The Best Ballantyne Westerns. R. M. Ballantyne

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      “And—”

      “An axe—”

      “Stop, stop!” shouted Harry Somerville from his desk. “Here’s an entry in Louis’s account that I can’t make out—30 something or other; what can it have been?”

      “How often,” said Mactavish, going up to him with a look of annoyance—“how often have I told you, Mr Somerville, not to leave an entry half finished on any account!”

      “I didn’t know that I left it so,” said Harry, twisting his features and scratching his head in great perplexity. “What can it have been? 30—30—not blankets, eh?” (Harry was becoming banteringly bitter.) “He couldn’t have got thirty guns, could he? or thirty knives, or thirty copper kettles?”

      “Perhaps it was thirty pounds of tea,” suggested Charley.

      “No doubt it was thirty pipes,” said Peter Mactavish.

      “Oh, that was it!” cried Harry, “that was it! thirty pipes, to be sure. What an ass I am!”

      “And pray what is that?” said Mactavish, pointing sarcastically to an entry in the previous account—“5 yards of superfine Annette? Really, Mr Somerville, I wish you would pay more attention to your work and less to the conversation.”

      “Oh dear!” cried Harry, becoming almost hysterical under the combined effects of chagrin at making so many mistakes, and suppressed merriment at the idea of selling Annettes by the yard. “Oh, dear me—”

      Harry could say no more, but stuffed his handkerchief into his mouth and turned away.

      “Well, sir,” said the offended Peter, “when you have laughed to your entire satisfaction, we will go on with our work, if you please.”

      “All right,” cried Harry, suppressing his feelings with a strong effort; “what next?”

      Just then a tall, raw-boned man entered the store, and rudely thrusting Baptiste aside, asked if he could get his supplies now.

      “No,” said Mactavish, sharply; “you’ll take your turn like the rest.”

      The new-comer was a native of Orkney, a country from which, and the neighbouring islands, the Fur Company almost exclusively recruits its staff of labourers. These men are steady, useful servants, although inclined to be slow and lazy at first; but they soon get used to the country, and rapidly improve under the example of the active Canadians and half-breeds with whom they associate. Some of them are the best servants the Company possess. Hugh Mathison, however, was a very bad specimen of the race, being rough and coarse in his manners, and very lazy withal. Upon receiving the trader’s answer, Hugh turned sulkily on his heel and strode towards the door. Now, it happened that Baptiste’s bundle lay just behind him, and on turning to leave the place, he tripped over it and stumbled, whereat the voyageurs burst into an ironical laugh (for Hugh was not a favourite).

      “Confound your trash!” he cried, giving the little bundle a kick that scattered everything over the floor.

      “Crapaud!” said Baptiste, between his set teeth, while his eyes flashed angrily, and he stood up before Hugh with clinched fists, “what mean you by that, eh?”

      The big Scotchman held his little opponent in contempt; so that, instead of putting himself on the defensive, he leaned his back against the door, thrust his hands into his pockets, and requested to know “what that was to him.”

      Baptiste was not a man of many words, and this reply, coupled with the insolent sneer with which it was uttered, caused him to plant a sudden and well-directed blow on the point of Hugh’s nose, which flattened it on his face, and brought the back of his head into violent contact with the door.

      “Well done!” shouted the men; “bravo, Baptiste! Regardez le nez, mes enfants!”

      “Hold!” cried Mactavish, vaulting the counter, and intercepting Hugh as he rushed upon his antagonist; “no fighting here, you blackguards! If you want to do that, go outside the fort;” and Peter, opening the door, thrust the Orkneyman out.

      In the meantime, Baptiste gathered up his goods and left the store, in company with several of his friends, vowing that he would wreak his vengeance on the “gros chien” before the sun should set.

      He had not long to wait, however, for just outside the gate he found Hugh, still smarting under the pain and indignity of the blow, and ready to pounce upon him like a cat on a mouse.

      Baptiste instantly threw down his bundle, and prepared for battle by discarding his coat.

      Every nation has its own peculiar method of fighting, and its own ideas of what is honourable and dishonourable in combat. The English, as every one knows, have particularly stringent rules regarding the part of the body which may or may not be hit with propriety, and count it foul disgrace to strike a man when he is down; although, by some strange perversity of reasoning, they deem it right and fair to fall upon him while in this helpless condition, and burst him if possible. The Scotchman has less of the science, and we are half inclined to believe that he would go the length of kicking a fallen opponent; but on this point we are not quite positive. In regard to the style adopted by the half-breeds, however, we have no doubt. They fight any way and every way, without reference to rules at all; and really, although we may bring ourselves into contempt by admitting the fact, we think they are quite right. No doubt the best course of action is not to fight; but if a man does find it necessary to do so, surely the wisest plan is to get it over at once (as the dentist suggested to his timorous patient), and to do it in the most effectual manner.

      Be this as it may, Baptiste flew at Hugh, and alighted upon him, not head first, or fist first, or feet first, or anything first, but altogether in a heap, as it were; fist, feet, knees, nails, and teeth all taking effect at one and the same time, with a force so irresistible that the next moment they both rolled in the dust together.

      For a minute or so they struggled and kicked like a couple of serpents, and then, bounding to their feet again, they began to perform a war-dance round each other, revolving their fists at the same time in, we presume, the most approved fashion. Owing to his bulk and natural laziness, which rendered jumping about like a jack-in-the-box impossible, Hugh Mathison preferred to stand on the defensive; while his lighter opponent, giving way to the natural bent of his mercurial temperament and corporeal predilections, comported himself in a manner that cannot be likened to anything mortal or immortal, human or inhuman, unless it be to an insane cat, whose veins ran wild-fire instead of blood. Or perhaps we might liken him to that ingenious piece of fire-work called a zigzag cracker, which explodes with unexpected and repeated suddenness, changing its position in a most perplexing manner at every crack. Baptiste, after the first onset danced backwards with surprising lightness, glaring at his adversary the while, and rapidly revolving his fists as before mentioned; then a terrific yell was heard; his head, arms, and legs became a sort of whirling conglomerate; the spot on which he danced was suddenly vacant, and at the same moment Mathison received a bite, a scratch, a dab on the nose, and a kick on the stomach all at once. Feeling that it was impossible to plant a well-directed blow on such an assailant, he waited for the next onslaught; and the moment he saw the explosive object flying through the air towards him, he met it with a crack of his heavy fist, which, happening to take effect in the middle of the chest, drove it backwards with about as much velocity as it had approached, and poor Baptiste measured his length on the ground.

      “Oh pauvre chien!” СКАЧАТЬ