Part 13 (2/2)
”Water! water!” exclaimed La Certe at this point, holding out both hands. ”I can never pa.s.s this part of my story without burning thirst!”
A mug of water was handed him.
”Poor fellow--have some brandy in it,” said a sympathetic hearer, hastily getting out his bottle.
La Certe held out his mug impatiently for the brandy, drained the mug, and cleared his voice.
”Was--was your mother killed?” asked the sympathiser, earnestly.
”Killed? No. Impossible! My mother could not be killed because her destiny was not yet fulfilled. No: there was a deep pool right under the tree. She fell into that with a plunge that echoed from cliff to cliff. The Indians were profoundly superst.i.tious. All Indians are not so, but these Indians were. They waited not for more. They turned and fled as if all the evil spirits in the Rocky Mountains were chasing them. They reached their wigwams breathless, and told their squaws that one of the spirits of a mountain stream had sat among the branches of a tree and sung to them. It had told them that the right time for attacking their foes had not yet come. Then it sang them a war-song descriptive of their final victory, and, just after uttering a tremendous war-whoop, it had dived back into its native stream.”
”Well done!” exclaimed an enthusiastic Canadian.
”But what became of your mother?” asked Morel.
”Oh! she swam ash.o.r.e. My mother was a splendid swimmer. I know it, for she taught me.”
”Was it a long swim?” asked a sceptical sailor, who was one of the emigrants.
”How?--what mean you?” demanded La Certe, sternly.
”I only want to know if she took long to swim ash.o.r.e out o' that pool,”
said the sceptic, simply.
La Certe cast on him a glance of suspicion, and replied that his mother had found no difficulty in getting out of the pool.
”Is the old lady alive yet?” asked the pertinacious sceptic.
”Of course not. She died long long ago--thirty years ago.”
”What! before you was born? That's strange, isn't it?”
”No, but you not understand. I suppose my speech is not plain to you.
I said _three_ years ago.”
”Ah! that's more like it. I only missed what you said,” returned the sceptic, whose name was Fred Jenkins, ”for I've lived a while in France, and understand your lingo pretty well. Pa.s.s that goose, Morel, if you have left anything on it. This air o' the wilderness beats the air o'
the sea itself for givin' a fellow a twist.”
The remarks of Jenkins, while they did not absolutely destroy the confidence of the Swiss party, shook it enough to show the wily half-breed that he must do something if possible to re-establish his credit. He therefore volunteered another song, which was gladly accepted and highly appreciated; for, as we have said, La Certe possessed a really good and tuneful voice, and these immigrants were a musical people.
While this was going on at the Swiss camp-fires an incident occurred at the fire round which the McKay-Davidson party was a.s.sembled, which deserves particular notice.
Old McKay was giving some directions to Fergus; Duncan junior was seated opposite Dan Davidson, smoking his pipe, and Elspie had gone into her tent, when Slowfoot, the spouse of La Certe, drew near.
”Come along, old girl,” exclaimed McKay senior. ”It iss some baccy you will be wantin', I'll wager.”
Slowfoot did not reply in words, but the smile upon her face was eloquent.
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