CHAPTER TWENTY SIX.
HOME-COMING AND BARGAINING.
The return of the hunting party to Red River Settlement was anillustration of the uncertainty of all human affairs. They went forthrejoicing in all the strength of youth and manhood; they returned insorrow, with one at least of the strong men reduced to the last stage ofweakness.
We would not be understood to refer to this in a pessimistic spirit. Onthe contrary, the optimistic view suggests the very same idea ofuncertainty, though in a pleasant aspect; for does not many a day thatdawns in cloud and rain progress to brilliant sunshine? while equallytrue it is that many a life which begins in sorrow culminates in joy.
Okematan, who was intensely philosophical and inquisitive, had beencarrying on a semi-speculative conversation with Billie on this verysubject while descending the Red River towards Prairie Cottage--much tothe perplexity of the invalid, who scarce knew how to answer the chief'squeries, and greatly to the interest of Archie, who wondered at LittleBill's powers of reply.
"By the way," said Archie, "when you two have settled that knotty point,will you tell me who is to take the news of Dan's accident to MrsDavidson? We'll have to carry him up to the house, you know, on ablanket 'tween two poles, an' she'll be sure to think that he's dead, orhas been killed, an' that'll half-kill _her_, it'll give her such afright. Somebody will have to go on ahead and tell her."
"I will, if you like," said Billie; "if you'll only carry me up to thegarden gate and set me down, I can easily walk up the path."
This proposal had just been agreed to when the whole flotilla of canoespaddled up alongside of the bank close under Prairie Cottage.
It was evening at the time. The Davidson family was at supper, and asthe canoes had approached very quietly, with Dan in the leading one, noperson stood on the bank to welcome them.
"It's as well they don't know," said Archie, jumping on shore. "Now,Little Bill, come along, and I'll carry you to the gate while they'rearranging matters for Dan."
Seated at the foot of the family table was Peter Davidson. He could seethe garden path through the window.
"Hallo! mother," he exclaimed, dropping his knife and fork, "there isLittle Bill or his ghost coming up the track."
"Impossible, Peter," said the good lady, with, however, a look ofanxiety which showed she believed that, or something else, to be quitepossible.
"Look for yourself, mother," cried Peter, springing up and running out.
"It _is_ Billie," said Jessie, reflecting her mother's anxiety; "whatcan have brought them back so soon?"
Peter re-entered at the moment with Little Bill in his arms. He set theboy down and again ran out.
Taking the widow's trembling hand in both of his, Billie addressed heras "mother," like the rest of the family.
"Dan has been hurt," he said, in his soft way, "and he's come home toget well. They will bring him up directly."
"Is he too ill to walk?" asked the widow.
"No, not too ill--but too weak," answered the matter-of-fact Billie."Indeed he is not ill at all, but he has lost a _heap_ of blood, forthey shot him."
Jessie waited to hear no more, but immediately followed Peter, and thesmall servant Louise followed suit; leaving the widow in a half-faintingcondition with the boy. But she did not remain long thus, for just thenold Duncan McKay entered by the back-door.
"It will be bad news you've been hearin', Mrs Davidson," he said, insome surprise, pouring out a glass of water as he spoke, andconsiderately handing it to the widow.
"Yes--O yes! I've just heard that Dan has been shot."
"Bless my soul!" exclaimed the horrified old man, almost falling into achair. "Iss--iss he tead?"
"No, thank God--only weak from loss of blood. He'll be here directly."
"That iss goot news--whatever; for as long as there's life there'shope."
Trying to comfort himself, as well as his friend, with this truism, theold man staggered out of the house in search of those who had gonebefore.
Soon a sad procession was seen coming up the path, led by Archie. Fourmen carried Dan on a rudely-extemporised litter. His bloodless face andlips gave him the appearance of death, but the glow in his eyes told ofstill unexhausted life.
"I'll be all right, mother," he said feebly, as they laid him on hisbed. "I only want food and rest. Thank God--home at last!"
As he spoke, a quiet step was heard, and Elspie, with a face as pale ashis own, knelt by his bedside and took his hand.
That touch was the first impulse the youth received towards decidedrecovery. Old McKay perceived the change in his countenance.
"Yes, yes! ay, ay!" he exclaimed, pacing violently up and down the room,"he wants nothin' but victuals an' rest--steaks an' shops, and plenty o'whusky an' water--hot. Don't be croodin' about him an' botherin' him.Come away, and leave him to his mother, an' send for the doctor. Has nowan gone for him yet?"
"Yes; Peter has just started. I heard the clatter of his horse's feet,"said Jessie.
"It iss not the doctor that will put him right, whatever," muttered theold man, as he left the room, followed by most of the family.
And the doctor himself held the same opinion; for he said, on returningto the reception hall after seeing his patient--
"It will be a considerable time before he recovers, for the fountain oflife had been well-nigh drained when he fortunately extemporised thattourniquet. But there's no fear of him: all that he wants is food,rest, and peace of mind."
"An' whusky, doctor," added old McKay. "Don't forget the best pheesic;an' I hev goot store of it, too, in my cellar at Ben Nevis."
"I'm not so sure about the whisky, Mr McKay," returned the doctor witha laugh. "I think we shall manage to pull him through without that."
The other requisites for recovery were applied without stint at PrairieCottage; for, despite the misfortune which had attended the cultivationof the soil, the Davidsons had a little money, which enabled them to buyprovisions and other necessaries, obtainable from the Hudson BayCompany, and thus tide over the disastrous year in greater comfort thanfell to the lot of many of the other settlers.
Thus Dan was well looked after. His brother Peter found the food--atleast much of it--on the prairie and in the woods; his sister Jessiecooked it; Louise helped, looked on, and learned; home afforded rest;Elspie supplied the peace of mind--at least as much of it as it waspossible for a fellow-mortal to supply; and his mother superintendedall. Add to this that Archie Sinclair cheered him with miscellaneousgossip; that Little Bill read to him, or entertained him with serioustalk and grave speculation; that Andre Morel and his sister oftenentertained him with song; that on such occasions Jenkins, the sailor,frequently amused him with nautical tales; that old Peg sometimes camefrom Ben Nevis to gaze at him tenderly; and that Okematan came to glareat him more or less affectionately--and we have said enough to warrantthe conclusion that Dan Davidson had a pretty good time of it in spiteof his weak condition.
Nevertheless Dan was not quite happy. He could not get rid of thememory of Henri Perrin's murder, and the terrible thought that Elspie'sbrother Duncan had some sort of guilty knowledge of it. These thoughtshe buried deep, however, in his own breast, and even tried to forgetthem. Vain effort! for does it not stand to reason that the thing westrive most earnestly to forget is the very thing which, by that effort,we are fixing with a deeper stamp on memory?
Francois La Certe was somewhat exercised about the same question, aboutthe same time.
That estimable member of the colony was seated one fine day on the banksof the river fishing for goldeyes--a small fish about the size of aplump herring. His amiable spouse was helping, or rather fishing withhim. It was a fine healthy, contemplative occupation; one thatadmirably suited their tendency to repose, and at the same time filledthem with that virtuous sensation which awaits those who know that theyare engaged in useful occupation--for were not goldeyes the best ofeating?
Branches of trees were their primitive rods, twine
their simple lines,grasshoppers their bait, and a violent jerk their method.
"Slowfoot!" said La Certe.
"My husband!" or some such Indian phrase, answered the woman.
"I have been wondering for a long time now why--hi!--no! I thoughtthere was something at my bait--but it was deception. Nothing is sounreal as the bite of the goldeye--when it is not there. It brings tomind the lights in the sky of winter, which dance and shoot--and yetthey are not. Hi! ho!--I have him. I was mistaken. I thought the fish_was_ not--but it was."
While speaking La Certe sent a small fish with bursting violence on thegrass behind him. Almost at the same moment Slowfoot landed another,with less violence and more coolness.
"What was I saying, Slowfoot?" asked the half-breed, when the hooks hadbeen re-baited, and their eyes were riveted on their respective floats.
"Nothing that any one could remember," answered his truthful spouse.
"Now I remember--ho! was that another?"
"No, it was not," answered his matter-of-fact helpmate.
"Where is our child?" asked the father, with that wayward wandering ofmind which is a not uncommon characteristic of genius.
"Smoking in the tent," answered the mother.
"And with my pipe, no doubt," said the father, laying down his rod andsearching in the bag in which he was wont to carry, among other things,his pipe and tobacco.
A cry of pain from the tent in question--which was close behind thepair--apprised the parents that something was wrong. Immediately theirfirst and only one issued with a tobacco pipe in one hand and a burntfinger on the other. It came to the father for sympathy, and got it.That is to say, La Certe put the burnt finger in his mouth for a moment,and uttered some guttural expressions of sympathy. Having thusfulfilled duty and relieved conscience, he exchanged the finger for thepipe-stem, and began to smoke. The spoiled, as well as despoiled, childuttered a howl of indignation, and staggered off to its mother; but shereceived it with a smile of affectionate indifference, whereupon theinjured creature went back to the tent, howling, and, apparently, howleditself to sleep.
Again La Certe broke the piscatorial spell that had settled down onthem, and, taking up the thread of discourse where he had dropped it,repeated his statement that he had been wondering for a long time whyCloudbrow, _alias_ young Duncan McKay, was so sharp and fierce indenying that he knew anything about the murder of Henri Perrin.
"Hee! hee!" was Slowfoot's significant reply.
"Can Slowfoot not guess?" he asked, after attending to a hopeful nibble,which came to nothing.
"Slowfoot need not guess; she _knows_," said the woman with an air ofgreat mystery.
"What does Slowfoot know?"
The woman's answer to this was a look of exceeding slyness. But thisdid not content her lord, who, after repeated questions, and a threat toresort to extreme measures in case of continued refusal, drew from her adistinct answer.
"Slowfoot knows that Cloudbrow _killed_ Perrin."
"Sh!" exclaimed La Certe, with a look of real concern, "I am not yettired of you, Slowfoot; and if old McKay hears you say that he willshoot you."
"Slowfoot is not a fool," retorted the woman: "the old man will neverhear her say that. What has Slowfoot got to do with it? She can holdher tongue!"
"She can do that, for certain," returned her husband with good-naturedsarcasm. "In that, as in many things, she excels other women. I wouldnever have married her had it not been so. But how do you come to be sosure?"
"I know the knife," returned the woman, becoming more literal as shewent on, "and Marie Blanc knows it. Her husband once got the loan of itfrom Cloudbrow, and she looked at it with care, because she had neverseen such a knife before. She knew all its marks. Why does Cloudbrowdeny that it is his? Because it was Cloudbrow who killed Perrin. If ithad been anybody else he would have known it, and he would have saidso--for he was _there_."
"How know you that he was there?"
"Marie Blanc knows. She netted the snowshoes that Cloudbrow wore, andshe saw the footprints."
"But pairs of snowshoes are very like each other," objected La Certe.
"Very like. Yes; but did ever two shoes have the same mends in the sameplaces of the netting, where it had been broken, and the same marks onthe frames?"
"Never. It will go hard with Cloudbrow if this is true."
"It will go hard with him whether it is true or not," returned thewoman; "for some of the friends of Perrin believe it to be true, andswear--"
The disappearance of Slowfoot's float at this moment stopped herswearing, and brought the conversation to an abrupt end. The landing ofanother goldeye prevented its resumption.
Having caught more than enough for a good supper, this easy-going pairleaned their rods against a tree, and ascended the bank towards theirtent, which was an ordinary conical Indian wigwam, composed partly ofleather and partly of birch-bark, with a curtain for a door and a holein the top for a window; it also served for a chimney.
On the way they encountered one of the poor Swiss immigrants, who,having a wife and family, and having been unsuccessful inbuffalo-hunting, and indeed in all other hunting, was in a state whichbordered on starvation.
"You have been lucky," said the Switzer, eyeing La Certe's fishgreedily.
"Sometimes luck comes to us--not often," answered the half-breed. "Haveyou caught any?"
"Yes, two small ones. Here they are. But what are these among threechildren and a wife? I know not how to fish," said the mountaineerdisconsolately.
The fact was not surprising, for the poor man was a watchmaker by trade,and had never handled rod or gun till he was, as it were, cast adrift inRupert's Land.
"I will sell you some of my fish," said La Certe, who on all occasionshad a keen eye for a bargain.
"Good! I am ready to buy," said the poor fellow, "but I have not muchto spend. Only last week I gave my silver watch for eight gallons ofwheat. I meant it for seed, but my wife and children were starving, sowe were have no seed and only five shillings to spare."
"Well, my friend," said La Certe, "fish is very scarce just now, but youmay have five goldeyes for your five shillings."
"O! that is too much," remonstrated the Switzer.
"No, no," interrupted the half-breed, amiably, "by no means--but if youreally think it too much fish for the money I will give you fourgoldeyes!"
"Come, you know I don't mean that," returned the other, with a cynicalsmile. "Make it six, and I will agree. And here is a pinch of snuff into the bargain."
He pulled out a box as he spoke, and opened it.
"Ha!" said La Certe, helping himself. "I love snuff, and so does mywife. Do you not?"
Slowfoot answered, "Hee! hee!" and helped herself to as much as a goodbroad finger and thumb could grasp, after which she sneezed withviolence.
"Now, behold! my friend--a-wheesht!" said La Certe, sneezing a bassaccompaniment to Slowfoot's treble. "I will give you a catfish--a wholecatfish for--a-wheesht!--for that box and snuff."
The Switzer shook his head.
"Nay," he said. "The snuff you may have, but the box was the gift of afriend, and I am loath to part with it. Besides, the box is of littlereal value."
"You may have the head of the catfish for the snuff, and the wholecatfish for the box," said La Certe, with the firmness of a man who hasirrevocably made up his mind--for there are none so firm of purpose asthe weak and vacillating when they know they have got the whip-hand ofany one! "And, behold! I will be liberal," he added. "You shall haveanother goldeye into the bargain--six goldeyes for the five shillingsand a whole catfish for the box and snuff--voila!" The poor Switzerstill hesitated.
"It is a great deal to give for so little," he said.
"That may be true," said the other, "but I would not see my familystarve for the satisfaction of carrying a snuff-box and five shillingsin my pocket."
This politic reference to the starving family decided the matter; thepoor Switzer emptied his
pockets with a sigh, received the fish, andwent on his way, leaving La Certe and Slowfoot to return to their wigwamhighly pleased with their bargain. As must have been noted by thereader long ere now, this like-minded couple did not possess aconscience between them--at least, if they did, it must at that timehave been a singularly shrunken and mummified one, which they hadmanaged to keep hidden away in some dark and exceedingly un-get-at-ablechamber of the soul.
Commercially speaking, however, they had some ground for satisfaction;for at that time the ordinary price of a catfish, which is a littlelarger than a haddock, was threepence.
Awakening the juvenile La Certe to the blissful realisation that a good"square" meal was pending, Slowfoot ordered it to fill and light thepipe for the father, while she set about preparing the fish for supper.