The first day at home—A gallop in the prairie, and its consequences.
Next morning, as the quartette were at breakfast, Mr. Kennedy, senior,
took occasion to propound to his son the plans he had laid down for
them during the next week.
“In the first place, Charley, my boy,” said he, as well as a large
mouthful of buffalo steak and potato would permit, “you must drive up
to the fort and report yourself. Harry and I will go with you; and
after we have paid our respects to old Grant (another cup of tea, Kate,
my darling)—you recollect him, Charley, don’t you?”
“Yes, perfectly.”
“Well, then, after we’ve been to see him, we’ll drive down the river,
and call on our friends at the mill. Then we’ll look in on the
Thomsons; and give a call, in passing, on old Neverin—he’s always out,
so he’ll be pleased to hear we were there, and it won’t detain us.
Then—-”
“But, dear father—excuse my interrupting you—Harry and I are very
anxious to spend our first day at home entirely with you and Kate.
Don’t you think it would be more pleasant? and then, to-morrow—”
“Now, Charley, this is too bad of you,” said Mr. Kennedy, with a look
of affected indignation: “no sooner have you come back than you’re at
your old tricks, opposing and thwarting your father’s wishes.”
“Indeed, I do not wish to do so, father,” replied Charley, with a
smile; “but I thought that you would like my plan better yourself, and
that it would afford us an opportunity of having a good long,
satisfactory talk about all that concerns us, past, present, and
future.”
“What a daring mind you have, Charley,” said Harry, “to speak of
cramming a _satisfactory_ talk of the past, the present, and the future
all into _one_ day!”
“Harry will take another cup of tea, Kate,” said Charley, with an arch
smile, as he went on,—
“Besides, father, Jacques tells me that he means to go off immediately,
to visit a number of his old voyageur friends in the settlement, and I
cannot part with him till we have had one more canter together over the
prairies. I want to show him to Kate, for he’s a great original.”
“Oh, that _will_ be charming!” cried Kate. “I should like of all things
to be introduced to the bold hunter.—Another cup of tea, Mr. S-Harry, I
mean?”
Harry started on being thus unexpectedly addressed. “Yes, if you
please—that is—thank you—no, my cup’s full already, Kate!”
“Well, well,” broke in Mr. Kennedy, senior, “I see you’re all leagued
against me, so I give in. But I shall not accompany you on your ride,
as my bones are a little stiffer than they used to be” (the old
gentleman sighed heavily), “and riding far knocks me up; but I’ve got
business to attend to in my glass house which will occupy me till
dinner-time.”
“If the business you speak of,” began Charley, “is not incompatible
with a cigar, I shall be happy to—”
“Why, as to that, the business itself has special reference to tobacco,
and, in fact, to nothing else; so come along, you young dog,” and the
old gentleman’s cheek went into violent convulsions as he rose, put on
his cap, with the peak very much over one eye, and went out in company
with the young men.
An hour afterwards four horses stood saddled and bridled in front of
the house. Three belonged to Mr. Kennedy; the fourth had been borrowed
from a neighbour as a mount for Jacques Caradoc. In a few minutes more
Harry lifted Kate into the saddle, and having arranged her dress with a
deal of unnecessary care, mounted his nag. At the same moment Charley
and Jacques vaulted into their saddles, and the whole cavalcade
galloped down the avenue that led to the prairie, followed by the
admiring gaze of Mr. Kennedy, senior, who stood in the doorway of his
mansion, his hands in his vest pockets, his head uncovered, and his
happy visage smiling through a cloud of smoke that issued from his
lips. He seemed the very personification of jovial good-humour, and
what one might suppose Cupid would become were he permitted to grow
old, dress recklessly, and take to smoking!
The prairies were bright that morning, and surpassingly beautiful. The
grass looked greener than usual, the dew-drops more brilliant as they
sparkled on leaf and blade and branch in the rays of an unclouded sun.
The turf felt springy, and the horses, which were first-rate animals,
seemed to dance over it, scarce crushing the wild-flowers beneath their
hoofs, as they galloped lightly on, imbued with the same joyous feeling
that filled the hearts of their riders. The plains at this place were
more picturesque than in other parts, their uniformity being broken up
by numerous clumps of small trees and wild shrubbery, intermingled with
lakes and ponds of all sizes, which filled the hollows for miles
round—temporary sheets of water these, formed by the melting snow, that
told of winter now past and gone. Additional animation and life was
given to the scene by flocks of water-fowl, whose busy cry and cackle
in the water, or whirring motion in the air, gave such an idea of
joyousness in the brute creation as could not but strike a chord of
sympathy in the heart of a man, and create a feeling of gratitude to
the Maker of man and beast. Although brilliant and warm, the sun, at
least during the first part of their ride, was by no means oppressive;
so that the equestrians stretched out at full gallop for many miles
over the prairie, round the lakes and through the bushes, ere their
steeds showed the smallest symptoms of warmth.
During the ride Kate took the lead, with Jacques on her left and Harry
on her right, while Charley brought up the rear, and conversed in a
loud key with all three. At length Kate began to think it was just
possible the horses might be growing wearied with the slapping pace,
and checked her steed; but this was not an easy matter, as the horse
seemed to hold quite a contrary opinion, and showed a desire not only
to continue but to increase its gallop—a propensity that induced Harry
to lend his aid by grasping the rein and compelling the animal to walk.
“That’s a spirited horse, Kate,” said Charley, as they ambled along;
“have you had him long?”
“No,” replied Kate; “our father purchased him just a week before your
arrival, thinking that you would likely want a charger now and then. I
have only been on him once before.—Would he make a good buffalo-runner,
Jacques?”
“Yes, miss; he would make an uncommon good runner,” answered the
hunter, as he regarded the animal with a critical glance—“at least if
he don’t shy at a gunshot.”
“I never tried his nerves in that way,” said Kate, with a smile;
“perhaps he would shy at _that_. He has a good deal of spirit—oh, I do
dislike a lazy horse, and I do delight in a spirited one!” Kate gave
her horse a smart cut with the whip, half involuntarily, as she spoke.
In a moment it reared almost perpendicularly, and then bounded forward;
not, however, before Jacques’s quick eye had observed the danger, and
his ever-ready hand arrested its course.
“Have a care, Miss Kate,” he said, in a warning voice, while he gazed
in the face of the excited girl with a look of undisguised admiration.
“It don’t do to wallop a skittish beast like that.”
“Never fear, Jacques,” she replied, bending forward to pat her
charger’s arching neck; “see, he is becoming quite gentle again.”
“If he runs away, Kate, we won’t be able to catch you again, for he’s
the best of the four, I think,” said Harry, with an uneasy glance at
the animal’s flashing eye and expanded nostrils.
“Ay, it’s as well to keep the whip off him,” said Jacques. “I know’d a
young chap once in St. Louis who lost his sweetheart by usin’ his whip
too freely.”
“Indeed,” cried Kate, with a merry laugh, as they emerged from one of
the numerous thickets and rode out upon the open plain at a foot pace;
“how was that, Jacques? Pray tell us the story.”
“As to that, there’s little story about it,” replied the hunter. “You
see, Tim Roughead took arter his name, an’ was always doin’ some
mischief or other, which more than once nigh cost him his life; for the
young trappers that frequent St. Louis are not fellows to stand too
much jokin’, I can tell ye. Well, Tim fell in love with a gal there who
had jilted about a dozen lads afore; an’ bein’ an oncommon handsome,
strappin’ fellow, she encouraged him a good deal. But Tim had a
suspicion that Louise was rayther sweet on a young storekeeper’s clerk
there; so, bein’ an off-hand sort o’ critter, he went right up to the
gal, and says to her, says he, ‘Come, Louise, it’s o’ no use humbuggin’
with _me_ any longer. If you like me, you like me; and if you don’t
like me, you don’t. There’s only two ways about it. Now, jist say the
word at once, an’ let’s have an end on’t. If you agree, I’ll squat with
you in whativer bit o’ the States you like to name; if not, I’ll bid
you good-bye this blessed mornin’, an’ make tracks right away for the
Rocky Mountains afore sundown. Ay or no, lass: which is’t to be?’
“Poor Louise was taken all aback by this, but she knew well that Tim
was a man who never threatened in jest, an’ moreover she wasn’t quite
sure o’ the young clerk; so she agreed, an’ Tim went off to settle with
her father about the weddin’. Well, the day came, an’ Tim, with a lot
o’ his comrades, mounted their horses, and rode off to the bride’s
house, which was a mile or two up the river out of the town. Just as
they were startin’, Tim’s horse gave a plunge that well-nigh pitched
him over its head, an’ Tim came down on him with a cut o’ his heavy
whip that sounded like a pistol-shot. The beast was so mad at this that
it gave a kind o’ squeal an’ another plunge that burst the girths. Tim
brought the whip down on its flank again, which made it shoot forward
like an arrow out of a bow, leavin’ poor Tim on the ground. So slick
did it fly away that it didn’t even throw him on his back, but let him
fall sittin’-wise, saddle and all, plump on the spot where he sprang
from. Tim scratched his head an’ grinned like a half-worried
rattlesnake as his comrades almost rolled off their saddles with
laughin’. But it was no laughin’ job, for poor Tim’s leg was doubled
under him, an’ broken across at the thigh. It was long before he was
able to go about again, and when he did recover he found that Louise
and the young clerk were spliced an’ away to Kentucky.”
“So you see what are the probable consequences, Kate, if you use your
whip so obstreperously again,” cried Charley, pressing his horse into a
canter.
Just at that moment a rabbit sprang from under a bush and darted away
before them. In an instant Harry Somerville gave a wild shout, and set
off in pursuit. Whether it was the cry or the sudden flight of Harry’s
horse, we cannot tell, but the next instant Kate’s charger performed an
indescribable flourish with its hind legs, laid back its ears, took the
bit between its teeth, and ran away. Jacques was on its heels
instantly, and a few seconds afterwards Charley and Harry joined in the
pursuit, but their utmost efforts failed to do more than enable them to
keep their ground. Kate’s horse was making for a dense thicket, into
which it became evident they must certainly plunge. Harry and her
brother trembled when they looked at it and realised her danger; even
Jacques’s face showed some symptoms of perturbation for a moment as he
glanced before him in indecision. The expression vanished, however, in
a few seconds, and his cheerful, self-possessed look returned, as he
cried out,—“Pull the left rein hard, Miss Kate; try to edge up the
slope.”
Kate heard the advice, and exerting all her strength, succeeded in
turning her horse a little to the left, which caused him to ascend a
gentle slope, at the top of which part of the thicket lay. She was
closely followed by Harry and her brother, who urged their steeds madly
forward in the hope of catching her rein, while Jacques diverged a
little to the right. By this manoeuvre the latter hoped to gain on the
runaway, as the ground along which he rode was comparatively level,
with a short but steep ascent at the end of it, while that along which
Kate flew like the wind was a regular ascent, that would prove very
trying to her horse. At the margin of the thicket grew a row of high
bushes, towards which they now galloped with frightful speed. As Kate
came up to this natural fence, she observed the trapper approaching on
the other side of it. Springing from his jaded steed, without
attempting to check its pace, he leaped over the underwood like a stag
just as the young girl cleared the bushes at a bound. Grasping the
reins and checking the horse violently with one hand, he extended the
other to Kate, who leaped unhesitatingly into his arms. At the same
instant Charley cleared the bushes, and pulled sharply up; while
Harry’s horse, unable, owing to its speed, to take the leap, came
crashing through them, and dashed his rider with stunning violence to
the ground.
Fortunately no bones were broken, and a draught of clear water, brought
by Jacques from a neighbouring pond, speedily restored Harry’s shaken
faculties.
“Now, Kate,” said Charley, leading forward the horse which he had
ridden, “I have changed saddles, as you see; this horse will suit you
better, and I’ll take the shine out of your charger on the way home.”
“Thank you, Charley,” said Kate, with a smile. “I’ve quite recovered
from my fright—if, indeed, it is worth calling by that name; but I fear
that Harry has—”
“Oh, I’m all right,” cried Harry, advancing as he spoke to assist Kate
in mounting. “I am ashamed to think that my wild cry was the cause of
all this.”
In another minute they were again in their saddles, and turning their
faces homeward, they swept over the plain at a steady gallop, fearing
lest their accident should be the means of making Mr. Kennedy wait
dinner for them. On arriving, they found the old gentleman engaged in
an animated discussion with the cook about laying the table-cloth,
which duty he had imposed on himself in Kate’s absence.
“Ah, Kate, my love,” he cried, as they entered, “come here, lass, and
mount guard. I’ve almost broke my heart in trying to convince that
thick-headed goose that he can’t set the table properly. Take it off my
hands, like a good girl.—Charley, my boy, you’ll be pleased to hear
that your old friend Redfeather is here.”
“Redfeather, father!” exclaimed Charley, in surprise.
“Yes; he and the parson, from the other end of Lake Winnipeg, arrived
an hour ago in a tin kettle, and are now on their way to the upper
fort.”
“That is, indeed, pleasant news; but I suspect that it will give much
greater pleasure to our friend Jacques, who, I believe, would be glad
to lay down his life for him, simply to prove his affection.”
“Well, well,” said the old gentleman, knocking the ashes out of his
pipe, and refilling it so as to be ready for an after-dinner smoke,
“Redfeather has come, and the parson’s come too; and I look upon it as
quite miraculous that they have come, considering the _thing_ they came
in. What they’ve come for is more than I can tell, but I suppose it’s
connected with church affairs.—Now then, Kate, what’s come o’ the
dinner, Kate? Stir up that grampus of a cook! I half expect that he has
boiled the cat for dinner, in his wrath, for it has been badgering him
and me the whole morning.—Hollo, Harry, what’s wrong?”
The last exclamation was in consequence of an expression of pain which
crossed Harry’s face for a moment.
“Nothing, nothing,” replied Harry. “I’ve had a fall from my horse, and
bruised my arm a little. But I’ll see to it after dinner.”
“That you shall not,” cried Mr Kennedy energetically, dragging his
young friend into his bedroom. “Off with your coat, lad. Let’s see it
at once. Ay, ay,” he continued, examining Harry’s left arm, which was
very much discoloured, and swelled from the elbow to the shoulder,
“that’s a severe thump, my boy. But it’s nothing to speak of; only
you’ll have to submit to a sling for a day or two.”
“That’s annoying, certainly, but I’m thankful it’s no worse,” remarked
Harry, as Mr. Kennedy dressed the arm after his own fashion, and then
returned with him to the dining-room.