Part 12 (2/2)
Akspine!”
Many years have gone by, yet on the hill young and old meet at eventide to repeat the story of the white chief who told them of the Master and taught them always to say, ”Love one another!”
OLD GLAD.
CHAPTER I.
A small company of men were sitting about a camp-fire on the prairie, enjoying their pipes and chatting. They were all trappers and traders.
Their deerskin coats, with embroidered bands and fringed shoulders, were tanned soft, and soiled from constant wear. The beaded leggings generally worn by the half-breeds were replaced by long boots that reached to the knee; their cartridge belts were well filled, the stocks of their revolvers bright, and the knife stuck in the beaded or leathern sheath was sharp and keen.
The men were typical specimens of the cla.s.s of hardy, honest, true-hearted hunters, who held a proprietary right over the prairies second only to those of the aboriginal possessors. Having no newspapers, and but few letters or correspondence with the more civilized world, and therefore scant means of obtaining news of events which serve as topics of conversation to men nearer the centres of civilization, they talked of old times, repeated stories they had heard, or recounted the adventures and experiences that had fallen into their own lives or surroundings.
Long practice in the art of story-telling had made some of them excellent raconteurs, and though the style and diction in which the stories were couched might not bear criticism from the standpoint of literary perfection, they had the charm of being personal recollections, veritable history, and also of being told in the vernacular most intelligible to the listeners.
”Wall, boys, I've been down to bed-rock many a time, but you bet I never came so near givin' in my checks as in the year of the big snow.
It wus the worst year for cold and sickness we ever had in the country.”
The speaker was Old Glad, the famous hunter and trapper. Several of the men, with their long unkempt hair, presented a wild appearance, but the speaker had a soft, sweet voice and a mild expression of face.
This gentle tone gave a dignity to the peculiar phraseology of the West. Old Glad had come as a lad from the sh.o.r.es of the St. Lawrence, and had been for several years in the employ of the Hudson's Bay Company.
Following the custom of that honorable corporation he had taken to wife one of the Indian women of the Cree tribe, and had been happy and content with her. He had a number of sons and daughters who were no small comfort and help to their mother during his absence on buffalo hunts or while working at the different trading posts in the country.
Old Glad was a favorite among his comrades, and they leaned forward that night by the fire to listen to his tale of the by-gone days.
”In my old shanty up in the mountains, I wus tryin' to live through the hard times, huntin' some bear an' deer, an' eatin' whatever I could get. The snow wus deep an' it wus terrible cold, but I ses to the old woman, 'There's no use grumblin', fur that won't bring in buffalo meat.' We hed a few sacks of pemmican an' berries, but that couldn't last long with so many mouths to fill.
”Wall, late one night, an' it wus bitter cold, I heard the door open, an' lookin' up from the fire I saw a white man come in. He wus half naked, an' I didn't like his looks; he had a kind o' skeered look about him that wasn't much in his favor. But I couldn't turn him out on such a cold night, so I giv' him a seat by the fire an' my woman made him some supper.
”He had little to say, and the poor dog eat what wus made for him as if he had been starved fur a whole month. He stayed with us fur three or four weeks, an' it wur while he wus with us, one o' my wee uns took sick. She wur the best o' the house, an' we grudged losin' her. The stranger 'd come to her hammock an' sit down an' begin to coo to her, an' the wee un 'd open her eyes an' a bit of a smile wud come to her face.
”Arter a while he wud sing to her--some queer songs they wur--an' the wee un wud try to follow him, though she wur so sick she couldn't hold up her head. Wall, she kept gettin' worse, an' I made up my mind there wus no chance fur her.
”Some years afore, one o' my little folks wur sick just like wee Nan, an' a doctor come along our way an' gave us some medicine that cured him; an' he wrote a perscription on a piece o' paper an' told us if any o' the children wus taken sick again, if we sent to Bennivale, where he lived, if he couldn't come himself, he would send medicine to help us.
”Wall, this night I walked up an' down wis.h.i.+n' I could go, but I couldn't leave my folk, an' it wus blowin' an' snowin' so as no man could ha' found his way to Bennivale. It wur on the Missouri River, more'n two hundred miles away.
”I looked at the paper over an' over again, an' wished I could go. I wus walkin' an' lookin' at wee Nan an' then at my woman, an' then at the stranger. He said his name wus Bill, and that wus all I could get from him, so I sometimes called him 'Prairie Bill' an' sometimes 'Wanderin' Willie.'
”Wall, I sat down in the old chair, an' I saw Bill lookin' at wee Nan very serious like, an', wud you believe it, comrades, there wus tears in his eyes.
”That night I wus gettin' some wood fur the fire when I saw Bill ridin'
off on his horse, an' I thought he'd got tired an' wus goin' to some o'
the shanties in the mountains, 'r mebbe to the Indian camp. I thought it queer he should go away in that fas.h.i.+on an' never tell me where he wus goin', but of course it wus none o' my business, so I said nothin'.
”Wall, the storm got worse, and wee Nan didn't get any better. I sat beside her night after night, an' the wee thing kept singin' the songs Bill had been singin'. It wus queer, fur though, she wus very sick, she would keep cooin' like Bill, an' then she wud close her eyes an'
keep dosin'.
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