The Buffalo Runners: A Tale of the Red River Plains

“Leetle Beel is not strong,” objected the Indian.

“True, but a trip o’ this sort will make him strong perhaps. Anyhow, it will make him stronger.”

“But for a sick boy there is danger,” said the chief. “If Arch-ee upsets his canoe in a rapid, Arch-ee swims on shore, but Leetle Beel goes to the bottom.”

“Not as long as Arch-ee is there to hold him up,” returned the boy.

“Waugh!” exclaimed the Indian.

“Humph!” remarked the boy. “What d’ye mean by ‘Waugh,’ Oké?”

“Okématan means much that it is not in the power of the tongue to tell,” replied the Indian with increasing gravity; and as the gravity increased the cloudlets from his lips became more voluminous.

“Arch-ee hopes, nevertheless, that the tongue of Oké may find power to tell him a little of what he thinks.”

This being in some degree indefinite, the chief smoked in silence for a minute or two, and gazed at Slowfoot with that dreamy air which one assumes when gazing into the depths of a suggestive fire. Apparently inspiration came at last—whether from Slowfoot or not we cannot tell—for he turned solemnly to the boy.

“Rain comes,” he said, “and when sick men get wet they grow sicker. Carrying-places come, and when sick men come to them they stagger and fall. Frost often comes in spring, and when sick men get cold they die. Waugh!”

“Humph!” repeated the boy again, with a solemnity quite equal to that of the Red-man.

“When rain comes I can put up an umbrella—an umbrella. D’you know what that is?”

The Indian shook his head.

“Well it’s a—a thing—a sort of little tent—a wigwam, you know, with a stick in the middle to hold on to and put it up. D’you understand?”

An expression of blank bewilderment, so to speak, settled on the chief’s visage, and the lights of intelligence went out one by one until he presented an appearance which all but put the boy’s gravity to flight.

“Well, well, it’s of no use my tryin’ to explain it,” he continued. “I’ll show it to you soon, and then you’ll understand.”

Intelligence began to return, and the chief looked gratified.

“What you call it?” he asked—for he was of an inquiring disposition— “a bum-rella?”

“No, no,” replied the other, seriously, “an umbrella. It’s a clever contrivance, as you shall see. So, you see, I can keep the rain off Little Bill when he’s in the canoe, and on shore there are the trees, and the canoe itself turned bottom up. Then, at carryin’ places, I can carry Little Bill as well as other things. He’s not heavy and doesn’t struggle, so we won’t leave him to stagger and fall. As to frost—have we not hatchets, and are there not dead trees in the forest? Frost and fire never walk in company, so that Little Bill won’t get cold and die, for we’ll keep him warm—waugh!”

When human beings are fond of each other disagreement seldom lasts long. Okématan had taken so strong a fancy to Archie that he felt it impossible to hold out; therefore, being a man of strong common sense, he did not attempt the impossible.

Thus it came to pass that, two days later, a couple of birch-bark canoes were launched on the waters of Red River, with Dan Davidson in the stern of one and Fergus McKay acting as his bowman. Okématan took the stern of the other, while Archie Sinclair wielded the bow-paddle, and Little Bill was placed in the middle on a comfortable green blanket with the celebrated “bum-rella” erected over him to keep off, not the rain, but, the too glorious sunshine.

Chapter Twenty One.
An Auspicious Beginning and Suspicious Ending

Let loose in the wilderness! How romantic, how inexpressibly delightful, that idea seems to some minds! Ay, even when the weight of years begins to stiffen the joints and slack the cords of life the memory of God’s great, wild, untrammelled, beautiful wilderness comes over the spirit like a refreshing dream and restores for a time something like the pulse of youth.

We sometimes think what a joy it would be if youth could pass through its blessings with the intelligent experience of age. And it may be that this is to be one of the joys of the future, when man, redeemed and delivered from sin by Jesus Christ, shall find that the memory of the sorrows, sufferings, weaknesses of the past shall add inconceivably to the joys of the present. It may be so. Judging from analogy it does not seem presumptuous to suppose and hope that it will be so.

“Sufficient unto the day,” however, is the joy thereof.

When the two canoes pushed off and swept rapidly over the fair bosom of Red River, the heart of Archie Sinclair bounded with a feeling of exultant joy which it would have been very hard indeed to convince him was capable of increase, while the bosom of his invalid brother was filled with a sort of calm serenity which constituted, in his opinion at the time being, a quite sufficient amount of felicity.

When we add that the other hunters were, in their several ways, pretty much in the same condition as the boys, we have said enough to justify the remark that their circumstances were inexpressibly delightful.

Proceeding some distance up stream they finally diverged into a minor tributary which led to waters that were swarming with water-fowl and other game.

“This is a grand burst, Little Bill,” said Archie, as he plied his paddle vigorously, and glanced over his shoulder at the invalid behind him.

“Prime!” answered Billie. “Isn’t it?” he added, with a backward glance at Okématan.

“Waugh!” replied the reticent savage.

“Ay, ‘Waugh!’ that’s all you’ll get out of him when he’s puzzled,” said Archie; “though what he means by it is more than I know. You must speak respectable English to a Red-skin if you want to convince him. Why, if he had understood you literally, you know—and obeyed you—he’d have had something to do immediately with the lock of his gun.”

“I have often wondered, Archie,” returned his brother with a languid smile, “what a lot you manage to say sometimes with nothing in it.”

“Ha! ha!—ho! ho! what a wag you’re becoming, Little Bill. But I thank ’ee for the compliment, for you know it’s only philosophers that can say an awful lot without a’most sayin’ anything at all. Look at Oké there, now, what a depth of stupidity lies behind his brown visage; what bucketsful of ignorance swell out his black pate, but he expresses it all in the single word ‘Waugh!’ because he’s a philosopher. If he was like La Certe, he’d jabber away to us by the hour of things he knows nothin’ about, and tell us long stories that are nothin’ less than big lies. I’m glad you think me a philosopher, Little Bill, for it takes all the philosophy I’ve got to keep me up to the scratch of goin’ about the world wi’ you on my back. Why, I’m a regular Sindbad the Sailor, only I’m saddled with a young man o’ the plains instead of an old man of the sea. D’ee understand what I’m saying, Oké?”

The chief, who understood little more than that his own name and that of La Certe were mentioned, nodded his head gravely and allowed the corners of his mouth to droop, which was his peculiar way of smiling—a smile that might have been unintelligible to his friends had it not been relieved and interpreted by a decided twinkle in his eyes.

While they were conversing, the two canoes had rounded a rocky point and swept out upon a lake-like expanse in the river, which was perfectly smooth and apparently currentless. Several islets studded its calm breast and were reflected in the clear water. These were wooded to the water’s edge, and from among the sedges near their margin several flocks of wild-fowl sprang up in alarm and went off in fluttering confusion.

It chanced that just then a trumpet-like note was heard overhead, as a flock of wild geese passed the spot and came suddenly close within range of the canoes which had been concealed from them by the bushes that fringed the river.

Guns were seized at once by the bowmen in each canoe, but Archie was smarter than Fergus. Before the Highlander had got the weapon well into his hands the boy fired and one of the flock fell into the river with a heavy plunge.

Little Bill signalised the successful shot with a high-toned cheer, and the Indian with a low-toned “Waugh,” while Fergus made a hurried and therefore bad, shot at the scared flock.

“That wass a fery good shot, Archie,” remarked Fergus, as the canoes ranged up alongside of the dead bird.

“Yours was a very good one, too, Fergus,” returned the boy; “only not quite straight.”

The smile on the face of Okématan proved that he understood the drift of the reply, and that this was the style of humour he appreciated so highly in his young friend. We civilised people may wonder a little at the simplicity of the savage, but when we reflect that the chief had been born and bred among the solemnities of the wilderness, and had been up to that time wholly unacquainted with the humours and pleasantries that sometimes accompany juvenile “cheek,” our wonder may perhaps be subdued.

“This would be a splendid place to camp for the rest of the day,” suggested Davidson, while they rested on their paddles after the goose had been secured. “We must lay in a small stock of fresh provisions, you know, if we are to push on to-morrow or next day to our hunting ground. What say you, Okématan?” he added in Cree, turning to their guide.

“The will of the Paleface chief is the wish of Okématan. Let him speak.”

“Well, then, I vote for encamping on the small island over there, in the middle o’ the lake—for it’s far more like a lake than a river hereabouts—that one over which the hawk is hovering.”

“I vote for it too,” said Archie.

“So do I,” chimed in Little Bill.

“I will be sayin’ ditto to that,” put in Fergus.

“Moreover,” suggested Dan, “I vote for roasting the goose at once.”

“Ay, and eating him right away,” said Archie. As the invalid followed this up with a feeble cheer, the proposal was carried into effect without delay.

The islet was low and flat, and so thickly covered with bush that it afforded a most enticing spot for a night-encampment. There was also plenty of dead wood on it, with which to replenish the fire, and various peeps through sundry openings afforded exquisite views of woodland and river with which to charm the eyes. Over all, the sun was pouring his noontide rays in a glorious flood.

We need not waste time in going into the details of the feast that followed: how the goose was delightfully plump and tender—especially tender to teeth that would have scarcely observed the difference if it had been tough—how, in addition to the goose, they had wild-ducks enough—shot earlier in the day—to afford each one a duck to himself, leaving a brace over, of which Okématan ate one, as well as his share of the goose, and seemed to wish that he might eat the other, but he didn’t, for he restrained himself; how they drank tea with as much gusto and intemperance as if it had been a modern “afternoon”; and how, after all was over, the Red-man filled the pipe-head on the back of his iron tomahawk and began to smoke with the air of a man who meant business and regarded all that had gone before as mere child’s-play.

The afternoon was well advanced when the feast was concluded, for appetites in the wilderness are not easily or soon satisfied.

“I feel tight,” said Billie with a sigh and something of pathos in his tone, when he at last laid down his knife—we cannot add fork, for they scorned such implements at that time.

“That’s right, Little Bill,” said Archie, “try another leg or wing—now, don’t shake your head. We’ve come on this trip a-purpose to make you fat an’ strong. So you must—here, try this drum-stick. It’s only a little one, like yourself, Billie.”

“True, Archie, but I’m too little to hold it. I feel like an egg now.”

“Hallo! Oké, are you overcome already?” asked Archie.

“The sun sinks to rest at night and the birds go to sleep. If we intend to hunt we must begin now.”

“It’s always the way,” returned the boy with an air of discontent; “whenever a fellow gets into a state of extreme jollity there’s sure to be something bothersome to come and interrupt us. Obfusticate your faculties with some more smoke, Oké, till Billie and I finish our tea. We can’t shoot with half-empty stomachs, you know.”

“They must be three-quarters full by this time—whatever,” remarked Fergus, wiping his clasp-knife on the grass.

Just then, Dan Davidson, who had gone to explore the islet, returned with the information that some hunters must have recently visited the same place, for he had discovered the remains of an encampment at the extreme eastern side, which looked as if it had been recently occupied, for bones of wild-fowl were scattered about, the meat on which was neither dried nor decayed.

On hearing this, Okématan rose quickly, put out his pipe, and stuck the tomahawk in his belt. The sluggish good-natured air of contentment with which he had been smoking vanished; the half-sleepy eyes opened, and a frown rested on his brow as he said, shortly—

“Okématan goes to look.”

“May I go with you?” asked Dan.

“No. Okématan goes alone. It is known that a band of Saulteaux have been seen. They are roused just now by the actions of the great white chief and the words of my Nation. Rest here till I come. Go on eating. If they are here they may be watching us now.”

“D’ee hear that, Little Bill? You’ve got to go on eating,” said Archie. “Our guide commands it. If you disobey, the rascally Saulteaux will come down upon us somehow.”

But Archie’s light-heartedness was not shared by his older companions. They knew too well that the disturbed state of the country at the time, and especially the ill-will engendered between the Crees and Saulteaux by the ill-advised action of Lord Selkirk’s agents, rendered an explosion not improbable at any time, and a certain feeling of disappointment came over them when they reflected that the hunting expedition, which they had entered on with so much enthusiastic hope, might perhaps be brought to an abrupt close.

“If there’s to be any fighting I shall only be in your way,” said the invalid in a tone in which there was much of sadness, though none of fear.

“Not a bit of it, Little Bill,” returned Dan, quickly. “You’ll be in nobody’s way in the canoes. You’re as light as a feather. If we had even to take to the bush, Archie could run with you; an’ when he gets tired, Fergus and I would think no more o’ you than a grasshopper.”

“Iss it carryin’ him you will be taalkin’ of?” said Fergus. “Ay, ay! I would be forgettin’ that he wass on my back if I had him there.”

As he spoke, the Indian returned to the camp with the cat-like tread so characteristic of the Red-man.

“A big band has been here,” he said. “They slept on the island last night, and the signs show that they do not come as friends.”

“Are you sure of that?” asked Dan.

“Okématan is sure of nothing. Even the sun may not rise to-morrow.”

“Had we not better, then, return at once to the Settlement, and tell what we have seen?” said Dan.

“If we did, the Saulteaux would see us and give chase. Their canoes are big and have strong men in them. They would overtake us soon and our scalps would be swinging at their belts to-morrow.”

“Not pleesant to think of—whatever,” said Fergus.

“What, then, do you advise?” asked Dan. “You understand the ways of the wilderness, and we will follow your lead.”

The chief appeared to think for a few moments.

“We will remain where we are,” he said; “only we will send the boys off in one of the canoes, as if to shoot some ducks for us. The Saulteaux will think that we are lazy, idle men, who like to lie in camp and sleep or smoke while the boys hunt for us. When night comes we will escape in the dark and go down the river to warn the settlers.”

“But what if they attack us before night comes on?” asked Dan.

“They will not do that,” answered the Indian, gravely. “They know that we are well supplied with powder and shot. They know that some one must lead in every attack, and that such leaders would be doomed to death. Saulteaux do not love death. They prefer life. They will not come till it is dark.”

“Ha! ha!” laughed Fergus, who seemed greatly tickled with the latter part of the chief’s observation, “fery goot! ho! fery goot!—they do not love death, an’ it iss life they will be preferrin’. Ay, ay! It iss the Heelandman that will be of much the same opeenion, only, when fightin’ hes got to be done, he’s not afraid to do it in daylight.”

“He may not be afraid, Fergus,” said Dan, “yet I suspect that the Red-man’s tactics are often the wisest, for what would be the use of making an attack in daylight, at the cost of several lives, when the attack might be made quite as well, if not better, at night, without the loss, perhaps, of any life at all?”

“I will not be sayin’,” returned Fergus, who was of an argumentative disposition, “anything at all about attackin’ by day or by night. I will only be remarkin’ that the Heelandman iss like the savitch in that he prefers life to death.”

“Come along to the fire, Fergus,” said Dan, laughing; “I will argue that out with you.”

“It will be difficult to argue, then, for there iss no argument in it at all. It is only a statement of opeenion.”

“Well, but surely it is possible to controvert your opinion! Besides, we are somewhat exposed where we stand. Even an arrow might reach us from the near bank.”

“Never you fear, Tan. They will not be so foolish as to fire now, instead of attack at night. They are sly—whatever.”

While the two friends were thus conversing, the Cree chief was arranging the smaller of the canoes for the use of the young hunters—that is, he took out all the lading, making it so light that it would skim over the water like an egg-shell with the slightest impulse of the paddle.

“You’ll have to put a big stone in the stern, Oké,” said Archie, “to make up for Little Bill’s lightness—”

“For your heaviness, you mean,” interrupted the invalid.

“No; I mean what I say, Billie, for you are light-headed as well as light-hearted—a sort o’ human balloon, ready to go up like a rocket at any time—so that even an or’nary man like me weighs you down. Besides, Oké, he steers better than me and I shoot better than him. Also, I like the hardest work, so I always take the bow.”

Arranging things according to directions, the Indian held the canoe steady while the brothers stepped carefully in—for they had learned from experience that the birch-bark canoe, besides being easily broken, is apt to overturn on small provocation.

“Let not Arch-ee go near the river-bank on either side,” said the chief in a warning voice, as he was about to shove the frail bark out upon the glassy water. “The Saulteaux might catch him. And let him not go far up or down stream. Let him keep among the reeds round the island. There are many ducks there. Shoot plenty, as if Arch-ee had no suspicion—no fear of Indians.”

“I say, Oké,” demanded the lad, with what was meant for an overwhelming frown, “do you mean to hint that I have any fear of the Indians?”

“Okématan has the belief that Arch-ee never knew fear at all,” returned the chief, earnestly; “that he has the courage of the young buffalo-bull.”

“Well, I’m not quite so sure o’ that,” returned the boy, with a modest look. “I would not myself put it quite so strong, you know. But you’re a wise chief, and I hope you’ve got a lot of brothers as wise as yourself. Good-bye, Oké—shove off. Now, then, mind how you steer, Little Bill.”

Chapter Twenty Two.
Circumventing the Red-Skins

For some time the brothers paddled about the sedgy shore of the small islet on which the camp had been pitched, now setting up a flock of ducks and then slipping into the heart of some reeds and concealing themselves until a good chance was obtained at a passing flock of geese.

Archie Sinclair soon laid in enough provision to serve the party for a few meals, for his hand was steady and his eye true.

“Little Bill,” he said, looking back after one of his successful shots, “you must take a shot now. We will go right-about-face, and convert the bow into the stern in the usual way. See, catch hold of the gun.”

“No, Arch-ee, as Oké calls you, I won’t; I’m quite content to look on, for your gun kicks like a Mexican mule. Besides, it’s easy work to steer, and seeing you panting and toiling in the bow makes it seem all the easier. Just you keep blazin’ away, old man. But, I say, where shall I steer to now? I’m tired o’ steering among the reeds. Let us push out into the clear water.”

“You heard what Oké said,” objected Archie; “we must keep well clear o’ both shores.”

“I know that,” returned Billie, “but he did not forbid us to try the reeds round the other islands; there’s a much bigger one, not a quarter of a mile up stream. I think there are some beautiful sedges there where geese are likely to live. I’m sure I would choose to live in such a place if I was a goose.”

“O! then, we must go, Little Bill, for I think it would be hard to keep any one out of his native home.”

So saying, he dipped his paddle with vigour, and the light bark shot swiftly over the glancing water.

The sun was beginning to descend towards the western horizon when they drew near to the island, and several flocks of water-fowl had already sprung alarmed from the reeds, when Archie caught sight of a black-and-red-painted visage peering at him from among the bushes.

The boy’s heart seemed to bound into his throat and his first impulse was to turn the canoe and fly, but Archie’s mind was quicker even than his hand or eye. All he had ever heard or read of the cool stoicism of the Red-man seemed to flash across his memory, and, with a violent effort, he crushed back the shout that rose to his lips. He could not indeed suppress the look of sudden surprise that swept across his expressive face, but he cleverly adapted it to circumstances.

“Look, look! Little Bill,” he exclaimed, eagerly, pointing right over the Indian’s head at a flock of geese that opportunely appeared at the moment in the far distance. “Crouch, Bill, lie low, I’ll call them. Steer a little more to the left and keep her so.”

Thereupon he began a vociferous imitation of the sounds with which Indians are wont to call to geese that may chance to be flying past at a distance. The obedient Billie steered as directed, and thus the canoe was slowly sheered off a little from the shore. It was cleverly done. Whether the savage was deceived or not we cannot tell, but he showed no sign of intention to move or act, though he was within easy range of the boys.

“Little Bill,” said Archie, in a low voice, such as one might use when anxious not to alarm game, “can you do what you’re bid at once and exactly?”

“I can try,” was the quiet answer.

“Well, then, try your best, Little Bill; for our lives may depend on our action now. Keep your eyes fixed on that flock o’ geese as long as they’re in sight. Don’t look at the shore, whatever I do or say. Look at anything you like, but not at the shore. There’s a Red-skin there. I’ve seen him, though he thinks I haven’t. Now, steer right round and go back the way we have just come, only keep always edging a little off-shore.”

As he said this Archie raised himself from his crouching attitude, laid down his gun and resumed his paddle, and in his ordinary free-and-easy tones exclaimed—

“We’ve lost that chance, Little Bill—more’s the pity.”

“Never mind,” answered Billie in the same tone, being resolved to act his part well, “there’s lot’s more where these came from. Better luck next time. Where away now?”

“Keep her just as you go, you’re far enough out now. We should start some ducks here.”

Thus speaking, and with the air of a leisurely man enjoying himself—with infinite contentment on his ruddy countenance, and with much concern in his agitated soul—Archie took the canoe straight past the very spot where the Indian lay concealed. He felt that audacity was the safest line of action, for he knew that if the savage meant mischief, to pretend absolute ignorance of his existence would be less likely to draw a shot than sudden flight—which, however swiftly carried out, could by no means equal the flight of a bullet. Besides, it was of the utmost importance that he should reach the encampment and report what he had seen without the Indian becoming aware that he had been discovered.

In order to effect his purpose, he not only repassed the hiding-place of the savage but actually shot and picked up another duck while still within range of the enemy’s gun. Then he directed his brother to steer still more off the island, but very slowly.

“We’re in no hurry, you see, Little Bill; you haven’t looked at the shore, I hope?”

“Never once.”

“Ha! ha!” laughed Archie in high glee at the success of this his first experiment in backwoods warfare; “you’re a trump, Little Bill!”

“I’d rather be a trump than a trumpet, Archie. If there are more Red-skins about, laughing like that will be sure to rouse them.”

“Never fear, Billie, my boy. You do as I tell ’ee. We must keep up the game a bit longer yet. It won’t do to hurry back till the sun is lower, so we’ll go over to that small island there an’ have a try for another duck. There’s sure to be nobody on such a small island as that. Afterwards we’ll drop down in an off-hand, idle-like way to the encampment. It’ll be natural to do this when the evenin’s beginning to set in, an’ so we’ll stump them Red-skins at their own game. D’ee understand?”

“Yes. You’re a clever chap, Archie.”

In pursuance of this deeply laid plan, the brothers crossed over to the small islet referred to, and, after apparently amusing themselves there for a short time, dropped down stream in a leisurely way, reaching the encampment before the evening had fairly set in.

A council of war was immediately held.

“You were right in your guess, Okématan,” said Davidson. “The reptiles will be down on us to-night no doubt. What course does the Cree chief advise?”

“Okématan advises that the kettle be boiled, the duck roasted, and a good big supper eaten.”

“It iss fery pleasant advice, no doubt,” said Fergus with a broad and rather sarcastic grin, “but it iss not warlike!”

“It seems not a bad preparation for war, anyhow,” said Dan; “and what after that?”

“The two boys will sleep and rest while food is preparing,” continued the chief. “The moon will set before we have done eating, and it will be very dark. The Saulteaux will not attack while the light lasts. When it is quite dark we will go.”

“If we fix to leave and they chance to attack at the same time, it iss meetin’ them we will be, Okématan,” said Fergus.

To this remark the Indian vouchsafed no reply.

“Well, well, Muster Okématan, it iss your own business; you will know best yourself. I will see to stowin’ away my supper—whatever.”

By the time supper was over, the moon had descended into a bank of black clouds on the horizon, and profound darkness brooded over land and water. It was a night such as an attacking party would hail as being most suitable for its work, and of course was proportionately unsuitable for the attacked. The Indian chief displayed no more concern about it than if nothing unusual were pending. After supper, however, he directed that the canoes should be launched and loaded. At the same time he gathered together as much wood as he could, and heaped it on the fire.

“You seem determined to give them plenty of light to do their work,” remarked Davidson.

“They will wait till our fire burns low,” said the chief. “By that time they will think we are asleep. A sleeping foe is not dangerous. They will come—slowly; step by step; with wide eyes glancing from side to side, and no noise, sly as foxes; timid as squaws! But by that time we will be far on our way back to Red River!”

“Ay—if we do not meet them comin’ to attack us,” said Fergus.

“And how shall we proceed!” asked Dan.

“As we came,” answered the chief. “Okématan, with the two boys, will lead. Dan-ell an’ Fergus will follow. Come.”

Led by their guide, the party passed out of the firelight into the dense thicket by which the spot was encompassed almost completely, so that the only visible sign of the encampment from outside was the forks of flame and sparks which rose high above the bushes.

On reaching the shore they found the two boys holding the canoes, close to the land. So intense was the darkness that they could not see the boys or canoes at all till close beside them. Without uttering a word, or making a sound with their moccasined feet, they stepped into the canoes, pushed gently off and glided, ghost-like, into the vast obscurity.