[XIV]
SAILING THE INLAND SEA
The night settled clear and calm, with scarce a breath of air to sough through the pendent leaves of the stately poplars. But the moonlit atmosphere was rife with strange sighings and moanings and whisperings, as from the ghostly lake out of sight below the camp. These sounds may have been water-fowl; William New and other trappers and voyageurs in both parties said that they were “spirits” and “medicine”; Jacob Dodson, the young colored man, said that they were “mighty like ha’nts”; and the wounded dog, which now was recovering, whined and shivered and snuggled closer upon Oliver’s buffalo robe.
In spite of the sounds real and imaginary the camp was safe and whole at day-break. The lieutenant put everybody at work cutting timber with which to make a horse-pen and a fort. In the midst of these preparations Ike Chamberlain sought out Kit Carson, and addressed him freely.
“Say, Kit, what’s the meaning o’ this hyar? Must be going to stay awhile.”
“Going to stay till the lieutenant gets through, Ike.”
“Wall, he’s not our boss. We’re an independent consarn.”
“I reckon you are, Ike. So what’s the matter?”
“We’ve ’bout decided that staying hyar an’ living on roots an’ feathers whilst a crazy man measures that thar lake doesn’t shine with us fellows. Thar air no fur an’ no meat hyar, an’ snow air creeping down the hills. We want to get out whilst we can.”
“I won’t stop you, Ike.”