said Peter, heaving a profound sigh as he turned about and checked the teams, for at that point he happened to be in advance beating the track.
Okématan expressed his entire concurrence with an emphatic “Ho!” The wearied dogs lay down in their tracks, shot out their tongues, panted, and looked amiable, for well they knew the meaning of the word “breakfast” and the relative halt.
The sudden stoppage awoke the sleeper, and he struggled to rise.
“Hallo! What’s wrong? Where am I? Have the Redskins got hold o’ me at last?”
“Ay, that they have. At least one Red-skin has got you,” said Peter. “Have a care, man, don’t struggle so violently. Okématan won’t scalp you.”
The sound of his brother’s voice quieted Davidson, and at once restored his memory.
“Cast me loose, Peter,” he said; “you’re a good fellow. I see you have brought me along wi’ you, and I feel like a giant refreshed now, tho’ somewhat stiff. Have we come far?”
“I don’t know how far we’ve come, but I know that we’ve been pegging along the whole night, and that we must have breakfast before we take another step. It’s all very well for you, Dan, to lie there all night like a mere bag o’ pemmican enjoying yourself, but you must remember that your brother is mortal, and so are the dogs, to say nothing o’ the Red-skin.”
While he was speaking, the youth undid the fastenings, and set his brother free, but Dan was far too anxious to indulge in pleasantries just then. After surveying the landscape, and coming to a conclusion as to where they were, he took a hurried breakfast of dried meat—cold. The dogs were also treated to a hearty feed, and then, resuming the march, the rescuers pushed on with renewed vigour—Dan Davidson now beating the track, and thus rendering it more easy for those who came behind him.
All that day they pushed on almost without halt, and spent the next night in a clump of willows; but Dan was too anxious to take much rest. They rose at the first sign of daybreak, and pushed on at their utmost speed, until the poor dogs began to show signs of breaking down; but an extra hour of rest, and a full allowance of food kept them up to the mark, while calm weather and clear skies served to cheer them on their way.
Chapter Four.
Tells of Love, Duty, Starvation, and Murder
Pushing on ahead of them, with that sometimes fatal facility peculiar to writers and readers, we will now visit the couple whom Dan and his party were so anxious to rescue.
A single glance at Elspie McKay would have been sufficient to account to most people for the desperate anxiety of Daniel Davidson to rescue her from death, for her pretty sparkling face and ever-varying expression were irresistibly suggestive of a soul full of sympathy and tender regard for the feelings of others.
Nut-brown hair, dark eyes, brilliant teeth, and many more charms that it would take too much time and room to record still further accounted for the desperate determination with which Dan had wooed and won her.
But to see this creature at her best, you had to see her doing the dutiful to her old father. If ever there was a peevish, cross-grained, crabbed, unreasonable old sinner in this world, that sinner was Duncan McKay, senior. He was a widower. Perhaps that accounted to some extent for his condition. That he should have a younger son—also named Duncan—a cross ne’er-do-weel like himself—was natural, but how he came to have such a sweet daughter as Elspie, and such a good elder son as Fergus, are mysteries which we do not attempt to unravel or explain. Perhaps these two took after their departed mother. We know not, for we never met her. Certain it is that they did not in the least resemble their undeparted father—except in looks, for McKay senior had been a handsome man, though at the time we introduce him his good looks, like his temper, had nearly fled, and he was considerably shrivelled up by age, hard work, and exposure. The poor man was too old to emigrate to a wilderness home when he had set out for the Red River Colony, and the unusual sufferings, disappointments, and hardships to which the first settlers were exposed had told heavily on even younger men than he.
Elspie’s love for her father was intense; her pity for him in his misfortunes was very tender; and, now that he was brought face to face with, perhaps, the greatest danger that had ever befallen him, her anxiety to relieve and comfort him was very touching. She seemed quite to forget herself, and the fact that she might perish on the bleak plains along with her father did not seem even to occur to her.
“It wass madness to come here, whatever,” said the poor old man, as he cowered over the small fire, which his son Fergus had kindled before leaving, and which Elspie had kept up with infinite labour and difficulty ever since.
The remark was made testily to himself, for Elspie had gone into the surrounding bush, axe in hand, to find, if possible, and cut down some more small pieces of firewood. When she returned with an armful of dry sticks, he repeated the sentiment still more testily, and added—“If it wass not for Tuncan, I would have been at home this night in my warm bed, wi’ a goot supper inside o’ me, instead o’ freezin’ an’ starvin’ oot here on the plain among the snow. It’s mischief that boy wass always after from the tay he wass born.”
“But you know that poor Duncan could not guess we were to have such awful weather, or that the buffalo would be so scarce. Come now, dear daddy,” said the cheery girl, as she heaped on wood and made a blaze that revived the old man, “I’ll warm up some more of the tea. There’s a very little left—and—and—it surely won’t be long till God sends Daniel and Fergus back to us with food.”
Old McKay was somewhat mollified by her manner, or by the fire, or by the prospect of relief held out, for his tone improved decidedly.
“Try the bag again, lass,” he said, “maybe you’ll find a crumb or two in the corners yet. It will do no harm to try.”
Obediently poor Elspie tried, but shook her head as she did so.
“There’s nothing there, daddy. I turned it inside out last time.”
“Wow! but it’s ill to bear!” exclaimed old Duncan, with a half-suppressed groan.
Meanwhile his daughter put the tin kettle on the fire and prepared their last cup of tea. When it was ready she looked up with a peculiar expression on her face, as she drew something from her pocket.
“Look here, daddy,” she said, holding up a bit of pemmican about the size of a hen’s egg.
The old man snatched it from her, and, biting off a piece, began to chew with a sort of wolfish voracity.
“I reserved it till now,” said the girl, “for I knew that this being the second night, you would find it impossible to get to sleep at all without something in you, however small. If you manage to sleep on this and the cup of hot tea, you’ll maybe rest well till morning—and then—”
“God forgive me!” exclaimed the old man, suddenly pausing, as he was about to thrust the last morsel into his mouth; “hunger makes me selfish. I wass forgettin’ that you are starvin’ too, my tear. Open your mouth.”
“No, father, I don’t want it. I really don’t feel hungry.”
“Elspie, my shild,” said old Duncan, in a tone of stern remonstrance, “when wass it that you began to tell lies?”
“I’m telling the truth, daddy. I did feel hungry yesterday, but that has passed away, and to-day I feel only a little faint.”
