"Wot is he?" inquired Bounce of Gibault in a whisper.

"I calc'late," observed Waller in a low voice, at the same time touching his forehead and looking mysterious; "I calc'late, he's noncombobble-fusticated."

"Perhaps," said Redhand with a quiet laugh.

"Whatever he is, it's bad manners to stand starin' at him," said Redhand, "so you'd better go and pick up yer guns and things, while Bounce and I skin this feller and cut off his claws."

The party separated at once, and the artist, who seemed a little disappointed at being thus checked in his work, no sooner observed the flaying process begin than he turned over the leaf of his book, and began a new sketch.

Not many minutes were required for the skinning of the bear. When it was done, it, along with all the scattered things, was placed in the canoe, and then Redhand, approaching the artist, touched his cap and said—

"You have shared our hunt to-day, sir; mayhap you'll not object to share our camp and our supper."

"Most willingly, my good friend," replied the artist, rising and holding out his hand, which the trapper shook heartily. "You seem to be trappers."

"We are, sir, at your service. It's gettin' late and we've a good bit to go yet, before we come to the place where we mean to camp, so you'd better come at once."

"Certainly; by all means; let us embark without delay," replied the artist, pocketing his sketch-book.

"Pardon me, sir," said Redhand, with some hesitation, "are you alone?"

"I am," replied the other sadly; then, as if a sudden thought had struck him—"I had two pistols and a cloak once."

"We've picked 'em up, sir. They're in the canoe now. At least the pistols are, an' what's left o' the cloak."

"Ha! 'twas an old and cherished friend! Are you ready?"

"All ready, sir."

So saying, the old man led the way to the canoe and embarked with his strange companion. Then, pushing out into the stream just as the shades of night began to descend upon the wilderness, the trappers paddled swiftly away, wondering in their hearts who and what the stranger could be, and talking occasionally in subdued tones of the chief incidents of the exciting combat through which they had so recently passed.



CHAPTER FIVE.

FIERY REMARKS AND COGITATIONS—ROUND THE CAMP FIRE—THE ARTIST GIVES AN ACCOUNT OF HIMSELF—VALUE OF A SKETCH-BOOK—DISCOVERIES AND DARK THREATS—THE BEAR'S-CLAW COLLAR.

There is no doubt whatever that a western trapper knows how to make a fire. That is an axiomatic certainty. He also knows how to enjoy it. He is thoroughly conversant with it in all its phases, and with all the phenomena connected with it, from the bright little spark that flies from his flint and steel, and nestles on his piece of tinder, to the great rolling flame that leaps up among the branches of the forest trees, roaring lustily as it goes out upon the night air, like a mighty spirit set free from some diminutive prison house, rejoicing in being once more permitted to reassume its original grand dimensions.

Yes, a western trapper has a grand, massive notion of a fire, and his actions are all in keeping with that notion. Almost everything is small at the fountain. A mighty river usually begins in a bubbling spring or a tiny rivulet. So the trapper's initial acts are delicate. He handles the tinder gently, and guards it from damp. He fosters the spark, when caught, and blows upon it softly, and wraps it up in dry grass, and watches it intently as a mother might watch the life-spark of her new-born babe. But when once the flame has caught, and the bundle of little dry twigs has been placed above it, and the pile of broken sticks has been superadded, the trapper's character is changed. He grasps the ponderous hatchet, and, Homerically speaking—

"Now toils the hero: trees on trees o'erthrown, Fall crackling round him, and the forests groan."

These, "lopp'd and lighten'd of their branchy load," he assaults singly. Heaving the huge axe with lusty sweeping blows, he brings it down. Great wedgy splinters fly and strew the plain like autumn leaves. Then, with massive logs, full six feet long, he feeds the hungry fire until it leaps and roars in might, and glows full red and hot and huge enough to roast him a bison bull for supper, an he should feel so disposed.

Descending now from the abstract to the concrete, we would remark that, whether the reader does or does not admit the general proposition, that western trappers are pre-eminently up to fire (not to mention smoke or snuff), he cannot deny the fact that Big Waller, the Yankee trapper, was peculiarly gifted in that way. On the evening of the day on which occurred the memorable encounter with the grisly bear, as related in the last chapter, that stalwart individual heaved his ponderous axe and felled the trees around him in a way that would have paled the ineffectual fires of Ulysses himself, and would probably have induced that hero not only to cease cutting trees, but to commence cutting his stick thenceforth from the field of competition! March Marston meanwhile kindled the spark and nursed the infant flame. The others busied themselves in the various occupations of the camp. Some cut down pine-branches, and strewed them a foot deep in front of the fire, and trod them down until a soft elastic couch was formed on which to spread their blankets. Others cut steaks of venison and portions of the grisly bear, and set them up on the end of sticks before the fire to roast, and others made fast and secured the canoe and her lading.

The artist, seating himself beside the fire, just near enough to profit by the light, but far enough away to obtain a general view of everything and everybody, proceeded with enthusiasm to sketch the whole affair, collectively and in detail. He devoted his chief attention, however, to Big Waller. He "caught" that gigantic Yankee in every conceivable action and attitude. He photographed him, we might almost say, with his legs apart, the hatchet high above his head, and every muscle tense and rigid, preliminary to a sweeping blow. He "took" him with a monstrous pile of logs on his brawny shoulder; he portrayed him resting for a moment in the midst of his toil; he even attempted to delineate him tumbling over one of the logs, and hurling a shoulder-load upon the ground; but he failed utterly in the last attempt, being quite destitute of comical perception, and he did not finally conclude until Gibault went forward and informed him that supper was ready. Then he shut up his book, and, taking his place beside the trappers, began supper.

"This is comfortable—this is pleasant!" remarked the artist, as he sat down before the warm blaze, and applied himself with infinite relish to the venison steak placed before him by Bounce. "You live well here, it would seem."

This latter remark was addressed to Hawkswing, who sat close beside him; but that imperturbable worthy shook his head gravely.

"He don't understand ye," interposed Bounce, "knows, nothin' but his own mother tongue. We do live pretty middlin' so so hereabouts when we ain't starvin', w'ich it isn't for me to deny is sometimes the case, d'ye see."

Bounce stopped his own talk at this point by stuffing his mouth so full of meat that no word, not even a word of one syllable, could have forced itself out, had it tried ever so much. A long silence now ensued, during which the clack of seven pairs of active jaws was the only sound that broke upon the ear. It might have been observed, however, that all eyes were fixed more or less wonderingly on the stranger. Big Waller in particular looked him, figuratively speaking, through and through. He did not remove his eyes off him for an instant, but devoured his food with somewhat the expression of a dog that expects his bone to be snatched from him.

"Try a duck," said March Marston to the artist, observing that he had finished his steak.

"Thank you," answered the artist, accepting the proffered bird, which happened to be a teal, and beginning to carve it with a pen-knife. He had no fork, but used the fingers of his left hand instead.

Silence again ensued.

"Try another," said March again.

The artist hesitated.

"You'd better; it's a fat un."

"N-no. No!" said the artist, shutting up his knife with an air of decision. "No, thank you, I always advocate moderation, and it would ill become me to set an example of glut—ah, of the reverse."

"Wal, stranger," said Waller, who, having finished eating, wiped his mouth with a tuft of grass, and began to fill his pipe. "You do come out in the way o' moderation rather powerful. Why a teal duck an' a ven'son steak is barely enough to stop a feller dyin' right off. I guess a down-east baby o' six months old 'ud swab up that an' axe for more."

"Nevertheless it is quite enough for me," replied the artist, leaning down on his elbow. "I could, indeed, eat more; but I hold that man should always rise from table capable of eating more, if required."

Here was a proposition that it had not entered into the minds of the trappers, even in their most transcendental efforts of abstruse meditation, to think of! They gazed at each other in amazement.

"Wot! not eat yer fill w'en ye git the chance," exclaimed Bounce.

"No, certainly not."

"I say, stranger, when did you feed last?" inquired Big Waller.

"Why do you ask?" said the artist, looking quickly up.

"'Cause I wants to know."

The artist smiled. "My last meal was eaten yesterday morning."

"Ha! I was sure ob dat," cried Gibault; "your face look like as if you be full ob starvation."

"An' wot did ye eat last?" inquired Bounce, laying down his pipe and looking at their guest with much interest not unmingled with pity.

"I breakfasted on a little bird about the size of a hen's egg. I know not what it is named, but it was excellently flavoured. I relished it much."

On hearing this, Gibault pressed his hand on his stomach, as if the mere thought of such a delicately minute breakfast caused him pain in that region.

"I say, stranger," broke in Waller, in a tone of voice that seemed to imply that he was determined to be at the bottom of this mystery, and would stand it no longer—"wot's your name?"

"Theodore Bertram," replied the artist without hesitation.

"Where do you come from?"

"From England."

"Where air you a-goin' to?"

"To the Rocky Mountains."

"Wot for to do there?"

"You are inquisitive, friend," said Bertram, smiling; "but I have no reason for concealing my object in travelling here—it is to sketch, and shoot, and take notes, and witness the works of the Almighty in the wilderness. I hold it to be an object worthy the ambition of a great man to act the part of pioneer to the missionary and the merchant in nature's wildest and most inaccessible regions; and although I pretend not to greatness, I endeavour, humbly, to do what I can."

"No one can do more than that," said Redhand, regarding the young enthusiast with interest. "But surely you have not travelled to this out-o'-the-way place without a guide?"

Bertram pointed to the stars.

"These are my guides," said he; "the man who can read the heavens needs no guide."

"But that book ain't always readable," said Redhand; "when clouds are flying what do you do then?"

"Fur-traders in the far north have taught me how to ascertain the north by the bark on the trees; besides this I have a bosom friend who always points the way." So saying he pulled a small compass from an inner pocket and held it up.

"Good," rejoined Redhand; "but a compass is not food, neither will it kill game. Have you nought but them pistols?"

"I have none other arms now but these, save this good sword. They will serve to defend me in the hour of need, I trust; though now that I have seen the grisly bear I should doubt my chance of success were I to cope with him alone. I should imagine that monster to be worse even than the Wild Man of the West himself."

"The Wild Man o' the West!" echoed March Marston eagerly; "have you seen him?"

"Nay, verily; but I have heard of him," replied the artist, smiling, "and a strangely ferocious creature he must be, if all that's said of him be correct. But, to say truth, I believe the stories told of him are idle tales. Indeed, I do not believe there is such a man at all!"

March Marston's countenance fell. No Wild Man of the West at all! The bare possibility of such a crushing blow to all his romantic hopes and dreams caused his heart to sink. Bertram observed the change in his countenance, and, quickly divining the cause, added, "But I am of a sceptical turn of mind, and do not easily believe unless I see. There is one thing I have observed, however, which is in favour of his existence."

"What's that?" inquired March, brightening up. "That the nearer one comes to his reputed dwelling-place, this wild man assumes smaller and more natural proportions. I first heard of him in the Red River Prairies, where he is held to be a giant who devours men as well as brutes. As I came nearer to the Missouri, I found that the people there do not believe him to be either a cannibal or a giant, but assert that he is an enormously tall and powerful man, exceedingly fierce, and the sworn enemy of the whole human race; a species of Cain, whose hand is against every man, and every man's hand against him. The last white man I met—about two weeks ago—told me he had been with a tribe of Indians, some of whom had seen him, and they said that he was indeed awfully wild, but that he was not cruel—on the contrary, he had been known to have performed one or two kind deeds to some who had fallen into his power."

"Most extonishin'!" exclaimed Gibault, who sat open-mouthed and open-eyed listening to this account of the Wild Man of the West.

For some time the party round the camp fire sat smoking in silence, ruminating on what had been said. Then Big Waller broke the silence with one of his abrupt questions—

"But, I say, stranger, how did you come here?"

Bertram looked up without speaking. Then, settling himself comfortably in a reclining position, with his back against a tree, he said—

"I will relieve your curiosity. Listen: I am, as I have said, an Englishman. My father and mother are dead. I have no brothers or sisters, and but few relations. Possessing, as I do, a small independence, I am not obliged to work for my living. I have therefore come to the conclusion that it is my duty to work for my fellow-men. Of course, I do not mean to deny that every man who works for his living, works also for his fellow-men. What I mean is, that I hold myself bound to apply myself to such works as other men have not leisure to undertake, and the profit of which will go direct to mankind without constituting my livelihood on its passage. To open up the unknown wilderness has ever been my ambition. For that purpose I have come to these wild regions. My enthusiasm on quitting my native land was unbounded. But—"

Here Bertram paused and gazed dreamily at the glowing embers of the camp fire with an expression that led the trappers to infer that experience had somewhat moderated his enthusiasm. After a few minutes he resumed:—

"I have done wrong to make this venture alone. On reaching Canada I succeeded, through the kindness of the governor of the Hudson's Bay Company, in obtaining a passage in one of the company's canoes through that series of rivers and lakes by which the fur-traders penetrate into the regions of the far north. Arrived at Red River Settlement, I pushed forward on horseback over the plains with a small party of horsemen to the head waters of the Saskatchewan. Here I succeeded in engaging a party of twelve men, composed of half-breeds and Indians, and set out on a journey of exploration over the prairies towards the Rocky Mountains. Circumstances led me to modify my plans. We diverged towards the south, and finally came to within a few days' journey of the region in which we now are. We were suddenly surprised one night by a war-party of Blackfoot Indians. My men had grown careless. They neglected to keep strict watch, and before we were aware that danger threatened us, all our horses were carried off.

"This was a terrible calamity. My men declared that it was impossible to advance without horses, and refused to accompany me any farther. I remonstrated in vain; then, filled with indignation at their cowardice, I left them and pursued my journey alone. Since then I have seen only one man, a trapper, who was travelling south to the settlements. He offered to take me with him, but I declined. I felt that no great or good work could ever be accomplished by the man who turns back at the first disaster; so he left me. I have suffered somewhat. I am, unfortunately, a bad shot, and, although game is everywhere abundant, I cannot kill it. I have subsisted hitherto on small birds; but my powder and lead are almost expended. Had I not fallen in with you, I know not what I should have done."

To this narrative the trappers listened with respectful attention, for, despite the feelings of pity, almost bordering on contempt, with which they regarded the stranger's weapons and his knowledge, or rather ignorance, of woodcraft, they could not help reverencing the simple-minded enthusiasm in a good cause that had conducted the artist so deep into a savage land in which he was evidently unfitted, either by nature or training, to travel.

"But I say, stranger," said Big Waller, "wot do ye mean by openin' up the country? It ain't a oyster, that ye can open it up with a big knife I guess."

"There, friend, you are wrong. This country does, indeed, resemble an oyster; and I hope, by the aid of the mighty levers of knowledge and enterprise, to open it up. I mean to take notes and sketches, and, if spared, return to my native land, and publish the result of my observations. I do not, indeed, expect that the public will buy my work; but I shall publish a large edition at my own cost, and present copies to all the influential men in the kingdom."

The trappers opened their eyes wider than ever at this.

"What! Make a book?" cried Redhand.

"Even so."

"Will it have pictures?" eagerly asked March, who regarded the artist with rapidly increasing veneration.

"Ay, it will be profusely illustrated."

"Wot! pictures o' grisly bears?" inquired Bounce.

"Of course."

"An' men?" cried Big Waller.

"And men also, if I fall in with them."

"Then here's one, I guess," cried the bold Yankee, combing out his matted locks hastily with his fingers, and sitting up in what he conceived to be a proper position. "Here you are, sir. I'm your man; fix me off slick. Only think! Big Waller in a book—a raal book!"

He chuckled immensely at the bright prospect of immortality that had suddenly opened up to him.

"I have drawn you already, friend," said Bertram.

"Draw'd me already?"

"Ay, there you are," he replied, handing his sketch-book to the trapper, who gazed at his own portrait with unmitigated satisfaction. Turning over the leaf, he came unexpectedly on the likeness of Gibault, which, being a truthful representation, was almost a caricature. Big Waller burst into an uncontrollable fit of laughter at this. He rolled over on his back and yelled with delight. His yell being quite in keeping with his body, the din was so tremendous that Bounce roared—

"Stop yer noise, ye buffalo!"

But Waller didn't hear him; so March Marston effected the desired object by stuffing the corner of a blanket into his mouth and smothering his face in its folds.

Bertram's sketch-book was now examined, and for nearly an hour proved a source of the most intense interest and amusement to these unsophisticated trappers. In those days few, very few men of education had succeeded in penetrating far into the western wilderness; and although the trappers there knew what books and pictures meant, they had seen but few of them in the course of their lives, and none of those few had any reference to the wild country in which their lives were spent.

It may be imagined, then, with what delight and excitement they now, for the first time, beheld scenes of their own beloved woods and prairies, as well as their own rough forms, vividly sketched by a master-hand. One of the most interesting points in the inspection of the sketch-book was, that old Redhand recognised almost every one of the landscapes as spots with which he was well acquainted; and as Bertram had sketched most diligently as he travelled along, Redhand told him that by the aid of that book, without compass or anything else, he could trace his route backward, step by step, to the Saskatchewan river. Moreover, he described to the artist accurately many scenes which were near to those he had sketched, and gradually fell to talking about adventures and rencontres he had had in many of them, so that at last it became evident there would be no proposal to go to rest that night at all unless some wise one of the party should remind the others that another day's toil lay before them in the course of a few hours.

At length they took up their pipes, which had been forgotten in the excitement, and refilled them with the intention of having a last quiet whiff before lying down.

"Ho!" exclaimed Redhand, who still continued to turn over the pages of the book, "here's a face I know. Where saw ye that Indian?"

"I cannot easily tell where it was we met him; but I remember well that it was just a day's ride from the spot where our horses were stolen."

"Were there others with him?"

"No, he was alone."

"Ha! at least he said so, I fancy."

"Yes, he did; and I had no reason to doubt him."

"You're not used to the ways o' the redskin, sir," replied Redhand, looking meditatively at the fire. "Did he chance to mention his name?"

"Oh yes, he called himself Big Snake, at least one of my men translated it so."

A significant smile overspread the old trapper's face as he replied—

"I thought as much. A greater thief and villain does not disgrace the prairies. He's the man that took yer horses; sich a fellow as that never goes about alone; he's always got a tail following him as black as himself. But I'll see if we can't pay the rascal off in his own coin."

"How so?" inquired Bertram. "He must be far from this spot."

"Not so far as you think. I know his haunts, and could take you to them in a few days overland; but it'll take longer by the river, and we can't quit our canoe just now."

"But, good friend," said Bertram quietly, "I cannot presume on your hospitality so far as to expect you to carry me along with you for the purpose of redressing my wrongs."

"Make your mind easy on that pint," returned Redhand; "we'll talk of it in the mornin'."

While the old trapper and the artist were conversing, Bounce had busied himself in stringing the claws of the grisly bear on a strip of deerskin, for the purpose of making a collar. A necklace of this description is very highly prized among Indians, especially when the claws are large.

While it was being made, Gibault sighed so deeply once or twice, that March suggested he must be in love.

"So I is," sighed Gibault.

"That's interesting," remarked March; "who with?"

"Ay, that's it," said Bounce; "out with her name, lad. No one ought never to be ashamed o' bein' in love. It's a glorious state o' mind an' body as a feller should gratilate hisself on havin'. Who be ye in love wi', lad?"

"Vid dat necklace," replied Gibault, sighing again heavily.

"Oh! if that's all, ye don't need to look so blue, for it's yer own by rights," said Bounce. "I'm jist doin' it up for ye."

"Non; it cannot be mine," returned Gibault.

"How so?" inquired Waller, "ye 'arned it, didn't ye? Drew first blood I calc'late."

"Non, I not draw de fuss blood. Mais, I vill hab chance again no doubt. Monsieur Bertram he drew fuss blood."

"Ho, he!" cried Waller in surprise. "You didn't tell us that before. Come, I'm glad on't."

"What!" exclaimed Bertram, "the necklace mine? there must be some mistake. I certainly fired my pistol at the bear, but it seemed to have had no effect whatever."

"Gibault," said Bounce emphatically, "did you fire at all?"

"Non, pour certain, cause de gun he not go off."

"Then," continued Bounce, handing the much-coveted necklace to Bertram, "the thing b'longs to you, sir, for that bar comed up wounded, an' as he couldn't ha' wounded hisself, you must ha' done it—there."

The young man positively refused for some time to accept of the necklace, saying, that as Gibault had tracked and discovered the bear, it certainly belonged to him; but Gibault as positively affirmed that he would not disgrace himself by wearing what belonged rightfully to another man; and as the other trappers confirmed what their comrade said, Bertram was at last fain to accept of a trophy which, to say truth, he was in his heart most anxious to possess.

At the close of this amicable dispute, each man rolled himself in his blanket and lay down to sleep with his feet to the fire. Being in a part of the country where there were very few Indians, and these few on pretty good terms with the white trappers, no watch was set. Bertram lay down with his tattered cloak around him, and, taking a little book from his pocket, read it, or appeared to read it, till he fell asleep— on observing which, March Marston crept noiselessly to his side, and, lying gently down beside him, covered him with a portion of his own blanket. Ere long the camp was buried in repose.



CHAPTER SIX.

THE DANGERS OF THE WILDERNESS—AN UNEXPECTED CATASTROPHE, WHICH NECESSITATES A CHANGE OF PLANS—A DESCENT UPON ROBBERS PROPOSED AND AGREED TO.

There are few passages in Holy Writ more frequently brought to remembrance by the incidents of everyday life than this—"Ye know not what a day or an hour may bring forth." The uncertainty of sublunary things is proverbial, whether in the city or in the wilderness, whether among the luxuriously nurtured sons and daughters of civilisation, or among the toil-worn wanderers in the midst of savage life. To each and all there is, or may be, sunshine to-day and cloud to-morrow; gladness to-day sadness to-morrow. There is no such thing as perpetual felicity in the world of matter. A nearer approach to it may perhaps be made in the world of mind; but, like perpetual motion, it is not to be absolutely attained to in this world of ours. Those who fancy that it is to be found in the wilderness are hereby warned, by one who has dwelt in savage lands, that its habitation is not there.

March Marston thought it was. On the morning after the night whose close we have described, he awoke refreshed, invigorated, and buoyant with a feeling of youthful strength and health. Starting up, he met the glorious sun face to face, as it rose above the edge of a distant blue hill, and the meeting almost blinded him. There was a saffron hue over the eastern landscape that caused it to appear like the plains of Paradise. Lakelets in the prairies glittered in the midst of verdant foliage; ponds in the hollows lay, as yet unillumined, like blots of ink; streams and rivulets gleamed as they flowed round wooded knolls, or sparkled silvery white as they leaped over rocky obstructions. The noble river, on the banks of which the camp had been made, flowed with a calm sweep through the richly varied country—refreshing to look upon and pleasant to hear, as it murmured on its way to join the "Father of waters." The soft roar of a far-distant cataract was heard mingling with the cries of innumerable water fowl that had risen an hour before to enjoy the first breathings of the young day. To March Marston's ear it seemed as though all Nature, animate and inanimate, were rejoicing in the beneficence of its Creator.

The youth's reverie was suddenly broken by the approach of Theodore Bertram.

"Good morrow, friend," said the latter, grasping March's hand and shaking it heartily. "You are early astir. Oh, what a scene! What heavenly colours! What a glorious expanse of beauty!"

The artist's hand moved involuntarily to the pouch in which he was won't to carry his sketch-book, but he did not draw it forth; his soul was too deeply absorbed in admiration to permit of his doing aught but gaze in silence.

"This repays my toils," he resumed, soliloquising rather than speaking to March. "'Twere worth a journey such as I have taken, twice repeated, to witness such a scene as this."

"Ay, ain't it grand?" said March, delighted to find such congenial enthusiasm in the young painter.

Bertram turned his eyes on his companion, and, in doing so, observed the wild rose at his side.

"Ah! sweet rose," he said, stooping eagerly down to smell it.

"Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air."

"He was no poet who wrote that, anyhow," observed March with a look of disdain.

"You are wrong, friend. He was a good poet and true."

"Do you mean to tell me that the sweetness o' that rose is wasted here?"

"Nay, I do not say that. The poet did not mean to imply that its sweetness is utterly wasted, but to assert the fact that, as far as civilised man is concerned, it is so."

"'Civilised man,'" echoed March, turning up his nose (a difficult feat, by the way, for his nose by nature turned down). "An' pray what's 'civilised man' that he should think everything's wasted that don't go in at his own eyes, or up his own nose, or down his own throat? eh?"

Bertram laughed slightly (he never laughed heartily). "You are a severe critic, friend."

"I don't know, and I don't care, what sort o' cricket I am; but this I do know, that roses are as little wasted here as in your country—mayhap not so much. Why, I tell ye I've seen the bars smell 'em."

"Indeed."

"Ay, an' eat 'em too!"

"That was not taking a poetical view of them," suggested Bertram.

"Perhaps not, but it was uncommonly practical," returned March, laughing.

The conversation was abruptly terminated at this point by a flock of wild ducks, which, ignorant of the presence of the two youths, swept close past their heads with a startling whirr. The artist leaped backwards, and March, partly in the exuberant glee of his heart and partly to relieve his own startled feelings, gave utterance to a hideous yell.

"Hi! hallo!" roared Big Waller, starting up and replying to the yell with compound interest. "Wot's to do? Bars or savages—which? Oh! savages I see," he added, rubbing his eyes, as he observed March laughing at him. "Ha! lad, d'ye know there's a sort o' critter in other diggins o' this here world as they calls a hi-eeno, or somethin' o' that sort, as can laugh, it can; so you're not the only beast as can do it, d'ye see!"

The camp was now thoroughly roused, and the trappers set about making preparations for a start; but little was said. It is generally the case at early morning—at least among healthy men who have work to do before breakfast in the wilderness—that tongues are disinclined to move. After the first somewhat outrageous and rather unusual burst, no one spoke again, while they carried their goods down to the water's edge, except in a short grumpy way when an order or a remark was needful. In about ten minutes after the utterance of Big Waller's roar, they were in their places in the little red canoe, paddling blithely up the river.

Bertram's place in the canoe was the centre. He was placed there as a passenger, but, not being by any means of a lazy disposition, he relieved all the men by turns, and thus did a good share of the work during the day.

Towards evening the travellers came to a cataract, which effectually barred their further progress, and rendered a portage necessary. Just above the cataract there was a short stretch of comparatively smooth water, in which, however, the current was very strong. Immediately above that there was a rapid of considerable length and strength, which boiled furiously among the rocks, and seemed to be impassable to a canoe. After close inspection of it, however, Redhand and Bounce, who were tacitly recognised as joint leaders of the party, agreed that the canoe could easily enough be hauled up by means of a line. To make a long portage, and so avoid the whole obstruction, was desirable; but the precipitous nature of the banks at that place rendered the carrying of the canoe and goods a work not only of severe labour, but of considerable danger.

The mode of proceeding having been settled, all hands went to work without delay. The goods were carried to the top of the fall, which was about fifteen feet high, then the canoe was shouldered by Waller and Bounce, and soon it floated in a calm eddy near the head of the cataract. Having replaced the cargo, a strong line or rope was fastened to the bows, and Redhand and Bounce proceeded to take their places in the canoe, in order to guide it through the rapid, while the others were engaged in hauling on the track-line.

"Stay," cried March Marston as Bounce was stepping in, "let me go in the canoe, Bounce. You know well enough that I can manage it; besides, you're a heavy buffalo, and more able to track than I."

"Nay, lad," replied Bounce, shaking his head, "you'll only run the risk o' gettin' a wet skin—mayhap somethin' worse."

"Now, that's too bad. D'ye think nobody can manage a canoe but yourself? Come, Redhand, do let me go."

"It's not safe, boy. The rapid looks bad, and you're not much used to the bow-paddle."

"Tut, nonsense," exclaimed March, pushing Bounce aside and stepping into the canoe. "Now hold on."

Before the men on the bank of the river were well aware of what the reckless youth was about, he shoved the bow of the canoe off. The instant it passed the still water of the eddy and caught the powerful stream, the light bark darted like an arrow from the bank, and Redhand was obliged to use his paddle with the utmost dexterity, while the men on shore had to haul on the line with all their might, to prevent it being swept over the brink of the fall. In a second, however, the danger was past, and, putting their strength to the track-line, they dragged the canoe slowly but steadily upstream, while Redhand and March guided it past rocks and dangerous eddies. Seeing that the youth used his paddle dexterously, Bounce, after a little thought, resolved to let him encounter the more dangerous rapid above. Redhand silently came to the same conclusion, though he felt uneasy and blamed himself for allowing the ardour of the boy to get the better of him.

"March is a bold fellow," observed Bertram, who walked immediately behind Bounce, hauling on the line like the rest.

"Bold he is, sir," replied Bounce; "an' if ye'd seed him, as I did not many weeks agone, a-ridin' on the back of a buffalo bull, ye'd mayhap say he was more nor that."

"Hah! he is mad!" cried Gibault, who, although the last in the line of tracksmen, was sharp-eared, and overheard the conversation.

"Don't talk, Gibault," interposed Big Waller, "you need all the wind in your little carcass, I guess, to enable ye to steam ahead."

"Oui, mon dear ami, you is right—I do ver' much require all mine steam—mine spirits—for to push such a heavy, useless hulk as you before me."

"Here's a steep bit, lads; mind your eye, Hawkswing," said Bounce, as the Indian who led the party began to ascend a steep part of the bank, where the footing was not secure, owing to the loose gravelly nature of the soil.

As they advanced, the path along the bank became narrower, and the cliff itself so precipitous that it seemed as if a jerk on the line would drag the men off and send them rolling down into the flood below, in the midst of which the canoe was buffeting its way through the hissing foam.

Bertram, who was unused to such a position of comparative danger, and whose head was not capable of standing the sight of a precipice descending from his very feet into a roaring stream, began to feel giddy, and would have given the world to return; but he felt ashamed to confess his weakness, and endeavoured, by gazing earnestly into the bank at his side, to steady himself, hoping that the nature of the track would improve as they advanced. Instead of this being the case, it became worse at every step, and the trackers were at length obliged to proceed cautiously along a ledge of rock that barely afforded them foothold. Bertram now felt an almost irresistible desire to turn his head to the left and glance at the river below; yet he knew that if he should do so, he would become utterly unable to advance another yard. While engaged in this struggle it suddenly occurred to him that it was impossible now to turn, no matter how nervous he should become, as the path was too narrow to permit one of the party to pass another! He became deadly pale, and his heart sank at the thought. Little did the hardy trappers think, as they plodded silently along, that such an agonising conflict was going on in the breast of one of their number! A slight groan escaped him in spite of his utmost efforts to restrain himself. Bounce looked back in surprise.

"Hey! wot's to do, sir?"

"No matter; lead on—I will follow," said Bertram sternly between his clenched teeth.

"Hallo! up there," shouted Redhand, who was at that moment, along with March, exerting his utmost strength in order to keep the canoe off a rock over which the water was bursting in volumes of thick foam; "haul away! haul away! we're just about up."

The shout attracted Bertram's attention; he turned his eyes involuntarily towards the river. Instantly his brain swam round; he staggered, and would have fallen over the bank, had not Big Waller, who was close behind, observed his situation and caught him by the collar. In doing so he was compelled to let go his hold of the line. The additional strain thus suddenly cast upon Gibault wrenched the line from his grasp with a degree of violence that wellnigh hurled him into the river. Bounce and Hawkswing held on for one moment, but the canoe, having been eased off a little, caught a sweep of the rapid, and went out with a dart that the united strength of the whole party could not have checked. The two men had to let go to save themselves, and in a shorter time than it takes to relate, the canoe went down the river towards the fall, dancing like a cork on the heaving spray, while the old man and the youth stood up in the bow and stern wielding their paddles, now on one side, now on the other, with ceaseless rapidity in their efforts to avoid being dashed to pieces on the rocks.

The sight of this catastrophe, superadded to his already agonised feelings, caused the unhappy artist to swoon. Gibault, on seeing the line let go, turned instantly, and sprang like a deer along the track they had been following; intending to render what assistance he could to his comrades at the foot of the rapid. The others could not follow, because of Big Waller and the artist, who obstructed the path. Seeing this, the powerful Yankee seized Bertram round the waist, and, heaving him on his shoulder as one would swing a child, followed in Gibault's footsteps as fast as he could run.

The distance to the spot whence they had commenced to track the canoe was not great, but before they reached it the frail craft had been shattered against a rock, and was now hurrying, along with the scattered cargo and the two men, towards the fall, to pass over which involved certain destruction.

There is nothing more uncertain, however, than the action of the whirling eddies of a great rapid. True, the general flow of its body of water is almost always the same, but its superficial billows are more variable—now tossing a drifting log to the right, anon to the left, and casting it ashore, or dragging it with fearful violence into the raging current. Although there was only the canoe's length between the old trapper and the youth when they were left struggling in the water, they were swept in totally different directions. Redhand was hurled violently into the eddy where the canoe had lain before the ascent was commenced, and was dragged safe to land by his comrades. March Marston, on the other hand, was swept out near to the main current, and would, in a few seconds more, have been carried over the fall, had he not, with wonderful presence of mind and an almost superhuman exertion of muscle, dashed into an eddy which was formed by a rock about fifty yards from the top of the fall. The rock was completely covered with the bursting spray, so that it formed no resting-place, and it, with the partial eddy that tailed away from it, was about twenty yards from the shore, where the trappers stood gazing in horror at their companion as he struggled bravely to maintain his position by swimming; but to cross those twenty yards of gushing water, so as to afford him aid, seemed beyond the power of man.

Men bred in the wilderness are not usually slow to act in cases of danger where action is possible. Each man was revolving in fervid haste every plan that seemed likely to afford succour. Redhand's quick eye observed that the rocks at the edge of the fall, on the side of the river on which they stood, projected out so far that a straight line drawn from the eddy to the fall would pass within a yard of them, and that, consequently, if March would push straight across the stream and make vigorously for the bank, he might hit the point of rocks referred to before being carried over.

"Down, some of you," he cried, "to the point, an' be ready to catch him; I'll shout to him what to do."

Big Waller and Gibault darted away. Poor Bertram, having recovered, remained gazing in speechless agony at March, who, having made several fruitless efforts to seize hold of the sunken rock, was evidently growing weaker. Bounce also remained to gaze, as if he had lost all his wonted self-command.

"Ho! March!" shouted Redhand. "Dash into the stream—straight for me— with all yer might; don't be afraid, lad! do it boldly!" But March heard not. The rush of water about him deadened all other sounds.

In an instant Bounce started at full speed up the river, plunged into it, and, descending with fearful rapidity, swung round into the eddy behind the stone almost before his companions could divine what he meant to do.

Even in that moment of terrible suspense March Marston looked with an expression of surprise at his friend as he swam up beside him. Bounce did not waste time or words; he merely raised one hand for a second, and, pointing to the bank of the river, cried, "Push for it—'tis your only chance!"

March Marston made no reply, but at once obeyed; yet so exhausted was he, that, in the effort, he lost strength and sank. Bounce was prepared for this. He seized him by the hair and struck out with the energy of despair. A moment more and he was within a foot of the brink of the fall—but, also, within a foot of the point of rock on which Big Waller was lying at full length, part of his body overhanging the cataract, his arms extended, and Gibault and Hawkswing holding him firmly by the legs. Bounce caught his comrade's hand, and swung close in to the bank, while with the other hand he continued to grasp March by the hair of the head. The force of the current was so great, however, that not one of the party dared move, and it seemed for a moment as if all of them would be lost, when Bertram rushed forward, and, seizing Bounce by the arm, dragged him still nearer the bank, and relieved the strain upon the others. Just then, Redhand came to the rescue, and in another moment the two men were safe upon the land.

Poor Bertram fell upon his knees, and while he thanked God for the deliverance of his companions, sobbed liked a little child.

For some time the trappers spoke little. Accustomed though they were to danger, they were solemnised by the recent narrow escape from sudden death. Perhaps, too, their minds were more deeply affected than usual with a sense of their dependence upon the living God, by the example and the heartfelt, unrestrained thanksgiving of Bertram. But men whose lives are spent in the midst of alarms are not long seriously affected, even by the most solemn events. The trappers quickly recurred to their present circumstances, which were, in truth, of a nature calculated to fill them with anxiety, and cause them to bend the powers of their quick wits and iron energies to the simple consideration of how they were to subsist and how proceed on their journey.

"First of all," said Redhand quickly, "we must try what we can recover of our odds and ends."

"Right," cried Bounce, who was none the worse for his late gallant exertions; "the current won't stop for no man; an' the bales ain't likely to stem it o' their own accord till we're ready to look for 'em."

Saying this, he set off down the river at a run, followed by all the others, including March, who, after wringing the water from his garments, and resting a few minutes, felt as well and strong as ever. But, alas! their losses were grievous and irreparable. Their little bundles of spare clothing and trinkets for trading with, or conciliating, the Indians, were indeed saved, but their guns and all their ammunition were gone. All that remained to them of the latter were the few charges of powder in the horns suspended round their necks, and a few slugs and bullets in their pouches. The only firearms left were Bertram's cavalry pistols.

As for the canoe, it was smashed so thoroughly, that only a very few shreds of bark were cast up on the shore; but entangled with these shreds they were happy to find several of their steel traps—a most fortunate circumstance, as it held out hopes that they might still be enabled to prosecute to some extent the main object of their expedition.

As each man had been in the habit of carrying his axe and knife in his belt, those indispensable implements of the backwoodsman were saved; but the loss of guns and ammunition was a very severe misfortune, and one which, for at least half an hour after every attempt to recover them had failed, cast a damp over the spirits of the whole party. But these men had neither time nor inclination to hang down their heads and sigh. Big Waller, being a careless individual by nature, was the first to regain somewhat of his wonted tone and manner. Sitting on a grassy knoll, on which all the party had been resting for some time after their fruitless exertions, in moody silence, Waller looked up suddenly and said, "Who's afraid?"

As no one happened at that moment to be exhibiting symptoms of terror, and there was no apparent cause for fear, the question seemed irrelevant. We therefore conclude that the bold Yankee meant by it to imply that he, at least, was not afraid of circumstances, no matter how disastrous or heartrending they might be. Having said this, he looked at the faces of his companions one by one. The last face he looked at was that of Gibault Noir, and it wore such a lugubrious aspect of hopeless melancholy that Big Waller burst into an uncontrollable fit of laughter, and Bounce, without knowing why, joined him.

"Well, it's of no use looking blue about it," said March Marston, making an effort to cheer up; "the question to be settled now is, What's to be done?"

"Ay, that is the question," observed Bertram gravely.

"Wall now, that bein' the kee-westion," said Waller, "whose a-goin' to answer it? There's a chance now, lads; but don't all speak at once."

"Right; that's wot it is," observed Bounce, nodding; "that's the feelosophy on it. When a feller's turned upside down, wot's he a-goin' to do nixt? You can't put no other construction on it in this here wurld."

Redhand, who had been ruminating abstractedly for some minutes, now looked round on his comrades and said—

"Here's a plan for you, lads. That outrageous villain the Big Snake lives, for the most part, in a pretty little spot just three days' march from this place. He stole, as ye all know, the horses belongin' to Mr Bertram's party. Well, I propose that we shud go an' call on him, an' make him stand an' re-deliver. What say you?"

"Agreed," cried Waller, tossing his cap into the air. "Hurrah!" shouted March Marston. In one way or another, each gave his consent to the plan of making a descent upon the robbers and causing them to make restitution.

The plans of backwoodsmen, once formed, are always quickly put in execution. They had no arrangements to make, no portmanteaus to pack, no difficulties in the way to overcome. Each man strapped a portion of the remaining property on his broad shoulders, and, pushing into the forest with vigorous strides, they were soon far from the spot where their late disaster had occurred, and gradually drew near to the wild glens and gorges of the Rocky Mountains.



CHAPTER SEVEN.

A WOLFISH WAY OF KILLING BUFFALOES DESCRIBED—BOUNCE BECOMES METAPHYSICAL ON THE FINE ARTS—BUTCHERING ENLARGED ON—A GLORIOUS FEAST, AND SKETCHING UNDER DIFFICULTIES.

One of the ancient poets has said that wandering through the wild woods is a pleasant thing. At least, if one of them has not said that, he ought to have said it, and, certainly, many of them must have thought it, whether they said it or not. Undoubtedly, if future historians record faithfully all that has been said and written from the commencement of time to the period in which they flourish, they will embalm the fact that at least one prose writer of the present day has enunciated that incontrovertible proposition.

But we go a step further. We assert positively that wandering through the wild woods is a healthy as well as a pleasant sort of thing. The free air of the mountains and prairies is renovating, the perfumes of the forests are salubrious; while the constantly recurring necessity for leaping and scrambling is good for the muscles, and the occasional tripping over roots, tumbling into holes, scratching one's face and banging one's shins and toes against stumps, are good for—though somewhat trying to—the temper.

Further still—we affirm that wandering through the wild woods is a funny thing. Any one who had observed our friends March Marston, and Redhand, and Bounce, and Big Waller, and Black Gibault, the trappers, and Bertram the artist, and Hawkswing the Indian, one beautiful afternoon, not long after the day on which they lost their canoe, would have admitted, without hesitation, that wandering through the wild woods was, among other things, a funny thing.

On the beautiful afternoon referred to, the first six individuals above named were huddled together in a promiscuous heap, behind a small bush, in such a confused way that an ignorant spectator might have supposed that Bounce's head belonged to Big Waller's body, and the artist's shoulders to Redhand's head, and their respective legs and arms to no one individually, but to all collectively, in a miscellaneous sort of way. The fact was that the bush behind which they were huddled was almost too small to conceal them all, and, being a solitary bush in the midst of a little plain of about a half a mile in extent, they had to make the most of it and the least of themselves. It would have been a refreshing sight for a moralist to have witnessed this instance of man— whose natural tendency is to try to look big—thus voluntarily endeavouring to look as small as possible!

This bundle of humanity was staring through the bush, with, as the saying is, all its eyes, that is, with six pairs of—or twelve individual—eyes; and they were staring at a wolf—an enormous wolf— that was slowly walking away from the bush behind which they were ensconced! It was a very singular wolf indeed—one that was well calculated to excite surprise in the breast even of trappers. There was something radically wrong with that wolf, especially about the legs. Its ears and head were all right, and it had a tail, a very good tail for a wolf; but there was a strange unaccountable lump under its neck, and its fore legs bent the wrong way at the knees, and it seemed to have long feet trailing behind its hind legs, besides being otherwise misshapen. The mystery is explained when we state that this wolf was none other than Hawkswing, down on his hands and knees, with a wolf-skin over his back, and Bertram's blunderbuss-pistol in his hand. He was creeping cautiously towards a herd of six or seven buffaloes that chanced to be feeding quietly there, quite unconscious of the near proximity of so dangerous an enemy.

"I hope the old pistol won't miss fire," whispered Redhand, as he observed that the wolf paused, evidently for the purpose of examining the priming.

"I hope," added Bounce, "that the Injun won't miss his aim. He be'n't used to pistols."

"Never fear," said March with a quiet grin. "If he aims within a yard o' the brute he's sure to hit, for I loaded the old blunderbuss myself, an' it's crammed nigh to the muzzle with all sorts o' things, includin' stones."

At this Big Waller stared, and said emphatically, "It'll bust!" Bertram felt and looked uneasy, but Bounce shook his head.

"Them old things," said he, "never bust. I've been forty years, off an' on, in these parts, an' I've always obsarved that old irons o' that sort don't bust; cause why? they'd ha' busted w'en they wos new, if they'd bin goin' to bust at all. The fact is, they can't bust. They're too useless even for that."

"How comes it," inquired Bertram, "that the buffaloes are not afraid of a wolf? I have been led to understand that wolves are the inveterate enemies of buffaloes, and that they often attack them."

To this question March, whose head was in close proximity to that of the artist, replied—

"Ay, the sneakin' brutes will attack a single wounded or worn-out old buffalo, when it falls behind the herd, and when there are lots o' their low-minded comrades along with 'em; but the buffaloes don't care a straw for a single wolf, as ye may see now if ye pay attention to what Hawkswing's doin'."

Bertram became silent on observing that the Indian had approached to within about pistol range of the buffalo without attracting particular attention, and that he was in the act of taking aim at its shoulder. Immediately a sharp click caused the buffalo to look up, and apprised the onlookers that the faithless weapon had missed fire; again Hawkswing pulled the trigger and with a like result. By this time the buffalo, having become alarmed, started off at a run. Once more the click was heard; then the wolf, rising on its hind legs, coolly walked backed to its comrades behind the bush, while the herd of buffaloes galloped furiously away.

The Indian solemnly stalked up to Bertram and presented the pistol to him with such an expression of grave contempt on his countenance that March Marston burst into an irresistible fit of laughter, thereby relieving his own feelings and giving, as it were, direction to those of the others, most of whom were in the unpleasant condition of being undecided whether to laugh or cry.

To miss a buffalo was not indeed a new, or, in ordinary circumstances, a severe misfortune; but to miss one after having been three days without food, with the exception of a little unpalatable wolf's flesh, was not an agreeable, much less an amusing, incident.

"I'll tell ye wot it is," said Bounce, slapping his thigh violently and emphasising his words as if to imply that nobody had ever told anybody "wot" anything "wos" since the world began up to that time, "I'll tell ye wot it is, I won't stand this sort o' thing no longer."

"It is most unfortunate," sighed poor Bertram, who thoroughly identified himself with his pistol, and felt as much ashamed of it as if the fault had been his own.

"Wall, lads," observed Big Waller, drawing forth his pipe as the only source of comfort in these trying circumstances, and filling it with scrupulous care, "it ain't of no use gettin' growowly about it, I guess. There air more buffaloes than them wot's gone; mayhap we'll splinicate one before we gits more waspisher."

It may, perhaps, be necessary to explain that Waller's last word referred to the unusually small waists of the party, the result of a pretty long fast.

"I'll tell ye what it is," said March, advancing towards Bounce with a swagger and drawing his hunting-knife, "I quite agree with Waller's sentiments. I don't mean to allow myself to get any more waspisher, so I vote that we cut Bounce up and have a feed. What say you, comrades?"

"All right," replied Bounce, laying bare his broad chest as if to receive the knife, "only, p'r'aps, ye'll allow me to eat the first slice off myself afore ye begin, 'cause I couldn't well have my share afterwards, d'ye see? But, now I think on't, I'd be rather a tough morsel. Young meat's gin'rally thought the tenderest. Wot say ye to cuttin' up March first, an' tryin' me nixt?"

"If you'll only wait, lads," said Redhand, "till Mr Bertram gits a new flint into his pistol, we'll shoot the victim instead o' cutting him up. It'll be quicker, you know."

"Hah! non," cried Gibault, leaping a few inches off the ground, under the impulse of a new idea, "I vill show to you vat ve vill do. Ve vill each cot hoff von finger. Redhand, he vill begin vid de thomb, et so on till it come to me, and I vill cot hoff mine leetle finger. Each vill devour the finger of de oder, an' so've shall have von dinner vidout committing mordor—ha! vat say you?"

As Bertram had by this time arranged the lock of his pistol and reprimed it, the hungry travellers resumed their weary march without coming to a decision upon this delicate point.

It had happened that, during the last few days, the land over which they travelled being somewhat barren, small game had become scarce, and the large game could not be approached near enough to be shot with such weapons as the artist's antiquated pistols; and as the party possessed nothing better in the shape of a projectile, they had failed to procure supplies. They had now, however, again reached a rich country, and had succeeded in trapping a large wolf, under the skin of which Hawkswing had made, as we have seen, an unsuccessful effort to shoot a buffalo. Soon after this failure the party came to a ridge of gravelly soil that stretched across the plain like a wave.

The plain, or small prairie, to which we refer was in the midst of a most lovely scene. The earth was carpeted with rich green grass, in which the wild flowers nestled like gems. The ground was undulating, yet so varied in its formations that the waves and mounds did not prevent the eyes of the travellers ranging over a vast tract of country, even when they were down among the hollows; and, when they had ascended the backs of the ridges, they could cast a wide glance over a scene of mingled plain and wood, lake and river, such as is never seen except in earth's remotest wilds, where man has not attempted to adorn the face of nature with the exuberances of his own wonderful invention.

Far away on the horizon the jagged forms and snowy peaks of the Rocky Mountains rose clear and sharp against the sky. For some days past the trappers had sighted this stupendous "backbone" of the far west, yet so slowly did they draw near that March Marston and Bertram, in their impatience, almost believed they were a range of phantom hills, which ever receded from them as they advanced.

On reaching the summit of the gravelly ridge, Redhand looked along it with an earnest, searching gaze.

"Wot's ado now?" inquired Bounce.

"There ought to be prairie-hens here," replied the other.

"Oh! do stand still, just as you are, men!" cried Bertram enthusiastically, flopping down on a stone and drawing forth his sketch-book, "you'll make such a capital foreground."

The trappers smiled and took out their pipes, having now learned from experience that smoking was not detrimental to a sketch—rather the reverse.

"Cut away, Gibault," said Bounce, "an' take a look at the edge o' yon bluff o' poplars and willows. I've obsarved that prairie-hens is fond o' sich places. You'll not be missed out o' the pictur', bein' only a small objict, d'ye see, besides an ogly one."

The jovial Canadian acknowledged the compliment with a smile and obeyed the command, leaving his companions to smoke their pipes and gaze with quiet complacency upon the magnificent scene. Doubtless, much of their satisfaction resulted from the soothing influence of tobacco on their empty stomachs.

"I say," whispered Waller, removing his pipe and puffing from his lips a large cloud of smoke, which rolled upwards in the form of a white ring, "I say, Bounce, I guess it's past my comprehension what he means by a foreground. How does we make a capital foreground?"

Bounce looked at his companion in silence for a few seconds; then he removed his pipe, pursed his lips, frowned heavily, looked at the ground, and repeated slowly, "How does we make a capital foreground?"

Waller nodded.

"Ay, that's it." Bounce resumed his pipe for a few seconds, and then said with an air of the utmost profundity—

"Don't you know?"

"No, I don't."

"Wot? Nothin' about it wotiver?"

"Nothin' wotsomdiver."

"H'm, that's okard," said Bounce, once more applying to his pipe; "'cause, d'ye see, it's most 'orrible difficult to explain a thing to a feller as don't know nothin' wotiver about it. If ye only had the smallest guess o—"

"Wall, come, I does know somethin' about it," interrupted Waller.

"Wot's that?" inquired Bounce, brightening up.

"I calc'late that I knows for certain it ain't got no place wotiver in my onderstandin'."

"Hah!" exclaimed Bounce. "Come, then, I'll do my best for to explain it t'ye. Here's wot it is. D'ye see Mr Bertram, there?"

"Yes, I does."

"An' d'ye see yerself?"

"Wall, I does," replied Waller, looking complacently down at his huge limbs.

"Good; then d'ye see the ground over there?" continued Bounce, pointing with his pipe to the Rocky Mountains.

Waller nodded.

"Now then," said Bounce, in those deep earnest tones with which men usually attempt to probe the marrow of some desperately knotty question; "now, then, when Mr Bertram's a drawin' of, an' tries to look at the ground over there, you an' me comes before the ground, d'ye see; an' so we're, as ye may say, before-grounds. But men wot studies human natur' an' langwidges, d'ye see, comes for to know that words is always gittin' onnecessary bits chopped off 'em—sometimes at one end, sometimes at t'other. So they tuck off the B, d'ye see, an' made it foreground, and that's how we come to be foregrounds."

"Oh!" said Waller, with the vacant air of a man who feels himself as wise at the termination as he was at the beginning of an explanation.

"Yes," resumed Bounce, "that's how it is. I must confess, for my part, that I don't 'xactly see the advantage o' us in that light. I should ha' thought it would ha' bin better to make us stand to one side, d'ye see, and let him see how the land lies. But there's no accountin' for taste in this wurld—I've obsarved that, iver since I was three fut two."

Having delivered himself of this graphic exposition of an abstruse subject, Bounce relapsed into silence, and the whole party continued for some minutes in a profound reverie. From this felicitous condition they were awakened by the sudden appearance of Black Gibault, who darted out of the poplar bluff and made towards them at the top of his speed. He uttered no cry, but, on coming near enough to permit of his features being clearly seen, it was observed that his eyes were eagerly wide open, and that his mouth was engaged in the formation of words. A second or two more, and he was near enough to be heard uttering the word "buffaloes" in a hoarse whisper.

"Ho! boy, wot is't?" cried Bounce in an equally hoarse whisper.

"Ba—buffaloes, hah! buffaloes," cried Gibault, panting violently as he came up; "Where be de leetle gun? He! Monsieur Bertram, out vid it."

"Where saw ye them?" asked Redhand, seizing the two pistols, and examining the priming.

"Jist oder side of de bluff. Ver' close to de bushes. Queek! queek! vite! mon garcon, you is so drefful slow."

The latter part of this sentence was addressed to Hawkswing, who was quietly putting on his wolf-skin. Although too slow for the hasty spirit of Gibault, the Indian was quick enough for all useful purposes. In three minutes he was in the clump of poplar trees behind which the buffaloes were reported to be feeding, and in another minute he was out upon the plain creeping towards his victims, while the rest of the party were again huddled together behind a bush, looking on with deep interest and breathless attention.

Gradually and slowly the Indian crept towards the buffaloes, pausing and snuffing about from time to time as if he were a veritable wolf in search of something to eat. At last he had approached near enough to the herd to attract their attention, but scarcely near enough to make sure of bringing one down. The huge unwieldy creatures looked up inquiringly for a moment, but, seeing only a solitary enemy, they scorned to take further notice of him, and went on feeding.

Hawkswing paused within a few yards of the side of a fat sleek animal, and slowly raised his pistol. The trappers held their breath, and Bertram uttered a low groan of anxiety. One moment more and a white puff was followed by a loud crack, and a bellow, as the horror-stricken buffaloes tossed up their heels and fled wildly from the spot, leaving one of their number in the agonies of death upon the plain.

The knife of the Indian hastened its end, and with a rush and a yell of delight the whole party fell upon the luckless animal.

It was a wonderful sight to see, the way in which these experienced men flayed and cut up that buffalo! Hawkswing, without taking time to remove his wolf-skin covering, commenced upon the head and speedily cut out the tongue—a more difficult operation than inexperienced persons would suppose. Redhand and Bounce began at the shoulders, and Big Waller and Gibault fell to work upon the flanks. March Marston seized his axe, and hastening into the bluff felled a dead pine and kindled a fire. As for Bertram, he sat down to sketch the whole with a degree of prompt facility and gusto, that showed the habit had become second nature to him.

The way in which these men wielded their bloody knives, flayed and sliced, dismembered and divided that buffalo, is past belief—almost beyond description. Each man threw off his capote and tucked up his shirt-sleeves to the elbows, and very soon each had on a pair of bright red gauntlets. And the bloody appearance of Hawkswing's mouth proved that he had been anticipating the feast with a few tit-bits raw. The others were more patient.

In very nearly as short a time as it takes to tell, the buffalo was converted into a mass of fragments that were powerfully suggestive of a butcher's shop, and the trappers adjourned to a neighbouring rivulet to wash their hands and arms.

"Now, I'll tell ye wot it is," observed Bounce while thus engaged, "I means for to have a most awful blow out, and then go to sleep for four-and-twenty hours on end."

"Ditto," remarked Big Waller with a nod; to which old Redhand replied with a chuckle.

"An' who be go to vatch, tink you?" inquired Gibault, as they all returned to the camp. "Perhaps de Injuns look out for us—vat den?"

"Ah ye may well ask that, Gibault," said Redhand; "the fact is I've been thinkin' that now we're drawin' near to enemies we must begin to keep better watch at night, and to burn small fires o' dry wood, lest the smoke should tell a tale upon us."

"Oh, don't talk bam, old feller," said Waller; "I guess we'll have watchin' enough w'en we gits into the mountains. Let's take it easy here."

"We'll have one good blow out to-night, anyhow," cried March Marston, heaving a fresh pile of logs on the already roaring fire. "Now, Mr Bertram, do give up your scratchin' to-night, and let's see what you can do in the eatin' way. I'm sure you've fasted long enough, at least for the good o' your health."

The poor artist had indeed fasted long enough to give to his naturally thin and lank figure a thread-papery appearance that might have suggested the idea that he was evaporating. He smiled good-humouredly when March Marston, who had now become rather familiar with him, shut up his sketch-book and set him forcibly down before the fire, all round which steaks and hunks of meat were roasting and grilling, and sending forth an odour that would have rendered less hungry men impatient of delay. But they had not to wait long. Each man sat before his respective steak or hunk, gazing eagerly, as, skewered on the end of a splinter of wood, his supper roasted hissingly. When the side next the fire was partially cooked, he turned it round and fell to work upon that while the other side was roasting—thus the cooking and the eating went on together.

After a considerable time symptoms of satiety began to appear, in the shape of an occasional remark. Soon Bounce uttered a deep sigh, and announced his belief that, having taken the edge off his appetite, it was time to begin with the marrow-bones. Thereupon, with the marrow-bones he began, and his example was quickly followed by his companions. There was a business-like steadiness of purpose in the way in which that meal was eaten, and in the whole of the procedure connected with it, that would have been highly diverting to a disinterested spectator.

When the feast was concluded, the pipes made their appearance as a matter of course; and when these were lighted, and in full blast, the trappers found leisure to look round upon each other's faces with expressions of benignity.

"Dat be a monstrobolly goot supper," remarked Gibault Noir. Gibault spoke with an effort. It was quite plain that moderation was a virtue that he did not possess in a high degree—at least, not on the present occasion.

"You'll need a 'monstrobolly' good sleep arter it," observed Bounce quietly.

"You will, jist," said Waller; "an' so will this coon, I cal—"

Big Waller was going to have "calculated," according to custom; but sleepiness overpowered him at the moment, and he terminated the word with a yawn of such ferocity that it drew from Redhand a remark of doubt as to whether his jaws could stand such treatment long.

Every member of that party seemed to be quite contented and amiable, but no one showed much inclination to talk, and ere many minutes had passed, half their number were under their blankets, their heads pillowed on their bundles and their eyes sealed in sleep. A few minutes later, and Big Waller, sinking into a very sprawling and reckless posture, with his back against the stem of a large cotton-tree, dropped into a state of slumber with his pipe hanging gracefully from his lips.

This seemed so picturesque to Theodore Bertram, who sat immediately opposite to the Yankee, on the other side of the fire, that he pulled out his sketch-book and began enthusiastically to sketch by the flickering light. While he was thus occupied, the others lay down, one by one, and he was left, at last, the only waking member of the camp.

But Theodore Bertram was human, and this is tantamount to saying that he was not capable of ignoring the somnolent influences of human nature. To his own extreme surprise his head fell forward with an abrupt nod while he was engaged in the act of depicting Big Waller's nose, and he found, on resuming work, with an imbecile smile at what he deemed his weakness, that that member of the Yankee's face was at least two feet long, and was formed after the pattern of a somewhat irregular Bologna sausage. Indiarubber quickly put this to rights, however, and he set to again with renewed zeal. Throwing back his head, and looking up as if for inspiration, his wide-awake fell off, and it required a sudden and powerful effort to prevent his head and shoulders falling in the same direction.

Having replaced his hat and shaken himself a little, the persevering man once more applied himself to his task of finishing the Yankee's portrait, which, to say truth, now presented a variety of jagged and picturesque outlines, that savoured more of caricature than anything Bertram had ever yet accomplished. For some time the pencil moved upon the paper pretty steadily, and the artist was beginning to congratulate himself on his success, when, to his horror, he observed that the tree against which the Yankee leaned was in the act of falling over to the right. The same instant he received a shock upon the left side, and awoke to find that he had fallen heavily upon poor Gibault's breast, and that Waller and his tree were in statu quo. But Gibault cared not; he was too deeply intent upon sleeping to mind such trifles.

Bertram smiled meekly as he resumed his sitting posture; but the smile faded and was replaced by a gaze of mute astonishment as he observed that he had depicted Waller's right eye upon his chin, close beneath his nose! There seemed to be some sort of magic here, and he felt disposed to regard the thing in the light of some serious optical illusion, when, on closer inspection, he discovered Waller's mouth drawn altogether beyond the circle of his countenance, a foot or so above his head, on the stem of the tree against which he leaned. This changed the current of his thoughts and led him to believe that he must be dreaming, under which impression he fell back and went to sleep.

Of course, Bertram recollected nothing after that; but when Gibault awoke next morning, he found him lying on his back, with his feet in the ashes of the extinct fire, his tall brigandish wide-awake perfectly flat beneath his shoulders, and his sketch-book lying open across his face.



CHAPTER EIGHT.

A CACHE DISCOVERED—BERTRAM BECOMES VALOROUS—FAILURE FOLLOWS, AND A BRIEF SKIRMISH, FLIGHT, AND SEPARATION ARE THE RESULTS.

The sun was high, scattering the golden clouds in the bright sky, gilding the hilltops, flooding the plains, vivifying vegetable life, and gladdening the whole animal creation, when, on the following morning, our wearied trappers raised their heads and began to think of breakfast.

To do these trappers justice, however, we must add that their looks, when they became wide enough awake to take full cognisance of the scenery, indicated the presence of thoughts and emotions of a more elevated character, though, from the nature of their training from infancy, they wanted words to express their feelings.

It was otherwise with Bertram and March Marston. Their exclamations, the instant they arose, showed that both their hearts were keenly alive to the good and the beautiful which surrounded them—and their tongues were not altogether incapable of uttering the praise of Him who clothes so gorgeously the lovely earth and peoples it with millions of happy creatures—yes, happy creatures, for, despite the existence of death and sin and sorrow everywhere, and the croaking of misanthropes, there is much, very much, of pure, overflowing happiness here below.

"Come, March—Mr Bertram, time presses," said Redhand, interrupting the two friends in the midst of earnest conversation; "we've got a long day before us, and, mayhap, a fight with redskins at the end o't, so it behoves us to make a good breakfast and set off as soon as we can. We're late enough already."

"Ah, Redhand!" exclaimed March, "you're a terrible fellow for duty an' business, an' all that sort o' thing. It's always 'time to be off,' or 'time to think o' this or that,' or 'we mustn't put off,' with you. Why won't ye let us take a breathin' spell once in a way to enjoy ourselves, eh?"

The old man pointed to the sun. "You've enjoyed yourself late enough to-day, han't ye?"

"Come, March, you're in a fault-finding humour this morning," said Bertram as they walked towards the camp. "Let's enjoy ourselves in spite of circumstances. Do you know, I hold it to be exceedingly wise as well as philosophical, to make the best of things at all times."

"Do you?" exclaimed March in a tone of affected surprise; "now that's odd. You must be a real clever fellow to have made up your mind on that point. But somehow or other I'm inclined to think that most o' the trappers hereabouts are as wise as yourself on it, though, mayhap, they don't say it just in the same words. There's Waller, now, as 'll tell ye that when he 'can't help it he guesses he'll jist grin an' bear it.' And there's an old Irish trapper that's bin in the mountains nigh forty years now, and who's alive at this day—if he bean't dead—that used to say to himself when ill luck came upon him, 'Now, Terence, be aisy, boy; an' av ye can't be aisy, be as aisy as ye can.' So you see, Mr Bertram, we have got a few sparks of wisdom in these diggins."

"Now, then, stop yer feelosophy," cried Bounce, hitching his shoulders so as to induce his light load to take up a more accommodating position. "Ye didn't use to be a slow feller, March; wot's to do? Ye ain't a-goin' to cave in 'cause we're gettin' nigh the redskins, are ye?"

To this March deigned no reply, but, swinging his bundle over his shoulder, set off at a pace that speedily left his laughing comrades far behind. When, in the course of an hour after, they overtook him, he was discovered lying flat on his back, with his head resting on his bundle, and smoking his pipe with an air of perfect satisfaction.

During the course of that day the trappers walked about thirty miles. Towards the afternoon they came to a large river, along the banks of which they pursued their way, led by Redhand, who seemed as familiar with the country as if he had dwelt there from infancy. The old trapper's kindly visage was lighted up with a smile of recognition, ever and anon, when some new and striking feature of the landscape opened up to view, as if he had met with and were greeting some personal friend. He spoke occasionally in a low tone to March, who usually kept close to his side, and pointed to spots which were associated in his memory with adventures of various kinds. But Redhand's observations were few. He preferred to listen to the conversations of his comrades, as they plodded steadily along, enlivening their march with many an anecdote and legend.

At last Redhand called a halt, and gazed inquiringly around him, as if in search of some object.

"Wot's up?" inquired Bounce earnestly.

"It was hereabouts, somewhere," muttered Redhand, to himself rather than to his friend; then added quickly, as he threw down his pack, "Ay, there it is—never touched. Now that's what I call luck."

"Wot's luck?" inquired Waller.

"Ah, dat is de keevestion," added Gibault with a look of surprise.

"You must know, lads," said Redhand, turning to his comrades, who observed his movements with considerable astonishment; "you must know, lads, there was an old chap who once trapped beavers up in them parts—"

"Oh! it's a hanikdot," interrupted Big Waller; "then I guess we'd as well sot down." So saying, he seated himself on his bundle and, as a matter of course, proceeded to fill his pipe. The others followed his example, with the exception of Redhand, who remained standing, and of Bertram, who quickly opened his sketch-book, that being the first opportunity he had enjoyed during the day of making an entry therein.

"Right," exclaimed Bounce. "It's allers more feelosophical to sot than to stand—also more ekornomical, 'cause it saves yer moccasins. Go on with yer story, old man."

"It ain't a story," said Redhand; "nor I don't think it can even be called an anecdote. Well, this old chap that once trapped beaver in them parts came down to Pine Point settlement one year with a load o' furs, sold 'em all off, took a ragin' fever, and died." Redhand paused, and gazed dreamily at the ground.

"I say," observed Bounce seriously, "ain't that wot ye may call raither a short hanikdot—not much in it, eh?"

"But before he died," resumed Redhand without noticing the interruption, "he sent for me an' said: 'Redhand, I'm goin' onder, an' I've got some property as I don't want lost. Ye know Beaver Creek?' 'Yes,' says I, 'every fut of it.' 'Well, then,' says he, 'there's a spot there with three mounds on the right side o' the Creek and a tall poplar in front of 'em.' 'I know it,' says I. 'Well, w'en I last come from that part,' says he, 'I made a cache at the foot o' that poplar, an' put one or two things in, which it 'ud be a pity to lose—so I give 'em to you, Redhand. I was chased by Injuns at the place, so I couldn't stop to bring 'em away, d'ye see?' 'An' what were the things ye put there?' said I. But he gave me no answer; his mind began to wander, and he never spoke sense again. Now, lads, this is Beaver Creek, and there stands the poplar in front o' the three mounds."

Redhand pointed to the tree as he spoke, and the others started up with alacrity, for the little touch of romance connected with the incident, combined with their comparatively destitute condition, and their ignorance of what the concealed treasure might be, powerfully stirred their curiosity.

Arming themselves with strong staves, they began to dig away the earth at the roots of the poplar.

After a few minutes' hard work, Bounce rose to wipe the perspiration from his brow, and said—

"Wot for didn't ye tell us o' this before, Redhand?"

"Because I wasn't sure the cache might not have bin discovered long ago, and I didn't want to risk disappointin' ye."

"Hallo! here's somethin'," exclaimed Big Waller, as the point of the stake with which he tore up the earth struck against some hard substance.

"Have a care, boy," cried Bounce, stooping down and clearing away the earth with his hands. "P'r'aps it's easy broken. No—why—it's a keg!"

"So it am," cried Gibault; "p'r'aps it am poudre."

At this moment Big Waller and Bounce gave the keg a violent tug and disentombed it, an operation which proved Gibault's surmise to be wrong, for the shake showed that the contents were liquid. In a moment the plug was driven in, and Bounce, putting his nose to the hole, inhaled the result. He drew back with a look of surprise, and said—

"Brandy!"

"Ha! here is one oder ting," cried Gibault, laying hold of a bundle and dragging it to light. "Vat can dis be?"

The question was soon answered; the string was cut, the leathern cover unrolled, and a considerable quantity of tobacco was disclosed to the view of the trappers, whose looks showed pretty clearly that this latter discovery was much more agreeable than the former.

After digging deep all round the tree, they came to the conclusion that this was all that the cache contained.

"Now," said Bounce, after some talk in reference to their newly-found treasure, "wot's to be done with dis here keg o' brandy? As for the baccy, we'll carry that along with us, of course, an' if Master Redhand's a liberal feller, we'll help him to smoke it. But the brandy keg's heavy, an' to say truth, I'm not much inclined for it. I never wos fond o' fire-water."

"If you'd allow me, friends, to suggest," said Bertram, whose experience among trappers in other regions had convinced him that spirits was a most undesirable commodity, "I would recommend that you should throw this brandy away. I never saw good come of it. We do not require it for health, neither do we for sickness. Let us throw it away, my friends; it is a dangerous and deceitful foe."

"Mais, monsieur," interposed Gibault with a rueful countenance; "you speak de trooth; but though hims be dangereux an' ver' bad for drink oftin, yet ven it be cold vedder, it doo varm de cokils of de hart!"

Big Waller laughed vociferously at this. "I guess Gibault's right," said he, "it 'ud be a powerful shame to fling it away."

"Well, lads," said Redhand, "it's evident that we can't drink it just now, for it would unsteady our hands for the work we have to do this night. It's also clear we can't carry it with us on a war expedition; so I propose that we should put it where we found it an' come back for it when we've done wi' the redskins."

This plan was finally agreed to; the keg was reburied at the foot of the poplar, and the party continued their journey, carrying the much-prized tobacco along with them.

The sun was still blazing above the mountains in the west, tingeing their snowy spires with rosy red, when the trappers came upon the first indication of the neighbourhood of Indians in the shape of recent footprints and cuttings in the woods. A large canoe was also found lying bottom up on the bank of the creek. This Redhand examined, and found it to be in good condition, although, from the marks in the vicinity, it was evident that it had not been recently used.

Men who spend their lives in the backwoods of America are celebrated for the closeness with which they observe every object and circumstance which happens to pass within the range of their perceptions. This habit and acuteness of observation is the result of necessity. The trapper and the Red Indian are alike dependent very much on this faculty for their sustenance and for their safety. Surrounded as they are by perils of every kind, their eyes and ears are constantly on the alert, as they pass through the pathless wilderness on the hunt or on the war trail. No object within the range of vision is passed with indifference. Everything is carefully yet quickly noted—the breaking of a twig, the crushing of a blade of grass, or the footprint of man or beast. Hence the backwoodsman acquires the habit of turning all things in his path to account, or notes them in case they should, by any possibility, be required by him at a future time.

Redhand had no definite object in view when, with the assistance of March Marston, he lifted the canoe and placed it in the stream to ascertain that it was water-tight, and then replaced it on the bank with the paddles close beside it. But he had a general idea, founded on experience, that a good canoe was a useful thing in many supposable circumstances, and that it was as well to know where such an article was to be found.

"We shall have to go cautiously now," said he before resuming the march. "The Injuns are not far off, as ye may see by yonder thin line o' smoke that rises above the trees on the mountain side. If they are the men we seek, they're sharp as foxes, so we'll have to step like the painter."

Bertram looked up quickly at the last word; then he smiled the next moment, as he remembered that the panther was thus styled by trappers.

Proceeding cautiously forward in single file, they at length gained a spot beyond which they could not advance without running the risk of being discovered. Here another halt was made, and here it was agreed that Redhand should advance alone, near enough to ascertain whether the Indians, whose camp they were approaching, were actually the scamps who had robbed Bertram of his horses. The old trapper was about to set forward when Bertram stopped him.

"Methinks, old man," said he, "it were well that I should accompany you on this expedition, which I foresee is one of no little danger; and as the danger is encountered chiefly on my account, it seems to me right and fitting that I should share it along with you. Besides, two are better than one in a struggle, whether mental or physical."

Redhand looked a little perplexed. He did not like to tell the poor artist that he was totally unfit to make a stealthy approach to an Indian camp, yet he felt that the danger of failure would be increased tenfold if he allowed him to make the attempt; but Bertram pleaded so earnestly, and withal so resolutely, that he at length consented, on condition of his doing nothing but what he was desired to do, and keeping as quiet as a mouse. This the artist promised to do, and the two accordingly set forth, armed with their knives and the two pistols. Bertram also carried his sword. The rest of the party were to remain in ambush until the return of the others.

During the first part of their advance through the wood Bertram trod as softly and carefully as an Indian, and watched every motion of his companion, who led him down into a ravine which conducted them to within a few hundred yards of the camp. From the absence of such noises as the barking of dogs and shouts of children, the old trapper conjectured that this must be either a party of trappers or a war-party of Indians. A few minutes' creeping on hands and knees through the underwood brought them to a spot whence the camp could be seen, and showed that in the latter conjecture he was right. The red warriors, forty in number, were seated in a circle round their watch-fire smoking their tomahawks in moody silence.

To the eye of Bertram they all seemed to be lost in dreamy reverie, but Redhand observed, with a feeling of anxiety, that he who seemed to be their chief sat in that peculiar attitude which indicates intense attention. Laying his hand on Bertram's shoulder, the old man said in the faintest possible whisper—

"Yonder sits the thief, an't he?"

Bertram at once recognised in the chief of the band before him Big Snake, the Indian who had stolen his horses and property; so he nodded his head violently, and looked excited, but wisely refrained from speech, lest his voice should be overheard.

Redhand shook his head. "The thief," said he in a tone that was scarcely audible, "has heard us; I see by his face that he suspects he has heard something, and he knows that it was not the falling of a leaf. If we break a twig now we're done for."

Redhand meant this to be a salutary caution to his companion, which would ensure a noiseless retreat. To men of his own stamp it would have been useful, but he little knew the peculiar temperament of his friend; the mere idea of the success of the whole expedition depending upon his extreme care unhinged the nerves of the poor artist, who, although absolutely a brave man, in the true sense of the term, could no more control his nervous system than he could perform an Indian war-dance. He could have rushed single-handed on the whole body of warriors with ease, but he could not creep among the dry twigs that strewed the ground without trembling like an aspen leaf lest he should break one.

It is wonderful, however, what necessity will enable men to do. Bertram did creep after his friend, back towards the spot where the rest of his party lay, as softly and noiselessly as if he had been bred to the work from infancy. On regaining the edge of the ravine, they rose and advanced in a crouching posture. Then Bertram sighed and felt that imminent danger was over. Alas! that feeling of partial security cost him dear. The step that succeeded the sigh was a careless one. His foot caught in a projecting root, and next moment he went headforemost into the centre of a decayed bush with a crackling crash that was absolutely appalling in the circumstances.

Redhand cast upon the luckless man one glance of horror, and, uttering the words, "Run for your life!" dashed down the bank, and coursed along the bottom like a hare. At the same moment that terrific yell, which has so often chilled the heart's blood of men and women in those western wilds, rang through the forest, telling that they were discovered, and that the Indians were in pursuit.

Bertram kept close to the heels of the old trapper at first, but before he had run fifty yards he tripped and fell again. On attempting to rise he was seized and thrown violently to the ground by an Indian warrior. Looking back and observing this, Redhand turned at once, like a hare doubling on its course, and rushed to the rescue; but before he reached his friend he was surrounded by a dozen yelling Indians. At the foremost of these he levelled his pistol, but the faithless weapon missed fire, and he was in the act of hurling it at his adversary, when a blow from behind felled him to the ground.

While this was going on, the trappers were bounding to the succour of their comrades. When they came to the field of action and saw neither of their friends (for they had been borne swiftly away), and beheld an overwhelming band of armed savages rushing towards them, they at once perceived that strength or courage could avail them nothing in such an unequal conflict; so they turned and fled, scattering themselves among the bushes so as to divert pursuit as much as possible.

Bounce and Gibault were the only two who kept together. These made for the spot where the canoe had been left, but the latter outran the former so quickly that he was soon lost to view ahead of him. In a few minutes Bounce gained the bank of the stream, and seized the end of the canoe. To his amazement Gibault was nowhere to be seen. But he had no time for thought, for at that moment he was discovered by two Indians who ran towards him. The canoe was launched, and a paddle seized in an instant, but the trusty trapper was loath, even in his extremity, to push off while his comrade might be in danger.