Pushing on ahead of them, with that sometimes fatal facility peculiar to
writers and readers, we will now visit the couple whom Dan and his party
were so anxious to rescue.
A single glance at Elspie McKay would have been sufficient to account to
most people for the desperate anxiety of Daniel Davidson to rescue her
from death, for her pretty sparkling face and ever-varying expression
were irresistibly suggestive of a soul full of sympathy and tender
regard for the feelings of others.
Nut-brown hair, dark eyes, brilliant teeth, and many more charms that it
would take too much time and room to record still further accounted for
the desperate determination with which Dan had wooed and won her.
But to see this creature at her best, you had to see her doing the
dutiful to her old father. If ever there was a peevish, cross-grained,
crabbed, unreasonable old sinner in this world, that sinner was Duncan
McKay, senior. He was a widower. Perhaps that accounted to some extent
for his condition. That he should have a younger son--also named
Duncan--a cross ne'er-do-weel like himself--was natural, but how he came
to have such a sweet daughter as Elspie, and such a good elder son as
Fergus, are mysteries which we do not attempt to unravel or explain.
Perhaps these two took after their departed mother. We know not, for we
never met her. Certain it is that they did not in the least resemble
their undeparted father--except in looks, for McKay senior had been a
handsome man, though at the time we introduce him his good looks, like
his temper, had nearly fled, and he was considerably shrivelled up by
age, hard work, and exposure. The poor man was too old to emigrate to a
wilderness home when he had set out for the Red River Colony, and the
unusual sufferings, disappointments, and hardships to which the first
settlers were exposed had told heavily on even younger men than he.
Elspie's love for her father was intense; her pity for him in his
misfortunes was very tender; and, now that he was brought face to face
with, perhaps, the greatest danger that had ever befallen him, her
anxiety to relieve and comfort him was very touching. She seemed quite
to forget herself, and the fact that she might perish on the bleak
plains along with her father did not seem even to occur to her.
"It wass madness to come here, _whatever_," said the poor old man, as he
cowered over the small fire, which his son Fergus had kindled before
leaving, and which Elspie had kept up with infinite labour and
difficulty ever since.
The remark was made testily to himself, for Elspie had gone into the
surrounding bush, axe in hand, to find, if possible, and cut down some
more small pieces of firewood. When she returned with an armful of dry
sticks, he repeated the sentiment still more testily, and added--"If it
wass not for Tuncan, I would have been at home this night in my warm
bed, wi' a goot supper inside o' me, instead o' freezin' an' starvin'
oot here on the plain among the snow. It's mischief that boy wass
always after from the tay he wass born."
"But you know that poor Duncan could not guess we were to have such
awful weather, or that the buffalo would be so scarce. Come now, dear
daddy," said the cheery girl, as she heaped on wood and made a blaze
that revived the old man, "I'll warm up some more of the tea. There's a
very little left--and--and--it surely won't be long till God sends
Daniel and Fergus back to us with food."
Old McKay was somewhat mollified by her manner, or by the fire, or by
the prospect of relief held out, for his tone improved decidedly.
"Try the bag again, lass," he said, "maybe you'll find a crumb or two in
the corners yet. It will do no harm to try."
Obediently poor Elspie tried, but shook her head as she did so.
"There's nothing there, daddy. I turned it inside out last time."
"Wow! but it's ill to bear!" exclaimed old Duncan, with a
half-suppressed groan.
Meanwhile his daughter put the tin kettle on the fire and prepared their
last cup of tea. When it was ready she looked up with a peculiar
expression on her face, as she drew something from her pocket.
"Look here, daddy," she said, holding up a bit of pemmican about the
size of a hen's egg.
The old man snatched it from her, and, biting off a piece, began to chew
with a sort of wolfish voracity.
"I reserved it till now," said the girl, "for I knew that this being the
second night, you would find it impossible to get to sleep at all
without something in you, however small. If you manage to sleep on this
and the cup of hot tea, you'll maybe rest well till morning--and then--"
"God forgive me!" exclaimed the old man, suddenly pausing, as he was
about to thrust the last morsel into his mouth; "hunger makes me
selfish. I wass forgettin' that you are starvin' too, my tear. Open
your mouth."
"No, father, I don't want it. I really don't feel hungry."
"Elspie, my shild," said old Duncan, in a tone of stern remonstrance,
"when wass it that you began to tell lies?"
"I'm telling the truth, daddy. I did feel hungry yesterday, but that
has passed away, and to-day I feel only a little faint."
"Open your mouth, I'm tellin' you," repeated old Duncan in a tone of
command which long experience had taught Elspie promptly to obey. She
received the morsel, ate it with much relish, and wished earnestly for
more.
"Now, you'll lie down and go to sleep," she said, after her father had
washed down the last morsel of food with the last cup of hot tea, "and
I'll gather a few more sticks to keep the fire going till morning. I
think it is not so cold as it was, and the wind is quite gone. They
have been away five days now, or more. I think that God, in His mercy,
will send us relief in the morning."
"You are a goot lass, my tear," said the old man, allowing himself to be
made as comfortable as it was in his daughter's power to accomplish;
"what you say is ferry true. The weather feels warmer, and the wind is
down. Perhaps they will find us in the mornin'. Goot-night, my tear."
It was one of the characteristics of this testy old man, that he
believed it quite possible for a human being to get on quite well enough
in this world without any distinct recognition of his Maker.
Once, in conversation with his youngest son and namesake Duncan junior,
he had somehow got upon this subject, not by any means in a reverential,
but in an argumentative, controversial spirit, and had expressed the
opinion that as man knew nothing whatever about God, and had no means of
finding out anything about Him, there was no need to trouble one's head
about Him at all.
"I just go about my work, Tuncan," he said, "an' leave preachin' an'
prayin' an' psalm-singin' to them that likes it. There's Elspie, now.
She believes in God, an' likes goin' to churches an' meetin's, an' that
seems to make her happy. Ferry goot--I don't pelieve in these things,
an' I think I'm as happy as hersel'."
"Humph!" grunted the son in a tone of unconcealed contempt; "if ye _are_
as happy as hersel', faither, yer looks give the lie to your condeetion,
_whatever_. An' there's this great dufference between you an' her, that
she's not only happy hersel', but she does her best to mak other folk
happy--but you, wi' your girnin' an' snappin', are always doin' the best
ye can to mak everybody aboot ye meeserable."
"Tuncan," retorted the sire, with solemn candour, "it iss the same
compliment I can return to yoursel' with interest, my boy--what_ever_."
With such sentiments, then, it is not remarkable that Duncan McKay
senior turned over to sleep as he best could without looking to a higher
source than earth afforded for help in his extremity. Happily his
daughter was actuated by a better spirit, and when she at last lay down
on her pile of brushwood, with her feet towards the fire, and her head
on a buffalo robe, the fact of her having previously committed herself
and her father to God made her sleep all the sounder.
In another clump of wood not many miles distant from the spot where the
father and daughter lay, two hunters were encamped. One was Duncan
McKay, to whom we have just referred as being in discord with his
father. The other was a Canadian named Henri Perrin.
Both men were gaunt and weakened by famine. They had just returned to
camp from an unsuccessful hunt, and the latter, being first to return,
had kindled the fire, and was about to put on the kettle when McKay came
in.
"I've seen nothing," remarked McKay as he flung down his gun and then
flung himself beside it. "Did you see anything?"
"No, nothing," answered Perrin, breaking off a piece of pemmican and
putting it into the pot.
"How much is left?" asked McKay.
"Hardly enough for two days--for the two of us; four days perhaps for
one!" answered the other.
McKay looked up quickly, but the Canadian was gazing abstractedly into
the pot. Apparently his remark had no significance. But McKay did not
think so. Since arriving in the colony he had seen and heard much about
deception and crime among both Indians and half-breeds. Being
suspicious by nature, he became alarmed, for it was evident enough, as
Perrin had said, that food to last two men for three days would last one
man for six, and the one who should possess six days' provisions might
hope to reach the Settlement alive, even though weakened by previous
starvation.
The dark expression which had procured for Duncan McKay junior the
_sobriquet_ of Cloudbrow from La Certe and his wife, deepened visibly as
these thoughts troubled his brain, and for some time he sat gazing at
the fire in profound abstraction.
Young McKay was not by any means one of the most depraved of men, but
when a man is devoid of principle it only requires temptation strong
enough, and opportunity convenient, to sink him suddenly to the lowest
depths. Starvation had so far weakened the physique of the hunters that
it was obviously impossible for both of them to reach the Settlement on
two days' short allowance of food. The buffalo had been driven away
from that neighbourhood by the recent storm, and the hope of again
falling in with them was now gone. The starving hunters, as we have
said, had broken up camp, and were scattered over the plains no one
could tell where. To find them might take days, if not weeks; and, even
if successful, of what avail would it be to discover groups of men who
were in the same predicament with themselves? To remain where they were
was certain and not far-distant death! The situation was desperate, and
each knew it to be so. Yet each did not take it in the same way.
McKay, as we have said, became abstracted and slightly nervous. The
Canadian, whatever his thoughts, was calm and collected, and went about
his culinary operations as if he were quite at ease. He was about to
lift the pot off the hook that suspended it over the fire, when his
companion quietly, and as if without any definite purpose, took up his
gun.
Perrin observed the action, and quickly reached out his hand towards his
own weapon, which lay on the ground beside him.
Quick as lightning McKay raised his gun and fired. Next moment his
comrade lay dead upon the ground--shot through the heart!
Horror-struck at what he had done, the murderer could scarcely believe
his eyes, and he stood up glaring at the corpse as if he had been frozen
to death in that position. After standing a long time, he sat down and
tried to think of his act and the probable consequences.
Self-defence was the first idea that was suggested clearly to him; and
he clung to it as a drowning man is said to cling to a straw. "Was it
not clear," he thought, "that Perrin intended to murder me? If not, why
so quick to grip his gun? If I had waited it would have been me, not
Perrin, that would be lying there now!"
His memory reminded him faithfully, however, that when he first thought
of taking up his gun, Conscience had sternly said,--"Don't." Why should
Conscience have spoken thus, or at all, if his motive had been innocent?
There are two ways in which a wicked man gets rid of conscientious
troubles--at least for a time. One way is by stout-hearted defiance of
God, and ignoring of Conscience altogether. The other is by sophistical
reasoning, and a more or less successful effort to throw dust in his own
eyes.
Duncan McKay took the latter method. It is an easy enough method--
especially with the illogical--but it works indifferently, and it does
not last long.
Conscience may be seared; may be ignored; may be trampled on, but it
cannot be killed; it cannot even be weakened and is ever ready at the
most unseasonable and unexpected times to start up, vigorous and
faithful to the very end, with its emphatic "Don't!" and "No!"
Dragging the body out of the camp, McKay returned to take his supper and
reason the matter out with himself.
"I could not help myself," he thought; "when I took up my gun I did not
intend to kill the man."