Bill Biddon, Trapper: or, Life in the Northwest

“He did, it is true, but how nicely he walked out again. I tell you, Nat, that fellow has nerve equal to any emergency. What man, when conscious of an overwhelming foe being concealed within a few feet of him, could have repressed every sign of trepidation or fear, as he did, and bring the antelope through the same fearful ordeal, with the same coolness and deliberation?”

“That was a clever thing, I allow.”

“Biddon told me he felt a little nervous when he saw us start to come up to him, for, if we had reached him, it would have been all up with us. He called out to us, though we did not hear him, that there were more animals in the grove, and our approach would frighten them. The impatient Indians were thus held at bay, in the hope of being offered a better opportunity to accomplish our ruin, until it was too late to accomplish anything save the loss of two or three of their number. Such a man, I repeat, will scent danger soon enough without the help of others.”

“He will, and I hope he’ll find out who that white girl is.”

“Nat, do you remember the account Biddon gave some time ago of a horrible massacre, upon the sandy island near where we encamped one night?”

“I don’t think there is much likelihood of my ever forgetting it.”

“You will also recall his account of the capture of a small child by the savages? Now, it has occurred to me that this is that child grown to womanhood.”

“I know it is!” exclaimed Nat, joyously.

“It is true there is much against it. It was a great distance from here, but as these savages wander hundreds of miles at times, it is not improbable, upon that ground. Instances are only too common of persons spending their lives in captivity among these Indian tribes. She is a captive, beyond a doubt, and must long for restoration to her home and friends. If possible, I am bound to know more of her.”

“So am I!” exclaimed my excitable companion.

“As I said, we will say nothing of this to Biddon, until he discovers signs of Indians himself. To-morrow, we will go forth together, and spend the day in endeavoring to gain traces of the canoe and its inmates; and if anything is discovered which is alarming, we will impart it to him.”

This Nat agreed to, and shortly after we heard three raps upon the outside of the tree – the trapper’s signal of his presence. A moment after, he made his appearance. He was considerably elated at his prospect for a goodly quantity of furs; had set a number of traps; was sure of half a dozen next day; had seen no signs of Indians, and was convinced there were none in the vicinity. None of us passed out again that day, but remained indulging in our pipes and conversation as usual, until a late hour.

The next morning the trapper proposed that I should accompany him upon his daily round. I complied, while Nat remained behind.

The day was as warm and pleasant as the preceding one, and the forest and stream as delightful. Biddon paddled slowly up the unrippled surface, and in a short time reached the first trap; it had not been disturbed. Still hopeful, he passed on to the second and third and all the others. But there were no signs of beaver in any.

“Shoot me, that’s quar’!” he exclaimed, thoughtfully, as he saw the last one. “I don’t understand it; I must git out and take a look round.”

He sprang ashore, and minutely examined the ground around. A few seconds sufficed. He looked up with a gleam of deep meaning, and said:

“Here’s the track of a thunderin’ moccasin. The reds have found us out.”

He stepped into the canoe, and taking the paddle moved it carefully back again. He touched at each trap on the way. The footprints of a stranger were visible at each.

“Thar’s been a beaver taken out of that one!” he remarked, as the last one was reached. “It’s lucky for the sneakin’ coward that I didn’t see him. He wouldn’t ’sturbed any more gentlemen’s traps.”

“Are you sure it is an Indian who has been annoying you?”

“Wogh! Don’t you s’pose I could tell a red’s track from a grizzly’s?”

“But it might have been a white man – some hunter or trapper?” I suggested.

“A white man wouldn’t be mean ’nough to do sich a thing, ’less it war some of those Hudson Bay fellers. They try them tricks sometimes, but they git come up to. I catched a feller once from Fort Hall at mine, and the way I walked into him war a caution; but this ar’ an Injin’s track, sure.”

“Do you suspect there could be a number in the vicinity?”

“Ef there war, I’d’ve heard of ’em afore. This is some varmint, sneakin’ round yer, and he’s got to be rubbed out afore he makes more trouble.”

“I fear that will be a difficult and dangerous job.”

“Let me be for that.”

Shortly after we reached our home, and running the canoe beneath the bushes, entered it. We were somewhat surprised to find Nat absent. He returned, however, in a short time, and I saw at once by his nervous, flustered manner that something unusual had occurred. Biddon questioned him rather closely, as he suspected something, but Nat evaded his inquiries, and would not admit that he had seen anything to excite alarm or apprehension.

“I’m goin’ out, and when I come back I’ll tell you what’s the matter with them traps,” said Biddon, seizing his rifle and departing.

I waited until he was beyond hearing, and then turning to my companion, asked,

“What is the matter with you, Nat?”

“Why?” he asked, in turn, with a start.

“Because you show plainly that something has occurred to alarm you.”

He remained silent a moment, and then seizing his hat, jerked it off his head, and threw it spitefully down, where he gazed at it a second, and exclaimed,

“I’m sick of this.”

“Sick of what?”

“Why, of being in this fix.”

“I don’t understand you. Please explain what you mean.”

“I should think you ought to know.”

“But I do not.”

“Why, this wood is full of Injins; they’re behind every tree and stump, and in every bush, and you can hardly step without pitching over some painted heathen.”

“I am afraid you are exaggerating,” I answered, suppressing a smile which was struggling at the corners of my mouth.

“No, I ain’t. I swow there are ten thousand Injins just waiting outside to pounce upon us.”

“You are talking nonsense, and you know it.”

“Well, there’s one Injin, for I seen him. Come now,” he affirmed, as if the matter was now settled beyond a question.

“Ah! that alters the case considerably. I shouldn’t wonder at all if there is one or a half-dozen savages in the forest.”

“If you see one savage haven’t you a right to suppose there’s a hundred more about, I should like to know?”

“Not always, Nat; I have seen three myself, yet I do not believe there is another one in the neighborhood. But I have not heard the particulars of this affair of which you have been speaking. Please let me hear them.”

“There isn’t much to tell, but there is enough to make you do a heap of thinking. You see, after you had left, I took a notion that I must have a morning ramble; and I thought, too, there might be such a thing as you two running into danger and needing my help (I should like to know what you are laughing at). So, on the whole, there was no hesitation upon my part. Taking my rifle out, I was soon making my way as noiselessly as possible, in a direction from the river.

“I hadn’t gone more than a dozen yards before I commenced thinking about Injins, and came nigh going back again. I wasn’t afraid at all, you know, but then it appeared to me I might bring you and Biddon into trouble. However, I kept on. I had gone some distance further, when all of a sudden I heard a terrible whirr and rattle, and jumped clean off my feet. But it was only a big owl which I had stirred up. I was so provoked at the start he gave me, that I should have wrung his neck had I got my hands upon him. But I went on. Pretty soon I reached a little stream of water, and as I jumped across, what do you suppose I saw in the sand?”

“I am sure I cannot tell.”

“Nothing less than a big moccasin track. And what was more, it hadn’t been made there a week before! I stood and looked at it a good while, cogitating some wonderful things. At last I stooped and went to measuring it. I was just going to rise, when I heard a grunt right by me. I jumped up so quick – to be ready, you know – that I floundered backward into the water. And I may be shot if there wasn’t a big painted Injin standing not ten feet off. He didn’t say a word, but just stood and looked at me with them awful eyes of his. As soon as I could think, I raised my gun, took a quick aim, and pulled the trigger; but the infernal gun snapped. I pulled it again, but it wouldn’t go, and I just happened to think the thing wasn’t loaded. All this time the painted imp stood grinning at me, without saying a word, except to kinder grunt. He had a big shining gun in one hand, and I was dreadful afraid he would shoot it. I told him not to stir, but to stand still till I got mine loaded, and he waited. But somehow or other, I s’pose I was in such a hurry that things wouldn’t go right. Instead of putting the powder in the gun-barrel, I crammed it in my pocket, and jammed the ramrod into my shoe. I told the Injin to have patience and I’d get it loaded in a minute. I got it fixed somehow at last and hauled it up to my shoulder, when, no Injin was there! I looked behind, all about me, and up into the trees but he’d been spirited away somewhere. However, I made up my mind to shoot at the spot where he had stood, and I up and blazed away. That is, I blazed away without the gun going off. I believe he spirited that too.”

“Let me examine it. Perhaps you made some blunder.”

“No, I’m sure I didn’t.”

I took the rifle, with a smile of certainty that I should find something the matter with it. Sure enough the muzzle was crammed with paper, and upon removing it, a pipestem, broken in pieces, rolled out, while there was not a grain of powder in the barrel.

“I declare, I forgot about the powder!” exclaimed Nat, opening his eyes in wonder.

“But not about the bullet,” I laughed, pointing to the fragments of his pipe.

“How’d that get there?” he angrily asked.

“That’s the question.”

“I didn’t put it there.”

“Who did, then?”

“I don’t know, I declare.”

Nat picked up the fragments and examined them carefully.

“That’s my pipe sure; and I had it in my mouth, I remember when I started out, and missed it coming back. I didn’t put it in the gun though.”

“Let it pass then. Did you see no more of your Indian friend?”

“No; he knew enough to keep out of my way. I waited a long time for him, and at last started home again. I kept an eye on every suspicious object, but as I just said, seen nothing.”

At this point I gave free vent to my pent-up mirth. Nat, much astonished, looked wonderingly at me, seemingly at a loss to understand the cause.

“I do not see what there is to laugh at,” he remarked, reprovingly. “If it’s a laughing matter to know that there are Injins all about you, why you must laugh.”

“Your adventure with the Indian, Nat, and the singular load in your rifle appears to me to be a funny matter, and I trust you will pardon me if – ”

“Didn’t I tell you I didn’t put it in there? It was the Injin’s work.”

And to this day Nat cannot be made to believe that he was instrumental in introducing the pipe into his gun.

After a few more unimportant remarks, the conversation ceased. Nat’s adventure began to appear to me in a different light from that in which I had viewed it at first. I doubted not but that he was perfectly honest and truthful in what he said. But why, when exposed to the will of the savage, did he escape unscathed? Why did the latter stand fearless and harmless before him? And what meant these strange signs, these “footprints,” which were becoming visible around us? Matters were assuming a puzzling form. We were being environed by Indians without any evidence of hostility upon their part. What meant it? Surely there was a meaning too deep and hidden for us to divine as yet.

Suddenly Nat spoke.

“Don’t you remember the canoe? We were going to hunt for that to-day!”

“Ah! how did I forget that? But had we not better wait till Biddon returns?”

“No; let us go at once. Hark! what’s that?”

I held my breath, as the distant report of a rifle reached our ears. The next instant came a sound, faint and far away yet clear and distinct – a horrid, unearthly sound, as the cry of a being in mortal agony!

CHAPTER VI

STILL IN THE DARK – THE CANOE AGAIN

For a moment we stood breathless, paralyzed and speechless. Then our eyes sought each other with a look of fearful inquiry.

“Was that Biddon’s voice?” I asked, in a faint whisper.

“I don’t know. There it is again!”

And again came that wild, howling shriek of such agony as made our blood curdle within us.

“It is his voice! Let us hasten to his aid,” I exclaimed, catching my rifle, and springing out. Nat followed closely, his gun having been reloaded. The cry came from up the river and toward it we dashed, scrambling and tearing through the brush and undergrowth, like two maddened animals, heedless of what the consequence might be. Several times we halted and listened, but heard nothing save our own panting breasts and leaping hearts. On again we dashed, looking hurriedly about us, until I knew we had ascended as high as could be the author of that startling cry. Here we paused and listened. No one was to be seen. I turned toward Nat, standing behind me, and directly behind him I saw Biddon slowly approaching.

“What are you doin’ here?” he asked, as he came up.

“Was not that your voice which I just heard?”

“I rather reckon it wan’t. When you hear Bill Biddon bawl out in that way, jist let me know, will yer?”

“What under the sun was it?” I asked then, greatly relieved.

“That’s more nor me can tell; but shoot and skin me, if I can’t tell you one thing;” he approached closely and whispered, “there’s sunkthin else nor reds about yer.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, although I understood well enough what he meant.

“I’s here once afore, as I told yer, and I never heerd sich goin’s on then. I’ve seed the tracks of moccasins all about the traps, but can’t draw bead on the shadder of a redskin.”

“You heard that horrid howl, didn’t you?”

“Heerd it! I should think I did.”

“Was it you who shot?”

“Yes; the way on it was this: I got on a purty plain trail and follered it up hereabouts, when I cotched the glimpse of a Blackfoot’s feather goin’ down through the bushes there, and blazed away at him. I never missed a red in my life, and I didn’t miss him. Howsumever, he didn’t mind it, but kept on and got away, and jist as he went out of sight that orful yell come. It didn’t seem that he made it, but sounded like as though ’twas all about me, above and under the ground, and around and behind me.”

“Anywhere near us?” asked Nat.

“It sounded jist under your feet about.”

“Jerusha!” exclaimed the affrighted Nat, as he sprang nervously toward me.

“It must have been the Indian, surely, who made that yell,” said I.

“In course; though things are beginnin’ to look qua’rish to me.”

The same look of uneasiness again passed over the trapper’s face; and I saw that although he strove to hide it, he was by no means at rest. Matters were beginning to put on an unusual aspect, and that was the reason. Give the trapper of the northwest flesh and blood to contend against, let him know that nothing supernatural is arrayed against him, and he is the last man in the world to yield an inch. But the moment he sees something unexplainable to his simple mind, (and the trapper is a credulous being), his courage deserts him. He believes that other spirits than those of men visit this earth, and they are his greatest horror.

“Les’ go home; there’s Injins all around us,” pleaded Nat.

“How’d you know?”

“Because I seen one myself.”

Biddon looked inquiringly at me, and, deeming it best, I related the incident given in the preceding chapter. I saw at once his uneasiness was increased.

“Why didn’t you shoot the redskin?” he angrily asked of Nat.

“Why didn’t you shoot the redskin?” queried Nat, in turn.

“I did – hit him fair and square as I ever hit anything.”

“But didn’t do any more good than I did.”

“I made the infarnal imp howl.”

“And I made mine grunt,” added Nat, triumphantly.

“There is no need of words,” I interposed. “Each of you did your best, Nat included. You, Bill, I believe, hit your man and mortally wounded him. That yell was of agony, though I can’t conceive how we came to mistake it for yours. The dead or dying body of that Indian, I believe, is near at hand. See! what does that mean?” I asked, as I detected some red fluid dripping from the limb of a bush to the earth. The trapper stepped forward and looked at it.

“That’s the blood of a Blackfoot, or I’m a skinned beaver!” he remarked, with a glow of relief at having those strange apprehensions of his removed.

“Yes, I’m convinced that’s Injin blood,” added Nat, rubbing it between the tip of his finger and thumb. “The blood of a Blackfoot Injin, too – a man’s about thirty-two years old. Probably a brother to the one I frightened.”

“What do you know about that?” I asked.

“Oh! it’s only a supposition of mine.”

“Biddon, I believe, as I just said, that we will find the body of that savage near at hand. Let us follow it.”

“Jes’ what I’s agoin’ to do,” he replied, starting off at once upon the trail.

It was easy to follow, as every step was marked by blood, which, in many places, was dripping from the bushes to the ground. It was followed but a short distance, however, as it led in a direct line to the river.

“It’s as I s’pected,” said Biddon, turning round in disgust.

“He must have drowned then.”

“Dunno ’bout that. He’s taken to the water to hide his trail, an’ jes’ as like as not some of the other painted heathen have helped him off.”

“No doubt about that. I’ve been thinking that some of them helped off that fellow when I was loading my gun.”

“We mought as well go back agin,” said Biddon. “I’m tired of huntin’ spirits, and I dunno but what we’d better move traps and leave this plagued place to ’em.”

“That’s what I am in favor of – ”

Nat suddenly paused, for Biddon, with a slight “sh” motioned us down. We both sank quickly and silently to the earth, while he, in a crouching position, gazed stealthily up-stream.

“What is it, Bill?” whispered Nat.

“There’s a canoe comin’ down stream!”

We said nothing; and Nat looking meaningly in the water.

“Skin me, if there ain’t two reds and a squaw in it,” added Biddon, without changing his position, or removing his gaze.

I could not restrain the singular agitation that came over me at this announcement. Fearing to betray myself, I cautiously arose beside Biddon.

“Let me take a look,” I whispered.

“Be keerful you ain’t seen,” he whispered, in turn, as he stepped back.

As I looked, I saw, not more than two hundred yards distant the canoe approaching, heading directly towards us. For this reason, I could only see the foremost Indian, though I was positive another, together with the white captive, were in it. I gazed but a moment and then looked inquiringly at the trapper. He made no reply, but again peered forth.

“That ain’t a squaw; it’s a white gal,” said he, looking round upon us with an astounded look.

“Shall we rescue her?” I asked.

“Ef she wants us to, in course.”

“You going to shoot them?” asked Nat, anxiously.

“Can’t tell yit. Jest see that yer irons is ready, and we’ll wait till they get out yer. Don’t make no noise till I give the motion.”

The trapper stole a yard or two in front of us, where he sank softly down upon his face until only his head was visible. Nat fingered his gun nervously beside me, while I, not a whit less agitated, waited for the canoe to appear through the interstices of the bushes in front.

In a moment, I heard the faint ripple of an oar, and saw the trapper slowly raising his head and bringing his rifle in front of him. He raised his hand warningly for us to remain quiet until the moment should arrive. I heard the click of my companion’s gun, as he raised the hammer, and admonished him to be careful.

Suddenly, I saw the red head-dress of one of the savages glittering through the bushes, and, before I could speak, came an explosion beside me like the crash of a thunderbolt. Almost simultaneously, the herculean frame of the trapper bounded over me, and he exclaimed:

“Who fired that? I’m shot.”

Nat and I sprang to our feet and dashed after him; but as I turned, though bewildered with excitement, I looked at the spot where the canoe was seen. It was gone!

We dashed up the bank, and in a moment reached Biddon. The excitement had completely gone, and he stood coolly feeling his ear.

“Was that your gun, Jarsey?” he asked.

“No, sir; mine is still loaded.”

“How is yours, Greeny?”

Nat lifted his, examined the lock and looked into the barrel. He had indeed discharged it, grazing the trapper’s head so closely as to wound his ear.

“Wonder if that was my gun? Sure, I believe it was,” he remarked, still looking into the barrel.

“Was it your gun?” repeated the trapper, his brow darkening like a thunder-cloud, and laying his hand upon his knife-handle, as he approached. Nat looked up and started as he saw his visage fairly gleaming with passion.

“I didn’t shoot it, Bill, by thunder!” he expostulated.

The face of the trapper changed. It grew paler, and the dark cloud fled from it. He replaced his drawn knife. He believed the words of Nat.

Matters were approaching a crisis. The recent startling events had their effect upon us all. The trapper avowed he could not stand “sich goin’s on,” and should leave for some other quarters. Little sleep came to Nat at night. His adventure with the savage, and the more recent occurrence alarmed him. He had discovered that there were consequences to be feared from both sides.

I was still unwilling to believe that there was anything in the events given which would not soon be explained. It was evident our foes were around, and from some inexplicable cause, had pursued an unusual course toward us. We had all been exposed to their power, and had yet escaped harmless. What was the meaning of this? And, above all, what was the object of the appearance and disappearance of the canoe at the different times mentioned? Who could be that fair being of whose existence I only was as yet aware?

These questions, prompted only my anxious curiosity and desire to learn more of that mysterious being whom I had now twice seen. I ridiculed the ideas of Biddon, and Nat strove hard to convince him that he was not afraid. Biddon, consented to remain until more was learned, intimating at the same time, that it must be very soon. He visited the horses each day, and found them undisturbed. This, however, only added to his anxiety. Had they been gone he would have taken it as convincing evidence that bona fide Indians were in the neighborhood.

The next day, after the closing scene of the last chapter, Nat agreed to accompany me for the last time to the spot where we had seen the canoe. The trapper could not be prevailed upon to go, affirming that he should probably have his hands full at home. It required my utmost skill to succeed with Nat, as the horror had plainly settled upon him.

“It’s awful!” said he, as we started, “this walking right into danger, but I want to see that canoe agin, but especially that gal, and so I’ll go.”

“And, I trust, behave yourself. You well know, Nat, you fired that shot which came so near ending Biddon’s life.”

“Wonder if I did pull the trigger!” he exclaimed, suddenly stopping and looking round at me.

“You know you did, and had he known it, too, it would have been a sorry piece of business for you. That temper of his is terrible, when it is once excited.”

“I remember cocking my gun, and kind of pulling the trigger, but I didn’t mean to pull hard enough to make it go off.”

“I suppose not. I cannot conceive how Biddon persuaded himself to believe that you did not discharge it when the case was self-evident. But he is willing to believe almost anything since he has started.”