The Buffalo Runners: A Tale of the Red River Plains. Robert Michael Ballantyne
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hunters. The two women who discovered the body of Perrin, however, had not yet arrived, and nothing was known of the murder in the Settlement.
“It iss little troubled you wass, what came over us,” remarked old Duncan angrily, on entering his house, and finding his younger son engaged with a pipe beside the kitchen fire.
“An’ how could I know where you wass; efter I had been huntin’ for nothin’ for two days?” retorted his son. “Wass I to think you would be stoppin’ in the lame camp till you died? Wass it not more likely that some wan would find you an’ bring you in—as they did?”
“No thanks to you that they did, Tuncan, whatever. Where did you leave the other boys?”
“How should I know?” returned the son sharply; “they dropped off—wan here an’ wan there—sayin’ they would try for a buffalo in wan place or another, or, that they would rest awhile; an’ so I wass left by myself. I found it quite enough to look efter number wan.”
“It hes always been as much, that, as ye could manitch, Tuncan, even when things wass goin’ easy,” said the old man with a sarcastic laugh, that induced the young man to rise and quit the room.
He went towards a small shop, or store, as such places were styled in the Nor’-West. It fell to his lot in the family arrangements to look after and manage this store. Indeed the youth’s anxiety for the ease and comfort of “number wan” had induced him to select the post as being a part of the family duties that was peculiarly suited to himself.
On reaching the store he went straight to a large roll of Canadian twist tobacco, cut off a piece, refilled his pipe, and, sitting down on a bale began or, rather, continued to smoke. He had not been seated long when the door opened, and the head of a half-breed peeped cautiously in with an uncommonly sly look.
“That you, François La Certe?” said McKay rather sternly, for he knew the man well. “What iss it you will be wantin’ now?”
François wanted many things—things almost too numerous to mention; but, first, he would pay his debts to Cloudbrow.
“Come, that’s something new,” said McKay with a cynical laugh. “You must have come by a fortune, or committed a robbery before ye would be so honest. How much are you goin’ to pay?”
“The sledge that you lent me, I have brought back,” said the half-breed with a deprecatory air.
“So, you call returning a loan paying your debts?” said Duncan.
La Certe did not quite say that, but he thought it bore some resemblance to a payment to account, and at all events was proof of his good intentions.
“And on the strength of that you’ll want plenty more credit, I hev no doubt.”
“No—not plenty,” said La Certe, with the earnest air of a man who is exposing his whole soul to inspection, and who means to act this time with the strictest sincerity, to say nothing of honesty. “It is only a little that I want. Not much. Just enough to keep body and soul from sayin’ good-bye.”
“But you have not paid a fraction of your old debt. How will you be expectin’ to meet the new one?”
Oh! La Certe could easily explain that. He was going off immediately to hunt and trap, and would soon return with a heavy load, for there were plenty of animals about. Then in the spring, which was near at hand, he meant to fish, or go to the plains with the hunters, and return laden with bags of pemmican, bales of dried meat, and buffalo-robes enough to pay off all his debts, and leave something over to enable him to spend the winter in luxurious idleness.
“And you expect me to believe all that nonsense?” said McKay, sternly.
La Certe was hurt. Of course he expected to be believed! His feelings were injured, but he was of a forgiving disposition and would say no more about it. He had expected better treatment, however, from one who had known him so long.
“A trip to the plains requires more than powder and shot,” said the store-keeper; “where will you be goin’ to get a horse an’ cart? for you can hev mine no longer.”
“Dechamp, he promise to sole me a horse, an’ Mrs Davis’n will loan me a cart,” returned the half-breed, with lofty independence.
“Hm! an’ you will be returnin’ the cart an’ payin’ for the horse when the hunt is over, I suppose?”
Yes, that was exactly the idea that was in La Certe’s brain, and which, he hoped and fully expected, to reduce to practice in course of time—if Duncan McKay would only assist him by making him a few advances at that present time.
“Well, what do you want?” asked McKay, getting off the bath.
The half-breed wanted a good many things. As he was going off in the course of a few days, and might not be able to return for a long time, he might as well take with him even a few things that he did not absolutely need at the moment. Of course he wanted a good supply of powder, shot, and ball. Without that little or nothing could be done. Then a new axe, as his old one was much worn—the steel almost gone—and it was well-known that a trapper without an axe was a very helpless creature. A tin kettle was, of course, an absolute necessity; and the only one he possessed had a small hole in it. A few awls to enable him to mend his bark canoe when open water came, and a couple of steel traps, some gun-flints, and, O yes, he had almost forgotten a most essential thing—twine to make a net, and some fish-hooks.
“It iss a regular outfit you will be wanting,” remarked the store-keeper, as he handed over the various articles.
O no—not a regular one—only a very little one, considering the length of time he should be away, and the wealth with which he would return. But again he suddenly remembered that he had forgotten something else.
“Well, what iss it?”
Some glover’s needles and sinews for making leather coats and moccasins. Needles and thread and scissors, for it was quite clear that people could not live without suitable clothing. A new capote, also, and—and—a yard or two of scarlet cloth with a few beads.
As he made the last request, La Certe attempted to speak insinuatingly, and to look humble.
“Come, that iss pure extravagance,” said McKay, remonstrating.
La Certe could not, dare not, face his wife without these articles. He pleaded earnestly. “Slowfoot is so clever wi’ the needle,” he said. “See! she send you a pair of moccasins.”
The wily man here drew from the breast of his capote a pair of beautifully made moccasins, soft as chamois leather, and richly ornamented with dyed quills of the porcupine.
McKay laughed; nevertheless he swallowed the bait and was pleased. He finally handed the goods to La Certe, who, when he had obtained all that he could possibly squeeze out of the store-keeper, bundled up the whole, made many solemn protestations of gratitude and honest intentions, and went off to cheer Slowfoot with the news of his success.
It chanced that Antoine Dechamp, the very man about whom he had been talking to Duncan McKay, had dropped in to see him and his spouse, and was sitting beside the fire smoking when he entered. Displaying his possessions with much pride, he assured Dechamp that he had paid for the whole outfit, and meant to return in the spring a rich man with means enough to buy a horse and cart, and start with the buffalo-hunters for the plains.
“You have a horse to sell—they say?” he remarked to his friend in a careless way.
“Yes—and a good one too,” answered Dechamp.
“Well, if you will loan him to me in the spring, I will pay for him when I come back. It takes all I have to fit me out to start, you see.”
Dechamp did not quite see his way to that—but there was plenty of time to think over it!
“Have you heard,” said Dechamp, willing to change the subject, “there is some talk that Perrin has been killed? George McDermid was out, like many others, huntin’ about for the starvin’ people, an’ he came across the wives of Blanc and Pierre—poor things! they’re widows