CHAPTER IV.THE TRAPPING-GROUND.
Thestream on which they halted was one of the tributaries of the Missouri, theCache la Poudre, which flowed through the passes of the Black Hills not more than forty miles from Fort Laramie. From the place where they stood, they could see the peaks of the three brothers, the Buttes, raising their heads on high. Mount Laramie loomed up in the distance and at their feet the river poured on down the mountain-pass. Near the place where they stood, that sagacious animal, the beaver, had dammed the stream and made themselves homes. The round tops of the little huts rose above the water, and knowing heads were peeping out at the strange intruders.
In all probability, no other feet than those of Ben Miffin had ever trod the banks of the stream, if we except the Indian hunters. The entrance was narrow and crooked, and once in, the eternal rocks seemed to rise on every hand, inaccessible to mortal feet. Low growths of pine and the creeping forms of the cactus were the only vegetation. The silence was unbroken by a single sound. Ben looked at his companions in triumph. They had met him in St. Louis, and he had thought proper to reveal to them his discovery and make them partners in his toils. He was not avaricious, and he found them with no wealth except their weapons, eager to try his trapping-ground. He wished to better their condition, and had taken this way to do it. Personally, he knew nothing of them or their antecedents. But they had appealed to his sympathies in their destitution, and no man ever appealed to him in vain. He had a large heart, open always to the cry of the needy. In another sphere he would have been a philanthropist. In his own, he was only a true-hearted, simple man, with only one object, and that to live out his simple life as the Maker whom in his rough way he reverenced, would have him. Jan had told him wonderful tales of the prowess he had shown in hunting in southern Africa, where he hadbeen when a young man. It only required a little of the rough experience of the prairie to show him that he was not the mighty Nimrod he had made himself out to be. But, Ben cared nothing for this, and was pleased with the eccentricities of the Dutchman.
“Thar,” said the trapper; “ain’t thet a sight fur sore eyes? Thar’s peltries enough in this yer stream to make us rich all summer.”
“Vat ish dem?” said Jan, pointing to the beaver-houses; “who live dere?”
“Injuns!” said Ben.
“Vat!” said Jan, leaping from the earth. “Vy den you cooms here? Vy den you no stay at home mit yourself unt not pring me out here vere dey lifs?”
“Ye never seen a beaver hut, I reckon,” said Ben. “Ye wouldn’t believe me when I tell ye thet them houses ar’ the work of beasts.”
“Who puild dem houses, den?”
“Beavers,” said Ben. “S’arch creation through, and I reckon ye won’t find any beast thet ken beat them. They’re carpenters, masons, and engineers; an’ they know the’r trade too.”
“Penn Miffin, you ish no more ash von liar. Vy you dry to fool me? How dem peavers coot down trees, eh?”
“With the’r teeth. A lot of ’em git at a tree thet stands close to the bank, and gnaw away at it till it falls over. Then they work away with sticks an’ stones to make the’r dam, an’ when thet is done they build the’r houses. You’d better believe they ain’t got the’r ekal anywhere in the ’arth. I’ll tell ye lots more about ’em, miss.”
“Thank you,” said Millicent.
“Vell, you cooms here to catch dem? Dey too smart,” said Jan.
“They are pooty smart, thet’s a fact,” said Ben. “But we manage to get the upper hand of ’em somehow. But thet’s neither here nor thar. Let’s make a cabin. The gal must hev a place to live in. Ye ken use an ax, can’t ye?”
“Yaw,” said Jan.
They had hoppled their horses and allowed them to stray at will about the inclosure, after the traps and furniture hadbeen removed. Leaving their new friends together, each of the men attacked a pine about a foot through at the butt, and soon cut enough logs for their hut. Both Ben and Jules were old hands at this kind of work, and Jan, when he understood what was required of him, did good service. The logs were cut down, squared slightly, notched at the ends, and in a few hours they began to lay the first in their places. By the time it was dark they had raised the walls four feet from the ground.
“Knock off fur the night,” said Ben. “Let’s hev something more to eat.”
“Yaw,” said Jan, “dat ish coot. I pees so mooch hungry as nefer.”
“Ye’ve worked well, old man,” said Ben. “I say thet fur ye. Come, Jule, try yer hand at the cookery ag’in. Don’t make too much fire. Git dry wood. These yer pine branches make too much smoke unless the’r dry. Go up thar by the rocks. Thar’s an old pine cut down thar, and it will make a good fire. I cut it down when I were here before, miss.”
“Vy you ’vraid of too mooch vire, Penn?” asked Jan, looking doubtfully around.
“Ye don’t know the Blackfeet as well as I do, or ye wouldn’t ask the question,” said Ben. “Wet wood makes too much of a smoke, and a Blackfoot brave could see a smoke as fur off as ye could see a mountain.”
“Vell, vat ef he does?”
“Then he would come and sculp ye by the light of yer fire, ef he didn’t make up his mind to roast ye a little fust. Ther’ a pizen, sneakin’, murderin’ set, an’ would make no more of takin’ the sculp of a Dutchman, then I would of skinnin’ a beaver. Thet’s all.”
“Dey very near?” said Jan, looking fearful. “Vy you stay here?”
“We didn’t come out yer toplay,” said Ben; “an’ the Blackfoot thet gits my sculp will hev to fight fer it. I’ve a likin’ fer my own ha’r. It growd thar, an’ thar it’s got to stay until things git so mixed up thet I kain’t raise a hand to fight fer it. I’m goin’ to make this yer place a fort before long.”
“How you do dat, Penn?”
“Never mind. I’ve no doubt the Blackfeet will nose us out ’fore we quit, an’ when they do, we’ve got to fight. I count you good fer three Injuns. I’m good fer ten, and Jule will wipe out eight. So you see they must bring down twenty-two to hev any left to do the sculpin’.”
“Jule ain’t goot for mooch. I can vip him so easy ash notting ever vas. I kills oct Injuns, unt he kills dree. Dat’s it.”
“I’ll eat the Injun when you kill him,” said Jules. “You’ll run from the first one you see.”
“Me run vrom an Injun. No, py der saints, I kill auvery one I see, same ash I kills de pear. You prave mans, you two. Climb oop trees, unt leave poor Dutchman all alone. Yaw; dat ish no goot.”
“See yer, Dutchy. I want you to go back to the bear and bring him in. I’m afraid the wolves will git at him ef we leave him thar. You wouldn’t have the wolves eat up your bear, would you?”
“I not gottimeto go pack,” said Jan. “I so hoongry, pesides I’m very tired.”
“Yer skeered. Thet’s what’s the matter with ye, Dutchy. Yer skeered half to death. Ye wouldn’t no more go back to thet b’ar then ye would fly. I ain’t quite so sure he’s dead, anyhow. Isn’t thet him comin’ down the hill yonder?”
Jan leaped up, clasped the trunk of a tree with both hands, and began to climb with might and main, while the others rolled over and over on the ground, bursting with laughter. By the time he reached the first branch he had collected sufficient fortitude to look about him, and could see no such fearful monster as he imagined coming down upon him. The truth dawned upon him that he was the victim of a sell, and he slid down again in great wrath.
“You’s the wust liar, Penn Miffin, in dis coontry. Auvery Yankee can lie goot deal, put you can lie more as dat. Dere vas no pear.”
“Wasn’t ther’? It must hev been the rock I seen and I thought it was a b’ar, sure as shootin’. But ye was skeered that time; ye kain’t say ye wa’n’t.”
“Kin, too! Wasn’t scared a bit, Penn Miffin.”
“Ye wasn’t? What made ye climb the tree, then?” said Ben.
“Pecause I can not see no pear on the ground, unt I climbs oop the tree to look vor him, unt ven I gits dere, I can see no pear. Den I knows dere vas no pear, unt dat you vas no more ash von liar like auvery Yankee.”
Ben laughed heartily and turned his attention to the food which the Frenchman was cooking over the blaze. He had built his fire with all the care of the frontierman. First, the light leaves were ignited, then some small twigs, which would burn without smoke, were added, and when these had kindled into flame, larger sticks were laid on, and the fire was now blazing merrily, though still without much smoke.
“Thet’s the sort of fire to fool a Blackfoot,” said Ben. “Ah, many and many’s the brave fellow hez gone under fer the want of a little care. Now, I don’t know thet ther’s an Injun within twenty mile of us, but I always go to work as ef they were all around, as they may be fer all we know, and most likely ar’.”
“What makes ye think so, Ben?” said Jules.
“’Cause it’s the last of the huntin’ season, an’ the braves are out for buffler. Thet’s my reason. Then, ag’in, ye kain’t depend on a Blackfoot; ther’ a treacherous, hoss-stealin’ set. Mind I tell ye.”
“The Crows are just as bad.”
“No theyain’t. Anyhow, they won’t be to us while I’m hyar. You see they ain’t forgot the’r old chief yet. I calculate I’ve got a wife among ’em som’ers.”
“Don’t you know where she is?”
“Kain’t say thet I do. When I was in the Crow village last, and thet’s three years ago, she were thar. Ther’s a young chief takes care of her on my account, seein’ he ain’t got no father or mother, an’ she sort of adopted him. So I reckon she rubs along right peart. She orter, anyhow. Prehaps I couldn’t appreciate the woman. I didn’t, anyhow.”
“Didn’t you like her?” said Jules.
“No, Ididn’trelish her much, thet’s a fact. Ye see she had a tongue of her own, and a mighty sharp tongue it were too—the wust you ever see. She never stopped her clack from mornin’ tell night. I wouldn’t hev minded it so much ef shehad only taken a rest onc’t in a while, but she didn’t. It seems to me now, thet the durned critter thought ef she let her tongue rest a minnit, she couldn’t start it ag’in.”
“What did you do?”
“Do! What any man orter do when he kain’t save himself no other way.”
“What was that?”
“Heeledit ez hard ez I c’u’d go. I reckon that was pooty lively too.”
“Vat vas your vrow’s name?” said Jan.
“Does ye want her, Jan? Ef ye do, take her, with my blessin’. The truth is, yer gettin’ too fat, and ef ye hed to stand her jaw only a month ye’d git worked down to yer fitin’-weight pooty sudden, that’s all.”
“I don’t vant her,” said Jan.
“Don’t refuse on account of any feelin’ on my part,” said Ben. “Don’t be bashful nuther. Or, ef it suits ye better, I’llsellher to ye. I’ll sell hercheaptoo. Give me thet huntin’-knife of yourn an’ she’s yer own. Thet’s fair, I’m sure.”
“Don’tvanther,” persisted Jan. “S’pose she dead, unt I puy her? Den I lose mine goot knife all vor nottings.”
“Ef she’s dead, may she rest easy in her grave. But I don’t think she would, any way. I’ve got my opinion, an’ I think she’d never rest in any grave. They won’t hev her in the other world nuther. She’d worrit them to death, mind ye.”
“Vy don’t you dells me vat pe her name, Penn?” said Jan.
“Hill-a-leah, the Green Snake. Lovely name, ain’t it?”
“Goot cracious. Dat ain’t a vooman’s name?”
“Ain’t it?Prehapsyer right. I doubt ef she’s a womanmyself. Anyhow, I’ve got my opinion and I reckon she’s got a devil in her. I hearn a preacher down to the fort tell of a woman thet hed seven devils in her, an’ thet the good man cast ’em out. Now, ef any one woman hed seven such lively devils in her ez the Green Snake hez, then she must hevbeen a healthy female, thet’s all. How gits on the grub, Jule?”
“Near done, Ben. In five minutes.”
“All right. Soon as convenient I’ll worry down a piece of thet venison. I’d like to make a trade with Jan fer this wife of mine. She ain’t no use tome, an’ I think she’d be just the woman for Jan.”
“I dells you again, I don’t vant no voomans ash vas hev such names ash Hill-a-baloo,” added Jan. “Schnake—Creen Schnake! Der Himmel, dat ish dreadful! Don’t you talk mit me no more ’pout her. I rather gifs you de knife dan marry a voomans like that.”
“Wal, I’m sorry we kain’t make a trade,” said Ben, regretfully; “raally sorry. I’d like to sell her to some likely man thet would set store by her, an’ not run away from her in less than two months. I wouldn’t risk a cent thet any man could keep his nat’ral senses an’ stay with her longer then that, unless he was sorter seasoned to it, same as I was. I’d ’a’ been a chief among the Crows now, ef it hadn’t been fer thet.”
“Is that the reason you left, eh?” said Jules.
“Ye bet ye! I liked it there fust rate. They never made me go out on the’r war-parties unless I hed a mind to, though I went out offen enough, fer thet matter. Ye see, I’m down on Blackfeet fer more reasons then one; an’ the Crows are the nat’ral inemies of them critters. I’d like to extarminate the hull cussed race of them, durn the’r picters!”
“What makes you hate the Blackfeet so?” said Jules.
“I’ll tell yer. ’Tain’t less’n ten years ago I was trappin’ on the north branch of the Platte with a comrade of mine, a likely chap as you ever see, Jim Johnson was his name, and the best-hearted feller in Oregon. We made a heap of pelts, ye bet, an’ was countin’ on a lively time at the forts the next winter. Jim hed a gal thar, an’ was allus lettin’ on how happy he’d be when he c’u’d see her ag’in. He never did, poor feller. I’d been out to see after my traps, gone nigh on to half a day, mout be, an’ was comin’ home with a load of pelts, fo’ we hed been lucky all through, an’ when I got to the cabin we’d built, thar he lay, with his head split like an egg-shell, an’ sculped. I looked around an’ found Blackfoot signs everywhar, durn the’r hides. I know them, an’ I’ll make them payfer it some day. I promised him then, as he lay thar, thet I’d avenge him on the Blackfeet. Mout be I’ve done it; mout be I didn’t. Anyhow I’ve got my opinion, an’ I’ll back it thet the Blackfeet are sorry they killed Jim Johnson.”
“Do you know who the men are that killed him?” asked Jules.
“Yes. Thar’s only two of them on the’r feet to-day, an’ they ar’ bound to go under ef ever they meet Ben Miffin, or else he goes under—and he don’t think he will.”
“Who are they?”
“One’s a big Blackfoot brave they call Whirling Breeze, an’ the other a white-livered cuss who claims to be a white man. Precious little civilized blood he’s got in his veins, an’ that he’s got is mighty mean. He’s a renegade, an’ I tell ye a renegade is the worst of all God’s creatures.”
“What’s his name?”
“Will Markman. They call him by some Indian name. The worst of it is, his white blood shows more then the Indian, an’ he is ez handsome a feller ez you ever see. But he’s got a cruel heart in his breast. God pity him if I ever meet him.”
“Is he a chief?”
“Yes; they like to git a white man on the’r side. He lays round yer som’ers, an’ does the dirty work of the Blackfeet. That’s his way, durn him. Why, ye never did see another sech critter in yer born days—the wust ye ever saw, I tell ye. Makes no more of takin’ a sculp then I do of skinnin’ a buffler. What ar’ ye tryin’ to do now, Jan?”
The Teuton was craning his neck, looking anxiously up the hill.
“I dinks I sees a Plackfeet,” replied the other. “He pees on the hillside yonder.”
“Pshaw, Jan; ’tain’t no sech thing—leastways, I kain’t see no sech critter myself. I guess ye didn’t see nobody.”
“Did too, Penn Miffin. Who’s a liar? I sees him over dere py dat bine tree. He vas a pig fellows, bretty near so pig ash a house. I never sees anypody so pig ash he vas. I dinks he pe some shiant.”
“Where was he?” said Ben, anxiously.
“Over yonder, mit der dree. I sees him. I dinks aff yedakes yer gun unt coes to him unt kills him, mebbe it vould pe goot plans.”
“Hadn’t you better go yourself?” said the Frenchman, maliciously.
“I dinks I hain’t got time,” said Jan, quickly. “How can I go ven I can not dell vether dere pe anybotty dere? Penn coes mit himself.”
“That’s enuff foolin’,” said Ben. “Jan didn’t see no Injun, I hope. But we are tired with a long journey. Jule, let us fix some sort of place for the gal. I don’t like thet she sh’u’d hev to rough it like us men.”
“You are too kind to me,” said Millicent. “How can I ever thank you?”
“Never mind; you ain’t got no call to thank me ez I knows on. I ain’t gone round gittin’ sech things ez thanks this year. Wait till I ask ’em. Jule, you come yer.”
They had a good supply of extra blankets; these were brought in, and by the aid of two of them, they curtained off a recess in one corner of the unfinished building, in which they laid the other blankets, and, apologizing in a homely but heartfelt way for their lack of good accommodations, they allowed Millicent to retire.
It was in the middle of the night when a strange alarm occurred. Jules, who was very tired, had taken upon himself the post of sentry for the first part of the night, and had stationed himself just outside the building, sitting down at the foot of a tree. The hours crept slowly by, and he dropped off into a doze. All at once he awakened to find himself prostrate upon the ground, with some heavy body lying on his breast which pressed him close to the soil. By the ghostly moonlight he made out his assailant to be the creature which they had met that day. It was making no attempt to harm him, but simply lying upon his breast, its long, heavy hands toying with his throat.
Jules Damand was a cool, hardy fellow, and had been in danger before now. But, there was something so frightful in the load upon his breast, that for a moment his heart failed him. He lay silent, and put out his hand toward a pistol by slow degrees.
The strange thing uttered, now and then, a low, chucklinglaugh, horrible to hear. Ben, who lay near the door of the cabin, heard the sound and stirred uneasily in his sleep. Jules, silent as the grave, allowed his hand to slide along the ground toward the pistol-butt. Even the slight motion he made annoyed the savage brute, and he uttered a sort of low snarl. Jules stopped and waited for him to become quiet. He was in an uncomfortable position, flat upon his back, with his right arm lying under the body of the assailant, who grinned and chattered at him, and scratched at his throat with his long nails in a playful manner.
“Sacré!” muttered Jules. “If I could only get my right arm free.”
He found that impossible; the whole weight of the hairy body lay upon it and fixed it like a rock. Jules again began to feel for his pistol, and laid his hand upon it, when the hairy palm of the Mountain Devil suddenly closed upon it. There seemed to be something in the touch of the cold steel which roused his hate, for he darted his long nails into the face of the trapper, and left bleeding furrows from brow to chin. At the same time Jules managed to get the pistol partly free, and made a shot at him in the dark.
The creature had some powers of memory; he knew that the ball which had pierced his arm that morning had been accompanied by a sound like the crack of the pistol, and he sprung away for a little distance, and stood licking the blood from another wound in his arm. The report of the pistol had roused everybody, and they came out in great haste, Ben leading the way with his rifle in his hand. At the sight of him the wild creature bounded away, and hurried up the mountain side. It was plain that he remembered Ben as the man who had injured him in the morning. He snarled and screamed as he disappeared from view, while Jan stood with chattering teeth and shaking limbs, glaring after the form which was disappearing behind the hills.
“Ach, mein Gott! Dere he ish again. Now you mine vat I says. Dat ish ter tuyvel. Don’ you co to say ash it vas not. Dat ish ter tuyvel, unt no mistake. My prains are all hurly-purly. I mos’ deat mit fright.”
“Shet up. Don’t ye see the lady?” said Ben. “Sorry to call ye out of yer sleep, miss, but our friend of this mornin’hez paid us a visit. See how the black brute has marked Jules.”
“So he has. This is terrible. I can not do any thing to help you, Mr. Damand?”
“No,” said Jules. “I shall do very well. They are only scratches.”
“Very painful ones, I fear.”
“A little. They will soon go away. I shall be satisfied if they do not leave deep scars. You had better retire again. It served me right. I should have kept better watch, when I had such treasures to guard.”
“Can I be of no service?”
“No. Not the least. Thank you.”
She retired again, and Ben found some of the plants which he had used for Bentley’s wounds that morning, and made a salve for Jules’ face. When this was done, he sent the Frenchman into the house, and took his place as guard, half hoping that the brute would come back, and give him a shot. Twice during the night he heard its eldritch screams, far off in the hills, but it did not come back. Ben stood on his guard, however, until the night passed, and the gray light of morning appeared in the sky.