The Buffalo Runners: A Tale of the Red River Plains

“Cut their bonds,” said the Chief Trader, as the prisoners approached.

No touch of the surgeon’s knife ever effected a cure more speedily.

“I congratulate you, young sir,” said the Trader, grasping Dan’s hand: “you are now free, for I understand that your loss of liberty had nothing to do with crime, and the rival companies are no longer opponents; they are friends. Indeed, we have been married, so to speak, and are now one. I am on my way to Red River with the good news.”

“When do you start?” asked Dan, abruptly.

“Well, if you mean from this spot,” answered the Trader, somewhat surprised as well as amused at the eagerness of the question, “I start at once. Indeed, I would not have landed here had I not seen your party. You appear to be anxious. Why do you ask?”

“Because it is of the utmost importance to me that I should be in Red River on a certain date, and I fear that that is all but impossible now.”

Dan then explained, as briefly as possible, his circumstances. Fortunately, the Trader was a sympathetic man. He ordered his crews to embark at once and bade the two captives take a brief, if not an affectionate, farewell of their late captors.

“I cannot promise you to push on,” he said, “at a rate which will satisfy you—or even accomplish the end you have in view—but I will do the best I can, without overworking my men. I fear, however, that you will have to make up your mind to a delayed wedding!”

“If you will only do your best for a day or two,” said Dan, “until we reach the mouth of this river, that will do, for there my own hunting canoe was left; and, once in that, La Certe and I can go ahead and tell them you are coming.”

“Nay, that would be requiting me ill—returning evil for good—to take the wind out of my sails and make my news stale,” returned the Trader, with a good-natured laugh.

“True, I did not think of that,” said Dan. “Then we will say not a word about it until you arrive.”

“Yes, we will be dumb,” added La Certe. “Even Slowfoot shall fail to drag it out of me!”

And thus it was arranged. The (late) Nor’-westers continued their voyage to Canada, and the Hudson’s Bay men resumed their descent of the Winnipeg River.

Arrived at the great lake, the anxious pair did not wait even to rest, but at once embarked in their little hunting canoe.

“I’m sorry you are such an unpresentable bridegroom,” said the Trader, when they were about to separate. He referred to the cuts and bruises with which poor Dan’s countenance was temporarily disfigured.

“Never mind,” returned our hero, with a laugh, “wait till you see the bride; she will more than make up for the shortcomings of the groom. Adieu!—au revoir!” They pushed off, and now began a race against time, which, in the matters at least of perseverance, persistency, hard labour, and determination, beat all the records of bicyclists and horsemen from the beginning of time. Cyclists have frequent down-hills to help and rest them; Dan and his friend had no such aids. It was all either dead level or upstream. Dick Turpin and the rider to Ghent, (we forget his name), only killed their horses. Dan and François nearly killed themselves—not only with hard work and no rest, but with profound anxiety, for the wedding hour was rapidly approaching and they were still far from home!

While these events were transpiring in the wilderness, things were going smoothly enough in the Colony.

“I will be thinkin’,” said old Duncan McKay, one fine evening as he sat in his invalid chair, beside Duncan junior, who was woefully reduced and careworn, despite the attentions of the sympathetic Jessie Davidson, who was seated near him on a rustic seat beside Elspie—

“I will be thinkin’ that Tan an’ La Certe are stoppin’ longer away than iss altogither seemly. Tan should have been here two or three days before the weddin’.”

“He will likely be time enough for his own weddin’—whatever,” remarked Duncan junior. “Don’t you think so, Miss Jessie?”

“I think it likely,” answered the girl with a smile.

“He is sure to be in time,” said Elspie, with emphasis.

“We niver can be sure of anything in this world, my tear,” remarked old Duncan, becoming oracular in tone. “How do you know he iss so sure?”

“Because Dan never breaks his word,” returned Elspie, with an air of decision that would have gratified Dan immensely had he been there to see it.

“Fery true, my tear,” rejoined the Highlander, “but there are many other things that interfere with one’s word besides the will. He might tie, you know, or be trowned, or his gun might burst and render him helpless for life, if it did not kill him altogither. It iss an uncertain world at the best—whatever.”

Archie Sinclair, who joined them—with his brother, Little Bill, by his side, not on his back—was of the same opinion as Elspie, but Billie shook his head, looked anxious, and said nothing—for he felt that his friend was running things much too close.

At a later hour that same evening, the other members of the two families—who dropped in to make inquiries—began to express anxiety, and Okématan, who called just to see how things were getting on, shook his head and looked owlish. Old Peg said nothing, but she evidently thought much, to judge from the deepening wrinkles on her forehead.

As for Fred Jenkins, he was too much taken up with Elise Morel to think much about anything, but even he at last grew anxious, and when the wedding morning finally dawned, and no Dan made his appearance, something like consternation filled the hearts of all within the walls of Ben Nevis Hall and Prairie Cottage. Elspie appeared to feel less than the others, but the truth was that she only controlled herself better.

“He only wants to take us by surprise,” she said, and, under the strength of that opinion, she robed herself for the wedding. Only her gravity and the pallor of her cheeks told of uneasiness in her mind.

“Muster Sutherland said he would come soon after breakfast,” observed old Duncan, uneasily. “He should hev been here now,—for we need his advice sorely.”

“Here he iss,” exclaimed Fergus, starting up and hurrying forward to welcome the good old Elder.

Mr Sutherland’s advice was decided, and promptly given. Both weddings should be deferred and all the young men must turn out in an organised search without a moment’s delay!

It was amazing to find that every one had been of exactly the same opinion for some time past, but no one had dared to suggest a course of action which implied a belief that Dan might be in imminent danger, if not worse.

Now that the ice had been broken, however, all the youth of the neighbourhood volunteered for service, and a plan of search was being hastily formed under the direction of the Elder, when two men in a canoe were seen to paddle very slowly to the landing-place at the foot of the garden. After hauling the end of their canoe on shore, they walked, or rather staggered, up towards the house.

One of them tripped and fell, and seemed from his motions as if he thought it was not worth while to rise again. The other, paying no attention to his companion, came on.

“Pless my soul!” exclaimed old McKay, “it iss Tan—or his ghost—whatever!”

And so it was! Dirty, bruised, scratched, battered, and soaking wet, Daniel Davidson appeared to claim his beautiful bride. And he did not come in vain, for, regardless of propriety and everything else, Elspie ran forward with a little shriek and flung herself into his arms.

“I have kept my promise, Elspie.”

“I knew you would, Dan! I said you would.”

“Tan, you rascal! come here.”

The youth obeyed, languidly, for it was evident that he was thoroughly exhausted.

“My poy,” said the Highlander, touched by Dan’s appearance, “you hev been in the watter!”

“Not exactly, father, but last night’s thunderstorm caught us, and we had no time to seek shelter.”

“An’ it iss fightin’ you hev been?”

“With water and rocks only,” said Dan.

“Well, well, go into the house now, and change your clo’es. Dry yourself, an’ get somethin’ to eat, for you are used up altogither.”

Elspie took his hand, and led him away. Meanwhile La Certe, having gathered himself up and staggered to the front, was seized upon and questioned unmercifully. Then he also was taken into the house and fed; after which both men were made to lie down and rest.

Having slept for six hours Dan awakened, and rose up to be married! Fred Jenkins and Elise were—as the jovial tar expressed it—turned off at the same time.

It was customary in Rupert’s Land at that time, as it is customary in many remote lands, no doubt, at the present day, to celebrate every wedding with a feast and a dance. Feasts are very much alike in substance, if not in detail, everywhere. We refrain from describing that which took place in Ben Nevis Hall at that time, further than to say that it was superb. The dancing was simple: it consisted chiefly of the Highland Fling danced by the performer according to taste or imagination.

But that it was eminently satisfactory to all concerned was clearly evinced by the appearance of the whole party—the elegant ease with which Fergus McKay did it; the tremendous energy with which Jacques Bourassin tried it; the persistent vigour with which André Morel studied it; the facility with which Elise acquired it—under Elspie’s tuition; the untiring perseverance with which Archie and Little Bill did something like it—for the latter had quite recovered, and was fit to hold his own, almost, with any one; the charming confusion of mind with which Fred Jenkins intermingled the sailor’s hornpipe with it; the inimitable languor with which La Certe condescended to go through it; the new-born energy with which Slowfoot footed it; the side-splitting shrieks with which Old Peg regarded it; the uproarious guffaws with which the delighted old Duncan hailed it; the sad smile with which that weak and worn invalid Duncan junior beheld it; and, last, but not least, the earnest mental power and conspicuous physical ability with which Dan Davidson attempted something which Charity personified might have supposed to bear a distant resemblance to it.