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

But Rollin made no reply. He was far from jesting, poor fellow, at that moment. The thought of his old mother and grandfather, and fears as to their fate, weighed heavily on his heart, and took all the fun out of him.

“It sounds like pigs,” said Ian.

“Oui. Dey be killin’ porkers,” said Rollin, with a nod, as he dipped his paddle again and pushed on.

As they drew near, the excitement of the voyagers increased, so did their surprise at the prolonged and furious shrieking. Gradually the vigour of their strokes was strengthened, until they advanced at racing speed. Finally, they swept round the corner of the old house at Willow Creek, and burst upon the gaze of its inhabitants, while Peegwish and the pig were at the height of their struggles.

Mrs Ravenshaw chanced to be the first to observe them.

“Ian Macdonald!” she shouted, for his form in the bow of the leading canoe was the most conspicuous.

“Victor!” cried the sisters, with a scream that quite eclipsed the pig.

They rushed to another window, under which the canoes were pulled up.

“Oh! Victor, Victor,” cried Mrs Ravenshaw, with a deadly faintness at her heart; “you haven’t found—”

“Mother!” cried Tony, casting off his Indian reserve and starting up with a hysterical shout, “Mother!”

“Tony!” exclaimed everybody in the same breath, for they all knew his voice, though they did not believe their eyes.

It was only four feet or so from the canoe to the window. Mrs Ravenshaw leaned over and seized Tony’s uplifted hands. Elsie and Cora lent assistance. A light vault, and Tony went in at the window, from which immediately issued half-stifled cries of joy. At that moment Peegwish uttered a terrible roar, as he fell back into the room with the broken line in his hand, accidentally driving Wildcat into a corner. A last supreme effort had been made by the pig. He had broken the hook, and went off with a final shriek of triumph.

Thus, amid an appropriate whirlwind of confusion, noise, and disaster, was the long-lost Tony restored to his mother’s arms!

Seated calmly in the stern of his canoe, Petawanaquat observed the scene with a look of profound gravity. His revenge was complete! He had returned to his enemy the boy of whom he had become so fond that he felt as though Tony really were his own son. He had bowed his head to the dictates of an enlightened conscience. He had returned good for evil. A certain feeling of deep happiness pervaded the red man’s heart, but it was accompanied, nevertheless, by a vague sense of bereavement and sadness which he could not shake off just then.

Quite as calmly and as gravely sat Ian Macdonald. His eyes once more beheld Elsie, the angel of his dreams, but he had no right to look upon her now with the old feelings. Her troth was plighted to Lambert. It might be that they were already married! though he could not bring himself to believe that; besides, he argued, hoping against hope, if such were the case, Elsie would not be living with her father’s family. No, she was not yet married, he felt sure of that; but what mattered it? A girl whose heart was true as steel could never be won from the man to whom she had freely given herself. No, there was no hope; and poor Ian sat there in silent despair, with no sign, however, of the bitter thoughts within on his grave, thoughtful countenance.

Not less gravely sat Michel Rollin in the stern of his canoe. No sense of the ludicrous was left in his anxious brain. He had but one idea, and that was—old Liz! With some impatience he waited until the ladies inside the house were able to answer his queries about his mother. No sooner did he obtain all the information they possessed than he transferred Meekeye to her husband’s canoe, and set off alone in the other to search for the lost hut—as Winklemann had done before him.

Meanwhile the remainder of the party were soon assembled in the family room on the upper floor, doing justice to an excellent meal, of which most of them stood much in need.

“Let me wash that horrid stuff off your face, darling, before you sit down,” said Miss Trim to Tony.

The boy was about to comply, but respect for the feelings of his Indian father caused him to hesitate. Perhaps the memory of ancient rebellion was roused by the old familiar voice, as he replied—

“Tonyquat loves his war-paint. It does not spoil his appetite.”

It was clear from a twinkle in Tony’s eye, and a slight motion in his otherwise grave face, that, although this style of language now came quite naturally to him, he was keeping it up to a large extent on purpose.

“Tonyquat!” exclaimed Mrs Ravenshaw, aghast with surprise, “what does the child mean?”

“I’ll say Tony, mother, if you like it better,” he said, taking his mother’s hand.

“He’s become a redskin,” said Victor, half-amused, half-anxious.

“Tony,” said Miss Trim, whose heart yearned towards her old but almost unrecognisable pupil, “don’t you remember how we used to do lessons together and play sometimes?”

“And fight?” added Cora, with a glance at Ian, which caused Elsie to laugh.

“Tonyquat does not forget,” replied the boy, with profound gravity. “He remembers the lessons and the punishments. He also remembers dancing on the teacher’s bonnet and scratching the teacher’s nose!”

This was received with a shout of delighted laughter, for in it the spirit of the ancient Tony was recognised.

But Ian Macdonald did not laugh. He scarcely spoke except when spoken to. He seemed to have no appetite, and his face was so pale from his long illness that he had quite the air of a sick man.

“Come, Ian, why don’t you eat? Why, you look as white as you did after the grizzly had clawed you all over.”

This remark, and the bear-claw collar on the youth’s neck, drew forth a question or two, but Ian was modest. He could not be induced to talk of his adventure, even when pressed to do so by Elsie.

“Come, then, if you won’t tell it I will,” said Victor; and thereupon he gave a glowing account of the great fight with the bear, the triumphant victory, and the long illness, which had well-nigh terminated fatally.

“But why did you not help him in the hunt?” asked Elsie of Victor, in a tone of reproach.

“Because he wouldn’t let us; the reason why is best known to himself. Perhaps native obstinacy had to do with it.”

“It was a passing fancy; a foolish one, perhaps, or a touch of vanity,” said Ian, with a smile, “but it is past now, and I have paid for it.—Did you make fast the canoe?” he added, turning abruptly to the Indian, who was seated on his buffalo robe by the stove.

Without waiting for an answer he rose and descended the staircase to the passage, where poor Miss Trim had nearly met a watery grave.

Here the canoe was floating, and here he found one of the domestics.

“Has the wedding come off yet?” he asked in a low, but careless, tone, as he stooped to examine the fastening of the canoe.

“What wedding?” said the domestic, with a look of surprise.

“Why, the wedding of Mr Ravenshaw’s daughter.”

“Oh no, Mr Ian. It would be a strange time for a wedding. But it’s all fixed to come off whenever the flood goes down. And she do seem happy about it. You see, sir, they was throw’d a good deal together here of late, so it was sort of natural they should make it up, and the master he is quite willin’.”

This was enough. Ian Macdonald returned to the room above with the quiet air of a thoughtful schoolmaster and the callous solidity of a human petrifaction. Duty and death were the prominent ideas stamped upon his soul. He would not become reckless or rebellious. He would go through life doing his duty, and, when the time came, he would die!

They were talking, of course, about the flood when he returned and sat down.

Elsie was speaking. Ian was immediately fascinated as he listened to her telling Victor, with graphic power, some details of the great disaster—how dwellings and barns and stores had been swept away, and property wrecked everywhere, though, through the mercy of God, no lives had been lost. All this, and a great deal more, did Elsie and Cora and Mrs Ravenshaw dilate upon, until Ian almost forgot his resolve.

Suddenly he remembered it. He also remembered that his father’s house still existed, though it was tenantless, his father and Miss Martha having gone up to see friends at the Mountain.

“Come, Vic,” he exclaimed, starting up, “I must go home. The old place may be forsaken, but it is not the less congenial on that account. Come.”

Victor at once complied; they descended to the canoe, pushed out from the passage, and soon crossed the flood to Angus Macdonald’s dwelling.

Chapter Twenty Two.

The “Impossible” Accomplished

And what a dwelling Angus Macdonald’s house had become!