The Edward S. Ellis Megapack

by Edward S. Ellis

  When I reached the point opposite the stranger’s camp-fire, I stumbled and coughed so as to attract his attention. I saw him raise his eyes and hurriedly scan me, but he gave no further evidence of anxiety, and I unhesitatingly sprang across the stream, and made my way toward him. Before I halted, I saw that he was a trapper. He was reclining upon the ground, before a small fire, and smoking a short black pipe, in a sort of dreamy reverie.

  “Good evening, my friend,” I said, cheerfully, approaching within a few feet of him. He raised his eyes a moment, and then suffered them lazily to fall again, and continue their vacant stare into the fire.“Quite a pleasant evening,” I continued, seating myself near him.

  “Umph!” he grunted, removing his pipe, and rising to the upright position. He looked at me a second with a pair of eyes of sharp, glittering blackness, and then asked: “Chaw, stranger?”

  “I sometimes use the weed, but not in that form,” I replied, handing a piece to him. He wrenched off a huge mouthful with a vigorous twist of his head, and returned it without a word. This done, he sank back to his former position and reverie.

  “Excuse me, friend,” said I, moving rather impatiently, and determined to force a conversation upon him, “but I hope you will permit a few questions?”

  “Go ahead, stranger,” he answered, gruffly.

  “Are you traveling alone in this section?”

  “I reckon I ar’, ’cept the hoss which ’ar a team.”

  “Follow trapping and hunting, I presume?”

  “What’s yer handle, stranger?” he suddenly asked, as he came to the upright position, and looking at me with more interest.

  “William Relmond, from New Jersey.”

  “Whar’s that place?”

  “It is one of the Middle States, quite a distance from here.”

  “What mought you be doin’ in these parts?”

  “I and my friend out yonder are on our way to Oregon.”

  “Umph! you’re pretty green ’uns.”

  “Now I suppose you will have no objection to giving me your name.”

  “My handle’s Bill Biddon, and I’m on my way to trappin’-grounds up country.”

  “How far distant?”

  “A heap; somewhar up ’bove the Yallerstone.”

  “Do you generally go upon these journeys alone?”

  “Sometimes I does, and sometimes I doesn’t.”

  I ceased my questions for a few moments, for fear of provoking him. As his route, as far as it extended, would be in our direction, I determined to keep his company if I could gain his consent. He was a splendid specimen of the physical man. He was rather short, but heavy and thick-set, with a compactness of frame that showed a terrible strength slumbering in his muscles. His face was broad, covered by a thin, straggling beard of grizzled gray, and several ridged scars were visible in different parts of it. His brows were beetling and lowering, and beneath them a couple of black eyes fairly snapt at times with electric fire. His mouth was broad, and though one could plainly see a whirlwind of terrific passion might be called into life within his breast, yet there was, also in his face, the index of a heart alive to good humor and frankness. I saw that, if approached skillfully, his heart could be reached. He was evidently the creature of odd whims and fancies and caprice, feeling as well satisfied without the society of his fellow-man as with it—one of those strange beings, a hero of a hundred perils, who was satisfied to lose his life in the mighty wilderness of the Far West, without a single one suspecting or caring for his fate.

  “Would you have any objections to my friend and myself accompanying you, that is, as far as you should proceed in our direction?”

  He looked steadily at me a moment, and answered, “You kin go with me ef you wants; but I knows as how you’re green, and yer needn’t s’pose I’m goin’ to hold in fur yer. Yers as never does that thing.”

  “Oh, I shouldn’t expect you to. Of course, we will make it a point not to interfere in the least with your plans and movements.”

  “Whar is yer other chap? S’pose it war him what come peakin’ through yer a while ago; had a notion of spilin’ his picter fur his imperdence.”

  “I will go bring him,” I answered, rising and moving off. But as I stepped across the stream, I discerned the top of Nat’s white hat, just above a small box-elder; and moving on, saw his eye fixed with an eager stare upon the trapper.

  “Don’t he look savage?” he whispered, as I came to him.

  “Not very. Are you afraid of him?”

  “No; but I wonder whether he—whether he knows anything about the old mare and my knife.”

  “Perhaps so; come and see. He just now asked for you.”

  “Asked for me?” repeated Nat, stepping back. “What does he want of me?”

  “Nothing in particular. I just mentioned your name, and he asked where you were. Come along; I hope you ain’t afraid?”

  “Afraid! I should like to see the man I’m afraid of!” exclaimed my companion in an almost inaudible whisper, as he tremblingly followed me across the brook, and to the spot where Biddon, the trapper, was lying.

  “My friend, Nathan Todd, Biddon.”

  “How are you? Very happy to make your acquaintance,” and Nat nervously extended his hand.

  “How’re yer?” grunted Biddon, with a slight jerk of his head, and not noticing the proffered hand.

  “Been a most exceedingly beautiful day,” ventured Nat, quickly and nervously.

  I saw the trapper was not particularly impressed with him, and I took up the conversation. I made several unimportant inquiries, and learned in the course of them, that our friend, Bill Biddon, was about forty years of age, and had followed trapping and hunting for over twenty years. He was a native of Missouri, and Westport was the depot for his peltries. For the last two or three years he had made all his excursions alone. He was quite a famous trapper, and the fur company which he patronized gave him a fine outfit and paid him well for his skins. He possessed a magnificently-mounted rifle, and his horse, he informed me, had few superiors among the fleetest mustangs of the south. Both of these were presented him by the company mentioned.

  “Why ain’t you got horses?” he asked, looking toward me.

  “They were both stolen from us.”

  “I don’t s’pose you’ve seen anything of a company with a mare, short-tailed, that limped a little, and an overcoat that had a knife in the pocket?” asked Nat, eagerly.

  “Not that I knows on,” answered Biddon, with a twinkle of humor.

  I gave the particulars of our loss, and then asked, without due thought:

  “Did you not camp upon the banks of the Republican Fork last night?”

  “Yas; what’d yer want to know fur?”

  “Oh, nothing, nothing,” quickly answered Nat.

  I believe the trapper understood my allusion, and I hoped he would give an explanation of his act; but he made no reference to it, and, after further conversation, we all lay down in slumber.

  CHAPTER III

  The Trapper’s Story

  I was aroused from my slumber, before it was yet light, by Biddon shaking me and calling in my ear:

  “Come, you chaps, you’ve got only two minutes to swaller yer feed in.”

  Nat was already moving about, and I sprang to my feet, determined to continue in my friend’s good graces, if such a thing were possible, by a cheerful acquiescence in all his reasonable wishes. Our fire was kindled, a hasty breakfast swallowed, and just as the sun made its appearance above the prairie, we moved off toward the north.

  Long before noon we reached the Platte, and forded it at the point where Fort Grattan now stands. The Platte, during the winter months, is a boisterous stream of great width, but in summer it is very shallow (from which circumstance it derives its name), and at the dry season it almost ceases running, and dwindles down to an innumerablenumber of stagnant pools. As it was now the summer season, we walked over without more than merely wetting our shoes. The Oregon trail fo
llows the northern shore of this stream to Washington Territory, or to what was Oregon at the time of which I write. Leaving the Platte, we shaped our course toward the northwest, so as to strike the southern spur of the Black Hills. From Biddon’s conversation, I found that his destination was the neighborhood of the head-waters of the Tongue or Powder River, which have their cañons in the Black Hills.

  As he allowed his horse to proceed upon a moderate walk, we had no trouble in keeping him company. We generally started at the first indication of morning, halting now and then to slake our thirst in the numerous streams which crossed our path, and resting an hour at noon. At sunset we struck camp upon some small stream, cooked our evening meal, spent an hour or two in smoking and conversation, and turned in for the night.

  The country over which we now journeyed was much better timbered than any through which we had yet passed. For an entire day after crossing the Platte, we met with thousands of the ash, elm, walnut, and cottonwood trees. The bark of the latter, I was surprised to observe, was greatly relished by the trapper’s horse, he often preferring it to the rich, succulent grass which so abounds in this region. Besides this there were signs of the buffalo, antelope, and hundreds of other animals.

  One night we halted upon the bank of a large stream some miles north of the Platte, which emptied into the Missouri. It was quite broad and rapid, and near the center of the channel a small, sandy island was visible. We passed over this while fording the stream, and I noticed that Biddon walked around it, and surveyed several spots with more than common interest. I did not question him then, but at night, when we were stretched before the fire, with our soothing pipes, I ventured the inquiry.

  “I seed sights on that chunk of mud one time,” said he, with a dark frown.

  “What was it?—what was it?” asked Nat, eagerly.

  “Here’s as what don’t like to think of that time, augh!” he answered, seeming still unwilling to refer to it.

  “Why not?” I asked, beginning to partake of Nat’s curiosity.

  “It makes a feller’s blood bile; but, howsomever,” he added, brightening up, “if you wants to hear it, yer kin.”

  “We do by all means; please give it.”

  “Yas, that ar’ war’ a time of general wipin’ out, and this yer water that now looks as black as a wolf’s mouth, run red that night! It war’ nigh onto ten year ago that it happened. I was down in Westport one day in the summer when a feller slapped me on the shoulder and axed me ef I wanted a job. I tole him I didn’t care much, but if he’s a mind to fork over, and it wan’t desprit hard, and too much like work, I’s his man. He said as how thar’ war’ a lot of fellers camped out on the prairie, as war gwine to start for Oregon, and as wanted a guide; and heerin’ me spoken on as suthin’ extronnery, why he like to know ef I wouldn’t go; he’d make the pay all right. I cut around the stump awhile and at last ’cluded to go. I went out onto the perarie, and seed the company. They were men, women, and children, ’specially the last ones. I seed they wanted good watchin’, and I kinder hinted they’d find trouble afore they’d reach Oregon.

  “There weren’t many folks trampin’ these parts then, and them as did go, had to make up thar minds to see fight and ha’r-raisin’. B’ars and beavers, they did! The reds war the same then all over, arter you get clear of the States, and no feller’s ha’r war his own till he’d lost it.

  “We started the next day, and struck the Platte afore night. There war but twenty good men, an’ I made half of ’em stand watch that night just to get their hands in. In course they didn’t see nothin’, ’cept one straddlin’ chap, like this feller yer that is called Nat. He said as how he seed wonders, he did, and thar war a hundred reds crawlin’round the camp all night.

  “We went purty slow, as it weren’t best to hurry the teams; but we hadn’t been two days on the way afore the fools got into the all-firedest scrabble I ever seed. I don’t know what it come ’bout, but it war so big, they split company, and part of ’em crossed over and camped on t’other side the Platte. I tole ’em they’d see stars purty soon, if they didn’t splice agin, but they’s too rearin’ to do it, and I said if they’s a mind to be sich fools, they mought be fur all me, and I’d let ’em go on alone. Howsomever, the smallest party hung on fur me not to leave ’em, and I ’cluded to stay with ’em as I knowed purty well they’d need me all the time.

  “The biggest company as had crossed the Platte, kept on by it, and so the others said they’d leave it and cut across fur Oregon. I tole ’em this war the best way, and so we left ’em. Them I war with war a heap the smallest, and had but three or four men and five or six women and children. What made things look wuss, I seed ‘signs’ when we parted, and I knowed purty well the reds smelt what war goin’ on. And ’bout a dozen times in the afternoon I could see ’em off on the perarie stealin’ long and dodgin’ through cover. I knowed that the imps were follerin’ us, seein’ the other war a heap more powerful nor us.

  “Things got so dubersome afore night, I said to the men ef they’d take the advice of a feller as knowed what he war ’bout, they’d turn round and never stop till they cotched the others; for ef they didn’t, they’d cotch it at night; reds war ’bout them as thick as flies. They said how ef I’s ’fraid I mought go back, but as for them they’d gothrough fire and blazes ’fore they would. I felt riled ’nough at this to leave ’em, and I would ef it hadn’t been fur them poor women; they looked so sorrerful I made up my mind to stick to ’em fur thar sake.

  “We reached the stream just as it war growing dark, and the reds had got so sassy, that five or six of ’em stood a little ways off and watched us. This scart the women and men, and they axed me what war to be done? The women cried and wanted to coax the Injins up to give ’em sunkthin’ to get thar good will, but they war cross and sulky, and didn’t say much.

  “After some talk and a heap of cryin’, we ’cluded to camp on that piece of sand in the river. The teams war drew over and we follered. The water war some deeper nor now, and it took us a long time to land; but we got over at last. As soon as we war clean over, I commenced fixing up things fur the reds. We didn’t build no fire, but put the teams together near the middle, and the women inside ’em. There war four men without me, and I set ’em round the place to watch fur sign. I made ’em all squat flat down on the mud close to the water, and told’em to blaze away at anything they seed, ef it war a beaver or otter, and gave ’em pertickler orders not to wink both eyes at a time. I seed they’s skerish, and there weren’t no danger of thar snoozin’ on watch.

  “I’s pretty sartin the reds would come some of thar tricks, and come down the river; so I went up to the upper part of the thing, and laid in the mud myself to watch fur ’em. I knowed, too, they wouldn’t be’bout ’fore purty late, so I took a short nap as I laid in the mud. When I woke up the moon war up in the sky, and the river had riz so my pegs war in the water. I flapped out, but didn’t see nothin’ yet. I sneaked down round by t’other fellers, and found ’em all wide awake; and they said, too, as how they hadn’t seen nothin’ ’cept the river war gettin’ higher, which they kinder thought the Injins mought’ve done. Jist as I war going back I heard some of the purtiest singin’ in the world. Fust, I thought it war an Injin, ef it hadn’t been so nice; then I ’cluded it must be an angel. I listened, and found it came from the wagons. I crept up and seed two little girls all ’lone clus by the wagons, a singin’ sunkthin’. Shoot me! ef it didn’t make me feel watery to see them. The moon war shinin’ down through the flyin’clouds, right out on ’em. They sot with their arms round each other and war bare-headed, and ef I hadn’t knowed ’em I’d swore they were angels sure. I axed what they were singin’ for, and they said the Injins war goin’ to come after ’em that night, and they war singin’ to their mother in heaven to keep ’em away. Shoot me! when one of ’em throwed her little white arms round my neck and kissed my ugly meat-trap, I couldn’t stand it. I went up to my place again and lad down in the mud.

  “I
t was gettin’ colder, and the wind comin’ up, drew the white clouds’fore the moon, makin’ it all black. But when it come out agin I seed sunkthin’ comin’ down the river that looked like a log. I dug down deeper into the mud, and set my peepers on it, fur I knowed thar war sunkthin’ else thar, too. It come right on and struck the mud a little ways from me. I didn’t stir ’cept to kinder loose my knife. The log stuck a minute, and then swung round and went down the river. I knowed the boys would see it, and I didn’t leave my place. Thinkin’ as how this war only sent down to see what we’d do, I war lookin’ fur other things, when I heard a noise in the water, and, shoot me, ef a sneakin’ red didn’t come up out of the water, and commence crawlin’toward whar the gals war singin’. (Jist put a little fodder on the fire.)”

  I sprang up and threw on some fagots, and then seated myself and anxiously awaited the rest of his story. He put away his pipe, filled his mouth with tobacco, and, after several annoying delays, resumed:

  “Thar weren’t no time to lose. I crept ’long behind him mighty sly, and afore he knowed it, come down spank onto him. I didn’t make no noise nor he either. I jist grabbed his gullet and finished him with my knife. I then crawled back agin, and, shoot me, ef I didn’t see forty logs comin’ down on us; the river war full of ’em.

  “I jumped up and hollered to the other fellers to look out. They came up aside me and stood ready, but it weren’t no use. ’Fore we knowed it, I seed over forty of ’em ’long ’side us. We blazed into’em and went to usin’ our knives, but I knowed it wouldn’t do. They set up a yell and pitched fur the wagons, while ’bout a dozen went at us. The fust thing I knowed the whole four boys were down and thar ha’r raised, and the women screechin’ murder. It made me desprit, and I reckon I done some tall work that night. Most these beauty spots on my mug come from that scrimmage. I seed a red dart by me with that little gal as was singin’, and cotched a dead red’s gun and let drive at him; but the gun weren’t loaded, and so the devil run off with her.