The Trappers Son | Page 3

of our
poor horses, I am not going to be cast down."

Some time was spent in scraping the skins, and in repacking the most
valuable of those already obtained in a compass which would enable
the old man and his son to carry them. Not wishing to leave such
valuable property in the hut, which might be visited during their
absence by some wandering Indian, they then strapped the bales on to
their backs, the old man carrying his rifle and the steel traps, and set
out towards the meadow where their horses had been killed.
Having planted the traps round the carcases of the slaughtered animals,
and concealed them carefully, so that they could not be seen by the
savage wolves, they returned to their hut.
"The brutes will pay another visit to the poor horses, unless they fall in
with other prey in the meantime, and that they are not likely to find
about here," observed Moggs, as he sat down and struck a light to
rekindle the fire. Laurence had collected a supply of dried branches, of
which there was an abundance in the surrounding woods.
"We must keep the fire burning during the night, or the savage
creatures may chance to pay us a visit; and if they find us napping, they
may treat us as they have our horses," continued the old man.
"To-morrow morning, we shall have our revenge, and I shall be vexed
indeed if we do not find two or three of the brutes in the traps."
The day was spent, as many before had been passed when they were
not travelling or setting their snares, in scraping furs, greasing their
traps, and cleaning the old man's highly-prized rifle.
Their conversation related wholly to the occupation in which they were
engaged; of other matters young Laurence knew nothing. He was a true
child of the desert. His early days had been spent in the wigwam of an
Indian squaw, who had taught him the legends and faith of her people.
Beyond that period his recollections were very faint. He had remained
with her until Michael Moggs, who called himself his father, came for
him and took him away. He had almost forgotten his native tongue; but
from that time, by constantly associating with the old trapper, he soon
again learned to speak it. Of the Christian faith he knew nothing, for
Moggs and himself were utterly ignorant of its truths; while they had

imbibed many of the superstitions of the savage Indians, the only
human beings with whom they had for long years associated. Laurence
believed firmly in the Great Spirit who governs the destinies of the Red
men of the desert--in the happy hunting-grounds, the future abode of
brave warriors who die fighting on the battle-field--in the existence of
demons, who wander through the forests in search of victims--and in
the occult powers of wizards and medicine men. He had been taught
that the only objects in life worthy of the occupation of men were war
and the chase--that he should look with contempt on those who, he had
heard, spent their time in the peaceful business of agriculture and
commerce; that revenge and hatred of foes were the noblest sentiments
to be cultivated in the human breast; and that no act was more worthy
than to kill a foe, or a feeling more delightful than to witness his
suffering under torture. Yet the heart of young Laurence was not
hardened, nor altogether debased. Occasionally yearnings for a
different life to that he led rose in his bosom. Whence they came he
could not tell. Still he could not help thinking that there might be a
brighter and better state of existence in those far-off lands away
beyond where he saw the glorious sun rise each morning, to run its
course through the sky, and to sink again behind the snow-capped
range of the Rocky Mountains, to the base of which he and his father
had occasionally wandered. Whenever he had ventured even to hint the
tenor of his thoughts to the old trapper, the scornful rebuke he had
received kept him for many a day afterwards silent.
As evening approached, the old man made a wide circuit round the
camp to ascertain that no lurking foes lay hid in the neighbourhood.
Having satisfied himself on that score, a large supply of fuel was piled
up on the fire, when, after a frugal supper, he and the boy lay down to
rest. Although Laurence slept soundly, Michael awoke constantly to put
more wood on the fire, and not unfrequently to take a survey around
the wigwam, knowing well that their lives might depend on his
vigilance.
No sooner did the first faint streaks of dawn appear in the sky than he
aroused