"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 a 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 Okematan'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.

"Okematan 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 Okematan, 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.

Okematan 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, Okematan 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 Andre 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 Andre 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 Francois 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, Okematan? 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 Okematan 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 Andre 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, Okematan 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.