BEN, THE TRAPPER;
OR,
THE MOUNTAIN DEMON.
A TALE OF THE BLACK HILLS.
BY MAJOR LEWIS W. CARSON.
NEW YORK:
BEADLE AND ADAMS, PUBLISHERS,
98 WILLIAM STREET.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1875, by
BEADLE AND ADAMS,
In the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.
CONTENTS
PAGE
I. THE TRAPPER’S CAMP. 9
II. THE GRIZZLY BEAR. 17
III. THE MOUNTAIN DEVIL. 24
IV. THE TRAPPING-GROUND. 30
V. TREED BY A BUFFALO. 40
VI. THE MESSAGE. 48
VII. INDIANS! 57
VIII. SHOWING HIS COLORS. 67
IX. MIFFIN’S LEAP. 73
X. THE SUCK. 80
XI. THE QUICKSAND. 87
XII. THROUGH THE SNARE. 94
BEN, THE TRAPPER.
CHAPTER I.
THE TRAPPER’S CAMP.
In a deep defile among the Black Hills, far out on the western
plains, three men had made a camp. They were of that wonderful race
who have done more to develop the resources of the western world
than any other, the trappers of the North-west. Their great aid in
this cause has never been allowed by us as a people. We hear of
great discoveries of gold, or of a new pass through the mountains,
and in the _discovery_ lose sight of the _agent_, who, in nine cases
out of ten, is one of the class of whom this book is written. Their
wandering, perilous life is full of hardships, of which we have
no conception. The cold of winter, the savage foe, the yet more
savage employees of the Hudson Bay Company, the grizzly bear, the
snow-slide, all these are their enemies. They toil hard to pluck
from the hand of stern old winter a precarious livelihood, happy in
the possession of a few traps, a rifle, ammunition, and a blanket.
With these they lead as happy lives as any, and as useful as most.
Hundreds of tales of individual daring have been told of these men,
and yet the truth is not half known. Their creed is simple as that of
the border chiefs of Scotland:
“That they should take who have the power,
And they should keep who _can_!”
To hate an Indian, or an employee of the Hudson Bay Company. It
was in the days when the rivalry between the American Fur Company
and the Hudson Bay was at its height, and the rancor between them
equaled that of Whig and Tory during the Revolution. Each claimed
the country, and many a bleaching skeleton on the western streams
remains to this day, attesting the fact that the men fought for the
right of possession to the last.
The men in the pass were types of different nationalities. One,
a tall, supple, wiry old fellow, dressed in a greasy buckskin
hunting-shirt and leggings, with moccasins of moose-hide, showed
himself to be a lifelong rover of the hills and plains. He was piling
brush on the fire, and smoking placidly, puffing the smoke from his
nose in clouds. His face was a study, covered though it was by a
beard of nearly seven months’ growth. It showed the character of the
man. Brave to a fault, an unrelenting foe, a steadfast friend--one
on whom great reliance could be placed in time of need. His rifle,
carefully covered with a buckskin sheath, was propped against a
rock near at hand. A huge knife hung in his belt, by the side of a
shot-pouch and powder-flask.
The man on his right hand was a Frenchman--a keen-eyed, vivacious
fellow, dressed very much like his companion, and armed, in addition
to the knife and rifle, with a pair of handsome pistols. His name was
Jules Damand, and he had been a voyageur, trained to the business at
Saint Ann’s, on the St. Lawrence.
The third was a Dutchman! A simple glance at his broad, stolid face
told his nationality. He was a stout fellow, of tremendous girth,
with a smiling blue eye, an expressionless face while in repose, and
a foot that looked much like a young trunk. He was smoking placidly,
and suffering his companions to attend to the fire, and cook the food
hanging over it. The last duty was the Frenchman’s, who, like nearly
all the men of his nation, had a theory in regard to cookery which he
was always ready to explain by example.
“Look here, Jan,” said the first-named trapper, “why don’t ye lend a
hand at takin’ care of the fire?”
“So help me, as I never know I vas vanted to help you mit de fire,”
said Jan. “I vas sit here, mit mine shmoke-pipe, unt I vas dinking
auver the times ven I vas in Yarmany. Yaw; dat is vat I dinks.”
“I s’pose it’s considerable of a kentry,” said the old trapper.
“Consider’ble mit a coonthry! Mein Cott! Dere is no such coonthry mit
all the earth. Vat! Ish dere any vere you kin find such vine ash ve
have dere? Now I dells you. Ven you coes to St. Louis, you vas co
to Yawcob Post’s saloon av you vants goot Rhine vine. Dere ish goot
many blaces mit St. Louis vere dey says dey keeps goot Rhine vine.
Put I dells you dat ish no more ash von lie! Dere ish no more ash
your blaces in dat town vere you can get goot vine, unt mein frent
Yawcob’s ish von, I dells you drue.”
“It’s mighty poor stuff to drink,” said the trapper. “Fer me now,
when I drink, I take a little good rye whisky. _That’s_ good enough
fer me.”
“Boor shtuff! Penn Miffin, av it vash not dat I know you too vell, I
vould hit you mit your nose av you says dat vonce more. I dells you
dere ish nottings so goot ash Rhine vine.”
“Yes, for a _Dutchman_,” said Ben.
“But you ish voolin’. Dere, I seen you laff. Don’t say dat no more,”
said Jan.
“What does ye think about it, Jule?” said Ben, looking at the
Frenchman.
“That it is very bad drink,” said the Frenchman. “Peste! The first
time I drank it, it was so sour I thought it would make me turn
myself inside out to get rid of it. The Rhine grape is very bad. In
la belle France they make wine that is good.”
“Vy den you ask him?” blustered Jan. “Vat ish he more ash a
Vrenchman? Unt I ask you now, aff you vas dell me, vat ish de goot
over a man vat eats vrogs? So help me gracious, dey is no more goot
to eat dan snakes. Unt dey ish p’ison.”
“I reckon yer wrong, Jan,” said the trapper. “They do say thet snakes
ain’t very bad eatin’ when a chap is hard druv’. I don’t say I want
to try ’em, but ef I c’u’d ’a’ got snakes the time I cum nigh to
starvin’ up yer in the Black Hills, durn my hide ef I wouldn’t hev
eat snakes or any thing else. I kem of a queer race. I ken eat any
thing, and lick my weight in wildcats. I’m death on grizzlys. I ken
wipe out an Injun as fur as I ken see him, and I calculate thet’s a
good ways.”
“You talks a goot deal mit yer _mout_,” said Jan. “Put aff a man says
to me dat snakes unt frogs is goot to eat, den I dinks he ish no
more ash von vool. Aff ever I get vere I can no more get nottings to
eat, so help me gracious ash I vill _not_ eat snakes unt vrogs, aff
day vash to come to me in hundreds unt t’ousands, ready cooked, unt
beg me on dere knees to eat dem.”
“Did you ever see a snake on his knees, Jan?” said Ben.
“Yaw! Ven you poke dem mit a stick, dey gits up on dere tails. Dat’s
de vay dey vould do ven dey vash ask me to eat dem. Unt I vash say,
No, py tam!”
The Frenchman said nothing, but stooped to stir some soup in an
iron pan placed on the coals, glancing up at the Dutchman with a
queer smile as he did so. The blood of the Teuton was up, and he
dropped off into low mutterings, like distant thunder, until a fresh
grievance caused him to break out again. He found this grievance in
Ben Miffins’ manner of smoking.
“Dere,” he said, “shpose you look at dat, eh? Ven a man ash ought to
know petter, unt ve know ash he _knows_ petter, shmokes hish pipe
drue hish nose, like dat, he ish von tam vool. See him. Puff! puff!
puff! like a shteampoat mit a vire in her pelly. Now I dells you dat
ish not the vay to shmoke.”
“It’s _my_ way,” said Ben. “Look yer, Dutchy, ef ye don’t like my way
of smokin’, does ye know what ye ken do? Ye ken take the back track
to the forts.”
“Vy don’t you shmoke like a Christian den?” grunted Jan.
“’Cause I don’t want to. Never told ye how I learned to smoke this
yer way, did I? No? I’ll tell ye then. When I was quite a young man
I was taken by the Crows. Durn ’em ef they didn’t keep me among ’em
more then three years. Made me a chief, and what not. Wal, they all
smoke this yer way, and I took it up. Don’t rile me up, Dutchy. I’m
the Big Buffalo of the Crow nation. Rile me, and I light on ye pooty
heavy. Smooth me down and I’m _ile_; but slick me the wrong way and
I’m a p’ison critter. Look out fer me when I flop my wings and crow.”
“Look at the hills,” said Jan, prudently changing the course of the
conversation. “Vat you dinks ven I dells you I’ve seen hills all made
up mit ice, unt dey so pig ash dese hills, eh?”
“I should think your story was like the hills,” said Jules.
“How vash dat?”
“_Made up_ mit a lie,” said the Frenchman, laughing and turning again
to his soup.
“Den you ish von tam vool,” said Jan, in a rage. “It ish no more as
vive years since I cooms from Yarmany mit a backet. I vas very pad
ven I cooms avay. I vish I vash stay at home. Put it vash near spring
ven I cooms avay, unt the vind drive us up north. Unt den cooms von
of dese hills made up mit ice.”
“It’s true,” said Ben. “I’ve seen ’em myself off the mouth of the
Columby. They call ’em icebergs.”
“Dat’s it. Dat’s the name!” said Jan. “Vell, I stands on the deck mit
the packet, unt I sees it coom. I goes to the captain unt I dells
him America has proke loose, unt vash cooming down on the sheep, unt
would sink her. He laugh at me, unt said it vash an iceberg. Unt I
vatched it very close, unt py unt py it tipped oop, unt turned auver,
unt I dinks we ish gone. But it not strike the sheep.”
“Lucky fer you,” said Ben.
“Vat vash you dink auver an iceberg ash vash so pig ash it vash
tip auver on the sheep, unt sink the sheep. Now I ask you not for
to pelieve all dis unless you vash a mind to. You must do ash you
blease. Put dis is vat I sees myself. Vat is your opinion mit dese
tam icebergs?”
“Oh, they say that they break away from the hills up north and float
down yer. That’s all I know.”
“Yaw. Put vat makes dem tip auver? Dat ish vat I vants to know.”
“How kin I tell?”
“Vell, I dells you my opinion mit dese tam ole icebergs. Dey ish very
pig. Put, vat vas you dink mit a _vale_ (whale) ash vas so pig as he
vash go unther an iceberg, unt lift the iceberg oop on his pack, unt
tip her auver on the sheep, unt sink the sheep. Dat ish my opinion
mit dese tipping icebergs.”
“Ye don’t mean to tell me thet you think a whale goes under an
iceberg and tips it over?”
“Yaw. De vale goes unther the iceberg, unt lifts it oop on his pack,
and tips it auver on de sheep. Dat ish vat I dinks.”
“He couldn’t do it,” said Ben. “Darn it. I’ve seen icebergs, and I’ve
seen whales, but I never seen a whale big enough to do thet, nor you
either.”
“I shpose you dinks dish ish von lie. All right. You may dink vat you
blease, put dis is vat I sees myself. I ton’t care nottings now vat
you dinks, only ven a man vill not pelieve goot sense ven he hears
him, he is von very much vool. Vat you got in the pan, Shule?”
“Soup,” said Jules.
“Vat you makes him off?”
“Grouse,” said Jules, smiling.
“Ven he ish reaty, let us have somet’ings to eat. I ish hoongry. Vy
does ve coom here pefore it ish dime to set our traps, Penn?”
“I’ll tell ye. Ef we ain’t on hand ’arly, all the places will be
taken up. And I know a place whar we kin make our fortun’s, sure.
I’ve got a beaver-dam thet beats the world. But come, Jule, I’m like
Dutchy. I want something to eat. Ef it’s ready, dish it up.”
Each man had a tin cup among his other property, and Jules filled
three of them from the pan on the fire. For a few moments nothing was
heard but the clicking of spoons and smacking of lips over the savory
mess, for Jules was a good cook. Jan shoveled down the contents of
his cup first, and held it out for more.
“Like it?” said Jules.
“Goot!” said Jan, smacking his lips again. “Pest I ever eats. Gif me
more of it.”
Jules filled the cup again, and then replenished his own and that of
Ben Miffin, who was not far behind the others in disposing of the
food. At last Jan was satisfied, and drawing his hand across his
mouth slowly, he proceeded to fill his pipe for a smoke.
Jules cleared away the pan, put another stick of wood on the fire,
and got away from the reach of the ponderous hand of the Dutchman,
and then said:
“I s’pose you know what you have been eating, Jan?” There was very
little, except in the accent of the young man, to show that he was a
Frenchman, and the occasional use of the pronoun “him” in the place
of “it.”
“Didn’t you say it vash grouse?” said Jan. “’Twas goot, anyvay.”
“Yer mighty right,” said Ben. “’Twas the best grub I’ve had fer a
long time. But ’twa’n’t no grouse. I knew it as soon as I put it in
my mouth. Ye gev me some once before, ye remember.”
“It’s a pity Jan don’t like it. I think it’s durned good.”
“Vat I peen eating?” cried Jan, in great alarm. “Off you vash not
dell me now, dis very dime, vat it vas, I vill raise my hand oop unt
let it fall on your cophf (cope), unt it vill kill you!”
“It was something you said to-day you would not eat if you were
starving.”
“Snakes!” screamed Jan, starting to his feet, with both hands pressed
on his stomach.
“No, not so bad as _that_,” said Jules. “It was frog soup.”
Jan sat down again to consider over the matter. For full five minutes
he neither moved nor spoke, but sat with his head resting on his
hand. At last he looked up.
“Pring me dat pan,” he said.
Ben reached over to where the pan stood and handed it to him. He took
up his spoon and devoured all that was left, not deigning a word to
the repeated demands of Jules that he should leave a little for him.
His jaws never ceased their action until he had deposited the whole
in his cavernous stomach.
“Dere,” he said. “I veels petter. Unt so dat ish vrog, eh?”
“I should think so,” said Jules. “You old cormorant!”
“Vat ish dat?”
“A bird that eats every thing he can get his claws on,” said Jules.
“Why didn’t you leave some?”
“I vas brought oop to love mine neighbor ash myself. I dinks it ish
not right to eat vrogs. Put I dink so mooch more off my neighbor dat
I vill not leaf vrog soup vor a demptation.”
“Sacrifice yourself for the public good, you old hog?” said Jules.
“Yaw. Dat ish drue. I sees dat if I does not eat him you vould do it,
unt I dink so mooch off mine frent dat I vould not leaf it. Dat ish
all apout it.”
“Do you mean to eat any more if I make him?” demanded Jules.
“Yaw. Venever you makes vrog soup I vill not leaf any of him vor you.
Dat ish vat I dinks apout it.”
“Perhaps you’ll get a good chance,” said the Frenchman. “And perhaps
you won’t. But you’ve finished it. Perhaps you will go out with me
and catch some more of them.”
“Nein!” said Jan.
“Why not? You eat them fast enough.”
“Yaw. I alvays eat dem fast enough. I know vat ish goot for mine
frent, unt I dinks vrog soup very pad vor him.”
“That’s enough,” said Ben. “You’ve taught Jan to eat frogs, and he
has taught you that if a Dutchman is slow, he is sure, and that you
can’t fool him wuth a cent. Scatter the brands and pick up your
dunnage. It’s time to be on the way.”
“How far is it?” said Jules.
“A matter of five miles or so,” said the trapper. “But we’ll get our
pay for the long journey we’ve made ef we ar’ a little footsore at
the end. Come on!”
They shouldered their pieces and strode off into the hills, the
Dutchman sauntering in the rear, leading his horse by the bridle.