Chapter Eight.
A Cache discovered—Bertram becomes valorous—Failure follows, and a brief Skirmish, Flight, and Separation are the Results.
The sun was high, scattering the golden clouds in the bright sky, gilding the hilltops, flooding the plains, vivifying vegetable life, and gladdening the whole animal creation, when, on the following morning, our wearied trappers raised their heads and began to think of breakfast.
To do these trappers justice, however, we must add that their looks, when they became wide enough awake to take full cognisance of the scenery, indicated the presence of thoughts and emotions of a more elevated character, though, from the nature of their training from infancy, they wanted words to express their feelings.
It was otherwise with Bertram and March Marston. Their exclamations, the instant they arose, showed that both their hearts were keenly alive to the good and the beautiful which surrounded them—and their tongues were not altogether incapable of uttering the praise of Him who clothes so gorgeously the lovely earth and peoples it with millions of happy creatures—yes, happy creatures, for, despite the existence of death and sin and sorrow everywhere, and the croaking of misanthropes, there is much, very much, of pure, overflowing happiness here below.
“Come, March—Mr Bertram, time presses,” said Redhand, interrupting the two friends in the midst of earnest conversation; “we’ve got a long day before us, and, mayhap, a fight with redskins at the end o’t, so it behoves us to make a good breakfast and set off as soon as we can. We’re late enough already.”
“Ah, Redhand!” exclaimed March, “you’re a terrible fellow for duty an’ business, an’ all that sort o’ thing. It’s always ‘time to be off,’ or ‘time to think o’ this or that,’ or ‘we mustn’t put off,’ with you. Why won’t ye let us take a breathin’ spell once in a way to enjoy ourselves, eh?”
The old man pointed to the sun. “You’ve enjoyed yourself late enough to-day, han’t ye?”
“Come, March, you’re in a fault-finding humour this morning,” said Bertram as they walked towards the camp. “Let’s enjoy ourselves in spite of circumstances. Do you know, I hold it to be exceedingly wise as well as philosophical, to make the best of things at all times.”
“Do you?” exclaimed March in a tone of affected surprise; “now that’s odd. You must be a real clever fellow to have made up your mind on that point. But somehow or other I’m inclined to think that most o’ the trappers hereabouts are as wise as yourself on it, though, mayhap, they don’t say it just in the same words. There’s Waller, now, as ’ll tell ye that when he ‘can’t help it he guesses he’ll jist grin an’ bear it.’ And there’s an old Irish trapper that’s bin in the mountains nigh forty years now, and who’s alive at this day—if he bean’t dead—that used to say to himself when ill luck came upon him, ‘Now, Terence, be aisy, boy; an’ av ye can’t be aisy, be as aisy as ye can.’ So you see, Mr Bertram, we have got a few sparks of wisdom in these diggins.”