Jake Shamberlain was already stirring about, as merry as a grig,—and that is much to say on the Plains. There are two grigs to every blade of grass from Echo Cañon to the South Pass, and yet every one sings and skips, as gay as if merriment would make the desert a meadow.
“You are astir early after the ball, Jake,” said I.
“Ef I wait till the gals in the train begins to polky round, I shan’t git my men away nayry time. They olluz burr to gals, like all young fellers. We’ll haul off jest as soon as you’re ready.”
“We are ready,” I said.
I made our packs, and saddled the mustangs.
“Come, Brent,” said I, shaking him by the shoulder, “start, old fellow! Your ride will rouse you.”
He obeyed, and mounted. He was quite cowed and helpless. I did not know my brave, cheerful friend in this weak being. He seemed to me as old and dreary as Mr. Clitheroe. Love must needs have taken a very cruel clutch upon his heart. Indeed, to the delicate nature of such a man, love is either life of life, or a murderous blight worse than death.
As we started, a gray dawn was passing into the violet light just before sunrise. The gale had calmed itself away. The tender hues of morning glorified the blue adobes of Bridger’s shabby fort. It rested on the plain, still as the grave,—stiller for the contrast of this silent hour with last night’s riot. A deathly quiet, too, dwelt upon the Mormon caravan. There were the white-topped wagons just growing rosy with the fond colors of early day. No abandoned camp of a fled army could have looked more lonely. Half a mile from the train were the cattle feeding quietly in a black mass, like a herd of buffalo. There was not one man, out of our own party, to be seen.
“Where are their sentinels, Jake?” said I.
“Too much spree for good watch,” says he.