The Wild Man of the West by Robert Michael Ballantyne (classic novels for teens .TXT) 📖

indulge much wandering thought in times of action. Giving himself one shake, to make sure of his being actually sound in wind and limb, he bounded away up the precipice by a path with which he was well acquainted, reached his horse, flew by a short cut to the mouth of the valley, and, wheeling suddenly round, met the horrified Indians in the very teeth!

The roar with which he met them was compound in its nature, and altogether hideous! His mind was in a mingled condition of amazement and satisfaction at his escape, triumph at the success of his plan, and indignation at the cowardly wickedness of the savages. A rollicking species of mad pugnacity took possession of him, and the consequence was, that the sounds which issued from his leathern throat were positively inhuman.

The rushing mass of terror-stricken men, thus caught, as it were, between two fires, divided, in order to escape him. Dick was not sorry to observe this. He felt that the day was gained without further bloodshed. He knew that the superstitious dread in which he was held was a guarantee that the savages would not return; so, instead of turning with the trappers to join in the pursuit, he favoured them with a concluding and a peculiarly monstrous howl, and then rode quietly away by a circuitous route to his own cavern.

Thus he avoided March Marston, who, on finding that his friend Dick was out, had returned at full speed to aid his comrades, and arrived just in time to meet them returning, triumphant and panting, from their pursuit of the foe!

"Are they gone?" cried March in amazement.

"Ay, right slick away into the middle o' nowhar," replied Big Waller, laughing heartily. "Did ye iver hear such a roarer, comrades?"

"Have you licked 'em out an' out?" continued the incredulous March, "Ay, out an' out, an' no mistake," replied Bounce, dismounting.

"Well, that _is_ lucky," said March; "for my friend Dick I found was not--"

"Ah! we not have need him," interrupted Gibault, wiping the perspiration from his forehead, "de Wild Man of de West hims come, an'--oh! you should see what hims have bin do!"

"The Wild Man again!" exclaimed March in dismay--"an' me absent!"

Gibault nodded and laughed.

At that moment an exclamation from Redhand attracted the attention of the whole party. He was kneeling beside Macgregor, who had dismounted and lain down.

"I believe they've done for me," said the fur trader faintly. "That arrow must have gone deeper than I thought."

"You'd better let me see the wound, sir," said Redhand; "your shirt is covered with blood."

"No, no," said the wounded man savagely; "let me rest--see, I'm better now. You will find a flask in the bag at my saddle-bow. Bring it here."

"I know that Dick--the hunter--is a good hand at doctoring," said March. "What a pity he is not here! We might carry you there, sir."

"Carry me," laughed the fur trader fiercely; "no, I'll never be carried till I'm carried to my grave. How far off is his place? Where stays he?"

"Four miles from this. I'll take you if you can ride," said March.

"Ay, that I can, bravely," cried the trader, who, having taken a deep draught of spirits, seemed to be imbued with new life. "Come, young sir, mount."

The trappers endeavoured to dissuade the violent man from the attempt, but he could not be controlled; so March, hastily observing that he would see him safe to the hunter's abode and return without delay, mounted his horse and rode away, followed by the wounded man.


CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.


THE WOUNDED FUR TRADER.

When they reached the entrance to the cavern, March and his companion dismounted; but the latter was so weak from loss of blood that he stumbled at the foot of the track, and fell to the earth insensible.

March ran hastily in for assistance, and was not a little surprised to find Dick sitting alone by the side of the fire, and so absorbed in the perusal of a little book that he had not noticed his entrance--a very singular and unaccountable piece of absence of mind in one so well trained in the watchful ways of the backwoods.

"Ho! Dick!" cried the youth.

"What, March--March Marston!" exclaimed the Wild Man, springing up, seizing him by the shoulders, and gazing intently into his face, as if to assure himself that he was not dreaming.

"Ay, no doubt I'm March Marston; though how you came to find out my name I don't know--"

"Easy enough that, lad, when you leave your mother's Bible behind ye," cried Dick with a wild laugh. "She must be a good mother that o' yours. Is she alive yet, boy?"

"That is she, an' well, I trust--"

"An' your father," interrupted Dick; "how's he, lad, eh?"

"I don't know," said March, frowning; "he forsook us fourteen years agone; but it's little good talking o' such matters now, when there's a poor fellow dyin' outside."

"Dyin'?"

"Ay, so it seems to me. I've brought him to see if ye can stop the bleedin', but he's fainted, and I can't lift--"

Dick waited for no more, but, hastening out, raised Macgregor in his arms, and carried him into the inner cave, where Mary was lying sound asleep on her lowly couch.

"Come, Mary, lass, make way for this poor feller."

The child leaped up, and, throwing a deerskin round her, stepped aside to allow the wounded man to be placed on her bed. Her eye immediately fell on March, who stood in the entrance, and she ran to him in surprise.

"What's de matter, March?"

"Hush, Mary," said Dick in a low voice; "we'll have to speak soft. Poor Macgregor won't be long for this world, I'm afear'd. Fetch me the box o' things."

"You know him, then?" whispered March, in surprise.

"Ay, I've often bin to the Mountain Fort and seed him there. See, he's comin' to. Put that torch more behind me, lad. It'll be better for him not to see me."

As he spoke the wounded man sighed faintly. Opening his eyes, he said, "Where am I?"

"Speak to him," whispered Dick, looking over his shoulder at March, who advanced, and, kneeling at the side of the couch, said--

"You're all right, Mr Macgregor. I've brought you to the hunter's home. He'll dress your wound and take care of you, so make your mind easy. But you'll have to keep quiet. You've lost much blood."

The fur trader turned round and seemed to fall asleep, while Dick bound his wound, and then, leaving him to rest, he and March returned to the other cave.

During that night Dick seemed in an unaccountably excited state. Sometimes he sat down by the fire and talked with March in an absent manner on all kinds of subjects--his adventures, his intentions, his home at Pine Point; but from his looks it seemed as if his thoughts were otherwise engaged, and occasionally he started up and paced the floor hurriedly, while his brows darkened and his broad chest heaved as though he were struggling with some powerful feeling or passion.

"Could it be," thought March, "that there was some mysterious connection between Dick and the wounded fur trader?" Not being able to find a satisfactory reply to the thought, he finally dismissed it, and turned his attentions altogether towards Mary, whose looks of surprise and concern showed that she too was puzzled by the behaviour of her adopted father.

During that night and all the next day the wounded man grew rapidly worse, and March stayed with him, partly because he felt a strong interest in and pity for him, and partly because he did not like to leave to Mary the duty of watching a dying man.

Dick went out during the day in the same excited state, and did not return till late in the evening. During his absence, the dying man's mind wandered frequently, and, in order to check this as well as to comfort him, March read to him from his mother's Bible. At times he seemed to listen intently to the words that fell from March's lips, but more frequently he lay in a state apparently of stupor.

"Boy," said he, starting suddenly out of one of those heavy slumbers, "what's the use of reading the Bible to me? I'm not a Christian, an' it's too late now--too late!"

"The Bible tells me that `_now_' is God's time. I forget where the words are, an' I can't find 'em," said March earnestly; "but I _know_ they're in this book. Besides, don't you remember the thief who was saved when he hung on the cross in a dyin' state?"

The fur trader shook his head slowly, and still muttered, "Too late, too late."

March now became deeply anxious about the dying man, who seemed to him like one sinking in the sea, yet refusing to grasp the rope that was flung to him. He turned over the sacred pages hurriedly to find appropriate texts, and blamed himself again and again for not having made himself better acquainted with the Word of God. He also repeated all he could think of from memory; but still the dying man shook his head and muttered, "Too late!" Suddenly March bent over him and said--

"Christ is able to save to the _uttermost_ all who come unto God through Him."

The fur trader looked up in silence for a few seconds. "Ay," said he, "many a time have I heard the old minister at Pine Point say that."

"Pine Point!" exclaimed March in surprise.

"Perhaps they're true, after all," continued Macgregor, not noticing the interruption. "Oh! Mary, Mary, surely I did the uttermost when I forsook ye. Let me see the words, boy; are they there?"

A strange suspicion flashed suddenly on the mind of March as he listened to these words, and he trembled violently as he handed him the book.

"What--what's this? Where got ye my wife's Bible? You must," (he added between his teeth, in a sudden burst of anger) "have murdered my boy."

"Father!" exclaimed March, seizing Macgregor's hand.

The dying man started up with a countenance of ashy paleness, and, leaning on one elbow, gazed earnestly into the youth's face--"March! can it be my boy?" and fell back with a heavy groan. The bandages had been loosened by the exertion, and blood was pouring freely from his wound. The case admitted of no delay. March hurriedly attempted to stop the flow of the vital stream, assisted by Mary, who had been sitting at the foot of the couch bathed in tears during the foregoing scene.

Just then Dick returned, and, seeing how matters stood, quickly staunched the wound; but his aid came too late. Macgregor, or rather Obadiah Marston, opened his eyes but once after that, and seemed as if he wished to speak. March bent down quickly and put his ear close to his mouth; there was a faint whisper, "God bless you, March, my son," and then all was still!

March gazed long and breathlessly at the dead countenance; then, looking slowly up in Dick's face, he said, pointing to the dead man, "My father!" and fell insensible