Frontier and pioneer life -- West (U.S.); Hunting -- United States; West (U.S.) -- Description and travel
When everything was duly protected, the men set to work to spread their
beds; those who had not troubled themselves to erect a shelter, getting
under the lee of the piles of packs and saddles; whilst Killbuck,
disdaining even such care of his carcass, threw his buffalo robe on the
bare ground, declaring his intention to "take" what was coming at all
hazards, and "anyhow." Selecting a high spot, he drew his knife and
proceeded to cut drains round it, to prevent the water running into him
as he lay; then taking a single robe, he carefully spread it, placing
under the end furthest from the fire a large stone brought from the
creek. Having satisfactorily adjusted this pillow, he added another robe
to the one already laid, and placed over all a Navajo blanket, supposed
to be impervious to rain. Then he divested himself of his pouch and
powder-horn, which, with his rifle, he placed inside his bed, and
quickly covered up lest the wet should reach them. Having performed
these operations to his satisfaction, he lighted his pipe by the hissing
embers of the half-extinguished fire (for by this time the rain poured
in torrents), and went the rounds of the picketed animals, cautioning
the guard round the camp to keep their "eyes skinned, for there would be
powder burned before morning." Then returning to the fire, and kicking
with his moccasined foot the slumbering ashes, he squatted down before
it, and thus soliloquized:--
"Thirty year have I been knocking about these mountains from Missoura's
head as far sothe as the starving Gila. I've trapped a heap, * and many
a hundred pack of beaver I've traded in my time, wagh! What has come of
it, and whar's the dollars as ought to be in my possibles? Whar's the
ind of this, I say? Is a man to be hunted by Injuns all his days? Many's
the time I've said I'd strike for Taos, and trap a squaw, for this
child's getting old, and feels like wanting a woman's face about his
lodge for the balance of his days; but when it comes to caching of the
old traps, I've the smallest kind of heart, I have. Certain, the old
State comes across my mind now and again, but who's thar to remember my
old body? But them diggings gets too overcrowded nowadays, and it's
hard to fetch breath amongst them big bands of corncrackers to Missoura.
Beside, it goes against natur' to leave bufler-meat and feed on hog;
and them white gals are too much like picturs, and a deal too 'fofarraw'
(fanfaron). No; darn the settlements, I say. It won't shine, and whar's
the dollars? Hows'ever, beaver's bound to rise; human natur' can't go
on selling beaver a dollar a pound; no, no, that arn't a going to shine
much longer, I know. Them was the times when this child first went to
the mountains: six dollars the plew--old'un or kitten! Wagh! but it's
bound to rise, I says agin; and hyar's a coon knows whar to lay his hand
on a dozen pack right handy, and then he'll take the Taos trail, wagh!"
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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