The Red Mans Revenge

The Red Man's Revenge, by R.M.
Ballantyne

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Title: The Red Man's Revenge A Tale of The Red River Flood
Author: R.M. Ballantyne
Release Date: June 6, 2007 [EBook #21697]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ASCII
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MAN'S REVENGE ***

Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England

The Red Man's Revenge
by R.M. Ballantyne.
CHAPTER ONE.

A TALE OF THE RED RIVER FLOOD.
OPENS THE BALL.
If ever there was a man who possessed a gem in the form of a daughter
of nineteen, that man was Samuel Ravenshaw; and if ever there was a
girl who owned a bluff, jovial, fiery, hot-tempered, irascible old father,
that girl was Elsie Ravenshaw.
Although a gem, Elsie was exceedingly imperfect. Had she been the
reverse she would not have been worth writing about.
Old Ravenshaw, as his familiars styled him, was a settler, if we may
use such a term in reference to one who was, perhaps, among the most
unsettled of men. He had settled with his family on the banks of the
Red River. The colony on that river is now one of the frontier towns of
Canada. At the time we write of, it was a mere oasis in the desert, not
even an offshoot of civilisation, for it owed its existence chiefly to the
fact that retiring servants of the Hudson's Bay Fur Company
congregated there to spend the evening of life, far beyond the Canadian
boundary, in the heart of that great wilderness where they had spent
their working days, and on the borders of that grand prairie where the
red man and the buffalo roamed at will, and the conventionalities of
civilised life troubled them not.
To this haven of rest Samuel Ravenshaw had retired, after spending an
active life in the service of the fur-traders, somewhat stiffened in the
joints by age and a rough career, and a good deal soured in disposition
because of promotion having, as he thought, been too long deferred.
Besides Elsie, old Ravenshaw possessed some other gems of inferior
lustre. His wife Maggie, a stout, well-favoured lady, with an
insufficient intellect and unbounded good humour, was of considerable
intrinsic value, but highly unpolished. His second daughter, Cora, was a
thin slip of sixteen years, like her mother in some respects--pretty,
attractive, and disposed to take life easily. His eldest son, Victor, a
well-grown lad of fourteen, was a rough diamond, if a diamond at all,
with a soul centred on sport. His second son, Anthony, between five

and six, was large and robust, like his father. Not having been polished
at that time, it is hard to say what sort of gem Tony was. When engaged
in mischief--his besetting foible--his eyes shone like carbuncles with
unholy light. He was the plague of the family. Of course, therefore, he
was the beloved of his parents.
Such were the chief inmates of Willow Creek, as old Ravenshaw styled
his house and property.
It was midwinter. The owner of Willow Creek stood at his parlour
window, smoking and gazing. There was not much to look at, for snow
had overwhelmed and buried the landscape, fringed every twig of the
willows, and obliterated the frozen river.
Elsie was seated by the stove, embroidering a pair of moccasins.
"Victor is bringing down some of the lads to shoot to-day, father," she
said, casting a furtive glance at her sire.
"Humph! that boy does nothing but shoot," growled the old man, who
was a giant in body if not in spirit. "Who all is he bringing?"
"There's John Flett, and David Mowat, and Sam Hayes, and Herr
Winklemann, and Ian Macdonald, and Louis Lambert--all the best
shots, I suppose," said Elsie, bending over her work.
"The best shots!" cried Mr Ravenshaw, turning from the window with a
sarcastic laugh. "Louis Lambert, indeed, and Winklemann are crack
shots, and John Flett is not bad, but the others are poor hands. Mowat
can only shoot straight with a crooked gun, and as for that half-cracked
schoolmaster, Jan Macdonald, he would miss a barn door at fifty paces
unless he were to shut his eyes and fire at random, in which case he'd
have some chance--"
"Here they is; the shooters is comin'. Hooray!" shouted Master Anthony
Ravenshaw, as he burst into the room with a scalping-knife in one hand
and a wooden gun in the other. "An' I's goin' to shoot too, daddy!"

"So you