The Wild Man of the West (A Western Classic). R.M. Ballantyne

country? It ain’t a oyster, that ye can open it up with a big knife I guess.”

      “There, friend, you are wrong. This country does, indeed, resemble an oyster; and I hope, by the aid of the mighty levers of knowledge and enterprise, to open it up. I mean to take notes and sketches, and, if spared, return to my native land, and publish the result of my observations. I do not, indeed, expect that the public will buy my work; but I shall publish a large edition at my own cost, and present copies to all the influential men in the kingdom.”

      The trappers opened their eyes wider than ever at this.

      “What! Make a book?” cried Redhand.

      “Even so.”

      “Will it have pictures?” eagerly asked March, who regarded the artist with rapidly increasing veneration.

      “Ay, it will be profusely illustrated.”

      “Wot! pictures o’ grisly bears?” inquired Bounce.

      “Of course.”

      “An’ men?” cried Big Waller.

      “And men also, if I fall in with them.”

      “Then here’s one, I guess,” cried the bold Yankee, combing out his matted locks hastily with his fingers, and sitting up in what he conceived to be a proper position. “Here you are, sir. I’m your man; fix me off slick. Only think! Big Waller in a book—a raal book!”

      He chuckled immensely at the bright prospect of immortality that had suddenly opened up to him.

      “I have drawn you already, friend,” said Bertram.

      “Draw’d me already?”

      “Ay, there you are,” he replied, handing his sketch-book to the trapper, who gazed at his own portrait with unmitigated satisfaction. Turning over the leaf, he came unexpectedly on the likeness of Gibault, which, being a truthful representation, was almost a caricature. Big Waller burst into an uncontrollable fit of laughter at this. He rolled over on his back and yelled with delight. His yell being quite in keeping with his body, the din was so tremendous that Bounce roared—

      “Stop yer noise, ye buffalo!”

      But Waller didn’t hear him; so March Marston effected the desired object by stuffing the corner of a blanket into his mouth and smothering his face in its folds.

      Bertram’s sketch-book was now examined, and for nearly an hour proved a source of the most intense interest and amusement to these unsophisticated trappers. In those days few, very few men of education had succeeded in penetrating far into the western wilderness; and although the trappers there knew what books and pictures meant, they had seen but few of them in the course of their lives, and none of those few had any reference to the wild country in which their lives were spent.

      It may be imagined, then, with what delight and excitement they now, for the first time, beheld scenes of their own beloved woods and prairies, as well as their own rough forms, vividly sketched by a master-hand. One of the most interesting points in the inspection of the sketch-book was, that old Redhand recognised almost every one of the landscapes as spots with which he was well acquainted; and as Bertram had sketched most diligently as he travelled along, Redhand told him that by the aid of that book, without compass or anything else, he could trace his route backward, step by step, to the Saskatchewan river. Moreover, he described to the artist accurately many scenes which were near to those he had sketched, and gradually fell to talking about adventures and rencontres he had had in many of them, so that at last it became evident there would be no proposal to go to rest that night at all unless some wise one of the party should remind the others that another day’s toil lay before them in the course of a few hours.

      At length they took up their pipes, which had been forgotten in the excitement, and refilled them with the intention of having a last quiet whiff before lying down.

      “Ho!” exclaimed Redhand, who still continued to turn over the pages of the book, “here’s a face I know. Where saw ye that Indian?”

      “I cannot easily tell where it was we met him; but I remember well that it was just a day’s ride from the spot where our horses were stolen.”

      “Were there others with him?”

      “No, he was alone.”

      “Ha! at least he said so, I fancy.”

      “Yes, he did; and I had no reason to doubt him.”

      “You’re not used to the ways o’ the redskin, sir,” replied Redhand, looking meditatively at the fire. “Did he chance to mention his name?”

      “Oh yes, he called himself Big Snake, at least one of my men translated it so.”

      A significant smile overspread the old trapper’s face as he replied—

      “I thought as much. A greater thief and villain does not disgrace the prairies. He’s the man that took yer horses; sich a fellow as that never goes about alone; he’s always got a tail following him as black as himself. But I’ll see if we can’t pay the rascal off in his own coin.”

      “How so?” inquired Bertram. “He must be far from this spot.”

      “Not so far as you think. I know his haunts, and could take you to them in a few days overland; but it’ll take longer by the river, and we can’t quit our canoe just now.”

      “But, good friend,” said Bertram quietly, “I cannot presume on your hospitality so far as to expect you to carry me along with you for the purpose of redressing my wrongs.”

      “Make your mind easy on that pint,” returned Redhand; “we’ll talk of it in the mornin’.”

      While the old trapper and the artist were conversing, Bounce had busied himself in stringing the claws of the grisly bear on a strip of deerskin, for the purpose of making a collar. A necklace of this description is very highly prized among Indians, especially when the claws are large.

      While it was being made, Gibault sighed so deeply once or twice, that March suggested he must be in love.

      “So I is,” sighed Gibault.

      “That’s interesting,” remarked March; “who with?”

      “Ay, that’s it,” said Bounce; “out with her name, lad. No one ought never to be ashamed o’ bein’ in love. It’s a glorious state o’ mind an’ body as a feller should gratilate hisself on havin’. Who be ye in love wi’, lad?”

      “Vid dat necklace,” replied Gibault, sighing again heavily.

      “Oh! if that’s all, ye don’t need to look so blue, for it’s yer own by rights,” said Bounce. “I’m jist doin’ it up for ye.”

      “Non; it cannot be mine,” returned Gibault.

      “How so?” inquired Waller, “ye ’arned it, didn’t ye? Drew first blood I calc’late.”

      “Non, I not draw de fuss blood. Mais, I vill hab chance again no doubt. Monsieur Bertram he drew fuss blood.”

      “Ho, he!” cried Waller in surprise. “You didn’t tell us that before. Come, I’m glad on’t.”

      “What!” exclaimed Bertram, “the necklace mine? there must be some mistake. I certainly fired my pistol at the bear, but it seemed to have had no effect whatever.”

      “Gibault,” said Bounce emphatically, “did you fire at all?”

      “Non, pour certain, cause de gun he not go off.”

      “Then,” continued Bounce, handing the much-coveted necklace to Bertram, “the thing b’longs to you, sir, for that bar comed up wounded, an’ as he couldn’t ha’ wounded hisself, you must ha’ done it—there.”

      The young man positively refused for some time to accept of the necklace, saying, that as Gibault had tracked and discovered