When they reached the entrance to the cavern, March and his companion
dismounted; but the latter was so weak from loss of blood that he
stumbled at the foot of the track, and fell to the earth insensible.
March ran hastily in for assistance, and was not a little surprised to
find Dick sitting alone by the side of the fire, and so absorbed in the
perusal of a little book that he had not noticed his entrance--a very
singular and unaccountable piece of absence of mind in one so well
trained in the watchful ways of the backwoods.
"Ho! Dick!" cried the youth.
"What, March--March Marston!" exclaimed the Wild Man, springing up,
seizing him by the shoulders, and gazing intently into his face, as if
to assure himself that he was not dreaming.
"Ay, no doubt I'm March Marston; though how you came to find out my name
I don't know--"
"Easy enough that, lad, when you leave your mother's Bible behind ye,"
cried Dick with a wild laugh. "She must be a good mother that o' yours.
Is she alive yet, boy?"
"That is she, an' well, I trust--"
"An' your father," interrupted Dick; "how's he, lad, eh?"
"I don't know," said March, frowning; "he forsook us fourteen years
agone; but it's little good talking o' such matters now, when there's a
poor fellow dyin' outside."
"Dyin'?"
"Ay, so it seems to me. I've brought him to see if ye can stop the
bleedin', but he's fainted, and I can't lift--"
Dick waited for no more, but, hastening out, raised Macgregor in his
arms, and carried him into the inner cave, where Mary was lying sound
asleep on her lowly couch.
"Come, Mary, lass, make way for this poor feller."
The child leaped up, and, throwing a deerskin round her, stepped aside
to allow the wounded man to be placed on her bed. Her eye immediately
fell on March, who stood in the entrance, and she ran to him in
surprise.
"What's de matter, March?"
"Hush, Mary," said Dick in a low voice; "we'll have to speak soft. Poor
Macgregor won't be long for this world, I'm afear'd. Fetch me the box
o' things."
"You know him, then?" whispered March, in surprise.
"Ay, I've often bin to the Mountain Fort and seed him there. See, he's
comin' to. Put that torch more behind me, lad. It'll be better for him
not to see me."
As he spoke the wounded man sighed faintly. Opening his eyes, he said,
"Where am I?"
"Speak to him," whispered Dick, looking over his shoulder at March, who
advanced, and, kneeling at the side of the couch, said--
"You're all right, Mr Macgregor. I've brought you to the hunter's
home. He'll dress your wound and take care of you, so make your mind
easy. But you'll have to keep quiet. You've lost much blood."
The fur trader turned round and seemed to fall asleep, while Dick bound
his wound, and then, leaving him to rest, he and March returned to the
other cave.
During that night Dick seemed in an unaccountably excited state.
Sometimes he sat down by the fire and talked with March in an absent
manner on all kinds of subjects--his adventures, his intentions, his
home at Pine Point; but from his looks it seemed as if his thoughts were
otherwise engaged, and occasionally he started up and paced the floor
hurriedly, while his brows darkened and his broad chest heaved as though
he were struggling with some powerful feeling or passion.
"Could it be," thought March, "that there was some mysterious connection
between Dick and the wounded fur trader?" Not being able to find a
satisfactory reply to the thought, he finally dismissed it, and turned
his attentions altogether towards Mary, whose looks of surprise and
concern showed that she too was puzzled by the behaviour of her adopted
father.
During that night and all the next day the wounded man grew rapidly
worse, and March stayed with him, partly because he felt a strong
interest in and pity for him, and partly because he did not like to
leave to Mary the duty of watching a dying man.
Dick went out during the day in the same excited state, and did not
return till late in the evening. During his absence, the dying man's
mind wandered frequently, and, in order to check this as well as to
comfort him, March read to him from his mother's Bible. At times he
seemed to listen intently to the words that fell from March's lips, but
more frequently he lay in a state apparently of stupor.
"Boy," said he, starting suddenly out of one of those heavy slumbers,
"what's the use of reading the Bible to me? I'm not a Christian, an'
it's too late now--too late!"
"The Bible tells me that `_now_' is God's time. I forget where the
words are, an' I can't find 'em," said March earnestly; "but I _know_
they're in this book. Besides, don't you remember the thief who was
saved when he hung on the cross in a dyin' state?"
The fur trader shook his head slowly, and still muttered, "Too late, too
late."
March now became deeply anxious about the dying man, who seemed to him
like one sinking in the sea, yet refusing to grasp the rope that was
flung to him. He turned over the sacred pages hurriedly to find
appropriate texts, and blamed himself again and again for not having
made himself better acquainted with the Word of God. He also repeated
all he could think of from memory; but still the dying man shook his
head and muttered, "Too late!" Suddenly March bent over him and said--
"Christ is able to save to the _uttermost_ all who come unto God through
Him."
The fur trader looked up in silence for a few seconds. "Ay," said he,
"many a time have I heard the old minister at Pine Point say that."
"Pine Point!" exclaimed March in surprise.
"Perhaps they're true, after all," continued Macgregor, not noticing the
interruption. "Oh! Mary, Mary, surely I did the uttermost when I
forsook ye. Let me see the words, boy; are they there?"
A strange suspicion flashed suddenly on the mind of March as he listened
to these words, and he trembled violently as he handed him the book.
"What--what's this? Where got ye my wife's Bible? You must," (he added
between his teeth, in a sudden burst of anger) "have murdered my boy."
"Father!" exclaimed March, seizing Macgregor's hand.
The dying man started up with a countenance of ashy paleness, and,
leaning on one elbow, gazed earnestly into the youth's face--"March! can
it be my boy?" and fell back with a heavy groan. The bandages had been
loosened by the exertion, and blood was pouring freely from his wound.
The case admitted of no delay. March hurriedly attempted to stop the
flow of the vital stream, assisted by Mary, who had been sitting at the
foot of the couch bathed in tears during the foregoing scene.
Just then Dick returned, and, seeing how matters stood, quickly
staunched the wound; but his aid came too late. Macgregor, or rather
Obadiah Marston, opened his eyes but once after that, and seemed as if
he wished to speak. March bent down quickly and put his ear close to
his mouth; there was a faint whisper, "God bless you, March, my son,"
and then all was still!
March gazed long and breathlessly at the dead countenance; then, looking
slowly up in Dick's face, he said, pointing to the dead man, "My
father!" and fell insensible on the couch beside him.
We will pass over the first few days that succeeded the event just
narrated, during which poor March Marston went about the wild region in
the vicinity of the cave like one in a dream. It may be imagined with
what surprise the trappers learned from him the near relationship that
existed between himself and the fur trader. They felt and expressed the
deepest sympathy with their young comrade, and offered to accompany him
when he laid his father in the grave. But Dick had firmly refused to
allow the youth to bring the trappers near his abode, so they forbore to
press him, and the last sad rites were performed by himself and Dick
alone. The grave was made in the centre of a little green vale which
lay like an emerald in the heart of that rocky wilderness; and a little
wooden cross, with the name and date cut thereon by March, was erected
at the head of the low mound to mark the fur trader's last lonely
resting-place. March Marston had never known his father in early life,
having been an infant when he deserted his family; and the little that
he had seen of him at the Mountain Fort, and amid the wild scenes of the
Rocky Mountains, had not made a favourable impression on him. But, now
that he was gone, the natural instinct of affection arose within his
breast. He called to remembrance the last few and sad hours which he
had spent by his parent's dying bed. He thought of their last few words
on the momentous concerns of the soul, and of the eagerness with which,
at times, the dying man listened to the life-giving Word of God; and the
tear of sorrow that fell upon the grave, as he turned to quit that
solitary spot, was mingled with a tear of joy and thankfulness that God
had brought him there to pour words of comfort and hope into his dying
father's ear.
That night he spent in the cave with Dick; he felt indisposed to join
his old comrades just then. The grave tenderness of his eccentric
friend, and the sympathy of little Mary, were more congenial to him.
"March," said Dick in a low, sad tone, as they sat beside the fire,
"that funeral reminds me o' my friend I told ye of once. It's a
lonesome grave his, with nought but a wooden cross to mark it."
"Had you known him long, Dick?"
"No, not long. He left the settlement in a huff--bein', I b'lieve,
crossed in love, as I told ye."
Dick paused, and clasping both hands over his knee, gazed with a look of
mingled sternness and sorrow at the glowing fire.
"Did ye ever," he resumed abruptly, "hear o' a feller called Louis, who
once lived at Pine Point--before ye was born, lad; did ye ever hear yer
mother speak of him?"
"Louis? Yes--well, I believe I do think I've heard the name before. Oh
yes! People used to say he was fond o' my mother when she was a girl;
but I never heard her speak of him. Now ye mention it, I remember the
only time I ever asked her about it, she burst into tears, and told me
never to speak of him again. Thadwick was his name--Louis Thadwick; but
he was better known as Louis the Trapper. But he's almost forgotten at
the settlement now; it's so long ago. Every one thinks him dead. Why
d'ye ask?"
"Think he's dead?" repeated Dick slowly. "An' why not? My poor friend
that was killed when he left his native place swore he'd never go back,
an' no more he did--no more he did; though he little thought that death
would step in so soon to make him keep his word."
"Was Louis your friend who died?" inquired March with much interest and
not a little pity, for he observed that his companion was deeply
affected.
Dick did not reply. His thoughts seemed to be wandering again, so March
forbore to interrupt him, and, turning to Mary, said in a more cheerful
tone--
"Whether would ye like to go to Pine Point settlement and stay with my
mother, or that I should come here and spend the winter with you and
Dick?"
Mary looked puzzled, and after some moments' consideration replied, "Me
don't know." Then, looking up quickly, she added, "Which _you_ like?"
"Indeed, I must make the same reply, Mary--`I don't know.' But, as I
can't expect my friend Dick to give up his wild life, I suppose I must
make up my mind to come here."
"March," said Dick quickly, "I've changed my mind, lad. It won't do.
You'll have to spend next winter at home--anyhow ye can't spend it with
me."
Had a thunderbolt struck the earth between March and Mary, they would
not have been filled with half so much consternation as they were on
hearing these words. It was plain that both had thoroughly made up
their minds that they were to be together for many months to come. Dick
noted the effect of his remark, and a peculiar frown crossed his
countenance for a moment, but it gave place to a smile, as he said--
"I'm sorry to disappoint ye, lad, but the thing cannot be."
"Cannot be!" repeated March in a tone of exasperation, for he felt that
this was an unwarrantable piece of caprice on the part of his friend;
"surely you don't claim to be chief of the Rocky Mountains! If I choose
to come an' spend the winter in this region, you have no right to
prevent me. And if I offer to bring you furs and venison, besides
pretty good company, will ye be such a surly knave as to refuse me a
corner of your cave?"
"Nay, lad. Right welcome would ye be, with or without furs or venison;
but I mean to leave the cave--to quit this part of the country
altogether. The fact is, I'm tired of it, an' want a change."
"Very good, all right, an' what's to hinder my going with you? I'm fond
o' change myself. I'd as soon go one way as another."
Dick shook his head. "It's o' no use, March, I've my own reasons for
desirin' to travel alone. The thing cannot be."
This was said in such a decided tone that March looked at Mary in
dismay. He gathered no consolation from her countenance, however.
"March," said Dick firmly, "I'm sorry to grieve ye, lad, but it can't be
helped. All I can say is, that if ye choose to come back here next
summer you'll be heartily welcome, and I'll engage that ye'll find me
here; but I'm quite sartin' ye won't want to come."
"Won't want to come! I'll bet ye a hundred thousand million dollars
I'll want to come, ay, and _will_ come," cried March.
"Done!" said Dick, seizing the youth's hand, "an' Mary's a witness to
the wager."
It is needless to say that the conversation did not rest here. The
greater part of that night, and during great part of the week that March
remained there, he continued to press the Wild Man of the West to alter
his purpose, but without avail. Each day he passed with his comrades,
hunting and trapping, and each night he bade them adieu and returned to
sup and sleep in the cave, and, of course, persecuted Dick all that
time; but Dick was immovable.
Of course, the trappers renewed their attempts to get March to show them
Dick's abode, but he persistently refused, and they were too
good-natured to annoy him, and too honest to follow his trail, which
they might easily have done, had they been so disposed.
At last the time arrived when it became necessary that the trappers
should return to Pine Point settlement. In the midst of all their
alarms and fights they had found time to do, what Big Waller termed, a
"pretty considerable stroke o' business." That is to say, they had
killed a large number of fur-bearing animals by means of trap, snare,
and gun, so that they were in a position to return home with a heavy
load of valuable skins. The day of their departure was therefore
arranged, and March, mounting his steed, galloped, for the last time,
and with a heavy heart, towards the cave of his friend Dick.
As he passed rapidly over the wild country, and entered the gloomy
recesses that surrounded the Wild Man's home, he thought over the
arguments and persuasive speeches with which he meant to make a last
and, he still hoped, successful appeal. But March might have spared
himself the trouble of all this thought, for when he reached the cave
Dick was absent. This grieved, him deeply, because every preparation
had been made by his companions for starting on their homeward journey
that evening, so that he had no time to spare.
Mary, was at home, however, so March felt a little consoled, and,
seating himself in his wonted place beside the fire, he said--
"When will Dick be home, Mary?"
"Me no can know 'xactly. To-morray hims say, perhaps."
"Then it's all up," sighed March, leaning recklessly back against the
wall; "all up! I'm off to-night, so I'll not be able to spend the
winter with you after all."
Had Mary burst into tears on hearing this, March would have felt
satisfied. Had she groaned or sobbed, or even sighed, he would have
experienced some degree of relief to his annoyed and disappointed
spirit, but when Mary, instead of any such demonstration, hung down her
head so that the heavy masses of her soft brown hair hid her pretty face
and said in a tone which March fancied was not very genuine, "What a
pity!" he became extremely exasperated, and deemed himself ill-used.
During the half-hour that succeeded he endeavoured to converse in a
pleasant tone of voice, but without success. At last he rose to go.
"Must you go 'way dis night?" said Mary with a look of concern.
"Ay, Mary, an' it's not much matter, for ye don't seem to care."
The girl looked at him reproachfully, "You is not please' with me,
March--why?"
The question puzzled the youth. He certainly was displeased, but he
could not make up his mind to say that he was so because Mary had not
fallen into a state of violent grief at the prospect of a separation.
But the anxious gaze of Mary's truthful blue eyes was too much for him--
he suddenly grasped both her hands, and, kissing her forehead, said--
"Mary dear, I'm not displeased. I'm only sorry, and sad, and annoyed,
and miserable--very miserable--I can scarcely tell why. I suppose I'm
not well, or I'm cross, or something or other. But this I know, Mary,
Dick has invited me to come back to see him next year, and I certainly
shall come if life and limb hold out till then."
Mary's eyes filled with tears, and as she smiled through them, March,
being very near her face, beheld in each eye an excessively miniature
portrait of himself gazing out at him lovingly.
"Perhaps!" faltered Mary, "you no want for come when it be nixt year."
Poor March was overwhelmed again, absolutely disgusted, that _she_ could
entertain a doubt upon that point!
"We shall see," he cried with a sudden impulse, pressing his lips again
to her forehead. "May the Great Spirit bless and keep you! Good-bye,
Mary--till next spring."
March burst away from her, rushed out of the cave in a tumult of
conflicting feelings and great resolves, and despite a little stiffness
that still remained to remind him of his late accident, flung himself
into the saddle with a bound that would have done credit to the Wild Man
himself, and galloped down the rocky gorge at a pace that threatened a
sudden and total smash to horse and man. Had any of his old comrades or
friends witnessed that burst, they would certainly have said that March
Marston was mad--madder, perhaps, than the most obstreperous March hare
that ever marched madly through the wild regions of insanity.