Frank on the Prairie. Castlemon Harry
hard, after all.”
“Isn’t it?” inquired the trapper, with a laugh. “You don’t understand the natur of the critters, when you say that. I know I killed this one easy, but a feller can’t allers do it. Howsomever, you can try your hand the next time we meet any, an’ if you do shoot one, I’ll allers call you my ‘antelope killers.’ Them red handkerchiefs of your’n would be jest the things to use, ’cause the critters can see it a long way. If you can bring one of ’em into camp, it will be something wuth braggin’ on.”
It was evident that the trapper did not entertain a very exalted opinion of the boys’ “hunting qualities;” but that did not convince them that they could not shoot an antelope. On the contrary, it made them all the more anxious for an opportunity to try their skill on the game, if for no other reason than to show the trapper that he was mistaken.
Half an hour’s riding brought them to the wagon, which was standing where they had left it, and, after the buck had been skinned and cleaned, the trapper mounted to his seat and drove after the train, followed by the boys, who strained their eyes in every direction in the hope of discovering another herd of antelopes. But nothing in the shape of a prong-horn was to be seen; and when the train resumed its journey after its noon halt, they gradually fell back until the wagons were out of sight behind the hills. Then, leaving the road, they galloped over the prairie until they reached the top of a high swell, when they stopped to look about them. About two miles to the left was the train slowly winding among the hills; but the most faithful use of their glass failed to reveal the wished-for game. All that afternoon they scoured the prairie on both sides of the wagons, and when it began to grow dark, they reluctantly turned their faces toward the camp.
“What did I tell you?” asked the trapper, as the boys rode up to the wagon, where the latter was unharnessing the mules. “I said you couldn’t shoot a prong-horn.”
“Of course we couldn’t,” answered Archie, “for we didn’t see any to shoot.”
“I know that,” replied the trapper with a grin; “but I seed plenty. The next time you go a huntin’ prong-horns, be sartin that the wind blows from them t’wards you, an’ not from you t’wards them. They’ve got sharp noses, them critters have.”
The boys were astonished. They had not thought of that; and Archie was compelled to acknowledge that “there was something in knowing how, after all.”
CHAPTER IV
The Best Trapper on the Prairie
THAT night the train encamped a short distance from one of the stations of the Overland Stage Company. The trapper, as usual, after taking care of his mules, superintended the preparations for supper, while the boys, wearied with their day’s ride, threw themselves on the grass near the wagon, and watched his movements with a hungry eye. Uncle James, as he had done almost every night since leaving St. Joseph, walked about the camp playing with the children, who began to regard him as an old acquaintance. Presently the attention of the boys was attracted by the approach of a stranger, whose long beard and thin hair – both as white as snow – bore evidence to the fact that he carried the burden of many years on his shoulders.
He was dressed in a complete suit of buckskin, which, although well worn, was nevertheless very neat, and, in spite of his years, his step was firm, and he walked as erect as an Indian. He carried a long heavy rifle on his shoulder, and from his belt peeped the head of a small hatchet of peculiar shape, and the buck-horn handle of a hunting-knife. He walked slowly through the camp, and when he came opposite the boys, Dick suddenly sprang from the ground where he had been seated, watching some steaks that were broiling on the coals, and, striding up to the stranger, laid his hand on his shoulder. The latter turned, and, after regarding him sharply for a moment, thrust out his hand, which the trapper seized and wrung in silence. For an instant they stood looking at each other without speaking, and then Dick took the old man by the arm and led him up to the fire, exclaiming:
“Bob Kelly, the oldest an’ best trapper on the prairy!”
The boys arose as he approached, and regarded him with curiosity. They had heard their guide speak in the highest terms of “ole Bob Kelly,” and had often wished to see the trapper whom Dick was willing to acknowledge as his superior. There he was – a mild, good-natured-looking old man, the exact opposite of what they had imagined him to be.
“Them are city chaps, Bob” – continued the trapper, as the old man, after gazing at the boys for a moment, seated himself on the ground beside the fire – ”an’ I’m takin’ ’em out to Californy. In course they are green consarnin’ prairy life, but they are made of good stuff, an’ are ’bout the keerlessest youngsters you ever see. What a doin’ here, Bob?”
“Jest lookin’ round,” was the answer. “I’m mighty glad to meet you ag’in, ’cause it looks nat’ral to see you ’bout. Things aint as they used to be. Me an’ you are ’bout the oldest trappers agoin’ now. The boys have gone one arter the other, an’ thar’s only me an’ you left that I knows on.”
“What’s come on Jack Thomas?” asked Dick.
“We’re both without our chums now,” answered the old man, sorrowfully. “Jack an’ ole Bill Lawson are both gone, an’ their scalps are in a Comanche wigwam.”
The trapper made no reply, but went on with his preparations for supper in silence, and the boys could see that he was considerably affected by the news he had just heard. His every movement was closely watched by his companion, who seemed delighted to meet his old acquaintance once more, and acted as though he did not wish to allow him out of his sight. There was evidently a good deal of honest affection between these two men. It did not take the form of words, but would have showed itself had one or the other of them been in danger. They did not speak again until Mr. Winters came up, when Dick again introduced his friend as the “oldest an’ best trapper agoin’.” Uncle James, who understood the customs of the trappers, simply bowed – a greeting which the old man returned with one short, searching glance, as if he meant to read his very thoughts.
“Now, then!” exclaimed Dick, “Grub’s ready. Pitch in, Bob.”
The old trapper was not in the habit of standing upon ceremony, and, drawing his huge knife from his belt, he helped himself to a generous piece of the meat, and, declining the corn-bread and the cup of coffee which the boys passed over to him, made his meal entirely of venison. After supper – there were but few dishes to wash now, for the boys had learned to go on the principle that “fingers were made before forks” – the trapper hung what remained of the venison in the wagon, lighted his pipe, and stretched himself on the ground beside his companion.
The boys, knowing that the trappers would be certain to talk over the events that had transpired since their last meeting, spread their blankets where they could hear all that passed, and waited impatiently for them to begin; while Mr. Winters, who had by this time become acquainted with every man, woman, and child, in the train, started to pay a visit to the occupants of a neighboring wagon.
For some moments the two men smoked in silence, old Bob evidently occupied with his own thoughts, and Dick patiently waiting for him to speak. At length the old man asked:
“Goin’ to Californy, Dick?”
The trapper replied in the affirmative.
“What a goin’ to do arterward?”
“I’m a goin’ to take to the mountains, an’ stay thar,” replied Dick. “I’ve seed the inside of a city, Bob; have rid on steam railroads an’ boats as big as one of the Black Hills; an’ now I’m satisfied to stay here. I’d a heap sooner face a grizzly or a Injun than go back thar ag’in, ’cause I didn’t feel to hum.”
“Wal, I’m all alone now, Dick,” said the old man, “an’ so are you. Our chums are gone, an’ we both want to settle with them Comanche varmints; so, let’s stick together.”
Dick seemed delighted with this proposition, for he quickly arose from his blanket and extended his hand to his companion, who shook it heartily; and the boys read in their faces a determination to stand by each other