When it was beginning to come on dark we poked our heads out of the
cottonwood thicket, and looked up and down and across; nothing in sight;
so Jim took up some of the top planks of the raft and built a snug
wigwam to get under in blazing weather and rainy, and to keep the things
dry. Jim made a floor for the wigwam, and raised it a foot or more above
the level of the raft, so now the blankets and all the traps were out of
reach of steamboat waves. Right in the middle of the wigwam we made a
layer of dirt about five or six inches deep with a frame around it for
to hold it to its place; this was to build a fire on in sloppy weather
or chilly; the wigwam would keep it from being seen. We made an extra
steering-oar, too, because one of the others might get broke on a snag
or something. We fixed up a short forked stick to hang the old lantern
on, because we must always light the lantern whenever we see a steamboat
coming down-stream, to keep from getting run over; but we wouldn’t have
to light it for the up-stream boats unless we see we was in what they
call a “crossing”; for the river was pretty high yet, very low banks
being still a little under water; so up-bound boats didn’t always run
the channel, but hunted easy water.
This second night we run between seven and eight hours, with a current
that was making over four mile an hour. We catched fish and talked, and
we took a swim now and then to keep off sleepiness. It was kind of
solemn, drifting down the big, still river, laying on our backs looking
up at the stars, and we didn’t ever feel like talking loud, and it
warn’t often that we laughed—only a little kind of a low chuckle. We had
mighty good weather as a general thing, and nothing ever happened to us
at all—that night, nor the next, nor the next.
Every night we passed towns, some of them away up on black hillsides,
nothing but just a shiny bed of lights; not a house could you see. The
fifth night we passed St. Louis, and it was like the whole world lit up.
In St. Petersburg they used to say there was twenty or thirty thousand
people in St. Louis, but I never believed it till I see that wonderful
spread of lights at two o’clock that still night. There warn’t a sound
there; everybody was asleep.
Every night now I used to slip ashore toward ten o’clock at some little
village, and buy ten or fifteen cents’ worth of meal or bacon or other
stuff to eat; and sometimes I lifted a chicken that warn’t roosting
comfortable, and took him along. Pap always said, take a chicken when
you get a chance, because if you don’t want him yourself you can easy
find somebody that does, and a good deed aint ever forgot. I never see
pap when he didn’t want the chicken himself, but that is what he used to
say, anyway.