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

Bounce, who was well acquainted with many of the dialects of that region, had no difficulty in making himself understood. He stated that he was a trapper, that he had come to that country to trade, and asked whether his Indian friends had furs to dispose of. As he had anticipated, the savages were in no mood to treat with a solitary man who was entirely in their power. The chief, who evidently suspected that he was a friend of the prisoners, instead of replying, asked him sarcastically what he had in the keg.

“Fire-water,” replied Bounce unhesitatingly.

At this the eyes of the savages sparkled with delight. Not deigning to waste more time with him, they seized the unfortunate trapper and confronted him with his companions, gazing earnestly in their faces the while to observe whether they betrayed any sign of recognition.

It said much for the self-control of these hardy men, that, although their comrade was thus suddenly and unexpectedly placed before them, they did not permit a muscle of their countenances to change, but gazed on him and on his captors with that expression of defiant contempt with which Indians usually meet their fate, and in which they are equalled, sometimes even outdone, by the unfortunate white trappers who chance to fall into their cruel hands.

And well was it, for the success of the scheme, that Theodore Bertram’s nerves had received such repeated and awful shocks that day, that they were now incapable of feeling. He had been so terribly and repeatedly struck with amazement that his features had assumed a settled expression of surprise that could not be increased, so that when he beheld Bounce a prisoner before him, although he certainly felt astonishment, he could by no means increase the expression of that sensation. The Indians, therefore, passed away from him with a howl of derision, and tied Bounce to a tree beside his comrades, concluding that, instead of a plotter, they had, in him, made another lucky capture. Anxiety to taste their beloved beverage had something to do with their haste in this matter, no doubt.

No one who has not seen it can conceive of the intense passion the North American Indian has for ardent spirits. He seems to have no power of restraint whatever when the opportunity of indulging that passion presents itself.

The head of the keg was quickly knocked in, and the eyes of the savages seemed positively to flash as they gazed upon the precious fluid. The chief advanced first with a little tin mug, such as was sold to them by traders, and drank a deep draught; he then handed the cup to another, but the impatience of the others could not be restrained—they crowded round with their mugs, and dipping them into the keg drank eagerly, while the squaws, who loved the fire-water as much as did their masters, formed an outer circle, and, as patiently as they could, awaited their turn. They knew full well that it would soon come.

The Indians, being unaccustomed to frequent potations, were quickly maddened by the spirit, which mounted to their brains and rushed through their veins like wildfire, causing every nerve in their strong frames to tingle. Their characteristic gravity and decorum vanished. They laughed, they danced, they sang, they yelled like a troop of incarnate fiends! Then they rushed in a body towards their prisoners, and began a species of war-dance round them, flourishing their tomahawks and knives close to their faces as if they were about to slay them; shrieking and howling in the most unearthly manner, and using all those cruel devices that are practised by Red Indians to terrify those unfortunates whom they intend ultimately to kill.

Suddenly one of the warriors observed that the squaws were stealthily approaching the spirit keg, and rushed towards them with a howl of fury, followed by his comrades, who drove the women away and recommenced drinking. And now a fiercer spirit seemed to seize upon the savages; old feuds and jealousies, that had long been cherished in silence, broke irresistibly forth. Angry words and fierce looks were followed by the drawing of knives. Suddenly a young man rushed upon a comrade and buried his knife in his heart. The piercing death-cry was followed by the vengeful yell of the relatives of the murdered man, as they sprang upon the murderer. Others flew to the rescue, and the drunken mêlée became general. Blood began to flow freely, and there is no doubt that many lives would have been sacrificed had not the combatants been too much intoxicated to fight with vigour. Many of them fell prostrate and helpless on attempting to rise. Others dealt their blows at random, staggering and falling one upon another, until they lay in a heap, shrieking, biting, tearing, and stabbing—a bloody struggling mass, which told more eloquently than tongue can tell, that, deep and low though savage human nature has fallen in sin and misery, there is a depth profounder still, to which even those who seem to be the lowest may be precipitated by the fatal power of strong drink.

And now Gibault Noir felt that it was time for him to draw near to the horrible scene, in order to be ready, when the moment should arrive, to release the prisoners, or to protect them in the event of any of the drunken crew being tempted to a premature slaughter.

The women were now actively interfering to prevent further bloodshed. Most of the Indians were already dead drunk. Only a few, whose powers of endurance were greater than those of their comrades, continued to shout their war-songs. When these were down, the women rushed at the spirits like wolves. Even the little children came out from the tents and got their share. It was a terrible scene, such as has, alas! been often enacted before in the wilds of the Far West, and, doubtless, shall be enacted again, unless (so-called) Christian traders give up fire-water as an article of traffic.

In a very short space of time the women were as helpless as their masters. Then Gibault cut the thongs that bound his comrades, and set them free!

“Thanks, thanks to the Almighty,” said Bertram earnestly, when his bonds were cut. “I had thought that my days were numbered; that it was to be my sad fate to fill a grave here in the wilderness. But His hand is indeed mighty to save. And thanks be to you, good Gibault. Under God, we owe our lives to you.”

Bertram attempted to seize Gibault’s hand as he spoke, but his own hands refused obedience to his will. They had been so long and so tightly bound that they were utterly powerless.

“Rub ’em, rub ’em well,” said Gibault, seizing the artist’s hands and enforcing his own recommendation vigorously.

“Ay, that’s it,” said Redhand, who, with his companions, had, the instant he was loose, commenced to rub and chafe his own benumbed limbs into vitality, as if his life and theirs depended on their exertions—as indeed they did to no small extent, for, had they been called upon to fight or fly at that moment, they could have done neither.

“Now, lads,” said Bounce, who, having been a prisoner for but a short time, was unhurt by his bonds, “while ye rub the life into yer limbs I’ll tell ye wot we must do. Them scamps (pointing to the prostrate Indians) won’t lie there long. Of course, bein’ white men an’ Christians, we don’t mean to kill them or to lift their scalps—”

“I’ve know’d white men,” interrupted Redhand, “who called themselves Christians, and didn’t object to take scalps when they got the chance.”

“So have I,” returned Bounce, “an’ more’s the pity. It’s sichlike blackguards as these that keeps honest trappers and fur-traders for iver in hot water here. Howsomdiver, we’re not a-goin’ to turn ourselves into brute beasts ’cause they’ve turned theirselves into sich.”

“I’m not so sure o’ that,” broke in Big Waller, casting a scowling glance on the savages as he surveyed a wound in his left arm, which, although not serious, was, from want of dressing, sufficiently painful; “I calc’late it would serve them reptiles right if we was to whangskiver the whole on ’em as they lie.”

“I don’t b’lieve,” retorted Bounce, “that ‘whangskiver’ is either English, Injun, French, or Yankee; but if it means killin’, you’ll do nothing o’ the sort. Here’s what we’ll do. We’ll ketch as many horses as wos took from Mr Bertram’s fellers, an’ as many guns too (the same ones if we can lay hands on ’em), an’ as much powder an’ shot an’ other things as that keg o’ brandy is worth, an’ then we’ll bid the redskins good-bye without wakenin’ of ’em up.”

“Goot,” ejaculated Gibault, pausing in his manipulation of the artist, “now you can do!”

“Capital; thanks, I feel quite strong again.”

“I say, Gibault,” observed March ruefully, “they’ve almost sawed through the skin o’ my ankle. I’ve no left foot at all, as far as feelin’ goes.”

“Hah! me boy, ’tis well you have foot left, though you not feel left foot! Let me see.”

“That’s it, Gibault, rub away; if your jokes were as good as your surgery you’d be too good, a long way, for the backwoods.”

By dint of chafing and rubbing and leaping and stamping, the whole party were soon restored to a serviceable condition, after which they set about active preparations for departure.

First, they ransacked the tents, where they discovered all the guns that had been taken from Bertram’s party. These they tied up in a bundle, after each had secured one for his own use. Among them the artist found, to his intense delight, his own double-barrelled gun, the loss of which he had mourned most sincerely.

Next, they secured the horses, which, being hobbled, as we have said elsewhere, were easily caught. Then the powder-horns and shot-belts of Bertram’s party were found, and, being full of ammunition, were slung across their shoulders forthwith. Among other things belonging to the same party were discovered a number of blankets, some tea and sugar, and a variety of other useful articles, besides several packs of furs; all of which were made up into portable bundles that could be easily carried at their saddle-bows. The supply of everything was so ample that it was not necessary to touch a single article belonging to the Indians.

This was a matter of much satisfaction to Redhand, who wished to show these unfortunate children of the wilderness that there were at least some white trappers who were actuated by different and kindlier feelings than many who sought their livelihood in those regions.

“Hullo! wot have we here?” cried Big Waller, who was poking inquisitively about among the tents, to the consternation of the poor Indian children who lay huddled up in their rabbit-skin blankets, trembling from head to foot, and expecting to be scalped forthwith—such of them, at least, as were old enough to expect anything. “Here’s your blunderbusses, I guess, mister.”

“What! my pistols,” cried Bertram, seizing his weapons with as much delight as if they had been really serviceable.

“Hah! ver’ goot for play vid,” observed Gibault contemptuously.

“I say, here’s something else,” said Bounce, picking up a rifle.

“Wah!” exclaimed Hawkswing, pointing to the weapon in surprise, and turning his eyes on Redhand.

“Wot! d’ye know who it b’long’d to?” inquired Bounce.

An expression of deep sorrow overspread Redhand’s countenance. “Ay,” said he mournfully, “I know it well. It belonged to young Blake.” Glancing quickly up at a place where several scalps were hanging to a pole, he took one down, and, after gazing at it sadly for a few seconds, he added in a tone of deep melancholy: “Poor, poor Blake! ye had a hearty spirit an’ a kindly heart. Your huntin’ days were soon over!”

“Was he a friend of yours?” inquired Bertram, affected by the old trapper’s look and tone.

“Ay, ay, he was, he was,” said Redhand quickly, and with a sternness of manner that surprised his companions; “come, lads, mount! mount! The redskins won’t part with plunder without making an effort to get it back.”

“But, stop a bit, Redhand,” cried Bounce, detaining the old man, “ye didn’t use for to be so hot an’ hasty. Where are we to go to? That’s wot I want to know.”

“True,” observed Redhand in his old gentle tones, “we’ve more horses than we need, and some furs to dispose of. There’s a tradin’ fort in the mountains, but it’s a good bit from this.”

“What o’ that?” said March Marston somewhat impetuously. “Are we not armed and well mounted and strong, and have we not lots o’ time before us?”

“Well said,” cried Bounce.

“Ditto,” echoed Waller.

“Then we’ll do it!” cried Redhand, vaulting into the saddle with a spring that a young man might have envied.

The others followed his example, and in a few seconds they were picking their way carefully down the ravine in which the Indian camp was situated. Leaving this quickly behind, they trotted briskly along the more open banks of the river until they gained a level sweep of land which terminated in a belt of low bushes. Beyond this lay the great plains. Breaking into a gallop, they speedily cleared the underwood, and just as the rosy smile of morning beamed in the eastern sky, they dashed away, with light hearts and loose reins, out upon the springy turf of the open prairie.

Chapter Ten

Short Treatise on Horseflesh—Remarks on Slang—Doings and Sights on the Prairie—The Mountain Fort

A horse is a wonderful thing—if we may presume to style so noble a creature “a thing!” And the associations connected in some minds with a horse are wonderful associations. No doubt a horse, to many people, is a commonplace enough sort of thing; and the associations connected with horseflesh in general, in some minds, are decidedly low—having relation to tugging a cart, or tumbling along with a plough, or rattling with a cab, or prancing in a carriage, or being cut up into butcher’s meat for cats and dogs. Nevertheless, a horse is a wonderful creature; and man’s associations in connection with him are, not infrequently, of the most wonderful and romantic kind. Talk to the warrior of his steed, and he will speak of him as of his dearest friend. Talk to the Arab of his horse, and he will talk of his pet, his spoiled child! As it is with these, so is it with the trapper of the western prairies.

After a few weeks’ acquaintance, the trapper and his horse become one—part and parcel of each other, at least as far as it is possible for man and horse to amalgamate. On the one hand, the horse is tended, hobbled, patted, saddled, spoken to, watched over, and tenderly cared for by the man; on the other hand, the man is carried, respected, sometimes bitten (playfully), depended on, and loved by the horse. Day after day, and week after week, the limbs of the one and the ribs of the other are pressed against each other, until they become all but united, and the various play of muscles on the part of both becomes so delicately significant that the bridle, to a great extent, becomes unnecessary, and the rider feels when the horse is about to shy, just as quickly as the horse feels, by a gentle pressure on either side, how much the rider wishes him to diverge to the right or left.

Sometimes the horse breaks his hobbles and runs away, thus aggravating the spirits of, and causing infinite annoyance to, the man. Frequently the man, out of revenge for such or similar freaks, larrups and pains and worries the horse. But these little asperities are the occasional landmarks that give point and piquancy to the even tenor of their loving career. Neither would, for a moment, think of allowing such incidents to rankle in his bosom. Both would repudiate with scorn the idea that they were a whit less useful, or in any degree less attached, to each other on account of such trifling tiffs!

Day after day our trappers mounted their steeds and traversed the great prairie—now at a rattling trot, now at a tearing gallop; frequently at a quiet foot-pace, when the nature of the ground rendered a more rapid progress dangerous, or when the exhaustion of horses and men rendered rest necessary, or when the beautiful nature of the scenery and the warm sunny condition of the atmosphere induced a contemplative frame of mind and a placid state of body.

Night after night the horses—having stuffed themselves, like greedy things as they were, with the greenest and tenderest herbage on the rich plains—returned to the camp fire round which the trappers were lying in deep slumber, and each selecting his own master, would stand over him with drooping head and go to sleep, until dawn called them again to united action.

Thus day and night passed for the space of three weeks after the night of the surprise of the Indian camp, without anything particular occurring; and thus quadrupeds and bipeds came to be familiar and well acquainted with each other—so thoroughly united in sympathetic action—as almost to become hexapeds, if we may be permitted the expression.

March Marston’s quadruped was a beautiful little bay, whose tendency to bound over every little stick and stone, as if it were a five-barred gate, and to run away upon all and every occasion, admirably suited the tastes and inclinations of its mercurial rider.

There was one among the quadrupeds which was striking in appearance—not to say stunning. No; we won’t say stunning, because that is a slang expression, and many persons object to slang expressions; therefore we will avoid that word; although we confess to being unable to see why, if it is allowable (as every one will admit it is) to assert that men may be mentally “struck,” it is not equally proper to say that they may be stunned. But we bow to prejudice. We won’t say that that horse was “stunning.” While on this subject, we think it right to guard ourself, parenthetically, from the charge of being favourable to all kinds of slang. We are in favour of speech—yes, we assert that broadly and fearlessly, without reservation—but we are not in favour of all speech. Coarse speech, for instance, we decidedly object to. So, we are in favour of slang, but not of all slang. There are some slang words which are used instead of oaths, and these, besides being wicked, are exceedingly contemptible. Tempting, however, they are—too apt to slip from the tongue and from the pen, and to cause regret afterwards.

But to return. Although we won’t say that the quadruped in question was stunning, we will say again that it was striking—so powerfully striking that the force of the stroke was calculated almost to stun. It was uncommonly tall, remarkably short in the body, and had a piebald coat. Moreover, it had no tail—to speak of—as that member had, in some unguarded moment, got into the blaze of the camp fire and been burnt off close to the stump. The stump, however, was pretty long, and, at the time when the trappers became possessed of the animal, that appendage was covered with a new growth of sparsely scattered and very stiff hair, about three inches long, so that it resembled a gigantic bottle-brush. Being a spirited animal, the horse had a lively bottle-brush, which was grotesque, if it was nothing else.

This quadruped’s own particular biped was Theodore Bertram. He had a peculiar liking for it (as he had for everything picturesque), not only on account of its good qualities—which were, an easy gait and a tender mouth—but also because it was his own original animal, that of which he had been deprived by the Indians, and which he had recaptured with feelings akin to those of a mother who recovers a long-lost child.

We have said that the space of three weeks passed without anything particular occurring to our trappers. This remark, however, must be taken in a limited sense. Nothing particularly connected with the thread of this story occurred; though very many and particularly interesting things of a minor nature did occur during the course of that period.

It would require a work equal in size to the “Encyclopaedia Britannica” to contain all the interesting things that were said and seen and done on those prairies by these trappers within that brief space of time. A conscientiously particular chronicler of events would have detailed the route of each day, the latitude and longitude of each resting-place, the very nature of the wood which composed the fuel of each fire. He would have recorded that March Marston’s little bay ran away with him—not, in a general way, fifty or a hundred times, but exactly so many times, specifying the concomitant circumstances of each separate time, and the results of each particular race. He would have noted, with painful accuracy, the precise number of times in which Theodore Bertram (being a bad rider) fell off his horse, or was pitched off in consequence of that quadruped putting its foot inadvertently into badger holes. He would have mentioned that on each occasion the unfortunate artist blackened his eye, or bled or skinned his nasal organ, and would have dilated anatomically on the peculiar colour of the disfigured orb and the exact amount of damage done to the bruised nose. He would have told not only the general fact that bears, and elks, and antelopes, and prairie dogs, and wolves, and buffaloes, were seen in great numbers continually, and were shot in abundance, but he would have recorded that Bertram did, on one occasion, in the height of his enthusiastic daring, give a shout and draw one of his blunderbuss-pistols, on observing a grisly bear at a short distance ahead of him; that he dashed his heels violently against the sides of his remarkable horse; that the said horse did toss his head, shake his bottle-brush, and rush full tilt towards the bear until he caught sight of it, when he turned off at a sharp angle, leaving Bertram on the plain at the mercy of the bear; that Bruin, who was in nowise alarmed, observing his condition, came to see what was the matter with him; and that he, Mr Bertram, would certainly have fallen a victim to his own headstrong courage on the one hand, and to the bear’s known tendency to rend human beings on the other, had not March come up at that moment and shot it through the heart, while Redhand shot it through the brain.

And this supposed conscientious chronicler of events, had he been a naturalist, would have further detailed, with graphic particularity, the rich, exuberant, and varied flora of the region—from the largest plant that waved and blossomed in the prairie winds to the lowliest floweret that nestled among the tender and sweet-scented grasses on the prairie’s breast. In regard to the fauna of those regions, he would have launched out upon the form, the colour, size, habits, peculiarities, etcetera, of every living thing, from the great buffalo (which he would have carefully explained was not the buffalo, but the bison) down to the sly, impudent, yet harmless little prairie dog (which he would have also carefully noted was not the prairie dog, but the marmot).

Had this supposed recorder of facts been of an erratic nature, given to wander from anecdote to description, and vice versa, he would perhaps have told, in a parenthetical sort of way, how that, during these three weeks, the trappers enjoyed uninterrupted fine weather; how the artist sketched so indefatigably that he at last filled his book to overflowing and had to turn it upside down, begin at the end, and sketch on the backs of his previous drawings; how Big Waller and Black Gibault became inseparable friends and sang duets together when at full gallop, the latter shrieking like a wild-cat, the former roaring like a buffalo bull; how March Marston became madder than ever, and infected his little steed with the same disease, so that the two together formed a species of insane compound that caused Redhand and Bounce to give vent to many a low chuckle and many a deep sagacious remark, and induced Hawkswing to gaze at it—the compound—in grave astonishment.

All this and a great deal more might be told, and, no doubt, might prove deeply interesting. But, as no man can do everything, so no man can record everything; therefore we won’t attempt it, but shall at once, and without further delay, proceed to that part of our tale which bears more directly on the Rocky Mountains and the Wild Man of the West himself.

“It’s a strong place,” said Redhand, checking the pace of his horse and pointing to a small edifice or fort which stood on the summit of a little mound or hill about a quarter of a mile in advance of them—“a very strong place—such as would puzzle the redskins to break into if defended by men of ordinary pluck.”

“Men of pluck sometimes get careless, and go to sleep, though,” said March Marston, riding up to the old trapper; “I’ve heard o’ such forts bein’ taken by redskins before now.”