Well! the traveller may just make his pitch where he is; he has plenty of water, though natur’ has cheated him of the pleasure of stripping the ‘arth of its lawful trees.
He has seen the last of his four-footed creatures, or I am but little skilled in Sioux cunning.”
“Had we not better join the party of Ishmael?” said the bee-hunter. “There will be a regular fight about this matter, or the old fellow has suddenly grown chicken-hearted.”
“No—no—no,” hastily exclaimed Ellen.
She was stopped by the trapper, who laid his hand gently on her mouth, as he answered—
“Hist—hist!—the sound of voices might bring us into danger.
Is your friend,” he added, turning to Paul, “a man of spirit enough?”
“Don’t call the squatter a friend of mine!” interrupted the youth. “I never yet harboured with one who could not show hand and zeal for the land which fed him.”
“Well—well.
Let it then be acquaintance.
Is he a man to maintain his own, stoutly by dint of powder and lead?”
“His own! ay, and that which is not his own, too!
Can you tell me, old trapper, who held the rifle that did the deed for the sheriff’s deputy, that thought to rout the unlawful settlers who had gathered nigh the Buffaloe lick in old Kentucky?
I had lined a beautiful swarm that very day into the hollow of a dead beech, and there lay the people’s officer at its roots, with a hole directly through the ‘grace of God;’ which he carried in his jacket pocket covering his heart, as if he thought a bit of sheepskin was a breastplate against a squatter’s bullet!
Now, Ellen, you needn’t be troubled for it never strictly was brought home to him; and there were fifty others who had pitched in that neighbourhood with just the same authority from the law.”
The poor girl shuddered, struggling powerfully to suppress the sigh which arose in spite of her efforts, as if from the very bottom of her heart.
Thoroughly satisfied that he understood the character of the emigrants, by the short but comprehensive description conveyed in Paul’s reply, the old man raised no further question concerning the readiness of Ishmael to revenge his wrongs, but rather followed the train of thought which was suggested to his experience, by the occasion.
“Each one knows the ties which bind him to his fellow-creatures best,” he answered. “Though it is greatly to be mourned that colour, and property, and tongue, and l’arning should make so wide a difference in those who, after all, are but the children of one father!
Howsomever,” he continued, by a transition not a little characteristic of the pursuits and feelings of the man, “as this is a business in which there is much more likelihood of a fight than need for a sermon, it is best to be prepared for what may follow.—Hush! there is a movement below; it is an equal chance that we are seen.”
“The family is stirring,” cried Ellen, with a tremor that announced nearly as much terror at the approach of her friends, as she had before manifested at the presence of her enemies. “Go, Paul, leave me.
You, at least, must not be seen!”
“If I leave you, Ellen, in this desert before I see you safe in the care of old Ishmael, at least, may I never hear the hum of another bee, or, what is worse, fail in sight to line him to his hive!”
“You forget this good old man.
He will not leave me.
Though I am sure, Paul, we have parted before, where there has been more of a desert than this.”
“Never!
These Indians may come whooping back, and then where are you!
Half way to the Rocky Mountains before a man can fairly strike the line of your flight.
What think you, old trapper? How long may it be before these Tetons, as you call them, will be coming for the rest of old Ishmael’s goods and chattels?”
“No fear of them,” returned the old man, laughing in his own peculiar and silent manner; “I warrant me the devils will be scampering after their beasts these six hours yet!
Listen! you may hear them in the willow bottoms at this very moment; ay, your real Sioux cattle will run like so many long-legged elks.
Hist! crouch again into the grass, down with ye both; as I’m a miserable piece of clay, I heard the ticking of a gunlock!”
The trapper did not allow his companions time to hesitate, but dragging them both after him, he nearly buried his own person in the fog of the prairie, while he was speaking.
It was fortunate that the senses of the aged hunter remained so acute, and that he had lost none of his readiness of action.
The three were scarcely bowed to the ground, when their ears were saluted with the well-known, sharp, short, reports of the western rifle, and instantly, the whizzing of the ragged lead was heard, buzzing within dangerous proximity of their heads.
“Well done, young chips! well done, old block!” whispered Paul, whose spirits no danger nor situation could entirely depress. “As pretty a volley, as one would wish to bear on the wrong end of a rifle!
What d’ye say, trapper! here is likely to be a three-cornered war.
Shall I give ‘em as good as they send?”
“Give them nothing but fair words,” returned the other, hastily, “or you are both lost.”
“I’m not certain it would much mend the matter, if I were to speak with my tongue instead of the piece,” said Paul, in a tone half jocular half bitter.
“For the sake of heaven, do not let them hear you!” cried Ellen. “Go, Paul, go; you can easily quit us now!”
Several shots in quick succession, each sending its dangerous messenger, still nearer than the preceding discharge, cut short her speech, no less in prudence than in terror.
“This must end,” said the trapper, rising with the dignity of one bent only on the importance of his object. “I know not what need ye may have, children, to fear those you should both love and honour, but something must be done to save your lives.
A few hours more or less can never be missed from the time of one who has already numbered so many days; therefore I will advance.
Here is a clear space around you.
Profit by it as you need, and may God bless and prosper each of you, as ye deserve!”
Without waiting for any reply, the trapper walked boldly down the declivity in his front, taking the direction of the encampment, neither quickening his pace in trepidation, nor suffering it to be retarded by fear.
The light of the moon fell brighter for a moment on his tall, gaunt, form, and served to warn the emigrants of his approach.
Indifferent, however to this unfavourable circumstance, he held his way, silently and steadily towards the copse, until a threatening voice met him with a challenge of—
“Who comes; friend or foe?”