"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—voila!" 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, Okematan 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 Okematan, 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 Okematan, 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 Okematan. In a few seconds the Cree chief was by his side.

"Oke, 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 Okematan.

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 Okematan, 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 Okematan 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 Okematan," 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, Okematan, 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. Okematan 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, Okematan, 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 Okematan 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 Okematan'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. Andre 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 Andre. 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, Okematan, 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 Okematan, 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 Okematan, 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.