"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 their supplies from the chase to avoid consuming all the seed which alone ensured them against famine. Among these were the Swiss families, most of whom, being watch and clock makers, pastry-cooks, mechanics and musicians, were not well adapted for agricultural pursuits. Perhaps they were as ill-adapted for the chase, but seed takes time to sow and grow, whereas animals need no prolonged nursing—at least from man—and are quickly killed if one can shoot.

The young leader of the Switzers, however, Andre Morel, soon left his party at Pembina under the care of his lieutenant, and returned to Red River Settlement, bent on mastering the details of husbandry, so as to be able afterwards to direct the energies of his compatriots into a more profitable occupation than the chase.

For this purpose, he sought and obtained employment with the Davidsons in the new and enlarged edition of Prairie Cottage. His sister, Elise, was engaged by old McKay to act as companion and assistant to his daughter Elspie. Both the curly-haired Andre and the fair, blue-eyed Elise, proved to be invaluable acquisitions in the households in which they had found a home, for both were lively, intelligent companions, hard workers at whatever they undertook, and were possessed of sweet melodious voices. Andre also performed on the violin, an instrument which has played a prominent part in the wild Nor'-West ever since the white-man set down his foot there.

"What do you think, Elspie, of my brother's plan, of taking the farm just below this one, after he has had enough experience to be able to work it himself?" asked Elise.

"It will be very nice to have him settled so near us. Do you think he will take the whole of it?"

"I think so. You see, the terms on which the Earl has granted the land are so easy, and the supplies of goods, oatmeal, clothing, and farm implements sent us so generous, that Andre finds he will have money enough to enable him to start. Then, that strong, good-natured seaman, Fred Jenkins, has actually agreed to serve as a man on the farm for a whole year for nothing, except, of course, his food and lodging. Isn't it generous of him?"

"Do you know why he is going to serve him for nothing?" asked Elspie, with a quick look and smile.

"No—I do not," returned fair little Elise with an innocent look. "Do you?"

"O no—of course I don't; I can only guess," replied her companion with a light laugh. "Perhaps it is because he knows his services as a farm servant can't be worth much at first."

"There you are wrong," returned Elise, stoutly. "No doubt he is ignorant, as yet, about sowing and reaping and the like, but he is wonderfully strong—just like a giant at lifting and carrying-and he has become quite knowing about horses, and carting, and such things. All that he stipulates for is that he shall board in our house. He says he'll manage, somehow, to make enough money to buy all the clothes he wants."

"What a delightful kind of servant," said Elspie, with an arch look, which was quite thrown away on Elise, "and so disinterested to do it without any reason."

"O! but he must have some reason, you know," rejoined Elise. "I shouldn't wonder if it was out of gratitude to my brother who was very kind to him—so he says—the first time they met."

"Did he say that was his reason?" asked Elspie quickly.

"No, he did not say so, but he has said more than once that he feels very grateful to my brother, and it has just occurred to me that that may be his reason. It would be very natural—wouldn't it?"

"Oh, very natural!—very!" returned the other. "But d'you know, Elise, I don't like your brother's plan at all."

"No! why?"

"Because, don't you see, foolish girl, that it will take you away from me? You will, of course, want to keep house for your brother, and I have become so used to you, short though our intercourse has been, that I don't see how I can get on at all without you?"

"Never mind, Elspie, dear. It will be a long while before Andre is ready to take the farm. Besides, by that time, you know, you and Dan will be married, so you won't miss me much—though I confess I should like you to miss me a little."

Elspie sighed at this point. "I suspect that our marriage will not be so soon as you think, Elise," she said. "Dan has tried to arrange it more than once, but there seems to be a fate against it, for something always comes in the way!"

"Surely nothing will happen this time," said the sympathetic Elise. "Everything begins to prosper now. The crops are beautiful; the weather is splendid; the house is ready to begin to—all the logs are cut and squared. Your father is quite willing, and Dan wishing for the day— what more could you desire, Elspie?"

"Nothing; all seems well, but—" She finished the sentence with another sigh.

While the two friends were thus conversing in the dairy, old McKay and Dan Davidson were talking on the same subject in the hall of Ben Nevis.

"It iss a curious fact, Taniel," said the old man, with a pleased look, "that it wass in this fery room in the old hoose that wass burnt, and about the same time of the year, too, that you would be speakin' to me about this fery thing. An' I do not think that we will be troubled this time wi' the Nor'-Westers, whatever—though wan never knows what a tay may bring furth."

"That is the very reason, sir," said Davidson, "that I want to get married at once, so that if anything does happen again I may claim the right to be Elspie's protector."

"Quite right, my boy, quite right; though I must say I would like to wait till a real munister comes out; for although Mr Sutherland iss a fery goot man, an' an elder too, he iss not chust exactly a munister, you know, as I have said before. But have it your own way, Tan. If my little lass is willin', old Tuncan McKay won't stand in your way."

That night the inhabitants of Red River lay down to sleep in comfort and to dream, perchance, of the coming, though long delayed, prosperity that had hitherto so often eluded their grasp.

Next day an event occurred which gave the poor settlers new cause for grief amounting almost to despair.

Dan Davidson and Elspie were walking on the verandah in front of Ben Nevis at the time. It was a warm sunny afternoon. All around looked the picture of peace and prosperity.

"Does it not seem, Dan, as if all the troubles we have gone through were a dark dream—as if there never had been any reality in them?" said Elspie.

"It does indeed seem so," responded Dan, "and I hope and trust that we shall henceforth be able to think of them as nothing more than a troubled dream."

"What iss that you will be sayin' about troubled dreams?" asked old McKay, coming out of the house at the moment.

"We were just saying, daddy, that all our troubles seem—"

"Look yonder, Tan," interrupted the old man, pointing with his pipe-stem to a certain part of the heavens. "What iss it that I see? A queer cloud, whatever! I don't remember seein' such a solid cloud as that in all my experience."

"It is indeed queer. I hope it's not what Fred Jenkins would call a 'squall brewin' up,' for that wouldn't improve the crops."

"A squall!" exclaimed Jenkins, who chanced to come round the corner of the house at the moment, with a spade on his shoulder. "That's never a squall—no, nor a gale, nor a simoon, nor anything else o' the sort that I ever heard of. Why, it's growin' bigger an' bigger!"

He shaded his eyes with his hand, and looked earnestly at the object in question, which did indeed resemble a very dense, yet not a black, cloud. For some moments the four spectators gazed in silence. Then old McKay suddenly dropped his pipe, and looked at Dan with an expression of intense solemnity.

"It iss my belief," he said in a hoarse whisper, "that it is them wee deevils the grasshoppers!"

A very few minutes proved old McKay's surmise to be correct. Once before, the colony had been devastated by this plague, and the memory of the result was enough to alarm the most courageous among the settlers who had experienced the calamity, though the new arrivals, being ignorant, were disposed to regard the visitation lightly at first. McKay himself became greatly excited when the air became darkened by the cloud, which, ever increasing in size, rapidly approached.

"Haste ye, lads," he cried to some of the farm-servants who had joined the group on the verandah, "get your spades, picks, an' shovels. Be smart now: it is not possible to save all the crops, but we may try to save the garden, whatever. Follow me!"

The garden referred to was not large or of great importance, but it was a favourite hobby of the Highlander, and, at the time, was in full bloom, luxuriant with fruit, flower, and vegetable. To save it from destruction at such a time, McKay would have given almost anything, and have gone almost any lengths. On this occasion, not knowing what to do, yet impelled by his eagerness to do something, he adopted measures that he had heard of as being used in other lands. He ordered a trench to be cut and filled with water on the side of his garden nearest the approaching plague, which might—if thoroughly carried out—have been of some use against wingless grasshoppers but could be of no use whatever against a flying foe. It would have taken an army of men to carry out such an order promptly, and his men perceived this; but the master was so energetic, so violent in throwing off his coat and working with his own hand at pick and shovel, that they were irresistibly infected with his enthusiasm, and set to work.

Old Duncan, did not, however, wield pick or shovel long. He was too excited for that. He changed from one thing to another rapidly. Fires were to be kindled along the line of defence, and he set the example in this also. Then he remembered that blankets and other drapery had been used somewhere with great effect in beating back the foe; therefore he shouted wildly for his daughter and Elise Morel.

"Here we are, father: what can we do?"

"Go, fetch out all the blankets, sheets, table-cloths, an' towels in the house, girls. It iss neck or nothin' this tay. Be smart, now! Take men to help ye."

Two men were very busy there piling up little heaps of firewood, namely, Dan Davidson and Fred Jenkins. What more natural than that these two, on hearing the order given about blankets and table-cloths, etcetera, should quit the fires and follow Elspie and Elise into the house!

In the first bedroom into which they entered they found Archie and Billie Sinclair, the latter seated comfortably in an arm-chair close to a window, the former wild with delight at the sudden demand on all his energies. For Archie had been one of the first to leap to the work when old McKay gave the order. Then he had suddenly recollected his little helpless brother, and had dashed round to Prairie Cottage, got him on his back, run with him to Ben Nevis Hall, placed him as we have seen in a position to view the field of battle, and then, advising him to sit quietly there and enjoy the fun, had dashed down-stairs to resume his place in the forefront of battle!

He had run up again for a moment to inquire how Little Bill was getting on, when the blanket and sheet searchers found them.

"All right," he exclaimed, on learning what they came for; "here you are. Look alive! Don't stir, Little Bill!"

He hurled the bedding from a neighbouring bedstead as he spoke, tore several blankets from the heap, and tumbled rather than ran down-stairs with them, while the friends he had left behind followed his example.

By that time all the inmates and farm-servants of Prairie Cottage had assembled at Ben Nevis Hall, attracted either by sympathy or curiosity as to the amazing fracas which old McKay was creating. Of course they entered into the spirit of the preparations, so that when the enemy at last descended on them they found the garrison ready. But the defenders might as well have remained quiet and gone to their beds.

Night was drawing near at the time, and was, as it were, precipitated by the grasshoppers, which darkened the whole sky with what appeared to be a heavy shower of snow.

The fires were lighted, water was poured into the trench, and the two households fought with blanket, sheet, counterpane, and towel, in a manner that proved the courage of the ancient heroes to be still slumbering in men and women of modern days.

But what could courage do against such overwhelming odds? Thousands were slaughtered. Millions pressed on behind.

"Don't give in, lads," cried the heroic and desperate Highlander, wielding a great green blanket in a way that might have roused the admiration if not the envy of Ajax himself. "Keep it up, Jenkins!"

"Ay, ay, sir!" responded the nautical warrior, as he laid about him with an enormous buffalo robe, which was the only weapon that seemed sufficiently suited to his gigantic frame; "never say die as long as there's a shot in the locker."

Elise stood behind him, lost in admiration, and giving an imbecile flap now and then with a towel to anything that happened to come in front of her.

Elspie was more self-possessed. She tried to wield a jack-towel with some effect, while Dan, Fergus, Duncan junior, Bourassin, Andre Morel, and others ably, but uselessly, supported their heroic leader. La Certe, who chanced to be there at the time, went actively about encouraging others to do their very best. Old Peg made a feeble effort to do what she conceived to be her duty, and Okematan stood by, calmly looking on—his grave countenance exhibiting no symptom of emotion, but his mind filled with intense surprise, not unmingled with pity, for the Palefaces who displayed such an amount of energy in attempting the impossible.

That self-defence, in the circumstances, was indeed impossible soon became apparent, for the enemy descended in such clouds that they filled up the half-formed ditch, extinguished the fires with their dead bodies, defied the blanket-warriors, and swarmed not only into the garden of old Duncan McKay but overwhelmed the whole land.

Darkness and exhaustion from the fight prevented the people of Ben Nevis Hall and Prairie Cottage from at first comprehending the extent of the calamity with which they had thus been visited, but enough had been seen to convince McKay that his garden was doomed. When he at last allowed the sad truth to force itself into his mind he suffered Elspie to lead him into the house.

"Don't grieve, daddy," she said, in a low comforting tone; "perhaps it won't be as bad as it seems."

"Fetch me my pipe, lass," he said on reaching his bedroom.

"Goot-night to you, my tear," he added, on receiving the implement of consolation.

"Won't you eat—or drink—something, daddy dear?"

"Nothing—nothing. Leave me now. We hev had a goot fight, whatever, an' it iss to bed I will be goin' now."

Left alone the old man lay down in his warrior-harness, so to speak, lighted his pipe, smoked himself into a sort of philosophical contempt for everything under the sun, moon, and stars, and finally dropped his sufferings, as well as his pipe, by falling into a profound slumber.