The Buffalo Runners: A Tale of the Red River Plains, R. M. Ballantyne [most recommended books .txt] 📗
- Author: R. M. Ballantyne
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A little further on they saw Peter Davidson’s horse put his foot in a badger-hole, the result of which was that the horse rolled over in one direction, while the expert Peter, tumbling cleverly to one side, rolled away in another direction like a Catherine-wheel. Both horse and man arose unhurt, and, like Bourassin, continued the chase.
“Necks ain’t easy broke in this here country,” remarked the seaman, as Archie pushed past him in pursuit of a fat young cow.
“Not often. Necks are tough, you see, and ground is mostly soft,” cried Archie, as he fired and dropped the cow.
“Who’s that away to the right, ridin’ like a madman after a calf?” asked Jenkins, overtaking Archie, who was recharging his gun at the gallop.
“Who—where?” cried the boy, looking impatiently round.
“Keep cool, lad! Whatever condition you chance to be in, whether of danger or safety, always keep cool. For why?—it makes you comfortable, or more fit for action, as the case may be. See, the fellow over there half-hidden by smoke.”
“Why, that’s Duncan McKay. You might know him by his hat.”
“I ain’t a good judge o’ hats,” remarked the seaman, as he fired at a bull and missed it. “Ha! that comes o’ firin’ at long range,” he said. “It was at least six yards off, an’ I can’t count on the old blunderbuss beyond five. Better luck next time!”
“Hallo! Jenkins, did you hear that?”
“What?”
“That shriek? I’m sure some one has been hurt.”
“Very likely, lad. There’s many a cropper a-goin’ on just now, an’ we can’t all expect to come off scot-free.”
“The voice sounded like that of Fergus,” said Archie, “but I can see nothing for smoke now. Is that a man on the ground over there?”
“Don’t know, Archie. Out o’ the way, lad; there’s another chance. Must get closer this time.”
The tide of the chase swept on with irresistible fury, and not one of all the band saw that the man who had fallen did not rise.
Following close in rear, and profoundly excited with this new and wild experience of life, came Little Bill, galloping along on his pony.
The poor boy had either greatly benefited by his recent adventures, or a change had taken place in his constitution, for he rode with ease, and found that he could walk considerable distances without the old weary feeling of exhaustion.
As Little Bill passed over the prairie, which resembled a field of battle where, not men, but buffaloes had been the combatants, he came suddenly upon the dismounted hunter, who lay prone upon his face.
“Poor man!” thought Little Bill, pulling up and dismounting, “he seems to have been badly stunned.”
Stooping down he turned the fallen man over on his back with some difficulty, and then discovered, to his consternation, that it was young Duncan McKay, and that blood was flowing from a wound in his side.
The shock at first deprived Billie of the power to do anything, but in a very few minutes his strong common sense returned, and his first act was to open Duncan’s coat and stanch the wound. This he accomplished by means of a strip torn off the poor man’s cotton shirt, and the long red worsted belt with which the hunter’s capote was bound. Then he took from his pocket a small bottle of water, with which he had provided himself in case of need, and poured a little into Duncan’s mouth.
The result of these operations was that the fallen man opened his eyes after a while, raised himself on one elbow, and looked round in a dazed manner.
“What iss it that has come over me?” he asked, faintly.
“You have fallen off your horse, I think,” answered the boy, “and I—I’m afraid a bullet has wounded you in the side.”
“Bullet! Side!” exclaimed Duncan, looking quickly down at the bandage, and attempting to rise. “Little Bill, you must—”
He stopped; seemed to grow faint, and fell down; but quickly raised himself again on one elbow and looked round.
“Shot!—dying!” he muttered; then turning to the boy—“Stay by me, Little Bill. Don’t leave me here all alone.”
“No, I won’t leave you, unless—perhaps it would be better if I rode back to camp for help.”
“True, true. It’s my only chance,” said the poor man, faintly. “Go, Billie, and go quick. Put something under my head. And—stay—leave your gun with me.”
“I’m so sorry I haven’t got one, but here is my bottle of water; you may want that, and—”
He stopped, for Duncan had evidently fainted again.
The poor boy was terribly alarmed at this. He had wit enough to perceive that prompt action was needed, for his friend was in very great danger, while the buffalo runners were by that time out of sight in front, and the camp was far behind. In this crisis Billie acted with decision. First making the bandage over the wound more secure, and pouring a little more water into the mouth of the wounded man, he went to a clump of willows, and cut a stout switch, then, remounting, he turned on his track and made straight for the camp as fast as his willing pony could be made to lay hoof to the ground.
Arrived there, to his great relief he found the Cree chief Okématan, for that eccentric individual had, owing to some unknown reason, refrained from joining in the hunt that day. La Certe was also there.
In a few minutes, mounted on a fresh horse, Little Bill was galloping over the prairie, acting as guide to Okématan, while La Certe followed them, driving a cart with a couple of buffalo-robes in it.
That night, instead of rejoicing in the camp of the buffalo runners after their successful hunt, there was uneasiness and gloom, for Duncan McKay lay in his tent dangerously wounded, and it was generally believed that the shot which laid him low had been fired not by accident, but with deliberate intent to kill.
When the news that young Duncan had been shot was brought to Ben Nevis, the effect on his father was much more severe than might have been expected, considering their respective feelings towards each other.
It was late in the evening when the news came, and the old man was seated in what he styled his smoking-room, taking his evening glass of whisky and water.
“Elspie,” he said, in a subdued voice, on being told, “help me up to my bed.”
This was so very unusual a request that Elspie was somewhat alarmed by it, as well as surprised—all the more so that the old man left the room without finishing either his pipe or glass. Still, she did not suppose that anything serious would come of it. A night’s rest, she thought, would do away with the evils of the shock.
“Dear father,” she said, as she kissed him at parting, “do believe that God is waiting to be gracious: that He really means it when He says, ‘Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.’ And, consider—we have no reason to suppose that dear Duncan’s wound is very dangerous.”
“Goot-night, Elspie,” was all the reply.
Next morning McKay did not make his appearance at the usual breakfast-hour, and, on going to his room, they found him lying speechless in his bed, suffering under a stroke of paralysis.
He soon recovered the power of speech, but not the use of his limbs, and it became evident ere long that the poor man had received a shock which would probably cripple him for life. Whatever may have been his secret thoughts, however, he carefully concealed them from every one, and always referred to his complaint as, “this nasty stiff feeling about the legs which iss a long time of goin’ away—whatever.”
In a few days, Fergus returned from the plains, bringing his brother in a cart, which had been made tolerably easy by means of a springy couch of pine-branches. They did not tell him at first of his father’s illness, lest it should interfere with his own recovery from the very critical condition in which he lay. At first he took no notice of his father’s non-appearance, attributing it to indifference; but when he began slowly to mend, he expressed some surprise. Then they told him.
Whatever may have been his thoughts on the subject, he gave no sign, but received the information—as, indeed, he received nearly all information at that time—in absolute silence.
Fortunately, the bullet which struck him had passed right through his side, so that he was spared the pain, as well as the danger, of its extraction. But, from his total loss of appetite and continued weakness, it was evident that he had received some very severe, if not fatal, internal injury. At last, very slowly, he began to grow a little stronger, but he was a very shadow or wreck of his former self. Nevertheless, the more sanguine members of the family began to entertain some faint hope of his recovery.
Of course, during these first days of his weakness his sister Elspie nursed him. She would, if permitted, have done so night and day, but in this matter she had to contend with one who was more than a match for her. This was Old Peg, the faithful domestic.
“No, no, dearie,” said that resolute old woman, when Elspie first promulgated to her the idea of sitting up all night with Duncan, “you will do nothin’ of the sort. Your sainted mother left your father an’ Fergus an’ yourself to my care, an’ I said I would never fail you, so I can’t break my promise by letting you break your health. I will sit up wi’ him, as I’ve done many a time when he was a bairn.”
It thus came to pass that Elspie nursed her brother by day, and Old Peg sat up with him at night. Of course the duties of the former were considerably lightened by the assistance rendered by various members of the family, as well as friends, who were ever ready to sit by the bedside of the wounded man and read to or chat with him. At such times he was moderately cheerful, but when the night watches came, and Old Peg took her place beside him, and memory had time to commence with him undisturbed, the deed of which he had had been guilty was forced upon him; Conscience was awakened, and self-condemnation was the result. Yet, so inconsistent is poor humanity that self-exculpation warred with self-condemnation in the same brain! The miserable man would have given all he possessed to have been able to persuade himself that his act was purely one of self-defence—as no doubt to some extent it was, for if he had not fired first Perrin’s action showed that he would certainly have been the man-slayer. But, then, young McKay could not shut his eyes to the fact that premeditation had, in the first instance, induced him to extend his hand towards his gun, and this first act it was which had caused all the rest.
Often during the wakeful hours of the night would the invalid glance at his nurse with a longing desire to unburden his soul to her, but whenever his eye rested on her calm, wrinkled old visage, and he thought of her deafness, and the difficulty of making her understand, he abandoned his half-formed intention with a sigh. He did not, indeed, doubt her sympathy, for many a time during his life, especially when a child, had he experienced the strength and tenderness of that.
After attending to his wants, it was the habit of Old Peg to put on a pair of tortoise-shell spectacles and read. Her only book was the Bible. She read nothing else—to say truth, at that time there was little else to read in Red River. The first night of her watch she had asked the invalid if he would like her to read a few verses to him.
“You may if you like, Peg,” he had replied.
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