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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"That's enough of fishing for one day," remarked Billie, wiping his
heated brow.

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

"Yes.  We will try the shooting now."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The young hunters had not to wait long.

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

They had only one gun between them.

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

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

"Well, I'll try," said Billie, taking the gun.

"Aim well in advance, Bill.  They fly fast, and primin' gets damp
sometimes."

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

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

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

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

"No, Archie.  It's your turn now--and the thing _did_ give me a
tremendous kick."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

SHOWS SOME OF THE TROUBLES OF PIONEER COLONISTS.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Wheesht! faither!" interposed Duncan junior, "Mr Sutherland wass
speakin', an' ye've stoppit him."

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

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

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

"But I did not say `all that heart could wish,' Mr McKay.  I said
`_every_ good thing'."

"Well, an' iss not wealth a goot thing, Muster Sutherland?"

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

"H'm!  I wush I had a little more o' that curse--whatever," answered the
irreverent old man.

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

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

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

"Well, yes; I wull not be denyin' that."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER TWELVE.

ROUND THE CAMP-FIRES.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Archie, boy!" exclaimed Dan Davidson, "you're letting that goose roast
to a cinder."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"He did not say," answered Jessie.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"`No,' said my mother, `I will stop them.  Get ready, and set off
quickly.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

A mug of water was handed him.

"Poor fellow--have some brandy in it," said a sympathetic hearer,
hastily getting out his bottle.

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

"Was--was your mother killed?" asked the sympathiser, earnestly.

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

"Well done!" exclaimed an enthusiastic Canadian.

"But what became of your mother?" asked Morel.

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

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

"How?--what mean you?" demanded La Certe, sternly.

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

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

"Is the old lady alive yet?" asked the pertinacious sceptic.

"Of course not.  She died long long ago--thirty years ago."

"What! before you was born?  That's strange, isn't it?"

"No, but you not understand.  I suppose my speech is not plain to you.
I said _three_ years ago."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Hallo!" exclaimed Duncan, "where did you get hold o' my knife?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

DIFFICULTIES OF VARIOUS KINDS OVERCOME.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"There is a canoe--" said La Certe, with some hesitation.

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

"True, but there is one on the shore now, close to the flat rock
which--"

"My own canoe!" interrupted the other, "what will ye be wantin' wi'
that?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"He will give in," replied Slowfoot, decidedly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"By the way--that knife that my wife got from Marie Blanc--"

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

"Well," he said, quietly, "what about the knife?"

"Would you like to have it--my wife bade me inquire?"

"Why should _I_ like to have it?" he asked carelessly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

TREACHERY IN THE AIR.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"`We've got no cartridges for 'em, sir,' whispered the man nearest him.

"`If you don't obey orders,' growled the leftenant 'tween his teeth,
`I'll have ye strung up for mutiny every man Jack of you--_load_!' he
repeated in a kind of a yell.

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

"`Present--fire!' roared the leftenant.

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

"`Take these men below,' cried the leftenant, `an' send fourteen strong
men here.  We don't want weaklings for _this_ company.'

"After that we loaded in moderation, an' got on better."

"And the pirates--what did _they_ think o' the new weapon?" asked Peter
Davidson, with an amused expression.

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

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

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

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

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

"Nothing wrong, Dan."

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

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

"How's that?  What do you mean, Antoine?"

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

"I believe he is--after he has helped his father a bit longer wi' the
farm.  Why do you ask?"

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

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

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

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

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

"Perhaps if he knew his life would be in danger--that might stop him."

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

"Good.  When will you start?"

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

"Will you ride alone?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Wow! that iss a peety.  Where heard ye that?"

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

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

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

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

"Stop!" said Fergus in a whisper at that moment, laying his hand on
Davidson's arm.

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

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

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

"Do you see nothin', Taniel?" was the Highlander's reply.

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

"Don't you see the clump that's nearest to you--right foment your nose?"
said the other.

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

"Savitches!" whispered the Highlander.  "Let's get into the hollow as
fast as we can."

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

"Now, Fergus, what's the best thing to be done?"

"I will be leavin' that to you, Taniel, for you've a clearer head than
mine."

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

"You'll be doin' what ye think best, Captain Taniel, an' you will find
that private Fergus will back you up--whatever."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Who would have thought this of Okematan?" muttered Dan, as he hastily
tightened his saddle-girths.

"The _rascal_!" exclaimed Fergus, in deep tones of indignation.

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

A FRIEND IN NEED IS A FRIEND INDEED.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"This, _this_ is the way in which the owl-eyed chief of the Palefaces
begins to do us good!  If this is the way he begins, in what way will he
continue, and,"--here his voice deepened to a whisper--"_how will he
end_?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Okematan looked pointedly at Rednose as he said this.  After a brief
pause he continued--

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"There is nothing, then, to fight for with the Palefaces of Red River,
and my counsel is, like that of Okematan, that we should decide on
peace--not war."

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

CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

AN EVENING IN THE CAMP.

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

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

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

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

"Where is Kateegoose?" asked Dechamp at this crisis.

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

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

"Except," remarked another, "when he stops to smoke what o' the stuffin'
has been already shoved down."

"Moreover," added the seaman, "I've noticed that Francois La Certe
always keeps 'im company.  He's a sympathetic sort o' man is Francois,
fond o' helpin' his mates--specially when they're eatin' an' smokin'."

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

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

"Kateegoose hears," was the laconic answer.

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

"The thoughts of the Indian are many and deep.  He has for many moons
watched the behaviour of Okematan, and he has long suspected that the
heart of the serpent dwells in the breast of that chief.  Now he is
sure."

"But what about your people?" demanded the camp-chief.  "They are not at
war with us.  Are they all villains because one among them turns out to
be bad?"

Kateegoose drew himself up with a look of dignity, and pouted his greasy
lips as he replied--

"The Crees have always been a brave and true and upright people.  They
never attack friends until, by their conduct, these friends have become
enemies.  But the Crees are human.  They are not perfect--neither are
the Palefaces.  There are bad men among them--a few; not many--as well
as young men and foolish.  Sometimes, when on the war-path, a clever bad
man can reason with them till he blinds them, and they are ready to do
wrong.  It may be so now.  Okematan is clever.  Kateegoose does not know
what to advise."

"Kateegoose was not asked to advise," returned Dechamp sternly.  "He may
return to his tent."

Thus summarily dismissed, this hanger-on or camp-follower returned to
his pork and pipe with a feeling that somehow he had failed to make the
exact impression on the leader that he desired.  La Certe, however,
consoled him, and helped him to continue the duties of the day.

"Come with me, McKay," said Dechamp, after giving all needful directions
regarding the safety of the camp.  "I don't believe that rascal
Kateegoose.  He's a greedy idler, something like La Certe, but by no
means so harmless or good-natured.  Moreover, I find it hard to believe
that Okematan has turned traitor."

"I agree with you," said Fergus.  "It iss ferry hard to believe that a
man who has been so long among us, and got such a good character, should
suddenly turn against us--an' that, too, without provocation.  But what
will you be sayin' to what Taniel and myself has seen with our two
eyes?"

"It looks bad, I confess," answered Dechamp, as they paced to and fro in
a retired part of the camp; "but you must remember that your two eyes
are not your two ears, and that you heard nothing that you could
understand."

"Fery true, Dechamp.  But the language of the eye is sometimes as clear
and understandable as the language of the ear.  No wan could mistake the
meanin' o' some o' the warriors when they scowled an' pointed in the
direction of our camp here, an' gripped the handles o' their scalpin'
knives and tomahawks.  Moreover, Okematan also pointed in the same
direction, though I am bound to say he did not grip his knife.  Whether
he scowled or not I do not know, for he was standin' wi' his back to
us."

"Well, I cannot tell.  I'm not willin' to believe Okematan a traitor;
but what you have seen is enough to make me put the camp in defence
instead of startin' out to hunt--"

At that moment the sharp click of a gun was heard as a neighbouring
sentry put his piece on full cock.

Dechamp and Fergus hastened towards him.

"Have a care, Andre; don't be too quick with your gun," said the former.
"I see only one man coming.  He can do us no harm."

As the approaching figure drew near, it was seen to be that of an Indian
on horseback.  He rode carelessly at a jog-trot.

"It looks like Okematan!" said Dechamp, glancing at his companion in
surprise.

"It iss Okematan," returned Fergus.

Before another word could be spoken, a shot was heard in the camp, and
horse and man were seen to roll upon the ground.  The latter rose
immediately, but the horse lay stiff--evidently shot dead.  For a few
seconds profound silence followed the incident, as if men were too much
taken by surprise to think and act.  Then, when the dismounted Indian
was seen to walk leisurely, as if unhurt, towards them, there was a
hubbub in the camp, while men, women, and boys ran towards the spot
whence the shot seemed to have been fired, but no one was to be found
there.  Only a very faint puff of smoke overhead told where the marksman
had stood.  It had been a well-chosen spot, where a low bush or two
mingled with several carts that had been rather carelessly drawn up, and
several horses had been picketed together.  These had afforded
concealment enough for at least a few moments.

The tent of La Certe was not far from this corner.  At the time the shot
was heard, the self-indulgent half-breed was inside, recumbent on his
back in the enjoyment of a pipe.

"That's odd," he said to Slowfoot, who was seated opposite to her lord
scraping the remnants of something out of a tin kettle with the point of
a scalping-knife.  "Somebody's gun gone off by accident, I suppose.  I
hear some one at our fire.  Look out, Slowfoot, and ask what has
happened."

Slowfoot finished the scraping of the kettle before obeying; then lifted
the curtain that closed the opening of their tent, and peeped out.

"It is Kateegoose--loading his gun, I think."

La Certe got up, with a sigh of regret at the necessity for exertion,
and, lifting the curtain-door, stepped out.

"What are they firing at, Kateegoose?"

The Indian did not know.  Some one, he thought, might have let off his
gun by accident.  He thought it wise, however, to be ready, and had just
sent the ramrod down the barrel of his gun to make sure that it was
loaded with ball.  To make still surer that all was ready, the Indian
shook the priming out of the pan of his gun, wiped it, and re-primed.
Then he laid the weapon down by his side, and resumed the pipe which he
had apparently laid down to enable him to perform these operations more
conveniently, and, at the same time, with more safety.

At that moment Dechamp walked smartly towards the fire in front of La
Certe's tent.

"Does Kateegoose know who fired that shot?" he asked with a keen glance,
for his suspicions had been aroused.

"Some one over there," answered the Indian languidly, as he pointed in
the right direction.

"It does not need a medicine-man to tell me that," said Dechamp,
sternly.  "I heard the shot, and saw the smoke.  Have you any idea who
fired it, La Certe?"

"I have not," replied the half-breed.  "I was lying in my tent when I
heard it.  Kateegoose was smoking beside the fire.  We both thought it
was an accident, or some one trying his gun, till we heard the shouting
and running.  Then I jumped up, seized my gun, and sprang out to see
what it was all about.  I found Kateegoose equally on the _qui vive_.
He was shoving his ramrod down to make sure his gun was loaded when you
came up.  What is it all about?"

"Only that the horse of Okematan has been shot under him by some one,
and that there is a would-be murderer in the camp."

"Okematan!  Has the traitor ventured to return?" exclaimed Kateegoose,
with an expression of surprise that was very unusual in an Indian.

"Ay, he has ventured," responded Dechamp, "and some one has ventured to
fire at him with intent to kill.  By good luck he was a bad shot.  He
missed the man, though he hit and killed the horse.  But I shall find
the rascal out before long--he may depend on that!"

So saying, the commandant left the spot.

"Do you know anything about this?" asked La Certe, turning full on the
Indian.

"Kateegoose is not a medicine-man.  He cannot be in two places at once.
He knows nothing."

For a sly man La Certe was wonderfully credulous.  He believed the
Indian, and, returning to his tent, lay down again to finish the
interrupted pipe.

"Kateegoose was trying his gun to see if it was loaded," he said to his
better half.

"That's a lie," returned Slowfoot, with that straightforward simplicity
of diction for which she was famous.

"Indeed!  What, then, was he doing, my Slowfoot?"

"He was _loading_ his gun--not trying it."

"Are you sure?"

"Am I sure that our little child loves tobacco?"

"Well, I suppose you are.  At any rate, the child often asks you for a
pipe, and gets it too.  Hm! if Kateegoose fired that shot he must be a
bad man.  But our chief is sure to find it out--and--it is no business
of mine.  Fetch me the tobacco, Slowfoot."

That same morning, Archie Sinclair was seated beside his brother, Little
Bill, in the tent that was shared by Fred Jenkins and several young
half-breeds.  He was alone with his brother, Jenkins having gone out
with the blunderbuss to assist, if need be, in the defence of the camp.
He was manufacturing a small bow for his brother to amuse himself with
while he should be away "seein' the fun," as he said, with the hunters.
The instant the sailor left, however, he looked at Billie mysteriously
and said, in a low voice--

"Little Bill, although you're not good for much with your poor little
body, you've got a splendid headpiece, and are amazing at giving advice.
I want advice just now very bad.  You've heard what they've all been
saying about this shot that was fired at Okematan, and some o' the men
say they think it must have been Kateegoose that did it.  Now, Billie, I
am _sure_ that it was Kateegoose that did it."

"Oh!" exclaimed Little Bill, making his eyes and mouth into three round
O's.  "How d'ye know that?  Did you see him do it?"

"No--it's that that bothers me.  If I had seen him do it I would have
gone straight and told Dechamp, but I didn't quite see him, you see.  I
was in Lamartine's cart at the time, rummagin' about for a piece o' wood
to make this very bow, an' the moment I heard the shot I peeped out, an'
saw--nothing!"

"That wasn't much," remarked Little Bill, innocently.

"Ay, but I soon saw something," continued Archie, with increasing
solemnity; "I saw Kateegoose coming slinking round among the carts, as
if he wanted not to be seen.  I saw him only for a moment--gliding past
like a ghost."

"It's a serious thing," said Little Bill, musing gravely, "to charge a
man with tryin' to kill another man, if that's all you've got to tell,
for you know it's a way the Red-skins have of always glidin' about as if
they was for ever after mischief."

"But that's not all, Little Bill," returned his brother, "for I'm almost
certain that I saw a little smoke comin' out o' the muzzle of his gun as
he passed--though I couldn't exactly swear to it."

Archie had overrated his brother's powers in the way of advice, for,
although they talked the matter over for some time, they failed to
arrive at any satisfactory conclusion.

Meanwhile Okematan, having entered the camp, was met by Dechamp, and led
by him to a retired part.

"You have an enemy here, Okematan," he said, inquiringly.

"It would seem so," returned the Indian gravely.  "Friends do not shoot
each other's horses; and if the poor horse had not tossed his head when
the shot was fired, his rider would have bit the dust."

"I fear it looks something like that," said Dechamp; "but I hope
Okematan believes that _I_ know nothing of the matter--nor can I tell
who the cowardly villain is that did it."

"Okematan knows that," answered the Indian, sternly.  "No half-breed
fired the shot."

"There is no Indian in the camp but Kateegoose," rejoined the other,
quickly; "surely you don't think that a man of your own tribe would try
to kill you?"

"I know not.  Kateegoose hates me.  No other man in the camp hates me."

"It is strange--unaccountable," returned Dechamp.  "If the Indian did
it, he shall forfeit his horse and leave the camp.  But tell me,"--here
the half-breed commandant turned a searching gaze on his companion, "why
did Okematan leave us, and spend all night alone on the prairie?  Did he
spend the night in conversation with the buffalo--or in the company of
his departed forefathers?"

No sign of surprise, or of any other emotion, was visible on the
countenance of the Red-man as he replied: "Okematan went out to meet a
party of his tribe on the war-path."

Dechamp was not so successful in concealing his own surprise at this
answer.

"Does the Cree chief," he asked, with something of doubt in his tone and
look, "choose the hours of night to consult with warriors about secret
assaults and surprises on friends?"

"He does not!" answered the Indian, decidedly but calmly--though he was
unquestionably astonished at being questioned so pointedly and correctly
as to his recent proceedings, and felt that he must have been followed.
He was not the man, however, to betray his feelings, or to commit
himself in any way; therefore he took refuge in silence.

"Come now, Okematan," said his companion in a confidential tone.  "Don't
let a misunderstanding arise between you and me.  What is this that I
have heard?  You spent last night, as you admit, with a party of Crees
on the war-path.  You were seen and heard, and the men of the camp think
you have turned traitor, and they are even now expecting an attack from
this war-party.  Is it true that we are to be attacked?"

"You say I was _heard_," answered the Indian, looking the half-breed
straight in the face.  "If so, those who heard must know what I said."

"Nay, they did indeed hear, but they did not understand, for they know
not your language; but they know the language of signs, and, by the
looks and gestures of the warriors, they guessed what was said and
planned."

"Is it likely," asked the Indian in a low voice, "that Okematan would
return to your camp alone, and put himself in your power, if an attack
was intended?"

"True, true," returned Dechamp with a hearty air; "and, to say truth, I
myself did not--do not--believe you false.  If you tell me the truth,
Okematan, and give me your word that this report is a mistaken one, I
will believe you and trust you."

The Indian seemed pleased with the assurance thus heartily given, but
still maintained his dignified gravity, as he said--

"Okematan _always_ tells the truth.  He had hoped that the folly of some
young braves of his tribe should never have been known to any one; but
since it has been found out, he will tell all he knows to his pale-faced
brother."

Hereupon he related all that had transpired at the council of war, and
the final success of his own speech, with that of the old warrior, in
producing a peaceful solution.

"But are you sure they will follow your advice?" asked Dechamp.

"Yes, Okematan is quite sure."

"Well, then, as I said, I will trust you," returned Dechamp, extending
his hand, which the Indian gravely grasped; "and I will give you
undeniable proof, by giving my young men orders to start after the
buffalo at once--without further delay."

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

THE BUFFALO-HUNT.

In accordance with the assurance given to Okematan Antoine Dechamp at
once gave orders to make preparation for an immediate start after the
buffalo--much to the satisfaction of the hunters, especially the young
ones.

Buffaloes--or, to speak more correctly, bisons--roamed over the North
American prairies at the time we write of in countless thousands; for
the Indians, although extremely wasteful of animal life, could not keep
their numbers down, and the aggressive white-man, with his deadly gun
and rifle, had only just begun to depopulate the plains.  Therefore the
hunters had not to travel far before coming up with their quarry.

In a very brief space of time they were all drawn up in line under
command of their chosen leader, who, at least up to the moment of giving
the signal for attack, kept his men in reasonably good order.  They had
not ridden long when the huge ungainly bisons were seen like black
specks on the horizon.

Still the horsemen--each armed with the muzzle-loading,
single-barrelled, flint-lock gun of the period--advanced cautiously,
until so near that the animals began to look up as if in surprise at the
unwonted intrusion on their great solitudes.

Then the signal was given, the horses stretched out at the gallop, the
buffalo began to run--at first heavily, as if great speed were
impossible to them; but gradually the pace increased until it attained
to racing speed.  Then the hunters gave the rein to their eager steeds,
and the long line rushed upon the game like a tornado of centaurs.

From this point all discipline was at an end.  Each man fought for his
own hand, killing as many animals as he could, so that ere long the
plain was strewn with carcases, and the air filled with gunpowder smoke.

We have said that all the hunters set out, but this is not strictly
correct, for three were left behind.  One of these had fallen sick; one
had sprained his wrist, and another was lazy.  It need scarcely be told
that the lazy one was Francois La Certe.

"There is no hurry," he said, when the hunters were assembling for the
start; "plenty of time.  My horse has not yet recovered from the
fatigues of the journey.  And who knows but the report of the buffalo
being so near may be false?  I will wait and see the result.  To-morrow
will be time enough to begin.  Then, Slowfoot, you will see what I can
do.  Your hands shall be busy.  We will load our cart with meat and
pemmican, pay off all our debts, and spend a happy winter in Red River.
What have you got there in the kettle?"

"Pork," answered Slowfoot with characteristic brevity.

"Will it soon be ready?"

"Soon."

"Have you got the tea unpacked?"

"Yes."

"Send me your pipe."

This latter speech was more in the tone of a request than a command, and
the implied messenger from the opposite side of the fire was the baby--
Baby La Certe.  We never knew its name, if it had one, and we have
reason to believe that it was a female baby.  At the time, baby was
quite able to walk--at least to waddle or toddle.

A brief order from the maternal lips sent Baby La Certe toddling round
the fire towards its father, pipe in hand; but, short though the road
was, it had time to pause and consider.  Evidently the idea of justice
was strongly developed in that child.  Fair wage for fair work had
clearly got hold of it, for it put the pipe which was still alight, in
its mouth and began to draw!

At this the father smiled benignly, but Slowfoot made a demonstration
which induced a rather prompt completion of the walk without a
reasonable wage.  It sucked vigorously all the time, however, being
evidently well aware that Francois was not to be feared.

At that moment the curtain of the tent lifted, and little Bill Sinclair
limped in.  He was a favourite with La Certe, who made room for him, and
at once offered him the pipe, but Billie declined.

"No, thank you, La Certe.  I have not learned to smoke yet."

"Ha! you did not begin young enough," said the half-breed, glancing
proudly at his own offspring.

We may explain here once for all that, although he had lived long enough
in the colony to understand French, Billie spoke to his friend in
English, and that, although La Certe understood English, he preferred to
speak in French.

"What have you been doing?" he asked, when the boy had seated himself.

"I've been shooting at a mark with my bow and arrow--brother Archie made
it for me."

"Let me see--yes, it is very well made.  Where is brother Archie?"

"Gone after the buffalo."

"What!--on a horse?"

"He could not go very well after them on foot--could he?" replied the
boy quietly.  "Dan Davidson lent him a horse, but not a gun.  He said
that Archie was too young to use a gun on horseback, and that he might
shoot some of the people instead of the buffalo, or burst his gun, or
fall off.  But _I_ don't think so.  Archie can do anything.  I know, for
I've seen him do it."

"And so he has left you in camp all by yourself.  What a shame, Billie!"

"No, Francois, it is not a shame.  Would you have me keep him from the
fun just because I can't go?  _That_ would indeed be a shame, wouldn't
it?"

"Well, perhaps you're right, Billie."

"I know I'm right," returned the boy, with a decision of tone that would
have been offensive if it had not been accompanied with a look of
straightforward gentleness that disarmed resentment.  "But, I say,
Francois, why are you not out with the rest?"

"Oh, because--because--Well, you know, my horse is tired, and--and, I'm
not quite sure that the buffalo really have been seen as near as they
say.  And I can go to-morrow just as well.  You see, Billie, there is no
need to hurry oneself."

"No, I don't see that.  I think there's always need for hurry, specially
with men like you.  I know the reason you don't go out better than
yourself, Francois."

"Yes--what is it?" asked the half-breed with a slight laugh.

"It's laziness.  That's what it is, and you should be ashamed of
yourself."

The large mild eyes and low voice, and pale earnest face of the
plain-spoken invalid were such that it would have been impossible for
any one to be offended with him, much less La Certe, whose spirit of
indignation it was almost impossible to arouse.  He winced a little at
the home-thrust, however, because he knew it to be true.

"You're hard on me, Little Bill," he said with a benignant look, as he
picked a stick from the fire and inserted its glowing end in his pipe.

"No, I'm not hard," returned the boy gravely.  Indeed he was always
grave, and seldom laughed though he sometimes smiled faintly at the
jokes and quips of his volatile brother and Fred Jenkins the seaman:
"I'm not half hard enough," he continued; "I like you, Francois, and
that's the reason why I scold you and try to get you to mend.  I don't
think there's such a lazy man in the whole Settlement as you.  You would
rather sit and smoke and stuff yourself with pork all day than take the
trouble to saddle your horse and get your gun and go out with the rest.
Why are you so lazy, Francois?"

"I'm sure I don't know, Little Bill, unless it be that I'm born to be
lazy.  Other people are born, I suppose, to be active and energetic.
They like activity and energy, and so they do it.  I like repose and
quiet, and--so I do that.  Not much difference after all!  We both do
what we like best!"

Little Bill was perplexed.  Although philosophical in tendency he had
not had sufficient experience in sophistical reasoning to enable him to
disentangle the sinuosities of bad logic.  But he was a resolute little
fellow, and not easily quelled.

"What would happen," he asked, "if everybody in the world did as you
do?"

"Well, I suppose everybody would enjoy themselves.  There would be no
more fightings or wars, or any trouble of that sort, if everybody would
only take things easy and smoke the pipe of peace."

"Hm!  I don't know about that," returned the boy, doubtfully; "but I'm
quite sure there would not be much pemmican in Red River this winter if
all the hunters were like you.  I wonder you're not ashamed, Francois.
Sometimes I think that you're not worth caring about; but I can't help
it, you know--we can't force our likings one way or other."

La Certe was a good deal taken aback.  He was not indeed unaccustomed to
plain speaking, and to the receipt of gratuitous abuse; but his
experience invariably was to associate both with more or less of a stern
voice and a frowning brow.  To receive both in a soft voice from a
delicate meek-faced child, who at the same time professed to like him,
was a complete novelty which puzzled him not a little.

After a few minutes' profound consideration, he put out his pipe and
arose quickly with something like an appearance of firmness in his look
and bearing.

Slowfoot, whose utter ignorance of both French and English prevented her
understanding the drift of the recent conversation, was almost startled
by the unfamiliar action of her lord.

"Where go you?" she asked.

"To follow the buffalo," answered La Certe, with all the dignity of a
man bursting with good resolutions.

"Are you ill?" asked his wife, anxiously.

To this he vouchsafed no reply, as he raised the curtain and went out.

Little Bill also went out, and, sitting down on a package, watched him
with his large solemn eyes, but said never a word until the half-breed
had loaded his gun and mounted his horse.  Then he said: "Good luck to
you, Francois!"

La Certe did not speak, but with a grave nod of his head rode slowly out
of the camp.  Little Bill regarded him for a moment.  He had his bow and
a blunt-headed arrow in his hand at the time.  Fitting the latter
hastily to the bow he took a rapid shot at the retreating horseman.  The
arrow sped well.  It descended on the flank of the horse with
considerable force, and, bounding off, fell to the ground.  The result
was that the horse, to La Certe's unutterable surprise, made a sudden
demivolt into the air--without the usual persuasion--almost unseated its
rider, and fled over the prairie like a thing possessed!

A faint smile ruffled the solemnity of Little Bill at this, but it
vanished when he heard a low chuckle behind him.  Wheeling round, he
stood face to face with Slowfoot, whose mouth was expanded from ear to
ear.

"Clever boy!" she said, patting him on the back, "come into the tent and
have some grub."

She said this in the Cree language, which the boy did not understand,
but he understood well enough the signs with which the invitation was
accompanied.  Thanking her with an eloquent look, he re-entered the tent
along with her.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

ADVENTURES OF ARCHIE AND THE SEAMAN.

Meanwhile the buffalo-hunt progressed favourably, and the slaughter of
animals was considerable.

But there were two members of that hunt whose proceedings were not in
exact accord with the habits and laws of the chase, as usually conducted
on the Red River plains.  These were the seaman Jenkins and Archie
Sinclair.

A mutual attachment having sprung up between these two, they had
arranged to keep together during the chase; and when the signal for
attack was given by Dechamp, as before related, they had "set sail,"
according to Jenkins, fairly well with the rest.  But they had not gone
more than a few hundred yards when the boy observed that his nautical
friend was hauling at both reins furiously, as if desirous of stopping
his horse.  Having a gun in one hand he found the operation difficult.

Archie therefore reined in a little.

"Bad luck to it!" growled Jenkins, as his young friend drew near, "the
jaws o' this craft seem to be made o' cast-iron, but I'll bring him to
if I should haul my arms out o' the sockets.  Heave-to, my lad!  Maybe
he'll be willin' to follow a good example."

Archie pulled up, and, as the seaman had hoped, the hard-mouthed steed
stopped, while the maddened buffalo and the almost as much maddened
hunters went thundering on, and were soon far ahead of them.

"What's wrong, Jenkins?" asked Archie, on seeing the sailor dismount.

"Not much, lad; only I want to take a haul at the main brace.  Here,
hold my gun a bit, like a good chap; the saddle, you see, ain't all
right, an' if it was to slew round, you know, I'd be overboard in a
jiffy.  There, that's all right.  Now, we'll up anchor, an' off again.
I know now that the right way to git on board is by the port side.  When
I started from Red River I was goin' to climb up on the starboard side,
but Dan Davidson kep' me right--though he had a good laugh at me.  All
right now.  Hand me the gun."

"Do you mean to say, Jenkins, that you never got on a horse till you
came to Red River?" asked Archie, with a laugh, as they galloped off in
pursuit of the hunters, who were almost out of sight by that time.

"Well, you've no occasion to laugh, lad," returned the seaman.  "I've
bin at sea ever since I was a small shaver, scarce half as long as a
handspike, so I ain't had many opportunities, d'ee see, for we don't
have cavalry at sea, as a rule--always exceptin' the horse marines.

"Then I'm afraid you'll find runnin' the buffalo somewhat difficult,"
returned the boy.  "Not that I know anything about it myself, for this
is the first time I've been out; an' even now Dan won't let me use a
gun; but I've often heard the men talkin' about it! an' some o' them
have complained that they have found it uncommon difficult to load when
at full gallop--specially when the horse is hard in the mouth."

"I make no manner o' doubt you're right, lad, but I've got my sea-legs
on now, so to speak; leastwise I've got used to ridin' in the trip out
here, as well as used to steerin' wi' the tiller-ropes in front, which
seems to me right in the teeth o' natur', though I couldn't see how it
could well be otherwise.  But I confess that my chief difficulty is the
ordnance, for it interferes a good deal wi' the steerin'.
Hows'ever--`never ventur' never win,' you know.  I never expected to
take up a noo purfession without some trouble."

As he spoke, the seaman's horse--a large brown chestnut--put its foot in
a hole, and plunged forward with great violence, barely escaping a fall.

"Hold on!" shouted Archie in alarm.

"Hold on it is!" sang out the sailor in reply.

And hold on it was, for he had the chestnut round the neck with both
arms.  Indeed he was sitting, or lying, on its neck altogether.

"It ain't an easy job," he gasped, while he struggled to regain the
saddle, "when a fellow gets hove on to the bowsprit this way, to git
fairly back on the main-deck again.  But a Jenkins never was beaten in
fair fight.  That's all right.  Now then, Archie, you're an obleegin'
cove.  Do git down an' pick up the gun for me.  You see, if I git down
it's a tryin' job to git up again--the side o' this here craft bein' so
steep an' so high out o' the water.  Thank'ee; why, boy, you jump down
an' up like a powder-monkey.  It ain't broke, is it?"

"No.  It seems all right," answered the boy, as he handed the gun to its
owner.  "But if you let it go like that often, it won't be much worth
when the run's over."

"Let it go, boy?" repeated the sailor.  "It was either let it or myself
go, an' when it comes to a toss up o' that sort, Fred Jenkins knows how
to look arter number one."

It will be seen from all this that our seaman was not quite so much at
home on the prairie as on the sea.  Indeed, if the expression be
permissible, he was very much at sea on that undulating plain, and did
not take so kindly to the green waves of the rolling prairie as to the
heaving billows of the restless ocean; but, as Archie remarked, he was
fast getting broke in.

The incidents which we have mentioned, however, were but the
commencement of a series of disasters to poor Jenkins, which went far to
cure him of a desire to excel in the "noo purfession," and to induce a
somewhat violent longing for a return to his first love, the ocean.

"I can't think what ever could have made you want to come out here,"
said Archie, as they continued to follow up the still distant hunters.

"What was it made yourself want to come out, lad?" asked the sailor.

"It wasn't me that wanted to come.  It was father, you know, an' of
course I had to follow," said the boy in a tone which induced his friend
to say hastily, and in a tone of sympathy--

"Ah, poor lad, I forgot you was a orphing.  Well, you see, I think it
must ha' bin a love o' change or a love o' discontent, or suthin' o'
that sort, as brought me cruising in these here waters, for I can't say
what else it was.  You see I was born a sort o' ro-oh--"

"Look out! a badger-hole!" shouted the boy.

His warning would have been too late, but the chestnut fortunately
leaped over the danger instead of stumbling into it, and its rider was
only partially shaken out of his seat.

"It's well," he said, when fairly settled down again to an easy gallop,
"that the tiller-ropes are stout else I'd ha' bin over the starn this
time instead of out on the bowsprit.  Let me see, what was I sayin' of?"

"Somethin' about your bein' born a sort of `ro-oh--,' though what _that_
may be I haven't a notion."

"Ah! jist so--I was born a sort o' rover (when this long-legged brute
took the badger-hole), an' I've bin to every quarter o' the globe
a'most, but if I'd lived to the age o' Methooslum I'd never ha' thought
o' comin' here,--for the good reason that I knowed nothin' o' its
existence,--if I hadn't by chance in a furrin port fallen in wi' Andre
Morel, an' took an uncommon fancy to him.  You see, at the time, I was--
well, I was no better nor I should be; p'raps a deal wuss, an' Morel he
meets me, an' says--`Hallo, my lad,' says he, `where away?'

"I looked at him gruff-like a moment or two, for it seemed to me he was
raither too familiar for a stranger, but he's got such a pleasant,
hearty look with him--as you know--that I couldn't feel riled with 'im,
so `I'm goin' on the spree,' says I.

"`All right,' says he, `I'm with 'ee, lad.  D'ye know the town?'

"`No more than a Mother Carey's chicken,' says I.  `Come along, then,'
says he; `I'll tak' 'ee to a fust-rate shop.'

"So off we went arm in arm as thick as two peas, an' after passin'
through two or three streets he turns into a shop that smelt strong o'
coffee.

"`Hallo! mate,' says I, `you've made some sort o' mistake.  This here
ain't the right sort o' shop.'

"`O yes, it is,' says he, smilin', quite affable-like.  `The best o'
tipple here, an' cheap too.  Come along.  I've got somethin' very
partikler to say to you.  Look here, waiter--two cups o' coffee, hot an'
strong, some buttered toast, an' no end o' buns, etceterer.'

"Wi' that he led me to a seat, an' we sat down.  I was so took aback an'
amused that I waited to see what would foller an' what he'd got to say
that was so partikler--but, I say, Archie, them buffalo runners has got
the wind o' us, an' are showin' us their heels, I fear."

"Never fear," returned the boy, rising in his stirrups and shading his
eyes to look ahead.  "They do seem to be leavin' us a bit, but you see
by the dust that the buffalo are holdin' away to the right, so if we
keep still more to the right an' cut round that knoll, I think we'll be
safe to catch them up.  They're doin' good work, as the carcasses we've
passed and the rattle o' shots clearly show.  But get on wi' your story,
Jenkins."

"Well, it ain't much of a story, lad.  What Morel had to say was that
he'd arranged wi' an agent o' Lord Selkirk to come out to this country;
an' he was goin' out wi' a lot o' his relations, an' was beatin' up for
a few good hands, an' he liked the look o' me, an' would I agree to go
wi' him?

"Well, as you may believe, this was a poser, an' I said I'd think over
it, an' let him know next day.  You see, I didn't want to seem to jump
at it too eager-like, though I liked the notion, an' I had neither wife,
nor sweetheart, nor father or mother, to think about, for I'm a orphing,
you see, like yourself, Archie--only a somewhat bigger one.

"Well, when we'd finished all the coffee, an' all the buns, an' all the
etceterers, he began to advise me not to ha' nothin' more to do wi'
grog-shops.  I couldn't tell 'ee the half o' what he said--no, nor the
quarter--but he made such a impression on me that I was more than
half-convinced.  To say truth, I was so choke-full o' coffee an' buns,
an' etceterers, that I don't believe I could ha' swallowed another drop
o' liquor.

"`Where are ye goin' now?' says he, when we'd done.

"`Back to my ship,' says I.

"`Come an' ha' tea to-morrow wi' me an' my sister,' says he, `an' we'll
have another talk about Rupert's Land.'

"`I will,' says I.

"`Six o'clock, sharp,' says he.

"`Sharp's the word,' says I.

"An', sure enough, I went to his house sharp to time next day, an' there
I found him an' his sister.  She was as pretty a craft as I ever set
eyes on, wi' a modest look an' long fair ringlets--just borderin' on
nineteen or thereaway--but you know her, Archie, so I needn't say no
more."

"What! is that the same woman that's keeping house for him now in Red
River?"

"Woman!" repeated the sailor, vehemently; "she's not a woman--she's a
angel is Elise Morel.  Don't speak disrespectful of her, lad."

"I won't," returned Archie with a laugh; "but what was the upshot of it
all?"

"The upshot of it," answered the seaman, "was that I've never touched a
drop o' strong drink from that day to this, an' that I'm now blown
entirely out o' my old courses, an' am cruisin' arter the buffalo on the
plains o' Rupert's Land."

At this point, their minds being set free from the consideration of past
history, they made the discovery that the buffalo runners were nowhere
to be seen on the horizon, and that they themselves were lost on the
grassy sea.

"What _shall_ we do?" said the boy, when they had pulled up to consider
their situation.  "You see, although I came out here a good while before
you did," he added, half apologetically, "I've never been out on the
plains without a guide, and don't know a bit how to find the way back to
camp.  The prairie is almost as bad as the sea you're so fond of, with a
clear horizon all round, and nothing worth speaking of to guide us.  An'
as you have never been in the plains before, of course you know nothing.
In short, Jenkins, I greatly fear that we are lost!  Why, what are you
grinning at?"

The terminal question was induced by the fact that the tall seaman was
looking down at his anxious companion with a broad smile on his handsome
sunburnt countenance.

"So we're lost, are we, Archie?" he said, "like two sweet babes on the
prairie instead of in the woods.  An' you think I knows nothin'.  Well,
p'r'aps I don't know much, but you should remember, lad, that an old
salt wi' a compass in his wes'kit-pocket is not the man to lose his
reck'nin'.  I've got one here as'll put us all right on that score, for
I was careful to take my bearin's when we set sail, an' I've been
keepin' an eye on our course all the way.  Make your mind easy, my boy."

So saying, the sailor pulled out the compass referred to, and consulted
it.  Then he pulled out a watch of the warming-pan type, which he styled
a chronometer, and consulted that also; after which he looked up at the
clouds--seamanlike--and round the horizon, especially to windward, if we
may speak of such a quarter in reference to a day that was almost quite
calm.

"Now, Archie, boy, the upshot o' my cogitations is that with a light
breeze on our starboard quarter, a clear sky overhead, an' a clear
conscience within, you and I had better hold on our course for a little
longer, and see whether we can't overhaul the runners.  If we succeed,
good and well.  If not, why, 'bout-ship, and homeward-bound is the
sailin' orders.  What say 'ee, lad?"

"I say whatever you say, Jenkins.  If you're sure o' the way back, as
I've no doubt you are, why, there couldn't be greater fun than to go
after the buffalo on our own account.  And--I say, look there!  Isn't
that somethin' like them on the top o' the far bluff yonder?  A fellow
like you, wi' sharp sailor-eyes, ought to be able to make them out."

"You forget, lad, that I ain't a buffalo runner, an' don't know the cut
o' the brutes' jibs yet.  It does look like somethin'.  Come, we'll go
an' see."  Putting their horses to the gallop, the two curiously matched
friends, taking advantage of every knoll and hollow, succeeded in
getting sufficiently near to perceive that a small herd was grazing
quietly in a grassy bottom between two prairie waves.  They halted at
once for consultation.

"Now, then, Archie," said the sailor, examining the priming of his gun,
"here we are at last, a-goin' to begin a pitched battle.  There's this
to be said for us, that neither you nor me knows rightly how to go to
work, both on us havin' up to this time bin trained, so to speak, on
hearsay.  But what o' that?  In the language o' the immortial Nelson,
`England expec's every man to do his dooty.'  Now it seems to me my
dooty on the present occasion is to lay myself alongside of a buffalo
an' blaze away!  Isn't that the order o' battle?"

"Yes.  But don't go for a bull, and don't go too close for fear he turns
sharp round an' catches you on his horns.  You know the bulls are apt to
do that sometimes."

"Trust me, lad, I'll keep clear o' the bulls."

"And you understand how to re-load?" asked the boy.

"O yes, all right.  Dan put me thro' the gunnery practice on the way
out, an' I went through it creditably.  Only a slight hitch now and
then.  Two or three balls in the mouth ready to spit into the gun--"

"Not all at once, though, Jenkins."

"In course not, lad: one at a time: no ramming; hit the butt on the
saddle; blaze away; one down, another come on--eh?"

"That's it," said Archie, eager for the fray.  "How I wish Dan had let
me have a gun!"

"Safer not, lad.  An' keep well in rear, for I may be apt to fire wide
in the heat of action."

With this final caution, the mariner put his gun on full cock, shook the
reins, and trotted quietly forward until he saw that the buffalo had
observed him.  Then, as he afterwards expressed it, he "clapped on all
sail-stuns'ls alow and aloft, and sky-scrapers--and went into action
like a true blue British tar, with little Archie Sinclair full sail
astern."

He did not, however, come out of action with as much _eclat_ as he went
into it, but justice obliges us to admit that he came out victorious.

We cannot do better than give his own description of that action as
related beside the camp-fire that night, to a circle of admiring
friends.

"Well, you must know," he began, after finishing his supper and lighting
his pipe, "that long-legged frigate o' mine that Dan calls a chestnut--
though a cocoanut would be more like the thing, if you take size into
account--he's as keen for the chase as a small boy arter a butterfly,
an' before I could say `Jack Robinson,' a'most, he had me into the
middle o' the herd an' alongside o' the big bull.  Any one could tell it
was him, in spite o' the dust we kicked up, by reason o' the side-glance
o' his wicked little eye, his big hairy fore'id, an' his tail stickin'
out stiff like a crook'd spankerboom.

"In course I was not a-goin' to fire into him, so I gave the frigate a
dig wi' my heels--tho' I'd got no irons on 'em--an' tried to shove up
alongside of a fat young cow as was skylarkin' on ahead.  As we went
past the bull he made a vicious dab wi' his horn, and caught the frigate
on her flank--right abaft the mizzen chains, like.  Whew! you should ha'
seen what a sheer she made right away to starboard!  If it hadn't bin
that I was on the look-out, I'd ha' bin slap overboard that time, but I
see'd the squall comin', an', seizin' my brute's mane, held on like a
monkey wi' hand an' leg.

"Well, before I knew where I was, the cocoan--I mean the chestnut, had
me alongside the cow.  I stuck the muzzle a'most into her ribs, and let
drive.  Down she went by the head, fairly scuttled, an' I could hear
young Archie givin' a wild cheer astern."

"`That's the way to go it, Jenkins!' he yelled.  `Load again.'

"But it was easier said than done, I can tell you.  You see, I've bin
brought up to cartridges all my life, an' the change to pullin' a
stopper out o' a horn wi' your teeth, pourin' the powder into your left
hand, wi' the gun under your left arm, an' the pitchin' o' the frigate,
like as if it was in a cross sea, was raither perplexin'.  Hows'ever, it
had to be done, for I was alongside of another cow in a jiffy.  I nigh
knocked out two o' my front teeth in tryin' to shove the stopper in my
mouth.  Then, when I was pourin' the powder into my hand, I as near as
could be let fall the gun, which caused me to give a sort of gasp of
anxiety, when two o' the three bullets dropped out o' my mouth, but I
held on to the third wi' my teeth.  Just then a puff o' wind blew the
powder out o' my hand into the buffalo's eyes, causin' her to bellow
like a fog-horn, an' obleegin' me to pour out another charge.  I did it
hastily, as you may well believe, an' about three times what I wanted
came out.  Hows'ever, I lost a deal of it in pourin' it into the gun;
then I spat the ball in, gettin' another nasty rap on the teeth as I did
so, but I'd bit the ball so that it stuck half-way down.

"It was no time to think o' trifles.  I gave the butt an extra bang on
the pommel to send the ball home, shoved the muzzle right in among the
hair an' pulled the trigger.  There was a bang that sounded to me as if
the ship's magazine had blown up.  It was followed by a constellation o'
fire-works and--Archie Sinclair must tell you what happened arter that,
for I misremember the whole on it.  The fire-works closed the scene to
me."

Archie, nothing loath, and with glistening eyes, took up the narrative
at this point, while the hero of the hour rekindled his pipe.

"The fact is," he said, "the gun had burst--was blown to atoms; not a
bit o' the barrel left, and a great lump o' the stock struck Jenkins on
the head, stunned him, and tumbled him off his horse."

"That was the magazine explosion and fire-works," explained Jenkins.

"But the queer thing was," continued Archie, "that the buffalo fell
dead, and, on examining it, we found that a bit o' the barrel had been
driven right into its brain."

"Ay, boy, but it was queerer still that none o' the pieces struck me or
my horse 'cept that bit o' the stock.  An' I'm none the worse, barrin'
this lump on the head, that only serves to cock my hat a little more to
one side than seems becomin' to a sober-minded man."

"We were sorry to be able to bring away so little o' the meat," said
Archie, with the gravity of an old hunter; "but, you see, it was too
late to send a cart for it after we got back."

"Never mind," said Dan Davidson, when the narrative was brought to a
close, "you have done very well for a beginning."

"Moreover," added Fergus, "it iss a goot feast the wolves will be havin'
on the plains this night, an' so, Archie, I'll be wishin' ye better luck
next time."

CHAPTER NINETEEN.

BRIGHT HOPES TERMINATE IN FURIOUS WAR.

Turning once again to the colony at Red River, we introduce the reader
to the Scotch settlers in the autumn of the year--at a time when there
was some appearance of the commencement of a season of prosperity, after
all the troubles that had befallen and surrounded, and well-nigh
overwhelmed them in time past.

The Davidson and McKay families had re-established themselves on their
farms, rebuilt their houses and planted their fields, and splendid crops
of all kinds were now flourishing, ready for spade and sickle.

The soil was found to be excellent.  In after years, forty-fold was no
uncommon return.  In one case, for a bushel of barley sown, fifty-six
bushels were reaped; and from a bushel of seed potatoes were obtained
one hundred and forty-five bushels!  Industry, however, had not at that
time been rewarded with such encouraging results, but there was
sufficient to indicate cheering prospects in the near future, and to
gladden the hearts of the pioneer settlers.

As a good number of these had, under the depressing influence of
disappointment and failure in the past, neglected to sow extensively,
not a few families were forced again to winter at Pembina, and draw