The Wild Man of the West: A Tale of the Rocky Mountains
One powerful Indian seized March by the throat. Before either could use his weapon the horses separated and both fell violently to the ground. Bertram leaped off his horse and sprang to the rescue, but he was instantly surrounded, and for a few seconds defended himself with the butt of his large cavalry pistol with an amount of energy and activity that would have filled those who knew him best with amazement. At that moment there was a clatter of hoofs in the gorge, and a roar or bellow was heard above the din of the fight. All eyes were turned towards the pass, and next moment a solitary horseman leaped over the broken rocks and bounded over the turf towards the combatants.
The aspect of this newcomer was something terrible to behold. Both he and his horse were gigantic in size. The man was dressed in the costume of an Indian, but his hair and beard were those of a white man. The mane and tail of his huge horse were of enormous length, and as he swept over the little plain, which seemed to tremble beneath his heavy tread, the wind blew out these and the tags and scalp-locks of his coat and leggings as well as his own beard and hair in such a confused and commingled way as to make the man and horse appear like one monstrous creature.
The Indians turned to flee, but, seeing only one enemy, they hesitated. In another moment the wild horseman was upon them. He carried a round shield on his left arm and a long double-edged sword in his right hand. Two Indians lowered their spears to receive him. The point of one he turned aside with his shield, and the shock of his heavy warhorse hurled horse and man upon the plain. The other he cut the iron head off with a sweep of his sword, and, with a continuation of the same cut, he cleft his opponent to the chin. Turning rapidly, he bounded into the very midst of the savages, uttering another of his tremendous roars of indignation. The suddenness of this act prevented the Indians from using their bows and arrows effectively. Before they could fit an arrow to the string two more of their number lay in the agonies of death on the ground. Several arrows were discharged, but the perturbation of those who discharged them, and their close proximity to their mark, caused them to shoot wide. Most of the shafts missed him. Two quivered in his shield, and one pierced the sleeve of his coat. Turning again to renew his rapid attacks he observed one of the Indians—probably a chief—leap to one side, and, turning round, fit an arrow with calm deliberation to his bow. The furious horseman, although delivering his sweeping blows right and left with indiscriminate recklessness, seemed during the mêlée to have an intuitive perception of where the greatest danger lay. The savages at that moment were whirling round him and darting at him in all directions, but he singled out this chief at once and bore down upon him like a thunderbolt. The chief was a brave man. He did not wince, but, drawing the arrow to its head as the other approached, let it fly full at his breast. The white man dropped on the neck of his steed as if he had been struck with lightning; the arrow passed close over his back and found its mark in the breast of one of the savages, whose death yell mingled with that of the chief as, a moment later, the gigantic warrior ran him with a straight point through the body.
The Indians were scattered now. The rapid dash of that tumultuous fight, although of but a few seconds’ duration, had swept the combatants to the extreme edge of the woods, leaving Bertram standing in the midst of dead and dying men gazing with a bewildered, helpless look at the terrible scene. March Marston lay close by his side, apparently dead, in the grip of the savage who had first attacked him, and whose throat his own hand grasped with the tenacity and force of a vice.
Most of the Indians leaped over the bushes and sought the shelter of the thick underwood, as the tremendous horseman, whom doubtless they now deemed invulnerable, came thundering down upon them again; but about twenty of the bravest stood their ground. At that moment a loud shout and a fierce “hurrah!” rang out and echoed hither and thither among the rocks; and, next instant, Big Waller, followed by Bounce and his friends, as well as by Macgregor and his whole party, sprang from the Wild-Cat Pass, and rushed furiously upon the savages, who had already turned and fled towards the wood for shelter. The whole band crossed the battlefield like a whirlwind, leaped over or burst through the bushes, and were gone—the crashing tread of their footsteps and an occasional shout alone remaining to assure the bewildered artist, who was still transfixed immovable to the ground, that the whole scene was not a dream.
But Bertram was not left alone on that bloody field. On the first sound of the approach of the white men to the rescue, the strange horseman—who, from the moment of his bursting so opportunely on the scene, had seemed the very impersonation of activity and colossal might—pulled up his fiery steed; and he now sat, gazing calmly into the forest in the direction in which the Indians and traders had disappeared.
Stupefied though he was, Bertram could not avoid being impressed and surprised by the sudden and total change which had come over this remarkable hunter. After gazing into the woods, as we have said, for some minutes, he quietly dismounted, and plucking a tuft of grass from the plain, wiped his bloody sword, and sheathed it. Not a trace of his late ferocity was visible. His mind seemed to be filled with sadness, for he sighed slightly, and shook his head with a look of deep sorrow, as his eyes rested on the dead men. There was a mild gravity in his countenance that seemed to Bertram incompatible with the fiend-like fury of his attack, and a slow heaviness in his motions that amounted almost to laziness, and seemed equally inconsistent with the vigour he had so recently displayed, which was almost cat-like, if we may apply such a term to the actions of so huge a pair as this man and his horse were.
A profusion of light-brown hair hung in heavy masses over his herculean shoulders, and a bushy moustache and beard of the same colour covered the lower part of his deeply browned face, which was handsome and mild, but eminently masculine, in expression.
Remounting his horse, which seemed now to be as quiet and peaceable as himself, this singular being turned and rode towards that part of the wood that lay nearest to the wild rocky masses that formed the outlet from the pass. On gaining the verge of the plain he turned his head full round, and fixed his clear blue eyes on the wondering artist. A quiet smile played on his bronzed features for an instant as he bestowed upon him a cheerful nod of farewell. Then, urging his steed forward, he entered the woods at a slow walk, and disappeared.
The heavy tramp of his horse’s hoofs among the broken stones of the rugged path had scarcely died away when the distant tread of the returning fur-traders broke on Bertram’s ear. This aroused him from the state of half-sceptical horror in which he gazed upon the scene of blood and death in the midst of which he stood. Presently his eye fell, for the first time, upon the motionless form of March Marston. The sight effectually restored him. With a slight cry of alarm, he sprang to his friend’s side, and, kneeling down, endeavoured to loosen the death-like grasp with which he still held the throat of his foe. The horror of the poor artist may be imagined, when he observed that the skull of the Indian was battered in, and that his young comrade’s face was bespattered with blood and brains.
Just then several of the trappers and fur-traders galloped upon the scene of the late skirmish.
“Hallo! Mr Bertram, here you are; guess we’ve polished ’em off this time a few. Hey! wot’s this?” cried Big Waller, as he and some of the others leaped to the ground and surrounded Bertram. “Not dead, is he?”
The tone in which the Yankee trapper said this betrayed as much rage as regret. The bare idea of his young comrade having been killed by the savages caused him to gnash his teeth with suppressed passion.
“Out o’ the way, lads; let me see him,” cried Bounce, who galloped up at that moment, flung himself off his horse, pushed the others aside, and kneeling at his side, laid his hand on March Marston’s heart.
“All right,” he said, raising the youth’s head, “he’s only stunned. Run, Gibault, fetch a drop o’ water. The horse that brained this here redskin, by good luck, only stunned March.”
“Ah! mon pauvre enfant!” cried Gibault as he ran to obey.
The water quickly restored March, and in a few minutes he was able to sit up and call to remembrance what had passed. Ere his scattered faculties were quite recovered, the fur-traders returned, with Macgregor at their head.
“Well done, the Wild Man of the West!” cried McLeod, as he dismounted. “Not badly hurt, young man, I trust.”
“Oh! nothing to speak of. Only a thump on the head from a horse’s hoof,” said March; “I’ll be all right in a little time. Did you say anything about the Wild Man of the West?” he added earnestly.
“To be sure I did; but for him you and Mr Bertram would have been dead men, I fear. Did you not see him?”
“See him? no,” replied March, much excited. “I heard a tremendous roar, but just then I fell to the ground, and remember nothing more that happened.”
“Was that quiet, grave-looking man the Wild Man of the West?” inquired Bertram, with a mingled feeling of interest and surprise.
This speech was received with a loud burst of laughter from all who heard it.
“Well, I’ve never seed the Wild Man till to-day,” said one, “though I’ve often heer’d of him, but I must say the little glimpse I got didn’t show much that was mild or grave.”
“I guess your head’s bin in a swum, stranger,” said another. “I’ve only seed him this once, but I don’t hope to see him agin. He ain’t to be trusted, he ain’t, that feller.”
“And I’ve seen him five or six times,” added McLeod, “and all I can say is, that twice out o’ the five he was like an incarnate fiend, and the other three times—when he came to the Mountain Fort for ammunition—he was as gruff and sulky as a bear with the measles.”
“Well, gentlemen,” said Bertram with more emphasis in his tone than he was wont to employ, “I have seen this man only once, but I’ve seen him under two aspects to-day, and all that I can say is, that if that was really the Wild Man of the West, he’s not quite so wild as he gets credit for.”
On hearing this, March Marston rose and shook himself. He felt ill at ease in body and mind. The idea of the Wild Man of the West having actually saved his life, and he had not seen him, was a heavy disappointment, and the confused and conflicting accounts of those who had seen him, combined with the racking pains that shot through his own brain, rendered him incapable of forming or expressing any opinion on the subject whatever; so he said abruptly—
“It’s of no use talking here all night, friends. My head’s splittin’, so I think we’d better encamp.”
March’s suggestion was adopted at once. Provisions had been carried with them from the fort. The dead bodies of the Indians were buried; a spot at some distance from the scene of the fight was chosen. The fires were lighted, supper was devoured and a watch set, and soon March Marston was dreaming wildly in that savage place about the Wild Man of the West!
Chapter Fourteen
The Hunting Ground—How they spent the Sabbath Day among the Mountains—Threatening Clouds on the HorizonNext day the fur-traders prepared to return to the Mountain Fort, and the trappers to continue their journey into the Rocky Mountains.
At the period of which we write, the fur of the beaver was much in demand in the European markets, and trappers devoted much of their time to the capture of that sagacious animal. From McLeod, Redhand learned that a journey of eight or ten days to the south-eastward would bring them to a country that was reported to be much frequented not only by the beaver, but by many other fur-bearing and wild animals; so it was resolved that, having brought their traps and supplies with them, the trappers, instead of returning to the fort, should part with their entertainers at the spot where the skirmish had occurred, and make for that hunting ground as quickly as possible.
“I suppose you don’t want to part company with us yet, Mr Bertram?” said old Redhand as they were about to start.
“By no means,” replied the artist quickly; “I have no intention of quitting you—that is, if you do not find me a burden on your hands,” he added with a sad smile.
“A burden!” cried Bounce in surprise; “I tell ye wot, sir, I consider yer company a honour.”
“So you won’t return with us, young man?” said Macgregor to March Marston as he mounted his horse. “I’m in want of a stout young fellow, and you’ll like the life.”
“I thank ye, sir, for your good opinion,” returned March; “but my mind’s made up: I’ll stick by my comrades; I like trappin’, but I don’t like tradin’—though I’m obliged to you for bein’ so pressin’ all the same.”
The two parties bade each other adieu and separated—the one retracing its way through the Wild-Cat Pass; the other, with old Redhand at its head, descending into the beautiful country that has been briefly described in the last chapter.
Six quiet and peaceful weeks now succeeded to the stormy period that had just passed. During this time they wandered pleasantly about in as beautiful a region of the world as the heart of man could wish to dwell in. They reached this country after several days’ travel. After arriving they moved about from one beautiful spot to another, setting their beaver traps in the streams, and remaining a longer or shorter time at each place, according to their success in trapping and hunting.
The country was of so peculiarly diversified a formation, that, within the compass of ten miles, every possible variety of scenery existed—from the level stretch of prairie to the towering snow-peaks of the mountains; from the brake-encompassed swamp, in which frogs, ducks, geese, plover, and other denizens of the marshes maintained perpetual jubilee, to the dry bush-dotted mounds and undulating lands, where the badger delighted to burrow in the sandy soil, while in other places, the wolf, the fox, and the grisly bear prowled amid the dark recesses of the forest.
It was a truly beautiful and a pre-eminently enjoyable region, and, in the midst of it, under the spreading branches of a magnificent pine, which grew on the top of a little mound that commanded an extensive prospect on every side, the trappers pitched their camp, and began their campaign against the fur-bearing animals that dwelt there.
It was a quiet sunny Sabbath morning when our trappers arrived at the tree above referred to. They had encamped the previous night on a swampy piece of ground, having travelled too late to afford time to search for a better spot, so that they were glad to rise and push forward at the peep of day on Sabbath. But when, in the course of a couple of hours, they reached the dry country, they at once proceeded to encamp.
During their journeying the trappers had mutually agreed to rest from all labour on the Sabbath day. Some of them did so from no higher motive than the feeling that it was good for themselves and for their beasts to rest one day in seven from bodily labour. Although not absolutely regardless of religion, they nevertheless failed to connect this necessity of theirs with the appointment of a day of rest by that kind and gracious Father, who has told us that “the Sabbath was made for man.” Made for him not only, and chiefly, for the benefit of his soul, but also, and secondarily, for the good of his body.
Others of the party there were, however, who regarded the Sabbath rest in a somewhat higher light than did their comrades; though none of them were fully alive to the blessings and privileges attaching to the faithful keeping of the Lord’s day. Independently altogether of the delight connected with the contemplation of the wonderful works of God in the wilderness—especially of that beautiful portion of the wilderness—the trappers experienced a sensation of intense pleasure in the simple act of physical repose after their long, restless, and somewhat exciting journey. They wandered about from spot to spot, from hill to hill, in a species of charming indolence of body, that seemed to increase, rather than to diminish, the activity of their minds. Sometimes they rambled or rested on the sunny slopes in groups, sometimes in couples, and sometimes singly. March Marston and the artist sauntered about together, and conversed with animated fluency and wandering volubility—as young minds are wont to do—on things past, present, and to come; things terrestrial and celestial. In short, there was no subject, almost, that did not get a share of their attention, as they sauntered by the rippling brook or over the flowering plain, or stood upon the mountain side. They tried “everything by turns, and nothing long,” and, among other mental occupations, they read portions of the Bible together; for Bertram found that March carried his mother’s Testament in an inner breast-pocket of his hunting-shirt, and March discovered that his friend had a small copy of the Bible—also a mother’s gift—which shared the pouch of his leather coat with the well-known sketch-book. They conversed freely and somewhat boldly on what they read, and we doubt not that our learned divines, had they listened to the talk of the youthful pioneer and the young hunter, would have been surprised, perhaps edified, by the simple, practical, common-sense views promulgated by those raw theologians. Certainly, any one listening to the grave, kindly, philosophical commentaries of March Marston, would never have believed in the truth of that statement at the commencement of this story, wherein it is asserted somewhat positively that “March Marston was mad!”
Bounce, and Big Waller, and Black Gibault, drew naturally together and speculated, after their own peculiar fashion, on every subject of thought within the reach of their capacities; and as Bounce’s capacities embraced a pretty wide range, the “feelosophical” views he set forth upon that lovely Sabbath day were so varied, so eccentric, so graphic, and so apparently inexhaustible, that he effectually quelled Gibault’s inveterate tendency, to jest, and filled Big Waller with deeper admiration than ever.
As for Redhand and the Indian, they wandered about in sympathetic silence, broken ever and anon by the old trapper passing a remark on some interesting peculiarity of a leaf, an insect, or a flower. It has been said, that as men grow older they find deeper pleasure in the contemplation of the minute things of nature, and are less desirous than they were wont to expatiate on the striking and the grand. What truth there is in the remark we cannot tell; but, certain it is, while the younger men of the party seemed to cast longing, admiring, and gladsome looks over the distant landscape, and up at the snow-clad and cloud-encompassed heights of the Rocky Mountains, old Redhand bent his eyes, we might almost say lovingly, on the earth. He would sit down on a stone and pluck a leaf, which he would examine with minute care; or watch with the deepest interest the frantic efforts of a little ant, as it staggered along under its gigantic burden of a single seed, climbing over a mountainous twig, tumbling into a cavernous hole the size of a hazelnut, or being brought to a hesitating pause by a mountain torrent a quarter of an inch broad.
The sedate Indian took special pleasure in watching the doings of his old friend. Usually, he contented himself with a grunt of assent when Redhand made a remark on the peculiarities of a plant or an insect, but sometimes he ventured on a brief observation, and occasionally even proposed a question to his aged companion, which Redhand found it difficult to answer. There was little interchange of thought between those two silent men, but there was much of quiet enjoyment.
So passed the Sabbath day. Early on the following morning the trappers were astir, and before the sun tinged the mountain peaks, their beaver traps were set, an extensive portion of the territory they had thus quietly taken possession of had been explored in several directions, a couple of deer had been shot, a mountain goat seen, and a grisly bear driven from his den and pursued, but not killed; besides a number of wildfowl having been bagged, and an immense number of creatures, including mustangs, or wild horses, roused from their lairs.
When the scattered hunters returned to the camp to breakfast, they found themselves in a satisfied, happy state of mind, with a strong disposition, on the part of some, to break their fast without wasting time in cooking the viands. “It was of no manner of use cooking,” Big Waller said, “when a feller was fit to eat his own head off of his own shoulders!” As for Gibault, he declared that he meant to give up cooking his victuals from that time forward, and eat them raw. The others seemed practically to have come to the same conclusion, for certain it is that the breakfast, when devoured on that first Monday morning, was decidedly underdone—to use a mild expression!
But it was when the pipes were lighted that the peculiarities and capabilities of that wild region became fully known, for then it was that each hunter began to relate with minute accuracy the adventures of that morning. As they had scattered far and wide, and hunted or trapped separately, each had something new and more or less interesting to tell. March told of how he had shot a grey goose, and had gone into a moving swamp after it, and had sunk up to the middle, and all but took to swimming to save himself, but had got hold of the goose notwithstanding, as the drumstick he had just picked would testify. Bounce told of having gone after a moose deer, and, failing to come up with it, was fain to content himself with a bighorn and a buck; and Big Waller asserted that he had suddenly come upon a grisly bear, which he would certainly have shot, had it not run away from him. Whereupon Gibault, wilfully misunderstanding, said, with a look of unutterable surprise, that he would never have believed it—no, never—had anybody else told him, that Big Waller had actually run away from a bear! He couldn’t bear to hear of it, and would not believe it though Waller himself said it. As for Bertram, having filled the pages of his sketch-book, back and front, he was compelled to take to miniature drawing in corners and blank bits, and in this way began to book the entire region, and to revel in his loved art.
Several weeks passed away, and during that time of peace and plenty, our trappers had it all to themselves. They caught and killed numbers of animals; stripped off, dried, and packed quantities of valuable furs; ate enormous meals, with the gusto of men who had laboriously earned the right to do so, and related stories and anecdotes enough to fill a huge volume. In short, they enjoyed themselves beyond conception, and Bertram agreed with March Marston in thinking that Bunyan’s land of Beulah could not have surpassed that delightful region.
But one day there came a small cloud on their blue sky of felicity. An event occurred which rudely dispelled their pleasant dreams, filled their hearts with anxiety, and finally broke up their camp in a way that led to disastrous, though not altogether ruinous, consequences.
Chapter Fifteen
Business unpleasantly interrupted—The Mountain Fort in Danger—Trappers to the Rescue—A Rude Meeting with Foes in the Dark—A wild Race—March meets with a severe MisfortuneOne morning, just as the trappers were dropping into camp about the usual breakfast hour, laden with the produce of the trap and the chase, they were startled by the sudden appearance of a large band of mounted Indians, who galloped to the top of a neighbouring mound, and, crowding together, stood still to gaze upon the invaders of their hunting grounds, for such they deemed the trappers, no doubt.
To snatch up their arms and run to a place of safety was the work of a moment. It must not be supposed that such experienced men as Redhand and Bounce were altogether unprepared for a surprise of this sort. On the day of their arrival at the hunting ground, their first care had been to select such a place for their camp as lay in close proximity to some natural stronghold. Not ten paces from the camp fire there was a sort of hollow in the ground, on the very summit of the mound on which they were encamped. Here all their valuables had been placed, and round the edge of the hollow a rude breastwork had been raised, so that the party, when in it, could fire through little openings in the breastwork without exposing themselves to view.
