Chapter Five

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.”

The artist smiled. “My last meal was eaten yesterday morning.”

“Ha! I was sure ob dat,” cried Gibault; “your face look like as if you be full ob starvation.”

“An’ wot did ye eat last?” inquired Bounce, laying down his pipe and looking at their guest with much interest not unmingled with pity.

“I breakfasted on a little bird about the size of a hen’s egg. I know not what it is named, but it was excellently flavoured. I relished it much.”

On hearing this, Gibault pressed his hand on his stomach, as if the mere thought of such a delicately minute breakfast caused him pain in that region.

“I say, stranger,” broke in Waller, in a tone of voice that seemed to imply that he was determined to be at the bottom of this mystery, and would stand it no longer—“wot’s your name?”

“Theodore Bertram,” replied the artist without hesitation.

“Where do you come from?”

“From England.”

“Where air you a-goin’ to?”

“To the Rocky Mountains.”

“Wot for to do there?”

“You are inquisitive, friend,” said Bertram, smiling; “but I have no reason for concealing my object in travelling here—it is to sketch, and shoot, and take notes, and witness the works of the Almighty in the wilderness. I hold it to be an object worthy the ambition of a great man to act the part of pioneer to the missionary and the merchant in nature’s wildest and most inaccessible regions; and although I pretend not to greatness, I endeavour, humbly, to do what I can.”

“No one can do more than that,” said Redhand, regarding the young enthusiast with interest. “But surely you have not travelled to this out-o’-the-way place without a guide?”

Bertram pointed to the stars.

“These are my guides,” said he; “the man who can read the heavens needs no guide.”

“But that book ain’t always readable,” said Redhand; “when clouds are flying what do you do then?”

“Fur-traders in the far north have taught me how to ascertain the north by the bark on the trees; besides this I have a bosom friend who always points the way.” So saying he pulled a small compass from an inner pocket and held it up.

“Good,” rejoined Redhand; “but a compass is not food, neither will it kill game. Have you nought but them pistols?”

“I have none other arms now but these, save this good sword. They will serve to defend me in the hour of need, I trust; though now that I have seen the grisly bear I should doubt my chance of success were I to cope with him alone. I should imagine that monster to be worse even than the Wild Man of the West himself.”

“The Wild Man o’ the West!” echoed March Marston eagerly; “have you seen him?”

“Nay, verily; but I have heard of him,” replied the artist, smiling, “and a strangely ferocious creature he must be, if all that’s said of him be correct. But, to say truth, I believe the stories told of him are idle tales. Indeed, I do not believe there is such a man at all!”

March Marston’s countenance fell. No Wild Man of the West at all! The bare possibility of such a crushing blow to all his romantic hopes and dreams caused his heart to sink. Bertram observed the change in his countenance, and, quickly divining the cause, added, “But I am of a sceptical turn of mind, and do not easily believe unless I see. There is one thing I have observed, however, which is in favour of his existence.”

“What’s that?” inquired March, brightening up. “That the nearer one comes to his reputed dwelling-place, this wild man assumes smaller and more natural proportions. I first heard of him in the Red River Prairies, where he is held to be a giant who devours men as well as brutes. As I came nearer to the Missouri, I found that the people there do not believe him to be either a cannibal or a giant, but assert that he is an enormously tall and powerful man, exceedingly fierce, and the sworn enemy of the whole human race; a species of Cain, whose hand is against every man, and every man’s hand against him. The last white man I met—about two weeks ago—told me he had been with a tribe of Indians, some of whom had seen him, and they said that he was indeed awfully wild, but that he was not cruel—on the contrary, he had been known to have performed one or two kind deeds to some who had fallen into his power.”

“Most extonishin’!” exclaimed Gibault, who sat open-mouthed and open-eyed listening to this account of the Wild Man of the West.