The Buffalo Runners: A Tale of the Red River Plains

by R. M. Ballantyne

  CHAPTER FOUR.

  TELLS OF LOVE, DUTY, STARVATION, AND MURDER.

  Pushing on ahead of them, with that sometimes fatal facility peculiar towriters and readers, we will now visit the couple whom Dan and his partywere so anxious to rescue.

  A single glance at Elspie McKay would have been sufficient to account tomost people for the desperate anxiety of Daniel Davidson to rescue herfrom death, for her pretty sparkling face and ever-varying expressionwere irresistibly suggestive of a soul full of sympathy and tenderregard for the feelings of others.

  Nut-brown hair, dark eyes, brilliant teeth, and many more charms that itwould take too much time and room to record still further accounted forthe desperate determination with which Dan had wooed and won her.

  But to see this creature at her best, you had to see her doing thedutiful to her old father. If ever there was a peevish, cross-grained,crabbed, unreasonable old sinner in this world, that sinner was DuncanMcKay, senior. He was a widower. Perhaps that accounted to some extentfor his condition. That he should have a younger son--also namedDuncan--a cross ne'er-do-weel like himself--was natural, but how he cameto have such a sweet daughter as Elspie, and such a good elder son asFergus, are mysteries which we do not attempt to unravel or explain.Perhaps these two took after their departed mother. We know not, for wenever met her. Certain it is that they did not in the least resembletheir undeparted father--except in looks, for McKay senior had been ahandsome man, though at the time we introduce him his good looks, likehis temper, had nearly fled, and he was considerably shrivelled up byage, hard work, and exposure. The poor man was too old to emigrate to awilderness home when he had set out for the Red River Colony, and theunusual sufferings, disappointments, and hardships to which the firstsettlers were exposed had told heavily on even younger men than he.

  Elspie's love for her father was intense; her pity for him in hismisfortunes was very tender; and, now that he was brought face to facewith, perhaps, the greatest danger that had ever befallen him, heranxiety to relieve and comfort him was very touching. She seemed quiteto forget herself, and the fact that she might perish on the bleakplains along with her father did not seem even to occur to her.

  "It wass madness to come here, _whatever_," said the poor old man, as hecowered over the small fire, which his son Fergus had kindled beforeleaving, and which Elspie had kept up with infinite labour anddifficulty ever since.

  The remark was made testily to himself, for Elspie had gone into thesurrounding bush, axe in hand, to find, if possible, and cut down somemore small pieces of firewood. When she returned with an armful of drysticks, he repeated the sentiment still more testily, and added--"If itwass not for Tuncan, I would have been at home this night in my warmbed, wi' a goot supper inside o' me, instead o' freezin' an' starvin'oot here on the plain among the snow. It's mischief that boy wassalways after from the tay he wass born."

  "But you know that poor Duncan could not guess we were to have suchawful weather, or that the buffalo would be so scarce. Come now, deardaddy," said the cheery girl, as she heaped on wood and made a blazethat revived the old man, "I'll warm up some more of the tea. There's avery little left--and--and--it surely won't be long till God sendsDaniel and Fergus back to us with food."

  Old McKay was somewhat mollified by her manner, or by the fire, or bythe prospect of relief held out, for his tone improved decidedly.

  "Try the bag again, lass," he said, "maybe you'll find a crumb or two inthe corners yet. It will do no harm to try."

  Obediently poor Elspie tried, but shook her head as she did so.

  "There's nothing there, daddy. I turned it inside out last time."

  "Wow! but it's ill to bear!" exclaimed old Duncan, with ahalf-suppressed groan.

  Meanwhile his daughter put the tin kettle on the fire and prepared theirlast cup of tea. When it was ready she looked up with a peculiarexpression on her face, as she drew something from her pocket.

  "Look here, daddy," she said, holding up a bit of pemmican about thesize of a hen's egg.

  The old man snatched it from her, and, biting off a piece, began to chewwith a sort of wolfish voracity.

  "I reserved it till now," said the girl, "for I knew that this being thesecond night, you would find it impossible to get to sleep at allwithout something in you, however small. If you manage to sleep on thisand the cup of hot tea, you'll maybe rest well till morning--and then--"

  "God forgive me!" exclaimed the old man, suddenly pausing, as he wasabout to thrust the last morsel into his mouth; "hunger makes meselfish. I wass forgettin' that you are starvin' too, my tear. Openyour mouth."

  "No, father, I don't want it. I really don't feel hungry."

  "Elspie, my shild," said old Duncan, in a tone of stern remonstrance,"when wass it that you began to tell lies?"

  "I'm telling the truth, daddy. I did feel hungry yesterday, but thathas passed away, and to-day I feel only a little faint."

  "Open your mouth, I'm tellin' you," repeated old Duncan in a tone ofcommand which long experience had taught Elspie promptly to obey. Shereceived the morsel, ate it with much relish, and wished earnestly formore.

  "Now, you'll lie down and go to sleep," she said, after her father hadwashed down the last morsel of food with the last cup of hot tea, "andI'll gather a few more sticks to keep the fire going till morning. Ithink it is not so cold as it was, and the wind is quite gone. Theyhave been away five days now, or more. I think that God, in His mercy,will send us relief in the morning."

  "You are a goot lass, my tear," said the old man, allowing himself to bemade as comfortable as it was in his daughter's power to accomplish;"what you say is ferry true. The weather feels warmer, and the wind isdown. Perhaps they will find us in the mornin'. Goot-night, my tear."

  It was one of the characteristics of this testy old man, that hebelieved it quite possible for a human being to get on quite well enoughin this world without any distinct recognition of his Maker.

  Once, in conversation with his youngest son and namesake Duncan junior,he had somehow got upon this subject, not by any means in a reverential,but in an argumentative, controversial spirit, and had expressed theopinion that as man knew nothing whatever about God, and had no means offinding out anything about Him, there was no need to trouble one's headabout Him at all.

  "I just go about my work, Tuncan," he said, "an' leave preachin' an'prayin' an' psalm-singin' to them that likes it. There's Elspie, now.She believes in God, an' likes goin' to churches an' meetin's, an' thatseems to make her happy. Ferry goot--I don't pelieve in these things,an' I think I'm as happy as hersel'."

  "Humph!" grunted the son in a tone of unconcealed contempt; "if ye _are_as happy as hersel', faither, yer looks give the lie to your condeetion,_whatever_. An' there's this great dufference between you an' her, thatshe's not only happy hersel', but she does her best to mak other folkhappy--but you, wi' your girnin' an' snappin', are always doin' the bestye can to mak everybody aboot ye meeserable."

  "Tuncan," retorted the sire, with solemn candour, "it iss the samecompliment I can return to yoursel' with interest, my boy--what_ever_."

  With such sentiments, then, it is not remarkable that Duncan McKaysenior turned over to sleep as he best could without looking to a highersource than earth afforded for help in his extremity. Happily hisdaughter was actuated by a better spirit, and when she at last lay downon her pile of brushwood, with her feet towards the fire, and her headon a buffalo robe, the fact of her having previously committed herselfand her father to God made her sleep all the sounder.

  In another clump of wood not many miles distant from the spot where thefather and daughter lay, two hunters were encamped. One was DuncanMcKay, to whom we have just referred as being in discord with hisfather. The other was a Canadian named Henri Perrin.

  Both men were gaunt and weakened by famine. They had just returned tocamp from an unsuccessful hunt, and the latter, being first to return,had kindled the fire, and was about to put on the kettle wh
en McKay camein.

  "I've seen nothing," remarked McKay as he flung down his gun and thenflung himself beside it. "Did you see anything?"

  "No, nothing," answered Perrin, breaking off a piece of pemmican andputting it into the pot.

  "How much is left?" asked McKay.

  "Hardly enough for two days--for the two of us; four days perhaps forone!" answered the other.

  McKay looked up quickly, but the Canadian was gazing abstractedly intothe pot. Apparently his remark had no significance. But McKay did notthink so. Since arriving in the colony he had seen and heard much aboutdeception and crime among both Indians and half-breeds. Beingsuspicious by nature, he became alarmed, for it was evident enough, asPerrin had said, that food to last two men for three days would last oneman for six, and the one who should possess six days' provisions mighthope to reach the Settlement alive, even though weakened by previousstarvation.

  The dark expression which had procured for Duncan McKay junior the_sobriquet_ of Cloudbrow from La Certe and his wife, deepened visibly asthese thoughts troubled his brain, and for some time he sat gazing atthe fire in profound abstraction.

  Young McKay was not by any means one of the most depraved of men, butwhen a man is devoid of principle it only requires temptation strongenough, and opportunity convenient, to sink him suddenly to the lowestdepths. Starvation had so far weakened the physique of the hunters thatit was obviously impossible for both of them to reach the Settlement ontwo days' short allowance of food. The buffalo had been driven awayfrom that neighbourhood by the recent storm, and the hope of againfalling in with them was now gone. The starving hunters, as we havesaid, had broken up camp, and were scattered over the plains no onecould tell where. To find them might take days, if not weeks; and, evenif successful, of what avail would it be to discover groups of men whowere in the same predicament with themselves? To remain where they werewas certain and not far-distant death! The situation was desperate, andeach knew it to be so. Yet each did not take it in the same way.McKay, as we have said, became abstracted and slightly nervous. TheCanadian, whatever his thoughts, was calm and collected, and went abouthis culinary operations as if he were quite at ease. He was about tolift the pot off the hook that suspended it over the fire, when hiscompanion quietly, and as if without any definite purpose, took up hisgun.

  Perrin observed the action, and quickly reached out his hand towards hisown weapon, which lay on the ground beside him.

  Quick as lightning McKay raised his gun and fired. Next moment hiscomrade lay dead upon the ground--shot through the heart!

  Horror-struck at what he had done, the murderer could scarcely believehis eyes, and he stood up glaring at the corpse as if he had been frozento death in that position. After standing a long time, he sat down andtried to think of his act and the probable consequences.

  Self-defence was the first idea that was suggested clearly to him; andhe clung to it as a drowning man is said to cling to a straw. "Was itnot clear," he thought, "that Perrin intended to murder me? If not, whyso quick to grip his gun? If I had waited it would have been me, notPerrin, that would be lying there now!"

  His memory reminded him faithfully, however, that when he first thoughtof taking up his gun, Conscience had sternly said,--"Don't." Why shouldConscience have spoken thus, or at all, if his motive had been innocent?

  There are two ways in which a wicked man gets rid of conscientioustroubles--at least for a time. One way is by stout-hearted defiance ofGod, and ignoring of Conscience altogether. The other is by sophisticalreasoning, and a more or less successful effort to throw dust in his owneyes.

  Duncan McKay took the latter method. It is an easy enough method--especially with the illogical--but it works indifferently, and it doesnot last long.

  Conscience may be seared; may be ignored; may be trampled on, but itcannot be killed; it cannot even be weakened and is ever ready at themost unseasonable and unexpected times to start up, vigorous andfaithful to the very end, with its emphatic "Don't!" and "No!"

  Dragging the body out of the camp, McKay returned to take his supper andreason the matter out with himself.

  "I could not help myself," he thought; "when I took up my gun I did notintend to kill the man."

  Conscience again reminded him of its "Don't!"

  "And would not every man in Rud Ruver justify me for firing first inself-defence?"

  Conscience again said "No!"

  Here the hunter uttered a savage oath, to which Conscience made noreply, for Conscience never speaks back or engages in disputation.

  We need not attempt further to analyse the workings of sophistry in thebrain of a murderer. Suffice it to say that when the man had finishedhis supper he had completely, though not satisfactorily, justifiedhimself in his own eyes. There was, he felt, a disagreeableundercurrent of uneasiness; but this might have been the result of fearas to how the Canadian half-breeds and friends of the slain man wouldregard the matter in the event of its being found out.

  There was reason for anxiety on this head, for poor Perrin was a greatfavourite among his comrades, while Cloudbrow was very much the reverse.

  Having finished the supper which he had purchased at such a terribleprice, the young man gathered his things together, packed the provisionson his back, put on his snow-shoes and left the scene of the murder.

  Although a dark night, there was sufficient moon-light to enable him topick his steps, but he had not advanced more than two miles when he cameupon the track of a party that had preceded him. This rendered thewalking more easy, and as he plodded along he reflected that the wolveswould soon find Perrin's body, and, by tearing it to pieces renderrecognition of the victim impossible.

  Suddenly it occurred to him that if any of the scattered band of huntersshould come on the camp before the wolves had time to do their work, theprint of his snow-shoes might tell a tale--for snowshoes were of variousshapes and sizes, and most of his companions in the Settlement might bepretty well acquainted with the shape of his. The danger of such a_contretemps_ was not great, but, to make quite sure that it should notoccur, he turned round and walked straight back on his track to the camphe had just left--thus obliterating, or, rather, confusing the track, soas to render recognition improbable. As he walked over it a third time,in resuming his march to the Settlement, all danger on this ground, heconsidered, was effectually counteracted. Of course, when he reachedthe tracks of the party before mentioned, all trace of his own track wasnecessarily lost among these.

  That "murder will out" is supposed to be an unquestionable truism. Wenevertheless question it very much; for, while the thousands of cases ofmurder that have been discovered are obvious, the vast number, it maybe, that have never been found out are not obvious, however probable.

  The case we are now describing seemed likely to belong to the classwhich remains a mystery till altogether forgotten. Nevertheless Nemesiswas on the wing.

  While Duncan McKay junior was thus pushing his way over the plains inthe direction of Red River Settlement, two poor half-breed women weretoiling slowly over the same plains behind him, bound for the same havenof hoped-for and much-needed rest and refreshment. The poor creatureshad been recently made widows. The husband of one, Louis Blanc, hadbeen killed by Indians during this hunt; that of the other, AntoinePierre, had met his death by being thrown from his horse when runningthe buffalo. Both women were in better condition than many of the otherhunters' wives, for they had started on the homeward journey with abetter supply of meat, which had not yet been exhausted.

  It happened that Marie Blanc and Annette Pierre came upon McKay's campsoon after he left it the second time. Here they prepared to spend thenight, but, on discovering marks of fresh blood about, they made asearch, and soon came on the unburied corpse of the murdered man, lyingbehind a bush. They recognised it at once, for Perrin had beenwell-known, as well as much liked, in the Settlement.

  Neither of the women was demonstrative. They did not express muchfeeling, though th
ey were undoubtedly shocked; but they dug a hole inthe snow with their snow-shoes, and buried the body of the huntertherein--having first carefully examined the wound in his breast, andremoved the poor man's coat, which exhibited a burnt hole in front, aswell as a hole in the back, for the bullet had gone quite through him.

  Then they returned to the camp, and made a careful examination of it;but nothing was found there which could throw light on the subject ofwho was the murderer. Whether a comrade or an Indian had done the deedthere was nothing to show; but that a murder had been committed theycould not doubt, for it was physically almost impossible that a mancould have shot himself in the chest, either by accident or intention,with one of the long-barrelled trading guns in use among thebuffalo-hunters.

  Another point, justifying the supposition of foul play, was thesignificant fact that Perrin's gun, with his name rudely carved on thestock, still lay in the camp _undischarged_.

  "See--here is something," said one woman to the other in the Creetongue, as they were about to quit the camp.

  She held up a knife which she had found half buried near the fire.

  "It is not a common scalping-knife," said the other woman. "It is theknife of a settler."

  The weapon in question was one of the large sheath-knives which many ofthe recently arrived settlers had brought with them from their nativeland. Most of these differed a little in size and form from each other,but all of them were very different from the ordinary scalping-knivessupplied by the fur-traders to the half-breeds and Indians.

  "I see no name on it--no mark," said the woman who found it, after acritical inspection. Her companion examined it with equal care andsimilar result.

  The two women had at first intended to encamp at this spot, but now theydetermined to push forward to the Settlement as fast as their exhaustedcondition permitted, carrying the knife, with the coat and gun of themurdered man, along with them.