The Young Fur Traders

Chapter Four.

A wolf-hunt in the prairies—Charley astonishes his father, and breaks in the “noo ’oss” effectually

During the long winter that reigns in the northern regions of America, the thermometer ranges, for many months together, from zero down to 20, 30, and 40 degrees below it. In different parts of the country the intensity of the frost varies a little, but not sufficiently to make any appreciable change in one’s sensation of cold. At York Fort, on the shores of Hudson’s Bay, where the winter is eight months long, the spirit-of-wine (mercury being useless in so cold a climate) sometimes falls so low as 50 degrees below zero; and away in the regions of Great Bear Lake it has been known to fall considerably lower than 60 degrees below zero of Fahrenheit. Cold of such intensity, of course, produces many curious and interesting effects, which, although scarcely noticed by the inhabitants, make a strong impression upon the minds of those who visit the country for the first time. A youth goes out to walk on one of the first sharp, frosty mornings. His locks are brown and his face ruddy. In half an hour he returns with his face blue, his nose frost-bitten, and his locks white—the latter effect being produced by his breath congealing on his hair and breast, until both are covered with hoar-frost. Perhaps he is of a sceptical nature, prejudiced, it may be, in favour of old habits and customs; so that, although told by those who ought to know that it is absolutely necessary to wear moccasins in winter, he prefers the leather boots to which he has been accustomed at home, and goes out with them accordingly. In a few minutes the feet begin to lose sensation. First the toes, as far as feeling goes, vanish; then the heels depart, and he feels the extraordinary and peculiar and altogether disagreeable sensation of one who has had his heels and toes amputated, and is walking about on his insteps. Soon, however, these also fade away, and the unhappy youth rushes frantically home on the stumps of his anklebones—at least so it appears to him, and so in reality it would turn out to be if he did not speedily rub the benumbed appendages into vitality again.

The whole country during this season is buried in snow, and the prairies of Red River present the appearance of a sea of the purest white for five or six months of the year. Impelled by hunger, troops of prairie wolves prowl round the settlement, safe from the assault of man in consequence of their light weight permitting them to scamper away on the surface of the snow, into which man or horse, from their greater weight, would sink, so as to render pursuit either fearfully laborious or altogether impossible. In spring, however, when the first thaws begin to take place, and commence that delightful process of disruption which introduces this charming season of the year, the relative position of wolf and man is reversed. The snow becomes suddenly soft, so that the short legs of the wolf, sinking deep into it, fail to reach the solid ground below, and he is obliged to drag heavily along; while the long legs of the horse enable him to plunge through and dash aside the snow at a rate which, although not very fleet, is sufficient, nevertheless, to overtake the chase and give his rider a chance of shooting it. The inhabitants of Red River are not much addicted to this sport, but the gentlemen of the Hudson’s Bay Service sometimes practise it; and it was to a hunt of this description that our young friend Charley Kennedy was now so anxious to go.

The morning was propitious. The sun blazed in dazzling splendour in a sky of deep, unclouded blue, while the white prairie glittered as if it were a sea of diamonds rolling out in an unbroken sheet from the walls of the fort to the horizon, and on looking at which one experienced all the pleasurable feelings of being out on a calm day on the wide, wide sea, without the disagreeable consequence of being very, very sick.

The thermometer stood at 39 in the shade, and “everythink,” as Tom White emphatically expressed it, “looked like a runnin’ of right away into slush.” That unusual sound, the trickling of water, so inexpressibly grateful to the ears of those who dwell in frosty climes, was heard all around, as the heavy masses of snow on the housetops sent a few adventurous drops gliding down the icicles which depended from the ewes and gables; and there was a balmy softness in the air that told of coming spring. Nature, in fact, seemed to have wakened from her long nap, and was beginning to think of getting up. Like people, however, who venture to delay so long as to think about it, Nature frequently turns round and goes to sleep again in her icy cradle for a few weeks after the first awakening.

The scene in the courtyard of Fort Garry harmonised with the cheerful spirit of the morning. Tom Whyte, with that upright solemnity which constituted one of his characteristic features, was standing in the centre of a group of horses, whose energy he endeavoured to restrain with the help of a small Indian boy, to whom meanwhile he imparted a variety of useful and otherwise unattainable information.

“You see, Joseph,” said he to the urchin, who gazed gravely in his face with a pair of very large and dark eyes, “ponies is often skittish. Reason why one should be, an’ another not, I can’t comprehend. P’r’aps it’s nat’ral, p’r’aps not, but howsomediver so ’tis; an’ if it’s more nor above the likes o’ me, Joseph, you needn’t be surprised that it’s somethink haltogether beyond you.”

It will not surprise the reader to be told that Joseph made no reply to this speech, having a very imperfect acquaintance with the English language, especially the peculiar dialect of that tongue in which Tom Whyte was wont to express his ideas, when he had any.

He merely gave a grunt, and continued to gaze at Tom’s fishy eyes, which were about as interesting as the face to which they belonged, and that might have been mistaken for almost anything.

“Yes, Joseph,” he continued, “that’s a fact. There’s the noo brown ’oss now, it’s a skittish ’un. And there’s Mr Kennedy’s gray mare, wot’s a standin’ of beside me, she ain’t skittish a bit, though she’s plenty of spirit, and wouldn’t care hanythink for a five-barred gate. Now, wot I want to know is, wot’s the reason why?”

We fear that the reason why, however interesting it might prove to naturalists, must remain a profound secret for ever; for just as the groom was about to entertain Joseph with one of his theories on the point, Charley Kennedy and Harry Somerville hastily approached.

“Ho, Tom!” exclaimed the former, “have you got the miller’s pony for me?”

“Why, no, sir; ’e ’adn’t got his shoes on, sir, last night—”

“Oh, bother his shoes!” said Charley, in a voice of great disappointment. “Why didn’t you bring him up without shoes, man, eh?”

“Well, sir, the miller said ’e’d get ’em put on early this mornin’, an’ I ’xpect ’e’ll be ’ere in ’alf a hour at farthest, sir.”

“Oh, very well,” replied Charley, much relieved, but still a little nettled at the bare possibility of being late.—“Come along, Harry; let’s go and meet him. He’ll be long enough of coming if we don’t go to poke him up a bit.”

“You’d better wait,” called out the groom, as the boys hastened away. “If you go by the river, he’ll p’r’aps come by the plains; and if you go by the plains, he’ll p’r’aps come by the river.”

Charley and Harry stopped and looked at each other. Then they looked at the groom, and as their eyes surveyed his solemn, cadaverous countenance, which seemed a sort of bad caricature of the long visages of the horses that stood around him, they burst into a simultaneous and prolonged laugh. “He’s a clever old lamp-post,” said Harry at last: “we had better remain, Charley.”

“You see,” continued Tom Whyte, “the pony’s ’oofs is in an ’orrible state. Last night w’en I seed ’im I said to the miller, says I, ‘John, I’ll take ’im down to the smith d’rectly.’ ‘Very good,’ said John. So I ’ad ’im down to the smith—”

The remainder of Tom’s speech was cut short by one of those unforeseen operations of the laws of nature which are peculiar to arctic climates. During the long winter repeated falls of snow cover the housetops with white mantles upwards of a foot thick, which become gradually thicker and more consolidated as winter advances. In spring the suddenness of the thaw loosens these from the sloping roofs, and precipitates them in masses to the ground. These miniature avalanches are dangerous, people having been seriously injured and sometimes killed by them. Now it happened that a very large mass of snow, which lay on and partly depended from the roof of the house near to which the horses were standing, gave way, and just at that critical point in Tom Whyte’s speech when he “’ad ’im down to the smith,” fell with a stunning crash on the back of Mr Kennedy’s gray mare. The mare was not “skittish”—by no means—according to Tom’s idea, but it would have been more than an ordinary mare to have stood the sudden descent of half a ton of snow without some symptoms of consciousness. No sooner did it feel the blow than it sent both heels with a bang against the wooden store, by way of preliminary movement, and then rearing up with a wild snort, it sprang over Tom Whyte’s head, jerked the reins from his hand, and upset him in the snow. Poor Tom never bent to anything. The military despotism under which he had been reared having substituted a touch of the cap for a bow, rendered it unnecessary to bend; prolonged drill, laziness, and rheumatism made it at last impossible. When he stood up, he did so after the manner of a pillar; when he sat down, he broke across at two points, much in the way in which a foot-rule would have done had it felt disposed to sit down; and when he fell, he came down like an overturned lamp-post. On the present occasion Tom became horizontal in a moment, and from his unfortunate propensity to fall straight, his head, reaching much farther than might have been expected, came into violent contact with the small Indian boy, who fell flat likewise, letting go the reins of the horses, which latter no sooner felt themselves free than they fled, curvetting and snorting round the court, with reins and manes flying in rare confusion.

The two boys, who could scarce stand for laughing, ran to the gates of the fort to prevent the chargers getting free, and in a short time they were again secured, although evidently much elated in spirit.

A few minutes after this Mr Grant issued from the principal house, leaning on Mr Kennedy’s arm, and followed by the senior clerk, Peter Mactavish, and one or two friends who had come to take part in the wolf-hunt. They were all armed with double or single barrelled guns or pistols, according to their several fancies. The two elderly gentlemen alone entered upon the scene without any more deadly weapons than their heavy riding-whips. Young Harry Somerville, who had been strongly advised not to take a gun, lest he should shoot himself or his horse or his companions, was content to take the field with a small pocket-pistol, which he crammed to the muzzle with a compound of ball and swan-shot.

“It won’t do,” said Mr Grant, in an earnest voice, to his friend, as they walked towards the horses—“it won’t do to check him too abruptly, my dear sir.”

It was evident that they were recurring to the subject of conversation of the previous day, and it was also evident that the father’s wrath was in that very uncertain state when a word or a look can throw it into violent agitation.

“Just permit me,” continued Mr Grant, “to get him sent to the Saskatchewan or Athabasca for a couple of years. By that time he’ll have had enough of a rough life, and be only too glad to get a berth at headquarters. If you thwart him now, I feel convinced that he’ll break through all restraint.”

“Humph!” ejaculated Mr Kennedy, with a frown.—“Come here, Charley,” he said, as the boy approached with a disappointed look to tell of his failure in getting a horse; “I’ve been talking with Mr Grant again about this business, and he says he can easily get you into the counting-room here for a year, so you’ll make arrangements—”

The old gentleman paused. He was going to have followed his wonted course by commanding instantaneous obedience; but as his eye fell upon the honest, open, though disappointed face of his son, a gush of tenderness filled his heart. Laying his hand upon Charley’s head, he said, in a kind but abrupt tone, “There now, Charley, my boy, make up your mind to give in with a good grace. It’ll only be hard work for a year or two, and then plain sailing after that, Charley!”

Charley’s clear blue eyes filled with tears as the accents of kindness fell upon his ear.

It is strange that men should frequently be so blind to the potent influence of kindness. Independently of the Divine authority, which assures us that “a soft answer turneth away wrath,” and that “love is the fulfilling of the law,” who has not, in the course of his experience, felt the overwhelming power of a truly affectionate word; not a word which possesses merely an affectionate signification, but a word spoken with a gush of tenderness, where love rolls in the tone, and beams in the eye, and revels in every wrinkle of the face? And how much more powerfully does such a word or look or tone strike home to the heart if uttered by one whose lips are not much accustomed to the formation of honeyed words or sweet sentences! Had Mr Kennedy, senior, known more of this power, and put it more frequently to the proof, we venture to affirm that Mr Kennedy, junior, would have allowed his “flint to be fixed” (as his father pithily expressed it) long ago.

Ere Charley could reply to the question, Mr Grant’s voice, pitched in an elevated key, interrupted them.

“Eh! what?” said that gentleman to Tom Whyte. “No horse for Charley! How’s that?”

“No, sir,” said Tom.

“Where’s the brown pony?” said Mr Grant, abruptly.

“Cut ’is fetlock, sir,” said Tom slowly.

“And the new horse?”

“’Tain’t ’alf broke yet, sir.”

“Ah! that’s bad.—It wouldn’t do to take an unbroken charger, Charley; for although you are a pretty good rider, you couldn’t manage him, I fear. Let me see.”

“Please, sir,” said the groom, touching his hat, “I’ve borrowed the miller’s pony for ’im, and ’e’s sure to be ’ere in ’alf a hour at farthest.”

“Oh, that’ll do,” said Mr Grant; “you can soon overtake us. We shall ride slowly out, straight into the prairie, and Harry will remain behind to keep you company.”

So saying, Mr Grant mounted his horse and rode out at the back gate, followed by the whole cavalcade.

“Now this is too bad!” said Charley, looking with a very perplexed air at his companion. “What’s to be done?”

Harry evidently did not know what was to be done, and made no difficulty of saying so in a very sympathising tone. Moreover, he begged Charley very earnestly to take his pony, but this the other would not hear of; so they came to the conclusion that there was nothing for it but to wait as patiently as possible for the arrival of the expected horse. In the meantime Harry proposed a saunter in the field adjoining the fort. Charley assented, and the two friends walked away, leading the gray pony along with them.

To the right of Fort Garry was a small enclosure, at the extreme end of which commences a growth of willows and underwood, which gradually increases in size till it becomes a pretty thick belt of woodland, skirting up the river for many miles. Here stood the stable belonging to the establishment; and as the boys passed it, Charley suddenly conceived a strong desire to see the renowned “noo ’oss,” which Tom had said was only “’alf broke;” so he turned the key, opened the door, and went in.

There was nothing very peculiar about this horse, excepting that his legs seemed rather long for his body, and upon a closer examination, there was a noticeable breadth of nostril and a latent fire in his eye, indicating a good deal of spirit, which, like Charley’s own, required taming.

“Oh,” said Charley, “what a splendid fellow! I say, Harry, I’ll go out with him.”

“You’d better not.”

“Why not?”

“Why? just because if you do Mr Grant will be down upon you, and your father won’t be very well pleased.”

“Nonsense,” cried Charley. “Father didn’t say I wasn’t to take him. I don’t think he’d care much. He’s not afraid of my breaking my neck. And then, Mr Grant seemed to be only afraid of my being run off with—not of his horse being hurt. Here goes for it!” In another moment Charley had him saddled and bridled, and led him out into the yard.

“Why, I declare he’s quite quiet; just like a lamb,” said Harry, in surprise.

“So he is,” replied Charley. “He’s a capital charger; and even if he does bolt, he can’t run five hundred miles at a stretch. If I turn his head to the prairies, the Rocky Mountains are the first things that will bring him up. So let him run if he likes, I don’t care a fig.” And springing lightly into the saddle, he cantered out of the yard, followed by his friend.

The young horse was a well-formed, showy animal, with a good deal of bone—perhaps too much for elegance. He was of a beautiful dark brown, and carried a high head and tail, with a high-stepping gait, that gave him a noble appearance. As Charley cantered along at a steady pace, he could discover no symptoms of the refractory spirit which had been ascribed to him.

“Let us strike out straight for the horizon now,” said Harry, after they had galloped half a mile or so along the beaten track. “See, here are the tracks of our friends.” Turning sharp round as he spoke, he leaped his pony over the heap that lined the road, and galloped away through the soft snow.

At this point the young horse began to show his evil spirit. Instead of following the other, he suddenly halted and began to back.

“Hollo, Harry!” exclaimed Charley; “hold on a bit. Here’s this monster begun his tricks.”

“Hit him a crack with the whip,” shouted Harry.

Charley acted upon the advice, which had the effect of making the horse shake his head with a sharp snort, and back more vigorously than ever.

“There, my fine fellow, quiet now,” said Charley in a soothing tone, patting the horse’s neck. “It’s a comfort to know you can’t go far in that direction, anyhow!” he added, as he glanced over his shoulder, and saw an immense drift behind.

He was right. In a few minutes the horse backed into the snow-drift. Finding his hind-quarters imprisoned by a power that was too much even for his obstinacy to overcome, he gave another snort and a heavy plunge, which almost unseated his young rider.

“Hold on fast,” cried Harry, who had now come up.

“No fear,” cried Charley, as he clinched his teeth and gathered the reins more firmly.—“Now for it, you young villain!” and raising his whip, he brought it down with a heavy slash on the horse’s flank.

Had the snow-drift been a cannon, and the horse a bombshell, he could scarcely have sprung from it with greater velocity. One bound landed him on the road; another cleared it; and in a second more he stretched out at full speed—his ears flat on his neck, mane and tail flying in the wind, and the bit tight between his teeth.

“Well done,” cried Harry, as he passed. “You’re off now, old fellow; good-bye.”

“Hurrah!” shouted Charley, in reply, leaving his cap in the snow as a parting souvenir; while, seeing that it was useless to endeavour to check his steed, he became quite wild with excitement; gave him the rein; flourished his whip; and flew over the white plains, casting up the snow in clouds behind him like a hurricane.

While this little escapade was being enacted by the boys, the hunters were riding leisurely out upon the snowy sea in search of a wolf.

Words cannot convey to you, dear reader, an adequate conception of the peculiar fascination, the exhilarating splendour of the scene by which our hunters were surrounded. Its beauty lay not in variety of feature in the landscape, for there was none. One vast sheet of white alone met the view, bounded all round by the blue circle of the sky, and broken in one or two places by a patch or two of willows, which, rising on the plain, appeared like little islands in a frozen sea. It was the glittering sparkle of the snow in the bright sunshine; the dreamy haziness of the atmosphere, mingling earth and sky as in a halo of gold; the first taste, the first smell of spring after a long winter, bursting suddenly upon the senses, like the unexpected visit of a long-absent, much-loved, and almost forgotten friend; the soft, warm feeling of the south wind, bearing on its wings the balmy influences of sunny climes, and recalling vividly the scenes, the pleasures, the bustling occupations of summer. It was this that caused the hunters’ hearts to leap within them as they rode along—that induced old Mr Kennedy to forget his years, and shout as he had been wont to do in days gone by, when he used to follow the track of the elk or hunt the wild buffalo; and it was this that made the otherwise monotonous prairies on this particular day so charming.

The party had wandered about, without discovering anything that bore the smallest resemblance to a wolf, for upwards of an hour; Fort Garry had fallen astern (to use a nautical phrase) until it had become a mere speck on the horizon, and vanished altogether; Peter Mactavish had twice given a false alarm in the eagerness of his spirit, and had three times plunged his horse up to the girths in a snow-drift; the senior clerk was waxing impatient, and the horses restive, when a sudden “Hollo!” from Mr Grant brought the whole cavalcade to a stand.

The object which drew his attention, and to which he directed the anxious eyes of his friends, was a small speck, rather triangular in form, which overtopped a little willow bush not more than five or six hundred yards distant.

“There he is!” exclaimed Mr Grant. “That’s a fact,” cried Mr Kennedy; and both gentlemen, instantaneously giving a shout, bounded towards the object; not, however, before the senior clerk, who was mounted on a fleet and strong horse, had taken the lead by six yards. A moment afterwards the speck rose up and discovered itself to be a veritable wolf. Moreover, he condescended to show his teeth, and then, conceiving it probable that his enemies were too numerous for him, he suddenly turned round and fled away. For ten minutes or so the chase was kept up at full speed, and as the snow happened to be shallow at the starting-point, the wolf kept well ahead of its pursuers—indeed, distanced them a little. But soon the snow became deeper, and the wolf plunged heavily, and the horses gained considerably. Although to the eye the prairie seemed to be a uniform level, there were numerous slight undulations, in which drifts of some depth had collected. Into one of these the wolf now plunged and laboured slowly through it. But so deep was the snow that the horses almost stuck fast. A few minutes, however, brought them out, and Mr Grant and Mr Kennedy, who had kept close to each other during the run, pulled up for a moment on the summit of a ridge to breathe their panting steeds.

“What can that be?” exclaimed the former, pointing with his whip to a distant object which was moving rapidly over the plain.

“Eh! what—where?” said Mr Kennedy, shading his eyes with his hand, and peering in the direction indicated. “Why, that’s another wolf, isn’t it? No; it runs too fast for that.”

“Strange,” said his friend; “what can it be?”

“If I hadn’t seen every beast in the country,” remarked Mr Kennedy, “and didn’t know that there are no such animals north of the equator, I should say it was a mad dromedary mounted by a ring-tailed roarer.”

“It can’t be, surely—not possible!” exclaimed Mr Grant. “It’s not Charley on the new horse!”

Mr Grant said this with an air of vexation, that annoyed his friend a little. He would not have much minded Charley’s taking a horse without leave, no matter how wild it might be; but he did not at all relish the idea of making an apology for his son’s misconduct, and for the moment did not exactly know what to say. As usual in such a dilemma, the old man took refuge in a towering passion, gave his steed a sharp cut with the whip, and galloped forward to meet the delinquent.