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

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       Table of Contents

      The Beauties of the Wilderness—Portages—Philosophy of Settling Down—An Enormous Footprint—Supper procured, and a Bear-hunt in prospect.

      After paddling, and hauling, and lifting, and tearing, and wading, and toiling, and struggling, for three weeks, our hero and his friends found themselves deep in the heart of the unknown wilderness—unknown, at least, to the civilised world, though not altogether unknown to the trappers and the Red Indians of the Far West.

      There is something inexpressibly romantic and captivating in the idea of traversing those wild regions of this beautiful world of ours which have never been visited by human beings, with the exception of a few wandering savages who dwell therein.

      So thought and felt young Marston one splendid afternoon, as he toiled up to the summit of a grassy mound with a heavy pack on his shoulders. Throwing down the pack, he seated himself upon it, wiped his heated brow with the sleeve of his hunting-shirt, and gazed with delight upon the noble landscape that lay spread out before him.

      “Ha! that’s the sort o’ thing—that’s it!”—he exclaimed, nodding his head, as if the rich and picturesque arrangement of wood and water had been got up expressly for his benefit, and he were pleased to signify his entire approval of it.

      “That’s just it,” he continued after a short contemplative pause, “just what I expected to find. Ain’t I glad? eh?”

      March certainly looked as if he was; but, being at that moment alone, no one replied to his question or shared his enjoyment. After another pause he resumed his audible meditations.

      “Now, did ever any one see sich a place as this in all the wide ’arth? That’s what I want to know. Never! Just look at it now. There’s miles an’ miles o’ woods an’ plains, an’ lakes, an’ rivers, wherever I choose to look—all round me. And there are deer, too, lots of ’em, lookin’ quite tame, and no wonder, for I suppose the fut of man never rested here before, except, maybe, the fut of a redskin now an’ again. And there’s poplars, an’ oaks, an’ willows, as thick as they can grow.”

      March might have added that there were also elm, and sycamore, and ash, and hickory, and walnut, and cotton-wood trees in abundance, with numerous aspen groves, in the midst of which were lakelets margined with reeds and harebells, and red willows, and wild roses, and chokeberries, and prickly pears, and red and white currants. He might, we say, have added all this, and a great deal more, with perfect truth; but he didn’t, for his knowledge of the names of such things was limited, so he confined himself, like a wise youth, to the enumeration of those things that he happened to be acquainted with.

      “And,” continued March, starting up and addressing his remark to a hollow in the ground a few yards off, “there’s grisly bars here, too, for there’s the futmark of one, as sure as I’m a white man!”

      Most people would have been inclined to differ with March in regard to his being a white man, for he was as brown as constant exposure in hot weather could make him; but he referred to his blood rather than to his skin, which was that of white parents.

      The footprint which he had discovered was, indeed, that of a grisly bear, and he examined it with more than usual interest, for, although many of those ferocious denizens of the western woods had been already seen, and a few shot by the trappers on their voyage to this point, none had been seen so large as the monster whose footprint now attracted Marston’s attention. The print was eleven inches long, exclusive of the claws, and seven inches broad.

      While March was busily engaged in examining it, Black Gibault came panting up the hill with a huge pack on his back.

      “Ho! March, me garçon, vat you be find là?” cried the Canadian, throwing down his pack and advancing. “A bar, Gibault; Caleb himself. A regular big un, too. Just look here.”

      “Ah! oui, vraiment; dat am be one extinishin’ vopper, sure ’nuff. Mais, him’s gone pass long ago, so you better come avay an’ finish de portage.”

      “Not I, lad,” cried March gaily, as he flung himself upon the grassy mound; “I’m goin’ to admire this splendid country till I’m tired of it, and leave you and the other fellows to do the work.”

      “Oh! ver’ goot,” cried Gibault, sitting down beside our hero, and proceeding to fill his pipe, “I will ’mire de countray, too. Ha! it be unmarkibly beautiful—specially when beholded troo one cloud of tabacca smoke.”

      “Alas! Gibault, we’ll have to move off sooner than we expected, for there it comes.”

      The two friends leaped up simultaneously, and, seizing their packs, hurried down the mound, entered the thick bushes, and vanished.

      The object whose sudden appearance had occasioned this abrupt departure would, in truth, have been somewhat singular, not to say alarming, in aspect, to those who did not know its nature. At a distance it looked like one of those horrible antediluvian monsters one reads of, with a lank body, about thirty feet long. It was reddish-yellow in colour, and came on at a slow, crawling pace, its back appearing occasionally above the underwood. Presently its outline became more defined, and it turned out to be a canoe instead of an antediluvian monster, with Big Waller and Bounce acting the part of legs to it. Old Redhand the trapper and Hawkswing the Indian walked alongside, ready to relieve their comrades when they should grow tired—for a large canoe is a heavy load for two men—or to assist them in unusually bad places, or to support them and prevent accidents, should they chance to stumble.

      “Have a care now, lad, at the last step,” said Redhand, who walked a little in advance.

      “Yer help would be better than yer advice, old feller,” replied Bounce, as he stepped upon the ridge or mound which Marston and his companion had just quitted. “Lend a hand; we’ll take a spell here. I do believe my shoulder’s out o’ joint. There, gently—that’s it.”

      “Wall, I guess this is Eden,” cried Big Waller, gazing around him with unfeigned delight. “Leastwise, if it ain’t, it must be the very nixt location to them there diggins of old Father Adam. Ain’t it splendiferous?”

      Big Waller was an out-and-out Yankee trapper. It is a mistake to suppose that all Yankees “guess” and “calculate,” and talk through their nose. There are many who don’t, as well as many who do; but certain it is that Big Waller possessed all of these peculiarities in an alarming degree. Moreover, he was characteristically thin and tall and sallow. Nevertheless, he was a hearty, good-natured fellow, not given to boasting so much as most of his class, but much more given to the performance of daring deeds. In addition to his other qualities, the stout Yankee had a loud, thundering, melodious voice, which he was fond of using, and tremendous activity of body, which he was fond of exhibiting.

      He was quite a contrast, in all respects, to his Indian companion, Hawkswing, who, although about as tall, was not nearly so massive or powerful. Like most North American Indians, he was grave and taciturn in disposition; in other respects there was nothing striking about him. He was clad, like his comrades, in a trapper’s hunting-shirt and leggings; but he scorned to use a cap of any kind, conceiving that his thick, straight, black hair was a sufficient covering, as undoubtedly it was. He was as courageous as most men; a fair average shot, and, when occasion required, as lithe and agile as a panther; but he was not a hero—few savages are. He possessed one good quality, however, beyond his kinsmen—he preferred mercy to revenge, and did not gloat over the idea of tearing the scalps СКАЧАТЬ