The Red Mans Revenge | Page 2

are, Tony, my boy!" cried the old trader, catching up the pride
of his heart in his strong arms and tossing him towards the ceiling.
"You shall shoot before long with a real gun."
Tony knocked the pipe out of his father's mouth, and was proceeding to
operate on his half-bald head with the scalping-knife, when Cora, who
entered the room at the moment, sprang forward and wrenched the
weapon from his grasp.
"We'll give them dinner after the shooting is over, shan't we, father?"
asked Cora.
"Of course, my dear, of course," replied the hospitable old gentleman,
giving the pride of his heart a sounding kiss as he put him down. "Set
your mother to work on a pie, and get Miss Trim to help you with a lot
of those cakes you make so famously."
As he spoke there was a sudden clattering in the porch. The young men
were taking off their snow-shoes and stamping the snow from off their
leggings and moccasined feet.
"Here we are, father!" cried a bright, sturdy youth, as he ushered in his
followers. "Of course Elsie has prepared you for our sudden invasion.
The fact is that we got up the match on the spur of the moment, because
I found that Ian had a holiday."
"No explanation required, Victor. Glad to see you all, boys. Sit down,"
said Mr Ravenshaw, shaking hands all round.
The youths who were thus heartily welcomed presented a fine manly
appearance. They were clad in the capotes, leggings, fur caps,
moccasins, and fingerless mittens usually worn by the men of the
settlement in winter.
That tall handsome fellow, with the curly black hair and flashing eyes,
who bears himself so confidently as he greets the sisters, is Louis
Lambert. The thickset youth behind him, with the shock of flaxen hair
and imperceptible moustache, is Herr Winklemann, a German farmer's

son, and a famed buffalo-hunter. The ungainly man, of twenty-four
apparently--or thereabouts--with the plain but kindly face, and the
frame nearly as strong as that of the host himself, is Ian Macdonald. In
appearance he is a rugged backwoodsman. In reality he is the
schoolmaster of that part of the widely-scattered colony.
The invitation to sit down was not accepted. Daylight was short-lived
in those regions at that season of the year. They sallied forth to the
work in hand.
"You've had the target put up, Cora?" asked Victor, as he went out.
"Yes, in the old place."
"Where is Tony?"
"I don't know," said Cora, looking round. "He was here just now, trying
to scalp father."
"You'll find him at the target before you, no doubt," said Elsie, putting
away her moccasins as she rose to aid in the household preparations.
The target was placed against the bank of the river, so that the bullets
might find a safe retreat. The competitors stood at about a hundred
yards' distance in front of it. The weapons used were single-barrelled
smooth-bores, with flint locks. Percussion locks had not at that time
come into fashion, and long ranges had not yet been dreamed of.
"Come, open the ball, Lambert," said Victor.
The handsome youth at once stepped forward, and old Mr Ravenshaw
watched him with an approving smile as he took aim. Puff! went the
powder in the pan, but no sound followed save the peal of laughter with
which the miss-fire was greeted. The touch-hole was pricked, and next
time the ball sped to its mark. It hit the target two inches above the
bull's-eye.
The "well done" with which the shot was hailed was cut short by an

appalling yell, and little Tony was seen to tumble from behind the
target. Rolling head over heels, he curled himself round in agony,
sprang up with a spasmodic bound, dropped upon his haunches, turned
over a complete somersault, fell on his back with a fearful shriek, and
lay dead upon the snow!
The whole party rushed in consternation towards the boy, but before
they had reached him he leaped up and burst into a fit of gleeful
laughter, which ended in a cheer and a savage war-whoop as he
scampered up the track which led to the house, and disappeared over
the brow of the river's bank.
"The imp was joking!" exclaimed Mr Ravenshaw, as he stopped and
wiped the cold perspiration from his brow.
At that moment a Red Indian appeared on the scene, in his blanket robe,
paint, and feathers. Attracted by the shot, he had come to look on. Now,
the old fur-trader's nerves had received a tremendous shock, and the
practical jest which the pride of his heart had perpetrated had roused
the irascibility of his nature, so that an explosion became unavoidable.
In these circumstances the arrival of the Indian seemed opportune, for
the old