*CHAPTER II.*
_*HUNTING THE BUFFALO.*_
The cloudy morning ended in a brilliant noon. Wilfred was in ecstasieswhen he found himself mounted on the sagacious Brownie, who had followedthem like a dog on the preceding evening.
Aunt Miriam had consented to Pete's proposal with a thankfulness whichled the hunter, Hugh Bowkett, to remark, as Wilfred trotted beside him,"Come, you young scamp! so you are altogether beyond petticoatgovernment, are you?"
"That is not true," retorted Wilfred, "for I was never out of herMajesty's dominion for a single hour in my life."
It was a chance hit, for Bowkett had been over the frontier more thanonce, wintering among the Yankee roughs on the other side of the border,a proceeding which is synonymous in the North-West Dominion with"getting out of the way."
Bowkett was a handsome fellow, and a first-rate shot, who couldaccomplish the difficult task of hunting the long-eared, cunningmoose-deer as well as a born Red Indian. Wilfred looked up at him withsecret admiration. Not so Forgill, who owned to Pete there was nodependence on these half-and-half characters. But without Bowkett'shelp there would be no meat for the winter; and since the master haddecided the boy was to go with them, there was nothing more to be said.
Aunt Miriam came to the gate, in her hood and cloak, to see them depart.
"Good-bye! good-bye, auntie!" shouted Wilfred. "I am awfully sorry aboutthose eggs."
"Ah, you rogue! do you think I am going to believe you?" She laughed,shaking a warning finger at him; and so they parted, little dreaming ofall that would happen before they met again.
Wilfred was equipped in an old, smoked deer-skin coat of his uncle's,and a fur cap with a flap falling like a cape on his neck, andear-pieces which met under his chin. He was a tall boy of his age, andhis uncle was a little, wiry man. The coat was not very much too longfor him. It wrapped over famously in front, and was belted round thewaist. Pete had filled the pockets with a good supply of biscuit, andone or two potatoes, which he thought Wilfred could roast for his supperin the ashes of the campfire. For the hunting-party expected to campout in the open for a night or two, as the buffaloes they were in questof were further to seek and harder to find every season.
Forgill had stuck a hunting-knife in Wilfred's belt, to console him forthe want of a gun. The boy would have liked to carry a gun like theothers, but on that point there was a resolute "No" all round.
As they left the belt of pine trees, and struck out into the vast,trackless sea of grass, Wilfred looked back to the light blue column ofsmoke from the farm-house chimney, and wistfully watched it curlingupwards in the clear atmosphere, with a dash of regret that he had notyet made friends with his uncle, or recovered his place in Aunt Miriam'sgood graces. But it scarcely took off the edge of his delight.
Forgill was in the cart, which he hoped to bring back loaded with game.At the corner of the first bluff, as the hills in Canada are usuallycalled, they encountered Bowkett's man with a string of horses, one ofwhich he rode. There was a joyous blaze of sunshine glinting throughthe broad fringes of white pines which marked the course of the river,making redder the red stems of the Norwegians which sprang up here andthere in vivid contrast. A light canoe of tawny birch-bark, with itspainted prow, was threading a narrow passage by the side of a tiny eyotor islet, where the pine boughs seemed to meet high overhead. Thehunters exchanged a shout of recognition with its skilful rower, ere astately heron, with grand crimson eye and leaden wings, came slowlyflapping down the stream intent on fishing. Then the little party woundtheir way by ripple-worn rocks, covered with mosses and lichens. Atlast, on one of the few bare spots on a distant hillside, some darkmoving specks became visible. The hunt began in earnest. Away went thehorsemen over the wide, open plain. Wilfred and the cart following moreslowly, yet near enough to watch the change to the stealthy approach andthe cautious outlook over the hill-top, where the hunter's practised eyehad detected the buffalo.
"Keep close by me," said Forgill to his young companion, as they woundtheir way upwards, and reached the brow of the hill just in time towatch the wild charge upon the herd, which scattered in desperateflight, until the hindmost turned to bay upon his reckless pursuers, hisshaggy head thrown up as he stood for a moment at gaze. With a whoopand a cheer, in which Wilfred could not help joining, Bowkett again gavechase, followed by his man Diome. A snap shot rattled through the air.Forgill drew the cart aside to the safer shelter of a wooded copse, outof the line of the hunters. He knew the infuriated buffalo wouldshortly turn on his pursuers. The loose horses were racing after theircompanions, and Brownie was quivering with excitement.
"Hold hard!" cried Forgill, who saw the boy was longing to give the ponyits head and follow suit. "Quiet, my lad," he continued. "None of usare up to that sort of work. It takes your breath to look at them."
The buffalo was wheeling round. Huge and unwieldy as the beastappeared, it changed its front with the rapidity of lightning. ThenBowkett backed his horse and fled. On the proud beast thundered, withlowered eyes flashing furiously under its shaggy brows. A bullet fromDiome's gun struck him on the forehead. He only shook his haughty headand bellowed till the prairie rang; but his pace slackened as theanswering cries of the retreating herd seemed to call him back. He waswithin a yard of Bowkett's horse, when round he swung as swiftly andsuddenly as he had advanced. Wilfred stood up in his stirrups to watchhim galloping after his companions, through a gap in a broken bluff atno great distance. Away went Bowkett and Diome, urging on their horseswith shout and spur.
"Halt a bit," said Forgill, restraining Wilfred and his pony, until theysaw the two hunters slowly returning over the intervening ridge withpanting horses. They greeted the approach of the cart with a hurrah ofsuccess, proposing, as they drew nearer, to halt for dinner in theshelter of the gap through which the buffalo had taken its way.
Wilfred was soon busy with Diome gathering the dry branches last night'swind had broken to make a fire, whilst Bowkett and Forgill went forwardwith the cart to look for the fallen quarry.
It was the boy's first lesson in camping out, and he enjoyed itimmensely, taking his turn at the frying-pan with such success thatDiome proposed to hand it over to his exclusive use for the rest oftheir expedition.
It was hard work to keep the impudent blue jays, with which the prairieabounded, from darting at the savoury fry, and pecking out the verymiddle of the steak, despite the near neighbourhood of smoke and flame,which threatened to singe their wings in the mad attempt.
But in spite of the thievish birds, dinner was eaten and appreciated inthe midst of so much laughter and chaff that even Forgill unbent.
But a long day's work was yet before them, spurring over the sand-ridgesand through the rustling grass. They had almost reached one of thewestward jutting spurs of the Touchwood Hills, when the sun went down.As it neared the earth and sank amidst the glorious hues of emerald andgold, the dark horizon line became visible for a few brief instantsacross its blood-red face; but so distant did it seem, so very far away,the whole scene became dreamlike from its immensity.
"We've done, my lads!" shouted Bowkett; "we have about ended as gloriousa day's sport as ever I had."
"Not yet," retorted Diome. "Just listen." There was a trampling,snorting sound as of many cattle on the brink of a lakelet sheltering atthe foot of the neighbouring hills.
Were they not in the midst of what the early Canadian settlers used tocall the Land of the Wild Cows? Those sounds proceeded from anotherherd coming down for its evening drink. On they crept with stealthysteps through bush and bulrush to get a nearer view in the bewilderingshadows, which were growing darker and darker every moment.
"Stop! stop!" cried Forgill, hurrying forward, as the light yetlingering on the lake showed the familiar faces of his master's cowsstooping down to reach the pale blue water at their feet. Yes, therethey were, the truant herd Marley was endeavouring in vain to find.
; Many a horned head was lifted at the sound of Forgill's well-known call.Away he went into the midst of the group, pointing out the great "A" hehad branded deep in the thick hair on the left shoulder before he hadturned them loose.
What was now to be done?
"Drive them home," said the careful Forgill, afraid of losing themagain. But Bowkett was not willing to return.
Meanwhile Diome and Wilfred were busy preparing for the night at thespot where they had halted, when the presence of the herd was firstperceived. They had brought the horses down to the lake to water at asufficient distance from the cows not to disturb them. But one or twoof the wanderers began to "moo," as if they partially recognized theirformer companions.
"They will follow me and the horses," pursued Forgill, who knew he couldguide his way across the trackless prairie by the aid of the stars.
"If you come upon Marley," he said, "he can take my place in the cart,for he has most likely found the trail of the cows by this time; or if Icross his path, I shall leave him to drive home the herd and return. Youwill see one of us before morning."
"As you like," replied Bowkett, who knew he could do without either manprovided he kept the cart. "You will probably see us back at the gate ofAcland's Hut by to-morrow night; and if we do not bring you game enough,we must plan a second expedition when you have more leisure."
So it was settled between them.
Forgill hurried back to the camping place to get his supper before hestarted. Bowkett lingered behind, surveying the goodly herd, whilstvague schemes for combining the twofold advantages of hunter and farmerfloated through his mind.
When he rejoined his companions he found them seated round a blazingfire, enjoying the boiling kettle of tea, the fried steak, and biscuitwhich composed their supper. The saddles were hung up on the branchesof the nearest tree, and the skins and blankets which were to make theirbed were already spread upon the pine brush which strewed the ground.
"Now, young 'un," said Forgill solemnly, "strikes me I had better keepyou alongside anyhow."
"No, no," retorted Diome. "The poor little fellow has been in thesaddle all day, and he is dead asleep already; leave him under hisblankets. He'll be right enough; must learn to rough it sooner orlater."
Forgill, who had to be his own tailor and washer-woman, was lamentingover a rent in his sleeve, which he was endeavouring to stitch up. Fora housewife, with its store of needles and thread, was never absent fromhis pocket.
His awkward attempts awakened the mirth of his companions.
"What, poor old boy! haven't you got a wife at home to do the stitchingfor you?" asked Diome.
"When you have passed the last oak which grows on this side the RedRiver, are there a dozen English women in a thousand miles?" askedForgill; and then he added, "The few there are are mostly real ladies,the wives of district governors and chief factors. A fellow must makeup his mind to do for himself and rub through as he can."
"Unless he follows my father's example," put in Bowkett, "and chooseshimself a faithful drudge from an Indian wigwam. He would want no othertailor or washerwoman, for there are no such diligent workers in theworld. Look at that," he continued, pointing to his beautifullyembroidered leggings, the work of his Indian relations.
"Pay a visit to our hunters' winter camp," added Diome, "and we willshow you what an old squaw can do to make home comfortable."
There was this difference between the men: Diome who had been left byhis French father to be brought up by his Indian mother, resembled herin many things; whilst Bowkett, whose father was English, despised hisIndian mother, and tried to make himself more and more of an Englishman.This led him to cultivate the acquaintance with the Aclands.
"I am going to send your mistress a present," he said, "of a mantlewoven of wild dogs' hair. It belonged to the daughter of an Indianchief from the Rocky Mountains. It has a fringe a foot deep, and iscovered all over with embroidery. You will see then what a squaw cando."
Forgill did not seem over-pleased at this information.
"Are you talking of my Aunt Miriam?" asked Wilfred, opening his sleepyeyes.
"So you are thinking about her," returned Forgill. "That's right, mylad; for your aunt and uncle at Acland's Hut are the only kith and kinyou have left, and they are quite ready to make much of you, and youcan't make too much of them."
"You have overshot the mark there," laughed Bowkett; "rather think themissis was glad to be rid of the young plague on any terms."
Diome pulled the blankets over Wilfred's head, and wished him a _bonnenuit_ (good night).
When the boy roused up at last Forgill had long since departed, andDiome, who had been the first to awaken, was vigorously clapping hishands to warm them, and was shouting, "_Leve! leve! leve!_" to hissleepy companions.
"Get up," interpreted Bowkett, who saw that Wilfred did not understandhis companion's provincial French. Then suiting the action to the word,he crawled out from between the shafts of the cart, where he had passedthe night, tossed off his blankets and gave himself a shake, dressingbeing no part of the morning performances during camping out in theCanadian wilds, as every one puts on all the clothing he has at going tobed, to keep himself warm through the night.
The fire was reduced to a smouldering ash-heap, and every leaf and twigaround was sparkling with hoar-frost, for the frost had deepened in thenight, and joints were stiff and limbs were aching. A run for a milewas Bowkett's remedy, and a look round for the horses, which had beenturned loose, Canadian fashion, to get their supper where they couldfind it.
The first red beams of the rising sun were tinging the glassy surface ofthe lake when Bowkett came upon the scattered quadrupeds, and drovethem, with Wilfred's assistance, down to its blue waters for theirmorning drink.
Diome's shouts recalled them to their own breakfast. He was a man ofmany tongues, invariably scolding in French--especially the horses anddogs, who heeded it, he asserted, better than any other language exceptEsquimau--explaining in English, and coming out with the Indian "Caween"when discourse required an animated "no." "Caween," he reiterated now,as Bowkett asked, "Are we to dawdle about all day for these Englishcow-keepers?" For neither Forgill nor Marley had yet put in anappearance.
The breakfast was not hurried over. The fire was built up bigger thanever before they left, that its blackened remains might mark theircamping place for days, if the farming men came after them.
Wilfred, who had buckled the saddle on Brownie, received a ridinglesson, and then they started, Diome driving the cart. Wilfred keptbeside him at first, but growing bolder as his spirits rose, he trottedonward to exchange a word with Bowkett.
The sharp, frosty night seemed likely to be followed by a day of brightand mellow sunshine. The exhilarating morning breeze banished allthoughts of fear and care from the light-hearted trio; and when the tallwhite stems of the pines appeared to tremble in the mid-day mirage,Wilfred scampered hither and thither, as merry as the little gopher, orground squirrel, that was gambolling across his path. But no large gamehad yet been sighted. Then all unexpectedly a solitary buffalo stalkedmajestically across what was now the entrance to a valley, but whatwould become the bed of a rushing river when the ice was melting in theearly spring.
Bowkett paused, looked to his rifle and saddle-girths, waved his arm toWilfred to fall back, and with a shout that made the boy's heart leapdashed after it. Wilfred urged his Brownie up the bank, where hethought he could safely watch the chase and enjoy a repetition of theexciting scenes of yesterday.
Finding itself pursued, the buffalo doubled. On it came, tearing up theground in its course, and seeming to shake the quivering trees with itsmighty bellow. Brownie plunged and reared, and Wilfred was flungbackwards, a senseless heap at the foot of the steep bank.
Lost in the Wilds: A Canadian Story Page 2