IN CAMP.
“Come, George, isn’t that steak done yet?” inquired the impatient
Lancaster. “It strikes me that it has just got the color to insure a
good taste. What do you think Fred?”
“I’m hungry enough to make anything taste good to me, stewed, fried or
raw.”
“Now just keep easy,” replied Harling. “When the meat is ready you shall
have it—not before—no matter how hungry you are.”
“Woofh!” exclaimed Lancaster, “if I get much hungrier, I’ll eat the meat
up and take you by way of dessert. So hurry up, will you?”
Not the least attention did the imperturbable cook pay to the murmurings
of those around. He turned the meat around as slowly and carefully as
ever, and when it had reached the point when Lancaster declared it was
“spoiled” he removed it from its perches, served it into three equal
slices, and announced that it was ready.
So it proved—rich, steamy, juicy and tender, so that it fairly melted in
their mouths. No sooner did it touch their palates, than they inwardly
thanked the cook for resisting their importunities, and furnishing them
with such a choice morsel. They thanked him inwardly, we say, but, as
might be expected, each took particular good care to say nothing about
it.
But Harling saw his advantage and followed it up.
“You’re a couple of purty pups, aint you? Don’t know what’s best for
you. If it wasn’t for me, you’d both starve to death.”
“Get out!” replied Lancaster, “let other people brag up your cooking;
don’t do it yourself.”
“There’s no one in this crowd got gratitude to thank me after I’ve
crammed their mouths for them.”
“Then I wouldn’t do it myself,” laughed Fred Wainwright.
“Yes, I shall too, for it deserves it, and it’s time you learned to say
so.”
“Hang it,” cried Lancaster, pretending to have great difficulty in
tearing the meat asunder; “if this piece hadn’t been cooked so long, it
would be fit for a white man to eat, but as it is, it is enough to tear
my teeth out.”
“’Cause you’re making such a pig of yourself. Try and eat like a
civilized being, and you’ll find it tender enough for an infant.”
“How do you find it Fred?” turning toward their younger companion.
“I can manage to worry down a little.”
“I should think you could!” was the indignant comment of the cook, as
his friends swallowed the last mouthful.
The darkness slowly settled over prairie and mountain, and when the
hunters had gorged themselves with meat, so rich and juicy that they
could not conceal their delight, they wiped their greasy fingers upon
their heads, produced their pipes, lay back and “enjoyed themselves.”
Although in the midst of a hostile country, all three were too
experienced to feel any apprehension regarding their safety. This fire
had been so skilfully kindled at the bottom of a hollow, so artfully,
that a lynx-eyed Apache or Comanche might have stood within a hundred
feet of them without suspecting its existence. Their horses, too, had
been trained long enough in danger and peril to know the value of
silence on a dark night and in a still country; and there was no fear of
their discovery by hostile eyes through any indiscretion on their part.
From long exposure to danger, the hunters had acquired a habit of
speaking in low tones, and frequently pausing and listening before
making responses to a question. When they laughed, no matter how
heartily, it was without noise, except out upon the broad prairie, when
their cramped up lungs demanded freedom, and then their laugh rang out
clear and loud, like the blast of a silver trumpet.
Even as they smoked, the coal in their pipes was invisible. They had a
fashion unknown to us of more civilized regions, of sinking the coal or
burning part of the pipe below the surface of the tobacco, by a few
extra long whiffs, so that, as they leisurely drew upon them afterwards
there was no fear of the red points betraying their presence, a thing
which has more than once taken place in the early history of our
country.
The party drew at their pipes in quiet enjoyment for some time, and
then, as the night was pleasant and warm they fell into an easy
conversation.
“I wonder whether we shall come upon the caravan tomorrow,” remarked
Fred Wainwright, not because he imagined there was any thing
particularly brilliant in the remark, but for the same reason that we
frequently say a pointless thing—because we can’t think of something
better.
“P’raps we shall, and p’raps we shant,” was the non-committal answer of
Ward Lancaster.
“You are right for once,” said Harling. “No matter whether we see ’em or
not there isn’t much danger of you prophesying wrong.
“But I really think we are somewhere in their vicinity and we shall see
something of them tomorrow—some sign at least that will give us an idea
of their whereabouts.”
“Are you sure this emigrant train is where it can be found?” asked Fred
Wainwright.
“Yes, _sir_. I said that; I understand it, which is a blamed sight more
than either of you two lunkheads could do. The fellow was in earnest
about it. Didn’t you see Harling how quick the feller came straight at
me, and talked to me like a man whose life depended on his getting my
service.”
“Did he go far enough to offer a price?” inquired Harling, rather
quizzically.
“Yes, _sir_,” was the triumphant reply. “He hauled out several yellow
boys, and wanted to put them in my hands to seal the bargain.”
“You took ’em, of course?” remarked Fred in a serious tone, but taking
advantage of the darkness to grin to an alarming extent.
“No SIR!” was the indignant response. “I told ’em I took money after I’d
done a thing—not before. He seemed quite anxious and urged me to take it
saying it was a-ahem-a-rainen-strainer.”
“Retainer,” accented Fred.
“Yes; something like that; don’t know what it means, but I told him I
did not do business in that way. I axed him all about the company and
learned all I wanted, and then told him when it reached ‘Old Man’s
Point,’ I’d be thar!”
“How near are we to it?”
“About ten miles off; we’ll ride there before breakfast tomorrow, and
take our first meal with the party.”
“What became of their guide?”
“The guide was shot by an Apache Indian two days ago, and the party have
been half frightened to death ever since. They declared, if they could
not find a guide, they would never enter California; as you can see
we’ve good reason to ’spect they’ll be _rather_ glad to have our
company.”
“It seems singular that the very man upon whom they relied, and the one
who no doubt knew more about the Indians than all the others combined,
should be the very first one to fall a victim.”
“How do you know he was the first one?” demanded Ward Lancaster, almost
fiercely, as he turned his face toward Fred Wainwright.
“I don’t know it; only imagined it from the remark you made.”
“Well, perhaps he was the first one,” was the complacent remark of the
hunter, as he resumed his pipe. “I don’t know neither to the contrary
notwithstanding.”
“Then it’s my opinion you’d better keep your mouth shet,” was the
comment of Harling. “Them people that don’t know nothing, gain the most
credit by saying nothing.”
“That’s the reason you keep mum so much of the time, I ’spose. Wal,
that’s right; you ought to know yourself; don’t let me change your
habits, because that is a mighty good habit you’ve got.”
“It strikes me it would be a good habit for us all to follow at this
time,” suggested Fred Wainwright. “It is getting late, and I feel like
going to sleep.”
“Go ahead then,” said Ward.
But the hour was growing late, and shortly after the three hunters were
wrapped in profound slumber.