The Red Man's Revenge: A Tale of The Red River Flood

Quick as thought the ex-captain brought his own piece to his shoulder. He would have been too late if the gun of his opponent had not missed fire.

“Stop! ’tis Pierre Vincent!” cried Winklemann, just in time to arrest Warder’s hand.

Vincent was a well-known comrade, but his face was so disfigured by dirt and blood that they barely recognised him. He flung away his gun when it snapped, and ran wildly towards them.

“Come! come! I have food, food! ha! ha! much food yonder in the bush! My wife and child eat it! they are eating eating now! ha! ha!”

With another fierce yell the poor maniac—for such he had become—turned off at a tangent, and ran far away over the plains.

They made no attempt to follow him; it would have been useless. In the bush they found his wife and child stone-dead. Frequently during that terrible walk they came on single tracks, which invariably showed that the traveller had fallen several times, and at length taken to creeping. Then they looked ahead, for they knew that the corpse of a man or woman was not far in advance of them.

One such track led them to a woman with an infant on her back. She was still pretty strong, and trudged bravely over the snow on her snow-shoes, while the little one on her back appeared to be quite content with its lot, although pinched-looking in the face.

The men could not afford to help her on. It would have delayed themselves. The words “life and death” seemed to be ringing constantly in their ears. But they spoke kindly to the poor woman, and gave her nearly all their remaining stock of provisions, reserving just enough for two days.

“I’ve travelled before now on short allowance,” said Warder, with a pitiful smile. “We’re sure to come across something before long. If not, we can travel empty for a bit.”

“Goot; it vill make us lighter,” said Winklemann, with a grave nod.

They parted from the woman, and soon left her out of sight behind. She never reached the settlement. She and the child were afterwards found dead within a quarter of a mile of Pembina. From the report of the party she had left, this poor creature must have travelled upwards of a hundred miles in three days and nights before sinking in that terrible struggle for life.

Warder and his companion did not require to diverge in order to follow these tracks. They all ran one way, straight for Red River—for home! But there were many, very many, who never saw that home again.

One exception they overtook on their fourth day. She was a middle-aged woman, but her visage was so wrinkled by wigwam smoke, and she had such a stoop, that she seemed very old indeed.

“Why, I know that figure,” exclaimed Warder, on sighting her; “it’s old Liz, Michel Rollin’s Scotch mother!”

So it turned out. She was an eccentric creature, full of life, fire, and fun, excessively short and plain, but remarkably strong. She had been forsaken by her nephew, she said. Michel, dear Michel, would not have left her in the lurch if he had been there. But she would be at home to receive Michel on his return. That she would! And she was right. She reached the settlement alive, though terribly exhausted.

Warder and Winklemann did not “come across” anything except one raven, but they shot that and devoured it, bones and all. Then they travelled a day without food and without halt. Next day they might reach the settlement if strength did not fail, but when they lay down that night Warder said he felt like going to die, and Winklemann said that his “lecks” were now useless, and his “lunks” were entirely gone!

Chapter Eleven.

To the Rescue

Elsie and Cora Ravenshaw were seated at a table in Willow Creek, with their mother and Miss Trim, repairing garments, one night in that same inclement January of which we have been writing.

Mr Ravenshaw was enjoying his pipe by the stove, and Louis Lambert was making himself agreeable. The old man was a little careworn. No news had yet been received of Tony or of Victor. In regard to the latter he felt easy; Victor could take care of himself, and was in good company, but his heart sank when he thought of his beloved Tony. What would he not have given to have had him smashing his pipe or operating on his scalp at that moment.

“It is an awful winter,” observed Elsie, as a gust of wind seemed to nearly blow in the windows.

“I pity the hunters in the plains,” said Cora. “They say a rumour has come that they are starving.”

“I heard of that, but hope it is not true,” observed Lambert.

“Oh! they always talk of starving,” said old Ravenshaw. “No fear of ’em.”

At that moment there was a sound of shuffling in the porch, the door was thrown open, and a gaunt, haggard man, with torn, snow-sprinkled garments, pale face, and bloodshot eyes, stood pictured on the background of the dark porch.

“Baptiste Warder!” exclaimed Lambert, starting up.

“Ay, what’s left o’ me; and here’s the remains o’ Winklemann,” said Warder, pointing to the cadaverous face of the starving German, who followed him.

Need we say that the hunters received a kindly welcome by the Ravenshaw family, as they sank exhausted into chairs. The story of starvation, suffering, and death was soon told—at least in outline.

“You are hungry. When did you eat last?” asked Mr Ravenshaw, interrupting them.

“Two days ago,” replied Warder, with a weary smile.

“It seems like two veeks,” observed the German, with a sigh.

“Hallo! Elsie, Cora, victuals!” cried the sympathetic old man, turning quickly round.

But Elsie, whose perceptions were quick, had already placed bread and beer on the table.

“Here, have a drink of beer first,” said the host, pouring out a foaming glass.

Warder shook his head. Winklemann remarked that, “beer vas goot, ver goot, but they had been used to vatter of late.”

“Ah!” he added, after devouring half a slice of bread while waiting for Cora to prepare another; “blessed brod an’ booter! Nobody can know vat it is till he have starve for two veek—a—I mean two days; all de same ting in my feel—”

The entrance of a huge bite put a sudden and full stop to the sentence.

“Why did you not stop at some of the houses higher up the river to feed?” asked Lambert.

Warder explained that they meant to have done so, but they had missed their way. They had grown stupid, he thought, from weakness. When they lost the way they made straight for the river, guided by the pole-star, and the first house they came in sight of was that of Willow Creek.

“How can the pole-star guide one?” asked Cora, in some surprise.

“Don’t you know?” said Lambert, going round to where Cora sat, and sitting down beside her. “I will explain.”

“If I did know I wouldn’t ask,” replied Cora coquettishly; “besides, I did not put the question to you.”

“Nay, but you don’t object to my answering it, do you?”

“Not if you are quite sure you can do so correctly.”

“I think I can, but the doubts which you and your sister so often throw on my understanding make me almost doubt myself,” retorted Lambert, with a laughing glance at Elsie. “You must know, then, that there is a constellation named the Great Bear. It bears about as much resemblance to a bear as it does to a rattlesnake, but that’s what astronomers have called it. Part of it is much more in the shape of a plough, and one of the stars in that plough is the pole-star. You can easily distinguish it when once you know how, because two of the other stars are nearly in line with it, and so are called ‘pointers.’ When you stand looking at the pole-star you are facing the north, and of course, when you know where the north is, you can tell all the other points of the compass.”

It must not be supposed that the rest of the party listened to this astronomical lecture. The gallant Louis had sought to interest Elsie as well as Cora, but Elsie was too much engrossed with the way-worn hunters and their sad tale to think of anything else. When they had eaten enough to check the fierce cravings of hunger they related more particulars.

“And now,” said Warder, sitting erect and stretching his long arms in the air as if the more to enjoy the delightful sensation of returning strength, “we have pushed on at the risk of our lives to save time. This news must be carried at once to the Governor. The Company can help us best in a fix like this.”

“Of course, of course; I shall send word to him at once,” said his host.

“All right, Baptiste,” said Lambert, coming forward, “I expected you’d want a messenger. Here I am. Black Dick’s in the stable. He’ll be in the cariole in ten minutes. What shall I say to the Governor?”

“I’ll go with you,” answered Warder.