The Wild Man of the West: A Tale of the Rocky Mountains - Robert Michael Ballantyne 3 стр.

March Marston smiled as he said this, and Bounce grinned by way of reply.

Wotll I tell ye about, boy?

I dont mind whatIndians, grislies, buffaloes, trappersits all one to me; only begin quick and go ahead strong.

Well, I aint great at story-tellin! Praps it would be more to the pint if I was to tell ye about what I heerd tell of on my last trip to the Mountains. Did I ever tell ye about the feller as the trappers that goes to the far North calls the Wild Man o the West?

No; what was he? said Marston, yawning and closing his eyes.

I dun know xactly wot he was. Im not overly sure that I even know wot he is, but I know wot the trappers says of him; an if only the half ots true, hes a shiner, he is.

Having said this much, Bounce filled his tomahawk, lighted it, puffed a large cloud from it, and looked through the smoke at his companion.

March, whose curiosity was aroused, partly by the novelty of the Wild Mans title, and partly by the lugubrious solemnity of Bounce, said

Go on, old boy.

Ha! its easy to say, go on; but if you knowd the orrible things as is said about the Wild Man o the Mountains, praps youd say, Go off. It ll make yer blood froze.

Never mind.

An yer hair git up on end.

Dont care.

An yer two eyes start out o yer head.

All right.

Bounce, who was deeply superstitious, looked at his young friend with severe gravity for at least two minutes. Marston, who was not quite so superstitious, looked at his comrade for exactly the same length of time, and winked with one eye at the end of it.

They says, resumed Bounce in a deep tone, the Wild Man o the West eats men!

Dont he eat women? inquired March sleepily.

Yes, an childers too. An wots wuss, he eats em raw, an they say he once swallered onea little onealive, without chewin or chokin! (Horrible! murmured March.) Hes a dead shot, too; he carries a double-barrelled rifle twenty foot long that takes a small cannon-ball. I forgot to tell ye hes a giantsome o the trappers calls him the giant o the hills, and they say hes bout thirty feet highsome says forty. But theres no gittin at the truth in this here wurld.

Bounce paused here, but, as his companion made no observation, he went on in a half-soliloquising fashion, looking earnestly all the time into the heart of the fire, as if he were addressing his remarks to a salamander.

Ay, hes a crack shot, as I wos sayin. One day he fell in with a grisly bar, an the brute rushed at him; so he up rifle an puts a ball up each nose,(I didnt know a grisly had two noses, murmured March,)an loaded agin, an afore it comed up he put a ball in each eye; then he drew his knife an split it right down the middle from nose to tail at one stroke, an cut it across with another stroke; an, puttin one quarter on his head, he took another quarter under each arm, an the fourth quarter in his mouth, and so walked home to his cave in the mountainsbout one hundred and fifty miles off, where he roasted an ate the whole bar at one sittinbones, hair, an all!

This flight was too strong for March. He burst into a fit of laughter, which called the rusty hinges into violent action and produced a groan. The laugh and the groan together banished drowsiness, so he turned on his back, and said

Bounce, do you really believe all that?

Thus pointedly questioned on what he felt to be a delicate point, Bounce drew a great number of whiffs from the tomahawk ere he ventured to reply. At length he said

Well, to say truth, an takin a feelosophical view o the pintI dont. But I blieve some of it. I do blieve theres some xtraordnary critter in them there mountainsfor Ive lived nigh forty years, off and on, in these parts, an Ive always obsarved that in this wurld wenever ye find anythin yeve always got somethin. Nobody never got hold o somethin an found afterwards that it wos nothin. So I blieve theres somethin in this wild manhow much I dun know.

Bounce followed up this remark with a minute account of the reputed deeds of this mysterious creature, all of which were more or less marvellous; and at length succeeded in interesting his young companion so deeply, as to fill him with a good deal of his own belief in at least a wild something that dwelt in the heart of the Rocky Mountains.

After a great deal of talk, and prolonged discussion, Bounce concluded with the assertion that hed give his best rifle, an that was his only one, to see this wild man.

To which Marston replied

Ill tell you what it is, Bounce, I will see this wild man, if its in the power of bones and muscles to carry me within eyeshot of him. Now, see if I dont.

Bounce nodded his head and looked sagacious, as he said

Dye know, lad, I dont mind if I go along with ye. Its true, Im not tired of them parts hereaboutsand if I wos to live till I couldnt see, I dont think as ever Id git tired o the spot where my father larned me to shoot an my mother dandled me on her knee; but Ive got a fancy to see a little more o the wurldspecially the far-off parts o the Rocky Mountains, were Ive never bin yit; so I do blieve if ye wos to try an persuade me very hard Id consent to go along with ye.

Will you, though? cried March eagerly (again, to his cost, forgetting the rusty hinges).

Ay, that will I, boy, replied the hunter; an now I think on it, theres four as jolly trappers in Pine Point settlement at this here moment as ever floored a grisly or fought an Injun. Theyre the real sort of metal. None o yer tearin, swearin, murderin chaps, as thinks the more they curse the bolder they are, an the more Injuns they kill the cliverer they are; but steady quiet fellers, as dont speak much, but does a powerful quantity; boys that know a deer from a Blackfoot Injun, I guess; that goes to the mountains to trap and comes back to sell their skins, an wen theyve sold em, goes right off agin, an niver drinks.

I know who you mean, I think; at least I know one of them, observed March.

No ye dont, do ye? Who?

Waller, the Yankee.

Thats one, said Bounce, nodding; Big Waller, we calls him.

Im not sure that I can guess the others. Surely Tim Slater isnt one?

No! said Bounce, with an emphasis of tone and a peculiar twist of the point of his nose that went far to stamp the individual named with a character the reverse of noble. Try agin.

I cant guess.

Ones a French Canadian, said Bounce; a little chap, with a red nose an a pair o coal-black eyes, but as bold as a lion.

I know him, interrupted March; Gibault NoirBlack Gibault, as they sometimes call him. Am I right?

Right, lad; thats two. Then theres Hawkswing, the Injun whose wife and family were all murdered by a man of his own tribe, and who left his people after that an tuck to trappin with the whites; thats three. An theres Redhand, the old trapper thats bin off and on between this place and the Rocky Mountains for nigh fifty years, I believe.

Oh, I know him well. He must be made of iron, I think, to go through what he does at his time of life. I wonder what his right name is?

Nobody knows that, lad. You know, as well as I do, that he wos called Redhand by the Injuns in consekence o the lot o grislies hes killed in his day; but nobody never could git at his real name. Praps its not worth gittin at. Now, them four ll be startin in a week or two for the mountains, an wots to hinder us a-jinin of them?

To his own question Bounce, after a pause, replied with deliberate emphasis, Nothin wotsomdiver; and his young companion heartily echoed the sentiment.

Exactly thirty-six hours after the satisfactory formation of the above resolution, March Marston galloped furiously towards the door of his mothers cottage, reined up, leaped to the ground, seized the buffalo-hump that hung at his saddle-bow, and entered with a good deal of that impetuosity that had gone far to procure for him the title of madman. Flinging the bloody mass of meat on the floor he sat down on a chair, and said

There, mother!

Well, you are a clever fellow, said Mrs Marston, drying her hands (for she had been washing dishes), and giving her son a hearty kiss on the forehead.

Clever or not clever, mother, Im off to the Rocky Mountains in two days.

Mrs Marston was neither dismayed nor surprised. She was used to that sort of thing, and didnt mind it.

What to do there, my boy?

To see the Wild Man o the West.

The what?

The Wild Man o the West, mother.

It is needless to try our readers patience with the long conversation that followed. March had resolved to preach a discourse with the Wild Man o the West for his text, and he preached so eloquently that his mother (who was by no means a timid woman) at length not only agreed to let him go, but commended him for his resolution. The only restraint she laid upon her son had reference to his behaviour towards the Wild Man, if he should happen to meet with him.

You may look at him, March (Mrs Marston spoke of him as if he were a caged wild beast!) and you may speak to him, but you must not fight with him, except in self-defence. If he lets you alone, you must let him alone. Promise me that, boy.

I promise, mother.

Not long after this promise was made, a light bark canoe was launched upon the river, and into it stepped our hero, with his friend Bounce, and Big Waller, Black Gibault, Hawkswing, and Redhand, the trappers. A cheer rang from the end of the little wharf at Pine Point, as the frail craft shot out into the stream. The wild woods echoed back the cheer, which mingled with the lusty answering shout of the trappers as they waved their caps to the friends they left behind them. Then, dipping their paddles with strong rapid strokes, they headed the canoe towards the Rocky Mountains, and soon disappeared up one of those numerous tributary streams that constitute the head waters of the Missouri river.

Chapter Three

After paddling, and hauling, and lifting, and tearing, and wading, and toiling, and struggling, for three weeks, our hero and his friends found themselves deep in the heart of the unknown wildernessunknown, at least, to the civilised world, though not altogether unknown to the trappers and the Red Indians of the Far West.

There is something inexpressibly romantic and captivating in the idea of traversing those wild regions of this beautiful world of ours which have never been visited by human beings, with the exception of a few wandering savages who dwell therein.

So thought and felt young Marston one splendid afternoon, as he toiled up to the summit of a grassy mound with a heavy pack on his shoulders. Throwing down the pack, he seated himself upon it, wiped his heated brow with the sleeve of his hunting-shirt, and gazed with delight upon the noble landscape that lay spread out before him.

Ha! thats the sort o thingthats it!he exclaimed, nodding his head, as if the rich and picturesque arrangement of wood and water had been got up expressly for his benefit, and he were pleased to signify his entire approval of it.

Thats just it, he continued after a short contemplative pause, just what I expected to find. Aint I glad? eh?

March certainly looked as if he was; but, being at that moment alone, no one replied to his question or shared his enjoyment. After another pause he resumed his audible meditations.

Now, did ever any one see sich a place as this in all the wide arth? Thats what I want to know. Never! Just look at it now. Theres miles an miles o woods an plains, an lakes, an rivers, wherever I choose to lookall round me. And there are deer, too, lots of em, lookin quite tame, and no wonder, for I suppose the fut of man never rested here before, except, maybe, the fut of a redskin now an again. And theres poplars, an oaks, an willows, as thick as they can grow.

March might have added that there were also elm, and sycamore, and ash, and hickory, and walnut, and cotton-wood trees in abundance, with numerous aspen groves, in the midst of which were lakelets margined with reeds and harebells, and red willows, and wild roses, and chokeberries, and prickly pears, and red and white currants. He might, we say, have added all this, and a great deal more, with perfect truth; but he didnt, for his knowledge of the names of such things was limited, so he confined himself, like a wise youth, to the enumeration of those things that he happened to be acquainted with.

And, continued March, starting up and addressing his remark to a hollow in the ground a few yards off, theres grisly bars here, too, for theres the futmark of one, as sure as Im a white man!

Most people would have been inclined to differ with March in regard to his being a white man, for he was as brown as constant exposure in hot weather could make him; but he referred to his blood rather than to his skin, which was that of white parents.

The footprint which he had discovered was, indeed, that of a grisly bear, and he examined it with more than usual interest, for, although many of those ferocious denizens of the western woods had been already seen, and a few shot by the trappers on their voyage to this point, none had been seen so large as the monster whose footprint now attracted Marstons attention. The print was eleven inches long, exclusive of the claws, and seven inches broad.

While March was busily engaged in examining it, Black Gibault came panting up the hill with a huge pack on his back.

Ho! March, me garçon, vat you be find là? cried the Canadian, throwing down his pack and advancing. A bar, Gibault; Caleb himself. A regular big un, too. Just look here.

Ah! oui, vraiment; dat am be one extinishin vopper, sure nuff. Mais, hims gone pass long ago, so you better come avay an finish de portage.

Not I, lad, cried March gaily, as he flung himself upon the grassy mound; Im goin to admire this splendid country till Im tired of it, and leave you and the other fellows to do the work.

Oh! ver goot, cried Gibault, sitting down beside our hero, and proceeding to fill his pipe, I will mire de countray, too. Ha! it be unmarkibly beautifulspecially when beholded troo one cloud of tabacca smoke.