Produced by Al Haines.
Cover]
It was an awful moment.]
LOST IN THE WILDS
A CANADIAN STORY
BY ELEANOR STREDDER
LONDON, EDINBURGH, DUBLIN, & NEW YORK THOMAS NELSON AND SONS 1893
*CONTENTS.*
I. _In Acland's Hut_ II. _Hunting the Buffalo_ III. _The First Snowstorm_ IV. _Maxica, the Cree Indian_ V. _In the Birch-bark Hut_ VI. _Searching for a Supper_ VII. _Following the Blackfeet_ VIII. _The Shop in the Wilderness_ IX. _New Friends_ X. _The Dog-sled_ XI. _The Hunters' Camp_ XII. _Maxica's Warning_ XIII. _Just in Time_ XIV. _Wedding Guests_ XV. _To the Rescue_ XVI. _In Confusion_
*LOST IN THE WILDS.*
*CHAPTER I.*
_*IN ACLAND'S HUT.*_
The October sun was setting over a wild, wide waste of waving grass,growing dry and yellow in the autumn winds. The scarlet hips gleamedbetween the whitening blades wherever the pale pink roses of summer hadshed their fragrant leaves.
But now the brief Indian summer was drawing to its close, and winter wascoming down upon that vast Canadian plain with rapid strides. Thewailing cry of the wild geese rang through the gathering stillness.
The driver of a rough Red River cart slapped the boy by his side uponthe shoulder, and bade him look aloft at the swiftly-moving cloud ofchattering beaks and waving wings.
For a moment or two the twilight sky was darkened, and the air wasfilled with the restless beat of countless pinions. The flight of thewild geese to the warmer south told the same story, of approaching snow,to the bluff carter. He muttered something about finding the cows whichhis young companion did not understand. The boy's eyes had travelledfrom the winged files of retreating geese to the vast expanse of sky andplain. The west was all aglow with myriad tints of gold and saffron andgreen, reflected back from many a gleaming lakelet and curving river,which shone like jewels on the broad breast of the grassy ocean. Wherethe dim sky-line faded into darkness the Touchwood Hills cast ablackness of shadow on the numerous thickets which fringed theirsheltering slopes. Onward stole the darkness, while the prairie firesshot up in wavy lines, like giant fireworks.
Between the fire-flash and the dying sun the boy's quick eye was awareof the long winding course of the great trail to the north. It was acomfort to perceive it in the midst of such utter loneliness; for if menhad come and gone, they had left no other record behind them. He seemedto feel the stillness of an unbroken solitude, and to hear the silencethat was brooding over lake and thicket, hill and waste alike.
He turned to his companion. "Forgill," he asked, in a low venturingtone, "can you find your way in the dark?"
He was answered by a low, short laugh, too expressive of contempt tosuffer him to repeat his question.
One broad flash of crimson light yet lingered along the western sky, andthe evening star gleamed out upon the shadowy earth, which the night washugging to itself closer and closer every moment.
Still the cart rumbled on. It was wending now by the banks of anameless river, where the pale, faint star-shine reflected in its waterydepths gave back dim visions of inverted trees in wavering, uncertainlines.
"How far are we now from Acland's Hut?" asked the boy, disguising hisimpatience to reach their journey's end in careless tones.
"Acland's Hut," repeated the driver; "why, it is close at hand."
The horse confirmed this welcome piece of intelligence by a joyous neighto his companion, who was following in the rear. A Canadian alwaystravels with two horses, which he drives by turns. The horsesthemselves enter into the arrangement so well that there is no troubleabout it. The loose horse follows his master like a dog, and trots upwhen the cart comes to a standstill, to take the collar warm from hiscompanion's shoulders.
But for once the loose pony had galloped past them in the darkness, andwas already whinnying at the well-known gate of Acland's Hut.
The driver put his hand to his mouth and gave a shout, which seemed toecho far and wide over the silent prairie. It was answered by a chorusof barking from the many dogs about the farm. A lantern gleamed throughthe darkness, and friendly voices shouted in reply. Another bend in theriver brought them face to face with the rough, white gate of Acland'sHut. Behind lay the low farm-house, with its log-built walls and roofof clay. Already the door stood wide, and the cheerful blaze from thepine-logs burning on the ample hearth within told of the hospitablewelcome awaiting the travellers.
An unseen hand undid the creaking gate, and a gruff voice from thedarkness exchanged a hearty "All right" with Forgill. The lanternseemed to dance before the horse's head, as he drew up beneath thesolitary tree which had been left for a hen-roost in the centre of theenclosure.
Forgill jumped down. He gave a helping hand to his boy companion,observing, "There is your aunt watching for you at the open door. Goand make friends; you won't be strangers long."
"Have you got the child, Forgill?" asked an anxious woman's voice.
An old Frenchman, who fulfilled the double office of man and maid atAcland's Hut, walked up to the cart and held out his arms to receive theexpected visitor.
Down leaped the boy, altogether disdaining the over-attention of thefarming man. Then he heard Forgill whisper, "It isn't the little girlshe expected, it is this here boy; but I have brought him all the same."
This piece of intelligence was received with a low chuckle, and allthree of the men became suddenly intent upon the buckles of the harness,leaving aunt and nephew to rectify the little mistake which had clearlyarisen--not that they had anything to do with it.
"Come in," said the aunt in kindly tones, scarcely knowing whether itwas a boy or a girl that she was welcoming. But when the roughdeer-skin in which Forgill had enveloped his charge as the night drew onwas thrown aside, the look which spread over her face was akin toconsternation, as she asked his name and heard the prompt reply,"Wilfred Acland; and are you my own Aunt Miriam? How is my uncle?" Butquestion was exchanged for question with exceeding rapidity. Thenremembering the boy's long journey, Aunt Miriam drew a three-leggedstool in front of the blazing fire, and bade him be seated.
The owner of Acland's Hut was an aged man, the eldest of a large family,while Wilfred's father was the youngest. They had been separated fromeach other in early life; the brotherly tie between them was looselyknitted. Intervals of several years' duration occurred in theircorrespondence, and many a kindly-worded epistle failed to reach itsdestination; for the adventurous daring of the elder brother led himagain and again to sell his holding, and push his way still fartherwest. He loved the ring of the woodman's axe, the felling and theclearing. He grew rich from the abundant yield of the virgin soil, andhis ever-increasing droves of cattle grew fat and fine in the grassy seawhich surrounded his homestead. All went well until his life of arduoustoil brought on an attack of rheumatic fever, which had left him abedridden old man. Everything now depended upon the energy of his solesurviving sister, who had shared his fortunes.
Aunt Miriam retained a more affectionate remembrance of Wilfred'sfather, who had been her playmate. When the letter arrived announcinghis death she was plunged in despondency. The letter had been sent fromplace to place, and was nine months after date before it reachedAcland's Hut, on the verge of the lonely prairie between the Qu'appelleand South Saskatchewan rivers. The letter
was written by a Mr. Cromer,who promised to take care of the child the late Mr. Acland had left,until he heard from the uncle he was addressing.
The brother and sister at Acland's Hut at once started the most capableman on their farm to purchase their winter stores and fetch the orphanchild. Aunt Miriam looked back to the old letters to ascertain its age.In one of them the father rejoiced over the birth of a son; in anotherhe spoke of a little daughter, named after herself; a third, whichlamented the death of his wife, told also of the loss of a child--which,it did not say. Aunt Miriam, with a natural partiality for hernamesake, decided, as she re-read the brief letter, that it must be thegirl who was living; for it was then a baby, and every one would havecalled it "the baby." By using the word "child," the poor father musthave referred to the eldest, the boy.
"Ah! very likely," answered her brother, who had no secret preference tobias his expectations. So the conjecture came to be regarded as acertainty, until Wilfred shook off the deer-skin and stood before hisaunt, a strong hearty boy of thirteen summers, awkwardly shy, andalarmingly hungry.
But her welcome was not the less kindly, as she heaped his plate againand again. Wilfred was soon nodding over his supper in the very frontof the blazing fire, basking in its genial warmth. But the delightfulsense of comfort and enjoyment was rather shaken when he heard his auntspeaking in the inner room.
"Forgill has come back, Caleb; and after all it is the boy."
"The boy, God bless him! I only wish he were more of a man, to take myplace," answered the dreamy voice of her sick brother, just rousing fromhis slumbers.
"Oh, but I am so disappointed!" retorted Aunt Miriam. "I had beenlooking forward to a dear little niece to cheer me through the winter.I felt so sure--"
"Now, now!" laughed the old man, "that is just where it is. If once youget an idea in your head, there it wedges to the exclusion of everythingelse. You like your own way, Miriam, but you cannot turn your wishesinto a coach and six to override everything. You cannot turn him into agirl."
Wilfred burst out laughing, as he felt himself very unpromising materialfor the desired metamorphosis.
"How shall I keep him out of mischief when we are all shut in with thesnow?" groaned Aunt Miriam.
"Let me look at him," said her brother, growing excited.
When Wilfred stood by the bedside, his uncle took the boy's warm handsin both his own and looked earnestly in his bright open face.
"He will do," murmured the old man, sinking back amongst his pillows."There, be a good lad; mind what your aunt says to you, and makeyourself at home."
While he was speaking all the light there was in the shadowy room shonefull on Wilfred.
"He is like his father," observed Aunt Miriam.
"You need not tell me that," answered Caleb Acland, turning away hisface.
"Could we ever keep him out of mischief?" she sighed.
Wilfred's merry laugh jarred on their ears. They forgot the lapse oftime since his father's death, and wondered to find him so cheerful.Aunt and nephew were decidedly out of time, and out of time means out oftune, as Wilfred dimly felt, without divining the reason.
Morning showed him his new home in its brightest aspect. He was upearly and out with Forgill and the dogs, busy in the long row ofcattle-sheds which sheltered one end of the farm-house, whilst awell-planted orchard screened the other.
Wilfred was rejoicing in the clear air, the joyous sunshine, and thewonderful sense of freedom which seemed to pervade the place. The windwas whispering through the belt of firs at the back of the clearingwhere Forgill had built his hut, as he made his way through the long,tawny grass to gather the purple vetches and tall star-like asters,still to be found by the banks of the reed-fringed pool where Forgillwas watering the horses.
Wilfred was intent upon propitiating his aunt, when he returned to thehouse with his autumn bouquet, and a large basket of eggs which Forgillhad intrusted to his care.
Wilfred rushed into the kitchen, elate with his morning ramble, andquite regardless of the long trail of muddy footsteps with which he wassoiling the freshly-cleaned floor.
"Look!" cried Aunt Miriam; but she spoke to deaf ears, for Wilfred'sattention was suddenly absorbed by the appearance of a stranger at thegate. His horse and gun proclaimed him an early visitor. His jauntyair and the glittering beads and many tassels which adorned hisriding-boots made Wilfred wonder who he was. He set his basket on theground, and was darting off again to open the gate, when Aunt Miriam,finding her remonstrances vain, leaned across the table on which she wasarranging the family breakfast and caught him by the arm. Wilfred wasgoing so fast that the sudden stoppage upset his equilibrium; down hewent, smash into the basket of eggs. Out flew one-half in a franticdance, while the mangled remains of the other streamed across the floor.
"Oh! the eggs, the eggs!" exclaimed Wilfred.
Aunt Miriam, who was on the other side of the table when he came in, hadnot noticed the basket he was carrying. She held up her hands indismay, exclaiming, "I am afraid, Wilfred, you are one of the mostaggravating boys that ever walked this earth."
For the frost was coming, and eggs were growing scarce.
"And so, auntie, since you can't transform me, you have abased meutterly. I humbly beg your pardon from the very dust, and lay my poorbruised offering at your indignant feet. I thought the coach and sixwas coming over me, I did indeed!" exclaimed Wilfred.
"Get up" reiterated Aunt Miriam angrily, her vexation heightened by theburst of laughter which greeted her ears from the open door, where thestranger now stood shaking with merriment at the ridiculous scene.
"Yes, off with you, you young beggar!" he repeated, stepping asidegood-naturedly to let Wilfred pass. For what could a fellow do but go insuch disastrous circumstances?
"It is not to be expected that the missis will put up with this sort ofgame," remarked Petre Fleurie, as he passed him.
Wilfred began to think it better to forego his breakfast than face hisindignant aunt. What did she care for the handful of weeds? The mud hehad gone through to get them had caused all the mischief. Everywhereelse the ground was dry and crisp with the morning frost. "What anunlucky dog I am!" thought Wilfred dolefully. "Haven't I made a badbeginning, and I never meant to." He crept under the orchard railing tohide himself in his repentance and keep out of everybody's way.
But it was not the weather for standing still, and he longed forsomething to do. He took to running in and out amongst the now almostleafless fruit-trees to keep himself warm.
Forgill, who was at work in the court putting the meat-stage in order,looked down into the orchard from the top of the ladder on which he wasmounted, and called to Wilfred to come and help him.
It was a very busy time on the farm. Marley, the other labourer, whowas Forgill's chum in the little hut in the corner, was away in theprairie looking up the cows, which had been turned loose in the earlysummer to get their own living, and must now be brought in andcomfortably housed for the winter. Forgill had been away nearly afortnight. Hands were short on the farm now the poor old master waslaid aside. There was land to be sold all round them; but at present itwas unoccupied, and the nearest settler was dozens of miles away. Theironly neighbours were the roving hunters, who had no settled home, butwandered about like gipsies, living entirely by the chase and sellingfurs. They were partly descended from the old French settlers, andpartly Indians. They were a careless, light-hearted, dashing set offellows, who made plenty of money when skins were dear, and spent italmost as fast as it came. Uncle Caleb thought it prudent to keep onfriendly terms with these roving neighbours, who were always ready togive him occasional help, as they were always well paid for it.
"There is one of these hunter fellows here now," said Forgill. "Themissis is arranging with him to help me to get in the supply of meat forthe winter."
The stage at which Forgill was hammering resembled the framework of avery high, long, narrow table, with four tall fir poles for its legs.Here the meat
was to be laid, high up above the reach of the manyanimals, wild and tame. It would soon be frozen through and through ashard as a stone, and keep quite good until the spring thaws set in.
Wilfred was quickly on the top of the stage, enjoying the prospect, forthe atmosphere in Canada is so clear that the eye can distinguishobjects a very long way off. He had plenty of amusement watching thegreat buzzards and hawks, which are never long out of sight. He hadentered a region where birds abounded. There were cries in the airabove and the drumming note of the prairie-hen in the grass below. Therewere gray clouds of huge white pelicans flapping heavily along, andfaster-flying strings of small white birds, looking like rows of pearlswaving in the morning air. A moving band, also of snowy white, crossingthe blue water of a distant lakelet, puzzled him a while, until it rosewith a flutter and scream, and proved itself another flock of northerngeese on wing for the south, just pausing on its way to drink.
Presently Wilfred was aware that Petre was at the foot of the laddertalking earnestly to Forgill. An unpleasant tingling in his cheek toldthe subject of their conversation. He turned his back towards them, notchoosing to hear the remarks they might be making upon his escapade ofthe morning, until old Petre--or Pete as he was usually called, forsomehow the "r" slipped out of his name on the English lips aroundhim--raised his voice, protesting, "You and I know well how the blackmud by the reed pool sticks like glue. Now, I say, put him on thelittle brown pony, and take him with you."
"Follow the hunt!" cried Wilfred, overjoyed. "Oh, may I, Forgill?"
Lost in the Wilds: A Canadian Story Page 1
