Menotah: A Tale of the Riel Rebellion. Trevena John

Still there's a pretty thick crowd of half crazy Indians and breeds. Darn me if I know what the opposition consists of.'

      'Well, I do,' put in Winton. 'What's the matter with the militia and the police? They're good enough for you.'

      'Yes, they're first-class bullet stoppers. Fine, targets, with their red coats, for the boys to drive their bullets into. Pshaw! The soldiers can't begin to save the country. I've not a bit of use for the farmers and settlers. But I allow it can be done, Winton. There's one man – a single man, with an almighty lot of power, who can swamp up the whole rebellion as I'd swallow a dram of whisky. Question is whether he'll do it.'

      'Who are you talking of? Not General – '

      'Pshaw! Not that sneaking coward. The man I'm thinking on is general of the Church, not the army. I reckon, Winton, that Archbishop Taché is the only one who can put a stopper to this rising. What?'

      'Well, if that's so, Sinclair, what's it got to do with us 'way up here?'

      The hunter pulled strongly at his pipe, then spat violently on the moss. 'You don't see it, eh? I'll show you, then. I'm as darned sure as though he'd told me himself that Riel means to stamp the whole crowd of whites clean out of the land. Course he can't be around every place himself, so he just sends round messages all over this country.'

      'Telling the tribes to rise?'

      'And clean out the whites in their district. They're bound to obey, for they look upon Riel as a sort of nickle-plate god. Besides, they're scared of his vengeance if they refuse and he comes off victorious. They're all dead sure he can't be beaten anyhow.'

      'You think we shall have some sport round here?' asked Winton, lazily.

      'I don't know anything for certain; but it's likely enough.'

      'I don't think so. The nitchies around here are not well armed. We should be able to beat them off easily enough if they did attack the fort. Your pipe's gone out.'

      Sinclair leaned forward. 'Give me a match.' Then he continued in a changed tone, 'You wouldn't talk like that if you knew everything. You only see Riel. You don't know a darned thing about anything behind – who's stirring him up, who's supplying the brains to run this rebellion, and all the rest of it. I tell you, I know more than any man living, and when the time comes – by God, I'll use my knowledge.'

      He drew the match savagely along his breeches, and relighted his pipe.

      'You're a lot safer up here than you'd be down in Manitoba.'

      'I'd like to be back,' said the hunter; 'and I'm going by next boat, whether the hunting's good or bad. I'd no right to leave the wife and children in these bad times. How can I tell what's going on while I'm away up here? If they were all dead and planted, I'd be none the wiser.'

      Winton stretched himself, accompanying the action with a subdued laugh.

      'You're a terrible croaker, Sinclair. Why don't you look on the bright side? It's just as easy, and a lot pleasanter.'

      The old hunter rose. 'Don't know how it is, Winton, but I feel sort of low-spirited just now.'

      'That's something new. What's wrong?'

      'Uneasy, I guess. Well, I'm off. It'll be dark presently.'

      He picked up his rifle and prepared to move. 'I've no use for fooling around in the forest at this time. It isn't healthy. There's too much mischief drifting up, and a fellow never knows when it's going to break. You'll wait here till I'm up with the horses, eh?'

      'I'll watch the meat and finish my smoke.'

      'That's it. Guess you know which way to steer for the fort, eh? Make north-west till you come to the big fir that the nitchies call the death tree. You can just catch the top of the flagstaff from there, if you get up before the light goes out.'

      'I know,' said Winton, quietly. 'But what are you telling me for?'

      'So as you'd be all right if we got parted. Wouldn't do for you to get lost in the forest if anything happened to me.'

      'What in the devil's likely to happen?'

      'Nothing, I reckon. Still, it's good to keep on the right side. Well, don't fall asleep over your smoke; keep the rifle handy.' The next minute his spare figure disappeared amongst the bushes.

      Left to himself, Winton pulled at his pipe and reflected upon the words of his late companion.

      On ordinary occasions the old hunter was never accustomed to suffer from any such lack of courage, therefore his parting words became the more significant. Then there was another thing to remember: Sinclair, himself of mixed blood, understood the native character thoroughly. On his own confession, he possessed more knowledge – and that of a secret nature – than most, so after all it might be advisable to attend to his warning.

      Winton settled his broad back firmly against a tree trunk, and reflected. For a small quarter of an hour he was left to himself in the dreary forest, at a time most productive of sentimental thought – when light was gradually merging into night. This was a solemn time, when a man was induced to think by the nature of his surroundings, and half unconsciously review the action of a past.

      This young man was, without being aware of it, a type of civilization. He had not much to look back upon. Merely a schoolboy career, in which he had won a reputation of being the finest athlete and the most unprincipled character of his time; a year at Oxford, productive of more laurels, combined with disgrace for many a daring escapade; then the crowning act of foolishness, the expulsion, a hurried flight abroad, because he dared not face the wrath of parents, or the sad reproach of a pretty, petted sister; lastly the burying of his identity in a strange land.

      There were many such characters in the country. At home they were considered superfluous beings of uselessness. Here they were the foundation of a new society, the pioneers of an incoming tide of civilization. Such men – not the stay-at-home successes of the schools – have often turned the wavering balance to their country's profit in such a world's crisis as a Waterloo, a Trafalgar. That recklessness, that daring – once labelled as viciousness by scholastic guardians – then become England's glory and shield at time of need.

      Somewhere in the neighbouring bush a twig snapped with a sharp, dry sound. Winston glanced round quickly, while the fingers of his right hand closed mechanically round the rifle as he remembered Sinclair's warning. But no other sound reached his ears, while nothing unusual appeared before his eyes.

      He began to wonder whether Sinclair's fear had communicated itself to him. This weakness was excusable, for the forest was growing very dark – lonely it always was – and full of strange sounds. Solitude works strangely upon the imagination.

      His hand released the rifle, and roamed idly along the ground. Presently fingers came in contact with certain matter, which was thick and sticky to the touch. With a slight shudder he withdrew the hand, and when his eyes fell upon the red fingers he involuntarily uttered a sharp cry of astonishment and fear – but the next instant he laughed.

      He had forgotten the dead animal, which lay stiffening at his side.

      'Lucky old Sinclair isn't here,' he muttered. 'It would be his turn to have the smile.'

      He wiped his red fingers upon the white moss, then began to pace up and down, listening anxiously for the tramp of horses, or cheery cry of his returning companion.

      The minutes fled past in silence. The sun had fallen beneath the black tree line, which fringed the northern shore of the Saskatchewan. Glistening dew was settling softly, while a shadowy presence of evening stirred along the forest.

      Winton grasped a bunch of foliage; the leaves were cold and slimy to the touch. 'Past the quarter hour. The horses must have strayed, so, like a fool, he's gone after them. I'll give him ten minutes more. If he isn't here then, I shall make tracks before the darkness gets any thicker.'

      Ah! That sound was no work of the imagination.

      He wheeled round sharply, with ready rifle to his shoulder. The sharp rustling of parting bushes brought the heart to his mouth. But he saw nothing.

      Then a branch waved ominously, and he felt it was not caused