Harry Castlemon - Frank on the Prairie

“Bob Kelly, the oldest an’ best trapper on the prairy!”

The boys arose as he approached, and regarded him with curiosity. They had heard their guide speak in the highest terms of “ole Bob Kelly,” and had often wished to see the trapper whom Dick was willing to acknowledge as his superior. There he was – a mild, good-natured-looking old man, the exact opposite of what they had imagined him to be.

“Them are city chaps, Bob” – continued the trapper, as the old man, after gazing at the boys for a moment, seated himself on the ground beside the fire – ”an’ I’m takin’ ’em out to Californy. In course they are green consarnin’ prairy life, but they are made of good stuff, an’ are ’bout the keerlessest youngsters you ever see. What a doin’ here, Bob?”

“Jest lookin’ round,” was the answer. “I’m mighty glad to meet you ag’in, ’cause it looks nat’ral to see you ’bout. Things aint as they used to be. Me an’ you are ’bout the oldest trappers agoin’ now. The boys have gone one arter the other, an’ thar’s only me an’ you left that I knows on.”

“What’s come on Jack Thomas?” asked Dick.

“We’re both without our chums now,” answered the old man, sorrowfully. “Jack an’ ole Bill Lawson are both gone, an’ their scalps are in a Comanche wigwam.”

The trapper made no reply, but went on with his preparations for supper in silence, and the boys could see that he was considerably affected by the news he had just heard. His every movement was closely watched by his companion, who seemed delighted to meet his old acquaintance once more, and acted as though he did not wish to allow him out of his sight. There was evidently a good deal of honest affection between these two men. It did not take the form of words, but would have showed itself had one or the other of them been in danger. They did not speak again until Mr. Winters came up, when Dick again introduced his friend as the “oldest an’ best trapper agoin’.” Uncle James, who understood the customs of the trappers, simply bowed – a greeting which the old man returned with one short, searching glance, as if he meant to read his very thoughts.

“Now, then!” exclaimed Dick, “Grub’s ready. Pitch in, Bob.”

The old trapper was not in the habit of standing upon ceremony, and, drawing his huge knife from his belt, he helped himself to a generous piece of the meat, and, declining the corn-bread and the cup of coffee which the boys passed over to him, made his meal entirely of venison. After supper – there were but few dishes to wash now, for the boys had learned to go on the principle that “fingers were made before forks” – the trapper hung what remained of the venison in the wagon, lighted his pipe, and stretched himself on the ground beside his companion.

The boys, knowing that the trappers would be certain to talk over the events that had transpired since their last meeting, spread their blankets where they could hear all that passed, and waited impatiently for them to begin; while Mr. Winters, who had by this time become acquainted with every man, woman, and child, in the train, started to pay a visit to the occupants of a neighboring wagon.

For some moments the two men smoked in silence, old Bob evidently occupied with his own thoughts, and Dick patiently waiting for him to speak. At length the old man asked:

“Goin’ to Californy, Dick?”

The trapper replied in the affirmative.

“What a goin’ to do arterward?”

“I’m a goin’ to take to the mountains, an’ stay thar,” replied Dick. “I’ve seed the inside of a city, Bob; have rid on steam railroads an’ boats as big as one of the Black Hills; an’ now I’m satisfied to stay here. I’d a heap sooner face a grizzly or a Injun than go back thar ag’in, ’cause I didn’t feel to hum.”

“Wal, I’m all alone now, Dick,” said the old man, “an’ so are you. Our chums are gone, an’ we both want to settle with them Comanche varmints; so, let’s stick together.”

Dick seemed delighted with this proposition, for he quickly arose from his blanket and extended his hand to his companion, who shook it heartily; and the boys read in their faces a determination to stand by each other to the last.

“I’ve got a chum now, youngsters,” said Dick, turning to the boys; “an’ one that I aint afraid to trust anywhar. Thar’s nothin’ like havin’ a friend, even on the prairy. I come with the boys,” he added, addressing his companion, who, seeing the interest Dick took in his “youngsters,” slowly surveyed them from head to foot – “I come with ’em jest to show ’em how we do things on the prairy. They can shoot consid’ble sharp, an’ aint afraid. All it wants is the hard knocks – fightin’ Injuns an’ grizzlies, an’ starvin’ on the prairy, an’ freezin’ in the mountains, to make trappers of ’em.” And here Dick settled back on his elbow, and proceeded to give the old man a short account of what had transpired at Uncle Joe’s cabin; described Frank’s fight with the moose and panther in glowing language; told how the capture of the cubs had been effected, until old Bob began to be interested; and when Dick finished his story, he said:

“The youngsters would make good trappers.”

This, as the trapper afterward told the boys, was a compliment old Bob seldom paid to any one, “for,” said he, “I’ve knowed him a long time, an’ have been in many a fight with him, an’ he never told me I was good or bad.”

“Wal,” said Dick, again turning to his companion, “You said as how Jack Thomas was rubbed out. How did it happen?”

Old Bob refilled his pipe, smoked a few moments as if to bring the story fresh to his memory, and then answered:

“When I heered that Bill Lawson war gone, an’ that you war left alone, I done my best to find you, an’ get you to jine a small party we war makin’ up to visit our ole huntin’ grounds on the Saskatchewan; but you had tuk to the mountains, and nobody didn’t know whar to go to find you. Thar war eight of us in the party, an’ here, you see, are all that are left. As nigh as I can ’member, it war ’bout four year ago come spring that we sot out from the fort, whar we had sold our furs. We had three pack mules, plenty of powder, ball, an’ sich like, an’ we started in high sperits, tellin’ the trader that bought our spelter that we’d have a fine lot fur him ag’in next meetin’ time. We knowed thar war plenty of Injuns an’ sich varmints to be fit an’ killed afore we come back, but that didn’t trouble us none, ’cause we all knowed our own bisness, and didn’t think but that we would come through all right, jest as we had done a hundred times afore. We didn’t intend to stop afore we got to the Saskatchewan; so we traveled purty fast, an’ in ’bout three weeks found ourselves in the Blackfoot country, nigh the Missouri River. One night we camped on a leetle stream at the foot of the mountains, an’ the next mornin’, jest as we war gettin’ ready to start out ag’in, Jack Thomas – who, like a youngster turned loose from school, war allers runnin’ round, pokin’ his nose into whatever war goin’ on – came gallopin’ into camp, shouting:

“‘Buffaler! buffaler!’

“In course, we all knowed what that meant, an’ as we hadn’t tasted buffaler hump since leavin’ the fort, we saddled up in a hurry an’ put arter the game. We went along kinder easy-like – Jack leadin’ the way – until we come to the top of a swell, an’ thar they war – nothin’ but buffaler as fur as a feller could see. It war a purty sight, an’ more’n one of us made up our minds that we would have a good supper that night. We couldn’t get no nigher to ’em without bein’ diskivered, so we scattered and galloped arter ’em. In course, the minit we showed ourselves they put off like the wind; but we war in easy shootin’ distance, an’ afore we got through with ’em, I had knocked over four big fellers an’ wounded another. He war hurt so bad he couldn’t run; but I didn’t like to go up too clost to him, so I rid off a leetle way, an’ war loadin’ up my rifle to give him a settler, when I heered a noise that made me prick up my ears an’ look sharp. I heered a trampin, an’ I knowed it war made by something ’sides a buffaler. Now, youngsters, a greenhorn wouldn’t a seed any thing strange in that; but when I heered it, I didn’t stop to kill the wounded buffaler, but turned my hoss an’ made tracks. I hadn’t gone more’n twenty rod afore I seed four Blackfoot Injuns comin’ over a swell ’bout half a mile back. I had kept my eyes open – as I allers do – but I hadn’t seen a bit of Injun sign on the prairy, an’ I made up my mind to onct that them Blackfoot varmints had been shyin’ round arter the same buffaler we had jest been chasin’, an’ that they didn’t know we war ’bout till they heered us shoot. Then, in course, they put arter us, ’cause they think a heap more of scalps than they do of buffaler meat.