Over the Rocky Mountains: Wandering Will in the Land of the Redskin. Robert Michael Ballantyne
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of Ould Ireland. There, help me on to the back o’ the baste—bad luck to the badgers, say I.”
Thus muttering to himself and his comrades, half exasperated by the stunning effects of his fall, yet rather thankful to find that no real damage was done, Larry remounted, and all three continued their journey with not much less enjoyment, but with abated energy.
Thus much for the beginning. Availing ourselves of an author’s privilege to annihilate time and space at pleasure, we change the scene. The three travellers are still riding over the same prairie, but at the distance of a hundred miles or so from the spot where the accident above described took place.
It was evening. The sun was gradually sinking in the west—far beyond that “far west” to which they had penetrated. The wanderers looked travel-stained, and appeared somewhat fatigued, while their horses advanced with slow steps and drooping heads. Two pack-horses, which had been procured by them with an additional supply of necessaries at a solitary fort belonging to the fur-traders of that region, were driven by Larry, whose voice and action seemed to indicate that he and they were actuated by different sentiments and desires.
“Of all the lazy bastes,” he exclaimed, giving one of the horses a tremendous cut over the flank that startled it into temporary life, “I iver did see—but, och! what’s the use—there’s niver a dhrop o’ wather in this wilderness. We may as well lie down an’ die at wance.”
“Hush, Larry,” said Will Osten, “don’t talk lightly of dying.”
“Lightly is it? Well, now, there’s nothin’ light about me from the sole o’ me fut to the top o’ the tallest hair on me head, an’ the heaviest part about me is the heart, which feels like lead intirely. But cheer up, Larry, yer owld grandmother always said ye was born to be hanged, so of coorse ye can’t be starved—that’s a comfort, anyhow!”
“What think you, Bunco,” said Will Osten, turning to his dark-skinned companion, “shall we encamp on this arid part of the plain and go waterless as well as supperless to rest, or shall we push on? I fear the horses will break down if we try to force them much further.”
“Water not be far-off,” said Bunco curtly.
“Very well, we shall hold on.”
In silence they continued to advance until the sun was descending towards the horizon, when there suddenly appeared, on the brow of an eminence, the figure of a solitary horseman. Sharply defined as he was against the bright sky, this horseman appeared to be of supernaturally huge proportions—insomuch that the three travellers pulled up by tacit consent, and glanced inquiringly at each other.
“It’s a ghost at last!” muttered the superstitious Irishman, whose expression of countenance showed that he was not by any means in a jesting humour.
“Ghost or not, we must be prepared to meet him,” said Will, loosening a large hunting-knife in its sheath and examining the priming of his rifle.
The strange horseman had evidently observed the party, for he presently descended the rising ground and rode slowly towards them. In doing so he passed out of the strong light, and consequently assumed more ordinary proportions, but still when he drew near, it was evident that he was a man of immense size. He rode a black steed of the largest and most powerful description; was clad in the leathern hunting-shirt, belt, leggings, moccasins, etcetera, peculiar to the western hunter, and carried a short rifle in the hollow of his right arm.
“Good-evening, strangers,” he said, in a tone that savoured of the Yankee, but with an easy manner and good-humoured gravity that seemed to indicate English extraction. “Goin’ far?”
“To California,” said Will, smiling at the abrupt commencement of the conversation.
“H’m, a longish bit. Come far?”
“From England.”
“H’m, a longish bit, too. Lost and starvin’, I see.”
“Not exactly, but pretty nearly so,” said Will. “I had entertained the belief, presumptuous if you will, that I could find my way in any part of the wilderness by means of a sextant and pocket compass, and, to say truth, I don’t feel quite sure that I should have failed, but before I had a sufficient opportunity of testing my powers, one of our baggage horses rolled down the bank of a creek and broke my sextant. In trying to save him I rolled down along with him and smashed my compass, so I have resigned the position of guide in favour of my friend here, who, being a native, seems to possess a mysterious power in the matter of finding his way.”
“From the other side of the mountains?” asked the strange horseman, glancing at Bunco.
“Yoo’s right,” said Bunco, with a grin.
There was a slight touch of humour in the grave stern countenance of the stranger as he replied in a language which was quite unintelligible to Will and Larry, but which appeared to create wonderful sensations in the breast of Bunco, who for some minutes continued to talk with much volubility and eagerness.
“You appear to be old friends?” said Will, inquiringly, to the stranger.
“Not ’xactly,” he replied, “but I’ve trapped on the west side o’ the mountains, and the Redskin is excited a bit at meetin’ with a man who knows his nation and his name. I’ve heard of him before. He was thought a brave warrior by his tribe, but it is so long since he disappeared from the face o’ the ’arth that they’ve given him up for dead. His wife was alive last fall. I saw her myself, and she has steadily refused to marry any of the young braves—at least she had refused so to do up to the time I left; but there’s no calc’latin’ what these Redskins will do. However, I’ve comforted this one wi’ the news.”
“With your leave, Mister Trapper,” said Larry, breaking in impatiently at this point, “may I suggest that when you’re quite done talkin’ we should continue our sarch for grub an’ wather, for at present our stummicks is empty an’ our mouths is dry!”
“Have you no food?” asked the trapper.
“None,” answered Will; “we finished our last scrap of meat yesterday morning, and have been hoping and expecting to fall in with buffalo ever since, for the signs around show that they cannot be far distant.”
“You are right; I am even now followin’ their trail, for, like yourselves, I’m well-nigh starvin’. Not had a bite for three days.”
“Ye don’t look like it!” said Larry, gazing at the man in some surprise.
“Perhaps not, nevertheless it’s a fact, so we’ll push on an’ try to find ’em before sundown.”
Saying this, the stalwart trapper gave the rein to his stead and galloped away over the plains, followed as close as possible by the wearied travellers.
The pace was hard on the horses, but there was need for haste, because the sun was close on the horizon, and as far as the eye could reach no buffalo were to be seen. Ere long the character of the prairie changed, the arid ground gave place to more fertile land, here and there clumps of willows and even a few small trees appeared, while, in the far distance, a line of low bushes ran across the country.
“Water dere,” said Bunco.
“The Redskin’s right,” observed the trapper, slackening his speed a little; “’tis his natur’ to know the signs o’ the wilderness. Does his hawk-eye see nothing more?”
“Bufflo!” exclaimed Bunco, as he drew up and gazed intently at a particular spot in the wilderness.
“Ay, lad, it is buffalo an’ no mistake. I know’d I should find ’em there,” said the trapper, with a quiet chuckle, as he examined the priming of his rifle. “Now, friends, we’ll have to approach them quietly. You’d better catch up the halters o’ your pack-horses, Mister Irishman—”
“Larry O’Hale at your sarvice, Mister Trapper.”
“Benjamin Hicks at yours, Mister O’Hale, but I’m better known as Big Ben! And now,” he continued, “keep well in rear, all of you, an’ follow me down in the bottom