_ CHAPTER ELEVEN. ORIGINAL EFFORTS IN THE ART OF PAINTING--FUR-TRADING HOSPITALITY-- WONDERFUL ACCOUNTS OF THE WILD MAN OF THE WEST, FROM AN EYE-WITNESS-- BUFFALO HUNTING, SCALPING, MURDERING, AND A SUMMARY METHOD OF INFLICTING PUNISHMENT
The reception hall of the Mountain Fort, into which, as we have stated, the trappers were ushered by McLeod, was one of those curious apartments which were in those days (and in a few cases still are) created for the express purpose of "astonishing the natives!"
It was a square room, occupying the centre of the house, and having doors all round, which opened into the sleeping or other apartments of the dwelling. In the front wall of this room were the door which led direct into the open air, and the two windows. There were no passages in the house--it was all rooms and doors. One of these doors, towards the back, opened into a species of scullery--but it was not exactly a scullery, neither was it a kitchen, neither was it a pantry. The squaws lived there--especially the cooking squaws--and a few favoured dogs. A large number of pots and pans and kettles, besides a good deal of lumber and provisions in daily use, also dwelt there. A door led from this room out to the back of the house, and into a small offshoot, which was the kitchen proper. Here a spirited French Canadian reigned supreme in the midst of food, fire, and steam, smoke, smells, and fat.
But to return to the reception hall. There were no pictures on its walls, no draperies about its windows, no carpets on its floors, no cloths on its tables, and no ornaments on its mantelshelf. Indeed, there was no mantelshelf to put ornaments upon. The floor, the walls, the ceiling, the chairs, the tables; all were composed of the same material--wood. The splendour of the apartment was entirely due to paint. Everything was painted--and that with a view solely to startling effect. Blue, red, and yellow, in their most brilliant purity, were laid on in a variety of original devices, and with a boldness of contrast that threw Moorish effort in that line quite into the shade. The Alhambra was nothing to it! The floor was yellow ochre; the ceiling was sky-blue; the cornices were scarlet, with flutings of blue and yellow, and, underneath, a broad belt of fruit and foliage, executed in an extremely arabesque style. The walls were light green, with narrow bands of red down the sides of each plank. The table was yellow, the chairs blue, and their bottoms red, by way of harmonious variety. But the grand point--the great masterpiece in the ornamentation of this apartment--was the centre-piece in the ceiling, in the execution of which there was an extraordinary display of what can be accomplished by the daring flight of an original genius revelling in the conscious possession of illimitable power, without the paralysing influence of conventional education.
The device itself was indescribable. It was a sun or a star, or rather a union and commingling of suns and stars in violent contrast, wreathed with fanciful fruits and foliage, and Cupids, and creatures of a now extinct species. The rainbow had been the painter's palette; genius his brush; fancy-gone-mad his attendant; the total temporary stagnation of redskin faculties his object, and ecstasy his general state of mind, when he executed this magnificent _chef d'oeuvre_ in the centre of the ceiling of the reception hall at the Mountain Fort.
The fireplace was a capacious cavern in the wall opposite the entrance door, in which, during winter, there usually burned a roaring bonfire of huge logs of wood, but where, at the time of which we write, there was just enough fire to enable visitors to light their pipe's. When that fire blazed up in the dark winter nights, the effect of that gorgeous apartment was dazzling--absolutely bewildering.
The effect upon our trappers when they entered was sufficiently strong. They gazed round in amazement, each giving vent to his feelings in his own peculiar exclamatory grunt, or gasp, or cough. In addition to this, Bounce smote his thigh with unwonted vigour. Gibault, after gazing for a few minutes, sighed out something that sounded like _magnifique_! and Bertram grinned from ear to ear. He went further: he laughed aloud--an impolite thing to do, in the circumstances, and, for a grave man like him, an unusual ebullition of feeling. But it was observed and noted that on this occasion the artist did not draw forth his sketch-book.
McLeod, who, from his speech and bearing, was evidently a man of some education, placed chairs for his visitors, took the lid off a large canister of tobacco, and, pushing it into the middle of the yellow table, said--
"Sit ye down, friends, and help yourselves."
He set them the example by taking down his own pipe from a nail in the wall, and proceeding to fill it. Having done so, he took a piece of glowing charcoal from the fire, and, placing it on the bowl, began to smoke, glancing the while, with an amused expression on his grave face, at the trappers, who, while filling their pipes, kept gazing round the walls and up at the ceiling.
"Ha!" said he, "you are struck with our hall (puff, puff). It's rather (puff) an effective one (puff). Have a light?"
Bounce, to whom the light was offered, accepted the same, applied it to his pipe, and said--
"Well, yes (puff), it is (puff) raither wot ye may call (puff) pecooliar."
"Most visitors to this place think so," said McLeod. "The Indians highly approve of it, and deem me quite a marvel of artistic power."
"Wot! did _you_ paint it?" inquired Waller.
"I did," answered McLeod, with a nod.
"Vraiment, de Injuns am right in deir opinion of you," cried Gibault, relighting his pipe, which, in the astonished state of his mind, he had allowed to go out.
McLeod smiled, if we may so speak, _gravely_, in acknowledgment of the compliment.
"Ha!" cried Gibault, turning to Bertram as if a sudden thought had occurred to him, "Monsieur Bertram et Monsieur Mak Load, you be broders. Oui, Monsieur Mak Load, dis mine comrade--him be von painteur."
"Indeed!" said McLeod, turning to the artist with more interest than he had yet shown towards the strangers.
"I have, indeed, the honour to follow the noble profession of painting," said Bertram, "but I cannot boast of having soared so high as--as--"
"As to attempt the frescoes on the ceiling of a reception hall in the backwoods," interrupted McLeod, laughing. "No, I believe you, sir; but, although I cannot presume to call you brother professionally, still I trust that I may do so as an amateur. I am delighted to see you here. It is not often we are refreshed with the sight of the face of a civilised man in these wild regions."
"Upon my word, sir, you are plain-spoken," said March Marston with a look of affected indignation; "what do you call _us_?"
"Pardon me, young sir," replied McLeod, "I call you trappers, which means neither civilised nor savage; neither fish, nor flesh, nor fowl--"
"That's a foul calumny," cried Bounce, knocking the ashes out of his pipe, and refilling it from the canister; "it's wot may be called a-- a--"
"Lie," suggested Waller.
"No," said Bounce, "it ain't that. I don't like that word. It's a ugly word, an' you shouldn't ought to use it, Waller. It's a _error_; that's wot it is, in a feelosophical pint o' view. Jest as much of a error, now, as it was in you, Mister McLeod, putting so little baccy in this here thing that there ain't none left."
"What! is it all done?" cried McLeod, rising, and seizing the canister; "so it is. I declare you smoke almost as fast as the Wild Man himself; for whom I mistook you, Mr Waller, when I saw you first, at some distance off."
Saying this, he left the room to fetch a further supply of the soothing weed, and at the same moment two squaws appeared, bearing smoking dishes of whitefish and venison.
"That fellow knows something about the Wild Man o' the West," said March Marston in a low, eager tone, to his comrades. "Twice has he mentioned his name since we arrived."
"So he has," observed Redhand, "but there may be other wild men besides our one."
"Unpossible," said Bounce emphatically.
"Ditto," cried Waller still more emphatically; "what say you, Hawkswing?"
"There is but one Wild Man of the West," replied the Indian.
"By the way, Hawkswing, what was the name o' the rascally trader you said was in charge o' this fort when you lived here?" asked Redhand.
"Mokgroggir," replied the Indian.
"Ha, Macgregor, ye mean, no doubt."
Hawkswing nodded.
"Here you are, friends," said McLeod, re-entering the room with a large roll of tobacco. "Help yourselves and don't spare it. There's plenty more where that came from. But I see the steaks are ready, so let us fall to; we can smoke afterwards."
During the repast, to which the trappers applied themselves with the gusto of hungry men, March Marston questioned McLeod about the Wild Man.
"The Wild Man o' the West," said he in some surprise; "is it possible there are trappers in the Rocky Mountains who have not heard of _him_?"
"Oh yes," said March hastily, "we've heard of him, but we want to hear more particularly about him, for the accounts don't all agree."
"Ha! that's it," said Bounce, speaking with difficulty through a large mouthful of fish, "that's it. They don't agree. One says his rifle is thirty feet long, another forty feet, an' so on. There's no gittin' at truth in this here--"
A bone having stuck in Bounce's throat at that moment he was unable to conclude the sentence.
"As to the length of his rifle," said McLeod, when the noise made by Bounce in partially choking had subsided, "you seem to have got rather wild notions about that, and about the Wild Man too, I see."
"But he _is_ a giant, isn't he?" inquired March anxiously.
"N-not exactly. Certainly he is a big fellow, about the biggest man I ever saw--but he's not forty feet high!"
March Marston's romantic hopes began to sink. "Then he's an ordinary man just like one o' us," he said almost gloomily.
"Nay, that he is not," returned McLeod, laughing. "Your comrade Waller does indeed approach to him somewhat in height, but he's nothing to him in breadth; and as for ferocity, strength, and activity, I never saw anything like him in my life. He comes sometimes here to exchange his furs for powder and lead, but he'll speak to no one, except in the sharpest, gruffest way. I think he's mad myself. But he seems to lead a charmed life here; for although he has had fights with many of the tribes in these parts, he always puts them to flight, although he fights single-handed."
"Single-handed!" exclaimed Bounce in surprise.
"Ay. I've seen him at it myself, and can vouch for it, that if ever there was a born fiend let loose on this earth it's the Wild Man of the West when he sets-to to thrash a dozen Indians. But I must do him the justice to say that I never heard of him making an unprovoked attack on anybody. When he first came to these mountains, many years ago--before I came here--the Indians used to wonder who he was and what he meant to do. Then after a while, seeing he had a good horse, a good rifle, and plenty of ammunition, they tried to kill him; but the first fellow that tried that only tried it once. He lay in a close thicket nigh to where the Wild Man used to pass from his home in the mountains to places where he used to hunt the elk and the buffalo, so, when he came up, the Indian laid an arrow on his bow. But the Wild Man's eye was sharp as a needle. He stopped his horse, took aim like a flash of lightning, and shot him through the head. I heard this from another Indian that was with the murderin' fellow that was shot. The Wild Man did nothing to the other. He let him escape.
"Of course the relations of the man who was killed were up immediately, and twenty of them set out to murder the Wild Man. They took their horses, spears, and bows, with them, and lay in wait at a place where he was often seen passing. Sure enough up he came, on horseback, at a slow walk, looking as careless and easy as if no blood of a redskin rested on his hand.
"It chanced the day before that day that we had run out of fresh meat, so Mr Macgregor, our commandant here, ordered me to take three of the men, and go out after the buffaloes. Away we went, looking sharp out, however, for some of the Indians had been treated by Macgregor so brutally, I am sorry to say, that we knew our scalps were not safe. Next morning I happened to pass close by the place where the Indians lay in ambush, and we came to the top of a precipice that overlooked the spot. We saw them before they saw us, so we went quietly back into the bush, tied our horses to trees, and lay on the edge of the cliff to watch them.
"In about ten minutes after, we saw the Wild Man riding slowly forward. He was a strange sight. It was the first time I had seen him, although I had often heard of him before.
"Well, on he came, with his head bent and his eyes fixed on the ground. A dense thicket hid his enemies from him, though not from us, we being so high above them. The Wild Man was armed with his long rifle slung at his back, a hunting-knife, and a small shield, such as the Blackfoot Indians use to protect themselves from arrows. The only unusual sort of weapon he carried was a long sword.
"Not knowing at the time that the Indians were waiting for him, of course I gave no alarm to warn him of his danger. When he came within a hundred yards of the thicket, I saw him push his arm a little further into the handle of the shield. It was but a slight action such as one might perform to ease the arm by change of position; but the redskins are quick-witted. They knew that he suspected they were there, so, giving one tremendous yell, they sent a cloud of arrows at him, and sprang out upon the plain at full gallop with their spears lowered.
"Instead of turning to fly from such an unequal combat, the Wild Man drew his sword and rushed at them like a thunderbolt. His onset was the most awful thing I ever saw in my life. The plain seemed to shake under the tread of his gigantic horse. His hair streamed wildly out behind him, and as he was coming towards me I could see that his teeth were set and his eyes flashed like those of a tiger. The Indians were appalled by the sight. The idea of one man attacking twenty had never occurred to them. They drew up; but it was too late to prevent a shock. There was a yell from the savages, a shout like the roar of a lion from the Wild Man, and two horses and their riders lay on the plain. I saw the long sword gleam for one moment, just as the shock took place, and the head of a savage rolled immediately after along the ground.
"The Indians, though overawed, were brave men. They turned to pursue the flying horseman, but they needed not. The Wild Man was not flying, he was only unable at first to check the headlong pace of his charger. In a few seconds he wheeled about and charged again. The Indians, however, did not await the issue; they turned and fled, and they have ever since remained in the firm belief that the Wild Man is a 'great medicine' man, and that no one can kill him. They say that neither arrows nor bullets can pierce his skin, which is an inch thick; that fire and smoke come out of his mouth and eyes, and that his horse is, like himself, invulnerable. I must confess, however, that with the exception of his enormous size and his ferocity, he is, from what I saw of him, much the same as other men."
McLeod concluded his description of this singular being, to which his guests listened open-eyed and mouthed, and helped himself to a buffalo-steak.
"An' what did he when the Indians ran away!" inquired March Marston.
"Oh! he quietly pulled up his horse and let them run. After they were gone, he continued his journey, as slow and cool as if nothing had happened. Few Indians attack him now, except new bands from distant parts of the country, who don't know him; but all who meddle with him find, to their cost, that it would have been better had they let him alone."
"Is he cruel? Does he eat men and childers?" inquired Bounce, commencing a fourth steak with a degree of violent energy that suggested the possibility of his being himself able to do some execution in the cannibal line if necessary.
McLeod laughed. "Oh dear, no; he's not cruel. Neither does he eat human flesh. In fact, he has been known to do some kind acts to poor starving Indians when they least expected it. The real truth is, that he is only fierce when he's meddled with. He never takes revenge, and he has never been known to lift a scalp."
"But what like is he when he comes to trade his furs at the fort here? how does he speak, and in what language?" inquired Marston, who, although delighted with the account given of the strength and valour of the Wild Man of the West, was by no means pleased to learn that he was not an absolute giant, something like the Giant Despair of whom he had read in the "Pilgrim's Progress."
"He's just like a trapper--only he's a tremendous big one--six feet six, if he's an inch, and would make two of the biggest of the present company round the shoulders. But he's very silent, and won't let any one question him. The long and the short of it is, that I believe he is a madman--luckily he's a well-disposed madman, and I can vouch for it he is a crack hunter, though he don't bring many furs to trade. I think he spends most of his idle time in moping among the caves of the mountains."
"Does any one know where he lives?" asked Bertram, who was gradually becoming interested in this strange being.
"No. We have sometimes tried to track him, but at a certain place we have invariably lost all traces of him."
"But what is his face like, and how does he dress?" inquired March eagerly; "you have not yet said anything about that."
McLeod was about to reply, when he was interrupted by a loud shouting in the yard of the fort. Leaping from their seats, the whole party ran to the windows.
"I thought so," cried McLeod, seizing his cap and hurrying out. "These are six of my men who have been out after the buffalo, and I see they have been successful."
The fort gate had been swung open, and, just as the guests issued from the reception hall, six hunters galloped into the square with all the reckless noise and dash peculiar to that class of men. Leaping from their foaming steeds, they were quickly surrounded by their comrades, and by the women and children of the place, who congratulated them on their success in the chase, and plied them with eager questions.
That they had indeed been successful was evident from the masses of fresh meat with which the horses were laden.
"Well done, Davis," said McLeod, stepping up to one of the men, who, from his age and intelligence, had been put in command of the hunting party. "You are back sooner than I anticipated. Surely, your good genius sent the buffalo across your path."
"We have bin in luck, sir," replied the hunter, touching his cap. "We've killed more than we could carry, an', what's worse, we've killed more than we wanted."
"How so?"
"We've had a brush wi' the redskins, sir, an' we had to kill one or two in self-defence."
McLeod's brow darkened. He clenched his teeth, and the large veins swelled in his neck and forehead. With a powerful effort he repressed his anger, and said--
"Did I not warn you to avoid that if you could?"
"True, sir," replied Davis humbly; "but we could not help it, for, in the first heat of passion, one o' them was shot, an' after that, of course, we had to fight to save our own scalps."
"Who fired that first shot?" inquired McLeod sternly.
Davis made no reply, but all eyes were at once turned upon a tall slouching man, with a forbidding cast of countenance, who had hitherto kept in the background.
"So, so, Larocque," said McLeod, stepping up to the man, "you've been at your bloody work again, you scoundrel. Hah! you not only bring the enmity of the whole Indian race down on your own worthless head, and on the heads of your innocent companions, but you have the effrontery to bring the evidence of your guilt into this fort along with you."
As McLeod spoke, he laid hold of a scalp which still dropped fresh blood as it hung at the hunter's saddle-bow.
"If I'm to answer to you for every scalp I choose to lift in self-defence, the sooner I quit you the better," answered Larocque sulkily.
"Was there any occasion to lift this scalp at all?" demanded McLeod, as he seized the man by the collar.
"Who talks of lifting scalps?" growled a loud, deep-toned voice.
All eyes were instantly turned on the speaker, and the crowd fell back to permit Mr Macgregor, the person in command of the Mountain Fort, to approach the scene of action.
The man who now appeared on the scene was a sad and a terrible sight to behold. He was one of that wretched class of human beings who, having run a long course of unbridled wickedness, become total wrecks in body and mind long before the prime of manhood has been passed. Macgregor had been a confirmed drunkard for many years. He had long lost all power of self-control, and had now reached that last fearful stage when occasional fits of _delirium tremens_ rendered him more like a wild beast than a man. Being a large and powerful man, and naturally passionate, he was at these times a terror to all who came near him. He had been many years in charge of the fur-trading establishment, and having on many occasions maltreated the Indians, he was hated by them most cordially.
One of his mad fits had been on him for some days before the arrival of March Marston and his friends. He had recovered sufficiently to be able to stagger out of his room just at the time the buffalo hunters, as above described, entered the square of the fort. As he strode forward, with nothing on but his shirt and trousers, his eyes bloodshot, his hair matted and dishevelled, and his countenance haggard in the extreme, he was the most pitiable, and, at the same time, most terrible specimen of human degradation that the mind of man could conceive of.
"What now! who has been lifting scalps?" he growled between his set teeth, striding up to Larocque, and glaring in his face, with his bloodshot eyes, like a tiger.
McLeod held up the bloody scalp.
"Who did it?" roared Macgregor.
"I did," said Larocque with an attempt at a defiant air.
The words had barely passed his lips when he received a blow between the eyes that felled him to the earth. He attempted to rise, but, with a yell that sounded more like the war-cry of a savage than the wrathful shout of a civilised man, Macgregor knocked him down again, and, springing at his throat, began to strangle him.
Up to this point, McLeod refrained from interfering, for he was not sorry to see the murderer receive such severe punishment; but, having no desire to witness a second murder, he now seized his master, and, with the assistance of two of the men, succeeded in tearing him off from Larocque, and in conveying him, as respectfully as possible in the circumstances, to his private chamber. _