"A hoss!" repeated Gibault. "Him be one buffalo I see hims bump."

"The bumps that ye see is neither more nor less than a man leanin' forard—it is."

At this moment the rest of the party rode up, and Redhand confirmed Bounce's opinion.

"There's only one, I guess, an' he's in a powerful hurry," observed Big Waller. "But we may as well be ready to fix his flint if he means to cut up rough."

He brought forward his gun as he spoke, and examined the priming.

"I b'lieve he's an evil spirit, I do," said Bounce; "wot a pace!"

"More like to de Wild Man of de Vest," observed Gibault.

"Think you so?" whispered Bertram in an anxious tone, with an involuntary motion of his hand to the pouch in which lay that marvellous sketch-book of his.

"Think it's him?" said Redhand to Hawkswing.

The Indian gave a slight grunt of assent.

But the strange horseman soon put all doubt on the point at rest by bearing down upon them like a whirlwind, his long hair and tags and scalp-locks streaming in the wind as usual. Dick had a distinct purpose in thus acting. He wished to terrify men, or, at least, to impress them with a wholesome dread of him, in order that he might simply be let alone!

He did not check his slashing pace until within four or five bounds of the party. Reining up so violently that he tore up the turf for a couple of yards under his horse's heels, he looked at the trappers with a grave, almost fierce expression, for a second or two.

"You come from the Mountain Fort?" he said.

"Yes," replied Redhand.

"All right there?"

"All right. The redskins threatened an attack, but we were too quick for 'em."

A gleam of satisfaction passed across Dick's face as he added, "You've lost a comrade, han't ye?"

"We jist have," cried Big Waller in surprise. "If you've seed him, I guess ye'd as well take us to his whereabouts."

"See you yonder pine?" said Dick, pointing back in the direction whence he had come. "One day's journey beyond that, as the crow flies, will bring you to a valley, level and well watered, with plenty o' beaver in it. You'll find him there."

Without waiting a reply Dick turned to ride away.

"I say, stranger," cried Waller (Dick paused), "air you, or air you not, the Wild Man o' the West?"

"Wild fools of the West call me so," replied Dick with a ferocious frown, that went far to corroborate the propriety of the cognomen in the opinion of the trappers.

"Wall, I tell 'ee wot it is, stranger, Wild Man or not, I guess you'll ha' to take us to our comrade yourself, for I'm inclined to opine that you know more about him than's good for ye; so if ye try to ride off, I'll see whether a ball—sixteen to the pound—'ll not stop ye, for all yer bigness."

A grim smile curled Dick's moustache as he replied, "If ye think that a trapper's word ain't to be trusted, or that committin' murder 'll do yer comrade a service, here's your chance—fire away!"

Dick wheeled about and cantered coolly away into the thickest part of the forest, leaving the trappers gazing at each other in amazement. Bertram was the first to speak.

"Oh, why did you not delay him a few seconds longer? See, I have him here—all but the legs of his splendid charger."

The others burst into a laugh.

"If ye've got the body all c'rect, it's easy to calculate the legs by the rules o' proportion, d'ye see?" observed Bounce.

"Come, lads, that's good news about March, anyhow," cried Redhand; "an' I'm of opinion that the Wild Man o' the West an't just so wild as people think. I, for one, will trust him. There's somethin' about the corner of a man's eye that tells pretty plain whether he's false or true. Depend on't we shall find March where he told us, so the sooner we set off the better."

Without waiting for a reply, Redhand urged his horse into a gallop, and, followed by his comrades, made for the valley indicated by the Wild Man.

Meanwhile, the Wild Man himself was already far ahead of them, keeping out of sight among the woods, and galloping nearly in the same direction—for his cave lay not more than four miles from the valley in question. Being much better mounted than they, he soon left the trappers far behind him, and when night closed in he continued his journey, instead of halting to eat and take a few hours' rest as they did. The consequence was that he reached his cave several hours before the trappers arrived at the valley, where they expected to find their missing comrade.

Of course March was filled with surprise at this second unexpected return of Dick; but the latter relieved his mind by explaining, in an offhand way, that he had met a man who had told him the Mountain Fort was all safe, and that his comrades also were safe, and wandering about in that part of the country in search of him. After a good deal of desultory conversation, Dick turned to his guest with a sad, serious air, and, fixing his large blue eyes on him, said—

"March, lad, you an' me must part soon."

"Part!" exclaimed the youth in surprise, glancing at Mary, who sat opposite to him, embroidering a pair of moccasins.

"Ay, we must part. You'll be well enough in a day or two to travel about with yer comrades. Now, lad, I want ye to understand me. I've lived here, off and on, for the last fourteen or fifteen years—it may be more, it may be less; I don't well remember—an' I've niver suffered men to interfere wi' me. I don't want them, an' they don't want me."

He paused. There was a slight dash of bitterness in the tone in which the last words were uttered; but it was gone when he resumed, in his usual low and musical voice—

"Now, although I chose to bring you to my cave, because I found ye a'most in a dyin' state, an' have let ye into one or two o' my secrets— because I couldn't help it, seein' that I couldn't stop up yer eyes—an' yer ears—yet I don't choose to let yer comrades know anything about me. They've no right to, an' you have no right to tell 'em; so, when ye meet 'em again ye mustn't talk about me or my cave, d'ye see?"

"Certainly," said March, who was both surprised and annoyed by his speech, "certainly you have a perfect right to command me to hold my tongue; and, seein' that you've bin so kind to me, Dick, I'm in duty bound to obey; but how can you ask me to put myself in such an awkward fix? You don't suppose I can make my comrades believe I've bin livin' on air or grass for some days past, an' they'll see, easy enough, that I've not bin in a condition to help myself. Besides, whatever your notions may be about truth, mine are of such a sort that they won't let me tell a parcel o' lies to please anybody."

"Far be it from me, boy, to ask ye to tell lies. You can tell yer comrades that you've bin took care of by a trapper as lives in a cave among the mountains; but you don't need to tell 'em where the cave is; an' if they worry ye to guide 'em to it, ye can refuse. Moreover, jist speak o' me in an offhand, careless sort o' way, d'ye see? an' be particular not to tell what I'm like, 'cause it might make 'em take a fancy to hunt me up."

There appeared to be a dash of vanity in the latter part of this remark, which surprised March not a little; for it seemed to him quite inconsistent with the stout hunter's wonted modesty of demeanour and speech.

"Well, I'm bound to think only o' your wishes in this matter," replied March in a disappointed tone, "an' I'll do my best to prevent my comrades interfering with ye, tho', to say truth, I don't think you need be so cautious, for they ain't over-curious—none of 'em. But—" here March paused and glanced at Mary, who, he observed, had dropped her head very much during the conversation, and from whose eye at that moment a bright tear fell, like a diamond, on the work with which she was engaged.

"But—am I—the fact is, Dick, I feel a little sore that you should say ye had a likin' for me, an' then tell me I must be off, an' never look near ye again."

"That's wot I never did say, boy," returned Dick, smiling. "Ye may come alone to see me as often as ye like while ye remain in these parts. An' if it please ye, yer at liberty to come an' live wi' me. There's room in the mountains for both of us. The cave can hold three if need be."

March Marston's heart beat quick. He was on the eve of forming a great resolve! His bosom heaved, and his eye sparkled, as he was about to close hastily with this proposal, when, again, the memory of his mother crossed him, and a deep sigh burst from his lips as he shook his head, and said sorrowfully, "It can't be done, Dick. I can't forsake my mother."

"No more ye should, lad, no more ye should," said Dick, nodding approvingly; "but there's nothin' to prevent your spendin' the winter and spring here, an' returnin' to yer mother next summer."

"Done!" cried March, springing up as well as his bruised muscles would permit him, and seizing his friend enthusiastically by the hand. "I'll stop with you and send home word by my comrades that I'll be back in summer. That's capital!"

Mary seemed to be quite of the same opinion, for she looked quickly up with a beaming smile.

"Well, so it is a good plan," said Dick somewhat gravely; "but don't act in haste, else ye may ha' to repent at leisure. Go an' speak to yer comrades; see what they advise ye to do, an' come again an' let me know. And, now we're on that pint, I may tell ye that yer friends will be at the head of a valley not four miles from here this very night, an' they expect ye there."

"How d'ye know that?" cried March, breathless with amazement.

"Well, ye see, the Wild Man o' the West knows that you're in them parts; he has seed you, an' knows where ye are, an' he met yer comrades, the trappers, no later than yesterday, an' told 'em they'd find ye in the valley I spoke of just now; so we must be up an' away to meet 'em."

Dick rose as he spoke and began to make preparation to depart.

"But how came you to know this?" inquired the astonished youth.

"Why, the Wild Man an' me's oncommon intimate, d'ye see? In fact, I may say we're jist inseparable companions, an' so I come to know it that way. But make haste. We've no time to lose."

"Good-bye, Mary," cried March with a cheerful smile, as he hurried out of the cave after his eccentric companion. "I'll be back before long, depend on't."

Mary nodded, and the two men were soon mounted and out of sight.

"I say, Dick," observed March as they rode along, "you must get me to see the Wild Man of the West; if you're so intimate with him, you can easily bring him into the cave; now won't you, Dick?"

"Well, as I can't help doin' it, I s'pose I may say yes at once."

"Can't help it, Dick! What mean you? I wish ye'd talk sense."

"Hist!" exclaimed the hunter, pulling up suddenly under the shelter of a cliff. "Yonder come yer friends, sooner than I expected. I'll leave ye here. They've not seed us yit, an' that wood 'll hide me till I git away. Now, March," he added solemnly, "remember yer promise."

In another moment the wild hunter was gone, and March rode forward to meet his comrades, who, having now caught sight of him, came up the valley at full speed, shouting and waving their caps joyfully as they approached. In a shorter space of time than it takes to tell, March was surrounded, dragged off his horse, passed from one to another, to be handled roughly, in order to make sure that it was really himself, and, finally, was swallowed up by Bounce in a masculine embrace that might almost have passed for the hug of a grisly bear.



CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.

MARCH MARSTON IS PERPLEXED, SO ARE HIS FRIENDS—AN UNLOOKED-FOR MEETING—TERRIBLE NEWS—THE ATTACK—THE WILD MAN OF THE WEST ONCE AGAIN RENDERS SIGNAL SERVICE TO THE TRAPPERS—WILD DOINGS IN GENERAL, AND MARCH MARSTON'S CHAGRIN IN PARTICULAR.

"March Marston," said Bounce—and Bounce was sitting beside the camp fire, smoking his pipe after supper when he said it—"you may think ye're a 'cute feller, you may, oncommon 'cute; but if you'll listen to wot an oldish hunter says, an' take his advice, you'll come to think, in a feelosophical way, d'ye see? that ye're not quite so 'cute as ye suppose."

Bounce delivered this oracularly, and followed it up with a succession of puffs, each of which was so solidly yellow as to suggest to the mind of Bertram, who chanced to be taking his portrait at that moment, that the next puff would burst out in pure flame. Gibault and Big Waller nodded their heads in testimony of their approval of the general scope of the remark; the latter even went the length of "guessing that it was a fact," and Redhand smiled. Hawkswing looked, if possible, graver than usual.

"As," resumed Bounce after a considerable pause, during which March looked and felt very uncomfortable, "the nat'ral eyes of the old men becomes more dimmer, d'ye see? their mental eyes, so to speak, becomes sharper, so as that they can see through no end o' figurative millstones. That bein' the case when there's no millstone to be seen through at all, but only a oncommon thin trans—trans—"

"Ollification," suggested Waller modestly.

"Not at all," retorted Bounce with much severity in his tone. "I wos goin' to have said—transparientsy; but I'll not say that now, seein' it's too feelosophical for the likes o' you; but, as I wos sayin', that bein' the case, d'ye see? it's quite plain that—"

Here Bounce, having got into depths unusually profound even for his speculative and philosophical turn of mind, sought refuge in a series of voluminous puffs, and wound up, finally, with an emphatic assertion that "there wos somethin' wrong, an' it wos o' no manner o' use to try to throw dust in his eyes, seein' that his winkin' powers wos sich as to enable him to keep it out, no matter how thick or fast it should come."

"Ah, that's yer sort! I calc'late you're floored there, March," said Waller gravely. "The fact is, boy, that it won't do; you've got somethin' in the background, that Mr Bertram talks sich a heap about. You ought to be fair an' above-board with comrades, ye ought."

"Oui," added Gibault. "Of course, you have lived somewhere, an' somehow, all dis time. It am not posseeble for live nowhere on noting."

"Well, I tell you I have lived with a hunter, who treated me very well, and told me I'd find you here; having learned that, as I understand, from the Wild Man o' the West himself."

"Very true," said Bounce; "but where does the hunter live?"

"In the mountains," replied March.

"So does the Blackfeet, an' the Peigans, an' the Crows, an' the foxes, an' wolves, an' grisly bars," retorted Bounce dryly.

"I'll tell ye what it is," cried the exasperated March, "the curiosity of you fellers beats the squaws out an' out. Now, I'll be open with ye, an' then ye must hold your tongues. This man that I've been stayin' with is a very fine fellow, an' a very wonderful fellow, an' his name's Dick—"

"Dick what?" inquired Bounce.

"Dick nothing," said March.

"Ay! that's a odd name."

"No, I mean he's only called Dick, an' he wouldn't tell me his other name, if he has one. Well, he said to me I was not to tell where he lived, as he don't like company, an' so he made me promise, an' I did promise, d'ye see? so I mean to stick to my promise, and that's all about it. I would like to tell ye about him, comrades, but you wouldn't have me break my word, would you?"

"Cer'nly not, by no means," said Bounce. "Does he live all by his lone?"

"No—eh—ah! Well, I fancy it's not breakin' my word to tell ye that— no, he's got a little gal, an adopted daughter, livin' with him."

"Is she good-lookin'?" inquired Bounce quickly, with a sharp glance at the youth.

March looked a little confused, and, in a hesitating manner, admitted that she was.

"Ah! I thought so," observed Bounce gravely, shaking his head and looking unutterably profound, while Gibault gave a low whistle and winked to Big Waller, who returned the mystic signal with the addition of a knowing nod, all of which movements were observed by poor March, who became very red in the face and felt very angry and remarkably uncomfortable, and quite unable to decide whether it were better to laugh or storm. He was saved from all further perplexity on this point, however, by the sudden appearance of a horseman on the distant plain, who seemed to be approaching the valley in which they were encamped. At first he looked like a black speck or a crow on the horizon, and, in the uncertain light of the rapidly closing day, it would have been difficult for any unaccustomed eye to make out what the object was.

In a short time he drew near enough to be distinguished clearly, and the rapid patter of the horse's hoofs on the turf told that the rider was flying over the ground at an unusual speed. Passing round a clump of low trees that stretched out from the mouth of the valley into the plain, he came dashing towards the camp—a wild-looking, dishevelled creature, seemingly in a state of reckless insanity.

"The Wild Man again, surely," said Bounce, who, with his companions, had risen to await the coming up of the stranger.

"D'you think so?" cried March Marston eagerly.

"Ye—eh? why, I do b'lieve it's Mr Macgregor," cried the astonished Bounce as the reckless rider dashed up to the camp fire, and, springing from his horse with a yell that savoured more of a savage than a civilised spirit, cried—

"Look out, lads; up with a pile o' rocks an' trees! They'll be on us in a jiffy! There's five hundred o' the red reptiles if there's one. The Mountain Fort's burned to cinders—every man and woman dead and scalped—look alive!"

These words were uttered hastily in broken exclamations, as Macgregor seized the logs that had been cut for firewood, and began violently to toss them together in a pile; while the trappers, although much amazed and horrified at the news, seized their hatchets and began to make instant preparation to resist an attack, without wasting time in useless questions. They observed that the commander of the Mountain Fort was pale as death, that his eyes were bloodshot, his clothes torn, and his hands and face begrimed with powder and stained with blood.

March Marston worked like a hero at the rude breastwork for some time, although the effort caused him so much pain that he could not help showing it on his countenance.

"March," said Bounce, seizing him suddenly by the shoulder, "you're not fit to work, an' much less fit to fight. I'll tell ye wot to do, lad. Jump on my horse, an' away to yer friend the trapper, an' bring him here to help us. One stout arm 'll do us more good this night than ten battered bodies sich as yours, poor feller."

March felt the truth of this, so without delay turned to obey. Just as he was about to leave he heard a deep groan, and turning round, saw Macgregor fall to the ground.

"You're ill," he cried, running to him and kneeling down.

"No—not ill, just a scratch from an arrow," gasped the trader with an oath. "I believe the head's stickin' in my back."

"Away, March," cried Redhand, "we'll look to this. Waller, out wi' the fire, man; ye used to be more spry when—ah! too late, there they are, they've seen us."

"Into the fort, boys!" cried Bounce, alluding to the breastwork, "we don't need to care; with plenty o' powder and lead, we can keep five thousand redskins off."

March heard no more. Dashing up the glen at full speed, he disappeared from the spot, just as the distant yell of the savage host came floating upon the wings of the night air, apprising the trappers that their fire had been observed, and that they would have to fight manfully if they hoped to carry their scalps home with them.

In a few minutes the Indians drew near, and scattering themselves round the little entrenchment, began to discharge clouds of arrows at it, but, fortunately, without doing any damage. An inaccessible cliff protected their rear, and behind a projection of this the trappers' horses were secured. The breastwork lay immediately in front.

Again and again the savages let fly their shafts, but without drawing any reply from the trappers, who kept close under cover and reserved their fire. This tempted their enemies to approach, and, when within short range, they seemed about to make a rush, supposing, no doubt, that the party concealed behind the breastwork must be Indians, since they did not use firearms. Just then Redhand gave a preconcerted signal; three sheets of flame spouted from their guns, and three of the foremost Indians fell dead from their horses.

With a terrible yell the others turned to fly, but before they had retreated a yard three more shots were fired with deadly effect. They now took shelter behind trees and rocks, and attempted to dislodge the trappers by discharging arrows into the air at such an angle that they should drop into their fortress. One or two endeavoured to ascend the steep cliff, but the instant an arm or a shoulder appeared, a ball from Redhand's deadly rifle struck it, so the attempt was abandoned.

While this was going on, March Marston galloped to Dick's cave, and startled poor Mary not a little by the abruptness of his entrance. But, to his mortification, Dick was not at home. It so chanced that that wild individual had taken it into his head to remain concealed in the woods near the spot where he had parted from his late guest, and had not only witnessed the meeting of March with his friends, but had seen the arrival of Macgregor, the subsequent departure of March in the direction of the cave, and the attack made by the Indians. When, therefore, the youth was speeding towards his cavern, the Wild Man (who was not sorry to see him go off on such an errand), was busily planning the best mode of attacking the enemy so as to render effectual aid to the trappers.

Observing that the Indians had clustered together at the foot of a rugged cliff, apparently for the purpose of holding a council of war, Dick made his way quickly to the summit of the cliff, and, leaving his charger on an eminence that sloped down towards the entrance of the valley, quickly and noiselessly carried several huge stones to the edge of the precipice, intending to throw them down on the heads of his foes. Just as he was about to do so, he observed an overhanging mass of rock, many tons in weight, which the frosts of winter had detached from the precipice. Placing his feet against this, and leaning his back against the solid rock, he exerted himself with all his might, like a second Samson. No human power could have moved such a rock, had it not been almost overbalanced; but, being so, Dick's effort moved it. Again he strained, until the great veins seemed about to burst through the skin of his neck and forehead. Gradually the rock toppled and fell, and the Wild Man fell along with it.

In the agony of that moment he uttered a cry so terrible that it might well have been supposed to have come from the throat of a supernatural being. The Indians had not time to evade the danger. The ponderous mass in its descent hit a projecting crag, and burst into smaller fragments, which fell in a rattling shower, killing two men, and wounding others. Those of the group who escaped, as well as those who chanced to be beyond the danger, saw, by the dim moonlight, the Wild Man of the West descending, as it were, like a furious demon in the midst of the dire confusion of dust and rocks. They knew him well. It wanted but this to fill them to overflow with superstitious dread. They turned and fled. The trappers, although amazed beyond measure, and half suspecting who it was that had thus suddenly come to their aid, mounted their horses, and, leaping over their barricade, rushed down the valley in pursuit, firing a volley at starting, and loading as they rode at full speed. In his descent Dick made what might well be termed a miraculous escape. Near the foot of the cliff he went crashing through a thick bush, which broke his fall. Still he retained impetus sufficient to have seriously injured if not killed him, had he not alighted in the midst of another bush, which saved him so completely that he was not even hurt.

Dick could scarcely believe his own senses; but he was not a man given to indulge much wandering thought in times of action. Giving himself one shake, to make sure of his being actually sound in wind and limb, he bounded away up the precipice by a path with which he was well acquainted, reached his horse, flew by a short cut to the mouth of the valley, and, wheeling suddenly round, met the horrified Indians in the very teeth!

The roar with which he met them was compound in its nature, and altogether hideous! His mind was in a mingled condition of amazement and satisfaction at his escape, triumph at the success of his plan, and indignation at the cowardly wickedness of the savages. A rollicking species of mad pugnacity took possession of him, and the consequence was, that the sounds which issued from his leathern throat were positively inhuman.

The rushing mass of terror-stricken men, thus caught, as it were, between two fires, divided, in order to escape him. Dick was not sorry to observe this. He felt that the day was gained without further bloodshed. He knew that the superstitious dread in which he was held was a guarantee that the savages would not return; so, instead of turning with the trappers to join in the pursuit, he favoured them with a concluding and a peculiarly monstrous howl, and then rode quietly away by a circuitous route to his own cavern.

Thus he avoided March Marston, who, on finding that his friend Dick was out, had returned at full speed to aid his comrades, and arrived just in time to meet them returning, triumphant and panting, from their pursuit of the foe!

"Are they gone?" cried March in amazement.

"Ay, right slick away into the middle o' nowhar," replied Big Waller, laughing heartily. "Did ye iver hear such a roarer, comrades?"

"Have you licked 'em out an' out?" continued the incredulous March, "Ay, out an' out, an' no mistake," replied Bounce, dismounting.

"Well, that is lucky," said March; "for my friend Dick I found was not—"

"Ah! we not have need him," interrupted Gibault, wiping the perspiration from his forehead, "de Wild Man of de West hims come, an'—oh! you should see what hims have bin do!"

"The Wild Man again!" exclaimed March in dismay—"an' me absent!"

Gibault nodded and laughed.

At that moment an exclamation from Redhand attracted the attention of the whole party. He was kneeling beside Macgregor, who had dismounted and lain down.

"I believe they've done for me," said the fur trader faintly. "That arrow must have gone deeper than I thought."

"You'd better let me see the wound, sir," said Redhand; "your shirt is covered with blood."

"No, no," said the wounded man savagely; "let me rest—see, I'm better now. You will find a flask in the bag at my saddle-bow. Bring it here."

"I know that Dick—the hunter—is a good hand at doctoring," said March. "What a pity he is not here! We might carry you there, sir."

"Carry me," laughed the fur trader fiercely; "no, I'll never be carried till I'm carried to my grave. How far off is his place? Where stays he?"

"Four miles from this. I'll take you if you can ride," said March.

"Ay, that I can, bravely," cried the trader, who, having taken a deep draught of spirits, seemed to be imbued with new life. "Come, young sir, mount."

The trappers endeavoured to dissuade the violent man from the attempt, but he could not be controlled; so March, hastily observing that he would see him safe to the hunter's abode and return without delay, mounted his horse and rode away, followed by the wounded man.



CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.

THE WOUNDED FUR TRADER.

When they reached the entrance to the cavern, March and his companion dismounted; but the latter was so weak from loss of blood that he stumbled at the foot of the track, and fell to the earth insensible.

March ran hastily in for assistance, and was not a little surprised to find Dick sitting alone by the side of the fire, and so absorbed in the perusal of a little book that he had not noticed his entrance—a very singular and unaccountable piece of absence of mind in one so well trained in the watchful ways of the backwoods.

"Ho! Dick!" cried the youth.

"What, March—March Marston!" exclaimed the Wild Man, springing up, seizing him by the shoulders, and gazing intently into his face, as if to assure himself that he was not dreaming.

"Ay, no doubt I'm March Marston; though how you came to find out my name I don't know—"

"Easy enough that, lad, when you leave your mother's Bible behind ye," cried Dick with a wild laugh. "She must be a good mother that o' yours. Is she alive yet, boy?"

"That is she, an' well, I trust—"

"An' your father," interrupted Dick; "how's he, lad, eh?"

"I don't know," said March, frowning; "he forsook us fourteen years agone; but it's little good talking o' such matters now, when there's a poor fellow dyin' outside."

"Dyin'?"

"Ay, so it seems to me. I've brought him to see if ye can stop the bleedin', but he's fainted, and I can't lift—"

Dick waited for no more, but, hastening out, raised Macgregor in his arms, and carried him into the inner cave, where Mary was lying sound asleep on her lowly couch.

"Come, Mary, lass, make way for this poor feller."

The child leaped up, and, throwing a deerskin round her, stepped aside to allow the wounded man to be placed on her bed. Her eye immediately fell on March, who stood in the entrance, and she ran to him in surprise.

"What's de matter, March?"

"Hush, Mary," said Dick in a low voice; "we'll have to speak soft. Poor Macgregor won't be long for this world, I'm afear'd. Fetch me the box o' things."

"You know him, then?" whispered March, in surprise.

"Ay, I've often bin to the Mountain Fort and seed him there. See, he's comin' to. Put that torch more behind me, lad. It'll be better for him not to see me."

As he spoke the wounded man sighed faintly. Opening his eyes, he said, "Where am I?"

"Speak to him," whispered Dick, looking over his shoulder at March, who advanced, and, kneeling at the side of the couch, said—

"You're all right, Mr Macgregor. I've brought you to the hunter's home. He'll dress your wound and take care of you, so make your mind easy. But you'll have to keep quiet. You've lost much blood."

The fur trader turned round and seemed to fall asleep, while Dick bound his wound, and then, leaving him to rest, he and March returned to the other cave.

During that night Dick seemed in an unaccountably excited state. Sometimes he sat down by the fire and talked with March in an absent manner on all kinds of subjects—his adventures, his intentions, his home at Pine Point; but from his looks it seemed as if his thoughts were otherwise engaged, and occasionally he started up and paced the floor hurriedly, while his brows darkened and his broad chest heaved as though he were struggling with some powerful feeling or passion.

"Could it be," thought March, "that there was some mysterious connection between Dick and the wounded fur trader?" Not being able to find a satisfactory reply to the thought, he finally dismissed it, and turned his attentions altogether towards Mary, whose looks of surprise and concern showed that she too was puzzled by the behaviour of her adopted father.

During that night and all the next day the wounded man grew rapidly worse, and March stayed with him, partly because he felt a strong interest in and pity for him, and partly because he did not like to leave to Mary the duty of watching a dying man.

Dick went out during the day in the same excited state, and did not return till late in the evening. During his absence, the dying man's mind wandered frequently, and, in order to check this as well as to comfort him, March read to him from his mother's Bible. At times he seemed to listen intently to the words that fell from March's lips, but more frequently he lay in a state apparently of stupor.

"Boy," said he, starting suddenly out of one of those heavy slumbers, "what's the use of reading the Bible to me? I'm not a Christian, an' it's too late now—too late!"

"The Bible tells me that 'now' is God's time. I forget where the words are, an' I can't find 'em," said March earnestly; "but I know they're in this book. Besides, don't you remember the thief who was saved when he hung on the cross in a dyin' state?"

The fur trader shook his head slowly, and still muttered, "Too late, too late."

March now became deeply anxious about the dying man, who seemed to him like one sinking in the sea, yet refusing to grasp the rope that was flung to him. He turned over the sacred pages hurriedly to find appropriate texts, and blamed himself again and again for not having made himself better acquainted with the Word of God. He also repeated all he could think of from memory; but still the dying man shook his head and muttered, "Too late!" Suddenly March bent over him and said—

"Christ is able to save to the uttermost all who come unto God through Him."

The fur trader looked up in silence for a few seconds. "Ay," said he, "many a time have I heard the old minister at Pine Point say that."

"Pine Point!" exclaimed March in surprise.

"Perhaps they're true, after all," continued Macgregor, not noticing the interruption. "Oh! Mary, Mary, surely I did the uttermost when I forsook ye. Let me see the words, boy; are they there?"

A strange suspicion flashed suddenly on the mind of March as he listened to these words, and he trembled violently as he handed him the book.

"What—what's this? Where got ye my wife's Bible? You must," (he added between his teeth, in a sudden burst of anger) "have murdered my boy."

"Father!" exclaimed March, seizing Macgregor's hand.

The dying man started up with a countenance of ashy paleness, and, leaning on one elbow, gazed earnestly into the youth's face—"March! can it be my boy?" and fell back with a heavy groan. The bandages had been loosened by the exertion, and blood was pouring freely from his wound. The case admitted of no delay. March hurriedly attempted to stop the flow of the vital stream, assisted by Mary, who had been sitting at the foot of the couch bathed in tears during the foregoing scene.

Just then Dick returned, and, seeing how matters stood, quickly staunched the wound; but his aid came too late. Macgregor, or rather Obadiah Marston, opened his eyes but once after that, and seemed as if he wished to speak. March bent down quickly and put his ear close to his mouth; there was a faint whisper, "God bless you, March, my son," and then all was still!

March gazed long and breathlessly at the dead countenance; then, looking slowly up in Dick's face, he said, pointing to the dead man, "My father!" and fell insensible on the couch beside him.

We will pass over the first few days that succeeded the event just narrated, during which poor March Marston went about the wild region in the vicinity of the cave like one in a dream. It may be imagined with what surprise the trappers learned from him the near relationship that existed between himself and the fur trader. They felt and expressed the deepest sympathy with their young comrade, and offered to accompany him when he laid his father in the grave. But Dick had firmly refused to allow the youth to bring the trappers near his abode, so they forbore to press him, and the last sad rites were performed by himself and Dick alone. The grave was made in the centre of a little green vale which lay like an emerald in the heart of that rocky wilderness; and a little wooden cross, with the name and date cut thereon by March, was erected at the head of the low mound to mark the fur trader's last lonely resting-place. March Marston had never known his father in early life, having been an infant when he deserted his family; and the little that he had seen of him at the Mountain Fort, and amid the wild scenes of the Rocky Mountains, had not made a favourable impression on him. But, now that he was gone, the natural instinct of affection arose within his breast. He called to remembrance the last few and sad hours which he had spent by his parent's dying bed. He thought of their last few words on the momentous concerns of the soul, and of the eagerness with which, at times, the dying man listened to the life-giving Word of God; and the tear of sorrow that fell upon the grave, as he turned to quit that solitary spot, was mingled with a tear of joy and thankfulness that God had brought him there to pour words of comfort and hope into his dying father's ear.

That night he spent in the cave with Dick; he felt indisposed to join his old comrades just then. The grave tenderness of his eccentric friend, and the sympathy of little Mary, were more congenial to him.

"March," said Dick in a low, sad tone, as they sat beside the fire, "that funeral reminds me o' my friend I told ye of once. It's a lonesome grave his, with nought but a wooden cross to mark it."

"Had you known him long, Dick?"

"No, not long. He left the settlement in a huff—bein', I b'lieve, crossed in love, as I told ye."

Dick paused, and clasping both hands over his knee, gazed with a look of mingled sternness and sorrow at the glowing fire.

"Did ye ever," he resumed abruptly, "hear o' a feller called Louis, who once lived at Pine Point—before ye was born, lad; did ye ever hear yer mother speak of him?"

"Louis? Yes—well, I believe I do think I've heard the name before. Oh yes! People used to say he was fond o' my mother when she was a girl; but I never heard her speak of him. Now ye mention it, I remember the only time I ever asked her about it, she burst into tears, and told me never to speak of him again. Thadwick was his name—Louis Thadwick; but he was better known as Louis the Trapper. But he's almost forgotten at the settlement now; it's so long ago. Every one thinks him dead. Why d'ye ask?"

"Think he's dead?" repeated Dick slowly. "An' why not? My poor friend that was killed when he left his native place swore he'd never go back, an' no more he did—no more he did; though he little thought that death would step in so soon to make him keep his word."

"Was Louis your friend who died?" inquired March with much interest and not a little pity, for he observed that his companion was deeply affected.

Dick did not reply. His thoughts seemed to be wandering again, so March forbore to interrupt him, and, turning to Mary, said in a more cheerful tone—

"Whether would ye like to go to Pine Point settlement and stay with my mother, or that I should come here and spend the winter with you and Dick?"

Mary looked puzzled, and after some moments' consideration replied, "Me don't know." Then, looking up quickly, she added, "Which you like?"

"Indeed, I must make the same reply, Mary—'I don't know.' But, as I can't expect my friend Dick to give up his wild life, I suppose I must make up my mind to come here."

"March," said Dick quickly, "I've changed my mind, lad. It won't do. You'll have to spend next winter at home—anyhow ye can't spend it with me."

Had a thunderbolt struck the earth between March and Mary, they would not have been filled with half so much consternation as they were on hearing these words. It was plain that both had thoroughly made up their minds that they were to be together for many months to come. Dick noted the effect of his remark, and a peculiar frown crossed his countenance for a moment, but it gave place to a smile, as he said—

"I'm sorry to disappoint ye, lad, but the thing cannot be."

"Cannot be!" repeated March in a tone of exasperation, for he felt that this was an unwarrantable piece of caprice on the part of his friend; "surely you don't claim to be chief of the Rocky Mountains! If I choose to come an' spend the winter in this region, you have no right to prevent me. And if I offer to bring you furs and venison, besides pretty good company, will ye be such a surly knave as to refuse me a corner of your cave?"

"Nay, lad. Right welcome would ye be, with or without furs or venison; but I mean to leave the cave—to quit this part of the country altogether. The fact is, I'm tired of it, an' want a change."

"Very good, all right, an' what's to hinder my going with you? I'm fond o' change myself. I'd as soon go one way as another."

Dick shook his head. "It's o' no use, March, I've my own reasons for desirin' to travel alone. The thing cannot be."

This was said in such a decided tone that March looked at Mary in dismay. He gathered no consolation from her countenance, however.

"March," said Dick firmly, "I'm sorry to grieve ye, lad, but it can't be helped. All I can say is, that if ye choose to come back here next summer you'll be heartily welcome, and I'll engage that ye'll find me here; but I'm quite sartin' ye won't want to come."

"Won't want to come! I'll bet ye a hundred thousand million dollars I'll want to come, ay, and will come," cried March.

"Done!" said Dick, seizing the youth's hand, "an' Mary's a witness to the wager."

It is needless to say that the conversation did not rest here. The greater part of that night, and during great part of the week that March remained there, he continued to press the Wild Man of the West to alter his purpose, but without avail. Each day he passed with his comrades, hunting and trapping, and each night he bade them adieu and returned to sup and sleep in the cave, and, of course, persecuted Dick all that time; but Dick was immovable.

Of course, the trappers renewed their attempts to get March to show them Dick's abode, but he persistently refused, and they were too good-natured to annoy him, and too honest to follow his trail, which they might easily have done, had they been so disposed.

At last the time arrived when it became necessary that the trappers should return to Pine Point settlement. In the midst of all their alarms and fights they had found time to do, what Big Waller termed, a "pretty considerable stroke o' business." That is to say, they had killed a large number of fur-bearing animals by means of trap, snare, and gun, so that they were in a position to return home with a heavy load of valuable skins. The day of their departure was therefore arranged, and March, mounting his steed, galloped, for the last time, and with a heavy heart, towards the cave of his friend Dick.

As he passed rapidly over the wild country, and entered the gloomy recesses that surrounded the Wild Man's home, he thought over the arguments and persuasive speeches with which he meant to make a last and, he still hoped, successful appeal. But March might have spared himself the trouble of all this thought, for when he reached the cave Dick was absent. This grieved, him deeply, because every preparation had been made by his companions for starting on their homeward journey that evening, so that he had no time to spare.

Mary, was at home, however, so March felt a little consoled, and, seating himself in his wonted place beside the fire, he said—

"When will Dick be home, Mary?"

"Me no can know 'xactly. To-morray hims say, perhaps."

"Then it's all up," sighed March, leaning recklessly back against the wall; "all up! I'm off to-night, so I'll not be able to spend the winter with you after all."

Had Mary burst into tears on hearing this, March would have felt satisfied. Had she groaned or sobbed, or even sighed, he would have experienced some degree of relief to his annoyed and disappointed spirit, but when Mary, instead of any such demonstration, hung down her head so that the heavy masses of her soft brown hair hid her pretty face and said in a tone which March fancied was not very genuine, "What a pity!" he became extremely exasperated, and deemed himself ill-used.

During the half-hour that succeeded he endeavoured to converse in a pleasant tone of voice, but without success. At last he rose to go.

"Must you go 'way dis night?" said Mary with a look of concern.

"Ay, Mary, an' it's not much matter, for ye don't seem to care."

The girl looked at him reproachfully, "You is not please' with me, March—why?"

The question puzzled the youth. He certainly was displeased, but he could not make up his mind to say that he was so because Mary had not fallen into a state of violent grief at the prospect of a separation. But the anxious gaze of Mary's truthful blue eyes was too much for him— he suddenly grasped both her hands, and, kissing her forehead, said—

"Mary dear, I'm not displeased. I'm only sorry, and sad, and annoyed, and miserable—very miserable—I can scarcely tell why. I suppose I'm not well, or I'm cross, or something or other. But this I know, Mary, Dick has invited me to come back to see him next year, and I certainly shall come if life and limb hold out till then."

Mary's eyes filled with tears, and as she smiled through them, March, being very near her face, beheld in each eye an excessively miniature portrait of himself gazing out at him lovingly.

"Perhaps!" faltered Mary, "you no want for come when it be nixt year."

Poor March was overwhelmed again, absolutely disgusted, that she could entertain a doubt upon that point!

"We shall see," he cried with a sudden impulse, pressing his lips again to her forehead. "May the Great Spirit bless and keep you! Good-bye, Mary—till next spring."

March burst away from her, rushed out of the cave in a tumult of conflicting feelings and great resolves, and despite a little stiffness that still remained to remind him of his late accident, flung himself into the saddle with a bound that would have done credit to the Wild Man himself, and galloped down the rocky gorge at a pace that threatened a sudden and total smash to horse and man. Had any of his old comrades or friends witnessed that burst, they would certainly have said that March Marston was mad—madder, perhaps, than the most obstreperous March hare that ever marched madly through the wild regions of insanity.



CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR.

MARCH MARSTON AT HOME—HIS ASTONISHING BEHAVIOUR—NARRATION OF HIS EXTRAORDINARY ADVENTURES—WIDOW MARSTON'S BOWER—THE RENDEZVOUS OF THE TRAPPERS—A STRANGE INTERRUPTION TO MARCH'S NARRATIVE—A WILD SURPRISE AND RECOVERY OF A LOST LOVER—GREAT DESTRUCTION OF HOUSEHOLD GOODS—A DOUBLE WEDDING AND TREMENDOUS EXCITEMENT—THE WILD MAN OF THE WEST THE WISEST MAN IN PINE POINT SETTLEMENT.

Three months passed away, and at the end of that period March Marston found himself back again in Pine Point settlement, sitting on a low stool at that fireside where the yelling and kicking days of his infancy had been spent, and looking up in the face of that buxom, blue-eyed mother, with whom he had been wont to hold philosophical converse in regard to fighting and other knotty—not to say naughty—questions, in those bright but stormy days of childhood when he stood exactly "two-foot-ten," and when he looked and felt as if he stood upwards of ten feet two!

Three months passed away, and during the passage of that period March Marston's bosom became a theatre in which, unseen by the naked eye, were a legion of spirits, good, middling, and bad, among whom were hope, fear, despair, joy, fun, delight, interest, surprise, mischief, exasperation, and a military demon named General Jollity, who overbore and browbeat all the rest by turns. These scampered through his brain and tore up his heart and tumbled about in his throat and lungs, and maintained a furious harlequinade, and in short behaved in a way that was quite disgraceful, and that caused the poor young man alternately to amuse, annoy, astonish, and stun his comrades, who beheld the exterior results of those private theatricals, but had no conception of the terrific combats that took place so frequently on the stage within.

During those three months, March saw many things. He saw his old friends the prairie dogs, and the prong-horned antelopes, and the grisly bears, and the wolves; more than that, he chased, and shot, and ate many of them. He also saw clouds of locusts flying high in the air, so thick that they sometimes darkened the very sky, and herds of buffaloes so large that they often darkened the whole plain.

During those three months March learned a good deal. He learned that there was much more of every sort of thing in this world than he had had any idea of—that there was much, very much, to be thankful for—that there were many, very many, things to be grieved for, and many also to be glad about—that the fields of knowledge were inimitably large, and that his own individual acquirements were preposterously, humblingly small!

He thought much, too. He thought of the past, present, and future in quite a surprising way. He thought of his mother and her loneliness, of Dick and his obstinacy, of Mary and her sweetness, of the Wild Man of the West and his invisibility. When this latter thought arose, it had the effect invariably of rousing within him demon Despair; also General Jollity, for the general had a particular spite against that demon, and, whenever he showed symptoms of vitality, attacked him with a species of frenzy that was quite dreadful to feel, and the outward manifestations of which were such as to cause the trappers to fear seriously that the poor youth had "gone out of his mind," as they expressed it. But they were wrong—quite wrong—it was only the natural consequence of those demons and sprites having gone into his mind, where they were behaving themselves—as Bounce, when March made him his confidant, said—with "horrible obstropolosity."

Well, as we have said, March was seated on a low stool, looking up in his mother's face. He had already been three days at home, and, during every spare minute he had he sat himself down on the same stool, and went on with his interminable narrations of the extraordinary adventures through which he had passed while among the Rocky Mountains and out upon the great prairies.

Widow Marston—for she knew that she was a widow now, though the knowledge added but little to the feeling of widowhood to which she had been doomed for so many years—widow Marston, we say, listened to this interminable narration with untiring patience and unmitigated pleasure. There was as yet no symptom of the narrative drawing to a close, neither was there the slightest evidence of the widow Marston becoming wearied. We have seen a cat worried and pulled and poked by its kitten almost beyond endurance, and we have observed that the cat endured it meekly— nay, evidently rejoiced in the annoyance: it was pleasurable pain. As it is with feline, so is it with human mothers. Their love overbears and outweighs everything. Ah! good cause have the rugged males of this world to rejoice that such is the fact; and although they know it well, we hold that it is calculated to improve the health and refresh the spirit of men to have that fact brought prominently and pointedly to their remembrance!

Had March Marston talked the most unutterable balderdash, widow Marston would have listened with unwearied delight as long, we believe, as her eyes and ears could do their duty. But March did not talk balderdash. For a madman, he spoke a great deal of common, besides a considerable amount of uncommon sense, and his mother listened with intelligent interest: commenting on what he said in her quiet way, as she found opportunity—we say this advisedly, for opportunities were not so frequent as one might suppose. March had always been possessed of a glib tongue, and he seemed, as Bounce remarked, to have oiled the hinges since his return to Pine Point settlement.

"Mother," said March, after a short pause that had succeeded an unusually long burst, "do you know it's only a few months since I left you to go to this trip to the mountains?"

"I know it well, my son," replied the widow, smiling at the question.

"And do you know," he continued, "that it seems to me more like five years? When I think of all that I've heard and all that I've done, and all that I've seen, it seems to me as if it had took—as if it must have took—five years to have heard and done and seen it all in?"

"And yet," said the widow musingly, "you failed to see the Wild Man o' the West after all."

"Mother, I'll be angry with you if you say that again."

"Well, I won't," she replied, taking his hand in hers and stroking it. "Tell me again, March, about Dick of the Cave and his little girl. I like to hear about them; they were so kind to you, and that Dick, from your account, seems to be such a fine fellow: tell me all about them over again."

"I will, mother," said March, clearing his throat, and commencing in a tone that showed clearly his intention of going on indefinitely.

Widow Marston's cottage had a pretty, comfortable-looking flower garden behind it. In front the windows looked out upon a portion of the native woods which had been left standing when the spot for the settlement was cleared. In the back garden there was a bower which the widow's brother, the blacksmith, had erected, and the creepers on which had been planted by the widow's own hand when she was Mary West, the belle of the settlement. In this bower, which was a capacious one, sat a number of sedate, quiet, jolly, conversable fellows, nearly all of whom smoked, and one of whom sketched. They were our friends Redhand, Bounce, Big Waller, Gibault, Hawkswing, and Bertram.

It is observable among men who travel long in company together in a wild country, that, when they return again to civilised, or to semi-civilised life, they feel a strong inclination to draw closer together, either from the force of habit, or sympathy, or both. On reaching Pine Point the trappers, after visiting their friends and old chums, drew together again as if by a species of electrical attraction. In whatever manner they chanced to spend their days, they—for the first week at least— found themselves trending gradually each evening a little before sunset to a common centre.

Widow Marston was always at home. March Marston was always with his mother—deep in his long-winded yarns. The bower was always invitingly open in the back garden; hence the bower was the regular rendezvous of the trappers. It was a splendid evening that on which we now see them assembled there. The sun was just about to set in a flood of golden clouds. Birds, wildfowl, and frogs held an uproarious concert in wood and swamp, and the autumnal foliage glowed richly in the slanting beams as it hung motionless in the still atmosphere.

"D'ye know," said Redhand, removing his pipe for a few minutes and blowing aside the heavy wreaths of tobacco smoke that seemed unwilling to ascend and dissipate themselves—"d'ye know, now that this trip's over, I'm inclined to think it's about the roughest one I've had for many a year? An' it's a cur'ous fact, that the rougher a trip is the more I like it."

Bertram, who was (as a matter of course) sketching, turned over a few leaves and made a note of the observation.

"I guess it was pretty much of a meddlin' jolly one," said Big Waller, smoking enthusiastically, and with an expression of intense satisfaction on his weather-beaten countenance.

"An' profitable," observed Bounce gravely.

"Ah! oui, ver' prof'table," echoed Gibault. "Dat is de main ting. We have git plenty skins, an' have bring hom' our own skins, w'ich I was not moche sure of one or two times."

"True," said Bounce; "that's wot we've got for to be thankful for. Skins is skins; but the skin of a human ain't to be put in the balance wi' the skin o' a beaver, d'ye see?"

Bounce glanced at Hawkswing as he spoke, but the Indian only looked stolid and smoked solemnly.

"Yes," he continued, "a whole skin's better nor a broken one, an' it's well to bring back a whole one, though I'm not a-goin' for to deny that there's some advantage in bringing back other sorts o' skins too, d'ye see? w'ich goes for to prove the true feelosophy of the fact, d'ye see?—"

Bounce paused, in the midst of his mental energy, to take a parenthetic whiff. His thoughts, however, seemed too deep for utterance, for he subsided quietly into a state of silent fumigation.

"What a splendidly picturesque scene!" exclaimed Bertram, pushing back his brigandish hat in order the better to get a view, at arm's length, of his sketch and compare it with the original.

"Wot's the meanin' o' pikter-esk?" inquired Bounce. Theodore Bertram looked and felt puzzled. He was not the first man who thought that he knew the signification of terms well, and found himself much perplexed on being suddenly called upon to give a correct definition of a well-known word. While he is labouring to enlighten his friend, we shall leave the bower and return to the hall, or kitchen, or reception room—for it might be appropriately designated by any of these terms— where March is, as usual, engaged in expounding backwoods life to his mother. We have only to pass through the open door and are with them at once. Cottages in Pine Point settlement were of simple construction; the front door opened out of one side of the hall, the back door out of the other. As the weather was mild, both were wide open.

March had just reached an intensely interesting point in his narrative, and was describing, with flashing eyes and heightened colour, his first interview with the "Vision in Leather," when his attention was attracted by the sound of horses' hoofs coming at a rapid pace along the road that led to the cottage. The wood above referred to hid any object approaching by the road until within fifty yards or so of the front door.

"They seem in a hurry, whoever they be," said March, as he and his mother rose and hastened to the door, "an' there's more than one rider, if I've not forgot how to judge by sounds. I should say that there's— Hallo!"

The exclamation was not unnatural by any means, for at that moment a very remarkable horseman dashed round the point of the wood and galloped towards the cottage. Both man and horse were gigantic. The former wore no cap, and his voluminous brown locks floated wildly behind him. On they came with a heavy, thunderous tread, stones, sticks, and dust flying from the charger's heels. There was a rude paling in front of the cottage. The noble horse put its ears forward as it came up, took two or three short strides, and went over with the light bound of a deer, showing that the strength of bone, muscle, and sinew was in proportion to the colossal size of the animal. The gravel inside the paling flew like splashing water as they alighted with a crash, and widow Marston, uttering a faint cry, shrank within the doorway as the wild horseman seemed about to launch himself, with Quixotic recklessness, against the cottage.

"Dick!" shouted March, who stared like one thunderstruck as the rider leaped from the saddle to the ground, sprang with a single bound to the widow's side, seized her right hand in both of his, and, stooping down, gazed intently into her alarmed countenance. Suddenly the blood rushed violently to her temples, as the man pronounced her name in a low, deep tone, and with a look of wild surprise mingled with terror, she exclaimed,—"Louis!"

The colour fled from her cheeks, and uttering a piercing cry, she fell forward on the breast of her long-lost lover.

March Marston stood for some time helpless; but he found his voice just as Redhand and the other trappers, rushing through the house, burst upon the scene—"Dick!" shouted March again, in the highest pitch of amazement.

"The Wild Man o' the West!" roared Bounce, with the expression of one who believes he gazes on a ghost.

"Fetch a drop o' water, one o' you fellers," said the Wild Man, looking anxiously at the pale-face that rested on his arm.

Every one darted off to obey, excepting Bertram, who, with eyes almost starting out of their sockets, was already seated on the paling, sketching the scene; for he entertained an irresistible belief that the Wild Man of the West would, as he had already done more than once, vanish from the spot before he could get him transferred to the pages of his immortal book.

Trappers are undoubtedly men who can act with vigorous promptitude in their own peculiar sphere; but when out of that sphere, they are rather clumsy and awkward. Had they been in the forest, each man would have fetched a draught of clear water from the nearest spring with the utmost celerity; but, being in a settlement, they knew not where to turn. Big Waller dashed towards a very small pond which lay near the cottage, and dipping his cap into it, brought up a compound of diluted mud and chickweed. Gibault made an attempt on a tiny rivulet with the like success, which was not surprising, seeing that its fountain-head lay at the bottom of the said pond. Bounce and Hawkswing bolted into the cottage in search of the needful fluid; but, being unused to furniture, they upset three chairs and a small table in their haste, and scattered on the floor a mass of crockery, with a crash that made them feel as if they had been the means of causing some dire domestic calamity, and which almost terrified the household kitten into fits.

Then Bounce made a hopeful grasp at a teapot, which, having happily been placed on a side table, had survived the wreck of its contemporary cups and saucers, and the Indian made an insane effort to wrench the top off a butter-churn, in the belief that it contained a well-spring of water.

Of all the party old Redhand alone stood still, with his bald head glistening in the last rays of the sinking sun, and his kindly face wrinkled all over with a sympathetic smile. He knew well that the young widow would soon recover, with or without the aid of water; so he smoked his pipe complacently, leaned against the doorpost, and looked on.

He was right. In a few minutes Mrs Marston recovered, and was tenderly led into the cottage by her old lover, Louis Thadwick, or, as we still prefer to call him, the Wild Man of the West. There, seated by her side, in the midst of the wreck and debris of her household goods, the Wild Man, quite regardless of appearances, began boldly to tell the same old tale, and commit the same offence, that he told and committed upwards of sixteen years before, when he was Louis the Trapper and she was Mary West.

Seeing what was going forward, the judicious trappers and the enthusiastic artist considerately retired to the bower behind the house. What transpired at that strange interview no one can tell, for no one was present except the kitten. That creature, having recovered from its consternation, discovered, to its inexpressible joy, that, an enormous jug having been smashed by Bounce along with the other things, the floor was covered in part with a lakelet of rich cream. With almost closed eyes, intermittent purring, quick-lapping tongue, and occasional indications of a tendency to choke, that fortunate animal revelled in this unexpected flood of delectation, and listened to the conversation; but, not being gifted with the power of speech, it never divulged what was said—at least, to human ears, though we are by no means sure that it did not create a considerable amount of talk among the cat population of the settlement.

Be this as it may, when the Wild Man at length opened the door, and cried, "Come in, lads; it's all right!" they found the widow Marston with confusion and happiness beaming on her countenance, and the Wild Man himself in a condition that fully justified Bounce's suggestion that they had better send for a strait-waistcoat or a pair of handcuffs. As for March, he had all along been, and still was, speechless. That the Wild Man of the West was Dick, and Dick the Wild Man of the West, and that both should come home at the same time in one body, and propose to marry his mother, was past belief—so of course he didn't believe it.

"Hallo! wait a bit; I do b'lieve I was forgettin'," cried the Wild Man, springing up in his own violent, impulsive way, upsetting his chair (as a matter of course, being unused to such delicacies), dashing through the lake of cream to the all but annihilation of the kitten, opening the door, and giving vent to a shrill whistle.

All rushed out to witness the result. They were prepared for anything now—from a mad bison to a red warrior's ghost, and would have been rather disappointed had anything feebler appeared.

Immediately there was a clatter of hoofs; a beautiful white pony galloped round the corner of the wood, and made straight for the cottage. Seated thereon was the vision in leather—not seated as a woman sits, but after the fashion of her own adopted father, and having on her leathern dress with a pair of long leggings highly ornamented with porcupine quills and bead work. The vision leaped the fence like her father, bounded from her pony as he had done, and rushed into the Wild Man's arms, exclaiming, "Be she here, an' well, dear fader?"

"Ay, all right," he replied; but he had no time to say more, for at that moment March Marston darted at the vision, seized one of her hands, put his arm round her waist, and swung her, rather than led her, into his mother's presence.

"Here's Mary, mother!" cried March with a very howl of delight.

The widow had already guessed it. She rose and extended her arms. Mary gazed for one moment eagerly at her and then rushed into them. Turning sharp round, March threw his arms round Bounce's neck and embraced him for want of a better subject; then hurling him aside he gave another shout, and began to dance a violent hornpipe on the floor, to the still further horrification of the kitten (which was now a feline maniac), and the general scatteration of the mingled mass of crockery and cream. Seeing this, Bounce uttered a hysterical cheer. Hawkswing, being excited beyond even savage endurance, drew his scalping-knife, yelled the war-cry and burst into the war-dance of the Seneca Indians. In short, the widow's cottage became the theatre of a scene that would have done credit to the violent wards of a lunatic asylum—a scene, which is utterly beyond the delineative powers of pen or pencil—a scene which defies description, repudiates adequate conception, and will dwell for ever on the memories of those who took part in it like the wild phantasmagoria of a tremendous dream!

Of course, a wild man could not be induced, like an ordinary mortal, to wait a reasonable time in order to give his bride an opportunity of preparing her trousseau. He was a self-willed man, and a man of a strong mind. He insisted upon being married "out of hand, and have done with it." So he was married—whether "out of hand" or not we cannot tell—by the excellent clergyman of Pine Point settlement. On the same day, and the same hour, March Marston was married—"out of hand," also, no doubt—to the vision in leather!

There was something rather precipitate in these proceedings, unquestionably; but those who feel disposed to object to them must bear in mind, first, that backwoodsmen are addicted to precipitancy at times; and, secondly, that facts cannot be altered in order to please the fastidious taste of the so-called civilised world.

Public opinion in the settlement was strongly in favour of the doings of the Wild Man of the West. Delay was deemed by all to be unnecessary, and all the more so that the double wedding-day was to be celebrated as a species of public event.

The romance connected with the previous life of Dick, and especially his singular and unexpected return to his first love, created quite a sensation, even in a region in which wild deeds and wonderful events were so common that it required a man to be a real hero to enable him to rise conspicuous above his fellows. Many trappers came in from a considerable distance to take part in the rejoicings of that day, and from the dance which followed the ceremony there was not absent a living creature belonging to the settlement.

Every dog was there, of course, adding its vocal melody to the dulcet tones of the blacksmith's violin. Even the cats of the settlement were present, including that celebrated kitten which had been reduced to a state of drivelling imbecility by the furious advent of the Wild Man. Owls and other sagacious birds also came from afar to see the fun, attracted by the light of the fire; for the ballroom was the green sward of the forest, which was illuminated for the occasion by a bonfire that would have roasted a megatherium whole, and also would have furnished accommodation for a pot large enough to boil an elephant. Don't think, reader, in the vanity of your heart, that you have conceived that fire! You have not, as a Yankee would say, the most distant conception of the small end of a notion of what it was! A hundred brawny arms, accustomed to wield the broad axe, had lent their aid to rear the mighty pile and feed the ravening flame.

It was kindled on a wide level plot in the outskirts of the settlement, around which the trees spread their sheltering arms. On a plank raised on two casks sat the blacksmith with his fiddle. The carpenter sat beside him with a kettledrum, more literally a kettledrum even than the real thing, for that drum was a kettle! On a little mound that rose in the centre of the plot sat, in state, Dick and Mary, March and the vision in leather, their respective thrones being empty flour-casks. Around them danced the youth and beauty of the settlement. These were enclosed by a dense circle, composed of patriarchal, middle-aged, and extremely juvenile admirers. The background of the picture was filled up with the monstrous fire which saturated that spot in the forest with light—bright as the broadest day. The extreme foreground was composed of the trunk of a fallen tree, on which sat our friend the artist, delineating the whole with the eagerness of an enthusiast who had at last fallen upon a scene truly worthy of his genius.

How Bounce did dance, to be sure! How the young trappers and the blooming backwoods maidens did whirl and bound, on heel and toe, and, to a large extent, on the whole sole of the foot! Yes, their souls were in the work, and their spirits too; and that although there was not a drop of spirits in the settlement. Happily, owing to the unaccountable delay of a provision boat, there was not a glass of "fire-water" in the place at that time. The whole affair was got up, carried on, and concluded on tea. It was a great teetotal gathering, which would have drawn tears of joy from the heart of Father Mathew and all his successors, whether Romanist or Protestant, had they witnessed it.

Yet the excitement was tremendous. The Wild Man of the West, strange to say, and, owing to some peculiar contradictoriness of character which was unaccountable, was almost the only sane man of the whole party. He flung himself on the ground beside his wife, and locking his arm round the tough root of a pine tree refused to budge from the spot. As the united efforts of all the men who could lay hold of him at one time failed to root him up, he was suffered to lie there and amuse himself by watching the dancers, looking up occasionally at Mary's blue eyes, and playing with such of the juveniles as he could attract within the reach of his long arm.

As for March Marston, he was mad now if ever he had been so in his life! He danced with all the girls, and wrestled with all the men, and played hide-and-seek with all the boys, and fraternised with all the old people, and chased all the dogs, and astonished, not to say horrified, all the cats. Yet, although he did all this, he did not neglect the vision in leather, by no manner of means.

Long before the dawn of early morning that jovial party drank a parting cup of cold tea, and, dispersing to their several homes, left the field in possession of the village curs.

Now, dear reader—with a feeling of sadness we write it—all things must have an end! We make this unquestionable assertion in order to break to you, as gently as may be, the news that our tale has reached its close. Had we taken in hand to write the life and adventures of our hero and his friends from first to last, we should have had to prepare pens, ink, and paper, for a work equal in size to the "Encyclopaedia Britannica." We have only detailed one or two episodes in their wild career. What they did and said and saw in after years must be left to future historians, or to the imagination of romantic readers. This only will we say in conclusion, that of all the men who dwelt in Pine Point settlement, for many years after the events narrated in these pages, the kindest, the wisest, the gentlest, the heartiest, the wildest, and the most courageous was—the Wild Man of the West.

THE END.