THE MESSAGE.
Jules and Jan waited for the trapper to speak. They knew by the
expression of his face that the arrow meant something more than any
ordinary shaft.
“What does it mean?” at length asked Jules.
“Ye don’t understand Injun signs. Look at the color--one half red,
the other half white. That’s clear Injun. It says ez plain ez a man
could speak, ‘Git out of this an’ we won’t hurt ye. Stay hyar an’
blood must flow.’”
“How do you know that?” said Jan. “I don’t see nottings like that on
the arrow.”
“Course ye don’t. Wal, _I does_. That red half of the arrer means
war. The white half sez thet they don’t car’ to kill us, an’ ef we go
away quietly it’ll be all right. But ef we _stay_, they’ll kill us.
Whar did ye stand when the arrer fell, Jan?”
“I vas skinning te puffalo.”
“Yes, so ye was. Wal, thet’s all right, I guess. The chap is hid
som’ers about yer, an’ I’m gwine to hev him out. Scatter an’ s’arch
the woods.”
Jan did not like the idea of going alone through the woods, and he
followed close on the heels of Ben.
“Git away,” said Ben. “None of thet. I want ye to git used to takin’
car’ of yerself an’ ye must do it. I said _scatter_!”
Jan reluctantly went away and began to search. Ben glided from tree
to tree, bending forward like a hound on the trail. He found at last
a place where a moccasined foot had trod. The footmark was small and
delicate.
“A gal or boy, by gracious!” said Ben. “Look sharp; I’ve found him.”
The others rushed to his side. The trapper stood at the root of a
tree which in some way had been torn up by the roots, leaving a
cavity below. Before this cavity Ben stooped and looked in. A single
glance showed him an Indian boy, crouching in the darkest corner.
“Come out hyar,” he said.
The boy did not move, and Ben addressed him in the Indian tongue,
telling him to come out and fear nothing. The lad obeyed, and stood
before them, in his simple Indian garb, a blanket thrown over his
buckskin shirt. His moccasined feet were small as a girl’s. For an
Indian, he had a fine, bold face, and his black eyes gleamed with a
half-scornful light.
“What do you want here?” said Ben, in the Blackfoot language.
“The sons of the Blackfeet go where they will,” said the boy, calmly,
toying with the bow which he held in his hand. “Who dares question
them in their own land?”
“The son of a chief stands before me,” said Ben. “I can see that at
once. No one questions the son of a chief as to his _right_. But we
are out upon the prairie and in danger. The brave youth can see that.”
“It is true,” said the boy. “My brother is in danger; it is well that
he sees it, for when we know that danger is nigh we can avoid it, and
pass away. My brother has seen the arrow?”
“Yes.”
“His head is getting gray; he knows the custom of the Blackfeet.
They know that he is a just man, though he has killed some of their
people. Good--they give him a chance. They let him go in peace when
and where he will, so that he trouble the hills no more with his
traps and rifle.”
“Listen,” said Ben, unconsciously adopting the language of an Indian
while speaking in that tongue. “I have been a chief of the Crows
for a long time; my head has grown gray among them; they taught me
not to fear what man can do. Why should we fly from the face of the
Blackfoot braves?”
“My father is _very_ brave,” said the boy. “But what can he do
against so many? What nation is like the Blackfeet? What chiefs are
like theirs? They are many, they are strong. Their horses speed like
the wind. Their hearts are very strong. There are three white men;
they can fight well, but the braves will sweep them from the earth,
when they come in anger.”
“We do not fear,” said Ben. “We have come to take beaver and we must
do it.”
“The white men are wrong,” said the boy, stamping fiercely. “They
think to drive the Indians from the land their fathers left them. I
have heard of great tribes in the east, by the big water, who have
been driven out and have perished one by one, until they have no
longer a name or a place among the people. But it shall not be so
with the Blackfeet.”
“They must do as they will,” said Ben. “We will not go.”
“Be warned. If you do not go, look for the blood-red arrow.”
“We shall expect it. Tell the chiefs that the Strong Buffalo said so
old a head as yours has no business on the shoulders of a boy. Go.
You will be a chief.”
The boy straightened himself up proudly and turned away. But Jules
seized him by the arm.
“He must not go,” he said.
“What ye gwine to do about it?” said Ben. “Let go his arm. The fust
thing ye know ye’ll git us into some kind of trouble with yer durned
nonsense.”
“He must not go, I say,” replied Jules, angrily. “Our lives are in
danger.”
“Ye ain’t helpin’ us by techin’ the boy,” said Ben. “Let him go.”
“I will not,” was the reply.
“Ye won’t, eh?” cried Ben, throwing up his rifle. “Then I’ll bet
my life I make daylight shine through yer karkidge in about half a
minute. Drop yer hold.”
Jules obeyed sullenly, and the boy, turning a grateful look at the
trapper, darted across the prairie. Jules turned to the trapper with
a lowering brow.
“You have had your way, it seems. We will see what will come of it.
But let me tell you one thing: do not point your rifle at me again,
or something may happen to you.”
“Don’t git up on yer ear about it. I ain’t goin’ to hev no bloodshed
thet kin be helped, I ain’t. S’pose ye’d ’a’ killed this boy--and
a brave young feller he is too--what good would ’a’ come of it?
’Twould ’a’ brought them down on us all the sooner, thet’s all. So
don’t say nothing to me.”
They finished cutting up the buffalo and returned to camp, walking by
their horses’ sides, with the skins containing the choicest portions
of the meat slung over their saddles. They found the camp as they had
left it, and at once built a fire.
“I don’t reckon it will do much good to be very careful now, sence
the Injuns knows whar we ar’. But, ther’s one thing we kin do: we
kin make our hut stronger, an’ ef they git our sculps they’ll hev to
fight for ’em. We’ve got a strong party, an’ we don’t go back fer no
man; no, we don’t.”
“If we were alone we might do well,” said Jules. “But, this ignorant
Dutchman--”
“Vat sort of a Doochman?” roared Jan. “You say dat again unt I valls
on you unt smash you all mit little bieces so pig ash my thumb.”
“Do be silent, Jan,” said Millicent. “Do I understand that you have a
fear of danger, Ben?”
“’Tain’t nothin’ new. It’s allers dangerous on the prairie,” said
Ben. “Never you mind, little ’un. We’ll take keer of ye.”
“I am not afraid, but, I should like to know what the danger is.”
“Blackfeet,” said Ben. “We met one while huntin’ buffler.”
“Off you have anyt’ing to say to me, Shule Damant,” said Jan,
breaking in on the conversation at this point, “I shall pe glad to
have you do it. Put, ton’t sit dere unt look ash if you would like to
eat me. I wouldn’t sit goot on your stomach.”
“I do not forget that you insulted me by placing your foot upon my
breast this morning. You had better be silent.”
“Am I frait mit you, Shule? No. I ish not, I dells you blain. Off you
like to pe frents mit me dat ish goot. Off you ton’t like it, vat do
I care? Take your own vay.”
“I’ll give one of you a back-handed wipe in a minnit!” roared Ben.
“Shet up, both of you. Jan, we have got to go and skin the bear you
shot yesterday.”
“Who kilt ter pear, Penn Miffin?” cried Jan. “Vas it Shule? Vas it
you? or vas it a pig Doochman named Jan Schneider, eh? Vell, I coes
mit you off you like.”
“I should like to see a bear before he is cut up,” said Millicent.
“Would you? Then you shall take Jule’s hoss, and ride with us. I’ll
take mine, ’cause I like to ride, and Jan may take his because I want
it to bring home the meat. You two stay and watch the camp.”
The three rode out of the camp together. When out of sight of the
Frenchman, Ben beckoned Jan close to him.
“Why did ye tumble Jules over this morning, Jan?”
“Vell, he keeps sayin’, Doochmans, Doochmans, Doochmans, till I vas
tire of hear him. Sh’pose I t’rows him town on his pack, den he knows
ash I vill shtand no nonsense mit him no more. I pees not a vool.”
“I’m jubous you’ve made him yer innimy,” said Ben. “I don’t like
that. I don’t want no quarrelin’ in my camp. When I take chaps out
with me they must be the right kind of men, and not too _hash_ in
their ways. Now I don’t reckon it’ll hurt ye much to show him ye
ain’t afraid of him.”
“You are speaking of your companion,” said Millicent. “Do you know
that I am afraid of him? He has looked at me in a way I do not
understand. Did your friend quarrel with him this morning?”
“Yes. Now ther’s one thing more atween Jan and me. It looks as ef
we’d got to tramp the prairie together fer a long time. Now any man
thet travels alongside of old Trapping Ben, must hev the right sort
of pluck. Don’t ye see thar’s always danger in the life of a free
trapper?”
“I nefer dinks dere vas so mooch, Penn. Off I dinks so, I would not
coom.”
“All right. Hyar ye ar’ an’ hyar ye’ve got ter stay this season. Now
I’ve noticed thet when they b’ar ye right down to it ye kin fight
ez well ez the best man among ’em. But, ye’r’ apt to shirk danger
ef ye hev time to think an’ see it comin’. Now, thet ain’t the way
with a free trapper. They don’t like to fight, nuther will they shirk
danger, nor go a step out of the way to git cl’ar of it.”
“Yaw. Dat ish vat I dinks. You likes to vite. Now I vould sooner
_run_ den fight, if I can.”
Millicent laughed at this _naive_ confession on the part of the
Dutchman, whose face was the very picture of truth.
“I’ll cure ye of that before I quit ye, my boy,” ejaculated Ben.
“Take my word for it. I ain’t goin’ to hev no cowardly cuss in my
camp. Now ef we meet an Injun, what ar’ ye goin’ to do?”
“I dinks I vould run avay so hard ash efer I can,” said Jan, with
refreshing candor. “I not likes Plackfeet no more ash hogs.”
Again the merry laughter of Millicent rung through the pass. Old Ben
looked at her with a fatherly smile.
“You’d run away, would ye? Now, don’t ye ever go to do it. Fer ef ye
do, ez sure ez a gun you git it right through the back. I won’t hev
no skulkin’. It’s no wonder the gal laughs at you. But hyar’s our
b’ar.”
The leaves had rattled down during the night, and drifted so that the
body of the animal was completely covered. Ben brushed them away with
his hand and exposed the huge body to view. Millicent had never seen
a grizzly bear, and it was something so terrible that she could not
repress a cry. The wound which the roer had made was exposed to view.
Indeed, the top of the head was completely blown off.
“Dere!” cried Jan, in high good humor. “I kills dat pear mit mine
roer.”
“It was a bold thing to do.”
“Vell, I dinks off I vas not kill dat pear, ter pear vould kill me,”
said Jan. “So I kills ter pear.”
“That showed great discretion on your part,” laughed Millicent. “But,
what is the sound that seems to come from below?”
Ben stopped pulling at the body of the bear and listened. There was
a pattering sound, like drops of falling rain, and then the pass
below them was filled with a moving mass, and that mass was a pack of
prairie-wolves, coming on at
“Their long gallop, which can tire
The hounds’ deep hate or the hunter’s fire.”
A pack of wolves, mad with hunger. There is nothing more fearful to a
trapper. They know too well the vindictive fury with which the black
brutes pursue and drag down their prey.
“Togs?” queried Jan.
“Wolves!” shouted Ben. “Heel it, Jan! Git up a tree as lively as you
kin. I wouldn’t give a beaver-pelt fer yer life ef ye don’t, and ez
fer the b’ar--umph! Run for it. Turn the hosses loose.”
Snatching Millicent from the horse, he put her into the branches of
a low pine and ordered her to clamber higher. She obeyed without a
word, and he took another tree close at hand. The horses ran toward
the camp.
Jan needed no second bidding, but ran away, with a face which
betokened his earnest hate of the animal in question. Wolves! He had
heard their ominous howl near his house on the borders of the Black
Forest many a time. The ferocity of the animal is wonderful. Jan knew
that well. He recognized the lolling tongue, the white teeth. He had
heard his father tell of peasants taken in the forest, far from home
and dragged down, screaming in vain for aid. Next day their friends
would find their bones whitening in the sun’s rays.
The pack uttered fierce yells at the sight of the man, and rushed at
him. But Jan got to a tree in season, taking his gun with him. Down
came the pack, snarling, snapping at each other, and scattering the
leaves on either side. In a moment they surrounded the trees in which
the trappers had taken shelter, leaping up against them, gnashing
their white teeth and clawing at the bark. Millicent uttered a cry of
terror.
“I dinks I puilds a ’ouse in a dree,” said Jan, despairingly. “I has
peen drove to a dree more ash dree times sence I cooms here. I dinks
dat it vas von coonthry vere dey lifs in der drees.”
“Ye oughter be glad ye’ve _got_ a tree so nigh,” said Ben. “The
durned animiles would ’a’ tore ye to pieces in half a minnit more.
Thar! They’ve found yer b’ar. Don’t holler, gal. They kain’t get at
ye.”
A dozen fierce jaws were tearing at the rough hide of the grizzly,
and others struggling to get a taste of the coveted flesh. Jan was in
a rage. His “pear,” the trophy of his valor, the beast he had killed
with his own hand, to be devoured before his eyes by a pack of hungry
wolves! He was in a towering passion.
“I dinks dat pymepye I gets down unt kills auvery volf in dat flock.
Look! See how dey shpile my pear! I kills dat pear myself.”
“I’m satisfied thet ’tain’t our hide the’r’ a-tearin’,” said Ben.
“Thet’s all right. Let ’em eat. Then mebbe they won’t be so hungry
for us. I guess we may ez well drop a few of them while we’ve got the
light.”
He raised his rifle and was about to fire, but a second thought
caused him to lower it. “No, ’twon’t do to make them any madder then
they ar’, or the obstinate brutes will stay hyar a week but they’ll
hev us. Durn a wolf, anyhow. What do they want to chase us for jest
now?”
“Shpose I shoots my cun at dem vunce,” said Jan. “I shoots fiviff or
sax mit one dime. Look; I shoots dat vun over dere.”
Jan leaned forward and fired.
The charge flew among the wolves about the body of the bear, wounding
several of them more or less. At the same time the branch upon which
the Dutchman was sitting broke, and he fell to the ground. The wolves
fell back at first, but, seeing only one man, rushed at him on every
side.
The German then showed that he was brave enough, if need be. The
heavy gun was swung above his head, and the iron-bound butt descended
on his foes with mighty force. The first brute fell with a crushed
skull. Ben Miffin was not the man to see a comrade in danger and not
come to his aid. He sprung down, scattering the cowardly creatures
right and left.
The diversion enabled Jan to get back to the tree. Ben made a last
rush at the wolves and then climbed to his perch again, leaving a
portion of the flap of his hunting-shirt in the jaws of the foremost
brute.
“Git a stronger limb this time,” said Ben. “Don’t fall ag’in; ef ye
do, durned ef _I’ll_ help ye.”
The pack now recommenced the struggle for the possession of the bear.
Here and there an old or weak wolf was being throttled and torn in
pieces by his comrades.
“A hungry lot,” muttered Ben. “I wish they’d clear out. I don’t want
to stay up hyar all night, an’ I ain’t goin’ to. Come sassies, git
done yer meal an’ clear out.”
“Penn,” said Jan in a slightly tremulous voice, “can volfs climb
drees?”
“Climb trees, ye durned fool! _Of_ course they kin. If they was in
any hurry for ye they’d ’a’ been up thet thar tree half an hour ago.
Oh, I reckon yer cat’s-meat _now_. Say yer prayers, ef ye’ve got any.
I think ye’d better, anyhow. It’s the last chaince ye’ll hev.”
“Don’t talk dat vay, Penn,” said Jan. “Vy you likes to scare a poor
Doochman all to bieces? I dells you I don’t like volfs. Dey ish got
long teeth like nails. I dinks dey pe very hoongry. Vell, shpose I
gits to St. Louis once more, I goes pack to Yarmany mit a backet. I
not shtays here.”
“I judge ye won’t git back to St. Louis,” said Ben. “Them chaps don’t
look much ez ef they meant to let ye, do they? I judge not. Anyway,
I’ve got my opinion, and I’ll back it, thet they begin to gnaw ye in
just ten minnits by the sun. They make short work of a Dutchman.”
“Don’t I know you, Penn Miffin? Don’t I know you so vell ash never
vas? Dey can’t climb no more as a pig. You’s a liar, unt you knows
you pe a liar. I never sees a vorse vun.”
“Jest wait a bit, my lad,” said Ben. “I’ll come to you by and by.”
“I’d rather pe licked py a man dan swallowed py a volfs,” whimpered
Jan. “I fights dem, anyway. I pees not afraid of dem no more ash you.
Coom; vy you no shoots?”
“Shet up!” said Ben. “Somebody is coming. Hark!”