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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.

“I doubt its capacity for sending ball straight, however,” remarked Dan to Jenkins, who was carefully cleaning out the piece, “especially if charged with more than one ball.”

“No fear of it,” returned the sailor, with a confident air. “Of course it scattered the balls about six yards apart the only time I tried it with a lot of ’em, but that was at fifty yards off, an’ they tell me that you a’most ram the muzzle against the brutes’ sides when chasin’ buffalo. So there’s no room to scatter, d’ee see, till they get inside their bodies, and when there it don’t matter how much they scatter.”

“It’s well named a young cannon by La Certe,” said Peter Davidson, who, like the seaman, was out on his first buffalo-hunt. “I never heard such a roar as it gave that time you brought down ten out of one flock of ducks on the way up here.”

“Ay, Peter, she barked well that time,” remarked the sailor, with a grin, “but, then there was a reason. I had double-shotted her by mistake.”

“An’ ye did it too without an aim, for you had both eyes tight shut at the time,” remarked Fergus. “Iss that the way they teach ye to shoot at sea?”

“In course it is,” replied Jenkins, gravely. “That’s the beauty o’ the blunderbuss. There’s no chance o’ missin’, so what ’ud be the use o’ keepin’ yer eyes open, excep’ to get ’em filled wi’ smoke. You’ve on’y got to point straight, an’ blaze away.”

“I did not know that you use the blunderbuss in your ships at all,” said Dechamp, with a look of assumed simplicity.

“Ho yes, they do,” said Jenkins, squinting down the bell-mouthed barrel, as if to see that the touch-hole was clear. “Aboard o’ one man-o’-war that I sailed in after pirates in the China seas, we had a blunderbuss company. The first-leftenant, who was thought to be queer in his head, he got it up.

“The first time the company was ranged along the deck he gave the order to load with ball cartridges. There was twenty-six of us, all told.

“‘We’ve got no cartridges for ’em, sir,’ whispered the man nearest him.

“‘If you don’t obey orders,’ growled the leftenant ’tween his teeth, ‘I’ll have ye strung up for mutiny every man Jack of you—load!’ he repeated in a kind of a yell.

“We had our or’nary belts and pouches on, so we out wi’ the or’nary cartridges—some three, some four,—an’, biting off the ends, poured in the powder somehow, shoved in the balls anyhow, an’ rammed the whole consarn down.

“‘Present—fire!’ roared the leftenant.

“Bang! went the six an’ twenty blunderbusses, an’ when the smoke cleared away there was fourteen out o’ the twenty-six men flat on their backs. The rest o’ us was raither stunned, but hearty.

“‘Take these men below,’ cried the leftenant, ‘an’ send fourteen strong men here. We don’t want weaklings for this company.’

“After that we loaded in moderation, an’ got on better.”

“And the pirates—what did they think o’ the new weapon?” asked Peter Davidson, with an amused expression.

“O! they couldn’t stand it at all,” answered the sailor, looking up from his work, with a solemnity that was quite impressive. “They stood fire only once. After that they sheered off like wild-cats. I say, Mistress La Certe, how long is that lobscouse—or whatever you call it,—goin’ to be in cookin’?” Slowfoot gave vent to a sweet, low giggle, as she lifted the kettle off the hook, and thus gave a practical answer to the question. She placed before him the robbiboo, or pemmican, soup, which the seaman had so grievously misnamed.

During the time that the hunters were appeasing their appetites, it was observed that Antoine Dechamp, the leader of the expedition, was unusually silent and thoughtful, and that he betrayed a slight look of anxiety. It therefore did not surprise Dan Davidson, when the supper was nearly ended, that Dechamp should rise and leave the fire after giving him a look which was a silent but obvious invitation to follow.

Dan obeyed at once, and his leader, conducting him between the various camp-fires, led him outside the circle of carts.

A clear moon lit up the prairie all round, so that they could see its undulating sweep in every direction.

“Anything wrong, Antoine?” asked Dan in a low voice, when they were out of earshot of the camp.

“Nothing wrong, Dan.”

“Surely,” continued the other, while Dechamp paused as if in perplexity, “surely there can be no chance of Red-skins troubling us on a clear night like this. I can distinguish every bush for miles around.”

“There is no fear o’ Red-skins. No, I am not troubled about them. It is matters concerning yourself that trouble me.”

“How’s that? What do you mean, Antoine?”

“Is your brother-in-law-to-be, Duncan McKay, coming to join us this spring?” asked Dechamp.

“I believe he is—after he has helped his father a bit longer wi’ the farm. Why do you ask?”

“Well, to say truth, I can’t give you a very good reason for my bein’ anxious. Only I can’t help havin’ my ears open, and I’ve heard some talk among the lads that makes me fear for the young man. They say, or hint, that he knows more about the murder o’ poor Perrin than he chooses to tell. I’ve not been quite able to find out what makes them suspect him, but they do suspect him, an’ it would be well to warn him not to come here, for you know there are many opportunities to commit murder on a buffalo-hunt!”

The incident of the knife, and of Duncan McKay’s significant glance, at once flashed across Davidson’s mind, and he felt a terrible sinking of the heart when the suspicion, once before roused within him, seemed now to be confirmed. He resolved, however, to reveal his thoughts to no one—specially not to Elspie.

“I think it a shame,” he said, “that men should allow such rumours to circulate, when nothing certain has arisen to rouse suspicion. That affair of the knife was clearly explained when young McKay declared that it was not his, though it looked like it. If he knew anything about the murder, would he not have been certain to have told us long ago? And, surely, you cannot suppose that Duncan killed Perrin with his own hand? Speak, Dechamp! Why do you shake your head?”

“I know nothing,” returned the leader. “What right have I to suppose anything? I only know that men’s deeds are often mysterious and unaccountable, and that our men have strong suspicion. For myself, I have no opinion. Duncan McKay is probably innocent, for he and Perrin were not enemies. I hope he is so, but I advise you to stop his coming to the camp just now if you can. His life may depend on it.”

“I cannot stop him,” returned Dan, with a perplexed look. “He is headstrong, as you know, and if he has made up his mind to come, nothing will stop him.”

“Perhaps if he knew his life would be in danger—that might stop him.”

“I doubt it; but I will give him the chance. I will ride back to Red River without delay, and warn him.”

“Good. When will you start?”

“To-night. The moon is clear and will not set till morning. I shall be well on my way by that time.”

“Will you ride alone?”

“No, there may be bad Indians about. I will ask Okématan or Fergus McKay to ride with me. Why did you not speak to Fergus instead of to me?”

“Because he has not been spoken to by any one,” answered Dechamp; “and I would not be the first to put suspicion into his head about his own brother. Besides, your head is clearer; and your interest in Duncan, for Elspie’s sake, is greater than his, no doubt.”

“Well, you may be right, Antoine. At all events if I take Fergus with me I shall send him back before reaching the Settlement, and say nothing whatever about my reason for going there. ‘Pressing business,’ you know, will be sufficient.”

“I’m not so sure of that,” returned Dechamp with a laugh. “Men are apt to want to know the nature of ‘pressing business.’ However, it may be as well to take Fergus. At any rate you cannot have Okématan, for he is not in camp, he left soon after we pitched, and I know has not yet returned.”

“It matters not. Fergus will do better. He is more companionable.”

Returning to camp, Dan Davidson made the proposal to Fergus McKay. That worthy was, as he said, ready for anything, and the two were soon mounted. They were also well armed, for the risk of meeting a party of hostile Indians was not altogether out of the question, though improbable. Each horseman carried his blanket and provision wallet, his gun, a long knife almost equal to an ancient Roman sword, and a cavalry pistol—revolvers not having been invented at that time: at least they had not come into general use. Thus provided for all contingencies, they set forth.

As we have said, the night was clear and fine, so that the plains were open to view in all directions, save where a few scattered clumps of willows and small trees grew like islets in the ocean.

“It iss this that I like better than farming,” said Fergus, as the fresh horses carried them swiftly and lightly over the prairie waves, and down into the grassy hollows, now swerving to avoid a badger-hole, or clearing a small shrub with a little bound. “I do think that man wass intended to live in the wilderness, an’ not to coop himself up in the cities like rabbits in their holes.”

“Why, Fergus, you should have been born a savage,” said Dan.

“Ay, it iss savitch I am that I wass not born a savitch,” returned Fergus with a grim smile. “What in all the world iss the use of ceevilisation if it will not make people happy? A man wants nothing more than a goot supper an’ a goot bed, an’ a goot shelter over him, an’ it is a not five hunderd pound a year that we will want to buy that—whatever.”

“But surely man wants a little more than that, Fergus. He wants breakfast and dinner usually, as well as supper, and a few comforts besides, such as tea and sugar—at least the women do—besides pipes an’ baccy—to say nothing of books.”

“Oo ay, I will not be denyin’ that. But we’ve no need for wan half the luxuries o’ ceevilisation. An’ ye know ferry weel, Tan, that my sister Elspie would be content to live wi’ you in a ferry small hoose, and the bare necessaries of life, but here you are forced to put off the merritch because our hooses wass burnt, and you are obleeged to wait till you get a sort o’ palace built, I suppose, and a grand farm set a-goin’.”

“Indeed, Fergus, you touch me on a sore point there, but with all your scorn of luxury, I’m sure you’d be the last man to let his sister marry a fellow who could take her only to a hut or a wigwam.”

“You are right, Tan. Yet I hev spent many a comfortable night in a hut an’ a wigwam since I came to Red River. I wish the place wass more peaceable.”

“It will never be more peaceable as long as there are two rival companies fighting for the furs,” said Davidson; “but there’s worse than that goin’ on, for some of the Indians, it seems, are mad at the agreement made between them and Lord Selkirk.”

“Wow! that iss a peety. Where heard ye that?”

“I heard it from La Certe, whose wife Slowfoot, you know, is a Cree Indian. It seems that the Crees have always claimed Red River as their lands; but when Lord Selkirk came to make a treaty with the natives he found some Saulteaux livin’ on the soil, an’ his lordship, in ignorance, gave them an interest in the treaty, though they were mere visitors—an’ indeed don’t even claim to be owners of the soil—their lands lying far to the east of Red River.”

“Well,” continued Dan, guiding his horse carefully down the next hollow, for the moon had gone behind a cloud just then, “when the Crees found out what had been done, they were naturally very angry—an’ I don’t wonder—an’ they threaten now to expel the Saulteaux from Red River altogether, an’ the white men along wi’ them, unless the names of the Saulteaux chiefs are wiped out o’ the contract, an’ the annual payment made to the Crees alone.”

“That iss bad, Taniel, ferry bad,” said Fergus, as they reached the bottom of the hollow and began to ascend the succeeding undulation, “an’ I am all the more sorry to hear it because our goot frund Okématan is a Cree.”

“Ay, Fergus, he is a great chief of the Crees, and a man of considerable influence among his people. I should not like to have him for an enemy.”

“Stop!” said Fergus in a whisper at that moment, laying his hand on Davidson’s arm.

Dan drew rein at once and looked at his friend, but could not clearly see his face, for the moon was still behind thick drifting clouds.

They had just risen high enough on the prairie wave, which they had been ascending, to be able to see over it, and Dan could perceive by the outstretched neck of his companion that he was gazing intently at something directly in front.

“What do you see, Fergus?” he asked in a low voice.

“Do you see nothin’, Taniel?” was the Highlander’s reply.

“Why, yes. I see the plains stretching away to the horizon—an’ dark enough they are, too, at this moment. I also see a few small clumps that look like bushes here an’ there.”

“Don’t you see the clump that’s nearest to you—right foment your nose?” said the other.

“Of course I do,” and he stopped abruptly, for at that moment he saw a spark in the clump referred to—a spark so small that it might have been taken for a glow-worm, had such a creature existed there.

“Savitches!” whispered the Highlander. “Let’s get into the hollow as fast as we can.”

This retrograde movement was soon effected, and the friends dismounted.

“Now, Fergus, what’s the best thing to be done?”

“I will be leavin’ that to you, Taniel, for you’ve a clearer head than mine.”

“We dare not ride forward,” said Dan, as if communing with himself, “an’ it would be foolish to make a long détour to escape from something until we know there is something worth escaping from. My notion is that we hobble or picket our horses here, and go cautiously forward on foot to see what it is.”

“You’ll be doin’ what ye think best, Captain Taniel, an’ you will find that private Fergus will back you up—whatever.”

This being settled, the two men picketed their steeds in the hollow, fastened their guns to the saddles, as being too cumbrous for a creeping advance, and, armed only with their long knives and pistols, reascended the prairie wave. With feet clothed in soft moccasin, and practised by that time in the art of stealthy tread, they moved towards the summit noiseless as ghosts.

On gaining the ridge they sank slowly down into the tall grass and disappeared.

After a prolonged and somewhat painful creep on hands and knees the two men reached the edge of the clump of bushes already referred to.

Before reaching it they discovered, from the sound of voices, that a party of some kind was encamped there; but, of course, as they knew not who, it became needful to proceed with extreme caution. When they gained the edge of the clump, and raised their heads over a low bush-covered bank, they beheld a sight which was not calculated to cheer them, for there, in the centre of the bush, encircling a very small fire, sat a war-party of about fifty painted and befeathered braves of the Cree Indians. They were engaged in council at the moment.

A creeping sensation about their scalps was experienced by the two eavesdroppers on observing that they had passed not a hundred yards from a sentinel who occupied a low knoll on their left.

Neither Dan nor Fergus dared to speak—not even to whisper. Still less did they dare to move; for a few moments after they reached the bank just referred to, the moon came out from behind the clouds and flooded the whole scene as with the light of day.

There was nothing left for it, therefore, except to lie still and listen. But this gave them small comfort; for, although quite within earshot of the war-party, the language spoken was utterly unintelligible to either of them.

Their eyes, however, were not so useless as their ears, for they could clearly see each warrior as he rose to harangue his comrades, and, from the vindictive expression of their faces as well as their frequent pointing in the direction of the buffalo-hunters it was abundantly evident that an attack upon them was being discussed.

At last, after many braves had spoken, a chief of tall and noble mien arose. His back was towards the two spies, but the moment they heard his voice they turned their heads and gazed at each other in speechless amazement, for the voice was quite familiar.

No word did they dare to utter, but Fergus made formations with his lips of a most extravagant nature, which, however, clearly spelt “Okématan.” When he had finished, he nodded and turned his gaze again on the Crees.

Both men now understood that treachery was in the wind, and that a night attack was highly probable; and, of course, they felt desperately anxious to jump up and fly back to the camp to warn their comrades—for their only fear was a surprise. The half-breeds being far more numerous than the Indians, and well entrenched, there could be no fear for them if prepared.

Just then, as if to favour them, the moon retired behind a huge black cloud.

Without a moment’s hesitation Dan began to creep away back, closely followed by Fergus. They gave a wide berth of course to the sentinel, and soon regained the hollow where the horses had been left. Here they breathed more freely.

“Who would have thought this of Okématan?” muttered Dan, as he hastily tightened his saddle-girths.

“The rascal!” exclaimed Fergus, in deep tones of indignation.

“You must gallop back to camp at once, Fergus,” said Dan, as they mounted. “I will go on to Red River alone.”

“What! will you not be coming with me?” asked the Highlander, in some surprise.

“There is no need, for there will be no fighting,” returned the other. “Our fellows far outnumber the Red-skins, and when the latter find that we have been warned, and are on our guard, they won’t attack us, depend on it. But you’ll have to ride fast, for when such fellows make up their minds to strike they don’t usually waste time in delivering the blow. My business presses, I must go on.”