Читать книгу Ben, the Trapper; Or, The Mountain Demon: A Tale of the Black Hills - Albert W. Aiken - Страница 4

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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.”