husband returned to the parlour after seeing Wapaw laid in a warm corner of the kitchen, and committed to the care of Larry O’Dowd.

“Molly, my dear, it’s of no use concealin’ things from you, ’cause when bad luck falls we must just face it. This Injun—Wapaw, he calls himself—tells me he has com’d here a-purpose, as fast as he could, to say that his tribe have resolved to attack me, burn the Fort, kill all the men, and carry you off into slavery.”

“God help me! can this be true?”

“True enough, I don’t doubt, ’cause Wapaw has the face of an honest man, and I believe in faces. He says some of the worst men of his tribe are in power just now; that they want the contents of my store without paying for them; that he tried to get them to give up the notion, but failed. On seeing that they were bent on it, he said he was going off to hunt, and came straight here to warn me. He says they talked of starting for the Fort two days after he did, and that he pushed on as fast as he could travel, so it’s not likely they’ll be here for two or three days yet. I’ll get ready for them, hows’ever, and when the reptiles do come they’ll meet with a warm reception, I warrant them; meanwhile, do you go and get dinner ready. We won’t let such varmints interfere with our New Year’s feast.”

While Robin’s wife went to her larder, his children were in the kitchen tending the Indian with earnest solicitude, and Larry was preparing a little soup for him.

“Do you like rabbit soup?” asked Nelly, kneeling beside the pallet of pine branches on which Wapaw lay.

The Indian smiled, and said something in his native tongue.

“Sure he don’t onderstan’ ye,” exclaimed Larry, as he bustled in an energetic way amongst his pots and pans.

“Let me try him with Cree,” said Roy, kneeling beside his sister, “I know a little—a very little Cree.”

Roy tried his “very little Cree,” but without success.

“It’s o’ no use,” he said, “father must talk to him, for he knows every language on earth, I believe.”

Roy’s idea of the number of languages “on earth” was very limited.

“Och! don’t bother him, see, here is a lingo that every wan onderstan’s,” cried Larry, carrying a can of hot soup towards Wapaw.

“Oh, let me! do let me!” cried Nelly, jumping up and seizing the can.

“Be all manes,” said Larry, resigning it.

The child once more knelt by the side of the Indian and held the can to him, while he conveyed the soup to his lips with a trembling, unsteady hand. The eyes of the poor man glittered as he gazed eagerly at the food, which he ate with the avidity of a half-famished wolf.

His nurses looked on with great satisfaction, and when Wapaw glanced up from time to time in their faces, he was advised to continue his meal with nods and smiles of goodwill.

Great preparations were made for the dinner of that New Year’s Day. Those who “dwell at home at ease” have no idea of the peculiar feelings with which the world’s wanderers hail the season of Christmas and New Year. Surrounded as they usually are by strange scenes, and ignorant as they are of what friends at home are doing or thinking, they lay hold of this season as being one point at least in the circle of the year in which they can unite with the home circle, and, at the same time, commemorate with them the birth of the blessed Saviour of mankind, and think with them of absent friends. Much, therefore, as the “happy” season is made of in the “old country,” it is made more of, if possible, in the colonies; especially on the outskirts of the world, where the adventurous and daring have pitched their tents.

Of course Robin Gore and his household did not think of the “old country,” for they were descendants of settlers; but they had imbibed the spirit of the old country from their forefathers, and thought of those well-remembered friends whom they had left behind them in the settlements.

Notwithstanding the delay caused by the conveying of Wapaw to the Fort, the hunters had walked so fast that there was still some time to spare before dinner should be ready.

Roy resolved to devote this time to a ramble in the woods with his sister Nelly. Accordingly the two put on their snow-shoes, and, merely saying to their mother that they were going to take a run in the woods, set forth.

Now, it must be known that Mrs Gore had looked forward to New Year’s Day dinner with great interest and much anxiety. There was a general feeling of hilarity and excitement among the male members of the self-exiled family that extended itself to the good woman, and induced her to resolve that the entire household should have what Walter styled a “rare blow-out!” During the whole morning she had been busy with the preparation of the various dishes, among which were a tart made of cloudberry jam, a salt goose, and a lump of bear’s ham, besides the rabbits and ptarmigan which had been shot that day.

“That’s the way to do it, Molly,” cried Robin, as he opened the door and peeped in upon his wife during the height and heat of her culinary labours; “keep the pot bilin’, my dear, and don’t spare the butter this day. It only comes once a year, you know.”

“Twice,” muttered Larry in a low voice, as he stirred the contents of a large pot which hung over the fire.

“And see that you look after Wapaw,” continued Robin. “Don’t give him too much at first, it’ll hurt him.”

“No fear of that,” replied Larry, “he’s got so much a’ready that he couldn’t howld another morsel av he was to try.”

“Well, well, take care of him, anyhow,” said Robin, with a laugh; “meanwhile I’ll go see after the defences o’ the Fort, and make all snug.”

By dint of unwearied perseverance the dinner was cooked, and then it occurred to Robin to ask where the children were, but no one could tell, so the hunter remarked quietly that they would “doubtless make their appearance in a short while.”

Gradually the dinner reached that interesting point which is usually styled “ready to dish.” Whereupon Robin again asked where the children were. Still no one could tell, so he said he would go out and hail them. Loudly and long did the hunter call, but no one answered; then he made a rapid search in and about the Fort, but they were not to be found. Moreover, a snow-storm had begun to set in, and the drift rendered it difficult to distinguish tracks in the snow.

At last the day’s labours were brought to a close. Dinner was served, and smoked invitingly on the table. The party only awaited the return of Robin with the children. In a few minutes Robin entered hastily.

“Molly,” said he, in a tone of anxiety, “the foolish things have gone into the woods, I think. Come, lads, we must hunt them down. It’s snowin’ hard, so we’ve no time to lose.”

Walter and Larry at once put on their capotes, fur-caps, and snow-shoes, and sallied forth, leaving Mrs Gore seated alone, and in a state of deep anxiety, by the side of her untasted New Year’s Day dinner.

Chapter Four.

Lost in the Snow.

When Roy and Nelly set out for a ramble, they had at first no intention of going beyond their usual haunts in the woods around the Fort; but Roy had been inspirited by his successful march that day with his father and Walter, and felt inclined to show Nelly some new scenes to which they had not, up to that time, dared to penetrate together.

The snow-storm, already referred to, had commenced gradually. When the children set forth on their ramble only a few flakes were falling, but they had not been away half an hour when snow fell so thickly that they could not see distinctly more than a few yards ahead of them. There was no wind, however, so they continued to advance, rather pleased than otherwise with the state of things.

“Oh, I do like to see falling snow,” cried Nelly, with a burst of animation.

“So do I,” said Roy, looking back at his sister with a bright smile, “and I like it best when it comes down thick and heavy, in big flakes, on a very calm day, don’t you?”

“Yes, oh it’s so nice,” responded Nelly sympathetically.

They paused for minutes to shake some of the snow from their garments, and beat their hands together, for their fingers were cold, and to laugh boisterously, for their hearts were merry. Then they resumed their march, Roy beating the track manfully and Nelly following in his footsteps.

In passing beneath a tall fir-tree Roy chanced to touch a twig. The result was literally overwhelming, for in a moment he was almost buried in snow, to the unutterable delight of his sister, who stood screaming with laughter as the unfortunate boy struggled to disentomb himself.

In those northern wilds, where snow falls frequently and in great abundance, masses are constantly accumulating on the branches of trees, particularly on the pines, on the broad flat branches of which these masses attain to considerable size. A slight touch is generally sufficient to bring these down, but, being soft, they never do any injury worth mentioning.

When Roy had fairly emerged from the snow he joined his sister in the laugh, but suddenly he stopped, and his face became very grave.

“What’s the matter?” asked Nelly, with an anxious look.

“My snow-shoe’s broken,” said Roy.

There was greater cause for anxiety on account of this accident than the reader is perhaps aware of. It may be easily understood that in a country where the snow averages four feet in depth, no one can walk half-a-mile without snow-shoes without being thoroughly exhausted; on the other hand, a man can walk thirty or forty miles a day by means of snow-shoes.

“Can’t you mend it?” asked Nelly.

Roy, who had been carefully examining the damaged shoe, shook his head.

“I’ve nothing here to do it with; besides, it’s an awful smash. I must just try to scramble home the best way I can. Come, it’s not very far, we’ll only be a bit late for dinner.”

The snow-shoe having been bandaged, after a fashion, with a pocket-handkerchief, the little wanderers began to retrace their steps; but this was now a matter of extreme difficulty, owing to the quantity of snow which had fallen and almost obliterated the tracks. The broken shoe, also, was constantly giving way, so that ere long the children became bewildered as well as anxious, and soon lost the track of their outward march altogether. To make matters worse, the wind began to blow clouds of snow-drift into their faces, compelling them to seek the denser parts of the forest for shelter.

They wandered on, however, in the belief that they were drawing nearer home every step, and Roy, whose heart was stout and brave, cheered up his sister’s spirit so much that she began to feel quite confident their troubles would soon be over.

Presently all their hopes were dashed to the ground by their suddenly emerging upon an open space, close to the very spot where the snow-mass had fallen on Roy’s head. After the first feeling of alarm and disappointment had subsided, Roy plucked up heart and encouraged Nelly by pointing out to her that they had at all events recovered their old track, which they would be very careful not to lose sight of again.

Poor Nelly whimpered a little, partly from cold and hunger as well as from disappointment, as she listened to her brother’s words; then she dried her eyes and said she was ready to begin again. So they set off once more. But the difficulty of discerning the track, if great at first, was greater now, because the falling and drifting snow had well-nigh covered it up completely. In a very few minutes Roy stopped, and, confessing that he had lost it again, proposed to return once more to their starting point to try to recover it. Nelly agreed, for she was by this time too much fatigued and alarmed to have any will of her own, and was quite ready to do whatever she was told without question.

After wandering about for nearly an hour in this state of uncertainty, Roy at last stopped, and, putting his arm round his sister’s waist, said that he had lost himself altogether! Poor Nelly, whose heart had been gradually sinking, fairly broke down; she hid her face in her brother’s bosom, and wept.

“Come now, don’t do that, dear Nell,” said Roy, tenderly, “I’ll tell you what we shall do—we’ll camp in the snow! We have often done it close to the house, you know, for fun, so we’ll do it now in earnest.”

“But it’s so dark and cold,” sobbed Nelly, looking round with a shudder into the dark recesses of the forest, which were by that time enshrouded by the gathering shades of night; “and I’m so hungry too! Oh me! what shall we do?”

“Now don’t get so despairing,” urged Roy, whose courage rose in proportion as his sister’s sank; “it’s not such an awful business after all, for father is sure to scour the woods in search of us, an’ if we only get a comfortable encampment made, an’ a roarin’ fire kindled, why, we’ll sit beside it an’ tell stories till they find us. They’ll be sure to see the fire, you know, so come—let’s to work.”

Roy said this so cheerfully that the child felt a little comforted, dried her eyes, and said she would “help to make the camp.”

This matter of making an encampment in the snow, although laborious work, was by no means a novelty to these children of the backwoods. They had often been taught how to do it by Cousin Walter and Larry O’Dowd, and had made “playing at camps” their chief amusement in fine winter days. When, therefore, they found themselves compelled to “camp-out” from necessity, neither of them was at a loss how to proceed. Roy drew a circle in the snow, about three yards in diameter, at the foot of a large tree, and then both set to work to dig a hole in this space, using their snow-shoes as shovels. It took an hour’s hard work to reach the ground, and when they did so the piled-up snow all round raised the walls of this hole to the height of about six feet.

“Now for bedding,” cried Roy, scrambling over the walls of their camp and going into the woods in search of a young pine-tree, while Nelly sat down on the ground to rest after her toil.

It was a dark night, and the woods were so profoundly obscured, that Roy had to grope about for some time before he found a suitable tree. Cutting it down with the axe which always hung at his girdle, he returned to camp with it on his shoulder, and cut off the small soft branches, which Nelly spread over the ground to the depth of nearly half a foot. This “pine-brush,” as it is called, formed a soft elastic couch.

The fire was the next business. Again Roy went into the bush and gathered a large bundle of dry branches.

“Now, Nelly, do you break a lot of the small twigs,” said Roy, “and I’ll strike a light.”

He pulled his firebag from his belt as he spoke, and drew from it flint, steel, and tinder. No one ever travels in the wilds of which we write without such means of procuring fire. Roy followed the example of his elder companions in carrying a firebag, although he did not, like them, carry tobacco and pipe in it.

Soon the bright sparks that flew from the flint caught on the tinder. This was placed in a handful of dry grass, and whirled rapidly round until it was fanned into a flame. Nelly had prepared another handful of dry grass with small twigs above it. The light was applied, the fire leaped up, more sticks were piled on, and at last the fire roared upward, sending bright showers of sparks into the branches overhead, lighting the white walls of the camp with a glow that caused them to sparkle as with millions of gems, and filling the hearts of the children with a sensation of comfort and gladness, while they stood before the blaze and warmed themselves, rubbing their hands and laughing with glee.

No one, save those who have experienced it, can form any conception of the cheering effect of a fire in the heart of a dark wood at night. Roy and Nelly quite forgot their lost condition for a short time, in the enjoyment of the comforting heat and the bright gladsome blaze. The brother cut firewood until he was rendered almost breathless, the sister heaped on the wood until the fire roared and leaped high above their heads. Strange though it may appear to some, the snow did not melt. The weather was too cold for that; only a little of that which was nearest the fire melted—the snow walls remained hard frozen all round. Roy soon sat down to rest, as close to the fire as he could without getting scorched; then Nelly seated herself by his side and nestled her head in his breast. There they sat, telling stories and gazing at the fire, and waiting for “father to come.”

Meanwhile Robin and his comrade ranged the forest far and near in desperate anxiety. But it was a wide and wild country. The children had wandered far away; a high ridge of land hid their fire from view. Moreover, Robin, knowing the children’s usual haunts, had chanced to go off in the wrong direction. When night set in the hunters returned to Fort Enterprise to procure ammunition and provisions, in order to commence a more thorough and prolonged search. Poor Mrs Gore still sat beside the cold and untasted feast, and there the hunters left her, while they once more plunged into the pathless wilderness to search for the lost ones on that luckless New Year’s Day.

Chapter Five.

Carried Off.

While Robin Gore and his companions were anxiously searching the woods around Fort Enterprise for the lost children, a war-party of savages was making its way swiftly towards the Fort.

A chief of the Indians, named Hawk, who was a shrewd as well as a bad man, had suspected Wapaw’s intentions in quitting the camp of his people alone and in such unnecessary haste. This man had great influence over his fellows, and easily prevailed on them to set off on their murderous expedition against the Fort of the “pale-faces” without delay.

Being well supplied with food, they travelled faster than their starving comrade, and almost overtook him. They finally encamped within a short distance of the Fort the day after Wapaw’s arrival, and prepared to assault it early next morning.

“If the wicked skunk has got there before us,” said Hawk to his fellows, as they prepared to set out before daybreak, “the pale-faces will be ready for us, and we may as well go back to our wigwams at once; but if that badger’s whelp has been slow of foot, we shall hang the scalps of the pale-faces at our belts, and eat their food this day.”

The polite titles above used by Hawk were meant to refer to Wapaw.

Indians are not naturally loquacious. No reply was made to Hawk’s remark, except that one man with a blackened face, and a streak of red ochre down the bridge of his nose, said, “Ho!” and another with an equally black face, and three red streaks on each of his cheeks, said, “Hum!” as the war-party put on their snowshoes and prepared to start.

They had not gone far when Hawk came to a sudden pause, and stood transfixed and motionless like a dark statue. His comrades also stopped abruptly and crouched. No question was asked, but Hawk pointed to a spark of fire, which every Indian in the band had observed the instant their leader had paused. Silently they crept forward, with guns cocked and arrows fitted to the bowstrings, until they all stood round an encampment where the fire was still smouldering, and in the centre of which lay a little boy and girl, fast asleep and shuddering with cold.

Poor Roy and Nelly had told each other stories until their eyes would not remain open; then they fell asleep, despite their efforts to keep awake, and, as the fire sank low, they began to shiver with the cold. Lucky was it for them that the Indians discovered them, else they had certainly been frozen to death that night.

Hawk roused them with little ceremony. Roy, by an impulse which would appear to be natural to those who dwell in wild countries, whether young or old, seized his axe, which lay beside him, as he leaped up. Hawk grinned, and took the axe from him at once, and the poor boy, seeing that he was surrounded by dark warriors, offered no resistance, but sought to comfort Nelly, who was clinging to him and trembling with terror.

Immediately the savages sat down in the encampment, and began an earnest discussion, which the children watched with great eagerness. They evidently did not agree, for much gesticulation and great vehemence characterised their debate. Some pointed towards the Fort, and touched their tomahawks, while others pointed to the woods in the direction whence they had come, and shook their heads. Not a few drew their scalping knives partially from their sheaths, and, pointing to the children, showed clearly that they wished to cut their career short without delay, but several of the more sedate members of the party evidently objected to this. Finally, Hawk turned to Roy, and said something to him in the Indian tongue.

Roy did not understand, and attempted to say so as well as he could by signs, and the use of the few words of the Cree language which his father had taught him. In the course of his speech (if we may use that term), he chanced to mention Wapaw’s name.

“Ho! ho! ho!” said one and another of the Indians, while Hawk grinned horribly.

A variety of questions were now put to poor Roy, who, not understanding, of course could not answer them. Hawk, however, repeated Wapaw’s name, and pointed towards the Fort with a look of inquiry, to which Roy replied by nodding his head and repeating “Wapaw” once or twice, also pointing to the Fort; for he began to suspect these must be Wapaw’s comrades, who had come to search for him. He therefore volunteered a little additional information by means of signs; rubbed his stomach, looked dreadfully rueful, rolled himself as if in agony on the ground, and then, getting up, pretended to eat and look happy! By all of which he meant to show how that Wapaw had been on the borders of starvation, but had been happily saved therefrom.

Indians in council might teach a useful lesson to our members of parliament, for they witnessed this rather laughable species of pantomime with profound gravity and silence. When Roy concluded, they nodded their heads, and said, “Ho! ho!” which, no doubt, was equivalent to “Hear hear!”

After a little more discussion they rose to depart, and made signs to the children to get up and follow. Roy then pointed out the broken state of his snow-shoe, but this difficulty was overcome by Hawk, who threw it away, and made him put on his sister’s snow-shoes. A stout young warrior was ordered to take Nelly on his back, which he did without delay, and the whole party left the encampment, headed by their chief.

The children submitted cheerfully at first, under the impression that the Indians meant to convey them to the Fort. Great, however, was their horror when they were taken through the woods by a way which they knew to be quite in the opposite direction.

When Roy saw this he stopped and looked back, but an Indian behind him gave him a poke with the butt of his gun which there was no resisting. For a moment the lad thought of trying to break away, run home, and tell his father of Nelly’s fate; but a second thought convinced him that this course was utterly impracticable. As for Nelly, she was too far from her brother in the procession to hold converse with him; and, as she knew not what to do, say, think, she was reduced to the miserable consolation of bedewing with her tears the shoulders of the young warrior who carried her.

The storm which had commenced the day before still continued, so that, in the course of a few hours, traces of the track of the war-party were almost obliterated, and the chance of their being followed by Robin and his friends was rendered less and less likely as time ran on.

All that day they travelled without halt, and when they stopped at night to encamp, Roy was nearly dead from exhaustion. “My poor Nell,” said he, drawing his sobbing sister close to him, as they sat near the camp fire, after having eaten the small quantity of dried venison that was thrown to them by their captors, “don’t despair; father will be sure to hunt us down, if it’s in the power of man to do it.”

“I don’t despair,” sobbed Nelly; “but oh! what will darling mother do when she finds that we’re lost, and I’m so afraid they’ll kill us.”

“No fear o’ that, Nell; it’s not worth their while. Remember, too, what mother often told us—that—that—what is it she used to read so often out of the Bible? I forget.”

“I think it was, ‘Call upon Me in the time of trouble, and I will deliver thee.’ I’ve been thinkin’ of that, Roy, already.”

“That’s right, Nell; now, come, cheer up! Have you had enough to eat?”

“Yes,” said Nelly, with a loud yawn, which she did not attempt to check.

Roy echoed it, as a matter of course, (who ever did see anyone yawn without following suit?) and then the two lay down together, spread over themselves an old blanket which one of the Indians had given them, and fell asleep at once.

Day succeeded day, night followed night, and weeks came and went, yet the Indians continued their journey through the snow-clad wilderness. Roy’s snow-shoes had been picked up and repaired by one of the savages, and Nelly was made to walk a good deal on her own snowshoes; but it is justice to the Indians to say that they slackened their pace a little for the sake of the children, and when Nelly showed symptoms of being fatigued, the stout young warrior who originally carried her took her on his shoulders.

At length the encampment of the tribe was reached, and Nelly was handed over to Hawk’s wife to be her slave. Soon after that the tents were struck, and the whole tribe went deeper into the northern wilds. Several gales arose and passed away, completely covering their footprints, so that no tracks were left behind them.

Chapter Six.

The Camp, the Attack, and the Escape.

It were vain to attempt a description of the varied condition of mind into which the brother and sister fell when they found themselves actually reduced to a state of slavery in an Indian camp, and separated from their parents, as they firmly believed, for ever.

Nelly wept her eyes almost out of their sockets at first. Then she fell into a sort of apathetic state, in which, for several days, she went about her duties almost mechanically, feeling as if it were all a horrible dream, out of which she would soon awake, and find herself at home with her “darling mother” beside her. This passed, however, and she had another fit of heart-breaking sorrow, from which she found relief by recalling some of the passages in God’s Word, which her mother had taught her to repeat by heart; especially that verse in which it is said, “that Jesus is a friend who sticketh closer than a brother.” And this came to the poor child’s mind with peculiar power, because her own brother Roy was so kind, and took such pains to comfort her, and to enter into all her girlish feelings and sympathies, that she could scarcely imagine it possible for anyone to stick closer to her in all her distress than he did.

As for Roy, he was not given to the melting mood. His nature was bold and manly. Whatever he felt, he kept it to himself, and he forgot more than half his own sorrow in his brotherly efforts to assuage that of Nelly.

Both of them were active and willing to oblige, so that they did not allow their grief to interfere with their work, a circumstance which induced their captors to treat them with forbearance, and even kindness. Nelly sobbed and worked; gradually, the sobbing decreased, and the work was carried on with vigour, so that she soon became quite expert at skinning rabbits, boiling meat, embroidering mocassins, smoking deerskins, chopping firewood into small pieces, and many other details of Indian household economy; while Roy went out with the hunters, and became a very Nimrod, insomuch that he soon excelled all the lads of his own age, and many of those who were older, in the use of the bow, the snow-shoes, the spear, the axe, and the gun. But all this, and what they did and said in the Indian camp during that winter, and what was said and done to them, we do not mean to write about, having matter of deeper interest to tell.

Winter passed away, and spring came. But little do those who dwell in England know of the enchantment of returning spring in the frozen wilderness of North America. The long, long winter, seems as though it would never pass away. The intense frost seals up all the sweet odours of the woods for so many months, that the nostrils become powerfully sensitive, and, as it were, yearn for something to smell. The skin gets so used to frost, that a balmy breeze is thought of as a thing of the past, or well-nigh forgotten.

Spring in those regions comes suddenly. It came on our wanderers with a gush. One night the temperature rose high above the freezing point; next day all the sights and sounds of Nature’s great awakening were in full play. The air fanned their cheeks like a summer breeze; the strange unwonted sound of tinkling and dropping water was heard; scents, as of green things, were met and inhaled greedily. As the thirsty Bedouin drinks from the well in the oasis, so did Roy and Nelly drink in the delicious influences of melting nature. And they thought of those words which say, that the wilderness shall rejoice and blossom as the rose. The rejoicing had commenced, the blossoming would soon follow.

But warlike and wicked men were even then preparing to desecrate the beautiful land. A war-party of enemies had come down upon the tribe with whom they dwelt. Scouts had brought in the news. All was commotion and excitement in the camp. Goods and chattels were being packed up. The women and children were to be sent off with these, under an escort, to a place of greater security, while the Braves armed for the fight.

In the middle of all the confusion, Roy took Nelly aside, and, with a look of mystery, said—

“Nell, dear, I’m goin’ to run away. Stay, now, don’t stare so like an owl, but hold your sweet tongue until I have explained what I mean to do. You and I have picked up a good deal of useful knowledge of one sort or another since we came here, and I’m inclined to think we are quite fit to take to the woods and work our way back to Fort Enterprise.”

“But isn’t it an awful long way?” said Nelly.

“It is, but we have an awful long time to travel; haven’t we all our lives before us? If our lives are long, we’ll manage it; if they are short, why, we won’t want to manage it, so we need not bother our heads about that?”

“But the way home,” suggested Nelly, “do you know it?”

“Of course I know it; that is to say, I know, from that ugly thief Hawk, that it lies somewhere or other to the south-west o’ this place, some hundreds of miles off; how many hundreds does not much matter, for we have got the whole of the spring, summer, and fall before us.”

“But what if we don’t get home in the fall?”

“Then we shall spend the winter in the woods, that’s all.”

Nelly laughed, in spite of her anxieties, at the confident tone in which her brother spoke; and, being quite unable to argue the matter farther, she said that she was ready to do whatever Roy pleased, having perfect confidence in his wisdom.

“That’s right, Nell; now, you get ready to start at a moment’s notice. When the Injuns attack the camp, we’ll give ’em the slip. Put all you want to take with you on a toboggan (see note 1.) and meet me at the crooked tree when the camp moves.”

That night the camp was struck, and the women and children departed, under a strong escort. Almost at the same time the enemy came down on their prey, but they met men prepared for them. In the dark, Nelly crept to the crooked tree, dragging the toboggan after her. She was met by Roy, who took the sledge-line and her hand and led her into the dark forest, while the savages were fighting and yelling like fiends in the camp. There let us leave them to fight it out. Enough for us to know that their warfare prevented any pursuit of the young fugitives.

Weeks passed, and Roy and Nelly wandered on; all fear of pursuit soon left them. Ducks, geese, and other waterfowl, came in myriads with the spring. Roy had brought with him his gun (the one he was wont to use in hunting), and bow and quiver. They fed on the fat of the land. Summer advanced, and game became less plentiful; still, there was more than sufficient to supply them with abundance of food. Autumn approached; the wild fowl that had passed northward in spring, began to return southward, and again the wants of the young wanderers were superabundantly supplied.

The pole-star was Roy’s guide. At night he laid his course by it; and by the sun during the day, making constant allowance, of course, for the sun’s rate of travelling through the sky, and taking advantage of all prominent landmarks on the way.

Time sped on; many weary miles were travelled, but no sign of Fort Enterprise was to be seen. Day after day, week after week, month after month they wandered, and still found themselves in the heart of an unknown wilderness. Occasionally they observed signs of Indians, and carefully kept out of sight at such times, as you may easily believe.

At last there came a day when hard frost set in. It was the first touch of another winter. Roy and Nelly did not betray their feelings to each other, but their hearts sank as they thought of what lay before them. The frost was short-lived, however; towards noon the air became delightfully warm, and their spirits revived.

On reaching the summit of an eminence, up which they had toiled for several hours, they beheld a small lake, in which the silvery clouds were clearly reflected. The day was calm; the sun unusually brilliant; the autumnal foliage most gorgeous in colour. It was like a scene in fairy-land!

“Splendid!” exclaimed Roy, sitting down beside his sister on the trunk of a fallen tree.

“Oh! how beautiful,” cried Nelly.

“It’s so like silver,” said Roy.

“Silver Lake,” murmured Nelly.

Roy seemed to think the name appropriate, for he echoed the words, “Yes, Silver Lake.” And there brother and sister sat, for a long time, on the fallen tree, in silent admiration of the scene.

Chapter Seven.

The Encampment on Silver Lake.

When Roy and Nelly sat down to gaze in admiration on Silver Lake, they little thought how long a period they should have to spend on its shores.

The lake was a small sheet of water not more than half a mile broad, embosomed among low hills, which, though not grand, were picturesque in outline, and wooded to their tops. It occupied the summit of an elevated region or height-of-land—a water-shed, in fact—and Roy afterwards discovered that water flowed from both the north-east and south-west sides of the table-land, in the midst of which it lay. These fountain-heads, separated by little more than half a mile from each other, were the sources of streams, which, flowing in opposite directions through hundreds of miles of wild, beautiful, and uncultivated wilderness, found their way, on the one hand, into Hudson’s Bay, on the other hand, into the Atlantic through the great rivers and lakes of Canada.

The waters of the lake were strikingly clear and pellucid. When the young wanderer first came upon the scene, not a zephyr stirred the leaves of the forest; the blue sky was studded with towering masses of white clouds which glowed in sunshine, and these reflected in the glassy water—as if far, far down in its unfathomable depths—produced that silvery effect which prompted Nelly to utter the name which we have adopted.

Small though the Silver Lake was, it boasted two islets, which like twin babes lay side by side on their mother’s fair breast, their reflected images stretching down into that breast as if striving to reach and grasp its heart!

“Couldn’t we stay here a short time?” asked Nelly, breaking the silence in a tone that indicated anxiety, hope, and enthusiasm, “only for a very little time,” she added, coaxingly.

Roy looked grave and sagacious. Boys as well as men like to be leant upon and trusted by the fair sex—at least in things masculine—and Nelly had such boundless faith in her brother’s capacity to protect her and guide her through the forest, that she unwittingly inspired him with an exuberant amount of courage and self-reliance. The lad was bold and fearless enough by nature. His sister’s confidence in him had the effect of inducing him to think himself fit for anything! He affected, therefore, at times, a look of grave sagacity, befitting, as he thought, so important and responsible a character.

“I’ve just been thinking,” said he—

“Oh! don’t think, but say yes!” interrupted Nelly.

“Well, I’m going to say yes, but I meant to give you my reasons for sayin’ so. In the first place, my powder and shot is gettin’ low. You see I did not bring away very much from the Injun camp, and we’ve been using it for so many months now that it won’t last much longer, so I think it would not be a bad plan to stop here awhile and fish and shoot and feed up—for you need rest, Nelly—and then start fresh with a well-loaded sledge. I’ll save some powder by using the bow we made the other day.”

“But you forget it’s broken.”

“So it is—never mind, we can make another—there’s a tree that will make a first-rater down in the hollow, d’ye see it, Nell?”

“Where—oh yes—just by the grassy place where the rock juts out into the water with the sun shining on it? what a nice place to build a hut!”

“Just so,” said Roy, smiling at the girl’s enthusiasm, “that’s the spot, and that’s the very thought that jumped bang into my brain as you spoke. By the way, does a thought jump into a man’s brain or out of it, I wonder?”

“Out of it, of course,” cried Nelly, with a laugh.

“I’m not so sure of that, Nell. I send it rather slowly out through my mouth, but I think it jumps into my brain. I wonder how it gets in; whether by the eyes, or ears, or mouth—perhaps it goes up the nose.”

“What stuff you do talk!” cried Nelly.

“D’ye think so,” said Roy with a grin, “well, that bein’ the case, let’s go and fix our camp, for the sun is not given to sitting up all night in these parts, so we must work while it shines.”

With hurried steps and eager looks, (for Roy, despite his affected coolness, was as enthusiastic about the new plan as his sister,) they descended to the margin of Silver Lake, and began to make their encampment on the sunny spot before referred to.

It turned out to be most suitable for their purpose, having a gentle slope towards the margin of the lake, which was fringed with a beach of pure white pebbles, and being well sheltered in the rear by umbrageous trees. The point of rocks close at hand formed a natural jetty, which, Roy observed, would be useful as a landing-place when he got his raft under way; the turf was soft, a matter of some importance, as it was to form their couch at night, and a small stream trickled down from one of the numerous springs which welled up at the foot of the nearest hill.

Solitary and remote from the usual haunts of men as this lake was, there was no feeling of solitude about it at the time we write of. The entire region was alive with wild fowl of many kinds. Wild geese trumpeted their advent as they came from the far north, en route for the far south, and settled on the bosom of Silver Lake to take a night’s lodging there. Ducks, from the same region, and bound for the same goal—though with less stately and regular flight—flew hither and thither with whistling wings, ever and anon going swash into the water as a tempting patch of reeds invited them to feed, or a whim of fancy induced them to rest. Wild swans occasionally sailed in all their majesty on its waters, while plover of every length of limb and bill, and every species of plaintive cry, waded round its margin, or swept in clouds over the neighbouring swamps. Sometimes deer would trot out of the woods and slake their thirst on its shore, and the frequent rings that broke its smooth surface told of life in the watery depths below.

The whole air was filled with gushing sounds of wild melody, as though bird and beast were uniting in a hymn of praise to the beneficent Creator who had provided the means of, and given the capacity for, so much enjoyment.

Having decided on a suitable spot for their temporary resting-place, Roy’s first care was to construct a hut. This was neither a work of time nor difficulty. In a couple of hours it was finished. He commenced the work by felling about a dozen young fir-trees not much thicker than a man’s wrist, from which he chopped the branches, thus leaving them bare poles about nine feet long. While he was thus employed, his sister cleared the spot on which their dwelling was to stand, and, having an eye to the picturesque, so arranged that the opening of the hut should command an uninterrupted view of the lake. On going into the “bush” to the place where Roy was at work, she found him cutting down his sixth tree, and the ground was strewn with the flat branches of those already cut.

“Come along, Nelly—how hot I am—carry these branches into camp, lass, an’ go ahead, for I’ve got supper to kill yet.”

Nelly made no direct reply, but muttered to herself something that sounded very like, “Oh, what fun!” as she filled her tiny arms with pine branches, and, hugging them to her heaving breast, staggered to the camp. When she had carried all the branches, Roy had cut all the poles, so he proceeded to set them up. Tying three poles together at the top, and using the pliant roots of a tree for the purpose, he set them up in the form of a tripod. Against these three all the other poles were piled, crossing each other at the top, and spreading out at the base so as to enclose a circle of about six feet in diameter. Being numerous, the poles were pretty close together, thus affording good support to the branches which were afterwards piled on them. Pine branches are flat, spreading, and thick, so that when laid above each other to a depth of several inches they form a very good shelter from dew and light rain. The hut was entirely covered with such branches, which were kept in their places by other poles leaning upon and pressing them down. The floor of the hut was also covered with pine “brush.”

“Now for supper, Nelly,” said Roy, seizing his bow, when the hut was completed, and splicing its broken part with a strip of deerskin cut from the lines of the sledge.

“Get a goose, Roy, and pick out a nice fat one,” cried Nelly, laughing, “I’ll have the fire ready when you come back.”

“I’ll try,” said Roy, and he did try, but tried in vain. Although a good shot, he was not sufficiently expert with the bow to shoot wild fowl on the wing, so he returned to the hut empty-handed.

“We must make a new bow, Nell,” said he, sitting down by the fire, “I can do nothin’ wi’ this, and it won’t do to use the gun for anythin’ but deer. Meanwhile let’s have the remains of our dinner for supper. Come, cheer up, old ’ooman; we shall feast on the fat of the land to-morrow!”

The stars were shining in the sky, and winking at their reflections down in the depths of Silver Lake, and the lake itself lay, as black as ink, under the shadow of the hills, when the brother and sister spread their blanket above them that night, and sank, almost immediately, into profound slumber.

Chapter Eight.

Hunting, and other Matters, on Silver Lake.

Sunrise is a gladsome event almost at all times; we say “almost,” because there are times when sunrise is not particularly gladsome. In the arctic regions of Norway, for instance, we have seen it rise only twenty minutes after it set, and the rising and setting were so much mingled, that no very strong feelings of any kind were awakened. Moreover, we were somewhat depressed at the time, in consequence of having failed to reach those latitudes where the sun does not set at all for several weeks in summer, but shines night and day. To the sick, sunrise brings little comfort; too often it is watched for with weariness, and beheld, at last, with a feeling of depression at the thought that another day of pain has begun. But to the healthy, and especially to the young, sunrise is undoubtedly, on most occasions, a gladsome event.

At least Nelly Gore thought so when she awoke and beheld, from the floor of the hut where she lay, a flood of yellow glory gushing through a valley, turning Silver Lake into gold, tipping the trees with fire, and blazing full in Roy’s face, which was at that moment turned up to the sky with the mouth open, and the nose snoring.

“Oh, how beautiful!” screamed Nelly, in the exuberance of her delight.

“Hallo! murder! come on, ye black varmints,” shouted Roy, as he sprang up and seized the axe which lay at his side. “Oh, it’s only you, what a yell you do give, Nelly! why, one would think you were a born Injun; what is’t all about, lass? Ye-a-ow! how sleepy I am—too late to have another nap, I suppose, eh?”

“Oh yes, lazy thing! get up and come out quick!” cried the other, as she sprang up and ran out of the hut to enjoy the full blaze of the sunshine, and the fresh morning air.

That morning Nelly could do little but ramble about in a wild sort of fashion, trying to imagine that she was queen of the world around her! She sobered down, however, towards noon, and went diligently about the work which Roy had given her to do. She had the internal arrangements of the hut to complete and improve, some pairs of mocassins to mend, and several arrows to feather, besides other matters.

Meanwhile Roy went out to hunt.

Determined not to use his fast-diminishing ammunition, except on large game, and anxious to become more expert with the bow, he set to work the first thing that day, and made a new bow. Armed with this and a dozen arrows, he sallied forth.

Some of his arrows were pointed with ivory, some with iron, and some had no points at all, but blunt heavy heads instead. These latter were, and still are, used by Indians in shooting game that is tame and easily killed. Grouse of various kinds, for instance, if hit with full force from a short range by a blunt-headed arrow, will be effectually stunned, especially if hit on the head.

At first Roy walked along the shores of the lake, but was not very successful, because the ducks and geese were hid among reeds, and rose suddenly with a distracting whirr, usually flying off over the water. To have let fly at these would have cost him an arrow every shot, so, after losing one, he wisely restrained himself.

After a time, he turned into the woods, resolving to try his fortune where his arrows were not so likely to be lost. He had not gone far, when a tree-grouse sprang into the air and settled on a neighbouring pine.

Roy became excited, for he was anxious not to return to the hut empty-handed a second time. He fitted a sharp-headed arrow to the string, and advanced towards the bird cautiously. His anxiety to make little noise was so great, that he tripped over a root and fell with a hideous crash into the middle of a dead bush, the branches of which snapped like a discharge of little crackers. Poor Roy got up disgusted, but on looking up found that the grouse was still sitting there, filled apparently with more curiosity than alarm. Seeing this he advanced to within a few yards of the bird, and, substituting a blunt arrow for the sharp one, discharged it with vigour. It hit the grouse on the left eye, and brought it to the ground like a stone.

“Good, that’s ‘number one,’” muttered the lad as he fastened the bird to his belt; “hope ‘number two’ is not far off.”

“Number two” was nearer than he imagined, for four other birds of the same kind rose a few yards ahead of him, with all the noise and flurry that is characteristic of the species.

They settled on a tree not far off, and looked about them.

“Sit there, my fine fellows, till I come up,” muttered Roy. (The lad had a habit of speaking to himself while out hunting.)

They obeyed the order, and sat until he was close to them. Again was the blunt arrow fitted to the string; once more it sped true to its mark, and “number two” fell fluttering to the ground.

Now, the grouse of North America is sometimes a very stupid creature. It literally sits still to be shot, if the hunter is only careful to fire first at the lowest bird of the group. If he were to fire at the topmost one, its fluttering down amongst the others would start them off.

Roy was aware of this fact, and had aimed at the bird that sat lowest on the tree. Another arrow was discharged, and “number three” lay sprawling on the ground. The blunt arrows being exhausted, he now tried a sharp one, but missed. The birds stretched their necks, turned their heads on one side, and looked at the lad, as though to say, “It won’t do,—try again!”

Another shaft was more successful. It pierced the heart of “number four,” and brought it down like a lump of lead. “Number five” seemed a little perplexed by this time, and made a motion as though it were about to fly off, but an arrow caught it in the throat, and cut short its intentions and its career. Thus did Roy bag, or rather belt, five birds consecutively. (See note 2.)

Our hero was not one of those civilised sportsmen who slaughter as much game as they can. He merely wanted to provide food for a day or two. He therefore turned his steps homeward—if we may be allowed the expression—being anxious to assist his sister in making the hut comfortable.

As he walked along, his active mind ran riot in many eccentric channels. Those who take any interest in the study of mind, know that it is not only the mind of a romantic boy that does this, but that the mind of man generally is, when left to itself, the veriest acrobat, the most unaccountable harlequin, that ever leaped across the stage of fancy.

Roy’s mind was now in the clouds, now on the earth. Anon it was away in the far-off wilderness, or scampering through the settlements, and presently it was deep down in Silver Lake playing with the fish. Roy himself muttered a word or so, now and then, as he walked along, which gave indication of the whereabouts of his mind at the time.

“Capital fun,” said he, “only it won’t do to stay too long. Poor mother, how she’ll be wearin’ for us! Hallo! ducks, you’re noisy coons, wonder why you get up with such a bang. Bang! that reminds me of the gun. No more banging of you, old chap, if my hand keeps in so well with the bow. Eh! duck, what’s wrong?”

This latter question was addressed to a small duck which seemed in an anxious state of mind, to judge from its motions. Presently a head, as if of a fish, broke the surface of the lake, and the duck disappeared!

“Oh the villain,” exclaimed Roy, “a fish has bolted him!”

After this the lad walked on in silence, looking at the ground, and evidently pondering deeply.

“Nelly,” said he, entering the hut and throwing the grouse at her feet, “here is dinner, supper, and breakfast for you, and please get the first ready as fast as you can, for I’m famishing.”

“Oh, how nice! how did you get them?”

“I’ll tell you presently, but my head’s full of a notion about catching ducks just now.”

“Catching ducks, Roy, what is the notion?”

“Never mind, Nelly, I han’t scratched it out o’ my brain yet, but I’ll tell ’ee after dinner, and we’ll try the plan to-morrow mornin’.”

Chapter Nine.

Fishing Extraordinary.

Early on the following morning, Roy and Nelly rose to try the new style of duck-hunting which the former had devised.

“I wonder if it will do,” said the little girl, as she tripped along by her brother’s side in the direction of a marshy bay, which had been selected as the scene of their experiments. “How clever of you to invent such a funny plan!”

“Well, I didn’t exactly invent it, lass. The fact is, that I remembered father havin’ told me he had read it in a book before he left the settlements. I wish we had some books. Pity that we’ve got no books.”

“So it is,” assented Nell, with a touch of sadness in her tone.

Both Roy and his sister were good readers, having been taught by their mother out of the Bible—the only book that Robin Gore had brought with him from the settlements. Robin could read, but he did not care much for reading—neither did Walter nor Larry O’Dowd. Indeed the latter could not read at all. Mrs Gore had wanted to take a few books with her into the wilderness, but her husband said he thought the Bible was enough for her; so the library at Fort Enterprise was select and small! One good resulted from this—the Bible was read, by all who could read, a great deal more than would have been the case had there been other books at hand. But the young people longed earnestly for books containing fairy tales, such as was told to them by their mother; and wild adventures, such as Walter could relate or invent by the hour.

It might have been observed that Roy carried on his shoulder a remarkable object—something like a clumsy basket made of reeds, and about twice the size of a man’s head. This had been made by Nelly the night before. The use to which it was to be put was soon shown by Roy. Having reached the spot where the experiment was to be tried, and having observed that there were many ducks, large and small, floating about among the reeds, he got Nelly to hold the basket, if we may so call it, as high as she could raise it. There was a hole in the bottom of it. Through this Roy thrust his head, so that the machine rested on his shoulders, his head being inside and completely concealed.

“Now, Nelly, what think you of my helmet?”

“Oh! it is splendid!” cried the girl, laughing in a subdued voice. “It’s so awfully absurd looking, but can you see? for I don’t see a bit of your face.”

“See? ay, as well as need be. There’s lots of small holes which I can peep through in all directions. But come, I’ll try it. Keep close, Nell, and don’t laugh too loud, for ducks ain’t used to laughing, d’ye see, and may be frightened by it.”

So saying Roy crept on his hands and knees to the edge of the lake, being concealed by bushes, until he got into the water. Here a few steps took him into the reeds which clustered so thickly at that spot, and grew so tall that he was soon hidden from sight altogether.

He had not taken off much of his dress, which, we may remark in passing, was of the simplest at all times—consisting of a pair of trousers, a striped cotton shirt, and a grey cloth capote with a hood to it. His capote and cap were left in charge of his sister. As for the shirt and trousers, they could be easily dried again.

Nelly watched the place where her brother had disappeared with breathless interest. As he did not reappear as quickly as she had expected, she became greatly alarmed. In a few minutes more she would certainly have rushed into the lake to the rescue, regardless of consequences and of ducks, had not Roy’s strange head-dress come suddenly into view at the outward verge of the reeds. The lad had waded in up to his neck, and was now slowly—almost imperceptibly—approaching a group of ducks that were disporting themselves gaily in the water.

“They’ll never let him near them,” thought Nelly.

She was wrong, for at that moment an extremely fat and pert young duck observed the bundle of reeds, and swam straight up to it, animated, no doubt, by that reckless curiosity which is peculiar to young creatures. Had its mother known what was inside of the bundle, she would no doubt have remonstrated with her head-strong child, but, old and sagacious though that mother was, she was completely deceived. She was not even astonished when her duckling suddenly disappeared beneath the water, thinking, no doubt, that it had dived. Soon the bundle of reeds drew near to the mother, and she, too, disappeared suddenly below the water. Whatever her astonishment was at feeling her legs seized from below, she had not time to express it before her voice was choked. Nelly observed these disappearances with intense amazement, and delight stamped every lineament of her little visage.

When the bundle moved towards the father of the duck-family, that gentleman became agitated and suspicious. Probably males are less trusting than females, in all conditions of animal life. At all events he sheered off. The bundle waxed impatient and made a rush at him. The drake, missing his wife and child, quacked the alarm. The bundle made another rush, and suddenly disappeared with a tremendous splash, in the midst of which a leg and an arm appeared! Away went the whole brood of ducks with immense splutter, and Nelly gave a wild scream of terror, supposing—and she was right—that her brother had fallen into a hole, and that he would be drowned. In the latter supposition, however, she was mistaken, for Roy swam ashore in a few moments with a duck in each hand!

“O Roy! ain’t you cold?” inquired Nelly, as she helped him to squeeze the water out of his garments.

“Y–y–ye-es,” said Roy, trembling in every limb, while his teeth rattled like small castanets, “I’m very c–c–c–cold, but I’m in luck, for I’ve g–g–g–got to-night’s s–s–s–supper, anyhow.”

This was true, but as he could not hope to procure many more suppers in the same fashion at that season of the year, he and his sister went off without delay to try the fishing.

They had brought a fishing-line and a few hooks, among other small things, from the Indian camp. This line was now got out, overhauled, and baited with a bit of the young duck’s breast. From the end of the point of rocks, which had been named the Wharf, the line was cast, for there the lake was deep.

“Take the end of the line, Nell; I want you to catch the first fish.”

“How d’ye know we shall catch—oh! oh—ooh!” The fish in Silver Lake had never seen a bait or felt a hook in their lives before that day. They actually fought for the prize. A big bully—as is usually the case in other spheres of life—gained it, and found he had “caught a Tartar.” He nearly pulled Nelly into the lake, but Roy sprang to the rescue, and before the child’s shout of surprise had ceased to echo among the cliffs, a beautiful silvery fish, about a foot and a half long, lay tumbling on the strand.

“Hurray!” cried Roy. “Try again.”

They did try again, and again, and over again, until they had caught two dozen and a half of those peculiar “white-fish” which swarm in most of the lakes of North America. Then they stopped, being somewhat exhausted, and having more than enough for present use.

Before sitting down to supper that night, they preserved their fish in the simple but effective manner which is practised among the fur-traders in cold weather, and which they had learned while with the Indians. Each fish was split open and cleaned out, and then hung up by the tail to dry.

“What a jolly time we shall have of it!” said Roy, with his mouth full, as he sat beside Nelly and toasted his toes that night at supper.

“Yes,” said Nelly—“if—if we were only a little nearer home.”

This reply made them both silent and sad for a time.

“Never mind,” resumed Roy, cheerily, as he began another white-fish—having already finished one fish and the duckling—“cheer up, Nell, we’ll stay here long enough to get up a stock o’ dried meat, and then set off again. I only wish it would come frost, to make our fish keep.”

Roy’s wish was gratified sooner than he expected, and much more fully than he desired.

Chapter Ten.

Changes, Sliding, Fishing, Etcetera.

That night King Frost spread his wings over the land with unwonted suddenness and rigour, insomuch that a sheet of ice, full an inch thick, sealed up the waters of Silver Lake.

Roy and Nelly had feasted heartily, and had piled wood on the fire so high that the hut was comparatively warm, and they slept soundly till morning: but, about sunrise, the fire having died out, they both awoke shivering with cold. Being very sleepy, they tried for some time to drop off again in spite of the cold. Failing in this, Roy at last jumped up with vigour and said he would light the fire, but he had scarcely issued from the hut, when a shout brought Nelly in alarm and haste to his side.

If Silver Lake was worthy of its name before, it was infinitely more worthy of it now. The sun had just over-topped the opposite ridge, and was streaming over a very world of silver. The frozen lake was like a sheet of the purest glass, which reflected the silvery clouds and white rolling mists of morning as perfectly in their form as the realities that floated in the blue sky. Every tree, every twig, seemed made of silver, being encased in hoar-frost, and as these moved very gently in the calm air—for there was no breeze—millions of crystalline points caught the sun’s rays and scattered them around with dazzling lustre. Nature seemed robed in cloth of diamonds; but the comparison is feeble, for what diamonds, cut by man, can equal those countless crystal gems that are fashioned by the hand of God to decorate, for an hour or two, the spotless robe of a winter morning?

Had Roy been a man and Nelly a woman, the two would probably have cast around a lingering glance of admiration, and then gone quietly about their avocations; but, being children, they made up their minds, on the spot, to enjoy the state of things to the utmost. They ran down to the lake and tried the ice. Finding that it was strong enough to bear them, they advanced cautiously out upon its glassy surface; then they tried to slide, but did not succeed well, owing to their soft mocassins being ill adapted for sliding. Then they picked up stones, and tried how far they could make them skim out on the lake.

“How I wish we could slide!” exclaimed Nelly, pausing in the midst of her amusement.

Roy also paused, and appeared to meditate for a minute.

“So you shall,” said he quickly. “Come and let us breakfast, and I’ll make you a pair of sliders.”

“Sliders! what are they?”

“You shall see; get breakfast ready, a man’s fit for nothing without grub.”

While breakfast was preparing, Roy began to fashion wooden soles for his sister’s feet and his own. These he fixed on by means of strips of deerskin, which were sunk into grooves in the under part of the soles to prevent them from chafing. Rough and ready they were, nevertheless they fitted well and tightly to their feet; but it was found that the want of a joint at the instep rendered it difficult to walk with these soles on, and impossible to run. Roy’s ingenuity, however, soon overcame this difficulty. He cut the soles through just under the instep, and then, boring two holes in each part, lashed them firmly together with deerskin, thus producing a joint or hinge. Eager to try this new invention, he fastened on his own “sliders” first, and, running down to the lake, made a rush at the ice and sent himself off with all his force. Never was boy more taken by surprise; he went skimming over the surface like a stone from a sling. The other side of the lake seemed to be the only termination of his journey. “What if it should not be bearing in the middle!” His delight was evinced by a cheer. It was echoed, with the addition of a laugh by Nell, who stood in rapt admiration on the shore. Roy began well, with his legs far apart and his arms in the air; then he turned round and advanced the wrong way, then he staggered—tried to recover himself; failed, shouted, cheered again, and fell flat on his back, and performed the remainder of the journey in that position!

It was a magnificent slide, and was repeated and continued, with every possible and conceivable modification, for full two hours, at the end of which time Nelly said she couldn’t take another slide to save her life, and Roy felt as if every bone in his body were going out of joint.

“This is all very well,” said Roy, as they went up to the hut together, “but it won’t do much in the way of getting us a supply of meat or fish.”

“That’s true,” assented Nelly.

“Well, then,” continued Roy, “we’ll rest a bit, and then set to work. It’s quite plain that we can have no more wading after ducks, but the fish won’t object to feed in cold weather, so we’ll try them again after having had a bit to eat.”

In pursuance of this plan the two went to the wharf, after having refreshed themselves, and set to work with the fishing-line. Nelly baited the hook, and Roy cut a hole in the ice with his axe. Having put in the hook, and let it down to the bottom, they stood at the edge of the hole—expectant!

“Frost seems to spoil their appetite,” said Roy, in a tone of disappointment, after about five minutes had elapsed.

A fish seemed to have been listening, for before Nelly could reply, there came a violent tug at the line. Roy returned a still more violent tug, and, instead of hauling it up hand over hand, ran swiftly along the ice, drawing the line after him, until the fish came out of the hole with a flop and a severe splutter. It was above four pounds weight, and they afterwards found that the deeper the water into which the line was cast the larger were the fish procured. White-fish were the kind they caught most of, but there were a species of trout, much resembling a salmon in colour and flavour, of which they caught a good many above ten and even fifteen pounds weight. All these fish, except those reserved for immediate use, they cleaned and hung up in the manner already described.

Thus they occupied themselves for several days, and as the work was hard, they did not wander much from their hut, but ate their meals with appetite, and slept at nights soundly.

One night, just as they were about to lay down to rest, Roy went out to fetch an armful of firewood. He returned with a look of satisfaction on his face.

“Look here, Nell, what call ye that?” pointing to a few specks of white on his breast and arms.

“Snow!” exclaimed Nelly.

“Ay—snow! it’s come at last, and I am glad of it, for we have far more than enough o’ grub now, and it’s time we were off from this. You see, lass, we can’t expect to find much game on a journey in winter, so we must carry all we can with us. Our backs won’t take so much as the sled, but the sled can’t go loaded till there’s snow on the ground, so the moment there is enough of it we’ll set off. Before starting, hows’ever, I must go off and try for a deer, for men can’t walk well on fish alone; and when I’m away you can be getting the snow-shoes repaired, and the sled-lashings overhauled. We will set about all that to-morrow.”

“But isn’t to-morrow Sabbath?” said Nelly.

“So ’tis! I forgot; well, we can put it off till Monday.”

It may be well here to remark that Mrs Gore, being a sincere Christian, had a great reverence for the Sabbath-day, and had imbued her children with some of her own spirit in regard to it.

During the troubles and anxieties of the period when the children were lost in the snow and captured by the Indians, they had lost count of the days of the week. Roy was not much troubled about this, but his sister’s tender conscience caused her much uneasiness; and when they afterwards ran away from the Indians, and could do as they pleased, they agreed together to fix a Sabbath-day for themselves, beginning with the particular day on which it first occurred to them that they had not kept a Sabbath “for a long, long time.”

“We can’t find out the right day now, you know,” observed Nelly, in an apologetic tone.

“Of course not,” said Roy; “besides, it don’t matter, because you remember how it is in the Ten Commandments: ‘Six days shalt thou labour and do all thy work, but the seventh day is the Sabbath.’ We will keep to-day, then; work six days, and then keep the seventh day.”

We have elsewhere observed that Roy was a bit of a philosopher. Having reasoned the matter out thus philosophically, the children held to their resolve; they travelled six days, and observed every seventh day as the Sabbath.

The particular Sabbath-day about which we are writing turned out to be a memorable one, as we shall see.

Roy and Nelly lay down that night, side by side, as was their wont, with their separate blankets wrapped around them, and their feet pointing towards the fire. Of course they never undressed at night on this journey, but washed their underclothing as they found time and opportunity.

Soon they were sound asleep, and their gentle breathing was the only sound that broke the stillness of the night. But snow was falling silently in thick heavy flakes, and it soon lay deep on the bosom of Silver Lake. Towards morning the wind arose, and snow-drift began to whirl round the hut, and block up its low doorway.

Still the brother and sister slumbered peacefully, undisturbed by the gathering storm.

Chapter Eleven.

A Change in the Weather—Rabbits and Bears Appear.

“Hi! Hallo! I say, Nelly, what’s all this?” There was good cause for the tone of surprise in which Roy uttered these words when he awoke, for the fireplace and the lower half of his own, as well as his sister’s, blanket were covered with at least half a foot of snow. It had found its way in at the hole in the roof of the hut, and the wind had blown a great deal through the crevices of the doorway, so that a snow-wreath more than a foot high lay close to Nelly’s elbow.

This was bad enough, but what made it worse was that a perfect hurricane was blowing outside. Fortunately the hut was sheltered by the woods, and by a high cliff on the windward side; but this cliff, although it broke the force of the gale, occasioned an eddy which sent fearful gusts and thick clouds of snow ever and anon full against the doorway.

“O Roy! what shall we do?” said Nelly, in an anxious tone.

“Don’t know,” said Roy, jumping up and tightening his belt; “you never can know what’s got to be done till you’ve took an observation o’ what’s goin’ on, as daddy used to say. Hallo! hold on. I say, if it goes on like this it’ll blow the hut down. Come, Nelly, don’t whimper; it’s only a puff, after all, an’ if it did capsize us, it wouldn’t be the first time we had a tumble in the snow. Seems to me that we’re goin’ to have a stormy Sabbath, though. Rouse up, lass, and while you’re clearin’ off the snow, I’ll go get a bundle o’ sticks, and light the fire.”

Roy stooped to pass under the low doorway, or, rather, hole of the hut, and bending his head to the blast passed out; while Nelly, whose heart was cheered by her brother’s confident tone more than by his words, set about shovelling away the snow-drift with great activity.

Presently Roy returned, staggering under a heavy load of firewood.

“Ho! Nell,” he cried, flinging down the wood with a clatter, “just you come an’ see Silver Lake. Such a sight it is you never saw; but come slick off—never mind your belt; just roll your blanket round you, over head and ears—there,” said he, assisting to fasten the rough garment, and seizing his sister’s hand, “hold on tight by me.”

“Oh, what a storm!” gasped the little girl, as she staggered out and came within the full force of the gale.

It was indeed a storm, such as would have appalled the hearts of youngsters less accustomed to the woods than were our hero and heroine. But Roy and Nelly had been born and bred in the midst of stormy backwoods’ elements, and were not easily alarmed, chiefly because they had become accustomed to estimate correctly the extent of most of the dangers that menaced them from time to time. A gale of the fiercest kind was blowing. In its passage it bent the trees until they groaned and creaked again; it tore off the smaller twigs and whisked them up into the air; it lifted the snow in masses out of the open spots in the woods, and hurled them in cloud-like volumes everywhere; and it roared and shrieked through the valleys and round the mountain tops as if a thousand evil spirits were let loose upon the scene.

Silver Lake was still silvery in its aspect, for the white drift was flying across it like the waves of a raging sea; but here, being exposed, the turmoil was so tremendous that there was no distinguishing between earth, lake, and sky. “Confusion, worse confounded” reigned every where, or rather, appeared to reign; for, in point of fact, there is no confusion whatever in the works and ways of God. Common sense, if unfallen, would tell us that. The Word reveals it, and science of late years has added its testimony thereto.

Roy and Nelly very naturally came to the conclusion that things were in a very disordered state indeed on that Sabbath morning, so they returned to their hut, to spend the day as best they might.

Their first care was to kindle the fire and prepare breakfast. While Nelly was engaged in this, Roy went out and cut several small trees, with which he propped the hut all round to prevent it from being blown down. But it was discovered, first, that the fire would hardly kindle, and, second, that when it was kindled it filled the whole place with smoke. By dint of perseverance, however, breakfast was cooked and devoured, after which the fire was allowed to go out, as the smoke had almost blinded them.

“Never mind, Nell, cheer up,” said Roy, on concluding breakfast; “we’ll rig up a tent to keep the snow off us.”

The snow, be it understood, had been falling into the fire, and, more or less, upon themselves, through the hole in the roof; so they made a tent inside the hut, by erecting two posts with a ridge-pole at a height of three feet from the ground, over which they spread one of their blankets. Under this tent they reclined with the other blankets spread over them, and chatted comfortably during the greater part of that day.

Of course their talk was chiefly of home, and of the mother who had been the sun and the joy of their existence up to that sad day when they were lost in the snow, and naturally they conversed of the Bible, and the hymns which their mother had made the chief objects of their contemplation on the Sabbaths they had spent at Fort Enterprise.

Monday was as bad as Sunday in regard to weather, but Tuesday dawned bright and calm, so that our wanderers were enabled to resume their avocations. The snow-shoes were put in order, the sled was overhauled and mended, and more fish were caught and hung up to dry. In the evening Roy loaded his gun with ball, put on his snow-shoes, and sallied forth alone to search for deer. He carried with him several small pieces of line wherewith to make rabbit snares; for, the moment the snow fell, innumerable tracks revealed the fact that there were thousands of rabbits in that region. Nelly, meanwhile, busied herself in putting the hut in order, and in repairing the mocassins which would be required for the journey home.

Lest any reader should wonder where our heroine found materials for all the mending and repairing referred to, we may remark that the Indians in the wilderness were, and still are, supplied with needles, beads, cloth, powder and shot, guns, axes, etcetera, etcetera, by the adventurous fur-traders, who penetrate deep and far into the wilderness of North America; and when Nelly and Roy ran away from their captors they took care to carry with them an ample supply of such things as they might require in their flight.

About half a mile from the hut Roy set several snares. He had often helped his father in such work, and knew exactly how to do it. Selecting a rabbit-track at a spot where it passed between two bushes, he set his snare so that it presented a loop in the centre of the path. This loop was fastened to the bough of a tree bent downwards, and so arranged that it held fast to a root in the ground; when a rabbit should endeavour to leap or force through it, he would necessarily pull away the fastening that held it down, and the bough would spring up and lift the hapless creature by the neck off the ground.

Having set half-a-dozen such snares, Roy continued his march in search of deer-tracks. He was unsuccessful, but to his surprise he came suddenly on the huge track of a bear! Being early in the season this particular bruin had not yet settled himself into his winter quarters, so Roy determined to make a trap for him. He had not much hope of catching him, but resolved to try, and not to tell Nelly of his discovery until he should see the result.

Against the face of a cliff he raised several huge stones so as to form a sort of box, or cave, or hole, the front of which was open, the sides being the stones referred to, and the back the cliff. Then he felled a tree as thick as his waist, which stood close by, and so managed that it fell near to his trap. By great exertions, and with the aid of a wooden lever prepared on the spot, he rolled this tree—when denuded of its branches—close to the mouth of the trap. Next he cut three small pieces of stick in such a form that they made a trigger—something like the figure 4—on which the tree might rest. On the top of this trigger he raised the tree-stem, and on the end of the trigger, which projected into the trap, he stuck a piece of dried fish, so that when the bear should creep under the stem and touch the bait, it would disarrange the trigger, set it off, and the heavy stem would fall on bruin’s back. As he knew, however, that bears were very strong, he cut several other thick stems, and piled them on the first to give it additional weight.

All being ready, and the evening far advanced, he returned to the hut to supper.

Chapter Twelve.

Roy’s Dream.

“Nelly, ye–a–a–ow!” exclaimed Roy, yawning as he awoke on the following morning from a dream in which bears figured largely; “what a night I’ve had of it, to be sure—fightin’ like a mad buffalo with—” Here Roy paused abruptly.

“Well, what were you fighting with?” asked Nell, with a smile that ended in a yawn.

“I won’t tell you just now, lass, as it might spoil your appetite for breakfast. Set about getting that ready as fast as you can, for I want to be off as soon as possible to visit my snares.”

“I guess we shall have rabbits for dinner to-day.”

“What are you going to do with the sled?” inquired Nelly, observing that her brother was overhauling the lashings and drag-rope.

“Well, I set a lot o’ snares, an’ there’s no sayin’ how many rabbits may have got into ’em. Besides, if the rabbits in them parts are tender-hearted, a lot o’ their relations may have died o’ grief, so I shall take the sled to fetch ’em all home!”

After breakfast Roy loaded his gun with ball, and putting on his snow-shoes, sallied forth with an admonition to his sister to “have a roarin’ fire ready to cook a rare feast!”

Nelly laughingly replied, that she would, and so they parted.

The first part of Roy’s journey that day led him through a thickly-wooded part of the country. He went along with the quick, yet cautious and noiseless, step of a hunter accustomed to the woods from infancy. His thoughts were busy within him, and far away from the scene in which he moved; yet, such is the force of habit, he never for a moment ceased to cast quick, inquiring glances on each side as he went along. Nothing escaped his observation.

“Oh, if I could only get a deer this day,” thought he, “how scrumptious it would be!”

What he meant by “scrumptious” is best known to himself, but at that moment a large deer suddenly—perhaps scrumptiously!—appeared on the brow of a ridge not fifty yards in advance of him. They had been both walking towards each other all that forenoon. Roy, having no powers of scent beyond human powers, did not know the fact, and as the wind was blowing from the deer to the hunter, the former—gifted though he was with scenting powers—was also ignorant of the approaching meeting.

One instant the startled deer stood in bewildered surprise. One instant Roy paused in mute amazement. The next instant the deer wheeled round, while Roy’s gun leaped to his shoulder. There was a loud report, followed by reverberating echoes among the hills, and the deer lay dead on the snow.

The young hunter could not repress a shout of joy, for he not only had secured a noble stag, but he had now a sufficiency of food to enable him to resume his homeward journey.

His first impulse was to run back to the hut with the deer’s tongue and a few choice bits, to tell Nelly of his good fortune; but, on second thoughts, he resolved to complete the business on which he had started. Leaving the deer where it fell he went on, and found that the snares had been very successful. Some, indeed, had been broken by the strength of the boughs to which they had been fastened, and others remained as he had set them; but above two-thirds of them had each a rabbit hung up by the neck, so that the sled was pretty well loaded when all the snares had been visited.

He had by this time approached the spot where the bear-trap was set, and naturally began to grow a little anxious, for, although his chance of success was very slight, his good fortune that morning had made him more sanguine than usual.

There is a proverb which asserts that “it never rains but it pours.” It would seem to be a common experience of mankind that pieces of good fortune, as well as misfortunes, come not singly. Whether the proverb be true or no, this experience was realised by Roy on that day, for he actually did find a bear in his trap! Moreover it was alive, and, apparently, had only just been caught, for it struggled to free itself with a degree of ferocity that was terrible to witness.

It was an ordinary black bear of considerable size and immense strength. Heavy and thick though the trees were that lay on its back and crushed it to the earth, it caused them to shake, leap, and quiver as though they had been endowed with life. Roy was greatly alarmed, for he perceived that at each successive struggle the brute was ridding itself of the superincumbent load, while fierce growls and short gasps indicated at once the wrath and the agony by which it was convulsed.

Roy had neglected to reload his piece after shooting the deer—a most un-hunter-like error, which was the result of excitement. Thinking that he had not time to load, he acted now on the first suggestion of his bold spirit. Resting his gun against a tree, he drew the small axe that hung at his belt and attacked the bear.

The first blow was well delivered, and sank deep into bruin’s skull; but that skull was thick, and the brain was not reached. A roar and a furious struggle caused Roy to deliver his second blow with less effect, but this partial failure caused his pugnacity to rise, and he immediately rained down blows on the head and neck of the bear so fast and furious that the snow was speedily covered with blood. In proportion as Roy strove to end the conflict by vigorous and quick blows, the bear tried to get free by furious efforts. He shook the tree-stem that held him down so violently that one of the other trees that rested on it fell off, and thus the load was lightened. Roy observed this, and made a desperate effort to split the bear’s skull. In his haste he misdirected the blow, which fell not on the head but on the neck, in which the iron head of the axe was instantly buried—a main artery was severed, and a fountain of blood sprang forth. This was fortunate, for the bear’s strength was quickly exhausted, and, in less than two minutes after, it sank dead upon the snow.

Roy sat down to rest and wipe the blood from his hands and garments, and then, cutting off the claws of the animal as a trophy, he left it there for a time. Having now far more than it was possible for him to drag to the hut, he resolved to proceed thither with the rabbits, and bring Nelly back to help him to drag home the deer.

“Well done, Roy,” cried Nelly, clapping her hands, when her brother approached with the sled-load of rabbits, “but you are covered with blood. Have you cut yourself?”

She became nervously anxious, for she well knew that a bad cut on a journey costs many a man his life, as it not only disables from continuing the journey but from hunting for provisions.

“All right, Nell, but I’ve killed a deer—and—and—something else! Come, lass, get on your snow-shoes and follow me. We’ll drag home the deer, and then see what is to be done with the—”

“Oh, what is it? do tell!” cried Nell, eagerly.

“Well, then, it’s a bear!”

“Nonsense!—tell me true, now.”

“That’s the truth, Nell, as you shall see, and here are the claws. Look sharp, now, and let’s off.”

Away went these two through the snow until they came to where the deer had been left. It was hard work to get it lashed on the sled, and much harder work to drag it over the snow, but by dint of perseverance and resolution they got it home. They were so fatigued, however, that it was impossible to think of doing the same with the bear. This was a perplexing state of things, for Roy had observed a wolf-track when out, and feared that nothing but the bones would be left in the morning.

“What is to be done?” said Nelly, with that pretty air of utter helplessness which she was wont to assume when she felt that her brother was the proper person to decide.

Roy pondered a few moments, and then said abruptly, “Camp-out, Nelly.”

“Camp-out?”

“Ay, beside the bear—keep it company all night with a big fire to scare away the wolves. We’ll put everything into the hut, block up the door, and kindle a huge fire outside that will burn nearly all night. So now, let’s go about it at once.”

Although Nelly did not much relish the idea of leaving their comfortable hut, and going out to encamp in the snow beside the carcase of a dead bear, she was so accustomed to regard her brother’s plans as perfect, and to obey him promptly, that she at once began to assist in the necessary preparations. Having secured everything safely in the hut, and kindled a fire near it, which was large enough to have roasted an ox, they set off for the bear-trap, and reached it in time to scare away a large wolf which was just going to begin his supper on bruin.

An encampment was then made in the usual way, close to the bear-trap, a fire as large as could be conveniently made was kindled, and the brother and sister wrapped themselves in their blankets and lay comfortably down beside it to spend the night there.

Chapter Thirteen.

“Shooskin’.”

Next day Roy and Nelly rose with the sun, and spent the forenoon in skinning and cutting up the bear, for they intended to dry part of the meat, and use it on their journey. The afternoon was spent in dragging the various parts to the hut. In the evening Roy proposed that they should go and have a shoosk. Nelly agreed, so they sallied forth to a neighbouring slope with their sledge.

Shoosking, good reader, is a game which is played not only by children but by men and women; it is also played in various parts of the world, such as Canada and Russia, and goes by various names; but we shall adopt the name used by our hero and heroine, namely “shoosking.” It is very simple, but uncommonly violent, and consists in hauling a sledge to the top of a snow-hill or slope, getting upon it, and sliding down to the bottom. Of course, the extent of violence depends on the steepness of the slope, the interruptions that occur in it, and the nature of the ground at the bottom. We once shoosked with an Indian down a wood-cutter’s track, on the side of a steep hill, which had a sharp turn in it, with a pile of firewood at the turn, and a hole in the snow at the bottom, in which were a number of old empty casks. Our great difficulties in this place were to take the turn without grazing the firewood, and to stop our sledges before reaching the hole. We each had separate sledges. For some time we got on famously, but at last we ran into the pile of firewood, and tore all the buttons off our coat, and the Indian went down into the hole with a hideous crash among the empty casks; yet, strange to say, neither of us came by any serious damage!

“There’s a splendid slope,” said Roy, as they walked briskly along the shores of Silver Lake, dragging the sledge after them, “just beyond the big cliff, but I’m afraid it’s too much for you.”

“Oh, I can go if you can,” said Nell, promptly.

“You’ve a good opinion of yourself. I guess I could make you sing small if I were to try.”

“Then don’t try,” said Nelly, with a laugh.

“See,” continued Roy, “there’s the slope; you see it is very steep; we’d go down it like a streak of greased lightnin’; but I don’t like to try it.”

“Why not? It seems easy enough to me. I’m sure we have gone down as steep places before at home.”

“Ay, lass, but not with a round-backed drift like that at the bottom. It has got such a curve that I think it would make us fly right up into the air.”

Nelly admitted that it looked dangerous, but suggested that they might make a trial.

“Well, so we will, but I’ll go down by myself first,” said Roy, arranging the sledge at the summit of a slope, which was full fifty feet high.

“Now, then, pick up the bits tenderly, Nell, if I’m knocked to pieces; here goes, hurrah!”

Roy had seated himself on the sledge, with his feet resting on the head of it, and holding on to the side-lines with both hands firmly. He pushed off as he cheered, and the next moment was flying down the hill at railway speed, with a cloud of snow-drift rolling like steam behind him. He reached the foot, and the impetus sent him up and over the snow-drift or wave, and far out upon the surface of the lake. It is true he made one or two violent swerves in this wild descent, owing to inequalities in the hill, but by a touch of his hands in the snow on either side, he guided the sledge, as with a rudder, and reached the foot in safety.

“May I venture, Roy?” inquired Nell, eagerly, as the lad came panting up the hill.

“Venture! Of course. I rose off the top o’ the drift only a little bit, hardly felt the crack at all; come, get you on in front, and I’ll sit at yer back an’ steer.”

Nelly needed no second bidding. She sat down and seized the side-lines of the sledge with a look of what we may call wild expectation; Roy sat down behind her.

“Now, lass, steady, and away we go!”

At the last word they shot from the hill-top like an arrow from a bow. The cloud of snow behind them rolled thicker, for the sledge was more heavily laden than before. Owing to the same cause it plunged into the hollow at the foot of the hill with greater violence, and shot up the slope of the snow-drift and over its crest with such force that it sprung horizontally forward for a few feet in the air, and came to the ground with a crash that extracted a loud gasp from Roy, and a sharp squeak from Nelly. It was found to be so delightful, however, that they tried it again and again, each time becoming more expert, and therefore more confident.

Excessive confidence, however, frequently engenders carelessness. Roy soon became reckless; Nelly waxed fearless. The result was that the former steered somewhat wildly, and finally upset.

Their last “shoosk” that evening was undertaken just as the sun’s latest rays were shooting between the hills on the opposite side of Silver Lake, and casting a crimson glow on the hut and the surrounding scenery. Roy had fixed a snow-shoe on the outer ridge of the snow-drift, to mark the distance of their last leap from its crest, and had given the sledge an extra push on the way down to increase its impetus. This extra push disconcerted him in steering; he reached the hollow in a side-long fashion, shot up the slope of the drift waveringly, and left its crest with a swing that not only turned the sledge right round, but also upside down. Of course they were both thrown off, and all three fell into the snow in a condition of dire confusion. Fortunately, no damage was done beyond the shock and the fright, but this accident was sufficient to calm their spirits, and incline them to go home to supper.

“Well, it’s great fun, no doubt, but we must turn our minds to more earnest work, for our journey lies before us,” said Roy, with the gravity of an Iroquois warrior, as he sat beside the fire that night discussing a bear-steak with his sister. “We have more than enough of fish and meat, you see; a day or two will do to turn our deer and bear into dried meat; the snow-shoes are mended, the sledge is in good order, as to-night’s work has proved, and all that we’ve got to do is to start fresh with true bearin’s and—hey! for home!”

“I wish I was there,” said Nelly, laying down a marrow-bone with a sigh.

“Wishin’ ain’t enough, Nell.”

“I know that, an’ I’m ready to work,” said Nelly, resuming the bone with a resolute air. “When shall we set out?”

“When we are ready, lass. We shall begin to dry the meat to-morrow, an’ as soon as it’s fixed—off we’ll start. I only hope the cold weather will last, for if it came warm it would go hard with your little feet, Nell. But let’s turn in now. Hard work requires a good sleep, an’ it may be that we’ve harder work than we think before us.”

Chapter Fourteen.

The Journey Home Resumed and Interrupted.

Three days more and our young friends bade farewell to Silver Lake.

Short though their stay had been, it had proved very pleasant, for it was full of energetic labour and active preparation, besides a great deal of amusement, so that quite a home feeling had been aroused in their minds, and their regret at leaving was considerable.

But after the first few miles of their journey had been accomplished, the feeling of sadness with which they set out wore away, and hopeful anticipations of being home again in a few weeks rendered them cheerful, and enabled them to proceed with vigour. The weather at starting was fine, too, so that the night encampments in the snow were comparatively agreeable, and the progress made during the first few days was satisfactory.

After this, however, the good fortune of our adventurers seemed to desert them. First of all one of Nelly’s snow-shoes broke down. This necessitated a halt of half a day, in order to have it repaired. Then one of Roy’s snow-shoes gave way, which caused another halt. After this a heavy snow-storm set in, rendering the walking very difficult, as they sank, snow-shoes and all, nearly to the knees at each step. A storm of wind which arose about the same time, effectually stopped their farther advance, and obliged them to take to the shelter of a dense part of the woods and encamp.

During three days and three nights the hurricane raged, and the snow was blown up in the air and whirled about like the foam of the roaring sea; but our wanderers did not feel its effects much, for they had chosen a very sheltered spot at the foot of a large pine, which grew in a hollow, where a cliff on one side and a bluff of wood on the other rendered the blast powerless. Its fierce howling could be heard, however, if not felt; and as the brother and sister lay at the bottom of their hole in the snow, with their toes to the comfortable fire, they chatted much more cheerily than might have been expected in the midst of such a scene, and gazed upward from time to time with comparative indifference at the dark clouds and snow-drifts that were rushing madly overhead.

On the fourth day the gale subsided almost as quickly as it had arisen, and Roy announced that it was his intention to start. In a few minutes everything was packed up and ready.

“I say, Nell,” said Roy, just as they were about to leave the camp, “don’t the sled look smaller than it used to?”

“So it does, Roy; but I suppose it’s because we have eaten so much during the last three days.”

Roy shook his head, and looked carefully round the hole they were about to quit.

“Don’t know, lass; it seems to me as if somethin’ was a-wantin’. Did ye pack your own bundle very tight?”

“Yes; I think I did it tighter than usual, but I’m not very sure.”

“Hum—that’s it, no doubt—we’ve packed the sled tighter, and eaten it down. Well, let’s off now.”

So saying, Roy threw the lines of the sledge over his shoulder and led the way, followed by his sister, whose only burden was a light blanket, fastened as a bundle to her shoulders, and a small tin can, which hung at her belt.

The country through which they passed that day was almost destitute of wood, being a series of undulating plains, with clumps of willows and stunted trees scattered over it like islets in the sea. The land lay in a succession of ridges, or steppes, which descended from the elevated region they were leaving, and many parts of these ridges terminated abruptly in sheer precipices from forty to sixty feet high.

The sun shone with dazzling brilliancy, insomuch that the travellers’ eyes became slightly affected by snow-blindness. This temporary blindness is very common in these regions, and ranges from the point of slight dazzlement to that of total blindness; fortunately it is curable by the removal of the cause—the bright light of the sun on pure snow. Esquimaux use “goggles” or spectacles made of wood, with a narrow slit in them as a preventive of snow-blindness.

At first neither Roy nor Nelly felt much inconvenience, but towards evening they could not see as distinctly as usual. One consequence of this was, that they approached a precipice without seeing it. The snow on its crest was so like to the plain of snow extending far below, that it might have deceived one whose eyesight was not in any degree impaired.

The first intimation they had of their danger was the giving way of the snow that projected over the edge of the precipice. Roy fell over headlong, dragging the sledge with him. Nelly, who was a few feet behind him, stood on the extreme edge of the precipice, with the points of her snow-shoes projecting over it. Roy uttered a cry as he fell, and his sister stopped short. A shock of terror blanched her cheek and caused her heart to stand still. She could not move or cry for a few seconds, then she uttered a loud shriek and shrank backwards.

There chanced to be a stout bush or tree growing on the face of the cliff, not ten feet below the spot where the snow-wreath had broken off. Roy caught at this convulsively, and held on. Fortunately the line on his shoulder broke, and the sledge fell into the abyss below. Had this not happened, it is probable that he would have been dragged from his hold of the bush. As it was, he maintained his hold, and hung for a few seconds suspended in the air. Nelly’s shriek revived him from the gush of deadly terror that seized him when he fell. He grasped the boughs above him, and was quickly in a position of comparative security among the branches of the bush.

“All right, Nell,” he gasped, on hearing her repeat her cry of despair. “I’m holdin’ on quite safe. Keep back from the edge, lass—there’s no fear o’ me.”

“Are you sure, Roy?” cried Nelly, trembling very much, as she stretched forward to try to catch sight of her brother.

“Ay, quite sure; but I can’t get up, for there’s six feet o’ smooth rock above me, an’ nothin’ to climb up by.”

“Oh! what shall I do!” cried Nelly.

“Don’t get flurried—that’s the main thing, lass. Let me think—ay, that’s it—you’ve got your belt?”

“Yes.”

“Well, take it off and drop the end over to me; but lie down on your breast, and be careful.”

Nelly obeyed, and in a few seconds the end of the worsted belt that usually encircled her waist was dangling almost within reach of her brother. This belt was above five feet long. Roy wore one of similar material and length. He untied it, and then sought to lay hold of the other. With some difficulty and much risk of falling he succeeded, and fastened his own belt to it firmly.

“Now, Nell, haul up a little bit—hold! enough.”

“What am I to do now?” asked Nell, piteously; “I cannot pull you up, you know.”

“Of course not; but take your snow-shoe and dig down to the rocks—you’ll find somethin’, I dare say, to tie the belts to. Cheer up, lass, and go at it.”

Thus encouraged, the active little girl soon cleared away the snow until she reached the ground, where she found several roots of shrubs that seemed quite strong enough for her purpose. To one of these she tied the end of her belt, and Roy, being an athletic lad, hauled himself up, hand over hand, until he gained a place of safety.

“But the sledge is gone,” cried Nelly, pausing suddenly in the midst of her congratulations.

“Ay, and the grub,” said Roy, with a blank look.

This was indeed too true, and on examination it was found that things were even worse than had been anticipated, for the sledge had fallen on a ledge, half way down the precipice, that was absolutely inaccessible either from above or below. An hour was spent in ascertaining this, beyond all doubt, and then Roy determined to return at once to their last encampment to gather the scraps they had thrown away or left behind as useless.

That night they went supperless to rest. Next morning, they set out with heavy hearts for the encampment of the previous day. On reaching it, and searching carefully, they found that one of the bundles of dry meat had been forgotten. This accounted for the lightness of the sledge, and, at the same time, revived their drooping spirits.

“What is to be done now?” inquired Nelly.

“Return to Silver Lake,” said Roy, promptly. “We must go back, fish and hunt again until we have another supply o’ grub, and then begin our journey once more.”

Sadly and slowly they retraced their steps. Do what he would Roy could not cheer up his sister’s spirits. She felt that her back was turned towards her father’s house—her mother’s home—and every step took her farther from it.

It was a lovely evening, about sunset, when they reached Silver Lake, and found the hut as they had left it, and enough of old scraps of provisions to afford a sufficient meal.

That night they ate their supper in a more cheerful frame of mind. Next day they breakfasted almost with a feeling of heartiness, and when they went out to resume their fishing, and to set snares and make traps, the old feeling of hopefulness returned. Ere long, hope became again so strong in their ardent young hearts, that they laughed and talked and sported as they had done during the period of their first residence there.

At first they were so anxious to make up the lost quantity of food that they did little else but fish, hunt, and dry their provisions when obtained; but after a few days they had procured such an ample supply that they took to shoosking again—having succeeded in making a new sledge. But a thaw came suddenly and spoiled all their fish. A wolf carried off the greater part of their dried meat one day while they were absent from the hut. After this the frost set in with extreme violence, game became more scarce, and fish did not take the bait so readily, so that, although they procured more than enough for present consumption, they were slow in accumulating a travelling store; and thus it came to pass that November found Roy and Nelly still toiling wearily, yet hopefully, on the shores of Silver Lake.

Chapter Fifteen.

The Massacre.

We must return now to Robin Gore and his wife, who, on the morning on which we re-introduce them to the reader, were standing in the trading store of Fort Enterprise, conversing earnestly with Black, the Indian, who has been already mentioned at the beginning of our tale. The wife of the latter—the White Swan—was busily engaged in counting over the pack of furs that lay open on the counter, absorbed, apparently, in an abstruse calculation as to how many yards of cloth and strings of beads they would purchase.

“Well, I’m glad that’s fixed, anyhow,” said Robin to his wife, as he turned to the Indian with a satisfied air, and addressed him in his native tongue, “it’s a bargain, then, that you an’ Slugs go with me on this expedition, is’t so?”

“The Black Swan is ready,” replied the Indian, quietly, “and he thinks that Slugs will go too—but the white hunter is self-willed; he has a mouth—ask himself.”

“Ay, ye don’t like to answer for him,” said Robin, with a smile; “assuredly Slugs has his own notions, and holds to ’em; but I’ll ask him. He is to be here this night, with a deer, I hope, for there are many mouths to fill.”

Black Swan, who was a tall, taciturn, and powerful Indian, here glanced at his wife, who was, like most Indian women, a humble-looking and not very pretty or clean creature. Turning again to Robin, he said, in a low, soft voice—

“The White Swan is not strong, and she is not used to be alone.”

“I understand you,” said Robin; “she shall come to the Fort, and be looked after. You won’t object to take her in, Molly, when we’re away?”

“Object, Robin,” said Molly, with a smile, which was accompanied by a sigh, “I’ll only be too glad to have her company.”

“Well, then, that’s settled; and now, Black Swan, I may as well tell you what coorse I mean to follow out in this sarch for my child’n. You know already that four white men—strangers—have come to the Fort, an’ are now smokin’ their pipes in the hall, but you don’t know that one on ’em is my own brother Jefferson; Jeff, I’ve bin used to call him. Jeff’s bin a harem-scarem feller all his life—active and able enough, an’ good natur’d too, but he never could stick to nothin’, an’ so he’s bin wanderin’ about the world till grey hairs have begun to show on him, without gettin’ a home or a wife. The last thing he tried was stokin’ a steamboat on the Mississippi; but the boat blew up, pitched a lot o’ the passengers into the water, an’ the rest o’ them into the next world. Jeff was always in luck with his life; he’s lost everythin’ over an’ over again but that. He was one o’ the lot as was blowed into the water, so, when he come up he swamed ashore, an’ come straight away here to visit me, bringin’ three o’ the blowed-up passengers with him. The three are somethin’ like himself; good for nothin’; an’ I’d rather have their room than their company at most times. Hows’ever, just at this time I’m very glad they’ve come, for I’ll leave them in charge o’ the Fort, and set off to look for the child’n in two days from this. I’ll take Walter and Larry wi’ me, for brother Jeff is able enough to manage the trade if redskins come; he can fight too, if need be. The Gore family could always do that, so ye needn’t be afraid, Molly.”

“I’ll not be afraid, Robin, but I’ll be anxious about ye.”

“That’s nat’ral, lass, but it can’t be helped. Well, then,” continued Robin, “the five of us will start for the Black Hills. I’ve bin told by a redskin who comed here last week that he an’ his tribe had had a scrimmage with Hawk an’ the reptiles that follow him. He says that there was a white boy an’ a white girl with Hawk’s party, an’ from his account of ’em I’m sartin sure it’s my Roy and Nelly. God help ’em! ‘but,’ says he, ‘they made their escape durin’ the attack, an’ we followed our enemies so far that we didn’t think it worth while to return to look for ’em, so I’m convinced they made for the Black Hills, nigh which Hawk was attacked, an’ if we follow ’em up there we may find ’em alive yet, mayhap.’”

Poor Robin’s voice became deeper and less animated as he spoke, and the last word was uttered with hesitation and in a whisper.

“O Robin, Robin!” exclaimed Mrs Gore, throwing her arms suddenly round her husband’s neck, and hiding her sobbing face in his breast, “d’ye think they can still be alive?”

“Come, Molly,” said Robin, commanding his feelings with a great effort, “han’t ye often read to me that wi’ God all things is possible?”

The poor woman thanked God in her heart, for up to that day Robin had never once quoted Scripture in his efforts to comfort her.

“Was Wapaw with Hawk when they were attacked?” inquired the Black Swan.

“Wapaw is dead,” said a deep voice, as the huge form of a western hunter darkened the little doorway, and the next moment Slugs strode into the store, and quietly seated himself on the counter.

“Dead!” exclaimed Robin, as he shook the hunter’s proffered hand.

“Ay, dead! Have ye no word of welcome for a chum after a month’s absence?” said Slugs, holding out his horny hand to the Black Swan, who gravely grasped and shook it.

“You redskins are a queer lot,” said Slugs, with a grin, “yer as stiff as a rifle ramrod to look at, but there’s warm and good stuff in ’ee for all that.”

“But what about Wapaw?” inquired Mrs Gore, anxiously; “surely he’s not dead.”

“If he’s not dead he’s not livin’, for I saw Hawk himself, not four weeks ago, shoot him and follow him up with his tomahawk, and then heard their shout as they killed him. Where did he say he was goin’ when he left you?”

“He said he would go down to the settlements to see the missionaries, an’ that he thought o’ lookin’ in on the fur-traders that set up a fort last year, fifty miles to the south’ard o’ this.”

“Ay, just so,” said Slugs; “I was puzzled to know what he was doin’ thereaway, and that explains it. He’s dead now, an’ so are the fur-traders he went to see. I’ll tell ye all about it if you’ll give me baccy enough to fill my pipe. I ran out o’t three days agone, an’ ha’ bin smokin’ tea-leaves an’ bark, an’ all sorts o’ trash. Thank ’ee; that’s a scent more sweet nor roses.”

As he said this the stout hunter cut up the piece of tobacco which Robin at once handed to him, and rolled it with great zest between his palms. When the pipe was filled and properly lighted, he leaned his back against an unopened bale of goods that lay on the counter, and drawing several whiffs, began his narrative.

“You must know that I made tracks for the noo fur-tradin’ post when I left you, Black Swan, about a month ago. I hadn’t much of a object; it was mainly cooriosity as took me there. I got there all right, an’ was sittin’ in the hall chattin’ wi’ the head man—Macdonell they called him—about the trade and the Injuns. Macdonell’s two little child’n was playin’ about, a boy an’ a girl, as lively as kittens, an’ his wife—a good-lookin’ young ’ooman—was lookin’ arter ’em, when the door opens, and in stalks a long-legged Injun. It was Wapaw. Down he sat in front o’ the fireplace, an’ after some palaver an’ a pipe—for your Injuns’ll never tell all they’ve got to say at once—he tells Macdonell that there was a dark plot hatchin’ agin’ him—that Hawk, a big rascal of his own tribe, had worked upon a lot o’ reptiles like hisself, an’ they had made up their minds to come an’ massacre everybody at the Fort, and carry off the goods.

“At first Macdonell didn’t seem to believe the Injun, but when I told him I knowed him, an’ that he was a trustworthy man, he was much troubled, an’ in doubt what to do. Now, it’s quite clear to me that Hawk must have somehow found out or suspected that Wapaw was goin’ to ’peach on him, an’ that he had followed his trail close up; for in less than an hour arter Wapaw arrived, an’ while we was yet sittin’ smokin’ by the fire, there was a most tremendous yell outside. I know’d it for the war-whoop o’ the redskins, so I jumped up an’ cocked my rifle. The others jumped up too, like lightnin’; an’ Mrs Macdonell she got hold o’ her girlie in her arms an’ was runnin’ across the hall to her own room, when the door was knocked off its hinges, and fell flat on the floor. Before it had well-nigh fallen I got sight o’ somethin’, an’ let drive. The yell that follered told me I had spoilt somebody’s aim. A volley was poured on us next moment, an’ a redskin jumped in, but Wapaw’s tomahawk sent him out again with a split skull. Before they could reload—for the stupid fools had all fired together—I had the door up, and a heavy table shoved agin it. Then I turned round, to load agin; while I was doin’ this, I observed poor Macdonell on his knees beside his wife, so I went to them an’ found that the wife an’ girl were stone dead—both shot through the heart with the same ball.

“As soon as Macdonell saw this he rose up quietly, but with a look on his face sich as I never see in a man ’xcept when he means to stick at nothin’. He got hold of his double-barrelled gun, an’ stuck a scalpin’ knife an’ an axe in his belt.

“‘Git on my back, Tommy,’ says he to his little boy, who was cryin’ in a corner.

“Tommy got up at once, an’ jumped on his dad’s back. All this time the redskins were yellin’ round the house like fiends, an’ batterin’ the door, so that it was clear it couldn’t stand long.

“‘Friends,’ said he turnin’ to me an’ Wapaw, an’ a poor terrified chap that was the only one o’ his men as chanced to be in the house at the time, ‘friends, it’s every man for himself now; I’ll cut my way though them, or—’. He stopped short, an’ took hold o’ his axe in one hand, an’ his gun in the other. ‘Are ye ready?’ says he. We threw forward our rifles an’ cocked ’em; Macdonell—he was a big, strong man—suddenly upset the table; the savages dashed in the door with sich force that three or four o’ ’em fell sprawlin’ on the floor. We jumped over these before they could rise, and fired a volley, which sent three or four o’ the reptiles behind on their backs. We got into the bush without a scratch, an’ used our legs well, I can tell ’ee. They fired a volley after us, which missed us all except poor Tommy. A bullet entered his brain, an’ killed him dead. For some time his father would not drop him, though I told him he was quite dead; but his weight kept him from runnin’ fast, an’ we heard the redskins gainin’ on us, so at last Macdonell put the boy down tenderly under a bush. Me and Wapaw stopped to fire an’ keep the reptiles back, but they fired on us, and Wapaw fell. I tried to lift him, but he struggled out o’ my arms. Poor fellow! he was a brave man; and I’ve no doubt did it a-purpose, knowin’ that I couldn’t run fast enough with him. Just then I saw Hawk come jumpin’ and yellin’ at us, followed by two or three dozen redskins, all flourishin’ their tomahawks. Macdonell and me turned to die fightin’ alongside o’ our red comrade, but Wapaw suddenly sprang up, uttered a shout of defiance, an’ dashed into the bush. The Injuns were after him in a moment, and before we could get near them a yell of triumph told us that it was too late, so we turned and bolted in different directions.

“I soon left them behind me, but I hung about the place for a day or two to see if Macdonell should turn up, or any of his men. I even went back to the Fort after the reptiles had left it. They had burned it down, an’ I saw parts o’ the limbs o’ the poor wife and child lyin’ among the half-burned goods that they weren’t able to carry away with them.”

Chapter Sixteen.

Vengeance.

The terrible tale which was related by Slugs had the effect of changing Robin Gore’s plans. He resolved to pursue the murderers, and inflict summary punishment on them before setting off on the contemplated search for his lost children, and he was all the more induced to do this that there was some hope he might be able to obtain a clue to their whereabouts from some of the prisoners whom he hoped to seize.

It might be thought by some a rash step for him to take—the pursuit of a band of about fifty savages with a party of six men. But backwood hunters were bold fellows in those days, and Indians were by no means noted for reckless courage. Six stout, resolute, and well-armed men were, in Robin’s opinion, quite a match for fifty redskins!

He could not muster more than six, because it was absolutely necessary to leave at least three men to guard Fort Enterprise. Robin therefore resolved to leave his brother Jeff to look after it, with two of the strangers; and Jeff accepted the charge with pleasure, saying he “would defend the place agin a hundred red reptiles.” The third stranger—a man named Stiff—he resolved to take with him.

The war-party, when mustered, consisted of Robin Gore, his nephew Walter, Larry O’Dowd, the Black Swan, Slugs the hunter, and Stiff the stranger. Armed to the teeth, these six put on their snow-shoes the following morning, and set forth on their journey in silence.

Now this change of plans was—all unknown to Robin—the means of leading him towards, instead of away from, his lost little ones. For Roy and Nelly had travelled so far during their long wanderings from the Black Hills—the place where they escaped from the Indians—that they were at that time many long miles away from them in another direction. In fact, if Robin had carried out his original plan of search, he would have been increasing the distance between himself and his children every step he took!

Not knowing this, however, and being under the impression that each day’s march lessened his chance of ultimately finding his lost ones, he walked along, mile after mile, and day after day, in stern silence.

On the third day out, towards evening, the party descried a thin line of blue smoke rising above the tree-tops. They had reached an elevated and somewhat hilly region, so that the ground favoured their approach by stealth, nevertheless, fearing to lose their prey, they resolved to wait till dark, and take their enemies, if such they should turn out to be, by surprise.

Soon after sunset Robin gave the word to advance. Each man of the party laid aside his blanket, and left his provisions, etcetera, in the encampment, taking with him his arms only.

“I need not say that there must be no speaking, and that we must tread lightly. You’re up to redskin ways as well as me, except mayhap our friend Stiff here.”

Stiff who was a tall Yankee, protested that he could “chaw up his tongue, and go as slick as a feline mouser.”

On nearing the fire, they made a détour to examine the tracks that led to it, and found from their number and other signs that it was indeed Hawk’s party.

Robin advanced alone to reconnoitre. On returning, he said—

“It’s just the reptiles; there’s forty of ’em if there’s one, an’ they’ve got a white man bound with ’em; no doubt from what you said of him, Slugs, it’s Macdonell; but I don’t see Wapaw. I fear me that his days are over. Now, then, lads, here’s our plan: we’ll attack them from six different points at once. We’ll all give the war-whoop at the same moment, takin’ the word from Walter there, who’s got a loud pipe of his own, then when the varmints start to their feet—for I don’t like the notion o’ firin’ at men off their guard—Walter, Larry, an’ Stiff will fire. Black Swan, Slugs, an’ I will reserve our fire while you reload; the reptiles will scatter, of course, an’ we’ll give ’em a volley an’ a united yell as they cut stick, that’ll keep ’em from waitin’ for more.”

The plan thus hastily sketched was at once carried out. Advancing stealthily to their several stations, the six men, as it were, surrounded the savages, who, not dreaming of pursuit, had neglected to place sentinels round the camp. When Walter’s loud “halloo!” rang in their ears, the whole band sprang to their feet, and seized their arms, but three shots laid three of them dead on the ground. As they fled right and left the reserve fired, and shot three others, among whom was Hawk himself. Black Swan had picked him out, and shot him through the head. Before they were quite out of shot, the three who had first fired had reloaded and fired again with some effect, for blood was afterwards observed on the snow.

Slugs now made a rush into the camp to unbind Macdonell, but to his horror he discovered that a knife was plunged up to the handle in his breast, and that he was almost dead. Hawk had evidently committed this cowardly deed on the first alarm, for the knife was known to be his. Macdonell tried hard to speak, but all that he was able to say was, “Wapaw, wounded, escaped—follow.” Then his head fell back, and he died. From the few words thus uttered, however, the pursuers concluded that Wapaw was not dead, but wounded, and that he had escaped.

“If that be so,” said Walter, “then they must have been on Wapaw’s tracks, an’ if we search we shall find ’em, an’ may follow ’em up.”

“True,” said Slugs, “and the sooner we’re away from this the better, for the reptiles may return, and find us not so strong a band as they think.”

Acting on this advice, the whole party set off at once. Wapaw’s track was soon discovered, being, of course, a solitary one, and in advance of his enemies, who were in pursuit. Following the track with untiring vigour, the party found that it led them out of the lower country into a region high up amongst the hills.

Chapter Seventeen.

The Pursuit.

“Wapaw must have worked hard, for we should have overhauled him by this time,” said Walter to his uncle on the evening of the next day, as they plodded steadily along through the snow.

“I would give up the pursuit,” said Robin, somewhat gloomily, “for it’s losin’ time that might be better spent on another search; but it won’t do to leave the crittur, for if he’s badly wounded he may die for want o’ help.”

“Guess he can’t be very bad, else he’d niver travel so fast,” observed Stiff, who, now that the chief murderer was punished, did not care much to go in search of the wounded Indian.

“When a man thinks a band o’ yellin’ redskins are follerin’ up his trail,” said Slugs, “he’s pretty sure to travel fast, wounded or not wounded—leastways if he’s able. But I don’t think we’ll have to go much farther now, for I’ve noticed that his stride ain’t so long as it was, and that’s a sartin sure sign that he’s failin’; I only hope he won’t go under before we find him.”

“Niver a fear o’ that,” said Larry O’Dowd, with a grin. “I’ve seed him as far gone as any one iver I comed across, wi’ starvation; but the way that fellow walked into the grub when he got the chance was wonderful to behold! I thought he’d ait me out o’ the house entirely; and he put so much flesh on his bones in a week or two that he was able to go about his business, though he warn’t no fatter when he began to ait than a consumptive darnin’ needle. True for ye—it’s naither walkin’, starvin’, nor cowld, as’ll kill Wapaw.”

“What does the Black Swan think?” inquired Robin.

“We shall see Wapaw when the sun is low to-morrow,” replied the Indian.

“Mayhap we shall,” quoth Robin, “but it behooves us to get the steam up for to-morrow: so, comrades, as there’s a good clump o’ timber here away, we’ll camp.”

Robin threw down his bundle as he spoke, and his example was at once followed by the others, each of whom set to work vigorously to assist in preparing the encampment.

They had all the requisite implements for this purpose, having returned, after the attack on the Indians, for the things they had left behind them.

“It’s a pity that we shall have to keep watch to-night,” said Walter; “one of us will have to do it, I fancy; for though I don’t believe these murderin’ redskins have pluck to attack us, it would not do to trust to that.”

Slugs, to whom this remark was addressed, lowered the axe with which he was about to fell a neighbouring tree for firewood.

“That’s true,” said he, looking round him in all directions; “hold on, comrades, yonder’s a mound with a bare top, we’d better camp there. Makin’ a big blaze on sitch a place’ll show the red reptiles we don’t care a gun-flint for them, and they’ll not dare to come near, so we won’t have to watch.”

“Arrah! an’ a purty spot it’ll be for the blackyirds to shoot us all aisy as we’re sottin’ at supper,” exclaimed Larry O’Dowd.

“Doubtless there’s a hollow on it,” rejoined Slugs, “for the top is flat.”

“Humph! maybe,” growled Larry, who still seemed to object; but, as the rest of the party were willing to adopt the suggestion, he said no more, and they all went to the top of the little mound, which commanded a clear view of the surrounding country.

As Slugs had surmised, there was a slight hollow on the summit of the mound, which effectually screened the party from any one who might wish to fire at them from below; and as there was no other mound in the immediate neighbourhood, they felt quite secure. Huge logs were cut and carried to the top of the mound, the snow was cleared out of the hole, pine branches were spread over it, the fire was kindled, the kettle put on and filled with snow, and soon Larry O’Dowd was involved in the heat, steam, smoke, and activities of preparing supper, while his comrades spread out their blankets and lay down to smoke with their arms ready beside them.

The fire roared up into the wintry sky, causing the mound to resemble the cone or crater of a volcano, which could be seen for miles round. Ever and anon, while supper was being eaten, the Black Swan or Slugs would rise, and going stealthily to the edge of the mound would peep cautiously over, to make sure that none of their enemies were approaching.

Immediately after supper, they all lay down to sleep, but, for a time, each motionless form that lay rolled tightly in its blanket like an Egyptian mummy, sent a series of little puffs from its head. At last the stars came out, and the pipes dropped from each sleeper’s lips. Then the moon rose—a circumstance which rendered their position still more secure—and the fire sank low. But Slugs was too cautious a hunter to trust entirely to the alleged cowardice of the savages. He knew well that many, indeed most of the redskins, bad as well as good, had quite enough of mere brute courage to make them dare and risk a good deal for the sake of scalping a white hunter, so he rose once or twice during the night to replenish the fire and take a look round; and as often as he rose for these purposes, so often did he observe the glittering eye of the Black Swan glaring round the encampment, although its owner never once moved from his recumbent posture.

Thus the night was spent. The first glimmer of daylight found the whole party up and equipped for the journey.

They did not breakfast before setting out, as they preferred to take their morning meal later in the day. Few words were spoken. At that early hour, and in the sleepy condition which usually results from a very early start, men are seldom inclined to talk. Only one or two monosyllables were uttered as each man rolled up his blanket with his share of the provisions in it, and fastened on his snow-shoes. A few minutes later Robin led the way down the slope, and the whole party marched off in single file, and re-entered the woods.

Chapter Eighteen.

Interesting though Puzzling Discoveries.

About eight o’clock they halted for breakfast, which Larry O’Dowd prepared with his accustomed celerity, and assisted to consume with his wonted voracity.

“There’s nothin’ like aitin’ when yer hungry,” observed Larry, with his mouth full.

“’Xcept drinking when you’re dry,” said Stiff, ironically.

“Now I don’t agree with ye,” retorted Larry; “I used to think so wance, before I left the owld country—my blissin’ rest on it. I used to think there was nothin’ like drink, an’ sure I was right, for there niver was anythin’ like it for turnin’ a poor man into a baste; but when I comed into the woods here I couldn’t get drink for love or money, an’ sure I found, after a while, I didn’t need it, and got on better widout it, an’ enjoyed me life more for want of it. Musha! it’s little I care for drink now; but, och! I’ve a mortal love for aitin’!”

It needed not Larry’s assurance to convince his hearers of the fact, for he consumed nearly twice as much dried meat as any of his comrades.

“Well, if ye don’t drink gin-sling or cocktail,” said Stiff, “you’re mighty hard on the tea.”

“True for ye, Stiff, it was the fav’rite tipple o’ me owld mother, an’ I’m fond of it on that score, not to mention other raisins of a private natur’.”

“Couldn’t ye make these reasons public?” said Walter.

“Unpossible!” said Larry, with much gravity, as he helped himself to another can of tea.

“Come, time’s up,” said Robin abruptly, as he rose to put on his snow-shoes.

Larry swallowed the tea at a draught, the others rose promptly, and in a few minutes more they were again on the march.

Towards noon they issued out of the woods upon a wide undulating country, which extended, as far as the eye could see, to faint blue mountains in the distance. This region was varied in character and extremely beautiful. The undulations of the land resembled in some places the waves of the sea. In other places there were clumps of trees like islets. Elsewhere there were hollows in which lakelets and ponds evidently existed, but the deep snow covered all these with a uniform carpet. In some parts the ground was irregular and broken by miniature hills, where there were numerous abrupt and high precipices.

The party were approaching one of the latter in the afternoon, when Robin suddenly paused and pointed to a projecting ledge on the face of one of the cliffs.

“What would ye say yonder objic’ was?” he inquired of Slugs.

The hunter shaded his eyes with his hand, and remained silent for a few seconds.

“It looks like a sled,” said he, dropping his hand, “but how it got thar’ would puzzle even a redskin to tell, for there’s no track up to that ledge.”

“It is a sled,” said Black Swan, curtly.

“An’ how came it there?” asked Robin.

“It fell from the top,” replied the Indian.

“Right, lad, yer right!” said Slugs, who had taken another long look at the object in question; “I see somethin’ like a broken tree near the top o’ the precipice. I hope Wapaw hain’t gone an’ tumbled over that cliff.”

This supposition was received in silence and with grave looks, for all felt that the thing was not impossible, but the Indian shook his head.

“Come, Black Swan,” said Walter, “you don’t agree with us—what think ye?”

“Wapaw had no sled with him,” replied the Indian.

“Right again!” cried Slugs; “I do believe my sense is forsakin’ me; an Injun baby might have thought of that, for his tracks are plain enough. Hows’ever, let’s go see, for it’s o’ no use standin’ here guessin’.”

The party at once advanced to the foot of the precipice, and for nearly an hour they did their utmost to ascend to the ledge on which the sledge lay, but their efforts were in vain. The rock was everywhere too steep and smooth to afford foot-hold.

“It won’t do,” said Larry, wiping the perspiration from his brow; “av we had wings we might, but we hain’t got ’em, so it’s o’ no manner o’ use tryin’.”

“We shall try from the top now,” said Robin. “If anybody has tumbled over, the poor crittur may be alive yet, for all we know.”

They found their efforts to descend from the top of the precipice equally fruitless and much more dangerous, and although they spent a long time in the attempt, and taxed their wits to the utmost, they were ultimately compelled to leave the place and continue their journey without attaining their object.

One discovery was made, however. It was ascertained by the old marks in the snow at the edge of the precipice that, whatever members of the party who owned the sledge had tumbled over, at least two of them had escaped, for their track—faint and scarcely discernible—was traced for some distance. It was found, also, that Wapaw’s track joined this old one. The wounded Indian had fallen upon it not far from the precipice, and, supposing, no doubt, that it would lead him to some encampment, he had followed it up. Robin and his men also followed it—increasing their speed as much as possible.

Night began to descend again, but Wapaw was not overtaken, despite the Black Swan’s prophecy. This, however, was not so much owing to the miscalculation of the Indian, as to the fact that a great deal of time had been lost in their futile endeavour to reach the sledge that had fallen over the precipice.

About sunset they came to a place where the track turned suddenly at a right angle and entered the bushes.

“Ha! the first travellers must have camped here, and Wapaw has followed their example,” said Robin, as he pushed aside the bushes. “Just so, here’s the place, but the ashes are cold, so I fear we are not so near our Injun friend as we could wish.”

“Well, it can’t be helped,” cried Stiff, throwing down his bundle; “we’ve had plenty o’ walkin’ for one day, so I vote for supper right off.”

“I second the motion,” said Walter, seizing his axe, “seein’ that the camp is ready made to hand. Now, Larry, get your pot ready.”

“Sure it’s stuffed full a’ready—an’ I only wish I was in the same state,” said the Irishman, as he pressed the snow tightly into a tin kettle, and hung it over the fire, which Slugs had just kindled.

The supper scene of the previous night was, in most of its details, enacted over again; but it was resolved that each of the party should keep watch for an hour, as, if the Indians had followed, there was a possibility of their having gained on them during the delay at the precipice.

Before the watch was set, however, and while all the party were enjoying their pipes after supper, the Black Swan suddenly exclaimed, “Ho!” and pointed with his finger to something which peeped out of the snow at Larry’s elbow, that volatile individual having uncovered it during some of his eccentric movements.

“It’s only an owld mocassin,” said Larry, plucking the object from the snow as he spoke; “some Injun lad has throw’d it away for useless.”

“Hand it here,” said Robin, re-lighting his pipe, which had gone out.

Larry tossed the mocassin to his leader, who eyed it carelessly for a moment. Suddenly he started, and, turning the mocassin over, examined it with close and earnest attention. Then he smiled, as if at his passing anxiety, and dropped it on the ground.

“It reminded me,” said he to Walter, “of my Nelly, for it has something of the same shape that she was fond of, an’ for a moment I was foolish enough to think it might ha’ belonged to the dear child, but—. Come, Larry, have ’ee got any more tea there?”

“Is it tay ye want? faix, then, it’s little more nor laves that’s remainin’,” said Larry, draining the last drops into a pannikin; “well, there’s about half a mug-full, afther all; it’s wonderful what can be got out o’ it sometimes by squaazin’ the pot.”

“Hand it over, that’s enough,” said Robin, “thank ’ee, lad—here’s luck.”

He drained the pannikin as though it had been a glass of rum, and, smacking his lips, proceeded leisurely to refill his pipe.

“Are ye sure it’s not one of Nelly’s old mocassins?” asked Walter, as he eyed the little shoe earnestly.

“Sure enough, nephy, I would know her mother’s make among ten thousand, an’ although that one is oncommon like it in some respec’s, it ain’t one o’ hers.”

“But Nelly might have made it herself,” suggested Walter, “and that would account for its bein’ like her mother’s in the make.”

Robin shook his head. “Not likely,” said he. “The child didn’t use to make mocassins. I’m not sure if she could do it at all; besides she was last heard of miles and miles away from here in another direction. No, no, Walter lad, we mustn’t let foolish fancies bother us. However, the sight o’ this has fixed me to push on to-morrow as hard as I can lay my legs to it, for if Wapaw’s alive we can’t fail to come up wi’ him afore sundown; and I’m keen to turn about an’ go after my children. I’ll push on by myself if ye don’t care to keep up wi me.”

This latter remark was made to Stiff, whose countenance indicated that he had no desire to undertake a harder day’s march than usual. The effect of the remark was to stir up all the Yankee’s pride.

“I’ll tell ’ee what it is, Mister Gore,” said he, tartly; “you may think yourself an oncommon hard walker, but Obadiah Stiff is not the man to cave in to any white man alive. I don’t care to go trampin’ over the country day after day, like the Wandering Jew, after a redskin, as, I’ll go bound, ain’t no better than the rest o’ his kind; but if ye want to see which of our legs is the best pair o’ compasses, I’ll walk with ye from here to hereafter, I guess, or anywhar else ye choose; if I don’t, then my name ain’t Stiff.”

“It would be well av it worn’t Stiff, for ye’ve no reason to be proud o’t,” observed Larry O’Dowd, with a grin; “don’t spake so loud, man, but shut up yer potatie trap and go to roost. Ye’ll need it all if ye wouldn’t like to fall behind to-morrow. There now, don’t reply; ye’ve no call to make me yer father confessor, and apologise for boastin’; good night, an’ go to slape!”

The rest of the party, who had lain down, laughed at this sally, and Stiff, on consideration, thought it best to laugh too. In a few minutes every one in the encampment was sound asleep, with the exception of Robin Gore, who took the first hour of watching, and who sat beside the sinking fire like a Indian in earnest meditation, with his eyes resting dreamily on the worn-out mocassin.

Chapter Nineteen.

Short Allowance, and a Surprise.

Once again we return to Silver Lake; but here we do not find affairs as we left them. True, Roy and Nelly are still there, the hut is as snug as it used to be, and the scenery as beautiful, but provisions have begun to fail, and an expression of real anxiety clouds the usually cheerful countenance of Roy, while reflected anxiety sits on the sweet little face of Nell. The winter is far advanced, and the prospect of resuming the journey home is farther off than ever.

One morning Roy entered the hut with a slow step and a sad countenance.

“Nell,” said he, throwing down a small fish which he had just caught, “things look very bad now; seems to me that we’ll starve here. Since we broke the long line I’ve only caught little things like that; there’s no rabbits in the snares—I looked at every one this mornin’—and, as for deer, they seem to have said good-bye for the winter. I thought of goin’ out with the gun this forenoon, but I think it a’nt o’ no use, for I was out all yesterday without seeing a feather or a hoof-print.”

The tone in which Roy said this, and the manner in which he flung himself down on the ground beside the fire, alarmed his sister greatly, so that she scarcely knew what to say.

“Don’t know what’s to be done at all,” continued Roy somewhat peevishly.

This was so unlike himself that the little girl felt a strong tendency to burst into tears, but she restrained herself. After a short silence, she said somewhat timidly—

“Don’t you think we might try to pray?”

“What’s the use,” said Roy quickly; “I’m sure I’ve prayed often and often, and so have you, but nothin’s come of it.”

It was quite evident that Roy was in a state of rebellion. This was the first time Nelly had suggested united prayer to her brother; she did it timidly, and the rebuff caused her to shrink within herself.

Roy’s quick eye observed the shrinking; he repented instantly, and, drawing Nelly to him, laid her head on his breast.

“Forgive me, Nell, I shouldn’t have said it; for, after all, we’ve had everything given to us here that we have needed up to this time. Come, I will pray with you.”

They both got upon their knees at once, but, strive as he might, not a word would cross Roy’s lips for several minutes. Nelly raised her head and looked at him.

“God help us!” he ejaculated.

“For Jesus’ sake,” murmured Nelly.

They both said “Amen” to these words, and these were all their prayers.

Roy’s rebellion of heart was gone now, but his feelings were not yet calmed. He leaped up, and, raising his sister, kissed her almost violently.

“Now, lass, we have prayed, and I do believe that God will answer us; so I’ll take my gun and snow-shoes, an’ off to the woods to look for a deer. See that you have a roarin’ fire ready to roast him three hours hence.”

Nelly smiled through her tears and said she would, while Roy slipped his feet through the lines of his snow-shoes, threw his powder-horn and bullet-pouch over his shoulder, seized his gun, and sallied forth with a light step.

When he was gone, Nelly began actively to prepare for the fulfilment of her promise. She took up the axe which Roy had left behind him, and went into the forest behind the hut to cut firewood. She was very expert at this laborious work. Her blows were indeed light, for her little arms, although strong for their size, were not strong for such labour; but she knew exactly where to hit and how to hit. Every stroke fell on the right spot, with the axe at the right angle, so that a chip or two flew off every time. She panted a good deal, and grew uncommonly warm, but she liked the work; her face glowed and her eyes sparkled, and it was evident that she was not exhausted by it. In little more than an hour she had cut enough of dry wood to make a fire that would have roasted an entire sheep. Then she carried it to the hut, after which she sat down to rest a little.

While resting, she gathered carefully together all the scraps of food in the hut, and found that there was still enough for two good meals; so she ate a small piece of dried fish, and began to wish that Roy would return. Suddenly she was startled by a loud fluttering noise close to the hut, and went out to see what it could be.

It might be supposed that a little girl in such solitary and unprotected circumstances would have felt alarmed, and thought of wolves or bears; but Nelly was too well accustomed to the dangers and risks of the backwoods to be much troubled with mere fancies. She was well aware that wolves and bears, as a rule, shun the presence of human beings, and the noise which she had heard was not of a very alarming character.

The first sight that greeted her was a large bird of the grouse species, sitting on a tree not three yards from the hut. She almost felt that by springing forward she could seize it with her hands, and her first impulse was to throw the axe at it; but, checking herself, she went noiselessly back into the hut, and quickly reissued with the bow and a couple of arrows.

Fitting an arrow to the string, she whispered to herself, “Oh, how I do hope I won’t miss it!” and took a careful aim. Anxiety, however, made her hand unsteady, for, the next moment, the arrow was quivering in the stem of the tree at least three inches below the bird.

A look of deep disappointment was mingled with an expression of determination as she pursed her little mouth and fitted the second arrow to the string. This time she did not take so careful an aim, but let fly at once, and her shaft entered the bird’s throat and brought it to the ground. With a cry of delight she sprang upon her prize, and bore it in triumph into the hut, where she speedily plucked it. Then she split it open, and went down to the lake and washed it quite clean and spread it out flat. Her next proceeding was to cut a short stick, about two feet in length, which she pointed at both ends, making one point thinner than the other. This thin point she thrust through the bird, and stuck it up before the fire to roast, placing a small dish, made of birch bark, below it to catch the dripping.

“I hope he won’t come back till it’s ready,” she muttered, as the skin of the bird began to brown and frizzle, while a delicious odour began to fill the hut.

Just as the thought was uttered, a footstep was heard outside, the covering of the doorway was raised, a tall figure stooped to enter, and the next instant a gaunt and half-naked savage stood before her.

Nelly uttered a faint cry of terror, but she was so paralysed that she could make no effort to escape, even had escape been possible.

The appearance of the Indian was indeed calculated to strike terror to a stouter heart than that of poor Nelly; for besides being partially clad in torn garments, his eyes were sunken and bloodshot, and his whole person was more or less smeared with blood.

As the poor child gazed at this apparition in horror, the Indian said, “Ho!” by way of salutation, and stepping forward, took her hand gently and shook it after the manner of the white man. A gleam of intelligence and surprise at once removed the look of fear from Nelly’s face.

“Wapaw!” she exclaimed breathlessly.

“Ho!” replied the Indian, with a nod and a smile, as he laid aside his gun and snowshoes, and squatted himself down before the fire.

There was not much to be gathered from “ho!” but the nod and smile proved to Nelly that the intruder was indeed none other than her old friend Wapaw.

Her alarm being now removed, she perceived that the poor Indian was suffering both from fatigue and wounds—perhaps from hunger too; but this latter idea was discarded when she observed that several birds, similar to the one she had just killed, hung at the Indian’s belt. She rose up quickly, therefore, and, running down to the lake, soon returned with a can of clear water, with which she purposed bathing Wapaw’s wounds. Wapaw seized the can, however, and emptied the contents down his throat, so she was constrained to go for a second supply.

Having washed the wounds, which were chiefly on the head and appeared to her to be very severe, although, in reality, they were not so, she set the roasted bird before him and desired him to eat.

Of course she had put a great many questions to Wapaw while thus occupied. Her residence with the Indians had enabled her to speak and understand the Indian tongue a little, and, although she had some difficulty in understanding much of what Wapaw said in reply, she comprehended enough to let her know that a number of white men had been killed by the savages, and that Wapaw was fleeing for his life.

On first hearing this a deadly paleness overspread her face, for she imagined that the white people killed must be her own kindred; but Wapaw quickly relieved her mind on this point.

After this he devoted himself entirely to the roasted bird, and Nelly related to him, as well as she could, the particulars of her own and Roy’s escape from the Indians.

Chapter Twenty.

More Surprising Discoveries.

While they were thus occupied, a cry was heard to ring through the forest. The Indian laid his hand on his gun, raised his head, which he turned to one side in a listening attitude, and sat as still as a dark statue. The only motion that could be detected in the man was a slight action in his distended nostrils as he breathed gently.

This attitude was but momentary, however, for the cry was repeated (“Hi! Nelly, hi!”) in clear silvery tones, and Wapaw smiled as he recognised Roy’s voice, and quietly resumed his former occupation.

Nelly bounded up at once, and ran out to receive her brother, and tell him of the arrival of their old friend.

She slipped on her snow-shoes, and went off in the direction of the cry. On rounding the foot of a cliff she discovered Roy, standing as if he had been petrified, with his eyes glaring at the snow with a mingled look of surprise and alarm.

Nelly’s step roused him.

“Ho! Nell,” he cried, giving vent to a deep sigh of relief, “I’m thankful to see you—but look here. What snow-shoe made this track? I came on it just this moment, and it pulled me up slick, I can tell ye.”

Nelly at once removed Roy’s alarm, and increased his surprise by telling him of the new arrival, who, she said, was friendly, but she did not tell him that he was an old friend.

“But come, now, what have you got for dinner, Roy?” said Nelly, with an arch smile, “for oh! I’m so hungry.”

Roy’s countenance fell, and he looked like a convicted culprit.

“Nell, I haven’t got nothin’ at all.”

“What a pity! We must just go supperless to bed, I suppose.”

“Come, lass, I see by the twinkle in your eye that you’ve got grub somehow or other. Has the redskin brought some ’at with him?”

“Yes, he has brought a little; but the best fun is that I shot a bird myself, and had it all ready beautifully cooked for your supper, when Wap—”

“Well, what d’ye mean by Wap?” inquired Roy, as Nelly stopped short.

“Nothing. I only meant to say that the Indian arrived suddenly, and ate it all up.”

“The villain! Well, I’ll pay him off by eatin’ up some o’ his grub. Did he say what his name was, or where he came from?” inquired Roy.

“Never mind, you can ask him yourself,” said Nelly, as they drew near to the hut; “he seems to me to have been badly wounded by his enemies.”

They stooped and entered the hut as Nelly spoke. The Indian looked up at her brother, and, uttering his wonted “Ho!” held out his hand.

“Good luck to ye!” cried Roy, grasping it and shaking it with a feeling of hearty hospitality. “It’s good to see yer face, though it is a strange un; but—hallo!—I say—yer face ain’t so strange, after all!—what! Why, you’re not Wap— Wap— Wapaw!”

The Indian displayed all his teeth, which were very numerous and remarkably white, and nodded his head gently.

“Well now, that beats everything!” cried Roy, seizing the Indian’s hand again and shaking it violently; then, turning to Nelly, he said, “Come, Nell, stir yer stumps and pluck two o’ them birds. I’ll split ’em, an’ wash ’em, an’ roast ’em, an’ we’ll all eat ’em—Wapaw’ll be ready for more before it’s ready for him. Jump, now, and see if we don’t have a feast to-night, if we should starve to-morrow. But I say, Wapaw, don’t ye think the redskins may be after you yet?”

The first part of this speech was uttered in wild glee, but the last sentence was spoken more earnestly, as the thought occurred to him that Wapaw might have been closely pursued, for Nelly had told him of the Indian having been wounded by enemies and obliged to fly.

Wapaw shook his head, and made his young friend understand as well as he could that there was little chance of that, as he had travelled with the utmost speed in order to distance his pursuers, and induce them to give up the chase.

“Well, it may be as you say, friend,” observed Roy, as he sat down before the fire and pulled off his hunting mocassins and socks, which he replaced by lighter foot-gear more suited to the hut; “but I don’t much like the notion o’ givin’ them a chance to come up and cut all our throats at once. It’s not likely, however, that they’ll be here to-night, considerin’ the pace you say you came at, so we’ll make our minds easy, but with your leave we’ll cut our sticks to-morrow, an’ make tracks for Fort Enterprise. We han’t got much in the way o’ grub to start wi’, it is true, but we have enough at least for two days’ eatin’, and for the rest, we have our guns, and you to be our guide.”

This plan was agreed to by Wapaw, who thereupon advised that they should all lie down to sleep without delay. Roy, who was fatigued with his day’s exertions, agreed, and in less than half an hour the three were sound asleep.

Next morning they arose with the sun, much refreshed; and while Wapaw and Nelly collected together and packed on their new sledge the few things that they possessed, Roy went for the last time to cast his line in Silver Lake. He was more fortunate than usual, and returned in an hour with four fine fish of about six pounds’ weight each.

With this acceptable, though small, addition to their slender stock of provisions, they left the hut about noon, and commenced their journey, making a considerable détour in order to avoid meeting with any of the Indians who might chance to have continued the pursuit of Wapaw.

That same evening, towards sunset, a party of hunters marched out of the woods, and stood upon the shores of Silver Lake, the tracks about which they began to examine with particular interest. There were six of the party, five of them being white hunters, and one an Indian. We need scarcely add that they were our friend Robin and his companions.

“I tell ’ee what it is,” cried Robin, in an excited tone, “that’s my Nelly’s fut; I’d know the prints o’t among a thousand, an’ it’s quite plain Roy is with her, an’ that Wapaw has come on ’em, for their tracks are clear.”

“Sure it looks like it,” observed Larry O’Dowd, scratching his head as if in perplexity, “but the tracks is so mixed up, it ain’t aisy to foller ’em.”

“See, here’s a well-beaten track goin’ into the wood!” cried Walter, who had, like his companions, been searching among the bushes.

Every one followed Walter, who led the way towards the hut, which was finally discovered with a thin, scarcely perceptible line of smoke still issuing from the chimney. They all stopped at once, and held back to allow Robin to advance alone. The poor man went forward with a beating heart, and stopped abruptly at the entrance, where he stood for a few seconds as if he were unable to go in. At length he raised the curtain and looked in; then he entered quickly.

“Gone, Walter, they’re gone!” he cried; “come in, lad, and see. Here’s evidence o’ my dear children everywhere. It’s plain, too, that they have left only a few hours agone.”

“True for ye, the fire’s hot,” said Larry, lighting his pipe from the embers in testimony of the truth of his assertion.

“They can’t be far off,” said Slugs, who was examining every relic of the absent ones with the most minute care. “The less time we lose in follerin’ of ’em the better—what think ye, lad?” The Black Swan nodded his approval of the sentiment.

“What! without sleep or supper?” cried Stiff, whose enthusiasm in the chase had long ago evaporated.

“Ay,” said Robin sternly, “I start now. Let those stop here who will.”

To do Stiff justice, his objections were never pressed home, so he comforted himself with a quid of tobacco, and accompanied Robin and his men with dogged resolution when they left the hut. Plunging once more into the forest, they followed up the track all night, as they had already followed it up all day.

Chapter Twenty One.

A Gladsome Meeting.

Some hours before dawn Robin Gore came to an abrupt pause, and looking over his shoulder, held up his hand to command silence. Then he pointed to a small mound, on the top of which a faint glow of light was seen falling on the boughs of the shrubs with which it was crowned.

The moon had just set, but there was sufficient light left to render surrounding objects pretty distinct.

“That’s them,” said Robin to Walter, in a low whisper, as the latter came close to his side; “no doubt they’re sound asleep, an’ I’m puzzled how to wake ’em up without givin’ ’em a fright.”

“Musha! it’s a fright that Wapaw will give us, av we start him suddenly, for he’s murtherin’ quick wi’ his rifle,” whispered Larry.

“We’d better hide and then give a howl,” suggested Stiff, “an’, after they’re sot up, bring ’em down with a familiar hail.”

The deliberations of the party were out short and rendered unnecessary, however, by Wapaw himself. That sharp-eared red man had been startled by the breaking of a branch which Larry O’Dowd chanced to set his foot on, and, before Robin had observed their fire, he had roused Roy and Nelly and hurried with them to the summit of a rocky eminence, from which stronghold they now anxiously watched the proceedings of the hunters. The spot to which they had fled for refuge was almost impregnable, and might have been held for hours by a couple of resolute men against a host of savages.

Robin, after a little further consultation, resolved to send the Black Swan in advance to reconnoitre. This he did, contrary to his wonted custom of taking the lead in everything, because of an unaccountable feeling of dread lest he should not find his children there.

Black Swan at once stepped cautiously forward with his rifle, ready cocked, in the hollow of his left arm, and his finger on the trigger-guard. Step by step he moved towards the encampment without making the slightest noise, and with so little motion that he might easily have been mistaken for a dark shadow. Raising his head over the edge of the encampment he gazed earnestly into it, then he advanced another pace or two, finally he stepped into it, and, standing erect, looked around him. With a wave of his hand he summoned his comrades to advance. Robin Gore’s heart beat hard as he approached, followed by the others.

Meanwhile they were closely watched by Roy and Wapaw. When the Black Swan’s head appeared, Roy exclaimed in a whisper, “An Injun—d’ye know him, Wapaw?”

“He is one of our tribe, I think,” replied the Indian, in the same low voice, “but I know him not; the light of the fire is not strong.”

“If he’s one o’ your tribe,” said Roy, “it’s all up with us, for they won’t be long o’ findin’ us here. Keep close to me, Nell. I’ll stick by you, lass, don’t fear.”

Wapaw’s brows lowered when he saw the Black Swan step into the encampment, and make the signal to his comrades to advance. He raised his rifle, and took deliberate aim at his heart.

“Roy,” he whispered, “get an arrow ready, aim at the next man that steps into the light and let fly; I’ll not fire till after you, for the smoke would blind you.”

Roy obeyed with a trembling hand. Notwithstanding the rough life he had led in those wild woods of the West, he had never yet been called on to lift his hand against a human being, and the thought of taking life in this deliberate and almost murderous way caused him to shudder; still he felt that their case was desperate, and he nerved himself to the deed.

Another moment, and Robin stood beside the Black Swan. Roy tried to raise his bow, but his heart failed him. Wapaw glanced at him, and said sternly—

“Shoot first.”

At that moment Obadiah Stiff stepped into the encampment, and, stirring the embers of the fire with a piece of stick, caused a bright flame and showers of sparks to shoot upwards. This revealed the fact that some of the party were white men, so Wapaw lowered his rifle. A single glance of his practised eye told him who they were. Laying his hand suddenly and heavily on Roy’s shoulder he pressed him down.

“Come, let us go,” he said quickly; “I must see these men alone, and you must keep close—you must not look.”

He said the latter words with emphasis; but in order to make sure that they should not have a chance of looking, he led his young companions to a point whence the encampment could not be seen, and left them there with strict injunctions not to quit the spot until he should return.

In a few seconds Wapaw stepped into the circle of light where Robin and his party were all assembled, and so rapid and noiseless had his movement been, that he was in the midst of them almost before they were aware of his approach.

“Wapaw!” exclaimed Walter in surprise, “why, you seem to have dropped from the clouds.”

“Sure it’s a ghost ye must be,” cried Larry. The Indian took no notice of these remarks, but turned to Robin, who, with a look of deep anxiety, said—

“Have ’ee seed the childer, Wapaw?”

“They are safe,” answered the Indian.

“Thank God for that!” cried Robin, while a sigh of relief burst from him: “I believe ye, Wapaw, yer a true man an’ wouldn’t tell me a lie, would ye?”

The tone in which the hunter said this implied that the statement was scarcely a true index to his feelings, and that he would be glad to hear Wapaw assure him that he was indeed telling the truth. But this Indian was a man of truthfulness, and did not deem it necessary to repeat his assertion. He said, however, that he would go and fetch the children, and immediately quitted the camp. Soon after he returned with Roy and Nelly; he had not told them, however, who the strangers were.

When Roy first caught sight of his father he gave a shout of surprise, and stood still as if he were bewildered. Nelly uttered a wild scream, and rushed forward with outstretched arms. Robin met her more than half way, and the next moment folded his long-lost little one to his bosom.

Chapter Twenty Two.

At Silver Lake once more.

It were needless to detail all that was said and done during the remainder of that night, or, rather, morning, for day began to break soon after the happy meeting narrated in the last chapter. It would require more space than we can afford to tell of all that was said and done; how Robin embraced his children over and over again in the strength of his love, and thanked God in the fervour of his gratitude; how Roy and Nelly were eager to relate all that had befallen them since they were carried away into captivity, in a much shorter time than such a long story could by any possibility be told; how Walter rendered the telling of it much more difficult by frequent interruptions with eager questions, which induced divergencies from which the tale-tellers forgot to return to the points where the interruptions occurred; how Larry O’Dowd complicated matters by sometimes volunteering anecdotes of his own, illustrative of points similar to those which were being related; how Slugs always cut these anecdotes short with a facetious poke in the ribs, which caused Larry to howl; how Stiff rendered confusion worse confounded by trying to cook some breakfast, and by upsetting the whole affair into the fire; and how the children themselves broke in on their own discourse continually with sudden and enthusiastic questions as to the health of their mother and the welfare of the live stock at Fort Enterprise.

All this cannot be described, therefore we leave it to the vivid imagination of the reader.

“Now, comrades,” said Robin, after the sun had risen, after breakfast had been and eaten, after every incident had been related at least twice over, and after every conceivable question had been asked four or five times—“now, comrades, it remains for us to fix what we’ll do.”

“To the Fort,” said Larry O’Dowd abruptly.

“Ay—home!” cried Walter.

“Oh yes—home—home!” exclaimed Roy and Nelly in the same breath.

“Ditto,” observed Obadiah Stiff.

Slugs and the Black Swan, being men of few words, said nothing, but nodded approval.

“Well, it’s quite plain that we’re all of one mind,” resumed Robin; “nevertheless, there are one or two points to which I ax yer attention. In the first place, it’s now near the end of November. Fort Enterprise, in a straight line, is more nor three weeks’ march from hereaway. Our provisions is low. When I left the Fort provisions was low there too, an’ if my brother Jeff ha’nt had more nor his usual luck in huntin’ they’ll be lower yet before long. Now, I think it would be better to go back to Silver Lake for a week or so, hunt an’ fish there till we’ve got a good supply, make noo sleds, load ’em chock full, an’ then—ho! for home. What say ye to that, comrades?”

As every one assented readily to this plan, they proceeded at once to carry it into execution. At first, indeed, Nelly looked a little disappointed, saying that she wanted to get to her darling mother without delay; but, on Walter pointing out to her that it would only delay matters a week or so, and that it would enable the whole party to rest and recruit, and give Wapaw time to recover thoroughly from his wounds, she became reconciled, and put on her snow-shoes to return to Silver Lake with some degree of cheerfulness; and when, in the course of that day’s walk, she began to tell her father of all the beauties and wonders of Silver Lake, she was not only reconciled but delighted to return.

“O father!” said she, as they walked briskly through the forest, “you’ve no notion what a beautiful place Silver Lake is. It’s so clear, and so—so—oh! I don’t know how to tell you; so like the fairy places Walter used to tell us of, with clear water and high cliffs, and the clouds shining up at the clouds shining down, and two suns—one below and another above. And then the hut! we made it all ourselves.”

“What! made the trees and all?” said Robin, with a smile.

“No, of course not the trees; but we cut the trees and piled ’em up, and spread the brush-wood, and—and—then the fish! we caught such big ones.”

“How big, Nelly?”

“Oh, ever so big!”

“How big may that be?”

“Well, some were so long,” (measuring off the size on her arm,) “an’ some near as long as my leg—an’ they were good to eat too—no good! you’ve no notion; but you’ll see and taste ’em too. Then there’s the shooskin’! Did you ever shoosk, father?”

“No, lass—leastways I don’t remember, if I did.”

“But you know what it is?”

“To be sure, Nelly; ha’nt I seed ye do it often on the slopes at Fort Enterprise?”

“Well, the shooskin’ here is far, far better. The first time Roy did it he said it nearly banged all his bones to pieces—yes, he said he felt as if his backbone was shoved up into his brain; and I sometimes thought it would squeeze all my ribs together. Oh, it is so nice! You shall try it, father.”

Robin laughed heartily at this, and remarked that he would be very glad to try it, though he had no particular desire to have his ribs squeezed together, or his backbone shoved up into his brain!

Then Nelly went on with great animation and volubility to tell of the trapping of the bear, and the snaring of rabbits, and the catching of fish, and of Roy’s peculiar method of wading into the lake for ducks, and many other things.

Roy, meanwhile, entertained Walter and Larry O’Dowd with a somewhat similar account of their doings during the months of their residence in that wild region; and thus the journey was beguiled, so that the time seemed to pass on swallows’ wings.

Towards evening the party approached the spot where Silver Lake had first burst upon the enraptured gaze of the wandering pair. As they drew near, Roy and Nelly hurried on in advance, and, mounting the fallen tree on which they had formerly rested, waved to the others to come on, and shouted for glee. And well might they shout, for the evening happened to be brighter and calmer, if possible, than the one on which they first saw the lake. The rolling clouds were whiter, too, and the waters looked more silvery than ever.

The exclamations of delight, and the looks of admiration with which the glorious scene was greeted by the hunters when they came up, gratified the hearts of Roy and Nelly very much.

“Oh, how I wish mother was here to see it!” cried Nelly.

“Ain’t that a place for a king to live in, daddy?” said Roy, enthusiastically.

“So ’tis, lad, so ’tis—leastwise it’s a goodish spot for a hunter. How say you, Slugs?”

Slugs smiled grimly, and nodded his head.

“Would the red man like to pitch his wigwam there?” said Robin, addressing the Black Swan.

“He has pitched his wigwam here before,” replied the Black Swan softly. “When he first took the White Swan home to be his mate, he came to hunt here.”

“Och! is it the honeymoon ye spint here?” broke in Larry. “Faix, it’s a purty spot for courtin’, and no mistake. Is that a beehive over there?” he added, pointing across the lake.

“Why that’s our hut—our palace,” cried Nell, with gleeful look.

“Then the sooner we get down to it, and have supper, the better,” observed Walter, “for we’ll have to work hard to-morrow.”

“Come along, then,” cried Robin, “an’ go you ahead, Roy; beat the track, and show us the way.”

Roy accepted the position of honour. Nelly followed him, and the whole band marched off in single file along the shores of Silver Lake. They soon reached the hut, and here again Nelly found many interesting points to dilate upon. She poured her words into willing and sympathetic ears, so that she monopolised nearly all the talk during the time that Larry O’Dowd was preparing supper.

When that meal was being eaten the conversation became more general. Plans were discussed as to the intended procedure on the morrow, and various courses of action fixed. After that, as a matter of course, the pipes came out, and while these were being smoked, only the talkative members of the party kept up the conversation at intervals. Roy and Nelly having exhausted all they had to say, began to feel desperately sleepy, and the latter, having laid her head on her father’s knee, fell sound asleep in that position. Soon the pipes were smoked out, the fire was replenished, the blankets unrolled; and in a very brief period of time the whole party was in a state of happy unconsciousness, with the exception of poor Wapaw, whose wounds made him rather restless, and the Black Swan, whose duty it was to take the first watch; for it was, deemed right to set a watch, lest by any chance the Indians should have followed the hunters’ tracks, though this was not probable.

Next morning Robin aroused the sleepers somewhat abruptly by shooting a grey hen with his rifle from the tent door.

“There’s breakfast for you and me, Nelly, at any rate,” remarked the hunter, as he went down to the lake to secure his bird.

“An’ won’t there be the bones and feathers for the rest of us?” observed Larry, yawning, “so we won’t starve this day, anyhow.”

In a few minutes every man was actively engaged in work of some sort or other. Robin and Walter prepared fishing-lines from some pieces of buckskin parchment; Black Swan and Slugs went out to cut wood for making sledges; Stiff repaired the snow-shoes of the party, or rather assisted Nelly in this operation; and Larry attended to the preparation of breakfast. Wapaw was the only one who lay still, it being thought better to make him rest, and get strong for the approaching journey.

During the course of the day the lines were tried, and a good number of fish caught. Slugs also went off in search of deer, and returned in the evening with a large stag on his broad shoulders. This raised the spirits of the party greatly, and they feasted that night, with much rejoicing, on venison, marrowbones, and broiled fish!

Thus they spent their time for several days. One party went regularly every morning to fish in the ice-holes; another party roamed the woods, and returned with grouse, or rabbits, and sometimes with deer; while some remained, part of the day at least, in the hut, mending snow-shoes and moccasins, and making other preparations.

In the midst of all this busy labour, the shoosking was not forgotten. One day Robin said to his little daughter, at breakfast, that as they had got nearly enough of provisions for the journey they would take a holiday and go and have a shoosk. The proposal was hailed with delight, and the whole party went off with the new sledges, and spent the forenoon in sliding and tumbling down the hills like very children.

At last everything was ready for a start. The provisions were tightly fastened on the sledges, which were to be drawn by each of the men in turn. Snow-shoes were put on, guns and bows looked to and shouldered, and on a bright, frosty December morning the hunters left the hut, struck into the woods, and set out for Fort Enterprise.

At the top of the slope, beside the fallen tree, they stopped with one consent and gazed back; and there Nelly took her last sad look at Silver Lake, and sorrowfully said her last farewell.

Chapter Twenty Three.

The Happiest Meeting of All.

The snow was driving through the forests and over the plains of the North American wilderness; the wind was shrieking among the tree-tops, and whirling the drift in great clouds high up into the frosty air; and the sun was setting in a glow of fiery red, when, on the last day of the year, Robin Gore and his followers came to an abrupt halt, and, with one consent, admitted that “the thing was impossible.”

“We can’t do it, boys,” said Robin, resting his rifle against a tree; “so it’s o’ no use to try. The Fort is good ten miles off, an’ the children are dead beat—”

“No they ain’t,” interrupted Roy, whose tone and aspect, however, proved that his father’s statement was true; “at least I’m not beat yet—I’m game for two or three hours more.”

“Well, lad, p’raps ye are, but Nelly ain’t; so we’ll camp here, an’ take ’em by surprise in the morning early.”

Nelly, who had been carried on the backs of those who had broadest shoulders during the last dozen miles, smiled faintly when spoken to, and said she was “ve–y s’eepy!”

So they set to work in the usual style, and were soon comfortably seated in their snowy encampment.

Next morning before dawn Robin awoke them.

“Ho!” he cried, “get up, lads, look alive! A happy New Year to ’ee all, young an’ old, red an’ white. Kiss me, Nell, dear—a shake o’ yer paw, Roy. An’ it’s a good New Year’s day, too, in more ways than one, praise the Almighty for that.”

The whole party was astir immediately, and that feeling of kindly brotherhood which usually pervades the hearts of men on the first day of a new year, induced them to shake hands heartily all round.

“You’ll eat your New Year’s dinner at home, after all,” said Walter to Nelly.

“Sure, an’ it’s a happy ’ooman yer mother’ll be this good day,” said Larry, as he stirred up the embers of the fire, and blew them into a flame.

The kettle was boiled, and a good breakfast eaten, because, although it is usually the custom for hunters to start on their day’s journey, and accomplish a good many miles of it before breakfast, they had consideration for Roy and Nelly, both of whom were still suffering a little from the fatigue of the previous day. They hoped to be at Fort Enterprise in about four hours, and were anxious to arrive fresh.

The sun was rising when they reached the top of a ridge, whence they could obtain a distant view of the Fort.

“Here we are at home, Nelly,” said Robin, stooping down to kiss his child on the forehead.

“Darling, darling mother!” was all that poor Nelly could say, as she tried in vain to see the Fort though the tears which sprang to her eyes.

“Don’t you see it, Nell?” said Roy, passing his arm round his sister’s waist.

“No, I don’t,” cried Nelly, brushing the tears away; “oh, do let us go on!”

Robin patted her on the had, and at once resumed the march.

That morning Mrs Gore rose from her bed about the saddest woman in the land. Her mind flew back to the last New Year’s day, when her children were lost to her, as she feared, for ever. The very fact that people are usually more jocose, and hearty, and happy, on the first day of the year, was sufficient to make her more sorrowful than usual; so she got up and sighed, and then, not being a woman of great self-restraint, she wept.

In a few minutes she dried her eyes, and took up her Bible, and, as she read its blessed pages, she felt comfort—such as the world can neither give nor take away—gradually stealing over her soul. When she met her kinsman and his friends at breakfast she was comparatively cheerful, and returned their hearty salutation with some show of a reciprocal spirit.

“Jeff,” said Mrs Gore, with a slight sigh, “it’s a year, this day, since my two darlings were lost in the snow.”

“D’ye say so?” observed Jeff, as he sat down to his morning meal, and commenced eating with much voracity.

Jeff was not an unkind man, but he was very stupid. He said nothing more for some time, but, after consuming nearly a pound of venison steak, he observed suddenly—

“Wall, I guess it wor a bad business that—worn’t it, missus?”

“It was,” responded Mrs Gore; and, feeling that she had no hope of meeting with sympathy from Jeff, she relapsed into silence. After a time, she said—

“But we must get up a feast, Jeff. It won’t do to let New Year’s day pass without a good dinner.”

“That’s true as gosp’l,” said Jeff. “Feed up is my motto, always. It don’t much matter wot turns up, if ye don’t feed up yer fit for nothin’; but, contrairy-wise, if ye do feed up, why yer ready for anythin’ or nothin’, as the case may be.”

Having given vent to this sentiment, Jeff finished his meal with a prolonged draught of tea.

“Wall, now,” said he, filling his pipe, “we’ve got enough o’ deer’s meat an’ other things to make a pretty fair feast, missus, but my comrades and we will go an’ try to git somethin’ fresh for dinner. If we git nothin’ else we’ll git a appetite and that’s worth a good long march any day; so, lads, if—”

Jeff’s speech was interrupted here by a sudden and tremendous outburst of barking on the part of the dogs of the establishment. He sprang up and hastened to the door, followed by his companions and Mrs Gore.

“Injuns, mayhap; see to your guns, boys, we can niver be sure o’ the reptiles.”

“They’re friendly,” observed one of Jeff’s friends, as they stood at the Fort gate; “enemies never come on in that straightforward fashion.”

“Not so sure o’ that,” said Jeff. “I’ve seen redskins do somethin’ o’ that kind when they meant mischief; but, if my eyes ain’t telling lies, I’d say there were white men there.”

“Ay, an’ young folk, too,” remarked one of the others.

“Young folk!” exclaimed Mrs Gore, as she shaded her eyes from the sun with her hand, and gazed earnestly at the band which was approaching.

Suddenly one of them ran a little in advance of the rest, and waved a handkerchief. The figure was a small one. A faint cheer was heard in the distance. It was followed, or rather accompanied, by a loud, manly, and well-known shout.

Mrs Gore grew pale, and would have fallen to the ground had not Jeff caught and supported her.

“Why, I do declare it’s Robin—an’—eh! if there beant the children wi’ ’im!”

The advancing party broke into a run as he spoke, another loud cheer burst forth, and in a few seconds Nelly was locked once more in her dear mother’s arms.

Chapter Twenty Four.

Conclusion.

It is not necessary to say that there was joy—powerful, inexpressible—within the wooden walls of Fort Enterprise on that New Year’s morning, and a New Year’s hymn of praise welled up continually from the glad mother’s heart, finding expression sometimes in her voice, but oftener in her eyes, as she gazed upon the faces of her dear ones, the lost and found.

The flag at Fort Enterprise, which had not flaunted its red field from the flagstaff since the sad day—that day twelve months exactly—when the children were lost, once more waved gaily in the frosty air, and glowed in the beams of the wintry sun. The sound of joyful revelry, which had not been heard within the walls of the Fort for a long, long year, once again burst forth with such energy that one might have been led to suppose its being pent up so long had intensified its power.

The huge fireplace roared, and blazed, and crackled, with a log so massive that no other Yule log in the known world could have held a candle to it; and in, on, and around that fire were pots, pans, and goblets innumerable, all of which hissed, and spluttered, and steamed at Larry O’Dowd, as if with glee at the sight of his honest face once again presiding over his own peculiar domain. And the parlour of Fort Enterprise—that parlour which we have mentioned as being Robin’s dining-room and drawing-room, besides being his bedroom and his kitchen—was converted into a leafy bower by means of pine branches and festooned evergreens, and laid out for a feast the like of which had not been seen there for many a day, and which was transcendently more magnificent than that memorable New Year’s day dinner which had been cooked, but not eaten, just three hundred and sixty-five days before.

In short, everything in and about Fort Enterprise bore evidence that its inmates meant to rejoice and make merry on that first day of a new year, as it was meet they should do under such favourable circumstances.

Jeff Gore had shot a deer not many days before, and one of its fat haunches was to be the great dish of the feast; but Robin said that it was not enough: so, after the first congratulations were over, he and Walter, and Slugs, and Black Swan, set off into the forest, and ere long returned with several brace of grouse, and a few rabbits. Roy, with a very sly look, had asked leave to go and have a walk on snow-shoes in the woods with Nelly before dinner, but his father threatened to lock him up in the cellar, so he consented to remain at home for that day and assist his mother.

“Now, Nelly, you and Roy will come help me to prepare the feast,” said Mrs Gore, whose eyes were swollen with joyful weeping till they looked like a couple of inflamed oysters; “not that there’s much to do, for, now that Larry is come back, we’ll leave everything to him except the pl–plum—poo—poo—ding—oh! my darling!”

Here Mrs Gore broke down for the fifteenth time, and, catching Nelly to her bosom, hugged her.

“Darling mother!” sighed Nelly.

“Och! but it’s a sight good for sore eyes, anyhow,” exclaimed Larry, looking up from his occupation among the steaming pots and pans.

Wapaw, who was the only other member of the party who chose to remain in the house during the forenoon of that day, sat smoking his pipe in the chimney corner, and regarded the whole scene with that look of stoical solemnity which is peculiar to North American Indians.

“Come, I say, this’ll never do, mother,” cried Roy, going to the flour-barrel which stood in a corner. “If we’re to help you wi’ that ’ere poodin’, let’s have at it at once.”

Thus admonished, Mrs Gore and her recovered progeny set to work and fabricated a plum-pudding, which was nearly as hard, almost as heavy as, and much larger than a sixty-four pound cannon ball. It would have killed with indigestion half a regiment of artillery, but it could not affect the hardened frames of these men of the backwoods!

In course of time the board was spread, the viands smoked upon it, and the united party set to work. Mrs Gore sat at the head of the table, with Nelly on one side and Roy on the other. Robin sat at the foot, supported by the White Swan on his right, and Wapaw on his left. Ranged between these were Walter, Slugs, the Black Swan, Jeff Gore, Obadiah Stiff, the two other strangers who came with Jeff, and Larry O’Dowd—for Larry acted the part of cook only, and did not pretend to “wait.” After he had placed the viands on the table, he sat down with the rest. These backwoodsmen ignored waiters. They passed their plates from hand to hand, and when anything was wanted by any one he rose to fetch it himself.

After the plates were cleared away, the tea-kettle was put on the table. In some parts of the backwoods spirits are (fortunately) so difficult to procure, that hunters and trappers live for many months without tasting a drop, and get into the habit of doing entirely without intoxicating drink of any kind. Robin had no spirits except animal spirits, but he had plenty of tea. When it was poured out into huge cups, which might have been styled small slop-basins, and sweetened and passed round, Robin applied his knuckles to the table to command silence.

“Friends,” said he, “I niver wos much o’ a speechifier, but I could always manage to blurt out my meanin’ somehow. Wot I’ve got to say to you this day is, I’m thankful to the Almighty for givin’ me back my childer, an’ I’m right glad to see ye all under my roof this Noo Year’s day, and so’s the wife, I know—ain’t ye, Molly, my dear?”

To this appeal Mrs G replied with a hysterical ye-es, and an application of her apron to the inflamed oysters. Robin continued—

“Well, I’m sorry there ain’t nothin’ stronger in the fort to give ’ee than tea, but for my part I find it strong enough to keep up my spirits, an’ yer all heartily welcome to swig buckets-full o’ that. There is an old fiddle in the store. If any o’ ye can scrape a tune, we’ll have a dance. If not, why we’ll sing and be jolly.”

This speech was followed up by another from Obadiah Stiff, who, with a countenance of the deepest solemnity, requested permission to make a few brief observations.

“Friends,” said he, turning the quid of tobacco which usually graced his right cheek into his left, “it’s not every day a man’s got a chance o’—o’ wot I was a-goin’ to obsarve is, that men who are so much indebted to their much-respected host as—as (Nelly happened to sneeze at this point, and distracted Stiff’s attention) as—yes, I guess we ha’nt often got the chance to chase the redskins, and—and—. In short, without makin’ an onnecessairy phrase about it—I’m happy to say that I can play the fiddle, so here’s luck.”

Mr Stiff sat down abruptly and drained his cup at a draught.

“Pr’aps,” said Larry, with a twinkle in his eye, “Mister Stiff would favour the company wi’ a song before we commence to cut capers.”

“Hear, hear!” from Walter.

“Hurrah!” from Roy.

Mr Stiff cleared his throat and began at once. The tune was so dolorous, and the voice so unmusical, that in any other circumstances it would have been intolerable, but there were lines in it touching upon “good fellowship,” which partially redeemed it, and in the last verse there was reference made to “home,” and “absent friends,” which rendered it a complete success, insomuch that it was concluded amid rapturous cheering, so true is it, as Walter observed, that, “one touch of nature covers a multitude of sins!”

“Let’s drink to absent friends an’ owld Ireland,” cried Larry, filling his cup and pushing the kettle round.

This was drunk with enthusiasm and was followed by a succession of toasts and songs, which were drunk and sung not at the table, but round the fire, to which the party withdrew in order to enjoy their pipes more thoroughly. Then followed a number of anecdotes of stories—some true, some doubtful, and some fabricated—which were listened to with deep interest, not only by Roy and Nelly, but by the whole party, including the Indians, who listened intently, with faces like owls, although they did not understand a word that was said.

Many of these stories were so touching that poor Mrs Gore’s eyes became more inflamed and more oyster-like than ever. Nelly, too, became sympathetic, and her eyes were similarly affected.

When the evening was pretty well advanced, the violin was sent for and tuned, and Stiff turned out to be a very fair player of Scotch reels; so the party laid aside their pipes, cleared the floor, and began to dance.

It was rough but hearty dancing. Each dancer composed his own steps on the spur of the moment, but executed them with a degree of precision and violence that would have caused civilised dancing masters to blush with shame and envy. Mrs Gore and Nelly danced too, weeping the while with joy, and so did the White Swan, but her performances were peculiar. She danced with a slowness of manner and a rigidity of person that are utterly indescribable. She looked as if all her joints had become inflexible, except those of her knees, and her arms hung straight down at her sides, while she pendulated about the floor and gazed at the rafters in deep solemnity.

How they did keep it up, to be sure! Men of the backwoods find it no easy matter to fatigue their muscles or exhaust their spirits, so they danced all night, and a considerable portion of next morning too. Long before they gave in, however, the females were obliged to retire. They lay down on their rude couches without taking the trouble to undress, and in a few moments after were sound asleep—Nelly locked in her mother’s arms, with their two cheeks touching, their dishevelled hair mingling, and a few tears welling from their inflamed eyes, and mixing as they flowed slowly down their united noses. Sleeping thus, the mother dreamed of home, and Nelly dreamed of Silver Lake.

Reader, our tale is told. We have not space to tell of what befell Robin Gore and his family in after life, but we may remark, in conclusion, that although Robin stoutly refused to go back to civilisation, in the course of a few years civilisation considerately advanced to him, and the wild region, which was once a dense forest around Fort Enterprise, finally became (to Mrs Gore’s inexpressible joy) a flourishing settlement, in which were heard the sounds of human industry, and the tinkle of the Sabbath bell.

ENDNOTES

Note 1. A small Indian sledge, dragged on the snow, either by hand or by dog with loops at the sides for lashing the loading of the sledge upon it.

Note 2. The author has himself, in the backwoods, taken four birds in succession off a tree in this fashion with a fowling-piece.

Chapter One.

“‘Honesty is the best policy,’ Tom, you may depend on it,” said a youth to his companion, one afternoon, as they walked along the margin of one of those brawling rivulets which, born amid the snows of the Rocky Mountain peaks, run a wild and plunging course of many miles before finding comparative rest in the celebrated goldfields of Oregon.

“I don’t agree with you, Fred,” said Tom, sternly; “and I don’t believe in the proverb you have quoted. The world’s maxims are not all gospel.”

“You are right, Tom; many of them are false; nevertheless, some are founded on gospel truth.”

“It matters not,” returned Tom, angrily. “I have made up my mind to get back from that big thief Gashford what he has stolen from me, for it is certain that he cheated at play, though I could not prove it at the time. It is impossible to get it back by fair means, and I hold it quite allowable to steal from a thief, especially when that which you take is your own.”

Fred Westly shook his head, but did not reply. Many a time had he reasoned with his friend, Tom Brixton, about the sin of gambling, and urged him to be content with the result of each day’s digging for gold, but his words had no effect. Young Brixton had resolved to make a fortune rapidly. He laboured each day with pick and shovel with the energy of a hero and the dogged perseverance of a navvy, and each night he went to Lantry’s store to increase his gains by gambling. As a matter of course his “luck,” as he called it, varied. Sometimes he returned to the tent which he shared with his friend Westly, depressed, out of humour, and empty-handed. At other times he made his appearance flushed with success—occasionally, also, with drink,—and flung down a heavy bag of golden nuggets as the result of his evening’s play. Ultimately, when under the influence of drink, he staked all that he had in the world, except his clothes and tools, to a man named Gashford, who was noted for his size, strength of body, and utter disregard of God and man. As Brixton said, Gashford had cheated him at play, and this had rendered the ruined man unusually savage.

The sun was down when the two friends entered their tent and began to pull off their muddy boots, while a little man in a blue flannel shirt and a brown wide-awake busied himself in the preparation of supper.

“What have you got for us to-night, Paddy?” asked Westly.

“Salt pork it is,” said the little man, looking up with a most expressive grin; “the best o’ victuals when there’s nothin’ better. Bein’ in a luxurious frame o’ mind when I was up at the store, I bought a few split-pays for seasonin’; but it comes hard on a man to spind his gould on sitch things when his luck’s down. You’ve not done much to-day, I see, by the looks of ye.”

“Right, Paddy,” said Tom Brixton, with a harsh laugh; “we’ve done nothing—absolutely nothing. See, there is my day’s work.”

He pulled three small grains of gold, each about the size of a pea, from his trousers pocket, and flung them contemptuously into a washing-pan at his elbow.

“Sure, we won’t make our fortins fast at that rate,” said Paddy, or Patrick Flinders.

“This won’t help it much,” said Westly, with a mingled smile and sigh, as he added a small nugget and a little gold-dust to the pile.

“Ah! then, haven’t I forgot the shuggar for the tay; but I’ve not got far to go for to get it. Just kape stirrin’ the pot, Mister Westly, I’ll be back in a minit.”

“Tom,” said Westly, when their comrade had gone out, “don’t give way to angry feelings. Do try, like a good fellow, to look at things in a philosophical light, since you object to a religious one. Rightly or wrongly, Gashford has won your gold. Well, take heart and dig away. You know I have saved a considerable sum, the half of which is at your service to—”

“Do you suppose,” interrupted the other sharply, “that I will consent to become a beggar?”

“No,” replied Westly, “but there is no reason why you should not consent to accept an offer when it is made to you by an old chum. Besides, I offer the money on loan, the only condition being that you won’t gamble it away.”

“Fred,” returned Brixton, impressively, “I must gamble with it if I take it. I can no more give up gambling than I can give up drinking. I’m a doomed man, my boy; doomed to be either a millionaire or a madman!”

The glittering eyes and wild expression of the youth while he spoke induced his friend to fear that he was already the latter.

“Oh! Tom, my dear fellow,” he said, “God did not doom you. If your doom is fixed, you have yourself fixed it.”

“Now, Fred,” returned the other impatiently, “don’t bore me with your religious notions. Religion is all very well in the old country, but it won’t work at all here at the diggin’s.”

“My experience has proved the contrary,” returned Westly, “for religion—or, rather, God—has saved me from drink and gaming.”

“If it be God who has saved you, why has He not saved me?” demanded Brixton.

“Because that mysterious and incomprehensible power of Free Will stands in your way. In the exercise of your free will you have rejected God, therefore the responsibility rests with yourself. If you will now call upon Him, life will, by His Holy Spirit, enable you to accept salvation through Jesus Christ.”

“No use, Fred, no use,” said Tom, shaking his head. “When you and I left England, three years ago, I might have believed and trusted as you do, but it’s too late now—too late I say, so don’t worry me with your solemn looks and sermons. My mind’s made up, I tell you. With these three paltry little lumps of gold I’ll gamble at the store to-night with Gashford. I’ll double the stake every game. If I win, well—if not, I’ll—”

He stopped abruptly, because at that moment Paddy Flinders re-entered with the sugar; possibly, also, because he did not wish to reveal all his intentions.

That night there was more noise, drinking, and gambling than usual at Lantry’s store, several of the miners having returned from a prospecting trip into the mountains with a considerable quantity of gold.

Loudest among the swearers, deepest among the drinkers, and most reckless among the gamblers was Gashford “the bully,” as he was styled. He had just challenged any one present to play when Brixton entered the room.

“We will each stake all that we own on a single chance,” he said, looking round. “Come, that’s fair, ain’t it? for you know I’ve got lots of dust.”

There was a general laugh, but no one would accept the challenge—which Brixton had not heard—though he heard the laugh that followed. Many of the diggers, especially the poorer ones, would have gladly taken him up if they had not been afraid of the consequences if successful.

“Well, boys, I couldn’t make a fairer offer—all I possess against all that any other man owns, though it should only be half an ounce of gold,” said the bully, tossing off a glass of spirits.

“Done! I accept your challenge,” cried Tom Brixton, stepping forward.

“You!” exclaimed Gashford, with a look of contempt; “why, you’ve got nothing to stake. I cleaned you out yesterday.”

“I have this to stake,” said Tom, holding out the three little nuggets of gold which he had found that day. “It is all that I possess, and it is more than half an ounce, which you mentioned as the lowest you’d play for.”

“Well, I’ll stick to what I said,” growled Gashford, “if it be half an ounce. Come, Lantry, get out your scales.”

The storekeeper promptly produced the little balance which he used for weighing gold-dust, and the diggers crowded round with much interest to watch, while Lantry, with a show of unwonted care, dusted the scales, and put the three nuggets therein.

“Three-quarters of an ounce,” said the storekeeper, when the balance ceased to vibrate.

“Come along, then, an’ let’s have another glass of grog for luck,” cried Gashford, striking his huge fist on the counter.

A throw of the dice was to decide the matter. While Lantry, who was appointed to make the throw, rattled the dice in the box, the diggers crowded round in eager curiosity, for, besides the unusual disparity between the stakes, there was much probability of a scene of violence as the result, Brixton having displayed a good deal of temper when he lost to the bully on the previous day.

“Lost!” exclaimed several voices in disappointed tones, when the dice fell on the table.

“Who’s lost?” cried those in the rear of the crowd.

“Tom Brixton, to be sure,” answered Gashford, with a laugh. “He always loses; but it’s no great loss this time, and I am not much the richer.”

There was no response to this sally. Every one looked at Brixton, expecting an outburst of rage, but the youth stood calmly contemplating the dice with an absent look, and a pleasant smile on his lips.

“Yes,” he said, recovering himself, “luck is indeed against me. But never mind. Let’s have a drink, Lantry; you’ll have to give it me on credit this time!”

Lantry professed himself to be quite willing to oblige an old customer to that extent. He could well afford it, he said; and it was unquestionable truth that he uttered, for his charges were exorbitant.

That night, when the camp was silent in repose, and the revellers were either steeped in oblivion or wandering in golden dreams, Tom Brixton sauntered slowly down to the river at a point where it spread out into a lakelet, in which the moon was brightly reflected. The overhanging cliffs, fringed with underwood and crowned with trees, shot reflections of ebony blackness here and there down into the water, while beyond, through several openings, could be seen a varied and beautiful landscape, backed and capped by the snow-peaks of the great backbone of America.

It was a scene fitted to solemnise and soften, but it had no such influence on Tom Brixton, who did not give it even a passing thought though he stood with folded arms and contracted brows, gazing at it long and earnestly. After a time he began to mutter to himself in broken sentences.

“Fred is mistaken—must be mistaken. There is no law here. Law must be taken into one’s own hands. It cannot be wrong to rob a robber. It is not robbery to take back one’s own. Foul means are admissible when fair—yet it is a sneaking thing to do! Ha! who said it was sneaking?” (He started and thrust his hands through his hair.) “Bah! Lantry, your grog is too fiery. It was the grog that spoke, not conscience. Pooh! I don’t believe in conscience. Come, Tom, don’t be a fool, but go and—Mother! What has she got to do with it? Lantry’s fire-water didn’t bring her to my mind. No, it is Fred, confound him! He’s always suggesting what she would say in circumstances which she has never been in and could not possibly understand. And he worries me on the plea that he promised her to stick by me through evil report and good report. I suppose that means through thick and thin. Well, he’s a good fellow is Fred, but weak. Yes, I’ve made up my mind to do it and I will do it.”

He turned hastily as he spoke, and was soon lost in the little belt of woodland that lay between the lake and the miner’s camp.

It pleased Gashford to keep his gold in a huge leathern bag, which he hid in a hole in the ground within his tent during the day, and placed under his pillow during the night. It pleased him also to dwell and work alone, partly because he was of an unsociable disposition, and partly to prevent men becoming acquainted with his secrets.

There did not seem to be much fear of the big miner’s secrets being discovered, for Lynch law prevailed in the camp at that time, and it was well known that death was the usual punishment for theft. It was also well known that Gashford was a splendid shot with the revolver, as well as a fierce, unscrupulous man. But strong drink revealed that which might have otherwise been safe. When in his cups Gashford sometimes became boastful, and gave hints now and then which were easily understood. Still his gold was safe, for, apart from the danger of the attempt to rob the bully, it would have been impossible to discover the particular part of his tent-floor in which the hole was dug, and, as to venturing to touch his pillow while his shaggy head rested on it, no one was daring enough to contemplate such an act although there were men there capable of doing almost anything.

Here again, however, strong drink proved to be the big miner’s foe. Occasionally, though not often, Gashford drank so deeply as to become almost helpless, and, after lying down in his bed, sank into a sleep so profound that it seemed as if he could not have been roused even with violence.

He was in this condition on the night in which his victim made up his mind to rob him. Despair and brandy had united to render Brixton utterly reckless; so much so, that instead of creeping stealthily towards his enemy’s tent, an act which would probably have aroused the suspicion of a light sleeper, he walked boldly up, entered it, raised Gashford’s unconscious head with one hand, pulled out the bag of gold with the other, put it on his shoulder, and coolly marched out of the camp. The audacity of the deed contributed largely to its success.

Great was the rage and consternation of Gashford when he awoke the following morning and found that his treasure had disappeared. Jumping at once to the conclusion that it had been stolen by Brixton, he ran to that youth’s tent and demanded to know where the thief had gone to.

“What do you mean by the thief?” asked Fred Westly, with misgiving at his heart.

“I mean your chum, Tom Brixton,” shouted the enraged miner.

“How do you know he’s a thief?” asked Westly.

“I didn’t come here to be asked questions by you,” said Gashford. “Where has he gone to, I say?”

“I don’t know.”

“That’s a lie!” roared the miner, clenching his fist in a threatening manner.

“Poor Tom! I wish I did know where you have gone!” said Fred, shaking his head sadly as he gazed on the floor, and taking no notice whatever of the threatening action of his visitor.

“Look here now, Westly,” said Gashford, in a low suppressed voice, shutting the curtain of the tent and drawing a revolver from his pocket, “you know something about this matter, and you know me. If you don’t tell me all you know and where your chum has bolted to, I’ll blow your brains out as sure as there’s a God in heaven.”

“I thought,” said Westly, quietly, and without the slightest symptom of alarm, “you held the opinion that there is no God and no heaven.”

“Come, young fellow, none o’ your religious chaff, but answer my question.”

“Nothing is farther from my thoughts than chaffing you,” returned Westly, gently, “and if the mere mention of God’s name is religion, then you may claim to be one of the most religious men at the diggings, for you are constantly praying Him to curse people. I have already answered your question, and can only repeat that I don’t know where my friend Brixton has gone to. But let me ask, in turn, what has happened to you?”

There was no resisting the earnest sincerity of Fred’s look and tone, to say nothing of his cool courage. Gashford felt somewhat abashed in spite of himself.

“What has happened to me?” he repeated, bitterly. “The worst that could happen has happened. My gold has been stolen, and your chum is the man who has cribbed it. I know that as well as if I had seen him do it. But I’ll hunt him down and have it out of him with interest; with interest, mark you—if I should have to go to the ends o’ the ’arth to find him.”

Without another word Gashford thrust the revolver into his pocket, flung aside the tent curtain, and strode away.

Meanwhile Tom Brixton, with the gold in a game-bag slung across his shoulder, was speeding down the valley, or mountain gorge, at the head of which the Pine Tree Diggings lay, with all the vigour and activity of youthful strength, but with none of the exultation that might be supposed to characterise a successful thief. On the contrary, a weight like lead seemed to lie on his heart, and the faces of his mother and his friend, Fred Westly, seemed to flit before him continually, gazing at him with sorrowful expression. As the fumes of the liquor which he had drunk began to dissipate, the shame and depression of spirit increased, and his strength, great though it was, began to give way.

By that time, however, he had placed many a mile between him and the camp where he had committed the robbery. The valley opened into a wide, almost boundless stretch of comparatively level land, covered here and there with forests so dense, that, once concealed in their recesses, it would be exceedingly difficult if not impossible, for white men to trace him, especially men who were so little acquainted with woodcraft as the diggers. Besides this, the region was undulating in form, here and there, so that from the tops of many of the eminences, he could see over the whole land, and observe the approach of enemies without being himself seen.

Feeling, therefore, comparatively safe, he paused in his mad flight, and went down on hands and knees to take a long drink at a bubbling spring. Rising, refreshed, with a deep sigh, he slowly mounted to the top of a knoll which was bathed at the time in the first beams of the rising sun.

From the spot he obtained a view of intermingled forest, prairie, lake, and river, so resplendent that even his mind was for a moment diverted from its gloomy introspections, and a glance of admiration shot from his eyes and chased the wrinkles from his brow; but the frown quickly returned, and the glorious landscape was forgotten as the thought of his dreadful condition returned with overwhelming power.

Up to that day Tom Brixton, with all his faults, had kept within the circle of the world’s laws. He had been well trained in boyhood, and, with the approval of his mother, had left England for the Oregon goldfields in company with a steady, well-principled friend, who had been a playmate in early childhood and at school. The two friends had experienced during three years the varying fortune of a digger’s life; sometimes working for long periods successfully, and gradually increasing their “pile;” at other times toiling day after day for nothing and living on their capital, but on the whole, making what men called a good thing of it until Tom took to gambling, which, almost as a matter of course, led to drinking. The process of demoralisation had continued until, as we have seen, the boundary line was at last overstepped, and he had become a thief and an outlaw.

At that period and in those diggings Judge Lynch—in other words, off-hand and speedy “justice” by the community of miners—was the order of the day, and, as stealing had become exasperatingly common, the penalty appointed was death, the judges being, in most cases, the prompt executioners.

Tom Brixton knew well what his fate would be if captured, and this unquestionably filled him with anxiety, but it was not this thought that caused him, as he reclined on the sunny knoll, to spurn the bag of gold with his foot.

“Trash!” he exclaimed, bitterly, repeating the kick.

But the love of gold had taken deep root in the fallen youth’s heart. After a brief rest he arose, slung the “trash” over his shoulder, and, descending the knoll, quickly disappeared in the glades of the forests.

Chapter Two.

While Brixton was hurrying with a guilty conscience deeper and deeper into the dark woods which covered the spur of the mountains in the neighbourhood of Pine Tree Diggings, glancing back nervously from time to time as if he expected the pursuers to be close at his heels, an enemy was advancing to meet him in front, of whom he little dreamed.

A brown bear, either enjoying his morning walk or on the look-out for breakfast, suddenly met him face to face, and stood up on its hind legs as if to have a good look at him.

Tom was no coward; indeed he was gifted with more than an average amount of animal courage. He at once levelled his rifle at the creature’s breast and fired. The bear rushed at him, nevertheless, as if uninjured. Drawing his revolver, Tom discharged two shots before the monster reached him. All three shots had taken effect but bears are noted for tenacity of life, and are frequently able to fight a furious battle after being mortally wounded. The rifle ball had touched its heart, and the revolver bullets had gone deep into its chest, yet it showed little sign of having been hurt.

Knowing full well the fate that awaited him if he stood to wrestle with a bear, the youth turned to run, but the bear was too quick for him. It struck him on the back and felled him to the earth.

Strange to say, at that moment Tom Brixton’s ill-gotten gains stood him in good stead. There can be no question that the bear’s tremendous claws would have sunk deep into the youth’s back, and probably broken his spine, if they had not been arrested by the bag of gold which was slung at his back. Although knocked down and slightly stunned, Brixton was still unwounded, and, even in the act of falling, had presence of mind to draw his long knife and plunge it up to the haft in the creature’s side, at the same time twisting himself violently round so as to fall on his back and thus face the foe.

In this position, partly owing to the form of the ground, the bear found it difficult to grasp its opponent in its awful embrace, but it held him with its claws and seized his left shoulder with its teeth. This rendered the use of the revolver impossible, but fortunately Brixton’s right arm was still free, and he drove the keen knife a second time deep into the animal’s sides. Whether mortal or not, the wound did not immediately kill. Tom felt that his hour was come, and a deadly fear came over him as the thought of death, his recent life, and judgment, flashed through his brain. He drew out the knife, however, to make another desperate thrust. The bear’s great throat was close over his face. He thought of its jugular vein, and made a deadly thrust at the spot where he imagined that to run.

Instantly a flood of warm blood deluged his face and breast; at the same time he felt as if some dreadful weight were pressing him to death. Then consciousness forsook him.

While this desperate fight was going on, the miners of Pine Tree camp were scouring the woods in all directions in search of the fugitive. As we have said, great indignation was felt at that time against thieves, because some of them had become very daring, and cases of theft were multiplying. Severe penalties had been imposed on the culprits by the rest of the community without curing the evil. At last death was decided on as the penalty for any act of theft, however trifling it might be. That these men were in earnest was proved by the summary execution of the next two offenders who were caught. Immediately after that thieving came to an abrupt end, insomuch that if you had left a bag of gold on an exposed place, men would have gone out of their way to avoid it!

One can understand, therefore, the indignation that was roused in the camp when Tom Brixton revived the practice in such a cool and impudent manner. It was felt that, despite his being a favourite with many of the diggers, he must be made an example. Pursuit was, therefore, organised on an extensive scale and in a methodical manner. Among others, his friend Fred Westly took part in it.

It cost those diggers something thus to give up the exciting work of gold-finding for a chase that promised to occupy time and tax perseverance. Some of them even refused to join in it, but on the whole the desire for vengeance seemed general.

Bully Gashford, as he did not object to be called, was, in virtue of his size, energy, and desperate character, tacitly appointed leader. Indeed he would have assumed that position if it had not been accorded to him, for he was made of that stuff which produces either heroes of the highest type or scoundrels of the deepest dye. He arranged that the pursuers should proceed in a body to the mouth of the valley, and there, dividing into several parties, scatter themselves abroad until they should find the thief’s trail and then follow it up. As the miners were not much accustomed to following trails, they engaged the services of several Indians who chanced to be at the camp at that time.

“What direction d’ye think it’s likely your precious chum has taken?” asked Gashford, turning abruptly to Fred Westly when the different parties were about to start.

“It is impossible for me to tell.”

“I know that,” retorted Gashford, with a scowl and something of a sneer, “but it ain’t impossible for you to guess. However, it will do as well if you tell me which party you intend to join.”

“I shall join that which goes to the south-west,” replied Westly.

“Well, then, I will join that which goes to the south-east,” returned the bully, shouldering his rifle. “Go ahead, you red reptile,” he added, giving a sign to the Indian at the head of the party he had selected to lead.

The Indian at once went off at a swinging walk, amounting almost to a trot. The others followed suit and the forest soon swallowed them all in its dark embrace.

In making this selection Gashford had fallen into a mistake not uncommon among scoundrels—that of judging other men by themselves. He knew that Westly was fond of his guilty friend, and concluded that he would tell any falsehood or put the pursuers on any false scent that might favour his escape. He also guessed—and he was fond of guessing—that Fred would answer his question by indicating the direction which he thought it most probable his friend had not taken. In these guesses he was only to a small extent right. Westly did indeed earnestly hope that his friend would escape; for he deemed the intended punishment of death most unjustly severe, and, knowing intimately the character and tendencies of Tom Brixton’s mind and tastes, he had a pretty shrewd guess as to the direction he had taken, but, so far from desiring to throw the pursuers off the scent his main anxiety was to join the party which he thought most likely to find the fugitive—if they should find him at all—in order that he might be present to defend him from sudden or unnecessary violence.

Of course Paddy Flinders went with the same party, and we need scarcely add that the little Irishman sympathised with Fred.

“D’ee think it’s likely we’ll cotch ’im?” he asked, in a whisper, on the evening of that day, as they went rapidly through the woods together, a little in rear of their party.

“It is difficult to say,” answered Westly. “I earnestly hope not; indeed I think not, for Tom has had a good start; but the search is well organised, and there are bloodthirsty, indignant, and persevering men among the various parties, who won’t be easily baffled. Still Tom is a splendid runner. We may depend on having a long chase before we come up with him.”

“Ah, then, it’s glad I am that ye think so, sor,” returned Paddy, “for I’ve been afear’d Mister Tom hadn’t got quite so much go in him, since he tuk to gambling and drinkin’.”

“Look here, Paddy,” exclaimed his companion, stopping abruptly, and pointing to the ground, “are not these the footprints of one of your friends?”

“Sure it’s a bar,” said the little man, going down on his knees to examine the footprints in question with deep interest.

Flinders was a remarkably plucky little man, and one of his great ambitions was to meet with a bear, when alone, and slay it single-handed. His ambition had not up to that time, been gratified, fortunately for himself, for he was a bad shot and exceedingly reckless, two qualities which would probably have insured his own destruction if he had had his wish.

“Let’s go after it, Mister Westly,” he said, springing to his feet with an excited look.

“Nonsense, it is probably miles off by this time; besides, we should lose our party.”

“Niver a taste, sor; we could soon overhaul them agin. An’ won’t they have to camp at sundown anyhow? Moreover, if we don’t come up wi’ the bar in a mile or so we can give it up.”

“No, no, Paddy, we must not fall behind. At least, I must not; but you may go after it alone if you choose.”

“Well, I will, sor. Sure it’s not ivery day I git the chance; an’ there’s no fear o’ ye overhaulin’ Mister Tom this night. We’ll have to slape over it, I’ll be bound. Just tell the boys I’ll be after them in no time.”

So saying Paddy shouldered his rifle, felt knife and axe to make sure of their being safe in his belt, and strode away in the track of the bear.

He had not gone above a quarter of a mile when he came to the spot where the mortal combat had taken place, and found Tom Brixton and the bear dead—as he imagined—on the blood-stained turf.

He uttered a mighty cry, partly to relieve his feelings and partly to recall his friend. The imprudence of this flashed upon him when too late, for others, besides Fred, might have heard him.

But Tom Brixton was not dead. Soon after the dying bear had fallen on him, he recovered consciousness, and shaking himself clear of the carcass with difficulty had arisen; but, giddiness returning, he lay down, and while in this position, overcome with fatigue, had fallen asleep. Paddy’s shout aroused him. With a sense of deadly peril hanging over him he leaped up and sprang on the Irishman.

“Hallo, Paddy!” he cried, checking himself, and endeavouring to wipe from his face some of the clotted blood with which he had been deluged. “You here? Are you alone?”

“It’s wishin’ that I was,” replied the little man, looking round anxiously. “Mister Fred ’ll be here d’rectly, sor—an’—an’ I hope that’ll be all. But it’s alive ye are, is it? An’ didn’t I take ye for dead. Oh! Mister Brixton, there’s more blood on an’ about ye, I do belave, than yer whole body could howld.”

Before an answer could be returned, Fred Westly, having heard Paddy’s shout, came running up.

“Oh! Tom, Tom,” he cried, eagerly, “are you hurt? Can you walk? Can you run? The whole camp is out after you.”

“Indeed?” replied the fugitive, with a frown. “It would seem that even my friends have joined in the chase.”

“We have,” said the other, hurriedly, “but not to capture—to save, if possible. Come, Tom, can you make an effort? Are you hurt much? You are so horribly covered with blood—”

He stopped short, for at that moment a shout was heard in the distance. It was replied to in another direction nearer at hand.

There happened to be a man in the party which Westly had joined, named Crossby. He had suffered much from thieves, and had a particular spite against Brixton because he had lost to him at play. He had heard Paddy Flinders’s unfortunate shout, and immediately ran in the direction whence it came; while others of the party, having discovered the fugitive’s track, had followed it up.

“Too late,” groaned Fred on hearing Crossby’s voice.

“Not too late for this,” growled Brixton, bitterly, as he quickly loaded his rifle.

“For God’s sake don’t do that, Tom,” cried his friend earnestly, as he laid his hand on his arm; but Tom shook him off and completed the operation just as Crossby burst from the bushes and ran towards them. Seeing the fugitive standing ready with rifle in hand, he stopped at once, took rapid aim, and fired. The ball whistled close past the head of Tom, who then raised his own rifle, took deliberate aim, and fired, but Westly threw up the muzzle and the bullet went high among the tree-tops.

With an exclamation of fury Brixton drew his knife, while Crossby rushed at him with his rifle clubbed.

The digger was a strong and fierce man, and there would doubtless have been a terrible and fatal encounter if Fred had not again interfered. He seized his friend from behind, and, whirling him sharply round, received on his own shoulder the blow which was meant for Tom’s head. Fred fell, dragging his friend down with him.

Flinders, who witnessed the unaccountable action of his companion with much surprise, now sprang to the rescue, but at the moment several of the other pursuers rushed upon the scene, and the luckless fugitive was instantly overpowered and secured.

“Now, my young buck,” said Crossby, “stand up! Hold him, four of you, till I fix his hands wi’ this rope. There, it’s the rope that you’ll swing by, so you’ll find it hard to break.”

While Tom was being bound he cast a look of fierce anger on Westly, who still lay prostrate and insensible on the ground, despite Paddy’s efforts to rouse him.

“I hope he is killed,” muttered Tom between his teeth.

“Och! no fear of him, he’s not so aisy kilt,” said Flinders, looking up. “Bad luck to ye for wishin’ it.”

As if to corroborate Paddy’s opinion, Westly showed signs of returning consciousness, and soon after sat up.

“Did ye kill that bar all by yerself?” asked one of the men who held the fugitive.

But Tom would not condescend to reply, and in a few minutes Crossby gave the word to march back towards Pine Tree Diggings.

They set off—two men marching on either side of the prisoner with loaded rifles and revolvers, the rest in front and in rear. A party was left behind to skin the bear and bring away the tit-bits of the carcass for supper. Being too late to return to Pine Tree Camp that night, they arranged to bivouac for the night in a hollow where there was a little pond fed by a clear spring which was known as the Red Man’s Teacup.

Here they kindled a large fire, the bright sparks from which, rising above the tree-tops, soon attracted the attention of the other parties, so that, ere long, the whole band of pursuers was gathered to the spot.

Gashford was the last to come up. On hearing that the thief had been captured by his former chum Westly, assisted by Flinders and Crossby, he expressed considerable surprise, and cast a long and searching gaze on Fred, who, however, being busy with the fire at the time, was unconscious of it. Whatever the bully thought, he kept his opinions to himself.

“Have you tied him up well!” he said, turning to Crossby.

“A wild horse couldn’t break his fastenings,” answered the digger.

“Perhaps not,” returned Gashford, with a sneer, “but you are always too sure by half o’ yer work. Come, stand up,” he added, going to where Tom lay, and stirring his prostrate form with his toe.

Brixton having now had time to consider his case coolly, had made up his mind to submit with a good grace to his fate, and, if it were so decreed, to die “like a man.” “I deserve punishment,” he reasoned with himself, “though death is too severe for the offence. However, a guilty man can’t expect to be the chooser of his reward. I suppose it is fate, as the Turks say, so I’ll submit—like them.”

He stood up at once, therefore, on being ordered to do so, and quietly underwent inspection.

“Ha! I thought so!” exclaimed Gashford, contemptuously. “Any man could free himself from that in half an hour. But what better could be expected from a land-lubber?”

Crossby made some sharp allusions to a “sea-lubber,” but he wisely restrained his voice so that only those nearest overheard him.

Meanwhile Gashford undid the rope that bound Tom Brixton’s arms behind him, and, holding him in his iron grip, ordered a smaller cord to be fetched.

Paddy Flinders, who had a schoolboy tendency to stuff his various pockets full of all sorts of miscellaneous articles, at once stepped forward and handed the leader a piece of strong cod-line.

“There ye are, sor,” said he.

“Just the thing, Paddy. Here, catch hold of this end of it an’ haul.”

“Yis, gineral,” said the Irishman, in a tone and with a degree of alacrity that caused a laugh from most of those who were looking on. Even the “gineral” observed it, and remarked with a sardonic smile—

“You seem to be pleased to see your old chum in this fix, I think.”

“Well now, gineral,” returned Flinders, in an argumentative tone of voice, “I can’t exactly say that, sor, for I’m troubled with what ye may call amiable weaknesses. Anyhow, I might see ’im in a worse fix.”

“Well, you’re like to see him in a worse fix if you live long enough,” returned the leader. “Haul now on this knot. It’ll puzzle him to undo that. Lend me your knife.”

Flinders drew his glittering bowie-knife from its sheath and handed it to his leader, who cut off the superfluous cordage with it, after having bound the prisoner’s wrists behind his back in a sailor-like manner.

In returning the knife to its owner, Gashford, who was fond of a practical joke, tossed it high in the air towards him with a “Here, catch.”

The keen glittering thing came twirling down, but to the surprise of all, the Irishman caught it by the handle as deftly as though he had been a trained juggler.

“Thank your gineralship,” exclaimed Paddy, amid a shout of laughter and applause, bowing low in mock reverence. As he rose he made a wild flourish with the knife, uttered an Indian war-whoop, and cut a caper.

In that flourish he managed to strike the cord that bound the prisoner, and severed one turn of it. The barefaced audacity of the act (like that of a juggler) caused it to pass unobserved. Even Tom, although he felt the touch of the knife, was not aware of what had happened, for, of course, a number of uncut turns of the cord still held his wrists painfully tight.

“Now, lie down on your back,” said Gashford, sternly, when the laugh that Paddy had raised subsided.

Either the tone of this command, or the pain caused by his bonds, roused Tom’s anger, for he refused to obey.

“Lie down, ye spalpeen, whin the gineral bids ye,” cried Flinders, suddenly seizing his old friend by the collar and flinging him flat on his back, in which act he managed to trip and fall on the top of him.

The opportunity was not a good one, nevertheless the energetic fellow managed to whisper, “The rope’s cut! Lie still!” in the very act of falling.

“Well done, Paddy,” exclaimed several of the laughing men, as Flinders rose with a pretended look of discomfiture, and went towards the fire, exclaiming—

“Niver mind, boys, I’ll have me supper now. Hi! who’s bin an’ stole it whin I was out on dooty? Oh! here it is all right. Now then, go to work, an’ whin the pipes is lighted I’ll maybe sing ye a song, or tell ye a story about ould Ireland.”

Chapter Three.

Obedient to orders, Tom Brixton lay perfectly still on his back, just where he had fallen, wondering much whether the cord was really cut, for he did not feel much relaxation of it or abatement of the pain. He resolved, at any rate, to give no further cause for rough treatment, but to await the issue of events as patiently as he could.

True to his promise, the Irishman after supper sang several songs, which, if not characterised by sweetness of tone, were delivered with a degree of vigour that seemed to make full amends in the estimation of his hearers. After that he told a thrilling ghost story, which drew the entire band of men round him. Paddy had a natural gift in the way of relating ghost stories, for, besides the power of rapid and sustained discourse, without hesitation or redundancy of words, he possessed a vivid imagination, a rich fancy, a deep bass voice, an expressive countenance, and a pair of large coal-black eyes, which, as one of the Yankee diggers said, “would sartinly bore two holes in a blanket if he only looked at it long enough.”

We do not intend to inflict that ghost story on the reader. It is sufficient to say that Paddy began it by exclaiming in a loud voice—“‘Now or niver, boys—now or niver.’ That’s what the ghost said.”

“What’s that you say, Paddy?” asked Gashford, leaving his own separate and private fire, which he enjoyed with one or two chosen comrades, and approaching that round which the great body of the diggers were already assembled.

“I was just goin’ to tell the boys, sor, a bit of a ghost story.”

“Well, go on, lad, I’d like to hear it, too.”

“‘Now or niver!’” repeated the Irishman, with such startling emphasis that even Tom Brixton, lying bound as he was under the shelter of a spreading tree at some distance from the fire, had his curiosity aroused. “That’s what the ghost said, under somewhat pecooliar circumstances; an’ he said it twice so that there might be no mistake at all about it. ‘Now or niver! now or niver!’ says he, an’ he said it earnestly—”

“I didn’t know that ghosts could speak,” interrupted Crossby, who, when not in a bad humour, was rather fond of thrusting bad jokes and blunt witticisms on his comrades.

“Sure, I’m not surprised at that for there’s many things ye don’t know, Crossby; besides, no ghost with the smallest taste of propriety about it would condescind to spake wid you. Well, boys, that’s what the ghost said in a muffled vice—their vices are muffled, you know, an their virtues too, for all I know to the contrairy. It’s a good sentiment is that ‘Now or niver’ for every wan of ye—so ye may putt it in yer pipes an’ smoke it, an’ those of ye who haven’t got pipes can make a quid of it an’ chaw it, or subject it to meditation. ‘Now or niver!’ Think o’ that! You see I’m partikler about it, for the whole story turns on that pint, as the ghost’s life depended on it, but ye’ll see an’ onderstan’ better whin I come to the end o’ the story.”

Paddy said this so earnestly that it had the double effect of chaining the attention of his hearers and sending a flash of light into Tom Brixton’s brain.

“Now or never!” he muttered to himself, and turned gently on his side so as to be able to feel the cord that bound his wrists. It was still tight, but, by moving his fingers, he could feel that one of its coils had really been cut, and that with a little patience and exertion he might possibly free his hands.

Slight as the motion was, however, Gashford observed it, for the fire-light shone brightly on Tom’s recumbent figure.

“Lie still, there!” he cried, sternly.

Tom lay perfectly still, and the Irishman continued his story. It grew in mystery and in horror as he proceeded, and his audience became entranced, while some of the more superstitious among them cast occasional glances over their shoulders into the forest behind, which ere long was steeped in the blackness of an unusually dark night. A few of those outside the circle rose and drew nearer to the story-teller.

At that moment a gleam of light which had already entered Brixton’s brain flashed into that of Fred Westly, who arose, and, under pretext of being too far off from the speaker, went round to the opposite side of the fire so as to face him. By so doing he placed himself between the fire and his friend Tom. Two or three of the others followed his example, though not from the same motive, and thus, when the fire burnt low, the prisoner found himself lying in deep shadow. By that time he had freed his benumbed hands, chafed them into a condition of vitality, and was considering whether he should endeavour to creep quietly away or spring up and make a dash for life.

“‘Now or niver,’ said the ghost, in a solemn muffled vice,” continued Paddy—

“Who did he say that to?” asked Gashford, who was by that time as much fascinated as the rest of the party.

“To the thief, sor, av coorse, who was standin’ tremblin’ fornint him, while the sexton was diggin’ the grave to putt him in alive—in the dark shadow of a big tombstone.”

The Irishman had now almost reached the climax of his story, and was intensely graphic in his descriptions—especially at the horrible parts. He was obviously spinning it out, and the profound silence around told how completely he had enchained his hearers. It also warned Tom Brixton that his time was short, and that in his case it was indeed, “now or never.”

He crept quietly towards the bushes near him. In passing a tree against which several rifles had been placed he could not resist the temptation to take one. Laying hold of that which stood nearest, and which seemed to be similar in make to the rifle they had taken from himself when he was captured, he drew it towards him. Unfortunately it formed a prop to several other rifles, which fell with a crash, and one of them exploded in the fall.

The effect on Paddy’s highly-strung audience was tremendous. Many of them yelled as if they had received an electric shock. All of them sprang up and turned round just in time to see their captive vanish, not unlike a ghost, into the thick darkness!

That glance, however, was sufficient to enlighten them. With shouts of rage many of them darted after the fugitive, and followed him up like bloodhounds. Others, who had never been very anxious for his capture or death, and had been turned somewhat in his favour by the bold stand he had made against the bear, returned to the fire after a short run.

If there had been even a glimmering of light Tom would certainly have been retaken at once, for not a few of his pursuers were quite as active and hardy as himself, but the intense darkness favoured him. Fortunately the forest immediately behind him was not so dense as elsewhere, else in his first desperate rush, regardless of consequences, he would probably have dashed himself against a tree. As it was he went right through a thicket and plunged headlong into a deep hole. He scrambled out of this with the agility of a panther, just in time to escape Gashford, who chanced to plunge into the same hole, but not so lightly. Heavy though he was, however, his strength was equal to the shock, and he would have scrambled out quickly enough if Crossby had not run on the same course and tumbled on the top of him.

Amid the growling half-fight, half-scramble that ensued, Tom crept swiftly away to the left, but the pursuers had so scattered themselves that he heard them panting and stumbling about in every direction—before, on either hand, and behind. Hurrying blindly on for a few paces, he almost ran into the arms of a man whom he could hear, though he could not see him, and stopped.

“Hallo! is that you, Bill Smith?” demanded the man.

“Ay, that’s me,” replied Tom, promptly, mimicking Bill Smith’s voice and gasping violently. “I thought you were Brixton. He’s just passed this way. I saw him.”

“Did you?—where?”

“Away there—to the left!”

Off went the pursuer as fast as he dared, and Tom continued his flight with more caution.

“Hallo! hi! hooroo!” came at that moment from a long distance to the right, in unmistakable tones. “Here he is, down this way. Stop, you big thief! Howld him. Dick! Have ye got him?”

There was a general rush and scramble towards the owner of the bass voice, and Tom, who at once perceived the ruse, went quietly off in the opposite direction.

Of course, the hunt came to an end in a very few minutes. Every one, having more or less damaged his head, knees, elbows, and shins, came to the natural conclusion that a chase in the dark was absurd as well as hopeless, and in a short time all were reassembled round the fire, where Fred Westly still stood, for he had not joined in the pursuit. Gashford was the last to come up, with the exception of Paddy Flinders.

The bully came forward, fuming with rage, and strode up to Fred Westly with a threatening look.

“You were at the bottom of this!” he cried, doubling his huge fist. “It was you who cut the rope, for no mortal man could have untied it!”

“Indeed I did not!” replied Fred, with a steady but not defiant look.

“Then it must have bin your little chum Flinders. Where is he?”

“How could Flinders ha’ done it when he was tellin’ a ghost story?” said Crossby.

Gashford turned with a furious look to the speaker, and seemed on the point of venting his ill-humour upon him, when he was arrested by the sound of the Irishman’s voice shouting in the distance.

As he drew nearer the words became intelligible. “Howld him tight, now! d’ye hear? Och! whereiver have ye gone an’ lost yersilf? Howld him tight till I come an’ help ye! What! is it let him go ye have? Ah then it’s wishin’ I had the eyes of a cat this night for I can’t rightly see the length of my nose. Sure ye’ve niver gone an’ let him go? Don’t say so, now!” wound up Paddy as, issuing from the wood, he advanced into the circle of light.

“Who’s got hold of him, Flin?” asked one of the men as he came up.

“Sorrow wan o’ me knows,” returned the Irishman, wiping the perspiration from his brow; “d’ye suppose I can see in the dark like the moles? All I know is that half a dozen of ye have bin shoutin’ ‘Here he is!’ an’ another half-dozen, ‘No, he’s here—this way!’ an’ sure I ran this way an’ then I ran that way—havin’ a nat’ral disposition to obey orders, acquired in the Louth Militia—an’ then I ran my nose flat on a tree—bad luck to it!—that putt more stars in me hid than you’ll see in the sky this night. Ah! ye may laugh, but it’s truth I’m tellin’. See, there’s a blob on the ind of it as big as a chirry!”

“That blob’s always there, Paddy,” cried one of the men; “it’s a grog-blossom.”

“There now, Peter, don’t become personal. But tell me—ye’ve got him, av coorse?”

“No, we haven’t got him,” growled Crossby.

“Well, now, you’re a purty lot o’ hunters. Sure if—”

“Come, shut up, Flinders,” interrupted Gashford, swallowing his wrath. (Paddy brought his teeth together with a snap in prompt obedience.) “You know well enough that we haven’t got him, and you know you’re not sorry for it; but mark my words, I’ll hunt him down yet. Who’ll go with me?”

“I’ll go,” said Crossby, stepping forward at once. “I’ve a grudge agin the puppy, and I’ll help to make him swing if I can.”

Half a dozen other men, who were noted for leading idle and dissipated lives, and who would rather have hunted men than nothing, also offered to go, but the most of the party had had enough of it, and resolved to return home in the morning.

“We can’t go just now, however,” said Crossby, “we’d only break our legs or necks.”

“The moon will rise in an hour,” returned Gashford; “we can start then.”

He flung himself down sulkily on the ground beside the fire and began to fill his pipe. Most of the others followed his example, and sat chatting about the recent escape, while a few, rolling themselves in their blankets, resigned themselves to sleep.

About an hour later, as had been predicted, the moon rose, and Gashford with his men set forth. But by that time the fugitive, groping his way painfully with many a stumble and fall, had managed to put a considerable distance between him and his enemies, so that when the first silvery moonbeans tipped the tree-tops and shed a faint glimmer on the ground, which served to make darkness barely visible, he had secured a good start, and was able to keep well ahead. The pursuers were not long in finding his track, however, for they had taken a Red Indian with them to act as guide, but the necessity for frequent halts to examine the footprints carefully delayed them much, while Tom Brixton ran straight on without halt or stay. Still he felt that his chance of escape was by no means a good one, for as he guessed rightly, they would not start without a native guide, and he knew the power and patience of these red men in following an enemy’s trail. What made his case more desperate was the sudden diminution of his strength. For it must be borne in mind that he had taken but little rest and no food since his flight from Pine Tree Diggings, and the wounds he had received from the bear, although not dangerous, were painful and exhausting.

A feeling of despair crept over the stalwart youth when the old familiar sensation of bodily strength began to forsake him. Near daybreak he was on the point of casting himself on the ground to take rest at all hazards, when the sound of falling water broke upon his ear. His spirit revived at once, for he now knew that in his blind wandering he had come near to a well-known river or stream, where he could slake his burning thirst, and, by wading down its course for some distance, throw additional difficulty in the pursuers’ way. Not that he expected by that course to throw them entirely off the scent, he only hoped to delay them.

On reaching the river’s brink he fell down on his breast and, applying his lips to the bubbling water, took a deep refreshing draught.

“God help me!” he exclaimed, on rising, and then feeling the burden of gold (which, all through his flight had been concealed beneath his shirt, packed flat so as to lie close), he took it off and flung it down.

“There,” he said bitterly, “for you I have sold myself body and soul, and now I fling you away!”

Instead of resting as he had intended, he now, feeling strengthened, looked about for a suitable place to enter the stream and wade down so as to leave no footprints behind. To his surprise and joy he observed the bow of a small Indian canoe half hidden among the bushes. It had apparently been dragged there by its owner, and left to await his return, for the paddles were lying under it.

Launching this frail bark without a moment’s delay, he found that it was tight; pushed off and went rapidly down with the current. Either he had forgotten the gold in his haste, or the disgust he had expressed was genuine, for he left it lying on the bank.

He now no longer fled without a purpose. Many miles down that same stream there dwelt a gold-digger in a lonely hut. His name was Paul Bevan. He was an eccentric being, and a widower with an only child, a daughter, named Elizabeth—better known as Betty.

One phase of Paul Bevan’s eccentricity was exhibited in his selection of a spot in which to search for the precious metal. It was a savage, gloomy gorge, such as a misanthrope might choose in which to end an unlovely career. But Bevan was no misanthrope. On the contrary, he was one of those men who are gifted with amiable dispositions, high spirits, strong frames, and unfailing health. He was a favourite with all who knew him, and, although considerably past middle life, possessed much of the fire, energy, and light-heartedness of youth. There is no accounting for the acts of eccentric men, and we make no attempt to explain why it was that Paul Bevan selected a home which was not only far removed from the abodes of other men, but which did not produce much gold. Many prospecting parties had visited the region from time to time, under the impression that Bevan had discovered a rich mine, which he was desirous of keeping all to himself; but, after searching and digging all round the neighbourhood, and discovering that gold was to be found in barely paying quantities, they had left in search of more prolific fields, and spread the report that Paul Bevan was an eccentric fellow. Some said he was a queer chap; others, more outspoken, styled him an ass, but all agreed in the opinion that his daughter Betty was the finest girl in Oregon.

Perhaps this opinion may account for the fact that many of the miners—especially the younger among them—returned again and again to Bevan’s Gully to search for gold although the search was not remunerative. Among those persevering though unsuccessful diggers had been, for a considerable time past, our hero Tom Brixton. Perhaps the decision with which Elizabeth Bevan repelled him had had something to do with his late reckless life.

But we must guard the reader here from supposing that Betty Bevan was a beauty. She was not. On the other hand, she was by no means plain, for her complexion was good, her nut-brown hair was soft and wavy, and her eyes were tender and true. It was the blending of the graces of body and of soul that rendered Betty so attractive. As poor Tom Brixton once said in a moment of confidence to his friend Westly, while excusing himself for so frequently going on prospecting expeditions to Bevan’s Gully, “There’s no question about it, Fred; she’s the sweetest girl in Oregon—pshaw! in the world, I should have said. Loving-kindness beams in her eyes, sympathy ripples on her brow, grace dwells in her every motion, and honest, straightforward simplicity sits enthroned upon her countenance!”

Even Crossby, the surly digger, entertained similar sentiments regarding her, though he expressed them in less refined language. “She’s a bu’ster,” he said once to a comrade, “that’s what she is, an’ no mistake about it. What with her great eyes glarin’ affection, an’ her little mouth smilin’ good-natur’, an’ her figure goin’ about as graceful as a small cat at play—why, I tell ’ee what it is, mate, with such a gal for a wife a feller might snap his fingers at hunger an’ thirst, heat an’ cold, bad luck an’ all the rest of it. But she’s got one fault that don’t suit me. She’s overly religious—an’ that don’t pay at the diggin’s.”

This so-called fault did indeed appear to interfere with Betty Bevan’s matrimonial prospects, for it kept a large number of dissipated diggers at arm’s-length from her, and it made even the more respectable men feel shy in her presence.

Tom Brixton, however, had not been one of her timid admirers. He had a drop or two of Irish blood in his veins which rendered that impossible! Before falling into dissipated habits he had paid his addresses to her boldly. Moreover, his suit was approved by Betty’s father, who had taken a great fancy to Tom. But, as we have said, this Rose of Oregon repelled Tom. She did it gently and kindly, it is true, but decidedly.

It was, then, towards the residence of Paul Bevan that the fugitive now urged his canoe, with a strange turmoil of conflicting emotions however; for, the last time he had visited the Gully he had been at least free from the stain of having broken the laws of man. Now, he was a fugitive and an outlaw, with hopes and aspirations blighted and the last shred of self-respect gone.

Chapter Four.

When Tom Brixton had descended the river some eight or ten miles he deemed himself pretty safe from his pursuers, at least for the time being, as his rate of progress with the current far exceeded the pace at which men could travel on foot; and besides, there was the strong probability that, on reaching the spot where the canoe had been entered and the bag of gold left on the bank, the pursuers would be partially satisfied as well as baffled, and would return home.

On reaching a waterfall, therefore, where the navigable part of the river ended and its broken course through Bevan’s Gully began, he landed without any show of haste, drew the canoe up on the bank, where he left it concealed among bushes, and began quietly to descend by a narrow footpath with which he had been long familiar.

Up to that point the unhappy youth had entertained no definite idea as to why he was hurrying towards the hut of Paul Bevan, or what he meant to say for himself on reaching it. But towards noon, as he drew near to it, the thought of Betty in her innocence and purity oppressed him. She rose before his mind’s eye like a reproving angel.

How could he ever face her with the dark stain of a mean theft upon his soul? How could he find courage to confess his guilt to her? or, supposing that he did not confess it, how could he forge the tissue of lies that would be necessary to account for his sudden appearance, and in such guise—bloodstained, wounded, haggard, and worn out with fatigue and hunger? Such thoughts now drove him to the verge of despair. Even if Betty were to refrain from putting awkward questions, there was no chance whatever of Paul Bevan being so considerate. Was he then to attempt to deceive them, or was he to reveal all? He shrank from answering the question, for he believed that Bevan was an honest man, and feared that he would have nothing further to do with him when he learned that he had become a common thief. A thief! How the idea burned into his heart, now that the influence of strong drink no longer warped his judgment!

“Has it really come to this?” he muttered, gloomily. Then, as he came suddenly in sight of Bevan’s hut, he exclaimed more cheerfully, “Come, I’ll make a clean breast of it.”

Paul Bevan had pitched his hut on the top of a steep rocky mound, the front of which almost overhung a precipice that descended into a deep gully, where the tormented river fell into a black and gurgling pool. Behind the hut flowed a streamlet, which being divided by the mound into a fork, ran on either side of it in two deep channels, so that the hut could only be reached by a plank bridge thrown across the lower or western fork. The forked streamlet tumbled over the precipice and descended into the dark pool below in the form of two tiny silver threads. At least it would have done so if its two threads had not been dissipated in misty spray long before reaching the bottom of the cliff. Thus it will be seen that the gold-digger occupied an almost impregnable fortress, though why he had perched himself in such a position no one could guess, and he declined to tell. It was therefore set down, like all his other doings, to eccentricity.

Of course there was so far a pretext for his caution in the fact that there were scoundrels in those regions, who sometimes banded together and attacked people who were supposed to have gold-dust about them in large quantities, but as such assaults were not common, and as every one was equally liable to them, there seemed no sufficient ground for Bevan’s excessive care in the selection of his fortress.

On reaching it, Tom found its owner cutting up some firewood near his plank-bridge.

“Hallo, Brixton!” he cried, looking up in some surprise as the young man advanced; “you seem to have bin in the wars. What have ’e been fightin’ wi’, lad?”

“With a bear, Paul Bevan,” replied Tom, sitting down on a log, with a long-drawn sigh.

“You’re used up, lad, an’ want rest; mayhap you want grub also. Anyhow you look awful bad. No wounds, I hope, or bones broken, eh?”

“No, nothing but a broken heart,” replied Tom with a faint attempt to smile.

“Why, that’s a queer bit o’ you for a b’ar to break. If you had said it was a girl that broke it, now, I could have—”

“Where is Betty?” interrupted the youth, quickly, with an anxious expression.

“In the hut, lookin’ arter the grub. You’ll come in an’ have some, of course. But I’m coorious to hear about that b’ar. Was it far from here you met him?”

“Ay, just a short way this side o’ Pine Tree Diggings.”

“Pine Tree Diggin’s!” repeated Paul in surprise. “Why, then, didn’t you go back to Pine Tree Diggin’s to wash yourself an’ rest, instead o’ comin’ all the way here?”

“Because—because, Paul Bevan,” said Tom with sudden earnestness, as he gazed on the other’s face, “because I’m a thief!”

“You might be worse,” replied Bevan, while a peculiarly significant smile played for a moment on his rugged features.

“What do you mean?” exclaimed Tom, in amazement.

“Why, you might have bin a murderer, you know,” replied Bevan, with a nod.

The youth was so utterly disgusted with this cool, indifferent way of regarding the matter, that he almost regretted having spoken. He had been condemning himself so severely during the latter part of his journey, and the meanness of his conduct as well as its wickedness had been growing so dark in colour, that Bevan’s unexpected levity took him aback, and for a few seconds he could not speak.

“Listen,” he said at last, seizing his friend by the arm and looking earnestly into his eyes. “Listen, and I will tell you all about it.”

The man became grave as Tom went on with his narrative.

“Yes, it’s a bad business,” he said, at its conclusion, “an uncommon bad business. Got a very ugly look about it.”

“You are right, Paul,” said Tom, bowing his head, while a flush of shame covered his face. “No one, I think, can be more fully convinced of the meanness—the sin—of my conduct than I am now—”

“Oh! as to that,” returned Bevan, with another of his peculiar smiles, “I didn’t exactly mean that. You were tempted, you know, pretty bad. Besides, Bully Gashford is a big rascal, an’ richly deserves what he got. No, it wasn’t that I meant—but it’s a bad look-out for you, lad, if they nab you. I knows the temper o’ them Pine Tree men, an’ they’re in such a wax just now that they’ll string you up, as sure as fate, if they catch you.”

Again Tom was silent, for the lightness with which Bevan regarded his act of theft only had the effect of making him condemn himself the more.

“But I say, Brixton,” resumed Bevan, with an altered expression, “not a word of all this to Betty. You haven’t much chance with her as it is, although I do my best to back you up; but if she came to know of this affair, you’d not have the ghost of a chance at all—for you know the gal is religious, more’s the pity, though I will say it, she’s a good obedient gal, in spite of her religion, an’ a ’fectionate darter to me. But she’d never marry a thief, you know. You couldn’t well expect her to.”

The dislike with which Tom Brixton regarded his companion deepened into loathing as he spoke, and he felt it difficult to curb his desire to fell the man to the ground, but the thought that he was Betty’s father soon swallowed up all other thoughts and feelings. He resolved in his own mind that, come of it what might, he would certainly tell all the facts to the girl, and then formally give her up, for he agreed with Bevan at least on one point, namely, that he could not expect a good religious girl to marry a thief!

“But you forget, Paul,” he said, after a few moments’ thought, “that Betty is sure to hear about this affair the first time you have a visitor from Pine Tree Diggings.”

“That’s true, lad, I did forget that. But you know you can stoutly deny that it was you who did it. Say there was some mistake, and git up some cock-an’-a-bull story to confuse her. Anyhow, say nothing about it just now.”

Tom was still meditating what he should say in reply to this, when Betty herself appeared, calling her father to dinner.

“Now, mind, not a word about the robbery,” he whispered as he rose, “and we’ll make as much as we can of the b’ar.”

“Yes, not a word about it,” thought Tom, “till Betty and I are alone, and then—a clean breast and good-bye to her, for ever!”

During dinner the girl manifested more than usual sympathy with Tom Brixton. She saw that he was almost worn out with fatigue, and listened with intense interest to her father’s embellished narrative of the encounter with the “b’ar,” which narrative Tom was forced to interrupt and correct several times, in the course of its delivery. But this sympathy did not throw her off her guard. Remembering past visits, she took special care that Tom should have no opportunity of being alone with her.

“Now, you must be off to rest,” said Paul Bevan, the moment his visitor laid down his knife and fork, “for, let me tell you, I may want your help before night. I’ve got an enemy, Tom, an enemy who has sworn to be the death o’ me, and who will be the death o’ me, I feel sure o’ that in the long-run. However, I’ll keep him off as long as I can. He’d have been under the sod long afore now, lad—if—if it hadn’t bin for my Betty. She’s a queer girl is Betty, and she’s made a queer man of her old father.”

“But who is this enemy, and when—what—? explain yourself.”

“Well, I’ve no time to explain either ‘when’ or ‘what’ just now, and you have no time to waste. Only I have had a hint from a friend, early this morning, that my enemy has discovered my whereabouts, and is following me up. But I’m ready for him, and right glad to have your stout arm to help—though you couldn’t fight a babby just now. Lie down, I say, an’ I’ll call you when you’re wanted.”

Ceasing to press the matter, Tom entered a small room, in one corner of which a narrow bed, or bunk, was fixed. Flinging himself on this, he was fast asleep in less than two minutes. “Kind nature’s sweet restorer” held him so fast, that for three hours he lay precisely as he fell, without the slightest motion, save the slow and regular heaving of his broad chest.

At the end of that time he was rudely shaken by a strong hand. The guilty are always easily startled. Springing from his couch he had seized Bevan by the throat before he was quite awake.

“Hist! man, not quite so fast” gasped his host shaking him off. “Come, they’ve turned up sooner than I expected.”

“What—who?” said Brixton, looking round.

“My enemy, of coorse, an’ a gang of redskins to help him. They expect to catch us asleep, but they’ll find out their mistake soon enough. That lad there brought me the news, and, you see, he an’ Betty are getting things ready.”

Tom glanced through the slightly opened doorway, as he tightened his belt, and saw Betty and a boy of about fourteen years of age standing at a table, busily engaged loading several old-fashioned horse-pistols with buckshot.

“Who’s the boy?” asked Tom.

“They call him Tolly. I saved the little chap once from a grizzly b’ar, an’ he’s a grateful feller, you see—has run a long way to give me warnin’ in time. Come, here’s a shot-gun for you, charged wi’ slugs. I’m not allowed to use ball, you must know, ’cause Betty thinks that balls kill an’ slugs only wound! I humour the little gal, you see, for she’s a good darter to me. We’ve both on us bin lookin’ forward to this day, for we knowed it must come sooner or later, an’ I made her a promise that, when it did come, I’d only defend the hut wi’ slugs. But slugs ain’t bad shots at a close range, when aimed low.”

The man gave a sly chuckle and a huge wink as he said this, and entered the large room of the hut.

Betty was very pale and silent. She did not even look up from the pistol she was loading when Tom entered. The boy Tolly, however, looked at his tall, strong figure with evident satisfaction.

“Ha!” he exclaimed, ramming down a charge of slugs with great energy; “we’ll be able to make a good fight without your services, Betty. Won’t we, old man?”

The pertly-put question was addressed to Paul Bevan, between whom and the boy there was evidently strong affection.

“Yes, Tolly,” replied Bevan, with a pleasant nod, “three men are quite enough for the defence of this here castle.”

“But, I say, old man,” continued the boy, shaking a powder-horn before his face, “the powder’s all done. Where’ll I git more?”

A look of anxiety flitted across Bevan’s face.

“It’s in the magazine. I got a fresh keg last week, an’ thought it safest to put it there till required—an’ haven’t I gone an’ forgot to fetch it in!”

“Well, that don’t need to trouble you,” returned the boy, “just show me the magazine, an’ I’ll go an’ fetch it in!”

“The magazine’s over the bridge,” said Bevan. “I dug it there for safety. Come, Tom, the keg’s too heavy for the boy. I must fetch it myself, and you must guard the bridge while I do it.”

He went out quickly as he spoke, followed by Tom and Tolly.

It was a bright moonlight night, and the forks of the little stream glittered like two lines of silver, at the bottom of their rugged bed on either side of the hut. The plank-bridge had been drawn up on the bank. With the aid of his two allies Bevan quickly thrust it over the gulf, and, without a moment’s hesitation, sprang across. While Tom stood at the inner end, ready with a double-barrelled gun to cover his friend’s retreat if necessary, he saw Bevan lift a trap-door not thirty yards distant and disappear. A few seconds, and he re-appeared with a keg on his shoulder.

All remained perfectly quiet in the dark woods around. The babbling rivulet alone broke the silence of the night. Bevan seemed to glide over the ground, he trod so softly.

“There’s another,” he whispered, placing the keg at Tom’s feet, and springing back towards the magazine. Again he disappeared, and, as before, re-issued from the hole with the second keg on his shoulder. Suddenly a phantom seemed to glide from the bushes, and fell him to the earth. He dropped without even a cry, and so swift was the act that his friends had not time to move a finger to prevent it. Tom, however, discharged both barrels of his gun at the spot where the phantom seemed to disappear, and Tolly Trevor discharged a horse pistol in the same direction. Instantly a rattling volley was fired from the woods, and balls whistled all round the defenders of the hut.

Most men in the circumstances would have sought shelter, but Tom Brixton’s spirit was of that utterly reckless character that refuses to count the cost before action. Betty’s father lay helpless on the ground in the power of his enemies! That was enough for Tom. He leaped across the bridge, seized the fallen man, threw him on his shoulder, and had almost regained the bridge, when three painted Indians uttered a hideous war-whoop and sprang after him.

Fortunately, having just emptied their guns, they could not prevent the fugitive from crossing the bridge, but they reached it before there was time to draw in the plank, and were about to follow, when Tolly Trevor planted himself in front of them with a double-barrelled horse-pistol in each band.

“We don’t want you here, you—red-faced—baboons!” he cried, pausing between each of the last three words to discharge a shot and emphasising the last word with one of the pistols, which he hurled with such precision that it took full effect on the bridge of the nearest red man’s nose. All three fell, but rose again with a united screech and fled back to the bushes.

A few moments more and the bridge was drawn back, and Paul Bevan was borne into the hut, amid a scattering fire from the assailants, which, however, did no damage.

To the surprise and consternation of Tolly, who entered first, Betty was found sitting on a chair with blood trickling from her left arm. A ball entering through the window had grazed her, and she sank down, partly from the shock, coupled with alarm. She recovered, however, on seeing her father carried in, sprang up, and ran to him.

“Only stunned, Betty,” said Tom; “will be all right soon, but we must rouse him, for the scoundrels will be upon us in a minute. What—what’s this—wounded?”

“Only a scratch. Don’t mind me. Father! dear father—rouse up! They will be here—oh! rouse up, dear father!”

But Betty shook him in vain.

“Out o’ the way, I know how to stir him up,” said Tolly, coming forward with a pail of water and sending the contents violently into his friend’s face—thus drenching him from head to foot.

The result was that Paul Bevan sneezed, and, sitting up, looked astonished.

“Ha! I thought that ’ud fetch you,” said the boy, with a grin. “Come, you’d better look alive if you don’t want to lose yer scalp.”

“Ho! ho!” exclaimed Bevan, rising with a sudden look of intelligence and staggering to the door, “here, give me the old sword, Betty, and the blunderbuss. Now then.”

He went out at the door, and Tom Brixton was following, when the girl stopped him.

“Oh! Mr Brixton,” she said, “do not kill any one, if you can help it.”

“I won’t if I can help it. But listen, Betty,” said the youth, hurriedly seizing the girl’s hand. “I have tried hard to speak with you alone to-day, to tell you that I am guilty, and to say good-bye for ever.”

“Guilty! what do you mean?” she exclaimed in bewildered surprise.

“No time to explain. I may be shot, you know, or taken prisoner, though the latter’s not likely. In any case remember that I confess myself guilty! God bless you, dear, dear girl.”

Without waiting for a reply, he ran to a hollow on the top of the mound where his friend and Tolly were already ensconced, and whence they could see every part of the clearing around the little fortress.

“I see the reptiles,” whispered Bevan, as Tom joined them. “They are mustering for an attack on the south side. Just what I wish,” he added, with a suppressed chuckle, “for I’ve got a pretty little arrangement of cod-hooks and man-traps in that direction.”

As he spoke several dark figures were seen gliding among the trees. A moment later, and these made a quick silent rush over the clearing to gain the slight shelter of the shrubs that fringed the streamlet.

“Just so,” remarked Bevan, in an undertone, when a crash of branches told that one of his traps had taken effect; “an’ from the row I should guess that two have gone into the hole at the same time. Ha! that’s a fish hooked!” he added, as a short sharp yell of pain, mingled with surprise, suddenly increased the noise.

“An’ there goes another!” whispered Tolly, scarcely able to contain himself with delight at such an effective yet comparatively bloodless way of embarrassing their foes.

“And another,” added Bevan; “but look out now; they’ll retreat presently. Give ’em a dose o’ slug as they go back, but take ’em low, lads—about the feet and ankles. It’s only a fancy of my dear little gal, but I like to humour her fancies.”

Bevan was right. Finding that they were not only surrounded by hidden pit-falls, but caught by painfully sharp little instruments, and entangled among cordage, the Indians used their scalping-knives to free themselves, and rushed back again towards the wood, but before gaining its shelter they received the slug-dose above referred to, and instantly filled the air with shrieks of rage, rather than of pain. At that moment a volley was fired from the other side of the fortress, and several balls passed close over the defenders’ heads.

“Surrounded and outnumbered!” exclaimed Bevan, with something like a groan.

As he spoke another, but more distant, volley was heard, accompanied by shouts of anger and confusion among the men who were assaulting the fortress.

“The attackers are attacked,” exclaimed Bevan, in surprise; “I wonder who by.”

He looked round for a reply, but only saw the crouching figure of Tolly beside him.

“Where’s Brixton?” he asked.

“Bolted into the hut,” answered the boy.

“Betty,” exclaimed Tom, springing into the little parlour or hall, where he found the poor girl on her knees, “you are safe now. I heard the voice of Gashford, and the Indians are flying. But I too must fly. I am guilty, as I have said, but my crime is not worthy of death, yet death is the award, and, God knows, I am not fit to die. Once more—farewell!”

He spoke rapidly, and was turning to go without even venturing to look at the girl, when she said—

“Whatever your crime may be, remember that there is a Saviour from sin. Stay! You cannot leap the creek, and, even if you did, you would be caught, for I hear voices near us. Come with me.”

She spoke in a tone of decision that compelled obedience. Lifting a trap-door in the floor she bade her lover descend. He did so, and found himself in a cellar half full of lumber and with several casks ranged round the walls. The girl followed, removed one of the casks, and disclosed a hole behind it.

“It is small,” she said, quickly, “but you will be able to force yourself through. Inside it enlarges at once to a low tunnel, along which you will creep for a hundred yards, when you will reach open air in a dark, rocky dell, close to the edge of the precipice above the river. Descend to its bed, and, when free, use your freedom to escape from death—but much more, to escape from sin. Go quickly!”

Tom Brixton would fain have delayed to seize and kiss his preserver’s hand, but the sound of voices overhead warned him to make haste. Without a word he dropped on hands and knees and thrust himself through the aperture. Betty replaced the cask, returned to the upper room, and closed the trap-door just a few minutes before her father ushered Gashford and his party into the hut.

Chapter Five.

When our hero found himself in a hole, pitch dark and barely large enough to permit of his creeping on hands and knees, he felt a sudden sensation of fear—of undefinable dread—come over him, such as one might be supposed to experience on awaking to the discovery that he had been buried alive. His first impulse was to shout for deliverance, but his manhood returned to him, and he restrained himself.

Groping his way cautiously along the passage or tunnel, which descended at first steeply, he came to a part which he could feel was regularly built over with an arch of brickwork or masonry, and the sound of running water overhead told him that this was a tunnel under the rivulet. As he advanced the tunnel widened a little, and began to ascend. After creeping what he judged to be a hundred yards or so, he thought he could see a glimmer of light like a faint star in front of him. It was the opening to which Betty had referred. He soon reached it and emerged into the fresh air.

As he raised himself, and drew a long breath of relief, the words of his deliverer seemed to start up before him in letters of fire—

“Use your freedom to escape from death—but much more, to escape from sin.”

“I will, so help me God!” he exclaimed, clasping his hands convulsively and looking upward. In the strength of the new-born resolution thus induced by the Spirit of God, he fell on his knees and tried to pray. Then he rose and sat down to think, strangely forgetful of the urgent need there was for flight.

Meanwhile Gashford and his men proceeded to question Paul Bevan and his daughter. The party included, among others, Fred Westly, Paddy Flinders, and Crossby. Gashford more than suspected the motives of the first two in accompanying him, but did not quite see his way to decline their services, even if he had possessed the power to do so. He consoled himself, however, with the reflection that he could keep a sharp eye on their movements.

“No, no, Bevan,” he said, when the man brought out a case-bottle of rum and invited him to drink, “we have other work on hand just now. We have traced that young thief Brixton to this hut, and we want to get hold of him.”

“A thief, is he?” returned Bevan, with a look of feigned surprise. “Well, now, that is strange news. Tom Brixton don’t look much like a thief, do he?” (appealing to the by-standers). “There must be some mistake, surely.”

“There’s no mistake,” said Gashford, with an oath. “He stole a bag o’ gold from my tent. To be sure he dropped it in his flight so I’ve got it back again, but that don’t affect his guilt.”

“But surely, Mister Gashford,” said Bevan slowly, for, having been hurriedly told in a whisper by Betty what she had done for Tom, he was anxious to give his friend as much time as possible to escape, “surely as you’ve come by no loss, ye can afford to let the poor young feller off this time.”

“No, we can’t,” shouted Gashford, fiercely. “These mean pilferers have become a perfect pest at the diggin’s, an’ we intend to stop their little game, we do, by stoppin’ their windpipes when we catch them. Come, don’t shilly-shally any longer, Paul Bevan. He’s here, and no mistake, so you’d better hand him over. Besides, you owe us something, you know, for coming to your help agin the redskins in the nick of time.”

“Well, as to that I am much obliged, though, after all, it wasn’t to help me you came.”

“No matter,” exclaimed the other impatiently, “you know he is here, an’ you’re bound to give him up.”

“But I don’t know that he’s here, an’ I can’t give him up, cause why? he’s escaped.”

“Escaped! impossible, there is only one bridge to this mound, and he has not crossed that since we arrived, I’ll be bound. There’s a sentry on it now.”

“But an active young feller can jump, you know.”

“No, he couldn’t jump over the creek, unless he was a human flea or a Rocky Mountain goat. Come, since you won’t show us where he is, we’ll take the liberty of sarchin’ your premises. But stay, your daughter’s got the name o’ bein’ a religious gal. If there’s any truth in that she’d be above tellin’ a lie. Come now, Betty, tell us, like a good gal, is Tom Brixton here?”

“No, he is not here,” replied the girl.

“Where is he, then?”

“I do not know.”

“That’s false, you do know. But come, lads, we’ll sarch, and here’s a cellar to begin with.”

He laid hold of the iron ring of the trap-door, opened it, and seizing a light descended, followed by Bevan, Crossby, Flinders, and one or two others. Tossing the lumber about he finally rolled aside the barrels ranged beside the wall, until the entrance to the subterranean way was discovered.

“Ho! ho!” he cried, lowering the light and gazing into it. “Here’s something, anyhow.”

After peering into the dark hole for some time he felt with his hand as far as his arm could reach.

“Mind he don’t bite!” suggested Paddy Flinders, in a tone that drew a laugh from the by-standers.

“Hand me that stick, Paddy,” said Gashford, “and keep your jokes to a more convenient season.”

“Ah! then ’tis always a convanient season wid me, sor,” replied Paddy, with a wink at his companions as he handed the stick.

“Does this hole go far in?” he asked, after a fruitless poking about with the stick.

“Ay, a long way. More’n a hundred yards,” returned Bevan.

“Well, I’ll have a look at it.”

Saying which Gashford pushed the light as far in as he could reach, and then, taking a bowie-knife between his teeth, attempted to follow.

We say attempted, because he was successful only in a partial degree. It must be remembered that Gashford was an unusually large man, and that Tom Brixton had been obliged to use a little force in order to gain an entrance. When, therefore, the huge bully had thrust himself in about as far as his waist he stuck hard and fast, so that he could neither advance nor retreat! He struggled violently, and a muffled sound of shouting was heard inside the hole, but no one could make out what was said.

“Och! the poor cratur,” exclaimed Paddy Flinders, with a look of overdone commiseration, “what’ll we do for ’im at all at all?”

“Let’s try to pull him out,” suggested Crossby.

They tried and failed, although as many as could manage it laid hold of him.

“Sure he minds me of a stiff cork in a bottle,” said Flinders, wiping the perspiration from his forehead, “an’ what a most awful crack he’ll make whin he does come out! Let’s give another heave, boys.”

They gave another heave, but only caused the muffled shouting inside to increase. “Och! the poor cratur’s stritchin’ out like a injin-rubber man; sure he’s a fut longer than he used to be—him that was a sight too long already,” said Flinders.

“Let’s try to shove him through,” suggested the baffled Crossby.

Failure again followed their united efforts—except as regards the muffled shouting within, which increased in vigour and was accompanied by no small amount of kicking by what of Gashford remained in the cellar.

“I’m afeared his legs’ll come off altogether if we try to pull harder than we’ve done,” said Crossby, contemplating the huge and helpless limbs of the victim with a perplexed air.

“What a chance, boys,” suddenly exclaimed Flinders, “to pay off old scores with a tree-mendous wallopin’! We could do it aisy in five or six minutes, an’ then lave ’im to think over it for the rest of his life.”

As no one approved of Paddy’s proposal, it was finally resolved to dig the big man out and a pick and shovel were procured for the purpose.

Contrary to all expectations, Gashford was calm, almost subdued, when his friends at last set him free. Instead of storming and abusing every one, he said quietly but quickly, “Let us search the bush now. He can’t be far off yet, and there’s moonlight enough.”

Leading the way, he sprang up the cellar stair, out at the hut-door, and across the bridge, followed closely by his party.

“Hooroo!” yelled Paddy Flinders, as if in the irrepressible ardour of the chase, but in reality to give Brixton intimation of the pursuit, if he should chance to be within earshot.

The well-meant signal did indeed take effect, but it came too late. It found Tom still seated in absorbed meditation. Rudely awakened to the consciousness of his danger and his stupidity, he leaped up and ran along the path that Betty had described to him. At the same moment it chanced that Crossby came upon the same path at its river-side extremity, and in a few moments each ran violently into the other’s arms, and both rolled upon the ground.

The embrace that Crossby gave the youth would have been creditable even to a black bear, but Tom was a match for him in his then condition of savage despair. He rolled the rough digger over on his back, half strangled him, and bumped his shaggy head against the conveniently-situated root of a tree. But Crossby held on with the tenacity of sticking-plaster, shouting wildly all the time, and before either could subdue the other, Gashford and his men coming up stopped the combat.

It were vain attempting to describe the conflict of Brixton’s feelings as they once more bound his arms securely behind him and led him back to Paul Bevan’s hut. The thought of death while fighting with man or beast had never given him much concern, but to be done to death by the rope as a petty thief was dreadful to contemplate, while to appear before the girl he loved, humiliated and bound, was in itself a sort of preliminary death. Afterwards, when confined securely in the cellar and left to himself for the night, with a few pine branches as a bed, the thought of home and mother came to him with overwhelming power, and finally mingled with his dreams. But those dreams, however pleasant they might be at first and in some respects, invariably ended with the branch of a tree and a rope with a noose dangling at the end thereof, and he awoke again and again with a choking sensation, under the impression that the noose was already tightening on his throat.

The agony endured that night while alone in the dark cellar was terrible, for Tom knew the temper of the diggers too well to doubt his fate. Still hope, blessed hope, did not utterly desert him. More than once he struggled to his knees and cried to God for mercy in the Saviour’s name.

By daybreak next morning he was awakened out of the first dreamless sleep that he had enjoyed, and bid get up. A slight breakfast of bread and water was handed to him, which he ate by the light of a homemade candle stuck in the neck of a quart bottle. Soon afterwards Crossby descended, and bade him ascend the wooden stair or ladder. He did so, and found the party of miners assembled under arms, and ready for the road.

“I’m sorry I can’t help ’ee,” said Paul Bevan, drawing the unhappy youth aside, and speaking in a low voice. “I would if I could, for I owe my life to you, but they won’t listen to reason. I sent Betty out o’ the way, lad, a-purpose. Thought it better she shouldn’t see you, but—”

“Come, come, old man, time’s up,” interrupted Gashford, roughly; “we must be off. Now, march, my young slippery-heels. I needn’t tell you not to try to bolt again. You’ll find it difficult to do that.”

As they moved off and began their march through the forest on foot, Tom Brixton felt that escape was indeed out of the question, for, while three men marched in front of him, four marched on either side, each with rifle on shoulder, and the rest of the band brought up the rear. But even if his chances had not been so hopeless, he would not have made any further effort to save himself, for he had given himself thoroughly up to despair. In the midst of this a slight sense of relief, mingled with the bitterness of disappointment, when he found that Betty had been sent out of the way, and that he would see her no more, for he could not bear the thought of her seeing him thus led away.

“May I speak with the prisoner for a few minutes?” said Fred Westly to Gashford, as they plodded through the woods. “He has been my comrade for several years, and I promised his poor mother never to forsake him. May I, Gashford?”

“No,” was the sharp reply, and then, as if relenting, “Well, yes, you may; but be brief, and no underhand dealing, mind, for if you attempt to help him you shall be a dead man the next moment, as sure as I’m a living one. An’ you needn’t be too soft, Westly,” he added, with a cynical smile. “Your chum has— Well, it’s no business o’ mine. You can go to him.”

Poor Tom Brixton started as his old friend went up to him, and then hung his head.

“Dear Tom,” said Fred, in a low voice, “don’t give way to despair. With God all things are possible, and even if your life is to be forfeited, it is not too late to save the soul, for Jesus is able and willing to save to the uttermost. But I want to comfort you with the assurance that I will spare no effort to save you. Many of the diggers are not very anxious that you should bear the extreme punishment of the law, and I think Gashford may be bought over. If so, I need not tell you that my little private store hidden away under the pine-tree—”

“There is no such store, Fred,” interrupted Tom, with a haggard look of shame.

“What do you mean, Tom?”

“I mean that I gambled it all away unknown to you. Oh! Fred, you do not—you cannot know what a fearful temptation gambling is when given way to, especially when backed by drink. No, it’s of no use your trying to comfort me. I do believe, now, that I deserve to die.”

“Whatever you deserve, Tom, it is my business to save you, if I can—both body and soul; and what you now tell me does not alter my intentions or my hopes. By the way, does Gashford know about this?”

“Yes, he knows that I have taken your money.”

“And that’s the reason,” said Gashford himself, coming up at the moment, “that I advised you not to be too soft on your chum, for he’s a bad lot altogether.”

“Is the man who knows of a crime, and connives at it, and does not reveal it, a much better ‘lot’?” demanded Fred, with some indignation.

“Perhaps not,” replied Gashford, with a short laugh; “but as I never set up for a good lot, you see, there’s no need to discuss the subject. Now, fall to the rear, my young blade. Remember that I’m in command of this party, and you know, or ought to know, that I suffer no insolence in those under me.”

Poor Fred fell back at once, bitterly regretting that he had spoken out, and thus injured to some extent his influence with the only man who had the power to aid his condemned friend.

It was near sunset when they reached Pine Tree Diggings. Tom Brixton was thrust into a strong blockhouse, used chiefly as a powder magazine, but sometimes as a prison, the key of which was kept on that occasion in Gashford’s pocket, while a trusty sentinel paced before the door.

That night Fred Westly sat in his tent, the personification of despair. True, he had not failed all along to lay his friend’s case before God, and, up to this point, strong hope had sustained him; but now, the only means by which he had trusted to accomplish his end were gone. The hidden hoard, on which he had counted too much, had been taken and lost by the very man he wished to save, and the weakness of his own faith was revealed by the disappearance of the gold—for he had almost forgotten that the Almighty can provide means at any time and in all circumstances.

Fred would not allow himself for a moment to think that Tom had stolen his gold. He only took it for a time, with the full intention of refunding it when better times should come. On this point Fred’s style of reasoning was in exact accord with that of his unhappy friend. Tom never for a moment regarded the misappropriation of the gold as a theft. Oh no! it was merely an appropriated loan—a temporary accommodation. It would be interesting, perhaps appalling, to know how many thousands of criminal careers have been begun in this way!

“Now, Mister Westly,” said Flinders, entering the tent in haste, “what’s to be done? It’s quite clear that Mister Tom’s not to be hanged, for there’s two or three of us’ll commit murder before that happens; but I’ve bin soundin’ the boys, an’ I’m afeared there’s a lot o’ the worst wans that’ll be glad to see him scragged, an’ there’s a lot as won’t risk their own necks to save him, an’ what betune the wan an’ the other, them that’ll fight for him are a small minority—so, again I say, what’s to be done?”

Patrick Flinders’s usually jovial face had by that time become almost as long and lugubrious as that of Westly.

“I don’t know,” returned Fred, shaking his head.

“My one plan, on which I had been founding much hope, is upset. Listen. It was this. I have been saving a good deal of my gold for a long time past and hiding it away secretly, so as to have something to fall back upon when poor Tom had gambled away all his means. This hoard of mine amounted, I should think, to something like five hundred pounds. I meant to have offered it to Gashford for the key of the prison, and for his silence, while we enabled Tom once more to escape. But this money has, without my knowledge, been taken away and—”

“Stolen, you mean!” exclaimed Flinders, in surprise.

“No, not stolen—taken! I can’t explain just now. It’s enough to know that it is gone, and that my plan is thus overturned.”

“D’ee think Gashford would let him out for that?” asked the Irishman, anxiously.

“I think so; but, after all, I’m almost glad that the money’s gone, for I can’t help feeling that this way of enticing Gashford to do a thing, as it were slily, is underhand. It is a kind of bribery.”

“Faix, then, it’s not c’ruption anyhow, for the baste is as c’rupt as he can be already. An’, sure, wouldn’t it just be bribin’ a blackguard not to commit murther?”

“I don’t know, Pat. It is a horrible position to be placed in. Poor, poor Tom!”

“Have ye had supper?” asked Flinders, quickly.

“No—I cannot eat.”

“Cook it then, an’ don’t be selfish. Other people can ait, though ye can’t. It’ll kape yer mind employed—an I’ll want somethin’ to cheer me up whin I come back.”

Pat Flinders left the tent abruptly, and poor Fred went about the preparation of supper in a half mechanical way, wondering what his comrade meant by his strange conduct.

Pat’s meaning was soon made plain, that night, to a dozen or so of his friends, whom he visited personally and induced to accompany him to a sequestered dell in an out-of-the-way thicket where the moonbeams struggled through the branches and drew a lovely pale-blue pattern on the green-sward.

“My frinds,” he said, in a low, mysterious voice, “I know that ivery mother’s son of ye is ready to fight for poor Tom Brixton to-morrow, if the wust comes to the wust. Now, it has occurred to my chum Westly an’ me, that it would be better, safer, and surer to buy him up, than to fight for him, an’ as I know some o’ you fellers has dug up more goold than you knows well what to do wid, an’ you’ve all got liberal hearts—lastewise ye should have, if ye haven’t—I propose, an’ second the resolootion, that we make up some five hundred pounds betune us, an’ presint it to Bully Gashford as a mark of our estaim—if he’ll on’y give us up the kay o’ the prison, put Patrick Flinders, Esquire, sintry over it, an’ then go to slape till breakfast-time tomorry mornin’.”

This plan was at once agreed to, for five hundred pounds was not a large sum to be made up by men who—some of them at least—had nearly made “their pile”—by which they meant their fortune, while the liberality of heart with which they had been credited was not wanting. Having settled a few details, this singular meeting broke up, and Patrick Flinders—acting as the secretary, treasurer, and executive committee—went off, with a bag of golden nuggets and unbounded self-confidence, to transact the business.

Chapter Six.

Gashford was not quite so ready to accept Flinders’s offer as that enthusiast had expected. The bully seemed to be in a strangely unusual mood, too—a mood which at first the Irishman thought favourable to his cause.

“Sit down,” said Gashford, with less gruffness than usual, when his visitor entered his hut. “What d’ye want wi’ me?”

Flinders addressed himself at once to the subject of his mission, and became quite eloquent as he touched on the grandeur of the sum offered, the liberality of the offerers, and the ease with which the whole thing might be accomplished. A very faint smile rested on Gashford’s face as he proceeded, but by no other sign did he betray his thoughts until his petitioner had concluded.

“So you want to buy him off?” said Gashford, the smile expanding to a broad grin.

“If yer honour had bin born a judge an’ sot on the bench since iver ye was a small spalpeen, ye couldn’t have hit it off more nately. That’s just what we want—to buy him off. It’s a purty little commercial transaction—a man’s life for five hundred pound; an’, sure it’s a good price to give too, consitherin’ how poor we all are, an what a dale o’ sweatin’ work we’ve got to do to git the goold.”

“But suppose I won’t sell,” said Gashford, “what then?”

“Fair, then, I’ll blow your brains out” thought the Irishman, his fingers tingling with a desire to grasp the loaded revolver that lay in his pocket, but he had the wisdom to restrain himself and to say, “Och! sor, sure ye’ll niver refuse such a nat’ral request. An’ we don’t ask ye to help us. Only to hand me the kay o’ the prison, remove the sintry, an’ then go quietly to yer bed wid five hundred pound in goold benathe yar hid to drame on.”

To add weight to his proposal he drew forth the bag of nuggets from one of his capacious coat pockets and held it up to view.

“It’s not enough,” said Gashford, with a stern gruffness of tone and look which sank the petitioner’s hopes below zero.

“Ah! then, Muster Gashford,” said Flinders, with the deepest pathos, “it’s yer own mother would plade wid ye for the poor boy’s life, av she was here—think o’ that. Sure he’s young and inexparienced, an’ it’s the first offince he’s iver committed—”

“No, not the first” interrupted Gashford.

“The first that I knows on,” returned Flinders.

“Tell me—does Westly know of this proposal of yours?”

“No sor, he doesn’t.”

“Ah, I thought not. With his religious notions, it would be difficult for him to join in an attempt to bribe me to stop the course of justice.”

“Well, sor, you’re not far wrong, for Muster Westly had bin havin’ a sort o’ tussle wid his conscience on that very pint. You must know, he had made up his mind to do this very thing an’ offer you all his savings—a thousand pound, more or less—to indooce you to help to save his frind, but he found his goold had bin stolen, so, you see, sor, he couldn’t do it.”

“Did he tell you who stole his gold?”

“No, sor, he didn’t—he said that some feller had took it—on loan, like, though I calls it stalin’—but he didn’t say who.”

“And have you had no tussle with your conscience, Flinders, about this business?”

The Irishman’s face wrinkled up into an expression of intense amusement at this question.

“It’s jokin’ ye are, Muster Gashford. Sure, now, me conscience—if I’ve got wan—doesn’t bother me oftin; an’ if it did, on this occasion, I’d send it to the right-about double quick, for it’s not offerin’ ye five hundred pound I am to stop the coorse o’ justice, but to save ye from committin’ murther! Give Muster Brixton what punishment the coort likes—for stailin’—only don’t hang him. That’s all we ask.”

“You’ll have to pay more for it then,” returned the bully. “That’s not enough.”

“Sure we haven’t got a rap more to kape our pots bilin’, sor,” returned Flinders, in a tone of despair. “Lastewise I can spake for myself; for I’m claned out—all but.”

“Row much does the ‘all but’ represent?”

“Well, sor, to tell you the raal truth, it’s about tchwo hundred pound, more or less, and I brought it wid me, for fear you might want it, an’ I haven’t got a nugget more if it was to save me own life. It’s the truth I’m tellin’ ye, sor.”

There was a tone and look of such intense sincerity about the poor fellow, as he slowly drew a second bag of gold from his pocket and placed it beside the first, that Gashford could not help being convinced.

“Two hundred and five hundred,” he said, meditatively.

“That makes siven hundred, sor,” said Flinders, suggestively.

The bully did not reply for a few seconds. Then, taking up the bags of gold, he threw them into a corner. Thereafter he drew a large key from his pocket and handed it to the Irishman, who grasped it eagerly.

“Go to the prison,” said Gashford, “tell the sentry you’ve come to relieve him, and send him to me. Mind, now, the rest of this business must be managed entirely by yourself, and see to it that the camp knows nothing about our little commercial transaction, for, if it does, your own days will be numbered.”

With vows of eternal secrecy, and invoking blessings of an elaborate nature on Gashford’s head, the Irishman hastened away, and went straight to the prison, which stood considerably apart from the huts and tents of the miners.

“Who goes there?” challenged the sentry as he approached, for the night was very dark.

“Mesilf, av coorse.”

“An’ who may that be, for yer not the only Patlander in camp, more’s the pity!”

“It’s Flinders I am. Sure any man wid half an ear might know that. I’ve come to relave ye.”

“But you’ve got no rifle,” returned the man, with some hesitation.

“Aren’t revolvers as good as rifles, ay, an’ better at close quarters? Shut up your tatie-trap, now, an’ be off to Muster Gashford’s hut for he towld me to sind you there widout delay.”

This seemed to satisfy the man, who at once went away, leaving Flinders on guard.

Without a moment’s loss of time Paddy made use of the key and entered the prison.

“Is it there ye are, avic?” he said, in a hoarse whisper, as he advanced with caution and outstretched hands to prevent coming against obstructions.

“Yes; who are you?” replied Tom Brixton, in a stern voice.

“Whist, now, or ye’ll git me into throuble. Sure, I’m yer sintry, no less, an’ yer chum Pat Flinders.”

“Indeed, Paddy! I’m surprised that they should select you to be my jailer.”

“Humph! well, they didn’t let me have the place for nothing—och! musha!”

The last exclamations were caused by the poor man tumbling over a chair and hitting his head on a table.

“Not hurt, I hope,” said Brixton, his spirit somewhat softened by the incident.

“Not much—only a new bump—but it’s wan among many, so it don’t matter. Now, listen. Time is precious. I’ve come for to set you free—not exactly at this momint, howiver, for the boys o’ the camp haven’t all gone to bed yet; but whin they’re quiet, I’ll come again an’ help you to escape. I’ve only come now to let you know.”

The Irishman then proceeded to give Tom Brixton a minute account of all that had been done in his behalf. He could not see how the news affected him, the prison being as dark as Erebus, but great was his surprise and consternation when the condemned man said, in a calm but firm voice, “Thank you, Flinders, for your kind intentions, but I don’t mean to make a second attempt to escape.”

“Ye don’t intind to escape!” exclaimed his friend, with a look of blank amazement at the spot where the voice of the other came from.

“No; I don’t deserve to live, Paddy, so I shall remain and be hanged.”

“I’ll be hanged if ye do,” said Paddy, with much decision. “Come, now, don’t be talkin’ nonsense. It’s jokin’ ye are, av coorse.”

“I’m very far from joking, my friend,” returned Tom, in a tone of deep despondency, “as you shall find when daylight returns. I am guilty—more guilty than you fancy—so I shall plead guilty, whether tried or not, and take the consequences. Besides, life is not worth having. I’m tired of it!”

“Och! but we’ve bought you, an’ paid for you, an’ you’ve no manner o’ right to do what ye like wi’ yourself,” returned his exasperated chum. “But it’s of no use talkin’ to ye. There’s somethin’ wrong wi’ your inside, no doubt. When I come back for ye at the right time you’ll have thought better of it. Come, now, give us your hand.”

“I wish I could, Flinders, but the rascal that tied me has drawn the cord so tight that I feel as if I had no hands at all.”

“I’ll soon putt that right. Where are ye? Ah, that’s it, now, kape stidy.”

Flinders severed the cord with his bowie knife, unwound it, and set his friend free.

“Now thin, remain where ye are till I come for ye; an’ if any wan should rap at the door an’ ax where’s the sintinel an’ the kay, just tell him ye don’t know, an don’t care; or, if ye prefer it, tell him to go an’ ax his grandmother.”

With this parting piece of advice Flinders left the prisoner, locked the door, put the key in his pocket, and went straight to Fred Westly, whom he found seated beside the fire with his face buried in his hands.

“If Tom told you he wouldn’t attempt to escape,” said Westly, on hearing the details of all that his eccentric friend had done, “you may be sure that he’ll stick to it.”

“D’ye raaly think so, Muster Fred?” said his companion in deep anxiety.

“I do. I know Tom Brixton well, and when he is in this mood nothing will move him. But, come, I must go to the prison and talk with him.”

Fred’s talk, however, was not more effective than that of his friend had been.

“Well, Tom,” he said, as he and Flinders were about to quit the block-house, “we will return at the hour when the camp seems fairly settled to sleep, probably about midnight, and I hope you will then be ready to fly. Remember what Flinders says is so far true—your life has been bought and the price paid, whether you accept or refuse it. Think seriously of that before it be too late.”

Again the prison door closed, and Tom Brixton was left, with this thought turning constantly and persistently in his brain:

“Bought and the price paid!” he repeated to himself; for the fiftieth time that night, as he sat in his dark prison. “’Tis a strange way to put it to a fellow, but that does not alter the circumstances. No, I won’t be moved by mere sentiment. I’ll try the Turk’s plan, and submit to fate. I fancy this is something of the state of mind that men get into when they commit suicide. And yet I don’t feel as if I would kill myself if I were free. Bah! what’s the use of speculating about it? Anyhow my doom is fixed, and poor Flinders with his friends will lose their money. My only regret is that that unmitigated villain Gashford will get it. It would not be a bad thing, now that my hands are free, to run a-muck amongst ’em. I feel strength enough in me to rid the camp of a lot of devils before I should be killed! But, after all, what good would that do me when I couldn’t know it—couldn’t know it! Perhaps I could know it! No, no! Better to die quietly, without the stain of human blood on my soul—if I have a soul. Escape! Easy enough, maybe, to escape from Pine Tree Diggings; but how escape from conscience? how escape from facts?—the girl I love holding me in contempt! my old friend and chum regarding me with pity! character gone! a life of crime before me! and death, by rope, or bullet or knife, sooner or later! Better far to die now and have it over at once; prevent a deal of sin, too, as well as misery. ‘Bought, and the price paid!’ ’Tis a strange way to put it and there is something like logic in the argument of Paddy, that I’ve got no right to do what I like with myself! Perhaps a casuist would say it is my duty to escape. Perhaps it is!”

Now, while Tom Brixton was revolving this knotty question in his mind, and Bully Gashford was revolving questions quite as knotty, and much more complex, and Fred Westly was discussing with Flinders the best plan to be pursued in the event of Tom refusing to fly, there was a party of men assembled under the trees in a mountain gorge, not far distant, who were discussing a plan of operations which, when carried out, bade fair to sweep away, arrest, and overturn other knotty questions and deep-laid plans altogether.

It was the band of marauders who had made the abortive attack on Bevan’s fortress.

When the attack was made, one of the redskins who guided the miners chanced to hear the war-whoop of a personal friend in the ranks of the attacking party. Being troubled with no sense of honour worth mentioning, this faithless guide deserted at once to the enemy, and not only explained all he knew about the thief that he had been tracking, but gave, in addition, such information about the weak points of Pine Tree Diggings, that the leader of the band resolved to turn aside for a little from his immediate purposes, and make a little hay while the sun shone in that direction.

The band was a large one—a few on horseback, many on foot; some being Indians and half-castes, others disappointed miners and desperadoes. A fierce villain among the latter was the leader of the band, which was held together merely by unity of purpose and interest in regard to robbery, and similarity of condition in regard to crime.

“Now, lads,” said the leader, who was a tall, lanky, huge-boned, cadaverous fellow with a heavy chin and hawk-nose, named Stalker, “I’ll tell ’e what it is. Seems to me that the diggers at Pine Tree Camp are a set of out-an’-out blackguards—like most diggers—except this poor thief of a fellow Brixton, so I vote for attackin’ the camp, carryin’ off all the gold we can lay hands on in the hurry-skurry, an’ set this gentleman—this thief Brixton—free. He’s a bold chap, I’m told by the redskin, an’ will no doubt be glad to jine us. An’ we want a few bold men.”

The reckless robber-chief looked round with a mingled expression of humour and contempt, as he finished his speech, whereat some laughed and a few scowled.

“But how shall we find Brixton?” asked a man named Goff, who appeared to be second in command. “I know the Pine Tree Camp, but I don’t know where’s the prison.”

“No matter,” returned Stalker. “The redskin helps us out o’ that difficulty. He tells me the prison is a blockhouse, that was once used as a powder-magazine, and stands on a height, a little apart from the camp. I’ll go straight to it, set the young chap free, let him jump up behind me and ride off, while you and the rest of the boys are makin’ the most of your time among the nuggets. We shall all meet again at the Red Man’s Teacup.”

“And when shall we go to work, captain!” asked the lieutenant.

“Now. There’s no time like the present. Strike when the iron’s hot, boys!” he added, looking round at the men by whom he was encircled. “You know what we’ve got to do. Advance together, like cats, till we’re within a yard or two of the camp, then a silent rush when you hear my signal, the owl’s hoot. No shouting, mind, till the first screech comes from the enemy; then, as concealment will be useless, give tongue, all of you, till your throats split if you like, an’ pick up the gold. Now, don’t trouble yourselves much about fighting. Let the bags be the main look-out—of course you’ll have to defend your own heads, though I don’t think there’ll be much occasion for that—an’ you know, if any of them are fools enough to fight for their gold, you’ll have to dispose of them somehow.”

Having delivered this address with much energy, the captain of the band put himself at its head and led the way.

While this thunder-cloud was drifting down on the camp, Fred Westly and Flinders were preparing for flight. They did not doubt that their friend would at the last be persuaded to escape, and had made up their minds to fly with him and share his fortunes.

“We have nothing to gain, you see, Paddy,” said Fred, “by remaining here, and, having parted with all our gold, have nothing to lose by going.”

“Thrue for ye, sor, an’ nothin’ to carry except ourselves, worse luck!” said the Irishman, with a deep sigh. “Howiver, we lave no dibts behind us, that’s wan comfort, so we may carry off our weapons an’ horses wid clear consciences. Are ye all ready now, sor?”

“Almost ready,” replied Fred, thrusting a brace of revolvers into his belt and picking up his rifle. “Go for the horses, Pat, and wait at the stable for me. Our neighbours might hear the noise if you brought them round here.”

Now, the stable referred to was the most outlying building of the camp, in the direction in which the marauders were approaching. It was a small log-hut of the rudest description perched on a little knoll which overlooked the camp, and from which Tom Brixton’s prison could be clearly seen, perched on a neighbouring knoll.

Paddy Flinders ruminated on the dangers and perplexities that might be in store for him that night, as he went swiftly and noiselessly up to the hut. To reach the door he had to pass round from the back to the front. As he did so he became aware of voices sounding softly close at hand. A large log lay on the ground. With speed worthy of a redskin he sank down beside it.

“This way, captain; I’ve bin here before, an’ know that you can see the whole camp from it—if it wasn’t so confoundedly dark. There’s a log somewhere—ah, here it is; we’ll be able to see better if we mount it.”

“I wish we had more light,” growled the so-called captain; “it won’t be easy to make off on horseback in such—is this the log? Here, lend a hand.”

As he spoke the robber-chief put one of his heavy boots on the little finger of Pat Flinders’s left hand, and well-nigh broke it in springing on to the log in question!

A peculiarly Irish howl all but escaped from poor Flinderss lips.

“I see,” said Stalker, after a few moments. “There’s enough of us to attack a camp twice the size. Now we must look sharp. I’ll go round to the prison and set Brixton free. When that’s done, I’ll hoot three times—so—only a good deal louder. Then you an’ the boys will rush in and—you know the rest. Come.”

Descending from the log on the other side, the two desperadoes left the spot. Then Paddy rose and ran as if he had been racing, and as if the prize of the race were life!

“Bad luck to you, ye murtherin’ thieves,” growled the Irishman, as he ran, “but I’ll stop yer game, me boys!”

Chapter Seven.

As straight, and almost as swiftly, as an arrow, Flinders ran to his tent, burst into the presence of his amazed comrade, seized him by both arms, and exclaimed in a sharp hoarse voice, the import of which there could be no mistaking—

“Whisht!—howld yer tongue! The camp’ll be attacked in ten minutes! Be obadient now, an’ foller me.”

Flinders turned and ran out again, taking the path to Gashford’s hut with the speed of a hunted hare. Fred Westly followed. Bursting in upon the bully, who had not yet retired to rest, the Irishman seized him by both arms and repeated his alarming words, with this addition:

“Sind some wan to rouse the camp—but silently! No noise—or it’s all up wid us!”

There was something in Paddy’s manner and look that commanded respect and constrained obedience—even in Gashford.

“Bill,” he said, turning to a man who acted as his valet and cook, “rouse the camp. Quietly—as you hear. Let no man act however, till my voice is heard. You’ll know it when ye hear it!”

“No mistake about that!” muttered Bill, as he ran out on his errand.

“Now—foller!” cried Flinders, catching up a bit of rope with one hand and a billet of firewood with the other, as he dashed out of the hut and made straight for the prison, with Gashford and Westly close at his heels.

Gashford meant to ask Flinders for an explanation as he ran, but the latter rendered this impossible by outrunning him. He reached the prison first, and had already entered when the others came up and ran in. He shut the door and locked it on the inside.

“Now, then, listen, all of ye,” he said, panting vehemently, “an’ take in what I say, for the time’s short. The camp’ll be attacked in five minits—more or less. I chanced to overhear the blackguards. Their chief comes here to set Muster Brixton free. Then—och! here he comes! Do as I bid ye, ivery wan, an’ howld yer tongues.”

The latter words were said energetically, but in a low whisper, for footsteps were heard outside as if approaching stealthily. Presently a rubbing sound was heard, as of a hand feeling for the door. It touched the handle and then paused a moment, after which there came a soft tap.

“I’ll spake for ye,” whispered Flinders in Brixton’s ear.

Another pause, and then another tap at the door.

“Arrah! who goes there?” cried Paddy, stretching himself, as if just awakened out of a sound slumber and giving vent to a mighty yawn.

“A friend,” answered the robber-chief through the keyhole.

“A frind!” echoed Pat. “Sure an’ that’s a big lie, if iver there was one. Aren’t ye goin’ to hang me i’ the mornin’?”

“No indeed, I ain’t one o’ this camp. But surely you can’t be the man—the—the thief—named Brixton, for you’re an Irishman.”

“An’ why not?” demanded Flinders. “Sure the Brixtons are Irish to the backbone—an’ thieves too—root an’ branch from Adam an’ Eve downwards. But go away wid ye. I don’t belave that ye’re a frind. You’ve only just come to tormint me an’ spile my slape the night before my funeral. Fie for shame! Go away an’ lave me in pace.”

“You’re wrong, Brixton; I’ve come to punish the blackguards that would hang you, an’ set you free, as I’ll soon show you. Is the door strong?”

“Well, it’s not made o’ cast iron, but it’s pretty tough.”

“Stand clear, then, an’ I’ll burst it in wi’ my foot,” said Stalker.

“Och! is it smashin’ yer bones you’ll be after! Howld fast. Are ye a big man?”

“Yes, pretty big.”

“That’s a good job, for a little un would only bust hisself agin it for no use. You’ll have to go at it like a hoy-draulic ram.”

“Never fear. There’s not many doors in these diggin’s that can remain shut when I want ’em open,” said the robber, as he retired a few paces to enable him to deliver his blow with greater momentum.

“Howld on a minit, me frind,” said Paddy, who had quietly turned the key and laid hold of the handle; “let me git well out o’ the way, and give me warnin’ before you come.”

“All right. Now then, look out!” cried Stalker.

Those inside heard the rapid little run that a man takes before launching himself violently against an object. Flinders flung the door wide open in the nick of time. The robber’s foot dashed into empty space, and the robber himself plunged headlong, with a tremendous crash, on the floor. At the same instant Flinders brought his billet of wood down with all his might on the spot where he guessed the man’s head to be. The blow was well aimed, and rendered the robber chief incapable of further action for the time being.

“Faix, ye’ll not ‘hoot’ to yer frinds this night, anyhow,” said Flinders, as they dragged the fallen chief to the doorway, to make sure, by the faint light, that he was helpless. “Now, thin,” continued Paddy, “we’ll away an’ lead the boys to battle. You go an’ muster them, sor, an’ I’ll take ye to the inimy.”

“Have you seen their ambush, and how many there are!” asked Gashford.

“Niver a wan have I seen, and I’ve only a gineral notion o’ their whereabouts.”

“How then can you lead us?”

“Obey orders, an’ you’ll see, sor. I’m in command to-night. If ye don’t choose to foller, ye’ll have to do the best ye can widout me.”

“Lead on, then,” cried Gashford, half amused and half angered by the man’s behaviour.

Flinders led the way straight to Gashford’s hut where, as he anticipated, the man named Bill had silently collected most of the able-bodied men of the camp, all armed to the teeth. He at once desired Gashford to put them in fighting order and lead them. When they were ready he went off at a rapid pace towards the stable before mentioned.

“They should be hereabouts, Muster Gashford,” he said, in a low voice, “so git yer troops ready for action.”

“What do ye mean?” growled Gashford.

To this Flinders made no reply, but turning to Westly and Brixton, who stood close at his side, whispered them to meet him at the stable before the fight was quite over.

He then put his hand to his mouth and uttered three hoots like an owl.

“I believe you are humbugging us,” said Gashford.

“Whisht, sor—listen!”

The breaking of twigs was heard faintly in the distance, and, a few moments later, the tramp, apparently, of a body of men. Presently dark forms were dimly seen to be advancing.

“Now’s your time, gineral! Give it ’em hot,” whispered Flinders.

“Ready! Present! Fire!” said Gashford, in a deep, solemn tone, which the profound silence rendered distinctly audible.

The marauders halted, as if petrified. Next moment a sheet of flame burst from the ranks of the miners, and horrible yells rent the air, high above which, like the roar of a lion, rose Gashford’s voice in the single word:—

“Charge!”

But the panic-stricken robbers did not await the onset. They turned and fled, hotly pursued by the men of Pine Tree Diggings.

“That’ll do!” cried Flinders to Brixton; “they’ll not need us any more this night. Come wid me now.”

Fred Westly, who had rushed to the attack with the rest, soon pulled up. Remembering the appointment, he returned to the stable, where he found Tom gazing in silence at Flinders, who was busily employed saddling their three horses. He at once understood the situation.

“Of course you’ve made up your mind to go, Tom?” he said.

“N–no,” answered Tom. “I have not.”

“Faix, thin, you’ll have to make it up pritty quick now, for whin the boys come back the prisoners an wounded men’ll be sure to tell that their chief came for the express purpose of rescuin’ that ‘thief Brixton’—an’ it’s hangin’ that’ll be too good for you then. Roastin’ alive is more likely. It’s my opinion that if they catch us just now, Muster Fred an’ I will swing for it too! Come, sor, git up!”

Tom hesitated no longer. He vaulted into the saddle. His comrades also mounted, and in a few minutes more the three were riding away from Pine Tree Diggings as fast as the nature of the ground and the darkness of the hour would permit.

It was not quite midnight when they left the place where they had toiled so long, and had met with so many disasters, and the morning was not far advanced when they reached the spring of the Red Man’s Teacup. As this was a natural and convenient halting-place to parties leaving those diggings, they resolved to rest and refresh themselves and their steeds for a brief space, although they knew that the robber-chief had appointed that spot as a rendezvous after the attack on the camp.

“You see, it’s not likely they’ll be here for an hour or two,” said Tom Brixton, as he dismounted and hobbled his horse, “for it will take some time to collect their scattered forces, and they won’t have their old leader to spur them on, as Paddy’s rap on the head will keep him quiet till the men of the camp find him.”

“Troth, I’m not so sure o’ that, sor. The rap was a stiff wan, no doubt, but men like that are not aisy to kill. Besides, won’t the boys o’ the camp purshoo them, which’ll be spur enough, an’ if they finds us here, it’ll matter little whether we fall into the hands o’ diggers or robbers. So ye’ll make haste av ye take my advice.”

They made haste accordingly, and soon after left; and well was it that they did so, for, little more than an hour later, Stalker—his face covered with blood and his head bandaged—galloped up at the head of the mounted men of his party.

“We’ll camp here for an hour or two,” he said sharply, leaping from his horse, which he proceeded to unsaddle. “Hallo! somebody’s bin here before us. Their fire ain’t cold yet. Well, it don’t matter. Get the grub ready, boys, an’ boil the kettle. My head is all but split. If ever I have the luck to come across that Irish blackguard Brixton I’ll—”

He finished the sentence with a deep growl and a grind of his teeth.

About daybreak the marauders set out again, and it chanced that the direction they took was the same as that taken by Fred Westly and his comrades. These latter had made up their minds to try their fortune at a recently discovered goldfield, which was well reported of, though the yield had not been sufficient to cause a “rush” to the place. It was about three days’ journey on horseback from the Red Man’s Teacup, and was named Simpson’s Gully, after the man who discovered it.

The robbers’ route lay, as we have said, in the same direction, but only for part of the way, for Simpson’s Gully was not their ultimate destination. They happened to be better mounted than the fugitives, and travelled faster. Thus it came to pass that on the second evening, they arrived somewhat late at the camping-place where Fred and his friends were spending the night.

These latter had encamped earlier that evening. Supper was over, pipes were out and they were sound asleep when the robber band rode up.

Flinders was first to observe their approach. He awoke his comrades roughly.

“Och! the blackguards have got howld of us. Be aisy, Muster Brixton. No use fightin’. Howld yer tongues, now, an’ let me spake. Yer not half liars enough for the occasion, aither of ye.”

This compliment had barely been paid when they were surrounded and ordered to rise and give an account of themselves.

“What right have you to demand an account of us?” asked Tom Brixton, recklessly, in a supercilious tone that was meant to irritate.

“The right of might,” replied Stalker, stepping up to Tom, and grasping him by the throat.

Tom resisted, of course, but being seized at the same moment by two men from behind, was rendered helpless. His comrades were captured at the same moment, and the arms of all bound behind them.

“Now, gentlemen,” said the robber chief, “perhaps you will answer with more civility.”

“You are wrong, for I won’t answer at all,” said Tom Brixton, “which I take to be less civility.”

“Neither will I,” said Fred, who had come to the conclusion that total silence would be the easiest way of getting over the difficulties that filled his mind in regard to deception.

Patrick Flinders, however, had no such difficulties. To the amazement of his companions, he addressed a speech to Stalker in language so broken with stuttering and stammering that the marauders around could scarcely avoid laughing, though their chief seemed to be in no mood to tolerate mirth. Tom and Fred did not at first understand, though it soon dawned upon them that by this means he escaped being recognised by the man with whom he had so recently conversed through the keyhole of Tom Brixton’s prison door.

“S–s–s–sor,” said he, in a somewhat higher key than he was wont to speak, “my c–c–comrades are c–c–cross-g–grained critters b–both of ’em, th–th–though they’re g–good enough in their way, for all that. A–a–ax me what ye w–w–want to know.”

“Can’t you speak without so many k–k–kays an’ j–j–gees?” demanded Stalker, impatiently.

“N–n–no, s–sor, I c–can’t, an’ the m–more you t–try to make me the w–w–wus I g–gits.”

“Well, then, come to the point, an’ don’t say more than’s needful.”

“Y–y–yis, sor.”

“What’s this man’s name!” asked the chief, settling the bandages uneasily on his head with one hand, and pointing to Brixton with the other.

“M–Muster T–T–Tom, sor.”

“That’s his Christian name, I suppose?”

“W–w–well, I’m not sure about his bein’ a c–c–c–Christian.”

“Do you spell it T-o-m or T-h-o-m?”

“Th–that depinds on t–t–taste, sor.”

“Bah! you’re a fool!”

“Thank yer honour, and I’m also an I-I-Irish m–man as sure me name’s Flinders.”

“There’s one of your countrymen named Brixton,” said the chief, with a scowl, “who’s a scoundrel of the first water, and I have a crow to pluck with him some day when we meet. Meanwhile I feel half-disposed to give his countryman a sound thrashing as part payment of the debt in advance.”

“Ah! sure, sor, me counthryman’ll let ye off the dibt, no doubt,” returned Flinders.

“Hallo! you seem to have found your tongue all of a sudden!”

“F–faix, then, it’s b–bekaise of yer not houndin’ me on. I c–c–can’t stand bein’ hurried, ye s–see. B–besides, I was havin’ me little j–j–joke, an’ I scarcely sp–splutter at all whin I’m j–j–jokin’.”

“Where did you come from?” demanded the chief, sharply.

“From P–Pine Tree D–Diggin’s.”

“Oh, indeed? When did you leave the camp?”

“On M–Monday mornin’, sor.”

“Then of course you don’t know anything about the fight that took place there on Monday night!”

“D–don’t I, sor?”

“Why don’t you answer whether you do or not?” said Stalker, beginning to lose temper.

“Sh–shure yer towld me th–that I d–d–don’t know, an I’m too p–p–purlite to c–contradic’ yer honour.”

“Bah! you’re a fool.”

“Ye t–t–towld me that before, sor.”

The robber chief took no notice of the reply, but led his lieutenant aside and held a whispered conversation with him for a few minutes.

Now, among other blessings, Flinders possessed a pair of remarkably acute ears, so that, although he could not make out the purport of the whispered conversation, he heard, somewhat indistinctly, the words “Bevan” and “Betty.” Coupling these words with the character of the men around him, he jumped to a conclusion and decided on a course of action in one and the same instant.

Presently Stalker returned, and addressing himself to Tom and Fred, said—

“Now, sirs, I know not your circumstances nor your plans, but I’ll take the liberty of letting you know something of mine. Men give me and my boys bad names. We call ourselves Free-and-easy Boys. We work hard for our living. It is our plan to go round the country collecting taxes—revenue—or whatever you choose to call it, and punishing those who object to pay. Now, we want a few stout fellows to replace the brave men who have fallen at the post of duty. Will you join us?”

“Certainly not,” said Fred, with decision.

“Of course not,” said Tom, with contempt.

“Well, then, my fine fellows, you may follow your own inclinations, for there’s too many willing boys around to make us impress unwilling ones, but I shall take the liberty of relieving you of your possessions. I will tax you to the full amount.”

He turned and gave orders in a low voice to those near him. In a few minutes the horses, blankets, food, arms, etcetera, of the three friends were collected, and themselves unbound.

“Now,” said the robber chief, “I mean to spend the night here. You may bid us good-night. The world lies before you—go!”

“B–b–but, sor,” said Flinders, with a perplexed and pitiful air. “Ye niver axed me if I’d j–j–jine ye.”

“Because I don’t want you,” said Stalker.

“Ah! thin, it’s little ye know th–the j–j–jewel ye’re th–throwin’ away.”

“What can you do?” asked the robber, while a slight smile played on his disfigured face.

“What c–can I not do? ye should ax. W–w–why, I can c–c–c–cook, an’ f–f–fight, an’ d–dance, an’ t–t–tell stories, an’ s–s–sing an’—”

“There, that’ll do. I accept you,” said Stalker, turning away, while his men burst into a laugh, and felt that Flinders would be a decided acquisition to the party.

“Are we to go without provisions or weapons?” asked Fred Westly, before leaving.

“You may have both,” answered Stalker, “by joining us. If you go your own way—you go as you are. Please yourselves.”

“You may almost as well kill us as turn us adrift here in the wilderness, without food or the means of procuring it,” remonstrated Fred. “Is it not so, Tom?”

Tom did not condescend to reply. He had evidently screwed his spirit up—or down—to the Turkish condition of apathy and contempt.

“You’re young, both of you, and strong,” answered the robber. “The woods are full of game, berries, roots, and fish. If you know anything of woodcraft you can’t starve.”

“An’ sh–sh–sure Tomlin’s Diggin’s isn’t far—far off—straight f–f–fornint you,” said Flinders, going close up to his friends, and whispering, “Kape round by Bevan’s Gully. You’ll be—”

“Come, none of your whisperin’ together!” shouted Stalker. “You’re one of us now, Flinders, so say goodbye to your old chums an’ fall to the rear.”

“Yis, sor,” replied the biddable Flinders, grasping each of his comrades by the hand and wringing it as he said, “G–g–good-bye, f–f–foolish b–boys, (Bevan’s Gully—sharp!) f–farewell f–for i–i–iver!” and, covering his face with his hands, burst into crocodile’s tears while he fell to the rear. He separated two of his fingers, however, in passing a group of his new comrades, in order to bestow on them a wink which produced a burst of subdued laughter.

Surprised, annoyed, and puzzled, Tom Brixton thrust both hands into his trousers pockets, turned round on his heel, and, without uttering a word, sauntered slowly away.

Fred Westly, in a bewildered frame of mind, followed his example, and the two friends were soon lost to view—swallowed up, as it were, by the Oregon wilderness.

Chapter Eight.

After walking through the woods a considerable distance in perfect silence—for the suddenness of the disaster seemed to have bereft the two friends of speech—Tom Brixton turned abruptly and said—

“Well, Fred, we’re in a nice fix now. What is to be our next move in this interesting little game?”

Fred Westly shook his head with an air of profound perplexity, but said nothing.

“I’ve a good mind,” continued Tom, “to return to Pine Tree Diggings, give myself up, and get hanged right off. It would be a good riddance to the world at large, and would relieve me of a vast deal of trouble.”

“There is a touch of selfishness in that speech, Tom—don’t you think?—for it would not relieve me of trouble; to say nothing of your poor mother!”

“You’re right, Fred. D’you know, it strikes me that I’m a far more selfish and despicable brute than I used to think myself.”

He looked at his companion with a sad sort of smile; nevertheless, there was a certain indefinable ring of sincerity in his tone.

“Tom,” said the other, earnestly, “will you wait for me here for a few minutes while I turn aside to pray?”

“Certainly, old boy,” answered Tom, seating himself on a mossy bank. “You know I cannot join you.”

“I know you can’t, Tom. It would be mockery to pray to One in whom you don’t believe; but as I believe in God, the Bible, and prayer, you’ll excuse my detaining you, just for—”

“Say no more, Fred. Go; I shall wait here for you.”

A slight shiver ran through Brixton’s frame as he sat down, rested his elbows on his knees, and clasped his hands.

“God help me!” he exclaimed, under a sudden impulse, “I’ve come down very low, God help me!”

Fred soon returned.

“You prayed for guidance, I suppose?” said Tom, as his friend sat down beside him.

“I did.”

“Well, what is the result?”

“There is no result as yet—except, of course, the calmer state of my mind, now that I have committed our case into our Father’s hands.”

“Your Father’s, you mean.”

“No, I mean our, for He is your father as well as mine, whether you admit it or not. Jesus has bought you and paid for you, Tom, with His own blood. You are not your own.”

“Not my own? bought and paid for!” thought Brixton, recalling the scene in which words of somewhat similar import had been addressed to him. “Bought and paid for—twice bought! Body and soul!” Then, aloud, “And what are you going to do now, Fred?”

“Going to discuss the situation with you.”

“And after you have discussed it, and acted according to our united wisdom, you will say that you have been guided.”

“Just so! That is exactly what I will say and believe, for ‘He is faithful who has promised.’”

“And if you make mistakes and go wrong, you will still hold, I suppose, that you have been guided?”

“Undoubtedly I will—not guided, indeed, into the mistakes, but guided to what will be best in the long-run, in spite of them.”

“But Fred, how can you call guidance in the wrong direction right guidance?”

“Why, Tom, can you not conceive of a man being guided wrongly as regards some particular end he has in view, and yet that same guidance being right, because leading him to something far better which, perhaps, he has not in view?”

“So that” said Tom, with a sceptical laugh, “whether you go right or go wrong, you are sure to come right in the end!”

“Just so! ‘All things work together for good to them that love God.’”

“Does not that savour of Jesuitism, Fred, which teaches the detestable doctrine that you may do evil if good is to come of it?”

“Not so, Tom; because I did not understand you to use the word wrong in the sense of sinful, but in the sense of erroneous—mistaken. If I go in a wrong road, knowing it to be wrong, I sin; but if I go in a wrong road mistakenly, I still count on guidance, though not perhaps to the particular end at which I aimed—nevertheless, guidance to a good end. Surely you will admit that no man is perfect?”

“Admitted.”

“Well, then, imperfection implies mistaken views and ill-directed action, more or less, in every one, so that if we cannot claim to be guided by God except when free from error in thought and act, then there is no such thing as Divine guidance at all. Surely you don’t hold that!”

“Some have held it.”

“Yes; ‘the fool hath said in his heart, There is no God,’—some have even gone the length of letting it out of the heart and past the lips. With such we cannot argue; their case admits only of pity and prayer.”

“I agree with you there, Fred; but if your views are not Jesuitical, they seem to me to be strongly fatalistic. Commit one’s way to God, you say; then, shut one’s eyes, drive ahead anyhow, and—the end will be sure to be all right!”

“No, I did not say that. With the exception of the first sentence, Tom, that is your way of stating the case, not God’s way. If you ask in any given difficulty, ‘What shall I do?’ His word replies, ‘Commit thy way unto the Lord. Trust also in Him, and He will bring it to pass.’ If you ask, ‘How am I to know what is best?’ the Word again replies, ‘hear, ye deaf; look, ye blind, that you may see.’ Surely that is the reverse of shutting the eyes, isn’t it? If you say, ‘how shall I act?’ the Word answers, ‘A good man will guide his affairs with discretion.’ That’s not driving ahead anyhow, is it?”

“You may be right,” returned Tom, “I hope you are. But, come, what does your wisdom suggest in the present difficulty?”

“The first thing that occurs to me,” replied the other, “is what Flinders said, just before we were ordered off by the robbers. ‘Keep round by Bevan’s Gully,’ he said, in the midst of his serio-comic leave-taking; and again he said, ‘Bevan’s Gully—sharp!’ Of course Paddy, with his jokes and stammering, has been acting a part all through this business, and I am convinced that he has heard something about Bevan’s Gully; perhaps an attack on Bevan himself, which made him wish to tell us to go there.”

“Of course; how stupid of me not to see that before! Let’s go at once!” cried Tom, starting up in excitement. “Undoubtedly he meant that. He must have overheard the villains talk of going there, and we may not be in time to aid them unless we push on.”

“But in what direction does the gully lie?” asked Fred, with a puzzled look.

Tom returned the look with one of perplexity, for they were now a considerable distance both from Bevan’s Gully and Pine Tree Diggings, in the midst of an almost unknown wilderness. From the latter place either of the friends could have travelled to the former almost blindfold; but, having by that time lost their exact bearings, they could only guess at the direction.

“I think,” said Fred, after looking round and up at the sky for some time, “considering the time we have been travelling, and the position of the sun, that the gully lies over yonder. Indeed, I feel almost sure it does.”

He pointed, as he spoke, towards a ridge of rocky ground that cut across the western sky and hid much of the more distant landscape in that direction.

“Nonsense, man!” returned Tom, sharply, “it lies in precisely the opposite direction. Our adventures have turned your brain, I think. Come, don’t let us lose time. Think of Betty; that poor girl may be killed if there is another attack. She was slightly wounded last time. Come!”

Fred looked quickly in his friend’s face. It was deeply flushed, and his eye sparkled with unwonted fire.

“Poor fellow! his case is hopeless; she will never wed him,” thought Fred, but he only said, “I, too, would not waste time, but it seems to me we shall lose much if we go in that direction. The longer I study the nature of the ground, and calculate our rate of travelling since we left the diggings, the more am I convinced that our way lies westward.”

“I feel as certain as you do,” replied Tom with some asperity, for he began to chafe under the delay. “But if you are determined to go that way you must go by yourself, old boy, for I can’t afford to waste time on a wrong road.”

“Nay, if you are so sure, I will give in and follow. Lead on,” returned Tom’s accommodating friend, with a feeling of mingled surprise and chagrin.

In less than an hour they reached a part of the rocky ridge before mentioned, from which they had a magnificent view of the surrounding country. It was wilderness truly, but such a wilderness of tree and bush, river and lake, cascade and pool, flowering plant and festooned shrub, dense thicket and rolling prairie, backed here and there by cloud-capped hills, as seldom meets the eye or thrills the heart of traveller, except in alpine lands. Deep pervading silence marked the hour, for the air was perfectly still, and though the bear, the deer, the wolf, the fox, and a multitude of wild creatures were revelling there in the rich enjoyment of natural life, the vast region, as it were, absorbed and dissipated their voices almost as completely as their persons, so that it seemed but a grand untenanted solitude, just freshly laid out by the hand of the wonder-working Creator. Every sheet of water, from the pool to the lake, reflected an almost cloudless blue, excepting towards the west, where the sun, by that time beginning to descend, converted all into sheets of liquid gold.

The two friends paused on the top of a knoll, more to recover breath than to gaze on the exquisite scene, for they both felt that they were speeding on a mission that might involve life or death. Fred’s enthusiastic admiration, however, would no doubt have found vent in fitting words if he had not at the moment recognised a familiar landmark.

“I knew it!” he cried, eagerly. “Look, Tom, that is Ranger’s Hill on the horizon away to the left. It is very faint from distance, but I could not mistake its form.”

“Nonsense, Fred! you never saw it from this point of view before, and hills change their shape amazingly from different points of view. Come along.”

“No, I am too certain to dispute the matter any longer. If you will have it so, we must indeed part here. But oh! Tom, don’t be obstinate! Why, what has come over you, my dear fellow? Don’t you see—”

“I see that evening is drawing on, and that we shall be too late. Good-bye! One friendly helping hand will be better to her than none. I know I’m right.”

Tom hurried away, and poor Fred, after gazing in mingled surprise and grief at his comrade until he disappeared, turned with a heavy sigh and went off in the opposite direction.

“Well,” he muttered to himself, as he sped along at a pace that might have made even a red man envious, “we are both of us young and strong, so that we are well able to hold out for a considerable time on such light fare as the shrubs of the wilderness produce, and when Tom discovers his mistake he’ll make good use of his long legs to overtake me. I cannot understand his infatuation. But with God’s blessing, all shall yet be well.”

Comforting himself with the last reflection, and offering up a heartfelt prayer as he pressed on, Fred Westly was soon separated from his friend by many a mile of wilderness.

Meanwhile Tom Brixton traversed the land with strides not only of tremendous length, but unusual rapidity. His “infatuation” was not without its appropriate cause. The physical exertions and sufferings which the poor fellow had undergone for so long a period, coupled with the grief, amounting almost to despair, which tormented his brain, had at last culminated in fever; and the flushed face and glittering eyes, which his friend had set down to anxiety about Bevan’s pretty daughter, were, in reality, indications of the gathering fires within. So also was the obstinacy. For it must be admitted that the youth’s natural disposition was tainted with that objectionable quality which, when fever, drink, or any other cause of madness operates in any man, is apt to assert itself powerfully.

At first he strode over the ground with terrific energy, thinking only of Betty and her father in imminent danger; pausing now and then abruptly to draw his hand across his brow and wonder if he was getting near Bevan’s Gully. Then, as his mind began to wander, he could not resist a tendency to shout.

“What a fool I am!” he muttered, after having done this once or twice. “I suppose anxiety about that dear girl is almost driving me mad. But she can never—never be mine. I’m a thief! a thief! Ha! ha–a–a–ah!”

The laugh that followed might have appalled even a red and painted warrior. It did terrify, almost into fits, all the tree and ground squirrels within a mile of him, for these creatures went skurrying off to holes and topmost boughs in wild confusion when they heard it echoing through the woods.

When this fit passed off Tom took to thinking again. He strode over hillock, swamp, and plain in silence, save when, at long intervals, he muttered the words, “Think, think, thinking. Always thinking! Can’t stop think, thinking!”

Innumerable wild fowl, and many of the smaller animals of the woods, met him in his mad career, and fled from his path, but one of these seemed at last inclined to dispute the path with him.

It was a small brown bear, which creature, although insignificant when compared with the gigantic grizzly, is, nevertheless, far more than a match for the most powerful unarmed man that ever lived. This rugged creature chanced to be rolling sluggishly along as if enjoying an evening saunter at the time when Tom approached. The place was dotted with willow bushes, so that when the two met there was not more than a hundred yards between them. The bear saw the man instantly, and rose on its hind legs to do battle. At that moment Tom lifted his eyes. Throwing up his arms, he uttered a wild yell of surprise, which culminated in a fit of demoniacal laughter. But there was no laughter apparent on poor Tom’s flushed and fierce visage, though it issued from his dry lips. Without an instant’s hesitation he rushed at the bear with clenched fists. The animal did not await the charge. Dropping humbly on its fore-legs, it turned tail and fled, at such a pace that it soon left its pursuer far behind!

Just as it disappeared over a distant ridge Tom came in sight of a small pond or lakelet covered with reeds, and swarming with ducks and geese, besides a host of plover and other aquatic birds—most of them with outstretched necks, wondering no doubt what all the hubbub could be about. Tom incontinently bore down on these, and dashing in among them was soon up to his neck in water!

He remained quiet for a few minutes and deep silence pervaded the scene. Then the water began to feel chill. The wretched man crept out and, remembering his errand, resumed his rapid journey. Soon the fever burned again with intensified violence, and the power of connected thought began to depart from its victim altogether.

While in this condition Tom Brixton wandered aimlessly about, sometimes walking smartly for a mile or so, at other times sauntering slowly, as if he had no particular object in view, and occasionally breaking into a run at full speed, which usually ended in his falling exhausted on the ground.

At last, as darkness began to overspread the land, he became so worn-out that he flung himself down under a tree, with a hazy impression on his mind that it was time to encamp for the night. The fever was fierce and rapid in its action. First it bereft him of reason and then left him prostrate, without the power to move a limb except with the greatest difficulty.

It was about the hour of noon when his reasoning powers returned, and, strange to say, the first conscious act of his mind was to recall the words “twice bought,” showing that the thought had been powerfully impressed on him before delirium set in. What he had said or done during his ravings he knew not, for memory was a blank, and no human friend had been there to behold or listen. At that time, however, Tom did not think very deeply about these words, or, indeed, about anything else. His prostration was so great that he did not care at first to follow out any line of thought or to move a limb. A sensation of absolute rest and total indifference seemed to enchain all his faculties. He did not even know where he was, and did not care, but lay perfectly still, gazing up through the overhanging branches into the bright blue sky, sometimes dozing off into a sleep that almost resembled death, from which he awoke gently, to wonder, perhaps, in an idle way, what had come over him, and then ceasing to wonder before the thought had become well defined.

The first thing that roused him from this condition was a passing thought of Betty Bevan. He experienced something like a slight shock, and the blood which had begun to stagnate received a new though feeble impulse at its fountain-head, the heart. Under the force of it he tried to rise, but could not although he strove manfully. At last, however, he managed to raise himself on one elbow, and looked round with dark and awfully large eyes, while he drew his left hand tremblingly across his pale brow. He observed the trembling fingers and gazed at them inquiringly.

“I—I must have been ill. So weak, too! Where am I? The forest—everywhere! What can it all mean? There was a—a thought—what could it—Ah! Betty—dear girl—that was it. But what of her? Danger—yes—in danger. Ha! now I have it!”

There came a slight flush on his pale cheeks, and, struggling again with his weakness, he succeeded in getting on his feet, but staggered and fell with a crash that rendered him insensible for a time.

On recovering, his mind was clearer and more capable of continuous thought; but this power only served to show him that he was lost, and that, even if he had known his way to Bevan’s Gully, his strength was utterly gone, so that he could not render aid to the friends who stood in need of it so sorely.

In the midst of these depressing thoughts an intense desire for food took possession of him, and he gazed around with a sort of wolfish glare, but there was no food within his reach—not even a wild berry.

“I believe that I am dying,” he said at last, with deep solemnity. “God forgive me! Twice bought! Fred said that Jesus had bought my soul before the miners bought my life.”

For some time he lay motionless; then, rousing himself, again began to speak in low, disjointed sentences, among which were words of prayer.

“It is terrible to die here—alone!” he murmured, recovering from one of his silent fits. “Oh that mother were here now! dear, dishonoured, but still beloved mother! Would that I had a pen to scratch a few words before—stay, I have a pencil.”

He searched his pockets and found the desired implement, but he could not find paper. The lining of his cap occurred to him; it was soft and unfit for his purpose. Looking sadly round, he observed that the tree against which he leaned was a silver-stemmed birch, the inner bark of which, he knew, would serve his purpose. With great difficulty he tore off a small sheet of it and began to write, while a little smile of contentment played on his lips.

From time to time weakness compelled him to pause, and more than once he fell asleep in the midst of his labour. Heavy labour it was, too, for the nerveless hands almost refused to form the irregular scrawl. Still he persevered—till evening. Then a burning thirst assailed him, and he looked eagerly round for water, but there was none in view. His eyes lighted up, however, as he listened, for the soft tinkling of a tiny rill filled his ear.

With a desperate effort he got upon his hands and knees, and crept in the direction whence the sound came. He found the rill in a few moments, and, falling on his breast, drank with feelings of intense gratitude in his heart. When satisfied he rose to his knees again and tried to return to his tree, but even while making the effort he sank slowly on his breast, pillowed his head on the wet green moss, and fell into a profound slumber.

Chapter Nine.

We left Fred hastening through the forest to the help of his friends at Bevan’s Gully.

At first, after parting from his comrade, he looked back often and anxiously, in the hope that Tom might find out his mistake and return to him; but as mile after mile was placed between them, he felt that this hope was vain, and turned all his energies of mind and body to the task that lay before him. This was to outwalk Stalker’s party of bandits and give timely warning to the Bevans; for, although Flinders’s hints had been vague enough, he readily guessed that the threatened danger was the descent of the robbers on their little homestead, and it naturally occurred to his mind that this was probably the same party which had made the previous attack, especially as he had observed several Indians among them.

Young, sanguine, strong, and active, Fred, to use a not inapt phrase, devoured the ground with his legs! Sometimes he ran, at other times he walked, but more frequently he went along at an easy trot, which, although it looked slower than quick walking, was in reality much faster, besides being better suited to the rough ground he had to traverse.

Night came at last but night could not have arrested him if it had not been intensely dark. This, however, did not trouble him much, for he knew that the same cause would arrest the progress of his foes, and besides, the moon would rise in an hour. He therefore flung himself on the ground for a short rest, and fell asleep, while praying that God would not suffer him to sleep too long.

His prayer was answered, for he awoke with a start an hour afterwards, just as the first pale light of the not quite risen moon began to tinge the clear sky.

Fred felt very hungry, and could not resist the tendency to meditate on beefsteaks and savoury cutlets for some time after resuming his journey; but, after warming to the work, and especially after taking a long refreshing draught at a spring that bubbled like silver in the moonlight, these longings passed away. Hour after hour sped by, and still the sturdy youth held on at the same steady pace, for he knew well that to push beyond his natural strength in prolonged exertion would only deduct from the end of his journey whatever he might gain at the commencement.

Day broke at length. As it advanced the intense longing for food returned, and, to his great anxiety, it was accompanied by a slight feeling of faintness. He therefore glanced about for wild fruits as he went along, without diverging from his course, and was fortunate to fall in with several bushes which afforded him a slight meal of berries. In the strength of these he ran on till noon, when the faint feeling returned, and he was fain to rest for a little beside a brawling brook.

“Oh! Father, help me!” he murmured, as he stooped to drink. On rising, he continued to mutter to himself, “If only a tithe of my ordinary strength were left, or if I had one good meal and a short rest, I could be there in three hours; but—”

Whatever Fred’s fears were, he did not express them. He arose and recommenced his swinging trot with something like the pertinacity of a bloodhound on the scent. Perhaps he was thinking of his previous conversation with Tom Brixton about being guided by God in all circumstances, for the only remark that escaped him afterwards was, “It is my duty to act and leave results to Him.”

Towards the afternoon of that day Paul Bevan was busy mending a small cart in front of his hut, when he observed a man to stagger out of the wood as if he had been drunk, and approach the place where his plank-bridge usually spanned the brook. It was drawn back, however, at the time, and lay on the fortress side, for Paul had been rendered somewhat cautious by the recent assault on his premises.

“Hallo, Betty!” he cried.

“Yes, father,” replied a sweet musical voice, the owner of which issued from the doorway with her pretty arms covered with flour and her face flushed from the exertion of making bread.

“Are the guns loaded, lass?”

“Yes, father,” replied Betty, turning her eyes in the direction towards which Paul gazed. “But I see only one man,” she added.

“Ay, an’ a drunk man too, who couldn’t make much of a fight if he wanted to. But lass, the drunk man may have any number of men at his back, both drunk and sober, so it’s well to be ready. Just fetch the revolvers an’ have ’em handy while I go down to meet him.”

“Father, it seems to me I should know that figure. Why, it’s—no, surely it cannot be young Mister Westly!”

“No doubt of it, girl. Your eyes are better than mine, but I see him clearer as he comes on. Young Westly—drunk—ha! ha!—as a hatter! I’ll go help him over.”

Paul chuckled immensely—as sinners are wont to do when they catch those whom they are pleased to call “saints” tripping—but when he had pushed the plank over, and Fred, plunging across, fell at his feet in a state of insensibility, his mirth vanished and he stooped to examine him. His first act was to put his nose to the youth’s mouth and sniff.

“No smell o’ drink there,” he muttered. Then he untied Fred’s neckcloth and loosened his belt. Then, as nothing resulted from these acts, he set himself to lift the fallen man in his arms. Being a sturdy fellow he succeeded, though with considerable difficulty, and staggered with his burden towards the hut, where he was met by his anxious daughter.

“Why, lass, he’s no more drunk than you are!” cried Paul, as he laid Fred on his own bed. “Fetch me the brandy—flask—no? Well, get him a cup of coffee, if ye prefer it.”

“It will be better for him, father; besides, it is fortunately ready and hot.”

While the active girl ran to the outer room or “hall” of the hut for the desired beverage, Paul slily forced a teaspoonful of diluted brandy into Fred’s mouth. It had, at all events, the effect of restoring him to consciousness, for he opened his eyes and glanced from side to side with a bewildered air. Then he sat up suddenly, and said—

“Paul, the villains are on your track again. I’ve hastened ahead to tell you. I’d have been here sooner—but—but I’m—starving.”

“Eat, then—eat before you speak, Mr Westly,” said Betty, placing food before him.

“But the matter is urgent!” cried Fred.

“Hold on, Mr Fred,” said Paul; “did you an’ the enemy—whoever he may be, though I’ve a pretty fair guess—start to come here together?”

“Within the same hour, I should think.”

“An’ did you camp for the night?”

“No. At least I rested but one hour.”

“Then swallow some grub an’ make your mind easy. They won’t be here for some hours yet, for you’ve come on at a rate that no party of men could beat, I see that clear enough—unless they was mounted.”

“But a few of the chief men were mounted, Paul.”

“Pooh! that’s nothing. Chief men won’t come on without the or’nary men. It needs or’nary men, you know, to make chief ’uns. Ha! ha! Come, now, if you can’t hold your tongue, try to speak and eat at the same time.”

Thus encouraged, Fred set to work on some bread and cheese and coffee with all the gusto of a starving man, and, at broken intervals, blurted out all he knew and thought about the movements of the robber band, as well as his own journey and his parting with Brixton.

“’Tis a pity, an’ strange, too, that he was so obstinate,” observed Paul.

“But he thought he was right” said Betty; and then she blushed with vexation at having been led by impulse even to appear to justify her lover. But Paul took no notice.

“It matters not,” said he, “for it happens that you have found us almost on the wing, Westly. I knew full well that this fellow Buxley—”

“They call him Stalker, if you mean the robber chief” interrupted Fred.

“Pooh! Did you ever hear of a robber chief without half a dozen aliases?” rejoined Paul. “This Buxley, havin’ found out my quarters, will never rest till he kills me; so as I’ve no fancy to leave my little Betty in an unprotected state yet a while, we have packed up our goods and chattels—they ain’t much to speak of—and intend to leave the old place this very night. Your friend Stalker won’t attack till night—I know the villain well—but your news inclines me to set off a little sooner than I intended. So, what you have got to do is to lie down an’ rest while Betty and I get the horse an’ cart ready. We’ve got a spare horse, which you’re welcome to. We sent little Tolly Trevor off to Briant’s Gulch to buy a pony for my little lass. He should have been back by this time if he succeeded in gettin’ it.”

“But where do you mean to go to?” asked Fred.

“To Simpson’s Gully.”

“Why, that’s where Tom and I were bound for when we fell in with Stalker and his band! We shall probably meet Tom returning. But the road is horrible—indeed there is no road at all, and I don’t think a cart could—”

“Oh! I know that” interrupted Paul, “and have no intention of smashing up my cart in the woods. We shall go round by the plains, lad. It is somewhat longer, no doubt, but once away, we shall be able to laugh at men on foot if they are so foolish as to follow us. Come now, Betty, stir your stumps and finish your packing. I’ll go get the—”

A peculiar yell rent the air outside at that moment, cutting short the sentence, and almost petrifying the speaker, who sprang up and began frantically to bar the door and windows of the hut, at the same time growling, “They’ve come sooner than I expected. Who’d have thought it! Bar the small window at the back, Betty, an’ then fetch all the weapons. I was so taken up wi’ you, Fred, that I forgot to haul back the plank; that’s how they’ve got over. Help wi’ this table—so—they’ll have some trouble to batter in the door wi’ that agin it, an’ I’ve a flankin’ battery at the east corner to prevent them settin’ the place on fire.”

While the man spoke he acted with violent haste. Fred sprang up and assisted him, for the shock—coupled, no doubt, with the hot coffee and bread and cheese—had restored his energies, at least for the time, almost as effectually as if he had had a rest.

They were only just in time, for at that moment a man ran with a wild shout against the door. Finding it fast, he kept thundering against it with his heavy boots, and shouting Paul Bevan’s name in unusually fierce tones.

“Are ye there?” he demanded at last and stopped to listen.

“If you’ll make less noise mayhap ye’ll find out” growled Paul.

“Och! Paul, dear, open av ye love me,” entreated the visitor, in a voice there was no mistaking.

“I do believe it’s my mate Flinders!” said Fred.

Paul said nothing, but proved himself to be of the same opinion by hastily unbarring and opening the door, when in burst the irrepressible Flinders, wet from head to foot, splashed all over with mud and blood, and panting like a race-horse.

“Is that—tay ye’ve got there—my dear?” he asked in gasps.

“No, it is coffee. Let me give you some.”

“Thank ’ee kindly—fill it up—my dear. Here’s wishin’—ye all luck!”

Paddy drained the cup to the dregs, wiped his mouth on the cuff of his coat, and thus delivered himself—

“Now, don’t all spake at wance. Howld yer tongues an’ listen. Av coorse, Muster Fred’s towld ye when an’ where an’ how I jined the blackguards. Ye’ll be able now to guess why I did it. Soon after I jined ’em I began to boast o’ my shootin’ in a way that would ha’ shocked me nat’ral modesty av I hadn’t done it for a raisin o’ me own. Well, they boasted back, so I defied ’em to a trial, an’ soon showed ’em what I could do. There wasn’t wan could come near me wi’ the rifle. So they made me hunter-in-chief to the band then an’ there. I wint out at wance an’ brought in a good supply o’ game. Then, as my time was short, you see, I gave ’em the slip nixt day an’ comed on here, neck an’ crop, through fire an’ water, like a turkey-buzzard wi’ the cholera. An’ so here I am, an’ they’ll soon find out I’ve given ’em the slip, an’ they’ll come after me, swearin’, perhaps; an’ if I was you, Paul Bevan, I wouldn’t stop to say how d’ye do to them.”

“No more I will, Paddy—an’, by good luck, we’re about ready to start only I’ve got a fear for that poor boy Tolly. If he comes back arter we’re gone an’ falls into their hands it’ll be a bad look-out for him.”

“No fear o’ Tolly,” said Flinders; “he’s a ’cute boy as can look after himself. By the way, where’s Muster Tom?”

The reason of Brixton’s absence was explained to him by Betty, who bustled about the house packing up the few things that could be carried away, while her father and Fred busied themselves with the cart and horses outside. Meanwhile the Irishman continued to refresh himself with the bread and cheese.

“Ye see it’s o’ no manner o’ use me tryin’ to help ye, my dear,” he said, apologetically, “for I niver was much of a hand at packin’, my exparience up to this time havin’ run pretty much in the way o’ havin’ little or nothin’ to pack. Moreover, I’m knocked up as well as hungry, an’ ye seem such a good hand that it would be a pity to interfere wid ye. Is there any chance o’ little Tolly turnin’ up wi’ the pony before we start?”

“Every chance,” replied the girl, smiling, in spite of herself, at the man’s free-and-easy manner rather than his words. “He ought to have been here by this time. We expect him every moment.”

But these expectations were disappointed, for, when they had packed the stout little cart, harnessed and saddled the horses, and were quite ready to start, the boy had not appeared.

“We durstn’t delay,” said Paul, with a look of intense annoyance, “an’ I can’t think of how we are to let him know which way we’ve gone, for I didn’t think of telling him why we wanted another pony.”

“He can read, father. We might leave a note for him on the table, and if he arrives before the robbers that would guide him.”

“True, Betty; but if the robbers should arrive before him, that would also guide them.”

“But we’re so sure of his returning almost immediately,” urged Betty.

“Not so sure o’ that, lass. No, we durstn’t risk it, an’ I can’t think of anything else. Poor Tolly! he’ll stand a bad chance, for he’s sure to come gallopin’ up, an’ singin’ at the top of his voice in his usual reckless way.”

“Cudn’t we stick up a bit o’ paper in the way he’s bound to pass, wid a big wooden finger to point it out and the word ‘notice’ on it writ big?”

“Oh! I know what I’ll do,” cried Betty. “Tolly will be sure to search all over the place for us, and there’s one place, a sort of half cave in the cliff, where he and I used to read together. He’ll be quite certain to look there.”

“Right, lass, an’ we may risk that, for the reptiles won’t think o’ sarchin’ the cliff. Go, Betty; write, ‘We’re off to Simpson’s Gully, by the plains. Follow hard.’ That’ll bring him on if they don’t catch him—poor Tolly!”

In a few minutes the note was written and stuck on the wall of the cave referred to; then the party set off at a brisk trot, Paul, Betty, and Flinders in the cart, while Fred rode what its owner styled the spare horse.

They had been gone about two hours, when Stalker, alias Buxley, and his men arrived in an unenviable state of rage, for they had discovered Flinders’s flight, had guessed its object, and now, after hastening to Bevan’s Gully at top speed, had reached it to find the birds flown.

This they knew at once from the fact that the plank-bridge, quadrupled in width to let the horse and cart pass, had been left undrawn as if to give them a mocking invitation to cross. Stalker at once accepted the invitation. The astute Bevan had, however, anticipated and prepared for this event by the clever use of a saw just before leaving. When the robber-chief gained the middle of the bridge it snapped in two and let him down with a horrible rending of wood into the streamlet, whence he emerged like a half-drowned rat, amid the ill-suppressed laughter of his men. The damage he received was slight. It was only what Flinders would have called, “a pleasant little way of showing attintion to his inimy before bidding him farewell.”

Of course every nook and corner of the stronghold was examined with the utmost care—also with considerable caution, for they knew not how many more traps and snares might have been laid for them. They did not, however, find those for whom they sought, and, what was worse in the estimation of some of the band, they found nothing worth carrying away. Only one thing did they discover that was serviceable, namely, a large cask of gunpowder in the underground magazine formerly mentioned. Bevan had thought of blowing this up before leaving, for his cart was already too full to take it in, but the hope that it might not be discovered, and that he might afterwards return to fetch it away, induced him to spare it.

Of course all the flasks and horns of the band were replenished from this store, but there was still left a full third of the cask which they could not carry away. With this the leader determined to blow up the hut, for he had given up all idea of pursuing the fugitives, he and his men being too much exhausted for that.

Accordingly the cask was placed in the middle of the hut and all the unportable remains of Paul Bevan’s furniture were piled above it. Then a slow match was made by rubbing gunpowder on some long strips of calico. This was applied and lighted, and the robbers retired to a spot close to a spring about half a mile distant, where they could watch the result in safety while they cooked some food.

But these miscreants were bad judges of slow matches! Their match turned out to be very slow. So slow that they began to fear it had gone out—so slow that the daylight had time to disappear and the moon to commence her softly solemn journey across the dark sky—so slow that Stalker began seriously to think of sending a man to stir up the spark, though he thought there might be difficulty in finding a volunteer for the dangerous job—so slow that a certain reckless little boy came galloping towards the fortress on a tall horse with a led pony plunging by his side—all before the spark of the match reached its destination and did its work.

Then, at last, there came a flush that made the soft moon look suddenly paler, and lighted up the world as if the sun had shot a ray right through it from the antipodes. This was followed by a crash and a roar that caused the solid globe itself to vibrate and sent Paul Bevan’s fortress into the sky a mass of blackened ruins. One result was that a fiendish cheer arose from the robbers’ camp, filling the night air with discord. Another result was that the happy-go-lucky little boy and his horses came to an almost miraculous halt and remained so for some time, gazing straight before them in a state of abject amazement!

Chapter Ten.

How long Tolly Trevor remained in a state of horrified surprise no one can tell, for he was incapable of observation at the time, besides being alone. On returning to consciousness he found himself galloping towards the exploded fortress at full speed, and did not draw rein till he approached the bank of the rivulet. Reflecting that a thoroughbred hunter could not clear the stream, even in daylight, he tried to pull up, but his horse refused. It had run away with him.

Although constitutionally brave, the boy felt an unpleasant sensation of some sort as he contemplated the inevitable crash that awaited him; for, even if the horse should perceive his folly and try to stop on reaching the bank, the tremendous pace attained would render the attempt futile.

“Stop! won’t you? Wo-o-o!” cried Tolly, straining at the reins till the veins of his neck and forehead seemed about to burst.

But the horse would neither “stop” nor “wo-o-o!” It was otherwise, however, with the pony. That amiable creature had been trained well, and had learned obedience. Blessed quality! Would that the human race—especially its juvenile section—understood better the value of that inestimable virtue! The pony began to pull back at the sound of “wo!” Its portion in childhood had probably been woe when it refused to recognise the order. The result was that poor Tolly’s right arm, over which was thrown the pony’s rein, had to bear the strain of conflicting opinions.

A bright idea struck his mind at this moment. Bright ideas always do strike the mind of genius at critical moments! He grasped both the reins of his steed in his right hand, and took a sudden turn of them round his wrist. Then he turned about—not an instant too soon—looked the pony straight in the face, and said “Wo!” in a voice of command that was irresistible. The pony stopped at once, stuck out its fore legs, and was absolutely dragged a short way over the ground. The strain on Tolly’s arm was awful, but the arm was a stout one, though small. It stood the strain, and the obstinate runaway was arrested on the brink of destruction with an almost broken jaw.

The boy slipped to the ground and hastily fastened the steeds to a tree. Even in that hour of supreme anxiety he could not help felicitating himself on the successful application of pony docility to horsey self-will.

But these and all other feelings of humour and satisfaction were speedily put to flight when, after crossing the remains of the plank bridge with some difficulty, he stood before the hideous wreck of his friend’s late home, where he had spent so many glad hours listening to marvellous adventures from Paul Bevan, or learning how to read and cipher, as well as drinking in wisdom generally, from the Rose of Oregon.

It was an awful collapse. A yawning gulf had been driven into the earth, and the hut—originally a solid structure—having been hurled bodily skyward, shattered to atoms, and inextricably mixed in its parts, had come down again into the gulf as into a ready-made grave.

It would be vain to search for any sort of letter, sign, or communication from his friends among the débris. Tolly felt that at once, yet he could not think of leaving without a search. After one deep and prolonged sigh he threw off his lethargy, and began a close inspection of the surroundings.

“You see,” he muttered to himself, as he moved quickly yet stealthily about, “they’d never have gone off without leavin’ some scrap of information for me, to tell me which way they’d gone, even though they’d gone off in a lightnin’ hurry. But p’raps they didn’t. The reptiles may have comed on ’em unawares, an’ left ’em no time to do anything. Of course they can’t have killed ’em. Nobody ever could catch Paul Bevan asleep—no, not the sharpest redskin in the land. That’s quite out o’ the question.”

Though out of the question, however, the bare thought of such a catastrophe caused little Trevor’s under lip to tremble, a mist to obscure his vision, and a something-or-other to fill his throat, which he had to swallow with a gulp. Moreover, he went back to the ruined hut and began to pull about the wreck with a fluttering heart, lest he should come on some evidence that his friends had been murdered. Then he went to the highest part of the rock to rest a little, and consider what had best be done next.

While seated there, gazing on the scene of silent desolation, which the pale moonlight rendered more ghastly, the poor boy’s spirit failed him a little. He buried his face in his hands and burst into tears.

Soon this weakness, as he deemed it, passed away. He dried his eyes, roughly, and rose to resume his search, and it is more than probable that he would ere long have bethought him of the cave where Betty had left her note, if his attention had not been suddenly arrested by a faint glimmer of ruddy light in a distant part of the forest. The robbers were stirring up their fires, and sending a tell-tale glow into the sky.

“O-ho!” exclaimed Tolly Trevor.

He said nothing more, but there was a depth of meaning in the tone and look accompanying that “O-ho!” which baffles description.

Tightening his belt, he at once glided down the slope, flitted across the rivulet, skimmed over the open space, and melted into the forest after the most approved method of Red Indian tactics.

The expedition from which he had just returned having been peaceful, little Trevor carried no warlike weapons—for the long bowie-knife at his side, and the little hatchet stuck in his girdle, were, so to speak, merely domestic implements, without which he never moved abroad. But as war was not his object, the want of rifle and revolver mattered little. He soon reached the neighbourhood of the robbers’ fire, and, when close enough to render extreme caution necessary, threw himself flat on the ground and advanced à la “snake-in-the-grass.”

Presently he came within earshot, and listened attentively, though without much interest, to a deal of boastful small talk with which the marauders beguiled the time, while they fumigated their mouths and noses preparatory to turning in for the night.

At last the name of Paul Bevan smote his ear, causing it, metaphorically, to go on full cock.

“I’m sartin sure,” said one of the speakers, “that the old screw has gone right away to Simpson’s Gully.”

“If I thought that, I’d follow him up, and make a dash at the Gully itself,” said Stalker, plucking a burning stick from the fire to rekindle his pipe.

“If you did you’d get wopped,” remarked Goff, with a touch of sarcasm, for the lieutenant of the band was not so respectful to his commander as a well-disciplined man should be.

“What makes you think so?” demanded the chief.

“The fact that the diggers are a sight too many for us,” returned Goff. “Why, we’d find ’em three to one, if not four.”

“Well, that, coupled with the uncertainty of his having gone to Simpson’s Gully,” said the chief, “decides me to make tracks down south to the big woods on the slopes of the Sawback Hills. There are plenty of parties travelling thereabouts with lots of gold, boys, and difficulties enough in the way of hunting us out o’ the stronghold. I’ll leave you there for a short time and make a private excursion to Simpson’s Gully, to see if my enemy an’ the beautiful Betty are there.”

“An’ get yourself shot or stuck for your pains,” said Goff. “Do you suppose that such a hulking, long-legged fellow as you are, can creep into a camp like an or’nary man without drawin’ attention?”

“Perhaps not,” returned Stalker; “but are there not such things as disguises? Have you not seen me with my shootin’-coat and botanical box an’ blue spectacles, an’ my naturally sandy hair.”

“No, no, captain!” cried Goff, with a laugh, “not sandy; say yellow, or golden.”

“Well, golden, then, if you will. You’ve seen it dyed black, haven’t you?”

“Oh yes! I’ve seen you in these humblin’ circumstances before now,” returned the lieutenant, “and I must say your own mother wouldn’t know you. But what’s the use o’ runnin’ the risk, captain?”

“Because I owe Bevan a grudge!” said the chief, sternly, “and mean to be revenged on him. Besides, I want the sweet Betty for a wife, and intend to have her, whether she will or no. She’ll make a capital bandit’s wife—after a little while, when she gets used to the life. So now you know some of my plans, and you shall see whether the hulking botanist won’t carry all before him.”

“O-ho!” muttered the snake-in-the-grass, very softly; and there was something so compound and significant in the tone of that second “O-ho!” soft though it was, that it not only baffles description, but—really, you know, it would be an insult to your understanding, good reader, to say more in the way of explanation! There was also a heaving of the snake’s shoulders, which, although unaccompanied by sound, was eminently suggestive.

Feeling that he had by that time heard quite enough, Tolly Trevor effected a masterly retreat, and returned to the place where he had left the horses. On the way he recalled with satisfaction the fact that Paul Bevan had once pointed out to him the exact direction of Simpson’s Gully at a time when he meant to send him on an errand thither. “You’ve on’y to go over there, lad,” Paul had said, pointing towards the forest in rear of his hut, “and hold on for two days straight as the crow flies till you come to it. You can’t well miss it.”

Tolly knew that there was also an easier though longer route by the plains, but as he was not sure of it he made up his mind to take to the forest.

The boy was sufficiently trained in woodcraft to feel pretty confident of finding his way, for he knew the north side of trees by their bark, and could find out the north star when the sky was clear, besides possessing a sort of natural aptitude for holding on in a straight line. He mounted the obstinate horse, therefore, took the rein of the obedient pony on his right arm, and, casting a last look of profound regret on Bevan’s desolated homestead, rode swiftly away. So eager was he that he took no thought for the morrow. He knew that the wallet slung at his saddle-bow contained a small supply of food—as much, probably, as would last three days with care. That was enough to render Tolly Trevor the most independent and careless youth in Oregon.

While these events were occurring in the neighbourhood of Bevan’s Gully, three red men, in all the glory of vermilion, charcoal, and feathers, were stalking through the forest in the vicinity of the spot where poor Tom Brixton had laid him down to die. These children of the wilderness stalked in single file—from habit we presume, for there was ample space for them to have walked abreast if so inclined. They seemed to be unsociable beings, for they also stalked in solemn silence.

Suddenly the first savage came to an abrupt pause, and said, “Ho!” the second savage said, “He!” and the third said, “Hi!” After which, for full a minute, they stared at the ground in silent wonder and said nothing. They had seen a footprint! It did not by any means resemble that deep, well developed, and very solitary footprint at which Robinson Crusoe is wont to stare in nursery picture-books. No; it was a print which was totally invisible to ordinary eyes, and revealed itself to these children of the woods in the form of a turned leaf and a cracked twig. Such as it was, it revealed a track which the three children followed up until they found Tom Brixton—or his body—lying on the ground near to the little spring.

Again these children said, “Ho!” “He!” and “Hi!” respectively, in varying tones according to their varied character. Then they commenced a jabber, which we are quite unable to translate, and turned Tom over on his back. The motion awoke him, for he sat up and stared.

Even that effort proved too much for him in his weak state, for he fell back and fainted.

The Indians proved to be men of promptitude. They lifted the white man up; one got Tom’s shoulders on his back, another put his legs over his shoulders, and thus they stalked away with him. When the first child of the wood grew tired, the unburdened one stepped in to his relief; when the second child grew tired, the first one went to his aid; when all the children grew tired, they laid their burden on the ground and sat down beside it. Thus, by easy stages, was Tom Brixton conveyed away from the spot where he had given himself up as hopelessly lost.

Now, it could not have been more than six hours after Tom had thus been borne away that poor Tolly Trevor came upon the same scene. We say “poor” advisedly, for he had not only suffered the loss of much fragmentary clothing in his passage through that tangled wood, but also most of the food with which he had started, and a good deal of skin from his shins, elbows, knuckles, and knees, as well as the greater part of his patience. Truly, he was in a pitiable plight, for the forest had turned out to be almost impassable for horses, and in his journey he had not only fallen off, and been swept out of the saddle by overhanging branches frequently, but had to swim swamps, cross torrents, climb precipitous banks, and had stuck in quagmires innumerable.

As for the horses—their previous owner could not have recognised them. It is true they were what is styled “all there,” but there was an inexpressible droop of their heads and tails, a weary languor in their eyes, and an abject waggle about their knees which told of hope deferred and spirit utterly gone. The pony was the better of the two. Its sprightly glance of amiability had changed into a gaze of humble resignation, whereas the aspect of the obstinate horse was one of impotent ill-nature. It would have bitten, perhaps, if strength had permitted, but as to its running away—ha!

Well, Tolly Trevor approached—it could hardly be said he rode up to—the spring before mentioned, where he passed the footprints in stupid blindness.

He dismounted, however, to drink and rest a while.

“Come on—you brute!” he cried, almost savagely, dragging the horse to the water.

The creature lowered its head and gazed as though to say, “What liquid is that?”

As the pony, however, at once took a long and hearty draught it also condescended to drink, while Tolly followed suit. Afterwards he left the animals to graze, and sat down under a neighbouring tree to rest and swallow his last morsel of food.

It was sad to see the way in which the poor boy carefully shook out and gathered up the few crumbs in his wallet so that not one of them should be lost; and how slowly he ate them, as if to prolong the sensation of being gratified! During the two days which he had spent in the forest his face had grown perceptibly thinner, and his strength had certainly diminished. Even the reckless look of defiant joviality, which was one of the boy’s chief characteristics, had given place to a restless anxiety that prevented his seeing humour in anything, and induced a feeling of impatience when a joke chanced irresistibly to bubble up in his mind. He was once again reduced almost to the weeping point, but his sensations were somewhat different for, when he had stood gazing at the wreck of Bevan’s home, the nether lip had trembled because of the sorrows of friends, whereas now he was sorrowing because of an exhausted nature, a weakened heart, and a sinking spirit. But the spirit had not yet utterly given way!

“Come!” he cried, starting up. “This won’t do, Tolly. Be a man! Why, only think—you have got over two days and two nights. That was the time allowed you by Paul, so your journey’s all but done—must be. Of course those brutes—forgive me, pony, that brute, I mean—has made me go much slower than if I had come on my own legs, but notwithstanding, it cannot be—hallo! what’s that!”

The exclamation had reference to a small dark object which lay a few yards from the spot on which he sat. He ran and picked it up. It was Tom Brixton’s cap—with his name rudely written on the lining. Beside it lay a piece of bark on which was pencil-writing.

With eager, anxious haste the boy began to peruse it, but he was unaccustomed to read handwriting, and when poor Tom had pencilled the lines his hand was weak and his brain confused, so that the characters were doubly difficult to decipher. After much and prolonged effort the boy made out the beginning. It ran thus:

“This is probably the last letter that I, Tom Brixton, shall ever write. (I put down my name now, in case I never finish it.) O dearest mother!—”

Emotion had no doubt rendered the hand less steady at this point, for here the words were quite illegible—at least to little Trevor—who finally gave up the attempt in despair. The effect of this discovery, however, was to send the young blood coursing wildly through the veins, so that a great measure of strength returned, as if by magic.

The boy’s first care was naturally to look for traces of the lost man, and he set about this with a dull fear at his heart, lest at any moment he should come upon the dead body of his friend. In a few minutes he discovered the track made by the Indians, which led him to the spot near to the spring where Tom had fallen. To his now fully-awakened senses Trevor easily read the story, as far as signs could tell it.

Brixton had been all but starved to death. He had lain down under a tree to die—the very tree under which he himself had so recently given way to despair. While lying there he—Brixton—had scrawled his last words on the bit of birch-bark. Then he had tried to reach the spring, but had fainted either before reaching it or after leaving. This he knew, because the mark of Tom’s coat, part of his waist-belt and the handle of his bowie-knife were all impressed on the softish ground with sufficient distinctness to be discerned by a sharp eye. The moccasined footprints told of Indians having found Brixton—still alive, for they would not have taken the trouble to carry him off if he had been dead. The various sizes of the moccasined feet told that the party of Indians numbered three; and the trail of the red men, with its occasional halting-places, pointed out clearly the direction in which they had gone. Happily this was also the direction in which little Trevor was going.

Of course the boy did not read this off as readily as we have written it all down. It cost him upwards of an hour’s patient research; but when at last he did arrive at the result of his studies he wasted no time in idle speculation. His first duty was to reach Simpson’s Gully, discover his friend Paul Bevan, and deliver to him the piece of birch-bark he had found, and the information he had gleaned.

By the time Tolly had come to this conclusion his horse and pony had obtained both rest and nourishment enough to enable them to raise their drooping heads and tails an inch or two, so that when the boy mounted the former with some of his old dash and energy, it shook its head, gave a short snort, and went off at a fair trot.

Fortunately the ground improved just beyond this point, opening out into park-like scenery, which, in another mile or two, ran into level prairie land. This Trevor knew from description was close to the mountain range, in which lay the gully he was in quest of. The hope which had begun to rise increased, and communicating itself, probably by sympathetic electricity, to the horse, produced a shuffling gallop, which ere long brought them to a clump of wood. On rounding this they came in sight of the longed-for hills.

Before nightfall Simpson’s Gully was reached, and little Trevor was directed to the tent of Paul Bevan, who had arrived there only the day before.

“It’s a strange story, lad,” said Paul, after the boy had run rapidly over the chief points of the news he had to give, to which Betty, Fred, and Flinders sat listening with eager interest.

“We must be off to search for him without delay,” said Fred Westly, rising.

“It’s right ye are, sor,” cried Flinders, springing up. “Off to-night an’ not a moment to lose.”

“We’ll talk it over first, boys,” said Paul. “Come with me. I’ve a friend in the camp as’ll help us.”

“Did you not bring the piece of bark?” asked Betty of the boy, as the men went out.

“Oh! I forgot. Of course I did,” cried Trevor, drawing it from his breast-pocket. “The truth is I’m so knocked up that I scarce know what I’m about.”

“Lie down here on this deer-skin, poor boy, and rest while I read it.”

Tolly Trevor flung himself on the rude but welcome couch, and almost instantly fell asleep, while Betty Bevan, spreading the piece of birch-bark on her knee, began to spell out the words and try to make sense of Tom Brixton’s last epistle.

Chapter Eleven.

With considerable difficulty Betty Bevan succeeded in deciphering the tremulous scrawl which Tom Brixton had written on the piece of birch-bark. It ran somewhat as follows:—

“This is probably the last letter that I, Tom Brixton, shall ever write. (I put down my name now, in case I never finish it.) O dearest mother! what would I not now give to unsay all the hard things I have ever said to you, and to undo all the evil I have done. But this cannot be. ‘Twice bought!’ It is strange how these words run in my mind. I was condemned to death at the gold-fields—my comrades bought me off. Fred—dear Fred—who has been true and faithful to the last—reminded me that I had previously been bought with the blood of Jesus—that I have been twice bought! I think he put it in this way to fix my obstinate spirit on the idea, and he has succeeded. The thought has been burned in upon my soul as with fire. I am very, very weak—dying, I fear, in the forest, and alone! How my mind seems to wander! I have slept since writing the last sentence, and dreamed of food! Curious mixing of ideas! I also dreamed of Betty Bevan. Ah, sweet girl! if this ever meets your eye, believe that I loved you sincerely. It is well that I should die, perhaps, for I have been a thief, and would not ask your hand now even if I might. I would not sully it with a touch of mine, and I could not expect you to believe in me after I tell you that I not only robbed Gashford, but also Fred—my chum Fred—and gambled it all away, and drank away my reason almost at the same time... I have slept again, and dreamed of water this time—bright, pure, crystal water—sparkling and gushing in the sunshine. O God! how I despised it once, and how I long for it now! I am too weak and wandering, mother, to think about religion now. But why should I? Your teaching has not been altogether thrown away; it comes back like a great flood while I lie here dreaming and trying to write. The thoughts are confused, but the sense comes home. All is easily summed up in the words you once taught me, ‘I am a poor sinner, and nothing at all, but Jesus Christ is all in all.’ Not sure that I quote rightly. No matter, the sense is there also. And yet it seems—it is—such a mean thing to sin away one’s life and ask for pardon only at the end—the very end! But the thief on the cross did it; why not I? Sleep—is it sleep? may it not be slowly-approaching death?—has overpowered me again. I have been attempting to read this. I seem to have mixed things somehow. It is sadly confused—or my mind is. A burning thirst consumes me—and—I think I hear water running! I will—”

Here the letter ended abruptly.

“No doubt,” murmured Betty, as she let the piece of bark fall on the table and clasped her hands over her eyes, “he rose and tried to reach the water. Praise God that there is hope!”

She sat for a few seconds in profound silence, which was broken by Paul and his friends re-entering the tent.

“It’s all arranged, Betty,” he said, taking down an old rifle which hung above the door; “old Larkins has agreed to look arter my claim and take care of you, lass, while we’re away.”

“I shall need no one to take care of me.”

“Ah! so you think, for you’re as brave as you’re good; but—I think otherwise. So he’ll look arter you.”

“Indeed he won’t, father!” returned Betty, smiling, “because I intend that you shall look after me.”

“Impossible, girl! I’m going to sarch for Tom Brixton, you see, along with Mister Fred an’ Flinders, so I can’t stop here with you.”

“But I am going too, father!”

“But—but we can’t wait for you, my good girl,” returned Paul, with a perplexed look; “we’re all ready to start, an’ there ain’t a hoss for you except the poor critters that Tolly Trevor brought wi’ him, an’, you know, they need rest very badly.”

“Well, well, go off, father; I won’t delay you,” said Betty; “and don’t disturb Tolly, let him sleep, he needs it, poor boy. I will take care of him and his horses.”

That Tolly required rest was very obvious, for he lay sprawling on the deer-skin couch just as he had flung himself down, buried in the profoundest sleep he perhaps ever experienced since his career in the wilderness began.

After the men had gone off, Betty Bevan—who was by that time better known, at least among those young diggers whose souls were poetical, as the Rose of Oregon, and among the matter-of-fact ones as the Beautiful Nugget—conducted herself in a manner that would have increased the admiration of her admirers, if they had seen her, and awakened their curiosity also. First of all she went out to the half-ruined log-hut that served her father for a stable, and watered, fed, and rubbed down the horse and pony which Tolly had brought, in a manner that would have done credit to a regular groom. Then, returning to the tent, she arranged and packed a couple of saddle-bags with certain articles of clothing, as well as biscuits, dried meat, and other provisions. Next she cleaned and put in order a couple of revolvers, a bowie-knife, and a small hatchet; and ultimately, having made sundry other mysterious preparations, she lifted the curtain which divided the tent into two parts, and entered her own private apartment. There, after reading her nightly portion of God’s Word and committing herself, and those who were out searching in the wilderness for the lost man, to His care, she lay down with her clothes on, and almost instantly fell into a slumber as profound as that which had already overwhelmed Tolly. As for that exhausted little fellow, he did not move during the whole night, save once, when an adventurous insect of the earwig type walked across his ruddy cheek and upper lip and looked up his nose. There are sensitive portions of the human frame which may not be touched with impunity. The sleeper sneezed, blew the earwig out of existence, rolled over on his back, flung his arms wide open, and, with his mouth in the same condition, spent the remainder of the night in motionless repose.

The sun was well up next morning, and the miners of Simpson’s Gully were all busy, up to their knees in mud and gold, when Betty Bevan awoke, sprang up, ran into the outer apartment of her tent, and gazed admiringly at Tolly’s face. A band of audacious and early flies were tickling it, and causing the features to twitch, but they could not waken the sleeper. Betty gazed only for a moment with an amused expression, and then shook the boy somewhat vigorously.

“Come, Tolly, rise!”

“Oh! d–on’t b–borrer.”

“But I must bother. Wake up, I say. Fire!”

At the last word the boy sat up and gazed idiotically.

“Hallo! Betty—my dear Nugget—is that you? Why, where am I?”

“Your body is here,” said Betty, laughing. “When your mind comes to the same place I’ll talk to you.”

“I’m all here now, Betty; so go ahead,” said the boy, with a hearty yawn as he arose and stretched himself. “Oh! I remember now all about it. Where is your father?”

“I will tell you presently, but first let me know what you mean by calling me Nugget.”

“Why, don’t you know? It’s the name the men give you everywhere—one of the names at least—the Beautiful Nugget.”

“Indeed!” exclaimed the Nugget with a laugh and blush; “very impudent of the men; and, pray, if this is one of the names, what may the others be?”

“There’s only one other that I know of—the Rose of Oregon. But come, it’s not fair of you to screw my secrets out o’ me when I’m only half awake; and you haven’t yet told me where Paul Bevan is.”

“I’ll tell you that when I see you busy with this pork pie,” returned the Rose. “I made it myself, so you ought to find it good. Be quick, for I have work for you to do, and there is no time to lose. Content yourself with a cold breakfast for once.”

“Humph! as if I hadn’t contented myself with a cold breakfast at any time. Well, it is a good pie. Now—about Paul?”

“He has gone away with Mr Westly and Flinders to search for Mr Brixton.”

“What! without me?” exclaimed Tolly, overturning his chair as he started up and pushed his plate from him.

“Yes, without you, Tolly; I advised him not to awake you.”

“It’s the unkindest thing you’ve ever done to me,” returned the boy, scarcely able to restrain his tears at the disappointment. “How can they know where to search for him without me to guide them? Why didn’t you let them waken me!”

“You forget, Tolly, that my father knows every inch of these woods and plains for at least fifty miles round the old house they have blown up; and, as to waking you, it would have been next to impossible to have done so, you were so tired, and you would have been quite unable to keep your eyes open. Besides, I had a little plan of my own which I want you to help me to carry out. Go on with your breakfast and I’ll explain.”

The boy sat down to his meal again without speaking, but with a look of much curiosity on his expressive face.

“You know, without my telling you,” continued Betty, “that I, like my father, have a considerable knowledge of this part of the country, and of the ways of Indians and miners, and from what you have told me, coupled with what father has said, I think it likely that the Indians have carried poor T–—Mr Brixton, I mean—through the Long Gap rather than by the plains—”

“So I would have said, had they consulted me,” interrupted the boy, with an offended air.

“Well, but,” continued Betty, “they would neither have consulted you nor me, for father has a very decided will, you know, and a belief in his own judgment—which is quite right of course, only I cannot help differing from him on this occasion—”

“No more can I,” growled Tolly, thrusting his fork into the pie at a tempting piece of pork.

“So, you see, I’m going to take the big horse you brought here and ride round by the Long Gap to see if I’m right, and I want you to go with me on the pony and take care of me.”

Tolly Trevor felt his heart swell with gratification at the idea of his being the chosen protector of the Rose of Oregon—the Beautiful Nugget; selected by herself, too. Nevertheless his good sense partially subdued his vanity on the point.

“But, I say,” he remarked, looking up with a half-serious expression, “d’you think that you and I are a sufficient party to make a good fight if we are attacked by Redskins? You know your father will hold me responsible, for carrying you off into the midst of danger in this fashion.”

“I don’t mean to fight at all,” returned Betty, with a pleasant laugh, “and I will free you from all responsibility; so, have done, now, and come along.”

“It’s so good,” said Tolly, looking as though he were loath to quit the pork pie; “but, come, I’m your man! Only don’t you think it would be as well to get up a good fighting party among the young miners to go with us? They’d only be too happy to take service under the Beautiful Nugget, you know.”

“Tolly,” exclaimed the Nugget, with more than her wonted firmness, “if you are to take service under me you must learn to obey without question. Now, go and saddle the horses. The big one for me, the pony for yourself. Put the saddle-bags on the horse, and be quick.”

There was a tone and manner about the usually quiet and gentle girl which surprised and quite overawed little Trevor, so that he was reduced at once to an obedient and willing slave. Indeed he was rather glad than otherwise that Betty had declined to listen to his suggestion about the army of young diggers—which an honest doubt as to his own capacity to fight and conquer all who might chance to come in his way had induced him to make—while he was by no means unwilling to undertake, singlehanded, any duties his fair conductor should require of him.

In a few minutes, therefore, the steeds were brought round to the door of the tent, where Betty already stood equipped for the journey.

Our fair readers will not, we trust, be prejudiced against the Rose of Oregon when we inform them that she had adopted man’s attitude in riding. Her costume was arranged very much after the pattern of the Indian women’s dress—namely, a close-fitting body, a short woollen skirt reaching a little below the knees, and blue cloth leggings in continuation. These latter were elegantly wrought with coloured silk thread, and the pair of moccasins which covered her small feet were similarly ornamented. A little cloth cap, in shape resembling that of a cavalry foraging cap, but without ornaments, graced her head, from beneath which her wavy hair tumbled in luxuriant curls on her shoulders, and, as Tolly was wont to remark, looked after itself anyhow. Such a costume was well adapted to the masculine position on horseback, as well as to the conditions of a land in which no roads, but much underwood, existed.

Bevan’s tent having been pitched near the outskirts of Simpson’s Camp, the maiden and her gallant protector had no difficulty in quitting it unobserved. Riding slowly at first, to avoid attracting attention as well as to pick their steps more easily over the somewhat rugged ground near the camp, they soon reached the edge of an extensive plain, at the extremity of which a thin purple line indicated a range of hills. Here Tolly Trevor, unable to restrain his joy at the prospect of adventure before him, uttered a war-whoop, brought his switch down smartly on the pony’s flank, and shot away over the plain like a wild creature. The air was bracing, the prospect was fair, the sunshine was bright. No wonder that the obedient pony, forgetting for the moment the fatigues of the past, and strong in the enjoyment of the previous night’s rest and supper, went over the ground at a pace that harmonised with its young rider’s excitement; and no wonder that the obstinate horse was inclined to emulate the pony, and stretched its long legs into a wild gallop, encouraged thereto by the Rose on its back.

The gallop was ere long pressed to racing speed, and there is no saying when the young pair would have pulled up—had they not met with a sudden check by the pony putting his foot into a badger-hole. The result was frightful to witness, though trifling in result. The pony went heels over head upon the plain like a rolling wheel, and its rider shot into the air like a stone from a catapult. Describing a magnificent curve, and coming down head foremost, Tolly would then and there have ended his career if he had not fortunately dropped into a thick bush, which broke his fall instead of his neck, and saved him. Indeed, excepting several ugly scratches, he was none the worse for the misadventure.

Poor horrified Betty attempted to pull up, but the obstinate horse had got the bit in his teeth and declined, so that when Tolly had scrambled out of the bush she was barely visible in the far distance, heading towards the blue hills.

“Hallo!” was her protector’s anxious remark as he gazed at the flying fair one. Then, without another word, he leaped on the pony and went after her at full speed, quite regardless of recent experience.

The blue hills had become green hills, and the Long Gap was almost reached, before the obstinate horse suffered itself to be reined in—probably because it was getting tired. Soon afterwards the pony came panting up.

“You’re not hurt, I hope?” said Betty, anxiously, as Tolly came alongside.

“Oh no. All right,” replied the boy; “but I say what a run you have given me! Why didn’t you wait for me?”

“Ask that of the horse, Tolly.”

“What! Did he bolt with you?”

“Truly he did. I never before rode such a stubborn brute. My efforts to check it were useless, as it had the bit in its teeth, and I did my best, for I was terribly anxious about you, and cannot imagine how you escaped a broken neck after such a flight.”

“It was the bush that saved me, Betty. But, I say, we seem to be nearing a wildish sort of place.”

“Yes; this is the Long Gap,” returned the girl, flinging back her curls and looking round. “It cuts right through the range here, and becomes much wilder and more difficult to traverse on horseback farther on.”

“And what d’ye mean to do, Betty?” inquired the boy as they rode at a foot-pace towards the opening, which seemed like a dark portal to the hills. “Suppose you discover that the Redskins have carried Tom Brixton off in this direction, what then? You and I won’t be able to rescue him, you know.”

“True, Tolly. If I find that they have taken him this way I will ride straight to father’s encampment—he told me before starting where he intends to sleep to-night, so I shall easily find him—tell him what we have discovered and lead him back here.”

“And suppose you don’t find that the Redskins have come this way,” rejoined Tolly, after a doubtful shake of his head, “what then?”

“Why, then, I shall return to our tent and leave father and Mr Westly to hunt them down.”

“And suppose,” continued Tolly—but Tolly never finished the supposition, for at that moment two painted Indians sprang from the bushes on either side of the narrow track, and, almost before the riders could realise what had happened, the boy found himself on his back with a savage hand at his throat and the girl found herself on the ground with the hand of a grinning savage on her shoulder.

Tolly Trevor struggled manfully, but alas! also boyishly, for though his spirit was strong his bodily strength was small—at least, as compared with that of the savage who held him. Yes, Tolly struggled like a hero. He beheld the Rose of Oregon taken captive, and his blood boiled! He bit, he kicked, he scratched, and he hissed with indignation—but it would not do.

“Oh, if you’d only let me up and give me one chance!” he gasped.

But the red man did not consent—indeed, he did not understand. Nevertheless, it was obvious that the savage was not vindictive, for although Tolly’s teeth and fists and toes and nails had wrought him some damage, he neither stabbed nor scalped the boy. He only choked him into a state of semi-unconsciousness, and then, turning him on his face, tied his hands behind his back with a deerskin thong.

Meanwhile the other savage busied himself in examining the saddle-bags of the obstinate horse. He did not appear to think it worth while to tie the hands of Betty! During the short scuffle between his comrade and the boy he had held her fast, because she manifested an intention to run to the rescue. When that was ended he relieved her of the weapons she carried and let her go, satisfied, no doubt that, if she attempted to run away, he could easily overtake her, and if she were to attempt anything else he could restrain her.

When, however, Betty saw that Tolly’s antagonist meant no harm, she wisely attempted nothing, but sat down on a fallen tree to await the issue. The savages did not keep her long in suspense. Tolly’s foe, having bound him, lifted him on the back of the pony, and then, taking the bridle, quietly led it away. At the same time the other savage assisted Betty to remount the horse, and, grasping the bridle of that obstinate creature, followed his comrade. The whole thing was so sudden, so violent, and the result so decisive, that the boy looked back at Betty and burst into a half-hysterical fit of laughter, but the girl did not respond.

“It’s a serious business, Tolly!” she said.

“So it is, Betty,” he replied.

Then, pursing his little mouth, and gathering his eyebrows into a frown, he gave himself up to meditation, while the Indians conducted them into the dark recesses of the Long Gap.

Chapter Twelve.

Now, the Indians, into whose hands the Rose of Oregon and our little hero had fallen, happened to be part of the tribe to which the three who had discovered Tom Brixton belonged, and although his friends little knew it, Tom himself was not more than a mile or so distant from them at the time, having been carried in the same direction, towards the main camp or headquarters of the tribe in the Sawback Hills.

They had not met on the journey, because the two bands of the tribe were acting independently of each other.

We will leave them at this point and ask the reader to return to another part of the plain over which Tolly and Betty had galloped so furiously.

It is a small hollow, at the bottom of which a piece of marshy ground has encouraged the growth of a few willows. Paul Bevan had selected it as a suitable camping-ground for the night, and while Paddy Flinders busied himself with the kettle and frying-pan, he and Fred Westly went among the bushes to procure firewood.

Fred soon returned with small twigs sufficient to kindle the fire; his companion went on further in search of larger boughs and logs.

While Fred was busily engaged on hands and knees, blowing the fire into a flame, a sharp “hallo!” from his companion caused him to look up.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Goliath of Gath—or his brother!” said Paddy, pointing to a little eminence behind which the sun had but recently set.

The horseman, who had come to a halt on the eminence and was quietly regarding them, did indeed look as if he might have claimed kinship with the giant of the Philistines, for he and his steed looked stupendous. No doubt the peculiarity of their position, with the bright sky as a glowing background, had something to do with the gigantic appearance of horse and man, for, as they slowly descended the slope towards the fire, both of them assumed a more natural size.

The rider was a strange-looking as well as a large man, for he wore a loose shooting-coat, a tall wideawake with a broad brim, blue spectacles with side-pieces to them, and a pair of trousers which appeared to have been made for a smaller man, as, besides being too tight, they were much too short. Over his shoulder was slung a green tin botanical box. He carried no visible weapons save a small hatchet and a bowie-knife, though his capacious pockets might easily have concealed half a dozen revolvers.

“Goot night, my frunds,” said the stranger, in broken English, as he approached.

“The same to yersilf, sor,” returned Flinders.

Anyone who had been closely watching the countenance of the stranger might have observed a sudden gleam of surprise on it when the Irishman spoke, but it passed instantly, and was replaced by a pleasant air of good fellowship as he dismounted and led his horse nearer the fire.

“Good night, and welcome to our camp. You are a foreigner, I perceive,” said Fred Westly in French, but the stranger shook his head.

“I not un’erstan’.”

“Ah! a German, probably,” returned Fred, trying him with the language of the Fatherland; but again the stranger shook his head.

“You mus’ spok English. I is a Swedish man; knows noting but a leetil English.”

“I’m sorry that I cannot speak Swedish,” replied Fred, in English; “so we must converse in my native tongue. You are welcome to share our camp. Have you travelled far?”

Fred cast a keen glance of suspicion at the stranger as he spoke, and, in spite of himself, there was a decided diminution in the heartiness of his tones, but the stranger did not appear to observe either the change of tone or the glance, for he replied, with increased urbanity and openness of manner, “Yis; I has roden far—very far—an’ moche wants meat an’ sleep.”

As he spoke Paul Bevan came staggering into camp under a heavy load of wood, and again it may be said that a close observer might have noticed on the stranger’s face a gleam of surprise much more intense than the previous one when he saw Paul Bevan. But the gleam had utterly vanished when that worthy, having thrown down his load, looked up and bade him good evening.

The urbanity of manner and blandness of expression increased as he returned the salutation.

“T’anks, t’anks. I vill go for hubble—vat you call—hobble me horse,” he said, taking the animal’s bridle and leading it a short distance from the fire.

“I don’t like the look of him,” whispered Fred to Paul when he was out of earshot.

“Sure, an’ I howld the same opinion,” said Flinders.

“Pooh! Never judge men by their looks,” returned Bevan—“specially in the diggin’s. They’re all blackguards or fools, more or less. This one seems to be one o’ the fools. I’ve seed sitch critters before. They keep fillin’ their little boxes wi’ grass an’ stuff; an’ never makes any use of it that I could see. But every man to his taste. I’ll be bound he’s a good enough feller when ye come to know him, an’ git over yer contempt for his idle ways. Very likely he draws, too—an’ plays the flute; most o’ these furriners do. Come now, Flinders, look alive wi’ the grub.”

When the stranger returned to the fire he spread his huge hands over it and rubbed them with apparent satisfaction.

“Fat a goot t’ing is supper!” he remarked, with a benignant look all round; “the very smell of him be deliciowse!”

“An’ no mistake!” added Flinders. “Sure, the half the good o’ victuals would be lost av they had no smell.”

“Where have you come from, stranger?” asked Bevan, as they were about to begin supper.

“From de Sawbuk Hills,” answered the botanist, filling his mouth with an enormous mass of dried meat.

“Ay, indeed! That’s just where we are goin’ to,” returned Bevan.

“An’ vere may you be come from?” asked the stranger.

“From Simpson’s Gully,” said Fred.

“Ha! how cooriouse! Dat be joost vere I be go to.”

The conversation flagged a little at this point as they warmed to the work of feeding; but after a little it was resumed, and then their visitor gradually ingratiated himself with his new friends to such an extent that the suspicions of Fred and Flinders were somewhat, though not altogether, allayed. At last they became sufficiently confidential to inform the stranger of their object in going to the Sawback Hills.

“Ha! Vat is dat you say?” he exclaimed, with well-feigned surprise; “von yoong man carried avay by Ridskins. I saw’d dem! Did pass dem not longe ago. T’ree mans carry von man. I t’ink him a sick comrade, but now I reklect hims face vas vhitish.”

“Could ye guide us to the place where ye met them?” asked Bevan, quickly.

The botanist did not reply at once, but seemed to consider.

“Vell, I has not moche time to spare; but come, I has pity for you, an’ don’t mind if I goes out of de vay to help you. I vill go back to the Sawbuk Hills so far as need be.”

“Thank ’ee kindly,” returned Bevan, who possessed a grateful spirit; “I’ll think better of yer grass-gatherin’ after this, though it does puzzle me awful to make out what’s the use ye put it to. If you kep’ tame rabbits, now, I could understand it, but to carry it about in a green box an’ go squeezin’ it between the leaves o’ books, as I’ve seed some of ’ee do, seems to me the most outrageous—”

“Ha, ha!” interrupted the botanist, with a loud laugh; “you is not the first what t’ink hims nonsense. But you mus’ know dere be moche sense in it,”—(he looked very grave and wise here)—“very moche. First, ye finds him; den ye squeezes an’ dries him; den ye sticks him in von book, an’ names him; den ye talks about him; oh! dere is moche use in him, very moche!”

“Well, but arter you’ve found, an’ squeezed, an’ dried, an’ stuck, an’ named, an’ talked about him,” repeated Paul, with a slight look of contempt, “what the better are ye for it all?”

“Vy, ve is moche de better,” returned the botanist, “for den ve tries to find out all about him. Ve magnifies him, an’ writes vat ve zee about him, an’ compares him vid oders of de same family, an’ boils, an’ stews, an’ fries, an’ melts, an’ dissolves, an’ mixes him, till ve gits somet’ing out of him.”

“It’s little I’d expect to git out of him after tratin’ him so badly,” remarked Flinders, whose hunger was gradually giving way before the influence of venison steaks.

“True, me frund,” returned the stranger, “it is ver’ leetil ve gits; but den dat leetil is ver’ goot—valooable you calls it.”

“Humph!” ejaculated Bevan, with an air that betokened doubt. Flinders and Fred said nothing, but the latter felt more than ever inclined to believe that their guest was a deceiver, and resolved to watch him narrowly. On his part, the stranger seemed to perceive that Fred suspected him, but he was not rendered less hearty or free-and-easy on that account.

In the course of conversation Paul chanced to refer to Betty.

“Ah! me frund,” said the stranger, “has you brought you’s vife to dis vile contry!”

“No, I haven’t,” replied Paul, bluntly.

“Oh, pardon. I did t’ink you spoke of Bettie; an surely dat is vooman’s name?”

“Ay, but Betty’s my darter, not my wife,” returned Paul, who resented this inquisition with regard to his private affairs.

“Is you not ’fraid,” said the botanist, quietly helping himself to a marrow-bone, “to leave you’s darter at Simpson’s Gully?”

“Who told you I left her there?” asked Bevan, with increasing asperity.

“Oh! I only t’ink so, as you’s come from dere.”

“An’ why should I be afraid?”

“Because, me frund, de contry be full ob scoundrils.”

“Yes, an’ you are one of the biggest of them,” thought Fred Westly, but he kept his thoughts to himself, while Paul muttered something about being well protected, and having no occasion to be afraid.

Perceiving the subject to be distasteful, the stranger quickly changed it. Soon afterwards each man, rolling himself in his blanket, went to sleep—or appeared to do so. In regard to Paddy Flinders, at least, there could be no doubt, for the trombone-tones of his nose were eloquent. Paul, too, lay on his back with eyes tight shut and mouth wide open, while the regular heaving of his broad chest told that his slumbers were deep. But more than once Fred Westly raised his head gently and looked suspiciously round. At last, in his case also, tired Nature asserted herself, and his deep regular breathing proved that the “sweet restorer” was at work, though an occasional movement showed that his sleep was not so profound as that of his comrades.

The big botanist remained perfectly motionless from the time he lay down, as if the sleep of infancy had passed with him into the period of manhood. It was not till the fire had died completely down, and the moon had set, leaving only the stars to make darkness visible, that he moved. He did so, not as a sleeper awaking, but with the slow stealthy action of one who is already wide awake and has a purpose in view.

Gradually his huge shoulders rose till he rested on his left elbow.

A sense of danger, which had never left him even while he slept, aroused Fred, but he did not lose his self-possession. He carefully watched, from the other side of the extinct fire, the motions of the stranger, and lay perfectly still—only tightening his grasp on the knife-handle that he had been instinctively holding when he dropped asleep.

The night was too dark for Fred to distinguish the man’s features. He could only perceive the outline of his black figure, and that for some time he rested on his elbow without moving, as if he were contemplating the stars. Despite his efforts to keep awake, Fred felt that drowsiness was again slowly, but surely, overcoming him. Maintaining the struggle, however, he kept his dreamy eyes riveted on their guest until he seemed to swell into gigantic proportions.

Presently Fred was again thoroughly aroused by observing that the right arm of the man moved slowly upwards, and something like a knife appeared in the hand; he even fancied he saw it gleam, though there was not light enough to render that possible.

Feeling restrained, as if under the horrible influence of nightmare, Fred lay there spell-bound and quite unable to move, until he perceived the stranger’s form bend over in the direction of Paul Bevan, who lay on the other side of him.

Then, indeed, Fred’s powers returned. Shouting, “look out, Paul!” he sprang up, drew his bowie-knife, and leaped over the blackened logs, but, to his surprise and confusion, found that the stranger lay extended on the ground as if sound asleep. He roused himself, however, and sat up, as did the others, on hearing Fred’s shout.

“Fat is wrong, yoong man?” he inquired, with a look of sleepy surprise.

“Ye may well ax that, sor,” said Flinders, staggering to his feet and seizing his axe, which always lay handy at his side. Paul had glanced round sharply, like a man inured to danger, but seeing nothing to alarm him, had remained in a sitting position.

“Why, Westly, you’ve been dreaming,” he said with a broad grin.

“So I must have been,” returned the youth, looking very much ashamed, “but you’ve no notion what a horrible dream I had. It seemed so real, too, that I could not help jumping up and shouting. Pardon me, comrades, and, as bad boys say when caught in mischief, ‘I won’t do it again!’”

“Ve pardon you, by all means,” said the botanist stretching himself and yawning, “and ve do so vid de more pleasure for you has rouse us in time for start on de joorney.”

“You’re about right. It’s time we was off,” said Paul, rising slowly to his feet and looking round the horizon and up at the sky, while he proceeded to fill a beloved little black pipe, which invariably constituted his preliminary little breakfast.

Pat Flinders busied himself in blowing up the embers of the fire.

A slight and rapidly eaten meal sufficed to prepare these hardy backwoodsmen for their journey, and, long before daybreak illumined the plains, they were far on their way towards the Sawback mountain range.

During the journey of two days, which this trip involved, the botanist seemed to change his character to some extent. He became silent—almost morose; did not encourage the various efforts made by his companions to draw him into conversation, and frequently rode alone in advance of the party, or occasionally fell behind them.

The day after the stranger had joined them, as they were trotting slowly over the plains that lay between the Rangers Hill and the Sawbacks, Fred rode close up to Bevan, and said in a low voice, glancing at the botanist, who was in advance—

“I am convinced, Paul, that he is a scoundrel.”

“That may be so, Mr Fred, but what then?”

“Why, then I conclude that he is deceiving us for some purpose of his own.”

“Nonsense,” replied Bevan, who was apt to express himself bluntly, “what purpose can he serve in deceiving strangers like us! We carry no gold-dust and have nothing worth robbing us of, even if he were fool enough to think of attemptin’ such a thing. Then, he can scarcely be deceivin’ us in sayin’ that he met three Redskins carryin’ off a white man—an’ what good could it do him if he is? Besides, he is goin’ out of his way to sarve us.”

“It is impossible for me to answer your question, Paul, but I understand enough of both French and German to know that his broken English is a mere sham—a mixture, and a bad one too, of what no German or Frenchman would use—so it’s not likely to be the sort of bad English that a Swede would speak. Moreover, I have caught him once or twice using English words correctly at one time and wrongly at another. No, you may depend on it that, whatever his object may be, he is deceiving us.”

“It’s mesilf as agrees wid ye, sor,” said Flinders, who had been listening attentively to the conversation. “The man’s no more a Swede than an Irishman, but what can we do wid oursilves! True or false, he’s ladin’ us in the diriction we want to go, an’ it would do no good to say to him, ‘Ye spalpeen, yer decavin’ of us,’ for he’d only say he wasn’t; or may be he’d cut up rough an’ lave us—but after all, it might be the best way to push him up to that.”

“I think not” said Bevan. “Doesn’t English law say that a man should be held innocent till he’s proved guilty?”

“It’s little I know or care about English law,” answered Flinders, “but I’m sure enough that Irish law howlds a bad man to be guilty till he’s proved innocent—at laste av it dosn’t it should.”

“You’d better go an’ pump him a bit, Mr Fred,” said Bevan; “we’re close up to the Sawback range; another hour an’ we’ll be among the mountains.”

They were turning round the spur of a little hillock as he spoke. Before Fred could reply a small deer sprang from its lair, cast on the intruders one startled gaze, and then bounded gracefully into the bush, too late, however, to escape from Bevan’s deadly rifle. It had barely gone ten yards when a sharp crack was heard; the animal sprang high into the air, and fell dead upon the ground.

“Bad luck to ye, Bevan!” exclaimed Flinders, who had also taken aim at it, but not with sufficient speed, “isn’t that always the way ye do?—plucks the baste out o’ me very hand. Sure I had me sights lined on it as straight as could be; wan second more an’ I’d have sent a bullet right into its brain, when crack! ye go before me. Och! it’s onkind, to say the laste of it. Why cudn’t ye gi’ me a chance?”

“I’m sorry, Flinders, but I couldn’t well help it. The critter rose right in front o’ me.”

“Vat a goot shote you is!” exclaimed the botanist riding back to them and surveying the prostrate deer through his blue spectacles.

“Ay, and it’s a lucky shot too,” said Fred, “for our provisions are running low. But perchance we shan’t want much more food before reaching the Indian camp. You said, I think, that you have a good guess where the camp lies, Mister—what shall we call you?”

“Call me vat you please,” returned the stranger, with a peculiar smile; “I is not partickler. Some of me frunds calls me Mr Botaniste.”

“Well, Mr Botanist, the camp cannot be far off now, an’ it seems to me that we should have overtaken men travelling on foot by this time.”

“Ye vill surely come on de tracks dis naight or de morrow,” replied the botanist, riding forward, after Bevan had secured the carcass of the deer to his saddle-bow, “bot ye must have patience, yoong blood be always too hote. All in goot time.”

With this reply Fred was fain to content himself, for no amount of pressure availed to draw anything more satisfactory out of their strange guide.

Before sunset they had penetrated some distance into the Sawback range, and then proceeded to make their encampment for the night under the spreading branches of a lordly pine!

Chapter Thirteen.

Tables are frequently turned in this world in more senses than one. As was said in the last chapter, the romantic pair who were in search of the Indians did not find those for whom they sought but as fickle fortune willed it, those for whom they sought found them. It happened thus.

Soon after the Rose of Oregon and her young champion, with their captors, had passed through the Long Gap, crossed the plain, and entered the Sawback Hills, they fell in with a band of twenty Indians, who from their appearance and costume evidently belonged to the same tribe as their captors. From the manner in which they met also, it seemed that they had been in search of each other, and had something interesting to communicate, for they gesticulated much, pointed frequently to the sky, and to various directions of the compass, chattered excitedly, showed their brilliant teeth in fitful gleams, and glittered quite awfully about the eyes.

They paid little attention at first to their prisoners, who remained sitting on their steeds looking on with interest and some anxiety.

“O Betty, what would I not give to have my arms free just now! What a chance it would be for a bold dash and a glorious run!”

“You’d make little of it on such rough ground, Tolly.”

“Pooh! I’d try it on any ground. Just fancy, I’d begin with a clear leap over that chief’s head—the one there wi’ the feathers an’ the long nose that’s makin’ such hideous faces—then away up the glen, over the stones, down the hollows, shoutin’ like mad, an’ clearin’ the brooks and precipices with a band o’ yellin’ Redskins at my tail! Isn’t it enough to drive a fellow wild to be on the brink of such a chance an’ miss it? I say, haven’t you got a penknife in your pocket—no? Not even a pair o’ scissors? Why, I thought you women never travelled without scissors!”

“Alas! Tolly, I have not even scissors; besides, if I had, it would take me at least two minutes with all the strength of my fingers to cut the thongs that bind you with scissors, and I don’t think the Redskins would stand quietly by and look on while I did it. But what say you to me trying it by myself?”

“Quite useless,” returned Tolly. “You’d be caught at once—or break your neck. And you’d never get on, you know, without me. No, no, we’ve got fairly into a fix, an’ I don’t see my way out of it. If my hands were free we might attempt anything, but what can a fellow do when tied up in this fashion?”

“He can submit, Tolly, and wait patiently.”

Tolly did not feel inclined to submit, and was not possessed of much patience, but he was too fond of Betty to answer flippantly. He therefore let his feelings escape through the safety-valve of a great sigh, and relapsed into pensive silence.

Meanwhile the attention of the band of savages was attracted to another small band of natives which approached them from the eastward. That these were also friends was evident from the fact that the larger band made no hostile demonstration, but quietly awaited the coming up of the others. The newcomers were three in number, and two of them bore on their shoulders what appeared to be the body of a man wrapped up in a blanket.

“They’ve got a wounded comrade with them, I think,” said little Trevor.

“So it would seem,” replied Betty, with a dash of pity in her tone, for she was powerfully sympathetic.

The savages laid the form in the blanket on the ground, and began to talk earnestly with their comrades.

“It’s not dead yet anyhow,” remarked Tolly, “for I see it move. I wonder whether it is a man or a woman. Mayhap it’s their old grandmother they’re giving a little exercise to. I’ve heard that some o’ the Redskins are affectionate sort o’ fellows, though most of ’em are hard enough on the old folk.”

As he spoke he looked up in Betty’s face. Just as he did so a startling change came over that face. It suddenly became ashy pale, the large eyes dilated to their utmost extent, and the mouth opened with a short gasp.

In great alarm the boy turned his eyes in the direction in which the girl gazed so fixedly, and then his own visage assumed a somewhat similar appearance as he beheld the pale, thin, cadaverous countenance of his friend Tom Brixton, from off which a corner of the blanket had just slipped. But for the slight motion above referred to Tom might have been mistaken for a dead man, for his eyes were closed and his lips bloodless.

Uttering a sudden shout Tolly Trevor flung himself headlong off the pony and tried to get on his feet but failed, owing to his hands being tied behind him. Betty also leaped to the ground, and, running to where Tom lay, went down on her knees and raised his head in her hands.

The poor youth, being roused, opened his eyes. They were terribly sunken and large, but when they met those of Betty they enlarged to an extent that seemed positively awful, and a faint tinge of colour came to his hollow cheeks.

“Betty!” he whispered; “can—can it be possible?”

“Yes, it is I! Surely God must have sent me to save your life!”

“I fear not, dear—”

He stopped abruptly and shut his eyes. For a few moments it seemed as if he were dead, but presently he opened them again, and said, faintly, “It is too late, I fear. You are very kind, but I—I feel so terribly weak that I think I am dying.”

By this time Tolly, having managed to get on his feet stood beside his friend, on whom he gazed with intense anxiety. Even the Indians were solemnised by what appeared to be a death-scene.

“Have you been wounded!” asked the girl, quickly.

“No; only starved!” returned Tom, a slight smile of humour flickering for a second on his pale face even in that hour of his extremity.

“Have the Indians given you anything to eat since they found you?”

“They have tried to, but what they offered me was dry and tough; I could not get it down.”

The girl rose promptly. “Tolly, fetch me some water and make a fire. Quick!” she said, and going up to an Indian, coolly drew from its sheath his scalping-knife, with which she cut Tolly’s bonds. The savage evidently believed that such a creature could not possibly do evil, for he made no motion whatever to check her. Then, without a word more, she went to the saddle-bags on the obstinate horse, and, opening one of them, took out some soft sugar. The savage who held the horse made no objection. Indeed, from that moment the whole band stood silently by, observing the pretty maiden and the active boy as they moved about, regardless of everything but the work in hand.

The Rose of Oregon constituted herself a sick-nurse on that occasion with marvellous facility. True, she knew nothing whatever about the duties of a sick-nurse or a doctor, for her father was one of those fortunate men who are never ill, but her native tact and energy sufficed. It was not her nature to stand by inactive when anything urgent had to be done. If she knew not what to do, and no one else did, she was sure to attempt something. Whether sugar-and-water was the best food for a starving man she knew not, but she did know—at least she thought—that the starvation ought to be checked without delay.

“Here, Mr Brixton, sip a little of this,” she said, going down on her knees, and putting a tin mug to the patient’s mouth.

Poor Tom would have sipped prussic acid cheerfully from her hand! He obeyed, and seemed to like it.

“Now, a little more.”

“God bless you, dear girl!” murmured Tom, as he sipped a little more.

“There, that will do you good till I can prepare something better.”

She rose and ran to the fire which Tolly had already blown up almost to furnace heat.

“I filled the kettle, for I knew you’d want it,” said the boy, turning up his fiery-red visage for a moment, “It can’t be long o’ boiling with such a blaze below it.”

He stooped again and continued to blow while Betty cut some dried meat into small pieces. Soon these were boiled, and the resulting soup was devoured by the starving man with a zest that he had never before experienced.

“Nectar!” he exclaimed faintly, smiling as he raised his eyes to Betty’s face.

“But you must not take too much at a time,” she said, gently drawing away the mug.

Tom submitted patiently. He would have submitted to anything patiently just then!

During these proceedings the Indians, who seemed to be amiably disposed, looked on with solemn interest and then, coming apparently to the conclusion that they might as well accommodate themselves to circumstances, they quietly made use of Tolly’s fire to cook a meal for themselves.

This done, one of them—a noble-looking savage, who, to judge from his bearing and behaviour, was evidently their chief—went up to Betty, and, with a stately bend of the head, said, in broken English, “White woman git on horse!”

“And what are you going to do with this man?” asked Betty, pointing to the prostrate form of Tom.

“Unaco will him take care,” briefly replied the chief (meaning himself), while with a wave of his hand he turned away, and went to Tolly, whom he ordered to mount the pony, which he styled the “littil horse.”

The boy was not slow to obey, for he was by that time quite convinced that his only chance of being allowed to have his hands left free lay in prompt submission. Any lurking thought that might have remained of making a grand dash for liberty was effectually quelled by a big savage, who quietly took hold of the pony’s rein and led it away. Another Indian led Betty’s horse. Then the original three who had found Tom took him up quite gently and carried him off, while the remainder of the band followed in single file. Unaco led the way, striding over the ground at a rate which almost forced the pony to trot, and glancing from side to side with a keen look of inquiry that seemed to intimate an expectation of attack from an enemy in ambush.

But if any such enemy existed he was careful not to show himself, and the Indian band passed through the defiles and fastnesses of the Sawback Hills unmolested until the shades of evening began to descend.

Then, on turning round a jutting rock that obstructed the view up a mountain gorge, Unaco stopped abruptly and held up his hand. This brought the band to a sudden halt and the chief, apparently sinking on his knees, seemed to melt into the bushes. In a few minutes he returned with a look of stern resolve on his well-formed countenance.

“He has discovered something o’ some sort, I—”

Tolly’s remark to his fair companion was cut short by the point of a keen knife touching his side, which caused him to end with “hallo!”

The savage who held his bridle gave him a significant look that said, “Silence!”

After holding a brief whispered conversation with several of his braves, the chief advanced to Betty and said—

“White man’s in the bush. Does white woman know why?”

Betty at once thought of her father and his companions, and said—

“I have not seen the white men. How can I tell why they are here? Let me ride forward and look at them—then I shall be able to speak.”

A very slight smile of contempt curled the chiefs lip for an instant as he replied—

“No. The white woman see them when they be trapped. Unaco knows one. He is black—a devil with two face—many face, but Unaco’s eyes be sharp. They see far.”

So saying, he turned and gave some directions to his warriors, who at once scattered themselves among the underwood and disappeared. Ordering the Indians who carried Tom Brixton to follow him, and the riders to bring up the rear, he continued to advance up the gorge.

“A devil with two faces!” muttered Tolly; “that must be a queer sort o’ beast! I have heard of a critter called a Tasmanian devil, but never before heard of an Oregon one with two faces.”

An expressive glance from the Indian who guarded him induced the lad to continue his speculations in silence.

On passing round the jutting rock, where Unaco had been checked in his advance, the party at once beheld the cause of anxiety. Close to the track they were following were seen four men busily engaged in making arrangements to encamp for the night.

It need scarcely be said that these were our friends Paul Bevan, Fred Westly, Flinders, and the botanist.

The moment that these caught sight of the approaching party they sprang to their arms, which of course lay handy, for in those regions, at the time we write of, the law of might was in the ascendant. The appearance and conduct of Unaco, however, deceived them, for that wily savage advanced towards them with an air of confidence and candour which went far to remove suspicion, and when, on drawing nearer, he threw down his knife and tomahawk, and held up his empty hands, their suspicions were entirely dispelled.

“They’re not likely to be onfriendly,” observed Flinders, “for there’s only five o’ them altogither, an’ wan o’ them’s only a bit of a boy an’ another looks uncommon like a wo—”

He had got thus far when he was checked by Paul Bevan’s exclaiming, with a look of intense surprise, “Why, that’s Betty!—or her ghost!”

Flinders’s astonishment was too profound to escape in many words. He only gave vent to, “Musha! there’s Tolly!” and let his lower jaw drop.

“Yes, it’s me an’ the Beautiful Nugget” cried Tolly, jumping off the pony and running to assist the Nugget to dismount, while the bearers of Tom Brixton laid him on the ground, removed the blanket, and revealed his face.

The exclamations of surprise would no doubt have been redoubled at this sight if the power of exclamation had not been for the time destroyed. The sham botanist in particular was considerably puzzled, for he at once recognised Tom and also Betty, whom he had previously known. Of course he did not know Tolly Trevor; still less did he know that Tolly knew him.

Unaco himself was somewhat surprised at the mutual recognitions, though his habitual self-restraint enabled him to conceal every trace of emotion. Moreover, he was well aware that he could not afford to lose time in the development of his little plot. Taking advantage, therefore, of the surprise which had rendered every one for the moment more or less confused, he gave a sharp signal which was well understood by his friends in the bush.

Instantly, and before Tolly or Betty could warn their friends of what was coming, the surrounding foliage parted, as if by magic, and a circle of yelling and painted Redskins sprang upon the white men. Resistance was utterly out of the question. They were overwhelmed as if by a cataract and, almost before they could realise what had happened, the arms of all the men were pinioned behind them.

At that trying hour little Tolly Trevor proved himself to be more of a man than most of his friends had hitherto given him credit for.

The savages, regarding him as a weak little boy, had paid no attention to him, but confined their efforts to the overcoming of the powerful and by no means submissive men with whom they had to deal.

Tolly’s first impulse was to rush to the rescue of Paul Bevan; but he was remarkably quick-witted, and, when on the point of springing, observed that no tomahawk was wielded or knife drawn. Suddenly grasping the wrist of Betty, who had also naturally felt the impulse to succour her father, he exclaimed—

“Stop! Betty. They don’t mean murder. You an’ I can do nothing against so many. Keep quiet; p’r’aps they’ll leave us alone.”

As he spoke a still deeper idea flashed into his little brain. To the surprise of Betty, he suddenly threw his arms round her waist and clung to her as if for protection with a look of fear in his face, and when the work of binding the captives was completed the Indians found him still labouring to all appearance under great alarm. Unaco cast on him one look of supreme scorn, and then, leaving him, like Betty, unbound, turned towards Paul Bevan.

“The white man is one of wicked band?” he said, in his broken English.

“I don’t know what ye mean, Redskin,” replied Paul; “but speak your own tongue, I understand it well enough to talk with ye.”

The Indian repeated the question in his native language, and Paul, replying in the same, said—

“No, Redskin, I belong to no band, either wicked or good.”

“How come you, then, to be in company with this man?” demanded the Indian.

In reply Paul gave a correct account of the cause and object of his being there, explained that the starving man before them was the friend for whom he sought, that Betty was his daughter, though how she came to be there beat his comprehension entirely, and that the botanist was a stranger, whose name even he did not yet know.

“It is false,” returned the chief. “The white man speaks with a forked tongue. He is one of the murderers who have slain my wife and my child.”

A dark fierce frown passed over the chief’s countenance as he spoke, but it was quickly replaced by the habitual look of calm gravity.

“What can stop me,” he said, reverting again to English as he turned and addressed Betty, “from killing you as my wife was killed by white man?”

“My God can stop you,” answered the girl, in a steady voice, though her heart beat fast and her face was very pale.

“Your God!” exclaimed the savage. “Will your God defend the wicked?”

“No, but He will pardon the wicked who come to Him in the name of Jesus, and He will defend the innocent.”

“Innocent!” repeated Unaco, vehemently, as he turned and pointed to the botanist. “Does you call this man innocent?”

“I know nothing about that man,” returned the girl, earnestly; “but I do know that my father and I, and all the rest of us, are innocent of any crime against you.”

For a few seconds the savage chief gazed steadily at Betty, then turning towards the botanist he took a step towards the spot where he sat and looked keenly into his face.

The botanist returned the gaze with equal steadiness through his blue spectacles.

Chapter Fourteen.

“The big man with the blue glass eyes is a villain,” said the Indian chief, after a long scrutiny of the botanist’s countenance.

“So some of my mistaken friends have thought,” returned the man, speaking for the first time in his natural voice, which caused a thrill to pass through Paul Bevan’s frame.

“He is a thief,” continued the chief, still gazing steadily at the blue glasses, “and a murderer!”

“He’s all that, and liar and deceiver into the bargain,” thought Tolly Trevor, but Tolly did not speak; he only vented his feelings in a low chuckle, for he saw, or thought he saw, that the robber’s career was about to receive a check. As the thought passed through his brain, however, he observed from the position in which he stood that Stalker—for, as the reader has doubtless perceived, it was he—was working his hands about in a very soft slow, mysterious, and scarcely observable manner.

“Oho!” thought Tolly, “is that your little game? Ha! I’ll spoil it for you!”

He quietly took up a piece of firewood and began, as it were, to amuse himself therewith.

“You has many faces, many colours,” continued Unaco, “and too many eyes.”

At the last word he plucked the blue glasses off the botanist’s nose and flung them into the fire.

“My enemy!” gasped Paul Bevan, turning first very pale and then very red, as he glared like a chained tiger at his foe.

“You knows him now?” said Unaco, turning abruptly to Paul.

“Yes; I knows him!”

“The white man with the forked tongue say jus’ now he not knows him.”

“Ay, Redskin, an’ I said the truth, for he’s a rare deceiver—always has been—an’ can pass himself off for a’most anything. I knows him as my mortal foe. Cast my hands loose an’ give me a knife an’ you shall see.”

“O father! your promise—remember!” exclaimed Betty.

“True, dear lass, true; I forgot,” returned Paul, with a humbled look; “yet it is hard for a man to see him there, grinning like a big baboon, an’ keep his hands off him.”

During this dialogue the Indians looked from one speaker to another with keen interest, although none but their chief understood a word of what was said; and Stalker took advantage of their attention being turned for the moment from himself to carry out what Tolly had styled his “little game,” all unaware that the boy was watching him like a lynx.

Among other shifts and devices with which the robber chief had become familiar, he had learned the conjuror’s method of so arranging his limbs while being bound, that he could untie his bonds in a marvellous manner. On the present occasion, however, he had been tied by men who were expert in the use of deerskin thongs, and he found some difficulty in loosening them without attracting attention, but he succeeded at last. He had been secured only by the wrists and forearms, and remained sitting still a few seconds after he was absolutely free; then, seizing what he believed to be his opportunity, he leapt up, dashed the Indian nearest him to the earth, and sprang like a deer towards the bushes.

But Tolly Trevor was ready for him. That daring youth plunged right in front of the big botanist and stooped. Stalker tripped over him and came violently to the ground on his forehead and nose. Before he could rise Tolly had jumped up, and swinging his billet of wood once in the air, brought it down with all his little might on the robber’s crown. It sufficed to stupefy him, and when he recovered he found himself in the close embrace of three muscular Redskins.

“Well done, Tolly Trevor!” shouted Paul Bevan, enthusiastically.

Even Tom Brixton, who had been looking on in a state of inexpressible surprise, managed to utter a feeble cheer.

But the resources of the robber were not yet exhausted. Finding himself in the grasp of overwhelming numbers, he put forth all his strength, as if to make a final effort, and then, suddenly collapsing, dropped limp and helpless to the ground, as a man does when he is stabbed to the heart.

The savages knew the symptoms well—too well! They rose, breathless, and each looked inquiringly at the other, as though to say, “Who did the deed?” Before they discovered that the deed had not been done at all, Stalker sprang up, knocked down two of them, overturned the third, and, bounding into the bushes, was out of sight in a few seconds.

The whole band, of course, went yelling after him, except their chief, who stood with an angry scowl upon his visage, and awaited the return of his braves.

One by one they came back panting and discomfited, for the white robber had outrun them all and got clear away.

“Well, now, it was cliverly done,” remarked Paddy Flinders, finding his tongue at last; “an’ I raly can’t but feel that he desarves to git off this time. All the same I hope he’ll be nabbed at last an’ recaive his due—bad luck to him!”

“Now, Redskin—” began Bevan.

“My name is Unaco,” interrupted the chief, with a look of dignity.

“Well, then, Unaco,” continued Bevan, “since ye must see that we have nothing whatever to do wi’ the blackguard that’s just given ye the slip, I hope you’ll see your way to untie our hands an’ let us go.”

“You may not belong to that man’s band,” answered the chief, in his own tongue, “but you are a white man, and by white men I have been robbed of my wife and child. Your lives are forfeited. You shall be slaves to those whom you call Redskins, and this girl with the sunny hair shall replace the lost one in my wigwam.”

Without deigning to listen to a reply, Unaco turned and gave orders to his men, who at once brought up the horse and pony, set Betty and Tolly thereon, lifted Tom Brixton on their shoulders as before, and resumed their march deeper into the fastnesses of the Sawback Hills.

It was growing rapidly dark as they advanced, but the chief who led the party was intimately acquainted with every foot of the way, and as the moon rose before daylight had quite disappeared, they were enabled to continue their journey by night.

“No doubt” remarked Fred Westly to Paul, who was permitted to walk beside him, though Flinders was obliged to walk behind— “no doubt the chief fears that Stalker will pursue him when he is rejoined by his robber band, and wants to get well out of his way.”

“Very likely,” returned Bevan; “an’ it’s my opinion that he’ll find some more of his tribe hereabouts, in which case Master Stalker and his blackguards will have pretty stiff work cut out for them.”

“What think you of the threat of the chief to take Betty to be one of his wives?” asked Fred.

“Well, I don’t think he’ll do it.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’ve got a hold over him that he’s not aware of just yet.”

“What is that, and why did you not make use of it just now to prevent our being needlessly led farther into these mountains?” asked Fred, in surprise.

“What the hold is,” returned Bevan, “you shall know at supper-time. The reason why I didn’t make use of it sooner is that on the whole, I think it better to stick by the Redskins yet awhile—first, because if Stalker should look for us, as he’s sartin sure to do, we would not be strong enough to fight him in the open; and, secondly, because poor Tom Brixton needs rest, and he has more chance o’ that in the circumstances, wi’ the Redskins than he could have with us while being hunted by robbers; and, lastly, because Betty would come to grief if she fell into that villain Stalker’s hands just now.”

While Paul and Fred were thus conversing, the Rose of Oregon and her little protector rode silently beside each other, buried, apparently, in profound thought.

At last Tolly raised his head and voice.

“Betty,” said he, “what a lucky thing it was that we fell in wi’ Tom Brixton, and that you were able to give him somethin’ to eat.”

“Yes, thank God,” replied the girl, fervently.

“He’d have died but for you,” said the boy.

“And you, Tolly,” added Betty.

“Well, yes, I did have a finger in the pie,” returned the boy, with a self-satisfied air; “but I say, Betty,” he added, becoming suddenly serious, “what d’ye think o’ what that rascally chief said about takin’ you to his wigwam? You know that means he intends to make you his wife.”

“Yes, I know; but God will deliver me,” answered the girl.

“How d’ye know that?”

“Because I put my trust in Him.”

“Oh! but,” returned the boy, with a slight look of surprise, “unless God works a miracle I don’t see how He can deliver us from the Redskins, and you know He doesn’t work miracles nowadays.”

“I’m not so sure of that,” replied the girl. “More than once I have seen a man who had been nearly all his life given to drinking, fighting, thieving, and swearing, and every sort of wickedness, surrender himself body and soul to Jesus Christ, so that he afterwards gave up all his evil ways, and led a pure and peaceable life, trying not only to serve God himself, but doing his best to bring his old companions to the same state of mind. What would you call that, Tolly?”

“I’m bound to say it’s as near a miracle as can be, if not one altogether. But in what way do you think God will deliver you just now?”

“That I cannot tell; but I know this, it is written in His Word that those who put their trust in Him shall never be confounded, and I have put my trust in Him. He will never forsake me.”

“I wish I had as strong faith as you, Betty,” said the boy, with a grave look.

“You may have it—and stronger than I have, for faith is the gift of God, and we shall get it not in proportion to our trying to get it or to our trying to rouse it, or to our working for it, but according as we ask for it. The Holy Spirit can work anything in us and by us, and He is promised to those who merely ask in the name of Jesus. Ah! Tolly, have I not often told you this, that in God’s Word it is written, ‘Ye have not because ye ask not?’”

While these two were yet speaking, the chief called a halt, and, after a brief consultation with some of his braves, ordered the band to encamp for the night.

Soon the camp fires were lighted under the spreading trees, and their bright blaze and myriad sparks converted the gloomy forest into a brilliant banqueting hall, in which, unlike civilised halls, the decorations were fresh and natural, and the atmosphere was pure.

There were at least six camp-fires, each with its circle of grave red warriors, its roasting steaks and its bubbling kettle, in which latter was boiled a rich mixture of dried meat and flour. Some of the Indians stood conversing in low tones, their faces ruddy with the brilliant blaze and their backs as black as the surrounding background. Others lay at length on the ground or squatted thereon, placidly smoking their calumets, or the little iron pipes which formed part of the heads of their tomahawks, or tending the steaks and kettles. To an observer outside the circle of light the whole scene was intensely vivid and picturesque, for the groups, being at different distances, were varied in size, and the intense light that shone on those nearest the fires shed a softer glow on those who were more distant, while on the few Indians who moved about in search of firewood it cast a pale light which barely sufficed to distinguish them from surrounding darkness.

Paul Bevan and his friends occupied a fire by themselves, the only native who stood beside them being Unaco. It is probable that the savage chief constituted himself their guard in order to make quite sure of them, for the escape of Stalker weighed heavily on his mind. To secure this end more effectively, and at the same time enable the captives to feed themselves, the right arm of each was freed, while the left was tied firmly to his body. Of course, Betty and Tom Brixton were left altogether unbound.

“I feel uncommon lopsided goin’ about in this one-armed fashion,” remarked Paul, as he turned the stick on which his supper was roasting. “Couldn’t ye make up yer mind to trust us, Unaco? I’d promise for myself an’ friends that we wouldn’t attempt to cut away like that big thief Stalker.”

The chief, who sat a little apart near the farther end of the blazing pile of logs, smoking his pipe in motionless gravity, took not the slightest notice.

“Arrah! howld yer tongue, Paul,” said Flinders, who made so much use of his one arm, in stirring the kettle, turning a roasting venison rib, and arranging the fire, that it seemed as if he were in full possession of two; “why d’ye disturb his majesty? Don’t ye see that he’s meditatin’, or suthin’ o’ that sort—maybe about his forefathers?”

“Well, well, I hope his after mothers won’t have many sulky ones like him,” returned Paul, rather crossly. “It’s quite impossible to cut up a steak wi’ one hand, so here goes i’ the next best fashion.”

He took up the steak in his fingers, and was about to tear off a mouthful with his teeth, when Betty came to the rescue.

“Stay, father; I’ll cut it into little bits for you if Unaco will kindly lend me his scalping-knife.”

Without a word or look the chief quietly drew the glittering weapon from its sheath and handed it to Betty, who at once, using a piece of sharpened stick as a fork, cut her father’s portion into manageable lumps.

“That’s not a bad notion,” said Fred. “Perhaps you’ll do the same for me, Betty.”

“With pleasure, Mr Westly.”

“Ah, now, av it wouldn’t be axin’ too much, might I make so bowld—”

Flinders did not finish the sentence, but laid his pewter plate before the Rose of Oregon with a significant smile.

“I’m glad to be so unexpectedly useful,” said Betty, with a laugh.

When she had thus aided her half-helpless companions, Betty returned the knife to its owner, who received it with a dignified inclination of the head. She then filled a mug with soup, and went to Tom, who lay on a deerskin robe, gazing at her in rapt admiration, and wondering when he was going to awake out of this most singular dream, for, in his weak condition, he had taken to disbelieving all that he saw.

“And yet it can’t well be a dream,” he murmured, with a faint smile, as the girl knelt by his side, “for I never dreamed anything half so real. What is this—soup?”

“Yes; try to take a little. It will do you good, with God’s blessing.”

“Ah, yes, with God’s blessing,” repeated the poor youth, earnestly. “You know what that means, Betty, and—and—I think I am beginning to understand it.”

Betty made no reply, but a feeling of profound gladness crept into her heart.

When she returned to the side of her father she found that he had finished supper, and was just beginning to use his pipe.

“When are you going to tell me, Paul, about the—the—subject we were talking of on our way here?” asked Fred, who was still devoting much of his attention to a deer’s rib.

“I’ll tell ye now,” answered Paul, with a short glance at the Indian chief, who still sat, profoundly grave, in the dreamland of smoke. “There’s no time like after supper for a good pipe an’ a good story—not that what I’m goin’ to tell ye is much of a story either, but it’s true, if that adds vally to it, an’ it’ll be short. It’s about a brave young Indian I once had the luck to meet with. His name was Oswego.”

At the sound of the name Unaco cast a sharp glance at Bevan. It was so swift that no one present observed it save Bevan himself, who had expected it. But Paul pretended not to notice it, and turning himself rather more towards Fred, addressed himself pointedly to him.

“This young Indian,” said Paul, “was a fine specimen of his race, tall and well made, with a handsome countenance, in which truth was as plain as the sun in the summer sky. I was out after grizzly b’ars at the time, but hadn’t had much luck, an’ was comin’ back to camp one evenin’ in somethin’ of a sulky humour, when I fell upon a trail which I knowed was the trail of a Redskin. The Redskins was friendly at that time wi’ the whites, and as I was out alone, an’ am somethin’ of a sociable critter, I thought I’d follow him up an’ take him to my camp wi’ me, if he was willin’, an’ give him some grub an’ baccy. Well, I hadn’t gone far when I came to a precipiece. The trail followed the edge of it for some distance, an’ I went along all right till I come to a bit where the trail seemed to go right over it. My heart gave a jump, for I seed at a glance that a bit o’ the cliff had given way there, an’ as there was no sign o’ the trail farther on, of course I knowed that the Injin, whoever he was, must have gone down with it.

“I tried to look over, but it was too steep an’ dangerous, so I sought for a place where I could clamber down. Sure enough, when I reached the bottom, there lay the poor Redskin. I thought he was dead, for he’d tumbled from a most awful height, but a tree had broke his fall to some extent, and when I went up to him I saw by his eyes that he was alive, though he could neither speak nor move.

“I soon found that the poor lad was damaged past recovery; so, after tryin’ in vain to get him to speak to me, I took him in my arms as tenderly as I could and carried him to my camp. It was five miles off, and the road was rough, and although neither groan nor complaint escaped him, I knew that poor Oswego suffered much by the great drops o’ perspiration that rolled from his brow; so, you see, I had to carry him carefully. When I’d gone about four miles I met a small Injin boy who said he was Oswego’s brother, had seen him fall, an’, not bein’ able to lift him, had gone to seek for help, but had failed to find it.

“That night I nursed the lad as I best could, gave him some warm tea, and did my best to arrange him comfortably. The poor fellow tried to speak his gratitude, but couldn’t; yet I could see it in his looks. He died next day, and I buried him under a pine-tree. The poor heart-broken little brother said he knew the way back to the wigwams of his tribe, so I gave him the most of the provisions I had, told him my name, and sent him away.”

At this point in the story Unaco rose abruptly, and said to Bevan—

“The white man will follow me.”

Paul rose, and the chief led him into the forest a short way, when he turned abruptly, and, with signs of emotion unusual in an Indian, said—

“Your name is Paul Bevan?”

“It is.”

“I am the father of Oswego,” said the chief, grasping Paul by the hand and shaking it vigorously in the white man’s fashion.

“I know it, Unaco, and I know you by report, though we’ve never met before, and I told that story in your ear to convince ye that my tongue is not ‘forked.’”

When Paul Bevan returned to the camp fire, soon afterwards, he came alone, and both his arms were free. In a few seconds he had the satisfaction of undoing the bonds of his companions, and relating to them the brief but interesting conversation which had just passed between him and the Indian chief.

Chapter Fifteen.

At the edge of a small plain, or bit of prairie land, that shone like a jewel in a setting of bush-clad hills, dwelt the tribe of natives who owned Unaco as their chief.

It was a lovely spot, in one of the most secluded portions of the Sawback range, far removed at that time from the evil presence of the gold-diggers, though now and then an adventurous “prospector” would make his way to these remote solitudes in quest of the precious metal. Up to that time those prospectors had met with nothing to reward them for their pains, save the gratification to be derived from fresh mountain air and beautiful scenery.

It required three days of steady travelling to enable the chief and his party to reach the wigwams of the tribe. The sun was just setting, on the evening of the third day, when they passed out of a narrow defile and came in sight of the Indian village.

“It seems to me, Paul,” remarked Fred Westly, as they halted to take a brief survey of the scene, “that these Indians have found an admirable spot on which to lead a peaceful life, for the region is too high and difficult of access to tempt many gold-hunters, and the approaches to it could be easily defended by a handful of resolute men.”

“That is true,” replied Bevan, as they continued on their way. “Nevertheless, it would not be very difficult for a few resolute men to surprise and capture the place.”

“Perchance Stalker and his villains may attempt to prove the truth of what you say,” suggested Fred.

“They will certainly attempt it” returned Paul, “but they are not what I call resolute men. Scoundrels are seldom blessed wi’ much resolution, an’ they’re never heartily united.”

“What makes you feel so sure that they will follow us up, Paul?”

“The fact that my enemy has followed me like a bloodhound for six years,” answered Bevan, with a frown.

“Is it touching too much on private matters to ask why he is your enemy, and why so vindictive?”

“The reason Is simple enough. Buxley hates me, and would kill me if he could. Indeed I’m half afraid that he will manage it at last, for I’ve promised my little gal that I won’t kill him ’cept in self-defence, an’ of course if I don’t kill him he’s pretty sure to kill me.”

“Does Betty know why this man persecutes you so?”

“No—she don’t.”

As it was evident, both from his replies and manner, that Bevan did not mean to be communicative on the subject, Fred forbore to ask more questions about it.

“So you think Unaco may be depended on?” he asked, by way of changing the subject.

“Ay, surely. You may depend on it that the Almighty made all men pretty much alike as regards their feelin’s. The civilised people an’ the Redskins ain’t so different as some folk seem to think. They can both of ’em love an’ hate pretty stiffly, an’ they are both able to feel an’ show gratitude as well as the reverse—also, they’re pretty equal in the matter of revenge.”

“But don’t we find,” said Fred, “that among Christians revenge is pretty much held in check?”

“Among Christians—ay,” replied Bevan; “but white men ain’t always Christians, any more than red men are always devils. Seems to me it’s six o’ one an’ half a dozen o’ the other. Moreover, when the missionaries git among the Redskins, some of ’em turns Christians an’ some hypocrites—just the same as white men. What Unaco is, in the matter o’ Christianity, is not for me to say, for I don’t know; but from what I do know, from hearsay, of his character, I’m sartin sure that he’s a good man and true, an’ for that little bit of sarvice I did to his poor boy, he’d give me his life if need be.”

“Nevertheless, I can’t help thinking that we might have returned to Simpson’s Gully, and taken the risk of meeting with Stalker,” said Fred.

“Ha! that’s because you don’t know him,” returned Bevan. “If he had met with his blackguards soon after leaving us, he’d have overtook us by this time. Anyway, he’s sure to send scouts all round, and follow up the trail as soon as he can.”

“But think what a trial this rough journey has been to poor Tom Brixton,” said Fred.

“No doubt,” returned Paul; “but haven’t we got him on Tolly’s pony to-day? and isn’t that a sign he’s better? An’ would you have me risk Betty fallin’ Into the hands o’ Buxley?”

Paul looked at his companion as if this were an unanswerable argument and Fred admitted that it was.

“Besides,” he went on, “it will be a pleasant little visit this, to a friendly tribe o’ Injins, an’ we may chance to fall in wi’ gold, who knows? An’ when the ugly thieves do succeed in findin’ us, we shall have the help o’ the Redskins, who are not bad fighters when their cause is a good ’un an’ their wigwams are in danger.”

“It may be so, Paul. However, right or wrong, here we are, and a most charming spot it is, the nearer we draw towards it.”

As Fred spoke, Betty Bevan, who rode in advance, reined in her horse,—which, by the way, had become much more docile in her hands,—and waited till her father overtook her.

“Is it not like paradise, father?”

“Not havin’ been to paradise, dear, I can’t exactly say,” returned her matter-of-fact sire.

“Oh, I say, ain’t it splendatious!” said Tolly Trevor, coming up at the moment, and expressing Betty’s idea in somewhat different phraseology; “just look at the lake—like a lookin’-glass, with every wigwam pictur’d upside down, so clear that a feller can’t well say which is which. An’ the canoes in the same way, bottom to bottom, Redskins above and Redskins below. Hallo! I say, what’s that?”

The excited lad pointed, as he spoke, to the bushes, where a violent motion and crashing sound told of some animal disturbed in its lair. Next moment a beautiful little antelope bounded into an open space, and stopped to cast a bewildered gaze for one moment on the intruders. That pause proved fatal. A concealed hunter seized his opportunity; a sharp crack was heard, and the animal fell dead where it stood, shot through the head.

“Poor, poor creature!” exclaimed the tender-hearted Betty.

“Not a bad supper for somebody,” remarked her practical father.

As he spoke the bushes parted at the other side of the open space, and the man who had fired the shot appeared.

He was a tall and spare, but evidently powerful fellow. As he advanced towards our travellers they could see that he was not a son of the soil, but a white man—at least as regards blood, though his face, hands, neck, and bared bosom had been tanned by exposure to as red a brown as that of any Indian.

“He’s a trapper,” exclaimed Tolly, as the man drew nearer, enabling them to perceive that he was middle-aged and of rather slow and deliberate temperament with a sedate expression on his rugged countenance.

“Ay, he looks like one o’ these wanderin’ chaps,” said Bevan, “that seem to be fond of a life o’ solitude in the wilderness. I’ve knowed a few of ’em. Queer customers some, that stick at nothin’ when their blood’s up; though I have met wi’ one or two that desarved an easier life, an’ more o’ this world’s goods. But most of ’em prefer to hunt for their daily victuals, an’ on’y come down to the settlements when they run out o’ powder an’ lead, or want to sell their furs. Hallo! Why, Tolly, boy, it is—yes! I do believe it’s Mahoghany Drake himself!”

Tolly did not reply, for he had run eagerly forward to meet the trapper, having already recognised him.

“His name is a strange one,” remarked Fred Westly, gazing steadily at the man as he approached.

“Drake is his right name,” explained Bevan, “an’ Mahoghany is a handle some fellers gave him ’cause he’s so much tanned wi’ the sun. He’s one o’ the right sort, let me tell ye. None o’ your boastin’, bustin’ critters, like Gashford, but a quiet, thinkin’ man, as is ready to tackle any subject a’most in the univarse, but can let his tongue lie till it’s time to speak. He can hold his own, too wi’ man or beast. Ain’t he friendly wi’ little Tolly Trevor? He’ll shake his arm out o’ the socket if he don’t take care. I’ll have to go to the rescue.”

In a few seconds Paul Bevan was having his own arm almost dislocated by the friendly shake of the trapper’s hand, for, although fond of solitude, Mahoghany Drake was also fond of human beings, and especially of old friends.

“Glad to see you, gentlemen,” he said, in a low, soft voice, when introduced by Paul to the travellers. At the same time he gave a friendly little nod to Unaco, thus indicating that with the Indian chief he was already acquainted.

“Well, Drake,” said Bevan, after the first greetings were over, “all right at the camp down there?”

“All well,” he replied, “and the Leaping Buck quite recovered.”

He cast a quiet glance at the Indian chief as he spoke, for the Leaping Buck was Unaco’s little son, who had been ailing when his father left his village a few weeks before.

“No sign o’ gold-seekers yet?” asked Paul.

“None—’cept one lot that ranged about the hills for a few days, but they seemed to know nothin’. Sartinly they found nothin’, an’ went away disgusted.”

The trapper indulged in a quiet chuckle as he said this.

“What are ye larfin’ at?” asked Paul.

“At the gold-seekers,” replied Drake.

“What was the matter wi’ ’em,” asked Tolly.

“Not much, lad, only they was blind, and also ill of a strong appetite.”

“Ye was always fond o’ speakin’ in riddles,” said Paul. “What d’ye mean, Mahoghany!”

“I mean that though there ain’t much gold in these hills, maybe, what little there is the seekers couldn’t see, though they was walkin’ over it, an’ they was so blind they couldn’t hit what they fired at, so their appetites was stronger than was comfortable. I do believe they’d have starved if I hadn’t killed a buck for them.”

During this conversation Paddy Flinders had been listening attentively and in silence. He now sidled up to Tom Brixton, who, although bestriding Tolly’s pony, seemed ill able to travel.

“D’ye hear what the trapper says, Muster Brixton?”

“Yes, Paddy, what then?”

“Och! I only thought to cheer you up a bit by p’intin’ out that he says there’s goold hereabouts.”

“I’m glad for your sake and Fred’s,” returned Tom, with a faint smile, “but it matters little to me; I feel that my days are numbered.”

“Ah then, sor, don’t spake like that,” returned Flinders, with a woebegone expression on his countenance. “Sure, it’s in the dumps ye are, an’ no occasion for that same. Isn’t Miss—”

The Irishman paused. He had it in his heart to say, “Isn’t Miss Betty smilin’ on ye like one o’clock?” but, never yet having ventured even a hint on that subject to Tom, an innate feeling of delicacy restrained him. As the chief who led the party gave the signal to move on at that moment it was unnecessary for him to finish the sentence.

The Indian village, which was merely a cluster of tents made of deerskins stretched on poles, was now plainly visible from the commanding ridge along which the party travelled. It occupied a piece of green level land on the margin of the lake before referred to, and, with its background of crag and woodland and its distance of jagged purple hills, formed as lovely a prospect as the eye of man could dwell upon.

The distance of the party from it rendered every sound that floated towards them soft and musical. Even the barking of the dogs and the shouting of the little Redskins at play came up to them in a mellow, almost peaceful, tone. To the right of the village lay a swamp, from out of which arose the sweet and plaintive cries of innumerable gulls, plovers, and other wild-fowl, mingled with the trumpeting of geese and the quacking of ducks, many of which were flying to and fro over the glassy lake, while others were indulging in aquatic gambols among the reeds and sedges.

After they had descended the hill-side by a zigzag path, and reached the plain below, they obtained a nearer view of the eminently joyful scene, the sound of the wild-fowl became more shrill, and the laughter of the children more boisterous. A number of the latter who had observed the approaching party were seen hurrying towards them with eager haste, led by a little lad, who bounded and leaped as if wild with excitement. This was Unaco’s little son, Leaping Buck, who had recognised the well-known figure of his sire a long way off, and ran to meet him.

On reaching him the boy sprang like an antelope into his father’s arms and seized him round the neck, while others crowded round the gaunt trapper and grasped his hands and legs affectionately. A few of the older boys and girls stood still somewhat shyly, and gazed in silence at the strangers, especially at Betty, whom they evidently regarded as a superior order of being—perhaps an angel—in which opinion they were undoubtedly backed by Tom Buxton.

After embracing his father, Leaping Buck recognised Paul Bevan as the man who had been so kind to him and his brother Oswego at the time when the latter got his death-fall over the precipice. With a shout of joyful surprise he ran to him, and, we need scarcely add, was warmly received by the kindly backwoodsman.

“I cannot help thinking,” remarked Betty to Tom, as they gazed on the pleasant meeting, “that God must have some way of revealing the Spirit of Jesus to these Indians that we Christians know not of.”

“It is strange,” replied Tom, “that the same thought has occurred to me more than once of late, when observing the character and listening to the sentiments of Unaco. And I have also been puzzled with this thought—if God has some method of revealing Christ to the heathen that we know not of, why are Christians so anxious to send the Gospel to the heathen?”

“That thought has never occurred to me,” replied Betty, “because our reason for going forth to preach the Gospel to the heathen is the simple one that God commands us to do so. Yet it seems to me quite consistent with that command that God may have other ways and methods of making His truth known to men, but this being a mere speculation does not free us from our simple duty.”

“You are right. Perhaps I am too fond of reasoning and speculating,” answered Tom.

“Nay, that you are not” rejoined the girl, quickly; “it seems to me that to reason and speculate is an important part of the duty of man, and cannot but be right, so long as it does not lead to disobedience. ‘Let every man be fully persuaded in his own mind,’ is our title from God to think fully and freely; but ‘Go ye into all the world and preach the Gospel to every creature,’ is a command so plain and peremptory that it does not admit of speculative objection.”

“Why, Betty, I had no idea you were such a reasoner!” said Tom, with a look of surprise. “Surely it is not your father who has taught you to think thus?”

“I have had no teacher, at least of late years, but the Bible,” replied the girl, blushing deeply at having been led to speak so freely on a subject about which she was usually reticent. “But see,” she added hastily, giving a shake to the reins of her horse, “we have been left behind. The chief has already reached his village. Let us push on.”

The obstinate horse went off at an accommodating amble under the sweet sway of gentleness, while the obedient pony followed at a brisk trot which nearly shook all the little strength that Tom Brixton possessed out of his wasted frame.

The manner in which Unaco was received by the people of his tribe, young and old, showed clearly that he was well beloved by them; and the hospitality with which the visitors were welcomed was intensified when it was made known that Paul Bevan was the man who had shown kindness to their chief’s son Oswego in his last hours. Indeed, the influence which an Indian chief can have on the manners and habits of his people was well exemplified by this small and isolated tribe, for there was among them a pervading tone of contentment and goodwill, which was one of Unaco’s most obvious characteristics. Truthfulness, also, and justice were more or less manifested by them. Even the children seemed to be free from disputation; for, although there were of course differences of opinion during games, these differences were usually settled without quarrelling, and the noise, of which there was abundance, was the result of gleeful shouts or merry laughter. They seemed, in short, to be a happy community, the various members of which had leaned—to a large extent from their chief—“how good a thing it is for brethren to dwell together in unity.”

A tent was provided for Bevan, Flinders, and Tolly Trevor near to the wigwam of Unaco, with a separate little one for the special use of the Rose of Oregon. Not far from these another tent was erected for Fred and his invalid friend Tom Brixton. As for Mahoghany Drake, that lanky, lantern-jawed individual encamped under a neighbouring pine-tree in quiet contempt of any more luxurious covering.

But, although the solitary wanderer of the western wilderness thus elected to encamp by himself, he was by no means permitted to enjoy privacy, for during the whole evening and greater part of that night his campfire was surrounded by an admiring crowd of boys, and not a few girls, who listened in open-eyed-and-mouthed attention to his thrilling tales of adventure, giving vent now and then to a “waugh!” or a “ho!” of surprise at some telling point in the narrative, or letting fly sudden volleys of laughter at some humorous incident, to the amazement, no doubt of the neighbouring bucks and bears and wild-fowl.

“Tom,” said Fred that night, as he sat by the couch of his friend, “we shall have to stay here some weeks, I suspect until you get strong enough to travel, and, to say truth, the prospect is a pleasant as well as an unexpected one, for we have fallen amongst amiable natives.”

“True, Fred. Nevertheless I shall leave the moment my strength permits—that is, if health be restored to me—and I shall go off by myself.”

“Why, Tom, what do you mean?”

“I mean exactly what I say. Dear Fred,” answered the sick man, feebly grasping his friend’s hand, “I feel that it is my duty to get away from all who have ever known me, and begin a new career of honesty, God permitting. I will not remain with the character of a thief stamped upon me, to be a drag round your neck, and I have made up my mind no longer to persecute dear Betty Bevan with the offer of a dishonest and dishonoured hand. In my insolent folly I had once thought her somewhat below me in station. I now know that she is far, far above me in every way, and also beyond me.”

“Tom, my dear boy,” returned Fred, earnestly, “you are getting weak. It is evident that they have delayed supper too long. Try to sleep now, and I’ll go and see why Tolly has not brought it.”

So saying, Fred Westly left the tent and went off in quest of his little friend.

Chapter Sixteen.

Little Tolly Trevor and Leaping Buck—being about the same age, and having similar tastes and propensities, though very unlike each other in temperament—soon became fast friends, and they both regarded Mahoghany Drake, the trapper, with almost idolatrous affection.

“Would you care to come wi’ me to-day, Tolly? I’m goin’ to look for some meat on the heights.”

It was thus that Drake announced his intention to go a-hunting one fine morning after he had disposed of a breakfast that might have sustained an ordinary man for several days.

“Care to go with ye!” echoed Tolly, “I just think I should. But, look here, Mahoghany,” continued the boy, with a troubled expression, “I’ve promised to go out on the lake to-day wi’ Leaping Buck, an’ I must keep my promise. You know you told us only last night in that story about the Chinaman and the grizzly that no true man ever breaks his promise.”

“Right, lad, right” returned the trapper, “but you can go an’ ask the little Buck to jine us, an’ if he’s inclined you can both come—only you must agree to leave yer tongues behind ye if ye do, for it behoves hunters to be silent, and from my experience of you I raither think yer too fond o’ chatterin’.”

Before Drake had quite concluded his remark Tolly was off in search of his red-skinned bosom friend.

The manner in which the friendship between the red boy and the white was instituted and kept up was somewhat peculiar and almost incomprehensible, for neither spoke the language of the other except to a very slight extent. Leaping Buck’s father had, indeed, picked up a pretty fair smattering of English during his frequent expeditions into the gold-fields, which, at the period we write of, were being rapidly developed. Paul Bevan, too, during occasional hunting expeditions among the red men, had acquired a considerable knowledge of the dialect spoken in that part of the country, but Leaping Buck had not visited the diggings with his father, so that his knowledge of English was confined to the smattering which he had picked up from Paul and his father. In like manner Tolly Trevor’s acquaintance with the native tongue consisted of the little that had been imparted to him by his friend Paul Bevan. Mahoghany Drake, on the contrary, spoke Indian fluently, and it must be understood that in the discourses which he delivered to the two boys he mixed up English and Indian in an amazing compound which served to render him intelligible to both, but which, for the reader’s sake, we feel constrained to give in the trapper’s ordinary English.

“It was in a place just like this,” said Drake, stopping with his two little friends on reaching a height, and turning round to survey the scene behind him, “that a queer splinter of a man who was fond o’ callin’ himself an ornithologist shot a grizzly b’ar wi’ a mere popgun that was only fit for a squawkin’ babby’s plaything.”

“Oh! do sit down, Mahoghany,” cried little Trevor, in a voice of entreaty; “I’m so fond of hearin’ about grizzlies, an’ I’d give all the world to meet one myself, so would Buckie here, wouldn’t you?”

The Indian boy, whose name Tolly had thus modified, tried to assent to this proposal by bending his little head in a stately manner, in imitation of his dignified father.

“Well, I don’t mind if I do,” replied the trapper, with a twinkle of his eyes.

Mahoghany Drake was blessed with that rare gift, the power to invest with interest almost any subject, no matter how trivial or commonplace, on which he chose to speak. Whether it was the charm of a musical voice, or the serious tone and manner of an earnest man, we cannot tell, but certain it is, that whenever or wherever he began to talk, men stopped to listen, and were held enchained until he had finished.

On the present occasion the trapper seated himself on a green bank that lay close to the edge of a steep precipice, and laid his rifle across his knees, while the boys sat down one on each side of him.

The view from the elevated spot on which they sat was most exquisite, embracing the entire length of the valley at the other end of which the Indian village lay, its inhabitants reduced to mere specks and its wigwams to little cones, by distance. Owing also to the height of the spot, the view of surrounding mountains was extended, so that range upon range was seen in softened perspective, while a variety of lakelets, with their connecting watercourses, which were hidden by foliage in the lower grounds, were now opened up to view. Glowing sunshine glittered on the waters and bathed the hills and valleys, deepening the near shadows and intensifying the purple and blue of those more distant.

“It often makes me wonder,” said the trapper, in a reflective tone, as if speaking rather to himself than to his companions, “why the Almighty has made the world so beautiful an’ parfect an’ allowed mankind to grow so awful bad.”

The boys did not venture to reply, but as Drake sat gazing in dreamy silence at the far-off hills, little Trevor, who recalled some of his conversations with the Rose of Oregon, ventured to say, “P’r’aps we’ll find out some day, though we don’t understand it just now.”

“True, lad, true,” returned Drake. “It would be well for us if we always looked at it in that light, instead o’ findin’ fault wi’ things as they are, for it stands to reason that the Maker of all can fall into no mistakes.”

“But what about the ornithologist?” said Tolly, who had no desire that the conversation should drift into abstruse subjects.

“Ay, ay, lad, I’m comin’ to him,” replied the trapper, with the humorous twinkle that seemed to hover always about the corners of his eyes, ready for instant development. “Well, you must know, this was the way of it—and it do make me larf yet when I think o’ the face o’ that spider-legged critter goin’ at the rate of twenty miles an hour or thereabouts wi’ that most awful-lookin’ grizzly b’ar peltin’ after him.—Hist! Look there, Tolly. A chance for your popgun.”

The trapper pointed as he spoke to a flock of wild duck that was coming straight towards the spot on which they sat. The “popgun” to which he referred was one of the smooth-bore flint-lock single-barrelled fowling-pieces which traders were in the habit of supplying to the natives at that time, and which Unaco had lent to the boy for the day, with his powder-horn and ornamented shot-pouch.

For the three hunters to drop behind the bank on which they had been sitting was the work of a moment.

Young though he was, Tolly had already become a fair and ready shot. He selected the largest bird in the flock, covered it with a deadly aim, and pulled the trigger. But the click of the lock was not followed by an explosion as the birds whirred swiftly on.

“Ah! my boy,” observed the trapper, taking the gun quietly from the boy’s hand and proceeding to chip the edge of the flint, “you should never go a-huntin’ without seein’ that your flint is properly fixed.”

“But I did see to it,” replied Tolly, in a disappointed tone, “and it struck fire splendidly when I tried it before startin’.”

“True, boy, but the thing is worn too short, an’ though its edge is pretty well, you didn’t screw it firm enough, so it got drove back a bit and the hammer-head, as well as the flint, strikes the steel, d’ye see? There now, prime it again, an’ be sure ye wipe the pan before puttin’ in the powder. It’s not worth while to be disap’inted about so small a matter. You’ll git plenty more chances. See, there’s another flock comin’. Don’t hurry, lad. If ye want to be a good hunter always keep cool, an’ take time. Better lose a chance than hurry. A chance lost you see, is only a chance lost, but blazin’ in a hurry is a bad lesson that ye’ve got to unlarn.”

The trapper’s advice was cut short by the report of Tolly’s gun, and next moment a fat duck, striking the ground in front of them, rolled fluttering to their feet.

“Not badly done, Tolly,” said the trapper, with a nod, as he reseated himself on the bank, while Leaping Buck picked up the bird, which was by that time dead, and the young sportsman recharged his gun; “just a leetle too hurried. If you had taken only half a second more time to put the gun to your shoulder, you’d have brought the bird to the ground dead; and you boys can’t larn too soon that you should never give needless pain to critters that you’ve got to kill. You must shoot, of course, or you’d starve; but always make sure of killin’ at once, an’ the only way to do that is to keep cool an’ take time. You see, it ain’t the aim you take that matters so much, as the coolness an’ steadiness with which ye put the gun to your shoulder. If you only do that steadily an’ without hurry, the gun is sure to p’int straight for’ard an’ the aim’ll look arter itself. Nevertheless, it was smartly done, lad, for it’s a difficult shot when a wild duck comes straight for your head like a cannon-ball.”

“But what about the ornithologist;” said Tolly, who, albeit well pleased at the trapper’s complimentary remarks, did not quite relish his criticism.

“Yes, yes; I’m comin’ to that. Well, as I was sayin’, it makes me larf yet, when I thinks on it. How he did run, to be sure! Greased lightnin’ could scarce have kep’ up wi’ him.”

“But where was he a-runnin’ to, an’ why?” asked little Trevor, impatiently.

“Now, you leetle boy,” said Drake, with a look of grave remonstrance, “don’t you go an’ git impatient. Patience is one o’ the backwoods vartues, without which you’ll never git on at all. If you don’t cultivate patience you may as well go an’ live in the settlements or the big cities—where it don’t much matter what a man is—but it’ll be no use to stop in the wilderness. There’s Leapin’ Buck, now, a-sittin’ as quiet as a Redskin warrior on guard! Take a lesson from him, lad, an’ restrain yourself. Well, as I was goin’ to say, I was out settin’ my traps somewheres about the head-waters o’ the Yellowstone river at the time when I fell in wi’ the critter. I couldn’t rightly make out what he was, for, though I’ve seed mostly all sorts o’ men in my day, I’d never met in wi’ one o’ this sort before. It wasn’t his bodily shape that puzzled me, though that was queer enough, but his occupation that staggered me. He was a long, thin, spider-shaped article that seemed to have run to seed—all stalk with a frowsy top, for his hair was long an’ dry an’ fly-about. I’m six-futt one myself, but my step was a mere joke to his stride! He seemed split up to the neck, like a pair o’ human compasses, an’ his clo’s fitted so tight that he might have passed for a livin’ skeleton!

“Well, it was close upon sundown, an’ I was joggin’ along to my tent in the bush when I came to an openin’ where I saw the critter down on one knee an’ his gun up takin’ aim at somethin’. I stopped to let him have his shot, for I count it a mortal sin to spoil a man’s sport, an’ I looked hard to see what it was he was goin’ to let drive at, but never a thing could I see, far or near, except a small bit of a bird about the size of a big bee, sittin’ on a branch not far from his nose an’ cockin’ its eye at him as much as to say, ‘Well, you air a queer ’un!’ ‘Surely,’ thought I, ‘he ain’t a-goin’ to blaze at that!’ But I’d scarce thought it when he did blaze at it an’ down it came flop on its back, as dead as mutton!

“‘Well, stranger,’ says I, goin’ for’ard, ‘you do seem to be hard up for victuals when you’d shoot a small thing like that!’ ‘Not at all, my good man,’ says he—an’ the critter had a kindly smile an’ a sensible face enough—‘you must know that I am shootin’ birds for scientific purposes. I am an ornithologist.’

“‘Oh!’ say I, for I didn’t rightly know what else to say to that.

“‘Yes,’ says he; ‘an’ see here.’

“Wi’ that he opens a bag he had on his back an’ showed me a lot o’ birds, big an’ small, that he’d been shootin’; an’ then he pulls out a small book, in which he’d been makin’ picturs of ’em—an’ r’ally I was raither took wi’ that for the critter had got ’em down there almost as good as natur’. They actooally looked as if they was alive!

“‘Shut the book, sir,’ says I, ‘or they’ll all escape!’

“It was only a small joke I meant, but the critter took it for a big ’un an’ larfed at it till he made me half ashamed.

“‘D’ye know any of these birds?’ he axed, arter we’d looked at a lot of ’em.

“‘Know ’em?’ says I; ‘I should think I does! Why, I’ve lived among ’em ever since I was a babby!’

“‘Indeed!’ says he, an’ he got quite excited, ‘how interestin’! An’ do you know anythin’ about their habits?’

“‘If you mean by that their ways o’ goin’ on,’ says I, ‘there’s hardly a thing about ’em that I don’t know, except what they think, an’ sometimes I’ve a sort o’ notion I could make a pretty fair guess at that too.’

“‘Will you come to my camp and spend the night with me?’ he asked, gettin’ more an’ more excited.

“‘No, stranger, I won’t,’ says I; ‘but if you’ll come to mine I’ll feed you an’ make you heartily welcome,’ for somehow I’d took quite a fancy to the critter.

“‘I’ll go,’ says he, an’ he went an’ we had such a night of it! He didn’t let me have a wink o’ sleep till pretty nigh daylight the next mornin’, an’ axed me more questions about birds an’ beasts an’ fishes than I was iver axed before in the whole course o’ my life—an’ it warn’t yesterday I was born. I began to feel quite like a settlement boy at school. An’ he set it all down, too, as fast as I could speak, in the queerest hand-writin’ you ever did see. At last I couldn’t stand it no longer.

“‘Mister Ornithologist’ says I.

“‘Well,’ says he.

“‘There’s a pecooliar beast in them parts,’ says I, ‘’as has got some pretty stiff an’ settled habits.’

“‘Is there?’ says he, wakin’ up again quite fresh, though he had been growin’ sleepy.

“‘Yes,’ says I, ‘an’ it’s a obstinate sort o’ brute that won’t change its habits for nobody. One o’ these habits is that it turns in of a night quite reg’lar an’ has a good snooze before goin’ to work next day. Its name is Mahoghany Drake, an’ that’s me, so I’ll bid you good-night, stranger.’

“Wi’ that I knocked the ashes out o’ my pipe, stretched myself out wi’ my feet to the fire, an’ rolled my blanket round me. The critter larfed again at this as if it was a great joke, but he shut up his book, put it and the bag o’ leetle birds under his head for a pillow, spread himself out over the camp like a great spider that was awk’ard in the use o’ its limbs, an’ went off to sleep even before I did—an’ that was sharp practice, let me tell you.

“Well,” continued the trapper, clasping his great bony hands over one of his knees, and allowing the lines of humour to play on his visage, while the boys drew nearer in open-eyed expectancy, “we slep’ about three hours, an’ then had a bit o’ breakfast, after which we parted, for he said he knew his way back to the camp, where he left his friends; but the poor critter didn’t know nothin’—’cept ornithology. He lost himself an took to wanderin’ in a circle arter I left him. I came to know it ’cause I struck his trail the same arternoon, an’ there could be no mistakin’ it, the length o’ stride bein’ somethin’ awful! So I followed it up.

“I hadn’t gone far when I came to a place pretty much like this, as I said before, and when I was lookin’ at the view—for I’m fond of a fine view, it takes a man’s mind off trappin’ an’ victuals somehow—I heerd a most awful screech, an’ then another. A moment later an’ the ornithologist busted out o’ the bushes with his long legs goin’ like the legs of a big water-wagtail. He was too fur off to see the look of his face, but his hair was tremendous to behold. When he saw the precipice before him he gave a most horrible yell, for he knew that he couldn’t escape that way from whatever was chasin’ him. I couldn’t well help him, for there was a wide gully between him an’ me, an’ it was too fur off for a fair shot. Howsever, I stood ready. Suddenly I seed the critter face right about an’ down on one knee like a pair o’ broken compasses; up went the shot-gun, an’ at the same moment out busted a great old grizzly b’ar from the bushes. Crack! went my rifle at once, but I could see that the ball didn’t hurt him much, although it hit him fair on the head. Loadin’ in hot haste, I obsarved that the ornithologist sat like a post till that b’ar was within six foot of him, when he let drive both barrels of his popgun straight into its face. Then he jumped a one side with a spurt like a grasshopper, an’ the b’ar tumbled heels over head and got up with an angry growl to rub its face, then it made a savage rush for’ard and fell over a low bank, jumped up again, an’ went slap agin a face of rock. I seed at once that it was blind. The small shot used by the critter for his leetle birds had put out both its eyes, an’ it went blunderin’ about while the ornithologist kep’ well out of its way. I knew he was safe, so waited to see what he’d do, an’ what d’ye think he did?”

“Shoved his knife into him,” suggested Tolly Trevor, in eager anxiety.

“What! shove his knife into a healthy old b’ar with nothin’ gone but his sight? No, lad, he did do nothing so mad as that, but he ran coolly up to it an’ screeched in its face. Of course the b’ar went straight at the sound, helter-skelter, and the ornithologist turned an’ ran to the edge o’ the precipice, screechin’ as he went. When he got there he pulled up an’ darted a one side, but the b’ar went slap over, an’ I believe I’m well within the mark when I say that that b’ar turned five complete somersaults before it got to the bottom, where it came to the ground with a whack that would have busted an elephant. I don’t think we found a whole bone in its carcass when the ornithologist helped me to cut it up that night in camp.”

“Well done!” exclaimed little Trevor, with enthusiasm, “an’ what came o’ the orny-what-d’ye-callum?”

“That’s more than I can tell, lad. He went off wi’ the b’ar’s claws to show to his friends, an’ I never saw him again. But look there, boys,” continued the trapper in a suddenly lowered tone of voice, while he threw forward and cocked his rifle, “d’ye see our supper?”

“What? Where?” exclaimed Tolly, in a soft whisper, straining his eyes in the direction indicated.

The sharp crack of the trapper’s rifle immediately followed, and a fine buck lay prone upon the ground.

“’Twas an easy shot,” said Drake, recharging his weapon, “only a man needs a leetle experience before he can fire down a precipice correctly. Come along, boys.”

Chapter Seventeen.

Nothing further worth mentioning occurred to the hunters that day, save that little Tolly Trevor was amazed—we might almost say petrified—by the splendour and precision of the trapper’s shooting, besides which he was deeply impressed with the undercurrent of what we may style grave fun, coupled with calm enthusiasm, which characterised the man, and the utter absence of self-assertion or boastfulness.

But if the remainder of the day was uneventful, the stories round the camp-fire more than compensated him and his friend Leaping Buck. The latter was intimately acquainted with the trapper, and seemed to derive more pleasure from watching the effect of his anecdotes on his new friend than in listening to them himself. Probably this was in part owing to the fact that he had heard them all before more than once.

The spot they had selected for their encampment was the summit of a projecting crag, which was crowned with a little thicket, and surrounded on three sides by sheer precipices. The neck of rock by which it was reached was free from shrubs, besides being split across by a deep chasm of several feet in width, so that it formed a natural fortress, and the marks of old encampments seemed to indicate that it had been used as a camping-place by the red man long before his white brother—too often his white foe—had appeared in that western wilderness to disturb him. The Indians had no special name for the spot, but the roving trappers who first came to it had named it the Outlook, because from its summit a magnificent view of nearly the whole region could be obtained. The great chasm or fissure already mentioned descended sheer down, like the neighbouring precipices, to an immense depth, so that the Outlook, being a species of aerial island, was usually reached by a narrow plank which bridged the chasm. It had stood many a siege in times past, and when used as a fortress, whether by white hunters or savages, the plank bridge was withdrawn, and the place rendered—at least esteemed—impregnable.

When Mahoghany Drake and his young friends came up to the chasm a little before sunset Leaping Buck took a short run and bounded clear over it.

“Ha! I knowed he couldn’t resist the temptation,” said Mahoghany, with a quiet chuckle, “an’ it’s not many boys—no, nor yet men—who could jump that. I wouldn’t try it myself for a noo rifle—no, though ye was to throw in a silver-mounted powder-horn to the bargain.”

“But you have jumped it?” cried the Indian boy, turning round with a gleeful face.

“Ay, lad, long ago, and then I was forced to, when runnin’ for my life. A man’ll do many a deed when so sitooate that he couldn’t do in cold blood. Come, come, young feller,” he added, suddenly laying his heavy hand on little Trevor’s collar and arresting him, “you wasn’t thinkin’ o’ tryin’ it was ye?”

“Indeed I was, and I think I could manage it,” said the foolishly ambitious Tolly.

“Thinkin’ is not enough, boy,” returned the trapper, with a grave shake of the head. “You should always make sure. Suppose you was wrong in your thinkin’, now, who d’ee think would go down there to pick up the bits of ’ee an’ carry them home to your mother.”

“But I haven’t got a mother,” said Tolly.

“Well, your father, then.”

“But I haven’t got a father.”

“So much the more reason,” returned the trapper, in a softened tone, “that you should take care o’ yourself, lest you should turn out to be the last o’ your race. Come, help me to carry this plank. After we’re over I’ll see you jump on safe ground, and if you can clear enough, mayhap I’ll let ’ee try the gap. Have you a steady head?”

“Ay, like a rock,” returned Tolly, with a grin.

“See that you’re sure, lad, for if you ain’t I’ll carry you over.”

In reply to this Tolly ran nimbly over the plank bridge like a tight-rope dancer. Drake followed, and they were all soon busily engaged clearing a space on which to encamp, and collecting firewood.

“Tell me about your adventure at the time you jumped the gap, Mahoghany,” begged little Trevor, when the first volume of smoke arose from their fire and went straight up like a pillar into the calm air.

“Not now, lad. Work first, talk afterwards. That’s my motto.”

“But work is over now—the fire lighted and the kettle on,” objected Tolly.

“Nay, lad, when you come to be an old hunter you’ll look on supper as about the most serious work o’ the day. When that’s over, an’ the pipe a-goin’, an’ maybe a little stick-whittlin’ for variety, a man may let his tongue wag to some extent.”

Our small hero was fain to content himself with this reply, and for the next half-hour or more the trio gave their undivided attention to steaks from the loin of the fat buck and slices from the breast of the wild duck which had fallen to Tolly’s gun. When the pipe-and-stick-whittling period arrived, however, the trapper disposed his bulky length in front of the fire, while his young admirers lay down beside him.

The stick-whittling, it may be remarked, devolved upon the boys, while the smoking was confined to the man.

“I can’t see why it is,” observed Tolly, when the first whiffs curled from Mahoghany Drake’s lips, “that you men are so strong in discouragin’ us boys from smokin’. You keep it all selfishly to yourselves, though Buckie an’ I would give anythin’ to be allowed to try a whiff now an’ then. Paul Bevan’s just like you—won’t hear o’ me touchin’ a pipe, though he smokes himself like a wigwam wi’ a greenwood fire!”

Drake pondered a little before replying.

“It would never do, you know,” he said, at length, “for you boys to do ’zackly as we men does.”

“Why not?” demanded Tolly, developing an early bud of independent thought.

“Why, ’cause it wouldn’t” replied Drake. Then, feeling that his answer was not a very convincing argument he added, “You see, boys ain’t men, no more than men are boys, an’ what’s good for the one ain’t good for the tother.”

“I don’t see that” returned the radical-hearted Tolly. “Isn’t eatin’, an’ drinkin’, an’ sleepin’, an’ walkin’, an’ runnin’, an’ talkin’, an’ thinkin’, an’ huntin’, equally good for boys and men? If all these things is good for us both, why not smokin’?”

“That’s more than I can tell ’ee, lad,” answered the honest trapper, with a somewhat puzzled look.

If Mahoghany Drake had thought the matter out a little more closely he might perhaps have seen that smoking is as good for boys as for men—or, what comes to much the same thing, is equally bad for both of them! But the sturdy trapper liked smoking; hence, like many wiser men, he did not care to think the matter out. On the contrary, he changed the subject, and, as the change was very much for the better in the estimation of his companions, Tolly did not object.

“Well now, about that jump,” he began, emitting a prolonged and delicate whiff.

“Ah, yes! How did you manage to do it?” asked little Trevor, eagerly.

“Oh, for the matter o’ that it’s easy to explain; but it wasn’t my jump I was goin’ to tell about; it was the jump o’ a poor critter—a sort o’ ne’er-do-well who jined a band o’ us trappers the day before we arrived at this place, on our way through the mountains on a huntin’ expedition. He was a miserable specimen o’ human natur’—all the worse that he had a pretty stout body o’ his own, an’ might have made a fairish man if he’d had the spirit even of a cross-grained rabbit. His name was Miffy, an’ it sounded nat’ral to him, for there was no go in him whatever. I often wonder what sitch men was made for. They’re o’ no use to anybody, an’ a nuisance to themselves.”

“P’r’aps they wasn’t made for any use at all,” suggested Tolly, who, having whittled a small piece of stick down to nothing, commenced another piece with renewed interest.

“No, lad,” returned the trapper, with a look of deeper gravity. “Even poor, foolish man does not construct anything without some sort o’ purpose in view. It’s an outrage on common sense to think the Almighty could do so. Mayhap sitch critters was meant to act as warnin’s to other men. He told us that he’d runned away from home when he was a boy ’cause he didn’t like school. Then he engaged as a cabin-boy aboard a ship tradin’ to some place in South America, an’ runned away from his ship the first port they touched at ’cause he didn’t like the sea. Then he came well-nigh to the starvin’ p’int an’ took work on a farm as a labourer, but left that ’cause it was too hard, after which he got a berth as watchman at a warehouse, or some place o’ the sort but left that, for it was too easy. Then he tried gold-diggin’, but could make nothin’ of it; engaged in a fur company, but soon left it; an’ then tried his hand at trappin’ on his own account but gave it up ’cause he could catch nothin’. When he fell in with our band he was redooced to two rabbits an’ a prairie hen, wi’ only three charges o’ powder in his horn, an’ not a drop o’ lead.

“Well, we tuck pity on the miserable critter, an’ let him come along wi’ us. There was ten of us altogether, an’ he made eleven. At first we thought he’d be of some use to us, but we soon found he was fit for nothin’. However, we couldn’t cast him adrift in the wilderness, for he’d have bin sure to come to damage somehow, so we let him go on with us. When we came to this neighbourhood we made up our minds to trap in the valley, and as the Injins were wild at that time, owin’ to some rascally white men who had treated them badly and killed a few, we thought it advisable to pitch our camp on the Outlook here. It was a well-known spot to most o’ my comrades, tho’ I hadn’t seen it myself at that time.

“When we came to the gap, one of the young fellows named Bounce gave a shout, took a run, and went clear over it just as Leapin’ Buck did. He was fond o’ showin’ off, you know! He turned about with a laugh, and asked us to follow. We declined, and felled a small tree to bridge it. Next day we cut the tree down to a plank, as bein’ more handy to shove across in a hurry if need be.

“Well, we had good sport—plenty of b’ar and moose steaks, no end of fresh eggs of all sorts, and enough o’ pelts to make it pay. You see we didn’t know there was gold here in those days, so we didn’t look for it, an’ wouldn’t ha’ knowed it if we’d seen it. But I never myself cared to look for gold. It’s dirty work, grubbin’ among mud and water like a beaver. It’s hard work, too, an’ I’ve obsarved that the men who get most gold at the diggin’s are not the diggers but the storekeepers, an’ a bad lot they are, many of ’em, though I’m bound to say that I’ve knowed a few as was real honest men, who kep’ no false weights or measures, an’ had some sort of respec’ for their Maker.

“However,” continued the trapper, filling a fresh pipe, while Tolly and his little red friend, whittling their sticks less vigorously as the story went on and at length dropping them altogether, kept their bright eyes riveted on Drake’s face. “However, that’s not what I’ve got to tell ’ee about. You must know that one evening, close upon sundown, we was all returnin’ from our traps more or less loaded wi’ skins an’ meat, all except Miffy, who had gone, as he said, a huntin’. Bin truer if he’d said he meant to go around scarin’ the animals. Well, just as we got within a mile o’ this place we was set upon by a band o’ Redskins. There must have bin a hundred of ’em at least. I’ve lived a longish time now in the wilderness, but I never, before or since, heard sitch a yellin’ as the painted critters set up in the woods all around when they came at us, sendin’ a shower o’ arrows in advance to tickle us up; but they was bad shots, for only one took effect, an’ that shaft just grazed the point o’ young Bounce’s nose as neat as if it was only meant to make him sneeze. It made him jump, I tell ’ee, higher than I ever seed him jump before. Of course fightin’ was out o’ the question.

“Ten trappers under cover might hold their own easy enough agin a hundred Redskins, but not in the open. We all knew that, an’ had no need to call a council o’ war. Every man let his pack fall, an’ away we went for the Outlook, followed by the yellin’ critters closer to our heels than we quite liked. But they couldn’t shoot runnin’, so we got to the gap. The plank was there all right. Over we went, faced about, and while one o’ us hauled it over, the rest gave the savages a volley that sent them back faster than they came.

“‘Miffy’s lost!’ obsarved one o’ my comrades as we got in among the bushes here an’ prepared to fight it out.

“‘No great loss,’ remarked another.

“‘No fear o’ Miffy,’ said Bounce, feelin’ his nose tenderly, ‘he’s a bad shillin’, and bad shillin’s always turn up, they say.’

“Bounce had barely finished when we heard another most awesome burst o’ yellin’ in the woods, followed by a deep roar.

“‘That’s Miffy,’ says I, feelin’ quite excited, for I’d got to have a sneakin’ sort o’ pity for the miserable critter. ‘It’s a twin roar to the one he gave that day when he mistook Hairy Sam for a grizzly b’ar, an’ went up a spruce-fir like a squirrel.’ Sure enough, in another moment Miffy burst out o’ the woods an’ came tearin’ across the open space straight for the gap, followed by a dozen or more savages.

“‘Run, Bounce—the plank!’ says I, jumpin’ up. ‘We’ll drive the reptiles back!’

“While I was speakin’ we were all runnin’ full split to meet the poor critter, Bounce far in advance. Whether it was over-haste, or the pain of his nose, I never could make out, but somehow, in tryin’ to shove the plank over, Bounce let it slip. Down it went an’ split to splinters on the rock’s a hundred feet below! Miffy was close up at the time. His cheeks was yaller an’ his eyes starin’ as he came on, but his face turned green and his eyes took to glarin’ when he saw what had happened. I saw a kind o’ hesitation in his look as he came to the unbridged gulf. The savages, thinkin’ no doubt it was all up with him, gave a fiendish yell o’ delight. That yell saved the poor ne’er-do-well. It was as good as a Spanish spur to a wild horse. Over he came with legs an’ arms out like a flyin’ squirrel, and down he fell flat on his stummick at our feet wi’ the nearest thing to a fair bu’st that I ever saw, or raither heard, for I was busy sightin’ a Redskin at the time an’ didn’t actually see it. When the savages saw what he’d done they turned tail an’ scattered back into the woods, so we only gave them a loose volley, for we didn’t want to kill the critters. I just took the bark off the thigh of one to prevent his forgettin’ me. We held the place here for three days, an’ then findin’ they could make nothin’ of us, or havin’ other work on hand, they went away an’ left us in peace.”

“An’ what became o’ poor Miffy?” asked little Trevor, earnestly.

“We took him down with us to a new settlement that had been started in the prairie-land west o’ the Blue Mountains, an’ there he got a sitooation in a store, but I s’pose he didn’t stick to it long. Anyhow that was the last I ever saw of him. Now, boys, it’s time to turn in.”

That night when the moon had gone down and the stars shed a feeble light on the camp of those who slumbered on the Outlook rock, two figures, like darker shades among the surrounding shadows, glided from the woods, and, approaching the edge of the gap, gazed down into the black abyss.

“I told you, redskin, that the plank would be sure to be drawn over,” said one of the figures, in a low but gruff whisper.

“When the tomahawk is red men do not usually sleep unguarded,” replied the other, in the Indian tongue.

“Speak English, Maqua, I don’t know enough o’ your gibberish to make out what you mean. Do you think, now, that the villain Paul Bevan is in the camp?”

“Maqua is not a god, that he should be able to tell what he does not know.”

“No, but he could guess,” retorted Stalker—for it was the robber-chief. “My scouts said they thought it was his figure they saw. However, it matters not. If you are to earn the reward I have offered, you must creep into the camp, put your knife in Bevan’s heart, and bring me his scalp. I would do it myself, redskin, and be indebted to nobody, but I can’t creep as you and your kindred can.”

“I’d be sure to make row enough to start them in time for self-defence. As to the scalp, I don’t want it—only want to make certain that you’ve done the deed. You may keep it to ornament your dress or to boast about to your squaw. If you should take a fancy to do a little murder on your own account do so. It matters nothin’ to me. I’ll be ready to back you up if they give chase.”

While the robber-chief was speaking he searched about for a suitable piece of wood to span the chasm. He soon found what he wanted, for there was much felled timber lying about the work of previous visitors to the Outlook.

In a few minutes Maqua had crossed, and glided in a stealthy, stooping position towards the camp, seeming more like a moving shadow than a real man. When pretty close he went down on hands and knees and crept forward, with his scalping-knife between his teeth.

It would have been an interesting study to watch the savage, had his object been a good one—the patience; the slow, gliding movements; the careful avoidance of growing branches, and the gentle removal of dead ones from his path, for well did Maqua know that a snapping twig would betray him if the camp contained any of the Indian warriors of the Far West.

At last he drew so near that by stretching his neck he could see over the intervening shrubs and observe the sleepers. Just then Drake chanced to waken. Perhaps it was a presentiment of danger that roused him, for the Indian had, up to that moment, made not the slightest sound. Sitting up and rubbing his eyes, the trapper looked cautiously round; then he lay down and turned over on his other side to continue his slumbers.

Like the tree-stems around him, Maqua remained absolutely motionless until he thought the trapper was again sleeping. Then he retired, as he had come, to his anxiously-awaiting comrade.

“Bevan not there,” he said briefly, when they had retired to a safe distance; “only Mahoghany Drake an’ two boy.”

“Well, why didn’t ye scalp them!” asked Stalker, savagely, for he was greatly disappointed to find that his enemy was not in the camp. “You said that all white men were your enemies.”

“No, not all,” replied the savage. “Drake have the blood of white mans, but the heart of red mans. He have be good to Injins.”

“Well, well; it makes no odds to me,” returned Stalker, “Come along, an’ walk before me, for I won’t trust ye behind. As for slippery Paul, I’ll find him yet; you shall see. When a man fails in one attempt, all he’s got to do is to make another. Now then, redskin, move on!”

Chapter Eighteen.

As widely different as night is from day, summer from winter, heat from cold, are some members of the human family; yet God made them all, and has a purpose of love and mercy towards each! Common sense says this; the general opinion of mankind holds this; highest of all, the Word clearly states this: “God willeth not the death of a sinner, but rather that he should turn from his wickedness and live;” and, “He maketh His sun to shine upon the just and on the unjust.” Nevertheless, it seemed difficult to believe that the same God formed and spared and guarded and fed the fierce, lawless man Stalker, and the loving, gentle delicate Rose of Oregon.

About the same hour that the former was endeavouring to compass the destruction of Paul Bevan, Betty was on her knees in her little tented room, recalling the deeds, the omissions, and the shortcomings of the past day, interceding alike for friends and foes—if we may venture to assume that a rose without a thorn could have foes! Even the robber-chief was remembered among the rest, and you may be very sure that Tom Brixton was not forgotten.

Having slept the sleep of innocence and purity, Betty rose refreshed on the following day, and, before the Indian village was astir, went out to ramble along a favourite walk in a thicket on the mountain-side. It so fell out that Tom had selected the same thicket for his morning ramble. But poor Tom did not look like one who hoped to meet with his lady-love that morning. He had, under good nursing, recovered some of his former strength and vigour of body with wonderful rapidity, but his face was still haggard and careworn in an unusual degree for one so young. When the two met Tom did not pretend to be surprised. On the contrary, he said:—

“I expected to meet you here, Betty, because I have perceived that you are fond of the place, and, believe me, I would not have presumed to intrude, were it not that I wish to ask one or two questions, the answers to which may affect my future movements.”

He paused, and Betty’s heart fluttered, for she could not help remembering former meetings when Tom had tried to win her affections, and when she had felt it her duty to discourage him. She made no reply to this rather serious beginning to the interview, but dropped her eyes on the turf, for she saw that the youth was gazing at her with a very mingled and peculiar expression.

“Tell me,” he resumed, after a few moments’ thought, “do you feel quite safe with these Indians?”

“Quite,” replied the girl with a slight elevation of the eyebrows; “they are unusually gentle and good-natured people. Besides, their chief would lay down his life for my father—he is so grateful. Oh yes, I feel perfectly safe here.”

“But what does your father think. He is always so fearless—I might say reckless—that I don’t feel certain as to his real opinion. Have you heard him speaking about the chance of that rascal Stalker following him up?”

“Yes; he has spoken freely about that. He fully expects that Stalker will search for us, but considers that he will not dare to attack us while we live with so strong a band of Indians, and, as Stalker’s followers won’t hang about here very long for the mere purpose of pleasing their chief, especially when nothing is to be gained by it, father thinks that his enemy will be forced to go away. Besides, he has made up his mind to remain here for a long time—many months, it may be.”

“That will do,” returned Tom, with a sigh of relief; “then there will be no need for me to—”

“To what?” asked Betty, seeing that the youth paused.

“Forgive me if I do not say what I meant to. I have reasons for—” (he paused again)—“Then you are pleased with the way the people treat you?”

“Of course I am. They could not be kinder if I were one of themselves. And some of the women are so intelligent, too! You know I have picked up a good deal of the Indian language, and understand them pretty well, though I can’t speak much, and you’ve no idea what deep thinkers some of them are! There is Unaco’s mother, who looks so old and dried up and stupid—she is one of the dearest old things I ever knew. Why,” continued the girl, with increasing animation, as she warmed with her subject, “that old creature led me, the other night, into quite an earnest conversation about religion, and asked me ever so many questions about the ways of God with man—speculative, difficult questions too, that almost puzzled me to answer. You may be sure I took the opportunity to explain to her God’s great love to man in and through Jesus, and—”

She stopped abruptly, for Tom Brixton was at that moment regarding her with a steady and earnest gaze.

“Yes,” he said, slowly, almost dreamily, “I can well believe you took your opportunity to commend Jesus to her. You did so once to me, and—”

Tom checked himself, as if with a great effort. The girl longed to hear more, but he did not finish the sentence. “Well,” he said, with a forced air of gaiety, “I have sought you here to tell you that I am going off on—on—a long hunting expedition. Going at once—but I would not leave without bidding you good-bye.”

“Going away, Mr Brixton!” exclaimed Betty, in genuine surprise.

“Yes. As you see, I am ready for the field, with rifle and wallet, firebag and blanket.”

“But you are not yet strong enough,” said Betty.

“Oh! yes, I am—stronger than I look. Besides, that will mend every day. I don’t intend to say goodbye to Westly or any one, because I hate to have people try to dissuade me from a thing when my mind is made up. I only came to say good-bye to you, because I wish you to tell Fred and your father that I am grateful for all their kindness to me, and that it will be useless to follow me. Perhaps we may meet again, Betty,” he added, still in the forced tone of lightness, while he gently took the girl’s hand in his and shook it; “but the dangers of the wilderness are numerous, and, as you have once or twice told me, we ‘know not what a day or an hour may bring forth.’” (His tone had deepened suddenly to that of intense earnestness)—“God bless you, Betty; farewell.”

He dropped her hand, turned sharply on his heel, and walked swiftly away, never once casting a look behind.

Poor Tom! It was a severe wrench, but he had fought the battle manfully and gained the victory. In his new-born sense of personal unworthiness and strict Justice, he had come to the conclusion that he had forfeited the right to offer heart or hand to the Rose of Oregon. Whether he was right or wrong in his opinion we do not pretend to judge, but this does not alter the fact that a hard battle with self had been fought by him, and a great victory won.

But Tom neither felt nor looked very much like a conqueror. His heart seemed to be made of lead, and the strength of which he had so recently boasted seemed to have deserted him altogether after he had walked a few miles, insomuch that he was obliged to sit down on a bank to rest. Fear lest Fred or Paul should follow up his trail, however, infused new strength into his limbs, and he rose and pushed steadily on, for he was deeply impressed with the duty that lay upon him—namely, to get quickly, and as far as possible, away from the girl whom he could no longer hope to wed.

Thus, advancing at times with great animation, sitting down occasionally for short rests, and then resuming the march with renewed vigour, he travelled over the mountains without any definite end in view, beyond that to which we have already referred.

For some time after he was gone Betty stood gazing at the place in the thicket where he had disappeared, as if she half expected to see him return; then, heaving a deep sigh, and with a mingled expression of surprise, disappointment, and anxiety on her fair face, she hurried away to search for her father.

She found him returning to their tent with a load of firewood, and at once told him what had occurred.

“He’ll soon come back, Betty,” said Paul, with a significant smile. “When a young feller is fond of a lass, he’s as sure to return to her as water is sure to find its way as fast as it can to the bottom of a hill.”

Fred Westly thought the same, when Paul afterwards told him about the meeting, though he did not feel quite so sure about the return being immediate; but Mahoghany Drake differed from them entirely.

“Depend on’t,” he said to his friend Paul, when, in the privacy of a retired spot on the mountain-side, they discussed the matter—“depend on’t, that young feller ain’t made o’ butter. What he says he will do he’ll stick to, if I’m any judge o’ human natur. Of course it ain’t for me to guess why he should fling off in this fashion. Are ye sure he’s fond o’ your lass?”

“Sure? Ay, as sure as I am that yon is the sun an’ not the moon a-shinin’ in the sky.”

“H’m! that’s strange. An’ they’ve had no quarrel?”

“None that I knows on. Moreover, they ain’t bin used to quarrel. Betty’s not one o’ that sort—dear lass. She’s always fair an’ above board; honest an’ straight for’ard. Says ’zactly what she means, an’ means what she says. Mister Tom ain’t given to shilly-shallyin’, neither. No, I’m sure they’ve had no quarrel.”

“Well, it’s the old story,” said Drake, while a puzzled look flitted across his weather-beaten countenance, and the smoke issued more slowly from his unflagging pipe, “the conduct o’ lovers is not to be accounted for. Howsever, there’s one thing I’m quite sure of—that he must be looked after.”

“D’ye think so?” said Paul. “I’d have thought he was quite able to look arter himself.”

“Not just now,” returned the trapper; “he’s not yet got the better of his touch o’ starvation, an’ there’s a chance o’ your friend Stalker, or Buxley, which d’ye call him?”

“Whichever you like; he answers to either, or neither, as the case may be. He’s best known as Stalker in these parts, though Buxley is his real name.”

“Well, then,” resumed Drake, “there’s strong likelihood o’ him prowlin’ about here, and comin’ across the tracks o’ young Brixton; so, as I said before, he must be looked after, and I’ll take upon myself to do it.”

“Well, I’ll jine ye,” said Paul, “for of course ye’ll have to make up a party.”

“Not at all,” returned the trapper, with decision. “I’ll do it best alone; leastwise I’ll take only little Tolly Trevor an’ Leapin’ Buck with me, for they’re both smart an’ safe lads, and are burnin’ keen to learn somethin’ o’ woodcraft.”

In accordance with this determination, Mahoghany Drake, Leaping Buck, and little Trevor set off next day and followed Tom Brixton’s trail into the mountains. It was a broad trail and very perceptible, at least to an Indian or a trapper, for Tom had a natural swagger, which he could not shake off, even in the hour of his humiliation, and, besides, he had never been an adept at treading the western wilderness with the care which the red man finds needful in order to escape from, or baffle, his foes.

“’Tis as well marked, a’most” said Drake, pausing to survey the trail, “as if he’d bin draggin’ a toboggan behind him.”

“Yet a settlement man wouldn’t see much of it,” remarked little Trevor; “eh! Buckie?”

The Indian boy nodded gravely. He emulated his father in this respect, and would have been ashamed to have given way to childish levity on what he was pleased to consider the war-path, but he had enough of the humorous in his nature to render the struggle to keep grave in Tolly’s presence a pretty severe one. Not that Tolly aimed at being either witty or funny, but he had a peculiarly droll expression of face, which added much point to whatever he said.

“Ho!” exclaimed the trapper, after they had gone a little farther; “here’s a trail that even a settlement man could hardly fail to see. There’s bin fifty men or more. D’ye see it Tolly?”

“See it? I should think so. D’you suppose I carry my eyes in my pocket?”

“Come now, lad,” said Drake, turning to Leaping Buck, “you want to walk in your father’s tracks, no doubt. Read me this trail if ye can.”

The boy stepped forward with an air of dignity that Drake regarded as sublime and Tolly thought ludicrous, but the latter was too fond of his red friend to allow his feelings to betray themselves.

“As the white trapper has truly said,” he began, “fifty men or more have passed this way. They are most of them white men, but three or four are Indians.”

“Good!” said Drake, with an approving nod; “I thought ye’d notice that. Well, go on.”

“They were making straight for my father’s camp,” continued the lad, bending a stern look on the trail, “but they turned sharp round, like the swallow, on coming to the trail of the white man Brixton, and followed it.”

“How d’ye know that, lad?” asked the trapper.

“Because I see it” returned the boy, promptly, pointing at the same time to a spot on the hill-side considerably above them, where the conformation of the land at a certain spot revealed enough of the trail of the “fifty men or more,” to show the change of direction.

“Good again, lad. A worthy son of your father. I didn’t give ’e credit for sharpness enough to perceive that. Can you read anything more?”

“One man was a horseman, but he left his horse behind on getting to the rough places of the hills and walked with the rest. He is Paul Bevan’s enemy.”

“And how d’ye know all that?” said Drake, regarding the little fellow with a look of pride.

“By the footprints,” returned Leaping Buck. “He wears boots and spurs.”

“Just so,” returned the trapper, “and we’ve bin told by Paul that Stalker was the only man of his band who wouldn’t fall in wi’ the ways o’ the country, but sticks to the clumsy Jack-boots and spurs of old England. Yes, the scoundrel has followed you up, Tolly, as Paul Bevan said he would, and, havin’ come across Brixton’s track, has gone after him, from all which I now come to the conclusion that your friend Mister Tom is a prisoner, an’ stands in need of our sarvices. What say you, Tolly?”

“Go at ’em at once,” replied the warlike Trevor, “an’ set him free.”

“What! us three attack fifty men?”

“Why not?” responded Tolly, “We’re more than a match for ’em. Paul Bevan has told me oftentimes that honest men are, as a rule, ten times more plucky than dishonest ones. Well, you are one honest man, that’s equal to ten; an’ Buckie and I are two honest boys, equal, say, to five each, that’s ten more, making twenty among three of us. Three times twenty’s sixty, isn’t it? so, surely that’s more than enough to fight fifty.”

“Ah, boy,” answered the trapper, with a slightly puzzled expression, “I never could make nothin’ o’ ’rithmetic, though my mother put me to school one winter with a sort o’ half-mad parson that came to the head waters o’ the Yellowstone river, an’ took to teachin’—dear me, how long ago was it now? Well, I forget, but somehow you seem to add up the figgurs raither faster than I was made to do. Howsever, we’ll go an’ see what’s to be done for Tom Brixton.”

The trapper, who had been leaning on his gun, looking down at his bold little comrades during the foregoing conversation, once more took the lead, and, closely following the trail of the robber-band, continued the ascent of the mountains.

The Indian village was by that time far out of sight behind them, and the scenery in the midst of which they were travelling was marked by more than the average grandeur and ruggedness of the surrounding region.

On their right arose frowning precipices which were fringed and crowned with forests of pine, intermingled with poplar, birch, maple, and other trees. On their left a series of smaller precipices, or terraces, descended to successive levels, like giant steps, till they reached the bottom of the valley up which our adventurers were moving, where a brawling river appeared in the distance like a silver thread. The view both behind and in advance was extremely wild, embracing almost every variety of hill scenery, and in each case was shut in by snow-capped mountains. These, however, were so distant and so soft in texture as to give the impression of clouds rather than solid earth.

Standing on one of the many jutting crags from which could be had a wide view of the vale lying a thousand feet below, Tolly Trevor threw up his arms and waved them to and fro as if in an ecstasy, exclaiming— “Oh, if I had only wings, what a swoop I’d make—down there!”

“Ah, boy, you ain’t the first that’s wished for wings in the like circumstances. But we’ve bin denied these advantages. P’r’aps we’d have made a bad use of ’em. Sartinly we’ve made a bad use o’ sich powers as we do possess. Just think, now, if men could go about through the air as easy as the crows, what a row they’d kick up all over the ’arth! As it is, when we want to fight we’ve got to crawl slowly from place to place, an’ make roads for our wagins, an’ big guns, an’ supplies, to go along with us; but if we’d got wings—why, the first fire eatin’ great man that could lead his fellows by the nose would only have to give the word, when up would start a whole army o’ men, like some thousand Jack-in-the-boxes, an’ away they’d go to some place they’d took a fancy to, an’ down they’d come, all of a heap, quite onexpected—take their enemy by surprise, sweep him off the face o’ the ’arth, and enter into possession.”

“Well, it would be a blue lookout,” remarked Tolly, “if that was to be the way of it. There wouldn’t be many men left in the world before long.”

“That’s true, lad, an’ sitch as was left would be the worst o’ the race. No, on the whole I think we’re better without wings.”

While he was talking to little Trevor, the trapper had been watching the countenance of the Indian boy with unusual interest. At last he turned to him and asked—

“Has Leaping Buck nothin’ to say?”

“When the white trapper speaks, the Indian’s tongue should be silent,” replied the youth.

“A good sentiment and does you credit, lad. But I am silent now. Has Leaping Buck no remark to make on what he sees?”

“He sees the smoke of the robber’s camp far up the heights,” replied the boy, pointing as he spoke.

“Clever lad!” exclaimed the trapper, “I know’d he was his father’s son.”

“Where? I can see nothing,” cried Tolly, who understood the Indian tongue sufficiently to make out the drift of the conversation.

“Of course ye can’t; the smoke is too far off an’ too thin for eyes not well practised in the signs o’ the wilderness. But come; we shall go and pay the robbers a visit; mayhap disturb their rest a little—who knows!”

With a quiet laugh, Mahoghany Drake withdrew from the rocky ledge, and, followed by his eager satellites, continued to wend his way up the rugged mountain-sides, taking care, however, that he did not again expose himself to view, for well did he know that sharp eyes and ears would be on the qui vive that night.

Chapter Nineteen.

When Tom Brixton sternly set his face like a flint to what he believed to be his duty, he wandered, as we have said, into the mountains, with a heavy heart and without any definite intentions as to what he intended to do.

If his thoughts had taken the form of words they would probably have run somewhat as follows:—

“Farewell for ever, sweet Rose of Oregon! Dear Betty! You have been the means, in God’s hand, of saving at least one soul from death, and it would be requiting you ill indeed were I to persuade you to unite yourself to a man whose name is disgraced even among rough men, whose estimate of character is not very high. No! henceforth our lives diverge wider and wider apart. May God bless you and give you a good hus— give you happiness in His own way! And now I have the world before me where to choose. It is a wide world, and there is much work to be done. Surely I shall be led in the right way to fill the niche which has been set apart for me. I wonder what it is to be! Am I to hunt for gold, or to become a fur-trader, or go down to the plains and turn cattle-dealer, or to the coast and become a sailor, or try farming? One thing is certain, I must not be an idler; must not join the ranks of those who merely hunt that they may eat and sleep, and who eat and sleep that they may hunt. I have a work to do for Him who bought me with His precious blood, and my first step must be to commit my way to Him.”

Tom Brixton took that step at once. He knelt down on a mossy bank, and there, with the glorious prospect of the beautiful wilderness before him, and the setting sun irradiating his still haggard countenance, held communion with God.

That night he made his lonely bivouac under a spreading pine, and that night while he was enjoying a profound and health-giving slumber, the robber-chief stepped into his encampment and laid his hand roughly on his shoulder.

In his days of high health Tom would certainly have leaped up and given Stalker a considerable amount of trouble, but starvation and weakness, coupled with self-condemnation and sorrow, had subdued his nerves and abated his energies, so that, when he opened his eyes and found himself surrounded by as disagreeable a set of cut-throats as could well be brought together, he at once resigned himself to his fate, and said, without rising, and with one of his half-humorous smiles—

“Well, Mister Botanist, sorry I can’t say it gives me pleasure to see you. I wonder you’re not ashamed to return to the country of the great chief Unaco after running away from him as you did.”

“I’m in no humour for joking,” answered Stalker, gruffly. “What has become of your friend Paul Bevan?”

“I’m not aware that anything particular has become of him,” replied Tom, sitting up with a look of affected surprise.

“Come, you know what I mean. Where is he?”

“When I last saw him he was in Oregon. Whether he has now gone to Europe or the moon or the sun I cannot tell, but I should think it unlikely.”

“If you don’t give me a direct and civil answer I’ll roast you alive, you young puppy!” growled Stalker.

“If you roast me dead instead of alive you’ll get no answer from me but such as I choose to give, you middle-aged villain!” retorted Tom, with a glare of his eyes which quite equalled that of the robber-chief in ferocity, for Tom’s nature was what we may style volcanic, and he found it hard to restrain himself when roused to a certain point, so that he was prone to speak unadvisedly with his lips.

A half-smothered laugh from some of the band who did not care much for their chief, rendered Stalker furious.

He sprang forward with a savage oath, drew the small hatchet which he carried in his belt, and would certainly then and there have brained the rash youth with it, if his hand had not been unexpectedly arrested. The gleaming weapon was yet in the air when the loud report of a rifle close at hand burst from the bushes with a sheet of flame and smoke, and the robber’s right arm fell powerless at his side, hit between the elbow and shoulder.

It was the rifle of Mahoghany Drake that had spoken so opportunely.

That stalwart backwoodsman had, as we have seen, followed up the trail of the robbers, and, with Tolly Trevor and his friend Leaping Buck, had lain for a considerable time safely ensconced in a moss-covered crevice of the cliff that overlooked the camping-place. There, quietly observing the robbers, and almost enjoying the little scene between Tom and the chief, they remained inactive until Stalker’s hatchet gleamed in the air. The boys were almost petrified by the suddenness of the act.

Not so the trapper, who with rapid aim saved Tom’s life, as we have seen.

Dropping his rifle, he seized the boys by the neck and thrust their faces down on the moss: not a moment too soon, for a withering volley was instantly sent by the bandits in the direction whence the shots had come. It passed harmlessly over their heads.

“Now, home like two arrows, and rouse your father, Leaping Buck,” whispered the trapper, “and keep well out o’ sight.”

Next moment, picking up his empty rifle, he stalked from the fringe of bushes that partially screened the cliff, and gave himself up.

“Ha! I know you—Mahoghany Drake! Is it not so?” cried Stalker, savagely. “Seize him, men. You shall swing for this, you rascal.”

Two or three of the robbers advanced, but Drake quietly held up his hand, and they stopped.

“I’m in your power, you see,” he said, laying his rifle on the ground. “Yes,” he continued, drawing his tall figure up to its full height and crossing his arms on his breast, “my name is Drake. As to Mahoghany, I’ve no objection to it though it ain’t complimentary. If, as you say, Mister Stalker, I’m to swing for this, of course I must swing. Yet it do seem raither hard that a man should swing for savin’ his friend’s life an’ his enemy’s at the same time.”

“How—what do you mean?”

“I mean that Mister Brixton is my friend,” answered the trapper, “and I’ve saved his life just now, for which I thank the Lord. At the same time, Stalker is my enemy—leastwise I fear he’s no friend—an’ didn’t I save his life too when I put a ball in his arm, that I could have as easily put into his head or his heart?”

“Well,” responded Stalker, with a fiendish grin, that the increasing pain of his wound did not improve, “at all events you have not saved your own life, Drake. As I said, you shall swing for it. But I’ll give you one chance. If you choose to help me I will spare your life. Can you tell me where Paul Bevan and his daughter are?”

“They are with Unaco and his tribe.”

“I could have guessed as much as that. I ask you where they are!”

“On the other side of yonder mountain range, where the chief’s village lies.”

Somewhat surprised at the trapper’s readiness to give the information required, and rendered a little suspicious, Stalker asked if he was ready and willing to guide him to the Indian village.

“Surely. If that’s the price I’m to pay for my life, it can be easily paid,” replied the trapper.

“Ay, but you shall march with your arms bound until we are there, and the fight wi’ the redskins is over,” said the robber-chief, “and if I find treachery in your acts or looks I’ll blow your brains out on the spot. My left hand, you shall find, can work as well as the right wi’ the revolver.”

“A beggar, they say, must not be a chooser,” returned the trapper. “I accept your terms.”

“Good. Here, Goff,” said Stalker, turning to his lieutenant, “bind his hands behind him after he’s had some supper, and then come an’ fix up this arm o’ mine. I think the bone has escaped.”

“Hadn’t we better start off at once,” suggested Drake, “an’ catch the redskins when they’re asleep?”

“Is it far off?” asked Stalker.

“A goodish bit. But the night is young. We might git pretty near by midnight, and then encamp so as to git an hour’s sleep before makin’ the attack. You see, redskins sleep soundest just before daybreak.”

While he was speaking the trapper coughed a good deal, and sneezed once or twice, as if he had a bad cold.

“Can’t you keep your throat and nose quieter?” said the chief, sternly.

“Well, p’r’aps I might,” replied Drake, emitting a highly suppressed cough at the moment, “but I’ve got a queer throat just now. The least thing affects it.”

After consultation with the principal men of his band, Stalker determined to act on Drake’s advice, and in a few minutes the trapper was guiding them over the hills in a state of supreme satisfaction, despite his bonds, for had he not obtained the power to make the robbers encamp on a spot which the Indians could not avoid passing on their way to the rescue, and had he not established a sort of right to emit sounds which would make his friends aware of his exact position, and thus bring both parties into collision before daybreak, which could not have been the case if the robbers had remained in the encampment where he found them?

Turn we now to Leaping Buck and Tolly Trevor. Need it be said that these intelligent lads did not, as the saying is, allow grass to grow under their feet? The former went over the hills at a pace and in a manner that fully justified his title; and the latter followed with as much vigour and resolution, if not as much agility, as his friend.

In a wonderfully short space of time, considering the distance, they burst upon the Indian village, and aroused it with the startling news.

Warfare in those regions was not the cumbrous and slow affair that it is in civilised places. There was no commissariat, no ammunition wagons, no baggage, no camp-followers to hamper the line of march. In five or ten minutes after the alarm was given about two hundred Indian braves marched out from the camp in a column which may be described as one-deep—i.e. one following the other—and took their rapid way up the mountain sides, led by Unaco in person. Next to him marched Paul Bevan, who was followed in succession by Fred Westly, Paddy Flinders, Leaping Buck, and Tolly.

For some time the long line could be seen by the Rose of Oregon passing swiftly up the mountain-side. Then, as distance united the individuals, as it were, to each other, it assumed the form of a mighty snake crawling slowly along. By degrees it crawled over the nearest ridge and disappeared, after which Betty went to discuss the situation with Unaco’s old mother.

It was near midnight when the robber-band encamped in a wooded hollow which was backed on two sides by precipices and on the third by a deep ravine.

“A good spot to set a host at defiance,” remarked Stalker, glancing round with a look that would have expressed satisfaction if the wounded arm had allowed.

“Yes,” added the trapper, “and—” A violent fit of coughing prevented the completion of the sentence, which, however, when thought out in Drake’s mind ran—“a good spot for hemming you and your scoundrels in, and starving you into submission!”

A short time sufficed for a bite of cold supper and a little whiff, soon after which the robber camp, with the exception of the sentinels, was buried in repose.

Tom Brixton was not allowed to have any intercourse whatever with his friend Drake. Both were bound and made to sleep in different parts of the camp. Nevertheless, during one brief moment, when they chanced to be near each other, Drake whispered, “Be ready!” and Tom heard him.

Ere long no sound was heard in the camp save an occasional snore or sigh, and Drake’s constant and hacking, but highly suppressed, cough. Poor fellow! He was obviously consumptive, and it was quite touching to note the careful way in which he tried to restrain himself, giving vent to as little sound as was consistent with his purpose.

Turning a corner of jutting rock in the valley which led to the spot, Unaco’s sharp and practised ear caught the sound. He stopped and stood like a bronze statue by Michael Angelo in the attitude of suddenly arrested motion. Upwards of two hundred bronze arrested statues instantly tailed away from him.

Presently a smile, such as Michael Angelo probably never thought of reproducing, rippled on the usually grave visage of the chief.

“M’ogany Drake!” he whispered, softly, in Paul Bevan’s ear.

“I didn’t know Drake had sitch a horrid cold,” whispered Bevan, in reply.

Tolly Trevor clenched his teeth and screwed himself up internally to keep down the laughter that all but burst him, for he saw through the device at once. As for Leaping Buck, he did more than credit to his sire, because he kept as grave as Michael Angelo himself could have desired while chiselling his features.

“Musha! but that is a quare sound,” whispered Flinders to Westly.

“Hush!” returned Westly.

At a signal from their chief the whole band of Indians sank, as it seemed, into the ground, melted off the face of the earth, and only the white men and the chief remained.

“I must go forward alone,” whispered Unaco, turning to Paul. “White man knows not how to go on his belly like the serpent.”

“Mahoghany Drake would be inclined to dispute that p’int with ’ee,” returned Bevan. “However, you know best, so we’ll wait till you give us the signal to advance.”

Having directed his white friends to lie down, Unaco divested himself of all superfluous clothing, and glided swiftly but noiselessly towards the robber camp, with nothing but a tomahawk in his hand and a scalping-knife in his girdle. He soon reached the open side of the wooded hollow, guided thereto by Drake’s persistent and evidently distressing cough. Here it became necessary to advance with the utmost caution. Fortunately for the success of his enterprise, all the sentinels that night had been chosen from among the white men. The consequence was that although they were wide awake and on the qui vive, their unpractised senses failed to detect the very slight sounds that Unaco made while gliding slowly—inch by inch, and with many an anxious pause—into the very midst of his foes. It was a trying situation, for instant death would have been the result of discovery.

As if to make matters more difficult for him just then, Drake’s hacking cough ceased, and the Indian could not make out where he lay. Either his malady was departing or he had fallen into a temporary slumber! That the latter was the case became apparent from his suddenly recommencing the cough. This, however, had the effect of exasperating one of the sentinels.

“Can’t you stop that noise?” he muttered, sternly.

“I’m doin’ my best to smother it,” said Drake in a conciliatory tone.

Apparently he had succeeded, for he coughed no more after that. But the fact was that a hand had been gently laid upon his arm.

“So soon!” he thought. “Well done, boys!” But he said never a word, while a pair of lips touched his ear and said, in the Indian tongue—

“Where lies your friend?”

Drake sighed sleepily, and gave a short and intensely subdued cough, as he turned his lips to a brown ear which seemed to rise out of the grass for the purpose, and spoke something that was inaudible to all save that ear. Instantly hand, lips, and ear withdrew, leaving the trapper in apparently deep repose. A sharp knife, however, had touched his bonds, and he knew that he was free.

A few minutes later, and the same hand touched Tom Brixton’s arm. He would probably have betrayed himself by an exclamation, but remembering Drake’s “Be ready,” he lay perfectly still while the hands, knife, and lips did their work. The latter merely said, in broken English, “Rise when me rise, an’ run!”

Next instant Unaco leaped to his feet and, with a terrific yell of defiance, bounded into the bushes. Tom Brixton followed him like an arrow, and so prompt was Mahoghany Drake to act that he and Tom came into violent collision as they cleared the circle of light thrown by the few sinking embers of the camp-fires. No damage, however, was done. At the same moment the band of Indians in ambush sprang up with their terrible war whoop, and rushed towards the camp. This effectually checked the pursuit which had been instantly begun by the surprised bandits, who at once retired to the shelter of the mingled rocks and shrubs in the centre of the hollow, from out of which position they fired several tremendous volleys.

“That’s right—waste yer ammunition,” said Paul Bevan, with a short laugh, as he and the rest lay quickly down to let the leaden shower pass over.

“It’s always the way wi’ men taken by surprise,” said Drake, who, with Brixton and the chief, had stopped in their flight and turned with their friends. “They blaze away wildly for a bit, just to relieve their feelin’s, I s’pose. But they’ll soon stop.”

“An’ what’ll we do now?” inquired Flinders, “for it seems to me we’ve got all we want out o’ them, an’ it’s no use fightin’ them for mere fun—though it’s mesilf that used to like fightin’ for that same; but I think the air of Oregon has made me more peaceful inclined.”

“But the country has been kept for a long time in constant alarm and turmoil by these men,” said Fred Westly, “and, although I like fighting as little as any man, I cannot help thinking that we owe it as a duty to society to capture as many of them as we can, especially now that we seem to have caught them in a sort of trap.”

“What says Mahoghany Drake on the subject!” asked Unaco.

“I vote for fightin’, ’cause there’ll be no peace in the country till the band is broken up.”

“Might it not be better to hold them prisoners here?” suggested Paul Bevan. “They can’t escape, you tell me, except by this side, and there’s nothin’ so good for tamin’ men as hunger.”

“Ah!” said Tom Brixton, “you speak the truth, Bevan; I have tried it.”

“But what does Unaco himself think?” asked Westly.

“We must fight ’em at once, an’ root them out neck and crop!”

These words were spoken, not by the Indian, but by a deep bass voice which sent a thrill of surprise, not unmingled with alarm, to more hearts than one; and no wonder, for it was the voice of Gashford, the big bully of Pine Tree Diggings!

Chapter Twenty.

To account for the sudden appearance of Gashford, as told in our last chapter, it is necessary to explain that two marauding Indians chanced to pay Pine Tree Diggings a visit one night, almost immediately after the unsuccessful attack made by Stalker and his men. The savages were more successful than the white robbers had been. They managed to carry off a considerable quantity of gold without being discovered, and Gashford, erroneously attributing their depredations to a second visit from Stalker, was so enraged that he resolved to pursue and utterly root out the robber-band. Volunteers were not wanting. Fifty stout young fellows offered their services, and, at the head of these, Gashford set out for the Sawback Mountains, which were known to be the retreat of the bandits. An Indian, who knew the region well, and had once been ill-treated by Stalker, became a willing guide.

He led the gold-diggers to the robbers’ retreat, and there, learning from a brother savage that the robber-chief and his men had gone off to hunt up Paul Bevan in the region that belonged to Unaco, he led his party by a short cut over the mountains, and chanced to come on the scene of action at the critical moment, when Unaco and his party were about to attack the robbers. Ignorant of who the parties were that contended, yet feeling pretty sure that the men he sought for probably formed one of them, he formed the somewhat hazardous determination, personally and alone, to join the rush of the assailants, under cover of the darkness; telling his lieutenant, Crossby, to await his return, or to bring on his men at the run if they should hear his well-known signal.

On joining the attacking party without having been observed—or, rather, having been taken for one of the band in the uncertain light—he recognised Westly’s and Flinders’s voices at once, and thus it was that he suddenly gave his unasked advice on the subject then under discussion.

But Stalker’s bold spirit settled the question for them in an unexpected manner. Perceiving at once that he had been led into a trap, he felt that his only chance lay in decisive and rapid action.

“Men,” he said to those who crowded round him in the centre of the thicket which formed their encampment, “we’ve bin caught. Our only chance lies in a bold rush and then scatter. Are you ready?”

“Ready!” responded nearly every man. Those who might have been unwilling were silent, for they knew that objection would be useless. “Come on, then, an’ give them a screech when ye burst out!”

Like an avalanche of demons the robber band rushed down the slope and crashed into their foes, and a yell that might well have been born of the regions below rang from cliff to cliff, but the Indians were not daunted. Taken by surprise, however, many of them were overturned in the rush, when high above the din arose the bass roar of Gashford.

Crossby heard the signal and led his men down to the scene of battle at a rapid run. But the robbers were too quick for them; most of them were already scattering far and wide through the wilderness. Only one group had been checked, and, strange to say, that was the party that happened to cluster round and rush with their chief.

But the reason was clear enough, for that section of the foe had been met by Mahoghany Drake, Bevan, Westly, Brixton, Flinders, and the rest, while Gashford at last met his match, in the person of the gigantic Stalker. But they did not meet on equal terms, for the robber’s wounded arm was almost useless. Still, with the other arm he fired a shot at the huge digger, missed, and, flinging the weapon at his head, grappled with him. There was a low precipice or rocky ledge, about fifteen feet high, close to them. Over this the two giants went after a brief but furious struggle, and here, after the short fight was over, they were found, grasping each other by their throats, and in a state of insensibility.

Only two other prisoners were taken besides Stalker—one by Bevan, the other by Flinders. But these were known by Drake to be poor wretches who had only joined the band a few weeks before, and as they protested that they had been captured and forced to join, they were set free.

“You see, it’s of no manner o’ use hangin’ the wretched critters,” observed Drake to Bevan, confidentially, when they were returning to the Indian village the following morning. “It would do them no good. All that we wanted was to break up the band and captur’ the chief, which bein’ done, it would be a shame to shed blood uselessly.”

“But we must hang Stalker,” said little Tolly, who had taken part in the attack, and whose sense of justice, it seems, would have been violated if the leader of the band had been spared.

“I’m inclined to think he won’t want hangin’, Tolly,” replied Drake, gravely. “That tumble didn’t improve his wounded arm, for Gashford fell atop of him.”

The trapper’s fear was justified. When Stalker was carried into the Indian village and examined by Fred Westly, it was found that, besides other injuries, two of his ribs had been broken, and he was already in high fever.

Betty Bevan, whose sympathy with all sufferers was strong, volunteered to nurse him, and, as she was unquestionably the best nurse in the place, her services were accepted. Thus it came about that the robber-chief and the Rose of Oregon were for a time brought into close companionship.

On the morning after their return to the Indian village, Paul Bevan and Betty sauntered away towards the lake. The Rose had been with Stalker the latter part of the night, and after breakfast had said she would take a stroll to let the fresh air blow sleepiness away. Paul had offered to go with her.

“Well, Betty, lass, what think ye of this robber-chief, now you’ve seen somethin’ of him at close quarters?” asked Paul, as they reached the margin of the lake.

“I have scarcely seen him in his right mind, father, for he has been wandering a little at times during the night; and, oh! you cannot think what terrible things he has been talking about.”

“Has he?” said Paul, glancing at Betty with sudden earnestness. “What did he speak about?”

“I can scarcely tell you, for at times he mixed up his ideas so that I could not understand him, but I fear he has led a very bad life and done many wicked things. He brought in your name, too, pretty often, and seemed to confuse you with himself, putting on you the blame of deeds which just a minute before he had confessed he had himself done.”

“Ay, did he?” said Paul, with a peculiar expression and tone. “Well, he warn’t far wrong, for I have helped him sometimes.”

“Father!” exclaimed Betty, with a shocked look—“but you misunderstand. He spoke of such things as burglary and highway robbery, and you could never have helped him in deeds of that kind.”

“Oh! he spoke of such things as these, did he?” returned Paul. “Well, yes, he’s bin up to a deal of mischief in his day. And what did you say to him, lass? Did you try to quiet him?”

“What could I say, father, except tell him the old, old story of Jesus and His love; that He came to seek and to save the lost, even the chief of sinners?”

“An’ how did he take it?” inquired Paul, with a grave, almost an anxious look.

“At first he would not listen, but when I began to read the Word to him, and then tried to explain what seemed suitable to him, he got up on his unhurt elbow and looked at me with such a peculiar and intense look that I felt almost alarmed, and was forced to stop. Then he seemed to wander again in his mind, for he said such a strange thing.”

“What was that, Betty?”

“He said I was like his mother.”

“Well, lass, he wasn’t far wrong, for you are uncommon like her.”

“Did you know his mother, then?”

“Ay, Betty, I knowed her well, an’ a fine, good-lookin’ woman she was, wi’ a kindly, religious soul, just like yours. She was a’most heartbroken about her son, who was always wild, but she had a strong power over him, for he was very fond of her, and I’ve no doubt that your readin’ the Bible an’ telling him about Christ brought back old times to his mind.”

“But if his mother was so good and taught him so carefully, and, as I doubt not, prayed often and earnestly for him, how was it that he fell into such awful ways?” asked Betty.

“It was the old, old story, lass, on the other side o’ the question—drink and bad companions—and—and I was one of them.”

“You, father, the companion of a burglar and highway robber?”

“Well, he wasn’t just that at the time, though both him and me was bad enough. It was my refusin’ to jine him in some of his jobs that made a coolness between us, an’ when his mother died I gave him some trouble about money matters, which turned him into my bitterest foe. He vowed he would take my life, and as he was one o’ those chaps that, when they say they’ll do a thing, are sure to do it, I thought it best to bid adieu to old England, especially as I was wanted at the time by the police.”

Poor Rose of Oregon! The shock to her feelings was terrible, for, although she had always suspected from some traits in his character that her father had led a wild life, it had never entered her imagination that he was an outlaw. For some time she remained silent with her face in her hands, quite unable to collect her thoughts or decide what to say, for whatever her father might have been in the past he had been invariably kind to her, and, moreover, had given very earnest heed to the loving words which she often spoke when urging him to come to the Saviour. At last she looked up quickly.

“Father,” she said, “I will nurse this man with more anxious care and interest, for his mother’s sake.”

“You may do it, dear lass, for his own sake,” returned Paul, impressively, “for he is your own brother.”

“My brother?” gasped Betty. “Why, what do you mean, father? Surely you are jesting!”

“Very far from jesting, lass. Stalker is your brother Edwin, whom you haven’t seen since you was a small girl, and you thought was dead. But, come, as the cat’s out o’ the bag at last, I may as well make a clean breast of it. Sit down here on the bank, Betty, and listen.”

The poor girl obeyed almost mechanically, for she was well-nigh stunned by the unexpected news, which Paul had given her, and of which, from her knowledge of her father’s character, she could not doubt the truth.

“Then Stalker—Edwin—must be your own son!” she said, looking at Paul earnestly.

“Nay, he’s not my son, no more than you are my daughter. Forgive me, Betty. I’ve deceived you throughout, but I did it with a good intention. You see, if I hadn’t passed myself off as your father, I’d never have bin able to git ye out o’ the boardin’-school where ye was putt. But I did it for the best, Betty, I did it for the best; an’ all to benefit your poor mother an’ you. That is how it was.”

He paused, as if endeavouring to recall the past, and Betty sat with her hands clasped, gazing in Paul’s face like a fascinated creature, unable to speak or move.

“You see, Betty,” he resumed, “your real father was a doctor in the army, an’ I’m sorry to have to add, he was a bad man—so bad that he went and deserted your mother soon after you was born. I raither think that your brother Edwin must have got his wickedness from him, just as you got your goodness from your mother; but I’ve bin told that your father became a better man before he died, an’ I can well believe it, wi’ such a woman as your mother prayin’ for him every day, as long as he lived. Well, when you was about six, your brother Edwin, who was then about twenty, had got so bad in his ways, an’ used to kick up sitch shindies in the house, an’ swore so terrible, that your mother made up her mind to send you to a boardin’-school, to keep you out o’ harm’s way, though it nigh broke her heart; for you seemed to be the only comfort she had in life.

“About that time I was goin’ a good deal about the house, bein’, as I’ve said, a chum o’ your brother. But he was goin’ too fast for me, and that made me split with him. I tried at first to make him hold in a bit; but what was the use of a black sheep like me tryin’ to make a white sheep o’ him! The thing was so absurd that he laughed at it; indeed, we both laughed at it. Your mother was at that time very poorly off—made a miserable livin’ by dressmakin’. Indeed, she’d have bin half starved if I hadn’t given her a helpin’ hand in a small way now an’ then. She was very grateful, and very friendly wi’ me, for I was very fond of her, and she know’d that, bad as I was, I tried to restrain her son to some extent. So she told me about her wish to git you well out o’ the house, an’ axed me if I’d go an’ put you in a school down at Brighton, which she know’d was a good an’ a cheap one.

“Of course I said I would, for, you see, the poor thing was that hard worked that she couldn’t git away from her stitch-stitchin’, not even for an hour, much less a day. When I got down to the school, before goin’ up to the door it came into my head that it would be better that the people should know you was well looked after, so says I to you, quite sudden, ‘Betty, remember you’re to call me father when you speak about me.’ You turned your great blue eyes to my face, dear lass, when I said that, with a puzzled look.

“‘Me sought mamma say father was far far away in other country,’ says you.

“‘That’s true,’ says I, ‘but I’ve come home from the other country, you see, so don’t you forget to call me father.’

“‘Vewy well, fadder,’ says you, in your own sweet way, for you was always a biddable child, an’ did what you was told without axin’ questions.

“Well, when I’d putt you in the school an’ paid the first quarter in advance, an’ told ’em that the correspondence would be done chiefly through your mother, I went back to London, puzzlin’ my mind all the way what I’d say to your mother for what I’d done. Once it came into my head I would ax her to marry me—for she was a widow by that time—an’ so make the deception true. But I quickly putt that notion a one side, for I know’d I might as well ax an angel to come down from heaven an dwell wi’ me in a backwoods shanty—but, after all,” said Paul, with a quiet laugh, “I did get an angel to dwell wi’ me in a backwoods shanty when I got you, Betty! Howsever, as things turned out I was saved the trouble of explainin’.

“When I got back I found your mother in a great state of excitement. She’d just got a letter from the West Indies, tellin’ her that a distant relation had died an’ left her a small fortin! People’s notions about the size o’ fortins differs. Enough an’ to spare is ocean’s wealth to some. Thousands o’ pounds is poverty to others. She’d only just got the letter, an’ was so taken up about it that she couldn’t help showin’ it to me.

“‘Now,’ says I, ‘Mrs Buxley,’—that was her name, an’ your real name too, Betty—says I, ‘make your will right off, an putt it away safe, leavin’ every rap o’ that fortin to Betty, for you may depend on’t, if Edwin gits wind o’ this, he’ll worm it out o’ you, by hook or by crook—you know he will—and go straight to the dogs at full gallop.’

“‘What!’ says she, ‘an’ leave nothin’ to my boy?—my poor boy, for whom I have never ceased to pray! He may repent, you know—he will repent. I feel sure of it—and then he will find that his mother left him nothing, though God had sent her a fortune.’

“‘Oh! as to that,’ says I, ‘make your mind easy. If Edwin does repent an’ turn to honest ways, he’s got talents and go enough in him to make his way in the world without help; but you can leave him what you like, you know, only make sure that you leave the bulk of it to Betty.’

“This seemed to strike her as a plan that would do, for she was silent for some time, and then, suddenly makin’ up her mind, she said, ‘I’ll go and ask God’s help in this matter, an’ then see about gettin’ a lawyer—for I suppose a thing o’ this sort can’t be done without one.’

“‘No, mum,’ says I, ‘it can’t. You may, if you choose, make a muddle of it without a lawyer, but you can’t do it right without one.’

“‘Can you recommend one to me?’ says she.

“I was greatly tickled at the notion o’ the likes o’ me bein’ axed to recommend a lawyer. It was so like your mother’s innocence and trustfulness. Howsever, she’d come to the right shop, as it happened, for I did know a honest lawyer! Yes, Betty, from the way the world speaks, an’ what’s often putt in books, you’d fancy there warn’t such’n a thing to be found on ’arth. But that’s all bam, Betty. Leastwise I know’d one honest firm. ‘Yes, Mrs Buxley,’ says I, ‘there’s a firm o’ the name o’ Truefoot, Tickle, and Badger in the City, who can do a’most anything that’s possible to man. But you’ll have to look sharp, for if Edwin comes home an’ diskivers what’s doin’, it’s all up with the fortin an’ Betty.’

“Well, to make a long story short, your mother went to the lawyer’s, an’ had her will made, leavin’ a good lump of a sum to your brother, but the most of the fortin to you. By the advice o’ Truefoot Tickle, and Badger, she made it so that you shouldn’t touch the money till you come to be twenty-one, ‘for,’ says she, ‘there’s no sayin’ what bad men will be runnin’ after the poor thing an deceivin’ her for the sake of her money before she is of an age to look after herself.’ ‘Yes,’ thought I, ‘an’ there’s no sayin’ what bad men’ll be runnin’ after the poor thing an’ deceivin’ of her for the sake of her money after she’s of an age to look after herself,’ but I didn’t say that out, for your mother was excited enough and over-anxious about things, I could see that.

“Well, when the will was made out all right, she took it out of her chest one night an’ read it all over to me. I could see it was shipshape, though I couldn’t read a word of its crabbed letters myself.

“‘Now Mrs Buxley,’ says I, ‘where are you goin’ to keep that dockiment?’

“‘In my chest,’ says she.

“‘Won’t be safe there,’ says I, for I knowed her forgivin’ and confidin’ natur’ too well, an’ that she’d never be able to keep it from your brother; but, before I could say more, there was a tremendous knockin’ wi’ a stick at the front door. Your poor mother turned pale—she know’d the sound too well. ‘That’s Edwin,’ she says, jumpin’ up an runnin’ to open the door, forgetting all about the will, so I quietly folded it up an’ shoved it in my pocket.

“When Edwin was comin’ up stairs I know’d he was very drunk and savage by the way he was goin’ on, an’ when he came into the room an’ saw me he gave a yell of rage. ‘Didn’t I tell you never to show your face here again?’ says he. ‘Just so,’ says I, ‘but not bein’ subjec’ to your orders, d’ye see, I am here again.’

“Wi’ that he swore a terrible oath an’ rushed at me, but he tripped over a footstool and fell flat on the floor. Before he could recover himself I made myself scarce an’ went home.

“Next mornin’, when I’d just finished breakfast a thunderin’ rap came to the door. I know’d it well enough. ‘Now look out for squalls,’ said I to myself, as I went an’ opened it. Edwin jumped in, banged the door to, an’ locked it.

“‘You’ve no occasion to do that’ says I, ‘for I don’t expect no friends—not even bobbies.’

“‘You double-faced villain!’ says he; ‘you’ve bin robbin’ my mother!’

“‘Come, come,’ says I, ‘civility, you know, between pals. What have I done to your mother?’

“‘You needn’t try to deceive me, Paul,’ says he, tryin’ to keep his temper down. ‘Mother’s bin took bad, wi’ over-excitement, the doctor says, an’ she’s told me all about the fortin an’ the will, an’ where Betty is down at Brighton.’

“‘My Betty at Brighton!’ says I—pretendin’ great surprise, for I had a darter at that time whom I had called after your mother, for that was her name too—but she’s dead, poor thing!—she was dyin’ in hospital at the very time we was speakin’, though I didn’t know at the time that her end was so near—‘my Betty at Brighton!’ says I. ‘Why, she’s in hospital. Bin there for some weeks.’

“‘I don’t mean your brat, but my sister,’ says Edwin, quite fierce. ‘Where have you put her? What’s the name of the school? What have you done wi’ the will?’

“‘You’d better ax your mother,’ says I. ‘It’s likely that she knows the partiklers better nor me.’

“He lost patience altogether at this, an’ sprang at me like a tiger. But I was ready for him. We had a regular set-to then an’ there. By good luck there was no weapons of any kind in the room, not even a table knife, for I’d had to pawn a’most everything to pay my rent, and the clasp-knife I’d eat my breakfast with was in my pocket. But we was both handy with our fists. We kep’ at it for about half an hour. Smashed all the furniture, an’ would have smashed the winders too, but there was only one, an’ it was a skylight. In the middle of it the door was burst open, an’ in rushed half a dozen bobbies, who put a stop to it at once.

“‘We’re only havin’ a friendly bout wi’ the gloves,’ says I, smilin’ quite sweet.

“‘I don’t see no gloves,’ says the man as held me.

“‘That’s true,’ says I, lookin’ at my hands. ‘They must have dropped off an’ rolled up the chimbly.’

“‘Hallo! Edwin Buxley!’ said the sargeant, lookin’ earnestly at your brother; ‘why you’ve bin wanted for some time. Here, Joe! the bracelets.’

“In half a minute he was marched off. ‘I’ll have your blood, Paul, for this,’ he said bitterly, looking back as he went out.

“As I wasn’t ‘wanted’ just then, I went straight off to see your mother, to find out how much she had told to Edwin, for, from what he had said, I feared she must have told all. I was anxious, also, to see if she’d bin really ill. When I got to the house I met a nurse who said she was dyin’, an’ would hardly let me in, till I got her persuaded I was an intimate friend. On reachin’ the bedroom I saw by the looks o’ two women who were standin’ there that it was serious. And so it was, for there lay your poor mother, as pale as death; her eyes closed and her lips white; but there was a sweet, contented smile on her face, and her thin hands clasped her well-worn Bible to her breast.”

Paul Bevan stopped, for the poor girl had burst into tears. For a time he was silent and laid his heavy hand gently on her shoulder.

“I did not ventur’ to speak to her,” he continued, “an’ indeed it would have been of no use, for she was past hearin’. A few minutes later and her gentle spirit went up to God.

“I had no time now to waste, for I knew that your brother would give information that might be bad for me, so I asked the nurse to write down, while I repeated it, the lawyer’s address.

“‘Now,’ says I, ‘go there an’ tell ’em what’s took place. It’ll be the better for yourself if you do.’ An’ then I went straight off to Brighton.”

Chapter Twenty One.

“Well, you must know,” said Paul Bevan, continuing his discourse to the Rose of Oregon, “when I got to Brighton I went to the school, told ’em that your mother was just dead, and brought you straight away. I wasn’t an hour too soon, for, as I expected, your brother had given information, an’ the p’lice were on my heels in a jiffy, but I was too sharp for ’em. I went into hidin’ in London; an’ you’ve no notion, Betty, what a rare place London is to hide in! A needle what takes to wanderin’ in a haystack ain’t safer than a feller is in London, if he only knows how to go about the business.

“I lay there nigh three months, durin’ which time my own poor child Betty continued hoverin’ ’tween life an death. At last, one night when I was at the hospital sittin’ beside her, she suddenly raised her sweet face, an fixin’ her big eyes on me, said—

“‘Father, I’m goin’ home. Shall I tell mother that you’re comin’?’

“‘What d’ye mean, my darlin’?’ says I, while an awful thump came to my heart, for I saw a great change come over her.

“‘I’ll be there soon, father,’ she said, as her dear voice began to fail; ‘have you no message for mother?’

“I was so crushed that I couldn’t speak, so she went on—

“‘You’ll come—won’t you, father? an’ we’ll be so glad to welcome you to heaven. An’ so will Jesus. Remember, He is the only door, father, no name but that of Jesus—’ She stopped all of a sudden, and I saw that she had gone home.

“After that” continued Paul, hurrying on as if the memory of the event was too much for him, “havin’ nothin’ to keep me in England, I came off here to the gold-fields with you, an’ brought the will with me, intendin’, when you came of age, to tell you all about it, an’ see justice done both to you an’ to your brother, but—”

“Fath— Paul,” said Betty, checking herself, “that brown parcel you gave me long ago with such earnest directions to keep it safe, and only to open it if you were killed, is—”

“That’s the will, my dear.”

“And Edwin—does he think that I am your real daughter Betty?”

“No doubt he does, for he never heard of her bein’ dead, and he never saw you since you was quite a little thing, an’ there’s a great change on you since then—a wonderful change.”

“Yes, fath— Oh! it is so hard to lose my father,” said Betty, almost breaking down, and letting her hands fall listlessly into her lap.

“But why lose him, Betty? I did it all for the best,” said Paul, gently taking hold of one of the poor girl’s hands.

She made a slight motion to withdraw it, but checked herself and let it rest in the man’s rough but kindly grasp, while tears silently coursed down her rounded cheeks. Presently she looked up and said—

“How did Edwin find out where you had gone to?”

“That’s more than I can tell, Betty, unless it was through Truefoot, Tickle, and Badger. I wrote to them after gettin’ here, tellin’ them to look well after the property, and it would be claimed in good time, an’ I raither fear that the postmark on the letter must have let the cat out o’ the bag. Anyhow, not long after that Edwin found me out an’ you know how he has persecuted me, though you little thought he was your own brother when you were beggin’ of me not to kill him—no more did you guess that I was as little anxious to kill him as you were, though I did pretend I’d have to do it now an’ then in self-defence. Sometimes, indeed, he riled me up to sitch an extent that there wasn’t much pretence about it; but thank God! my hand has been held back.”

“Yes, thank God for that; and now I must go to him,” said Betty, rising hastily and hurrying back to the Indian village.

In a darkened tent, on a soft couch of deerskins, the dying form of Buxley, alias Stalker, lay extended. In the fierceness of his self-will he had neglected his wounds until too late to save his life. A look of stern resolution sat on his countenance—probably he had resolved to “die game,” as hardened criminals express it. His determination, on whatever ground based, was evidently not shaken by the arguments of a man who sat by his couch. It was Tom Brixton.

“What’s the use o’ preachin’ to me, young fellow?” said the robber-chief, testily. “I dare say you are pretty nigh as great a scoundrel as I am.”

“Perhaps a greater,” returned Tom. “I have no wish to enter into comparisons, but I’m quite prepared to admit that I am as bad.”

“Well, then, you’ve as much need as I have to seek salvation for yourself.”

“Indeed I have, and it is because I have sought it and obtained it,” said Tom, earnestly, “that I am anxious to point out the way to you. I’ve come through much the same experiences, no doubt, as you have. I have been a scouter of my mother’s teachings, a thief, and, in heart if not in act, a murderer. No one could be more urgently in need of salvation from sin than I, and I used to think that I was so bad that my case was hopeless, until God opened my eyes to see that Jesus came to save His people from their sins. That is what you need, is it not?”

“Ay, but it is too late,” said Stalker, bitterly.

“The crucified thief did not find it too late,” returned Tom, “and it was the eleventh hour with him.”

Stalker made no reply, but the stern, hard expression of his face did not change one iota until he heard a female voice outside asking if he were asleep. Then the features relaxed; the frown passed like a summer cloud before the sun, and, with half-open lips and a look of glad, almost childish expectancy, he gazed at the curtain-door of the tent.

“Mother’s voice!” he murmured, apparently in utter forgetfulness of Tom Brixton’s presence.

Next moment the curtain was raised, and Betty, entering quickly, advanced to the side of the couch. Tom rose, as if about to leave.

“Don’t go, Mr Brixton,” said the girl, “I wish you to hear us.”

“My brother!” she continued, turning to the invalid, and grasping his hand, for the first time, as she sat down beside him.

“If you were not so young I’d swear you were my mother,” exclaimed Stalker, with a slight look of surprise at the changed manner of his nurse. “Ha! I wish that I were indeed your brother.”

“But you are my brother, Edwin Buxley,” cried the girl with intense earnestness, “my dear and only brother, whom God will save through Jesus Christ?”

“What do you mean, Betty?” asked Stalker, with an anxious and puzzled look.

“I mean that I am not Betty Bevan. Paul Bevan has told me so—told me that I am Betty Buxley, and your sister!”

The dying man’s chest heaved with labouring breath, for his wasted strength was scarcely sufficient to bear this shock of surprise.

“I would not believe it,” he said, with some difficulty, “even though Paul Bevan were to swear to it, were it not for the wonderful likeness both in look and tone.” He pressed her hand fervently, and added, “Yes, dear Betty. I do believe that you are my very sister.”

Tom Brixton, from an instinctive feeling of delicacy, left the tent, while the Rose of Oregon related to her brother the story of her life with Paul Bevan, and then followed it up with the story of God’s love to man in Jesus Christ.

Tom hurried to Bevan’s tent to have the unexpected and surprising news confirmed, and Paul told him a good deal, but was very careful to make no allusion to Betty’s “fortin.”

“Now, Mister Brixton,” said Paul, somewhat sternly, when he had finished, “there must be no more shilly-shallyin’ wi’ Betty’s feelin’s. You’re fond o’ her, an’ she’s fond o’ you. In them circumstances a man is bound to wed—all the more that the poor thing has lost her nat’ral protector, so to speak, for I’m afraid she’ll no longer look upon me as a father.”

There was a touch of pathos in Paul’s tone as he concluded, which checked the rising indignation in Brixton’s breast.

“But you forget, Paul, that Gashford and his men are here, and will probably endeavour to lay hold of me. I can scarce look on myself as other than an outlaw.”

“Pooh! lay hold of you!” exclaimed Paul, with contempt; “d’ye think Gashford or any one else will dare to touch you with Mahoghany Drake an’ Mister Fred an’ Flinders an’ me, and Unaco with all his Injins at your back? Besides, let me tell you that Gashford seems a changed man. I’ve had a talk wi’ him about you, an’ he said he was done persecutin’ of you—that you had made restitootion when you left all the goold on the river’s bank for him to pick up, and that as nobody else in partikler wanted to hang you, you’d nothin’ to fear.”

“Well, that does change the aspect of affairs,” said Tom, “and it may be that you are right in your advice about Betty. I have twice tried to get away from her and have failed. Perhaps it may be right now to do as you suggest, though after all the time seems not very suitable; but, as you truly observe, she has lost her natural protector, for of course you cannot be a father to her any longer. Yes, I’ll go and see Fred about it.”

Tom had considerable qualms of conscience as to the propriety of the step he meditated, and tried to argue with himself as he went in search of his friend.

“You see,” he soliloquised aloud, “her brother is dying; and then, though I am not a whit more worthy of her than I was, the case is nevertheless altered, for she has no father now. Then by marrying her I shall have a right to protect her—and she stands greatly in need of a protector in this wild country at this time, poor thing! and some one to work for her, seeing that she has no means whatever!”

“Troth, an’ that’s just what she does need, sor!” said Paddy Flinders, stepping out of the bush at the moment. “Excuse me, sor, but I cudn’t help hearin’ ye, for ye was spakin’ out loud. But I agree with ye intirely; an’, if I may make so bowld, I’m glad to find ye in that state o’ mind. Did ye hear the news, sor? They’ve found goold at the hid o’ the valley here.”

“Indeed,” said Tom, with a lack of interest that quite disgusted his volatile friend.

“Yes, indade,” said he. “Why, sor, they’ve found it in big nuggets in some places, an’ Muster Gashford is off wid a party not half an hour past. I’m goin’ mesilf, only I thought I’d see first if ye wouldn’t jine me; but ye don’t seem to care for goold no more nor if it was copper; an that’s quare, too, whin it was the very objec’ that brought ye here.”

“Ah, Flinders, I have gained more than my object in coming. I have found gold—most fine gold, too, that I won’t have to leave behind me when it pleases God to call me home. But never fear, I’ll join you. I owe you and other friends a debt, and I must dig to pay that. Then, if I succeed in the little scheme which you overheard me planning, I shall need some gold to keep the pot boiling!”

“Good luck to ye, sor! so ye will. But plaze don’t mintion the little debt you say you owe me an’ the other boys. Ye don’t owe us nothin’ o’ the sort. But who comes here? Muster Fred it is—the very man I want to see.”

“Yes, and I want to see him too, Paddy, so let me speak first, for a brief space, in private, and you can have him as long as you like afterwards.”

Fred Westly’s opinion on the point which his friend put before him entirely coincided with that of Paul Bevan.

“I’m not surprised to learn that Paul is not her father,” he said. “It was always a puzzle to me how she came to be so lady-like and refined in her feelings, with such a rough, though kindly, father. But I can easily understand it now that I hear who and what her mother was.”

But the principal person concerned in Tom Brixton’s little scheme held an adverse opinion to his friends Paul and Fred and Flinders. Betty would by no means listen to Tom’s proposals until, one day, her brother said that he would like to see her married to Tom Brixton before he died. Then the obdurate Rose of Oregon gave in!

“But how is it to be managed without a clergyman?” asked Fred Westly one evening over the camp fire when supper was being prepared.

“Ay, how indeed?” said Tom, with a perplexed look.

“Oh, bother the clergy!” cried the irreverent Flinders.

“That’s just what I’d do if there was one here,” responded Tom; “I’d bother him till he married us.”

“I say, what did Adam and Eve an’ those sort o’ people do?” asked Tolly Trevor, with the sudden animation resulting from the budding of a new idea; “there was no clergy in their day, I suppose?”

“True for ye, boy,” remarked Flinders, as he lifted a large pot of soup off the fire.

“I know and care not, Tolly, what those sort o’ people did,” said Tom; “and as Betty and I are not Adam and Eve, and the nineteenth century is not the first, we need not inquire.”

“I’ll tell ’ee what,” said Mahoghany Drake, “it’s just comed into my mind that there’s a missionary goes up once a year to an outlyin’ post o’ the fur-traders, an’ this is about the very time. What say ye to make an excursion there to get spliced, it’s only about two hundred miles off? We could soon ride there an’ back, for the country’s all pretty flattish after passin’ the Sawback range.”

“The very thing!” cried Tom; “only—perhaps Betty might object to go, her brother being so ill.”

“Not she,” said Fred; “since the poor man found in her a sister as well as a nurse he seems to have got a new lease of life. I don’t, indeed, think it possible that he can recover, but he may yet live a good while; and the mere fact that she has gone to get married will do him good.”

So it was finally arranged that they should all go, and, before three days had passed, they went, with a strong band of their Indian allies. They found the missionary as had been expected. The knot was tied, and Tom Brixton brought back the Rose of Oregon as a blooming bride to the Sawback range.

From that date onward Tom toiled at the goldfields as if he had been a galley-slave, and scraped together every speck and nugget of gold he could find, and hoarded it up as if he had been a very miser, and, strange to say, Betty did not discourage him.

One day he entered his tent with a large canvas bag in his hand quite full.

“It’s all here at last,” he said, holding it up. “I’ve had it weighed, and I’m going to square up.”

“Go, dear Tom, and God speed you,” said the Rose, giving him a kiss that could not have been purchased by all the gold in Oregon.

Tom went off, and soon returned with the empty bag.

“It was hard work, Betty, to get them to take it, but they agreed when I threatened to heave it all into the lake if they didn’t! Then—I ventured,” said Tom, looking down with something like a blush—“it does seem presumptuous in me, but I couldn’t help it—I preached to them! I told them of my having been twice bought; of the gold that never perishes; and of the debt I owe, which I could never repay, like theirs, with interest, because it is incalculable. And now, dear Betty, we begin the world afresh from to-day.”

“Yes, and with clear consciences,” returned Betty. “I like to re-commence life thus.”

“But with empty pockets,” added Tom, with a peculiar twist of his mouth.

“No, not quite empty,” rejoined the young wife, drawing a very business-looking envelope from her pocket and handing it to her husband. “Read that, Tom.”

Need we say that Tom read it with mingled amusement and amazement; that he laughed at it, and did not believe it; that he became grave, and inquired into it; and that finally, when Paul Bevan detailed the whole affair, he was forced to believe it?

“An estate in the West Indies,” he murmured to himself in a condition of semi-bewilderment, “yielding over fifteen hundred a year!”

“A tidy little fortin,” remarked Paddy Flinders, who overheard him. “I hope, sor, ye won’t forgit yer owld frinds in Oregon when ye go over to take possession.”

“I won’t my boy—you may depend on that.”

And he did not!

But Edwin Buxley did not live to enjoy his share of the fortune. Soon after the wedding he began to sink rapidly, and finally died while gazing earnestly in his sister’s face, with the word “mother” trembling faintly on his lips. He was laid under a lordly tree not far from the Indian village in the Sawback range.

It was six months afterwards that Betty became of age and was entitled to go home and claim her own. She and Tom went first to a small village in Kent, where dwelt an old lady who for some time past had had her heart full to the very brim with gratitude because of a long-lost prodigal son having been brought back to her—saved by the blood of the Lamb. When at last she set her longing eyes on Tom, and heard his well-remembered voice say, “Mother!” the full heart overflowed and rushed down the wrinkled cheeks in floods of inexpressible joy. And the floods were increased, and the joy intensified, when she turned at last to gaze on a little modest, tearful, sympathetic flower, whom Tom introduced to her as the Rose of Oregon!

Thereafter Tom and the Rose paid a visit to London City and called upon Truefoot, Tickle, and Badger.

Truefoot was the only partner in the office at the time, but he ably represented the firm, for he tickled them with information and badgered them with questions to such an extent that they left the place of business in a state of mental confusion, but on the whole, very well satisfied.

The result of all these things was that Tom Brixton settled down near the village where his mother dwelt, and Fred Westly, after staying long enough among the Sawback Mountains to dig out of them a sufficiency, returned home and bought a small farm beside his old chum.

And did Tom forget his old friends in Oregon? No! He became noted for the length and strength of his correspondence. He wrote to Flinders begging him to come home and help him with his property, and Flinders accepted. He wrote to Mahoghany Drake and sent him a splendid rifle, besides good advice and many other things, at different times, too numerous to mention. He wrote to little Tolly Trevor endeavouring to persuade him to come to England and be “made a man of”, but Tolly politely declined, preferring to follow the fortunes of Mahoghany and be made a man of in the backwoods sense of the expression, in company with his fast friend the Leaping Buck. Tolly sent his special love to the Rose of Oregon, and said that she would be glad to hear that the old place in the Sawback range had become a little colony, and that a missionary had settled in it, and Gashford had held by his promise to her—not only giving up drink and gambling entirely, but had set up a temperance coffee-house and a store, both of which were in the full blast of prosperity.

Tolly also said, in quite a poetical burst, that the fragrance of the Rose not only remained in the Colony, but was still felt as a blessed memory and a potent influence for good throughout all the land.

Finally, Tom Brixton settled down to a life of usefulness beside his mother—who lived to a fabulous old age—and was never tired of telling, especially to his young friends, of his wonderful adventures in the Far West and how he had been twice bought—once with gold and once with blood.

The End.

Table of Contents

The Buffalo Runners by Robert Michael Ballantyne

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Over the Rocky Mountains by R. M Ballantyne

COVER

TITLE PAGE

Preface.

Chapter One.

Chapter Two.

Chapter Three.

Chapter Four.

Chapter Five.

Chapter Six.

Chapter Seven.

The Prairie Chief, by R. M Ballantyne

COVER

TITLE PAGE

Chapter One.

Chapter Two.

Chapter Three.

Chapter Four.

Chapter Five.

Chapter Six.

Chapter Seven.

Chapter Eight.

Chapter Nine.

Chapter Ten.

Chapter Eleven.

Chapter Twelve.

Chapter Thirteen.

Chapter Fourteen.

Chapter Fifteen.

Chapter Sixteen.

The Red Man's Revenge by R. M Ballantyne

COVER

TITLE PAGE

Chapter One.

Chapter Two.

Chapter Three.

Chapter Four.

Chapter Five.

Chapter Six.

Chapter Seven.

Chapter Eight.

Chapter Nine.

Chapter Ten.

Chapter Eleven.

Chapter Twelve.

Chapter Thirteen.

Chapter Fourteen.

Chapter Fifteen.

Chapter Sixteen.

Chapter Seventeen.

Chapter Eighteen.

Chapter Nineteen.

Chapter Twenty.

Chapter Twenty One.

Chapter Twenty Two.

Chapter Twenty Three.

Chapter Twenty Four.

Chapter Twenty Five.

Chapter Twenty Six.

ENDNOTE

Silver Lake, by R. M Ballantyne

COVER

TITLE PAGE

Chapter One.

Chapter Two.

Chapter Three.

Chapter Four.

Chapter Five.

Chapter Six.

Chapter Seven.

Chapter Eight.

Chapter Nine.

Chapter Ten.

Chapter Eleven.

Chapter Twelve.

Chapter Thirteen.

Chapter Fourteen.

Chapter Fifteen.

Chapter Sixteen.

Chapter Seventeen.

Chapter Eighteen.

Chapter Nineteen.

Chapter Twenty.

Chapter Twenty One.

Chapter Twenty Two.

Chapter Twenty Three.

Chapter Twenty Four.

ENDNOTES

Twice Bought by R. M Ballantyne

COVER

TITLE PAGE

Chapter One.

Chapter Two.

Chapter Three.

Chapter Four.

Chapter Five.

Chapter Six.

Chapter Seven.

Chapter Eight.

Chapter Nine.

Chapter Ten.

Chapter Eleven.

Chapter Twelve.

Chapter Thirteen.

Chapter Fourteen.

Chapter Fifteen.

Chapter Sixteen.

Chapter Seventeen.

Chapter Eighteen.

Chapter Nineteen.

Chapter Twenty.

Chapter Twenty One.