The man pointed significantly to a gun which leant against a neighbouring tree. His meaning could not be misunderstood.
That night, Dan and La Certe were fastened to a tree by cords which allowed of their moving about freely within a small space, but their arms were not unbound. Here they were allowed to make themselves as comfortable as possible in the circumstances. Their bed, being mossy, was well enough, but the distracted state of their minds—especially Dan’s—may be imagined.
“La Certe,” said Dan, when the camp-fire had burned low, and the stars were shining on them through the leaves, and all was still, save an occasional snore from the Nor’-westers.
La Certe groaned in reply.
Poor Dan was not in a mood to comfort him or anybody else at that moment, and did not follow up his remark.
“La Certe,” he said again, after a quarter of an hour.
“Well?”
“Do you remember John Bourke?”
“Yes, yes. I remember him, but I care not for him. My own sorrows are too great.”
“Do you recollect,” continued Dan, regardless of this despairing remark, “that a good while ago the Nor’-westers took him prisoner, when he was wounded after a skirmish with them, and carried him to Canada—treating him with great barbarity on the way. There he was put in jail, but, as nothing could be proved against him, he was liberated, and then tried to return to his family in Red River, but the Nor’-westers caught him again, imprisoned him, sent him a second time to Canada, and had him tried at the Court of the King’s Bench, although his only crime was that of resisting the North-West Company. He was acquitted, and, after terrible sufferings from which he never quite recovered and a three years’ absence, he rejoined his family in Red River.”