The Red Man's Revenge: A Tale of The Red River Flood
Meanwhile Angus Macdonald returned in no very amiable mood to his own house. It was a small house; had been built by its owner, and was, like most of the other houses of the colony at that time, a good solid log structure—a sort of Noah’s ark on a small scale. It stood on a flat piece of mother earth, without any special foundation except a massive oblong wooden frame to which all the superstructure was attached. You might, if strong enough, have grasped it by the ridge-pole and carried it bodily away without tearing up any foundation or deranging the fabric. 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 the school-house, a mile farther up the river.
Martha’s strong point was fowls. We are too ignorant of that subject to go 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 the largest and freshest in Red River. We introduce these fowls solely because one of them acted a very important part on a very critical occasion. As well might the geese who saved Rome be omitted from history as Martha Macdonald’s Cochin-China hen which—well, we won’t say what just yet. That hen was frightfully plain. Why Cochin-China hens should have such long legs and wear feather trousers are questions which naturalists must settle among themselves. Being a humorous man, Angus had named her Beauty. She was a very cross hen, and her feather unmentionables fitted badly. Moreover, she was utterly useless, and never laid an egg, which was fortunate, for if she had laid one it would have been an egregious monstrosity. She was obviously tough. If they had slain her for the table they would have had to cut her up with a hand-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—she took to crowing on her own account. She received Angus with a crow when he entered the house after his interview with Ravenshaw, and appeared to listen 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 Ruvnshaw there 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 the pros and cons of the case, which, however, we will spare the reader, and return to Willow Creek. The bed of the creek, near to the point where it joined the Red River, was a favourite resort of Master Tony. Thither he went that same afternoon to play.
Having observed the child’s habits, Petawanaquat paddled his canoe to the same point and hid it and himself among the overhanging bushes of the creek. In the course of his gambols Tony approached the place. One stroke of the paddle sent the light birch-bark canoe like an arrow across the stream. The Indian sprang on shore. Tony gave him one scared look and was about to utter an appalling yell, when a red hand covered 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 easily out into the stream. Steadily, but not too swiftly, he went down the river, down the rapids, and past the Indian settlement without attracting particular notice. Once the buffalo robe moved; the paddle descended on it with a sounding whack, and it did not move again. Before night closed, the Indian was paddling over the broad bosom of Lake Winnipeg.
Of course, Tony was soon missed; his haunts were well known; Miss Trim traced his footprints to the place where he had been seized, saw evidences 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 of returning home he ran straight to the school-house, which he reached out of 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 small bag of pemmican, gave his gun and ammunition to Victor, told his assistant to keep the school going till his return, and ran with his friend 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 expert canoe-men. Straining their powers to the utmost, they were soon far down the Red River, in hot pursuit of the fugitive.
Chapter Three.
The Pursuit begins
There is something delightfully exhilarating in a chase, whether it be after man or beast. How the blood careers! How the nerves tingle! But you know all about it, reader. We have said sufficient.
There was enough of righteous indignation in Victor’s bosom to have consumed Petawanaquat, and ground enough to justify the fiercest resolves. Was not the kidnapper a redskin—a low, mean, contemptible savage? Was not the kidnapped one his brother—his “own” brother? And such a brother! One of a thousand, with mischief enough in him, if rightly directed, to make half a dozen ordinary men! The nature of the spirit which animated Victor was obvious on his compressed lips, his frowning brows, his gleaming eyes. The strength of his muscles was indicated by the foam that fled from his paddle.
Ian Macdonald was not less excited, but more under self-control than his friend. There was a fixed look in his plain but pleasant face, and a tremendous sweep in his long arms as he plied the paddle, that told of unfathomed energy. The canoe being a mere egg-shell, leaped forward at each quick stroke “like a thing of life.”
There was no time to lose. They knew that, for the Indian had probably got a good start of them, and, being a powerful man, animated by the certainty of pursuit sooner or later, would not only put his strength but his endurance to the test. If they were to overtake him it must be by superhuman exertion. Lake Winnipeg was twenty miles off. They must catch up the Indian before he reached it, as otherwise it would be impossible to tell in which direction he had gone.
They did not pause to make inquiries of the settlers on the banks by the way, but they hailed several canoes, whose occupants said they had seen the Indian going quietly down stream some hours before—alone in his canoe!
“Never mind, Vic, push on,” said Ian; “of course he would make Tony lie flat down.”
The end of the settlement was passed, and they swept on into the wilderness beyond. Warming to their work, they continued to paddle hour after hour—steadily, persistently, with clockwork regularity of stroke, but never decreasing force. To save time they, as it were, cut off corners at the river-bends, and just shaved the points as they went by.
“Have a care, Ian!” exclaimed Victor, at one of these places, as his paddle touched the bottom. “We don’t draw much water, to be sure, but a big stone might—hah!”
A roar of dismay burst from the youth and his companion as the canoe rasped over a stone.
We have said that the birch canoe was an egg-shell. The word is scarcely figurative. The slightest touch over a stone has a tendency to rip the bark of such a slender craft, or break off the resinous gum with which the seams are pitched. Water began to pour in.
“Too bad!” exclaimed Victor, flinging his paddle ashore, as he stepped over the side into water not much above his ankles, and pulled the canoe slowly to land.
“An illustration of the proverb, ‘The more haste the less speed,’” sighed Ian, as he stepped into the water and assisted in lifting the canoe tenderly to dry ground.
“Oh, it’s all very well for you to take it philosophically, but you know our chance is gone. If it was your brother we were after you wouldn’t be so cool.”
“He is Elsie’s brother,” replied Ian, “and that makes me quite as keen as if he were my own, besides keeping me cool. Come, Vic, don’t be cross, but light the fire and get out the gum.”
While he spoke Ian was actively untying a bundle which contained awls and wattape, a small pliable root, with which to repair the injury. The gum had to be melted, so that Victor found some relief to his feelings in kindling a fire. The break was not a bad one. With nimble fingers Ian sewed a patch of bark over it. While that was being done, Victor struck a light with flint and steel, and soon had a blazing firebrand ready.
“Hand it here, Vic,” said Ian.
He covered the stitches with melted gum, blew the charcoal red-hot, passed it here and there over the old seams where they exhibited signs of leakage, and in little more than half an hour had the canoe as tight as a bottle. Once more they embarked and drove her like an arrow down stream.
But precious time had been lost, and it was dark when they passed from the river and rested on the bosom of the mighty fresh-water sea.
“It’s of no use going on without knowing which shore the redskin has followed,” said Ian, as he suddenly ceased work and rested his paddle on the gunwale.
“It’s of no use to remain where we are,” replied the impatient Victor, looking back at his comrade.
“Yes, it is,” returned Ian, “the moon will rise in an hour or so and enable us to make observations; meanwhile we can rest. Sooner or later we shall be compelled to rest. It will be a wise economy of time to do so now when nothing else can be done.”
Victor was so tired and sleepy by that time that he could scarcely reply. Ian laughed quietly, and shoved the canoe among some reeds, where it lay on a soft bed. At the same time he advised his companion to go to sleep without delay.
More than half asleep already, he obeyed in silence, waded to the shore, and sat down on a bank to take off his moccasins. In this position and act he fell asleep.
“Hallo!” exclaimed Ian, coming up with the paddles and pemmican bag; “too soon, Vic, too soon, lad,” (he tumbled him over on the bank); “come, one mouthful of grub first, then off with the moccasins, and down we go.”
Victor picked himself up with a yawn. On ordinary occasions a backwoodsman pays some little attention to the comforts of his encampment, but our heroes were in no condition to mind such trifles. They pulled off their wet moccasins, indeed, and put on dry ones, but having done that they merely groped in the dark for the flattest piece of ground in the neighbourhood, then each rolled himself in his blanket and lay, or rather fell, down.
“Hah!” gasped Victor.
“Wa’s wrong?” sighed Ian faintly.
“Put m’ shoulder ’n a puddle, ’at’s all,” lisped Victor.
“T’ke’t out o’ the purl, then—oh!” groaned Ian.
“W’as ’e marrer now, eh?” sighed Victor.
“On’y a big stone i’ m’ ribs.”
“Shove’t out o’ y’r ribs ’en an’ ’old y’r tongue.”
Profound slumber stopped the conversation at this point, and the frogs that croaked and whistled in the swamps had it all to themselves.
Deep tranquillity reigned on the shores of Lake Winnipeg during the midnight hours, for the voices of the frogs served rather to accent than to disturb the calm. Stars twinkled at their reflections in the water, which extended like a black mirror to the horizon. They gave out little light, however, and it was not until the upper edge of the full moon arose that surrounding objects became dimly visible. The pale light edged the canoe, silvered the rocks, tipped the rushes, and at last, touching the point of Ian’s upturned nose, awoke him. (See Frontispiece).
He leaped up with a start instantly, conscious of his situation, and afraid lest he had slept too long.
“Hi! lève! lève! awake! up!” he exclaimed in a vigorous undertone.
Victor growled, turned on his other side with a deep sigh, wanted to be let alone, became suddenly conscious, and sprang up in alarm.
“We’re too late!”
“No, we’re not, Vic. The moon is just rising, but we must be stirring. Time’s precious.”
Victor required no urging. He was fully alive to the situation. A few minutes sufficed to get the canoe ready and roll up their blankets, during the performance of which operations they each ate several substantial mouthfuls of pemmican.
Looking carefully round before pushing off the canoe to see that nothing was forgotten, Ian observed some chips of wood on the beach close at hand.
“See, Vic!” he said eagerly; “some one has been here—perhaps the Indian.”
They examined the chips, which had been recently cut. “It’s not easy to make out footprints here,” said Ian, going down on his knees the better to observe the ground; “and so many settlers and Indians pass from time to time, having little boys with them too, that—. I say, look here, Vic, this little footmark might or might not be Tony’s, but moccasins are so much alike that—”
“Out o’ the light, man; if you were made o’ glass the moon might get through you. Why, yes, it is Tony’s moccasin!” cried Victor, in eager excitement. “I know it by the patch, for I saw Elsie putting it on this very morning. Look, speak, man! don’t you see it? A square patch on the ball of the right foot!”
“Yes, yes; I see it,” said Ian, going down on his knees in a spirit of semi-worship, and putting his nose close to the ground.
He would fain have kissed the spot that had been pressed by a patch put on by Elsie, but he was “unromantic,” and refrained.
“Now,” he said, springing up with alacrity, “that settles the question. At least it shows that there is strong probability of their having taken the left shore of the lake.”
“Come along, then, let’s after them,” cried Victor impatiently, pushing off the canoe.
The moment she floated—which she did in about four inches of water—they stepped swiftly yet gently into her; for bark canoes require tender treatment at all times, even when urgent speed is needful. Gliding into deep water, they once more dipped their paddles, deep and fast, and danced merrily over the moonlit sea—for a sea Lake Winnipeg certainly is, being upwards of three hundred miles long, and a gathering together of many waters from all parts of the vast wilderness of Rupert’s Land.
After two hours of steady work they paused to rest.
“Now, Ian,” said Victor, leaning against the wooden bar at his back, and resting his paddle across the canoe, “Venus tells me that the sun is about to bestir himself, and something within me tells me that empty space is a bad stomachic; so, out with the pemmican bag, and hand over a junk.”
Ian drew his hunting-knife, struck it into the mass of meat, and chipped off a piece the size of his fist, which he handed to his comrade.
Probably our readers are aware that pemmican is made of dried buffalo meat pounded to shreds and mixed with melted fat. Being thus half-cooked in the making, it can be used with or without further cookery. Sewed up in its bag, it will keep good for months, or even years, and is magnificent eating, but requires a strong digestion. Ian and Victor were gifted with that requisite. They fed luxuriously. A draught from the crystal lake went down their unsophisticated throats like nectar, and they resumed their paddles like giants refreshed.
Venus mounted like a miniature moon into the glorious blue. Her perfect image went off in the opposite direction, for there was not the ghost of a zephyr to ruffle the deep. Presently the sun followed in her wake, and scattered the battalions of cloudland with artillery of molten gold. Little white gulls, with red legs and beaks, came dipping over the water, solemnly wondering at the intruders. The morning mists rolling along before the resistless monarch of day confused the visible world for a time, so that between refraction and reflection and buoyant spirits Victor Ravenshaw felt that at last he had found the realms of fairyland, and a feeling of certainty that he should soon rescue his brother filled him with exultation.
But the exultation was premature. Noon found them toiling on, and still no trace of the fugitives was to be seen.
“What if we have overshot them?” said Victor.
“Impossible,” answered Ian, “the shore is too open for that, and I have been keeping a sharp look-out at every bend and bay.”
“That may be true, yet Petawanaquat may have kept a sharper look-out, and concealed himself when he saw us coming. See, here is a creek. He may have gone up that. Let us try. Why! there is a canoe in it. Hup! drive along, Ian!”
The canoe seemed to leap out of the water under the double impulse, and next moment almost ran down another canoe which was half hidden among the reeds. In it sat an old Indian named Peegwish, and a lively young French half-breed named Michel Rollin. They were both well known to our adventurers; old Peegwish—whose chief characteristic was owlishness—being a frequent and welcome visitor at the house of Ian’s father.
“You ’pears to be in one grand hurray,” exclaimed Rollin, in his broken English.
Ian at once told the cause of their appearance there, and asked if they had seen anything of Petawanaquat.
“Yes, oui, no—dat is to say. Look ’ere!”
Rollin pushed the reeds aside with his paddle, and pointed to a canoe lying bottom up, as if it had been concealed there.
“Ve’s be come ’ere after duck, an’ ve find dat,” said the half-breed.
An immediate investigation showed that Petawanaquat had forsaken his canoe and taken to the woods. Ian looked troubled. Peegwish opened his owlish eyes and looked so solemn that Victor could scarce forbear laughing, despite the circumstances. It was immediately resolved to give chase. Peegwish was left in charge of the canoes. The other three soon found the track of the Red Man and followed it up like blood-hounds. At first they had no difficulty in following the trail, being almost as expert as Indians in woodcraft, but soon they came to swampy ground, and then to stony places, in which they utterly lost it. Again and again did they go back to pick up the lost trail, and follow it only to lose it again.
Thus they spent the remainder of that day until night put a stop to their exertions and crushed their hopes. Then, dispirited and weary, they returned to the canoes and encamped beside them.
Peegwish was engaged in roasting a duck when they arrived.
“What a difference between the evening and the morning,” said Victor, as he flung himself down beside the fire.
“Dat is troo, an’ vat I has obsarve oftin,” said Rollin, looking earnestly into a kettle which rested on the fire.
“Never mind, Vic,” said Ian heartily, “we’ll be at it again to-morrow, bright and early. We’re sure to succeed in the long-run. Petawanaquat can’t travel at night in the woods any more than we can.”
Old Peegwish glared at the fire as though he were pondering these sayings deeply. As he understood little or no English, however, it is more probable that his astute mind was concentrated on the roasting duck.
Chapter Four.
A Discovery—The Chase Continued on Foot
To bound from the depths of despair to the pinnacles of hope is by no means an uncommon experience to vigorous youth. When Victor Ravenshaw awoke next morning after a profound and refreshing sleep, and looked up through the branches at the bright sky, despondency fled, and he felt ready for anything. He was early awake, but Peegwish had evidently been up long before him, for that wrinkled old savage had kindled the fire, and was seated on the other side of it wrapped in his blanket, smoking, and watching the preparation of breakfast. When Victor contemplated his solemn eyes glaring at a roasting duck, which suggested the idea that he had been sitting there and glaring all night, he burst into an uncontrollable fit of laughter.
“Come, I say, Vic,” said Ian, roused by this from a comfortable nap, “if you were a hyena there might be some excuse for you, but being only a man—forgive me, a boy—you ought to have more sense than to disturb your friends so.”
“Oui, yes; dat is troo. Vraiment, it is too bad,” growled Rollin, sitting up and stretching himself. “Howsomewhatever, it is time to rise. Oui!”
“I should think it was,” retorted Victor; “the sun is already up, and you may be sure that Petawanaquat has tramped some miles this morning. Come, Peegwish, close your eyes a bit for fear they jump out. What have you got to give us, eh? Robbiboo, ducks, and—no, is it tea? Well, we are in luck to have fallen in with you.”
He rested his head on his hand, and lay looking at the savage with a pleased expression, while Rollin rose and went off to cut more firewood.
The robbiboo referred to was a sort of thick soup made of pemmican boiled with flour. Without loss of time the party applied themselves to it. When appetite was partially appeased Ian propounded the question, What was to be done?
“Follow up the trail as fast as we can,” said Victor promptly.
“Dat is bon advise,” observed Rollin. “Hand over de duck, Peegvish, an’ do try for shut your eyes. If you vould only vink it vould seem more comfortabler.”
Peegwish did not smile, but with deepened gravity passed the duck.
“I’m not so sure of the goodness of the advice,” said Ian. “To go scampering into the woods on a chase that may lead us we know not where or how long, with only a small quantity of provisions and ammunition, and but one gun, may seem energetic and daring, but it may not, perhaps, be wise.”
Victor admitted that there was truth in that, and looked perplexed.
“Nevertheless, to give up at this point, and return to the settlement for supplies,” he said, “would be to lose the advantage of our quick start. How are we to get over the difficulty?”
“Moi, I can you git out of de difficulty,” said Rollin, lighting his pipe with a business air. “Dis be de vay. Peegvish et me is out for long hunt vid much pemmican, poodre an’ shote. You make von ’greement vid me et Peegvish. You vill engage me; I vill go vid you. You can take vat you vill of our tings, and send Peegvish back to de settlement for tell fat ye bees do.”
This plan, after brief but earnest consideration, was adopted. The old Indian returned to Willow Creek with pencil notes, written on birch bark, to old Samuel Ravenshaw and Angus Macdonald, and the other three of the party set off at once to renew the chase on foot, with blankets and food strapped to their backs and guns on their shoulders—for Rollin carried his own fowling-piece, and Victor had borrowed that of Peegwish.
As happened the previous day, they failed several times to find the trail of the fugitives, but at last Ian discovered it, and they pushed forward with renewed hope. The faint footmarks at first led them deep into the woods, where it was difficult to force a passage; then the trail disappeared altogether on the banks of a little stream. But the pursuers were too experienced to be thrown off the scent by such a well-known device as walking up stream in the water. They followed the brook until they came to the place where Petawanaquat had once more betaken himself to dry land. It was a well-chosen spot; hard and rocky ground, on which only slight impressions could be left, and the wily savage had taken care to step so as to leave as slight a trail as possible; but the pursuers had sharp and trained eyes. Ian Macdonald, in particular, having spent much of his time as a hunter before setting up his school, had the eyes of a lynx. He could distinguish marks when his companions could see nothing until they were pointed out, and although frequently at fault, he never failed to recover the trail sooner or later.
Of course they lost much time, and they knew that Petawanaquat must be rapidly increasing the distance between them, but they trusted to his travelling more leisurely when he felt secure from pursuit, and to his being delayed somewhat by Tony, whom it was obvious he had carried for long distances at a stretch.
For several days the pursuers went on with unflagging perseverance and ever-increasing hope, until they at last emerged from the woods, and began to traverse the great prairie. Here the trail diverged for a considerable distance southward, and then turned sharply to the west, in which direction it went in a straight line for many miles, as if Petawanaquat had made up his mind to cross the Rocky Mountains, and throw poor Tony into the Pacific!