Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. The Buffalo Runners: A Tale of the Red River Plains by R. M. Ballantyne (e reading malayalam books .TXT) 📖
- Author: R. M. Ballantyne
Book online «The Buffalo Runners: A Tale of the Red River Plains by R. M. Ballantyne (e reading malayalam books .TXT) 📖». Author R. M. Ballantyne
As if to justify his opinion, a tremendous clap of thunder seemed to rend the heavens at that moment, and, a few minutes later, a heavy shower of rain fell.
“Well that we got inside before that came on,” said Archie. “I hope it won’t come on to blow, else we shall be storm-stayed here.”
The weather seemed to be in a lively mood that night, for as the thunder had promptly answered to Okématan’s observation, so now the wind replied to Archie’s remark, by rushing up the natural avenue which extended from the hut to the lake and almost bursting in the door.
“See to the ropes, boys,” said old Dobelle, glancing uneasily at the roof.
The young men arose, went out, regardless of weather, and secured with additional care a couple of stout ropes with which the tendency of the roof to fly away was restrained.
“Did it ever come off?” asked Archie with some curiosity, as the young men returned and resumed their pipes.
“Yes—twice, and both times it was night,” answered Madame Dobelle, “and we were flooded out and had to camp under the trees.”
“Which was not comfortable,” added the old man. Another clap of thunder seemed to corroborate what he said, and a blast of wind followed, which caused the whole fabric of the hut to shudder. Jenkins looked inquiringly at the roof.
“No fear of it,” said old Dobelle; “the ropes are strong.”
Thus assured, the visitors continued their meal with equanimity, regardless of the storm that soon began to rage with great fury, insomuch that the door required a prop to keep it up and rain began to trickle in through crevices in the roof and drop here and there upon the party. When one such drop chanced to fall on old Dobelle’s nose, his younger son arose, and, fastening a piece of birch-bark to the rafters, caught the drop and trained it with its followers to flow towards an unoccupied place in one corner, which, being accidentally lower than the rest of the floor, formed a convenient receptacle for superfluous water.
At the same time Madame Dobelle made a shakedown of pine-branches in another corner for her visitors, for it was obvious that they would have to spend the night there, even although their own tent was not far-distant.
By that time the storm was raging with unwonted violence. Nevertheless the Dobelle family smoked on in placid contentment. When the time for repose arrived, Madame Dobelle and her eldest girl retired to a box-bed in a corner of the hut which was screened off—not very effectually—by a curtain of birch-bark. The two brothers lay down in another corner. The three visitors disposed themselves in the third, and, as the fourth was monopolised by the rain-rivulet, old Dobelle lay down on one side of the fire in the centre of the room, while the four-year-old girl reposed on the other.
During the night the accumulation of tobacco-smoke with fire-smoke produced a suffocating effect, but no one was capable of suffocation apparently, for they all smoked on—except Archie, who, as we have said, had not acquired the habit. Even the four-year-old girl, like Baby La Certe, had a pull now and then at its father’s pipe, and, from sundry white emanations from the crevices in the bark curtains, it was evident that the ladies behind these were enjoying themselves in the same way during the intervals of repose.
Next morning was fine, and the three sportsmen returned to the fishery to find that the storm had made an almost clean sweep of the nets. It had carried most of them away; torn others to pieces, and almost ruined the whole colony of fishermen; the ruin being all the more complete that most of the nets had been received on credit, and were to be paid for chiefly by the results of the autumn fishery.
La Certe was one of the chief sufferers; nevertheless, to judge from his looks, La Certe did not suffer much! He had brought a considerable amount of provision with him, as we have said, and, finding that one of his nets had been washed ashore, he proceeded very leisurely to mend it, while he smoked and assisted Slowfoot to consume pemmican and tea.
About this time a mysterious message was sent to Dan Davidson from Red River by an Indian, requiring his immediate return. The sender of the message was Elspie McKay; the summons was therefore obeyed at once.
As nothing further could be done at the fishery that autumn, the other members of the expedition, and most of the fishers, returned with Dan to the colony.
“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’,
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