Jim Beckwith! Oliver knew Jim Beckwith—or Beckwourth, as he called himself—and had seen him in Taos. He was a mixed blood, half French and half negro, and was celebrated because, when early a trapper, he had been adopted by the Crow Indians and made a head war-chief.
Arriving, while jogged the squad, he halted his pony by pulling it to its haunches. A romantic figure he was, with head bare, Indian fashion, with dark, handsome, almost Indian features, his sinewy, graceful frame sheathed in gaily fringed and beaded buckskin.
“How,” he greeted.
“How,” and “Hello, Jim,” greeted the squad.
“From Touse?”
“Yep.”
“Where bound?”
“Up to Fort John.”
“What’s the news?”
“Nothing much. Kit sent for us, is all.”