64 JOHNSON'S CREEK. 



Now, he stands attent, — he hears somethinof move. He stretches himself 

 to his lull height, on tip-toe, and gazes in the black envelope of surround- 

 ing night, made doubly obscure in contrast with the refulgence of the 

 camp-lire. 



" How dark it has grown !" said Jim. " What can it be ? Wonder if 

 it's Indians. Pooh ! it's nothing but the wind. Bless me, I can't see the 

 use of a poor devil's standing guard on such a dark night as this ! (step- 

 ping backward still nearer the fire,) he can't see nothing, if he does. 

 Feugh, — what is it smells so ? (turning round.) Good gracious, how hot 

 my back is !" 



The mystery of Jim's present predicament is easily explained. The 

 skirts of his jeans coat, having come in contact with the wind-tossed flames, 

 caught fire, and were burned to the shoulders before he was aware of the 

 accident. The garment was rendered entirely useless, and even his panta- 

 loons were burnt to his skin, in several places. 



Jim began to think it as bad to stand as to lay guard, and concluded 

 that, of the two, fire was more dangerous than Indians ; — for, one thing 

 was certain, the Indians had never yet injured him, but he could not say as 

 much of fire ! 



In the morning, as may be supposed, our hero's last mishap was the 

 prolific subject of comment, and the wags were promptly on the alert to 

 amuse themselves still further at his expense : 



" Say, would you believe it ! — That's the way Jim 's hit upon to shine in 

 this crowd, — he burns up his old coat to make a light .'" 



" Ah, ha ! So he means to shine by the light of his old clothes, and 

 come it over us in an underhand manner ! Jim, that '11 never do ; — I tell 

 you, once for all." 



" Wonder if he wont burn up himself next ?" 



" He ? No. He's too green and sappy to burn himself, and so he takes 

 his old clothes !" 



" Poor Jim. Shoot grass, kill horse, break gun, burn shoe, scorch foot, 

 lose hat, stick coat in him fire ! Poor fellow. No can do without Jim, 

 no how." 



The third day succeeding the last mentioned adventure, we passed a 

 stream, called by the traders Johnson's creek, in memory of a man by that 

 name who was murdered in its vicinity, several years since, by the 

 Indians. 



He was a missionary, and on his way to Oregon, with a party headed by 

 one John Gray. As they were about to raise camp, one morning, a band 

 of Yanktau-Sioux came charging over the hills, and preparations were 

 made to resist them. Such a course Mr. Johnson felt scrupulous of acced- 

 ing to, and stoutly protested against it, — aflirming it to be wrong. 



As the savages approached, the ill-fated man stepped forward to meet 

 them unarmed, despite the remonstrances of his comrades, — imagining the 

 Indians would not kill him, as he was a missionary and had came to do 

 them/good. 



They, however, proved regardless of him or his intended good, and he 

 fell the victim of his own foolish credulity. Three Indians fell in the con- 

 flict that ensued, and he and they filled the same grave. 



