The Wild Man of the West Part 11

"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 rest.i.tution.

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, pus.h.i.+ng 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 a.s.sert 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 s.h.i.+ns 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 refres.h.i.+ng 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 circ.u.mstances, 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 n.o.body 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 circ.u.mstances, 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 gra.s.s, 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?"