The Wild Man of the West Part 3

To which Marston replied--

"I'll tell you what it is, Bounce, I _will_ see this wild man, if it's in the power of bones and muscles to carry me within eyeshot of him.

Now, see if I don't."

Bounce nodded his head and looked sagacious, as he said--

"D'ye know, lad, I don't mind if I go along with ye. It's true, I'm not tired of them parts hereabouts--and if I wos to live till I couldn't see, I don't think as ever I'd git tired o' the spot where my father larned me to shoot an' my mother dandled me on her knee; but I've got a fancy to see a little more o' the wurld--'specially the far-off parts o'

the Rocky Mountains, w'ere I've never bin yit; so I do b'lieve if ye wos to try an' persuade me very hard I'd consent to go along with ye."

"Will you, though?" cried March eagerly (again, to his cost, forgetting the rusty hinges).

"Ay, that will I, boy," replied the hunter; "an' now I think on it, there's four as jolly trappers in Pine Point settlement at this here moment as ever floored a grisly or fought an Injun. They're the real sort of metal. None o' yer tearin', swearin', murderin' chaps, as thinks the more they curse the bolder they are, an' the more Injuns they kill the cliverer they are; but steady quiet fellers, as don't speak much, but _does_ a powerful quant.i.ty; boys that know a deer from a Blackfoot Injun, I guess; that goes to the mountains to trap and comes back to sell their skins, an' w'en they've sold 'em, goes right off agin, an' niver drinks."

"I know who you mean, I think; at least I know one of them," observed March.

"No ye don't, do ye? Who?"

"Waller, the Yankee."

"That's one," said Bounce, nodding; "Big Waller, we calls him."

"I'm not sure that I can guess the others. Surely Tim Slater isn't one?"

"No!" said Bounce, with an emphasis of tone and a peculiar twist of the point of his nose that went far to stamp the individual named with a character the reverse of n.o.ble. "Try agin."

"I can't guess."

"One's a French Canadian," said Bounce; "a little chap, with a red nose an' a pair o' coal-black eyes, but as bold as a lion."

"I know him," interrupted March; "Gibault Noir--Black Gibault, as they sometimes call him. Am I right?"

"Right, lad; that's two. Then there's Hawkswing, the Injun whose wife and family were all murdered by a man of his own tribe, and who left his people after that an' tuck to trappin' with the whites; that's three.

An' there's Redhand, the old trapper that's bin off and on between this place and the Rocky Mountains for nigh fifty years, I believe."

"Oh, I know him well. He must be made of iron, I think, to go through what he does at his time of life. I wonder what his right name is?"

"n.o.body knows that, lad. You know, as well as I do, that he wos called Redhand by the Injuns in consekence o' the lot o' grislies he's killed in his day; but n.o.body never could git at his real name. P'r'aps it's not worth gittin' at. Now, them four 'll be startin' in a week or two for the mountains, an' wot's to hinder us a-jinin' of them?"

To his own question Bounce, after a pause, replied with deliberate emphasis, "Nothin' wotsomdiver;" and his young companion heartily echoed the sentiment.

Exactly thirty-six hours after the satisfactory formation of the above resolution, March Marston galloped furiously towards the door of his mother's cottage, reined up, leaped to the ground, seized the buffalo-hump that hung at his saddle-bow, and entered with a good deal of that impetuosity that had gone far to procure for him the t.i.tle of madman. Flinging the b.l.o.o.d.y ma.s.s of meat on the floor he sat down on a chair, and said--

"There, mother!"

"Well, you _are_ a clever fellow," said Mrs Marston, drying her hands (for she had been washing dishes), and giving her son a hearty kiss on the forehead.

"Clever or not clever, mother, I'm off to the Rocky Mountains in two days."

Mrs Marston was neither dismayed nor surprised. She was used to that sort of thing, and didn't mind it.

"What to do there, my boy?"

"To see the Wild Man o' the West."

"The what?"

"The Wild Man o' the West, mother."

It is needless to try our reader's patience with the long conversation that followed. March had resolved to preach a discourse with the "Wild Man o' the West" for his text, and he preached so eloquently that his mother (who was by no means a timid woman) at length not only agreed to let him go, but commended him for his resolution. The only restraint she laid upon her son had reference to his behaviour towards the Wild Man, if he should happen to meet with him.

"You may look at him, March (Mrs Marston spoke of him as if he were a caged wild beast!) and you may speak to him, but you _must not_ fight with him, except in self-defence. If he lets _you_ alone, you must let _him_ alone. Promise me that, boy."

"I promise, mother."

Not long after this promise was made, a light bark canoe was launched upon the river, and into it stepped our hero, with his friend Bounce, and Big Waller, Black Gibault, Hawkswing, and Redhand, the trappers. A cheer rang from the end of the little wharf at Pine Point, as the frail craft shot out into the stream. The wild woods echoed back the cheer, which mingled with the l.u.s.ty answering shout of the trappers as they waved their caps to the friends they left behind them. Then, dipping their paddles with strong rapid strokes, they headed the canoe towards the Rocky Mountains, and soon disappeared up one of those numerous tributary streams that const.i.tute the head waters of the Missouri river.

CHAPTER THREE.

THE BEAUTIES OF THE WILDERNESS--PORTAGES--PHILOSOPHY OF SETTLING DOWN-- AN ENORMOUS FOOTPRINT--SUPPER PROCURED, AND A BEAR-HUNT IN PROSPECT.

After paddling, and hauling, and lifting, and tearing, and wading, and toiling, and struggling, for three weeks, our hero and his friends found themselves deep in the heart of the unknown wilderness--unknown, at least, to the civilised world, though not altogether unknown to the trappers and the Red Indians of the Far West.

There is something inexpressibly romantic and captivating in the idea of traversing those wild regions of this beautiful world of ours which have never been visited by human beings, with the exception of a few wandering savages who dwell therein.

So thought and felt young Marston one splendid afternoon, as he toiled up to the summit of a gra.s.sy mound with a heavy pack on his shoulders.

Throwing down the pack, he seated himself upon it, wiped his heated brow with the sleeve of his hunting-shirt, and gazed with delight upon the n.o.ble landscape that lay spread out before him.

"Ha! _that's_ the sort o' thing--that's it!"--he exclaimed, nodding his head, as if the rich and picturesque arrangement of wood and water had been got up expressly for his benefit, and he were pleased to signify his entire approval of it.

"That's just it," he continued after a short contemplative pause, "just what I expected to find. Ain't I glad? eh?"

March certainly looked as if he was; but, being at that moment alone, no one replied to his question or shared his enjoyment. After another pause he resumed his audible meditations.

"Now, did ever any one see sich a place as this in all the wide 'arth?

That's what I want to know. Never! Just look at it now. There's miles an' miles o' woods an' plains, an' lakes, an' rivers, wherever I choose to look--all round me. And there are deer, too, lots of 'em, lookin'

quite tame, and no wonder, for I suppose the fut of man never rested here before, except, maybe, the fut of a redskin now an' again. And there's poplars, an' oaks, an' willows, as thick as they can grow."

March might have added that there were also elm, and sycamore, and ash, and hickory, and walnut, and cotton-wood trees in abundance, with numerous aspen groves, in the midst of which were lakelets margined with reeds and harebells, and red willows, and wild roses, and chokeberries, and p.r.i.c.kly pears, and red and white currants. He might, we say, have added all this, and a great deal more, with perfect truth; but he didn't, for his knowledge of the names of such things was limited, so he confined himself, like a wise youth, to the enumeration of those things that he happened to be acquainted with.

"And," continued March, starting up and addressing his remark to a hollow in the ground a few yards off, "there's grisly bars here, too, for there's the futmark of one, as sure as I'm a white man!"

Most people would have been inclined to differ with March in regard to his being a white man, for he was as brown as constant exposure in hot weather could make him; but he referred to his blood rather than to his skin, which was that of white parents.

The footprint which he had discovered was, indeed, that of a grisly bear, and he examined it with more than usual interest, for, although many of those ferocious denizens of the western woods had been already seen, and a few shot by the trappers on their voyage to this point, none had been seen so large as the monster whose footprint now attracted Marston's attention. The print was eleven inches long, exclusive of the claws, and seven inches broad.

While March was busily engaged in examining it, Black Gibault came panting up the hill with a huge pack on his back.