The Red Mans Revenge | Page 4

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 had been punctual;
appetite good; rheumatics in abeyance; the girls lively; and Miss Trim
less of a torrent than was her wont. Mrs Ravenshaw's intellect had more
than once almost risen to the ordinary human average, and Master Tony
had been better--perhaps it were more correct to say less wicked-- than
usual.
Old Ravenshaw was what his friends styled a heavy smoker, so was his
kitchen chimney; but then the chimney had the excuse of being
compelled to smoke, whereas its owner's insane act was voluntary.
Be not afraid, reader. We have no intention of entering into an
argument with smokers. They are a pigheaded generation. We address
those who have not yet become monomaniacs as regards tobacco.
In order to the full enjoyment of his pipe, the old gentleman had built
on a knoll what Elsie styled a summer-house. Regardless of seasons,
however--as he was of most things--her father used this temple at all
seasons of the year, and preferred to call it a smoking box. Now, as this
smoking-box, with its surroundings, had much to do with the issues of
our story, we bring it under particular notice. It resembled a large
sentry-box, and the willow-clad knoll on which it stood was close to
the river. Being elevated slightly above the rest of the country, a
somewhat extended view of river and plain was obtainable therefrom.
Samuel Ravenshaw loved to