Harry Castlemon - Frank on the Prairie

“Wal, I laid round in them mountains fur more’n six weeks, starvin’ fur grub an’ water, an’ listenin’ to the yellin’ varlets that war huntin arter me; but I got back safe at last, arter walkin’ all the way from the Rocky Mountains to the fort, an’ thar I found Jack Thomas. Me an’ him war the only ones that got out. When the Injuns got them six fellers, they rubbed out nearly the last one of our comp’ny. Me an’ Jack war mighty down-hearted ’bout it, an’ it war a long time afore we could b’lieve that we war left alone. We didn’t feel then like ever goin’ back to the mountains ag’in, ’cause we knowed it would be lonesome thar. In course, we could easy have made up another expedition, fur thar war plenty of hunters an’ trappers – good ones, too – hangin’ round the fort; but somehow we didn’t feel like goin’ off with any one outside of our own comp’ny.

“Wal, me an’ Jack laid round as long as we could stand it, an’ then we got a couple of hosses, another new kit, an’ sot off ag’in. We didn’t think it safe fur only two of us to try the Blackfoot country ag’in, so we struck for the huntin’ grounds on the Colorado. At that time thar war plenty of beaver in that river; so it didn’t take us long to find a place that suited us; an’ we settled down, comfortable-like, to spend the winter. Fur three months we had plenty of sport, an’ the sight of our pile of furs, growin’ bigger an’ bigger every day, made us happy an’ contented. One mornin’ we sot out bright an’ ’arly, as usual, to ’tend to our bisness, takin’ different directions – fur my traps war sot on the side of the mountain, an’ Jack had sot his’ne on the banks of the creek that run through the valley. I had been gone frum him but a short time, when I heered the crack of his rifle. Somehow, I knowed it war somethin’ ’sides a varmint he had shot at; an’ I warn’t fooled neither, for a minit arterward I heered another gun, an’ then afore I could think twice a Comanche yell come echoin’ from the valley, tellin’ me plainer nor words that my chum war gone. An Injun had watched one of his traps, an’ shot him as he come to it. I knowed it as sartin as if I had seed the hul thing done.

“Wal, I warn’t in a fix kalkerlated to make a feller feel very pleasant. I war three hundred miles from the nighest fort, in the very heart of the Comanche country, an’ in the dead of winter, with the snow two foot deep on a level. But I didn’t stop to think of them things then. My bisness war to get away from thar to onct. In course, I couldn’t go back arter my hoss or spelter, fur I didn’t know how many Injuns thar war in the valley, nor whar they had hid themselves; so I shouldered my rifle an’ sot off on foot t’wards the prairy. A storm that come up that night – an’ it snowed an’ blowed in a way that warn’t a funny thing to look at – kivered up my trail; an’ if I war ever follered, I don’t know it.

“I finally reached the fort, an’ I’ve been thar ever since. I’m an ole chap now, Dick; but when I hunted an’ trapped with your ole man, when me an’ him warn’t bigger nor them two youngsters, an’ hadn’t hardly strength enough to shoulder a rifle, I never thought that I should live to be the last of our comp’ny. In them days the prairy war different from what it is now. It war afore the hoss-thieves an’ rascals began to come in here to get away from the laws of the States; an’ them that called themselves trappers then war honest men, that never did harm to a lone person on the prairy. But they’ve gone, one arter the other, an’ only me an’ you are left.”

As the old trapper ceased speaking, he arose suddenly to his feet and disappeared in the darkness, leaving Dick gazing thoughtfully into the fire. It was an hour before he returned, mounted on his horse, which he picketed with the others. He then silently rolled himself up in his blanket and went to sleep.

WHENsetting out the next morning, Frank noticed that the wagons, instead of starting off singly, and straggling, as they had formerly done, kept close together, and traveled more rapidly. The trapper, too, instead of taking the lead, and getting in advance of the train, seemed satisfied to remain with the others. Upon inquiring the reason for this, Dick replied:

“You may find out afore night, youngster, that we are in a bad bit of Injun country. The train that went out afore us had a scrimmage here with nigh five hundred of the red-skins, who stampeded some of their stock. So keep your eyes open, an’ if you see a Injun, let me know to onct.” The trapper said this with a broad grin, that was meant to imply that if they were attacked, the Indians would make their appearance before a person so inexperienced as Frank could be aware of it.

“The red-skins don’t gener’lly keer ’bout an out-an’-out fight,” continued the trapper, “’cause they don’t like these long rifles, an’ they know that these yere pioneers shoot mighty sharp. All the Injuns want – or all they can get – is the stock; an’ they sometimes jump on to a train afore a feller knows it, an’ yell an’ kick up a big fuss, which frightens the cattle. That’s what we call stampedin’ ’em. An’, youngster, do you see that ’ar?”

As the trapper spoke, he pointed out over the prairie towards a little hill about two miles distant. After gazing for a few moments in the direction indicated, Archie replied:

“I see something that looks like a weed or a tuft of grass.”

“Wal, that’s no weed,” said the trapper, with a laugh, “nor grass, neither. If it is, it’s on hossback, an’ carries a shootin’-iron or a bow an’ arrer. That’s a Injun, or I never seed one afore. What do you say, Bob?” he asked, turning to the old trapper, who at this moment came up.

“I seed that five minutes ago,” was the reply, “an’ in course it can’t be nothin’ but a red-skin.”

The boys gazed long and earnestly at the object, but their eyes were not as sharp as those of the trappers, for they could not discover that it bore any resemblance to an Indian, until Mr. Winters handed them his field-glass through which he had been regarding the object ever since its discovery. Then they found that the trappers had not been deceived. It was a solitary Indian, who sat on his horse as motionless as a statue, no doubt watching the train, and endeavoring to satisfy himself of the number of men there might be to defend it. In his hand he carried something that looked like a spear adorned with a tuft of feathers.

“I wish the varlet was in good pluggin’ distance,” said Dick, patting his rifle which lay across his knees. “If I could only get a bead on him, he would never carry back to his fellers the news of what he has seed.”

“Do you suppose there are more of them?” asked Archie, in a voice that would tremble in spite of himself.

“Sartin,” replied old Bob Kelly, who still rode beside the wagon; “thar’s more of ’em not fur off. This feller is a kind o’ spy like, an’ when he has seen exactly how things stand, he’ll go back an’ tell the rest of ’em, an’ the fust thing we know, they’ll be down on us like a hawk on a June-bug. But they’ll ketch a weasel, they will, when they pitch into us. Dick, when they do come, don’t forget Bill Lawson.”

The trapper turned his head, for a moment, as if to hide the emotion he felt, at the mention of the name of his departed companion, but presently replied:

“This aint the fust time that you an’ me have been in jest sich scrapes, Bob, an’ it aint likely that we’ll soon forget that we owe the varlets a long settlement. Thar aint as many of us now as thar used to be; more’n one good trapper has had his har raised by them same red-skins – fur I know a Cheyenne as fur as I kin see him, youngsters – an’ mebbe one o’ these days, when some one asks, ‘What’s come on ole Bob Kelly an’ Dick Lewis?’ the answer will be, ‘Killed by the Injuns!’”