The Red Mans Revenge | Page 6

hands place it on the top of this
knoll!"
This was meant by the old trader as a bitterly facetious way of
indicating the absolute hopelessness of the case. Ian accepted it in that
light, for he was well aware that Samuel Ravenshaw's firmness--or
obstinacy--was insurmountable. He did not despair, however; true love
never does that; but he felt tremendously cast down. Without a word or
look of reproach he turned and walked slowly away.
Once again the old trader sought comfort in his pipe, but found none.
Besides feeling extremely indignant; with the Macdonalds, father and
son, for what he styled their presumption, he was now conscious of
having treated both with undue severity. Dashing his pipe on the
ground, he thrust both hands into his coat pockets, and returned
towards his dwelling. On the way he unfortunately met Petawanaquat
in one of his fields, leaning composedly over a gate. That intelligent
redskin had not yet finished his inquiries at the missionary village. He
had appeared more than once at Willow Creek, and seemed to hover
round the old trader like a moth round a candle. The man was innocent
of any evil intent on this occasion, but Ravenshaw would have
quarrelled with an angel just then.
"What are you doing here? Be off!" he said sternly.
The Indian either did not or would not understand, and the old man,
seizing him by the arm, thrust him violently through the gateway.
All the hot blood of the Petawanaquats, from Adam downwards,
seemed to leap through the red man's veins and concentrate in his right
hand as he turned fiercely on the trader and drew his scalping-knife.
Quick as lightning Ravenshaw hit out with his fist, and knocked the
Indian down, then, turning on his heel, walked away.

For a moment Petawanaquat lay stunned. Recovering, he arose, and his
dark glittering eyes told of a purpose of deadly revenge. The trader was
still in sight. The Indian picked up his gun, glided swiftly behind a tree,
and took a long steady aim. Just then little Tony rushed from the house
and leaped into his father's arms, where he received an unusually warm
embrace, for the trader wanted some sort of relief for his feelings. The
Indian's finger was pressing the trigger at the moment. Death was very
near Samuel Ravenshaw just then, but the finger relaxed and the gun
was lowered. A more terrible form of revenge had flashed into the mind
of the savage. Gliding quietly from his position, he entered the willows
and disappeared.
Meanwhile Angus Macdonald returned in no very amiable mood to his
own house. It was a small house; had been built by its owner, and was,
like most of the other houses of the colony at that time, a good solid log
structure--a sort of Noah's ark on a small scale. It stood on a flat piece
of mother earth, without any special foundation except a massive
oblong wooden frame to which all the superstructure was attached. You
might, if strong enough, have grasped it by the ridge-pole and carried it
bodily away without tearing up any foundation or deranging the fabric.
It was kept in order and managed by an elderly sister of Angus, named
Martha, for Angus was a widower. His only son Ian dwelt in the
school-house, a mile farther up the river.
Martha's strong point was fowls. We are too ignorant of that subject to
go into particulars. We can only say that she was an adept at fowls.
Martha's chickens were always tender and fat, and their eggs were the
largest and freshest in Red River. We introduce these fowls solely
because one of them acted a very important part on a very critical
occasion. As well might the geese who saved Rome be omitted from
history as Martha Macdonald's Cochin-China hen which--well, we
won't say what just yet. That hen was frightfully plain. Why
Cochin-China hens should have such long legs and wear feather
trousers are questions which naturalists must settle among themselves.
Being a humorous man, Angus had named her Beauty. She was a very
cross hen, and her feather unmentionables fitted badly. Moreover, she
was utterly useless, and never laid an egg, which was fortunate, for if

she had laid one it would have been an egregious monstrosity. She was
obviously tough. If they had slain her for the table they would have had
to cut her up with a hand-saw, or grind her into meal to fit her for use.
Besides all this, Beauty was a widow. When her husband
died--probably of disgust--she took to crowing on her own account.
She received Angus with a crow when he entered the house after his
interview with Ravenshaw, and appeared to listen intently as he poured
his sorrows into