Part 18 (2/2)
She held up an Indian arrow, its strap-iron head bent over at right angles. ”They shot this into our plow beam. Looks like they got a spite at our plow.”
”Ma'am, they have got a spite at hit,” said the old scout, seating himself on the ground near by. ”They're scared o' hit. I've seed a bunch o' Sioux out at Laramie with a plow some Mormon left around when he died. They'd walk around and around that thing by the hour, talkin' low to theirselves. They couldn't figger hit out no ways a-tall.
”That season they sent a runner down to the p.a.w.nees to make a peace talk, an' to find out what this yere thing was the whites had brung out.
p.a.w.nees sent to the Otoes, an' the Otoes told them. They said hit was the white man's big medicine, an' that hit buried all the buffler under the ground wherever hit come, so no buffler ever could git out again.
Nacherl, when the runners come back an' told what that thing really was, all the Injuns, every tribe, said if the white man was goin' to bury the buffler the white man had got to stay back.
”Us trappers an' traders got along purty well with the Injuns--they could get things they wanted at the posts or the Rendyvous, an' that was all right. They had pelts to sell. But now these movers didn't buy nothin' an' didn't sell nothin'. They just went on through, a-carryin'
this thing for buryin' the buffler. From now on the Injuns is goin' to fight the whites. Ye kain't blame 'em, ma'am; they only see their finish.
”Five years ago nigh a thousand whites drops down in Oregon. Next year come fifteen hundred, an' in '45 twicet that many, an' so it has went, doublin, an' doublin'. Six or seven thousand whites go up the Platte this season, an' a right smart sprinklin' o' them'll git through to Oregon. Them 'at does'll carry plows.
”Ma'am, if the brave that sunk a arrer in yore plow beam didn't kill yore plow hit warn't because he didn't want to. Hit's the truth--the plow does bury the buffler, an' fer keeps! Ye kain't kill a plow, ner neither kin yer scare hit away. Hit's the holdin'est thing ther is, ma'am--hit never does let go.”
”How long'll we wait here?” the older woman demanded.
”Anyhow fer two-three days, ma'am. Thar's a lot has got to sort put stuff an' throw hit away here. One man has drug a pair o' millstones all the way to here from Ohio. He allowed to get rich startin' a gris'mill out in Oregon. An' then ther's chairs an' tables, an' G.o.d knows what--”
”Well, anyhow,” broke in Mrs. Wingate truculently, ”no difference what you men say, I ain't going to leave my bureau, nor my table, nor my chairs! I'm going to keep my two churns and my feather bed too. We've had b.u.t.ter all the way so far, and I mean to have it all the way--and eggs. I mean to sleep at nights, too, if the pesky muskeeters'll let me.
They most have et me up. And I'd give a dollar for a drink of real water now. It's all right to settle this water overnight, but that don't take the sody out of it.
”Besides,” she went on, ”I got four quarts o' seed wheat in one of them bureau drawers, and six cuttings of my best rose-bush I'm taking out to plant in Oregon. And I got three pairs of Jed's socks in another bureau drawer. It's flat on its back, bottom of the load. I ain't going to dig it out for no man.”
”Well, hang on to them socks, ma'am. I've wintered many a time without none--only gra.s.s in my moccasins. There's outfits in this train that's low on flour an' side meat right now, let alone socks. We got to cure some meat. There's a million buffler just south in the breaks wantin' to move on north, but scared of us an' the Injuns. We'd orto make a good hunt inside o' ten mile to-morrer. We'll git enough meat to take us a week to jerk hit all, or else Jim Bridger's a liar--which no one never has said yit, ma'am.”
”Flowers?” he added. ”You takin' flowers acrost? Flowers--do they go with the plow, too, as well as weeds? Well, well! Wimminfolks sh.o.r.e air a strange race o' people, hain't that the truth? Buryin' the buffler an'
plantin' flowers on his grave!
”But speakin' o' buryin' things,” he suddenly resumed, ”an' speakin' o'
plows, 'minds me o' what's delayin' us all right now. Hit's a fool thing, too--buryin' Injuns!”
”As which, Mr. Bridger? What you mean?” inquired Molly Wingate, looking over her spectacles.
”This new man, Banion, that come in with the Missouri wagons--he taken hit on hisself to say, atter the fight was over, we orto stop an' bury all them Injuns! Well, I been on the Plains an' in the Rockies all my life, an' I never yit, before now, seed a Injun buried. Hit's onnatcherl. But this here man he, now, orders a ditch plowed an' them Injuns hauled in an' planted. Hit's wastin' time. That's what's keepin'
him an' yore folks an' sever'l others. Yore husband an' yore son is both out yan with him. Hit beats h.e.l.l, ma'am, these new-fangled ways!”
”So that's where they are? I wanted them to fetch me something to make a fire.”
”I kain't do that, ma'am. Mostly my squaws--”
”Your what? Do you mean to tell me you got squaws, you old heathen?”
”Not many, ma'am--only two. Times is hard sence beaver went down. I kain't tell ye how hard this here depressin' has set on us folks out here.”
”Two squaws! My laws! Two--what's their names?” This last with feminine curiosity.
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