Read Ebook: The Red Man's Revenge: A Tale of The Red River Flood by Ballantyne R M Robert Michael

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Ebook has 1385 lines and 74828 words, and 28 pages

"The Little Wolf," replied the Indian, referring to himself, for such was the interpretation of his name, "wishes to see how his white brothers shoot."

"Let the Little Wolf put his tail between his legs and be gone," cried the angry old man. "He is not wanted here. Come, be off!"

The chief looked straight in the eyes of the trader with a dark scowl, then, turning slowly on his heel, stalked solemnly away.

There was an irrepressible laugh at this episode as the group of marksmen returned to their former position. Mr Ravenshaw, however, soon left them and returned home. Here he found Miss Trim in a state of considerable agitation; she had just encountered the redskin! Miss Trim was a poor relation of Mrs Ravenshaw. She had been invited by her brother-in-law to leave England and come to Red River to act as governess to Tony and assistant-companion in the family. She had arrived that autumn in company with a piano, on which she was expected to exercise Elsie and Cora. Petawanaquat, being the first "really wild and painted savage" she had seen, made a deep impression on her.

"Tut, tut, Miss Trim; how you do gallop! Was it a beast?" asked the old trader.

"A beast? No; a man--a savage."

"Oh! I understand; it was that scoundrel Petawanaquat," said Sam Ravenshaw, with a laugh; "he's Little Wolf by name, and a big thief by practice, no doubt. You needn't fear him, however, he's not so dangerous as he looks, and I gave him a rebuff just now that will make him shy of Willow Creek.--Ha, Tony, you rascal! Come here, sir."

Tony came at once, with such a gleeful visage that his father's intended chastisement for the recent practical joke ended in a parental caress.

Seeing that Lambert was bent on keeping Elsie as much as possible to himself, Ian devoted himself to Cora, but Cora was cross. Feeling it up-hill work, he soon rose to say good-bye, and left Willow Creek before the others.

"Don't look so crestfallen, man," said old Mr Ravenshaw heartily, as he shook hands; "it's nobler work to teach the young idea how to shoot than to be able to hit a bull's-eye."

"True, but he who cannot hit a bull's-eye," returned Ian, with a smile, "can scarcely be expected to touch a maiden's--I mean a grizzly's heart."

A shout of laughter from Lambert greeted him as he left the house. His way home lay over the frozen bed of the river. Victor accompanied him part of the way.

"That was a strange slip for an unromantic fellow like you to make about a maiden's heart, Ian," said Victor, looking up at the rugged countenance of his friend.

"`Unromantic,' eh? Well, I suppose I am."

"Of course you are," said Victor, with the overweening assurance of youth. "Come, let's sit down here for a few minutes and discuss the point."

He sat down on a snowdrift; Ian kicked off his snowshoes and leaned against the bank.

"You're the most grave, sensible, good-natured, matter-of-fact, unsentimental, unselfish fellow I ever met with," resumed Victor. "If you were a romantic goose I wouldn't like you half as much as I do."

"Men are sometimes romantic without being geese," returned Ian; "but I have not time to discuss that point just now. Tell me, for I am anxious about it, have you spoken to your father about selling the field with the knoll to my father?"

"Yes, and he flatly refused to sell it. I'm really sorry, Ian, but you know how determined my father is. Once he says a thing he sticks to it, even though it should be to his own disadvantage."

"That's bad, Victor, very bad. It will raise ill-blood between them, and estrange our families. You think there's no chance?"

"None whatever."

"One more word before we part. Do you know much about that redskin whom your father called Petawanaquat?"

"Not much, except that he has come from a considerable distance to make inquiries, he says, about the Christian religion. He has been prowling about our place for a few days, and father, who has no great love to missionaries, and has strong suspicions of converted Indians, has twice treated him rather roughly."

"I'm sorry to hear that, Victor. These fellows are sometimes very revengeful. If you'll be advised by me you'll keep a sharp eye upon Petawanaquat. There, I'll say no more. You know I'm not an alarmist. Good-bye."

"Good-bye, old boy."

"I say."

"Well?"

"It was," admitted Victor, with a laugh, "to miss a thing as big as a door at a hundred yards is only so-so."

"No chance of improvement, I fear," said Ian, with a sigh.

"Oh, don't say that," replied Victor. "Practice, perseverance, and patience, you know, overcome every--"

"Yes, yes. I know that well. Good-bye." They shook hands again, and were soon striding over the snow to their respective homes.

CONFLICTING ELEMENTS AND A CATASTROPHE.

Hoary winter passed away, and genial spring returned to rejoice the land.

In a particularly amiable frame of mind, old Ravenshaw went out one morning to smoke.

Everything had gone well that morning. Breakfast had been punctual; appetite good; rheumatics in abeyance; the girls lively; and Miss Trim less of a torrent than was her wont. Mrs Ravenshaw's intellect had more than once almost risen to the ordinary human average, and Master Tony had been better--perhaps it were more correct to say less wicked-- than usual.

Old Ravenshaw was what his friends styled a heavy smoker, so was his kitchen chimney; but then the chimney had the excuse of being compelled to smoke, whereas its owner's insane act was voluntary.

Be not afraid, reader. We have no intention of entering into an argument with smokers. They are a pigheaded generation. We address those who have not yet become monomaniacs as regards tobacco.

In order to the full enjoyment of his pipe, the old gentleman had built on a knoll what Elsie styled a summer-house. Regardless of seasons, however--as he was of most things--her father used this temple at all seasons of the year, and preferred to call it a smoking box. Now, as this smoking-box, with its surroundings, had much to do with the issues of our story, we bring it under particular notice. It resembled a large sentry-box, and the willow-clad knoll on which it stood was close to the river. Being elevated slightly above the rest of the country, a somewhat extended view of river and plain was obtainable therefrom. Samuel Ravenshaw loved to contemplate this view through the medium of smoke. Thus seen it was hazy and in accord with his own idea of most things. The sun shone warmly into the smoking-box. It sparkled on the myriad dew-drops that hung on the willows, and swept in golden glory over the rolling plains. The old gentleman sat down, puffed, and was happy. The narcotic influence operated, and the irascible demon in his breast fell sound asleep.

How often do bright sunshine and profound calm precede a storm? Is not that a truism--if not a newism. The old gentleman had barely reduced himself to quiescence, and the demon had only just begun to snore, when a cloud, no bigger than a man's body, arose on the horizon. Gradually it drew near, partially obscured the sky, and overshadowed the smoking-box in the form of Angus Macdonald, the father of Ian.

"Coot tay to you, sir," said Angus. "You will pe enchoyin' your pipe this fine mornin'."

"Yes, Angus, I am," replied Ravenshaw, with as much urbanity as he could assume--and it wasn't much, for he suspected the cause of his neighbour's visit--"you'd better sit down and light your own."

Angus accepted the invitation, and proceeded to load with much deliberation.

Now it must be known that the Highlander loved the view from that knoll as much as did his neighbour. It reminded him of the old country where he had been born and bred on a hill-top. He coveted that willow knoll intensely, desiring to build a house on it, and, being prosperous, was willing to give for it more than its value, for his present dwelling lay somewhat awkwardly in the creek, a little higher up the river, so that the willows on the knoll interfered vexatiously with his view.

"It's a peautiful spote this!" observed Angus, after a few preliminary puffs.

"It is," answered the old trader curtly, .

Angus made no rejoinder for a few minutes, but continued to puff great clouds with considerable emphasis from his compressed lips. Mr Ravenshaw returned the fire with interest.

"It'll no pe for sellin' the knowl, ye are?" said Angus.

The demon was fairly roused now.

"Ho! inteed!" exclaimed Angus, rising in wrath, and cramming his pipe into his vest pocket; "it is herself that will pe pothering you no more spout your dirty land, Samyool Ruvnshaw."

He strode from the spot with a look of ineffable scorn, and the air of an offended chieftain.

Old Ravenshaw tried to resume his tranquillity, but the demon was self-willed, and tobacco had lost its power. There were more clouds, however, in store for him that morning.

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