“Well done, Redfeather,” said Mr. Park, addressing the Indian as he resumed his seat; “your knife did us good service that time, my fine fellow.”
Redfeather, who was the only pure native in the brigade, acknowledged the compliment with a smile.
“_Ah, oui_,” replied the guide, whose features had now lost their stern expression. “These Injins are always ready enough with their knives. It’s not the first time my life has been saved by the knife of a red-skin.”
“Humph! bad luck to them,” muttered Mike Brady; “it’s not the first time that my windpipe has been pretty near spiflicated by the knives o’ the redskins, the murtherin’ varmints.”
As Mike gave vent to this malediction, the boat ran swiftly past a low rocky point, over which the surf was breaking wildly.
“Down with the sail, Mike,” cried the guide, at the same time putting the helm hard up. The boat flew round, obedient to the ruling power, made one last plunge as it left the rolling surf behind, and slid gently and smoothly into still water under the lee of the point.
Here, in the snug shelter of a little bay, two of the other boats were found, with their prows already on the beach, and their crews actively employed in landing their goods, opening bales that had received damage from the water, and preparing the encampment; while ever and anon they paused a moment to watch the various boats as they flew before the gale, and one by one doubled the friendly promontory.
If there is one thing that provokes a voyageur more than another, it is being wind-bound on the shores of a large lake. Rain or sleet, heat or cold, icicles forming on the oars, or a broiling sun glaring in a cloudless sky, the stings of sand-flies, or the sharp probes of a million musquitoes, he will bear with comparative indifference; but being detained by high wind for two, three, or four days together—lying inactively on shore, when everything else, it may be, is favourable: the sun bright, the sky blue, the air invigorating, and all but the wind propitious—is more than his philosophy can carry him through with equanimity. He grumbles at it; sometimes makes believe to laugh at it; very often, we are sorry to say, swears at it; does his best to sleep through it; but whatever he does, he does with a bad grace, because he’s in a bad humour, and can’t stand it.
