by Twain, Mark
Chapter 8
WE WAS away along up the North Fork of the Platte, now. When we started again, the Injuns was two or three days ahead of us, and their trail was pretty much washed out, but Brace didn’t mind it, he judged he knowed where they was striking for. He had been reading the signs in their old camps, all these days, and he said these Sioux was Ogillallahs. We struck a hilly country, now, and traveled the day through and camped a few miles up a nice valley late in the afternoon on top of a low flattish hill in a grove of small trees. It was an uncommon pretty place, and we picked it out on account of Tom, because he hadn’t stood the trip well, and we calculated to rest him there another day or two. The valley was a nearly level swale a mile or a mile and a half wide, and had a little river-bed in it with steep banks, and trees along it—not much of a river, because you could throw a brick across it, but very deep when it was full of water, which it wasn’t, now. But Brace said we would find puddles along in its bed, so him and me took the animals and a bucket, and left Tom in camp and struck down our hill and rode across the valley to water them. When we got to the river we found new-made tracks along the bank, and Brace said there was about twenty horses in that party, and there was white men in it, because some of the horses had shoes on, and likely they was from out Fort Laramie way.
There was a puddle or two, but Brace couldn’t get down the banks easy; so he told me to wait with the mules, and if he didn’t find a better place he would come back and rig some way to get up and down the bank here. Then he rode off down stream and pretty soon the trees hid him. By and by an antelope darts by me and I looked up the river and around a corner of the timber comes two men, riding fast. When they got to me they reined up and begun to ask me questions. They was half drunk, and a mighty rough looking couple, and their clothes didn’t help them much, being old greasy buckskin, just about black with dirt. I was afraid of them. They asked me who I was, and where I come from, and how many was with me, and where we was camped; and I told them my name was Archibald Thompson, and says:
“Our camp’s down at the foot of the valley, and we’re traveling for pap’s health, he’s very sick, we can’t travel no more till he gets better, and there ain’t nobody to take care of him but me and aunt Mary and Sis, and so we’re in a heap of troub—”
“It’s all a lie!” one of them breaks in. “You’ve stole them animals.”
“You bet he has,” says the other. “Why, I know this one myself; he belongs to old Vaskiss the trader, up at the Fort, and I’m dead certain I’ve seen one of the others somewheres.”
“Seen him? I reckon you have. Belongs to Roubidou the blacksmith, and he’ll be powerful glad we’ve found him again. I knowed him in a minute. Come, boy, I’m right down sorry for your sick pap, and poor aunt Mary and Sis, but all the same you’ll go along back to our camp, and you want to be mighty civil and go mighty careful, or first you know you’ll get hung.”
First I didn’t know what to do; but I had to work my mind quick, and I struck a sort of an idea, the best I could think of, right off, that way. I says to myself, it’s two to one these is horse-thieves, because Brace says there’s a plenty of them in these regions; and so I reckon they’d like to get one or two more while they’re at it. Then I up and says:
“Gents, as sure as I’m here I never stole the animals; and if I’ll prove it to you you’ll let me go, won’t you?”
“How’re you going to prove it?”
“I’ll do it easy if you’ll come along with me, for we bought two mules that’s almost just like these from the Injuns day before yesterday, and maybe they stole ’em, I don’t know, but we didn’t, that’s sure.”
They looked at each other, and says:
“Where are they—down at your camp?”
“No; they’re only down here three or four hundred yards. Sister Mary she—”
“Has she got them?”
“Yes.”
“Anybody with her?”
“No.”
“Trot along, then, and don’t you try to come any tricks, boy, or you’ll get hurt.”
I didn’t wait for a second invite, but started right along, keeping a sharp lookout for Brace, and getting my yell ready, soon as I should see him. I edged ahead, and edged ahead, all I could, and they notified me a couple of times not to shove along so fast, because there warn’t no hurry; and pretty soon they noticed Brace’s trail, and sung out to me to halt a minute, and bent down over their saddles, and checked up their speed, and was mightily interested, as I could see when I looked back. I didn’t halt, but jogged ahead, and kept widening the distance. They sung out again, and threatened me, and then I brushed by Brace’s horse, in the trees, and knowed Brace was down the bank or close by, so I raised a yell and put up my speed to just the highest notch the mules could reach. I looked back, and here they come!—and next comes a bullet whizzing by! I whacked away for life and death, and looked back and they was gaining; looked back again, and see Brace booming after the hind one like a house afire, and swinging the long coils of his lariat over his head; then he sent it sailing through the air, and as it scooped that fellow in, Brace reined back his horse and yanked him out of his saddle, and then come tearing ahead again, dragging him. He yelled to me to get out of range, and so I turned out sudden and looked back, and my man had wheeled and was raising his gun on Brace, but Brace’s pistol was too quick for him, and down he went, out of his saddle.
Well, we had two dead men on our hands, and I felt pretty crawly, and didn’t like to look at them; but Brace allowed it warn’t a very unpleasant sight, considering they tried to kill me. He said we must hurry into camp, now, and get ready for trouble; so we shoved for camp, and took the two new horses and the men’s guns and things with us, not waiting to water our animals.
It was nearly dark. We kept a watch-out towards up the river, but didn’t see anything stirring. When we got home we still watched from the edge of the grove, but didn’t see anything, and no sign of that gang’s camp fire; then Brace said we was probably safe from them for the rest of the night, so we would rest the animals three or four hours, and then start out and get as well ahead as we could, and keep ahead as long as this blamed Friday-antelope luck would let us, if Tom could stand the travel.
It come on starlight, a real beautiful starlight, and all the world as still and lovely as Sunday. By and by Brace said it would be a good idea to find out where the thieves was camped, so we could give it a wide berth when we started; and he said I could come along if I wanted to; and he took his gun along, this time, and I took one of the thieves’ guns. We took the two fresh horses and rode down across the valley and struck the river, and then went pretty cautious up it. We went as much as two mile, and not a sign of a camp fire anywheres. So we kept on, wondering where it could be, because we could see a long ways up the valley. And then all of a sudden we heard people laugh, and not very far off, maybe forty or fifty yards. It come from the river. We went back a hundred yards, and tied the horses amongst the trees, and then back again afoot till we was close to the place, where we heard it before, and slipped in amongst the trees and listened, and heard the voices again, pretty close by. Then we crept along on our knees, slow and careful, to the edge of the bank, through the bush, and there was the camp, a little ways up, and right in the dry bed of the river; two big buffalo-skins lodges, a band of horses tied, and eight men carousing and gambling around a fire—all white men, and the roughest kind, and prime drunk. Brace said they had camped there so their camp couldn’t be seen easy, but they might as well camped in the open as go and get drunk and make such a noise. He said they was horse thieves, certain.
We was interested, and stayed looking a considerable time. But the liquor begun to beat them, and first one and then another went gaping and stretching to the tents and turned in. And then another one started, and the others tried to make him stay up, because it was his watch, but he said he was drunk and sleepy and didn’t want to watch, and said “Let Jack and Bill stand my watch, as long th
ey like to be up late—they’ll be in directly, like as not.”
But the others threatened to lick him if he didn’t stand his watch; so he grumbled, but give in, and got his gun and set down; and when the others was all gone to roost, he just stretched himself out and went to snoring as comfortable as anybody.
We left, then, and sneaked down to where our horses was, and rode away, leaving the rapscallions to sleep it out and wait for Jack and Bill to come, but we reckoned they’d have to wait a most notorious long time first.
We rode down the river to where Brace was when I yelled to him when the thieves was after me; and he said he had dug some steps in the bank there with his bowie, and we could finish the job in a little while, and when we broke camp and started we would bring our mules there and water them. So we tied our horses and went down into the river bed to the puddle that was there, and laid down on our breasts to take a drink; but Brace says:
“Hello, what’s that?”
It was as still as death before, but you could hear a faint, steady, rising sound, now, up the river. We held our breath and listened. You could see a good stretch up it, and tolerable clear, too, the starlight was so strong. The sound kept growing and growing, very fast. Then all of a sudden Brace says:
“Jump for the bank! I know what that is.”
It’s always my plan to jump first, and ask afterwards. So I done it. Brace says:
“There’s a water-spout broke loose up country somewheres, and you’ll see sights mighty soon, now.”
“Do they break when there ain’t no clouds in the sky?” I says, judging I had him.
“Never you mind,” he says, “there was a cloud where this one broke. I’ve seen this kind of thing before, and I know that sound. Fasten your horse just as tight as you can, or he’ll break loose presently.”
The sound got bigger and bigger, and away up yonder it was just one big dull thundering roar. We looked up the river a piece, and see something coming down its bed like dim white snakes writhing along. When it went hissing and sizzling by us it was shallow foamy water. About twenty yards behind it comes a solid wall of water four foot high, and nearly straight up and down, and before you could wink it went rumbling and howling by like a whirlwind, and carrying logs along, and them thieves, too, and their horses and tents, and tossing them up in sight, and then under again, and grinding them to hash, and the noise was just awful, you couldn’t a heard it thunder; and our horses was plunging and pitching, and trying their best to break loose. Well, before we could turn around the water was over the banks and ankle deep.
“Out of this, Huck, and shin for camp, or we’re goners!”
We was mounted and off in a second, with the water chasing after us. We rode for life, we went like the wind, but we didn’t have to use whip or spur, the horses didn’t need no encouragement. Half way across the valley we met the water flooding down from above; and from there on, the horses was up to their knees, sometimes, yes, and even up to their bellies towards the last. All hands was glad when we struck our hill and sailed up it out of danger.
Chapter 9
OUR LITTLE low hill was an island, now, and we couldn’t a got away from it if we had wanted to. We all three set around and watched the water rise. It rose wonderful fast; just walked up the long, gradual slope, as you may say, it come up so fast. It didn’t stop rising for two or three hours; and then that whole valley was just a big level river a mile to a mile and a half wide, and deep enough to swim the biggest ship that was ever built, and no end of dim black drift logs spinning around and sailing by in the currents on its surface.
Brace said it hadn’t took the water-spout an hour to dump all that ocean of water and finish up its job, but like enough it would be a week before the valley was free of it again; so Tom would have considerable more time than we bargained to give him to get well in.
Me and Tom was down-hearted and miserable on account of Jim and Peggy and Flaxy, because we reckoned it was all up with them and the Injuns, now; and so at last Tom throwed out a feeler to see what Brace thought. He never said anything about the others, but only about the Injuns; said the water-spout must a got the Injuns, hadn’t it? But Brace says:
“No, nary an Injun. Water-spouts don’t catch any but white folks. There warn’t ever a white man that could tell when a water-spout’s coming; and how the nation an Injun can tell is something I never could make out, but they can. When it’s perfectly clear weather, and other people ain’t expecting anything, they’ll say, all of a sudden, ‘heap water coming,’ and pack up in a hurry and shove for high ground. They say they smell it. I don’t know whether that’s so or not; but one thing I do know, a water-spout often catches a white man, but it don’t ever catch an Injun.”
Next morning there we was, on an island, same as before; just a level, shining ocean everywheres, and perfectly still and quiet, like it was asleep. And awful lonesome.
Next day the same, only lonesomer than ever.
And next day just the same, and mighty hard work to put in the time. Mostly we slept. And after a long sleep, wake up, and eat dinner, and look out over the tiresome water, and go to sleep again; and wake up again, by and by, and see the sun go down and turn it into blood, and fire, and melted butter, and one thing or another, awful beautiful, and soft, and lovely, but solemn and lonesome till you couldn’t rest.
We had eight days of that, and the longer we waited for that ocean to play out and run off, the bigger the notion I got of a water-spout that could puke out such a mortal lot of water as that in an hour.
We left, then, and made a good day’s travel, and by sundown begun to come onto fresh buffalo carcases. There was so many of them that Brace reckoned there was a big party of Injuns near, or else whites from the fort.
In the morning we hadn’t gone five miles till we struck a big camp where Injuns had been, and hadn’t gone more than a day or two. Brace said there was as many as a hundred of them, altogether, men, women and children, and made up from more than one band of Sioux, but Brulé’s, mostly, as he judged by the signs. Brace said things looked like these Injuns was camped here a considerable time.
Of course we warn’t thinking about our Injuns, or expecting to run across any signs of them or the prisoners, but Tom he found an arrow, broke in two, which was wound with blue silk thread down by the feather, and he said he knowed it was Hog Face’s, because he got the silk for him from Peggy and watched him wind it. So Brace begun to look around for other signs, and he believed he found some. Well, I was ciphering around in a general way myself, and outside of the camp I run across a ragged piece of Peggy’s dress as big as a big handkerchief, and it had blood on it. It most froze me to see that, because I judged she was killed; and if she warn’t, it stood to reason she was hurt. I hid the rag under a buffalo chip, because if Brace was to see it he might suspicion she wasn’t dead after all the pains we had took to make him believe she was; and just then he sings out “Run here, boys,” and Tom he come running from one way and I the other, and when we got to him, there in the middle of the camp, he points down and says:
“There—that’s the shoe-print of a white woman. See—you can see, where she turned it down to one side, how thin the sole is. She’s white, and she’s a prisoner with this gang of Injuns. I don’t understand it. I’m afraid there’s general trouble broke out between the whites and Injuns; and if that’s so, I’ve got to go mighty cautious from this out.” He looks at the track again, and says, “Poor thing, it’s hard luck for her,” and went mumbling off, and never noticed that me and Tom was most dead with uneasiness, for we could see plain enough it was Peggy’s print, and was afraid he would see it himself, or think he did, any minute. His back warn’t more than turned before me and Tom had tramped on the print once or twice—just enough to take the clearness out of it, because we didn’t know but he might come back for another look.
Pretty soon we see him over yonder looking at something, and we went there, and it was four stakes drove in the ground; and he looks us ver
y straight and steady in the eyes, first me and then Tom, and then me again, till it got pretty sultry; then he says, cold and level, but just as if he’d been asking us a question:
“Well, I believe you. Come along.”
Me and Tom followed along, a piece behind; and Tom says:
“Huck, he’s so afraid she’s alive, that it’s just all he can do to believe that yarn of ours about burying her. And pretty soon, now, like enough, he’ll find out she ain’t dead, after all.”
“That’s just what’s worrying me, Tom. It puts us in a scrape, and I don’t see no way out of it; because what can we say when he tackles us about lying to him?”
“I know what to say, well enough.”
“You do? Well I wish you’d tell me, for I’m blamed if I see any way out—I wouldn’t know a single word to say.”
“I’ll say this, to him. I’ll say, suppose it was likely you was going to get knocked in the head with a club some time or other, but it warn’t quite certain; would you want to be knocked in the head straight off, so as to make it certain, or wouldn’t you ruther wait and see if you mightn’t live your life out and not happen to get clubbed at all? Of course, he would say. Then I would put it at him straight, and say, wasn’t you happier, when we made you think she was dead, than you was before? Didn’t it keep you happy all this time? Of course. Well, wasn’t it worth a little small lie like that to keep you happy instead of awfully miserable many days and nights? Of course. And wasn’t it likely she would be dead before you ever run across her again?—which would make our lie plenty good enough. True again. And at last I would up and say, just you put yourself in our place, Brace Johnson: now, honor bright, would you have told the truth, that time, and broke the heart of the man that was Peggy Mills’s idol? If you could, you are not a man, you are a devil; if you could and did, you’d be lower and hard-hearteder than the devils, you’d be an Injun. That’s what I’ll say to him, Huck, if the time ever comes.”
