CHAPTER TWO.
CONFLICTING ELEMENTS AND A CATASTROPHE.
Hoary winter passed away, and genial spring returned to rejoice theland.
In a particularly amiable frame of mind, old Ravenshaw went out onemorning to smoke.
Everything had gone well that morning. Breakfast had been punctual;appetite good; rheumatics in abeyance; the girls lively; and Miss Trimless of a torrent than was her wont. Mrs Ravenshaw's intellect hadmore than once almost risen to the ordinary human average, and MasterTony had been better--perhaps it were more correct to say less wicked--than usual.
Old Ravenshaw was what his friends styled a heavy smoker, so was hiskitchen chimney; but then the chimney had the excuse of being compelledto smoke, whereas its owner's insane act was voluntary.
Be not afraid, reader. We have no intention of entering into anargument with smokers. They are a pigheaded generation. We addressthose who have not yet become monomaniacs as regards tobacco.
In order to the full enjoyment of his pipe, the old gentleman had builton a knoll what Elsie styled a summer-house. Regardless of seasons,however--as he was of most things--her father used this temple at allseasons of the year, and preferred to call it a smoking box. Now, asthis smoking-box, with its surroundings, had much to do with the issuesof our story, we bring it under particular notice. It resembled a largesentry-box, and the willow-clad knoll on which it stood was close to theriver. Being elevated slightly above the rest of the country, asomewhat extended view of river and plain was obtainable therefrom.Samuel Ravenshaw loved to contemplate this view through the medium ofsmoke. Thus seen it was hazy and in accord with his own idea of mostthings. The sun shone warmly into the smoking-box. It sparkled on themyriad dew-drops that hung on the willows, and swept in golden gloryover the rolling plains. The old gentleman sat down, puffed, and washappy. The narcotic influence operated, and the irascible demon in hisbreast fell sound asleep.
How often do bright sunshine and profound calm precede a storm? Is notthat a truism--if not a newism. The old gentleman had barely reducedhimself to quiescence, and the demon had only just begun to snore, whena cloud, no bigger than a man's body, arose on the horizon. Graduallyit drew near, partially obscured the sky, and overshadowed thesmoking-box in the form of Angus Macdonald, the father of Ian. (Thedemon ceased snoring!)
"Coot tay to you, sir," said Angus. "You will pe enchoyin' your pipethis fine mornin'."
"Yes, Angus, I am," replied Ravenshaw, with as much urbanity as he couldassume--and it wasn't much, for he suspected the cause of hisneighbour's visit--"you'd better sit down and light your own."
Angus accepted the invitation, and proceeded to load with muchdeliberation.
Now it must be known that the Highlander loved the view from that knollas much as did his neighbour. It reminded him of the old country wherehe had been born and bred on a hill-top. He coveted that willow knollintensely, desiring to build a house on it, and, being prosperous, waswilling to give for it more than its value, for his present dwelling laysomewhat awkwardly in the creek, a little higher up the river, so thatthe willows on the knoll interfered vexatiously with his view.
"It's a peautiful spote this!" observed Angus, after a few preliminarypuffs.
"It is," answered the old trader curtly, (and the demon awoke).
Angus made no rejoinder for a few minutes, but continued to puff greatclouds with considerable emphasis from his compressed lips. MrRavenshaw returned the fire with interest.
"It'll no pe for sellin' the knowl, ye are?" said Angus.
The demon was fairly roused now.
"No, Angus Macdonald," said the trader sternly, "I'll _not_ sell it.I've told you already more than once, and it is worse than ill-judged,it is impertinent of you to come bothering me to part with my land."
"Ho! inteed!" exclaimed Angus, rising in wrath, and cramming his pipeinto his vest pocket; "it is herself that will pe pothering you no morespout your dirty land, Samyool Ruvnshaw."
He strode from the spot with a look of ineffable scorn, and the air ofan offended chieftain.
Old Ravenshaw tried to resume his tranquillity, but the demon wasself-willed, and tobacco had lost its power. There were more clouds,however, in store for him that morning.
It so fell out that Ian Macdonald, unable to bear the suspense ofuncertainty any longer, and all ignorant of his father's visit to theold trader, had made up his mind to bring things to a point that verymorning by formally asking permission to pay his addresses to ElsieRavenshaw. Knowing the old man's habits, he went straight to thesmoking-box. If he had set out half an hour sooner he would have methis own father and saved himself trouble. As it was, they missed eachother.
Mr Ravenshaw had only begun to feel slightly calmed when Ian presentedhimself, with a humble, propitiatory air. The old man hated humility inevery form, even its name. He regarded it as a synonym for hypocrisy.The demon actually leaped within him, but the old man had a powerfulwill. He seized his spiritual enemy, throttled, and held him down.
"Good-morning, Mr Ravenshaw."
"Good-morning."
Nothing more was said by either for a few minutes. Ian was embarrassed.He had got up a set speech and forgotten it. He was shy, but he wasalso resolute. Drawing himself up suddenly he said, with an earnest,honest look, "Mr Ravenshaw, I love your daughter," (there was only onedaughter in Ian's estimation!) "and I come to ask leave to woo her. If,by earnest devotion and--"
"Ian Macdonald," interrupted the old gentleman, in a voice of suppressedanger, "you may save yourself and me the trouble of more talk on thissubject. Your father has just been here wanting me to sell him thisknoll. Now, look here," (he rose, and stepping out of the smoking-box,pointed to Angus Macdonald's house, which was full in view), "you seethat house, young man. Mark what I say. I will sell this knoll to yourfather, and give my daughter to you, when you take that house, and withyour own unaided hands place it on the top of this knoll!"
This was meant by the old trader as a bitterly facetious way ofindicating the absolute hopelessness of the case. Ian accepted it inthat light, for he was well aware that Samuel Ravenshaw's firmness--orobstinacy--was insurmountable. He did not despair, however; true lovenever does that; but he felt tremendously cast down. Without a word orlook of reproach he turned and walked slowly away.
Once again the old trader sought comfort in his pipe, but found none.Besides feeling extremely indignant; with the Macdonalds, father andson, for what he styled their presumption, he was now conscious ofhaving treated both with undue severity. Dashing his pipe on theground, he thrust both hands into his coat pockets, and returned towardshis dwelling. On the way he unfortunately met Petawanaquat in one ofhis fields, leaning composedly over a gate. That intelligent redskinhad not yet finished his inquiries at the missionary village. He hadappeared more than once at Willow Creek, and seemed to hover round theold trader like a moth round a candle. The man was innocent of any evilintent on this occasion, but Ravenshaw would have quarrelled with anangel just then.
"What are you doing here? Be off!" he said sternly.
The Indian either did not or would not understand, and the old man,seizing him by the arm, thrust him violently through the gateway.
All the hot blood of the Petawanaquats, from Adam downwards, seemed toleap through the red man's veins and concentrate in his right hand as heturned fiercely on the trader and drew his scalping-knife. Quick aslightning Ravenshaw hit out with his fist, and knocked the Indian down,then, turning on his heel, walked away.
For a moment Petawanaquat lay stunned. Recovering, he arose, and hisdark glittering eyes told of a purpose of deadly revenge. The traderwas still in sight. The Indian picked up his gun, glided swiftly behinda tree, and took a long steady aim. Just then little Tony rushed fromthe house and leaped into his father's arms, where he received anunusually warm embrace, for the trader wanted some sort of relief forhis feelings. The Indian's finger was pressing the trigger at themoment. Death was very ne
ar Samuel Ravenshaw just then, but the fingerrelaxed and the gun was lowered. A more terrible form of revenge hadflashed into the mind of the savage. Gliding quietly from his position,he entered the willows and disappeared.
Meanwhile Angus Macdonald returned in no very amiable mood to his ownhouse. It was a small house; had been built by its owner, and was, likemost of the other houses of the colony at that time, a good solid logstructure--a sort of Noah's ark on a small scale. It stood on a flatpiece of mother earth, without any special foundation except a massiveoblong wooden frame to which all the superstructure was attached. Youmight, if strong enough, have grasped it by the ridge-pole and carriedit bodily away without tearing up any foundation or deranging thefabric. It was kept in order and managed by an elderly sister of Angus,named Martha, for Angus was a widower. His only son Ian dwelt in theschool-house, a mile farther up the river.
Martha's strong point was fowls. We are too ignorant of that subject togo into particulars. We can only say that she was an adept at fowls.Martha's chickens were always tender and fat, and their eggs were thelargest and freshest in Red River. We introduce these fowls solelybecause one of them acted a very important part on a very criticaloccasion. As well might the geese who saved Rome be omitted fromhistory as Martha Macdonald's Cochin-China hen which--well, we won't saywhat just yet. That hen was frightfully plain. Why Cochin-China hensshould have such long legs and wear feather trousers are questions whichnaturalists must settle among themselves. Being a humorous man, Angushad named her Beauty. She was a very cross hen, and her featherunmentionables fitted badly. Moreover, she was utterly useless, andnever laid an egg, which was fortunate, for if she had laid one it wouldhave been an egregious monstrosity. She was obviously tough. If theyhad slain her for the table they would have had to cut her up with ahand-saw, or grind her into meal to fit her for use. Besides all this,Beauty was a widow. When her husband died--probably of disgust--shetook to crowing on her own account. She received Angus with a crow whenhe entered the house after his interview with Ravenshaw, and appeared tolisten intently as he poured his sorrows into his sister's ear.
"It's up at the knowl I've peen, Martha, an' I left Samyool Ruvnshawthere in a fery pad temper--fery pad inteed. He'll come oot of it,whatever."
"An' he'll not be for sellin' you the knowl?" asked Martha.
"No, he won't," replied Angus.
From this point they went off into a very long-winded discussion of thepros and cons of the case, which, however, we will spare the reader, andreturn to Willow Creek. The bed of the creek, near to the point whereit joined the Red River, was a favourite resort of Master Tony. Thitherhe went that same afternoon to play.
Having observed the child's habits, Petawanaquat paddled his canoe tothe same point and hid it and himself among the overhanging bushes ofthe creek. In the course of his gambols Tony approached the place. Onestroke of the paddle sent the light birch-bark canoe like an arrowacross the stream. The Indian sprang on shore. Tony gave him onescared look and was about to utter an appalling yell, when a red handcovered his mouth and another red hand half throttled him.
Petawanaquat bundled the poor child into the bottom of his canoe,wrapped a leather coat round his head, spread a buffalo robe over him,gave him a smart rap on the head to keep him quiet, and paddled easilyout into the stream. Steadily, but not too swiftly, he went down theriver, down the rapids, and past the Indian settlement withoutattracting particular notice. Once the buffalo robe moved; the paddledescended on it with a sounding whack, and it did not move again.Before night closed, the Indian was paddling over the broad bosom ofLake Winnipeg.
Of course, Tony was soon missed; his haunts were well known; Miss Trimtraced his footprints to the place where he had been seized, sawevidences of the struggle, the nature of which she correctly guessed,and came shrieking back to the house, where she went off into hysterics,and was unable to tell anything about the matter.
Fortunately, Victor was there; he also traced the footsteps. Instead ofreturning home he ran straight to the school-house, which he reached outof breath.
"Come, Ian, come!" he gasped. "Tony's been carried off--Petawanaquat!Bring your canoe and gun; all the ammunition you can lay hands on!"
Ian asked for no explanations; he ran into the house, shouldered a smallbag of pemmican, gave his gun and ammunition to Victor, told hisassistant to keep the school going till his return, and ran with hisfriend down to the river, where his own birch canoe lay on the bank.
A few minutes sufficed to launch it. Both Ian and Victor were expertcanoe-men. Straining their powers to the utmost, they were soon fardown the Red River, in hot pursuit of the fugitive.
The Red Man's Revenge: A Tale of The Red River Flood Page 3
