the trapper brigade agreed with Harris, with Bridger, with Kelly; and an Anglo-Saxon giant gazed through the visions of his pipe smoke at the more material Nez Percé girl and swart baby, and found them good. He had naught to do with white women. succeeded turmoil. With Tommy gone: Peace had No more submitted to the change and chance his trail had smoothed. A friendly, gentle people, these Flatheads and Pend' d'Oreilles their kin; sworn to the white man like the Nez Percés were sworn, rich in horses, well provisioned for winter, hospitable, clean, and religiously honest. Thereby the winter had passed pleasantly, far removed from strife and want. Now in this the spring, mutually arrayed against the Blackfoot and the Sioux they all traveled eastward: the Bridger brigade, stocked with animals, seeking the beaver while the chiefs and warriors hunted the buffalo and the squaws kept the camps. Rendezvous had been appointed for the Valley of the Green again. Merrymaking, yarn-swapping, outfitting: the reaping after the sowing-the reward of one year as preparation for yet another year. White Indian and red Indian, squaw, child, horse and dog; but, O God, not white woman! No, no! Let that be a dream. CHAPTER XII AGAIN THAT OTHER WORLD MIDSUMMER, then, and heyday once more in the Valley of the Green. Here they had foregathered from many trails suddenly focusing upon this remembered spot, until ten miles of grassy slope and bottoms bore harvest of blatant life. Trader and trapper; American, Briton, German, Frenchman, Irishman, Canadian, Portuguese, Swede and Spaniard and breed; Nez Percé, Flathead, Pend' d'Oreille, Koutenay, Cayuse, Crow, Snake, Ute, Arapaho, Delaware, Iroquois, Shawnee, what not? But all the women were coppery women and all the children were black-eyed. So had it been before, so should it ever be until the beaver were 66 gone up." Thompson was missing-and missed. There were other gaps, as usual. Cross Eagle had fallen, cut to pieces by the Blackfeet in an ambush. But Black Harris was here, and Kelly and Markhead, Mariano, Carson, Bridger, of the old squad; Bill Williams the perennial, Meek, Doc Newell, Hawkens, Gervais, Fraeb the German, Bully Shunan again. There were men who could talk upon almost any subject. Nevertheless he missed Thompson, did Old Glory. Aye, a strand connecting ship with shore had snapped; and it seemed to have been the last strand, for ends dangled. He felt rather adrift. But he had companionship still the wife, and the baby. No hostage to fortune in this; quite the contrary. He and Tommy spoke one language; now he should confine himself to another language the language of the country, and try to be content. Lodge, woman, child, gun, horse and trap; a free land, solitude or company for the choosing, love and hate for the choosing, contempt, independence and forgetfulness: his life. Why should the passing of one man make any difference? Shunan came riding and caroling. He had given no attention to Shunan. If they had to meet again, so be it. That would happen, in time due. He would then kill Shunan, or Shunan would kill him. But here was Shunan, cantering gaily, all bedizened for squaw eyes, and at the same time ruffling for the eyes of men. The Nez Percé seized the baby and ran inside. "Quand l'amour me réveille. 66 Tous les amants Changent de maîtresses; Qu'ils changent qui voudront, And Shunan reined his painted pony, to look down, with flashy dark face, upon the great master of the lodge. Handsome? Aye, handsome, as Lucifer may be handsome. A bully, but no proven coward except when overawed; would fight man or demon and ranked first-class on the Nor'west rolls of the Hudson's Bay outfit in Oregon as in Canada, But curse him for his pretensions with the women! He was a fellow to score there, too. "All de lovers change deir meestress'; let dose change who will, I, moi, tek care of mine," he repeated. "N'est-ce pas? Oui? Mebbe you tek care of yoursdat jolie leetle squaw. How you feel to-day; hein?" “I've two arms now, Shunan. What's the sign? You want to fight again?" Shunan laughed gaily. No, t'ank you. Anodder day. Sacré nom, might get bloody nose; dat not so goot. Shunan safe heemself for la belle Américaine who come. White woman mebbe not like blood." "Ma foi, m'soo! You 'sleep? On de trail-encore your robes-noires, your missionaires for la rivière Coloomby, wiz woomans-white woomans; at Fort Weelliam of de Laramie, at La Roche Indépendence, soon at de Sout' Pass, den here. Sacré nom du diable! Dey shall see Shunan. No, I not fight to-day," proclaimed Shunan. "Tek care of you' jolie leetle squaw. W'en you see white woomans mebbe you not want her any longer, an' she coom to me. Bah! Why should I fight you for her -yet? You are white man-your blood is white; you go. I am homme du nord, an' Nor'wester; my blood is red; I stay, an' my lodge is beeg." So he rode on, the bells of mane and tail and his moccasin heels chiming to the chanson: "Tous les printemps Tan' de nouvelles, Tous les amants Changent de maîtresses; Quand l'amour me réveille "Every springtime All the lovers Changing sweethearts; Ever the good wine fails to soothe me and he left an Anglo-Saxon perturbed. To be sure, there had been the whispers, the rumors, the talk, spreading through the rendezvous camps; heard by himself, repeated by Dawn Star, never substantiated but ever persistent. White woman! White woman come! White woman come with Good-Book men! Hah! Quick excitement had penetrated that portion of the camp before his eyes. Men were running, cheering, mounting, tearing out at breakneck speed as if the devil possessed. With hat brims flaring and fringes fluttering and weapons flourished they raced, group after group, for the eastward trail. The belated supplies caravan under Fitzpatrick, from the Missouri, was nearing; and the rendezvous had been waiting for that. Black Harris galloped up, and pulled short, his shaggy visage aflame. "Get yore hos. Hyar's doin's." "Aye? What then?" "What then? Hooray! Carson has sent express from the Pass. The caravan are nigh, an' missioners with white squaws, along of it. Chaw me, but that 'er's proper gospel, else why was white women made? Ketch up, ketch up! We meet 'em at the Sandy." "I'll not go, thank you, Harris." Black Harris stared, his mouth agape. "Wagh! This chile's old peepers can't wait. He's off." And hammering his horse again, he bolted. |