“Oh! I understand; it was that scoundrel Petawanaquat,” said Sam Ravenshaw, with a laugh; “he’s Little Wolf by name, and a big thief by practice, no doubt. You needn’t fear him, however, he’s not so dangerous as he looks, and I gave him a rebuff just now that will make him shy of Willow Creek.—Ha, Tony, you rascal! Come here, sir.”
Tony came at once, with such a gleeful visage that his father’s intended chastisement for the recent practical joke ended in a parental caress.
Bitterly did Ian Macdonald repent of his agreeing to join the shooting party that day. Owing to some defect in his vision or nervous system, he was a remarkably bad shot, though in everything else he was an expert and stalwart backwoodsman, as well as a good scholar. But when his friend Victor invited him he could not refuse, because it offered him an opportunity of spending some time in the society of Elsie Ravenshaw, and that to him was heaven upon earth! Little of her society, however, did the unfortunate teacher enjoy that day, for handsome Louis Lambert engrossed not only Elsie, but the mother and father as well. He had beaten all his competitors at the target, but, to do him justice, did not boast of that; neither did he make any reference to the fact that Ian had twice missed the target, though he did not spare the bad shooting of some of the other youths; this, no doubt, because he and Ian had been fast friends for many years. Jealousy—at least on the part of Ian—now seemed about to interfere with the old friendship. Moreover, Lambert had brought to Mrs Ravenshaw a gift of a collar made of the claws of a grizzly bear, shot by himself in the Rocky Mountains. Elsie admired the collar with genuine interest, and said she would give anything to possess one like it. Cora, with the coquettishness of sixteen, said, with a laugh and a blush, that she would not accept such a ridiculous thing if it were offered to her. Ian Macdonald groaned in spirit, for, with his incapacity to shoot, he knew that Elsie’s wish could never be gratified by him.
Seeing that Lambert was bent on keeping Elsie as much as possible to himself, Ian devoted himself to Cora, but Cora was cross. Feeling it up-hill work, he soon rose to say good-bye, and left Willow Creek before the others.
“Don’t look so crestfallen, man,” said old Mr Ravenshaw heartily, as he shook hands; “it’s nobler work to teach the young idea how to shoot than to be able to hit a bull’s-eye.”
“True, but he who cannot hit a bull’s-eye,” returned Ian, with a smile, “can scarcely be expected to touch a maiden’s—I mean a grizzly’s heart.”
A shout of laughter from Lambert greeted him as he left the house. His way home lay over the frozen bed of the river. Victor accompanied him part of the way.
“That was a strange slip for an unromantic fellow like you to make about a maiden’s heart, Ian,” said Victor, looking up at the rugged countenance of his friend.
“‘Unromantic,’ eh? Well, I suppose I am.”
“Of course you are,” said Victor, with the overweening assurance of youth. “Come, let’s sit down here for a few minutes and discuss the point.”