Bill Biddon, Trapper; or, Life in the Northwest. Edward Sylvester Ellis

of his being a white man; and although it cleared up one doubt, left us in a greater one. He could not have avoided the knowledge that we were of the same blood, and what demoniacal wish could lead him to seek the life of two harmless wanderers? Be he who he might, it was with no very Christian feelings toward him that we took the trail of his horse, and pursued it.

      Our course after the first five miles, swerved considerably to the northwest. From the actions of the stranger, it was evident he understood the character of the country, and we judged the shortest way of reaching the Oregon trail would be by following him. The footprints of his animal were distinctly marked, and we had no difficulty in keeping them.

      At noon we forded a stream, and shortly after another, both considerably less than the Republican Fork. On the northern bank of the latter, were the still glowing coals of the stranger’s camp-fire, and we judged he could be at no great distance. The country here was of a slightly different character from the rolling prairie over which we had journeyed thus far. There were hills quite elevated, and, now and then, groves of timber. In the river bottoms were numerous cottonwoods and elder; these natural causes so obstructed our view, that we might approach our unknown enemy very nigh without knowing it. Nat was quite nervous, and invariably sheered off from the forbidding groves of timber, striking the trail upon the opposite side at a safe distance.

      In this way we traveled onward through the entire day. No signs of Indians were seen, and we anticipated little trouble from them, as they were friendly at this time, and the most they would do would be to rob us of some of our trinkets or rifles.

      At sundown we left our guiding trail and struck off toward a small stream to camp for the night. When we reached it, and decided upon the spot, Nat remarked seriously:

      “I say, Relmond, that feller might be near enough to give us another shot afore morning, and I’m going to see whether his trail crosses the brook out there or not.”

      So saying, he wheeled and ran back to the spot where we had left it. It was still bright enough to follow it, and bending his head down to keep it in view, he continued upon a rapid run. I was upon the point of warning him against thus running into danger, but not feeling much apprehension for his safety, I turned my back toward him. A minute after, I heard his footsteps again, and, looking up, saw him coming with full speed toward me, his eyes dilated to their utmost extent, and with every appearance of terror.

      “He’s there!” he exclaimed.

      “Where?” I asked, catching his excitement.

      “Just across the stream up there; I liked to have run right into him afore I knowed it. See there!”

      As Nat spoke, I saw the glimmering of a fire through the trees, and heard the whinny of a horse.

      “Didn’t he see you?”

      “Yes, I know he did. When I splashed into the water like a fool, he looked up at me and grunted; I seen him pick up his rifle, and then I put, expecting each moment to feel a ball in me.”

      “I thought you intended laying hands on him if an opportunity offered,” I remarked, with a laugh.

      “I declare, I forgot that,” he replied, somewhat crestfallen.

      After some further conversation, I decided to make the acquaintance of the person who had occupied so much of our thoughts. Nat opposed this, and urged me to get farther from him; but a meaning hint changed his views at once, and he readily acquiesced. He would not be prevailed upon, however, to accompany me, but promised to come to my aid if I should need help during the interview. So leaving him, I started boldly up the stream.

      When I reached the point opposite the stranger’s camp-fire, I stumbled and coughed so as to attract his attention. I saw him raise his eyes and hurriedly scan me, but he gave no further evidence of anxiety, and I unhesitatingly sprang across the stream, and made my way toward him. Before I halted, I saw that he was a trapper. He was reclining upon the ground, before a small fire, and smoking a short black pipe, in a sort of dreamy reverie.

      “Good evening, my friend,” I said, cheerfully, approaching within a few feet of him. He raised his eyes a moment, and then suffered them lazily to fall again, and continue their vacant stare into the fire. “Quite a pleasant evening,” I continued, seating myself near him.

      “Umph!” he grunted, removing his pipe, and rising to the upright position. He looked at me a second with a pair of eyes of sharp, glittering blackness, and then asked: “Chaw, stranger?”

      “I sometimes use the weed, but not in that form,” I replied, handing a piece to him. He wrenched off a huge mouthful with a vigorous twist of his head, and returned it without a word. This done, he sank back to his former position and reverie.

      “Excuse me, friend,” said I, moving rather impatiently, and determined to force a conversation upon him, “but I hope you will permit a few questions?”

      “Go ahead, stranger,” he answered, gruffly.

      “Are you traveling alone in this section?”

      “I reckon I ar’, ’cept the hoss which ’ar a team.”

      “Follow trapping and hunting, I presume?”

      “What’s yer handle, stranger?” he suddenly asked, as he came to the upright position, and looking at me with more interest.

      “William Relmond, from New Jersey.”

      “Whar’s that place?”

      “It is one of the Middle States, quite a distance from here.”

      “What mought you be doin’ in these parts?”

      “I and my friend out yonder are on our way to Oregon.”

      “Umph! you’re pretty green ’uns.”

      “Now I suppose you will have no objection to giving me your name.”

      “My handle’s Bill Biddon, and I’m on my way to trappin’-grounds up country.”

      “How far distant?”

      “A heap; somewhar up ’bove the Yallerstone.”

      “Do you generally go upon these journeys alone?”