The Buffalo Runners: A Tale of the Red River Plains

“Archie, boy!” exclaimed Dan Davidson, “you’re letting that goose roast to a cinder.”

“No, Dan, I’m not—but Billie can’t a-bear meat underdone, so it’s better to blacken the outside than have the inside raw.”

“Who iss that singing? Wheesht, boys,” said Fergus McKay, turning his head a little on one side as if to listen.

There was profound silence for a few moments as a rich manly voice was heard to swell forth from the neighbourhood of one of the camp-fires.

“It comes from the camp of the Switzers, I think,” said Elspie McKay.

“I know it,” said Jessie Davidson, who was seated on a log beside her friend. “It is François La Certe. He came to our meeting-place in Red River, you know, just after Cuthbert Grant and his men left us, and, hearing that we were starting off to Jack River again, he resolved to follow. I heard him tell Slowfoot to get ready to go along with us.”

“I wonder why he came?” said Mrs Davidson, coming out of her tent at the moment, and joining the party round the fire.

“He did not say,” answered Jessie.

“He did not require to say,” remarked Duncan McKay, with a sarcastic laugh. “Every wan knows that wherever there iss a chance of gettin’ ammunition and plenty of victuals for nothing, there La Certe iss certain to be found. He knew that we would be sure to hev plenty at this season o’ the year, an’ that we would not see him an’ his wife sterve when our kettles wass full. Iss not that so, Okématan? You know him best.”

Thus appealed to, the Indian, whose usual expression was one of intense gravity, shut his eyes, opened his mouth, displayed his superb teeth, and uttered a low chuckle, but made no further reply.

It was enough. Those who understood Okématan and his ways were well aware that he thought La Certe uncommonly sly.

The half-breed had indeed followed the expelled colonists in the belief that they would certainly possess plenty of powder and shot—which he had not the means of purchasing. He also knew that the whole of Rupert’s Land swarmed with game in autumn and spring, and that the Scotch were an open-handed race when approached in the right way. Putting these things together, he carefully gummed his canoe, put his wife and child into it—also some of the provision which had been supplied to him by Duncan McKay junior—and followed the settlers over Lake Winnipeg to Jack River.

Here, finding that a new party of immigrants had arrived, who were necessarily unacquainted with his little peculiarities, La Certe attached himself to them and made himself agreeable. This he could do very well, for the Switzers understood his bad French, as well as his good tuneful voice, and appreciated his capacity for telling a story.

“Did you never,” he said to André Morel, after his song was finished, “hear of how my old mother saved her whole tribe from death one time in the Rocky Mountains?”

“Never,” Morel replied with a somewhat sceptical but good-natured smile.

“No! I wonder much, for every one in this land heard about it, an’ I thought the news must have spread over Europe and—and, perhaps Africa. Well, I will tell you. Where is my baccy-bag?”

“Never mind, fill your pipe from mine,” said Morel, tossing him a little bag of the coveted weed.

“Thank you. Well, you must know that my mother had a beautiful voice—O! much more beautiful than mine. Indeed, I do not joke, so you need not laugh. It was so sweet that men were always forced to listen till she was done. They could not help it.”

“Did they ever want to help it?” asked Morel quietly.

“O yes—as you shall hear. Well, one day my mother was living with all our tribe—I say our tribe because my mother was an Indian—with all our tribe, in a great dark gorge of the Rocky Mountains. The braves had gone out to hunt that day, but my mother stayed behind with the women and children. I was a little foolish child at that time—too young to hunt or fight. My father—a French Canadian—he was dead.

“We knew—my mother and I—that the braves would be home soon. We expected them every minute. While we were waiting for them, my mother went into the bush to pick berries. There she discovered a war-party of our enemies. They were preparing to attack our village, for they knew the men were away, and they wanted the scalps of the women and children. But they did not know the exact spot where our wigwams were pitched, and were just going, after a feed, to look for it.

“My mother ran home with the news, and immediately roused the camp, and made them get ready to fly to meet the returning men.

“‘But, my daughter,’ said an old chief, who had stayed in camp, ‘our enemies are young and active; they will quickly overtake us before we meet our men.’

“‘No,’ said my mother, ‘I will stop them. Get ready, and set off quickly.’

“She then ran back on her trail—my mother was a tremendous runner—superb! She came to a narrow place where our enemies would have to pass. A very thick tree grew there. She climbed it, and hid among the branches. It projected beyond a precipice and overhung a stream. Soon after that she saw the enemy advancing, step by step, slowly, cautiously, like men who dread an ambush, and with glances quick and solemn from side to side, like men who see a foe in every stump and stone.”

La Certe paused at this point. He was an adept at story-telling. His voice had slowed by degrees and become increasingly deep and solemn as he proceeded.

“Now,” continued he, in a higher tone, “my mother did not fear that they would see her if they looked up when they passed the tree. She was too well hidden for that; but she was not sure what the effect of her voice would be, for she had never tried it in that way before. However, she was full of courage. She resembled me in that—bold as a lion! She began to sing. Low and soft at the beginning, like a dream of song.

“At the first note the Indians halted—every man; each in the position in which he was fixed. If a foot was up he kept it up. If both feet were down he left them down. The feet that were up came slowly to the ground when the Indians got tired, but no one took another step. My mother’s voice was a weird voice. It sounded as if the place from which it came was nowhere—or anywhere—or everywhere! Slowly the painted heads turned from side to side as far as they could go, and the glaring eyes turned a little further. A creeping fear came over them. They trembled. They turned pale. That could be easily seen through the paint. My mother saw it! She became more courageous and sang out in her most pathetic strain. The Indians wept. That was quite visible. My mother saw it. Her great object was to delay the attack until our men had time to arrive. She tried a war-song, but that was not so successful. It was too commonplace. Besides, in her energy she shook the branches, and that drew attention to the tree. My mother thought that she was in danger then; but fortune favoured her. It always favours the brave. I know this from experience.

“She had just come to a terrific whoop in the war-song when she slipped off her branch and the whoop increased to a death-yell as she went crashing headlong through the branches and down into the stream at the foot of the precipice.

“Water! water!” exclaimed La Certe at this point, holding out both hands. “I can never pass this part of my story without burning thirst!”

A mug of water was handed him.

“Poor fellow—have some brandy in it,” said a sympathetic hearer, hastily getting out his bottle.

La Certe held out his mug impatiently for the brandy, drained the mug, and cleared his voice.

“Was—was your mother killed?” asked the sympathiser, earnestly.

“Killed? No. Impossible! My mother could not be killed because her destiny was not yet fulfilled. No: there was a deep pool right under the tree. She fell into that with a plunge that echoed from cliff to cliff. The Indians were profoundly superstitious. All Indians are not so, but these Indians were. They waited not for more. They turned and fled as if all the evil spirits in the Rocky Mountains were chasing them. They reached their wigwams breathless, and told their squaws that one of the spirits of a mountain stream had sat among the branches of a tree and sung to them. It had told them that the right time for attacking their foes had not yet come. Then it sang them a war-song descriptive of their final victory, and, just after uttering a tremendous war-whoop, it had dived back into its native stream.”

“Well done!” exclaimed an enthusiastic Canadian.

“But what became of your mother?” asked Morel.

“Oh! she swam ashore. My mother was a splendid swimmer. I know it, for she taught me.”

“Was it a long swim?” asked a sceptical sailor, who was one of the emigrants.

“How?—what mean you?” demanded La Certe, sternly.

“I only want to know if she took long to swim ashore out o’ that pool,” said the sceptic, simply.

La Certe cast on him a glance of suspicion, and replied that his mother had found no difficulty in getting out of the pool.

“Is the old lady alive yet?” asked the pertinacious sceptic.

“Of course not. She died long long ago—thirty years ago.”

“What! before you was born? That’s strange, isn’t it?”

“No, but you not understand. I suppose my speech is not plain to you. I said three years ago.”

“Ah! that’s more like it. I only missed what you said,” returned the sceptic, whose name was Fred Jenkins, “for I’ve lived a while in France, and understand your lingo pretty well. Pass that goose, Morel, if you have left anything on it. This air o’ the wilderness beats the air o’ the sea itself for givin’ a fellow a twist.”

The remarks of Jenkins, while they did not absolutely destroy the confidence of the Swiss party, shook it enough to show the wily half-breed that he must do something if possible to re-establish his credit. He therefore volunteered another song, which was gladly accepted and highly appreciated; for, as we have said, La Certe possessed a really good and tuneful voice, and these immigrants were a musical people.

While this was going on at the Swiss camp-fires an incident occurred at the fire round which the McKay-Davidson party was assembled, which deserves particular notice.

Old McKay was giving some directions to Fergus; Duncan junior was seated opposite Dan Davidson, smoking his pipe, and Elspie had gone into her tent, when Slowfoot, the spouse of La Certe, drew near.

“Come along, old girl,” exclaimed McKay senior. “It iss some baccy you will be wantin’, I’ll wager.”

Slowfoot did not reply in words, but the smile upon her face was eloquent.

“Come away, then,” continued the hospitable Highlander. “You shall hev a pipe of it, whatever.”

He handed her a large plug of tobacco, and the woman, sitting down close to young Duncan, produced her pipe, and drew out a knife for the purpose of cutting up the tobacco.

“Hallo!” exclaimed Duncan, “where did you get hold o’ my knife?”

He stopped abruptly—a little confused in spite of himself. For the moment he had quite forgotten that the knife had been left in the camp where he had slain Perrin, and the sudden sight of it had thrown him off his guard. It was now too late to unsay the words, but not too late to mislead his hearers.

“I got it from Marie Blanc,” said Slowfoot with a look of surprise. “Does the knife belong to Cloudbrow?”

“I think it does. I’m almost sure it iss mine. Let me see it,” returned Duncan, taking the knife from the woman’s hand, and examining it with cool and critical deliberation.

“No,” continued he, “it iss not mine, but very like one that I lost—so like that I felt sure at first it wass mine.”

Men who lie, usually overact their part. Duncan glanced suspiciously at Dan to see how he took the explanation as he returned the knife to Slowfoot, and Dan observed the glance, as being uncalled for—unnatural—in the circumstances.

Dan was by no means of a suspicious nature, nevertheless the glance haunted him for many a day after that. Suspicion once aroused is a ghost which is not easily laid. He tried to shake it off, and he carefully, loyally, kept it confined in his own breast; but, do what he would, he could not banish entirely from his mind that Duncan McKay—the brother of his Elspie—had some sort of guilty knowledge of the murder of poor Henri Perrin.

Chapter Thirteen.

Difficulties of Various Kinds overcome

When the bright warm days and cool starry nights of the Indian summer gave place to the sharp days and frosty nights of early winter—when young ice formed on the lakes and rendered canoeing impossible, and the ducks and geese had fled to warmer climes, and the Frost King had sent his first messengers of snow to cover the wilderness with a winding-sheet and herald his return to the Winter Palace—then it was that the banished Red River settlers began to feel the pinch of poverty and to understand the full extent of the calamity that had befallen them.

We have not space to follow them through all the details of that winter at Jack River. Some died, all suffered more or less; but they had to endure it, for escape from the country to the civilised world was even more difficult and hopeless than escape from the dreaded wilds of Siberia. The men hunted, fished under the ice, trapped, and sustained themselves and their families in life during the long, dreary winter; the only gain being that they became more or less expert at the Red-man’s work and ways of life.

Only two of the Indians remained with them to help them over their difficulties—namely, Okématan and Kateegoose, with their respective squaws. These last were invaluable as the makers of moccasins and duffle socks and leathern coats, without which existence in such a climate would have been impossible. They also imparted their knowledge in such matters to the squaws of the white men.

There was one friend, however, who did not remain with the settlers when things began to look dismal around them. This was the amiable, musical, story-telling La Certe. That tender-hearted man could not endure the sight of human distress. If he could not relieve it, he felt constrained to shut his eyes to it and to flee from it. At the first indication of the approach of winter he had come to old McKay with that peculiarly mild, humble, deprecatory expression of countenance with which he was wont to preface an appeal for assistance of some sort.

“What iss it you will be wantin’ now?” demanded the old man, rather testily, for he had an aversion to the half-breed’s sneaking ways. “Surely you will not be wantin’ more powder an’ shot efter the supply I gave you last week?”

O no! nothing could be further from the mind of La Certe. He had plenty of ammunition and provisions. He had only come to say that he was going back to—to—Red River.

“Weel, weel,” returned the Highlander, “there is no call for hesitation, man, in tellin’ me that. I will not be breakin’ my heart when ye are gone. I suppose that now ye hev got the best the season can supply, ye think the comforts o’ the Settlement will be more to your taste.”

The remonstrative expression on La Certe’s face deepened. The idea of his own taste or comfort had not once entered his head: but he had a wife and child whom he was bound to consider, and he had a hut—a home—in Red River which he felt constrained to look after. Besides, he had social duties of many kinds which claimed attention.

“I’ve no doubt ye hev,” said McKay, with a short sarcastic laugh, “an’ ye will attend to them too—I’ll be bound. But ye did not come here, I suppose, to take a tender farewell o’ me. What iss it you will be wantin’? Oot wi’ it, man!”

“There is a canoe—” said La Certe, with some hesitation.

“There iss many a canoe!” returned McKay with a peculiar grin.

“True, but there is one on the shore now, close to the flat rock which—”

“My own canoe!” interrupted the other, “what will ye be wantin’ wi’ that?”

La Certe did not wish to appear greedy, but the season was late, and his own canoe was not in a very fit condition to carry a family round the shores of a lake so large as Lake Winnipeg. Would the white father lend his canoe to him? It could not be wanted much longer that Fall, and the one he would leave behind him was an excellent canoe for ordinary fishing and hunting purposes. He would be quite willing to hire the canoe or to pay the full price for it if any accident should happen to it.

“No,” said McKay, firmly. “No, La Certe; your hiring means borrowing, and your payin’ means owin’ a debt for the remainder o’ your natural life. I will see you at the bottom o’ Lake Winnipeg before I will be lending you my canoe.”

La Certe smiled sadly, and gazed at the cap with which his hands played, as if appealing to it for sympathy.

With an aspect of the profoundest resignation he made his bow and left the Presence.

But La Certe was not in the least put out by this failure. He went to his tent, and recounted the interview to his squaw, who, when he entered, was in the act of giving her child, a creature of about four years of age, one or two draws of her pipe, to let it taste how nice it was.

Smoking in calm placidity, the amiable pair discussed the subject. The conclusion they came to was, as usual, harmonious.

“I think he will agree to lend it next time I go to him,” said La Certe, hopefully.

“He will give in,” replied Slowfoot, decidedly.

The four-year-old could not understand the subject, and made no comment; but it howled for another smoke, and got it.

La Certe was wrong, and his wife was right—as usual. Old McKay did not agree to “lend” his canoe the “next time,” or the next again, but he did “give in” at last, more, perhaps, to get rid of the half-breed’s importunity than because of good-will, and sold the canoe to him—on credit.

When that winter was over, the Hudson’s Bay Company again encouraged the settlers to return, under promise of protection, and the spring found the persevering people, in spite of all difficulties and previous failures, busy putting into the ground what little seed they possessed, and otherwise cultivating the soil.

Some of them there were, however, who, after lending a hand in this work, determined to provide second strings to their bows by following the buffalo-hunters to the plains. These were chiefly the young and strong men, such as Dan Davidson and his brother Peter, Fergus McKay, Antoine Dechamp, and Jacques Bourassin, among many others.

La Certe also went, as well as his squaw and the four-year-old. He managed the thing characteristically thus.

When the half-breeds were making preparations for their spring hunt, he paid a visit to Duncan McKay, who was busy at the time helping his father and brother to rebuild their house. Indeed the edifice was almost rebuilt, for the erection of small wooden houses does not usually take long.

“You’ve come to beg, borrow, or steal, no doubt,” said Cloudbrow, who was worthy of his nickname, for he was as short of temper as Duncan senior.

No, La Certe had come to do none of these things, he said, with a conciliatory smile.

“Well, then, you can’t have come to buy or to ask advances,” growled Duncan; “for you see that our store and all we possessed has been burnt by your precious countrymen.”

La Certe knew this, and professed himself profoundly grieved as well as indignant with his countrymen. No, he did not come to buy or to borrow, but to hire. The McKays had still some horses left, and carts. Could they not spare a horse and cart to him on hire?

“No, we can do nothing of the sort,” said Duncan shortly, resuming his axe and work. “You can go to the Company. Perhaps they will trust you—though they are fools if they do.”

La Certe was regretful, but not cast down. He changed the subject, commented on the building that was going on, the prospects of a good harvest, and finally took refuge in that stale old subject, the weather. Then he said in a casual way—as if it had just occurred to him—

“By the way—that knife that my wife got from Marie Blanc—”

Young McKay stopped, and looked quickly up for a moment, with a slight flush, but instantly resumed work.

“Well,” he said, quietly, “what about the knife?”

“Would you like to have it—my wife bade me inquire?”

“Why should I like to have it?” he asked carelessly.

“Oh! I thought it was yours,” said La Certe.

“You are mistaken. I said it was very like mine. But it is not mine—and I have no wish for what does not belong to me.”

“Of course not. Well, I must be going,” said the half-breed, preparing to leave. “I wished much to have your horse and cart, for they are both good, and I would offer you 4 pounds for the trip, which, you know, is double the usual charge, for I never grudge a good price for a good thing.”

“Yes, all the more when you hev no intention to pay it,” said McKay with a laugh. “However, since you seem so anxious, and offer so good a price, I am willing to oblige you this time, in the hope that you are really becoming an honest man!”

The half-breed was profuse in his thanks, and in his assurance that Cloudbrow’s hopes would certainly not be disappointed.

Having thus attained his chief object, our arch-beggar went off to obtain provisions. Those which had been supplied him the previous autumn by young McKay had been quite consumed by himself and his friends—for the man, you see, had a liberal heart and hand.

But his first attempts were unsuccessful. He wanted ammunition. To go to the plains without ammunition was obviously useless. He wanted food—sugar, tea, flour, pork. To go to the plains without these would be dreary work. But men knew La Certe’s character, and refused him. One after another he tried his friends. Then he tried them again. Then he tried comparative strangers. He could not try his enemies, for, strange to say, he had none. Then he went over them all again.

At last, by indomitable perseverance, he managed to wear out the patience of one of his friends, who believed in the restoration of the incorrigible, and he found himself fully equipped to take the field with his hard-working comrades.

It may be remarked here that the buffalo runners generally went on the credit system, trusting to a successful hunt to pay off their debts, and leave them supplied with food for the winter. But, then, most of these men were in earnest, and meant to pay off their debts loyally. Whereas La Certe—good, humorous, easy-going man—had not the slightest intention of paying his debts at all!

Chapter Fourteen.

Treachery in the Air

At this time the half-breeds of the colony of Red River formed a small party compared with the numbers to which they multiplied in after years, and the band of hunters who annually went to the plains to chase the buffalo was proportionally small. Nevertheless, they were numerous enough to constitute a formidable band, capable of holding their own, when united, against any band of wandering Indians who might feel disposed to attack them. They were a brave, hardy race of men, but of course there were some black sheep among them like La Certe.

About sixty or a hundred miles from the Settlement, the party, under command of Antoine Dechamp, found the buffalo, and preparations were at once made to attack them. It was dusk, however, when the herds were discovered, so that the hunt had to be postponed to the following day.

A small clump of bushes afforded wood enough for camp-fires. The carts were ranged in a circle with the trains outward. Sentries were posted; the horses were secured; the kettles put on; pipes lighted; and noise, laughter, song and story, mingled with the shrill voices of children, were heard far on into the night.

Among the children, if we may venture so to class them, were Archie and Billie Sinclair—though we suspect that Archie would have claimed, and with some reason, to be classed with the men. They belonged to the camp-fire, which formed a centre to the party composed of Dan and Peter, Fergus, Dechamp, and Fred Jenkins the sailor. The latter, who it was thought had come out to the country by way of a skylark rather than as a settler, had followed the hunters, bent, he said, on firing a broadside into a buffalo. He had brought with him a blunderbuss, which he averred had been used by his great-grandfather at the battle of Culloden. It was a formidable old weapon, capable of swallowing, at one gulp, several of the bullets which fitted the trading guns of the country. Its powers of scattering ordinary shot in large quantity had proved to be very effective, and had done such execution among flocks of wild-fowl, that the Indians and half-breeds, although at first inclined to laugh at it, were ultimately filled with respect.