Chapter Fourteen.The Hunting Ground—How they spent the Sabbath Day among the Mountains—Threatening Clouds on the Horizon.Next day the fur-traders prepared to return to the Mountain Fort, and the trappers to continue their journey into the Rocky Mountains.At the period of which we write, the fur of the beaver was much in demand in the European markets, and trappers devoted much of their time to the capture of that sagacious animal. From McLeod, Redhand learned that a journey of eight or ten days to the south-eastward would bring them to a country that was reported to be much frequented not only by the beaver, but by many other fur-bearing and wild animals; so it was resolved that, having brought their traps and supplies with them, the trappers, instead of returning to the fort, should part with their entertainers at the spot where the skirmish had occurred, and make for that hunting ground as quickly as possible.“I suppose you don’t want to part company with us yet, Mr Bertram?” said old Redhand as they were about to start.“By no means,” replied the artist quickly; “I have no intention of quitting you—that is, if you do not find me a burden on your hands,” he added with a sad smile.“A burden!” cried Bounce in surprise; “I tell ye wot, sir, I consider yer company a honour.”“So you won’t return with us, young man?” said Macgregor to March Marston as he mounted his horse. “I’m in want of a stout young fellow, and you’ll like the life.”“I thank ye, sir, for your good opinion,” returned March; “but my mind’s made up: I’ll stick by my comrades; I like trappin’, but I don’t like tradin’—though I’m obliged to you for bein’ so pressin’ all the same.”The two parties bade each other adieu and separated—the one retracing its way through the Wild-Cat Pass; the other, with old Redhand at its head, descending into the beautiful country that has been briefly described in the last chapter.Six quiet and peaceful weeks now succeeded to the stormy period that had just passed. During this time they wandered pleasantly about in as beautiful a region of the world as the heart of man could wish to dwell in. They reached this country after several days’ travel. After arriving they moved about from one beautiful spot to another, setting their beaver traps in the streams, and remaining a longer or shorter time at each place, according to their success in trapping and hunting.The country was of so peculiarly diversified a formation, that, within the compass of ten miles, every possible variety of scenery existed—from the level stretch of prairie to the towering snow-peaks of the mountains; from the brake-encompassed swamp, in which frogs, ducks, geese, plover, and other denizens of the marshes maintained perpetual jubilee, to the dry bush-dotted mounds and undulating lands, where the badger delighted to burrow in the sandy soil, while in other places, the wolf, the fox, and the grisly bear prowled amid the dark recesses of the forest.It was a truly beautiful and a pre-eminently enjoyable region, and, in the midst of it, under the spreading branches of a magnificent pine, which grew on the top of a little mound that commanded an extensive prospect on every side, the trappers pitched their camp, and began their campaign against the fur-bearing animals that dwelt there.It was a quiet sunny Sabbath morning when our trappers arrived at the tree above referred to. They had encamped the previous night on a swampy piece of ground, having travelled too late to afford time to search for a better spot, so that they were glad to rise and push forward at the peep of day on Sabbath. But when, in the course of a couple of hours, they reached the dry country, they at once proceeded to encamp.During their journeying the trappers had mutually agreed to rest from all labour on the Sabbath day. Some of them did so from no higher motive than the feeling that it was good for themselves and for their beasts to rest one day in seven from bodily labour. Although not absolutely regardless of religion, they nevertheless failed to connect this necessity of theirs with the appointment of a day of rest by that kind and gracious Father, who has told us that “the Sabbath was made for man.” Made for him not only, and chiefly, for the benefit of his soul, but also, and secondarily, for the good of his body.Others of the party there were, however, who regarded the Sabbath rest in a somewhat higher light than did their comrades; though none of them were fully alive to the blessings and privileges attaching to the faithful keeping of the Lord’s day. Independently altogether of the delight connected with the contemplation of the wonderful works of God in the wilderness—especially of that beautiful portion of the wilderness—the trappers experienced a sensation of intense pleasure in the simple act of physical repose after their long, restless, and somewhat exciting journey. They wandered about from spot to spot, from hill to hill, in a species of charming indolence of body, that seemed to increase, rather than to diminish, the activity of their minds. Sometimes they rambled or rested on the sunny slopes in groups, sometimes in couples, and sometimes singly. March Marston and the artist sauntered about together, and conversed with animated fluency and wandering volubility—as young minds are wont to do—on things past, present, and to come; things terrestrial and celestial. In short, there was no subject, almost, that did not get a share of their attention, as they sauntered by the rippling brook or over the flowering plain, or stood upon the mountain side. They tried “everything by turns, and nothing long,” and, among other mental occupations, they read portions of the Bible together; for Bertram found that March carried his mother’s Testament in an inner breast-pocket of his hunting-shirt, and March discovered that his friend had a small copy of the Bible—also a mother’s gift—which shared the pouch of his leather coat with the well-known sketch-book. They conversed freely and somewhat boldly on what they read, and we doubt not that our learned divines, had they listened to the talk of the youthful pioneer and the young hunter, would have been surprised, perhaps edified, by the simple, practical, common-sense views promulgated by those raw theologians. Certainly, any one listening to the grave, kindly, philosophical commentaries of March Marston, would never have believed in the truth of that statement at the commencement of this story, wherein it is asserted somewhat positively that “March Marston was mad!”Bounce, and Big Waller, and Black Gibault, drew naturally together and speculated, after their own peculiar fashion, on every subject of thought within the reach of their capacities; and as Bounce’s capacities embraced a pretty wide range, the “feelosophical” views he set forth upon that lovely Sabbath day were so varied, so eccentric, so graphic, and so apparently inexhaustible, that he effectually quelled Gibault’s inveterate tendency, to jest, and filled Big Waller with deeper admiration than ever.As for Redhand and the Indian, they wandered about in sympathetic silence, broken ever and anon by the old trapper passing a remark on some interesting peculiarity of a leaf, an insect, or a flower. It has been said, that as men grow older they find deeper pleasure in the contemplation of the minute things of nature, and are less desirous than they were wont to expatiate on the striking and the grand. What truth there is in the remark we cannot tell; but, certain it is, while the younger men of the party seemed to cast longing, admiring, and gladsome looks over the distant landscape, and up at the snow-clad and cloud-encompassed heights of the Rocky Mountains, old Redhand bent his eyes, we might almost say lovingly, on the earth. He would sit down on a stone and pluck a leaf, which he would examine with minute care; or watch with the deepest interest the frantic efforts of a little ant, as it staggered along under its gigantic burden of a single seed, climbing over a mountainous twig, tumbling into a cavernous hole the size of a hazelnut, or being brought to a hesitating pause by a mountain torrent a quarter of an inch broad.The sedate Indian took special pleasure in watching the doings of his old friend. Usually, he contented himself with a grunt of assent when Redhand made a remark on the peculiarities of a plant or an insect, but sometimes he ventured on a brief observation, and occasionally even proposed a question to his aged companion, which Redhand found it difficult to answer. There was little interchange of thought between those two silent men, but there was much of quiet enjoyment.So passed the Sabbath day. Early on the following morning the trappers were astir, and before the sun tinged the mountain peaks, their beaver traps were set, an extensive portion of the territory they had thus quietly taken possession of had been explored in several directions, a couple of deer had been shot, a mountain goat seen, and a grisly bear driven from his den and pursued, but not killed; besides a number of wildfowl having been bagged, and an immense number of creatures, including mustangs, or wild horses, roused from their lairs.When the scattered hunters returned to the camp to breakfast, they found themselves in a satisfied, happy state of mind, with a strong disposition, on the part of some, to break their fast without wasting time in cooking the viands. “It was of no manner of use cooking,” Big Waller said, “when a feller was fit to eat his own head off of his own shoulders!” As for Gibault, he declared that he meant to give up cooking his victuals from that time forward, and eat them raw. The others seemed practically to have come to the same conclusion, for certain it is that the breakfast, when devoured on that first Monday morning, was decidedly underdone—to use a mild expression!But it was when the pipes were lighted that the peculiarities and capabilities of that wild region became fully known, for then it was that each hunter began to relate with minute accuracy the adventures of that morning. As they had scattered far and wide, and hunted or trapped separately, each had something new and more or less interesting to tell. March told of how he had shot a grey goose, and had gone into a moving swamp after it, and had sunk up to the middle, and all but took to swimming to save himself, but had got hold of the goose notwithstanding, as the drumstick he had just picked would testify. Bounce told of having gone after a moose deer, and, failing to come up with it, was fain to content himself with a bighorn and a buck; and Big Waller asserted that he had suddenly come upon a grisly bear, which he would certainly have shot, had it not run away from him. Whereupon Gibault, wilfully misunderstanding, said, with a look of unutterable surprise, that he would never have believed it—no, never—had anybody else told him, that Big Waller had actually run away from a bear! He couldn’t bear to hear of it, and would not believe it though Waller himself said it. As for Bertram, having filled the pages of his sketch-book, back and front, he was compelled to take to miniature drawing in corners and blank bits, and in this way began to book the entire region, and to revel in his loved art.Several weeks passed away, and during that time of peace and plenty, our trappers had it all to themselves. They caught and killed numbers of animals; stripped off, dried, and packed quantities of valuable furs; ate enormous meals, with the gusto of men who had laboriously earned the right to do so, and related stories and anecdotes enough to fill a huge volume. In short, they enjoyed themselves beyond conception, and Bertram agreed with March Marston in thinking that Bunyan’s land of Beulah could not have surpassed that delightful region.But one day there came a small cloud on their blue sky of felicity. An event occurred which rudely dispelled their pleasant dreams, filled their hearts with anxiety, and finally broke up their camp in a way that led to disastrous, though not altogether ruinous, consequences.
Next day the fur-traders prepared to return to the Mountain Fort, and the trappers to continue their journey into the Rocky Mountains.
At the period of which we write, the fur of the beaver was much in demand in the European markets, and trappers devoted much of their time to the capture of that sagacious animal. From McLeod, Redhand learned that a journey of eight or ten days to the south-eastward would bring them to a country that was reported to be much frequented not only by the beaver, but by many other fur-bearing and wild animals; so it was resolved that, having brought their traps and supplies with them, the trappers, instead of returning to the fort, should part with their entertainers at the spot where the skirmish had occurred, and make for that hunting ground as quickly as possible.
“I suppose you don’t want to part company with us yet, Mr Bertram?” said old Redhand as they were about to start.
“By no means,” replied the artist quickly; “I have no intention of quitting you—that is, if you do not find me a burden on your hands,” he added with a sad smile.
“A burden!” cried Bounce in surprise; “I tell ye wot, sir, I consider yer company a honour.”
“So you won’t return with us, young man?” said Macgregor to March Marston as he mounted his horse. “I’m in want of a stout young fellow, and you’ll like the life.”
“I thank ye, sir, for your good opinion,” returned March; “but my mind’s made up: I’ll stick by my comrades; I like trappin’, but I don’t like tradin’—though I’m obliged to you for bein’ so pressin’ all the same.”
The two parties bade each other adieu and separated—the one retracing its way through the Wild-Cat Pass; the other, with old Redhand at its head, descending into the beautiful country that has been briefly described in the last chapter.
Six quiet and peaceful weeks now succeeded to the stormy period that had just passed. During this time they wandered pleasantly about in as beautiful a region of the world as the heart of man could wish to dwell in. They reached this country after several days’ travel. After arriving they moved about from one beautiful spot to another, setting their beaver traps in the streams, and remaining a longer or shorter time at each place, according to their success in trapping and hunting.
The country was of so peculiarly diversified a formation, that, within the compass of ten miles, every possible variety of scenery existed—from the level stretch of prairie to the towering snow-peaks of the mountains; from the brake-encompassed swamp, in which frogs, ducks, geese, plover, and other denizens of the marshes maintained perpetual jubilee, to the dry bush-dotted mounds and undulating lands, where the badger delighted to burrow in the sandy soil, while in other places, the wolf, the fox, and the grisly bear prowled amid the dark recesses of the forest.
It was a truly beautiful and a pre-eminently enjoyable region, and, in the midst of it, under the spreading branches of a magnificent pine, which grew on the top of a little mound that commanded an extensive prospect on every side, the trappers pitched their camp, and began their campaign against the fur-bearing animals that dwelt there.
It was a quiet sunny Sabbath morning when our trappers arrived at the tree above referred to. They had encamped the previous night on a swampy piece of ground, having travelled too late to afford time to search for a better spot, so that they were glad to rise and push forward at the peep of day on Sabbath. But when, in the course of a couple of hours, they reached the dry country, they at once proceeded to encamp.
During their journeying the trappers had mutually agreed to rest from all labour on the Sabbath day. Some of them did so from no higher motive than the feeling that it was good for themselves and for their beasts to rest one day in seven from bodily labour. Although not absolutely regardless of religion, they nevertheless failed to connect this necessity of theirs with the appointment of a day of rest by that kind and gracious Father, who has told us that “the Sabbath was made for man.” Made for him not only, and chiefly, for the benefit of his soul, but also, and secondarily, for the good of his body.
Others of the party there were, however, who regarded the Sabbath rest in a somewhat higher light than did their comrades; though none of them were fully alive to the blessings and privileges attaching to the faithful keeping of the Lord’s day. Independently altogether of the delight connected with the contemplation of the wonderful works of God in the wilderness—especially of that beautiful portion of the wilderness—the trappers experienced a sensation of intense pleasure in the simple act of physical repose after their long, restless, and somewhat exciting journey. They wandered about from spot to spot, from hill to hill, in a species of charming indolence of body, that seemed to increase, rather than to diminish, the activity of their minds. Sometimes they rambled or rested on the sunny slopes in groups, sometimes in couples, and sometimes singly. March Marston and the artist sauntered about together, and conversed with animated fluency and wandering volubility—as young minds are wont to do—on things past, present, and to come; things terrestrial and celestial. In short, there was no subject, almost, that did not get a share of their attention, as they sauntered by the rippling brook or over the flowering plain, or stood upon the mountain side. They tried “everything by turns, and nothing long,” and, among other mental occupations, they read portions of the Bible together; for Bertram found that March carried his mother’s Testament in an inner breast-pocket of his hunting-shirt, and March discovered that his friend had a small copy of the Bible—also a mother’s gift—which shared the pouch of his leather coat with the well-known sketch-book. They conversed freely and somewhat boldly on what they read, and we doubt not that our learned divines, had they listened to the talk of the youthful pioneer and the young hunter, would have been surprised, perhaps edified, by the simple, practical, common-sense views promulgated by those raw theologians. Certainly, any one listening to the grave, kindly, philosophical commentaries of March Marston, would never have believed in the truth of that statement at the commencement of this story, wherein it is asserted somewhat positively that “March Marston was mad!”
Bounce, and Big Waller, and Black Gibault, drew naturally together and speculated, after their own peculiar fashion, on every subject of thought within the reach of their capacities; and as Bounce’s capacities embraced a pretty wide range, the “feelosophical” views he set forth upon that lovely Sabbath day were so varied, so eccentric, so graphic, and so apparently inexhaustible, that he effectually quelled Gibault’s inveterate tendency, to jest, and filled Big Waller with deeper admiration than ever.
As for Redhand and the Indian, they wandered about in sympathetic silence, broken ever and anon by the old trapper passing a remark on some interesting peculiarity of a leaf, an insect, or a flower. It has been said, that as men grow older they find deeper pleasure in the contemplation of the minute things of nature, and are less desirous than they were wont to expatiate on the striking and the grand. What truth there is in the remark we cannot tell; but, certain it is, while the younger men of the party seemed to cast longing, admiring, and gladsome looks over the distant landscape, and up at the snow-clad and cloud-encompassed heights of the Rocky Mountains, old Redhand bent his eyes, we might almost say lovingly, on the earth. He would sit down on a stone and pluck a leaf, which he would examine with minute care; or watch with the deepest interest the frantic efforts of a little ant, as it staggered along under its gigantic burden of a single seed, climbing over a mountainous twig, tumbling into a cavernous hole the size of a hazelnut, or being brought to a hesitating pause by a mountain torrent a quarter of an inch broad.
The sedate Indian took special pleasure in watching the doings of his old friend. Usually, he contented himself with a grunt of assent when Redhand made a remark on the peculiarities of a plant or an insect, but sometimes he ventured on a brief observation, and occasionally even proposed a question to his aged companion, which Redhand found it difficult to answer. There was little interchange of thought between those two silent men, but there was much of quiet enjoyment.
So passed the Sabbath day. Early on the following morning the trappers were astir, and before the sun tinged the mountain peaks, their beaver traps were set, an extensive portion of the territory they had thus quietly taken possession of had been explored in several directions, a couple of deer had been shot, a mountain goat seen, and a grisly bear driven from his den and pursued, but not killed; besides a number of wildfowl having been bagged, and an immense number of creatures, including mustangs, or wild horses, roused from their lairs.
When the scattered hunters returned to the camp to breakfast, they found themselves in a satisfied, happy state of mind, with a strong disposition, on the part of some, to break their fast without wasting time in cooking the viands. “It was of no manner of use cooking,” Big Waller said, “when a feller was fit to eat his own head off of his own shoulders!” As for Gibault, he declared that he meant to give up cooking his victuals from that time forward, and eat them raw. The others seemed practically to have come to the same conclusion, for certain it is that the breakfast, when devoured on that first Monday morning, was decidedly underdone—to use a mild expression!
But it was when the pipes were lighted that the peculiarities and capabilities of that wild region became fully known, for then it was that each hunter began to relate with minute accuracy the adventures of that morning. As they had scattered far and wide, and hunted or trapped separately, each had something new and more or less interesting to tell. March told of how he had shot a grey goose, and had gone into a moving swamp after it, and had sunk up to the middle, and all but took to swimming to save himself, but had got hold of the goose notwithstanding, as the drumstick he had just picked would testify. Bounce told of having gone after a moose deer, and, failing to come up with it, was fain to content himself with a bighorn and a buck; and Big Waller asserted that he had suddenly come upon a grisly bear, which he would certainly have shot, had it not run away from him. Whereupon Gibault, wilfully misunderstanding, said, with a look of unutterable surprise, that he would never have believed it—no, never—had anybody else told him, that Big Waller had actually run away from a bear! He couldn’t bear to hear of it, and would not believe it though Waller himself said it. As for Bertram, having filled the pages of his sketch-book, back and front, he was compelled to take to miniature drawing in corners and blank bits, and in this way began to book the entire region, and to revel in his loved art.
Several weeks passed away, and during that time of peace and plenty, our trappers had it all to themselves. They caught and killed numbers of animals; stripped off, dried, and packed quantities of valuable furs; ate enormous meals, with the gusto of men who had laboriously earned the right to do so, and related stories and anecdotes enough to fill a huge volume. In short, they enjoyed themselves beyond conception, and Bertram agreed with March Marston in thinking that Bunyan’s land of Beulah could not have surpassed that delightful region.
But one day there came a small cloud on their blue sky of felicity. An event occurred which rudely dispelled their pleasant dreams, filled their hearts with anxiety, and finally broke up their camp in a way that led to disastrous, though not altogether ruinous, consequences.
Chapter Fifteen.Business unpleasantly interrupted—The Mountain Fort in Danger—Trappers to the Rescue—A Rude Meeting with Foes in the Dark—A wild Race—March meets with a severe Misfortune.One morning, just as the trappers were dropping into camp about the usual breakfast hour, laden with the produce of the trap and the chase, they were startled by the sudden appearance of a large band of mounted Indians, who galloped to the top of a neighbouring mound, and, crowding together, stood still to gaze upon the invaders of their hunting grounds, for such they deemed the trappers, no doubt.To snatch up their arms and run to a place of safety was the work of a moment. It must not be supposed that such experienced men as Redhand and Bounce were altogether unprepared for a surprise of this sort. On the day of their arrival at the hunting ground, their first care had been to select such a place for their camp as lay in close proximity to some natural stronghold. Not ten paces from the camp fire there was a sort of hollow in the ground, on the very summit of the mound on which they were encamped. Here all their valuables had been placed, and round the edge of the hollow a rude breastwork had been raised, so that the party, when in it, could fire through little openings in the breastwork without exposing themselves to view.To this fortress they retired the instant the Indians made their appearance. Fortunately all the members of the little party had come in.“They’re holdin’ a council o’ war,” said Bounce, carefully examining the priming of his piece. “It’s as like as not they’ll attack us, but they’ll get a hearty and an oncommonly warm welcome.”“They’ll not attack us,” said Redhand. “They know that white men never travel without plenty of powder and ball, and they don’t like taking a place by storm.”“Ay,” remarked Waller sarcastically, “’cause they knows that the first man as comes on is sartin sure to fall, an’ they knows that they can’t come on without somebody comin’ first.”“But there’s brave fellers among the redskins,” rejoined Bounce. “I knowed a set o’ young fellers as banded theirselves together, and swore they’d go through fire an’ water, thick an’ thin, but they’d niver turn back from the face o’ danger wherever they met it. So, one day they wos crossin’ a river on the ice, an’ the first on ’em fell in, an’ wos carried away by the current; an’ what does the second do, but he walks straight into the hole, an’ wos drowned too; an’ the nixt wos goin’ to foller, when the old warriors ran at him an’ forced him back. If they hadn’t stopped him, I do b’lieve—”“They’re makin’ up their minds to do somethin’ or other,” interrupted March.“I sincerely hope they won’t fight,” murmured Bertram earnestly. “It is fearful to think of the blood that is shed by these men needlessly.”From the conduct of the Indians it became evident that on this occasion they sympathised with the artist in his desire not to fight, for one of their number dismounted, and, advancing unarmed towards the trappers, made signs of friendship.“It’s as well to be bold an’ appear to trust ’em,” said Redhand, laying down his rifle and leaping over the breastwork; “keep your guns ready, lads, an’ if ye see treachery, let drive at once. Don’t be afraid o’ hittin’ me. I’ll take my chance.”After a few minutes’ conversation with the Indian, Redhand returned to his party.“That redskin,” said he, “tells me they’re on an expedition to hunt the buffalo on the prairie, and that they’re good friends of the white men, and would like to have a talk with us before they go on; but I don’t believe ’em. From what I heard Mr McLeod say at the Mountain Fort, I think it not unlikely they are bound on an expedition against the whites. The very fact of their wishin’ to keep friends with us instead of tryin’ to lift our scalps and carry off our furs and horses, shows me they’ve some more pressin’ business on hand. Mr McLeod described to me the appearance of one or two o’ the Injuns that hates the fur-traders most, so that I might be on my guard, an’ I’m quite sure that some of them are with that band. Now, what say ye? Shall I tell ’em we don’t want their acquaintance?”“Tell ’em they’re a set o’ lyin’ thieves,” said Big Waller. “I guess we’ll have nothin’ to say to ’em wotiver.”“Oui, et give to dem mine complements,” added Gibault, “an’ say we ver’ moch ’blige by dere goodness, mais dey vill all be shooted if dey not go away queek.”Redhand did not give these polite messages to the Indian, but on returning to him he presented him with a piece of tobacco, and advised him to continue his journey without loss of time, as the buffaloes were travelling south and might be out of the way when they reached the prairie.Whether the Indians felt angry or not it is impossible to say. They seemed indifferent to their cool reception by the trappers, and soon after rode off at full speed, in a direction that ledawayfrom the Mountain Fort, a circumstance which still further confirmed Redhand in his suspicions.After an eager, hasty consultation, it was resolved that they should follow the savages, and if their trail was found to diverge, as was fully expected, towards the fort, that they should endeavour to pass them in the night, and proceed by forced marches, in order to get there in time to warn the fur-traders of their impending danger.In less than an hour after the Indians left them, the trappers were galloping after them in hot haste. During the course of the day they found that the trail doubled back, as they had anticipated, so, making a wide détour, they headed the Indians, and during the afternoon got a little in advance of them on their way to the Mountain Fort.But the trappers had a subtle enemy to deal with. Just as the Indians were about to encamp that night for a few hours’ rest, they chanced to diverge a short way from the direct line of march, and, in doing so, crossed the tracks of the trappers. A halt was called, and a minute inspection of the tracks made. One of the savages galloped back on them a considerable distance, and soon returned with the information that they led towards the camp of the pale-faces. From the appearance of the hoof-prints they knew that they were fresh, and thus at once guessed that their true intentions had been suspected, and might yet be frustrated by the trappers. Instead of encamping, therefore, they pushed on at full speed and very soon came up with the white men. It was a dark night, so that they could not see far in advance of them, and thus it happened that the two parties, on entering a narrow defile, almost rode into each other, with a yell of fierce surprise on both sides.As there were at least fifty Indians, Redhand thought it better to avoid a doubtful combat by scattering his men through the woods, and letting each make the best of his way to the fort singly.“Run, boys! scatter! to the fort!”This was all that he deemed needful in the way of command or explanation. Firing a single volley at the enemy, they turned and fled.“Foller me,” shouted Waller to the bewildered Bertram, as a shower of arrows whistled past their ears. The artist obeyed mechanically, and in another moment they were flying through the wood at a pace that seemed, and actually was, reckless under the circumstances. But the Indians did not attempt to pursue. They knew that their intention had been discovered, and that their only chance of success now lay in outriding the pale-faces. The ride, in fact, became a long race, neither party making the slightest attempt to hunt up the other, but each straining every nerve and muscle to get first to the doomed fort.The scattered trappers rode for a long time singly, but as they neared the fort, one or two of them met, and when they came first in sight of the tall flagstaff, Bounce, Redhand, and Gibault rode abreast.McLeod was standing in front of the fort, when the three horsemen came dashing over the plain. He hastily summoned his men and closed the gate, but as the foremost rider came near, he was recognised; the gate was thrown open, and they galloped into the square. In a few hasty words their errand was explained. Arms and ammunition were served out, and six men were stationed at the gate, to be in readiness to open it to approaching friends, or to shut it in the face of foes.But the others of the party were not so fortunate as these three. The Indians reached the fort before they did, and one of their number was left, unknown to them, in a state of insensibility near the spot where the first rencontre had taken place.When the Indians and trappers met in the narrow defile, as before related, one of the arrows, which had been discharged very much at random, entered the shoulder of March Marston’s horse and wounded it mortally. At first March thought the wound was slight, and, hearing the shouts of some of the savages not far behind him, he urged his horse forward as rapidly as the nature of the ground would admit of. Before he had gone a quarter of a mile, however, the poor steed fell, throwing March over its head. In his flight the youth’s forehead came into violent contact with a branch, and he fell to the ground insensible.His comrades, ignorant of his fate, continued their wild flight. Thus, our hero was forsaken, and left bruised and bleeding in the dark forest.
One morning, just as the trappers were dropping into camp about the usual breakfast hour, laden with the produce of the trap and the chase, they were startled by the sudden appearance of a large band of mounted Indians, who galloped to the top of a neighbouring mound, and, crowding together, stood still to gaze upon the invaders of their hunting grounds, for such they deemed the trappers, no doubt.
To snatch up their arms and run to a place of safety was the work of a moment. It must not be supposed that such experienced men as Redhand and Bounce were altogether unprepared for a surprise of this sort. On the day of their arrival at the hunting ground, their first care had been to select such a place for their camp as lay in close proximity to some natural stronghold. Not ten paces from the camp fire there was a sort of hollow in the ground, on the very summit of the mound on which they were encamped. Here all their valuables had been placed, and round the edge of the hollow a rude breastwork had been raised, so that the party, when in it, could fire through little openings in the breastwork without exposing themselves to view.
To this fortress they retired the instant the Indians made their appearance. Fortunately all the members of the little party had come in.
“They’re holdin’ a council o’ war,” said Bounce, carefully examining the priming of his piece. “It’s as like as not they’ll attack us, but they’ll get a hearty and an oncommonly warm welcome.”
“They’ll not attack us,” said Redhand. “They know that white men never travel without plenty of powder and ball, and they don’t like taking a place by storm.”
“Ay,” remarked Waller sarcastically, “’cause they knows that the first man as comes on is sartin sure to fall, an’ they knows that they can’t come on without somebody comin’ first.”
“But there’s brave fellers among the redskins,” rejoined Bounce. “I knowed a set o’ young fellers as banded theirselves together, and swore they’d go through fire an’ water, thick an’ thin, but they’d niver turn back from the face o’ danger wherever they met it. So, one day they wos crossin’ a river on the ice, an’ the first on ’em fell in, an’ wos carried away by the current; an’ what does the second do, but he walks straight into the hole, an’ wos drowned too; an’ the nixt wos goin’ to foller, when the old warriors ran at him an’ forced him back. If they hadn’t stopped him, I do b’lieve—”
“They’re makin’ up their minds to do somethin’ or other,” interrupted March.
“I sincerely hope they won’t fight,” murmured Bertram earnestly. “It is fearful to think of the blood that is shed by these men needlessly.”
From the conduct of the Indians it became evident that on this occasion they sympathised with the artist in his desire not to fight, for one of their number dismounted, and, advancing unarmed towards the trappers, made signs of friendship.
“It’s as well to be bold an’ appear to trust ’em,” said Redhand, laying down his rifle and leaping over the breastwork; “keep your guns ready, lads, an’ if ye see treachery, let drive at once. Don’t be afraid o’ hittin’ me. I’ll take my chance.”
After a few minutes’ conversation with the Indian, Redhand returned to his party.
“That redskin,” said he, “tells me they’re on an expedition to hunt the buffalo on the prairie, and that they’re good friends of the white men, and would like to have a talk with us before they go on; but I don’t believe ’em. From what I heard Mr McLeod say at the Mountain Fort, I think it not unlikely they are bound on an expedition against the whites. The very fact of their wishin’ to keep friends with us instead of tryin’ to lift our scalps and carry off our furs and horses, shows me they’ve some more pressin’ business on hand. Mr McLeod described to me the appearance of one or two o’ the Injuns that hates the fur-traders most, so that I might be on my guard, an’ I’m quite sure that some of them are with that band. Now, what say ye? Shall I tell ’em we don’t want their acquaintance?”
“Tell ’em they’re a set o’ lyin’ thieves,” said Big Waller. “I guess we’ll have nothin’ to say to ’em wotiver.”
“Oui, et give to dem mine complements,” added Gibault, “an’ say we ver’ moch ’blige by dere goodness, mais dey vill all be shooted if dey not go away queek.”
Redhand did not give these polite messages to the Indian, but on returning to him he presented him with a piece of tobacco, and advised him to continue his journey without loss of time, as the buffaloes were travelling south and might be out of the way when they reached the prairie.
Whether the Indians felt angry or not it is impossible to say. They seemed indifferent to their cool reception by the trappers, and soon after rode off at full speed, in a direction that ledawayfrom the Mountain Fort, a circumstance which still further confirmed Redhand in his suspicions.
After an eager, hasty consultation, it was resolved that they should follow the savages, and if their trail was found to diverge, as was fully expected, towards the fort, that they should endeavour to pass them in the night, and proceed by forced marches, in order to get there in time to warn the fur-traders of their impending danger.
In less than an hour after the Indians left them, the trappers were galloping after them in hot haste. During the course of the day they found that the trail doubled back, as they had anticipated, so, making a wide détour, they headed the Indians, and during the afternoon got a little in advance of them on their way to the Mountain Fort.
But the trappers had a subtle enemy to deal with. Just as the Indians were about to encamp that night for a few hours’ rest, they chanced to diverge a short way from the direct line of march, and, in doing so, crossed the tracks of the trappers. A halt was called, and a minute inspection of the tracks made. One of the savages galloped back on them a considerable distance, and soon returned with the information that they led towards the camp of the pale-faces. From the appearance of the hoof-prints they knew that they were fresh, and thus at once guessed that their true intentions had been suspected, and might yet be frustrated by the trappers. Instead of encamping, therefore, they pushed on at full speed and very soon came up with the white men. It was a dark night, so that they could not see far in advance of them, and thus it happened that the two parties, on entering a narrow defile, almost rode into each other, with a yell of fierce surprise on both sides.
As there were at least fifty Indians, Redhand thought it better to avoid a doubtful combat by scattering his men through the woods, and letting each make the best of his way to the fort singly.
“Run, boys! scatter! to the fort!”
This was all that he deemed needful in the way of command or explanation. Firing a single volley at the enemy, they turned and fled.
“Foller me,” shouted Waller to the bewildered Bertram, as a shower of arrows whistled past their ears. The artist obeyed mechanically, and in another moment they were flying through the wood at a pace that seemed, and actually was, reckless under the circumstances. But the Indians did not attempt to pursue. They knew that their intention had been discovered, and that their only chance of success now lay in outriding the pale-faces. The ride, in fact, became a long race, neither party making the slightest attempt to hunt up the other, but each straining every nerve and muscle to get first to the doomed fort.
The scattered trappers rode for a long time singly, but as they neared the fort, one or two of them met, and when they came first in sight of the tall flagstaff, Bounce, Redhand, and Gibault rode abreast.
McLeod was standing in front of the fort, when the three horsemen came dashing over the plain. He hastily summoned his men and closed the gate, but as the foremost rider came near, he was recognised; the gate was thrown open, and they galloped into the square. In a few hasty words their errand was explained. Arms and ammunition were served out, and six men were stationed at the gate, to be in readiness to open it to approaching friends, or to shut it in the face of foes.
But the others of the party were not so fortunate as these three. The Indians reached the fort before they did, and one of their number was left, unknown to them, in a state of insensibility near the spot where the first rencontre had taken place.
When the Indians and trappers met in the narrow defile, as before related, one of the arrows, which had been discharged very much at random, entered the shoulder of March Marston’s horse and wounded it mortally. At first March thought the wound was slight, and, hearing the shouts of some of the savages not far behind him, he urged his horse forward as rapidly as the nature of the ground would admit of. Before he had gone a quarter of a mile, however, the poor steed fell, throwing March over its head. In his flight the youth’s forehead came into violent contact with a branch, and he fell to the ground insensible.
His comrades, ignorant of his fate, continued their wild flight. Thus, our hero was forsaken, and left bruised and bleeding in the dark forest.
Chapter Sixteen.March gets a Surprise; more than that, he gets a Variety of Surprises—Meets with a strange Hunter—Goes in a strange Fashion to a strange Cavern and beholds strange Sights—Besides other Matters of Interest.On recovering consciousness, March discovered that it was broad daylight—from which he argued in a confused sort of way that he must have lain there all night. He also discovered that his head, which ached violently, rested on the knee of some unknown individual, who bathed his temples with cold water. Looking up he encountered the gaze of a pair of soft blue eyes.Now there is something exceedingly captivating in a pair of soft blue eyes—not that there may not be something quite as captivating in a pair of brown or black or grey eyes—but there is something singularly captivating in the peculiar style of captivation wherewith a man is captivated by a pair of blue—distinctlyblue—eyes. Perhaps it is that their resemblance to the cerulean depths of the bright sky and the blue profundities of the ocean invests them with a suggestive influence that is agreeable to the romantic and idealising tendencies of human nature; or that the colour is (or ought to be, if it is not) emblematic of purity. We throw out this suggestion solely for the benefit of unimpassioned philosophers. Those whose hearts are already under the pleasant thraldom of black or brown eyes are incapable of forming an opinion on the abstract question.Well, March observed, further, that below those soft blue eyes, there was a handsome Roman nose, and immediately below that a moustache, and a thick short beard of curly light-brown hair. A slight, very slight, feeling of regret mingled with the astonishment with which March passed from the contemplation of the soft blue eyes to the bushy beard. He also noted that the stranger wore a little leathern cap, and that a profusion of rich brown hair descended from his head to his shoulders.“Ye’re better, lad,” said the owner of the blue eyes in that deep musical bass voice which one meets with but rarely, and which resembles strongly, at times, the low pipes of a cathedral organ.“Thankee, yes, I’m—”“There, don’t move yet awhile. You’re badly bruised, lad. I’ll go fetch ye another drop o’ water.”The owner of the blue eyes rose as he spoke, laid March’s head softly on the ground, and walked towards a neighbouring brook. In doing so he displayed to the wondering gaze of March the proportions of a truly splendid-looking man. He was considerably above six feet in height, but it was not that so much as the herculean build of his chest and shoulders that struck March with surprise. His costume was the ordinary leather hunting-shirt and leggings of a backwoodsman, and, although deeply bronzed, his colour not less than his blue eyes and brown hair told that he was not an Indian.As he returned, carrying a little birch-bark dish full of water in his hand, March observed that the lines of his forehead indicated a mingled feeling of anger and sadness, and that his heavy brows frowned somewhat. He also noted more clearly now the man’s towering height, and the enormous breadth of his chest. As he lay there on his back with his head pillowed on a tuft of moss, he said inwardly to himself, “I never saw such a fellow as this before in all my life!”And little wonder that March Marston thought thus, for, as no doubt the reader has already guessed, the far-famed Wild Man of the West himself stood before him!But he did not know him. On the only occasion on which he had had an opportunity of beholding this renowned man, March had been rendered insensible just as he came on the field, and the exaggerated descriptions he had heard of him seemed quite irreconcilable with the soft blue eye and gentle manner of the hunter who had come thus opportunely to his aid. For one moment, indeed, the idea did occur to March that this was the Wild Man. It was natural that, having had his thoughts for so long a period filled with conjectures in reference to this wonderful creature, he should suppose the first tall, mysterious man he met must be he. But he dismissed the notion as untenable and absurd on second thoughts. That the blue-eyed, calm, dignified hunter who kneeled by his side, and held the refreshing water to his lips as if he were a trained sick nurse, should be the Wild Man, the man reported to be forty feet high, covered with hair, and exceeding fierce besides ugly, was out of the question. And when March shut his eyes in the full enjoyment of the cool draught, of which, poor fellow, he stood much in need, and heard the supposed Wild Man give vent to a sigh, which caused him to look up in surprise, so that he observed the mild blue eyes gazing sadly in his face, and the large head to which they belonged shaking from side to side mournfully, he almost laughed at himself for even momentarily entertaining such an absurd idea.March Marston had much to learn—we mean in the way of reading human character and in judging from appearances. He had not yet observed, in the course of his short life, that if a blue eye is capable of expressing soft pity, it is also pre-eminently capable of indicating tiger-like ferocity. He did not consider that the gentlest natures are, when roused to fury, the most terrible in their outward aspect. He did not reflect that if this giant (for he almost deserved thus to be styled), instead of being engaged in an office of kindness, that naturally induced gentleness of action, and that called for no other feelings than those of tenderness and pity, were placed on a warhorse, armed with sword and shield, and roused to fury by some such sight as that of a large band of savage Indians attacking a small and innocent group of white trappers, he might then amply fulfil all the conditions that would entitle him to the wildest possible name that could be invented.The prominent ideas in March’s mind at that time were, a pair of blue eyes and a large, gentle hand; so he quietly and finally dismissed the Wild Man from his thoughts.Luckily, the Wild Man did not treat March in a similar manner. After allowing him to rest quietly for a few minutes, he said—“Now, lad, I think ye’re improvin’. Ye’re badly battered about the head and shoulders, so I’ll take ye home with me.”“Home with you?” repeated March.“Ay, put your arms round my neck,” returned the Wild Man in a tone which, though soft and low, it was not possible to disobey.March performed this somewhat endearing action in silent surprise, whereupon the Wild Man introduced his left arm below the poor youth’s back, and with his right grasped him round the legs, and thus lifted him from the ground and carried him away.March experienced a sensation as if all his larger joints were being dislocated, and felt disposed to cry out, but restrained himself with a powerful effort. Presently his bearer stopped, and, looking round, March observed that he was standing by the side of a horse.“Hold on, lad, till I mount.”“You’d better let me down till you get up,” suggested March.“No,” replied the singularly laconic individual.Standing as he was, the Wild Man managed by raising March a little to lay his left hand on the pommel of his saddle; next moment his foot was in the stirrup, the moment after he himself was in the saddle, and a touch of his heel sent his horse cantering away towards the mountains.Had March Marston seen his deliverer at that moment, with his long hair waving freely in the breeze, in emulation of the voluminous mane and tail of his splendid horse, his thoughts regarding the Wild Man of the West would have certainly returned more powerfully than ever. But March did not see him, his eyes being shut, his lips pursed, and his teeth set in a heroic attempt to endure the agonies to which he was subjected by the motion of the horse.In half an hour they reached a rocky defile that led up into one of those wild, gloomy glens that are so characteristic of the Rocky Mountains. Here the Wild Man had to check his pace and proceed at a walk, thereby affording much relief to his wounded companion.“Art sore i’ the bones, lad?” inquired the stout horseman, looking down at his charge as if he were a small infant in arms.“Rather,” replied March. “Don’t you think it would be better for me to ride behind you? I think I could manage to hold on.”“No, you couldn’t.”“I fear I must be a terrible weight carried in this fashion,” urged March.“Weight!” echoed the hunter with a quiet chuckle; but, as he did not vouchsafe any further reply, March was left to interpret the expression as he thought fit.“I hope no bones are broken,” inquired March in a tone of anxiety.“Hope not,” replied his captor.We use the word “captor” advisedly, for March was so utterly unable at that time, physically as well as morally, to resist the will of this strange hunter, that he felt much more like a captive in the grip of a mighty jailer than an invalid in the arms of his nurse.“I fear there are,” said March, as a rude motion of the horse caused him excruciating agony.“Very likely,” replied the other—not by any means in a careless, indifferent way, but with the air and tone of a straightforward man giving his opinion in reference to a matter of fact. “But,” he added in a consolatory tone, “I’ll see when we get home.”“Home!” repeated March. “Why, whereisyour home?”“In the mountains here. We’re about there now.” As he spoke, the hunter turned his horse sharp to the left and entered a still more narrow and gloomy defile than the one they had just been ascending. So narrow was it, and overshadowed by high precipitous cliffs, that the light of day had to struggle for entrance even at noontide. At night it was dark as Erebus. The horse had considerable difficulty in advancing. Indeed no horse that had not been trained to pick its steps among the confused masses of rock and débris that formed the bottom of that ravine or chasm, could have ascended it at all. But the fine animal which bore March and the Wild Man of the West seemed to act more like a human being than a horse in winding out and in among the intricacies of the place.At length they reached the upper end of the gorge. Here the cliffs, which rose perpendicularly to a height of three or four hundred feet, drew so near to each other that at one place they were not more than three yards asunder. Just beyond this point they receded again and terminated abruptly in a sort of circle or amphitheatre, the floor of which could not have been more than thirty yards in diameter, and was covered with small gravel; the sides were quite perpendicular, and rose so high that on looking up one felt as if one had got into the bottom of a natural tunnel, at the top of which a round bit of bright blue sky sent down a few scanty rays of light.In spite of the pain it caused him, March raised his head and looked round as they rode into this gloomy cavernous place. Then, glancing at the face of the strange being who carried him, a feeling of superstitious dread took possession of his heart for a moment, as he remembered the many conversations he and Bounce had had about evil spirits appearing in human form, and he thought that perhaps he had actually fallen into the hands of one. But the grave quiet face, and above all the soft blue eyes, quickly put to flight such fears, although they could not altogether dispel the solemn awe he felt at being carried so suddenly into such a mysterious place.But he had scarcely recovered some degree of confidence, when his mind was again thrown into a violent state of agitation by the fact that the horse, turning to the right, began deliberately to ascend the precipice, which was as perpendicular as a wall. It did not indeed ascend after the manner of a fly on a window, but it went up on what appeared to be a narrow, spiral pathway. In a few seconds they had ascended about fifty feet, and March, projecting out from the precipice as he did, owing to his position in the rider’s left arm, felt a horrible sensation of giddiness come over him, and could not suppress a slight groan.“Don’t be afear’d, lad,” said his companion, “I’ve got ye tight, an’ the horse is used to it. The track’s broader than ye think, only ye can’t see it as ye lie now.”March felt reassured; nevertheless, he shut his eyes very tight and held his breath.Presently he felt that they had turned sharp to the right, so he ventured to open his eyes, and found that they were standing at the mouth of what appeared to be a cavern. In another moment they were under its dark roof and the horse came to a stand. From the hasty glance he gave it, he could only ascertain that the interior was buried in profound darkness.Without causing March to move in any way, the stout horseman dismounted. In fact, the burden seemed no greater to him than a child would be to an ordinary man.“Here we are—at home,” he said. “Come, old horse, get away in.”The horse obeyed, and disappeared in the darkness beyond.“Now, lad, don’t be afear’d, I know every fut o’ the way. Ye can shut yer eyes an ye like—but there’s no occasion.”Saying this, he advanced with a steady tread into the cave, the echoes of which were still ringing with the clatter of the horse’s hoofs as it passed over the stone floor. It could not have been more than a quarter of a minute when they reached the end of what appeared to be the outer vestibule of this cavern, though to March it seemed to be more than five minutes; and, now that he could no longer see the blue eyes, all manner of horrible doubts and fears assailed him. He felt deeply his helpless condition, poor fellow. Had he been sound in wind and limb he would have cared little; for a brave and a strong man naturally feels that he can fight a stout battle for life in all or any circumstances. But part of this prop (namely, strength) having been removed by his recent accident, he felt like a miserable child.Doubtless it is good for strong men to be brought thus low sometimes, just to prove to them, what they are by nature very slow to believe, that they, quite as much as the weak and helpless ones of this world, are dependent at all times on their fellows.On reaching the end of the outer cave, the hunter turned to the left, stooped down in order to pass below a small natural arch, and finally stood still in the middle of another cavern, on the floor of which he deposited his burden with much tenderness and care.There was light in this cave, but it was so dim as to be insufficient to illuminate the surrounding objects. March perceived on looking up that it entered through a small aperture in the side of the cavern near the roof, which was not more than twelve feet from the floor. There were several pieces of charred wood on one side of the cave, in which a few sparks of fire still lingered.Without saying a word the owner of this strange abode went towards these, and, blowing them into a flame, heaped large logs upon them, so that, in ten minutes, the place was brilliantly illuminated with a ruddy blaze that did one’s heart good to look upon.By the light of the fire March perceived that he had been deposited on a couch of pine-branches. He was about to make other observations, when his captor turned to him and said—“I’ll go an’ see to the horse, and be back in a minute; so keep yer mind easy.”“And, pray, what name am I to call my host by?” said March, unable to restrain his curiosity any longer.A dark, almost fierce frown covered the man’s face, as he said angrily, “Boy, curiosity is a bad thing—anywise, it’s bad here. I’ve brought you to this cave ’cause you’d ha’ died i’ the woods if I hadn’t. Don’t ask questions about what don’t consarn ye.”“Nay, friend, I meant no offence,” replied March. “I’ve no desire to pry into any man’s secrets. Nevertheless, it’s but natural to want to know how to address a man when ye converse with him.”“True, true,” replied the other, somewhat mollified. “Call me Dick; it’s as good a name as any, and better than my own.”There was a slight touch of bitterness in the tone in which this was said, as the man turned on his heel to quit the cave.“Stay,” cried March, “you only give me one name, friend, so I’ll do the same by you. My name’s March—there, now you may march about your business.”Dick smiled and said, “Well, March, I’ll be with ye again, and have a look at your sore bones, in two minutes.”When he was gone March, for the first time since his accident, bethought him of his comrades. Since recovering from the state of insensibility into which his fall had thrown him, his mind had been so absorbed by the strange events that had been presented to him in such rapid succession, as well as with the pain that racked his head and limbs, that he had had no time to think about them. But, now that he was left in that quiet place alone, the whole circumstances of the recent pursuit and flight rushed suddenly upon him, and his mind was filled with anxious forebodings as to the fate of his comrades.“Oh! I’m glad you’ve come back,” he cried, as Dick re-entered the cave; “I quite forgot my comrades—shame on me! but my miserable head has got such a smash, that a’most everything’s bin drove out of it.”“Time enough to speak o’ them after we’ve seen to your bones,” said Dick.“Nay, but—”“After,” said Dick in a tone that was not to be gainsaid.March submitted with a sigh, and his eccentric host proceeded to manipulate and punch him in a way that might perhaps have been highly necessary, but was by no means agreeable. After a few minutes he pronounced his patient all right, only a little bruised! Having said which, he proceeded to prepare some food, and said to March that he might now speak about his comrades.At first he seemed to pay little attention to the youth’s hasty narrative; but on hearing that the Indians were hastening to attack the Mountain Fort, he sprang up, and asked a few questions eagerly. It was evident that the news troubled him deeply.Taking one or two hasty strides up and down the cavern, and paying no attention to the roasting meat, which he seemed to have utterly forgotten, the Wild Man of the West muttered angrily to himself, and a slight dash of that tiger-like flash, which had gone so far to earn him his title, lighted up his blue eyes, insomuch that March Marston looked at him in amazement not unmingled with awe. Thoughts of the Wild Man of the West once more occurred to him; but in his former cogitations on that subject he had so thoroughly discarded the idea of this kind, blue-eyed hunter being that far-famed and ferocious individual, that his thoughts only took the form of the mental question, “I wonder if the Wild Man o’ the West could beat such a fellow as that at a fair stand-up fight?” So powerfully did this thought affect him, that he could not refrain from exclaiming—“I say, Dick, did you ever hear of the Wild Man of the West?”Dick was so much tickled by the question that his angry mood vanished, and, turning towards his guest with a smile, while his blue eyes seemed milder than they ever had appeared before, he said—“Yes, lad, I’ve heard of him.”“Have you seen him?” continued March eagerly.“I have, many a time.”“What is he like?”“He’s like me,” replied Dick with another smile, the softness of which would have driven March to an immeasurable distance from the truth, had he ever been near it.“Likeyou! Oh, I suppose you mean he’s something about your size. Well, I don’t wonder at that, for you’re an uncommonly big fellow, Dick; but I fancy his appearance is very different.”“Well, no. He’s got light hair and blue eyes, like me.”This was a poser to March. It was so totally subversive of all his preconceived ideas, that it reduced him for some moments to silence.“Isn’t he hairy all over, like a fox, and very ugly?” inquired March, recovering from his surprise.This was a poser, in turn, to the Wild Man. To be called upon suddenly to pronounce an opinion on his own looks was embarrassing, to say the least of it.“He’s not exactly hairy all over,” said Dick after a moment’s thought, “though it can’t be denied he’s got plenty of hair on his head and chin—like me. As for his looks, lad, it ain’t easy to say whether he’s ugly or pritty, for men don’t agree on sich pints, d’ye see?”“Do sit down beside me, Dick, and tell me about this Wild Man,” said March earnestly. “You can’t fancy how anxious I am to see him. I’ve come here for that very purpose. No doubt I’ve come to shoot and trap, too, but chiefly to see the Wild Man o’ the West. An’ isn’t it provokin’? I might have seen him some weeks agone, if I hadn’t bin stunned with a fall jist as he came jumpin’ into the middle o’ us like a clap o’ thunder—”“What, lad,” interrupted Dick, “was ityouthat I—”Just at this moment Dick was seized with a very violent fit of coughing, which, coming as it did from such a capacious chest and so powerful a pair of lungs, caused the roof of the cavern to reverberate with what might have been mistaken, outside, for a species of miniature artillery.“You’ve caught cold,” suggested March, who gazed in unspeakable admiration at the magnificent locks and beard of this remarkable man, as they shook with the violence of his exertion.“Ineverhad a cold,” replied Dick, becoming quiet again; “there’s other things as cause a man for to cough, now and agin’, besides colds.”“True,” rejoined March; “but you were sayin’ somethin’—do you know of the fight I was speakin’ of?”“Know of it—ay, that do I.”“Why, how did you happen to hear of it?”“It’s wonderful, lad, how I comes to know about things in this part o’ the country. I know everything the Wild Man does. He can’t move without my bein’ on his track d’rectly. In fact, I follers him like his shadow—leastwise, his shadow follers me.”“Indeed,” exclaimed March, whose interest in Dick became suddenly tenfold more deep on learning this. “But why do you follow him about in this fashion? Does he like your company, or do you only follow him on the sly, and keep out of sight? Explain yourself, Dick—you puzzle me.”“I can’t explain just now, lad,” said Dick, rising abruptly. “You forget that your comrades may be in a fix before now wi’ them blackguard redskins. I must go an’ help them. It’s but right that white men should lend one another a helpin’ hand in these regions, where the Injuns have it almost all their own way.”“But the Mountain Fort is far away from this, an’ I’m afraid you’ll never be able to get there in time,” said March with an anxious expression of countenance.“I’ll try,” returned Dick. “Anyhow, I’ll send the Wild Man o’ the West to help them,” he added with a peculiar smile. “Now, boy, listen, I must not waste more time in idle talk. I shall leave you here under the charge of my little girl—”“Your little girl!” echoed March in surprise.“Ay, she ought to have been in before now,” continued Dick, without noticing the interruption, “an’ I would like to ha’ told her who ye are, and how I come by ye, an’ what to do till I come back. But I can’t wait; time’s precious as gold just now; so I’ll tell ye what to say to her when she—”At that moment a light footstep was heard in the outer cavern. The Wild Man sprang up on hearing it, and strode hastily through the natural doorway, leaving March to listen, in a state of the utmost bewilderment, to a silvery musical voice, which held rapid converse with his strange host.Presently Dick returned, followed by a—vision in leather! the sight of which struck March Marston dumb, and rendered him for a few moments as totally incapable of moving hand, tongue, or foot, as if he had been bewitched—which, in a sense, he was.“This is the little girl I spoke of t’ye,” said Dick looking at March, and patting the girl on her soft cheek with a hand that might have passed for a small shoulder of mutton. “She’ll take good care of ye, March. I’ve told her what to do; but she don’t need to be told. Now, see ye don’t do yerself a mischief, lad, till I come back. It won’t be long—a day or two, mayhap, more or less; but ye’ll take that time to mend; you’re worse battered than ye think of—so, good-day.”While the Wild Man was ejaculating these sentences abruptly, he was striding about the cave with what may be styledenormousvigour, picking up and buckling on his weapons of war. He seized a double-edged sword of gigantic proportions, and buckled it to his waist; but March saw it not. He pulled on the scalp-fringed coat of a Blackfoot chief, with leggings to match; but March knew it not. He slung a powder-horn and bullet-pouch round his shoulders, stuck a knife and tomahawk into his belt, and grasped a long rifle which stood in a corner; and, in doing all this, he made such a tremendous clatter, and displayed such wonderful activity, and grew so much fiercer to look at in every stage of the process, that March would certainly have recurred to the idea of the Wild Man, had he been in his ordinary state of mind; but he wasnotin that happy condition. March knew nothing about it whatever!Before going, Dick stooped and kissed the “vision” on the cheek. March saw that! It recalled him for a moment and made him aware of the disappearance of his host, and of the loud clattering sounds of his charger’s hoofs, as he led him at a rapid walk across the outer cave. March even heard the general clatter of all his accoutrements, as he vaulted into the saddle at one bound, and went down that terrible rocky way at a breakneck gallop that would have caused him (March) in other circumstances to shudder. But he didnotshudder. He was but faintly aware of these things. His intellect was overturned; his whole soul was captivated; his imagination, his perceptions, his conceptions—all his faculties and capacities were utterly overwhelmed and absorbed by that wonderfulvision in leather!
On recovering consciousness, March discovered that it was broad daylight—from which he argued in a confused sort of way that he must have lain there all night. He also discovered that his head, which ached violently, rested on the knee of some unknown individual, who bathed his temples with cold water. Looking up he encountered the gaze of a pair of soft blue eyes.
Now there is something exceedingly captivating in a pair of soft blue eyes—not that there may not be something quite as captivating in a pair of brown or black or grey eyes—but there is something singularly captivating in the peculiar style of captivation wherewith a man is captivated by a pair of blue—distinctlyblue—eyes. Perhaps it is that their resemblance to the cerulean depths of the bright sky and the blue profundities of the ocean invests them with a suggestive influence that is agreeable to the romantic and idealising tendencies of human nature; or that the colour is (or ought to be, if it is not) emblematic of purity. We throw out this suggestion solely for the benefit of unimpassioned philosophers. Those whose hearts are already under the pleasant thraldom of black or brown eyes are incapable of forming an opinion on the abstract question.
Well, March observed, further, that below those soft blue eyes, there was a handsome Roman nose, and immediately below that a moustache, and a thick short beard of curly light-brown hair. A slight, very slight, feeling of regret mingled with the astonishment with which March passed from the contemplation of the soft blue eyes to the bushy beard. He also noted that the stranger wore a little leathern cap, and that a profusion of rich brown hair descended from his head to his shoulders.
“Ye’re better, lad,” said the owner of the blue eyes in that deep musical bass voice which one meets with but rarely, and which resembles strongly, at times, the low pipes of a cathedral organ.
“Thankee, yes, I’m—”
“There, don’t move yet awhile. You’re badly bruised, lad. I’ll go fetch ye another drop o’ water.”
The owner of the blue eyes rose as he spoke, laid March’s head softly on the ground, and walked towards a neighbouring brook. In doing so he displayed to the wondering gaze of March the proportions of a truly splendid-looking man. He was considerably above six feet in height, but it was not that so much as the herculean build of his chest and shoulders that struck March with surprise. His costume was the ordinary leather hunting-shirt and leggings of a backwoodsman, and, although deeply bronzed, his colour not less than his blue eyes and brown hair told that he was not an Indian.
As he returned, carrying a little birch-bark dish full of water in his hand, March observed that the lines of his forehead indicated a mingled feeling of anger and sadness, and that his heavy brows frowned somewhat. He also noted more clearly now the man’s towering height, and the enormous breadth of his chest. As he lay there on his back with his head pillowed on a tuft of moss, he said inwardly to himself, “I never saw such a fellow as this before in all my life!”
And little wonder that March Marston thought thus, for, as no doubt the reader has already guessed, the far-famed Wild Man of the West himself stood before him!
But he did not know him. On the only occasion on which he had had an opportunity of beholding this renowned man, March had been rendered insensible just as he came on the field, and the exaggerated descriptions he had heard of him seemed quite irreconcilable with the soft blue eye and gentle manner of the hunter who had come thus opportunely to his aid. For one moment, indeed, the idea did occur to March that this was the Wild Man. It was natural that, having had his thoughts for so long a period filled with conjectures in reference to this wonderful creature, he should suppose the first tall, mysterious man he met must be he. But he dismissed the notion as untenable and absurd on second thoughts. That the blue-eyed, calm, dignified hunter who kneeled by his side, and held the refreshing water to his lips as if he were a trained sick nurse, should be the Wild Man, the man reported to be forty feet high, covered with hair, and exceeding fierce besides ugly, was out of the question. And when March shut his eyes in the full enjoyment of the cool draught, of which, poor fellow, he stood much in need, and heard the supposed Wild Man give vent to a sigh, which caused him to look up in surprise, so that he observed the mild blue eyes gazing sadly in his face, and the large head to which they belonged shaking from side to side mournfully, he almost laughed at himself for even momentarily entertaining such an absurd idea.
March Marston had much to learn—we mean in the way of reading human character and in judging from appearances. He had not yet observed, in the course of his short life, that if a blue eye is capable of expressing soft pity, it is also pre-eminently capable of indicating tiger-like ferocity. He did not consider that the gentlest natures are, when roused to fury, the most terrible in their outward aspect. He did not reflect that if this giant (for he almost deserved thus to be styled), instead of being engaged in an office of kindness, that naturally induced gentleness of action, and that called for no other feelings than those of tenderness and pity, were placed on a warhorse, armed with sword and shield, and roused to fury by some such sight as that of a large band of savage Indians attacking a small and innocent group of white trappers, he might then amply fulfil all the conditions that would entitle him to the wildest possible name that could be invented.
The prominent ideas in March’s mind at that time were, a pair of blue eyes and a large, gentle hand; so he quietly and finally dismissed the Wild Man from his thoughts.
Luckily, the Wild Man did not treat March in a similar manner. After allowing him to rest quietly for a few minutes, he said—
“Now, lad, I think ye’re improvin’. Ye’re badly battered about the head and shoulders, so I’ll take ye home with me.”
“Home with you?” repeated March.
“Ay, put your arms round my neck,” returned the Wild Man in a tone which, though soft and low, it was not possible to disobey.
March performed this somewhat endearing action in silent surprise, whereupon the Wild Man introduced his left arm below the poor youth’s back, and with his right grasped him round the legs, and thus lifted him from the ground and carried him away.
March experienced a sensation as if all his larger joints were being dislocated, and felt disposed to cry out, but restrained himself with a powerful effort. Presently his bearer stopped, and, looking round, March observed that he was standing by the side of a horse.
“Hold on, lad, till I mount.”
“You’d better let me down till you get up,” suggested March.
“No,” replied the singularly laconic individual.
Standing as he was, the Wild Man managed by raising March a little to lay his left hand on the pommel of his saddle; next moment his foot was in the stirrup, the moment after he himself was in the saddle, and a touch of his heel sent his horse cantering away towards the mountains.
Had March Marston seen his deliverer at that moment, with his long hair waving freely in the breeze, in emulation of the voluminous mane and tail of his splendid horse, his thoughts regarding the Wild Man of the West would have certainly returned more powerfully than ever. But March did not see him, his eyes being shut, his lips pursed, and his teeth set in a heroic attempt to endure the agonies to which he was subjected by the motion of the horse.
In half an hour they reached a rocky defile that led up into one of those wild, gloomy glens that are so characteristic of the Rocky Mountains. Here the Wild Man had to check his pace and proceed at a walk, thereby affording much relief to his wounded companion.
“Art sore i’ the bones, lad?” inquired the stout horseman, looking down at his charge as if he were a small infant in arms.
“Rather,” replied March. “Don’t you think it would be better for me to ride behind you? I think I could manage to hold on.”
“No, you couldn’t.”
“I fear I must be a terrible weight carried in this fashion,” urged March.
“Weight!” echoed the hunter with a quiet chuckle; but, as he did not vouchsafe any further reply, March was left to interpret the expression as he thought fit.
“I hope no bones are broken,” inquired March in a tone of anxiety.
“Hope not,” replied his captor.
We use the word “captor” advisedly, for March was so utterly unable at that time, physically as well as morally, to resist the will of this strange hunter, that he felt much more like a captive in the grip of a mighty jailer than an invalid in the arms of his nurse.
“I fear there are,” said March, as a rude motion of the horse caused him excruciating agony.
“Very likely,” replied the other—not by any means in a careless, indifferent way, but with the air and tone of a straightforward man giving his opinion in reference to a matter of fact. “But,” he added in a consolatory tone, “I’ll see when we get home.”
“Home!” repeated March. “Why, whereisyour home?”
“In the mountains here. We’re about there now.” As he spoke, the hunter turned his horse sharp to the left and entered a still more narrow and gloomy defile than the one they had just been ascending. So narrow was it, and overshadowed by high precipitous cliffs, that the light of day had to struggle for entrance even at noontide. At night it was dark as Erebus. The horse had considerable difficulty in advancing. Indeed no horse that had not been trained to pick its steps among the confused masses of rock and débris that formed the bottom of that ravine or chasm, could have ascended it at all. But the fine animal which bore March and the Wild Man of the West seemed to act more like a human being than a horse in winding out and in among the intricacies of the place.
At length they reached the upper end of the gorge. Here the cliffs, which rose perpendicularly to a height of three or four hundred feet, drew so near to each other that at one place they were not more than three yards asunder. Just beyond this point they receded again and terminated abruptly in a sort of circle or amphitheatre, the floor of which could not have been more than thirty yards in diameter, and was covered with small gravel; the sides were quite perpendicular, and rose so high that on looking up one felt as if one had got into the bottom of a natural tunnel, at the top of which a round bit of bright blue sky sent down a few scanty rays of light.
In spite of the pain it caused him, March raised his head and looked round as they rode into this gloomy cavernous place. Then, glancing at the face of the strange being who carried him, a feeling of superstitious dread took possession of his heart for a moment, as he remembered the many conversations he and Bounce had had about evil spirits appearing in human form, and he thought that perhaps he had actually fallen into the hands of one. But the grave quiet face, and above all the soft blue eyes, quickly put to flight such fears, although they could not altogether dispel the solemn awe he felt at being carried so suddenly into such a mysterious place.
But he had scarcely recovered some degree of confidence, when his mind was again thrown into a violent state of agitation by the fact that the horse, turning to the right, began deliberately to ascend the precipice, which was as perpendicular as a wall. It did not indeed ascend after the manner of a fly on a window, but it went up on what appeared to be a narrow, spiral pathway. In a few seconds they had ascended about fifty feet, and March, projecting out from the precipice as he did, owing to his position in the rider’s left arm, felt a horrible sensation of giddiness come over him, and could not suppress a slight groan.
“Don’t be afear’d, lad,” said his companion, “I’ve got ye tight, an’ the horse is used to it. The track’s broader than ye think, only ye can’t see it as ye lie now.”
March felt reassured; nevertheless, he shut his eyes very tight and held his breath.
Presently he felt that they had turned sharp to the right, so he ventured to open his eyes, and found that they were standing at the mouth of what appeared to be a cavern. In another moment they were under its dark roof and the horse came to a stand. From the hasty glance he gave it, he could only ascertain that the interior was buried in profound darkness.
Without causing March to move in any way, the stout horseman dismounted. In fact, the burden seemed no greater to him than a child would be to an ordinary man.
“Here we are—at home,” he said. “Come, old horse, get away in.”
The horse obeyed, and disappeared in the darkness beyond.
“Now, lad, don’t be afear’d, I know every fut o’ the way. Ye can shut yer eyes an ye like—but there’s no occasion.”
Saying this, he advanced with a steady tread into the cave, the echoes of which were still ringing with the clatter of the horse’s hoofs as it passed over the stone floor. It could not have been more than a quarter of a minute when they reached the end of what appeared to be the outer vestibule of this cavern, though to March it seemed to be more than five minutes; and, now that he could no longer see the blue eyes, all manner of horrible doubts and fears assailed him. He felt deeply his helpless condition, poor fellow. Had he been sound in wind and limb he would have cared little; for a brave and a strong man naturally feels that he can fight a stout battle for life in all or any circumstances. But part of this prop (namely, strength) having been removed by his recent accident, he felt like a miserable child.
Doubtless it is good for strong men to be brought thus low sometimes, just to prove to them, what they are by nature very slow to believe, that they, quite as much as the weak and helpless ones of this world, are dependent at all times on their fellows.
On reaching the end of the outer cave, the hunter turned to the left, stooped down in order to pass below a small natural arch, and finally stood still in the middle of another cavern, on the floor of which he deposited his burden with much tenderness and care.
There was light in this cave, but it was so dim as to be insufficient to illuminate the surrounding objects. March perceived on looking up that it entered through a small aperture in the side of the cavern near the roof, which was not more than twelve feet from the floor. There were several pieces of charred wood on one side of the cave, in which a few sparks of fire still lingered.
Without saying a word the owner of this strange abode went towards these, and, blowing them into a flame, heaped large logs upon them, so that, in ten minutes, the place was brilliantly illuminated with a ruddy blaze that did one’s heart good to look upon.
By the light of the fire March perceived that he had been deposited on a couch of pine-branches. He was about to make other observations, when his captor turned to him and said—
“I’ll go an’ see to the horse, and be back in a minute; so keep yer mind easy.”
“And, pray, what name am I to call my host by?” said March, unable to restrain his curiosity any longer.
A dark, almost fierce frown covered the man’s face, as he said angrily, “Boy, curiosity is a bad thing—anywise, it’s bad here. I’ve brought you to this cave ’cause you’d ha’ died i’ the woods if I hadn’t. Don’t ask questions about what don’t consarn ye.”
“Nay, friend, I meant no offence,” replied March. “I’ve no desire to pry into any man’s secrets. Nevertheless, it’s but natural to want to know how to address a man when ye converse with him.”
“True, true,” replied the other, somewhat mollified. “Call me Dick; it’s as good a name as any, and better than my own.”
There was a slight touch of bitterness in the tone in which this was said, as the man turned on his heel to quit the cave.
“Stay,” cried March, “you only give me one name, friend, so I’ll do the same by you. My name’s March—there, now you may march about your business.”
Dick smiled and said, “Well, March, I’ll be with ye again, and have a look at your sore bones, in two minutes.”
When he was gone March, for the first time since his accident, bethought him of his comrades. Since recovering from the state of insensibility into which his fall had thrown him, his mind had been so absorbed by the strange events that had been presented to him in such rapid succession, as well as with the pain that racked his head and limbs, that he had had no time to think about them. But, now that he was left in that quiet place alone, the whole circumstances of the recent pursuit and flight rushed suddenly upon him, and his mind was filled with anxious forebodings as to the fate of his comrades.
“Oh! I’m glad you’ve come back,” he cried, as Dick re-entered the cave; “I quite forgot my comrades—shame on me! but my miserable head has got such a smash, that a’most everything’s bin drove out of it.”
“Time enough to speak o’ them after we’ve seen to your bones,” said Dick.
“Nay, but—”
“After,” said Dick in a tone that was not to be gainsaid.
March submitted with a sigh, and his eccentric host proceeded to manipulate and punch him in a way that might perhaps have been highly necessary, but was by no means agreeable. After a few minutes he pronounced his patient all right, only a little bruised! Having said which, he proceeded to prepare some food, and said to March that he might now speak about his comrades.
At first he seemed to pay little attention to the youth’s hasty narrative; but on hearing that the Indians were hastening to attack the Mountain Fort, he sprang up, and asked a few questions eagerly. It was evident that the news troubled him deeply.
Taking one or two hasty strides up and down the cavern, and paying no attention to the roasting meat, which he seemed to have utterly forgotten, the Wild Man of the West muttered angrily to himself, and a slight dash of that tiger-like flash, which had gone so far to earn him his title, lighted up his blue eyes, insomuch that March Marston looked at him in amazement not unmingled with awe. Thoughts of the Wild Man of the West once more occurred to him; but in his former cogitations on that subject he had so thoroughly discarded the idea of this kind, blue-eyed hunter being that far-famed and ferocious individual, that his thoughts only took the form of the mental question, “I wonder if the Wild Man o’ the West could beat such a fellow as that at a fair stand-up fight?” So powerfully did this thought affect him, that he could not refrain from exclaiming—
“I say, Dick, did you ever hear of the Wild Man of the West?”
Dick was so much tickled by the question that his angry mood vanished, and, turning towards his guest with a smile, while his blue eyes seemed milder than they ever had appeared before, he said—
“Yes, lad, I’ve heard of him.”
“Have you seen him?” continued March eagerly.
“I have, many a time.”
“What is he like?”
“He’s like me,” replied Dick with another smile, the softness of which would have driven March to an immeasurable distance from the truth, had he ever been near it.
“Likeyou! Oh, I suppose you mean he’s something about your size. Well, I don’t wonder at that, for you’re an uncommonly big fellow, Dick; but I fancy his appearance is very different.”
“Well, no. He’s got light hair and blue eyes, like me.”
This was a poser to March. It was so totally subversive of all his preconceived ideas, that it reduced him for some moments to silence.
“Isn’t he hairy all over, like a fox, and very ugly?” inquired March, recovering from his surprise.
This was a poser, in turn, to the Wild Man. To be called upon suddenly to pronounce an opinion on his own looks was embarrassing, to say the least of it.
“He’s not exactly hairy all over,” said Dick after a moment’s thought, “though it can’t be denied he’s got plenty of hair on his head and chin—like me. As for his looks, lad, it ain’t easy to say whether he’s ugly or pritty, for men don’t agree on sich pints, d’ye see?”
“Do sit down beside me, Dick, and tell me about this Wild Man,” said March earnestly. “You can’t fancy how anxious I am to see him. I’ve come here for that very purpose. No doubt I’ve come to shoot and trap, too, but chiefly to see the Wild Man o’ the West. An’ isn’t it provokin’? I might have seen him some weeks agone, if I hadn’t bin stunned with a fall jist as he came jumpin’ into the middle o’ us like a clap o’ thunder—”
“What, lad,” interrupted Dick, “was ityouthat I—”
Just at this moment Dick was seized with a very violent fit of coughing, which, coming as it did from such a capacious chest and so powerful a pair of lungs, caused the roof of the cavern to reverberate with what might have been mistaken, outside, for a species of miniature artillery.
“You’ve caught cold,” suggested March, who gazed in unspeakable admiration at the magnificent locks and beard of this remarkable man, as they shook with the violence of his exertion.
“Ineverhad a cold,” replied Dick, becoming quiet again; “there’s other things as cause a man for to cough, now and agin’, besides colds.”
“True,” rejoined March; “but you were sayin’ somethin’—do you know of the fight I was speakin’ of?”
“Know of it—ay, that do I.”
“Why, how did you happen to hear of it?”
“It’s wonderful, lad, how I comes to know about things in this part o’ the country. I know everything the Wild Man does. He can’t move without my bein’ on his track d’rectly. In fact, I follers him like his shadow—leastwise, his shadow follers me.”
“Indeed,” exclaimed March, whose interest in Dick became suddenly tenfold more deep on learning this. “But why do you follow him about in this fashion? Does he like your company, or do you only follow him on the sly, and keep out of sight? Explain yourself, Dick—you puzzle me.”
“I can’t explain just now, lad,” said Dick, rising abruptly. “You forget that your comrades may be in a fix before now wi’ them blackguard redskins. I must go an’ help them. It’s but right that white men should lend one another a helpin’ hand in these regions, where the Injuns have it almost all their own way.”
“But the Mountain Fort is far away from this, an’ I’m afraid you’ll never be able to get there in time,” said March with an anxious expression of countenance.
“I’ll try,” returned Dick. “Anyhow, I’ll send the Wild Man o’ the West to help them,” he added with a peculiar smile. “Now, boy, listen, I must not waste more time in idle talk. I shall leave you here under the charge of my little girl—”
“Your little girl!” echoed March in surprise.
“Ay, she ought to have been in before now,” continued Dick, without noticing the interruption, “an’ I would like to ha’ told her who ye are, and how I come by ye, an’ what to do till I come back. But I can’t wait; time’s precious as gold just now; so I’ll tell ye what to say to her when she—”
At that moment a light footstep was heard in the outer cavern. The Wild Man sprang up on hearing it, and strode hastily through the natural doorway, leaving March to listen, in a state of the utmost bewilderment, to a silvery musical voice, which held rapid converse with his strange host.
Presently Dick returned, followed by a—vision in leather! the sight of which struck March Marston dumb, and rendered him for a few moments as totally incapable of moving hand, tongue, or foot, as if he had been bewitched—which, in a sense, he was.
“This is the little girl I spoke of t’ye,” said Dick looking at March, and patting the girl on her soft cheek with a hand that might have passed for a small shoulder of mutton. “She’ll take good care of ye, March. I’ve told her what to do; but she don’t need to be told. Now, see ye don’t do yerself a mischief, lad, till I come back. It won’t be long—a day or two, mayhap, more or less; but ye’ll take that time to mend; you’re worse battered than ye think of—so, good-day.”
While the Wild Man was ejaculating these sentences abruptly, he was striding about the cave with what may be styledenormousvigour, picking up and buckling on his weapons of war. He seized a double-edged sword of gigantic proportions, and buckled it to his waist; but March saw it not. He pulled on the scalp-fringed coat of a Blackfoot chief, with leggings to match; but March knew it not. He slung a powder-horn and bullet-pouch round his shoulders, stuck a knife and tomahawk into his belt, and grasped a long rifle which stood in a corner; and, in doing all this, he made such a tremendous clatter, and displayed such wonderful activity, and grew so much fiercer to look at in every stage of the process, that March would certainly have recurred to the idea of the Wild Man, had he been in his ordinary state of mind; but he wasnotin that happy condition. March knew nothing about it whatever!
Before going, Dick stooped and kissed the “vision” on the cheek. March saw that! It recalled him for a moment and made him aware of the disappearance of his host, and of the loud clattering sounds of his charger’s hoofs, as he led him at a rapid walk across the outer cave. March even heard the general clatter of all his accoutrements, as he vaulted into the saddle at one bound, and went down that terrible rocky way at a breakneck gallop that would have caused him (March) in other circumstances to shudder. But he didnotshudder. He was but faintly aware of these things. His intellect was overturned; his whole soul was captivated; his imagination, his perceptions, his conceptions—all his faculties and capacities were utterly overwhelmed and absorbed by that wonderfulvision in leather!
Chapter Seventeen.The Vision in Leather.It is all very well for men of the world, men of fashion, men who pride themselves on being highly civilised and peculiarly refined, to fancy that there are no other visions in this world than “visions in silk,” “visions in white,” and the like. Those who think thus labour under an egregious, though a civilised, mistake.Happily there are kind, loving, pretty faces in this world, the possessors of which know nothing about pink gauze or white muslin—faces that have never felt the hot air of a drawing-room, but are much used to present themselves, unveiled, to the fresh breezes of the prairie and the mountain; faces that possess the rare quality of universal attraction, and that cause men to fancy, when they see them for the first time, that they have beheld a vision!The fact is that some faces are visions, whether the forms that support them appear to us in muslin or in deerskin. The only requisite needful to constitute a face a vision to any particular person, is that it should have in it that peculiarsomethingwhich everybody wants, but which nobody can define; which is ineffably charming, though utterly incomprehensible; and which, when once seen by any one, constitutes the countenance that possesses it a vision evermore!It is quite immaterial what material composes the dress in which the vision appears. No doubt, the first time it bursts upon the smitten victim, dress may be a powerful auxiliary; but, after the first time, dress goes for little or nothing. March Marston’s vision appeared, as we have said in leather.After the Wild Man had vanished, March continued to gaze at his new companion with all kinds of feelings and emotions, but without being able to move or speak. The vision returned the compliment, also without speaking or taking any further notice of him.She was a wonderful creature, that vision in leather! That she was of Indian extraction was evident from the hue of her skin, yet she was not nearly so dark as the lightest complexioned Indian. In fact her clear soft forehead was whiter than those of many so-called pale-faces; but her ruddy cheeks, her light-brown hair, and, above all, her bright brown eye showed that white blood ran in her veins. She was what men term a half-caste. She was young, almost girlish in her figure and deportment; but the earnest gravity of her pretty face caused her to appear older than she really was. March, unconsciously and without an effort, guessed her to be sixteen. He was wrong. She had only seen fifteen summers.Her dress was a beautifully dressed deerskin gown, reaching below the knees, as soft as chamois leather, and ornamented with beads and quill work. It was girded round her small waist by a leather belt, from which depended a small hunting-knife. A pair of ornamental leggings of the same material as the gown covered her limbs, and moccasins her feet, which latter, as well as her hands, were small and beautifully formed. Over her shoulders were slung the masculine appendages of a powder-horn and bullet-pouch, proving that this creature was, so to speak, a Dianic vision.Her staring so hard and so long at March without speaking or smiling, or taking any more notice of him than if he had been an effigy on a tombstone, seemed unaccountable to that youth. Had he been able to look at himself from her point of view he would not have been so much surprised.In his late accident he had received so severe a blow on the left eye that that orb was altogether shut up. As he did not move, and as the other eye, with which he gazed in supreme astonishment at the sweet face before him, happened to be farthest from the fire, besides being hid in the shadow of his own nose—which was not a small one by nature, and was a peculiarly large one by force of recent circumstances—the vision very naturally thought that he was fast asleep. As she stood there gazing wonderingly and somewhat sadly at the poor youth, with the red flickering flame of the fire lighting up her yellow garments, deepening the red on her round cheeks, glinting on the loose masses of her rich tresses, and sparkling in the depths of her bright brown eyes, March thought he had never in all his life before beheld such an exquisite creature.Supposing that he was asleep, the vision sat down quietly on a log beside the fire, still keeping her eyes, however, fixed on her guest. The action took her out of “the direct line of fire” of March’s sound eye, therefore he turned his head abruptly, and so brought his staring orb into the light of the fire, and revealed the fact that he was wide-awake; whereupon the vision uttered an exclamation of surprise, rose hastily, and went to his side.“You is woke,” she said. “Me tink you was be sleep.”“Asleep!” cried March with enthusiasm, “no, I wasn’t asleep. More than that, I’ll never go to sleep any more.”This bold assertion naturally filled the vision with surprise.“Why for not?” she asked, sitting down on a log beside March in such a position that she could see him easily.“For thinkin’ o’you!” replied the bold youth firmly.The vision looked at him in still greater astonishment, opening her eyes slowly until they seemed like two pellucid lakelets of unfathomable depth into which March felt inclined to fling himself, clothes and all, and be drowned comfortably. She then looked at the fire, then at March again. It was evident that she had not been accustomed to hold intercourse with jocular minds. Perceiving this, March at once changed his tone, and, with a feeling of respect which he could not well account for, said rather bluntly—“What’s your name?”“Mary.”“Ay! did your father give you that name?”“My father?” echoed the girl, looking hastily up.“Ay, did Dick give it you?”“Did him tell you him’s name be Dick?” asked Mary.“Oh! he’s known by another name to you, then, it would seem. But, Mary, whatishis name?”The girl pursed her mouth and laid her finger on it. Then, with a little sad smile, said—“Him tell you Dick, that be good name. But Dick not my father. My father dead.”The poor thing said this so slowly and in such a low pathetic tone that March felt sorry for having unwittingly touched a tender chord. He hastened to change the subject by saying—“Is Dick kind to you, Mary?”“Kind,” she cried, looking up with a flashing eye and flushed face, while with one of her little hands she tossed back her luxuriant tresses. “Kind! Him be my fathernow. No have got nobody to love me now but him.”“Yes, you have, Mary,” said March stoutly.Mary looked at him in surprise, and said, “Who?”“Me!” replied March.Mary said nothing to this. It was quite clear that the Wild Man must have neglected her education sadly. She did not even smile; she merely shook her head, and gazed abstractedly at the embers of the fire.“Dick is not your father, Mary,” continued March energetically, “but he has become your father. I am not your brother, but I’ll become your brother—if you’ll let me.”March in his enthusiasm tried to raise himself; consequently he fell back and drowned Mary’s answer in a groan of anguish. But he was not to be baulked.“What said you?” he inquired after a moment’s pause.“Me say you be very good.”She said this so calmly that March felt severely disappointed. In the height of his enthusiasm he forgot that the poor girl had as yet seen nothing to draw out her feelings towards him as his had been drawn out towards her. She had seen no “vision,” except, indeed, the vision of a wretched, dishevelled youth, of an abrupt, excitable temperament, with one side of his countenance scratched in a most disreputable manner, and the other side swelled and mottled to such an extent that it resembled a cheap plum-pudding with the fruit unequally and sparsely distributed over its yellow surface.March was mollified, however, when the girl suggested that his pillow seemed uncomfortable, and rose to adjust it with tender care. Then she said: “Now me bring blankit. You go sleep. Me sit here till you sleep, after that me go away. If ye wants me, holler out. Me sleep in next room.”So saying, this wonderful creature flitted across the cavern and vanished, thereby revealing to March the fact that there was a third cavern in that place. Presently she returned with a green blanket, and spread it over him, after which she sat down by the fire and seemed absorbed in her private meditations while March tried to sleep.But what a night March had of it! Whichever way he turned, that vision was ever before his eyes. When he awoke with a start, there she was, bending over the fire. When he dreamed, there she was, floating in an atmosphere of blue stars. Sometimes she was smiling on him, sometimes gazing sadly, but never otherwise than sweetly. Presently he saw her sitting on Dick’s knee, twisting his great moustache with her delicate hand, and he was about to ask Dick how he had managed to get back so soon, when he (the Wild Man) suddenly changed into March’s own mother, who clasped the vision fervently to her breast and called her her own darling son! There was no end to it. She never left him. Sometimes she appeared in curious forms and in odd aspects—though always pleasant and sweet to look upon. Sometimes she was dancing gracefully like an embodied zephyr on the floor; frequently walking in mid-air; occasionally perambulating the ceiling of the cave. She often changed her place, but she never went away. There was no escape. And March was glad of it. He didn’t want to escape. He was only too happy to court the phantom. But it did not require courting. It hovered over him, walked round him, sat beside him, beckoned to him, and smiled at him. Never,—no, never since the world began was any scratched and battered youth so thoroughly badgered and bewitched, as was poor March Marston on that memorable night, by that naughty vision in leather!
It is all very well for men of the world, men of fashion, men who pride themselves on being highly civilised and peculiarly refined, to fancy that there are no other visions in this world than “visions in silk,” “visions in white,” and the like. Those who think thus labour under an egregious, though a civilised, mistake.
Happily there are kind, loving, pretty faces in this world, the possessors of which know nothing about pink gauze or white muslin—faces that have never felt the hot air of a drawing-room, but are much used to present themselves, unveiled, to the fresh breezes of the prairie and the mountain; faces that possess the rare quality of universal attraction, and that cause men to fancy, when they see them for the first time, that they have beheld a vision!
The fact is that some faces are visions, whether the forms that support them appear to us in muslin or in deerskin. The only requisite needful to constitute a face a vision to any particular person, is that it should have in it that peculiarsomethingwhich everybody wants, but which nobody can define; which is ineffably charming, though utterly incomprehensible; and which, when once seen by any one, constitutes the countenance that possesses it a vision evermore!
It is quite immaterial what material composes the dress in which the vision appears. No doubt, the first time it bursts upon the smitten victim, dress may be a powerful auxiliary; but, after the first time, dress goes for little or nothing. March Marston’s vision appeared, as we have said in leather.
After the Wild Man had vanished, March continued to gaze at his new companion with all kinds of feelings and emotions, but without being able to move or speak. The vision returned the compliment, also without speaking or taking any further notice of him.
She was a wonderful creature, that vision in leather! That she was of Indian extraction was evident from the hue of her skin, yet she was not nearly so dark as the lightest complexioned Indian. In fact her clear soft forehead was whiter than those of many so-called pale-faces; but her ruddy cheeks, her light-brown hair, and, above all, her bright brown eye showed that white blood ran in her veins. She was what men term a half-caste. She was young, almost girlish in her figure and deportment; but the earnest gravity of her pretty face caused her to appear older than she really was. March, unconsciously and without an effort, guessed her to be sixteen. He was wrong. She had only seen fifteen summers.
Her dress was a beautifully dressed deerskin gown, reaching below the knees, as soft as chamois leather, and ornamented with beads and quill work. It was girded round her small waist by a leather belt, from which depended a small hunting-knife. A pair of ornamental leggings of the same material as the gown covered her limbs, and moccasins her feet, which latter, as well as her hands, were small and beautifully formed. Over her shoulders were slung the masculine appendages of a powder-horn and bullet-pouch, proving that this creature was, so to speak, a Dianic vision.
Her staring so hard and so long at March without speaking or smiling, or taking any more notice of him than if he had been an effigy on a tombstone, seemed unaccountable to that youth. Had he been able to look at himself from her point of view he would not have been so much surprised.
In his late accident he had received so severe a blow on the left eye that that orb was altogether shut up. As he did not move, and as the other eye, with which he gazed in supreme astonishment at the sweet face before him, happened to be farthest from the fire, besides being hid in the shadow of his own nose—which was not a small one by nature, and was a peculiarly large one by force of recent circumstances—the vision very naturally thought that he was fast asleep. As she stood there gazing wonderingly and somewhat sadly at the poor youth, with the red flickering flame of the fire lighting up her yellow garments, deepening the red on her round cheeks, glinting on the loose masses of her rich tresses, and sparkling in the depths of her bright brown eyes, March thought he had never in all his life before beheld such an exquisite creature.
Supposing that he was asleep, the vision sat down quietly on a log beside the fire, still keeping her eyes, however, fixed on her guest. The action took her out of “the direct line of fire” of March’s sound eye, therefore he turned his head abruptly, and so brought his staring orb into the light of the fire, and revealed the fact that he was wide-awake; whereupon the vision uttered an exclamation of surprise, rose hastily, and went to his side.
“You is woke,” she said. “Me tink you was be sleep.”
“Asleep!” cried March with enthusiasm, “no, I wasn’t asleep. More than that, I’ll never go to sleep any more.”
This bold assertion naturally filled the vision with surprise.
“Why for not?” she asked, sitting down on a log beside March in such a position that she could see him easily.
“For thinkin’ o’you!” replied the bold youth firmly.
The vision looked at him in still greater astonishment, opening her eyes slowly until they seemed like two pellucid lakelets of unfathomable depth into which March felt inclined to fling himself, clothes and all, and be drowned comfortably. She then looked at the fire, then at March again. It was evident that she had not been accustomed to hold intercourse with jocular minds. Perceiving this, March at once changed his tone, and, with a feeling of respect which he could not well account for, said rather bluntly—
“What’s your name?”
“Mary.”
“Ay! did your father give you that name?”
“My father?” echoed the girl, looking hastily up.
“Ay, did Dick give it you?”
“Did him tell you him’s name be Dick?” asked Mary.
“Oh! he’s known by another name to you, then, it would seem. But, Mary, whatishis name?”
The girl pursed her mouth and laid her finger on it. Then, with a little sad smile, said—
“Him tell you Dick, that be good name. But Dick not my father. My father dead.”
The poor thing said this so slowly and in such a low pathetic tone that March felt sorry for having unwittingly touched a tender chord. He hastened to change the subject by saying—
“Is Dick kind to you, Mary?”
“Kind,” she cried, looking up with a flashing eye and flushed face, while with one of her little hands she tossed back her luxuriant tresses. “Kind! Him be my fathernow. No have got nobody to love me now but him.”
“Yes, you have, Mary,” said March stoutly.
Mary looked at him in surprise, and said, “Who?”
“Me!” replied March.
Mary said nothing to this. It was quite clear that the Wild Man must have neglected her education sadly. She did not even smile; she merely shook her head, and gazed abstractedly at the embers of the fire.
“Dick is not your father, Mary,” continued March energetically, “but he has become your father. I am not your brother, but I’ll become your brother—if you’ll let me.”
March in his enthusiasm tried to raise himself; consequently he fell back and drowned Mary’s answer in a groan of anguish. But he was not to be baulked.
“What said you?” he inquired after a moment’s pause.
“Me say you be very good.”
She said this so calmly that March felt severely disappointed. In the height of his enthusiasm he forgot that the poor girl had as yet seen nothing to draw out her feelings towards him as his had been drawn out towards her. She had seen no “vision,” except, indeed, the vision of a wretched, dishevelled youth, of an abrupt, excitable temperament, with one side of his countenance scratched in a most disreputable manner, and the other side swelled and mottled to such an extent that it resembled a cheap plum-pudding with the fruit unequally and sparsely distributed over its yellow surface.
March was mollified, however, when the girl suggested that his pillow seemed uncomfortable, and rose to adjust it with tender care. Then she said: “Now me bring blankit. You go sleep. Me sit here till you sleep, after that me go away. If ye wants me, holler out. Me sleep in next room.”
So saying, this wonderful creature flitted across the cavern and vanished, thereby revealing to March the fact that there was a third cavern in that place. Presently she returned with a green blanket, and spread it over him, after which she sat down by the fire and seemed absorbed in her private meditations while March tried to sleep.
But what a night March had of it! Whichever way he turned, that vision was ever before his eyes. When he awoke with a start, there she was, bending over the fire. When he dreamed, there she was, floating in an atmosphere of blue stars. Sometimes she was smiling on him, sometimes gazing sadly, but never otherwise than sweetly. Presently he saw her sitting on Dick’s knee, twisting his great moustache with her delicate hand, and he was about to ask Dick how he had managed to get back so soon, when he (the Wild Man) suddenly changed into March’s own mother, who clasped the vision fervently to her breast and called her her own darling son! There was no end to it. She never left him. Sometimes she appeared in curious forms and in odd aspects—though always pleasant and sweet to look upon. Sometimes she was dancing gracefully like an embodied zephyr on the floor; frequently walking in mid-air; occasionally perambulating the ceiling of the cave. She often changed her place, but she never went away. There was no escape. And March was glad of it. He didn’t want to escape. He was only too happy to court the phantom. But it did not require courting. It hovered over him, walked round him, sat beside him, beckoned to him, and smiled at him. Never,—no, never since the world began was any scratched and battered youth so thoroughly badgered and bewitched, as was poor March Marston on that memorable night, by that naughty vision in leather!