“I’ll do it, Reuben.”
Jacob was a man of few words. He did it, and thus it came to pass that when grey dawn began to break over Mac’s Fort, it found the Reverend William Tucker and his guide scouring over the western plains at the rate of thirty or forty miles an hour—more or less—while Reuben Dale lay sound asleep in his blood-stained wedding dress, his strong hand clasping that of pretty little Loo, who was also sound asleep, in an easy chair by his side.
About the same time The MacFearsome flung himself down on his half-burned bed, where in dreams—to judge from his snorting, snoring, and stertorous breathing—he waged war with the whole Blackfeet race single-handed!
When the pastor bade farewell to Reuben he had done so with the sad feelings of one who expected never to see his face again, but the pastor’s judgment was at fault. Reuben Dale lived—he lived to become as strong and able a hunter of the Rocky Mountains as ever he had been; he lived to take Loo to the western settlements, and squat down beside The MacFearsome’s new farm, as a species of hunting farmer; he lived to become a respected member of the Reverend William Tucker’s church in the wilderness, where he filled two pews with little Dales, which, as an Irish comrade remarked, was a dale more than he deserved; and last, but not least, he lived to urge, argue, badger, bamboozle, worry, and haul Jacob Strang up to that “p’int” at which he had so often stuck before, but over which he finally fell, and managed to secure that “dear Liz” who was destined to become the sunshine of his after-life.
In regard to this matter, Jacob was wont to say to his friend at times, when he was particularly confidential, that “the catchin’ of Liz was the best bit of trappin’ he had done since he took to huntin’ in the Rocky Mountains, and that if it hadn’t bin for his chum Reuben Dale, he never would have bin able to come up to the p’int, much less git over it, though he had lived to the age of Methuselah and hunted for a wife all the time.”
“A good story,” said Dick Thorogood, as Fred folded up the manuscript; “but to return to matter of greater importance than this hunter’s wedding, curious though it be: what about emigrating?”
“I’ll go, for one!” exclaimed the blacksmith bringing his huge fist down with a heavy thud on the table.
“John, John, it’s not the anvil you’ve got before you,” said old Moll.
“No, nor yet is my fist the fore-hammer,” rejoined the smith, with sparkling eyes. “Nevertheless, I repeat that I’ll go—always supposing that you and Molly have no objections.”
It was one of the dearest wishes of the old woman’s heart to be near her crippled and favourite son, but she would not commit herself at once.