THE TRAPPING-GROUND.
The stream on which they halted was one of the tributaries of the
Missouri, the _Cache la Poudre_, which flowed through the passes of
the Black Hills not more than forty miles from Fort Laramie. From
the place where they stood, they could see the peaks of the three
brothers, the Buttes, raising their heads on high. Mount Laramie
loomed up in the distance and at their feet the river poured on down
the mountain-pass. Near the place where they stood, that sagacious
animal, the beaver, had dammed the stream and made themselves homes.
The round tops of the little huts rose above the water, and knowing
heads were peeping out at the strange intruders.
In all probability, no other feet than those of Ben Miffin had ever
trod the banks of the stream, if we except the Indian hunters. The
entrance was narrow and crooked, and once in, the eternal rocks
seemed to rise on every hand, inaccessible to mortal feet. Low
growths of pine and the creeping forms of the cactus were the only
vegetation. The silence was unbroken by a single sound. Ben looked at
his companions in triumph. They had met him in St. Louis, and he had
thought proper to reveal to them his discovery and make them partners
in his toils. He was not avaricious, and he found them with no wealth
except their weapons, eager to try his trapping-ground. He wished to
better their condition, and had taken this way to do it. Personally,
he knew nothing of them or their antecedents. But they had appealed
to his sympathies in their destitution, and no man ever appealed to
him in vain. He had a large heart, open always to the cry of the
needy. In another sphere he would have been a philanthropist. In his
own, he was only a true-hearted, simple man, with only one object,
and that to live out his simple life as the Maker whom in his rough
way he reverenced, would have him. Jan had told him wonderful tales
of the prowess he had shown in hunting in southern Africa, where he
had been when a young man. It only required a little of the rough
experience of the prairie to show him that he was not the mighty
Nimrod he had made himself out to be. But, Ben cared nothing for
this, and was pleased with the eccentricities of the Dutchman.
“Thar,” said the trapper; “ain’t thet a sight fur sore eyes? Thar’s
peltries enough in this yer stream to make us rich all summer.”
“Vat ish dem?” said Jan, pointing to the beaver-houses; “who live
dere?”
“Injuns!” said Ben.
“Vat!” said Jan, leaping from the earth. “Vy den you cooms here? Vy
den you no stay at home mit yourself unt not pring me out here vere
dey lifs?”
“Ye never seen a beaver hut, I reckon,” said Ben. “Ye wouldn’t
believe me when I tell ye thet them houses ar’ the work of beasts.”
“Who puild dem houses, den?”
“Beavers,” said Ben. “S’arch creation through, and I reckon ye won’t
find any beast thet ken beat them. They’re carpenters, masons, and
engineers; an’ they know the’r trade too.”
“Penn Miffin, you ish no more ash von liar. Vy you dry to fool me?
How dem peavers coot down trees, eh?”
“With the’r teeth. A lot of ’em git at a tree thet stands close to
the bank, and gnaw away at it till it falls over. Then they work away
with sticks an’ stones to make the’r dam, an’ when thet is done they
build the’r houses. You’d better believe they ain’t got the’r ekal
anywhere in the ’arth. I’ll tell ye lots more about ’em, miss.”
“Thank you,” said Millicent.
“Vell, you cooms here to catch dem? Dey too smart,” said Jan.
“They are pooty smart, thet’s a fact,” said Ben. “But we manage to
get the upper hand of ’em somehow. But thet’s neither here nor thar.
Let’s make a cabin. The gal must hev a place to live in. Ye ken use
an ax, can’t ye?”
“Yaw,” said Jan.
They had hoppled their horses and allowed them to stray at will about
the inclosure, after the traps and furniture had been removed.
Leaving their new friends together, each of the men attacked a pine
about a foot through at the butt, and soon cut enough logs for their
hut. Both Ben and Jules were old hands at this kind of work, and Jan,
when he understood what was required of him, did good service. The
logs were cut down, squared slightly, notched at the ends, and in a
few hours they began to lay the first in their places. By the time it
was dark they had raised the walls four feet from the ground.
“Knock off fur the night,” said Ben. “Let’s hev something more to
eat.”
“Yaw,” said Jan, “dat ish coot. I pees so mooch hungry as nefer.”
“Ye’ve worked well, old man,” said Ben. “I say thet fur ye. Come,
Jule, try yer hand at the cookery ag’in. Don’t make too much fire.
Git dry wood. These yer pine branches make too much smoke unless
the’r dry. Go up thar by the rocks. Thar’s an old pine cut down thar,
and it will make a good fire. I cut it down when I were here before,
miss.”
“Vy you ’vraid of too mooch vire, Penn?” asked Jan, looking
doubtfully around.
“Ye don’t know the Blackfeet as well as I do, or ye wouldn’t ask
the question,” said Ben. “Wet wood makes too much of a smoke, and
a Blackfoot brave could see a smoke as fur off as ye could see a
mountain.”
“Vell, vat ef he does?”
“Then he would come and sculp ye by the light of yer fire, ef he
didn’t make up his mind to roast ye a little fust. Ther’ a pizen,
sneakin’, murderin’ set, an’ would make no more of takin’ the sculp
of a Dutchman, then I would of skinnin’ a beaver. Thet’s all.”
“Dey very near?” said Jan, looking fearful. “Vy you stay here?”
“We didn’t come out yer to _play_,” said Ben; “an’ the Blackfoot
thet gits my sculp will hev to fight fer it. I’ve a likin’ fer my
own ha’r. It growd thar, an’ thar it’s got to stay until things git
so mixed up thet I kain’t raise a hand to fight fer it. I’m goin’ to
make this yer place a fort before long.”
“How you do dat, Penn?”
“Never mind. I’ve no doubt the Blackfeet will nose us out ’fore we
quit, an’ when they do, we’ve got to fight. I count you good fer
three Injuns. I’m good fer ten, and Jule will wipe out eight. So
you see they must bring down twenty-two to hev any left to do the
sculpin’.”
“Jule ain’t goot for mooch. I can vip him so easy ash notting ever
vas. I kills oct Injuns, unt he kills dree. Dat’s it.”
“I’ll eat the Injun when you kill him,” said Jules. “You’ll run from
the first one you see.”
“Me run vrom an Injun. No, py der saints, I kill auvery one I see,
same ash I kills de pear. You prave mans, you two. Climb oop trees,
unt leave poor Dutchman all alone. Yaw; dat ish no goot.”
“See yer, Dutchy. I want you to go back to the bear and bring him
in. I’m afraid the wolves will git at him ef we leave him thar. You
wouldn’t have the wolves eat up your bear, would you?”
“I not got _time_ to go pack,” said Jan. “I so hoongry, pesides I’m
very tired.”
“Yer skeered. Thet’s what’s the matter with ye, Dutchy. Yer skeered
half to death. Ye wouldn’t no more go back to thet b’ar then ye would
fly. I ain’t quite so sure he’s dead, anyhow. Isn’t thet him comin’
down the hill yonder?”
Jan leaped up, clasped the trunk of a tree with both hands, and began
to climb with might and main, while the others rolled over and over
on the ground, bursting with laughter. By the time he reached the
first branch he had collected sufficient fortitude to look about him,
and could see no such fearful monster as he imagined coming down upon
him. The truth dawned upon him that he was the victim of a sell, and
he slid down again in great wrath.
“You’s the wust liar, Penn Miffin, in dis coontry. Auvery Yankee can
lie goot deal, put you can lie more as dat. Dere vas no pear.”
“Wasn’t ther’? It must hev been the rock I seen and I thought it was
a b’ar, sure as shootin’. But ye was skeered that time; ye kain’t say
ye wa’n’t.”
“Kin, too! Wasn’t scared a bit, Penn Miffin.”
“Ye wasn’t? What made ye climb the tree, then?” said Ben.
“Pecause I can not see no pear on the ground, unt I climbs oop the
tree to look vor him, unt ven I gits dere, I can see no pear. Den I
knows dere vas no pear, unt dat you vas no more ash von liar like
auvery Yankee.”
Ben laughed heartily and turned his attention to the food which the
Frenchman was cooking over the blaze. He had built his fire with all
the care of the frontierman. First, the light leaves were ignited,
then some small twigs, which would burn without smoke, were added,
and when these had kindled into flame, larger sticks were laid on,
and the fire was now blazing merrily, though still without much smoke.
“Thet’s the sort of fire to fool a Blackfoot,” said Ben. “Ah, many
and many’s the brave fellow hez gone under fer the want of a little
care. Now, I don’t know thet ther’s an Injun within twenty mile of
us, but I always go to work as ef they were all around, as they may
be fer all we know, and most likely ar’.”
“What makes ye think so, Ben?” said Jules.
“’Cause it’s the last of the huntin’ season, an’ the braves are out
for buffler. Thet’s my reason. Then, ag’in, ye kain’t depend on a
Blackfoot; ther’ a treacherous, hoss-stealin’ set. Mind I tell ye.”
“The Crows are just as bad.”
“No they _ain’t_. Anyhow, they won’t be to us while I’m hyar. You see
they ain’t forgot the’r old chief yet. I calculate I’ve got a wife
among ’em som’ers.”
“Don’t you know where she is?”
“Kain’t say thet I do. When I was in the Crow village last, and
thet’s three years ago, she were thar. Ther’s a young chief takes
care of her on my account, seein’ he ain’t got no father or mother,
an’ she sort of adopted him. So I reckon she rubs along right peart.
She orter, anyhow. Prehaps I couldn’t appreciate the woman. I didn’t,
anyhow.”
“Didn’t you like her?” said Jules.
“No, I _didn’t_ relish her much, thet’s a fact. Ye see she had a
tongue of her own, and a mighty sharp tongue it were too--the wust
you ever see. She never stopped her clack from mornin’ tell night. I
wouldn’t hev minded it so much ef she had only taken a rest onc’t in
a while, but she didn’t. It seems to me now, thet the durned critter
thought ef she let her tongue rest a minnit, she couldn’t start it
ag’in.”
“What did you do?”
“Do! What any man orter do when he kain’t save himself no other way.”
“What was that?”
“_Heeled_ it ez hard ez I c’u’d go. I reckon that was pooty lively
too.”
“Vat vas your vrow’s name?” said Jan.
“Does ye want her, Jan? Ef ye do, take her, with my blessin’. The
truth is, yer gettin’ too fat, and ef ye hed to stand her jaw only a
month ye’d git worked down to yer fitin’-weight pooty sudden, that’s
all.”
“I don’t vant her,” said Jan.
“Don’t refuse on account of any feelin’ on my part,” said Ben. “Don’t
be bashful nuther. Or, ef it suits ye better, I’ll _sell_ her to ye.
I’ll sell her _cheap_ too. Give me thet huntin’-knife of yourn an’
she’s yer own. Thet’s fair, I’m sure.”
“Don’t _vant_ her,” persisted Jan. “S’pose she dead, unt I puy her?
Den I lose mine goot knife all vor nottings.”
“Ef she’s dead, may she rest easy in her grave. But I don’t think she
would, any way. I’ve got my opinion, an’ I think she’d never rest in
any grave. They won’t hev her in the other world nuther. She’d worrit
them to death, mind ye.”
“Vy don’t you dells me vat pe her name, Penn?” said Jan.
“Hill-a-leah, the Green Snake. Lovely name, ain’t it?”
“Goot cracious. Dat ain’t a vooman’s name?”
“Ain’t it? _Prehaps_ yer right. I doubt ef she’s a woman _myself_.
Anyhow, I’ve got my opinion and I reckon she’s got a devil in her.
I hearn a preacher down to the fort tell of a woman thet hed seven
devils in her, an’ thet the good man cast ’em out. Now, ef any one
woman hed seven such lively devils in her ez the Green Snake hez,
then she must hev been a healthy female, thet’s all. How gits on the
grub, Jule?”
“Near done, Ben. In five minutes.”
“All right. Soon as convenient I’ll worry down a piece of thet
venison. I’d like to make a trade with Jan fer this wife of mine. She
ain’t no use to _me_, an’ I think she’d be just the woman for Jan.”
“I dells you again, I don’t vant no voomans ash vas hev such names
ash Hill-a-baloo,” added Jan. “Schnake--Creen Schnake! Der Himmel,
dat ish dreadful! Don’t you talk mit me no more ’pout her. I rather
gifs you de knife dan marry a voomans like that.”
“Wal, I’m sorry we kain’t make a trade,” said Ben, regretfully;
“raally sorry. I’d like to sell her to some likely man thet would set
store by her, an’ not run away from her in less than two months. I
wouldn’t risk a cent thet any man could keep his nat’ral senses an’
stay with her longer then that, unless he was sorter seasoned to it,
same as I was. I’d ’a’ been a chief among the Crows now, ef it hadn’t
been fer thet.”
“Is that the reason you left, eh?” said Jules.
“Ye bet ye! I liked it there fust rate. They never made me go out on
the’r war-parties unless I hed a mind to, though I went out offen
enough, fer thet matter. Ye see, I’m down on Blackfeet fer more
reasons then one; an’ the Crows are the nat’ral inemies of them
critters. I’d like to extarminate the hull cussed race of them, durn
the’r picters!”
“What makes you hate the Blackfeet so?” said Jules.
“I’ll tell yer. ’Tain’t less’n ten years ago I was trappin’ on the
north branch of the Platte with a comrade of mine, a likely chap as
you ever see, Jim Johnson was his name, and the best-hearted feller
in Oregon. We made a heap of pelts, ye bet, an’ was countin’ on a
lively time at the forts the next winter. Jim hed a gal thar, an’
was allus lettin’ on how happy he’d be when he c’u’d see her ag’in.
He never did, poor feller. I’d been out to see after my traps, gone
nigh on to half a day, mout be, an’ was comin’ home with a load of
pelts, fo’ we hed been lucky all through, an’ when I got to the cabin
we’d built, thar he lay, with his head split like an egg-shell, an’
sculped. I looked around an’ found Blackfoot signs everywhar, durn
the’r hides. I know them, an’ I’ll make them pay fer it some day.
I promised him then, as he lay thar, thet I’d avenge him on the
Blackfeet. Mout be I’ve done it; mout be I didn’t. Anyhow I’ve got my
opinion, an’ I’ll back it thet the Blackfeet are sorry they killed
Jim Johnson.”
“Do you know who the men are that killed him?” asked Jules.
“Yes. Thar’s only two of them on the’r feet to-day, an’ they ar’
bound to go under ef ever they meet Ben Miffin, or else he goes
under--and he don’t think he will.”
“Who are they?”
“One’s a big Blackfoot brave they call Whirling Breeze, an’ the other
a white-livered cuss who claims to be a white man. Precious little
civilized blood he’s got in his veins, an’ that he’s got is mighty
mean. He’s a renegade, an’ I tell ye a renegade is the worst of all
God’s creatures.”
“What’s his name?”
“Will Markman. They call him by some Indian name. The worst of it is,
his white blood shows more then the Indian, an’ he is ez handsome a
feller ez you ever see. But he’s got a cruel heart in his breast. God
pity him if I ever meet him.”
“Is he a chief?”
“Yes; they like to git a white man on the’r side. He lays round yer
som’ers, an’ does the dirty work of the Blackfeet. That’s his way,
durn him. Why, ye never did see another sech critter in yer born
days--the wust ye ever saw, I tell ye. Makes no more of takin’ a
sculp then I do of skinnin’ a buffler. What ar’ ye tryin’ to do now,
Jan?”
The Teuton was craning his neck, looking anxiously up the hill.
“I dinks I sees a Plackfeet,” replied the other. “He pees on the
hillside yonder.”
“Pshaw, Jan; ’tain’t no sech thing--leastways, I kain’t see no sech
critter myself. I guess ye didn’t see nobody.”
“Did too, Penn Miffin. Who’s a liar? I sees him over dere py dat bine
tree. He vas a pig fellows, bretty near so pig ash a house. I never
sees anypody so pig ash he vas. I dinks he pe some shiant.”
“Where was he?” said Ben, anxiously.
“Over yonder, mit der dree. I sees him. I dinks aff ye dakes yer gun
unt coes to him unt kills him, mebbe it vould pe goot plans.”
“Hadn’t you better go yourself?” said the Frenchman, maliciously.
“I dinks I hain’t got time,” said Jan, quickly. “How can I go ven I
can not dell vether dere pe anybotty dere? Penn coes mit himself.”
“That’s enuff foolin’,” said Ben. “Jan didn’t see no Injun, I hope.
But we are tired with a long journey. Jule, let us fix some sort of
place for the gal. I don’t like thet she sh’u’d hev to rough it like
us men.”
“You are too kind to me,” said Millicent. “How can I ever thank you?”
“Never mind; you ain’t got no call to thank me ez I knows on. I ain’t
gone round gittin’ sech things ez thanks this year. Wait till I ask
’em. Jule, you come yer.”
They had a good supply of extra blankets; these were brought in, and
by the aid of two of them, they curtained off a recess in one corner
of the unfinished building, in which they laid the other blankets,
and, apologizing in a homely but heartfelt way for their lack of good
accommodations, they allowed Millicent to retire.
It was in the middle of the night when a strange alarm occurred.
Jules, who was very tired, had taken upon himself the post of sentry
for the first part of the night, and had stationed himself just
outside the building, sitting down at the foot of a tree. The hours
crept slowly by, and he dropped off into a doze. All at once he
awakened to find himself prostrate upon the ground, with some heavy
body lying on his breast which pressed him close to the soil. By the
ghostly moonlight he made out his assailant to be the creature which
they had met that day. It was making no attempt to harm him, but
simply lying upon his breast, its long, heavy hands toying with his
throat.
Jules Damand was a cool, hardy fellow, and had been in danger before
now. But, there was something so frightful in the load upon his
breast, that for a moment his heart failed him. He lay silent, and
put out his hand toward a pistol by slow degrees.
The strange thing uttered, now and then, a low, chuckling laugh,
horrible to hear. Ben, who lay near the door of the cabin, heard the
sound and stirred uneasily in his sleep. Jules, silent as the grave,
allowed his hand to slide along the ground toward the pistol-butt.
Even the slight motion he made annoyed the savage brute, and he
uttered a sort of low snarl. Jules stopped and waited for him to
become quiet. He was in an uncomfortable position, flat upon his
back, with his right arm lying under the body of the assailant, who
grinned and chattered at him, and scratched at his throat with his
long nails in a playful manner.
“Sacré!” muttered Jules. “If I could only get my right arm free.”
He found that impossible; the whole weight of the hairy body lay
upon it and fixed it like a rock. Jules again began to feel for
his pistol, and laid his hand upon it, when the hairy palm of the
Mountain Devil suddenly closed upon it. There seemed to be something
in the touch of the cold steel which roused his hate, for he darted
his long nails into the face of the trapper, and left bleeding
furrows from brow to chin. At the same time Jules managed to get the
pistol partly free, and made a shot at him in the dark.
The creature had some powers of memory; he knew that the ball which
had pierced his arm that morning had been accompanied by a sound like
the crack of the pistol, and he sprung away for a little distance,
and stood licking the blood from another wound in his arm. The report
of the pistol had roused everybody, and they came out in great haste,
Ben leading the way with his rifle in his hand. At the sight of him
the wild creature bounded away, and hurried up the mountain side. It
was plain that he remembered Ben as the man who had injured him in
the morning. He snarled and screamed as he disappeared from view,
while Jan stood with chattering teeth and shaking limbs, glaring
after the form which was disappearing behind the hills.
“Ach, mein Gott! Dere he ish again. Now you mine vat I says. Dat ish
ter tuyvel. Don’ you co to say ash it vas not. Dat ish ter tuyvel,
unt no mistake. My prains are all hurly-purly. I mos’ deat mit
fright.”
“Shet up. Don’t ye see the lady?” said Ben. “Sorry to call ye out of
yer sleep, miss, but our friend of this mornin’ hez paid us a visit.
See how the black brute has marked Jules.”
“So he has. This is terrible. I can not do any thing to help you, Mr.
Damand?”
“No,” said Jules. “I shall do very well. They are only scratches.”
“Very painful ones, I fear.”
“A little. They will soon go away. I shall be satisfied if they do
not leave deep scars. You had better retire again. It served me
right. I should have kept better watch, when I had such treasures to
guard.”
“Can I be of no service?”
“No. Not the least. Thank you.”
She retired again, and Ben found some of the plants which he had
used for Bentley’s wounds that morning, and made a salve for Jules’
face. When this was done, he sent the Frenchman into the house, and
took his place as guard, half hoping that the brute would come back,
and give him a shot. Twice during the night he heard its eldritch
screams, far off in the hills, but it did not come back. Ben stood
on his guard, however, until the night passed, and the gray light of
morning appeared in the sky.