The Red Man's Revenge: A Tale of The Red River Flood Read online

  CHAPTER ONE.

  A TALE OF THE RED RIVER FLOOD.

  OPENS THE BALL.

  If ever there was a man who possessed a gem in the form of a daughter ofnineteen, that man was Samuel Ravenshaw; and if ever there was a girlwho owned a bluff, jovial, fiery, hot-tempered, irascible old father,that girl was Elsie Ravenshaw.

  Although a gem, Elsie was exceedingly imperfect. Had she been thereverse she would not have been worth writing about.

  Old Ravenshaw, as his familiars styled him, was a settler, if we may usesuch a term in reference to one who was, perhaps, among the mostunsettled of men. He had settled with his family on the banks of theRed River. The colony on that river is now one of the frontier towns ofCanada. At the time we write of, it was a mere oasis in the desert, noteven an offshoot of civilisation, for it owed its existence chiefly tothe fact that retiring servants of the Hudson's Bay Fur Companycongregated there to spend the evening of life, far beyond the Canadianboundary, in the heart of that great wilderness where they had spenttheir working days, and on the borders of that grand prairie where thered man and the buffalo roamed at will, and the conventionalities ofcivilised life troubled them not.

  To this haven of rest Samuel Ravenshaw had retired, after spending anactive life in the service of the fur-traders, somewhat stiffened in thejoints by age and a rough career, and a good deal soured in dispositionbecause of promotion having, as he thought, been too long deferred.

  Besides Elsie, old Ravenshaw possessed some other gems of inferiorlustre. His wife Maggie, a stout, well-favoured lady, with aninsufficient intellect and unbounded good humour, was of considerableintrinsic value, but highly unpolished. His second daughter, Cora, wasa thin slip of sixteen years, like her mother in some respects--pretty,attractive, and disposed to take life easily. His eldest son, Victor, awell-grown lad of fourteen, was a rough diamond, if a diamond at all,with a soul centred on sport. His second son, Anthony, between five andsix, was large and robust, like his father. Not having been polished atthat time, it is hard to say what sort of gem Tony was. When engaged inmischief--his besetting foible--his eyes shone like carbuncles withunholy light. He was the plague of the family. Of course, therefore,he was the beloved of his parents.

  Such were the chief inmates of Willow Creek, as old Ravenshaw styled hishouse and property.

  It was midwinter. The owner of Willow Creek stood at his parlourwindow, smoking and gazing. There was not much to look at, for snow hadoverwhelmed and buried the landscape, fringed every twig of the willows,and obliterated the frozen river.

  Elsie was seated by the stove, embroidering a pair of moccasins.

  "Victor is bringing down some of the lads to shoot to-day, father," shesaid, casting a furtive glance at her sire.

  "Humph! that boy does nothing but shoot," growled the old man, who was agiant in body if not in spirit. "Who all is he bringing?"

  "There's John Flett, and David Mowat, and Sam Hayes, and HerrWinklemann, and Ian Macdonald, and Louis Lambert--all the best shots, Isuppose," said Elsie, bending over her work.

  "The best shots!" cried Mr Ravenshaw, turning from the window with asarcastic laugh. "Louis Lambert, indeed, and Winklemann are crackshots, and John Flett is not bad, but the others are poor hands. Mowatcan only shoot straight with a crooked gun, and as for that half-crackedschoolmaster, Jan Macdonald, he would miss a barn door at fifty pacesunless he were to shut his eyes and fire at random, in which case he'dhave some chance--"

  "Here they is; the shooters is comin'. Hooray!" shouted Master AnthonyRavenshaw, as he burst into the room with a scalping-knife in one handand a wooden gun in the other. "An' I's goin' to shoot too, daddy!"

  "So you are, Tony, my boy!" cried the old trader, catching up the prideof his heart in his strong arms and tossing him towards the ceiling."You shall shoot before long with a real gun."

  Tony knocked the pipe out of his father's mouth, and was proceeding tooperate on his half-bald head with the scalping-knife, when Cora, whoentered the room at the moment, sprang forward and wrenched the weaponfrom his grasp.

  "We'll give them dinner after the shooting is over, shan't we, father?"asked Cora.

  "Of course, my dear, of course," replied the hospitable old gentleman,giving the pride of his heart a sounding kiss as he put him down. "Setyour mother to work on a pie, and get Miss Trim to help you with a lotof those cakes you make so famously."

  As he spoke there was a sudden clattering in the porch. The young menwere taking off their snow-shoes and stamping the snow from off theirleggings and moccasined feet.

  "Here we are, father!" cried a bright, sturdy youth, as he ushered inhis followers. "Of course Elsie has prepared you for our suddeninvasion. The fact is that we got up the match on the spur of themoment, because I found that Ian had a holiday."

  "No explanation required, Victor. Glad to see you all, boys. Sitdown," said Mr Ravenshaw, shaking hands all round.

  The youths who were thus heartily welcomed presented a fine manlyappearance. They were clad in the capotes, leggings, fur caps,moccasins, and fingerless mittens usually worn by the men of thesettlement in winter.

  That tall handsome fellow, with the curly black hair and flashing eyes,who bears himself so confidently as he greets the sisters, is LouisLambert. The thickset youth behind him, with the shock of flaxen hairand imperceptible moustache, is Herr Winklemann, a German farmer's son,and a famed buffalo-hunter. The ungainly man, of twenty-fourapparently--or thereabouts--with the plain but kindly face, and theframe nearly as strong as that of the host himself, is Ian Macdonald.In appearance he is a rugged backwoodsman. In reality he is theschoolmaster of that part of the widely-scattered colony.

  The invitation to sit down was not accepted. Daylight was short-livedin those regions at that season of the year. They sallied forth to thework in hand.

  "You've had the target put up, Cora?" asked Victor, as he went out.

  "Yes, in the old place."

  "Where is Tony?"

  "I don't know," said Cora, looking round. "He was here just now, tryingto scalp father."

  "You'll find him at the target before you, no doubt," said Elsie,putting away her moccasins as she rose to aid in the householdpreparations.

  The target was placed against the bank of the river, so that the bulletsmight find a safe retreat. The competitors stood at about a hundredyards' distance in front of it. The weapons used were single-barrelledsmooth-bores, with flint locks. Percussion locks had not at that timecome into fashion, and long ranges had not yet been dreamed of.

  "Come, open the ball, Lambert," said Victor.

  The handsome youth at once stepped forward, and old Mr Ravenshawwatched him with an approving smile as he took aim. Puff! went thepowder in the pan, but no sound followed save the peal of laughter withwhich the miss-fire was greeted. The touch-hole was pricked, and nexttime the ball sped to its mark. It hit the target two inches above thebull's-eye.

  The "well done" with which the shot was hailed was cut short by anappalling yell, and little Tony was seen to tumble from behind thetarget. Rolling head over heels, he curled himself round in agony,sprang up with a spasmodic bound, dropped upon his haunches, turned overa complete somersault, fell on his back with a fearful shriek, and laydead upon the snow!

  The whole party rushed in consternation towards the boy, but before theyhad reached him he leaped up and burst into a fit of gleeful laughter,which ended in a cheer and a savage war-whoop as he scampered up thetrack which led to the house, and disappeared over the brow of theriver's bank.

  "The imp was joking!" exclaimed Mr Ravenshaw, as he stopped and wipedthe cold perspiration from his brow.

  At that moment a Red Indian appeared on the scene, in his blanket robe,paint, and feathers. Attracted by the shot, he had come to look on.Now, the old fur-trader's nerves had received a tremendous shock, andthe practical jest which the pride of his heart had perpetrated hadroused the irascibility of his nature, so that an explosion becameunavoidable. In th
ese circumstances the arrival of the Indian seemedopportune, for the old gentleman knew that this particular savage was achief, and had visited the colony for the purpose of making inquiriesinto the new religion reported to be taught by certain white men inblack garments; and Mr Ravenshaw, besides having very little regard formissionaries, had a very strong contempt for those Indians who becametheir disciples. He therefore relieved himself on the red man.

  "What do you want here, Petawanaquat?" he demanded sternly, in thelanguage of the Indian.

  "The Little Wolf," replied the Indian, referring to himself, for suchwas the interpretation of his name, "wishes to see how his whitebrothers shoot."

  "Let the Little Wolf put his tail between his legs and be gone," criedthe 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 ofmarksmen returned to their former position. Mr Ravenshaw, however,soon left them and returned home. Here he found Miss Trim in a state ofconsiderable agitation; she had just encountered the redskin! Miss Trimwas a poor relation of Mrs Ravenshaw. She had been invited by herbrother-in-law to leave England and come to Red River to act asgoverness to Tony and assistant-companion in the family. She hadarrived that autumn in company with a piano, on which she was expectedto exercise Elsie and Cora. Petawanaquat, being the first "really wildand painted savage" she had seen, made a deep impression on her.

  "Oh, Mr Ravenshaw, I have seen _such_ an object in the garden!" sheexclaimed, in a gushing torrent--she always spoke in a torrent--"and itwas all I could do to stagger into the house without fainting. Sucheyes! with black cheeks and a red nose--at least, it looked red, but Iwas in such a state that I couldn't make sure whether it was the nose orthe chin, and my shoe came off as I ran away, having broken the tie inthe morning. And such a yell as it gave!--the creature, not theshoe-tie--but I escaped, and peeped out of the upper window--the one inthe gable, you know, with the green blind, where you can see the gardenfrom end to end, and I found it had disappeared, though I can'tunderstand--"

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

  "A beast? No; a man--a savage."

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

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

  Bitterly did Ian Macdonald repent of his agreeing to join the shootingparty that day. Owing to some defect in his vision or nervous system,he was a remarkably bad shot, though in everything else he was an expertand stalwart backwoodsman, as well as a good scholar. But when hisfriend Victor invited him he could not refuse, because it offered him anopportunity of spending some time in the society of Elsie Ravenshaw, andthat to him was heaven upon earth! Little of her society, however, didthe unfortunate teacher enjoy that day, for handsome Louis Lambertengrossed not only Elsie, but the mother and father as well. He hadbeaten all his competitors at the target, but, to do him justice, didnot boast of that; neither did he make any reference to the fact thatIan had twice missed the target, though he did not spare the badshooting of some of the other youths; this, no doubt, because he and Ianhad been fast friends for many years. Jealousy--at least on the part ofIan--now seemed about to interfere with the old friendship. Moreover,Lambert had brought to Mrs Ravenshaw a gift of a collar made of theclaws of a grizzly bear, shot by himself in the Rocky Mountains. Elsieadmired the collar with genuine interest, and said she would giveanything to possess one like it. Cora, with the coquettishness ofsixteen, said, with a laugh and a blush, that she would not accept sucha ridiculous thing if it were offered to her. Ian Macdonald groaned inspirit, for, with his incapacity to shoot, he knew that Elsie's wishcould never be gratified by _him_.

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

  "Don't look so crestfallen, man," said old Mr Ravenshaw heartily, as heshook hands; "it's nobler work to teach the young idea how to shoot thanto 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'sheart."

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

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

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

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

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

  "You're the most grave, sensible, good-natured, matter-of-fact,unsentimental, unselfish fellow I ever met with," resumed Victor. "Ifyou 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 Ihave not time to discuss that point just now. Tell me, for I am anxiousabout it, have you spoken to your father about selling the field withthe knoll to my father?"

  "Yes, and he flatly refused to sell it. I'm really sorry, Ian, but youknow 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 whomyour father called Petawanaquat?"

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

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

  "Good-bye, old boy."

  "I say."

  "Well?"

  "It was an _awfully_ bad shot, that last of mine."

  "It was," admitted Victor, with a laugh, "to miss a thing as big as adoor 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, andpatience, you know, overcome every--"

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