“I wish you could show it me,” replied the trader.
“Here it is,” returned the artist, taking his little Testament from the inside pocket of his hunting-shirt. “The gospel is able to make all men wise unto salvation.”
McLeod shook his head, and said, “It won’t do here. To be plain with you, sir, I don’t believe the gospel’s of any use in these wild regions, where murder seems to be as natural to man, woman, and child as food.”
“But, sir,” rejoined Bertram, “you forget that our Saviour Himself says that He came not to call the righteous but sinners to repentance. In this volume we are told that the blood of Christ cleanseth us from all sin; and, not only have we His assurance that none who come unto Him shall be cast out, but we have examples in all parts of the known world of men and women who were once steeped to the lips in every species of gross iniquity having been turned to the service of God through faith in Christ, and that by the power of the Holy Spirit, who, in this Word of God, is promised freely to them that simply ask.”
“It may be so,” returned McLeod; “I have not studied these things much. I don’t profess to be a very religious man, and I cannot pretend to know much of what the gospel has done elsewhere; but I feel quite sure that it cannot do much here!”
“Then you do not believe the Bible, which says distinctly that this ‘gospel is the power of God unto salvation to every one that believeth.’”
“Ay, but these wretched Indians won’t believe,” objected the trader.
“True,” answered Bertram; “they have not faith by nature, and they won’t because they can’t believe; but faith is the gift of God, and it is to be had for the asking.”
“To that I answer that they’ll never ask.”
“How do you know? Did you ever give them a trial? Did you ever preach the gospel to them?”
“No, I never did that.”
“Then you cannot tell how they would treat it. Your remarks are mere assertions of opinion—not arguments. You know the wickedness of the Indians, and can therefore speak authoritatively on that point; but you know not (according to your own admission) the power of the gospel: therefore you are not in a position to speak on that point.”
McLeod was about to reply when he was interrupted by the approach of Mr Macgregor, who had now recovered somewhat from the effects of his violent fit of passion. Having observed during the mêlée that strangers had arrived at his fort, he had washed and converted himself into a more presentable personage, and now came forward to the group of trappers, all of whom had assembled at the gate. Addressing them in a tone of affable hospitality he said—
“Good-day, friends; I’m glad to see you at the Mountain Fort. That blackguard Larocque somewhat ruffled my temper. He’s been the cause of much mischief here, I assure you. Do you intend to trap in these parts?”
The latter part of this speech was addressed to Redhand, who replied—
“We do mean to try our luck in these parts, but we han’t yet made up our minds exactly where to go. Mayhap you’ll give us the benefit of your advice.”
While he was speaking the fur trader glanced with an earnest yet half stupid stare at the faces of the trappers, as if he wished to impress their features on his memory.
“Advice,” he replied; “you’re welcome to all the advice I’ve got to give ye; and it’s this—go home; go to where you belong to, sell your traps and rifles and take to the plough, the hatchet, the forehammer—to anything you like, so long as it keeps you out of this—” Macgregor paused a moment as if he were about to utter an oath, then dropped his voice and said, “This wretched Indian country.”
“I guess, then, that we won’t take yer advice, old man,” said Big Waller with a laugh.
“‘Old man?’” echoed Macgregor with a start.
“Wall, if ye bean’t old, ye ain’t exactly a chicken.”
“You’re a plain-spoken man,” replied the trader, biting his lips.
“I always wos,” retorted Waller.
Macgregor frowned for a moment, then he broke into a forced laugh, and said—
“Well, friends, you’ll please yourselves, of course—most people do; and if you are so determined to stick to the wilderness I would advise some of you to stop here. There’s plenty of fun and fighting, if you’re fond of that. What say you now, lad,” turning to March, “to remain with us here at the Mountain Fort? I’ve ta’en a sort of fancy to your face. We want young bloods here. I’ll give you a good wage and plenty to do.”
“Thanks; you are kind,” replied March, smiling, “but I love freedom too well to part with it yet awhile.”
“Mais, monsieur,” cried Gibault, pushing forward, pulling off his cap, and making a low bow; “if you vants yonger blod, an’ also ver’ goot blod, here am von!”
The trader laughed, and was about to reply, when a sudden burst of laughter and the sound of noisy voices in the yard interrupted him. Presently two of the men belonging to the establishment cantered out of the square, followed by all the men, women, and children of the place, amounting probably to between twenty and thirty souls. “A race! a race!” shouted the foremost.
“Hallo! Dupont, what’s to do?” inquired McLeod as the two horsemen came up.
“Please, monsieur, Lincoln have bet me von gun dat hims horse go more queek dan mine—so we try.”
“Yes, so we shall, I guess,” added the man named Lincoln, whose speech told that he was a Yankee.
“Go it, stranger; I calc’late you’ll do him slick,” cried Waller patronisingly, for his heart warmed towards his countryman.
“Ah! non. Go home; put your horse to bed,” cried Gibault, glancing at the Yankee’s steed in contempt. “Dis is de von as vill do it more slicker by far.”
“Well, well; clear the course; we shall soon see,” cried McLeod. “Now then—here’s the word—one, two—away!”
At the last word the riders’ whips cracked, and the horses sprang forward at a furious gallop. Both of them were good spirited animals, and during the first part of the race it could not be said that either had the advantage. They ran neck and neck together.
The racecourse at the Mountain Fort was a beautiful stretch of level turf, which extended a considerable distance in front of the gates. It crossed a clear open country towards the forest, where it terminated, and, sweeping round in an abrupt curve, formed, as it were, a loop; so that competitors, after passing over the course, swept round the loop, and, re-entering the original course again, came back towards the fort, where a long pole formed the winning-post.
Dupont and Lincoln kept together, as we have said, for some time after starting, but before they had cleared the first half of the course the former was considerably in advance of the latter, much to the delight of most of the excited spectators, with whom he was a favourite. On gaining the loop above referred to, and making the graceful sweep round it, which brought the foremost rider into full side view, the distance between them became more apparent, and a cheer arose from the people near the fort gate.
At that moment a puff of smoke issued from the bushes. Dupont tossed his arms in the air, uttered a sharp cry, and fell headlong to the ground. At the same instant a band of Indians sprang from the underwood with an exulting yell. Lincoln succeeded in checking and turning his horse before they caught his bridle, but an arrow pierced his shoulder ere he had galloped out of reach of his enemies.
The instant Dupont fell, a savage leaped upon him, and plunged his knife into his heart. Then, passing the sharp weapon quickly round his head with his right hand, with his left he tore the scalp off, and, leaping up, shook the bloody trophy defiantly at the horrified spectators.
All this was accomplished so quickly that the horror-stricken people of the Mountain Fort had not time to move a finger to save their comrade. But, as the savage raised the scalp of poor Dupont above his head, Redhand’s rifle flew to his shoulder, and in another moment the Indian fell to the earth beside his victim. Seeing this, the other Indians darted into the forest.
Then a fearful imprecation burst from the lips of Macgregor, as, with a face convulsed with passion, he rushed into the fort, shouting: “To horse! to horse, men! and see that your horns and pouches are full of powder and ball!”
The commotion and hubbub that now took place baffle all description. The men shouted and raved as they ran hither and thither, arming themselves and saddling their horses; while the shrieks of poor Dupont’s widow mingled with those of the other women and the cries of the terrified children.
“Half a dozen of you must keep the fort,” said McLeod, when they were all assembled; “the others will be sufficient to punish these fiends. You’ll help us, I suppose?”
This latter question was addressed to Redhand, who, with his comrades, stood armed, and ready to mount.
“Ready, sir,” answered the trapper promptly.
McLeod looked round with a gleam of satisfaction on the stalwart forms of his guests, as they stood each at his horse’s head examining the state of his weapons, or securing more firmly some portion of his costume.
“Mount! mount!” shouted Macgregor, galloping at that moment through the gateway, and dashing away in the direction of the forest.
“Stay!—my sketch-book!” cried Bertram in an agony, at the same time dropping his reins and his gun, and darting back towards the hall of the fort.
“Git on, lads; I’ll look arter him,” said Bounce with a grin, catching up the bridle of the artist’s horse.
Without a moment’s hesitation, the remainder of the party turned, and galloped after Macgregor, who, with the most of his own men, had already wellnigh gained the edge of the forest.