“Well, Reuben,” said Loo, keeping her eyes prudently fixed on the ground lest they should betray her.
The conversation stopped short at this interesting point, and was not resumed. Indeed, it was effectually checked by the sudden appearance of The MacFearsome.
“What, have ye not managed it yet, Reuben?” said the Highlander, as his daughter tripped quickly away.
“Not yet,” said the hunter despondingly.
“Man, you’re not worth a gunflint,” returned MacFearsome, with a twinkling glance from under his bushy grey eyebrows; “if ye had not saved Loo’s life twice, and mine three times, I’d scorn to let you wed her. But you’ll have to settle it right off, for the parson won’t stop another day. He counted on spendin’ only one day here, on his way to the conference, and he has been two days already. You know it’ll take him all his time to get to Beaver Creek by the tenth.”
“But I’ll mount him on my best buffalo-runner and guide him myself by a short cut,” said the hunter, “so that he shall still be in good time for the circumference, and—”
“The conference, Reuben; don’t misuse the English language. But it’s of no use, I tell you. He won’t stop another day, so you must have it settled right off to-day, for it shall never be said that a MacFearsome was married without the benefit of the clergy.”
“Well, I’ll do it—slick off;” said the hunter, shouldering his rifle, and striding away in the direction of a coppice into which he had observed Loo disappear, with the air of a man who meant to pursue and kill a dangerous creature.
We will not do Reuben Dale the injustice to lift the curtain at this critical point in his history. Suffice it to say that he went into that coppice pale and came out red—so red that his handsome sunburned countenance seemed on the point of catching fire. There was a pleased expression on it, however, which was eminently suggestive.
He went straight to a wigwam which stood near the fort, lifted the skin door, entered, and sat down beside the fire opposite to a hunter not unlike himself. The man was as tall and strong, though not quite so good-looking. He was at the time smoking one of those tomahawks which some Indians have made with pipe bowls in their heads, the handles serving for stems, so that, when not employed in splitting skulls, they may be used for damaging stomachs—i.e. for smoking tobacco!