Chapter Four.

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 wasnotthat of a bear, and a surprise on discovering that itwasthat 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 habnottime; 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 mighthave 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 todie?” 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 garçons, 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.

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 wasnotthat of a bear, and a surprise on discovering that itwasthat 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 habnottime; 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 mighthave 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 todie?” 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 garçons, 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. Wedolive 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. “Youdocome 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’wotdid 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 seenhim?”“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,howdid 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, “wotdoye 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—araalbook!”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 fireat 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,youmust 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.

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.”

“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. Wedolive 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. “Youdocome 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’wotdid 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 seenhim?”

“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,howdid 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, “wotdoye 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—araalbook!”

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 fireat 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,youmust 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.

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