Their little tent was pitched within a short distance of the river, and their fire made shadows along the wall of willows. At times they all fell silent, bringing to mind the wild scenes of this same country in a time which now began to seem not so long ago.
“My!” said Jesse, after a time, as he sat on his bed roll, his hands clasped before his knees. “Think of it! The Plains, the buffalo, the Indians! Weren’t they the lucky guys!”
“Well, yes,” replied his uncle, “though I’d rather call them fortunate gentlemen than lucky guys. One thing sure, they were accurate when they said the ‘musquitors were verry troublesom’ in all this Missouri Valley. They had to issue nets and bars to the men, so it says, and the misquitr, or mosquiter, or musquitor, was about the only ‘anamal’ they feared. If we don’t turn in, they’ll carry us off to-night.”
CHAPTER XII
THE LOST HUNTER
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It’s a long, long way up to the Mandans!” sang John at the second camp above the Council Bluffs. “Wonder if we ever will get there before winter! Here we are, just below the Vermilion, over nine hundred and fifty miles up the river, and over three weeks out, but we’re only halfway to the Yellowstone, and still a good deal more than six hundred miles below the Mandan Villages, though I’ve counted fifty-three towns and cities we’ve passed in the river, coming this far. It certainly does look as though we’ll have to winter up there, sure enough.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” demurred Rob, consulting the pages of his own notebook. “No fellow can ask an outboard motor to do better than ours have. I’ll admit we’re just inside our forty-mile-a-day stunt, but that’s five miles an hour and only eight hours a day. I’ll bet they would have been mighty glad to do half that.”