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"Mokgroggir," replied the Indian. "Ha, Macgregor, ye mean, no doubt." Hawkswing nodded. "Here you are, friends," said McLeod, re-entering the room with a large roll of tobacco. "Help yourselves and don't spare it. There's plenty more where that came from. But I see the steaks are ready, so let us fall to; we can smoke afterwards."
Wot on 'arth makes you talk of settlin' down in that there fashion?" "Ha!" exclaimed Waller energetically, "I guess if ye goes on in that style ye'll turn into a riglar hiplecondrik ain't that the word, Bounce? I heer'd the minister say as it was the wust kind o' the blues. What's your opinion o' settlin' down, Hawkswing?"
"So he has," observed Redhand, "but there may be other wild men besides our one." "Unpossible," said Bounce emphatically. "Ditto," cried Waller still more emphatically; "what say you, Hawkswing?" "There is but one Wild Man of the West," replied the Indian. "By the way, Hawkswing, what was the name o' the rascally trader you said was in charge o' this fort when you lived here?" asked Redhand.
Bertram became silent on observing that the Indian had approached to within about pistol range of the buffalo without attracting particular attention, and that he was in the act of taking aim at its shoulder. Immediately a sharp click caused the buffalo to look up, and apprised the onlookers that the faithless weapon had missed fire; again Hawkswing pulled the trigger and with a like result.
"Jist oder side of de bluff. Ver' close to de bushes. Queek! queek! vite! mon garcon, you is so drefful slow." The latter part of this sentence was addressed to Hawkswing, who was quietly putting on his wolf-skin. Although too slow for the hasty spirit of Gibault, the Indian was quick enough for all useful purposes.
They had now, however, again reached a rich country, and had succeeded in trapping a large wolf, under the skin of which Hawkswing had made, as we have seen, an unsuccessful effort to shoot a buffalo. Soon after this failure the party came to a ridge of gravelly soil that stretched across the plain like a wave.
The mystery is explained when we state that this wolf was none other than Hawkswing, down on his hands and knees, with a wolf-skin over his back, and Bertram's blunderbuss-pistol in his hand. He was creeping cautiously towards a herd of six or seven buffaloes that chanced to be feeding quietly there, quite unconscious of the near proximity of so dangerous an enemy.
Not long after this promise was made, a light bark canoe was launched upon the river, and into it stepped our hero, with his friend Bounce, and Big Waller, Black Gibault, Hawkswing, and Redhand, the trappers. A cheer rang from the end of the little wharf at Pine Point, as the frail craft shot out into the stream.
He brought forward his gun as he spoke, and examined the priming. "I b'lieve he's an evil spirit, I do," said Bounce; "wot a pace!" "More like to de Wild Man of de Vest," observed Gibault. "Think you so?" whispered Bertram in an anxious tone, with an involuntary motion of his hand to the pouch in which lay that marvellous sketch-book of his. "Think it's him?" said Redhand to Hawkswing.
As they drew near to each other the trappers almost instinctively divided into two parties. Redhand and Hawkswing went a little to the right; Bounce, Waller, and our hero, diverged to the left, so as to let the flying men pass between them, and thus attack the bear on both sides at once. Gibault attempted to cheer as he darted through the friendly line, but he could only give forth a gasp.
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