Hoary winter passed away, and genial spring returned to rejoice the
land.
In a particularly amiable frame of mind, old Ravenshaw went out one
morning to smoke.
Everything had gone well that morning. Breakfast had been punctual;
appetite good; rheumatics in abeyance; the girls lively; and Miss Trim
less of a torrent than was her wont. Mrs Ravenshaw's intellect had
more than once almost risen to the ordinary human average, and Master
Tony had been better--perhaps it were more correct to say less wicked--
than usual.
Old Ravenshaw was what his friends styled a heavy smoker, so was his
kitchen chimney; but then the chimney had the excuse of being compelled
to smoke, whereas its owner's insane act was voluntary.
Be not afraid, reader. We have no intention of entering into an
argument with smokers. They are a pigheaded generation. We address
those who have not yet become monomaniacs as regards tobacco.
In order to the full enjoyment of his pipe, the old gentleman had built
on a knoll what Elsie styled a summer-house. Regardless of seasons,
however--as he was of most things--her father used this temple at all
seasons of the year, and preferred to call it a smoking box. Now, as
this smoking-box, with its surroundings, had much to do with the issues
of our story, we bring it under particular notice. It resembled a large
sentry-box, and the willow-clad knoll on which it stood was close to the
river. Being elevated slightly above the rest of the country, a
somewhat extended view of river and plain was obtainable therefrom.
Samuel Ravenshaw loved to contemplate this view through the medium of
smoke. Thus seen it was hazy and in accord with his own idea of most
things. The sun shone warmly into the smoking-box. It sparkled on the
myriad dew-drops that hung on the willows, and swept in golden glory
over the rolling plains. The old gentleman sat down, puffed, and was
happy. The narcotic influence operated, and the irascible demon in his
breast fell sound asleep.
How often do bright sunshine and profound calm precede a storm? Is not
that a truism--if not a newism. The old gentleman had barely reduced
himself to quiescence, and the demon had only just begun to snore, when
a cloud, no bigger than a man's body, arose on the horizon. Gradually
it drew near, partially obscured the sky, and overshadowed the
smoking-box in the form of Angus Macdonald, the father of Ian. (The
demon ceased snoring!)
"Coot tay to you, sir," said Angus. "You will pe enchoyin' your pipe
this fine mornin'."
"Yes, Angus, I am," replied Ravenshaw, with as much urbanity as he could
assume--and it wasn't much, for he suspected the cause of his
neighbour's visit--"you'd better sit down and light your own."
Angus accepted the invitation, and proceeded to load with much
deliberation.
Now it must be known that the Highlander loved the view from that knoll
as much as did his neighbour. It reminded him of the old country where
he had been born and bred on a hill-top. He coveted that willow knoll
intensely, desiring to build a house on it, and, being prosperous, was
willing to give for it more than its value, for his present dwelling lay
somewhat awkwardly in the creek, a little higher up the river, so that
the willows on the knoll interfered vexatiously with his view.
"It's a peautiful spote this!" observed Angus, after a few preliminary
puffs.
"It is," answered the old trader curtly, (and the demon awoke).
Angus made no rejoinder for a few minutes, but continued to puff great
clouds with considerable emphasis from his compressed lips. Mr
Ravenshaw returned the fire with interest.
"It'll no pe for sellin' the knowl, ye are?" said Angus.
The demon was fairly roused now.
"No, Angus Macdonald," said the trader sternly, "I'll _not_ sell it.
I've told you already more than once, and it is worse than ill-judged,
it is impertinent of you to come bothering me to part with my land."
"Ho! inteed!" exclaimed Angus, rising in wrath, and cramming his pipe
into his vest pocket; "it is herself that will pe pothering you no more
spout your dirty land, Samyool Ruvnshaw."
He strode from the spot with a look of ineffable scorn, and the air of
an offended chieftain.
Old Ravenshaw tried to resume his tranquillity, but the demon was
self-willed, and tobacco had lost its power. There were more clouds,
however, in store for him that morning.
It so fell out that Ian Macdonald, unable to bear the suspense of
uncertainty any longer, and all ignorant of his father's visit to the
old trader, had made up his mind to bring things to a point that very
morning by formally asking permission to pay his addresses to Elsie
Ravenshaw. Knowing the old man's habits, he went straight to the
smoking-box. If he had set out half an hour sooner he would have met
his own father and saved himself trouble. As it was, they missed each
other.
Mr Ravenshaw had only begun to feel slightly calmed when Ian presented
himself, with a humble, propitiatory air. The old man hated humility in
every form, even its name. He regarded it as a synonym for hypocrisy.
The demon actually leaped within him, but the old man had a powerful
will. He seized his spiritual enemy, throttled, and held him down.
"Good-morning, Mr Ravenshaw."
"Good-morning."
Nothing more was said by either for a few minutes. Ian was embarrassed.
He had got up a set speech and forgotten it. He was shy, but he was
also resolute. Drawing himself up suddenly he said, with an earnest,
honest look, "Mr Ravenshaw, I love your daughter," (there was only one
daughter in Ian's estimation!) "and I come to ask leave to woo her. If,
by earnest devotion and--"
"Ian Macdonald," interrupted the old gentleman, in a voice of suppressed
anger, "you may save yourself and me the trouble of more talk on this
subject. Your father has just been here wanting me to sell him this
knoll. Now, look here," (he rose, and stepping out of the smoking-box,
pointed to Angus Macdonald's house, which was full in view), "you see
that house, young man. Mark what I say. I will sell this knoll to your
father, and give my daughter to you, when you take that house, and with
your own unaided hands place it on the top of this knoll!"
This was meant by the old trader as a bitterly facetious way of
indicating the absolute hopelessness of the case. Ian accepted it in
that light, for he was well aware that Samuel Ravenshaw's firmness--or
obstinacy--was insurmountable. He did not despair, however; true love
never does that; but he felt tremendously cast down. Without a word or
look of reproach he turned and walked slowly away.
Once again the old trader sought comfort in his pipe, but found none.
Besides feeling extremely indignant; with the Macdonalds, father and
son, for what he styled their presumption, he was now conscious of
having treated both with undue severity. Dashing his pipe on the
ground, he thrust both hands into his coat pockets, and returned towards
his dwelling. On the way he unfortunately met Petawanaquat in one of
his fields, leaning composedly over a gate. That intelligent redskin
had not yet finished his inquiries at the missionary village. He had
appeared more than once at Willow Creek, and seemed to hover round the
old trader like a moth round a candle. The man was innocent of any evil
intent on this occasion, but Ravenshaw would have quarrelled with an
angel just then.
"What are you doing here? Be off!" he said sternly.
The Indian either did not or would not understand, and the old man,
seizing him by the arm, thrust him violently through the gateway.
All the hot blood of the Petawanaquats, from Adam downwards, seemed to
leap through the red man's veins and concentrate in his right hand as he
turned fiercely on the trader and drew his scalping-knife. Quick as
lightning Ravenshaw hit out with his fist, and knocked the Indian down,
then, turning on his heel, walked away.
For a moment Petawanaquat lay stunned. Recovering, he arose, and his
dark glittering eyes told of a purpose of deadly revenge. The trader
was still in sight. The Indian picked up his gun, glided swiftly behind
a tree, and took a long steady aim. Just then little Tony rushed from
the house and leaped into his father's arms, where he received an
unusually warm embrace, for the trader wanted some sort of relief for
his feelings. The Indian's finger was pressing the trigger at the
moment. Death was very near Samuel Ravenshaw just then, but the finger
relaxed and the gun was lowered. A more terrible form of revenge had
flashed into the mind of the savage. Gliding quietly from his position,
he entered the willows and disappeared.
Meanwhile Angus Macdonald returned in no very amiable mood to his own
house. It was a small house; had been built by its owner, and was, like
most of the other houses of the colony at that time, a good solid log
structure--a sort of Noah's ark on a small scale. It stood on a flat
piece of mother earth, without any special foundation except a massive
oblong wooden frame to which all the superstructure was attached. You
might, if strong enough, have grasped it by the ridge-pole and carried
it bodily away without tearing up any foundation or deranging the
fabric. It was kept in order and managed by an elderly sister of Angus,
named Martha, for Angus was a widower. His only son Ian dwelt in the
school-house, a mile farther up the river.
Martha's strong point was fowls. We are too ignorant of that subject to
go into particulars. We can only say that she was an adept at fowls.
Martha's chickens were always tender and fat, and their eggs were the
largest and freshest in Red River. We introduce these fowls solely
because one of them acted a very important part on a very critical
occasion. As well might the geese who saved Rome be omitted from
history as Martha Macdonald's Cochin-China hen which--well, we won't say
what just yet. That hen was frightfully plain. Why Cochin-China hens
should have such long legs and wear feather trousers are questions which
naturalists must settle among themselves. Being a humorous man, Angus
had named her Beauty. She was a very cross hen, and her feather
unmentionables fitted badly. Moreover, she was utterly useless, and
never laid an egg, which was fortunate, for if she had laid one it would
have been an egregious monstrosity. She was obviously tough. If they
had slain her for the table they would have had to cut her up with a
hand-saw, or grind her into meal to fit her for use. Besides all this,
Beauty was a widow. When her husband died--probably of disgust--she
took to crowing on her own account. She received Angus with a crow when
he entered the house after his interview with Ravenshaw, and appeared to
listen intently as he poured his sorrows into his sister's ear.
"It's up at the knowl I've peen, Martha, an' I left Samyool Ruvnshaw
there in a fery pad temper--fery pad inteed. He'll come oot of it,
whatever."
"An' he'll not be for sellin' you the knowl?" asked Martha.
"No, he won't," replied Angus.
From this point they went off into a very long-winded discussion of the
pros and cons of the case, which, however, we will spare the reader, and
return to Willow Creek. The bed of the creek, near to the point where
it joined the Red River, was a favourite resort of Master Tony. Thither
he went that same afternoon to play.
Having observed the child's habits, Petawanaquat paddled his canoe to
the same point and hid it and himself among the overhanging bushes of
the creek. In the course of his gambols Tony approached the place. One
stroke of the paddle sent the light birch-bark canoe like an arrow
across the stream. The Indian sprang on shore. Tony gave him one
scared look and was about to utter an appalling yell, when a red hand
covered his mouth and another red hand half throttled him.
Petawanaquat bundled the poor child into the bottom of his canoe,
wrapped a leather coat round his head, spread a buffalo robe over him,
gave him a smart rap on the head to keep him quiet, and paddled easily
out into the stream. Steadily, but not too swiftly, he went down the
river, down the rapids, and past the Indian settlement without
attracting particular notice. Once the buffalo robe moved; the paddle
descended on it with a sounding whack, and it did not move again.
Before night closed, the Indian was paddling over the broad bosom of
Lake Winnipeg.
Of course, Tony was soon missed; his haunts were well known; Miss Trim
traced his footprints to the place where he had been seized, saw
evidences of the struggle, the nature of which she correctly guessed,
and came shrieking back to the house, where she went off into hysterics,
and was unable to tell anything about the matter.
Fortunately, Victor was there; he also traced the footsteps. Instead of
returning home he ran straight to the school-house, which he reached out
of breath.
"Come, Ian, come!" he gasped. "Tony's been carried off--Petawanaquat!
Bring your canoe and gun; all the ammunition you can lay hands on!"
Ian asked for no explanations; he ran into the house, shouldered a small
bag of pemmican, gave his gun and ammunition to Victor, told his
assistant to keep the school going till his return, and ran with his
friend down to the river, where his own birch canoe lay on the bank.
A few minutes sufficed to launch it. Both Ian and Victor were expert
canoe-men. Straining their powers to the utmost, they were soon far
down the Red River, in hot pursuit of the fugitive.