Next morning when the people of Red River arose, they became fully aware of the disaster that had befallen them. The grasshoppers had made what Jenkins styled a clean sweep from stem to stern. Crops, gardens, and every green herb in the settlement had perished; and all the sanguine hopes of the long-suffering settlers were blighted once more.

Before passing from this subject it may be as well to mention that the devastating hosts which visited the colony at this time left behind them that which turned out to be a worse affliction than themselves. They had deposited their larvae in the ground, and, about the end of the June following, countless myriads of young grasshoppers issued forth to overrun the fields. They swarmed in such masses as to be two, three, and—in some places near water—even four inches deep. Along the rivers they were found in heaps like sea-weed, and the water was almost poisoned by them. Every vegetable substance was devoured—the leaves and even bark of trees were eaten up, the grain vanished as fast as it appeared above ground, everything was stripped to the bare stalk, and ultimately, when they died in myriads, the decomposition of their dead bodies was more offensive than their living presence.

Thus the settlers were driven by stress of misfortune once again to the plains of Pembina, and obliged to consort with the Red-men and the half-breeds, in obtaining sustenance for their families by means of the gun, line, trap, and snare.



CHAPTER TWENTY.

LITTLE BILL BECOMES A DIFFICULTY.

We must now pass over another winter, during which the Red River settlers had to sustain life as they best might—acquiring, however, in doing so, an expertness in the use of gun and trap and fishing-line, and in all the arts of the savages, which enabled them to act with more independence, and to sustain themselves and their families in greater comfort than before.

Spring, with all its brightness, warmth, and suggestiveness had returned to cheer the hearts of men; and, really, those who have never experienced the long six-or-eight-months' winter of Rupert's Land can form no conception of the feelings with which the body—to say nothing of the soul—opens up and expands itself, so to speak, in order to receive and fully appreciate the sweet influences of spring.

For one thing, seven or eight months of cold, biting, steely frost causes one almost to forget that there ever was such a thing as summer heat, summer scents, summer sounds, or summer skies. The first thaw is therefore like the glad, unexpected meeting of a dear old friend; and the trumpet voice of the first goose, the whirring wing of the first duck, and the whistle of the first plover, sounds like the music of the spheres to one's long unaccustomed ears. Then the trickle of water gives one something like a new sensation. It may be but a thread of liquid no thicker than a pipe-stem faintly heard by an attentive ear tinkling in the cold depths far under the ice or snow, but it is liquid, not solid, water. It is suggestive of motion. It had almost been forgotten as a sound of the long past which had forsaken the terrestrial ball for ever.

It does not take a powerful imagination to swell a tiny stream to a rivulet, a river, a lake, a mighty ocean. Shut your eyes for a moment, and, in memory, the ice and snow vanish; the streams flow as in the days of old; flowers come again to gladden the eyes and—but why trouble you, good reader, with all this? We feel, sadly, that unless you have tasted the northern winter no description, however graphic, will enable you to drink in the spirit of the northern spring.

About this time Okematan, the Cree chief, took it into his head that he would go a-hunting.

This last word does not suggest to a dweller in the wilderness that crossing of ploughed lands on horseback, and leaping of hedges, etcetera, which it conveys to the mind of an Englishman. The Cree chief's notion of spring-hunting was, getting into a birch-bark canoe, with or without a comrade, and going forth on the lakes and rivers of the wilderness with plenty of powder and shot, to visit the native home of the wild-goose, the wild-duck, the pelican, the plover, and the swan.

For such a trip not much is essential. Besides the gun and ammunition referred to, Okematan carried a blanket, a hatchet, several extra pairs of moccasins, a tin kettle in which to boil food, a fire-bag for steel, flint, and tinder, with a small supply of tobacco.

On hearing of his intention, Dan Davidson resolved to accompany him. Dan had by that time associated so much with the chief that he had learned to speak his language with facility. Indeed nearly all the settlers who had a turn for languages had by that time acquired a smattering more or less of Indian and French.

"You see," said Dan to the chief, "there is not much doing on the farm just now, and I want to see a little of the country round about, so, if you don't object to my company, I'd like to go."

"The Cree chief will be proud to have the company of the Paleface chief," replied the Indian, with grave courtesy.

Dan wanted to say "All right," but was ignorant of the Cree equivalent for that familiar phrase; he therefore substituted the more sober and correct, "It is well."

"But," said he, "you must not call me a Paleface chief, for I am only an ordinary man in my own land—what you would call one of the braves."

"Okematan is thought to have a good judgment among his people," returned the Indian, "though he has not the snows of many winters on his head, and he thinks that if Dan'el had stayed in the wigwams of his people beyond the Great Salt Lake, he would have been a chief."

"It may be so, Okematan, though I doubt it," replied Dan, "but that is a point which cannot now be proved. Meanwhile, my ambition at present is to become a great hunter, and I want you to teach me."

The chief, who was gratified by the way in which this was put, gladly agreed to the proposal.

"There is another man who would like to go with us," said Davidson. "My friend, Fergus McKay, is anxious, I know, to see more of the lands of the Indian. You have no objection to his going, I suppose?—in another canoe of course, for three would be too many in your small canoe."

Okematan had no objection.

"Three would not be too many in the canoe," he said, "but two are better for hunting."

"Very good. But we will want a fourth to make two in each canoe. Whom shall we invite?"

"Okematan's counsel is," answered the chief, "to take a brave who is young and strong and active; whose eye is quick and his hand steady; whose heart never comes into his throat when danger faces him; whose face does not grow pale at the sight of approaching death; whose heart is as the heart of the grisly bear for courage, and yet tender as the heart of a Paleface squaw; whose hand can accomplish whatever his head plans, and whose tongue is able to make a sick man smile."

Davidson smiled to himself at this description, which the chief uttered with the sententious gravity that would have characterised his speech and bearing in a council of war.

"A most notable comrade, good Okematan; but where are we to find him, for I know nobody who comes near to that description."

"He dwells in your own wigwam," returned the chief.

"In Prairie Cottage?" exclaimed the other with a puzzled air. "You can't mean my brother Peter, surely, for he is about as grave as yourself."

"Okematan means the young brave who loves his little brother."

"What! Archie Sinclair?" exclaimed Dan, with a surprised look. "I had no idea you had so high an opinion of him."

"Okematan has seen much of Arch-ee: has watched him. He sees that he thinks nothing of himself; that he thinks always for the sick brother, Leetle Beel, and that he will yet be a great chief among the Palefaces."

"Well, now you come to mention it, there is something about Archie that puts him high above other boys; and I suppose his unselfishness has much to do with it; but don't you think he's too young, and hardly strong enough?"

"He is not young. He is fifty years old in wisdom. He is very strong for his size, and he is willing, which makes his strength double."

"But he will never consent to leave Little Bill," said Dan.

"Okematan had fears of that," returned the Indian, with, for the first time, a look of perplexity on his face. "If Arch-ee will not go without Leetle Beel, Leetle Beel must go too."

It was found, on inquiry, that they were right in their surmise. When the proposal was made to Archie that afternoon by Dan, the boy's eyes seemed to light up and dance in his head at the prospect. Then the light suddenly went out, and the dancing ceased.

"Why, what's the matter, Archie?" asked his friend.

"Can't go. Impossible!" said Archie.

"Why not?"

"Who's to look after Little Bill, I should like to know, if I leave him?"

"Elspie, of course," said Dan, "and Elise, to say nothing of Jessie, mother, and brother Peter."

Archie shook his head.

"No," he said, "no! I can't go. Elspie is all very well in her way, and so is Elise, but they can't carry Little Bill about the fields and through the bush on their backs; and Peter wouldn't; he's too busy about the farm. No—ever since mother died, I've stuck to Little Bill through thick and thin. So I won't go."

It was so evident that Archie Sinclair's mind was made up and fixed, and also so obvious that a delicate little boy would be a great encumbrance on a hunting expedition that Dan thought of attempting the expedient of winning Little Bill himself over to his side. He had no difficulty in doing that, for Billie was to the full as amiable and unselfish as his brother. After a short conversation, he made Billie promise to do his very best to induce Archie to go with the hunters and leave him behind.

"For you know, Little Bill," said Dan in conclusion, and by way of consoling him, "although nobody could take such good care of you as Archie, or make up to you for him, Elspie would take his place very well for a time—."

"O yes, I know that well enough," said the poor boy with some enthusiasm; "Elspie is always very good to me. You've no notion how nice she is, Dan."

"Hm! well, I have got a sort of a half notion, maybe," returned Dan with a peculiar look. "But that's all right, then. You'll do what you can to persuade Archie, and—there he is, evidently coming to see you, so I'll go and leave you to talk it over with him."

Billie did not give his brother time to begin, but accosted him on his entrance with—"I'm so glad, Archie, that you've been asked to go on this hunting expe—"

"O! you've heard of it, then?"

"Yes, and I want you to go, very very much, because—because—"

"Don't trouble yourself with becauses, Little Bill, for I won't go. So there's an end of it—unless," he added, as if a thought had suddenly occurred to him, "unless they agree to take you with them. They might do worse. I'll see about that."

So saying, Archie turned about, left the room as abruptly as he had entered it, and sought out Okematan. He found that chief sitting in La Certe's wigwam, involved in the mists of meditation and tobacco-smoke, gazing at Slowfoot.

That worthy woman—who, with her lord and little child, was wont to forsake her hut in spring, and go into the summer-quarters of a wigwam— was seated on the opposite side of a small fire, enduring Okematan's meditative gaze, either unconsciously or with supreme indifference.

"Hallo! Oke,"—thus irreverently did Archie address the chief—had any one else ventured to do so, he might possibly have been scalped—"Hallo! Oke, I've been huntin' for you all round. You're worse to find than an arrow in the grass."

It may be said, here, that Archie had learned, like some of the other settlers, a smattering of the Cree language. How he expressed the above we know not. We can only give the sense as he would probably have given it in his own tongue.

"Okematan's friends can always find him," answered the Indian with a grave but pleased look.

"So it seems. But I say, Oke, I want to ask a favour of you. Dan Davidson tells me you want me to go a-hunting with you. Well, I'm your man if you'll let me take Little Bill with me. Will you?"

"Leetle Beel is not strong," objected the Indian.

"True, but a trip o' this sort will make him strong perhaps. Anyhow, it will make him stronger."

"But for a sick boy there is danger," said the chief. "If Arch-ee upsets his canoe in a rapid, Arch-ee swims on shore, but Leetle Beel goes to the bottom."

"Not as long as Arch-ee is there to hold him up," returned the boy.

"Waugh!" exclaimed the Indian.

"Humph!" remarked the boy. "What d'ye mean by 'Waugh,' Oke?"

"Okematan means much that it is not in the power of the tongue to tell," replied the Indian with increasing gravity; and as the gravity increased the cloudlets from his lips became more voluminous.

"Arch-ee hopes, nevertheless, that the tongue of Oke may find power to tell him a little of what he thinks."

This being in some degree indefinite, the chief smoked in silence for a minute or two, and gazed at Slowfoot with that dreamy air which one assumes when gazing into the depths of a suggestive fire. Apparently inspiration came at last—whether from Slowfoot or not we cannot tell— for he turned solemnly to the boy.

"Rain comes," he said, "and when sick men get wet they grow sicker. Carrying-places come, and when sick men come to them they stagger and fall. Frost often comes in spring, and when sick men get cold they die. Waugh!"

"Humph!" repeated the boy again, with a solemnity quite equal to that of the Red-man.

"When rain comes I can put up an umbrella—an umbrella. D'you know what that is?"

The Indian shook his head.

"Well it's a—a thing—a sort of little tent—a wigwam, you know, with a stick in the middle to hold on to and put it up. D'you understand?"

An expression of blank bewilderment, so to speak, settled on the chief's visage, and the lights of intelligence went out one by one until he presented an appearance which all but put the boy's gravity to flight.

"Well, well, it's of no use my tryin' to explain it," he continued. "I'll show it to you soon, and then you'll understand."

Intelligence began to return, and the chief looked gratified.

"What you call it?" he asked—for he was of an inquiring disposition—"a bum-rella?"

"No, no," replied the other, seriously, "an umbrella. It's a clever contrivance, as you shall see. So, you see, I can keep the rain off Little Bill when he's in the canoe, and on shore there are the trees, and the canoe itself turned bottom up. Then, at carryin' places, I can carry Little Bill as well as other things. He's not heavy and doesn't struggle, so we won't leave him to stagger and fall. As to frost—have we not hatchets, and are there not dead trees in the forest? Frost and fire never walk in company, so that Little Bill won't get cold and die, for we'll keep him warm—waugh!"

When human beings are fond of each other disagreement seldom lasts long. Okematan had taken so strong a fancy to Archie that he felt it impossible to hold out; therefore, being a man of strong common sense, he did not attempt the impossible.

Thus it came to pass that, two days later, a couple of birch-bark canoes were launched on the waters of Red River, with Dan Davidson in the stern of one and Fergus McKay acting as his bowman. Okematan took the stern of the other, while Archie Sinclair wielded the bow-paddle, and Little Bill was placed in the middle on a comfortable green blanket with the celebrated "bum-rella" erected over him to keep off, not the rain, but, the too glorious sunshine.



CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.

AN AUSPICIOUS BEGINNING AND SUSPICIOUS ENDING.

Let loose in the wilderness! How romantic, how inexpressibly delightful, that idea seems to some minds! Ay, even when the weight of years begins to stiffen the joints and slack the cords of life the memory of God's great, wild, untrammelled, beautiful wilderness comes over the spirit like a refreshing dream and restores for a time something like the pulse of youth.

We sometimes think what a joy it would be if youth could pass through its blessings with the intelligent experience of age. And it may be that this is to be one of the joys of the future, when man, redeemed and delivered from sin by Jesus Christ, shall find that the memory of the sorrows, sufferings, weaknesses of the past shall add inconceivably to the joys of the present. It may be so. Judging from analogy it does not seem presumptuous to suppose and hope that it will be so.

"Sufficient unto the day," however, is the joy thereof.

When the two canoes pushed off and swept rapidly over the fair bosom of Red River, the heart of Archie Sinclair bounded with a feeling of exultant joy which it would have been very hard indeed to convince him was capable of increase, while the bosom of his invalid brother was filled with a sort of calm serenity which constituted, in his opinion at the time being, a quite sufficient amount of felicity.

When we add that the other hunters were, in their several ways, pretty much in the same condition as the boys, we have said enough to justify the remark that their circumstances were inexpressibly delightful.

Proceeding some distance up stream they finally diverged into a minor tributary which led to waters that were swarming with water-fowl and other game.

"This is a grand burst, Little Bill," said Archie, as he plied his paddle vigorously, and glanced over his shoulder at the invalid behind him.

"Prime!" answered Billie. "Isn't it?" he added, with a backward glance at Okematan.

"Waugh!" replied the reticent savage.

"Ay, 'Waugh!' that's all you'll get out of him when he's puzzled," said Archie; "though what he means by it is more than I know. You must speak respectable English to a Red-skin if you want to convince him. Why, if he had understood you literally, you know—and obeyed you—he'd have had something to do immediately with the lock of his gun."

"I have often wondered, Archie," returned his brother with a languid smile, "what a lot you manage to say sometimes with nothing in it."

"Ha! ha!—ho! ho! what a wag you're becoming, Little Bill. But I thank 'ee for the compliment, for you know it's only philosophers that can say an awful lot without a'most sayin' anything at all. Look at Oke there, now, what a depth of stupidity lies behind his brown visage; what bucketsful of ignorance swell out his black pate, but he expresses it all in the single word 'Waugh!' because he's a philosopher. If he was like La Certe, he'd jabber away to us by the hour of things he knows nothin' about, and tell us long stories that are nothin' less than big lies. I'm glad you think me a philosopher, Little Bill, for it takes all the philosophy I've got to keep me up to the scratch of goin' about the world wi' you on my back. Why, I'm a regular Sindbad the Sailor, only I'm saddled with a young man o' the plains instead of an old man of the sea. D'ee understand what I'm saying, Oke?"

The chief, who understood little more than that his own name and that of La Certe were mentioned, nodded his head gravely and allowed the corners of his mouth to droop, which was his peculiar way of smiling—a smile that might have been unintelligible to his friends had it not been relieved and interpreted by a decided twinkle in his eyes.

While they were conversing, the two canoes had rounded a rocky point and swept out upon a lake-like expanse in the river, which was perfectly smooth and apparently currentless. Several islets studded its calm breast and were reflected in the clear water. These were wooded to the water's edge, and from among the sedges near their margin several flocks of wild-fowl sprang up in alarm and went off in fluttering confusion.

It chanced that just then a trumpet-like note was heard overhead, as a flock of wild geese passed the spot and came suddenly close within range of the canoes which had been concealed from them by the bushes that fringed the river.

Guns were seized at once by the bowmen in each canoe, but Archie was smarter than Fergus. Before the Highlander had got the weapon well into his hands the boy fired and one of the flock fell into the river with a heavy plunge.

Little Bill signalised the successful shot with a high-toned cheer, and the Indian with a low-toned "Waugh," while Fergus made a hurried and therefore bad, shot at the scared flock.

"That wass a fery good shot, Archie," remarked Fergus, as the canoes ranged up alongside of the dead bird.

"Yours was a very good one, too, Fergus," returned the boy; "only not quite straight."

The smile on the face of Okematan proved that he understood the drift of the reply, and that this was the style of humour he appreciated so highly in his young friend. We civilised people may wonder a little at the simplicity of the savage, but when we reflect that the chief had been born and bred among the solemnities of the wilderness, and had been up to that time wholly unacquainted with the humours and pleasantries that sometimes accompany juvenile "cheek," our wonder may perhaps be subdued.

"This would be a splendid place to camp for the rest of the day," suggested Davidson, while they rested on their paddles after the goose had been secured. "We must lay in a small stock of fresh provisions, you know, if we are to push on to-morrow or next day to our hunting ground. What say you, Okematan?" he added in Cree, turning to their guide.

"The will of the Paleface chief is the wish of Okematan. Let him speak."

"Well, then, I vote for encamping on the small island over there, in the middle o' the lake—for it's far more like a lake than a river hereabouts—that one over which the hawk is hovering."

"I vote for it too," said Archie.

"So do I," chimed in Little Bill.

"I will be sayin' ditto to that," put in Fergus.

"Moreover," suggested Dan, "I vote for roasting the goose at once."

"Ay, and eating him right away," said Archie. As the invalid followed this up with a feeble cheer, the proposal was carried into effect without delay.

The islet was low and flat, and so thickly covered with bush that it afforded a most enticing spot for a night-encampment. There was also plenty of dead wood on it, with which to replenish the fire, and various peeps through sundry openings afforded exquisite views of woodland and river with which to charm the eyes. Over all, the sun was pouring his noontide rays in a glorious flood.

We need not waste time in going into the details of the feast that followed: how the goose was delightfully plump and tender—especially tender to teeth that would have scarcely observed the difference if it had been tough—how, in addition to the goose, they had wild-ducks enough—shot earlier in the day—to afford each one a duck to himself, leaving a brace over, of which Okematan ate one, as well as his share of the goose, and seemed to wish that he might eat the other, but he didn't, for he restrained himself; how they drank tea with as much gusto and intemperance as if it had been a modern "afternoon"; and how, after all was over, the Red-man filled the pipe-head on the back of his iron tomahawk and began to smoke with the air of a man who meant business and regarded all that had gone before as mere child's-play.

The afternoon was well advanced when the feast was concluded, for appetites in the wilderness are not easily or soon satisfied.

"I feel tight," said Billie with a sigh and something of pathos in his tone, when he at last laid down his knife—we cannot add fork, for they scorned such implements at that time.

"That's right, Little Bill," said Archie, "try another leg or wing—now, don't shake your head. We've come on this trip a-purpose to make you fat an' strong. So you must—here, try this drum-stick. It's only a little one, like yourself, Billie."

"True, Archie, but I'm too little to hold it. I feel like an egg now."

"Hallo! Oke, are you overcome already?" asked Archie.

"The sun sinks to rest at night and the birds go to sleep. If we intend to hunt we must begin now."

"It's always the way," returned the boy with an air of discontent; "whenever a fellow gets into a state of extreme jollity there's sure to be something bothersome to come and interrupt us. Obfusticate your faculties with some more smoke, Oke, till Billie and I finish our tea. We can't shoot with half-empty stomachs, you know."

"They must be three-quarters full by this time—whatever," remarked Fergus, wiping his clasp-knife on the grass.

Just then, Dan Davidson, who had gone to explore the islet, returned with the information that some hunters must have recently visited the same place, for he had discovered the remains of an encampment at the extreme eastern side, which looked as if it had been recently occupied, for bones of wild-fowl were scattered about, the meat on which was neither dried nor decayed.

On hearing this, Okematan rose quickly, put out his pipe, and stuck the tomahawk in his belt. The sluggish good-natured air of contentment with which he had been smoking vanished; the half-sleepy eyes opened, and a frown rested on his brow as he said, shortly—

"Okematan goes to look."

"May I go with you?" asked Dan.

"No. Okematan goes alone. It is known that a band of Saulteaux have been seen. They are roused just now by the actions of the great white chief and the words of my Nation. Rest here till I come. Go on eating. If they are here they may be watching us now."

"D'ee hear that, Little Bill? You've got to go on eating," said Archie. "Our guide commands it. If you disobey, the rascally Saulteaux will come down upon us somehow."

But Archie's light-heartedness was not shared by his older companions. They knew too well that the disturbed state of the country at the time, and especially the ill-will engendered between the Crees and Saulteaux by the ill-advised action of Lord Selkirk's agents, rendered an explosion not improbable at any time, and a certain feeling of disappointment came over them when they reflected that the hunting expedition, which they had entered on with so much enthusiastic hope, might perhaps be brought to an abrupt close.

"If there's to be any fighting I shall only be in your way," said the invalid in a tone in which there was much of sadness, though none of fear.

"Not a bit of it, Little Bill," returned Dan, quickly. "You'll be in nobody's way in the canoes. You're as light as a feather. If we had even to take to the bush, Archie could run with you; an' when he gets tired, Fergus and I would think no more o' you than a grasshopper."

"Iss it carryin' him you will be taalkin' of?" said Fergus. "Ay, ay! I would be forgettin' that he wass on my back if I had him there."

As he spoke, the Indian returned to the camp with the cat-like tread so characteristic of the Red-man.

"A big band has been here," he said. "They slept on the island last night, and the signs show that they do not come as friends."

"Are you sure of that?" asked Dan.

"Okematan is sure of nothing. Even the sun may not rise to-morrow."

"Had we not better, then, return at once to the Settlement, and tell what we have seen?" said Dan.

"If we did, the Saulteaux would see us and give chase. Their canoes are big and have strong men in them. They would overtake us soon and our scalps would be swinging at their belts to-morrow."

"Not pleesant to think of—whatever," said Fergus.

"What, then, do you advise?" asked Dan. "You understand the ways of the wilderness, and we will follow your lead."

The chief appeared to think for a few moments.

"We will remain where we are," he said; "only we will send the boys off in one of the canoes, as if to shoot some ducks for us. The Saulteaux will think that we are lazy, idle men, who like to lie in camp and sleep or smoke while the boys hunt for us. When night comes we will escape in the dark and go down the river to warn the settlers."

"But what if they attack us before night comes on?" asked Dan.

"They will not do that," answered the Indian, gravely. "They know that we are well supplied with powder and shot. They know that some one must lead in every attack, and that such leaders would be doomed to death. Saulteaux do not love death. They prefer life. They will not come till it is dark."

"Ha! ha!" laughed Fergus, who seemed greatly tickled with the latter part of the chief's observation, "fery goot! ho! fery goot!—they do not love death, an' it iss life they will be preferrin'. Ay, ay! It iss the Heelandman that will be of much the same opeenion, only, when fightin' hes got to be done, he's not afraid to do it in daylight."

"He may not be afraid, Fergus," said Dan, "yet I suspect that the Red-man's tactics are often the wisest, for what would be the use of making an attack in daylight, at the cost of several lives, when the attack might be made quite as well, if not better, at night, without the loss, perhaps, of any life at all?"

"I will not be sayin'," returned Fergus, who was of an argumentative disposition, "anything at all about attackin' by day or by night. I will only be remarkin' that the Heelandman iss like the savitch in that he prefers life to death."

"Come along to the fire, Fergus," said Dan, laughing; "I will argue that out with you."

"It will be difficult to argue, then, for there iss no argument in it at all. It is only a statement of opeenion."

"Well, but surely it is possible to controvert your opinion! Besides, we are somewhat exposed where we stand. Even an arrow might reach us from the near bank."

"Never you fear, Tan. They will not be so foolish as to fire now, instead of attack at night. They are sly—whatever."

While the two friends were thus conversing, the Cree chief was arranging the smaller of the canoes for the use of the young hunters—that is, he took out all the lading, making it so light that it would skim over the water like an egg-shell with the slightest impulse of the paddle.

"You'll have to put a big stone in the stern, Oke," said Archie, "to make up for Little Bill's lightness—"

"For your heaviness, you mean," interrupted the invalid.

"No; I mean what I say, Billie, for you are light-headed as well as light-hearted—a sort o' human balloon, ready to go up like a rocket at any time—so that even an or'nary man like me weighs you down. Besides, Oke, he steers better than me and I shoot better than him. Also, I like the hardest work, so I always take the bow."

Arranging things according to directions, the Indian held the canoe steady while the brothers stepped carefully in—for they had learned from experience that the birch-bark canoe, besides being easily broken, is apt to overturn on small provocation.

"Let not Arch-ee go near the river-bank on either side," said the chief in a warning voice, as he was about to shove the frail bark out upon the glassy water. "The Saulteaux might catch him. And let him not go far up or down stream. Let him keep among the reeds round the island. There are many ducks there. Shoot plenty, as if Arch-ee had no suspicion—no fear of Indians."

"I say, Oke," demanded the lad, with what was meant for an overwhelming frown, "do you mean to hint that I have any fear of the Indians?"

"Okematan has the belief that Arch-ee never knew fear at all," returned the chief, earnestly; "that he has the courage of the young buffalo-bull."

"Well, I'm not quite so sure o' that," returned the boy, with a modest look. "I would not myself put it quite so strong, you know. But you're a wise chief, and I hope you've got a lot of brothers as wise as yourself. Good-bye, Oke—shove off. Now, then, mind how you steer, Little Bill."



CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.

CIRCUMVENTING THE RED-SKINS.

For some time the brothers paddled about the sedgy shore of the small islet on which the camp had been pitched, now setting up a flock of ducks and then slipping into the heart of some reeds and concealing themselves until a good chance was obtained at a passing flock of geese.

Archie Sinclair soon laid in enough provision to serve the party for a few meals, for his hand was steady and his eye true.

"Little Bill," he said, looking back after one of his successful shots, "you must take a shot now. We will go right-about-face, and convert the bow into the stern in the usual way. See, catch hold of the gun."

"No, Arch-ee, as Oke calls you, I won't; I'm quite content to look on, for your gun kicks like a Mexican mule. Besides, it's easy work to steer, and seeing you panting and toiling in the bow makes it seem all the easier. Just you keep blazin' away, old man. But, I say, where shall I steer to now? I'm tired o' steering among the reeds. Let us push out into the clear water."

"You heard what Oke said," objected Archie; "we must keep well clear o' both shores."

"I know that," returned Billie, "but he did not forbid us to try the reeds round the other islands; there's a much bigger one, not a quarter of a mile up stream. I think there are some beautiful sedges there where geese are likely to live. I'm sure I would choose to live in such a place if I was a goose."

"O! then, we must go, Little Bill, for I think it would be hard to keep any one out of his native home."

So saying, he dipped his paddle with vigour, and the light bark shot swiftly over the glancing water.

The sun was beginning to descend towards the western horizon when they drew near to the island, and several flocks of water-fowl had already sprung alarmed from the reeds, when Archie caught sight of a black-and-red-painted visage peering at him from among the bushes.

The boy's heart seemed to bound into his throat and his first impulse was to turn the canoe and fly, but Archie's mind was quicker even than his hand or eye. All he had ever heard or read of the cool stoicism of the Red-man seemed to flash across his memory, and, with a violent effort, he crushed back the shout that rose to his lips. He could not indeed suppress the look of sudden surprise that swept across his expressive face, but he cleverly adapted it to circumstances.

"Look, look! Little Bill," he exclaimed, eagerly, pointing right over the Indian's head at a flock of geese that opportunely appeared at the moment in the far distance. "Crouch, Bill, lie low, I'll call them. Steer a little more to the left and keep her so."

Thereupon he began a vociferous imitation of the sounds with which Indians are wont to call to geese that may chance to be flying past at a distance. The obedient Billie steered as directed, and thus the canoe was slowly sheered off a little from the shore. It was cleverly done. Whether the savage was deceived or not we cannot tell, but he showed no sign of intention to move or act, though he was within easy range of the boys.

"Little Bill," said Archie, in a low voice, such as one might use when anxious not to alarm game, "can you do what you're bid at once and exactly?"

"I can try," was the quiet answer.

"Well, then, try your best, Little Bill; for our lives may depend on our action now. Keep your eyes fixed on that flock o' geese as long as they're in sight. Don't look at the shore, whatever I do or say. Look at anything you like, but not at the shore. There's a Red-skin there. I've seen him, though he thinks I haven't. Now, steer right round and go back the way we have just come, only keep always edging a little off-shore."

As he said this Archie raised himself from his crouching attitude, laid down his gun and resumed his paddle, and in his ordinary free-and-easy tones exclaimed—

"We've lost that chance, Little Bill—more's the pity."

"Never mind," answered Billie in the same tone, being resolved to act his part well, "there's lot's more where these came from. Better luck next time. Where away now?"

"Keep her just as you go, you're far enough out now. We should start some ducks here."

Thus speaking, and with the air of a leisurely man enjoying himself— with infinite contentment on his ruddy countenance, and with much concern in his agitated soul—Archie took the canoe straight past the very spot where the Indian lay concealed. He felt that audacity was the safest line of action, for he knew that if the savage meant mischief, to pretend absolute ignorance of his existence would be less likely to draw a shot than sudden flight—which, however swiftly carried out, could by no means equal the flight of a bullet. Besides, it was of the utmost importance that he should reach the encampment and report what he had seen without the Indian becoming aware that he had been discovered.

In order to effect his purpose, he not only repassed the hiding-place of the savage but actually shot and picked up another duck while still within range of the enemy's gun. Then he directed his brother to steer still more off the island, but very slowly.

"We're in no hurry, you see, Little Bill; you haven't looked at the shore, I hope?"

"Never once."

"Ha! ha!" laughed Archie in high glee at the success of this his first experiment in backwoods warfare; "you're a trump, Little Bill!"

"I'd rather be a trump than a trumpet, Archie. If there are more Red-skins about, laughing like that will be sure to rouse them."

"Never fear, Billie, my boy. You do as I tell 'ee. We must keep up the game a bit longer yet. It won't do to hurry back till the sun is lower, so we'll go over to that small island there an' have a try for another duck. There's sure to be nobody on such a small island as that. Afterwards we'll drop down in an off-hand, idle-like way to the encampment. It'll be natural to do this when the evenin's beginning to set in, an' so we'll stump them Red-skins at their own game. D'ee understand?"

"Yes. You're a clever chap, Archie."

In pursuance of this deeply laid plan, the brothers crossed over to the small islet referred to, and, after apparently amusing themselves there for a short time, dropped down stream in a leisurely way, reaching the encampment before the evening had fairly set in.

A council of war was immediately held.

"You were right in your guess, Okematan," said Davidson. "The reptiles will be down on us to-night no doubt. What course does the Cree chief advise?"

"Okematan advises that the kettle be boiled, the duck roasted, and a good big supper eaten."

"It iss fery pleasant advice, no doubt," said Fergus with a broad and rather sarcastic grin, "but it iss not warlike!"

"It seems not a bad preparation for war, anyhow," said Dan; "and what after that?"

"The two boys will sleep and rest while food is preparing," continued the chief. "The moon will set before we have done eating, and it will be very dark. The Saulteaux will not attack while the light lasts. When it is quite dark we will go."

"If we fix to leave and they chance to attack at the same time, it iss meetin' them we will be, Okematan," said Fergus.

To this remark the Indian vouchsafed no reply.

"Well, well, Muster Okematan, it iss your own business; you will know best yourself. I will see to stowin' away my supper—whatever."

By the time supper was over, the moon had descended into a bank of black clouds on the horizon, and profound darkness brooded over land and water. It was a night such as an attacking party would hail as being most suitable for its work, and of course was proportionately unsuitable for the attacked. The Indian chief displayed no more concern about it than if nothing unusual were pending. After supper, however, he directed that the canoes should be launched and loaded. At the same time he gathered together as much wood as he could, and heaped it on the fire.

"You seem determined to give them plenty of light to do their work," remarked Davidson.

"They will wait till our fire burns low," said the chief. "By that time they will think we are asleep. A sleeping foe is not dangerous. They will come—slowly; step by step; with wide eyes glancing from side to side, and no noise, sly as foxes; timid as squaws! But by that time we will be far on our way back to Red River!"

"Ay—if we do not meet them comin' to attack us," said Fergus.

"And how shall we proceed!" asked Dan.

"As we came," answered the chief. "Okematan, with the two boys, will lead. Dan-ell an' Fergus will follow. Come."

Led by their guide, the party passed out of the firelight into the dense thicket by which the spot was encompassed almost completely, so that the only visible sign of the encampment from outside was the forks of flame and sparks which rose high above the bushes.

On reaching the shore they found the two boys holding the canoes, close to the land. So intense was the darkness that they could not see the boys or canoes at all till close beside them. Without uttering a word, or making a sound with their moccasined feet, they stepped into the canoes, pushed gently off and glided, ghost-like, into the vast obscurity.



CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.

A MIDNIGHT CHASE, AND DAN IN EXTREMITY.

For some time they advanced in absolute silence, dipping their paddles so as to make no noise whatever; Dan following as close as possible in the wake of the chief, for it was one of those nights which people describe as being so dark that one cannot see one's hand before one's face.

On reaching the lower end of the lake-like expansion where the river narrowed suddenly and the stream began to be felt, it was discovered that the enemy was in advance of them—that, anticipating some such attempt at escape, they had stationed an ambush at the narrows to cut off their retreat.

Archie was naturally the first to make this discovery, being in the bow of the canoe. He heard no sound, but suddenly there loomed out of the darkness another canoe close to them—so close that they were on the point of running into it when the sharp-witted boy saw it, and, with an adroit turn of his paddle prevented a collision. Then he ceased to paddle, and held his breath. Not knowing what to do next he wisely did nothing, but left matters to Oke and fate!

As they passed, the steersman in the strange canoe uttered something in a low tone. Evidently he mistook them for his friends.

"Sh!" was Okematan's prompt reply—or the Indian equivalent for that caution.

They glided silently and slowly past, but the suspicion of the strange Indian had obviously been aroused, for the paddles of his canoe were heard to gurgle powerfully. Hearing this, Okematan made a stroke that sent his canoe ahead like an arrow, and Archie, who appreciated the situation, seconded the movement.

"Stop!" exclaimed the strange Indian, in the Saulteaux tongue, but the Cree chief did not feel the duty of obedience strongly upon him just then. On the contrary, he put forth all his strength, but quietly, for he remembered that Dan Davidson was behind.

As there was now no need for concealment, the pursuer uttered a shrill war-whoop which was immediately answered and repeated until the woods rang with the fiendish sound, while half-a-dozen canoes dashed out from the banks on either side, and sought to bar the river.

"Now, Arch-ee," said the Cree chief in a low voice, "paddle for your life and be a man!"

"I'll be two men, if you like, Oke," answered the boy, whose courage was of that type which experiences something almost like desperate glee in the presence of imminent danger.

The canoe, obedient to the double impulse and the power of the current, was soon out of hearing of the pursuers.

"O! if I only had a paddle I might help you," said Little Bill eagerly.

"Yes, an' bu'st your biler, or explode your lungs, or something o' that sort," said his brother. "No, no, Little Bill; you sit there like a lord or an admiral, an' leave men like Oke an' me to do all the dirty work."

While he spoke thus flippantly it is but justice to say that Archie was never more anxiously in earnest in his life, and that he strained at his paddle with a degree of energy that made him, perhaps, more than equal to many an average man. So that the canoe forged well ahead of the pursuers and finally got to a part of the river where three islets divided it into several channels, rendering further pursuit in the dark useless if not impossible.

Their comrades, however, were not so fortunate. Left behind by the sudden spurt of his leader, Davidson and his companion exerted themselves to overtake him, but the canoes of the enemy, which were just too late to cut off the retreat of Okematan, were in time to intercept the second canoe. In this emergency Dan swerved aside, hoping to get to the bank before the Saulteaux could discover his exact whereabouts. His intentions were thwarted by the want of caution in his companion.

"Iss it to the land ye are going?" asked Fergus.

"Yes—it's our only chance," whispered Dan.

"It iss my opeenion—" murmured the Highlander.

"Hush!" ejaculated Dan.

But the caution came too late. A listening Red-skin overheard the sounds, and, with a sudden dash was alongside of them. He did not, however, know the vigour of the men with whom he had to deal. While he was in the very midst of a triumphant war-whoop, Dan cut him over the head with the paddle so violently that the instrument became splinters, and the whoop ceased abruptly. At the same time Fergus caught hold of the bow of the enemy's canoe with an iron grasp, and, giving it a heave that might have put Samson to shame, fairly overturned it.

"Ye can wet your whustle now—whatever," he muttered.

As he spoke, the canoe ran with extreme violence against the invisible bank. At the same moment a random volley was fired from the canoes in rear. Fear lest they should wound or kill a comrade probably caused them to send the whizzing bullets rather high, but for one instant the flame revealed the position of the fugitives, and those who had reserved their fire took better aim.

"Take to the bush, Fergus!" cried Dan, as he grasped his gun and leaped into the shallow water.

The Highlander stooped to lay hold of his weapon, which lay in the bow of the canoe, just as another volley was fired. The act was the means of saving his life, for at least half-a-dozen bullets whizzed close over his head. Before he could recover himself a strong hand grasped his neck and flung him backwards. Probably a desperate hand-to-hand fight would have ensued, for Fergus McKay had much of the bone, muscle, and sinew, that is characteristic of his race, but a blow from an unseen weapon stunned him, and when his senses returned he found himself bound hand and foot lying in the bottom of a canoe. He could tell from its motion, that it was descending the river.

Meanwhile Dan Davidson, under the impression that his comrade was also seeking safety in the bush, did his best to advance in circumstances of which he had never yet had experience, for, if the night was dark on the open bosom of the river, it presented the blackness of Erebus in the forest. Dan literally could not see an inch in advance of his own nose. If he held up his hand before his face it was absolutely invisible.

In the haste of the first rush he had crashed through a mass of small shrubbery with which the bank of the stream was lined. Then on passing through that he tumbled head over heels into a hollow, and narrowly missed breaking his gun. Beyond that he was arrested by a tree with such violence that he fell and lay for a minute or two, half-stunned. While lying thus, experience began to teach him, and common sense to have fair-play.

"A little more of this," he thought, "and I'm a dead man. Besides, if it is difficult for me to traverse the forest in the dark, it is equally difficult for the savages. My plan is to feel my way step by step, with caution. That will be the quietest way, too, as well as the quickest. You're an excited fool, Dan!"

When a man begins to think, and call himself a fool, there is some hope of him. Gathering himself up, and feeling his gun all over carefully, to make sure that it had not been broken, he continued to advance with excessive caution, and, in consequence, was ere long a considerable distance from the banks of the river, though, of course, he had but a hazy idea as to what part of the country he had attained, or whither he was tending.

As the first excitement of flight passed away, Dan began to feel uneasy prickings of conscience at having so hastily sought safety for himself, though, upon reflection, he could not accuse himself of having deserted his comrades. Okematan and the boys, he had good reason to believe—at least to hope—had succeeded in evading the foe, and Fergus he supposed had landed with himself, and was even at that moment making good his escape into the forest. To find him, in the circumstances, he knew to be impossible, and to shout by way of ascertaining his whereabouts he also knew to be useless as well as dangerous, as by doing so he would make his own position known to the enemy.

He also began to feel certain pricking sensations in his right leg as well as in his conscience. The leg grew more painful as he advanced, and, on examination of the limb by feeling, he found, to his surprise, that he had received a bullet-wound in the thigh. Moreover he discovered that his trousers were wet with blood, and that there was a continuous flow of the vital fluid from the wound. This at once accounted to him for some very unusual feelings of faintness which had come over him, and which he had at first attributed to his frequent and violent falls.

The importance of checking the haemorrhage was so obvious, that he at once sat down and did his best to bind up the wound with the red cotton kerchief that encircled his neck. Having accomplished this as well as he could in the dark, he resumed his journey, and, after several hours of laborious scrambling, at last came to a halt with a feeling of very considerable, and to him unusual, exhaustion.

Again he sat down on what seemed to be a bed of moss, and began to meditate.

"Impossible to go further!" he thought. "I feel quite knocked up. Strange! I never felt like this before. It must have been the tumbles that did it, or it may be that I've lost more blood than I suppose. I'll rest a bit now, and begin a search for Fergus by the first streak of dawn."

In pursuance of this intention, the wearied man lay down, and putting his head on a mossy pillow, fell into a profound sleep, which was not broken till the sun was high in the heavens on the following day.

When at last he did awake, and attempted to sit up, Dan felt, to his surprise and no small alarm, that he was as weak as a child, that his leg lay in a pool of coagulated gore, and that blood was still slowly trickling from the wound in his thigh.

Although disposed to lie down and give way to an almost irresistible tendency to slumber, Dan was too well aware that death stared him in the face to succumb to the feeling without a struggle. He therefore made a mighty effort of will; sat up; undid the soaking bandage, and proceeded to extemporise a sort of tourniquet with it and a short piece of stick.

The contrivance, rude as it was, proved effectual, for it stopped the bleeding, but Dan could not help feeling that he had already lost so much blood that he was reduced almost to the last stage of exhaustion, and that another hour or two would probably see the close of his earthly career. Nothing, perhaps, could have impressed this truth upon him so forcibly as his inability to shout when he tried to do so.

In the faint hope that Fergus might be within call, he raised his voice with the full knowledge that he ran the risk of attracting a foe instead of a comrade. The sound that complied with the impulse of his will would have made him laugh if he had not felt an amazing and unaccountable disposition to cry. Up to that period of his life—almost from his earliest babyhood—Dan Davidson's capacious chest had always contained the machinery, and the power, to make the nursery or the welkin ring with almost unparalleled violence. Now, the chest, though still capacious, and still full of the machinery, seemed to have totally lost the power, for the intended shout came forth in a gasp and ended in a sigh.

It was much the same when he essayed to rise. His legs almost refused to support him; everything appeared to swim before his eyes, and he sank down again listlessly on the ground. For the first time, perhaps, in his life, the strong man had the conviction effectually carried home to him that he was mortal, and could become helpless. The advantage of early training by a godly mother became apparent in this hour of weakness, for his first impulse was to pray for help, and the resulting effect—whether men choose to call it natural or supernatural—was at least partial relief from anxiety, and that degree of comfort which almost invariably arises from a state of resignation.

After a brief rest, the power of active thought revived a little, and Dan, again raising himself on one elbow, tried to rouse himself to the necessity of immediate action of some sort if his life was to be saved.

The spot on which he had lain, or rather fallen down, on the preceding night happened to be the fringe of the forest where it bordered on an extensive plain or stretch of prairie land. It was surrounded by a dense growth of trees and bushes, except on the side next the plain, where an opening permitted of an extensive view over the undulating country. No better spot could have been chosen, even in broad daylight, for an encampment, than had been thus fallen upon by the hunter in the darkness of night.

But the poor man felt at once that this advantage could be of no avail to him, for in the haste of landing he had thought only of his gun, and had left his axe, with the bag containing materials for making fire, in the canoe. Fortunately he had not divested himself of his powder-horn or shot-pouch, so he was not without the means of procuring food, but of what use could these be, he reflected, if he had not strength to use them?

Once again, in the energy of determination, he rose up and shouldered his gun with the intention of making his way across the plain, in the hope that he might at all events reach the wigwam of some wandering Indian, but he trembled so from excessive weakness that he was obliged to give up the attempt, and again sank down with feelings akin to despair.

To add to his distress, hunger now assailed him so violently that he would have roasted and eaten his moccasins—as many a starving man had done before him, though without much benefit—but even this resource was denied him for the want of fire, and raw moccasin was not only indigestible but uneatable!

Still, as it seemed his only hope, he gathered a few dry twigs and sticks together, drew the charge from his gun and sought to kindle some mossy lichen into flame by flashing the priming in the pan of the lock. Recent rains had damped everything, however, and his attempts proved abortive. Fortunately the weather was warm, so that he did not suffer from cold.

While he was yet labouring assiduously to accomplish his purpose, the whir of wings was heard overhead. Glancing quickly up, he perceived that a small flock of willow-grouse had settled on the bushes close to him. He was not surprised, though very thankful, for these birds were numerous enough and he had heard them flying about from time to time, but that they should settle down so near was exceedingly opportune and unexpected.

With eager haste and caution he rammed home the charge he had so recently withdrawn—keeping his eyes fixed longingly on the game all the time. That the birds saw him was obvious, for they kept turning their heads from side to side and looking down at him with curiosity. By good fortune grouse of this kind are sometimes very stupid as well as tame. They did not take alarm at Dan's motions, but craned their necks and seemed to eye him with considerable curiosity. Even when he tried to take aim at them their general aspect suggested that they were asking, mentally, "What next?"

But Dan found that he could not aim. The point of the gun wavered around as it might have done in the hands of a child.

With a short—almost contemptuous—laugh at his ridiculous incapacity, Dan lowered the gun.

Stupid as they were, the laugh was too much for the birds. They spread their wings.

"Now or never!" exclaimed Dan aloud. He pointed his gun straight at the flock; took no aim, and fired!

The result was that a plump specimen dropped almost at his feet. If he had been able to cheer he would have done so. But he was not, so he thanked God, fervently, instead.

Again the poor man essayed to kindle a fire, but in trying to do this with gunpowder he made the startling discovery that he had only one more charge in his powder-horn. He therefore re-loaded his gun, wiped out the pan and primed with care, feeling that this might be the last thing that would stand between him and starvation. It might have stood between him and something worse—but of that, more hereafter.

Starving men are not particular. That day Dan did what he would have believed to have been, in him, an impossibility—he drank the blood of the bird and ate its flesh raw!

"After all," thought he, while engaged in this half-cannibalistic deed, "what's the difference between raw grouse and raw oyster?"

It is but right to add that he did not philosophise much on the subject. Having consumed his meal, he lay down beside his gun and slept the sleep of the weary.



CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR.

A DESPERATE SITUATION.

Awaking next morning much refreshed, but with a keen appetite for more grouse, Dan Davidson sat up and reflected. He felt that, although refreshed, the great weakness resulting from excessive loss of blood still rendered him almost helpless, and he knew that making new blood was a process that required good feeding and considerable time. What, then, was to be done?

He had scarcely asked himself the question when a rustle in the bushes near him caused him to look quickly round and seize his gun. But the noise was not repeated, and nothing could be seen to justify alarm. Still Dan felt that the sound justified caution; he therefore kept his gun handy, and loosened in its sheath the scalping-knife which he always carried in his belt—for eating purposes, not for scalping.

Thus he sat for nearly an hour with an uncomfortable sensation that danger of some sort lurked near him, until he almost fell asleep. Then, rousing himself he proceeded to breakfast on the bones and scraps of the previous night's supper.

While thus engaged he tried to make up his mind what course he ought to pursue—whether to remain where he was until his friends should have time to find him—for he felt sure that Okematan would escape and reach the Settlement, in which case a search for him would certainly be set on foot—or whether he should make a desperate effort to stagger on, and ultimately, if need be, creep towards home. The pain of his wound was now so great as to render the latter course almost impossible. He therefore resolved to wait and give his friends time to institute a search, trusting to another shot at willow-grouse for a supply of food.

He had scarcely made up his mind to this plan when the rustling in the bushes was repeated again. Seizing his gun, which he had laid down, Dan faced round just in time to see the hindquarters and tail of a large grey wolf disappearing in the bushes.

To say that he felt considerable alarm when he saw this is not to stamp him with undue timidity, for he would have rejoiced to have had the wolf in his clutches, then and there, and to engage in single combat with it, weak though he was. What troubled him was his knowledge of the fact that the mean spirited and sly brute was noted for its apparent sagacity in finding out when an intended victim was growing too feeble to show fight—either from wounds or old age—and its pertinacity and patience in biding the time when an attack could be made with safety.

Had this horrible creature discerned, by some occult knowledge, that the sands in his glass were running low? Was it to be his fate to face his glaring murderer until he had not vital power left to grapple with it, or to guard his throat from its hideous fangs? These were questions which forced themselves upon him, and which might well have caused the stoutest heart to shrink from the threatened and terrible doom.

In the strength of his emotion he had almost fired at a venture at the spot where the brute had disappeared; but luckily the remembrance that it was his last charge of ammunition came to him in time, and he had the resolution to restrain himself even when his finger was on the trigger.

Dan now perceived that he must not venture to remain on the spot where he had passed the night, because, being surrounded on three sides by shrubbery, it afforded his grisly foe an opportunity to approach from any quarter, and spring on him the moment he should find him off his guard.

There was a natural bank of earth out on the plain about three or four hundred yards off, with neither trees nor bushes near it. The bank was not more than four feet high, and the top slightly overhung its base, so that it afforded some slight protection from the sun. To this spot Dan resolved to betake himself, and immediately began the journey—for a journey it surely was, seeing that the hunter had to do it on hands and knees, lifting his gun and pushing it before him, each yard or so, as he went along. The inflammation of his wound rendered the process all the slower and more painful, and a burning thirst, which he had no means of slaking, added to his misery.

By the time he had passed over the short distance, he was so much exhausted that he fell at the foot of the bank almost in a swoon.

Evidently the wolf imagined that its time had now come, for it sneaked out of the wood when the hunter fell, and began cautiously to advance. But Dan saw this, and, making a desperate effort, arose to a sitting posture, leaned his back against the bank, and placed his gun across his knees.

Seeing this, the wolf sat down on its haunches, and coolly began to bide its time.

"Ha! you brute!" muttered Dan, "I could easily stop your mischief if my strength wasn't all gone. As it is, I dare not give you my last shot till you are so close that you can look down the barrel o' my gun."

From this point a watch of endurance began on both sides—the brute, of course, unaware of the deadly weapon which its intended victim held, and the man fully aware of the fact that if he should venture to lie down and sleep, his doom would be sealed.

It is impossible for any one who has not had trial of similar experiences to imagine the rush of thought and feeling that passed through the brain and breast of Dan Davidson during the long dreary hours of that terrible day. Sometimes he fell into a half-dreamy condition, in which his mind leaped over forests and ocean to bonnie Scotland, where his days of childhood were spent in glorious revelry on her sunny banks and braes. At other times the memory of school-days came strong upon him, when play and lessons, and palmies were all the cares he had; or thoughts of Sabbaths spent with his mother—now in the church, now in the fields, or at the cottage door learning Bible stories and hearing words of wisdom and the story of the crucified One from her lips. Then the scene would change, and he was crossing the stormy ocean, or fighting with Red-skins, or thundering after the buffalo on the wide prairies. But through all the varied fabric of his thoughts there ran two distinct threads, one golden, the other black. The first we need hardly say was Elspie McKay; the second was that awful wolf which sat there glaring at him with a hang-dog expression, with the red tongue hanging out of its mouth, and from which he never for a moment allowed his eyes to wander.

As evening began to draw on, the situation became terrible, for Dan felt that the little strength he had left was fast sinking. The efforts by which he had succeeded in rousing himself in the earlier parts of the day were failing of their effect. Then a strange and sudden change occurred, for, while he knew that the end of the trial was rapidly approaching, he began to experience a feeling of indifference—the result, no doubt, of excessive weariness—and almost a wish that all was over. Nevertheless, whenever that wolf moved, or changed its position ever so little, the instinct of self-preservation returned in full force, and Dan, pulling himself together, prepared to defend himself desperately to the last gasp.

While the two were thus glaring at each other, Dan was startled and thoroughly aroused from his irresistible lethargy by a loud report.

Next moment he saw the wolf extended dead upon the plain.



CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.

ADVENTURES OF FERGUS AND HIS FRIENDS.

In order to account for the sudden death recorded in the last chapter, we must turn aside to follow for a little the fortunes of Fergus McKay.

It will be remembered that the vigorous Highlander, after overturning the Indian canoe and running his own canoe on shore, was seized by the neck, while in the act of reaching forward to grasp his gun, and captured.

Now, Fergus was of an unusually knowing and wily nature. He possessed what some would call more than his share of readiness in action and sagacity in counsel, though his ordinary reticence and sluggishness of manner concealed those qualities to some extent.

Being endued, also, with more than the average allowance of that bodily strength for which his countrymen are famous, his first impulse was to exert his powers and show fight, but he had been taken suddenly at a disadvantage and thrown on his back into the bottom of the canoe, and at least three pair of very muscular hands grasped his throat and other parts of his person. That they were strong hands he felt; that they belonged to big strong savages he had every reason to believe—though it was too dark to see—and that scalping-knives and tomahawks were handy to them he knew to be highly probable. He therefore promptly made up his mind as to his course of action, and at once began to play his part. Making a very feeble resistance—just enough, in short, to deceive—he begged for mercy in soft, rather tremulous and very abject tones. True, his language was English—at least that sort of English to which the mountaineers of Scotland are addicted—but he trusted to the tone and manner of his speech, not to the sense, which Saulteaux, he knew, could not be expected to understand.

"Oh! then, don't be hard on me. Don't kill me, goot shentlemen," he whined. "It iss a poor worthless thing I am—whatever!"

These remarks, and a few similar appeals for mercy, were accompanied with many dismal groans, as his captors were dragging him up the bank of the stream. Pausing for a moment, one of them produced a cord, with which they proceeded to bind their cowardly and unresisting prisoner.

Whether the Indians were deceived by their victim's tones and manner, and the soft condition of his carefully relaxed muscles, we cannot tell, but it seemed as if such were the case, for some of the brief remarks made by his captors had in them a smack of undisguised contempt, and when the cord was being put round his arms he felt that the grip of his captors was slightly relaxed.

Now or never was his chance! Hurling the men on either side of him right and left, he delivered two random blows in front, one of which happily took effect on a savage chest, the other on a savage nose, and cleared the way in that direction. With a bound like that of one of his own mountain deer, he cleared the bank, and plunged into the river.

In ordinary circumstances an attempt of this kind would have been worse than useless, for the Indians would not only have jumped into their canoes and overtaken the fugitive, but some of them would have run down the bank of the stream to prevent a landing. Some such attempt was indeed made on the present occasion, but the intense darkness was in favour of Fergus, and the searching canoes only ran into each other, while the searchers on land were still more at a disadvantage.

Now, Fergus McKay was as much at home in water as an otter or a musk-rat. Indeed he had been known among his playmates in the old country as the "Water-rat." When, therefore, he plunged into the river, as described, he took care to hold his breath as if for a long dive, and drifted with the current a considerable distance as motionless as a dead man. The Indians listened intently, of course; for his coming to the surface; for the breathing, and, it might be, for the splashing that would be natural after such a leap, but no breathing or splashing met their ears, for when Fergus put up his head, far down the stream, he only let out his nose and mouth for a gentle inspiration, and sank again.

"It iss circumventin' you at your own trade, fightin' you wi' your own claymore, that I will be doin'," he thought, as he rose a second time, and swam softly with the stream.

Fergus had the advantage of being well acquainted with the river in which he was swimming, as well as with the lands in its neighbourhood, and he knew that there was a certain bend in the stream which it would take the canoe of Okematan a considerable time to traverse. By cutting across a narrow neck of land there was, therefore, a possibility of his intercepting the canoe.

The Saulteaux, of course, might have also taken advantage of this circumstance, but they could have done so only on foot, and they knew that without canoes they could not arrest the progress of the fugitives.

Reaching the spot where he wished to land, by intuition almost, the Highlander soon found himself on the bank, squeezed the water out of his garments, and set off as quickly as he dared in such darkness. By good fortune he happened to cross a hunter's track or path—like a sheep-run—with which he was familiar, and, by following it, was able to advance much more rapidly. In a short time he again came out on the left bank of the river. There he sat down on a boulder to listen. Profound was his attention to every sound—as profound, almost, as his anxiety, for he knew that if the canoe should have already passed he would be obliged to make his way back to the Settlement on foot by a straight course, which meant a slow, toilsome march, scrambling through pathless woods, wading morasses, and swimming across rivers.

He had been seated thus for about half-an-hour, and in his impatience was giving way to despondency, when the plash of water smote upon his ear. Cocking the said ear attentively, he was rewarded with another smite, and, in a few minutes, distinctly heard the sound of paddles.

He put his hands to his mouth forthwith, and uttered a peculiar cry.

Instantly the sound of the paddles ceased as Archie Sinclair, looking over his shoulder, said—

"Did you hear that, Oke?"

Before Oke could reply, the cry was repeated.

"It is Fer-gus," said the Indian, answering to the cry, and steering in the direction whence it came. "Are you sure, Oke?"

"Okematan never speaks till he is sure—waugh!"

"H'm! I'm not so sure o' that," muttered the boy to himself.

A few seconds put the matter at rest, for the voice of the Highlander was heard, as they cautiously drew near, saying—

"Iss it you?"

"I think it is!" replied Archie; "why, man, where are you? I can see nothing."

"Wow! man, but I am gled," said Fergus; "just follow your nose, Archie, an' you'll be all right."

Another moment, and the canoe was checked by Fergus, who had stepped into the water to prevent its being injured against the stones.

"You better gie me the paddle, Archie, an' sit beside Little Bill. It iss tired o' paddlin' you will be by now."

"But where is Dan?" asked Archie as he complied with this request.

"That iss more than I can tell you, boy, but he's safe enough I doubt not, for I heard him gie a cheer as he jamp into the wuds, an' it's beyont the power o' a mortal Red-skin to chase an active man on a night like this."

Thereupon Fergus gave a brief account of all that had happened after the canoes were parted—as far as he knew it—and then an earnest council of war was held as to what was the best course to pursue in the circumstances. Being the youngest brave, (for Little Bill was ignored in this matter), Archie was invited to give his opinion first. This was well, because, being enthusiastic and irrepressible, he would probably have given his opinion first at any rate.

"My opinion is," he said, promptly, "that we turn right-about, and go back to find Dan, even though we should have to fight the whole Saulteaux nation!"

"That iss well spoken," said Fergus with something of sarcasm in his tone; "but as we hev only two guns amang us, a tomahawk, an' a knife or two, without any claymores at all, I would like to know what we are to fecht with? Moreover, what is to become o' Little Bill when we are fechtin'? It iss my opeenion that we put the command o' our expeedition in the hands of Okematan, an' leave him to do what he thinks best."

"Arch-ee is a true brave," said the Indian, "but he is young. When the wrinkles of age are on his brow he will be a great chief. Okematan's heart is with him to turn back and fight, but wisdom says, go to the Settlement, get men, and return as fast as you can."

"Then the sooner we set about it the better, for when wan's mind is made up, talk iss only lost time."

With that he shoved the canoe off into the stream, and paddling was resumed with redoubled vigour.

They proceeded in silence till the blush of rosy day in the east dispelled the intense darkness. Then, pulling ashore, they kindled a small fire, and, while the chief re-gummed the seams of the canoe, which leaked a little, the others prepared and ate a hasty breakfast.

They were still engaged with this meal, and discussing, not very hopefully, the possibility of reaching Red River Settlement and returning in time to render relief to Dan—supposing that he should require relief—when the sound of fast-dipping paddles was heard beyond the bend of the river just below them.

Another moment, and four large canoes, each manned by eight men, swept into view, their red sides glowing in the morning sun, and their occupants driving the water behind them in foam by the vigour of their strokes.

At first it was supposed that this was another band of Indians proceeding, possibly, to join that from which they had just escaped; but the fugitives were speedily undeceived by the appearance of the men as they drew nearer.

"I would be thinkin' that the man in the bow o' the first canoe is Antoine Dechamp," said Fergus, as he stood peering over the bushes at the advancing brigade.

"I'm sure it's Dechamp. I'd know him a mile off," said Archie.

"Ay, an' they hev got sight o' the smoke of our fire, too," added Fergus.

"It is Dechamp," said Okematan, decisively, as he stepped into the open and held up his hand to the new arrivals.

A cheer was raised by those in the canoes when the Cree chief was recognised, and the flotilla, coming on at full speed, soon reached the bank.

Explanations were speedily exchanged, and our fugitives learned that news had been carried to the Settlement of the approach of the very band of Saulteaux whom they had encountered, and a band of fiery young men, led by Dechamp, had come out to meet them for the purpose of asking them whether they meant their visit to be friendly, or whether they wished to measure their strength with the men of Red River; as, if so, a sample had come out for the express purpose of accommodating them!

On hearing the news that Okematan and Fergus had to give, the men—most of whom were half-breeds connected with Cree families—gave a cheer and voted for an immediate advance against the Saulteaux. This, after very brief palaver, was unanimously agreed to.

"You'll not object to return with us, I suppose?" asked Dechamp of Fergus.

"Iss it objectin' to a fecht you will mean?"

"Well—it's not unlikely that there may be something of the sort going if we meet."

"Did you ever hear of a McKay objectin' to a fecht, Antoine?"

Dechamp laughed.

"Well," he said, "I know Okematan won't object to turn back, and show us the way to the place where he met the reptiles."

"Okematan was on his way to seek for help," said the Indian quietly.

Every one being agreed on this point, the whole band re-embarked, and proceeded on their way up the river. They advanced rapidly, for although the stream was against them it was so sluggish as to be scarcely appreciable, and by keeping near to the banks they were not delayed by it at all.

Towards the afternoon the place where the struggle had taken place was reached, but no Saulteaux were to be seen. They had taken their departure, and, from the fact that several small things belonging to them had been left behind, it seemed not unlikely that they had obtained information of the expedition sent out against them, and had departed in haste.

"It iss of no use," said Fergus, when this became evident, "for us to keep up a stern-chase after them. They have got too much of a start, so it seems to me, boys, we could not do better than follow up the tracks of Daniel Davidson an' make sure that he has got clear away from them."

To this proposal there was much objection at first, for it involved some of the party quitting the canoes and journeying no one could tell how far through the woods on foot.

"Besides," said one, "Dan is quite able to take care of himself, and if he got off in the dark, as you tell us he did, there's not a man in the Saulteaux nation could come up with him either in dark or light."

"That may be all fery true, my frund," returned Fergus, "nevertheless I'm goin' to follow up his track, for it is sure that he took no proveesions wi' him, an' it was too dark for me to see if he escaped wi' his gun. Dan is a strong man, but the strongest man will be findin' himself in diffeeculties without grub. It iss followin' up his trail I will be doin', wi' some proveesions on my back, if wan or two o' you will go wuth me."

"I will go," said Archie Sinclair, promptly, "if some o' you will promise to take care o' Little Bill."

A laugh greeted this offer, and half-a-dozen of the men at once agreed to take good care of the invalid.

"Moreover," said Dechamp, "whoever goes need not go further than the Pine Portage. The party on foot will have found out, before the canoes reach that, whether Dan has got clear off, and they can rejoin the canoes at the Portage. So, Fergus, I'll join your party too. Who else will go?"

Okematan and Jacques Bourassin here stepped forward, but none of the others seemed disposed to undertake the tramp.

"There iss enough of us—whatever," remarked the Highlander as he and the others put some provisions into their wallets and shouldered their guns. "You will be our leader, Antoine Dechamp. It iss yourself that knows the outs an' ins o' the land better than any of us—except Okematan, may be—but I dar' say he's not as weel acquaint wi' the Red River woods as wi' the plains."

The chief bowed a dignified assent to this proposition, which, however, he hardly understood.

Dechamp, being accustomed to lead, accepted the position at once, stepped off on the trail of Dan, which had been made distinctly visible when he went crashing through the underwood the day before. Fergus followed, and Bourassin came third.

"Now, then," said Archie, looking into the chief's face, "come along, Oke. You and I will form the rearguard, which is the position of danger and honour in warfare o' this sort—at least if it isn't, it ought to be. Take care o' yourself, Little Bill. We'll soon find Dan. Good-bye."

So saying, the rearguard of the column vanished into the forest, and the others, returning to their canoes, began to descend the river.

Archie was nearer the mark than he imagined when he said they would soon find Dan. The distance which it had taken our hero so long to traverse in the dark was comparatively short, and the light was only beginning to fade when they came to the edge of the wood where Dan had spent the night.

Dechamp, of course, was first to come upon his encampment, and the instant he entered it he observed the open space giving a view of the plain beyond. He also saw the wolf sitting on his haunches about two hundred yards off.

Quick as the lightning flash his gun flew to his shoulder. Dechamp was a first-rate shot. He fired, and, as we have seen, the wolf stretched himself in death upon the plain.

Thus was Dan Davidson rescued at almost the eleventh hour.



CHAPTER TWENTY SIX.

HOME-COMING AND BARGAINING.

The return of the hunting party to Red River Settlement was an illustration of the uncertainty of all human affairs. They went forth rejoicing in all the strength of youth and manhood; they returned in sorrow, with one at least of the strong men reduced to the last stage of weakness.

We would not be understood to refer to this in a pessimistic spirit. On the contrary, the optimistic view suggests the very same idea of uncertainty, though in a pleasant aspect; for does not many a day that dawns in cloud and rain progress to brilliant sunshine? while equally true it is that many a life which begins in sorrow culminates in joy.

Okematan, who was intensely philosophical and inquisitive, had been carrying on a semi-speculative conversation with Billie on this very subject while descending the Red River towards Prairie Cottage—much to the perplexity of the invalid, who scarce knew how to answer the chief's queries, and greatly to the interest of Archie, who wondered at Little Bill's powers of reply.

"By the way," said Archie, "when you two have settled that knotty point, will you tell me who is to take the news of Dan's accident to Mrs Davidson? We'll have to carry him up to the house, you know, on a blanket 'tween two poles, an' she'll be sure to think that he's dead, or has been killed, an' that'll half-kill her, it'll give her such a fright. Somebody will have to go on ahead and tell her."

"I will, if you like," said Billie; "if you'll only carry me up to the garden gate and set me down, I can easily walk up the path."

This proposal had just been agreed to when the whole flotilla of canoes paddled up alongside of the bank close under Prairie Cottage.

It was evening at the time. The Davidson family was at supper, and as the canoes had approached very quietly, with Dan in the leading one, no person stood on the bank to welcome them.

"It's as well they don't know," said Archie, jumping on shore. "Now, Little Bill, come along, and I'll carry you to the gate while they're arranging matters for Dan."

Seated at the foot of the family table was Peter Davidson. He could see the garden path through the window.

"Hallo! mother," he exclaimed, dropping his knife and fork, "there is Little Bill or his ghost coming up the track."

"Impossible, Peter," said the good lady, with, however, a look of anxiety which showed she believed that, or something else, to be quite possible.

"Look for yourself, mother," cried Peter, springing up and running out.

"It is Billie," said Jessie, reflecting her mother's anxiety; "what can have brought them back so soon?"

Peter re-entered at the moment with Little Bill in his arms. He set the boy down and again ran out.

Taking the widow's trembling hand in both of his, Billie addressed her as "mother," like the rest of the family.

"Dan has been hurt," he said, in his soft way, "and he's come home to get well. They will bring him up directly."

"Is he too ill to walk?" asked the widow.

"No, not too ill—but too weak," answered the matter-of-fact Billie. "Indeed he is not ill at all, but he has lost a heap of blood, for they shot him."

Jessie waited to hear no more, but immediately followed Peter, and the small servant Louise followed suit; leaving the widow in a half-fainting condition with the boy. But she did not remain long thus, for just then old Duncan McKay entered by the back-door.

"It will be bad news you've been hearin', Mrs Davidson," he said, in some surprise, pouring out a glass of water as he spoke, and considerately handing it to the widow.

"Yes—O yes! I've just heard that Dan has been shot."

"Bless my soul!" exclaimed the horrified old man, almost falling into a chair. "Iss—iss he tead?"

"No, thank God—only weak from loss of blood. He'll be here directly."

"That iss goot news—whatever; for as long as there's life there's hope."

Trying to comfort himself, as well as his friend, with this truism, the old man staggered out of the house in search of those who had gone before.

Soon a sad procession was seen coming up the path, led by Archie. Four men carried Dan on a rudely-extemporised litter. His bloodless face and lips gave him the appearance of death, but the glow in his eyes told of still unexhausted life.

"I'll be all right, mother," he said feebly, as they laid him on his bed. "I only want food and rest. Thank God—home at last!"

As he spoke, a quiet step was heard, and Elspie, with a face as pale as his own, knelt by his bedside and took his hand.

That touch was the first impulse the youth received towards decided recovery. Old McKay perceived the change in his countenance.

"Yes, yes! ay, ay!" he exclaimed, pacing violently up and down the room, "he wants nothin' but victuals an' rest—steaks an' shops, and plenty o' whusky an' water—hot. Don't be croodin' about him an' botherin' him. Come away, and leave him to his mother, an' send for the doctor. Has no wan gone for him yet?"

"Yes; Peter has just started. I heard the clatter of his horse's feet," said Jessie.

"It iss not the doctor that will put him right, whatever," muttered the old man, as he left the room, followed by most of the family.

And the doctor himself held the same opinion; for he said, on returning to the reception hall after seeing his patient—

"It will be a considerable time before he recovers, for the fountain of life had been well-nigh drained when he fortunately extemporised that tourniquet. But there's no fear of him: all that he wants is food, rest, and peace of mind."

"An' whusky, doctor," added old McKay. "Don't forget the best pheesic; an' I hev goot store of it, too, in my cellar at Ben Nevis."

"I'm not so sure about the whisky, Mr McKay," returned the doctor with a laugh. "I think we shall manage to pull him through without that."

The other requisites for recovery were applied without stint at Prairie Cottage; for, despite the misfortune which had attended the cultivation of the soil, the Davidsons had a little money, which enabled them to buy provisions and other necessaries, obtainable from the Hudson Bay Company, and thus tide over the disastrous year in greater comfort than fell to the lot of many of the other settlers.

Thus Dan was well looked after. His brother Peter found the food—at least much of it—on the prairie and in the woods; his sister Jessie cooked it; Louise helped, looked on, and learned; home afforded rest; Elspie supplied the peace of mind—at least as much of it as it was possible for a fellow-mortal to supply; and his mother superintended all. Add to this that Archie Sinclair cheered him with miscellaneous gossip; that Little Bill read to him, or entertained him with serious talk and grave speculation; that Andre Morel and his sister often entertained him with song; that on such occasions Jenkins, the sailor, frequently amused him with nautical tales; that old Peg sometimes came from Ben Nevis to gaze at him tenderly; and that Okematan came to glare at him more or less affectionately—and we have said enough to warrant the conclusion that Dan Davidson had a pretty good time of it in spite of his weak condition.

Nevertheless Dan was not quite happy. He could not get rid of the memory of Henri Perrin's murder, and the terrible thought that Elspie's brother Duncan had some sort of guilty knowledge of it. These thoughts he buried deep, however, in his own breast, and even tried to forget them. Vain effort! for does it not stand to reason that the thing we strive most earnestly to forget is the very thing which, by that effort, we are fixing with a deeper stamp on memory?

Francois La Certe was somewhat exercised about the same question, about the same time.

That estimable member of the colony was seated one fine day on the banks of the river fishing for goldeyes—a small fish about the size of a plump herring. His amiable spouse was helping, or rather fishing with him. It was a fine healthy, contemplative occupation; one that admirably suited their tendency to repose, and at the same time filled them with that virtuous sensation which awaits those who know that they are engaged in useful occupation—for were not goldeyes the best of eating?

Branches of trees were their primitive rods, twine their simple lines, grasshoppers their bait, and a violent jerk their method.

"Slowfoot!" said La Certe.

"My husband!" or some such Indian phrase, answered the woman.

"I have been wondering for a long time now why—hi!—no! I thought there was something at my bait—but it was deception. Nothing is so unreal as the bite of the goldeye—when it is not there. It brings to mind the lights in the sky of winter, which dance and shoot—and yet they are not. Hi! ho!—I have him. I was mistaken. I thought the fish was not—but it was."

While speaking La Certe sent a small fish with bursting violence on the grass behind him. Almost at the same moment Slowfoot landed another, with less violence and more coolness.

"What was I saying, Slowfoot?" asked the half-breed, when the hooks had been re-baited, and their eyes were riveted on their respective floats.

"Nothing that any one could remember," answered his truthful spouse.

"Now I remember—ho! was that another?"

"No, it was not," answered his matter-of-fact helpmate.

"Where is our child?" asked the father, with that wayward wandering of mind which is a not uncommon characteristic of genius.

"Smoking in the tent," answered the mother.

"And with my pipe, no doubt," said the father, laying down his rod and searching in the bag in which he was wont to carry, among other things, his pipe and tobacco.

A cry of pain from the tent in question—which was close behind the pair—apprised the parents that something was wrong. Immediately their first and only one issued with a tobacco pipe in one hand and a burnt finger on the other. It came to the father for sympathy, and got it. That is to say, La Certe put the burnt finger in his mouth for a moment, and uttered some guttural expressions of sympathy. Having thus fulfilled duty and relieved conscience, he exchanged the finger for the pipe-stem, and began to smoke. The spoiled, as well as despoiled, child uttered a howl of indignation, and staggered off to its mother; but she received it with a smile of affectionate indifference, whereupon the injured creature went back to the tent, howling, and, apparently, howled itself to sleep.

Again La Certe broke the piscatorial spell that had settled down on them, and, taking up the thread of discourse where he had dropped it, repeated his statement that he had been wondering for a long time why Cloudbrow, alias young Duncan McKay, was so sharp and fierce in denying that he knew anything about the murder of Henri Perrin.

"Hee! hee!" was Slowfoot's significant reply.

"Can Slowfoot not guess?" he asked, after attending to a hopeful nibble, which came to nothing.

"Slowfoot need not guess; she knows," said the woman with an air of great mystery.

"What does Slowfoot know?"

The woman's answer to this was a look of exceeding slyness. But this did not content her lord, who, after repeated questions, and a threat to resort to extreme measures in case of continued refusal, drew from her a distinct answer.

"Slowfoot knows that Cloudbrow killed Perrin."

"Sh!" exclaimed La Certe, with a look of real concern, "I am not yet tired of you, Slowfoot; and if old McKay hears you say that he will shoot you."

"Slowfoot is not a fool," retorted the woman: "the old man will never hear her say that. What has Slowfoot got to do with it? She can hold her tongue!"

"She can do that, for certain," returned her husband with good-natured sarcasm. "In that, as in many things, she excels other women. I would never have married her had it not been so. But how do you come to be so sure?"

"I know the knife," returned the woman, becoming more literal as she went on, "and Marie Blanc knows it. Her husband once got the loan of it from Cloudbrow, and she looked at it with care, because she had never seen such a knife before. She knew all its marks. Why does Cloudbrow deny that it is his? Because it was Cloudbrow who killed Perrin. If it had been anybody else he would have known it, and he would have said so—for he was there."

"How know you that he was there?"

"Marie Blanc knows. She netted the snowshoes that Cloudbrow wore, and she saw the footprints."

"But pairs of snowshoes are very like each other," objected La Certe.

"Very like. Yes; but did ever two shoes have the same mends in the same places of the netting, where it had been broken, and the same marks on the frames?"

"Never. It will go hard with Cloudbrow if this is true."

"It will go hard with him whether it is true or not," returned the woman; "for some of the friends of Perrin believe it to be true, and swear—"

The disappearance of Slowfoot's float at this moment stopped her swearing, and brought the conversation to an abrupt end. The landing of another goldeye prevented its resumption.

Having caught more than enough for a good supper, this easy-going pair leaned their rods against a tree, and ascended the bank towards their tent, which was an ordinary conical Indian wigwam, composed partly of leather and partly of birch-bark, with a curtain for a door and a hole in the top for a window; it also served for a chimney.

On the way they encountered one of the poor Swiss immigrants, who, having a wife and family, and having been unsuccessful in buffalo-hunting, and indeed in all other hunting, was in a state which bordered on starvation.

"You have been lucky," said the Switzer, eyeing La Certe's fish greedily.

"Sometimes luck comes to us—not often," answered the half-breed. "Have you caught any?"

"Yes, two small ones. Here they are. But what are these among three children and a wife? I know not how to fish," said the mountaineer disconsolately.

The fact was not surprising, for the poor man was a watchmaker by trade, and had never handled rod or gun till he was, as it were, cast adrift in Rupert's Land.

"I will sell you some of my fish," said La Certe, who on all occasions had a keen eye for a bargain.

"Good! I am ready to buy," said the poor fellow, "but I have not much to spend. Only last week I gave my silver watch for eight gallons of wheat. I meant it for seed, but my wife and children were starving, so we were have no seed and only five shillings to spare."

"Well, my friend," said La Certe, "fish is very scarce just now, but you may have five goldeyes for your five shillings."

"O! that is too much," remonstrated the Switzer.

"No, no," interrupted the half-breed, amiably, "by no means—but if you really think it too much fish for the money I will give you four goldeyes!"