SHORT TREATISE ON HORSEFLESH--REMARKS ON SLANG--DOINGS AND SIGHTS ON THE
PRAIRIE--THE MOUNTAIN FORT.
A horse is a wonderful thing--if we may presume to style so noble a
creature "a thing!" And the associations connected in some minds with a
horse are wonderful associations. No doubt a horse, to many people, is
a commonplace enough sort of thing; and the associations connected with
horseflesh in general, in some minds, are decidedly low--having relation
to tugging a cart, or tumbling along with a plough, or rattling with a
cab, or prancing in a carriage, or being cut up into butcher's meat for
cats and dogs. Nevertheless, a horse is a wonderful creature; and man's
associations in connection with him are, not infrequently, of the most
wonderful and romantic kind. Talk to the warrior of his steed, and he
will speak of him as of his dearest friend. Talk to the Arab of his
horse, and he will talk of his pet, his spoiled child! As it is with
these, so is it with the trapper of the western prairies.
After a few weeks' acquaintance, the trapper and his horse become one--
part and parcel of each other, at least as far as it is possible for man
and horse to amalgamate. On the one hand, the horse is tended, hobbled,
patted, saddled, spoken to, watched over, and tenderly cared for by the
man; on the other hand, the man is carried, respected, sometimes bitten
(playfully), depended on, and loved by the horse. Day after day, and
week after week, the limbs of the one and the ribs of the other are
pressed against each other, until they become all but united, and the
various play of muscles on the part of both becomes so delicately
significant that the bridle, to a great extent, becomes unnecessary, and
the rider feels when the horse is about to shy, just as quickly as the
horse feels, by a gentle pressure on either side, how much the rider
wishes him to diverge to the right or left.
Sometimes the horse breaks his hobbles and runs away, thus aggravating
the spirits of, and causing infinite annoyance to, the man. Frequently
the man, out of revenge for such or similar freaks, larrups and pains
and worries the horse. But these little asperities are the occasional
landmarks that give point and piquancy to the even tenor of their loving
career. Neither would, for a moment, think of allowing such incidents
to rankle in his bosom. Both would repudiate with scorn the idea that
they were a whit less useful, or in any degree less attached, to each
other on account of such trifling tiffs!
Day after day our trappers mounted their steeds and traversed the great
prairie--now at a rattling trot, now at a tearing gallop; frequently at
a quiet foot-pace, when the nature of the ground rendered a more rapid
progress dangerous, or when the exhaustion of horses and men rendered
rest necessary, or when the beautiful nature of the scenery and the warm
sunny condition of the atmosphere induced a contemplative frame of mind
and a placid state of body.
Night after night the horses--having stuffed themselves, like greedy
things as they were, with the greenest and tenderest herbage on the rich
plains--returned to the camp fire round which the trappers were lying in
deep slumber, and each selecting his own master, would stand over him
with drooping head and go to sleep, until dawn called them again to
united action.
Thus day and night passed for the space of three weeks after the night
of the surprise of the Indian camp, without anything particular
occurring; and thus quadrupeds and bipeds came to be familiar and well
acquainted with each other--so thoroughly united in sympathetic action--
as almost to become hexapeds, if we may be permitted the expression.
March Marston's quadruped was a beautiful little bay, whose tendency to
bound over every little stick and stone, as if it were a five-barred
gate, and to run away upon all and every occasion, admirably suited the
tastes and inclinations of its mercurial rider.
There was one among the quadrupeds which was striking in appearance--not
to say stunning. No; we won't say stunning, because that is a slang
expression, and many persons object to slang expressions; therefore we
will avoid that word; although we confess to being unable to see why, if
it is allowable (as every one will admit it is) to assert that men may
be mentally "struck," it is not equally proper to say that they may be
stunned. But we bow to prejudice. We won't say that that horse was
"stunning." While on this subject, we think it right to guard ourself,
parenthetically, from the charge of being favourable to _all_ kinds of
slang. We are in favour of speech--yes, we assert that broadly and
fearlessly, without reservation--but we are not in favour of _all_
speech. Coarse speech, for instance, we decidedly object to. So, we
are in favour of slang, but not of _all_ slang. There are some slang
words which are used instead of oaths, and these, besides being wicked,
are exceedingly contemptible. Tempting, however, they are--too apt to
slip from the tongue and from the pen, and to cause regret afterwards.
But to return. Although we won't say that the quadruped in question was
stunning, we will say again that it was striking--so powerfully striking
that the force of the stroke was calculated almost to stun. It was
uncommonly tall, remarkably short in the body, and had a piebald coat.
Moreover, it had no tail--to speak of--as that member had, in some
unguarded moment, got into the blaze of the camp fire and been burnt off
close to the stump. The stump, however, was pretty long, and, at the
time when the trappers became possessed of the animal, that appendage
was covered with a new growth of sparsely scattered and very stiff hair,
about three inches long, so that it resembled a gigantic bottle-brush.
Being a spirited animal, the horse had a lively bottle-brush, which was
grotesque, if it was nothing else.
This quadruped's own particular biped was Theodore Bertram. He had a
peculiar liking for it (as he had for everything picturesque), not only
on account of its good qualities--which were, an easy gait and a tender
mouth--but also because it was his own original animal, that of which he
had been deprived by the Indians, and which he had recaptured with
feelings akin to those of a mother who recovers a long-lost child.
We have said that the space of three weeks passed without anything
particular occurring to our trappers. This remark, however, must be
taken in a limited sense. Nothing particularly connected with the
thread of this story occurred; though very many and particularly
interesting things of a minor nature did occur during the course of that
period.
It would require a work equal in size to the "Encyclopaedia Britannica"
to contain all the interesting things that were said and seen and done
on those prairies by these trappers within that brief space of time. A
conscientiously particular chronicler of events would have detailed the
route of each day, the latitude and longitude of each resting-place, the
very nature of the wood which composed the fuel of each fire. He would
have recorded that March Marston's little bay ran away with him--not, in
a general way, fifty or a hundred times, but exactly so many times,
specifying the concomitant circumstances of each separate time, and the
results of each particular race. He would have noted, with painful
accuracy, the precise number of times in which Theodore Bertram (being a
bad rider) fell off his horse, or was pitched off in consequence of that
quadruped putting its foot inadvertently into badger holes. He would
have mentioned that on each occasion the unfortunate artist blackened
his eye, or bled or skinned his nasal organ, and would have dilated
anatomically on the peculiar colour of the disfigured orb and the exact
amount of damage done to the bruised nose. He would have told not only
the general fact that bears, and elks, and antelopes, and prairie dogs,
and wolves, and buffaloes, were seen in great numbers continually, and
were shot in abundance, but he would have recorded that Bertram did, on
one occasion, in the height of his enthusiastic daring, give a shout and
draw one of his blunderbuss-pistols, on observing a grisly bear at a
short distance ahead of him; that he dashed his heels violently against
the sides of his remarkable horse; that the said horse did toss his
head, shake his bottle-brush, and rush full tilt towards the bear until
he caught sight of it, when he turned off at a sharp angle, leaving
Bertram on the plain at the mercy of the bear; that Bruin, who was in
nowise alarmed, observing his condition, came to see what was the matter
with him; and that he, Mr Bertram, would certainly have fallen a victim
to his own headstrong courage on the one hand, and to the bear's known
tendency to rend human beings on the other, had not March come up at
that moment and shot it through the heart, while Redhand shot it through
the brain.
And this supposed conscientious chronicler of events, had he been a
naturalist, would have further detailed, with graphic particularity, the
rich, exuberant, and varied _flora_ of the region--from the largest
plant that waved and blossomed in the prairie winds to the lowliest
floweret that nestled among the tender and sweet-scented grasses on the
prairie's breast. In regard to the _fauna_ of those regions, he would
have launched out upon the form, the colour, size, habits,
peculiarities, etcetera, of every living thing, from the great buffalo
(which he would have carefully explained was _not_ the buffalo, but the
_bison_) down to the sly, impudent, yet harmless little prairie dog
(which he would have also carefully noted was _not_ the prairie dog, but
the marmot).
Had this supposed recorder of facts been of an erratic nature, given to
wander from anecdote to description, and _vice versa_, he would perhaps
have told, in a parenthetical sort of way, how that, during these three
weeks, the trappers enjoyed uninterrupted fine weather; how the artist
sketched so indefatigably that he at last filled his book to overflowing
and had to turn it upside down, begin at the end, and sketch on the
backs of his previous drawings; how Big Waller and Black Gibault became
inseparable friends and sang duets together when at full gallop, the
latter shrieking like a wild-cat, the former roaring like a buffalo
bull; how March Marston became madder than ever, and infected his little
steed with the same disease, so that the two together formed a species
of insane compound that caused Redhand and Bounce to give vent to many a
low chuckle and many a deep sagacious remark, and induced Hawkswing to
gaze at it--the compound--in grave astonishment.
All this and a great deal more might be told, and, no doubt, might prove
deeply interesting. But, as no man can do everything, so no man can
record everything; therefore we won't attempt it, but shall at once, and
without further delay, proceed to that part of our tale which bears more
directly on the Rocky Mountains and the Wild Man of the West himself.
"It's a strong place," said Redhand, checking the pace of his horse and
pointing to a small edifice or fort which stood on the summit of a
little mound or hill about a quarter of a mile in advance of them--"a
very strong place--such as would puzzle the redskins to break into if
defended by men of ordinary pluck."
"Men of pluck sometimes get careless, and go to sleep, though," said
March Marston, riding up to the old trapper; "I've heard o' such forts
bein' taken by redskins before now."
"So have I, lad, so have I," returned Redhand; "I've heard o' a fort
bein' attacked by Injuns when the men were away huntin', an' bein' burnt
down. But it ginerally turns out that the whites have had themselves to
thank for't."
"Ay, that's true," observed Bounce; "some o' the whites in them parts is
no better nor they should be. They treats the poor Injuns as if they
wos dogs or varmints, an' then they're astonished if the redskins murder
them out o' revenge. I know'd one feller as told me that when he lived
on the west side o' the mountains, where some of the Injuns are a
murderin' set o' thieves, he niver lost a chance o' killin' a redskin.
Of course the redskins niver lost a chance o' killin' the whites; an' so
they come to sich a state o' war, that they had to make peace by givin'
them no end o' presents o' guns an' cloth an' beads--enough to buy up
the furs o' a whole tribe."
"I guess they was powerful green to do anything o' the sort," said Big
Waller. "I knowed a feller as was in command of a party o' whites, who
got into much the same sort of fix with the Injuns--always fightin' and
murderin'; so what does he do, think ye?"
"Shooted de chief and all hims peepil," suggested Gibault.
"Nothin' o' the sort," replied Waller. "He sends for the chief, an'
gives him a grand present, an' says he wants to marry his darter. An'
so he _did_ marry his darter, right off, an' the whites an' redskins was
friends ever after that. The man what did that was a gentleman too--so
they said; tho' for my part I don't know wot a gentleman is--no more do
I b'lieve there ain't sich a thing; but if there be, an' it means
anything good, I calc'late that that man _wos_ a gentleman, for w'en he
grew old he took his old squaw to Canada with him, 'spite the larfin' o'
his comrades, who said he'd have to sot up a wigwam for her in his
garden. But he says, `No,' says he, `I married the old ooman for better
an' for worse, an' I'll stick by her to the last. There's too many o'
you chaps as leaves yer wives behind ye when ye go home--I'm detarmined
to sot ye a better example.' An' so he did. He tuk her home an' put
her in a grand house in some town in Canada--I don't well mind which--
but when he wasn't watchin' of her, the old ooman would squat down on
the carpet in the drawin'-room, for, d'ye see, she hadn't bin used to
chairs. His frinds used to advise him to put her away, an' the kindlier
sort said he should give her a room to herself, and not bring her into
company where she warn't at ease; but no, the old man said always,
`She's my lawful wedded wife, an' if she was a buffalo cow I'd stick by
her to the last'--an' so he did."
"Vraiment he was von cur'ous creetur," observed Gibault.
"See, they have descried us!" exclaimed Bertram, pointing to the fort,
which they were now approaching, and where a bustle among the
inhabitants showed that their visitors were not always peacefully
disposed, and that it behoved them to regard strangers with suspicion.
"Would it not be well to send one of our party on in advance with a
white flag?" observed Bertram.
"No need for that," replied Redhand, "they're used to all kinds o'
visitors--friends as well as foes. I fear, however, from the haste they
show in closing their gate, that they ain't on good terms with the
Injuns."
"The red-men and the pale-faces are at war," said Hawkswing.
"Ay, you're used to the signs, no doubt," returned Redhand, "for you've
lived here once upon a time, I b'lieve."
The Indian made no reply, but a dark frown overspread his countenance
for a few minutes. When it passed, his features settled down into their
usual state of quiet gravity.
"Have ye ever seed that fort before?" inquired Bounce in the Indian
tongue.
"I have," answered Hawkswing. "Many moons have passed since I was in
this spot. My nation was strong then. It is weak now. Few braves are
left. We sometimes carried our furs to that fort to trade with the
pale-faces. It is called the Mountain Fort. The chief of the
pale-faces was a bad man then. He loved fire-water too much. If he is
there still, I do not wonder that there is war between him and the
red-men."
"That's bad," said Bounce, shaking his head slowly--"very bad; for the
redskins 'll kill us if they can on account o' them rascally
fur-traders. Howsomdiver we can't mend it, so we must bear it."
As Bounce uttered this consolatory remark, the party cantered up to the
open space in front of the gate of the fort, just above which a man was
seen leaning quietly over the wooden walls of the place with a gun
resting on his arm.
"Hallo!" shouted this individual when they came within hail.
"Hallo!" responded Bounce.
"Friends or foes, and where from?" inquired the laconic guardian of the
fort.
"Friends," replied Redhand riding forward, "we come from the
Yellowstone. Have lost some of our property, but got some of it back,
and want to trade furs with you."
To this the sentinel made no reply, but, looking straight at Big Waller,
inquired abruptly, "Are you the Wild Man?"
"Wot wild man?" said Waller gruffly.
"Why, the Wild Man o' the West?"
"No, I hain't," said Waller still more gruffly, for he did not feel
flattered by the question.
"Have you seen him?"
"No I hain't, an' guess I shouldn't know him if I had."
"Why do you ask?" inquired March Marston, whose curiosity had been
roused by these unexpected questions.
"'Cause I want to know," replied the man quitting his post and
disappearing. In a few minutes he opened the gate, and the trappers
trotted into the square of the fort.
The Mountain Fort, in which they now dismounted, was one of those little
wooden erections in which the hardy pioneers of the fur trade were wont
in days of old to establish themselves in the very heart of the Indian
country. Such forts may still be seen in precisely similar
circumstances, and built in the same manner, at the present day, in the
Hudson's Bay territories; with this difference that the Indians, having
had long experience of the good intentions and the kindness of the
pale-faces, no longer regard them with suspicion. The walls were made
of strong tall palisades, with bastions built of logs at the corners,
and a gallery running all round inside close to the top of the walls, so
that the defenders of the place could fire over the palisades, if need
be, at their assailants. There was a small iron cannon in each bastion.
One large gate formed the entrance, but this was only opened to admit
horsemen or carts; a small wicket in one leaf of the gate formed the
usual entrance.
The buildings within the fort consisted of three little houses, one
being a store, the others dwelling-houses, about which several men and
women and Indian children, besides a number of dogs, were grouped.
These immediately surrounded the trappers as they dismounted. "Who
commands here?" inquired Redhand.
"I do," said the sentinel before referred to, pushing aside the others
and stepping forward, "at least I do at present. My name's McLeod. He
who ought to command is drunk. He's _always_ drunk."
There was a savage gruffness in the way in which McLeod said this that
surprised the visitors, for his sturdy-looking and honest countenance
seemed to accord ill with such tones.
"An' may I ask who _he_ is?" said Redhand.
"Oh yes, his name's Macgregor--you can't see him to-night, though.
There'll be bloody work here before long if he don't turn over a new
leaf--"
McLeod checked himself as if he felt that he had gone too far. Then he
added, in a tone that seemed much more natural to him, "Now, sirs, come
this way. Here," (turning to the men who stood by), "look to these
horses and see them fed. Come into the hall, friends, an' the squaws
will prepare something for you to eat while we have a smoke and a talk
together."
So saying, this changeable man, who was a strange compound of a trapper
and a gentleman, led the way to the principal dwelling-house, and,
throwing open the door, ushered his guests into the reception hall of
the Mountain Fort.