uncle joe met them at the door, and, while they were relieving themselves of their overcoats and weapons, asked innumerable questions about their sojourn in the woods. dick took the part of spokesman, and described, in his rude, trapper’s style, the scenes through which they had passed, dwelling with a good deal of emphasis on the “keerlessness” displayed by the young naturalist in attacking the moose, and in starting off alone to fight the panther. the trapper tried hard to suppress the feelings of pride which he really felt, and favored the young hunter with a look that was intended to be severe, but which was, in fact, a mingling of joy and satisfaction.
frank bore the scolding which uncle joe administered with a very good grace, for he knew that he deserved it.
“i’d like to take the youngster out on the prairy,” said dick, seating himself before the fire, and producing his never-failing pipe. “i’ll bet that, arter he had follered me and useless a year or two, he wouldn’t be in no great hurry to pitch into every wild varmint he come acrost.”
frank made no reply, but taking the cubs from the pockets of his overcoat, allowed them to run about the cabin—a proceeding which the dogs, especially brave, regarded with suspicion, and which they could not be persuaded to permit, until they had received several hearty kicks and cuffs from their masters.
“you can’t blame the critters,” said the trapper, puffing away at his pipe. “it’s their natur’, an’ i sometimes think that them dogs have a deal more sense than their human masters, an’”——
“supper’s ready,” interrupted bob, the cook and man-of-all-work, and this announcement put an end to all further conversation on the subject.
the boys were highly delighted to find themselves seated at a well-filled table once more, and uncle joe’s good things rapidly disappeared before their attacks. it made no difference to the trapper, however. with him a few weeks “roughing it” in the woods was, of course, no novelty. a log for a table, and a piece of clean bark for a plate, answered his purpose as well as all the improvements of civilization, which those who have been brought up in the settlements regard as necessary to their very existence.
after supper, they drew their chairs in front of the fire, and uncle joe and his brother solaced themselves with their pipes, while bob busied himself in clearing away the table and washing the dishes.
“this bill lawson,” said the trapper, after taking a few puffs at his pipe, to make sure that it was well lighted, “used to take it into his head onct in awhile to act as guide for fellers as wanted to go to californy. he knowed every inch of the country from st. joseph to the mines, for he had been over the ground more’n you ever traveled through these yere woods, an’ he was called as good a guide as ever tuk charge of a wagon-train. in course, i allers went with him on these trips, as a sort o’ pack-hoss an’ hunter, cause ole bill couldn’t think o’ goin’ anywhere without me; an’ i have often thought that the reason why he made them trips as guide, was jest to get a good look at the folks; it reminded him o’ the time when he had parents, an’ brothers an’ sisters. he never laughed an’ joked round the camp-fires, as he used to do when me and him war off alone in the mountains. he hardly ever said a word to any body besides me, an’ allers appeared to be sorrowful. this give him the name of ‘moody bill,’ by which he was knowed all through the country. every trader on the prairy war acquainted with him, an’ he allers tuk out a big train. i never knowed him to lose but one, an’ he lost himself with it. the way it happened war this:
“one night, arter we had got about a week’s journey west of fort laramie, we stopped in a little oak opening, where we made our camp. it war right in the heart o’ the wust injun country i ever see, an’ near a place where me an’ ole bill had often cached our furs an’ other fixins, an’ which we used as a kind o’ camp when we war in that part o’ the country trappin’ beaver an’ fightin’ injuns. it war a cave in the side of a mountain, an’ the way we had it fixed nobody besides ourselves couldn’t find it. we never went in or come out of it until arter dark, ’cause the comanches were a’most allers huntin’ ’bout the mountains, an’ we didn’t want em to break up our harborin’ place. we had made up our minds that, arter we had seed our train safe through, we would come back to our ‘bar’s hole,’ as we called it, an’ spend a month or so in fightin’ the comanches an’ skrimmagin’ with the grizzlies in the mountains.
“wal, as i war sayin’ we made our camp, an’ while i war dressin’ a buck i had shot, ole bill, as usual, leaned on his rifle, an’ watched the emigrants unpack their mules an’ wagons, an’ make their preparations for the night. arter supper he smoked a pipe, an’ then rolled himself up in his blanket an’ said——‘dick, you know this place, but you ain’t no trapper;’ an’, without sayin’ any more, he lay down and went to sleep, leavin’ me to station the guards, an’ see that every thing went on right durin’ the night.
“i knowed well enough what ole bill meant when he said, ‘dick, you ain’t no trapper.’ he had seed injun sign durin’ the day, an’ war pokin’ fun at me, cause i hadn’t seed it too. i don’t know, to this day, how it war that i had missed it, for i had kept a good look-out, an’ i had allers thought that i war ’bout as good an injun hunter as any feller in them diggins, (allers exceptin’ ole bill and bob kelly;) but the way the ole man spoke tuk me down a peg or two, an’ made me feel wusser nor you youngsters do when you get trounced at school for missin’ your lessons.
“wal, as soon as it come dark, i put out the guards, an’ then shouldered my rifle, an’ started out to see if i could find any sign o’ them injuns that ole bill had diskivered. it war as purty a night as you ever see. the moon shone out bright an’ clear, an’, savin’ the cry of a whippoorwill, that come from a gully ’bout a quarter of a mile from the camp, an’ the barkin’ o’ the prairy wolves, every thing war as still as death. you youngsters would have laughed at the idea o’ goin’ out to hunt injuns on such a night; but i knowed that there must be somethin’ in the wind, for ole bill never got fooled about sich things. here in the settlements he wouldn’t have knowed enough to earn his salt; but out on the prairy he knowed all about things.
“wal, i walked all round the camp, an’ back to the place where i had started from, an’ not a bit of injun sign did i see. there war a high hill jest on the other side of the gully, an’ i knowed that if there war any injuns about, an’ they should take it into their heads to pounce down upon us, they would jest show themselves in that direction; so i sot down on the prairy, outside o’ the wagons, which war drawn up as a sort o’ breastwork round the camp, and begun to listen. i didn’t hear nothin’, however, until a’most midnight, and then, jest arter i had changed the guards, an’ was goin’ back to my place, i heered somethin’ that made me prick up my ears. it war the hootin’ of an owl, an’ it seemed to come from the hill.
“now, you youngsters would’n’t have seed any thing strange in that; but a man who has spent his life among wild injuns and varmints can tell the difference atween a sound when it comes from an owl’s throat, and when it comes from a comanche’s; an’ i to onct made up my mind that it war a signal. presently from the gully come the song of a whippoorwill. it didn’t sound exactly like the notes i had heered come from that same gully but a few minits afore, an’ i knowed that it war another signal. when the whippoorwill had got through, i heered the barkin’ of a prairy wolf further up the gully to the right o’ the camp; an’ all to onct the wolves, which had been barkin’ an’ quarrelin’ round the wagons, set up a howl, an’ scampered away out o’ sight. this would have been as good a sign as i wanted that there war injuns about, even if i hadn’t knowed it afore; so i sot still on the ground to see what would be the next move.
“in a few minits i heered a rustlin’ like in the grass a little to one side of me. i listened, an’ could tell by the sound that there was somebody in there, crawlin’ along on his hands an’ knees. nearer an’ nearer it come, an’ when it got purty clost to me it stopped, an’ i seed an’ injun’s head come up over the top o’ the grass, an’ i could see that the rascal war eyein’ me purty sharp. i sot mighty still, noddin’ my head a leetle as if i war fallin’ asleep, keepin’ an’ eye on the ole feller all the time to see that he didn’t come none of his injun tricks on me, and finally give a leetle snore, which seemed to satisfy the painted heathen, for i heered his ‘ugh!’ as he crawled along by me into camp.
“what made you do that?” interrupted archie, excitedly. “why didn’t you muzzle him?”
“that the way you youngsters, what don’t know nothin’ about fightin’ injuns, would have done,” answered the trapper, with a laugh, “an’ you would have had your har raised for your trouble. but, you see, i knowed that he had friends not a great way off, an’ that the fust motion i made to grab the rascal, i would have an arrer slipped into me as easy as fallin’ off a log. but i didn’t like to have the varlet behind me; so, as soon as i knowed that he had had time to get into the camp, i commenced noddin’ agin, an’ finally fell back on the ground, ker-chunk.
“i guess them injuns that were layin’ round in the grass laughed some when they see how quick i picked up my pins. i got up as though i expected to see a hull tribe of comanches clost on to me, looked all round, an’, arter stretchin’ my arms as though i had enjoyed a good sleep, i started along toward the place where one o’ the guards war standin’. i walked up clost to him, an’ whispered:
“‘don’t act as though you thought that any thing was wrong, but keep your eyes on the grass. there’s injuns about.’
“the chap turned a leetle pale when he heered this; but although he was as green as a punkin, as far as injun fightin’ war consarned, he seemed to have the real grit in him, for he nodded in a way that showed that he understood what i meant. i then dropped down on all-fours, an’ commenced crawlin’ into the camp to find the injun. the fires had burned low, an’ the moon had gone down, but still there war light enough for me to see the rascal crawlin’ along on the ground, an’ making toward one of the wagons. when he reached it, he raised to his feet, an’, arter casting his eyes about the camp, to make sure that no one seed him, he lifted up the canvas an’ looked in. now war my time. droppin’ my rifle, i sprung to my feet, an’ started for the varlet; but jest as i war goin’ to grab him, one o’ the women in the wagon, who happened to be awake, set up a screechin’. the injun dropped like a flash o’ lightnin’, an’, dodgin’ the grab i made at him, started for the other side o’ the camp, jumpin’ over the fellers that were layin’ round as easy as if he had wings. i war clost arter him, but the cuss run like a streak; an finding that i war not likely to ketch him afore he got out into the prairy, i jumped back for my rifle an’ tuk a flyin’ shot at him, jest as he war divin’ under a wagon. i don’t very often throw away a chunk o’ lead, an’, judgin’ by the way he yelled, i didn’t waste one that time. he dropped like a log, but war on his feet agin in a minit, an’, without waitin’ to ax no questions, set up the war-whoop. i tell you, youngsters, the sound o’ that same war-whoop war no new thing to me. i’ve heered it often—sometimes in the dead o’ night, when i didn’t know that there war any danger about, an’ it has rung in my ears when i’ve been runnin’ for my life, with a dozen o’ the yellin’ varlets clost to my heels; but i never before, nor since, felt my courage give way as it did on that night. scarcely a man in the hull wagon-train, exceptin’ me an ole bill, had ever drawed a bead on an injun, an’ i war a’most sartin that i should have a runnin’ fight with the rascals afore mornin’.
“the whoop war answered from all round the camp, an’ the way the bullets an’ arrers come into them ar wagons warn’t a funny thing to look at. my shot had ’wakened a’most every one in[pg camp, but there warn’t much sleepin’ done arter the injuns give that yell. men, women, an’ children poured out o’ the wagons, an’ run about, gettin’ in everybody’s way; an’ sich a muss as war kicked up in that ar camp i never heered afore. there war about seventy men in the train, an’ they war all good marksmen, but there war scarcely a dozen that thought o’ their rifles. they kept callin’ on me an’ ole bill to save ’em, an’ never onct thought o’ pickin’ up their we’pons an’ fightin’ to save themselves; an’, in spite of all we could do, them ar cowardly sneaks would get behind the women an’ children for protection. it war enough to frighten any one; an’ although that ar warn’t the fust muss o’ the kind i had been in, i felt my ole ’coon-skin cap raise on my head when i thought what a slaughter there would be when them comanches onct got inside o’ the camp. there war only a few of us to fight ’em, an’ we did the best we could, sendin’ back their yells, an’ bringin’ the death-screech from some unlucky rascal at every shot. but the injuns warn’t long in findin’ out how the land lay, an’, risin’ round us like a cloud, they come pourin’ into camp.”
