Boone's Lick

the sound of the two of them talking was usually the last thing we heard before we went to sleep.

What they talked about so much, I never knew, but the sound of their two voices made a good sound to go to sleep by--soothing, like the sound of rain.

That night it came a hard frost--hard enough to freeze the Platte, not to mention those of us in the wagon. The ducks that had been paddling around on the river the day before were walking around on solid ice, quacking and complaining. That was the day we learned what the sacks were for, that Uncle Seth had bought in Omaha. He gave one to me, one to G.T., and one to Neva.

"Turds," he said. "Go gather them. I imagine you'll be finding cow turds mostly, with maybe a pile of horse pods now and then. I'll give a dime to anyone who finds a buffalo chip."

For ten days we'd been following an immigrant train--a large one, with more than one hundred wagons in it. Every time we topped a hill we would see it, way off ahead. Neva was wild to catch up with them--she thought there'd be boys to play with--but Ma made no effort to catch up.

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"When winter's coming and you're in country without wood it's fine luck to be behind a wagon train that big," Uncle Seth said. "A train that size will spew out droppings all day long. You three get to be our turd gatherers. Fill up your sacks and we'll have a fine campfire tonight."

"You mean we're going to burn turds?" G.T. asked. "We never burned turds in Missouri."

"You oaf, that was because we had wood, in Missouri," Neva said.

"This hard freeze will make your task easy," Uncle Seth said. "The droppings will be froze hard."

He was right on that point. The three of us filled several sacks with frozen droppings, and it didn't even take us much of the day. Once when we were a good distance from the wagon we heard a gunshot, which scared us good, but it was only Charlie Seven Days, who had managed to stalk a little antelope.

Though it warmed up considerably during the day, the wind rose just before sunset and some rolling black clouds began to spit little pellets of sleet at us.

"Ow, it's like needles," G.T. said. That was what the sleet felt like.

"Get behind your mules," Uncle Seth advised. "Let them take the brunt of it."

We huddled up behind the mules and crowded as close to them as we could.

When the moon finally came up and the sleet stopped, the plains had a white, icy look--yet Father Villy was still walking around barefoot, indifferent to the fact that he was walking on sleet.

I don't think G.T. really believed that cow turds would burn, but they did. The priest and Uncle Seth banked the fire so skillfully that we were soon as warm as if we were burning wood.

Ma cooked part of Charlie's antelope, which was very tasty, but there was not much singing around the campfire that night. The hard freeze and the sleet reminded us that we were out in the middle of a bald plain, with no shelter except a wagon--and there was colder weather still to come.

"I wish you'd left me at home, Ma," G.T. said. "It's too chilly out here."

"Don't be a complainer," Ma said mildly. "You're safer with us than you would be at home."

"I guess I won't be, when the Indians come and cut off my ears," G.T.

said.

"You oaf, why would they want your dirty ears?" Neva asked.

"Neva, stop calling him an oaf every minute," Ma said. "It's grating on my nerves."

"Mine too," I said--Neva gave me a black look. What happened next reminded me of that day on the river when G.T. said he was a poor 79

fisherman and then immediately landed a big catfish. He had no sooner mentioned Indians when twenty or more came riding over the nearest ridge, their horses crunching the sleet under their hooves. We had seen an Indian or two, as we came along the trail, but to have twenty or more suddenly show up, when we were alone on a frozen plain at night, was such a shock that my hair stood up. G.T. was so scared he couldn't close his mouth. Neva was the opposite--she buttoned her lip. There were several dogs traveling with the Indians, barking and howling: the sound carried far over the prairies.

All that saved us kids from panic was that none of our men seemed alarmed. In fact, they didn't even seem surprised, though they all did get to their feet to greet the newcomers.

"I believe it's our Pawnee brethren," Father Villy said. "I wondered when they'd be paying us a visit."

"Do you speak the tongue, Charlie?" Uncle Seth asked. "I have only a smattering, myself."

Charlie shook his head. He wasn't pleased to see the Pawnees, but he wasn't scared, either.

Our menfolk may not have been scared, but our mules were--either the smell of the Indian horses or the howling of their dogs upset the mules greatly. They were snorting and straining at their ropes. Charlie and Uncle Seth went over to quiet them down, while Father Villy and the rest of us watched the Pawnees slip and slide down the sleety ridge.

Ma had baby Marcy in her arms, wrapped up tight against the chill.

"There's no cause for alarm, ma'am," Father Villy assured her.

"I'm not alarmed," Ma said. "What do they want, barging in this time of night?"

Father Villy seemed startled that Ma would bring up the time.

"You'll not find too many red men who worry much about the time," he told Ma. "Time is just of a piece to them. They don't clock it apart, like we do."

"You'd think anybody could see it's bedtime," Ma said. "If those dogs don't quiet down they'll wake this baby."

"These Pawnee boys ain't hostile, but they're sly thieves," Father Villy said. "We need to guard our goods."

"Good advice," Uncle Seth said. "A quick Pawnee can steal the socks off a preacher--maybe that's why Villy goes barefoot. Probably lost so many socks he decided to give up on footware."

A minute later we had a passel of Indians crowding around us, horses snorting, dogs barking, the whole crowd smelling pretty rank. Four or five Indians tried to warm themselves by our fire, but most of them were eyeballing our equipment, crowding around the wagon and examining what they could find. Baby Marcy soon woke up and began to howl, a development that a

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Uncle Seth and Father Villy made an effort to be polite to the Pawnees, talking in sign to the ski

He chattered away but I had no idea what he was saying. Meanwhile, Charlie planted himself by our horses and mules and kept a close watch on them.

"I've met this old rascal," Uncle Seth said. "He was at Fort Laramie for one of the big pows. His name is Nose Turns Down. His notion is that we should give him a mule."

"He won't get a mule, but he might get a piece of my mind if he doesn't get out of here and let us get some rest," Ma said.

An Indian came up to me and felt the buttons of my coat--another did the same to G.T., and one even pulled a comb out of Neva's hair. I guess he just wanted to look at it because he soon handed it back. I think Neva was startled that anyone would be so bold as to take a comb out of her hair.

It seemed like the old Pawnee in the black hat went on jabbering at Uncle Seth for an hour, though I suppose it was really only several minutes.

Although Uncle Seth was perfectly polite I could see the vein working on the top of his nose.

"I think we better give them a plug of tobacco," he said--we had laid in several plugs when we passed through Omaha.