The Young Alaskans on the Missouri - Emerson Hough (best books for students to read TXT) 📗

were travelers, all right.”

“Lay her a half north, fifty-seven degrees west, and full steam ahead!” sang out Uncle Dick. “Cut this big bend and take the wind on the larboard quarter, Jesse. I’ll promise you, if our gas holds out, we’ll get somewhere before dark. The Adventurer, of America is a mile eater, believe me!”

CHAPTER VI THE LOG OF THE “ADVENTURER”

“

One thing sure,” said Rob, after a long silence, toward the close of the afternoon, “this isn’t any wilderness now. Look at the fields and settlements we’ve passed. There’s a town every ten miles.”

“Well, I don’t think it was all wild, even when Lewis and Clark went through,” John replied to him. “People had been all through here. The Journal keeps on mentioning this creek and that—all the names were already on the country.”

“Shall we get as far as Charette to-day, Uncle Dick?” asked Jesse.

“Hardly, this country has changed a lot in a hundred years and I don’t know just where we are. I’m only guessing, doing dead reckoning on our motor speed. But we ought to see the place I’ve got in mind, before plumb dark.”

“See what, Uncle Dick? What is it?”

“Never mind. I’ll tell you if we make it.”

However, Uncle Dick was shrewd in his map work and his guessing. Toward dark the boys began to get anxious as the shadows fell along the deep, powerful river, but they had no sign to land until it was well after sunset. Then Uncle Dick began to whistle cheerfully.

“All right, Rob,” he called. “Hard a-lee! Get across. That creek on the right is the Femme Osage. There were forty families settled there, six miles up the river, and one of those farmers was—who do you think?”

“I know!” exclaimed John. “It was Daniel Boone! I’ve read about his moving in here from Kentucky.”

“Right you are, son! He had a Spanish land grant in here and lived here till 1804. He died in 1820, at the town called Femme Osage, as you know.

“Well now, here we are! In under the rocks, Rob—so! Now quick, Jesse, make fast at the bow!”

“Well, what do you know!” exclaimed Jesse. “Regular cave, and everything!”

“Yes,” smiled his uncle, “a regular cave and all. Lucky to hit it so well and to find it still doing business—at least part way—after a hundred years!”

They scrambled up the bank to the opening of the cavern which made back into the bold rocky shore, finding the interior about twelve feet wide and running back for forty feet, with a height of some twenty feet. It was blackened with smoke in places, and many names were cut in the rock.

“Hard run up the swift chutes to get here,” said Uncle Dick, “but I’m glad we made it. This old cave was called the ‘Tavern,’ even before Lewis and Clark, and all the river men used to stop here. Quite homey, eh?

“We are lucky to have done in a day what it took Lewis and Clark nine hard days to do. They made only nine miles the last day, and found the water ‘excessively swift.’ Well, so did we; but here we are.”

With the swiftness born of many nights in camp together, the four now unpacked the needful articles, not putting up any tent, but spreading it down on the floor of the cave. Their fire lit up the rocks in a wild and picturesque manner as they sat near, cooking and eating their first meal of the actual voyage up the great Missouri.

“They got a deer that day,” said Rob, poring over the Journal, “I expect about their first deer.”

Rob was turning over the pages on ahead. “Hah!” said he. “The men didn’t always take care of the grub; here it says, ‘Lyed corn and Grece will be issued, the next day Poark and flour, and the following, Indian meal and Poark, according to this Rotiene till further orders. No Poark will be issued when we have fresh meat on hand!’”

“You listen, now, Jesse. With breakfast bacon at sixty cents a pound, and your appetite, we’ll have to go after meat. Get out that throw line of yours and see if we can’t hang a catfish by morning. Here’s a piece of beef for bait.”

Jesse scrambled down the shore and threw out his line, with a rock for sinker, while the others finished making ready the beds.

“Jolly old place,” ventured John, “though a little hard for a bed. What you looking at, Rob?”

“I was trying to find if the old Indian images were left, that used to be scratched or painted on the walls. Clark says the voyageurs and Indians were superstitious about this place. I think caves are always spooky places.”

Soon they all felt tired and began to unroll the beds. A screech owl made a tremulous, eerie note, but even Jesse only laughed at that.

They had breakfast before the mist was off the water, and before the cooking was begun Jesse called out from below:

“Hey, there! Wait for me! I’ve got the breakfast right here! Call in the lyed corn and pork. Here’s a catfish, four pounds, anyhow!”

“Clean him, Jess,” called Rob, “and cut him up small enough to fry.”

Jesse did so, and soon the slices were sizzling in the pan.

“Well, anyhow,” commented their leader, “though not as good as venison, it’s wild game, eh? And our way has always been to live off the country all we could without breaking laws.”

“What changes, from then till now!” said Rob. “It was spring and summer when they went up this river, but they killed deer, turkeys, elk, buffalo, antelope, and wild fowl—hundreds—all the time. Now, all that’s unlawful.”

“And impossible. Yes, they lived as the Indians lived, and they killed game the year round. Now, about all we can do for a while will be to eat the trusty catfish.

“One thing has not changed,” their leader added, a little later, “and that is the current along the rock faces. Just above is what Clark called ‘The Deavels race ground’—a half mile that will try your motors, Rob. The big keel boat got in all sorts of trouble that day, whirling around, getting on bars, breaking her line and all that. The expedition came near getting into grief—men had to go overboard and steady her, and they were swimming, poling, rowing, and tracking all that day.”

Indeed, the great river seemed disposed to show the young travelers that her prowess had not diminished. They had a hard fight that day in more than one fast chute, and twice dragged the propellers on bars which they did not see at all. Uncle Dick used the oars three or four hours that day, and Jesse, the boatman, spread his foresail to gain such added power as was possible. In this way they made very good time, so that by late evening they reached the mouth of the Gasconade, which comes in from the left from the hill country. They got a good camp near the mouth, with abundance of wood. Jesse was so lucky as to take two fine wall-eyed pike, here called jack salmon, on his set line, as well as two catfish. They let the latter go, as they had enough for the day, the wall-eyes proving excellent.

“Now we’re beginning to get into deer!” said Rob. “Here George Shannon killed a deer, and Reuben Fields got one the next day. And all the time, as you no doubt remember, we’ve been meeting canoes coming down from the Omahas and Osages and Pawnees and Kansas, loaded down with furs!”

“I remember perfectly,” asserted John, solemnly. “I can see them going by right now! Pretty soon we pick up old man Dorion, coming down from the Sioux, and hire him to go back as an interpreter for us.”

“Could catch a lot of catfish and ‘jurk’ the meat, the way Captain Clark did venison,” said Jesse, at length.

According to their usual custom when on the trail, they were off by sunup, the exhaust of the double motors making the wooded shore echo again. They made their third encampment at the mouth of a stream which they took to be that called Good Woman River in the Journal—a name no longer known on their map.

“Whew!” complained Uncle Dick, as he got out and stretched his legs. “This is cramping me as bad as the trenches in the Argonne. You fellows’ll ‘do me in,’ as the British used to say, if I don’t look out! How far do you think we’ve come in the three days, Rob?”

“Let’s see. I figure about one hundred and ninety to two hundred miles, that’s all! What Lewis and Clark needed was our boat and a few outboard kickers. It took them till June 7th, twenty-three days, to get to this point. We’ve gained, you might say, three weeks on their time.”

“Yes, but they got three bears at this camp, and we’ve got nothing! We don’t dare kill even a squirrel, though I’m sure we could get some sort of game in this rough country not far back.” John spoke ruefully.

“Don’t kick, John,” advised Jesse, sagely. “I’ll take care of you. Besides, look at the big help the wind was to-day. Clark says he had only a ‘jentle breese’ in here.”

“Or words to that effect,” smiled Rob. “The main thing is, we travel many times faster than they possibly could. Even so, she’s a long trail ahead.”

“All we know is that we’ll get through!” said John. “We always have.”

“We’re discovering romance,” said Uncle Dick. “We’re discovering America, too. Jesse, take down your Flag from the bow staff—don’t you know the Flag must never be allowed to fly after sunset?”

They were now lying in their blankets in their tent, on a wind-swept point. “I wonder if Captain Clark took down the flag. Now, I wonder——”

But what Jesse wondered was lost, for soon he was asleep.

CHAPTER VII THE GATE OF THE WEST

Nearly a week had passed since the last recorded camp of the crew of the Adventurer—spent in steady progress across the great and beautiful state of Missouri and its rich bottom lands, its many towns, its farms and timber lands and prairies. Many an exclamation at the wild beauty of some passing scene had been theirs in the constant succession of changing river landscapes.

Their own adventures they had had, too, with snags and sweepers and the dreaded “rolling sands” over which the current boiled and hissed ominously; but the handlers of the boat were well used to bad water on their earlier trips together, in the upper wildernesses of the continent, so they made light of these matters.

“I don’t believe that Patrick Gass put down all the bears they got,” said Jesse. “Clark says they got a lot, sometimes two a day, and they ‘jurked’ the meat, the same as vension. Gee! I wish I’d been along!”

Rob smiled. “I expect the hunters had a hard time enough. They had to work through heavy weeds and vines in these bottoms, and if they got back in very far they had to guess where the boat would be. And even Lewis complains of ticks and mosquitoes and heavy going ashore.”

“I believe things poisoned Clark worse than they did Lewis, he was so fair skinned,” said John. “One of his regular entries all along was, ‘Mosquitrs (or musketos or muskeeters) very troublesome.’”

“Poor Clark!” smiled Rob. “What with rubbing ‘musquitr’ bites and spelling in his daily report, he must have had a hard time. He had another regular entry, too, as you said, Jesse, that about the ‘jentle brease.’ I don’t know how many ways he spelled it, but he seems to have had no confidence at all in his own spelling. Look here: on June 1st he has