Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England




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

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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.

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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 was a trapper, that he had come to that country to trade, and asked
whether his Indian friends had furs to dispose of.  As he had
anticipated, the savages were in no mood to treat with a solitary man
who was entirely in their power.  The chief, who evidently suspected
that he was a friend of the prisoners, instead of replying, asked him
sarcastically what he had in the keg.

"Fire-water," replied Bounce unhesitatingly.

At this the eyes of the savages sparkled with delight.  Not deigning to
waste more time with him, they seized the unfortunate trapper and
confronted him with his companions, gazing earnestly in their faces the
while to observe whether they betrayed any sign of recognition.

It said much for the self-control of these hardy men, that, although
their comrade was thus suddenly and unexpectedly placed before them,
they did not permit a muscle of their countenances to change, but gazed
on him and on his captors with that expression of defiant contempt with
which Indians usually meet their fate, and in which they are equalled,
sometimes even outdone, by the unfortunate white trappers who chance to
fall into their cruel hands.

And well was it, for the success of the scheme, that Theodore Bertram's
nerves had received such repeated and awful shocks that day, that they
were now incapable of feeling.  He had been so terribly and repeatedly
struck with amazement that his features had assumed a settled expression
of surprise that could not be increased, so that when he beheld Bounce a
prisoner before him, although he certainly felt astonishment, he could
by no means increase the expression of that sensation.  The Indians,
therefore, passed away from him with a howl of derision, and tied Bounce
to a tree beside his comrades, concluding that, instead of a plotter,
they had, in him, made another lucky capture.  Anxiety to taste their
beloved beverage had something to do with their haste in this matter, no
doubt.

No one who has not seen it can conceive of the intense passion the North
American Indian has for ardent spirits.  He seems to have no power of
restraint whatever when the opportunity of indulging that passion
presents itself.

The head of the keg was quickly knocked in, and the eyes of the savages
seemed positively to flash as they gazed upon the precious fluid.  The
chief advanced first with a little tin mug, such as was sold to them by
traders, and drank a deep draught; he then handed the cup to another,
but the impatience of the others could not be restrained--they crowded
round with their mugs, and dipping them into the keg drank eagerly,
while the squaws, who loved the fire-water as much as did their masters,
formed an outer circle, and, as patiently as they could, awaited their
turn.  They knew full well that it would soon come.

The Indians, being unaccustomed to frequent potations, were quickly
maddened by the spirit, which mounted to their brains and rushed through
their veins like wildfire, causing every nerve in their strong frames to
tingle.  Their characteristic gravity and decorum vanished.  They
laughed, they danced, they sang, they yelled like a troop of incarnate
fiends!  Then they rushed in a body towards their prisoners, and began a
species of war-dance round them, flourishing their tomahawks and knives
close to their faces as if they were about to slay them; shrieking and
howling in the most unearthly manner, and using all those cruel devices
that are practised by Red Indians to terrify those unfortunates whom
they intend ultimately to kill.

Suddenly one of the warriors observed that the squaws were stealthily
approaching the spirit keg, and rushed towards them with a howl of fury,
followed by his comrades, who drove the women away and recommenced
drinking.  And now a fiercer spirit seemed to seize upon the savages;
old feuds and jealousies, that had long been cherished in silence, broke
irresistibly forth.  Angry words and fierce looks were followed by the
drawing of knives.  Suddenly a young man rushed upon a comrade and
buried his knife in his heart.  The piercing death-cry was followed by
the vengeful yell of the relatives of the murdered man, as they sprang
upon the murderer.  Others flew to the rescue, and the drunken _melee_
became general.  Blood began to flow freely, and there is no doubt that
many lives would have been sacrificed had not the combatants been too
much intoxicated to fight with vigour.  Many of them fell prostrate and
helpless on attempting to rise.  Others dealt their blows at random,
staggering and falling one upon another, until they lay in a heap,
shrieking, biting, tearing, and stabbing--a bloody struggling mass,
which told more eloquently than tongue can tell, that, deep and low
though savage human nature has fallen in sin and misery, there is a
depth profounder still, to which even those who seem to be the lowest
may be precipitated by the fatal power of strong drink.

And now Gibault Noir felt that it was time for him to draw near to the
horrible scene, in order to be ready, when the moment should arrive, to
release the prisoners, or to protect them in the event of any of the
drunken crew being tempted to a premature slaughter.

The women were now actively interfering to prevent further bloodshed.
Most of the Indians were already dead drunk.  Only a few, whose powers
of endurance were greater than those of their comrades, continued to
shout their war-songs.  When these were down, the women rushed at the
spirits like wolves.  Even the little children came out from the tents
and got their share.  It was a terrible scene, such as has, alas! been
often enacted before in the wilds of the Far West, and, doubtless, shall
be enacted again, unless (so-called) Christian traders give up
fire-water as an article of traffic.

In a very short space of time the women were as helpless as their
masters.  Then Gibault cut the thongs that bound his comrades, and set
them free!

"Thanks, thanks to the Almighty," said Bertram earnestly, when his bonds
were cut.  "I had thought that my days were numbered; that it was to be
my sad fate to fill a grave here in the wilderness.  But His hand is
indeed mighty to save.  And thanks be to you, good Gibault.  Under God,
we owe our lives to you."

Bertram attempted to seize Gibault's hand as he spoke, but his own hands
refused obedience to his will.  They had been so long and so tightly
bound that they were utterly powerless.

"Rub 'em, rub 'em well," said Gibault, seizing the artist's hands and
enforcing his own recommendation vigorously.

"Ay, that's it," said Redhand, who, with his companions, had, the
instant he was loose, commenced to rub and chafe his own benumbed limbs
into vitality, as if his life and theirs depended on their exertions--as
indeed they did to no small extent, for, had they been called upon to
fight or fly at that moment, they could have done neither.

"Now, lads," said Bounce, who, having been a prisoner for but a short
time, was unhurt by his bonds, "while ye rub the life into yer limbs
I'll tell ye wot we must do.  Them scamps (pointing to the prostrate
Indians) won't lie there long.  Of course, bein' white men an'
Christians, we don't mean to kill them or to lift their scalps--"

"I've know'd white men," interrupted Redhand, "who called themselves
Christians, and didn't object to take scalps when they got the chance."

"So have I," returned Bounce, "an' more's the pity.  It's sichlike
blackguards as these that keeps honest trappers and fur-traders for iver
in hot water here.  Howsomdiver, we're not a-goin' to turn ourselves
into brute beasts 'cause they've turned theirselves into sich."

"I'm not so sure o' that," broke in Big Waller, casting a scowling
glance on the savages as he surveyed a wound in his left arm, which,
although not serious, was, from want of dressing, sufficiently painful;
"I calc'late it would serve them reptiles right if we was to whangskiver
the whole on 'em as they lie."

"I don't b'lieve," retorted Bounce, "that `_whangskiver_' is either
English, Injun, French, or Yankee; but if it means _killin'_, you'll do
nothing o' the sort.  Here's what we'll do.  We'll ketch as many horses
as wos took from Mr Bertram's fellers, an' as many guns too (the same
ones if we can lay hands on 'em), an' as much powder an' shot an' other
things as that keg o' brandy is worth, an' then we'll bid the redskins
good-bye without wakenin' of 'em up."

"Goot," ejaculated Gibault, pausing in his manipulation of the artist,
"now you can do!"

"Capital; thanks, I feel quite strong again."

"I say, Gibault," observed March ruefully, "they've almost sawed through
the skin o' my ankle.  I've no left foot at all, as far as feelin'
goes."

"Hah! me boy, 'tis well you have foot left, though you not feel left
foot!  Let me see."

"That's it, Gibault, rub away; if your jokes were as good as your
surgery you'd be too good, a long way, for the backwoods."

By dint of chafing and rubbing and leaping and stamping, the whole party
were soon restored to a serviceable condition, after which they set
about active preparations for departure.

First, they ransacked the tents, where they discovered all the guns that
had been taken from Bertram's party.  These they tied up in a bundle,
after each had secured one for his own use.  Among them the artist
found, to his intense delight, his own double-barrelled gun, the loss of
which he had mourned most sincerely.

Next, they secured the horses, which, being hobbled, as we have said
elsewhere, were easily caught.  Then the powder-horns and shot-belts of
Bertram's party were found, and, being full of ammunition, were slung
across their shoulders forthwith.  Among other things belonging to the
same party were discovered a number of blankets, some tea and sugar, and
a variety of other useful articles, besides several packs of furs; all
of which were made up into portable bundles that could be easily carried
at their saddle-bows.  The supply of everything was so ample that it was
not necessary to touch a single article belonging to the Indians.

This was a matter of much satisfaction to Redhand, who wished to show
these unfortunate children of the wilderness that there were at least
some white trappers who were actuated by different and kindlier feelings
than many who sought their livelihood in those regions.

"Hullo! wot have we here?" cried Big Waller, who was poking
inquisitively about among the tents, to the consternation of the poor
Indian children who lay huddled up in their rabbit-skin blankets,
trembling from head to foot, and expecting to be scalped forthwith--such
of them, at least, as were old enough to expect anything.  "Here's your
blunderbusses, I guess, mister."

"What! my pistols," cried Bertram, seizing his weapons with as much
delight as if they had been really serviceable.

"Hah! ver' goot for play vid," observed Gibault contemptuously.

"I say, here's something else," said Bounce, picking up a rifle.

"Wah!" exclaimed Hawkswing, pointing to the weapon in surprise, and
turning his eyes on Redhand.

"Wot! d'ye know who it b'long'd to?" inquired Bounce.

An expression of deep sorrow overspread Redhand's countenance.  "Ay,"
said he mournfully, "I know it well.  It belonged to young Blake."
Glancing quickly up at a place where several scalps were hanging to a
pole, he took one down, and, after gazing at it sadly for a few seconds,
he added in a tone of deep melancholy: "Poor, poor Blake! ye had a
hearty spirit an' a kindly heart.  Your huntin' days were soon over!"

"Was he a friend of yours?" inquired Bertram, affected by the old
trapper's look and tone.

"Ay, ay, he was, he was," said Redhand quickly, and with a sternness of
manner that surprised his companions; "come, lads, mount! mount!  The
redskins won't part with plunder without making an effort to get it
back."

"But, stop a bit, Redhand," cried Bounce, detaining the old man, "ye
didn't use for to be so hot an' hasty.  Where are we to go to?  That's
wot I want to know."

"True," observed Redhand in his old gentle tones, "we've more horses
than we need, and some furs to dispose of.  There's a tradin' fort in
the mountains, but it's a good bit from this."

"What o' that?" said March Marston somewhat impetuously.  "Are we not
armed and well mounted and strong, and have we not lots o' time before
us?"

"Well said," cried Bounce.

"Ditto," echoed Waller.

"Then we'll do it!" cried Redhand, vaulting into the saddle with a
spring that a young man might have envied.

The others followed his example, and in a few seconds they were picking
their way carefully down the ravine in which the Indian camp was
situated.  Leaving this quickly behind, they trotted briskly along the
more open banks of the river until they gained a level sweep of land
which terminated in a belt of low bushes.  Beyond this lay the great
plains.  Breaking into a gallop, they speedily cleared the underwood,
and just as the rosy smile of morning beamed in the eastern sky, they
dashed away, with light hearts and loose reins, out upon the springy
turf of the open prairie.



CHAPTER TEN.

SHORT TREATISE ON HORSEFLESH--REMARKS ON SLANG--DOINGS AND SIGHTS ON THE
PRAIRIE--THE MOUNTAIN FORT.

A horse is a wonderful thing--if we may presume to style so noble a
creature "a thing!"  And the associations connected in some minds with a
horse are wonderful associations.  No doubt a horse, to many people, is
a commonplace enough sort of thing; and the associations connected with
horseflesh in general, in some minds, are decidedly low--having relation
to tugging a cart, or tumbling along with a plough, or rattling with a
cab, or prancing in a carriage, or being cut up into butcher's meat for
cats and dogs.  Nevertheless, a horse is a wonderful creature; and man's
associations in connection with him are, not infrequently, of the most
wonderful and romantic kind.  Talk to the warrior of his steed, and he
will speak of him as of his dearest friend.  Talk to the Arab of his
horse, and he will talk of his pet, his spoiled child!  As it is with
these, so is it with the trapper of the western prairies.

After a few weeks' acquaintance, the trapper and his horse become one--
part and parcel of each other, at least as far as it is possible for man
and horse to amalgamate.  On the one hand, the horse is tended, hobbled,
patted, saddled, spoken to, watched over, and tenderly cared for by the
man; on the other hand, the man is carried, respected, sometimes bitten
(playfully), depended on, and loved by the horse.  Day after day, and
week after week, the limbs of the one and the ribs of the other are
pressed against each other, until they become all but united, and the
various play of muscles on the part of both becomes so delicately
significant that the bridle, to a great extent, becomes unnecessary, and
the rider feels when the horse is about to shy, just as quickly as the
horse feels, by a gentle pressure on either side, how much the rider
wishes him to diverge to the right or left.

Sometimes the horse breaks his hobbles and runs away, thus aggravating
the spirits of, and causing infinite annoyance to, the man.  Frequently
the man, out of revenge for such or similar freaks, larrups and pains
and worries the horse.  But these little asperities are the occasional
landmarks that give point and piquancy to the even tenor of their loving
career.  Neither would, for a moment, think of allowing such incidents
to rankle in his bosom.  Both would repudiate with scorn the idea that
they were a whit less useful, or in any degree less attached, to each
other on account of such trifling tiffs!

Day after day our trappers mounted their steeds and traversed the great
prairie--now at a rattling trot, now at a tearing gallop; frequently at
a quiet foot-pace, when the nature of the ground rendered a more rapid
progress dangerous, or when the exhaustion of horses and men rendered
rest necessary, or when the beautiful nature of the scenery and the warm
sunny condition of the atmosphere induced a contemplative frame of mind
and a placid state of body.

Night after night the horses--having stuffed themselves, like greedy
things as they were, with the greenest and tenderest herbage on the rich
plains--returned to the camp fire round which the trappers were lying in
deep slumber, and each selecting his own master, would stand over him
with drooping head and go to sleep, until dawn called them again to
united action.

Thus day and night passed for the space of three weeks after the night
of the surprise of the Indian camp, without anything particular
occurring; and thus quadrupeds and bipeds came to be familiar and well
acquainted with each other--so thoroughly united in sympathetic action--
as almost to become hexapeds, if we may be permitted the expression.

March Marston's quadruped was a beautiful little bay, whose tendency to
bound over every little stick and stone, as if it were a five-barred
gate, and to run away upon all and every occasion, admirably suited the
tastes and inclinations of its mercurial rider.

There was one among the quadrupeds which was striking in appearance--not
to say stunning.  No; we won't say stunning, because that is a slang
expression, and many persons object to slang expressions; therefore we
will avoid that word; although we confess to being unable to see why, if
it is allowable (as every one will admit it is) to assert that men may
be mentally "struck," it is not equally proper to say that they may be
stunned.  But we bow to prejudice.  We won't say that that horse was
"stunning."  While on this subject, we think it right to guard ourself,
parenthetically, from the charge of being favourable to _all_ kinds of
slang.  We are in favour of speech--yes, we assert that broadly and
fearlessly, without reservation--but we are not in favour of _all_
speech.  Coarse speech, for instance, we decidedly object to.  So, we
are in favour of slang, but not of _all_ slang.  There are some slang
words which are used instead of oaths, and these, besides being wicked,
are exceedingly contemptible.  Tempting, however, they are--too apt to
slip from the tongue and from the pen, and to cause regret afterwards.

But to return.  Although we won't say that the quadruped in question was
stunning, we will say again that it was striking--so powerfully striking
that the force of the stroke was calculated almost to stun.  It was
uncommonly tall, remarkably short in the body, and had a piebald coat.
Moreover, it had no tail--to speak of--as that member had, in some
unguarded moment, got into the blaze of the camp fire and been burnt off
close to the stump.  The stump, however, was pretty long, and, at the
time when the trappers became possessed of the animal, that appendage
was covered with a new growth of sparsely scattered and very stiff hair,
about three inches long, so that it resembled a gigantic bottle-brush.
Being a spirited animal, the horse had a lively bottle-brush, which was
grotesque, if it was nothing else.

This quadruped's own particular biped was Theodore Bertram.  He had a
peculiar liking for it (as he had for everything picturesque), not only
on account of its good qualities--which were, an easy gait and a tender
mouth--but also because it was his own original animal, that of which he
had been deprived by the Indians, and which he had recaptured with
feelings akin to those of a mother who recovers a long-lost child.

We have said that the space of three weeks passed without anything
particular occurring to our trappers.  This remark, however, must be
taken in a limited sense.  Nothing particularly connected with the
thread of this story occurred; though very many and particularly
interesting things of a minor nature did occur during the course of that
period.

It would require a work equal in size to the "Encyclopaedia Britannica"
to contain all the interesting things that were said and seen and done
on those prairies by these trappers within that brief space of time.  A
conscientiously particular chronicler of events would have detailed the
route of each day, the latitude and longitude of each resting-place, the
very nature of the wood which composed the fuel of each fire.  He would
have recorded that March Marston's little bay ran away with him--not, in
a general way, fifty or a hundred times, but exactly so many times,
specifying the concomitant circumstances of each separate time, and the
results of each particular race.  He would have noted, with painful
accuracy, the precise number of times in which Theodore Bertram (being a
bad rider) fell off his horse, or was pitched off in consequence of that
quadruped putting its foot inadvertently into badger holes.  He would
have mentioned that on each occasion the unfortunate artist blackened
his eye, or bled or skinned his nasal organ, and would have dilated
anatomically on the peculiar colour of the disfigured orb and the exact
amount of damage done to the bruised nose.  He would have told not only
the general fact that bears, and elks, and antelopes, and prairie dogs,
and wolves, and buffaloes, were seen in great numbers continually, and
were shot in abundance, but he would have recorded that Bertram did, on
one occasion, in the height of his enthusiastic daring, give a shout and
draw one of his blunderbuss-pistols, on observing a grisly bear at a
short distance ahead of him; that he dashed his heels violently against
the sides of his remarkable horse; that the said horse did toss his
head, shake his bottle-brush, and rush full tilt towards the bear until
he caught sight of it, when he turned off at a sharp angle, leaving
Bertram on the plain at the mercy of the bear; that Bruin, who was in
nowise alarmed, observing his condition, came to see what was the matter
with him; and that he, Mr Bertram, would certainly have fallen a victim
to his own headstrong courage on the one hand, and to the bear's known
tendency to rend human beings on the other, had not March come up at
that moment and shot it through the heart, while Redhand shot it through
the brain.

And this supposed conscientious chronicler of events, had he been a
naturalist, would have further detailed, with graphic particularity, the
rich, exuberant, and varied _flora_ of the region--from the largest
plant that waved and blossomed in the prairie winds to the lowliest
floweret that nestled among the tender and sweet-scented grasses on the
prairie's breast.  In regard to the _fauna_ of those regions, he would
have launched out upon the form, the colour, size, habits,
peculiarities, etcetera, of every living thing, from the great buffalo
(which he would have carefully explained was _not_ the buffalo, but the
_bison_) down to the sly, impudent, yet harmless little prairie dog
(which he would have also carefully noted was _not_ the prairie dog, but
the marmot).

Had this supposed recorder of facts been of an erratic nature, given to
wander from anecdote to description, and _vice versa_, he would perhaps
have told, in a parenthetical sort of way, how that, during these three
weeks, the trappers enjoyed uninterrupted fine weather; how the artist
sketched so indefatigably that he at last filled his book to overflowing
and had to turn it upside down, begin at the end, and sketch on the
backs of his previous drawings; how Big Waller and Black Gibault became
inseparable friends and sang duets together when at full gallop, the
latter shrieking like a wild-cat, the former roaring like a buffalo
bull; how March Marston became madder than ever, and infected his little
steed with the same disease, so that the two together formed a species
of insane compound that caused Redhand and Bounce to give vent to many a
low chuckle and many a deep sagacious remark, and induced Hawkswing to
gaze at it--the compound--in grave astonishment.

All this and a great deal more might be told, and, no doubt, might prove
deeply interesting.  But, as no man can do everything, so no man can
record everything; therefore we won't attempt it, but shall at once, and
without further delay, proceed to that part of our tale which bears more
directly on the Rocky Mountains and the Wild Man of the West himself.

"It's a strong place," said Redhand, checking the pace of his horse and
pointing to a small edifice or fort which stood on the summit of a
little mound or hill about a quarter of a mile in advance of them--"a
very strong place--such as would puzzle the redskins to break into if
defended by men of ordinary pluck."

"Men of pluck sometimes get careless, and go to sleep, though," said
March Marston, riding up to the old trapper; "I've heard o' such forts
bein' taken by redskins before now."

"So have I, lad, so have I," returned Redhand; "I've heard o' a fort
bein' attacked by Injuns when the men were away huntin', an' bein' burnt
down.  But it ginerally turns out that the whites have had themselves to
thank for't."

"Ay, that's true," observed Bounce; "some o' the whites in them parts is
no better nor they should be.  They treats the poor Injuns as if they
wos dogs or varmints, an' then they're astonished if the redskins murder
them out o' revenge.  I know'd one feller as told me that when he lived
on the west side o' the mountains, where some of the Injuns are a
murderin' set o' thieves, he niver lost a chance o' killin' a redskin.
Of course the redskins niver lost a chance o' killin' the whites; an' so
they come to sich a state o' war, that they had to make peace by givin'
them no end o' presents o' guns an' cloth an' beads--enough to buy up
the furs o' a whole tribe."

"I guess they was powerful green to do anything o' the sort," said Big
Waller.  "I knowed a feller as was in command of a party o' whites, who
got into much the same sort of fix with the Injuns--always fightin' and
murderin'; so what does he do, think ye?"

"Shooted de chief and all hims peepil," suggested Gibault.

"Nothin' o' the sort," replied Waller.  "He sends for the chief, an'
gives him a grand present, an' says he wants to marry his darter.  An'
so he _did_ marry his darter, right off, an' the whites an' redskins was
friends ever after that.  The man what did that was a gentleman too--so
they said; tho' for my part I don't know wot a gentleman is--no more do
I b'lieve there ain't sich a thing; but if there be, an' it means
anything good, I calc'late that that man _wos_ a gentleman, for w'en he
grew old he took his old squaw to Canada with him, 'spite the larfin' o'
his comrades, who said he'd have to sot up a wigwam for her in his
garden.  But he says, `No,' says he, `I married the old ooman for better
an' for worse, an' I'll stick by her to the last.  There's too many o'
you chaps as leaves yer wives behind ye when ye go home--I'm detarmined
to sot ye a better example.'  An' so he did.  He tuk her home an' put
her in a grand house in some town in Canada--I don't well mind which--
but when he wasn't watchin' of her, the old ooman would squat down on
the carpet in the drawin'-room, for, d'ye see, she hadn't bin used to
chairs.  His frinds used to advise him to put her away, an' the kindlier
sort said he should give her a room to herself, and not bring her into
company where she warn't at ease; but no, the old man said always,
`She's my lawful wedded wife, an' if she was a buffalo cow I'd stick by
her to the last'--an' so he did."

"Vraiment he was von cur'ous creetur," observed Gibault.

"See, they have descried us!" exclaimed Bertram, pointing to the fort,
which they were now approaching, and where a bustle among the
inhabitants showed that their visitors were not always peacefully
disposed, and that it behoved them to regard strangers with suspicion.

"Would it not be well to send one of our party on in advance with a
white flag?" observed Bertram.

"No need for that," replied Redhand, "they're used to all kinds o'
visitors--friends as well as foes.  I fear, however, from the haste they
show in closing their gate, that they ain't on good terms with the
Injuns."

"The red-men and the pale-faces are at war," said Hawkswing.

"Ay, you're used to the signs, no doubt," returned Redhand, "for you've
lived here once upon a time, I b'lieve."

The Indian made no reply, but a dark frown overspread his countenance
for a few minutes.  When it passed, his features settled down into their
usual state of quiet gravity.

"Have ye ever seed that fort before?" inquired Bounce in the Indian
tongue.

"I have," answered Hawkswing.  "Many moons have passed since I was in
this spot.  My nation was strong then.  It is weak now.  Few braves are
left.  We sometimes carried our furs to that fort to trade with the
pale-faces.  It is called the Mountain Fort.  The chief of the
pale-faces was a bad man then.  He loved fire-water too much.  If he is
there still, I do not wonder that there is war between him and the
red-men."

"That's bad," said Bounce, shaking his head slowly--"very bad; for the
redskins 'll kill us if they can on account o' them rascally
fur-traders.  Howsomdiver we can't mend it, so we must bear it."

As Bounce uttered this consolatory remark, the party cantered up to the
open space in front of the gate of the fort, just above which a man was
seen leaning quietly over the wooden walls of the place with a gun
resting on his arm.

"Hallo!" shouted this individual when they came within hail.

"Hallo!" responded Bounce.

"Friends or foes, and where from?" inquired the laconic guardian of the
fort.

"Friends," replied Redhand riding forward, "we come from the
Yellowstone.  Have lost some of our property, but got some of it back,
and want to trade furs with you."

To this the sentinel made no reply, but, looking straight at Big Waller,
inquired abruptly, "Are you the Wild Man?"

"Wot wild man?" said Waller gruffly.

"Why, the Wild Man o' the West?"

"No, I hain't," said Waller still more gruffly, for he did not feel
flattered by the question.

"Have you seen him?"

"No I hain't, an' guess I shouldn't know him if I had."

"Why do you ask?" inquired March Marston, whose curiosity had been
roused by these unexpected questions.

"'Cause I want to know," replied the man quitting his post and
disappearing.  In a few minutes he opened the gate, and the trappers
trotted into the square of the fort.

The Mountain Fort, in which they now dismounted, was one of those little
wooden erections in which the hardy pioneers of the fur trade were wont
in days of old to establish themselves in the very heart of the Indian
country.  Such forts may still be seen in precisely similar
circumstances, and built in the same manner, at the present day, in the
Hudson's Bay territories; with this difference that the Indians, having
had long experience of the good intentions and the kindness of the
pale-faces, no longer regard them with suspicion.  The walls were made
of strong tall palisades, with bastions built of logs at the corners,
and a gallery running all round inside close to the top of the walls, so
that the defenders of the place could fire over the palisades, if need
be, at their assailants.  There was a small iron cannon in each bastion.
One large gate formed the entrance, but this was only opened to admit
horsemen or carts; a small wicket in one leaf of the gate formed the
usual entrance.

The buildings within the fort consisted of three little houses, one
being a store, the others dwelling-houses, about which several men and
women and Indian children, besides a number of dogs, were grouped.
These immediately surrounded the trappers as they dismounted.  "Who
commands here?" inquired Redhand.

"I do," said the sentinel before referred to, pushing aside the others
and stepping forward, "at least I do at present.  My name's McLeod.  He
who ought to command is drunk.  He's _always_ drunk."

There was a savage gruffness in the way in which McLeod said this that
surprised the visitors, for his sturdy-looking and honest countenance
seemed to accord ill with such tones.

"An' may I ask who _he_ is?" said Redhand.

"Oh yes, his name's Macgregor--you can't see him to-night, though.
There'll be bloody work here before long if he don't turn over a new
leaf--"

McLeod checked himself as if he felt that he had gone too far.  Then he
added, in a tone that seemed much more natural to him, "Now, sirs, come
this way.  Here," (turning to the men who stood by), "look to these
horses and see them fed.  Come into the hall, friends, an' the squaws
will prepare something for you to eat while we have a smoke and a talk
together."

So saying, this changeable man, who was a strange compound of a trapper
and a gentleman, led the way to the principal dwelling-house, and,
throwing open the door, ushered his guests into the reception hall of
the Mountain Fort.



CHAPTER ELEVEN.

ORIGINAL EFFORTS IN THE ART OF PAINTING--FUR-TRADING HOSPITALITY--
WONDERFUL ACCOUNTS OF THE WILD MAN OF THE WEST, FROM AN EYE-WITNESS--
BUFFALO HUNTING, SCALPING, MURDERING, AND A SUMMARY METHOD OF INFLICTING
PUNISHMENT.

The reception hall of the Mountain Fort, into which, as we have stated,
the trappers were ushered by McLeod, was one of those curious apartments
which were in those days (and in a few cases still are) created for the
express purpose of "astonishing the natives!"

It was a square room, occupying the centre of the house, and having
doors all round, which opened into the sleeping or other apartments of
the dwelling.  In the front wall of this room were the door which led
direct into the open air, and the two windows.  There were no passages
in the house--it was all rooms and doors.  One of these doors, towards
the back, opened into a species of scullery--but it was not exactly a
scullery, neither was it a kitchen, neither was it a pantry.  The squaws
lived there--especially the cooking squaws--and a few favoured dogs.  A
large number of pots and pans and kettles, besides a good deal of lumber
and provisions in daily use, also dwelt there.  A door led from this
room out to the back of the house, and into a small offshoot, which was
the kitchen proper.  Here a spirited French Canadian reigned supreme in
the midst of food, fire, and steam, smoke, smells, and fat.

But to return to the reception hall.  There were no pictures on its
walls, no draperies about its windows, no carpets on its floors, no
cloths on its tables, and no ornaments on its mantelshelf.  Indeed,
there was no mantelshelf to put ornaments upon.  The floor, the walls,
the ceiling, the chairs, the tables; all were composed of the same
material--wood.  The splendour of the apartment was entirely due to
paint.  Everything was painted--and that with a view solely to startling
effect.  Blue, red, and yellow, in their most brilliant purity, were
laid on in a variety of original devices, and with a boldness of
contrast that threw Moorish effort in that line quite into the shade.
The Alhambra was nothing to it!  The floor was yellow ochre; the ceiling
was sky-blue; the cornices were scarlet, with flutings of blue and
yellow, and, underneath, a broad belt of fruit and foliage, executed in
an extremely arabesque style.  The walls were light green, with narrow
bands of red down the sides of each plank.  The table was yellow, the
chairs blue, and their bottoms red, by way of harmonious variety.  But
the grand point--the great masterpiece in the ornamentation of this
apartment--was the centre-piece in the ceiling, in the execution of
which there was an extraordinary display of what can be accomplished by
the daring flight of an original genius revelling in the conscious
possession of illimitable power, without the paralysing influence of
conventional education.

The device itself was indescribable.  It was a sun or a star, or rather
a union and commingling of suns and stars in violent contrast, wreathed
with fanciful fruits and foliage, and Cupids, and creatures of a now
extinct species.  The rainbow had been the painter's palette; genius his
brush; fancy-gone-mad his attendant; the total temporary stagnation of
redskin faculties his object, and ecstasy his general state of mind,
when he executed this magnificent _chef d'oeuvre_ in the centre of the
ceiling of the reception hall at the Mountain Fort.

The fireplace was a capacious cavern in the wall opposite the entrance
door, in which, during winter, there usually burned a roaring bonfire of
huge logs of wood, but where, at the time of which we write, there was
just enough fire to enable visitors to light their pipe's.  When that
fire blazed up in the dark winter nights, the effect of that gorgeous
apartment was dazzling--absolutely bewildering.

The effect upon our trappers when they entered was sufficiently strong.
They gazed round in amazement, each giving vent to his feelings in his
own peculiar exclamatory grunt, or gasp, or cough.  In addition to this,
Bounce smote his thigh with unwonted vigour.  Gibault, after gazing for
a few minutes, sighed out something that sounded like _magnifique_! and
Bertram grinned from ear to ear.  He went further: he laughed aloud--an
impolite thing to do, in the circumstances, and, for a grave man like
him, an unusual ebullition of feeling.  But it was observed and noted
that on this occasion the artist did not draw forth his sketch-book.

McLeod, who, from his speech and bearing, was evidently a man of some
education, placed chairs for his visitors, took the lid off a large
canister of tobacco, and, pushing it into the middle of the yellow
table, said--

"Sit ye down, friends, and help yourselves."

He set them the example by taking down his own pipe from a nail in the
wall, and proceeding to fill it.  Having done so, he took a piece of
glowing charcoal from the fire, and, placing it on the bowl, began to
smoke, glancing the while, with an amused expression on his grave face,
at the trappers, who, while filling their pipes, kept gazing round the
walls and up at the ceiling.

"Ha!" said he, "you are struck with our hall (puff, puff).  It's rather
(puff) an effective one (puff).  Have a light?"

Bounce, to whom the light was offered, accepted the same, applied it to
his pipe, and said--

"Well, yes (puff), it is (puff) raither wot ye may call (puff)
pecooliar."

"Most visitors to this place think so," said McLeod.  "The Indians
highly approve of it, and deem me quite a marvel of artistic power."

"Wot! did _you_ paint it?" inquired Waller.

"I did," answered McLeod, with a nod.

"Vraiment, de Injuns am right in deir opinion of you," cried Gibault,
relighting his pipe, which, in the astonished state of his mind, he had
allowed to go out.

McLeod smiled, if we may so speak, _gravely_, in acknowledgment of the
compliment.

"Ha!" cried Gibault, turning to Bertram as if a sudden thought had
occurred to him, "Monsieur Bertram et Monsieur Mak Load, you be broders.
Oui, Monsieur Mak Load, dis mine comrade--him be von painteur."

"Indeed!" said McLeod, turning to the artist with more interest than he
had yet shown towards the strangers.

"I have, indeed, the honour to follow the noble profession of painting,"
said Bertram, "but I cannot boast of having soared so high as--as--"

"As to attempt the frescoes on the ceiling of a reception hall in the
backwoods," interrupted McLeod, laughing.  "No, I believe you, sir; but,
although I cannot presume to call you brother professionally, still I
trust that I may do so as an amateur.  I am delighted to see you here.
It is not often we are refreshed with the sight of the face of a
civilised man in these wild regions."

"Upon my word, sir, you are plain-spoken," said March Marston with a
look of affected indignation; "what do you call _us_?"

"Pardon me, young sir," replied McLeod, "I call you trappers, which
means neither civilised nor savage; neither fish, nor flesh, nor fowl--"

"That's a foul calumny," cried Bounce, knocking the ashes out of his
pipe, and refilling it from the canister; "it's wot may be called a--
a--"

"Lie," suggested Waller.

"No," said Bounce, "it ain't that.  I don't like that word.  It's a ugly
word, an' you shouldn't ought to use it, Waller.  It's a _error_; that's
wot it is, in a feelosophical pint o' view.  Jest as much of a error,
now, as it was in you, Mister McLeod, putting so little baccy in this
here thing that there ain't none left."

"What! is it all done?" cried McLeod, rising, and seizing the canister;
"so it is.  I declare you smoke almost as fast as the Wild Man himself;
for whom I mistook you, Mr Waller, when I saw you first, at some
distance off."

Saying this, he left the room to fetch a further supply of the soothing
weed, and at the same moment two squaws appeared, bearing smoking dishes
of whitefish and venison.

"That fellow knows something about the Wild Man o' the West," said March
Marston in a low, eager tone, to his comrades.  "Twice has he mentioned
his name since we arrived."

"So he has," observed Redhand, "but there may be other wild men besides
our one."

"Unpossible," said Bounce emphatically.

"Ditto," cried Waller still more emphatically; "what say you,
Hawkswing?"

"There is but one Wild Man of the West," replied the Indian.

"By the way, Hawkswing, what was the name o' the rascally trader you
said was in charge o' this fort when you lived here?" asked Redhand.

"Mokgroggir," replied the Indian.

"Ha, Macgregor, ye mean, no doubt."

Hawkswing nodded.

"Here you are, friends," said McLeod, re-entering the room with a large
roll of tobacco.  "Help yourselves and don't spare it.  There's plenty
more where that came from.  But I see the steaks are ready, so let us
fall to; we can smoke afterwards."

During the repast, to which the trappers applied themselves with the
gusto of hungry men, March Marston questioned McLeod about the Wild Man.

"The Wild Man o' the West," said he in some surprise; "is it possible
there are trappers in the Rocky Mountains who have not heard of _him_?"

"Oh yes," said March hastily, "we've heard of him, but we want to hear
more particularly about him, for the accounts don't all agree."

"Ha! that's it," said Bounce, speaking with difficulty through a large
mouthful of fish, "that's it.  They don't agree.  One says his rifle is
thirty feet long, another forty feet, an' so on.  There's no gittin' at
truth in this here--"

A bone having stuck in Bounce's throat at that moment he was unable to
conclude the sentence.

"As to the length of his rifle," said McLeod, when the noise made by
Bounce in partially choking had subsided, "you seem to have got rather
wild notions about that, and about the Wild Man too, I see."

"But he _is_ a giant, isn't he?" inquired March anxiously.

"N-not exactly.  Certainly he is a big fellow, about the biggest man I
ever saw--but he's not forty feet high!"

March Marston's romantic hopes began to sink.  "Then he's an ordinary
man just like one o' us," he said almost gloomily.

"Nay, that he is not," returned McLeod, laughing.  "Your comrade Waller
does indeed approach to him somewhat in height, but he's nothing to him
in breadth; and as for ferocity, strength, and activity, I never saw
anything like him in my life.  He comes sometimes here to exchange his
furs for powder and lead, but he'll speak to no one, except in the
sharpest, gruffest way.  I think he's mad myself.  But he seems to lead
a charmed life here; for although he has had fights with many of the
tribes in these parts, he always puts them to flight, although he fights
single-handed."

"Single-handed!" exclaimed Bounce in surprise.

"Ay.  I've seen him at it myself, and can vouch for it, that if ever
there was a born fiend let loose on this earth it's the Wild Man of the
West when he sets-to to thrash a dozen Indians.  But I must do him the
justice to say that I never heard of him making an unprovoked attack on
anybody.  When he first came to these mountains, many years ago--before
I came here--the Indians used to wonder who he was and what he meant to
do.  Then after a while, seeing he had a good horse, a good rifle, and
plenty of ammunition, they tried to kill him; but the first fellow that
tried that only tried it once.  He lay in a close thicket nigh to where
the Wild Man used to pass from his home in the mountains to places where
he used to hunt the elk and the buffalo, so, when he came up, the Indian
laid an arrow on his bow.  But the Wild Man's eye was sharp as a needle.
He stopped his horse, took aim like a flash of lightning, and shot him
through the head.  I heard this from another Indian that was with the
murderin' fellow that was shot.  The Wild Man did nothing to the other.
He let him escape.

"Of course the relations of the man who was killed were up immediately,
and twenty of them set out to murder the Wild Man.  They took their
horses, spears, and bows, with them, and lay in wait at a place where he
was often seen passing.  Sure enough up he came, on horseback, at a slow
walk, looking as careless and easy as if no blood of a redskin rested on
his hand.

"It chanced the day before that day that we had run out of fresh meat,
so Mr Macgregor, our commandant here, ordered me to take three of the
men, and go out after the buffaloes.  Away we went, looking sharp out,
however, for some of the Indians had been treated by Macgregor so
brutally, I am sorry to say, that we knew our scalps were not safe.
Next morning I happened to pass close by the place where the Indians lay
in ambush, and we came to the top of a precipice that overlooked the
spot.  We saw them before they saw us, so we went quietly back into the
bush, tied our horses to trees, and lay on the edge of the cliff to
watch them.

"In about ten minutes after, we saw the Wild Man riding slowly forward.
He was a strange sight.  It was the first time I had seen him, although
I had often heard of him before.

"Well, on he came, with his head bent and his eyes fixed on the ground.
A dense thicket hid his enemies from him, though not from us, we being
so high above them.  The Wild Man was armed with his long rifle slung at
his back, a hunting-knife, and a small shield, such as the Blackfoot
Indians use to protect themselves from arrows.  The only unusual sort of
weapon he carried was a long sword.

"Not knowing at the time that the Indians were waiting for him, of
course I gave no alarm to warn him of his danger.  When he came within a
hundred yards of the thicket, I saw him push his arm a little further
into the handle of the shield.  It was but a slight action such as one
might perform to ease the arm by change of position; but the redskins
are quick-witted.  They knew that he suspected they were there, so,
giving one tremendous yell, they sent a cloud of arrows at him, and
sprang out upon the plain at full gallop with their spears lowered.

"Instead of turning to fly from such an unequal combat, the Wild Man
drew his sword and rushed at them like a thunderbolt.  His onset was the
most awful thing I ever saw in my life.  The plain seemed to shake under
the tread of his gigantic horse.  His hair streamed wildly out behind
him, and as he was coming towards me I could see that his teeth were set
and his eyes flashed like those of a tiger.  The Indians were appalled
by the sight.  The idea of one man attacking twenty had never occurred
to them.  They drew up; but it was too late to prevent a shock.  There
was a yell from the savages, a shout like the roar of a lion from the
Wild Man, and two horses and their riders lay on the plain.  I saw the
long sword gleam for one moment, just as the shock took place, and the
head of a savage rolled immediately after along the ground.

"The Indians, though overawed, were brave men.  They turned to pursue
the flying horseman, but they needed not.  The Wild Man was not flying,
he was only unable at first to check the headlong pace of his charger.
In a few seconds he wheeled about and charged again.  The Indians,
however, did not await the issue; they turned and fled, and they have
ever since remained in the firm belief that the Wild Man is a `great
medicine' man, and that no one can kill him.  They say that neither
arrows nor bullets can pierce his skin, which is an inch thick; that
fire and smoke come out of his mouth and eyes, and that his horse is,
like himself, invulnerable.  I must confess, however, that with the
exception of his enormous size and his ferocity, he is, from what I saw
of him, much the same as other men."

McLeod concluded his description of this singular being, to which his
guests listened open-eyed and mouthed, and helped himself to a
buffalo-steak.

"An' what did he when the Indians ran away!" inquired March Marston.

"Oh! he quietly pulled up his horse and let them run.  After they were
gone, he continued his journey, as slow and cool as if nothing had
happened.  Few Indians attack him now, except new bands from distant
parts of the country, who don't know him; but all who meddle with him
find, to their cost, that it would have been better had they let him
alone."

"Is he cruel?  Does he eat men and childers?" inquired Bounce,
commencing a fourth steak with a degree of violent energy that suggested
the possibility of his being himself able to do some execution in the
cannibal line if necessary.

McLeod laughed.  "Oh dear, no; he's not cruel.  Neither does he eat
human flesh.  In fact, he has been known to do some kind acts to poor
starving Indians when they least expected it.  The real truth is, that
he is only fierce when he's meddled with.  He never takes revenge, and
he has never been known to lift a scalp."

"But what like is he when he comes to trade his furs at the fort here?
how does he speak, and in what language?" inquired Marston, who,
although delighted with the account given of the strength and valour of
the Wild Man of the West, was by no means pleased to learn that he was
not an absolute giant, something like the Giant Despair of whom he had
read in the "Pilgrim's Progress."

"He's just like a trapper--only he's a tremendous big one--six feet six,
if he's an inch, and would make two of the biggest of the present
company round the shoulders.  But he's very silent, and won't let any
one question him.  The long and the short of it is, that I believe he is
a madman--luckily he's a well-disposed madman, and I can vouch for it he
is a crack hunter, though he don't bring many furs to trade.  I think he
spends most of his idle time in moping among the caves of the
mountains."

"Does any one know where he lives?" asked Bertram, who was gradually
becoming interested in this strange being.

"No.  We have sometimes tried to track him, but at a certain place we
have invariably lost all traces of him."

"But what is his face like, and how does he dress?" inquired March
eagerly; "you have not yet said anything about that."

McLeod was about to reply, when he was interrupted by a loud shouting in
the yard of the fort.  Leaping from their seats, the whole party ran to
the windows.

"I thought so," cried McLeod, seizing his cap and hurrying out.  "These
are six of my men who have been out after the buffalo, and I see they
have been successful."

The fort gate had been swung open, and, just as the guests issued from
the reception hall, six hunters galloped into the square with all the
reckless noise and dash peculiar to that class of men.  Leaping from
their foaming steeds, they were quickly surrounded by their comrades,
and by the women and children of the place, who congratulated them on
their success in the chase, and plied them with eager questions.

That they had indeed been successful was evident from the masses of
fresh meat with which the horses were laden.

"Well done, Davis," said McLeod, stepping up to one of the men, who,
from his age and intelligence, had been put in command of the hunting
party.  "You are back sooner than I anticipated.  Surely, your good
genius sent the buffalo across your path."

"We have bin in luck, sir," replied the hunter, touching his cap.
"We've killed more than we could carry, an', what's worse, we've killed
more than we wanted."

"How so?"

"We've had a brush wi' the redskins, sir, an' we had to kill one or two
in self-defence."

McLeod's brow darkened.  He clenched his teeth, and the large veins
swelled in his neck and forehead.  With a powerful effort he repressed
his anger, and said--

"Did I not warn you to avoid that if you could?"

"True, sir," replied Davis humbly; "but we could not help it, for, in
the first heat of passion, one o' them was shot, an' after that, of
course, we had to fight to save our own scalps."

"Who fired that first shot?" inquired McLeod sternly.

Davis made no reply, but all eyes were at once turned upon a tall
slouching man, with a forbidding cast of countenance, who had hitherto
kept in the background.

"So, so, Larocque," said McLeod, stepping up to the man, "you've been at
your bloody work again, you scoundrel.  Hah! you not only bring the
enmity of the whole Indian race down on your own worthless head, and on
the heads of your innocent companions, but you have the effrontery to
bring the evidence of your guilt into this fort along with you."

As McLeod spoke, he laid hold of a scalp which still dropped fresh blood
as it hung at the hunter's saddle-bow.

"If I'm to answer to you for every scalp I choose to lift in
self-defence, the sooner I quit you the better," answered Larocque
sulkily.

"Was there any occasion to lift this scalp at all?" demanded McLeod, as
he seized the man by the collar.

"Who talks of lifting scalps?" growled a loud, deep-toned voice.

All eyes were instantly turned on the speaker, and the crowd fell back
to permit Mr Macgregor, the person in command of the Mountain Fort, to
approach the scene of action.

The man who now appeared on the scene was a sad and a terrible sight to
behold.  He was one of that wretched class of human beings who, having
run a long course of unbridled wickedness, become total wrecks in body
and mind long before the prime of manhood has been passed.  Macgregor
had been a confirmed drunkard for many years.  He had long lost all
power of self-control, and had now reached that last fearful stage when
occasional fits of _delirium tremens_ rendered him more like a wild
beast than a man.  Being a large and powerful man, and naturally
passionate, he was at these times a terror to all who came near him.  He
had been many years in charge of the fur-trading establishment, and
having on many occasions maltreated the Indians, he was hated by them
most cordially.

One of his mad fits had been on him for some days before the arrival of
March Marston and his friends.  He had recovered sufficiently to be able
to stagger out of his room just at the time the buffalo hunters, as
above described, entered the square of the fort.  As he strode forward,
with nothing on but his shirt and trousers, his eyes bloodshot, his hair
matted and dishevelled, and his countenance haggard in the extreme, he
was the most pitiable, and, at the same time, most terrible specimen of
human degradation that the mind of man could conceive of.

"What now! who has been lifting scalps?" he growled between his set
teeth, striding up to Larocque, and glaring in his face, with his
bloodshot eyes, like a tiger.

McLeod held up the bloody scalp.

"Who did it?" roared Macgregor.

"I did," said Larocque with an attempt at a defiant air.

The words had barely passed his lips when he received a blow between the
eyes that felled him to the earth.  He attempted to rise, but, with a
yell that sounded more like the war-cry of a savage than the wrathful
shout of a civilised man, Macgregor knocked him down again, and,
springing at his throat, began to strangle him.

Up to this point, McLeod refrained from interfering, for he was not
sorry to see the murderer receive such severe punishment; but, having no
desire to witness a second murder, he now seized his master, and, with
the assistance of two of the men, succeeded in tearing him off from
Larocque, and in conveying him, as respectfully as possible in the
circumstances, to his private chamber.



CHAPTER TWELVE.

AN ARGUMENT ON ARGUMENTATION--ALSO ON RELIGION--BOUNCE "FEELOSOPHICAL"
AGAIN--A RACE CUT SHORT BY A BULLET--FLIGHT AND PURSUIT OF THE REDSKINS.

When McLeod returned to the square, he found that the trappers had
adjourned with the men of the establishment to enjoy a social pipe
together, and that Theodore Bertram was taking a solitary, meditative
promenade in front of the gate of the fort.

"You seem in a pensive mood, Mr Bertram," said the fur trader on coming
up, "will you not try the soothing effects of a pipe?  Our tobacco is
good; I can recommend it."

He offered a plug of tobacco to the artist as he spoke.

"Thank you, I do not smoke," said Bertram, declining the proffered
luxury.  "Tobacco may be good--though I know it not from experience.
Yet, methinks, the man is wiser who does not create an unnatural taste,
than he who does so for the purpose of gratifying it."

"Ah! you are a philosopher."

"If judging of things and questions simply on their own merit, and with
the single object of ascertaining what is truth in regard to them,
constitutes a philosopher, I am."

"Don't you find that men who philosophise in that way are usually deemed
an obstinate generation by their fellow-men?" inquired the trader,
smiling as he puffed a voluminous cloud from his lips.

"I do," replied Bertram.

"And don't you think the charge is just?" continued the other in a
jocular tone.

"I do not," replied the artist.  "I think those who call them obstinate
are often much more truly deserving of the epithet.  Philosophers, in
the popular sense of the word, are men who not only acquire knowledge
and make themselves acquainted with the opinions of others, but who make
independent use of acquired knowledge, and thus originate new ideas and
frequently arrive at new conclusions.  They thus often come to differ
from the rest of mankind on many points, and, having good reasons for
this difference of opinion, they are ever ready to explain and expound
their opinions and to prove their correctness, or to receive proof of
their incorrectness, if that can be given--hence they are called
argumentative.  Being unwilling to give up what appears to them to be
truth, unless it can be shown to be falsehood, their opinions are not
easily overturned--hence they are called obstinate.  Thinking out a
subject in a calm, dispassionate, logical manner, from its first
proposition to its legitimate conclusion, is laborious to all.  A very
large class of men and women have no patience for such a process of
investigation--hence argumentation, that most noble of all mental
exercises, is deemed a nuisance.  Certainly argumentation with
unphilosophical persons _is_ a nuisance; but I know of few earthly
enjoyments more gratifying than an argument with a true philosopher."

"That's wot I says, so I do, out-an'-out," observed Bounce, who had come
up unperceived, and had overheard the greater part of the above remarks.
"Jist wot I thinks myself, Mr Bertram, only I couldn't 'xactly put it
in the same way, d'ye see?  That's wot I calls out-an'-out feelosophy."

"Glad to hear you're such a wise fellow," said McLeod patronisingly.
"So you agree, of course, with Mr Bertram in condemning the use of the
pipe."

"Condemn the pipe?" said Bounce, pulling out his own special favourite
and beginning to fill it--"wot, condemn smokin'?  No, by no means
wotsomdiver.  That's quite another kee-westion, wot we hain't bin a
disputin' about.  I only heer'd Mr Bertram a-talkin' about obst'nitness
an' argementation."

"Well, in regard to that," said Bertram, "I firmly believe that men and
women are all alike equally obstinate."

"Ha!" ejaculated Bounce, with that tone of mingled uncertainty and
profound consideration which indicates an unwillingness to commit
oneself in reference to a new and startling proposition.

"On what grounds do you think so?" asked McLeod.

"Why on the simple ground that a man _cannot_ change any opinion until
he is convinced that it is wrong, and that he inevitably must, and
actually does, change his opinion on the instant that he is so
convinced; and that in virtue, not of his will, but of the constitution
of his mind.  Some men's minds are of such a nature--they take such a
limited and weak grasp of things--that they cannot be easily convinced.
Others are so powerful that they readily seize upon truth when it is
presented to them; but in either case, the instant the point of
conviction is reached the mind is changed.  Pride may indeed prevent the
admission of this change, but it takes place, as I have said,
inevitably."

At this Bounce opened his eyes to their utmost possible width and said
solemnly, "Wot! do ye mean for to tell me, then, that thair ain't no
sich thing as obstinacy?"  He accompanied this question with a shake of
the head that implied that if Bertram were to argue till doomsday he
would never convince him (Bounce) of that.

"By no means," returned the artist, smiling; "there is plenty of it, but
obstinacy does not consist in the simple act of holding one's opinion
firmly."

"Wot _does_ it consist of, then?"

"In this--in holding firmly to opinions that have been taken hastily up,
without the grounds on which they are founded having been duly weighed;
and in refusing to consider these grounds in a philosophical (which
means a rational) way, because the process would prove tiresome.  The
man who has comfortably settled all his opinions in this way very much
resembles that `fool' of whom it is written that he `is wiser in his own
conceit than seven men who can _render a reason_.'"

"Well, but, to come back to the starting-point," said McLeod, "many wise
men smoke."

"If you say that in the way of argument, I meet it with the counter
proposition that many wise men _don't_ smoke."

"Hah!" ejaculated Bounce, but whether Bounce's ejaculation was one of
approval or disapproval we cannot tell.  Neither can we tell what
conclusion these philosophers came to in regard to smoking, because,
just then, two horsemen were seen approaching the fort at full speed.

Seeing that they were alone, McLeod took no precautions to prevent
surprise.  He knew well enough that Indians frequently approach in this
manner, so waited in front of the gate, coolly smoking his pipe, until
the savages were within a few yards of him.  It seemed as if they
purposed running him down, but just as they came to within a couple of
bounds of him, they drew up so violently as to throw their foaming
steeds on their haunches.

Leaping to the ground, the Indians--who were a couple of strong,
fine-looking savages, dressed in leathern costume, with the usual
ornaments of bead and quill work, tags, and scalp-locks--came forward
and spoke a few words to McLeod in the Cree language, and immediately
after, delivering their horses to the care of one of the men of the
establishment, accompanied him to the store.

In less than half an hour they returned to the gate, when the Indians
remounted, and, starting away at their favourite pace--full gallop--were
soon out of sight.

"Them fellows seem to be in a hurry," remarked Bounce as they
disappeared.

"Ay, they're after mischief too," replied McLeod in a sad tone of voice.
"They are two Cree chiefs who have come here for a supply of ammunition
to hunt the buffalo, but I know they mean to hunt different game, for I
heard them talking to each other about a war-party of Blood Indians
being in this part of the country.  Depend upon it scalps will be taken
ere long.  'Tis a sad, sad state of things.  Blood, blood, blood seems
to be the universal cry here; and, now that we've had so many quarrels
with the redskins, I fear that the day is not far-distant when blood
will flow even in the Mountain Fort.  I see no prospect of a better
state of things, for savage nature cannot be changed.  It seems a
hopeless case."

There was a touch of pathos in the tone in which this was said that was
very different from McLeod's usual bold and reckless manner.  It was
evident that his natural disposition was kind, hearty, and peaceable;
but that the constant feuds in which he was involved, both in the fort
and out of it, had soured his temper and rendered him wellnigh
desperate.

"You are wrong, sir, in saying that their case is hopeless," said
Bertram earnestly.  "There is a remedy."

"I wish you could show it me," replied the trader.

"Here it is," returned the artist, taking his little Testament from the
inside pocket of his hunting-shirt.  "The gospel is able to make all men
wise unto salvation."

McLeod shook his head, and said, "It won't do here.  To be plain with
you, sir, I don't believe the gospel's of any use in these wild regions,
where murder seems to be as natural to man, woman, and child as food."

"But, sir," rejoined Bertram, "you forget that our Saviour Himself says
that He came not to call the righteous but _sinners_ to repentance.  In
this volume we are told that the blood of Christ cleanseth us from _all_
sin; and, not only have we His assurance that none who come unto Him
shall be cast out, but we have examples in all parts of the known world
of men and women who were once steeped to the lips in every species of
gross iniquity having been turned to the service of God through faith in
Christ, and that by the power of the Holy Spirit, who, in this Word of
God, is promised freely to them that simply ask."

"It may be so," returned McLeod; "I have not studied these things much.
I don't profess to be a very religious man, and I cannot pretend to know
much of what the gospel has done elsewhere; but I feel quite sure that
it cannot do much _here_!"

"Then you do not believe the Bible, which says distinctly that this
`gospel is the power of God unto salvation to _every one_ that
believeth.'"

"Ay, but these wretched Indians won't believe," objected the trader.

"True," answered Bertram; "they have not faith by nature, and they
_won't_ because they _can't_ believe; but faith is the gift of God, and
it is to be had for the asking."

"To that I answer that they'll never ask."

"How do you know?  Did you ever give them a trial?  Did you ever preach
the gospel to them?"

"No, I never did that."

"Then you cannot tell how they would treat it.  Your remarks are mere
assertions of opinion--not arguments.  You know the wickedness of the
Indians, and can therefore speak authoritatively on that point; but you
know not (according to your own admission) the power of the gospel:
therefore you are not in a position to speak on that point."

McLeod was about to reply when he was interrupted by the approach of Mr
Macgregor, who had now recovered somewhat from the effects of his
violent fit of passion.  Having observed during the _melee_ that
strangers had arrived at his fort, he had washed and converted himself
into a more presentable personage, and now came forward to the group of
trappers, all of whom had assembled at the gate.  Addressing them in a
tone of affable hospitality he said--

"Good-day, friends; I'm glad to see you at the Mountain Fort.  That
blackguard Larocque somewhat ruffled my temper.  He's been the cause of
much mischief here, I assure you.  Do you intend to trap in these
parts?"

The latter part of this speech was addressed to Redhand, who replied--

"We do mean to try our luck in these parts, but we han't yet made up our
minds exactly where to go.  Mayhap you'll give us the benefit of your
advice."

While he was speaking the fur trader glanced with an earnest yet half
stupid stare at the faces of the trappers, as if he wished to impress
their features on his memory.

"Advice," he replied; "you're welcome to all the advice I've got to give
ye; and it's this--go home; go to where you belong to, sell your traps
and rifles and take to the plough, the hatchet, the forehammer--to
anything you like, so long as it keeps you out of this--" Macgregor
paused a moment as if he were about to utter an oath, then dropped his
voice and said, "This wretched Indian country."

"I guess, then, that we won't take yer advice, old man," said Big Waller
with a laugh.

"`Old man?'" echoed Macgregor with a start.

"Wall, if ye bean't old, ye ain't exactly a chicken."

"You're a plain-spoken man," replied the trader, biting his lips.

"I always wos," retorted Waller.

Macgregor frowned for a moment, then he broke into a forced laugh, and
said--

"Well, friends, you'll please yourselves, of course--most people do; and
if you are so determined to stick to the wilderness I would advise some
of you to stop here.  There's plenty of fun and fighting, if you're fond
of that.  What say you now, lad," turning to March, "to remain with us
here at the Mountain Fort?  I've ta'en a sort of fancy to your face.  We
want young bloods here.  I'll give you a good wage and plenty to do."

"Thanks; you are kind," replied March, smiling, "but I love freedom too
well to part with it yet awhile."

"Mais, monsieur," cried Gibault, pushing forward, pulling off his cap,
and making a low bow; "if you vants yonger blod, an' also ver' goot
blod, here am von!"

The trader laughed, and was about to reply, when a sudden burst of
laughter and the sound of noisy voices in the yard interrupted him.
Presently two of the men belonging to the establishment cantered out of
the square, followed by all the men, women, and children of the place,
amounting probably to between twenty and thirty souls.  "A race! a
race!" shouted the foremost.

"Hallo!  Dupont, what's to do?" inquired McLeod as the two horsemen came
up.

"Please, monsieur, Lincoln have bet me von gun dat hims horse go more
queek dan mine--so we try."

"Yes, so we shall, I guess," added the man named Lincoln, whose speech
told that he was a Yankee.

"Go it, stranger; I calc'late you'll do him slick," cried Waller
patronisingly, for his heart warmed towards his countryman.

"Ah! non.  Go home; put your horse to bed," cried Gibault, glancing at
the Yankee's steed in contempt.  "Dis is de von as vill do it more
slicker by far."

"Well, well; clear the course; we shall soon see," cried McLeod.  "Now
then--here's the word--one, two--away!"

At the last word the riders' whips cracked, and the horses sprang
forward at a furious gallop.  Both of them were good spirited animals,
and during the first part of the race it could not be said that either
had the advantage.  They ran neck and neck together.

The racecourse at the Mountain Fort was a beautiful stretch of level
turf, which extended a considerable distance in front of the gates.  It
crossed a clear open country towards the forest, where it terminated,
and, sweeping round in an abrupt curve, formed, as it were, a loop; so
that competitors, after passing over the course, swept round the loop,
and, re-entering the original course again, came back towards the fort,
where a long pole formed the winning-post.

Dupont and Lincoln kept together, as we have said, for some time after
starting, but before they had cleared the first half of the course the
former was considerably in advance of the latter, much to the delight of
most of the excited spectators, with whom he was a favourite.  On
gaining the loop above referred to, and making the graceful sweep round
it, which brought the foremost rider into full side view, the distance
between them became more apparent, and a cheer arose from the people
near the fort gate.

At that moment a puff of smoke issued from the bushes.  Dupont tossed
his arms in the air, uttered a sharp cry, and fell headlong to the
ground.  At the same instant a band of Indians sprang from the underwood
with an exulting yell.  Lincoln succeeded in checking and turning his
horse before they caught his bridle, but an arrow pierced his shoulder
ere he had galloped out of reach of his enemies.

The instant Dupont fell, a savage leaped upon him, and plunged his knife
into his heart.  Then, passing the sharp weapon quickly round his head
with his right hand, with his left he tore the scalp off, and, leaping
up, shook the bloody trophy defiantly at the horrified spectators.

All this was accomplished so quickly that the horror-stricken people of
the Mountain Fort had not time to move a finger to save their comrade.
But, as the savage raised the scalp of poor Dupont above his head,
Redhand's rifle flew to his shoulder, and in another moment the Indian
fell to the earth beside his victim.  Seeing this, the other Indians
darted into the forest.

Then a fearful imprecation burst from the lips of Macgregor, as, with a
face convulsed with passion, he rushed into the fort, shouting: "To
horse! to horse, men! and see that your horns and pouches are full of
powder and ball!"

The commotion and hubbub that now took place baffle all description.
The men shouted and raved as they ran hither and thither, arming
themselves and saddling their horses; while the shrieks of poor Dupont's
widow mingled with those of the other women and the cries of the
terrified children.

"Half a dozen of you must keep the fort," said McLeod, when they were
all assembled; "the others will be sufficient to punish these fiends.
You'll help us, I suppose?"

This latter question was addressed to Redhand, who, with his comrades,
stood armed, and ready to mount.

"Ready, sir," answered the trapper promptly.

McLeod looked round with a gleam of satisfaction on the stalwart forms
of his guests, as they stood each at his horse's head examining the
state of his weapons, or securing more firmly some portion of his
costume.

"Mount! mount!" shouted Macgregor, galloping at that moment through the
gateway, and dashing away in the direction of the forest.

"Stay!--my sketch-book!" cried Bertram in an agony, at the same time
dropping his reins and his gun, and darting back towards the hall of the
fort.

"Git on, lads; I'll look arter him," said Bounce with a grin, catching
up the bridle of the artist's horse.

Without a moment's hesitation, the remainder of the party turned, and
galloped after Macgregor, who, with the most of his own men, had already
wellnigh gained the edge of the forest.

In a few seconds Bertram rushed wildly out of the fort, with the
sketch-book in one hand and the two blunderbuss-pistols in the other.
In leaping on his horse, he dropped the latter; but Bounce picked them
up, and stuck them hastily into his own belt.

"Now put that book into its own pouch, or ye'll be fit for nothin',"
said Bounce almost sternly.

Bertram obeyed, and grasped the rifle which his friend placed in his
hand.  Then Bounce vaulted into his saddle, and, ere those who were left
behind had drawn the bolts and let down the ponderous bars of the gate
of the Mountain Fort, the two horsemen were flying at full speed over
the plain in the track of the avengers of blood who had gone before
them.



CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

THE PURSUIT--CONSCIENTIOUS SCRUPLES OF THE ARTIST--STRATEGIC MOVEMENTS--
SURPRISED IN THE WILD-CAT PASS--MARCH SHOWS COOLNESS AND PLUCK IN THE
HOUR OF DANGER--A TERRIFIC ONSLAUGHT BY A WONDERFUL WARRIOR--THE
BATTLE--HARD KNOCKS AND MYSTERIOUS DIFFERENCES OF OPINION.

Crossing the open ground in front of the Mountain Fort, Bounce and
Bertram entered the wood beyond, and traversed it with comparative ease,
by means of a bridle-path which had been cut there by the fur-traders.
A few minutes' gallop brought them to the other side of the wood, which
was one of those narrow strips or clumps of forest which grow, more or
less thickly, on the skirts of the Rocky Mountains, forming that fine
picturesque region where the prairie and the forest meet and seem to
contend for the mastery.

The plain beyond this belt of wood was open and level--at least,
sufficiently so to enable the two horsemen to see for a considerable
distance around them.  Here, in the far distance, they descried their
companions, sweeping over the turf at their utmost speed, and making
towards a low hill or ridge that intercepted the view of the more
distant country.

"They'll have to draw in a bit," said Bounce, turning to his comrade.
"Horses no more nor men can't go helter-skelter up a hill without takin'
breath; so rouse up your beast, Mr Bertram, an' we'll overtake 'em
afore they gits to the t'other side."

Bertram obeyed his friend's command, but made no rejoinder, his thoughts
being too deeply engaged at that moment in a controversy with his
conscience as to the propriety of the business he had then in hand.

The young artist had a deep veneration for abstract truth--truth pure
and simple, not only in reference to morals, but to all things
terrestrial and celestial; and he was deeply impressed with the belief
that what was right was right, and what was wrong was wrong, and could
not, by any possibility, be otherwise.  He felt, also, that the man who
recognised truth and acted upon it must go right, and he who saw and did
otherwise _must_ go wrong!

Holding this simple creed very tenaciously, and, as we think, very
properly, Bertram nevertheless found that his attempts to act up to it
frequently involved him in a maze of perplexities.

On the present occasion, as he and Bounce thundered over the green turf
of the flowering plains, scattering the terrified grasshoppers right and
left, and causing the beautifully striped ground-squirrels to plunge
with astonishing precipitancy into their holes, he argued with himself,
that the mere fact of a murderous deed having been done was not a
sufficient reason, perhaps, to justify his sallying forth with a
reckless band of desperate fur-traders, bent on indiscriminate revenge.
It was quite true, in his opinion, that a murderer should be punished
with death, and that the pursuit and capture of a murderer was not only
a legitimate act in itself but, in the circumstances, a bounden duty on
his part.  Yet it was equally true that most of the men with whom he was
associated were thirsting for vengeance, and from past experience he
knew full well that there would be no attempt to find out the murderer,
but a simple and general massacre of all the Indians whom they could
overtake.

Then it suddenly occurred to him that the murderer had already been shot
by Redhand, so that his mission was one of simple revenge; but, a moment
after, it flashed across his troubled mind that Lincoln had been left in
the fort wounded--might possibly be dead by that time; so that there
were probably among the flying savages other murderers to be dealt with.
This idea was strengthened by another thought, namely, that the savage
who stabbed and scalped Dupont might not have been the savage who shot
him.  The complication and aggregate of improbability amounted, in
Bertram's mind, so nearly to a certainty, that he dismissed the
digressive question as to whether there might or might not be a murderer
among the Indians, and returned to the original proposition, as to
whether it was right in him to take part in a pursuit of vengeance that
would very likely terminate murderously.  But before he could come to
any satisfactory conclusion on that point he and Bounce found themselves
suddenly in the midst of the cavalcade, which had halted on the summit
of the ridge, in order to allow them to come up.

"Here we are, lads," cried Macgregor, his flushed face still blazing
with wrath, which he made no effort to subdue, and his eyes red with
prolonged debauchery, flashing like the eyes of a tiger--"here we are,
too late to cut off the retreat o' these detestable reptiles from the
woods, but not too late to circumvent them."

The fur trader spoke rapidly, almost breathlessly, and pointed to the
band of Indians they were in pursuit of, who, observing that their
pursuers had halted, also drew rein on the edge of a belt of thick
forest that extended for miles into the mountains.  They appeared to
wait, in order to ascertain what their enemies meant to do.

"The villains," continued Macgregor, "think we've given up pursuit as
hopeless, but they're mistaken--they're mistaken, as they'll find to
their cost.  Now, mark me, men; we shall turn back as if we had really
given in; but the moment we get down into the hollow, out of sight,
we'll go as hard as we can bolt up that valley there, and round by the
place we call the Wild-Cat Pass.  It's a difficult pass, but who cares
for that?  Once through it we can get by a short cut to the other side
of that wood, and meet the redskins right in the teeth.  They're
Blackfoot Indians, I know by their dress; and, as they don't belong to
this part o' the country, they can't be aware of the pass.  But some of
us must go back a good way towards the fort, so as to deceive the
blackguards, who'll be sure to get on the first hill they can to see
where we've gone to.  Now--away!  Stay," he added in a less commanding
tone, "I don't know that my guests are willing to go with us through
thick an' thin in this fashion.  I've no desire to have unwilling
warriors."

"Had we not been _willing_" replied Redhand dryly, "we wouldn't have
come even thus far."

"Very good," rejoined Macgregor with a grim smile; "then, perhaps, since
you are so good as to go along with us, you'll make for the head of that
valley, and when you come to the Wild-Cat Pass I've spoken of, you'll
wait there till the rest of us, who are to sham going back to the fort,
come up with ye; then we'll go through the pass together, and polish off
the redskins."

To this plan Redhand assented; so he and his comrades prepared to take
the way to the pass, while the men of the fort turned homewards.  A
triumphant shout from the Indians showed that they imagined the pursuit
was given up; but Macgregor knew their cunning too well to fall into the
mistake of at once concluding that they were thoroughly deceived.  He
knew that they would send out scouts to dog them, and felt, that if his
plan was to succeed, he must put it into execution promptly.

"I've scarce had time to ask your names or where you've come from," he
said on parting from the trappers; "but there'll be plenty of time for
that when we meet again.  Keep close in the bottom, and ride fast, till
the shadow of yonder crag conceals you from view.  If the Indians get
sight of you, they'll smell the dodge at once and escape us.  Perhaps,
young man, you'd like to come with my party?"

The latter part of this speech was made rather abruptly to March
Marston, who received it with some surprise, and with a distinct
refusal.

"I'll stick by my comrades," said he, "till I see good reason--"

"Well, well, boy--please yourself!" muttered the trader angrily, as he
broke away at full speed, followed by his men.

Our trappers instantly turned their horses' heads towards the mountains,
and made for the Wild-Cat Pass.

Macgregor's estimate of the cunning of the Indians was but too correct.
The instant the fur-traders disappeared behind the ridge, as if on their
return homewards, several of their fastest riders were dispatched to the
nearest hill, to watch the movements of the enemy.  They ascended one
which commanded a wide view of the surrounding country, and thence
beheld the fur-traders proceeding swiftly back in the direction of the
fort.  Unfortunately, they also perceived the bottle-brush of Bertram's
steed, as it disappeared behind the crag which already concealed the
rest of his comrades from view.  One instant later, and the Indians
would have failed to make this discovery, for a deep impassable gorge
lay between them and the ravine which conducted to the pass.  It was but
the barest possible glimpse they got of that shabby tail; but it told a
tale which they perfectly understood, for they flew back in the utmost
haste to warn their comrades, who, knowing the smallness of the party
thus sent against them, from the largeness of the party that had shammed
returning to the fort, resolved upon executing a counter movement.

They had a shrewd suspicion, from the nature of the country, that the
intention of the whites was to get through a pass of some sort and
intercept them, and, concluding that this pass must lie at the head of
the valley up which the bottle-brush had vanished, they resolved to
proceed to the same spot through the gorge that separated the hill from
the crag or rocky ridge before referred to.

Promptitude they knew to be everything, so they swept up the gorge like
a whirlwind.  Thus both parties drew nearer to the chaotic opening
styled the Wild-Cat Pass--the trappers, all ignorant of what awaited
them there; the savages bent on giving their enemies an unpleasant
surprise.

But, unknown to either, there was a pair of eyes high on a rock above
the Wild-Cat Pass, that overlooked the two valleys or ravines, and gazed
with considerable interest and curiosity on the two advancing parties.
Those eyes belonged to a solitary horseman, who stood on the edge of the
wild precipice that overhung the pass.  The hunter, for such his
leathern dress bespoke him, stood beside his horse, his right arm over
its arched neck, and his right hand patting its sleek shoulder.  From
the position which he occupied he could see without being seen.  His
magnificent steed seemed to be aware that danger was at hand, for it
stood like a statue, absolutely motionless, with the exception of its
fine fiery eyes.  Whatever this solitary hunter's thoughts regarding the
two approaching parties might be, it was evident that he meant to remain
an invisible spectator of their doings; for he stood in the same
attitude of statue-like attention until they reached the heads of the
two ravines, where they were separated from each other only by the pass.
Here, on the one side, the Indians, about forty in number, lay in
ambush among the rocks, prepared to surprise and attack the trappers
when they should pass.  On the other side the trappers halted, and
dismounting, allowed their horses to graze while they awaited the
arrival of Macgregor and his party.

"They won't be long o' comin'," remarked Redhand, seating himself on a
stone and proceeding to strike a light.  "That fellow Macgregor an't the
man to waste time when he's out after the redskins.  I only hope he
won't waste life when he gets up to them."

"So do I," said Bounce, seating himself beside Redhand and carefully
cutting a small piece of tobacco into shreds by means of a
scalping-knife.  "A sartin amount o' punishment is needful, d'ye see, to
keep 'em down; but I don't like slaughtering human bein's onnecessary
like."

"I'd skiver 'em all, I guess--every one," observed Big Waller angrily.
"They're a murderin', thievin' set o' varmints, as don't desarve to live
nohow!"

"Bah!" exclaimed Gibault in disgust; "you is most awferfully
onfeelosophicule, as Bounce do say.  If dey not fit for live, for fat
vas dey made?  You vicked man!"

Big Waller deigned no reply.

"I'm off to look at the pass," cried March Marston, vaulting suddenly
into the saddle.  "Come, Bertram; you'll go with me, won't you, and see
if we can find some wild-cats in it?"

The artist, who had not dismounted, merely replied by a nod and a smile,
and the two reckless youths galloped away, heedless of Bounce's warning
not to go too far, for fear they should find something worse than
wild-cats there.

The Wild-Cat Pass, through which they were speedily picking their steps,
in order to get a view of the country beyond, was not inappropriately
named; for it seemed, at the first glance of those who entered it, as if
no creature less savagely reckless than a cat could, by any possibility,
scramble through it without the aid of wings.

The greater part of it was the ancient bed of a mountain torrent, whose
gushing waters had, owing to some antediluvian convulsion of nature,
been diverted into another channel.  The whole scene was an absolute
chaos of rocks which had fallen into the torrent's bed from the
precipice that hemmed it in on the west, and these rocky masses lay
heaped about in such a confused way that it was extremely difficult to
select a pathway along which the horses could proceed without running
great risk of breaking their limbs.  The entire length of the pass could
not have been much more than a quarter of a mile, yet it took March
Marston and his companion full half an hour to traverse it.

When about half through the pass March, who led the way, drew up on a
small rocky elevation, from which he could survey the amphitheatre of
rugged and naked rocks in the midst of which he stood.

"Upon my word, Bertram," he said gazing round, "if Bunyan had ever been
in the Rocky Mountains, I think he would have chosen such a spot as this
for the castle o' Giant Despair."

"I know not," replied Bertram with a deep sigh, as he drew rein, "what
Bunyan would have done, but I know that Giant Despair has already
located himself here, for he has been trying to take, possession of my
bosom for at least twenty minutes.  I never rode over such ground in my
life.  However, it ill becomes pioneers to be overcome by such a giant,
so pray push on; I feel quite eager to see what sort of region lies
beyond this gloomy portal."

March laughed and turned to continue the scramble; Bertram removed his
brigandish hat, wiped his heated brows, replaced the hat firmly thereon,
and drove his heels violently against the ribs of his horse, an act
which induced that patient quadruped to toss its head and shake its
bottle-brush ere it condescended to move on.  It was quite evident that,
although Bertram spoke in a half-jesting tone of Giant Despair, he was
in reality much delighted with the singularity of this extemporised and
interesting ramble.

"I say, Bertram, don't you like this sort of thing?" inquired March,
looking back at his companion, on reaching a somewhat level part of the
pass.

"Like it?  Ay, that do I.  I love it, March.  There is a freedom, a
species of wild romance about it, that is more captivating than I can
describe."

"You don't need to describe it," returned March.  "I have it all
described splendidly within me.  One don't want words when one's got
feelins.  But I've often thought what a pity it is that we can't
describe things or places at all with words.  At least, _I_ can't," he
added modestly.  "When I try to tell a fellow what I've seen, it ain't
o' no manner of use to try, for I don't get hold of the right words at
the right time, and so don't give out the right meanin', and so the
fellow I'm speakin' to don't take up the right notion, d'ye see?  It's a
great pity that words are such useless things."

"Why, that was spoken like Bounce himself," said Bertram, smiling.

"Look out, or you'll go bounce into that hole, if you don't have a
care," cried March, turning aside to avoid the danger referred to.  They
proceeded through the remainder of the pass in silence, as the rugged
nature of the ground required their undivided attention.

Had there been a sprite in that place, who could have hopped invisibly
to some elevated pinnacle, or have soared on gossamer wings into the
air, so as to take a bird's-eye view of the whole scene, he would have
noted that while March Marston and the artist were toiling slowly
through the Wild-Cat Pass, the solitary hunter before referred to
regarded their proceedings with some surprise, and that when he saw they
were bent on going quite through the pass, his expression changed to a
look of deep concern.

With slow and gentle hand this man backed his quiet and docile horse
deeper into the bush; and when he had got so deep into the shade of the
forest as to be perfectly safe from observation, he leaped on its back
with a single bound, and galloped swiftly away.

A few minutes after the occurrence of this incident, March and his
friend emerged from the pass and trotted out upon a level plain whence
they obtained a fine view of the magnificent country beyond.  The pass
from which they had just issued seemed to be the entrance to the heart
of the Rocky Mountains.  The plain, or rather the plateau, on which they
stood was a level spot covered with soft grass, free from bushes, and
not more than a hundred yards in extent.  On three sides it was
encompassed by inaccessible precipices and rocky ground, in the midst of
which the opening out of the pass was situated.  On the fourth side it
was skirted by a dense thicket of bushes that formed the entrance to a
magnificent forest which extended for several miles in front of the
spot.  Beyond this forest the scene was broken by hills and valleys, and
little plains, richly diversified with wood and water--the former in
dense masses, scattered groups, and isolated clusters; the latter
shining in the forms of lakelet and stream, or glancing snow-white in
numberless cascades.  Beyond all, the dark-blue giant masses of the
Rocky Mountains towered up and up, hill upon hill, pile upon pile, mass
on mass, till they terminated in distant peaks, so little darker than
the sky that they seemed scarcely more solid than the clouds with which
they mingled and blended their everlasting snows.

"An't it beautiful?" cried March, riding forward with a bounding
sensation of inexpressible delight.

Bertram followed him, but did not answer.  He was too deeply absorbed in
the simple act of intently gazing and drinking in the scene to listen or
to reply.

At the precise moment in which March made the above remark, his quick
eye observed a spear head which one of the savages, hid among the bushes
there, had not taken sufficient pains to conceal.

March Marston was a young hunter, and, as yet an inexperienced warrior;
but from childhood he had been trained, as if it were in spirit, by the
anecdotes and tales of the many hunters who had visited Pine Point
settlement.  His natural powers of self-control were very great, but he
had to tax all these powers to the uttermost to maintain his look of
animated delight in the scenery unchanged, after making the above
startling discovery.  But March did it!  His first severe trial in the
perils of backwoods life had come--without warning or time for
preparation; and he passed through it like a true hero.

That a spear handle must necessarily support a spear head; that an
Indian probably grasped the former; that, in the present position of
affairs, there were certainly more Indians than one in ambush; and that,
in all probability, there were at that moment two or three dozen arrows
resting on their respective bows, and pointed towards his and his
comrade's hearts, ready to take flight the instant they should come
within sure and deadly range, were ideas which did not follow each other
in rapid succession through his brain, but darted upon the young
hunter's quick perceptions instantaneously, and caused his heart to beat
on his ribs like a sledge-hammer, and the blood to fly violently to his
face.

Luckily March's face was deeply browned, and did not show the crimson
tide.  With a sudden, mighty effort he checked the natural look and
exclamation of surprise.  That was the moment of danger past.  To
continue his praise of the lovely scene in gay delighted tones was
comparatively easy.

"Isn't it beautiful?" he said, turning his face full towards the
ambushed savages, gazing over their place of concealment with an
unconscious joyous air, and sweeping his hand towards the mountains, as
if to draw the attention of his companion to them.  March's only weapon
at that moment was the small hatchet he was wont to carry in his girdle.
This implement chanced to be in his hand.  Placing it carelessly in his
belt, as though nothing was further from his mind than the idea of
requiring to use it at that time, he cried--

"See, yonder is a mound from which we may get a better view," and
trotted to the summit of the spot alluded to.  In doing so, he placed
himself still nearer to the Indians.  This was a bold stroke, though a
dangerous one, meant to deceive the enemy.  After gazing a few seconds
from this spot, he wheeled round and walked his horse quietly towards
the entrance to the pass.  Arrived there, he turned, and pretending that
he saw something in the far distance, he shaded his eyes with his hand
and gazed for a short time intently, then calling to Bertram, who still
remained in his original position all unconscious of his danger, said--

"I say, come here; look at yonder splendid lake, it's worth
seeing--_well_ worth seeing; and if you don't see it with that _curious
light_ on it, you'll not care to see it at all."

March did not dare, by energy of voice, to force his friend's attention,
therefore the first part of this speech was unheeded; but the reference
to a "curious light" had the desired effect.  Bertram turned, and rode
to join his companion.  Getting Bertram into such a position that his
own person partially screened him from the Indians, he made the
following remarkable speech, from beginning to end, in the gay tones of
one who discourses eloquently on the beauties of nature; pointing here
and there as he rattled on.

"An't it beautiful? eh?  I say, just look at it now!--listen to me,
Bertram--attentively, but gaze admiringly at the scene--_at the scene_--
oh! man, _do_ what I bid ye--your life hangs on it.  _Pretend_ to admire
it--we're in great danger--but--"

"Eh? what? where?" exclaimed the artist in a tone of intense excitement,
at the same time laying his hand on one of his pistols and gazing
anxiously all round him.

Alas! poor Bertram.  It needed not the acute apprehension of a redskin
to understand that you had been told of present danger.  Neither did it
require much acuteness on the part of March to divine what was to
follow.

Scarcely had the symptoms of alarm been exhibited, when four arrows
whizzed through the air and passed close to the persons of the two
friends, who instantly turned and made a dash for the entrance of the
pass.  At the same time the savages uttered a yell and darted after
them.

"We'll never be able to escape by the pass," exclaimed March, looking
behind him hurriedly, as they approached the rocky gorge, "and, I
declare, there's only four o' them on foot.  Come, Bertram, let's make a
bold stroke for it.  We'll easy break through 'em."

He reined up so suddenly as almost to throw the horse on its haunches,
and, wheeling round, darted towards the savages.  Bertram followed
almost mechanically.

The Indians offered no opposition, but at that moment another yell rose
from the hushes, and about thirty mounted Indians, who had been
concealed behind a projecting cliff, sprang forward and closed up the
only place of escape with a formidable array of spears.  From their not
using their arrows it was evident that they wished to capture the white
men alive, for the purpose, no doubt, of taking them home to their
wigwams, there to put them to death by slow torture with the assistance
of their squaws.

March Marston's spirit rose with the occasion.  He uttered a furious
cry, flourished his hatchet above his head, and dashed at full gallop
towards the line.  Seeing this, one of the Indians levelled his spear
and rode out to meet him.  Bertram's nerves recovered at that moment.
He fired both pistols at the advancing savage, but without effect.  In
despair he hurled one of them violently at the head of the Indian.  The
missile went true to the mark and felled him.  On beholding this the
whole body of savages rushed upon the two white men.

One powerful Indian seized March by the throat.  Before either could use
his weapon the horses separated and both fell violently to the ground.
Bertram leaped off his horse and sprang to the rescue, but he was
instantly surrounded, and for a few seconds defended himself with the
butt of his large cavalry pistol with an amount of energy and activity
that would have filled those who knew him best with amazement.  At that
moment there was a clatter of hoofs in the gorge, and a roar or bellow
was heard above the din of the fight.  All eyes were turned towards the
pass, and next moment a solitary horseman leaped over the broken rocks
and bounded over the turf towards the combatants.

The aspect of this newcomer was something terrible to behold.  Both he
and his horse were gigantic in size.  The man was dressed in the costume
of an Indian, but his hair and beard were those of a white man.  The
mane and tail of his huge horse were of enormous length, and as he swept
over the little plain, which seemed to tremble beneath his heavy tread,
the wind blew out these and the tags and scalp-locks of his coat and
leggings as well as his own beard and hair in such a confused and
commingled way as to make the man and horse appear like one monstrous
creature.

The Indians turned to flee, but, seeing only one enemy, they hesitated.
In another moment the wild horseman was upon them.  He carried a round
shield on his left arm and a long double-edged sword in his right hand.
Two Indians lowered their spears to receive him.  The point of one he
turned aside with his shield, and the shock of his heavy warhorse hurled
horse and man upon the plain.  The other he cut the iron head off with a
sweep of his sword, and, with a continuation of the same cut, he cleft
his opponent to the chin.  Turning rapidly, he bounded into the very
midst of the savages, uttering another of his tremendous roars of
indignation.  The suddenness of this act prevented the Indians from
using their bows and arrows effectively.  Before they could fit an arrow
to the string two more of their number lay in the agonies of death on
the ground.  Several arrows were discharged, but the perturbation of
those who discharged them, and their close proximity to their mark,
caused them to shoot wide.  Most of the shafts missed him.  Two quivered
in his shield, and one pierced the sleeve of his coat.  Turning again to
renew his rapid attacks he observed one of the Indians--probably a
chief--leap to one side, and, turning round, fit an arrow with calm
deliberation to his bow.  The furious horseman, although delivering his
sweeping blows right and left with indiscriminate recklessness, seemed
during the _melee_ to have an intuitive perception of where the greatest
danger lay.  The savages at that moment were whirling round him and
darting at him in all directions, but he singled out this chief at once
and bore down upon him like a thunderbolt.  The chief was a brave man.
He did not wince, but, drawing the arrow to its head as the other
approached, let it fly full at his breast.  The white man dropped on the
neck of his steed as if he had been struck with lightning; the arrow
passed close over his back and found its mark in the breast of one of
the savages, whose death yell mingled with that of the chief as, a
moment later, the gigantic warrior ran him with a straight point through
the body.

The Indians were scattered now.  The rapid dash of that tumultuous
fight, although of but a few seconds' duration, had swept the combatants
to the extreme edge of the woods, leaving Bertram standing in the midst
of dead and dying men gazing with a bewildered, helpless look at the
terrible scene.  March Marston lay close by his side, apparently dead,
in the grip of the savage who had first attacked him, and whose throat
his own hand grasped with the tenacity and force of a vice.

Most of the Indians leaped over the bushes and sought the shelter of the
thick underwood, as the tremendous horseman, whom doubtless they now
deemed invulnerable, came thundering down upon them again; but about
twenty of the bravest stood their ground.  At that moment a loud shout
and a fierce "hurrah!" rang out and echoed hither and thither among the
rocks; and, next instant, Big Waller, followed by Bounce and his
friends, as well as by Macgregor and his whole party, sprang from the
Wild-Cat Pass, and rushed furiously upon the savages, who had already
turned and fled towards the wood for shelter.  The whole band crossed
the battlefield like a whirlwind, leaped over or burst through the
bushes, and were gone--the crashing tread of their footsteps and an
occasional shout alone remaining to assure the bewildered artist, who
was still transfixed immovable to the ground, that the whole scene was
not a dream.

But Bertram was not left alone on that bloody field.  On the first sound
of the approach of the white men to the rescue, the strange horseman--
who, from the moment of his bursting so opportunely on the scene, had
seemed the very impersonation of activity and colossal might--pulled up
his fiery steed; and he now sat, gazing calmly into the forest in the
direction in which the Indians and traders had disappeared.

Stupefied though he was, Bertram could not avoid being impressed and
surprised by the sudden and total change which had come over this
remarkable hunter.  After gazing into the woods, as we have said, for
some minutes, he quietly dismounted, and plucking a tuft of grass from
the plain, wiped his bloody sword, and sheathed it.  Not a trace of his
late ferocity was visible.  His mind seemed to be filled with sadness,
for he sighed slightly, and shook his head with a look of deep sorrow,
as his eyes rested on the dead men.  There was a mild gravity in his
countenance that seemed to Bertram incompatible with the fiend-like fury
of his attack, and a slow heaviness in his motions that amounted almost
to laziness, and seemed equally inconsistent with the vigour he had so
recently displayed, which was almost cat-like, if we may apply such a
term to the actions of so huge a pair as this man and his horse were.

A profusion of light-brown hair hung in heavy masses over his herculean
shoulders, and a bushy moustache and beard of the same colour covered
the lower part of his deeply browned face, which was handsome and mild,
but eminently masculine, in expression.

Remounting his horse, which seemed now to be as quiet and peaceable as
himself, this singular being turned and rode towards that part of the
wood that lay nearest to the wild rocky masses that formed the outlet
from the pass.  On gaining the verge of the plain he turned his head
full round, and fixed his clear blue eyes on the wondering artist.  A
quiet smile played on his bronzed features for an instant as he bestowed
upon him a cheerful nod of farewell.  Then, urging his steed forward, he
entered the woods at a slow walk, and disappeared.

The heavy tramp of his horse's hoofs among the broken stones of the
rugged path had scarcely died away when the distant tread of the
returning fur-traders broke on Bertram's ear.  This aroused him from the
state of half-sceptical horror in which he gazed upon the scene of blood
and death in the midst of which he stood.  Presently his eye fell, for
the first time, upon the motionless form of March Marston.  The sight
effectually restored him.  With a slight cry of alarm, he sprang to his
friend's side, and, kneeling down, endeavoured to loosen the death-like
grasp with which he still held the throat of his foe.  The horror of the
poor artist may be imagined, when he observed that the skull of the
Indian was battered in, and that his young comrade's face was
bespattered with blood and brains.

Just then several of the trappers and fur-traders galloped upon the
scene of the late skirmish.

"Hallo!  Mr Bertram, here you are; guess we've polished 'em off this
time a few.  Hey! wot's this?" cried Big Waller, as he and some of the
others leaped to the ground and surrounded Bertram.  "Not _dead_, is
he?"

The tone in which the Yankee trapper said this betrayed as much rage as
regret.  The bare idea of his young comrade having been killed by the
savages caused him to gnash his teeth with suppressed passion.

"Out o' the way, lads; let me see him," cried Bounce, who galloped up at
that moment, flung himself off his horse, pushed the others aside, and
kneeling at his side, laid his hand on March Marston's heart.

"All right," he said, raising the youth's head, "he's only stunned.
Run, Gibault, fetch a drop o' water.  The horse that brained this here
redskin, by good luck, only stunned March."

"Ah! mon pauvre enfant!" cried Gibault as he ran to obey.

The water quickly restored March, and in a few minutes he was able to
sit up and call to remembrance what had passed.  Ere his scattered
faculties were quite recovered, the fur-traders returned, with Macgregor
at their head.

"Well done, the Wild Man of the West!" cried McLeod, as he dismounted.
"Not badly hurt, young man, I trust."

"Oh! nothing to speak of.  Only a thump on the head from a horse's
hoof," said March; "I'll be all right in a little time.  Did you say
anything about the Wild Man of the West?" he added earnestly.

"To be sure I did; but for him you and Mr Bertram would have been dead
men, I fear.  Did you not see him?"

"See him? no," replied March, much excited.  "I heard a tremendous roar,
but just then I fell to the ground, and remember nothing more that
happened."

"Was that quiet, grave-looking man the Wild Man of the West?" inquired
Bertram, with a mingled feeling of interest and surprise.

This speech was received with a loud burst of laughter from all who
heard it.

"Well, I've never seed the Wild Man till to-day," said one, "though I've
often heer'd of him, but I must say the little glimpse I got didn't show
much that was mild or grave."

"I guess your head's bin in a swum, stranger," said another.  "I've only
seed him this once, but I don't hope to see him agin.  He ain't to be
trusted, he ain't, that feller."

"And I've seen him five or six times," added McLeod, "and all I can say
is, that twice out o' the five he was like an incarnate fiend, and the
other three times--when he came to the Mountain Fort for ammunition--he
was as gruff and sulky as a bear with the measles."

"Well, gentlemen," said Bertram with more emphasis in his tone than he
was wont to employ, "I have seen this man only once, but I've seen him
under two aspects to-day, and all that I can say is, that if that was
really the Wild Man of the West, he's not quite so wild as he gets
credit for."

On hearing this, March Marston rose and shook himself.  He felt ill at
ease in body and mind.  The idea of the Wild Man of the West having
actually saved his life, and he had not seen him, was a heavy
disappointment, and the confused and conflicting accounts of those who
had seen him, combined with the racking pains that shot through his own
brain, rendered him incapable of forming or expressing any opinion on
the subject whatever; so he said abruptly--

"It's of no use talking here all night, friends.  My head's splittin',
so I think we'd better encamp."

March's suggestion was adopted at once.  Provisions had been carried
with them from the fort.  The dead bodies of the Indians were buried; a
spot at some distance from the scene of the fight was chosen.  The fires
were lighted, supper was devoured and a watch set, and soon March
Marston was dreaming wildly in that savage place about the Wild Man of
the West!



CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

THE HUNTING GROUND--HOW THEY SPENT THE SABBATH DAY AMONG THE MOUNTAINS--
THREATENING CLOUDS ON THE HORIZON.

Next day the fur-traders prepared to return to the Mountain Fort, and
the trappers to continue their journey into the Rocky Mountains.

At the period of which we write, the fur of the beaver was much in
demand in the European markets, and trappers devoted much of their time
to the capture of that sagacious animal.  From McLeod, Redhand learned
that a journey of eight or ten days to the south-eastward would bring
them to a country that was reported to be much frequented not only by
the beaver, but by many other fur-bearing and wild animals; so it was
resolved that, having brought their traps and supplies with them, the
trappers, instead of returning to the fort, should part with their
entertainers at the spot where the skirmish had occurred, and make for
that hunting ground as quickly as possible.

"I suppose you don't want to part company with us yet, Mr Bertram?"
said old Redhand as they were about to start.

"By no means," replied the artist quickly; "I have no intention of
quitting you--that is, if you do not find me a burden on your hands," he
added with a sad smile.

"A burden!" cried Bounce in surprise; "I tell ye wot, sir, I consider
yer company a honour."

"So you won't return with us, young man?" said Macgregor to March
Marston as he mounted his horse.  "I'm in want of a stout young fellow,
and you'll like the life."

"I thank ye, sir, for your good opinion," returned March; "but my mind's
made up: I'll stick by my comrades; I like trappin', but I don't like
tradin'--though I'm obliged to you for bein' so pressin' all the same."

The two parties bade each other adieu and separated--the one retracing
its way through the Wild-Cat Pass; the other, with old Redhand at its
head, descending into the beautiful country that has been briefly
described in the last chapter.

Six quiet and peaceful weeks now succeeded to the stormy period that had
just passed.  During this time they wandered pleasantly about in as
beautiful a region of the world as the heart of man could wish to dwell
in.  They reached this country after several days' travel.  After
arriving they moved about from one beautiful spot to another, setting
their beaver traps in the streams, and remaining a longer or shorter
time at each place, according to their success in trapping and hunting.

The country was of so peculiarly diversified a formation, that, within
the compass of ten miles, every possible variety of scenery existed--
from the level stretch of prairie to the towering snow-peaks of the
mountains; from the brake-encompassed swamp, in which frogs, ducks,
geese, plover, and other denizens of the marshes maintained perpetual
jubilee, to the dry bush-dotted mounds and undulating lands, where the
badger delighted to burrow in the sandy soil, while in other places, the
wolf, the fox, and the grisly bear prowled amid the dark recesses of the
forest.

It was a truly beautiful and a pre-eminently enjoyable region, and, in
the midst of it, under the spreading branches of a magnificent pine,
which grew on the top of a little mound that commanded an extensive
prospect on every side, the trappers pitched their camp, and began their
campaign against the fur-bearing animals that dwelt there.

It was a quiet sunny Sabbath morning when our trappers arrived at the
tree above referred to.  They had encamped the previous night on a
swampy piece of ground, having travelled too late to afford time to
search for a better spot, so that they were glad to rise and push
forward at the peep of day on Sabbath.  But when, in the course of a
couple of hours, they reached the dry country, they at once proceeded to
encamp.

During their journeying the trappers had mutually agreed to rest from
all labour on the Sabbath day.  Some of them did so from no higher
motive than the feeling that it was good for themselves and for their
beasts to rest one day in seven from bodily labour.  Although not
absolutely regardless of religion, they nevertheless failed to connect
this necessity of theirs with the appointment of a day of rest by that
kind and gracious Father, who has told us that "the Sabbath was made for
man."  Made for him not only, and chiefly, for the benefit of his soul,
but also, and secondarily, for the good of his body.

Others of the party there were, however, who regarded the Sabbath rest
in a somewhat higher light than did their comrades; though none of them
were fully alive to the blessings and privileges attaching to the
faithful keeping of the Lord's day.  Independently altogether of the
delight connected with the contemplation of the wonderful works of God
in the wilderness--especially of that beautiful portion of the
wilderness--the trappers experienced a sensation of intense pleasure in
the simple act of physical repose after their long, restless, and
somewhat exciting journey.  They wandered about from spot to spot, from
hill to hill, in a species of charming indolence of body, that seemed to
increase, rather than to diminish, the activity of their minds.
Sometimes they rambled or rested on the sunny slopes in groups,
sometimes in couples, and sometimes singly.  March Marston and the
artist sauntered about together, and conversed with animated fluency and
wandering volubility--as young minds are wont to do--on things past,
present, and to come; things terrestrial and celestial.  In short, there
was no subject, almost, that did not get a share of their attention, as
they sauntered by the rippling brook or over the flowering plain, or
stood upon the mountain side.  They tried "everything by turns, and
nothing long," and, among other mental occupations, they read portions
of the Bible together; for Bertram found that March carried his mother's
Testament in an inner breast-pocket of his hunting-shirt, and March
discovered that his friend had a small copy of the Bible--also a
mother's gift--which shared the pouch of his leather coat with the
well-known sketch-book.  They conversed freely and somewhat boldly on
what they read, and we doubt not that our learned divines, had they
listened to the talk of the youthful pioneer and the young hunter, would
have been surprised, perhaps edified, by the simple, practical,
common-sense views promulgated by those raw theologians.  Certainly, any
one listening to the grave, kindly, philosophical commentaries of March
Marston, would never have believed in the truth of that statement at the
commencement of this story, wherein it is asserted somewhat positively
that "March Marston was mad!"

Bounce, and Big Waller, and Black Gibault, drew naturally together and
speculated, after their own peculiar fashion, on every subject of
thought within the reach of their capacities; and as Bounce's capacities
embraced a pretty wide range, the "feelosophical" views he set forth
upon that lovely Sabbath day were so varied, so eccentric, so graphic,
and so apparently inexhaustible, that he effectually quelled Gibault's
inveterate tendency, to jest, and filled Big Waller with deeper
admiration than ever.

As for Redhand and the Indian, they wandered about in sympathetic
silence, broken ever and anon by the old trapper passing a remark on
some interesting peculiarity of a leaf, an insect, or a flower.  It has
been said, that as men grow older they find deeper pleasure in the
contemplation of the minute things of nature, and are less desirous than
they were wont to expatiate on the striking and the grand.  What truth
there is in the remark we cannot tell; but, certain it is, while the
younger men of the party seemed to cast longing, admiring, and gladsome
looks over the distant landscape, and up at the snow-clad and
cloud-encompassed heights of the Rocky Mountains, old Redhand bent his
eyes, we might almost say lovingly, on the earth.  He would sit down on
a stone and pluck a leaf, which he would examine with minute care; or
watch with the deepest interest the frantic efforts of a little ant, as
it staggered along under its gigantic burden of a single seed, climbing
over a mountainous twig, tumbling into a cavernous hole the size of a
hazelnut, or being brought to a hesitating pause by a mountain torrent a
quarter of an inch broad.

The sedate Indian took special pleasure in watching the doings of his
old friend.  Usually, he contented himself with a grunt of assent when
Redhand made a remark on the peculiarities of a plant or an insect, but
sometimes he ventured on a brief observation, and occasionally even
proposed a question to his aged companion, which Redhand found it
difficult to answer.  There was little interchange of thought between
those two silent men, but there was much of quiet enjoyment.

So passed the Sabbath day.  Early on the following morning the trappers
were astir, and before the sun tinged the mountain peaks, their beaver
traps were set, an extensive portion of the territory they had thus
quietly taken possession of had been explored in several directions, a
couple of deer had been shot, a mountain goat seen, and a grisly bear
driven from his den and pursued, but not killed; besides a number of
wildfowl having been bagged, and an immense number of creatures,
including mustangs, or wild horses, roused from their lairs.

When the scattered hunters returned to the camp to breakfast, they found
themselves in a satisfied, happy state of mind, with a strong
disposition, on the part of some, to break their fast without wasting
time in cooking the viands.  "It was of no manner of use cooking," Big
Waller said, "when a feller was fit to eat his own head off of his own
shoulders!"  As for Gibault, he declared that he meant to give up
cooking his victuals from that time forward, and eat them raw.  The
others seemed practically to have come to the same conclusion, for
certain it is that the breakfast, when devoured on that first Monday
morning, was decidedly underdone--to use a mild expression!

But it was when the pipes were lighted that the peculiarities and
capabilities of that wild region became fully known, for then it was
that each hunter began to relate with minute accuracy the adventures of
that morning.  As they had scattered far and wide, and hunted or trapped
separately, each had something new and more or less interesting to tell.
March told of how he had shot a grey goose, and had gone into a moving
swamp after it, and had sunk up to the middle, and all but took to
swimming to save himself, but had got hold of the goose notwithstanding,
as the drumstick he had just picked would testify.  Bounce told of
having gone after a moose deer, and, failing to come up with it, was
fain to content himself with a bighorn and a buck; and Big Waller
asserted that he had suddenly come upon a grisly bear, which he would
certainly have shot, had it not run away from him.  Whereupon Gibault,
wilfully misunderstanding, said, with a look of unutterable surprise,
that he would never have believed it--no, never--had anybody else told
him, that Big Waller had actually run away from a bear!  He couldn't
bear to hear of it, and would not believe it though Waller himself said
it.  As for Bertram, having filled the pages of his sketch-book, back
and front, he was compelled to take to miniature drawing in corners and
blank bits, and in this way began to book the entire region, and to
revel in his loved art.

Several weeks passed away, and during that time of peace and plenty, our
trappers had it all to themselves.  They caught and killed numbers of
animals; stripped off, dried, and packed quantities of valuable furs;
ate enormous meals, with the gusto of men who had laboriously earned the
right to do so, and related stories and anecdotes enough to fill a huge
volume.  In short, they enjoyed themselves beyond conception, and
Bertram agreed with March Marston in thinking that Bunyan's land of
Beulah could not have surpassed that delightful region.

But one day there came a small cloud on their blue sky of felicity.  An
event occurred which rudely dispelled their pleasant dreams, filled
their hearts with anxiety, and finally broke up their camp in a way that
led to disastrous, though not altogether ruinous, consequences.



CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

BUSINESS UNPLEASANTLY INTERRUPTED--THE MOUNTAIN FORT IN DANGER--TRAPPERS
TO THE RESCUE--A RUDE MEETING WITH FOES IN THE DARK--A WILD RACE--MARCH
MEETS WITH A SEVERE MISFORTUNE.

One morning, just as the trappers were dropping into camp about the
usual breakfast hour, laden with the produce of the trap and the chase,
they were startled by the sudden appearance of a large band of mounted
Indians, who galloped to the top of a neighbouring mound, and, crowding
together, stood still to gaze upon the invaders of their hunting
grounds, for such they deemed the trappers, no doubt.

To snatch up their arms and run to a place of safety was the work of a
moment.  It must not be supposed that such experienced men as Redhand
and Bounce were altogether unprepared for a surprise of this sort.  On
the day of their arrival at the hunting ground, their first care had
been to select such a place for their camp as lay in close proximity to
some natural stronghold.  Not ten paces from the camp fire there was a
sort of hollow in the ground, on the very summit of the mound on which
they were encamped.  Here all their valuables had been placed, and round
the edge of the hollow a rude breastwork had been raised, so that the
party, when in it, could fire through little openings in the breastwork
without exposing themselves to view.

To this fortress they retired the instant the Indians made their
appearance.  Fortunately all the members of the little party had come
in.

"They're holdin' a council o' war," said Bounce, carefully examining the
priming of his piece.  "It's as like as not they'll attack us, but
they'll get a hearty and an oncommonly warm welcome."

"They'll not attack us," said Redhand.  "They know that white men never
travel without plenty of powder and ball, and they don't like taking a
place by storm."

"Ay," remarked Waller sarcastically, "'cause they knows that the first
man as comes on is sartin sure to fall, an' they knows that they can't
come on without somebody comin' first."

"But there's brave fellers among the redskins," rejoined Bounce.  "I
knowed a set o' young fellers as banded theirselves together, and swore
they'd go through fire an' water, thick an' thin, but they'd niver turn
back from the face o' danger wherever they met it.  So, one day they wos
crossin' a river on the ice, an' the first on 'em fell in, an' wos
carried away by the current; an' what does the second do, but he walks
straight into the hole, an' wos drowned too; an' the nixt wos goin' to
foller, when the old warriors ran at him an' forced him back.  If they
hadn't stopped him, I do b'lieve--"

"They're makin' up their minds to do somethin' or other," interrupted
March.

"I sincerely hope they won't fight," murmured Bertram earnestly.  "It is
fearful to think of the blood that is shed by these men needlessly."

From the conduct of the Indians it became evident that on this occasion
they sympathised with the artist in his desire not to fight, for one of
their number dismounted, and, advancing unarmed towards the trappers,
made signs of friendship.

"It's as well to be bold an' appear to trust 'em," said Redhand, laying
down his rifle and leaping over the breastwork; "keep your guns ready,
lads, an' if ye see treachery, let drive at once.  Don't be afraid o'
hittin' me.  I'll take my chance."

After a few minutes' conversation with the Indian, Redhand returned to
his party.

"That redskin," said he, "tells me they're on an expedition to hunt the
buffalo on the prairie, and that they're good friends of the white men,
and would like to have a talk with us before they go on; but I don't
believe 'em.  From what I heard Mr McLeod say at the Mountain Fort, I
think it not unlikely they are bound on an expedition against the
whites.  The very fact of their wishin' to keep friends with us instead
of tryin' to lift our scalps and carry off our furs and horses, shows me
they've some more pressin' business on hand.  Mr McLeod described to me
the appearance of one or two o' the Injuns that hates the fur-traders
most, so that I might be on my guard, an' I'm quite sure that some of
them are with that band.  Now, what say ye?  Shall I tell 'em we don't
want their acquaintance?"

"Tell 'em they're a set o' lyin' thieves," said Big Waller.  "I guess
we'll have nothin' to say to 'em wotiver."

"Oui, et give to dem mine complements," added Gibault, "an' say we ver'
moch 'blige by dere goodness, mais dey vill all be shooted if dey not go
away queek."

Redhand did not give these polite messages to the Indian, but on
returning to him he presented him with a piece of tobacco, and advised
him to continue his journey without loss of time, as the buffaloes were
travelling south and might be out of the way when they reached the
prairie.

Whether the Indians felt angry or not it is impossible to say.  They
seemed indifferent to their cool reception by the trappers, and soon
after rode off at full speed, in a direction that led _away_ from the
Mountain Fort, a circumstance which still further confirmed Redhand in
his suspicions.

After an eager, hasty consultation, it was resolved that they should
follow the savages, and if their trail was found to diverge, as was
fully expected, towards the fort, that they should endeavour to pass
them in the night, and proceed by forced marches, in order to get there
in time to warn the fur-traders of their impending danger.

In less than an hour after the Indians left them, the trappers were
galloping after them in hot haste.  During the course of the day they
found that the trail doubled back, as they had anticipated, so, making a
wide detour, they headed the Indians, and during the afternoon got a
little in advance of them on their way to the Mountain Fort.

But the trappers had a subtle enemy to deal with.  Just as the Indians
were about to encamp that night for a few hours' rest, they chanced to
diverge a short way from the direct line of march, and, in doing so,
crossed the tracks of the trappers.  A halt was called, and a minute
inspection of the tracks made.  One of the savages galloped back on them
a considerable distance, and soon returned with the information that
they led towards the camp of the pale-faces.  From the appearance of the
hoof-prints they knew that they were fresh, and thus at once guessed
that their true intentions had been suspected, and might yet be
frustrated by the trappers.  Instead of encamping, therefore, they
pushed on at full speed and very soon came up with the white men.  It
was a dark night, so that they could not see far in advance of them, and
thus it happened that the two parties, on entering a narrow defile,
almost rode into each other, with a yell of fierce surprise on both
sides.

As there were at least fifty Indians, Redhand thought it better to avoid
a doubtful combat by scattering his men through the woods, and letting
each make the best of his way to the fort singly.

"Run, boys! scatter! to the fort!"

This was all that he deemed needful in the way of command or
explanation.  Firing a single volley at the enemy, they turned and fled.

"Foller me," shouted Waller to the bewildered Bertram, as a shower of
arrows whistled past their ears.  The artist obeyed mechanically, and in
another moment they were flying through the wood at a pace that seemed,
and actually was, reckless under the circumstances.  But the Indians did
not attempt to pursue.  They knew that their intention had been
discovered, and that their only chance of success now lay in outriding
the pale-faces.  The ride, in fact, became a long race, neither party
making the slightest attempt to hunt up the other, but each straining
every nerve and muscle to get first to the doomed fort.

The scattered trappers rode for a long time singly, but as they neared
the fort, one or two of them met, and when they came first in sight of
the tall flagstaff, Bounce, Redhand, and Gibault rode abreast.

McLeod was standing in front of the fort, when the three horsemen came
dashing over the plain.  He hastily summoned his men and closed the
gate, but as the foremost rider came near, he was recognised; the gate
was thrown open, and they galloped into the square.  In a few hasty
words their errand was explained.  Arms and ammunition were served out,
and six men were stationed at the gate, to be in readiness to open it to
approaching friends, or to shut it in the face of foes.

But the others of the party were not so fortunate as these three.  The
Indians reached the fort before they did, and one of their number was
left, unknown to them, in a state of insensibility near the spot where
the first rencontre had taken place.

When the Indians and trappers met in the narrow defile, as before
related, one of the arrows, which had been discharged very much at
random, entered the shoulder of March Marston's horse and wounded it
mortally.  At first March thought the wound was slight, and, hearing the
shouts of some of the savages not far behind him, he urged his horse
forward as rapidly as the nature of the ground would admit of.  Before
he had gone a quarter of a mile, however, the poor steed fell, throwing
March over its head.  In his flight the youth's forehead came into
violent contact with a branch, and he fell to the ground insensible.

His comrades, ignorant of his fate, continued their wild flight.  Thus,
our hero was forsaken, and left bruised and bleeding in the dark forest.



CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

MARCH GETS A SURPRISE; MORE THAN THAT, HE GETS A VARIETY OF SURPRISES--
MEETS WITH A STRANGE HUNTER--GOES IN A STRANGE FASHION TO A STRANGE
CAVERN AND BEHOLDS STRANGE SIGHTS--BESIDES OTHER MATTERS OF INTEREST.

On recovering consciousness, March discovered that it was broad
daylight--from which he argued in a confused sort of way that he must
have lain there all night.  He also discovered that his head, which
ached violently, rested on the knee of some unknown individual, who
bathed his temples with cold water.  Looking up he encountered the gaze
of a pair of soft blue eyes.

Now there is something exceedingly captivating in a pair of soft blue
eyes--not that there may not be something quite as captivating in a pair
of brown or black or grey eyes--but there is something singularly
captivating in the peculiar style of captivation wherewith a man is
captivated by a pair of blue--distinctly _blue_--eyes.  Perhaps it is
that their resemblance to the cerulean depths of the bright sky and the
blue profundities of the ocean invests them with a suggestive influence
that is agreeable to the romantic and idealising tendencies of human
nature; or that the colour is (or ought to be, if it is not) emblematic
of purity.  We throw out this suggestion solely for the benefit of
unimpassioned philosophers.  Those whose hearts are already under the
pleasant thraldom of black or brown eyes are incapable of forming an
opinion on the abstract question.

Well, March observed, further, that below those soft blue eyes, there
was a handsome Roman nose, and immediately below that a moustache, and a
thick short beard of curly light-brown hair.  A slight, very slight,
feeling of regret mingled with the astonishment with which March passed
from the contemplation of the soft blue eyes to the bushy beard.  He
also noted that the stranger wore a little leathern cap, and that a
profusion of rich brown hair descended from his head to his shoulders.

"Ye're better, lad," said the owner of the blue eyes in that deep
musical bass voice which one meets with but rarely, and which resembles
strongly, at times, the low pipes of a cathedral organ.

"Thankee, yes, I'm--"

"There, don't move yet awhile.  You're badly bruised, lad.  I'll go
fetch ye another drop o' water."

The owner of the blue eyes rose as he spoke, laid March's head softly on
the ground, and walked towards a neighbouring brook.  In doing so he
displayed to the wondering gaze of March the proportions of a truly
splendid-looking man.  He was considerably above six feet in height, but
it was not that so much as the herculean build of his chest and
shoulders that struck March with surprise.  His costume was the ordinary
leather hunting-shirt and leggings of a backwoodsman, and, although
deeply bronzed, his colour not less than his blue eyes and brown hair
told that he was not an Indian.

As he returned, carrying a little birch-bark dish full of water in his
hand, March observed that the lines of his forehead indicated a mingled
feeling of anger and sadness, and that his heavy brows frowned somewhat.
He also noted more clearly now the man's towering height, and the
enormous breadth of his chest.  As he lay there on his back with his
head pillowed on a tuft of moss, he said inwardly to himself, "I never
saw such a fellow as this before in all my life!"

And little wonder that March Marston thought thus, for, as no doubt the
reader has already guessed, the far-famed Wild Man of the West himself
stood before him!

But he did not know him.  On the only occasion on which he had had an
opportunity of beholding this renowned man, March had been rendered
insensible just as he came on the field, and the exaggerated
descriptions he had heard of him seemed quite irreconcilable with the
soft blue eye and gentle manner of the hunter who had come thus
opportunely to his aid.  For one moment, indeed, the idea did occur to
March that this was the Wild Man.  It was natural that, having had his
thoughts for so long a period filled with conjectures in reference to
this wonderful creature, he should suppose the first tall, mysterious
man he met must be he.  But he dismissed the notion as untenable and
absurd on second thoughts.  That the blue-eyed, calm, dignified hunter
who kneeled by his side, and held the refreshing water to his lips as if
he were a trained sick nurse, should be the Wild Man, the man reported
to be forty feet high, covered with hair, and exceeding fierce besides
ugly, was out of the question.  And when March shut his eyes in the full
enjoyment of the cool draught, of which, poor fellow, he stood much in
need, and heard the supposed Wild Man give vent to a sigh, which caused
him to look up in surprise, so that he observed the mild blue eyes
gazing sadly in his face, and the large head to which they belonged
shaking from side to side mournfully, he almost laughed at himself for
even momentarily entertaining such an absurd idea.

March Marston had much to learn--we mean in the way of reading human
character and in judging from appearances.  He had not yet observed, in
the course of his short life, that if a blue eye is capable of
expressing soft pity, it is also pre-eminently capable of indicating
tiger-like ferocity.  He did not consider that the gentlest natures are,
when roused to fury, the most terrible in their outward aspect.  He did
not reflect that if this giant (for he almost deserved thus to be
styled), instead of being engaged in an office of kindness, that
naturally induced gentleness of action, and that called for no other
feelings than those of tenderness and pity, were placed on a warhorse,
armed with sword and shield, and roused to fury by some such sight as
that of a large band of savage Indians attacking a small and innocent
group of white trappers, he might then amply fulfil all the conditions
that would entitle him to the wildest possible name that could be
invented.

The prominent ideas in March's mind at that time were, a pair of blue
eyes and a large, gentle hand; so he quietly and finally dismissed the
Wild Man from his thoughts.

Luckily, the Wild Man did not treat March in a similar manner.  After
allowing him to rest quietly for a few minutes, he said--

"Now, lad, I think ye're improvin'.  Ye're badly battered about the head
and shoulders, so I'll take ye home with me."

"Home with you?" repeated March.

"Ay, put your arms round my neck," returned the Wild Man in a tone
which, though soft and low, it was not possible to disobey.

March performed this somewhat endearing action in silent surprise,
whereupon the Wild Man introduced his left arm below the poor youth's
back, and with his right grasped him round the legs, and thus lifted him
from the ground and carried him away.

March experienced a sensation as if all his larger joints were being
dislocated, and felt disposed to cry out, but restrained himself with a
powerful effort.  Presently his bearer stopped, and, looking round,
March observed that he was standing by the side of a horse.

"Hold on, lad, till I mount."

"You'd better let me down till you get up," suggested March.

"No," replied the singularly laconic individual.

Standing as he was, the Wild Man managed by raising March a little to
lay his left hand on the pommel of his saddle; next moment his foot was
in the stirrup, the moment after he himself was in the saddle, and a
touch of his heel sent his horse cantering away towards the mountains.

Had March Marston seen his deliverer at that moment, with his long hair
waving freely in the breeze, in emulation of the voluminous mane and
tail of his splendid horse, his thoughts regarding the Wild Man of the
West would have certainly returned more powerfully than ever.  But March
did not see him, his eyes being shut, his lips pursed, and his teeth set
in a heroic attempt to endure the agonies to which he was subjected by
the motion of the horse.

In half an hour they reached a rocky defile that led up into one of
those wild, gloomy glens that are so characteristic of the Rocky
Mountains.  Here the Wild Man had to check his pace and proceed at a
walk, thereby affording much relief to his wounded companion.

"Art sore i' the bones, lad?" inquired the stout horseman, looking down
at his charge as if he were a small infant in arms.

"Rather," replied March.  "Don't you think it would be better for me to
ride behind you?  I think I could manage to hold on."

"No, you couldn't."

"I fear I must be a terrible weight carried in this fashion," urged
March.

"Weight!" echoed the hunter with a quiet chuckle; but, as he did not
vouchsafe any further reply, March was left to interpret the expression
as he thought fit.

"I hope no bones are broken," inquired March in a tone of anxiety.

"Hope not," replied his captor.

We use the word "captor" advisedly, for March was so utterly unable at
that time, physically as well as morally, to resist the will of this
strange hunter, that he felt much more like a captive in the grip of a
mighty jailer than an invalid in the arms of his nurse.

"I fear there are," said March, as a rude motion of the horse caused him
excruciating agony.

"Very likely," replied the other--not by any means in a careless,
indifferent way, but with the air and tone of a straightforward man
giving his opinion in reference to a matter of fact.  "But," he added in
a consolatory tone, "I'll see when we get home."

"Home!" repeated March.  "Why, where _is_ your home?"

"In the mountains here.  We're about there now."  As he spoke, the
hunter turned his horse sharp to the left and entered a still more
narrow and gloomy defile than the one they had just been ascending.  So
narrow was it, and overshadowed by high precipitous cliffs, that the
light of day had to struggle for entrance even at noontide.  At night it
was dark as Erebus.  The horse had considerable difficulty in advancing.
Indeed no horse that had not been trained to pick its steps among the
confused masses of rock and debris that formed the bottom of that ravine
or chasm, could have ascended it at all.  But the fine animal which bore
March and the Wild Man of the West seemed to act more like a human being
than a horse in winding out and in among the intricacies of the place.

At length they reached the upper end of the gorge.  Here the cliffs,
which rose perpendicularly to a height of three or four hundred feet,
drew so near to each other that at one place they were not more than
three yards asunder.  Just beyond this point they receded again and
terminated abruptly in a sort of circle or amphitheatre, the floor of
which could not have been more than thirty yards in diameter, and was
covered with small gravel; the sides were quite perpendicular, and rose
so high that on looking up one felt as if one had got into the bottom of
a natural tunnel, at the top of which a round bit of bright blue sky
sent down a few scanty rays of light.

In spite of the pain it caused him, March raised his head and looked
round as they rode into this gloomy cavernous place.  Then, glancing at
the face of the strange being who carried him, a feeling of
superstitious dread took possession of his heart for a moment, as he
remembered the many conversations he and Bounce had had about evil
spirits appearing in human form, and he thought that perhaps he had
actually fallen into the hands of one.  But the grave quiet face, and
above all the soft blue eyes, quickly put to flight such fears, although
they could not altogether dispel the solemn awe he felt at being carried
so suddenly into such a mysterious place.

But he had scarcely recovered some degree of confidence, when his mind
was again thrown into a violent state of agitation by the fact that the
horse, turning to the right, began deliberately to ascend the precipice,
which was as perpendicular as a wall.  It did not indeed ascend after
the manner of a fly on a window, but it went up on what appeared to be a
narrow, spiral pathway.  In a few seconds they had ascended about fifty
feet, and March, projecting out from the precipice as he did, owing to
his position in the rider's left arm, felt a horrible sensation of
giddiness come over him, and could not suppress a slight groan.

"Don't be afear'd, lad," said his companion, "I've got ye tight, an' the
horse is used to it.  The track's broader than ye think, only ye can't
see it as ye lie now."

March felt reassured; nevertheless, he shut his eyes very tight and held
his breath.

Presently he felt that they had turned sharp to the right, so he
ventured to open his eyes, and found that they were standing at the
mouth of what appeared to be a cavern.  In another moment they were
under its dark roof and the horse came to a stand.  From the hasty
glance he gave it, he could only ascertain that the interior was buried
in profound darkness.

Without causing March to move in any way, the stout horseman dismounted.
In fact, the burden seemed no greater to him than a child would be to
an ordinary man.

"Here we are--at home," he said.  "Come, old horse, get away in."

The horse obeyed, and disappeared in the darkness beyond.

"Now, lad, don't be afear'd, I know every fut o' the way.  Ye can shut
yer eyes an ye like--but there's no occasion."

Saying this, he advanced with a steady tread into the cave, the echoes
of which were still ringing with the clatter of the horse's hoofs as it
passed over the stone floor.  It could not have been more than a quarter
of a minute when they reached the end of what appeared to be the outer
vestibule of this cavern, though to March it seemed to be more than five
minutes; and, now that he could no longer see the blue eyes, all manner
of horrible doubts and fears assailed him.  He felt deeply his helpless
condition, poor fellow.  Had he been sound in wind and limb he would
have cared little; for a brave and a strong man naturally feels that he
can fight a stout battle for life in all or any circumstances.  But part
of this prop (namely, strength) having been removed by his recent
accident, he felt like a miserable child.

Doubtless it is good for strong men to be brought thus low sometimes,
just to prove to them, what they are by nature very slow to believe,
that they, quite as much as the weak and helpless ones of this world,
are dependent at all times on their fellows.

On reaching the end of the outer cave, the hunter turned to the left,
stooped down in order to pass below a small natural arch, and finally
stood still in the middle of another cavern, on the floor of which he
deposited his burden with much tenderness and care.

There was light in this cave, but it was so dim as to be insufficient to
illuminate the surrounding objects.  March perceived on looking up that
it entered through a small aperture in the side of the cavern near the
roof, which was not more than twelve feet from the floor.  There were
several pieces of charred wood on one side of the cave, in which a few
sparks of fire still lingered.

Without saying a word the owner of this strange abode went towards
these, and, blowing them into a flame, heaped large logs upon them, so
that, in ten minutes, the place was brilliantly illuminated with a ruddy
blaze that did one's heart good to look upon.

By the light of the fire March perceived that he had been deposited on a
couch of pine-branches.  He was about to make other observations, when
his captor turned to him and said--

"I'll go an' see to the horse, and be back in a minute; so keep yer mind
easy."

"And, pray, what name am I to call my host by?" said March, unable to
restrain his curiosity any longer.

A dark, almost fierce frown covered the man's face, as he said angrily,
"Boy, curiosity is a bad thing--anywise, it's bad here.  I've brought
you to this cave 'cause you'd ha' died i' the woods if I hadn't.  Don't
ask questions about what don't consarn ye."

"Nay, friend, I meant no offence," replied March.  "I've no desire to
pry into any man's secrets.  Nevertheless, it's but natural to want to
know how to address a man when ye converse with him."

"True, true," replied the other, somewhat mollified.  "Call me Dick;
it's as good a name as any, and better than my own."

There was a slight touch of bitterness in the tone in which this was
said, as the man turned on his heel to quit the cave.

"Stay," cried March, "you only give me one name, friend, so I'll do the
same by you.  My name's March--there, now you may march about your
business."

Dick smiled and said, "Well, March, I'll be with ye again, and have a
look at your sore bones, in two minutes."

When he was gone March, for the first time since his accident, bethought
him of his comrades.  Since recovering from the state of insensibility
into which his fall had thrown him, his mind had been so absorbed by the
strange events that had been presented to him in such rapid succession,
as well as with the pain that racked his head and limbs, that he had had
no time to think about them.  But, now that he was left in that quiet
place alone, the whole circumstances of the recent pursuit and flight
rushed suddenly upon him, and his mind was filled with anxious
forebodings as to the fate of his comrades.

"Oh!  I'm glad you've come back," he cried, as Dick re-entered the cave;
"I quite forgot my comrades--shame on me! but my miserable head has got
such a smash, that a'most everything's bin drove out of it."

"Time enough to speak o' them after we've seen to your bones," said
Dick.

"Nay, but--"

"_After_," said Dick in a tone that was not to be gainsaid.

March submitted with a sigh, and his eccentric host proceeded to
manipulate and punch him in a way that might perhaps have been highly
necessary, but was by no means agreeable.  After a few minutes he
pronounced his patient all right, only a little bruised!  Having said
which, he proceeded to prepare some food, and said to March that he
might now speak about his comrades.

At first he seemed to pay little attention to the youth's hasty
narrative; but on hearing that the Indians were hastening to attack the
Mountain Fort, he sprang up, and asked a few questions eagerly.  It was
evident that the news troubled him deeply.

Taking one or two hasty strides up and down the cavern, and paying no
attention to the roasting meat, which he seemed to have utterly
forgotten, the Wild Man of the West muttered angrily to himself, and a
slight dash of that tiger-like flash, which had gone so far to earn him
his title, lighted up his blue eyes, insomuch that March Marston looked
at him in amazement not unmingled with awe.  Thoughts of the Wild Man of
the West once more occurred to him; but in his former cogitations on
that subject he had so thoroughly discarded the idea of this kind,
blue-eyed hunter being that far-famed and ferocious individual, that his
thoughts only took the form of the mental question, "I wonder if the
Wild Man o' the West could beat such a fellow as that at a fair stand-up
fight?"  So powerfully did this thought affect him, that he could not
refrain from exclaiming--

"I say, Dick, did you ever hear of the Wild Man of the West?"

Dick was so much tickled by the question that his angry mood vanished,
and, turning towards his guest with a smile, while his blue eyes seemed
milder than they ever had appeared before, he said--

"Yes, lad, I've heard of him."

"Have you seen him?" continued March eagerly.

"I have, many a time."

"What is he like?"

"He's like me," replied Dick with another smile, the softness of which
would have driven March to an immeasurable distance from the truth, had
he ever been near it.

"Like _you_!  Oh, I suppose you mean he's something about your size.
Well, I don't wonder at that, for you're an uncommonly big fellow, Dick;
but I fancy his appearance is very different."

"Well, no.  He's got light hair and blue eyes, like me."

This was a poser to March.  It was so totally subversive of all his
preconceived ideas, that it reduced him for some moments to silence.

"Isn't he hairy all over, like a fox, and very ugly?" inquired March,
recovering from his surprise.

This was a poser, in turn, to the Wild Man.  To be called upon suddenly
to pronounce an opinion on his own looks was embarrassing, to say the
least of it.

"He's not exactly hairy all over," said Dick after a moment's thought,
"though it can't be denied he's got plenty of hair on his head and
chin--like me.  As for his looks, lad, it ain't easy to say whether he's
ugly or pritty, for men don't agree on sich pints, d'ye see?"

"Do sit down beside me, Dick, and tell me about this Wild Man," said
March earnestly.  "You can't fancy how anxious I am to see him.  I've
come here for that very purpose.  No doubt I've come to shoot and trap,
too, but chiefly to see the Wild Man o' the West.  An' isn't it
provokin'?  I might have seen him some weeks agone, if I hadn't bin
stunned with a fall jist as he came jumpin' into the middle o' us like a
clap o' thunder--"

"What, lad," interrupted Dick, "was it _you_ that I--"

Just at this moment Dick was seized with a very violent fit of coughing,
which, coming as it did from such a capacious chest and so powerful a
pair of lungs, caused the roof of the cavern to reverberate with what
might have been mistaken, outside, for a species of miniature artillery.

"You've caught cold," suggested March, who gazed in unspeakable
admiration at the magnificent locks and beard of this remarkable man, as
they shook with the violence of his exertion.

"I _never_ had a cold," replied Dick, becoming quiet again; "there's
other things as cause a man for to cough, now and agin', besides colds."

"True," rejoined March; "but you were sayin' somethin'--do you know of
the fight I was speakin' of?"

"Know of it--ay, that do I."

"Why, how did you happen to hear of it?"

"It's wonderful, lad, how I comes to know about things in this part o'
the country.  I know everything the Wild Man does.  He can't move
without my bein' on his track d'rectly.  In fact, I follers him like his
shadow--leastwise, his shadow follers me."

"Indeed," exclaimed March, whose interest in Dick became suddenly
tenfold more deep on learning this.  "But why do you follow him about in
this fashion?  Does he like your company, or do you only follow him on
the sly, and keep out of sight?  Explain yourself, Dick--you puzzle me."

"I can't explain just now, lad," said Dick, rising abruptly.  "You
forget that your comrades may be in a fix before now wi' them blackguard
redskins.  I must go an' help them.  It's but right that white men
should lend one another a helpin' hand in these regions, where the
Injuns have it almost all their own way."

"But the Mountain Fort is far away from this, an' I'm afraid you'll
never be able to get there in time," said March with an anxious
expression of countenance.

"I'll try," returned Dick.  "Anyhow, I'll send the Wild Man o' the West
to help them," he added with a peculiar smile.  "Now, boy, listen, I
must not waste more time in idle talk.  I shall leave you here under the
charge of my little girl--"

"Your little girl!" echoed March in surprise.

"Ay, she ought to have been in before now," continued Dick, without
noticing the interruption, "an' I would like to ha' told her who ye are,
and how I come by ye, an' what to do till I come back.  But I can't
wait; time's precious as gold just now; so I'll tell ye what to say to
her when she--"

At that moment a light footstep was heard in the outer cavern.  The Wild
Man sprang up on hearing it, and strode hastily through the natural
doorway, leaving March to listen, in a state of the utmost bewilderment,
to a silvery musical voice, which held rapid converse with his strange
host.

Presently Dick returned, followed by a--_vision in leather_! the sight
of which struck March Marston dumb, and rendered him for a few moments
as totally incapable of moving hand, tongue, or foot, as if he had been
bewitched--which, in a sense, he was.

"This is the little girl I spoke of t'ye," said Dick looking at March,
and patting the girl on her soft cheek with a hand that might have
passed for a small shoulder of mutton.  "She'll take good care of ye,
March.  I've told her what to do; but she don't need to be told.  Now,
see ye don't do yerself a mischief, lad, till I come back.  It won't be
long--a day or two, mayhap, more or less; but ye'll take that time to
mend; you're worse battered than ye think of--so, good-day."

While the Wild Man was ejaculating these sentences abruptly, he was
striding about the cave with what may be styled _enormous_ vigour,
picking up and buckling on his weapons of war.  He seized a double-edged
sword of gigantic proportions, and buckled it to his waist; but March
saw it not.  He pulled on the scalp-fringed coat of a Blackfoot chief,
with leggings to match; but March knew it not.  He slung a powder-horn
and bullet-pouch round his shoulders, stuck a knife and tomahawk into
his belt, and grasped a long rifle which stood in a corner; and, in
doing all this, he made such a tremendous clatter, and displayed such
wonderful activity, and grew so much fiercer to look at in every stage
of the process, that March would certainly have recurred to the idea of
the Wild Man, had he been in his ordinary state of mind; but he was
_not_ in that happy condition.  March knew nothing about it whatever!

Before going, Dick stooped and kissed the "vision" on the cheek.  March
saw that!  It recalled him for a moment and made him aware of the
disappearance of his host, and of the loud clattering sounds of his
charger's hoofs, as he led him at a rapid walk across the outer cave.
March even heard the general clatter of all his accoutrements, as he
vaulted into the saddle at one bound, and went down that terrible rocky
way at a breakneck gallop that would have caused him (March) in other
circumstances to shudder.  But he did _not_ shudder.  He was but faintly
aware of these things.  His intellect was overturned; his whole soul was
captivated; his imagination, his perceptions, his conceptions--all his
faculties and capacities were utterly overwhelmed and absorbed by that
wonderful _vision in leather_!



CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

THE VISION IN LEATHER.

It is all very well for men of the world, men of fashion, men who pride
themselves on being highly civilised and peculiarly refined, to fancy
that there are no other visions in this world than "visions in silk,"
"visions in white," and the like.  Those who think thus labour under an
egregious, though a civilised, mistake.

Happily there are kind, loving, pretty faces in this world, the
possessors of which know nothing about pink gauze or white muslin--faces
that have never felt the hot air of a drawing-room, but are much used to
present themselves, unveiled, to the fresh breezes of the prairie and
the mountain; faces that possess the rare quality of universal
attraction, and that cause men to fancy, when they see them for the
first time, that they have beheld a vision!

The fact is that some faces are visions, whether the forms that support
them appear to us in muslin or in deerskin.  The only requisite needful
to constitute a face a vision to any particular person, is that it
should have in it that peculiar _something_ which everybody wants, but
which nobody can define; which is ineffably charming, though utterly
incomprehensible; and which, when once seen by any one, constitutes the
countenance that possesses it a vision evermore!

It is quite immaterial what material composes the dress in which the
vision appears.  No doubt, the first time it bursts upon the smitten
victim, dress may be a powerful auxiliary; but, after the first time,
dress goes for little or nothing.  March Marston's vision appeared, as
we have said in leather.

After the Wild Man had vanished, March continued to gaze at his new
companion with all kinds of feelings and emotions, but without being
able to move or speak.  The vision returned the compliment, also without
speaking or taking any further notice of him.

She was a wonderful creature, that vision in leather!  That she was of
Indian extraction was evident from the hue of her skin, yet she was not
nearly so dark as the lightest complexioned Indian.  In fact her clear
soft forehead was whiter than those of many so-called pale-faces; but
her ruddy cheeks, her light-brown hair, and, above all, her bright brown
eye showed that white blood ran in her veins.  She was what men term a
half-caste.  She was young, almost girlish in her figure and deportment;
but the earnest gravity of her pretty face caused her to appear older
than she really was.  March, unconsciously and without an effort,
guessed her to be sixteen.  He was wrong.  She had only seen fifteen
summers.

Her dress was a beautifully dressed deerskin gown, reaching below the
knees, as soft as chamois leather, and ornamented with beads and quill
work.  It was girded round her small waist by a leather belt, from which
depended a small hunting-knife.  A pair of ornamental leggings of the
same material as the gown covered her limbs, and moccasins her feet,
which latter, as well as her hands, were small and beautifully formed.
Over her shoulders were slung the masculine appendages of a powder-horn
and bullet-pouch, proving that this creature was, so to speak, a Dianic
vision.

Her staring so hard and so long at March without speaking or smiling, or
taking any more notice of him than if he had been an effigy on a
tombstone, seemed unaccountable to that youth.  Had he been able to look
at himself from her point of view he would not have been so much
surprised.

In his late accident he had received so severe a blow on the left eye
that that orb was altogether shut up.  As he did not move, and as the
other eye, with which he gazed in supreme astonishment at the sweet face
before him, happened to be farthest from the fire, besides being hid in
the shadow of his own nose--which was not a small one by nature, and was
a peculiarly large one by force of recent circumstances--the vision very
naturally thought that he was fast asleep.  As she stood there gazing
wonderingly and somewhat sadly at the poor youth, with the red
flickering flame of the fire lighting up her yellow garments, deepening
the red on her round cheeks, glinting on the loose masses of her rich
tresses, and sparkling in the depths of her bright brown eyes, March
thought he had never in all his life before beheld such an exquisite
creature.

Supposing that he was asleep, the vision sat down quietly on a log
beside the fire, still keeping her eyes, however, fixed on her guest.
The action took her out of "the direct line of fire" of March's sound
eye, therefore he turned his head abruptly, and so brought his staring
orb into the light of the fire, and revealed the fact that he was
wide-awake; whereupon the vision uttered an exclamation of surprise,
rose hastily, and went to his side.

"You is woke," she said.  "Me tink you was be sleep."

"Asleep!" cried March with enthusiasm, "no, I wasn't asleep.  More than
that, I'll never go to sleep any more."

This bold assertion naturally filled the vision with surprise.

"Why for not?" she asked, sitting down on a log beside March in such a
position that she could see him easily.

"For thinkin' o' _you_!" replied the bold youth firmly.

The vision looked at him in still greater astonishment, opening her eyes
slowly until they seemed like two pellucid lakelets of unfathomable
depth into which March felt inclined to fling himself, clothes and all,
and be drowned comfortably.  She then looked at the fire, then at March
again.  It was evident that she had not been accustomed to hold
intercourse with jocular minds.  Perceiving this, March at once changed
his tone, and, with a feeling of respect which he could not well account
for, said rather bluntly--

"What's your name?"

"Mary."

"Ay! did your father give you that name?"

"My father?" echoed the girl, looking hastily up.

"Ay, did Dick give it you?"

"Did him tell you him's name be Dick?" asked Mary.

"Oh! he's known by another name to you, then, it would seem.  But, Mary,
what _is_ his name?"

The girl pursed her mouth and laid her finger on it.  Then, with a
little sad smile, said--

"Him tell you Dick, that be good name.  But Dick not my father.  My
father dead."

The poor thing said this so slowly and in such a low pathetic tone that
March felt sorry for having unwittingly touched a tender chord.  He
hastened to change the subject by saying--

"Is Dick kind to you, Mary?"

"Kind," she cried, looking up with a flashing eye and flushed face,
while with one of her little hands she tossed back her luxuriant
tresses.  "Kind!  Him be my father _now_.  No have got nobody to love me
now but him."

"Yes, you have, Mary," said March stoutly.

Mary looked at him in surprise, and said, "Who?"

"Me!" replied March.

Mary said nothing to this.  It was quite clear that the Wild Man must
have neglected her education sadly.  She did not even smile; she merely
shook her head, and gazed abstractedly at the embers of the fire.

"Dick is not your father, Mary," continued March energetically, "but he
has become your father.  I am not your brother, but I'll become your
brother--if you'll let me."

March in his enthusiasm tried to raise himself; consequently he fell
back and drowned Mary's answer in a groan of anguish.  But he was not to
be baulked.

"What said you?" he inquired after a moment's pause.

"Me say you be very good."

She said this so calmly that March felt severely disappointed.  In the
height of his enthusiasm he forgot that the poor girl had as yet seen
nothing to draw out her feelings towards him as his had been drawn out
towards her.  She had seen no "vision," except, indeed, the vision of a
wretched, dishevelled youth, of an abrupt, excitable temperament, with
one side of his countenance scratched in a most disreputable manner, and
the other side swelled and mottled to such an extent that it resembled a
cheap plum-pudding with the fruit unequally and sparsely distributed
over its yellow surface.

March was mollified, however, when the girl suggested that his pillow
seemed uncomfortable, and rose to adjust it with tender care.  Then she
said: "Now me bring blankit.  You go sleep.  Me sit here till you sleep,
after that me go away.  If ye wants me, holler out.  Me sleep in next
room."

So saying, this wonderful creature flitted across the cavern and
vanished, thereby revealing to March the fact that there was a third
cavern in that place.  Presently she returned with a green blanket, and
spread it over him, after which she sat down by the fire and seemed
absorbed in her private meditations while March tried to sleep.

But what a night March had of it!  Whichever way he turned, that vision
was ever before his eyes.  When he awoke with a start, there she was,
bending over the fire.  When he dreamed, there she was, floating in an
atmosphere of blue stars.  Sometimes she was smiling on him, sometimes
gazing sadly, but never otherwise than sweetly.  Presently he saw her
sitting on Dick's knee, twisting his great moustache with her delicate
hand, and he was about to ask Dick how he had managed to get back so
soon, when he (the Wild Man) suddenly changed into March's own mother,
who clasped the vision fervently to her breast and called her her own
darling son!  There was no end to it.  She never left him.  Sometimes
she appeared in curious forms and in odd aspects--though always pleasant
and sweet to look upon.  Sometimes she was dancing gracefully like an
embodied zephyr on the floor; frequently walking in mid-air;
occasionally perambulating the ceiling of the cave.  She often changed
her place, but she never went away.  There was no escape.  And March was
glad of it.  He didn't want to escape.  He was only too happy to court
the phantom.  But it did not require courting.  It hovered over him,
walked round him, sat beside him, beckoned to him, and smiled at him.
Never,--no, never since the world began was any scratched and battered
youth so thoroughly badgered and bewitched, as was poor March Marston on
that memorable night, by that naughty vision in leather!



CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

THE CAVE OF THE WILD MAN OF THE WEST--MARCH AND MARY HOLD PLEASANT
INTERCOURSE--DICK'S GOOD QUALITIES ENLARGED ON--THE WILD MAN GIVES A
REDSKIN A STRANGE LESSON--A STARTLING INTERRUPTION TO PLEASANT CONVERSE.

When March Marston awoke the following morning, and found himself lying
on a low couch in the mysterious cavern of the Wild Man of the West, he
experienced the curious sensation, with which every one is more or less
familiar, of not knowing where he was.

The vision in leather, which had worried him to such an extent during
the night, had left him in peace--as most visions usually do--an hour or
so before daybreak, and as the real vision had not yet issued from the
inner chamber of the cave, there was nothing familiar near him when he
awoke to recall his scattered senses.  His first effort to rise,
however, quickened his memory amazingly.  Pains shot through all his
limbs: the chase, the fall, Dick, the cavern, recurred to him; and
last--but not least, for it obliterated and swallowed up all the rest--
the vision broke upon his beclouded brain and cleared his faculties.

Looking curiously round the cavern, he observed for the first time--what
he might have observed the night before had he not been preoccupied with
sudden, numerous, and powerful surprises--that the walls were hung with
arms and trophies of the chase.  Just opposite to him hung the skin of
an enormous grisly bear, with the head and skull entire, and the mouth
and teeth grinning at him in an awful manner.  Near to this were the
skin and horns of several buffaloes.  In other places there were more
horns, and heads, and hides of bears of various kinds, as well as of
deer, and, conspicuous above the entrance, hung the ungainly skull and
ponderous horns of an elk.

Mingled with these, and arranged in such a manner as to prove that Dick,
or the vision--one or other, or both--were by no means destitute of
taste, hung various spears, and bows, and quivers, and shields of Indian
manufacture, with spears and bows whose form seemed to indicate that
Dick himself was their fabricator.  There was much of tasteful ornament
on the sheaths and handles of many of these weapons.

The floor of the apartment in which he lay was of solid rock, cleanly
washed and swept, but there was no furniture of any kind--only a pile of
fresh-cut pine-branches, with which the place was perfumed, and two or
three rough logs which had been used as seats the night before by the
host and hostess of this--to March--enchanted castle.

March was staring earnestly at one of these logs which lay close to the
ashes of the fire, trying to recall the form that had last occupied it,
when a rustle at the inner passage attracted his attention, and next
moment the vision again stood before him.  It was, if possible, more
innocent and young and sweet than on the previous night.

"Good mornin'.  You very good sleep, me hope?"

"Ay, that had I, a capital sleep," cried March heartily, holding out his
hand, which the vision grasped unhesitatingly, and shook with manly
vigour.

"Bees you hongray?"

"No, not a bit," said March.

The girl looked sad at this.  "You muss heat," she said quickly, at the
same time raking together the embers of the fire, and blowing them up
into a flame, over which she placed a large iron pot.  "Dick hims always
heat well an' keep well.  Once me was be sick.  Dick him say to me,
`Heat.'  Me say, `No want heat.'  Hims say, `You _muss_ heat.'  So me
try; an' sure 'nuff, get well to-morrow."

March laughed at this prompt and effectual remedy for disease, and said,
"Well, I'll try.  Perhaps it will cure me, especially if you feed me."

Poor March saw, by the simplicity of his companion's looks, that
gallantry and compliments were alike thrown away on her; so he resolved
to try them no more.  Having come to this conclusion, he said--

"I say, Mary, come and sit by me while I talk with you.  I want to know
how you came to be in this wild, out-o'-the-way place, and who Dick is,
and what brought him here, an' in short, all about it."

The girl drew her log near as he desired, but said, "What Dick no tell,
me no tell."

"But, surely," urged March in a somewhat testy tone, "you may tell me
_something_ about ye."

Mary shook her head.

"Why not?"

"Dick say, `No tell.'"

"Oh!  Dick's an ass!"

Had Mary known the meaning of her companion's rude speech, she might
possibly have surprised him with a decided opinion in regard to himself.
But, never having heard of nor seen such a creature in all her life,
she only looked up with a quiet expression of curiosity, and said--

"What bees an ass?"

"Ha! ha!--ho! he! a--" roared our hero, with a mingled feeling of
exasperation and savage glee--"an ass?  Why, it's a lovely slender
creature, with short pretty ears and taper limbs, and a sleek, glossy
coat, like--like _me_, Mary, dear; why, I'm an ass myself.  Pray, do get
me somethin' to eat.  I really believe my appetite's comin' back agin."

Mary looked at March in much concern.  She had once nursed the Wild Man
through a severe illness, and knew what delirium was, and she began to
suspect that her guest was beginning to give way.

"Now, lie down," she said with an air of decision that was almost
ludicrous in one so youthful.  Yet March felt that he must obey.  "Me
will git meat ready.  You sleep littil bit."

March shut his eyes at once; but, the instant that Mary turned to attend
to the iron kettle, he opened them, and continued to gaze at the busy
little housewife, until she chanced to look in his direction, when he
shut them again quickly, and very tight.  This was done twice; but the
third time Mary caught him in the act, and broke into a merry laugh.  It
was the first time she had laughed aloud since March met her; so he
laughed too, out of sheer delight and sympathy.

When March had finished breakfast, he tried to get up, and found, to his
great relief and satisfaction, that no bones were broken--a fact of
which he had stood in considerable doubt--and that his muscles were less
acutely pained than they had been.  Still, he was very stiff, and quite
unable, with any degree of comfort, to walk across the cave; so he made
up his mind to lie there till he got well--a resolution which, in the
pride of his heart, he deemed exceedingly virtuous and praiseworthy,
forgetting, either deliberately or stupidly, that the presence of Mary
rendered that otherwise dull cavern the most delightful of sick
chambers, and that her attendance was ample compensation and reward for
any amount of pain or self-denial.

"Mary," he said, when she had cleared away the debris of the morning
meal, "sit down here, and tell me a few things.  You're so terribly
close that one doesn't know what he may ask an' what he mayn't.  But if
you don't like to speak, you can hold your tongue, you know.  Now, tell
me, how old are you?"

"Fifteen," replied Mary.

"Ay!  I thought ye'd been older.  How long have ye bin with Dick?"

"In cave here--ten year.  Before that, me live in my father's wigwam."

"Was yer father a trapper?" inquired March tenderly.

Mary's face at once assumed an expression of earnest gravity, and she
answered, "Yes," in a low, sad tone.

March was going to have inquired further on this point, but fear lest he
should hurt the feelings of the poor child induced him to change the
subject.

"And how came ye," said he, "first to meet with Dick?"

Mary pressed her lips.

"Oh! very well; don't tell if it ain't right, by no manner o' means.  Do
ye think that Dick intends to keep ye here always?"

"Me not know."

"Humph!  An' you say he's good to ye?"

"Oh yes," cried Mary with a sudden blaze of animation on her usually
placid countenance, "him's good, very good--gooder to me than nobody
else."

"Well, I could have guessed that, seein' that nobody else has had
anything to do with ye but him for ten years past."

"But him's not only good to me--good to everybody," continued the girl
with increasing animation.  "You not know _how_ good--can't know."

"Certainly not," assented March; "it ain't possible to know, not havin'
bin told; but if you'll tell me I'll listen."

March Marston had at last struck a chord that vibrated intensely in the
bosom of the warm-hearted child.  She drew her log closer to him in her
eagerness to dilate on the goodness of her adopted father, and began to
pour into his willing ears such revelations of the kind and noble deeds
that he had done, that March was fired with enthusiasm, and began to
regard his friend Dick in the light of a demigod.  Greatheart, in the
"Pilgrim's Progress," seemed most like to him, he thought, only Dick
seemed grander, which was a natural feeling; for Bunyan drew his
Greatheart true to nature, while Mary and March had invested Dick with a
robe of romance, which glittered so much that he looked preternaturally
huge.

March listened with rapt attention; but as the reader is not March, we
will not give the narrative in Mary's bad English.  Suffice it to say,
that she told how, on one occasion, Dick happened to be out hunting near
to a river, into which he saw a little Indian child fall.  It was
carried swiftly by the current to a cataract fifty feet high, and in a
few minutes would have been over and dashed to pieces, when Dick happily
saw it, and plunging in brought it safe to shore, yet with such
difficulty that he barely gained the bank, and grasped the branch of an
overhanging willow, when his legs were drawn over the edge of the fall.
He had to hold on for ten minutes, till men came from the other side of
the stream to his assistance.

Mary also told him (and it was evening ere she finished all she had to
tell him) how that, on another occasion, Dick was out after grislies
with a hunter, who had somehow allowed himself to be caught by a bear,
and would have been torn in pieces had not Dick come up with his great
two-edged sword--having fired off his rifle without effect--and, with
one mighty sweep at the monster's neck, cut right through its jugular
vein, and all its other veins, down to the very marrow of its backbone;
in fact, killed it at one blow--a feat which no one had ever done, or
had ever heard of as being done, from the days of the first Indian to
that hour.

Many such stories did Mary relate to the poor invalid, who bore his
sufferings with exemplary patience and fortitude, and listened with
unflagging interest; but of all the stories she told, none seemed to
afford her so much pleasure in the telling as the following:--

One day Dick went out to hunt buffaloes, on his big horse, for he had
several steeds, one or other of which he rode according to fancy; but he
always mounted the big black one when he went after the buffalo or to
war.  Mary here explained, very carefully, that Dick never went to war
on his own account--that he was really a man of peace, but that, when he
saw oppression and cruelty, his blood boiled within him at such a rate
that he almost went mad, and often, under the excitement of hot
indignation, would he dash into the midst of a band of savages and
scatter them right and left like autumn leaves.

Well, as he was riding along among the mountains, near the banks of a
broad stream, and not far from the edge of the great prairie, he came
suddenly on an object that caused his eyes to glare and his teeth to
grind; for there, under the shade of a few branches, with a pot of water
by her side, sat an old Indian woman.  Dick did not need to ask what she
was doing there.  He knew the ways of the redskins too well to remain a
moment in doubt.  She had grown so old and feeble that her relations had
found her burdensome; so, according to custom, they left her there to
die.  The poor old creature knew that she was a burden to them.  She
knew also the customs of her tribe--it was at her own request she had
been left there, a willing victim to an inevitable fate, because she
felt that her beloved children would get on better without her.  They
made no objection.  Food, to last for a few days, was put within reach
of her trembling hand; a fire was kindled, and a little pile of wood
placed beside it, also within reach.  Then they left her.  They knew
that when that food was consumed, and the last stick placed upon the
fire, the shrunken limbs would stand in no need of warmth--the old heart
would be still.  Yet that heart had once beat joyfully at the sound of
those pattering feet that now retired with heavy ruthless tread for
ever.  What a commentary on savage life!  What a contrast between the
promptings of the unregenerate heart of man and the precepts of that
blessed--thrice blessed Gospel of Jesus Christ, where love, unalterable,
inextinguishable, glows in every lesson and sweetens every command.

When Dick came upon her suddenly, as we have said, he was not ten paces
distant from the spot where she sat; but she was apparently deaf and
blind, for she evinced no knowledge of his presence.  She was reaching
out her skinny arm to place another stick upon the sinking fire at the
time, for it was a sharp and cold, though a bright and sunny autumn day.
Dick stopped his horse, crushed his teeth together, and sat for a few
moments regarding her intently.

Either the firewood had originally been placed too far away from the old
woman's hand, or she had shifted her position, for she could not reach
it.  Once and again she made the effort--she stretched out her withered
arm and succeeded in just touching the end of one of the pieces of wood,
but could not grasp it.  She pawed it once or twice, and then gave up
the attempt with a little sigh.  Drawing herself slowly together, she
gathered up the rabbit-skin blanket which rested on her shoulders and
attempted feebly to fold it across her chest.  Then she slowly drooped
her white head, with an expression of calm resignation on her old
wrinkled visage.

Dick's great heart almost burst with conflicting emotions.  The wrath
that welled up as he thought of the deserters was met by a gush of
tender pity as he gazed through blinding tears on the deserted.  With a
fling that caused his stout warhorse to stagger, he leaped to the
ground, tore open the breast of his hunting-shirt, and, sitting down
beside the old woman, placed her cold hand in his bosom.

She uttered a feeble cry and made a slight momentary effort to resist;
but Dick's act, though promptly, was, nevertheless, tenderly done, and
the big hand that stroked her white head was so evidently that of a
friend, that the poor creature resigned herself to the enjoyment of that
warmth of which she stood so much in need.  Meanwhile Dick, without
shifting his position, stretched forth his long arm, collected all the
wood within reach, and placed it on the fire.

After a few minutes the old woman raised her head, and looking earnestly
in Dick's face with her bleared and almost sightless eyes, said in the
Indian language, with which her companion was well acquainted--

"My son, have you come back to me?"

A gush of indignant feeling had again to be violently stifled ere Dick
could answer in moderate tones--

"No, mother, he's _not_ come back; but I'll be a son to ye.  See, sit up
an' warm yerself at the blaze.  I'll get ye some meat and sticks."

In hot haste, and with desperate activity, for he had no other way of
relieving his feelings, Dick cut down a quantity of firewood and placed
it close to the hand of the old woman.  Then he untied the tin kettle
which he always carried at his saddle-bow, and, with a piece of dried
venison, concocted a quantity of hot soup in a marvellously short space
of time.  This done, he sat down beside the old woman and made her
partake of it.

"Is it long since they left ye, mother?" he said, after she had
swallowed a little.

The old woman pondered for a few seconds.  "No," she said, "not long.
Only one sun has gone down since my son left me."  Then she added in a
sad tone, "I loved him.  He is a great warrior--a brave chief--and he
loved me, too.  But he had to leave me; I am old and useless.  It is my
fate."

"Describe your son to me," said Dick abruptly.  "He is tall and straight
as the poplar," began the old creature, while a look of pride played for
a moment on her withered countenance.  "His shoulders are broad and his
limbs are supple.  He can run and leap like the deer, but not so well as
he once could.  Grey hairs are now mingling with the black--"

"Has he any mark by which I could find him out?" interrupted Dick
impatiently.

"He has a deep cut over the right eye," returned the woman; "but stay,"
she added in some alarm, "you would not harm my son; you are not an
enemy?"

"No, I would not; I would do him good.  Which way did they go?"

"To the prairie--to the rising sun."

Dick at once arose, placed the kettle of soup close to the old woman's
side, and unbuckling his saddle-girth, removed the blanket that covered
his saddle, and transferred it to her shoulders.

This done, without uttering another word, he vaulted into his saddle,
and dashed away as if he were flying for his life.  The old woman
listened until the clatter of his horse's hoofs ceased to beat upon her
deadened ear, and then bent her head, as at the first, in calm
resignation.  Doubtless she fancied that another fellow-creature had
forsaken her, and that the end would soon come.

But Dick had not forsaken her.  He bounded along over the rugged ground
on the mettlesome steed, striking fire from the flinty rocks, leaping
creeks and rivulets, bursting through bush and brake, mile after mile,
until he gained the open prairie, while the black coat of his charger
was speckled with foam.  Here he drew rein, and trotted hither and
thither in search of the tracks of the Indians.  He found them at last,
and dismounted to examine them, for, save to the eye of a trapper or a
redman, there were no visible tracks on that hard turf.

Remounting, he resumed his headlong course--sweeping over the springy
turf of the plains as if his horse were a winged Pegasus, whose energies
could not know exhaustion.  All day he rode, and as evening drew on he
came in sight of the tribe of Indians.

They had encamped for the night, and were preparing their evening meal;
but when they saw the solitary horseman on the far-off horizon, the
braves and old men went to the verge of the camp to watch him.  On he
came, bounding over the turf like the prong-horned antelope, turning
neither to the right hand nor to the left, but taking everything that
intercepted him in a flying leap, and bearing down on the camp as an
arrow flies from the bow.

Although a single horseman is not usually an object of terror to a band
of Indians, these braves soon began to evince by their looks that they
did not feel easy in regard to this one.  As he drew near they
recognised him; for Dick had on a former occasion given this particular
tribe a taste of his prowess.  Each man instantly rushed to his weapons
and horse; but the horses had been turned out to graze, and could not be
easily caught.  Before they secured their weapons Dick was in the midst
of them.  With an eagle glance he singled out the chief with the cut
over his right eye, and rode between him and his tent.  The Indian,
seeing that he was cut off from his weapons, darted swiftly out upon the
plain, and made for a clump of stunted trees, hoping to find shelter
until his comrades could come to his rescue.  But Dick was there before
him, and rode down upon him in such a way that he was compelled to take
to the open plain and run for his life.

His pursuer allowed him to run, keeping just close enough to him to
force him into the particular course he desired him to take.  But the
savage proved, indeed, to be what his mother had styled him--a brave
chief.  Apparently resolving rather to die than to be hunted thus like a
wolf, he halted suddenly, turned sharp round, and, crossing his arms on
his bare chest, looked Dick full in the face as he came up.  Just as he
was within ten yards of him, the Indian drew his knife, and hurled it at
the breast of his enemy with such violence that it hissed in its passage
through the air.  Dick received it on his shield, where it stood
quivering.  Plucking it therefrom with a grim smile, he placed it in his
own girdle, and riding up to the Indian, sternly bade him mount in front
of him.

There was no refusing to obey that voice.  The Indian cast one uneasy
glance towards his camp, which was now far away on the plain, but there
was no sign of any one coming to the rescue.  His captor had got the
credit of being an evil spirit, and he felt that he was left to his
fate.  A hasty repetition of the order compelled him to turn and seize
the mane of the horse.  Dick held out his toe for him to step on; the
next moment he was seated in front of the pale-face, galloping towards
the mountains.

Whatever astonishment the Indian felt at this singular treatment, or
whatever his curiosity as to the result of it all, his countenance
expressed nothing but calm scorn and defiance.  He was evidently working
himself into that state of mind which these redskin warriors endeavour
to assume when they are captured and taken to the stake and the torture,
there to prove their title to the name of brave by enduring the most
inconceivable agonies with stoical indifference, or there to bring
discredit on their tribe, infamy on their name, and joy to their
enemies, by breaking down under the infliction of tortures at the bare
mention of which humanity shudders.

For some time they maintained the same headlong speed.  When, however,
all danger of pursuit was over, Dick drew rein, and proceeded more
leisurely, in order to relieve his now jaded steed.  But that was a
steed of the true metal.  It possessed that generous spirit which would
have induced it willingly to exert itself even to the death.  Its owner
might have ridden it till it fell prostrate and dying on the plain, but
he could not have ridden it to the point of refusing to advance because
of exhaustion.  He was merciful to it, and went slowly during the night;
but he did not come to a final halt until the rising sun found him close
to the camp of the dying woman.

The Indian now for the first time began partly to guess the object of
his having been brought there, and steeled his heart to bear whatever
might await him.

Dick dismounted, and grasping the Indian with a force that showed him
how helpless he would be in a personal struggle should he venture to
attempt it, led him forward, and placed him a few paces in front of his
dying mother.

She was sitting just as she had been left, but the fire had gone out,
and she trembled violently beneath the blanket which she had sought to
pull closer around her wasted form.  Dick blamed himself mentally for
having put so little wood on the fire, and proceeded to rekindle it;
but, before doing so, he took a chain from his saddle-bow, with which he
fastened the Indian to a tree that stood exactly opposite the spot on
which the old woman sat, and not ten paces distant.  He bound him in
such a way that he could sit on the ground and lean his back against the
tree, but he could neither stand up nor lie down.

For the first time the countenance of the savage betrayed uneasiness.
He believed, no doubt, that he was to be left to witness the dying
agonies of his mother, and the thought filled him with horror.  To leave
her, as he did, to perish, had not been difficult, because he knew that
he should not see the act of perishing; but to be brought there and
compelled to witness this terrible doom acted out in all its minute and
horrible details on the mother whom he had once loved so tenderly, was
maddening to think of.  All the dread tortures that had yet been
invented and practised on warriors must have seemed to him as nothing
compared with this awful device of the pale-face, on whom he now glared
with the eyes of implacable hate and ferocity.

"Will the pale-face," he said fiercely, "cast me loose, and meet me hand
to hand in a fair fight?  Surely," he added, changing his tone to one of
ineffable scorn, "the pale-face is not weak, he is not a small man, that
he should fear a chief like Bighorn."

"Hark'ee!  Bighorn," said Dick, striding up to him, and laying the cold
edge of his hatchet on the Indian's forehead; "if you speak another word
above yer breath, the pale-face will cleave ye to the chin."

There was something so thoroughly resolute in Dick's voice that the
Indian was cowed effectually.

The fire was soon lighted, and Dick chafed and warmed the limbs of the
old woman until he brought back the vital spark.  Then he set on the
kettle to boil.  While a new mess was preparing, he went into the wood,
and, with lusty blows, brought down the trees and cut them into huge
billets, which he piled upon the fire until it roared again, and the
heart of the feeble creature began to beat once more with somewhat of
its wonted vigour.  This done, he arranged a couch in such a way that
she might get the full benefit of the heat without being scorched; after
which he rubbed down his good steed and cast it loose to feed.  Then he
cooked and ate some food, but offered never a bit to the Indian, who
gazed at him as he performed these various actions with ever-increasing
amazement and anxiety.

Then Dick sat down beside the old woman, to feed and tend her till she
should die; and he knew the signs of death too well to suppose that his
care would long be required.  All that day, and all that night, and all
the next day, did the trapper, the old woman, and the Indian, remain in
much the same position.  Dick moved about a little, to give the old
woman food and drink as she required it, and to wrap the blanket more
comfortably round her, for which kind deeds the poor creature often
tried to gaze fondly in his face with her sightless eyes.

During all this time her son sat opposite, observing every look and
motion, yet unable himself to move.  The pangs of hunger now began to
gnaw within him, and from his cramped position, he became so cold that
he trembled violently in every limb, despite his efforts to command
himself.  But Dick paid no attention whatever to him; he knew that he
was strong, and could stand it.  Once the Indian implored his jailer to
give him some food, but Dick said sternly, "I'll give ye food before ye
die, _if ye keep quiet_."

At last, about nightfall of the second day, the sands of life began to
run slowly.  Dick saw that the old woman's end was approaching, so he
rose, and, going towards her son, he placed food before him.  He
devoured it ravenously.  Then he gave him drink, and, loosing him, led
him to the fire, where he speedily recovered his wonted heat and energy.
After that, Dick led him to his mother's side and made him kneel.

"Mother," said Dick, "can you see and hear me?"

"Ay; but you are not my son," said the dying woman faintly.  "You are a
pale-face--you are very good--but you are not my son."

"True, mother; but see, I have brought your son back to you!--Lay your
hand on her forehead," he added in that low, stern undertone which he
had used throughout to Bighorn, who could not but obey.  "Stroke her
head, look in her eyes, and speak to her."

The redman did not require to be told now.  A natural impulse led him to
do as he was bid.  The instant the tones of his voice struck her ear,
the old woman seemed to awaken with a start; she looked up eagerly,
caught the hand that touched her forehead, and, passing her own thin
hand up to the Indian's face, felt the scar over his eye, as if to
render herself doubly sure.  Then she grasped the hand again in both of
hers, and, taking it under the blanket, pressed it to her withered
breast and held it tightly there.

But that burst of unexpected joy hastened the falling of the last few
grains of sand.  For ten minutes longer they watched her as the breath
went and came more and more feebly.  Then it ceased altogether, and
death sealed her eyes.  But she did not release the hand of her son.  He
had some difficulty in loosening that clasp of maternal love which was
stronger even than death.

After all was over, Dick seized the Indian and led him to the tree, to
which he chained him again.  Then he dug a grave in the soft soil, in
which he placed the body of the old woman with gentle care.  Having
covered it over he went into the woods, caught and saddled his horse,
and led him towards the wondering savage, whom he once more unbound and
set free.

"Bighorn," said Dick impressively, "you've been made to comfort and
gladden the heart o' yer old mother in her last moments.  If ye was a
pale-face, ye'd thank the Great Spirit for that to the last day o' yer
life.  If ye ever do come to think like the pale-faces, you'll remember
that you've to thank me for bringing ye here.  Go, tell the redskins who
it is that caught ye, and what he did and said to ye."

Saying this, Dick mounted his horse and rode very slowly into the
forest, leaving the redman standing by the side of his mother's grave.

After Mary had concluded this story, which, we may remark, she related
with much fewer comments than we have seen fit to pass upon it, she and
March looked at each other for a long time in silence.  Then March
suddenly exclaimed--

"He's a splendid fellow--Dick!"

Mary, both by looks and words, highly approved of this opinion.  "And
yet," said she somewhat abstractedly, "this bees the man who peepils
call--"

Mary pursed her lips suddenly.

"Call _what_?" inquired March quickly.

"Wicked, wild, bad man," replied Mary, who, fortunately, could say all
this with perfect truth without betraying her secret.  In fact, poor
Mary had never had a secret confided to her before, and having been told
by the Wild Man of the West that she was on no account to reveal his
real title to their guest, she was in the utmost perplexity lest it
should slip out unawares.

"Mary," said March, who was always stumbling upon the verge of the truth
in a most unaccountable way, without actually getting hold of it, "have
you ever seen the Wild Man of the West?"

"Yes," replied the girl with a gay smile.

"Have you?  Well now, that's odd!  How much I should like to see him.
To tell you the truth, one of my chief reasons for coming here was to
see him.  What like is he?"

"Like Dick," replied the girl quietly.

"Like Dick!" echoed March in surprise; "why, that's what Dick said
himself, and yet, by all accounts, his character must be very different
from that of Dick, who seems to be the kindest, tenderest-hearted man
that ever came to trap in the Rocky Mountains."

"What does peepil say 'bout this Wild Mans of the West?" inquired Mary.

"That he's awful fierce an' terrible cruel, an' ten or fifteen feet
high, I forget which, for everybody gives him a different height."

Mary laughed.  "Bees that all?"

"Oh no!  They say he eats men."

Mary laughed again.

"An' women and bars--raw."

Mary laughed louder and longer than ever, and when she laughed she
looked so ineffably sweet that March resolved to go on with the
catalogue of the Wild Man's virtues piecemeal, waiting for the laugh
between each statement, until there was not another idea left in his
brain for his tongue to utter.  But this amiable intention was
frustrated by the report of a gun outside, which echoed and re-echoed
among these savage cliffs like muttering thunder.  It was followed by a
yell that caused Mary to start up with a look of horror and rush out of
the cave, leaving the invalid in a most distressing state of uncertainty
as to what he should do, and in no little anxiety as to what would
happen next.



CHAPTER NINETEEN.

THE MYSTERIES OF THE CAVE EXPLAINED--INGENIOUS DEVICES OF THE WILD MAN--
MARCH AND MARY BESIEGED--THE REDSKINS PROCEED TO MAKE THEMSELVES AT HOME
IN THE CAVERN.

There are few things in this world which are not somewhat mysterious, or
that cannot be, by a peculiar combination of circumstances, more or less
invested with mystery; and we hold it to be an unfair and a very paltry
device on the part of an author to seek to mystify his readers by
keeping them in unnecessary ignorance of that which is in itself simple
and commonplace.

Therefore, we beg leave to state that the apparent mystery with which we
concluded the last chapter was not a mystery at all!  The loud report
there referred to was caused by a savage discharging his gun, and the
cry that followed was the result of that same savage opening his ugly
mouth and giving vent to a tremendous howl.

That this was a howl of triumph was evident to ears accustomed to the
war-whoop of the redman.  That it was destined to be succeeded by an
exclamation of mingled disappointment and surprise was evident, at least
to Mary, who knew the mysteries of the place.

In order to make this plain without further circumlocution, we may as
well inform the reader at once that the Wild Man of the West (perhaps we
should call him Dick, in deference to March Marston's ignorance of his
real character at this time) was not only a subject of terror to the
Indians inhabiting this region of the earth at that particular era in
the world's history, but also a subject of intense curiosity.  Hence,
for many years past, it had been an object of ambition, on the part of
the more courageous of the Indian warriors, to trace this terrible
creature to his familiar haunts, and "beard the lion in his den."

Dick soon became fully aware of this, and, _not_ being a mysterious
monster or demon, but a mere mortal (although, doubtless, a singularly
huge and eccentric one), it behoved him to frustrate the amiable
intentions of his savage tormentors.  In order to effect this, he first
of all selected, as we have seen, a gloomy, secluded, and almost
inaccessible spot among the Rocky Mountains as his residence, which he
made a point of quitting and returning to only in the dark hours of
night or early morning, as far as was practicable.

Still further to bewilder the savages--against whom he bore no grudge,
and to avoid encountering whom was his chief desire--Dick varied his
costume, appearing sometimes in the dress of a Blackfoot chief, or a
Cree warrior; at other times in the hunting-shirt and cap of a trapper.
But, despite his utmost efforts, he occasionally had to face and fight
the redskins--a necessity which so exasperated his naturally fiery
temper that, on such occasions, he became utterly regardless of his
life, and rushing upon any odds with a terrific roar of his deep bass
voice, so different from the shrill yell of the Indians--would cleave
his way right through their ranks with his long double-edged sword;
then, returning to the charge with increased fury, would so appal and
horrify them that the usual result was a general and precipitate flight.

Perhaps some readers may wonder how it was possible that he could escape
being killed in these encounters; but it must be remembered that in
those days guns were by no means so plentiful among the Indians as they
now are, and arrows are comparatively harmless missiles.  Dick always
wore under his leather coat, a vest of thick buffalo leather, which
rendered him arrow-proof in the vital regions of his body, unless shot
at with a strong bow by a powerful arm from a short distance.

This undercoat or piece of armour added a little to his naturally
gigantic proportions, which were still further enhanced by the flying
tags and scalp-locks and fringes of his dress, and the wild masses of
his long hair.  He rode, as we have elsewhere mentioned, a magnificent
charger, which he had purchased in Mexico, and whose sire, no doubt, had
been one of those noble barbs which bore the cavaliers of Spain to the
conquest of the New World.  The mane and tail of this animal, having
never been cut, were of immense length, and, when violently agitated,
seemed to envelop horse and man.  Altogether, the _tout ensemble_ of
Dick and his charger on any of the rencontres above referred to, was
sufficiently awful, and as he was seldom seen near at hand, except in a
condition of blazing fury, there is little wonder that, in the process
of time, he became celebrated throughout the country as the Wild Man of
the West.  The white trappers, too, were somewhat curious to know
something about this mysterious brother; but he shunned them even more
determinedly than he did the Indians, though, of course, he never fought
with them, seeing that they did not attempt to murder him or interfere
with his movements as the savages did.  But there were one or two bolder
or more inquisitive than their comrades, who dogged the Wild Man, and
tried to force themselves upon him.  These he caught and thrashed
soundly, after the fashion of a schoolmaster with a refractory boy, and
turned them adrift with a warning thenceforth to mind their own
business.  At last the Indians set him down as a "great medicine-man,"
or a demon, whom it was impossible to slay; and the trappers shook their
heads and touched their foreheads significantly, as if to indicate that
they thought him mad.

Thus Dick, in course of years, freed himself in a great measure from
annoyance, and many good and kind actions which he did both to Indians
and trappers began to be circulated and exaggerated, so that he became a
greater mystery than ever, especially to the savages, who naturally
misconstrued the spirit in which he made his furious attacks, in
self-defence, just as much as they misunderstood his motives in
performing deeds of kindness.  He was a monstrous mystery! the greatest
mystery that had ever been seen or heard of in the Rocky Mountains since
the beginning of time, and no doubt a greater mystery than will ever be
heard of there again.

Having traversed this roundabout pathway, we now come to the explanation
which we intended to have given much earlier in this chapter.  But it is
really wonderful how natural it is for the human mind to prose and to
diverge, and how very difficult it is, at any time, to come to the
point!  Public speakers know this well.  Perhaps their hearers know it
better!

Well, although Dick was thus feared, yet he was not entirely unmolested.
Wandering tribes from distant hunting grounds used to go there, and,
not knowing much about the Wild Man of the West, did not believe in him;
even ventured to go in search of him, and on more than one occasion
almost caught him asleep in his cave.  Having an ingenious turn of mind,
and being somewhat fanciful, he devised a curious plan to deceive the
savages and warn him of their approach.

By means of an axe and a knife, he carved a representation of his own
head, and covered it with hair by means of the tail of one of his
light-coloured horses, which he docked for the purpose.  (His steeds, by
the way, occupied another chamber of the cavern in which he dwelt.)  The
head thus formed, he planted behind a bush that grew on a ledge of rock
about two yards from the bottom of the cliff of the amphitheatre
outside, and directly opposite to the entrance to it.  The cave, it will
be remembered, was on the right of that entrance.  Thus, the first thing
the savage beheld, on prowling up to the opening of the amphitheatre,
was Dick's image peeping at him over the bush opposite.  Of course the
instantaneous result was the firing of a shot or the discharge of an
arrow, which, the Indians being excellent marksmen, invariably alighted
on the bridge of Dick's nose, or in the centre of his forehead, or in
one or other of his eyes.  As the head was balanced on the front edge of
a deep narrow hole which happened to be there, it was invariably knocked
into that hole by the blow, and disappeared.

This was the supposed fall of the famous Wild Man that caused the yell
which has taken so long to account for, and the discovery of nothing
behind that bush except a small deep hole, much too small to secrete
even a little man's body in, was the cause of the explanation of
surprise which we asserted would certainly follow.

When an event of this kind happened, Dick had a large blunderbuss in
readiness.  It was loaded with a tremendous charge of small shot, and a
small charge of powder, for he did not want to kill.  His object was
simply to punish and to terrify.  He also had in readiness a curious
machine which we find it rather difficult to describe.  Every one has
heard, no doubt, of the wooden wheels, with wooden axles, attached to
the carts in some eastern countries, which groan, and creak, and yell,
and shriek for want of grease, in a manner that is almost maddening to
all but native ears.  Dick's invention was founded partly on the
principle of these eastern carts, only it was worked by turning a
handle, and its sounds were much more excruciatingly intense.

On being startled, then, Dick was wont to seize his blunderbuss, rush
into the outer cave where the shrieking-machine was, give the handle
half a dozen turns, and thus awaken, as it were, all the demons of the
Rocky Mountains.  Dick came at last to know exactly what state of things
he would find outside.  At the first burst of discord the savages,
however numerous, took to their heels, and when Dick emerged from his
cave, they were always within a yard or two of the entrance to the
amphitheatre, every man with outstretched arms, sloped forward at the
acutest possible angle with the ground, rushing on the wings of terror
in a flight of unparalleled precipitancy.

To pour the charge of small shot down into the centre of the flying mass
was the work of a moment; to mount his unsaddled charger, and dash down
the steep rugged path with a clatter equal to that of half a squadron of
dragoons, was the work of two minutes more.  To pull up suddenly, when
he had terrified the spirits of the intruders wellnigh out of their
bodies, return slowly to his rude domicile, reload his blunderbuss, and
retire to rest with a grim smile on his bearded mouth, and a lurking
expression of fun in his big blue eyes, as he drew his blanket over him,
was the usual termination of such scenes.

But this was not all.  Dick, like a wise man, had prepared for the
worst.  In the event of the Indians ever getting the length of the
interior of his den, there were other contrivances ready for them; chief
among which was a large cistern or tank of water, directly over the
fireplace, the front of which was movable, and could be pulled down by
means of a cord passing into the innermost cave of all--namely, the
third cavern which we have alluded to as being Mary's dormitory.  By
pulling this cord, the result--instantaneous and hideous--would be, that
a deluge of water would drown the fire black out, fill the cavern with
hot suffocating steam and ashes, and flood the floor.

How the cavern was to be defended when he himself was not there was a
problem which Dick, being a mere man and not a demon, had utterly failed
to solve.  Of course, he could easily have set all manner of man-traps
and spring-guns, but as these might have taken effect upon some poor
wretch who had no design upon his life, he could not venture to run the
risk.

On the present occasion--Dick being absent, March being prostrated and
all but helpless, and Mary being unable to turn the handle of the
shrieking-machine or to fire the blunderbuss, which kicked like a small
cannon--the case of the romantic pair was desperate, and their only hope
seemed to be that the savages would go away without examining the
cavern.  Vain hope!

But Dick had not left them to take their chance in that way.  He had
warned Mary long ago how to act in such circumstances, and she soon
returned to March with the news that there were four Indian warriors
outside, examining the bush behind which the head had disappeared, and
that they would very soon find out the cave.

"That's not pleasant news, Mary," said March, starting up in spite of
pain and giddiness; "you seem to take it very easy!"

"Com, quick," said she, seizing March by the hand; "com with me."

March said, mentally, that he would go with her into the jaws of death,
if need be; but he followed up the mental speech with the audible remark
that he had better take some weapon with him.

"No, no; com!  Me git you spear, hatchet very quick; but com."

So saying, she dragged rather than conducted March to the little opening
which led into her dormitory.  He had to stoop on entering; and great
was his amazement on finding himself on the brink of a black yawning
gulf, that seemed to descend into the bowels of the earth.  The end of a
narrow plank rested on the edge of this gulf, and appeared to bridge it
over, but the other end of the plank, and all beyond, were lost in
impenetrable darkness.

"Com after me," said Mary, passing rapidly across the gulf, and
disappearing--absolutely like a vision.

March hesitated.  He tried to steady his somewhat giddy head, but the
single word "Com" issuing from darkness in a very commanding tone
settled the point.  He staggered across, held out his hands, and almost
tumbled over his fair guide, on reaching the other end of the plank much
sooner than he had expected.

"Now, wait.  I will com agin," said Mary, recrossing.

The view back was a very different thing from the view forward.  As he
stood there, on the brink of the yawning gulf, March could see right
through into the cavern he had just left, and could observe everything
that took place there.  Mary hastily loaded herself with a rifle and the
blunderbuss, also with powder-horn, bullet-pouch, and a bag containing
buffalo tongues.  With these she returned quickly, and, brushing past
her companion, carried them farther into the cave.

"Now, help me pull," she said, laying hold of the end of the plank.

March obeyed; and obedience cost him much, poor fellow, for it seemed as
if, in the act, he had rent asunder every muscle in his right shoulder.
The plank being thus drawn away, an impassable gulf was left between the
inner and middle cavern, which, even in the event of its being
discovered, presented no particular temptation to induce any one to
explore farther.  Mary drew the plank into the long natural passage
which led to her private apartment; and as this passage turned abruptly
to the right, there was no possibility of any one on the other side of
the gulf being able to see into it.  Indeed, a light in it was not
visible from that point of view, and their voices could not be heard
unless they spoke loudly.

Just as the plank was withdrawn, the Indians discovered the mouth of the
cavern, and in a few minutes the two watchers beheld a painted savage
peep in at the opening of the centre cave.  Seeing that it was empty,
and observing at a glance the opening into the inner cave, he drew back
quickly.  A minute after, the four Indians darted across, and got out of
range of that opening--evidently fearing that some one was there.  They
flitted past so quickly, yet noiselessly, that they appeared more like
shadows than real men.

Presently one of them stepped full in front of the opening with a bow
and arrow in his hand.  The light of the fire was strong.  March saw him
raise the bow, and had just time to draw back when an arrow whizzed past
him, and was broken to pieces on the rock behind his back.  Instantly
after the echoes of the place burst forth as a shot was fired in the
same direction.  Having thus made sure that the way was clear, the
boldest of the savages entered with a blazing pine-knot held high above
his head--the others following with bows ready, and arrows fitted to the
string.

On reaching the edge of the yawning chasm, the foremost savage held the
torch over it, and they all gazed in silence into its unfathomable
depths.  Satisfied that it was impassable, they consulted for a few
minutes, and then, apparently coming to the conclusion that the place
was untenanted, they returned to the middle cave, and began to rummage
and toss about the things they found there.

"Bring the rifle," whispered March.  "I can floor two at a shot as they
now sit."

"No," Mary replied firmly.  "Why make blood?  They will go 'way soon."

Mary was right; but a circumstance occurred which caused them to go away
sooner than either she or they had anticipated.



CHAPTER TWENTY.

A GALLOP TO THE RESCUE--A DISCOVERY--RIGHT-ABOUT FACE--A DISAGREEABLE
SURPRISE AND A SUDDEN EJECTION--A CALM AFTER THE STORM--MARY A
HUNTRESS--DICK'S STORY OF THE MURDERED TRAPPER.

When Dick, _alias_ the Wild Man of the West, left his cave, as narrated
in a previous chapter, and galloped away with reckless speed to afford
the aid of his stout right arm to his friends in the Mountain Fort--for
he counted them friends, although they little knew it--he felt that if
he was to be of any use he must travel over the country as he had never
travelled before, except once, when he had to fly for his life before
five hundred Pawnee warriors.

It was a grand sight to behold that herculean backwoodsman on his noble
steed, which seemed so well proportioned to its rider that it carried
him as if he were but a boy, flying over the country on this brotherly
errand.  Mile after mile was passed, not indeed at full speed, for that
would have broken the good horse down long before the goal was reached,
but at a bowling gallop, taking bogs, and rocks, and fallen trees, and
watercourses, with an elastic bound that told of bone and muscle
overflowing with surplus energy.

Dick patted the horse's arching neck with a look of pride and affection,
and the animal tossed its head with a slight neigh of pleasure and a
playful snap towards its rider's right foot; for it loved its master, as
the lower animals do always love those who treat them well, and it loved
a wild, long, careering gallop, for that was the only means by which it
could relieve its feelings.

There was something unusually wild-like about this horse, besides its
great size and extraordinarily long mane and tail.  It carried its head
high and its ears pointed forward, and it looked boldly from side to
side, as it went springingly along, more like a human being than a
horse.  It actually appeared to be taking intelligent notice of things
around it.  So much so, that Dick had got into a habit of saying a word
or two now and then to it in a grave tone, as if he were conversing with
a friend.

"Ay, it's a fine country, isn't it?" he said, patting the neck again.

The ears were pointed backwards at once, and a little neigh or squeak,
with a toss of the head, was the reply.

"Pity ye can't speak, an't it?" continued Dick in a low, quiet tone.

The horse appeared to know that this was merely a meditative remark, not
pointedly addressed to itself for it only put back one ear and kept the
other forward.

"Now, lass," said Dick firmly (both ears went full back at that sound
and remained there), "take it easy; don't exert yerself over much.  It
an't o' no use--a short pace or two, and--so."

The horse went full swing over a roaring watercourse as he spoke, and
alighted safe on the opposite bank, but the gravelly soil was
treacherous; it gave way, and the animal's hind legs slipped back.  With
a bound Dick sprang to the ground.

"Hyp, good horse," he cried, raising the rein.

A powerful effort, and footing was regained.  Dick vaulted into the
saddle (he seldom used the stirrup), and away they went again, blithe as
ever.  Then a long strip of tangled forest appeared.  Dick diverged
here.  It was easier to skirt it than to crash through it.  Presently a
broad deep river came in view.  There was no looking for a ford, no
checking the pace.  In they went with sounding plunge, as if water were
their native element, breasted the foaming tide, and gaining the
opposite bank, went steadily forward.

Thus on they sped, over hill and dale, all that night, for the moon was
bright in a cloudless sky, and part of next day.  Then Dick made a
sudden halt and dismounted, to examine something on the ground.
Footprints of Indian horses--four of them--going in the direction of his
dwelling!

Dick rose, and his strong brows were knitted, and his lips firmly
pressed together.  For a moment or two he pondered, then he told his
horse to follow him, and, dropping the bridle, set off at a rapid walk,
keeping steadily on the tracks, and stooping now and then to examine
them when the nature of the ground rendered them less discernible.  Thus
he retraced his course for about a mile, when he stopped and muttered,
"No doubt o't.  Them reptiles niver come to these diggins but when they
want to pay me a visit."

As he said this he remounted his horse and sat for a minute or two
undecided.  It was hard to give up his purpose; but it was impossible to
leave his cavern defenceless with Mary in it, and the certainty that
savages were hunting it out.  That thought settled the matter.  He shook
the reins, and back they flew again towards the cave, at a much quicker
pace than they had hitherto maintained.

The result was that Dick gained the entrance of his ravine just two
hours later than the savages, and in time to superintend personally the
hospitalities of his own dwelling.  Riding quickly up to the head of the
gorge, he dismounted and ascended the pathway to his cave with giant
strides and a beating heart, for Dick thought of Mary, and the words
"too late" _would_ whizz about in his brain.

The Indians were still sitting round the fire enjoying themselves when
March and Mary, to their unutterable surprise, beheld Dick stride
through the low doorway of the cave, raise himself to his full height,
and stand before the stricken invaders, absolutely blazing with wrath.
His eyes, his hair, his beard, his glistening teeth, seemed each
individually imbued with indignation.

The Indians did not move--they could not move--they simply sat and
stared; and thus both parties continued for a quarter of a minute.

Mary used that short time well.  She knew exactly what to do.  Darting
into her chamber, she seized the end of the rope connected with the tank
and pulled it violently.  March saw the rock above the fireplace drop!
A clear, sparkling cataract sprang as if by magic from the wall!  Next
instant there was black darkness and yells, steam, shrieks, and howls--a
hissing, hurling hubbub, such as no man can possibly conceive of unless
he has seen and heard it!  We will not, therefore, even attempt a
description.

The Indians rushed _en masse_ to the doorway.  Death in the jaws of the
Wild Man of the West was infinitely preferable to being parboiled and
suffocated; but the Wild Man had judiciously made way for them.  They
gained the outer cave, and sprang down the pathway.  Dick plied the
handle of the shrieking-machine with the secondary object in view of
relieving his own feelings!  The din was indescribable!  If those
Indians are not lunatics at this moment they must be dead, for there
could be no alternative in the circumstances.  Certain it is they
vanished like smoke, and they have never been heard of since--from that
day to this!

Really, dear reader, if it were not that we are recounting the doings of
a Wild Man--a notoriously eccentric creature--we would feel it necessary
to impress upon you that such scenes as we have been describing are not
characteristic of life in the Rocky Mountains; nay, more, we question
whether such scenes as these have ever been witnessed or enacted in
those regions at any time, with the exception, of course, of the present
occasion.  But it must be carefully borne in mind that we are recounting
the deeds of a "Wild Man," and, although the aspect of outward things--
the general tone and current of manners and customs and natural
phenomena--may remain exactly the same as heretofore, and be faithfully
described without exaggeration (as we maintain they are), yet the acts,
devices, and vagaries of such a creature as a Wild Man may, indeed must
necessarily, be altogether eccentric and unparalleled.  We therefore
pause here to express a hope that, whatever credit you may be able to
give to the reported deeds of this hero, you will not withhold your
belief in the fidelity of the other portions of this narrative.

No sooner, then, were those unwelcome visitors ejected than Dick
returned to the scene of devastation and shouted, "Hullo!  Mary!"

"Safe, all safe," she replied, as, with the assistance of March Marston,
she pushed the plank across the chasm, and returned to the centre cave.

"Is the lad March safe too?" inquired Dick as he busied himself in
striking a light with flint and steel.

"All right," answered the youth for himself, "but horribly battered, an'
fit to yell with pain, not to mention surprise.  Do look sharp and get
the fire up.  Sich doins' as this I never did see nor hear of since I
left the frontier.  I do declare it's worthy o' the Wild Man o' the West
himself.  What d'ye find to laugh at, Dick?  I'm sure if ye had my
miserable bones in yer body at this moment, ye'd laugh wi' your mouth
screwed the wrong way.  Look alive, man!"

"Patience, lad, patience.  That's one o' the vartues, I believe;
leastwise, so I'm told.  Ah, it's caught at last.  (Hand me that dry
stuff on the south shelf, Mary; ye can find it i' the dark, I doubt
not.)  Yes, it's a vartue, but I can't boast o' having much o't myself.
I dun know much about it from 'xperience, d'ye see?  There, now, we'll
git things put to rights," he added, applying the kindled spark to some
dry chips and producing a flame, with which he ignited a pine-knot, and
stuck it blazing in a cleft in the rock.  "Just see what them reptiles
ha' done to me.  If it wasn't that I'm a good-tempered feller, I b'lieve
I'd git angry.  See, March, boy, there's a shelf in the corner that's
escaped the flood.  Lie ye down there, while Mary and me puts the place
in order."

"I'd rather help you," said March dismally.  "I don't b'lieve it can
make me worse, an' perhaps it'll make me better.  I wonder what in the
world pain was made for."

"Ye'll only be in our way, lad.  Lie down," said Dick, seizing a large
broom and beginning to sweep away the water and ashes and pieces of
charcoal with which the floor was plentifully covered, while Mary picked
up the scattered skins and furniture of the cave, and placed them on the
ledge of rock, about four feet from the ground, which Dick termed a
shelf.

This ledge ran all round the apartment, so March selected a corner, and,
throwing a dry skin upon it, stretched himself thereon, and soon found
his sufferings relieved to such an extent that he began to question his
host as to his sudden and unlooked-for return.

"How came ye to drop in upon us in the very nick o' time like that?" he
said, gazing languidly at Mary, who bustled about with the activity of a
kitten--or, to use an expression more in keeping with the surrounding
circumstances, a wild kitten.

Dick, without checking his broom, told how he had discovered the tracks
of the Indians, and returned at once, as has been related.

"Then," said March, looking anxiously at his host, "you'll not be able
to help my poor comrades and the people at the Mountain Fort."

"It an't poss'ble to be in two places at once nohow ye can fix it,"
returned Dick, "else I'd ha' been there as well as here in the course of
a few hours more."

"But should we not start off at once--now?" cried March eagerly,
throwing his legs off the ledge and coming to a sitting position.

"You an't able," replied Dick quietly, "and I won't move till I have put
things to rights here, an' had a feed an' a night's rest.  If it would
do any good, I'd start this minute.  But the fight's over by this time--
leastwise, it'll be over long afore we could git there! and if it's not
to be a fight at all, why nobody's none the worse, d'ye see?"

"But maybe they may hold the place for a long time," argued March, "an'
the sudden appearance of you and me might turn the scale in their
favour."

"So it might--so it might.  I've thought o' that, and we'll start
to-morrow if yer able.  But it would be o' no use to-night.  My good
horse can't run for ever right on end without meat and rest."

"Then we'll start to-morrow," cried March eagerly.

"Ay, if ye can mount and ride."

"That I have no fear of; but--but--" at that moment March's eye
encountered Mary's--"but what about Mary?"

"Oh, she'll stop here till we come back.  No fear o' redskins troublin'
her agin for some time," replied Dick, throwing down the broom and
patting the girl's head.  "Come, lass, let's have some supper.  Show
March what a capital cook ye are.  I'll kindle a rousin' fire an' spread
some pine-branches round it to sit on, for the floor won't be quite dry
for some time.  What red reptiles, to be sure! and they was actually
devourin' my poor old bay horse.  What cannibals!"

In the course of an hour the cavern had resumed its former appearance of
comfort.  The ruddy glare of the fire fell warmly on the rocky walls and
on the curling smoke, which found egress through the hole near the roof
that let in light during the day.  Branches were spread on the floor, so
as to form a thick pile near the fire, and on the top of this sat the
Wild Man of the West with the most amiable of smiles on his large,
handsome countenance, and most benignant of expressions beaming in his
clear blue eyes, as he gazed first at Mary, who sat on his right hand,
then at March, who sat on his left, and then at the iron pot which sat
or stood between his knees, and into which he was about to plunge a
large wooden ladle.

"There's worse things than buffalo-beef-bergoo, March, an't there?  Ha,
ha! my lad, tuck that under yer belt; it'll put the sore bones right
faster than physic.  Mary, my little pet lamb, here's a marrow-bone;
come, yer growin', an' ye can't grow right if ye don't eat plenty o'
meat and marrow-bones; there," he said, placing the bone in question on
her pewter plate.  "Ah!  Mary, lass, ye've been mixin' the victuals.
Why, what have we here?"

"Moose nose," replied the girl with a look of pleasure.

"I do b'lieve--so it is!  Why, where got ye it?  I han't killed a moose
for three weeks an' more."

"Me kill him meself," said Mary.

"You!"

"Ay, me! with me own gun, too!"

"Capital!" cried Dick, tossing back his heavy locks, and gazing at the
child with proud delight.  "Yer a most fit an' proper darter for the
Wild--a--_ho_!" sneezed Dick, with sudden violence, while Mary glanced
quickly up and opened her eyes very wide.  "Whisst--to--a--hah! whew!
wot a tickler!  I raally think the mountain air's a-goin' to make me
subjick to catchin' colds."

March took no notice of the remark.  His attention was at that moment
divided between Mary's eyes and a marrow-bone.

There is no accounting for the besotted stupidity at this time of March
Marston, who was naturally quick-witted, unless upon the principle that
prejudice renders a man utterly blind.  A hundred glaring and obvious
facts, incidents, words, and looks, ought to have enlightened him as to
who his new friend Dick really was.  But his mind was so thoroughly
imbued, so saturated, with the preconceived notion of the Wild Man of
the West being a huge, ferocious, ugly monster, all over red, or perhaps
blue, hair, from the eyes to the toes, with canine teeth, and, very
probably, a tail, that unintentional hints and suggestive facts were
totally thrown away upon him.  The fact is, that if Dick had at that
moment looked him full in the face and said, "_I'm_ the Wild Man of the
West," March would have said he didn't believe it!

"How came ye by the iron pot?" inquired March suddenly, as the sight of
that vessel changed the current of his thoughts.

Dick's countenance became grave, and Mary's eyes dropped.

"I'll tell ye some other time," said the former quietly; "not now--not
now.  Come, lad, if ye mean to mount and ride wi' me to-morrow, you'll
ha' to eat heartier than that."

"I'm doing my best.  Did you say it was _you_ that shot the moose deer,
Mary?"

"Yes, it was me.  Me go out to kill bird for make dinner, two days back,
an' see the moose in one place where hims no can escape but by one way--
narrow way, tree feets, not more, wide.  Hims look to me--me's look to
him.  Then me climb up side of rocks so hims no touch me, but _must_
pass below me quite near.  Then me yell--horbuble yell!"  ("Ha!" thought
March, "music, sweetest music, that yell!") "an' hims run round in great
fright!"  ("Oh, the blockhead," thought March)--"but see hims no can git
away, so hims rush past me!  Me shoot in back of hims head, an' him
drop."

"Huzza!" shouted Dick, in such a bass roar that March involuntarily
started.  "Well done, lass; ye'll make a splendid wife to a bold
mountaineer."

March could not believe his eyes, while he looked at the modest little
creature who thus coolly related the way in which she slaughtered the
moose; but he was bound to believe his ears, for Mary _said_ she did the
deed, and to suppose it possible that Mary could tell a falsehood was,
in March's opinion, more absurd than to suppose that the bright sun
could change itself into melted butter!  But Dick's enthusiastic
reference to Mary one day becoming the wife of a mountaineer startled
him.  He felt that, in the event of such a calamitous circumstance
happening, she could no longer be his sister, and the thought made him
first fierce, and then sulky.

"D'ye kill many mountain sheep here, Dick?" inquired March, when his
ruffled temper had been smoothed down with another marrow-bone.

"Ay, lots of 'em."

"What like are they close?  I've never been nearer to 'em yet than a
thousand yards or so--never within range."

"They're 'bout the size of a settlement sheep, an' skin somethin' like
the red deer; ye've seen the red deer, of coorse, March?"

"Yes, often; shot 'em too."

"Well, like them; but they've got most treemendous horns.  I shot one
last week with horns three fut six inches long; there they lie now in
that corner.  Are ye a good shot, March?"

"Middlin'."

"D'ye smoke?"

"Yes, a little; but I an't a slave to it like some."

"Humph!" ejaculated Dick sarcastically.  "If ye smoke `a little,' how
d'ye know but ye may come to smoke much, an' be a slave to it like other
men?  Ye may run down a steep hill, an' say, when yer near the top, `I
can stop when I like'; but ye'll come to a pint, lad, when ye'll try to
stop an' find ye can't--when ye'd give all ye own to leave off runnin';
but ye'll have to go on faster an' faster, till yer carried off yer
legs, and, mayhap, dashed to bits at the bottom.  Smokin' and drinkin'
are both alike.  Ye can begin when you please, an', up to a certain
pint, ye can stop when ye please; but after that pint, ye _can't_ stop
o' yer own free will--ye'd die first.  Many an' many a poor fellow _has_
died first, as I know."

"An' pray, Mister Solomon, do _you_ smoke?" inquired March testily,
thinking that this question would reduce his companion to silence.

"No, never."

"Not smoke?" cried March in amazement.  The idea of a trapper not
smoking was to him a thorough and novel incomprehensibility.

"No; nor drink neither," said Dick.  "I once did both, before I came to
this part o' the country, and I thank the Almighty for bringing me to a
place where it warn't easy to get either drink or baccy--specially
drink, which I believe would have laid me under the sod long ago, if I
had bin left in a place where I could ha' got it.  An' now, as Mary has
just left us, poor thing, I'll tell ye how I came by the big iron pot.
There's no mystery about it; but as it b'longed to the poor child's
father, I didn't want to speak about it before her."

Dick placed an elbow on each knee, and, resting his forehead upon his
hands, stared for some moments into the fire ere he again spoke.

"It's many years now," said he in a low, sad tone, "since I left home,
and--but that's nothin' to do wi' the pint," he added quickly.  "You
see, March, when I first came to this part o' the world I fell in with a
comrade--a trapper--much to my likin'.  This trapper had been jilted by
some girl, and came away in a passion, detarminin' never more to return
to his native place.  I never know'd where he come from, nor the
partic'lars of his story, for that was a pint he'd never speak on.  I
don't believe I ever know'd his right name.  He called himself Adam;
that was the only name I ever know'd him by.

"Well, him an' me became great friends.  He lived wi' a band of Pawnee
Injuns, and had married a wife among them; not that she was a pure Injun
neither, she was a half-breed.  My Mary was their only child; she was a
suckin' babe at that time.  Adam had gin her no name when we first met,
an' I remember him askin' me one day what he should call her; so I
advised Mary--an' that's how she come to git the name.

"Adam an' me was always together.  We suited each other.  For myself, I
had ta'en a skunner at mankind, an' womankind, too; so we lived wi' the
Pawnees, and hunted together, an' slep' together when out on the tramp.
But one o' them reptiles took a spite at him, an' tried by every way he
could to raise the Injuns agin' him, but couldn't; so he detarmined to
murder him.

"One day we was out huntin' together, an', being too far from the Pawnee
lodges to return that night, we encamped in the wood, an' biled our
kettle--this iron one ye see here.  Adam had a kind o' likin' for't, and
always carried it at his saddle-bow when he went out o' horseback.  We'd
just begun supper, when up comes the Wild-Cat, as he was called--Adam's
enemy--an' sits down beside us.

"Of course, we could not say we thought he was up to mischief, though we
suspected it, so we gave him his supper, an' he spent the night with us.
Nixt mornin' he bade us good-day, an' went off.  Then Adam said he
would go an' set beaver traps in a creek about a mile off.  Bein' lazy
that day, I said I'd lie a bit in the camp.  So away he went.  The camp
was on a hill.  I could see him all the way, and soon saw him in the
water settin' his traps.

"Suddenly I seed the Wild-Cat step out o' the bushes with a bow an'
arrow.  I knew what was up.  I gave a roar that he might have heard ten
miles off, an' ran towards them.  But an arrow was in Adam's back before
he could git to the shore.  In a moment more he had the Injun by the
throat, an' the two struggled for life.  Adam could ha' choked him easy,
but the arrow in his back let out the blood fast, an' he could barely
hold his own.  Yet he strove like a true man.  I was soon there, for I
nearly burst my heart in that race.  They were on the edge of the water.
The Wild-Cat had him down, and was tryin' to force him over the bank.

"I had my big sword wi' me, an' hewed the reptile's head off with it at
one blow, sendin' it into the river, an' tossin' the body in after it.

"`It's too late,' says Adam, as I laid him softly on the bank.

"I could see that.  The head of the shaft was nearly in his heart.  He
tried to speak, but could only say, `Take care o' my wife an' Mary'--
then he died, and I buried him there."

Dick paused, and clenched both hands convulsively as the thought of that
black day came back upon him.  But the glare in his eye soon melted into
a look of sadness.

"Well, well," he continued, "it's long past now.  Why should I be angry
with the dead?  Adam's wife never got the better o' that.  She dropped
her head like a prairie flower in the first blast of winter, an' was
soon beside her husband.

"I waited till the little child could stump about on its own legs, an'
then I mounted my horse an' rode away with it in my arms.  The only
things belongin' to poor Adam I brought with me was the iron pot an' his
long rifle.  There the rifle stands in the corner.  I've used it ever
since."

"And have you and Mary lived here all alone since that day?"

"Ay.  I came straight here--not carin' where I went, only anxious to get
out o' the sight o' men, an' live alone wi' the child.  I sought out a
dwellin' in the wildest part o' these mountains, an' fell upon this
cave, where we've lived happy enough together."

"Do you mean to say the child has never played with other children?"
inquired March, amazed at this discovery.

"Not much.  I give her a run for a month or two at a time, now an' agin,
when I fall on a friendly set o' well-disposed redskins--just to keep
the right sort o' spirit in her, and comfort her a bit.  But she's
always willin' to live alone wi' me."

"Then she's never learned to read?" said March sadly.

"That has she.  She's got one book.  It's a story about a giant an' a
fairy, an' a prince an' princess.  Most 'xtraornar' stuff.  I got it
from a Blood Injun, who said he picked it up in a frontier settlement
where the people had all been murdered.  When we had nothin' better to
do, I used to teach her her letters out o' that book, an' the moment she
got 'em off she seemed to pick up the words, I dun' know how.  She's
awful quick.  She knows every word o' that story by heart.  An' she's
invented heaps o' others o' the most amazin' kind.  I've often thought
o' goin' to the settlements to git her some books, but--"

Dick paused abruptly, and a dark frown settled on his features, as if
the thoughts of civilised men and things revived unpleasant memories.

"The fact is," he continued somewhat bitterly, "I've been a hater of my
race.  You'd scarcely believe it, lad, but you are the first man I've
ever told all this to.  I can't tell why it is that I feel a likin' for
ye, boy, an' a desire to have ye stop with me.  But that must not be.  I
had but one friend.  I must not make another to have him murdered,
mayhap, before my eyes.  Yet," he added in a gentle tone, taking March's
hand in his and stroking it, "I feel a likin' for ye, boy, that makes me
sad to think o' partin'."

"But we don't need to part, Dick," said March eagerly.  "I like you too,
and I like your style of life, an'--" He was going to have added that he
liked Mary, and that he would live with them both all his days, when the
little cottage at Pine Point settlement and his loving mother rose
before him, and caused him to drop his head and terminate his speech
abruptly.

Just then Mary re-entered the cavern, and put an end to the
conversation.



CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.

MARCH, THOUGH WILLING IN SPIRIT, FINDS HIS BODY WEAK--HE MAKES MARY A
PRESENT--THE TRAPPERS SET OUT TO SEARCH FOR THEIR LOST COMRADE--AN
UNEXPECTED MEETING--BIG WALLER WAXES PUGNACIOUS--NEWS OF MARCH--DICK
BECOMES MORE MYSTERIOUS THAN EVER--A RECKLESS PROPOSAL AND A HAPPY
MEETING.

Next morning, before daybreak, March Marston attempted to set out for
the Mountain Fort with Dick; but he was so thoroughly knocked up before
the end of the first mile that he had to call a halt, and admit that he
could not think of going further.  This was just what Dick wanted; so he
laughed, told him to go back and take care of Mary, and he would advance
alone.

March returned, very much humbled, excessively pained in all his joints,
and feeling as if he had reason to be ashamed of himself.

"Oh! you com back?" cried Mary as he entered the cavern with a
crestfallen air.  "Me so glad!  Me know very well you no was poss'ble
for travel."

Mary was perfectly artless.  She made no attempt whatever to conceal her
satisfaction at the youth's return, so he felt amazingly comforted, and
even began to recover his self-esteem.

"Yes, Mary, I've come back, 'cause I can't go forward.  It's o' no use
tryin'; I'd just have knocked up on the way, which would have been
awkward for Dick, you know, as well as for me.  Besides, I couldn't
fight just now to save my life."

"Well, you is right.  You stop here an' git strong an' well.  Me tell
you stories 'bout Dick, or other mans if you likes.  We'll have no
fightin' to do.  If there is, me take care of you.  Me can doos a littil
in that way."

March opened his eyes very wide at this, and stared at the pretty little
vision in leather, but there was no smile or sly wrinkle on her
countenance.  She was looking quite gravely and sedately into the iron
pot, which she happened to be stirring at that moment.

"Mary," he said, sitting down beside her, "Dick tells me you can read."

"Yis, me can read littil.  But me only got one book."  She sighed
slightly as she said this.

"Would you like to have another book?"

"Oh yis, very very much.  Have you got one?"

"Ay, one; the only one I have in the world, Mary; an' you're the only
person in the world I'd give it to.  But I'll give it to you, 'cause
you've no chance of gettin' one like it here.  It's a Bible--the one my
mother gave me when I left home."

March pulled the little volume out of the breast of his coat as he
spoke, and handed it to the girl, who received it eagerly, and looked at
it with mingled feelings of awe and curiosity for some time before she
ventured to open it.

"The Bibil.  Dick have oftin speak to me 'bout it, an' try to 'member
some of it.  But he no can 'member much.  He tell me it speak about the
great good Spirit.  Injins call him Manitow."

"So it does, Mary.  I'll leave it with you when I go away.  You say Dick
couldn't remember much of it; neither can I, Mary.  More shame to me,
for many an' many a time has my poor mother tried to make me learn it
off by heart."

"You mother?" repeated Mary earnestly.  "Is you mother livin'?"

"That is she.  At least, I left her well an' hearty in Pine Point
settlement not many weeks agone."

"Me wish me had mother," said Mary with a sigh.

March gazed at the sad face of his fair companion with a perplexed yet
sympathetic look.  This was a new idea to him.  Never having been
without a mother, it had never entered into his head to think of such a
thing as wishing for one.

"What you mother called?" said the girl, looking up quickly.

"Her name is Mary."

"Yis! that very strange.  Call same as me."

"Not very strange, after all.  There are a good number of Marys in the
world," replied March with a laugh.  "See, here is her name on the
flyleaf of the Bible, written with her own hand, too: `To my dear March,
from his loving mother, Mary Marston, Pine Point settlement.'  Isn't it
a good round hand o' write?"

"Very pritty," replied Mary.  But she had now begun to spell out the
words of the book which had at last fallen into her hands, and March
could not again draw her into general talk; so he was fain to sit down
and help her to read the Bible.

Leaving them thus occupied, we will now return to the trappers, three of
whom, it will be remembered--Bounce, Redhand, and Gibault--had reached
the Mountain Fort and given the alarm.  Soon afterwards the Indians
arrived there; but finding everything in readiness to give them a warm
reception, they retired at once, preferring to wait their opportunity
rather than have a fair stand-up fight with the white men.  About an
hour after they had retired, Big Waller, Hawkswing, and the artist, came
tearing towards the fort, and were at once admitted.

They had nothing new to tell.  They had met together by accident, as the
others had done, on nearing the fort, and would have been in sooner, had
not Big Waller been obliged to take charge of poor Bertram, who, owing
to the suddenness and violence of all these recent events in savage
life, had got into a muddled condition of mind that rendered him
peculiarly helpless.  But they knew nothing of March Marston--they had
expected to find him there before them.

As March was well mounted, and known to be well qualified to take care
of himself, his non-arrival threw his friends into a state of the utmost
anxiety and suspense.  They waited a couple of hours, in order to give
him a chance of coming in, hoping that he might have merely been
detained by some trifling accident, such as having lost his way for a
time.  But when, at the end of that period, there was still no sign of
him, they gave up all hope of his arriving, and at once set out to sweep
the whole country round in search of him, vowing in their hearts that
they would never return to Pine Point settlement without him if he were
alive.

McLeod tried to persuade them to remain at the fort for a few days, but,
feeling sympathy with them, he soon ceased to press the matter.  As for
the wretched chief of the fort, Macgregor--the excitement of the recent
transactions being over--he had returned to his bosom friend, and
bitterest enemy, the bottle, and was at that time lying in a state of
drivelling idiocy in his private chamber.

A few days after quitting the fort, Bounce and Gibault, who chanced to
be riding considerably in advance of their companions, halted on the top
of a ridge and began to scan the country before them.  In the midst of
their observations, Bounce broke the silence with a grunt.

"Fat now?" inquired his companion.

"What now?" replied Bounce contemptuously.  "Use yer eyes now; d'ye see
nothin'?"

"Non, no ting."

"That comes o' the want of obsarvation, now," said Bounce in a grave,
reproachful tone.  "Ye shouldn't ought to be so light-headed, lad.  If
ye wos left to yer lone in them sort o' places, ye'd soon lose yer
scalp.  It's _obsarvation_ as does it all, an' in yer partikler case
it's the want o' that same as doesn't do it, d'ye see?"

"Non, vraiment, me shockable blind dis day; mais, p'r'aps, git more
cliver de morrow," replied the good-humoured Canadian with a grin.  "Fat
you see?"

"I see fut-prints," replied Bounce, dismounting; "an' as fut-prints
implies feet, an' feet indicates critters, human or otherwise, it
becomes men wot be lookin' for a lost comrade to examine 'em with more
nor or'nary care."

"Hah!" shouted Gibault with unwonted energy.  "Look! voila! behold!
Bounce, you hab great want of `obsarvation.'  See!"

Now it chanced that, while Bounce was on his knees, carefully turning
over every leaf and blade of grass, his comrade, who remained on
horseback, and kept gazing at the horizon, without any particular object
in view, did suddenly behold an object coming towards them at full
gallop.  Hence the sudden outburst, and the succeeding exclamation from
Bounce--"It's a hoss!"

"A hoss!" repeated Gibault.  "Him be one buffalo I see hims bump."

"The bumps that ye see is neither more nor less than a man leanin'
forard--it is."

At this moment the rest of the party rode up, and Redhand confirmed
Bounce's opinion.

"There's only one, I guess, an' he's in a powerful hurry," observed Big
Waller.  "But we may as well be ready to fix his flint if he means to
cut up rough."

He brought forward his gun as he spoke, and examined the priming.

"I b'lieve he's an evil spirit, I do," said Bounce; "wot a pace!"

"More like to de Wild Man of de Vest," observed Gibault.

"Think you so?" whispered Bertram in an anxious tone, with an
involuntary motion of his hand to the pouch in which lay that marvellous
sketch-book of his.

"Think it's him?" said Redhand to Hawkswing.

The Indian gave a slight grunt of assent.

But the strange horseman soon put all doubt on the point at rest by
bearing down upon them like a whirlwind, his long hair and tags and
scalp-locks streaming in the wind as usual.  Dick had a distinct purpose
in thus acting.  He wished to terrify men, or, at least, to impress them
with a wholesome dread of him, in order that he might simply be _let
alone_!

He did not check his slashing pace until within four or five bounds of
the party.  Reining up so violently that he tore up the turf for a
couple of yards under his horse's heels, he looked at the trappers with
a grave, almost fierce expression, for a second or two.

"You come from the Mountain Fort?" he said.

"Yes," replied Redhand.

"All right there?"

"All right.  The redskins threatened an attack, but we were too quick
for 'em."

A gleam of satisfaction passed across Dick's face as he added, "You've
lost a comrade, han't ye?"

"We jist have," cried Big Waller in surprise.  "If you've seed him, I
guess ye'd as well take us to his whereabouts."

"See you yonder pine?" said Dick, pointing back in the direction whence
he had come.  "One day's journey beyond that, as the crow flies, will
bring you to a valley, level and well watered, with plenty o' beaver in
it.  You'll find him there."

Without waiting a reply Dick turned to ride away.

"I say, stranger," cried Waller (Dick paused), "air you, or air you not,
the Wild Man o' the West?"

"Wild fools of the West call me so," replied Dick with a ferocious
frown, that went far to corroborate the propriety of the cognomen in the
opinion of the trappers.

"Wall, I tell 'ee wot it is, stranger, Wild Man or not, I guess you'll
ha' to take us to our comrade yourself, for I'm inclined to opine that
you know more about him than's good for ye; so if ye try to ride off,
I'll see whether a ball--sixteen to the pound--'ll not stop ye, for all
yer bigness."

A grim smile curled Dick's moustache as he replied, "If ye think that a
trapper's word ain't to be trusted, or that committin' murder 'll do yer
comrade a service, here's your chance--fire away!"

Dick wheeled about and cantered coolly away into the thickest part of
the forest, leaving the trappers gazing at each other in amazement.
Bertram was the first to speak.

"Oh, why did you not delay him a few seconds longer?  See, I have him
here--all but the legs of his splendid charger."

The others burst into a laugh.

"If ye've got the body all c'rect, it's easy to calculate the legs by
the rules o' proportion, d'ye see?" observed Bounce.

"Come, lads, that's good news about March, anyhow," cried Redhand; "an'
I'm of opinion that the Wild Man o' the West an't just so wild as people
think.  I, for one, will trust him.  There's somethin' about the corner
of a man's eye that tells pretty plain whether he's false or true.
Depend on't we shall find March where he told us, so the sooner we set
off the better."

Without waiting for a reply, Redhand urged his horse into a gallop, and,
followed by his comrades, made for the valley indicated by the Wild Man.

Meanwhile, the Wild Man himself was already far ahead of them, keeping
out of sight among the woods, and galloping nearly in the same
direction--for his cave lay not more than four miles from the valley in
question.  Being much better mounted than they, he soon left the
trappers far behind him, and when night closed in he continued his
journey, instead of halting to eat and take a few hours' rest as they
did.  The consequence was that he reached his cave several hours before
the trappers arrived at the valley, where they expected to find their
missing comrade.

Of course March was filled with surprise at this second unexpected
return of Dick; but the latter relieved his mind by explaining, in an
offhand way, that he had met a man who had told him the Mountain Fort
was all safe, and that his comrades also were safe, and wandering about
in that part of the country in search of him.  After a good deal of
desultory conversation, Dick turned to his guest with a sad, serious
air, and, fixing his large blue eyes on him, said--

"March, lad, you an' me must part soon."

"Part!" exclaimed the youth in surprise, glancing at Mary, who sat
opposite to him, embroidering a pair of moccasins.

"Ay, we must part.  You'll be well enough in a day or two to travel
about with yer comrades.  Now, lad, I want ye to understand me.  I've
lived here, off and on, for the last fourteen or fifteen years--it may
be more, it may be less; I don't well remember--an' I've niver suffered
men to interfere wi' me.  I don't want them, an' they don't want me."

He paused.  There was a slight dash of bitterness in the tone in which
the last words were uttered; but it was gone when he resumed, in his
usual low and musical voice--

"Now, although I chose to bring you to my cave, because I found ye
a'most in a dyin' state, an' have let ye into one or two o' my secrets--
because I couldn't help it, seein' that I couldn't stop up yer eyes--an'
yer ears--yet I don't choose to let yer comrades know anything about me.
They've no right to, an' _you_ have no right to tell 'em; so, when ye
meet 'em again ye mustn't talk about me or my cave, d'ye see?"

"Certainly," said March, who was both surprised and annoyed by his
speech, "certainly you have a perfect right to command me to hold my
tongue; and, seein' that you've bin so kind to me, Dick, I'm in duty
bound to obey; but how can you ask me to put myself in such an awkward
fix?  You don't suppose I can make my comrades believe I've bin livin'
on air or grass for some days past, an' they'll see, easy enough, that
I've not bin in a condition to help myself.  Besides, whatever your
notions may be about truth, mine are of such a sort that they won't let
me tell a parcel o' lies to please anybody."

"Far be it from me, boy, to ask ye to tell lies.  You can tell yer
comrades that you've bin took care of by a trapper as lives in a cave
among the mountains; but you don't need to tell 'em where the cave is;
an' if they worry ye to guide 'em to it, ye can refuse.  Moreover, jist
speak o' me in an offhand, careless sort o' way, d'ye see? an' be
particular not to tell what I'm like, 'cause it might make 'em take a
fancy to hunt me up."

There appeared to be a dash of vanity in the latter part of this remark,
which surprised March not a little; for it seemed to him quite
inconsistent with the stout hunter's wonted modesty of demeanour and
speech.

"Well, I'm bound to think only o' your wishes in this matter," replied
March in a disappointed tone, "an' I'll do my best to prevent my
comrades interfering with ye, tho', to say truth, I don't think you need
be so cautious, for they ain't over-curious--none of 'em.  But--" here
March paused and glanced at Mary, who, he observed, had dropped her head
very much during the conversation, and from whose eye at that moment a
bright tear fell, like a diamond, on the work with which she was
engaged.

"But--am I--the fact is, Dick, I feel a little sore that you should say
ye had a likin' for me, an' then tell me I must be off, an' never look
near ye again."

"That's wot I never did say, boy," returned Dick, smiling.  "Ye may come
_alone_ to see me as often as ye like while ye remain in these parts.
An' if it please ye, yer at liberty to come an' live wi' me.  There's
room in the mountains for both of us.  The cave can hold three if need
be."

March Marston's heart beat quick.  He was on the eve of forming a great
resolve!  His bosom heaved, and his eye sparkled, as he was about to
close hastily with this proposal, when, again, the memory of his mother
crossed him, and a deep sigh burst from his lips as he shook his head,
and said sorrowfully, "It can't be done, Dick.  I can't forsake my
mother."

"No more ye should, lad, no more ye should," said Dick, nodding
approvingly; "but there's nothin' to prevent your spendin' the winter
and spring here, an' returnin' to yer mother next summer."

"Done!" cried March, springing up as well as his bruised muscles would
permit him, and seizing his friend enthusiastically by the hand.  "I'll
stop with you and send home word by my comrades that I'll be back in
summer.  That's capital!"

Mary seemed to be quite of the same opinion, for she looked quickly up
with a beaming smile.

"Well, so it is a good plan," said Dick somewhat gravely; "but don't act
in haste, else ye may ha' to repent at leisure.  Go an' speak to yer
comrades; see what they advise ye to do, an' come again an' let me know.
And, now we're on that pint, I may tell ye that yer friends will be at
the head of a valley not four miles from here this very night, an' they
expect ye there."

"How d'ye know that?" cried March, breathless with amazement.

"Well, ye see, the Wild Man o' the West knows that you're in them parts;
he has seed you, an' knows where ye are, an' he met yer comrades, the
trappers, no later than yesterday, an' told 'em they'd find ye in the
valley I spoke of just now; so we must be up an' away to meet 'em."

Dick rose as he spoke and began to make preparation to depart.

"But how came _you_ to know this?" inquired the astonished youth.

"Why, the Wild Man an' me's oncommon intimate, d'ye see?  In fact, I may
say we're jist inseparable companions, an' so I come to know it that
way.  But make haste.  We've no time to lose."

"Good-bye, Mary," cried March with a cheerful smile, as he hurried out
of the cave after his eccentric companion.  "I'll be back before long,
depend on't."

Mary nodded, and the two men were soon mounted and out of sight.

"I say, Dick," observed March as they rode along, "you _must_ get me to
see the Wild Man of the West; if you're so intimate with him, you can
easily bring him into the cave; now _won't_ you, Dick?"

"Well, as I can't help doin' it, I s'pose I may say yes at once."

"Can't help it, Dick!  What mean you?  I wish ye'd talk sense."

"Hist!" exclaimed the hunter, pulling up suddenly under the shelter of a
cliff.  "Yonder come yer friends, sooner than I expected.  I'll leave ye
here.  They've not seed us yit, an' that wood 'll hide me till I git
away.  Now, March," he added solemnly, "_remember yer promise_."

In another moment the wild hunter was gone, and March rode forward to
meet his comrades, who, having now caught sight of him, came up the
valley at full speed, shouting and waving their caps joyfully as they
approached.  In a shorter space of time than it takes to tell, March was
surrounded, dragged off his horse, passed from one to another, to be
handled roughly, in order to make sure that it was really himself, and,
finally, was swallowed up by Bounce in a masculine embrace that might
almost have passed for the hug of a grisly bear.



CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.

MARCH MARSTON IS PERPLEXED, SO ARE HIS FRIENDS--AN UNLOOKED-FOR
MEETING--TERRIBLE NEWS--THE ATTACK--THE WILD MAN OF THE WEST ONCE AGAIN
RENDERS SIGNAL SERVICE TO THE TRAPPERS--WILD DOINGS IN GENERAL, AND
MARCH MARSTON'S CHAGRIN IN PARTICULAR.

"March Marston," said Bounce--and Bounce was sitting beside the camp
fire, smoking his pipe after supper when he said it--"you may think
ye're a 'cute feller, you may, oncommon 'cute; but if you'll listen to
wot an oldish hunter says, an' take his advice, you'll come to think, in
a feelosophical way, d'ye see? that ye're not quite _so_ 'cute as ye
suppose."

Bounce delivered this oracularly, and followed it up with a succession
of puffs, each of which was so solidly yellow as to suggest to the mind
of Bertram, who chanced to be taking his portrait at that moment, that
the next puff would burst out in pure flame.  Gibault and Big Waller
nodded their heads in testimony of their approval of the general scope
of the remark; the latter even went the length of "guessing that it was
a fact," and Redhand smiled.  Hawkswing looked, if possible, graver than
usual.

"As," resumed Bounce after a considerable pause, during which March
looked and felt very uncomfortable, "the nat'ral eyes of the old men
becomes more dimmer, d'ye see? their mental eyes, so to speak, becomes
sharper, so as that they can see through no end o' figurative
millstones.  That bein' the case when there's no millstone to be seen
through at all, but only a oncommon thin trans--trans--"

"Ollification," suggested Waller modestly.

"Not at all," retorted Bounce with much severity in his tone.  "I _wos_
goin' to have said--transparientsy; but I'll not say that now, seein'
it's too feelosophical for the likes o' you; but, as I wos sayin', that
bein' the case, d'ye see? it's quite plain that--"

Here Bounce, having got into depths unusually profound even for his
speculative and philosophical turn of mind, sought refuge in a series of
voluminous puffs, and wound up, finally, with an emphatic assertion that
"there wos somethin' wrong, an' it wos o' no manner o' use to try to
throw dust in _his_ eyes, seein' that his winkin' powers wos sich as to
enable him to keep it out, no matter how thick or fast it should come."

"Ah, that's yer sort!  I calc'late you're floored there, March," said
Waller gravely.  "The fact is, boy, that it won't do; you've got
somethin' in the background, that Mr Bertram talks sich a heap about.
You ought to be fair an' above-board with comrades, ye ought."

"Oui," added Gibault.  "Of course, you have lived somewhere, an'
somehow, all dis time.  It am not posseeble for live nowhere on noting."

"Well, I tell you I have lived with a hunter, who treated me very well,
and told me I'd find you here; having learned that, as I understand,
from the Wild Man o' the West himself."

"Very true," said Bounce; "but where does the hunter live?"

"In the mountains," replied March.

"So does the Blackfeet, an' the Peigans, an' the Crows, an' the foxes,
an' wolves, an' grisly bars," retorted Bounce dryly.

"I'll tell ye what it is," cried the exasperated March, "the curiosity
of you fellers beats the squaws out an' out.  Now, I'll be open with ye,
an' then ye must hold your tongues.  This man that I've been stayin'
with is a very fine fellow, an' a very wonderful fellow, an' his name's
Dick--"

"Dick what?" inquired Bounce.

"Dick nothing," said March.

"Ay! that's a odd name."

"No, I mean he's only called Dick, an' he wouldn't tell me his other
name, if he has one.  Well, he said to me I was not to tell where he
lived, as he don't like company, an' so he made me promise, an' I did
promise, d'ye see? so I mean to stick to my promise, and that's all
about it.  I would like to tell ye about him, comrades, but you wouldn't
have me break my word, would you?"

"Cer'nly not, by no means," said Bounce.  "Does he live all by his
lone?"

"No--eh--ah!  Well, I fancy it's not breakin' my word to tell ye that--
no, he's got a little gal, an adopted daughter, livin' with him."

"Is she good-lookin'?" inquired Bounce quickly, with a sharp glance at
the youth.

March looked a little confused, and, in a hesitating manner, admitted
that she was.

"Ah!  I thought so," observed Bounce gravely, shaking his head and
looking unutterably profound, while Gibault gave a low whistle and
winked to Big Waller, who returned the mystic signal with the addition
of a knowing nod, all of which movements were observed by poor March,
who became very red in the face and felt very angry and remarkably
uncomfortable, and quite unable to decide whether it were better to
laugh or storm.  He was saved from all further perplexity on this point,
however, by the sudden appearance of a horseman on the distant plain,
who seemed to be approaching the valley in which they were encamped.  At
first he looked like a black speck or a crow on the horizon, and, in the
uncertain light of the rapidly closing day, it would have been difficult
for any unaccustomed eye to make out what the object was.

In a short time he drew near enough to be distinguished clearly, and the
rapid patter of the horse's hoofs on the turf told that the rider was
flying over the ground at an unusual speed.  Passing round a clump of
low trees that stretched out from the mouth of the valley into the
plain, he came dashing towards the camp--a wild-looking, dishevelled
creature, seemingly in a state of reckless insanity.

"The Wild Man again, surely," said Bounce, who, with his companions, had
risen to await the coming up of the stranger.

"D'you think so?" cried March Marston eagerly.

"Ye--eh? why, I do b'lieve it's Mr Macgregor," cried the astonished
Bounce as the reckless rider dashed up to the camp fire, and, springing
from his horse with a yell that savoured more of a savage than a
civilised spirit, cried--

"Look out, lads; up with a pile o' rocks an' trees!  They'll be on us in
a jiffy!  There's five hundred o' the red reptiles if there's one.  The
Mountain Fort's burned to cinders--every man and woman dead and
scalped--look alive!"

These words were uttered hastily in broken exclamations, as Macgregor
seized the logs that had been cut for firewood, and began violently to
toss them together in a pile; while the trappers, although much amazed
and horrified at the news, seized their hatchets and began to make
instant preparation to resist an attack, without wasting time in useless
questions.  They observed that the commander of the Mountain Fort was
pale as death, that his eyes were bloodshot, his clothes torn, and his
hands and face begrimed with powder and stained with blood.

March Marston worked like a hero at the rude breastwork for some time,
although the effort caused him so much pain that he could not help
showing it on his countenance.

"March," said Bounce, seizing him suddenly by the shoulder, "you're not
fit to work, an' much less fit to fight.  I'll tell ye wot to do, lad.
Jump on my horse, an' away to yer friend the trapper, an' bring him here
to help us.  One stout arm 'll do us more good this night than ten
battered bodies sich as yours, poor feller."

March felt the truth of this, so without delay turned to obey.  Just as
he was about to leave he heard a deep groan, and turning round, saw
Macgregor fall to the ground.

"You're ill," he cried, running to him and kneeling down.

"No--not ill, just a scratch from an arrow," gasped the trader with an
oath.  "I believe the head's stickin' in my back."

"Away, March," cried Redhand, "we'll look to this.  Waller, out wi' the
fire, man; ye used to be more spry when--ah! too late, there they are,
they've seen us."

"Into the fort, boys!" cried Bounce, alluding to the breastwork, "we
don't need to care; with plenty o' powder and lead, we can keep five
thousand redskins off."

March heard no more.  Dashing up the glen at full speed, he disappeared
from the spot, just as the distant yell of the savage host came floating
upon the wings of the night air, apprising the trappers that their fire
had been observed, and that they would have to fight manfully if they
hoped to carry their scalps home with them.

In a few minutes the Indians drew near, and scattering themselves round
the little entrenchment, began to discharge clouds of arrows at it, but,
fortunately, without doing any damage.  An inaccessible cliff protected
their rear, and behind a projection of this the trappers' horses were
secured.  The breastwork lay immediately in front.

Again and again the savages let fly their shafts, but without drawing
any reply from the trappers, who kept close under cover and reserved
their fire.  This tempted their enemies to approach, and, when within
short range, they seemed about to make a rush, supposing, no doubt, that
the party concealed behind the breastwork must be Indians, since they
did not use firearms.  Just then Redhand gave a preconcerted signal;
three sheets of flame spouted from their guns, and three of the foremost
Indians fell dead from their horses.

With a terrible yell the others turned to fly, but before they had
retreated a yard three more shots were fired with deadly effect.  They
now took shelter behind trees and rocks, and attempted to dislodge the
trappers by discharging arrows into the air at such an angle that they
should drop into their fortress.  One or two endeavoured to ascend the
steep cliff, but the instant an arm or a shoulder appeared, a ball from
Redhand's deadly rifle struck it, so the attempt was abandoned.

While this was going on, March Marston galloped to Dick's cave, and
startled poor Mary not a little by the abruptness of his entrance.  But,
to his mortification, Dick was not at home.  It so chanced that that
wild individual had taken it into his head to remain concealed in the
woods near the spot where he had parted from his late guest, and had not
only witnessed the meeting of March with his friends, but had seen the
arrival of Macgregor, the subsequent departure of March in the direction
of the cave, and the attack made by the Indians.  When, therefore, the
youth was speeding towards his cavern, the Wild Man (who was not sorry
to see him go off on such an errand), was busily planning the best mode
of attacking the enemy so as to render effectual aid to the trappers.

Observing that the Indians had clustered together at the foot of a
rugged cliff, apparently for the purpose of holding a council of war,
Dick made his way quickly to the summit of the cliff, and, leaving his
charger on an eminence that sloped down towards the entrance of the
valley, quickly and noiselessly carried several huge stones to the edge
of the precipice, intending to throw them down on the heads of his foes.
Just as he was about to do so, he observed an overhanging mass of rock,
many tons in weight, which the frosts of winter had detached from the
precipice.  Placing his feet against this, and leaning his back against
the solid rock, he exerted himself with all his might, like a second
Samson.  No human power could have moved such a rock, had it not been
almost overbalanced; but, being so, Dick's effort moved it.  Again he
strained, until the great veins seemed about to burst through the skin
of his neck and forehead.  Gradually the rock toppled and fell, and the
Wild Man fell along with it.

In the agony of that moment he uttered a cry so terrible that it might
well have been supposed to have come from the throat of a supernatural
being.  The Indians had not time to evade the danger.  The ponderous
mass in its descent hit a projecting crag, and burst into smaller
fragments, which fell in a rattling shower, killing two men, and
wounding others.  Those of the group who escaped, as well as those who
chanced to be beyond the danger, saw, by the dim moonlight, the Wild Man
of the West descending, as it were, like a furious demon in the midst of
the dire confusion of dust and rocks.  They knew him well.  It wanted
but this to fill them to overflow with superstitious dread.  They turned
and fled.  The trappers, although amazed beyond measure, and half
suspecting who it was that had thus suddenly come to their aid, mounted
their horses, and, leaping over their barricade, rushed down the valley
in pursuit, firing a volley at starting, and loading as they rode at
full speed.  In his descent Dick made what might well be termed a
miraculous escape.  Near the foot of the cliff he went crashing through
a thick bush, which broke his fall.  Still he retained impetus
sufficient to have seriously injured if not killed him, had he not
alighted in the midst of another bush, which saved him so completely
that he was not even hurt.

Dick could scarcely believe his own senses; but he was not a man given
to indulge much wandering thought in times of action.  Giving himself
one shake, to make sure of his being actually sound in wind and limb, he
bounded away up the precipice by a path with which he was well
acquainted, reached his horse, flew by a short cut to the mouth of the
valley, and, wheeling suddenly round, met the horrified Indians in the
very teeth!

The roar with which he met them was compound in its nature, and
altogether hideous!  His mind was in a mingled condition of amazement
and satisfaction at his escape, triumph at the success of his plan, and
indignation at the cowardly wickedness of the savages.  A rollicking
species of mad pugnacity took possession of him, and the consequence
was, that the sounds which issued from his leathern throat were
positively inhuman.

The rushing mass of terror-stricken men, thus caught, as it were,
between two fires, divided, in order to escape him.  Dick was not sorry
to observe this.  He felt that the day was gained without further
bloodshed.  He knew that the superstitious dread in which he was held
was a guarantee that the savages would not return; so, instead of
turning with the trappers to join in the pursuit, he favoured them with
a concluding and a peculiarly monstrous howl, and then rode quietly away
by a circuitous route to his own cavern.

Thus he avoided March Marston, who, on finding that his friend Dick was
out, had returned at full speed to aid his comrades, and arrived just in
time to meet them returning, triumphant and panting, from their pursuit
of the foe!

"Are they gone?" cried March in amazement.

"Ay, right slick away into the middle o' nowhar," replied Big Waller,
laughing heartily.  "Did ye iver hear such a roarer, comrades?"

"Have you licked 'em out an' out?" continued the incredulous March, "Ay,
out an' out, an' no mistake," replied Bounce, dismounting.

"Well, that _is_ lucky," said March; "for my friend Dick I found was
not--"

"Ah! we not have need him," interrupted Gibault, wiping the perspiration
from his forehead, "de Wild Man of de West hims come, an'--oh! you
should see what hims have bin do!"

"The Wild Man again!" exclaimed March in dismay--"an' me absent!"

Gibault nodded and laughed.

At that moment an exclamation from Redhand attracted the attention of
the whole party.  He was kneeling beside Macgregor, who had dismounted
and lain down.

"I believe they've done for me," said the fur trader faintly.  "That
arrow must have gone deeper than I thought."

"You'd better let me see the wound, sir," said Redhand; "your shirt is
covered with blood."

"No, no," said the wounded man savagely; "let me rest--see, I'm better
now.  You will find a flask in the bag at my saddle-bow.  Bring it
here."

"I know that Dick--the hunter--is a good hand at doctoring," said March.
"What a pity he is not here!  We might carry you there, sir."

"Carry me," laughed the fur trader fiercely; "no, I'll never be carried
till I'm carried to my grave.  How far off is his place?  Where stays
he?"

"Four miles from this.  I'll take you if you can ride," said March.

"Ay, that I can, bravely," cried the trader, who, having taken a deep
draught of spirits, seemed to be imbued with new life.  "Come, young
sir, mount."

The trappers endeavoured to dissuade the violent man from the attempt,
but he could not be controlled; so March, hastily observing that he
would see him safe to the hunter's abode and return without delay,
mounted his horse and rode away, followed by the wounded man.



CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.

THE WOUNDED FUR TRADER.

When they reached the entrance to the cavern, March and his companion
dismounted; but the latter was so weak from loss of blood that he
stumbled at the foot of the track, and fell to the earth insensible.

March ran hastily in for assistance, and was not a little surprised to
find Dick sitting alone by the side of the fire, and so absorbed in the
perusal of a little book that he had not noticed his entrance--a very
singular and unaccountable piece of absence of mind in one so well
trained in the watchful ways of the backwoods.

"Ho!  Dick!" cried the youth.

"What, March--March Marston!" exclaimed the Wild Man, springing up,
seizing him by the shoulders, and gazing intently into his face, as if
to assure himself that he was not dreaming.

"Ay, no doubt I'm March Marston; though how you came to find out my name
I don't know--"

"Easy enough that, lad, when you leave your mother's Bible behind ye,"
cried Dick with a wild laugh.  "She must be a good mother that o' yours.
Is she alive yet, boy?"

"That is she, an' well, I trust--"

"An' your father," interrupted Dick; "how's he, lad, eh?"

"I don't know," said March, frowning; "he forsook us fourteen years
agone; but it's little good talking o' such matters now, when there's a
poor fellow dyin' outside."

"Dyin'?"

"Ay, so it seems to me.  I've brought him to see if ye can stop the
bleedin', but he's fainted, and I can't lift--"

Dick waited for no more, but, hastening out, raised Macgregor in his
arms, and carried him into the inner cave, where Mary was lying sound
asleep on her lowly couch.

"Come, Mary, lass, make way for this poor feller."

The child leaped up, and, throwing a deerskin round her, stepped aside
to allow the wounded man to be placed on her bed.  Her eye immediately
fell on March, who stood in the entrance, and she ran to him in
surprise.

"What's de matter, March?"

"Hush, Mary," said Dick in a low voice; "we'll have to speak soft.  Poor
Macgregor won't be long for this world, I'm afear'd.  Fetch me the box
o' things."

"You know him, then?" whispered March, in surprise.

"Ay, I've often bin to the Mountain Fort and seed him there.  See, he's
comin' to.  Put that torch more behind me, lad.  It'll be better for him
not to see me."

As he spoke the wounded man sighed faintly.  Opening his eyes, he said,
"Where am I?"

"Speak to him," whispered Dick, looking over his shoulder at March, who
advanced, and, kneeling at the side of the couch, said--

"You're all right, Mr Macgregor.  I've brought you to the hunter's
home.  He'll dress your wound and take care of you, so make your mind
easy.  But you'll have to keep quiet.  You've lost much blood."

The fur trader turned round and seemed to fall asleep, while Dick bound
his wound, and then, leaving him to rest, he and March returned to the
other cave.

During that night Dick seemed in an unaccountably excited state.
Sometimes he sat down by the fire and talked with March in an absent
manner on all kinds of subjects--his adventures, his intentions, his
home at Pine Point; but from his looks it seemed as if his thoughts were
otherwise engaged, and occasionally he started up and paced the floor
hurriedly, while his brows darkened and his broad chest heaved as though
he were struggling with some powerful feeling or passion.

"Could it be," thought March, "that there was some mysterious connection
between Dick and the wounded fur trader?"  Not being able to find a
satisfactory reply to the thought, he finally dismissed it, and turned
his attentions altogether towards Mary, whose looks of surprise and
concern showed that she too was puzzled by the behaviour of her adopted
father.

During that night and all the next day the wounded man grew rapidly
worse, and March stayed with him, partly because he felt a strong
interest in and pity for him, and partly because he did not like to
leave to Mary the duty of watching a dying man.

Dick went out during the day in the same excited state, and did not
return till late in the evening.  During his absence, the dying man's
mind wandered frequently, and, in order to check this as well as to
comfort him, March read to him from his mother's Bible.  At times he
seemed to listen intently to the words that fell from March's lips, but
more frequently he lay in a state apparently of stupor.

"Boy," said he, starting suddenly out of one of those heavy slumbers,
"what's the use of reading the Bible to me?  I'm not a Christian, an'
it's too late now--too late!"

"The Bible tells me that `_now_' is God's time.  I forget where the
words are, an' I can't find 'em," said March earnestly; "but I _know_
they're in this book.  Besides, don't you remember the thief who was
saved when he hung on the cross in a dyin' state?"

The fur trader shook his head slowly, and still muttered, "Too late, too
late."

March now became deeply anxious about the dying man, who seemed to him
like one sinking in the sea, yet refusing to grasp the rope that was
flung to him.  He turned over the sacred pages hurriedly to find
appropriate texts, and blamed himself again and again for not having
made himself better acquainted with the Word of God.  He also repeated
all he could think of from memory; but still the dying man shook his
head and muttered, "Too late!"  Suddenly March bent over him and said--

"Christ is able to save to the _uttermost_ all who come unto God through
Him."

The fur trader looked up in silence for a few seconds.  "Ay," said he,
"many a time have I heard the old minister at Pine Point say that."

"Pine Point!" exclaimed March in surprise.

"Perhaps they're true, after all," continued Macgregor, not noticing the
interruption.  "Oh!  Mary, Mary, surely I did the uttermost when I
forsook ye.  Let me see the words, boy; are they there?"

A strange suspicion flashed suddenly on the mind of March as he listened
to these words, and he trembled violently as he handed him the book.

"What--what's this?  Where got ye my wife's Bible?  You must," (he added
between his teeth, in a sudden burst of anger) "have murdered my boy."

"Father!" exclaimed March, seizing Macgregor's hand.

The dying man started up with a countenance of ashy paleness, and,
leaning on one elbow, gazed earnestly into the youth's face--"March! can
it be my boy?" and fell back with a heavy groan.  The bandages had been
loosened by the exertion, and blood was pouring freely from his wound.
The case admitted of no delay.  March hurriedly attempted to stop the
flow of the vital stream, assisted by Mary, who had been sitting at the
foot of the couch bathed in tears during the foregoing scene.

Just then Dick returned, and, seeing how matters stood, quickly
staunched the wound; but his aid came too late.  Macgregor, or rather
Obadiah Marston, opened his eyes but once after that, and seemed as if
he wished to speak.  March bent down quickly and put his ear close to
his mouth; there was a faint whisper, "God bless you, March, my son,"
and then all was still!

March gazed long and breathlessly at the dead countenance; then, looking
slowly up in Dick's face, he said, pointing to the dead man, "My
father!" and fell insensible on the couch beside him.

We will pass over the first few days that succeeded the event just
narrated, during which poor March Marston went about the wild region in
the vicinity of the cave like one in a dream.  It may be imagined with
what surprise the trappers learned from him the near relationship that
existed between himself and the fur trader.  They felt and expressed the
deepest sympathy with their young comrade, and offered to accompany him
when he laid his father in the grave.  But Dick had firmly refused to
allow the youth to bring the trappers near his abode, so they forbore to
press him, and the last sad rites were performed by himself and Dick
alone.  The grave was made in the centre of a little green vale which
lay like an emerald in the heart of that rocky wilderness; and a little
wooden cross, with the name and date cut thereon by March, was erected
at the head of the low mound to mark the fur trader's last lonely
resting-place.  March Marston had never known his father in early life,
having been an infant when he deserted his family; and the little that
he had seen of him at the Mountain Fort, and amid the wild scenes of the
Rocky Mountains, had not made a favourable impression on him.  But, now
that he was gone, the natural instinct of affection arose within his
breast.  He called to remembrance the last few and sad hours which he
had spent by his parent's dying bed.  He thought of their last few words
on the momentous concerns of the soul, and of the eagerness with which,
at times, the dying man listened to the life-giving Word of God; and the
tear of sorrow that fell upon the grave, as he turned to quit that
solitary spot, was mingled with a tear of joy and thankfulness that God
had brought him there to pour words of comfort and hope into his dying
father's ear.

That night he spent in the cave with Dick; he felt indisposed to join
his old comrades just then.  The grave tenderness of his eccentric
friend, and the sympathy of little Mary, were more congenial to him.

"March," said Dick in a low, sad tone, as they sat beside the fire,
"that funeral reminds me o' my friend I told ye of once.  It's a
lonesome grave his, with nought but a wooden cross to mark it."

"Had you known him long, Dick?"

"No, not long.  He left the settlement in a huff--bein', I b'lieve,
crossed in love, as I told ye."

Dick paused, and clasping both hands over his knee, gazed with a look of
mingled sternness and sorrow at the glowing fire.

"Did ye ever," he resumed abruptly, "hear o' a feller called Louis, who
once lived at Pine Point--before ye was born, lad; did ye ever hear yer
mother speak of him?"

"Louis?  Yes--well, I believe I do think I've heard the name before.  Oh
yes!  People used to say he was fond o' my mother when she was a girl;
but I never heard her speak of him.  Now ye mention it, I remember the
only time I ever asked her about it, she burst into tears, and told me
never to speak of him again.  Thadwick was his name--Louis Thadwick; but
he was better known as Louis the Trapper.  But he's almost forgotten at
the settlement now; it's so long ago.  Every one thinks him dead.  Why
d'ye ask?"

"Think he's dead?" repeated Dick slowly.  "An' why not?  My poor friend
that was killed when he left his native place swore he'd never go back,
an' no more he did--no more he did; though he little thought that death
would step in so soon to make him keep his word."

"Was Louis your friend who died?" inquired March with much interest and
not a little pity, for he observed that his companion was deeply
affected.

Dick did not reply.  His thoughts seemed to be wandering again, so March
forbore to interrupt him, and, turning to Mary, said in a more cheerful
tone--

"Whether would ye like to go to Pine Point settlement and stay with my
mother, or that I should come here and spend the winter with you and
Dick?"

Mary looked puzzled, and after some moments' consideration replied, "Me
don't know."  Then, looking up quickly, she added, "Which _you_ like?"

"Indeed, I must make the same reply, Mary--`I don't know.'  But, as I
can't expect my friend Dick to give up his wild life, I suppose I must
make up my mind to come here."

"March," said Dick quickly, "I've changed my mind, lad.  It won't do.
You'll have to spend next winter at home--anyhow ye can't spend it with
me."

Had a thunderbolt struck the earth between March and Mary, they would
not have been filled with half so much consternation as they were on
hearing these words.  It was plain that both had thoroughly made up
their minds that they were to be together for many months to come.  Dick
noted the effect of his remark, and a peculiar frown crossed his
countenance for a moment, but it gave place to a smile, as he said--

"I'm sorry to disappoint ye, lad, but the thing cannot be."

"Cannot be!" repeated March in a tone of exasperation, for he felt that
this was an unwarrantable piece of caprice on the part of his friend;
"surely you don't claim to be chief of the Rocky Mountains!  If I choose
to come an' spend the winter in this region, you have no right to
prevent me.  And if I offer to bring you furs and venison, besides
pretty good company, will ye be such a surly knave as to refuse me a
corner of your cave?"

"Nay, lad.  Right welcome would ye be, with or without furs or venison;
but I mean to leave the cave--to quit this part of the country
altogether.  The fact is, I'm tired of it, an' want a change."

"Very good, all right, an' what's to hinder my going with you?  I'm fond
o' change myself.  I'd as soon go one way as another."

Dick shook his head.  "It's o' no use, March, I've my own reasons for
desirin' to travel alone.  The thing cannot be."

This was said in such a decided tone that March looked at Mary in
dismay.  He gathered no consolation from her countenance, however.

"March," said Dick firmly, "I'm sorry to grieve ye, lad, but it can't be
helped.  All I can say is, that if ye choose to come back here next
summer you'll be heartily welcome, and I'll engage that ye'll find me
here; but I'm quite sartin' ye won't want to come."

"Won't want to come!  I'll bet ye a hundred thousand million dollars
I'll want to come, ay, and _will_ come," cried March.

"Done!" said Dick, seizing the youth's hand, "an' Mary's a witness to
the wager."

It is needless to say that the conversation did not rest here.  The
greater part of that night, and during great part of the week that March
remained there, he continued to press the Wild Man of the West to alter
his purpose, but without avail.  Each day he passed with his comrades,
hunting and trapping, and each night he bade them adieu and returned to
sup and sleep in the cave, and, of course, persecuted Dick all that
time; but Dick was immovable.

Of course, the trappers renewed their attempts to get March to show them
Dick's abode, but he persistently refused, and they were too
good-natured to annoy him, and too honest to follow his trail, which
they might easily have done, had they been so disposed.

At last the time arrived when it became necessary that the trappers
should return to Pine Point settlement.  In the midst of all their
alarms and fights they had found time to do, what Big Waller termed, a
"pretty considerable stroke o' business."  That is to say, they had
killed a large number of fur-bearing animals by means of trap, snare,
and gun, so that they were in a position to return home with a heavy
load of valuable skins.  The day of their departure was therefore
arranged, and March, mounting his steed, galloped, for the last time,
and with a heavy heart, towards the cave of his friend Dick.

As he passed rapidly over the wild country, and entered the gloomy
recesses that surrounded the Wild Man's home, he thought over the
arguments and persuasive speeches with which he meant to make a last
and, he still hoped, successful appeal.  But March might have spared
himself the trouble of all this thought, for when he reached the cave
Dick was absent.  This grieved, him deeply, because every preparation
had been made by his companions for starting on their homeward journey
that evening, so that he had no time to spare.

Mary, was at home, however, so March felt a little consoled, and,
seating himself in his wonted place beside the fire, he said--

"When will Dick be home, Mary?"

"Me no can know 'xactly.  To-morray hims say, perhaps."

"Then it's all up," sighed March, leaning recklessly back against the
wall; "all up!  I'm off to-night, so I'll not be able to spend the
winter with you after all."

Had Mary burst into tears on hearing this, March would have felt
satisfied.  Had she groaned or sobbed, or even sighed, he would have
experienced some degree of relief to his annoyed and disappointed
spirit, but when Mary, instead of any such demonstration, hung down her
head so that the heavy masses of her soft brown hair hid her pretty face
and said in a tone which March fancied was not very genuine, "What a
pity!" he became extremely exasperated, and deemed himself ill-used.

During the half-hour that succeeded he endeavoured to converse in a
pleasant tone of voice, but without success.  At last he rose to go.

"Must you go 'way dis night?" said Mary with a look of concern.

"Ay, Mary, an' it's not much matter, for ye don't seem to care."

The girl looked at him reproachfully, "You is not please' with me,
March--why?"

The question puzzled the youth.  He certainly was displeased, but he
could not make up his mind to say that he was so because Mary had not
fallen into a state of violent grief at the prospect of a separation.
But the anxious gaze of Mary's truthful blue eyes was too much for him--
he suddenly grasped both her hands, and, kissing her forehead, said--

"Mary dear, I'm not displeased.  I'm only sorry, and sad, and annoyed,
and miserable--very miserable--I can scarcely tell why.  I suppose I'm
not well, or I'm cross, or something or other.  But this I know, Mary,
Dick has invited me to come back to see him next year, and I certainly
shall come if life and limb hold out till then."

Mary's eyes filled with tears, and as she smiled through them, March,
being very near her face, beheld in each eye an excessively miniature
portrait of himself gazing out at him lovingly.

"Perhaps!" faltered Mary, "you no want for come when it be nixt year."

Poor March was overwhelmed again, absolutely disgusted, that _she_ could
entertain a doubt upon that point!

"We shall see," he cried with a sudden impulse, pressing his lips again
to her forehead.  "May the Great Spirit bless and keep you!  Good-bye,
Mary--till next spring."

March burst away from her, rushed out of the cave in a tumult of
conflicting feelings and great resolves, and despite a little stiffness
that still remained to remind him of his late accident, flung himself
into the saddle with a bound that would have done credit to the Wild Man
himself, and galloped down the rocky gorge at a pace that threatened a
sudden and total smash to horse and man.  Had any of his old comrades or
friends witnessed that burst, they would certainly have said that March
Marston was mad--madder, perhaps, than the most obstreperous March hare
that ever marched madly through the wild regions of insanity.



CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR.

MARCH MARSTON AT HOME--HIS ASTONISHING BEHAVIOUR--NARRATION OF HIS
EXTRAORDINARY ADVENTURES--WIDOW MARSTON'S BOWER--THE RENDEZVOUS OF THE
TRAPPERS--A STRANGE INTERRUPTION TO MARCH'S NARRATIVE--A WILD SURPRISE
AND RECOVERY OF A LOST LOVER--GREAT DESTRUCTION OF HOUSEHOLD GOODS--A
DOUBLE WEDDING AND TREMENDOUS EXCITEMENT--THE WILD MAN OF THE WEST THE
WISEST MAN IN PINE POINT SETTLEMENT.

Three months passed away, and at the end of that period March Marston
found himself back again in Pine Point settlement, sitting on a low
stool at that fireside where the yelling and kicking days of his infancy
had been spent, and looking up in the face of that buxom, blue-eyed
mother, with whom he had been wont to hold philosophical converse in
regard to fighting and other knotty--not to say naughty--questions, in
those bright but stormy days of childhood when he stood exactly
"two-foot-ten," and when he looked and felt as if he stood upwards of
ten feet two!

Three months passed away, and during the passage of that period March
Marston's bosom became a theatre in which, unseen by the naked eye, were
a legion of spirits, good, middling, and bad, among whom were hope,
fear, despair, joy, fun, delight, interest, surprise, mischief,
exasperation, and a military demon named General Jollity, who overbore
and browbeat all the rest by turns.  These scampered through his brain
and tore up his heart and tumbled about in his throat and lungs, and
maintained a furious harlequinade, and in short behaved in a way that
was quite disgraceful, and that caused the poor young man alternately to
amuse, annoy, astonish, and stun his comrades, who beheld the exterior
results of those private theatricals, but had no conception of the
terrific combats that took place so frequently on the stage within.

During those three months, March saw many things.  He saw his old
friends the prairie dogs, and the prong-horned antelopes, and the grisly
bears, and the wolves; more than that, he chased, and shot, and ate many
of them.  He also saw clouds of locusts flying high in the air, so thick
that they sometimes darkened the very sky, and herds of buffaloes so
large that they often darkened the whole plain.

During those three months March learned a good deal.  He learned that
there was much more of every sort of thing in this world than he had had
any idea of--that there was much, very much, to be thankful for--that
there were many, very many, things to be grieved for, and many also to
be glad about--that the fields of knowledge were inimitably large, and
that his own individual acquirements were preposterously, humblingly
small!

He thought much, too.  He thought of the past, present, and future in
quite a surprising way.  He thought of his mother and her loneliness, of
Dick and his obstinacy, of Mary and her sweetness, of the Wild Man of
the West and his invisibility.  When this latter thought arose, it had
the effect invariably of rousing within him demon Despair; also General
Jollity, for the general had a particular spite against that demon, and,
whenever he showed symptoms of vitality, attacked him with a species of
frenzy that was quite dreadful to feel, and the outward manifestations
of which were such as to cause the trappers to fear seriously that the
poor youth had "gone out of his mind," as they expressed it.  But they
were wrong--quite wrong--it was only the natural consequence of those
demons and sprites having gone into his mind, where they were behaving
themselves--as Bounce, when March made him his confidant, said--with
"horrible obstropolosity."

Well, as we have said, March was seated on a low stool, looking up in
his mother's face.  He had already been three days at home, and, during
every spare minute he had he sat himself down on the same stool, and
went on with his interminable narrations of the extraordinary adventures
through which he had passed while among the Rocky Mountains and out upon
the great prairies.

Widow Marston--for she knew that she was a widow now, though the
knowledge added but little to the feeling of widowhood to which she had
been doomed for so many years--widow Marston, we say, listened to this
interminable narration with untiring patience and unmitigated pleasure.
There was as yet no symptom of the narrative drawing to a close, neither
was there the slightest evidence of the widow Marston becoming wearied.
We have seen a cat worried and pulled and poked by its kitten almost
beyond endurance, and we have observed that the cat endured it meekly--
nay, evidently rejoiced in the annoyance: it was pleasurable pain.  As
it is with feline, so is it with human mothers.  Their love overbears
and outweighs _everything_.  Ah! good cause have the rugged males of
this world to rejoice that such is the fact; and although they know it
well, we hold that it is calculated to improve the health and refresh
the spirit of men to have that fact brought prominently and pointedly to
their remembrance!

Had March Marston talked the most unutterable balderdash, widow Marston
would have listened with unwearied delight as long, we believe, as her
eyes and ears could do their duty.  But March did _not_ talk balderdash.
For a madman, he spoke a great deal of common, besides a considerable
amount of uncommon sense, and his mother listened with intelligent
interest: commenting on what he said in her quiet way, as she found
opportunity--we say this advisedly, for opportunities were not so
frequent as one might suppose.  March had always been possessed of a
glib tongue, and he seemed, as Bounce remarked, to have oiled the hinges
since his return to Pine Point settlement.

"Mother," said March, after a short pause that had succeeded an
unusually long burst, "do you know it's only a few months since I left
you to go to this trip to the mountains?"

"I know it well, my son," replied the widow, smiling at the question.

"And do you know," he continued, "that it seems to me more like five
years?  When I think of all that I've heard and all that I've done, and
all that I've seen, it seems to me as if it had took--as if it _must_
have took--five years to have heard and done and seen it all in?"

"And yet," said the widow musingly, "you failed to see the Wild Man o'
the West after all."

"Mother, I'll be angry with you if you say that again."

"Well, I won't," she replied, taking his hand in hers and stroking it.
"Tell me again, March, about Dick of the Cave and his little girl.  I
like to hear about them; they were so kind to you, and that Dick, from
your account, seems to be such a fine fellow: tell me all about them
over again."

"I will, mother," said March, clearing his throat, and commencing in a
tone that showed clearly his intention of going on indefinitely.

Widow Marston's cottage had a pretty, comfortable-looking flower garden
behind it.  In front the windows looked out upon a portion of the native
woods which had been left standing when the spot for the settlement was
cleared.  In the back garden there was a bower which the widow's
brother, the blacksmith, had erected, and the creepers on which had been
planted by the widow's own hand when she was Mary West, the belle of the
settlement.  In this bower, which was a capacious one, sat a number of
sedate, quiet, jolly, conversable fellows, nearly all of whom smoked,
and one of whom sketched.  They were our friends Redhand, Bounce, Big
Waller, Gibault, Hawkswing, and Bertram.

It is observable among men who travel long in company together in a wild
country, that, when they return again to civilised, or to semi-civilised
life, they feel a strong inclination to draw closer together, either
from the force of habit, or sympathy, or both.  On reaching Pine Point
the trappers, after visiting their friends and old chums, drew together
again as if by a species of electrical attraction.  In whatever manner
they chanced to spend their days, they--for the first week at least--
found themselves trending gradually each evening a little before sunset
to a common centre.

Widow Marston was always at home.  March Marston was always with his
mother--deep in his long-winded yarns.  The bower was always invitingly
open in the back garden; hence the bower was the regular rendezvous of
the trappers.  It was a splendid evening that on which we now see them
assembled there.  The sun was just about to set in a flood of golden
clouds.  Birds, wildfowl, and frogs held an uproarious concert in wood
and swamp, and the autumnal foliage glowed richly in the slanting beams
as it hung motionless in the still atmosphere.

"D'ye know," said Redhand, removing his pipe for a few minutes and
blowing aside the heavy wreaths of tobacco smoke that seemed unwilling
to ascend and dissipate themselves--"d'ye know, now that this trip's
over, I'm inclined to think it's about the roughest one I've had for
many a year?  An' it's a cur'ous fact, that the rougher a trip is the
more I like it."

Bertram, who was (as a matter of course) sketching, turned over a few
leaves and made a note of the observation.

"I guess it was pretty much of a meddlin' jolly one," said Big Waller,
smoking enthusiastically, and with an expression of intense satisfaction
on his weather-beaten countenance.

"An' profitable," observed Bounce gravely.

"Ah! oui, ver' prof'table," echoed Gibault.  "Dat is de main ting.  We
have git plenty skins, an' have bring hom' our own skins, w'ich I was
not moche sure of one or two times."

"True," said Bounce; "that's wot we've got for to be thankful for.
Skins is skins; but the skin of a human ain't to be put in the balance
wi' the skin o' a beaver, d'ye see?"

Bounce glanced at Hawkswing as he spoke, but the Indian only looked
stolid and smoked solemnly.

"Yes," he continued, "a whole skin's better nor a broken one, an' it's
well to bring back a whole one, though I'm not a-goin' for to deny that
there's some advantage in bringing back other sorts o' skins too, d'ye
see? w'ich goes for to prove the true feelosophy of the fact, d'ye
see?--"

Bounce paused, in the midst of his mental energy, to take a parenthetic
whiff.  His thoughts, however, seemed too deep for utterance, for he
subsided quietly into a state of silent fumigation.

"What a splendidly picturesque scene!" exclaimed Bertram, pushing back
his brigandish hat in order the better to get a view, at arm's length,
of his sketch and compare it with the original.

"Wot's the meanin' o' pikter-esk?" inquired Bounce.  Theodore Bertram
looked and felt puzzled.  He was not the first man who thought that he
knew the signification of terms well, and found himself much perplexed
on being suddenly called upon to give a correct definition of a
well-known word.  While he is labouring to enlighten his friend, we
shall leave the bower and return to the hall, or kitchen, or reception
room--for it might be appropriately designated by any of these terms--
where March is, as usual, engaged in expounding backwoods life to his
mother.  We have only to pass through the open door and are with them at
once.  Cottages in Pine Point settlement were of simple construction;
the front door opened out of one side of the hall, the back door out of
the other.  As the weather was mild, both were wide open.

March had just reached an intensely interesting point in his narrative,
and was describing, with flashing eyes and heightened colour, his first
interview with the "Vision in Leather," when his attention was attracted
by the sound of horses' hoofs coming at a rapid pace along the road that
led to the cottage.  The wood above referred to hid any object
approaching by the road until within fifty yards or so of the front
door.

"They seem in a hurry, whoever they be," said March, as he and his
mother rose and hastened to the door, "an' there's more than one rider,
if I've not forgot how to judge by sounds.  I should say that there's--
Hallo!"

The exclamation was not unnatural by any means, for at that moment a
very remarkable horseman dashed round the point of the wood and galloped
towards the cottage.  Both man and horse were gigantic.  The former wore
no cap, and his voluminous brown locks floated wildly behind him.  On
they came with a heavy, thunderous tread, stones, sticks, and dust
flying from the charger's heels.  There was a rude paling in front of
the cottage.  The noble horse put its ears forward as it came up, took
two or three short strides, and went over with the light bound of a
deer, showing that the strength of bone, muscle, and sinew was in
proportion to the colossal size of the animal.  The gravel inside the
paling flew like splashing water as they alighted with a crash, and
widow Marston, uttering a faint cry, shrank within the doorway as the
wild horseman seemed about to launch himself, with Quixotic
recklessness, against the cottage.

"_Dick_!" shouted March, who stared like one thunderstruck as the rider
leaped from the saddle to the ground, sprang with a single bound to the
widow's side, seized her right hand in both of his, and, stooping down,
gazed intently into her alarmed countenance.  Suddenly the blood rushed
violently to her temples, as the man pronounced her name in a low, deep
tone, and with a look of wild surprise mingled with terror, she
exclaimed,--"Louis!"

The colour fled from her cheeks, and uttering a piercing cry, she fell
forward on the breast of her long-lost lover.

March Marston stood for some time helpless; but he found his voice just
as Redhand and the other trappers, rushing through the house, burst upon
the scene--"_Dick_!" shouted March again, in the highest pitch of
amazement.

"The Wild Man o' the West!" roared Bounce, with the expression of one
who believes he gazes on a ghost.

"Fetch a drop o' water, one o' you fellers," said the Wild Man, looking
anxiously at the pale-face that rested on his arm.

Every one darted off to obey, excepting Bertram, who, with eyes almost
starting out of their sockets, was already seated on the paling,
sketching the scene; for he entertained an irresistible belief that the
Wild Man of the West would, as he had already done more than once,
vanish from the spot before he could get him transferred to the pages of
his immortal book.

Trappers are undoubtedly men who can act with vigorous promptitude in
their own peculiar sphere; but when out of that sphere, they are rather
clumsy and awkward.  Had they been in the forest, each man would have
fetched a draught of clear water from the nearest spring with the utmost
celerity; but, being in a settlement, they knew not where to turn.  Big
Waller dashed towards a very small pond which lay near the cottage, and
dipping his cap into it, brought up a compound of diluted mud and
chickweed.  Gibault made an attempt on a tiny rivulet with the like
success, which was not surprising, seeing that its fountain-head lay at
the bottom of the said pond.  Bounce and Hawkswing bolted into the
cottage in search of the needful fluid; but, being unused to furniture,
they upset three chairs and a small table in their haste, and scattered
on the floor a mass of crockery, with a crash that made them feel as if
they had been the means of causing some dire domestic calamity, and
which almost terrified the household kitten into fits.

Then Bounce made a hopeful grasp at a teapot, which, having happily been
placed on a side table, had survived the wreck of its contemporary cups
and saucers, and the Indian made an insane effort to wrench the top off
a butter-churn, in the belief that it contained a well-spring of water.

Of all the party old Redhand alone stood still, with his bald head
glistening in the last rays of the sinking sun, and his kindly face
wrinkled all over with a sympathetic smile.  He knew well that the young
widow would soon recover, with or without the aid of water; so he smoked
his pipe complacently, leaned against the doorpost, and looked on.

He was right.  In a few minutes Mrs Marston recovered, and was tenderly
led into the cottage by her old lover, Louis Thadwick, or, as we still
prefer to call him, the Wild Man of the West.  There, seated by her
side, in the midst of the wreck and debris of her household goods, the
Wild Man, quite regardless of appearances, began boldly to tell the same
old tale, and commit the same offence, that he told and committed
upwards of sixteen years before, when _he_ was Louis the Trapper and
_she_ was Mary West.

Seeing what was going forward, the judicious trappers and the
enthusiastic artist considerately retired to the bower behind the house.
What transpired at that strange interview no one can tell, for no one
was present except the kitten.  That creature, having recovered from its
consternation, discovered, to its inexpressible joy, that, an enormous
jug having been smashed by Bounce along with the other things, the floor
was covered in part with a lakelet of rich cream.  With almost closed
eyes, intermittent purring, quick-lapping tongue, and occasional
indications of a tendency to choke, that fortunate animal revelled in
this unexpected flood of delectation, and listened to the conversation;
but, not being gifted with the power of speech, it never divulged what
was said--at least, to human ears, though we are by no means sure that
it did not create a considerable amount of talk among the cat population
of the settlement.

Be this as it may, when the Wild Man at length opened the door, and
cried, "Come in, lads; it's all right!" they found the widow Marston
with confusion and happiness beaming on her countenance, and the Wild
Man himself in a condition that fully justified Bounce's suggestion that
they had better send for a strait-waistcoat or a pair of handcuffs.  As
for March, he had all along been, and still was, speechless.  That the
Wild Man of the West was Dick, and Dick the Wild Man of the West, and
that both should come home at the same time in one body, and propose to
marry his mother, was past belief--so of course he didn't believe it.

"Hallo! wait a bit; I do b'lieve I was forgettin'," cried the Wild Man,
springing up in his own violent, impulsive way, upsetting his chair (as
a matter of course, being unused to such delicacies), dashing through
the lake of cream to the all but annihilation of the kitten, opening the
door, and giving vent to a shrill whistle.

All rushed out to witness the result.  They were prepared for anything
now--from a mad bison to a red warrior's ghost, and would have been
rather disappointed had anything feebler appeared.

Immediately there was a clatter of hoofs; a beautiful white pony
galloped round the corner of the wood, and made straight for the
cottage.  Seated thereon was the vision in leather--not seated as a
woman sits, but after the fashion of her own adopted father, and having
on her leathern dress with a pair of long leggings highly ornamented
with porcupine quills and bead work.  The vision leaped the fence like
her father, bounded from her pony as he had done, and rushed into the
Wild Man's arms, exclaiming, "Be she here, an' well, dear fader?"

"Ay, all right," he replied; but he had no time to say more, for at that
moment March Marston darted at the vision, seized one of her hands, put
his arm round her waist, and swung her, rather than led her, into his
mother's presence.

"Here's Mary, mother!" cried March with a very howl of delight.

The widow had already guessed it.  She rose and extended her arms.  Mary
gazed for one moment eagerly at her and then rushed into them.  Turning
sharp round, March threw his arms round Bounce's neck and embraced him
for want of a better subject; then hurling him aside he gave another
shout, and began to dance a violent hornpipe on the floor, to the still
further horrification of the kitten (which was now a feline maniac), and
the general scatteration of the mingled mass of crockery and cream.
Seeing this, Bounce uttered a hysterical cheer.  Hawkswing, being
excited beyond even savage endurance, drew his scalping-knife, yelled
the war-cry and burst into the war-dance of the Seneca Indians.  In
short, the widow's cottage became the theatre of a scene that would have
done credit to the violent wards of a lunatic asylum--a scene, which is
utterly beyond the delineative powers of pen or pencil--a scene which
defies description, repudiates adequate conception, and will dwell for
ever on the memories of those who took part in it like the wild
phantasmagoria of a tremendous dream!

Of course, a wild man could not be induced, like an ordinary mortal, to
wait a reasonable time in order to give his bride an opportunity of
preparing her trousseau.  He was a self-willed man, and a man of a
strong mind.  He insisted upon being married "out of hand, and have done
with it."  So he _was_ married--whether "out of hand" or not we cannot
tell--by the excellent clergyman of Pine Point settlement.  On the same
day, and the same hour, March Marston was married--"out of hand," also,
no doubt--to the vision in leather!

There was something rather precipitate in these proceedings,
unquestionably; but those who feel disposed to object to them must bear
in mind, first, that backwoodsmen are addicted to precipitancy at times;
and, secondly, that facts cannot be altered in order to please the
fastidious taste of the so-called civilised world.

Public opinion in the settlement was strongly in favour of the doings of
the Wild Man of the West.  Delay was deemed by all to be unnecessary,
and all the more so that the double wedding-day was to be celebrated as
a species of public event.

The romance connected with the previous life of Dick, and especially his
singular and unexpected return to his first love, created quite a
sensation, even in a region in which wild deeds and wonderful events
were so common that it required a man to be a real hero to enable him to
rise conspicuous above his fellows.  Many trappers came in from a
considerable distance to take part in the rejoicings of that day, and
from the dance which followed the ceremony there was not absent a living
creature belonging to the settlement.

Every dog was there, of course, adding its vocal melody to the dulcet
tones of the blacksmith's violin.  Even the cats of the settlement were
present, including that celebrated kitten which had been reduced to a
state of drivelling imbecility by the furious advent of the Wild Man.
Owls and other sagacious birds also came from afar to see the fun,
attracted by the light of the fire; for the ballroom was the green sward
of the forest, which was illuminated for the occasion by a bonfire that
would have roasted a megatherium whole, and also would have furnished
accommodation for a pot large enough to boil an elephant.  Don't think,
reader, in the vanity of your heart, that you have conceived that fire!
You have not, as a Yankee would say, the most distant conception of the
small end of a notion of what it was!  A hundred brawny arms, accustomed
to wield the broad axe, had lent their aid to rear the mighty pile and
feed the ravening flame.

It was kindled on a wide level plot in the outskirts of the settlement,
around which the trees spread their sheltering arms.  On a plank raised
on two casks sat the blacksmith with his fiddle.  The carpenter sat
beside him with a kettledrum, more literally a kettledrum even than the
real thing, for that drum _was_ a kettle!  On a little mound that rose
in the centre of the plot sat, in state, Dick and Mary, March and the
vision in leather, their respective thrones being empty flour-casks.
Around them danced the youth and beauty of the settlement.  These were
enclosed by a dense circle, composed of patriarchal, middle-aged, and
extremely juvenile admirers.  The background of the picture was filled
up with the monstrous fire which saturated that spot in the forest with
light--bright as the broadest day.  The extreme foreground was composed
of the trunk of a fallen tree, on which sat our friend the artist,
delineating the whole with the eagerness of an enthusiast who had _at
last_ fallen upon a scene truly worthy of his genius.

How Bounce did dance, to be sure!  How the young trappers and the
blooming backwoods maidens did whirl and bound, on heel and toe, and, to
a large extent, on the whole sole of the foot!  Yes, their souls were in
the work, and their spirits too; and that although there was not a drop
of spirits in the settlement.  Happily, owing to the unaccountable delay
of a provision boat, there was not a glass of "fire-water" in the place
at that time.  The whole affair was got up, carried on, and concluded on
tea.  It was a great teetotal gathering, which would have drawn tears of
joy from the heart of Father Mathew and all his successors, whether
Romanist or Protestant, had they witnessed it.

Yet the excitement was tremendous.  The Wild Man of the West, strange to
say, and, owing to some peculiar contradictoriness of character which
was unaccountable, was almost the only sane man of the whole party.  He
flung himself on the ground beside his wife, and locking his arm round
the tough root of a pine tree refused to budge from the spot.  As the
united efforts of all the men who could lay hold of him at one time
failed to root him up, he was suffered to lie there and amuse himself by
watching the dancers, looking up occasionally at Mary's blue eyes, and
playing with such of the juveniles as he could attract within the reach
of his long arm.

As for March Marston, he was mad now if ever he had been so in his life!
He danced with all the girls, and wrestled with all the men, and played
hide-and-seek with all the boys, and fraternised with all the old
people, and chased all the dogs, and astonished, not to say horrified,
all the cats.  Yet, although he did all this, he did not neglect the
vision in leather, by no manner of means.

Long before the dawn of early morning that jovial party drank a parting
cup of cold tea, and, dispersing to their several homes, left the field
in possession of the village curs.

Now, dear reader--with a feeling of sadness we write it--all things must
have an end!  We make this unquestionable assertion in order to break to
you, as gently as may be, the news that our tale has reached its close.
Had we taken in hand to write the life and adventures of our hero and
his friends from first to last, we should have had to prepare pens, ink,
and paper, for a work equal in size to the "Encyclopaedia Britannica."
We have only detailed one or two episodes in their wild career.  What
they did and said and saw in after years must be left to future
historians, or to the imagination of romantic readers.  This only will
we say in conclusion, that of all the men who dwelt in Pine Point
settlement, for many years after the events narrated in these pages, the
kindest, the wisest, the gentlest, the heartiest, the wildest, and the
most courageous was--the Wild Man of the West.

THE END.






End of Project Gutenberg's The Wild Man of the West, by R.M. Ballantyne