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

Chapter Five

Fiery Remarks and Cogitations—Round the Camp Fire—The Artist gives an Account of Himself—Value of a Sketch-Book—Discoveries and Dark Threats—The Bear’s-Claw Collar

There is no doubt whatever that a western trapper knows how to make a fire. That is an axiomatic certainty. He also knows how to enjoy it. He is thoroughly conversant with it in all its phases, and with all the phenomena connected with it, from the bright little spark that flies from his flint and steel, and nestles on his piece of tinder, to the great rolling flame that leaps up among the branches of the forest trees, roaring lustily as it goes out upon the night air, like a mighty spirit set free from some diminutive prison house, rejoicing in being once more permitted to reassume its original grand dimensions.

Yes, a western trapper has a grand, massive notion of a fire, and his actions are all in keeping with that notion. Almost everything is small at the fountain. A mighty river usually begins in a bubbling spring or a tiny rivulet. So the trapper’s initial acts are delicate. He handles the tinder gently, and guards it from damp. He fosters the spark, when caught, and blows upon it softly, and wraps it up in dry grass, and watches it intently as a mother might watch the life-spark of her new-born babe. But when once the flame has caught, and the bundle of little dry twigs has been placed above it, and the pile of broken sticks has been superadded, the trapper’s character is changed. He grasps the ponderous hatchet, and, Homerically speaking—

 
“Now toils the hero: trees on trees o’erthrown,
Fall crackling round him, and the forests groan.”
 

These, “lopp’d and lighten’d of their branchy load,” he assaults singly. Heaving the huge axe with lusty sweeping blows, he brings it down. Great wedgy splinters fly and strew the plain like autumn leaves. Then, with massive logs, full six feet long, he feeds the hungry fire until it leaps and roars in might, and glows full red and hot and huge enough to roast him a bison bull for supper, an he should feel so disposed.

Descending now from the abstract to the concrete, we would remark that, whether the reader does or does not admit the general proposition, that western trappers are pre-eminently up to fire (not to mention smoke or snuff), he cannot deny the fact that Big Waller, the Yankee trapper, was peculiarly gifted in that way. On the evening of the day on which occurred the memorable encounter with the grisly bear, as related in the last chapter, that stalwart individual heaved his ponderous axe and felled the trees around him in a way that would have paled the ineffectual fires of Ulysses himself, and would probably have induced that hero not only to cease cutting trees, but to commence cutting his stick thenceforth from the field of competition! March Marston meanwhile kindled the spark and nursed the infant flame. The others busied themselves in the various occupations of the camp. Some cut down pine-branches, and strewed them a foot deep in front of the fire, and trod them down until a soft elastic couch was formed on which to spread their blankets. Others cut steaks of venison and portions of the grisly bear, and set them up on the end of sticks before the fire to roast, and others made fast and secured the canoe and her lading.

The artist, seating himself beside the fire, just near enough to profit by the light, but far enough away to obtain a general view of everything and everybody, proceeded with enthusiasm to sketch the whole affair, collectively and in detail. He devoted his chief attention, however, to Big Waller. He “caught” that gigantic Yankee in every conceivable action and attitude. He photographed him, we might almost say, with his legs apart, the hatchet high above his head, and every muscle tense and rigid, preliminary to a sweeping blow. He “took” him with a monstrous pile of logs on his brawny shoulder; he portrayed him resting for a moment in the midst of his toil; he even attempted to delineate him tumbling over one of the logs, and hurling a shoulder-load upon the ground; but he failed utterly in the last attempt, being quite destitute of comical perception, and he did not finally conclude until Gibault went forward and informed him that supper was ready. Then he shut up his book, and, taking his place beside the trappers, began supper.

“This is comfortable—this is pleasant!” remarked the artist, as he sat down before the warm blaze, and applied himself with infinite relish to the venison steak placed before him by Bounce. “You live well here, it would seem.”

This latter remark was addressed to Hawkswing, who sat close beside him; but that imperturbable worthy shook his head gravely.

“He don’t understand ye,” interposed Bounce, “knows, nothin’ but his own mother tongue. We do live pretty middlin’ so so hereabouts when we ain’t starvin’, w’ich it isn’t for me to deny is sometimes the case, d’ye see.”

Bounce stopped his own talk at this point by stuffing his mouth so full of meat that no word, not even a word of one syllable, could have forced itself out, had it tried ever so much. A long silence now ensued, during which the clack of seven pairs of active jaws was the only sound that broke upon the ear. It might have been observed, however, that all eyes were fixed more or less wonderingly on the stranger. Big Waller in particular looked him, figuratively speaking, through and through. He did not remove his eyes off him for an instant, but devoured his food with somewhat the expression of a dog that expects his bone to be snatched from him.

“Try a duck,” said March Marston to the artist, observing that he had finished his steak.

“Thank you,” answered the artist, accepting the proffered bird, which happened to be a teal, and beginning to carve it with a pen-knife. He had no fork, but used the fingers of his left hand instead.

Silence again ensued.

“Try another,” said March again.

The artist hesitated.

“You’d better; it’s a fat un.”

“N–no. No!” said the artist, shutting up his knife with an air of decision. “No, thank you, I always advocate moderation, and it would ill become me to set an example of glut—ah, of the reverse.”

“Wal, stranger,” said Waller, who, having finished eating, wiped his mouth with a tuft of grass, and began to fill his pipe. “You do come out in the way o’ moderation rather powerful. Why a teal duck an’ a ven’son steak is barely enough to stop a feller dyin’ right off. I guess a down-east baby o’ six months old ’ud swab up that an’ axe for more.”

“Nevertheless it is quite enough for me,” replied the artist, leaning down on his elbow. “I could, indeed, eat more; but I hold that man should always rise from table capable of eating more, if required.”

Here was a proposition that it had not entered into the minds of the trappers, even in their most transcendental efforts of abstruse meditation, to think of! They gazed at each other in amazement.

“Wot! not eat yer fill w’en ye git the chance,” exclaimed Bounce.

“No, certainly not.”

“I say, stranger, when did you feed last?” inquired Big Waller.

“Why do you ask?” said the artist, looking quickly up.

“’Cause I wants to know.”

The artist smiled. “My last meal was eaten yesterday morning.”

“Ha! I was sure ob dat,” cried Gibault; “your face look like as if you be full ob starvation.”

“An’ wot did ye eat last?” inquired Bounce, laying down his pipe and looking at their guest with much interest not unmingled with pity.

“I breakfasted on a little bird about the size of a hen’s egg. I know not what it is named, but it was excellently flavoured. I relished it much.”

On hearing this, Gibault pressed his hand on his stomach, as if the mere thought of such a delicately minute breakfast caused him pain in that region.

“I say, stranger,” broke in Waller, in a tone of voice that seemed to imply that he was determined to be at the bottom of this mystery, and would stand it no longer—“wot’s your name?”

“Theodore Bertram,” replied the artist without hesitation.

“Where do you come from?”

“From England.”

“Where air you a-goin’ to?”

“To the Rocky Mountains.”

“Wot for to do there?”

“You are inquisitive, friend,” said Bertram, smiling; “but I have no reason for concealing my object in travelling here—it is to sketch, and shoot, and take notes, and witness the works of the Almighty in the wilderness. I hold it to be an object worthy the ambition of a great man to act the part of pioneer to the missionary and the merchant in nature’s wildest and most inaccessible regions; and although I pretend not to greatness, I endeavour, humbly, to do what I can.”

“No one can do more than that,” said Redhand, regarding the young enthusiast with interest. “But surely you have not travelled to this out-o’-the-way place without a guide?”

Bertram pointed to the stars.

“These are my guides,” said he; “the man who can read the heavens needs no guide.”

“But that book ain’t always readable,” said Redhand; “when clouds are flying what do you do then?”

“Fur-traders in the far north have taught me how to ascertain the north by the bark on the trees; besides this I have a bosom friend who always points the way.” So saying he pulled a small compass from an inner pocket and held it up.

“Good,” rejoined Redhand; “but a compass is not food, neither will it kill game. Have you nought but them pistols?”

“I have none other arms now but these, save this good sword. They will serve to defend me in the hour of need, I trust; though now that I have seen the grisly bear I should doubt my chance of success were I to cope with him alone. I should imagine that monster to be worse even than the Wild Man of the West himself.”

“The Wild Man o’ the West!” echoed March Marston eagerly; “have you seen him?”

“Nay, verily; but I have heard of him,” replied the artist, smiling, “and a strangely ferocious creature he must be, if all that’s said of him be correct. But, to say truth, I believe the stories told of him are idle tales. Indeed, I do not believe there is such a man at all!”

March Marston’s countenance fell. No Wild Man of the West at all! The bare possibility of such a crushing blow to all his romantic hopes and dreams caused his heart to sink. Bertram observed the change in his countenance, and, quickly divining the cause, added, “But I am of a sceptical turn of mind, and do not easily believe unless I see. There is one thing I have observed, however, which is in favour of his existence.”

“What’s that?” inquired March, brightening up. “That the nearer one comes to his reputed dwelling-place, this wild man assumes smaller and more natural proportions. I first heard of him in the Red River Prairies, where he is held to be a giant who devours men as well as brutes. As I came nearer to the Missouri, I found that the people there do not believe him to be either a cannibal or a giant, but assert that he is an enormously tall and powerful man, exceedingly fierce, and the sworn enemy of the whole human race; a species of Cain, whose hand is against every man, and every man’s hand against him. The last white man I met—about two weeks ago—told me he had been with a tribe of Indians, some of whom had seen him, and they said that he was indeed awfully wild, but that he was not cruel—on the contrary, he had been known to have performed one or two kind deeds to some who had fallen into his power.”

“Most extonishin’!” exclaimed Gibault, who sat open-mouthed and open-eyed listening to this account of the Wild Man of the West.

For some time the party round the camp fire sat smoking in silence, ruminating on what had been said. Then Big Waller broke the silence with one of his abrupt questions—

“But, I say, stranger, how did you come here?”

Bertram looked up without speaking. Then, settling himself comfortably in a reclining position, with his back against a tree, he said—

“I will relieve your curiosity. Listen: I am, as I have said, an Englishman. My father and mother are dead. I have no brothers or sisters, and but few relations. Possessing, as I do, a small independence, I am not obliged to work for my living. I have therefore come to the conclusion that it is my duty to work for my fellow-men. Of course, I do not mean to deny that every man who works for his living, works also for his fellow-men. What I mean is, that I hold myself bound to apply myself to such works as other men have not leisure to undertake, and the profit of which will go direct to mankind without constituting my livelihood on its passage. To open up the unknown wilderness has ever been my ambition. For that purpose I have come to these wild regions. My enthusiasm on quitting my native land was unbounded. But—”

Here Bertram paused and gazed dreamily at the glowing embers of the camp fire with an expression that led the trappers to infer that experience had somewhat moderated his enthusiasm. After a few minutes he resumed:—

“I have done wrong to make this venture alone. On reaching Canada I succeeded, through the kindness of the governor of the Hudson’s Bay Company, in obtaining a passage in one of the company’s canoes through that series of rivers and lakes by which the fur-traders penetrate into the regions of the far north. Arrived at Red River Settlement, I pushed forward on horseback over the plains with a small party of horsemen to the head waters of the Saskatchewan. Here I succeeded in engaging a party of twelve men, composed of half-breeds and Indians, and set out on a journey of exploration over the prairies towards the Rocky Mountains. Circumstances led me to modify my plans. We diverged towards the south, and finally came to within a few days’ journey of the region in which we now are. We were suddenly surprised one night by a war-party of Blackfoot Indians. My men had grown careless. They neglected to keep strict watch, and before we were aware that danger threatened us, all our horses were carried off.

“This was a terrible calamity. My men declared that it was impossible to advance without horses, and refused to accompany me any farther. I remonstrated in vain; then, filled with indignation at their cowardice, I left them and pursued my journey alone. Since then I have seen only one man, a trapper, who was travelling south to the settlements. He offered to take me with him, but I declined. I felt that no great or good work could ever be accomplished by the man who turns back at the first disaster; so he left me. I have suffered somewhat. I am, unfortunately, a bad shot, and, although game is everywhere abundant, I cannot kill it. I have subsisted hitherto on small birds; but my powder and lead are almost expended. Had I not fallen in with you, I know not what I should have done.”

To this narrative the trappers listened with respectful attention, for, despite the feelings of pity, almost bordering on contempt, with which they regarded the stranger’s weapons and his knowledge, or rather ignorance, of woodcraft, they could not help reverencing the simple-minded enthusiasm in a good cause that had conducted the artist so deep into a savage land in which he was evidently unfitted, either by nature or training, to travel.

“But I say, stranger,” said Big Waller, “wot do ye mean by openin’ up the country? It ain’t a oyster, that ye can open it up with a big knife I guess.”

“There, friend, you are wrong. This country does, indeed, resemble an oyster; and I hope, by the aid of the mighty levers of knowledge and enterprise, to open it up. I mean to take notes and sketches, and, if spared, return to my native land, and publish the result of my observations. I do not, indeed, expect that the public will buy my work; but I shall publish a large edition at my own cost, and present copies to all the influential men in the kingdom.”

The trappers opened their eyes wider than ever at this.

“What! Make a book?” cried Redhand.

“Even so.”

“Will it have pictures?” eagerly asked March, who regarded the artist with rapidly increasing veneration.

“Ay, it will be profusely illustrated.”

“Wot! pictures o’ grisly bears?” inquired Bounce.

“Of course.”

“An’ men?” cried Big Waller.

“And men also, if I fall in with them.”

“Then here’s one, I guess,” cried the bold Yankee, combing out his matted locks hastily with his fingers, and sitting up in what he conceived to be a proper position. “Here you are, sir. I’m your man; fix me off slick. Only think! Big Waller in a book—a raal book!”

He chuckled immensely at the bright prospect of immortality that had suddenly opened up to him.

“I have drawn you already, friend,” said Bertram.

“Draw’d me already?”

“Ay, there you are,” he replied, handing his sketch-book to the trapper, who gazed at his own portrait with unmitigated satisfaction. Turning over the leaf, he came unexpectedly on the likeness of Gibault, which, being a truthful representation, was almost a caricature. Big Waller burst into an uncontrollable fit of laughter at this. He rolled over on his back and yelled with delight. His yell being quite in keeping with his body, the din was so tremendous that Bounce roared—

“Stop yer noise, ye buffalo!”

But Waller didn’t hear him; so March Marston effected the desired object by stuffing the corner of a blanket into his mouth and smothering his face in its folds.

Bertram’s sketch-book was now examined, and for nearly an hour proved a source of the most intense interest and amusement to these unsophisticated trappers. In those days few, very few men of education had succeeded in penetrating far into the western wilderness; and although the trappers there knew what books and pictures meant, they had seen but few of them in the course of their lives, and none of those few had any reference to the wild country in which their lives were spent.

It may be imagined, then, with what delight and excitement they now, for the first time, beheld scenes of their own beloved woods and prairies, as well as their own rough forms, vividly sketched by a master-hand. One of the most interesting points in the inspection of the sketch-book was, that old Redhand recognised almost every one of the landscapes as spots with which he was well acquainted; and as Bertram had sketched most diligently as he travelled along, Redhand told him that by the aid of that book, without compass or anything else, he could trace his route backward, step by step, to the Saskatchewan river. Moreover, he described to the artist accurately many scenes which were near to those he had sketched, and gradually fell to talking about adventures and rencontres he had had in many of them, so that at last it became evident there would be no proposal to go to rest that night at all unless some wise one of the party should remind the others that another day’s toil lay before them in the course of a few hours.

At length they took up their pipes, which had been forgotten in the excitement, and refilled them with the intention of having a last quiet whiff before lying down.

“Ho!” exclaimed Redhand, who still continued to turn over the pages of the book, “here’s a face I know. Where saw ye that Indian?”

“I cannot easily tell where it was we met him; but I remember well that it was just a day’s ride from the spot where our horses were stolen.”

“Were there others with him?”

“No, he was alone.”

“Ha! at least he said so, I fancy.”

“Yes, he did; and I had no reason to doubt him.”

“You’re not used to the ways o’ the redskin, sir,” replied Redhand, looking meditatively at the fire. “Did he chance to mention his name?”

“Oh yes, he called himself Big Snake, at least one of my men translated it so.”

A significant smile overspread the old trapper’s face as he replied—

“I thought as much. A greater thief and villain does not disgrace the prairies. He’s the man that took yer horses; sich a fellow as that never goes about alone; he’s always got a tail following him as black as himself. But I’ll see if we can’t pay the rascal off in his own coin.”

“How so?” inquired Bertram. “He must be far from this spot.”

“Not so far as you think. I know his haunts, and could take you to them in a few days overland; but it’ll take longer by the river, and we can’t quit our canoe just now.”

“But, good friend,” said Bertram quietly, “I cannot presume on your hospitality so far as to expect you to carry me along with you for the purpose of redressing my wrongs.”

“Make your mind easy on that pint,” returned Redhand; “we’ll talk of it in the mornin’.”

While the old trapper and the artist were conversing, Bounce had busied himself in stringing the claws of the grisly bear on a strip of deerskin, for the purpose of making a collar. A necklace of this description is very highly prized among Indians, especially when the claws are large.

While it was being made, Gibault sighed so deeply once or twice, that March suggested he must be in love.

“So I is,” sighed Gibault.

“That’s interesting,” remarked March; “who with?”

“Ay, that’s it,” said Bounce; “out with her name, lad. No one ought never to be ashamed o’ bein’ in love. It’s a glorious state o’ mind an’ body as a feller should gratilate hisself on havin’. Who be ye in love wi’, lad?”

“Vid dat necklace,” replied Gibault, sighing again heavily.

“Oh! if that’s all, ye don’t need to look so blue, for it’s yer own by rights,” said Bounce. “I’m jist doin’ it up for ye.”

“Non; it cannot be mine,” returned Gibault.

“How so?” inquired Waller, “ye ’arned it, didn’t ye? Drew first blood I calc’late.”

“Non, I not draw de fuss blood. Mais, I vill hab chance again no doubt. Monsieur Bertram he drew fuss blood.”

“Ho, he!” cried Waller in surprise. “You didn’t tell us that before. Come, I’m glad on’t.”

“What!” exclaimed Bertram, “the necklace mine? there must be some mistake. I certainly fired my pistol at the bear, but it seemed to have had no effect whatever.”

“Gibault,” said Bounce emphatically, “did you fire at all?”

“Non, pour certain, cause de gun he not go off.”

“Then,” continued Bounce, handing the much-coveted necklace to Bertram, “the thing b’longs to you, sir, for that bar comed up wounded, an’ as he couldn’t ha’ wounded hisself, you must ha’ done it—there.”

The young man positively refused for some time to accept of the necklace, saying, that as Gibault had tracked and discovered the bear, it certainly belonged to him; but Gibault as positively affirmed that he would not disgrace himself by wearing what belonged rightfully to another man; and as the other trappers confirmed what their comrade said, Bertram was at last fain to accept of a trophy which, to say truth, he was in his heart most anxious to possess.

At the close of this amicable dispute, each man rolled himself in his blanket and lay down to sleep with his feet to the fire. Being in a part of the country where there were very few Indians, and these few on pretty good terms with the white trappers, no watch was set. Bertram lay down with his tattered cloak around him, and, taking a little book from his pocket, read it, or appeared to read it, till he fell asleep—on observing which, March Marston crept noiselessly to his side, and, lying gently down beside him, covered him with a portion of his own blanket. Ere long the camp was buried in repose.