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Updated: July 5, 2025
"What! my pistols," cried Bertram, seizing his weapons with as much delight as if they had been really serviceable. "Hah! ver' goot for play vid," observed Gibault contemptuously. "I say, here's something else," said Bounce, picking up a rifle. "Wah!" exclaimed Hawkswing, pointing to the weapon in surprise, and turning his eyes on Redhand. "Wot! d'ye know who it b'long'd to?" inquired Bounce.
The huge unwieldy creatures looked up inquiringly for a moment, but, seeing only a solitary enemy, they scorned to take further notice of him, and went on feeding. Hawkswing paused within a few yards of the side of a fat sleek animal, and slowly raised his pistol. The trappers held their breath, and Bertram uttered a low groan of anxiety.
It was a wonderful sight to see, the way in which these experienced men flayed and cut up that buffalo! Hawkswing, without taking time to remove his wolf-skin covering, commenced upon the head and speedily cut out the tongue a more difficult operation than inexperienced persons would suppose. Redhand and Bounce began at the shoulders, and Big Waller and Gibault fell to work upon the flanks.
They were our friends Redhand, Bounce, Big Waller, Gibault, Hawkswing, and Bertram. It is observable among men who travel long in company together in a wild country, that, when they return again to civilised, or to semi-civilised life, they feel a strong inclination to draw closer together, either from the force of habit, or sympathy, or both.
Bounce and Hawkswing bolted into the cottage in search of the needful fluid; but, being unused to furniture, they upset three chairs and a small table in their haste, and scattered on the floor a mass of crockery, with a crash that made them feel as if they had been the means of causing some dire domestic calamity, and which almost terrified the household kitten into fits.
The Indian made no reply, but a dark frown overspread his countenance for a few minutes. When it passed, his features settled down into their usual state of quiet gravity. "Have ye ever seed that fort before?" inquired Bounce in the Indian tongue. "I have," answered Hawkswing. "Many moons have passed since I was in this spot. My nation was strong then. It is weak now. Few braves are left.
"I know him," interrupted March; "Gibault Noir Black Gibault, as they sometimes call him. Am I right?" "Right, lad; that's two. Then there's Hawkswing, the Injun whose wife and family were all murdered by a man of his own tribe, and who left his people after that an' tuck to trappin' with the whites; that's three.
Any one who had observed our friends March Marston, and Redhand, and Bounce, and Big Waller, and Black Gibault, the trappers, and Bertram the artist, and Hawkswing the Indian, one beautiful afternoon, not long after the day on which they lost their canoe, would have admitted, without hesitation, that wandering through the wild woods was, among other things, a funny thing.
The superior swimming powers of the bear over the man would have diminished the distance to nothing in a minute or so. Even as it was, the bear was within six inches of March's heels when Hawkswing and Redhand gained the edge of the bank.
"Here's a steep bit, lads; mind your eye, Hawkswing," said Bounce, as the Indian who led the party began to ascend a steep part of the bank, where the footing was not secure, owing to the loose gravelly nature of the soil.
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