Chapter Twelve.An Argument on Argumentation—Also on Religion—Bounce “feelosophical” again—A Race cut short by a Bullet—Flight and Pursuit of the Redskins.When McLeod returned to the square, he found that the trappers had adjourned with the men of the establishment to enjoy a social pipe together, and that Theodore Bertram was taking a solitary, meditative promenade in front of the gate of the fort.“You seem in a pensive mood, Mr Bertram,” said the fur trader on coming up, “will you not try the soothing effects of a pipe? Our tobacco is good; I can recommend it.”He offered a plug of tobacco to the artist as he spoke.“Thank you, I do not smoke,” said Bertram, declining the proffered luxury. “Tobacco may be good—though I know it not from experience. Yet, methinks, the man is wiser who does not create an unnatural taste, than he who does so for the purpose of gratifying it.”“Ah! you are a philosopher.”“If judging of things and questions simply on their own merit, and with the single object of ascertaining what is truth in regard to them, constitutes a philosopher, I am.”“Don’t you find that men who philosophise in that way are usually deemed an obstinate generation by their fellow-men?” inquired the trader, smiling as he puffed a voluminous cloud from his lips.“I do,” replied Bertram.“And don’t you think the charge is just?” continued the other in a jocular tone.“I do not,” replied the artist. “I think those who call them obstinate are often much more truly deserving of the epithet. Philosophers, in the popular sense of the word, are men who not only acquire knowledge and make themselves acquainted with the opinions of others, but who make independent use of acquired knowledge, and thus originate new ideas and frequently arrive at new conclusions. They thus often come to differ from the rest of mankind on many points, and, having good reasons for this difference of opinion, they are ever ready to explain and expound their opinions and to prove their correctness, or to receive proof of their incorrectness, if that can be given—hence they are called argumentative. Being unwilling to give up what appears to them to be truth, unless it can be shown to be falsehood, their opinions are not easily overturned—hence they are called obstinate. Thinking out a subject in a calm, dispassionate, logical manner, from its first proposition to its legitimate conclusion, is laborious to all. A very large class of men and women have no patience for such a process of investigation—hence argumentation, that most noble of all mental exercises, is deemed a nuisance. Certainly argumentation with unphilosophical personsisa nuisance; but I know of few earthly enjoyments more gratifying than an argument with a true philosopher.”“That’s wot I says, so I do, out-an’-out,” observed Bounce, who had come up unperceived, and had overheard the greater part of the above remarks. “Jist wot I thinks myself, Mr Bertram, only I couldn’t ’xactly put it in the same way, d’ye see? That’s wot I calls out-an’-out feelosophy.”“Glad to hear you’re such a wise fellow,” said McLeod patronisingly. “So you agree, of course, with Mr Bertram in condemning the use of the pipe.”“Condemn the pipe?” said Bounce, pulling out his own special favourite and beginning to fill it—“wot, condemn smokin’? No, by no means wotsomdiver. That’s quite another kee-westion, wot we hain’t bin a disputin’ about. I only heer’d Mr Bertram a-talkin’ about obst’nitness an’ argementation.”“Well, in regard to that,” said Bertram, “I firmly believe that men and women are all alike equally obstinate.”“Ha!” ejaculated Bounce, with that tone of mingled uncertainty and profound consideration which indicates an unwillingness to commit oneself in reference to a new and startling proposition.“On what grounds do you think so?” asked McLeod.“Why on the simple ground that a mancannotchange any opinion until he is convinced that it is wrong, and that he inevitably must, and actually does, change his opinion on the instant that he is so convinced; and that in virtue, not of his will, but of the constitution of his mind. Some men’s minds are of such a nature—they take such a limited and weak grasp of things—that they cannot be easily convinced. Others are so powerful that they readily seize upon truth when it is presented to them; but in either case, the instant the point of conviction is reached the mind is changed. Pride may indeed prevent the admission of this change, but it takes place, as I have said, inevitably.”At this Bounce opened his eyes to their utmost possible width and said solemnly, “Wot! do ye mean for to tell me, then, that thair ain’t no sich thing as obstinacy?” He accompanied this question with a shake of the head that implied that if Bertram were to argue till doomsday he would never convince him (Bounce) of that.“By no means,” returned the artist, smiling; “there is plenty of it, but obstinacy does not consist in the simple act of holding one’s opinion firmly.”“Wotdoesit consist of, then?”“In this—in holding firmly to opinions that have been taken hastily up, without the grounds on which they are founded having been duly weighed; and in refusing to consider these grounds in a philosophical (which means a rational) way, because the process would prove tiresome. The man who has comfortably settled all his opinions in this way very much resembles that ‘fool’ of whom it is written that he ‘is wiser in his own conceit than seven men who canrender a reason.’”“Well, but, to come back to the starting-point,” said McLeod, “many wise men smoke.”“If you say that in the way of argument, I meet it with the counter proposition that many wise mendon’tsmoke.”“Hah!” ejaculated Bounce, but whether Bounce’s ejaculation was one of approval or disapproval we cannot tell. Neither can we tell what conclusion these philosophers came to in regard to smoking, because, just then, two horsemen were seen approaching the fort at full speed.Seeing that they were alone, McLeod took no precautions to prevent surprise. He knew well enough that Indians frequently approach in this manner, so waited in front of the gate, coolly smoking his pipe, until the savages were within a few yards of him. It seemed as if they purposed running him down, but just as they came to within a couple of bounds of him, they drew up so violently as to throw their foaming steeds on their haunches.Leaping to the ground, the Indians—who were a couple of strong, fine-looking savages, dressed in leathern costume, with the usual ornaments of bead and quill work, tags, and scalp-locks—came forward and spoke a few words to McLeod in the Cree language, and immediately after, delivering their horses to the care of one of the men of the establishment, accompanied him to the store.In less than half an hour they returned to the gate, when the Indians remounted, and, starting away at their favourite pace—full gallop—were soon out of sight.“Them fellows seem to be in a hurry,” remarked Bounce as they disappeared.“Ay, they’re after mischief too,” replied McLeod in a sad tone of voice. “They are two Cree chiefs who have come here for a supply of ammunition to hunt the buffalo, but I know they mean to hunt different game, for I heard them talking to each other about a war-party of Blood Indians being in this part of the country. Depend upon it scalps will be taken ere long. ’Tis a sad, sad state of things. Blood, blood, blood seems to be the universal cry here; and, now that we’ve had so many quarrels with the redskins, I fear that the day is not far-distant when blood will flow even in the Mountain Fort. I see no prospect of a better state of things, for savage nature cannot be changed. It seems a hopeless case.”There was a touch of pathos in the tone in which this was said that was very different from McLeod’s usual bold and reckless manner. It was evident that his natural disposition was kind, hearty, and peaceable; but that the constant feuds in which he was involved, both in the fort and out of it, had soured his temper and rendered him wellnigh desperate.“You are wrong, sir, in saying that their case is hopeless,” said Bertram earnestly. “There is a remedy.”“I wish you could show it me,” replied the trader.“Here it is,” returned the artist, taking his little Testament from the inside pocket of his hunting-shirt. “The gospel is able to make all men wise unto salvation.”McLeod shook his head, and said, “It won’t do here. To be plain with you, sir, I don’t believe the gospel’s of any use in these wild regions, where murder seems to be as natural to man, woman, and child as food.”“But, sir,” rejoined Bertram, “you forget that our Saviour Himself says that He came not to call the righteous butsinnersto repentance. In this volume we are told that the blood of Christ cleanseth us fromallsin; and, not only have we His assurance that none who come unto Him shall be cast out, but we have examples in all parts of the known world of men and women who were once steeped to the lips in every species of gross iniquity having been turned to the service of God through faith in Christ, and that by the power of the Holy Spirit, who, in this Word of God, is promised freely to them that simply ask.”“It may be so,” returned McLeod; “I have not studied these things much. I don’t profess to be a very religious man, and I cannot pretend to know much of what the gospel has done elsewhere; but I feel quite sure that it cannot do muchhere!”“Then you do not believe the Bible, which says distinctly that this ‘gospel is the power of God unto salvation toevery onethat believeth.’”“Ay, but these wretched Indians won’t believe,” objected the trader.“True,” answered Bertram; “they have not faith by nature, and theywon’tbecause theycan’tbelieve; but faith is the gift of God, and it is to be had for the asking.”“To that I answer that they’ll never ask.”“How do you know? Did you ever give them a trial? Did you ever preach the gospel to them?”“No, I never did that.”“Then you cannot tell how they would treat it. Your remarks are mere assertions of opinion—not arguments. You know the wickedness of the Indians, and can therefore speak authoritatively on that point; but you know not (according to your own admission) the power of the gospel: therefore you are not in a position to speak on that point.”McLeod was about to reply when he was interrupted by the approach of Mr Macgregor, who had now recovered somewhat from the effects of his violent fit of passion. Having observed during themêléethat strangers had arrived at his fort, he had washed and converted himself into a more presentable personage, and now came forward to the group of trappers, all of whom had assembled at the gate. Addressing them in a tone of affable hospitality he said—“Good-day, friends; I’m glad to see you at the Mountain Fort. That blackguard Larocque somewhat ruffled my temper. He’s been the cause of much mischief here, I assure you. Do you intend to trap in these parts?”The latter part of this speech was addressed to Redhand, who replied—“We do mean to try our luck in these parts, but we han’t yet made up our minds exactly where to go. Mayhap you’ll give us the benefit of your advice.”While he was speaking the fur trader glanced with an earnest yet half stupid stare at the faces of the trappers, as if he wished to impress their features on his memory.“Advice,” he replied; “you’re welcome to all the advice I’ve got to give ye; and it’s this—go home; go to where you belong to, sell your traps and rifles and take to the plough, the hatchet, the forehammer—to anything you like, so long as it keeps you out of this—” Macgregor paused a moment as if he were about to utter an oath, then dropped his voice and said, “This wretched Indian country.”“I guess, then, that we won’t take yer advice, old man,” said Big Waller with a laugh.“‘Old man?’” echoed Macgregor with a start.“Wall, if ye bean’t old, ye ain’t exactly a chicken.”“You’re a plain-spoken man,” replied the trader, biting his lips.“I always wos,” retorted Waller.Macgregor frowned for a moment, then he broke into a forced laugh, and said—“Well, friends, you’ll please yourselves, of course—most people do; and if you are so determined to stick to the wilderness I would advise some of you to stop here. There’s plenty of fun and fighting, if you’re fond of that. What say you now, lad,” turning to March, “to remain with us here at the Mountain Fort? I’ve ta’en a sort of fancy to your face. We want young bloods here. I’ll give you a good wage and plenty to do.”“Thanks; you are kind,” replied March, smiling, “but I love freedom too well to part with it yet awhile.”“Mais, monsieur,” cried Gibault, pushing forward, pulling off his cap, and making a low bow; “if you vants yonger blod, an’ also ver’ goot blod, here am von!”The trader laughed, and was about to reply, when a sudden burst of laughter and the sound of noisy voices in the yard interrupted him. Presently two of the men belonging to the establishment cantered out of the square, followed by all the men, women, and children of the place, amounting probably to between twenty and thirty souls. “A race! a race!” shouted the foremost.“Hallo! Dupont, what’s to do?” inquired McLeod as the two horsemen came up.“Please, monsieur, Lincoln have bet me von gun dat hims horse go more queek dan mine—so we try.”“Yes, so we shall, I guess,” added the man named Lincoln, whose speech told that he was a Yankee.“Go it, stranger; I calc’late you’ll do him slick,” cried Waller patronisingly, for his heart warmed towards his countryman.“Ah! non. Go home; put your horse to bed,” cried Gibault, glancing at the Yankee’s steed in contempt. “Dis is de von as vill do it more slicker by far.”“Well, well; clear the course; we shall soon see,” cried McLeod. “Now then—here’s the word—one, two—away!”At the last word the riders’ whips cracked, and the horses sprang forward at a furious gallop. Both of them were good spirited animals, and during the first part of the race it could not be said that either had the advantage. They ran neck and neck together.The racecourse at the Mountain Fort was a beautiful stretch of level turf, which extended a considerable distance in front of the gates. It crossed a clear open country towards the forest, where it terminated, and, sweeping round in an abrupt curve, formed, as it were, a loop; so that competitors, after passing over the course, swept round the loop, and, re-entering the original course again, came back towards the fort, where a long pole formed the winning-post.Dupont and Lincoln kept together, as we have said, for some time after starting, but before they had cleared the first half of the course the former was considerably in advance of the latter, much to the delight of most of the excited spectators, with whom he was a favourite. On gaining the loop above referred to, and making the graceful sweep round it, which brought the foremost rider into full side view, the distance between them became more apparent, and a cheer arose from the people near the fort gate.At that moment a puff of smoke issued from the bushes. Dupont tossed his arms in the air, uttered a sharp cry, and fell headlong to the ground. At the same instant a band of Indians sprang from the underwood with an exulting yell. Lincoln succeeded in checking and turning his horse before they caught his bridle, but an arrow pierced his shoulder ere he had galloped out of reach of his enemies.The instant Dupont fell, a savage leaped upon him, and plunged his knife into his heart. Then, passing the sharp weapon quickly round his head with his right hand, with his left he tore the scalp off, and, leaping up, shook the bloody trophy defiantly at the horrified spectators.All this was accomplished so quickly that the horror-stricken people of the Mountain Fort had not time to move a finger to save their comrade. But, as the savage raised the scalp of poor Dupont above his head, Redhand’s rifle flew to his shoulder, and in another moment the Indian fell to the earth beside his victim. Seeing this, the other Indians darted into the forest.Then a fearful imprecation burst from the lips of Macgregor, as, with a face convulsed with passion, he rushed into the fort, shouting: “To horse! to horse, men! and see that your horns and pouches are full of powder and ball!”The commotion and hubbub that now took place baffle all description. The men shouted and raved as they ran hither and thither, arming themselves and saddling their horses; while the shrieks of poor Dupont’s widow mingled with those of the other women and the cries of the terrified children.“Half a dozen of you must keep the fort,” said McLeod, when they were all assembled; “the others will be sufficient to punish these fiends. You’ll help us, I suppose?”This latter question was addressed to Redhand, who, with his comrades, stood armed, and ready to mount.“Ready, sir,” answered the trapper promptly.McLeod looked round with a gleam of satisfaction on the stalwart forms of his guests, as they stood each at his horse’s head examining the state of his weapons, or securing more firmly some portion of his costume.“Mount! mount!” shouted Macgregor, galloping at that moment through the gateway, and dashing away in the direction of the forest.“Stay!—my sketch-book!” cried Bertram in an agony, at the same time dropping his reins and his gun, and darting back towards the hall of the fort.“Git on, lads; I’ll look arter him,” said Bounce with a grin, catching up the bridle of the artist’s horse.Without a moment’s hesitation, the remainder of the party turned, and galloped after Macgregor, who, with the most of his own men, had already wellnigh gained the edge of the forest.In a few seconds Bertram rushed wildly out of the fort, with the sketch-book in one hand and the two blunderbuss-pistols in the other. In leaping on his horse, he dropped the latter; but Bounce picked them up, and stuck them hastily into his own belt.“Now put that book into its own pouch, or ye’ll be fit for nothin’,” said Bounce almost sternly.Bertram obeyed, and grasped the rifle which his friend placed in his hand. Then Bounce vaulted into his saddle, and, ere those who were left behind had drawn the bolts and let down the ponderous bars of the gate of the Mountain Fort, the two horsemen were flying at full speed over the plain in the track of the avengers of blood who had gone before them.
When McLeod returned to the square, he found that the trappers had adjourned with the men of the establishment to enjoy a social pipe together, and that Theodore Bertram was taking a solitary, meditative promenade in front of the gate of the fort.
“You seem in a pensive mood, Mr Bertram,” said the fur trader on coming up, “will you not try the soothing effects of a pipe? Our tobacco is good; I can recommend it.”
He offered a plug of tobacco to the artist as he spoke.
“Thank you, I do not smoke,” said Bertram, declining the proffered luxury. “Tobacco may be good—though I know it not from experience. Yet, methinks, the man is wiser who does not create an unnatural taste, than he who does so for the purpose of gratifying it.”
“Ah! you are a philosopher.”
“If judging of things and questions simply on their own merit, and with the single object of ascertaining what is truth in regard to them, constitutes a philosopher, I am.”
“Don’t you find that men who philosophise in that way are usually deemed an obstinate generation by their fellow-men?” inquired the trader, smiling as he puffed a voluminous cloud from his lips.
“I do,” replied Bertram.
“And don’t you think the charge is just?” continued the other in a jocular tone.
“I do not,” replied the artist. “I think those who call them obstinate are often much more truly deserving of the epithet. Philosophers, in the popular sense of the word, are men who not only acquire knowledge and make themselves acquainted with the opinions of others, but who make independent use of acquired knowledge, and thus originate new ideas and frequently arrive at new conclusions. They thus often come to differ from the rest of mankind on many points, and, having good reasons for this difference of opinion, they are ever ready to explain and expound their opinions and to prove their correctness, or to receive proof of their incorrectness, if that can be given—hence they are called argumentative. Being unwilling to give up what appears to them to be truth, unless it can be shown to be falsehood, their opinions are not easily overturned—hence they are called obstinate. Thinking out a subject in a calm, dispassionate, logical manner, from its first proposition to its legitimate conclusion, is laborious to all. A very large class of men and women have no patience for such a process of investigation—hence argumentation, that most noble of all mental exercises, is deemed a nuisance. Certainly argumentation with unphilosophical personsisa nuisance; but I know of few earthly enjoyments more gratifying than an argument with a true philosopher.”
“That’s wot I says, so I do, out-an’-out,” observed Bounce, who had come up unperceived, and had overheard the greater part of the above remarks. “Jist wot I thinks myself, Mr Bertram, only I couldn’t ’xactly put it in the same way, d’ye see? That’s wot I calls out-an’-out feelosophy.”
“Glad to hear you’re such a wise fellow,” said McLeod patronisingly. “So you agree, of course, with Mr Bertram in condemning the use of the pipe.”
“Condemn the pipe?” said Bounce, pulling out his own special favourite and beginning to fill it—“wot, condemn smokin’? No, by no means wotsomdiver. That’s quite another kee-westion, wot we hain’t bin a disputin’ about. I only heer’d Mr Bertram a-talkin’ about obst’nitness an’ argementation.”
“Well, in regard to that,” said Bertram, “I firmly believe that men and women are all alike equally obstinate.”
“Ha!” ejaculated Bounce, with that tone of mingled uncertainty and profound consideration which indicates an unwillingness to commit oneself in reference to a new and startling proposition.
“On what grounds do you think so?” asked McLeod.
“Why on the simple ground that a mancannotchange any opinion until he is convinced that it is wrong, and that he inevitably must, and actually does, change his opinion on the instant that he is so convinced; and that in virtue, not of his will, but of the constitution of his mind. Some men’s minds are of such a nature—they take such a limited and weak grasp of things—that they cannot be easily convinced. Others are so powerful that they readily seize upon truth when it is presented to them; but in either case, the instant the point of conviction is reached the mind is changed. Pride may indeed prevent the admission of this change, but it takes place, as I have said, inevitably.”
At this Bounce opened his eyes to their utmost possible width and said solemnly, “Wot! do ye mean for to tell me, then, that thair ain’t no sich thing as obstinacy?” He accompanied this question with a shake of the head that implied that if Bertram were to argue till doomsday he would never convince him (Bounce) of that.
“By no means,” returned the artist, smiling; “there is plenty of it, but obstinacy does not consist in the simple act of holding one’s opinion firmly.”
“Wotdoesit consist of, then?”
“In this—in holding firmly to opinions that have been taken hastily up, without the grounds on which they are founded having been duly weighed; and in refusing to consider these grounds in a philosophical (which means a rational) way, because the process would prove tiresome. The man who has comfortably settled all his opinions in this way very much resembles that ‘fool’ of whom it is written that he ‘is wiser in his own conceit than seven men who canrender a reason.’”
“Well, but, to come back to the starting-point,” said McLeod, “many wise men smoke.”
“If you say that in the way of argument, I meet it with the counter proposition that many wise mendon’tsmoke.”
“Hah!” ejaculated Bounce, but whether Bounce’s ejaculation was one of approval or disapproval we cannot tell. Neither can we tell what conclusion these philosophers came to in regard to smoking, because, just then, two horsemen were seen approaching the fort at full speed.
Seeing that they were alone, McLeod took no precautions to prevent surprise. He knew well enough that Indians frequently approach in this manner, so waited in front of the gate, coolly smoking his pipe, until the savages were within a few yards of him. It seemed as if they purposed running him down, but just as they came to within a couple of bounds of him, they drew up so violently as to throw their foaming steeds on their haunches.
Leaping to the ground, the Indians—who were a couple of strong, fine-looking savages, dressed in leathern costume, with the usual ornaments of bead and quill work, tags, and scalp-locks—came forward and spoke a few words to McLeod in the Cree language, and immediately after, delivering their horses to the care of one of the men of the establishment, accompanied him to the store.
In less than half an hour they returned to the gate, when the Indians remounted, and, starting away at their favourite pace—full gallop—were soon out of sight.
“Them fellows seem to be in a hurry,” remarked Bounce as they disappeared.
“Ay, they’re after mischief too,” replied McLeod in a sad tone of voice. “They are two Cree chiefs who have come here for a supply of ammunition to hunt the buffalo, but I know they mean to hunt different game, for I heard them talking to each other about a war-party of Blood Indians being in this part of the country. Depend upon it scalps will be taken ere long. ’Tis a sad, sad state of things. Blood, blood, blood seems to be the universal cry here; and, now that we’ve had so many quarrels with the redskins, I fear that the day is not far-distant when blood will flow even in the Mountain Fort. I see no prospect of a better state of things, for savage nature cannot be changed. It seems a hopeless case.”
There was a touch of pathos in the tone in which this was said that was very different from McLeod’s usual bold and reckless manner. It was evident that his natural disposition was kind, hearty, and peaceable; but that the constant feuds in which he was involved, both in the fort and out of it, had soured his temper and rendered him wellnigh desperate.
“You are wrong, sir, in saying that their case is hopeless,” said Bertram earnestly. “There is a remedy.”
“I wish you could show it me,” replied the trader.
“Here it is,” returned the artist, taking his little Testament from the inside pocket of his hunting-shirt. “The gospel is able to make all men wise unto salvation.”
McLeod shook his head, and said, “It won’t do here. To be plain with you, sir, I don’t believe the gospel’s of any use in these wild regions, where murder seems to be as natural to man, woman, and child as food.”
“But, sir,” rejoined Bertram, “you forget that our Saviour Himself says that He came not to call the righteous butsinnersto repentance. In this volume we are told that the blood of Christ cleanseth us fromallsin; and, not only have we His assurance that none who come unto Him shall be cast out, but we have examples in all parts of the known world of men and women who were once steeped to the lips in every species of gross iniquity having been turned to the service of God through faith in Christ, and that by the power of the Holy Spirit, who, in this Word of God, is promised freely to them that simply ask.”
“It may be so,” returned McLeod; “I have not studied these things much. I don’t profess to be a very religious man, and I cannot pretend to know much of what the gospel has done elsewhere; but I feel quite sure that it cannot do muchhere!”
“Then you do not believe the Bible, which says distinctly that this ‘gospel is the power of God unto salvation toevery onethat believeth.’”
“Ay, but these wretched Indians won’t believe,” objected the trader.
“True,” answered Bertram; “they have not faith by nature, and theywon’tbecause theycan’tbelieve; but faith is the gift of God, and it is to be had for the asking.”
“To that I answer that they’ll never ask.”
“How do you know? Did you ever give them a trial? Did you ever preach the gospel to them?”
“No, I never did that.”
“Then you cannot tell how they would treat it. Your remarks are mere assertions of opinion—not arguments. You know the wickedness of the Indians, and can therefore speak authoritatively on that point; but you know not (according to your own admission) the power of the gospel: therefore you are not in a position to speak on that point.”
McLeod was about to reply when he was interrupted by the approach of Mr Macgregor, who had now recovered somewhat from the effects of his violent fit of passion. Having observed during themêléethat strangers had arrived at his fort, he had washed and converted himself into a more presentable personage, and now came forward to the group of trappers, all of whom had assembled at the gate. Addressing them in a tone of affable hospitality he said—
“Good-day, friends; I’m glad to see you at the Mountain Fort. That blackguard Larocque somewhat ruffled my temper. He’s been the cause of much mischief here, I assure you. Do you intend to trap in these parts?”
The latter part of this speech was addressed to Redhand, who replied—
“We do mean to try our luck in these parts, but we han’t yet made up our minds exactly where to go. Mayhap you’ll give us the benefit of your advice.”
While he was speaking the fur trader glanced with an earnest yet half stupid stare at the faces of the trappers, as if he wished to impress their features on his memory.
“Advice,” he replied; “you’re welcome to all the advice I’ve got to give ye; and it’s this—go home; go to where you belong to, sell your traps and rifles and take to the plough, the hatchet, the forehammer—to anything you like, so long as it keeps you out of this—” Macgregor paused a moment as if he were about to utter an oath, then dropped his voice and said, “This wretched Indian country.”
“I guess, then, that we won’t take yer advice, old man,” said Big Waller with a laugh.
“‘Old man?’” echoed Macgregor with a start.
“Wall, if ye bean’t old, ye ain’t exactly a chicken.”
“You’re a plain-spoken man,” replied the trader, biting his lips.
“I always wos,” retorted Waller.
Macgregor frowned for a moment, then he broke into a forced laugh, and said—
“Well, friends, you’ll please yourselves, of course—most people do; and if you are so determined to stick to the wilderness I would advise some of you to stop here. There’s plenty of fun and fighting, if you’re fond of that. What say you now, lad,” turning to March, “to remain with us here at the Mountain Fort? I’ve ta’en a sort of fancy to your face. We want young bloods here. I’ll give you a good wage and plenty to do.”
“Thanks; you are kind,” replied March, smiling, “but I love freedom too well to part with it yet awhile.”
“Mais, monsieur,” cried Gibault, pushing forward, pulling off his cap, and making a low bow; “if you vants yonger blod, an’ also ver’ goot blod, here am von!”
The trader laughed, and was about to reply, when a sudden burst of laughter and the sound of noisy voices in the yard interrupted him. Presently two of the men belonging to the establishment cantered out of the square, followed by all the men, women, and children of the place, amounting probably to between twenty and thirty souls. “A race! a race!” shouted the foremost.
“Hallo! Dupont, what’s to do?” inquired McLeod as the two horsemen came up.
“Please, monsieur, Lincoln have bet me von gun dat hims horse go more queek dan mine—so we try.”
“Yes, so we shall, I guess,” added the man named Lincoln, whose speech told that he was a Yankee.
“Go it, stranger; I calc’late you’ll do him slick,” cried Waller patronisingly, for his heart warmed towards his countryman.
“Ah! non. Go home; put your horse to bed,” cried Gibault, glancing at the Yankee’s steed in contempt. “Dis is de von as vill do it more slicker by far.”
“Well, well; clear the course; we shall soon see,” cried McLeod. “Now then—here’s the word—one, two—away!”
At the last word the riders’ whips cracked, and the horses sprang forward at a furious gallop. Both of them were good spirited animals, and during the first part of the race it could not be said that either had the advantage. They ran neck and neck together.
The racecourse at the Mountain Fort was a beautiful stretch of level turf, which extended a considerable distance in front of the gates. It crossed a clear open country towards the forest, where it terminated, and, sweeping round in an abrupt curve, formed, as it were, a loop; so that competitors, after passing over the course, swept round the loop, and, re-entering the original course again, came back towards the fort, where a long pole formed the winning-post.
Dupont and Lincoln kept together, as we have said, for some time after starting, but before they had cleared the first half of the course the former was considerably in advance of the latter, much to the delight of most of the excited spectators, with whom he was a favourite. On gaining the loop above referred to, and making the graceful sweep round it, which brought the foremost rider into full side view, the distance between them became more apparent, and a cheer arose from the people near the fort gate.
At that moment a puff of smoke issued from the bushes. Dupont tossed his arms in the air, uttered a sharp cry, and fell headlong to the ground. At the same instant a band of Indians sprang from the underwood with an exulting yell. Lincoln succeeded in checking and turning his horse before they caught his bridle, but an arrow pierced his shoulder ere he had galloped out of reach of his enemies.
The instant Dupont fell, a savage leaped upon him, and plunged his knife into his heart. Then, passing the sharp weapon quickly round his head with his right hand, with his left he tore the scalp off, and, leaping up, shook the bloody trophy defiantly at the horrified spectators.
All this was accomplished so quickly that the horror-stricken people of the Mountain Fort had not time to move a finger to save their comrade. But, as the savage raised the scalp of poor Dupont above his head, Redhand’s rifle flew to his shoulder, and in another moment the Indian fell to the earth beside his victim. Seeing this, the other Indians darted into the forest.
Then a fearful imprecation burst from the lips of Macgregor, as, with a face convulsed with passion, he rushed into the fort, shouting: “To horse! to horse, men! and see that your horns and pouches are full of powder and ball!”
The commotion and hubbub that now took place baffle all description. The men shouted and raved as they ran hither and thither, arming themselves and saddling their horses; while the shrieks of poor Dupont’s widow mingled with those of the other women and the cries of the terrified children.
“Half a dozen of you must keep the fort,” said McLeod, when they were all assembled; “the others will be sufficient to punish these fiends. You’ll help us, I suppose?”
This latter question was addressed to Redhand, who, with his comrades, stood armed, and ready to mount.
“Ready, sir,” answered the trapper promptly.
McLeod looked round with a gleam of satisfaction on the stalwart forms of his guests, as they stood each at his horse’s head examining the state of his weapons, or securing more firmly some portion of his costume.
“Mount! mount!” shouted Macgregor, galloping at that moment through the gateway, and dashing away in the direction of the forest.
“Stay!—my sketch-book!” cried Bertram in an agony, at the same time dropping his reins and his gun, and darting back towards the hall of the fort.
“Git on, lads; I’ll look arter him,” said Bounce with a grin, catching up the bridle of the artist’s horse.
Without a moment’s hesitation, the remainder of the party turned, and galloped after Macgregor, who, with the most of his own men, had already wellnigh gained the edge of the forest.
In a few seconds Bertram rushed wildly out of the fort, with the sketch-book in one hand and the two blunderbuss-pistols in the other. In leaping on his horse, he dropped the latter; but Bounce picked them up, and stuck them hastily into his own belt.
“Now put that book into its own pouch, or ye’ll be fit for nothin’,” said Bounce almost sternly.
Bertram obeyed, and grasped the rifle which his friend placed in his hand. Then Bounce vaulted into his saddle, and, ere those who were left behind had drawn the bolts and let down the ponderous bars of the gate of the Mountain Fort, the two horsemen were flying at full speed over the plain in the track of the avengers of blood who had gone before them.
Chapter Thirteen.The Pursuit—Conscientious Scruples of the Artist—Strategic Movements—Surprised in the Wild-Cat Pass—March shows Coolness and Pluck in the Hour of Danger—A Terrific Onslaught by a wonderful Warrior—The Battle—Hard Knocks and Mysterious Differences of Opinion.Crossing the open ground in front of the Mountain Fort, Bounce and Bertram entered the wood beyond, and traversed it with comparative ease, by means of a bridle-path which had been cut there by the fur-traders. A few minutes’ gallop brought them to the other side of the wood, which was one of those narrow strips or clumps of forest which grow, more or less thickly, on the skirts of the Rocky Mountains, forming that fine picturesque region where the prairie and the forest meet and seem to contend for the mastery.The plain beyond this belt of wood was open and level—at least, sufficiently so to enable the two horsemen to see for a considerable distance around them. Here, in the far distance, they descried their companions, sweeping over the turf at their utmost speed, and making towards a low hill or ridge that intercepted the view of the more distant country.“They’ll have to draw in a bit,” said Bounce, turning to his comrade. “Horses no more nor men can’t go helter-skelter up a hill without takin’ breath; so rouse up your beast, Mr Bertram, an’ we’ll overtake ’em afore they gits to the t’other side.”Bertram obeyed his friend’s command, but made no rejoinder, his thoughts being too deeply engaged at that moment in a controversy with his conscience as to the propriety of the business he had then in hand.The young artist had a deep veneration for abstract truth—truth pure and simple, not only in reference to morals, but to all things terrestrial and celestial; and he was deeply impressed with the belief that what was right was right, and what was wrong was wrong, and could not, by any possibility, be otherwise. He felt, also, that the man who recognised truth and acted upon it must go right, and he who saw and did otherwisemustgo wrong!Holding this simple creed very tenaciously, and, as we think, very properly, Bertram nevertheless found that his attempts to act up to it frequently involved him in a maze of perplexities.On the present occasion, as he and Bounce thundered over the green turf of the flowering plains, scattering the terrified grasshoppers right and left, and causing the beautifully striped ground-squirrels to plunge with astonishing precipitancy into their holes, he argued with himself, that the mere fact of a murderous deed having been done was not a sufficient reason, perhaps, to justify his sallying forth with a reckless band of desperate fur-traders, bent on indiscriminate revenge. It was quite true, in his opinion, that a murderer should be punished with death, and that the pursuit and capture of a murderer was not only a legitimate act in itself but, in the circumstances, a bounden duty on his part. Yet it was equally true that most of the men with whom he was associated were thirsting for vengeance, and from past experience he knew full well that there would be no attempt to find out the murderer, but a simple and general massacre of all the Indians whom they could overtake.Then it suddenly occurred to him that the murderer had already been shot by Redhand, so that his mission was one of simple revenge; but, a moment after, it flashed across his troubled mind that Lincoln had been left in the fort wounded—might possibly be dead by that time; so that there were probably among the flying savages other murderers to be dealt with. This idea was strengthened by another thought, namely, that the savage who stabbed and scalped Dupont might not have been the savage who shot him. The complication and aggregate of improbability amounted, in Bertram’s mind, so nearly to a certainty, that he dismissed the digressive question as to whether there might or might not be a murderer among the Indians, and returned to the original proposition, as to whether it was right in him to take part in a pursuit of vengeance that would very likely terminate murderously. But before he could come to any satisfactory conclusion on that point he and Bounce found themselves suddenly in the midst of the cavalcade, which had halted on the summit of the ridge, in order to allow them to come up.“Here we are, lads,” cried Macgregor, his flushed face still blazing with wrath, which he made no effort to subdue, and his eyes red with prolonged debauchery, flashing like the eyes of a tiger—“here we are, too late to cut off the retreat o’ these detestable reptiles from the woods, but not too late to circumvent them.”The fur trader spoke rapidly, almost breathlessly, and pointed to the band of Indians they were in pursuit of, who, observing that their pursuers had halted, also drew rein on the edge of a belt of thick forest that extended for miles into the mountains. They appeared to wait, in order to ascertain what their enemies meant to do.“The villains,” continued Macgregor, “think we’ve given up pursuit as hopeless, but they’re mistaken—they’re mistaken, as they’ll find to their cost. Now, mark me, men; we shall turn back as if we had really given in; but the moment we get down into the hollow, out of sight, we’ll go as hard as we can bolt up that valley there, and round by the place we call the Wild-Cat Pass. It’s a difficult pass, but who cares for that? Once through it we can get by a short cut to the other side of that wood, and meet the redskins right in the teeth. They’re Blackfoot Indians, I know by their dress; and, as they don’t belong to this part o’ the country, they can’t be aware of the pass. But some of us must go back a good way towards the fort, so as to deceive the blackguards, who’ll be sure to get on the first hill they can to see where we’ve gone to. Now—away! Stay,” he added in a less commanding tone, “I don’t know that my guests are willing to go with us through thick an’ thin in this fashion. I’ve no desire to have unwilling warriors.”“Had we not beenwilling” replied Redhand dryly, “we wouldn’t have come even thus far.”“Very good,” rejoined Macgregor with a grim smile; “then, perhaps, since you are so good as to go along with us, you’ll make for the head of that valley, and when you come to the Wild-Cat Pass I’ve spoken of, you’ll wait there till the rest of us, who are to sham going back to the fort, come up with ye; then we’ll go through the pass together, and polish off the redskins.”To this plan Redhand assented; so he and his comrades prepared to take the way to the pass, while the men of the fort turned homewards. A triumphant shout from the Indians showed that they imagined the pursuit was given up; but Macgregor knew their cunning too well to fall into the mistake of at once concluding that they were thoroughly deceived. He knew that they would send out scouts to dog them, and felt, that if his plan was to succeed, he must put it into execution promptly.“I’ve scarce had time to ask your names or where you’ve come from,” he said on parting from the trappers; “but there’ll be plenty of time for that when we meet again. Keep close in the bottom, and ride fast, till the shadow of yonder crag conceals you from view. If the Indians get sight of you, they’ll smell the dodge at once and escape us. Perhaps, young man, you’d like to come with my party?”The latter part of this speech was made rather abruptly to March Marston, who received it with some surprise, and with a distinct refusal.“I’ll stick by my comrades,” said he, “till I see good reason—”“Well, well, boy—please yourself!” muttered the trader angrily, as he broke away at full speed, followed by his men.Our trappers instantly turned their horses’ heads towards the mountains, and made for the Wild-Cat Pass.Macgregor’s estimate of the cunning of the Indians was but too correct. The instant the fur-traders disappeared behind the ridge, as if on their return homewards, several of their fastest riders were dispatched to the nearest hill, to watch the movements of the enemy. They ascended one which commanded a wide view of the surrounding country, and thence beheld the fur-traders proceeding swiftly back in the direction of the fort. Unfortunately, they also perceived the bottle-brush of Bertram’s steed, as it disappeared behind the crag which already concealed the rest of his comrades from view. One instant later, and the Indians would have failed to make this discovery, for a deep impassable gorge lay between them and the ravine which conducted to the pass. It was but the barest possible glimpse they got of that shabby tail; but it told a tale which they perfectly understood, for they flew back in the utmost haste to warn their comrades, who, knowing the smallness of the party thus sent against them, from the largeness of the party that had shammed returning to the fort, resolved upon executing a counter movement.They had a shrewd suspicion, from the nature of the country, that the intention of the whites was to get through a pass of some sort and intercept them, and, concluding that this pass must lie at the head of the valley up which the bottle-brush had vanished, they resolved to proceed to the same spot through the gorge that separated the hill from the crag or rocky ridge before referred to.Promptitude they knew to be everything, so they swept up the gorge like a whirlwind. Thus both parties drew nearer to the chaotic opening styled the Wild-Cat Pass—the trappers, all ignorant of what awaited them there; the savages bent on giving their enemies an unpleasant surprise.But, unknown to either, there was a pair of eyes high on a rock above the Wild-Cat Pass, that overlooked the two valleys or ravines, and gazed with considerable interest and curiosity on the two advancing parties. Those eyes belonged to a solitary horseman, who stood on the edge of the wild precipice that overhung the pass. The hunter, for such his leathern dress bespoke him, stood beside his horse, his right arm over its arched neck, and his right hand patting its sleek shoulder. From the position which he occupied he could see without being seen. His magnificent steed seemed to be aware that danger was at hand, for it stood like a statue, absolutely motionless, with the exception of its fine fiery eyes. Whatever this solitary hunter’s thoughts regarding the two approaching parties might be, it was evident that he meant to remain an invisible spectator of their doings; for he stood in the same attitude of statue-like attention until they reached the heads of the two ravines, where they were separated from each other only by the pass. Here, on the one side, the Indians, about forty in number, lay in ambush among the rocks, prepared to surprise and attack the trappers when they should pass. On the other side the trappers halted, and dismounting, allowed their horses to graze while they awaited the arrival of Macgregor and his party.“They won’t be long o’ comin’,” remarked Redhand, seating himself on a stone and proceeding to strike a light. “That fellow Macgregor an’t the man to waste time when he’s out after the redskins. I only hope he won’t waste life when he gets up to them.”“So do I,” said Bounce, seating himself beside Redhand and carefully cutting a small piece of tobacco into shreds by means of a scalping-knife. “A sartin amount o’ punishment is needful, d’ye see, to keep ’em down; but I don’t like slaughtering human bein’s onnecessary like.”“I’d skiver ’em all, I guess—every one,” observed Big Waller angrily. “They’re a murderin’, thievin’ set o’ varmints, as don’t desarve to live nohow!”“Bah!” exclaimed Gibault in disgust; “you is most awferfully onfeelosophicule, as Bounce do say. If dey not fit for live, for fat vas dey made? You vicked man!”Big Waller deigned no reply.“I’m off to look at the pass,” cried March Marston, vaulting suddenly into the saddle. “Come, Bertram; you’ll go with me, won’t you, and see if we can find some wild-cats in it?”The artist, who had not dismounted, merely replied by a nod and a smile, and the two reckless youths galloped away, heedless of Bounce’s warning not to go too far, for fear they should find something worse than wild-cats there.The Wild-Cat Pass, through which they were speedily picking their steps, in order to get a view of the country beyond, was not inappropriately named; for it seemed, at the first glance of those who entered it, as if no creature less savagely reckless than a cat could, by any possibility, scramble through it without the aid of wings.The greater part of it was the ancient bed of a mountain torrent, whose gushing waters had, owing to some antediluvian convulsion of nature, been diverted into another channel. The whole scene was an absolute chaos of rocks which had fallen into the torrent’s bed from the precipice that hemmed it in on the west, and these rocky masses lay heaped about in such a confused way that it was extremely difficult to select a pathway along which the horses could proceed without running great risk of breaking their limbs. The entire length of the pass could not have been much more than a quarter of a mile, yet it took March Marston and his companion full half an hour to traverse it.When about half through the pass March, who led the way, drew up on a small rocky elevation, from which he could survey the amphitheatre of rugged and naked rocks in the midst of which he stood.“Upon my word, Bertram,” he said gazing round, “if Bunyan had ever been in the Rocky Mountains, I think he would have chosen such a spot as this for the castle o’ Giant Despair.”“I know not,” replied Bertram with a deep sigh, as he drew rein, “what Bunyan would have done, but I know that Giant Despair has already located himself here, for he has been trying to take, possession of my bosom for at least twenty minutes. I never rode over such ground in my life. However, it ill becomes pioneers to be overcome by such a giant, so pray push on; I feel quite eager to see what sort of region lies beyond this gloomy portal.”March laughed and turned to continue the scramble; Bertram removed his brigandish hat, wiped his heated brows, replaced the hat firmly thereon, and drove his heels violently against the ribs of his horse, an act which induced that patient quadruped to toss its head and shake its bottle-brush ere it condescended to move on. It was quite evident that, although Bertram spoke in a half-jesting tone of Giant Despair, he was in reality much delighted with the singularity of this extemporised and interesting ramble.“I say, Bertram, don’t you like this sort of thing?” inquired March, looking back at his companion, on reaching a somewhat level part of the pass.“Like it? Ay, that do I. I love it, March. There is a freedom, a species of wild romance about it, that is more captivating than I can describe.”“You don’t need to describe it,” returned March. “I have it all described splendidly within me. One don’t want words when one’s got feelins. But I’ve often thought what a pity it is that we can’t describe things or places at all with words. At least,Ican’t,” he added modestly. “When I try to tell a fellow what I’ve seen, it ain’t o’ no manner of use to try, for I don’t get hold of the right words at the right time, and so don’t give out the right meanin’, and so the fellow I’m speakin’ to don’t take up the right notion, d’ye see? It’s a great pity that words are such useless things.”“Why, that was spoken like Bounce himself,” said Bertram, smiling.“Look out, or you’ll go bounce into that hole, if you don’t have a care,” cried March, turning aside to avoid the danger referred to. They proceeded through the remainder of the pass in silence, as the rugged nature of the ground required their undivided attention.Had there been a sprite in that place, who could have hopped invisibly to some elevated pinnacle, or have soared on gossamer wings into the air, so as to take a bird’s-eye view of the whole scene, he would have noted that while March Marston and the artist were toiling slowly through the Wild-Cat Pass, the solitary hunter before referred to regarded their proceedings with some surprise, and that when he saw they were bent on going quite through the pass, his expression changed to a look of deep concern.With slow and gentle hand this man backed his quiet and docile horse deeper into the bush; and when he had got so deep into the shade of the forest as to be perfectly safe from observation, he leaped on its back with a single bound, and galloped swiftly away.A few minutes after the occurrence of this incident, March and his friend emerged from the pass and trotted out upon a level plain whence they obtained a fine view of the magnificent country beyond. The pass from which they had just issued seemed to be the entrance to the heart of the Rocky Mountains. The plain, or rather the plateau, on which they stood was a level spot covered with soft grass, free from bushes, and not more than a hundred yards in extent. On three sides it was encompassed by inaccessible precipices and rocky ground, in the midst of which the opening out of the pass was situated. On the fourth side it was skirted by a dense thicket of bushes that formed the entrance to a magnificent forest which extended for several miles in front of the spot. Beyond this forest the scene was broken by hills and valleys, and little plains, richly diversified with wood and water—the former in dense masses, scattered groups, and isolated clusters; the latter shining in the forms of lakelet and stream, or glancing snow-white in numberless cascades. Beyond all, the dark-blue giant masses of the Rocky Mountains towered up and up, hill upon hill, pile upon pile, mass on mass, till they terminated in distant peaks, so little darker than the sky that they seemed scarcely more solid than the clouds with which they mingled and blended their everlasting snows.“An’t it beautiful?” cried March, riding forward with a bounding sensation of inexpressible delight.Bertram followed him, but did not answer. He was too deeply absorbed in the simple act of intently gazing and drinking in the scene to listen or to reply.At the precise moment in which March made the above remark, his quick eye observed a spear head which one of the savages, hid among the bushes there, had not taken sufficient pains to conceal.March Marston was a young hunter, and, as yet an inexperienced warrior; but from childhood he had been trained, as if it were in spirit, by the anecdotes and tales of the many hunters who had visited Pine Point settlement. His natural powers of self-control were very great, but he had to tax all these powers to the uttermost to maintain his look of animated delight in the scenery unchanged, after making the above startling discovery. But March did it! His first severe trial in the perils of backwoods life had come—without warning or time for preparation; and he passed through it like a true hero.That a spear handle must necessarily support a spear head; that an Indian probably grasped the former; that, in the present position of affairs, there were certainly more Indians than one in ambush; and that, in all probability, there were at that moment two or three dozen arrows resting on their respective bows, and pointed towards his and his comrade’s hearts, ready to take flight the instant they should come within sure and deadly range, were ideas which did not follow each other in rapid succession through his brain, butdarted upon the young hunter’s quick perceptions instantaneously, and caused his heart to beat on his ribs like a sledge-hammer, and the blood to fly violently to his face.Luckily March’s face was deeply browned, and did not show the crimson tide. With a sudden, mighty effort he checked the natural look and exclamation of surprise. That was the moment of danger past. To continue his praise of the lovely scene in gay delighted tones was comparatively easy.“Isn’t it beautiful?” he said, turning his face full towards the ambushed savages, gazing over their place of concealment with an unconscious joyous air, and sweeping his hand towards the mountains, as if to draw the attention of his companion to them. March’s only weapon at that moment was the small hatchet he was wont to carry in his girdle. This implement chanced to be in his hand. Placing it carelessly in his belt, as though nothing was further from his mind than the idea of requiring to use it at that time, he cried—“See, yonder is a mound from which we may get a better view,” and trotted to the summit of the spot alluded to. In doing so, he placed himself still nearer to the Indians. This was a bold stroke, though a dangerous one, meant to deceive the enemy. After gazing a few seconds from this spot, he wheeled round and walked his horse quietly towards the entrance to the pass. Arrived there, he turned, and pretending that he saw something in the far distance, he shaded his eyes with his hand and gazed for a short time intently, then calling to Bertram, who still remained in his original position all unconscious of his danger, said—“I say, come here; look at yonder splendid lake, it’s worth seeing—wellworth seeing; and if you don’t see it with thatcurious lighton it, you’ll not care to see it at all.”March did not dare, by energy of voice, to force his friend’s attention, therefore the first part of this speech was unheeded; but the reference to a “curious light” had the desired effect. Bertram turned, and rode to join his companion. Getting Bertram into such a position that his own person partially screened him from the Indians, he made the following remarkable speech, from beginning to end, in the gay tones of one who discourses eloquently on the beauties of nature; pointing here and there as he rattled on.“An’t it beautiful? eh? I say, just look at it now!—listen to me, Bertram—attentively, but gaze admiringly at the scene—at the scene—oh! man,dowhat I bid ye—your life hangs on it.Pretendto admire it—we’re in great danger—but—”“Eh? what? where?” exclaimed the artist in a tone of intense excitement, at the same time laying his hand on one of his pistols and gazing anxiously all round him.Alas! poor Bertram. It needed not the acute apprehension of a redskin to understand that you had been told of present danger. Neither did it require much acuteness on the part of March to divine what was to follow.Scarcely had the symptoms of alarm been exhibited, when four arrows whizzed through the air and passed close to the persons of the two friends, who instantly turned and made a dash for the entrance of the pass. At the same time the savages uttered a yell and darted after them.“We’ll never be able to escape by the pass,” exclaimed March, looking behind him hurriedly, as they approached the rocky gorge, “and, I declare, there’s only four o’ them on foot. Come, Bertram, let’s make a bold stroke for it. We’ll easy break through ’em.”He reined up so suddenly as almost to throw the horse on its haunches, and, wheeling round, darted towards the savages. Bertram followed almost mechanically.The Indians offered no opposition, but at that moment another yell rose from the hushes, and about thirty mounted Indians, who had been concealed behind a projecting cliff, sprang forward and closed up the only place of escape with a formidable array of spears. From their not using their arrows it was evident that they wished to capture the white men alive, for the purpose, no doubt, of taking them home to their wigwams, there to put them to death by slow torture with the assistance of their squaws.March Marston’s spirit rose with the occasion. He uttered a furious cry, flourished his hatchet above his head, and dashed at full gallop towards the line. Seeing this, one of the Indians levelled his spear and rode out to meet him. Bertram’s nerves recovered at that moment. He fired both pistols at the advancing savage, but without effect. In despair he hurled one of them violently at the head of the Indian. The missile went true to the mark and felled him. On beholding this the whole body of savages rushed upon the two white men.One powerful Indian seized March by the throat. Before either could use his weapon the horses separated and both fell violently to the ground. Bertram leaped off his horse and sprang to the rescue, but he was instantly surrounded, and for a few seconds defended himself with the butt of his large cavalry pistol with an amount of energy and activity that would have filled those who knew him best with amazement. At that moment there was a clatter of hoofs in the gorge, and a roar or bellow was heard above the din of the fight. All eyes were turned towards the pass, and next moment a solitary horseman leaped over the broken rocks and bounded over the turf towards the combatants.The aspect of this newcomer was something terrible to behold. Both he and his horse were gigantic in size. The man was dressed in the costume of an Indian, but his hair and beard were those of a white man. The mane and tail of his huge horse were of enormous length, and as he swept over the little plain, which seemed to tremble beneath his heavy tread, the wind blew out these and the tags and scalp-locks of his coat and leggings as well as his own beard and hair in such a confused and commingled way as to make the man and horse appear like one monstrous creature.The Indians turned to flee, but, seeing only one enemy, they hesitated. In another moment the wild horseman was upon them. He carried a round shield on his left arm and a long double-edged sword in his right hand. Two Indians lowered their spears to receive him. The point of one he turned aside with his shield, and the shock of his heavy warhorse hurled horse and man upon the plain. The other he cut the iron head off with a sweep of his sword, and, with a continuation of the same cut, he cleft his opponent to the chin. Turning rapidly, he bounded into the very midst of the savages, uttering another of his tremendous roars of indignation. The suddenness of this act prevented the Indians from using their bows and arrows effectively. Before they could fit an arrow to the string two more of their number lay in the agonies of death on the ground. Several arrows were discharged, but the perturbation of those who discharged them, and their close proximity to their mark, caused them to shoot wide. Most of the shafts missed him. Two quivered in his shield, and one pierced the sleeve of his coat. Turning again to renew his rapid attacks he observed one of the Indians—probably a chief—leap to one side, and, turning round, fit an arrow with calm deliberation to his bow. The furious horseman, although delivering his sweeping blows right and left with indiscriminate recklessness, seemed during themêléeto have an intuitive perception of where the greatest danger lay. The savages at that moment were whirling round him and darting at him in all directions, but he singled out this chief at once and bore down upon him like a thunderbolt. The chief was a brave man. He did not wince, but, drawing the arrow to its head as the other approached, let it fly full at his breast. The white man dropped on the neck of his steed as if he had been struck with lightning; the arrow passed close over his back and found its mark in the breast of one of the savages, whose death yell mingled with that of the chief as, a moment later, the gigantic warrior ran him with a straight point through the body.The Indians were scattered now. The rapid dash of that tumultuous fight, although of but a few seconds’ duration, had swept the combatants to the extreme edge of the woods, leaving Bertram standing in the midst of dead and dying men gazing with a bewildered, helpless look at the terrible scene. March Marston lay close by his side, apparently dead, in the grip of the savage who had first attacked him, and whose throat his own hand grasped with the tenacity and force of a vice.Most of the Indians leaped over the bushes and sought the shelter of the thick underwood, as the tremendous horseman, whom doubtless they now deemed invulnerable, came thundering down upon them again; but about twenty of the bravest stood their ground. At that moment a loud shout and a fierce “hurrah!” rang out and echoed hither and thither among the rocks; and, next instant, Big Waller, followed by Bounce and his friends, as well as by Macgregor and his whole party, sprang from the Wild-Cat Pass, and rushed furiously upon the savages, who had already turned and fled towards the wood for shelter. The whole band crossed the battlefield like a whirlwind, leaped over or burst through the bushes, and were gone—the crashing tread of their footsteps and an occasional shout alone remaining to assure the bewildered artist, who was still transfixed immovable to the ground, that the whole scene was not a dream.But Bertram was not left alone on that bloody field. On the first sound of the approach of the white men to the rescue, the strange horseman—who, from the moment of his bursting so opportunely on the scene, had seemed the very impersonation of activity and colossal might—pulled up his fiery steed; and he now sat, gazing calmly into the forest in the direction in which the Indians and traders had disappeared.Stupefied though he was, Bertram could not avoid being impressed and surprised by the sudden and total change which had come over this remarkable hunter. After gazing into the woods, as we have said, for some minutes, he quietly dismounted, and plucking a tuft of grass from the plain, wiped his bloody sword, and sheathed it. Not a trace of his late ferocity was visible. His mind seemed to be filled with sadness, for he sighed slightly, and shook his head with a look of deep sorrow, as his eyes rested on the dead men. There was a mild gravity in his countenance that seemed to Bertram incompatible with the fiend-like fury of his attack, and a slow heaviness in his motions that amounted almost to laziness, and seemed equally inconsistent with the vigour he had so recently displayed, which was almost cat-like, if we may apply such a term to the actions of so huge a pair as this man and his horse were.A profusion of light-brown hair hung in heavy masses over his herculean shoulders, and a bushy moustache and beard of the same colour covered the lower part of his deeply browned face, which was handsome and mild, but eminently masculine, in expression.Remounting his horse, which seemed now to be as quiet and peaceable as himself, this singular being turned and rode towards that part of the wood that lay nearest to the wild rocky masses that formed the outlet from the pass. On gaining the verge of the plain he turned his head full round, and fixed his clear blue eyes on the wondering artist. A quiet smile played on his bronzed features for an instant as he bestowed upon him a cheerful nod of farewell. Then, urging his steed forward, he entered the woods at a slow walk, and disappeared.The heavy tramp of his horse’s hoofs among the broken stones of the rugged path had scarcely died away when the distant tread of the returning fur-traders broke on Bertram’s ear. This aroused him from the state of half-sceptical horror in which he gazed upon the scene of blood and death in the midst of which he stood. Presently his eye fell, for the first time, upon the motionless form of March Marston. The sight effectually restored him. With a slight cry of alarm, he sprang to his friend’s side, and, kneeling down, endeavoured to loosen the death-like grasp with which he still held the throat of his foe. The horror of the poor artist may be imagined, when he observed that the skull of the Indian was battered in, and that his young comrade’s face was bespattered with blood and brains.Just then several of the trappers and fur-traders galloped upon the scene of the late skirmish.“Hallo! Mr Bertram, here you are; guess we’ve polished ’em off this time a few. Hey! wot’s this?” cried Big Waller, as he and some of the others leaped to the ground and surrounded Bertram. “Notdead, is he?”The tone in which the Yankee trapper said this betrayed as much rage as regret. The bare idea of his young comrade having been killed by the savages caused him to gnash his teeth with suppressed passion.“Out o’ the way, lads; let me see him,” cried Bounce, who galloped up at that moment, flung himself off his horse, pushed the others aside, and kneeling at his side, laid his hand on March Marston’s heart.“All right,” he said, raising the youth’s head, “he’s only stunned. Run, Gibault, fetch a drop o’ water. The horse that brained this here redskin, by good luck, only stunned March.”“Ah! mon pauvre enfant!” cried Gibault as he ran to obey.The water quickly restored March, and in a few minutes he was able to sit up and call to remembrance what had passed. Ere his scattered faculties were quite recovered, the fur-traders returned, with Macgregor at their head.“Well done, the Wild Man of the West!” cried McLeod, as he dismounted. “Not badly hurt, young man, I trust.”“Oh! nothing to speak of. Only a thump on the head from a horse’s hoof,” said March; “I’ll be all right in a little time. Did you say anything about the Wild Man of the West?” he added earnestly.“To be sure I did; but for him you and Mr Bertram would have been dead men, I fear. Did you not see him?”“See him? no,” replied March, much excited. “I heard a tremendous roar, but just then I fell to the ground, and remember nothing more that happened.”“Was that quiet, grave-looking man the Wild Man of the West?” inquired Bertram, with a mingled feeling of interest and surprise.This speech was received with a loud burst of laughter from all who heard it.“Well, I’ve never seed the Wild Man till to-day,” said one, “though I’ve often heer’d of him, but I must say the little glimpse I got didn’t show much that was mild or grave.”“I guess your head’s bin in a swum, stranger,” said another. “I’ve only seed him this once, but I don’t hope to see him agin. He ain’t to be trusted, he ain’t, that feller.”“And I’ve seen him five or six times,” added McLeod, “and all I can say is, that twice out o’ the five he was like an incarnate fiend, and the other three times—when he came to the Mountain Fort for ammunition—he was as gruff and sulky as a bear with the measles.”“Well, gentlemen,” said Bertram with more emphasis in his tone than he was wont to employ, “I have seen this man only once, but I’ve seen him under two aspects to-day, and all that I can say is, that if that was really the Wild Man of the West, he’s not quite so wild as he gets credit for.”On hearing this, March Marston rose and shook himself. He felt ill at ease in body and mind. The idea of the Wild Man of the West having actually saved his life, and he had not seen him, was a heavy disappointment, and the confused and conflicting accounts of those who had seen him, combined with the racking pains that shot through his own brain, rendered him incapable of forming or expressing any opinion on the subject whatever; so he said abruptly—“It’s of no use talking here all night, friends. My head’s splittin’, so I think we’d better encamp.”March’s suggestion was adopted at once. Provisions had been carried with them from the fort. The dead bodies of the Indians were buried; a spot at some distance from the scene of the fight was chosen. The fires were lighted, supper was devoured and a watch set, and soon March Marston was dreaming wildly in that savage place about the Wild Man of the West!
Crossing the open ground in front of the Mountain Fort, Bounce and Bertram entered the wood beyond, and traversed it with comparative ease, by means of a bridle-path which had been cut there by the fur-traders. A few minutes’ gallop brought them to the other side of the wood, which was one of those narrow strips or clumps of forest which grow, more or less thickly, on the skirts of the Rocky Mountains, forming that fine picturesque region where the prairie and the forest meet and seem to contend for the mastery.
The plain beyond this belt of wood was open and level—at least, sufficiently so to enable the two horsemen to see for a considerable distance around them. Here, in the far distance, they descried their companions, sweeping over the turf at their utmost speed, and making towards a low hill or ridge that intercepted the view of the more distant country.
“They’ll have to draw in a bit,” said Bounce, turning to his comrade. “Horses no more nor men can’t go helter-skelter up a hill without takin’ breath; so rouse up your beast, Mr Bertram, an’ we’ll overtake ’em afore they gits to the t’other side.”
Bertram obeyed his friend’s command, but made no rejoinder, his thoughts being too deeply engaged at that moment in a controversy with his conscience as to the propriety of the business he had then in hand.
The young artist had a deep veneration for abstract truth—truth pure and simple, not only in reference to morals, but to all things terrestrial and celestial; and he was deeply impressed with the belief that what was right was right, and what was wrong was wrong, and could not, by any possibility, be otherwise. He felt, also, that the man who recognised truth and acted upon it must go right, and he who saw and did otherwisemustgo wrong!
Holding this simple creed very tenaciously, and, as we think, very properly, Bertram nevertheless found that his attempts to act up to it frequently involved him in a maze of perplexities.
On the present occasion, as he and Bounce thundered over the green turf of the flowering plains, scattering the terrified grasshoppers right and left, and causing the beautifully striped ground-squirrels to plunge with astonishing precipitancy into their holes, he argued with himself, that the mere fact of a murderous deed having been done was not a sufficient reason, perhaps, to justify his sallying forth with a reckless band of desperate fur-traders, bent on indiscriminate revenge. It was quite true, in his opinion, that a murderer should be punished with death, and that the pursuit and capture of a murderer was not only a legitimate act in itself but, in the circumstances, a bounden duty on his part. Yet it was equally true that most of the men with whom he was associated were thirsting for vengeance, and from past experience he knew full well that there would be no attempt to find out the murderer, but a simple and general massacre of all the Indians whom they could overtake.
Then it suddenly occurred to him that the murderer had already been shot by Redhand, so that his mission was one of simple revenge; but, a moment after, it flashed across his troubled mind that Lincoln had been left in the fort wounded—might possibly be dead by that time; so that there were probably among the flying savages other murderers to be dealt with. This idea was strengthened by another thought, namely, that the savage who stabbed and scalped Dupont might not have been the savage who shot him. The complication and aggregate of improbability amounted, in Bertram’s mind, so nearly to a certainty, that he dismissed the digressive question as to whether there might or might not be a murderer among the Indians, and returned to the original proposition, as to whether it was right in him to take part in a pursuit of vengeance that would very likely terminate murderously. But before he could come to any satisfactory conclusion on that point he and Bounce found themselves suddenly in the midst of the cavalcade, which had halted on the summit of the ridge, in order to allow them to come up.
“Here we are, lads,” cried Macgregor, his flushed face still blazing with wrath, which he made no effort to subdue, and his eyes red with prolonged debauchery, flashing like the eyes of a tiger—“here we are, too late to cut off the retreat o’ these detestable reptiles from the woods, but not too late to circumvent them.”
The fur trader spoke rapidly, almost breathlessly, and pointed to the band of Indians they were in pursuit of, who, observing that their pursuers had halted, also drew rein on the edge of a belt of thick forest that extended for miles into the mountains. They appeared to wait, in order to ascertain what their enemies meant to do.
“The villains,” continued Macgregor, “think we’ve given up pursuit as hopeless, but they’re mistaken—they’re mistaken, as they’ll find to their cost. Now, mark me, men; we shall turn back as if we had really given in; but the moment we get down into the hollow, out of sight, we’ll go as hard as we can bolt up that valley there, and round by the place we call the Wild-Cat Pass. It’s a difficult pass, but who cares for that? Once through it we can get by a short cut to the other side of that wood, and meet the redskins right in the teeth. They’re Blackfoot Indians, I know by their dress; and, as they don’t belong to this part o’ the country, they can’t be aware of the pass. But some of us must go back a good way towards the fort, so as to deceive the blackguards, who’ll be sure to get on the first hill they can to see where we’ve gone to. Now—away! Stay,” he added in a less commanding tone, “I don’t know that my guests are willing to go with us through thick an’ thin in this fashion. I’ve no desire to have unwilling warriors.”
“Had we not beenwilling” replied Redhand dryly, “we wouldn’t have come even thus far.”
“Very good,” rejoined Macgregor with a grim smile; “then, perhaps, since you are so good as to go along with us, you’ll make for the head of that valley, and when you come to the Wild-Cat Pass I’ve spoken of, you’ll wait there till the rest of us, who are to sham going back to the fort, come up with ye; then we’ll go through the pass together, and polish off the redskins.”
To this plan Redhand assented; so he and his comrades prepared to take the way to the pass, while the men of the fort turned homewards. A triumphant shout from the Indians showed that they imagined the pursuit was given up; but Macgregor knew their cunning too well to fall into the mistake of at once concluding that they were thoroughly deceived. He knew that they would send out scouts to dog them, and felt, that if his plan was to succeed, he must put it into execution promptly.
“I’ve scarce had time to ask your names or where you’ve come from,” he said on parting from the trappers; “but there’ll be plenty of time for that when we meet again. Keep close in the bottom, and ride fast, till the shadow of yonder crag conceals you from view. If the Indians get sight of you, they’ll smell the dodge at once and escape us. Perhaps, young man, you’d like to come with my party?”
The latter part of this speech was made rather abruptly to March Marston, who received it with some surprise, and with a distinct refusal.
“I’ll stick by my comrades,” said he, “till I see good reason—”
“Well, well, boy—please yourself!” muttered the trader angrily, as he broke away at full speed, followed by his men.
Our trappers instantly turned their horses’ heads towards the mountains, and made for the Wild-Cat Pass.
Macgregor’s estimate of the cunning of the Indians was but too correct. The instant the fur-traders disappeared behind the ridge, as if on their return homewards, several of their fastest riders were dispatched to the nearest hill, to watch the movements of the enemy. They ascended one which commanded a wide view of the surrounding country, and thence beheld the fur-traders proceeding swiftly back in the direction of the fort. Unfortunately, they also perceived the bottle-brush of Bertram’s steed, as it disappeared behind the crag which already concealed the rest of his comrades from view. One instant later, and the Indians would have failed to make this discovery, for a deep impassable gorge lay between them and the ravine which conducted to the pass. It was but the barest possible glimpse they got of that shabby tail; but it told a tale which they perfectly understood, for they flew back in the utmost haste to warn their comrades, who, knowing the smallness of the party thus sent against them, from the largeness of the party that had shammed returning to the fort, resolved upon executing a counter movement.
They had a shrewd suspicion, from the nature of the country, that the intention of the whites was to get through a pass of some sort and intercept them, and, concluding that this pass must lie at the head of the valley up which the bottle-brush had vanished, they resolved to proceed to the same spot through the gorge that separated the hill from the crag or rocky ridge before referred to.
Promptitude they knew to be everything, so they swept up the gorge like a whirlwind. Thus both parties drew nearer to the chaotic opening styled the Wild-Cat Pass—the trappers, all ignorant of what awaited them there; the savages bent on giving their enemies an unpleasant surprise.
But, unknown to either, there was a pair of eyes high on a rock above the Wild-Cat Pass, that overlooked the two valleys or ravines, and gazed with considerable interest and curiosity on the two advancing parties. Those eyes belonged to a solitary horseman, who stood on the edge of the wild precipice that overhung the pass. The hunter, for such his leathern dress bespoke him, stood beside his horse, his right arm over its arched neck, and his right hand patting its sleek shoulder. From the position which he occupied he could see without being seen. His magnificent steed seemed to be aware that danger was at hand, for it stood like a statue, absolutely motionless, with the exception of its fine fiery eyes. Whatever this solitary hunter’s thoughts regarding the two approaching parties might be, it was evident that he meant to remain an invisible spectator of their doings; for he stood in the same attitude of statue-like attention until they reached the heads of the two ravines, where they were separated from each other only by the pass. Here, on the one side, the Indians, about forty in number, lay in ambush among the rocks, prepared to surprise and attack the trappers when they should pass. On the other side the trappers halted, and dismounting, allowed their horses to graze while they awaited the arrival of Macgregor and his party.
“They won’t be long o’ comin’,” remarked Redhand, seating himself on a stone and proceeding to strike a light. “That fellow Macgregor an’t the man to waste time when he’s out after the redskins. I only hope he won’t waste life when he gets up to them.”
“So do I,” said Bounce, seating himself beside Redhand and carefully cutting a small piece of tobacco into shreds by means of a scalping-knife. “A sartin amount o’ punishment is needful, d’ye see, to keep ’em down; but I don’t like slaughtering human bein’s onnecessary like.”
“I’d skiver ’em all, I guess—every one,” observed Big Waller angrily. “They’re a murderin’, thievin’ set o’ varmints, as don’t desarve to live nohow!”
“Bah!” exclaimed Gibault in disgust; “you is most awferfully onfeelosophicule, as Bounce do say. If dey not fit for live, for fat vas dey made? You vicked man!”
Big Waller deigned no reply.
“I’m off to look at the pass,” cried March Marston, vaulting suddenly into the saddle. “Come, Bertram; you’ll go with me, won’t you, and see if we can find some wild-cats in it?”
The artist, who had not dismounted, merely replied by a nod and a smile, and the two reckless youths galloped away, heedless of Bounce’s warning not to go too far, for fear they should find something worse than wild-cats there.
The Wild-Cat Pass, through which they were speedily picking their steps, in order to get a view of the country beyond, was not inappropriately named; for it seemed, at the first glance of those who entered it, as if no creature less savagely reckless than a cat could, by any possibility, scramble through it without the aid of wings.
The greater part of it was the ancient bed of a mountain torrent, whose gushing waters had, owing to some antediluvian convulsion of nature, been diverted into another channel. The whole scene was an absolute chaos of rocks which had fallen into the torrent’s bed from the precipice that hemmed it in on the west, and these rocky masses lay heaped about in such a confused way that it was extremely difficult to select a pathway along which the horses could proceed without running great risk of breaking their limbs. The entire length of the pass could not have been much more than a quarter of a mile, yet it took March Marston and his companion full half an hour to traverse it.
When about half through the pass March, who led the way, drew up on a small rocky elevation, from which he could survey the amphitheatre of rugged and naked rocks in the midst of which he stood.
“Upon my word, Bertram,” he said gazing round, “if Bunyan had ever been in the Rocky Mountains, I think he would have chosen such a spot as this for the castle o’ Giant Despair.”
“I know not,” replied Bertram with a deep sigh, as he drew rein, “what Bunyan would have done, but I know that Giant Despair has already located himself here, for he has been trying to take, possession of my bosom for at least twenty minutes. I never rode over such ground in my life. However, it ill becomes pioneers to be overcome by such a giant, so pray push on; I feel quite eager to see what sort of region lies beyond this gloomy portal.”
March laughed and turned to continue the scramble; Bertram removed his brigandish hat, wiped his heated brows, replaced the hat firmly thereon, and drove his heels violently against the ribs of his horse, an act which induced that patient quadruped to toss its head and shake its bottle-brush ere it condescended to move on. It was quite evident that, although Bertram spoke in a half-jesting tone of Giant Despair, he was in reality much delighted with the singularity of this extemporised and interesting ramble.
“I say, Bertram, don’t you like this sort of thing?” inquired March, looking back at his companion, on reaching a somewhat level part of the pass.
“Like it? Ay, that do I. I love it, March. There is a freedom, a species of wild romance about it, that is more captivating than I can describe.”
“You don’t need to describe it,” returned March. “I have it all described splendidly within me. One don’t want words when one’s got feelins. But I’ve often thought what a pity it is that we can’t describe things or places at all with words. At least,Ican’t,” he added modestly. “When I try to tell a fellow what I’ve seen, it ain’t o’ no manner of use to try, for I don’t get hold of the right words at the right time, and so don’t give out the right meanin’, and so the fellow I’m speakin’ to don’t take up the right notion, d’ye see? It’s a great pity that words are such useless things.”
“Why, that was spoken like Bounce himself,” said Bertram, smiling.
“Look out, or you’ll go bounce into that hole, if you don’t have a care,” cried March, turning aside to avoid the danger referred to. They proceeded through the remainder of the pass in silence, as the rugged nature of the ground required their undivided attention.
Had there been a sprite in that place, who could have hopped invisibly to some elevated pinnacle, or have soared on gossamer wings into the air, so as to take a bird’s-eye view of the whole scene, he would have noted that while March Marston and the artist were toiling slowly through the Wild-Cat Pass, the solitary hunter before referred to regarded their proceedings with some surprise, and that when he saw they were bent on going quite through the pass, his expression changed to a look of deep concern.
With slow and gentle hand this man backed his quiet and docile horse deeper into the bush; and when he had got so deep into the shade of the forest as to be perfectly safe from observation, he leaped on its back with a single bound, and galloped swiftly away.
A few minutes after the occurrence of this incident, March and his friend emerged from the pass and trotted out upon a level plain whence they obtained a fine view of the magnificent country beyond. The pass from which they had just issued seemed to be the entrance to the heart of the Rocky Mountains. The plain, or rather the plateau, on which they stood was a level spot covered with soft grass, free from bushes, and not more than a hundred yards in extent. On three sides it was encompassed by inaccessible precipices and rocky ground, in the midst of which the opening out of the pass was situated. On the fourth side it was skirted by a dense thicket of bushes that formed the entrance to a magnificent forest which extended for several miles in front of the spot. Beyond this forest the scene was broken by hills and valleys, and little plains, richly diversified with wood and water—the former in dense masses, scattered groups, and isolated clusters; the latter shining in the forms of lakelet and stream, or glancing snow-white in numberless cascades. Beyond all, the dark-blue giant masses of the Rocky Mountains towered up and up, hill upon hill, pile upon pile, mass on mass, till they terminated in distant peaks, so little darker than the sky that they seemed scarcely more solid than the clouds with which they mingled and blended their everlasting snows.
“An’t it beautiful?” cried March, riding forward with a bounding sensation of inexpressible delight.
Bertram followed him, but did not answer. He was too deeply absorbed in the simple act of intently gazing and drinking in the scene to listen or to reply.
At the precise moment in which March made the above remark, his quick eye observed a spear head which one of the savages, hid among the bushes there, had not taken sufficient pains to conceal.
March Marston was a young hunter, and, as yet an inexperienced warrior; but from childhood he had been trained, as if it were in spirit, by the anecdotes and tales of the many hunters who had visited Pine Point settlement. His natural powers of self-control were very great, but he had to tax all these powers to the uttermost to maintain his look of animated delight in the scenery unchanged, after making the above startling discovery. But March did it! His first severe trial in the perils of backwoods life had come—without warning or time for preparation; and he passed through it like a true hero.
That a spear handle must necessarily support a spear head; that an Indian probably grasped the former; that, in the present position of affairs, there were certainly more Indians than one in ambush; and that, in all probability, there were at that moment two or three dozen arrows resting on their respective bows, and pointed towards his and his comrade’s hearts, ready to take flight the instant they should come within sure and deadly range, were ideas which did not follow each other in rapid succession through his brain, butdarted upon the young hunter’s quick perceptions instantaneously, and caused his heart to beat on his ribs like a sledge-hammer, and the blood to fly violently to his face.
Luckily March’s face was deeply browned, and did not show the crimson tide. With a sudden, mighty effort he checked the natural look and exclamation of surprise. That was the moment of danger past. To continue his praise of the lovely scene in gay delighted tones was comparatively easy.
“Isn’t it beautiful?” he said, turning his face full towards the ambushed savages, gazing over their place of concealment with an unconscious joyous air, and sweeping his hand towards the mountains, as if to draw the attention of his companion to them. March’s only weapon at that moment was the small hatchet he was wont to carry in his girdle. This implement chanced to be in his hand. Placing it carelessly in his belt, as though nothing was further from his mind than the idea of requiring to use it at that time, he cried—
“See, yonder is a mound from which we may get a better view,” and trotted to the summit of the spot alluded to. In doing so, he placed himself still nearer to the Indians. This was a bold stroke, though a dangerous one, meant to deceive the enemy. After gazing a few seconds from this spot, he wheeled round and walked his horse quietly towards the entrance to the pass. Arrived there, he turned, and pretending that he saw something in the far distance, he shaded his eyes with his hand and gazed for a short time intently, then calling to Bertram, who still remained in his original position all unconscious of his danger, said—
“I say, come here; look at yonder splendid lake, it’s worth seeing—wellworth seeing; and if you don’t see it with thatcurious lighton it, you’ll not care to see it at all.”
March did not dare, by energy of voice, to force his friend’s attention, therefore the first part of this speech was unheeded; but the reference to a “curious light” had the desired effect. Bertram turned, and rode to join his companion. Getting Bertram into such a position that his own person partially screened him from the Indians, he made the following remarkable speech, from beginning to end, in the gay tones of one who discourses eloquently on the beauties of nature; pointing here and there as he rattled on.
“An’t it beautiful? eh? I say, just look at it now!—listen to me, Bertram—attentively, but gaze admiringly at the scene—at the scene—oh! man,dowhat I bid ye—your life hangs on it.Pretendto admire it—we’re in great danger—but—”
“Eh? what? where?” exclaimed the artist in a tone of intense excitement, at the same time laying his hand on one of his pistols and gazing anxiously all round him.
Alas! poor Bertram. It needed not the acute apprehension of a redskin to understand that you had been told of present danger. Neither did it require much acuteness on the part of March to divine what was to follow.
Scarcely had the symptoms of alarm been exhibited, when four arrows whizzed through the air and passed close to the persons of the two friends, who instantly turned and made a dash for the entrance of the pass. At the same time the savages uttered a yell and darted after them.
“We’ll never be able to escape by the pass,” exclaimed March, looking behind him hurriedly, as they approached the rocky gorge, “and, I declare, there’s only four o’ them on foot. Come, Bertram, let’s make a bold stroke for it. We’ll easy break through ’em.”
He reined up so suddenly as almost to throw the horse on its haunches, and, wheeling round, darted towards the savages. Bertram followed almost mechanically.
The Indians offered no opposition, but at that moment another yell rose from the hushes, and about thirty mounted Indians, who had been concealed behind a projecting cliff, sprang forward and closed up the only place of escape with a formidable array of spears. From their not using their arrows it was evident that they wished to capture the white men alive, for the purpose, no doubt, of taking them home to their wigwams, there to put them to death by slow torture with the assistance of their squaws.
March Marston’s spirit rose with the occasion. He uttered a furious cry, flourished his hatchet above his head, and dashed at full gallop towards the line. Seeing this, one of the Indians levelled his spear and rode out to meet him. Bertram’s nerves recovered at that moment. He fired both pistols at the advancing savage, but without effect. In despair he hurled one of them violently at the head of the Indian. The missile went true to the mark and felled him. On beholding this the whole body of savages rushed upon the two white men.
One powerful Indian seized March by the throat. Before either could use his weapon the horses separated and both fell violently to the ground. Bertram leaped off his horse and sprang to the rescue, but he was instantly surrounded, and for a few seconds defended himself with the butt of his large cavalry pistol with an amount of energy and activity that would have filled those who knew him best with amazement. At that moment there was a clatter of hoofs in the gorge, and a roar or bellow was heard above the din of the fight. All eyes were turned towards the pass, and next moment a solitary horseman leaped over the broken rocks and bounded over the turf towards the combatants.
The aspect of this newcomer was something terrible to behold. Both he and his horse were gigantic in size. The man was dressed in the costume of an Indian, but his hair and beard were those of a white man. The mane and tail of his huge horse were of enormous length, and as he swept over the little plain, which seemed to tremble beneath his heavy tread, the wind blew out these and the tags and scalp-locks of his coat and leggings as well as his own beard and hair in such a confused and commingled way as to make the man and horse appear like one monstrous creature.
The Indians turned to flee, but, seeing only one enemy, they hesitated. In another moment the wild horseman was upon them. He carried a round shield on his left arm and a long double-edged sword in his right hand. Two Indians lowered their spears to receive him. The point of one he turned aside with his shield, and the shock of his heavy warhorse hurled horse and man upon the plain. The other he cut the iron head off with a sweep of his sword, and, with a continuation of the same cut, he cleft his opponent to the chin. Turning rapidly, he bounded into the very midst of the savages, uttering another of his tremendous roars of indignation. The suddenness of this act prevented the Indians from using their bows and arrows effectively. Before they could fit an arrow to the string two more of their number lay in the agonies of death on the ground. Several arrows were discharged, but the perturbation of those who discharged them, and their close proximity to their mark, caused them to shoot wide. Most of the shafts missed him. Two quivered in his shield, and one pierced the sleeve of his coat. Turning again to renew his rapid attacks he observed one of the Indians—probably a chief—leap to one side, and, turning round, fit an arrow with calm deliberation to his bow. The furious horseman, although delivering his sweeping blows right and left with indiscriminate recklessness, seemed during themêléeto have an intuitive perception of where the greatest danger lay. The savages at that moment were whirling round him and darting at him in all directions, but he singled out this chief at once and bore down upon him like a thunderbolt. The chief was a brave man. He did not wince, but, drawing the arrow to its head as the other approached, let it fly full at his breast. The white man dropped on the neck of his steed as if he had been struck with lightning; the arrow passed close over his back and found its mark in the breast of one of the savages, whose death yell mingled with that of the chief as, a moment later, the gigantic warrior ran him with a straight point through the body.
The Indians were scattered now. The rapid dash of that tumultuous fight, although of but a few seconds’ duration, had swept the combatants to the extreme edge of the woods, leaving Bertram standing in the midst of dead and dying men gazing with a bewildered, helpless look at the terrible scene. March Marston lay close by his side, apparently dead, in the grip of the savage who had first attacked him, and whose throat his own hand grasped with the tenacity and force of a vice.
Most of the Indians leaped over the bushes and sought the shelter of the thick underwood, as the tremendous horseman, whom doubtless they now deemed invulnerable, came thundering down upon them again; but about twenty of the bravest stood their ground. At that moment a loud shout and a fierce “hurrah!” rang out and echoed hither and thither among the rocks; and, next instant, Big Waller, followed by Bounce and his friends, as well as by Macgregor and his whole party, sprang from the Wild-Cat Pass, and rushed furiously upon the savages, who had already turned and fled towards the wood for shelter. The whole band crossed the battlefield like a whirlwind, leaped over or burst through the bushes, and were gone—the crashing tread of their footsteps and an occasional shout alone remaining to assure the bewildered artist, who was still transfixed immovable to the ground, that the whole scene was not a dream.
But Bertram was not left alone on that bloody field. On the first sound of the approach of the white men to the rescue, the strange horseman—who, from the moment of his bursting so opportunely on the scene, had seemed the very impersonation of activity and colossal might—pulled up his fiery steed; and he now sat, gazing calmly into the forest in the direction in which the Indians and traders had disappeared.
Stupefied though he was, Bertram could not avoid being impressed and surprised by the sudden and total change which had come over this remarkable hunter. After gazing into the woods, as we have said, for some minutes, he quietly dismounted, and plucking a tuft of grass from the plain, wiped his bloody sword, and sheathed it. Not a trace of his late ferocity was visible. His mind seemed to be filled with sadness, for he sighed slightly, and shook his head with a look of deep sorrow, as his eyes rested on the dead men. There was a mild gravity in his countenance that seemed to Bertram incompatible with the fiend-like fury of his attack, and a slow heaviness in his motions that amounted almost to laziness, and seemed equally inconsistent with the vigour he had so recently displayed, which was almost cat-like, if we may apply such a term to the actions of so huge a pair as this man and his horse were.
A profusion of light-brown hair hung in heavy masses over his herculean shoulders, and a bushy moustache and beard of the same colour covered the lower part of his deeply browned face, which was handsome and mild, but eminently masculine, in expression.
Remounting his horse, which seemed now to be as quiet and peaceable as himself, this singular being turned and rode towards that part of the wood that lay nearest to the wild rocky masses that formed the outlet from the pass. On gaining the verge of the plain he turned his head full round, and fixed his clear blue eyes on the wondering artist. A quiet smile played on his bronzed features for an instant as he bestowed upon him a cheerful nod of farewell. Then, urging his steed forward, he entered the woods at a slow walk, and disappeared.
The heavy tramp of his horse’s hoofs among the broken stones of the rugged path had scarcely died away when the distant tread of the returning fur-traders broke on Bertram’s ear. This aroused him from the state of half-sceptical horror in which he gazed upon the scene of blood and death in the midst of which he stood. Presently his eye fell, for the first time, upon the motionless form of March Marston. The sight effectually restored him. With a slight cry of alarm, he sprang to his friend’s side, and, kneeling down, endeavoured to loosen the death-like grasp with which he still held the throat of his foe. The horror of the poor artist may be imagined, when he observed that the skull of the Indian was battered in, and that his young comrade’s face was bespattered with blood and brains.
Just then several of the trappers and fur-traders galloped upon the scene of the late skirmish.
“Hallo! Mr Bertram, here you are; guess we’ve polished ’em off this time a few. Hey! wot’s this?” cried Big Waller, as he and some of the others leaped to the ground and surrounded Bertram. “Notdead, is he?”
The tone in which the Yankee trapper said this betrayed as much rage as regret. The bare idea of his young comrade having been killed by the savages caused him to gnash his teeth with suppressed passion.
“Out o’ the way, lads; let me see him,” cried Bounce, who galloped up at that moment, flung himself off his horse, pushed the others aside, and kneeling at his side, laid his hand on March Marston’s heart.
“All right,” he said, raising the youth’s head, “he’s only stunned. Run, Gibault, fetch a drop o’ water. The horse that brained this here redskin, by good luck, only stunned March.”
“Ah! mon pauvre enfant!” cried Gibault as he ran to obey.
The water quickly restored March, and in a few minutes he was able to sit up and call to remembrance what had passed. Ere his scattered faculties were quite recovered, the fur-traders returned, with Macgregor at their head.
“Well done, the Wild Man of the West!” cried McLeod, as he dismounted. “Not badly hurt, young man, I trust.”
“Oh! nothing to speak of. Only a thump on the head from a horse’s hoof,” said March; “I’ll be all right in a little time. Did you say anything about the Wild Man of the West?” he added earnestly.
“To be sure I did; but for him you and Mr Bertram would have been dead men, I fear. Did you not see him?”
“See him? no,” replied March, much excited. “I heard a tremendous roar, but just then I fell to the ground, and remember nothing more that happened.”
“Was that quiet, grave-looking man the Wild Man of the West?” inquired Bertram, with a mingled feeling of interest and surprise.
This speech was received with a loud burst of laughter from all who heard it.
“Well, I’ve never seed the Wild Man till to-day,” said one, “though I’ve often heer’d of him, but I must say the little glimpse I got didn’t show much that was mild or grave.”
“I guess your head’s bin in a swum, stranger,” said another. “I’ve only seed him this once, but I don’t hope to see him agin. He ain’t to be trusted, he ain’t, that feller.”
“And I’ve seen him five or six times,” added McLeod, “and all I can say is, that twice out o’ the five he was like an incarnate fiend, and the other three times—when he came to the Mountain Fort for ammunition—he was as gruff and sulky as a bear with the measles.”
“Well, gentlemen,” said Bertram with more emphasis in his tone than he was wont to employ, “I have seen this man only once, but I’ve seen him under two aspects to-day, and all that I can say is, that if that was really the Wild Man of the West, he’s not quite so wild as he gets credit for.”
On hearing this, March Marston rose and shook himself. He felt ill at ease in body and mind. The idea of the Wild Man of the West having actually saved his life, and he had not seen him, was a heavy disappointment, and the confused and conflicting accounts of those who had seen him, combined with the racking pains that shot through his own brain, rendered him incapable of forming or expressing any opinion on the subject whatever; so he said abruptly—
“It’s of no use talking here all night, friends. My head’s splittin’, so I think we’d better encamp.”
March’s suggestion was adopted at once. Provisions had been carried with them from the fort. The dead bodies of the Indians were buried; a spot at some distance from the scene of the fight was chosen. The fires were lighted, supper was devoured and a watch set, and soon March Marston was dreaming wildly in that savage place about the Wild Man of the West!