Rob Nixon, the Old White Trader: A Tale of Central British North America. Kingston William Henry Giles
how could he defend himself against them? He might subsist on the meat of the buffalo for a day or two, but that would soon become uneatable, and as he could scarcely hope to recover from his hurt for many days, even if he escaped the wolves, he must die of starvation. Again he sank into a state of mental stupor, though his eye still remained cognisant of external objects. As the old hunter thus lay on the ground his eye fell on a horseman riding rapidly by. He was a Salteux, or Ojibway Indian, a people having a deadly feud with his friends, the Sioux. The sight roused him. To kill the man and capture his horse was the idea which at once occurred to him. Rousing himself by a violent exertion he levelled his rifle and fired. Not for an instant did he hesitate about taking the life of a fellow-creature. That fellow-creature was a foe of his friends, whose badge he wore, and would, he believed, kill him if he was discovered. He had miscalculated his powers – his eye had grown dim, his arm had lost its nerve; the bullet which once would have proved a sure messenger of death flew wide of its mark, and the Indian sat his horse unharmed. He turned, however, immediately, and galloped towards the spot whence the shot came. The old hunter had expended his last bullet. With grim satisfaction he awaited the Indian’s approach, and the expected flourish of the scalping-knife, or the kinder blow of the tomahawk, which would deprive him at once of life. “Better so than be torn by the fangs of those vermin the wolves,” he muttered, for though he clutched his knife to strike back, he well knew that he was at the mercy of his adversary. The Indian, though a rifle hung at his back, rode steadily up without unslinging it. “A friend!” he shouted in the Salteux, or Ojibway dialect, – “A friend! fire not again.”
“A friend! How so?” exclaimed the old hunter. “Your people and mine are mortal foes.”
“I would be a friend to all the suffering and distressed,” was the unexpected answer. “I see what has happened – you have fought bravely for your life; the remains of the wolves tell me that, but before another sun has risen you would have been torn limb from limb by their fellows. Truly I am thankful that I was sent to save you from death.”
“Sent! Who sent you?” cried the old hunter, gazing up at the strange Indian. The other having just dismounted from his horse stood looking compassionately down on him. “He who watches over the fatherless and widows, and all who are distressed,” answered the Indian. “A generous kind person I doubt not, but I know of none such in this land; he must live far away from here,” said the old hunter. “He lives in Heaven, and His eye is everywhere,” said the Indian solemnly. “He loves all mankind; without His will not a sparrow falls to the ground; and I am sure, therefore, that it was His will that I should come to you.”
“Truly you speak strange words for a redskin!” exclaimed the hunter. “I have heard long ago white men talk as you, but never an Indian. You are one I see; there is no deceiving me. I cannot understand the matter.”
“I will tell you as we go along,” said the Indian; “but we must no longer delay, father; we have many miles to travel before we can reach my people, and I know not how I can restore you to your friends. It would be dangerous for me to approach them, for they could not understand how I can only wish them good.”
“I will go with you, friend,” said the old man. “I would gladly dwell with your people, and hear more of those strange matters of which you have been speaking.”
Without further exchange of words the Indian, having examined the old man’s hurts, gave him some dried meat and a draught from his water-flask, and lifted him with the utmost care on his horse; he then took the hunter’s rifle and horse’s trappings before moving off. He also secured the tongue and hump, and some slices from the buffalo’s back, which he hung to his saddle-bow. “We may require more provision than our own rifles can supply before we reach our journey’s end,” he observed; as he did so, pointing to the north-east. Robert Nixon without hesitation yielded to all his suggestions.
The day was already considerably advanced, and the Indian seemed anxious to push on. Keeping up a rapid pace, he walked by the side of his companion, who, overcome by weakness and want of sleep would have fallen off, had not his strong arm held him on. Thus they journeyed hour after hour across the prairie. The Indian from the first employed various devices for rendering his trail invisible. On starting he moved for some distance westward, till he reached the bed of a small stream, on which even the sharp eye of a native could scarcely perceive a trace; then circling round, he commenced his intended course. Many miles were passed over; and the bank of a rapid river was reached, when the setting sun warned him that it was time to encamp. Instead, however, of doing so, he at once led his horse into the stream, and keeping close to the shore waded against the current, often having the water up to his waist, for a considerable distance, then coming to a ford he crossed over and continued along in the same direction till he once more returned to dry ground. The bank was fringed on each side by a belt of trees, which in the warm weather of summer afforded ample shelter from the dew, and concealment from any passing enemy. The chief trees were poplar, willow, and alder; but there were also spruce and birch. Bound the latter lay large sheets of the bark. A quantity of these the Indian at once collected, and with some thin poles which he cut with his hatchet he rapidly constructed a small hut or wigwam, strewing the floor with the young shoots of the spruce-fir. On this couch he placed his injured companion, putting his saddle under his head as a pillow. He then brought the old man some food and water, and next proceeded to examine his hurts with more attention than he had before been able to bestow. Bringing water from the river he fomented his bruises for a long time, and then searching for some leaves of a plant possessed of healing qualities, he bound them with strips of soft leather round his swollen limbs. More than once the old hunter expressed his surprise that a stranger should care so much for him, and should actually feed and tend him before he had himself partaken of food and rested. “I serve a loving Master, and I am but obeying His wishes,” was the laconic answer. “Very strange! very strange!” again and again muttered the old man; “you must tell me something about that Master of yours. I cannot understand who he can be.”
“I will not disappoint you, father, for I love to speak of Him,” said the Indian; “I will come anon and sit by your side and tell you what I know. It will interest you, I doubt not, and maybe you will wish to know more about Him.” Some time passed, however, before the Indian was able to fulfil his promise. He had to tend his horse and to set some traps to catch any small game which might pass, and to search for certain roots and berries for food. He showed, too, by all his movements that he considered himself in an enemy’s country, or in the neighbourhood of an enemy from whom it was necessary to keep concealed. When he came back the old man had fallen asleep. “Let him sleep on,” said the Indian to himself: “our Father in Heaven will watch over and protect us both. I would that I could watch, but my body requires rest.” Having tethered his horse close at hand, strewed the ground with a few spruce-fir tops, and placed his rifle by his side, he knelt down and prayed, not as once to Manitou, to the Great Spirit, the unknown God, but to the true God, – a God no longer feared as a worker of evil, but beloved as the source of all good, of all blessings, spiritual and temporal. His prayer finished, he stretched himself on his couch, and was in an instant asleep.
The silvery streaks of early dawn were just appearing in the eastern sky – seen amid the foliage of the wood, when the Indian, impulsively grasping his rifle, started to his feet. His quick ear had caught, even in his sleep, the sound of a distant shot. It might be fired by a friend, but very likely by a foe, and it behoved him to be on the alert. The old hunter heard it also, but it did not awake him. “Ah! they are on us. No matter, we’ll fight for our lives,” he muttered in his sleep. “Hurrah, lads! Rob Nixon will not yield – never while he’s an arm to strike.” He spoke in English, which the Indian seemed to understand, though the observation he made was in his own language. “Our own arms will do little for us, father, unless we trust in Him who is all-powerful to save.” His voice awoke the old man, who sat up and looked around from out of his hut. Seeing the Indian in the attitude of listening, he at once comprehended the state of matters. “Few or many I’ll stand by you, friend Redskin,” he exclaimed, apparently forgetting his helpless condition; “load my rifle, and hand it to me. If foes are coming, they shall learn that Rob Nixon has not lost the use of his arms and eyes, whatever he may have of his legs.”
“I doubt not your readiness to fight, father,” said the Indian, addressing