The Young Fur Traders, R. M. Ballantyne [psychology books to read TXT] 📗

of meat was thrown into the fire, as a sacrifice to the Great Master of Life.

“How they do eat, to be sure!” whispered Charley to Jacques, after he had glanced in wonder at the circle of men who were devouring their food with the most extraordinary rapidity.

“Why, you must know,” replied Jacques, “that it’s considered a point of honour to get it over soon, and the man that is done first gets most credit. But it’s hard work,” (he sighed, and paused a little to breathe), “and I’ve not got half through yet.”

“It’s quite plain that I must lose credit with them, then, if it depends on my eating that. Tell me, Jacques, is there no way of escape? Must I sit here till it is all consumed?”

“No doubt of it. Every bit that has been cooked must be crammed down our throats somehow or other.”

Charley heaved a deep sigh, and made another desperate attack on a large steak, while the Indians around him made considerable progress in reducing their respective mountains.

Several times Charley and Redfeather exchanged glances as they paused in their labours.

“I say, Jacques,” said Charley, pulling up once more, “how do you get on? Pretty well stuffed by this time, I should imagine?”

“Oh no! I’ve a good deal o’ room yet.”

“I give in. Credit or disgrace, it’s all one. I’ll not make a pig of myself for any redskin in the land.”

Jacques smiled.

“See,” continued Charley, “there’s a fellow opposite who has devoured as much as would have served me for three days. I don’t know whether it’s imagination or not, but I do verily believe that he’s blacker in the face than when he sat down!”

“Very likely,” replied Jacques, wiping his lips. “Now I’ve done.”

“Done? you have left at least a third of your supply.”

“True, and I may as well tell you for your comfort that there is one way of escape open to you. It is a custom among these fellows, that when any one cannot gulp his share o’ the prog, he may get help from any of his friends who can cram it down their throats; and as there are always such fellows among these Injins, they seldom have any difficulty.”

“A most convenient practice,” replied Charley; “I’ll adopt it at once.”

Charley turned to his next neighbour with the intent to beg of him to eat his remnant of the feast.

“Bless my heart, Jacques, I’ve no chance with the fellow on my left hand; he’s stuffed quite full already, and is not quite done with his own share.”

“Never fear,” replied his friend, looking at the individual in question, who was languidly lifting a marrow-bone to his lips; “he’ll do it easy. I knows the gauge o’ them chaps, and for all his sleepy look just now he’s game for a lot more.”

“Impossible,” replied Charley, looking in despair at his unfinished viands and then at the Indian. A glance round the circle seemed further to convince him that if he did not eat it himself there were none of the party likely to do so.

“You’ll have to give him a good lump o’ tobacco to do it, though; he won’t undertake so much for a trifle, I can tell you.” Jacques chuckled as he said this, and handed his own portion over to another Indian, who readily undertook to finish it for him.

“He’ll burst; I feel certain of that,” said Charley, with a deep sigh, as he surveyed his friend on the left.

At last he took courage to propose the thing to him, and just as the man finished the last morsel of his own repast, Charley placed his own plate before him, with a look that seemed to say, “Eat it, my friend, if you can.”

The Indian, much to his surprise, immediately commenced to it, and in less than half an hour the whole was disposed of.

During this scene of gluttony, one of the chiefs entertained the assembly with a wild and most unmusical chant, to which he beat time on a sort of tambourine, while the women outside of the enclosure beat a similar accompaniment.

“I say, master,” whispered Jacques, “it seems to my observation that the fellow you called Redfeather eats less than any Injin I ever saw. He has got a comrade to eat more than half of his share; now that’s strange.”

“It won’t appear strange, Jacques, when I tell you that Redfeather has lived much more among white men than Indians during the last ten years; and although voyageurs eat an enormous quantity of food, they don’t make it a point of honour, as these fellows seem to do, to eat much more than enough. Besides, Redfeather is a very different man from those around him: he has been partially educated by the missionaries on Playgreen Lake, and I think has a strong leaning towards them.”

While they were thus conversing in whispers, Redfeather rose, and holding forth his hand, delivered himself of the following oration:—

“The time has come for Redfeather to speak. He has kept silence for many moons now, but his heart has been full of words. It is too full; he must speak now. Redfeather has fought with his tribe, and has been accounted a brave, and one who loves his people. This is true. He does love, even more than they can understand. His friends know that he has never feared to face danger or death in their defence, and that, if it were necessary, he would do so still. But Redfeather is going to leave his people now. His heart is heavy at the thought. Perhaps many moons will come and go, many snows may fall and melt away, before he sees his people again; and it is this that makes him full of sorrow, it is this that makes his head to droop like the branches of the weeping willow.”

Redfeather paused at this point, but not a sound escaped from the listening circle: the Indians were evidently taken by surprise at this abrupt announcement. He proceeded:—

“When Redfeather travelled not long since with the white men, he met with a paleface who came from the other side of the Great Salt Lake towards the rising sun. This man was called by some of the people a missionary. He spoke wonderful words in the ears of Redfeather. He told him of things about the Great Spirit which he did not know before, and he asked Redfeather to go and help him to speak to the Indians about these strange things. Redfeather would not go. He loved his people too much, and he thought that the words of the missionary seemed foolishness. But he has thought much about it since. He does not understand the strange things that were told to him, and he has tried to forget them, but he cannot. He can get no rest. He hears strange sounds in the breeze that shakes the pine. He thinks that there are voices in the waterfall; the rivers seem to speak. Redfeather’s spirit is vexed. The Great Spirit, perhaps, is talking to him. He has resolved to go to the dwelling of the missionary and stay with him.”

The Indian paused again, but still no sound escaped from his comrades. Dropping his voice to a soft, plaintive tone, he continued:—

“But Redfeather loves his kindred. He desires very much that they should hear the things that the missionary said. He spoke of the happy hunting-grounds to which the spirits of our fathers have gone, and said that we required a guide to lead us there; that there was but one guide, whose name, he said, was Jesus. Redfeather would stay and hunt with his people, but his spirit is troubled; he cannot rest; he must go!”

Redfeather sat down, and a long silence ensued. His words had evidently taken the whole party by surprise, although not a countenance there showed the smallest symptom of astonishment, except that of Charley Kennedy, whose intercourse with Indians had not yet been so great as to have taught him to conceal his feelings.

At length the old chief rose, and after complimenting Redfeather on his bravery in general, and admitting that he had shown much love to his people on all occasions, went into the subject of his quitting them at some length. He reminded him that there were evil spirits as well as good; that it was not for him to say which kind had been troubling him, but that he ought to consider well before he went to live altogether with palefaces. Several other speeches were made, some to the same effect, and others applauding his resolve. These latter had, perhaps, some idea that his bringing the pale-faced missionary among them would gratify their taste for the marvellous—a taste that is pretty strong in all uneducated minds.

One man, however, was particularly urgent in endeavouring to dissuade him from his purpose. He was a tall, low-browed man; muscular and well built, but possessed of a most villainous expression of countenance. From a remark that fell from one of the company, Charley discovered that his name was Misconna, and so learned, to his surprise, that he was the very Indian mentioned by Redfeather as the man who had been his rival for the hand of Wabisca, and who had so cruelly killed the wife of the poor trapper the night on which the Chipewyan camp was attacked, and the people slaughtered.

What reason Misconna had for objecting so strongly to Redfeather’s leaving the community no one could tell, although some of those who knew his unforgiving nature suspected that he still entertained the hope of being able, some day or other, to wreak his vengeance on his old rival. But whatever was his object, he failed in moving Redfeather’s resolution; and it was at last admitted by the whole party that Redfeather was a “wise chief,” that he knew best what ought to be done under the circumstances, and it was hoped that his promised visit, in company with the missionary, would not be delayed many moons.

That night, in the deep shadow of the trees, by the brook that murmured near the Indian camp, while the stars twinkled through the branches overhead, Charley introduced Redfeather to his friend Jacques Caradoc, and a friendship was struck up between the bold hunter and the red man that grew and strengthened as each successive day made them acquainted with their respective good qualities. In the same place, and with the same stars looking down upon them, it was further agreed that Redfeather should accompany his new friends, taking his wife along with him in another canoe, as far as their several routes led them in the same direction, which was about four or five days’ journey; and that while the one party diverged towards the fort at Stoney Creek, the other should pursue its course to the missionary station on the shores of Lake Winnipeg.

But there was a snake in the grass there that they little suspected. Misconna had crept through the bushes after them, with a degree of caution that might have baffled their vigilance, even had they suspected treason in a friendly camp. He lay listening intently to all their plans, and when they returned to their camp, he rose out from among the bushes, like a dark spirit of evil, clutched the handle of his scalping-knife, and gave utterance to a malicious growl; then walking hastily after them, his dusky figure was soon concealed among the trees.