The Best Ballantyne Westerns. R. M. Ballantyne

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      Peter Mactavish gave Louis a hearty shake of the hand before proceeding to supply his wants, which were simple and moderate, excepting in the article of tabac, in the use of which he was immoderate, being an inveterate smoker; so that a considerable portion of the snake had to be uncoiled for his benefit.

      “Fond as ever of smoking, Louis?” said Peter Mactavish, as he handed him the coil.

      “Oui, monsieur—very fond,” answered the guide, smelling the weed. “Ah, this is very good. I must take a good supply this voyage, because I lost the half of my roll last year;” and the guide gave a sigh as he thought of the overwhelming bereavement.

      “Lost the half of it, Louis!” said Mactavish. “Why, how was that? You must have lost more than half your spirits with it!”

      “Ah, oui, I lost all my spirits, and my comrade François at the same time!”

      “Dear me!” exclaimed the clerk, bustling about the store while the guide continued to talk.

      “Oui, monsieur, oui. I lost him, and my tabac, and my spirits, and very nearly my life, all in one moment!”

      “Why, how came that about?” said Peter, pausing in his work, and laying a handful of pipes on the counter.

      “Ah, monsieur, it was very sad (merci, monsieur, merci; thirty pipes, if you please), and I thought at the time that I should give up my voyageur life, and remain altogether in the settlement with my old woman. Mais, monsieur, that was not possible. When I spoke of it to my old woman, she called me an old woman; and you know, monsieur, that two old women never could live together in peace for twelve months under the same roof. So here I am, you see, ready again for the voyage.”

      The voyageurs, who had drawn round Louis when he alluded to an anecdote which they had often heard before, but were never weary of hearing over again, laughed loudly at this sally, and urged the guide to relate the story to “monsieur,” who, nothing loath to suspend his operations for a little, leaned his arms on the counter and said,—“Tell us all about it, Louis; I am anxious to know how you managed to come by so many losses all at one time.”

      “Bien, monsieur, I shall soon relate it, for the story is very short.”

      Harry Somerville, who was entering the pipes in Louis’s account, had just set down the figures “30” when Louis cleared his throat to begin. Not having the mental fortitude to finish the line, he dropped his pen, sprang off his stool, which he upset in so doing, jumped up, sitting-ways, upon the counter, and gazed with breathless interest into the guide’s face as he spoke.

      “It was on a cold, wet afternoon,” said Louis, “that we were descending the Hill River, at a part of the rapids where there is a sharp bend in the stream, and two or three great rocks that stand up in front of the water, as it plunges over a ledge, as if they were put there a purpose to catch it, and split it up into foam, or to stop the boats and canoes that try to run the rapids, and cut them up into splinters. It was an ugly place, monsieur, I can tell you; and though I’ve run it again and again, I always hold my breath tighter when we get to the top, and breathe freer when we get to the bottom. Well, there was a chum of mine at the bow, François by name, and a fine fellow he was as I ever came across. He used to sleep with me at night under the same blanket, although it was somewhat inconvenient; for being as big as myself and a stone heavier, it was all we could do to make the blanket cover us. However, he and I were great friends, and we managed it somehow. Well, he was at the bow when we took the rapids, and a first-rate bowman he made. His pole was twice as long and twice as thick as any other pole in the boat, and he twisted it about just like a fiddlestick. I remember well the night before we came to the rapids, as he was sitting by the fire, which was blazing up among the pine branches that overhung us, he said that he wanted a good pole for the rapids next day; and with that he jumped up, laid hold of an axe, and went back into the woods a bit to get one. When he returned, he brought a young tree on his shoulder, which he began to strip of its branches and bark. ‘Louis,’ says he, ‘this is hot work; give us a pipe.’ So I rummaged about for some tobacco, but found there was none left in my bag; so I went to my kit and got out my roll, about three fathoms or so, and cutting half of it off, I went to the fire and twisted it round his neck by way of a joke, and he said he’d wear it as a necklace all night—and so he did, too, and forgot to take it off in the morning; and when we came near the rapids I couldn’t get at my bag to stow it away, so says I, ‘François, you’ll have to run with it on, for I can’t stop to stow it now.’ ‘All right,’ says he, ‘go ahead;’ and just as he said it, we came in sight of the first run, foaming and boiling like a kettle of robbiboo. ‘Take care, lads,’ I cried, and the next moment we were dashing down towards the bend in the river. As we came near to the shoot, I saw François standing up on the gunwale to get a better view of the rocks ahead, and every now and then giving me a signal with his hand how to steer. Suddenly he gave a shout, and plunged his long pole into the water, to fend off from a rock which a swirl in the stream had concealed. For a second or two his pole bent like a willow, and we could feel the heavy boat jerk off a little with the tremendous strain; but all at once the pole broke off short with a crack, François’ heels made a flourish in the air, and then he disappeared head foremost into the foaming water, with my tobacco coiled round his neck! As we flew past the place, one of his arms appeared, and I made a grab at it, and caught him by the sleeve; but the effort upset myself, and over I went too. Fortunately, however, one of my men caught me by the foot, and held on like a vice; but the force of the current tore François’ sleeve out of my grasp, and I was dragged into the boat again just in time to see my comrade’s legs and arms going like the sails of a windmill, as he rolled over several times and disappeared. Well, we put ashore the moment we got into still water, and then five or six of us started off on foot to look for François. After half an hour’s search, we found him pitched upon a flat rock in the middle of the stream like a bit of driftwood. We immediately waded out to the rock and brought him ashore, where we lighted a fire, took off all his clothes, and rubbed him till he began to show signs of life again. But you may judge, mes garçons, of my misery when I found that the coil of tobacco was gone. It had come off his neck during his struggles, and there wasn’t a vestige of it left, except a bright red mark on the throat, where it had nearly strangled him. When he began to recover, he put his hand up to his neck as if feeling for something, and muttered faintly, ‘The tabac.’ ‘Ah, morbleu!’ said I, ‘you may say that! Where is it?’ Well, we soon brought him round, but he had swallowed so much water that it damaged his lungs, and we had to leave him at the next post we came to; and so I lost my friend too.”

      “Did François get better?” said Charley Kennedy, in a voice of great concern.

      Charley had entered the store by another door, just as the guide began his story, and had listened to it unobserved with breathless interest.

      “Recover! Oh oui, monsieur, he soon got well again.”

      “Oh, I’m so glad,” cried Charley.

      “But I lost him for that voyage,” added the guide; “and I lost my tabac for ever!”

      “You must take better care of it this time, Louis,” said Peter Mactavish, as he resumed his work.

      “That I shall, monsieur,” replied Louis, shouldering his goods and quitting the store, while a short, slim, active little Canadian took his place.

      “Now then, Baptiste,” said Mactavish, “you want a—”

      “Blanket, monsieur.”

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