The Prairie Chief, Robert Michael Ballantyne [best ereader for graphic novels .TXT] 📗

search of the father; but now that the Blackfeet had been effectually repulsed and the fortress relieved by the arrival of Whitewing's party, it was resolved that they should organise a search for the absentee without an hour's delay.

"Leetil Tim," said Whitewing decisively, when he was told of his old friend's unaccountable absence, "must be found."

"So say I," returned Big Tim. "I hope the Blackfoot reptiles haven't got him. Mayhap he has cut himself with his hatchet. Anyhow, we must go at once. You won't mind our leaving you for a bit?" he added, turning to the missionary; "we will leave enough o' redskins to guard you, and my soft one will see to it that you are comfortable."

"Think not of me," replied the preacher. "All will go well, I feel assured."

Still further to guard the reader from supposing that there is any mystery connected with the missionary's name or Little Tim's surname, we think it well to state at once that there is absolutely none. In those outlandish regions, and among that primitive people, the forming of names by the mere combination of unmeaning syllables found small favour. They named people according to some striking quality or characteristic. Hence our missionary had been long known among the red men of the West as the Preacher, and, being quite satisfied with that name, he accepted it without making any attempt to bamboozle the children of the woods and prairies with his real name, which was--and is--a matter of no importance whatever. Tim likewise, being short of stature, though very much the reverse of weak or diminutive, had accepted the name of "Little Tim" with a good grace, and made mention of no other; his son naturally becoming "Big Tim" when he outgrew his father.

A search expedition having been quickly organised, it left the little fortress at once, and defiled into the thick woods, led by Whitewing and Big Tim.

In order that the reader may fully understand the cause of Little Tim's absence, we will take the liberty of pushing on in advance of the search party, and explain a few matters as we go.

It has already been shown that our little hunter possessed a natural ingenuity of mind. This quality had, indeed, been noticeable when he was a boy, but it did not develop largely till he became a man. As he grew older his natural ingenuity seemed to become increasingly active, until his thirst for improving on mechanical contrivances and devising something new became almost a passion. Hence he was perpetually occupied in scheming to improve--as he was wont to say--the material condition of the human race, as well as the mental.

Among other things, he improved the traps of his Indian friends, and also their dwellings. He invented new traps, and, as we have seen, new methods of defending dwellings, as well as of escaping when defence failed. His name, of course, became well known in the Indian country, and as some of his contrivances proved to be eminently useful, he was regarded far and near as a great medicine-man, who could do whatever he set his mind to. Without laying claim to such unlimited powers, Little Tim was quite content to leave the question of his capacity to scheme and invent as much a matter of uncertainty in the minds of his red friends as it was in his own mind.

One day there came to the Indian village, in which he dwelt at the time with his still pretty though matronly wife Brighteyes, one of the agents of a man whose business it was to collect wild animals for the menageries of the United States and elsewhere. Probably this man was an ancestor of Barnum, for he possessed a mind which seemed to be capable of conceiving anything and sticking at nothing. He found a man quite after his own heart when he discovered Little Tim.

"I want a grizzly b'ar," he said, on being introduced to the hunter.

"There's plenty of 'em in these parts," said Tim, who was whittling a piece of wood at the time.

"But I want a full-grown old 'un," said the agent.

"Well," remarked Tim, looking up with an inquiring glance for a moment, "I should say there's some thousands, more or less, roamin' about the Rockies, in all stages of oldness--from experienced mammas to great-grandmothers, to say nothin' o' the old gentlemen; but you'll find most of 'em powerful sly an' uncommon hard to kill."

"But I don't want to kill 'em; I want one of 'em alive," said the agent.

At this Little Tim stopped whittling the bit of stick, and looked hard at the man.

"You wants to catch one alive?" he repeated.

"_Yes_, that's what's the matter with me exactly. I want it for a show, an' I'm prepared to give a good price for a big one."

"How much?" asked the hunter.

The stranger bent down and whispered in his ear. Little Tim raised his eyebrows a little, and resumed whittling.

"But," said he, after a few moments' vigorous knife-work, "what if I should try, an' fail?"

"Then you get nothing."

"Won't do," returned the little hunter, with a slow shake of the head. "I'm game to tackle difficulties for love _or_ money, but not for nothin'. You'll have to go to another shop, stranger."

"Well, what will you _try_ it for?" asked the agent, who was unwilling to lose his man.

"For quarter o' the sum down, to be kep' whether I succeed or fail, the balance to be paid when I hand over the goods."

"Well, stranger," returned the agent, with a grim smile, "I don't mind if I agree to that. You seem an honest man."

"Sorry I can't return the compliment," said Little Tim, holding out his hand. "So cash down, if you please."

The agent laughed, but pulled out a huge leathern bag, and paid the stipulated sum in good undeniable silver dollars.

The hunter at once made preparation for his enterprise. Meanwhile the agent took up his abode in the Indian village to await the result.

After a night of profound meditation in the solitude of his wigwam, Little Tim set to work and cut up several fresh buffalo hides into long and strong lines with which he made a net of enormous mesh and strength. He arranged it in such a way, with a line run round the circumference, that he could draw it together like a purse. With this gigantic affair on his shoulder, he set off one morning at daybreak into the mountains. He met the agent, who was an early riser, on the threshold of the village.

"What! goin' out alone, Little Tim?" he said.

"Yes; b'ars don't like company, as a rule."

"Don't you think I might help you a bit?"

"No, I don't. If you stop where you are, I'll very likely bring the b'ar home to 'ee. If you go with me, it's more than likely the b'ar will take you home to her small family!"

"Well, well, have it your own way," returned the agent, laughing.

"I always do," replied the hunter, with a grin.

Proceeding a day's journey into the mountains, our adventurous hunter discovered the track of a bear, which must, he thought be an uncommonly large one. Selecting a convenient tree, he stuck four slender poles into the ground, under one of its largest branches. Over these he spread his net, arranging the closing rope--or what we may term the purse-string--in such a way that he could pass it over the branch of the tree referred to. This done, he placed a large junk of buffalo-meat directly under the net, and pegged it to the ground.

Thereafter Little Tim ascended the tree, crept out on the large limb until he reached the spot where the line had been thrown over it, directly above his net. There, seating himself comfortably among the branches, he proceeded to sup and enjoy himself, despite the unsavoury smell that arose from the half-decayed buffalo-meat below.

The limb of the tree was so large and suitable that while a fork of it was wide enough to serve for a table, a branch which grew upwards formed a lean to the hunter's back, and another branch, doubling round most conveniently, formed a rest for his right elbow. At the same time an abrupt curl in the same branch constituted a rest for his gun. Thus he reclined in a natural one-armed rustic chair, with his weapons handy, and a good supper before him.

"What could a man wish more?" he muttered to himself, with a contented expression of face, as he fixed a square piece of birch-bark in the fork of the branch, and on this platter arranged his food, commenting thereon as he proceeded: "Roast prairie hen. Capital grub, with a bit o' salt pork, though rather dry an' woodeny-like by itself. Buffalo rib. Nothin' better, hot or cold, except marrow-bones; but then, you see, marrow-bones ain't just parfection unless hot, an' this is bound to be a cold supper. Hunk o' pemmican. A safe stand-by at all times. Don't need no cookin', an' a just proportion o' fat to lean, but doesn't do without appetite to make it go down. Let me be thankful I've got that, anyhow."

At this point Little Tim thought it expedient to make the line of his net fast to this limb of the tree. After doing so, he examined the priming of his gun, made a few other needful arrangements, and then gave himself up to the enjoyment of the hour, smiling benignly to the moon, which happened to creep out from behind a mountain peak at the time, as if on purpose to irradiate the scene.

"It has always seemed to me," muttered the hunter, as well as a large mouthful of the prairie hen would permit--for he was fond of muttering his thoughts when alone; it felt more sociable, you see, than merely thinking them--"It has always seemed to me that contentment is a grand thing for the human race. Pity we hasn't all got it!"

Inserting at this point a mass of the hunk, which proved a little too large for muttering purposes, he paused until the road was partially cleared, and then went on--"Of course I don't mean that lazy sort o' contentment that makes a man feel easy an' comfortable, an' quite indifferent to the woes an' worries of other men so long as his own bread-basket is stuffed full. No, no. I means that sort o' contentment that makes a man feel happy though he hasn't got champagne an' taters, pigeon-pie, lobscouse, plum-duff, mustard an' jam at every blow-out; that sort o' contentment that takes things as they come, an' enjoys 'em without grumpin' an' growlin' 'cause he hasn't got somethin' else."

Another hunk here stopping the way, a somewhat longer silence ensued, which would probably have been broken as before by the outpouring of some sage reflections, but for a slight sound which caused the hunter to become what we may style a human petrifaction, with a half-chewed morsel in its open jaws, and its eyes glaring.

A few seconds more, and the sound of breaking twigs gave evidence that a visitor drew near. Little Tim bolted the unchewed morsel, hastily sheathed his hunting-knife, laid one hand on the end of his line, and waited.

He had