Lippincotts Magazine, August, 1885 | Page 7

the ideal spot of all his wildest
imaginations and most cherished hopes,--"the wild part,"--really the
great prairies, about two hundred miles west of the Mississippi and east
of the Rockies. The dream of his life was being fulfilled. He related, in
a style not conspicuous for literary merit, but very well suited to the
simple annals of the rich, how, having first procured guides, tents,
ambulances, camp-equipage, they had pushed on briskly to a military
fort, where, having made friends with "a pleasant, gentlemanly set of
fellows," the commanding officer, "a friendly old buffer," had
courteously given them an escort to protect them from "those dirty,
treacherous brutes, the Indians." Not a joy was wanting in this
crowning bliss. The guide was "a wonderful chap named Big-Foot
Williams, so called by the Indians, good all around from knocking over
a rabbit to tackling a grizzly," with an amazing knowledge of woodcraft,
"a nose like a bloodhound, an eye as cool as a toad's." No special
mention was made of his ear; but the first time he got off his horse and
applied it to the earth, listening for the tramp of distant hoofs in a
hushed silence, one bosom could hardly hold all the rapture that filled
Mr. Ramsay's figurative cup up to the brim. And the tales he told of
savageness long drawn out were as dew to the parched herb, greedily
absorbed at every pore. A portrait of "Black Eagle," a noted chief, was
given when they got among the Indians,--"a great hulking slugger of a
savage, awfully interesting, long, reaching step, magnificent muscles,
snake eye, could thrash us all in turn if he liked. The best of the lot."
Even the noble red man was not insensible to the charms of this
graceful, handsome young athlete who smiled at them perpetually and
said, "_Amigo! amigo_!" at short intervals,--a phrase suggested by the

redoubtable Williams and varied occasionally by a prefix of his own,
"_Muchee amigo_!" The way in which he tested the elasticity of their
bows, inspected their guns, the game they had killed, the other natural
objects about them, aroused a certain sympathy, perhaps. At any rate,
they were soon teaching him their mode of using the most
picturesquely murderous of all weapons, and Black Eagle offered,
through the interpreter, to give him a mustang and a fine wolf-skin. The
pony was declined, the skin accepted, a quid pro quo being bestowed
on the chief in the shape of one of Mr. Ramsay's breech-loaders, a gift
that made the snake eyes glitter. But what earthly return can be made
for some friendly offices? Could a thousand guns be considered as an
adequate payment for the delirious thrill that Mr. Ramsay felt when he
shot an arrow straight through the neck of a big buffalo, and, wheeling,
galloped madly away, like the hero of one of his favorite stories? Was
not the duke, who "knew a thing or two about shooting" and had hunted
the noble bison in Lithuania, almost as much delighted as though he
had done it himself? Is it any wonder that these intoxicating pleasures
were all-sufficient for the time to Mr. Ramsay? Perhaps Thekla would
have been forgotten by her Max, and Romeo would never have sighed
and died for love of Juliet, if those interesting lovers had ceased from
wooing and gone a-hunting of the buffalo instead. Not the most deadly
and cruel pangs of the most unfortunate attachment could have taken
away all the zest from such an occupation, provided they had had what
the Mexican journals call the "corazon de los sportsmans." Youth,
strength, courage, skill, exercised in a vagabondage that has all the
nomadic charm without any of its drawbacks, are apt to sponge the old
figures off the slate of life, leaving a teary smear, perhaps, to show
where they have been, and room for fresh problems. At night over the
camp-fire Mr. Ramsay gave a few pensive thoughts to the girl who
regularly put two handkerchiefs under her pillow to receive the tears
that welled out copiously when she was at last alone and unobserved
after a day of virtuous hypocrisy. Poor child! The pain was very real,
and the tears were bitter and salty enough, though they were to be dried
in due time. If he had known of them, perhaps he might have kept
awake a little longer; but when he wasn't sleepy he was hungry, and
when he wasn't hungry he was tired, and when he wasn't tired he was
too actively employed to think of anything but the business in hand.

Happily, at five-and-twenty it is perfectly possible to postpone being
miserable until a more convenient season; and, though he would have
denied it emphatically afterward, he certainly thought only occasionally
of Bijou at this