The Wild Man of the West by Robert Michael Ballantyne (epub e ink reader TXT) 📕

then?"

"In this--in holding firmly to opinions that have been taken hastily up, without the grounds on which they are founded having been duly weighed; and in refusing to consider these grounds in a philosophical (which means a rational) way, because the process would prove tiresome. The man who has comfortably settled all his opinions in this way very much resembles that `fool' of whom it is written that he `is wiser in his own conceit than seven men who can _render a reason_.'"

"Well, but, to come back to the starting-point," said McLeod, "many wise men smoke."

"If you say that in the way of argument, I meet it with the counter proposition that many wise men _don't_ smoke."

"Hah!" ejaculated Bounce, but whether Bounce's ejaculation was one of approval or disapproval we cannot tell. Neither can we tell what conclusion these philosophers came to in regard to smoking, because, just then, two horsemen were seen approaching the fort at full speed.

Seeing that they were alone, McLeod took no precautions to prevent surprise. He knew well enough that Indians frequently approach in this manner, so waited in front of the gate, coolly smoking his pipe, until the savages were within a few yards of him. It seemed as if they purposed running him down, but just as they came to within a couple of bounds of him, they drew up so violently as to throw their foaming steeds on their haunches.

Leaping to the ground, the Indians--who were a couple of strong, fine-looking savages, dressed in leathern costume, with the usual ornaments of bead and quill work, tags, and scalp-locks--came forward and spoke a few words to McLeod in the Cree language, and immediately after, delivering their horses to the care of one of the men of the establishment, accompanied him to the store.

In less than half an hour they returned to the gate, when the Indians remounted, and, starting away at their favourite pace--full gallop--were soon out of sight.

"Them fellows seem to be in a hurry," remarked Bounce as they disappeared.

"Ay, they're after mischief too," replied McLeod in a sad tone of voice. "They are two Cree chiefs who have come here for a supply of ammunition to hunt the buffalo, but I know they mean to hunt different game, for I heard them talking to each other about a war-party of Blood Indians being in this part of the country. Depend upon it scalps will be taken ere long. 'Tis a sad, sad state of things. Blood, blood, blood seems to be the universal cry here; and, now that we've had so many quarrels with the redskins, I fear that the day is not far-distant when blood will flow even in the Mountain Fort. I see no prospect of a better state of things, for savage nature cannot be changed. It seems a hopeless case."

There was a touch of pathos in the tone in which this was said that was very different from McLeod's usual bold and reckless manner. It was evident that his natural disposition was kind, hearty, and peaceable; but that the constant feuds in which he was involved, both in the fort and out of it, had soured his temper and rendered him wellnigh desperate.

"You are wrong, sir, in saying that their case is hopeless," said Bertram earnestly. "There is a remedy."

"I wish you could show it me," replied the trader.

"Here it is," returned the artist, taking his little Testament from the inside pocket of his hunting-shirt. "The gospel is able to make all men wise unto salvation."

McLeod shook his head, and said, "It won't do here. To be plain with you, sir, I don't believe the gospel's of any use in these wild regions, where murder seems to be as natural to man, woman, and child as food."

"But, sir," rejoined Bertram, "you forget that our Saviour Himself says that He came not to call the righteous but _sinners_ to repentance. In this volume we are told that the blood of Christ cleanseth us from _all_ sin; and, not only have we His assurance that none who come unto Him shall be cast out, but we have examples in all parts of the known world of men and women who were once steeped to the lips in every species of gross iniquity having been turned to the service of God through faith in Christ, and that by the power of the Holy Spirit, who, in this Word of God, is promised freely to them that simply ask."

"It may be so," returned McLeod; "I have not studied these things much. I don't profess to be a very religious man, and I cannot pretend to know much of what the gospel has done elsewhere; but I feel quite sure that it cannot do much _here_!"

"Then you do not believe the Bible, which says distinctly that this `gospel is the power of God unto salvation to _every one_ that believeth.'"

"Ay, but these wretched Indians won't believe," objected the trader.

"True," answered Bertram; "they have not faith by nature, and they _won't_ because they _can't_ believe; but faith is the gift of God, and it is to be had for the asking."

"To that I answer that they'll never ask."

"How do you know? Did you ever give them a trial? Did you ever preach the gospel to them?"

"No, I never did that."

"Then you cannot tell how they would treat it. Your remarks are mere assertions of opinion--not arguments. You know the wickedness of the Indians, and can therefore speak authoritatively on that point; but you know not (according to your own admission) the power of the gospel: therefore you are not in a position to speak on that point."

McLeod was about to reply when he was interrupted by the approach of Mr Macgregor, who had now recovered somewhat from the effects of his violent fit of passion. Having observed during the _melee_ that strangers had arrived at his fort, he had washed and converted himself into a more presentable personage, and now came forward to the group of trappers, all of whom had assembled at the gate. Addressing them in a tone of affable hospitality he said--

"Good-day, friends; I'm glad to see you at the Mountain Fort. That blackguard Larocque somewhat ruffled my temper. He's been the cause of much mischief here, I assure you. Do you intend to trap in these parts?"

The latter part of this speech was addressed to Redhand, who replied--

"We do mean to try our luck in these parts, but we han't yet made up our minds exactly where to go. Mayhap you'll give us the benefit of your advice."

While he was speaking the fur trader glanced with an earnest yet half stupid stare at the faces of the trappers, as if he wished to impress their features on his memory.

"Advice," he replied; "you're welcome to all the advice I've got to give ye; and it's this--go home; go to where you belong to, sell your traps and rifles and take to the plough, the hatchet, the forehammer--to anything you like, so long as it keeps you out of this--" Macgregor paused a moment as if he were about to utter an oath, then dropped his voice and said, "This wretched Indian country."

"I guess, then, that we won't take yer advice, old man," said Big Waller with a laugh.

"`Old man?'" echoed Macgregor with a start.

"Wall, if ye bean't old, ye ain't exactly a chicken."

"You're a plain-spoken man," replied the trader, biting his lips.

"I always wos," retorted Waller.

Macgregor frowned for a moment, then he broke into a forced laugh, and said--

"Well, friends, you'll please yourselves, of course--most people do; and if you are so determined to stick to the wilderness I would advise some of you to stop here. There's plenty of fun and fighting, if you're fond of that. What say you now, lad," turning to March, "to remain with us here at the Mountain Fort? I've ta'en a sort of fancy to your face. We want young bloods here. I'll give you a good wage and plenty to do."

"Thanks; you are kind," replied March, smiling, "but I love freedom too well to part with it yet awhile."

"Mais, monsieur," cried Gibault, pushing forward, pulling off his cap, and making a low bow; "if you vants yonger blod, an' also ver' goot blod, here am von!"

The trader laughed, and was about to reply, when a sudden burst of laughter and the sound of noisy voices in the yard interrupted him. Presently two of the men belonging to the establishment cantered out of the square, followed by all the men, women, and children of the place, amounting probably to between twenty and thirty souls. "A race! a race!" shouted the foremost.

"Hallo! Dupont, what's to do?" inquired McLeod as the two horsemen came up.

"Please, monsieur, Lincoln have bet me von gun dat hims horse go more queek dan mine--so we try."

"Yes, so we shall, I guess," added the man named Lincoln, whose speech told that he was a Yankee.

"Go it, stranger; I calc'late you'll do him slick," cried Waller patronisingly, for his heart warmed towards his countryman.

"Ah! non. Go home; put your horse to bed," cried Gibault, glancing at the Yankee's steed in contempt. "Dis is de von as vill do it more slicker by far."

"Well, well; clear the course; we shall soon see," cried McLeod. "Now then--here's the word--one, two--away!"

At the last word the riders' whips cracked, and the horses sprang forward at a furious gallop. Both of them were good spirited animals, and during the first part of the race it could not be said that either had the advantage. They ran neck and neck together.

The racecourse at the Mountain Fort was a beautiful stretch of level turf, which extended a considerable distance in front of the gates. It crossed a clear open country towards the forest, where it terminated, and, sweeping round in an abrupt curve, formed, as it were, a loop; so that competitors, after passing over the course, swept round the loop, and, re-entering the original course again, came back towards the fort, where a long pole formed the winning-post.

Dupont and Lincoln kept together, as we have said, for some time after starting, but before they had cleared the first half of the course the former was considerably in advance of the latter, much to the delight of most of the excited spectators, with whom he was a favourite. On gaining the loop above referred to, and making the graceful sweep round it, which brought the foremost rider into full side view, the distance between them became more apparent, and a cheer arose from the people near the fort gate.

At that moment a puff of smoke issued from the bushes. Dupont tossed his arms in the air, uttered a sharp cry, and fell headlong to the ground. At the same instant a band of Indians sprang from the underwood with an exulting yell. Lincoln succeeded in checking and turning his horse before they caught his bridle, but an arrow pierced his shoulder ere he had galloped out of reach of his enemies.

The instant Dupont fell, a savage leaped upon him, and plunged his knife into his heart.