“Well, hang on to them socks, ma’am.  I’ve wintered many a time without none—­only grass in my moccasins.  There’s outfits in this train that’s low on flour an’ side meat right now, let alone socks.  We got to cure some meat.  There’s a million buffler just south in the breaks wantin’ to move on north, but scared of us an’ the Injuns.  We’d orto make a good hunt inside o’ ten mile to-morrer.  We’ll git enough meat to take us a week to jerk hit all, or else Jim Bridger’s a liar—­which no one never has said yit, ma’am.”

“Flowers?” he added.  “You takin’ flowers acrost?  Flowers—­do they go with the plow, too, as well as weeds?  Well, well!  Wimminfolks shore air a strange race o’ people, hain’t that the truth?  Buryin’ the buffler an’ plantin’ flowers on his grave!

“But speakin’ o’ buryin’ things,” he suddenly resumed, “an’ speakin’ o’ plows, ‘minds me o’ what’s delayin’ us all right now.  Hit’s a fool thing, too—­buryin’ Injuns!”

“As which, Mr. Bridger?  What you mean?” inquired Molly Wingate, looking over her spectacles.

“This new man, Banion, that come in with the Missouri wagons—­he taken hit on hisself to say, atter the fight was over, we orto stop an’ bury all them Injuns!  Well, I been on the Plains an’ in the Rockies all my life, an’ I never yit, before now, seed a Injun buried.  Hit’s onnatcherl.  But this here man he, now, orders a ditch plowed an’ them Injuns hauled in an’ planted.  Hit’s wastin’ time.  That’s what’s keepin’ him an’ yore folks an’ sever’l others.  Yore husband an’ yore son is both out yan with him.  Hit beats hell, ma’am, these new-fangled ways!”

“So that’s where they are?  I wanted them to fetch me something to make a fire.”

“I kain’t do that, ma’am.  Mostly my squaws—­”

“Your what?  Do you mean to tell me you got squaws, you old heathen?”

“Not many, ma’am—­only two.  Times is hard sence beaver went down.  I kain’t tell ye how hard this here depressin’ has set on us folks out here.”

“Two squaws!  My laws!  Two—­what’s their names?” This last with feminine curiosity.

“Well now, ma’am, I call one on ’em Blast Yore Hide—­she’s a Ute.  The other is younger an’ pertier.  She’s a Shoshone.  I call her Dang Yore Eyes.  Both them women is powerful fond o’ me, ma’am.  They both are right proud o’ their names, too, because they air white names, ye see.  Now when time comes fer a fire, Blast Yore Hide an’ Dang Yore Eyes, they fight hit out between ’em which gits the wood.  I don’t study none over that, ma’am.”

Molly Wingate rose so ruffled that, like an angered hen, she seemed twice her size.

“You old heathen!” she exclaimed.  “You old murderin’ lazy heathen man!  How dare you talk like that to me?”

“As what, ma’am?  I hain’t said nothin’ out’n the way, have I?  O’ course, ef ye don’t want to git the fire stuff, thar’s yer darter—­she’s young an’ strong.  Yes, an’ perty as a picter besides, though like enough triflin’, like her maw.  Where’s she at now?”