The Wild Man of the West (A Western Classic). R.M. Ballantyne

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СКАЧАТЬ if you can spare time, while I put a few finishing touches to this sketch.”

      “Mais,” said Gibault, rubbing his nose in great perplexity at the coolness of this eccentric wanderer; “mais, monsieur, I hab not time; I be follerin’ de tracks of von monstracious grisly bar—”

      “What! a grisly bear?” cried the artist, looking up with sudden animation.

      “Oui, monsieur. We have see him not long ’go, an’ hopes to kill him soon.”

      The artist’s dark eye sparkled with animation as he hastily shut up his sketch-book and thrust it, with his drawing materials, into a small pocket inside the breast of his coat.

      “A grisly bear!” he repeated. “Ha! lead on, good fellow, I will follow.”

      Thus urged, Gibault, without further loss of time, led the way to the banks of the river, followed closely by his new friend, who stalked behind him with long ostrich-like strides. The semi-theatrical air of the artist made a deep impression on the trapper. Had Gibault known what a theatrical air was, he might have been immensely tickled; but, being what he was—an unsophisticated son of the wilderness—he knew nothing about such airs, and therefore regarded his companion in the light of a superior order of being, or a madman; he was not quite sure which.

      In a few minutes they emerged from the bushes and came out upon the bank of the river, which at that part was high and precipitous, with few trees, but a considerable quantity of underwood on the slopes.

      “Are you sure, friend, that a bear has been seen by you?” inquired the artist.

      “Oui; most positavly sure, sair. Ha! an’ here be him’s fut encore. I have lose him in de vood. Now, monsieur, have your pistol ready.”

      “Lead on,” returned the artist. “I have longed much for this day. To shoot an individual of this ferocious class has been my ambition— Ho! friend, look here. Yonder object seems like a canoe. Whence comes it, think you? This region, I know, is not very safe. There are Indians who do not love the whites in—”

      “No fear, monsieur,” interrupted Gibault, “dat be mine comerades—Good mans an’ true every von. Dey come to land here, I see.”

      A low growl in the bushes a little distance ahead of them put an abrupt termination to the conversation. Gibault threw forward the muzzle of his gun, and glanced at his comrade. The glance did not tend to comfort him. The artist was pale as death. This, and an occasional twitch of the lip, were clear and unmistakable signs to the backwoodsman that fear had taken possession of his friend, and that he was not to be counted on in the moment of danger. Yet there was a stern knitting of the eyebrows, and a firm pressure of the lips, that seemed to indicate better qualities, and perplexed him not a little.

      “P’r’aps, monsieur,” suggested Gibault hesitatingly, “you had better vait for de canoe.”

      “Lead on!” said the artist, cocking both pistols, and pointing with one of them to the place whence the growl had issued.

      Gibault elevated his eyebrows, shrugged his shoulders characteristically, and, uttering the single word “bien!” walked quickly forward.

      A few steps brought him to an open space, in the midst of which the grisly bear was discovered. It was seated on its haunches, looking sulkily about, as if it had a suspicion that enemies were tracking it. Creeping with the utmost caution on his hands and knees, Gibault got to within forty yards of the monster, whose aspect at that moment was enough to try the courage of most men. There was a wicked glare in his little eye, as he swayed his huge body from side to side, that indicated but too clearly the savage nature of his disposition. Even Gibault felt a little uneasy, and began to think himself a fool for having ventured on such an expedition alone. His state of mind was not improved by the sound of the artist’s teeth chattering in his head like castanets.

      Taking a very long and deliberate aim at the bear’s heart, he pulled the trigger, but the faithless lock of his old flint-gun missed fire. Without a sign of annoyance or agitation, the trapper recocked the gun, again pulled the trigger, and with the same result. Three times this occurred, and at each click of the lock the bear cocked his ears inquiringly. The third time, he rose and sauntered slowly towards the spot where the men lay concealed.

      “Stay,” whispered the artist, as Gibault was once more about to try his piece, after rubbing the edge of his flint with his thumb-nail; “stay, I will fire.”

      So saying, he suddenly pointed a pistol straight at the advancing monster and fired. A tremendous roar followed the report. Gibault leaped up, exclaiming angrily, “Vat foolishness! a pistol! hah! ve must run.” He turned at once to do so.

      “Stay!” cried the artist, who no longer trembled, though his countenance was still ashy pale, “I have another pistol.”

      “Does you vish to die?” yelled the trapper, seizing his comrade by the collar.

      Whether it was the yell of the man, or the reiterated roar of the advancing bear, or both combined, that had an effect on the artist, we cannot tell, but certain it is that he sprang up and darted after Gibault with astonishing rapidity. Being long-legged and uncommonly supple he soon passed him; but, fast though they both ran, the bear ran faster, and, having been badly cut up about the face by the slugs with which the pistol had been charged, his spirit was roused to the utmost pitch of ferocity.

      Now, while this was going on in the bush, the other trappers were quietly fastening the line of their canoe to a shrub that held it floating in a pool of still water near the shore. No sooner did the pistol-shot ring upon their ears than every man seized his gun, hastily examined the priming, and scrambled up the bank, which at that spot was very steep.

      Having gained the top, they paused for an instant to gaze intently at the bank of the river above them, in order to ascertain the exact spot to which they ought to hurry.

      “I see no smoke,” said March Marston in a tone of deep anxiety.

      “Gibault’s gun didn’t use for to bark in that sort o’ voice,” observed Bounce.

      “I do b’lieve that bar’s got ’im,” cried Big Waller, bounding forward.

      He had not taken a second bound when the artist, flying at full speed about three hundred yards up the river, burst upon the astonished vision of the party. His sombrero had blown off, his long hair streamed straight behind him, so did the scalp-locks on his coat, and so did his long cloak which was fastened to his neck by a clasp, and which, in his present panting and rushing condition, wellnigh strangled him.

      Before the wonder-stricken trappers had time to remark on this singular apparition, or to form any opinion in regard to it, poor Gibault came tearing round the point like a maniac, with the bear close upon his heels. This was enough. The backwoodsmen no longer showed any signs of surprise or hesitancy. A grisly bear was a familiar object—a comrade in imminent danger was equally so. They sprang forward to meet the fugitives.

      By this time the cloak had so retarded and strangled the poor artist that he had fallen a pace or two behind Gibault, and it seemed almost certain that he would fall a victim to the furious bear before the trappers could kill it, for they could not venture to fire at it while the fugitives almost screened it from their view. As they drew near to each other the trappers almost instinctively divided into two parties. Redhand and Hawkswing went a little to the right; Bounce, Waller, and our hero, diverged to the left, so as to let the flying men pass between them, and thus attack the bear on both sides at once.

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