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“So,” he began, “you have asked to speak with me; well, here I am. What have you to say?”
Mr. Whyte addressed the Indians in their native tongue, having, during a long residence in the country, learned to speak it as fluently as English.
For some moments there was silence. Then an old chief—the same who had officiated at the feast described in a former chapter—rose, and standing forth into the middle of the room, made a long and grave oration, in which, besides a great deal that was bombastic, much that was irrelevant, and more that was utterly fabulous and nonsensical, he recounted the sorrows of himself and his tribe, concluding with a request that the great chief would take these things into consideration—the principal “things” being that they did not get anything in the shape of gratuities, while it was notorious that the Indians in other districts did, and that they did not get enough of goods in advance, on credit of their future hunts.
Mr. Whyte heard the old man to the end in silence: then, without altering his position, he looked round on the assembly with a frown, and said, “Now listen to me; I am a man of few words. I have told you over and over again, and I now repeat it, that you shall get no gratuities until you prove yourselves worthy of them. I shall not increase your advances by so much as half an inch of tobacco till your last year’s debts are scored off, and you begin to show more activity in hunting and less disposition to grumble. Hitherto you have not brought in anything like the quantity of furs that the capabilities of the country led me to expect. You are lazy. Until you become better hunters you shall have no redress from me.”
As he finished, Mr. Whyte made a step towards the door by which he had entered, but was arrested by another chief, who requested to be heard. Resuming his place and attitude, Mr. Whyte listened with an expression of dogged determination, while guttural grunts of unequivocal dissatisfaction issued from the throats of several of the malcontents. The Indian proceeded to repeat a few of the remarks made by his predecessor, but more concisely, and wound up by explaining that the failure in the hunts of the previous year was owing to the will of the Great Manito, and not by any means on account of the supposed laziness of himself or his tribe.
“That is false,” said Mr. Whyte; “you know it is not true.”
As this was said, a murmur of anger ran round the apartment, which was interrupted by Misconna, who, apparently unable to restrain his passion, sprang into the middle of the room, and confronting Mr. Whyte, made a short and pithy speech, accompanied by violent gesticulation, in which he insinuated that if redress was not granted the white men would bitterly repent it.
During his speech the Indians had risen to their feet and drawn closer together, while Jacques and the three young men drew near their superior. Redfeather remained apart, motionless, and with his eyes fixed on the ground.
“And, pray, what dog—what miserable thieving cur are you, who dare to address me thus?” cried Mr. Whyte, as he strode, with flashing eyes, up to the enraged Indian.
Misconna clinched his teeth, and his fingers worked convulsively about the handle of his knife, as he exclaimed, “I am no dog. The pale-faces are dogs. I am a great chief. My name is known among the braves of my tribe. It is Misconna—”
As the name fell from his lips, Mr. Wiryte and Charley were suddenly dashed aside, and Jacques sprang towards the Indian, his face livid, his eyeballs almost bursting from their sockets, and his muscles rigid with passion. For an instant he regarded the savage intently as he shrank appalled before him; then his colossal fist fell like lightning, with the weight of a sledge-hammer, on Misconna’s forehead, and drove him against the outer door, which, giving way before the violent shock, burst from its fastenings and hinges, and fell, along with the savage, with a loud crash to the ground.
For an instant everyone stood aghast at this precipitate termination to the discussion, and then, springing forward in a body, with drawn knives, the Indians rushed upon the white men, who in a close phalanx, with such weapons as came first to hand, stood to receive them. At this moment Redfeather stepped forward unarmed between the belligerents, and, turning to the Indians, said—
“Listen: Redfeather does not take the part of his white friends against his comrades. You know that he never failed you in the war-path, and he would not fail you now if your cause were just. But the eyes of his comrades are shut. Redfeather knows what they do not know. The white hunter” (pointing to Jacques) “is a friend of Redfeather. He is a friend of the Knisteneux. He did not strike because you disputed with his bourgeois; he struck because Misconna is his mortal foe. But the story is long. Redfeather will tell it at the council fire.”
“He is right,” exclaimed Jacques, who had recovered his usual grave expression of countenance; “Redfeather is right. I bear you no ill-will, Injins, and I shall explain the thing myself at your council fire.”
As Jacques spoke the Indians sheathed their knives, and stood with frowning brows, as if uncertain what to do. The unexpected interference of their comrade-in-arms, coupled with his address and that of Jacques, had excited their curiosity. Perhaps the undaunted deportment of their opponents, who stood ready for the encounter with a look of stern determination, contributed a little to allay their resentment.
While the two parties stood thus confronting each other, as if uncertain how to act, a loud report was heard just outside the doorway. In another moment Mr. Whyte fell heavily to the ground, shot through the heart.
The chase—The fight—Retribution—Low spirits and good news.
The tragical end of the consultation related in the last chapter had the effect of immediately reconciling the disputants. With the exception of four or five of the most depraved and discontented among them, the Indians bore no particular ill-will to the unfortunate principal of Stoney Creek; and although a good deal disappointed to find that he was a stern, unyielding trader, they had, in reality, no intention of coming to a serious rupture with him, much less of laying violent hands either upon master or men of the establishment.
When, therefore, they beheld Mr. Whyte weltering in his blood at their feet, a sacrifice to the ungovernable passion of Misconna, who was by no means a favourite among his brethren, their temporary anger was instantly dissipated, and a feeling of deepest indignation roused in their bosoms against the miserable assassin who had perpetrated the base and cowardly murder. It was, therefore, with a yell of rage that several of the band, immediately after the victim fell, sprang into the woods in hot pursuit of him, whom they now counted their enemy. They were joined by several men belonging to the fort, who had hastened to the scene of action on hearing that the people in the hall were likely to come to blows. Redfeather was the first who had bounded like a deer into the woods in pursuit of the fugitive. Those who remained assisted Charley and his friends to convey the body of Mr. Whyte into an adjoining room, where they placed him on a bed. He was quite dead, the murderer’s aim having been terribly true.
Finding that he was past all human aid, the young men returned to the hall, which they entered just as Redfeather glided quickly through the open doorway, and, approaching the group, stood in silence beside them, with his arms folded on his breast.
“You have something to tell, Redfeather,” said Jacques, in a subdued tone, after regarding him a few seconds. “Is the scoundrel caught?”
“Misconna’s foot is swift,” replied the Indian, “and the wood is thick. It is wasting time to follow him through the bushes.”
“What would you advise then?” exclaimed Charley, in a hurried voice. “I see that you have some plan to propose.”
“The wood is thick,” answered Redfeather, “but the lake and the river are open. Let one party go by the lake, and one party by the river.”
“That’s it, that’s it, Injin,” interrupted Jacques, energetically; “your wits are always jumpin’. By crosin’ over to Duck River, we can start at a point five or six miles above the lower fall, an’ as it’s thereabouts he must cross, we’ll be time enough to catch him. If he tries the lake, the other party’ll fix him there; and he’ll be soon poked up if he tries to hide in the bush.”
“Come, then; we’ll all give chase at once,” cried Charley, feeling a temporary relief in the prospect of energetic action from the depressing effects of the calamity that had so suddenly befallen him in the loss of his chief and friend.
Little time was needed for preparation. Jacques, Charley, and Harry proceeded by the river; while Redfeather and Hamilton, with a couple of men, launched their canoe on the lake and set off in pursuit.
Crossing the country for about a mile, Jacques led his party to the point on the Duck River to which he had previously referred. Here they found two canoes, into one of which the guide stepped with one of the men, a Canadian, who had accompanied them, while Harry and Charley embarked in the other. In a few minutes they were rapidly descending the stream.
“How do you mean to act, Jacques?” inquired Charley, as he paddled alongside of the guide’s canoe. “Is it not likely that Misconna may have crossed the river already? in which case we shall have no chance of catching him.”
“Niver fear,” returned Jacques. “He must have longer legs than most men if he gets to the flat-rock fall before us, an’ as that’s the spot where he’ll nat’rally cross the river, being the only straight line for the hills that escapes the bend o’ the bay to the south o’ Stoney Creek, we’re pretty sartin to stop him there.”
“True; but that being, as you say, the natural route, don’t you think it likely he’ll expect that it will be guarded, and avoid it accordingly?”
“He would do so, Mister Charles, if he thought we were here; but there are two reasons agin this. He thinks that he’s got the start o’ us, an’ won’t need to double by way o’ deceivin’ us; and then he knows that the whole tribe is after him, and consekintly won’t take a long road when there’s a short one, if he can help it. But here’s the rock. Look out, Mister Charles. We’ll have to run the fall, which isn’t very big just now, and then hide in the bushes at the foot of it till the blackguard shows himself. Keep well to the right an’ don’t mind the big rock; the rush o’ water takes you clear o’ that without trouble.”
With this concluding piece of advice, he pointed to the fall, which plunged over a ledge of rock about half-a-mile ahead of them, and which was distinguishable by a small column of white spray that rose out of it. As Charley beheld it his spirits rose, and forgetting for a moment the circumstances that called him there, he cried out—
“I’ll run it before you, Jacques. Hurrah! Give way, Harry!” and in spite of a remonstrance from the guide, he shot the canoe ahead, gave vent to another reckless shout, and flew, rather than glided, down the stream. On seeing this, the guide held back, so as to give him sufficient time to take the plunge ere he followed. A few strokes brought Charley’s canoe to the brink of the fall, and Harry was just in the act of raising himself in the bow to observe the position of the rocks, when a shout was heard on the bank close beside them. Looking up they beheld an Indian emerge from the forest, fit an arrow to his bow, and discharge it at them. The winged messenger was truly aimed; it whizzed through the air
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