“I’m so glad — for Auntie’s sake,” said Theodora, with shining eyes. “But, oh, Donald, it’s best of all just to have you back. I’m so perfectly happy that I don’t know what to do or say.”
“Well, I think you might have dinner,” said Jimmy in an injured tone. “The turkey’s getting stone cold, and I’m most starving. I just can’t stand it another minute.”
So, with a laugh, they all sat down to the table and ate the merriest Christmas dinner the little log house had ever known.
How We Went to the Wedding
“If it were to clear up I wouldn’t know how to behave, it would seem so unnatural,” said Kate. “Do you, by any chance, remember what the sun looks like, Phil?”
“Does the sun ever shine in Saskatchewan anyhow?” I asked with assumed sarcasm, just to make Kate’s big, bonny black eyes flash.
They did flash; but Kate laughed immediately after, as she sat down on a chair in front of me and cradled her long, thin, spirited dark face in her palms.
“We have more sunny weather in Saskatchewan than in all the rest of Canada put together, in an average year,” she said, clicking her strong, white teeth and snapping her eyes at me. “But I can’t blame you for feeling sceptical about it, Phil. If I went to a new country and it rained every day — all day — all night — after I got there for three whole weeks I’d think things not lawful to be uttered about the climate too. So, little cousin, I forgive you. Remember that ‘into each life some rain must fall, some days must be dark and dreary.’ Oh, if you’d only come to visit me last fall. We had such a bee-yew-tiful September last year. We were drowned in sunshine. This fall we’re drowned in water. Old settlers tell of a similar visitation in ‘72, though they claim even that wasn’t quite as bad as this.”
I was sitting rather disconsolately by an upper window of Uncle Kenneth Morrison’s log house at Arrow Creek. Below was what in dry weather — so, at least, I was told — was merely a pretty, grassy little valley, but which was now a considerable creek of muddy yellow water, rising daily. Beyond was a cheerless prospect of sodden prairie and dripping “bluff.”
“It would be a golden, mellow land, with purple hazes over the bluffs, in a normal fall,” assured Kate. “Even now if the sun were just to shine out for a day and a good ‘chinook’ blow you’d see a surprising change. I feel like chanting continually that old rhyme I learned in the first primer,
‘Rain, rain, go away, Come again some other day: — some other day next summer — Phil and Katie want to play.’
Philippa, dear girl, don’t look so dismal. It’s bound to clear up sometime.”
“I wish the ‘sometime’ would come soon, then,” I said, rather grumpily.
“You know it hasn’t really rained for three days,” protested Kate. “It’s been damp and horrid and threatening, but it hasn’t rained. I defy you to say that it has actually rained.”
“When it’s so wet underfoot that you can’t stir out without rubber boots it might as well be wet overhead too,” I said, still grumpily.
“I believe you’re homesick, girl,” said Kate anxiously.
“No, I’m not,” I answered, laughing, and feeling ashamed of my ungraciousness. “Nobody could be homesick with such a jolly good fellow as you around, Kate. It’s only that this weather is getting on my nerves a bit. I’m fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils. If your chinook doesn’t come soon, Kitty, I’ll do something quite desperate.”
“I feel that way myself,” admitted Kate. “Real reckless, Phil. Anyhow, let’s put on our despised rubber boots and sally out for a wade.”
“Here’s Jim Nash coming on horseback down the trail,” I said. “Let’s wait and see if he’s got the mail.”
We hurried down, Kate humming, “Somewhere the sun is shining,” solely, I believe, because she knew it aggravated me. At any other time I should probably have thrown a pillow at her, but just now I was too eager to see if Jim Nash had brought any mail.
I had come from Ontario, the first of September, to visit Uncle Kenneth Morrison’s family. I had been looking forward to the trip for several years. My cousin Kate and I had always corresponded since they had “gone west” ten years before; and Kate, who revelled in the western life, had sung the praises of her adopted land rapturously and constantly. It was quite a joke on her that, when I did finally come to visit her, I should have struck the wettest autumn ever recorded in the history of the west. A wet September in Saskatchewan is no joke, however. The country was almost “flooded out.” The trails soon became nearly impassable. All our plans for drives and picnics and inter-neighbour visiting — at that time a neighbour meant a man who lived at least six miles away — had to be given up. Yet I was not lonesome, and I enjoyed my visit in spite of everything. Kate was a host in herself. She was twenty-eight years old — eight years my senior — but the difference in our ages had never been any barrier to our friendship. She was a jolly, companionable, philosophical soul, with a jest for every situation, and a merry solution for every perplexity. The only fault I had to find with her was her tendency to make parodies. Kate’s parodies were perfectly awful and always got on my nerves.
She was dreadfully ashamed of the way the Saskatchewan weather was behaving after all her boasting. She was thin at the best of times, but now she grew positively scraggy with the worry of it. I am afraid I took an unholy delight in teasing her, and abused the western weather even more than was necessary.
Jim Nash — the lank youth who was hired to look after the place during Uncle Kenneth’s absence on a prolonged threshing expedition — had brought some mail. Kate’s share was a letter, postmarked Bothwell, a rising little town about one hundred and twenty miles from Arrow Creek. Kate had several friends there, and one of our plans had been to visit Bothwell and spend a week with them. We had meant to drive, of course, since there was no other way of getting there, and equally of course the plan had been abandoned because of the wet weather.
“Mother,” exclaimed Kate, “Mary Taylor is going to be married in a fortnight’s time! She wants Phil and me to go up to Bothwell for the wedding.”
“What a pity you can’t go,” remarked Aunt Jennie placidly. Aunt Jennie was always a placid little soul, with a most enviable knack of taking everything easy. Nothing ever worried her greatly, and when she had decided that a thing was inevitable it did not worry her at all.
“But I am going,” cried Kate. “I will go — I must go. I positively cannot let Mary Taylor — my own beloved Molly — go and perpetrate matrimony without my being on hand to see it. Yes, I’m going — and if Phil has a spark of the old Blair pioneer spirit in her, she’ll go too.”
“Of course I’ll go if you go,” I said.
Aunt Jennie did not think we were in earnest, so she merely laughed at first, and said, “How do you propose to go? Fly — or swim?”
“We’ll drive, as usual,” said Kate calmly. “I’d feel more at home in that way of locomotion. We’ll borrow Jim Nash’s father’s democrat, and take the ponies. We’ll put on old clothes, raincoats, rubber caps and boots, and we’ll start tomorrow. In an ordinary time we could easily do it in six days or less, but this fall we’ll probably need ten or twelve.”
“You don’t really mean to go, Kate!” said Aunt Jennie, beginning to perceive that Kate did mean it.
“I do,” said Kate, in a convincing tone.
Aunt Jennie felt a little worried — as much as she could feel worried over anything — and she tried her best to dissuade Kate, although she plainly did not have much hope of doing so, having had enough experience with her determined daughter to realize that when Kate said she was going to do a thing she did it. It was rather funny to listen to the ensuing dialogue.
“Kate, you can’t do it. It’s a crazy idea! The road is one hundred and twenty miles long.”
“I’ve driven it twice, Mother.”
“Yes, but not in such a wet year. The trail is impassable in places.”
“Oh, there are always plenty of
dry spots to be found if you only look hard for them.”
“But you don’t know where to look for them, and goodness knows what you’ll get into while you are looking.”
“We’ll call at the M.P. barracks and get an Indian to guide us. Indians always know the dry spots.”
“The stage driver has decided not to make another trip till the October frosts set in.”
“But he always has such a heavy load. It will be quite different with us, you must remember. We’ll travel light — just our provisions and a valise containing our wedding garments.”
“What will you do if you get mired twenty miles from a human being?”
“But we won’t. I’m a good driver and I haven’t nerves — but I have nerve. Besides, you forget that we’ll have an Indian guide with us.”
“There was a company of Hudson Bay freighters ambushed and killed along that very trail by Blackfoot Indians in 1839,” said Aunt Jennie dolefully.
“Fifty years ago! Their ghosts must have ceased to haunt it by this time,” said Kate flippantly.
“Well, you’ll get wet through and catch your deaths of cold,” protested Aunt Jennie.
“No fear of it. We’ll be cased in rubber. And we’ll borrow a good tight tent from the M.P.s. Besides, I’m sure it’s not going to rain much more. I know the signs.”
“At least wait for a day or two until you’re sure that it has cleared up,” implored Aunt Jennie.
“Which being interpreted means, ‘Wait for a day or two, because then your father may be home and he’ll squelch your mad expedition,’” said Kate, with a sly glance at me. “No, no, my mother, your wiles are in vain. We’ll hit the trail tomorrow at sunrise. So just be good, darling, and help us pack up some provisions. I’ll send Jim for his father’s democrat.”
Aunt Jennie resigned herself to the inevitable and betook herself to the pantry with the air of a woman who washes her hands of the consequences. I flew upstairs to pack some finery. I was wild with delight over the proposed outing. I did not realize what it actually meant, and I had perfect confidence in Kate, who was an expert driver, an experienced camper out, and an excellent manager. If I could have seen what was ahead of us I would certainly not have been quite so jubilant and reckless, but I would have gone all the same. I would not miss the laughter-provoking memories of that trip out of my life for anything. I have always been glad I went.
We left at sunrise the next morning; there was a sunrise that morning, for a wonder. The sun came up in a pinky-saffron sky and promised us a fine day. Aunt Jennie bade us goodbye and, estimable woman that she was, did not trouble us with advice or forebodings.
Mr. Nash had sent over his “democrat,” a light wagon with springs; and Kate’s “shaganappies,” Tom and Jerry — native ponies, the toughest horse flesh to be found in the world — were hitched to it. Kate and I were properly accoutred for our trip and looked — but I try to forget how we looked! The memory is not flattering.
We drove off in the gayest of spirits. Our difficulties began at the start, for we had to drive a mile before we could find a place to ford the creek. Beyond that, however, we had a passable trail for three miles to the little outpost of the Mounted Police, where five or six men were stationed on detachment duty.
“Sergeant Baker is a friend of mine,” said Kate. “He’ll be only too glad to lend me all we require.”
The sergeant was a friend of Kate’s, but he looked at her as if he thought she was crazy when she told him where we were going.
“You’d better take a canoe instead of a team,” he said sarcastically. “I’ve a good notion to arrest you both as horse thieves and prevent you from going on such a mad expedition.”
“You know nothing short of arrest would stop me,” said Kate, nodding at him with laughing eyes, “and you really won’t go to such an extreme, I know. So please be nice, even if it comes hard, and lend us some things. I’ve come a-borrying.”
“I won’t lend you a thing,” declared the sergeant. “I won’t aid and abet you in any such freak as this. Go home now, like a good girl.”
“I’m not going home,” said Kate. “I’m not a ‘good girl’ — I’m a wicked old maid, and I’m going to Bothwell. If you won’t lend us a tent we’ll go without — and sleep in the open — and our deaths will lie forever at your door. I’ll come back and haunt you, if you don’t lend me a tent. I’ll camp on your very threshold and you won’t be able to go out of your door without falling over my spook.”
“I’ve more fear of being accountable for your death if I do let you go,” said Sergeant Baker dubiously. “However, I see that nothing but physical force will prevent you. What do you want?”
“I want,” said Kate, “a cavalry tent, a sheet-iron camp stove, and a good Indian guide — old Peter Crow for choice. He’s such a respectable-looking old fellow, and his wife often works for us.”
The sergeant gave us the tent and stove, and sent a man down to the Reserve for Peter Crow. Moreover, he vindicated his title of friend by making us take a dozen prairie chickens and a large ham — besides any quantity of advice. We didn’t want the advice but we hugely welcomed the ham. Presently our guide appeared — quite a spruce old Indian, as Indians go. I had never been able to shake off my childhood conviction that an Indian was a fearsome creature, hopelessly addicted to scalping knives and tomahawks, and I secretly felt quite horrified at the idea of two defenceless females starting out on a lonely prairie trail with an Indian for guide. Even old Peter Crow’s meek appearance did not quite reassure me; but I kept my qualms to myself, for I knew Kate would only laugh at me.
It was ten when we finally got away from the M.P. outpost. Sergeant Baker bade us goodbye in a tone which seemed to intimate that he never expected to see either of us again. What with his dismal predictions and my secret horror of Indians, I was beginning to feel anything but jubilant over our expedition. Kate, however, was as blithe and buoyant as usual. She knew no fear, being one of those enviable folk who can because they think they can. One hundred and twenty miles of half-flooded prairie trail — camping out at night in the solitude of the Great Lone Land — rain — muskegs — Indian guides — nothing had any terror for my dauntless cousin.
For the next three hours, however, we got on beautifully. The trail was fair, though somewhat greasy; the sun shone, though with a somewhat watery gleam, through the mists; and Peter Crow, coiled up on the folded tent behind the seat, slept soundly and snored mellifluously. That snore reassured me greatly. I had never thought of Indians as snoring. Surely one who did couldn’t be dreaded greatly.
We stopped at one o’clock and had a cold lunch, sitting in our wagon, while Peter Crow wakened up and watered the ponies. We did not get on so well in the afternoon. The trail descended into low-lying ground where travelling was very difficult. I had to admit old Peter Crow was quite invaluable. He knew, as Kate had foretold, “all the dry spots” — that is to say, spots less wet than others. But, even so, we had to make so many detours that by sunset we were little more than six miles distant from our noon halting place.
“We’d better set camp now, before it gets any darker,” said Kate. “There’s a capital spot over there, by that bluff of dead poplar. The ground seems pretty dry too. Peter, cut us a set of tent poles and kindle a fire.”
“Want my dollar first,” said old Peter stolidly.
We had agreed to pay him a dollar a day for the trip, but none of the money was to be paid until we got to Bothwell. Kate told him this. But all the reply she got was a stolid, “Want dollar. No make fire without dollar.”
We were getting cold and it was getting dark, so finally Kate, under the law of necessity, paid him his dollar. Then he carried out our orders at his own sweet leisure. In course of time he got a fire lighted, and while we cooked supper he set up the tent and prepared our beds, by cutting piles of brush and covering them with rugs.
Kate and I had a hilarious time cooking that supper. It was my first experience of camping out and, as I had
become pretty well convinced that Peter Crow was not the typical Indian of old romance, I enjoyed it all hugely. But we were both very tired, and as soon as we had finished eating we betook ourselves to our tent and found our brush beds much more comfortable than I had expected. Old Peter coiled up on his blanket outside by the fire, and the great silence of a windless prairie enwrapped us. In a few minutes we were sound asleep and never wakened until seven o’clock.
When we arose and lifted the flap of the tent we saw a peculiar sight. The little elevation on which we had pitched our camp seemed to be an island in a vast sea of white mist, dotted here and there with other islands. On every hand to the far horizon stretched that strange, phantasmal ocean, and a hazy sun looked over the shifting billows. I had never seen a western mist before and I thought it extremely beautiful; but Kate, to whom it was no novelty, was more cumbered with breakfast cares.
“I’m ravenous,” she said, as she bustled about among our stores. “Camping out always does give one such an appetite. Aren’t you hungry, Phil?”
“Comfortably so,” I admitted. “But where are our ponies? And where is Peter Crow?”
“Probably the ponies have strayed away looking for pea vines. They love and adore pea vines,” said Kate, stirring up the fire from under its blanket of grey ashes. “And Peter Crow has gone to look for them, good old fellow. When you do get a conscientious Indian there is no better guide in the world, but they are rare. Now, Philippa-girl, just pry out the sergeant’s ham and shave a few slices off it for our breakfast. Some savoury fried ham always goes well on the prairie.”
I went for the ham but could not find it. A thorough search among our effects revealed it not.
“Kate, I can’t find the ham,” I called out. “It must have fallen out somewhere on the trail.”
The Complete Works of L M Montgomery Page 720