The Wild Man of the West - Robert Michael Ballantyne (korean ebook reader .txt) 📗

on the couch beside him.

We will pass over the first few days that succeeded the event just narrated, during which poor March Marston went about the wild region in the vicinity of the cave like one in a dream. It may be imagined with what surprise the trappers learned from him the near relationship that existed between himself and the fur trader. They felt and expressed the deepest sympathy with their young comrade, and offered to accompany him when he laid his father in the grave. But Dick had firmly refused to allow the youth to bring the trappers near his abode, so they forbore to press him, and the last sad rites were performed by himself and Dick alone. The grave was made in the centre of a little green vale which lay like an emerald in the heart of that rocky wilderness; and a little wooden cross, with the name and date cut thereon by March, was erected at the head of the low mound to mark the fur trader's last lonely resting-place. March Marston had never known his father in early life, having been an infant when he deserted his family; and the little that he had seen of him at the Mountain Fort, and amid the wild scenes of the Rocky Mountains, had not made a favourable impression on him. But, now that he was gone, the natural instinct of affection arose within his breast. He called to remembrance the last few and sad hours which he had spent by his parent's dying bed. He thought of their last few words on the momentous concerns of the soul, and of the eagerness with which, at times, the dying man listened to the life-giving Word of God; and the tear of sorrow that fell upon the grave, as he turned to quit that solitary spot, was mingled with a tear of joy and thankfulness that God had brought him there to pour words of comfort and hope into his dying father's ear.

That night he spent in the cave with Dick; he felt indisposed to join his old comrades just then. The grave tenderness of his eccentric friend, and the sympathy of little Mary, were more congenial to him.

"March," said Dick in a low, sad tone, as they sat beside the fire, "that funeral reminds me o' my friend I told ye of once. It's a lonesome grave his, with nought but a wooden cross to mark it."

"Had you known him long, Dick?"

"No, not long. He left the settlement in a huff--bein', I b'lieve, crossed in love, as I told ye."

Dick paused, and clasping both hands over his knee, gazed with a look of mingled sternness and sorrow at the glowing fire.

"Did ye ever," he resumed abruptly, "hear o' a feller called Louis, who once lived at Pine Point--before ye was born, lad; did ye ever hear yer mother speak of him?"

"Louis? Yes--well, I believe I do think I've heard the name before. Oh yes! People used to say he was fond o' my mother when she was a girl; but I never heard her speak of him. Now ye mention it, I remember the only time I ever asked her about it, she burst into tears, and told me never to speak of him again. Thadwick was his name--Louis Thadwick; but he was better known as Louis the Trapper. But he's almost forgotten at the settlement now; it's so long ago. Every one thinks him dead. Why d'ye ask?"

"Think he's dead?" repeated Dick slowly. "An' why not? My poor friend that was killed when he left his native place swore he'd never go back, an' no more he did--no more he did; though he little thought that death would step in so soon to make him keep his word."

"Was Louis your friend who died?" inquired March with much interest and not a little pity, for he observed that his companion was deeply affected.

Dick did not reply. His thoughts seemed to be wandering again, so March forbore to interrupt him, and, turning to Mary, said in a more cheerful tone--

"Whether would ye like to go to Pine Point settlement and stay with my mother, or that I should come here and spend the winter with you and Dick?"

Mary looked puzzled, and after some moments' consideration replied, "Me don't know." Then, looking up quickly, she added, "Which _you_ like?"

"Indeed, I must make the same reply, Mary--`I don't know.' But, as I can't expect my friend Dick to give up his wild life, I suppose I must make up my mind to come here."

"March," said Dick quickly, "I've changed my mind, lad. It won't do. You'll have to spend next winter at home--anyhow ye can't spend it with me."

Had a thunderbolt struck the earth between March and Mary, they would not have been filled with half so much consternation as they were on hearing these words. It was plain that both had thoroughly made up their minds that they were to be together for many months to come. Dick noted the effect of his remark, and a peculiar frown crossed his countenance for a moment, but it gave place to a smile, as he said--

"I'm sorry to disappoint ye, lad, but the thing cannot be."

"Cannot be!" repeated March in a tone of exasperation, for he felt that this was an unwarrantable piece of caprice on the part of his friend; "surely you don't claim to be chief of the Rocky Mountains! If I choose to come an' spend the winter in this region, you have no right to prevent me. And if I offer to bring you furs and venison, besides pretty good company, will ye be such a surly knave as to refuse me a corner of your cave?"

"Nay, lad. Right welcome would ye be, with or without furs or venison; but I mean to leave the cave--to quit this part of the country altogether. The fact is, I'm tired of it, an' want a change."

"Very good, all right, an' what's to hinder my going with you? I'm fond o' change myself. I'd as soon go one way as another."

Dick shook his head. "It's o' no use, March, I've my own reasons for desirin' to travel alone. The thing cannot be."

This was said in such a decided tone that March looked at Mary in dismay. He gathered no consolation from her countenance, however.

"March," said Dick firmly, "I'm sorry to grieve ye, lad, but it can't be helped. All I can say is, that if ye choose to come back here next summer you'll be heartily welcome, and I'll engage that ye'll find me here; but I'm quite sartin' ye won't want to come."

"Won't want to come! I'll bet ye a hundred thousand million dollars I'll want to come, ay, and _will_ come," cried March.

"Done!" said Dick, seizing the youth's hand, "an' Mary's a witness to the wager."

It is needless to say that the conversation did not rest here. The greater part of that night, and during great part of the week that March remained there, he continued to press the Wild Man of the West to alter his purpose, but without avail. Each day he passed with his comrades, hunting and trapping, and each night he bade them adieu and returned to sup and sleep in the cave, and, of course, persecuted Dick all that time; but Dick was immovable.

Of course, the trappers renewed their attempts to get March to show them Dick's abode, but he persistently refused, and they were too good-natured to annoy him, and too honest to follow his trail, which they might easily have done, had they been so disposed.

At last the time arrived when it became necessary that the trappers should return to Pine Point settlement. In the midst of all their alarms and fights they had found time to do, what Big Waller termed, a "pretty considerable stroke o' business." That is to say, they had killed a large number of fur-bearing animals by means of trap, snare, and gun, so that they were in a position to return home with a heavy load of valuable skins. The day of their departure was therefore arranged, and March, mounting his steed, galloped, for the last time, and with a heavy heart, towards the cave of his friend Dick.

As he passed rapidly over the wild country, and entered the gloomy recesses that surrounded the Wild Man's home, he thought over the arguments and persuasive speeches with which he meant to make a last and, he still hoped, successful appeal. But March might have spared himself the trouble of all this thought, for when he reached the cave Dick was absent. This grieved, him deeply, because every preparation had been made by his companions for starting on their homeward journey that evening, so that he had no time to spare.

Mary, was at home, however, so March felt a little consoled, and, seating himself in his wonted place beside the fire, he said--

"When will Dick be home, Mary?"

"Me no can know 'xactly. To-morray hims say, perhaps."

"Then it's all up," sighed March, leaning recklessly back against the wall; "all up! I'm off to-night, so I'll not be able to spend the winter with you after all."

Had Mary burst into tears on hearing this, March would have felt satisfied. Had she groaned or sobbed, or even sighed, he would have experienced some degree of relief to his annoyed and disappointed spirit, but when Mary, instead of any such demonstration, hung down her head so that the heavy masses of her soft brown hair hid her pretty face and said in a tone which March fancied was not very genuine, "What a pity!" he became extremely exasperated, and deemed himself ill-used.

During the half-hour that succeeded he endeavoured to converse in a pleasant tone of voice, but without success. At last he rose to go.

"Must you go 'way dis night?" said Mary with a look of concern.

"Ay, Mary, an' it's not much matter, for ye don't seem to care."

The girl looked at him reproachfully, "You is not please' with me, March--why?"

The question puzzled the youth. He certainly was displeased, but he could not make up his mind to say that he was so because Mary had not fallen into a state of violent grief at the prospect of a separation. But the anxious gaze of Mary's truthful blue eyes was too much for him-- he suddenly grasped both her hands, and, kissing her forehead, said--

"Mary dear, I'm not displeased. I'm only sorry, and sad, and annoyed, and miserable--very miserable--I can scarcely tell why. I suppose I'm not well, or I'm cross, or something or other. But this I know, Mary, Dick has invited me to come back to see him next year, and I certainly shall come if life and limb hold out till then."

Mary's eyes filled with tears, and as she smiled through them, March, being very near her face, beheld in each eye an excessively miniature portrait of himself gazing out at him lovingly.

"Perhaps!" faltered Mary, "you no want for come when it be nixt year."

Poor March was overwhelmed again, absolutely disgusted, that _she_ could entertain a doubt upon that