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Chapter Seven.
Some of the Shadows of a Buffalo-Hunter’s Life

In order to give the women time to prepare some pemmican for them, Victor Ravenshaw and his companions agreed to spend another day with the hunters, and again, as a matter of course, followed them to the chase.

The same wild pursuit, accompanied by accidents, serious and serio-comic, took place, and success again attended the hunt, but the day did not end so happily, owing to an event which filled the camp with great anxiety. It happened at the close of the day.

The men were dropping into camp by twos and threes, wearied with hard work, more or less covered with dust and blood, and laden with buffalo tongues. Carts, also, were constantly coming in, filled with meat. The women were busy cutting up and drying the meat in the sun, or over a slow fire, melting down fat, pounding the dried meat with stones, and manufacturing bags out of the raw hides. Chatting and merry laughter resounded on all sides, for pemmican and bales of dried meat meant money, and they were coining it fast.

Towards sunset a band of several hunters appeared on the ridge in front of the camp, and came careering gaily towards it. Baptiste Warder, the mighty captain, led. Victor, Ian, Rollin, Winklemann, Flett, Mowat, and others followed. They dashed into camp like a whirlwind, and sprang from their steeds, evidently well pleased with the success of the day.

“Had splendid sport,” said Victor, with glittering eyes, to one of the subordinate captains, who addressed him. “I killed ten animals myself, and Ian Macdonald missed fifteen; Winklemann dropped six, besides dropping himself—”

“Vat is dat you zay?” demanded the big German, who was divesting himself of some of the accoutrements of the chase.

“I say that you tumbled over six buffaloes and then tumbled over yourself,” said Victor, laughing.

“Zat is not troo. It vas mine horse vat tombled. Of course I could not go on riding upon noting after mine horse vas down.”

At supper Herr Winklemann was quieter than usual, and rather cross. His propensity to tumble seemed to be a sore subject with him, both as to body and mind. He made more than one cutting remark to Victor during the meal. After supper pipes were of course lighted, and conversation flowed freely. The only two who did not smoke were Ian Macdonald and, strange to say, Winklemann. That worthy German was a brilliant exception to his countrymen in the matter of tobacco. Victor, under the influence of example, was attempting in a quiet way to acquire the art, but with little success. He took to the pipe awkwardly.

“Vat vor you smok?” asked Winklemann, in a tone of contempt to Victor. “It is clear zat you do not loike it.”

“How d’you know that I don’t like it?” asked Victor, with a blush and a laugh.

“Becowse your face do show it. Ve does not make faces at vat ve loikes.”

“That may be,” retorted Victor, somewhat sharply. “Nevertheless, I have earned a hunter’s right to enjoy my pipe as well as the rest of you.”

“Bon, bon, c’est vrai—true,” cried Rollin, letting a huge cloud escape from his lips.

“Bah! doos killing buffalo give you right to do voolishness? Do not try for deceive yourself. You loike it not, bot you tink it makes you look loike a man. Zat is vat you tink. Nevair vas you more mistouken. I have seen von leetle poy put on a pair of big boots and tink he look very grand, very loike him fadder; bot de boots only makes him look smaller dan before, an’ more foolish. So it is vid de pipe in de mout of de beardless poy.”

Having thrown this apple of discord into the midst of the party, Winklemann shut his mouth firmly, as if waiting for a belligerent reply. As for Victor, he flushed again, partly from indignation at this attack on his liberty to do as he pleased, and partly from shame at having the real motive of his heart so ruthlessly exposed. Victor was too honest and manly to deny the fact that he had not yet acquired a liking for tobacco, and admitted to himself that, in very truth, his object in smoking was to appear, as he imagined, more like a man, forgetful or ignorant of the fact that men, (even smokers), regard beardless consumers of tobacco as poor imitative monkeys. He soon came to see the habit in its true light, and gave it up, luckily, before he became its slave. He would have been more than mortal, however, had he given in at once. Continuing, therefore, to puff with obstinate vigour, he returned to the charge.

“Smoking is no worse than drinking, Winklemann, and you know that you’re fond of beer.”

“Bon!” said Rollin, nodding approval.

“Vat then?” cried the German, who never declined a challenge of any kind, and who was fond of wordy war; “doos my sin joostify yours? Bot you is wrong. If smoking be not worse dan trinking, it is less excusable, for to trink is natural. I may apuse mine power an’ trink vat is pad for me, but den I may likewise trink vat is coot for me. Vit smoking, no; you cannot smok vat is coot; it is all pad togeder. Von chile is porn; vell, it do trink at vonce, vidout learning. Bot did any von ever hear of a chile vat cry for a pipe ven it was porn?”

The laugh with which this question was greeted was suddenly arrested by the sound of a galloping steed. Every one sprang up and instinctively seized a weapon, for the clatter of hoofs had that unmistakable character which indicates desperate urgency. It was low and dull at first, but became suddenly and sharply distinct as a rider rose over the ridge to the left and bore madly down on the camp, lashing his horse with furious persistency.

“It’s young Vallé,” exclaimed Captain Baptiste, hastening to meet him.

Vallé, who was a mere youth, had gone out with his father, Louison Vallé, and the rest of the hunters in the morning. With glaring eyes, and scarce able to speak, he now reined in his trembling steed, and told the terrible news that his father had been killed by Sioux Indians. A party of half-breeds instantly mounted and dashed away over the plains, led by the poor boy on a fresh horse. On the way he told the tale more fully.

We have already said that when skinning the buffalo late in the evening, or at a distance from camp, the hunters ran considerable risk from savages, and were more or less wary in consequence. It was drawing towards sunset when Louison Vallé perceived that night would descend before he could secure the whole of the animals he had shot, and made up his mind to the sacrifice. While busily engaged on a buffalo, he sent his son, on his own horse, to a neighbouring eminence, to watch and guard against surprise. Even while the father was giving directions to the son, a party of Sioux, armed with bows and arrows, were creeping towards him, snake-like, through the long grass. These suddenly rushed upon him, and he had barely time to shout to his son, “Make for the camp!” when he fell, pierced by a shower of arrows. Of course, the savages made off at once, well knowing that pursuit was certain. The murderers were twelve in number. They made for the bush country. Meanwhile, the avengers reached the murdered man. The body was on its back, just as it had fallen. Death must have relieved the unfortunate hunter before the scalp had been torn from his skull.

It was the first time that Victor Ravenshaw had looked upon a slain man. Many a time and oft had he read, with a thrill of interest, glowing descriptions of fights in which isolated acts of courage, or heroism, or magnanimity on the battle-field, coupled with but slight reference to the killed and wounded, had blinded his perceptions as to the true nature of the game of war. Now his eyes beheld the contorted form of one with whose manly aspect he had been familiar in the settlement, scarcely recognisable in its ghastliness, with blue lips, protruding eyeballs, and a horrid mass of coagulated blood where the once curling hair had been. Victor’s ears were still ringing with the deadly shriek that had burst from Vallé’s wife when she heard the dreadful news—just as he and his party galloped out of the camp. He knew also that the dead hunter left several young children to be pinched by dire poverty in future years for want of their natural bread-winner. These and many similar thoughts crowded on his throbbing brain as he gazed at the new and terrible sight, and his eyes began for the first time to open to truths which ever after influenced his opinions while reading of the so-called triumphs of war.

“Vengeance!” was now the cry, as the hunters left the place in hot pursuit.

They knew that the savages could not be far off, and that they were unmounted, but they also knew that if they succeeded in gaining the larger portions of thick bush with which some parts of that region were covered it would be impossible to follow them up. Moreover, it was growing dark, and there was no time to lose.

In a few minutes Ian and Victor were left alone with two men who had agreed to look after the body of the murdered man.

Sadly and silently they assisted in laying the corpse in a cavity of the rocks, and covering it over with large stones to protect it from wolves, and then prepared to leave the spot.

“Will they succeed, think you, in overtaking the murderers?” asked Victor of one of the men.

“Succeed? Ay, no fear of that!” replied the hunter, with a vindictive scowl. “It’s not the first time some of them have been out after the Sioux.”

“We will ride back to camp, Vic,” said Ian, rousing himself from a reverie; “it is no part of our duty to assist in executing vengeance. If the camp were assailed we should indeed be bound to help defend it, but there are more than enough men out to hunt down these murderers. If a cart is not already on its way for the corpse we will send one. Come.”

That night the avengers returned; they had overtaken and shot down eight of the Sioux,—the remaining four gained the bushes and escaped. None of themselves were hurt, but one had a narrow escape, an arrow having passed between his shirt and skin.

Next day Victor and his friends prepared to leave the hunters and resume the chase of Petawanaquat, but they were arrested by one of those terrific thunderstorms which occasionally visit the prairies. They were already mounted and on the point of taking leave, when the air darkened suddenly, the sky became overcast, lightning began to flash in vivid gleams, and a crash of thunder seemed to rend the earth and heavens.

Presently Herr Winklemann, who meant to ride with the parting guests a short way, and was also mounted, uttered a shout, and immediately horse and man rolled upon the plain. The man rose slowly, but the horse lay still—killed by lightning! By the same flash, apparently, another horse was struck dead.

“Vell, you has tomble very often vid me,” said the German, contemplating the fallen steed, “bot you vill tomble again no mor.”

“Oui, he is mort,” sighed Rollin, looking down.

After this first burst there was a considerable lull, but appearances were so gloomy that departure was delayed.

Soon after, the storm burst with a degree of violence that the oldest hunter said he had never before witnessed. Lightning, wind, rain, thunder, seemed to have selected the spot for a battle-ground. Although the camp was pitched on comparatively high and rocky ground, the deluge was so great that in the course of ten minutes nearly everything was afloat.¹ The camp was literally swimming, and some of the smaller children were with difficulty saved from drowning. So furious was the wind that the tents were either thrown down or blown to ribbons. During the storm three of the Indian tents, or lodges, were struck by lightning. In one of these a Canadian was killed; in another all the inmates—an Indian, his wife, two children, and two dogs—were killed, and a gun beside them was melted in several parts as though it had been lead.

Then there fell a shower of hail, the stones of which were solid angular pieces of ice larger than a hen’s egg, by which some of the people were severely wounded before they found shelter under the carts and overturned tents.

It was a terrible display of the power of God, and yet, strange to say, so far is such a scene incapable of influencing man’s fallen nature for good, that occasions such as these, when the camp is in disorder, are often taken advantage of by Indians to approach and steal the horses.

Being well aware of this propensity of the red man, Baptiste Warder and his captains kept a sharp look-out. It was well they did so, for, after the storm, a formidable band of Sioux was discovered within a short distance of the camp.

Their wily chief was, however, equal to the occasion. He assumed the rôle of an injured man. He had come to remonstrate with the half-breeds, and charge them with cruelty.

“My warriors,” said he, “killed only one of your people, and for that one you murdered eight of my braves.”

The half-breeds spoke the chief fairly, however, and entertained him and his followers hospitably, so that the affair was amicably settled, and they went away in peace. But dark eyes had met in deadly hatred during the conference.

The party of Indians who had joined the hunters with Victor and his comrades were Saulteaux, (Pronounced Sotoes), and the bitter enemies of the Sioux. Some time after the Sioux had taken their departure, a band of about fifty of these Saulteaux left the camp stealthily, and pursued a detached party of their foes for about ten miles. They overtook them at a small stream. The unsuspecting Sioux prepared to swim over to them, mistaking them at first for friends, but a volley which killed three undeceived them. The fire was instantly returned and a smoke raised to alarm the country. The Saulteaux retreated, while the Sioux, gathering force, pursued, and it is probable that the whole of the assailants would have been scalped if night had not favoured them. In this raid seven Sioux were killed and three wounded. Of the Saulteaux three were killed and four wounded.

Again the camp was visited by enraged and armed Sioux to the number of 300, who challenged the Saulteaux to come forth man to man, and fight it out. The latter declined, and the half-breeds, many of whom were related by marriage to the Saulteaux, managed to patch up a hollow peace between them.

At last Victor, Ian, and Rollin got away, glad to have done both with buffalo and savages. They now possessed three good horses, a supply of fresh provisions, and plenty of ammunition. Thus provided they galloped off with light hearts over the boundless plains, and soon left the camp of the hunters far behind them.

Chapter Eight.
The Chase Continued, and Brought to a Fiery Termination

With the unerring certainty of blood-hounds, the three friends now settled down to the pursuit of Petawanaquat. From the Saulteaux Indians they had received an exact description of the spot where the fugitive had parted from them; they had, therefore, little difficulty in finding it. Still less difficulty had they in following up the trail, for the grass was by that time very long, and a horse leaves a track in such grass which, if not very obvious to unaccustomed eyes, is as plain as a highway to the vision of a backwoods hunter or a redskin.

Over the prairie waves they sped, with growing excitement as their hopes of success increased; now thundering down into the hollows, anon mounting the gentle slopes at full swing, or rounding the clumps of trees that here and there dotted the prairie like islets in an interminable sea of green; and ever, as they rounded an islet or topped a prairie wave, they strained their eyes in earnest expectation of seeing the objects of their pursuit on the horizon, but for several days they raced, and gazed, and hoped in vain. Still they did not lose confidence, but pressed persistently on.

“Our horses are fresh and good,” said Victor as they reined in to a gentle trot on the brow of a knoll to rest for a few minutes, “and Petawanaquat’s horse, whether good or bad, is double-weighted—although, to be sure, Tony is not heavy.”

“Besides,” said Ian, “the redskin does not dream now of pursuit; so that, pressing on as we do, we must overtake him ere long.”

“Voilà, de buffalo!” said Rollin, pointing to a group of these huge creatures, in the midst of which two bulls were waging furious war, while the cows stood by and looked on. “Shall ve go an’ chase dem?”

“No, Rollin; we have more important game to chase,” said Victor, whose conscience, now that he was free from the exciting influences of the camp, had twinged him more than once for his delay—even although it was partly justifiable—while the image of poor Tony, with outstretched, appealing hands on a flying horse behind a savage, was ever before him. “Come on come on!”

He switched his horse, and went skimming down the slope, followed by his comrades.

Soon they came to a place where the ground was more broken and rocky.

“Voilà! a bar! a bar!” shouted the excitable half-breed; “com, kill him!”

They looked, and there, sure enough, was an object which Rollin declared was a large grizzly bear. It was a long way off, however, and the ground between them seemed very broken and difficult to traverse on horseback. Ian Macdonald thought of the bear’s claws, and a collar, and Elsie, and tightened his reins. Then he thought of the risk of breaking a horse’s leg if the bear should lead them a long chase over such ground, and of the certain loss of time, and of Petawanaquat pushing on ahead. It was a tempting opportunity, but his power of self-denial triumphed.

“No, Rollin, we have no time to hunt.”

“Behold!” exclaimed Rollin again; “more buffalo!”

They had swept past the stony ground and rounded a clump of trees, behind which a small herd of animals stood for a few seconds, staring at them in mute amazement. These snorted, set up their tails, and tore wildly away to the right. This was too much. With a gleeful yell, Rollin turned to pursue, but Victor called to him angrily to let the buffalo be. The half-breed turned back with a sigh.

“Ah, vell! ve must forbear.”

“I say, Vic,” remarked Ian, with a significant smile, “why won’t you go after the buffalo?”

Victor looked at his friend in surprise.

“Surely,” he said, “it is more important as well as more interesting to rescue one’s brother than to chase wild animals!”

“True, but how does that sentiment accord with your wish that you might spend eternity in hunting buffalo?”

“Oh, you know,” returned Victor, with a laugh, “when I said that I wasn’t thinking of—of—”

He switched his horse into a wilder gallop, and said no more. He had said quite enough. He was not the only youth in North America and elsewhere who has uttered a good deal of nonsense without “thinking.” But then that was long ago. Youths are wiser now!

On the evening of that day, when the sun went down, and when it became too dark to follow the trail, and, therefore, unsafe to travel for fear of stumbling into badger-holes, the three friends pulled up beside a clump of wood on the margin of a little stream, and prepared their encampment.

Little did they imagine, while busy with the fire and kettle, how nearly they had gained their end, yet how disastrously they had missed it. Well for man, sometimes, that he is ignorant of what takes place around him. Had the three pursuers known who was encamped in a clump of trees not half a mile beyond them, they would not have feasted that night so heartily, nor would they have gone to sleep with such calm placidity.

In the clump of trees referred to, Petawanaquat himself sat smoking over the dying embers of the fire that had cooked his recently devoured supper, and Tony, full to repletion, lay on his back gazing at him in quiet satisfaction, mingled slightly with wonder; for Tony was a philosopher in a small way, and familiarity with his father’s pipe had failed to set at rest a question which perplexed his mind, namely, why men should draw smoke into their mouths merely to puff it out again!

When the pipe and the camp-fire had burnt low, Tony observed, with much interest, that the Indian’s eyes became suddenly fixed, that his nostrils dilated, his lips ceased to move, the cloud that had just escaped from them curled round the superincumbent nose and disappeared without being followed by another cloud, and the entire man became rigid like a brown statue. At that point Tony ceased to think, because tired nature asserted her claims, and he fell sound asleep.

The practised ear of the Indian had detected the sound of horses’ feet on the prairie. To any ordinary man no sound at all would have been perceptible save the sighing of the night wind. Petawanaquat, however, not only heard the tramp, but could distinguish it from that of buffalo. He rose softly, ascertained that Tony was asleep, turned aside the bushes, and melted into darkness among the trees. Presently he emerged on the plain at the other side of the clump, and there stood still. Patience is one of the red man’s characteristics. He did not move hand or foot for half an hour, during which time, despite the distance of the neighbouring clump, he could easily make out the sound of an axe chopping wood, and even heard human voices in conversation. Then a gleam of light flickered among the trees, and the kindling camp-fire of our three friends became visible.

The Indian now felt comparatively safe. He knew that, whoever the new arrivals might be, they were unsuspicious of his presence in the vicinity, and had encamped for the night. He also knew that when men are busy with supper they are not very watchful, especially when danger is not expected. He, therefore, gave them another quarter of an hour to prepare supper, and then moved stealthily over the plain towards them.

On gaining the shelter of the trees, Petawanaquat advanced with cat-like caution, until he could clearly see the travellers. He recognised them instantly, and a dark frown settled on his features. His first thought was to steal their horses, and thus leave them incapable of pursuing further, but Ian Macdonald was too much of a backwoodsman to give a foe the opportunity to do this. The horses were tethered close beside the fire. Then the Indian thought of shooting them, but his gun being a single-barrel, such as was sold to the Indians by the fur-traders, could only dispose of one horse at a time, thus leaving the other two to his incensed enemies, who would probably capture him before he could reload or regain his own camp. With a feeling of baffled rage he suddenly thought of murder. He could easily kill Ian Macdonald, could probably reload before Rollin should overtake him, and as for Victor, he was nothing! Quick as thought the Indian raised his gun, and took a long steady aim at Ian’s forehead.

The contemplative schoolmaster was looking at the fire, thinking of Elsie at the time. He smiled as he thought of her. Perhaps it was the smile that checked the savage perhaps it was the words, “Thou shalt not kill,” which had been sounded in his ears more than once during the past winter by the missionary. At all events, the fatal trigger was not drawn. Ian’s contemplations were not disturbed, the gun was lowered, and the savage melted once more into the deep shade of the thicket.

Returning to his own camp in the same cat-like manner as before, Petawanaquat quietly but quickly packed his provisions, etcetera, on his horse. When all was ready he tried to awaken Tony, but Tony slept the sleep of infancy and comparative innocence. The Indian pushed him, kicked him, even lifted him up and shook him, before he awoke. Then, expressing astonishment at having to resume the journey at so early an hour, the child submitted silently to orders.

In a few minutes the Indian led his horse down to the rivulet close at hand, crossed it with Tony, half asleep, clinging to his back, ascended the opposite bank, and gained the level plain. Here he mounted, with Tony in front to guard against the risk of his falling off in a state of slumber, and galloped away.

Fortunately for him, the moon had risen, for red men are not a whit better than white at seeing in the dark. Indeed, we question the proverbial capacity of cats in that way. True, the orb of night was clouded, and only in her first quarter, but she gave light enough to enable the horseman to avoid dangers and proceed at full speed. Thus, while the pursuers snored, the pursued went scouring over the prairies, farther and farther towards the fair west.

Michel Rollin, being a lively, restless character, used generally to be up before his comrades in the mornings, and gratified an inquisitive propensity by poking about. In his pokings he discovered the trail of the midnight visitor, and thereupon set up a howl of surprise that effectually roused Ian and Victor. These, guns in hand, rushed, as they fancied, to the rescue.

“What a noisy goose you are!” said Victor, on learning the cause of the cry.

“There is reason for haste, however,” said Ian, rising from a close inspection of the trail. “Some one has been here in the night watching us. Why he didn’t join us if a friend, or kill us if an enemy, puzzles me. If there were horse-tracks about I should say it must have been Petawanaquat himself. Come, we must mount and away without breakfast.”

They went off accordingly, and soon traced the Indian’s original track to the place where he had encamped. Petawanaquat had taken the precaution to pour water on his fire, so as to cool the ashes, and thus lead to the supposition that he had been gone a considerable time, but Ian was not to be so easily deceived. The moment he had examined the extinct fire, and made up his mind, he leaped up and followed the trail to the spot where the Indian had mounted.

“Now then, mount, boys!” he cried, vaulting into the saddle, “no time to lose. The redskin seems to have a good horse, and knows we are at his heels. It will be a straight end-on race now. Hup! get along!”

Their course at first lay over a level part of the plain, which rendered full speed possible; then they came to a part where the thick grass grew rank and high, rendering the work severe. As the sun rose high, they came to a small pond, or pool.

“The rascal has halted here, I see!” cried Ian, pulling up, leaping off, and running to the water, which he lifted to his mouth in both hands, while his panting horse stooped and drank. “It was very likely more for Tony’s sake than for his own. But if he could stop, so can we for a few minutes.”

“It vill make de horses go more better,” said Rollin, unstrapping the pemmican bag.

“That’s right,” cried Victor, “give us a junk—a big one—so—thanks, we can eat it as we go.”

Up and away they went again, urging their horses now to do their utmost, for they began to hope that the day of success had surely arrived.

Still far ahead of his pursuers, the Indian rode alone without check or halt, to the alarm of Tony, who felt that something unusual had occurred to make his self-appointed father look so fierce.

“What de matter?” he ventured to ask. “Nobody chase us.”

“Let Tonyquat shut his mouth,” was the brief reply. And Tony obeyed. He was learning fast!

Suddenly the air on the horizon ahead became clouded. The eyes of the savage dilated with an expression that almost amounted to alarm. Could it be fire? It was—the prairie on fire! As the wind blew towards him, the consuming flames and smoke approached him at greater speed than he approached them. They must soon meet. Behind were the pursuers; in front the flames.

There was but one course open. As the fire drew near the Indian stopped, dismounted, and tore up and beat down a portion of the grass around him. Then he struck a light with flint and steel and set fire to the grass to leeward of the cleared space. It burned slowly at first, and he looked anxiously back as the roar of the fiery storm swelled upon his ear. Tony looked on in mute alarm and surprise. The horse raised its head wildly and became restive, but the Indian, having now lighted the long grass thoroughly, restrained it. Presently he sprang on its back and drew Tony up beside him. Flames and smoke were now on both sides of him. When the grass was consumed to leeward he rode on to the blackened space—not a moment too soon, however. It was barely large enough to serve as a spot of refuge when the storm rolled down and almost suffocated horse and riders with smoke. Then the fire at that spot went out for want of fuel, and thus the way was opened to the coal-black plain over which it had swept. Away flew the Indian then, diverging sharply to the right, so as to skirt the fire, (now on its windward side), and riding frequently into the very fringe of flame, so that his footprints might be burnt up.

When, some hours later, the pursuers met the fire, they went through the same performance in exactly the same manner, excepting that Victor and Rollin acted with much greater excitement than the savage. But when they had escaped the flames, and rode out upon the burnt prairie to continue the chase, every trace of those of whom they were in pursuit had completely vanished away.