"Dan," said Elspie, as, seated in the summer-house after the arrival of
the sportsmen, these two held a meeting, "I have called you back to tell
you of a very terrible thing which has been said of my dear brother
Duncan, and which you must contradict at once, and then find out how it
was that the false report arose, and have the matter cleared up."
"Dear Elspie," returned Dan, "I think I know what you are going to tell
me."
"Have you heard the report, then?" said Elspie, turning pale, "and--and
do you believe it?"
"I have suspected--I have--but let me hear first what the report is, and
who it came from."
"I got it from Annette Pierre, and I am sure she would not have told it
me if she did not think it true; but, then, poor Annette is not very
intelligent, and she may be--must be--mistaken. She says that it was
Duncan who killed poor Henri Perrin, and that some of the half-breeds
are determined to avenge the death of their comrade. Now, it cannot be
true; and I want you at once to go and ferret out the truth, so as to
prove the report false."
"Have you spoken to Duncan on the subject?" asked Dan.
"No, I cannot bear to let him imagine even for a moment that I could
believe him guilty of murder--that I even suspected him of it. But you
say you have heard something, Dan--that you suspect something. What is
it?"
"It is difficult to say, Elspie dear. I, too, have heard the rumour
that has come to your ears, and I have seen--but it is useless talking
of our mere conjectures. I will go at once and ferret out all about it
if possible. My first business will be to see Annette and get from her
all that she knows. Where is Duncan?"
"In the wheat-field. They have begun to shear to-day, and, as the crop
is heavy, they will be glad of your help."
Dan went to the field, after visiting Annette Pierre, and lent good
assistance to the shearers, but, like Elspie, he found that he had not
courage to say anything to Duncan that would indicate his suspicion. He
longed to put the question straight to him, but could not prevail on
himself to do so.
Next morning, however, he and Elspie were both saved the necessity of
doing such violence to their feelings, by the arrival of two men from
Fort Garry. They were members of a sort of police force that the
Company had enrolled, and had come to arrest Duncan McKay junior, on the
charge of murder!
There was not much of law in the colony at that time, but it was felt
that something had to be done in the way of governing a settlement which
was rapidly increasing, and in which Lynch and mob law would certainly
be applied if regularly constituted authority did not step in. As the
murder of Perrin had created great indignation among the half-breeds,
and the feeling about it was increasing, the Company resolved to clear
the matter up by having the supposed murderer tried. Duncan was
accordingly lodged in one of the bastions of Fort Garry, where, when
visited by the Governor, he firmly denied his guilt.
The arrest of his younger son on such a charge fell very heavily on poor
Duncan McKay senior--more heavily than those who knew him would have
expected. It touched not only his feelings but his pride; for was he
not a lineal descendant of that Fergus McKay who had been a chief in one
of the Western Isles of Scotland--he could not tell which, but no
matter--at that celebrated period of Scottish history when the great
Norse king, Harold Fairhair, had made a descent on the Scottish coast
and received one of the few thorough thrashings that darkened his
otherwise successful career?
"O! Tuncan, Tuncan, my boy!" cried the old man, shoving his hands
deeper into his breeches pockets, and apostrophising his imprisoned son
as he walked up and down in the privacy of his own bedroom. "O that wan
o' the name should come to such disgrace! An' it's denyin' it you will
be, whether you are guilty or innocent. O Tuncan, Tuncan! you wass ever
notorious for tellin' lies--an' a troublesome boy all round--whatever."
But when the old man went to Fort Garry and visited his son, he stifled
his pathetic feelings, and appeared before him with all the offended
dignity of an injured member of the great clan McKay.
"Are you guilty, Tuncan?" he asked, sternly.
"No, I'm innocent," answered the youthful Highlander, with a brow quite
as stern and a manner as dignified as the old one.
"You will hev to prove that--whatever."
"No--they will hev to prove me guilty," retorted the son.
"I wish I could believe ye, Tuncan."
"It iss not of much consequence whether ye believe me or not, father.
You are not to be my chudge--whatever."
"That is goot luck for you, Tuncan, for if I wass your chudge I would be
bound to condemn you--you wass always so fond o' tellin' lies."
"It iss true what you say, father. It iss a chip o' the old block that
I am--more's the peety." At this point the door of the prison opened,
and Elspie was ushered in.
"You here, father!" she exclaimed in evident surprise. "I had hoped to
see Duncan alone."
"It iss alone with him you'll soon be," replied the Highlander, putting
on his hat. "Goot tay, Tuncan, my boy, an' see that you'll be tellin'
the truth, if ye can, when ye come to be tried."
To this the youth made no reply.
"O Duncan!" said the girl, when her father had retired, "how came they
to invent such lies about you?"
The tender way in which this was said, and the gentle touch on his arm,
almost overcame the stubborn man, but he steeled himself against such
influences.
"What can I say, Elspie?" he replied. "How can I tell what iss the
reason that people tell lies?"
"But it _is_ lies, isn't it, Duncan?" asked the poor girl, almost
entreatingly.
"You say that it iss lies--whatever, an' I will not be contradictin'
you. But when the trial comes on you will see that it cannot be proved
against me, Elspie--so keep your mind easy."
With this rather unsatisfactory assurance, Elspie was fain to rest
content, and she returned home a little, though not much, easier in her
mind.
To make the trial quite fair and regular, a jury of twelve men, chosen
by lot from a large number, was empanelled, and as many witnesses as
possible were examined. These last were not numerous, and it is
needless to say that Annette Pierre and Marie Blanc were the chief. But
despite their evidence and the strong feeling that existed against the
prisoner, it was found impossible to convict him, so that in the end he
was acquitted and set free. But there were men in the colony who
registered a vow that Cloudbrow should not escape. They believed him to
be guilty, in spite of the trial, and made up their minds patiently to
bide their time.
It now seemed as if at last a measure of prosperity were about to dawn
upon the farmers in that distant land, and, as usual on such occasions
of approaching prosperity, Dan Davidson and Duncan McKay senior began to
talk of the wedding which had been so long delayed.
"I wass thinkin', Tan," remarked the old man one morning, while walking
in the verandah with his after-breakfast pipe, "that I will be getting
in the crops pretty soon this year, an' they're heavy crops too, so that
we may look forward to a comfortable winter--whatever."
"True, and as our crops are also very good, thank God, I begin now to
hope that Elspie may see her way to--"
"See her way!" exclaimed McKay with some asperity: "she will hev to see
her way when I tell her to open her eyes an' look!"
"Nay, but there are two to this bargain," said Dan, good-humouredly. "I
would not consent to have her on such terms. She must fix and arrange
everything without constraint from any one--not even from you, Duncan
McKay."
"Oh! fery goot!" retorted the old man with a touch of sarcasm; "you know
fery well what Elspie will be sayin' to that, or you would not be so
ready to let it rest with her. Yes, yes, she is safe to see her way to
go the way that you want her to go."
It was a strange coincidence that at the very time these two were
conversing on this subject in the verandah of Ben Nevis Hall, Mrs
Davidson and Elspie were discussing the very same subject in an upper
room of Prairie Cottage. We refrain from giving the details, however,
as it would be unpardonable to reveal such matters. We will merely
state that the conclusions to which the ladies came were very similar to
those arrived at by the gentlemen.
But delay was still destined to be an element in the cup of this
unfortunate couple.
When the harvest had been gathered in that year, there came what old
McKay called a visitation which, with its consequences, recalls
irresistibly the words of our great Scottish poet--"the best-laid
schemes o' mice and men gang aft a-gley." This visitation was a plague
of mice. The whole colony was infested with them. Like the
grasshoppers, the mice devoured everything. The grain after being
stacked was almost totally destroyed by them. The straw, the very
stubble itself, was cut to atoms. The fields, the woods, the plains,
seemed literally alive with this new visitor, and the result would have
been that most of the settlers would again have been driven to spend
another dreary winter in trapping and hunting with the Indians at
Pembina, if it had not been for the fortunate circumstance that the
buffalo runners had been unusually successful that year. They returned
from the plains rejoicing,--their carts heavily laden with buffalo-robes
and innumerable bags of pemmican.