Stuart, the commander, now spoke vigorous words.
“We must cache everything which we cannot carry, and push on,” said he. “Let winter overtake us in this God-forsaken country and all is lost. On! On!”
As the men were busily engaged in digging a hole in which to bury the supplies, one of the trappers interrupted them.
“Two of those thieving Crows are watching us,” said he, “and they will dig everything up just as soon as we disappear.”
McLellan grew furious at this information.
“No thieving Crow will ever get anything of mine,” said he, “unless they get my scalp first. I’ll burn everything which we leave behind, and then let Mr. Redskin hustle for the white man’s food.”
“You’re right!” answered all. “Burn it we will!” Their stores were soon piled up into a heap and were consumed by the flames.
They now headed for the Mad River, where they built rafts, and floated them down these turbid waters, for several days. Then they again struck off across country towards the East, crossing a wide plateau to the base of the Rocky Mountains. They were in the land of the Blackfeet Indians, who were as hostile towards the whites as were the Crows, and who were as arrant thieves; but they kept on towards the high land, hoping thus to elude the red men. As they proceeded into the mountains, McLellan bitterly complained against their course and begged them to remain upon the plateau. “For,” said he, “I’ve already had enough mountain climbing to last me a lifetime, and I’d rather be comfortably killed by the Indians than break my neck falling down a canyon. You boys would rather climb mountains than fight the redskins.”
To these remarks Stuart and his companions paid no attention, but kept on their way. McLellan was liked by all, and one trapper offered to give him a load of jerked meat to carry, instead of the traps.