The Red Man's Revenge: A Tale of The Red River Flood. Robert Michael Ballantyne

seemed opportune, for the old gentleman knew that this particular savage was a chief, and had visited the colony for the purpose of making inquiries into the new religion reported to be taught by certain white men in black garments; and Mr Ravenshaw, besides having very little regard for missionaries, had a very strong contempt for those Indians who became their disciples. He therefore relieved himself on the red man.

      “What do you want here, Petawanaquat?” he demanded sternly, in the language of the Indian.

      “The Little Wolf,” replied the Indian, referring to himself, for such was the interpretation of his name, “wishes to see how his white brothers shoot.”

      “Let the Little Wolf put his tail between his legs and be gone,” cried the angry old man. “He is not wanted here. Come, be off!”

      The chief looked straight in the eyes of the trader with a dark scowl, then, turning slowly on his heel, stalked solemnly away.

      There was an irrepressible laugh at this episode as the group of marksmen returned to their former position. Mr Ravenshaw, however, soon left them and returned home. Here he found Miss Trim in a state of considerable agitation; she had just encountered the redskin! Miss Trim was a poor relation of Mrs Ravenshaw. She had been invited by her brother-in-law to leave England and come to Red River to act as governess to Tony and assistant-companion in the family. She had arrived that autumn in company with a piano, on which she was expected to exercise Elsie and Cora. Petawanaquat, being the first “really wild and painted savage” she had seen, made a deep impression on her.

      “Oh, Mr Ravenshaw, I have seen such an object in the garden!” she exclaimed, in a gushing torrent—she always spoke in a torrent—“and it was all I could do to stagger into the house without fainting. Such eyes! with black cheeks and a red nose—at least, it looked red, but I was in such a state that I couldn’t make sure whether it was the nose or the chin, and my shoe came off as I ran away, having broken the tie in the morning. And such a yell as it gave!—the creature, not the shoe-tie—but I escaped, and peeped out of the upper window—the one in the gable, you know, with the green blind, where you can see the garden from end to end, and I found it had disappeared, though I can’t understand—”

      “Tut, tut, Miss Trim; how you do gallop! Was it a beast?” asked the old trader.

      “A beast? No; a man—a savage.”

      “Oh! I understand; it was that scoundrel Petawanaquat,” said Sam Ravenshaw, with a laugh; “he’s Little Wolf by name, and a big thief by practice, no doubt. You needn’t fear him, however, he’s not so dangerous as he looks, and I gave him a rebuff just now that will make him shy of Willow Creek.—Ha, Tony, you rascal! Come here, sir.”

      Tony came at once, with such a gleeful visage that his father’s intended chastisement for the recent practical joke ended in a parental caress.

      Bitterly did Ian Macdonald repent of his agreeing to join the shooting party that day. Owing to some defect in his vision or nervous system, he was a remarkably bad shot, though in everything else he was an expert and stalwart backwoodsman, as well as a good scholar. But when his friend Victor invited him he could not refuse, because it offered him an opportunity of spending some time in the society of Elsie Ravenshaw, and that to him was heaven upon earth! Little of her society, however, did the unfortunate teacher enjoy that day, for handsome Louis Lambert engrossed not only Elsie, but the mother and father as well. He had beaten all his competitors at the target, but, to do him justice, did not boast of that; neither did he make any reference to the fact that Ian had twice missed the target, though he did not spare the bad shooting of some of the other youths; this, no doubt, because he and Ian had been fast friends for many years. Jealousy—at least on the part of Ian—now seemed about to interfere with the old friendship. Moreover, Lambert had brought to Mrs Ravenshaw a gift of a collar made of the claws of a grizzly bear, shot by himself in the Rocky Mountains. Elsie admired the collar with genuine interest, and said she would give anything to possess one like it. Cora, with the coquettishness of sixteen, said, with a laugh and a blush, that she would not accept such a ridiculous thing if it were offered to her. Ian Macdonald groaned in spirit, for, with his incapacity to shoot, he knew that Elsie’s wish could never be gratified by him.

      Seeing that Lambert was bent on keeping Elsie as much as possible to himself, Ian devoted himself to Cora, but Cora was cross. Feeling it up-hill work, he soon rose to say good-bye, and left Willow Creek before the others.

      “Don’t look so crestfallen, man,” said old Mr Ravenshaw heartily, as he shook hands; “it’s nobler work to teach the young idea how to shoot than to be able to hit a bull’s-eye.”

      “True, but he who cannot hit a bull’s-eye,” returned Ian, with a smile, “can scarcely be expected to touch a maiden’s—I mean a grizzly’s heart.”

      A shout of laughter from Lambert greeted him as he left the house. His way home lay over the frozen bed of the river. Victor accompanied him part of the way.

      “That was a strange slip for an unromantic fellow like you to make about a maiden’s heart, Ian,” said Victor, looking up at the rugged countenance of his friend.

      “‘Unromantic,’ eh? Well, I suppose I am.”

      “Of course you are,” said Victor, with the overweening assurance of youth. “Come, let’s sit down here for a few minutes and discuss the point.”

      He sat down on a snowdrift; Ian kicked off his snowshoes and leaned against the bank.

      “You’re the most grave, sensible, good-natured, matter-of-fact, unsentimental, unselfish fellow I ever met with,” resumed Victor. “If you were a romantic goose I wouldn’t like you half as much as I do.”

      “Men are sometimes romantic without being geese,” returned Ian; “but I have not time to discuss that point just now. Tell me, for I am anxious about it, have you spoken to your father about selling the field with the knoll to my father?”

      “Yes, and he flatly refused to sell it. I’m really sorry, Ian, but you know how determined my father is. Once he says a thing he sticks to it, even though it should be to his own disadvantage.”

      “That’s bad, Victor, very bad. It will raise ill-blood between them, and estrange our families. You think there’s no chance?”

      “None whatever.”

      “One more word before we part. Do you know much about that redskin whom your father called Petawanaquat?”

      “Not much, except that he has come from a considerable distance to make inquiries, he says, about the Christian religion. He has been prowling about our place for a few days, and father, who has no great love to missionaries, and has strong suspicions of converted Indians, has twice treated him rather roughly.”

      “I’m sorry to hear that, Victor. These fellows are sometimes very revengeful. If you’ll be advised by me you’ll keep a sharp eye upon Petawanaquat. There, I’ll say no more. You know I’m not an alarmist. Good-bye.”

      “Good-bye, old boy.”

      “I say.”

      “Well?”

      “It was an awfully bad shot, that last of mine.”

      “It was,” admitted Victor, with a laugh, “to miss a thing as big as a door at a hundred yards is only so-so.”

      “No chance of improvement, I fear,” said Ian, with a sigh.

      “Oh, don’t say that,” replied Victor. “Practice, perseverance, and patience, you know, overcome every—”

      “Yes, yes. I know that well. Good-bye.” They shook hands again, and were soon striding over the snow to their respective homes.

      Chapter Two.

      Conflicting Elements and a Catastrophe

      Hoary winter passed away, and genial spring returned to rejoice the land.

      In a particularly amiable frame of mind, old Ravenshaw went out one morning to smoke.

      Everything had gone well that morning. Breakfast