The Wild Man of the West: A Tale of the Rocky Mountains
To this fortress they retired the instant the Indians made their appearance. Fortunately all the members of the little party had come in.
“They’re holdin’ a council o’ war,” said Bounce, carefully examining the priming of his piece. “It’s as like as not they’ll attack us, but they’ll get a hearty and an oncommonly warm welcome.”
“They’ll not attack us,” said Redhand. “They know that white men never travel without plenty of powder and ball, and they don’t like taking a place by storm.”
“Ay,” remarked Waller sarcastically, “’cause they knows that the first man as comes on is sartin sure to fall, an’ they knows that they can’t come on without somebody comin’ first.”
“But there’s brave fellers among the redskins,” rejoined Bounce. “I knowed a set o’ young fellers as banded theirselves together, and swore they’d go through fire an’ water, thick an’ thin, but they’d niver turn back from the face o’ danger wherever they met it. So, one day they wos crossin’ a river on the ice, an’ the first on ’em fell in, an’ wos carried away by the current; an’ what does the second do, but he walks straight into the hole, an’ wos drowned too; an’ the nixt wos goin’ to foller, when the old warriors ran at him an’ forced him back. If they hadn’t stopped him, I do b’lieve—”
“They’re makin’ up their minds to do somethin’ or other,” interrupted March.
“I sincerely hope they won’t fight,” murmured Bertram earnestly. “It is fearful to think of the blood that is shed by these men needlessly.”
From the conduct of the Indians it became evident that on this occasion they sympathised with the artist in his desire not to fight, for one of their number dismounted, and, advancing unarmed towards the trappers, made signs of friendship.
“It’s as well to be bold an’ appear to trust ’em,” said Redhand, laying down his rifle and leaping over the breastwork; “keep your guns ready, lads, an’ if ye see treachery, let drive at once. Don’t be afraid o’ hittin’ me. I’ll take my chance.”
After a few minutes’ conversation with the Indian, Redhand returned to his party.
“That redskin,” said he, “tells me they’re on an expedition to hunt the buffalo on the prairie, and that they’re good friends of the white men, and would like to have a talk with us before they go on; but I don’t believe ’em. From what I heard Mr McLeod say at the Mountain Fort, I think it not unlikely they are bound on an expedition against the whites. The very fact of their wishin’ to keep friends with us instead of tryin’ to lift our scalps and carry off our furs and horses, shows me they’ve some more pressin’ business on hand. Mr McLeod described to me the appearance of one or two o’ the Injuns that hates the fur-traders most, so that I might be on my guard, an’ I’m quite sure that some of them are with that band. Now, what say ye? Shall I tell ’em we don’t want their acquaintance?”
“Tell ’em they’re a set o’ lyin’ thieves,” said Big Waller. “I guess we’ll have nothin’ to say to ’em wotiver.”
“Oui, et give to dem mine complements,” added Gibault, “an’ say we ver’ moch ’blige by dere goodness, mais dey vill all be shooted if dey not go away queek.”
Redhand did not give these polite messages to the Indian, but on returning to him he presented him with a piece of tobacco, and advised him to continue his journey without loss of time, as the buffaloes were travelling south and might be out of the way when they reached the prairie.
Whether the Indians felt angry or not it is impossible to say. They seemed indifferent to their cool reception by the trappers, and soon after rode off at full speed, in a direction that led away from the Mountain Fort, a circumstance which still further confirmed Redhand in his suspicions.
After an eager, hasty consultation, it was resolved that they should follow the savages, and if their trail was found to diverge, as was fully expected, towards the fort, that they should endeavour to pass them in the night, and proceed by forced marches, in order to get there in time to warn the fur-traders of their impending danger.
In less than an hour after the Indians left them, the trappers were galloping after them in hot haste. During the course of the day they found that the trail doubled back, as they had anticipated, so, making a wide détour, they headed the Indians, and during the afternoon got a little in advance of them on their way to the Mountain Fort.
But the trappers had a subtle enemy to deal with. Just as the Indians were about to encamp that night for a few hours’ rest, they chanced to diverge a short way from the direct line of march, and, in doing so, crossed the tracks of the trappers. A halt was called, and a minute inspection of the tracks made. One of the savages galloped back on them a considerable distance, and soon returned with the information that they led towards the camp of the pale-faces. From the appearance of the hoof-prints they knew that they were fresh, and thus at once guessed that their true intentions had been suspected, and might yet be frustrated by the trappers. Instead of encamping, therefore, they pushed on at full speed and very soon came up with the white men. It was a dark night, so that they could not see far in advance of them, and thus it happened that the two parties, on entering a narrow defile, almost rode into each other, with a yell of fierce surprise on both sides.
As there were at least fifty Indians, Redhand thought it better to avoid a doubtful combat by scattering his men through the woods, and letting each make the best of his way to the fort singly.
“Run, boys! scatter! to the fort!”
This was all that he deemed needful in the way of command or explanation. Firing a single volley at the enemy, they turned and fled.
“Foller me,” shouted Waller to the bewildered Bertram, as a shower of arrows whistled past their ears. The artist obeyed mechanically, and in another moment they were flying through the wood at a pace that seemed, and actually was, reckless under the circumstances. But the Indians did not attempt to pursue. They knew that their intention had been discovered, and that their only chance of success now lay in outriding the pale-faces. The ride, in fact, became a long race, neither party making the slightest attempt to hunt up the other, but each straining every nerve and muscle to get first to the doomed fort.
The scattered trappers rode for a long time singly, but as they neared the fort, one or two of them met, and when they came first in sight of the tall flagstaff, Bounce, Redhand, and Gibault rode abreast.
McLeod was standing in front of the fort, when the three horsemen came dashing over the plain. He hastily summoned his men and closed the gate, but as the foremost rider came near, he was recognised; the gate was thrown open, and they galloped into the square. In a few hasty words their errand was explained. Arms and ammunition were served out, and six men were stationed at the gate, to be in readiness to open it to approaching friends, or to shut it in the face of foes.
But the others of the party were not so fortunate as these three. The Indians reached the fort before they did, and one of their number was left, unknown to them, in a state of insensibility near the spot where the first rencontre had taken place.
When the Indians and trappers met in the narrow defile, as before related, one of the arrows, which had been discharged very much at random, entered the shoulder of March Marston’s horse and wounded it mortally. At first March thought the wound was slight, and, hearing the shouts of some of the savages not far behind him, he urged his horse forward as rapidly as the nature of the ground would admit of. Before he had gone a quarter of a mile, however, the poor steed fell, throwing March over its head. In his flight the youth’s forehead came into violent contact with a branch, and he fell to the ground insensible.
His comrades, ignorant of his fate, continued their wild flight. Thus, our hero was forsaken, and left bruised and bleeding in the dark forest.
Chapter Sixteen
March gets a Surprise; more than that, he gets a Variety of Surprises—Meets with a strange Hunter—Goes in a strange Fashion to a strange Cavern and beholds strange Sights—Besides other Matters of InterestOn recovering consciousness, March discovered that it was broad daylight—from which he argued in a confused sort of way that he must have lain there all night. He also discovered that his head, which ached violently, rested on the knee of some unknown individual, who bathed his temples with cold water. Looking up he encountered the gaze of a pair of soft blue eyes.
Now there is something exceedingly captivating in a pair of soft blue eyes—not that there may not be something quite as captivating in a pair of brown or black or grey eyes—but there is something singularly captivating in the peculiar style of captivation wherewith a man is captivated by a pair of blue—distinctly blue—eyes. Perhaps it is that their resemblance to the cerulean depths of the bright sky and the blue profundities of the ocean invests them with a suggestive influence that is agreeable to the romantic and idealising tendencies of human nature; or that the colour is (or ought to be, if it is not) emblematic of purity. We throw out this suggestion solely for the benefit of unimpassioned philosophers. Those whose hearts are already under the pleasant thraldom of black or brown eyes are incapable of forming an opinion on the abstract question.
Well, March observed, further, that below those soft blue eyes, there was a handsome Roman nose, and immediately below that a moustache, and a thick short beard of curly light-brown hair. A slight, very slight, feeling of regret mingled with the astonishment with which March passed from the contemplation of the soft blue eyes to the bushy beard. He also noted that the stranger wore a little leathern cap, and that a profusion of rich brown hair descended from his head to his shoulders.
“Ye’re better, lad,” said the owner of the blue eyes in that deep musical bass voice which one meets with but rarely, and which resembles strongly, at times, the low pipes of a cathedral organ.
“Thankee, yes, I’m—”
“There, don’t move yet awhile. You’re badly bruised, lad. I’ll go fetch ye another drop o’ water.”
The owner of the blue eyes rose as he spoke, laid March’s head softly on the ground, and walked towards a neighbouring brook. In doing so he displayed to the wondering gaze of March the proportions of a truly splendid-looking man. He was considerably above six feet in height, but it was not that so much as the herculean build of his chest and shoulders that struck March with surprise. His costume was the ordinary leather hunting-shirt and leggings of a backwoodsman, and, although deeply bronzed, his colour not less than his blue eyes and brown hair told that he was not an Indian.
As he returned, carrying a little birch-bark dish full of water in his hand, March observed that the lines of his forehead indicated a mingled feeling of anger and sadness, and that his heavy brows frowned somewhat. He also noted more clearly now the man’s towering height, and the enormous breadth of his chest. As he lay there on his back with his head pillowed on a tuft of moss, he said inwardly to himself, “I never saw such a fellow as this before in all my life!”
And little wonder that March Marston thought thus, for, as no doubt the reader has already guessed, the far-famed Wild Man of the West himself stood before him!
But he did not know him. On the only occasion on which he had had an opportunity of beholding this renowned man, March had been rendered insensible just as he came on the field, and the exaggerated descriptions he had heard of him seemed quite irreconcilable with the soft blue eye and gentle manner of the hunter who had come thus opportunely to his aid. For one moment, indeed, the idea did occur to March that this was the Wild Man. It was natural that, having had his thoughts for so long a period filled with conjectures in reference to this wonderful creature, he should suppose the first tall, mysterious man he met must be he. But he dismissed the notion as untenable and absurd on second thoughts. That the blue-eyed, calm, dignified hunter who kneeled by his side, and held the refreshing water to his lips as if he were a trained sick nurse, should be the Wild Man, the man reported to be forty feet high, covered with hair, and exceeding fierce besides ugly, was out of the question. And when March shut his eyes in the full enjoyment of the cool draught, of which, poor fellow, he stood much in need, and heard the supposed Wild Man give vent to a sigh, which caused him to look up in surprise, so that he observed the mild blue eyes gazing sadly in his face, and the large head to which they belonged shaking from side to side mournfully, he almost laughed at himself for even momentarily entertaining such an absurd idea.
March Marston had much to learn—we mean in the way of reading human character and in judging from appearances. He had not yet observed, in the course of his short life, that if a blue eye is capable of expressing soft pity, it is also pre-eminently capable of indicating tiger-like ferocity. He did not consider that the gentlest natures are, when roused to fury, the most terrible in their outward aspect. He did not reflect that if this giant (for he almost deserved thus to be styled), instead of being engaged in an office of kindness, that naturally induced gentleness of action, and that called for no other feelings than those of tenderness and pity, were placed on a warhorse, armed with sword and shield, and roused to fury by some such sight as that of a large band of savage Indians attacking a small and innocent group of white trappers, he might then amply fulfil all the conditions that would entitle him to the wildest possible name that could be invented.
The prominent ideas in March’s mind at that time were, a pair of blue eyes and a large, gentle hand; so he quietly and finally dismissed the Wild Man from his thoughts.
Luckily, the Wild Man did not treat March in a similar manner. After allowing him to rest quietly for a few minutes, he said—
“Now, lad, I think ye’re improvin’. Ye’re badly battered about the head and shoulders, so I’ll take ye home with me.”
“Home with you?” repeated March.
“Ay, put your arms round my neck,” returned the Wild Man in a tone which, though soft and low, it was not possible to disobey.
March performed this somewhat endearing action in silent surprise, whereupon the Wild Man introduced his left arm below the poor youth’s back, and with his right grasped him round the legs, and thus lifted him from the ground and carried him away.
March experienced a sensation as if all his larger joints were being dislocated, and felt disposed to cry out, but restrained himself with a powerful effort. Presently his bearer stopped, and, looking round, March observed that he was standing by the side of a horse.
“Hold on, lad, till I mount.”
“You’d better let me down till you get up,” suggested March.
“No,” replied the singularly laconic individual.
Standing as he was, the Wild Man managed by raising March a little to lay his left hand on the pommel of his saddle; next moment his foot was in the stirrup, the moment after he himself was in the saddle, and a touch of his heel sent his horse cantering away towards the mountains.
Had March Marston seen his deliverer at that moment, with his long hair waving freely in the breeze, in emulation of the voluminous mane and tail of his splendid horse, his thoughts regarding the Wild Man of the West would have certainly returned more powerfully than ever. But March did not see him, his eyes being shut, his lips pursed, and his teeth set in a heroic attempt to endure the agonies to which he was subjected by the motion of the horse.
In half an hour they reached a rocky defile that led up into one of those wild, gloomy glens that are so characteristic of the Rocky Mountains. Here the Wild Man had to check his pace and proceed at a walk, thereby affording much relief to his wounded companion.
“Art sore i’ the bones, lad?” inquired the stout horseman, looking down at his charge as if he were a small infant in arms.
“Rather,” replied March. “Don’t you think it would be better for me to ride behind you? I think I could manage to hold on.”
“No, you couldn’t.”
“I fear I must be a terrible weight carried in this fashion,” urged March.
“Weight!” echoed the hunter with a quiet chuckle; but, as he did not vouchsafe any further reply, March was left to interpret the expression as he thought fit.
“I hope no bones are broken,” inquired March in a tone of anxiety.
“Hope not,” replied his captor.
We use the word “captor” advisedly, for March was so utterly unable at that time, physically as well as morally, to resist the will of this strange hunter, that he felt much more like a captive in the grip of a mighty jailer than an invalid in the arms of his nurse.
“I fear there are,” said March, as a rude motion of the horse caused him excruciating agony.
“Very likely,” replied the other—not by any means in a careless, indifferent way, but with the air and tone of a straightforward man giving his opinion in reference to a matter of fact. “But,” he added in a consolatory tone, “I’ll see when we get home.”
“Home!” repeated March. “Why, where is your home?”
“In the mountains here. We’re about there now.” As he spoke, the hunter turned his horse sharp to the left and entered a still more narrow and gloomy defile than the one they had just been ascending. So narrow was it, and overshadowed by high precipitous cliffs, that the light of day had to struggle for entrance even at noontide. At night it was dark as Erebus. The horse had considerable difficulty in advancing. Indeed no horse that had not been trained to pick its steps among the confused masses of rock and débris that formed the bottom of that ravine or chasm, could have ascended it at all. But the fine animal which bore March and the Wild Man of the West seemed to act more like a human being than a horse in winding out and in among the intricacies of the place.
At length they reached the upper end of the gorge. Here the cliffs, which rose perpendicularly to a height of three or four hundred feet, drew so near to each other that at one place they were not more than three yards asunder. Just beyond this point they receded again and terminated abruptly in a sort of circle or amphitheatre, the floor of which could not have been more than thirty yards in diameter, and was covered with small gravel; the sides were quite perpendicular, and rose so high that on looking up one felt as if one had got into the bottom of a natural tunnel, at the top of which a round bit of bright blue sky sent down a few scanty rays of light.
In spite of the pain it caused him, March raised his head and looked round as they rode into this gloomy cavernous place. Then, glancing at the face of the strange being who carried him, a feeling of superstitious dread took possession of his heart for a moment, as he remembered the many conversations he and Bounce had had about evil spirits appearing in human form, and he thought that perhaps he had actually fallen into the hands of one. But the grave quiet face, and above all the soft blue eyes, quickly put to flight such fears, although they could not altogether dispel the solemn awe he felt at being carried so suddenly into such a mysterious place.
But he had scarcely recovered some degree of confidence, when his mind was again thrown into a violent state of agitation by the fact that the horse, turning to the right, began deliberately to ascend the precipice, which was as perpendicular as a wall. It did not indeed ascend after the manner of a fly on a window, but it went up on what appeared to be a narrow, spiral pathway. In a few seconds they had ascended about fifty feet, and March, projecting out from the precipice as he did, owing to his position in the rider’s left arm, felt a horrible sensation of giddiness come over him, and could not suppress a slight groan.
“Don’t be afear’d, lad,” said his companion, “I’ve got ye tight, an’ the horse is used to it. The track’s broader than ye think, only ye can’t see it as ye lie now.”
March felt reassured; nevertheless, he shut his eyes very tight and held his breath.
Presently he felt that they had turned sharp to the right, so he ventured to open his eyes, and found that they were standing at the mouth of what appeared to be a cavern. In another moment they were under its dark roof and the horse came to a stand. From the hasty glance he gave it, he could only ascertain that the interior was buried in profound darkness.
Without causing March to move in any way, the stout horseman dismounted. In fact, the burden seemed no greater to him than a child would be to an ordinary man.
“Here we are—at home,” he said. “Come, old horse, get away in.”
The horse obeyed, and disappeared in the darkness beyond.
“Now, lad, don’t be afear’d, I know every fut o’ the way. Ye can shut yer eyes an ye like—but there’s no occasion.”
Saying this, he advanced with a steady tread into the cave, the echoes of which were still ringing with the clatter of the horse’s hoofs as it passed over the stone floor. It could not have been more than a quarter of a minute when they reached the end of what appeared to be the outer vestibule of this cavern, though to March it seemed to be more than five minutes; and, now that he could no longer see the blue eyes, all manner of horrible doubts and fears assailed him. He felt deeply his helpless condition, poor fellow. Had he been sound in wind and limb he would have cared little; for a brave and a strong man naturally feels that he can fight a stout battle for life in all or any circumstances. But part of this prop (namely, strength) having been removed by his recent accident, he felt like a miserable child.
Doubtless it is good for strong men to be brought thus low sometimes, just to prove to them, what they are by nature very slow to believe, that they, quite as much as the weak and helpless ones of this world, are dependent at all times on their fellows.
On reaching the end of the outer cave, the hunter turned to the left, stooped down in order to pass below a small natural arch, and finally stood still in the middle of another cavern, on the floor of which he deposited his burden with much tenderness and care.
There was light in this cave, but it was so dim as to be insufficient to illuminate the surrounding objects. March perceived on looking up that it entered through a small aperture in the side of the cavern near the roof, which was not more than twelve feet from the floor. There were several pieces of charred wood on one side of the cave, in which a few sparks of fire still lingered.
Without saying a word the owner of this strange abode went towards these, and, blowing them into a flame, heaped large logs upon them, so that, in ten minutes, the place was brilliantly illuminated with a ruddy blaze that did one’s heart good to look upon.
By the light of the fire March perceived that he had been deposited on a couch of pine-branches. He was about to make other observations, when his captor turned to him and said—
“I’ll go an’ see to the horse, and be back in a minute; so keep yer mind easy.”
“And, pray, what name am I to call my host by?” said March, unable to restrain his curiosity any longer.
A dark, almost fierce frown covered the man’s face, as he said angrily, “Boy, curiosity is a bad thing—anywise, it’s bad here. I’ve brought you to this cave ’cause you’d ha’ died i’ the woods if I hadn’t. Don’t ask questions about what don’t consarn ye.”
“Nay, friend, I meant no offence,” replied March. “I’ve no desire to pry into any man’s secrets. Nevertheless, it’s but natural to want to know how to address a man when ye converse with him.”
“True, true,” replied the other, somewhat mollified. “Call me Dick; it’s as good a name as any, and better than my own.”
There was a slight touch of bitterness in the tone in which this was said, as the man turned on his heel to quit the cave.
“Stay,” cried March, “you only give me one name, friend, so I’ll do the same by you. My name’s March—there, now you may march about your business.”
Dick smiled and said, “Well, March, I’ll be with ye again, and have a look at your sore bones, in two minutes.”
