Francois La Certe was seated on the floor of his hut smoking a long clay
pipe beside an open wood fire when Fergus McKay approached. His wife
was seated beside him calmly smoking a shorter pipe with obvious
enjoyment.
The man was a Canadian half-breed. His wife was an Indian woman. They
were both moderately young and well matched, for they thoroughly agreed
in everything conceivable--or otherwise. In the length and breadth of
the Settlement there could not have been found a lazier or more
good-natured or good-for-nothing couple than La Certe and his spouse.
Love was, if we may venture to say so, the chief element in the
character of each. Love of self was the foundation. Then, happily,
love of each other came next. Rising gracefully, the superstructure may
be described as, love of tobacco, love of tea, love of ease, and love of
general comfort, finishing off with a top-dressing, or capital, of
pronounced, decided, and apparently incurable love of indolence. They
had only one clear and unmistakable hatred about them, and that was the
hatred of work. They had a child about four years of age which was
like-minded--and not unlike-bodied.
In the wilderness, as in the city, such individuals are well-known by
the similarity of their characteristics. It is not that they can't
work, but they won't work--though, of course, if taxed with this
disposition they would disclaim it with mild indignation, or an
expression of hurt remonstrance, for they are almost too lazy to become
enraged. "Take life easy, or, if we can't take it easy, let us take it
as easy as we can," is, or ought to be, their motto. In low life at
home they slouch and smile. In high life they saunter and affect
easy-going urbanity--slightly mingled with mild superiority to things in
general. Whatever rank of life they belong to they lay themselves out
with persistent resolution to do as little work as they can; to make
other people do as much work for them as possible; to get out of life as
much of enjoyment as may be attainable--consistently, of course, with
the incurable indolence--and, to put off as long as may be the evil day
which, they perceive or suspect, must inevitably be coming.
The curious thing about this race of beings is, that, whether in high or
low station, they are never ashamed of themselves--or of their position
as drones in the world's hive. They seem rather to apologise for their
degradation as a thing inevitable, for which they are not accountable--
and sometimes, in the case of the rich, as a thing justifiable.
"I'm glad I did not go to the plains this fall," said La Certe, stirring
the logs on the fire with his toe and emitting a prolonged sigh of
mingled smoke and contentment, while a blast from the bleak nor'-west
shook every blackened rafter in his little hut.
"Heel hee!" responded his wife, whose Indian name--translated--was
Slowfoot, and might have been Slowtongue with equal propriety, for she
was quite an adept at the art of silence. She frequently caused a
giggle to do duty for speech. This suited her husband admirably, for he
was fond of talking--could tell a good story, sing a good song, and
express his feelings in a good hearty laugh.
"Yes, it will be hard for the poor boys who have gone to the plains, the
weather is so awful, to say nothing of the women."
"Ho," replied Slowfoot--though what she meant to express by this no
mortal knows--nor, perhaps, cares. It meant nothing bad, however, for
she smiled seraphically and sent forth a stream of smoke, which,
mingling with that just emitted by her husband, rose in a curling
harmony to the roof.
Slowfoot was not a bad-looking woman as North American Indians go. She
was brown unquestionably, and dirty without doubt, but she had a
pleasant expression, suggestive of general good-will, and in the budding
period of life must have been even pretty. She was evidently older than
her husband, who might, perhaps, have been a little over thirty.
"I should not wonder," continued La Certe, "if the buffalo was drove
away, and the people starved this year. But the buffalo, perhaps, will
return in time to save them."
"Hm!" responded the wife, helping herself to some very strong tea, which
she poured out of a tin kettle into a tin mug and sweetened with maple
sugar.
"Do you know if Cloudbrow went with them?" asked the half-breed, pushing
forward his mug for a supply of the cheering beverage.
"No, he stopped in his house," replied the woman, rousing herself for a
moment to the conversational point, but relapsing immediately.
The man spoke in patois French, the woman in her native Cree language.
For convenience we translate their conversation as near as may be into
the English in which they were wont to converse with the Scotch settlers
who, some time before, had been sent out by the Earl of Selkirk to
colonise that remote part of the northern wilderness.
La Certe's father was a French Canadian, his mother an Indian woman, but
both having died while he was yet a boy he had been brought or left to
grow up under the care of an English woman who had followed the fortunes
of the La Certe family. His early companions had been half-breeds and
Indians. Hence he could speak the English, French, and Indian languages
with equal incorrectness and facility.
"You don't like Cloudbrow," remarked the man with an inquiring glance
over the rim of his mug. "Why you not like him?"
"Hee! hee!" was Slowfoot's lucid reply. Then, with an unwonted frown on
her mild visage, she added with emphasis--
"No! I _not_ like him."
"I know that," returned the husband, setting down his mug and resuming
his pipe, "but why?"
To this the lady answered with a sound too brief to spell, and the
gentleman, being accustomed to his wife's little eccentricities, broke
into a hilarious laugh, and assured her that Cloudbrow was not a bad
fellow--a capital hunter and worthy of more regard than she was aware
of.
"For," said he, "Cloudbrow is willing to wait till spring for payment of
the horse an' cart I hired from him last year. You know that I could
not pay him till I go to the plains an' get another load of meat an'
leather. You will go with me, Slowfoot, an' we will have grand times of
it with buffalo-humps an' marrow bones, an' tea an' tobacco. Ah! it
makes my mouth water. Give me more tea. So. That will do. What a
noise the wind makes! I hopes it won't blow over the shed an' kill the
horse. But if it do I cannot help that. Cloudbrow could not ask me to
pay for what the wind does."
There came another gust of such violence, as he spoke, that even
Slowfoot's benignant expression changed to a momentary glance of
anxiety, for the shingles on the roof rattled, and the rafters creaked
as if the hut were groaning under the strain. It passed, however, and
the pair went on smoking with placid contentment, for they had but
recently had a "square" meal of pemmican and flour.
This compost when cooked in a frying-pan is exceedingly rich and
satisfying--not to say heavy--food, but it does not incommode such as La
Certe and his wife. It even made the latter feel amiably disposed to
Cloudbrow.
This _sobriquet_ had been given by the half-breeds to a young Scotch
settler named Duncan McKay, in consequence of the dark frown which had
settled habitually on his brow--the result of bad temper and unbridled
passion. He was younger brother to that Fergus who has already been
introduced to the reader. Having been partially trained, while in
Scotland, away from the small farm-house of his father, and having
received a better education, Duncan conceived himself to stand on a
higher level than the sedate and uneducated Fergus. Thus pride was
added to his bad temper. But he was not altogether destitute of good
points. What man is? One of these was a certain reckless
open-handedness, so that he was easily imposed on by the protestations
and assurances of the sly, plausible, and lazy La Certe.
The couple were still engaged in smoking, quaffing tea, and other
intellectual pursuits, when they heard sounds outside as of some one
approaching. Another moment, and the door burst open, and a man in
white stepped in. He saluted them with a familiar and hasty
"_bonjour_," as he stamped and beat the snow vigorously from his
garments.
"What? Antoine Dechamp!" exclaimed La Certe, rising slowly to welcome
his friend; "you seem in hurry?"
"Ay--in great hurry! They are starving on the plains! Many are dead!
Davidson has come in! He is more than half-dead! Can hardly tell the
news! Drops asleep when he is speaking! Luckily I met him when going
home in my cariole! Okematan, the Indian, was with me. So he got out,
and said he would pilot Davidson safe home! He said something about
Fergus McKay, which I could not understand, so I have come on, and will
drive to Fort Garry with the news! But my horse has broke down! Is
yours in the stable?"
Dechamp was a sturdy young half-breed and an old playmate of La Certe.
He spoke with obvious impatience at the delay caused by having so much
to tell.
"Is your horse in the stable?" he demanded sharply a second time, while
his friend began, with exasperating composure, to assure him that it
was, but that the horse was not his.
"Cloudbrow is its owner," he said, "and you know if anything happens to
it he will ---. Stay, I will get you lantern--"
He stopped, for Dechamp, observing a large key hanging on the wall, had
seized it and rushed out of the hut without waiting for a lantern.
"Strange, how easy some men get into a fuss!" remarked La Certe to his
surprised, but quiet, spouse as he lighted a large tin lantern, and went
to the door. Looking out with an expression of discomfort, he put on
his cap, and prepared to face the storm in the cause of humanity. He
held the lantern high up first, however, and peered under it as if to
observe the full extent of the discomfort before braving it. Just then
a furious gust blew out the light.
"Ha! I expected that," he said, with a sigh that was strongly
suggestive of relief, as he returned to the fire to relight the lantern.
On going the second time to the door he observed the form of his friend
leading the horse past--both of them looking dim and spectral through
the driving snow.
"Dechamp have good eyes!" he remarked, halting on the threshold. "There
is light enough without the lantern; besides--ha! there, it is out
again! What a trouble it is! Impossible to keep it in--such a night!"
"Hee! hee!" giggled Slowfoot, who was busy refilling her pipe.
La Certe was still standing in a state of hesitancy, troubled by a
strong desire to help his friend, and a stronger desire to spare
himself, when he was thrown somewhat off his wonted balance by the
sudden reappearance of Dechamp, leading, or rather supporting, a man.
Need we say that it was Fergus McKay, almost blind and dumb from
exhaustion, for the parting from Dan Davidson which we have mentioned
had proved to be the last straw which broke them both down, and it is
probable that the frozen corpse of poor Dan would have been found next
day on the snow, had he not been accidentally met by Dechamp, and taken
in charge by the Indian Okematan. Fergus, having a shorter way to go,
and, perhaps, possessing a little more vitality or endurance, had just
managed to stagger to La Certe's hut when he encountered the same man
who, an hour previously, had met and saved his companion further down
the Settlement.
The moment Fergus entered the hut, he looked wildly round, and opened
his mouth as if to speak. Then he suddenly collapsed, and fell in a
heap upon the floor, scattering flakes of snow from his person in all
directions.
La Certe and his wife, though steeped in selfishness, were by no means
insensible to the sufferings of humanity when these were actually made
visible to their naked eyes. Like many--too many--people, they were
incapable of being impressed very deeply through their ears, but could
be keenly touched through the eyes. No sooner did they behold the
condition of Fergus--who was well-known to them--than they dropped their
apathetic characters as though they had been garments.
In her haste Slowfoot let fall her pipe, which broke to atoms on the
floor--but she heeded it not. La Certe capsized his mug of tea--but
regarded it not; and while the former proceeded to remove the shawl from
Fergus's neck and chafe his cold hands, the latter assisted Dechamp to
drag the exhausted man a little nearer to the fire, and poured a cup of
warm tea down his throat.
Their efforts, though perchance not as wisely directed as they might
have been, were so vigorously conducted that success rewarded them.
Fergus soon began to show signs of returning animation. A hunter of the
western wilderness is not easily overcome, neither is he long of
reviving, as a rule, if not killed outright.
They set him up in a sitting posture with his back against a box, and
his feet towards the fire. Heaving a deep sigh, Fergus looked round
with a bewildered, anxious expression. In a moment intelligence
returned to his eyes, and he made a violent attempt to rise, but Dechamp
held him down.
"Let me up!" he gasped, "life and death are in the matter--if it iss not
death already--"
"Be still, Fergus McKay," said Dechamp, with that firmness of manner and
tone which somehow command respect; "I know all about it. Take one bit
of bread, one swig more of tea, and you go with me to Fort Garry, to
tell the Gov'nor what you know. He will send help at once."
Great was the relief of Fergus when he heard this. Submitting to
treatment like an obedient child, he was soon fit to stagger to the
sleigh or cariole, into which he was carefully stuffed and packed like a
bale of goods by La Certe and his wife, who, to their credit be it
recorded, utterly ignored, for once, the discomforts of the situation.
Fergus was asleep before the packing was quite done. Then Dechamp
jumped in beside him, and drove off in the direction of the Hudson's Bay
Company's establishment, Fort Garry, while our worthy couple returned to
their hut to indulge in a final and well-earned pipe and a mug of the
strongest possible tea.