CHAPTER TWELVE.
ROUND THE CAMP-FIRES.
Had any one been watching the camp-fires of the banished colonists thatnight, the last idea that would have entered the observer's mind wouldhave been that of suffering or distress.
The night was brilliantly fine, and just cold enough to make the blazingfires agreeable without being necessary--except, indeed, as a means ofcooking 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 appearanceof the people, and formed a ruddy contrast to the pure cold light of theinnumerable stars overhead, which, with their blue-black setting, werereflected in the neighbouring lake.
Over every fire pots and kettles were suspended from tripods, or restedon the half-burned logs, while impaled wild-fowl roasted in front of it.Food being in great abundance, hearts were light in spite of otheradverse circumstances, and men and women, forgetting to some extent thesufferings of the past and the dark prospects of the future, appeared toabandon themselves to the enjoyment of the present.
The children, of course, were full of glee, and not altogether empty ofmischief; and there were fortunately no infants of age so tender as toinduce a squalling protest against the discomforts of a situation whichcould be neither understood nor appreciated.
"It iss a pleesant night, whatever," remarked old McKay, lighting hispipe with a brand plucked from the fire which his family and theDavidsons shared in common; "an' if it wass always like this, it issmyself 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 ofchecking 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 roastto a cinder."
"No, Dan, I'm not--but Billie can't a-bear meat underdone, so it'sbetter to blacken the outside than have the inside raw."
"Who iss that singing? Wheesht, boys," said Fergus McKay, turning hishead a little on one side as if to listen.
There was profound silence for a few moments as a rich manly voice washeard 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 herfriend. "It is Francois La Certe. He came to our meeting-place in RedRiver, you know, just after Cuthbert Grant and his men left us, and,hearing that we were starting off to Jack River again, he resolved tofollow. 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 atthe 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 sarcasticlaugh. "Every wan knows that wherever there iss a chance of gettin'ammunition and plenty of victuals for nothing, there La Certe isscertain to be found. He knew that we would be sure to hev plenty atthis season o' the year, an' that we would not see him an' his wifesterve when our kettles wass full. Iss not that so, Okematan? You knowhim best."
Thus appealed to, the Indian, whose usual expression was one of intensegravity, 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 wellaware that he thought La Certe uncommonly sly.
The half-breed had indeed followed the expelled colonists in the beliefthat they would certainly possess plenty of powder and shot--which hehad not the means of purchasing. He also knew that the whole ofRupert's Land swarmed with game in autumn and spring, and that theScotch were an open-handed race when approached in the right way.Putting these things together, he carefully gummed his canoe, put hiswife and child into it--also some of the provision which had beensupplied to him by Duncan McKay junior--and followed the settlers overLake Winnipeg to Jack River.
Here, finding that a new party of immigrants had arrived, who werenecessarily unacquainted with his little peculiarities, La Certeattached himself to them and made himself agreeable. This he could dovery well, for the Switzers understood his bad French, as well as hisgood 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 inthe 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' Ithought 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 littlebag 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 neednot laugh. It was so sweet that men were always forced to listen tillshe 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 allour tribe--I say _our_ tribe because my mother was an Indian--with allour tribe, in a great dark gorge of the Rocky Mountains. The braves hadgone out to hunt that day, but my mother stayed behind with the womenand children. I was a little foolish child at that time--too young tohunt or fight. My father--a French Canadian--he was dead.
"We knew--my mother and I--that the braves would be home soon. Weexpected them every minute. While we were waiting for them, my motherwent into the bush to pick berries. There she discovered a war-party ofour enemies. They were preparing to attack our village, for they knewthe 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, andmade them get ready to fly to meet the returning men.
"`But, my daughter,' said an old chief, who had stayed in camp, `ourenemies are young and active; they will quickly overtake us before wemeet our men.'
"`No,' said my mother, `I will stop them. Get ready, and set offquickly.'
"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 topass. A very thick tree grew there. She climbed it, and hid among thebranches. It projected beyond a precipice and overhung a stream. Soonafter that she saw the enemy advancing, step by step, slowly,cautiously, like men who dread an ambush, and with glances quick andsolemn from side to side, like men who see a foe in every stump andstone."
La Certe paused at this point. He was an adept at story-telling. Hisvoice had slowed by degrees and become increasingly deep and solemn ashe proceeded.
"Now," continued he, in a higher tone, "my mother did not fear that theywould see her if they looked up when they passed the tree. She was toowell hidden for that; but she was not sure what the effect of her voicewould be, for she had never tried it in that way before. However, shewas full of courage. She resembled me in that--bold as a lion! Shebegan 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 positionin which he was fixed. If a foot was up he kept it up. If both feetwere down he left them down. The feet that were up came slowly to theground when the Indians got tired, but no one took another step. Mymother's voice was a weird voice. It sounded as if the place f
rom whichit came was nowhere--or anywhere--or everywhere! Slowly the paintedheads turned from side to side as far as they could go, and the glaringeyes turned a little further. A creeping fear came over them. Theytrembled. They turned pale. That could be easily seen through thepaint. My mother saw it! She became more courageous and sang out inher most pathetic strain. The Indians wept. That was quite visible.My mother saw it. Her great object was to delay the attack until ourmen had time to arrive. She tried a war-song, but that was not sosuccessful. It was too commonplace. Besides, in her energy she shookthe branches, and that drew attention to the tree. My mother thoughtthat she was in danger then; but fortune favoured her. It alwaysfavours the brave. I know this from experience.
"She had just come to a terrific whoop in the war-song when she slippedoff her branch and the whoop increased to a death-yell as she wentcrashing headlong through the branches and down into the stream at thefoot of the precipice.
"Water! water!" exclaimed La Certe at this point, holding out bothhands. "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 herdestiny was not yet fulfilled. No: there was a deep pool right underthe tree. She fell into that with a plunge that echoed from cliff tocliff. The Indians were profoundly superstitious. All Indians are notso, but these Indians were. They waited not for more. They turned andfled as if all the evil spirits in the Rocky Mountains were chasingthem. They reached their wigwams breathless, and told their squaws thatone of the spirits of a mountain stream had sat among the branches of atree and sung to them. It had told them that the right time forattacking their foes had not yet come. Then it sang them a war-songdescriptive of their final victory, and, just after uttering atremendous 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, forshe taught me."
"Was it a long swim?" asked a sceptical sailor, who was one of theemigrants.
"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 motherhad 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 thesceptic, whose name was Fred Jenkins, "for I've lived a while in France,and understand your lingo pretty well. Pass that goose, Morel, if youhave 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 theconfidence of the Swiss party, shook it enough to show the wilyhalf-breed that he must do something if possible to re-establish hiscredit. He therefore volunteered another song, which was gladlyaccepted and highly appreciated; for, as we have said, La Certepossessed a really good and tuneful voice, and these immigrants were amusical people.
While this was going on at the Swiss camp-fires an incident occurred atthe fire round which the McKay-Davidson party was assembled, whichdeserves particular notice.
Old McKay was giving some directions to Fergus; Duncan junior was seatedopposite Dan Davidson, smoking his pipe, and Elspie had gone into hertent, when Slowfoot, the spouse of La Certe, drew near.
"Come along, old girl," exclaimed McKay senior. "It iss some baccy youwill be wantin', I'll wager."
Slowfoot did not reply in words, but the smile upon her face waseloquent.
"Come away, then," continued the hospitable Highlander. "You shall heva pipe of it, whatever."
He handed her a large plug of tobacco, and the woman, sitting down closeto young Duncan, produced her pipe, and drew out a knife for the purposeof 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 themoment he had quite forgotten that the knife had been left in the campwhere he had slain Perrin, and the sudden sight of it had thrown him offhis guard. It was now too late to unsay the words, but not too late tomislead 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 examiningit with cool and critical deliberation.
"No," continued he, "it iss not mine, but very like one that I lost--solike that I felt sure at first it wass mine."
Men who lie, usually overact their part. Duncan glanced suspiciously atDan to see how he took the explanation as he returned the knife toSlowfoot, and Dan observed the glance, as being uncalled for--unnatural--in the circumstances.
Dan was by no means of a suspicious nature, nevertheless the glancehaunted him for many a day after that. Suspicion once aroused is aghost which is not easily laid. He tried to shake it off, and hecarefully, loyally, kept it confined in his own breast; but, do what hewould, he could not banish entirely from his mind that Duncan McKay--thebrother of his Elspie--had some sort of guilty knowledge of the murderof poor Henri Perrin.