The Wild Man of the West Part 32

d.i.c.k, without checking his broom, told how he had discovered the tracks of the Indians, and returned at once, as has been related.

"Then," said March, looking anxiously at his host, "you'll not be able to help my poor comrades and the people at the Mountain Fort."

"It an't poss'ble to be in two places at once nohow ye can fix it,"

returned d.i.c.k, "else I'd ha' been there as well as here in the course of a few hours more."

"But should we not start off at once--now?" cried March eagerly, throwing his legs off the ledge and coming to a sitting position.

"You an't able," replied d.i.c.k quietly, "and I won't move till I have put things to rights here, an' had a feed an' a night's rest. If it would do any good, I'd start this minute. But the fight's over by this time-- leastwise, it'll be over long afore we could git there! and if it's not to be a fight at all, why n.o.body's none the worse, d'ye see?"

"But maybe they may hold the place for a long time," argued March, "an'

the sudden appearance of you and me might turn the scale in their favour."

"So it might--so it might. I've thought o' that, and we'll start to-morrow if yer able. But it would be o' no use to-night. My good horse can't run for ever right on end without meat and rest."

"Then we'll start to-morrow," cried March eagerly.

"Ay, if ye can mount and ride."

"That I have no fear of; but--but--" at that moment March's eye encountered Mary's--"but what about Mary?"

"Oh, she'll stop here till we come back. No fear o' redskins troublin'

her agin for some time," replied d.i.c.k, throwing down the broom and patting the girl's head. "Come, la.s.s, let's have some supper. Show March what a capital cook ye are. I'll kindle a rousin' fire an' spread some pine-branches round it to sit on, for the floor won't be quite dry for some time. What red reptiles, to be sure! and they was actually devourin' my poor old bay horse. What cannibals!"

In the course of an hour the cavern had resumed its former appearance of comfort. The ruddy glare of the fire fell warmly on the rocky walls and on the curling smoke, which found egress through the hole near the roof that let in light during the day. Branches were spread on the floor, so as to form a thick pile near the fire, and on the top of this sat the Wild Man of the West with the most amiable of smiles on his large, handsome countenance, and most benignant of expressions beaming in his clear blue eyes, as he gazed first at Mary, who sat on his right hand, then at March, who sat on his left, and then at the iron pot which sat or stood between his knees, and into which he was about to plunge a large wooden ladle.

"There's worse things than buffalo-beef-bergoo, March, an't there? Ha, ha! my lad, tuck that under yer belt; it'll put the sore bones right faster than physic. Mary, my little pet lamb, here's a marrow-bone; come, yer growin', an' ye can't grow right if ye don't eat plenty o'

meat and marrow-bones; there," he said, placing the bone in question on her pewter plate. "Ah! Mary, la.s.s, ye've been mixin' the victuals.

Why, what have we here?"

"Moose nose," replied the girl with a look of pleasure.

"I do b'lieve--so it is! Why, where got ye it? I han't killed a moose for three weeks an' more."

"Me kill him meself," said Mary.

"You!"

"Ay, me! with me own gun, too!"

"Capital!" cried d.i.c.k, tossing back his heavy locks, and gazing at the child with proud delight. "Yer a most fit an' proper darter for the Wild--a--_ho_!" sneezed d.i.c.k, with sudden violence, while Mary glanced quickly up and opened her eyes very wide. "Whisst--to--a--hah! whew!

wot a tickler! I raally think the mountain air's a-goin' to make me subjick to catchin' colds."

March took no notice of the remark. His attention was at that moment divided between Mary's eyes and a marrow-bone.

There is no accounting for the besotted stupidity at this time of March Marston, who was naturally quick-witted, unless upon the principle that prejudice renders a man utterly blind. A hundred glaring and obvious facts, incidents, words, and looks, ought to have enlightened him as to who his new friend d.i.c.k really was. But his mind was so thoroughly imbued, so saturated, with the preconceived notion of the Wild Man of the West being a huge, ferocious, ugly monster, all over red, or perhaps blue, hair, from the eyes to the toes, with canine teeth, and, very probably, a tail, that unintentional hints and suggestive facts were totally thrown away upon him. The fact is, that if d.i.c.k had at that moment looked him full in the face and said, "_I'm_ the Wild Man of the West," March would have said he didn't believe it!

"How came ye by the iron pot?" inquired March suddenly, as the sight of that vessel changed the current of his thoughts.

d.i.c.k's countenance became grave, and Mary's eyes dropped.

"I'll tell ye some other time," said the former quietly; "not now--not now. Come, lad, if ye mean to mount and ride wi' me to-morrow, you'll ha' to eat heartier than that."

"I'm doing my best. Did you say it was _you_ that shot the moose deer, Mary?"

"Yes, it was me. Me go out to kill bird for make dinner, two days back, an' see the moose in one place where hims no can escape but by one way-- narrow way, tree feets, not more, wide. Hims look to me--me's look to him. Then me climb up side of rocks so hims no touch me, but _must_ pa.s.s below me quite near. Then me yell--horbuble yell!" ("Ha!" thought March, "music, sweetest music, that yell!") "an' hims run round in great fright!" ("Oh, the blockhead," thought March)--"but see hims no can git away, so hims rush past me! Me shoot in back of hims head, an' him drop."

"Huzza!" shouted d.i.c.k, in such a ba.s.s roar that March involuntarily started. "Well done, la.s.s; ye'll make a splendid wife to a bold mountaineer."

March could not believe his eyes, while he looked at the modest little creature who thus coolly related the way in which she slaughtered the moose; but he was bound to believe his ears, for Mary _said_ she did the deed, and to suppose it possible that Mary could tell a falsehood was, in March's opinion, more absurd than to suppose that the bright sun could change itself into melted b.u.t.ter! But d.i.c.k's enthusiastic reference to Mary one day becoming the wife of a mountaineer startled him. He felt that, in the event of such a calamitous circ.u.mstance happening, she could no longer be his sister, and the thought made him first fierce, and then sulky.

"D'ye kill many mountain sheep here, d.i.c.k?" inquired March, when his ruffled temper had been smoothed down with another marrow-bone.

"Ay, lots of 'em."

"What like are they close? I've never been nearer to 'em yet than a thousand yards or so--never within range."

"They're 'bout the size of a settlement sheep, an' skin somethin' like the red deer; ye've seen the red deer, of coorse, March?"

"Yes, often; shot 'em too."

"Well, like them; but they've got most treemendous horns. I shot one last week with horns three fut six inches long; there they lie now in that corner. Are ye a good shot, March?"

"Middlin'."

"D'ye smoke?"

"Yes, a little; but I an't a slave to it like some."

"Humph!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed d.i.c.k sarcastically. "If ye smoke 'a little,' how d'ye know but ye may come to smoke much, an' be a slave to it like other men? Ye may run down a steep hill, an' say, when yer near the top, 'I can stop when I like'; but ye'll come to a pint, lad, when ye'll try to stop an' find ye can't--when ye'd give all ye own to leave off runnin'; but ye'll have to go on faster an' faster, till yer carried off yer legs, and, mayhap, dashed to bits at the bottom. Smokin' and drinkin'

are both alike. Ye can begin when you please, an', up to a certain pint, ye can stop when ye please; but after that pint, ye _can't_ stop o' yer own free will--ye'd die first. Many an' many a poor fellow _has_ died first, as I know."

"An' pray, Mister Solomon, do _you_ smoke?" inquired March testily, thinking that this question would reduce his companion to silence.

"No, never."

"Not smoke?" cried March in amazement. The idea of a trapper not smoking was to him a thorough and novel incomprehensibility.

"No; nor drink neither," said d.i.c.k. "I once did both, before I came to this part o' the country, and I thank the Almighty for bringing me to a place where it warn't easy to get either drink or baccy--specially drink, which I believe would have laid me under the sod long ago, if I had bin left in a place where I could ha' got it. An' now, as Mary has just left us, poor thing, I'll tell ye how I came by the big iron pot.

There's no mystery about it; but as it b'longed to the poor child's father, I didn't want to speak about it before her."

d.i.c.k placed an elbow on each knee, and, resting his forehead upon his hands, stared for some moments into the fire ere he again spoke.

"It's many years now," said he in a low, sad tone, "since I left home, and--but that's nothin' to do wi' the pint," he added quickly. "You see, March, when I first came to this part o' the world I fell in with a comrade--a trapper--much to my likin'. This trapper had been jilted by some girl, and came away in a pa.s.sion, detarminin' never more to return to his native place. I never know'd where he come from, nor the partic'lars of his story, for that was a pint he'd never speak on. I don't believe I ever know'd his right name. He called himself Adam; that was the only name I ever know'd him by.

"Well, him an' me became great friends. He lived wi' a band of p.a.w.nee Injuns, and had married a wife among them; not that she was a pure Injun neither, she was a half-breed. My Mary was their only child; she was a suckin' babe at that time. Adam had gin her no name when we first met, an' I remember him askin' me one day what he should call her; so I advised Mary--an' that's how she come to git the name.

"Adam an' me was always together. We suited each other. For myself, I had ta'en a skunner at mankind, an' womankind, too; so we lived wi' the p.a.w.nees, and hunted together, an' slep' together when out on the tramp.