Robert Michael Ballantyne - The Buffalo Runners - A Tale of the Red River Plains

With much labour and skill had the Davidsons and McKays erected two timber cottages side by side in the land of their adoption.

These two families were among the first band of settlers. They were very different in character—one being Highland, the other Lowland Scotch, but they were more or less united by sympathy, intermarriage, and long residence beside each other on the slopes of the Grampian Hills, so that, on the voyage out, they made a compact that they should stick by each other, and strive, and work, and fight the battle of life together in the new land.

All the members of the Davidson family were sterling, sedate, hearty, and thorough-going. Daniel and Peter were what men style “dependable” fellows, and bore strong resemblance to their father, who died almost immediately after their arrival in the new country. Little Jessie was like her mother, a sort of bottomless well of sympathy, into which oceans of joy or sorrow might be poured without causing an overflow—except, perchance, at the eyelids—and out of which the waters of consolation might be pumped for evermore without pumping dry. The idea of self never suggested itself in the presence of these two. The consequence was that everybody adored them. It was rather a selfish adoration, we fear, nevertheless it was extremely delightful—to the adorers, we mean—and doubtless not unpleasant to the adored.

The love of God, in Christ, was the foundation of their characters.

Of the McKay family we cannot speak so confidently. Elspie, indeed, was all that could be desired, and Fergus was in all respects a sterling man; but the head of the family was, as we have seen, open to improvement in many respects, and Duncan junior was of that heart-breaking character which is known as ne’er-do-weel. Possibly, if differently treated by his father, he might have been a better man. As it was, he was unprincipled and hasty of temper.

Little wonder that, when thrown together during a long voyage—to an almost unknown land—Elspie McKay and Daniel Davidson should fall into that condition which is common to all mankind, and less wonder that, being a daring youth with a resolute will, Daniel should manage to induce the pliant, loving Elspie, to plight her troth while they were gazing over the ship’s side at the first iceberg they met. We may as well hark back here a little, and very briefly sketch the incident. It may serve as a guide to others.

The two were standing—according to the report of the bo’s’n, who witnessed the whole affair—“abaft the main shrouds squintin’ over the weather gangway.” We are not quite sure of the exact words used by that discreditable bo’s’n, but these are something like them. It was moon-light and dead calm; therefore propitious, so far, to Daniel’s design—for Daniel undoubtedly had a design that night, obvious to his own mind, and clearly defined like the great iceberg, though, like it too, somewhat hazy in detail.

“What a glorious, magnificent object!” exclaimed Elspie, gazing in wonder at the berg, the pinnacles of which rose considerably above the mast-head.

“Yes, very glorious, very magnificent!” said Daniel, gazing into the maiden’s eyes, and utterly regardless of the berg.

“I wonder how such a huge mass ever manages to melt,” said Elspie—for the human mind, even in pretty girls, is discursive.

“ I wonder it does not melt at once,” said Dan, with pointed emphasis.

“What do you mean?” she asked, turning her eyes in considerable astonishment from the berg to the man.

“I mean,” said he, “that under the influence of your eyes the iceberg ought to melt straight away. They have melted my heart, Elspie, and That has been an iceberg, I find, till now.”

He seized her hand. It had all come on so suddenly that poor Elspie was quite unprepared for it. She turned as if to fly, but Daniel put his arm round her waist and detained her.

“Elspie, dearest Elspie, it must be settled now—or—.” He would not—could not—say “never.”

“O Daniel, don’t!” entreated Elspie.

But Daniel did .

“Bray-vo!” exclaimed the bo’s’n with enthusiasm, for he was a sympathetic man, though unprincipled in the matter of eavesdropping.

That cut it short. They retired precipitately from the weather gangway abaft the main shrouds, and sought refuge in a sequestered nook near the companion-hatch, which was, in name as well as in every other way, much more suited to their circumstances. The steersman had his eye on them there, but they fortunately did not know it.

Apologising for this reminiscence, we return to the thread of our story.

Mrs Davidson was seated at breakfast one morning, with all her family around her in Prairie Cottage. She had named it thus because, from one of the windows, there was to be had a peep of the prairies lying beyond the bushes by which it was surrounded.

Old McKay had named his cottage Ben Nevis, either because the country around was as flat as a pancake, or out of sheer contradictiousness.

“Have they found out anything more about the murder of that poor fellow Perrin?” asked Mrs Davidson. “More than four months have passed since it happened.”

“Nothing more, mother,” said Dan, who now filled his father’s chair. “As you say, four months have passed, and one would think that was time enough to discover the murderer, but, you see, it is nobody’s business in particular, and we’ve no regular police, and everybody is far too busy just now to think about it. In fact, not many people in these parts care much about a murder, I fear.”

“Ah if they went to see Perrin’s old mother,” said Jessie, “it would oblige them to care a great deal, for he was her only son.”

“Ay, her only child!” added Mrs Davidson.

While she was yet speaking, it so happened that Duncan McKay junior himself entered the room, with that over-done free-and-easiness which sometimes characterises a man who is ill at ease.

“Whose only child are you speaking about, Mrs Davidson?” he asked carelessly.

“Mrs Perrin’s,” she replied, with a familiar nod to the visitor, who often dropped in on them casually in this way.

The reply was so unexpected and sudden, that McKay could not avoid a slight start and a peculiar expression, in spite of his usual self-command. He glanced quickly at Dan and Peter, but they were busy with their food, and had apparently not noticed the guilty signs.

“Ah, poor thing,” returned the youth, in his cynical and somewhat nasal tone, “it iss hard on her. By the way, Dan, hev ye heard that the wolves hev killed two or three of McDermid’s horses that had strayed out on the plains, and Elspie’s mare Vixen iss out too. Some of us will be going to seek for her. The day bein’ warm an’ the snow soft, we hev a good chance of killin’ some o’ the wolves. I thought Peter might like to go too.”

“So Peter does,” said the youth, rising and brushing the crumbs off his knees: “there’s nothing I like better than to hunt down these sneaking, murderous brutes that are so ready to spring suddenly unawares on friend or foe.”

Again Duncan McKay cast a quick inquiring glance at Peter, but the lad was evidently innocent of any double meaning. It was only a movement, within the man-slayer, of that conscience which “makes cowards of us all.”

“Louise!” shouted Dan, as he also rose from the table.

“Oui, monsieur,” came, in polite deferential tones, from the culinary department, and the little half-breed maiden appeared at the door.

“Did you mend that shot-bag last night?”

“Oui, monsieur.”

“Fetch it here, then, please; and, Jessie, stir your stumps like a good girl, and get some food ready to take with us.”