The Wild Man of the West: A Tale of the Rocky Mountains. Robert Michael Ballantyne
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son seem to entertain any difference of opinion, if we may style that difference of opinion where the son fell into silent and extreme perplexity after a short, and on his part humble, discussion on the subject.
“Why, mother,” said March in surprise (having attained the mature age of eight when he said it), “if a grisly bear was to ’tack me, you’d let me defend myself, wouldn’t you?”
Mrs Marston smiled to see the rotund little object of two-feet-ten standing before the fire with its legs apart and its arms crossed, putting such a question, and replied—
“Certainly, my boy.”
“And when Tom Blake offered to hit Susy Jefferson, wasn’t I right to fight him for that?”
“Yes, my boy, I think it right to fight in defence of the weak and helpless.”
The object of two-feet-ten began to swell and his eyes to brighten at the unexpected success of this catechising of its mother, and went on to say—
“Well, mother, why do you blame me for fightin’, then, if it’s right?”
“Because fighting is not always right, my boy. You had a fight with Bill Summers, hadn’t you, yesterday?”
“Yes, mother.”
Two-feet-ten said this in a hesitating tone, and shrank into its ordinary proportions as it continued—
“But I didn’t lick him, mother, he licked me. But I’ll try again, mother—indeed I will, and I’ll be sure to lick him next time.”
“I don’t want you to try again,” rejoined Mrs Marston; “and you must not try again without a good reason. Why did you fight him yesterday?”
“Because he told a lie,” said the object promptly, swelling out again, and looking big under the impression that the goodness of its reason could not be questioned. It was, therefore, with a look of baffled surprise that it collapsed again on being told that that was not a sufficient reason for engaging in warfare, and that it was wrong to take the law into its own hands, or to put in its word or its little fist, where it had no right to interfere—and a great deal more to that effect.
“But, March, my boy,” said Mrs Marston, drawing the object towards her and patting its round little fair head, “what makes you so fond of fighting?”
“I ain’t fond o’ fighting, mother, but I can’t help it.”
“Can’t help it! Do you ever try?”
“I—I—no, I don’t think that I do. But I feel so funny when I see Bill Summers cheatin’ at play. I feel all over red-hot—like—oh! you’ve seen the big pot boilin’ over? Well, I just feel like that. An’ w’en it boils over, you know, mother, it must be took off the fire, else it kicks up sich a row! But there’s nobody to take me off the fire when I’m boilin’ over, an’ there’s no fire to take me off—so you see I can’t help it. Can I?”
As the object concluded these precociously philosophical remarks, it looked up in its mother’s face with an earnest inquiring gaze. The mother looked down at it with an equally earnest look—though there was a twinkle in each eye and a small dimple in each cheek that indicated a struggle with gravity—and said—
“I could stop the big pot from boiling-over without taking it off the fire.”
“How?” inquired Two-feet-ten eagerly.
“By letting it boil over till it put the fire out.”
The object opened its eyes very wide, and pursed its mouth very tight; then it relaxed, grinned a little with an air of uncertainty, and was about to laugh, but checked itself, and, with a look of perplexity, said—
“Eh?”
“Ay, my boy,” resumed the mother, “just you try the boiling-over plan next time. When you feel inclined to fight, and know, or think, that you shouldn’t, just stand quite still, and look hard at the ground—mind, don’t look at the boy you want to fight with, but at the ground—and begin to count one, two, three, four, and so on, and I’m quite sure that when you’ve counted fifty the fire will be out. Now, will you try, my son?”
“Mother,” replied Two-feet-ten earnestly (and becoming at least two feet eleven while he spoke), “I’ll try!”
This ended the conversation at that time, and we beg leave to apologise to our reader for having given it in such full detail, but we think it necessary to the forming of a just appreciation of our hero and his mother, as it shows one phase of their characters better than could have been accomplished by a laboured description.
Before March Marston had attained to the age of sixteen he had read aloud to his mother—not once, but several times—the “Vicar of Wakefield,” “Robinson Crusoe,” the “Pilgrim’s Progress,” and “Tales of a Grandfather,” “Aesop’s Fables,” and a variety of tales and stories and histories of lesser note—all of which he stored up in a good memory, and gave forth in piecemeal to his unlettered companions as opportunity offered. Better than all this, he had many and many a time read his Bible through, and was familiar with all its leading heroes and histories and anecdotes.
Thus, it will be seen that March Marston was quite a learned youth for a backwoodsman, besides being a hero and a “madman.”
Chapter Two
The rising sun lifted his head above the horizon of the great western prairie, gilding the upper edges of those swelling undulations that bear so strong a resemblance to solidified billows as to have acquired the name of prairie waves.
On the sunny side of these waves the flowerets of the plains were already basking in full enjoyment of the new day; on the summits only the tips of their petals were turned to gold. On the other side of those waves, and down in the hollows, everything was clothed in deep shadow, as if the still undissipated shades of night were lingering there, unwilling or unable to depart from so beautiful a scene. This mingling of strong lights and deep shadows had the effect of rendering more apparent the tremendous magnitude of those vast solitudes.
There were no trees within the circuit of vision, but there were a few scattered bushes, so low and insignificant in appearance as to be quite unobvious to the eye, except when close to the feet of the spectator. Near to a clump of these bushes there stood two horses motionless, as if chiselled in stone, and with their heads drooping low, as if sound asleep. Directly under the noses of these horses lay two men, each wrapped in a blanket, with his head pillowed on his saddle, and his rifle close at his side. Both were also sound asleep.
About a mile distant from the spot on which those sleepers rested, there grew another small bush, and under its sheltering boughs, in the snuggest conceivable hole, nestled a grouse, or prairie hen, also sound asleep, with its head lost in feathers, and its whole rotund aspect conveying the idea of extreme comfort and good living. Now, we do not draw the reader’s attention to that bird because of its rarity, but because of the fact that it was unwittingly instrumental in influencing the fortunes of the two sleepers above referred to.
The sun in his upward march overtopped a prairie wave, and his rays, darting onward, struck the bosom of the prairie hen, and awoke it. Looking up quickly with one eye, it seemed to find the glare too strong, winked at the sun, and turned the other eye. With this it winked also, then got up, flapped its wings, ruffled its feathers, and, after a pause, sprang into the air with that violent whirr–r which is so gladdening, yet so startling, to the ear of a sportsman. It was instantly joined by the other members of the covey to which it belonged, and the united flock went sweeping past the sleeping hunters, causing their horses to awake with a snort, and themselves to spring to their feet with the alacrity of men who were accustomed to repose in the midst of alarms, and with a grunt of surprise.
“Prairie-hens,” muttered the elder of the two—a big, burly backwoodsman—as he turned towards his companion with