Inside the hour a shout from Jesse informed them that he had another catfish on his throw line, and soon he had it flopping on the sand. He killed it stone dead by thrusting a stiff straw back into the brain through the “little hole in its face,” as he called the sinus which leads into the head cavity.
“I throw out my line,” said he, “with a piece of meat or minnow on the hook. Then I stick a stick down in the bank, two or three feet long, and take a half hitch around the top. It acts as a sort of rod and gives when the fish bites. He pulls down and swallows the bait, and the spring of the stick holds him safer than a straight pull would. To skin him, I cut around back of his front side fins and take hold of the skin with my pliers—just slit the hide a little down the sides, and it comes off. These channel cats aren’t bad to eat.”
John joined them before dark, with two half-grown jack rabbits which he had found on the bluffs below. He spoke of the fine view and of the splendid sunset he had seen. Rob was examining the rabbits, each of which had been shot squarely through the eye. “Dead-shot John, the old trapper!” said he. “That’s the way!”
“You didn’t think I’d shoot ’em anywhere but through the head, did you?” John inquired. “No sir, not yet!”
So, with meat in camp, they sat down, still in “verry good sperits,” as John quoted from the Journal.
Now day after day, hurrying hard as they could, they still drove on northward, along the great bends of what began to seem an interminable waterway. One bend, they fancied, they surely identified with the one mentioned in the Journal, which then was thirty miles around and not much over a half a mile across the neck. They reflected that in more than a hundred years the great river in all likelihood had cut through what Clark called the “Narost part,” the necks of dozens of such bends. On the map they identified the Rosebud Indian Reservation to the west. The great Plains country into which they now were advancing seemed wild, lonely, and at times forbidding, and the settlements farther and farther apart. They were in cattle country rather than farming country much of the time.
The Journal brought up the second great Sioux council of Lewis and Clark, on the “Teton river”—near Pierre, South Dakota—on the date of September 25th; but so faithful had the motive power of the good ship Adventurer proved, that our party pulled into the most suitable camping spot they could find not too near by, around noon of June 13th.
“Can’t complain,” said Rob, taking off his grease-spattered overalls and wiping his hands on a bit of waste. “We’ve slipped a day on our schedule, but from what we now know of this little old river, we are mighty lucky to be here and not down by Council Bluffs, or maybe Kansas City! It’s only a little over three hundred miles now to the Mandans. That’s as far ahead as I can think.”
“And as to rowing and paddling and poling and tracking her this far,” added John, “say, twelve hundred miles from the mouth of the Missouri—whew! It makes my back ache. Seems to me we’ve skipped along.”