"I mean to go off to-morrow on a shooting trip to the lake," said Dan
Davidson to Archie Sinclair. "I've had a long spell at farming
operations of late, and am tired of it. The double wedding, you know,
comes off in six weeks. So I want to have one more run in the
wilderness in all the freedom of bachelorhood. Will you go with me?"
"`Unpossible,' as Jenkins would say," answered Archie. "Nothing would
please me better, but, duty before pleasure! I've promised to spend a
week along wi' Little Bill at the Whitehorse Plains. Billie has taken a
great fancy to that chief o' the half-breeds, Cuthbert Grant, and we are
goin' to visit him. I've no doubt that Little Bill would let me off,
but I won't be let off."
"Then I must ask Okematan to go with me," said Dan.
"You needn't trouble yourself, for I heard him say that he was goin' off
to see some o' his relations on important business--a great palaver o'
some sort--and Elise told me this morning that she saw him start
yesterday."
"Morel is too busy with his new farm to go," rejoined Dan, "and Jenkins
is too busy helping Morel. Perhaps Dechamp or Bourassin may be more at
leisure. I will go see."
But on search being made, neither Dechamp nor Bourassin was to be found,
and our hero was returning home with the intention of taking a small
hunting canoe and going off by himself, when he chanced to meet with La
Certe.
That worthy seemed unusually depressed, and returned Dan's greeting with
very little of his habitual cheerfulness.
"What's wrong with you, Francois?" asked Dan, anxiously.
"Domestic infelicity," answered La Certe, with a sorrowful shake of the
head.
"What! surely Slowfoot has not taken to being unkind to you?"
"O no! Slowfoot could not be unkind, but she is unhappy; she has lost
her cheerful looks; she does not take everything as she once did; she
does not now let everything go anyhow with that cheerful resignation
which was once her delightful characteristic. She no longer hands the
pipe of peace to our little one--indeed she refuses to let it have the
pipe at all, though the poor child cries for it, and comes to me
secretly, when Slowfoot is out of the way, to beg for a draw. Then, she
scolds me--no, she does not scold. Slowfoot cannot scold. She is too
amiable--but she remonstrates, and that is worse than scolding, for it
enlists myself against myself. O! I am now miserable. My days of
peace are gone!"
"This is all very sad, La Certe," said Dan, in a tone of sympathy.
"What does she remonstrate about?"
"About my laziness! She does it very kindly, very gently--so like her
old self!--but she _does_ it. She says, `Husband; we have gone on this
way too long. We must change. _You_ must change. You are lazy!'"
"Well, La Certe," said Dan, "I'm afraid that Slowfoot is right."
"I know she is right!" retorted the half-breed, with more of
exasperation in his manner than his friend had ever before seen in him.
"When that which is said of one is false, one can afford to smile, but
when it is true what can one say? Yet it is hard--very hard. _You_ are
full of energy; you love to expend it, and you search for work. It is
natural--and what is natural _must_ be right. So, I am full of
laziness. I love to indulge it, and I search for repose. That is also
natural, and what is natural _must_ be right. Voila!"
"Then I suppose your love for repose," returned Dan, "will oblige you to
decline an offer which I thought of making to you."
"What is that?"
"To go with me on a shooting expedition to Lake Winnipeg for a week or
two."
"O no! I will not decline that," returned La Certe, brightening up.
"Shooting is not labour. It is amusement, with labour sufficient to
make after-repose delightful. And I will be glad to leave my home for a
time, for it is no longer the abode of felicity."
This having been satisfactorily arranged, preparations made, and
Slowfoot advised of her husband's intention, Dan went to Ben Nevis Hall
next morning to bid farewell to Elspie for a brief period. He found
only old McKay in the Hall, Elspie having gone up the Settlement, or
down the Settlement--the man did not know which--to call on a friend.
"See that ye will not be long o' comin' back, Tan," he said. "There
will be a good many arranchments to make, you see."
"I hope to be back in three weeks at latest," said Dan, "if all goes
well."
"Ay, if all goes well," repeated the old man, thoughtfully. "As Elspie
says sometimes, `We never know what a day may bring furth.' Well, well,
see that you will not be upsetting your canoe, for canoes are cranky
things--whatever."
In a short time our hero and La Certe found themselves floating once
more on the calm breast of the mighty inland sea.
It was afternoon. The circumstances were eminently conducive to the
felicity which is derivable from repose, and thus admirably suited to
the tastes of La Certe. An unruffled sheet of glassy water lay spread
out to the north-western horizon, which not only doubled the canoe and
its occupants, but reflected the golden glory of the sun, and mirrored
every fleecy cloudlet in the bright blue sky. A mere dip of the paddles
now and then served to give impulse to the light, and literal, bark.
Genial warmth pervaded the atmosphere, and little white gulls floated
almost motionless on outspread wings, or sloped hither and thither with
lazy flap, while ever and anon the whistling wings of passing wild-fowl
gave promise of occupation to their guns, to say nothing of their
kettles.
On their third day out, towards evening, they went ashore on the
lee-side of a rocky point where some bushes and trees seemed to offer
firewood and shelter.
"This will do," said Dan, as he stepped lightly out on a shelving rock
and held the canoe while his companion took out the lading. "Plenty dry
sticks and lots of moss for bedding."
"Truly, that is so," returned La Certe. "It is a place in which
Slowfoot would rejoice to repose, and the little one to smoke its pipe."
"You forget," said Dan. "The little one is no longer allowed that
luxury."
"No, I forgot not. But I reflect that it is possible to give her many a
draw on the sly."
The fire was soon kindled, ducks were roasting in front of it, and the
kettle boiling above it. The tea had been infused, and La Certe, while
filling his pipe, was blinking good-will at all around, when the notes
of a voyageur-song were heard like an echo in the far distance.
Gradually the song grew louder, and soon a canoe rounded the point, and
came in sight of the camp-fire. It was what used to be called a
north-canoe, of the largest size, made of birch-bark, and contained a
crew of ten men.
The song and the paddling stopped simultaneously when the camp was
observed, and the men appeared to hold a consultation. Their
hesitation, however, was very brief. Suddenly, breaking again into
song, they ran the canoe to shore, and landed.
"We are bound for Red River," said their chief to Dan. "Just come from
Canada. We suppose you don't object to our camping beside you. It is a
convenient spot."
Of course the two hunters had no objection whatever to fraternise with
the strangers from Canada, and in a short time another large fire was
sending its myriad sparks up into the darkening sky like a gigantic
roman-candle.
During supper the strangers made themselves very agreeable. After
supper, two of the stoutest of them arose, as if to go into the bush for
more firewood. Suddenly these threw themselves upon and seized Dan and
his comrade, who were reclining quietly on the ground. Before either
could make even an attempt at self-defence they were overpowered by the
Canadians, and held forcibly down, while their arms were securely bound
to their sides with strips of deerskin.
"It is useless to struggle, Dan Davidson," said the chief, when this was
being accomplished. "We know you as a bitter opponent of the
Nor'-westers, and we intend to carry you where your power to do mischief
will be ended."
"Who are you? and under whose authority do you act?" demanded Dan,
angrily.
"Who I am is a matter of no interest to you, Dan. I act under my own
authority, and I may just as well tell you, at the beginning, that if
you and your comrade choose to submit peaceably, we will treat you
reasonably well;--if not, we will find means to quiet you, even though
we should be driven to do it wi' that."
The man pointed significantly to a gun which leant against a
neighbouring tree. His meaning could not be misunderstood.
That night, Dan and La Certe were fastened to a tree by cords which
allowed of their moving about freely within a small space, but their
arms were not unbound. Here they were allowed to make themselves as
comfortable as possible in the circumstances. Their bed, being mossy,
was well enough, but the distracted state of their minds--especially
Dan's--may be imagined.
"La Certe," said Dan, when the camp-fire had burned low, and the stars
were shining on them through the leaves, and all was still, save an
occasional snore from the Nor'-westers.
La Certe groaned in reply.
Poor Dan was not in a mood to comfort him or anybody else at that
moment, and did not follow up his remark.
"La Certe," he said again, after a quarter of an hour.
"Well?"
"Do you remember John Bourke?"
"Yes, yes. I remember him, but I care not for him. My own sorrows are
too great."
"Do you recollect," continued Dan, regardless of this despairing remark,
"that a good while ago the Nor'-westers took him prisoner, when he was
wounded after a skirmish with them, and carried him to Canada--treating
him with great barbarity on the way. There he was put in jail, but, as
nothing could be proved against him, he was liberated, and then tried to
return to his family in Red River, but the Nor'-westers caught him
again, imprisoned him, sent him a second time to Canada, and had him
tried at the Court of the King's Bench, although his only crime was that
of resisting the North-West Company. He was acquitted, and, after
terrible sufferings from which he never quite recovered and a three
years' absence, he rejoined his family in Red River."
"Yes, O yes! I know it all," groaned La Certe.
"Well," continued Dan, bitterly, "his fate is not unlikely to be ours."
The poor half-breed made no reply to this. For some time he lay quite
still, and his comrade had almost fallen into an uneasy slumber, when he
was awakened by La Certe breaking out into a soliloquy in which he
apostrophised his absent wife.
"O my Slowfoot!" he murmured. "Shall we never meet again on earth?
Yes, you are right. I have been lazy! I _am_ lazy. I suppose that
this is punishment for my sin. But it is hard to bear, and very heavy--
is it not?--for only following one's nature in longing for repose. O!
why was I born? Why was our little one born, to enjoy for so brief a
time the delights of smoke, and then have it denied her--except on the
sly, when with her miserable father, who will never see her more--
perhaps."
He paused for a few minutes, and then broke out again.
"Yes, my Slowfoot--you are right. I must reform. I will cast off my
sloth as a garment--even--even though I should go naked all the rest of
my days! I will work--energise! I will--"
"Hold your tongue, La Certe, and listen," said Dan in a low, stern
voice.
"I am all attention," returned the poor man in a similarly low tone.
"Are you game to fight, if you get the chance?"
"Game to fight!" echoed the other--"to fight for my Slowfoot, my little
one, my smoke, and my repo--I mean my--my--new--"
"Speak lower, man, and listen to a plan I have in my head."
Here Dan spoke so low that he could not be heard at all, save only by
his companion; but that is of little consequence, for the plan, whatever
it might have been, was never carried out.
Next day the Nor'-west party with their two prisoners paddled away
towards the mouth of the grand turbulent Winnipeg River, and began to
traverse the weary wilderness-route of rivers and lakes, which at that
time formed the only direct means of communication between the frontiers
of Canada and "Rupert's Land."