Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England
The Wild Man of the West, by R.M. Ballantyne.
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The action of this book takes place entirely in the foothills of theRocky Mountains in North America. We can certainly appreciate thehardness of the life of the hunters in those days, which were during theearly part of the nineteenth century. The action is very well narrated,and is very exciting and interesting. All sorts of things are suddenlypulled together in the very last few pages, and it would be quite hardfor the reader to guess what was going to happen, before the last twochapters.
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THE WILD MAN OF THE WEST, BY R.M. BALLANTYNE.
CHAPTER ONE.
IN WHICH THE READER IS INTRODUCED TO A MAD HERO, A RECKLESS LOVER, AND ARUNAWAY HUSBAND--BACKWOODS JUVENILE TRAINING DESCRIBED--THE PRINCIPLESOF FIGHTING FULLY DISCUSSED, AND SOME VALUABLE HINTS THROWN OUT.
March Marston was mad! The exact state of madness to which March hadattained at the age when we take up his personal history--namely,sixteen--is uncertain, for the people of the backwoods settlement inwhich he dwelt differed in their opinions on that point.
The clergyman, who was a Wesleyan, said he was as wild as a youngbuffalo bull; but the manner in which he said so led his hearers toconclude that he did not think such a state of ungovernable madness tobe a hopeless condition, by any means. The doctor said he was as mad asa hatter; but this was an indefinite remark, worthy of a doctor who hadnever obtained a diploma, and required explanation, inasmuch as it wasimpossible to know _how_ mad he considered a hatter to be. Some of thetrappers who came to the settlement for powder and lead, said he was asmad as a grisly bear with a whooping-cough--a remark which, if true,might tend to throw light on the diseases to which the grisly bear isliable, but which failed to indicate to any one, except perhapstrappers, the extent of young Marston's madness. The carpenter and theblacksmith of the place--who were fast friends and had a pitched battleonly once a month, or twice at most--agreed in saying that he was as madas a wild-cat. In short, every one asserted stoutly that the boy wasmad, with the exception of the women of the settlement, who thought hima fine, bold, handsome fellow; and his own mother, who thought him aparagon of perfection, and who held the opinion (privately) that, in thewide range of the habitable globe there was not another like him--andshe was not far wrong!
Now, the whole and sole reason why March Marston was thus deemed amadman, was that he displayed an insane tendency, at all times and inall manners, to break his own neck, or to make away with himself in somesimilarly violent and uncomfortable manner.
There was not a fence in the whole countryside that March had not boltedover at full gallop, or ridden crash through if he could not go over it.There was not a tree within a circuit of four miles from the top ofwhich he had not fallen. There was not a pond or pool in theneighbourhood into which he had not soused at some period of his stormyjuvenile career, and there was not a big boy whom he had not fought andthrashed--or been thrashed by--scores of times.
But for all this March had not a single enemy. He did his companionsmany a kind turn; never an unkind one. He fought for love, not forhatred. He loved a dog--if any one kicked it, he fought him. He loveda little boy--if any one was cruel to that little boy, he fought him.He loved fair play--if any one was guilty of foul play, he fought him.When he was guilty of foul play himself (as was sometimes the case, forwho is perfect?) he felt inclined to jump out of his own body and turnabout and thrash himself! And he would have done so often, had it beenpracticable. Yes, there is no doubt whatever about it March Marston wasmad--as mad, after a fashion, as any creature, human or otherwise, youchoose to name.
Young Marston's mother was a handsome, stout, blue-eyed, flaxen-hairedwoman, of a little over thirty-five summers. She was an Englishemigrant, and had, seventeen years before the time we write of settledat Pine Point, on the banks of the Yellowstone River, along with herbrother, the blacksmith above referred to. At that time she was thesweetest maiden in all the village, and now she was the handsomestmatron. Indeed, the bloom of her youth remained on her cheeks so littleimpaired that she was often mistaken by strangers for March Marston'selder sister. The men of the place called her pretty widow Marston; butshe was not a widow--at least, they had as little ground for saying thatshe was as they had for asserting that her son was mad. Mrs Marstonwas peculiarly circumstanced, but she was not a widow.
The peculiar circumstances connected with her history are soon told.Immediately after the arrival of the blacksmith and his pretty sister atPine Point settlement, a tall stout young stripling--a trapper--about ayear older than herself, fell deeply in love with Mary West--that beingMrs Marston's maiden name. The young trapper's case was desperate. Hesank at once so deep into the profundities of love, that no deep-sealead, however ingeniously contrived, could reach him.
Although just emerging from boyhood, Louis the trapper was already atall, strong, handsome man, and Mary felt flattered by his attentions.But when, a month afterwards, he boldly offered her his hand and fortune(which latter consisted of a trapper's costume and a western rifle), shewas taken aback and flatly refused him. Louis was hare-brained andpassionate. He told her he would give her one day and a night to thinkof it. At the end of that time he came back and was again refused, forMary West had no notion of being taken by storm in that fashion. Butshe trembled and grew pale on observing the storm of angry passion thatgleamed from the young trapper's eyes and caused his broad chest toheave violently. He did not speak. He did not even look at Mary--hadhe done so, years of sorrow and suffering might have been spared themboth. He stood for one moment with his eyes fixed upon the ground--thenhe turned, sprang through the doorway, vaulted on his horse, and wentoff from her cottage door as an arrow leaps from a bow. The fences andditches that lay in his way were no impediment. His powerful steedcarried him over all and into the forest beyond, where he was quicklylost to view. Mary tried to resume her household occupations with asigh. She did not believe he was gone. But he was!
At first Mary was nettled; then she grew sad; as weeks passed away shebecame nettled again, and at this juncture another suitor appeared inthe shape of a young immigrant farmer, whose good looks and insinuatingaddress soothed her irritation at the strange abrupt conduct of herlover. She began to think that she must have been mistaken in supposingthat she cared for the wild trapper--and, in order to prove thecorrectness of her supposition, she married Obadiah Marston, the farmer.
Alas! poor Mary discovered her error too late. Marston turned out aprofligate drunkard. At first he did not come out in his true colours.A son was born, and he insisted on calling him March, for no otherreason than that he was born in the month so named. Mary was obliged toconsent, and at last came to congratulate herself that the child hadbeen born in March, and not in April or October, or any other monthequally unsuitable for a Christian name. After the first year, ObadiahMarston treated his wife badly, then brutally, and at last he received asound drubbing from his brother-in-law, the blacksmith, for havingbeaten poor Mary with a stick. This brought things to a climax.Marston vowed he would forsake his wife, and never set eyes on heragain; and he kept his vow. He embarked one day in a boat that wasgoing down to the Missouri with a cargo of furs, and his poor wife neversaw him again. Thus was Mary West forsaken, first by her lover and thenby her husband.
It was long before she recovered from the blow; but time graduallyreconciled her to her lot, and she devoted herself thenceforth t
o thetraining of her little boy. As years rolled on, Mrs Marston recoveredher spirits and her looks; but, although many a fine young fellow soughther heart and hand, assuring her that she was a widow--that she _must_be a widow, that no man in his senses could remain so long away fromsuch a wife unless he were dead--she turned a deaf ear to them all.
March Marston's infancy was spent in yelling and kicking, with theexception of those preternaturally calm periods when he was employed ineating and sleeping. As he grew older the kicking and yellingdecreased, the eating increased, and the sleeping continued pretty muchthe same. Then came a period when he began to learn his A, B, C. MrsMarston had been well educated for her station in life. She had readmuch, and had brought a number of books to the backwoods settlement; soshe gave her boy a pretty good education--as education went in thosedays--and certainly a much better one than was given to boys in suchout-of-the-way regions. She taught him to read and write, and carriedhim on in arithmetic as far as compound division, where she stuck,having reached the extreme limits of her own tether.
Contemporaneously with the cessation of squalling and kicking, and theacquirement of the A, B, C, there arose in little March's bosomunutterable love for his mother; or, rather, the love that had alwaysdwelt there began to well up powerfully, and to overflow in copiousstreams of obedience and considerate attention. About the same time theroving, reckless "madness," as it was styled, began to develop itself.And, strange to say, Mrs Marston did not check that! She was alarge-minded, a liberal-minded woman, that semi-widow. She watched herson closely, but very few of his deeds were regarded by her in the lightof faults. Tumbling off trees was not. Falling into ditches and horseponds was not. Fighting was, to some extent; and on this point alonedid mother and son seem to entertain any difference of opinion, if wemay style that difference of opinion where the son fell into silent andextreme perplexity after a short, and on his part humble, discussion onthe subject.
"Why, mother," said March in surprise (having attained the mature age ofeight when he said it), "if a grisly bear was to 'tack me, you'd let medefend myself, wouldn't you?"
Mrs Marston smiled to see the rotund little object of two-feet-tenstanding before the fire with its legs apart and its arms crossed,putting such a question, and replied--
"Certainly, my boy."
"And when Tom Blake offered to hit Susy Jefferson, wasn't I right tofight him for that?"
"Yes, my boy, I think it right to fight in defence of the weak andhelpless."
The object of two-feet-ten began to swell and his eyes to brighten atthe unexpected success of this catechising of its mother, and went on tosay--
"Well, mother, why do you blame me for fightin', then, if it's right?"
"Because fighting is not always right, my boy. You had a fight withBill Summers, hadn't you, yesterday?"
"Yes, mother."
Two-feet-ten said this in a hesitating tone, and shrank into itsordinary proportions as it continued--
"But I didn't lick him, mother, he licked _me_. But I'll try again,mother--indeed I will, and I'll be sure to lick him next time."
"I don't want you to try again," rejoined Mrs Marston; "and you mustnot try again without a good reason. Why did you fight him yesterday?"
"Because he told a lie," said the object promptly, swelling out again,and looking big under the impression that the goodness of its reasoncould not be questioned. It was, therefore, with a look of baffledsurprise that it collapsed again on being told that that was not asufficient reason for engaging in warfare, and that it was wrong to takethe law into its own hands, or to put in its word or its little fist,where it had no right to interfere--and a great deal more to thateffect.
"But, March, my boy," said Mrs Marston, drawing the object towards herand patting its round little fair head, "what makes you so fond offighting?"
"I ain't fond o' fighting, mother, but I can't help it."
"Can't help it! Do you ever try?"
"I--I--no, I don't think that I do. But I feel so funny when I see BillSummers cheatin' at play. I feel all over red-hot--like--oh! you'veseen the big pot boilin' over? Well, I just feel like that. An' w'enit boils over, you know, mother, it must be took off the fire, else itkicks up _sich_ a row! But there's nobody to take me off the fire whenI'm boilin' over, an' there's no fire to take me off--so you see I_can't_ help it. Can I?"
As the object concluded these precociously philosophical remarks, itlooked up in its mother's face with an earnest inquiring gaze. Themother looked down at it with an equally earnest look--though there wasa twinkle in each eye and a small dimple in each cheek that indicated astruggle with gravity--and said--
"I could stop the big pot from boiling-over without taking it off thefire."
"How?" inquired Two-feet-ten eagerly.
"By letting it boil over till it put the fire out."
The object opened its eyes very wide, and pursed its mouth very tight;then it relaxed, grinned a little with an air of uncertainty, and wasabout to laugh, but checked itself, and, with a look of perplexity,said--
"Eh?"
"Ay, my boy," resumed the mother, "just you try the boiling-over plannext time. When you feel inclined to fight, and know, or _think_, thatyou shouldn't, just stand quite still, and look hard at the ground--mind, don't look at the boy you want to fight with, but at the ground--and begin to count one, two, three, four, and so on, and I'm quite surethat when you've counted fifty the fire will be out. Now, will you try,my son?"
"Mother," replied Two-feet-ten earnestly (and becoming at least two feeteleven while he spoke), "I'll try!"
This ended the conversation at that time, and we beg leave to apologiseto our reader for having given it in such full detail, but we think itnecessary to the forming of a just appreciation of our hero and hismother, as it shows one phase of their characters better than could havebeen accomplished by a laboured description.
Before March Marston had attained to the age of sixteen he had readaloud to his mother--not once, but several times--the "Vicar ofWakefield", "Robinson Crusoe," the "Pilgrim's Progress," and "Tales of aGrandfather", "Aesop's Fables," and a variety of tales and stories andhistories of lesser note--all of which he stored up in a good memory,and gave forth in piecemeal to his unlettered companions as opportunityoffered. Better than all this, he had many and many a time read hisBible through, and was familiar with all its leading heroes andhistories and anecdotes.
Thus, it will be seen that March Marston was quite a learned youth for abackwoodsman, besides being a hero and a "madman."
The Wild Man of the West: A Tale of the Rocky Mountains Page 1