The Buffalo Runners: A Tale of the Red River Plains, R. M. Ballantyne [most recommended books .txt] 📗
- Author: R. M. Ballantyne
Book online «The Buffalo Runners: A Tale of the Red River Plains, R. M. Ballantyne [most recommended books .txt] 📗». Author R. M. Ballantyne
“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.”
A minute later, and Dan Davidson was galloping towards the Settlement alone, while Fergus made the best of his way back to the camp of the buffalo runners.
Whether or not Okématan was as thorough a rascal as Fergus McKay thought him will be best shown by harking back, and setting down a little of what was said by some of the Cree braves at the time that Fergus and Dan were eavesdropping.
Standing in a dignified attitude worthy of an ancient Roman, with his blanket thrown toga-fashion over one shoulder, one of the braves looked round on the warrior band with a dark scowl before he began. His comrades were evidently impressed by his looks. Whether owing to a freak of fancy, a spice of eccentricity, or simple vanity, we know not, but this brave had, among other ornamental touches to his visage, painted his nose bright red. The effect on his brother braves was solemnising. It was not so impressive to his white observers, as it suggested to them the civilised toper.
“The great white chief,” began Rednose, with a slow deliberation that was meant to convey a settled and unalterable conviction, “is a fool!”
“Waugh!” exclaimed the audience with emphasis, for the language was strong, and uttered with intense vigour, and that quite accorded with their tastes, so they agreed with the sentiment without regard to its signification. This species of rhetoric, and its effects, are sometimes observed in connection with civilised gatherings.
The great white chief thus irreverently referred to, we regret to say, was Lord Selkirk.
“The great white chief,” continued Rednose, availing himself of the force of emphatic repetition, “is a fool! He is a child! He knows nothing! He comes across the great salt lake from the rising sun, with the air and aspect of an owl, thinking to teach us—the great Cree nation—wisdom!”
“Waugh!” from the audience, one of whom, having a cold in his head, sneezed inadvertently, and was scowled at by the orator for full two minutes in absolute silence. If that Cree warrior—he was on his first war-path—possessed anything akin to the feelings of the Paleface he must have suffered martyrdom.
“Every one knows,” continued the orator, resuming, “that the Crees are wise. They can tell a fox from a buffalo. They understand the difference between fire and water. No Paleface sage needs to come from the rising sun to tell them to eat when they are hungry—to drink when they are dry. But this Paleface chief comes with the eyes of the great northern owl, and says he comes to do us good. And how does he begin to do us good?”
Here there was a very decided “Waugh!” as though to say, “Ay, that’s the question,” and then a solemn pause for more—during which the man with the cold drew the reins very tight.
“How does he begin to do us good?” proceeded the orator. “By entering into an agreement with us for the use of our lands—and asking our enemies the Saulteaux to take part in that agreement!”
The sounds of indignation and ferocity that followed this statement are not translatable. After a gaze of unutterable meaning round the circle Rednose went on—
“This, this is the way in which the owl-eyed chief of the Palefaces begins to do us good! If this is the way he begins, in what way will he continue, and,”—here his voice deepened to a whisper—“how will he end?”
The ideas suggested by his question were so appalling that for some minutes the orator appeared unable to find words to go on, and his audience glared at him in dread anticipation, as though they expected him to explode like a bomb-shell, but were prepared to sit it out and take the consequences. And he did explode, after a fashion, for he suddenly raised his voice to a shout that startled even the sentinel on the distant knoll, and said—
“I counsel war to the knife! The great white chief—the owl-eyed fool!—will not blot from our agreement the names of the Saulteaux chiefs—chiefs! there are no Saulteaux chiefs. All their braves are cowards, on the same dead level of stupidity, and their women are—are nothing, fit for nothing, can do nothing, and must soon come to nothing! What then? The duty of Cree warriors lies before us. We will drive the Saulteaux into Lake Winnipeg and the Palefaces off the face of the earth altogether! Waugh!”
Having thus given vent to the opinions and feelings that consumed him, Rednose sat down, his audience breathed freely, the distant sentinel recovered his composure, and the young novitiate brave with the cold in his head sneezed with impunity.
It would be tedious to recount all that was said at that council of war. The next brave that rose to “address the house” very much resembled the first speaker, both in sentiment and personal appearance, except that he had chosen sky-blue for his nose instead of red. The only additional matter that he contributed worth noting was the advice that they should begin their bloody work by an immediate attack, in the dead of night, on the camp of the buffalo runners.
This advice was hailed with a good many “Waughs,” as well as approving nods and looks, and it seemed as if the plan were about to be carried into action without delay, when, as we have seen, Okématan arose to address the assemblage.
Okématan was a great chief—much greater in the estimation of his tribe than the whites with whom he had been associating in Red River were aware of. He had purposely reserved his address till near the conclusion.
“The Cree warriors,” he said, with an air of quiet dignity that was far more effective than the more energetic tones and gestures of the previous speakers, “know very well that the Cree nation considers itself the wisest in creation. Far be it from Okématan to say otherwise, for he does not know. Okématan is a child! His eyes are only beginning to open!”
He paused at this point, and looked round with solemn dignity; and the braves, unaccustomed to such self-depreciative modes of address, gazed at him with equal solemnity, not unmingled with surprise, though the latter feeling was carefully concealed.
“When the last great palaver of the Cree braves was held on the Blue-Pine Ridge,” continued Okématan, “the chiefs chose me to go to Red River, and learn all that I could find out about the Palefaces and their intentions. I went, as you know. I attached myself to a family named Daa-veed-sin, and I have found out—found out much about the Palefaces—much more that I did not know before, though I am
Comments (0)