The Red Man's Revenge: A Tale of The Red River Flood. Robert Michael Ballantyne
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through the belt of woodland they stood on the margin of the little lake.
“How beautiful!” exclaimed Ian, with a flush of pleasure on his sunburnt face. “Just like a bit of Paradise.”
“Did you ever see Paradise, that you know so well what it is like?” asked Victor of his unromantic friend.
“Yes, Vic, I’ve seen it many a time—in imagination.”
“Indeed, and what like was it, and what sort of people were there?”
“It was like—let me see—the most glorious scene ever beheld on earth, but more exquisite, and the sun that lighted it was more brilliant by far than ours.”
“Not bad, for an unromantic imagination,” said Victor, with much gravity. “Were there any ducks and geese there?”
“Yes, ducks; plenty of them, but no geese; and nobler game—even lions were there, so tame that little children could lead them.”
“Better and better,” said Victor; “and what of the people?”
Ian was on the point of saying that they were all—men, women, and children—the exact counterparts of Elsie Ravenshaw, but he checked himself and said that they were all honest, sincere, kind, gentle, upright, and that there was not a single cynical person there, nor a—
“Hush! what sort of a bird is that?” interrupted Victor, laying his hand on Ian’s arm and pointing to a small patch of reeds in the lake.
There were so many birds of various kinds gambolling on the surface, that Ian had difficulty in distinguishing the creature referred to. At last he perceived it, a curious fat-bodied little bird with a pair of preposterously long legs, which stood eyeing its companions as if in contemplative pity.
“I know it not,” said Ian; “never saw it before.”
“We’ll bag it now. Stand back,” said Victor, raising his gun.
The above conversation had been carried on in a low tone, for the friends were still concealed by a bush from the various and numerous birds which disported themselves on the lake in fancied security and real felicity.
The crash of Victor’s gun sent them screaming over the tree-tops—all save the fat creature with the long legs, which now lay dead on the water.
“Go in for it, Rollin, it’s not deep, I think,” said Victor.
“Troo, but it may be dangeroose for all dat,” replied the half-breed, leaning his gun against a tree. “Howsomewhatever I vill try!”
The place turned out, as he had suspected, to be somewhat treacherous, with a floating bottom. Before he had waded half way to the dead bird the ground began to sink under him. Presently he threw up his arms, went right down, and disappeared.
Both Ian and Victor started forward with the intention of plunging into the water, but they had not reached the edge when Rollin reappeared, blowing like a grampus. They soon saw that he could swim, and allowed him to scramble ashore.
This misadventure did not prevent them from making further attempts to secure the bird, which Victor, having some sort of naturalistic propensities, was eager to possess. It was on going round the margin of the lake for this purpose that they came upon the cause of the perplexities before mentioned. On the other side of a point covered with thick bush they came upon the remains of a large Indian camp, which had evidently been occupied very recently. Indeed, the ashes of some of the fires, Rollin declared, were still warm; but it was probably Rollin’s imagination which warmed them. It was found, too, that the trail of Petawanaquat entered this camp, and was there utterly lost in the confusion of tracks made everywhere by many feet, both large and small.
Here, then, was sufficient ground for anxiety. If the savage had joined this band and gone away with it, the pursuers could of course follow him up, but, in the event of their finding him among friends, there seemed little or no probability of their being able to rescue the stolen child. On the other hand, if Petawanaquat had left the Indians and continued his journey alone, the great difficulty that lay before them was to find his point of departure from a band which would naturally send out hunters right and left as they marched along.
“It’s a blue look-out any way you take it,” remarked poor Victor, with an expression worthy of Peegwish on his countenance.
“I vish it vas blue. It is black,” said Rollin.
Ian replied to both remarks by saying that, whether black or blue, they must make the best of it, and set about doing that at once. To do his desponding comrades justice, they were quite ready for vigorous action in any form, notwithstanding their despair.
Accordingly, they followed the broad trail of the Indians into the prairie a short way, and, separating in different directions round its margins, carefully examined and followed up the tracks that diverged from it for considerable distances, but without discovering the print of the little moccasin with Elsie’s patch, or the larger footprint of Tony’s captor.
“You see, there are so many footprints, some like and some unlike, and they cross and recross each other to such an extent that it seems to me a hopeless case altogether,” said Victor.
“You don’t propose to give it up, do you?” asked Ian.
“Give it up!” repeated Victor, almost fiercely. “Give up Tony? NO! not as long as I can walk, or even crawl.”
“Ve vill crawl before long, perhaps,” said Rollin; “ve may even stop crawling an’ die at last, but ve must not yet give in.”
In the strength of this resolve they returned to the lakelet when the sun went down, and encamped there. It is needless to say that they supped and slept well notwithstanding—or notwithforstanding, as Rollin put it. Rollin was fond of long words, and possessed a few that were his own private property. Victor had a dream that night. He dreamt that he caught sight of an Indian on the plains with Tony on his shoulder; that he gave chase, and almost overtook them, when, to save himself, the Indian dropped his burden; that he, Victor, seized his rescued brother in a tight embrace, and burst into tears of joy; that Tony suddenly turned into Petawanaquat, and that, in the sharp revulsion of feeling, he, Victor, seized the nose of the savage and pulled it out to a length of three yards, twisted it round his neck and choked him, thrust his head down into his chest and tied his arms in a knot over it, and, finally, stuffing him into a mud-puddle, jumped upon him and stamped him down. It was an absurd dream, no doubt, but are not dreams generally absurd?
While engaged in the last mentioned humane operation, Victor was awakened by Ian.
“It’s time to be moving,” said his comrade with a laugh. “I would have roused you before, but you seemed to be so busily engaged with some friend that I hadn’t the heart to part you sooner.”
The whole of that day they spent in a fruitless effort to detect the footprints of Petawanaquat, either among the tracks made by the band of Indians or among those diverging from the main line of march. In so doing they wandered far from the camp at the lakelet, and even lost sight of each other. The only result was that Ian and Rollin returned in the evening dispirited and weary, and Victor lost himself.
The ease with which this is done is scarcely comprehensible by those who have not wandered over an unfamiliar and boundless plain, on which the clumps of trees and shrubs have no very distinctive features.
Victor’s comrades, however, were alive to the danger. Not finding him in camp, they at once went out in different directions, fired shots until they heard his answering reply, and at last brought him safely in.
That night again they spent on the margin of the little lake, and over the camp-fire discussed their future plans. It was finally assumed that Petawanaquat had joined the Indians, and resolved that they should follow up the trail as fast as they could travel.
This they did during many days without, however, overtaking the Indians. Then the pemmican began to wax low, for in their anxiety to push on they neglected to hunt. At last, one evening, just as it was growing dark, and while they were looking out for a convenient resting-place, they came on the spot where the Indians had encamped, evidently the night before, for the