and said thoughtfully, “Don’t do to think about it too much, Knox. Man’s got jest a few days here to pleasure himself. Don’t do no good to think about the end of the line.”
Chris looked up from the broken trap he was fixing. “That’s what I’ve been saying for the last few years,” he observed. “But it’s a sorry way to live.”
“Wal, you can always go the way your pa went—and that Greene feller. Them Christians all say the best is yet to come—and sometimes I can believe it. Judgin’ by what I’ve seen so far, it won’t be hard for the good Lord to improve on’t!”
The trapping had depressed Knox; he noticed that his brother was also very thoughtful when they all pulled out three days later, burying the hides to be retrieved on the trip downriver.
They sighted Indians on rare occasions—shadowy figures in the distance—as they passed the mouth of the Platte, which Frenchie swore was ten miles wide and two inches deep. After that, progress was slower. The summer heat hit, bringing buffalo gnats, mosquitoes and sandflies. They passed through the Vermillion River country, and two weeks later came to the White River and then to what Frenchie called the Grand Detour—a weird corkscrew gorge in which two of their canoes nearly capsized. Only the weight of their gear stabilized the crafts.
When they were out of it, the party made camp. “Now,” sighed Frenchie, “she get a leetle bit dangerous.”
“Why’s that?” Chris asked.
“Thees ees Sioux country. Bad!”
“Lots of beaver,” Con commented, “but nobody’s had the guts to go get ’em.”
Chris lifted his head and stared at Con, but said nothing. Later he left the camp and walked along the bank, staring at the stars in the summer sky.
“Something’s bothering Chris,” Knox whispered.
“I’d say you’re right,” he replied. Lifting his voice enough so Chris would hear, he called, “Chris, you better not be wanderin’ around like you was back in Boston. Them Sioux is downright hostile.”
Chris acknowledged the man’s warning with a nod, then came and stood beside the fire, his face sober in the flickering firelight. He was silent, but the other men knew that he was struggling to say something.
He looks good, Knox thought, watching his brother. He’s filled out and seems strong and well. But there was a strange look in Chris’s eyes that worried his younger brother.
Abruptly, Chris sat down by the fire. “I’m staying here,” he announced.
The three stared at each other, then back at Chris. Finally Con spoke. “Stayin’ here? What’s that mean, Chris?”
“Means just that.” Chris smiled at their stunned expressions and said, “Leave me a few traps. You three go on to the Yellowstone. You can pick me up when you come back next spring.”
“That’s crazy, Chris!” Knox cried loudly. “Ain’t you been listenin’? This is Sioux country!”
“Boy’s right about that,” Con agreed slowly. “Ah shore wouldn’t want to try an’ make it around them devils.”
They all began arguing with him, but he cut them off impatiently. “I’m staying here. You can’t keep me from it, so just give me what I’ll need.”
“But—why, Chris?” Knox pleaded. “Things have gone so good—here you’re almost well, and we’d thought you’d die. Now why do you want to stay here?”
“Don’t know.” Chris shifted, then shrugged his shoulders and spread out his hands. “I can only tell you I’ve got to find out what I am. If the Sioux get me, then I reckon that’s the way it was spelled out. If they don’t—why, maybe I’ll get a handle on some things. But live or die—I’m staying.”
Con looked across the fire, a thoughtful look in his eyes.“Every feller has to go the way his stick floats,” he said. “I’d say you’ve picked a mighty rough way to find out about yourself, Chris, but if’n you make it through a season on these here Sioux grounds... wal, ah reckon there ain’t no
Chris looked up from the broken trap he was fixing. “That’s what I’ve been saying for the last few years,” he observed. “But it’s a sorry way to live.”
“Wal, you can always go the way your pa went—and that Greene feller. Them Christians all say the best is yet to come—and sometimes I can believe it. Judgin’ by what I’ve seen so far, it won’t be hard for the good Lord to improve on’t!”
The trapping had depressed Knox; he noticed that his brother was also very thoughtful when they all pulled out three days later, burying the hides to be retrieved on the trip downriver.
They sighted Indians on rare occasions—shadowy figures in the distance—as they passed the mouth of the Platte, which Frenchie swore was ten miles wide and two inches deep. After that, progress was slower. The summer heat hit, bringing buffalo gnats, mosquitoes and sandflies. They passed through the Vermillion River country, and two weeks later came to the White River and then to what Frenchie called the Grand Detour—a weird corkscrew gorge in which two of their canoes nearly capsized. Only the weight of their gear stabilized the crafts.
When they were out of it, the party made camp. “Now,” sighed Frenchie, “she get a leetle bit dangerous.”
“Why’s that?” Chris asked.
“Thees ees Sioux country. Bad!”
“Lots of beaver,” Con commented, “but nobody’s had the guts to go get ’em.”
Chris lifted his head and stared at Con, but said nothing. Later he left the camp and walked along the bank, staring at the stars in the summer sky.
“Something’s bothering Chris,” Knox whispered.
“I’d say you’re right,” he replied. Lifting his voice enough so Chris would hear, he called, “Chris, you better not be wanderin’ around like you was back in Boston. Them Sioux is downright hostile.”
Chris acknowledged the man’s warning with a nod, then came and stood beside the fire, his face sober in the flickering firelight. He was silent, but the other men knew that he was struggling to say something.
He looks good, Knox thought, watching his brother. He’s filled out and seems strong and well. But there was a strange look in Chris’s eyes that worried his younger brother.
Abruptly, Chris sat down by the fire. “I’m staying here,” he announced.
The three stared at each other, then back at Chris. Finally Con spoke. “Stayin’ here? What’s that mean, Chris?”
“Means just that.” Chris smiled at their stunned expressions and said, “Leave me a few traps. You three go on to the Yellowstone. You can pick me up when you come back next spring.”
“That’s crazy, Chris!” Knox cried loudly. “Ain’t you been listenin’? This is Sioux country!”
“Boy’s right about that,” Con agreed slowly. “Ah shore wouldn’t want to try an’ make it around them devils.”
They all began arguing with him, but he cut them off impatiently. “I’m staying here. You can’t keep me from it, so just give me what I’ll need.”
“But—why, Chris?” Knox pleaded. “Things have gone so good—here you’re almost well, and we’d thought you’d die. Now why do you want to stay here?”
“Don’t know.” Chris shifted, then shrugged his shoulders and spread out his hands. “I can only tell you I’ve got to find out what I am. If the Sioux get me, then I reckon that’s the way it was spelled out. If they don’t—why, maybe I’ll get a handle on some things. But live or die—I’m staying.”
Con looked across the fire, a thoughtful look in his eyes.“Every feller has to go the way his stick floats,” he said. “I’d say you’ve picked a mighty rough way to find out about yourself, Chris, but if’n you make it through a season on these here Sioux grounds... wal, ah reckon there ain’t no
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