The Wild Man of the West: A Tale of the Rocky Mountains - Robert Michael Ballantyne

R. M. Ballantyne

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

Chapter One

March Marston was mad! The exact state of madness to which March had attained at the age when we take up his personal historynamely, sixteenis uncertain, for the people of the backwoods settlement in which he dwelt differed in their opinions on that point.

The clergyman, who was a Wesleyan, said he was as wild as a young buffalo bull; but the manner in which he said so led his hearers to conclude that he did not think such a state of ungovernable madness to be a hopeless condition, by any means. The doctor said he was as mad as a hatter; but this was an indefinite remark, worthy of a doctor who had never obtained a diploma, and required explanation, inasmuch as it was impossible to know how mad he considered a hatter to be. Some of the trappers who came to the settlement for powder and lead, said he was as mad as a grisly bear with a whooping-cougha remark which, if true, might tend to throw light on the diseases to which the grisly bear is liable, but which failed to indicate to any one, except perhaps trappers, the extent of young Marstons madness. The carpenter and the blacksmith of the placewho were fast friends and had a pitched battle only once a month, or twice at mostagreed in saying that he was as mad as a wild-cat. In short, every one asserted stoutly that the boy was mad, with the exception of the women of the settlement, who thought him a fine, bold, handsome fellow; and his own mother, who thought him a paragon of perfection, and who held the opinion (privately) that, in the wide range of the habitable globe there was not another like himand she was not far wrong!

Now, the whole and sole reason why March Marston was thus deemed a madman, was that he displayed an insane tendency, at all times and in all manners, to break his own neck, or to make away with himself in some similarly violent and uncomfortable manner.

There was not a fence in the whole countryside that March had not bolted over at full gallop, or ridden crash through if he could not go over it. There was not a tree within a circuit of four miles from the top of which he had not fallen. There was not a pond or pool in the neighbourhood into which he had not soused at some period of his stormy juvenile career, and there was not a big boy whom he had not fought and thrashedor been thrashed byscores of times.

But for all this March had not a single enemy. He did his companions many a kind turn; never an unkind one. He fought for love, not for hatred. He loved a dogif any one kicked it, he fought him. He loved a little boyif any one was cruel to that little boy, he fought him. He loved fair playif any one was guilty of foul play, he fought him. When he was guilty of foul play himself (as was sometimes the case, for who is perfect?) he felt inclined to jump out of his own body and turn about and thrash himself! And he would have done so often, had it been practicable. Yes, there is no doubt whatever about it March Marston was madas mad, after a fashion, as any creature, human or otherwise, you choose to name.

Young Marstons mother was a handsome, stout, blue-eyed, flaxen-haired woman, of a little over thirty-five summers. She was an English emigrant, and had, seventeen years before the time we write of settled at Pine Point, on the banks of the Yellowstone River, along with her brother, the blacksmith above referred to. At that time she was the sweetest maiden in all the village, and now she was the handsomest matron. Indeed, the bloom of her youth remained on her cheeks so little impaired that she was often mistaken by strangers for March Marstons elder sister. The men of the place called her pretty widow Marston; but she was not a widowat least, they had as little ground for saying that she was as they had for asserting that her son was mad. Mrs Marston was peculiarly circumstanced, but she was not a widow.

The peculiar circumstances connected with her history are soon told. Immediately after the arrival of the blacksmith and his pretty sister at Pine Point settlement, a tall stout young striplinga trapperabout a year older than herself, fell deeply in love with Mary Westthat being Mrs Marstons maiden name. The young trappers case was desperate. He sank at once so deep into the profundities of love, that no deep-sea lead, however ingeniously contrived, could reach him.

Although just emerging from boyhood, Louis the trapper was already a tall, strong, handsome man, and Mary felt flattered by his attentions. But when, a month afterwards, he boldly offered her his hand and fortune (which latter consisted of a trappers costume and a western rifle), she was taken aback and flatly refused him. Louis was hare-brained and passionate. He told her he would give her one day and a night to think of it. At the end of that time he came back and was again refused, for Mary West had no notion of being taken by storm in that fashion. But she trembled and grew pale on observing the storm of angry passion that gleamed from the young trappers eyes and caused his broad chest to heave violently. He did not speak. He did not even look at Maryhad he done so, years of sorrow and suffering might have been spared them both. He stood for one moment with his eyes fixed upon the groundthen he turned, sprang through the doorway, vaulted on his horse, and went off from her cottage door as an arrow leaps from a bow. The fences and ditches that lay in his way were no impediment. His powerful steed carried him over all and into the forest beyond, where he was quickly lost to view. Mary tried to resume her household occupations with a sigh. She did not believe he was gone. But he was!

At first Mary was nettled; then she grew sad; as weeks passed away she became nettled again, and at this juncture another suitor appeared in the shape of a young immigrant farmer, whose good looks and insinuating address soothed her irritation at the strange abrupt conduct of her lover. She began to think that she must have been mistaken in supposing that she cared for the wild trapperand, in order to prove the correctness of her supposition, she married Obadiah Marston, the farmer.

Alas! poor Mary discovered her error too late. Marston turned out a profligate drunkard. At first he did not come out in his true colours. A son was born, and he insisted on calling him March, for no other reason than that he was born in the month so named. Mary was obliged to consent, and at last came to congratulate herself that the child had been born in March, and not in April or October, or any other month equally unsuitable for a Christian name. After the first year, Obadiah Marston treated his wife badly, then brutally, and at last he received a sound drubbing from his brother-in-law, the blacksmith, for having beaten poor Mary with a stick. This brought things to a climax. Marston vowed he would forsake his wife, and never set eyes on her again; and he kept his vow. He embarked one day in a boat that was going down to the Missouri with a cargo of furs, and his poor wife never saw him again. Thus was Mary West forsaken, first by her lover and then by her husband.

It was long before she recovered from the blow; but time gradually reconciled her to her lot, and she devoted herself thenceforth to the training of her little boy. As years rolled on, Mrs Marston recovered her spirits and her looks; but, although many a fine young fellow sought her heart and hand, assuring her that she was a widowthat she must be a widow, that no man in his senses could remain so long away from such a wife unless he were deadshe turned a deaf ear to them all.

March Marstons infancy was spent in yelling and kicking, with the exception of those preternaturally calm periods when he was employed in eating and sleeping. As he grew older the kicking and yelling decreased, the eating increased, and the sleeping continued pretty much the same. Then came a period when he began to learn his A, B, C. Mrs Marston had been well educated for her station in life. She had read much, and had brought a number of books to the backwoods settlement; so she gave her boy a pretty good educationas education went in those daysand certainly a much better one than was given to boys in such out-of-the-way regions. She taught him to read and write, and carried him on in arithmetic as far as compound division, where she stuck, having reached the extreme limits of her own tether.

Contemporaneously with the cessation of squalling and kicking, and the acquirement of the A, B, C, there arose in little Marchs bosom unutterable love for his mother; or, rather, the love that had always dwelt there began to well up powerfully, and to overflow in copious streams of obedience and considerate attention. About the same time the roving, reckless madness, as it was styled, began to develop itself. And, strange to say, Mrs Marston did not check that! She was a large-minded, a liberal-minded woman, that semi-widow. She watched her son closely, but very few of his deeds were regarded by her in the light of faults. Tumbling off trees was not. Falling into ditches and horse ponds was not. Fighting was, to some extent; and on this point alone did mother and son seem to entertain any difference of opinion, if we may style that difference of opinion where the son fell into silent and extreme perplexity after a short, and on his part humble, discussion on the subject.

Why, mother, said March in surprise (having attained the mature age of eight when he said it), if a grisly bear was to tack me, youd let me defend myself, wouldnt you?

Mrs Marston smiled to see the rotund little object of two-feet-ten standing before the fire with its legs apart and its arms crossed, putting such a question, and replied

Certainly, my boy.

And when Tom Blake offered to hit Susy Jefferson, wasnt I right to fight him for that?

Yes, my boy, I think it right to fight in defence of the weak and helpless.

The object of two-feet-ten began to swell and his eyes to brighten at the unexpected success of this catechising of its mother, and went on to say

Well, mother, why do you blame me for fightin, then, if its right?

Because fighting is not always right, my boy. You had a fight with Bill Summers, hadnt you, yesterday?

Yes, mother.

Two-feet-ten said this in a hesitating tone, and shrank into its ordinary proportions as it continued

But I didnt lick him, mother, he licked me. But Ill try again, motherindeed I will, and Ill be sure to lick him next time.

I dont want you to try again, rejoined Mrs Marston; and you must not try again without a good reason. Why did you fight him yesterday?

Because he told a lie, said the object promptly, swelling out again, and looking big under the impression that the goodness of its reason could not be questioned. It was, therefore, with a look of baffled surprise that it collapsed again on being told that that was not a sufficient reason for engaging in warfare, and that it was wrong to take the law into its own hands, or to put in its word or its little fist, where it had no right to interfereand a great deal more to that effect.

But, March, my boy, said Mrs Marston, drawing the object towards her and patting its round little fair head, what makes you so fond of fighting?

I aint fond o fighting, mother, but I cant help it.

Cant help it! Do you ever try?

IIno, I dont think that I do. But I feel so funny when I see Bill Summers cheatin at play. I feel all over red-hotlikeoh! youve seen the big pot boilin over? Well, I just feel like that. An wen it boils over, you know, mother, it must be took off the fire, else it kicks up sich a row! But theres nobody to take me off the fire when Im boilin over, an theres no fire to take me offso you see I cant help it. Can I?

As the object concluded these precociously philosophical remarks, it looked up in its mothers face with an earnest inquiring gaze. The mother looked down at it with an equally earnest lookthough there was a twinkle in each eye and a small dimple in each cheek that indicated a struggle with gravityand said

I could stop the big pot from boiling-over without taking it off the fire.

How? inquired Two-feet-ten eagerly.

By letting it boil over till it put the fire out.

The object opened its eyes very wide, and pursed its mouth very tight; then it relaxed, grinned a little with an air of uncertainty, and was about to laugh, but checked itself, and, with a look of perplexity, said

Eh?

Ay, my boy, resumed the mother, just you try the boiling-over plan next time. When you feel inclined to fight, and know, or think, that you shouldnt, just stand quite still, and look hard at the groundmind, dont look at the boy you want to fight with, but at the groundand begin to count one, two, three, four, and so on, and Im quite sure that when youve counted fifty the fire will be out. Now, will you try, my son?

Mother, replied Two-feet-ten earnestly (and becoming at least two feet eleven while he spoke), Ill try!

This ended the conversation at that time, and we beg leave to apologise to our reader for having given it in such full detail, but we think it necessary to the forming of a just appreciation of our hero and his mother, as it shows one phase of their characters better than could have been accomplished by a laboured description.

Before March Marston had attained to the age of sixteen he had read aloud to his mothernot once, but several timesthe Vicar of Wakefield, Robinson Crusoe, the Pilgrims Progress, and Tales of a Grandfather, Aesops Fables, and a variety of tales and stories and histories of lesser noteall of which he stored up in a good memory, and gave forth in piecemeal to his unlettered companions as opportunity offered. Better than all this, he had many and many a time read his Bible through, and was familiar with all its leading heroes and histories and anecdotes.

Thus, it will be seen that March Marston was quite a learned youth for a backwoodsman, besides being a hero and a madman.

Chapter Two

The rising sun lifted his head above the horizon of the great western prairie, gilding the upper edges of those swelling undulations that bear so strong a resemblance to solidified billows as to have acquired the name of prairie waves.

On the sunny side of these waves the flowerets of the plains were already basking in full enjoyment of the new day; on the summits only the tips of their petals were turned to gold. On the other side of those waves, and down in the hollows, everything was clothed in deep shadow, as if the still undissipated shades of night were lingering there, unwilling or unable to depart from so beautiful a scene. This mingling of strong lights and deep shadows had the effect of rendering more apparent the tremendous magnitude of those vast solitudes.