Away in the Wilderness. Robert Michael Ballantyne
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obert Michael Ballantyne
Away in the Wilderness
Chapter One. The Hunter.
On a beautiful summer evening, not many years ago, a man was seen to ascend the side of a little mound or hillock, on the top of which he lingered to gaze upon the wild scenery that lay stretched out before him.
The man wore the leathern coat and leggings of a North American hunter, or trapper, or backwoodsman; and well did he deserve all these titles, for Jasper Derry was known to his friends as the best hunter, the most successful trapper, and the boldest man in the backwoods.
Jasper was big and strong as well as bold, but he was not a bully. Men of true courage are in general peacefully disposed. Jasper could fight like a lion when there was occasion to do so; but he was gentle and grave, and quiet by nature. He was also extremely good-humoured; had a low soft voice, and, both in mind and body, seemed to delight in a state of repose.
We have said that his coat was made of leather; the moccasins or Indian shoes on his feet were made of the same material. When Jasper first put them on they were soft like a glove of chamois leather, and bright yellow; but hard service had turned them into a dirty brown, which looked more business like. The sun had burned his face and hands to as deep a brown as his coat. On his head he wore a little round cap, which he had made with his own hands, after having caught the black fox that supplied the fur, in one of his own traps. A coloured worsted belt bound his coat round his waist, and beneath the coat he wore a scarlet flannel shirt. A long knife and a small hatchet were stuck in the belt at his back, and in front hung a small cloth bag, which was so thickly ornamented with beads of many colours, that little of the cloth could be seen.
This last was a fire-bag—so called because it contained the flint, steel, and tinder required for making a fire. It also contained Jasper’s pipe and tobacco—for he smoked, as a matter of course. Men smoke everywhere—more’s the pity—and Jasper followed the example of those around him. Smoking was almost his only fault. He was a tremendous smoker. Often, when out of tobacco, he had smoked tea. Frequently he had tried bark and dried leaves; and once, when hard pressed, he had smoked oakum. He would rather have gone without his supper than without his pipe! A powder-horn and shot pouch were slung over his shoulders by two cross belts, and he carried a long single-barrelled gun.
I have been thus particular in describing Jasper Derry, because he is our hero, and he is worth describing, being a fine, hearty, handsome fellow, who cared as little for a wild Indian or a grizzly bear as he did for a butterfly, and who was one of the best of companions, as he was one of the best of hunters, in the wilderness.
Having gained the top of the hillock, Jasper placed the butt of his long gun on the ground, and, crossing his hands over the muzzle, stood there for some time so motionless, that he might have been mistaken for a statue. A magnificent country was spread out before him. Just in front lay a clear lake of about a mile in extent, and the evening was so still that every tree, stone, and bush on its margin, was reflected as in a mirror. Here, hundreds of wild ducks and wild geese were feeding among the sedges of the bays, or flying to and fro mingling their cries with those of thousands of plover and other kinds of water-fowl that inhabited the place. At the lower end of this lake a small rivulet was seen to issue forth and wind its way through woods and plains like a silver thread, until it was lost to view in the far distance. On the right and left and behind, the earth was covered with the dense foliage of the wild woods.
The hillock on which the western hunter stood, lay in the very heart of that great uncultivated wilderness which forms part of the British possessions in North America. This region lies to the north of the Canadas, is nearly as large as all Europe, and goes by the name of the Hudson’s Bay Territory, or Rupert’s Land.
It had taken Jasper many long weeks of hard travel by land and water, in canoes and on foot, to get there; and several weeks of toil still lay before him ere he could attain the object for which his journey had been undertaken.
Wicked people say that “woman is at the bottom of all mischief!” Did it never occur to these same wicked individuals, that woman is just as much at the bottom of all good? Whether for good or for evil, woman was at the bottom of Jasper Perry’s heart and affairs. The cause of his journey was love; the aim and end of it was marriage! Did true love ever run smooth? “No, never,” says the proverb. We shall see.
Chapter Two. The Three Friends.
When the hunter had stood for full five minutes gazing at the beautiful scenery by which he was surrounded, it suddenly occurred to him that a pipe would render him much more capable of enjoying it; so he sat down on the trunk of a fallen tree, leaned his gun on it, pulled the fire-bag from his belt, and began to fill his pipe, which was one of the kind used by the savages of the country, with a stone head and a wooden stem. It was soon lighted, and Jasper was thinking how much more clear and beautiful a landscape looked through tobacco smoke, when a hand was laid lightly on his shoulder. Looking quickly round, he beheld a tall dark-faced Indian standing by his side.
Jasper betrayed neither alarm nor surprise; for the youth was his own comrade, who had merely come to tell him that the canoe in which they had been travelling together, and which had been slightly damaged, was repaired and ready for service.
“Why, Arrowhead, you steal on me with the soft tread of a fox. My ears are not dull, yet I did not hear your approach, lad.”
A smile lighted up the countenance of the young Indian for a moment, as he listened to a compliment which gratified him much; but the grave expression which was natural to him instantly returned, as he said, “Arrowhead has hunted in the Rocky Mountains where the men are treacherous; he has learned to tread lightly there.”
“No doubt, ye had need to be always on the look out where there are such varmints; but hereaway, Arrowhead, there are no foes to fear, and therefore no need to take yer friends by surprise. But ye’re proud o’ your gifts, lad, an’ I suppose it’s natural to like to show them off. Is the canoe ready?”
The Indian replied by a nod.
“That’s well, lad, it will be sun-down in another hour, an’ I would like to camp on the point of pines to-night; so come along.”
“Hist!” exclaimed the Indian, pointing to a flock of geese which came into view at that moment.
“Ah! you come of a masterful race,” said Jasper, shaking his head gravely, “you’re never content when ye’ve got enough, but must always be killing God’s creatures right and left for pure sport. Haven’t we got one grey goose already for supper, an’ that’s enough for two men surely. Of course I make no account o’ the artist, poor cratur’, for he eats next to nothin’. Hows’ever, as your appetite may be sharper set than usual, I’ve no objection to bring down another for ye.”
So saying the hunter and the Indian crouched behind a bush, and the former, while he cocked his gun and examined the priming, gave utterance to a series of cries so loud and discordant, that any one who was ignorant of a hunter’s ways must have thought he was anxious to drive all the living creatures within six miles of him away in terror. Jasper had no such wish, however. He was merely imitating the cry of the wild geese. The birds, which were at first so far-off that a rifle-ball could not have reached them, no sooner heard the cry of their friends (as they doubtless thought it) than they turned out of their course, and came gradually towards the bush where the two men lay hidden.
The hunter did not cease to cry until the birds were within gunshot. Then he fixed his eye on one of the flock that seemed plump and fat. The long barrel of the gun was quickly raised, the geese discovered their mistake, and the whole flock were thrown into wild confusion as they attempted to sheer off; but it was too late. Smoke and fire burst from the bush, and an enormous grey goose fell with a heavy crash to the ground.
“What have you shot? what have you shot?” cried a shrill and somewhat weak voice in the distance. In another moment the owner of the voice appeared, running eagerly towards the two men.
“Use your eyes, John Heywood, an’ ye won’t need to ask,” said Jasper, with a quiet smile, as he carefully reloaded his gun.
“Ah! I see—a grey swan—no, surely, it cannot be a goose?” said Heywood, turning the bird over and regarding it with astonishment; “why, this