298 IN THE OLD WEST 



paint to any but a greenhorn. Beaver's a cunning 

 critter, but I've trapped a heap ; and at killing 

 meat when meat's a-running, I'll shine in the big- 

 gest kind of crowd. For twenty year I packed a 

 squaw along. Not one, but a many. First I had 

 a Blackfoot — the darndest slut as ever cried for 

 fofarraw. I lodge-poled her on Colter's Creek, 

 and made her quit. My buffler boss, and as good 

 as four packs of beaver, I gave for old Bull-tail's 

 daughter. He was head chief of the Ricaree, and 

 came nicely round me. Thar wasn't enough scar- 

 let cloth, nor beads, nor vermilion in Sublette's 

 packs for her. Traps wouldn't buy her all the fo- 

 farraw she wanted; and in two years I'd sold her 

 to Cross-Eagle for one of Jake Hawken's guns — 

 this very one I hold in my hands. Then I tried 

 the Sioux, the Shian, and a Digger from the other 

 side, who made the best moccasin as ever I wore. 

 She was the best of all, and was rubbed out by the 

 Yutas in the Bayou Salade. Bad was the best; 

 and after she was gone under I tried no more. 



" Afore I left the settlements I know'd a white 

 gal, and she was some punkins. I have never see'd 

 nothing as 'ould beat her. Red blood won't shine 

 any ways you fix it ; and though I'm h — for sign, 

 a woman's breast is the hardest kind of rock to 

 me, and leaves no trail that I can see of. I've 

 hearn you talk of a gal in Memphis County ; 

 Mary Brand you called her oncest. The gal I 

 said I know'd, her name I disremember, but she 



