Lost on the Prairie
Not until he had become embedded as it were in the panic-stricken mass
of buffalo did Mr. Macrae observe his son's peril.
At almost the same moment Narcisse caught sight of the boy, and, with a
characteristic exclamation of horror, at once drove his horse into the
herd, that he might, if possible, get to Hector's side.
'Take care! Take care!' he shouted with all his might, not recking
that his voice was utterly lost in the thunder of the countless hoofs.
'Keep hold, eh!'
Mr. Macrae followed his example, and the two men plunged into the mob
of terrified monsters, steering as best they could for the imperilled
boy.
Meanwhile, Hector, who had kept both his head and his seat wonderfully,
not forgetting the purpose of the whole affair, pointed his gun behind
the shoulder of a fine fat buffalo and fired.
The muzzle of the gun was so close to the buffalo that the discharge
burned the animal's hide, and the recoil almost knocked Hector out of
his saddle.
But the bullet found its way to the great creature's heart, and, a
moment later, down it went, to the delight of the young huntsman. The
loud report was not without effect upon the buffalo that hemmed in
Hector. They swerved off to right and left, giving him more room and
thereby enabling Narcisse and his father to reach his side.
'Ah, laddie!' cried his father. 'I was in great fear for ye. Ye
should na have gone into such danger. Be carefu' now, for ye're not
yet out of harm's way.'
Hector nodded gaily in reply. He was so exultant over his success that
he could think of nothing else for the moment.
As neither Narcisse nor Mr. Macrae had yet bagged their buffalo, they
left Hector to stay beside his prize while they went on after the
fleeing herd, upon whom the tremendous pace was beginning to tell.
The reports of the guns followed fast upon each other, as the different
members of the hunting party, choosing a fine fat cow, or a prime young
bull, brought down their victim with unerring aim.
At last the pursuit of the herd ended, and the hunters returned to take
stock of results. These were certainly satisfactory: nearly a score of
buffalo, all in the best of condition, had been secured, and a supply
of food that would keep the whole settlement for many weeks was ensured.
Very proud and content was Buffalo Carter, and all the other members of
the party, particularly Hector, whose buffalo was as fine a specimen as
any of the others.
'Eh, but it was a warm, stirrin' experience,' remarked Mr. Macrae, with
emphasis. 'I never expected to see the like of it. 'Tis a wonderful
country, this, and there's a powerful lot to be learned. But I'm right
glad I've come, laddie,' he went on, laying his hand fondly upon
Hector's shoulder, 'and with the favour of God we shall yet do better
here than e'er we could in the land we left.'
This was a good deal for him to say, but the excitement of the hunt had
for the time swept away his reserve, and he was in almost as high
spirits as Hector.
So soon as they had rested a little, the buffalo hunters set to work to
skin the buffalo, and to cut the rich meat into long strips, which,
after being dried in the sun, were then minced as small as possible,
and so made into 'pemmican,' which was then packed away for use in the
winter.
Of course, there was great feasting meanwhile, and the special
tit-bits, such as the tongues and the humps, were cooked and eaten with
the keenest relish.
Dour and Dandy were so well supplied with bits of juicy steak, or
well-covered bones, that they were in danger of overfeeding, and Mr.
Macrae had to limit their allowance.
It took several days to prepare the pemmican, and then, laden with it
and with the buffalo-skins which would at leisure be made into the
warmest of robes, the whole party moved slowly back to Pembina.
'Eh! but I'm glad I killed one myself,' said Hector to his father as
they rode along together, 'for now I'll have a buffalo robe of my own,
and that will be fine when the winter comes, won't it, father?'
So indeed it proved. There was many a night during the long cold
winter at Pembina, when Hector, lying snug and warm under his
buffalo-robe, had reason to be thankful for the success of his shot.
The reception of the hunting-party at Pembina was a royal one, and the
feasting that followed was shared in by all. Then the remainder of the
meat was stored away for the winter.
As already mentioned, Mr. Macrae had taken more pains and spent
somewhat more money upon the hut that sheltered his family, and now,
having got everything fixed to his satisfaction, with that fore-thought
which was one of his distinguishing traits, he resolved to secure a
supply of firewood for the winter.
A fine 'bunch of timber,' as it was called locally, stood not more than
a mile away, and, hiring a horse and cart from one of the residents,
Mr. Macrae, accompanied by his whole family--for it was beautiful
weather, being the so-called Indian summer--began his attack upon the
trees.
'I'll cut them doon, laddie,' he said to Hector, 'and ye'll chop off
the branches, and so we'll just divide the wark between us.'
This arrangement suited Hector, and he did his part faithfully, lopping
off the branches so that the trunk itself could be cut up into suitable
lengths.
None of the trees were large. The country is not favourable to forest
giants, and the wood was fairly soft, so that Hector's task was by no
means beyond his powers.
The work went on steadily from day to day, and Mrs. Macrae viewed with
the approval and satisfaction of a good housewife the growing pile of
fuel that would be right at hand through the long winter.
'Ye always were a good provider, Andrew,' she said, giving her stalwart
husband a look of ineffable love and pride. 'Nane o' yer charge will
ever want while ye're aboot.'
From under his shaggy brows, Andrew Macrae returned the look of love
and pride; for to him there was no woman so bonnie or so wise as his
gude wife, but he pretended to make light of the compliment, saying he
was but doing his duty.
The wood-pile at the hut had grown big enough, and they were making
their last trip to the timber. Mrs. Macrae had not accompanied them,
but little Ailie would not be left at home. She enjoyed too much the
ride out on the empty cart, and then back again, perched triumphantly
on top of the load, to lose the last chance for it. So father had to
yield to her pretty pleadings, although he would have preferred her
remaining with her mother.
The father and son worked very hard that day, and during the afternoon
got so engrossed in the completion of their task, that they quite
forgot the little girl.
Then, left to her own resources, Ailie, as sturdy a child for her years
as ever stepped, wandered off over the prairie in the opposite
direction to home, her little head filled with some foolish notion of
getting nearer to the sunset.
On and on she went, forgetful of everything but the beauty of the
western sky, which had so fascinated her, and it was because her blue
eyes were intent upon this, and not upon what was under her feet, that
she did not notice the coulee, or break in the prairie, into which she
fell with a sharp cry of fright.
Happily it was soft earth at the bottom of the coulee, and Ailie was
not injured in the least by her fall. But she was terrified beyond
measure at her situation, and screamed for her father and brother with
the full strength of her lungs.
But, lying as she was at the bottom of the coulee, a dozen feet or more
below the surface of the prairie, her most vigorous efforts could not
have been heard many yards away.
There the poor little lonely frightened girl wept and wailed and cried
out for her father and Hector, until at last, in sheer exhaustion, she
lapsed into a sort of stupor and knew no more.