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Title: Ben, the Trapper; Or, The Mountain Demon: A Tale of the Black Hills

Author: Albert W. Aiken

Release date: April 15, 2021 [eBook #65087]

Language: English

Credits: David Edwards, Susan Carr and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (Northern Illinois University Digital Library at http://digital.lib.niu.edu/)


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BEN, THE TRAPPER; OR, THE MOUNTAIN DEMON: A TALE OF THE BLACK HILLS ***




                          BEN, THE TRAPPER;

                                 OR,

                         THE MOUNTAIN DEMON.


                     A TALE OF THE BLACK HILLS.


                      BY MAJOR LEWIS W. CARSON.


                              NEW YORK:
                    BEADLE AND ADAMS, PUBLISHERS,
                         98 WILLIAM STREET.




     Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1875, by
                          BEADLE AND ADAMS,
     In the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.




                              CONTENTS


                                                                   PAGE
     I.  THE TRAPPER’S CAMP.                                         9
    II.  THE GRIZZLY BEAR.                                          17
   III.  THE MOUNTAIN DEVIL.                                        24
    IV.  THE TRAPPING-GROUND.                                       30
     V.  TREED BY A BUFFALO.                                        40
    VI.  THE MESSAGE.                                               48
   VII.  INDIANS!                                                   57
  VIII.  SHOWING HIS COLORS.                                        67
    IX.  MIFFIN’S LEAP.                                             73
     X.  THE SUCK.                                                  80
    XI.  THE QUICKSAND.                                             87
   XII.  THROUGH THE SNARE.                                         94




                          BEN, THE TRAPPER.




                             CHAPTER I.

                         THE TRAPPER’S CAMP.


In a deep defile among the Black Hills, far out on the western
plains, three men had made a camp. They were of that wonderful race
who have done more to develop the resources of the western world
than any other, the trappers of the North-west. Their great aid in
this cause has never been allowed by us as a people. We hear of
great discoveries of gold, or of a new pass through the mountains,
and in the _discovery_ lose sight of the _agent_, who, in nine cases
out of ten, is one of the class of whom this book is written. Their
wandering, perilous life is full of hardships, of which we have
no conception. The cold of winter, the savage foe, the yet more
savage employees of the Hudson Bay Company, the grizzly bear, the
snow-slide, all these are their enemies. They toil hard to pluck
from the hand of stern old winter a precarious livelihood, happy in
the possession of a few traps, a rifle, ammunition, and a blanket.
With these they lead as happy lives as any, and as useful as most.
Hundreds of tales of individual daring have been told of these men,
and yet the truth is not half known. Their creed is simple as that of
the border chiefs of Scotland:

      “That they should take who have the power,
       And they should keep who _can_!”

To hate an Indian, or an employee of the Hudson Bay Company. It
was in the days when the rivalry between the American Fur Company
and the Hudson Bay was at its height, and the rancor between them
equaled that of Whig and Tory during the Revolution. Each claimed
the country, and many a bleaching skeleton on the western streams
remains to this day, attesting the fact that the men fought for the
right of possession to the last.

The men in the pass were types of different nationalities. One,
a tall, supple, wiry old fellow, dressed in a greasy buckskin
hunting-shirt and leggings, with moccasins of moose-hide, showed
himself to be a lifelong rover of the hills and plains. He was piling
brush on the fire, and smoking placidly, puffing the smoke from his
nose in clouds. His face was a study, covered though it was by a
beard of nearly seven months’ growth. It showed the character of the
man. Brave to a fault, an unrelenting foe, a steadfast friend--one
on whom great reliance could be placed in time of need. His rifle,
carefully covered with a buckskin sheath, was propped against a
rock near at hand. A huge knife hung in his belt, by the side of a
shot-pouch and powder-flask.

The man on his right hand was a Frenchman--a keen-eyed, vivacious
fellow, dressed very much like his companion, and armed, in addition
to the knife and rifle, with a pair of handsome pistols. His name was
Jules Damand, and he had been a voyageur, trained to the business at
Saint Ann’s, on the St. Lawrence.

The third was a Dutchman! A simple glance at his broad, stolid face
told his nationality. He was a stout fellow, of tremendous girth,
with a smiling blue eye, an expressionless face while in repose, and
a foot that looked much like a young trunk. He was smoking placidly,
and suffering his companions to attend to the fire, and cook the food
hanging over it. The last duty was the Frenchman’s, who, like nearly
all the men of his nation, had a theory in regard to cookery which he
was always ready to explain by example.

“Look here, Jan,” said the first-named trapper, “why don’t ye lend a
hand at takin’ care of the fire?”

“So help me, as I never know I vas vanted to help you mit de fire,”
said Jan. “I vas sit here, mit mine shmoke-pipe, unt I vas dinking
auver the times ven I vas in Yarmany. Yaw; dat is vat I dinks.”

“I s’pose it’s considerable of a kentry,” said the old trapper.

“Consider’ble mit a coonthry! Mein Cott! Dere is no such coonthry mit
all the earth. Vat! Ish dere any vere you kin find such vine ash ve
have dere? Now I dells you. Ven you coes to St. Louis, you vas co
to Yawcob Post’s saloon av you vants goot Rhine vine. Dere ish goot
many blaces mit St. Louis vere dey says dey keeps goot Rhine vine.
Put I dells you dat ish no more ash von lie! Dere ish no more ash
your blaces in dat town vere you can get goot vine, unt mein frent
Yawcob’s ish von, I dells you drue.”

“It’s mighty poor stuff to drink,” said the trapper. “Fer me now,
when I drink, I take a little good rye whisky. _That’s_ good enough
fer me.”

“Boor shtuff! Penn Miffin, av it vash not dat I know you too vell, I
vould hit you mit your nose av you says dat vonce more. I dells you
dere ish nottings so goot ash Rhine vine.”

“Yes, for a _Dutchman_,” said Ben.

“But you ish voolin’. Dere, I seen you laff. Don’t say dat no more,”
said Jan.

“What does ye think about it, Jule?” said Ben, looking at the
Frenchman.

“That it is very bad drink,” said the Frenchman. “Peste! The first
time I drank it, it was so sour I thought it would make me turn
myself inside out to get rid of it. The Rhine grape is very bad. In
la belle France they make wine that is good.”

“Vy den you ask him?” blustered Jan. “Vat ish he more ash a
Vrenchman? Unt I ask you now, aff you vas dell me, vat ish de goot
over a man vat eats vrogs? So help me gracious, dey is no more goot
to eat dan snakes. Unt dey ish p’ison.”

“I reckon yer wrong, Jan,” said the trapper. “They do say thet snakes
ain’t very bad eatin’ when a chap is hard druv’. I don’t say I want
to try ’em, but ef I c’u’d ’a’ got snakes the time I cum nigh to
starvin’ up yer in the Black Hills, durn my hide ef I wouldn’t hev
eat snakes or any thing else. I kem of a queer race. I ken eat any
thing, and lick my weight in wildcats. I’m death on grizzlys. I ken
wipe out an Injun as fur as I ken see him, and I calculate thet’s a
good ways.”

“You talks a goot deal mit yer _mout_,” said Jan. “Put aff a man says
to me dat snakes unt frogs is goot to eat, den I dinks he ish no
more ash von vool. Aff ever I get vere I can no more get nottings to
eat, so help me gracious ash I vill _not_ eat snakes unt vrogs, aff
day vash to come to me in hundreds unt t’ousands, ready cooked, unt
beg me on dere knees to eat dem.”

“Did you ever see a snake on his knees, Jan?” said Ben.

“Yaw! Ven you poke dem mit a stick, dey gits up on dere tails. Dat’s
de vay dey vould do ven dey vash ask me to eat dem. Unt I vash say,
No, py tam!”

The Frenchman said nothing, but stooped to stir some soup in an
iron pan placed on the coals, glancing up at the Dutchman with a
queer smile as he did so. The blood of the Teuton was up, and he
dropped off into low mutterings, like distant thunder, until a fresh
grievance caused him to break out again. He found this grievance in
Ben Miffins’ manner of smoking.

“Dere,” he said, “shpose you look at dat, eh? Ven a man ash ought to
know petter, unt ve know ash he _knows_ petter, shmokes hish pipe
drue hish nose, like dat, he ish von tam vool. See him. Puff! puff!
puff! like a shteampoat mit a vire in her pelly. Now I dells you dat
ish not the vay to shmoke.”

“It’s _my_ way,” said Ben. “Look yer, Dutchy, ef ye don’t like my way
of smokin’, does ye know what ye ken do? Ye ken take the back track
to the forts.”

“Vy don’t you shmoke like a Christian den?” grunted Jan.

“’Cause I don’t want to. Never told ye how I learned to smoke this
yer way, did I? No? I’ll tell ye then. When I was quite a young man
I was taken by the Crows. Durn ’em ef they didn’t keep me among ’em
more then three years. Made me a chief, and what not. Wal, they all
smoke this yer way, and I took it up. Don’t rile me up, Dutchy. I’m
the Big Buffalo of the Crow nation. Rile me, and I light on ye pooty
heavy. Smooth me down and I’m _ile_; but slick me the wrong way and
I’m a p’ison critter. Look out fer me when I flop my wings and crow.”

“Look at the hills,” said Jan, prudently changing the course of the
conversation. “Vat you dinks ven I dells you I’ve seen hills all made
up mit ice, unt dey so pig ash dese hills, eh?”

“I should think your story was like the hills,” said Jules.

“How vash dat?”

“_Made up_ mit a lie,” said the Frenchman, laughing and turning again
to his soup.

“Den you ish von tam vool,” said Jan, in a rage. “It ish no more as
vive years since I cooms from Yarmany mit a backet. I vas very pad
ven I cooms avay. I vish I vash stay at home. Put it vash near spring
ven I cooms avay, unt the vind drive us up north. Unt den cooms von
of dese hills made up mit ice.”

“It’s true,” said Ben. “I’ve seen ’em myself off the mouth of the
Columby. They call ’em icebergs.”

“Dat’s it. Dat’s the name!” said Jan. “Vell, I stands on the deck mit
the packet, unt I sees it coom. I goes to the captain unt I dells
him America has proke loose, unt vash cooming down on the sheep, unt
would sink her. He laugh at me, unt said it vash an iceberg. Unt I
vatched it very close, unt py unt py it tipped oop, unt turned auver,
unt I dinks we ish gone. But it not strike the sheep.”

“Lucky fer you,” said Ben.

“Vat vash you dink auver an iceberg ash vash so pig ash it vash
tip auver on the sheep, unt sink the sheep. Now I ask you not for
to pelieve all dis unless you vash a mind to. You must do ash you
blease. Put dis is vat I sees myself. Vat is your opinion mit dese
tam icebergs?”

“Oh, they say that they break away from the hills up north and float
down yer. That’s all I know.”

“Yaw. Put vat makes dem tip auver? Dat ish vat I vants to know.”

“How kin I tell?”

“Vell, I dells you my opinion mit dese tam ole icebergs. Dey ish very
pig. Put, vat vas you dink mit a _vale_ (whale) ash vas so pig as he
vash go unther an iceberg, unt lift the iceberg oop on his pack, unt
tip her auver on the sheep, unt sink the sheep. Dat ish my opinion
mit dese tipping icebergs.”

“Ye don’t mean to tell me thet you think a whale goes under an
iceberg and tips it over?”

“Yaw. De vale goes unther the iceberg, unt lifts it oop on his pack,
and tips it auver on de sheep. Dat ish vat I dinks.”

“He couldn’t do it,” said Ben. “Darn it. I’ve seen icebergs, and I’ve
seen whales, but I never seen a whale big enough to do thet, nor you
either.”

“I shpose you dinks dish ish von lie. All right. You may dink vat you
blease, put dis is vat I sees myself. I ton’t care nottings now vat
you dinks, only ven a man vill not pelieve goot sense ven he hears
him, he is von very much vool. Vat you got in the pan, Shule?”

“Soup,” said Jules.

“Vat you makes him off?”

“Grouse,” said Jules, smiling.

“Ven he ish reaty, let us have somet’ings to eat. I ish hoongry. Vy
does ve coom here pefore it ish dime to set our traps, Penn?”

“I’ll tell ye. Ef we ain’t on hand ’arly, all the places will be
taken up. And I know a place whar we kin make our fortun’s, sure.
I’ve got a beaver-dam thet beats the world. But come, Jule, I’m like
Dutchy. I want something to eat. Ef it’s ready, dish it up.”

Each man had a tin cup among his other property, and Jules filled
three of them from the pan on the fire. For a few moments nothing was
heard but the clicking of spoons and smacking of lips over the savory
mess, for Jules was a good cook. Jan shoveled down the contents of
his cup first, and held it out for more.

“Like it?” said Jules.

“Goot!” said Jan, smacking his lips again. “Pest I ever eats. Gif me
more of it.”

Jules filled the cup again, and then replenished his own and that of
Ben Miffin, who was not far behind the others in disposing of the
food. At last Jan was satisfied, and drawing his hand across his
mouth slowly, he proceeded to fill his pipe for a smoke.

Jules cleared away the pan, put another stick of wood on the fire,
and got away from the reach of the ponderous hand of the Dutchman,
and then said:

“I s’pose you know what you have been eating, Jan?” There was very
little, except in the accent of the young man, to show that he was a
Frenchman, and the occasional use of the pronoun “him” in the place
of “it.”

“Didn’t you say it vash grouse?” said Jan. “’Twas goot, anyvay.”

“Yer mighty right,” said Ben. “’Twas the best grub I’ve had fer a
long time. But ’twa’n’t no grouse. I knew it as soon as I put it in
my mouth. Ye gev me some once before, ye remember.”

“It’s a pity Jan don’t like it. I think it’s durned good.”

“Vat I peen eating?” cried Jan, in great alarm. “Off you vash not
dell me now, dis very dime, vat it vas, I vill raise my hand oop unt
let it fall on your cophf (cope), unt it vill kill you!”

“It was something you said to-day you would not eat if you were
starving.”

“Snakes!” screamed Jan, starting to his feet, with both hands pressed
on his stomach.

“No, not so bad as _that_,” said Jules. “It was frog soup.”

Jan sat down again to consider over the matter. For full five minutes
he neither moved nor spoke, but sat with his head resting on his
hand. At last he looked up.

“Pring me dat pan,” he said.

Ben reached over to where the pan stood and handed it to him. He took
up his spoon and devoured all that was left, not deigning a word to
the repeated demands of Jules that he should leave a little for him.
His jaws never ceased their action until he had deposited the whole
in his cavernous stomach.

“Dere,” he said. “I veels petter. Unt so dat ish vrog, eh?”

“I should think so,” said Jules. “You old cormorant!”

“Vat ish dat?”

“A bird that eats every thing he can get his claws on,” said Jules.
“Why didn’t you leave some?”

“I vas brought oop to love mine neighbor ash myself. I dinks it ish
not right to eat vrogs. Put I dink so mooch more off my neighbor dat
I vill not leaf vrog soup vor a demptation.”

“Sacrifice yourself for the public good, you old hog?” said Jules.

“Yaw. Dat ish drue. I sees dat if I does not eat him you vould do it,
unt I dink so mooch off mine frent dat I vould not leaf it. Dat ish
all apout it.”

“Do you mean to eat any more if I make him?” demanded Jules.

“Yaw. Venever you makes vrog soup I vill not leaf any of him vor you.
Dat ish vat I dinks apout it.”

“Perhaps you’ll get a good chance,” said the Frenchman. “And perhaps
you won’t. But you’ve finished it. Perhaps you will go out with me
and catch some more of them.”

“Nein!” said Jan.

“Why not? You eat them fast enough.”

“Yaw. I alvays eat dem fast enough. I know vat ish goot for mine
frent, unt I dinks vrog soup very pad vor him.”

“That’s enough,” said Ben. “You’ve taught Jan to eat frogs, and he
has taught you that if a Dutchman is slow, he is sure, and that you
can’t fool him wuth a cent. Scatter the brands and pick up your
dunnage. It’s time to be on the way.”

“How far is it?” said Jules.

“A matter of five miles or so,” said the trapper. “But we’ll get our
pay for the long journey we’ve made ef we ar’ a little footsore at
the end. Come on!”

They shouldered their pieces and strode off into the hills, the
Dutchman sauntering in the rear, leading his horse by the bridle.




                             CHAPTER II.

                          THE GRIZZLY BEAR.


Ben Miffin strode on in advance of both the others, leading his
horse, loaded with camp utensils, by the bridle. This man was known
far and wide upon the prairies, as a skillful trapper, a bold
hunter, and an Indian fighter of great renown. He had one quality
which was his own, in common with many of his class--of boasting
of his exploits. Perhaps this trait was a part of his frontier
education, learned from the Indians. At any rate Ben exhibited the
strange anomaly of a boaster who was at the same time a brave man.
The scars upon his body were taken in many a bloody fight along the
Yellowstone, by the Platte, on the Washington, and in the Sierras.
His step was free and firm in spite of his fifty-five years, and the
gray hairs sprinkled in his heavy beard and mustache.

The road lay through a growth of scattered pines, such as grow upon
the Black Hills, and among others a few specimens of the nut-pine,
known only in the West. Ben stooped to pick up one of the cones, and
as he was tearing off the husk to get at the seed he heard a sound
which caused him to drop the cone and seize his rifle. The sound was
a grunt resembling the grunt of a hog, and looking up, he saw, a
few feet from him, an enormous grizzly bear, standing with his head
cocked on one side in a knowing manner, regarding the trio in a way
which seemed to say that he hesitated to decide which of the three
would make the best meal. There is no living mountaineer who does not
fear the grizzly bear. Their strength and ferocity can not be fairly
stated. Ben knew the danger he had to encounter, and was ready to
meet it like a man. The Frenchman aimed his rifle at the animal, but
dropped it again at the stern signal of Ben Miffin’s hand, who never
removed his keen eyes from those of the fierce animal. Cooper says in
“The Pioneers,” “There is something in the front of the image of his
Creator that daunts the hearts of the inferior beings of creation.”
And the great student of nature was right. No one knew better than
Ben Miffin the power of the human eye, and his never quailed.

“Let me shoot,” whispered Jules.

“For your life, don’t!” muttered Ben. “Hold yer charge tell I give ye
the word, and then let him hev it.”

“I can shoot him while he stands still,” replied Jules.

“Mind me,” was the reply. “Keep yer eye on the brute all the time.
’Tain’t no use to fire; his hide is like a sheet of iron. Bullets
flatten ag’in’ it like paper-balls. Darn my hide ef they don’t. He’s
got his eye on my hoss; he kain’t hev it, mind ye.”

All this was said almost in a whisper. The bear had not moved, but
was standing in the same place, shifting his head to and fro to get
away from the eye of the intrepid man. Ben knew his advantage, but
between keeping his young companion from firing, and watching the
bear, he had his hands full. At last the bear rose slowly on his hind
legs, and opening his jaws, uttered a terrific growl, at the same
time showing a set of long, white teeth, at the sight of which poor
Jan, who was crouching behind a rock, uttered a yell of terror.

“Keep still, you durned fool,” said Ben, without turning his head.
“You’ll bring him on us ef you show the white feather thet thar way.”

Still he kept the eye of the bear. The brute lowered himself upon
all fours and suddenly began to retreat. He had not gone ten paces,
however, when he turned again and rose upon his hind feet, repeating
the menacing growl which he had uttered before.

“Och! Mein Cott!” muttered Jan. “Our vader vich art--goot saints, vat
teet’! Dere ish no more as fivifty teet’ in hees jaw. I dinks I ish
mooch ’fraid.”

The bear again dropped on all fours and turned his head up the rocks.
But Miffin, who had restrained himself well until now, jerked his
rifle to his shoulder and fired. The ball had hardly left the barrel
when the savage brute, with a broken fore shoulder, came down the
slope on three legs, with growls which made the blood of the Dutchman
run cold in his veins, and wish himself safely back in fatherland.
But he took up the gun he had brought with him from the Rhine, a gun
on the pattern of the roer of southern Africa, and with his heart
in his throat awaited the onset. Jules Damand fired one ineffectual
shot at the savage brute, and then drew his pistols. Ben Miffin saw
that he had brought this on the party, and that he was the one to be
sacrificed, if any. He drew his knife and was about to close with the
bear, when the Frenchman dragged him away.

“Climb a tree,” he said. “Take your gun with you.”

Each darted at a low pine, and scrambled up as soon as possible, just
in time to escape the fury of the brute. He reared himself on his
hind legs at the foot of the tree occupied by the trapper, and glared
at him seated comfortably in the lower branches. The mouth of the
bear was open, and the white foam dropping from the red tongue. He
lowered his head and licked the blood from his wounded shoulder. The
taste of blood made him more savage, and he gnawed at the tree with
his white teeth.

“Where are you, Jan?” cried Ben, not seeing the Dutchman anywhere.
“Have you got to a tree?”

“Nein!” replied Jan from behind his rock, “dere ish no dree here. I
ish kilt! I ish eaten oop mit a pear! Ach mein Cott! vy you don’t
shoot ’im? Vire mit de gun at ’im. Dere ish no hope vor boor Jan
Schneider, dat ish drue; so help me der saints!”

“Keep yer mouth shet,” replied Ben. “The b’ar may miss ye. But ef he
noses ye out, _dig_ fer a tree, that’s all.”

The bear evidently suspected the presence of some one else, though
he had only seen the two he had treed. He began to nose about the
ground, making toward the horses. But they fled at his approach, and
he stopped a little way from the rock where Jan was hidden and began
to snuff the air. He then advanced toward the rock.

“Look out thar!” cried Ben; “he noses ye now. Climb up on the rock.”

Jan scrambled to the top of the rock, still clinging to his gun.
The grizzly reared his ponderous bulk against the rock and saw his
enemy. The growl he uttered caused cold shivers to begin at the top
of the Dutchman’s head and chase one another down his back and into
his boots. The only hope he had was in the gun. He thrust it forward
and was about to fire, when his bearship lifted his paw and gave it
a playful tap, which knocked it out of the poor fellow’s hand, and
sent it flying down the other side of the rock. But Jan caught it by
the stock and pulled it back. The bear began to climb up the rock,
but moved with difficulty, for one leg was useless to him, and every
movement was accompanied by a growl of pain. Ben Miffin had by this
time loaded his rifle, but the body of Jan was directly between him
and the bear, and he dared not fire. The gun of the Dutchman was
loaded with a handful of buckshot. As the bear came nearer he lifted
the wonderful weapon and pulled trigger. A noise like the report of a
small cannon followed, and Jan was knocked headlong from his perch,
falling on his head and shoulders nearly ten feet away. He was up in
an instant, running for a tree, fearing to feel the claws of the bear
in his back at every step. He reached the tree, tugged his weight
up to the branches and uttered a shout of joy. He was safe for the
present.

“How does ye feel?” said Ben from his tree.

“You’s nice man to shtand py a frent!” said Jan, in high dudgeon.
“You’s goot feller. I dinks I cooms out here goot many dimes more mit
you. Off auver a man is a good fiter, he vas fite den mit der pear.
You’s a coward, Penn Miffin.”

“Yer safe in yer tree, or durn me ef I wouldn’t giv’ ye the darndest
lickin’ ye ever got in all yer life. I would, by gravy. Does ye think
a man like me is gwine to stand thet thar? I reckon not. I ruther
calculate ye’ve barked up the wrong tree. Jest wait tell I git down,
and I’ll chop ye inter kindlin’ wood. Thet’s as good as ef I swore to
it.”

“Where is the bear?” said Jules. “I can’t see him.”

“No? Mebbe the Dutchman knocked him over with that blunderbuss of
his’n--the darndest weepon! It’s got a muzzle like thet thar little
cannon they’ve got at the Mackinaw. Mountain howt’zer they called it.
Look sharp again, Jule; kain’t ye see him now?”

“Yes, Ben; he lies under the rock, with his head on his paws. He
keeps very quiet.”

“Mebbe he’s shammin’,” said Ben. “Don’t ye go too nigh the durned
critter. It’d be jest like him to git up and go fer ye the minnit yer
feet teched the ground. Jan?”

“Vat?”

“Git down outer that tree and go an’ prick him with yer knife. Ef he
don’t git up then we may safely conclude he’s a dead b’ar.”

“I ain’t a vool!” said Jan. “I don’t vant nottings more to do mit te
pears. You go you’self unt brick him.”

“All right,” said Ben, “I’ll do it; and if he is a dead b’ar, I’ll
take his sculp.”

“Dake him all,” said Jan. “I not vants him. Der duyvel! He ish von
plack peast. I vash scared mit him.”

Ben got down from the tree and crept cautiously toward the rock,
keeping it between himself and the bear. He reached it and drew
himself carefully up the side. He found the gun lying on the rock
where Jan had dropped it, and then, creeping forward, he looked
down upon the grizzly. The first look was enough, and he hailed his
companions with a shout.

“Safe?” said Jules.

“Dead as a hammer,” replied Ben.

Jules slid down from his tree and hastened to join his companion. The
grizzly lay where he fell, and they could see that the heavy charge
of the roer had passed into the ear of the dead brute, and blown a
passage completely through his head.

“Vell, vat you dinks?” said Jan, still in his tree. “If youse vool
me, unt dat pear ish not deat, I gits mad ash ter tuyvel.”

“Dead enough,” said Ben; “it’s all your durned luck. Come down and
see him.”

Jan slowly left his tree, and came toward them in a hesitating
manner, not yet satisfied that the savage was _sufficiently_ dead to
be safe. But even he was satisfied when he saw the hole the charge
had made.

“Dere,” he said, “vat vas I dell you ven you laugh at mine gun. Dat
ish goot gun; more ash petter ash goot. It kill dish pear. All
right. Vy den you not kill him mit der little gun, eh?”

“Could do it, ef I had a chaince ter put the barrel clost to his
head,” said Ben.

“Yaw. Vy you not _do_ it, den?” said Jan. “Nobotty dinks you dare
do it. I vash not ’vraid, I vash not clime a dree all pecause off a
little pear like dat. I kills him mineself.”

“Ye run fast enough after ye shot yer blunderbuss,” said Ben. “But
that ain’t it. Let’s git our hosses back again. I kin git mine easy
enough.”

“How?” said Jules.

“This way,” replied Ben, raising his fingers to his lips. A loud,
clear whistle rung through the hills. Directly after they heard the
swift beat of coming hoofs, and the three horses appeared in view,
led by the horse of Miffin. He advanced and seized his property, and
the faithful animal laid his head against his master, whinnying his
gladness. Ben stood a moment stroking his shining mane and his small,
shapely head. The horse was a model of his kind--of the mustang breed
so much in use upon the prairies. Of middle size, a pure white, with
small head, deep chest and long body, with keen eyes and the light
step of the deer. There is no better breed of horses in the world.

“Yes, yes, old boy,” said the trapper; “ye are one thet will always
come at _my_ whistle, no matter when I sound it.”

“Where did you get him?” said Jules, coming up, with the bridle of
his own horse across his arm.

“From the Crows,” said Ben. “They are my friends yit. I’ll never need
one on the prairies. I go back to them onc’t in a while and they
always make a feast.”

“The horse is a beauty,” said Jules, glancing at him.

“He hasn’t his ekal on the prairies,” replied Ben. “Look fer him whar
ye may, ye won’t find a hoss to go as far and do as much and do it as
quick as Diamond. I’ll say thet fer him. I’ve got him to thank fer a
life saved from the Blackfeet before now. But them days is done. I’m
gettin’ to be an old man now. I feel it in my bones.”

“Old!” replied Jules. “I’d like to find your match now in this
section.”

“That’s easy enough to do,” said Ben; “not but thet the time hez
been when I was as spry a young chap as ye’d find atween the three
Buttes and the Massasipp. I tell ye true, I’ve seen the time I could
lick any thing on the prairie. I couldn’t do it now. I’m gittin’ too
powerful weak, that’s the reason, and good enough reason, too. I
c’u’d lift a buffler onc’t; I kain’t do it now. But I’m no chicken
to-day.”

“Say,” said Jan, “vat you do mit my pear?”

“Leave him here now,” said Ben. “To-morrow I reckon we’ll come back
and take him into camp.”

“Vat you do mit him?” queried Jan.

“_Eat_ him, of course. Never hed any bear-steak, I guess. I calculate
you’ll say it’s mighty refreshing fodder, once you git any of it.”

“Eat a _pear_! Vy, dat ish worser dan to eat vrog,” said Jan.

“No, not so bad,” said Ben, “only the frogs taste the best. I judge
you can’t beat them very easy.”

“All right,” said Jan. “I eats any t’ing now; I eat a pear. I says
nottings. Pring him vere Jule cook him, unt py tam, I eat him. Dat’s
all.”

“We’ll teach ye something about frontier life by the time we git done
with ye,” said Ben. “I ruther guess thet ye will see the time when a
baked Injun won’t be a bad dish fer ye.”

“Paked Injun! Vat; you eat dem?”

“I reckon ther’ pooty good fodder too, when you ain’t got nothin’
else to feed on,” replied Ben, coolly.

“I dells you vat,” said Jan, getting angry again, “ven I cooms to dis
coontry I dinks it must be goot coontry, but now I dinks it is no
more petter ash a Feejee Island. I vill not eat paked Injun. ’Tish no
good; dat ish vat I dinks.”

“Ye don’t know any thing about it,” said Ben. “After ye’v’ been
on the prairie a while ye will git over thet and not be half so
squeamish. Jest lose yer sculp onc’t, and ye’ll be ready to eat an
Injun raw.”

“Stop dat. I veel very pad. I dinks dere is no Injun here.”

“Mebbe not. Mebbe the prairie down thar ain’t the’r old
stamping-ground, and mebbe it is. Anyhow, I’ve got my opinion, and
I’ll bet ye my fust beaver ag’in’ yours thet we see Injuns in less
then a week.”

“I not likes Injuns.”

“Nuther do I. I calculate ther’s a good many of jest the same opinion
on the prairies. They don’t like the sculpin’ process. I know a man
thet hez been sculped and is as lively as a cricket now. More’n thet,
he hez put forty notches in his rifle-butt sence the Blackfeet took
his sculp.”

“Vat’s dat fer?”

“He makes a notch fer every red nigger he wipes out. But I hear the
dam, boys, and there’s our campin’-ground.”




                            CHAPTER III.

                         THE MOUNTAIN DEVIL.


They had hardly passed forward a dozen steps, when they were startled
by a sudden cry, which resembled nothing earthly. At the same moment
came the shout of a masculine voice, evidently in peril. The sounds,
coming so suddenly upon their ears, startled poor Jan immensely, and
he drew back with a look of horror, but Ben ran hastily forward in
the direction of the sound, followed more slowly by the Frenchman.
They reached a level spot of ground between the cliffs where they
widened enough to leave perhaps an acre of ground inclosed, and upon
this spot of ground two men were struggling for life or death. One
was a young man in the garb of a mountaineer, who had fallen upon one
knee and with his hand clasped about the body of his foe, was plying
his knife with desperate energy.

The other was a being clad in skins, a savage, hairy, fearful
creature, which could not be called a man. This ferocious creature
had no weapon but a short club, with which it fought with desperate
courage, warding off the strokes of the knife, and giving fearful
blows in exchange. The nails of this horrible assailant were like the
claws of a panther. The teeth protruded over the lower lip, white
and savage. As it fought it uttered the cry which had welcomed the
entrance of the trappers to the glen. A little way off, a young girl
stood with clasped hands, in an agony of terror. Ben had no time to
look at her then, but, drawing his rifle to his shoulder, he fired at
the grizzly demon, which seemed to have the best of it, and had the
satisfaction of seeing the arm which lifted the club over the head of
his opponent, drop palsied at his side.

The brute uttered the same ferocious cry which had attracted their
attention in the first instance, and turning, it darted up the face
of the cliff near at hand, at a place where human foot had never
trod. Jules fired at him, but without effect, and he passed over the
cliff and disappeared from view, gnashing his teeth and howling like
a wounded wolf. Ben ran to the assistance of the young man, who had
sunk bleeding to the earth, and raised him in his arms. The girl came
forward at the same moment, with a look of tender sympathy in her
face which could not be misunderstood.

“How do you feel, Bentley?” she said. “Are you badly hurt?”

“I hope not,” replied the young man.

The next moment he fainted from loss of blood, and while they used
every measure in their power to aid him and stanch the flow of blood,
Ben had time to look at the girl. She was a lady-like woman, with a
sweet face, a calm, bold eye, and a trim figure. Her dress was that
of the better class of western emigrants, though travel-stained and
torn. The young man called Bentley was wounded in a dozen places by
the sharp nails of his late assailant, and badly beaten about the
head with the heavy club. They raised him in their arms and carried
him forward. In a moment more they turned an angle in the path and
reached their camping-ground. They gathered a quantity of pine
branches and threw their blankets on it and laid the wounded man
upon it. Ben had some rude knowledge of surgery, a knowledge which
stood him in good stead now. He went away and came back directly,
holding in his hands a small heap of leaves. These he placed upon a
flat stone and quickly reduced them to a pumice, which he applied to
the wounds of the young stranger. By this time he had recovered his
senses, and though yet faint from loss of blood, he understood his
situation and the care which was being taken for his recovery.

The girl had followed them without a word. There was something in the
face of Trapper Ben which inspired confidence in him. No woman could
look in his face and feel the least fear of him after it. A good,
brave old man, knowing his work, and doing it.

When every thing which could be done for the comfort of the wounded
man had been accomplished, Jules Damand built a fire, and began to
fry some venison-steaks, which he found in his saddlebags. There
is a natural taste for the fine arts in cookery which seems to be
characteristic of the French people, and Jules was no exception to
the rule. To see him at work upon a venison-joint would make the
mouth of an epicure water. And though Jan was no epicure, he was
dreadfully hungry after his tackle with the bear, and watched the
process of cooking with a sense of unsatisfied longing which pleased
Ben exceedingly.

“Yer hungry, old man?” he said.

“Hoongry? You pet. I’m yoost as hungry ash nefer vas. Vy you vait so
long, Shules? Sh’pose you hurry pefore I die mit hunger.”

“Not I. You will find that it is impossible to hurry meat. It must
cook just long enough, or it will not be fit for pigs. You must not
expect me to slight my cookery now, when there is a lady in the case.”

“Oh, coom, coom. Don’t keep him dere no more. I more hoongry efery
minnit.”

Jules shook his head, and continued his work of turning the steaks
with an air of interest in the occupation which only a Frenchman can
feel in such labor. At last his work was done, and taking some of
the venison on a piece of bark, he approached the young lady, and
handed it to her with the look of a marquis offering refreshment to a
duchess. And, indeed, the graces of Monsieur Jules Damand upon this
occasion would have done credit to any rank in life.

“Yoost look at him,” whispered Jan, his sides shaking with subdued
laughter. “You t’ink he shentleman, ven I nefer sees such a vool vile
I lifs.”

“Oh, let him be, Jan. Yer mad because you can’t show off before a gal
the way he kin. Don’t deny it, ye know it’s true,” said Ben.

“I nefer dells a man he lie,” said Jan, coolly, “put ven _I_ lie I
dalks yoost ash you pees dalkin’ _now_. Vat you dink of dat, eh?”

The young lady took the food offered her by the Frenchman, with
a smile and bow, and ate with a keen appetite. The others helped
themselves, and even the wounded man disposed of a goodly quantity
of the savory meat. When they had finished, Jules cleared the table
by the summary process of throwing the bark into the river, and they
drew up beside the fire upon which Ben threw more wood.

“Ef it wouldn’t be askin’ too much, young lady, I’d like to know how
you kem here. It ain’t often we see young an’ handsome gals out in
the Black Hills.”

“You have a right to know, after what you have done for us,” she
answered, in a sweet voice.

“Now don’t ye begin thet ’ar way,” said Ben. “I won’t stand it. We
ain’t done nothin’.”

“You saved us from that terrible creature.”

“Psho! What signifies pullin’ a trigger? Thet ain’t no trouble to a
man thet’s used to lookin’ through the double sights. Tell yer story,
and never ye mind us. We mout hev the will to do ye good, mebbe,
s’posin’ we got a chaince. What’s yer name?”

“My name is Millicent Carter,” she answered. “My companion’s name is
Bentley Morris. We had been part of a party of emigrants on their
way to the Far West. I suppose it is the old story to you. We were
attacked by Indians in the night, and we are all that they left to
tell the story.”

“Der Sherusalem!” cried Jan, with a look of horror. “I hate Injuns.”

“It was the durned Blackfeet, I’ll bet a farm in Nebraska,” said Ben.
“What? Not one of all the comp’ny left but you two?”

“We alone. By the aid of the strong arm of my friend, I escaped from
that scene of blood and death, at which my heart sickens even now.
You will understand that but for him, I should have been one of the
victims.”

“Millicent!” said the wounded man.

“Be silent, Bentley. It was your bravery which saved me. You came
back in the midst of the fray, when you might have escaped alone.”

“He’s a brave lad,” said Ben. “Ef he denies it I won’t believe him,
for he’s got it in his eye. Now, don’t you say a word. Go on, miss.”

“It was many weary miles from this, and we were footsore and weary
before we came so far. We reached the entrance to this place and came
in to find a secure asylum for the night. As we passed on I thought
I heard footsteps following us and told Bentley. He had heard them,
too, and was uneasy. We kept on our course until we reached the
place where you found us, and where Bentley determined to pass the
night. It might have been an hour after, and he was gathering some
sticks with which to make a little fire, for I was cold and wet, when
that terrible creature appeared on the rocks overhead, uttering its
fearful cry. If I live to be old and gray, that horrible vision will
never leave me. I see it plainly now.”

“B’ar up, miss; don’t be afraid. Yer safe enough now,” said Ben.

“Put vat if dat tuyvel vas to coom pack ag’in, Penn?” said Jan,
looking uneasily over his shoulder. “I pees afraid mit him now.”

“He’d better not. Let him try it on ef he wants to git his gruel. I’m
ekal to any low-lived squab of thing like that, I reckon. Don’t you
be afraid, miss. Thar ain’t no danger.”

“It is childish in me to fear now,” she said, “when I have such able
protectors. There, the feeling is gone; I put implicit confidence in
you.”

“Thet’s right. You might do wuss then to trust old Ben Miffin. That’s
my name, miss. Trapper Ben, they call me sometimes. This is Jules
Damand. He’ll stand by you, an’ cook all the vittles. This is Jan
Schneider. He ain’t much to look at, but he killed a grizzly a little
while ago, with that weepon he calls a roer. Don’t it roar when it
goes off? I guess not!”

“It ish goot gun,” said Jan. “Don’t you make fun off me now, Penn
Miffin.”

“Who’s makin’ fun of ye? I ain’t. I’m tellin’ the lady you’re goin’
to stand by her, and shoot that durned critter ef it comes back here.”

“Do you know what that thing could be called, sir?” said the girl;
“it surely can not be a man.”

“Don’t say sir to me. I’m old Ben Miffin. Please to call me by my
name.”

“If you like it?”

“You bet I like it. I ain’t ashamed of my handle, not a bit. It’s a
good one, an’ I cum by it honest--the way I cum by all my traps. I
fight fa’r for every thing, even with a durned low-lived swab of a
Hudson Bay man, an’ anybody knows they ain’t human. Ye asked me what
that critter was. I tell ye fa’r, I don’t know. I’ve seen it onc’t
before. Some of the boys hez seen it too, an’ they don’t know. It’s a
quar sort of critter. Ef I hed my say about it, I sh’u’d think it war
half man an’ half wolf. It’s mean enough.”

“It does not talk; but you noticed that it was clothed in skins.”

“I seen that. It’s a quar critter, I must say. The boys call it the
Mountain Devil. It’s a good name. It’s lucky for the thing that I
fired in a hurry; and then the youngster was so much in the way I
dassen’t fire at any thing but the arm. I hit that.”

“It saved my life,” said young Morris. “I had no strength to ward off
another blow; I felt that my time had come.”

“So you mought well think. It ain’t one man but a dozen hez gone
under, time and ag’in, here in the Black Hills. Whatever it is, it
hates a man like death. Don’t you talk too much, young ’un; it mought
hurt ye.”

“These scratches are nothing,” replied Morris. “I shall be well in a
day or two.”

“Look around ye and see how ye like the place ye’ve got to live in
till we go to the States.”




                             CHAPTER IV.

                        THE TRAPPING-GROUND.


The stream on which they halted was one of the tributaries of the
Missouri, the _Cache la Poudre_, which flowed through the passes of
the Black Hills not more than forty miles from Fort Laramie. From
the place where they stood, they could see the peaks of the three
brothers, the Buttes, raising their heads on high. Mount Laramie
loomed up in the distance and at their feet the river poured on down
the mountain-pass. Near the place where they stood, that sagacious
animal, the beaver, had dammed the stream and made themselves homes.
The round tops of the little huts rose above the water, and knowing
heads were peeping out at the strange intruders.

In all probability, no other feet than those of Ben Miffin had ever
trod the banks of the stream, if we except the Indian hunters. The
entrance was narrow and crooked, and once in, the eternal rocks
seemed to rise on every hand, inaccessible to mortal feet. Low
growths of pine and the creeping forms of the cactus were the only
vegetation. The silence was unbroken by a single sound. Ben looked at
his companions in triumph. They had met him in St. Louis, and he had
thought proper to reveal to them his discovery and make them partners
in his toils. He was not avaricious, and he found them with no wealth
except their weapons, eager to try his trapping-ground. He wished to
better their condition, and had taken this way to do it. Personally,
he knew nothing of them or their antecedents. But they had appealed
to his sympathies in their destitution, and no man ever appealed to
him in vain. He had a large heart, open always to the cry of the
needy. In another sphere he would have been a philanthropist. In his
own, he was only a true-hearted, simple man, with only one object,
and that to live out his simple life as the Maker whom in his rough
way he reverenced, would have him. Jan had told him wonderful tales
of the prowess he had shown in hunting in southern Africa, where he
had been when a young man. It only required a little of the rough
experience of the prairie to show him that he was not the mighty
Nimrod he had made himself out to be. But, Ben cared nothing for
this, and was pleased with the eccentricities of the Dutchman.

“Thar,” said the trapper; “ain’t thet a sight fur sore eyes? Thar’s
peltries enough in this yer stream to make us rich all summer.”

“Vat ish dem?” said Jan, pointing to the beaver-houses; “who live
dere?”

“Injuns!” said Ben.

“Vat!” said Jan, leaping from the earth. “Vy den you cooms here? Vy
den you no stay at home mit yourself unt not pring me out here vere
dey lifs?”

“Ye never seen a beaver hut, I reckon,” said Ben. “Ye wouldn’t
believe me when I tell ye thet them houses ar’ the work of beasts.”

“Who puild dem houses, den?”

“Beavers,” said Ben. “S’arch creation through, and I reckon ye won’t
find any beast thet ken beat them. They’re carpenters, masons, and
engineers; an’ they know the’r trade too.”

“Penn Miffin, you ish no more ash von liar. Vy you dry to fool me?
How dem peavers coot down trees, eh?”

“With the’r teeth. A lot of ’em git at a tree thet stands close to
the bank, and gnaw away at it till it falls over. Then they work away
with sticks an’ stones to make the’r dam, an’ when thet is done they
build the’r houses. You’d better believe they ain’t got the’r ekal
anywhere in the ’arth. I’ll tell ye lots more about ’em, miss.”

“Thank you,” said Millicent.

“Vell, you cooms here to catch dem? Dey too smart,” said Jan.

“They are pooty smart, thet’s a fact,” said Ben. “But we manage to
get the upper hand of ’em somehow. But thet’s neither here nor thar.
Let’s make a cabin. The gal must hev a place to live in. Ye ken use
an ax, can’t ye?”

“Yaw,” said Jan.

They had hoppled their horses and allowed them to stray at will about
the inclosure, after the traps and furniture had been removed.
Leaving their new friends together, each of the men attacked a pine
about a foot through at the butt, and soon cut enough logs for their
hut. Both Ben and Jules were old hands at this kind of work, and Jan,
when he understood what was required of him, did good service. The
logs were cut down, squared slightly, notched at the ends, and in a
few hours they began to lay the first in their places. By the time it
was dark they had raised the walls four feet from the ground.

“Knock off fur the night,” said Ben. “Let’s hev something more to
eat.”

“Yaw,” said Jan, “dat ish coot. I pees so mooch hungry as nefer.”

“Ye’ve worked well, old man,” said Ben. “I say thet fur ye. Come,
Jule, try yer hand at the cookery ag’in. Don’t make too much fire.
Git dry wood. These yer pine branches make too much smoke unless
the’r dry. Go up thar by the rocks. Thar’s an old pine cut down thar,
and it will make a good fire. I cut it down when I were here before,
miss.”

“Vy you ’vraid of too mooch vire, Penn?” asked Jan, looking
doubtfully around.

“Ye don’t know the Blackfeet as well as I do, or ye wouldn’t ask
the question,” said Ben. “Wet wood makes too much of a smoke, and
a Blackfoot brave could see a smoke as fur off as ye could see a
mountain.”

“Vell, vat ef he does?”

“Then he would come and sculp ye by the light of yer fire, ef he
didn’t make up his mind to roast ye a little fust. Ther’ a pizen,
sneakin’, murderin’ set, an’ would make no more of takin’ the sculp
of a Dutchman, then I would of skinnin’ a beaver. Thet’s all.”

“Dey very near?” said Jan, looking fearful. “Vy you stay here?”

“We didn’t come out yer to _play_,” said Ben; “an’ the Blackfoot
thet gits my sculp will hev to fight fer it. I’ve a likin’ fer my
own ha’r. It growd thar, an’ thar it’s got to stay until things git
so mixed up thet I kain’t raise a hand to fight fer it. I’m goin’ to
make this yer place a fort before long.”

“How you do dat, Penn?”

“Never mind. I’ve no doubt the Blackfeet will nose us out ’fore we
quit, an’ when they do, we’ve got to fight. I count you good fer
three Injuns. I’m good fer ten, and Jule will wipe out eight. So
you see they must bring down twenty-two to hev any left to do the
sculpin’.”

“Jule ain’t goot for mooch. I can vip him so easy ash notting ever
vas. I kills oct Injuns, unt he kills dree. Dat’s it.”

“I’ll eat the Injun when you kill him,” said Jules. “You’ll run from
the first one you see.”

“Me run vrom an Injun. No, py der saints, I kill auvery one I see,
same ash I kills de pear. You prave mans, you two. Climb oop trees,
unt leave poor Dutchman all alone. Yaw; dat ish no goot.”

“See yer, Dutchy. I want you to go back to the bear and bring him
in. I’m afraid the wolves will git at him ef we leave him thar. You
wouldn’t have the wolves eat up your bear, would you?”

“I not got _time_ to go pack,” said Jan. “I so hoongry, pesides I’m
very tired.”

“Yer skeered. Thet’s what’s the matter with ye, Dutchy. Yer skeered
half to death. Ye wouldn’t no more go back to thet b’ar then ye would
fly. I ain’t quite so sure he’s dead, anyhow. Isn’t thet him comin’
down the hill yonder?”

Jan leaped up, clasped the trunk of a tree with both hands, and began
to climb with might and main, while the others rolled over and over
on the ground, bursting with laughter. By the time he reached the
first branch he had collected sufficient fortitude to look about him,
and could see no such fearful monster as he imagined coming down upon
him. The truth dawned upon him that he was the victim of a sell, and
he slid down again in great wrath.

“You’s the wust liar, Penn Miffin, in dis coontry. Auvery Yankee can
lie goot deal, put you can lie more as dat. Dere vas no pear.”

“Wasn’t ther’? It must hev been the rock I seen and I thought it was
a b’ar, sure as shootin’. But ye was skeered that time; ye kain’t say
ye wa’n’t.”

“Kin, too! Wasn’t scared a bit, Penn Miffin.”

“Ye wasn’t? What made ye climb the tree, then?” said Ben.

“Pecause I can not see no pear on the ground, unt I climbs oop the
tree to look vor him, unt ven I gits dere, I can see no pear. Den I
knows dere vas no pear, unt dat you vas no more ash von liar like
auvery Yankee.”

Ben laughed heartily and turned his attention to the food which the
Frenchman was cooking over the blaze. He had built his fire with all
the care of the frontierman. First, the light leaves were ignited,
then some small twigs, which would burn without smoke, were added,
and when these had kindled into flame, larger sticks were laid on,
and the fire was now blazing merrily, though still without much smoke.

“Thet’s the sort of fire to fool a Blackfoot,” said Ben. “Ah, many
and many’s the brave fellow hez gone under fer the want of a little
care. Now, I don’t know thet ther’s an Injun within twenty mile of
us, but I always go to work as ef they were all around, as they may
be fer all we know, and most likely ar’.”

“What makes ye think so, Ben?” said Jules.

“’Cause it’s the last of the huntin’ season, an’ the braves are out
for buffler. Thet’s my reason. Then, ag’in, ye kain’t depend on a
Blackfoot; ther’ a treacherous, hoss-stealin’ set. Mind I tell ye.”

“The Crows are just as bad.”

“No they _ain’t_. Anyhow, they won’t be to us while I’m hyar. You see
they ain’t forgot the’r old chief yet. I calculate I’ve got a wife
among ’em som’ers.”

“Don’t you know where she is?”

“Kain’t say thet I do. When I was in the Crow village last, and
thet’s three years ago, she were thar. Ther’s a young chief takes
care of her on my account, seein’ he ain’t got no father or mother,
an’ she sort of adopted him. So I reckon she rubs along right peart.
She orter, anyhow. Prehaps I couldn’t appreciate the woman. I didn’t,
anyhow.”

“Didn’t you like her?” said Jules.

“No, I _didn’t_ relish her much, thet’s a fact. Ye see she had a
tongue of her own, and a mighty sharp tongue it were too--the wust
you ever see. She never stopped her clack from mornin’ tell night. I
wouldn’t hev minded it so much ef she had only taken a rest onc’t in
a while, but she didn’t. It seems to me now, thet the durned critter
thought ef she let her tongue rest a minnit, she couldn’t start it
ag’in.”

“What did you do?”

“Do! What any man orter do when he kain’t save himself no other way.”

“What was that?”

“_Heeled_ it ez hard ez I c’u’d go. I reckon that was pooty lively
too.”

“Vat vas your vrow’s name?” said Jan.

“Does ye want her, Jan? Ef ye do, take her, with my blessin’. The
truth is, yer gettin’ too fat, and ef ye hed to stand her jaw only a
month ye’d git worked down to yer fitin’-weight pooty sudden, that’s
all.”

“I don’t vant her,” said Jan.

“Don’t refuse on account of any feelin’ on my part,” said Ben. “Don’t
be bashful nuther. Or, ef it suits ye better, I’ll _sell_ her to ye.
I’ll sell her _cheap_ too. Give me thet huntin’-knife of yourn an’
she’s yer own. Thet’s fair, I’m sure.”

“Don’t _vant_ her,” persisted Jan. “S’pose she dead, unt I puy her?
Den I lose mine goot knife all vor nottings.”

“Ef she’s dead, may she rest easy in her grave. But I don’t think she
would, any way. I’ve got my opinion, an’ I think she’d never rest in
any grave. They won’t hev her in the other world nuther. She’d worrit
them to death, mind ye.”

“Vy don’t you dells me vat pe her name, Penn?” said Jan.

“Hill-a-leah, the Green Snake. Lovely name, ain’t it?”

“Goot cracious. Dat ain’t a vooman’s name?”

“Ain’t it? _Prehaps_ yer right. I doubt ef she’s a woman _myself_.
Anyhow, I’ve got my opinion and I reckon she’s got a devil in her.
I hearn a preacher down to the fort tell of a woman thet hed seven
devils in her, an’ thet the good man cast ’em out. Now, ef any one
woman hed seven such lively devils in her ez the Green Snake hez,
then she must hev been a healthy female, thet’s all. How gits on the
grub, Jule?”

“Near done, Ben. In five minutes.”

“All right. Soon as convenient I’ll worry down a piece of thet
venison. I’d like to make a trade with Jan fer this wife of mine. She
ain’t no use to _me_, an’ I think she’d be just the woman for Jan.”

“I dells you again, I don’t vant no voomans ash vas hev such names
ash Hill-a-baloo,” added Jan. “Schnake--Creen Schnake! Der Himmel,
dat ish dreadful! Don’t you talk mit me no more ’pout her. I rather
gifs you de knife dan marry a voomans like that.”

“Wal, I’m sorry we kain’t make a trade,” said Ben, regretfully;
“raally sorry. I’d like to sell her to some likely man thet would set
store by her, an’ not run away from her in less than two months. I
wouldn’t risk a cent thet any man could keep his nat’ral senses an’
stay with her longer then that, unless he was sorter seasoned to it,
same as I was. I’d ’a’ been a chief among the Crows now, ef it hadn’t
been fer thet.”

“Is that the reason you left, eh?” said Jules.

“Ye bet ye! I liked it there fust rate. They never made me go out on
the’r war-parties unless I hed a mind to, though I went out offen
enough, fer thet matter. Ye see, I’m down on Blackfeet fer more
reasons then one; an’ the Crows are the nat’ral inemies of them
critters. I’d like to extarminate the hull cussed race of them, durn
the’r picters!”

“What makes you hate the Blackfeet so?” said Jules.

“I’ll tell yer. ’Tain’t less’n ten years ago I was trappin’ on the
north branch of the Platte with a comrade of mine, a likely chap as
you ever see, Jim Johnson was his name, and the best-hearted feller
in Oregon. We made a heap of pelts, ye bet, an’ was countin’ on a
lively time at the forts the next winter. Jim hed a gal thar, an’
was allus lettin’ on how happy he’d be when he c’u’d see her ag’in.
He never did, poor feller. I’d been out to see after my traps, gone
nigh on to half a day, mout be, an’ was comin’ home with a load of
pelts, fo’ we hed been lucky all through, an’ when I got to the cabin
we’d built, thar he lay, with his head split like an egg-shell, an’
sculped. I looked around an’ found Blackfoot signs everywhar, durn
the’r hides. I know them, an’ I’ll make them pay fer it some day.
I promised him then, as he lay thar, thet I’d avenge him on the
Blackfeet. Mout be I’ve done it; mout be I didn’t. Anyhow I’ve got my
opinion, an’ I’ll back it thet the Blackfeet are sorry they killed
Jim Johnson.”

“Do you know who the men are that killed him?” asked Jules.

“Yes. Thar’s only two of them on the’r feet to-day, an’ they ar’
bound to go under ef ever they meet Ben Miffin, or else he goes
under--and he don’t think he will.”

“Who are they?”

“One’s a big Blackfoot brave they call Whirling Breeze, an’ the other
a white-livered cuss who claims to be a white man. Precious little
civilized blood he’s got in his veins, an’ that he’s got is mighty
mean. He’s a renegade, an’ I tell ye a renegade is the worst of all
God’s creatures.”

“What’s his name?”

“Will Markman. They call him by some Indian name. The worst of it is,
his white blood shows more then the Indian, an’ he is ez handsome a
feller ez you ever see. But he’s got a cruel heart in his breast. God
pity him if I ever meet him.”

“Is he a chief?”

“Yes; they like to git a white man on the’r side. He lays round yer
som’ers, an’ does the dirty work of the Blackfeet. That’s his way,
durn him. Why, ye never did see another sech critter in yer born
days--the wust ye ever saw, I tell ye. Makes no more of takin’ a
sculp then I do of skinnin’ a buffler. What ar’ ye tryin’ to do now,
Jan?”

The Teuton was craning his neck, looking anxiously up the hill.

“I dinks I sees a Plackfeet,” replied the other. “He pees on the
hillside yonder.”

“Pshaw, Jan; ’tain’t no sech thing--leastways, I kain’t see no sech
critter myself. I guess ye didn’t see nobody.”

“Did too, Penn Miffin. Who’s a liar? I sees him over dere py dat bine
tree. He vas a pig fellows, bretty near so pig ash a house. I never
sees anypody so pig ash he vas. I dinks he pe some shiant.”

“Where was he?” said Ben, anxiously.

“Over yonder, mit der dree. I sees him. I dinks aff ye dakes yer gun
unt coes to him unt kills him, mebbe it vould pe goot plans.”

“Hadn’t you better go yourself?” said the Frenchman, maliciously.

“I dinks I hain’t got time,” said Jan, quickly. “How can I go ven I
can not dell vether dere pe anybotty dere? Penn coes mit himself.”

“That’s enuff foolin’,” said Ben. “Jan didn’t see no Injun, I hope.
But we are tired with a long journey. Jule, let us fix some sort of
place for the gal. I don’t like thet she sh’u’d hev to rough it like
us men.”

“You are too kind to me,” said Millicent. “How can I ever thank you?”

“Never mind; you ain’t got no call to thank me ez I knows on. I ain’t
gone round gittin’ sech things ez thanks this year. Wait till I ask
’em. Jule, you come yer.”

They had a good supply of extra blankets; these were brought in, and
by the aid of two of them, they curtained off a recess in one corner
of the unfinished building, in which they laid the other blankets,
and, apologizing in a homely but heartfelt way for their lack of good
accommodations, they allowed Millicent to retire.

It was in the middle of the night when a strange alarm occurred.
Jules, who was very tired, had taken upon himself the post of sentry
for the first part of the night, and had stationed himself just
outside the building, sitting down at the foot of a tree. The hours
crept slowly by, and he dropped off into a doze. All at once he
awakened to find himself prostrate upon the ground, with some heavy
body lying on his breast which pressed him close to the soil. By the
ghostly moonlight he made out his assailant to be the creature which
they had met that day. It was making no attempt to harm him, but
simply lying upon his breast, its long, heavy hands toying with his
throat.

Jules Damand was a cool, hardy fellow, and had been in danger before
now. But, there was something so frightful in the load upon his
breast, that for a moment his heart failed him. He lay silent, and
put out his hand toward a pistol by slow degrees.

The strange thing uttered, now and then, a low, chuckling laugh,
horrible to hear. Ben, who lay near the door of the cabin, heard the
sound and stirred uneasily in his sleep. Jules, silent as the grave,
allowed his hand to slide along the ground toward the pistol-butt.
Even the slight motion he made annoyed the savage brute, and he
uttered a sort of low snarl. Jules stopped and waited for him to
become quiet. He was in an uncomfortable position, flat upon his
back, with his right arm lying under the body of the assailant, who
grinned and chattered at him, and scratched at his throat with his
long nails in a playful manner.

“Sacré!” muttered Jules. “If I could only get my right arm free.”

He found that impossible; the whole weight of the hairy body lay
upon it and fixed it like a rock. Jules again began to feel for
his pistol, and laid his hand upon it, when the hairy palm of the
Mountain Devil suddenly closed upon it. There seemed to be something
in the touch of the cold steel which roused his hate, for he darted
his long nails into the face of the trapper, and left bleeding
furrows from brow to chin. At the same time Jules managed to get the
pistol partly free, and made a shot at him in the dark.

The creature had some powers of memory; he knew that the ball which
had pierced his arm that morning had been accompanied by a sound like
the crack of the pistol, and he sprung away for a little distance,
and stood licking the blood from another wound in his arm. The report
of the pistol had roused everybody, and they came out in great haste,
Ben leading the way with his rifle in his hand. At the sight of him
the wild creature bounded away, and hurried up the mountain side. It
was plain that he remembered Ben as the man who had injured him in
the morning. He snarled and screamed as he disappeared from view,
while Jan stood with chattering teeth and shaking limbs, glaring
after the form which was disappearing behind the hills.

“Ach, mein Gott! Dere he ish again. Now you mine vat I says. Dat ish
ter tuyvel. Don’ you co to say ash it vas not. Dat ish ter tuyvel,
unt no mistake. My prains are all hurly-purly. I mos’ deat mit
fright.”

“Shet up. Don’t ye see the lady?” said Ben. “Sorry to call ye out of
yer sleep, miss, but our friend of this mornin’ hez paid us a visit.
See how the black brute has marked Jules.”

“So he has. This is terrible. I can not do any thing to help you, Mr.
Damand?”

“No,” said Jules. “I shall do very well. They are only scratches.”

“Very painful ones, I fear.”

“A little. They will soon go away. I shall be satisfied if they do
not leave deep scars. You had better retire again. It served me
right. I should have kept better watch, when I had such treasures to
guard.”

“Can I be of no service?”

“No. Not the least. Thank you.”

She retired again, and Ben found some of the plants which he had
used for Bentley’s wounds that morning, and made a salve for Jules’
face. When this was done, he sent the Frenchman into the house, and
took his place as guard, half hoping that the brute would come back,
and give him a shot. Twice during the night he heard its eldritch
screams, far off in the hills, but it did not come back. Ben stood
on his guard, however, until the night passed, and the gray light of
morning appeared in the sky.




                             CHAPTER V.

                         TREED BY A BUFFALO.


The people in the roofless cabin had slept soundly, after the visit
of the wild thing known as the Mountain Devil. Millicent came out,
blooming like a mountain rose, and drew from the old trapper a
compliment on her personal appearance, which brought new roses to her
cheeks. To the surprise of every one, Bentley also appeared.

“You git back to yer nest!” shouted Ben. “Don’t you s’pose I ain’t
got no better business than to be a nuss to you? You’ll get a relapse
ef you don’t take keer.”

“No fear of that, old man,” said Bentley, addressing the trapper in
the free and easy style peculiar to the plains. “Don’t be troubled. I
never felt better in my life. That blood-letting, together with the
venison you cook, has done me a world of good. I shall punish your
provisions tremendously.”

“Waal, as ter that, ye’ve got a rifle of yer own. I reckin ye kin
keep yerself in grub. How does ye shoot?”

“Pretty well,” said Bentley. “Nothing to brag of, you know, but
enough to swear by.”

“Thet thing tried Jule another hack last night. Ye orter see his
face. It looks ez ef a hoss an’ wagin had drew right over it.”

“It is a malicious thing.”

“You bet. It clawed Jule up spiteful, and don’t make no more of a
rifle-ball then you or I would of a flea-bite. Must be powerful
tough.”

“Powervul!” cried Jan. “Ach, goot cracious! I sees him mineself, unt
he vash so pig ash a mountain. I vash scart mit him.”

“You had good reason to be,” said the young man. “Now, boys, let us
get to work. You must teach us what to do, Ben.”

“All right,” ejaculated Ben. “I’m the boss, then. I’ll give you work
enough.”

The first thing was to finish their cabin and set some traps. Ben
taught Jan and Bentley how to commence, and was pleased to find them
apt at the business. Jan did not lack for intelligence and his wits
were sharpening by contact with the keen trapper and the volatile
Frenchman. The latter needed very little instruction, for he had
received his education in the cold region of British America, under
the fostering care of the Hudson Bay Company, then in its glory, but
suffering from the enterprise of the North-west Company, which had
sprung up about this time under the lead of the enterprising German,
Jacob Astor. But, Ben Miffin could never submit to be a hanger-on to
any company, and his trapping was done on his own hook. The ground he
had chosen for his labors was new. As has been said, no other white
man’s foot had trod it before.

When the hut was completed they built a _cache_ to hold their furs
and food. This was necessary. The wolves were numerous and ravenous,
and would strip any trap of its contents in a moment. This last labor
completed, they started out on a hunt, leaving Bentley in charge of
the camp, and of Millicent. An hour’s ride brought them to the level
prairie, dotted here and there by low clumps of trees. Ben paused,
and his quick eye swept the vast plain from side to side. At last his
eye brightened and he stretched out his right hand to the east.

“Buffler!” he said.

They followed the direction of his finger, but Jan could see nothing.

“I dinks dat ish von lie, Penn. I does not see von puffalo.”

“Course ye don’t,” said Ben, contemptuously. “’Tain’t to be expected
ye _kin_, nohow. Does ye see them black spots, close down to the edge
of the prairie, over yonder?”

“Yaw; I sees _dem_,” replied Jan.

“Oh, ye _do_. Waal, _them’s_ buffler.”

“Ish _dey_ goot to eat?”

“Good! Ye bet yer bottom dollar on that ar’, ye may. I calculate thar
ain’t nothin’ in creation to ekal a buffler-hump; no, nothin’. Why,
the juices squeeze out’n it when ye set yer teeth in it, like _ile_.
Oh, it’s _good_. Ye bet I like it. Anyhow, I’ve got my opinion, and
I’ll risk a beaver-pelt ye never tasted anythin’ half so good. So,
_thar_!”

“I dinks I likes him pooty good,” said Jan. “Vell, den, ve coes unt
kills him pymepye, pooty soon, unt cooks him hump. Vat him hump pe,
Penn?”

“The first cut off the _horns_,” said Jules.

“I dinks dat ish von lie,” said Jan, coolly. “Dat ish too tough. I
not talks mit _you_, Shule. I asks Penn.”

“I guess ye’ll find out what a buffler-hump is before ye’ve been long
on the prairie. But, see hyar. It don’t taste half so good unless ye
kill it yerself. So ye must try to kill one. I’ve always said ye’d
got good stuff in ye, ef we could only bring it out, an’ I reckon we
kin do it; eh, Jule?”

“Yes,” said Jules. “We’ll put him through.”

“I don’t vant no voolin’,” said Jan, in considerable trepidation. “I
not likes dat. ’Tis not goot. S’pose you dells me right how to kill
him, all right. S’pose you don’t, den I licks you, Shule. Yaw; dat
ish vat I does.”

“No quarrelin’,” said Ben. “I won’t hev it. The fust one thet gits to
fightin’, I’ll fetch him a lick over the jaw thet’ll make him sick; I
will, by gravy. Now look out.”

In obedience to his signal, the party put themselves in motion,
riding at a careful pace toward the black spots, which the
experienced eye of the trapper had detected. A light wind was blowing
in their faces.

“We’ve got the wind of ’em,” said Ben. “They kain’t smell us.”

There was a small growth of timber between them and the buffaloes,
of not more than a dozen trees. Keeping this in line with them, they
were enabled to get within three or four hundred yards of the herd,
and peeping out from the trees, they could count them. The herd
was small, consisting only of five, headed by a giant bull, whose
patriarchal head was slightly elevated, as if he snuffed danger in
the air.

“The cunnin’ animile thinks somebody is around,” whispered Ben. “Oh,
what a beauty. But the cows ar’ the best to eat. Is yer gun loaded,
Jan?”

“Yaw,” replied Jan.

“Then git ready. When I give the word, foller me. Ar’ ye ready, Jule?”

“Yes,” said Jules, from between his set teeth.

“Then go it!” cried Ben.

The three horses bounded from the thicket, and before the animals
were fairly awake to their danger, the horsemen were upon them. Ben
drew his never failing rifle to his shoulder and let fly. The fattest
cow in the herd dropped on her knees, and then rolled slowly over on
her side, dead! Jules was equally fortunate, prostrating another by
a lucky shot in the brain. Jan, sitting on his horse, endeavored to
fire, but, his animal was restive, and he could not get aim.

“Git down!” cried Ben.

Jan, who had begun to learn to obey the old trapper implicitly,
leaped down at the word, and pointed his gun at the bull. He fired,
and, as usual, found himself rolled in the dust. His horse bounded
away leaving him helpless.

The charge of buckshot had struck the buffalo in the forehead, and
he staggered to his knees. Jan sprung forward with a shout of joy.
But this joy was speedily changed to grief, for the animal, which was
only stunned, staggered to his feet, and shaking his head, charged
the Dutchman, who ran for dear life.

In watching the motions of a buffalo, it is quite a natural
supposition that he can not run fast. This is a mistake. In spite
of his unwieldy bulk, he can get over the ground at a good pace,
as poor Jan found to his cost. Running was not at all in his line,
but he exerted himself to the utmost, and bolted over the prairie
at a pace which astonished himself. But he could hear the buffalo
lumbering on in the rear, and was conscious that he gained at every
stride. At last he reached a tree; but it was too large for him to
climb, and the animal was close at his heels. He got the body of the
tree between him and his adversary, and the next moment, mad with
anger, the brute plunged against it with a shock which startled Jan
immensely.

“Goot Lord!” he ejaculated. “Der plack puffalo ish very mat!”

Recoiling from the shock, the buffalo began to chase Jan around the
tree. Though large of body, Jan had a decided advantage over his
adversary in this sort of a chase, for he could run round close to
the body of the tree, while the huge brute was forced to make a
circuit. It was simply a question of wind. If the buffalo could run
longer than Jan, he would be overtaken and trampled to death, and
there seemed a strong probability that such was to be the case. It
was a ludicrous sight, in spite of the danger the Dutchman was in, to
see him whip round the tree, the flap of his hunting-shirt streaming
in the wind, followed by the buffalo, with erected tail, flashing
eye, and lowered head. Jan cast longing glances at the little clump
of trees a few rods away. If he only could get to them far enough
in advance of the buffalo to climb one, he might be safe. But the
distance, though short to the eye, was a great deal of ground to go
over followed by an infuriated buffalo bull, Jan thought. But he
could not hold out much longer and it must be tried. Away he went
at his best speed, the buffalo making half the circuit of the tree
before he could turn. By this time Jan had gained a hundred feet,
and this was every thing to him. Even this was hardly enough, and
though he got to the tree and began to climb, the buffalo bumped
against it before he had gained the lowest limb, nearly shaking him
from his perch.

The animal drew back, cast a single glance of his vicious eye at the
Dutchman, who had just laid his hand upon the lowest limb, and then!--

Bump!

Jan clasped the tree with all his strength, but his feet were swaying
in the air above the head of his enemy. In the mean time he was
shouting at the top of his voice all sorts of ludicrous appeals for
aid from his companions. Ben’s rifle had been loaded long ago, but he
dared not use it while they were running round the tree, not knowing
but that he might injure Jan in some way. Jules made no effort to
aid him. The moment he reached the tree, Ben rushed to the rescue,
calling Jules to follow, who did so, his face wrinkled with laughter.

Bump!

“Vy you no cooms here?” screamed Jan. “Vy you no shoot dis ugly pig?
I can’t holt on mooch longer.”

Bump!

“Dere he pe ag’in,” screamed Jan. “Help! help! Ach, mein cracious!
Ven I cooms out here to shoot puffaloes ag’in den I ish von vool, dat
ish all. Ach! gootness! Shoot! Vy don’t you shoot!”

Ben’s rifle cracked; the buffalo tottered like a tower shaken by an
earthquake, then fell to the ground. Jules sent up peal after peal of
laughter.

“Vat you laugh at?” said Jan, looking down from the tree.

“At _you_, you great blunderhead,” replied Jules.

“_Vy_ you laugh at _me_?”

“Because I like to see a Dutchman run.”

“Ish he teat?” said Jan, looking at Ben.

“Dead as a pickled fish,” said Ben. “You may come down.”

Jan slid down from the tree, walked slowly to the place where Jules
sat on his horse, picked him off solemnly, and cast him down like an
untimely fig. The whole thing was done in such a deliberate manner
that Ben did not suppose any such action intended, and before he had
time to think, the Frenchman was down, and Jan’s big foot placed upon
his breast.

“What do ye mean?” shouted Ben. “Let him up, ye durned fool.”

“Vell, vat makes him laff at me ven I pe chase py a puffalo?” said
Jan. “I dink I dells him somet’ings. Lie dere vile I spoke mit you du
or drie dimes.”

“Take your foot from my breast!” said Jules, fiercely. “You cursed
Dutchman, I will kill you. Let me up!”

“You keep still little dimes,” answered Jan, coolly. “I dinks ven a
mans laff at anuder, he mus’ have a shance to ask him vy he does it.
Dat ish vat I dinks.”

“Jan,” cried Ben, sternly.

“Vat you expects?”

“Let him up.”

Jan removed his foot from the breast of the prostrate man and Jules
rose to his feet. His first movement was to draw a knife, and rush
at the immovable figure of the Dutchman. So sudden was the attack
that nothing on the part of the assailed party could have saved him,
but Ben suddenly threw up his rifle, separating them. So strong was
his arm, that while holding the rifle extended, the rush of the
Frenchman, excited though he was, could not bend it in the least.

“Keep back!” said Ben, “or I’ll be into you with somethin’ sharper
than a toothpick. What do ye want?”

“I’ll have his heart’s blood!” hissed Jules. “He has insulted me.”

“Come, it’s about an even thing. You made game of him, ye know. Then
don’t make any durned fuss about it. I ain’t goin’ to stand it. Shake
hands. Jan didn’t mean any thing.”

“I vas mat,” said Jan. “I’m sorry I did it now. Put vat makes him
laff at me?”

“Thar; he apologized. He says he’s sorry. He kain’t say no fairer
then that, kin he? Shake hands, Jule. Durn me ef I’m goin’ to hev a
man with me thet holds a grudge like thet thar. _Shake hands!_”

“He needn’t aff he don’t vants to,” added Jan. “I ain’t ’fraid of him
anyway. Put I pe villing to make vrents.”

Jules sullenly extended his hand.

“I’d never do it if it was not for Ben,” he said. “He’s been kind to
me. But if you ever lay a hand on me again I will kill you.”

“No growlin’,” said Ben. “Durn it, kain’t a man know enough to make
up with a feller and hev no back talk? Come; hyar’s lots of work.
We’ve got to cut up these buffler. Use yer knife on thet, not on a
human.”

“Shall we cut up the old one here?” said Jules, throwing off the
appearance of anger, although his cheeks glowed yet.

“No. I reckon we won’t want any of him but the hump and marrer-bones.
It’s jest as Jan says. It’s his buffler anyhow.”

“Mine!” ejaculated Jan.

“Yes, yours. Didn’t ye bring him hyar yerself, say? Of course he’s
yer own. I’ll show ye how to git his hump. Durn me ef ye don’t take
up the business of takin’ the pelt off a critter right handy.”

“I vas a _putcher_,” said Jan.

“Oh, that’s the reason. Wal, ye jest take the hide off’n this yer
beast, an’ we’ll go out an’ ’tend to the others. When ye git it off,
holler to me, an’ I’ll show ye how to git the hump an’ marrer-bones.”

They left him and proceeded to the place where the other animals had
fallen. Soon they were busily engaged in stripping the skins from
the game, and cutting it up for the convenience of carriage, as Ben
well knew how. In the mean time Jan worked away quietly, taking off
the skin in a way which none but a professional could do, and singing
in a low tone. As he stooped over, something fell at his feet. He
picked it up. It was an arrow, stained red on one side, and the
other scoured white as snow. Jan stood with the missile in his hand,
looking this way and that, not knowing whence it had come. The shape
was peculiar: the head was double, and of polished steel, flattened
as thin as a knife-blade, and as flexible. Jan went to the edge of
the woods and called Ben. He started at the sight of the weapon,
snatching it out of the Dutchman’s hand and looking at it with an
intentness which the others could not understand.




                             CHAPTER VI.

                            THE MESSAGE.


Jules and Jan waited for the trapper to speak. They knew by the
expression of his face that the arrow meant something more than any
ordinary shaft.

“What does it mean?” at length asked Jules.

“Ye don’t understand Injun signs. Look at the color--one half red,
the other half white. That’s clear Injun. It says ez plain ez a man
could speak, ‘Git out of this an’ we won’t hurt ye. Stay hyar an’
blood must flow.’”

“How do you know that?” said Jan. “I don’t see nottings like that on
the arrow.”

“Course ye don’t. Wal, _I does_. That red half of the arrer means
war. The white half sez thet they don’t car’ to kill us, an’ ef we go
away quietly it’ll be all right. But ef we _stay_, they’ll kill us.
Whar did ye stand when the arrer fell, Jan?”

“I vas skinning te puffalo.”

“Yes, so ye was. Wal, thet’s all right, I guess. The chap is hid
som’ers about yer, an’ I’m gwine to hev him out. Scatter an’ s’arch
the woods.”

Jan did not like the idea of going alone through the woods, and he
followed close on the heels of Ben.

“Git away,” said Ben. “None of thet. I want ye to git used to takin’
car’ of yerself an’ ye must do it. I said _scatter_!”

Jan reluctantly went away and began to search. Ben glided from tree
to tree, bending forward like a hound on the trail. He found at last
a place where a moccasined foot had trod. The footmark was small and
delicate.

“A gal or boy, by gracious!” said Ben. “Look sharp; I’ve found him.”

The others rushed to his side. The trapper stood at the root of a
tree which in some way had been torn up by the roots, leaving a
cavity below. Before this cavity Ben stooped and looked in. A single
glance showed him an Indian boy, crouching in the darkest corner.

“Come out hyar,” he said.

The boy did not move, and Ben addressed him in the Indian tongue,
telling him to come out and fear nothing. The lad obeyed, and stood
before them, in his simple Indian garb, a blanket thrown over his
buckskin shirt. His moccasined feet were small as a girl’s. For an
Indian, he had a fine, bold face, and his black eyes gleamed with a
half-scornful light.

“What do you want here?” said Ben, in the Blackfoot language.

“The sons of the Blackfeet go where they will,” said the boy, calmly,
toying with the bow which he held in his hand. “Who dares question
them in their own land?”

“The son of a chief stands before me,” said Ben. “I can see that at
once. No one questions the son of a chief as to his _right_. But we
are out upon the prairie and in danger. The brave youth can see that.”

“It is true,” said the boy. “My brother is in danger; it is well that
he sees it, for when we know that danger is nigh we can avoid it, and
pass away. My brother has seen the arrow?”

“Yes.”

“His head is getting gray; he knows the custom of the Blackfeet.
They know that he is a just man, though he has killed some of their
people. Good--they give him a chance. They let him go in peace when
and where he will, so that he trouble the hills no more with his
traps and rifle.”

“Listen,” said Ben, unconsciously adopting the language of an Indian
while speaking in that tongue. “I have been a chief of the Crows
for a long time; my head has grown gray among them; they taught me
not to fear what man can do. Why should we fly from the face of the
Blackfoot braves?”

“My father is _very_ brave,” said the boy. “But what can he do
against so many? What nation is like the Blackfeet? What chiefs are
like theirs? They are many, they are strong. Their horses speed like
the wind. Their hearts are very strong. There are three white men;
they can fight well, but the braves will sweep them from the earth,
when they come in anger.”

“We do not fear,” said Ben. “We have come to take beaver and we must
do it.”

“The white men are wrong,” said the boy, stamping fiercely. “They
think to drive the Indians from the land their fathers left them. I
have heard of great tribes in the east, by the big water, who have
been driven out and have perished one by one, until they have no
longer a name or a place among the people. But it shall not be so
with the Blackfeet.”

“They must do as they will,” said Ben. “We will not go.”

“Be warned. If you do not go, look for the blood-red arrow.”

“We shall expect it. Tell the chiefs that the Strong Buffalo said so
old a head as yours has no business on the shoulders of a boy. Go.
You will be a chief.”

The boy straightened himself up proudly and turned away. But Jules
seized him by the arm.

“He must not go,” he said.

“What ye gwine to do about it?” said Ben. “Let go his arm. The fust
thing ye know ye’ll git us into some kind of trouble with yer durned
nonsense.”

“He must not go, I say,” replied Jules, angrily. “Our lives are in
danger.”

“Ye ain’t helpin’ us by techin’ the boy,” said Ben. “Let him go.”

“I will not,” was the reply.

“Ye won’t, eh?” cried Ben, throwing up his rifle. “Then I’ll bet
my life I make daylight shine through yer karkidge in about half a
minute. Drop yer hold.”

Jules obeyed sullenly, and the boy, turning a grateful look at the
trapper, darted across the prairie. Jules turned to the trapper with
a lowering brow.

“You have had your way, it seems. We will see what will come of it.
But let me tell you one thing: do not point your rifle at me again,
or something may happen to you.”

“Don’t git up on yer ear about it. I ain’t goin’ to hev no bloodshed
thet kin be helped, I ain’t. S’pose ye’d ’a’ killed this boy--and
a brave young feller he is too--what good would ’a’ come of it?
’Twould ’a’ brought them down on us all the sooner, thet’s all. So
don’t say nothing to me.”

They finished cutting up the buffalo and returned to camp, walking by
their horses’ sides, with the skins containing the choicest portions
of the meat slung over their saddles. They found the camp as they had
left it, and at once built a fire.

“I don’t reckon it will do much good to be very careful now, sence
the Injuns knows whar we ar’. But, ther’s one thing we kin do: we
kin make our hut stronger, an’ ef they git our sculps they’ll hev to
fight for ’em. We’ve got a strong party, an’ we don’t go back fer no
man; no, we don’t.”

“If we were alone we might do well,” said Jules. “But, this ignorant
Dutchman--”

“Vat sort of a Doochman?” roared Jan. “You say dat again unt I valls
on you unt smash you all mit little bieces so pig ash my thumb.”

“Do be silent, Jan,” said Millicent. “Do I understand that you have a
fear of danger, Ben?”

“’Tain’t nothin’ new. It’s allers dangerous on the prairie,” said
Ben. “Never you mind, little ’un. We’ll take keer of ye.”

“I am not afraid, but, I should like to know what the danger is.”

“Blackfeet,” said Ben. “We met one while huntin’ buffler.”

“Off you have anyt’ing to say to me, Shule Damant,” said Jan,
breaking in on the conversation at this point, “I shall pe glad to
have you do it. Put, ton’t sit dere unt look ash if you would like to
eat me. I wouldn’t sit goot on your stomach.”

“I do not forget that you insulted me by placing your foot upon my
breast this morning. You had better be silent.”

“Am I frait mit you, Shule? No. I ish not, I dells you blain. Off you
like to pe frents mit me dat ish goot. Off you ton’t like it, vat do
I care? Take your own vay.”

“I’ll give one of you a back-handed wipe in a minnit!” roared Ben.
“Shet up, both of you. Jan, we have got to go and skin the bear you
shot yesterday.”

“Who kilt ter pear, Penn Miffin?” cried Jan. “Vas it Shule? Vas it
you? or vas it a pig Doochman named Jan Schneider, eh? Vell, I coes
mit you off you like.”

“I should like to see a bear before he is cut up,” said Millicent.

“Would you? Then you shall take Jule’s hoss, and ride with us. I’ll
take mine, ’cause I like to ride, and Jan may take his because I want
it to bring home the meat. You two stay and watch the camp.”

The three rode out of the camp together. When out of sight of the
Frenchman, Ben beckoned Jan close to him.

“Why did ye tumble Jules over this morning, Jan?”

“Vell, he keeps sayin’, Doochmans, Doochmans, Doochmans, till I vas
tire of hear him. Sh’pose I t’rows him town on his pack, den he knows
ash I vill shtand no nonsense mit him no more. I pees not a vool.”

“I’m jubous you’ve made him yer innimy,” said Ben. “I don’t like
that. I don’t want no quarrelin’ in my camp. When I take chaps out
with me they must be the right kind of men, and not too _hash_ in
their ways. Now I don’t reckon it’ll hurt ye much to show him ye
ain’t afraid of him.”

“You are speaking of your companion,” said Millicent. “Do you know
that I am afraid of him? He has looked at me in a way I do not
understand. Did your friend quarrel with him this morning?”

“Yes. Now ther’s one thing more atween Jan and me. It looks as ef
we’d got to tramp the prairie together fer a long time. Now any man
thet travels alongside of old Trapping Ben, must hev the right sort
of pluck. Don’t ye see thar’s always danger in the life of a free
trapper?”

“I nefer dinks dere vas so mooch, Penn. Off I dinks so, I would not
coom.”

“All right. Hyar ye ar’ an’ hyar ye’ve got ter stay this season. Now
I’ve noticed thet when they b’ar ye right down to it ye kin fight
ez well ez the best man among ’em. But, ye’r’ apt to shirk danger
ef ye hev time to think an’ see it comin’. Now, thet ain’t the way
with a free trapper. They don’t like to fight, nuther will they shirk
danger, nor go a step out of the way to git cl’ar of it.”

“Yaw. Dat ish vat I dinks. You likes to vite. Now I vould sooner
_run_ den fight, if I can.”

Millicent laughed at this _naive_ confession on the part of the
Dutchman, whose face was the very picture of truth.

“I’ll cure ye of that before I quit ye, my boy,” ejaculated Ben.
“Take my word for it. I ain’t goin’ to hev no cowardly cuss in my
camp. Now ef we meet an Injun, what ar’ ye goin’ to do?”

“I dinks I vould run avay so hard ash efer I can,” said Jan, with
refreshing candor. “I not likes Plackfeet no more ash hogs.”

Again the merry laughter of Millicent rung through the pass. Old Ben
looked at her with a fatherly smile.

“You’d run away, would ye? Now, don’t ye ever go to do it. Fer ef ye
do, ez sure ez a gun you git it right through the back. I won’t hev
no skulkin’. It’s no wonder the gal laughs at you. But hyar’s our
b’ar.”

The leaves had rattled down during the night, and drifted so that the
body of the animal was completely covered. Ben brushed them away with
his hand and exposed the huge body to view. Millicent had never seen
a grizzly bear, and it was something so terrible that she could not
repress a cry. The wound which the roer had made was exposed to view.
Indeed, the top of the head was completely blown off.

“Dere!” cried Jan, in high good humor. “I kills dat pear mit mine
roer.”

“It was a bold thing to do.”

“Vell, I dinks off I vas not kill dat pear, ter pear vould kill me,”
said Jan. “So I kills ter pear.”

“That showed great discretion on your part,” laughed Millicent. “But,
what is the sound that seems to come from below?”

Ben stopped pulling at the body of the bear and listened. There was
a pattering sound, like drops of falling rain, and then the pass
below them was filled with a moving mass, and that mass was a pack of
prairie-wolves, coming on at

      “Their long gallop, which can tire
      The hounds’ deep hate or the hunter’s fire.”

A pack of wolves, mad with hunger. There is nothing more fearful to a
trapper. They know too well the vindictive fury with which the black
brutes pursue and drag down their prey.

“Togs?” queried Jan.

“Wolves!” shouted Ben. “Heel it, Jan! Git up a tree as lively as you
kin. I wouldn’t give a beaver-pelt fer yer life ef ye don’t, and ez
fer the b’ar--umph! Run for it. Turn the hosses loose.”

Snatching Millicent from the horse, he put her into the branches of
a low pine and ordered her to clamber higher. She obeyed without a
word, and he took another tree close at hand. The horses ran toward
the camp.

Jan needed no second bidding, but ran away, with a face which
betokened his earnest hate of the animal in question. Wolves! He had
heard their ominous howl near his house on the borders of the Black
Forest many a time. The ferocity of the animal is wonderful. Jan knew
that well. He recognized the lolling tongue, the white teeth. He had
heard his father tell of peasants taken in the forest, far from home
and dragged down, screaming in vain for aid. Next day their friends
would find their bones whitening in the sun’s rays.

The pack uttered fierce yells at the sight of the man, and rushed at
him. But Jan got to a tree in season, taking his gun with him. Down
came the pack, snarling, snapping at each other, and scattering the
leaves on either side. In a moment they surrounded the trees in which
the trappers had taken shelter, leaping up against them, gnashing
their white teeth and clawing at the bark. Millicent uttered a cry of
terror.

“I dinks I puilds a ’ouse in a dree,” said Jan, despairingly. “I has
peen drove to a dree more ash dree times sence I cooms here. I dinks
dat it vas von coonthry vere dey lifs in der drees.”

“Ye oughter be glad ye’ve _got_ a tree so nigh,” said Ben. “The
durned animiles would ’a’ tore ye to pieces in half a minnit more.
Thar! They’ve found yer b’ar. Don’t holler, gal. They kain’t get at
ye.”

A dozen fierce jaws were tearing at the rough hide of the grizzly,
and others struggling to get a taste of the coveted flesh. Jan was in
a rage. His “pear,” the trophy of his valor, the beast he had killed
with his own hand, to be devoured before his eyes by a pack of hungry
wolves! He was in a towering passion.

“I dinks dat pymepye I gets down unt kills auvery volf in dat flock.
Look! See how dey shpile my pear! I kills dat pear myself.”

“I’m satisfied thet ’tain’t our hide the’r’ a-tearin’,” said Ben.
“Thet’s all right. Let ’em eat. Then mebbe they won’t be so hungry
for us. I guess we may ez well drop a few of them while we’ve got the
light.”

He raised his rifle and was about to fire, but a second thought
caused him to lower it. “No, ’twon’t do to make them any madder then
they ar’, or the obstinate brutes will stay hyar a week but they’ll
hev us. Durn a wolf, anyhow. What do they want to chase us for jest
now?”

“Shpose I shoots my cun at dem vunce,” said Jan. “I shoots fiviff or
sax mit one dime. Look; I shoots dat vun over dere.”

Jan leaned forward and fired.

The charge flew among the wolves about the body of the bear, wounding
several of them more or less. At the same time the branch upon which
the Dutchman was sitting broke, and he fell to the ground. The wolves
fell back at first, but, seeing only one man, rushed at him on every
side.

The German then showed that he was brave enough, if need be. The
heavy gun was swung above his head, and the iron-bound butt descended
on his foes with mighty force. The first brute fell with a crushed
skull. Ben Miffin was not the man to see a comrade in danger and not
come to his aid. He sprung down, scattering the cowardly creatures
right and left.

The diversion enabled Jan to get back to the tree. Ben made a last
rush at the wolves and then climbed to his perch again, leaving a
portion of the flap of his hunting-shirt in the jaws of the foremost
brute.

“Git a stronger limb this time,” said Ben. “Don’t fall ag’in; ef ye
do, durned ef _I’ll_ help ye.”

The pack now recommenced the struggle for the possession of the bear.
Here and there an old or weak wolf was being throttled and torn in
pieces by his comrades.

“A hungry lot,” muttered Ben. “I wish they’d clear out. I don’t want
to stay up hyar all night, an’ I ain’t goin’ to. Come sassies, git
done yer meal an’ clear out.”

“Penn,” said Jan in a slightly tremulous voice, “can volfs climb
drees?”

“Climb trees, ye durned fool! _Of_ course they kin. If they was in
any hurry for ye they’d ’a’ been up thet thar tree half an hour ago.
Oh, I reckon yer cat’s-meat _now_. Say yer prayers, ef ye’ve got any.
I think ye’d better, anyhow. It’s the last chaince ye’ll hev.”

“Don’t talk dat vay, Penn,” said Jan. “Vy you likes to scare a poor
Doochman all to bieces? I dells you I don’t like volfs. Dey ish got
long teeth like nails. I dinks dey pe very hoongry. Vell, shpose I
gits to St. Louis once more, I goes pack to Yarmany mit a backet. I
not shtays here.”

“I judge ye won’t git back to St. Louis,” said Ben. “Them chaps don’t
look much ez ef they meant to let ye, do they? I judge not. Anyway,
I’ve got my opinion, and I’ll back it, thet they begin to gnaw ye in
just ten minnits by the sun. They make short work of a Dutchman.”

“Don’t I know you, Penn Miffin? Don’t I know you so vell ash never
vas? Dey can’t climb no more as a pig. You’s a liar, unt you knows
you pe a liar. I never sees a vorse vun.”

“Jest wait a bit, my lad,” said Ben. “I’ll come to you by and by.”

“I’d rather pe licked py a man dan swallowed py a volfs,” whimpered
Jan. “I fights dem, anyway. I pees not afraid of dem no more ash you.
Coom; vy you no shoots?”

“Shet up!” said Ben. “Somebody is coming. Hark!”




                            CHAPTER VII.

                              INDIANS!


As he spoke, the wolves scattered right and left, and ran in terror
up the gullies at the sides of the pass. The men in the trees
remained still as death, one from terror, the other from caution.

There was good reason for the hasty fight of the wolves and the
silence of the men hidden in the trees. A band of savages were
coming down the mountain pass, admirably mounted, dressed in the
gaudy style of the Indian warrior, with flaming feathers and beaded
garments. Each poised in his right hand a long buffalo-lance, which
they managed to carry gracefully, without appearing to incumber them.
Some of them bore a small shield of buffalo-hide, but most of them
rather depended upon their own activity than this slight defense.
In front of the band rode a tall chief in a rich costume, with a
belt of worked wampum thrown over his shoulder and buckled about his
waist. He eschewed the lance, and carried instead a beautiful rifle.
His figure was commanding, and he had a noble head, a nose cut like
Cæsar’s, and a firm mouth. His eye was black and piercing. His hair
long and dropping on his shoulders. By his side, armed in every
respect like the elder, rode the boy who had been taken prisoner by
the trapper on the prairie and threatened by Jules.

The party might have contained a hundred in all, and a single glance
convinced the trapper that they were Blackfeet. They pulled up at
the skeleton of the bear, uttering cries of surprise, for, of all
animals, they think the grizzly bear the fiercest, and most to be
feared. They dismounted and examined the body. The head had been
untouched by the wolves, and the gaping wound was revealed.

They crowded together about the body, chattering loudly, putting
their hands into the wound, and evidently wondering what weapon could
have inflicted it. Even the chief descended and looked at the body.

“They have great guns at the big wigwam which make a hole like this,”
said he gravely. “This is a white man’s work. It is not a rifle.”

“Can a white man carry a great gun on his back?” said another Indian,
in the dress of a chief. “I can not understand. Some medicine-man has
taken the life of the big bear of the hills. It is no common gun.”

“Wah-be-o-win says well. All the white men are great medicine. My
race pass away before them like trees before their axes. But Whirling
Breeze will not live long enough to see the work done. While he is
alive, there will be war between his people and the white men.”

“Why should we not make peace?” said a chief who had not spoken
before. “Why should we fight against those who are stronger? I have
been to the forts and I have been to the towns by the big water. They
have talking-houses which make them flour, and guns and powder. They
took me into these talking-houses, and showed me what was done. Why
not be friends with them, since they be stronger than we?”

“Peace, Red Arm,” said Whirling Breeze, angrily. “The Blackfeet shall
never bow the knee to the white men. They will die one by one, but
they will never yield to the destroyer.”

“Let us find those who have done this,” said the chief, Wah-be-o-win.
“We will take their scalps as a beginning.”

Whirling Breeze gave a signal, and all the braves bounded into the
saddle and rode away down the pass.

Ben stretched out his head and watched them anxiously. There were
two passes through the hills, and if the Indians would only take the
wrong one it would give the whites a chance to run down and apprise
their comrades of the danger. A moment of breathless suspense, and
the party turned into the pass leading to the hunter’s camp.

“It’s all up,” said Ben. “Poor Jule is done fer, an’ that young
chap Bentley. Come down, Jan. We must get out of the way as soon as
possible. The durned thieves won’t be long gutting the concern.”

The old trapper helped Millicent from the tree. Jan came down in
great haste and followed Ben’s lead. He turned into the second pass
before mentioned, and hurried down it half a mile. No concealment of
the trail was attempted; but at last they reached a place where there
was a break in the rocky sides of the cañon, and up this went the
men, with their guns at a “right shoulder shift,” using one hand to
assist them in climbing. Ben looked back once at Jan. All traces of
fear had left his face, and his compressed lips told of a steadfast
determination. Ben nodded, and muttered to himself. Millicent
followed them bravely, pale, but evidently not from fear.

“He’ll do; I’ll cure him,” muttered Ben, “an’ the gal is good grit,
too.”

The pass grew steeper. They slung the guns over their shoulders
by the straps, and used both hands in dragging themselves up the
ascent. They had to stop now and then to assist Millicent. Jan was
puffing like a grampus. Millicent could hardly see why Ben had taken
this course. From the spot where they stood they had a complete
view of the valley and its occupants. It was already crowded by
the Indian band, who were running about at will, peeping into the
cabin, overturning camp-utensils and snapping the springs of some
spare traps which had been left in the cabin. Ben looked in vain for
the Frenchman. He had hidden somewhere on the first approach of the
savages, and a number of them were scattered up and down, searching
for him. It was clear they knew all about the camp, and the number of
its occupants. Bentley was nowhere in sight, and Millicent began to
hope.

“They don’t seem to t’ar things much, as _yit_,” said Ben. “I expect
to see the dry bones rattle pretty soon. They kain’t help but burn
us out. It’s in the’r natur’s, the condemned critters. I wisht I hed
about a hundred Crows here, I’d make the feathers fly in thet thar
company, I would. Durn a Blackfoot!”

“Vare pe Shule gone, Penn?” said Jan. “I not see ’im noveres. Unt
vere ish Pentley?”

“No more I don’t know, Dutchy. They’ve got into kiver som’ers. But
they’ll nose them out, ye see ef they don’t. A Blackfoot is wuss then
a hound on a cold scent. Lordy! they ain’t got no chaince! An’ fer my
part, I don’t see whar they kin hev hid themselves. Thar ain’t no
hole thet I know on.”

“Vat ish de Injun doin’ mit de hoss?” demanded Jan. “Shpose dey
_shteal_ ’im?”

“Steal him! They’d steal the cents off’n a dead Dutchman’s eyes. Ye
don’t know Blackfeet. I _do_. They ain’t wuth a cuss. I wouldn’t
take the offer to buy out the hull tribe, ef I c’u’d git ’em for
a beaver-skin. Not the hull tribe. The’r’ in a state of gineral
cussidness thet is alarmin’. I kain’t go a cent on ’em. An’ ef they
take that hoss, I’ll extarminate the hull tribe. Don’t look skeered,
miss. I reckon the young man is safe hid.”

“I dinks it would pe petter to keep avay,” said Jan. “I don’t dink it
vould pe right to fite mit a dribe. I dinks dey vip us.”

“Don’t ye believe it! I consider myself capable of cleanin’ out the
entire tribe. I kin do it every time. I kin do it jest ez _easy_.
What’s a little tribe of Injuns to a white human of my mental and
moral caliber. I’m ez good ez a dozen missionaries, _I_ am. A
missionary talks to ’em a while, an’ they listen tell they git tired,
an’ then take his sculp. They’d take it before, only they kain’t
understand a word he sez, an’ it don’t hurt ’em. Now I cum of a
strong family, an’ that kind of moral suasion ain’t my best holt. I
don’t reason with ’em thet way.”

“How you do it, Penn?”

“I put a ball right through the’r karkidges, an’ then I kin reason
with ’em to great advantage. They understand what I mean.”

“Vat ef he pe deat, Penn?”

“That’s the beauty of my style. He kain’t resist the line of argyment
I hev adopted. He appreciates its force, I allow. Don’t ye see?”

“Yaw. Kill him unt den talks mit him. Dat ish goot vay! I does him
myself, pymepye, ven I kills an Injun.”

“I reckon ye’ll hev a chaince, one of these days. What ar’ they
prowlin’ roun’ thet beaver-dam fur? The’r’ after my traps, the
sneakin’ varmints. It’ll bother ’em some to git ’em, anyhow; I’m
ruther good at hidin’ traps. But I’ll mark every Injun in the party,
an’ one of these yer days we’ll hev a settlement. Keep out of sight.
Ef they see us, they’ll never rest tell they git us. Lay low!”

“All right, Penn. I dakes care. I no likes to fight mit dem unless
I have to; put vat I dinks ish dis: Aff’n’ man ash vas vant to lif
so long vat he can, vill not vite vor his life, ven he _haf_ to do
it, den he vas vun pig vool. I not like to vite. I pees not a vitin’
character. Put off dey cooms, I kills all of dem vat I _can_. Dat ish
drue vat I dells you.”

“Thet’s the right kind of talk, old man,” said Ben. “I like thet.
It sounds like a man. Don’t rush into danger, but don’t _dodge_ it.
Thet’s the way to talk it. Thet’s the way to be sensible. Kin ye see
any thing of Jule yit?”

“I don’t see him noveres,” replied Jan.

“I kain’t think whar he’s hid, or what them buggers ar’ pokin’ round
thet dam fer. He kain’t be thar, kin he? Ain’t one of them Injuns
goin’ into the water?”

“More ash vun of ’em,” said Jan. “More ash a tozen, I dinks.”

It was true. A number of the Indians had gone into the shallow
stream, and were wading toward the dam, approaching the beaver-hut
nearest the shore. One of them approached the opening and climbed up
on the dam. Another followed, and they commenced taking off the top
of the hut. Beavers do their work well, and it was the work of some
moments. At last the top was removed, and they stooped together and
dragged something out. Was it a beaver? No; but Jules Damand, who had
ensconced himself in the hut as a hiding-place.

They passed on to the next hut, and in like manner dragged out
Bentley Morris, who had taken refuge there. It was with the deepest
sorrow that the party on the mountain saw their ill-fated companions
dragged from their places of refuge, amid the exultant yells of the
savages, and conducted to the shore. They made no struggle; indeed,
any resistance would have been useless against such a force.

“They are taken. Oh, gracious heaven, they are taken. What will be
their fate?” cried Millicent.

“I kain’t tell,” said Ben. “They may kill ’em, but I don’t think it.
Jule has got the wust chance, fer he tried to kill the boy.”

“Poor Shule,” said Jan. “I pees sorry I gits mat mit him unt wrastle
him town on his pack.”

“The least they kin hope fer is to be pris’ners of the Blackfeet fer
years. Poor lads. I’d give anything to set ’em free. But, what kin I
do; _what_ kin I do?”

The prisoners were dragged out into the open space and questioned
angrily. Whirling Breeze stood in front of them for a while, and
then, taking Jules by the shoulder, he led him into the cabin.

“He’s tryin’ to git him to tell whar we ar’ hid,” said Ben, chuckling
hugely. “He’ll make a good deal out’n Jule, I reckon. Take keer not
to show yerself, gal, it won’t do. Ef they catch sight of a woman,
they’ll foller her till doom’sday but they’ll ketch her. But we’ve
got things our own way. Ef Jule _knew_ he wouldn’t tell, and as he
don’t know whar we ar’, he _kain’t_ tell. So we ar’ safe two ways,
don’t ye see?”

Shortly after, Jules and Whirling Breeze came out of the cabin, the
Indian excited and gesticulating violently. The sound of his voice
even reached the rock on which the watchers stood. But, they could
not distinguish his words. At last they bound the prisoners, and
placed them on horses. This done, the entire band trooped away.

In a few moments all was still, and nothing remained to show that a
visit had been made but the two broken beaver-huts, a few scattered
beads, with here and there a broken shaft, a feather, or a worn
moccasin. To the surprise of the trapper, his horse, which had run
back to the camp when the wolves attacked them, was left at liberty
as well as the Dutchman’s. Millicent had sunk down upon her knees,
her face buried in her hands. The man who had saved her from deadly
peril, who had placed his own life in jeopardy to save hers, who
had kept up his courage and hers in starvation and fatigue, and had
taken deep wounds in her behalf, was a prisoner in the hands of a
bloodthirsty enemy!

She never knew her love till now.

“It’s hard, gal,” said Ben, sadly. “I agree to that. But it happens
often out hyar on the plains. I’m sorry. But we couldn’t help it.”

“He was a brave man,” she said, sobbing. “He saved my life twice, and
now he is gone.”

“Don’t you give it up. Thar ain’t no use of _thet_. Pshaw! He may git
away. He’s a bright young chap, and he may get cl’ar. Let’s hope so.
Blame it, he hez got a good chaince. Let’s go back to camp. Ar’ you
goin’ with me, or will you stay hyar, Jan?”

“I coes mit you, Penn.”

“That’s right. Stick by me. You scratch my back an’ I’ll scratch your
back. I know what they’ll do with Jule. He will hev a four-ounce ring
in his nose, and be painted red, yaller and green. I wouldn’t mind
_thet_ ef they won’t kill him. I’ve wore the chief’s paint myself,
and it ain’t so bad to be chief in a tribe, and I judge he’ll be a
chief ef he don’t make ’em too mad at him.”

They began to descend into the camp from the spot where they stood.
It was difficult, more so than on the other side, and needed a quick
eye and hand to accomplish the descent without the greatest danger.
A fall would have been certain death. They took Millicent between
them, and aided her down the perilous path, the strength and skill of
Ben standing them both in good stead in a hundred ways before they
accomplished the distance. The loose slate slipped under their feet,
and it was with a feeling of heartfelt satisfaction that he saw his
two companions safe on the solid earth below.

“Well done, miss; well done, old boy; I knew ye hed the right sort of
stuff in ye. This climbin’ about among the rocks is my best holt, an’
ye kept even with me. Thar ain’t many could do it, an’ I may safely
say no woman’s foot ever trod what yours did to-day, miss. It’s
somethin’ to be proud of, an’ I’m raally proud of comin’ down thar.
Now then, put yer best foot foremost, an’ let’s see what damage the
brutes hev done in the camp.”

“You objected to my calling you _sir_ the other day,” said Millicent.
“I must quarrel with you now, father Ben. My name is Milly.”

“Psho, now!” responded Ben, with a delighted look. “Ye don’t mean to
call the old man by _that_ name, do ye?”

“Yes; all my hope is in you now; you must call me Milly.”

“Yer a sweet gal, Milly; the man thet couldn’t fight fer ye don’t
desarve the name of man nohow. Now look yer: I’m goin’ ter save yer
young man--you see ef I don’t! I’ll save him or lay my bones by the
Powder river; thet’s ez good ez swore to.”

“If you could save him, father Ben, I should love you always, dearly.”

“You would? And ye called me father Ben? All right. We’ll see ef thar
ain’t suthin’ yit in old Ben Miffin.”

They hurried to the hut and entered; every thing was in confusion,
and it was some time before they could collect the scattered
articles sufficiently to see that not one had been removed. Every
thing remained intact, to the utter surprise of Ben, who knew that
Blackfeet are born thieves. In all his experience, he had never
known them to enter a camp and leave any thing which could possibly
be taken away; and there were many little articles, such as traps,
blankets, knives, hatchets, and the like, much coveted by the
Indians, lying about in every direction, untouched. Ben looked about
him in amazement.

“I’ve seen a good many things in my time, strange things too, but
this beats all natur’,” he said.

“Vat beats?” said Jan.

“They ain’t stole a _thing_; they’ve even left our hosses.”

“I dinks dese pe coot Injuns,” said Jan, with a grin.

“Good! Git out! Don’t be pokin’ fun at a chap in yer old age. The
world is comin’ to an end; don’t say it ain’t; I know better. I went
down to Selkirk last summer, an’ thar was a chap thar preachin’ thet
the accounts of the world would be brung to a close jest about this
time; an’ the durned critter was right--a Millerite, they called him.”

“I know vat dey pe; dey sits on a stone in der mill, mit dere little
chisels, unt go chip, chip, chip on der stones; dat ish vat a
Mill’rite pe.”

“Ye git out! ’tain’t no sech thing; this hyar critter was a
_preacher_. He was a long-haired, lanky chap, with jaws ez long ez my
knife. I didn’t believe him then; I do now. Blame me ef I ever hern
tell of sech a thing. Come hyar, Diamond.”

The white horse, which had been straying at will about the cañon,
came at his call, and rubbed his beautiful head against the trapper’s
shoulder. The old man returned the caress by gently stroking the
silken mane and putting it back from the ears of the noble animal.

“I kin forgive ’em a good deal, seein’ they left ye to me,” said Ben.
“Ef they’d taken ye away, old hoss, I’d ’a’ gone for ’em in a way
thet would hev set ’em back sev’ral files, the durned critters.”

“Penn,” said Jan, “somepoty’s a-coomin’.”

“Whar?” said Ben.

“Listen, unt you hear ’em. A horse is valking dis vay.”

“Git to kiver then. Into the hut; it’s the only place. Blame my cats
ef they ain’t comin’ back.”

They plunged hastily into the cabin and barred the door. This done,
they went to the side looking toward the entrance to the cañon and
watched. They could hear the hoofs of the coming horse, and make out
that he was advancing slowly. At last the head of the horse appeared
in view, then the rider, and they saw who it was. Jules Damand! His
hands and feet were tied, and he could urge his horse forward only
very slowly. Both the men started out eagerly to meet him, followed
by Millicent. They cut his bonds and assisted him to alight.

“Ve t’ought you vas teat,” said Jan.

“I thought you war gobbled,” said Ben.

“So I was,” said Jules, coolly, with a sidelong look at the face of
Millicent. “But you see I have escaped.”

His manner was constrained, and he tried to avoid the eyes of his
companions. To their questioning he made answer that the Indians had
ridden out upon the prairie, and soon after entered a defile in the
hills--a dark and narrow pass. In this pass he managed to make his
escape, leaving Bentley in the hands of the enemy.

“Couldn’t you ’a’ managed to cut his bonds loose, or least ways to
give him a wink somehow?”

“No, I couldn’t,” said he, rather sulkily. “You don’t seem over glad
I got away.”

“And glad we ar’ to see ye, though ye didn’t bring the young man with
ye. It does my heart good to see ye. I gave ye up fer a goner. Lordy!
when Whirling Breeze gits his claw on a white man, he ain’t got much
chaince, unless the Injuns take a shine to him ez the Crows did to
me. Did ye hear why they didn’t take our traps?”

“Something which the boy said; he is a son of Whirling Breeze.”

“I thought so; they ar’ alike ez picters. I’m glad I did the boy a
good turn. I kain’t git it through me how Whirling Breeze ever let
them traps alone. And the hosses! Who ever hern tell of an Injun
leavin’ a hoss he could steal jest ez well ez not?”

“Never mind the boy; I will remember him to his cost,” said Jules.

“Where did you leave them?”

“About five miles to the east.”

“Then the pass they went into lies south of the big hills, don’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Then I know whar they mean to camp,” said Ben, “and thar’s goin’ to
be the only place whar I stand a chaince of gettin’ that boy out’n
the hands of the durned Blackfeet. It’s got to be did, if old Ben
Miffin kin cipher it down. I don’t know thet I’d do it fer his sake,
but fer the gal.”

“You seem to take a great deal of interest in her, don’t you?” said
Jules, with a half-sneer which Ben did not at all like.

“To be sure; don’t you?”

Jules Damand laughed in a strange way, which by no means pleased Ben.
Indeed, there was something in his conduct lately different from the
frank and open manner which had won the sympathy of the old trapper,
in St. Louis. Even the stolid German observed the change.

Millicent drew the Frenchman aside as soon as she could do so.

“Was Bentley down-hearted? Did he despair?” she asked.

“Who? Do you call him by his first name? What is he that you should
take so much interest in him?”

“He is my very dear friend. You do not answer my question.” She spoke
in rather a haughty tone.

“He was down-hearted indeed, and with good reason. He is either
going to a hopeless captivity or certain death, and he lacks the
spirit to escape, as I did.”

“Sir!”

“Well, what now?”

“No man dare say to me that Bentley Morris fears to attempt any thing
a man may do. You shall not traduce him. I believe that you hate him,
though I can not imagine the cause.”

Damand slowly left her, with a savage gleam in his eyes.




                            CHAPTER VIII.

                         SHOWING HIS COLORS.


Next morning Ben was on his feet early, and mounting the white horse,
he went away alone, leaving Millicent in the care of the Dutchman and
Jules. He whispered in the ear of the young girl that he would either
bring her lover back to her, or leave his bones upon the prairie. She
had the utmost confidence in him, and felt a certain elation at heart
as she saw that the brave old man was determined on the enterprise.
Jan, who was fast learning to trust in him, wished to go too, but the
old trapper would not allow it, and resolutely ordered the Dutchman
to return, which he did, with several Dutch expletives, not proper to
enter in this book.

Left with these rough men in camp, Millicent had not the slightest
fear. She knew that the Dutchman, in his rude way, was her knight,
ready to defend her from insult of any kind.

“I am afraid that father Ben will get into danger on my account,” she
said.

“Oh, Penn ish not afrait,” said Jan, looking at her with a broad
smile, as she sat down upon a stump near him. “Penn so prave ash
nefer vas.”

At this moment Jules, who had been leaning against the doorpost of
the cabin, apparently in deep thought, came up and whispered in her
ear.

“What do you want?” she said, without turning her head.

“I wish to speak to you for a moment,” he replied, in the same tone.

She rose and followed him to the river side, where she sat down on
a fallen log and he took a position a few feet away, regarding her
earnestly.

“You wonder what I can have to say to you,” he said. “In the first
place, give me your promise not to reveal it to a living soul. It
applies to this Bentley Morris.”

Without thought, never dreaming that the purport of what he had to
say could in any way apply to her, she gave the required promise.

“You must know that I am a man whom the bad fortune of life has
pressed to the earth. Time was when my family stood high in rank and
wealth. That time has gone by, and step by step I have been forced
down, until I own not a foot of land in all the world. What of that?
I am Jules Damand yet, and will carve out a way to fortune with my
own right arm.”

“I am sorry for you,” she said. “Is this what you have to say? I hope
you may succeed.”

“It is the prelude only,” he answered. “I wish to make you understand
that, though you find me a poor voyageur and trapper, I am still
equal in rank to yourself.”

She was silent now. A woman of quick wit, she saw at once toward what
he tended, and knew no way to stop him. She was not astonished when
he went on:

“I love you, and wish to make you my wife.”

She was on her guard immediately.

“You do me too much honor, Mr. Damand. It seems to me that the few
days we have been acquainted are hardly sufficient to warrant you in
taking this step. You will excuse me.”

“Not without an answer.”

“It seems to me there is but one answer. I must decline your
proposal,” she answered, firmly.

“I supposed as much. That is nothing. I am prepared for any thing.
What if I tell you I have a way of compelling you to accede to my
demand?”

“If you were to tell me so, I think I should say you told a
falsehood.”

“Then I should feel called upon to prove my words true. In the first
place, then, you have a sort of feeling for the young person known as
Bentley Morris. What if I were to tell you that his fate depends in a
great measure upon you?”

“How can that be? He is in the hands of the Blackfeet.”

“I am aware of it. Yet I am ready to attest upon oath that I have
the power of freeing him from captivity, or at least of saving him
from death. I am rather inclined to the opinion that they will roast
him. I should be sorry to have that done, really, as I have nothing
against the young gentleman, except the penchant you have for him,
which is not _his_ fault, poor fellow. Be merciful. Save him from
this dreadful fate.”

“You are a wretch. I suspected you all along, and now I am sure of
it. You are in league with the Indians.”

“Ah; you have great penetration.”

“When father Ben returns I will inform him of this.”

“You forget. You are pledged not to say a word. Remember that.”

“You entrapped me into a promise which I ought to break,” she
answered.

“Yet you dare not. I tell you that the fate of your lover hangs upon
my life. I am not likely to give you up readily. I repeat that I love
you. A Frenchman loves in a moment, and forever. Beware what you do,
and above all, keep silent.”

She knew that she was in his power. He laughed lightly, and laid his
hand upon her shoulder. All the passion in her nature was aroused,
and she struck him in the face with the flat of her hand. He stepped
back a pace and put his hand to a knife instinctively. A flush of
blood rushed into his face. Jan, from where he was sitting, saw the
action, and rushing forward, thrust his heavy body between them to
shake his ponderous fist under the nose of Jules, who recoiled at the
sight.

“She struck me,” he cried, angrily. “I will make you repent that blow
so bitterly that you will wish you had never been born, rather than
have raised your hand against me.”

“You drove me to do it,” she answered.

“Vat you say mit her, Shules Tamant?” demanded Jan, his fist
vibrating to and fro in front of the Roman nose of Damand. “Yoost you
shpeaks now, vile I dalks mit you. I vants to know yoost all apout
it. Off you say a vord mit her vat ish not goot, I vill preak you in
so many ash vorty t’ousand bieces.”

“I will make daylight shine through your body in a moment if you do
not take care,” said Damand. “Get out of my way.”

“I von’t! I shtays here yoost so long ash I haf a mind to. Now yoost
you look here. You’s a vool, you is. I nefer sees such a vool in all
mine life. Auver a man knows any t’ing he know petter ash to talk mit
a vooman, unt put a hant to a knife.”

“Stand aside,” roared Jules, whipping out his knife. “It will be
better for you.”

Jan instantly knocked him down in spite of his knife, and tied his
hands and feet. When he recovered from the blow Jan had conveyed him
into the cabin and shut the door. He writhed about in his bonds.

“Jan!” he bawled. No answer. “Jan Schneider!”

A silence like the grave. After he had roared himself hoarse Jan
thrust his head in at the door and said quietly:

“Vas you callin’ _me_?”

“Of course I was.”

“Berhaps you ton’t know I’ve got a hantle to mine name, Mister Shules
Tamant? Beeples call me _Mynheer_ Jan Schneider.”

“Come here. I want you to untie these straps.”

“Hein?” cried Jan, in astonishment.

“I want you to let me go.”

“Geh zum tuyfel! Ven I lets you co, I vas a very pig vool. Yon t’ink
you coom rount here unt haf eferyt’ing your own vay? I dells you goot
ash you can nix do nottings like dat. Ven Penn coomes pack, mebbe ve
t’row you in der vasser.”

“Oh, but this is more than a joke, Jan. Untie me. This has gone far
enough. I did not intend to use the knife.”

“No more den I intent to use mine vist. Unt I did intent to use him
_goot_. How your ear veel pout dis dime of ter day, Shule?”

“Will you, or will you not, release me from these bonds?”

“I vill not, unless you bromise to peg der bardon auver der young
lady.”

“I’ll never do that.”

“All right. Den shtay vere you pe until Penn coomes pack.”

“I’ll beg her pardon.”

“Vell. Den you must yoost peg _my_ bardon,” said Jan.

“Yours. _Sacré!_ I will never do that, at any rate,” roared Jules.

“Goot! Den shtay vere you pe. I don’t vant to let you co.”

“I’ll do any thing you ask.”

Jan went away and was gone for a few moments. Then he came back and
set the Frenchman at liberty. He at once hurried to the place where
he had left his arms. They were nowhere to be found, and Jan, a
perfect arsenal of pistols and knives, was pacing up and down near
by, talking with Millicent.

“Where are my arms?” roared Jules.

“Arms? Vy, dere dey pe, py your sides, hanging vrom your shoulters.
Vere else vould dey pe?”

“Where is my rifle, you scoundrel?”

“Your rifle. Oh, vy didn’t you ask vor it? I pees ’vraid he gets
preak, so I puts him avay.”

“You have my pistols and knife in your belt; give them up directly.”

“Mr. Damand,” said Millicent, advancing, “we have decided to retain
your arms until the return of Ben.”

“In other words, you mean to keep me sort of prisoner in this place?”

“Precisely.”

“I will not endure it.”

“You must; there is no other course open to you. Jan will not
hesitate to shoot you if you attempt to go away. I am satisfied that
you would throw obstacles in the way of Ben’s rescue of Bentley. You
must be quiet.”

“I must, eh? The time will come when you shall repent this. I loved
you dearly; I wanted to make you my wife. You scorned my love; you
shall feel my hate.”

“I fear you not.”

“Look here, Shule: vas you vool enough to dalk love mit der young
lady? I vill preak you all in bieces. You’s der vust vool I efer sees
in all mine life. I dells you as I dinks yoost so. Oh, mein cracious,
vat a vool you must pe!”

The Frenchman looked as if he would like to commit murder if he had
the weapons in his hands. But, fate was against him.

“You have every thing your own way now,” he said; “let it pass; I
will remain a prisoner.”

“We are going this afternoon to the top of the hill to see if father
Ben is in sight.”

“I will remain here.”

“No, you will accompany us; we do not propose that you shall have an
opportunity to look for your arms, and turn the tables on us.”

Jules ground his teeth, but there was nothing for him but obedience.
Shaking his head, he went back into the cabin, while Jan looked after
the traps which were near at hand, and took out the beaver which he
found there. He did not go far away, however. Late in the afternoon
they mounted the hill to look out upon the prairie. Jan forced
his prisoner to go in front, and they reached the summit, whence
Millicent cast a sweeping glance over the broad plain. As she did so,
she saw Bentley, mounted on the white horse of the trapper, pushing
him forward at his best speed toward the little stream which ran
through the prairie. The horse rose to the leap with all his might
and landed safely on the other side. Not far behind him came Ben
Miffin, at full speed, with two Indians close at his heels.




                             CHAPTER IX.

                           MIFFIN’S LEAP.


The trapper had not been long in finding the Indians. They were
merely a hunting party who had come out upon the plains for buffalo,
and who had turned aside for the purpose of rooting out the men
who had dared to invade their hunting-grounds. The arrow had been
sent, the warning given, and there was nothing for them to do but to
destroy the insolent intruders.

The trapper approached the Indian camp warily. It was pitched upon
the wooded prairie, not far from one of those growths of timber which
rise like oases in the desert, in the prairie country. Ben tied
his horse in a thick clump a quarter of a mile away from the camp,
and crept cautiously forward, like a born scout as he was. Silent
as death, not even stirring a leaf, his moccasined feet passed on,
until the woods hid him from view. But for the fact that a high peak
intervened between the hill on which Millicent took her station to
watch, and the ground upon which the camp stood, she might have seen
the entire transaction.

The moment he had entered the woods he felt safer. Pressing forward
to the extreme verge of the thicket, he climbed a tree, from which he
had a view of the encampment. It was about noon, and the Indians were
in great commotion. Nearly every warrior was gathered about Whirling
Breeze, who was haranguing them in a loud voice. Some portions of the
speech Ben could comprehend.

“Be not impatient, warriors of the Blackfeet. Have faith in the
chief. These white men shall be given into our hands. There is a
maiden among them fairer than snow; she shall dwell in the lodges of
my people. Warriors and chiefs, it is well that some of the white men
should come among us. They have many arts, of which we know nothing,
by the power of which the Indians are fading away, as the snow melts
when the sun is high. He shall teach us these things. When we know
them, we can meet the white men with their own weapons, and sweep
them away. Let us wait the good time.” Who the “he” here referred to,
Ben could not for his life comprehend.

He looked about him for Bentley Morris. He was standing near the
center of the camp, bound to a small tree. Ben began to despair. How
was it possible, alone and unaided, to free him from the hands of the
enemy?

Some time he sat in the tree. Indians passed and repassed. Several of
them stood for a few minutes beneath the tree, and conversed in low
tones. Ben was in doubt. Was it possible that Jules Damand had turned
traitor? His heart sunk at the thought that he had left Millicent
under such a guard. No, impossible that Jules could play false. He
had no motive for treachery--he could gain nothing, but would lose
every thing, by desertion. So the honest old hunter disposed of
_that_ suspicion.

There were several young squaws in the camp, as is generally the
case with a hunting-party. Their not unmusical voices could be heard
calling to each other and singing snatches of Indian songs.

A greater tumult arose. Looking to the east, Ben was conscious that a
dark mass was beginning to show itself upon the prairie, miles away.
This dark mass was no strange sight to Ben Miffin. He had seen it a
hundred times before on these limitless prairies. A herd of buffalo,
driven forward by the scouts of the Indian band, who had been beating
the prairie for game.

The greatest excitement immediately ensued in the Indian camp. Half
the warriors vaulted upon their horses’ backs without orders; the
rest, more orderly, waited the movements of the chief. Whirling
Breeze threw himself into the saddle and led the way at a gallop. Not
a warrior remained in the camp, with the exception of the pair who
guarded the prisoner. Even these ran out of the camp, and followed
the herd with their eyes, burning to be among them. The women had
gone out after the warriors as fast as they could run, leaving the
camp deserted for a moment. This moment was not lost by Ben Miffin.
Slipping from his perch, he ran to the tree, cut the bonds upon the
arms of the prisoner, and they ran together to the shelter of the
trees. If they had gained them unseen, the escape might have been
unnoticed for some time. But, an old woman, who had remained in the
camp, caught sight of them as they ran, and raised a yell that might
have done credit to a good-sized panther. This cry accelerated the
fugitives’ speed, and they reached the place where the white horse
was tied.

“Git up,” said Ben.

“What will you do?”

Miffin never answered a word, but, throwing his rifle to the “trail,”
ran off at a speed which awakened the admiration of the young man.
As he hesitated, an arrow whizzed near his head. Looking back, he
saw his late guards coming up at a run, while the man who had fired
at him was fitting another shaft to the bow. Bentley leaped into the
saddle, and followed Ben, who had by this time gained several hundred
yards. He laughed as he saw the guards were after them. He had no
fear of any thing they could do to him unless others came to their
aid.

“Keep your hoss at a trot, boy. Not too fast; keep alongside. You
ain’t got no weepons. Hyar’s a pistol. ’Tain’t a bad thing fer clust
quarters, but blame ’em when ye hev to fire mor’n ten feet. They
don’t work; you take my word fer it, they don’t work. Them Injuns are
good runners. The head one’s the best. We’ve got to cross the stream.
Kin ye do it?”

“The horse can swim it.”

“Better jump it. Turn his head down-stream and go yer best now. Never
mind me. I’m game enough to take keer of myself. You bet on that.
Ride hard. ’Bout half-a-dozen rods below thar’s a narrer place. I
ain’t got time to turn.”

It was at this moment that Millicent arrived at the crest of the
mountain and saw them on the plain. She saw that the only danger was
to the brave old man, who had given up his horse to save his young
friend. One of the savages had turned off in chase of Bentley. The
other followed close on the heels of Ben, whirling his hatchet in the
air. Half a mile in the rear, coming up at the utmost speed of their
fast horses, the girl saw at least a dozen savages, riding to the aid
of the guards.

Ben was running directly for the little stream which meandered
through the prairie. Millicent thought him doomed. His rifle was
not loaded. Would he turn upon the bank of the stream and meet
the Indians? The pace at which they were going was tremendous.
The Indians knew him well, and those in the rear redoubled their
efforts to come up with him. A wild yell of triumph broke from every
throat as they saw him approach the stream. He comprehended his
desperate situation now and had made up his mind as to his course.
In times like these men do things which in their calmer moments
seem impossible. He never slackened his speed as he approached the
deep watercourse, and gathering all his powers for the effort, and
grasping the rifle which had served him faithfully in many a bloody
fray, he bounded into the air, and landed safe and sure upon the
other bank! The place where he leaped was in the midst of a growth
of prairie-timber, and by the side of a tree. As he turned, rifle
in hand, his headmost pursuer, who had not been able to check his
headlong speed, appeared upon the other bank, his countenance
expressing the utmost surprise, as he gazed upon the wide space over
which Ben had leaped. Throwing up his hands in astonishment, he
shouted in the best English he could muster:

“_Good_ jump! Big Buffalo make very big jump!”

“Yes, durn yer dirty face. Now _git_ afore I bore a hole in ye! I
don’t keer to hurt ye, but ef ye ain’t out’n this afore I load this
yer rifle, good-by.”

The Indian saw his danger. The dreaded rifle was not yet loaded, and
turning, he plied his heels in a way which did credit to his powers
of locomotion. Millicent, from her station on the hill, could hardly
refrain from laughing aloud as she saw the Indian run. Jan was in
ecstasies. While Ben was on the other side of the stream he kept up
a running fire of pitying phrases and encouraging words. When the
trapper leaped the stream he performed a war-dance with great spirit
upon the mountain top.

“Yoost look at dat, you Vrenchmans. Dat’s mine vrent, Penn. _See_ him
shump! Shumps like a vrog, same vat you eats. Ach! Ho, ho, ha! See
dat Injun run. Hein? Trouble coom after you soon, Mister Injun. Oh,
Shules, how could you pe so pad ash to durn against such a mans ash
Penn?”

“Who said I turned against him? It is got up between you and this
woman. I’ll ask the old man when he comes in if I am to be insulted
by every one and make no return. You old bully, I’ll cut your heart
out.”

“You shut oop. I ain’t a vool. Vat you dakes der knife to me vor? Vat
vor you dries to make love to der vooman? Vat you vant mit a gun ven
I let you co? No, Shules, you pad egg.”

“I’ll let you know, for one, whether I am to be insulted or not. Ben
will set it right. He wrongs no man.”

“That is true,” said Millicent. “Be content to let the matter rest.
Or stay. They are now coming up the mountain and the Indians will not
dare to follow them into the pass. They know that they are desperate
men. If I promise to say nothing to them of your conduct, will you
promise to refrain from the like in future?”

“The Dutchman would tell.”

“Not if I ask him not,” said Millicent, smiling on the German.

“No, py der saints! I nefer says nottings, put I keep oop a good deal
of t’inking all de dimes.”

“Do you promise, Mr. Damand?”

“I must. I can’t afford to have Ben against me.”

“Then it is a bargain. See that you keep your part, Jan,” said
Millicent.

“Oh, I keeps my pargains,” said Jan. “Off it’s a pad one, I can nix
help it. I makes pad pargains sometimes, ven I can not help him. Let
us co down to Penn. I very sorry to keep any t’ing vrom Penn. He goot
chap. You no dells der young feller?”

Millicent flushed crimson. The acute German had found out that she
loved Bentley Morris.

“Why should I tell him, Jan?”

“Vy? I don’t know. Only ven you pe his vrow, pimepye, pooty soon, den
you dells him eferyt’ings. Yaw.”

Jan chuckled hugely at her confusion, and walked behind the rest all
the way down the mountain, that he might enjoy a laugh by himself.
They came to the level plain just at the point where the pass
entered the valley, and there waited for the coming of the others.
As they waited, they heard the crack of a rifle in the ravine below,
followed by a shout from Ben.

“Run to their aid,” cried Millicent. “Why do you hesitate?”

They hurried on to the assistance of the trapper, and found him
standing in the mouth of the pass, rifle in hand, disputing the
further advance of the party of Indians, who had by this time crossed
the stream, and were parleying with him.

“My brother will let his red friends come. They wish to smoke a pipe
with him,” said the leading Indian.

“I am not in a smoking mood to-day,” said Ben. “You clear out. I’ve
made a camp hyar, an’ hyar I mean to stay.”

“My brother is welcome to the home of the Blackfeet. But, why has he
come among us, and stolen our prisoners?”

“None of your puisiness,” roared Jan, taking a position by the side
of Ben so suddenly, that even the iron-nerved trapper started. “Vat
you vant here?”

“Ah-ha! Ar’ you thar, old Bologna?” laughed the trapper. “I’m
teachin’ ye how to do it, then. Ha, Jule, you here too? Whar is the
little ’un? Whar is she?”

“Here,” said Millicent, in her clear, sweet voice, stepping to the
front. “I could not keep away, while you were all in danger. And I
brought Bentley his rifle. He needs a weapon.”

Something in her manner as she gave the weapon into the owner’s hand,
told Jules that this indeed was her lover. He turned pallid as a
corpse, and ground his teeth fiercely, but said not a word. That was
useless now. He hoped that his day of triumph was not far off.

“Now, sons of the Blackfeet,” said Ben, raising his voice, “ye kin
see what kind of a chaince ye’ve got ag’in’ us, with them bows,
arrers and spears. I reckon ye mout ez well give it up.”

The Indians drew together and held a conference. This over, they
turned their horses’ heads and galloped away to the east. One by one
the horses splashed through the river, and they were gone across the
broad prairie, toward their camp.

“Penn,” said Jan Schneider, extending his hand, “I’m glad you shumps
dat rifer. I pees afrait you gone dere.”

“So was I, Jan, when I see how wide it was. Let’s go an’ measure it.
I’m proud of that jump.”

They went back to the stream and measured the distance, and found it
to be just twenty-three feet. And the river was nearly as deep.

“Swanzey-dree feet!” roared Jan. “Dere! Some of you peat dat!”

“I can’t,” said Bentley. “What did that Indian say when you jumped? I
heard him roar something after you.”

“He said, ‘Good jump; Big Buffalo’--that’s me--‘make very big jump,’”
said Ben. “By thunder, he made me laugh so I couldn’t have shot at
him. An’ didn’t he light out when I begun to load?”

“’Twas a great jump,” said Bentley. “You ought to be proud of it.
What shall we do now?”

“Better git back to camp. I don’t allow no Injun to drive me out
until I git ready.”

The party went back over the rocky way, and Damand saw, with silent
rage, that it was upon the arm of Bentley the maid leaned, and _his_
words which pleased her most. But he waited his time, satisfied that
his turn must come. They set to work and collected the scattered
articles, which in the late trouble had got into confusion. The traps
were in a bad way, and many of them needed resetting. The four men
went the rounds that day and got every thing in order, and brought in
a number of fine skins.

“These are valuable skins,” said Bentley. “I have been in the fur
trade myself, and I never saw better beaver.”

“They ain’t been thinned out much,” replied Ben. “All the old uns ar’
hyar yit. It makes a big difference.”

“I know it does. What a pity we must be driven away so soon.”

“Ef it wa’n’t for the gal, we’d stay hyar and brass it out. But,
while we’ve got weak ’uns like that with us, it makes a man cowardly.
So we must git back ez soon ez we kin. Onc’t she is safe to the
forts, I’m comin’ back, fer one.”

“I would not, if I were you,” said Jules. “It is dangerous.”

“Who keers for a little danger? Any man kin git into danger ef he
wants to. It’s the spice of life, danger is. Go out fer that trap,
Jules, I’m a little stiff after my run. I ain’t ez strong ez I used
to be.”

“You can run faster than any man in the party now,” said Bentley.
“And who among us is able to jump twenty-three feet?”

“The old man ain’t dead yit,” replied Ben, grinning. “He’ll do a
power of work afore he goes under. Yes, he will; you bet on it. An’
as for the durned Injuns, they may drive us away now, but we’ll come
back. And to-morrer we’ve got to build a raft. ’Twon’t do to be taken
unawares. Hurry up!”




                             CHAPTER X.

                              THE SUCK.


The river upon which these scenes are laid, was a narrow stream,
sometimes flowing smoothly over a sandy bottom, and at others leaping
downward with all the force of a mountain-torrent. The water,
dropping over a beaver dam, fell upon a sloping bed and rushed
downward with impetuous fury. The currents drew together in the
center after leaving the falls, forming what is known in the Far West
as a “Suck.” The current was full of rocks at this point, against
which the water rushed in ungovernable rage, with a strength hardly
to be resisted. On the morning succeeding the escape of Ben and young
Morris, they began to build a raft.

The events of the past few days satisfied Ben that they might be
attacked at any time, and he wished to provide a way of escape. Just
at the foot of the waterfall was a growth of light pine suitable for
his purpose. Calling on the others for assistance, all set to work
upon the float. The logs were slightly squared, and bound together
with tough green withes after a manner much in vogue among the
trappers. It was the work of half a day, and as they had little else
to do, they gave much care to it. The raft finally was finished and
fastened to the shore by a lariat. Ben looked at the structure in
some pride.

“Did anybody ever go down the river here, father Ben?” said Millicent.

“Not often, little gal,” said Ben. “It’s an awful perilous
undertakin’, an’ we won’t do it unless we’re driv’ so close we kain’t
help it. It’s best to be prepared allers. Leastways I think so.”

“Will that raft hold us all?” asked Millicent.

“You git on’t, Jan, an’ try.”

Jan stepped carefully on the float. Ben stood close to the shore,
watching the effect of his weight upon the structure. Jules stood
just behind the trapper. Millicent was nearer the river. Bentley had
gone into the hut for something they needed.

“Jump up an’ down on it,” said Ben.

Jan did as he was requested. The next moment there was a loud crack,
as of a hawser parting under a heavy strain, and the craft was
whirling down the current, out of reach of the men on the shore. Ben
darted into the water and made an ineffectual attempt to grasp it,
but it was already beyond the utmost stretch of his arm. To their
horror they saw their comrade drifting hopelessly down the stream.
They looked downward; as far as the eye could reach, the river was
hopelessly churned into foam, and gray rocks reared their heads
above the water, threatening death to any unfortunate wretch thrown
upon them. The bluffs stood out bold and high on either side, and
buried the river in from mortal view. In every eddy by the side of
these bluffs, the cunning beavers had made their lodges, satisfied
that they were safe from their inveterate enemies, the trappers. The
Dutchman saw nothing of this; he only saw the foaming river, the
brown ledges, and the ragged rocks.

From the spot where the raft started, the eddy swept him directly
across the stream in the direction of a serrated ledge, which
threatened instant destruction. Seated on the narrow craft, grasping
it with both hands and ever looking toward the other shore, the
unfortunate man set up a cry for help, which pierced brave old Ben
to the very heart. He began to throw off his hunting-shirt. Just as
he stood, half naked, on the bank, the raft struck the ledge against
which it was drifting. Such was the momentum which it had acquired,
that it sent Jan flying from the logs, striking the water many feet
away.

“Alas, alas!” cried Millicent, “he is gone!”

“Not yit,” said Ben; “I’m hyar.”

The current swept Jan further down, and he struck the rocks again;
but this time he grasped a jutting ledge, found a place for his feet,
and shouted for help at the top of his voice.

“I’m comin’, ole chap,” responded Ben in return. “Look out! Foller
me, Jule.”

He plunged into the stream, while Jules remained standing on the
bank. The trapper sunk from view in a moment. Taking advantage of the
undertow, he swam toward the other shore. He had learned from the
Indians the trick of swimming under water, and did it well. For a few
moments nothing was heard but the splash of the water and the shouts
of poor Jan, who imagined himself forsaken in the bleak world. All
at once he beheld the water separate close by his side, and from the
swift current Ben Miffin sprung into view, dashing the water from his
eyes with one hand as he laid the other on the rocks to keep himself
from floating downward.

“How ar’ ye?” he said, coolly. “Rayther a cold berth, this.”

“Ve never gets out of dis no more, Penn,” said Jan, despairingly. “I
pees very mooch ’vraid ve gone dis dimes. Vy den you pring me to dis
miser’ble coonthry?”

“It’s good enough fer the natyves,” said Ben. “Shet up yer meat-trap.
Let _me_ do the talkin’; I’ll hev enough of it, I reckon.”

“Dalking’s no use,” replied the poor fellow. “Vat I vants ish to pe
sure I can get out from dis. An’ dis ish vat I dinks: ve vill never
get out from dis no more vile ve lifs, so help me ash I pelieve dis
ish drue. Dere ish no more hope vor poor Jan Schneider. He ish deat
unt drownded mit vasser. Ach! Mein Gott! Phew!”

“Jest you open yer mouth ag’in, an’ I’ll give ye a smash right squar’
in the meat-trap. Now mind what I tell ye: I ain’t goin’ to hev two
head bosses in this yer business--you bet I ain’t. Now listen to me,
an’ hold yer row. Kin ye swim?”

“Like a hoondred pounts off iron,” said Jan. “Gootness cracious!”

“Thet’s bad. I never did see a Dutchman thet knowed any thing. Ye
durned anatomy! Well, ef I let ye git on my shoulders, will ye
promise not to ketch me round the neck?”

“Yaw; I bromise anyt’ings, so ash I does not pe drownded mit vasser.”

“Very good. Then when I give ye the word, lay yer hands on my
shoulders an’ kick out with both feet. Kin ye do it?”

“I kicks like ter duyvel.”

Ben loosened his hold on the rock, and let himself float down to
the speaker. When all was ready, Jan laid his brawny hands upon the
shoulders of the trapper, and he pushed out from the shelving bank.
Jan immediately began to flourish his heels like the paddles of an
ocean steamer, leaving a broad trail of foam behind him. Indeed, so
vehement were his efforts, that he buried the head of the swimmer
under the water, and Ben was compelled to call on him to desist. But
when he fell a dead weight upon the shoulders of the trapper, the
drag became fearful even for his iron strength to sustain.

They were by this time in the midst of the powerful current, where
the “suck” formed a vortex so strong that when within twenty feet of
the shore it seized them and hurried them away from the safety so
nearly gained. In vain the trapper struggled against it and called
to Jules for help. But the Frenchman seemed to have lost all control
of himself. Instead of following the trapper he remained on the
bank, running wildly up and down, making no effort to assist either
of them. But Bentley was coming down from the hut at full speed.
“Help! help!” cried Ben, in a sinking voice. He had got out of the
suck by this time, but faced it again bravely. The current had been
gradually sweeping them downward. They reached a place where a pine
had fallen to the ground and was lying in the water. Ben, striking
out desperately, felt the sunken branches strike his leg.

“Kick, Jan, kick!” he shouted, with all the power of his lungs. “Kick
fer yer life.”

Jan lashed out desperately, and though the head and shoulders of the
trapper were buried by the effort, he managed to grasp the limb of
the fallen tree.

“Easy, Jan; keep cool,” he said.

Jan ceased plunging, and Ben slowly hauled away on the slender limb,
going up it hand over hand, as sailors do. If it should break! He
looked below and saw the jagged rocks and the high walls of stone on
both sides of the cañon. To drift lower down was certain death.

He felt the limb bend in his grasp, but it held firmly, and at last
he laid his strong hand on a stouter one. As he did so, he allowed
the shout of joy which had been pent up in his breast so long to
escape in an exultant cry. Jan took it up and made the rocks fairly
ring.

It was easy work now. In a moment more their feet trod the unyielding
soil of the bottom of the stream, and they clambered to the shore.
Ben ran to the place where his clothes lay, and got into them without
delay.

“There! I feel better,” he said, as the last garment was donned. “I
kain’t say I like the other style of costume in the winter. ’Tain’t
voluminous enuff. Fer summer, now, a light an’ airy rig like thet ar’
would be jest the thing; but it won’t do fer the Black Hills; oh no.”

“I dinks ve petter haf a vire,” said Jan, with rattling teeth. “It
ish very cold here.”

“Yer mighty right,” rejoined Ben. “Say, Jule, kain’t ye do thet much
fer us?”

Jules walked away slowly and began to gather the materials for a
fire; but he walked lazily, and Jan turned in to help him, dripping
as he was. Ben looked at the Frenchman in considerable astonishment.
A change seemed to have come over him since his capture by the Indian
band. His eye had a sullen light; his looks were downcast, and his
whole appearance that of a man who was wholly actuated by some bad
passion.

“Blowed ef I kin make out what’s the matter with Jule,” muttered Ben.
“He’s got trouble on his mind, somehow.”

“Come here, father Ben,” said Millicent at this moment. “I have
something to show you.”

He turned, and walked to the place where she stood, near where the
raft had been lying. The broken withe by which it had been tied still
hung to the trunk of the pine. Millicent lifted this and showed it to
him.

“Do you see nothing strange in this?” she said. A glance at it was
sufficient to show that it had not been broken in any ordinary way.
It was _cut_ clean through by some sharp instrument. He looked about
him. Jules was still lazily working at the fire.

“Mebbe thar’s somethin’ on the tree or the rocks that did it,” he
whispered.

“If there is we can find it,” said Millicent; “you had better try.”

He searched the trunk of the tree and the rocks near at hand, to find
any thing which could by any possibility have cut the rope. He looked
in vain. The trunk was wonderfully smooth and the rocks out of reach.
There was but one supposition then. Some one had cut the withe.

“Ye don’t mean to tell me that Jules c’u’d hev the heart to do that?”
said Ben.

“I do not like to suspect anybody, but I believe from my heart that
it was he. I have good reason to fear him, and so have you.”

Ben turned toward the Frenchman. He had at last collected material
for a fire, and Jan had kindled them into a blaze, over which he
was crouching, while Jules stood watching him with a sullen and
dissatisfied air.

“Come here, Jules,” said Ben. “I have something to tell ye.”

Jules looked as if he would like to refuse.

“What do you want?” he said, moving slowly and sullenly toward the
trapper.

Millicent had left the old man, and was talking with Bentley by the
river side.

“Come hyar,” repeated Ben, in an authoritative tone of voice.

Jules paused irresolutely and looked the speaker over from head to
foot.

“Come hyar, I say,” repeated Ben. “Hev a man got to w’ar his tongue
out a-tellin’ of ye to move?”

Jules followed him reluctantly aside, and they stood together near
the wall of the hut, not far from Jan, who was intently engaged in
drying his clothing. The Frenchman did not like the expression of
the old trapper’s face. It showed a determination to understand the
matter.

“Ye hang back like a twelve-year-old gal, ye do,” said the old
trapper. “What’s the matter with ye, anyhow? I want ter ask ye a
question or two. I asked ye to foller me when Jan got adrift. Why
didn’t ye?”

“Where would you have been if the tree-top had not lain in the water?
Battered to pieces on the rocks below the fall. I wasn’t going to try
it, you’d better believe. I warned you to come back.”

“_That’s_ all right,” said Ben. “I ain’t hard-hearted enough to force
a man to do any thing he’s _afraid_ of. But look yer. Do you see this
withe? Who cut it?”

He held up to view the severed strand, showing where it had been cut.
So sudden was the question, and so unexpected, that the Frenchman
stammered and turned deadly pale. There could be no doubt as to his
guilt.

“I never touched--”

“Take keer! Don’t lie to me! I ask ye as a friend to keep a straight
tongue. I expect ye to try it on, but it’s no use. So don’t lie.
Don’t I know ye? Didn’t ye stand behind me when ye cut the withe?
Wasn’t it cut through and through? I ain’t quite a fool, nuther be
you. So shut up. You cut it yerself, jist to git rid of the Dutchman,
I s’pose, because of yer old grudge ag’in’ him.”

Jules covered his confusion by a laugh. He thought best to turn it
off in that way.

“Well, Ben, I did cut the withe; but it was a joke, just to give that
Dutchman a big scare. I had no idea the raft would get away.”

“A joke. I cum pooty nigh makin’ it the dearest jest you ever hearn
of.”

“You don’t suppose I meant any thing in earnest,” said Jules,
cringingly.

“It don’t matter so much what I think,” said Ben. “I believe Jan
has a v’ice in the matter, an’ I reckon he’d say if it wa’n’t in
earnest it was the roughest joke on him ever hern of. Anyhow, I’ve
got my opinion, and I’ll back it for ten mills, U. S. currency, that
he licks you out of your boots when he hears about this nice little
joke. Ef he don’t lick ye, he’s a fool.”

“He dare not lay the weight of a finger upon me in anger,” said
Jules, fiercely. “He has done it more than once. Let him beware of
the next time.”

“I’ve had a hint before to-day thet all ain’t right. I begin to
suspect ye grevious. I won’t say anything about that now. About Jan
first; he ain’t a bit afraid of you, Jan ain’t. Now let me give you
a piece of advice. I don’t want to hev any words with you. Jest let
the Dutchman alone. He’s clumsy, mebbe, but he’s got the makin’ of a
man in him, and he’s good-hearted, an’ I won’t hev him abused. Thet’s
about the way the thing stands now, nigh as I kin git at it.”

“You seem to have taken to him all at once,” muttered Jules.

“He’s _honest_; thet’s one reason; I like honesty in any one. An’ I
give ye fa’r warnin’, next time ye dar’ to do a mean thing to him,
I’ll walk into ye like chalk. D’ye h’ar what I say? Understand me,
too. I won’t hev no man in my company that won’t give the others a
fair show. And ye’ve been hard on thet poor feller ever sense he cum
hyar with us. Now stop it.”

“Is it any thing to you?”

“Ye bet it is. Ef it ain’t I’ll make it so mind thet.”




                             CHAPTER XI.

                           THE QUICKSAND.


They set to work at once and built another raft. After it was done,
Jules mounted and rode away to the east. At any other time, Ben would
have questioned him with regard to his absence. But Millicent gave
him a sign which he understood, and he let him go without a word. The
moment he was gone she came to the old trapper and revealed to him
enough to excite Ben’s anger and scorn of the treacherous rascal.

“Don’t say a word to him. I gave my promise to remain silent about it
while he remained quiet. He has broken his pledge, but do not let him
know that we suspect him.”

“The gal is right,” said Ben. “Don’t let him know. But we kin watch
the devil clust; an’ when he gives us a chaince, down with him.”

“You will do nothing rashly, I hope. Remember, much depends on that.”

“I can’t keep my hands off him,” responded Bentley.

They had just prepared dinner when Jules returned, coming, not up the
river, but out of the pass to the east.

Ben looked at his face as he came in and saw that it was moody. He
said nothing, but made a place for him at the fire so that he might
have the benefit of the warmth. Jules did not immediately take
advantage of this, but busied himself in removing the blanket from
his horse, and turning him loose. When this was done, he came slowly
toward the fire and sat down.

“Whar have ye been?” asked Ben.

“Up the east pass. I thought, this morning, that I sighted a
moose-herd, and I’ve been out scouting round, thinking I might
possibly find some of the critters. I struck their tracks at the
bottom of the second cañon, and not long after came upon the herd.
There was only three of them in all, and pretty well south they have
got, too. But if we can kill one, it will give us good fodder for a
week to come.”

“Moose down hyar? That’s mighty uncommon, I tell ye. Their grounds is
at least five hundred miles to the north of this. I’d like to go with
ye, but I don’t think I kin, I’ve got so much to do. S’pose ye go out
with Jan? Mebbe ye’ll git one of them.”

“All right,” said Jules, eagerly. “What do you say, Jan? Will you go?”

“I coes mit you,” said Jan. “I likes to shoot von vat you call
him--moose.”

They started out directly after eating their dinner, leaving the rest
at the camp. Jan carried the tremendous weapon which already had done
such fearful execution. Jules had his rifle. They kept their horses
until they had reached the mouth of the pass down which Jan, Ben and
Millicent had turned to get upon the mountain, on the day when the
Indians came to the camp. Here they picketed the animals and went
forward on foot, with great caution. As they emerged from the pass
they had a view of the small valley. It was like their own camp,
nearly circular in form, with the river in front and the mountains on
the other three sides. There might have been sixty acres of flat land
in the valley, and on the other side, close down to the water’s edge,
three moose were feeding. Along the western base of the mountains ran
a long strip of timber, and into this the trappers at once plunged,
keeping the wind in their faces, for the keen-scented animals would
have detected them in a moment if they had come up on the other side.
The distance from the woods to the game was not more than a hundred
yards, and Jules prepared to fire. As he dropped on one knee and laid
his rifle across a low limb, the leading moose raised his stately
head and looked about him, as if scenting danger. Jan had followed
the example of the Frenchman, and his roer was lying across a branch,
pointed at the second of the two animals. As the moose looked up,
both pieces exploded. To the utter surprise of Jules, the one he
fired at bounded away unhurt, while Jan’s dropped upon the ground,
staining it with his flowing life-blood. Jan ran hastily toward the
wounded beast, while Jules watched him with a malevolent eye. He
knew the danger into which the honest Dutchman ran in approaching a
wounded moose, but did not warn him. A hundred feet from the body of
the game Jan’s feet suddenly sunk beneath him, and he fell as if an
iron hand had seized his ankles and held him down.

“Coom here, Shules,” he shouted. “I pe got in der mut. Coom here unt
help me out!”

Jules walked slowly to the end of the quagmire, about ten feet
from the imprisoned Dutchman. All the evil in the man’s heart
showed itself at that moment. All that was bad, all that was cruel,
imprinted deep lines on his face, which gleamed savagely in the
sun-rays.

“You are in trouble, friend Jan?” he said, coolly.

“Help me out!” cried Jan.

“Keep quiet,” said Jules. “Do you remember the day out yonder on the
prairie, when you threw me down and planted your elephant foot upon
my breast? Ah, I see you have not forgotten. You remember it with
pleasure. I have not forgotten it either, and I swore, sooner or
later, to have my revenge. You aided that girl against me, and for
_that_ I’ll be doubly revenged.”

“I’m sinkin’ deeper all de dimes!” cried Jan. “Coom, Shules, pe a
goot veller unt help me out. Vat’s de use of voolin’? I bunch your
heat ven I does get out, off ye leave me here any more.”

“Perhaps you don’t know where you are?” said Jules. “Then I will
tell you. There are places in these hills which we call quicksands.
A man falls into one and from that moment, unless help is near, he
is doomed. Even his struggles tell against him. Deeper and deeper he
sinks in the slimy sand. The iron hands upon his ankles drag him down
every moment. He sinks to his knees in the slime. He throws himself
down. That is useless and will hasten his death. He struggles up
again. He sinks to his thighs.”

“Mein Cott!” moaned Jan.

“You begin to comprehend. You see now what my revenge will be. You
have sunk to your knees. The efforts you make to pull up one leg
sink the other deeper. Your ponderous weight sinks you very fast.
By-and-by you will be up to your neck; then your mouth will be
covered; and when you begin to choke, I will sit by and laugh.”

Jan was sinking slowly, his face turned toward his executioner, who
sat grimly down by the side of the quicksand, and waited for the end.
The Dutchman made no effort to break down his stubborn resolve. A
single glance at his set face was enough to show that all entreaties
would be useless. In that hour when the true spirit of man comes to
the surface, it was plain that Jan’s fears were rather the result of
a life fraught with little danger, than cowardice; and if he failed
to look danger bravely in the face at first, it was because it came
to him in a new form. But now, his face was steady, and though his
lips moved, it was in saying the prayers he had heard in faderland,
and which he had learned at his old mother’s knee. The cold quicksand
had risen above his thighs, and yet Jan seemed unmoved. Such calmness
exasperated his enemy. He had expected to hear the Dutchman cry
aloud for mercy; to beg him to help him; to humble himself for pity;
but Jan did not think of that. His face was pale, but there was a
kind of smile upon it.

“Cry for mercy!” shouted Jules, tauntingly. “Beg for your life!”

“No, Shules; off you have any pity in your heart, unt care enough for
me to forget vat I did, unt save me, I vould pe glad. Put I don’t ask
any t’ings from you.”

“You will die like a dog.”

“Never,” replied Jan. “Like a man whose fader died in battle vor
te sake of his dear faderland. Sit py unt see me tie. It vill pe a
_man’s_ deat!”

Jules assailed him with a storm of vituperation, to which Jan made no
answer.

At this moment there came a great shout of surprise and anger,
and they saw Ben Miffin running toward them at full speed with a
hatchet in his hand. Jules caught up his rifle and began to load it
hastily, but Ben was too quick for him, and he clubbed the weapon and
stood upon his guard. But his defense was vain against the wiry old
trapper, who broke down his guard and prostrated him by a blow on the
head. Before a minute had passed, his arms were buckled behind him by
means of a belt, and his legs served in the same way.

“Quick, Penn, quick!” shouted Jan.

“Keep cool, my boy! I’ll save ye yit,” cried Ben. “Keep yer arms
clear of the mud.”

He whistled for his horse, which he had tied in the pass. A loud
neigh answered him, and directly they heard the sound of hoofs.
Diamond had broken his lariat and was coming at full speed. Catching
sight of his master, he bounded to his side. Ben took the broken
lariat from the saddle-bow and formed a slip-noose, which he threw to
Jan.

“Put that under yer arms an’ draw it taut,” said Ben.

Jan obeyed. By this time Jules had recovered from the effects of the
blow, and lay watching their movements anxiously. When the noose was
under Jan’s arms, Ben instructed him how to pass a stick through it,
so that it would not draw too tightly around his body. The loose end
of the lariat he fastened to the saddle-bow. The horse stood quietly
waiting, as if he comprehended fully what was expected of him.

“Be ready, Jan,” said the trapper, “an’ if the strain is too much,
sing out. Now then, Diamond, pull!”

The horse did not jerk, but pulled steadily. Jan set his teeth, for
the strain was fearful. For a moment he was stationary, then he felt
his body rise a little from the clinging sand.

“That started ye,” said Ben, joyfully. “Whoa, Diamond. Can ye stand
it?”

“Yaw, yaw, pull away,” cried Jan, in an eager tone. “I shtands any
t’ings so dat I gits out vrom dis blace.”

“Pull, Diamond,” said Ben.

The horse drew away on the lariat, and to the intense joy of both,
the body of the Dutchman was pulled high up on the hard ground. For
a moment Jan lay panting, and the next he sprung up and grasped the
trapper by both hands.

“T’ank you, Penn. I don’t say much, but I dinks a great deal. I nefer
forgets vile I lifs.”

“Pshaw,” said Ben. “Thank the hoss; he did the work.”

The intelligent animal turned his head to look at them, as if
conscious that they were talking of him, and bent forward that he
might receive the caresses which Jan showered upon him. For awhile
they thought nothing of the man who lay at their feet, until Jan’s
eye fell upon him as he lay there, his black eyes twinkling with rage
and apprehension.

“Dere he lies, dat villains!” said Jan. “He gets me in der mut, unt
den he von’t help me out.”

“I was jubous he’d do something of the kind,” said Ben. “I wa’n’t fur
away. Thet’s what I let him go with ye fur, _jest to try him_. I’m
sorry I did it now. Ain’t he a sweet specimen for a human?”

He stooped and loosened the strap on the legs of the Frenchman.

“Git up!” he said.

Jules Damand rose slowly, with his eyes continually fixed upon the
earth.

“_Nice_ kind of man, ain’t ye?” said Ben. “What ye got to say fer
yerself?”

“Nothing,” replied Jules.

“Nothing?”

“Not a word. Do with me as you choose. If you had staid away ten
minutes longer, the work would have been complete.”

“Ye cold-blooded scoundrel! I’m sorry I ever broke bread with the
like of ye. A mean-sperited skunk! I’d sarve ye right ef I sent a
bullet through yer skull. Wouldn’t I now?”

“Do it, then.”

“I leave it with Jan. Ef he says kill ye, why, yer no better then a
dead man. Ye owe yer life to him, an’ ef he choses to take it, thar’s
no law among free trappers to save ye. Anyway, I won’t help ye. Jan!”

“Vell?”

“Hyar’s a pistol. It’s loaded with a ball. This skunk ain’t fit to
live. Trapper law will bar ye out in shootin’ him through the head.
He is in yer hands.”

Jan took the pistol, cocked it, and placed it close to the head of
the Frenchman. A deathlike stillness reigned in the place. The face
of Jules was utterly colorless, but he did not speak a word. He knew
that his life was forfeited by the stern laws of the trappers, and
that nothing could save him, if the man whose life he had placed in
such deadly peril chose to claim that forfeit. But his proud spirit
would not permit him to speak a word. He looked straight into the
muzzle of the threatening weapon, his lips white as ashes.

“Fire!” he whispered at length.

Jan dropped his hand.

“Remember that this is the second time he has nearly killed ye,” said
Ben. “He cut the raft loose the other day.”

“Vat?” cried Jan.

“Yes,” replied Damand. “I did that. Fire away.”

Again Jan raised the weapon and again that deathlike silence fell
upon the scene. But Jan could not do it. Such an act was not in his
nature. He uncocked the weapon and handed it back to Ben.

“I can’t do it,” he said. “He nearly kills me, deux, swi dimes, put I
nefer kills a man mit his hands tied. Let him go.”

“Walk before us,” said Ben, sternly. “Don’t try to escape.”

Jules obeyed sullenly, although glad of any respite.

“Holt on,” said Jan. “Dere ish my moose vat I kills.”

“We ain’t got time to ’tend to him now. Lead my hoss. I want to watch
this beauty.”

They went back to the horses. Jules was put upon his own and his
feet bound with a lariat. Jan rode in front. Ben brought up the
rear, with his pistol ready, in case the fellow tried to get away.
He made no such attempt. In this order they reached the camp. Here
Ben tied the horse of the Frenchman to a tree and opened the cache.
The beaver skins they had taken were bound up in bundles of twenty
each. Ben laid them out in three equal piles. When this was done he
untied Jules and made him dismount. Millicent and Bentley looked on
in silence.

“Ar’ them divided _fa’r_?” said Ben.

“Yes,” said Jules.

“Then take either pile ye like and _git_.”

“I don’t want them,” said Jules. “Give me my horse and gun and let me
go.”

“Do just ez ye chose. Thar they ar’. Ef ye don’t want ’em, it’s all
right. We kin find a use for ’em.”

“I won’t take the skins.”

“All right. Thar’s yer hoss an’ thar’s yer gun. Take them an’ _git_,
and mind, ef ye turn up against us yer a dead man. I lets ye go now
because none here wants yer life or yer company, but yer a dead man
ef ye ever crosses my track. I have spoken--so be off with you!”

Jules obeyed. Without a word he rode away and the hills soon hid him
from their sight.




                            CHAPTER XII.

                         THROUGH THE SNARE.


The three men began to complete their raft, working with all their
power. In a few hours the work was done, and they were ready to go
down the river at a moment’s warning. Then Ben set to work upon
another cache for his skins, which it would be impossible to take
with him. He chose a place within the cañon through which the river
ran, and here he laid the skins. His brow was sad. The old man had
been deceived in regard to a comrade, and he was grieved.

“Do not grieve for a bad man,” said the girl, observing his sadness.
“He is not worth a single pang.”

“True enough, gal. An’ yit, I thought the lad a true one. I did
indeed. But, let him go; the time will come when he’ll be sorry in
his heart fer what he’s done.”

When all was ready, they pushed the raft down to the very mouth of
the cañon and there embarked. The horses were abandoned. Ben took his
station in front of the raft. Bentley and Jan took the sides, each
armed with a long pole. Millicent crouched in the center, beside the
pile of provisions which the forethought of the trapper had induced
him to bring.

A perilous path lay before them. The stream ran dark and swift
between huge bowlders of gray rock, rearing their heads in the
air. Without the skill of Trapper Ben their lives were not worth a
moment’s purchase. At first they were in the power of the “suck,”
which drew them rapidly toward the other bank, and threatened to dash
them on the place where the other raft was beaten to pieces. But the
quick eye of Ben saw the peril and averted it. As the raft dashed
down upon the wall a skillful push of the long pole sent it whirling
down the stream, while the other men stood aghast, and Millicent also
covered her face with her hands.

When she looked up, the present peril was over and they were dashing
down the dark channel at a breakneck speed. There was a wild,
triumphant look in the eyes of the old hunter, as he guided the raft
on its course.

“Hurray, boys; now we _ar’_ goin’,” he shouted, “Don’t be skeered,
little gal. I’ll take ye safe through, or bu’st things a-trying. Durn
a Frenchman. Does he think he kin overreach me? Hey! look out fer
that rock, Bentley. That’s right. You’d make a good raftsman in time.
Look sharp, Jan. Thar’s a rock loomin’ up on your side. Give it a sly
tap. That’s it. Well done. Ef we onc’t git on the level, it will be
all right. I’ve got an idee. Stand steady, boys. The wust time is
comin’. You kain’t help me much. Bentley, go astern and when that
brown rock is just abeam of us, sock that pole ag’inst it, and push
ez hard ez you kin. Now mind you do it.”

“Ay, ay,” said Bentley, going to the stern. “Give me the word.”

They were now approaching a place where a fall in the bed of the
stream made a rapid, in which the water was churned into dazzling
foam--a terrible sight to the eyes of those not accustomed to the
terrors of the western plains. Naturally brave, Millicent could not
help a shudder as she saw the danger upon which they were rushing
headlong. But a glance at that old man standing upright in the bow of
the raft, stern and calm, grimly confident in himself, restored her
courage.

Down into that wild waste of wreathing foam rushed the raft. A rock
was on the right hand, one on the left, and she seemed rushing
directly upon destruction in front. But, all at once, the head of the
raft swung round, and showed clear water in front, perhaps ten feet
in width, into which they rushed. The spray flew high overhead and
for a moment blinded them. The next moment they passed out of their
danger, and lay rising and falling in the more tranquil water just
above another beaver-dam, in the midst of the cañon.

“Aha,” said Ben. “Hyar we be. It’ll trouble Injuns to nose us out
hyar. They’ll git round lively ef they do.”

The raft floated on, and struck against the little dam. Using his
pole, Ben pushed it along close to the edge of the dam and gained the
shore, where he helped Millicent from the raft, and secured it.

“Dat ish goot,” said Jan. “More ash petter ash goot. De ret Blackfeet
nefer finds us here. Von’t tey pe mat!” and the Dutchman laughed
loudly. “Vat you do now, Penn?”

“Do? I’m going fur help. I kin git it too. I seen Crow signs when I
were out on the prairie after you, Bentley, and I think an old friend
of mine, Falling Oak they call him, is out on the plains. Ef I kin
find him, I’ll make ye safe, ef ye dar’ to stay.”

“I am willing,” said Millicent.

“And I,” said Bentley.

“I’d rudder go mit Penn, put if he say shtay here, I does it,” cried
Jan.

“Then I say stay hyar. They may need ye. Ef the wust comes, push out
yer raft an’ make fer the plains. Ye mout git off thet way. Ef so be
I’m above ground, I won’t be two days gone. I’ve left ye meat enough
to last a week, ef ye don’t go too heavy on it. Good-by, gal. Ef I
don’t come back and ye git away, remember the old man sometimes,
won’t ye?”

Millicent threw her arms about his neck, and kissed him as she might
have kissed her father. The face of the old man worked for a moment,
and then the undaunted one was sniveling.

“Thar, git away. Ye’ve made a baby of me at last. I knew ye would.
Now let me go. Good-by, boys. Whatever happens, take keer of the
little gal. Be sure of that.”

He sprung upon the dam and crossed to the other side. They saw him
clamber up the distant side of the mountain, and turn to wave his
hand in token of farewell. Then he passed over the crest and was lost
to sight.

A strange feeling fell upon them then. A feeling of loneliness, a
sense of insecurity, and all felt how much they had learned to love
and trust Trapper Ben. Jan felt his loss most of all, and went aside,
where he cast himself down on the ground and put his arm before his
eyes.

The others did not care to stay the tide of the honest Dutchman’s
sorrow, and a half-hour passed in unbroken silence, when suddenly
Millicent cried:

“Look there, look there!”

Above them, on a ledge of rocks, stood the strange creature which
had haunted them since their entrance into the hills. Jan ran for
his roer, but Bentley seized him and would not let him fire. But, at
the sight of the gun, the monster sprung away and concealed himself
behind a rock, from which he peeped out at them, dodging back when
the gun was presented.

“Don’t you dare to fire,” said Bentley. “You do not know what danger
you may bring down upon us by the act.”

Jan yielded reluctantly, and laid aside the gun. The moment he did
so the creature, with its fierce laugh, sprung up the cliff and
disappeared.

“Thank heaven he is gone,” said Millicent. “That monster gives me
more uneasiness than the Indians and Jules Damand to boot. Something
within tells me that the villain will yet give us trouble. Oh, if he
should get me, by any means, in his power!” And she visibly shuddered.

“One of us must stand guard,” said Bentley. “We have more dangers
than this to fear.”

“So you have,” yelled a voice on the cliff above. “Beware!”

They looked up, long enough to see the malicious face of Jules
Damand looking down upon them. It was only a passing glimpse, for he
disappeared immediately.

“Just as I feared,” said Millicent with a sigh. “That villain will
not let us rest.”

“He knew that we would take to the river, and followed along the
crest until he saw us land. There goes his rifle; he is firing at
something.”

The report of the rifle was followed by the cry of the Mountain
Devil. Then they heard the sound of feet upon the ledge above, and
shortly after Jules Damand appeared upon the ridge, closely pursued
by the wild thing. The Frenchman had a knife in his hand, and as he
reached the level rock overhanging the stream, and saw that he could
run no further, he turned at bay, and was ready to fight for his
life. The Mountain Devil held in his hand the barrel of the rifle
which he had wrenched from the hand of Jules, and the stock of which
he had shattered on the rocks.

“Shall we help him, Jan?”

“Yaw,” said Jan. “Den we tie him oop.”

They began to clamber up the rocks, while Millicent stood, with bated
breath, watching the combat on the ledge. The monster was raining a
storm of blows upon the head of the Frenchman; but he had closed and
grasped it by the shaggy hair upon its breast, so that the blows were
not at the full sweep of the arm. Already the keen knife had been
plunged thrice to the hilt in the body of the monster, when it threw
down the rifle barrel, and caught Jules Damand in its long arms.

Millicent uttered a scream which rung through the hills, for she
saw that the man was doomed. The monster had got his death-wound,
but still the strength he possessed was too much for Jules Damand,
even though fighting with the energy of despair. He saw the heads of
Bentley and Jan appear above the ledge, and knew that they would be
too late, for the monster had forced him back to the extreme edge of
the chasm, two hundred feet above the torrent below.

As the feet of Bentley reached the rock he caught a glimpse of the
agonized face of Damand, whose paleness was terrible. He gasped for
breath and made one struggle. It was his last; for the next moment,
with a demoniac laugh, the huge body of the Mountain Devil shot out
into the air, bearing in its arms the form of Damand. Millicent saw
them strike the water, and ran to the spot. A crimson stain told
where they had gone down, and a white hand and arm could be seen
struggling faintly in the flood. She seized it, and with a strength
which was unnatural dragged Jules Damand out of the water. He had
only time to gasp out a prayer for forgiveness, and die.

They buried him that day under the shadow of the ledge. The body of
the Mountain Devil was also raised, and they laid it on the shore.
Then they saw that it was in the form of a man of gigantic size,
whose uncouth aspect might have been gained by companionship with
beasts. They buried him too, and waited for Ben.

He came back next day, triumphant, but would tell them nothing. “Come
along,” he said, and they followed with implicit faith up the ledge.
The day was nearly spent when they reached their old camp, but Ben
caught the horses and made his companions mount. Jules had left his
horse, which had found its way back to the camp. Bentley took it.
Ben gave up his own good beast to Millicent, and walked by its side.
They reached the mouth of the pass, and Ben called them to a halt,
and pointed out upon the prairie. There they saw the band of Whirling
Breeze encamped, apparently in the greatest security.

“Load yer weepons, boys,” said Ben. “Leave the gal hyar. I’m goin’ to
fire my rifle. When I do, watch the spur of the mountain yonder, an’
then foller me.”

They obeyed him. Ben raised his rifle and fired in the air. Obedient
to the signal, two hundred warriors, armed to the teeth, emerged
from their covert and charged the astonished Blackfeet. Ben sprung
into his saddle and rode forward to aid his friends. He came too
late. The band of Whirling Breeze was scattered, and he only escaped
by the speed of his horse. Ben arrived in time to sequestrate two
fine mustangs, and compliment the Crow chief upon the neatness and
dispatch of the action.

The party proposed to return to the forts. The chief and fifty
chosen warriors rode with them. Among the prisoners Ben found the
son of Whirling Breeze, and asked the chief for him. The request was
granted, and the young warrior was set at liberty and returned to his
friends.

“Chief,” said Ben, when he had heard the story of the death of the
Mountain Devil, “do ye know what that was?”

“Half-breed,” said the chief. “Mad. Lived in the Black Hills many
years. Glad he dead. Kill many warriors.”

“It was a madman, then,” said Bentley. “I thought so.”

A few miles from the first fort the Indians left them. They reached
the fort in safety. Here the old man and Jan bade them good-by, but
not until he had seen Bentley and Millicent married by the fort
chaplain. The parting was painful, and the young bride was deeply
affected. But it was over at last, and Millicent, hand in hand with
her husband, watched their retiring forms as they passed over the
prairie, toward the distant hills.

When Bentley Morris was older, and children were growing up about his
knees, in the strong young State of which he was a leading man, he
often told the tale of those perilous times, with Trapper Ben and Jan
Schneider, in the camp in the Black Hills.

And once a year a letter, strange in orthography and composition,
comes from the two trappers. Jan is still with Ben, and will be to
the last.


                              THE END.




                         Transcriber’s Notes

  The Table of Contents at the beginning of the book was created by
  the transcriber.

  Minor punctuation and spelling errors have been silently corrected
  and, except for those changes noted below, all misspellings in the
  text, especially in dialogue, and inconsistent or archaic usage,
  have been retained.

  Page 9: “the Hudson Bay was at its hight” changed to “the Hudson
  Bay was at its height”.

  Page 43: “headed by a giant bull, whose patriarchial” changed to
  “headed by a giant bull, whose patriarchal”.



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