If ever there was a man who possessed a gem in the form of a daughter of
nineteen, that man was Samuel Ravenshaw; and if ever there was a girl
who owned a bluff, jovial, fiery, hot-tempered, irascible old father,
that girl was Elsie Ravenshaw.
Although a gem, Elsie was exceedingly imperfect. Had she been the
reverse she would not have been worth writing about.
Old Ravenshaw, as his familiars styled him, was a settler, if we may use
such a term in reference to one who was, perhaps, among the most
unsettled of men. He had settled with his family on the banks of the
Red River. The colony on that river is now one of the frontier towns of
Canada. At the time we write of, it was a mere oasis in the desert, not
even an offshoot of civilisation, for it owed its existence chiefly to
the fact that retiring servants of the Hudson's Bay Fur Company
congregated there to spend the evening of life, far beyond the Canadian
boundary, in the heart of that great wilderness where they had spent
their working days, and on the borders of that grand prairie where the
red man and the buffalo roamed at will, and the conventionalities of
civilised life troubled them not.
To this haven of rest Samuel Ravenshaw had retired, after spending an
active life in the service of the fur-traders, somewhat stiffened in the
joints by age and a rough career, and a good deal soured in disposition
because of promotion having, as he thought, been too long deferred.
Besides Elsie, old Ravenshaw possessed some other gems of inferior
lustre. His wife Maggie, a stout, well-favoured lady, with an
insufficient intellect and unbounded good humour, was of considerable
intrinsic value, but highly unpolished. His second daughter, Cora, was
a thin slip of sixteen years, like her mother in some respects--pretty,
attractive, and disposed to take life easily. His eldest son, Victor, a
well-grown lad of fourteen, was a rough diamond, if a diamond at all,
with a soul centred on sport. His second son, Anthony, between five and
six, was large and robust, like his father. Not having been polished at
that time, it is hard to say what sort of gem Tony was. When engaged in
mischief--his besetting foible--his eyes shone like carbuncles with
unholy light. He was the plague of the family. Of course, therefore,
he was the beloved of his parents.
Such were the chief inmates of Willow Creek, as old Ravenshaw styled his
house and property.
It was midwinter. The owner of Willow Creek stood at his parlour
window, smoking and gazing. There was not much to look at, for snow had
overwhelmed and buried the landscape, fringed every twig of the willows,
and obliterated the frozen river.
Elsie was seated by the stove, embroidering a pair of moccasins.
"Victor is bringing down some of the lads to shoot to-day, father," she
said, casting a furtive glance at her sire.
"Humph! that boy does nothing but shoot," growled the old man, who was a
giant in body if not in spirit. "Who all is he bringing?"
"There's John Flett, and David Mowat, and Sam Hayes, and Herr
Winklemann, and Ian Macdonald, and Louis Lambert--all the best shots, I
suppose," said Elsie, bending over her work.
"The best shots!" cried Mr Ravenshaw, turning from the window with a
sarcastic laugh. "Louis Lambert, indeed, and Winklemann are crack
shots, and John Flett is not bad, but the others are poor hands. Mowat
can only shoot straight with a crooked gun, and as for that half-cracked
schoolmaster, Jan Macdonald, he would miss a barn door at fifty paces
unless he were to shut his eyes and fire at random, in which case he'd
have some chance--"
"Here they is; the shooters is comin'. Hooray!" shouted Master Anthony
Ravenshaw, as he burst into the room with a scalping-knife in one hand
and a wooden gun in the other. "An' I's goin' to shoot too, daddy!"
"So you are, Tony, my boy!" cried the old trader, catching up the pride
of his heart in his strong arms and tossing him towards the ceiling.
"You shall shoot before long with a real gun."
Tony knocked the pipe out of his father's mouth, and was proceeding to
operate on his half-bald head with the scalping-knife, when Cora, who
entered the room at the moment, sprang forward and wrenched the weapon
from his grasp.
"We'll give them dinner after the shooting is over, shan't we, father?"
asked Cora.
"Of course, my dear, of course," replied the hospitable old gentleman,
giving the pride of his heart a sounding kiss as he put him down. "Set
your mother to work on a pie, and get Miss Trim to help you with a lot
of those cakes you make so famously."
As he spoke there was a sudden clattering in the porch. The young men
were taking off their snow-shoes and stamping the snow from off their
leggings and moccasined feet.
"Here we are, father!" cried a bright, sturdy youth, as he ushered in
his followers. "Of course Elsie has prepared you for our sudden
invasion. The fact is that we got up the match on the spur of the
moment, because I found that Ian had a holiday."
"No explanation required, Victor. Glad to see you all, boys. Sit
down," said Mr Ravenshaw, shaking hands all round.
The youths who were thus heartily welcomed presented a fine manly
appearance. They were clad in the capotes, leggings, fur caps,
moccasins, and fingerless mittens usually worn by the men of the
settlement in winter.
That tall handsome fellow, with the curly black hair and flashing eyes,
who bears himself so confidently as he greets the sisters, is Louis
Lambert. The thickset youth behind him, with the shock of flaxen hair
and imperceptible moustache, is Herr Winklemann, a German farmer's son,
and a famed buffalo-hunter. The ungainly man, of twenty-four
apparently--or thereabouts--with the plain but kindly face, and the
frame nearly as strong as that of the host himself, is Ian Macdonald.
In appearance he is a rugged backwoodsman. In reality he is the
schoolmaster of that part of the widely-scattered colony.
The invitation to sit down was not accepted. Daylight was short-lived
in those regions at that season of the year. They sallied forth to the
work in hand.
"You've had the target put up, Cora?" asked Victor, as he went out.
"Yes, in the old place."
"Where is Tony?"
"I don't know," said Cora, looking round. "He was here just now, trying
to scalp father."
"You'll find him at the target before you, no doubt," said Elsie,
putting away her moccasins as she rose to aid in the household
preparations.
The target was placed against the bank of the river, so that the bullets
might find a safe retreat. The competitors stood at about a hundred
yards' distance in front of it. The weapons used were single-barrelled
smooth-bores, with flint locks. Percussion locks had not at that time
come into fashion, and long ranges had not yet been dreamed of.
"Come, open the ball, Lambert," said Victor.
The handsome youth at once stepped forward, and old Mr Ravenshaw
watched him with an approving smile as he took aim. Puff! went the
powder in the pan, but no sound followed save the peal of laughter with
which the miss-fire was greeted. The touch-hole was pricked, and next
time the ball sped to its mark. It hit the target two inches above the
bull's-eye.
The "well done" with which the shot was hailed was cut short by an
appalling yell, and little Tony was seen to tumble from behind the
target. Rolling head over heels, he curled himself round in agony,
sprang up with a spasmodic bound, dropped upon his haunches, turned over
a complete somersault, fell on his back with a fearful shriek, and lay
dead upon the snow!
The whole party rushed in consternation towards the boy, but before they
had reached him he leaped up and burst into a fit of gleeful laughter,
which ended in a cheer and a savage war-whoop as he scampered up the
track which led to the house, and disappeared over the brow of the
river's bank.
"The imp was joking!" exclaimed Mr Ravenshaw, as he stopped and wiped
the cold perspiration from his brow.
At that moment a Red Indian appeared on the scene, in his blanket robe,
paint, and feathers. Attracted by the shot, he had come to look on.
Now, the old fur-trader's nerves had received a tremendous shock, and
the practical jest which the pride of his heart had perpetrated had
roused the irascibility of his nature, so that an explosion became
unavoidable. In these circumstances the arrival of the Indian seemed
opportune, for the old gentleman knew that this particular savage was a
chief, and had visited the colony for the purpose of making inquiries
into the new religion reported to be taught by certain white men in
black garments; and Mr Ravenshaw, besides having very little regard for
missionaries, had a very strong contempt for those Indians who became
their disciples. He therefore relieved himself on the red man.
"What do you want here, Petawanaquat?" he demanded sternly, in the
language of the Indian.
"The Little Wolf," replied the Indian, referring to himself, for such
was the interpretation of his name, "wishes to see how his white
brothers shoot."
"Let the Little Wolf put his tail between his legs and be gone," cried
the angry old man. "He is not wanted here. Come, be off!"
The chief looked straight in the eyes of the trader with a dark scowl,
then, turning slowly on his heel, stalked solemnly away.
There was an irrepressible laugh at this episode as the group of
marksmen returned to their former position. Mr Ravenshaw, however,
soon left them and returned home. Here he found Miss Trim in a state of
considerable agitation; she had just encountered the redskin! Miss Trim
was a poor relation of Mrs Ravenshaw. She had been invited by her
brother-in-law to leave England and come to Red River to act as
governess to Tony and assistant-companion in the family. She had
arrived that autumn in company with a piano, on which she was expected
to exercise Elsie and Cora. Petawanaquat, being the first "really wild
and painted savage" she had seen, made a deep impression on her.
"Oh, Mr Ravenshaw, I have seen _such_ an object in the garden!" she
exclaimed, in a gushing torrent--she always spoke in a torrent--"and it
was all I could do to stagger into the house without fainting. Such
eyes! with black cheeks and a red nose--at least, it looked red, but I
was in such a state that I couldn't make sure whether it was the nose or
the chin, and my shoe came off as I ran away, having broken the tie in
the morning. And such a yell as it gave!--the creature, not the
shoe-tie--but I escaped, and peeped out of the upper window--the one in
the gable, you know, with the green blind, where you can see the garden
from end to end, and I found it had disappeared, though I can't
understand--"
"Tut, tut, Miss Trim; how you do gallop! Was it a beast?" asked the old
trader.
"A beast? No; a man--a savage."
"Oh! I understand; it was that scoundrel Petawanaquat," said Sam
Ravenshaw, with a laugh; "he's Little Wolf by name, and a big thief by
practice, no doubt. You needn't fear him, however, he's not so
dangerous as he looks, and I gave him a rebuff just now that will make
him shy of Willow Creek.--Ha, Tony, you rascal! Come here, sir."
Tony came at once, with such a gleeful visage that his father's intended
chastisement for the recent practical joke ended in a parental caress.
Bitterly did Ian Macdonald repent of his agreeing to join the shooting
party that day. Owing to some defect in his vision or nervous system,
he was a remarkably bad shot, though in everything else he was an expert
and stalwart backwoodsman, as well as a good scholar. But when his
friend Victor invited him he could not refuse, because it offered him an
opportunity of spending some time in the society of Elsie Ravenshaw, and
that to him was heaven upon earth! Little of her society, however, did
the unfortunate teacher enjoy that day, for handsome Louis Lambert
engrossed not only Elsie, but the mother and father as well. He had
beaten all his competitors at the target, but, to do him justice, did
not boast of that; neither did he make any reference to the fact that
Ian had twice missed the target, though he did not spare the bad
shooting of some of the other youths; this, no doubt, because he and Ian
had been fast friends for many years. Jealousy--at least on the part of
Ian--now seemed about to interfere with the old friendship. Moreover,
Lambert had brought to Mrs Ravenshaw a gift of a collar made of the
claws of a grizzly bear, shot by himself in the Rocky Mountains. Elsie
admired the collar with genuine interest, and said she would give
anything to possess one like it. Cora, with the coquettishness of
sixteen, said, with a laugh and a blush, that she would not accept such
a ridiculous thing if it were offered to her. Ian Macdonald groaned in
spirit, for, with his incapacity to shoot, he knew that Elsie's wish
could never be gratified by _him_.
Seeing that Lambert was bent on keeping Elsie as much as possible to
himself, Ian devoted himself to Cora, but Cora was cross. Feeling it
up-hill work, he soon rose to say good-bye, and left Willow Creek before
the others.
"Don't look so crestfallen, man," said old Mr Ravenshaw heartily, as he
shook hands; "it's nobler work to teach the young idea how to shoot than
to be able to hit a bull's-eye."
"True, but he who cannot hit a bull's-eye," returned Ian, with a smile,
"can scarcely be expected to touch a maiden's--I mean a grizzly's
heart."
A shout of laughter from Lambert greeted him as he left the house. His
way home lay over the frozen bed of the river. Victor accompanied him
part of the way.
"That was a strange slip for an unromantic fellow like you to make about
a maiden's heart, Ian," said Victor, looking up at the rugged
countenance of his friend.
"`Unromantic,' eh? Well, I suppose I am."
"Of course you are," said Victor, with the overweening assurance of
youth. "Come, let's sit down here for a few minutes and discuss the
point."
He sat down on a snowdrift; Ian kicked off his snowshoes and leaned
against the bank.
"You're the most grave, sensible, good-natured, matter-of-fact,
unsentimental, unselfish fellow I ever met with," resumed Victor. "If
you were a romantic goose I wouldn't like you half as much as I do."
"Men are sometimes romantic without being geese," returned Ian; "but I
have not time to discuss that point just now. Tell me, for I am anxious
about it, have you spoken to your father about selling the field with
the knoll to my father?"
"Yes, and he flatly refused to sell it. I'm really sorry, Ian, but you
know how determined my father is. Once he says a thing he sticks to it,
even though it should be to his own disadvantage."
"That's bad, Victor, very bad. It will raise ill-blood between them,
and estrange our families. You think there's no chance?"
"None whatever."
"One more word before we part. Do you know much about that redskin whom
your father called Petawanaquat?"
"Not much, except that he has come from a considerable distance to make
inquiries, he says, about the Christian religion. He has been prowling
about our place for a few days, and father, who has no great love to
missionaries, and has strong suspicions of converted Indians, has twice
treated him rather roughly."
"I'm sorry to hear that, Victor. These fellows are sometimes very
revengeful. If you'll be advised by me you'll keep a sharp eye upon
Petawanaquat. There, I'll say no more. You know I'm not an alarmist.
Good-bye."
"Good-bye, old boy."
"I say."
"Well?"
"It was an _awfully_ bad shot, that last of mine."
"It was," admitted Victor, with a laugh, "to miss a thing as big as a
door at a hundred yards is only so-so."
"No chance of improvement, I fear," said Ian, with a sigh.
"Oh, don't say that," replied Victor. "Practice, perseverance, and
patience, you know, overcome every--"
"Yes, yes. I know that well. Good-bye." They shook hands again, and
were soon striding over the snow to their respective homes.