The Thorogood Family, R. M. Ballantyne [ebook reader library .txt] 📗

These two hunters were knit together with somewhat of the love that David bore to Jonathan. Jacob gazed at his friend for some time in mute admiration.

“Honour bright?” he asked at length.

“Honour bright,” replied Reuben.

“Well now,” said Jacob to the cloud that issued from his lips, “I couldn’t ha’ done that to save my scalp. I’ve tried it, off an’ on for the last six year, and alers stuck at the p’int—or raither just before it, for I never got quite the length o’ the p’int. But I’ve bin very near it, Reuben, more than once, uncommon near. One time I got so close to the edge o’ the precipice that another inch would have sent me right over. ‘My dear Liz,’ says I; but I stuck there, an’ the sweet little thing runned away, larfin’, an’ so I’m a bachelor still. But I’m right glad, Reuben, that you’ve got it over at last. How did it feel?”

“Feel!” echoed the hunter, “it felt as bad, or wuss, nor the time that grizzly bar up the Yellowstone River got his claws into the small o’ my back—only I hadn’t you to help me out o’ the difficulty this time. I had to do it all myself, Jacob, and hard work it was, I tell ’ee, boy. Hows’ever, it’s all over now, an’ we’re to be spliced this evenin’.”

“That’s raither sharp work, ain’t it, Reuben?” said Jacob, with a critical wrinkle of his eyebrows, and a remonstrative tone in his voice. “I ain’t much of an authority on sitch matters, but it do seem to me as if you might have given the poor gal a day or two to make sure whether her head or heels was uppermost.”

“You’re right, Jacob; you’re judgment was always sound, but, you see, I was forced to do it slick off because the parson won’t wait another day, an’ I’d like to have it done all ship-shape, for I’ve a respec’ for the parsons, you see. A man who’s come straight down from the Pilgrim Fathers, like me, behoves to act discreetly—so, the weddin’s to be this evenin’.”

“Well, you are the best judge, Reuben, an’ it’s as well that it should come off when old Fiddlestrings is here, for a weddin’ without a fiddle ain’t much of a spree. By good luck, too, there’s the lads from Buffalo Creek at the fort just now, so we’ll muster strong. No, I wouldn’t give much for a weddin’ without a good dance—not even yours, Reuben.”

That afternoon The MacFearsome arranged with the Reverend William Tucker to delay his departure for one day in order to unite his only daughter Loo to Reuben Dale.

“You must know, Mr Tucker,” he explained, in a slightly apologetic tone, “although Reuben is only a hunter, his parents were gentlefolks. They died when Reuben was quite a little fellow, so that he was allowed to run wild on a frontier settlement, and, as a matter of course, took to the wilderness as naturally as a young duck takes to the water. But Reuben is a superior person, Mr Tucker, I assure you, and as fine a disposition as you could wish. He’s as bold as a lion too, and has saved my girl’s life twice, and my own three times—so, you see, he—”

“He deserves a good wife,” said the Reverend William Tucker heartily.

“Just so,” replied the old trader, wrinkling his fierce yet kindly face with a bland smile, “and you’ll confer a great favour on me if you will stay and perform the ceremony. Of course, according to Scotch law, we could marry them without your assistance, but I respect the church, Mr Tucker, and think it becoming to have a clergyman on occasions of this kind.”

Having settled this important piece of business, Kenneth MacFearsome went off to make arrangements for the indispensable dance, and the clergyman, being fond of equestrian exercise, went out alone for an afternoon ride.

That same afternoon a band of Indians belonging to the Blackfeet tribe encamped in a gloomy defile of the Rocky Mountains, not far from Mac’s Fort. It was easy to see that they were a war-party, for, besides being armed to the teeth, their faces were hideously painted, and they had no women or children with them.

They had stopped for the double purpose of eating a hasty meal and holding a council of war.

One of the warriors stood up in the midst of his brethren and made a speech, which, to judge from its effect on the others, must have been highly inflammatory and warlike. During the delivery of it he turned his ugly visage frequently, and pointed, with his blue-striped nose, as it were, in the direction of Fort MacFearsome.

Whatever might have been the tendency of the speech, it was suddenly cut short by the sound of a horse’s hoofs clattering in the glen below. After bestowing a united eagle glance on the approaching horseman, the Blackfeet warriors turned a look of intelligence on each other, lay flat down in the long grass, and melted from the scene as completely and silently as snow-wreaths melt before the sun in spring.

The Reverend William Tucker was a muscular Christian. That is to say, he believed that the body, as well as the soul, ought to be cultivated to the highest possible extent—both having the same origin—and held that physical health, strength, and vigour, if not absolutely necessary to the advancement of Christianity in the earth, were at least eminently conducive thereto. Holding such opinions, and being powerfully built, he threw himself heart and soul into whatever he did. Hence the clatter of his horse’s hoofs as he galloped swiftly up the glen.

But the Reverend William Tucker was also merciful, and not only drew rein when the path became too steep, but dismounted and led his steed by the bridle when he reached the rugged ground near the spot where the war-party had melted away.

Great and grand were the preparations made for the approaching festivities at Mac’s Fort. Michel, the cook, constructed a venison pie, the tin dish of which, (repaired expressly for the occasion that afternoon by the Fort blacksmith), might have served for a bath to an average baby. The carpenter arranged the hall, or large public room, cleared away the tables, fitted up a device in evergreens which was supposed to represent the words Loo and Reu, and otherwise garnished the ball-room with specimens of his originality and taste, while old Fiddlestrings, who was a self-taught half-breed, fitted to his violin a new string made by his wife that day from a deer-sinew.

When the hour arrived for the performance of the ceremony, Reuben Dale appeared among the men of the Fort, dressed, not like a gentleman in broadcloth, but, in hunter’s costume of the most approved cut and material—a yellow deerskin coat, ornamented with bead and quill work; blue cloth leggings, a small fur cap, moccasins garnished with silk flowers, fitting as tight to his feet as gloves fit the hands, and a crimson worsted sash round his waist. He also wore, slung on his shoulder by scarlet worsted cords, a powder-horn and shot-pouch—not that these implements of the chase were necessary to the occasion, but because he would as soon have thought of appearing at any time without them as without his nose. For the same reason his rifle accompanied him to the wedding.

A short time before the appointed hour the bride-elect adorned herself in simple yet tasteful costume, which, being peculiar to no particular nation or time, we prefer to leave to the reader’s imagination, merely remarking that as Loo was simple and pretty her garb corresponded to her appearance and character.

But the appointed hour passed, and the Reverend William Tucker did not appear. Hunters of the Rocky Mountains, however, are not an impatient race. Reuben quietly waited as he would have done for a good shot at game. Not so The MacFearsome. His Celtic blood fired, and he muttered a few uncomplimentary remarks about the reverend absentee, which it is well not to repeat.

As time passed, however, the dwellers in Mac’s Fort became anxious, then alarmed, and finally the wedding was postponed, while a search for the lost one was organised; but they searched in vain, because tracks which might easily be traced in the wilderness get inextricably mixed up in the vicinity of a fort.

Next day Kenneth MacFearsome, coming rather hastily and angrily to the conclusion that Mr Tucker had given them the slip and gone off to his conference, determined himself to perform the marriage ceremony as directed in the Church of England Prayer-Book.

“You see, Reuben,” he said, “I have a great respect for the Church, and would fain have had this matter knocked off by one of its parsons, but as this parson appears to be little better than a wolf in sheep’s clothing—if as good—I’ll just do it myself, for I’ll not have my daughter’s wedding delayed another day for any man, woman, or beast alive.”

“Wouldn’t it be as well, sir,” suggested the hunter modestly, “to have a hunt after the parson by daylight first?”

“No, it wouldn’t,” said the old trader, with the air and decision of—we were going to say the great Mogul, but perhaps it would be more emphatic and appropriate to say—The MacFearsome.

Knowing that appeal from that decision would be in vain, Reuben once more arrayed himself in the wedding dress, (which he had changed when the search for Mr Tucker was undertaken), and once again presented himself before his admiring friends in the decorated hall of Mac’s Fort. The cook warmed up his gigantic pie, old Fiddlestrings re-tuned his home-made violin, and pretty little Loo at last appeared on the scene with two half-breed young women as bridesmaids, and two Indian females as backers-up.

“My friends,” said Kenneth MacFearsome, taking up the prayer-book, and commencing a speech which he had spent the entire forenoon in preparing, “I have a few words to say to you on this interesting occasion.”

The old gentleman’s usually stern and handsome countenance had relaxed, and assumed a bland, sweet expression, which was more consonant with the circumstances in which they were assembled. Before he could utter another word, however, he was interrupted, to his great surprise, by Reuben.

“Excuse me, Mr MacFearsome,” said that bold though bashful hunter, “but my friend and comrade, Jacob Strang, has not yet arrived, and it would grieve me to the heart if he was absent at such a time as this. Couldn’t we wait a bit? I wouldn’t ask you to do so for any other man alive, but I’ve hunted wi’ him since we were slips of boys, and—and I can’t help thinkin’ that somethin’s gone wrong wi’ him, for Jacob’s good and true, and trusty as steel, an’ wasn’t used to fail in his engagements.”

While the hunter was speaking the bland expression faded from the Highlander’s countenance, and a fierce look flashed from his blue eyes as he replied in stern, decided tones:—

“Reuben Dale, if your friend Jacob was the great Israel of Bible story, or even Moses himself, I would not wait for him. Don’t interrupt me again, lad.”

He turned to the assembled company with a wave of his hand, as if to dismiss the interruption from memory, and attempted to reassume the benignant expression, with only partial success.

“My friends,” he said, but said no more, for at that moment he was a second time interrupted. A shout was heard outside, the door of the hall burst open, and Jacob Strang himself strode in, bearing the Reverend William Tucker on his shoulders.

Depositing his burden on the floor, he said hurriedly, “He’s not dead, only stunned. The reptiles did their best to kill him. They’re not far off, MacFearsome. We’d better go after them.”

The MacFearsome usually gave vent to his feelings in Gaelic when labouring under strong excitement. On this occasion his utterances were terrible in tone whatever their meaning might be.

“Go after them?” he cried, in a blaze of wrath, “yes, we’ll