CHAPTER TWO.
A LAZY COUPLE DESCRIBED--AND ROUSED.
Francois La Certe was seated on the floor of his hut smoking a long claypipe beside an open wood fire when Fergus McKay approached. His wifewas seated beside him calmly smoking a shorter pipe with obviousenjoyment.
The man was a Canadian half-breed. His wife was an Indian woman. Theywere both moderately young and well matched, for they thoroughly agreedin everything conceivable--or otherwise. In the length and breadth ofthe Settlement there could not have been found a lazier or moregood-natured or good-for-nothing couple than La Certe and his spouse.Love was, if we may venture to say so, the chief element in thecharacter of each. Love of self was the foundation. Then, happily,love of each other came next. Rising gracefully, the superstructure maybe described as, love of tobacco, love of tea, love of ease, and love ofgeneral comfort, finishing off with a top-dressing, or capital, ofpronounced, decided, and apparently incurable love of indolence. Theyhad only one clear and unmistakable hatred about them, and that was thehatred of work. They had a child about four years of age which waslike-minded--and not unlike-bodied.
In the wilderness, as in the city, such individuals are well-known bythe similarity of their characteristics. It is not that they can'twork, but they won't work--though, of course, if taxed with thisdisposition they would disclaim it with mild indignation, or anexpression of hurt remonstrance, for they are almost too lazy to becomeenraged. "Take life easy, or, if we can't take it easy, let us take itas easy as we can," is, or ought to be, their motto. In low life athome they slouch and smile. In high life they saunter and affecteasy-going urbanity--slightly mingled with mild superiority to things ingeneral. Whatever rank of life they belong to they lay themselves outwith persistent resolution to do as little work as they can; to makeother people do as much work for them as possible; to get out of life asmuch of enjoyment as may be attainable--consistently, of course, withthe incurable indolence--and, to put off as long as may be the evil daywhich, they perceive or suspect, must inevitably be coming.
The curious thing about this race of beings is, that, whether in high orlow station, they are never ashamed of themselves--or of their positionas drones in the world's hive. They seem rather to apologise for theirdegradation as a thing inevitable, for which they are not accountable--and sometimes, in the case of the rich, as a thing justifiable.
"I'm glad I did not go to the plains this fall," said La Certe, stirringthe logs on the fire with his toe and emitting a prolonged sigh ofmingled smoke and contentment, while a blast from the bleak nor'-westshook every blackened rafter in his little hut.
"Heel hee!" responded his wife, whose Indian name--translated--wasSlowfoot, and might have been Slowtongue with equal propriety, for shewas quite an adept at the art of silence. She frequently caused agiggle to do duty for speech. This suited her husband admirably, for hewas fond of talking--could tell a good story, sing a good song, andexpress his feelings in a good hearty laugh.
"Yes, it will be hard for the poor boys who have gone to the plains, theweather is so awful, to say nothing of the women."
"Ho," replied Slowfoot--though what she meant to express by this nomortal knows--nor, perhaps, cares. It meant nothing bad, however, forshe smiled seraphically and sent forth a stream of smoke, which,mingling with that just emitted by her husband, rose in a curlingharmony to the roof.
Slowfoot was not a bad-looking woman as North American Indians go. Shewas brown unquestionably, and dirty without doubt, but she had apleasant expression, suggestive of general good-will, and in the buddingperiod of life must have been even pretty. She was evidently older thanher husband, who might, perhaps, have been a little over thirty.
"I should not wonder," continued La Certe, "if the buffalo was droveaway, and the people starved this year. But the buffalo, perhaps, willreturn in time to save them."
"Hm!" responded the wife, helping herself to some very strong tea, whichshe poured out of a tin kettle into a tin mug and sweetened with maplesugar.
"Do you know if Cloudbrow went with them?" asked the half-breed, pushingforward his mug for a supply of the cheering beverage.
"No, he stopped in his house," replied the woman, rousing herself for amoment to the conversational point, but relapsing immediately.
The man spoke in patois French, the woman in her native Cree language.For convenience we translate their conversation as near as may be intothe English in which they were wont to converse with the Scotch settlerswho, some time before, had been sent out by the Earl of Selkirk tocolonise that remote part of the northern wilderness.
La Certe's father was a French Canadian, his mother an Indian woman, butboth having died while he was yet a boy he had been brought or left togrow up under the care of an English woman who had followed the fortunesof the La Certe family. His early companions had been half-breeds andIndians. Hence he could speak the English, French, and Indian languageswith equal incorrectness and facility.
"You don't like Cloudbrow," remarked the man with an inquiring glanceover the rim of his mug. "Why you not like him?"
"Hee! hee!" was Slowfoot's lucid reply. Then, with an unwonted frown onher mild visage, she added with emphasis--
"No! I _not_ like him."
"I know that," returned the husband, setting down his mug and resuminghis pipe, "but why?"
To this the lady answered with a sound too brief to spell, and thegentleman, being accustomed to his wife's little eccentricities, brokeinto a hilarious laugh, and assured her that Cloudbrow was not a badfellow--a capital hunter and worthy of more regard than she was awareof.
"For," said he, "Cloudbrow is willing to wait till spring for payment ofthe horse an' cart I hired from him last year. You know that I couldnot pay him till I go to the plains an' get another load of meat an'leather. You will go with me, Slowfoot, an' we will have grand times ofit with buffalo-humps an' marrow bones, an' tea an' tobacco. Ah! itmakes my mouth water. Give me more tea. So. That will do. What anoise the wind makes! I hopes it won't blow over the shed an' kill thehorse. But if it do I cannot help that. Cloudbrow could not ask me topay for what the wind does."
There came another gust of such violence, as he spoke, that evenSlowfoot's benignant expression changed to a momentary glance ofanxiety, for the shingles on the roof rattled, and the rafters creakedas if the hut were groaning under the strain. It passed, however, andthe pair went on smoking with placid contentment, for they had butrecently had a "square" meal of pemmican and flour.
This compost when cooked in a frying-pan is exceedingly rich andsatisfying--not to say heavy--food, but it does not incommode such as LaCerte and his wife. It even made the latter feel amiably disposed toCloudbrow.
This _sobriquet_ had been given by the half-breeds to a young Scotchsettler named Duncan McKay, in consequence of the dark frown which hadsettled habitually on his brow--the result of bad temper and unbridledpassion. He was younger brother to that Fergus who has already beenintroduced to the reader. Having been partially trained, while inScotland, away from the small farm-house of his father, and havingreceived a better education, Duncan conceived himself to stand on ahigher level than the sedate and uneducated Fergus. Thus pride wasadded to his bad temper. But he was not altogether destitute of goodpoints. What man is? One of these was a certain recklessopen-handedness, so that he was easily imposed on by the protestationsand assurances of the sly, plausible, and lazy La Certe.
The couple were still engaged in smoking, quaffing tea, and otherintellectual pursuits, when they heard sounds outside as of some oneapproaching. Another moment, and the door burst open, and a man inwhite stepped in. He saluted them with a familiar and hasty"_bonjour_," as he stamped and beat the snow vigorously from hisgarments.
"What? Antoine Dechamp!" exclaimed La Certe, rising slowly to welcomehis friend; "you seem in hurry?"
"Ay--in great hurry! They are starving on the plains! Many are dead!Davidson has come in! He is more than half-dead! Can hardly t
ell thenews! Drops asleep when he is speaking! Luckily I met him when goinghome in my cariole! Okematan, the Indian, was with me. So he got out,and said he would pilot Davidson safe home! He said something aboutFergus McKay, which I could not understand, so I have come on, and willdrive to Fort Garry with the news! But my horse has broke down! Isyours in the stable?"
Dechamp was a sturdy young half-breed and an old playmate of La Certe.He spoke with obvious impatience at the delay caused by having so muchto tell.
"Is your horse in the stable?" he demanded sharply a second time, whilehis friend began, with exasperating composure, to assure him that itwas, but that the horse was not his.
"Cloudbrow is its owner," he said, "and you know if anything happens toit he will ---. Stay, I will get you lantern--"
He stopped, for Dechamp, observing a large key hanging on the wall, hadseized it and rushed out of the hut without waiting for a lantern.
"Strange, how easy some men get into a fuss!" remarked La Certe to hissurprised, but quiet, spouse as he lighted a large tin lantern, and wentto the door. Looking out with an expression of discomfort, he put onhis cap, and prepared to face the storm in the cause of humanity. Heheld the lantern high up first, however, and peered under it as if toobserve the full extent of the discomfort before braving it. Just thena furious gust blew out the light.
"Ha! I expected that," he said, with a sigh that was stronglysuggestive of relief, as he returned to the fire to relight the lantern.
On going the second time to the door he observed the form of his friendleading the horse past--both of them looking dim and spectral throughthe driving snow.
"Dechamp have good eyes!" he remarked, halting on the threshold. "Thereis light enough without the lantern; besides--ha! there, it is outagain! What a trouble it is! Impossible to keep it in--such a night!"
"Hee! hee!" giggled Slowfoot, who was busy refilling her pipe.
La Certe was still standing in a state of hesitancy, troubled by astrong desire to help his friend, and a stronger desire to sparehimself, when he was thrown somewhat off his wonted balance by thesudden reappearance of Dechamp, leading, or rather supporting, a man.
Need we say that it was Fergus McKay, almost blind and dumb fromexhaustion, for the parting from Dan Davidson which we have mentionedhad proved to be the last straw which broke them both down, and it isprobable that the frozen corpse of poor Dan would have been found nextday on the snow, had he not been accidentally met by Dechamp, and takenin charge by the Indian Okematan. Fergus, having a shorter way to go,and, perhaps, possessing a little more vitality or endurance, had justmanaged to stagger to La Certe's hut when he encountered the same manwho, an hour previously, had met and saved his companion further downthe Settlement.
The moment Fergus entered the hut, he looked wildly round, and openedhis mouth as if to speak. Then he suddenly collapsed, and fell in aheap upon the floor, scattering flakes of snow from his person in alldirections.
La Certe and his wife, though steeped in selfishness, were by no meansinsensible to the sufferings of humanity when these were actually madevisible to their naked eyes. Like many--too many--people, they wereincapable of being impressed very deeply through their ears, but couldbe keenly touched through the eyes. No sooner did they behold thecondition of Fergus--who was well-known to them--than they dropped theirapathetic characters as though they had been garments.
In her haste Slowfoot let fall her pipe, which broke to atoms on thefloor--but she heeded it not. La Certe capsized his mug of tea--butregarded it not; and while the former proceeded to remove the shawl fromFergus's neck and chafe his cold hands, the latter assisted Dechamp todrag the exhausted man a little nearer to the fire, and poured a cup ofwarm tea down his throat.
Their efforts, though perchance not as wisely directed as they mighthave been, were so vigorously conducted that success rewarded them.Fergus soon began to show signs of returning animation. A hunter of thewestern wilderness is not easily overcome, neither is he long ofreviving, as a rule, if not killed outright.
They set him up in a sitting posture with his back against a box, andhis feet towards the fire. Heaving a deep sigh, Fergus looked roundwith a bewildered, anxious expression. In a moment intelligencereturned to his eyes, and he made a violent attempt to rise, but Dechampheld him down.
"Let me up!" he gasped, "life and death are in the matter--if it iss notdeath already--"
"Be still, Fergus McKay," said Dechamp, with that firmness of manner andtone which somehow command respect; "I know all about it. Take one bitof bread, one swig more of tea, and you go with me to Fort Garry, totell the Gov'nor what you know. He will send help at once."
Great was the relief of Fergus when he heard this. Submitting totreatment like an obedient child, he was soon fit to stagger to thesleigh or cariole, into which he was carefully stuffed and packed like abale of goods by La Certe and his wife, who, to their credit be itrecorded, utterly ignored, for once, the discomforts of the situation.
Fergus was asleep before the packing was quite done. Then Dechampjumped in beside him, and drove off in the direction of the Hudson's BayCompany's establishment, Fort Garry, while our worthy couple returned totheir hut to indulge in a final and well-earned pipe and a mug of thestrongest possible tea.
The Buffalo Runners: A Tale of the Red River Plains Page 2