Had any one been watching the camp-fires of the banished colonists that
night, the last idea that would have entered the observer's mind would
have been that of suffering or distress.
The night was brilliantly fine, and just cold enough to make the blazing
fires agreeable without being necessary--except, indeed, as a means of
cooking food. The light of these fires, shining through the green,
yellow, and golden foliage, and illuminating the sunburnt faces of men,
women, and children, gave to the scene a strain of the free, the wild,
and the romantic, which harmonised well with the gypsy-like appearance
of the people, and formed a ruddy contrast to the pure cold light of the
innumerable stars overhead, which, with their blue-black setting, were
reflected in the neighbouring lake.
Over every fire pots and kettles were suspended from tripods, or rested
on the half-burned logs, while impaled wild-fowl roasted in front of it.
Food being in great abundance, hearts were light in spite of other
adverse circumstances, and men and women, forgetting to some extent the
sufferings of the past and the dark prospects of the future, appeared to
abandon themselves to the enjoyment of the present.
The children, of course, were full of glee, and not altogether empty of
mischief; and there were fortunately no infants of age so tender as to
induce a squalling protest against the discomforts of a situation which
could be neither understood nor appreciated.
"It iss a pleesant night, whatever," remarked old McKay, lighting his
pipe with a brand plucked from the fire which his family and the
Davidsons shared in common; "an' if it wass always like this, it iss
myself that would not object to be a rud savitch."
"I don't know that a rud savitch is much worse than a white wan,"
growled Duncan junior, in an under-tone.
"What iss that you say?" demanded the old man with a look of suspicion,
for his hearing was imperfect.
"Surely the water must be boiling now, daddy?" said Elspie, by way of
checking the conversation.
"I don't know whuther it iss boilin' or not," answered Duncan senior,
applying another brand to his pipe.
"Archie, boy!" exclaimed Dan Davidson, "you're letting that goose roast
to a cinder."
"No, Dan, I'm not--but Billie can't a-bear meat underdone, so it's
better to blacken the outside than have the inside raw."
"Who iss that singing? Wheesht, boys," said Fergus McKay, turning his
head a little on one side as if to listen.
There was profound silence for a few moments as a rich manly voice was
heard to swell forth from the neighbourhood of one of the camp-fires.
"It comes from the camp of the Switzers, I think," said Elspie McKay.
"I know it," said Jessie Davidson, who was seated on a log beside her
friend. "It is Francois La Certe. He came to our meeting-place in Red
River, you know, just after Cuthbert Grant and his men left us, and,
hearing that we were starting off to Jack River again, he resolved to
follow. I heard him tell Slowfoot to get ready to go along with us."
"I wonder why he came?" said Mrs Davidson, coming out of her tent at
the moment, and joining the party round the fire.
"He did not say," answered Jessie.
"He did not require to say," remarked Duncan McKay, with a sarcastic
laugh. "Every wan knows that wherever there iss a chance of gettin'
ammunition and plenty of victuals for nothing, there La Certe iss
certain to be found. He knew that we would be sure to hev plenty at
this season o' the year, an' that we would not see him an' his wife
sterve when our kettles wass full. Iss not that so, Okematan? You know
him best."
Thus appealed to, the Indian, whose usual expression was one of intense
gravity, shut his eyes, opened his mouth, displayed his superb teeth,
and uttered a low chuckle, but made no further reply.
It was enough. Those who understood Okematan and his ways were well
aware that he thought La Certe uncommonly sly.
The half-breed had indeed followed the expelled colonists in the belief
that they would certainly possess plenty of powder and shot--which he
had not the means of purchasing. He also knew that the whole of
Rupert's Land swarmed with game in autumn and spring, and that the
Scotch were an open-handed race when approached in the right way.
Putting these things together, he carefully gummed his canoe, put his
wife and child into it--also some of the provision which had been
supplied to him by Duncan McKay junior--and followed the settlers over
Lake Winnipeg to Jack River.
Here, finding that a new party of immigrants had arrived, who were
necessarily unacquainted with his little peculiarities, La Certe
attached himself to them and made himself agreeable. This he could do
very well, for the Switzers understood his bad French, as well as his
good tuneful voice, and appreciated his capacity for telling a story.
"Did you never," he said to Andre Morel, after his song was finished,
"hear of how my old mother saved her whole tribe from death one time in
the Rocky Mountains?"
"Never," Morel replied with a somewhat sceptical but good-natured smile.
"No! I wonder much, for every one in this land heard about it, an' I
thought the news must have spread over Europe and--and, perhaps Africa.
Well, I will tell you. Where is my baccy-bag?"
"Never mind, fill your pipe from mine," said Morel, tossing him a little
bag of the coveted weed.
"Thank you. Well, you must know that my mother had a beautiful voice--
O! much more beautiful than mine. Indeed, I do not joke, so you need
not laugh. It was so sweet that men were always forced to listen till
she was done. They could not help it."
"Did they ever want to help it?" asked Morel quietly.
"O yes--as you shall hear. Well, one day my mother was living with all
our tribe--I say _our_ tribe because my mother was an Indian--with all
our tribe, in a great dark gorge of the Rocky Mountains. The braves had
gone out to hunt that day, but my mother stayed behind with the women
and children. I was a little foolish child at that time--too young to
hunt or fight. My father--a French Canadian--he was dead.
"We knew--my mother and I--that the braves would be home soon. We
expected them every minute. While we were waiting for them, my mother
went into the bush to pick berries. There she discovered a war-party of
our enemies. They were preparing to attack our village, for they knew
the men were away, and they wanted the scalps of the women and children.
But they did not know the exact spot where our wigwams were pitched,
and were just going, after a feed, to look for it.
"My mother ran home with the news, and immediately roused the camp, and
made them get ready to fly to meet the returning men.
"`But, my daughter,' said an old chief, who had stayed in camp, `our
enemies are young and active; they will quickly overtake us before we
meet our men.'
"`No,' said my mother, `I will stop them. Get ready, and set off
quickly.'
"She then ran back on her trail--my mother was a tremendous runner--
superb! She came to a narrow place where our enemies would have to
pass. A very thick tree grew there. She climbed it, and hid among the
branches. It projected beyond a precipice and overhung a stream. Soon
after that she saw the enemy advancing, step by step, slowly,
cautiously, like men who dread an ambush, and with glances quick and
solemn from side to side, like men who see a foe in every stump and
stone."
La Certe paused at this point. He was an adept at story-telling. His
voice had slowed by degrees and become increasingly deep and solemn as
he proceeded.
"Now," continued he, in a higher tone, "my mother did not fear that they
would see her if they looked up when they passed the tree. She was too
well hidden for that; but she was not sure what the effect of her voice
would be, for she had never tried it in that way before. However, she
was full of courage. She resembled me in that--bold as a lion! She
began to sing. Low and soft at the beginning, like a dream of song.
"At the first note the Indians halted--every man; each in the position
in which he was fixed. If a foot was up he kept it up. If both feet
were down he left them down. The feet that were up came slowly to the
ground when the Indians got tired, but no one took another step. My
mother's voice was a weird voice. It sounded as if the place from which
it came was nowhere--or anywhere--or everywhere! Slowly the painted
heads turned from side to side as far as they could go, and the glaring
eyes turned a little further. A creeping fear came over them. They
trembled. They turned pale. That could be easily seen through the
paint. My mother saw it! She became more courageous and sang out in
her most pathetic strain. The Indians wept. That was quite visible.
My mother saw it. Her great object was to delay the attack until our
men had time to arrive. She tried a war-song, but that was not so
successful. It was too commonplace. Besides, in her energy she shook
the branches, and that drew attention to the tree. My mother thought
that she was in danger then; but fortune favoured her. It always
favours the brave. I know this from experience.
"She had just come to a terrific whoop in the war-song when she slipped
off her branch and the whoop increased to a death-yell as she went
crashing headlong through the branches and down into the stream at the
foot of the precipice.
"Water! water!" exclaimed La Certe at this point, holding out both
hands. "I can never pass this part of my story without burning thirst!"
A mug of water was handed him.
"Poor fellow--have some brandy in it," said a sympathetic hearer,
hastily getting out his bottle.
La Certe held out his mug impatiently for the brandy, drained the mug,
and cleared his voice.
"Was--was your mother killed?" asked the sympathiser, earnestly.
"Killed? No. Impossible! My mother could not be killed because her
destiny was not yet fulfilled. No: there was a deep pool right under
the tree. She fell into that with a plunge that echoed from cliff to
cliff. The Indians were profoundly superstitious. All Indians are not
so, but these Indians were. They waited not for more. They turned and
fled as if all the evil spirits in the Rocky Mountains were chasing
them. They reached their wigwams breathless, and told their squaws that
one of the spirits of a mountain stream had sat among the branches of a
tree and sung to them. It had told them that the right time for
attacking their foes had not yet come. Then it sang them a war-song
descriptive of their final victory, and, just after uttering a
tremendous war-whoop, it had dived back into its native stream."
"Well done!" exclaimed an enthusiastic Canadian.
"But what became of your mother?" asked Morel.
"Oh! she swam ashore. My mother was a splendid swimmer. I know it, for
she taught me."
"Was it a long swim?" asked a sceptical sailor, who was one of the
emigrants.
"How?--what mean you?" demanded La Certe, sternly.
"I only want to know if she took long to swim ashore out o' that pool,"
said the sceptic, simply.
La Certe cast on him a glance of suspicion, and replied that his mother
had found no difficulty in getting out of the pool.
"Is the old lady alive yet?" asked the pertinacious sceptic.
"Of course not. She died long long ago--thirty years ago."
"What! before you was born? That's strange, isn't it?"
"No, but you not understand. I suppose my speech is not plain to you.
I said _three_ years ago."
"Ah! that's more like it. I only missed what you said," returned the
sceptic, whose name was Fred Jenkins, "for I've lived a while in France,
and understand your lingo pretty well. Pass that goose, Morel, if you
have left anything on it. This air o' the wilderness beats the air o'
the sea itself for givin' a fellow a twist."
The remarks of Jenkins, while they did not absolutely destroy the
confidence of the Swiss party, shook it enough to show the wily
half-breed that he must do something if possible to re-establish his
credit. He therefore volunteered another song, which was gladly
accepted and highly appreciated; for, as we have said, La Certe
possessed a really good and tuneful voice, and these immigrants were a
musical people.
While this was going on at the Swiss camp-fires an incident occurred at
the fire round which the McKay-Davidson party was assembled, which
deserves particular notice.
Old McKay was giving some directions to Fergus; Duncan junior was seated
opposite Dan Davidson, smoking his pipe, and Elspie had gone into her
tent, when Slowfoot, the spouse of La Certe, drew near.
"Come along, old girl," exclaimed McKay senior. "It iss some baccy you
will be wantin', I'll wager."
Slowfoot did not reply in words, but the smile upon her face was
eloquent.
"Come away, then," continued the hospitable Highlander. "You shall hev
a pipe of it, whatever."
He handed her a large plug of tobacco, and the woman, sitting down close
to young Duncan, produced her pipe, and drew out a knife for the purpose
of cutting up the tobacco.
"Hallo!" exclaimed Duncan, "where did you get hold o' my knife?"
He stopped abruptly--a little confused in spite of himself. For the
moment he had quite forgotten that the knife had been left in the camp
where he had slain Perrin, and the sudden sight of it had thrown him off
his guard. It was now too late to unsay the words, but not too late to
mislead his hearers.
"I got it from Marie Blanc," said Slowfoot with a look of surprise.
"Does the knife belong to Cloudbrow?"
"I think it does. I'm almost sure it iss mine. Let me see it,"
returned Duncan, taking the knife from the woman's hand, and examining
it with cool and critical deliberation.
"No," continued he, "it iss not mine, but very like one that I lost--so
like that I felt sure at first it wass mine."
Men who lie, usually overact their part. Duncan glanced suspiciously at
Dan to see how he took the explanation as he returned the knife to
Slowfoot, and Dan observed the glance, as being uncalled for--
unnatural--in the circumstances.
Dan was by no means of a suspicious nature, nevertheless the glance
haunted him for many a day after that. Suspicion once aroused is a
ghost which is not easily laid. He tried to shake it off, and he
carefully, loyally, kept it confined in his own breast; but, do what he
would, he could not banish entirely from his mind that Duncan McKay--the
brother of his Elspie--had some sort of guilty knowledge of the murder
of poor Henri Perrin.