Adventures in the Far West

by William Henry Giles Kingston

“I’m glad to hear it, for the sake of my wife’s young cousin Ellen,” he answered. “She came out to us a few months ago, having lost her parents, and having no relatives for whom she cared in England. She had, however, very little idea of the rough style of life we are compelled to lead; but she at once got into our ways, though I observed what I could not account for, that she was often more melancholy than was consistent with her disposition. Now, however, I suspect the cause.”

I fully agreed with our out-spoken host. I soon found that we were not likely to learn anything of the interesting subject from Armitage himself, for he was remarkably reticent, and I saw that it would not do to banter him, or allude in any way to it.

I must pass over several days, during which the doctor as well as the ladies of the family were unremitting in their attentions to the wounded men. The captain was soon himself again, though still too weak to travel; but Charley’s wound took much longer to heal, and Mark was not likely to be on foot again for three or four weeks at soonest. In the meantime, Story and I, with our constant companion, Peter, rode over to the settlement to obtain the stores we required for our journey, as well as to replace our baggage mules.

While thus engaged, we found an old trapper also making purchases at the stores. He was tall and gaunt, his countenance weather beaten and sunburnt, of a ruddy brown hue, his hair—which hung over his shoulders—being only slightly grizzled, while his chin and face were smooth shaved. He was dressed in a hunting-frock of buckskin, and pantaloons of the same material ornamented down the seams with long fringes. On his feet he wore mocassins of Indian make; his head was covered by a neatly-made cap of beaver; an unusually large powder-horn was slung over his shoulders, together with a rifle, carefully covered up; while in his belt, in addition to a knife and tomahawk, he carried a brace of pistols with long barrels, showing that he was accustomed to travel amongst enemies, and was prepared to make a stout fight if he was attacked. On seeing us, he enquired who we were, where we had come from, and in what direction we were going.

We told him without hesitation.

“I guess the old hoss will go with you some of the way,” he said. “Tell Master Praeger that Ben Folkard will pay him a visit before long, I can’t say when. He knows me, and he knows when I say I’ll do a thing I intend to do it.”

We promised to give old Folkard’s message, and soon afterwards we parted from him. Peter told us that he had heard his father speak of Ben Folkard as one of the most noted and skilful trappers of the Rocky Mountains, and that he never turned up without a large supply of skins and peltries.

We were fortunate in obtaining some fine Mexican mules and all the articles we required, though we had to pay somewhat highly for them. Well satisfied, we set off to return to Mr Praeger’s. The houses and the stores were few and far between, the intermediate country being still in a state of nature. As our laden mules could not travel fast, we had to camp on the way. We chose a grassy spot near a wood, offering sufficient attractions to our animals to prevent them from straying, though of course we hobbled them as an additional security.

While Peter remained in camp, Story and I took our guns to get a turkey, or any other game which might come in our way. We had not gone far when Story called my attention to an animal standing on the fallen trunk of a tree, and told me to keep back the dogs, which would be sure to suffer if they were to attack it. I was about to fire, when I caught sight of another animal of similar size with a long, thin body and sharp nose, which I at once recognised as a marten. It had apparently been watching the porcupine, who, unconscious of its approach, remained perfectly still, its spines scarcely visible. The marten was intent on taking its enemy by surprise; and, stealing up, threw itself on the unsuspicious porcupine before it had time even to raise its spines. The moment it felt itself seized, it began to lash its tail about and throw out its quills in all directions; but the marten, by its wonderful agility, escaped the blows aimed at it. In a short time it gained the victory, and was already sucking the blood of its victim when Story fired and hit it in the head. As the skin was of considerable value, we quickly flayed it, and with a couple of turkeys which we were fortunate enough to shoot, returned to camp, where, to our surprise, we found old Folkard seated smoking his pipe.

“I’m going along with you, boys,” he said. “Good company isn’t always to be got, and it’s not always safe, while the Redskins are on the war-path, to travel through the country alone. You can help me and I can help you, so that we shall be quits.”