“It’s my private opine,” called out Biddon, “that this coon is goin’ inter these eatables, and ef you wants a bite, Jarsey, you’d better jine.”
All now crowded around the meal-pot, and commenced devouring its contents with the avidity of wild animals. It consisted mainly of pemmican (dried buffalo flesh), a food much in vogue in the northwest, with several biscuits and some scalding tea. The meal finished, the men instantly produced their pipes, which they indulged in for ten or fifteen minutes. The boats were then shoved into the water, the cooking-utensils placed on board, and preparations made for starting.
“Whar you bound to?” asked Biddon, just as they were ready.
“The Blackfeet-Sioux,” I answered, unable to repress a smile.
“The Blackfeet-Sioux?” he repeated.
“Yes; do you know their grounds?”
“I’s ’bout twenty miles down-stream—that is the village. We cac’late to camp thereabouts to-night. What, in the name of beavers, do you want with them?”
“I’ll explain matters when we have a better opportunity,” I answered.
“Jump in with me then, an’ I’ll git Tom Wilson to rest a while, and we’ll talk over matters and things.”
I sprang into the boat, and the brigade was soon under way. The Yellowstone, being broad and deep and the current quite powerful, the work was comparatively light. The song was again taken up by the voyageurs, all joining in the chorus and keeping time with the measured dip of their paddles. I seated myself in the stern, beside the steersman, who I found to be a clerk in the Hudson Bay Company, and a gentleman.