Frank on the Prairie

CHAPTER I

Ho for the West!

FOR two months after their return from their hunting expedition in “the woods,” Frank and Archie talked of nothing but the incidents that had transpired during their visit at the trapper’s cabin. The particulars of Frank’s desperate fight with the moose had become known throughout the village, and the “Young Naturalist” enjoyed an enviable reputation as a hunter. He was obliged to relate his adventures over and over again, until one day his thoughts and conversation were turned into a new channel by the arrival of an uncle, who had just returned from California.

Uncle James had been absent from home nearly ten years, and during most of that time had lived in the mines. Although the boys had not seen him since they were six years old, and of course could not remember him, they were soon on the best of terms with each other. Uncle James had an inexhaustible fund of stories; he had crossed the plains, fought the Indians, was accustomed to scenes of danger and excitement, and had such an easy way of telling his adventures, that the boys never grew tired of listening to them. The day after his arrival he visited the museum, gazed in genuine wonder at the numerous specimens of his nephews’ handiwork, and listened to the descriptions of their hunting expeditions with as much interest as though he had been a boy himself. Then he engaged in hunting with them, and entered into the sport with all the reckless eagerness of youth.

The winter was passed in this way, and when spring returned, Uncle James began to talk of returning to California to settle up his business. He had become attached to life in the mines, but could not bear the thought of leaving his relatives again. The quiet comforts he had enjoyed at the cottage he thought were better than the rough life and hard fare to which he had been accustomed for the last ten years. He had left his business, however, in an unsettled state, and, as soon as he could “close it up,” would return and take up his abode in Lawrence. The cousins regretted that the parting time was so near, for they looked upon their relative as the very pattern of an uncle, but consoled themselves by looking forward to the coming winter, when he would be settled as a permanent inmate of the cottage.

“I say, Frank,” exclaimed Archie one day, as he burst into the study, where his cousin was engaged in cleaning his gun preparatory to a muskrat hunt, “there’s something in the wind. Just now, as I came through the sitting-room, I surprised our folks and Uncle James talking very earnestly about something. But they stopped as soon as I came in, and, as that was a gentle hint that they didn’t want me to know any thing about it, I came out. There’s something up, I tell you.”

“It’s about uncle’s business, I suppose,” replied Frank. But if that was the subject of the conversation, Archie came to the conclusion that his affairs must be in a very unsettled state, for when they returned from their hunt that night the same mysterious conversation was going on again. It ceased, however, as the boys entered the room, which made Archie more firm in his belief than ever that there was “something up.”

The next morning, at the breakfast-table, Archie’s father announced his intention of returning to Portland at once, as his business needed his attention; and, turning to the boys, inquired:

“Well, have you had hunting enough this winter to satisfy you?”

“Yes, sir,” was the answer.

“Then I suppose you don’t want to go across the plains with your Uncle James?”

“Hurrah!” shouted Archie, springing to his feet, and upsetting his coffee-cup. “Did you say we might go?”

“Be a little more careful, Archie,” said his father. “No, I did not say so.”

“Well, it amounts to the same thing,” thought Archie, “for father never would have said a word about it if he wasn’t intending to let us go. I knew there was something up.”

We need not stop to repeat the conversation that followed. Suffice it to say, that Uncle James, having fully made up his mind to return to the village as soon as he could settle up his business, had asked permission for his nephews to accompany him across the plains. Their parents, thinking of the fight with the moose, and knowing the reckless spirit of the boys, had at first objected. But Uncle James, promising to keep a watchful eye on them, had, after considerable argument, carried the day, and it was finally decided that the boys could go.

“But remember,” said Mr. Winters, “you are to be governed entirely by Uncle James; for, if you have no one to take care of you, you will be in more fights with bears and panthers.”

The boys readily promised obedience, and, hardly waiting to finish their breakfast, went into the study to talk over their plans.

“Didn’t I tell you there was something up?” said Archie, as soon as they had closed the door. “We’ll have a hunt now that will throw all our former hunting expeditions in the shade.”

As soon as their excitement had somewhat abated, they remembered that Dick Lewis, the trapper, had told them that it was his intention to start for the prairie in the spring. If he had not already gone, would it not be a good plan to secure his company? He knew all about the prairie, and might be of service to them. They laid the matter before Uncle James, who, without hesitation, pronounced it an excellent idea. “For,” said he, “we are in no hurry. Instead of going by stage, we will buy a wagon and a span of mules and take our time. If we don’t happen to fall in with a train, we shall, no doubt, want a guide.” As soon, therefore, as the ice had left the creek so that it could be traveled with a boat, Uncle James accompanied the boys to the trapper’s cabin.

Dick met them at the door, and greeted them with a grasp so hearty, that they all felt its effects for a quarter of an hour afterward.

“I ain’t gone yet,” said he; “but it won’t be long afore I see the prairy onct more.”

“Well, Dick,” said Frank, “we’re going, too, and want you to go with us.”

The trapper and his brother opened their eyes wide with astonishment, but Uncle James explained, and ended by offering to pay the trapper’s expenses if he would accompany them. After a few moments’ consideration, he accepted the proposition, saying:

“I have tuk to the youngsters mightily. They’re gritty fellers, an’ I should like to show ’em a bit of prairy life.”

Uncle James and the boys remained at the cabin nearly a week, during which their plans were all determined upon, and, when they arrived at home, they at once commenced preparations for their journey. Their double-barreled shotguns were oiled, and put carefully away. They were very efficient weapons among small game, but Uncle James said they were not in the habit of using “pop-guns” on the prairie; they would purchase their fire-arms and other necessary weapons at St. Louis.

The first of June – the time set for the start – at length arrived, and with it came the trapper, accompanied by his dog. Dick carried his long rifle on his shoulder, his powder-horn and bullet-pouch at his side, and a knapsack, containing a change of clothes and other necessary articles, at his back. He had evidently bestowed more than usual care upon his toilet; his suit of buckskin was entirely new, and even his rifle seemed to have received a thorough rubbing and cleaning preparatory to its introduction into civilized life. Frank and Archie meeting him at the door, relieved him of his rifle and pack, and conducted him into the house. But here the trapper was sadly out of place. He sat on the edge of his chair, and was constantly changing the position of his feet, and looking down at the rich carpet, as if he could hardly believe that it was made to walk upon. The inmates of the cottage used every exertion in their power to make him feel at his ease, and, to some extent, succeeded; but he breathed much more freely when the farewells had been said, and the party was on its way to the wharf. In due time they arrived at Portland, where they remained nearly a week. Here the trapper again found himself in hot water. He was installed in a large, airy room in Mr. Winter’s elegant residence; but he would much rather have been assigned quarters among the trees in the yard. The sights and sounds of the city were new to him, and at every corner he found something to wonder at. When on the street, he was continually getting in somebody’s way, or being separated from his companions, who found it necessary to keep a vigilant watch over him. But it was on the train that his astonishment reached its height. He had never before traveled in the cars, and, as they thundered away, going faster and faster as they left the city behind, the trapper began to clutch his seat, and to look wistfully out the window at the woods, which appeared to be dancing by, as if he never expected to be permitted to enter his natural element again. He would have preferred to “foot it,” as he remarked, and, when at last they reached St. Joseph, he drew a long breath of relief, mentally resolving that he would never again tempt destruction by traveling either on a steamboat or railroad car.

It was midnight when they reached the hotel. Being very much fatigued with their long journey, they at once secured rooms and retired, and were soon fast asleep.

CHAPTER II

The Wagon Train

ON awaking the next morning, the boys found themselves surrounded by new scenes. While they were dressing, they looked out at the window, and obtained their first view of a wagon train, which was just starting out for the prairie. The wagons were protected by canvas covers, some drawn by oxen, others by mules, and the entire train being accompanied by men both on foot and on horseback. Fat, sleek cows followed meekly after the wagons, from behind whose covering peeped the faces of women and children – the families of the hardy pioneers now on their way to find new homes amid the solitude of that western region.

The boys watched the train until it disappeared, and then went down stairs to get their breakfast. Uncle James was not to be found. In fact, ever since leaving Portland, he seemed to have forgotten his promise to his brother, for he never bothered his head about his nephews. It is true, he had watched them rather closely at the beginning of the journey, but soon discovered that they were fully capable of taking care of themselves and the trapper besides. He did not make his appearance until nearly two hours after the boys had finished their breakfast, and then he rode up to the hotel mounted on a large, raw-boned, ugly-looking horse. He was followed by the trapper, who was seated in a covered wagon, drawn by a span of mules, while behind the wagon were two more horses, saddled and bridled.

“Now, then, boys,” said Uncle James, as he dismounted and tied his horse to a post, “where’s your baggage? We’re going with that train that went out this morning.”

“An’ here, youngsters,” exclaimed Dick, as he climbed down out of his wagon, “come an’ take your pick of these two hosses. This one,” he continued, pointing to a small, gray horse, which stood impatiently pawing the ground and tossing his head – “this feller is young and foolish yet. He don’t know nothin’ ’bout the prairy or buffaler huntin’; an’ if whoever gets him should undertake to shoot a rifle while on his back, he would land him on the ground quicker nor lightnin’. I ’spect I shall have to larn him a few lessons. But this one” – laying his hand on the other horse, which stood with his head down and his eyes closed, as if almost asleep – “he’s an ole buffaler hunter. The feller that your uncle bought him of has jest come in from the mountains. He can travel wusser nor a steamboat if you want him to, an’ you can leave him on the prairy any whar an’ find him when you come back. Now, youngster,” he added, turning to Frank, “which’ll you have?”

“I have no choice,” replied Frank. “Which one do you want, Archie?”

“Well,” replied the latter, “I’d rather have the buffalo hunter. He looks as though he hadn’t spirit enough to throw a fellow off, but that gray looks rather vicious.”

“Wal, then, that’s settled,” said the trapper; “so fetch on your plunder, an’ let’s be movin’ to onct.”

Their baggage, which consisted of three trunks – small, handy affairs, capable of holding a considerable quantity of clothing, but not requiring much space – was stowed away in the wagon. When Uncle James had paid their bill at the hotel, they mounted their horses, and the trapper, who now began to feel more at home, took his seat in the wagon, and drove after the train. Archie soon began to think that he had shown considerable judgment in the selection of his horse, for they had not gone far before the gray began to show his temper. After making several attempts to turn his head toward home – a proceeding which Frank successfully resisted – he began to dance from one side of the street to the other, and ended by endeavoring to throw his rider over his head; but the huge Spanish saddle, with its high front and back, afforded him a secure seat; and after receiving a few sharp thrusts from Frank’s spurs, the gray quietly took his place by the side of Archie’s horse, and walked along as orderly and gentle as could be wished.

The trapper, who was now the chief man of the party, had superintended the buying of their outfit, and, although it was a simple one, they were still well provided with every necessary article. The boys were dressed in complete suits of blue jeans, an article that will resist wear and dirt to the last extremity, broad-brimmed hats, and heavy horseman’s boots, the heels of which were armed with spurs.

Their weapons, which were stowed away in the wagon, consisted of a brace of revolvers and a hunting-knife each, and Archie owned a short breech-loading rifle, while Frank had purchased a common “patch” rifle. The wagon also contained provisions in abundance – coffee, corn meal, bacon, and the like – and ammunition for their weapons. Their appearance would have created quite a commotion in the quiet little village of Lawrence, but in St. Joseph such sights were by no means uncommon. Buckskin was much more plenty than broadcloth, and the people who passed them on the streets scarcely noticed them.

At length, just before dark, they overtook the train, which had stopped for the night. The wagons were drawn up on each side of the road, and altogether the camp presented a scene that was a pleasant one to men wearied with their day’s journey. Cattle were feeding quietly near the wagons, chickens cackled joyously from their coops, men and women were busily engaged with their preparations for supper, while groups of noisy children rolled about on the grass, filling the camp with the sounds of their merry laughter.

The trapper drove on until he found a spot suitable for their camp, and then turned off the road and stopped. He at once began to unharness the mules, while the boys, after removing their saddles, fastened their horses to the wagon with a long rope, and allowed them to graze. When the trapper had taken care of his mules, he started a fire, and soon a coffee-pot was simmering and sputtering over the flames, and several slices of bacon were broiling on the coals. After supper, the boys spread their blankets out under the wagon, and, being weary with their day’s ride (for it was something new to them), soon fell asleep.

The next morning, when they awoke it was just daylight. After drawing on their boots, they crawled out from under the wagon, and found the trapper, standing with his hat off, and his long arms extended as if about to embrace some invisible object.

“I tell you what, youngsters,” said he, as the boys approached; “if this aint nat’ral; jest take a sniff of that ar fresh air! Here,” he continued, looking about him with a smile of satisfaction – “here, I know all ’bout things. I’m to hum now. Thar’s nothin’ on the prairy that Dick Lewis can’t ’count fur. But, youngsters, I wouldn’t travel on them ar steamboats an’ railroads ag’in fur all the beaver in the Missouri River. Every thing in them big cities seemed to say to me, ‘Dick, you haint got no business here.’ Them black walls an’ stone roads; them rumblin’ carts an’ big stores, war sights I never seed afore, an’ I never want to see ’em ag’in. I know I was treated mighty kind, an’ all that; but it couldn’t make me feel right. I didn’t like them streets, windin’ an’ twistin’ about, an’ allers loosin’ a feller; an’ I wasn’t to hum. But now, youngsters, I know what I’m doin’. Nobody can’t lose Dick Lewis on the prairy. I know the names of all the streets here; an’, ’sides, I know whar they all lead to. An’ as fur varmints, thar’s none of ’em that I haint trapped an’ fit. An’ Injuns! I know a leetle ’bout them, I reckon. It’s funny that them ar city chaps don’t know nothin’ ’bout what’s goin’ on out here; an’ it shows that all the larnin’ in the world aint got out o’ books. Send one of ’em here, an’ I could show him a thing or two he never heern tell on. But I must be gettin’ breakfast, ’cause we’ll be off ag’in soon; an’ on the prairy every feller has to look out fur himself. You can’t pull a ring in the wall here, an’ have a chap with white huntin’ shirt an’ morocker moccasins on come up an’ say: ‘Did you ring, sir?’ An’ how them ar fellers knowed which room to come to in them big hotels, is something I can’t get through my head. Thar’s no big bell to call a feller to grub here. Take one of them city chaps an’ give him a rifle, an’ pint out over the prairy an’ tell him to go an’ hunt up his breakfast, an’ how would he come out? Could he travel by the sun, or tell the pints of the compass by the stars? Could he lasso an’ ride a wild mustang, or shoot a Injun plumb atween the eyes at two hundred an’ fifty yards? No! I reckon not! Wal, thar’s a heap o’ things I couldn’t do; an’ it shows that every man had oughter stick to his own business. It’s all owin’ to a man’s bringin’ up.”

While the trapper spoke he had been raking together the fire that had nearly gone out; and having got it fairly started, he began the work of getting breakfast. The boys, after rolling up their blankets and packing them away in the wagon, amused themselves in watching the movements of the emigrants, who now began their preparations for their day’s journey. By the time Uncle James awoke, the trapper pronounced their breakfast ready. After they had done ample justice to the homely meal (and it was astonishing what an appetite the fresh invigorating air of the prairie gave them), the boys packed the cooking utensils away in the wagon while the trapper began to harness the mules. This was an undertaking that a less experienced man would have found to be extremely hazardous, for the animals persisted in keeping their heels toward him, and it was only by skillful maneuvering that Dick succeeded in getting them hitched to the wagon. By the time this was accomplished, Uncle James and the boys had saddled their horses and followed the trapper, who drove off as though he perfectly understood what he was about, leaving the train to follow at its leisure.

Dick acted as if he had again found himself among friends from whom he had long been separated; but it was evident that sorrow was mingled with his joy, for on every side his eye rested on the improvements of civilization. The road was lined with fine, well-stocked farms, and the prairie over which his father had hunted the buffalo and fought the Indian, had been turned up by the plow, and would soon be covered with waving crops. No doubt the trapper’s thoughts wandered into the future, for, as the boys rode up beside the wagon, he said, with something like a sigh:

“Things aint as they used to be, youngsters. I can ’member the time when thar was’nt a fence within miles of here, an’ a feller could go out an’ knock over a buffaler fur breakfast jest as easy as that farmer over thar could find one of his sheep. But the ax an’ plow have made bad work with a fine country, the buffaler an’ Injun have been pushed back t’wards the mountains, an’ it won’t be long afore thar’ll be no room fur sich as me; an’ we won’t be missed neither, ’cause when the buffaler an’ beaver are gone thar’ll be nothin’ fur us to do. These farms will keep pushin’ out all the while; an’ when folks, sittin’ in their snug houses beside their warm fires, hear tell of the Injuns that onst owned this country, nobody will ever think that sich fellers as me an’ Bill Lawson an’ ole Bob Kelly ever lived. If ole Bill was here now, he would say: ‘Let’s go back to the mountains, Dick, an’ stay thar.’ He wouldn’t like to see his ole huntin’ grounds wasted in this way, an’ I don’t want to see it neither. But I know that the Rocky Mountains an’ grizzly bars will last as long as I shall, an’ thar’ll be no need of trappers an’ hunters an’ guides arter that.”

Dick became silent after this, and it was not until the train halted for the noon’s rest, that he recovered his usual spirits

CHAPTER III

Antelope Hunting

GRADUALLY the train left the improvements of civilization behind, and, at the end of three weeks, it was miles outside of a fence. Here the trapper was in his natural element. He felt, as he expressed, “like a young one jest out o’ school,” adding, that all he needed was “one glimpse of a Comanche or Cheyenne to make him feel perfectly nat’ral.”

In accordance with the promise he had made Frank before leaving St. Joseph, he now took Pete (that was the name the latter had given his horse) under his especial charge; and every morning, at the first peep of day, the boys saw him galloping over the prairie, firing his rifle as fast as he could reload, as if in pursuit of an imaginary herd of buffaloes. At first the spirited animal objected to this mode of treatment, and made the most desperate efforts to unseat his rider; but the trapper, who had broken more than one wild mustang, was perfectly at home on horseback, and, after a few exercises of this kind, Pete was turned over to his young master, with the assurance that he was ready to begin buffalo hunting. According to Frank’s idea, the animal had improved considerably under the trapper’s system of training, for he would hardly wait for his rider to be fairly in the saddle before he would start off at the top of his speed. The boys, who considered themselves fully able to do any thing that had ever been accomplished by any one else, having seen Dick load and fire his rifle while riding at full speed, began to imitate his example, and in a short time learned the art to perfection. In addition to this, each boy looked upon his horse as the better animal, and the emigrants were witnesses to many a race between them, in which Sleepy Sam, as Archie called his horse, always came off winner. But Frank kept up the contest, and at every possible opportunity the horses were “matched,” until they had learned their parts so well, that every time they found themselves together, they would start off on a race without waiting for the word from their riders.

One morning, just after the train had left the camp, as the boys were riding beside the wagon, listening to a story the trapper was relating, the latter suddenly stopped, and, pointing toward a distant swell, said: “Do you see that ar’, youngsters?”

The boys, after straining their eyes in vain, brought their field-glass into requisition, and finally discovered an object moving slowly along through the high grass; but the distance was so great, they could not determine what it was.

“That’s a prong-horn,” said the trapper at length. “An’ now, Frank,” he continued, “if you’ll lend me that ar hoss, I’ll show you that all the huntin’ in the world aint larnt in that leetle patch of timber around Lawrence.”

Frank at once dismounted, and Dick, after securing his rifle, sprung into the saddle, saying:

“Come along easy-like, youngsters, an’ when I tell you, you get off an’ hide behind your hoss.”

Frank mounted Sleepy Sam behind Archie, and they followed the trapper, who led the way at an easy gallop. Useless, at his master’s command, remained with the wagon. They rode for a mile at a steady pace, and then, seeing that the game had discovered them, the boys, at a signal from the trapper, stopped and dismounted, while Dick kept on alone, his every movement closely watched by Frank and Archie, who, having often read of the skill required in hunting antelopes, were anxious to see how it was done. The trapper rode on for about half a mile further, and then the boys saw him dismount, unbuckle the bridle, and hobble his horse so that he would not stray away. He then threw himself on his hands and knees, and disappeared. A quarter of an hour afterward the boys saw his ’coon-skin cap waving above the grass. If this was intended to attract the attention of the game, it did not meet with immediate success, for the antelopes continued to feed leisurely up the swell, and finally some of their number disappeared behind it. The boys regarded this as conclusive evidence that the trapper’s plan had failed; but at length one of the antelopes, which stood a little apart from the others, and appeared to be acting as sentinel, uttered a loud snort, which instantly brought every member of the herd to his side. They remained huddled together for several moments, as if in consultation, and then began to move slowly down the swell toward the place where the trapper was concealed. There were about twenty animals in the herd, and they came on in single file, stopping now and then to snuff the air and examine the object that had excited their curiosity. But nothing suspicious was to be seen, for the trapper was concealed in the grass, the only thing visible being his cap, which he gently waved to and fro as he watched the movements of the game. The antelopes advanced slowly – much too slowly for the impatient boys, who, concealed behind their horse, closely watched all their movements, fearful that they might detect the presence of the trapper, and seek safety in flight. But the latter well understood the matter in hand, and presently the boys saw a puff of smoke rise from the grass, and the nearest of the antelopes, springing into the air, fell dead in his tracks. The others turned and fled with the speed of the wind.