“Chickens,” responded Scip, holding up to view the mother partridge, and then cautiously withdrawing himself from the log, he revealed to Marion’s admiring gaze a nest full of downy chicks and one or two eggs.
“How pretty!” she exclaimed, admiringly. “But how did you catch them, Scip? I always thought they would run.”
“Dey would,” replied Scip, with a chuckle, “only ye see dey couldn’t. As I’s comin’ ’long I jist see her settin’ here, and grabbed her ’fore ye could wink. Den as I sot ag’in’ de log, why ob course de chicks couldn’t git out.”
“They are frightened,” said Marion, touching one of the downy backs. “Let the mother go, Scip, and come away.”
“Y-e-s,” replied Scip, hesitatingly; “but I’s hungry, Miss Marion.”
“Nonsense! You don’t want to kill the bird and let the poor little ones starve?” said Marion. “Vic and Wayne will get plenty of food. Do let her go.”
Scip rose rather reluctantly and released the bird, with a longing look at her plump proportions, but getting a glimpse of the sportsmen returning with hands full of game, he followed Marion with alacrity.
“Jist look here, will ye?” said Vic, holding up to view a brace of ducks and a large goose. “Don’t thet look like eatin’?”
Kent followed with several more fowls, and they fell to work to prepare them for cooking. Hunger made nimble fingers, and in an incredibly short space of time half a dozen birds were impaled on sticks around the fire, soon sending forth the most appetizing odors. While the process of cooking was going forward, Vic was digging in the woods near and soon appeared with his hands full of white, fleshy-looking roots, washed clean in the river, which he pronounced good to eat, and the finely-browned birds being pronounced done by Wild Nat, the hungry travelers hastened to discuss them. The fowls were excellently flavored, and although in some places hardly done and guiltless of salt, our friends were not disposed to be particular, and it is doubtful if they ever ate another meal that relished so well. The old proverb says: “Hunger is the best sauce,” and in this case the half-starved fugitives found it so.
“Wal, I ’low thet we’d orter be movin’,” said Vic, when the repast was over. “Thar’s no knowin’ how many of our hospertable friends are arter us, an’ I, for one, hed jist as lief git tew Fort Laramie ’fore they overtake us, as not.”