He paused. There was a slight dash of bitterness in the tone in which the last words were uttered; but it was gone when he resumed, in his usual low and musical voice--

"Now, although I chose to bring you to my cave, because I found ye a'most in a dyin' state, an' have let ye into one or two o' my secrets-- because I couldn't help it, seein' that I couldn't stop up yer eyes--an'

yer ears--yet I don't choose to let yer comrades know anything about me.

They've no right to, an' _you_ have no right to tell 'em; so, when ye meet 'em again ye mustn't talk about me or my cave, d'ye see?"

"Certainly," said March, who was both surprised and annoyed by his speech, "certainly you have a perfect right to command me to hold my tongue; and, seein' that you've bin so kind to me, d.i.c.k, I'm in duty bound to obey; but how can you ask me to put myself in such an awkward fix? You don't suppose I can make my comrades believe I've bin livin'

on air or gra.s.s for some days past, an' they'll see, easy enough, that I've not bin in a condition to help myself. Besides, whatever your notions may be about truth, mine are of such a sort that they won't let me tell a parcel o' lies to please anybody."

"Far be it from me, boy, to ask ye to tell lies. You can tell yer comrades that you've bin took care of by a trapper as lives in a cave among the mountains; but you don't need to tell 'em where the cave is; an' if they worry ye to guide 'em to it, ye can refuse. Moreover, jist speak o' me in an offhand, careless sort o' way, d'ye see? an' be particular not to tell what I'm like, 'cause it might make 'em take a fancy to hunt me up."

There appeared to be a dash of vanity in the latter part of this remark, which surprised March not a little; for it seemed to him quite inconsistent with the stout hunter's wonted modesty of demeanour and speech.

"Well, I'm bound to think only o' your wishes in this matter," replied March in a disappointed tone, "an' I'll do my best to prevent my comrades interfering with ye, tho', to say truth, I don't think you need be so cautious, for they ain't over-curious--none of 'em. But--" here March paused and glanced at Mary, who, he observed, had dropped her head very much during the conversation, and from whose eye at that moment a bright tear fell, like a diamond, on the work with which she was engaged.

"But--am I--the fact is, d.i.c.k, I feel a little sore that you should say ye had a likin' for me, an' then tell me I must be off, an' never look near ye again."

"That's wot I never did say, boy," returned d.i.c.k, smiling. "Ye may come _alone_ to see me as often as ye like while ye remain in these parts.

An' if it please ye, yer at liberty to come an' live wi' me. There's room in the mountains for both of us. The cave can hold three if need be."

March Marston's heart beat quick. He was on the eve of forming a great resolve! His bosom heaved, and his eye sparkled, as he was about to close hastily with this proposal, when, again, the memory of his mother crossed him, and a deep sigh burst from his lips as he shook his head, and said sorrowfully, "It can't be done, d.i.c.k. I can't forsake my mother."

"No more ye should, lad, no more ye should," said d.i.c.k, nodding approvingly; "but there's nothin' to prevent your spendin' the winter and spring here, an' returnin' to yer mother next summer."

"Done!" cried March, springing up as well as his bruised muscles would permit him, and seizing his friend enthusiastically by the hand. "I'll stop with you and send home word by my comrades that I'll be back in summer. That's capital!"

Mary seemed to be quite of the same opinion, for she looked quickly up with a beaming smile.

"Well, so it is a good plan," said d.i.c.k somewhat gravely; "but don't act in haste, else ye may ha' to repent at leisure. Go an' speak to yer comrades; see what they advise ye to do, an' come again an' let me know.

And, now we're on that pint, I may tell ye that yer friends will be at the head of a valley not four miles from here this very night, an' they expect ye there."

"How d'ye know that?" cried March, breathless with amazement.

"Well, ye see, the Wild Man o' the West knows that you're in them parts; he has seed you, an' knows where ye are, an' he met yer comrades, the trappers, no later than yesterday, an' told 'em they'd find ye in the valley I spoke of just now; so we must be up an' away to meet 'em."

d.i.c.k rose as he spoke and began to make preparation to depart.

"But how came _you_ to know this?" inquired the astonished youth.

"Why, the Wild Man an' me's oncommon intimate, d'ye see? In fact, I may say we're jist inseparable companions, an' so I come to know it that way. But make haste. We've no time to lose."

"Good-bye, Mary," cried March with a cheerful smile, as he hurried out of the cave after his eccentric companion. "I'll be back before long, depend on't."

Mary nodded, and the two men were soon mounted and out of sight.

"I say, d.i.c.k," observed March as they rode along, "you _must_ get me to see the Wild Man of the West; if you're so intimate with him, you can easily bring him into the cave; now _won't_ you, d.i.c.k?"

"Well, as I can't help doin' it, I s'pose I may say yes at once."

"Can't help it, d.i.c.k! What mean you? I wish ye'd talk sense."

"Hist!" exclaimed the hunter, pulling up suddenly under the shelter of a cliff. "Yonder come yer friends, sooner than I expected. I'll leave ye here. They've not seed us yit, an' that wood 'll hide me till I git away. Now, March," he added solemnly, "_remember yer promise_."

In another moment the wild hunter was gone, and March rode forward to meet his comrades, who, having now caught sight of him, came up the valley at full speed, shouting and waving their caps joyfully as they approached. In a shorter s.p.a.ce of time than it takes to tell, March was surrounded, dragged off his horse, pa.s.sed from one to another, to be handled roughly, in order to make sure that it was really himself, and, finally, was swallowed up by Bounce in a masculine embrace that might almost have pa.s.sed for the hug of a grisly bear.

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.

MARCH MARSTON IS PERPLEXED, SO ARE HIS FRIENDS--AN UNLOOKED-FOR MEETING--TERRIBLE NEWS--THE ATTACK--THE WILD MAN OF THE WEST ONCE AGAIN RENDERS SIGNAL SERVICE TO THE TRAPPERS--WILD DOINGS IN GENERAL, AND MARCH MARSTON'S CHAGRIN IN PARTICULAR.

"March Marston," said Bounce--and Bounce was sitting beside the camp fire, smoking his pipe after supper when he said it--"you may think ye're a 'cute feller, you may, oncommon 'cute; but if you'll listen to wot an oldish hunter says, an' take his advice, you'll come to think, in a feelosophical way, d'ye see? that ye're not quite _so_ 'cute as ye suppose."

Bounce delivered this oracularly, and followed it up with a succession of puffs, each of which was so solidly yellow as to suggest to the mind of Bertram, who chanced to be taking his portrait at that moment, that the next puff would burst out in pure flame. Gibault and Big Waller nodded their heads in testimony of their approval of the general scope of the remark; the latter even went the length of "guessing that it was a fact," and Redhand smiled. Hawkswing looked, if possible, graver than usual.

"As," resumed Bounce after a considerable pause, during which March looked and felt very uncomfortable, "the nat'ral eyes of the old men becomes more dimmer, d'ye see? their mental eyes, so to speak, becomes sharper, so as that they can see through no end o' figurative millstones. That bein' the case when there's no millstone to be seen through at all, but only a oncommon thin trans--trans--"

"Ollification," suggested Waller modestly.

"Not at all," retorted Bounce with much severity in his tone. "I _wos_ goin' to have said--transparientsy; but I'll not say that now, seein'

it's too feelosophical for the likes o' you; but, as I wos sayin', that bein' the case, d'ye see? it's quite plain that--"

Here Bounce, having got into depths unusually profound even for his speculative and philosophical turn of mind, sought refuge in a series of voluminous puffs, and wound up, finally, with an emphatic a.s.sertion that "there wos somethin' wrong, an' it wos o' no manner o' use to try to throw dust in _his_ eyes, seein' that his winkin' powers wos sich as to enable him to keep it out, no matter how thick or fast it should come."

"Ah, that's yer sort! I calc'late you're floored there, March," said Waller gravely. "The fact is, boy, that it won't do; you've got somethin' in the background, that Mr Bertram talks sich a heap about.

You ought to be fair an' above-board with comrades, ye ought."

"Oui," added Gibault. "Of course, you have lived somewhere, an'

somehow, all dis time. It am not posseeble for live nowhere on noting."

"Well, I tell you I have lived with a hunter, who treated me very well, and told me I'd find you here; having learned that, as I understand, from the Wild Man o' the West himself."

"Very true," said Bounce; "but where does the hunter live?"

"In the mountains," replied March.

"So does the Blackfeet, an' the Peigans, an' the Crows, an' the foxes, an' wolves, an' grisly bars," retorted Bounce dryly.

"I'll tell ye what it is," cried the exasperated March, "the curiosity of you fellers beats the squaws out an' out. Now, I'll be open with ye, an' then ye must hold your tongues. This man that I've been stayin'

with is a very fine fellow, an' a very wonderful fellow, an' his name's d.i.c.k--"

"d.i.c.k what?" inquired Bounce.

"d.i.c.k nothing," said March.

"Ay! that's a odd name."

"No, I mean he's only called d.i.c.k, an' he wouldn't tell me his other name, if he has one. Well, he said to me I was not to tell where he lived, as he don't like company, an' so he made me promise, an' I did promise, d'ye see? so I mean to stick to my promise, and that's all about it. I would like to tell ye about him, comrades, but you wouldn't have me break my word, would you?"

"Cer'nly not, by no means," said Bounce. "Does he live all by his lone?"