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

“I can’t guess.”

“One’s 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 Noir—Black Gibault, as they sometimes call him. Am I right?”

“Right, lad; that’s two. Then there’s 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; that’s three. An’ there’s Redhand, the old trapper that’s 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 he’s killed in his day; but nobody never could git at his real name. P’r’aps it’s not worth gittin’ at. Now, them four ’ll be startin’ in a week or two for the mountains, an’ wot’s 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 mother’s 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, I’m off to the Rocky Mountains in two days.”

Mrs Marston was neither dismayed nor surprised. She was used to that sort of thing, and didn’t 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 reader’s 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

The Beauties of the Wilderness—Portages—Philosophy of Settling Down—An Enormous Footprint—Supper procured, and a Bear-hunt in prospect

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 wilderness—unknown, 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! that’s the sort o’ thing—that’s 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.

“That’s just it,” he continued after a short contemplative pause, “just what I expected to find. Ain’t 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? That’s what I want to know. Never! Just look at it now. There’s miles an’ miles o’ woods an’ plains, an’ lakes, an’ rivers, wherever I choose to look—all 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 there’s 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 didn’t, 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, “there’s grisly bars here, too, for there’s the futmark of one, as sure as I’m 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 Marston’s 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, him’s 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; “I’m goin’ to admire this splendid country till I’m 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 beautiful—specially when beholded troo one cloud of tabacca smoke.”

“Alas! Gibault, we’ll have to move off sooner than we expected, for there it comes.”

The two friends leaped up simultaneously, and, seizing their packs, hurried down the mound, entered the thick bushes, and vanished.

The object whose sudden appearance had occasioned this abrupt departure would, in truth, have been somewhat singular, not to say alarming, in aspect, to those who did not know its nature. At a distance it looked like one of those horrible antediluvian monsters one reads of, with a lank body, about thirty feet long. It was reddish-yellow in colour, and came on at a slow, crawling pace, its back appearing occasionally above the underwood. Presently its outline became more defined, and it turned out to be a canoe instead of an antediluvian monster, with Big Waller and Bounce acting the part of legs to it. Old Redhand the trapper and Hawkswing the Indian walked alongside, ready to relieve their comrades when they should grow tired—for a large canoe is a heavy load for two men—or to assist them in unusually bad places, or to support them and prevent accidents, should they chance to stumble.

“Have a care now, lad, at the last step,” said Redhand, who walked a little in advance.

“Yer help would be better than yer advice, old feller,” replied Bounce, as he stepped upon the ridge or mound which Marston and his companion had just quitted. “Lend a hand; we’ll take a spell here. I do believe my shoulder’s out o’ joint. There, gently—that’s it.”

“Wall, I guess this is Eden,” cried Big Waller, gazing around him with unfeigned delight. “Leastwise, if it ain’t, it must be the very nixt location to them there diggins of old Father Adam. Ain’t it splendiferous?”

Big Waller was an out-and-out Yankee trapper. It is a mistake to suppose that all Yankees “guess” and “calculate,” and talk through their nose. There are many who don’t, as well as many who do; but certain it is that Big Waller possessed all of these peculiarities in an alarming degree. Moreover, he was characteristically thin and tall and sallow. Nevertheless, he was a hearty, good-natured fellow, not given to boasting so much as most of his class, but much more given to the performance of daring deeds. In addition to his other qualities, the stout Yankee had a loud, thundering, melodious voice, which he was fond of using, and tremendous activity of body, which he was fond of exhibiting.

He was quite a contrast, in all respects, to his Indian companion, Hawkswing, who, although about as tall, was not nearly so massive or powerful. Like most North American Indians, he was grave and taciturn in disposition; in other respects there was nothing striking about him. He was clad, like his comrades, in a trapper’s hunting-shirt and leggings; but he scorned to use a cap of any kind, conceiving that his thick, straight, black hair was a sufficient covering, as undoubtedly it was. He was as courageous as most men; a fair average shot, and, when occasion required, as lithe and agile as a panther; but he was not a hero—few savages are. He possessed one good quality, however, beyond his kinsmen—he preferred mercy to revenge, and did not gloat over the idea of tearing the scalps off his enemies, and fringing his coat and leggings therewith.

“’Tis a sweet spot,” said Redhand to his comrades, who stood or reclined in various attitudes around him. “Such a place as I’ve often thought of casting anchor in for life.”

“An’ why don’t ye, then?” inquired Waller. “If I was thinkin’ o’ locating down anywhar’, I guess I’d jine ye, old man. But I’m too fond o’ rovin’ for that yet. I calc’late it’ll be some years afore I come to that pint. Why don’t ye build a log hut, and enjoy yerself?”

“’Cause I’ve not just come to that point either,” replied the old man with a smile.

Redhand had passed his best days many years before. His form was spare, and his silvery locks were thin; but his figure was still tall and straight as a poplar, and the fire of youth still lingered in his dark-blue eye. The most striking and attractive point about Redhand was the extreme kindliness that beamed in his countenance. A long life in the wilderness had wrinkled it; but every wrinkle tended, somehow, to bring out the great characteristic of the man. Even his frown had something kindly in it. The prevailing aspect was that of calm serenity. Redhand spoke little, but he was an attentive listener, and, although he never laughed loudly, he laughed often and heartily, in his own way, at the sallies of his younger comrades. In youth he must have been a strikingly handsome man. Even in old age he was a strong one.