Book: The Young Fur Traders

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"Yes, sir, 'e is" said the groom, with a look of slightly offended
dignity, and drawing himself up--if we may use such an expression to
one who was always drawn up to such an extent that he seemed to be
just balanced on his heels, and required only a gentle push to lay
him flat on his back.

"Oh, I have it!" cried Peter Mactavish, who had been standing during
the conversation with his back to the fire, and a short pipe in his
mouth: "John Fowler, the miller, has just purchased a new pony. I'm
told it's an old buffalo-runner, and I'm certain he would lend it to
Charley at once."

"The very thing," said the senior clerk.--"Run, Tom; give the miller
my compliments, and beg the loan of his horse for Charley Kennedy.--I
think he knows you, Charley?"

The dinner-bell rang as the groom departed, and the clerks prepared
for their mid-day meal.

The Senior clerk's order to _"run"_ was a mere form of speech,
intended to indicate that haste was desirable. No man imagined for a
moment that Tom Whyte could, by any possibility, _run_. He hadn't run
since he was dismissed from the army, twenty years before, for
incurable drunkenness; and most of Tom's friend's entertained the
belief that if he ever attempted to run he would crack all over, and
go to pieces like a disentombed Egyptian mummy. Tom therefore walked
off to the row of buildings inhabited by the men, where he sat down
on a bench in front of his bed, and proceeded leisurely to fill his
pipe.

The room in which he sat was a fair specimen of the dwellings devoted
to the _employés_ of the Hudson's Bay Company throughout the country.
It was large, and low in the roof, built entirely of wood, which was
unpainted; a matter, however, of no consequence, as, from long
exposure to dust and tobacco smoke, the floor, walls, and ceiling had
become one deep, uniform brown. The men's beds were constructed after
the fashion of berths on board ship, being wooden boxes ranged in
tiers round the room. Several tables and benches were strewn
miscellaneously about the floor, in the centre of which stood a large
double iron stove, with the word _"Carron"_ stamped on it. This
served at once for cooking and warming the place. Numerous guns,
axes, and canoe-paddles hung round the walls or were piled in
corners, and the rafters sustained a miscellaneous mass of materials,
the more conspicuous among which were snow-shoes, dog-sledges, axe-
handles, and nets.

Having filled and lighted his pipe, Tom Whyte thrust his hands into
his deerskin mittens, and sauntered off to perform his errand.




CHAPTER IV.


A wolf-hunt in the prairies--Charley astonishes his father, and
breaks in the "noo 'oss" effectually.

During the long winter that reigns in the northern regions of
America, the thermometer ranges, for many months together, from zero
down to 20, 30, and 40 degrees _below_ it. In different parts of the
country the intensity of the frost varies a little, but not
sufficiently to make any appreciable change in one's sensation of
cold. At York Fort, on the shores of Hudson's Bay, where the winter
is eight months long, the spirit-of-wine (mercury being useless in so
cold a climate) sometimes falls so low as 50 degrees below zero; and
away in the regions of Great Bear Lake it has been known to fall
considerably lower than 60 degrees below zero of Fahrenheit. Cold of
such intensity, of course, produces many curious and interesting
effects, which, although scarcely noticed by the inhabitants, make a
strong impression upon the minds of those who visit the country for
the first time. A youth goes out to walk on one of the first sharp,
frosty mornings. His locks are brown and his face ruddy. In half-an-
hour he returns with his face blue, his nose frost-bitten, and his
locks _white_--the latter effect being produced by his breath
congealing on his hair and breast, until both are covered with hoar-
frost. Perhaps he is of a sceptical nature, prejudiced it may be, in
favour of old habits and customs; so that, although told by those who
ought to know that it is absolutely necessary to wear moccasins in
winter, he prefers the leather boots to which he has been accustomed
at home, and goes out with them accordingly In a few minutes the feet
begin to lose sensation. First the toes, as far as feeling goes,
vanish; then the heels depart, and he feels the extraordinary and
peculiar and altogether disagreeable sensation of one who has had his
heels and toes amputated, and is walking about on his insteps. Soon,
however, these also fade away, and the unhappy youth rushes
frantically home on the stumps of his ankle-bones--at least so it
appears to him, and so in reality it would turn out to be if he did
not speedily rub the benumbed appendages into vitality again.

The whole country during this season is buried in snow, and the
prairies of Red River present the appearance of a sea of the purest
white for five or six months of the year. Impelled by hunger, troops
of prairie wolves prowl round the settlement, safe from the assault
of man in consequence of their light weight permitting them to
scamper away on the surface of the snow, into which man or horse,
from their greater weight, would sink, so as to render pursuit either
fearfully laborious or altogether impossible. In spring, however,
when the first thaws begin to take place, and commence that
delightful process of disruption which introduces this charming
season of the year, the relative position of wolf and man is
reversed. The snow becomes suddenly soft, so that the short legs of
the wolf, sinking deep into it, fail to reach the solid ground below,
and he is obliged to drag heavily along; while the long legs of the
horse enable him to plunge through and dash aside the snow at a rate
which, although not very fleet, is sufficient nevertheless to
overtake the chase and give his rider a chance of shooting it. The
inhabitants of Red River are not much addicted to this sport, but the
gentlemen of the Hudson's Bay Service sometimes practise it; and it
was to a hunt of this description that our young friend Charley
Kennedy was now so anxious to go.

The morning was propitious. The sun blazed in dazzling splendour in a
sky of deep unclouded blue, while the white prairie glittered as if
it were a sea of diamonds rolling out in an unbroken sheet from the
walls of the fort to the horizon, and on looking at which one
experienced all the pleasurable feelings of being out on a calm day
on the wide, wide sea, without the disagreeable consequence of being
very, very sick.

The thermometer stood at 39° in the shade, and "everythin_k_" as Tom
Whyte emphatically expressed it, "looked like a runnin' of right away
into slush." That unusual sound, the trickling of water, so
inexpressibly grateful to the ears of those who dwell in frosty
climes, was heard all around, as the heavy masses of snow on the
housetops sent a few adventurous drops gliding down the icicles which
depended from the eaves and gables; and there was a balmy softness in
the air that told of coming spring. Nature, in fact, seemed to have
wakened from her long nap, and was beginning to think of getting up.
Like people, however, who venture to delay so long as to _think_
about it, Nature frequently turns round and goes to sleep again in
her icy cradle for a few weeks after the first awakening.

The scene in the court-yard of Fort Garry harmonised with the
cheerful spirit of the morning. Tom Whyte, with that upright
solemnity which constituted one of his characteristic features, was
standing in the centre of a group of horses, whose energy he
endeavoured to restrain with the help of a small Indian boy, to whom
meanwhile he imparted a variety of useful and otherwise unattainable
information.

"You see, Joseph," said he to the urchin, who gazed gravely in his
face with a pair of very large and dark eyes, "ponies is often
skittish. Keason why one should be, an' another not, I can't
comprehend. P'r'aps it's nat'ral, p'r'aps not, but howsomediver so
'tis; an' if it's more nor above the likes o' _me_, Joseph, you
needn't be suprised that it's somethink haltogether beyond _you_."

It will not surprise the reader to be told that Joseph made no reply
to this speech, having a very imperfect acquaintance with the English
language, especially the peculiar dialect of that tongue in which Tom
Whyte was wont to express his ideas, when he had any.

He merely gave a grunt, and continued to gaze at Tom's fishy eyes,
which were about as interesting as the face to which they belonged,
and _that_ might have been mistaken for almost anything.

"Yes, Joseph," he continued, "that's a fact. There's the noo brown
o'ss now, _it's_ a skittish 'un. And there's Mr. Kennedy's gray mare,
wot's a standin' of beside me, she ain't skittish a bit, though she's
plenty of spirit, and wouldn't care hanythink for a five-barred gate.
Now, wot I want to know is, wot's the reason why?"

We fear that the reason why, however interesting it might prove to
naturalists, must remain a profound secret for ever; for just as the
groom was about to entertain Joseph with one of his theories on the
point, Charley Kennedy and Harry Somerville hastily approached.

"Ho, Tom!" exclaimed the former, "have you got the miller's pony for
me?"

"Why, no, sir; 'e 'adn't got his shoes on, sir, last night--"

"Oh, bother his shoes!" said Charley, in a voice of great
disappointment. "Why didn't you bring him up without shoes, man, eh?"

"Well, sir, the miller said 'e'd get 'em put on early this mornin',
an' I 'xpect 'e'll be 'ere in 'alf-a-hour at farthest, sir."

"Oh, very well," replied Charley, much relieved, but still a little
nettled at the bare possibility of being late.--"Come along, Harry;
let's go and meet him. He'll be long enough of coming if we don't go
to poke him up a bit."

"You'd better wait," called out the groom, as the boys hastened away.
"If you go by the river, he'll p'r'aps come by the plains; and if you
go by the plains, he'll p'r'aps come by the river."

Charley and Harry stopped and looked at each other. Then they looked
at the groom, and as their eyes surveyed his solemn, cadaverous
countenance, which seemed a sort of bad caricature of the long
visages of the horses that stood around him, they burst into a
simultaneous and prolonged laugh.

"He's a clever old lamp-post," said Harry at last: "we had better
remain, Charley."

"You see," continued Tom Whyte, "the pony's 'oofs is in an 'orrible
state. Last night w'en I see'd 'im I said to the miller, says I,
'John, I'll take 'im down to the smith d'rectly.' 'Very good,' said
John. So I 'ad him down to the smith--"

The remainder of Tom's speech was cut short by one of those
unforeseen operations of the laws of nature which are peculiar to
arctic climates. During the long winter repeated falls of snow cover
the housetops with white mantles upwards of a foot thick, which
become gradually thicker and more consolidated as winter advances. In
spring the suddenness of the thaw loosens these from the sloping
roofs, and precipitates them in masses to the ground. These miniature
avalanches are dangerous, people having been seriously injured and
sometimes killed by them. Now it happened that a very large mass of
snow, which lay on and partly depended from the roof of the house
near to which the horses were standing, gave way, and just at that
critical point in Tom Whyte's speech when he "'ad 'im down to the
smith," fell with a stunning crash on the back of Mr. Kennedy's gray
mare. The mare was not "skittish"--by no means--according to Tom's
idea, but it would have been more than an ordinary mare to have stood
the sudden descent of half-a-ton of snow without _some_ symptoms of
consciousness. No sooner did it feel the blow than it sent both heels
with a bang against the wooden store, by way of preliminary movement,
and then rearing up with a wild snort, it sprang over Tom Whyte's
head, jerked the reins from his hand, and upset him in the snow. Poor
Tom never _bent_ to anything. The military despotism under which he
had been reared having substituted a touch of the cap for a bow,
rendered it unnecessary to bend; prolonged drill, laziness, and
rheumatism made it at last impossible. When he stood up, he did so
after the manner of a pillar; when he sat down, he broke across at
two points, much in the way in which a foot-rule would have done had
_it_ felt disposed to sit down; and when he fell, he came down like
an overturned lamp-post. On the present occasion Tom became
horizontal in a moment, and from his unfortunate propensity to fall
straight, his head, reaching much farther than might have been
expected, came into violent contact with the small Indian boy, who
fell flat likewise, letting go the reins of the horses, which latter
no sooner felt themselves free than they fled, curvetting and
snorting round the court, with reins and manes flying in rare
confusion.

The two boys, who could scarce stand for laughing, ran to the gates
of the fort to prevent the chargers getting free, and in a short time
they were again secured, although evidently much elated in spirit.

A few minutes after this Mr. Grant issued from the principal house
leaning on Mr. Kennedy's arm, and followed by the senior clerk, Peter
Mactavish, and one or two friends who had come to take part in the
wolf-hunt. They were all armed with double or single barrelled guns
or pistols, according to their several fancies. The two elderly
gentlemen alone entered upon the scene without any more deadly
weapons than their heavy riding-whips. Young Harry Somerville, who
had been strongly advised not to take a gun lest he should shoot
himself or his horse or his companions, was content to take the field
with a small pocket-pistol, which he crammed to the muzzle with a
compound of ball and swan-shot.

"It won't do," said Mr. Grant, in an earnest voice, to his friend, as
they walked towards the horses--"it won't do to check him too
abruptly, my dear sir."

It was evident that they were recurring to the subject of
conversation of the previous day, and it was also evident that the
father's wrath was in that very uncertain state when a word or look
can throw it into violent agitation.

"Just permit me," continued Mr. Grant, "to get him sent to the
Saskatchewan or Athabasca for a couple of years. By that time he'll
have had enough of a rough life, and be only too glad to get a berth
at headquarters. If you thwart him now, I feel convinced that he'll
break through all restraint."

"Humph!" ejaculated Mr. Kennedy, with a frown--"Come here, Charley,"
he said, as the boy approached with a disappointed look to tell of
his failure in getting a horse; "I've been talking with Mr. Grant
again about this business, and he says he can easily get you into the
counting-room here for a year, so you'll make arrangements--"

The old gentleman paused. He was going to have followed his wonted
course by _commanding_ instantaneous obedience; but as his eye fell
upon the honest, open, though disappointed face of his son, a gush of
tenderness filled his heart. Laying his hand upon Charley's head, he
said, in a kind but abrupt tone, "There now, Charley, my boy, make up
your mind to give in with a good grace. It'll only be hard work for a
year or two, and then plain sailing after that, Charley!"

Charley's clear blue eyes filled with tears as the accents of
kindness fell upon his ear.

It is strange that men should frequently be so blind to the potent
influence of kindness. Independently of the Divine authority, which
assures us that "a soft answer turneth away wrath," and that "_love_
is the fulfilling of the law," who has not, in the course of his
experience, felt the overwhelming power of a truly affectionate word;
not a word which possesses merely an affectionate signification, but
a word spoken with a gush of tenderness, where love rolls in the
tone, and beams in the eye, and revels in every wrinkle of the face?
And how much more powerfully does such a word or look or tone strike
home to the heart if uttered by one whose lips are not much
accustomed to the formation of honeyed words or sweet sentences! Had
Mr. Kennedy, senior, known more of this power, and put it more
frequently to the proof, we venture to affirm that Mr. Kennedy,
junior, would have _allowed_ his _"flint to be fixed"_ (as his father
pithily expressed it) long ago.

Ere Charley could reply to the question, Mr. Grant's voice, pitched
in an elevated key, interrupted them.

"Eh! what?" said that gentleman to Tom Whyte. "No horse for Charley!
How's that?"

"No, sir," said Tom.

"Where's the brown pony?" said Mr. Grant, abruptly.

"Cut 'is fetlock, sir," said Tom, slowly.

"And the new horse?"

"'Tan't 'alf broke yet, sir."

"Ah! that's bad.--It wouldn't do to take an unbroken charger,
Charley; for although you are a pretty good rider, you couldn't
manage him, I fear. Let me see."

"Please, sir," said the groom, touching his hat, "I've borrowed the
miller's pony for 'im, and 'e's sure to be 'ere in 'alf-a-hour at
farthest."

"Oh, that'll do," said Mr. Grant; "you can soon overtake us. We shall
ride slowly out, straight into the prairie, and Harry will remain
behind to keep you company."

So saying, Mr. Grant mounted his horse and rode out at the back gate,
followed by the whole cavalcade.

"Now this is too bad!" said Charley, looking with a very perplexed
air at his companion. "What's to be done?"

Harry evidently did not know what was to be done, and made no
difficulty of saying so in a very sympathising tone. Moreover, he
begged Charley very earnestly to take _his_ pony, but this the other
would not hear of; so they came to the conclusion that there was
nothing for it but to wait as patiently as possible for the arrival
of the expected horse. In the meantime Harry proposed a saunter in
the field adjoining the fort. Charley assented, and the two friends
walked away, leading the gray pony along with them.

To the right of Fort Garry was a small enclosure, at the extreme end
of which commences a growth of willows and underwood, which gradually
increases in size till it becomes a pretty thick belt of woodland,
skirting up the river for many miles. Here stood the stable belonging
to the establishment; and as the boys passed it, Charley suddenly
conceived a strong desire to see the renowned "noo 'oss," which Tom
Whyte had said was only "'alf broke;" so he turned the key, opened
the door, and went in.

There was nothing _very_ peculiar about this horse, excepting that
his legs seemed rather long for his body, and upon a closer
examination, there was a noticeable breadth of nostril and a latent
fire in his eye, indicating a good deal of spirit, which, like
Charley's own, required taming.

"Oh" said Charley," what a splendid fellow! I say, Harry, I'll go out
with _him."_

"You'd better not."

"Why not?"

"Why? just because if you do Mr. Grant will be down upon you, and
your father won't be very well pleased."

"Nonsense," cried Charley. "Father didn't say I wasn't to take him. I
don't think he'd care much. He's not afraid of my breaking my neck.
And then, Mr. Grant seemed to be only afraid of my being run off
with--not of his horse being hurt. Here goes for it!" In another
moment Charley had him saddled and bridled, and led him out into the
yard.

"Why, I declare, he's quite quiet; just like a lamb," said Harry, in
surprise.

"So he is," replied Charley. "He's a capital charger; and even if he
does bolt, he can't run five hundred miles at a stretch. If I turn
his head to the prairies, the Rocky Mountains are the first things
that will bring him up. So let him run if he likes, I don't care a
fig." And springing lightly into the saddle, he cantered out of the
yard, followed by his friend.

The young horse was a well-formed, showy animal, with a good deal of
bone--perhaps too much for elegance. He was of a beautiful dark
brown, and carried a high head and tail, with a high-stepping gait,
that gave him a noble appearance. As Charley cantered along at a
steady pace, he could discover no symptoms of the refractory spirit
which had been ascribed to him.

"Let us strike out straight for the horizon now," said Harry, after
they had galloped half-a-mile or so along the beaten track. "See,
here are the tracks of our friends." Turning sharp round as he spoke,
he leaped his pony over the heap that lined the road, and galloped
away through the soft snow.

At this point the young horse began to show his evil spirit. Instead
of following the other, he suddenly halted and began to back.

"Hollo, Harry!" exclaimed Charley; "hold on a bit. Here's this
monster begun his tricks."

"Hit him a crack with the whip," shouted Harry.

Charley acted upon the advice, which had the effect of making the
horse shake his head with a sharp snort, and back more vigorously
than ever.

"There, my fine fellow, quiet now," said Charley, in a soothing tone,
patting the horse's neck. "It's a comfort to know you can't go far in
_that_ direction, anyhow!" he added, as he glanced over his shoulder,
and saw an immense drift behind.

He was right. In a few minutes the horse backed into the snow-drift.
Finding his hind-quarters imprisoned by a power that was too much
even for _his_ obstinacy to overcome, he gave another snort and a
heavy plunge, which almost unseated his young rider.

"Hold on fast," cried Harry, who had now come up.

"No fear," cried Charley, as he clinched his teeth and gathered the
reins more firmly.--"Now for it, you young villain!" and raising his
whip, he brought it down with a heavy slash on the horse's flank.

Had the snow-drift been a cannon, and the horse a bombshell, he could
scarcely have sprung from it with greater velocity. One bound landed
him on the road; another cleared it; and, in a second more, he
stretched out at full speed--his ears flat on his neck, mane and tail
flying in the wind, and the bit tight between his teeth.

"Well done," cried Harry, as he passed. "You're off now, old fellow;
good-bye."

"Hurrah!" shouted Charley, in reply, leaving his cap in the snow as a
parting souvenir; while, seeing that it was useless to endeavour to
check his steed, he became quite wild with excitement; gave him the
rein; flourished his whip; and flew over the white plains, casting up
the snow in clouds behind him like a hurricane.

While this little escapade was being enacted by the boys, the hunters
were riding leisurely out upon the snowy sea in search of a wolf.

Words cannot convey to you, dear reader, an adequate conception of
the peculiar fascination, the exhilarating splendour of the scene by
which our hunters were surrounded. Its beauty lay not in variety of
feature in the landscape, for there was none. One vast sheet of white
alone met the view, bounded all round by the blue circle of the sky,
and broken, in one or two places, by a patch or two of willows,
which, rising on the plain, appeared like little islands in a frozen
sea. It was the glittering sparkle of the snow in the bright
sunshine; the dreamy haziness of the atmosphere, mingling earth and
sky as in a halo of gold; the first taste, the first _smell_ of
spring after a long winter, bursting suddenly upon the senses, like
the unexpected visit of a long-absent, much-loved, and almost-
forgotten friend; the soft, warm feeling of the south wind, bearing
on its wings the balmy influences of sunny climes, and recalling
vividly the scenes, the pleasures, the bustling occupations of
summer. It was this that caused the hunters' hearts to leap within
them as they rode along--that induced old Mr. Kennedy to forget his
years, and shout as he had been wont to do in days gone by, when he
used to follow the track of the elk or hunt the wild buffalo; and it
was this that made the otherwise monotonous prairies, on this
particular clay, so charming.

The party had wandered about without discovering anything that bore
the smallest resemblance to a wolf, for upwards of an hour; Fort
Garry had fallen astern (to use a nautical phrase) until it had
become a mere speck on the horizon, and vanished altogether; Peter
Mactavish had twice given a false alarm, in the eagerness of his
spirit, and had three times plunged his horse up to the girths in a
snow-drift; the senior clerk was waxing impatient, and the horses
restive, when a sudden "Hollo!" from Mr. Grant brought the whole
cavalcade to a stand.

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.

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