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

Poor Gibault spoke fast, and perspired very much, and looked wild and haggard, for his nature was sensitive and sympathetic, and the idea of his comrades meeting with such a horrible fate was almost too much for him.

Bounce’s honest face assumed an expression of deep anxiety, for, fertile though his resources usually were, he could not at that moment conceive how it was possible for two unarmed men, either by force or by stratagem, to rescue five comrades who were securely bound, and guarded by forty armed warriors, all of whom were trained from infancy in the midst of alarms that made caution and intense watchfulness second nature to them.

“It looks bad,” said Bounce, sitting down on a stone, clasping his hard hands together, and resting an elbow on each knee. “Sit ye down, Gibault. We’ll think a bit, an’ then go to work. That’s wot we’ll do—d’ye see?”

“Non, I don’t see,” groaned Gibault. “Vat can ve do? Two to forty! If it was only swords ve had to fight vid—Hah! But, alas! we have noting—dey have everyting.”

“True, lad, force won’t do,” returned Bounce; “an’ yit,” he added, knitting his brows, “if nothin’ else ’ll do, we’ll try at least how much force ’ll do.”

After a short pause Bounce resumed, “Wos they tied very tight, Gibault?”

“Oui. I see de cords deep in de wrists, an’ poor Redhand seem to be ver’ moch stunned; he valk as if hims be dronk.”

“Drunk!” exclaimed Bounce, suddenly springing up as if he had received an electric shock, and seizing his companion by both shoulders, while, for a moment, he gazed eagerly into his eyes; then, pushing him violently away, he turned round and darted along the bank of the river, crying, as he went, “Come along, Gibault; I’ll tell ye wot’s up as we go!”

The astonished Canadian followed as fast as he could, and, in an exclamatory interjectional sort of way, his friend explained the plan of rescue which he had suddenly conceived, and which was as follows:—

First, he proposed to go back to the cache at the foot of the tall tree, and dig up the keg of brandy, with which he resolved to proceed to the camp of the Indians, and, by some means or other, get the whole clan to drink until they should become intoxicated. Once in this condition, he felt assured they could be easily circumvented.

Gibault grasped at this wild plan as a drowning man is said to grasp at a straw, and lent his aid right willingly to disentomb and carry the brandy keg. Neither he nor Bounce knew whether there was enough brandy to intoxicate the whole tribe, but they had no time to inquire minutely into probabilities.

Vigorously, perseveringly, without rest or halt, did these two trappers pursue their way that night, with the keg slung on a pole between them. The stars glimmered down through the trees upon their path, as if they wished them success in their enterprise. It was all-important that they should reach the Indian camp before daybreak; so, although footsore and weary from their late exertions after a long day’s march, they nevertheless ran steadily on at a long swinging trot, which brought them, to their inexpressible joy, much sooner than they had anticipated, to their journey’s end.

It was two hours before dawn when they came suddenly upon the camp—so suddenly that they had to crouch the instant they saw the watch-fires, in order to avoid being discovered.

“Now, Gibault,” whispered Bounce, “you’ll have to remain here. Get into a hiding-place as fast as you can, and keep close. You’re clever enough to know what to do, and when to do it. Only, lad, come near and have your knife handy when the row is at the loudest, and see that ye don’t let the squaws cut out our livers when we’re tied up.”

Gibault nodded significantly.

“It’s a curious fact,” continued Bounce in a somewhat sad tone, “that I’m more afraid o’ the squaws than o’ the men. Howsomdiver, it’s got to be done!”

So saying, Bounce shouldered the keg, and shaking his comrade by the hand, as if he felt that he might be parting with him for ever, he glided into the darkness of the forest, leaving Gibault to secrete himself on the side of a mound, from which he could witness all that went on in the camp.

From this point of observation the poor Canadian beheld what was not calculated to allay his fears. The camp lay in a hollow, surrounded by trees. On an open space were erected several leathern huts or tents, in the midst of which blazed a large camp fire. Round this the forty warriors were seated, eating their supper, while a number of squaws were sitting in the entrances to their tents variously engaged. Horses hobbled—that is, with the fore-feet tied together to prevent their running away—were cropping the grass close to the tents. Not far from them, and within the circle of light cast around by the fire, stood a group of small trees. To each of these was tied a man, and Gibault had no difficulty in making them out to be his unfortunate comrades.

Occasionally, as he gazed, one or two of the old Indian women went up to these helpless men, with a yell of execration, and, brandishing scalping-knives before their faces, appeared as if about to plunge them into their hearts; but their time had not yet come; the hags were only anticipating the feast of butchery that awaited them on the morrow.

While Gibault was gazing at this scene with mingled feelings of anxiety, rage, and horror, the whole band of Indians suddenly sprang to their feet and seized their weapons. Almost at the same moment Bounce strode into the circle of light and deposited his cask on the ground. Then, making signs of peace, he advanced towards one of the Indians, who, from his dress and appearance, seemed to be the chief, and presented him with a piece of tobacco. The chief accepted the gift in silence.

Bounce, who was well acquainted with many of the dialects of that region, had no difficulty in making himself understood. He stated that he was a trapper, that he had come to that country to trade, and asked whether his Indian friends had furs to dispose of. As he had anticipated, the savages were in no mood to treat with a solitary man who was entirely in their power. The chief, who evidently suspected that he was a friend of the prisoners, instead of replying, asked him sarcastically what he had in the keg.

“Fire-water,” replied Bounce unhesitatingly.

At this the eyes of the savages sparkled with delight. Not deigning to waste more time with him, they seized the unfortunate trapper and confronted him with his companions, gazing earnestly in their faces the while to observe whether they betrayed any sign of recognition.

It said much for the self-control of these hardy men, that, although their comrade was thus suddenly and unexpectedly placed before them, they did not permit a muscle of their countenances to change, but gazed on him and on his captors with that expression of defiant contempt with which Indians usually meet their fate, and in which they are equalled, sometimes even outdone, by the unfortunate white trappers who chance to fall into their cruel hands.

And well was it, for the success of the scheme, that Theodore Bertram’s nerves had received such repeated and awful shocks that day, that they were now incapable of feeling. He had been so terribly and repeatedly struck with amazement that his features had assumed a settled expression of surprise that could not be increased, so that when he beheld Bounce a prisoner before him, although he certainly felt astonishment, he could by no means increase the expression of that sensation. The Indians, therefore, passed away from him with a howl of derision, and tied Bounce to a tree beside his comrades, concluding that, instead of a plotter, they had, in him, made another lucky capture. Anxiety to taste their beloved beverage had something to do with their haste in this matter, no doubt.

No one who has not seen it can conceive of the intense passion the North American Indian has for ardent spirits. He seems to have no power of restraint whatever when the opportunity of indulging that passion presents itself.

The head of the keg was quickly knocked in, and the eyes of the savages seemed positively to flash as they gazed upon the precious fluid. The chief advanced first with a little tin mug, such as was sold to them by traders, and drank a deep draught; he then handed the cup to another, but the impatience of the others could not be restrained—they crowded round with their mugs, and dipping them into the keg drank eagerly, while the squaws, who loved the fire-water as much as did their masters, formed an outer circle, and, as patiently as they could, awaited their turn. They knew full well that it would soon come.

The Indians, being unaccustomed to frequent potations, were quickly maddened by the spirit, which mounted to their brains and rushed through their veins like wildfire, causing every nerve in their strong frames to tingle. Their characteristic gravity and decorum vanished. They laughed, they danced, they sang, they yelled like a troop of incarnate fiends! Then they rushed in a body towards their prisoners, and began a species of war-dance round them, flourishing their tomahawks and knives close to their faces as if they were about to slay them; shrieking and howling in the most unearthly manner, and using all those cruel devices that are practised by Red Indians to terrify those unfortunates whom they intend ultimately to kill.

Suddenly one of the warriors observed that the squaws were stealthily approaching the spirit keg, and rushed towards them with a howl of fury, followed by his comrades, who drove the women away and recommenced drinking. And now a fiercer spirit seemed to seize upon the savages; old feuds and jealousies, that had long been cherished in silence, broke irresistibly forth. Angry words and fierce looks were followed by the drawing of knives. Suddenly a young man rushed upon a comrade and buried his knife in his heart. The piercing death-cry was followed by the vengeful yell of the relatives of the murdered man, as they sprang upon the murderer. Others flew to the rescue, and the drunken mêlée became general. Blood began to flow freely, and there is no doubt that many lives would have been sacrificed had not the combatants been too much intoxicated to fight with vigour. Many of them fell prostrate and helpless on attempting to rise. Others dealt their blows at random, staggering and falling one upon another, until they lay in a heap, shrieking, biting, tearing, and stabbing—a bloody struggling mass, which told more eloquently than tongue can tell, that, deep and low though savage human nature has fallen in sin and misery, there is a depth profounder still, to which even those who seem to be the lowest may be precipitated by the fatal power of strong drink.

And now Gibault Noir felt that it was time for him to draw near to the horrible scene, in order to be ready, when the moment should arrive, to release the prisoners, or to protect them in the event of any of the drunken crew being tempted to a premature slaughter.

The women were now actively interfering to prevent further bloodshed. Most of the Indians were already dead drunk. Only a few, whose powers of endurance were greater than those of their comrades, continued to shout their war-songs. When these were down, the women rushed at the spirits like wolves. Even the little children came out from the tents and got their share. It was a terrible scene, such as has, alas! been often enacted before in the wilds of the Far West, and, doubtless, shall be enacted again, unless (so-called) Christian traders give up fire-water as an article of traffic.

In a very short space of time the women were as helpless as their masters. Then Gibault cut the thongs that bound his comrades, and set them free!

“Thanks, thanks to the Almighty,” said Bertram earnestly, when his bonds were cut. “I had thought that my days were numbered; that it was to be my sad fate to fill a grave here in the wilderness. But His hand is indeed mighty to save. And thanks be to you, good Gibault. Under God, we owe our lives to you.”

Bertram attempted to seize Gibault’s hand as he spoke, but his own hands refused obedience to his will. They had been so long and so tightly bound that they were utterly powerless.

“Rub ’em, rub ’em well,” said Gibault, seizing the artist’s hands and enforcing his own recommendation vigorously.

“Ay, that’s it,” said Redhand, who, with his companions, had, the instant he was loose, commenced to rub and chafe his own benumbed limbs into vitality, as if his life and theirs depended on their exertions—as indeed they did to no small extent, for, had they been called upon to fight or fly at that moment, they could have done neither.

“Now, lads,” said Bounce, who, having been a prisoner for but a short time, was unhurt by his bonds, “while ye rub the life into yer limbs I’ll tell ye wot we must do. Them scamps (pointing to the prostrate Indians) won’t lie there long. Of course, bein’ white men an’ Christians, we don’t mean to kill them or to lift their scalps—”

“I’ve know’d white men,” interrupted Redhand, “who called themselves Christians, and didn’t object to take scalps when they got the chance.”

“So have I,” returned Bounce, “an’ more’s the pity. It’s sichlike blackguards as these that keeps honest trappers and fur-traders for iver in hot water here. Howsomdiver, we’re not a-goin’ to turn ourselves into brute beasts ’cause they’ve turned theirselves into sich.”

“I’m not so sure o’ that,” broke in Big Waller, casting a scowling glance on the savages as he surveyed a wound in his left arm, which, although not serious, was, from want of dressing, sufficiently painful; “I calc’late it would serve them reptiles right if we was to whangskiver the whole on ’em as they lie.”

“I don’t b’lieve,” retorted Bounce, “that ‘whangskiver’ is either English, Injun, French, or Yankee; but if it means killin’, you’ll do nothing o’ the sort. Here’s what we’ll do. We’ll ketch as many horses as wos took from Mr Bertram’s fellers, an’ as many guns too (the same ones if we can lay hands on ’em), an’ as much powder an’ shot an’ other things as that keg o’ brandy is worth, an’ then we’ll bid the redskins good-bye without wakenin’ of ’em up.”

“Goot,” ejaculated Gibault, pausing in his manipulation of the artist, “now you can do!”

“Capital; thanks, I feel quite strong again.”

“I say, Gibault,” observed March ruefully, “they’ve almost sawed through the skin o’ my ankle. I’ve no left foot at all, as far as feelin’ goes.”

“Hah! me boy, ’tis well you have foot left, though you not feel left foot! Let me see.”

“That’s it, Gibault, rub away; if your jokes were as good as your surgery you’d be too good, a long way, for the backwoods.”

By dint of chafing and rubbing and leaping and stamping, the whole party were soon restored to a serviceable condition, after which they set about active preparations for departure.

First, they ransacked the tents, where they discovered all the guns that had been taken from Bertram’s party. These they tied up in a bundle, after each had secured one for his own use. Among them the artist found, to his intense delight, his own double-barrelled gun, the loss of which he had mourned most sincerely.

Next, they secured the horses, which, being hobbled, as we have said elsewhere, were easily caught. Then the powder-horns and shot-belts of Bertram’s party were found, and, being full of ammunition, were slung across their shoulders forthwith. Among other things belonging to the same party were discovered a number of blankets, some tea and sugar, and a variety of other useful articles, besides several packs of furs; all of which were made up into portable bundles that could be easily carried at their saddle-bows. The supply of everything was so ample that it was not necessary to touch a single article belonging to the Indians.

This was a matter of much satisfaction to Redhand, who wished to show these unfortunate children of the wilderness that there were at least some white trappers who were actuated by different and kindlier feelings than many who sought their livelihood in those regions.