"Yur fool! D'yur think 'ee kud hit a spread blanket wi' that
beetle-shaped blunderbox? Pish!"
I turned to see who had delivered this odd speech. Two men were poising
their rifles, bringing them to bear upon the bird. One was the young
hunter whom I have described. The other was an Indian whom I had not
seen before.
The cracks were simultaneous; and the crane, dropping its long neck,
came whirling down among the trees, where it caught upon a high branch,
and remained.
From their position neither party knew that the other had fired. A tent
was between them, and the two reports had seemed as one. A trapper
cried out--
"Well done, Garey! Lord help the thing that's afore old Killbar's
muzzle when you squints through her hind-sights."
The Indian just then stepped round the tent. Hearing this side speech,
and perceiving the smoke still oozing from the muzzle of the young
hunter's gun, he turned to the latter with the interrogation--
"Did you fire, sir?"
This was said in well-accentuated and most un-Indianlike English, which
would have drawn my attention to the man had not his singularly-imposing
appearance riveted me already.
"Who is he?" I inquired from one near me.
"Don't know; fresh arriv'," was the short answer.
"Do you mean that he is a stranger here?"
"Just so. He kumb in thar a while agone. Don't b'lieve anybody knows
him. I guess the captain does; I seed them shake hands."
I looked at the Indian with increasing interest. He seemed a man of
about thirty years of age, and not much under seven feet in height. He
was proportioned like an Apollo, and, on this account, appeared smaller
than he actually was. His features were of the Roman type; and his fine
forehead, his aquiline nose and broad jawbone, gave him the appearance
of talent, as well as firmness and energy. He was dressed in a
hunting-shirt, leggings, and moccasins; but all these differed from
anything worn either by the hunters or their Indian allies. The shirt
itself was made out of the dressed hide of the red deer, but differently
prepared from that used by the trappers. It was bleached almost to the
whiteness of a kid glove. The breast, unlike theirs, was close, and
beautifully embroidered with stained porcupine quills. The sleeves were
similarly ornamented; and the cape and skirts were trimmed with the
soft, snow-white fur of the ermine. A row of entire skins of that
animal hung from the skirt border, forming a fringe both graceful and
costly. But the most singular feature about this man was his hair. It
fell loosely over his shoulders, and swept the ground as he walked! It
could not have been less than seven feet in length. It was black,
glossy, and luxuriant, and reminded me of the tails of those great
Flemish horses I had seen in the funeral carriages of London.
He wore upon his head the war-eagle bonnet, with its full circle of
plumes: the finest triumph of savage taste. This magnificent head-dress
added to the majesty of his appearance.
A white buffalo robe hung from his shoulders, with all the graceful
draping of a toga. Its silky fur corresponded to the colour of his
dress, and contrasted strikingly with his own dark tresses.
There were other ornaments about his person. His arms and accoutrements
were shining with metallic brightness, and the stock and butt of his
rifle were richly inlaid with silver.
I have been thus minute in my description, as the first appearance of
this man impressed me with a picture that can never be effaced from my
memory. He was the _beau ideal_ of a picturesque and romantic savage;
and yet there was nothing savage either in his speech or bearing. On
the contrary, the interrogation which he had just addressed to the
trapper was put in the politest manner. The reply was not so courteous.
"Did I fire! Didn't ye hear a crack? Didn't ye see the thing fall?
Look yonder!"
Garey, as he spoke, pointed up to the bird.
"We must have fired simultaneously."
As the Indian said this he appealed to his gun, which was still smoking
at the muzzle.
"Look hyar, Injun! whether we fired symultainyously, or extraneously, or
cattawampously, ain't the flappin' o' a beaver's tail to me; but I tuk
sight on that bird; I hut that bird; and 'twar my bullet brought the
thing down."
"I think I must have hit it too," replied the Indian, modestly.
"That's like, with that ar' spangled gimcrack!" said Garey, looking
disdainfully at the other's gun, and then proudly at his own brown
weather-beaten piece, which he had just wiped, and was about to reload.
"Gimcrack or no," answered the Indian, "she sends a bullet straighter
and farther than any piece I have hitherto met with. I'll warrant she
has sent hers through the body of the crane."
"Look hyar, mister--for I s'pose we must call a gentleman `mister' who
speaks so fine an' looks so fine, tho' he be's an Injun--it's mighty
easy to settle who hut the bird. That thing's a fifty or tharabouts;
Killbar's a ninety. 'Taint hard to tell which has plugged the varmint.
We'll soon see;" and, so saying, the hunter stepped off towards the tree
on which hung the gruya, high up.
"How are you to get it down?" cried one of the men, who had stepped
forward to witness the settlement of this curious dispute.
There was no reply, for everyone saw that Garey was poising his rifle
for a shot. The crack followed; and the branch, shivered by his bullet,
bent downward under the weight of the gruya. But the bird, caught in a
double fork, still stuck fast on the broken limb.
A murmur of approbation followed the shot. These were men not
accustomed to hurrah loudly at a trivial incident.
The Indian now approached, having reloaded his piece. Taking aim, he
struck the branch at the shattered point, cutting it clean from the
tree! The bird fell to the ground, amidst expressions of applause from
the spectators, but chiefly from the Mexican and Indian hunters. It was
at once picked up and examined. Two bullets had passed through its
body. Either would have killed it.
A shadow of unpleasant feeling was visible on the face of the young
trapper. In the presence of so many hunters of every nation, to be thus
equalled, beaten in the in of his favourite weapon, and by an "Injun";
still worse by one of "them ar' gingerbread guns!" The mountain men
have no faith in an ornamented stock, or a big bore. Spangled rifles,
they say, are like spangled razors, made for selling to greenhorns. It
was evident, however, that the strange Indian's rifle had been made to
shoot as well.
It required all the strength of nerve which the trapper possessed to
conceal his chagrin. Without saying a word, he commenced wiping out his
gun with that stoical calmness peculiar to men of his calling. I
observed that he proceeded to load with more than usual care. It was
evident that he would not rest satisfied with the trial already made,
but would either beat the "Injun," or be himself "whipped into shucks."
So he declared in a muttered speech to his comrades.
His piece was soon loaded; and, swinging her to the hunter's carry, he
turned to the crowd, now collected from all parts of the camp.
"Thar's one kind o' shootin'," said he, "that's jest as easy as fallin'
off a log. Any man kin do it as kin look straight through hind-sights.
But then thar's another kind that ain't so easy; it needs narve."
Here the trapper paused, and looked towards the Indian, who was also
reloading.
"Look hyar, stranger!" continued he, addressing the latter, "have ye got
a cummarade on the ground as knows yer shooting?"