"D'ye know, lad, I don't mind if I go along with ye. It's true, I'm not
tired of them parts hereabouts--and if I wos to live till I couldn't
see, I don't think as ever I'd git tired o' the spot where my father
larned me to shoot an' my mother dandled me on her knee; but I've got a
fancy to see a little more o' the wurld--'specially the far-off parts o'
the Rocky Mountains, w'ere I've never bin yit; so I do b'lieve if ye wos
to try an' persuade me very hard I'd consent to go along with ye."
"Will you, though?" cried March eagerly (again, to his cost, forgetting
the rusty hinges).
"Ay, that will I, boy," replied the hunter; "an' now I think on it,
there's four as jolly trappers in Pine Point settlement at this here
moment as ever floored a grisly or fought an Injun. They're the real
sort of metal. None o' yer tearin', swearin', murderin' chaps, as
thinks the more they curse the bolder they are, an' the more Injuns they
kill the cliverer they are; but steady quiet fellers, as don't speak
much, but _does_ a powerful quantity; boys that know a deer from a
Blackfoot Injun, I guess; that goes to the mountains to trap and comes
back to sell their skins, an' w'en they've sold 'em, goes right off
agin, an' niver drinks."
"I know who you mean, I think; at least I know one of them," observed
March.
"No ye don't, do ye? Who?"
"Waller, the Yankee."
"That's one," said Bounce, nodding; "Big Waller, we calls him."
"I'm not sure that I can guess the others. Surely Tim Slater isn't
one?"
"No!" said Bounce, with an emphasis of tone and a peculiar twist of the
point of his nose that went far to stamp the individual named with a
character the reverse of noble. "Try agin."
"I can't guess."
"One's a French Canadian," said Bounce; "a little chap, with a red nose
an' a pair o' coal-black eyes, but as bold as a lion."
"I know him," interrupted March; "Gibault Noir--Black Gibault, as they
sometimes call him. Am I right?"
"Right, lad; that's two. Then there's Hawkswing, the Injun whose wife
and family were all murdered by a man of his own tribe, and who left his
people after that an' tuck to trappin' with the whites; that's three.
An' there's Redhand, the old trapper that's bin off and on between this
place and the Rocky Mountains for nigh fifty years, I believe."
"Oh, I know him well. He must be made of iron, I think, to go through
what he does at his time of life. I wonder what his right name is?"
"Nobody knows that, lad. You know, as well as I do, that he wos called
Redhand by the Injuns in consekence o' the lot o' grislies he's killed
in his day; but nobody never could git at his real name. P'r'aps it's
not worth gittin' at. Now, them four 'll be startin' in a week or two
for the mountains, an' wot's to hinder us a-jinin' of them?"
To his own question Bounce, after a pause, replied with deliberate
emphasis, "Nothin' wotsomdiver;" and his young companion heartily echoed
the sentiment.
Exactly thirty-six hours after the satisfactory formation of the above
resolution, March Marston galloped furiously towards the door of his
mother's cottage, reined up, leaped to the ground, seized the
buffalo-hump that hung at his saddle-bow, and entered with a good deal
of that impetuosity that had gone far to procure for him the title of
madman. Flinging the bloody mass of meat on the floor he sat down on a
chair, and said--
"There, mother!"
"Well, you _are_ a clever fellow," said Mrs Marston, drying her hands
(for she had been washing dishes), and giving her son a hearty kiss on
the forehead.
"Clever or not clever, mother, I'm off to the Rocky Mountains in two
days."
Mrs Marston was neither dismayed nor surprised. She was used to that
sort of thing, and didn't mind it.
"What to do there, my boy?"
"To see the Wild Man o' the West."
"The what?"
"The Wild Man o' the West, mother."
It is needless to try our reader's patience with the long conversation
that followed. March had resolved to preach a discourse with the "Wild
Man o' the West" for his text, and he preached so eloquently that his
mother (who was by no means a timid woman) at length not only agreed to
let him go, but commended him for his resolution. The only restraint
she laid upon her son had reference to his behaviour towards the Wild
Man, if he should happen to meet with him.
"You may look at him, March (Mrs Marston spoke of him as if he were a
caged wild beast!) and you may speak to him, but you _must not_ fight
with him, except in self-defence. If he lets _you_ alone, you must let
_him_ alone. Promise me that, boy."
"I promise, mother."
Not long after this promise was made, a light bark canoe was launched
upon the river, and into it stepped our hero, with his friend Bounce,
and Big Waller, Black Gibault, Hawkswing, and Redhand, the trappers. A
cheer rang from the end of the little wharf at Pine Point, as the frail
craft shot out into the stream. The wild woods echoed back the cheer,
which mingled with the lusty answering shout of the trappers as they
waved their caps to the friends they left behind them. Then, dipping
their paddles with strong rapid strokes, they headed the canoe towards
the Rocky Mountains, and soon disappeared up one of those numerous
tributary streams that constitute the head waters of the Missouri river.