The Buffalo Runners: A Tale of the Red River Plains by R. M. Ballantyne (e reading malayalam books .TXT) 📖

Happening to hear of the bargain which we have just described, and being under the impression that it might be good for La Certe’s spirit to receive a mild reproof, Mr Sutherland paid him a visit.

The Scotch Elder was, for a long time, the only man fitted to perform the duties of a minister to his countrymen in that out-of-the-world colony, and, being a true man of God, he could not hear of gross injustice, or heartless conduct, without some slight attempt to open the other’s eyes to his sin.

It may well be understood that, in the nature of things and the state of the country, the solitary Elder’s duties were by no means light or agreeable. Indeed he would have had no heart to cope with them and with the difficulties they entailed, had he not remembered that the battle was not his, but the Lord’s, and that he was only an instrument in the all-powerful hand of the Spirit of God. His own weapons were the Word, Prayer, and the name of Jesus.

But it was not given to him to see much fruit of his visit to La Certe at that time. The half-breed, besides asserting himself to be a “Catholic,” (by which he meant a Roman Catholic), and, therefore, in no way amenable to Sutherland’s jurisdiction, received his remonstrances with philosophical arguments tending to prove that men were meant to make the best of circumstances as they found them, without any regard to principles—which, after all, were not very seriously held or practised by any one, he thought—especially in Red River.

As for Slowfoot, she listened with evident interest and curiosity to the strange teaching and exhortations of the Elder, but when appealed to for some sort of opinion on the various points touched, she replied with an imbecile “Hee! hee!” which was not encouraging.

However, the good man had sown the seed faithfully and kindly. The watering thereof and the sprouting were, he knew, in the hands of the Master.

Rising to take leave, the Elder put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a large clasp-knife.

“Why, that’s my knife that I lost!” exclaimed La Certe in surprise; “where did you find it?”

“I found it on my table at home, where you left it that time you came to ask for some tobacco. Now, observe, if I did not seriously hold and practise the principle of honesty, I would have made the best of circumstances as I found them, and would have put the knife in my pocket instead of returning it to you.”

La Certe laughed, and Slowfoot said, “Hee! hee!” while the juvenile La Certe availed itself of the opportunity to draw the pipe gently from its father’s hand and have a whiff.

“I have a message to you from the Governor,” continued the Elder, taking a piece of paper out of his pocket.

“For me!” exclaimed La Certe, in surprise.

“Yes. He heard that you are hard up just now, and that you are going up the river a considerable distance to hunt—is not that so?”

“Yes, that is true. We start off to-morrow.”

“Well, then, he gave me this order for some supplies of powder and shot, twine and hooks, with some cloth, beads, and such like for Slowfoot.”

“That is very good of the Governor—very considerate,” said La Certe with a pleased look.

“Very good,” said Sutherland. “Now, La Certe, suppose it true that men are meant to make the best of circumstances as they find them, and that I was a man without any regard to principle, I might have drawn these supplies from the store for you, and used them myself, and you would not have been a bit the wiser.”

Again the half-breed laughed, and admitted the truth of the proposition, while Slowfoot expressed her belief, (whatever it was), in a more than usually emphatic “Hee! hee!”

Returning home from his apparently useless errand, Sutherland met Fred Jenkins with a gun on his shoulder. The seaman was accompanied by Archie Sinclair.

“Well, Jenkins,” he said, heartily, “you must be like a fish out o’ water in these regions. Don’t you feel a longing, sometimes, for the roar of the gale and the smell o’ the salt sea?”

“Can’t say as I does, Mr Sutherland. I’ve bin used to accommodate myself to circumstances, dee see, ever since I was a small shaver; so nothin’ comes exactly amiss to me—”

“O Fred! how can you tell thumpers like that?” interrupted the forward Archie. “Isn’t Elise Morel a miss to you? and Elspie, and Jessie Davidson?”

“Clap a stopper on your mug, you young scape grace!” retorted the seaman, who had some doubt as to whether the boy’s putting Elise Morel’s name first was intentional or an accident. “As I was a-going to say, sir, I was always fond o’ changes, an’ the rollin’ plains come to me as pleasant, though not quite so familiar, as the rollin’ sea.”

“That’s a satisfactory state o’ mind, anyhow,” returned the Elder. “But where away now?—to cater for the pot, I dare say.”

“Well, no, not exactly—though I’ve no objection to do that too in the by-goin’. But we’ve heard a report that a band o’ Sioux are goin’ to visit the Settlement, and as there’s a lot o’ their enemies, the Saulteaux, knocking about, I’ve bin sent to the fort by old McKay to see if they’ve heard about the Sioux comin’, an’ if there’s likely to be a scrimmage, so as we may clear for action, d’ee see?”

“I see; and I hope there will be no need to clear for action. I’m glad to see Archie with you too,” said Sutherland, “but surprised; for I don’t remember when I saw him without Little Bill on his back or at his side.”

“O, as to that, Little Bill has forsaken me,” said Archie, “or I have forsaken him—I’m not sure which—since Dan Davidson’s accident, for he does little else but sit at Dan’s bedside, readin’ to him or talking with him.”

“The dear little fellow could not be better employed,” remarked the Elder.

“The dear little fellow could be much better employed,” retorted the boy, with unexpected decision. “He could be rambling about the plains or in the bush with me, getting strength to his muscles and fresh air to his lungs, an’ health to his body—to say nothing of his soul.”

“Why, you are becoming jealous, lad,” said Sutherland, with a laugh.

“No, I’m not becoming jealous; I’m jealous already,” returned the boy, with an air that was half jocular, half serious. “However, I’ll exercise patience a little longer, but I’m determined not to let Little Bill be sacrificed for the sake of sick-nursing.”

With this announcement of his unalterable resolve to stand to his guns, and a “Brayvo, youngster!” from Jenkins, they parted and went on their several ways.

It was found, when Fort Garry was reached, that the rumour of a visit from the Sioux Indians was correct, and that some preparation was being made for their reception, as well as precautions against any mischief that might be contemplated, though there was not much to be apprehended on that score, for the Sioux were believed to be among the bravest as well as the most powerful of the nations east of the Rocky Mountains, and less addicted to treachery or cruelty than most other tribes.

Two days later the Sioux made their appearance. They formed only a small band of warriors, but were a wild-looking though fine set of men; erect, muscular, tall fellows, with the free bearing of practised warriors, and in all the paint, charcoal, feathers, and leather-costume, bear-claw collars, etcetera, peculiar to the western wilderness.

Their object, they said, was to smoke the pipe of peace with their enemies the Saulteaux, and to see with their own eyes the wonderful things that by report the Palefaces were doing in Red River.

“The Sioux have heard,” said their principal chief, at a palaver with the Governor, “that the Palefaces are building wooden Wigwams in number like the stones on the shores of Lake Winnipeg; that they are growing much grain; that they have set up many strange things which they compel the wind to work for them, and so grind their grain; that they have great heaps of powder and ball, and big wigwams that are bursting with things that the Sioux love to exchange for the meat and skins of the buffalo and other beasts great and small. We have come to see all this with our own eyes, for most of us are young men who have only heard of such things from our fathers. Waugh!”

Of course everything was said to encourage this laudable desire for knowledge. The visitors were shown over the fort. Food was given to them, and tobacco; then the pipe of peace was smoked with a band of Saulteaux, which chanced to be on a friendly visit to the settlement at the time, after which, as was customary on such occasions, both parties mixed together and strolled about to see the settlers.

One party of them found their way to Prairie Cottage. At some of the houses nearer the fort they had learned the method of lifting the latch of a door so as to obtain entrance. Finding no one outside at the cottage, they entered the central hall with the soft, quiet tread of the panther. As no one chanced to be there, they continued their explorations with childlike simplicity, and thus most unexpectedly found themselves in the bedroom of Dan Davidson, where Little Bill had just read himself and his brother-invalid into a sound sleep. Both wakened up at once, and the boy sat bolt upright in blazing astonishment, but Dan, who had heard of their arrival in the Settlement, received them with a few words of welcome.

Fortunately for all parties, Okématan presented himself just then, having, while at work in the garden, seen the party of Sioux arrive. He did his best to act the host, explaining to the visitors the cause of Dan’s weakness, and, by Dan’s directions, offering them tobacco and pipes.

While they were thus engaged, old McKay entered.

“I saw you comin’, lads,” he said, heartily. “What cheer? what cheer?” he added, shaking hands with them all round.

The Sioux were obviously much pleased with their reception, especially when Mrs Davidson, Jessie, and Elspie, who had been out walking, returned and joined the party.

After showing the Indians everything in the house, old McKay—who constituted himself their guide,—took them out to see the live stock and the farm. He led them first into the garden.

It chanced at this time that there was a “snake in the grass” not far off. This was no other than the bad Indian Kateegoose.

Why some people are what we call naturally bad, like Kateegoose, while others are what we call naturally good, like Okématan, is a mystery the investigation of which we propose postponing to a more convenient season. Of course no sane person will maintain that this mystery frees fallen man from responsibility. If it did, we could no longer hang for murder. It would be the bounden duty of every judge, in that case, to acquit every murderer with “Poor fellow, it was his fate; he could not help it!” and send him away with a pat on the shoulder, and an order for coffee and buns, perhaps, in his pocket. As none but sane persons, however, will read my book, it is not necessary to enlarge further on this head.

Certain it is that Kateegoose was “bad”—obdurately bad—had been so from his very cradle, if he ever had one, which is doubtful, and bade fair to continue so to his grave. Sutherland had button-holed him more than once, but apparently in vain. It is only fair to the savage to say that he listened patiently to the Elder’s remonstrances, and attentively to his exhortations, and assumed an aspect of mild contrition that might or might not have