The Wild Man of the West Part 27

"I'll try," returned d.i.c.k. "Anyhow, I'll send the Wild Man o' the West to help them," he added with a peculiar smile. "Now, boy, listen, I must not waste more time in idle talk. I shall leave you here under the charge of my little girl--"

"Your little girl!" echoed March in surprise.

"Ay, she ought to have been in before now," continued d.i.c.k, without noticing the interruption, "an' I would like to ha' told her who ye are, and how I come by ye, an' what to do till I come back. But I can't wait; time's precious as gold just now; so I'll tell ye what to say to her when she--"

At that moment a light footstep was heard in the outer cavern. The Wild Man sprang up on hearing it, and strode hastily through the natural doorway, leaving March to listen, in a state of the utmost bewilderment, to a silvery musical voice, which held rapid converse with his strange host.

Presently d.i.c.k returned, followed by a--_vision in leather_! the sight of which struck March Marston dumb, and rendered him for a few moments as totally incapable of moving hand, tongue, or foot, as if he had been bewitched--which, in a sense, he was.

"This is the little girl I spoke of t'ye," said d.i.c.k looking at March, and patting the girl on her soft cheek with a hand that might have pa.s.sed for a small shoulder of mutton. "She'll take good care of ye, March. I've told her what to do; but she don't need to be told. Now, see ye don't do yerself a mischief, lad, till I come back. It won't be long--a day or two, mayhap, more or less; but ye'll take that time to mend; you're worse battered than ye think of--so, good-day."

While the Wild Man was e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.n.g. these sentences abruptly, he was striding about the cave with what may be styled _enormous_ vigour, picking up and buckling on his weapons of war. He seized a double-edged sword of gigantic proportions, and buckled it to his waist; but March saw it not. He pulled on the scalp-fringed coat of a Blackfoot chief, with leggings to match; but March knew it not. He slung a powder-horn and bullet-pouch round his shoulders, stuck a knife and tomahawk into his belt, and grasped a long rifle which stood in a corner; and, in doing all this, he made such a tremendous clatter, and displayed such wonderful activity, and grew so much fiercer to look at in every stage of the process, that March would certainly have recurred to the idea of the Wild Man, had he been in his ordinary state of mind; but he was _not_ in that happy condition. March knew nothing about it whatever!

Before going, d.i.c.k stooped and kissed the "vision" on the cheek. March saw that! It recalled him for a moment and made him aware of the disappearance of his host, and of the loud clattering sounds of his charger's hoofs, as he led him at a rapid walk across the outer cave.

March even heard the general clatter of all his accoutrements, as he vaulted into the saddle at one bound, and went down that terrible rocky way at a breakneck gallop that would have caused him (March) in other circ.u.mstances to shudder. But he did _not_ shudder. He was but faintly aware of these things. His intellect was overturned; his whole soul was captivated; his imagination, his perceptions, his conceptions--all his faculties and capacities were utterly overwhelmed and absorbed by that wonderful _vision in leather_!

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

THE VISION IN LEATHER.

It is all very well for men of the world, men of fashion, men who pride themselves on being highly civilised and peculiarly refined, to fancy that there are no other visions in this world than "visions in silk,"

"visions in white," and the like. Those who think thus labour under an egregious, though a civilised, mistake.

Happily there are kind, loving, pretty faces in this world, the possessors of which know nothing about pink gauze or white muslin--faces that have never felt the hot air of a drawing-room, but are much used to present themselves, unveiled, to the fresh breezes of the prairie and the mountain; faces that possess the rare quality of universal attraction, and that cause men to fancy, when they see them for the first time, that they have beheld a vision!

The fact is that some faces are visions, whether the forms that support them appear to us in muslin or in deerskin. The only requisite needful to const.i.tute a face a vision to any particular person, is that it should have in it that peculiar _something_ which everybody wants, but which n.o.body can define; which is ineffably charming, though utterly incomprehensible; and which, when once seen by any one, const.i.tutes the countenance that possesses it a vision evermore!

It is quite immaterial what material composes the dress in which the vision appears. No doubt, the first time it bursts upon the smitten victim, dress may be a powerful auxiliary; but, after the first time, dress goes for little or nothing. March Marston's vision appeared, as we have said in leather.

After the Wild Man had vanished, March continued to gaze at his new companion with all kinds of feelings and emotions, but without being able to move or speak. The vision returned the compliment, also without speaking or taking any further notice of him.

She was a wonderful creature, that vision in leather! That she was of Indian extraction was evident from the hue of her skin, yet she was not nearly so dark as the lightest complexioned Indian. In fact her clear soft forehead was whiter than those of many so-called pale-faces; but her ruddy cheeks, her light-brown hair, and, above all, her bright brown eye showed that white blood ran in her veins. She was what men term a half-caste. She was young, almost girlish in her figure and deportment; but the earnest gravity of her pretty face caused her to appear older than she really was. March, unconsciously and without an effort, guessed her to be sixteen. He was wrong. She had only seen fifteen summers.

Her dress was a beautifully dressed deerskin gown, reaching below the knees, as soft as chamois leather, and ornamented with beads and quill work. It was girded round her small waist by a leather belt, from which depended a small hunting-knife. A pair of ornamental leggings of the same material as the gown covered her limbs, and moccasins her feet, which latter, as well as her hands, were small and beautifully formed.

Over her shoulders were slung the masculine appendages of a powder-horn and bullet-pouch, proving that this creature was, so to speak, a Dianic vision.

Her staring so hard and so long at March without speaking or smiling, or taking any more notice of him than if he had been an effigy on a tombstone, seemed unaccountable to that youth. Had he been able to look at himself from her point of view he would not have been so much surprised.

In his late accident he had received so severe a blow on the left eye that that orb was altogether shut up. As he did not move, and as the other eye, with which he gazed in supreme astonishment at the sweet face before him, happened to be farthest from the fire, besides being hid in the shadow of his own nose--which was not a small one by nature, and was a peculiarly large one by force of recent circ.u.mstances--the vision very naturally thought that he was fast asleep. As she stood there gazing wonderingly and somewhat sadly at the poor youth, with the red flickering flame of the fire lighting up her yellow garments, deepening the red on her round cheeks, glinting on the loose ma.s.ses of her rich tresses, and sparkling in the depths of her bright brown eyes, March thought he had never in all his life before beheld such an exquisite creature.

Supposing that he was asleep, the vision sat down quietly on a log beside the fire, still keeping her eyes, however, fixed on her guest.

The action took her out of "the direct line of fire" of March's sound eye, therefore he turned his head abruptly, and so brought his staring orb into the light of the fire, and revealed the fact that he was wide-awake; whereupon the vision uttered an exclamation of surprise, rose hastily, and went to his side.

"You is woke," she said. "Me tink you was be sleep."

"Asleep!" cried March with enthusiasm, "no, I wasn't asleep. More than that, I'll never go to sleep any more."

This bold a.s.sertion naturally filled the vision with surprise.

"Why for not?" she asked, sitting down on a log beside March in such a position that she could see him easily.

"For thinkin' o' _you_!" replied the bold youth firmly.

The vision looked at him in still greater astonishment, opening her eyes slowly until they seemed like two pellucid lakelets of unfathomable depth into which March felt inclined to fling himself, clothes and all, and be drowned comfortably. She then looked at the fire, then at March again. It was evident that she had not been accustomed to hold intercourse with jocular minds. Perceiving this, March at once changed his tone, and, with a feeling of respect which he could not well account for, said rather bluntly--

"What's your name?"

"Mary."

"Ay! did your father give you that name?"

"My father?" echoed the girl, looking hastily up.

"Ay, did d.i.c.k give it you?"

"Did him tell you him's name be d.i.c.k?" asked Mary.

"Oh! he's known by another name to you, then, it would seem. But, Mary, what _is_ his name?"

The girl pursed her mouth and laid her finger on it. Then, with a little sad smile, said--

"Him tell you d.i.c.k, that be good name. But d.i.c.k not my father. My father dead."

The poor thing said this so slowly and in such a low pathetic tone that March felt sorry for having unwittingly touched a tender chord. He hastened to change the subject by saying--

"Is d.i.c.k kind to you, Mary?"

"Kind," she cried, looking up with a flashing eye and flushed face, while with one of her little hands she tossed back her luxuriant tresses. "Kind! Him be my father _now_. No have got n.o.body to love me now but him."

"Yes, you have, Mary," said March stoutly.

Mary looked at him in surprise, and said, "Who?"

"Me!" replied March.

Mary said nothing to this. It was quite clear that the Wild Man must have neglected her education sadly. She did not even smile; she merely shook her head, and gazed abstractedly at the embers of the fire.

"d.i.c.k is not your father, Mary," continued March energetically, "but he has become your father. I am not your brother, but I'll become your brother--if you'll let me."

March in his enthusiasm tried to raise himself; consequently he fell back and drowned Mary's answer in a groan of anguish. But he was not to be baulked.

"What said you?" he inquired after a moment's pause.

"Me say you be very good."

She said this so calmly that March felt severely disappointed. In the height of his enthusiasm he forgot that the poor girl had as yet seen nothing to draw out her feelings towards him as his had been drawn out towards her. She had seen no "vision," except, indeed, the vision of a wretched, dishevelled youth, of an abrupt, excitable temperament, with one side of his countenance scratched in a most disreputable manner, and the other side swelled and mottled to such an extent that it resembled a cheap plum-pudding with the fruit unequally and spa.r.s.ely distributed over its yellow surface.