“Which meat do you like better, elk or moose?”
“Oh, moose beats elk way yender, to my notion; but nary one’s got the taste of tender buffalo—or maybe my appetite’s growin’ old.”
“Did the buffalo ever roam over this valley?”
“Yes, herds of ’em. Ain’t you seen their skulls lyin’ round?”
“I wonder if that was one I picked out of the creek the other day when I went to take a drink. It was a big thick one with short horns.”
“That’s the kind; they’re scattered all over here. I used to hunt ’em with the Shoshones on them rollin’ hills over west thar. One time I was with Washakie’s band when we killed nigh on to thirty of ’em. That old robe in the corner come from that hunt.”
“You knew Washakie, then?”
“Like a brother—mighty good Injun, too. Got lots of white sense in his head; but he likes whisky too well. That cursed stuff’ll end his trail one of these days, I’m afraid. Why I see him one time down at Bridger come into the tradin’ store with a bunch o’ braves and lift the feller in charge clean over the counter; then he helped himself and his bucks to a barrel o’ whisky that stood in the corner; took all they wanted—didn’t touch another thing—and they paid for the whisky, every cent, after their spree was over. But it was warm times for the squaws and papooses while it was on, I tell ye. We didn’t know what minute they’d cut loose and lift our scalps. You never kin tell what’ll happen when an Injun gits full o’ whisky.”
“Yes, we found that out when that band got drunk down by the creek a month or so ago.”
“What band?”