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

“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?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Wot? Nothin’ about it wotiver?”

“Nothin’ wotsomdiver.”

“H’m, that’s okard,” said Bounce, once more applying to his pipe; “’cause, d’ye see, it’s most ’orrible difficult to explain a thing to a feller as don’t know nothin’ wotiver about it. If ye only had the smallest guess o—”

“Wall, come, I does know somethin’ about it,” interrupted Waller.

“Wot’s that?” inquired Bounce, brightening up.

“I calc’late that I knows for certain it ain’t got no place wotiver in my onderstandin’.”

“Hah!” exclaimed Bounce. “Come, then, I’ll do my best for to explain it t’ye. Here’s wot it is. D’ye see Mr Bertram, there?”

“Yes, I does.”

“An’ d’ye see yerself?”

“Wall, I does,” replied Waller, looking complacently down at his huge limbs.

“Good; then d’ye see the ground over there?” continued Bounce, pointing with his pipe to the Rocky Mountains.

Waller nodded.

“Now then,” said Bounce, in those deep earnest tones with which men usually attempt to probe the marrow of some desperately knotty question; “now, then, when Mr Bertram’s a drawin’ of, an’ tries to look at the ground over there, you an’ me comes before the ground, d’ye see; an’ so we’re, as ye may say, before-grounds. But men wot studies human natur’ an’ langwidges, d’ye see, comes for to know that words is always gittin’ onnecessary bits chopped off ’em—sometimes at one end, sometimes at t’other. So they tuck off the B, d’ye see, an’ made it foreground, and that’s how we come to be foregrounds.”

“Oh!” said Waller, with the vacant air of a man who feels himself as wise at the termination as he was at the beginning of an explanation.

“Yes,” resumed Bounce, “that’s how it is. I must confess, for my part, that I don’t ’xactly see the advantage o’ us in that light. I should ha’ thought it would ha’ bin better to make us stand to one side, d’ye see, and let him see how the land lies. But there’s no accountin’ for taste in this wurld—I’ve obsarved that, iver since I was three fut two.”

Having delivered himself of this graphic exposition of an abstruse subject, Bounce relapsed into silence, and the whole party continued for some minutes in a profound reverie. From this felicitous condition they were awakened by the sudden appearance of Black Gibault, who darted out of the poplar bluff and made towards them at the top of his speed. He uttered no cry, but, on coming near enough to permit of his features being clearly seen, it was observed that his eyes were eagerly wide open, and that his mouth was engaged in the formation of words. A second or two more, and he was near enough to be heard uttering the word “buffaloes” in a hoarse whisper.

“Ho! boy, wot is’t?” cried Bounce in an equally hoarse whisper.

“Ba—buffaloes, hah! buffaloes,” cried Gibault, panting violently as he came up; “Where be de leetle gun? He! Monsieur Bertram, out vid it.”

“Where saw ye them?” asked Redhand, seizing the two pistols, and examining the priming.

“Jist oder side of de bluff. Ver’ close to de bushes. Queek! queek! vite! mon garçon, you is so drefful slow.”

The latter part of this sentence was addressed to Hawkswing, who was quietly putting on his wolf-skin. Although too slow for the hasty spirit of Gibault, the Indian was quick enough for all useful purposes. In three minutes he was in the clump of poplar trees behind which the buffaloes were reported to be feeding, and in another minute he was out upon the plain creeping towards his victims, while the rest of the party were again huddled together behind a bush, looking on with deep interest and breathless attention.

Gradually and slowly the Indian crept towards the buffaloes, pausing and snuffing about from time to time as if he were a veritable wolf in search of something to eat. At last he had approached near enough to the herd to attract their attention, but scarcely near enough to make sure of bringing one down. The huge unwieldy creatures looked up inquiringly for a moment, but, seeing only a solitary enemy, they scorned to take further notice of him, and went on feeding.

Hawkswing paused within a few yards of the side of a fat sleek animal, and slowly raised his pistol. The trappers held their breath, and Bertram uttered a low groan of anxiety. One moment more and a white puff was followed by a loud crack, and a bellow, as the horror-stricken buffaloes tossed up their heels and fled wildly from the spot, leaving one of their number in the agonies of death upon the plain.

The knife of the Indian hastened its end, and with a rush and a yell of delight the whole party fell upon the luckless animal.

It was a wonderful sight to see, the way in which these experienced men flayed and cut up that buffalo! Hawkswing, without taking time to remove his wolf-skin covering, commenced upon the head and speedily cut out the tongue—a more difficult operation than inexperienced persons would suppose. Redhand and Bounce began at the shoulders, and Big Waller and Gibault fell to work upon the flanks. March Marston seized his axe, and hastening into the bluff felled a dead pine and kindled a fire. As for Bertram, he sat down to sketch the whole with a degree of prompt facility and gusto, that showed the habit had become second nature to him.

The way in which these men wielded their bloody knives, flayed and sliced, dismembered and divided that buffalo, is past belief—almost beyond description. Each man threw off his capote and tucked up his shirt-sleeves to the elbows, and very soon each had on a pair of bright red gauntlets. And the bloody appearance of Hawkswing’s mouth proved that he had been anticipating the feast with a few tit-bits raw. The others were more patient.

In very nearly as short a time as it takes to tell, the buffalo was converted into a mass of fragments that were powerfully suggestive of a butcher’s shop, and the trappers adjourned to a neighbouring rivulet to wash their hands and arms.

“Now, I’ll tell ye wot it is,” observed Bounce while thus engaged, “I means for to have a most awful blow out, and then go to sleep for four-and-twenty hours on end.”

“Ditto,” remarked Big Waller with a nod; to which old Redhand replied with a chuckle.

“An’ who be go to vatch, tink you?” inquired Gibault, as they all returned to the camp. “Perhaps de Injuns look out for us—vat den?”

“Ah ye may well ask that, Gibault,” said Redhand; “the fact is I’ve been thinkin’ that now we’re drawin’ near to enemies we must begin to keep better watch at night, and to burn small fires o’ dry wood, lest the smoke should tell a tale upon us.”

“Oh, don’t talk bam, old feller,” said Waller; “I guess we’ll have watchin’ enough w’en we gits into the mountains. Let’s take it easy here.”

“We’ll have one good blow out to-night, anyhow,” cried March Marston, heaving a fresh pile of logs on the already roaring fire. “Now, Mr Bertram, do give up your scratchin’ to-night, and let’s see what you can do in the eatin’ way. I’m sure you’ve fasted long enough, at least for the good o’ your health.”

The poor artist had indeed fasted long enough to give to his naturally thin and lank figure a thread-papery appearance that might have suggested the idea that he was evaporating. He smiled good-humouredly when March Marston, who had now become rather familiar with him, shut up his sketch-book and set him forcibly down before the fire, all round which steaks and hunks of meat were roasting and grilling, and sending forth an odour that would have rendered less hungry men impatient of delay. But they had not to wait long. Each man sat before his respective steak or hunk, gazing eagerly, as, skewered on the end of a splinter of wood, his supper roasted hissingly. When the side next the fire was partially cooked, he turned it round and fell to work upon that while the other side was roasting—thus the cooking and the eating went on together.

After a considerable time symptoms of satiety began to appear, in the shape of an occasional remark. Soon Bounce uttered a deep sigh, and announced his belief that, having taken the edge off his appetite, it was time to begin with the marrow-bones. Thereupon, with the marrow-bones he began, and his example was quickly followed by his companions. There was a business-like steadiness of purpose in the way in which that meal was eaten, and in the whole of the procedure connected with it, that would have been highly diverting to a disinterested spectator.

When the feast was concluded, the pipes made their appearance as a matter of course; and when these were lighted, and in full blast, the trappers found leisure to look round upon each other’s faces with expressions of benignity.

“Dat be a monstrobolly goot supper,” remarked Gibault Noir. Gibault spoke with an effort. It was quite plain that moderation was a virtue that he did not possess in a high degree—at least, not on the present occasion.

“You’ll need a ‘monstrobolly’ good sleep arter it,” observed Bounce quietly.

“You will, jist,” said Waller; “an’ so will this coon, I cal—”

Big Waller was going to have “calculated,” according to custom; but sleepiness overpowered him at the moment, and he terminated the word with a yawn of such ferocity that it drew from Redhand a remark of doubt as to whether his jaws could stand such treatment long.

Every member of that party seemed to be quite contented and amiable, but no one showed much inclination to talk, and ere many minutes had passed, half their number were under their blankets, their heads pillowed on their bundles and their eyes sealed in sleep. A few minutes later, and Big Waller, sinking into a very sprawling and reckless posture, with his back against the stem of a large cotton-tree, dropped into a state of slumber with his pipe hanging gracefully from his lips.

This seemed so picturesque to Theodore Bertram, who sat immediately opposite to the Yankee, on the other side of the fire, that he pulled out his sketch-book and began enthusiastically to sketch by the flickering light. While he was thus occupied, the others lay down, one by one, and he was left, at last, the only waking member of the camp.