aim. Just then little Tony rushed from
the house and leaped into his father's arms, where he received an
unusually warm embrace, for the trader wanted some sort of relief for
his feelings. The Indian's finger was pressing the trigger at the
moment. Death was very near Samuel Ravenshaw just then, but the finger
relaxed and the gun was lowered. A more terrible form of revenge had
flashed into the mind of the savage. Gliding quietly from his position,
he entered the willows and disappeared.

Meanwhile Angus Macdonald returned in no very amiable mood to his own
house. It was a small house; had been built by its owner, and was, like
most of the other houses of the colony at that time, a good solid log
structure--a sort of Noah's ark on a small scale. It stood on a flat
piece of mother earth, without any special foundation except a massive
oblong wooden frame to which all the superstructure was attached. You
might, if strong enough, have grasped it by the ridge-pole and carried
it bodily away without tearing up any foundation or deranging the
fabric. It was kept in order and managed by an elderly sister of Angus,
named Martha, for Angus was a widower. His only son Ian dwelt in the
school-house, a mile farther up the river.

Martha's strong point was fowls. We are too ignorant of that subject to
go into particulars. We can only say that she was an adept at fowls.
Martha's chickens were always tender and fat, and their eggs were the
largest and freshest in Red River. We introduce these fowls solely
because one of them acted a very important part on a very critical
occasion. As well might the geese who saved Rome be omitted from
history as Martha Macdonald's Cochin-China hen which--well, we won't say
what just yet. That hen was frightfully plain. Why Cochin-China hens
should have such long legs and wear feather trousers are questions which
naturalists must settle among themselves. Being a humorous man, Angus
had named her Beauty. She was a very cross hen, and her feather
unmentionables fitted badly. Moreover, she was utterly useless, and
never laid an egg, which was fortunate, for if she had laid one it would
have been an egregious monstrosity. She was obviously tough. If they
had slain her for the table they would have had to cut her up with a
hand-saw, or grind her into meal to fit her for use. Besides all this,
Beauty was a widow. When her husband died--probably of disgust--she
took to crowing on her