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

Three months passed away, and during the passage of that period March Marston’s bosom became a theatre in which, unseen by the naked eye, were a legion of spirits, good, middling, and bad, among whom were hope, fear, despair, joy, fun, delight, interest, surprise, mischief, exasperation, and a military demon named General Jollity, who overbore and browbeat all the rest by turns. These scampered through his brain and tore up his heart and tumbled about in his throat and lungs, and maintained a furious harlequinade, and in short behaved in a way that was quite disgraceful, and that caused the poor young man alternately to amuse, annoy, astonish, and stun his comrades, who beheld the exterior results of those private theatricals, but had no conception of the terrific combats that took place so frequently on the stage within.

During those three months, March saw many things. He saw his old friends the prairie dogs, and the prong-horned antelopes, and the grisly bears, and the wolves; more than that, he chased, and shot, and ate many of them. He also saw clouds of locusts flying high in the air, so thick that they sometimes darkened the very sky, and herds of buffaloes so large that they often darkened the whole plain.

During those three months March learned a good deal. He learned that there was much more of every sort of thing in this world than he had had any idea of—that there was much, very much, to be thankful for—that there were many, very many, things to be grieved for, and many also to be glad about—that the fields of knowledge were inimitably large, and that his own individual acquirements were preposterously, humblingly small!

He thought much, too. He thought of the past, present, and future in quite a surprising way. He thought of his mother and her loneliness, of Dick and his obstinacy, of Mary and her sweetness, of the Wild Man of the West and his invisibility. When this latter thought arose, it had the effect invariably of rousing within him demon Despair; also General Jollity, for the general had a particular spite against that demon, and, whenever he showed symptoms of vitality, attacked him with a species of frenzy that was quite dreadful to feel, and the outward manifestations of which were such as to cause the trappers to fear seriously that the poor youth had “gone out of his mind,” as they expressed it. But they were wrong—quite wrong—it was only the natural consequence of those demons and sprites having gone into his mind, where they were behaving themselves—as Bounce, when March made him his confidant, said—with “horrible obstropolosity.”

Well, as we have said, March was seated on a low stool, looking up in his mother’s face. He had already been three days at home, and, during every spare minute he had he sat himself down on the same stool, and went on with his interminable narrations of the extraordinary adventures through which he had passed while among the Rocky Mountains and out upon the great prairies.

Widow Marston—for she knew that she was a widow now, though the knowledge added but little to the feeling of widowhood to which she had been doomed for so many years—widow Marston, we say, listened to this interminable narration with untiring patience and unmitigated pleasure. There was as yet no symptom of the narrative drawing to a close, neither was there the slightest evidence of the widow Marston becoming wearied. We have seen a cat worried and pulled and poked by its kitten almost beyond endurance, and we have observed that the cat endured it meekly—nay, evidently rejoiced in the annoyance: it was pleasurable pain. As it is with feline, so is it with human mothers. Their love overbears and outweighs everything. Ah! good cause have the rugged males of this world to rejoice that such is the fact; and although they know it well, we hold that it is calculated to improve the health and refresh the spirit of men to have that fact brought prominently and pointedly to their remembrance!

Had March Marston talked the most unutterable balderdash, widow Marston would have listened with unwearied delight as long, we believe, as her eyes and ears could do their duty. But March did not talk balderdash. For a madman, he spoke a great deal of common, besides a considerable amount of uncommon sense, and his mother listened with intelligent interest: commenting on what he said in her quiet way, as she found opportunity—we say this advisedly, for opportunities were not so frequent as one might suppose. March had always been possessed of a glib tongue, and he seemed, as Bounce remarked, to have oiled the hinges since his return to Pine Point settlement.

“Mother,” said March, after a short pause that had succeeded an unusually long burst, “do you know it’s only a few months since I left you to go to this trip to the mountains?”

“I know it well, my son,” replied the widow, smiling at the question.

“And do you know,” he continued, “that it seems to me more like five years? When I think of all that I’ve heard and all that I’ve done, and all that I’ve seen, it seems to me as if it had took—as if it must have took—five years to have heard and done and seen it all in?”

“And yet,” said the widow musingly, “you failed to see the Wild Man o’ the West after all.”

“Mother, I’ll be angry with you if you say that again.”

“Well, I won’t,” she replied, taking his hand in hers and stroking it. “Tell me again, March, about Dick of the Cave and his little girl. I like to hear about them; they were so kind to you, and that Dick, from your account, seems to be such a fine fellow: tell me all about them over again.”

“I will, mother,” said March, clearing his throat, and commencing in a tone that showed clearly his intention of going on indefinitely.

Widow Marston’s cottage had a pretty, comfortable-looking flower garden behind it. In front the windows looked out upon a portion of the native woods which had been left standing when the spot for the settlement was cleared. In the back garden there was a bower which the widow’s brother, the blacksmith, had erected, and the creepers on which had been planted by the widow’s own hand when she was Mary West, the belle of the settlement. In this bower, which was a capacious one, sat a number of sedate, quiet, jolly, conversable fellows, nearly all of whom smoked, and one of whom sketched. They were our friends Redhand, Bounce, Big Waller, Gibault, Hawkswing, and Bertram.

It is observable among men who travel long in company together in a wild country, that, when they return again to civilised, or to semi-civilised life, they feel a strong inclination to draw closer together, either from the force of habit, or sympathy, or both. On reaching Pine Point the trappers, after visiting their friends and old chums, drew together again as if by a species of electrical attraction. In whatever manner they chanced to spend their days, they—for the first week at least—found themselves trending gradually each evening a little before sunset to a common centre.

Widow Marston was always at home. March Marston was always with his mother—deep in his long-winded yarns. The bower was always invitingly open in the back garden; hence the bower was the regular rendezvous of the trappers. It was a splendid evening that on which we now see them assembled there. The sun was just about to set in a flood of golden clouds. Birds, wildfowl, and frogs held an uproarious concert in wood and swamp, and the autumnal foliage glowed richly in the slanting beams as it hung motionless in the still atmosphere.

“D’ye know,” said Redhand, removing his pipe for a few minutes and blowing aside the heavy wreaths of tobacco smoke that seemed unwilling to ascend and dissipate themselves—“d’ye know, now that this trip’s over, I’m inclined to think it’s about the roughest one I’ve had for many a year? An’ it’s a cur’ous fact, that the rougher a trip is the more I like it.”

Bertram, who was (as a matter of course) sketching, turned over a few leaves and made a note of the observation.

“I guess it was pretty much of a meddlin’ jolly one,” said Big Waller, smoking enthusiastically, and with an expression of intense satisfaction on his weather-beaten countenance.

“An’ profitable,” observed Bounce gravely.

“Ah! oui, ver’ prof’table,” echoed Gibault. “Dat is de main ting. We have git plenty skins, an’ have bring hom’ our own skins, w’ich I was not moche sure of one or two times.”

“True,” said Bounce; “that’s wot we’ve got for to be thankful for. Skins is skins; but the skin of a human ain’t to be put in the balance wi’ the skin o’ a beaver, d’ye see?”

Bounce glanced at Hawkswing as he spoke, but the Indian only looked stolid and smoked solemnly.

“Yes,” he continued, “a whole skin’s better nor a broken one, an’ it’s well to bring back a whole one, though I’m not a-goin’ for to deny that there’s some advantage in bringing back other sorts o’ skins too, d’ye see? w’ich goes for to prove the true feelosophy of the fact, d’ye see?—”

Bounce paused, in the midst of his mental energy, to take a parenthetic whiff. His thoughts, however, seemed too deep for utterance, for he subsided quietly into a state of silent fumigation.

“What a splendidly picturesque scene!” exclaimed Bertram, pushing back his brigandish hat in order the better to get a view, at arm’s length, of his sketch and compare it with the original.

“Wot’s the meanin’ o’ pikter-esk?” inquired Bounce. Theodore Bertram looked and felt puzzled. He was not the first man who thought that he knew the signification of terms well, and found himself much perplexed on being suddenly called upon to give a correct definition of a well-known word. While he is labouring to enlighten his friend, we shall leave the bower and return to the hall, or kitchen, or reception room—for it might be appropriately designated by any of these terms—where March is, as usual, engaged in expounding backwoods life to his mother. We have only to pass through the open door and are with them at once. Cottages in Pine Point settlement were of simple construction; the front door opened out of one side of the hall, the back door out of the other. As the weather was mild, both were wide open.

March had just reached an intensely interesting point in his narrative, and was describing, with flashing eyes and heightened colour, his first interview with the “Vision in Leather,” when his attention was attracted by the sound of horses’ hoofs coming at a rapid pace along the road that led to the cottage. The wood above referred to hid any object approaching by the road until within fifty yards or so of the front door.

“They seem in a hurry, whoever they be,” said March, as he and his mother rose and hastened to the door, “an’ there’s more than one rider, if I’ve not forgot how to judge by sounds. I should say that there’s—Hallo!”

The exclamation was not unnatural by any means, for at that moment a very remarkable horseman dashed round the point of the wood and galloped towards the cottage. Both man and horse were gigantic. The former wore no cap, and his voluminous brown locks floated wildly behind him. On they came with a heavy, thunderous tread, stones, sticks, and dust flying from the charger’s heels. There was a rude paling in front of the cottage. The noble horse put its ears forward as it came up, took two or three short strides, and went over with the light bound of a deer, showing that the strength of bone, muscle, and sinew was in proportion to the colossal size of the animal. The gravel inside the paling flew like splashing water as they alighted with a crash, and widow Marston, uttering a faint cry, shrank within the doorway as the wild horseman seemed about to launch himself, with Quixotic recklessness, against the cottage.

“Dick!” shouted March, who stared like one thunderstruck as the rider leaped from the saddle to the ground, sprang with a single bound to the widow’s side, seized her right hand in both of his, and, stooping down, gazed intently into her alarmed countenance. Suddenly the blood rushed violently to her temples, as the man pronounced her name in a low, deep tone, and with a look of wild surprise mingled with terror, she exclaimed,—“Louis!”

The colour fled from her cheeks, and uttering a piercing cry, she fell forward on the breast of her long-lost lover.

March Marston stood for some time helpless; but he found his voice just as Redhand and the other trappers, rushing through the house, burst upon the scene—“Dick!” shouted March again, in the highest pitch of amazement.

“The Wild Man o’ the West!” roared Bounce, with the expression of one who believes he gazes on a ghost.

“Fetch a drop o’ water, one o’ you fellers,” said the Wild Man, looking anxiously at the pale-face that rested on his arm.

Every one darted off to obey, excepting Bertram, who, with eyes almost starting out of their sockets, was already seated on the paling, sketching the scene; for he entertained an irresistible belief that the Wild Man of the West would, as he had already done more than once, vanish from the spot before he could get him transferred to the pages of his immortal book.

Trappers are undoubtedly men who can act with vigorous promptitude in their own peculiar sphere; but when out of that sphere, they are rather clumsy and awkward. Had they been in the forest, each man would have fetched a draught of clear water from the nearest spring with the utmost celerity; but, being in a settlement, they knew not where to turn. Big Waller dashed towards a very small pond which lay near the cottage, and dipping his cap into it, brought up a compound of diluted mud and chickweed. Gibault made an attempt on a tiny rivulet with the like success, which was not surprising, seeing that its fountain-head lay at the bottom of the said pond. Bounce and Hawkswing bolted into the cottage in search of the needful fluid; but, being unused to furniture, they upset three chairs and a small table in their haste, and scattered on the floor a mass of crockery, with a crash that made them feel as if they had been the means of causing some dire domestic calamity, and which almost terrified the household kitten into fits.

Then Bounce made a hopeful grasp at a teapot, which, having happily been placed on a side table, had survived the wreck of its contemporary cups and saucers, and the Indian made an insane effort to wrench the top off a butter-churn, in the belief that it contained a well-spring of water.

Of all the party old Redhand alone stood still, with his bald head glistening in the last rays of the sinking sun, and his kindly face wrinkled all over with a sympathetic smile. He knew well that the young widow would soon recover, with or without the aid of water; so he smoked his pipe complacently, leaned against the doorpost, and looked on.

He was right. In a few minutes Mrs Marston recovered, and was tenderly led into the cottage by her old lover, Louis Thadwick, or, as we still prefer to call him, the Wild Man of the West. There, seated by her side, in the midst of the wreck and débris of her household goods, the Wild Man, quite regardless of appearances, began boldly to tell the same old tale, and commit the same offence, that he told and committed upwards of sixteen years before, when he was Louis the Trapper and she was Mary West.

Seeing what was going forward, the judicious trappers and the enthusiastic artist considerately retired to the bower behind the house. What transpired at that strange interview no one can tell, for no one was present except the kitten. That creature, having recovered from its consternation, discovered, to its inexpressible joy, that, an enormous jug having been smashed by Bounce along with the other things, the floor was covered in part with a lakelet of rich cream. With almost closed eyes, intermittent purring, quick-lapping tongue, and occasional indications of a tendency to choke, that fortunate animal revelled in this unexpected flood of delectation, and listened to the conversation; but, not being gifted with the power of speech, it never divulged what was said—at least, to human ears, though we are by no means sure that it did not create a considerable amount of talk among the cat population of the settlement.

Be this as it may, when the Wild Man at length opened the door, and cried, “Come in, lads; it’s all right!” they found the widow Marston with confusion and happiness beaming on her countenance, and the Wild Man himself in a condition that fully justified Bounce’s suggestion that they had better send for a strait-waistcoat or a pair of handcuffs. As for March, he had all along been, and still was, speechless. That the Wild Man of the West was Dick, and Dick the Wild Man of the West, and that both should come home at the same time in one body, and propose to marry his mother, was past belief—so of course he didn’t believe it.

“Hallo! wait a bit; I do b’lieve I was forgettin’,” cried the Wild Man, springing up in his own violent, impulsive way, upsetting his chair (as a matter of course, being unused to such delicacies), dashing through the lake of cream to the all but annihilation of the kitten, opening the door, and giving vent to a shrill whistle.

All rushed out to witness the result. They were prepared for anything now—from a mad bison to a red warrior’s ghost, and would have been rather disappointed had anything feebler appeared.

Immediately there was a clatter of hoofs; a beautiful white pony galloped round the corner of the wood, and made straight for the cottage. Seated thereon was the vision in leather—not seated as a woman sits, but after the fashion of her own adopted father, and having on her leathern dress with a pair of long leggings highly ornamented with porcupine quills and bead work. The vision leaped the fence like her father, bounded from her pony as he had done, and rushed into the Wild Man’s arms, exclaiming, “Be she here, an’ well, dear fader?”

“Ay, all right,” he replied; but he had no time to say more, for at that moment March Marston darted at the vision, seized one of her hands, put his arm round her waist, and swung her, rather than led her, into his mother’s presence.

“Here’s Mary, mother!” cried March with a very howl of delight.

The widow had already guessed it. She rose and extended her arms. Mary gazed for one moment eagerly at her and then rushed into them. Turning sharp round, March threw his arms round Bounce’s neck and embraced him for want of a better subject; then hurling him aside he gave another shout, and began to dance a violent hornpipe on the floor, to the still further horrification of the kitten (which was now a feline maniac), and the general scatteration of the mingled mass of crockery and cream. Seeing this, Bounce uttered a hysterical cheer. Hawkswing, being excited beyond even savage endurance, drew his scalping-knife, yelled the war-cry and burst into the war-dance of the Seneca Indians. In short, the widow’s cottage became the theatre of a scene that would have done credit to the violent wards of a lunatic asylum—a scene, which is utterly beyond the delineative powers of pen or pencil—a scene which defies description, repudiates adequate conception, and will dwell for ever on the memories of those who took part in it like the wild phantasmagoria of a tremendous dream!

Of course, a wild man could not be induced, like an ordinary mortal, to wait a reasonable time in order to give his bride an opportunity of preparing her trousseau. He was a self-willed man, and a man of a strong mind. He insisted upon being married “out of hand, and have done with it.” So he was married—whether “out of hand” or not we cannot tell—by the excellent clergyman of Pine Point settlement. On the same day, and the same hour, March Marston was married—“out of hand,” also, no doubt—to the vision in leather!