Snowflakes and Sunbeams; Or, The Young Fur-traders: A Tale of the Far North, - [best summer reads .txt] 📗
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The object which drew his attention, and to which he directed the anxious eyes of his friends was a small speck, rather triangular in form, which overtopped a little willow bush not more than five or six hundred yards distant.
“There he is!” exclaimed Mr. Grant. “That’s a fact,” cried Mr. Kennedy; and both gentlemen, instantaneously giving a shout, bounded towards the object; not, however, before the senior clerk, who was mounted on a fleet and strong horse, had taken the lead by six yards. A moment afterwards the speck rose up and discovered itself to be a veritable wolf. Moreover, he condescended to show his teeth, and then, conceiving it probable that his enemies were too numerous for him, he turned suddenly round and fled away. For ten minutes or so the chase was kept up at full speed, and as the snow happened to be shallow at the starting-point, the wolf kept well ahead of its pursuers—indeed, distanced them a little. But soon the snow became deeper, and the wolf plunged heavily, and the horses gained considerably. Although to the eye the prairies seemed to be a uniform level, there were numerous slight undulations, in which drifts of some depth had collected. Into one of these the wolf now plunged and laboured slowly through it. But so deep was the snow that the horses almost stuck fast. A few minutes, however, brought them out, and Mr. Grant and Mr. Kennedy, who had kept close to each other during the run, pulled up for a moment on the summit of a ridge to breathe their panting steeds.
“What can that be?” exclaimed the former, pointing with his whip to a distant object which was moving rapidly over the plain.
“Eh! what—where?” said Mr. Kennedy, shading his eyes with his hand, and peering in the direction indicated. “Why, that’s another wolf, isn’t it? No; it runs too fast for that.”
“Strange,” said his friend; “what can it be?”
“If I hadn’t seen every beast in the country,” remarked Mr. Kennedy, “and didn’t know that there are no such animals north of the equator, I should say it was a mad dromedary mounted by a ring-tailed roarer.”
“It can’t be surely—not possible!” exclaimed Mr. Grant. “It’s not Charley on the new horse!”
Mr. Grant said this with an air of vexation that annoyed his friend a little. He would not have much minded Charley’s taking a horse without leave, no matter how wild it might be; but he did not at all relish the idea of making an apology for his son’s misconduct, and for the moment did not exactly know what to say. As usual in such a dilemma, the old man took refuge in a towering passion, gave his steed a sharp cut with the whip, and galloped forward to meet the delinquent.
We are not acquainted with the general appearance of a “ring-tailed roarer;” in fact, we have grave doubts as to whether such an animal exists at all; but if it does, and is particularly wild, dishevelled, and fierce in deportment, there is no doubt whatever that when Mr. Kennedy applied the name to his hopeful son, the application was singularly powerful and appropriate.
Charley had had a long run since we last saw him. After describing a wide curve, in which his charger displayed a surprising aptitude for picking out the ground that was least covered with snow, he headed straight for the fort again at the same pace at which he had started. At first Charley tried every possible method to check him, but in vain; so he gave it up, resolving to enjoy the race, since he could not prevent it. The young horse seemed to be made of lightning, with bones and muscles of brass; for he bounded untiringly forward for miles, tossing his head and snorting in his wild career. But Charley was a good horseman, and did not mind that much, being quite satisfied that the horse was a horse and not a spirit, and that therefore he could not run for ever. At last he approached the party, in search of which he had originally set out. His eyes dilated and his colour heightened as he beheld the wolf running directly towards him. Fumbling hastily for the pistol which he had borrowed from his friend Harry, he drew it from his pocket, and prepared to give the animal a shot in passing. Just at that moment the wolf caught sight of this new enemy in advance, and diverged suddenly to the left, plunging into a drift in his confusion, and so enabling the senior clerk to overtake him, and send an ounce of heavy shot into his side, which turned him over quite dead. The shot, however had a double effect. At that instant Charley swept past; and his mettlesome steed swerved as it heard the loud report of the gun, thereby almost unhorsing his rider, and causing him unintentionally to discharge the conglomerate of bullets and swan-shot into the flank of Peter Mactavish’s horse—fortunately at a distance which rendered the shot equivalent to a dozen very sharp and particularly stinging blows. On receiving this unexpected salute, the astonished charger reared convulsively, and fell back upon his rider, who was thereby buried deep in the snow, not a vestige of him being left, no more than if he had never existed at all. Indeed, for a moment it seemed to be doubtful whether poor Peter did exist or not, until a sudden upheaving of the snow took place, and his dishevelled head appeared, with the eyes and mouth wide open, bearing on them an expression of mingled horror and amazement. Meanwhile the second shot acted like a spur on the young horse, which flew past Mr. Kennedy like a whirlwind.
“Stop, you young scoundrel!” he shouted, shaking his fist at Charley as he passed.
Charley was past stopping, either by inclination or ability. This sudden and unexpected accumulation of disasters was too much for him. As he passed his sire, with his brown curls streaming straight out behind, and his eyes flashing with excitement, his teeth clinched, and his horse tearing along more like an incarnate fiend than an animal, a spirit of combined recklessness, consternation, indignation, and glee took possession of him. He waved his whip wildly over his head, brought it down with a stinging cut on the horse’s neck, and uttered a shout of defiance that threw completely into the shade the loudest war-whoop that was ever uttered by the brazen lungs of the wildest savage between Hudson’s Bay and Oregon. Seeing and hearing this, old Mr. Kennedy wheeled about and dashed off in pursuit with much greater energy than he had displayed in chase of the wolf.
The race bid fair to be a long one, for the young horse was strong in wind and limb; and the gray mare, though decidedly not “the better horse,” was much fresher than the other.
The hunters, who were now joined by Harry Somerville, did not feel it incumbent on them to follow this new chase; so they contented themselves with watching their flight towards the fort, while they followed at a more leisurely pace.
Meanwhile Charley rapidly neared Fort Garry, and now began to wonder whether the stable door was open, and if so, whether it were better for him to take his chance of getting his neck broken, or to throw himself into the next snow-drift that presented itself.
He had not to remain long in suspense. The wooden fence that enclosed the stable-yard lay before him. It was between four and five feet high, with a beaten track running along the outside, and a deep snow-drift on the other. Charley felt that the young horse had made up his mind to leap this. As he did not at the moment see that there was anything better to be done, he prepared for it. As the horse bent on his haunches to spring, he gave him a smart cut with the whip, went over like a rocket, and plunged up to the neck in the snow-drift; which brought his career to an abrupt conclusion. The sudden stoppage of the horse was one thing, but the arresting of Master Charley was another and quite a different thing. The instant his charger landed, he left the saddle like a harlequin, described an extensive curve in the air, and fell head foremost into the drift, above which his boots and three inches of his legs alone remained to tell the tale.
On witnessing this climax, Mr. Kennedy, senior, pulled up, dismounted, and ran—with an expression of some anxiety on his countenance—to the help of his son, while Tom Whyte came out of the stable just in time to receive the “noo ’oss” as he floundered out of the snow.
“I believe,” said the groom, as he surveyed the trembling charger, “that your son has broke the noo ’oss, sir, better nor I could ’ave done myself.”
“I believe that my son has broken his neck,” said Mr. Kennedy wrathfully. “Come here and help me to dig him out.”
In a few minutes Charley was dug out, in a state of insensibility, and carried up to the fort, where he was laid on a bed, and restoratives actively applied for his recovery.
Peter Mactavish becomes an amateur doctor; Charley promulgates his views of tilings in general to Kate; and Kate waxes sagacious.
Shortly after the catastrophe just related, Charley opened his eyes to consciousness, and aroused himself out of a prolonged fainting fit, under the combined influence of a strong constitution and the medical treatment of his friends.
Medical treatment in the wilds of North America, by the way, is very original in its character, and is founded on principles so vague that no one has ever been found capable of stating them clearly. Owing to the stubborn fact that there are no doctors in the country, men have been thrown upon their own resources, and as a natural consequence every man is a doctor. True, there are two, it may be three, real doctors in the Hudson’s Bay Company’s employment; but as one of these is resident on the shores of Hudson’s Bay, another in Oregon, and a third in Red River Settlement, they are not considered available for every case of emergency that may chance to occur in the hundreds of little outposts, scattered far and wide over the whole continent of North America, with miles and miles of primeval wilderness between each. We do not think, therefore, that when we say there are no doctors in the country, we use a culpable amount of exaggeration.
If a man gets ill, he goes on till he gets better; and if he doesn’t get better, he dies. To avert such an undesirable consummation, desperate and random efforts are made in an amateur way. The old proverb that “extremes meet” is verified. And in a land where no doctors are to be had for love or money, doctors meet you at every turn, ready to practise on everything, with anything, and all for nothing, on the shortest possible notice. As maybe supposed, the practice is novel, and not unfrequently extremely wild. Tooth-drawing is considered child’s play—mere blacksmith’s work; bleeding is a general remedy for everything, when all else fails; castor-oil, Epsom salts, and emetics are the three keynotes, the foundations, and the copestones of the system.
In Red River there is only one genuine doctor; and as the settlement is fully sixty miles long, he has enough to do, and cannot always be found when wanted, so that Charley had to rest content with amateur treatment in the meantime. Peter Mactavish was the first to try his powers. He was aware that laudanum had the effect of producing sleep, and seeing that Charley looked somewhat sleepy after recovering consciousness, he thought it advisable to help out that propensity to slumber, and went to the medicine-chest, whence he extracted a small phial of tincture of rhubarb, the half of which he emptied into a wine-glass, under the impression that it was laudanum, and poured down Charley’s throat! The poor boy swallowed a little, and sputtered the remainder over the bedclothes. It may be remarked here that Mactavish was a wild, happy, half-mad sort of fellow—wonderfully erudite in regard to some things, and profoundly ignorant in regard to others. Medicine, it need scarcely be added, was not his forte. Having accomplished this feat to his satisfaction, he sat down to watch by the bedside of his friend. Peter had taken this opportunity to indulge in a little private practice just after several
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