“Why, man, what are you doing here?” he demanded.
“Packing up. I’m off for the Columbia River to-morrow, salmon-fishing. You’d better come and make a sixth; I’m travelling with four Canadian chaps; everything’s arranged: horses, waggons, mules, stores, and even a redskin guide.”
There was no resisting such a temptation, especially as Coke had never been farther west than Kansas City, had only caught salmon in Norway and Scotland, had never seen a bison or a grisly except in a show, and had never met with any Indians who were not perfectly respectable and law-abiding. Therefore he never dreamt of hesitating, but hastened away to make a few necessary purchases, and, the next morning, presented himself at his friends’ inn, where he found nine mules, eight riding-horses, and two waggons drawn up, and his friend’s valet vainly endeavouring to get into conversation with a particularly morose-looking Indian who sat on the front-board of one of the waggons.
The early days of the journey were occupied by the sportsmen, as such days generally are, in getting to know one another and in settling down to a novel mode of life. The young Canadians were the sons of a wealthy stock-breeder and were taking a year’s furlough in order to see the States; and no more valuable companions could have been found; for, if they were ignorant of the route, there was not much left for them to learn where prairie and forest life and the ways of Indians and wild beasts were concerned. For the first week or so the party managed each night to put up at some wayside inn or farm; but they no 177 sooner came on to the wilds of Kansas than the mere aspect of the country was sufficient to tell them that they had probably bidden good-bye to eastern civilisation. The way that now lay before them, if seen from a balloon, would have looked like a gigantic staircase whose treads sloped slightly upwards and whose uprights were low, ragged-faced bluffs that seemed to hint at the advisability of abandoning the waggons as henceforth useless, and teaching the horses and mules to take flying ten-foot jumps. The guide, however, seemed fairly confident in his ability to find suitable inclines, and at least for some fifty miles they were able to follow a very rough track that was a guide in itself.
But the Indian—one of the Crow tribe—grew more sullen and silent and discontented as each new platform of ground was reached; so much so, that George Dumont, the eldest of the Canadians, who was perfectly familiar with the Siouan tongue, began to question him closely as to the cause of his grumbling demeanour.
“It is no use trying to go any farther,” said the Crow moodily. “The next bluff is quite impassable.”
“Then why didn’t you say so before we left St. Louis?”
The Indian shelved the question. “And even if it were not, the country here is full of Comanches and Pawnees and Shoshonees. Did I not warn you of that?”
“Oh, if that’s all,” said the Canadian, laughing, “don’t frighten yourself. They won’t hurt us.”