 | CHAPTER III. The prairie |  |
3. CHAPTER III.
“Come, come, thou art as hot a Jack in thy
mood, as any in Italy; and as soon mov'd to be
moody, and as soon moody to be moved.”
Romeo and Juliet.
Though the trapper manifested some surprise
when he perceived that another human figure was approaching
him, and that, too, from a direction opposite
to the place where the emigrant had made his
encampment, it was with the steadiness of one long
accustomed to scenes of danger.
“This is a man,” he said; “and one who has white
blood in his veins, or his step would be lighter. It
will be well to be ready for the worst, as the half-and-halfs,
that one meets, in these distant districts,
are altogether more barbarous than the real savage.”
He raised his rifle while he spoke, and assured
by manual examination. But his arm was arrested,
while in the act of throwing forward the muzzle
of the piece, by the eager and trembling hands
of his companion.
“For God's sake, be not too hasty,” she said; “it
may be a friend—an acquaintance—a neighbour.”
“A friend!” the old man repeated, deliberately
releasing himself, at the same time, from her grasp.
“Friends are rare in any land, and less in this, perhaps,
than in another; and the neighbourhood is too
thinly settled, to make it likely, that he who comes
towards us is even an acquaintance.”
“But though a stranger, you would not seek his
blood!”
The trapper earnestly regarded her anxious and
frightened features, a moment, and then he dropped
the butt of his rifle on the ground, again, like one
whose purpose had undergone a sudden change.
“No,” he said, speaking rather to himself, than to
his timid companion, “she is right; blood is not to
be spilt, to save the life of one so useless, and so near
his allotted time. Let him come on; my skins, my
traps, and even my rifle shall be his, if he sees fit to
demand them.”
“He will ask for neither—He wants neither,” returned
the girl; “if he be an honest man, he will
surely be content with his own, and ask for nothing
that is the property of another.”
The trapper had not time to express the surprise
he felt at the incoherent and contradictory language
he heard, for the man who was advancing, was, already,
within fifty feet of the place where they stood.—
In the mean time, Hector had not been an indifferent
witness of what was passing. At the sound of the
distant footsteps, he had arisen, from his warm bed at
the feet of his master; and now, as the stranger appeared
in open view he stalked slowly towards him,
his leap.
“Call in your dog,” said a firm, deep, manly voice,
in tones of friendship, rather than of menace; “I
love a hound, and should be sorry to do an injury to
the animal.”
“You hear what is said about you, pup?” the trapper
answered; “come hither, fool. His growl and
his bark are all that is left him now; you may come
on, friend; the hound is toothless.”
The stranger instantly profited by the intelligence.
He sprang eagerly forward, and at the next instant
stood at the side of Ellen Wade. After assuring himself
of the identity of the latter, by a hasty but keen
glance, he turned his attention, with a quickness and
impatience, that proved the interest he took in the
result, to a similar examination of her companion.
“From what cloud have you fallen, my good old
man?” he said in a careless, off-hand, heedless manner
that seemed too natural to be assumed. “Or do
you actually live, hereaway, in the prairies.”
“I have been long on earth, and never I hope nigher
to heaven, than I am at this moment,” returned
the trapper; “my dwelling, if dwelling I may be said
to have, is not far distant. Now may I take the liberty
with you, that you are so willing to take with
others? Whence do you come, and where is your
home?”
“Softly, softly; when I have done with my catechism,
it will be time to begin with your's. What
sport is this, you follow by moonlight? You are not
dodging the buffaloes at such an hour!”
“I am, as you see, going from an encampment of
travellers, which lies over yonder swell in the land,
to my own wigwam; in doing so, I wrong no man.”
“All fair and true. And you got this young woman
to show you the way, because she knows it so
well and you know so little about it.”
“I met her, as I have met you, by accident. For
ten tiresome years have I dwelt on these open fields,
and never, before to-night, have I found human beings
with white skins on them, at this hour. If my
presence here gives offence, I am sorry; and will go
my way. It is more than likely that when your young
friend, has told her story, you will be better given to
believe mine.”
“Friend!” said the youth, lifting a cap of skins
from his head, and running his fingers leisurely
through a dense mass of black and shaggy locks, “if
I ever laid eyes on the girl before to-night, may I...”
“You've said enough, Paul,” interrupted the female,
laying her hand on his mouth, with a familiarity,
that gave something very like the lie direct, to his
intended asseveration. “Our secret will be safe,
with this honest old man. I know it by his looks,
and kind words.”
“Our secret! Ellen, have you forgot...”
“Nothing. I have not forgotten any thing I should
remember. But still I say we are safe with this honest
trapper.
“Trapper! is he then a trapper? Give me your
hand, father; our trades should bring us acquainted.”
“There is little call for handicrafts in this region,”
returned the other, examining the athletic and active
form of the youth, as he leaned carelessly and not
ungracefully, on his rifle; “the art of taking the creatur's
of God, in traps and nets, is one that needs
more cunning than manhood; and yet am I brought
to practise it, in my age! But it would be quite as
seemly, in one like you, to follow a pursuit better becoming
your years and courage.”
“Me! I never took even a slinking mink or a paddling
musk-rat in a cage; though I admit having peppered
a few of the dark-skin'd devils, when I had
much better have kept my powder in the horn and
crawls the earth is for my sport.”
“What then may you do for a living, friend; for
little profit is to be made in these districts, if a man
denies himself his lawful right in the beasts of the
fields.”
“I deny myself nothing. If a bear crosses my path,
he is soon no bear. The deer begin to nose me; and
as for the buffaloe, I have kill'd more beef, old stranger,
than the largest butcher in all Kentuck.”
“You can shoot, then!” demanded the trapper,
with a glow of latent fire, glimmering about his
small, deep-set, eyes; “is your hand true, and your
look quick?”
“The first is like a steel trap, and the last nimbler
than a buck-shot. I wish it was hot noon, now,
grand'ther; and that there was an acre or two of
your white swans or of black feathered ducks going
south, over our heads; you or Ellen, here, might set
your heart on the finest in the flock, and my character
against a horn of powder, that the bird would be
hanging head downwards, in five minutes, and that
too, with a single ball. I scorn a shot-gun! No man
can say, he ever knew me carry one, a rod.”
“The lad has good in him! I see it plainly by his
manner;” said the trapper, turning to Ellen with an
openly, encouraging air; “I will take it on myself
to say, that you are not unwise in meeting him, as
you do. Tell me, lad; did you ever strike a leaping
buck atwixt the antlers? Hector; quiet, pup; quiet.
The very name of venison, quickens the blood of the
cur;—did you ever take an animal in that fashion,
on the long leap?”
“You might just as well ask me, did you ever eat?
There is no fashion, old stranger, that a deer has not
been touched by my hand, unless it was when asleep.”
“Ay, ay; you have a long, and a happy—ay, and
an honest life afore you! I am old, and I suppose I
given me to choose my time, and place, again,—as
such things are not and ought not ever to be given
to the will of man—though if such a gift was to be
given me, I would say, twenty and the wilderness!
But, tell me; how do you part with the peltry?”
“With my pelts! I never took a skin from a buck,
nor a quill from a goose, in my life! I knock them
over, now and then, for a meal, and sometimes to
keep my finger true to the touch; but when hunger
is satisfied, the prairie wolves get the remainder. No
—no—I keep to my calling; which pays me better,
than all the fur I could sell on the other side of the
big river.”
The old man appeared to ponder a little; but
shaking his head, he soon musingly continued—
“I know of but one business that can be followed
here with profit—”
He was interrupted by the youth, who raised a
small cup of tin, which dangled at his neck before
the other's eyes, and springing its lid, the delicious
odour of the finest flavoured honey, diffused itself
over the organs of the trapper.
“A bee hunter!” observed the latter, with a readiness
that proved he understood the nature of the
occupation, though not without some little surprise
at discovering one of the other's spirited mien engaged
in so humble a pursuit. “It pays well in the
skirts of the settlements, but I should call it a doubtful
trade, in the open districts.”
“You think a tree is wanting for a swarm to settle
in! But I know differently; and so I have stretched
out a few hundred miles farther west, than common,
to taste your honey. And, now, I have bated
your curiosity, stranger, you will just move aside,
while I tell the remainder of my story to this young
woman.”
“It is not necessary, I'm sure it is not necessary
that implied some little consciousness of the singularity
if not of the impropriety of the request. “You
can have nothing to say that the whole world might
not hear.”
“No! well, may I be stung to death by drones, if
I understand the buzzings of a woman's mind! For
my part, Ellen, I care for nothing nor any body; and
am just as ready to go down to the place where your
uncle, if uncle you can call one, who I'll swear is no
relation, has hoppled his teams, and tell the old man
my mind now, as I shall be a year hence. You have
only to say a single word, and the thing is done; let
him like it or not.”
“You are ever so hasty and so rash, Paul Hover,
that I seldom know when I am safe with you. How
can you, who know the danger of our being seen together,
speak of going before my uncle and his sons!”
“Has he done that of which he has reason to be
ashamed?” demanded the trapper, who had not moved
an inch from the place he first occupied.
“Heaven forbid! But there are reasons, why he
should not be seen, just now, that could do him no
harm if known, but which may not yet be told. And,
so, if you will wait, father, near yonder willow bush,
until I have heard what Paul can possibly have to
say, I shall be sure to come and wish you a good
night, before I return to the camp.”
The trapper drew slowly aside, as if satisfied with
the somewhat incoherent reason Ellen had given why
he should retire. When completely out of ear shot
of the earnest and hurried dialogue, that instantly
commenced between the two he had left, the old
man, again paused, and patiently awaited the moment
when he might renew his conversation with beings
in whom he felt a growing interest, no less from
the mysterious character of their intercourse, than
from a natural sympathy in the welfare of a pair so
was also fain to believe, were also so deserving. He
was accompanied by his indolent, but attached dog,
who once more made his bed at the feet of his master,
and soon lay slumbering as usual, with his head
nearly buried in the dense fog of the prairie grass.
It was a spectacle so unusual to see the human
form amid the solitude in which he dwelt, that the
trapper bent his eyes on the dim figures of his new
acquaintances, with sensations to which he had long
been a stranger. Their presence awakened recollections
and emotions, to which his sturdy but honest
nature had latterly paid but little homage, and his
thoughts began to wander over the varied scenes of
a life of hardships, that had been strangely blended
with scenes of wild and peculiar enjoyment. The
train taken by his thoughts had, already, conducted
him, in imagination, far into an ideal world, when he
was, once more suddenly, recalled to the reality of
his situation, by the movements of his faithful hound.
The dog, who, in submission to his years and infirmities,
had manifested such a decided propensity
to sleep, now, arose, and stalked from out the shadow
cast by the tall person of his master, and looked
abroad into the prairie, as though his instinct apprised
him of the presence of still another visiter. Then,
seemingly, content with his examination, he returned
to his comfortable post and disposed of his weary
limbs, with the deliberation and care of one who was
no novice in the art of self-preservation.
“What; again, Hector!” said the trapper in a
soothing voice, which he had the caution, however,
to utter in an under tone; “what is it, dog? tell his
master, pup; what is it?”
Hector answered with another growl, but was content
to continue in his lair. These were evidences
of intelligence and distrust, to which one as practised
as the trapper could not turn an inattentive ear.
by a low, guarded, whistle. The animal however,
as if conscious of having, already, discharged
his duty, obstinately refused to raise his head from
the grass.
“A hint from such a friend is far better than man's
advice!” muttered the trapper, as he slowly moved
towards the couple who were yet, too earnestly and
abstractedly, engaged in their own discourse, to notice
his approach; “and none but a conceited settler
would hear it and not respect it, as he ought. Children,”
he added, when nigh enough to address his
companions, “we are not alone in these dreary fields;
there are others stirring, and, therefore, to the shame
of our kind, be it said, danger is nigh.”
“If one of them lazy sons of Skirting Ishmael is
prowling out of his camp to-night,” said the young
bee-hunter, with great vivacity, and in tones that
might easily have been excited to a menace, “he
may have an end put to his journey, sooner than
either he or his father is dreaming!”
“My life on it, they are all with the teams,” hurriedly
answered the girl. “I saw the whole of them
asleep, myself, except the two on watch; and their
natures have greatly changed, if they, too, are not
both dreaming of a turkey hunt or a court-house
fight, at this very moment.”
“Some beast, with a strong scent, has passed between
the wind and the hound, father, and it makes
him uneasy; or, perhaps, he too is dreaming. I had,
a pup, of my own in Kentuck, that, would start upon
a long chase from a deep sleep; and all upon the
fancy of some dream. Go to him, and pinch his ear,
that the beast may feel the life within him.”
“Not so—not so,” returned the trapper, shaking
his head as one who better understood the qualities
of his dog.—“Youth sleeps, ay, and dreams too; but
age is awake and watchful. The pup is never false
his warnings.”
“Did you ever run him upon the trail of carrion?”
“Why, I must say, that the ravenous beasts have
sometimes tempted me to let him loose, for they are
as greedy as men, after the venison, in its season; but
then I knew the reason of the dog, would tell him
the object—No—no, Hector is an animal known in
the ways of man, and will never strike a false trail
when a true one is to be followed!”
“Ay, ay, the secret is out! you have run the hound
on the track of a wolf, and his nose has a better
memory than his master!” said the bee-hunter, laughing.
I have seen the creatur' sleep for hours, with
pack after pack, in open view. A wolf might eat
out of his tray without a snarl, unless there was a
scarcity; then, indeed, Hector would be apt to claim
his own.”
“There are panthers down from the mountains; I
saw one make a leap at a sick deer, as the sun was
setting. Go; go you back to the dog, and tell him
the truth, father; in a minute, I...”
He was interrupted by a long, loud and piteous
howl from the hound, which rose on the air of the
evening, like the wailing of some spirit of the place,
and passed off into the prairie, in cadences that rose
and fell, like its own undulating surface. The trapper
was impressively silent, listening intently. Even
the reckless bee-hunter, was struck with the wailing
wildness of the sounds. After a short pause the former
whistled the dog to his side, and then turning to
his companions he said with the seriousness, which,
in his opinion, the occasion demanded—
“They who think man enjoys all the knowledge
of the creaturs of God, will live to be disappointed,
if they reach, as I have done, the age of fourscore
years. I will not take upon myself to say what mischief
hound himself knows so much; but that evil is nigh,
and that wisdom invites us to avoid it, I have heard
from the mouth of one who never lies. I did think,
the pup had become unused to the footsteps of man,
and that your presence made him uneasy; but his
nose has been on a long scent the whole evening, and
what I mistook as a notice of your coming, has been
intended for something much more serious. If the
advice of an old man, is, then, worth hearkening to,
children, you will quickly, go different ways to your
places of shelter and safety.”
“If I quit Ellen, at such a moment,” exclaimed
the youth, “may I never...”
“You've said enough!” the girl interrupted, by
again interposing a hand that might, both by its delicacy
and colour, have graced a far more elevated station
in life; “my time is out; and we must part,
at all events—So good night, Paul—Father—good
night.”
“Hist!” said the youth, seizing her arm, as she
was in the very act of tripping from his side—
“Hist! do you hear nothing? There are buffaloes
playing their pranks, at no great distance—That sound
beats the earth like a mad herd of the scampering
devils!”
His two companions listened, as people in their situation
would be apt to lend their faculties to discover
the meaning of any doubtful noises, especially, when
heard after so many and such startling warnings. The
unusual sounds were now unequivocally though still
faintly audible. The youth and his female companion,
had made several hurried, and vacillating conjectures
concerning their nature, when a current of the
night air brought the rush of trampling footsteps, too
sensibly, to their ears, to render mistake any longer
possible.
“I am right!” said the bee-hunter; “a panther is
among the beasts.”
“Your ears are cheats;” returned the old man,
who, from the moment his own organs had been able
to catch the distant sounds, had stood like a statue
made to represent deep attention—“The leaps are
too long for the buffaloe, and too regular for terror.
Hist! now they are in a bottom where the grass is
high, and the sound is deadened! Ay, there they go
on the hard earth! And now they come up the
swell, dead upon us; they will be here afore you can
find a cover!”
“Come, Ellen,” cried the youth, seizing his companion
by the hand, “let us make a trial for the encampment.”
“Too late! too late!” exclaimed the trapper,
“for the creaturs are in open view; and a bloody
band of accursed Siouxs they are, by their thieving
look, and the random fashion in which they ride!”
“Siouxs or devils, they shall find us men!” said
the bee-hunter, with a mien as fierce as though he
led a party of superior strength, and of a courage
equal to his own—“You have a piece, old man, and
will pull a trigger in behalf of a helpless, christian,
girl!”
“Down, down into the grass—down with ye both,”
whispered the trapper, intimating to them to turn
aside to the tall weeds, which grew, in a denser body
than common, near the place where they stood.
“You've not the time to fly, nor the numbers to fight,
foolish boy. Down into the grass, if you prize
the young woman, or value the gift of your own
life!”
His remonstrance, seconded, as it was, by a prompt
and energetic action, did not fail to produce the submission
to his order, which the occasion now seemed,
indeed, so imperiously to require. The moon had
fallen behind a sheet of thin, fleecy, clouds, which
and fluctuating light, to render objects visible, dimly
revealing their forms and proportions. The trapper,
by exercising that species of influence, over his companions,
which experience and decision usually assert,
in cases of emergency, had effectually succeeded
in concealing them in the grass, and by the aid of
the feeble rays of the luminary, he was enabled to
scan the disorderly party which was riding, like so
many madmen, directly upon them.
A band of beings, who resembled demons rather
than men, sporting in their nightly revels across the
bleak plain, was in truth approaching, at a fearful
rate, and in a direction to leave little hope that some
one among them, at least, would not pass over the
spot were the trapper and his companions lay. At
intervals, the clattering of hoofs was borne along by
the night wind, quite audibly in their front, and then,
again, their progress through the fog of the autumnal
grass, was swift and silent; adding to the unearthly
appearance of the spectacle. The trapper, who had
called in his hound, and bidden him crouch at his
side, now kneeled in the cover, also, and, kept a keen
and watchful eye on the route of the band, soothing
the fears of the girl, and restraining the impatience
of the youth, in the same breath.
“If there's one, there's thirty of the miscreants!”
he said in a sort of episode to his whispered comments.
“Ay, ay; they are edging towards the river
—Peace, pup—peace—no, here they come this way
again—the thieves don't seem to know their own er
rand! If there were just six of us, lad, what a beautiful
ambushment we might make upon them, from
this very spot—it wont do, it wont do, boy; keep
yourself closer, or your head will be seen—besides,
I'm not altogether strong in the opinion it would be
lawful, as they have done us no harm—There they
bend ag'in to the river—no; here they come up the
breath had done its duty and departed the body.”
The figure of the old man sunk into the grass
while he was speaking, as though the final separation
to which he alluded, had, in his own case, actually
occurred, and, at the next instant, a band of wild
horsemen, whirled by them, with the noiseless rapidity
in which it might be imagined a troop of spectres
would pass. The dark and fleeting forms were already
vanished, when the trapper ventured, again, to
raise his head to a level with the tops of the bending
herbage, motioning, at the same time to his companions,
to maintain their positions and their silence.
“They are going down the swell, towards the encampment,”
he continued, in his former guarded
tones; “no, they halt in the bottom, and are clustering
together like deer, in council. By the Lord, they
are turning, ag'in, and we are not yet done with the
reptiles!”
Once more he sought his friendly cover, and at the
next instant, the dark troop were to be seen riding,
in a disorderly manner, on the very summit of the
little elevation. It was now soon apparent that they
had returned to avail themselves of the height of the
ground, in order to examine the dim horizon.
Some dismounted, while others rode to and fro,
like men engaged in a local inquiry of much interest.
Happily, for the hidden party, the grass in which
they were concealed, not only served to skreen them
from the eyes of the savages, but opposed an obstacle
to prevent their horses, which were no less rude and
untrained than their riders, from trampling on them,
in their irregular and wild paces.
At length an athletic and dark looking Indian,
who, by his air of authority, would seem to be the
leader, summoned his chiefs about him, to a consultation,
which was held, mounted. This body was
collected on the very margin of that mass of herbage
hid. As the young man looked up and saw the
threatening and fierce aspect of the groupe, which
was increasing at each instant by the accession of
some countenance and figure, apparently more forbidding
than any which had preceded it, he drew
his rifle, by a very natural impulse, from beneath
him, and commenced putting it in a state for instant
service. The female, at his side, buried her face in
the grass, by a feeling that was, possibly, quite as
natural to her sex and habits, leaving him to follow
the impulses of his hot blood, but his aged and more
prudent adviser, whispered, sternly, in his ear,
“The tick of the lock is as well known to the
knaves, as the blast of a trumpet to a soldier! lay
down the piece—lay down the piece—should the
moon touch the barrel, it could not fail to be seen by
the devils, whose eyes are keener than the blackest
snake's! The smallest motion, now, would be sure to
bring an arrow among us.”
The bee-hunter so far obeyed as to continue immoveable
and silent. But there was still sufficient
light to convince his companion, by the contracted
brow and threatening eye of the young man, that a
discovery would not bestow a bloodless victory on
the savages. Finding his advice disregarded, the
trapper took his measures accordingly, and awaited
the result with a resignation and calmness that were
characteristic of the individual.
In the mean time, the Siouxs (for the sagacity of
the old man was not deceived in the character of his
dangerous visiters) had terminated their council, and
were again dispersed along the ridge of land as if
they sought some hidden object.
“The imps have heard the hound!” whispered the
trapper, “and their ears are too true to be cheated in
the distance. Keep close, lad, keep close; down with
your head to the very earth, like a dog that sleeps.”
“Let us rather take to our feet, and trust to manhood,”
returned his impatient companion—
He would have proceeded, but feeling a hand laid
rudely on his shoulder, he turned his eyes upward,
and beheld the dark and savage countenance of an
Indian gleaming full upon him. Notwithstanding the
surprise and the disadvantage of his attitude, the
youth was not disposed to become a captive, so easily.
Quicker than the flash of his own gun, he sprang
upon his feet, and was throttling his opponent with a
power that would soon have terminated the contest,
when he felt the arms of the trapper thrown around
his body, confining his exertions by a strength very
little inferior to his own. Before he had time to reproach
his comrade for this apparent treachery, a
dozen Siouxs, were around them, and the whole
party were compelled to yield themselves as prisoners.
| CHAPTER III. The prairie | |