A WOLF-HUNT IN THE PRAIRIES--CHARLEY ASTONISHES HIS FATHER, AND BREAKS
IN THE "NOO 'OSS" EFFECTUALLY.
During the long winter that reigns in the northern regions of America,
the thermometer ranges, for many months together, from zero down to 20,
30, and 40 degrees _below_ it. In different parts of the country the
intensity of the frost varies a little, but not sufficiently to make any
appreciable change in one's sensation of cold. At York Fort, on the
shores of Hudson's Bay, where the winter is eight months long, the
spirit-of-wine (mercury being useless in so cold a climate) sometimes
falls so low as 50 degrees below zero; and away in the regions of Great
Bear Lake it has been known to fall considerably lower than 60 degrees
below zero of Fahrenheit. Cold of such intensity, of course, produces
many curious and interesting effects, which, although scarcely noticed
by the inhabitants, make a strong impression upon the minds of those who
visit the country for the first time. A youth goes out to walk on one
of the first sharp, frosty mornings. His locks are brown and his face
ruddy. In half an hour he returns with his face blue, his nose
frost-bitten, and his locks _white_--the latter effect being produced by
his breath congealing on his hair and breast, until both are covered
with hoar-frost. Perhaps he is of a sceptical nature, prejudiced, it
may be, in favour of old habits and customs; so that, although told by
those who ought to know that it is absolutely necessary to wear
moccasins in winter, he prefers the leather boots to which he has been
accustomed at home, and goes out with them accordingly. In a few
minutes the feet begin to lose sensation. First the toes, as far as
feeling goes, vanish; then the heels depart, and he feels the
extraordinary and peculiar and altogether disagreeable sensation of one
who has had his heels and toes amputated, and is walking about on his
insteps. Soon, however, these also fade away, and the unhappy youth
rushes frantically home on the stumps of his anklebones--at least so it
appears to him, and so in reality it would turn out to be if he did not
speedily rub the benumbed appendages into vitality again.
The whole country during this season is buried in snow, and the prairies
of Red River present the appearance of a sea of the purest white for
five or six months of the year. Impelled by hunger, troops of prairie
wolves prowl round the settlement, safe from the assault of man in
consequence of their light weight permitting them to scamper away on the
surface of the snow, into which man or horse, from their greater weight,
would sink, so as to render pursuit either fearfully laborious or
altogether impossible. In spring, however, when the first thaws begin
to take place, and commence that delightful process of disruption which
introduces this charming season of the year, the relative position of
wolf and man is reversed. The snow becomes suddenly soft, so that the
short legs of the wolf, sinking deep into it, fail to reach the solid
ground below, and he is obliged to drag heavily along; while the long
legs of the horse enable him to plunge through and dash aside the snow
at a rate which, although not very fleet, is sufficient, nevertheless,
to overtake the chase and give his rider a chance of shooting it. The
inhabitants of Red River are not much addicted to this sport, but the
gentlemen of the Hudson's Bay Service sometimes practise it; and it was
to a hunt of this description that our young friend Charley Kennedy was
now so anxious to go.
The morning was propitious. The sun blazed in dazzling splendour in a
sky of deep, unclouded blue, while the white prairie glittered as if it
were a sea of diamonds rolling out in an unbroken sheet from the walls
of the fort to the horizon, and on looking at which one experienced all
the pleasurable feelings of being out on a calm day on the wide, wide
sea, without the disagreeable consequence of being very, very sick.
The thermometer stood at 39 in the shade, and "everythink," as Tom White
emphatically expressed it, "looked like a runnin' of right away into
slush." That unusual sound, the trickling of water, so inexpressibly
grateful to the ears of those who dwell in frosty climes, was heard all
around, as the heavy masses of snow on the housetops sent a few
adventurous drops gliding down the icicles which depended from the ewes
and gables; and there was a balmy softness in the air that told of
coming spring. Nature, in fact, seemed to have wakened from her long
nap, and was beginning to think of getting up. Like people, however,
who venture to delay so long as to _think_ about it, Nature frequently
turns round and goes to sleep again in her icy cradle for a few weeks
after the first awakening.
The scene in the courtyard of Fort Garry harmonised with the cheerful
spirit of the morning. Tom Whyte, with that upright solemnity which
constituted one of his characteristic features, was standing in the
centre of a group of horses, whose energy he endeavoured to restrain
with the help of a small Indian boy, to whom meanwhile he imparted a
variety of useful and otherwise unattainable information.
"You see, Joseph," said he to the urchin, who gazed gravely in his face
with a pair of very large and dark eyes, "ponies is often skittish.
Reason why one should be, an' another not, I can't comprehend. P'r'aps
it's nat'ral, p'r'aps not, but howsomediver so 'tis; an' if it's more
nor above the likes o' _me_, Joseph, you needn't be surprised that it's
somethink haltogether beyond you."
It will not surprise the reader to be told that Joseph made no reply to
this speech, having a very imperfect acquaintance with the English
language, especially the peculiar dialect of that tongue in which Tom
Whyte was wont to express his ideas, when he had any.
He merely gave a grunt, and continued to gaze at Tom's fishy eyes, which
were about as interesting as the face to which they belonged, and _that_
might have been mistaken for almost anything.
"Yes, Joseph," he continued, "that's a fact. There's the noo brown 'oss
now, _it's_ a skittish 'un. And there's Mr Kennedy's gray mare, wot's
a standin' of beside me, she ain't skittish a bit, though she's plenty
of spirit, and wouldn't care hanythink for a five-barred gate. Now, wot
I want to know is, wot's the reason why?"
We fear that the reason why, however interesting it might prove to
naturalists, must remain a profound secret for ever; for just as the
groom was about to entertain Joseph with one of his theories on the
point, Charley Kennedy and Harry Somerville hastily approached.
"Ho, Tom!" exclaimed the former, "have you got the miller's pony for
me?"
"_Why_, no, sir; 'e 'adn't got his shoes on, sir, last night--"
"Oh, bother his shoes!" said Charley, in a voice of great
disappointment. "Why didn't you bring him up without shoes, man, eh?"
"Well, sir, the miller said 'e'd get 'em put on early this mornin', an'
I 'xpect 'e'll be 'ere in 'alf a hour at farthest, sir."
"Oh, very well," replied Charley, much relieved, but still a little
nettled at the bare possibility of being late.--"Come along, Harry;
let's go and meet him. He'll be long enough of coming if we don't go to
poke him up a bit."
"You'd better wait," called out the groom, as the boys hastened away.
"If you go by the river, he'll p'r'aps come by the plains; and if you go
by the plains, he'll p'r'aps come by the river."
Charley and Harry stopped and looked at each other. Then they looked at
the groom, and as their eyes surveyed his solemn, cadaverous
countenance, which seemed a sort of bad caricature of the long visages
of the horses that stood around him, they burst into a simultaneous and
prolonged laugh. "He's a clever old lamp-post," said Harry at last: "we
had better remain, Charley."
"You see," continued Tom Whyte, "the pony's 'oofs is in an 'orrible
state. Last night w'en I seed 'im I said to the miller, says I, `John,
I'll take 'im down to the smith d'rectly.' `Very good,' said John. So
I 'ad 'im down to the smith--"
The remainder of Tom's speech was cut short by one of those unforeseen
operations of the laws of nature which are peculiar to arctic climates.
During the long winter repeated falls of snow cover the housetops with
white mantles upwards of a foot thick, which become gradually thicker
and more consolidated as winter advances. In spring the suddenness of
the thaw loosens these from the sloping roofs, and precipitates them in
masses to the ground. These miniature avalanches are dangerous, people
having been seriously injured and sometimes killed by them. Now it
happened that a very large mass of snow, which lay on and partly
depended from the roof of the house near to which the horses were
standing, gave way, and just at that critical point in Tom Whyte's
speech when he "'ad 'im down to the smith," fell with a stunning crash
on the back of Mr Kennedy's gray mare. The mare was not "skittish"--by
no means--according to Tom's idea, but it would have been more than an
ordinary mare to have stood the sudden descent of half a ton of snow
without _some_ symptoms of consciousness. No sooner did it feel the
blow than it sent both heels with a bang against the wooden store, by
way of preliminary movement, and then rearing up with a wild snort, it
sprang over Tom Whyte's head, jerked the reins from his hand, and upset
him in the snow. Poor Tom never _bent_ to anything. The military
despotism under which he had been reared having substituted a touch of
the cap for a bow, rendered it unnecessary to bend; prolonged drill,
laziness, and rheumatism made it at last impossible. When he stood up,
he did so after the manner of a pillar; when he sat down, he broke
across at two points, much in the way in which a foot-rule would have
done had _it_ felt disposed to sit down; and when he fell, he came down
like an overturned lamp-post. On the present occasion Tom became
horizontal in a moment, and from his unfortunate propensity to fall
straight, his head, reaching much farther than might have been expected,
came into violent contact with the small Indian boy, who fell flat
likewise, letting go the reins of the horses, which latter no sooner
felt themselves free than they fled, curvetting and snorting round the
court, with reins and manes flying in rare confusion.
The two boys, who could scarce stand for laughing, ran to the gates of
the fort to prevent the chargers getting free, and in a short time they
were again secured, although evidently much elated in spirit.
A few minutes after this Mr Grant issued from the principal house,
leaning on Mr Kennedy's arm, and followed by the senior clerk, Peter
Mactavish, and one or two friends who had come to take part in the
wolf-hunt. They were all armed with double or single barrelled guns or
pistols, according to their several fancies. The two elderly gentlemen
alone entered upon the scene without any more deadly weapons than their
heavy riding-whips. Young Harry Somerville, who had been strongly
advised not to take a gun, lest he should shoot himself or his horse or
his companions, was content to take the field with a small
pocket-pistol, which he crammed to the muzzle with a compound of ball
and swan-shot.
"It won't do," said Mr Grant, in an earnest voice, to his friend, as
they walked towards the horses--"it won't do to check him too abruptly,
my dear sir."
It was evident that they were recurring to the subject of conversation
of the previous day, and it was also evident that the father's wrath was
in that very uncertain state when a word or a look can throw it into
violent agitation.
"Just permit me," continued Mr Grant, "to get him sent to the
Saskatchewan or Athabasca for a couple of years. By that time he'll
have had enough of a rough life, and be only too glad to get a berth at
headquarters. If you thwart him now, I feel convinced that he'll break
through all restraint."
"Humph!" ejaculated Mr Kennedy, with a frown.--"Come here, Charley," he
said, as the boy approached with a disappointed look to tell of his
failure in getting a horse; "I've been talking with Mr Grant again
about this business, and he says he can easily get you into the
counting-room here for a year, so you'll make arrangements--"
The old gentleman paused. He was going to have followed his wonted
course by _commanding_ instantaneous obedience; but as his eye fell upon
the honest, open, though disappointed face of his son, a gush of
tenderness filled his heart. Laying his hand upon Charley's head, he
said, in a kind but abrupt tone, "There now, Charley, my boy, make up
your mind to give in with a good grace. It'll only be hard work for a
year or two, and then plain sailing after that, Charley!"
Charley's clear blue eyes filled with tears as the accents of kindness
fell upon his ear.
It is strange that men should frequently be so blind to the potent
influence of kindness. Independently of the Divine authority, which
assures us that "a soft answer turneth away wrath," and that "_love_ is
the fulfilling of the law," who has not, in the course of his
experience, felt the overwhelming power of a truly affectionate word;
not a word which possesses merely an affectionate signification, but a
word spoken with a gush of tenderness, where love rolls in the tone, and
beams in the eye, and revels in every wrinkle of the face? And how much
more powerfully does such a word or look or tone strike home to the
heart if uttered by one whose lips are not much accustomed to the
formation of honeyed words or sweet sentences! Had Mr Kennedy, senior,
known more of this power, and put it more frequently to the proof, we
venture to affirm that Mr Kennedy, junior, would have _allowed_ his
"_flint to be fixed_" (as his father pithily expressed it) long ago.
Ere Charley could reply to the question, Mr Grant's voice, pitched in
an elevated key, interrupted them.
"Eh! what?" said that gentleman to Tom Whyte. "No horse for Charley!
How's that?"
"No, sir," said Tom.
"Where's the brown pony?" said Mr Grant, abruptly.
"Cut 'is fetlock, sir," said Tom slowly.
"And the new horse?"
"'Tain't 'alf broke yet, sir."
"Ah! that's bad.--It wouldn't do to take an unbroken charger, Charley;
for although you are a pretty good rider, you couldn't manage him, I
fear. Let me see."
"Please, sir," said the groom, touching his hat, "I've borrowed the
miller's pony for 'im, and 'e's sure to be 'ere in 'alf a hour at
farthest."
"Oh, that'll do," said Mr Grant; "you can soon overtake us. We shall
ride slowly out, straight into the prairie, and Harry will remain behind
to keep you company."
So saying, Mr Grant mounted his horse and rode out at the back gate,
followed by the whole cavalcade.
"Now this is too bad!" said Charley, looking with a very perplexed air
at his companion. "What's to be done?"
Harry evidently did not know what was to be done, and made no difficulty
of saying so in a very sympathising tone. Moreover, he begged Charley
very earnestly to take _his_ pony, but this the other would not hear of;
so they came to the conclusion that there was nothing for it but to wait
as patiently as possible for the arrival of the expected horse. In the
meantime Harry proposed a saunter in the field adjoining the fort.
Charley assented, and the two friends walked away, leading the gray pony
along with them.
To the right of Fort Garry was a small enclosure, at the extreme end of
which commences a growth of willows and underwood, which gradually
increases in size till it becomes a pretty thick belt of woodland,
skirting up the river for many miles. Here stood the stable belonging
to the establishment; and as the boys passed it, Charley suddenly
conceived a strong desire to see the renowned "noo 'oss," which Tom had
said was only "'alf broke;" so he turned the key, opened the door, and
went in.
There was nothing _very_ peculiar about this horse, excepting that his
legs seemed rather long for his body, and upon a closer examination,
there was a noticeable breadth of nostril and a latent fire in his eye,
indicating a good deal of spirit, which, like Charley's own, required
taming.
"Oh," said Charley, "what a splendid fellow! I say, Harry, I'll go out
with _him_."
"You'd better not."
"Why not?"
"Why? just because if you do Mr Grant will be down upon you, and your
father won't be very well pleased."
"Nonsense," cried Charley. "Father didn't say I wasn't to take him. I
don't think he'd care much. He's not afraid of my breaking my neck.
And then, Mr Grant seemed to be only afraid of my being run off with--
not of his horse being hurt. Here goes for it!" In another moment
Charley had him saddled and bridled, and led him out into the yard.
"Why, I declare he's quite quiet; just like a lamb," said Harry, in
surprise.
"So he is," replied Charley. "He's a capital charger; and even if he
does bolt, he can't run five hundred miles at a stretch. If I turn his
head to the prairies, the Rocky Mountains are the first things that will
bring him up. So let him run if he likes, I don't care a fig." And
springing lightly into the saddle, he cantered out of the yard, followed
by his friend.
The young horse was a well-formed, showy animal, with a good deal of
bone--perhaps too much for elegance. He was of a beautiful dark brown,
and carried a high head and tail, with a high-stepping gait, that gave
him a noble appearance. As Charley cantered along at a steady pace, he
could discover no symptoms of the refractory spirit which had been
ascribed to him.
"Let us strike out straight for the horizon now," said Harry, after they
had galloped half a mile or so along the beaten track. "See, here are
the tracks of our friends." Turning sharp round as he spoke, he leaped
his pony over the heap that lined the road, and galloped away through
the soft snow.
At this point the young horse began to show his evil spirit. Instead of
following the other, he suddenly halted and began to back.
"Hollo, Harry!" exclaimed Charley; "hold on a bit. Here's this monster
begun his tricks."
"Hit him a crack with the whip," shouted Harry.
Charley acted upon the advice, which had the effect of making the horse
shake his head with a sharp snort, and back more vigorously than ever.
"There, my fine fellow, quiet now," said Charley in a soothing tone,
patting the horse's neck. "It's a comfort to know you can't go far in
that direction, anyhow!" he added, as he glanced over his shoulder, and
saw an immense drift behind.
He was right. In a few minutes the horse backed into the snow-drift.
Finding his hind-quarters imprisoned by a power that was too much even
for _his_ obstinacy to overcome, he gave another snort and a heavy
plunge, which almost unseated his young rider.
"Hold on fast," cried Harry, who had now come up.
"No fear," cried Charley, as he clinched his teeth and gathered the
reins more firmly.--"Now for it, you young villain!" and raising his
whip, he brought it down with a heavy slash on the horse's flank.
Had the snow-drift been a cannon, and the horse a bombshell, he could
scarcely have sprung from it with greater velocity. One bound landed
him on the road; another cleared it; and in a second more he stretched
out at full speed--his ears flat on his neck, mane and tail flying in
the wind, and the bit tight between his teeth.
"Well done," cried Harry, as he passed. "You're off now, old fellow;
good-bye."
"Hurrah!" shouted Charley, in reply, leaving his cap in the snow as a
parting souvenir; while, seeing that it was useless to endeavour to
check his steed, he became quite wild with excitement; gave him the
rein; flourished his whip; and flew over the white plains, casting up
the snow in clouds behind him like a hurricane.
While this little escapade was being enacted by the boys, the hunters
were riding leisurely out upon the snowy sea in search of a wolf.
Words cannot convey to you, dear reader, an adequate conception of the
peculiar fascination, the exhilarating splendour of the scene by which
our hunters were surrounded. Its beauty lay not in variety of feature
in the landscape, for there was none. One vast sheet of white alone met
the view, bounded all round by the blue circle of the sky, and broken in
one or two places by a patch or two of willows, which, rising on the
plain, appeared like little islands in a frozen sea. It was the
glittering sparkle of the snow in the bright sunshine; the dreamy
haziness of the atmosphere, mingling earth and sky as in a halo of gold;
the first taste, the first _smell_ of spring after a long winter,
bursting suddenly upon the senses, like the unexpected visit of a
long-absent, much-loved, and almost forgotten friend; the soft, warm
feeling of the south wind, bearing on its wings the balmy influences of
sunny climes, and recalling vividly the scenes, the pleasures, the
bustling occupations of summer. It was this that caused the hunters'
hearts to leap within them as they rode along--that induced old Mr
Kennedy to forget his years, and shout as he had been wont to do in days
gone by, when he used to follow the track of the elk or hunt the wild
buffalo; and it was this that made the otherwise monotonous prairies on
this particular day so charming.
The party had wandered about, without discovering anything that bore the
smallest resemblance to a wolf, for upwards of an hour; Fort Garry had
fallen astern (to use a nautical phrase) until it had become a mere
speck on the horizon, and vanished altogether; Peter Mactavish had twice
given a false alarm in the eagerness of his spirit, and had three times
plunged his horse up to the girths in a snow-drift; the senior clerk was
waxing impatient, and the horses restive, when a sudden "Hollo!" from
Mr Grant brought the whole cavalcade to a stand.
The object which drew his attention, and to which he directed the
anxious eyes of his friends, was a small speck, rather triangular in
form, which overtopped a little willow bush not more than five or six
hundred yards distant.
"There he is!" exclaimed Mr Grant. "That's a fact," cried Mr Kennedy;
and both gentlemen, instantaneously giving a shout, bounded towards the
object; not, however, before the senior clerk, who was mounted on a
fleet and strong horse, had taken the lead by six yards. A moment
afterwards the speck rose up and discovered itself to be a veritable
wolf. Moreover, he condescended to show his teeth, and then, conceiving
it probable that his enemies were too numerous for him, he suddenly
turned round and fled away. For ten minutes or so the chase was kept up
at full speed, and as the snow happened to be shallow at the
starting-point, the wolf kept well ahead of its pursuers--indeed,
distanced them a little. But soon the snow became deeper, and the wolf
plunged heavily, and the horses gained considerably. Although to the
eye the prairie seemed to be a uniform level, there were numerous slight
undulations, in which drifts of some depth had collected. Into one of
these the wolf now plunged and laboured slowly through it. But so deep
was the snow that the horses almost stuck fast. A few minutes, however,
brought them out, and Mr Grant and Mr Kennedy, who had kept close to
each other during the run, pulled up for a moment on the summit of a
ridge to breathe their panting steeds.
"What can that be?" exclaimed the former, pointing with his whip to a
distant object which was moving rapidly over the plain.
"Eh! what--where?" said Mr Kennedy, shading his eyes with his hand, and
peering in the direction indicated. "Why, that's another wolf, isn't
it? No; it runs too fast for that."
"Strange," said his friend; "what _can_ it be?"
"If I hadn't seen every beast in the country," remarked Mr Kennedy,
"and didn't know that there are no such animals north of the equator, I
should say it was a mad dromedary mounted by a ring-tailed roarer."
"It can't be, surely--not possible!" exclaimed Mr Grant. "It's not
Charley on the new horse!"
Mr Grant said this with an air of vexation, that annoyed his friend a
little. He would not have much minded Charley's taking a horse without
leave, no matter how wild it might be; but he did not at all relish the
idea of making an apology for his son's misconduct, and for the moment
did not exactly know what to say. As usual in such a dilemma, the old
man took refuge in a towering passion, gave his steed a sharp cut with
the whip, and galloped forward to meet the delinquent.
We are not acquainted with the general appearance of a "ring-tailed
roarer;" in fact, we have grave doubts as to whether such an animal
exists at all; but if it does, and is particularly wild, dishevelled,
and fierce in deportment, there is no doubt whatever that when Mr
Kennedy applied the name to his hopeful son, the application was
singularly powerful and appropriate.
Charley had had a long run since we last saw him. After describing a
wide curve, in which his charger displayed a surprising aptitude for
picking out the ground that was least covered with snow, he headed
straight for the fort again at the same pace at which he had started.
At first Charley tried every possible method to check him, but in vain;
so he gave it up, resolving to enjoy the race, since he could not
prevent it. The young horse seemed to be made of lightning, with bones
and muscles of brass, for he bounded untiringly forward for miles,
tossing his head and snorting in his wild career. But Charley was a
good horseman, and did not mind _that_ much, being quite satisfied that
the horse _was_ a horse, and not a spirit, and that therefore he could
not run for ever. At last he approached the party, in search of which
he had originally set out. His eyes dilated and his colour heightened
as he beheld the wolf running directly towards him. Fumbling hastily
for the pistol which he had borrowed from his friend Harry, he drew it
from his pocket, and prepared to give the animal a shot in passing.
Just at that moment the wolf caught sight of this new enemy in advance,
and diverged suddenly to the left, plunging into a drift in his
confusion, and so enabling the senior clerk to overtake him, and send an
ounce of heavy shot into his side, which turned him over quite dead.
The shot, however, had a double effect. At that instant Charley swept
past; and his mettlesome steed swerved as it heard the loud report of
the gun, thereby almost unhorsing his rider, and causing him
unintentionally to discharge the conglomerate of bullets and swan-shot
into the flank of Peter Mactavish's horse--fortunately at a distance
which rendered the shot equivalent to a dozen very sharp and
particularly stinging blows. On receiving this unexpected salute, the
astonished charger reared convulsively, and fell back upon his rider,
who was thereby buried deep in the snow, not a vestige of him being
left, no more than if he had never existed at all. Indeed, for a moment
it seemed to be doubtful whether poor Peter _did_ exist or not, until a
sudden upheaving of the snow took place, and his dishevelled head
appeared, with the eyes and mouth wide open, bearing on them an
expression of mingled horror and amazement. Meanwhile the second shot
acted like a spur on the young horse, which flew past Mr Kennedy like a
whirlwind.
"Stop, you young scoundrel!" he shouted, shaking his fist at Charley as
he passed.
Charley was past stopping, either by inclination or ability. This
sudden and unexpected accumulation of disasters was too much for him.
As he passed his sire, with his brown curls streaming straight out
behind, and his eyes flashing with excitement, his teeth clinched, and
his horse tearing along more like an incarnate fiend than an animal, a
spirit of combined recklessness, consternation, indignation, and glee
took possession of him. He waved his whip wildly over his head, brought
it down with a stinging cut on the horse's neck, and uttered a shout of
defiance that threw completely into the shade the loudest war-whoop that
was ever uttered by the brazen lungs of the wildest savage between
Hudson's Bay and Oregon. Seeing and hearing this, old Mr Kennedy
wheeled about and dashed off in pursuit with much greater energy than he
had displayed in chase of the wolf.
The race bade fair to be a long one, for the young horse was strong in
wind and limb; and the gray mare, though decidedly not the "better
horse," was much fresher than the other.
The hunters, who were now joined by Harry Somerville, did not feel it
incumbent on them to follow this new chase; so they contented themselves
with watching their flight towards the fort, while they followed at a
more leisurely pace.
Meanwhile Charley rapidly neared Fort Garry, and now began to wonder
whether the stable door was open, and if so, whether it were better for
him to take his chance of getting his neck broken, or to throw himself
into the next snow-drift that presented itself.
He had not to remain long in suspense. The wooden fence that enclosed
the stable-yard lay before him. It was between four and five feet high,
with a beaten track running along the outside, and a deep snow-drift on
the other. Charley felt that the young horse had made up his mind to
leap this. As he did not at the moment see that there was anything
better to be done, he prepared for it. As the horse bent on his
haunches to spring, he gave him a smart cut with the whip, went over
like a rocket, and plunged up to the neck in the snow-drift, which
brought his career to an abrupt conclusion. The sudden stoppage of the
horse was one thing, but the arresting of Master Charley was _another_
and quite a different thing. The instant his charger landed, he left
the saddle like a harlequin, described an extensive curve in the air,
and fell head foremost into the drift, above which his boots and three
inches of his legs alone remained to tell the tale.
On witnessing this climax, Mr Kennedy, senior, pulled up, dismounted,
and ran--with an expression of some anxiety on his countenance--to the
help of his son; while Tom Whyte came out of the stable just in time to
receive the "noo 'oss" as he floundered out of the snow.
"I believe," said the groom, as he surveyed the trembling charger, "that
your son has broke the noo 'oss, sir, better nor I could 'ave done
myself."
"I believe that my son has broken his neck," said Mr Kennedy
wrathfully. "Come here and help me to dig him out."
In a few minutes Charley was dug out, in a state of insensibility, and
carried up to the fort, where he was laid on a bed, and restoratives
actively applied for his recovery.