The Wild Man of the West: A Tale of the Rocky Mountains

“Hey! wot’s to do, sir?”

“No matter; lead on—I will follow,” said Bertram sternly between his clenched teeth.

“Hallo! up there,” shouted Redhand, who was at that moment, along with March, exerting his utmost strength in order to keep the canoe off a rock over which the water was bursting in volumes of thick foam; “haul away! haul away! we’re just about up.”

The shout attracted Bertram’s attention; he turned his eyes involuntarily towards the river. Instantly his brain swam round; he staggered, and would have fallen over the bank, had not Big Waller, who was close behind, observed his situation and caught him by the collar. In doing so he was compelled to let go his hold of the line. The additional strain thus suddenly cast upon Gibault wrenched the line from his grasp with a degree of violence that wellnigh hurled him into the river. Bounce and Hawkswing held on for one moment, but the canoe, having been eased off a little, caught a sweep of the rapid, and went out with a dart that the united strength of the whole party could not have checked. The two men had to let go to save themselves, and in a shorter time than it takes to relate, the canoe went down the river towards the fall, dancing like a cork on the heaving spray, while the old man and the youth stood up in the bow and stern wielding their paddles, now on one side, now on the other, with ceaseless rapidity in their efforts to avoid being dashed to pieces on the rocks.

The sight of this catastrophe, superadded to his already agonised feelings, caused the unhappy artist to swoon. Gibault, on seeing the line let go, turned instantly, and sprang like a deer along the track they had been following; intending to render what assistance he could to his comrades at the foot of the rapid. The others could not follow, because of Big Waller and the artist, who obstructed the path. Seeing this, the powerful Yankee seized Bertram round the waist, and, heaving him on his shoulder as one would swing a child, followed in Gibault’s footsteps as fast as he could run.

The distance to the spot whence they had commenced to track the canoe was not great, but before they reached it the frail craft had been shattered against a rock, and was now hurrying, along with the scattered cargo and the two men, towards the fall, to pass over which involved certain destruction.

There is nothing more uncertain, however, than the action of the whirling eddies of a great rapid. True, the general flow of its body of water is almost always the same, but its superficial billows are more variable—now tossing a drifting log to the right, anon to the left, and casting it ashore, or dragging it with fearful violence into the raging current. Although there was only the canoe’s length between the old trapper and the youth when they were left struggling in the water, they were swept in totally different directions. Redhand was hurled violently into the eddy where the canoe had lain before the ascent was commenced, and was dragged safe to land by his comrades. March Marston, on the other hand, was swept out near to the main current, and would, in a few seconds more, have been carried over the fall, had he not, with wonderful presence of mind and an almost superhuman exertion of muscle, dashed into an eddy which was formed by a rock about fifty yards from the top of the fall. The rock was completely covered with the bursting spray, so that it formed no resting-place, and it, with the partial eddy that tailed away from it, was about twenty yards from the shore, where the trappers stood gazing in horror at their companion as he struggled bravely to maintain his position by swimming; but to cross those twenty yards of gushing water, so as to afford him aid, seemed beyond the power of man.

Men bred in the wilderness are not usually slow to act in cases of danger where action is possible. Each man was revolving in fervid haste every plan that seemed likely to afford succour. Redhand’s quick eye observed that the rocks at the edge of the fall, on the side of the river on which they stood, projected out so far that a straight line drawn from the eddy to the fall would pass within a yard of them, and that, consequently, if March would push straight across the stream and make vigorously for the bank, he might hit the point of rocks referred to before being carried over.

“Down, some of you,” he cried, “to the point, an’ be ready to catch him; I’ll shout to him what to do.”

Big Waller and Gibault darted away. Poor Bertram, having recovered, remained gazing in speechless agony at March, who, having made several fruitless efforts to seize hold of the sunken rock, was evidently growing weaker. Bounce also remained to gaze, as if he had lost all his wonted self-command.

“Ho! March!” shouted Redhand. “Dash into the stream—straight for me—with all yer might; don’t be afraid, lad! do it boldly!” But March heard not. The rush of water about him deadened all other sounds.

In an instant Bounce started at full speed up the river, plunged into it, and, descending with fearful rapidity, swung round into the eddy behind the stone almost before his companions could divine what he meant to do.

Even in that moment of terrible suspense March Marston looked with an expression of surprise at his friend as he swam up beside him. Bounce did not waste time or words; he merely raised one hand for a second, and, pointing to the bank of the river, cried, “Push for it—’tis your only chance!”

March Marston made no reply, but at once obeyed; yet so exhausted was he, that, in the effort, he lost strength and sank. Bounce was prepared for this. He seized him by the hair and struck out with the energy of despair. A moment more and he was within a foot of the brink of the fall—but, also, within a foot of the point of rock on which Big Waller was lying at full length, part of his body overhanging the cataract, his arms extended, and Gibault and Hawkswing holding him firmly by the legs. Bounce caught his comrade’s hand, and swung close in to the bank, while with the other hand he continued to grasp March by the hair of the head. The force of the current was so great, however, that not one of the party dared move, and it seemed for a moment as if all of them would be lost, when Bertram rushed forward, and, seizing Bounce by the arm, dragged him still nearer the bank, and relieved the strain upon the others. Just then, Redhand came to the rescue, and in another moment the two men were safe upon the land.

Poor Bertram fell upon his knees, and while he thanked God for the deliverance of his companions, sobbed liked a little child.

For some time the trappers spoke little. Accustomed though they were to danger, they were solemnised by the recent narrow escape from sudden death. Perhaps, too, their minds were more deeply affected than usual with a sense of their dependence upon the living God, by the example and the heartfelt, unrestrained thanksgiving of Bertram. But men whose lives are spent in the midst of alarms are not long seriously affected, even by the most solemn events. The trappers quickly recurred to their present circumstances, which were, in truth, of a nature calculated to fill them with anxiety, and cause them to bend the powers of their quick wits and iron energies to the simple consideration of how they were to subsist and how proceed on their journey.

“First of all,” said Redhand quickly, “we must try what we can recover of our odds and ends.”

“Right,” cried Bounce, who was none the worse for his late gallant exertions; “the current won’t stop for no man; an’ the bales ain’t likely to stem it o’ their own accord till we’re ready to look for ’em.”

Saying this, he set off down the river at a run, followed by all the others, including March, who, after wringing the water from his garments, and resting a few minutes, felt as well and strong as ever. But, alas! their losses were grievous and irreparable. Their little bundles of spare clothing and trinkets for trading with, or conciliating, the Indians, were indeed saved, but their guns and all their ammunition were gone. All that remained to them of the latter were the few charges of powder in the horns suspended round their necks, and a few slugs and bullets in their pouches. The only firearms left were Bertram’s cavalry pistols.

As for the canoe, it was smashed so thoroughly, that only a very few shreds of bark were cast up on the shore; but entangled with these shreds they were happy to find several of their steel traps—a most fortunate circumstance, as it held out hopes that they might still be enabled to prosecute to some extent the main object of their expedition.

As each man had been in the habit of carrying his axe and knife in his belt, those indispensable implements of the backwoodsman were saved; but the loss of guns and ammunition was a very severe misfortune, and one which, for at least half an hour after every attempt to recover them had failed, cast a damp over the spirits of the whole party. But these men had neither time nor inclination to hang down their heads and sigh. Big Waller, being a careless individual by nature, was the first to regain somewhat of his wonted tone and manner. Sitting on a grassy knoll, on which all the party had been resting for some time after their fruitless exertions, in moody silence, Waller looked up suddenly and said, “Who’s afraid?”

As no one happened at that moment to be exhibiting symptoms of terror, and there was no apparent cause for fear, the question seemed irrelevant. We therefore conclude that the bold Yankee meant by it to imply that he, at least, was not afraid of circumstances, no matter how disastrous or heartrending they might be. Having said this, he looked at the faces of his companions one by one. The last face he looked at was that of Gibault Noir, and it wore such a lugubrious aspect of hopeless melancholy that Big Waller burst into an uncontrollable fit of laughter, and Bounce, without knowing why, joined him.

“Well, it’s of no use looking blue about it,” said March Marston, making an effort to cheer up; “the question to be settled now is, What’s to be done?”

“Ay, that is the question,” observed Bertram gravely.

“Wall now, that bein’ the kee-westion,” said Waller, “whose a-goin’ to answer it? There’s a chance now, lads; but don’t all speak at once.”

“Right; that’s wot it is,” observed Bounce, nodding; “that’s the feelosophy on it. When a feller’s turned upside down, wot’s he a-goin’ to do nixt? You can’t put no other construction on it in this here wurld.”

Redhand, who had been ruminating abstractedly for some minutes, now looked round on his comrades and said—

“Here’s a plan for you, lads. That outrageous villain the Big Snake lives, for the most part, in a pretty little spot just three days’ march from this place. He stole, as ye all know, the horses belongin’ to Mr Bertram’s party. Well, I propose that we shud go an’ call on him, an’ make him stand an’ re-deliver. What say you?”

“Agreed,” cried Waller, tossing his cap into the air. “Hurrah!” shouted March Marston. In one way or another, each gave his consent to the plan of making a descent upon the robbers and causing them to make restitution.

The plans of backwoodsmen, once formed, are always quickly put in execution. They had no arrangements to make, no portmanteaus to pack, no difficulties in the way to overcome. Each man strapped a portion of the remaining property on his broad shoulders, and, pushing into the forest with vigorous strides, they were soon far from the spot where their late disaster had occurred, and gradually drew near to the wild glens and gorges of the Rocky Mountains.

Chapter Seven

A wolfish Way of killing Buffaloes described—Bounce becomes metaphysical on the Fine Arts—Butchering enlarged on—A glorious Feast, and Sketching under Difficulties

One of the ancient poets has said that wandering through the wild woods is a pleasant thing. At least, if one of them has not said that, he ought to have said it, and, certainly, many of them must have thought it, whether they said it or not. Undoubtedly, if future historians record faithfully all that has been said and written from the commencement of time to the period in which they flourish, they will embalm the fact that at least one prose writer of the present day has enunciated that incontrovertible proposition.

But we go a step further. We assert positively that wandering through the wild woods is a healthy as well as a pleasant sort of thing. The free air of the mountains and prairies is renovating, the perfumes of the forests are salubrious; while the constantly recurring necessity for leaping and scrambling is good for the muscles, and the occasional tripping over roots, tumbling into holes, scratching one’s face and banging one’s shins and toes against stumps, are good for—though somewhat trying to—the temper.

Further still—we affirm that wandering through the wild woods is a funny thing. Any one who had observed our friends March Marston, and Redhand, and Bounce, and Big Waller, and Black Gibault, the trappers, and Bertram the artist, and Hawkswing the Indian, one beautiful afternoon, not long after the day on which they lost their canoe, would have admitted, without hesitation, that wandering through the wild woods was, among other things, a funny thing.

On the beautiful afternoon referred to, the first six individuals above named were huddled together in a promiscuous heap, behind a small bush, in such a confused way that an ignorant spectator might have supposed that Bounce’s head belonged to Big Waller’s body, and the artist’s shoulders to Redhand’s head, and their respective legs and arms to no one individually, but to all collectively, in a miscellaneous sort of way. The fact was that the bush behind which they were huddled was almost too small to conceal them all, and, being a solitary bush in the midst of a little plain of about a half a mile in extent, they had to make the most of it and the least of themselves. It would have been a refreshing sight for a moralist to have witnessed this instance of man—whose natural tendency is to try to look big—thus voluntarily endeavouring to look as small as possible!

This bundle of humanity was staring through the bush, with, as the saying is, all its eyes, that is, with six pairs of—or twelve individual—eyes; and they were staring at a wolf—an enormous wolf—that was slowly walking away from the bush behind which they were ensconced! It was a very singular wolf indeed—one that was well calculated to excite surprise in the breast even of trappers. There was something radically wrong with that wolf, especially about the legs. Its ears and head were all right, and it had a tail, a very good tail for a wolf; but there was a strange unaccountable lump under its neck, and its fore legs bent the wrong way at the knees, and it seemed to have long feet trailing behind its hind legs, besides being otherwise misshapen. The mystery is explained when we state that this wolf was none other than Hawkswing, down on his hands and knees, with a wolf-skin over his back, and Bertram’s blunderbuss-pistol in his hand. He was creeping cautiously towards a herd of six or seven buffaloes that chanced to be feeding quietly there, quite unconscious of the near proximity of so dangerous an enemy.

“I hope the old pistol won’t miss fire,” whispered Redhand, as he observed that the wolf paused, evidently for the purpose of examining the priming.

“I hope,” added Bounce, “that the Injun won’t miss his aim. He be’n’t used to pistols.”

“Never fear,” said March with a quiet grin. “If he aims within a yard o’ the brute he’s sure to hit, for I loaded the old blunderbuss myself, an’ it’s crammed nigh to the muzzle with all sorts o’ things, includin’ stones.”

At this Big Waller stared, and said emphatically, “It’ll bust!” Bertram felt and looked uneasy, but Bounce shook his head.

“Them old things,” said he, “never bust. I’ve been forty years, off an’ on, in these parts, an’ I’ve always obsarved that old irons o’ that sort don’t bust; cause why? they’d ha’ busted w’en they wos new, if they’d bin goin’ to bust at all. The fact is, they can’t bust. They’re too useless even for that.”

“How comes it,” inquired Bertram, “that the buffaloes are not afraid of a wolf? I have been led to understand that wolves are the inveterate enemies of buffaloes, and that they often attack them.”

To this question March, whose head was in close proximity to that of the artist, replied—

“Ay, the sneakin’ brutes will attack a single wounded or worn-out old buffalo, when it falls behind the herd, and when there are lots o’ their low-minded comrades along with ’em; but the buffaloes don’t care a straw for a single wolf, as ye may see now if ye pay attention to what Hawkswing’s doin’.”

Bertram became silent on observing that the Indian had approached to within about pistol range of the buffalo without attracting particular attention, and that he was in the act of taking aim at its shoulder. Immediately a sharp click caused the buffalo to look up, and apprised the onlookers that the faithless weapon had missed fire; again Hawkswing pulled the trigger and with a like result. By this time the buffalo, having become alarmed, started off at a run. Once more the click was heard; then the wolf, rising on its hind legs, coolly walked backed to its comrades behind the bush, while the herd of buffaloes galloped furiously away.

The Indian solemnly stalked up to Bertram and presented the pistol to him with such an expression of grave contempt on his countenance that March Marston burst into an irresistible fit of laughter, thereby relieving his own feelings and giving, as it were, direction to those of the others, most of whom were in the unpleasant condition of being undecided whether to laugh or cry.

To miss a buffalo was not indeed a new, or, in ordinary circumstances, a severe misfortune; but to miss one after having been three days without food, with the exception of a little unpalatable wolf’s flesh, was not an agreeable, much less an amusing, incident.

“I’ll tell ye wot it is,” said Bounce, slapping his thigh violently and emphasising his words as if to imply that nobody had ever told anybody “wot” anything “wos” since the world began up to that time, “I’ll tell ye wot it is, I won’t stand this sort o’ thing no longer.”

“It is most unfortunate,” sighed poor Bertram, who thoroughly identified himself with his pistol, and felt as much ashamed of it as if the fault had been his own.

“Wall, lads,” observed Big Waller, drawing forth his pipe as the only source of comfort in these trying circumstances, and filling it with scrupulous care, “it ain’t of no use gettin’ growowly about it, I guess. There air more buffaloes than them wot’s gone; mayhap we’ll splinicate one before we gits more waspisher.”

It may, perhaps, be necessary to explain that Waller’s last word referred to the unusually small waists of the party, the result of a pretty long fast.

“I’ll tell ye what it is,” said March, advancing towards Bounce with a swagger and drawing his hunting-knife, “I quite agree with Waller’s sentiments. I don’t mean to allow myself to get any more waspisher, so I vote that we cut Bounce up and have a feed. What say you, comrades?”

“All right,” replied Bounce, laying bare his broad chest as if to receive the knife, “only, p’r’aps, ye’ll allow me to eat the first slice off myself afore ye begin, ’cause I couldn’t well have my share afterwards, d’ye see? But, now I think on’t, I’d be rather a tough morsel. Young meat’s gin’rally thought the tenderest. Wot say ye to cuttin’ up March first, an’ tryin’ me nixt?”

“If you’ll only wait, lads,” said Redhand, “till Mr Bertram gits a new flint into his pistol, we’ll shoot the victim instead o’ cutting him up. It’ll be quicker, you know.”

“Hah! non,” cried Gibault, leaping a few inches off the ground, under the impulse of a new idea, “I vill show to you vat ve vill do. Ve vill each cot hoff von finger. Redhand, he vill begin vid de thomb, et so on till it come to me, and I vill cot hoff mine leetle finger. Each vill devour the finger of de oder, an’ so’ve shall have von dinner vidout committing mordor—ha! vat say you?”

As Bertram had by this time arranged the lock of his pistol and reprimed it, the hungry travellers resumed their weary march without coming to a decision upon this delicate point.

It had happened that, during the last few days, the land over which they travelled being somewhat barren, small game had become scarce, and the large game could not be approached near enough to be shot with such weapons as the artist’s antiquated pistols; and as the party possessed nothing better in the shape of a projectile, they had failed to procure supplies. They had now, however, again reached a rich country, and had succeeded in trapping a large wolf, under the skin of which Hawkswing had made, as we have seen, an unsuccessful effort to shoot a buffalo. Soon after this failure the party came to a ridge of gravelly soil that stretched across the plain like a wave.

The plain, or small prairie, to which we refer was in the midst of a most lovely scene. The earth was carpeted with rich green grass, in which the wild flowers nestled like gems. The ground was undulating, yet so varied in its formations that the waves and mounds did not prevent the eyes of the travellers ranging over a vast tract of country, even when they were down among the hollows; and, when they had ascended the backs of the ridges, they could cast a wide glance over a scene of mingled plain and wood, lake and river, such as is never seen except in earth’s remotest wilds, where man has not attempted to adorn the face of nature with the exuberances of his own wonderful invention.

Far away on the horizon the jagged forms and snowy peaks of the Rocky Mountains rose clear and sharp against the sky. For some days past the trappers had sighted this stupendous “backbone” of the far west, yet so slowly did they draw near that March Marston and Bertram, in their impatience, almost believed they were a range of phantom hills, which ever receded from them as they advanced.

On reaching the summit of the gravelly ridge, Redhand looked along it with an earnest, searching gaze.

“Wot’s ado now?” inquired Bounce.

“There ought to be prairie-hens here,” replied the other.

“Oh! do stand still, just as you are, men!” cried Bertram enthusiastically, flopping down on a stone and drawing forth his sketch-book, “you’ll make such a capital foreground.”

The trappers smiled and took out their pipes, having now learned from experience that smoking was not detrimental to a sketch—rather the reverse.

“Cut away, Gibault,” said Bounce, “an’ take a look at the edge o’ yon bluff o’ poplars and willows. I’ve obsarved that prairie-hens is fond o’ sich places. You’ll not be missed out o’ the pictur’, bein’ only a small objict, d’ye see, besides an ogly one.”

The jovial Canadian acknowledged the compliment with a smile and obeyed the command, leaving his companions to smoke their pipes and gaze with quiet complacency upon the magnificent scene. Doubtless, much of their satisfaction resulted from the soothing influence of tobacco on their empty stomachs.

“I say,” whispered Waller, removing his pipe and puffing from his lips a large cloud of smoke, which rolled upwards in the form of a white ring, “I say, Bounce, I guess it’s past my comprehension what he means by a foreground. How does we make a capital foreground?”

Bounce looked at his companion in silence for a few seconds; then he removed his pipe, pursed his lips, frowned heavily, looked at the ground, and repeated slowly, “How does we make a capital foreground?”

Waller nodded.

“Ay, that’s it.” Bounce resumed his pipe for a few seconds, and then said with an air of the utmost profundity—

“Don’t you know?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Wot? Nothin’ about it wotiver?”

“Nothin’ wotsomdiver.”

“H’m, that’s okard,” said Bounce, once more applying to his pipe; “’cause, d’ye see, it’s most ’orrible difficult to explain a thing to a feller as don’t know nothin’ wotiver about it. If ye only had the smallest guess o—”

“Wall, come, I does know somethin’ about it,” interrupted Waller.

“Wot’s that?” inquired Bounce, brightening up.

“I calc’late that I knows for certain it ain’t got no place wotiver in my onderstandin’.”

“Hah!” exclaimed Bounce. “Come, then, I’ll do my best for to explain it t’ye. Here’s wot it is. D’ye see Mr Bertram, there?”