“Why do you ask?” said the artist, looking quickly up.
“’Cause I wants to know.”
The artist smiled. “My last meal was eaten yesterday morning.”
“Ha! I was sure ob dat,” cried Gibault; “your face look like as if you be full ob starvation.”
“An’ wot did ye eat last?” inquired Bounce, laying down his pipe and looking at their guest with much interest not unmingled with pity.
“I breakfasted on a little bird about the size of a hen’s egg. I know not what it is named, but it was excellently flavoured. I relished it much.”
On hearing this, Gibault pressed his hand on his stomach, as if the mere thought of such a delicately minute breakfast caused him pain in that region.
“I say, stranger,” broke in Waller, in a tone of voice that seemed to imply that he was determined to be at the bottom of this mystery, and would stand it no longer—“wot’s your name?”
“Theodore Bertram,” replied the artist without hesitation.
“Where do you come from?”
“From England.”
“Where air you a-goin’ to?”
“To the Rocky Mountains.”
“Wot for to do there?”
“You are inquisitive, friend,” said Bertram, smiling; “but I have no reason for concealing my object in travelling here—it is to sketch, and shoot, and take notes, and witness the works of the Almighty in the wilderness. I hold it to be an object worthy the ambition of a great man to act the part of pioneer to the missionary and the merchant in nature’s wildest and most inaccessible regions; and although I pretend not to greatness, I endeavour, humbly, to do what I can.”
“No one can do more than that,” said Redhand, regarding the young enthusiast with interest. “But surely you have not travelled to this out-o’-the-way place without a guide?”
Bertram pointed to the stars.
“These are my guides,” said he; “the man who can read the heavens needs no guide.”
“But that book ain’t always readable,” said Redhand; “when clouds are flying what do you do then?”
“Fur-traders in the far north have taught me how to ascertain the north by the bark on the trees; besides this I have a bosom friend who always points the way.” So saying he pulled a small compass from an inner pocket and held it up.
“Good,” rejoined Redhand; “but a compass is not food, neither will it kill game. Have you nought but them pistols?”
“I have none other arms now but these, save this good sword. They will serve to defend me in the hour of need, I trust; though now that I have seen the grisly bear I should doubt my chance of success were I to cope with him alone. I should imagine that monster to be worse even than the Wild Man of the West himself.”
“The Wild Man o’ the West!” echoed March Marston eagerly; “have you seen him?”
“Nay, verily; but I have heard of him,” replied the artist, smiling, “and a strangely ferocious creature he must be, if all that’s said of him be correct. But, to say truth, I believe the stories told of him are idle tales. Indeed, I do not believe there is such a man at all!”
March Marston’s countenance fell. No Wild Man of the West at all! The bare possibility of such a crushing blow to all his romantic hopes and dreams caused his heart to sink. Bertram observed the change in his countenance, and, quickly divining the cause, added, “But I am of a sceptical turn of mind, and do not easily believe unless I see. There is one thing I have observed, however, which is in favour of his existence.”
“What’s that?” inquired March, brightening up. “That the nearer one comes to his reputed dwelling-place, this wild man assumes smaller and more natural proportions. I first heard of him in the Red River Prairies, where he is held to be a giant who devours men as well as brutes. As I came nearer to the Missouri, I found that the people there do not believe him to be either a cannibal or a giant, but assert that he is an enormously tall and powerful man, exceedingly fierce, and the sworn enemy of the whole human race; a species of Cain, whose hand is against every man, and every man’s hand against him. The last white man I met—about two weeks ago—told me he had been with a tribe of Indians, some of whom had seen him, and they said that he was indeed awfully wild, but that he was not cruel—on the contrary, he had been known to have performed one or two kind deeds to some who had fallen into his power.”
“Most extonishin’!” exclaimed Gibault, who sat open-mouthed and open-eyed listening to this account of the Wild Man of the West.
For some time the party round the camp fire sat smoking in silence, ruminating on what had been said. Then Big Waller broke the silence with one of his abrupt questions—
“But, I say, stranger, how did you come here?”
Bertram looked up without speaking. Then, settling himself comfortably in a reclining position, with his back against a tree, he said—
“I will relieve your curiosity. Listen: I am, as I have said, an Englishman. My father and mother are dead. I have no brothers or sisters, and but few relations. Possessing, as I do, a small independence, I am not obliged to work for my living. I have therefore come to the conclusion that it is my duty to work for my fellow-men. Of course, I do not mean to deny that every man who works for his living, works also for his fellow-men. What I mean is, that I hold myself bound to apply myself to such works as other men have not leisure to undertake, and the profit of which will go direct to mankind without constituting my livelihood on its passage. To open up the unknown wilderness has ever been my ambition. For that purpose I have come to these wild regions. My enthusiasm on quitting my native land was unbounded. But—”
Here Bertram paused and gazed dreamily at the glowing embers of the camp fire with an expression that led the trappers to infer that experience had somewhat moderated his enthusiasm. After a few minutes he resumed:—
“I have done wrong to make this venture alone. On reaching Canada I succeeded, through the kindness of the governor of the Hudson’s Bay Company, in obtaining a passage in one of the company’s canoes through that series of rivers and lakes by which the fur-traders penetrate into the regions of the far north. Arrived at Red River Settlement, I pushed forward on horseback over the plains with a small party of horsemen to the head waters of the Saskatchewan. Here I succeeded in engaging a party of twelve men, composed of half-breeds and Indians, and set out on a journey of exploration over the prairies towards the Rocky Mountains. Circumstances led me to modify my plans. We diverged towards the south, and finally came to within a few days’ journey of the region in which we now are. We were suddenly surprised one night by a war-party of Blackfoot Indians. My men had grown careless. They neglected to keep strict watch, and before we were aware that danger threatened us, all our horses were carried off.
“This was a terrible calamity. My men declared that it was impossible to advance without horses, and refused to accompany me any farther. I remonstrated in vain; then, filled with indignation at their cowardice, I left them and pursued my journey alone. Since then I have seen only one man, a trapper, who was travelling south to the settlements. He offered to take me with him, but I declined. I felt that no great or good work could ever be accomplished by the man who turns back at the first disaster; so he left me. I have suffered somewhat. I am, unfortunately, a bad shot, and, although game is everywhere abundant, I cannot kill it. I have subsisted hitherto on small birds; but my powder and lead are almost expended. Had I not fallen in with you, I know not what I should have done.”
To this narrative the trappers listened with respectful attention, for, despite the feelings of pity, almost bordering on contempt, with which they regarded the stranger’s weapons and his knowledge, or rather ignorance, of woodcraft, they could not help