It would require a work equal in size to the “Encyclopaedia Britannica” to contain all the interesting things that were said and seen and done on those prairies by these trappers within that brief space of time. A conscientiously particular chronicler of events would have detailed the route of each day, the latitude and longitude of each resting-place, the very nature of the wood which composed the fuel of each fire. He would have recorded that March Marston’s little bay ran away with him—not, in a general way, fifty or a hundred times, but exactly so many times, specifying the concomitant circumstances of each separate time, and the results of each particular race. He would have noted, with painful accuracy, the precise number of times in which Theodore Bertram (being a bad rider) fell off his horse, or was pitched off in consequence of that quadruped putting its foot inadvertently into badger holes. He would have mentioned that on each occasion the unfortunate artist blackened his eye, or bled or skinned his nasal organ, and would have dilated anatomically on the peculiar colour of the disfigured orb and the exact amount of damage done to the bruised nose. He would have told not only the general fact that bears, and elks, and antelopes, and prairie dogs, and wolves, and buffaloes, were seen in great numbers continually, and were shot in abundance, but he would have recorded that Bertram did, on one occasion, in the height of his enthusiastic daring, give a shout and draw one of his blunderbuss-pistols, on observing a grisly bear at a short distance ahead of him; that he dashed his heels violently against the sides of his remarkable horse; that the said horse did toss his head, shake his bottle-brush, and rush full tilt towards the bear until he caught sight of it, when he turned off at a sharp angle, leaving Bertram on the plain at the mercy of the bear; that Bruin, who was in nowise alarmed, observing his condition, came to see what was the matter with him; and that he, Mr Bertram, would certainly have fallen a victim to his own headstrong courage on the one hand, and to the bear’s known tendency to rend human beings on the other, had not March come up at that moment and shot it through the heart, while Redhand shot it through the brain.
And this supposed conscientious chronicler of events, had he been a naturalist, would have further detailed, with graphic particularity, the rich, exuberant, and varied flora of the region—from the largest plant that waved and blossomed in the prairie winds to the lowliest floweret that nestled among the tender and sweet-scented grasses on the prairie’s breast. In regard to the fauna of those regions, he would have launched out upon the form, the colour, size, habits, peculiarities, etcetera, of every living thing, from the great buffalo (which he would have carefully explained was not the buffalo, but the bison) down to the sly, impudent, yet harmless little prairie dog (which he would have also carefully noted was not the prairie dog, but the marmot).
Had this supposed recorder of facts been of an erratic nature, given to wander from anecdote to description, and vice versa, he would perhaps have told, in a parenthetical sort of way, how that, during these three weeks, the trappers enjoyed uninterrupted fine weather; how the artist sketched so indefatigably that he at last filled his book to overflowing and had to turn it upside down, begin at the end, and sketch on the backs of his previous drawings; how Big Waller and Black Gibault became inseparable friends and sang duets together when at full gallop, the latter shrieking like a wild-cat, the former roaring like a buffalo bull; how March Marston became madder than ever, and infected his little steed with the same disease, so that the two together formed a species of insane compound that caused Redhand and Bounce to give vent to many a low chuckle and many a deep sagacious remark, and induced Hawkswing to gaze at it—the compound—in grave astonishment.
All this and a great deal more might be told, and, no doubt, might prove deeply interesting. But, as no man can do everything, so no man can record everything; therefore we won’t attempt it, but shall at once, and without further delay, proceed to that part of our tale which bears more directly on the Rocky Mountains and the Wild Man of the West himself.
“It’s a strong place,” said Redhand, checking the pace of his horse and pointing to a small edifice or fort which stood on the summit of a little mound or hill about a quarter of a mile in advance of them—“a very strong place—such as would puzzle the redskins to break into if defended by men of ordinary pluck.”
“Men of pluck sometimes get careless, and go to sleep, though,” said March Marston, riding up to the old trapper; “I’ve heard o’ such forts bein’ taken by redskins before now.”
“So have I, lad, so have I,” returned Redhand; “I’ve heard o’ a fort bein’ attacked by Injuns when the men were away huntin’, an’ bein’ burnt down. But it ginerally turns out that the whites have had themselves to thank for’t.”
“Ay, that’s true,” observed Bounce; “some o’ the whites in them parts is no better nor they should be. They treats the poor Injuns as if they wos dogs or varmints, an’ then they’re astonished if the redskins murder them out o’ revenge. I know’d one feller as told me that when he lived on the west side o’ the mountains, where some of the Injuns are a murderin’ set o’ thieves, he niver lost a chance o’ killin’ a redskin. Of course the redskins niver lost a chance o’ killin’ the whites; an’ so they come to sich a state o’ war, that they had to make peace by givin’ them no end o’ presents o’ guns an’ cloth an’ beads—enough to buy up the furs o’ a whole tribe.”
“I guess they was powerful green to do anything o’ the sort,” said Big Waller. “I knowed a feller as was in command of a party o’ whites, who got into much the same sort of fix with the Injuns—always fightin’ and murderin’; so what does he do, think ye?”
“Shooted de chief and all hims peepil,” suggested Gibault.