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The Wild Man of the West: A Tale of the Rocky Mountains

by R. M. Ballantyne · English · Gutenberg #24617 · 541,751 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Wild Man of the West: A Tale of the Rocky Mountains

Author: R. M. Ballantyne

Illustrator: Archibald Webb


        
Release date: February 15, 2008 [eBook #24617]

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/24617

Credits: Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WILD MAN OF THE WEST: A TALE OF THE ROCKY MOUNTAINS ***




Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England




The Wild Man of the West, by R.M. Ballantyne.

________________________________________________________________________

The action of this book takes place entirely in the foothills of the
Rocky Mountains in North America.  We can certainly appreciate the
hardness of the life of the hunters in those days, which were during the
early part of the nineteenth century.  The action is very well narrated,
and is very exciting and interesting.  All sorts of things are suddenly
pulled together in the very last few pages, and it would be quite hard
for the reader to guess what was going to happen, before the last two
chapters.

________________________________________________________________________

THE WILD MAN OF THE WEST, BY R.M. BALLANTYNE.



CHAPTER ONE.

IN WHICH THE READER IS INTRODUCED TO A MAD HERO, A RECKLESS LOVER, AND A
RUNAWAY HUSBAND--BACKWOODS JUVENILE TRAINING DESCRIBED--THE PRINCIPLES
OF FIGHTING FULLY DISCUSSED, AND SOME VALUABLE HINTS THROWN OUT.

March Marston was mad!  The exact state of madness to which March had
attained at the age when we take up his personal history--namely,
sixteen--is uncertain, for the people of the backwoods settlement in
which he dwelt differed in their opinions on that point.

The clergyman, who was a Wesleyan, said he was as wild as a young
buffalo bull; but the manner in which he said so led his hearers to
conclude that he did not think such a state of ungovernable madness to
be a hopeless condition, by any means.  The doctor said he was as mad as
a hatter; but this was an indefinite remark, worthy of a doctor who had
never obtained a diploma, and required explanation, inasmuch as it was
impossible to know _how_ mad he considered a hatter to be.  Some of the
trappers who came to the settlement for powder and lead, said he was as
mad as a grisly bear with a whooping-cough--a remark which, if true,
might tend to throw light on the diseases to which the grisly bear is
liable, but which failed to indicate to any one, except perhaps
trappers, the extent of young Marston's madness.  The carpenter and the
blacksmith of the place--who were fast friends and had a pitched battle
only once a month, or twice at most--agreed in saying that he was as mad
as a wild-cat.  In short, every one asserted stoutly that the boy was
mad, with the exception of the women of the settlement, who thought him
a fine, bold, handsome fellow; and his own mother, who thought him a
paragon of perfection, and who held the opinion (privately) that, in the
wide range of the habitable globe there was not another like him--and
she was not far wrong!

Now, the whole and sole reason why March Marston was thus deemed a
madman, was that he displayed an insane tendency, at all times and in
all manners, to break his own neck, or to make away with himself in some
similarly violent and uncomfortable manner.

There was not a fence in the whole countryside that March had not bolted
over at full gallop, or ridden crash through if he could not go over it.
There was not a tree within a circuit of four miles from the top of
which he had not fallen.  There was not a pond or pool in the
neighbourhood into which he had not soused at some period of his stormy
juvenile career, and there was not a big boy whom he had not fought and
thrashed--or been thrashed by--scores of times.

But for all this March had not a single enemy.  He did his companions
many a kind turn; never an unkind one.  He fought for love, not for
hatred.  He loved a dog--if any one kicked it, he fought him.  He loved
a little boy--if any one was cruel to that little boy, he fought him.
He loved fair play--if any one was guilty of foul play, he fought him.
When he was guilty of foul play himself (as was sometimes the case, for
who is perfect?) he felt inclined to jump out of his own body and turn
about and thrash himself!  And he would have done so often, had it been
practicable.  Yes, there is no doubt whatever about it March Marston was
mad--as mad, after a fashion, as any creature, human or otherwise, you
choose to name.

Young Marston's mother was a handsome, stout, blue-eyed, flaxen-haired
woman, of a little over thirty-five summers.  She was an English
emigrant, and had, seventeen years before the time we write of settled
at Pine Point, on the banks of the Yellowstone River, along with her
brother, the blacksmith above referred to.  At that time she was the
sweetest maiden in all the village, and now she was the handsomest
matron.  Indeed, the bloom of her youth remained on her cheeks so little
impaired that she was often mistaken by strangers for March Marston's
elder sister.  The men of the place called her pretty widow Marston; but
she was not a widow--at least, they had as little ground for saying that
she was as they had for asserting that her son was mad.  Mrs Marston
was peculiarly circumstanced, but she was not a widow.

The peculiar circumstances connected with her history are soon told.
Immediately after the arrival of the blacksmith and his pretty sister at
Pine Point settlement, a tall stout young stripling--a trapper--about a
year older than herself, fell deeply in love with Mary West--that being
Mrs Marston's maiden name.  The young trapper's case was desperate.  He
sank at once so deep into the profundities of love, that no deep-sea
lead, however ingeniously contrived, could reach him.

Although just emerging from boyhood, Louis the trapper was already a
tall, strong, handsome man, and Mary felt flattered by his attentions.
But when, a month afterwards, he boldly offered her his hand and fortune
(which latter consisted of a trapper's costume and a western rifle), she
was taken aback and flatly refused him.  Louis was hare-brained and
passionate.  He told her he would give her one day and a night to think
of it.  At the end of that time he came back and was again refused, for
Mary West had no notion of being taken by storm in that fashion.  But
she trembled and grew pale on observing the storm of angry passion that
gleamed from the young trapper's eyes and caused his broad chest to
heave violently.  He did not speak.  He did not even look at Mary--had
he done so, years of sorrow and suffering might have been spared them
both.  He stood for one moment with his eyes fixed upon the ground--then
he turned, sprang through the doorway, vaulted on his horse, and went
off from her cottage door as an arrow leaps from a bow.  The fences and
ditches that lay in his way were no impediment.  His powerful steed
carried him over all and into the forest beyond, where he was quickly
lost to view.  Mary tried to resume her household occupations with a
sigh.  She did not believe he was gone.  But he was!

At first Mary was nettled; then she grew sad; as weeks passed away she
became nettled again, and at this juncture another suitor appeared in
the shape of a young immigrant farmer, whose good looks and insinuating
address soothed her irritation at the strange abrupt conduct of her
lover.  She began to think that she must have been mistaken in supposing
that she cared for the wild trapper--and, in order to prove the
correctness of her supposition, she married Obadiah Marston, the farmer.

Alas! poor Mary discovered her error too late.  Marston turned out a
profligate drunkard.  At first he did not come out in his true colours.
A son was born, and he insisted on calling him March, for no other
reason than that he was born in the month so named.  Mary was obliged to
consent, and at last came to congratulate herself that the child had
been born in March, and not in April or October, or any other month
equally unsuitable for a Christian name.  After the first year, Obadiah
Marston treated his wife badly, then brutally, and at last he received a
sound drubbing from his brother-in-law, the blacksmith, for having
beaten poor Mary with a stick.  This brought things to a climax.
Marston vowed he would forsake his wife, and never set eyes on her
again; and he kept his vow.  He embarked one day in a boat that was
going down to the Missouri with a cargo of furs, and his poor wife never
saw him again.  Thus was Mary West forsaken, first by her lover and then
by her husband.

It was long before she recovered from the blow; but time gradually
reconciled her to her lot, and she devoted herself thenceforth to the
training of her little boy.  As years rolled on, Mrs Marston recovered
her spirits and her looks; but, although many a fine young fellow sought
her heart and hand, assuring her that she was a widow--that she _must_
be a widow, that no man in his senses could remain so long away from
such a wife unless he were dead--she turned a deaf ear to them all.

March Marston's infancy was spent in yelling and kicking, with the
exception of those preternaturally calm periods when he was employed in
eating and sleeping.  As he grew older the kicking and yelling
decreased, the eating increased, and the sleeping continued pretty much
the same.  Then came a period when he began to learn his A, B, C.  Mrs
Marston had been well educated for her station in life.  She had read
much, and had brought a number of books to the backwoods settlement; so
she gave her boy a pretty good education--as education went in those
days--and certainly a much better one than was given to boys in such
out-of-the-way regions.  She taught him to read and write, and carried
him on in arithmetic as far as compound division, where she stuck,
having reached the extreme limits of her own tether.

Contemporaneously with the cessation of squalling and kicking, and the
acquirement of the A, B, C, there arose in little March's bosom
unutterable love for his mother; or, rather, the love that had always
dwelt there began to well up powerfully, and to overflow in copious
streams of obedience and considerate attention.  About the same time the
roving, reckless "madness," as it was styled, began to develop itself.
And, strange to say, Mrs Marston did not check that!  She was a
large-minded, a liberal-minded woman, that semi-widow.  She watched her
son closely, but very few of his deeds were regarded by her in the light
of faults.  Tumbling off trees was not.  Falling into ditches and horse
ponds was not.  Fighting was, to some extent; and on this point alone
did mother and son seem to entertain any difference of opinion, if we
may style that difference of opinion where the son fell into silent and
extreme perplexity after a short, and on his part humble, discussion on
the subject.

"Why, mother," said March in surprise (having attained the mature age of
eight when he said it), "if a grisly bear was to 'tack me, you'd let me
defend myself, wouldn't you?"

Mrs Marston smiled to see the rotund little object of two-feet-ten
standing before the fire with its legs apart and its arms crossed,
putting such a question, and replied--

"Certainly, my boy."

"And when Tom Blake offered to hit Susy Jefferson, wasn't I right to
fight him for that?"

"Yes, my boy, I think it right to fight in defence of the weak and
helpless."

The object of two-feet-ten began to swell and his eyes to brighten at
the unexpected success of this catechising of its mother, and went on to
say--

"Well, mother, why do you blame me for fightin', then, if it's right?"

"Because fighting is not always right, my boy.  You had a fight with
Bill Summers, hadn't you, yesterday?"

"Yes, mother."

Two-feet-ten said this in a hesitating tone, and shrank into its
ordinary proportions as it continued--

"But I didn't lick him, mother, he licked _me_.  But I'll try again,
mother--indeed I will, and I'll be sure to lick him next time."

"I don't want you to try again," rejoined Mrs Marston; "and you must
not try again without a good reason.  Why did you fight him yesterday?"

"Because he told a lie," said the object promptly, swelling out again,
and looking big under the impression that the goodness of its reason
could not be questioned.  It was, therefore, with a look of baffled
surprise that it collapsed again on being told that that was not a
sufficient reason for engaging in warfare, and that it was wrong to take
the law into its own hands, or to put in its word or its little fist,
where it had no right to interfere--and a great deal more to that
effect.

"But, March, my boy," said Mrs Marston, drawing the object towards her
and patting its round little fair head, "what makes you so fond of
fighting?"

"I ain't fond o' fighting, mother, but I can't help it."

"Can't help it!  Do you ever try?"

"I--I--no, I don't think that I do.  But I feel so funny when I see Bill
Summers cheatin' at play.  I feel all over red-hot--like--oh! you've
seen the big pot boilin' over?  Well, I just feel like that.  An' w'en
it boils over, you know, mother, it must be took off the fire, else it
kicks up _sich_ a row!  But there's nobody to take me off the fire when
I'm boilin' over, an' there's no fire to take me off--so you see I
_can't_ help it.  Can I?"

As the object concluded these precociously philosophical remarks, it
looked up in its mother's face with an earnest inquiring gaze.  The
mother looked down at it with an equally earnest look--though there was
a twinkle in each eye and a small dimple in each cheek that indicated a
struggle with gravity--and said--

"I could stop the big pot from boiling-over without taking it off the
fire."

"How?" inquired Two-feet-ten eagerly.

"By letting it boil over till it put the fire out."

The object opened its eyes very wide, and pursed its mouth very tight;
then it relaxed, grinned a little with an air of uncertainty, and was
about to laugh, but checked itself, and, with a look of perplexity,
said--

"Eh?"

"Ay, my boy," resumed the mother, "just you try the boiling-over plan
next time.  When you feel inclined to fight, and know, or _think_, that
you shouldn't, just stand quite still, and look hard at the ground--
mind, don't look at the boy you want to fight with, but at the ground--
and begin to count one, two, three, four, and so on, and I'm quite sure
that when you've counted fifty the fire will be out.  Now, will you try,
my son?"

"Mother," replied Two-feet-ten earnestly (and becoming at least two feet
eleven while he spoke), "I'll try!"

This ended the conversation at that time, and we beg leave to apologise
to our reader for having given it in such full detail, but we think it
necessary to the forming of a just appreciation of our hero and his
mother, as it shows one phase of their characters better than could have
been accomplished by a laboured description.

Before March Marston had attained to the age of sixteen he had read
aloud to his mother--not once, but several times--the "Vicar of
Wakefield", "Robinson Crusoe," the "Pilgrim's Progress," and "Tales of a
Grandfather", "Aesop's Fables," and a variety of tales and stories and
histories of lesser note--all of which he stored up in a good memory,
and gave forth in piecemeal to his unlettered companions as opportunity
offered.  Better than all this, he had many and many a time read his
Bible through, and was familiar with all its leading heroes and
histories and anecdotes.

Thus, it will be seen that March Marston was quite a learned youth for a
backwoodsman, besides being a hero and a "madman."



CHAPTER TWO.

THE GREAT PRAIRIE--A WILD CHASE--A REMARKABLE ACCIDENT AND AN
EXTRAORDINARY CHARGER, ALL OF WHICH TERMINATE IN A CRASH--BOUNCE TALKS
PHILOSOPHY AND TELLS OF TERRIBLE THINGS--OUR HERO DETERMINES TO BEARD
THE WILD MAN OF THE WEST IN HIS OWN DEN.

The rising sun lifted his head above the horizon of the great western
prairie, gilding the upper edges of those swelling undulations that bear
so strong a resemblance to solidified billows as to have acquired the
name of prairie waves.

On the sunny side of these waves the flowerets of the plains were
already basking in full enjoyment of the new day; on the summits only
the tips of their petals were turned to gold.  On the other side of
those waves, and down in the hollows, everything was clothed in deep
shadow, as if the still undissipated shades of night were lingering
there, unwilling or unable to depart from so beautiful a scene.  This
mingling of strong lights and deep shadows had the effect of rendering
more apparent the tremendous magnitude of those vast solitudes.

There were no trees within the circuit of vision, but there were a few
scattered bushes, so low and insignificant in appearance as to be quite
unobvious to the eye, except when close to the feet of the spectator.
Near to a clump of these bushes there stood two horses motionless, as if
chiselled in stone, and with their heads drooping low, as if sound
asleep.  Directly under the noses of these horses lay two men, each
wrapped in a blanket, with his head pillowed on his saddle, and his
rifle close at his side.  Both were also sound asleep.

About a mile distant from the spot on which those sleepers rested, there
grew another small bush, and under its sheltering boughs, in the
snuggest conceivable hole, nestled a grouse, or prairie hen, also sound
asleep, with its head lost in feathers, and its whole rotund aspect
conveying the idea of extreme comfort and good living.  Now, we do not
draw the reader's attention to that bird because of its rarity, but
because of the fact that it was unwittingly instrumental in influencing
the fortunes of the two sleepers above referred to.

The sun in his upward march overtopped a prairie wave, and his rays,
darting onward, struck the bosom of the prairie hen, and awoke it.
Looking up quickly with one eye, it seemed to find the glare too strong,
winked at the sun, and turned the other eye.  With this it winked also,
then got up, flapped its wings, ruffled its feathers, and, after a
pause, sprang into the air with that violent _whirr-r_ which is so
gladdening, yet so startling, to the ear of a sportsman.  It was
instantly joined by the other members of the covey to which it belonged,
and the united flock went sweeping past the sleeping hunters, causing
their horses to awake with a snort, and themselves to spring to their
feet with the alacrity of men who were accustomed to repose in the midst
of alarms, and with a grunt of surprise.

"Prairie-hens," muttered the elder of the two--a big, burly
backwoodsman--as he turned towards his companion with a quiet smile.
"It was very thoughtful on 'em to rouse us, lad, considerin' the work
that lies before us."

"I wish, with all my heart, they didn't rise quite so early," replied
the younger man, also a stout backwoodsman, who was none other than our
hero March Marston himself; "I don't approve of risin' until one wakes
in the course of nature; d'ye see, Bounce?"

"I _hear_; but we can't always git things to go 'xactly as we approves
of," replied Bounce, stooping down to arrange the embers of the previous
night's fire.

Bounce's proper name was Bob Ounce.  He styled himself, and wrote
himself (for he could write to the extent of scrawling his own name in
angularly irregular large text), "B. Ounce."  His comrades called him
"Bounce."

"You see, March," continued Bounce in a quiet way, thrusting his rugged
countenance close to the embers occasionally, and blowing up the spark
which he had kindled by means of flint, steel, and tinder--"you see,
this is a cur'ous wurld; it takes a feelosopher to onderstand it
c'rectly, and even he don't make much o't at the best.  But I've always
noticed that w'en the time for wakin' up's come, we've got to wake up
whether we like it or no; d'ye see, lad?"

"I'd see better if you didn't blow the ashes into my eyes in that way,"
answered March, laughing at the depth of his companion's philosophical
remark.  "But I say, old chap," (March had no occasion to call him "old
chap," for Bounce was barely forty), "what if we don't fall in with a
herd?"

"Then we shall have to go home without meat that's all," replied Bounce,
filling and lighting his pipe.

"But I promised my mother a buffalo-hump in less than three days, and
the first day and night are gone."

"You'd no right to promise your mother a hump," returned the
plain-spoken and matter-of-fact hunter.  "Nobody shud never go to
promise wot they can't perform.  I've lived, off an' on, nigh forty
years now, and I've obsarved them wot promises most always does least;
so if you'll take the advice of an oldish hunter, you'll give it up,
lad, at once."

"Humph!" ejaculated March, "I suppose you began your _obsarvations_
before you were a year old--eh, Bounce?"

"I began 'em afore I was a day old.  The first thing I did in this life
was to utter an 'orrible roar, and I obsarved that immediately I got a
drink; so I roared agin, an' got another.  Leastwise I've bin told that
I did, an' if it wasn't obsarvation as caused me for to roar w'en I
wanted a drink, wot wos it?"

Instead of replying, March started up, and shading his eyes with his
right hand, gazed intently towards the horizon.

"Wot now, lad?" said Bounce, rising quickly.  "Ha! buffaloes!"

In half a minute the cords by which the two horses were fastened to pegs
driven into the plain, were coiled up; in another half-minute the
saddle-girths were buckled; in half a second more the men were mounted
and tearing over the prairie like the wind.

"Ha, lad," remarked Bounce with one of his quiet smiles--for he was a
pre-eminently quiet man--"but for them there prairie-hens we'd ha' slept
this chance away."

The buffaloes, or, more correctly speaking, the bisons which young
Marston's sharp eye had discovered, were still so far-distant that they
appeared like crows or little black specks against the sky.  In order to
approach them as near as possible without attracting their attention, it
was necessary that the two horsemen should make a wide circuit, so as to
get well to leeward, lest the wind should carry the scent of them to the
herd.  Their horses, being fleet, strong, and fresh, soon carried them
to the proper direction, when they wheeled to the right, and galloped
straight down upon their quarry, without any further attempt at
concealment.  The formation of the ground favoured their approach, so
that they were within a mile of the herd before being discovered.

At first the huge, hairy creatures gazed at the hunters in stupid
surprise; then they turned and fled.  They appeared, at the outset, to
run slowly and with difficulty, and the plain seemed to thunder with
their heavy tread, for there could not have been fewer than a thousand
animals in the herd.  But as the horsemen drew near they increased their
speed and put the steeds, fleet and strong though they were, to their
mettle.

On approaching the buffaloes the horsemen separated, each fixing his
attention on a particularly fat young cow and pressing towards it.
Bounce was successful in coming up with the one he had selected, and put
a ball through its heart at the first shot.  Not so Marston.  Misfortune
awaited him.  Having come close up with the animal he meant to shoot, he
cocked his rifle and held it in readiness across the pommel of his
saddle, at the same time urging his horse nearer, in order to make a
sure shot.  When the horse had run up so close that its head was in line
with the buffalo's flank, he pointed his rifle at its shoulder.  At that
precise moment the horse, whose attention was entirely engrossed with
the buffalo, put its left forefoot into a badger's hole.  The
consequence of such an accident is, usually, a tremendous flight through
the air on the part of the rider, while his steed rolls upon the plain;
but on the present occasion a still more surprising result followed.
March Marston not only performed the aerial flight, but he alighted with
considerable violence on the back of the affrighted buffalo.  Falling on
his face in a sprawling manner, he chanced to grasp the hairy mane of
the creature with both hands, and, with a violent half-involuntary
effort, succeeded in seating himself astride its back.

The whole thing was done so instantaneously that he had scarce time to
realise what had happened to him ere he felt himself sweeping
comfortably over the prairie on this novel and hitherto unridden steed!
A spirit of wild, ungovernable glee instantly arose within him.  Seizing
the handle of the heavy hunting-whip, which still hung from his right
wrist by a leather thong, he flourished it in the air, and brought it
down on his charger's flank with a crack like a pistol-shot, causing the
animal to wriggle its tail, toss its ponderous head, and kick up its
heels, in a way that wellnigh unseated him.

The moment Bounce beheld this curious apparition, he uttered a short
laugh, or grunt, and, turning his horse abruptly, soon ranged up
alongside.

"Hallo, March!" he exclaimed, "are you mad, boy?"

"Just about it," cried Marston, giving the buffalo another cut with the
whip, as he looked round with sparkling eyes and a broad grin at the
hunter.

"Come, now, that won't do," said Bounce gravely.  "I'm 'sponsible to
your mother for you.  Git off now, or I'll poke ye over."

"Git off!" shouted the youth, "how can I?"

"Well, keep your right leg a bit to one side, an' I'll stop yer horse
for ye," said Bounce, coolly cocking his rifle.

"Hold hard, old fellow!" cried Marston, in some alarm; "you'll smash my
thigh-bone if you try.  Stay, I'll do the thing myself."

Saying this, Marston drew his long hunting-knife, and plunged it into
the buffalo's side.

"Lower down, lad--lower down.  Ye can't reach the life there."

March bent forward, and plunged his knife into the animal's side again--
up to the hilt; but it still kept on its headlong course, although the
blood flowed in streams upon the plain.  The remainder of the buffaloes
had diverged right and left, leaving this singular group alone.

"Mind your eye," said Bounce quickly, "she's a-goin' to fall."

Unfortunately Marston had not time given him to mind either his eye or
his neck.  The wounded buffalo stumbled, and fell to the ground with a
sudden and heavy plunge, sending its wild rider once again on an aerial
journey, which terminated in his coming down on the plain so violently
that he was rendered insensible.

On recovering consciousness, he found himself lying on his back, in what
seemed to be a beautiful forest, through which a stream flowed with a
gentle, silvery sound.  The bank opposite rose considerably higher than
the spot on which he lay, and he could observe, through his half-closed
eyelids, that its green slope was gemmed with beautiful flowers, and
gilded with patches of sunlight that struggled through the branches
overhead.

Young Marston's first impression was that he must be dreaming, and that
he had got into one of the fairytale regions about which he had so often
read to his mother.  A shadow seemed to pass over his eyes as he thought
this, and, looking up, he beheld the rugged face of Bounce gazing at him
with an expression of considerable interest and anxiety.

"I say, Bounce, this is jolly!"

"Is it?" replied the hunter with a "humph!"

"If ye try to lift yer head, I guess you'll change yer opinion."

Marston did try to raise his head, and did change his opinion.  His neck
felt as if it were a complication of iron hinges, which had become
exceedingly rusty, and stood much in need of oil.

"Oh dear!" groaned Marston, letting his head fall back on the saddle
from which he had raised it.

"Ah, I thought so!" remarked Bounce.

"And is that all the sympathy you have got to give me, you old savage?"
said the youth testily.

"By no means," replied the other, patting his head; "here's a drop o'
water as'll do ye good, lad, and after you've drunk it, I'll rub ye
down."

"Thank'ee for the water," said Marston with a deep sigh, as he lay back,
after drinking with difficulty; "as to the rubbin' down, I'll ask for
that when I want it.  But tell me, Bounce, what has happened to me?--oh!
I remember now--the buffalo cow and that famous gallop.  Ha! ha! ha!--
ho--o!"

Marston's laugh terminated in an abrupt groan as the rusty hinges again
clamoured for oil.

"You'll have to keep quiet, boy, for a few hours, and take a sleep if
you can.  I'll roast a bit o' meat and rub ye down with fat after you've
eat as much of it as ye can.  There's nothing like beef for a sick man's
inside, an' fat for his outside--that's the feelosophy o' the whole
matter.  You've a'most bin bu'sted wi' that there fall; but you'll be
alright to-morrow.  An' you've killed yer buffalo, lad, so yer mother
'll get the hump after all.  Only keep yer mind easy, an' I guess human
nature 'll do the rest."

Having delivered himself of these sentiments in a quietly oracular
manner, Bounce again patted March on the head, as if he had been a large
baby or a favourite dog, and, rising up, proceeded to kindle a small
fire, and to light his pipe.

Bounce smoked a tomahawk, which is a small iron hatchet used by most of
the Indians of North America as a battle-axe.  There is an iron pipe
bowl on the top of the weapon, and the handle, which is hollow, answers
the purpose of a pipe stem.

The hunter continued to smoke, and Marston continued to gaze at him till
he fell asleep.  When he awoke, Bounce was still smoking his tomahawk in
the self-same attitude.  The youth might have concluded that he had been
asleep only a few minutes and that his friend had never moved; but he
was of an observant nature, and noticed that there was a savoury,
well-cooked buffalo-steak near the fire, and that a strong odour of
marrow-bones tickled his nostrils--also, that the sun no longer rested
on the green bank opposite.  Hence, he concluded that he must have slept
a considerable time, and that the tomahawk had been filled and emptied
more than once.

"Well, lad," said Bounce, looking round, "had a comf'rable nap?"

"How did you know I was awake?" said March.  "You weren't looking at me,
and I didn't move."

"P'r'aps not, lad; but you winked."

"And, pray, how did you know that?"

"'Cause ye couldn't wink if ye wos asleep, an' I heerd ye breathe
diff'rent from afore, so I know'd ye wos awake; an' I knows that a man
always winks w'en he comes awake, d'ye see?  That's wot I calls the
feelosophy of obsarvation."

"Very good," replied Marston, "and, that bein' the case, I should like
much to try a little of the `feelosophy' of supper."

"Right, lad, here you are; there's nothin' like it," rejoined Bounce,
handing a pewter plate of juicy steak and marrow-bones to his young
companion.

Marston attained a sitting posture with much difficulty and pain; but
when he had eaten the steak and the marrow-bones he felt much better;
and when he had swallowed a cup of hot tea (for they carried a small
quantity of tea and sugar with them, by way of luxury), he felt
immensely better; and when he finally lay down for the night he felt
perfectly well--always excepting a sensation of general batteredness
about the back, and a feeling of rusty-hinges-wanting-oiliness in the
region of the neck.

"Now, Bounce," said he, as he lay down and pulled his blanket over his
shoulder, "are the horses hobbled and the rifles loaded, and my mother's
hump out o' the way of wolves?"

"All right, lad."

"Then, Bounce, you go ahead and tell me a story till I'm off asleep.
Don't stop tellin' till I'm safe off.  Pull my nose to make sure; and if
I don't say `hallo!' to that, I'm all right--in the land of Nod."

March Marston smiled as he said this, and Bounce grinned by way of
reply.

"Wot'll I tell ye about, boy?"

"I don't mind what--Indians, grislies, buffaloes, trappers--it's all one
to me; only begin quick and go ahead strong."

"Well, I ain't great at story-tellin'!  P'r'aps it would be more to the
p'int if I was to tell ye about what I heer'd tell of on my last trip to
the Mountains.  Did I ever tell ye about the feller as the trappers that
goes to the far North calls the `Wild Man o' the West'?"

"No; what was he?" said Marston, yawning and closing his eyes.

"I dun know 'xactly wot he _was_.  I'm not overly sure that I even know
wot he _is_, but I know wot the trappers says of him; an' if only the
half o't's true, he's a shiner, he is."

Having said this much, Bounce filled his tomahawk, lighted it, puffed a
large cloud from it, and looked through the smoke at his companion.

March, whose curiosity was aroused, partly by the novelty of the "Wild
Man's" title, and partly by the lugubrious solemnity of Bounce, said--

"Go on, old boy."

"Ha! it's easy to say, `go on;' but if you know'd the 'orrible things as
is said about the Wild Man o' the Mountains, p'r'aps you'd say, `Go
off.'  It 'll make yer blood froze."

"Never mind."

"An' yer hair git up on end."

"Don't care."

"An' yer two eyes start out o' yer head."

"All right."

Bounce, who was deeply superstitious, looked at his young friend with
severe gravity for at least two minutes.  Marston, who was not quite so
superstitious, looked at his comrade for exactly the same length of
time, and winked with one eye at the end of it.

"They says," resumed Bounce in a deep tone, "the Wild Man o' the West
_eats men_!"

"Don't he eat women?" inquired March sleepily.

"Yes, an' childers too.  An' wot's wuss, he eats 'em raw, an' they say
he once swallered one--a little one--alive, without chewin' or chokin'!"
("Horrible!" murmured March.) "He's a dead shot, too; he carries a
double-barrelled rifle twenty foot long that takes a small cannon-ball.
I forgot to tell ye he's a giant--some o' the trappers calls him the
`giant o' the hills,' and they say he's 'bout thirty feet high--some
says forty.  But there's no gittin' at the truth in this here wurld."

Bounce paused here, but, as his companion made no observation, he went
on in a half-soliloquising fashion, looking earnestly all the time into
the heart of the fire, as if he were addressing his remarks to a
salamander.

"Ay, he's a crack shot, as I wos sayin'.  One day he fell in with a
grisly bar, an' the brute rushed at him; so he up rifle an' puts a ball
up each nose,"--("I didn't know a grisly had two noses," murmured
March,)--"an' loaded agin', an' afore it comed up he put a ball in each
eye; then he drew his knife an' split it right down the middle from nose
to tail at one stroke, an' cut it across with another stroke; an',
puttin' one quarter on his head, he took another quarter under each arm,
an' the fourth quarter in his mouth, and so walked home to his cave in
the mountains--'bout one hundred and fifty miles off, where he roasted
an' ate the whole bar at one sittin'--bones, hair, an' all!"

This flight was too strong for March.  He burst into a fit of laughter,
which called the rusty hinges into violent action and produced a groan.
The laugh and the groan together banished drowsiness, so he turned on
his back, and said--

"Bounce, do you really believe all that?"

Thus pointedly questioned on what he felt to be a delicate point, Bounce
drew a great number of whiffs from the tomahawk ere he ventured to
reply.  At length he said--

"Well, to say truth, an' takin' a feelosophical view o' the p'int--I
_don't_.  But I b'lieve _some_ of it.  I do b'lieve there's some
'xtraord'nary critter in them there mountains--for I've lived nigh forty
years, off and on, in these parts, an' I've always obsarved that in this
wurld w'enever ye find _anythin'_ ye've always got _somethin'_.  Nobody
never got hold o' somethin' an' found afterwards that it wos nothin'.
So I b'lieve there's somethin' in this wild man--how much I dun know."

Bounce followed up this remark with a minute account of the reputed
deeds of this mysterious creature, all of which were more or less
marvellous; and at length succeeded in interesting his young companion
so deeply, as to fill him with a good deal of his own belief in at least
a wild _something_ that dwelt in the heart of the Rocky Mountains.

After a great deal of talk, and prolonged discussion, Bounce concluded
with the assertion that "he'd give his best rifle, an' that was his only
one, to see this wild man."

To which Marston replied--

"I'll tell you what it is, Bounce, I _will_ see this wild man, if it's
in the power of bones and muscles to carry me within eyeshot of him.
Now, see if I don't."

Bounce nodded his head and looked sagacious, as he said--

"D'ye know, lad, I don't mind if I go along with ye.  It's true, I'm not
tired of them parts hereabouts--and if I wos to live till I couldn't
see, I don't think as ever I'd git tired o' the spot where my father
larned me to shoot an' my mother dandled me on her knee; but I've got a
fancy to see a little more o' the wurld--'specially the far-off parts o'
the Rocky Mountains, w'ere I've never bin yit; so I do b'lieve if ye wos
to try an' persuade me very hard I'd consent to go along with ye."

"Will you, though?" cried March eagerly (again, to his cost, forgetting
the rusty hinges).

"Ay, that will I, boy," replied the hunter; "an' now I think on it,
there's four as jolly trappers in Pine Point settlement at this here
moment as ever floored a grisly or fought an Injun.  They're the real
sort of metal.  None o' yer tearin', swearin', murderin' chaps, as
thinks the more they curse the bolder they are, an' the more Injuns they
kill the cliverer they are; but steady quiet fellers, as don't speak
much, but _does_ a powerful quantity; boys that know a deer from a
Blackfoot Injun, I guess; that goes to the mountains to trap and comes
back to sell their skins, an' w'en they've sold 'em, goes right off
agin, an' niver drinks."

"I know who you mean, I think; at least I know one of them," observed
March.

"No ye don't, do ye?  Who?"

"Waller, the Yankee."

"That's one," said Bounce, nodding; "Big Waller, we calls him."

"I'm not sure that I can guess the others.  Surely Tim Slater isn't
one?"

"No!" said Bounce, with an emphasis of tone and a peculiar twist of the
point of his nose that went far to stamp the individual named with a
character the reverse of noble.  "Try agin."

"I can't guess."

"One's a French Canadian," said Bounce; "a little chap, with a red nose
an' a pair o' coal-black eyes, but as bold as a lion."

"I know him," interrupted March; "Gibault Noir--Black Gibault, as they
sometimes call him.  Am I right?"

"Right, lad; that's two.  Then there's Hawkswing, the Injun whose wife
and family were all murdered by a man of his own tribe, and who left his
people after that an' tuck to trappin' with the whites; that's three.
An' there's Redhand, the old trapper that's bin off and on between this
place and the Rocky Mountains for nigh fifty years, I believe."

"Oh, I know him well.  He must be made of iron, I think, to go through
what he does at his time of life.  I wonder what his right name is?"

"Nobody knows that, lad.  You know, as well as I do, that he wos called
Redhand by the Injuns in consekence o' the lot o' grislies he's killed
in his day; but nobody never could git at his real name.  P'r'aps it's
not worth gittin' at.  Now, them four 'll be startin' in a week or two
for the mountains, an' wot's to hinder us a-jinin' of them?"

To his own question Bounce, after a pause, replied with deliberate
emphasis, "Nothin' wotsomdiver;" and his young companion heartily echoed
the sentiment.

Exactly thirty-six hours after the satisfactory formation of the above
resolution, March Marston galloped furiously towards the door of his
mother's cottage, reined up, leaped to the ground, seized the
buffalo-hump that hung at his saddle-bow, and entered with a good deal
of that impetuosity that had gone far to procure for him the title of
madman.  Flinging the bloody mass of meat on the floor he sat down on a
chair, and said--

"There, mother!"

"Well, you _are_ a clever fellow," said Mrs Marston, drying her hands
(for she had been washing dishes), and giving her son a hearty kiss on
the forehead.

"Clever or not clever, mother, I'm off to the Rocky Mountains in two
days."

Mrs Marston was neither dismayed nor surprised.  She was used to that
sort of thing, and didn't mind it.

"What to do there, my boy?"

"To see the Wild Man o' the West."

"The what?"

"The Wild Man o' the West, mother."

It is needless to try our reader's patience with the long conversation
that followed.  March had resolved to preach a discourse with the "Wild
Man o' the West" for his text, and he preached so eloquently that his
mother (who was by no means a timid woman) at length not only agreed to
let him go, but commended him for his resolution.  The only restraint
she laid upon her son had reference to his behaviour towards the Wild
Man, if he should happen to meet with him.

"You may look at him, March (Mrs Marston spoke of him as if he were a
caged wild beast!) and you may speak to him, but you _must not_ fight
with him, except in self-defence.  If he lets _you_ alone, you must let
_him_ alone.  Promise me that, boy."

"I promise, mother."

Not long after this promise was made, a light bark canoe was launched
upon the river, and into it stepped our hero, with his friend Bounce,
and Big Waller, Black Gibault, Hawkswing, and Redhand, the trappers.  A
cheer rang from the end of the little wharf at Pine Point, as the frail
craft shot out into the stream.  The wild woods echoed back the cheer,
which mingled with the lusty answering shout of the trappers as they
waved their caps to the friends they left behind them.  Then, dipping
their paddles with strong rapid strokes, they headed the canoe towards
the Rocky Mountains, and soon disappeared up one of those numerous
tributary streams that constitute the head waters of the Missouri river.



CHAPTER THREE.

THE BEAUTIES OF THE WILDERNESS--PORTAGES--PHILOSOPHY OF SETTLING DOWN--
AN ENORMOUS FOOTPRINT--SUPPER PROCURED, AND A BEAR-HUNT IN PROSPECT.

After paddling, and hauling, and lifting, and tearing, and wading, and
toiling, and struggling, for three weeks, our hero and his friends found
themselves deep in the heart of the unknown wilderness--unknown, at
least, to the civilised world, though not altogether unknown to the
trappers and the Red Indians of the Far West.

There is something inexpressibly romantic and captivating in the idea of
traversing those wild regions of this beautiful world of ours which have
never been visited by human beings, with the exception of a few
wandering savages who dwell therein.

So thought and felt young Marston one splendid afternoon, as he toiled
up to the summit of a grassy mound with a heavy pack on his shoulders.
Throwing down the pack, he seated himself upon it, wiped his heated brow
with the sleeve of his hunting-shirt, and gazed with delight upon the
noble landscape that lay spread out before him.

"Ha! _that's_ the sort o' thing--that's it!"--he exclaimed, nodding his
head, as if the rich and picturesque arrangement of wood and water had
been got up expressly for his benefit, and he were pleased to signify
his entire approval of it.

"That's just it," he continued after a short contemplative pause, "just
what I expected to find.  Ain't I glad? eh?"

March certainly looked as if he was; but, being at that moment alone, no
one replied to his question or shared his enjoyment.  After another
pause he resumed his audible meditations.

"Now, did ever any one see sich a place as this in all the wide 'arth?
That's what I want to know.  Never!  Just look at it now.  There's miles
an' miles o' woods an' plains, an' lakes, an' rivers, wherever I choose
to look--all round me.  And there are deer, too, lots of 'em, lookin'
quite tame, and no wonder, for I suppose the fut of man never rested
here before, except, maybe, the fut of a redskin now an' again.  And
there's poplars, an' oaks, an' willows, as thick as they can grow."

March might have added that there were also elm, and sycamore, and ash,
and hickory, and walnut, and cotton-wood trees in abundance, with
numerous aspen groves, in the midst of which were lakelets margined with
reeds and harebells, and red willows, and wild roses, and chokeberries,
and prickly pears, and red and white currants.  He might, we say, have
added all this, and a great deal more, with perfect truth; but he
didn't, for his knowledge of the names of such things was limited, so he
confined himself, like a wise youth, to the enumeration of those things
that he happened to be acquainted with.

"And," continued March, starting up and addressing his remark to a
hollow in the ground a few yards off, "there's grisly bars here, too,
for there's the futmark of one, as sure as I'm a white man!"

Most people would have been inclined to differ with March in regard to
his being a white man, for he was as brown as constant exposure in hot
weather could make him; but he referred to his blood rather than to his
skin, which was that of white parents.

The footprint which he had discovered was, indeed, that of a grisly
bear, and he examined it with more than usual interest, for, although
many of those ferocious denizens of the western woods had been already
seen, and a few shot by the trappers on their voyage to this point, none
had been seen so large as the monster whose footprint now attracted
Marston's attention.  The print was eleven inches long, exclusive of the
claws, and seven inches broad.

While March was busily engaged in examining it, Black Gibault came
panting up the hill with a huge pack on his back.

"Ho!  March, me garcon, vat you be find la?" cried the Canadian,
throwing down his pack and advancing.  "A bar, Gibault; Caleb himself.
A regular big un, too.  Just look here."

"Ah! oui, vraiment; dat am be one extinishin' vopper, sure 'nuff.  Mais,
him's gone pass long ago, so you better come avay an' finish de
portage."

"Not I, lad," cried March gaily, as he flung himself upon the grassy
mound; "I'm goin' to admire this splendid country till I'm tired of it,
and leave you and the other fellows to do the work."

"Oh! ver' goot," cried Gibault, sitting down beside our hero, and
proceeding to fill his pipe, "I will 'mire de countray, too.  Ha! it be
unmarkibly beautiful--specially when beholded troo one cloud of tabacca
smoke."

"Alas!  Gibault, we'll have to move off sooner than we expected, for
there it comes."

The two friends leaped up simultaneously, and, seizing their packs,
hurried down the mound, entered the thick bushes, and vanished.

The object whose sudden appearance had occasioned this abrupt departure
would, in truth, have been somewhat singular, not to say alarming, in
aspect, to those who did not know its nature.  At a distance it looked
like one of those horrible antediluvian monsters one reads of, with a
lank body, about thirty feet long.  It was reddish-yellow in colour, and
came on at a slow, crawling pace, its back appearing occasionally above
the underwood.  Presently its outline became more defined, and it turned
out to be a canoe instead of an antediluvian monster, with Big Waller
and Bounce acting the part of legs to it.  Old Redhand the trapper and
Hawkswing the Indian walked alongside, ready to relieve their comrades
when they should grow tired--for a large canoe is a heavy load for two
men--or to assist them in unusually bad places, or to support them and
prevent accidents, should they chance to stumble.

"Have a care now, lad, at the last step," said Redhand, who walked a
little in advance.

"Yer help would be better than yer advice, old feller," replied Bounce,
as he stepped upon the ridge or mound which Marston and his companion
had just quitted.  "Lend a hand; we'll take a spell here.  I do believe
my shoulder's out o' joint.  There, gently--that's it."

"Wall, I guess this _is_ Eden," cried Big Waller, gazing around him with
unfeigned delight.  "Leastwise, if it ain't, it must be the very nixt
location to them there diggins of old Father Adam.  Ain't it
splendiferous?"

Big Waller was an out-and-out Yankee trapper.  It is a mistake to
suppose that all Yankees "guess" and "calculate," and talk through their
nose.  There are many who don't, as well as many who do; but certain it
is that Big Waller possessed all of these peculiarities in an alarming
degree.  Moreover, he was characteristically thin and tall and sallow.
Nevertheless, he was a hearty, good-natured fellow, not given to
boasting so much as most of his class, but much more given to the
performance of daring deeds.  In addition to his other qualities, the
stout Yankee had a loud, thundering, melodious voice, which he was fond
of using, and tremendous activity of body, which he was fond of
exhibiting.

He was quite a contrast, in all respects, to his Indian companion,
Hawkswing, who, although about as tall, was not nearly so massive or
powerful.  Like most North American Indians, he was grave and taciturn
in disposition; in other respects there was nothing striking about him.
He was clad, like his comrades, in a trapper's hunting-shirt and
leggings; but he scorned to use a cap of any kind, conceiving that his
thick, straight, black hair was a sufficient covering, as undoubtedly it
was.  He was as courageous as most men; a fair average shot, and, when
occasion required, as lithe and agile as a panther; but he was not a
hero--few savages are.  He possessed one good quality, however, beyond
his kinsmen--he preferred mercy to revenge, and did not gloat over the
idea of tearing the scalps off his enemies, and fringing his coat and
leggings therewith.

"'Tis a sweet spot," said Redhand to his comrades, who stood or reclined
in various attitudes around him.  "Such a place as I've often thought of
casting anchor in for life."

"An' why don't ye, then?" inquired Waller.  "If I was thinkin' o'
locating down anywhar', I guess I'd jine ye, old man.  But I'm too fond
o' rovin' for that yet.  I calc'late it'll be some years afore I come to
that pint.  Why don't ye build a log hut, and enjoy yerself?"

"'Cause I've not just come to that point either," replied the old man
with a smile.

Redhand had passed his best days many years before.  His form was spare,
and his silvery locks were thin; but his figure was still tall and
straight as a poplar, and the fire of youth still lingered in his
dark-blue eye.  The most striking and attractive point about Redhand was
the extreme kindliness that beamed in his countenance.  A long life in
the wilderness had wrinkled it; but every wrinkle tended, somehow, to
bring out the great characteristic of the man.  Even his frown had
something kindly in it.  The prevailing aspect was that of calm
serenity.  Redhand spoke little, but he was an attentive listener, and,
although he never laughed loudly, he laughed often and heartily, in his
own way, at the sallies of his younger comrades.  In youth he must have
been a strikingly handsome man.  Even in old age he was a strong one.

"I'll tell ye what's my opinion now, boys, in regard to settlin' down,"
said Bounce, who, having filled and lighted his pipe, now found himself
in a position to state his views comfortably.  "Ye see, settlin' down
may, in a gin'ral way, be said to be nonsense.  In pint o' fact, there
ain't no sich a thing as settlin' down.  When a feller sits down, why,
in a short bit, he's bound to rise up agin, and when he goes to bed, he
means for to get up next mornin'."  (Here Bounce paused, drew several
whiffs, and rammed down the tobacco in his pipe with the end of his
little finger.) "Then, when a feller locates in a place, he's sure for
to be movin' about, more or less, as long as he's got a leg to stand on.
Now, what I say is, that when a man comes to talk o' settlin' down,
he's losin' heart for a wanderin' life among all the beautiful things o'
creation; an' when a man loses heart for the beautiful things o'
creation, he'll soon settle down for good and all.  He's in a bad way,
he is, and oughtn't to encourage hisself in sich feelin's.  I b'lieve
that to be the feelosophy o' the whole affair, and I don't b'lieve that
nobody o' common edication--I don't mean school edication, but backwoods
edication--would go for to think otherwise.  Wot say you, Waller?"

"Sartinly not," replied the individual thus appealed to.

Big Waller had a deep reverence for the supposed wisdom of his friend
Bounce.  He listened to his lucubrations with earnest attention at all
times, and, when he understood them, usually assented to all his friend
said.  When Bounce became too profound for him, as was not infrequently
the case, he contented himself with nodding his head, as though to say,
"I'm with you in heart, lad, though not quite clear in my mind; but it's
all right, I'm quite sartin."

"Well, then," resumed Bounce, turning to Redhand, "what do _you_ think
o' them sentiments, old man?"

Redhand, who had been paying no attention whatever to these sentiments,
but, during the delivery of them, had been gazing wistfully out upon the
wide expanse of country before him, laid his hand on Bounce's shoulder,
and said in a low, earnest tone--

"It's a grand country!  D'ye see the little clear spot yonder, on the
river bank, with the aspen grove behind it, an' the run of prairie on
the right, an' the little lake not a gun-shot off on the left?  That's
the spot I've sometimes thought of locatin' on when my gun begins to
feel too heavy.  There'll be cities there some day.  Bricks and mortar
and stone 'll change its face--an' cornfields, an'--but not in our day,
lad, not in our day.  The redskins and the bears 'll hold it as long as
we're above ground.  Yes, I'd like to settle down there."

"Come, come, Redhand," said Bounce, "this sort o' thing 'll never do.
Why, you're as hale and hearty as the best on us.  Wot on 'arth makes
you talk of settlin' down in that there fashion?"

"Ha!" exclaimed Waller energetically, "I guess if ye goes on in that
style ye'll turn into a riglar hiplecondrik--ain't that the word,
Bounce?  I heer'd the minister say as it was the wust kind o' the blues.
What's _your_ opinion o' settlin' down, Hawkswing?"

To this question the Indian gravely replied in his own language (with
which the trappers were well acquainted), that, not having the remotest
idea of what they were talking about, he entertained no opinion in
regard to it whatever.

"Well, wotiver others may hold," remarked Bounce emphatically, "I'm
strong agin' settlin' down nowhar'."

"So am I, out an' out," said Waller.

"Dat be plain to the naked eye," observed Gibault, coming up at the
moment.  "Surement you have settle down here for ever.  Do you s'pose,
mes garcons, dat de canoe will carry _hisself_ over de portage?  Voila!
vat is dat?"

Gibault pointed to the footprint of the grisly bear, as he spoke.

"It's a bar," remarked Bounce quietly.

"Caleb," added Waller, giving the name frequently applied to the grisly
bear by western hunters.  "I calc'late it's nothin' new to see Caleb's
fut in the mud."

"Mais, it be new to see hims fut so big, you oogly Yankee," cried
Gibault, putting Waller's cap over his eyes, and running into the bush
to avoid the consequences.

At that moment a deer emerged from the bushes, about fifty yards from
the spot on which the trappers rested, and, plunging into the river,
made for the opposite bank.

"There's our supper," said Bounce, quietly lifting his rifle in a
leisurely way, and taking aim without rising from the spot on which he
sat or removing the pipe from his lips.

The sharp crack was followed by a convulsive heave on the part of the
deer, which fell over on its side and floated downstream.

Big Waller gave utterance to a roar of satisfaction, and, flinging his
pipe from him, bounded down the bank towards a point of rock, where he
knew, from the set of the current, the deer would be certain to be
stranded.  Gibault, forgetting his recent piece of impertinence, darted
towards the same place, and both men reached it at the same instant.
Big Waller immediately lifted his little friend in his huge arms, and
tossed him into the centre of a thick soft bush, out of which he
scrambled in time to see his comrade catch the deer by the horns, as it
floated past, and drag it on shore.

"Hoh!  I vill pay you off von time," cried Gibault, laughing, and
shaking his fist at Waller.  Then, seizing the last bale of goods that
had not been carried across the portage, he ran away with it nimbly up
the bank of the stream.

Big Waller placed the deer on his shoulders with some difficulty, and
followed in the same direction.

On reaching the other end of the portage, they found the canoe reloaded
and in the water, and their comrades evincing symptoms of impatience.

"Come on, lads, come on," cried March, who seemed to be the most
impatient of them all.  "We've seen Caleb!  He's up the river, on this
side.  Get in!  He's sich a banger, oh!"

Before the sentence was well finished, all the men were in their places
except Black Gibault, who remained on the bank to shove off the canoe.

"Now, lad, get in," said Redhand, whose usually quiet eye appeared to
gleam at the near prospect of a combat with the fierce and much-dreaded
monster of the Far West.

"All right, mes garcons," replied Gibault; "hand me mine gun; I vill
valk on the bank, an' see vich vay hims go--so, adieu!"

With a powerful push, he sent the light craft into the stream, and,
turning on his heel, entered the woods.

The others at once commenced paddling up the river with energetic
strokes.

"He's a wild feller that," remarked Bounce, after they had proceeded
some distance and reached a part of the stream where the current was
less powerful.  "I'd bet my rifle he's git the first shot at Caleb; I
only hope he'll not fall in with him till we git ashore, else it may go
hard with him."

"So it may," said Waller; "if it goes as hard wi' Gibault as it did wi'
my old comrade, Bob Swan, it'll be no fun, I guess."

"What happened to him?" asked March, who was ever open-eared for
stories.

"Oh, it was nothing very curious, but I guess it was `onconvanient,' as
them coons from Ireland says.  Bob Swan went--he did--away right off
alone, all by hisself, to shoot a grisly with a old musket as wasn't fit
to fire powder, not to speak o' ball.  He was sich a desprit feller, Bob
Swan was, that he cut after it without takin' time to see wot wos in the
gun.  I follered him as fast as I could, hollerin' for him to stop and
see if he wos loaded; but I calc'late he was past stoppin'.  Wall, he
comes up wi' the bar suddently, and the bar looks at him, and he looks
at it.  Then he runs up, claps the gun to his shoulder, and pulls the
trigger; but it wos a rusty old lock, an' no fire came.  There was fire
come from the bar's eyes, though, I _do_ guess!  It ran at him, an' he
ran away.  Of course Caleb soon came up, an' Bob primed as he ran an'
wheeled about, stuck the muzzle of the old musket right into Caleb's
mouth, and fired.  He swallered the whole charge, that bar did, as if it
had been a glass o' grog, and didn't he cough some?  Oh no! an' he
roared, too, jist like this--"

Big Waller, in the excitement of his narrative, was about to give a
vocal illustration, when Bounce suddenly extinguished him by clapping
his hand on his mouth.

"Hist! you wild buffalo," he said, "you'll frighten off all the bars
within ten miles of us, if you raise your horrable trumpet!"

"I do believe, I forgot," said the Yankee with a low chuckle, when his
mouth was released.

"Well, but what happened to Bob Swan?" inquired March eagerly.

"Wot happened?  I guess the bar cotched him by the leg, an' smashed it
in three places, before you could wink, but, by good luck, I come up at
that moment, an' put a ball right through Caleb's brains.  Bob got
better, but he never got the right use o' his leg after that.  An' we
found that he'd fired a charge o' small shot down that bar's throat--he
had!"

"Hallo! look! is yon Caleb?" inquired March in a hoarse whisper, as he
pointed with his paddle to a distant point up the river, where a dark
object was seen moving on the bank.

"That's him," said Bounce.  "Now then, do your best, an' we'll land on
the point just below him."

"That's sooner said than done," remarked Redhand quietly, "for there's
another portage between us and Caleb."

As the old man spoke, the canoe passed round a low point which had
hitherto shut out the view of the bed of the river from the travellers,
and the vision of a white, though not a high, waterfall burst upon their
sight, at the same moment that the gushing sound of water broke upon
their ears.  At any other time the beauty of the scene would have drawn
forth warm, though perhaps quaint and pithy, remarks of admiration.
Wood and water were seen picturesquely mingled and diversified in
endless variety.  Little islands studded the surface of the river, which
was so broad and calm at that place as to wear the appearance of a small
lake.  At the upper end of this lake it narrowed abruptly, and here
occurred the fall, which glittered in the sun's bright rays like a
cascade of molten silver.  The divers trees and shrubs, both on the
islets and on the mainland, presented in some places the rich cultivated
appearance of the plantations on a well-tended domain; but, in other
places, the fallen timber, the rank tangled vegetation, and the
beautiful wild flowers showed that man's hand had not yet destroyed the
wild beauty of the virgin wilderness.  The sky above was bright and
blue, with a few thin feathery clouds resting motionless upon its vast
concave, and the air was so still that even the tremulous aspen leaves
were but slightly agitated, while the rest of the forest's drapery hung
perfectly motionless.

Complete silence would have reigned but for the mellow sound of the
distant fall and the sweet, plaintive cries of innumerable wildfowl that
flew hither and thither, or revelled in the security of their sedgy
homes.  Flocks of wild geese passed in constant succession overhead, in
the form of acute angles, giving a few trumpet notes now and then, as if
to advertise their passage to the far north to the dwellers in the world
below.  Bustling teal rose in groups of dozens or half-dozens as the red
canoe broke upon their astonished gaze, and sent them, with whistling
wings, up or down the river.  A solitary northern diver put up his long
neck here and there to gaze for an instant inquisitively, and then sank,
as if for ever, into the calm water, to reappear long after in some
totally new and unexpected quarter.  A napping duck or two, being
wellnigh run over by the canoe, took wing with a tremendous splutter and
a perfectly idiotical compound of a quack and a roar, while numerous
flocks of plover, which had evidently meant to lie still among the
sedges and hide while the canoe passed, sprang into the air at the
unwonted hullabaloo, and made off, with diverse shriek and whistle, as
fast as their wings could carry them.  Besides these noisy denizens of
the wilderness, there were seen, in various places, cranes, and crows,
and magpies, and black terns, and turkey-buzzards, all of which were
more or less garrulous in expressing surprise at the unexpected
appearance of the trappers in their wild domain.  And, just as the canoe
drew near to the place at the foot of the fall where they meant to land
and make the portage, a little cabri, or prong-horned antelope, leaped
out of the woods, intending, doubtless, to drink, caught sight of the
intruders, gave one short glance of unutterable amazement, and then
rebounded into the bush like an electrified indiarubber ball.

"Now, then," said Bounce as he leaped ashore, and held the canoe steady
while his comrades landed, "jist be cool, an' no hurry; make the
portage, launch the canoe atop o' the fall, sot off agin, an' then--
hurrah for that there grisly bar!"



CHAPTER FOUR.

GIBAULT HAS AN ADVENTURE, AND DISCOVERS A VERY STRANGE CREATURE IN THE
WOODS--A MOST TREMENDOUS BEAR-HUNT PARTICULARLY DESCRIBED.

Meanwhile Black Gibault, having followed the course of the river for
some distance on foot, struck into the woods, sought for and found the
track of the bear, and, looking carefully to the priming of his gun, and
knocking the edge of the flint to sharpen it, pushed forward in pursuit
with the ardour of a reckless man.

Gibault Noir was a goose!  But he was an amiable goose; therefore men
forgave his follies.  Had Gibault not been a goose he never would have
set off alone in pursuit of a grisly bear when he had comrades who might
have accompanied him.  Every one knows--at least, if every one does not
know, every one who reads these pages may know henceforth--that the
grisly bear of the western prairies and Rocky Mountains is one of the
most desperate and most dreaded animals on the face of the earth; not
dreaded merely by the weak and the timorous, but dreaded also by the
bravest Indians and the boldest trappers.  Of course we do not mean to
say that by these latter the grisly bear is dreaded with anything like
cowardly terror; but it is regarded with that degree of wholesome
anxiety and extreme caution with which men usually regard an excessively
dangerous and powerful enemy.

Unlike other bears, the grisly bear scorns to fly from before the face
of man.  His ferocity, when wounded, is terrible, and his tenacity of
life is such that, however many mortal wounds one may give him, he will
retain life and strength long enough to kill his assailant before he
himself dies, unless he is shot dead at once by a ball being planted in
his heart or brain, both of which are difficult to reach.

He has a grumpy sort of magnanimity of his own, however, and will
usually let men alone if men will let him alone.  But men are not prone
to let anything alone; hence encounters are frequent; wounds, on both
sides, are numerous; and death, on one or other side, is almost certain.

Old trappers are not fond of attacking Caleb single-handed, but young
hot-blooded fellows, who have got their names to make, are less
cautious, and sometimes even court the combat, as was the case in the
present instance with reckless Gibault Noir.

For half an hour, Gibault went over the ground at a sort of half-walk,
half-trot, stopping occasionally to examine the prints of the bear more
narrowly when they passed across hard ground that did not take a good
impression.  At length he came to a deep gully or creek, where the
bushes were so dense that he could not see far through them in any
direction.  Here he halted, re-examined his priming, and, peering
cautiously through the underwood, advanced with much greater
deliberation and care than heretofore.

In descending the gully, Gibault stumbled once or twice, and made one or
two crashing bursts through bushes that would have proved quite
impervious to most men.  After much toil he reached the bottom, and,
standing there, up to the ankles in a small rivulet, gazed upward at the
bank he had now to ascend.

"Vraiment, it be uncommonly difficile," said he, addressing himself to
the task, while the perspiration began to roll down his forehead.

At last he reached the top of the bank on the other side, and, after
panting for some time, began to look for the bear's footprints; but
these could not now be found.  In his scramble through the gully he had
lost them, and the ground on the side he had just reached was so hard
and rocky that it seemed to him doubtful whether it was capable of
receiving any visible impression from a bear's paw.  It was just
possible, too, that the animal had found the descent of the gully as
difficult as he himself had; in which case it was highly probable that
it had used the course of the rivulet as a pathway.

For a moment, the little Canadian meditated a second descent into the
gully for the purpose of settling this point, but, having not yet quite
ceased to pant from his recent exertions, he thought better of it, and
determined to make a further examination of the ground where he was.
After doing so for a quarter of an hour, his exertions were rewarded by
the discovery of what appeared to be a track.  It was not very distinct,
but it was sufficiently so to induce him to follow it up with renewed
ardour.

Presently he came upon a spot where the ground was not so thickly
covered with underwood, and where, in some places, it was so soft as to
show an exact print of the foot of the animal he was following up.  Here
he received a great disappointment, and an equally great surprise--a
disappointment on finding that the track he followed was _not_ that of a
bear, and a surprise on discovering that it _was_ that of a man!

On first making this discovery, Gibault stopped short, laid his gun on
the ground, stooped down, planted a hand on each knee, opened his eyes
to their utmost, pursed his lips to the tightest, and stared at the
footprint, the very embodiment of astonishment.  After a few seconds he
gave vent to a low whistle, and said "Ho!"  Exactly ten seconds after
that, he said "Ha!" and, raising his right hand, scratched the point of
his nose, which, being too red naturally, was not improved by the
operation.

None of these acts and exclamations, either collectively or singly,
seemed to afford him any enlightenment, for he began to shake his head
slowly from side to side, as if he had come to the conclusion that the
whole affair was utterly beyond his limited comprehension; then he
started up, shouldered his gun, and followed the track of the man with
as much ardour as he had formerly pursued that of the bear.

Perseverance is almost invariably rewarded.  This would seem to be one
of those laws of nature which fail to operate only on very rare and
peculiar occasions.  Gibault had not advanced more than a hundred yards
when he came suddenly upon the man whose feet had made the tracks he had
been following.

"The Vild-Man-of-de-Vest! certainement!" muttered Black Gibault slowly,
as he gazed at the creature before him, and quietly cocked his rifle to
be ready for any emergency.

Certainly the man upon whom our trapper had stumbled thus suddenly might
have been styled the wild man of any region--west, north, east, or
south,--with perfect propriety.  On his legs were a pair of dark grey
fustian trousers, which had seen so much service that, from the knee
downwards, they were torn into shreds.  His feet were covered by a pair
of moccasins.  Instead of the usual hunting-shirt he wore one of the
yellow deerskin coats of a Blackfoot chief, which was richly embroidered
with beads and quilt work, and fringed with scalp-locks.  On his head he
wore a felt hat, with a broad rim and a tall conical crown, somewhat
resembling a Spanish sombrero, and beside him, on the bough of a tree,
hung a long blue Spanish cloak.  The countenance of this extraordinary
man was handsome and youthful, but wild and somewhat haggard, as if from
much recent suffering.  His eye was black and piercing, his nose
aquiline, and his forehead broad, but his mouth was effeminate, his chin
small and beardless, his neck long, his shoulders narrow and sloping,
and his black hair hung in long straight locks over his shoulders.  A
short sword, somewhat resembling that of the ancient Roman, lay on the
sward beside him, and near to it a huge cavalry pistol of the olden
time, with a brass barrel and a bell mouth--a species of miniature
blunderbuss.  Its fellow was stuck in his belt, beneath the chief's
coat, as could be observed from the appearance of the butt protruding
from the opening in the breast thereof.

This personage was seated on a grassy knoll so absorbed in some curious
kind of occupation that he was totally unobservant of the presence of
Gibault until he had approached to within thirty yards of him.  Although
his occupation was a mystery to the trapper, to one a little more
conversant with the usages of civilised life, the open book on the knee,
the easy flow of the pencil, and the occasional use of a piece of
indiarubber, would have been sufficient evidence that the young man was
sketching the view before him.

"Ahem!" coughed Gibault.

The stranger scattered book, pencil, and indiarubber to the winds (or to
the atmosphere, for there happened to be no wind at the time), and
started up.  In doing so, he showed that he was at least a tall, if not
a stout fellow.  Seizing a pistol with one hand and his sword with the
other, he presented both at Gibault, and yelled, rather than shouted,
"Stay! halt! stop now, my man; drop the butt of your gun, else I'll--
I'll blow out your brains."

Although somewhat startled by this unusual mode of salutation, the
trapper had sense and quickness enough to perceive that the artist was
in anything but a warlike state of mind, and that his violent
demonstration was the result of having been startled; so, pulling off
his cap with that native politeness which is one of the characteristics
of the French Canadian, he advanced, and said--

"Bon jour, monsieur.  I ver' moch sorray dat I be give you von fright.
Pardon, sair; how you do?"

"Thank you--thank you, good fellow," replied the artist, laying down his
weapons and grasping Gibault's proffered hand with a sigh of evident
relief, "I am well, excellently well.  You did, indeed, startle me by
your sudden appearance; but no harm is done, and where none was intended
no apology is necessary.  You are a Frenchman, I think?"

"Non, sair; not 'xactly.  I be French Canadian.  Mine fadder was be von
Canadian; mine moder was a Frenchvoman; I be leetle of both."

"And you have cause to be proud of your country, my man," returned the
artist, collecting his scattered drawing materials and quietly sitting
down to continue his sketch, "a splendid country and a noble people.
Sit down, my good friend, if you can spare time, while I put a few
finishing touches to this sketch."

"Mais," said Gibault, rubbing his nose in great perplexity at the
coolness of this eccentric wanderer; "mais, monsieur, I hab _not_ time;
I be follerin' de tracks of von monstracious grisly bar--"

"What! a grisly bear?" cried the artist, looking up with sudden
animation.

"Oui, monsieur.  We have see him not long 'go, an' hopes to kill him
soon."

The artist's dark eye sparkled with animation as he hastily shut up his
sketch-book and thrust it, with his drawing materials, into a small
pocket inside the breast of his coat.

"A grisly bear!" he repeated.  "Ha! lead on, good fellow, I will
follow."

Thus urged, Gibault, without further loss of time, led the way to the
banks of the river, followed closely by his new friend, who stalked
behind him with long ostrich-like strides.  The semi-theatrical air of
the artist made a deep impression on the trapper.  Had Gibault known
what a theatrical air was, he might have been immensely tickled; but,
being what he was--an unsophisticated son of the wilderness--he knew
nothing about such airs, and therefore regarded his companion in the
light of a superior order of being, or a madman; he was not quite sure
which.

In a few minutes they emerged from the bushes and came out upon the bank
of the river, which at that part was high and precipitous, with few
trees, but a considerable quantity of underwood on the slopes.

"Are you sure, friend, that a bear has been seen by you?" inquired the
artist.

"Oui; most positavly sure, sair.  Ha! an' here be him's fut encore.  I
have lose him in de vood.  Now, monsieur, have your pistol ready."

"Lead on," returned the artist.  "I have longed much for this day.  To
shoot an individual of this ferocious class has been my ambition--Ho!
friend, look here.  Yonder object seems like a canoe.  Whence comes it,
think you?  This region, I know, is not very safe.  There are Indians
who do not love the whites in--"

"No fear, monsieur," interrupted Gibault, "dat be mine comerades--Good
mans an' true every von.  Dey come to land here, I see."

A low growl in the bushes a little distance ahead of them put an abrupt
termination to the conversation.  Gibault threw forward the muzzle of
his gun, and glanced at his comrade.  The glance did not tend to comfort
him.  The artist was pale as death.  This, and an occasional twitch of
the lip, were clear and unmistakable signs to the backwoodsman that fear
had taken possession of his friend, and that he was not to be counted on
in the moment of danger.  Yet there was a stern knitting of the
eyebrows, and a firm pressure of the lips, that seemed to indicate
better qualities, and perplexed him not a little.

"P'r'aps, monsieur," suggested Gibault hesitatingly, "you had better
vait for de canoe."

"Lead on!" said the artist, cocking both pistols, and pointing with one
of them to the place whence the growl had issued.

Gibault elevated his eyebrows, shrugged his shoulders
characteristically, and, uttering the single word "bien!" walked quickly
forward.

A few steps brought him to an open space, in the midst of which the
grisly bear was discovered.  It was seated on its haunches, looking
sulkily about, as if it had a suspicion that enemies were tracking it.
Creeping with the utmost caution on his hands and knees, Gibault got to
within forty yards of the monster, whose aspect at that moment was
enough to try the courage of most men.  There was a wicked glare in his
little eye, as he swayed his huge body from side to side, that indicated
but too clearly the savage nature of his disposition.  Even Gibault felt
a little uneasy, and began to think himself a fool for having ventured
on such an expedition alone.  His state of mind was not improved by the
sound of the artist's teeth chattering in his head like castanets.

Taking a very long and deliberate aim at the bear's heart, he pulled the
trigger, but the faithless lock of his old flint-gun missed fire.
Without a sign of annoyance or agitation, the trapper recocked the gun,
again pulled the trigger, and with the same result.  Three times this
occurred, and at each click of the lock the bear cocked his ears
inquiringly.  The third time, he rose and sauntered slowly towards the
spot where the men lay concealed.

"Stay," whispered the artist, as Gibault was once more about to try his
piece, after rubbing the edge of his flint with his thumb-nail; "stay, I
will fire."

So saying, he suddenly pointed a pistol straight at the advancing
monster and fired.  A tremendous roar followed the report.  Gibault
leaped up, exclaiming angrily, "Vat foolishness! a pistol! hah! ve must
run."  He turned at once to do so.

"Stay!" cried the artist, who no longer trembled, though his countenance
was still ashy pale, "I have another pistol."

"Does you vish to _die_?" yelled the trapper, seizing his comrade by
the collar.

Whether it was the yell of the man, or the reiterated roar of the
advancing bear, or both combined, that had an effect on the artist, we
cannot tell, but certain it is that he sprang up and darted after
Gibault with astonishing rapidity.  Being long-legged and uncommonly
supple he soon passed him; but, fast though they both ran, the bear ran
faster, and, having been badly cut up about the face by the slugs with
which the pistol had been charged, his spirit was roused to the utmost
pitch of ferocity.

Now, while this was going on in the bush, the other trappers were
quietly fastening the line of their canoe to a shrub that held it
floating in a pool of still water near the shore.  No sooner did the
pistol-shot ring upon their ears than every man seized his gun, hastily
examined the priming, and scrambled up the bank, which at that spot was
very steep.

Having gained the top, they paused for an instant to gaze intently at
the bank of the river above them, in order to ascertain the exact spot
to which they ought to hurry.

"I see no smoke," said March Marston in a tone of deep anxiety.

"Gibault's gun didn't use for to bark in that sort o' voice," observed
Bounce.

"I do b'lieve that bar's got 'im," cried Big Waller, bounding forward.

He had not taken a second bound when the artist, flying at full speed
about three hundred yards up the river, burst upon the astonished vision
of the party.  His sombrero had blown off, his long hair streamed
straight behind him, so did the scalp-locks on his coat, and so did his
long cloak which was fastened to his neck by a clasp, and which, in his
present panting and rushing condition, wellnigh strangled him.

Before the wonder-stricken trappers had time to remark on this singular
apparition, or to form any opinion in regard to it, poor Gibault came
tearing round the point like a maniac, with the bear close upon his
heels.  This was enough.  The backwoodsmen no longer showed any signs of
surprise or hesitancy.  A grisly bear was a familiar object--a comrade
in imminent danger was equally so.  They sprang forward to meet the
fugitives.

By this time the cloak had so retarded and strangled the poor artist
that he had fallen a pace or two behind Gibault, and it seemed almost
certain that he would fall a victim to the furious bear before the
trappers could kill it, for they could not venture to fire at it while
the fugitives almost screened it from their view.  As they drew near to
each other the trappers almost instinctively divided into two parties.
Redhand and Hawkswing went a little to the right; Bounce, Waller, and
our hero, diverged to the left, so as to let the flying men pass between
them, and thus attack the bear on both sides at once.

Gibault attempted to cheer as he darted through the friendly line, but
he could only give forth a gasp.  At that moment an unexpected incident
contributed to the deliverance of the artist.  The bear was within a
yard of him as he came up; just then the clasp of his cloak gave way,
and the huge garment instantly enveloped the head of the bear and a
considerable portion of its body.  It tripped, rolled over, and, in
attempting to free itself, tore the cloak to shreds.

At the same instant a volley was fired by the trappers, and three balls
pierced its body.  None of them, however, seemed to have hit a mortal
part, for the infuriated animal instantly rose and glared from side to
side in disappointed malice, while the trappers who had fired were
reloading, each behind a bush, with perfect coolness, but with the
utmost celerity.

While the bear was on the ground, the fugitives had each sprung into the
bush, and found a place of concealment.  Redhand on the one side, and
Bounce on the other, had reserved their fire; the wisdom of this was now
shown.  The bear made a rush at the bushes on one side, and instantly
received a shot from the other.  It turned at once to rush on the
concealed enemy there, but, before it had made a stride in that
direction, another ball was lodged in it from the opposite side.  The
vacillations thus produced gave the other trappers time to reload, and,
before it had made up its mind which to attack, another volley was
fired, and three balls took effect, Redhand and Bounce still reserving
their fire as at the first.

The impotent fury of the creature was now awful to behold.  It was
mortally wounded; there could be no doubt as to that, for the trappers
were all pretty good shots and knew where to fire, but they had not
succeeded yet in reaching the seat of life.  One ball had broken the
bear's shoulder, and the blood flowed from its wounds, while churned
blood and foam dropped from its jaws.

Before another volley could be fired it made a furious rush at the three
men who had kept away to the left, namely, Big Waller, Bounce, and
March.  There was no help for it; not having completed their loading,
they had to drop their guns and run.  We have already said that these
three had diverged towards the river.  It now proved to be unfortunate
that they had done so, for the bank at that place jutted out into the
stream in such a way that it was impossible for them to avoid leaping
into the river.  The bank overhung the stream and was fully twenty feet
high.  Big Waller, who reached it first, hesitated to take the leap.
Bounce, who came next, rushed violently against him, and the two went
over together, fell into the water with a tremendous splash, and sank.
March come up the instant after, and sprang far out at once with a bold,
unhesitating spring.  The bear was so close upon the youth that for one
moment they were both in the air at the same time, but the former had
not gone off with a spring, he merely tumbled over, half involuntarily,
so that when they struck the water there was at least a yard between
them.  But this was not a long space.  The superior swimming powers of
the bear over the man would have diminished the distance to nothing in a
minute or so.  Even as it was, the bear was within six inches of March's
heels when Hawkswing and Redhand gained the edge of the bank.

Redhand was armed with a rifle--an old and trusty weapon that had been
the means of saving his own life and the lives of comrades in many a
doubtful encounter with beast and with man.  Kneeling down, he took a
rapid aim and fired.  The bullet sped true.  It entered the back of the
bear's head, and the lifeless carcass floated down the stream.  The
three men, instantly observing the effect of the shot, turned round,
and, swimming towards their late enemy, laid hold of him, and dragged
and pushed him with some difficulty towards the shore.

Meanwhile Black Gibault, who had issued from his hiding-place and had
witnessed Redhand's successful shot, began to caper and dance and shout
in the exuberance of his glee.  Most men are apt to suffer when they
give way to extravagant action of any kind.  Gibault forgot that he was
on the edge of an overhanging bank.  The concussion with which he came
to the ground after the performance of a peculiarly complicated
pirouette broke off the edge of the bank, and he was precipitated
headlong into the river, just a yard or so from the spot where his
comrades were engaged in landing the bear.

A loud laugh greeted his sudden and unexpected descent.  Scrambling on
shore, and laying hold of the bear's tail, he exclaimed--

"Hah! mes garcons, heave avay.  I have come down for to give you leetle
help.  Splenderous hear!  Pull avay!"

The bear was then dragged out of the water and stretched upon the green
sward, where for some time the trappers stood round it in a picturesque
group, commenting upon its size and appearance, and remarking upon the
various incidents of the chase.

As the exact dimensions of this particular bear were taken and noted
down on the spot, we will give them here for the benefit of inquiring
minds.  It weighed, as nearly as could be guessed by men who were
practised in estimating weights, 600 pounds.  On its hind legs it stood
8 feet 7 inches.  Round the chest it measured 5 feet 10 inches; round
the neck 3 feet 11 inches.  The circumference of the thickest part of
the fore leg was 2 feet, and the length of each of its claws was 4 and a
quarter inches.  It was whitey-brown in colour, and a shaggier, fiercer,
uglier monster could not well be imagined.

"But, I say," cried Bounce, looking round suddenly, "wot's come o' yon
'xtraor'nary feller as--"

Bounce paused abruptly, for at that moment his eye fell on the
"'xtraor'nary feller" in question.  He was seated quietly on a large
stone, not many yards distant, with book on knee and pencil in hand,
making a rapid sketch of the party and the surrounding scene!

"Wot is he?" inquired Bounce of Gibault in a whisper.

"I calc'late," observed Waller in a low voice, at the same time touching
his forehead and looking mysterious; "I calc'late, he's
noncombobble-fusticated."

"Perhaps," said Redhand with a quiet laugh.

"Whatever he is, it's bad manners to stand starin' at him," said
Redhand, "so you'd better go and pick up yer guns and things, while
Bounce and I skin this feller and cut off his claws."

The party separated at once, and the artist, who seemed a little
disappointed at being thus checked in his work, no sooner observed the
flaying process begin than he turned over the leaf of his book, and
began a new sketch.

Not many minutes were required for the skinning of the bear.  When it
was done, it, along with all the scattered things, was placed in the
canoe, and then Redhand, approaching the artist, touched his cap and
said--

"You have shared our hunt to-day, sir; mayhap you'll not object to share
our camp and our supper."

"Most willingly, my good friend," replied the artist, rising and holding
out his hand, which the trapper shook heartily.  "You seem to be
trappers."

"We are, sir, at your service.  It's gettin' late and we've a good bit
to go yet, before we come to the place where we mean to camp, so you'd
better come at once."

"Certainly; by all means; let us embark without delay," replied the
artist, pocketing his sketch-book.

"Pardon me, sir," said Redhand, with some hesitation, "are you alone?"

"I am," replied the other sadly; then, as if a sudden thought had struck
him--"I had two pistols and a cloak once."

"We've picked 'em up, sir.  They're in the canoe now.  At least the
pistols are, an' what's left o' the cloak."

"Ha! 'twas an old and cherished friend!  Are you ready?"

"All ready, sir."

So saying, the old man led the way to the canoe and embarked with his
strange companion.  Then, pushing out into the stream just as the shades
of night began to descend upon the wilderness, the trappers paddled
swiftly away, wondering in their hearts who and what the stranger could
be, and talking occasionally in subdued tones of the chief incidents of
the exciting combat through which they had so recently passed.



CHAPTER FIVE.

FIERY REMARKS AND COGITATIONS--ROUND THE CAMP FIRE--THE ARTIST GIVES AN
ACCOUNT OF HIMSELF--VALUE OF A SKETCH-BOOK--DISCOVERIES AND DARK
THREATS--THE BEAR'S-CLAW COLLAR.

There is no doubt whatever that a western trapper knows how to make a
fire.  That is an axiomatic certainty.  He also knows how to enjoy it.
He is thoroughly conversant with it in all its phases, and with all the
phenomena connected with it, from the bright little spark that flies
from his flint and steel, and nestles on his piece of tinder, to the
great rolling flame that leaps up among the branches of the forest
trees, roaring lustily as it goes out upon the night air, like a mighty
spirit set free from some diminutive prison house, rejoicing in being
once more permitted to reassume its original grand dimensions.

Yes, a western trapper has a grand, massive notion of a fire, and his
actions are all in keeping with that notion.  Almost everything is small
at the fountain.  A mighty river usually begins in a bubbling spring or
a tiny rivulet.  So the trapper's initial acts are delicate.  He handles
the tinder gently, and guards it from damp.  He fosters the spark, when
caught, and blows upon it softly, and wraps it up in dry grass, and
watches it intently as a mother might watch the life-spark of her
new-born babe.  But when once the flame has caught, and the bundle of
little dry twigs has been placed above it, and the pile of broken sticks
has been superadded, the trapper's character is changed.  He grasps the
ponderous hatchet, and, Homerically speaking--

  "Now toils the hero: trees on trees o'erthrown,
  Fall crackling round him, and the forests groan."

These, "lopp'd and lighten'd of their branchy load," he assaults singly.
Heaving the huge axe with lusty sweeping blows, he brings it down.
Great wedgy splinters fly and strew the plain like autumn leaves.  Then,
with massive logs, full six feet long, he feeds the hungry fire until it
leaps and roars in might, and glows full red and hot and huge enough to
roast him a bison bull for supper, an he should feel so disposed.

Descending now from the abstract to the concrete, we would remark that,
whether the reader does or does not admit the general proposition, that
western trappers are pre-eminently up to fire (not to mention smoke or
snuff), he cannot deny the fact that Big Waller, the Yankee trapper, was
peculiarly gifted in that way.  On the evening of the day on which
occurred the memorable encounter with the grisly bear, as related in the
last chapter, that stalwart individual heaved his ponderous axe and
felled the trees around him in a way that would have paled the
ineffectual fires of Ulysses himself, and would probably have induced
that hero not only to cease cutting trees, but to commence cutting his
stick thenceforth from the field of competition!  March Marston
meanwhile kindled the spark and nursed the infant flame.  The others
busied themselves in the various occupations of the camp.  Some cut down
pine-branches, and strewed them a foot deep in front of the fire, and
trod them down until a soft elastic couch was formed on which to spread
their blankets.  Others cut steaks of venison and portions of the grisly
bear, and set them up on the end of sticks before the fire to roast, and
others made fast and secured the canoe and her lading.

The artist, seating himself beside the fire, just near enough to profit
by the light, but far enough away to obtain a general view of everything
and everybody, proceeded with enthusiasm to sketch the whole affair,
collectively and in detail.  He devoted his chief attention, however, to
Big Waller.  He "caught" that gigantic Yankee in every conceivable
action and attitude.  He photographed him, we might almost say, with his
legs apart, the hatchet high above his head, and every muscle tense and
rigid, preliminary to a sweeping blow.  He "took" him with a monstrous
pile of logs on his brawny shoulder; he portrayed him resting for a
moment in the midst of his toil; he even attempted to delineate him
tumbling over one of the logs, and hurling a shoulder-load upon the
ground; but he failed utterly in the last attempt, being quite destitute
of comical perception, and he did not finally conclude until Gibault
went forward and informed him that supper was ready.  Then he shut up
his book, and, taking his place beside the trappers, began supper.

"This is comfortable--this is pleasant!" remarked the artist, as he sat
down before the warm blaze, and applied himself with infinite relish to
the venison steak placed before him by Bounce.  "You live well here, it
would seem."

This latter remark was addressed to Hawkswing, who sat close beside him;
but that imperturbable worthy shook his head gravely.

"He don't understand ye," interposed Bounce, "knows, nothin' but his own
mother tongue.  We _do_ live pretty middlin' so so hereabouts when we
ain't starvin', w'ich it isn't for me to deny is sometimes the case,
d'ye see."

Bounce stopped his own talk at this point by stuffing his mouth so full
of meat that no word, not even a word of one syllable, could have forced
itself out, had it tried ever so much.  A long silence now ensued,
during which the clack of seven pairs of active jaws was the only sound
that broke upon the ear.  It might have been observed, however, that all
eyes were fixed more or less wonderingly on the stranger.  Big Waller in
particular looked him, figuratively speaking, through and through.  He
did not remove his eyes off him for an instant, but devoured his food
with somewhat the expression of a dog that expects his bone to be
snatched from him.

"Try a duck," said March Marston to the artist, observing that he had
finished his steak.

"Thank you," answered the artist, accepting the proffered bird, which
happened to be a teal, and beginning to carve it with a pen-knife.  He
had no fork, but used the fingers of his left hand instead.

Silence again ensued.

"Try another," said March again.

The artist hesitated.

"You'd better; it's a fat un."

"N-no.  No!" said the artist, shutting up his knife with an air of
decision.  "No, thank you, I always advocate moderation, and it would
ill become me to set an example of glut--ah, of the reverse."

"Wal, stranger," said Waller, who, having finished eating, wiped his
mouth with a tuft of grass, and began to fill his pipe.  "You _do_ come
out in the way o' moderation rather powerful.  Why a teal duck an' a
ven'son steak is barely enough to stop a feller dyin' right off.  I
guess a down-east baby o' six months old 'ud swab up that an' axe for
more."

"Nevertheless it is quite enough for me," replied the artist, leaning
down on his elbow.  "I could, indeed, eat more; but I hold that man
should always rise from table capable of eating more, if required."

Here was a proposition that it had not entered into the minds of the
trappers, even in their most transcendental efforts of abstruse
meditation, to think of!  They gazed at each other in amazement.

"Wot! not eat yer fill w'en ye git the chance," exclaimed Bounce.

"No, certainly not."

"I say, stranger, when did you feed last?" inquired Big Waller.

"Why do you ask?" said the artist, looking quickly up.

"'Cause I wants to know."

The artist smiled.  "My last meal was eaten yesterday morning."

"Ha!  I was sure ob dat," cried Gibault; "your face look like as if you
be full ob starvation."

"An' _wot_ did ye eat last?" inquired Bounce, laying down his pipe and
looking at their guest with much interest not unmingled with pity.

"I breakfasted on a little bird about the size of a hen's egg.  I know
not what it is named, but it was excellently flavoured.  I relished it
much."

On hearing this, Gibault pressed his hand on his stomach, as if the mere
thought of such a delicately minute breakfast caused him pain in that
region.

"I say, stranger," broke in Waller, in a tone of voice that seemed to
imply that he was determined to be at the bottom of this mystery, and
would stand it no longer--"wot's your name?"

"Theodore Bertram," replied the artist without hesitation.

"Where do you come from?"

"From England."

"Where air you a-goin' to?"

"To the Rocky Mountains."

"Wot for to do there?"

"You are inquisitive, friend," said Bertram, smiling; "but I have no
reason for concealing my object in travelling here--it is to sketch, and
shoot, and take notes, and witness the works of the Almighty in the
wilderness.  I hold it to be an object worthy the ambition of a great
man to act the part of pioneer to the missionary and the merchant in
nature's wildest and most inaccessible regions; and although I pretend
not to greatness, I endeavour, humbly, to do what I can."

"No one can do more than that," said Redhand, regarding the young
enthusiast with interest.  "But surely you have not travelled to this
out-o'-the-way place without a guide?"

Bertram pointed to the stars.

"These are my guides," said he; "the man who can read the heavens needs
no guide."

"But that book ain't always readable," said Redhand; "when clouds are
flying what do you do then?"

"Fur-traders in the far north have taught me how to ascertain the north
by the bark on the trees; besides this I have a bosom friend who always
points the way."  So saying he pulled a small compass from an inner
pocket and held it up.

"Good," rejoined Redhand; "but a compass is not food, neither will it
kill game.  Have you nought but them pistols?"

"I have none other arms now but these, save this good sword.  They will
serve to defend me in the hour of need, I trust; though now that I have
seen the grisly bear I should doubt my chance of success were I to cope
with him alone.  I should imagine that monster to be worse even than the
Wild Man of the West himself."

"The Wild Man o' the West!" echoed March Marston eagerly; "have you seen
_him_?"

"Nay, verily; but I have heard of him," replied the artist, smiling,
"and a strangely ferocious creature he must be, if all that's said of
him be correct.  But, to say truth, I believe the stories told of him
are idle tales.  Indeed, I do not believe there is such a man at all!"

March Marston's countenance fell.  No Wild Man of the West at all!  The
bare possibility of such a crushing blow to all his romantic hopes and
dreams caused his heart to sink.  Bertram observed the change in his
countenance, and, quickly divining the cause, added, "But I am of a
sceptical turn of mind, and do not easily believe unless I see.  There
is one thing I have observed, however, which is in favour of his
existence."

"What's that?" inquired March, brightening up.  "That the nearer one
comes to his reputed dwelling-place, this wild man assumes smaller and
more natural proportions.  I first heard of him in the Red River
Prairies, where he is held to be a giant who devours men as well as
brutes.  As I came nearer to the Missouri, I found that the people there
do not believe him to be either a cannibal or a giant, but assert that
he is an enormously tall and powerful man, exceedingly fierce, and the
sworn enemy of the whole human race; a species of Cain, whose hand is
against every man, and every man's hand against him.  The last white man
I met--about two weeks ago--told me he had been with a tribe of Indians,
some of whom had seen him, and they said that he was indeed awfully
wild, but that he was not cruel--on the contrary, he had been known to
have performed one or two kind deeds to some who had fallen into his
power."

"Most extonishin'!" exclaimed Gibault, who sat open-mouthed and
open-eyed listening to this account of the Wild Man of the West.

For some time the party round the camp fire sat smoking in silence,
ruminating on what had been said.  Then Big Waller broke the silence
with one of his abrupt questions--

"But, I say, stranger, _how_ did you come here?"

Bertram looked up without speaking.  Then, settling himself comfortably
in a reclining position, with his back against a tree, he said--

"I will relieve your curiosity.  Listen: I am, as I have said, an
Englishman.  My father and mother are dead.  I have no brothers or
sisters, and but few relations.  Possessing, as I do, a small
independence, I am not obliged to work for my living.  I have therefore
come to the conclusion that it is my duty to work for my fellow-men.  Of
course, I do not mean to deny that every man who works for his living,
works also for his fellow-men.  What I mean is, that I hold myself bound
to apply myself to such works as other men have not leisure to
undertake, and the profit of which will go direct to mankind without
constituting my livelihood on its passage.  To open up the unknown
wilderness has ever been my ambition.  For that purpose I have come to
these wild regions.  My enthusiasm on quitting my native land was
unbounded.  But--"

Here Bertram paused and gazed dreamily at the glowing embers of the camp
fire with an expression that led the trappers to infer that experience
had somewhat moderated his enthusiasm.  After a few minutes he
resumed:--

"I have done wrong to make this venture alone.  On reaching Canada I
succeeded, through the kindness of the governor of the Hudson's Bay
Company, in obtaining a passage in one of the company's canoes through
that series of rivers and lakes by which the fur-traders penetrate into
the regions of the far north.  Arrived at Red River Settlement, I pushed
forward on horseback over the plains with a small party of horsemen to
the head waters of the Saskatchewan.  Here I succeeded in engaging a
party of twelve men, composed of half-breeds and Indians, and set out on
a journey of exploration over the prairies towards the Rocky Mountains.
Circumstances led me to modify my plans.  We diverged towards the south,
and finally came to within a few days' journey of the region in which we
now are.  We were suddenly surprised one night by a war-party of
Blackfoot Indians.  My men had grown careless.  They neglected to keep
strict watch, and before we were aware that danger threatened us, all
our horses were carried off.

"This was a terrible calamity.  My men declared that it was impossible
to advance without horses, and refused to accompany me any farther.  I
remonstrated in vain; then, filled with indignation at their cowardice,
I left them and pursued my journey alone.  Since then I have seen only
one man, a trapper, who was travelling south to the settlements.  He
offered to take me with him, but I declined.  I felt that no great or
good work could ever be accomplished by the man who turns back at the
first disaster; so he left me.  I have suffered somewhat.  I am,
unfortunately, a bad shot, and, although game is everywhere abundant, I
cannot kill it.  I have subsisted hitherto on small birds; but my powder
and lead are almost expended.  Had I not fallen in with you, I know not
what I should have done."

To this narrative the trappers listened with respectful attention, for,
despite the feelings of pity, almost bordering on contempt, with which
they regarded the stranger's weapons and his knowledge, or rather
ignorance, of woodcraft, they could not help reverencing the
simple-minded enthusiasm in a good cause that had conducted the artist
so deep into a savage land in which he was evidently unfitted, either by
nature or training, to travel.

"But I say, stranger," said Big Waller, "wot _do_ ye mean by openin' up
the country?  It ain't a oyster, that ye can open it up with a big knife
I guess."

"There, friend, you are wrong.  This country does, indeed, resemble an
oyster; and I hope, by the aid of the mighty levers of knowledge and
enterprise, to open it up.  I mean to take notes and sketches, and, if
spared, return to my native land, and publish the result of my
observations.  I do not, indeed, expect that the public will buy my
work; but I shall publish a large edition at my own cost, and present
copies to all the influential men in the kingdom."

The trappers opened their eyes wider than ever at this.

"What!  Make a book?" cried Redhand.

"Even so."

"Will it have pictures?" eagerly asked March, who regarded the artist
with rapidly increasing veneration.

"Ay, it will be profusely illustrated."

"Wot! pictures o' grisly bears?" inquired Bounce.

"Of course."

"An' men?" cried Big Waller.

"And men also, if I fall in with them."

"Then here's one, I guess," cried the bold Yankee, combing out his
matted locks hastily with his fingers, and sitting up in what he
conceived to be a proper position.  "Here you are, sir.  I'm your man;
fix me off slick.  Only think!  Big Waller in a book--a _raal_ book!"

He chuckled immensely at the bright prospect of immortality that had
suddenly opened up to him.

"I have drawn you already, friend," said Bertram.

"Draw'd me already?"

"Ay, there you are," he replied, handing his sketch-book to the trapper,
who gazed at his own portrait with unmitigated satisfaction.  Turning
over the leaf, he came unexpectedly on the likeness of Gibault, which,
being a truthful representation, was almost a caricature.  Big Waller
burst into an uncontrollable fit of laughter at this.  He rolled over on
his back and yelled with delight.  His yell being quite in keeping with
his body, the din was so tremendous that Bounce roared--

"Stop yer noise, ye buffalo!"

But Waller didn't hear him; so March Marston effected the desired object
by stuffing the corner of a blanket into his mouth and smothering his
face in its folds.

Bertram's sketch-book was now examined, and for nearly an hour proved a
source of the most intense interest and amusement to these
unsophisticated trappers.  In those days few, very few men of education
had succeeded in penetrating far into the western wilderness; and
although the trappers there knew what books and pictures meant, they had
seen but few of them in the course of their lives, and none of those few
had any reference to the wild country in which their lives were spent.

It may be imagined, then, with what delight and excitement they now, for
the first time, beheld scenes of their own beloved woods and prairies,
as well as their own rough forms, vividly sketched by a master-hand.
One of the most interesting points in the inspection of the sketch-book
was, that old Redhand recognised almost every one of the landscapes as
spots with which he was well acquainted; and as Bertram had sketched
most diligently as he travelled along, Redhand told him that by the aid
of that book, without compass or anything else, he could trace his route
backward, step by step, to the Saskatchewan river.  Moreover, he
described to the artist accurately many scenes which were near to those
he had sketched, and gradually fell to talking about adventures and
rencontres he had had in many of them, so that at last it became evident
there would be no proposal to go to rest that night at all unless some
wise one of the party should remind the others that another day's toil
lay before them in the course of a few hours.

At length they took up their pipes, which had been forgotten in the
excitement, and refilled them with the intention of having a last quiet
whiff before lying down.

"Ho!" exclaimed Redhand, who still continued to turn over the pages of
the book, "here's a face I know.  Where saw ye that Indian?"

"I cannot easily tell where it was we met him; but I remember well that
it was just a day's ride from the spot where our horses were stolen."

"Were there others with him?"

"No, he was alone."

"Ha! at least he said so, I fancy."

"Yes, he did; and I had no reason to doubt him."

"You're not used to the ways o' the redskin, sir," replied Redhand,
looking meditatively at the fire.  "Did he chance to mention his name?"

"Oh yes, he called himself Big Snake, at least one of my men translated
it so."

A significant smile overspread the old trapper's face as he replied--

"I thought as much.  A greater thief and villain does not disgrace the
prairies.  He's the man that took yer horses; sich a fellow as that
never goes about alone; he's always got a tail following him as black as
himself.  But I'll see if we can't pay the rascal off in his own coin."

"How so?" inquired Bertram.  "He must be far from this spot."

"Not so far as you think.  I know his haunts, and could take you to them
in a few days overland; but it'll take longer by the river, and we can't
quit our canoe just now."

"But, good friend," said Bertram quietly, "I cannot presume on your
hospitality so far as to expect you to carry me along with you for the
purpose of redressing my wrongs."

"Make your mind easy on that pint," returned Redhand; "we'll talk of it
in the mornin'."

While the old trapper and the artist were conversing, Bounce had busied
himself in stringing the claws of the grisly bear on a strip of
deerskin, for the purpose of making a collar.  A necklace of this
description is very highly prized among Indians, especially when the
claws are large.

While it was being made, Gibault sighed so deeply once or twice, that
March suggested he must be in love.

"So I is," sighed Gibault.

"That's interesting," remarked March; "who with?"

"Ay, that's it," said Bounce; "out with her name, lad.  No one ought
never to be ashamed o' bein' in love.  It's a glorious state o' mind an'
body as a feller should gratilate hisself on havin'.  Who be ye in love
wi', lad?"

"Vid dat necklace," replied Gibault, sighing again heavily.

"Oh! if that's all, ye don't need to look so blue, for it's yer own by
rights," said Bounce.  "I'm jist doin' it up for ye."

"Non; it cannot be mine," returned Gibault.

"How so?" inquired Waller, "ye 'arned it, didn't ye?  Drew first blood I
calc'late."

"Non, I not draw de fuss blood.  Mais, I vill hab chance again no doubt.
Monsieur Bertram he drew fuss blood."

"Ho, he!" cried Waller in surprise.  "You didn't tell us that before.
Come, I'm glad on't."

"What!" exclaimed Bertram, "the necklace mine? there must be some
mistake.  I certainly fired my pistol at the bear, but it seemed to have
had no effect whatever."

"Gibault," said Bounce emphatically, "did you fire _at all_?"

"Non, pour certain, cause de gun he not go off."

"Then," continued Bounce, handing the much-coveted necklace to Bertram,
"the thing b'longs to you, sir, for that bar comed up wounded, an' as he
couldn't ha' wounded hisself, _you_ must ha' done it--there."

The young man positively refused for some time to accept of the
necklace, saying, that as Gibault had tracked and discovered the bear,
it certainly belonged to him; but Gibault as positively affirmed that he
would not disgrace himself by wearing what belonged rightfully to
another man; and as the other trappers confirmed what their comrade
said, Bertram was at last fain to accept of a trophy which, to say
truth, he was in his heart most anxious to possess.

At the close of this amicable dispute, each man rolled himself in his
blanket and lay down to sleep with his feet to the fire.  Being in a
part of the country where there were very few Indians, and these few on
pretty good terms with the white trappers, no watch was set.  Bertram
lay down with his tattered cloak around him, and, taking a little book
from his pocket, read it, or appeared to read it, till he fell asleep--
on observing which, March Marston crept noiselessly to his side, and,
lying gently down beside him, covered him with a portion of his own
blanket.  Ere long the camp was buried in repose.



CHAPTER SIX.

THE DANGERS OF THE WILDERNESS--AN UNEXPECTED CATASTROPHE, WHICH
NECESSITATES A CHANGE OF PLANS--A DESCENT UPON ROBBERS PROPOSED AND
AGREED TO.

There are few passages in Holy Writ more frequently brought to
remembrance by the incidents of everyday life than this--"Ye know not
what a day or an hour may bring forth."  The uncertainty of sublunary
things is proverbial, whether in the city or in the wilderness, whether
among the luxuriously nurtured sons and daughters of civilisation, or
among the toil-worn wanderers in the midst of savage life.  To each and
all there is, or may be, sunshine to-day and cloud to-morrow; gladness
to-day sadness to-morrow.  There is no such thing as perpetual felicity
in the world of matter.  A nearer approach to it may perhaps be made in
the world of mind; but, like perpetual motion, it is not to be
absolutely attained to in this world of ours.  Those who fancy that it
is to be found in the wilderness are hereby warned, by one who has dwelt
in savage lands, that its habitation is not there.

March Marston thought it was.  On the morning after the night whose
close we have described, he awoke refreshed, invigorated, and buoyant
with a feeling of youthful strength and health.  Starting up, he met the
glorious sun face to face, as it rose above the edge of a distant blue
hill, and the meeting almost blinded him.  There was a saffron hue over
the eastern landscape that caused it to appear like the plains of
Paradise.  Lakelets in the prairies glittered in the midst of verdant
foliage; ponds in the hollows lay, as yet unillumined, like blots of
ink; streams and rivulets gleamed as they flowed round wooded knolls, or
sparkled silvery white as they leaped over rocky obstructions.  The
noble river, on the banks of which the camp had been made, flowed with a
calm sweep through the richly varied country--refreshing to look upon
and pleasant to hear, as it murmured on its way to join the "Father of
waters."  The soft roar of a far-distant cataract was heard mingling
with the cries of innumerable water fowl that had risen an hour before
to enjoy the first breathings of the young day.  To March Marston's ear
it seemed as though all Nature, animate and inanimate, were rejoicing in
the beneficence of its Creator.

The youth's reverie was suddenly broken by the approach of Theodore
Bertram.

"Good morrow, friend," said the latter, grasping March's hand and
shaking it heartily.  "You are early astir.  Oh, what a scene!  What
heavenly colours!  What a glorious expanse of beauty!"

The artist's hand moved involuntarily to the pouch in which he was won't
to carry his sketch-book, but he did not draw it forth; his soul was too
deeply absorbed in admiration to permit of his doing aught but gaze in
silence.

"This repays my toils," he resumed, soliloquising rather than speaking
to March.  "'Twere worth a journey such as I have taken, twice repeated,
to witness such a scene as this."

"Ay, ain't it grand?" said March, delighted to find such congenial
enthusiasm in the young painter.

Bertram turned his eyes on his companion, and, in doing so, observed the
wild rose at his side.

"Ah! sweet rose," he said, stooping eagerly down to smell it.

  "Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
  And waste its sweetness on the desert air."

"He was no poet who wrote that, anyhow," observed March with a look of
disdain.

"You are wrong, friend.  He was a good poet and true."

"Do you mean to tell me that the sweetness o' that rose is _wasted_
here?"

"Nay, I do not say that.  The poet did not mean to imply that its
sweetness is utterly wasted, but to assert the fact that, as far as
civilised man is concerned, it is so."

"`Civilised man,'" echoed March, turning up his nose (a difficult feat,
by the way, for his nose by nature turned down).  "An' pray what's
`civilised man' that he should think everything's wasted that don't go
in at his own eyes, or up his own nose, or down his own throat? eh?"

Bertram laughed slightly (he never laughed heartily).  "You are a severe
critic, friend."

"I don't know, and I don't care, what sort o' cricket I am; but this I
do know, that roses are as little wasted here as in your country--mayhap
not so much.  Why, I tell ye I've seen the _bars_ smell 'em."

"Indeed."

"Ay, an' eat 'em too!"

"That was not taking a poetical view of them," suggested Bertram.

"Perhaps not, but it was uncommonly practical," returned March,
laughing.

The conversation was abruptly terminated at this point by a flock of
wild ducks, which, ignorant of the presence of the two youths, swept
close past their heads with a startling _whirr_.  The artist leaped
backwards, and March, partly in the exuberant glee of his heart and
partly to relieve his own startled feelings, gave utterance to a hideous
yell.

"Hi! hallo!" roared Big Waller, starting up and replying to the yell
with compound interest.  "Wot's to do?  Bars or savages--which?  Oh!
_savages_ I see," he added, rubbing his eyes, as he observed March
laughing at him.  "Ha! lad, d'ye know there's a sort o' critter in other
diggins o' this here world as they calls a hi-eeno, or somethin' o' that
sort, as can _laugh_, it can; so you're not the only beast as can do it,
d'ye see!"

The camp was now thoroughly roused, and the trappers set about making
preparations for a start; but little was said.  It is generally the case
at early morning--at least among healthy men who have work to do before
breakfast in the wilderness--that tongues are disinclined to move.
After the first somewhat outrageous and rather unusual burst, no one
spoke again, while they carried their goods down to the water's edge,
except in a short grumpy way when an order or a remark was needful.  In
about ten minutes after the utterance of Big Waller's roar, they were in
their places in the little red canoe, paddling blithely up the river.

Bertram's place in the canoe was the centre.  He was placed there as a
passenger, but, not being by any means of a lazy disposition, he
relieved all the men by turns, and thus did a good share of the work
during the day.

Towards evening the travellers came to a cataract, which effectually
barred their further progress, and rendered a portage necessary.  Just
above the cataract there was a short stretch of comparatively smooth
water, in which, however, the current was very strong.  Immediately
above that there was a rapid of considerable length and strength, which
boiled furiously among the rocks, and seemed to be impassable to a
canoe.  After close inspection of it, however, Redhand and Bounce, who
were tacitly recognised as joint leaders of the party, agreed that the
canoe could easily enough be hauled up by means of a line.  To make a
long portage, and so avoid the whole obstruction, was desirable; but the
precipitous nature of the banks at that place rendered the carrying of
the canoe and goods a work not only of severe labour, but of
considerable danger.

The mode of proceeding having been settled, all hands went to work
without delay.  The goods were carried to the top of the fall, which was
about fifteen feet high, then the canoe was shouldered by Waller and
Bounce, and soon it floated in a calm eddy near the head of the
cataract.  Having replaced the cargo, a strong line or rope was fastened
to the bows, and Redhand and Bounce proceeded to take their places in
the canoe, in order to guide it through the rapid, while the others were
engaged in hauling on the track-line.

"Stay," cried March Marston as Bounce was stepping in, "let me go in the
canoe, Bounce.  You know well enough that I can manage it; besides,
you're a heavy buffalo, and more able to track than I."

"Nay, lad," replied Bounce, shaking his head, "you'll only run the risk
o' gettin' a wet skin--mayhap somethin' worse."

"Now, that's too bad.  D'ye think nobody can manage a canoe but
yourself?  Come, Redhand, do let me go."

"It's not safe, boy.  The rapid looks bad, and you're not much used to
the bow-paddle."

"Tut, nonsense," exclaimed March, pushing Bounce aside and stepping into
the canoe.  "Now hold on."

Before the men on the bank of the river were well aware of what the
reckless youth was about, he shoved the bow of the canoe off.  The
instant it passed the still water of the eddy and caught the powerful
stream, the light bark darted like an arrow from the bank, and Redhand
was obliged to use his paddle with the utmost dexterity, while the men
on shore had to haul on the line with all their might, to prevent it
being swept over the brink of the fall.  In a second, however, the
danger was past, and, putting their strength to the track-line, they
dragged the canoe slowly but steadily upstream, while Redhand and March
guided it past rocks and dangerous eddies.  Seeing that the youth used
his paddle dexterously, Bounce, after a little thought, resolved to let
him encounter the more dangerous rapid above.  Redhand silently came to
the same conclusion, though he felt uneasy and blamed himself for
allowing the ardour of the boy to get the better of him.

"March is a bold fellow," observed Bertram, who walked immediately
behind Bounce, hauling on the line like the rest.

"Bold he is, sir," replied Bounce; "an' if ye'd seed him, as I did not
many weeks agone, a-ridin' on the back of a buffalo bull, ye'd mayhap
say he was more nor that."

"Hah! he is mad!" cried Gibault, who, although the last in the line of
tracksmen, was sharp-eared, and overheard the conversation.

"Don't talk, Gibault," interposed Big Waller, "you need all the wind in
your little carcass, I guess, to enable ye to steam ahead."

"Oui, mon dear ami, you is right--I do ver' much require all mine
steam--mine spirits--for to push such a heavy, useless hulk as you
before me."

"Here's a steep bit, lads; mind your eye, Hawkswing," said Bounce, as
the Indian who led the party began to ascend a steep part of the bank,
where the footing was not secure, owing to the loose gravelly nature of
the soil.

As they advanced, the path along the bank became narrower, and the cliff
itself so precipitous that it seemed as if a jerk on the line would drag
the men off and send them rolling down into the flood below, in the
midst of which the canoe was buffeting its way through the hissing foam.

Bertram, who was unused to such a position of comparative danger, and
whose head was not capable of standing the sight of a precipice
descending from his very feet into a roaring stream, began to feel
giddy, and would have given the world to return; but he felt ashamed to
confess his weakness, and endeavoured, by gazing earnestly into the bank
at his side, to steady himself, hoping that the nature of the track
would improve as they advanced.  Instead of this being the case, it
became worse at every step, and the trackers were at length obliged to
proceed cautiously along a ledge of rock that barely afforded them
foothold.  Bertram now felt an almost irresistible desire to turn his
head to the left and glance at the river below; yet he knew that if he
should do so, he would become utterly unable to advance another yard.
While engaged in this struggle it suddenly occurred to him that it was
impossible now to turn, no matter how nervous he should become, as the
path was too narrow to permit one of the party to pass another!  He
became deadly pale, and his heart sank at the thought.  Little did the
hardy trappers think, as they plodded silently along, that such an
agonising conflict was going on in the breast of one of their number!  A
slight groan escaped him in spite of his utmost efforts to restrain
himself.  Bounce looked back in surprise.

"Hey! wot's to do, sir?"

"No matter; lead on--I will follow," said Bertram sternly between his
clenched teeth.

"Hallo! up there," shouted Redhand, who was at that moment, along with
March, exerting his utmost strength in order to keep the canoe off a
rock over which the water was bursting in volumes of thick foam; "haul
away! haul away! we're just about up."

The shout attracted Bertram's attention; he turned his eyes
involuntarily towards the river.  Instantly his brain swam round; he
staggered, and would have fallen over the bank, had not Big Waller, who
was close behind, observed his situation and caught him by the collar.
In doing so he was compelled to let go his hold of the line.  The
additional strain thus suddenly cast upon Gibault wrenched the line from
his grasp with a degree of violence that wellnigh hurled him into the
river.  Bounce and Hawkswing held on for one moment, but the canoe,
having been eased off a little, caught a sweep of the rapid, and went
out with a dart that the united strength of the whole party could not
have checked.  The two men had to let go to save themselves, and in a
shorter time than it takes to relate, the canoe went down the river
towards the fall, dancing like a cork on the heaving spray, while the
old man and the youth stood up in the bow and stern wielding their
paddles, now on one side, now on the other, with ceaseless rapidity in
their efforts to avoid being dashed to pieces on the rocks.

The sight of this catastrophe, superadded to his already agonised
feelings, caused the unhappy artist to swoon.  Gibault, on seeing the
line let go, turned instantly, and sprang like a deer along the track
they had been following; intending to render what assistance he could to
his comrades at the foot of the rapid.  The others could not follow,
because of Big Waller and the artist, who obstructed the path.  Seeing
this, the powerful Yankee seized Bertram round the waist, and, heaving
him on his shoulder as one would swing a child, followed in Gibault's
footsteps as fast as he could run.

The distance to the spot whence they had commenced to track the canoe
was not great, but before they reached it the frail craft had been
shattered against a rock, and was now hurrying, along with the scattered
cargo and the two men, towards the fall, to pass over which involved
certain destruction.

There is nothing more uncertain, however, than the action of the
whirling eddies of a great rapid.  True, the general flow of its body of
water is almost always the same, but its superficial billows are more
variable--now tossing a drifting log to the right, anon to the left, and
casting it ashore, or dragging it with fearful violence into the raging
current.  Although there was only the canoe's length between the old
trapper and the youth when they were left struggling in the water, they
were swept in totally different directions.  Redhand was hurled
violently into the eddy where the canoe had lain before the ascent was
commenced, and was dragged safe to land by his comrades.  March Marston,
on the other hand, was swept out near to the main current, and would, in
a few seconds more, have been carried over the fall, had he not, with
wonderful presence of mind and an almost superhuman exertion of muscle,
dashed into an eddy which was formed by a rock about fifty yards from
the top of the fall.  The rock was completely covered with the bursting
spray, so that it formed no resting-place, and it, with the partial eddy
that tailed away from it, was about twenty yards from the shore, where
the trappers stood gazing in horror at their companion as he struggled
bravely to maintain his position by swimming; but to cross those twenty
yards of gushing water, so as to afford him aid, seemed beyond the power
of man.

Men bred in the wilderness are not usually slow to act in cases of
danger where action is possible.  Each man was revolving in fervid haste
every plan that seemed likely to afford succour.  Redhand's quick eye
observed that the rocks at the edge of the fall, on the side of the
river on which they stood, projected out so far that a straight line
drawn from the eddy to the fall would pass within a yard of them, and
that, consequently, if March would push straight across the stream and
make vigorously for the bank, he might hit the point of rocks referred
to before being carried over.

"Down, some of you," he cried, "to the point, an' be ready to catch him;
I'll shout to him what to do."

Big Waller and Gibault darted away.  Poor Bertram, having recovered,
remained gazing in speechless agony at March, who, having made several
fruitless efforts to seize hold of the sunken rock, was evidently
growing weaker.  Bounce also remained to gaze, as if he had lost all his
wonted self-command.

"Ho!  March!" shouted Redhand.  "Dash into the stream--straight for me--
with all yer might; don't be afraid, lad! do it boldly!"  But March
heard not.  The rush of water about him deadened all other sounds.

In an instant Bounce started at full speed up the river, plunged into
it, and, descending with fearful rapidity, swung round into the eddy
behind the stone almost before his companions could divine what he meant
to do.

Even in that moment of terrible suspense March Marston looked with an
expression of surprise at his friend as he swam up beside him.  Bounce
did not waste time or words; he merely raised one hand for a second,
and, pointing to the bank of the river, cried, "Push for it--'tis your
only chance!"

March Marston made no reply, but at once obeyed; yet so exhausted was
he, that, in the effort, he lost strength and sank.  Bounce was prepared
for this.  He seized him by the hair and struck out with the energy of
despair.  A moment more and he was within a foot of the brink of the
fall--but, also, within a foot of the point of rock on which Big Waller
was lying at full length, part of his body overhanging the cataract, his
arms extended, and Gibault and Hawkswing holding him firmly by the legs.
Bounce caught his comrade's hand, and swung close in to the bank, while
with the other hand he continued to grasp March by the hair of the head.
The force of the current was so great, however, that not one of the
party dared move, and it seemed for a moment as if all of them would be
lost, when Bertram rushed forward, and, seizing Bounce by the arm,
dragged him still nearer the bank, and relieved the strain upon the
others.  Just then, Redhand came to the rescue, and in another moment
the two men were safe upon the land.

Poor Bertram fell upon his knees, and while he thanked God for the
deliverance of his companions, sobbed liked a little child.

For some time the trappers spoke little.  Accustomed though they were to
danger, they were solemnised by the recent narrow escape from sudden
death.  Perhaps, too, their minds were more deeply affected than usual
with a sense of their dependence upon the living God, by the example and
the heartfelt, unrestrained thanksgiving of Bertram.  But men whose
lives are spent in the midst of alarms are not long seriously affected,
even by the most solemn events.  The trappers quickly recurred to their
present circumstances, which were, in truth, of a nature calculated to
fill them with anxiety, and cause them to bend the powers of their quick
wits and iron energies to the simple consideration of how they were to
subsist and how proceed on their journey.

"First of all," said Redhand quickly, "we must try what we can recover
of our odds and ends."

"Right," cried Bounce, who was none the worse for his late gallant
exertions; "the current won't stop for no man; an' the bales ain't
likely to stem it o' their own accord till we're ready to look for 'em."

Saying this, he set off down the river at a run, followed by all the
others, including March, who, after wringing the water from his
garments, and resting a few minutes, felt as well and strong as ever.
But, alas! their losses were grievous and irreparable.  Their little
bundles of spare clothing and trinkets for trading with, or
conciliating, the Indians, were indeed saved, but their guns and all
their ammunition were gone.  All that remained to them of the latter
were the few charges of powder in the horns suspended round their necks,
and a few slugs and bullets in their pouches.  The only firearms left
were Bertram's cavalry pistols.

As for the canoe, it was smashed so thoroughly, that only a very few
shreds of bark were cast up on the shore; but entangled with these
shreds they were happy to find several of their steel traps--a most
fortunate circumstance, as it held out hopes that they might still be
enabled to prosecute to some extent the main object of their expedition.

As each man had been in the habit of carrying his axe and knife in his
belt, those indispensable implements of the backwoodsman were saved; but
the loss of guns and ammunition was a very severe misfortune, and one
which, for at least half an hour after every attempt to recover them had
failed, cast a damp over the spirits of the whole party.  But these men
had neither time nor inclination to hang down their heads and sigh.  Big
Waller, being a careless individual by nature, was the first to regain
somewhat of his wonted tone and manner.  Sitting on a grassy knoll, on
which all the party had been resting for some time after their fruitless
exertions, in moody silence, Waller looked up suddenly and said, "Who's
afraid?"

As no one happened at that moment to be exhibiting symptoms of terror,
and there was no apparent cause for fear, the question seemed
irrelevant.  We therefore conclude that the bold Yankee meant by it to
imply that _he_, at least, was not afraid of _circumstances_, no matter
how disastrous or heartrending they might be.  Having said this, he
looked at the faces of his companions one by one.  The last face he
looked at was that of Gibault Noir, and it wore such a lugubrious aspect
of hopeless melancholy that Big Waller burst into an uncontrollable fit
of laughter, and Bounce, without knowing why, joined him.

"Well, it's of no use looking blue about it," said March Marston, making
an effort to cheer up; "the question to be settled now is, What's to be
done?"

"Ay, _that_ is the question," observed Bertram gravely.

"Wall now, that _bein'_ the kee-westion," said Waller, "whose a-goin' to
answer it?  There's a chance now, lads; but don't all speak at once."

"Right; that's wot it is," observed Bounce, nodding; "that's the
feelosophy on it.  When a feller's turned upside down, wot's he a-goin'
to do nixt?  You can't put no other construction on it in this here
wurld."

Redhand, who had been ruminating abstractedly for some minutes, now
looked round on his comrades and said--

"Here's a plan for you, lads.  That outrageous villain the Big Snake
lives, for the most part, in a pretty little spot just three days' march
from this place.  He stole, as ye all know, the horses belongin' to Mr
Bertram's party.  Well, I propose that we shud go an' call on him, an'
make him stand an' re-deliver.  What say you?"

"Agreed," cried Waller, tossing his cap into the air.  "Hurrah!" shouted
March Marston.  In one way or another, each gave his consent to the plan
of making a descent upon the robbers and causing them to make
restitution.

The plans of backwoodsmen, once formed, are always quickly put in
execution.  They had no arrangements to make, no portmanteaus to pack,
no difficulties in the way to overcome.  Each man strapped a portion of
the remaining property on his broad shoulders, and, pushing into the
forest with vigorous strides, they were soon far from the spot where
their late disaster had occurred, and gradually drew near to the wild
glens and gorges of the Rocky Mountains.



CHAPTER SEVEN.

A WOLFISH WAY OF KILLING BUFFALOES DESCRIBED--BOUNCE BECOMES
METAPHYSICAL ON THE FINE ARTS--BUTCHERING ENLARGED ON--A GLORIOUS FEAST,
AND SKETCHING UNDER DIFFICULTIES.

One of the ancient poets has said that wandering through the wild woods
is a pleasant thing.  At least, if one of them has not said that, he
ought to have said it, and, certainly, many of them must have thought
it, whether they said it or not.  Undoubtedly, if future historians
record faithfully all that has been said and written from the
commencement of time to the period in which they flourish, they will
embalm the fact that at least one prose writer of the present day has
enunciated that incontrovertible proposition.

But we go a step further.  We assert positively that wandering through
the wild woods is a healthy as well as a pleasant sort of thing.  The
free air of the mountains and prairies is renovating, the perfumes of
the forests are salubrious; while the constantly recurring necessity for
leaping and scrambling is good for the muscles, and the occasional
tripping over roots, tumbling into holes, scratching one's face and
banging one's shins and toes against stumps, are good for--though
somewhat trying to--the temper.

Further still--we affirm that wandering through the wild woods is a
funny thing.  Any one who had observed our friends March Marston, and
Redhand, and Bounce, and Big Waller, and Black Gibault, the trappers,
and Bertram the artist, and Hawkswing the Indian, one beautiful
afternoon, not long after the day on which they lost their canoe, would
have admitted, without hesitation, that wandering through the wild woods
was, among other things, a funny thing.

On the beautiful afternoon referred to, the first six individuals above
named were huddled together in a promiscuous heap, behind a small bush,
in such a confused way that an ignorant spectator might have supposed
that Bounce's head belonged to Big Waller's body, and the artist's
shoulders to Redhand's head, and their respective legs and arms to no
one individually, but to all collectively, in a miscellaneous sort of
way.  The fact was that the bush behind which they were huddled was
almost too small to conceal them all, and, being a solitary bush in the
midst of a little plain of about a half a mile in extent, they had to
make the most of it and the least of themselves.  It would have been a
refreshing sight for a moralist to have witnessed this instance of man--
whose natural tendency is to try to look big--thus voluntarily
endeavouring to look as small as possible!

This bundle of humanity was staring through the bush, with, as the
saying is, all its eyes, that is, with six pairs of--or twelve
individual--eyes; and they were staring at a wolf--an enormous wolf--
that was slowly walking away from the bush behind which they were
ensconced!  It was a very singular wolf indeed--one that was well
calculated to excite surprise in the breast even of trappers.  There was
something radically wrong with that wolf, especially about the legs.
Its ears and head were all right, and it had a tail, a very good tail
for a wolf; but there was a strange unaccountable lump under its neck,
and its fore legs bent the wrong way at the knees, and it seemed to have
long feet trailing behind its hind legs, besides being otherwise
misshapen.  The mystery is explained when we state that this wolf was
none other than Hawkswing, down on his hands and knees, with a wolf-skin
over his back, and Bertram's blunderbuss-pistol in his hand.  He was
creeping cautiously towards a herd of six or seven buffaloes that
chanced to be feeding quietly there, quite unconscious of the near
proximity of so dangerous an enemy.

"I hope the old pistol won't miss fire," whispered Redhand, as he
observed that the wolf paused, evidently for the purpose of examining
the priming.

"I hope," added Bounce, "that the Injun won't miss his aim.  He be'n't
used to pistols."

"Never fear," said March with a quiet grin.  "If he aims within a yard
o' the brute he's sure to hit, for I loaded the old blunderbuss myself,
an' it's crammed nigh to the muzzle with all sorts o' things, includin'
stones."

At this Big Waller stared, and said emphatically, "It'll bust!"  Bertram
felt and looked uneasy, but Bounce shook his head.

"Them old things," said he, "never bust.  I've been forty years, off an'
on, in these parts, an' I've always obsarved that old irons o' that sort
_don't_ bust; cause why? they'd ha' busted w'en they wos new, if they'd
bin goin' to bust at all.  The fact is, they _can't_ bust.  They're too
useless even for that."

"How comes it," inquired Bertram, "that the buffaloes are not afraid of
a wolf?  I have been led to understand that wolves are the inveterate
enemies of buffaloes, and that they often attack them."

To this question March, whose head was in close proximity to that of the
artist, replied--

"Ay, the sneakin' brutes will attack a single wounded or worn-out old
buffalo, when it falls behind the herd, and when there are lots o' their
low-minded comrades along with 'em; but the buffaloes don't care a straw
for a single wolf, as ye may see now if ye pay attention to what
Hawkswing's doin'."

Bertram became silent on observing that the Indian had approached to
within about pistol range of the buffalo without attracting particular
attention, and that he was in the act of taking aim at its shoulder.
Immediately a sharp click caused the buffalo to look up, and apprised
the onlookers that the faithless weapon had missed fire; again Hawkswing
pulled the trigger and with a like result.  By this time the buffalo,
having become alarmed, started off at a run.  Once more the click was
heard; then the wolf, rising on its hind legs, coolly walked backed to
its comrades behind the bush, while the herd of buffaloes galloped
furiously away.

The Indian solemnly stalked up to Bertram and presented the pistol to
him with such an expression of grave contempt on his countenance that
March Marston burst into an irresistible fit of laughter, thereby
relieving his own feelings and giving, as it were, direction to those of
the others, most of whom were in the unpleasant condition of being
undecided whether to laugh or cry.

To miss a buffalo was not indeed a new, or, in ordinary circumstances, a
severe misfortune; but to miss one after having been three days without
food, with the exception of a little unpalatable wolf's flesh, was not
an agreeable, much less an amusing, incident.

"I'll tell ye wot it is," said Bounce, slapping his thigh violently and
emphasising his words as if to imply that nobody had ever told anybody
"wot" anything "wos" since the world began up to that time, "I'll tell
ye wot it is, I won't stand this sort o' thing no longer."

"It is most unfortunate," sighed poor Bertram, who thoroughly identified
himself with his pistol, and felt as much ashamed of it as if the fault
had been his own.

"Wall, lads," observed Big Waller, drawing forth his pipe as the only
source of comfort in these trying circumstances, and filling it with
scrupulous care, "it ain't of no use gettin' growowly about it, I guess.
There air more buffaloes than them wot's gone; mayhap we'll splinicate
one before we gits more waspisher."

It may, perhaps, be necessary to explain that Waller's last word
referred to the unusually small waists of the party, the result of a
pretty long fast.

"I'll tell ye what it is," said March, advancing towards Bounce with a
swagger and drawing his hunting-knife, "I quite agree with Waller's
sentiments.  I don't mean to allow myself to get any more waspisher, so
I vote that we cut Bounce up and have a feed.  What say you, comrades?"

"All right," replied Bounce, laying bare his broad chest as if to
receive the knife, "only, p'r'aps, ye'll allow me to eat the first slice
off myself afore ye begin, 'cause I couldn't well have my share
afterwards, d'ye see?  But, now I think on't, I'd be rather a tough
morsel.  Young meat's gin'rally thought the tenderest.  Wot say ye to
cuttin' up March first, an' tryin' me nixt?"

"If you'll only wait, lads," said Redhand, "till Mr Bertram gits a new
flint into his pistol, we'll shoot the victim instead o' cutting him up.
It'll be quicker, you know."

"Hah! non," cried Gibault, leaping a few inches off the ground, under
the impulse of a new idea, "I vill show to you vat ve vill do.  Ve vill
each cot hoff von finger.  Redhand, he vill begin vid de thomb, et so on
till it come to me, and I vill cot hoff mine leetle finger.  Each vill
devour the finger of de oder, an' so've shall have von dinner vidout
committing mordor--ha! vat say you?"

As Bertram had by this time arranged the lock of his pistol and reprimed
it, the hungry travellers resumed their weary march without coming to a
decision upon this delicate point.

It had happened that, during the last few days, the land over which they
travelled being somewhat barren, small game had become scarce, and the
large game could not be approached near enough to be shot with such
weapons as the artist's antiquated pistols; and as the party possessed
nothing better in the shape of a projectile, they had failed to procure
supplies.  They had now, however, again reached a rich country, and had
succeeded in trapping a large wolf, under the skin of which Hawkswing
had made, as we have seen, an unsuccessful effort to shoot a buffalo.
Soon after this failure the party came to a ridge of gravelly soil that
stretched across the plain like a wave.

The plain, or small prairie, to which we refer was in the midst of a
most lovely scene.  The earth was carpeted with rich green grass, in
which the wild flowers nestled like gems.  The ground was undulating,
yet so varied in its formations that the waves and mounds did not
prevent the eyes of the travellers ranging over a vast tract of country,
even when they were down among the hollows; and, when they had ascended
the backs of the ridges, they could cast a wide glance over a scene of
mingled plain and wood, lake and river, such as is never seen except in
earth's remotest wilds, where man has not attempted to adorn the face of
nature with the exuberances of his own wonderful invention.

Far away on the horizon the jagged forms and snowy peaks of the Rocky
Mountains rose clear and sharp against the sky.  For some days past the
trappers had sighted this stupendous "backbone" of the far west, yet so
slowly did they draw near that March Marston and Bertram, in their
impatience, almost believed they were a range of phantom hills, which
ever receded from them as they advanced.

On reaching the summit of the gravelly ridge, Redhand looked along it
with an earnest, searching gaze.

"Wot's ado now?" inquired Bounce.

"There ought to be prairie-hens here," replied the other.

"Oh! do stand still, just as you are, men!" cried Bertram
enthusiastically, flopping down on a stone and drawing forth his
sketch-book, "you'll make such a capital foreground."

The trappers smiled and took out their pipes, having now learned from
experience that smoking was not detrimental to a sketch--rather the
reverse.

"Cut away, Gibault," said Bounce, "an' take a look at the edge o' yon
bluff o' poplars and willows.  I've obsarved that prairie-hens is fond
o' sich places.  You'll not be missed out o' the pictur', bein' only a
small objict, d'ye see, besides an ogly one."

The jovial Canadian acknowledged the compliment with a smile and obeyed
the command, leaving his companions to smoke their pipes and gaze with
quiet complacency upon the magnificent scene.  Doubtless, much of their
satisfaction resulted from the soothing influence of tobacco on their
empty stomachs.

"I say," whispered Waller, removing his pipe and puffing from his lips a
large cloud of smoke, which rolled upwards in the form of a white ring,
"I say, Bounce, I guess it's past my comprehension what he means by a
foreground.  How does _we_ make a capital foreground?"

Bounce looked at his companion in silence for a few seconds; then he
removed his pipe, pursed his lips, frowned heavily, looked at the
ground, and repeated slowly, "How does _we_ make a capital foreground?"

Waller nodded.

"Ay, that's it."  Bounce resumed his pipe for a few seconds, and then
said with an air of the utmost profundity--

"Don't you know?"

"No, I don't."

"Wot?  Nothin' about it wotiver?"

"Nothin' wotsomdiver."

"H'm, that's okard," said Bounce, once more applying to his pipe;
"'cause, d'ye see, it's most 'orrible difficult to explain a thing to a
feller as don't know nothin' wotiver about it.  If ye only had the
smallest guess o--"

"Wall, come, I does know _somethin'_ about it," interrupted Waller.

"Wot's that?" inquired Bounce, brightening up.

"I calc'late that I knows for certain it ain't got no place wotiver in
my onderstandin'."

"Hah!" exclaimed Bounce.  "Come, then, I'll do my best for to explain it
t'ye.  Here's wot it is.  D'ye see Mr Bertram, there?"

"Yes, I does."

"An' d'ye see yerself?"

"Wall, I does," replied Waller, looking complacently down at his huge
limbs.

"Good; then d'ye see the ground over there?" continued Bounce, pointing
with his pipe to the Rocky Mountains.

Waller nodded.

"Now then," said Bounce, in those deep earnest tones with which men
usually attempt to probe the marrow of some desperately knotty question;
"now, then, when Mr Bertram's a drawin' of, an' tries to look at the
ground over there, you an' me comes _before_ the ground, d'ye see; an'
so we're, as ye may say, _before-grounds_.  But men wot studies human
natur' an' langwidges, d'ye see, comes for to know that words is always
gittin' onnecessary bits chopped off 'em--sometimes at one end,
sometimes at t'other.  So they tuck off the B, d'ye see, an' made it
foreground, and that's how we come to be foregrounds."

"Oh!" said Waller, with the vacant air of a man who feels himself as
wise at the termination as he was at the beginning of an explanation.

"Yes," resumed Bounce, "that's how it is.  I must confess, for my part,
that I don't 'xactly see the advantage o' us in that light.  I should
ha' thought it would ha' bin better to make us stand to one side, d'ye
see, and let him see how the land lies.  But there's no accountin' for
taste in this wurld--I've obsarved that, iver since I was three fut
two."

Having delivered himself of this graphic exposition of an abstruse
subject, Bounce relapsed into silence, and the whole party continued for
some minutes in a profound reverie.  From this felicitous condition they
were awakened by the sudden appearance of Black Gibault, who darted out
of the poplar bluff and made towards them at the top of his speed.  He
uttered no cry, but, on coming near enough to permit of his features
being clearly seen, it was observed that his eyes were eagerly wide
open, and that his mouth was engaged in the formation of words.  A
second or two more, and he was near enough to be heard uttering the word
"buffaloes" in a hoarse whisper.

"Ho! boy, wot is't?" cried Bounce in an equally hoarse whisper.

"Ba--buffaloes, hah! buffaloes," cried Gibault, panting violently as he
came up; "Where be de leetle gun?  He!  Monsieur Bertram, out vid it."

"Where saw ye them?" asked Redhand, seizing the two pistols, and
examining the priming.

"Jist oder side of de bluff.  Ver' close to de bushes.  Queek! queek!
vite! mon garcon, you is so drefful slow."

The latter part of this sentence was addressed to Hawkswing, who was
quietly putting on his wolf-skin.  Although too slow for the hasty
spirit of Gibault, the Indian was quick enough for all useful purposes.
In three minutes he was in the clump of poplar trees behind which the
buffaloes were reported to be feeding, and in another minute he was out
upon the plain creeping towards his victims, while the rest of the party
were again huddled together behind a bush, looking on with deep interest
and breathless attention.

Gradually and slowly the Indian crept towards the buffaloes, pausing and
snuffing about from time to time as if he were a veritable wolf in
search of something to eat.  At last he had approached near enough to
the herd to attract their attention, but scarcely near enough to make
sure of bringing one down.  The huge unwieldy creatures looked up
inquiringly for a moment, but, seeing only a solitary enemy, they
scorned to take further notice of him, and went on feeding.

Hawkswing paused within a few yards of the side of a fat sleek animal,
and slowly raised his pistol.  The trappers held their breath, and
Bertram uttered a low groan of anxiety.  One moment more and a white
puff was followed by a loud crack, and a bellow, as the horror-stricken
buffaloes tossed up their heels and fled wildly from the spot, leaving
one of their number in the agonies of death upon the plain.

The knife of the Indian hastened its end, and with a rush and a yell of
delight the whole party fell upon the luckless animal.

It was a wonderful sight to see, the way in which these experienced men
flayed and cut up that buffalo!  Hawkswing, without taking time to
remove his wolf-skin covering, commenced upon the head and speedily cut
out the tongue--a more difficult operation than inexperienced persons
would suppose.  Redhand and Bounce began at the shoulders, and Big
Waller and Gibault fell to work upon the flanks.  March Marston seized
his axe, and hastening into the bluff felled a dead pine and kindled a
fire.  As for Bertram, he sat down to sketch the whole with a degree of
prompt facility and gusto, that showed the habit had become second
nature to him.

The way in which these men wielded their bloody knives, flayed and
sliced, dismembered and divided that buffalo, is past belief--almost
beyond description.  Each man threw off his capote and tucked up his
shirt-sleeves to the elbows, and very soon each had on a pair of bright
red gauntlets.  And the bloody appearance of Hawkswing's mouth proved
that he had been anticipating the feast with a few tit-bits raw.  The
others were more patient.

In very nearly as short a time as it takes to tell, the buffalo was
converted into a mass of fragments that were powerfully suggestive of a
butcher's shop, and the trappers adjourned to a neighbouring rivulet to
wash their hands and arms.

"Now, I'll tell ye wot it is," observed Bounce while thus engaged, "I
means for to have a most awful blow out, and then go to sleep for
four-and-twenty hours on end."

"Ditto," remarked Big Waller with a nod; to which old Redhand replied
with a chuckle.

"An' who be go to vatch, tink you?" inquired Gibault, as they all
returned to the camp.  "Perhaps de Injuns look out for us--vat den?"

"Ah ye may well ask that, Gibault," said Redhand; "the fact is I've been
thinkin' that now we're drawin' near to enemies we must begin to keep
better watch at night, and to burn small fires o' dry wood, lest the
smoke should tell a tale upon us."

"Oh, don't talk bam, old feller," said Waller; "I guess we'll have
watchin' enough w'en we gits into the mountains.  Let's take it easy
here."

"We'll have one good blow out to-night, anyhow," cried March Marston,
heaving a fresh pile of logs on the already roaring fire.  "Now, Mr
Bertram, _do_ give up your scratchin' to-night, and let's see what you
can do in the eatin' way.  I'm sure you've fasted long enough, at least
for the good o' your health."

The poor artist had indeed fasted long enough to give to his naturally
thin and lank figure a thread-papery appearance that might have
suggested the idea that he was evaporating.  He smiled good-humouredly
when March Marston, who had now become rather familiar with him, shut up
his sketch-book and set him forcibly down before the fire, all round
which steaks and hunks of meat were roasting and grilling, and sending
forth an odour that would have rendered less hungry men impatient of
delay.  But they had not to wait long.  Each man sat before his
respective steak or hunk, gazing eagerly, as, skewered on the end of a
splinter of wood, his supper roasted hissingly.  When the side next the
fire was partially cooked, he turned it round and fell to work upon that
while the other side was roasting--thus the cooking and the eating went
on together.

After a considerable time symptoms of satiety began to appear, in the
shape of an occasional remark.  Soon Bounce uttered a deep sigh, and
announced his belief that, having taken the edge off his appetite, it
was time to begin with the marrow-bones.  Thereupon, with the
marrow-bones he began, and his example was quickly followed by his
companions.  There was a business-like steadiness of purpose in the way
in which that meal was eaten, and in the whole of the procedure
connected with it, that would have been highly diverting to a
disinterested spectator.

When the feast was concluded, the pipes made their appearance as a
matter of course; and when these were lighted, and in full blast, the
trappers found leisure to look round upon each other's faces with
expressions of benignity.

"Dat be a monstrobolly goot supper," remarked Gibault Noir.  Gibault
spoke with an effort.  It was quite plain that moderation was a virtue
that he did not possess in a high degree--at least, not on the present
occasion.

"You'll need a `monstrobolly' good sleep arter it," observed Bounce
quietly.

"You will, jist," said Waller; "an' so will this coon, I cal--"

Big Waller was going to have "calculated," according to custom; but
sleepiness overpowered him at the moment, and he terminated the word
with a yawn of such ferocity that it drew from Redhand a remark of doubt
as to whether his jaws could stand such treatment long.

Every member of that party seemed to be quite contented and amiable, but
no one showed much inclination to talk, and ere many minutes had passed,
half their number were under their blankets, their heads pillowed on
their bundles and their eyes sealed in sleep.  A few minutes later, and
Big Waller, sinking into a very sprawling and reckless posture, with his
back against the stem of a large cotton-tree, dropped into a state of
slumber with his pipe hanging gracefully from his lips.

This seemed so picturesque to Theodore Bertram, who sat immediately
opposite to the Yankee, on the other side of the fire, that he pulled
out his sketch-book and began enthusiastically to sketch by the
flickering light.  While he was thus occupied, the others lay down, one
by one, and he was left, at last, the only waking member of the camp.

But Theodore Bertram was human, and this is tantamount to saying that he
was not capable of ignoring the somnolent influences of human nature.
To his own extreme surprise his head fell forward with an abrupt nod
while he was engaged in the act of depicting Big Waller's nose, and he
found, on resuming work, with an imbecile smile at what he deemed his
weakness, that that member of the Yankee's face was at least two feet
long, and was formed after the pattern of a somewhat irregular Bologna
sausage.  Indiarubber quickly put this to rights, however, and he set to
again with renewed zeal.  Throwing back his head, and looking up as if
for inspiration, his wide-awake fell off, and it required a sudden and
powerful effort to prevent his head and shoulders falling in the same
direction.

Having replaced his hat and shaken himself a little, the persevering man
once more applied himself to his task of finishing the Yankee's
portrait, which, to say truth, now presented a variety of jagged and
picturesque outlines, that savoured more of caricature than anything
Bertram had ever yet accomplished.  For some time the pencil moved upon
the paper pretty steadily, and the artist was beginning to congratulate
himself on his success, when, to his horror, he observed that the tree
against which the Yankee leaned was in the act of falling over to the
right.  The same instant he received a shock upon the left side, and
awoke to find that he had fallen heavily upon poor Gibault's breast, and
that Waller and his tree were _in statu quo_.  But Gibault cared not; he
was too deeply intent upon sleeping to mind such trifles.

Bertram smiled meekly as he resumed his sitting posture; but the smile
faded and was replaced by a gaze of mute astonishment as he observed
that he had depicted Waller's right eye upon his chin, close beneath his
nose!  There seemed to be some sort of magic here, and he felt disposed
to regard the thing in the light of some serious optical illusion, when,
on closer inspection, he discovered Waller's mouth drawn altogether
beyond the circle of his countenance, a foot or so above his head, on
the stem of the tree against which he leaned.  This changed the current
of his thoughts and led him to believe that he must be dreaming, under
which impression he fell back and went to sleep.

Of course, Bertram recollected nothing after that; but when Gibault
awoke next morning, he found him lying on his back, with his feet in the
ashes of the extinct fire, his tall brigandish wide-awake perfectly flat
beneath his shoulders, and his sketch-book lying open across his face.



CHAPTER EIGHT.

A CACHE DISCOVERED--BERTRAM BECOMES VALOROUS--FAILURE FOLLOWS, AND A
BRIEF SKIRMISH, FLIGHT, AND SEPARATION ARE THE RESULTS.

The sun was high, scattering the golden clouds in the bright sky,
gilding the hilltops, flooding the plains, vivifying vegetable life, and
gladdening the whole animal creation, when, on the following morning,
our wearied trappers raised their heads and began to think of breakfast.

To do these trappers justice, however, we must add that their looks,
when they became wide enough awake to take full cognisance of the
scenery, indicated the presence of thoughts and emotions of a more
elevated character, though, from the nature of their training from
infancy, they wanted words to express their feelings.

It was otherwise with Bertram and March Marston.  Their exclamations,
the instant they arose, showed that both their hearts were keenly alive
to the good and the beautiful which surrounded them--and their tongues
were not altogether incapable of uttering the praise of Him who clothes
so gorgeously the lovely earth and peoples it with millions of happy
creatures--yes, happy creatures, for, despite the existence of death and
sin and sorrow everywhere, and the croaking of misanthropes, there _is_
much, very much, of pure, overflowing happiness here below.

"Come, March--Mr Bertram, time presses," said Redhand, interrupting the
two friends in the midst of earnest conversation; "we've got a long day
before us, and, mayhap, a fight with redskins at the end o't, so it
behoves us to make a good breakfast and set off as soon as we can.
We're late enough already."

"Ah, Redhand!" exclaimed March, "you're a terrible fellow for duty an'
business, an' all that sort o' thing.  It's always `time to be off,' or
`time to think o' this or that,' or `we mustn't put off,' with you.  Why
won't ye let us take a breathin' spell once in a way to enjoy ourselves,
eh?"

The old man pointed to the sun.  "You've enjoyed yourself late enough
to-day, han't ye?"

"Come, March, you're in a fault-finding humour this morning," said
Bertram as they walked towards the camp.  "Let's enjoy ourselves in
spite of circumstances.  Do you know, I hold it to be exceedingly wise
as well as philosophical, to make the best of things at all times."

"Do you?" exclaimed March in a tone of affected surprise; "now that's
odd.  You must be a real clever fellow to have made up your mind on that
point.  But somehow or other I'm inclined to think that most o' the
trappers hereabouts are as wise as yourself on it, though, mayhap, they
don't say it just in the same words.  There's Waller, now, as 'll tell
ye that when he `can't help it he guesses he'll jist grin an' bear it.'
And there's an old Irish trapper that's bin in the mountains nigh forty
years now, and who's alive at this day--if he bean't dead--that used to
say to himself when ill luck came upon him, `Now, Terence, be aisy, boy;
an' av ye can't be aisy, be as aisy as ye can.'  So you see, Mr
Bertram, we have got a few sparks of wisdom in these diggins."

"Now, then, stop yer feelosophy," cried Bounce, hitching his shoulders
so as to induce his light load to take up a more accommodating position.
"Ye didn't use to be a slow feller, March; wot's to do?  Ye ain't
a-goin' to cave in 'cause we're gettin' nigh the redskins, are ye?"

To this March deigned no reply, but, swinging his bundle over his
shoulder, set off at a pace that speedily left his laughing comrades far
behind.  When, in the course of an hour after, they overtook him, he was
discovered lying flat on his back, with his head resting on his bundle,
and smoking his pipe with an air of perfect satisfaction.

During the course of that day the trappers walked about thirty miles.
Towards the afternoon they came to a large river, along the banks of
which they pursued their way, led by Redhand, who seemed as familiar
with the country as if he had dwelt there from infancy.  The old
trapper's kindly visage was lighted up with a smile of recognition, ever
and anon, when some new and striking feature of the landscape opened up
to view, as if he had met with and were greeting some personal friend.
He spoke occasionally in a low tone to March, who usually kept close to
his side, and pointed to spots which were associated in his memory with
adventures of various kinds.  But Redhand's observations were few.  He
preferred to listen to the conversations of his comrades, as they
plodded steadily along, enlivening their march with many an anecdote and
legend.

At last Redhand called a halt, and gazed inquiringly around him, as if
in search of some object.

"Wot's up?" inquired Bounce earnestly.

"It was hereabouts, somewhere," muttered Redhand, to himself rather than
to his friend; then added quickly, as he threw down his pack, "Ay, there
it is--never touched.  Now that's what I call luck."

"_Wot's_ luck?" inquired Waller.

"Ah, dat is de keevestion," added Gibault with a look of surprise.

"You must know, lads," said Redhand, turning to his comrades, who
observed his movements with considerable astonishment; "you must know,
lads, there was an old chap who once trapped beavers up in them parts--"

"Oh! it's a hanikdot," interrupted Big Waller; "then I guess we'd as
well sot down."  So saying, he seated himself on his bundle and, as a
matter of course, proceeded to fill his pipe.  The others followed his
example, with the exception of Redhand, who remained standing, and of
Bertram, who quickly opened his sketch-book, that being the first
opportunity he had enjoyed during the day of making an entry therein.

"Right," exclaimed Bounce.  "It's allers more feelosophical to sot than
to stand--also more ekornomical, 'cause it saves yer moccasins.  Go on
with yer story, old man."

"It ain't a story," said Redhand; "nor I don't think it can even be
called an anecdote.  Well, this old chap that once trapped beaver in
them parts came down to Pine Point settlement one year with a load o'
furs, sold 'em all off, took a ragin' fever, and died."  Redhand paused,
and gazed dreamily at the ground.

"I say," observed Bounce seriously, "ain't that wot ye may call raither
a short hanikdot--not much in it, eh?"

"But before he died," resumed Redhand without noticing the interruption,
"he sent for me an' said: `Redhand, I'm goin' onder, an' I've got some
property as I don't want lost.  Ye know Beaver Creek?'  `Yes,' says I,
`every fut of it.'  `Well, then,' says he, `there's a spot there with
three mounds on the right side o' the Creek and a tall poplar in front
of 'em.'  `I know it,' says I.  `Well, w'en I last come from that part,'
says he, `I made a _cache_ at the foot o' that poplar, an' put one or
two things in, which it 'ud be a pity to lose--so I give 'em to you,
Redhand.  I was chased by Injuns at the place, so I couldn't stop to
bring 'em away, d'ye see?'  `An' what were the things ye put there?'
said I.  But he gave me no answer; his mind began to wander, and he
never spoke sense again.  Now, lads, this is Beaver Creek, and there
stands the poplar in front o' the three mounds."

Redhand pointed to the tree as he spoke, and the others started up with
alacrity, for the little touch of romance connected with the incident,
combined with their comparatively destitute condition, and their
ignorance of what the concealed treasure might be, powerfully stirred
their curiosity.

Arming themselves with strong staves, they began to dig away the earth
at the roots of the poplar.

After a few minutes' hard work, Bounce rose to wipe the perspiration
from his brow, and said--

"Wot for didn't ye tell us o' this before, Redhand?"

"Because I wasn't sure the _cache_ might not have bin discovered long
ago, and I didn't want to risk disappointin' ye."

"Hallo! here's _somethin'_," exclaimed Big Waller, as the point of the
stake with which he tore up the earth struck against some hard
substance.

"Have a care, boy," cried Bounce, stooping down and clearing away the
earth with his hands.  "P'r'aps it's easy broken.  No--why--it's a keg!"

"So it am," cried Gibault; "p'r'aps it am poudre."

At this moment Big Waller and Bounce gave the keg a violent tug and
disentombed it, an operation which proved Gibault's surmise to be wrong,
for the shake showed that the contents were liquid.  In a moment the
plug was driven in, and Bounce, putting his nose to the hole, inhaled
the result.  He drew back with a look of surprise, and said--

"Brandy!"

"Ha! here is one oder ting," cried Gibault, laying hold of a bundle and
dragging it to light.  "Vat can dis be?"

The question was soon answered; the string was cut, the leathern cover
unrolled, and a considerable quantity of tobacco was disclosed to the
view of the trappers, whose looks showed pretty clearly that this latter
discovery was much more agreeable than the former.

After digging deep all round the tree, they came to the conclusion that
this was all that the _cache_ contained.

"Now," said Bounce, after some talk in reference to their newly-found
treasure, "wot's to be done with dis here keg o' brandy?  As for the
baccy, we'll carry that along with us, of course, an' if Master
Redhand's a liberal feller, we'll help him to smoke it.  But the brandy
keg's heavy, an' to say truth, I'm not much inclined for it.  I never
wos fond o' fire-water."

"If you'd allow me, friends, to suggest," said Bertram, whose experience
among trappers in other regions had convinced him that spirits was a
most undesirable commodity, "I would recommend that you should throw
this brandy away.  I never saw good come of it.  We do not require it
for health, neither do we for sickness.  Let us throw it away, my
friends; it is a dangerous and deceitful foe."

"Mais, monsieur," interposed Gibault with a rueful countenance; "you
speak de trooth; but though hims be dangereux an' ver' bad for drink
oftin, yet ven it be cold vedder, it doo varm de cokils of de hart!"

Big Waller laughed vociferously at this.  "I guess Gibault's right,"
said he, "it 'ud be a powerful shame to fling it away."

"Well, lads," said Redhand, "it's evident that we can't drink it just
now, for it would unsteady our hands for the work we have to do this
night.  It's also clear we can't carry it with us on a war expedition;
so I propose that we should put it where we found it an' come back for
it when we've done wi' the redskins."

This plan was finally agreed to; the keg was reburied at the foot of the
poplar, and the party continued their journey, carrying the much-prized
tobacco along with them.

The sun was still blazing above the mountains in the west, tingeing
their snowy spires with rosy red, when the trappers came upon the first
indication of the neighbourhood of Indians in the shape of recent
footprints and cuttings in the woods.  A large canoe was also found
lying bottom up on the bank of the creek.  This Redhand examined, and
found it to be in good condition, although, from the marks in the
vicinity, it was evident that it had not been recently used.

Men who spend their lives in the backwoods of America are celebrated for
the closeness with which they observe every object and circumstance
which happens to pass within the range of their perceptions.  This habit
and acuteness of observation is the result of necessity.  The trapper
and the Red Indian are alike dependent very much on this faculty for
their sustenance and for their safety.  Surrounded as they are by perils
of every kind, their eyes and ears are constantly on the alert, as they
pass through the pathless wilderness on the hunt or on the war trail.
No object within the range of vision is passed with indifference.
Everything is carefully yet quickly noted--the breaking of a twig, the
crushing of a blade of grass, or the footprint of man or beast.  Hence
the backwoodsman acquires the habit of turning all things in his path to
account, or notes them in case they should, by any possibility, be
required by him at a future time.

Redhand had no definite object in view when, with the assistance of
March Marston, he lifted the canoe and placed it in the stream to
ascertain that it was water-tight, and then replaced it on the bank with
the paddles close beside it.  But he had a general idea, founded on
experience, that a good canoe was a useful thing in many supposable
circumstances, and that it was as well to know where such an article was
to be found.

"We shall have to go cautiously now," said he before resuming the march.
"The Injuns are not far off, as ye may see by yonder thin line o' smoke
that rises above the trees on the mountain side.  If they are the men we
seek, they're sharp as foxes, so we'll have to step like the painter."

Bertram looked up quickly at the last word; then he smiled the next
moment, as he remembered that the panther was thus styled by trappers.

Proceeding cautiously forward in single file, they at length gained a
spot beyond which they could not advance without running the risk of
being discovered.  Here another halt was made, and here it was agreed
that Redhand should advance alone, near enough to ascertain whether the
Indians, whose camp they were approaching, were actually the scamps who
had robbed Bertram of his horses.  The old trapper was about to set
forward when Bertram stopped him.

"Methinks, old man," said he, "it were well that I should accompany you
on this expedition, which I foresee is one of no little danger; and as
the danger is encountered chiefly on my account, it seems to me right
and fitting that I should share it along with you.  Besides, two are
better than one in a struggle, whether mental or physical."

Redhand looked a little perplexed.  He did not like to tell the poor
artist that he was totally unfit to make a stealthy approach to an
Indian camp, yet he felt that the danger of failure would be increased
tenfold if he allowed him to make the attempt; but Bertram pleaded so
earnestly, and withal so resolutely, that he at length consented, on
condition of his doing nothing but what he was desired to do, and
keeping as quiet as a mouse.  This the artist promised to do, and the
two accordingly set forth, armed with their knives and the two pistols.
Bertram also carried his sword.  The rest of the party were to remain in
ambush until the return of the others.

During the first part of their advance through the wood Bertram trod as
softly and carefully as an Indian, and watched every motion of his
companion, who led him down into a ravine which conducted them to within
a few hundred yards of the camp.  From the absence of such noises as the
barking of dogs and shouts of children, the old trapper conjectured that
this must be either a party of trappers or a war-party of Indians.  A
few minutes' creeping on hands and knees through the underwood brought
them to a spot whence the camp could be seen, and showed that in the
latter conjecture he was right.  The red warriors, forty in number, were
seated in a circle round their watch-fire smoking their tomahawks in
moody silence.

To the eye of Bertram they all seemed to be lost in dreamy reverie, but
Redhand observed, with a feeling of anxiety, that he who seemed to be
their chief sat in that peculiar attitude which indicates intense
attention.  Laying his hand on Bertram's shoulder, the old man said in
the faintest possible whisper--

"Yonder sits the thief, an't he?"

Bertram at once recognised in the chief of the band before him Big
Snake, the Indian who had stolen his horses and property; so he nodded
his head violently, and looked excited, but wisely refrained from
speech, lest his voice should be overheard.

Redhand shook his head.  "The thief," said he in a tone that was
scarcely audible, "has heard us; I see by his face that he suspects he
has heard _something_, and he knows that it was not the falling of a
leaf.  If we break a twig now we're done for."

Redhand meant this to be a salutary caution to his companion, which
would ensure a noiseless retreat.  To men of his own stamp it would have
been useful, but he little knew the peculiar temperament of his friend;
the mere idea of the success of the whole expedition depending upon his
extreme care unhinged the nerves of the poor artist, who, although
absolutely a brave man, in the true sense of the term, could no more
control his nervous system than he could perform an Indian war-dance.
He could have rushed single-handed on the whole body of warriors with
ease, but he could not creep among the dry twigs that strewed the ground
without trembling like an aspen leaf lest he should break one.

It is wonderful, however, what necessity will enable men to do.  Bertram
did creep after his friend, back towards the spot where the rest of his
party lay, as softly and noiselessly as if he had been bred to the work
from infancy.  On regaining the edge of the ravine, they rose and
advanced in a crouching posture.  Then Bertram sighed and felt that
imminent danger was over.  Alas! that feeling of partial security cost
him dear.  The step that succeeded the sigh was a careless one.  His
foot caught in a projecting root, and next moment he went headforemost
into the centre of a decayed bush with a crackling crash that was
absolutely appalling in the circumstances.

Redhand cast upon the luckless man one glance of horror, and, uttering
the words, "Run for your life!" dashed down the bank, and coursed along
the bottom like a hare.  At the same moment that terrific yell, which
has so often chilled the heart's blood of men and women in those western
wilds, rang through the forest, telling that they were discovered, and
that the Indians were in pursuit.

Bertram kept close to the heels of the old trapper at first, but before
he had run fifty yards he tripped and fell again.  On attempting to rise
he was seized and thrown violently to the ground by an Indian warrior.
Looking back and observing this, Redhand turned at once, like a hare
doubling on its course, and rushed to the rescue; but before he reached
his friend he was surrounded by a dozen yelling Indians.  At the
foremost of these he levelled his pistol, but the faithless weapon
missed fire, and he was in the act of hurling it at his adversary, when
a blow from behind felled him to the ground.

While this was going on, the trappers were bounding to the succour of
their comrades.  When they came to the field of action and saw neither
of their friends (for they had been borne swiftly away), and beheld an
overwhelming band of armed savages rushing towards them, they at once
perceived that strength or courage could avail them nothing in such an
unequal conflict; so they turned and fled, scattering themselves among
the bushes so as to divert pursuit as much as possible.

Bounce and Gibault were the only two who kept together.  These made for
the spot where the canoe had been left, but the latter outran the former
so quickly that he was soon lost to view ahead of him.  In a few minutes
Bounce gained the bank of the stream, and seized the end of the canoe.
To his amazement Gibault was nowhere to be seen.  But he had no time for
thought, for at that moment he was discovered by two Indians who ran
towards him.  The canoe was launched, and a paddle seized in an instant,
but the trusty trapper was loath, even in his extremity, to push off
while his comrade might be in danger.

"Ho!  Gibault!  Gibault Noir!" he shouted.  "Quick, lad; yer too late
a'most, ho!"

Grinding his teeth in an agony of anxiety, he made a sudden dart at the
foremost Indian, who little dreamed of such an attack, and hit him with
the paddle with all his force.  The savage dropped like a stone, and the
paddle flew into a dozen splinters.  This was a foolish act on the part
of Bounce, for the second Indian was now close upon him, and, seeing the
fate of his companion, he stopped short, and hastily fitted an arrow to
his bow.  Just then several of the savages burst from the wood with
fierce cries.  There was no time to lose.  Bounce turned, pushed off the
canoe, and leaped in as an arrow grazed his neck.

The bold trapper's condition seemed hopeless; for, having broken the
paddle to pieces, he could not propel his little bark out of danger.
The stream was broad and rapid at that place, and swept him away
swiftly.  Immediately a shower of arrows fell around him, some grazing
his person and piercing his clothes and the canoe, but fortunately not
wounding him.

Meanwhile three of the Indians darted downstream, and, throwing
themselves into the current, swam out so as to intercept the canoe as it
passed.  Bounce, having lain down at full length in the bottom of his
tiny bark to avoid the arrows which were discharged at him, did not
observe these men, and the first intimation he had of what was taking
place was the canoe being nearly upset, as a powerful savage laid hold
of the side of it.

To draw his knife and pass it round the wrist of the Indian, so as to
sever the tendons, was the work of a moment.  The savage fell back with
a yell of mingled rage and pain.  The others seeing what had occurred,
wisely turned and made for the shore.  This incident was the means of
saving the trapper, for the Indians, fearful of wounding their comrade,
had ceased to discharge their arrows, and when they again ventured to do
so, a tumultuous rapid had caught the canoe, and whirled it nearly over
to the opposite shore.

Bounce watched his opportunity.  As he swept near to a rocky point, he
sprang towards it with all his might.  He fell short, but happily the
water did not reach above his knees.  Next moment he sprang up the bank
and stood on the edge of the underwood, where he paused, and, turning
round, shook his clenched fist at his enemies, and uttered a shout of
defiance.

The disappointed Indians gave vent to a fiendish howl, and discharged a
cloud of arrows, most of which fell short of their mark.  Ere the last
shaft had fallen harmless to the ground, Bounce had entered the forest
and was gone.

The Wild Man of the West--by R.M. Ballantyne



CHAPTER NINE.

BOUNCE COGITATES UPON THE EMBARRASSING CIRCUMSTANCES OF HIS CONDITION--
DISCOVERY OF BLACK GIBAULT--TERRIBLE FATE IN STORE FOR THEIR COMRADES--A
MODE OF RESCUE PLANNED--DREADFUL EFFECTS OF FIRE-WATER--THE RESCUE.

About ten minutes after making his escape from his Indian foes, Bounce
seated himself on the trunk of a fallen tree and began to think upon
"Number One."

A little red squirrel had been seated on the trunk of that tree just two
minutes before his arrival.  It was now seated on the topmost branch of
a neighbouring pine, looking with a pair of brilliant black eyes
indignantly at the unceremonious intruder.

Possibly the reader may think that it was selfish of Bounce, at such a
time, to devote much attention to Number One.  He had just escaped; he
was in comparative safety; he was free; while there could be little or
no doubt that his late companions were prisoners, if not killed, and
that, in the ordinary course of things, they would eventually suffer
death by torture.  At such a time and in such circumstances it would be
more natural, even in a selfish man, to think of any or of all the other
numerals than number one.

But, reader, I need scarcely tell you that things are not always what
they seem.  Men are frequently not so bad as, at a first glance, they
would appear to be.

Bounce always reasoned philosophically, and he often thought aloud.  He
did so on this occasion, to the immense edification of the little red
squirrel, no doubt.  At least, if we may judge from the way in which it
glared and stared at the trapper--peeped at him round the trunk of the
tree, and over the branches and under the twigs and through the leaves,
jerking its body and quirking its head and whisking its tail--we have
every reason to conclude that it experienced very deep interest and
intense excitement.  Pleasure and excitement being, with many people,
convertible terms, we have no reason for supposing that it is otherwise
with squirrels, and therefore every reason for concluding that the
squirrel in question enjoyed Bounce's visit greatly.

"Now this is wot it comes to," said Bounce, calmly filling his pipe,
from the mere force of habit, for he had not at that time the most
distant idea of enjoying a smoke.  "This is wot it comes to.  Savages is
savages all the wurld over, and they always wos savages, an' they always
will be savages, an' they can't be nothin' else."

At this point Bounce recollected having seen an Indian missionary, who
had been taken when a boy from his father's wigwam and educated, and who
had turned out as good and respectable a Christian gentleman as most
white men, and better than many, so he checked himself and said--

"Leastwise they can't be nothin' but savages so--so long as they is
savages."

This argument, although exceedingly obvious, seemed even to his own mind
to possess so little power, that he endeavoured to enforce it by
slapping his thigh with such energy that the body of the red squirrel
nearly jumped out at its own eyes.  It clasped the tree stem to its
beating heart bravely, however, and, judging from its subsequent
conduct, speedily recovered its self-possession.

"That's how it is," continued Bounce; "an' that bein' the case, savages
always invariably thinks o' number one before they thinks on anythin'
else.  Now, as men judges theirselves so they judges of others--that's a
fact, as all feelosophy has preclaimed, an' all experience has pruven.
Wot then?  Why, them savages 'll think I've cleared off--made tracks--
thankful to git away with my own skin whole, and carin' no more for my
comrades than if they wos so many stumps.  Thinkin' that, of coorse
they'll think it's o' no use to try to cross the river and give chase,
'cause I've got a long start o' 'em, an' so, d'ye see, they'll give me
up an' think no more about me.  Good! very good!  But p'r'aps it's jest
poss'ble that feller whose paw I tickled _may_ sometimes recall me to
mind."

This last idea tickled the trapper so powerfully that he chuckled in a
quiet way, and in doing so exposed such a double row of white teeth that
the squirrel, which had remained for some time in an attitude of deep
attention, began to show symptoms of uneasiness.

"Now I'll tell you wot I'll do," continued Bounce, resuming his look of
grave anxiety as the thought of his comrades recurred to him; "I'll go
up the river till I comes to opposite the place where I shoved the canoe
into the water.  By the time I git there it'll be dark; then I'll swum
across an' foller the redskins an' save my comrades if I can.  If I
can't, wot then? why, I'll leave the scalp of Bob Ounce to dangle in the
smoke of a redskin's wigwam."

We have elsewhere hinted that when a Rocky Mountain trapper makes up his
mind to do a certain thing he usually does it at once.  Having settled
the plan of his future proceedings, Bounce did not waste more time in
thought or speech.  He thrust his unsmoked pipe into his bosom, leaped
up from the trunk of the fallen tree, and darted from the spot with such
sudden promptitude, that the horrified squirrel sprang wildly into empty
space and vanished from the scene for ever!

For a quarter of an hour Bounce glided noiselessly through the forest,
keeping a course parallel with the river.  In the deepening gloom of
evening, he appeared more like a spectre than a human being--so quick
and agile were his motions as he flitted past the tree stems, yet so
noiseless the tread of his moccasined feet.  The bushes were thick and
in places tangled, compelling him to stoop and twist and diverge right
and left as he sped along, but, being unencumbered with weapons or
weight of any kind, he advanced so rapidly that in the short space of
time we have mentioned he stood opposite to that part of the bank where
the attack had been made, and below which he had been swept for a great
distance in the canoe by the rapid stream.

Here he spent some time in reconnoitring the opposite bank, but without
gathering much information from his observations.  No symptom of the
presence of human beings could be discovered.  No column of smoke rising
above the trees to tell of the watch-fire of white man or red.  The
trapper listened intently, then he bethought him, for the first time, of
giving the signal which, at setting out on their journey, they had
agreed to use in all circumstances of danger.  It was the low howl of a
wolf followed immediately by the hoot of an owl.  The reply to it was to
be the hoot of the owl without the cry of the wolf when danger should be
imminent and extreme caution necessary, or the howl of the wolf alone if
danger should have passed away.

To the first utterance of the signal no reply was made.  After waiting a
few seconds, Bounce gave it forth again.  Immediately after, the low
howl of a wolf was heard on the opposite bank, and a figure appeared at
the edge of the river.  Darkness prevented the trapper ascertaining who
it was, but a repetition of the cry convinced him that it could be none
other than Black Gibault.

With a grunt of satisfaction, Bounce at once proceeded to make
preparations for crossing the river.  Cutting a large piece of bark from
a neighbouring tree, he hastily formed it into a species of dish or flat
boat; then, stripping off all his garments, he tied them up in a tight
bundle, and placed them in this miniature canoe; after which he plunged
boldly into the stream and made for the opposite shore, pushing his
little ark before him.  In five minutes he had crossed, and entered into
a hasty conversation with Gibault in low, eager tones, while pulling on
his clothes.

"First of all, lad," said Bounce, laying his hand impressively on the
other's shoulder, "are they all safe?--none killed?"

"Non; dey be all alive, for certain."

"I'm thankful for that--_very_ thankful.  Now go ahead, lad, and tell me
what ye know, while I pull on my leggins."

"Vell, dey be alive, as I have say.  Mais dey not live long."

Gibault said this with such a look of woebegone despair that Bounce
paused in the midst of his dressing and said with much anxiety--"Wot's
wrong?--why not, lad?"

"'Cause dey vill be tortured to death demain, or de day apres de morrow.
Stay, I vill tell to you all I knows.  You mus' know, ven I run avay
from you, I do so 'cause I know dat canoe ver' probabilie git opturned,
so I come to river bank before every von.  Dere is von big tree dere, so
op I go like von skvirrel.  You know vat come to pass apres dat.  You
smash de head of de Injun, aussi you smash de paddil.  Den you escape,
an' de Injuns howl vid passion!

"Ver' soon after dat, dey all come to de bank of river--forty of 'em, I
tink--draggin' our comerades vid dem, all tied by de wrist--Redhand, an'
Big Valler, an' March, an' Hawksving, an' poor Monsieur Bertram.  Mais,
dat Monsieur Bertram, be most 'straordinary man!  He terriblement
frightened for every leetle ting, but him not fright von bit for big
ting!  Hims look at de sauvage dat hold him as if him be a lion.  I do
tink Monsieur Bertram vould fight vell if hims obleeged.

"After good deal of consultoration an' disputerin', dey vas about for go
avay; so I sit ver' still, but I move my foot von leetle morsil, an' von
small leaf fall to de ground.  It vas ver' small leaf, but Hawksving him
see it.  Ah! he be von cliver Injun.  Ver' sharp in sight too!  I tink
him should be named Hawkseye.  No von else notice it, but I see
Hawksving visper to Big Valler.  Dat man be sharp feller too.  He turns
hims back to de tree, nevair vonce looked up, but him burst into loud
laugh, like von tondre-clap, an' cry out, `Vell done, Gibault!  Keep
close, old feller; their village is one day off towards the sun!'  An'
den he laugh again.  Ah! ho! how my heart him jump ven he speak my name!
But de Injuns tink hims yell out to some von cross de river, for him
looks dat vay.  Vell, off dey go, and I begin to breathe more easy; but
ven dey git far-off, I hear the voice of Big Valler come back like
far-avay tondre, cryin', `Dey're goin' to roast us alive to-morrow; look
sharp!'  Dat vas de last I hear.  Den de darkness come, an' den you
come, an', now, vat is to come nixt?"

Poor Gibault spoke fast, and perspired very much, and looked wild and
haggard, for his nature was sensitive and sympathetic, and the idea of
his comrades meeting with such a horrible fate was almost too much for
him.

Bounce's honest face assumed an expression of deep anxiety, for, fertile
though his resources usually were, he could not at that moment conceive
how it was possible for two unarmed men, either by force or by
stratagem, to rescue five comrades who were securely bound, and guarded
by forty armed warriors, all of whom were trained from infancy in the
midst of alarms that made caution and intense watchfulness second nature
to them.

"It looks bad," said Bounce, sitting down on a stone, clasping his hard
hands together, and resting an elbow on each knee.  "Sit ye down,
Gibault.  We'll think a bit, an' then go to work.  That's wot we'll do--
d'ye see?"

"Non, I don't see," groaned Gibault.  "Vat can ve do?  Two to forty!  If
it was only swords ve had to fight vid--Hah!  But, alas! we have
noting--dey have everyting."

"True, lad, force won't do," returned Bounce; "an' yit," he added,
knitting his brows, "if nothin' else 'll do, we'll try at least _how
much_ force 'll do."

After a short pause Bounce resumed, "Wos they tied very tight, Gibault?"

"Oui.  I see de cords deep in de wrists, an' poor Redhand seem to be
ver' moch stunned; he valk as if hims be dronk."

"Drunk!" exclaimed Bounce, suddenly springing up as if he had received
an electric shock, and seizing his companion by both shoulders, while,
for a moment, he gazed eagerly into his eyes; then, pushing him
violently away, he turned round and darted along the bank of the river,
crying, as he went, "Come along, Gibault; I'll tell ye wot's up as we
go!"

The astonished Canadian followed as fast as he could, and, in an
exclamatory interjectional sort of way, his friend explained the plan of
rescue which he had suddenly conceived, and which was as follows:--

First, he proposed to go back to the _cache_ at the foot of the tall
tree, and dig up the keg of brandy, with which he resolved to proceed to
the camp of the Indians, and, by some means or other, get the whole clan
to drink until they should become intoxicated.  Once in this condition,
he felt assured they could be easily circumvented.

Gibault grasped at this wild plan as a drowning man is said to grasp at
a straw, and lent his aid right willingly to disentomb and carry the
brandy keg.  Neither he nor Bounce knew whether there was enough brandy
to intoxicate the whole tribe, but they had no time to inquire minutely
into probabilities.

Vigorously, perseveringly, without rest or halt, did these two trappers
pursue their way that night, with the keg slung on a pole between them.
The stars glimmered down through the trees upon their path, as if they
wished them success in their enterprise.  It was all-important that they
should reach the Indian camp before daybreak; so, although footsore and
weary from their late exertions after a long day's march, they
nevertheless ran steadily on at a long swinging trot, which brought
them, to their inexpressible joy, much sooner than they had anticipated,
to their journey's end.

It was two hours before dawn when they came suddenly upon the camp--so
suddenly that they had to crouch the instant they saw the watch-fires,
in order to avoid being discovered.

"Now, Gibault," whispered Bounce, "you'll have to remain here.  Get into
a hiding-place as fast as you can, and keep close.  You're clever enough
to know what to do, and when to do it.  Only, lad, come near and have
your knife handy when the row is at the loudest, and see that ye don't
let the squaws cut out our livers when we're tied up."

Gibault nodded significantly.

"It's a curious fact," continued Bounce in a somewhat sad tone, "that
I'm more afraid o' the squaws than o' the men.  Howsomdiver, it's got to
be done!"

So saying, Bounce shouldered the keg, and shaking his comrade by the
hand, as if he felt that he might be parting with him for ever, he
glided into the darkness of the forest, leaving Gibault to secrete
himself on the side of a mound, from which he could witness all that
went on in the camp.

From this point of observation the poor Canadian beheld what was not
calculated to allay his fears.  The camp lay in a hollow, surrounded by
trees.  On an open space were erected several leathern huts or tents, in
the midst of which blazed a large camp fire.  Round this the forty
warriors were seated, eating their supper, while a number of squaws were
sitting in the entrances to their tents variously engaged.  Horses
hobbled--that is, with the fore-feet tied together to prevent their
running away--were cropping the grass close to the tents.  Not far from
them, and within the circle of light cast around by the fire, stood a
group of small trees.  To each of these was tied a man, and Gibault had
no difficulty in making them out to be his unfortunate comrades.

Occasionally, as he gazed, one or two of the old Indian women went up to
these helpless men, with a yell of execration, and, brandishing
scalping-knives before their faces, appeared as if about to plunge them
into their hearts; but their time had not yet come; the hags were only
anticipating the feast of butchery that awaited them on the morrow.

While Gibault was gazing at this scene with mingled feelings of anxiety,
rage, and horror, the whole band of Indians suddenly sprang to their
feet and seized their weapons.  Almost at the same moment Bounce strode
into the circle of light and deposited his cask on the ground.  Then,
making signs of peace, he advanced towards one of the Indians, who, from
his dress and appearance, seemed to be the chief, and presented him with
a piece of tobacco.  The chief accepted the gift in silence.

Bounce, who was well acquainted with many of the dialects of that
region, had no difficulty in making himself understood.  He stated that
he 

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