Edward Ellis - Bill Biddon, Trapper - or, Life in the Northwest

The day was clear and pleasant, and the sky devoid of the least signs of threatening storm. There were two or three white clouds straggling off in the western horizon, but the sky was of a deep clear blue. We were now proceeding in a northward direction, intending to strike the Platte at the nearest point. South, east, and west the small waving hills of the prairie stretched, unrelieved by the slightest object, except in the west the far-off outline of some mountain-peak was just visible, resembling a slight pointed cloud against the blue sky. This disappeared at noon, and we were again like wanderers upon the illimitable sea. A short time after, Nat’s keen vision detected a number of black, moving specks far to the westward.

“An emigrant train, perhaps,” I suggested.

“They’re Pawnee Injins as sure as the world, and we’d better give them a wide berth.”

“Pawnee Indians! How do you know that? You never have been in this section before?”

“That’s true, but you don’t s’pose I started out here without first larning something ’bout the country and folks, do you? If you do, you’re mighty mistaken. Just let me know in what part of the country we are, and I’ll let you know what sights you will see, that is, if we are going to see any at all. But let’s keep to the east; I don’t want to keep them Pawnees in sight.”

“The Pawnee Indians are reported friendly to the whites.”

“Exactly; but have they been reported honest? If they should come upon us and take a fancy to our rifles, what is there to prevent them from taking them? And,” added Nat, with a shrewd shake of his head. “I’ve not faith enough in their good intentions to want ’em in sight at this particular time.”

There was a great deal of reason in his remarks, and it was not unwillingly that I turned my face more to the northeast, and soon saw them disappear from view.

Some time toward the middle of the afternoon we descried a solitary buffalo ahead. He had apparently left his friends and wandered about as though entirely lost. After considerable difficulty we approached nigh enough to bring him down. He was quite poor, and his flesh was strong and Oregon trail, and get into California first, and be tough; but we were glad enough to get it, such as it was. He was thrown on his face, with his knees bent under him, a keen knife run along the spine with just sufficient force to penetrate the skin, which was then pulled down each side. This done, we cut the choice portions out. Nat reserved the buffalo-skin for his blanket, and the rest was thrown away. We made a hearty meal, and about the middle of the afternoon again set forward, hoping to accomplish quite a distance ere nightfall.

Just at dark we reached a stream of considerable size, which I afterward learned was the Republican Fork of Nebraska. The point at which we struck it, was about where it leaves the territory of Kansas and enters Nebraska. Although no considerable stream, we concluded not to cross it before morning, and we made arrangements for passing the night upon its banks. There was considerable timber at different points, and a goodly quantity of driftwood lay scattered along its banks. As the river was quite low, we gathered several armfuls, and had a fire soon started. We had brought some meat of the slain buffalo with us, but concluded not to cook supper, as our appetites were satiated.

Seated round our fire, half-hidden in a depression in the river bottom, with the dark, glistening stream flowing silently by, and smoking our pipes, we naturally fell into an easy conversation.

“We can’t be far from the ‘trail,’ can we?” asked Nat.

“Farther than I suspected,” I answered. “The Republican Fork, which I am convinced is the stream out there, is over fifty miles from the Platte, which, with several other streams must be crossed before the trail is reached.”

“Fudge! I don’t believe I can head off them fellows after all, and my old mare and overcoat will go to thunder.”

“They will go somewhere where you will never see them again.”

“I know I’m bound to lose ’em, and I shan’t think any more about them.”

“That’s the best plan, Nat. They are no great loss.”

“I sh’d like to know whether that greaser or fur agent took them though,” interrupted my friend, earnestly.

After this he fell into a fit of musing, and we remained silent for some time. When the fire had burnt low, I arose and replenished it. Nat looked anxiously at the roaring blaze, carrying ashes and cinders high in the air, and reflecting far out upon the dark river, and he remarked:

“Wonder if some Injins won’t see that.”

“I guess not. We are so low down the bank that I think it can be visible for no considerable distance upon the prairie, and the bend in the river fortunately saves us from view up or down the stream. The only point from which it would attract attention is directly across from us.”

“And it looks suspicious enough there,” repeated Nat, in a whisper, removing his pipe and gazing across the river.

It did indeed look gloomy, forbidding, and threatening. Our fire was nearly on the level with the water, which rolled darkly and noisily at our very feet; and when its crackling blaze arose higher than usual, the low face of the opposite shore was struck by the light. At such times I could not help reflecting what favorable chances were afforded any foe who might be lurking opposite. I involuntarily shrunk from the fire, and felt relieved when the shore blended with the darkness.

It began to grow quite late, the fire had smoldered low, when Nat, removing his cap, turned upon me with:

“What do you think of our journey to California?”

I was at a loss to comprehend his meaning, and looked at him for an explanation.

“I mean to ask whether you feel in such a hurry to get to mines as you did when we were in Independence?”

Now, to confess the truth, the experience of the last week or two, and especially of the last two days, had done much toward dampening the ardor which I once thought could never leave me; and I believe, had I possessed moral courage enough, I should have seized the first opportunity to return to the comforts of a home, where I possessed enough to satisfy any sensible person’s ambition. Still I hesitated to commit myself.

“I cannot say that I am; but what induced you to – ”

“I’m sick of this business,” interrupted Nat, lengthening his legs with a spiteful jerk, and looking disgustedly into the fire.

“What has come over you?” I asked, half-amused at his manner.

“Well there’s that mare – ”

“But you promised not to think of her.”

“How can I help it, I should like to know? She’s gone sure, and there’s that overcoat, that cost me four dollars and a half in Lubec; and Alminy made a big pocket in it on purpose for me to fill full of gold chunks; and I should like to know how I am going to do it, when a Greaser has got it.”

“I am afraid that that would not be the only difficulty you would be likely to experience, Nat, in getting it filled.”

“And my jack-knife was in the coat-pocket, I declare!” exclaimed he, suddenly starting up and pinching alternately one pocket and then another. “Yes, sir, that’s gone, too; that’s worse than all the rest,” he added, despairingly, falling upon his elbow, and gazing abstractedly into the fire.

“That’s a trifling loss, surely, as you have your hunting-knife.”

“I’ve a good notion to get up and go back now,” he added, not heeding my remark. “I’m sick of this business. It’s bad enough to lose the mare, but when the knife is gone I can’t stand it.”

I knew this was but a momentary despondency with my friend, and for the sake of whiling away the time before sleep, I was inclined to humor it.