Ben, the Trapper

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 North-west. Their great aid in this cause has never been allowed by us as a people. We hear of great discoveries of gold, or of a new pass through the mountains, and in the discovery lose sight of the agent, who, in nine cases out of ten, is one of the class of whom this book is written. Their wandering, perilous life is full of hardships, of which we have no conception. The cold of winter, the savage foe, the yet more savage employees of the Hudson Bay Company, the grizzly bear, the snow-slide, all these are their enemies. They toil hard to pluck from the hand of stern old winter a precarious livelihood, happy in the possession of a few traps, a rifle, ammunition, and a blanket. With these they lead as happy lives as any, and as useful as most. Hundreds of tales of individual daring have been told of these men, and yet the truth is not half known. Their creed is simple as that of the border chiefs of Scotland:

“That they should take who have the power,

And they should keep who can!”

To hate an Indian, or an employee of the Hudson Bay Company. It was in the days when the rivalry between the American Fur Company and the Hudson Bay was at its height, and the rancor between them equaled that of Whig and Tory during the Revolution. Each claimed the country, and many a bleaching skeleton on the western streams remains to this day, attesting the fact that the men fought for the right of possession to the last.

The men in the pass were types of different nationalities. 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 placidly, puffing the smoke from his nose in clouds. His face was a study, covered though it was by a beard of nearly seven months’ growth. It showed the character of the man. Brave to a fault, an unrelenting foe, a steadfast friend—one on whom great reliance could be placed in time of need. His rifle, carefully covered with a buckskin sheath, was propped against a rock near at hand. A huge knife hung in his belt, by the side of a shot-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 addition to the knife and rifle, with a pair of handsome pistols. His name was Jules Damand, and he had been a voyageur, trained to the business at Saint Ann’s, on the St. Lawrence.

The third was a 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 food hanging over it. The last duty was the Frenchman’s, who, like nearly all the men of his nation, had a theory in regard to cookery which he was always ready to explain by example.