“A hunter should be able to kill his own meat without carrying any,” said the old pioneer, who was now thoroughly angry. “Who wants to carry a whole horse-load of dried beef on his back? As for me, I’ll go no further with you. Fools! Good-by!” This burst of temper seemed to relieve his mind, and, starting down the mountain, he set out alone without once looking behind him. His companions kept on, and as they reached the top of the eminence, gazed over the plain, where a dark spot marked the form of the angered man of the frontier.
“Boys,” said Stuart. “There goes the last of the old pioneers of the Kentucky border. You will never see him or his like again.”
As he said this, the eyes of many of his companions filled with tears.
Events were not to go smoothly with either McLellan or Stuart, for the former lost his way; became so weak from lack of food that he was unable to go further; and wandered aimlessly about. The latter also suffered terribly from hunger, but kept on, hoping to meet with game at every mile. His men were footsore and dejected, for they entered upon a barren region where there was no game, and where even the coyotes seemed to have disappeared. They became desperate, and determined to throw themselves upon the mercy of the malicious Blackfeet, should they come across them.
With this end in view, the voyageurs kept a sharp lookout for Indian fires, hoping to gain food and assistance from the red men. Suddenly, in the far distance, they saw the twinkle of a little light and knew that some living being was near them. But it was late in the day. So they dispatched one of their number to see who it was, while the rest went into camp for the night. The messenger did not return.
Upon the day following, the exhausted plainsmen hastened in the direction of the fire which they had seen the evening before, and met their companion running towards them.
“Boys,” said he, “’Old Bob’ McLellan is lying by that fire in an absolutely exhausted condition. He is so weak that unless some stimulant is given him he will expire. Hurry and give him food from our meagre supply!”
This hastened the feet of the trappers, and reaching the place where the stubborn-minded old pioneer was lying, they discovered that he was in a desperate plight. A cup of hot coffee, however, soon revived him, so that he was able to struggle to his feet and join in their weary march. His rifle was carried by one of his companions.
The little party pressed on, luckily came across a “solitary,” or bull buffalo, which had been driven from the herd because of old age and infirmity, and had the good fortune to kill it. Strengthened by this repast, they stumbled forward, and, by great good chance, came upon a band of Snake Indians, who fed them, gave them buckskin for moccasins, and, at their departure, not only presented them with a goodly quantity of jerked meat, but also with an old horse to carry it. Winter was coming on. Small flurries of snow announced the advent of the season, but they were now nearing the river Platte, where was an abundance of game. The old scout had recovered from his exhaustion and was once more the leader of these heroic plainsmen, who had twice been upon the verge of starvation. Their emaciated forms had filled out; their faces were sunburned and glowed with health; while their spirits and their strength was as of yore.
It was well into November when the party reached the river Platte, where were quantities of antelope and buffalo upon the grassy plains which rolled from either bank. They had a big hunt and collected sufficient buffalo meat to last through the winter. Then they built a hut of logs and plastered it with mud, determined to remain here until the warmth of spring made it possible for them to move further upon their long journey to the settlements. The days passed pleasantly, but one morning they were awakened by the wild screeching of a band of savages, and rushing to the doorway of their cabin, found that they were surrounded by fully a hundred painted braves.