FIERY REMARKS AND COGITATIONS--ROUND THE CAMP FIRE--THE ARTIST GIVES AN
ACCOUNT OF HIMSELF--VALUE OF A SKETCH-BOOK--DISCOVERIES AND DARK
THREATS--THE BEAR'S-CLAW COLLAR.
There is no doubt whatever that a western trapper knows how to make a
fire. That is an axiomatic certainty. He also knows how to enjoy it.
He is thoroughly conversant with it in all its phases, and with all the
phenomena connected with it, from the bright little spark that flies
from his flint and steel, and nestles on his piece of tinder, to the
great rolling flame that leaps up among the branches of the forest
trees, roaring lustily as it goes out upon the night air, like a mighty
spirit set free from some diminutive prison house, rejoicing in being
once more permitted to reassume its original grand dimensions.
Yes, a western trapper has a grand, massive notion of a fire, and his
actions are all in keeping with that notion. Almost everything is small
at the fountain. A mighty river usually begins in a bubbling spring or
a tiny rivulet. So the trapper's initial acts are delicate. He handles
the tinder gently, and guards it from damp. He fosters the spark, when
caught, and blows upon it softly, and wraps it up in dry grass, and
watches it intently as a mother might watch the life-spark of her
new-born babe. But when once the flame has caught, and the bundle of
little dry twigs has been placed above it, and the pile of broken sticks
has been superadded, the trapper's character is changed. He grasps the
ponderous hatchet, and, Homerically speaking--
"Now toils the hero: trees on trees o'erthrown,
Fall crackling round him, and the forests groan."
These, "lopp'd and lighten'd of their branchy load," he assaults singly.
Heaving the huge axe with lusty sweeping blows, he brings it down.
Great wedgy splinters fly and strew the plain like autumn leaves. Then,
with massive logs, full six feet long, he feeds the hungry fire until it
leaps and roars in might, and glows full red and hot and huge enough to
roast him a bison bull for supper, an he should feel so disposed.
Descending now from the abstract to the concrete, we would remark that,
whether the reader does or does not admit the general proposition, that
western trappers are pre-eminently up to fire (not to mention smoke or
snuff), he cannot deny the fact that Big Waller, the Yankee trapper, was
peculiarly gifted in that way. On the evening of the day on which
occurred the memorable encounter with the grisly bear, as related in the
last chapter, that stalwart individual heaved his ponderous axe and
felled the trees around him in a way that would have paled the
ineffectual fires of Ulysses himself, and would probably have induced
that hero not only to cease cutting trees, but to commence cutting his
stick thenceforth from the field of competition! March Marston
meanwhile kindled the spark and nursed the infant flame. The others
busied themselves in the various occupations of the camp. Some cut down
pine-branches, and strewed them a foot deep in front of the fire, and
trod them down until a soft elastic couch was formed on which to spread
their blankets. Others cut steaks of venison and portions of the grisly
bear, and set them up on the end of sticks before the fire to roast, and
others made fast and secured the canoe and her lading.
The artist, seating himself beside the fire, just near enough to profit
by the light, but far enough away to obtain a general view of everything
and everybody, proceeded with enthusiasm to sketch the whole affair,
collectively and in detail. He devoted his chief attention, however, to
Big Waller. He "caught" that gigantic Yankee in every conceivable
action and attitude. He photographed him, we might almost say, with his
legs apart, the hatchet high above his head, and every muscle tense and
rigid, preliminary to a sweeping blow. He "took" him with a monstrous
pile of logs on his brawny shoulder; he portrayed him resting for a
moment in the midst of his toil; he even attempted to delineate him
tumbling over one of the logs, and hurling a shoulder-load upon the
ground; but he failed utterly in the last attempt, being quite destitute
of comical perception, and he did not finally conclude until Gibault
went forward and informed him that supper was ready. Then he shut up
his book, and, taking his place beside the trappers, began supper.
"This is comfortable--this is pleasant!" remarked the artist, as he sat
down before the warm blaze, and applied himself with infinite relish to
the venison steak placed before him by Bounce. "You live well here, it
would seem."
This latter remark was addressed to Hawkswing, who sat close beside him;
but that imperturbable worthy shook his head gravely.
"He don't understand ye," interposed Bounce, "knows, nothin' but his own
mother tongue. We _do_ live pretty middlin' so so hereabouts when we
ain't starvin', w'ich it isn't for me to deny is sometimes the case,
d'ye see."
Bounce stopped his own talk at this point by stuffing his mouth so full
of meat that no word, not even a word of one syllable, could have forced
itself out, had it tried ever so much. A long silence now ensued,
during which the clack of seven pairs of active jaws was the only sound
that broke upon the ear. It might have been observed, however, that all
eyes were fixed more or less wonderingly on the stranger. Big Waller in
particular looked him, figuratively speaking, through and through. He
did not remove his eyes off him for an instant, but devoured his food
with somewhat the expression of a dog that expects his bone to be
snatched from him.
"Try a duck," said March Marston to the artist, observing that he had
finished his steak.
"Thank you," answered the artist, accepting the proffered bird, which
happened to be a teal, and beginning to carve it with a pen-knife. He
had no fork, but used the fingers of his left hand instead.
Silence again ensued.
"Try another," said March again.
The artist hesitated.
"You'd better; it's a fat un."
"N-no. No!" said the artist, shutting up his knife with an air of
decision. "No, thank you, I always advocate moderation, and it would
ill become me to set an example of glut--ah, of the reverse."
"Wal, stranger," said Waller, who, having finished eating, wiped his
mouth with a tuft of grass, and began to fill his pipe. "You _do_ come
out in the way o' moderation rather powerful. Why a teal duck an' a
ven'son steak is barely enough to stop a feller dyin' right off. I
guess a down-east baby o' six months old 'ud swab up that an' axe for
more."
"Nevertheless it is quite enough for me," replied the artist, leaning
down on his elbow. "I could, indeed, eat more; but I hold that man
should always rise from table capable of eating more, if required."
Here was a proposition that it had not entered into the minds of the
trappers, even in their most transcendental efforts of abstruse
meditation, to think of! They gazed at each other in amazement.
"Wot! not eat yer fill w'en ye git the chance," exclaimed Bounce.
"No, certainly not."
"I say, stranger, when did you feed last?" inquired Big Waller.
"Why do you ask?" said the artist, looking quickly up.
"'Cause I wants to know."