The Red Man's Revenge: A Tale of The Red River Flood by R. M. Ballantyne (sight word books txt) 📕

men, each of whom, grasping an arm or a leg, carried him down to the water’s edge. They passed Mr Ravenshaw in the opening of his tent. He rose and followed them.

“Serves him right,” said the old gentleman, on hearing who it was, and what he had done.

“Ay, he’s done worse than that,” said one of the men who carried him. “It’s only last Sunday that he stole a blanket out of old Renton’s tent, and that, too, when Mr Cockran was holding service here; but we’ll put a stop to such doings. Now, then, heave together—one, two, three—”

The four powerful men hurled the thief into the air with vigour. He went well up and out, came down with a sounding splash, and disappeared amid shouts of laughter. He rose instantly, and with much spluttering regained the shore, where he was suffered to depart in peace by the executioners of the law, who returned quietly to their tents.

Mr Ravenshaw was left alone, moralising on the depravity of human nature. The sun was setting in a blaze of golden light, and tipping the calm waters of the flood with lines of liquid fire. Turning from the lovely scene with a sigh, the old trader was about to return to his tent when the sound of a voice arrested him. It came from a canoe which had shot suddenly from a clump of half-submerged trees by which it had been hitherto concealed.

As the canoe approached, Mr Ravenshaw ascended a neighbouring mound to watch it. Soon it touched the shore, and three of its occupants landed—an Indian and two boys. A woman who occupied the bow held the frail bark steady. The Indian at once strode up towards the camp. In doing so he had to pass the mound where Mr Ravenshaw was seated on a ledge of rock. He looked at the trader, and stopped. At the same moment the latter recognised Petawanaquat!

If a mine had been sprung beneath his feet he could not have leaped up with greater celerity. Then he stood for a moment rooted to the spot as if transformed into stone—with mouth open and eyes glaring.

To behold his enemy standing thus calmly before him, as if they had only parted yesterday and were on the best of terms, with no expression on his bronzed visage save that of grave solemnity, was almost too much for him! He grasped convulsively the heavy stick which he usually carried. The thought of the foul wrong done him by the red man rushed into his memory with overwhelming force. It did not occur to him to remember his own evil conduct! With a roar of rage worthy of a buffalo bull he rushed towards him. The red man stood firm. What the result would have been if they had met no one can tell, for at that moment an Indian boy ran forward and planted himself right in front of the angry man.

“Father!”

Mr Ravenshaw dropped his cudgel and his jaw, and stood aghast! The painted face was that of a savage, but the voice was the voice of Tony!

The old man shut his mouth and opened his arms. Tony sprang into them with a wild cheer that ended in a burst of joyful tears!

The way in which that boy hugged his sire and painted his face all over by rubbing his own against it was a sight worth seeing.

It had been a concerted plan between Tony and Victor that the latter was to keep a little in the background while the former should advance and perplex his father a little before making himself known, but Tony had over-estimated his powers of restraint. His heart was too large for so trifling a part. He acted up to the promptings of nature, as we have seen, and absolutely howled with joy.

“Don’t choke him, Tony,” remonstrated Victor; “mind, you are stronger than you used to be.”

“Ha! Choke me?” gasped Mr Ravenshaw; “try it, my boy; just try it!”

Tony did try it. But we must not prolong this scene. It is enough to say that when Tony had had his face washed and stood forth his old self in all respects—except that he looked two or three sizes larger, more sunburnt, and more manly—his father quietly betook himself to his tent, and remained there for a time in solitude.

Thereafter he came out, and assuming a free-and-easy, off-hand look of composure, which was clearly hypocritical, ordered tea. This was soon got ready, and the joyful party seated themselves round the camp-fire, which now sent its ruddy blaze and towering column of sparks into the darkening sky.

Victor was not long in running over the chief outlines of their long chase, and also explained the motives of the red man—as far as he understood them—in bringing Tony back.

“Well, Vic,” said Mr Ravenshaw, with a puzzled look, “it’s a strange way of taking his revenge of me. But after all, when I look at him there, sucking away at his calumet with that pleased, grave face, I can’t help thinkin’ that you and I, Christians though we call ourselves, have something to learn from the savage. I’ve been mistaken, Vic, in my opinion of Petawanaquat. Anyhow, his notion of revenge is better than mine. It must be pleasanter to him now to have made us all so happy than if he had kept Tony altogether, or put a bullet through me. It’s a clever dodge, too, for the rascal has laid me under an obligation which I can never repay—made me his debtor for life, in fact. It’s perplexing, Vic; very much so, but satisfactory at the same time.”

There were still more perplexing things in store for old Samuel Ravenshaw that night.

“But why did you not bring Ian Macdonald along with you, Vic?” he asked. “I expect his father here this evening from Fort Garry, where he went in the morning for some pemmican.”

Before Victor had time to reply, Ian himself stepped out of the surrounding darkness. Just previous to this the party had been joined by Herr Winklemann and Michel Rollin, who, after seeing their respective mothers made as comfortable as possible in the circumstances, had been going about the camp chatting with their numerous friends. Louis Lambert had also joined the circle, and Peegwish stood modestly in the background.

“Come along, Ian, we were just talking of you,” said Mr Ravenshaw heartily, as he rose and extended his hand, for the disagreeables of his last meeting with the young man had been obliterated by the subsequent kindness of Ian in going off to aid in the search for Tony.

Ian returned the grasp with good will, but he soon destroyed the good understanding by deliberately, and it seemed unwisely, referring to the two points which still rankled in the old man’s breast.

“Tut, man,” said Mr Ravenshaw, a little testily, “why drag in the subjects of the knoll and my Elsie to-night, of all nights in the year?”

“Because I cannot avoid it,” said Ian. “Events have occurred to-day which compel me to speak of them—of the knoll, at least.”

“Oh, for the matter of that,” interrupted the old gentleman angrily, “you may speak of Elsie too, and the old woman, and Cora, and all the household to boot, for all that I care.”

“I come here to claim a right,” went on Ian, in a calm voice. “It is well known that Samuel Ravenshaw is a man of his word; that what he promises he is sure to perform; that he never draws back from an agreement.”

This speech took Mr Ravenshaw by surprise. He looked round until his eyes rested on Tony. Then he said, in a slightly sarcastic tone—

“What you say is true. Even Tony knows that.”

“Tonyquat knows that what Ian says of his white father is true,” said the boy.

At the name Tonyquat, which was the only word of the sentence he understood, Petawanaquat cast a look of affection on Tony, while his father and the others burst into a laugh at the child’s sententious gravity. But Tony maintained his Indian air, and gazed solemnly at the fire.

“Well, go on, Ian,” said the old gentleman, in somewhat better humour.

“You remember our last meeting in the smoking-box on the knoll?” continued Ian.

“Too well,” said the other, shortly.

“Part of what you said was in the following words: ‘Mark what I say. I will sell this knoll to your father, and give my daughter to you, when you take that house, and with your own unaided hands place it on the top of this knoll!’”

“Well, you have a good memory, Ian. These are the words I used when I wished to convince you of the impossibility of your obtaining what you wanted,” said Mr Ravenshaw, with the determined air of a man who is resolved not to be turned from his purpose.

“What you wanted to convince me of,” rejoined Ian, “has nothing to do with the question. It is what you said that I have to do with.”

Again the irascible fur-trader’s temper gave way as he said—

“Well, what I said I have said, and what I said I’ll stick to.”

“Just so,” returned Ian, with a peculiar smile, “and, knowing this, I have come here to claim the knoll for my father and Elsie for myself.”

This was such a glaring absurdity in the old gentleman’s eyes that he uttered a short contemptuous laugh. At that moment Angus Macdonald appeared upon the scene. His look of amazement at beholding his son may be imagined. Angus was not, however, demonstrative.

He only stepped across the fire, and gave Ian a crushing squeeze of the hand.

“It iss fery glad to see you I am, my poy, but it is taken py surprise I am, whatever. An’ ho!” (as his eyes fell on Tony), “it iss the child you hef found. Well, it iss a happy father you will pe this night, Mr Ruvnshaw. I wish you choy. Don’t let me stop you, whatever. It wass something interesting you would pe telling these chentlemen when I came up.”

“I was just going to tell them, father,” said Ian, resting a hand on his sire’s shoulder, “that I have come straight from Willow Creek with the news that this day I have, with my own unaided hands,”—he cast a sidelong glance at the old gentleman—“transported your house to Mr Ravenshaw’s knoll, and have asked Elsie Ravenshaw to be my wife, and been accepted.”

“Moreover,” continued Ian, in a calm, steady tone, “my father’s biggest barn has, without any assistance from any one, stranded itself on Mr Ravenshaw’s lawn!”

“Bless me, Ian, iss it jokin’ ye are?”

“No, father. It’s in earnest I am.”

Good reader, the aspect of the party—especially of old Ravenshaw and Angus—on hearing these announcements is beyond our powers of description; we therefore prefer to leave it to your own vivid imagination.