GIBAULT HAS AN ADVENTURE, AND DISCOVERS A VERY STRANGE CREATURE IN THE
WOODS--A MOST TREMENDOUS BEAR-HUNT PARTICULARLY DESCRIBED.
Meanwhile Black Gibault, having followed the course of the river for
some distance on foot, struck into the woods, sought for and found the
track of the bear, and, looking carefully to the priming of his gun, and
knocking the edge of the flint to sharpen it, pushed forward in pursuit
with the ardour of a reckless man.
Gibault Noir was a goose! But he was an amiable goose; therefore men
forgave his follies. Had Gibault not been a goose he never would have
set off alone in pursuit of a grisly bear when he had comrades who might
have accompanied him. Every one knows--at least, if every one does not
know, every one who reads these pages may know henceforth--that the
grisly bear of the western prairies and Rocky Mountains is one of the
most desperate and most dreaded animals on the face of the earth; not
dreaded merely by the weak and the timorous, but dreaded also by the
bravest Indians and the boldest trappers. Of course we do not mean to
say that by these latter the grisly bear is dreaded with anything like
cowardly terror; but it is regarded with that degree of wholesome
anxiety and extreme caution with which men usually regard an excessively
dangerous and powerful enemy.
Unlike other bears, the grisly bear scorns to fly from before the face
of man. His ferocity, when wounded, is terrible, and his tenacity of
life is such that, however many mortal wounds one may give him, he will
retain life and strength long enough to kill his assailant before he
himself dies, unless he is shot dead at once by a ball being planted in
his heart or brain, both of which are difficult to reach.
He has a grumpy sort of magnanimity of his own, however, and will
usually let men alone if men will let him alone. But men are not prone
to let anything alone; hence encounters are frequent; wounds, on both
sides, are numerous; and death, on one or other side, is almost certain.
Old trappers are not fond of attacking Caleb single-handed, but young
hot-blooded fellows, who have got their names to make, are less
cautious, and sometimes even court the combat, as was the case in the
present instance with reckless Gibault Noir.
For half an hour, Gibault went over the ground at a sort of half-walk,
half-trot, stopping occasionally to examine the prints of the bear more
narrowly when they passed across hard ground that did not take a good
impression. At length he came to a deep gully or creek, where the
bushes were so dense that he could not see far through them in any
direction. Here he halted, re-examined his priming, and, peering
cautiously through the underwood, advanced with much greater
deliberation and care than heretofore.
In descending the gully, Gibault stumbled once or twice, and made one or
two crashing bursts through bushes that would have proved quite
impervious to most men. After much toil he reached the bottom, and,
standing there, up to the ankles in a small rivulet, gazed upward at the
bank he had now to ascend.
"Vraiment, it be uncommonly difficile," said he, addressing himself to
the task, while the perspiration began to roll down his forehead.
At last he reached the top of the bank on the other side, and, after
panting for some time, began to look for the bear's footprints; but
these could not now be found. In his scramble through the gully he had
lost them, and the ground on the side he had just reached was so hard
and rocky that it seemed to him doubtful whether it was capable of
receiving any visible impression from a bear's paw. It was just
possible, too, that the animal had found the descent of the gully as
difficult as he himself had; in which case it was highly probable that
it had used the course of the rivulet as a pathway.
For a moment, the little Canadian meditated a second descent into the
gully for the purpose of settling this point, but, having not yet quite
ceased to pant from his recent exertions, he thought better of it, and
determined to make a further examination of the ground where he was.
After doing so for a quarter of an hour, his exertions were rewarded by
the discovery of what appeared to be a track. It was not very distinct,
but it was sufficiently so to induce him to follow it up with renewed
ardour.
Presently he came upon a spot where the ground was not so thickly
covered with underwood, and where, in some places, it was so soft as to
show an exact print of the foot of the animal he was following up. Here
he received a great disappointment, and an equally great surprise--a
disappointment on finding that the track he followed was _not_ that of a
bear, and a surprise on discovering that it _was_ that of a man!
On first making this discovery, Gibault stopped short, laid his gun on
the ground, stooped down, planted a hand on each knee, opened his eyes
to their utmost, pursed his lips to the tightest, and stared at the
footprint, the very embodiment of astonishment. After a few seconds he
gave vent to a low whistle, and said "Ho!" Exactly ten seconds after
that, he said "Ha!" and, raising his right hand, scratched the point of
his nose, which, being too red naturally, was not improved by the
operation.
None of these acts and exclamations, either collectively or singly,
seemed to afford him any enlightenment, for he began to shake his head
slowly from side to side, as if he had come to the conclusion that the
whole affair was utterly beyond his limited comprehension; then he
started up, shouldered his gun, and followed the track of the man with
as much ardour as he had formerly pursued that of the bear.
Perseverance is almost invariably rewarded. This would seem to be one
of those laws of nature which fail to operate only on very rare and
peculiar occasions. Gibault had not advanced more than a hundred yards
when he came suddenly upon the man whose feet had made the tracks he had
been following.
"The Vild-Man-of-de-Vest! certainement!" muttered Black Gibault slowly,
as he gazed at the creature before him, and quietly cocked his rifle to
be ready for any emergency.
Certainly the man upon whom our trapper had stumbled thus suddenly might
have been styled the wild man of any region--west, north, east, or
south,--with perfect propriety. On his legs were a pair of dark grey
fustian trousers, which had seen so much service that, from the knee
downwards, they were torn into shreds. His feet were covered by a pair
of moccasins. Instead of the usual hunting-shirt he wore one of the
yellow deerskin coats of a Blackfoot chief, which was richly embroidered
with beads and quilt work, and fringed with scalp-locks. On his head he
wore a felt hat, with a broad rim and a tall conical crown, somewhat
resembling a Spanish sombrero, and beside him, on the bough of a tree,
hung a long blue Spanish cloak. The countenance of this extraordinary
man was handsome and youthful, but wild and somewhat haggard, as if from
much recent suffering. His eye was black and piercing, his nose
aquiline, and his forehead broad, but his mouth was effeminate, his chin
small and beardless, his neck long, his shoulders narrow and sloping,
and his black hair hung in long straight locks over his shoulders. A
short sword, somewhat resembling that of the ancient Roman, lay on the
sward beside him, and near to it a huge cavalry pistol of the olden
time, with a brass barrel and a bell mouth--a species of miniature
blunderbuss. Its fellow was stuck in his belt, beneath the chief's
coat, as could be observed from the appearance of the butt protruding
from the opening in the breast thereof.
This personage was seated on a grassy knoll so absorbed in some curious
kind of occupation that he was totally unobservant of the presence of
Gibault until he had approached to within thirty yards of him. Although
his occupation was a mystery to the trapper, to one a little more
conversant with the usages of civilised life, the open book on the knee,
the easy flow of the pencil, and the occasional use of a piece of
indiarubber, would have been sufficient evidence that the young man was
sketching the view before him.
"Ahem!" coughed Gibault.
The stranger scattered book, pencil, and indiarubber to the winds (or to
the atmosphere, for there happened to be no wind at the time), and
started up. In doing so, he showed that he was at least a tall, if not
a stout fellow. Seizing a pistol with one hand and his sword with the
other, he presented both at Gibault, and yelled, rather than shouted,
"Stay! halt! stop now, my man; drop the butt of your gun, else I'll--
I'll blow out your brains."
Although somewhat startled by this unusual mode of salutation, the
trapper had sense and quickness enough to perceive that the artist was
in anything but a warlike state of mind, and that his violent
demonstration was the result of having been startled; so, pulling off
his cap with that native politeness which is one of the characteristics
of the French Canadian, he advanced, and said--
"Bon jour, monsieur. I ver' moch sorray dat I be give you von fright.
Pardon, sair; how you do?"
"Thank you--thank you, good fellow," replied the artist, laying down his
weapons and grasping Gibault's proffered hand with a sigh of evident
relief, "I am well, excellently well. You did, indeed, startle me by
your sudden appearance; but no harm is done, and where none was intended
no apology is necessary. You are a Frenchman, I think?"
"Non, sair; not 'xactly. I be French Canadian. Mine fadder was be von
Canadian; mine moder was a Frenchvoman; I be leetle of both."
"And you have cause to be proud of your country, my man," returned the
artist, collecting his scattered drawing materials and quietly sitting
down to continue his sketch, "a splendid country and a noble people.
Sit down, my good friend, if you can spare time, while I put a few
finishing touches to this sketch."
"Mais," said Gibault, rubbing his nose in great perplexity at the
coolness of this eccentric wanderer; "mais, monsieur, I hab _not_ time;
I be follerin' de tracks of von monstracious grisly bar--"
"What! a grisly bear?" cried the artist, looking up with sudden
animation.
"Oui, monsieur. We have see him not long 'go, an' hopes to kill him
soon."
The artist's dark eye sparkled with animation as he hastily shut up his
sketch-book and thrust it, with his drawing materials, into a small
pocket inside the breast of his coat.
"A grisly bear!" he repeated. "Ha! lead on, good fellow, I will
follow."
Thus urged, Gibault, without further loss of time, led the way to the
banks of the river, followed closely by his new friend, who stalked
behind him with long ostrich-like strides. The semi-theatrical air of
the artist made a deep impression on the trapper. Had Gibault known
what a theatrical air was, he might have been immensely tickled; but,
being what he was--an unsophisticated son of the wilderness--he knew
nothing about such airs, and therefore regarded his companion in the
light of a superior order of being, or a madman; he was not quite sure
which.
In a few minutes they emerged from the bushes and came out upon the bank
of the river, which at that part was high and precipitous, with few
trees, but a considerable quantity of underwood on the slopes.
"Are you sure, friend, that a bear has been seen by you?" inquired the
artist.
"Oui; most positavly sure, sair. Ha! an' here be him's fut encore. I
have lose him in de vood. Now, monsieur, have your pistol ready."
"Lead on," returned the artist. "I have longed much for this day. To
shoot an individual of this ferocious class has been my ambition--Ho!
friend, look here. Yonder object seems like a canoe. Whence comes it,
think you? This region, I know, is not very safe. There are Indians
who do not love the whites in--"
"No fear, monsieur," interrupted Gibault, "dat be mine comerades--Good
mans an' true every von. Dey come to land here, I see."
A low growl in the bushes a little distance ahead of them put an abrupt
termination to the conversation. Gibault threw forward the muzzle of
his gun, and glanced at his comrade. The glance did not tend to comfort
him. The artist was pale as death. This, and an occasional twitch of
the lip, were clear and unmistakable signs to the backwoodsman that fear
had taken possession of his friend, and that he was not to be counted on
in the moment of danger. Yet there was a stern knitting of the
eyebrows, and a firm pressure of the lips, that seemed to indicate
better qualities, and perplexed him not a little.
"P'r'aps, monsieur," suggested Gibault hesitatingly, "you had better
vait for de canoe."
"Lead on!" said the artist, cocking both pistols, and pointing with one
of them to the place whence the growl had issued.
Gibault elevated his eyebrows, shrugged his shoulders
characteristically, and, uttering the single word "bien!" walked quickly
forward.
A few steps brought him to an open space, in the midst of which the
grisly bear was discovered. It was seated on its haunches, looking
sulkily about, as if it had a suspicion that enemies were tracking it.
Creeping with the utmost caution on his hands and knees, Gibault got to
within forty yards of the monster, whose aspect at that moment was
enough to try the courage of most men. There was a wicked glare in his
little eye, as he swayed his huge body from side to side, that indicated
but too clearly the savage nature of his disposition. Even Gibault felt
a little uneasy, and began to think himself a fool for having ventured
on such an expedition alone. His state of mind was not improved by the
sound of the artist's teeth chattering in his head like castanets.
Taking a very long and deliberate aim at the bear's heart, he pulled the
trigger, but the faithless lock of his old flint-gun missed fire.
Without a sign of annoyance or agitation, the trapper recocked the gun,
again pulled the trigger, and with the same result. Three times this
occurred, and at each click of the lock the bear cocked his ears
inquiringly. The third time, he rose and sauntered slowly towards the
spot where the men lay concealed.
"Stay," whispered the artist, as Gibault was once more about to try his
piece, after rubbing the edge of his flint with his thumb-nail; "stay, I
will fire."
So saying, he suddenly pointed a pistol straight at the advancing
monster and fired. A tremendous roar followed the report. Gibault
leaped up, exclaiming angrily, "Vat foolishness! a pistol! hah! ve must
run." He turned at once to do so.
"Stay!" cried the artist, who no longer trembled, though his countenance
was still ashy pale, "I have another pistol."
"Does you vish to _die_?" yelled the trapper, seizing his comrade by
the collar.
Whether it was the yell of the man, or the reiterated roar of the
advancing bear, or both combined, that had an effect on the artist, we
cannot tell, but certain it is that he sprang up and darted after
Gibault with astonishing rapidity. Being long-legged and uncommonly
supple he soon passed him; but, fast though they both ran, the bear ran
faster, and, having been badly cut up about the face by the slugs with
which the pistol had been charged, his spirit was roused to the utmost
pitch of ferocity.
Now, while this was going on in the bush, the other trappers were
quietly fastening the line of their canoe to a shrub that held it
floating in a pool of still water near the shore. No sooner did the
pistol-shot ring upon their ears than every man seized his gun, hastily
examined the priming, and scrambled up the bank, which at that spot was
very steep.
Having gained the top, they paused for an instant to gaze intently at
the bank of the river above them, in order to ascertain the exact spot
to which they ought to hurry.
"I see no smoke," said March Marston in a tone of deep anxiety.
"Gibault's gun didn't use for to bark in that sort o' voice," observed
Bounce.
"I do b'lieve that bar's got 'im," cried Big Waller, bounding forward.
He had not taken a second bound when the artist, flying at full speed
about three hundred yards up the river, burst upon the astonished vision
of the party. His sombrero had blown off, his long hair streamed
straight behind him, so did the scalp-locks on his coat, and so did his
long cloak which was fastened to his neck by a clasp, and which, in his
present panting and rushing condition, wellnigh strangled him.
Before the wonder-stricken trappers had time to remark on this singular
apparition, or to form any opinion in regard to it, poor Gibault came
tearing round the point like a maniac, with the bear close upon his
heels. This was enough. The backwoodsmen no longer showed any signs of
surprise or hesitancy. A grisly bear was a familiar object--a comrade
in imminent danger was equally so. They sprang forward to meet the
fugitives.
By this time the cloak had so retarded and strangled the poor artist
that he had fallen a pace or two behind Gibault, and it seemed almost
certain that he would fall a victim to the furious bear before the
trappers could kill it, for they could not venture to fire at it while
the fugitives almost screened it from their view. As they drew near to
each other the trappers almost instinctively divided into two parties.
Redhand and Hawkswing went a little to the right; Bounce, Waller, and
our hero, diverged to the left, so as to let the flying men pass between
them, and thus attack the bear on both sides at once.
Gibault attempted to cheer as he darted through the friendly line, but
he could only give forth a gasp. At that moment an unexpected incident
contributed to the deliverance of the artist. The bear was within a
yard of him as he came up; just then the clasp of his cloak gave way,
and the huge garment instantly enveloped the head of the bear and a
considerable portion of its body. It tripped, rolled over, and, in
attempting to free itself, tore the cloak to shreds.
At the same instant a volley was fired by the trappers, and three balls
pierced its body. None of them, however, seemed to have hit a mortal
part, for the infuriated animal instantly rose and glared from side to
side in disappointed malice, while the trappers who had fired were
reloading, each behind a bush, with perfect coolness, but with the
utmost celerity.
While the bear was on the ground, the fugitives had each sprung into the
bush, and found a place of concealment. Redhand on the one side, and
Bounce on the other, had reserved their fire; the wisdom of this was now
shown. The bear made a rush at the bushes on one side, and instantly
received a shot from the other. It turned at once to rush on the
concealed enemy there, but, before it had made a stride in that
direction, another ball was lodged in it from the opposite side. The
vacillations thus produced gave the other trappers time to reload, and,
before it had made up its mind which to attack, another volley was
fired, and three balls took effect, Redhand and Bounce still reserving
their fire as at the first.
The impotent fury of the creature was now awful to behold. It was
mortally wounded; there could be no doubt as to that, for the trappers
were all pretty good shots and knew where to fire, but they had not
succeeded yet in reaching the seat of life. One ball had broken the
bear's shoulder, and the blood flowed from its wounds, while churned
blood and foam dropped from its jaws.
Before another volley could be fired it made a furious rush at the three
men who had kept away to the left, namely, Big Waller, Bounce, and
March. There was no help for it; not having completed their loading,
they had to drop their guns and run. We have already said that these
three had diverged towards the river. It now proved to be unfortunate
that they had done so, for the bank at that place jutted out into the
stream in such a way that it was impossible for them to avoid leaping
into the river. The bank overhung the stream and was fully twenty feet
high. Big Waller, who reached it first, hesitated to take the leap.
Bounce, who came next, rushed violently against him, and the two went
over together, fell into the water with a tremendous splash, and sank.
March come up the instant after, and sprang far out at once with a bold,
unhesitating spring. The bear was so close upon the youth that for one
moment they were both in the air at the same time, but the former had
not gone off with a spring, he merely tumbled over, half involuntarily,
so that when they struck the water there was at least a yard between
them. But this was not a long space. The superior swimming powers of
the bear over the man would have diminished the distance to nothing in a
minute or so. Even as it was, the bear was within six inches of March's
heels when Hawkswing and Redhand gained the edge of the bank.
Redhand was armed with a rifle--an old and trusty weapon that had been
the means of saving his own life and the lives of comrades in many a
doubtful encounter with beast and with man. Kneeling down, he took a
rapid aim and fired. The bullet sped true. It entered the back of the
bear's head, and the lifeless carcass floated down the stream. The
three men, instantly observing the effect of the shot, turned round,
and, swimming towards their late enemy, laid hold of him, and dragged
and pushed him with some difficulty towards the shore.
Meanwhile Black Gibault, who had issued from his hiding-place and had
witnessed Redhand's successful shot, began to caper and dance and shout
in the exuberance of his glee. Most men are apt to suffer when they
give way to extravagant action of any kind. Gibault forgot that he was
on the edge of an overhanging bank. The concussion with which he came
to the ground after the performance of a peculiarly complicated
pirouette broke off the edge of the bank, and he was precipitated
headlong into the river, just a yard or so from the spot where his
comrades were engaged in landing the bear.
A loud laugh greeted his sudden and unexpected descent. Scrambling on
shore, and laying hold of the bear's tail, he exclaimed--
"Hah! mes garcons, heave avay. I have come down for to give you leetle
help. Splenderous hear! Pull avay!"
The bear was then dragged out of the water and stretched upon the green
sward, where for some time the trappers stood round it in a picturesque
group, commenting upon its size and appearance, and remarking upon the
various incidents of the chase.
As the exact dimensions of this particular bear were taken and noted
down on the spot, we will give them here for the benefit of inquiring
minds. It weighed, as nearly as could be guessed by men who were
practised in estimating weights, 600 pounds. On its hind legs it stood
8 feet 7 inches. Round the chest it measured 5 feet 10 inches; round
the neck 3 feet 11 inches. The circumference of the thickest part of
the fore leg was 2 feet, and the length of each of its claws was 4 and a
quarter inches. It was whitey-brown in colour, and a shaggier, fiercer,
uglier monster could not well be imagined.
"But, I say," cried Bounce, looking round suddenly, "wot's come o' yon
'xtraor'nary feller as--"
Bounce paused abruptly, for at that moment his eye fell on the
"'xtraor'nary feller" in question. He was seated quietly on a large
stone, not many yards distant, with book on knee and pencil in hand,
making a rapid sketch of the party and the surrounding scene!
"Wot is he?" inquired Bounce of Gibault in a whisper.
"I calc'late," observed Waller in a low voice, at the same time touching
his forehead and looking mysterious; "I calc'late, he's
noncombobble-fusticated."
"Perhaps," said Redhand with a quiet laugh.
"Whatever he is, it's bad manners to stand starin' at him," said
Redhand, "so you'd better go and pick up yer guns and things, while
Bounce and I skin this feller and cut off his claws."
The party separated at once, and the artist, who seemed a little
disappointed at being thus checked in his work, no sooner observed the
flaying process begin than he turned over the leaf of his book, and
began a new sketch.
Not many minutes were required for the skinning of the bear. When it
was done, it, along with all the scattered things, was placed in the
canoe, and then Redhand, approaching the artist, touched his cap and
said--
"You have shared our hunt to-day, sir; mayhap you'll not object to share
our camp and our supper."
"Most willingly, my good friend," replied the artist, rising and holding
out his hand, which the trapper shook heartily. "You seem to be
trappers."
"We are, sir, at your service. It's gettin' late and we've a good bit
to go yet, before we come to the place where we mean to camp, so you'd
better come at once."
"Certainly; by all means; let us embark without delay," replied the
artist, pocketing his sketch-book.
"Pardon me, sir," said Redhand, with some hesitation, "are you alone?"
"I am," replied the other sadly; then, as if a sudden thought had struck
him--"I had two pistols and a cloak once."
"We've picked 'em up, sir. They're in the canoe now. At least the
pistols are, an' what's left o' the cloak."
"Ha! 'twas an old and cherished friend! Are you ready?"
"All ready, sir."
So saying, the old man led the way to the canoe and embarked with his
strange companion. Then, pushing out into the stream just as the shades
of night began to descend upon the wilderness, the trappers paddled
swiftly away, wondering in their hearts who and what the stranger could
be, and talking occasionally in subdued tones of the chief incidents of
the exciting combat through which they had so recently passed.