constitutes a philosopher, I am."

"Don't you find that men who philosophise in that way are usually deemed
an obstinate generation by their fellow-men?" inquired the trader,
smiling as he puffed a voluminous cloud from his lips.

"I do," replied Bertram.

"And don't you think the charge is just?" continued the other in a
jocular tone.

"I do not," replied the artist.  "I think those who call them obstinate
are often much more truly deserving of the epithet.  Philosophers, in
the popular sense of the word, are men who not only acquire knowledge
and make themselves acquainted with the opinions of others, but who make
independent use of acquired knowledge, and thus originate new ideas and
frequently arrive at new conclusions.  They thus often come to differ
from the rest of mankind on many points, and, having good reasons for
this difference of opinion, they are ever ready to explain and expound
their opinions and to prove their correctness, or to receive proof of
their incorrectness, if that can be given--hence they are called
argumentative.  Being unwilling to give up what appears to them to be
truth, unless it can be shown to be falsehood, their opinions are not
easily overturned--hence they are called obstinate.  Thinking out a
subject in a calm, dispassionate, logical manner, from its first
proposition to its legitimate conclusion, is laborious to all.  A very
large class of men and women have no patience for such a process of
investigation--hence argumentation, that most noble of all mental
exercises, is deemed a nuisance.  Certainly argumentation with
unphilosophical persons _is_ a nuisance; but I know of few earthly
enjoyments more gratifying than an argument with a true philosopher."

"That's wot I says, so I do, out-an'-out," observed Bounce, who had come
up unperceived, and had overheard the greater part of the above remarks.
"Jist wot I thinks myself, Mr Bertram, only I couldn't 'xactly put it
in the same way, d'ye see?  That's wot I calls out-an'-out feelosophy."

"Glad to hear you're such a wise fellow," said McLeod patronisingly.
"So you agree, of course, with Mr Bertram in condemning the use of the
pipe."

"Condemn the pipe?" said Bounce, pulling out his own special favourite
and beginning to fill it--"wot, condemn smokin'?  No, by no means
wotsomdiver.  That's quite another kee-westion, wot we hain't bin a
disputin' about.  I only heer'd Mr Bertram a-talkin' about obst'nitness
an' argementation."

"Well, in regard to that," said Bertram, "I firmly believe that men and
women are all alike equally obstinate."

"Ha!" ejaculated Bounce, with that tone of mingled uncertainty and
profound consideration which indicates an unwillingness to commit
oneself in reference to a new and startling proposition.

"On what grounds do you think so?" asked McLeod.

"Why on the simple ground that a man _cannot_ change any opinion until
he is convinced that it is wrong, and that he inevitably must, and
actually does, change his opinion on the instant that he is so
convinced; and that in virtue, not of his will, but of the constitution
of his mind.  Some men's minds are of such a nature--they take such a
limited and weak grasp of things--that they cannot be easily convinced.
Others are so powerful that they readily seize upon truth when it is
presented to them; but in either case, the instant the point of
conviction is reached the mind is changed.  Pride may indeed prevent the
admission of this change, but it takes place, as I have said,
inevitably."

At this Bounce opened his eyes to their utmost possible width and said
solemnly, "Wot! do ye mean for to tell me, then, that thair ain't no
sich thing as obstinacy?"  He accompanied this question with a shake of
the head that implied that if Bertram were to argue till doomsday he
would never convince him (Bounce) of that.

"By no means," returned the artist, smiling; "there is plenty of it, but
obstinacy does not consist in the simple act of holding one's opinion
firmly."

"Wot _does_ it consist of, then?"

"In this--in holding firmly to opinions that have been taken hastily up,
without the grounds on which they are founded having been duly weighed;
and in refusing to consider these grounds in a philosophical (which
means a rational) way, because the process would prove tiresome.  The
man who has comfortably settled all his opinions in this way very much
resembles that `fool' of whom it is written that he `is wiser in his own
conceit than seven men who can _render a reason_.'"

"Well, but, to come back to the starting-point," said McLeod, "many wise
men smoke."

"If you say that in the way of argument, I meet it with the counter
proposition that many wise men _don't_ smoke."

"Hah!" ejaculated Bounce, but whether Bounce's ejaculation was one of
approval or disapproval we cannot tell.  Neither can we tell what
conclusion these philosophers came to in regard to smoking, because,
just then, two horsemen were seen approaching the fort at full speed.

Seeing that they were alone, McLeod took no precautions to prevent
surprise.  He knew well enough that Indians frequently approach in this
manner, so waited in front of the gate, coolly smoking his pipe, until
the savages were within a few yards of him.  It seemed as if they
purposed running him down, but just as they came to within a couple of
bounds of him, they drew up so violently as to throw their foaming
steeds on their haunches.

Leaping to the ground, the Indians--who were a couple of strong,
fine-looking savages, dressed in leathern costume, with the usual
ornaments of bead and quill work, tags, and scalp-locks--came forward
and spoke a few words to McLeod in the Cree language, and immediately
after, delivering their horses to the care of one of the men of the
establishment, accompanied him to the store.

In less than half an hour they returned to the gate, when the Indians
remounted, and, starting away at their favourite pace--full gallop--were
soon out of sight.

"Them fellows seem to be in a hurry," remarked Bounce as they
disappeared.

"Ay, they're after mischief too," replied McLeod in a sad tone of voice.
"They are two Cree chiefs who have come here for a supply of ammunition
to hunt the buffalo, but I know they mean to hunt different game, for I
heard them talking to each other about a war-party of Blood Indians
being in this part of the country.  Depend upon it scalps will be taken
ere long.  'Tis a sad, sad state of things.  Blood, blood, blood seems
to be the universal cry here; and, now that we've had so many quarrels
with the redskins, I fear that the day is not far-distant when blood
will flow even in the Mountain Fort.  I see no prospect of a better
state of things, for savage nature cannot be changed.  It seems a
hopeless case."

There was a touch of pathos in the tone in which this was said that was
very different from McLeod's usual bold and reckless manner.  It was
evident that his natural disposition was kind, hearty, and peaceable;
but that the constant feuds in which he was involved, both in the fort
and out of it, had soured his temper and rendered him wellnigh
desperate.

"You are wrong, sir, in saying that their case is hopeless," said
Bertram earnestly.  "There is a remedy."

"I wish you could show it me," replied the trader.

"Here it is," returned the artist, taking his little Testament from the
inside pocket of his hunting-shirt.  "The gospel is able to make all men
wise unto salvation."

McLeod shook his head, and said, "It won't do here.  To be plain with
you, sir, I don't believe the gospel's of any use in these wild regions,
where murder seems to be as natural to man, woman, and child as food."

"But, sir," rejoined Bertram, "you forget that our Saviour Himself says
that He came not to call the righteous but _sinners_ to repentance.  In
this volume we are told that the blood of Christ cleanseth us from _all_
sin; and, not only have we His assurance that none who come unto Him
shall be cast out, but we have examples in all parts of the known world
of men and women who were once steeped to the lips in every species of
gross iniquity having been turned to the service of God through faith in
Christ, and that by the power of the Holy Spirit, who, in this Word of
God, is promised freely to them that simply ask."

"It may be so," returned McLeod; "I have not studied these things much.
I don't profess to be a very religious man, and I cannot pretend to know
much of what the gospel has done elsewhere; but I feel quite sure that
it cannot do much _here_!"

"Then you do not believe the Bible, which says distinctly that this
`gospel is the power of God unto salvation to _every one_ that
believeth.'"

"Ay, but these wretched Indians won't believe," objected the trader.

"True," answered Bertram; "they have not faith by nature, and they
_won't_ because they _can't_ believe; but faith is the gift of God, and
it is to be had for the asking."

"To that I answer that they'll never ask."

"How do you know?  Did you ever give them a trial?  Did you ever preach
the gospel to them?"

"No, I never did that."

"Then you cannot tell how they would treat it.  Your remarks are mere
assertions of opinion--not arguments.  You know the wickedness of the
Indians, and can therefore speak authoritatively on that point; but you
know not (according to your own admission) the power of the gospel:
therefore you are not in a position to speak on that point."

McLeod was about to reply when he was interrupted by the approach of Mr
Macgregor, who had now recovered somewhat from the effects of his
violent fit of passion.  Having observed during the _melee_ that
strangers had arrived at his fort, he had washed and converted himself
into a more presentable personage, and now came forward to the group of
trappers, all of whom had assembled at the gate.  Addressing them in a
tone of affable hospitality he said--

"Good-day, friends; I'm glad to see you at the Mountain Fort.  That
blackguard Larocque somewhat ruffled my temper.  He's been the cause of
much mischief here, I assure you.  Do you intend to trap in these
parts?"

The latter part of this speech was addressed to Redhand, who replied--

"We do mean to try our luck in these parts, but we han't yet made up our
minds exactly where to go.  Mayhap you'll give us the benefit of your
advice."

While he was speaking the fur trader glanced with an earnest yet half
stupid stare at the faces of the trappers, as if he wished to impress
their features on his memory.

"Advice," he replied; "you're welcome to all the advice I've got to give
ye; and it's this--go home; go to where you belong to, sell your traps
and rifles and take to the plough, the hatchet, the forehammer--to
anything you like, so long as it keeps you out of this--" Macgregor
paused a moment as if he were about to utter an oath, then dropped his
voice and said, "This wretched Indian country."

"I guess, then, that we won't take yer advice, old man," said Big Waller
with a laugh.

"`Old man?'" echoed Macgregor with a start.

"Wall, if ye bean't old, ye ain't exactly a chicken."

"You're a plain-spoken man," replied the trader, biting his lips.

"I always wos," retorted Waller.

Macgregor frowned for a moment, then he broke into a forced laugh, and
said--

"Well, friends, you'll please yourselves, of course--most people do; and
if you are so determined to stick to the wilderness I would advise some
of you to stop here.  There's plenty of fun and fighting, if you're fond
of that.  What say you now, lad," turning to March, "to remain with us
here at the Mountain Fort?  I've ta'en a sort of fancy to your face.  We
want young bloods here.  I'll give you a good wage and plenty to do."

"Thanks; you are kind," replied March, smiling, "but I love freedom too
well to part with it yet awhile."

"Mais, monsieur," cried Gibault, pushing forward, pulling off his cap,
and making a low bow; "if you vants yonger blod, an' also ver' goot
blod, here am von!"

The trader laughed, and was about to reply, when a sudden burst of
laughter and the sound of noisy voices in the yard interrupted him.
Presently two of the men belonging to the establishment cantered out of
the square, followed by all the men, women, and children of the place,
amounting probably to between twenty and thirty souls.  "A race! a
race!" shouted the foremost.

"Hallo!  Dupont, what's to do?" inquired McLeod as the two horsemen came
up.

"Please, monsieur, Lincoln have bet me von gun dat hims horse go more
queek dan mine--so we try."

"Yes, so we shall, I guess," added the man named Lincoln, whose speech
told that he was a Yankee.

"Go it, stranger; I calc'late you'll do him slick," cried Waller
patronisingly, for his heart warmed towards his countryman.

"Ah! non.  Go home; put your horse to bed," cried Gibault, glancing at
the Yankee's steed in contempt.  "Dis is de von as vill do it more
slicker by far."

"Well, well; clear the course; we shall soon see," cried McLeod.  "Now
then--here's the word--one, two--away!"

At the last word the riders' whips cracked, and the horses sprang
forward at a furious gallop.  Both of them were good spirited animals,
and during the first part of the race it could not be said that either
had the advantage.  They ran neck and neck together.

The racecourse at the Mountain Fort was a beautiful stretch of level
turf, which extended a considerable distance in front of the gates.  It
crossed a clear open country towards the forest, where it terminated,
and, sweeping round in an abrupt curve, formed, as it were, a loop; so
that competitors, after passing over the course, swept round the loop,
and, re-entering the original course again, came back towards the fort,
where a long pole formed the winning-post.

Dupont and Lincoln kept together, as we have said, for some time after
starting, but before they had cleared the first half of the course the
former was considerably in advance of the latter, much to the delight of
most of the excited spectators, with whom he was a favourite.  On
gaining the loop above referred to, and making the graceful sweep round
it, which brought the foremost rider into full side view, the distance
between them became more apparent, and a cheer arose from the people
near the fort gate.

At that moment a puff of smoke issued from the bushes.  Dupont tossed
his arms in the air, uttered a sharp cry, and fell headlong to the
ground.  At the same instant a band of Indians sprang from the underwood
with an exulting yell.  Lincoln succeeded in checking and turning his
horse before they caught his bridle, but an arrow pierced his shoulder
ere he had galloped out of reach of his enemies.

The instant Dupont fell, a savage leaped upon him, and plunged his knife
into his heart.  Then, passing the sharp weapon quickly round his head
with his right hand, with his left he tore the scalp off, and, leaping
up, shook the bloody trophy defiantly at the horrified spectators.

All this was accomplished so quickly that the horror-stricken people of
the Mountain Fort had not time to move a finger to save their comrade.
But, as the savage raised the scalp of poor Dupont above his head,
Redhand's rifle flew to his shoulder, and in another moment the Indian
fell to the earth beside his victim.  Seeing this, the other Indians
darted into the forest.

Then a fearful imprecation burst from the lips of Macgregor, as, with a
face convulsed with passion, he rushed into the fort, shouting: "To
horse! to horse, men! and see that your horns and pouches are full of
powder and ball!"

The commotion and hubbub that now took place baffle all description.
The men shouted and raved as they ran hither and thither, arming
themselves and saddling their horses; while the shrieks of poor Dupont's
widow mingled with those of the other women and the cries of the
terrified children.

"Half a dozen of you must keep the fort," said McLeod, when they were
all assembled; "the others will be sufficient to punish these fiends.
You'll help us, I suppose?"

This latter question was addressed to Redhand, who, with his comrades,
stood armed, and ready to mount.

"Ready, sir," answered the trapper promptly.

McLeod looked round with a gleam of satisfaction on the stalwart forms
of his guests, as they stood each at his horse's head examining the
state of his weapons, or securing more firmly some portion of his
costume.

"Mount! mount!" shouted Macgregor, galloping at that moment through the
gateway, and dashing away in the direction of the forest.

"Stay!--my sketch-book!" cried Bertram in an agony, at the same time
dropping his reins and his gun, and darting back towards the hall of the
fort.

"Git on, lads; I'll look arter him," said Bounce with a grin, catching
up the bridle of the artist's horse.

Without a moment's hesitation, the remainder of the party turned, and
galloped after Macgregor, who, with the most of his own men, had already
wellnigh gained the edge of the forest.

In a few seconds Bertram rushed wildly out of the fort, with the
sketch-book in one hand and the two blunderbuss-pistols in the other.
In leaping on his horse, he dropped the latter; but Bounce picked them
up, and stuck them hastily into his own belt.

"Now put that book into its own pouch, or ye'll be fit for nothin',"
said Bounce almost sternly.

Bertram obeyed, and grasped the rifle which his friend placed in his
hand.  Then Bounce vaulted into his saddle, and, ere those who were left
behind had drawn the bolts and let down the ponderous bars of the gate
of the Mountain Fort, the two horsemen were flying at full speed over
the plain in the track of the avengers of blood who had gone before
them.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

THE PURSUIT--CONSCIENTIOUS SCRUPLES OF THE ARTIST--STRATEGIC MOVEMENTS--
SURPRISED IN THE WILD-CAT PASS--MARCH SHOWS COOLNESS AND PLUCK IN THE
HOUR OF DANGER--A TERRIFIC ONSLAUGHT BY A WONDERFUL WARRIOR--THE
BATTLE--HARD KNOCKS AND MYSTERIOUS DIFFERENCES OF OPINION.

Crossing the open ground in front of the Mountain Fort, Bounce and
Bertram entered the wood beyond, and traversed it with comparative ease,
by means of a bridle-path which had been cut there by the fur-traders.
A few minutes' gallop brought them to the other side of the wood, which
was one of those narrow strips or clumps of forest which grow, more or
less thickly, on the skirts of the Rocky Mountains, forming that fine
picturesque region where the prairie and the forest meet and seem to
contend for the mastery.

The plain beyond this belt of wood was open and level--at least,
sufficiently so to enable the two horsemen to see for a considerable
distance around them.  Here, in the far distance, they descried their
companions, sweeping over the turf at their utmost speed, and making
towards a low hill or ridge that intercepted the view of the more
distant country.

"They'll have to draw in a bit," said Bounce, turning to his comrade.
"Horses no more nor men can't go helter-skelter up a hill without takin'
breath; so rouse up your beast, Mr Bertram, an' we'll overtake 'em
afore they gits to the t'other side."

Bertram obeyed his friend's command, but made no rejoinder, his thoughts
being too deeply engaged at that moment in a controversy with his
conscience as to the propriety of the business he had then in hand.

The young artist had a deep veneration for abstract truth--truth pure
and simple, not only in reference to morals, but to all things
terrestrial and celestial; and he was deeply impressed with the belief
that what was right was right, and what was wrong was wrong, and could
not, by any possibility, be otherwise.  He felt, also, that the man who
recognised truth and acted upon it must go right, and he who saw and did
otherwise _must_ go wrong!

Holding this simple creed very tenaciously, and, as we think, very
properly, Bertram nevertheless found that his attempts to act up to it
frequently involved him in a maze of perplexities.

On the present occasion, as he and Bounce thundered over the green turf
of the flowering plains, scattering the terrified grasshoppers right and
left, and causing the beautifully striped ground-squirrels to plunge
with astonishing precipitancy into their holes, he argued with himself,
that the mere fact of a murderous deed having been done was not a
sufficient reason, perhaps, to justify his sallying forth with a
reckless band of desperate fur-traders, bent on indiscriminate revenge.
It was quite true, in his opinion, that a murderer should be punished
with death, and that the pursuit and capture of a murderer was not only
a legitimate act in itself but, in the circumstances, a bounden duty on
his part.  Yet it was equally true that most of the men with whom he was
associated were thirsting for vengeance, and from past experience he
knew full well that there would be no attempt to find out the murderer,
but a simple and general massacre of all the Indians whom they could
overtake.

Then it suddenly occurred to him that the murderer had already been shot
by Redhand, so that his mission was one of simple revenge; but, a moment
after, it flashed across his troubled mind that Lincoln had been left in
the fort wounded--might possibly be dead by that time; so that there
were probably among the flying savages other murderers to be dealt with.
This idea was strengthened by another thought, namely, that the savage
who stabbed and scalped Dupont might not have been the savage who shot
him.  The complication and aggregate of improbability amounted, in
Bertram's mind, so nearly to a certainty, that he dismissed the
digressive question as to whether there might or might not be a murderer
among the Indians, and returned to the original proposition, as to
whether it was right in him to take part in a pursuit of vengeance that
would very likely terminate murderously.  But before he could come to
any satisfactory conclusion on that point he and Bounce found themselves
suddenly in the midst of the cavalcade, which had halted on the summit
of the ridge, in order to allow them to come up.

"Here we are, lads," cried Macgregor, his flushed face still blazing
with wrath, which he made no effort to subdue, and his eyes red with
prolonged debauchery, flashing like the eyes of a tiger--"here we are,
too late to cut off the retreat o' these detestable reptiles from the
woods, but not too late to circumvent them."

The fur trader spoke rapidly, almost breathlessly, and pointed to the
band of Indians they were in pursuit of, who, observing that their
pursuers had halted, also drew rein on the edge of a belt of thick
forest that extended for miles into the mountains.  They appeared to
wait, in order to ascertain what their enemies meant to do.

"The villains," continued Macgregor, "think we've given up pursuit as
hopeless, but they're mistaken--they're mistaken, as they'll find to
their cost.  Now, mark me, men; we shall turn back as if we had really
given in; but the moment we get down into the hollow, out of sight,
we'll go as hard as we can bolt up that valley there, and round by the
place we call the Wild-Cat Pass.  It's a difficult pass, but who cares
for that?  Once through it we can get by a short cut to the other side
of that wood, and meet the redskins right in the teeth.  They're
Blackfoot Indians, I know by their dress; and, as they don't belong to
this part o' the country, they can't be aware of the pass.  But some of
us must go back a good way towards the fort, so as to deceive the
blackguards, who'll be sure to get on the first hill they can to see
where we've gone to.  Now--away!  Stay," he added in a less commanding
tone, "I don't know that my guests are willing to go with us through
thick an' thin in this fashion.  I've no desire to have unwilling
warriors."

"Had we not been _willing_" replied Redhand dryly, "we wouldn't have
come even thus far."

"Very good," rejoined Macgregor with a grim smile; "then, perhaps, since
you are so good as to go along with us, you'll make for the head of that
valley, and when you come to the Wild-Cat Pass I've spoken of, you'll
wait there till the rest of us, who are to sham going back to the fort,
come up with ye; then we'll go through the pass together, and polish off
the redskins."

To this plan Redhand assented; so he and his comrades prepared to take
the way to the pass, while the men of the fort turned homewards.  A
triumphant shout from the Indians showed that they imagined the pursuit
was given up; but Macgregor knew their cunning too well to fall into the
mistake of at once concluding that they were thoroughly deceived.  He
knew that they would send out scouts to dog them, and felt, that if his
plan was to succeed, he must put it into execution promptly.

"I've scarce had time to ask your names or where you've come from," he
said on parting from the trappers; "but there'll be plenty of time for
that when we meet again.  Keep close in the bottom, and ride fast, till
the shadow of yonder crag conceals you from view.  If the Indians get
sight of you, they'll smell the dodge at once and escape us.  Perhaps,
young man, you'd like to come with my party?"

The latter part of this speech was made rather abruptly to March
Marston, who received it with some surprise, and with a distinct
refusal.

"I'll stick by my comrades," said he, "till I see good reason--"

"Well, well, boy--please yourself!" muttered the trader angrily, as he
broke away at full speed, followed by his men.

Our trappers instantly turned their horses' heads towards the mountains,
and made for the Wild-Cat Pass.

Macgregor's estimate of the cunning of the Indians was but too correct.
The instant the fur-traders disappeared behind the ridge, as if on their
return homewards, several of their fastest riders were dispatched to the
nearest hill, to watch the movements of the enemy.  They ascended one
which commanded a wide view of the surrounding country, and thence
beheld the fur-traders proceeding swiftly back in the direction of the
fort.  Unfortunately, they also perceived the bottle-brush of Bertram's
steed, as it disappeared behind the crag which already concealed the
rest of his comrades from view.  One instant later, and the Indians
would have failed to make this discovery, for a deep impassable gorge
lay between them and the ravine which conducted to the pass.  It was but
the barest possible glimpse they got of that shabby tail; but it told a
tale which they perfectly understood, for they flew back in the utmost
haste to warn their comrades, who, knowing the smallness of the party
thus sent against them, from the largeness of the party that had shammed
returning to the fort, resolved upon executing a counter movement.

They had a shrewd suspicion, from the nature of the country, that the
intention of the whites was to get through a pass of some sort and
intercept them, and, concluding that this pass must lie at the head of
the valley up which the bottle-brush had vanished, they resolved to
proceed to the same spot through the gorge that separated the hill from
the crag or rocky ridge before referred to.

Promptitude they knew to be everything, so they swept up the gorge like
a whirlwind.  Thus both parties drew nearer to the chaotic opening
styled the Wild-Cat Pass--the trappers, all ignorant of what awaited
them there; the savages bent on giving their enemies an unpleasant
surprise.

But, unknown to either, there was a pair of eyes high on a rock above
the Wild-Cat Pass, that overlooked the two valleys or ravines, and gazed
with considerable interest and curiosity on the two advancing parties.
Those eyes belonged to a solitary horseman, who stood on the edge of the
wild precipice that overhung the pass.  The hunter, for such his
leathern dress bespoke him, stood beside his horse, his right arm over
its arched neck, and his right hand patting its sleek shoulder.  From
the position which he occupied he could see without being seen.  His
magnificent steed seemed to be aware that danger was at hand, for it
stood like a statue, absolutely motionless, with the exception of its
fine fiery eyes.  Whatever this solitary hunter's thoughts regarding the
two approaching parties might be, it was evident that he meant to remain
an invisible spectator of their doings; for he stood in the same
attitude of statue-like attention until they reached the heads of the
two ravines, where they were separated from each other only by the pass.
Here, on the one side, the Indians, about forty in number, lay in
ambush among the rocks, prepared to surprise and attack the trappers
when they should pass.  On the other side the trappers halted, and
dismounting, allowed their horses to graze while they awaited the
arrival of Macgregor and his party.

"They won't be long o' comin'," remarked Redhand, seating himself on a
stone and proceeding to strike a light.  "That fellow Macgregor an't the
man to waste time when he's out after the redskins.  I only hope he
won't waste life when he gets up to them."

"So do I," said Bounce, seating himself beside Redhand and carefully
cutting a small piece of tobacco into shreds by means of a
scalping-knife.  "A sartin amount o' punishment is needful, d'ye see, to
keep 'em down; but I don't like slaughtering human bein's onnecessary
like."

"I'd skiver 'em all, I guess--every one," observed Big Waller angrily.
"They're a murderin', thievin' set o' varmints, as don't desarve to live
nohow!"

"Bah!" exclaimed Gibault in disgust; "you is most awferfully
onfeelosophicule, as Bounce do say.  If dey not fit for live, for fat
vas dey made?  You vicked man!"

Big Waller deigned no reply.

"I'm off to look at the pass," cried March Marston, vaulting suddenly
into the saddle.  "Come, Bertram; you'll go with me, won't you, and see
if we can find some wild-cats in it?"

The artist, who had not dismounted, merely replied by a nod and a smile,
and the two reckless youths galloped away, heedless of Bounce's warning
not to go too far, for fear they should find something worse than
wild-cats there.

The Wild-Cat Pass, through which they were speedily picking their steps,
in order to get a view of the country beyond, was not inappropriately
named; for it seemed, at the first glance of those who entered it, as if
no creature less savagely reckless than a cat could, by any possibility,
scramble through it without the aid of wings.

The greater part of it was the ancient bed of a mountain torrent, whose
gushing waters had, owing to some antediluvian convulsion of nature,
been diverted into another channel.  The whole scene was an absolute
chaos of rocks which had fallen into the torrent's bed from the
precipice that hemmed it in on the west, and these rocky masses lay
heaped about in such a confused way that it was extremely difficult to
select a pathway along which the horses could proceed without running
great risk of breaking their limbs.  The entire length of the pass could
not have been much more than a quarter of a mile, yet it took March
Marston and his companion full half an hour to traverse it.

When about half through the pass March, who led the way, drew up on a
small rocky elevation, from which he could survey the amphitheatre of
rugged and naked rocks in the midst of which he stood.

"Upon my word, Bertram," he said gazing round, "if Bunyan had ever been
in the Rocky Mountains, I think he would have chosen such a spot as this
for the castle o' Giant Despair."

"I know not," replied Bertram with a deep sigh, as he drew rein, "what
Bunyan would have done, but I know that Giant Despair has already
located himself here, for he has been trying to take, possession of my
bosom for at least twenty minutes.  I never rode over such ground in my
life.  However, it ill becomes pioneers to be overcome by such a giant,
so pray push on; I feel quite eager to see what sort of region lies
beyond this gloomy portal."

March laughed and turned to continue the scramble; Bertram removed his
brigandish hat, wiped his heated brows, replaced the hat firmly thereon,
and drove his heels violently against the ribs of his horse, an act
which induced that patient quadruped to toss its head and shake its
bottle-brush ere it condescended to move on.  It was quite evident that,
although Bertram spoke in a half-jesting tone of Giant Despair, he was
in reality much delighted with the singularity of this extemporised and
interesting ramble.

"I say, Bertram, don't you like this sort of thing?" inquired March,
looking back at his companion, on reaching a somewhat level part of the
pass.

"Like it?  Ay, that do I.  I love it, March.  There is a freedom, a
species of wild romance about it, that is more captivating than I can
describe."

"You don't need to describe it," returned March.  "I have it all
described splendidly within me.  One don't want words when one's got
feelins.  But I've often thought what a pity it is that we can't
describe things or places at all with words.  At least, _I_ can't," he
added modestly.  "When I try to tell a fellow what I've seen, it ain't
o' no manner of use to try, for I don't get hold of the right words at
the right time, and so don't give out the right meanin', and so the
fellow I'm speakin' to don't take up the right notion, d'ye see?  It's a
great pity that words are such useless things."

"Why, that was spoken like Bounce himself," said Bertram, smiling.

"Look out, or you'll go bounce into that hole, if you don't have a
care," cried March, turning aside to avoid the danger referred to.  They
proceeded through the remainder of the pass in silence, as the rugged
nature of the ground required their undivided attention.

Had there been a sprite in that place, who could have hopped invisibly
to some elevated pinnacle, or have soared on gossamer wings into the
air, so as to take a bird's-eye view of the whole scene, he would have
noted that while March Marston and the artist were toiling slowly
through the Wild-Cat Pass, the solitary hunter before referred to
regarded their proceedings with some surprise, and that when he saw they
were bent on going quite through the pass, his expression changed to a
look of deep concern.

With slow and gentle hand this man backed his quiet and docile horse
deeper into the bush; and when he had got so deep into the shade of the
forest as to be perfectly safe from observation, he leaped on its back
with a single bound, and galloped swiftly away.

A few minutes after the occurrence of this incident, March and his
friend emerged from the pass and trotted out upon a level plain whence
they obtained a fine view of the magnificent country beyond.  The pass
from which they had just issued seemed to be the entrance to the heart
of the Rocky Mountains.  The plain, or rather the plateau, on which they
stood was a level spot covered with soft grass, free from bushes, and
not more than a hundred yards in extent.  On three sides it was
encompassed by inaccessible precipices and rocky ground, in the midst of
which the opening out of the pass was situated.  On the fourth side it
was skirted by a dense thicket of bushes that formed the entrance to a
magnificent forest which extended for several miles in front of the
spot.  Beyond this forest the scene was broken by hills and valleys, and
little plains, richly diversified with wood and water--the former in
dense masses, scattered groups, and isolated clusters; the latter
shining in the forms of lakelet and stream, or glancing snow-white in
numberless cascades.  Beyond all, the dark-blue giant masses of the
Rocky Mountains towered up and up, hill upon hill, pile upon pile, mass
on mass, till they terminated in distant peaks, so little darker than
the sky that they seemed scarcely more solid than the clouds with which
they mingled and blended their everlasting snows.

"An't it beautiful?" cried March, riding forward with a bounding
sensation of inexpressible delight.

Bertram followed him, but did not answer.  He was too deeply absorbed in
the simple act of intently gazing and drinking in the scene to listen or
to reply.

At the precise moment in which March made the above remark, his quick
eye observed a spear head which one of the savages, hid among the bushes
there, had not taken sufficient pains to conceal.

March Marston was a young hunter, and, as yet an inexperienced warrior;
but from childhood he had been trained, as if it were in spirit, by the
anecdotes and tales of the many hunters who had visited Pine Point
settlement.  His natural powers of self-control were very great, but he
had to tax all these powers to the uttermost to maintain his look of
animated delight in the scenery unchanged, after making the above
startling discovery.  But March did it!  His first severe trial in the
perils of backwoods life had come--without warning or time for
preparation; and he passed through it like a true hero.

That a spear handle must necessarily support a spear head; that an
Indian probably grasped the former; that, in the present position of
affairs, there were certainly more Indians than one in ambush; and that,
in all probability, there were at that moment two or three dozen arrows
resting on their respective bows, and pointed towards his and his
comrade's hearts, ready to take flight the instant they should come
within sure and deadly range, were ideas which did not follow each other
in rapid succession through his brain, but darted upon the young
hunter's quick perceptions instantaneously, and caused his heart to beat
on his ribs like a sledge-hammer, and the blood to fly violently to his
face.

Luckily March's face was deeply browned, and did not show the crimson
tide.  With a sudden, mighty effort he checked the natural look and
exclamation of surprise.  That was the moment of danger past.  To
continue his praise of the lovely scene in gay delighted tones was
comparatively easy.

"Isn't it beautiful?" he said, turning his face full towards the
ambushed savages, gazing over their place of concealment with an
unconscious joyous air, and sweeping his hand towards the mountains, as
if to draw the attention of his companion to them.  March's only weapon
at that moment was the small hatchet he was wont to carry in his girdle.
This implement chanced to be in his hand.  Placing it carelessly in his
belt, as though nothing was further from his mind than the idea of
requiring to use it at that time, he cried--

"See, yonder is a mound from which we may get a better view," and
trotted to the summit of the spot alluded to.  In doing so, he placed
himself still nearer to the Indians.  This was a bold stroke, though a
dangerous one, meant to deceive the enemy.  After gazing a few seconds
from this spot, he wheeled round and walked his horse quietly towards
the entrance to the pass.  Arrived there, he turned, and pretending that
he saw something in the far distance, he shaded his eyes with his hand
and gazed for a short time intently, then calling to Bertram, who still
remained in his original position all unconscious of his danger, said--

"I say, come here; look at yonder splendid lake, it's worth
seeing--_well_ worth seeing; and if you don't see it with that _curious
light_ on it, you'll not care to see it at all."

March did not dare, by energy of voice, to force his friend's attention,
therefore the first part of this speech was unheeded; but the reference
to a "curious light" had the desired effect.  Bertram turned, and rode
to join his companion.  Getting Bertram into such a position that his
own person partially screened him from the Indians, he made the
following remarkable speech, from beginning to end, in the gay tones of
one who discourses eloquently on the beauties of nature; pointing here
and there as he rattled on.

"An't it beautiful? eh?  I say, just look at it now!--listen to me,
Bertram--attentively, but gaze admiringly at the scene--_at the scene_--
oh! man, _do_ what I bid ye--your life hangs on it.  _Pretend_ to admire
it--we're in great danger--but--"

"Eh? what? where?" exclaimed the artist in a tone of intense excitement,
at the same time laying his hand on one of his pistols and gazing
anxiously all round him.

Alas! poor Bertram.  It needed not the acute apprehension of a redskin
to understand that you had been told of present danger.  Neither did it
require much acuteness on the part of March to divine what was to
follow.

Scarcely had the symptoms of alarm been exhibited, when four arrows
whizzed through the air and passed close to the persons of the two
friends, who instantly turned and made a dash for the entrance of the
pass.  At the same time the savages uttered a yell and darted after
them.

"We'll never be able to escape by the pass," exclaimed March, looking
behind him hurriedly, as they approached the rocky gorge, "and, I
declare, there's only four o' them on foot.  Come, Bertram, let's make a
bold stroke for it.  We'll easy break through 'em."

He reined up so suddenly as almost to throw the horse on its haunches,
and, wheeling round, darted towards the savages.  Bertram followed
almost mechanically.

The Indians offered no opposition, but at that moment another yell rose
from the hushes, and about thirty mounted Indians, who had been
concealed behind a projecting cliff, sprang forward and closed up the
only place of escape with a formidable array of spears.  From their not
using their arrows it was evident that they wished to capture the white
men alive, for the purpose, no doubt, of taking them home to their
wigwams, there to put them to death by slow torture with the assistance
of their squaws.

March Marston's spirit rose with the occasion.  He uttered a furious
cry, flourished his hatchet above his head, and dashed at full gallop
towards the line.  Seeing this, one of the Indians levelled his spear
and rode out to meet him.  Bertram's nerves recovered at that moment.
He fired both pistols at the advancing savage, but without effect.  In
despair he hurled one of them violently at the head of the Indian.  The
missile went true to the mark and felled him.  On beholding this the
whole body of savages rushed upon the two white men.

One powerful Indian seized March by the throat.  Before either could use
his weapon the horses separated and both fell violently to the ground.
Bertram leaped off his horse and sprang to the rescue, but he was
instantly surrounded, and for a few seconds defended himself with the
butt of his large cavalry pistol with an amount of energy and activity
that would have filled those who knew him best with amazement.  At that
moment there was a clatter of hoofs in the gorge, and a roar or bellow
was heard above the din of the fight.  All eyes were turned towards the
pass, and next moment a solitary horseman leaped over the broken rocks
and bounded over the turf towards the combatants.

The aspect of this newcomer was something terrible to behold.  Both he
and his horse were gigantic in size.  The man was dressed in the costume
of an Indian, but his hair and beard were those of a white man.  The
mane and tail of his huge horse were of enormous length, and as he swept
over the little plain, which seemed to tremble beneath his heavy tread,
the wind blew out these and the tags and scalp-locks of his coat and
leggings as well as his own beard and hair in such a confused and
commingled way as to make the man and horse appear like one monstrous
creature.

The Indians turned to flee, but, seeing only one enemy, they hesitated.
In another moment the wild horseman was upon them.  He carried a round
shield on his left arm and a long double-edged sword in his right hand.
Two Indians lowered their spears to receive him.  The point of one he
turned aside with his shield, and the shock of his heavy warhorse hurled
horse and man upon the plain.  The other he cut the iron head off with a
sweep of his sword, and, with a continuation of the same cut, he cleft
his opponent to the chin.  Turning rapidly, he bounded into the very
midst of the savages, uttering another of his tremendous roars of
indignation.  The suddenness of this act prevented the Indians from
using their bows and arrows effectively.  Before they could fit an arrow
to the string two more of their number lay in the agonies of death on
the ground.  Several arrows were discharged, but the perturbation of
those who discharged them, and their close proximity to their mark,
caused them to shoot wide.  Most of the shafts missed him.  Two quivered
in his shield, and one pierced the sleeve of his coat.  Turning again to
renew his rapid attacks he observed one of the Indians--probably a
chief--leap to one side, and, turning round, fit an arrow with calm
deliberation to his bow.  The furious horseman, although delivering his
sweeping blows right and left with indiscriminate recklessness, seemed
during the _melee_ to have an intuitive perception of where the greatest
danger lay.  The savages at that moment were whirling round him and
darting at him in all directions, but he singled out this chief at once
and bore down upon him like a thunderbolt.  The chief was a brave man.
He did not wince, but, drawing the arrow to its head as the other
approached, let it fly full at his breast.  The white man dropped on the
neck of his steed as if he had been struck with lightning; the arrow
passed close over his back and found its mark in the breast of one of
the savages, whose death yell mingled with that of the chief as, a
moment later, the gigantic warrior ran him with a straight point through
the body.

The Indians were scattered now.  The rapid dash of that tumultuous
fight, although of but a few seconds' duration, had swept the combatants
to the extreme edge of the woods, leaving Bertram standing in the midst
of dead and dying men gazing with a bewildered, helpless look at the
terrible scene.  March Marston lay close by his side, apparently dead,
in the grip of the savage who had first attacked him, and whose throat
his own hand grasped with the tenacity and force of a vice.

Most of the Indians leaped over the bushes and sought the shelter of the
thick underwood, as the tremendous horseman, whom doubtless they now
deemed invulnerable, came thundering down upon them again; but about
twenty of the bravest stood their ground.  At that moment a loud shout
and a fierce "hurrah!" rang out and echoed hither and thither among the
rocks; and, next instant, Big Waller, followed by Bounce and his
friends, as well as by Macgregor and his whole party, sprang from the
Wild-Cat Pass, and rushed furiously upon the savages, who had already
turned and fled towards the wood for shelter.  The whole band crossed
the battlefield like a whirlwind, leaped over or burst through the
bushes, and were gone--the crashing tread of their footsteps and an
occasional shout alone remaining to assure the bewildered artist, who
was still transfixed immovable to the ground, that the whole scene was
not a dream.

But Bertram was not left alone on that bloody field.  On the first sound
of the approach of the white men to the rescue, the strange horseman--
who, from the moment of his bursting so opportunely on the scene, had
seemed the very impersonation of activity and colossal might--pulled up
his fiery steed; and he now sat, gazing calmly into the forest in the
direction in which the Indians and traders had disappeared.

Stupefied though he was, Bertram could not avoid being impressed and
surprised by the sudden and total change which had come over this
remarkable hunter.  After gazing into the woods, as we have said, for
some minutes, he quietly dismounted, and plucking a tuft of grass from
the plain, wiped his bloody sword, and sheathed it.  Not a trace of his
late ferocity was visible.  His mind seemed to be filled with sadness,
for he sighed slightly, and shook his head with a look of deep sorrow,
as his eyes rested on the dead men.  There was a mild gravity in his
countenance that seemed to Bertram incompatible with the fiend-like fury
of his attack, and a slow heaviness in his motions that amounted almost
to laziness, and seemed equally inconsistent with the vigour he had so
recently displayed, which was almost cat-like, if we may apply such a
term to the actions of so huge a pair as this man and his horse were.

A profusion of light-brown hair hung in heavy masses over his herculean
shoulders, and a bushy moustache and beard of the same colour covered
the lower part of his deeply browned face, which was handsome and mild,
but eminently masculine, in expression.

Remounting his horse, which seemed now to be as quiet and peaceable as
himself, this singular being turned and rode towards that part of the
wood that lay nearest to the wild rocky masses that formed the outlet
from the pass.  On gaining the verge of the plain he turned his head
full round, and fixed his clear blue eyes on the wondering artist.  A
quiet smile played on his bronzed features for an instant as he bestowed
upon him a cheerful nod of farewell.  Then, urging his steed forward, he
entered the woods at a slow walk, and disappeared.

The heavy tramp of his horse's hoofs among the broken stones of the
rugged path had scarcely died away when the distant tread of the
returning fur-traders broke on Bertram's ear.  This aroused him from the
state of half-sceptical horror in which he gazed upon the scene of blood
and death in the midst of which he stood.  Presently his eye fell, for
the first time, upon the motionless form of March Marston.  The sight
effectually restored him.  With a slight cry of alarm, he sprang to his
friend's side, and, kneeling down, endeavoured to loosen the death-like
grasp with which he still held the throat of his foe.  The horror of the
poor artist may be imagined, when he observed that the skull of the
Indian was battered in, and that his young comrade's face was
bespattered with blood and brains.

Just then several of the trappers and fur-traders galloped upon the
scene of the late skirmish.

"Hallo!  Mr Bertram, here you are; guess we've polished 'em off this
time a few.  Hey! wot's this?" cried Big Waller, as he and some of the
others leaped to the ground and surrounded Bertram.  "Not _dead_, is
he?"

The tone in which the Yankee trapper said this betrayed as much rage as
regret.  The bare idea of his young comrade having been killed by the
savages caused him to gnash his teeth with suppressed passion.

"Out o' the way, lads; let me see him," cried Bounce, who galloped up at
that moment, flung himself off his horse, pushed the others aside, and
kneeling at his side, laid his hand on March Marston's heart.

"All right," he said, raising the youth's head, "he's only stunned.
Run, Gibault, fetch a drop o' water.  The horse that brained this here
redskin, by good luck, only stunned March."

"Ah! mon pauvre enfant!" cried Gibault as he ran to obey.

The water quickly restored March, and in a few minutes he was able to
sit up and call to remembrance what had passed.  Ere his scattered
faculties were quite recovered, the fur-traders returned, with Macgregor
at their head.

"Well done, the Wild Man of the West!" cried McLeod, as he dismounted.
"Not badly hurt, young man, I trust."

"Oh! nothing to speak of.  Only a thump on the head from a horse's
hoof," said March; "I'll be all right in a little time.  Did you say
anything about the Wild Man of the West?" he added earnestly.

"To be sure I did; but for him you and Mr Bertram would have been dead
men, I fear.  Did you not see him?"

"See him? no," replied March, much excited.  "I heard a tremendous roar,
but just then I fell to the ground, and remember nothing more that
happened."

"Was that quiet, grave-looking man the Wild Man of the West?" inquired
Bertram, with a mingled feeling of interest and surprise.

This speech was received with a loud burst of laughter from all who
heard it.

"Well, I've never seed the Wild Man till to-day," said one, "though I've
often heer'd of him, but I must say the little glimpse I got didn't show
much that was mild or grave."

"I guess your head's bin in a swum, stranger," said another.  "I've only
seed him this once, but I don't hope to see him agin.  He ain't to be
trusted, he ain't, that feller."

"And I've seen him five or six times," added McLeod, "and all I can say
is, that twice out o' the five he was like an incarnate fiend, and the
other three times--when he came to the Mountain Fort for ammunition--he
was as gruff and sulky as a bear with the measles."

"Well, gentlemen," said Bertram with more emphasis in his tone than he
was wont to employ, "I have seen this man only once, but I've seen him
under two aspects to-day, and all that I can say is, that if that was
really the Wild Man of the West, he's not quite so wild as he gets
credit for."

On hearing this, March Marston rose and shook himself.  He felt ill at
ease in body and mind.  The idea of the Wild Man of the West having
actually saved his life, and he had not seen him, was a heavy
disappointment, and the confused and conflicting accounts of those who
had seen him, combined with the racking pains that shot through his own
brain, rendered him incapable of forming or expressing any opinion on
the subject whatever; so he said abruptly--

"It's of no use talking here all night, friends.  My head's splittin',
so I think we'd better encamp."

March's suggestion was adopted at once.  Provisions had been carried
with them from the fort.  The dead bodies of the Indians were buried; a
spot at some distance from the scene of the fight was chosen.  The fires
were lighted, supper was devoured and a watch set, and soon March
Marston was dreaming wildly in that savage place about the Wild Man of
the West!

CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

THE HUNTING GROUND--HOW THEY SPENT THE SABBATH DAY AMONG THE MOUNTAINS--
THREATENING CLOUDS ON THE HORIZON.

Next day the fur-traders prepared to return to the Mountain Fort, and
the trappers to continue their journey into the Rocky Mountains.

At the period of which we write, the fur of the beaver was much in
demand in the European markets, and trappers devoted much of their time
to the capture of that sagacious animal.  From McLeod, Redhand learned
that a journey of eight or ten days to the south-eastward would bring
them to a country that was reported to be much frequented not only by
the beaver, but by many other fur-bearing and wild animals; so it was
resolved that, having brought their traps and supplies with them, the
trappers, instead of returning to the fort, should part with their
entertainers at the spot where the skirmish had occurred, and make for
that hunting ground as quickly as possible.

"I suppose you don't want to part company with us yet, Mr Bertram?"
said old Redhand as they were about to start.

"By no means," replied the artist quickly; "I have no intention of
quitting you--that is, if you do not find me a burden on your hands," he
added with a sad smile.

"A burden!" cried Bounce in surprise; "I tell ye wot, sir, I consider
yer company a honour."

"So you won't return with us, young man?" said Macgregor to March
Marston as he mounted his horse.  "I'm in want of a stout young fellow,
and you'll like the life."

"I thank ye, sir, for your good opinion," returned March; "but my mind's
made up: I'll stick by my comrades; I like trappin', but I don't like
tradin'--though I'm obliged to you for bein' so pressin' all the same."

The two parties bade each other adieu and separated--the one retracing
its way through the Wild-Cat Pass; the other, with old Redhand at its
head, descending into the beautiful country that has been briefly
described in the last chapter.

Six quiet and peaceful weeks now succeeded to the stormy period that had
just passed.  During this time they wandered pleasantly about in as
beautiful a region of the world as the heart of man could wish to dwell
in.  They reached this country after several days' travel.  After
arriving they moved about from one beautiful spot to another, setting
their beaver traps in the streams, and remaining a longer or shorter
time at each place, according to their success in trapping and hunting.

The country was of so peculiarly diversified a formation, that, within
the compass of ten miles, every possible variety of scenery existed--
from the level stretch of prairie to the towering snow-peaks of the
mountains; from the brake-encompassed swamp, in which frogs, ducks,
geese, plover, and other denizens of the marshes maintained perpetual
jubilee, to the dry bush-dotted mounds and undulating lands, where the
badger delighted to burrow in the sandy soil, while in other places, the
wolf, the fox, and the grisly bear prowled amid the dark recesses of the
forest.

It was a truly beautiful and a pre-eminently enjoyable region, and, in
the midst of it, under the spreading branches of a magnificent pine,
which grew on the top of a little mound that commanded an extensive
prospect on every side, the trappers pitched their camp, and began their
campaign against the fur-bearing animals that dwelt there.

It was a quiet sunny Sabbath morning when our trappers arrived at the
tree above referred to.  They had encamped the previous night on a
swampy piece of ground, having travelled too late to afford time to
search for a better spot, so that they were glad to rise and push
forward at the peep of day on Sabbath.  But when, in the course of a
couple of hours, they reached the dry country, they at once proceeded to
encamp.

During their journeying the trappers had mutually agreed to rest from
all labour on the Sabbath day.  Some of them did so from no higher
motive than the feeling that it was good for themselves and for their
beasts to rest one day in seven from bodily labour.  Although not
absolutely regardless of religion, they nevertheless failed to connect
this necessity of theirs with the appointment of a day of rest by that
kind and gracious Father, who has told us that "the Sabbath was made for
man."  Made for him not only, and chiefly, for the benefit of his soul,
but also, and secondarily, for the good of his body.

Others of the party there were, however, who regarded the Sabbath rest
in a somewhat higher light than did their comrades; though none of them
were fully alive to the blessings and privileges attaching to the
faithful keeping of the Lord's day.  Independently altogether of the
delight connected with the contemplation of the wonderful works of God
in the wilderness--especially of that beautiful portion of the
wilderness--the trappers experienced a sensation of intense pleasure in
the simple act of physical repose after their long, restless, and
somewhat exciting journey.  They wandered about from spot to spot, from
hill to hill, in a species of charming indolence of body, that seemed to
increase, rather than to diminish, the activity of their minds.
Sometimes they rambled or rested on the sunny slopes in groups,
sometimes in couples, and sometimes singly.  March Marston and the
artist sauntered about together, and conversed with animated fluency and
wandering volubility--as young minds are wont to do--on things past,
present, and to come; things terrestrial and celestial.  In short, there
was no subject, almost, that did not get a share of their attention, as
they sauntered by the rippling brook or over the flowering plain, or
stood upon the mountain side.  They tried "everything by turns, and
nothing long," and, among other mental occupations, they read portions
of the Bible together; for Bertram found that March carried his mother's
Testament in an inner breast-pocket of his hunting-shirt, and March
discovered that his friend had a small copy of the Bible--also a
mother's gift--which shared the pouch of his leather coat with the
well-known sketch-book.  They conversed freely and somewhat boldly on
what they read, and we doubt not that our learned divines, had they
listened to the talk of the youthful pioneer and the young hunter, would
have been surprised, perhaps edified, by the simple, practical,
common-sense views promulgated by those raw theologians.  Certainly, any
one listening to the grave, kindly, philosophical commentaries of March
Marston, would never have believed in the truth of that statement at the
commencement of this story, wherein it is asserted somewhat positively
that "March Marston was mad!"

Bounce, and Big Waller, and Black Gibault, drew naturally together and
speculated, after their own peculiar fashion, on every subject of
thought within the reach of their capacities; and as Bounce's capacities
embraced a pretty wide range, the "feelosophical" views he set forth
upon that lovely Sabbath day were so varied, so eccentric, so graphic,
and so apparently inexhaustible, that he effectually quelled Gibault's
inveterate tendency, to jest, and filled Big Waller with deeper
admiration than ever.

As for Redhand and the Indian, they wandered about in sympathetic
silence, broken ever and anon by the old trapper passing a remark on
some interesting peculiarity of a leaf, an insect, or a flower.  It has
been said, that as men grow older they find deeper pleasure in the
contemplation of the minute things of nature, and are less desirous than
they were wont to expatiate on the striking and the grand.  What truth
there is in the remark we cannot tell; but, certain it is, while the
younger men of the party seemed to cast longing, admiring, and gladsome
looks over the distant landscape, and up at the snow-clad and
cloud-encompassed heights of the Rocky Mountains, old Redhand bent his
eyes, we might almost say lovingly, on the earth.  He would sit down on
a stone and pluck a leaf, which he would examine with minute care; or
watch with the deepest interest the frantic efforts of a little ant, as
it staggered along under its gigantic burden of a single seed, climbing
over a mountainous twig, tumbling into a cavernous hole the size of a
hazelnut, or being brought to a hesitating pause by a mountain torrent a
quarter of an inch broad.

The sedate Indian took special pleasure in watching the doings of his
old friend.  Usually, he contented himself with a grunt of assent when
Redhand made a remark on the peculiarities of a plant or an insect, but
sometimes he ventured on a brief observation, and occasionally even
proposed a question to his aged companion, which Redhand found it
difficult to answer.  There was little interchange of thought between
those two silent men, but there was much of quiet enjoyment.

So passed the Sabbath day.  Early on the following morning the trappers
were astir, and before the sun tinged the mountain peaks, their beaver
traps were set, an extensive portion of the territory they had thus
quietly taken possession of had been explored in several directions, a
couple of deer had been shot, a mountain goat seen, and a grisly bear
driven from his den and pursued, but not killed; besides a number of
wildfowl having been bagged, and an immense number of creatures,
including mustangs, or wild horses, roused from their lairs.

When the scattered hunters returned to the camp to breakfast, they found
themselves in a satisfied, happy state of mind, with a strong
disposition, on the part of some, to break their fast without wasting
time in cooking the viands.  "It was of no manner of use cooking," Big
Waller said, "when a feller was fit to eat his own head off of his own
shoulders!"  As for Gibault, he declared that he meant to give up
cooking his victuals from that time forward, and eat them raw.  The
others seemed practically to have come to the same conclusion, for
certain it is that the breakfast, when devoured on that first Monday
morning, was decidedly underdone--to use a mild expression!

But it was when the pipes were lighted that the peculiarities and
capabilities of that wild region became fully known, for then it was
that each hunter began to relate with minute accuracy the adventures of
that morning.  As they had scattered far and wide, and hunted or trapped
separately, each had something new and more or less interesting to tell.
March told of how he had shot a grey goose, and had gone into a moving
swamp after it, and had sunk up to the middle, and all but took to
swimming to save himself, but had got hold of the goose notwithstanding,
as the drumstick he had just picked would testify.  Bounce told of
having gone after a moose deer, and, failing to come up with it, was
fain to content himself with a bighorn and a buck; and Big Waller
asserted that he had suddenly come upon a grisly bear, which he would
certainly have shot, had it not run away from him.  Whereupon Gibault,
wilfully misunderstanding, said, with a look of unutterable surprise,
that he would never have believed it--no, never--had anybody else told
him, that Big Waller had actually run away from a bear!  He couldn't
bear to hear of it, and would not believe it though Waller himself said
it.  As for Bertram, having filled the pages of his sketch-book, back
and front, he was compelled to take to miniature drawing in corners and
blank bits, and in this way began to book the entire region, and to
revel in his loved art.

Several weeks passed away, and during that time of peace and plenty, our
trappers had it all to themselves.  They caught and killed numbers of
animals; stripped off, dried, and packed quantities of valuable furs;
ate enormous meals, with the gusto of men who had laboriously earned the
right to do so, and related stories and anecdotes enough to fill a huge
volume.  In short, they enjoyed themselves beyond conception, and
Bertram agreed with March Marston in thinking that Bunyan's land of
Beulah could not have surpassed that delightful region.

But one day there came a small cloud on their blue sky of felicity.  An
event occurred which rudely dispelled their pleasant dreams, filled
their hearts with anxiety, and finally broke up their camp in a way that
led to disastrous, though not altogether ruinous, consequences.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

BUSINESS UNPLEASANTLY INTERRUPTED--THE MOUNTAIN FORT IN DANGER--TRAPPERS
TO THE RESCUE--A RUDE MEETING WITH FOES IN THE DARK--A WILD RACE--MARCH
MEETS WITH A SEVERE MISFORTUNE.

One morning, just as the trappers were dropping into camp about the
usual breakfast hour, laden with the produce of the trap and the chase,
they were startled by the sudden appearance of a large band of mounted
Indians, who galloped to the top of a neighbouring mound, and, crowding
together, stood still to gaze upon the invaders of their hunting
grounds, for such they deemed the trappers, no doubt.

To snatch up their arms and run to a place of safety was the work of a
moment.  It must not be supposed that such experienced men as Redhand
and Bounce were altogether unprepared for a surprise of this sort.  On
the day of their arrival at the hunting ground, their first care had
been to select such a place for their camp as lay in close proximity to
some natural stronghold.  Not ten paces from the camp fire there was a
sort of hollow in the ground, on the very summit of the mound on which
they were encamped.  Here all their valuables had been placed, and round
the edge of the hollow a rude breastwork had been raised, so that the
party, when in it, could fire through little openings in the breastwork
without exposing themselves to view.

To this fortress they retired the instant the Indians made their
appearance.  Fortunately all the members of the little party had come
in.

"They're holdin' a council o' war," said Bounce, carefully examining the
priming of his piece.  "It's as like as not they'll attack us, but
they'll get a hearty and an oncommonly warm welcome."

"They'll not attack us," said Redhand.  "They know that white men never
travel without plenty of powder and ball, and they don't like taking a
place by storm."

"Ay," remarked Waller sarcastically, "'cause they knows that the first
man as comes on is sartin sure to fall, an' they knows that they can't
come on without somebody comin' first."

"But there's brave fellers among the redskins," rejoined Bounce.  "I
knowed a set o' young fellers as banded theirselves together, and swore
they'd go through fire an' water, thick an' thin, but they'd niver turn
back from the face o' danger wherever they met it.  So, one day they wos
crossin' a river on the ice, an' the first on 'em fell in, an' wos
carried away by the current; an' what does the second do, but he walks
straight into the hole, an' wos drowned too; an' the nixt wos goin' to
foller, when the old warriors ran at him an' forced him back.  If they
hadn't stopped him, I do b'lieve--"

"They're makin' up their minds to do somethin' or other," interrupted
March.

"I sincerely hope they won't fight," murmured Bertram earnestly.  "It is
fearful to think of the blood that is shed by these men needlessly."

From the conduct of the Indians it became evident that on this occasion
they sympathised with the artist in his desire not to fight, for one of
their number dismounted, and, advancing unarmed towards the trappers,
made signs of friendship.

"It's as well to be bold an' appear to trust 'em," said Redhand, laying
down his rifle and leaping over the breastwork; "keep your guns ready,
lads, an' if ye see treachery, let drive at once.  Don't be afraid o'
hittin' me.  I'll take my chance."

After a few minutes' conversation with the Indian, Redhand returned to
his party.

"That redskin," said he, "tells me they're on an expedition to hunt the
buffalo on the prairie, and that they're good friends of the white men,
and would like to have a talk with us before they go on; but I don't
believe 'em.  From what I heard Mr McLeod say at the Mountain Fort, I
think it not unlikely they are bound on an expedition against the
whites.  The very fact of their wishin' to keep friends with us instead
of tryin' to lift our scalps and carry off our furs and horses, shows me
they've some more pressin' business on hand.  Mr McLeod described to me
the appearance of one or two o' the Injuns that hates the fur-traders
most, so that I might be on my guard, an' I'm quite sure that some of
them are with that band.  Now, what say ye?  Shall I tell 'em we don't
want their acquaintance?"

"Tell 'em they're a set o' lyin' thieves," said Big Waller.  "I guess
we'll have nothin' to say to 'em wotiver."

"Oui, et give to dem mine complements," added Gibault, "an' say we ver'
moch 'blige by dere goodness, mais dey vill all be shooted if dey not go
away queek."

Redhand did not give these polite messages to the Indian, but on
returning to him he presented him with a piece of tobacco, and advised
him to continue his journey without loss of time, as the buffaloes were
travelling south and might be out of the way when they reached the
prairie.

Whether the Indians felt angry or not it is impossible to say.  They
seemed indifferent to their cool reception by the trappers, and soon
after rode off at full speed, in a direction that led _away_ from the
Mountain Fort, a circumstance which still further confirmed Redhand in
his suspicions.

After an eager, hasty consultation, it was resolved that they should
follow the savages, and if their trail was found to diverge, as was
fully expected, towards the fort, that they should endeavour to pass
them in the night, and proceed by forced marches, in order to get there
in time to warn the fur-traders of their impending danger.

In less than an hour after the Indians left them, the trappers were
galloping after them in hot haste.  During the course of the day they
found that the trail doubled back, as they had anticipated, so, making a
wide detour, they headed the Indians, and during the afternoon got a
little in advance of them on their way to the Mountain Fort.

But the trappers had a subtle enemy to deal with.  Just as the Indians
were about to encamp that night for a few hours' rest, they chanced to
diverge a short way from the direct line of march, and, in doing so,
crossed the tracks of the trappers.  A halt was called, and a minute
inspection of the tracks made.  One of the savages galloped back on them
a considerable distance, and soon returned with the information that
they led towards the camp of the pale-faces.  From the appearance of the
hoof-prints they knew that they were fresh, and thus at once guessed
that their true intentions had been suspected, and might yet be
frustrated by the trappers.  Instead of encamping, therefore, they
pushed on at full speed and very soon came up with the white men.  It
was a dark night, so that they could not see far in advance of them, and
thus it happened that the two parties, on entering a narrow defile,
almost rode into each other, with a yell of fierce surprise on both
sides.

As there were at least fifty Indians, Redhand thought it better to avoid
a doubtful combat by scattering his men through the woods, and letting
each make the best of his way to the fort singly.

"Run, boys! scatter! to the fort!"

This was all that he deemed needful in the way of command or
explanation.  Firing a single volley at the enemy, they turned and fled.

"Foller me," shouted Waller to the bewildered Bertram, as a shower of
arrows whistled past their ears.  The artist obeyed mechanically, and in
another moment they were flying through the wood at a pace that seemed,
and actually was, reckless under the circumstances.  But the Indians did
not attempt to pursue.  They knew that their intention had been
discovered, and that their only chance of success now lay in outriding
the pale-faces.  The ride, in fact, became a long race, neither party
making the slightest attempt to hunt up the other, but each straining
every nerve and muscle to get first to the doomed fort.

The scattered trappers rode for a long time singly, but as they neared
the fort, one or two of them met, and when they came first in sight of
the tall flagstaff, Bounce, Redhand, and Gibault rode abreast.

McLeod was standing in front of the fort, when the three horsemen came
dashing over the plain.  He hastily summoned his men and closed the
gate, but as the foremost rider came near, he was recognised; the gate
was thrown open, and they galloped into the square.  In a few hasty
words their errand was explained.  Arms and ammunition were served out,
and six men were stationed at the gate, to be in readiness to open it to
approaching friends, or to shut it in the face of foes.

But the others of the party were not so fortunate as these three.  The
Indians reached the fort before they did, and one of their number was
left, unknown to them, in a state of insensibility near the spot where
the first rencontre had taken place.

When the Indians and trappers met in the narrow defile, as before
related, one of the arrows, which had been discharged very much at
random, entered the shoulder of March Marston's horse and wounded it
mortally.  At first March thought the wound was slight, and, hearing the
shouts of some of the savages not far behind him, he urged his horse
forward as rapidly as the nature of the ground would admit of.  Before
he had gone a quarter of a mile, however, the poor steed fell, throwing
March over its head.  In his flight the youth's forehead came into
violent contact with a branch, and he fell to the ground insensible.

His comrades, ignorant of his fate, continued their wild flight.  Thus,
our hero was forsaken, and left bruised and bleeding in the dark forest.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

MARCH GETS A SURPRISE; MORE THAN THAT, HE GETS A VARIETY OF SURPRISES--
MEETS WITH A STRANGE HUNTER--GOES IN A STRANGE FASHION TO A STRANGE
CAVERN AND BEHOLDS STRANGE SIGHTS--BESIDES OTHER MATTERS OF INTEREST.

On recovering consciousness, March discovered that it was broad
daylight--from which he argued in a confused sort of way that he must
have lain there all night.  He also discovered that his head, which
ached violently, rested on the knee of some unknown individual, who
bathed his temples with cold water.  Looking up he encountered the gaze
of a pair of soft blue eyes.

Now there is something exceedingly captivating in a pair of soft blue
eyes--not that there may not be something quite as captivating in a pair
of brown or black or grey eyes--but there is something singularly
captivating in the peculiar style of captivation wherewith a man is
captivated by a pair of blue--distinctly _blue_--eyes.  Perhaps it is
that their resemblance to the cerulean depths of the bright sky and the
blue profundities of the ocean invests them with a suggestive influence
that is agreeable to the romantic and idealising tendencies of human
nature; or that the colour is (or ought to be, if it is not) emblematic
of purity.  We throw out this suggestion solely for the benefit of
unimpassioned philosophers.  Those whose hearts are already under the
pleasant thraldom of black or brown eyes are incapable of forming an
opinion on the abstract question.

Well, March observed, further, that below those soft blue eyes, there
was a handsome Roman nose, and immediately below that a moustache, and a
thick short beard of curly light-brown hair.  A slight, very slight,
feeling of regret mingled with the astonishment with which March passed
from the contemplation of the soft blue eyes to the bushy beard.  He
also noted that the stranger wore a little leathern cap, and that a
profusion of rich brown hair descended from his head to his shoulders.

"Ye're better, lad," said the owner of the blue eyes in that deep
musical bass voice which one meets with but rarely, and which resembles
strongly, at times, the low pipes of a cathedral organ.

"Thankee, yes, I'm--"

"There, don't move yet awhile.  You're badly bruised, lad.  I'll go
fetch ye another drop o' water."

The owner of the blue eyes rose as he spoke, laid March's head softly on
the ground, and walked towards a neighbouring brook.  In doing so he
displayed to the wondering gaze of March the proportions of a truly
splendid-looking man.  He was considerably above six feet in height, but
it was not that so much as the herculean build of his chest and
shoulders that struck March with surprise.  His costume was the ordinary
leather hunting-shirt and leggings of a backwoodsman, and, although
deeply bronzed, his colour not less than his blue eyes and brown hair
told that he was not an Indian.

As he returned, carrying a little birch-bark dish full of water in his
hand, March observed that the lines of his forehead indicated a mingled
feeling of anger and sadness, and that his heavy brows frowned somewhat.
He also noted more clearly now the man's towering height, and the
enormous breadth of his chest.  As he lay there on his back with his
head pillowed on a tuft of moss, he said inwardly to himself, "I never
saw such a fellow as this before in all my life!"

And little wonder that March Marston thought thus, for, as no doubt the
reader has already guessed, the far-famed Wild Man of the West himself
stood before him!

But he did not know him.  On the only occasion on which he had had an
opportunity of beholding this renowned man, March had been rendered
insensible just as he came on the field, and the exaggerated
descriptions he had heard of him seemed quite irreconcilable with the
soft blue eye and gentle manner of the hunter who had come thus
opportunely to his aid.  For one moment, indeed, the idea did occur to
March that this was the Wild Man.  It was natural that, having had his
thoughts for so long a period filled with conjectures in reference to
this wonderful creature, he should suppose the first tall, mysterious
man he met must be he.  But he dismissed the notion as untenable and
absurd on second thoughts.  That the blue-eyed, calm, dignified hunter
who kneeled by his side, and held the refreshing water to his lips as if
he were a trained sick nurse, should be the Wild Man, the man reported
to be forty feet high, covered with hair, and exceeding fierce besides
ugly, was out of the question.  And when March shut his eyes in the full
enjoyment of the cool draught, of which, poor fellow, he stood much in
need, and heard the supposed Wild Man give vent to a sigh, which caused
him to look up in surprise, so that he observed the mild blue eyes
gazing sadly in his face, and the large head to which they belonged
shaking from side to side mournfully, he almost laughed at himself for
even momentarily entertaining such an absurd idea.

March Marston had much to learn--we mean in the way of reading human
character and in judging from appearances.  He had not yet observed, in
the course of his short life, that if a blue eye is capable of
expressing soft pity, it is also pre-eminently capable of indicating
tiger-like ferocity.  He did not consider that the gentlest natures are,
when roused to fury, the most terrible in their outward aspect.  He did
not reflect that if this giant (for he almost deserved thus to be
styled), instead of being engaged in an office of kindness, that
naturally induced gentleness of action, and that called for no other
feelings than those of tenderness and pity, were placed on a warhorse,
armed with sword and shield, and roused to fury by some such sight as
that of a large band of savage Indians attacking a small and innocent
group of white trappers, he might then amply fulfil all the conditions
that would entitle him to the wildest possible name that could be
invented.

The prominent ideas in March's mind at that time were, a pair of blue
eyes and a large, gentle hand; so he quietly and finally dismissed the
Wild Man from his thoughts.

Luckily, the Wild Man did not treat March in a similar manner.  After
allowing him to rest quietly for a few minutes, he said--

"Now, lad, I think ye're improvin'.  Ye're badly battered about the head
and shoulders, so I'll take ye home with me."

"Home with you?" repeated March.

"Ay, put your arms round my neck," returned the Wild Man in a tone
which, though soft and low, it was not possible to disobey.

March performed this somewhat endearing action in silent surprise,
whereupon the Wild Man introduced his left arm below the poor youth's
back, and with his right grasped him round the legs, and thus lifted him
from the ground and carried him away.

March experienced a sensation as if all his larger joints were being
dislocated, and felt disposed to cry out, but restrained himself with a
powerful effort.  Presently his bearer stopped, and, looking round,
March observed that he was standing by the side of a horse.

"Hold on, lad, till I mount."

"You'd better let me down till you get up," suggested March.

"No," replied the singularly laconic individual.

Standing as he was, the Wild Man managed by raising March a little to
lay his left hand on the pommel of his saddle; next moment his foot was
in the stirrup, the moment after he himself was in the saddle, and a
touch of his heel sent his horse cantering away towards the mountains.

Had March Marston seen his deliverer at that moment, with his long hair
waving freely in the breeze, in emulation of the voluminous mane and
tail of his splendid horse, his thoughts regarding the Wild Man of the
West would have certainly returned more powerfully than ever.  But March
did not see him, his eyes being shut, his lips pursed, and his teeth set
in a heroic attempt to endure the agonies to which he was subjected by
the motion of the horse.

In half an hour they reached a rocky defile that led up into one of
those wild, gloomy glens that are so characteristic of the Rocky
Mountains.  Here the Wild Man had to check his pace and proceed at a
walk, thereby affording much relief to his wounded companion.

"Art sore i' the bones, lad?" inquired the stout horseman, looking down
at his charge as if he were a small infant in arms.

"Rather," replied March.  "Don't you think it would be better for me to
ride behind you?  I think I could manage to hold on."

"No, you couldn't."

"I fear I must be a terrible weight carried in this fashion," urged
March.

"Weight!" echoed the hunter with a quiet chuckle; but, as he did not
vouchsafe any further reply, March was left to interpret the expression
as he thought fit.

"I hope no bones are broken," inquired March in a tone of anxiety.

"Hope not," replied his captor.

We use the word "captor" advisedly, for March was so utterly unable at
that time, physically as well as morally, to resist the will of this
strange hunter, that he felt much more like a captive in the grip of a
mighty jailer than an invalid in the arms of his nurse.

"I fear there are," said March, as a rude motion of the horse caused him
excruciating agony.

"Very likely," replied the other--not by any means in a careless,
indifferent way, but with the air and tone of a straightforward man
giving his opinion in reference to a matter of fact.  "But," he added in
a consolatory tone, "I'll see when we get home."

"Home!" repeated March.  "Why, where _is_ your home?"

"In the mountains here.  We're about there now."  As he spoke, the
hunter turned his horse sharp to the left and entered a still more
narrow and gloomy defile than the one they had just been ascending.  So
narrow was it, and overshadowed by high precipitous cliffs, that the
light of day had to struggle for entrance even at noontide.  At night it
was dark as Erebus.  The horse had considerable difficulty in advancing.
Indeed no horse that had not been trained to pick its steps among the
confused masses of rock and debris that formed the bottom of that ravine
or chasm, could have ascended it at all.  But the fine animal which bore
March and the Wild Man of the West seemed to act more like a human being
than a horse in winding out and in among the intricacies of the place.

At length they reached the upper end of the gorge.  Here the cliffs,
which rose perpendicularly to a height of three or four hundred feet,
drew so near to each other that at one place they were not more than
three yards asunder.  Just beyond this point they receded again and
terminated abruptly in a sort of circle or amphitheatre, the floor of
which could not have been more than thirty yards in diameter, and was
covered with small gravel; the sides were quite perpendicular, and rose
so high that on looking up one felt as if one had got into the bottom of
a natural tunnel, at the top of which a round bit of bright blue sky
sent down a few scanty rays of light.

In spite of the pain it caused him, March raised his head and looked
round as they rode into this gloomy cavernous place.  Then, glancing at
the face of the strange being who carried him, a feeling of
superstitious dread took possession of his heart for a moment, as he
remembered the many conversations he and Bounce had had about evil
spirits appearing in human form, and he thought that perhaps he had
actually fallen into the hands of one.  But the grave quiet face, and
above all the soft blue eyes, quickly put to flight such fears, although
they could not altogether dispel the solemn awe he felt at being carried
so suddenly into such a mysterious place.

But he had scarcely recovered some degree of confidence, when his mind
was again thrown into a violent state of agitation by the fact that the
horse, turning to the right, began deliberately to ascend the precipice,
which was as perpendicular as a wall.  It did not indeed ascend after
the manner of a fly on a window, but it went up on what appeared to be a
narrow, spiral pathway.  In a few seconds they had ascended about fifty
feet, and March, projecting out from the precipice as he did, owing to
his position in the rider's left arm, felt a horrible sensation of
giddiness come over him, and could not suppress a slight groan.

"Don't be afear'd, lad," said his companion, "I've got ye tight, an' the
horse is used to it.  The track's broader than ye think, only ye can't
see it as ye lie now."

March felt reassured; nevertheless, he shut his eyes very tight and held
his breath.

Presently he felt that they had turned sharp to the right, so he
ventured to open his eyes, and found that they were standing at the
mouth of what appeared to be a cavern.  In another moment they were
under its dark roof and the horse came to a stand.  From the hasty
glance he gave it, he could only ascertain that the interior was buried
in profound darkness.

Without causing March to move in any way, the stout horseman dismounted.
In fact, the burden seemed no greater to him than a child would be to
an ordinary man.

"Here we are--at home," he said.  "Come, old horse, get away in."

The horse obeyed, and disappeared in the darkness beyond.

"Now, lad, don't be afear'd, I know every fut o' the way.  Ye can shut
yer eyes an ye like--but there's no occasion."

Saying this, he advanced with a steady tread into the cave, the echoes
of which were still ringing with the clatter of the horse's hoofs as it
passed over the stone floor.  It could not have been more than a quarter
of a minute when they reached the end of what appeared to be the outer
vestibule of this cavern, though to March it seemed to be more than five
minutes; and, now that he could no longer see the blue eyes, all manner
of horrible doubts and fears assailed him.  He felt deeply his helpless
condition, poor fellow.  Had he been sound in wind and limb he would
have cared little; for a brave and a strong man naturally feels that he
can fight a stout battle for life in all or any circumstances.  But part
of this prop (namely, strength) having been removed by his recent
accident, he felt like a miserable child.

Doubtless it is good for strong men to be brought thus low sometimes,
just to prove to them, what they are by nature very slow to believe,
that they, quite as much as the weak and helpless ones of this world,
are dependent at all times on their fellows.

On reaching the end of the outer cave, the hunter turned to the left,
stooped down in order to pass below a small natural arch, and finally
stood still in the middle of another cavern, on the floor of which he
deposited his burden with much tenderness and care.

There was light in this cave, but it was so dim as to be insufficient to
illuminate the surrounding objects.  March perceived on looking up that
it entered through a small aperture in the side of the cavern near the
roof, which was not more than twelve feet from the floor.  There were
several pieces of charred wood on one side of the cave, in which a few
sparks of fire still lingered.

Without saying a word the owner of this strange abode went towards
these, and, blowing them into a flame, heaped large logs upon them, so
that, in ten minutes, the place was brilliantly illuminated with a ruddy
blaze that did one's heart good to look upon.

By the light of the fire March perceived that he had been deposited on a
couch of pine-branches.  He was about to make other observations, when
his captor turned to him and said--

"I'll go an' see to the horse, and be back in a minute; so keep yer mind
easy."

"And, pray, what name am I to call my host by?" said March, unable to
restrain his curiosity any longer.

A dark, almost fierce frown covered the man's face, as he said angrily,
"Boy, curiosity is a bad thing--anywise, it's bad here.  I've brought
you to this cave 'cause you'd ha' died i' the woods if I hadn't.  Don't
ask questions about what don't consarn ye."

"Nay, friend, I meant no offence," replied March.  "I've no desire to
pry into any man's secrets.  Nevertheless, it's but natural to want to
know how to address a man when ye converse with him."

"True, true," replied the other, somewhat mollified.  "Call me Dick;
it's as good a name as any, and better than my own."

There was a slight touch of bitterness in the tone in which this was
said, as the man turned on his heel to quit the cave.

"Stay," cried March, "you only give me one name, friend, so I'll do the
same by you.  My name's March--there, now you may march about your
business."

Dick smiled and said, "Well, March, I'll be with ye again, and have a
look at your sore bones, in two minutes."

When he was gone March, for the first time since his accident, bethought
him of his comrades.  Since recovering from the state of insensibility
into which his fall had thrown him, his mind had been so absorbed by the
strange events that had been presented to him in such rapid succession,
as well as with the pain that racked his head and limbs, that he had had
no time to think about them.  But, now that he was left in that quiet
place alone, the whole circumstances of the recent pursuit and flight
rushed suddenly upon him, and his mind was filled with anxious
forebodings as to the fate of his comrades.

"Oh!  I'm glad you've come back," he cried, as Dick re-entered the cave;
"I quite forgot my comrades--shame on me! but my miserable head has got
such a smash, that a'most everything's bin drove out of it."

"Time enough to speak o' them after we've seen to your bones," said
Dick.

"Nay, but--"

"_After_," said Dick in a tone that was not to be gainsaid.

March submitted with a sigh, and his eccentric host proceeded to
manipulate and punch him in a way that might perhaps have been highly
necessary, but was by no means agreeable.  After a few minutes he
pronounced his patient all right, only a little bruised!  Having said
which, he proceeded to prepare some food, and said to March that he
might now speak about his comrades.

At first he seemed to pay little attention to the youth's hasty
narrative; but on hearing that the Indians were hastening to attack the
Mountain Fort, he sprang up, and asked a few questions eagerly.  It was
evident that the news troubled him deeply.

Taking one or two hasty strides up and down the cavern, and paying no
attention to the roasting meat, which he seemed to have utterly
forgotten, the Wild Man of the West muttered angrily to himself, and a
slight dash of that tiger-like flash, which had gone so far to earn him
his title, lighted up his blue eyes, insomuch that March Marston looked
at him in amazement not unmingled with awe.  Thoughts of the Wild Man of
the West once more occurred to him; but in his former cogitations on
that subject he had so thoroughly discarded the idea of this kind,
blue-eyed hunter being that far-famed and ferocious individual, that his
thoughts only took the form of the mental question, "I wonder if the
Wild Man o' the West could beat such a fellow as that at a fair stand-up
fight?"  So powerfully did this thought affect him, that he could not
refrain from exclaiming--

"I say, Dick, did you ever hear of the Wild Man of the West?"

Dick was so much tickled by the question that his angry mood vanished,
and, turning towards his guest with a smile, while his blue eyes seemed
milder than they ever had appeared before, he said--

"Yes, lad, I've heard of him."

"Have you seen him?" continued March eagerly.

"I have, many a time."

"What is he like?"

"He's like me," replied Dick with another smile, the softness of which
would have driven March to an immeasurable distance from the truth, had
he ever been near it.

"Like _you_!  Oh, I suppose you mean he's something about your size.
Well, I don't wonder at that, for you're an uncommonly big fellow, Dick;
but I fancy his appearance is very different."

"Well, no.  He's got light hair and blue eyes, like me."

This was a poser to March.  It was so totally subversive of all his
preconceived ideas, that it reduced him for some moments to silence.

"Isn't he hairy all over, like a fox, and very ugly?" inquired March,
recovering from his surprise.

This was a poser, in turn, to the Wild Man.  To be called upon suddenly
to pronounce an opinion on his own looks was embarrassing, to say the
least of it.

"He's not exactly hairy all over," said Dick after a moment's thought,
"though it can't be denied he's got plenty of hair on his head and
chin--like me.  As for his looks, lad, it ain't easy to say whether he's
ugly or pritty, for men don't agree on sich pints, d'ye see?"

"Do sit down beside me, Dick, and tell me about this Wild Man," said
March earnestly.  "You can't fancy how anxious I am to see him.  I've
come here for that very purpose.  No doubt I've come to shoot and trap,
too, but chiefly to see the Wild Man o' the West.  An' isn't it
provokin'?  I might have seen him some weeks agone, if I hadn't bin
stunned with a fall jist as he came jumpin' into the middle o' us like a
clap o' thunder--"

"What, lad," interrupted Dick, "was it _you_ that I--"

Just at this moment Dick was seized with a very violent fit of coughing,
which, coming as it did from such a capacious chest and so powerful a
pair of lungs, caused the roof of the cavern to reverberate with what
might have been mistaken, outside, for a species of miniature artillery.

"You've caught cold," suggested March, who gazed in unspeakable
admiration at the magnificent locks and beard of this remarkable man, as
they shook with the violence of his exertion.

"I _never_ had a cold," replied Dick, becoming quiet again; "there's
other things as cause a man for to cough, now and agin', besides colds."

"True," rejoined March; "but you were sayin' somethin'--do you know of
the fight I was speakin' of?"

"Know of it--ay, that do I."

"Why, how did you happen to hear of it?"

"It's wonderful, lad, how I comes to know about things in this part o'
the country.  I know everything the Wild Man does.  He can't move
without my bein' on his track d'rectly.  In fact, I follers him like his
shadow--leastwise, his shadow follers me."

"Indeed," exclaimed March, whose interest in Dick became suddenly
tenfold more deep on learning this.  "But why do you follow him about in
this fashion?  Does he like your company, or do you only follow him on
the sly, and keep out of sight?  Explain yourself, Dick--you puzzle me."

"I can't explain just now, lad," said Dick, rising abruptly.  "You
forget that your comrades may be in a fix before now wi' them blackguard
redskins.  I must go an' help them.  It's but right that white men
should lend one another a helpin' hand in these regions, where the
Injuns have it almost all their own way."

"But the Mountain Fort is far away from this, an' I'm afraid you'll
never be able to get there in time," said March with an anxious
expression of countenance.

"I'll try," returned Dick.  "Anyhow, I'll send the Wild Man o' the West
to help them," he added with a peculiar smile.  "Now, boy, listen, I
must not waste more time in idle talk.  I shall leave you here under the
charge of my little girl--"

"Your little girl!" echoed March in surprise.

"Ay, she ought to have been in before now," continued Dick, without
noticing the interruption, "an' I would like to ha' told her who ye are,
and how I come by ye, an' what to do till I come back.  But I can't
wait; time's precious as gold just now; so I'll tell ye what to say to
her when she--"

At that moment a light footstep was heard in the outer cavern.  The Wild
Man sprang up on hearing it, and strode hastily through the natural
doorway, leaving March to listen, in a state of the utmost bewilderment,
to a silvery musical voice, which held rapid converse with his strange
host.

Presently Dick returned, followed by a--_vision in leather_! the sight
of which struck March Marston dumb, and rendered him for a few moments
as totally incapable of moving hand, tongue, or foot, as if he had been
bewitched--which, in a sense, he was.

"This is the little girl I spoke of t'ye," said Dick looking at March,
and patting the girl on her soft cheek with a hand that might have
passed for a small shoulder of mutton.  "She'll take good care of ye,
March.  I've told her what to do; but she don't need to be told.  Now,
see ye don't do yerself a mischief, lad, till I come back.  It won't be
long--a day or two, mayhap, more or less; but ye'll take that time to
mend; you're worse battered than ye think of--so, good-day."

While the Wild Man was ejaculating these sentences abruptly, he was
striding about the cave with what may be styled _enormous_ vigour,
picking up and buckling on his weapons of war.  He seized a double-edged
sword of gigantic proportions, and buckled it to his waist; but March
saw it not.  He pulled on the scalp-fringed coat of a Blackfoot chief,
with leggings to match; but March knew it not.  He slung a powder-horn
and bullet-pouch round his shoulders, stuck a knife and tomahawk into
his belt, and grasped a long rifle which stood in a corner; and, in
doing all this, he made such a tremendous clatter, and displayed such
wonderful activity, and grew so much fiercer to look at in every stage
of the process, that March would certainly have recurred to the idea of
the Wild Man, had he been in his ordinary state of mind; but he was
_not_ in that happy condition.  March knew nothing about it whatever!

Before going, Dick stooped and kissed the "vision" on the cheek.  March
saw that!  It recalled him for a moment and made him aware of the
disappearance of his host, and of the loud clattering sounds of his
charger's hoofs, as he led him at a rapid walk across the outer cave.
March even heard the general clatter of all his accoutrements, as he
vaulted into the saddle at one bound, and went down that terrible rocky
way at a breakneck gallop that would have caused him (March) in other
circumstances to shudder.  But he did _not_ shudder.  He was but faintly
aware of these things.  His intellect was overturned; his whole soul was
captivated; his imagination, his perceptions, his conceptions--all his
faculties and capacities were utterly overwhelmed and absorbed by that
wonderful _vision in leather_!

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

THE VISION IN LEATHER.

It is all very well for men of the world, men of fashion, men who pride
themselves on being highly civilised and peculiarly refined, to fancy
that there are no other visions in this world than "visions in silk,"
"visions in white," and the like.  Those who think thus labour under an
egregious, though a civilised, mistake.

Happily there are kind, loving, pretty faces in this world, the
possessors of which know nothing about pink gauze or white muslin--faces
that have never felt the hot air of a drawing-room, but are much used to
present themselves, unveiled, to the fresh breezes of the prairie and
the mountain; faces that possess the rare quality of universal
attraction, and that cause men to fancy, when they see them for the
first time, that they have beheld a vision!

The fact is that some faces are visions, whether the forms that support
them appear to us in muslin or in deerskin.  The only requisite needful
to constitute a face a vision to any particular person, is that it
should have in it that peculiar _something_ which everybody wants, but
which nobody can define; which is ineffably charming, though utterly
incomprehensible; and which, when once seen by any one, constitutes the
countenance that possesses it a vision evermore!

It is quite immaterial what material composes the dress in which the
vision appears.  No doubt, the first time it bursts upon the smitten
victim, dress may be a powerful auxiliary; but, after the first time,
dress goes for little or nothing.  March Marston's vision appeared, as
we have said in leather.

After the Wild Man had vanished, March continued to gaze at his new
companion with all kinds of feelings and emotions, but without being
able to move or speak.  The vision returned the compliment, also without
speaking or taking any further notice of him.

She was a wonderful creature, that vision in leather!  That she was of
Indian extraction was evident from the hue of her skin, yet she was not
nearly so dark as the lightest complexioned Indian.  In fact her clear
soft forehead was whiter than those of many so-called pale-faces; but
her ruddy cheeks, her light-brown hair, and, above all, her bright brown
eye showed that white blood ran in her veins.  She was what men term a
half-caste.  She was young, almost girlish in her figure and deportment;
but the earnest gravity of her pretty face caused her to appear older
than she really was.  March, unconsciously and without an effort,
guessed her to be sixteen.  He was wrong.  She had only seen fifteen
summers.

Her dress was a beautifully dressed deerskin gown, reaching below the
knees, as soft as chamois leather, and ornamented with beads and quill
work.  It was girded round her small waist by a leather belt, from which
depended a small hunting-knife.  A pair of ornamental leggings of the
same material as the gown covered her limbs, and moccasins her feet,
which latter, as well as her hands, were small and beautifully formed.
Over her shoulders were slung the masculine appendages of a powder-horn
and bullet-pouch, proving that this creature was, so to speak, a Dianic
vision.

Her staring so hard and so long at March without speaking or smiling, or
taking any more notice of him than if he had been an effigy on a
tombstone, seemed unaccountable to that youth.  Had he been able to look
at himself from her point of view he would not have been so much
surprised.

In his late accident he had received so severe a blow on the left eye
that that orb was altogether shut up.  As he did not move, and as the
other eye, with which he gazed in supreme astonishment at the sweet face
before him, happened to be farthest from the fire, besides being hid in
the shadow of his own nose--which was not a small one by nature, and was
a peculiarly large one by force of recent circumstances--the vision very
naturally thought that he was fast asleep.  As she stood there gazing
wonderingly and somewhat sadly at the poor youth, with the red
flickering flame of the fire lighting up her yellow garments, deepening
the red on her round cheeks, glinting on the loose masses of her rich
tresses, and sparkling in the depths of her bright brown eyes, March
thought he had never in all his life before beheld such an exquisite
creature.

Supposing that he was asleep, the vision sat down quietly on a log
beside the fire, still keeping her eyes, however, fixed on her guest.
The action took her out of "the direct line of fire" of March's sound
eye, therefore he turned his head abruptly, and so brought his staring
orb into the light of the fire, and revealed the fact that he was
wide-awake; whereupon the vision uttered an exclamation of surprise,
rose hastily, and went to his side.

"You is woke," she said.  "Me tink you was be sleep."

"Asleep!" cried March with enthusiasm, "no, I wasn't asleep.  More than
that, I'll never go to sleep any more."

This bold assertion naturally filled the vision with surprise.

"Why for not?" she asked, sitting down on a log beside March in such a
position that she could see him easily.

"For thinkin' o' _you_!" replied the bold youth firmly.

The vision looked at him in still greater astonishment, opening her eyes
slowly until they seemed like two pellucid lakelets of unfathomable
depth into which March felt inclined to fling himself, clothes and all,
and be drowned comfortably.  She then looked at the fire, then at March
again.  It was evident that she had not been accustomed to hold
intercourse with jocular minds.  Perceiving this, March at once changed
his tone, and, with a feeling of respect which he could not well account
for, said rather bluntly--

"What's your name?"

"Mary."

"Ay! did your father give you that name?"

"My father?" echoed the girl, looking hastily up.

"Ay, did Dick give it you?"

"Did him tell you him's name be Dick?" asked Mary.

"Oh! he's known by another name to you, then, it would seem.  But, Mary,
what _is_ his name?"

The girl pursed her mouth and laid her finger on it.  Then, with a
little sad smile, said--

"Him tell you Dick, that be good name.  But Dick not my father.  My
father dead."

The poor thing said this so slowly and in such a low pathetic tone that
March felt sorry for having unwittingly touched a tender chord.  He
hastened to change the subject by saying--

"Is Dick kind to you, Mary?"

"Kind," she cried, looking up with a flashing eye and flushed face,
while with one of her little hands she tossed back her luxuriant
tresses.  "Kind!  Him be my father _now_.  No have got nobody to love me
now but him."

"Yes, you have, Mary," said March stoutly.

Mary looked at him in surprise, and said, "Who?"

"Me!" replied March.

Mary said nothing to this.  It was quite clear that the Wild Man must
have neglected her education sadly.  She did not even smile; she merely
shook her head, and gazed abstractedly at the embers of the fire.

"Dick is not your father, Mary," continued March energetically, "but he
has become your father.  I am not your brother, but I'll become your
brother--if you'll let me."

March in his enthusiasm tried to raise himself; consequently he fell
back and drowned Mary's answer in a groan of anguish.  But he was not to
be baulked.

"What said you?" he inquired after a moment's pause.

"Me say you be very good."

She said this so calmly that March felt severely disappointed.  In the
height of his enthusiasm he forgot that the poor girl had as yet seen
nothing to draw out her feelings towards him as his had been drawn out
towards her.  She had seen no "vision," except, indeed, the vision of a
wretched, dishevelled youth, of an abrupt, excitable temperament, with
one side of his countenance scratched in a most disreputable manner, and
the other side swelled and mottled to such an extent that it resembled a
cheap plum-pudding with the fruit unequally and sparsely distributed
over its yellow surface.

March was mollified, however, when the girl suggested that his pillow
seemed uncomfortable, and rose to adjust it with tender care.  Then she
said: "Now me bring blankit.  You go sleep.  Me sit here till you sleep,
after that me go away.  If ye wants me, holler out.  Me sleep in next
room."

So saying, this wonderful creature flitted across the cavern and
vanished, thereby revealing to March the fact that there was a third
cavern in that place.  Presently she returned with a green blanket, and
spread it over him, after which she sat down by the fire and seemed
absorbed in her private meditations while March tried to sleep.

But what a night March had of it!  Whichever way he turned, that vision
was ever before his eyes.  When he awoke with a start, there she was,
bending over the fire.  When he dreamed, there she was, floating in an
atmosphere of blue stars.  Sometimes she was smiling on him, sometimes
gazing sadly, but never otherwise than sweetly.  Presently he saw her
sitting on Dick's knee, twisting his great moustache with her delicate
hand, and he was about to ask Dick how he had managed to get back so
soon, when he (the Wild Man) suddenly changed into March's own mother,
who clasped the vision fervently to her breast and called her her own
darling son!  There was no end to it.  She never left him.  Sometimes
she appeared in curious forms and in odd aspects--though always pleasant
and sweet to look upon.  Sometimes she was dancing gracefully like an
embodied zephyr on the floor; frequently walking in mid-air;
occasionally perambulating the ceiling of the cave.  She often changed
her place, but she never went away.  There was no escape.  And March was
glad of it.  He didn't want to escape.  He was only too happy to court
the phantom.  But it did not require courting.  It hovered over him,
walked round him, sat beside him, beckoned to him, and smiled at him.
Never,--no, never since the world began was any scratched and battered
youth so thoroughly badgered and bewitched, as was poor March Marston on
that memorable night, by that naughty vision in leather!

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

THE CAVE OF THE WILD MAN OF THE WEST--MARCH AND MARY HOLD PLEASANT
INTERCOURSE--DICK'S GOOD QUALITIES ENLARGED ON--THE WILD MAN GIVES A
REDSKIN A STRANGE LESSON--A STARTLING INTERRUPTION TO PLEASANT CONVERSE.

When March Marston awoke the following morning, and found himself lying
on a low couch in the mysterious cavern of the Wild Man of the West, he
experienced the curious sensation, with which every one is more or less
familiar, of not knowing where he was.

The vision in leather, which had worried him to such an extent during
the night, had left him in peace--as most visions usually do--an hour or
so before daybreak, and as the real vision had not yet issued from the
inner chamber of the cave, there was nothing familiar near him when he
awoke to recall his scattered senses.  His first effort to rise,
however, quickened his memory amazingly.  Pains shot through all his
limbs: the chase, the fall, Dick, the cavern, recurred to him; and
last--but not least, for it obliterated and swallowed up all the rest--
the vision broke upon his beclouded brain and cleared his faculties.

Looking curiously round the cavern, he observed for the first time--what
he might have observed the night before had he not been preoccupied with
sudden, numerous, and powerful surprises--that the walls were hung with
arms and trophies of the chase.  Just opposite to him hung the skin of
an enormous grisly bear, with the head and skull entire, and the mouth
and teeth grinning at him in an awful manner.  Near to this were the
skin and horns of several buffaloes.  In other places there were more
horns, and heads, and hides of bears of various kinds, as well as of
deer, and, conspicuous above the entrance, hung the ungainly skull and
ponderous horns of an elk.

Mingled with these, and arranged in such a manner as to prove that Dick,
or the vision--one or other, or both--were by no means destitute of
taste, hung various spears, and bows, and quivers, and shields of Indian
manufacture, with spears and bows whose form seemed to indicate that
Dick himself was their fabricator.  There was much of tasteful ornament
on the sheaths and handles of many of these weapons.

The floor of the apartment in which he lay was of solid rock, cleanly
washed and swept, but there was no furniture of any kind--only a pile of
fresh-cut pine-branches, with which the place was perfumed, and two or
three rough logs which had been used as seats the night before by the
host and hostess of this--to March--enchanted castle.

March was staring earnestly at one of these logs which lay close to the
ashes of the fire, trying to recall the form that had last occupied it,
when a rustle at the inner passage attracted his attention, and next
moment the vision again stood before him.  It was, if possible, more
innocent and young and sweet than on the previous night.

"Good mornin'.  You very good sleep, me hope?"

"Ay, that had I, a capital sleep," cried March heartily, holding out his
hand, which the vision grasped unhesitatingly, and shook with manly
vigour.

"Bees you hongray?"

"No, not a bit," said March.

The girl looked sad at this.  "You muss heat," she said quickly, at the
same time raking together the embers of the fire, and blowing them up
into a flame, over which she placed a large iron pot.  "Dick hims always
heat well an' keep well.  Once me was be sick.  Dick him say to me,
`Heat.'  Me say, `No want heat.'  Hims say, `You _muss_ heat.'  So me
try; an' sure 'nuff, get well to-morrow."

March laughed at this prompt and effectual remedy for disease, and said,
"Well, I'll try.  Perhaps it will cure me, especially if you feed me."

Poor March saw, by the simplicity of his companion's looks, that
gallantry and compliments were alike thrown away on her; so he resolved
to try them no more.  Having come to this conclusion, he said--

"I say, Mary, come and sit by me while I talk with you.  I want to know
how you came to be in this wild, out-o'-the-way place, and who Dick is,
and what brought him here, an' in short, all about it."

The girl drew her log near as he desired, but said, "What Dick no tell,
me no tell."

"But, surely," urged March in a somewhat testy tone, "you may tell me
_something_ about ye."

Mary shook her head.

"Why not?"

"Dick say, `No tell.'"

"Oh!  Dick's an ass!"

Had Mary known the meaning of her companion's rude speech, she might
possibly have surprised him with a decided opinion in regard to himself.
But, never having heard of nor seen such a creature in all her life,
she only looked up with a quiet expression of curiosity, and said--

"What bees an ass?"

"Ha! ha!--ho! he! a--" roared our hero, with a mingled feeling of
exasperation and savage glee--"an ass?  Why, it's a lovely slender
creature, with short pretty ears and taper limbs, and a sleek, glossy
coat, like--like _me_, Mary, dear; why, I'm an ass myself.  Pray, do get
me somethin' to eat.  I really believe my appetite's comin' back agin."

Mary looked at March in much concern.  She had once nursed the Wild Man
through a severe illness, and knew what delirium was, and she began to
suspect that her guest was beginning to give way.

"Now, lie down," she said with an air of decision that was almost
ludicrous in one so youthful.  Yet March felt that he must obey.  "Me
will git meat ready.  You sleep littil bit."

March shut his eyes at once; but, the instant that Mary turned to attend
to the iron kettle, he opened them, and continued to gaze at the busy
little housewife, until she chanced to look in his direction, when he
shut them again quickly, and very tight.  This was done twice; but the
third time Mary caught him in the act, and broke into a merry laugh.  It
was the first time she had laughed aloud since March met her; so he
laughed too, out of sheer delight and sympathy.

When March had finished breakfast, he tried to get up, and found, to his
great relief and satisfaction, that no bones were broken--a fact of
which he had stood in considerable doubt--and that his muscles were less
acutely pained than they had been.  Still, he was very stiff, and quite
unable, with any degree of comfort, to walk across the cave; so he made
up his mind to lie there till he got well--a resolution which, in the
pride of his heart, he deemed exceedingly virtuous and praiseworthy,
forgetting, either deliberately or stupidly, that the presence of Mary
rendered that otherwise dull cavern the most delightful of sick
chambers, and that her attendance was ample compensation and reward for
any amount of pain or self-denial.

"Mary," he said, when she had cleared away the debris of the morning
meal, "sit down here, and tell me a few things.  You're so terribly
close that one doesn't know what he may ask an' what he mayn't.  But if
you don't like to speak, you can hold your tongue, you know.  Now, tell
me, how old are you?"

"Fifteen," replied Mary.

"Ay!  I thought ye'd been older.  How long have ye bin with Dick?"

"In cave here--ten year.  Before that, me live in my father's wigwam."

"Was yer father a trapper?" inquired March tenderly.

Mary's face at once assumed an expression of earnest gravity, and she
answered, "Yes," in a low, sad tone.

March was going to have inquired further on this point, but fear lest he
should hurt the feelings of the poor child induced him to change the
subject.

"And how came ye," said he, "first to meet with Dick?"

Mary pressed her lips.

"Oh! very well; don't tell if it ain't right, by no manner o' means.  Do
ye think that Dick intends to keep ye here always?"

"Me not know."

"Humph!  An' you say he's good to ye?"

"Oh yes," cried Mary with a sudden blaze of animation on her usually
placid countenance, "him's good, very good--gooder to me than nobody
else."

"Well, I could have guessed that, seein' that nobody else has had
anything to do with ye but him for ten years past."

"But him's not only good to me--good to everybody," continued the girl
with increasing animation.  "You not know _how_ good--can't know."

"Certainly not," assented March; "it ain't possible to know, not havin'
bin told; but if you'll tell me I'll listen."

March Marston had at last struck a chord that vibrated intensely in the
bosom of the warm-hearted child.  She drew her log closer to him in her
eagerness to dilate on the goodness of her adopted father, and began to
pour into his willing ears such revelations of the kind and noble deeds
that he had done, that March was fired with enthusiasm, and began to
regard his friend Dick in the light of a demigod.  Greatheart, in the
"Pilgrim's Progress," seemed most like to him, he thought, only Dick
seemed grander, which was a natural feeling; for Bunyan drew his
Greatheart true to nature, while Mary and March had invested Dick with a
robe of romance, which glittered so much that he looked preternaturally
huge.

March listened with rapt attention; but as the reader is not March, we
will not give the narrative in Mary's bad English.  Suffice it to say,
that she told how, on one occasion, Dick happened to be out hunting near
to a river, into which he saw a little Indian child fall.  It was
carried swiftly by the current to a cataract fifty feet high, and in a
few minutes would have been over and dashed to pieces, when Dick happily
saw it, and plunging in brought it safe to shore, yet with such
difficulty that he barely gained the bank, and grasped the branch of an
overhanging willow, when his legs were drawn over the edge of the fall.
He had to hold on for ten minutes, till men came from the other side of
the stream to his assistance.

Mary also told him (and it was evening ere she finished all she had to
tell him) how that, on another occasion, Dick was out after grislies
with a hunter, who had somehow allowed himself to be caught by a bear,
and would have been torn in pieces had not Dick come up with his great
two-edged sword--having fired off his rifle without effect--and, with
one mighty sweep at the monster's neck, cut right through its jugular
vein, and all its other veins, down to the very marrow of its backbone;
in fact, killed it at one blow--a feat which no one had ever done, or
had ever heard of as being done, from the days of the first Indian to
that hour.

Many such stories did Mary relate to the poor invalid, who bore his
sufferings with exemplary patience and fortitude, and listened with
unflagging interest; but of all the stories she told, none seemed to
afford her so much pleasure in the telling as the following:--

One day Dick went out to hunt buffaloes, on his big horse, for he had
several steeds, one or other of which he rode according to fancy; but he
always mounted the big black one when he went after the buffalo or to
war.  Mary here explained, very carefully, that Dick never went to war
on his own account--that he was really a man of peace, but that, when he
saw oppression and cruelty, his blood boiled within him at such a rate
that he almost went mad, and often, under the excitement of hot
indignation, would he dash into the midst of a band of savages and
scatter them right and left like autumn leaves.

Well, as he was riding along among the mountains, near the banks of a
broad stream, and not far from the edge of the great prairie, he came
suddenly on an object that caused his eyes to glare and his teeth to
grind; for there, under the shade of a few branches, with a pot of water
by her side, sat an old Indian woman.  Dick did not need to ask what she
was doing there.  He knew the ways of the redskins too well to remain a
moment in doubt.  She had grown so old and feeble that her relations had
found her burdensome; so, according to custom, they left her there to
die.  The poor old creature knew that she was a burden to them.  She
knew also the customs of her tribe--it was at her own request she had
been left there, a willing victim to an inevitable fate, because she
felt that her beloved children would get on better without her.  They
made no objection.  Food, to last for a few days, was put within reach
of her trembling hand; a fire was kindled, and a little pile of wood
placed beside it, also within reach.  Then they left her.  They knew
that when that food was consumed, and the last stick placed upon the
fire, the shrunken limbs would stand in no need of warmth--the old heart
would be still.  Yet that heart had once beat joyfully at the sound of
those pattering feet that now retired with heavy ruthless tread for
ever.  What a commentary on savage life!  What a contrast between the
promptings of the unregenerate heart of man and the precepts of that
blessed--thrice blessed Gospel of Jesus Christ, where love, unalterable,
inextinguishable, glows in every lesson and sweetens every command.

When Dick came upon her suddenly, as we have said, he was not ten paces
distant from the spot where she sat; but she was apparently deaf and
blind, for she evinced no knowledge of his presence.  She was reaching
out her skinny arm to place another stick upon the sinking fire at the
time, for it was a sharp and cold, though a bright and sunny autumn day.
Dick stopped his horse, crushed his teeth together, and sat for a few
moments regarding her intently.

Either the firewood had originally been placed too far away from the old
woman's hand, or she had shifted her position, for she could not reach
it.  Once and again she made the effort--she stretched out her withered
arm and succeeded in just touching the end of one of the pieces of wood,
but could not grasp it.  She pawed it once or twice, and then gave up
the attempt with a little sigh.  Drawing herself slowly together, she
gathered up the rabbit-skin blanket which rested on her shoulders and
attempted feebly to fold it across her chest.  Then she slowly drooped
her white head, with an expression of calm resignation on her old
wrinkled visage.

Dick's great heart almost burst with conflicting emotions.  The wrath
that welled up as he thought of the deserters was met by a gush of
tender pity as he gazed through blinding tears on the deserted.  With a
fling that caused his stout warhorse to stagger, he leaped to the
ground, tore open the breast of his hunting-shirt, and, sitting down
beside the old woman, placed her cold hand in his bosom.

She uttered a feeble cry and made a slight momentary effort to resist;
but Dick's act, though promptly, was, nevertheless, tenderly done, and
the big hand that stroked her white head was so evidently that of a
friend, that the poor creature resigned herself to the enjoyment of that
warmth of which she stood so much in need.  Meanwhile Dick, without
shifting his position, stretched forth his long arm, collected all the
wood within reach, and placed it on the fire.

After a few minutes the old woman raised her head, and looking earnestly
in Dick's face with her bleared and almost sightless eyes, said in the
Indian language, with which her companion was well acquainted--

"My son, have you come back to me?"

A gush of indignant feeling had again to be violently stifled ere Dick
could answer in moderate tones--

"No, mother, he's _not_ come back; but I'll be a son to ye.  See, sit up
an' warm yerself at the blaze.  I'll get ye some meat and sticks."

In hot haste, and with desperate activity, for he had no other way of
relieving his feelings, Dick cut down a quantity of firewood and placed
it close to the hand of the old woman.  Then he untied the tin kettle
which he always carried at his saddle-bow, and, with a piece of dried
venison, concocted a quantity of hot soup in a marvellously short space
of time.  This done, he sat down beside the old woman and made her
partake of it.

"Is it long since they left ye, mother?" he said, after she had
swallowed a little.

The old woman pondered for a few seconds.  "No," she said, "not long.
Only one sun has gone down since my son left me."  Then she added in a
sad tone, "I loved him.  He is a great warrior--a brave chief--and he
loved me, too.  But he had to leave me; I am old and useless.  It is my
fate."

"Describe your son to me," said Dick abruptly.  "He is tall and straight
as the poplar," began the old creature, while a look of pride played for
a moment on her withered countenance.  "His shoulders are broad and his
limbs are supple.  He can run and leap like the deer, but not so well as
he once could.  Grey hairs are now mingling with the black--"

"Has he any mark by which I could find him out?" interrupted Dick
impatiently.

"He has a deep cut over the right eye," returned the woman; "but stay,"
she added in some alarm, "you would not harm my son; you are not an
enemy?"