Beadle's Half Dime Library No. 278 — page 2: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

— 2 The Three Trappers: | THE MOUNTAIN MONSTER. A Tale of the Black Hills. BY MAJOR W. CARSON, CHAPTER IL, THE TRAPPER’S CAMP. In a deep defile among the Black Hills, far out on the western plains, three men had made a camp. They were of that wonderful race who have done more to develop the resources of the western world than any other, the trappers of the Northwest. These three were types of different nationali- ties. One, a tall, supple, wiry old fellow, dressed in a greasy buckskin hunting-shirt and leggings, with moccasins of moose-hide, showed himself to be a lifelong rover of the hills and plains. He was piling brush on the fire, and smoking pany, puffing the smoke from his nose in clouds. is face was a study, covered though it was by a beard of nearly seven months’ growth. It showed the character of the man. Brave toa fault, an unrelenting foe, a steadfast frienc—one on whom great reliance could be placed in time of need. His rifle, carefully covered with a buckskin sheath, was ake © oa against a rock nearat band. A huge ife hung in his belt, by the side of ashot-pouch and powder-flask. The man on his right hand was a Frenchman —a keen-eyed, vivacious fellow, dressed very much like his companion, and armed, in addi- tion to the knife and rifle, with a pair of hand- some pistols. His name was Jules Damand, and he had beena voyageur, trained to the business at Saint Ann’s, on the St. Lawrence, The third wasa Dutchman! A simple glance at his broad, stolid face told his nationality. He was a stout fellow, of tremendous girth, with a smiling blue eye, an expressionless face while in repose, and a foot that looked much like a young trunk. He was smoking placidly, and suffering his companions to attend to the fire, and cook the foo hanging over it. The last duty was the Frenchman’s, who, like nearly all the men of his nation, bad a theory in re- gard to cookery which he was always ready to oe tee oe | sia poh example - take a little good ere, Jan,” said the first-named trap- per, ‘‘ why don’t ye lend a hand at takin’ care of the fire?’ | ‘*So help me, as I never know I vas vanted to help you mit de fire,” said Jan, ‘1 vas sit here, mit mine shmokepipe, unt I vas din auver the times ven I vasin Yarmany. Yaw; dat is vat I dinks.” ‘* T s’pose it’s considerable of a kentry.” “ Consider’ble mit a coonthry! Mein Cott! Dere is no such coonthry mit all the earth, Vat! Ish dere anyvere, you kin find such vine ash ve bave dere? Now I dells you. Ven ou coes to St, Louis, you vas co to Yaweob ost’s saloon av you vants goot Rhine vine. Dere ish goot many blaces mit St. Louis vere dey say dey keeps goot Rhine vine. Put I dells you dat ish no more ash von lie! Dere is no more ash four blaces in dat town vere you can pet A vine, unt mein frent Yawcob’s ish von, you drue,” ‘It’s mighty poor stuff to drink,” answered the trapper. ‘‘ Fer me now, when I drink, I enough fer me,” — ie = ‘Boor shtuff! Penn Miffin, av it vash not dat I know you too vell, I vould hit you mit your nose av you says dat vonce more. I dells you dere ish Rn so goot ash Rhine vine.” “Yes, for a Dutchman,” “ But you ish voolin’. Dere, I seen you laff. Don’t say dat no more.” ‘‘What does ye think about it, Jule?’ asked Ben, looking at the Frenchman, “That it is very bad drink,” replied the Frenchman, ‘‘Peste! The first time I drank it, it was so sour I thought it would make me turn myself inside out to get rid of it. The Rhine grape is very bad. In la belle France they make wine that is good.” ‘* Vy den you ask him?” blustered Jan. ‘ Vat is he more ash a Vrenchman? Unt I ask you now, aff you vas dell me, vat ish de goot over a man vat eats vrogs? So help me gracious, de ad more goot to eat dan snakes. Unt dey is p ison. ‘*T reck’n ye’r’ wrong, Jan,” said the trapper. ‘*They do say thet snakes ain’t very bad eatin’ when a chap is hard druv’. I don’t say I want ’ lieve all dis unless you vash a mind to. The Three Trappers. to try ’em, but ef I c’u’d ’a’ got snakes the time I cum nigh to starvin’ up yer in the Black Hills, durn my hide ef I wouldn’t hev eat snakes or any thing else. I kem of a queer race. I ken eat anything, and lick my weight in wildcats, I’m death on grizzlys. I ken wipe out an In- jun as-fur as I ken see bim, and I calculate thet’s a good ways.” ‘You talks a goot deal mit your moult’. Put aff a man says to me dat snakes unt frogs is goot to eat, den I dinks he ish no more ash von vool, Aff ever I get vere I can no more get nottings to eat, so help me gracious ash I vill not eat snakes unt vrogs, aff day vash to come to me in hundreds unt t’ousands, ready cooked, ° unt beg me on dere knees to eat dem,” ‘Did you ever see a snake on his knees, Jan?” inquired Ben. “Yaw! Ven you poke dem mit a stick, dey gits up on dere tails. Dat’s de vay dey vould do ven dey vash ask me to eat dem. Unt I vash say, No, py tam!” The Frenchman said nothing, but stooped to stir some soup in an iron se laced on the coals, glancing up at the Dutchman with a ueer smile as he did so. The blood of the euton was up, and he dropped off into low mutterings, until a fresh grievance caused him to break out again. He found this grievance in Ben Miffin’s manner of smoking. **Dere,” he cried, ‘‘shpose you look at dat, eh? Ven aman ash ought to know petter, unt ve know ash he knows petter, shmokes hish pipe drue hish nose, like dat, he ish von tam vool. See him. Puff! puff! puff! like a shteampoat mit a vire in her pelly. Now I dells you dat ish not the vay to shmoke.”’ ‘It’s my way,” returned Ben. ‘“ Look yer, Dutchy, ef ye don’t like my way of smokin’, does ye know what ye ken do? Ye ken take the back track to the forts.” ** Vy don’t you shmoke like a Christian den?’ unted Jan. ‘*“*Cause I don’t want to. Never told ye how I learned to shmoke this yer way, did 1? No? Ill tell ye then. When I was quite a youn man I was taken by the Crows. Durn’em af they didn’t keep me among ’em more then three years. Made me a chief, and what not. Wal, they all smoke this yer way, and I took it up. Don’t rile me up, Dutchy. I’m the Big Buffalo of the Crow nation. Rile me, and I light on ye ty heavy. Smooth me down, and I’m ie; ut slick me the wrong way and I’m a p’ison critter. Look out fer me when I flop my wings and crow.” ' ‘*Look at the hills,” said Jan, prudently changing the course of the conversation. ‘‘ Vat you dinks ven I dells you I’ve seen hills all made up mit ice, unt dey so pig ash dese hills, e “F ees think your story was like the hills,” ules. ** How vash dat?” ' “ Made up wiz a lie,” replied the Frenchman, laughing and turning again to his soup. **Den you ish von tam vool,” cried Jan, in a rage. ‘‘Jt ish no more as vive years since I cooms from Yarmany mit a backet. I vas very pad ven Icooms avay. 1 vish I vas stay athome. Putit vash near spring ven I cooms avay, unt the vind drive usupnorth. Unt den cooms von of dese hills made up mit ice.” “It’s true,” declared . “Tye seen ’em myself off the mouth of the Columby. They ’em icebergs.” ‘*Dat’s it. Dat’s the name!” cried Jan. ** Vell, I stands on the deck mit the packet, unt I sees it coom, I goes to the captain unt I dells him America has proke loose unt vash ae down on the sheep-unt would sink ber. He laugh at me, unt said it vash aniceberg! Unt 1 vatched it very close, unt PY unt py it tipped oop and turned auver, unt 1 dinks we ish gone, But it not strike the 1 “Lucky fer you,” said Ben. “Vat vash you dink auver an iceberg ash vash sO pig ash’ it vash tip auver on the sheep unt sink the sheep? Now Task you not for to pe- ou must do ash you blease. Put dis is vat I sees pereels, Vat is your opinion mit dese tam ice- rgs | ‘*Oh, they say that they break away from the ae up north and float down yer. That’s all I ow “Yaw. Put vat makes dem tip auver? Dat ish vat I vants to know.” ** How kin I tell?” ‘Vell, Idells you my opinion mit dese tam ole icebergs. Dey ish very pig, Put vat vas you dink mit a vale oe ash vas so pig as he vash go unther an iceberg unt lift the iceberg oop on his pack unt tip her auver on the sheep An i - . o~" . > 7 7 di LP a >. . ss "Ren — p Pe eos unt sink the sheep. Dat ish my opinion mit dese tipping icebergs.” & “Ye don’t mean to tell me thet you think a whale goes under an icetery and tips it over?” “Yaw. De vale goes unther the iceberg unt lifts it oop on his pack unt tips it auver on de sheep. Dat ish vat I dinks.” ‘‘He couldn’t do it,” said Ben. ‘Darn it. I’ve seen icebergs and I’ve seen whales, but I never seen a whale big enough to do that, nor you either.” “7.90 you dinks dish ish von lie, All right. You may dink vat you blease, put dis is vat I sees myself. I ton’t care nottings now vat you dinks, only vena man vill not pelieve goot sense ven he hears him he is von very much vool. Vat you got in the pan, Shule?”’ ‘* Soup,” said Jules. ““ Vat you makes him off?” “Grouse,” said Jules, smiling. ‘‘ Ven he ish reaty let us have somet’ings to eat. Lish hoongry. Vy does ve coom here pe- fore it ish dime to set our traps, Penn?” ‘*)}1 tell ye. Ef we ain’t on hand ’arly all the places will be taken up. And I know a place whar we kin make our fortun’s sure. I’ve got a beaver-dam thet beats the world. But come, Jule, I’m like Dutchy. I want something to eat. Ef it’s ready dish it up.” Each man had a tin rp a his other property, and Jules filled three of them from the pan on the fire. For a few moments noth- ing was heard but the clicking of spoons and smacking of lips over the savory mess, for Jules was a good cook. Jan shoveled down the contents of his cup first, and held it out for more. ‘* Like it?” said Jules. * Goot!” aid Jan, smacking his lips again. ‘‘Pest I ever eats. Gif me more of it.” Jules filled the cup again and then replenished his own and that of Ben Miffin, who was not far behind the others in disposing of the food. At last Jan was satisfied, and drawing his band across his mouth slowly he proceeded to fill his “ for a smoke. ules cleared away the of wood on the fire, an reach of the ponderous hand of the and then said: ‘1 s’pose you know what you have been eat- ing, Jan?” here was very little, except in the accent of the young man, toshow that he was a French- man, and the occasional use of the pronoun ‘*him ” in the place of ‘‘ it.” *‘Didn’t you say it vash grouse?’ said Jan. ‘Twas goot, anyvay.” ‘ . right,” said Ben. ‘‘’Twas the , put another stick got ph Me + the tohman, ‘Yer mia L best grub I’ve had fer a long time. But ’twa’n’t no grouse. I knew it as soon as I put it in my mouth. Ye gev me some once before, ye re- ember.” . “T's a pity Jan don’t likeit. I think it’s durned good.’ | | ‘‘Vat I pen eating?’ cried Jan, in great alarm. ‘‘ Off you vash not dell me now, dis very dime, vat it vas, I vill raise my hand oo unt let it fallon your cophf (cope), unt it vi kill s re P was something you sai you would not eat if you were starving.” Nhs i ‘* Snakes!” screamed Jan, starting to his feet, with both hands pressed on his stomach. ‘No, not so bad as that,” said Jules, ‘It was frog soup.” Jan sat down again to consider over the mat- ter. For full five minutes he a eatin moved nor spoke, but sat with his head g on his hand. At last he looked up. ; ‘Pring me dat pan,” he said. Ben reached over to where the pan stood and handed it to bim. He took up his spoon and devoured all that was left, not deigning a word to the repeated demands of Jules that he should leave a little for him. His jaws never ceased their action until he had deposited the whole in his cavernous stomach, ‘“‘Dere,” he said. ‘‘I veels petter. Unt so dat ish vrog, eh?” “‘T should think so,” said Jules. ‘‘ You old cormorant!” “Vat ish dat?’ ‘“‘A bird that eats every thing he can get his claws on,” said Jules. ‘‘ Why didn’t you leave some?” , “‘Ivas brought oop to love mine neighbor ash myself. I dinks it ish not right to eat vro Put I dink so mooch more off my neighbor dat I vill not leaf vor a demptation.” “Sacrifice yourself for the public good, you old hog?” said Jules. ‘*Yaw. Datisdrue. I sees dat if I does not eat him you vould do it, unt I dink so mooch off ~ €Comicbooks ee . os m con >