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Updated: June 20, 2025
I saw that her face was badly tattooed, but her body was not, and as she stood there, apparently undecided what to do, she was to me an object of pity, and her dejected countenance would, I think, have appealed strongly to even Jim Bridger's heart. I told Nawasa to help her on behind me, for we must be off quick. Nawasa said: "She don't want to go."
In pioneer days Jim Bridger's home was on this very spot. But those romantic days are long since past; and where this world-famous scout once watched through the loopholes of his barricade, was an amazed youngster ten or eleven years old who gazed on us, then ran to the cabin and emerged with a rifle in his hands.
Before she would start away she made him remount, and he said good-by only after half a promise from her that she would show him sometime a trail to the top of Bridger's Peak, with a view of the Peace River on the east and the whole Mission Range and the park country on the north. Then she rode away at an amazing run, nodding back as he sat still holding his hat above his head.
But for the presence of the Pilgrim, he told himself ill-temperedly, they might have waited for breakfast; but he had been so anxious to get her away from under the man's leering gaze that he had not thought of eating. And if the Pilgrim had been a man, he might have sent him over to Bridger's for her father and a horse.
To-morrow I start east to Laramie and you start west for Oregon!" And in the morning following two riders left Bridger's for the trail. They parted, each waving a hand to the other. A rough low cabin of logs, hastily thrown together, housed through the winter months of the Sierra foothills the two men who now, in the warm days of early June, sat by the primitive fireplace cooking a midday meal.
In courtesy as much as curiosity Bridger stooped first to pick it up. As he rose he saw Carson's face change as he held out his hand. "What's this stone, Kit yer medicine?" But Bridger's own face altered suddenly as he now guessed the truth. He looked about him suddenly, his mouth tight. Kit Carson rose and they passed from the room.
But the venerable guide and scout, with supreme disgust depicted on his countenance at the idea of any one attempting to deceive him, said to his informant, "H -l! Bill, you can't fool me! That's old John Smith." At one time many years ago, during Bridger's first visit to St.
"Let me see that little dingus ye had, Kit," said he "that piece o' gold." Carson handed it to him. "Ye got any more o' hit, Kit?" "Plenty! You can have it if you'll promise not to tell where it came from, Jim." "If I do, Jim Bridger's a liar, Kit!" He slipped the nugget into his pocket. They rode to the head of the train, where Bridger found Wingate and his aids, and presented his friend.
Way hit is, this train's in a hell of a fix, an' hit couldn't be no worser." The news of Jim Bridger's arrival, and the swift rumor that he would serve as pilot for the train over the dangerous portion of the route ahead, spread an instantaneous feeling of relief throughout the hesitant encampment at this, the last touch with civilization east of the destination.
The old halfbreed style of loading, too, was rapid enough to give Jackson as many buffalo as Bridger's bow had claimed before his horse fell back and the dust cloud lessened in the distance. The great speed and bottom of Banion's horse, as well as the beast's savage courage and hunting instinct, kept him in longer touch with the running game. Banion was in no haste.
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