To the great satisfaction of Will Osten and his friends, it was discovered that Benjamin Hicks was a wandering trapper, whose avocations led him to whatever part of the wilderness was most likely to produce furs, and who had no particular objection to take a trip across the mountains with our adventurers. Indeed Big Ben thought no more of a ride of several hundreds of miles than most men do of an afternoon walk, and, if particular business did not prevent him, he was always ready to undertake a “venture” so long as it was, in his opinion, justifiable and likely to pay.

 

“You see, sir,” he said, as he and Will cantered together along the base of a low hill one evening, “it’s not that I’m of an unsettled natur’, but I’ve bin born to this sort o’ life, an’ it would be no manner o’ use in me tryin’ to change it. Once upon a time I used to think o’ settlin’ in one of the back settlements—that was when my poor old mother was alive. I used to live with her and take care of her after my father’s death. Then I married and thought I was fairly fixed down for life, but one night when I chanced to be out looking after my traps, a war-party o’ Injuns attacked the village and killed every soul in it. At least so it was said at the time, but afterwards I met a lad who had escaped, an’ he told me that he had seen my mother and wife killed, but that a few of the men escaped as well as him.”

 

The trapper’s voice deepened as he spoke, and he paused.

 

“Was it long ago?” asked Will, in a tone of sympathy.

 

“Ten years now,” answered Ben, sadly—“though it seems to me but yesterday. For many a day after that I tried to find the trail o’ the Redskins that did it, but never succeeded, thank God. If I had, it would only have ended in the spillin’ of more blood, without any good comin’ of it. It is long now since I left off thirstin’ for revenge, but I suppose I’ll never cease wishin’ that—that—well, well, God’s will be done,” he added, as if rousing himself out of a sad reverie, “I’m not used to speak about this, but somehow whenever I meet with white men o’ the right sort in the plains or mountains, I always feel a kind o’ longin’ to let my tongue wag raither too free. However, as I was goin’ to say, I’ve been a wanderer since then, goin’ where I think I can be o’ use to myself or others; and so, as you don’t appear to be overly knowin’ about the trail across the mountains, I’ll go with ’ee a bit o’ the way an’ pint it out, if you have no objections.”

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