"Ho! Gibault! Gibault Noir!" he shouted. "Quick, lad; yer too late a'most, ho!"

Grinding his teeth in an agony of anxiety, he made a sudden dart at the foremost Indian, who little dreamed of such an attack, and hit him with the paddle with all his force. The savage dropped like a stone, and the paddle flew into a dozen splinters. This was a foolish act on the part of Bounce, for the second Indian was now close upon him, and, seeing the fate of his companion, he stopped short, and hastily fitted an arrow to his bow. Just then several of the savages burst from the wood with fierce cries. There was no time to lose. Bounce turned, pushed off the canoe, and leaped in as an arrow grazed his neck.

The bold trapper's condition seemed hopeless; for, having broken the paddle to pieces, he could not propel his little bark out of danger. The stream was broad and rapid at that place, and swept him away swiftly. Immediately a shower of arrows fell around him, some grazing his person and piercing his clothes and the canoe, but fortunately not wounding him.

Meanwhile three of the Indians darted downstream, and, throwing themselves into the current, swam out so as to intercept the canoe as it passed. Bounce, having lain down at full length in the bottom of his tiny bark to avoid the arrows which were discharged at him, did not observe these men, and the first intimation he had of what was taking place was the canoe being nearly upset, as a powerful savage laid hold of the side of it.

To draw his knife and pass it round the wrist of the Indian, so as to sever the tendons, was the work of a moment. The savage fell back with a yell of mingled rage and pain. The others seeing what had occurred, wisely turned and made for the shore. This incident was the means of saving the trapper, for the Indians, fearful of wounding their comrade, had ceased to discharge their arrows, and when they again ventured to do so, a tumultuous rapid had caught the canoe, and whirled it nearly over to the opposite shore.

Bounce watched his opportunity. As he swept near to a rocky point, he sprang towards it with all his might. He fell short, but happily the water did not reach above his knees. Next moment he sprang up the bank and stood on the edge of the underwood, where he paused, and, turning round, shook his clenched fist at his enemies, and uttered a shout of defiance.

The disappointed Indians gave vent to a fiendish howl, and discharged a cloud of arrows, most of which fell short of their mark. Ere the last shaft had fallen harmless to the ground, Bounce had entered the forest and was gone.

The Wild Man of the West—by R.M. Ballantyne



CHAPTER NINE.

BOUNCE COGITATES UPON THE EMBARRASSING CIRCUMSTANCES OF HIS CONDITION— DISCOVERY OF BLACK GIBAULT—TERRIBLE FATE IN STORE FOR THEIR COMRADES—A MODE OF RESCUE PLANNED—DREADFUL EFFECTS OF FIRE-WATER—THE RESCUE.

About ten minutes after making his escape from his Indian foes, Bounce seated himself on the trunk of a fallen tree and began to think upon "Number One."

A little red squirrel had been seated on the trunk of that tree just two minutes before his arrival. It was now seated on the topmost branch of a neighbouring pine, looking with a pair of brilliant black eyes indignantly at the unceremonious intruder.

Possibly the reader may think that it was selfish of Bounce, at such a time, to devote much attention to Number One. He had just escaped; he was in comparative safety; he was free; while there could be little or no doubt that his late companions were prisoners, if not killed, and that, in the ordinary course of things, they would eventually suffer death by torture. At such a time and in such circumstances it would be more natural, even in a selfish man, to think of any or of all the other numerals than number one.

But, reader, I need scarcely tell you that things are not always what they seem. Men are frequently not so bad as, at a first glance, they would appear to be.

Bounce always reasoned philosophically, and he often thought aloud. He did so on this occasion, to the immense edification of the little red squirrel, no doubt. At least, if we may judge from the way in which it glared and stared at the trapper—peeped at him round the trunk of the tree, and over the branches and under the twigs and through the leaves, jerking its body and quirking its head and whisking its tail—we have every reason to conclude that it experienced very deep interest and intense excitement. Pleasure and excitement being, with many people, convertible terms, we have no reason for supposing that it is otherwise with squirrels, and therefore every reason for concluding that the squirrel in question enjoyed Bounce's visit greatly.

"Now this is wot it comes to," said Bounce, calmly filling his pipe, from the mere force of habit, for he had not at that time the most distant idea of enjoying a smoke. "This is wot it comes to. Savages is savages all the wurld over, and they always wos savages, an' they always will be savages, an' they can't be nothin' else."

At this point Bounce recollected having seen an Indian missionary, who had been taken when a boy from his father's wigwam and educated, and who had turned out as good and respectable a Christian gentleman as most white men, and better than many, so he checked himself and said—

"Leastwise they can't be nothin' but savages so—so long as they is savages."

This argument, although exceedingly obvious, seemed even to his own mind to possess so little power, that he endeavoured to enforce it by slapping his thigh with such energy that the body of the red squirrel nearly jumped out at its own eyes. It clasped the tree stem to its beating heart bravely, however, and, judging from its subsequent conduct, speedily recovered its self-possession.

"That's how it is," continued Bounce; "an' that bein' the case, savages always invariably thinks o' number one before they thinks on anythin' else. Now, as men judges theirselves so they judges of others—that's a fact, as all feelosophy has preclaimed, an' all experience has pruven. Wot then? Why, them savages 'll think I've cleared off—made tracks— thankful to git away with my own skin whole, and carin' no more for my comrades than if they wos so many stumps. Thinkin' that, of coorse they'll think it's o' no use to try to cross the river and give chase, 'cause I've got a long start o' 'em, an' so, d'ye see, they'll give me up an' think no more about me. Good! very good! But p'r'aps it's jest poss'ble that feller whose paw I tickled may sometimes recall me to mind."

This last idea tickled the trapper so powerfully that he chuckled in a quiet way, and in doing so exposed such a double row of white teeth that the squirrel, which had remained for some time in an attitude of deep attention, began to show symptoms of uneasiness.

"Now I'll tell you wot I'll do," continued Bounce, resuming his look of grave anxiety as the thought of his comrades recurred to him; "I'll go up the river till I comes to opposite the place where I shoved the canoe into the water. By the time I git there it'll be dark; then I'll swum across an' foller the redskins an' save my comrades if I can. If I can't, wot then? why, I'll leave the scalp of Bob Ounce to dangle in the smoke of a redskin's wigwam."

We have elsewhere hinted that when a Rocky Mountain trapper makes up his mind to do a certain thing he usually does it at once. Having settled the plan of his future proceedings, Bounce did not waste more time in thought or speech. He thrust his unsmoked pipe into his bosom, leaped up from the trunk of the fallen tree, and darted from the spot with such sudden promptitude, that the horrified squirrel sprang wildly into empty space and vanished from the scene for ever!

For a quarter of an hour Bounce glided noiselessly through the forest, keeping a course parallel with the river. In the deepening gloom of evening, he appeared more like a spectre than a human being—so quick and agile were his motions as he flitted past the tree stems, yet so noiseless the tread of his moccasined feet. The bushes were thick and in places tangled, compelling him to stoop and twist and diverge right and left as he sped along, but, being unencumbered with weapons or weight of any kind, he advanced so rapidly that in the short space of time we have mentioned he stood opposite to that part of the bank where the attack had been made, and below which he had been swept for a great distance in the canoe by the rapid stream.

Here he spent some time in reconnoitring the opposite bank, but without gathering much information from his observations. No symptom of the presence of human beings could be discovered. No column of smoke rising above the trees to tell of the watch-fire of white man or red. The trapper listened intently, then he bethought him, for the first time, of giving the signal which, at setting out on their journey, they had agreed to use in all circumstances of danger. It was the low howl of a wolf followed immediately by the hoot of an owl. The reply to it was to be the hoot of the owl without the cry of the wolf when danger should be imminent and extreme caution necessary, or the howl of the wolf alone if danger should have passed away.

To the first utterance of the signal no reply was made. After waiting a few seconds, Bounce gave it forth again. Immediately after, the low howl of a wolf was heard on the opposite bank, and a figure appeared at the edge of the river. Darkness prevented the trapper ascertaining who it was, but a repetition of the cry convinced him that it could be none other than Black Gibault.

With a grunt of satisfaction, Bounce at once proceeded to make preparations for crossing the river. Cutting a large piece of bark from a neighbouring tree, he hastily formed it into a species of dish or flat boat; then, stripping off all his garments, he tied them up in a tight bundle, and placed them in this miniature canoe; after which he plunged boldly into the stream and made for the opposite shore, pushing his little ark before him. In five minutes he had crossed, and entered into a hasty conversation with Gibault in low, eager tones, while pulling on his clothes.

"First of all, lad," said Bounce, laying his hand impressively on the other's shoulder, "are they all safe?—none killed?"

"Non; dey be all alive, for certain."

"I'm thankful for that—very thankful. Now go ahead, lad, and tell me what ye know, while I pull on my leggins."

"Vell, dey be alive, as I have say. Mais dey not live long."

Gibault said this with such a look of woebegone despair that Bounce paused in the midst of his dressing and said with much anxiety—"Wot's wrong?—why not, lad?"

"'Cause dey vill be tortured to death demain, or de day apres de morrow. Stay, I vill tell to you all I knows. You mus' know, ven I run avay from you, I do so 'cause I know dat canoe ver' probabilie git opturned, so I come to river bank before every von. Dere is von big tree dere, so op I go like von skvirrel. You know vat come to pass apres dat. You smash de head of de Injun, aussi you smash de paddil. Den you escape, an' de Injuns howl vid passion!

"Ver' soon after dat, dey all come to de bank of river—forty of 'em, I tink—draggin' our comerades vid dem, all tied by de wrist—Redhand, an' Big Valler, an' March, an' Hawksving, an' poor Monsieur Bertram. Mais, dat Monsieur Bertram, be most 'straordinary man! He terriblement frightened for every leetle ting, but him not fright von bit for big ting! Hims look at de sauvage dat hold him as if him be a lion. I do tink Monsieur Bertram vould fight vell if hims obleeged.

"After good deal of consultoration an' disputerin', dey vas about for go avay; so I sit ver' still, but I move my foot von leetle morsil, an' von small leaf fall to de ground. It vas ver' small leaf, but Hawksving him see it. Ah! he be von cliver Injun. Ver' sharp in sight too! I tink him should be named Hawkseye. No von else notice it, but I see Hawksving visper to Big Valler. Dat man be sharp feller too. He turns hims back to de tree, nevair vonce looked up, but him burst into loud laugh, like von tondre-clap, an' cry out, 'Vell done, Gibault! Keep close, old feller; their village is one day off towards the sun!' An' den he laugh again. Ah! ho! how my heart him jump ven he speak my name! But de Injuns tink hims yell out to some von cross de river, for him looks dat vay. Vell, off dey go, and I begin to breathe more easy; but ven dey git far-off, I hear the voice of Big Valler come back like far-avay tondre, cryin', 'Dey're goin' to roast us alive to-morrow; look sharp!' Dat vas de last I hear. Den de darkness come, an' den you come, an', now, vat is to come nixt?"

Poor Gibault spoke fast, and perspired very much, and looked wild and haggard, for his nature was sensitive and sympathetic, and the idea of his comrades meeting with such a horrible fate was almost too much for him.

Bounce's honest face assumed an expression of deep anxiety, for, fertile though his resources usually were, he could not at that moment conceive how it was possible for two unarmed men, either by force or by stratagem, to rescue five comrades who were securely bound, and guarded by forty armed warriors, all of whom were trained from infancy in the midst of alarms that made caution and intense watchfulness second nature to them.

"It looks bad," said Bounce, sitting down on a stone, clasping his hard hands together, and resting an elbow on each knee. "Sit ye down, Gibault. We'll think a bit, an' then go to work. That's wot we'll do— d'ye see?"

"Non, I don't see," groaned Gibault. "Vat can ve do? Two to forty! If it was only swords ve had to fight vid—Hah! But, alas! we have noting—dey have everyting."

"True, lad, force won't do," returned Bounce; "an' yit," he added, knitting his brows, "if nothin' else 'll do, we'll try at least how much force 'll do."

After a short pause Bounce resumed, "Wos they tied very tight, Gibault?"

"Oui. I see de cords deep in de wrists, an' poor Redhand seem to be ver' moch stunned; he valk as if hims be dronk."

"Drunk!" exclaimed Bounce, suddenly springing up as if he had received an electric shock, and seizing his companion by both shoulders, while, for a moment, he gazed eagerly into his eyes; then, pushing him violently away, he turned round and darted along the bank of the river, crying, as he went, "Come along, Gibault; I'll tell ye wot's up as we go!"

The astonished Canadian followed as fast as he could, and, in an exclamatory interjectional sort of way, his friend explained the plan of rescue which he had suddenly conceived, and which was as follows:—

First, he proposed to go back to the cache at the foot of the tall tree, and dig up the keg of brandy, with which he resolved to proceed to the camp of the Indians, and, by some means or other, get the whole clan to drink until they should become intoxicated. Once in this condition, he felt assured they could be easily circumvented.

Gibault grasped at this wild plan as a drowning man is said to grasp at a straw, and lent his aid right willingly to disentomb and carry the brandy keg. Neither he nor Bounce knew whether there was enough brandy to intoxicate the whole tribe, but they had no time to inquire minutely into probabilities.

Vigorously, perseveringly, without rest or halt, did these two trappers pursue their way that night, with the keg slung on a pole between them. The stars glimmered down through the trees upon their path, as if they wished them success in their enterprise. It was all-important that they should reach the Indian camp before daybreak; so, although footsore and weary from their late exertions after a long day's march, they nevertheless ran steadily on at a long swinging trot, which brought them, to their inexpressible joy, much sooner than they had anticipated, to their journey's end.

It was two hours before dawn when they came suddenly upon the camp—so suddenly that they had to crouch the instant they saw the watch-fires, in order to avoid being discovered.

"Now, Gibault," whispered Bounce, "you'll have to remain here. Get into a hiding-place as fast as you can, and keep close. You're clever enough to know what to do, and when to do it. Only, lad, come near and have your knife handy when the row is at the loudest, and see that ye don't let the squaws cut out our livers when we're tied up."

Gibault nodded significantly.

"It's a curious fact," continued Bounce in a somewhat sad tone, "that I'm more afraid o' the squaws than o' the men. Howsomdiver, it's got to be done!"

So saying, Bounce shouldered the keg, and shaking his comrade by the hand, as if he felt that he might be parting with him for ever, he glided into the darkness of the forest, leaving Gibault to secrete himself on the side of a mound, from which he could witness all that went on in the camp.

From this point of observation the poor Canadian beheld what was not calculated to allay his fears. The camp lay in a hollow, surrounded by trees. On an open space were erected several leathern huts or tents, in the midst of which blazed a large camp fire. Round this the forty warriors were seated, eating their supper, while a number of squaws were sitting in the entrances to their tents variously engaged. Horses hobbled—that is, with the fore-feet tied together to prevent their running away—were cropping the grass close to the tents. Not far from them, and within the circle of light cast around by the fire, stood a group of small trees. To each of these was tied a man, and Gibault had no difficulty in making them out to be his unfortunate comrades.

Occasionally, as he gazed, one or two of the old Indian women went up to these helpless men, with a yell of execration, and, brandishing scalping-knives before their faces, appeared as if about to plunge them into their hearts; but their time had not yet come; the hags were only anticipating the feast of butchery that awaited them on the morrow.

While Gibault was gazing at this scene with mingled feelings of anxiety, rage, and horror, the whole band of Indians suddenly sprang to their feet and seized their weapons. Almost at the same moment Bounce strode into the circle of light and deposited his cask on the ground. Then, making signs of peace, he advanced towards one of the Indians, who, from his dress and appearance, seemed to be the chief, and presented him with a piece of tobacco. The chief accepted the gift in silence.

Bounce, who was well acquainted with many of the dialects of that region, had no difficulty in making himself understood. He stated that he was a trapper, that he had come to that country to trade, and asked whether his Indian friends had furs to dispose of. As he had anticipated, the savages were in no mood to treat with a solitary man who was entirely in their power. The chief, who evidently suspected that he was a friend of the prisoners, instead of replying, asked him sarcastically what he had in the keg.

"Fire-water," replied Bounce unhesitatingly.

At this the eyes of the savages sparkled with delight. Not deigning to waste more time with him, they seized the unfortunate trapper and confronted him with his companions, gazing earnestly in their faces the while to observe whether they betrayed any sign of recognition.

It said much for the self-control of these hardy men, that, although their comrade was thus suddenly and unexpectedly placed before them, they did not permit a muscle of their countenances to change, but gazed on him and on his captors with that expression of defiant contempt with which Indians usually meet their fate, and in which they are equalled, sometimes even outdone, by the unfortunate white trappers who chance to fall into their cruel hands.

And well was it, for the success of the scheme, that Theodore Bertram's nerves had received such repeated and awful shocks that day, that they were now incapable of feeling. He had been so terribly and repeatedly struck with amazement that his features had assumed a settled expression of surprise that could not be increased, so that when he beheld Bounce a prisoner before him, although he certainly felt astonishment, he could by no means increase the expression of that sensation. The Indians, therefore, passed away from him with a howl of derision, and tied Bounce to a tree beside his comrades, concluding that, instead of a plotter, they had, in him, made another lucky capture. Anxiety to taste their beloved beverage had something to do with their haste in this matter, no doubt.

No one who has not seen it can conceive of the intense passion the North American Indian has for ardent spirits. He seems to have no power of restraint whatever when the opportunity of indulging that passion presents itself.

The head of the keg was quickly knocked in, and the eyes of the savages seemed positively to flash as they gazed upon the precious fluid. The chief advanced first with a little tin mug, such as was sold to them by traders, and drank a deep draught; he then handed the cup to another, but the impatience of the others could not be restrained—they crowded round with their mugs, and dipping them into the keg drank eagerly, while the squaws, who loved the fire-water as much as did their masters, formed an outer circle, and, as patiently as they could, awaited their turn. They knew full well that it would soon come.

The Indians, being unaccustomed to frequent potations, were quickly maddened by the spirit, which mounted to their brains and rushed through their veins like wildfire, causing every nerve in their strong frames to tingle. Their characteristic gravity and decorum vanished. They laughed, they danced, they sang, they yelled like a troop of incarnate fiends! Then they rushed in a body towards their prisoners, and began a species of war-dance round them, flourishing their tomahawks and knives close to their faces as if they were about to slay them; shrieking and howling in the most unearthly manner, and using all those cruel devices that are practised by Red Indians to terrify those unfortunates whom they intend ultimately to kill.

Suddenly one of the warriors observed that the squaws were stealthily approaching the spirit keg, and rushed towards them with a howl of fury, followed by his comrades, who drove the women away and recommenced drinking. And now a fiercer spirit seemed to seize upon the savages; old feuds and jealousies, that had long been cherished in silence, broke irresistibly forth. Angry words and fierce looks were followed by the drawing of knives. Suddenly a young man rushed upon a comrade and buried his knife in his heart. The piercing death-cry was followed by the vengeful yell of the relatives of the murdered man, as they sprang upon the murderer. Others flew to the rescue, and the drunken melee became general. Blood began to flow freely, and there is no doubt that many lives would have been sacrificed had not the combatants been too much intoxicated to fight with vigour. Many of them fell prostrate and helpless on attempting to rise. Others dealt their blows at random, staggering and falling one upon another, until they lay in a heap, shrieking, biting, tearing, and stabbing—a bloody struggling mass, which told more eloquently than tongue can tell, that, deep and low though savage human nature has fallen in sin and misery, there is a depth profounder still, to which even those who seem to be the lowest may be precipitated by the fatal power of strong drink.

And now Gibault Noir felt that it was time for him to draw near to the horrible scene, in order to be ready, when the moment should arrive, to release the prisoners, or to protect them in the event of any of the drunken crew being tempted to a premature slaughter.

The women were now actively interfering to prevent further bloodshed. Most of the Indians were already dead drunk. Only a few, whose powers of endurance were greater than those of their comrades, continued to shout their war-songs. When these were down, the women rushed at the spirits like wolves. Even the little children came out from the tents and got their share. It was a terrible scene, such as has, alas! been often enacted before in the wilds of the Far West, and, doubtless, shall be enacted again, unless (so-called) Christian traders give up fire-water as an article of traffic.

In a very short space of time the women were as helpless as their masters. Then Gibault cut the thongs that bound his comrades, and set them free!

"Thanks, thanks to the Almighty," said Bertram earnestly, when his bonds were cut. "I had thought that my days were numbered; that it was to be my sad fate to fill a grave here in the wilderness. But His hand is indeed mighty to save. And thanks be to you, good Gibault. Under God, we owe our lives to you."

Bertram attempted to seize Gibault's hand as he spoke, but his own hands refused obedience to his will. They had been so long and so tightly bound that they were utterly powerless.

"Rub 'em, rub 'em well," said Gibault, seizing the artist's hands and enforcing his own recommendation vigorously.

"Ay, that's it," said Redhand, who, with his companions, had, the instant he was loose, commenced to rub and chafe his own benumbed limbs into vitality, as if his life and theirs depended on their exertions—as indeed they did to no small extent, for, had they been called upon to fight or fly at that moment, they could have done neither.

"Now, lads," said Bounce, who, having been a prisoner for but a short time, was unhurt by his bonds, "while ye rub the life into yer limbs I'll tell ye wot we must do. Them scamps (pointing to the prostrate Indians) won't lie there long. Of course, bein' white men an' Christians, we don't mean to kill them or to lift their scalps—"

"I've know'd white men," interrupted Redhand, "who called themselves Christians, and didn't object to take scalps when they got the chance."

"So have I," returned Bounce, "an' more's the pity. It's sichlike blackguards as these that keeps honest trappers and fur-traders for iver in hot water here. Howsomdiver, we're not a-goin' to turn ourselves into brute beasts 'cause they've turned theirselves into sich."

"I'm not so sure o' that," broke in Big Waller, casting a scowling glance on the savages as he surveyed a wound in his left arm, which, although not serious, was, from want of dressing, sufficiently painful; "I calc'late it would serve them reptiles right if we was to whangskiver the whole on 'em as they lie."

"I don't b'lieve," retorted Bounce, "that 'whangskiver' is either English, Injun, French, or Yankee; but if it means killin', you'll do nothing o' the sort. Here's what we'll do. We'll ketch as many horses as wos took from Mr Bertram's fellers, an' as many guns too (the same ones if we can lay hands on 'em), an' as much powder an' shot an' other things as that keg o' brandy is worth, an' then we'll bid the redskins good-bye without wakenin' of 'em up."

"Goot," ejaculated Gibault, pausing in his manipulation of the artist, "now you can do!"

"Capital; thanks, I feel quite strong again."

"I say, Gibault," observed March ruefully, "they've almost sawed through the skin o' my ankle. I've no left foot at all, as far as feelin' goes."

"Hah! me boy, 'tis well you have foot left, though you not feel left foot! Let me see."

"That's it, Gibault, rub away; if your jokes were as good as your surgery you'd be too good, a long way, for the backwoods."

By dint of chafing and rubbing and leaping and stamping, the whole party were soon restored to a serviceable condition, after which they set about active preparations for departure.

First, they ransacked the tents, where they discovered all the guns that had been taken from Bertram's party. These they tied up in a bundle, after each had secured one for his own use. Among them the artist found, to his intense delight, his own double-barrelled gun, the loss of which he had mourned most sincerely.

Next, they secured the horses, which, being hobbled, as we have said elsewhere, were easily caught. Then the powder-horns and shot-belts of Bertram's party were found, and, being full of ammunition, were slung across their shoulders forthwith. Among other things belonging to the same party were discovered a number of blankets, some tea and sugar, and a variety of other useful articles, besides several packs of furs; all of which were made up into portable bundles that could be easily carried at their saddle-bows. The supply of everything was so ample that it was not necessary to touch a single article belonging to the Indians.

This was a matter of much satisfaction to Redhand, who wished to show these unfortunate children of the wilderness that there were at least some white trappers who were actuated by different and kindlier feelings than many who sought their livelihood in those regions.

"Hullo! wot have we here?" cried Big Waller, who was poking inquisitively about among the tents, to the consternation of the poor Indian children who lay huddled up in their rabbit-skin blankets, trembling from head to foot, and expecting to be scalped forthwith—such of them, at least, as were old enough to expect anything. "Here's your blunderbusses, I guess, mister."

"What! my pistols," cried Bertram, seizing his weapons with as much delight as if they had been really serviceable.

"Hah! ver' goot for play vid," observed Gibault contemptuously.

"I say, here's something else," said Bounce, picking up a rifle.

"Wah!" exclaimed Hawkswing, pointing to the weapon in surprise, and turning his eyes on Redhand.

"Wot! d'ye know who it b'long'd to?" inquired Bounce.

An expression of deep sorrow overspread Redhand's countenance. "Ay," said he mournfully, "I know it well. It belonged to young Blake." Glancing quickly up at a place where several scalps were hanging to a pole, he took one down, and, after gazing at it sadly for a few seconds, he added in a tone of deep melancholy: "Poor, poor Blake! ye had a hearty spirit an' a kindly heart. Your huntin' days were soon over!"

"Was he a friend of yours?" inquired Bertram, affected by the old trapper's look and tone.

"Ay, ay, he was, he was," said Redhand quickly, and with a sternness of manner that surprised his companions; "come, lads, mount! mount! The redskins won't part with plunder without making an effort to get it back."

"But, stop a bit, Redhand," cried Bounce, detaining the old man, "ye didn't use for to be so hot an' hasty. Where are we to go to? That's wot I want to know."

"True," observed Redhand in his old gentle tones, "we've more horses than we need, and some furs to dispose of. There's a tradin' fort in the mountains, but it's a good bit from this."

"What o' that?" said March Marston somewhat impetuously. "Are we not armed and well mounted and strong, and have we not lots o' time before us?"

"Well said," cried Bounce.

"Ditto," echoed Waller.

"Then we'll do it!" cried Redhand, vaulting into the saddle with a spring that a young man might have envied.

The others followed his example, and in a few seconds they were picking their way carefully down the ravine in which the Indian camp was situated. Leaving this quickly behind, they trotted briskly along the more open banks of the river until they gained a level sweep of land which terminated in a belt of low bushes. Beyond this lay the great plains. Breaking into a gallop, they speedily cleared the underwood, and just as the rosy smile of morning beamed in the eastern sky, they dashed away, with light hearts and loose reins, out upon the springy turf of the open prairie.



CHAPTER TEN.

SHORT TREATISE ON HORSEFLESH—REMARKS ON SLANG—DOINGS AND SIGHTS ON THE PRAIRIE—THE MOUNTAIN FORT.

A horse is a wonderful thing—if we may presume to style so noble a creature "a thing!" And the associations connected in some minds with a horse are wonderful associations. No doubt a horse, to many people, is a commonplace enough sort of thing; and the associations connected with horseflesh in general, in some minds, are decidedly low—having relation to tugging a cart, or tumbling along with a plough, or rattling with a cab, or prancing in a carriage, or being cut up into butcher's meat for cats and dogs. Nevertheless, a horse is a wonderful creature; and man's associations in connection with him are, not infrequently, of the most wonderful and romantic kind. Talk to the warrior of his steed, and he will speak of him as of his dearest friend. Talk to the Arab of his horse, and he will talk of his pet, his spoiled child! As it is with these, so is it with the trapper of the western prairies.

After a few weeks' acquaintance, the trapper and his horse become one— part and parcel of each other, at least as far as it is possible for man and horse to amalgamate. On the one hand, the horse is tended, hobbled, patted, saddled, spoken to, watched over, and tenderly cared for by the man; on the other hand, the man is carried, respected, sometimes bitten (playfully), depended on, and loved by the horse. Day after day, and week after week, the limbs of the one and the ribs of the other are pressed against each other, until they become all but united, and the various play of muscles on the part of both becomes so delicately significant that the bridle, to a great extent, becomes unnecessary, and the rider feels when the horse is about to shy, just as quickly as the horse feels, by a gentle pressure on either side, how much the rider wishes him to diverge to the right or left.

Sometimes the horse breaks his hobbles and runs away, thus aggravating the spirits of, and causing infinite annoyance to, the man. Frequently the man, out of revenge for such or similar freaks, larrups and pains and worries the horse. But these little asperities are the occasional landmarks that give point and piquancy to the even tenor of their loving career. Neither would, for a moment, think of allowing such incidents to rankle in his bosom. Both would repudiate with scorn the idea that they were a whit less useful, or in any degree less attached, to each other on account of such trifling tiffs!

Day after day our trappers mounted their steeds and traversed the great prairie—now at a rattling trot, now at a tearing gallop; frequently at a quiet foot-pace, when the nature of the ground rendered a more rapid progress dangerous, or when the exhaustion of horses and men rendered rest necessary, or when the beautiful nature of the scenery and the warm sunny condition of the atmosphere induced a contemplative frame of mind and a placid state of body.

Night after night the horses—having stuffed themselves, like greedy things as they were, with the greenest and tenderest herbage on the rich plains—returned to the camp fire round which the trappers were lying in deep slumber, and each selecting his own master, would stand over him with drooping head and go to sleep, until dawn called them again to united action.

Thus day and night passed for the space of three weeks after the night of the surprise of the Indian camp, without anything particular occurring; and thus quadrupeds and bipeds came to be familiar and well acquainted with each other—so thoroughly united in sympathetic action— as almost to become hexapeds, if we may be permitted the expression.

March Marston's quadruped was a beautiful little bay, whose tendency to bound over every little stick and stone, as if it were a five-barred gate, and to run away upon all and every occasion, admirably suited the tastes and inclinations of its mercurial rider.

There was one among the quadrupeds which was striking in appearance—not to say stunning. No; we won't say stunning, because that is a slang expression, and many persons object to slang expressions; therefore we will avoid that word; although we confess to being unable to see why, if it is allowable (as every one will admit it is) to assert that men may be mentally "struck," it is not equally proper to say that they may be stunned. But we bow to prejudice. We won't say that that horse was "stunning." While on this subject, we think it right to guard ourself, parenthetically, from the charge of being favourable to all kinds of slang. We are in favour of speech—yes, we assert that broadly and fearlessly, without reservation—but we are not in favour of all speech. Coarse speech, for instance, we decidedly object to. So, we are in favour of slang, but not of all slang. There are some slang words which are used instead of oaths, and these, besides being wicked, are exceedingly contemptible. Tempting, however, they are—too apt to slip from the tongue and from the pen, and to cause regret afterwards.

But to return. Although we won't say that the quadruped in question was stunning, we will say again that it was striking—so powerfully striking that the force of the stroke was calculated almost to stun. It was uncommonly tall, remarkably short in the body, and had a piebald coat. Moreover, it had no tail—to speak of—as that member had, in some unguarded moment, got into the blaze of the camp fire and been burnt off close to the stump. The stump, however, was pretty long, and, at the time when the trappers became possessed of the animal, that appendage was covered with a new growth of sparsely scattered and very stiff hair, about three inches long, so that it resembled a gigantic bottle-brush. Being a spirited animal, the horse had a lively bottle-brush, which was grotesque, if it was nothing else.

This quadruped's own particular biped was Theodore Bertram. He had a peculiar liking for it (as he had for everything picturesque), not only on account of its good qualities—which were, an easy gait and a tender mouth—but also because it was his own original animal, that of which he had been deprived by the Indians, and which he had recaptured with feelings akin to those of a mother who recovers a long-lost child.

We have said that the space of three weeks passed without anything particular occurring to our trappers. This remark, however, must be taken in a limited sense. Nothing particularly connected with the thread of this story occurred; though very many and particularly interesting things of a minor nature did occur during the course of that period.

It would require a work equal in size to the "Encyclopaedia Britannica" to contain all the interesting things that were said and seen and done on those prairies by these trappers within that brief space of time. A conscientiously particular chronicler of events would have detailed the route of each day, the latitude and longitude of each resting-place, the very nature of the wood which composed the fuel of each fire. He would have recorded that March Marston's little bay ran away with him—not, in a general way, fifty or a hundred times, but exactly so many times, specifying the concomitant circumstances of each separate time, and the results of each particular race. He would have noted, with painful accuracy, the precise number of times in which Theodore Bertram (being a bad rider) fell off his horse, or was pitched off in consequence of that quadruped putting its foot inadvertently into badger holes. He would have mentioned that on each occasion the unfortunate artist blackened his eye, or bled or skinned his nasal organ, and would have dilated anatomically on the peculiar colour of the disfigured orb and the exact amount of damage done to the bruised nose. He would have told not only the general fact that bears, and elks, and antelopes, and prairie dogs, and wolves, and buffaloes, were seen in great numbers continually, and were shot in abundance, but he would have recorded that Bertram did, on one occasion, in the height of his enthusiastic daring, give a shout and draw one of his blunderbuss-pistols, on observing a grisly bear at a short distance ahead of him; that he dashed his heels violently against the sides of his remarkable horse; that the said horse did toss his head, shake his bottle-brush, and rush full tilt towards the bear until he caught sight of it, when he turned off at a sharp angle, leaving Bertram on the plain at the mercy of the bear; that Bruin, who was in nowise alarmed, observing his condition, came to see what was the matter with him; and that he, Mr Bertram, would certainly have fallen a victim to his own headstrong courage on the one hand, and to the bear's known tendency to rend human beings on the other, had not March come up at that moment and shot it through the heart, while Redhand shot it through the brain.

And this supposed conscientious chronicler of events, had he been a naturalist, would have further detailed, with graphic particularity, the rich, exuberant, and varied flora of the region—from the largest plant that waved and blossomed in the prairie winds to the lowliest floweret that nestled among the tender and sweet-scented grasses on the prairie's breast. In regard to the fauna of those regions, he would have launched out upon the form, the colour, size, habits, peculiarities, etcetera, of every living thing, from the great buffalo (which he would have carefully explained was not the buffalo, but the bison) down to the sly, impudent, yet harmless little prairie dog (which he would have also carefully noted was not the prairie dog, but the marmot).

Had this supposed recorder of facts been of an erratic nature, given to wander from anecdote to description, and vice versa, he would perhaps have told, in a parenthetical sort of way, how that, during these three weeks, the trappers enjoyed uninterrupted fine weather; how the artist sketched so indefatigably that he at last filled his book to overflowing and had to turn it upside down, begin at the end, and sketch on the backs of his previous drawings; how Big Waller and Black Gibault became inseparable friends and sang duets together when at full gallop, the latter shrieking like a wild-cat, the former roaring like a buffalo bull; how March Marston became madder than ever, and infected his little steed with the same disease, so that the two together formed a species of insane compound that caused Redhand and Bounce to give vent to many a low chuckle and many a deep sagacious remark, and induced Hawkswing to gaze at it—the compound—in grave astonishment.

All this and a great deal more might be told, and, no doubt, might prove deeply interesting. But, as no man can do everything, so no man can record everything; therefore we won't attempt it, but shall at once, and without further delay, proceed to that part of our tale which bears more directly on the Rocky Mountains and the Wild Man of the West himself.

"It's a strong place," said Redhand, checking the pace of his horse and pointing to a small edifice or fort which stood on the summit of a little mound or hill about a quarter of a mile in advance of them—"a very strong place—such as would puzzle the redskins to break into if defended by men of ordinary pluck."

"Men of pluck sometimes get careless, and go to sleep, though," said March Marston, riding up to the old trapper; "I've heard o' such forts bein' taken by redskins before now."

"So have I, lad, so have I," returned Redhand; "I've heard o' a fort bein' attacked by Injuns when the men were away huntin', an' bein' burnt down. But it ginerally turns out that the whites have had themselves to thank for't."

"Ay, that's true," observed Bounce; "some o' the whites in them parts is no better nor they should be. They treats the poor Injuns as if they wos dogs or varmints, an' then they're astonished if the redskins murder them out o' revenge. I know'd one feller as told me that when he lived on the west side o' the mountains, where some of the Injuns are a murderin' set o' thieves, he niver lost a chance o' killin' a redskin. Of course the redskins niver lost a chance o' killin' the whites; an' so they come to sich a state o' war, that they had to make peace by givin' them no end o' presents o' guns an' cloth an' beads—enough to buy up the furs o' a whole tribe."

"I guess they was powerful green to do anything o' the sort," said Big Waller. "I knowed a feller as was in command of a party o' whites, who got into much the same sort of fix with the Injuns—always fightin' and murderin'; so what does he do, think ye?"

"Shooted de chief and all hims peepil," suggested Gibault.

"Nothin' o' the sort," replied Waller. "He sends for the chief, an' gives him a grand present, an' says he wants to marry his darter. An' so he did marry his darter, right off, an' the whites an' redskins was friends ever after that. The man what did that was a gentleman too—so they said; tho' for my part I don't know wot a gentleman is—no more do I b'lieve there ain't sich a thing; but if there be, an' it means anything good, I calc'late that that man wos a gentleman, for w'en he grew old he took his old squaw to Canada with him, 'spite the larfin' o' his comrades, who said he'd have to sot up a wigwam for her in his garden. But he says, 'No,' says he, 'I married the old ooman for better an' for worse, an' I'll stick by her to the last. There's too many o' you chaps as leaves yer wives behind ye when ye go home—I'm detarmined to sot ye a better example.' An' so he did. He tuk her home an' put her in a grand house in some town in Canada—I don't well mind which— but when he wasn't watchin' of her, the old ooman would squat down on the carpet in the drawin'-room, for, d'ye see, she hadn't bin used to chairs. His frinds used to advise him to put her away, an' the kindlier sort said he should give her a room to herself, and not bring her into company where she warn't at ease; but no, the old man said always, 'She's my lawful wedded wife, an' if she was a buffalo cow I'd stick by her to the last'—an' so he did."

"Vraiment he was von cur'ous creetur," observed Gibault.

"See, they have descried us!" exclaimed Bertram, pointing to the fort, which they were now approaching, and where a bustle among the inhabitants showed that their visitors were not always peacefully disposed, and that it behoved them to regard strangers with suspicion.

"Would it not be well to send one of our party on in advance with a white flag?" observed Bertram.

"No need for that," replied Redhand, "they're used to all kinds o' visitors—friends as well as foes. I fear, however, from the haste they show in closing their gate, that they ain't on good terms with the Injuns."

"The red-men and the pale-faces are at war," said Hawkswing.

"Ay, you're used to the signs, no doubt," returned Redhand, "for you've lived here once upon a time, I b'lieve."

The Indian made no reply, but a dark frown overspread his countenance for a few minutes. When it passed, his features settled down into their usual state of quiet gravity.

"Have ye ever seed that fort before?" inquired Bounce in the Indian tongue.

"I have," answered Hawkswing. "Many moons have passed since I was in this spot. My nation was strong then. It is weak now. Few braves are left. We sometimes carried our furs to that fort to trade with the pale-faces. It is called the Mountain Fort. The chief of the pale-faces was a bad man then. He loved fire-water too much. If he is there still, I do not wonder that there is war between him and the red-men."

"That's bad," said Bounce, shaking his head slowly—"very bad; for the redskins 'll kill us if they can on account o' them rascally fur-traders. Howsomdiver we can't mend it, so we must bear it."

As Bounce uttered this consolatory remark, the party cantered up to the open space in front of the gate of the fort, just above which a man was seen leaning quietly over the wooden walls of the place with a gun resting on his arm.

"Hallo!" shouted this individual when they came within hail.

"Hallo!" responded Bounce.

"Friends or foes, and where from?" inquired the laconic guardian of the fort.

"Friends," replied Redhand riding forward, "we come from the Yellowstone. Have lost some of our property, but got some of it back, and want to trade furs with you."

To this the sentinel made no reply, but, looking straight at Big Waller, inquired abruptly, "Are you the Wild Man?"

"Wot wild man?" said Waller gruffly.

"Why, the Wild Man o' the West?"

"No, I hain't," said Waller still more gruffly, for he did not feel flattered by the question.

"Have you seen him?"

"No I hain't, an' guess I shouldn't know him if I had."

"Why do you ask?" inquired March Marston, whose curiosity had been roused by these unexpected questions.

"'Cause I want to know," replied the man quitting his post and disappearing. In a few minutes he opened the gate, and the trappers trotted into the square of the fort.

The Mountain Fort, in which they now dismounted, was one of those little wooden erections in which the hardy pioneers of the fur trade were wont in days of old to establish themselves in the very heart of the Indian country. Such forts may still be seen in precisely similar circumstances, and built in the same manner, at the present day, in the Hudson's Bay territories; with this difference that the Indians, having had long experience of the good intentions and the kindness of the pale-faces, no longer regard them with suspicion. The walls were made of strong tall palisades, with bastions built of logs at the corners, and a gallery running all round inside close to the top of the walls, so that the defenders of the place could fire over the palisades, if need be, at their assailants. There was a small iron cannon in each bastion. One large gate formed the entrance, but this was only opened to admit horsemen or carts; a small wicket in one leaf of the gate formed the usual entrance.

The buildings within the fort consisted of three little houses, one being a store, the others dwelling-houses, about which several men and women and Indian children, besides a number of dogs, were grouped. These immediately surrounded the trappers as they dismounted. "Who commands here?" inquired Redhand.

"I do," said the sentinel before referred to, pushing aside the others and stepping forward, "at least I do at present. My name's McLeod. He who ought to command is drunk. He's always drunk."

There was a savage gruffness in the way in which McLeod said this that surprised the visitors, for his sturdy-looking and honest countenance seemed to accord ill with such tones.

"An' may I ask who he is?" said Redhand.

"Oh yes, his name's Macgregor—you can't see him to-night, though. There'll be bloody work here before long if he don't turn over a new leaf—"

McLeod checked himself as if he felt that he had gone too far. Then he added, in a tone that seemed much more natural to him, "Now, sirs, come this way. Here," (turning to the men who stood by), "look to these horses and see them fed. Come into the hall, friends, an' the squaws will prepare something for you to eat while we have a smoke and a talk together."

So saying, this changeable man, who was a strange compound of a trapper and a gentleman, led the way to the principal dwelling-house, and, throwing open the door, ushered his guests into the reception hall of the Mountain Fort.



CHAPTER ELEVEN.

ORIGINAL EFFORTS IN THE ART OF PAINTING—FUR-TRADING HOSPITALITY— WONDERFUL ACCOUNTS OF THE WILD MAN OF THE WEST, FROM AN EYE-WITNESS— BUFFALO HUNTING, SCALPING, MURDERING, AND A SUMMARY METHOD OF INFLICTING PUNISHMENT.

The reception hall of the Mountain Fort, into which, as we have stated, the trappers were ushered by McLeod, was one of those curious apartments which were in those days (and in a few cases still are) created for the express purpose of "astonishing the natives!"

It was a square room, occupying the centre of the house, and having doors all round, which opened into the sleeping or other apartments of the dwelling. In the front wall of this room were the door which led direct into the open air, and the two windows. There were no passages in the house—it was all rooms and doors. One of these doors, towards the back, opened into a species of scullery—but it was not exactly a scullery, neither was it a kitchen, neither was it a pantry. The squaws lived there—especially the cooking squaws—and a few favoured dogs. A large number of pots and pans and kettles, besides a good deal of lumber and provisions in daily use, also dwelt there. A door led from this room out to the back of the house, and into a small offshoot, which was the kitchen proper. Here a spirited French Canadian reigned supreme in the midst of food, fire, and steam, smoke, smells, and fat.

But to return to the reception hall. There were no pictures on its walls, no draperies about its windows, no carpets on its floors, no cloths on its tables, and no ornaments on its mantelshelf. Indeed, there was no mantelshelf to put ornaments upon. The floor, the walls, the ceiling, the chairs, the tables; all were composed of the same material—wood. The splendour of the apartment was entirely due to paint. Everything was painted—and that with a view solely to startling effect. Blue, red, and yellow, in their most brilliant purity, were laid on in a variety of original devices, and with a boldness of contrast that threw Moorish effort in that line quite into the shade. The Alhambra was nothing to it! The floor was yellow ochre; the ceiling was sky-blue; the cornices were scarlet, with flutings of blue and yellow, and, underneath, a broad belt of fruit and foliage, executed in an extremely arabesque style. The walls were light green, with narrow bands of red down the sides of each plank. The table was yellow, the chairs blue, and their bottoms red, by way of harmonious variety. But the grand point—the great masterpiece in the ornamentation of this apartment—was the centre-piece in the ceiling, in the execution of which there was an extraordinary display of what can be accomplished by the daring flight of an original genius revelling in the conscious possession of illimitable power, without the paralysing influence of conventional education.

The device itself was indescribable. It was a sun or a star, or rather a union and commingling of suns and stars in violent contrast, wreathed with fanciful fruits and foliage, and Cupids, and creatures of a now extinct species. The rainbow had been the painter's palette; genius his brush; fancy-gone-mad his attendant; the total temporary stagnation of redskin faculties his object, and ecstasy his general state of mind, when he executed this magnificent chef d'oeuvre in the centre of the ceiling of the reception hall at the Mountain Fort.

The fireplace was a capacious cavern in the wall opposite the entrance door, in which, during winter, there usually burned a roaring bonfire of huge logs of wood, but where, at the time of which we write, there was just enough fire to enable visitors to light their pipe's. When that fire blazed up in the dark winter nights, the effect of that gorgeous apartment was dazzling—absolutely bewildering.

The effect upon our trappers when they entered was sufficiently strong. They gazed round in amazement, each giving vent to his feelings in his own peculiar exclamatory grunt, or gasp, or cough. In addition to this, Bounce smote his thigh with unwonted vigour. Gibault, after gazing for a few minutes, sighed out something that sounded like magnifique! and Bertram grinned from ear to ear. He went further: he laughed aloud—an impolite thing to do, in the circumstances, and, for a grave man like him, an unusual ebullition of feeling. But it was observed and noted that on this occasion the artist did not draw forth his sketch-book.

McLeod, who, from his speech and bearing, was evidently a man of some education, placed chairs for his visitors, took the lid off a large canister of tobacco, and, pushing it into the middle of the yellow table, said—

"Sit ye down, friends, and help yourselves."

He set them the example by taking down his own pipe from a nail in the wall, and proceeding to fill it. Having done so, he took a piece of glowing charcoal from the fire, and, placing it on the bowl, began to smoke, glancing the while, with an amused expression on his grave face, at the trappers, who, while filling their pipes, kept gazing round the walls and up at the ceiling.

"Ha!" said he, "you are struck with our hall (puff, puff). It's rather (puff) an effective one (puff). Have a light?"

Bounce, to whom the light was offered, accepted the same, applied it to his pipe, and said—

"Well, yes (puff), it is (puff) raither wot ye may call (puff) pecooliar."

"Most visitors to this place think so," said McLeod. "The Indians highly approve of it, and deem me quite a marvel of artistic power."

"Wot! did you paint it?" inquired Waller.

"I did," answered McLeod, with a nod.

"Vraiment, de Injuns am right in deir opinion of you," cried Gibault, relighting his pipe, which, in the astonished state of his mind, he had allowed to go out.

McLeod smiled, if we may so speak, gravely, in acknowledgment of the compliment.

"Ha!" cried Gibault, turning to Bertram as if a sudden thought had occurred to him, "Monsieur Bertram et Monsieur Mak Load, you be broders. Oui, Monsieur Mak Load, dis mine comrade—him be von painteur."

"Indeed!" said McLeod, turning to the artist with more interest than he had yet shown towards the strangers.

"I have, indeed, the honour to follow the noble profession of painting," said Bertram, "but I cannot boast of having soared so high as—as—"

"As to attempt the frescoes on the ceiling of a reception hall in the backwoods," interrupted McLeod, laughing. "No, I believe you, sir; but, although I cannot presume to call you brother professionally, still I trust that I may do so as an amateur. I am delighted to see you here. It is not often we are refreshed with the sight of the face of a civilised man in these wild regions."

"Upon my word, sir, you are plain-spoken," said March Marston with a look of affected indignation; "what do you call us?"

"Pardon me, young sir," replied McLeod, "I call you trappers, which means neither civilised nor savage; neither fish, nor flesh, nor fowl—"

"That's a foul calumny," cried Bounce, knocking the ashes out of his pipe, and refilling it from the canister; "it's wot may be called a— a—"

"Lie," suggested Waller.

"No," said Bounce, "it ain't that. I don't like that word. It's a ugly word, an' you shouldn't ought to use it, Waller. It's a error; that's wot it is, in a feelosophical pint o' view. Jest as much of a error, now, as it was in you, Mister McLeod, putting so little baccy in this here thing that there ain't none left."

"What! is it all done?" cried McLeod, rising, and seizing the canister; "so it is. I declare you smoke almost as fast as the Wild Man himself; for whom I mistook you, Mr Waller, when I saw you first, at some distance off."

Saying this, he left the room to fetch a further supply of the soothing weed, and at the same moment two squaws appeared, bearing smoking dishes of whitefish and venison.

"That fellow knows something about the Wild Man o' the West," said March Marston in a low, eager tone, to his comrades. "Twice has he mentioned his name since we arrived."

"So he has," observed Redhand, "but there may be other wild men besides our one."

"Unpossible," said Bounce emphatically.

"Ditto," cried Waller still more emphatically; "what say you, Hawkswing?"

"There is but one Wild Man of the West," replied the Indian.

"By the way, Hawkswing, what was the name o' the rascally trader you said was in charge o' this fort when you lived here?" asked Redhand.

"Mokgroggir," replied the Indian.

"Ha, Macgregor, ye mean, no doubt."

Hawkswing nodded.

"Here you are, friends," said McLeod, re-entering the room with a large roll of tobacco. "Help yourselves and don't spare it. There's plenty more where that came from. But I see the steaks are ready, so let us fall to; we can smoke afterwards."

During the repast, to which the trappers applied themselves with the gusto of hungry men, March Marston questioned McLeod about the Wild Man.

"The Wild Man o' the West," said he in some surprise; "is it possible there are trappers in the Rocky Mountains who have not heard of him?"

"Oh yes," said March hastily, "we've heard of him, but we want to hear more particularly about him, for the accounts don't all agree."

"Ha! that's it," said Bounce, speaking with difficulty through a large mouthful of fish, "that's it. They don't agree. One says his rifle is thirty feet long, another forty feet, an' so on. There's no gittin' at truth in this here—"

A bone having stuck in Bounce's throat at that moment he was unable to conclude the sentence.

"As to the length of his rifle," said McLeod, when the noise made by Bounce in partially choking had subsided, "you seem to have got rather wild notions about that, and about the Wild Man too, I see."

"But he is a giant, isn't he?" inquired March anxiously.

"N-not exactly. Certainly he is a big fellow, about the biggest man I ever saw—but he's not forty feet high!"

March Marston's romantic hopes began to sink. "Then he's an ordinary man just like one o' us," he said almost gloomily.

"Nay, that he is not," returned McLeod, laughing. "Your comrade Waller does indeed approach to him somewhat in height, but he's nothing to him in breadth; and as for ferocity, strength, and activity, I never saw anything like him in my life. He comes sometimes here to exchange his furs for powder and lead, but he'll speak to no one, except in the sharpest, gruffest way. I think he's mad myself. But he seems to lead a charmed life here; for although he has had fights with many of the tribes in these parts, he always puts them to flight, although he fights single-handed."

"Single-handed!" exclaimed Bounce in surprise.

"Ay. I've seen him at it myself, and can vouch for it, that if ever there was a born fiend let loose on this earth it's the Wild Man of the West when he sets-to to thrash a dozen Indians. But I must do him the justice to say that I never heard of him making an unprovoked attack on anybody. When he first came to these mountains, many years ago—before I came here—the Indians used to wonder who he was and what he meant to do. Then after a while, seeing he had a good horse, a good rifle, and plenty of ammunition, they tried to kill him; but the first fellow that tried that only tried it once. He lay in a close thicket nigh to where the Wild Man used to pass from his home in the mountains to places where he used to hunt the elk and the buffalo, so, when he came up, the Indian laid an arrow on his bow. But the Wild Man's eye was sharp as a needle. He stopped his horse, took aim like a flash of lightning, and shot him through the head. I heard this from another Indian that was with the murderin' fellow that was shot. The Wild Man did nothing to the other. He let him escape.

"Of course the relations of the man who was killed were up immediately, and twenty of them set out to murder the Wild Man. They took their horses, spears, and bows, with them, and lay in wait at a place where he was often seen passing. Sure enough up he came, on horseback, at a slow walk, looking as careless and easy as if no blood of a redskin rested on his hand.

"It chanced the day before that day that we had run out of fresh meat, so Mr Macgregor, our commandant here, ordered me to take three of the men, and go out after the buffaloes. Away we went, looking sharp out, however, for some of the Indians had been treated by Macgregor so brutally, I am sorry to say, that we knew our scalps were not safe. Next morning I happened to pass close by the place where the Indians lay in ambush, and we came to the top of a precipice that overlooked the spot. We saw them before they saw us, so we went quietly back into the bush, tied our horses to trees, and lay on the edge of the cliff to watch them.

"In about ten minutes after, we saw the Wild Man riding slowly forward. He was a strange sight. It was the first time I had seen him, although I had often heard of him before.

"Well, on he came, with his head bent and his eyes fixed on the ground. A dense thicket hid his enemies from him, though not from us, we being so high above them. The Wild Man was armed with his long rifle slung at his back, a hunting-knife, and a small shield, such as the Blackfoot Indians use to protect themselves from arrows. The only unusual sort of weapon he carried was a long sword.

"Not knowing at the time that the Indians were waiting for him, of course I gave no alarm to warn him of his danger. When he came within a hundred yards of the thicket, I saw him push his arm a little further into the handle of the shield. It was but a slight action such as one might perform to ease the arm by change of position; but the redskins are quick-witted. They knew that he suspected they were there, so, giving one tremendous yell, they sent a cloud of arrows at him, and sprang out upon the plain at full gallop with their spears lowered.

"Instead of turning to fly from such an unequal combat, the Wild Man drew his sword and rushed at them like a thunderbolt. His onset was the most awful thing I ever saw in my life. The plain seemed to shake under the tread of his gigantic horse. His hair streamed wildly out behind him, and as he was coming towards me I could see that his teeth were set and his eyes flashed like those of a tiger. The Indians were appalled by the sight. The idea of one man attacking twenty had never occurred to them. They drew up; but it was too late to prevent a shock. There was a yell from the savages, a shout like the roar of a lion from the Wild Man, and two horses and their riders lay on the plain. I saw the long sword gleam for one moment, just as the shock took place, and the head of a savage rolled immediately after along the ground.

"The Indians, though overawed, were brave men. They turned to pursue the flying horseman, but they needed not. The Wild Man was not flying, he was only unable at first to check the headlong pace of his charger. In a few seconds he wheeled about and charged again. The Indians, however, did not await the issue; they turned and fled, and they have ever since remained in the firm belief that the Wild Man is a 'great medicine' man, and that no one can kill him. They say that neither arrows nor bullets can pierce his skin, which is an inch thick; that fire and smoke come out of his mouth and eyes, and that his horse is, like himself, invulnerable. I must confess, however, that with the exception of his enormous size and his ferocity, he is, from what I saw of him, much the same as other men."

McLeod concluded his description of this singular being, to which his guests listened open-eyed and mouthed, and helped himself to a buffalo-steak.

"An' what did he when the Indians ran away!" inquired March Marston.

"Oh! he quietly pulled up his horse and let them run. After they were gone, he continued his journey, as slow and cool as if nothing had happened. Few Indians attack him now, except new bands from distant parts of the country, who don't know him; but all who meddle with him find, to their cost, that it would have been better had they let him alone."

"Is he cruel? Does he eat men and childers?" inquired Bounce, commencing a fourth steak with a degree of violent energy that suggested the possibility of his being himself able to do some execution in the cannibal line if necessary.

McLeod laughed. "Oh dear, no; he's not cruel. Neither does he eat human flesh. In fact, he has been known to do some kind acts to poor starving Indians when they least expected it. The real truth is, that he is only fierce when he's meddled with. He never takes revenge, and he has never been known to lift a scalp."

"But what like is he when he comes to trade his furs at the fort here? how does he speak, and in what language?" inquired Marston, who, although delighted with the account given of the strength and valour of the Wild Man of the West, was by no means pleased to learn that he was not an absolute giant, something like the Giant Despair of whom he had read in the "Pilgrim's Progress."

"He's just like a trapper—only he's a tremendous big one—six feet six, if he's an inch, and would make two of the biggest of the present company round the shoulders. But he's very silent, and won't let any one question him. The long and the short of it is, that I believe he is a madman—luckily he's a well-disposed madman, and I can vouch for it he is a crack hunter, though he don't bring many furs to trade. I think he spends most of his idle time in moping among the caves of the mountains."

"Does any one know where he lives?" asked Bertram, who was gradually becoming interested in this strange being.

"No. We have sometimes tried to track him, but at a certain place we have invariably lost all traces of him."

"But what is his face like, and how does he dress?" inquired March eagerly; "you have not yet said anything about that."

McLeod was about to reply, when he was interrupted by a loud shouting in the yard of the fort. Leaping from their seats, the whole party ran to the windows.

"I thought so," cried McLeod, seizing his cap and hurrying out. "These are six of my men who have been out after the buffalo, and I see they have been successful."

The fort gate had been swung open, and, just as the guests issued from the reception hall, six hunters galloped into the square with all the reckless noise and dash peculiar to that class of men. Leaping from their foaming steeds, they were quickly surrounded by their comrades, and by the women and children of the place, who congratulated them on their success in the chase, and plied them with eager questions.

That they had indeed been successful was evident from the masses of fresh meat with which the horses were laden.

"Well done, Davis," said McLeod, stepping up to one of the men, who, from his age and intelligence, had been put in command of the hunting party. "You are back sooner than I anticipated. Surely, your good genius sent the buffalo across your path."

"We have bin in luck, sir," replied the hunter, touching his cap. "We've killed more than we could carry, an', what's worse, we've killed more than we wanted."

"How so?"

"We've had a brush wi' the redskins, sir, an' we had to kill one or two in self-defence."

McLeod's brow darkened. He clenched his teeth, and the large veins swelled in his neck and forehead. With a powerful effort he repressed his anger, and said—

"Did I not warn you to avoid that if you could?"

"True, sir," replied Davis humbly; "but we could not help it, for, in the first heat of passion, one o' them was shot, an' after that, of course, we had to fight to save our own scalps."

"Who fired that first shot?" inquired McLeod sternly.

Davis made no reply, but all eyes were at once turned upon a tall slouching man, with a forbidding cast of countenance, who had hitherto kept in the background.

"So, so, Larocque," said McLeod, stepping up to the man, "you've been at your bloody work again, you scoundrel. Hah! you not only bring the enmity of the whole Indian race down on your own worthless head, and on the heads of your innocent companions, but you have the effrontery to bring the evidence of your guilt into this fort along with you."

As McLeod spoke, he laid hold of a scalp which still dropped fresh blood as it hung at the hunter's saddle-bow.

"If I'm to answer to you for every scalp I choose to lift in self-defence, the sooner I quit you the better," answered Larocque sulkily.

"Was there any occasion to lift this scalp at all?" demanded McLeod, as he seized the man by the collar.

"Who talks of lifting scalps?" growled a loud, deep-toned voice.

All eyes were instantly turned on the speaker, and the crowd fell back to permit Mr Macgregor, the person in command of the Mountain Fort, to approach the scene of action.

The man who now appeared on the scene was a sad and a terrible sight to behold. He was one of that wretched class of human beings who, having run a long course of unbridled wickedness, become total wrecks in body and mind long before the prime of manhood has been passed. Macgregor had been a confirmed drunkard for many years. He had long lost all power of self-control, and had now reached that last fearful stage when occasional fits of delirium tremens rendered him more like a wild beast than a man. Being a large and powerful man, and naturally passionate, he was at these times a terror to all who came near him. He had been many years in charge of the fur-trading establishment, and having on many occasions maltreated the Indians, he was hated by them most cordially.

One of his mad fits had been on him for some days before the arrival of March Marston and his friends. He had recovered sufficiently to be able to stagger out of his room just at the time the buffalo hunters, as above described, entered the square of the fort. As he strode forward, with nothing on but his shirt and trousers, his eyes bloodshot, his hair matted and dishevelled, and his countenance haggard in the extreme, he was the most pitiable, and, at the same time, most terrible specimen of human degradation that the mind of man could conceive of.

"What now! who has been lifting scalps?" he growled between his set teeth, striding up to Larocque, and glaring in his face, with his bloodshot eyes, like a tiger.

McLeod held up the bloody scalp.

"Who did it?" roared Macgregor.

"I did," said Larocque with an attempt at a defiant air.

The words had barely passed his lips when he received a blow between the eyes that felled him to the earth. He attempted to rise, but, with a yell that sounded more like the war-cry of a savage than the wrathful shout of a civilised man, Macgregor knocked him down again, and, springing at his throat, began to strangle him.

Up to this point, McLeod refrained from interfering, for he was not sorry to see the murderer receive such severe punishment; but, having no desire to witness a second murder, he now seized his master, and, with the assistance of two of the men, succeeded in tearing him off from Larocque, and in conveying him, as respectfully as possible in the circumstances, to his private chamber.



CHAPTER TWELVE.

AN ARGUMENT ON ARGUMENTATION—ALSO ON RELIGION—BOUNCE "FEELOSOPHICAL" AGAIN—A RACE CUT SHORT BY A BULLET—FLIGHT AND PURSUIT OF THE REDSKINS.

When McLeod returned to the square, he found that the trappers had adjourned with the men of the establishment to enjoy a social pipe together, and that Theodore Bertram was taking a solitary, meditative promenade in front of the gate of the fort.

"You seem in a pensive mood, Mr Bertram," said the fur trader on coming up, "will you not try the soothing effects of a pipe? Our tobacco is good; I can recommend it."

He offered a plug of tobacco to the artist as he spoke.

"Thank you, I do not smoke," said Bertram, declining the proffered luxury. "Tobacco may be good—though I know it not from experience. Yet, methinks, the man is wiser who does not create an unnatural taste, than he who does so for the purpose of gratifying it."

"Ah! you are a philosopher."

"If judging of things and questions simply on their own merit, and with the single object of ascertaining what is truth in regard to them, constitutes a philosopher, I am."

"Don't you find that men who philosophise in that way are usually deemed an obstinate generation by their fellow-men?" inquired the trader, smiling as he puffed a voluminous cloud from his lips.

"I do," replied Bertram.

"And don't you think the charge is just?" continued the other in a jocular tone.

"I do not," replied the artist. "I think those who call them obstinate are often much more truly deserving of the epithet. Philosophers, in the popular sense of the word, are men who not only acquire knowledge and make themselves acquainted with the opinions of others, but who make independent use of acquired knowledge, and thus originate new ideas and frequently arrive at new conclusions. They thus often come to differ from the rest of mankind on many points, and, having good reasons for this difference of opinion, they are ever ready to explain and expound their opinions and to prove their correctness, or to receive proof of their incorrectness, if that can be given—hence they are called argumentative. Being unwilling to give up what appears to them to be truth, unless it can be shown to be falsehood, their opinions are not easily overturned—hence they are called obstinate. Thinking out a subject in a calm, dispassionate, logical manner, from its first proposition to its legitimate conclusion, is laborious to all. A very large class of men and women have no patience for such a process of investigation—hence argumentation, that most noble of all mental exercises, is deemed a nuisance. Certainly argumentation with unphilosophical persons is a nuisance; but I know of few earthly enjoyments more gratifying than an argument with a true philosopher."

"That's wot I says, so I do, out-an'-out," observed Bounce, who had come up unperceived, and had overheard the greater part of the above remarks. "Jist wot I thinks myself, Mr Bertram, only I couldn't 'xactly put it in the same way, d'ye see? That's wot I calls out-an'-out feelosophy."

"Glad to hear you're such a wise fellow," said McLeod patronisingly. "So you agree, of course, with Mr Bertram in condemning the use of the pipe."

"Condemn the pipe?" said Bounce, pulling out his own special favourite and beginning to fill it—"wot, condemn smokin'? No, by no means wotsomdiver. That's quite another kee-westion, wot we hain't bin a disputin' about. I only heer'd Mr Bertram a-talkin' about obst'nitness an' argementation."

"Well, in regard to that," said Bertram, "I firmly believe that men and women are all alike equally obstinate."

"Ha!" ejaculated Bounce, with that tone of mingled uncertainty and profound consideration which indicates an unwillingness to commit oneself in reference to a new and startling proposition.

"On what grounds do you think so?" asked McLeod.

"Why on the simple ground that a man cannot change any opinion until he is convinced that it is wrong, and that he inevitably must, and actually does, change his opinion on the instant that he is so convinced; and that in virtue, not of his will, but of the constitution of his mind. Some men's minds are of such a nature—they take such a limited and weak grasp of things—that they cannot be easily convinced. Others are so powerful that they readily seize upon truth when it is presented to them; but in either case, the instant the point of conviction is reached the mind is changed. Pride may indeed prevent the admission of this change, but it takes place, as I have said, inevitably."

At this Bounce opened his eyes to their utmost possible width and said solemnly, "Wot! do ye mean for to tell me, then, that thair ain't no sich thing as obstinacy?" He accompanied this question with a shake of the head that implied that if Bertram were to argue till doomsday he would never convince him (Bounce) of that.

"By no means," returned the artist, smiling; "there is plenty of it, but obstinacy does not consist in the simple act of holding one's opinion firmly."

"Wot does it consist of, then?"

"In this—in holding firmly to opinions that have been taken hastily up, without the grounds on which they are founded having been duly weighed; and in refusing to consider these grounds in a philosophical (which means a rational) way, because the process would prove tiresome. The man who has comfortably settled all his opinions in this way very much resembles that 'fool' of whom it is written that he 'is wiser in his own conceit than seven men who can render a reason.'"

"Well, but, to come back to the starting-point," said McLeod, "many wise men smoke."

"If you say that in the way of argument, I meet it with the counter proposition that many wise men don't smoke."

"Hah!" ejaculated Bounce, but whether Bounce's ejaculation was one of approval or disapproval we cannot tell. Neither can we tell what conclusion these philosophers came to in regard to smoking, because, just then, two horsemen were seen approaching the fort at full speed.

Seeing that they were alone, McLeod took no precautions to prevent surprise. He knew well enough that Indians frequently approach in this manner, so waited in front of the gate, coolly smoking his pipe, until the savages were within a few yards of him. It seemed as if they purposed running him down, but just as they came to within a couple of bounds of him, they drew up so violently as to throw their foaming steeds on their haunches.

Leaping to the ground, the Indians—who were a couple of strong, fine-looking savages, dressed in leathern costume, with the usual ornaments of bead and quill work, tags, and scalp-locks—came forward and spoke a few words to McLeod in the Cree language, and immediately after, delivering their horses to the care of one of the men of the establishment, accompanied him to the store.

In less than half an hour they returned to the gate, when the Indians remounted, and, starting away at their favourite pace—full gallop—were soon out of sight.

"Them fellows seem to be in a hurry," remarked Bounce as they disappeared.

"Ay, they're after mischief too," replied McLeod in a sad tone of voice. "They are two Cree chiefs who have come here for a supply of ammunition to hunt the buffalo, but I know they mean to hunt different game, for I heard them talking to each other about a war-party of Blood Indians being in this part of the country. Depend upon it scalps will be taken ere long. 'Tis a sad, sad state of things. Blood, blood, blood seems to be the universal cry here; and, now that we've had so many quarrels with the redskins, I fear that the day is not far-distant when blood will flow even in the Mountain Fort. I see no prospect of a better state of things, for savage nature cannot be changed. It seems a hopeless case."

There was a touch of pathos in the tone in which this was said that was very different from McLeod's usual bold and reckless manner. It was evident that his natural disposition was kind, hearty, and peaceable; but that the constant feuds in which he was involved, both in the fort and out of it, had soured his temper and rendered him wellnigh desperate.

"You are wrong, sir, in saying that their case is hopeless," said Bertram earnestly. "There is a remedy."

"I wish you could show it me," replied the trader.

"Here it is," returned the artist, taking his little Testament from the inside pocket of his hunting-shirt. "The gospel is able to make all men wise unto salvation."

McLeod shook his head, and said, "It won't do here. To be plain with you, sir, I don't believe the gospel's of any use in these wild regions, where murder seems to be as natural to man, woman, and child as food."

"But, sir," rejoined Bertram, "you forget that our Saviour Himself says that He came not to call the righteous but sinners to repentance. In this volume we are told that the blood of Christ cleanseth us from all sin; and, not only have we His assurance that none who come unto Him shall be cast out, but we have examples in all parts of the known world of men and women who were once steeped to the lips in every species of gross iniquity having been turned to the service of God through faith in Christ, and that by the power of the Holy Spirit, who, in this Word of God, is promised freely to them that simply ask."

"It may be so," returned McLeod; "I have not studied these things much. I don't profess to be a very religious man, and I cannot pretend to know much of what the gospel has done elsewhere; but I feel quite sure that it cannot do much here!"

"Then you do not believe the Bible, which says distinctly that this 'gospel is the power of God unto salvation to every one that believeth.'"

"Ay, but these wretched Indians won't believe," objected the trader.

"True," answered Bertram; "they have not faith by nature, and they won't because they can't believe; but faith is the gift of God, and it is to be had for the asking."

"To that I answer that they'll never ask."

"How do you know? Did you ever give them a trial? Did you ever preach the gospel to them?"

"No, I never did that."

"Then you cannot tell how they would treat it. Your remarks are mere assertions of opinion—not arguments. You know the wickedness of the Indians, and can therefore speak authoritatively on that point; but you know not (according to your own admission) the power of the gospel: therefore you are not in a position to speak on that point."

McLeod was about to reply when he was interrupted by the approach of Mr Macgregor, who had now recovered somewhat from the effects of his violent fit of passion. Having observed during the melee that strangers had arrived at his fort, he had washed and converted himself into a more presentable personage, and now came forward to the group of trappers, all of whom had assembled at the gate. Addressing them in a tone of affable hospitality he said—

"Good-day, friends; I'm glad to see you at the Mountain Fort. That blackguard Larocque somewhat ruffled my temper. He's been the cause of much mischief here, I assure you. Do you intend to trap in these parts?"

The latter part of this speech was addressed to Redhand, who replied—

"We do mean to try our luck in these parts, but we han't yet made up our minds exactly where to go. Mayhap you'll give us the benefit of your advice."

While he was speaking the fur trader glanced with an earnest yet half stupid stare at the faces of the trappers, as if he wished to impress their features on his memory.

"Advice," he replied; "you're welcome to all the advice I've got to give ye; and it's this—go home; go to where you belong to, sell your traps and rifles and take to the plough, the hatchet, the forehammer—to anything you like, so long as it keeps you out of this—" Macgregor paused a moment as if he were about to utter an oath, then dropped his voice and said, "This wretched Indian country."

"I guess, then, that we won't take yer advice, old man," said Big Waller with a laugh.

"'Old man?'" echoed Macgregor with a start.

"Wall, if ye bean't old, ye ain't exactly a chicken."

"You're a plain-spoken man," replied the trader, biting his lips.

"I always wos," retorted Waller.

Macgregor frowned for a moment, then he broke into a forced laugh, and said—

"Well, friends, you'll please yourselves, of course—most people do; and if you are so determined to stick to the wilderness I would advise some of you to stop here. There's plenty of fun and fighting, if you're fond of that. What say you now, lad," turning to March, "to remain with us here at the Mountain Fort? I've ta'en a sort of fancy to your face. We want young bloods here. I'll give you a good wage and plenty to do."

"Thanks; you are kind," replied March, smiling, "but I love freedom too well to part with it yet awhile."

"Mais, monsieur," cried Gibault, pushing forward, pulling off his cap, and making a low bow; "if you vants yonger blod, an' also ver' goot blod, here am von!"

The trader laughed, and was about to reply, when a sudden burst of laughter and the sound of noisy voices in the yard interrupted him. Presently two of the men belonging to the establishment cantered out of the square, followed by all the men, women, and children of the place, amounting probably to between twenty and thirty souls. "A race! a race!" shouted the foremost.

"Hallo! Dupont, what's to do?" inquired McLeod as the two horsemen came up.

"Please, monsieur, Lincoln have bet me von gun dat hims horse go more queek dan mine—so we try."

"Yes, so we shall, I guess," added the man named Lincoln, whose speech told that he was a Yankee.

"Go it, stranger; I calc'late you'll do him slick," cried Waller patronisingly, for his heart warmed towards his countryman.

"Ah! non. Go home; put your horse to bed," cried Gibault, glancing at the Yankee's steed in contempt. "Dis is de von as vill do it more slicker by far."

"Well, well; clear the course; we shall soon see," cried McLeod. "Now then—here's the word—one, two—away!"

At the last word the riders' whips cracked, and the horses sprang forward at a furious gallop. Both of them were good spirited animals, and during the first part of the race it could not be said that either had the advantage. They ran neck and neck together.

The racecourse at the Mountain Fort was a beautiful stretch of level turf, which extended a considerable distance in front of the gates. It crossed a clear open country towards the forest, where it terminated, and, sweeping round in an abrupt curve, formed, as it were, a loop; so that competitors, after passing over the course, swept round the loop, and, re-entering the original course again, came back towards the fort, where a long pole formed the winning-post.