In accordance with the assurance given to Okematan Antoine Dechamp at
once gave orders to make preparation for an immediate start after the
buffalo--much to the satisfaction of the hunters, especially the young
ones.
Buffaloes--or, to speak more correctly, bisons--roamed over the North
American prairies at the time we write of in countless thousands; for
the Indians, although extremely wasteful of animal life, could not keep
their numbers down, and the aggressive white-man, with his deadly gun
and rifle, had only just begun to depopulate the plains. Therefore the
hunters had not to travel far before coming up with their quarry.
In a very brief space of time they were all drawn up in line under
command of their chosen leader, who, at least up to the moment of giving
the signal for attack, kept his men in reasonably good order. They had
not ridden long when the huge ungainly bisons were seen like black
specks on the horizon.
Still the horsemen--each armed with the muzzle-loading,
single-barrelled, flint-lock gun of the period--advanced cautiously,
until so near that the animals began to look up as if in surprise at the
unwonted intrusion on their great solitudes.
Then the signal was given, the horses stretched out at the gallop, the
buffalo began to run--at first heavily, as if great speed were
impossible to them; but gradually the pace increased until it attained
to racing speed. Then the hunters gave the rein to their eager steeds,
and the long line rushed upon the game like a tornado of centaurs.
From this point all discipline was at an end. Each man fought for his
own hand, killing as many animals as he could, so that ere long the
plain was strewn with carcases, and the air filled with gunpowder smoke.
We have said that all the hunters set out, but this is not strictly
correct, for three were left behind. One of these had fallen sick; one
had sprained his wrist, and another was lazy. It need scarcely be told
that the lazy one was Francois La Certe.
"There is no hurry," he said, when the hunters were assembling for the
start; "plenty of time. My horse has not yet recovered from the
fatigues of the journey. And who knows but the report of the buffalo
being so near may be false? I will wait and see the result. To-morrow
will be time enough to begin. Then, Slowfoot, you will see what I can
do. Your hands shall be busy. We will load our cart with meat and
pemmican, pay off all our debts, and spend a happy winter in Red River.
What have you got there in the kettle?"
"Pork," answered Slowfoot with characteristic brevity.
"Will it soon be ready?"
"Soon."
"Have you got the tea unpacked?"
"Yes."
"Send me your pipe."
This latter speech was more in the tone of a request than a command, and
the implied messenger from the opposite side of the fire was the baby--
Baby La Certe. We never knew its name, if it had one, and we have
reason to believe that it was a female baby. At the time, baby was
quite able to walk--at least to waddle or toddle.
A brief order from the maternal lips sent Baby La Certe toddling round
the fire towards its father, pipe in hand; but, short though the road
was, it had time to pause and consider. Evidently the idea of justice
was strongly developed in that child. Fair wage for fair work had
clearly got hold of it, for it put the pipe which was still alight, in
its mouth and began to draw!
At this the father smiled benignly, but Slowfoot made a demonstration
which induced a rather prompt completion of the walk without a
reasonable wage. It sucked vigorously all the time, however, being
evidently well aware that Francois was not to be feared.
At that moment the curtain of the tent lifted, and little Bill Sinclair
limped in. He was a favourite with La Certe, who made room for him, and
at once offered him the pipe, but Billie declined.
"No, thank you, La Certe. I have not learned to smoke yet."
"Ha! you did not begin young enough," said the half-breed, glancing
proudly at his own offspring.
We may explain here once for all that, although he had lived long enough
in the colony to understand French, Billie spoke to his friend in
English, and that, although La Certe understood English, he preferred to
speak in French.
"What have you been doing?" he asked, when the boy had seated himself.
"I've been shooting at a mark with my bow and arrow--brother Archie made
it for me."
"Let me see--yes, it is very well made. Where is brother Archie?"
"Gone after the buffalo."
"What!--on a horse?"
"He could not go very well after them on foot--could he?" replied the
boy quietly. "Dan Davidson lent him a horse, but not a gun. He said
that Archie was too young to use a gun on horseback, and that he might
shoot some of the people instead of the buffalo, or burst his gun, or
fall off. But _I_ don't think so. Archie can do anything. I know, for
I've seen him do it."
"And so he has left you in camp all by yourself. What a shame, Billie!"
"No, Francois, it is not a shame. Would you have me keep him from the
fun just because I can't go? _That_ would indeed be a shame, wouldn't
it?"
"Well, perhaps you're right, Billie."
"I know I'm right," returned the boy, with a decision of tone that would
have been offensive if it had not been accompanied with a look of
straightforward gentleness that disarmed resentment. "But, I say,
Francois, why are you not out with the rest?"
"Oh, because--because--Well, you know, my horse is tired, and--and, I'm
not quite sure that the buffalo really have been seen as near as they
say. And I can go to-morrow just as well. You see, Billie, there is no
need to hurry oneself."
"No, I don't see that. I think there's always need for hurry, specially
with men like you. I know the reason you don't go out better than
yourself, Francois."
"Yes--what is it?" asked the half-breed with a slight laugh.
"It's laziness. That's what it is, and you should be ashamed of
yourself."
The large mild eyes and low voice, and pale earnest face of the
plain-spoken invalid were such that it would have been impossible for
any one to be offended with him, much less La Certe, whose spirit of
indignation it was almost impossible to arouse. He winced a little at
the home-thrust, however, because he knew it to be true.
"You're hard on me, Little Bill," he said with a benignant look, as he
picked a stick from the fire and inserted its glowing end in his pipe.
"No, I'm not hard," returned the boy gravely. Indeed he was always
grave, and seldom laughed though he sometimes smiled faintly at the
jokes and quips of his volatile brother and Fred Jenkins the seaman:
"I'm not half hard enough," he continued; "I like you, Francois, and
that's the reason why I scold you and try to get you to mend. I don't
think there's such a lazy man in the whole Settlement as you. You would
rather sit and smoke and stuff yourself with pork all day than take the
trouble to saddle your horse and get your gun and go out with the rest.
Why are you so lazy, Francois?"
"I'm sure I don't know, Little Bill, unless it be that I'm born to be
lazy. Other people are born, I suppose, to be active and energetic.
They like activity and energy, and so they do it. I like repose and
quiet, and--so I do that. Not much difference after all! We both do
what we like best!"
Little Bill was perplexed. Although philosophical in tendency he had
not had sufficient experience in sophistical reasoning to enable him to
disentangle the sinuosities of bad logic. But he was a resolute little
fellow, and not easily quelled.
"What would happen," he asked, "if everybody in the world did as you
do?"
"Well, I suppose everybody would enjoy themselves. There would be no
more fightings or wars, or any trouble of that sort, if everybody would
only take things easy and smoke the pipe of peace."
"Hm! I don't know about that," returned the boy, doubtfully; "but I'm
quite sure there would not be much pemmican in Red River this winter if
all the hunters were like you. I wonder you're not ashamed, Francois.
Sometimes I think that you're not worth caring about; but I can't help
it, you know--we can't force our likings one way or other."
La Certe was a good deal taken aback. He was not indeed unaccustomed to
plain speaking, and to the receipt of gratuitous abuse; but his
experience invariably was to associate both with more or less of a stern
voice and a frowning brow. To receive both in a soft voice from a
delicate meek-faced child, who at the same time professed to like him,
was a complete novelty which puzzled him not a little.
After a few minutes' profound consideration, he put out his pipe and
arose quickly with something like an appearance of firmness in his look
and bearing.
Slowfoot, whose utter ignorance of both French and English prevented her
understanding the drift of the recent conversation, was almost startled
by the unfamiliar action of her lord.
"Where go you?" she asked.
"To follow the buffalo," answered La Certe, with all the dignity of a
man bursting with good resolutions.
"Are you ill?" asked his wife, anxiously.
To this he vouchsafed no reply, as he raised the curtain and went out.
Little Bill also went out, and, sitting down on a package, watched him
with his large solemn eyes, but said never a word until the half-breed
had loaded his gun and mounted his horse. Then he said: "Good luck to
you, Francois!"
La Certe did not speak, but with a grave nod of his head rode slowly out
of the camp. Little Bill regarded him for a moment. He had his bow and
a blunt-headed arrow in his hand at the time. Fitting the latter
hastily to the bow he took a rapid shot at the retreating horseman. The
arrow sped well. It descended on the flank of the horse with
considerable force, and, bounding off, fell to the ground. The result
was that the horse, to La Certe's unutterable surprise, made a sudden
demivolt into the air--without the usual persuasion--almost unseated its
rider, and fled over the prairie like a thing possessed!
A faint smile ruffled the solemnity of Little Bill at this, but it
vanished when he heard a low chuckle behind him. Wheeling round, he
stood face to face with Slowfoot, whose mouth was expanded from ear to
ear.
"Clever boy!" she said, patting him on the back, "come into the tent and
have some grub."
She said this in the Cree language, which the boy did not understand,
but he understood well enough the signs with which the invitation was
accompanied. Thanking her with an eloquent look, he re-entered the tent
along with her.