Them knaves the Siouxes, the Lord forgive me for ever believing it was the Konzas! have stolen the best of my traps, and driven me altogether to make-shift inventions, which might foretell a dreary winter for me, should my time stretch into another season.
I wish you therefore to take the skins, and to offer them to some of the trappers you will not fail to meet below in exchange for a few traps, and to send the same into the Pawnee village in my name.
Be careful to have my mark painted on them; a letter N, with a hound’s ear, and the lock of a rifle.
There is no Red-skin who will then dispute my right.
For all which trouble I have little more to offer than my thanks, unless my friend, the bee-hunter here, will accept of the racoon, and take on himself the special charge of the whole matter.”
“If I do, may I b—!” The mouth of Paul was stopped by the hand of Ellen, and he was obliged to swallow the rest of the sentence, which he did with a species of emotion that bore no slight resemblance to the process of strangulation.
“Well, well,” returned the old man, meekly; “I hope there is no heavy offence in the offer.
I know that the skin of a racoon is of small price, but then it was no mighty labour that I asked in return.”
“You entirely mistake the meaning of our friend,” interrupted Middleton, who observed, that the bee-hunter was looking in every direction but the right one, and that he was utterly unable to make his own vindication. “He did not mean to say that he declined the charge, but merely that he refused all compensation.
It is unnecessary, however, to say more of this; it shall be my office to see that the debt we owe, is properly discharged, and that all your necessities shall be anticipated.”
“Anan!” said the old man, looking up enquiringly into the other’s face, as if to ask an explanation.
“It shall all be as you wish.
Lay the skins with my baggage.
We will bargain for you as for ourselves.”
“Thankee, thankee, Captain; you grand’ther was of a free and generous mind.
So much so, in truth, that those just people, the Delawares, called him the
‘Openhand.’
I wish, now, I was as I used to be, in order that I might send in the lady a few delicate martens for her tippets and overcoats, just to show you that I know how to give courtesy for courtesy.
But do not expect the same, for I am too old to give a promise!
It will all be just as the Lord shall see fit.
I can offer you nothing else, for I haven’t liv’d so long in the wilderness, not to know the scrupulous ways of a gentleman.”
“Harkee, old trapper,” cried the bee-hunter, striking his own hand into the open palm which the other had extended, with a report but little below the crack of a rifle, “I have just two things to say—Firstly, that the Captain has told you my meaning better than I can myself; and, secondly, if you want a skin, either for your private use or to send abroad, I have it at your service, and that is the skin of one Paul Hover.”
The old man returned the grasp he received, and opened his mouth to the utmost, in his extraordinary, silent, laugh.
“You couldn’t have given such a squeeze, boy, when the Teton squaws were about you with their knives!
Ah! you are in your prime, and in your vigour and happiness, if honesty lies in your path.” Then the expression of his rugged features suddenly changed to a look of seriousness and thought. “Come hither, lad,” he said, leading the bee-hunter by a button to the land, and speaking apart in a tone of admonition and confidence; “much has passed atween us on the pleasures and respectableness of a life in the woods, or on the borders.
I do not now mean to say that all you have heard is not true, but different tempers call for different employments.
You have taken to your bosom, there, a good and kind child, and it has become your duty to consider her, as well as yourself, in setting forth in life.
You are a little given to skirting the settlements but, to my poor judgment, the girl would be more like a flourishing flower in the sun of a clearing, than in the winds of a prairie.
Therefore forget any thing you may have heard from me, which is nevertheless true, and turn your mind on the ways of the inner country.”
Paul could only answer with a squeeze, that would have brought tears from the eyes of most men, but which produced no other effect on the indurated muscles of the other, than to make him laugh and nod, as if he received the same as a pledge that the bee-hunter would remember his advice.
The trapper then turned away from his rough but warm-hearted companion; and, having called Hector from the boat, he seemed anxious still to utter a few words more.
“Captain,” he at length resumed, “I know when a poor man talks of credit, he deals in a delicate word, according to the fashions of the world; and when an old man talks of life, he speaks of that which he may never see; nevertheless there is one thing I will say, and that is not so much on my own behalf as on that of another person.
Here is Hector, a good and faithful pup, that has long outlived the time of a dog; and, like his master, he looks more to comfort now, than to any deeds in running.
But the creatur’ has his feelings as well as a Christian.
He has consorted latterly with his kinsman, there, in such a sort as to find great pleasure in his company, and I will acknowledge that it touches my feelings to part the pair so soon.
If you will set a value on your hound, I will endeavour to send it to you in the spring, more especially should them same traps come safe to hand; or, if you dislike parting with the animal altogether, I will just ask you for his loan through the winter.
I think I can see my pup will not last beyond that time, for I have judgment in these matters, since many is the friend, both hound and Red-skin, that I have seen depart in my day, though the Lord hath not yet seen fit to order his angels to sound forth my name.”
“Take him, take him,” cried Middleton; “take all, or any thing!”
The old man whistled the younger dog to the land; and then he proceeded to the final adieus.
Little was said on either side.
The trapper took each person solemnly by the hand, and uttered something friendly and kind to all.
Middleton was perfectly speechless, and was driven to affect busying himself among the baggage.
Paul whistled with all his might, and even Obed took his leave with an effort that bore the appearance of desperate philosophical resolution.
When he had made the circuit of the whole, the old man, with his own hands, shoved the boat into the current, wishing God to speed them.
Not a word was spoken, nor a stroke of the oar given, until the travellers had floated past a knoll that hid the trapper from their view.
He was last seen standing on the low point, leaning on his rifle, with Hector crouched at his feet, and the younger dog frisking along the sands, in the playfulness of youth and vigour.
CHAPTER XXXIV —Methought, I heard a voice. —Shakspeare.
The water-courses were at their height, and the boat went down the swift current like a bird.
The passage proved prosperous and speedy.
In less than a third of the time, that would have been necessary for the same journey by land, it was accomplished by the favour of those rapid rivers.