The Buffalo Runners: A Tale of the Red River Plains

But when the old man went to Fort Garry and visited his son, he stifled his pathetic feelings, and appeared before him with all the offended dignity of an injured member of the great clan McKay.

“Are you guilty, Tuncan?” he asked, sternly.

“No, I’m innocent,” answered the youthful Highlander, with a brow quite as stern and a manner as dignified as the old one.

“You will hev to prove that—whatever.”

“No—they will hev to prove me guilty,” retorted the son.

“I wish I could believe ye, Tuncan.”

“It iss not of much consequence whether ye believe me or not, father. You are not to be my chudge—whatever.”

“That is goot luck for you, Tuncan, for if I wass your chudge I would be bound to condemn you—you wass always so fond o’ tellin’ lies.”

“It iss true what you say, father. It iss a chip o’ the old block that I am—more’s the peety.” At this point the door of the prison opened, and Elspie was ushered in.

“You here, father!” she exclaimed in evident surprise. “I had hoped to see Duncan alone.”

“It iss alone with him you’ll soon be,” replied the Highlander, putting on his hat. “Goot tay, Tuncan, my boy, an’ see that you’ll be tellin’ the truth, if ye can, when ye come to be tried.”

To this the youth made no reply.

“O Duncan!” said the girl, when her father had retired, “how came they to invent such lies about you?”

The tender way in which this was said, and the gentle touch on his arm, almost overcame the stubborn man, but he steeled himself against such influences.

“What can I say, Elspie?” he replied. “How can I tell what iss the reason that people tell lies?”

“But it is lies, isn’t it, Duncan?” asked the poor girl, almost entreatingly.

“You say that it iss lies—whatever, an’ I will not be contradictin’ you. But when the trial comes on you will see that it cannot be proved against me, Elspie—so keep your mind easy.”

With this rather unsatisfactory assurance, Elspie was fain to rest content, and she returned home a little, though not much, easier in her mind.

To make the trial quite fair and regular, a jury of twelve men, chosen by lot from a large number, was empanelled, and as many witnesses as possible were examined. These last were not numerous, and it is needless to say that Annette Pierre and Marie Blanc were the chief. But despite their evidence and the strong feeling that existed against the prisoner, it was found impossible to convict him, so that in the end he was acquitted and set free. But there were men in the colony who registered a vow that Cloudbrow should not escape. They believed him to be guilty, in spite of the trial, and made up their minds patiently to bide their time.

It now seemed as if at last a measure of prosperity were about to dawn upon the farmers in that distant land, and, as usual on such occasions of approaching prosperity, Dan Davidson and Duncan McKay senior began to talk of the wedding which had been so long delayed.

“I wass thinkin’, Tan,” remarked the old man one morning, while walking in the verandah with his after-breakfast pipe, “that I will be getting in the crops pretty soon this year, an’ they’re heavy crops too, so that we may look forward to a comfortable winter—whatever.”

“True, and as our crops are also very good, thank God, I begin now to hope that Elspie may see her way to—”

“See her way!” exclaimed McKay with some asperity: “she will hev to see her way when I tell her to open her eyes an’ look!”

“Nay, but there are two to this bargain,” said Dan, good-humouredly. “I would not consent to have her on such terms. She must fix and arrange everything without constraint from any one—not even from you, Duncan McKay.”

“Oh! fery goot!” retorted the old man with a touch of sarcasm; “you know fery well what Elspie will be sayin’ to that, or you would not be so ready to let it rest with her. Yes, yes, she is safe to see her way to go the way that you want her to go.”

It was a strange coincidence that at the very time these two were conversing on this subject in the verandah of Ben Nevis Hall, Mrs Davidson and Elspie were discussing the very same subject in an upper room of Prairie Cottage. We refrain from giving the details, however, as it would be unpardonable to reveal such matters. We will merely state that the conclusions to which the ladies came were very similar to those arrived at by the gentlemen.

But delay was still destined to be an element in the cup of this unfortunate couple.

When the harvest had been gathered in that year, there came what old McKay called a visitation which, with its consequences, recalls irresistibly the words of our great Scottish poet—“the best-laid schemes o’ mice and men gang aft a-gley.” This visitation was a plague of mice. The whole colony was infested with them. Like the grasshoppers, the mice devoured everything. The grain after being stacked was almost totally destroyed by them. The straw, the very stubble itself, was cut to atoms. The fields, the woods, the plains, seemed literally alive with this new visitor, and the result would have been that most of the settlers would again have been driven to spend another dreary winter in trapping and hunting with the Indians at Pembina, if it had not been for the fortunate circumstance that the buffalo runners had been unusually successful that year. They returned from the plains rejoicing,—their carts heavily laden with buffalo-robes and innumerable bags of pemmican.

Chapter Thirty One.

Retribution

Owing to the success of the buffalo runners, the winter passed away in comparative comfort. But, as we have said, some of the settlers who had been ruined by the failure of the fisheries and the depredations of the mice, and who did not share much in the profits of the autumn hunt, were obliged once again to seek their old port of refuge at Pembina.

Among these was the Swiss family Morel. André went, because he did not wish to remain comparatively idle in the colony during the long months of winter. Elise went for the purpose of keeping house—perhaps we should say keeping hut—for André. Fred Jenkins went because he wanted to learn more about Indian ways and customs, as well as to perfect himself in the art of hunting the buffalo—that was all!

There were some who did not believe what the bold seaman said. Elise Morel was one of these—perhaps the most unbelieving amongst them.

Indeed, she laughed quite hilariously when his motive was reported to her by Billie Sinclair the day before they started.

“Why do you laugh so?” inquired Little Bill, who was always more or less in a state of surprise when he got upon this subject with Elise.

“It is not easy to say, Billie,” answered the girl, with another pleasant little laugh, “but it is so funny that a sailor should take such a fancy to come out here, so far away from his native element, and find so much interest in snow-shoe walking and Indian customs.”

“Yes, isn’t it?” responded the boy, “and him such a fine big man, too, who has gone through so much, and seen so many lands, and been in such a lot o’ fights with pirates, and all that kind of thing. I can’t understand him at all. I wish I understood him better, for I like him very much. Don’t you?”

Elise was so much taken up with what she was doing at the time that she could not answer the question, and Billie was in such a wandering state of mind that he neglected to press it!

Daniel Davidson also went to Pembina that winter, because he could not bear to press the subject of his marriage just after the destruction of his and old McKay’s crops by mice—a disaster which told rather heavily on both families. When winter had passed away, he, along with many others, returned to the colony and made preparations for going out to the plains for the spring hunt with the buffalo runners.

“You will better not be goin’ wi’ them,” said Duncan McKay senior to his younger son, some days before the hunters had arranged to set out. “It will not be safe after your trial, for the half-breeds are mad at you, Tuncan.”

If the old man had been wise enough to have left his son alone, Duncan junior would probably have remained where he was; but the mere offer of advice roused in him the spirit of opposition, and that reference to the half-breeds decided him.

“If all the half-breeds in Rud River wass to go as mad as buffalo-bulls wi’ their tails cut off, I would go,” said Duncan junior, with quiet decision of tone and manner, as he lighted his pipe.

“Ay, it iss that same you would do if you wass to be hanged to-morrow for doin’ it, Tuncan,” returned the old man testily, as he fired cloudlets in rapid succession from his compressed lips.

Duncan junior was equally firm in replying to his sister’s remonstrances later in the day.

“You know, dear Duncan,” she said, “that, although I believe you to be quite innocent, most of the half-breeds are of the opposite opinion, and some of them are very revengeful, especially when they think they have been deceived or unjustly treated.”

“I do not fear the half-breeds,” replied the youth gruffly.

“Of course you don’t, Duncan, but you know that, though most of them are good, trusty men, some are mean fellows, who would not hesitate to shoot you in the smoke and confusion of the hunt. Do give up the idea, for my sake, dear.”

“I would do much for your sake, Elspie, but not this, for it iss showin’ the white feather I am, they will be sayin’, and, as father often says, that iss what must never be true of a McKay.”

Accordingly, Duncan junior mounted his horse, and accompanied Dan, Peter, Fergus, Okématan, Morel, Jenkins, and others to the plains, where they found that the main body of the hunters, under Antoine Dechamp, had arrived just before them. Kateegoose was also there, and La Certe, who once more tried his fortune at the chase under all the advantages of a new cart and horse, a new gun, and a new outfit—all received on credit—to be paid for by the proceeds of the chase, as the creditors, hoping against hope, tried to believe; never to be paid for at all, as the easy-going La Certe more than half suspected—though he was far too honest a man to admit that even to himself.

Of course, Slowfoot was with him—amiable, meek, and silent as ever. And so was Baby La Certe, a five-year-old by that time, and obviously a girl with a stronger penchant than ever for tobacco!