With much labour and skill had the Davidsons and McKays erected two
timber cottages side by side in the land of their adoption.
These two families were among the first band of settlers. They were
very different in character--one being Highland, the other Lowland
Scotch, but they were more or less united by sympathy, intermarriage,
and long residence beside each other on the slopes of the Grampian
Hills, so that, on the voyage out, they made a compact that they should
stick by each other, and strive, and work, and fight the battle of life
together in the new land.
All the members of the Davidson family were sterling, sedate, hearty,
and thorough-going. Daniel and Peter were what men style "dependable"
fellows, and bore strong resemblance to their father, who died almost
immediately after their arrival in the new country. Little Jessie was
like her mother, a sort of bottomless well of sympathy, into which
oceans of joy or sorrow might be poured without causing an overflow--
except, perchance, at the eyelids--and out of which the waters of
consolation might be pumped for evermore without pumping dry. The idea
of self never suggested itself in the presence of these two. The
consequence was that everybody adored them. It was rather a selfish
adoration, we fear, nevertheless it was extremely delightful--to the
adorers, we mean--and doubtless not unpleasant to the adored.
The love of God, in Christ, was the foundation of their characters.
Of the McKay family we cannot speak so confidently. Elspie, indeed, was
all that could be desired, and Fergus was in all respects a sterling
man; but the head of the family was, as we have seen, open to
improvement in many respects, and Duncan junior was of that
heart-breaking character which is known as ne'er-do-weel. Possibly, if
differently treated by his father, he might have been a better man. As
it was, he was unprincipled and hasty of temper.
Little wonder that, when thrown together during a long voyage--to an
almost unknown land--Elspie McKay and Daniel Davidson should fall into
that condition which is common to all mankind, and less wonder that,
being a daring youth with a resolute will, Daniel should manage to
induce the pliant, loving Elspie, to plight her troth while they were
gazing over the ship's side at the first iceberg they met. We may as
well hark back here a little, and very briefly sketch the incident. It
may serve as a guide to others.
The two were standing--according to the report of the bo's'n, who
witnessed the whole affair--"abaft the main shrouds squintin' over the
weather gangway." We are not quite sure of the exact words used by that
discreditable bo's'n, but these are something like them. It was
moon-light and dead calm; therefore propitious, so far, to Daniel's
design--for Daniel undoubtedly had a design that night, obvious to his
own mind, and clearly defined like the great iceberg, though, like it
too, somewhat hazy in detail.
"What a glorious, magnificent object!" exclaimed Elspie, gazing in
wonder at the berg, the pinnacles of which rose considerably above the
mast-head.
"Yes, very glorious, very magnificent!" said Daniel, gazing into the
maiden's eyes, and utterly regardless of the berg.
"I wonder how such a huge mass ever manages to melt," said Elspie--for
the human mind, even in pretty girls, is discursive.
"_I_ wonder it does not melt at once," said Dan, with pointed emphasis.
"What do you mean?" she asked, turning her eyes in considerable
astonishment from the berg to the man.
"I mean," said he, "that under the influence of your eyes the iceberg
ought to melt straight away. They have melted my heart, Elspie, and
_That_ has been an iceberg, I find, till now."
He seized her hand. It had all come on so suddenly that poor Elspie was
quite unprepared for it. She turned as if to fly, but Daniel put his
arm round her waist and detained her.
"Elspie, dearest Elspie, it _must_ be settled now--or--." He would
not--could not--say "never."
"O Daniel, don't!" entreated Elspie.
But Daniel _did_.
"Bray-vo!" exclaimed the bo's'n with enthusiasm, for he was a
sympathetic man, though unprincipled in the matter of eavesdropping.
That cut it short. They retired precipitately from the weather gangway
abaft the main shrouds, and sought refuge in a sequestered nook near the
companion-hatch, which was, in name as well as in every other way, much
more suited to their circumstances. The steersman had his eye on them
there, but they fortunately did not know it.
Apologising for this reminiscence, we return to the thread of our story.
Mrs Davidson was seated at breakfast one morning, with all her family
around her in Prairie Cottage. She had named it thus because, from one
of the windows, there was to be had a peep of the prairies lying beyond
the bushes by which it was surrounded.
Old McKay had named his cottage Ben Nevis, either because the country
around was as flat as a pancake, or out of sheer contradictiousness.
"Have they found out anything more about the murder of that poor fellow
Perrin?" asked Mrs Davidson. "More than four months have passed since
it happened."
"Nothing more, mother," said Dan, who now filled his father's chair.
"As you say, four months have passed, and one would think that was time
enough to discover the murderer, but, you see, it is nobody's business
in particular, and we've no regular police, and everybody is far too
busy just now to think about it. In fact, not many people in these
parts care much about a murder, I fear."
"Ah if they went to see Perrin's old mother," said Jessie, "it would
oblige them to care a great deal, for he was her only son."
"Ay, her only child!" added Mrs Davidson.
While she was yet speaking, it so happened that Duncan McKay junior
himself entered the room, with that over-done free-and-easiness which
sometimes characterises a man who is ill at ease.
"Whose only child are you speaking about, Mrs Davidson?" he asked
carelessly.
"Mrs Perrin's," she replied, with a familiar nod to the visitor, who
often dropped in on them casually in this way.
The reply was so unexpected and sudden, that McKay could not avoid a
slight start and a peculiar expression, in spite of his usual
self-command. He glanced quickly at Dan and Peter, but they were busy
with their food, and had apparently not noticed the guilty signs.
"Ah, poor thing," returned the youth, in his cynical and somewhat nasal
tone, "it _iss_ hard on her. By the way, Dan, hev ye heard that the
wolves hev killed two or three of McDermid's horses that had strayed out
on the plains, and Elspie's mare Vixen iss out too. Some of us will be
going to seek for her. The day bein' warm an' the snow soft, we hev a
good chance of killin' some o' the wolves. I thought Peter might like
to go too."
"So Peter does," said the youth, rising and brushing the crumbs off his
knees: "there's nothing I like better than to hunt down these sneaking,
murderous brutes that are so ready to spring suddenly unawares on friend
or foe."
Again Duncan McKay cast a quick inquiring glance at Peter, but the lad
was evidently innocent of any double meaning. It was only a movement,
within the man-slayer, of that conscience which "makes cowards of us
all."
"Louise!" shouted Dan, as he also rose from the table.
"Oui, monsieur," came, in polite deferential tones, from the culinary
department, and the little half-breed maiden appeared at the door.
"Did you mend that shot-bag last night?"
"Oui, monsieur."
"Fetch it here, then, please; and, Jessie, stir your stumps like a good
girl, and get some food ready to take with us."
"Will you tell me the precise way in which good girls stir their
stumps?" asked Jessie; "for I'm not quite sure."
Dan answered with a laugh, and went out to saddle his horse, followed by
his brother and Duncan McKay.
"Rescuing seems to be the order of the day this year," remarked Peter,
as they walked towards the stable behind the cottage. "We've had a good
deal of rescuing men in the winter, and now we are goin' to rescue
horses."
"Rescuing is the grandest work that a fellow can undertake," said Dan,
"whether it be the body from death or the soul from sin."
"What you say iss true--whatever," remarked McKay, whose speech,
although not so broad as that of his father, was tinged with similar
characteristics. "It will be better to rescue than to kill."
This was so obvious a truism that his companions laughed, but Duncan had
uttered it almost as a soliloquy, for he was thinking at the moment of
poor Perrin, whose body had long since been brought to the Settlement
and buried. Indeed thoughts of the murdered man were seldom out of his
mind.
Meanwhile, far out on the lonesome and still snow-covered prairie the
steed which they were going to rescue stood on a low mound or undulation
of the plain surrounded by wolves. It was a pitiful sight to see the
noble mare, almost worn-out with watching and defending herself, while
the pack of those sneaking hounds of the wilderness sat or stood around
her licking their chops and patiently biding their time.
They formed a lean, gaunt, savage-looking crew, as they sat there,
calculating, apparently, how long their victim's strength would hold
out, and when it would be safe to make a united and cowardly rush.
One wolf, more gaunt and rugged and grey than the others, with black
lips and red tongue and bloodshot eyes, moved about the circle uneasily
as if trying to screw up its craven spirit to the sticking point. The
others evidently regarded this one as their leader, for they hung back
from him a little, and kept a watchful eye on his movements. So did
Vixen, the mare. She kept her tail always turned towards him, looking
savagely back at him with her great eyes glittering, her ears laid flat,
and her heels ready.
Poor Vixen! Elspie had given her the name when in a facetious frame of
mind, as being descriptive of the very opposite of her character, for
she was gentle as a lamb, tender in the mouth, playful in her moods, and
sensitive to a degree both in body and spirit. No curb was ever needed
to restrain Vixen, nor spur to urge her on. A chirp sent an electric
thrill through her handsome frame; a "Quiet, Vic!" sufficed to calm her
to absolute docility. Any child could have reined her in, and she went
with springy elasticity as though her limbs were made of vivified steel
and indiarubber. But she was getting old, and somehow the wolves seemed
to be aware of that melancholy fact. They would not have troubled her
in the heyday of her youth!
An impatient howl from one of the pack seemed to insinuate that the grey
old leader was a coward. So he was, but evidently he did not relish
being told so, for he uncovered his glittering fangs and made a sudden
dash at the mare.
With a whisk of the tail worthy of her best days, she lashed out behind
and planted both her pretty little feet on the ribs of the grey chief
with such a portentous whack that he succumbed at once. With a gasp,
and a long-drawn wail, he sank dead upon the snow; whereupon his amiable
friends--when quite sure of his demise--tore him limb from limb and
devoured him.
This was a fortunate respite for Vixen, most of whose remaining strength
and pluck had been thrown into that magnificent fling. Old Duncan, had
he seen it, would probably have styled it a "goot Highland fling."
But the respite was not of long duration. Their leader formed but a
mouthful to each of the pack.
When done, they returned to encircle their victim again, lick their
chops, and wait.
Evening was drawing on, and a sort of grey desolation seemed to be
creeping over the plains.
A decided thaw had been operating all that day, rendering the snow soft.
If the mare had only known the advantage thus given to her, a
successful effort at escape might have been made. When snow on the
prairie is frozen with a hard crust on the surface, the light wolf can
run easily on the top of it, while the heavy horse breaks through at
every stride and is soon knocked up. The case is reversed when a thaw
softens the surface, for then the short-legged wolf flounders helplessly
in its depths, while the long-limbed and powerful horse can gallop
through it with comparative ease. But the good mare, intelligent though
she was, did not consider this fact, and the wolves, you may be sure,
did not enlighten her. Besides, by that time she was well-nigh
worn-out, and could not have made a vigorous run for life even over a
good course.
Gradually, a worthy lieutenant of the old grey chief began to show
symptoms of impatience, and the hungry circle closed in. Vixen looked
up and whinnied slightly. It seemed a pitiful appeal for help from the
human friends who had cared for her so well and so long. Perchance it
was the last wail of despair--a final farewell to the green fields and
the flowering plains of memory.
Whatever it was, an answer came in the form of several dark specks on
the horizon. Vixen saw them, and whinnied again in a decidedly
different tone. The wolves also saw them, and moved about uneasily.
On came the black specks, increasing in size as they drew near. The
wolves looked at each other inquiringly, moved still more uneasily,
appeared to hold a consultation, and finally drew off to a neighbouring
knoll, as if to await the result of this unlooked-for interruption, and
return to business when it was past.
The intelligence of the lower animals is great--in some cases very
great--but it does not amount to reason. If it did, those wolves would
not have sat there, in the pride of physical strength and personal
freedom, calmly awaiting their doom, while Daniel and Peter Davidson,
Duncan McKay junior, Okematan the Cree Indian, another Indian named
Kateegoose, and Jacques Bourassin, a half-breed, came thundering down
towards them like infuriated centaurs.
At last they seemed to realise the truth that "discretion is the better
part of valour," and began to retire from the scene--slowly at first.
Vixen, recognising friends, trotted off with reviving strength, and a
high head and tail to meet them. Seeing this, Dan, who led the party,
drew rein so as to allow the steeds to recover breath before the final
burst.
The wolves, with that presumption which is usually found to be the
handmaid of ignorance, halted, and sat down again to watch the progress
of events. Fatal self-confidence! They little knew the deep duplicity
of man!
"O you stupid brutes!" murmured Dan to himself, advancing in a somewhat
sidling manner as if he meant to pass them. They evidently believed
this to be his intention until they saw the six horsemen turn their
steeds straight in their direction and charge them at full gallop with a
yell that drove rapid conviction to their brains.
Then, with tails between legs and ears flat they fled. But it was too
late. The horses scattered the soft snow with comparative ease. The
wolves plunged through it with difficulty. First to overtake them was
Peter Davidson. He put the muzzle of his gun to the side of the grey
lieutenant, and shot him through the heart. His brother Dan, selecting
another of the pack, pointed at the ear and blew out its brains.
Okematan, partial to the weapons of his forefathers, sent an arrow
through the ribs of a third, while Kateegoose transfixed a fourth.
Duncan McKay shot a fifth, and Bourassin knocked over a sixth at
comparatively long range, his horse being too poor or too tired to come
fairly up with the pack.
There was no wasting of powder, shot, or shaft in this affair. Each man
was an expert with his weapon, and cool as the proverbial cucumber,
though considerably excited. Loading as they ran, they fitted and shot
again, stretching six more of the enemy on the plain. Then they pulled
up and suffered the rest to escape, being afraid to leave Vixen out of
sight behind them, for that happy creature, following and enjoying the
sport as long as she could, found that her powers were too much
exhausted to permit of her keeping up with the chase.
"She's not fit to travel another mile," said Dan, stroking her glossy
neck and allowing her to rub her nose affectionately on his shoulder.
"That iss true, whatever," assented Duncan. "I think we could not do
better than camp on the nearest bluff."
This was agreed to by all. Provision for one meal, it will be
remembered, had been prepared at Prairie Cottage in the morning. A
hunter's meal, when properly divided, makes two or three average meals,
and a hunter's powers of endurance are proverbial. Each man had his
blanket strapped to his saddle. Branches of various kinds of trees make
a good mattress, and the air of the prairie is well-known to conduce to
appetite and slumber.
With such environment it is scarcely necessary to add that the hunters
enjoyed themselves, and that Vixen had a restful night, probably without
even a dream about hungry wolves.