The Buffalo Runners | Page 4

been sent out by the Earl of

Selkirk to colonise that remote part of the northern wilderness.
La Certe's father was a French Canadian, his mother an Indian woman,
but both having died while he was yet a boy he had been brought or left
to grow up under the care of an English woman who had followed the
fortunes of the La Certe family. His early companions had been
half-breeds and Indians. Hence he could speak the English, French, and
Indian languages with equal incorrectness and facility.
"You don't like Cloudbrow," remarked the man with an inquiring
glance over the rim of his mug. "Why you not like him?"
"Hee! hee!" was Slowfoot's lucid reply. Then, with an unwonted frown
on her mild visage, she added with emphasis--
"No! I not like him."
"I know that," returned the husband, setting down his mug and
resuming his pipe, "but why?"
To this the lady answered with a sound too brief to spell, and the
gentleman, being accustomed to his wife's little eccentricities, broke
into a hilarious laugh, and assured her that Cloudbrow was not a bad
fellow--a capital hunter and worthy of more regard than she was aware
of.
"For," said he, "Cloudbrow is willing to wait till spring for payment of
the horse an' cart I hired from him last year. You know that I could not
pay him till I go to the plains an' get another load of meat an' leather.
You will go with me, Slowfoot, an' we will have grand times of it with
buffalo-humps an' marrow bones, an' tea an' tobacco. Ah! it makes my
mouth water. Give me more tea. So. That will do. What a noise the
wind makes! I hopes it won't blow over the shed an' kill the horse. But
if it do I cannot help that. Cloudbrow could not ask me to pay for what
the wind does."
There came another gust of such violence, as he spoke, that even
Slowfoot's benignant expression changed to a momentary glance of

anxiety, for the shingles on the roof rattled, and the rafters creaked as if
the hut were groaning under the strain. It passed, however, and the pair
went on smoking with placid contentment, for they had but recently
had a "square" meal of pemmican and flour.
This compost when cooked in a frying-pan is exceedingly rich and
satisfying--not to say heavy--food, but it does not incommode such as
La Certe and his wife. It even made the latter feel amiably disposed to
Cloudbrow.
This sobriquet had been given by the half-breeds to a young Scotch
settler named Duncan McKay, in consequence of the dark frown which
had settled habitually on his brow--the result of bad temper and
unbridled passion. He was younger brother to that Fergus who has
already been introduced to the reader. Having been partially trained,
while in Scotland, away from the small farm-house of his father, and
having received a better education, Duncan conceived himself to stand
on a higher level than the sedate and uneducated Fergus. Thus pride
was added to his bad temper. But he was not altogether destitute of
good points. What man is? One of these was a certain reckless
open-handedness, so that he was easily imposed on by the protestations
and assurances of the sly, plausible, and lazy La Certe.
The couple were still engaged in smoking, quaffing tea, and other
intellectual pursuits, when they heard sounds outside as of some one
approaching. Another moment, and the door burst open, and a man in
white stepped in. He saluted them with a familiar and hasty "bonjour,"
as he stamped and beat the snow vigorously from his garments.
"What? Antoine Dechamp!" exclaimed La Certe, rising slowly to
welcome his friend; "you seem in hurry?"
"Ay--in great hurry! They are starving on the plains! Many are dead!
Davidson has come in! He is more than half-dead! Can hardly tell the
news! Drops asleep when he is speaking! Luckily I met him when
going home in my cariole! Okematan, the Indian, was with me. So he
got out, and said he would pilot Davidson safe home! He said
something about Fergus McKay, which I could not understand, so I

have come on, and will drive to Fort Garry with the news! But my
horse has broke down! Is yours in the stable?"
Dechamp was a sturdy young half-breed and an old playmate of La
Certe. He spoke with obvious impatience at the delay caused by having
so much to tell.
"Is your horse in the stable?" he demanded sharply a second time, while
his friend began, with exasperating composure, to assure him that it
was, but that the horse was not his.
"Cloudbrow is its owner," he said, "and you know if anything happens
to it he will