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"Well, I speak Blackfoot, Crow, Bannack, Grow Vaw, Snake an' Ute," grumbled the scout, "but I never run acrost no Latins out here. I allowed maybe-so ye was allowin' I couldn't kill buffler with Ole Sal. That's what I keep her fer just buffler. I'll show ye afore long." And even as Bridger had promised for his favorite weapon, he did prove beyond cavil the efficiency of Old Sal.
It does not mean carelessness or indifference. Just to let things go and say, “Oh, I guess it will come out all right,” is not trusting. Just drifting heedlessly with the tide is not trust. Neglect is not trust. Trust is something positive. It is a real something, not a mere happen-so or maybe-so. It is a definite attitude of soul and mind, a realization of our own need and of God’s sufficiency.
"For Oregon? Mon Dieu! But Jeem" he spread out his hands "Jeem he's dead, we'll think. We do not known. Now we know the gold news. Maybe-so we know why Jeem he's gone!" "Gone? When?" "Las' H'august-Settemb. H'all of an' at once he'll took the trail h'after the h'emigrant train las' year. He'll caught him h'on Fort Hall; we'll heard.
Plenty beeg fight on ahead, too, maybe-so. You'll bust h'up the trade, Jeem. My Sioux, she's scare to come h'on the post h'an' trade. He'll stay h'on the veelage, her." "Every dog to his own yard. Is that all the news?" "Five thousand Mormons, he'll gone by h'aready. H'womans pullin' the han'cart, sacre Enfant! News you'll h'ought to know the news. You'll been h'on the settlement six mont'!"
"I'll risk it with the dragoon revolvers," replied Banion, indicating his holsters. "Not the first time for them, either." "No? Well, maybe-so they'll do; but fer me, I want a hunk o' lead. Fer approachin' a buffler, still-huntin', the rifle's good, fer ye got time an' kin hold close. Plenty o' our men'll hunt thataway to-day, an' git meat; but fer me, give me a hunk o' lead.
"Hit seemed six year. The hull white nation's movin'. So. That all?" "Well, go h'ask Keet. He's come h'up South Fork yesterdays. Maybe-so quelq' cho' des nouvelles h'out West. I dunno, me." "Kit Kit Carson, you mean? What's Kit doing here?" "Oui. I dunno, me." He nodded to a door. Bridger pushed past him. In an inner room a party of border men were playing cards at a table.
But then he go h'on with those h'emigrant beyon' Hall, beyon' the fork for Californ'. He'll not come back. No one know what has become of Jeem. He'll been dead, maybe-so." "Yes? Maybe-so not! That old rat knows his way through the mountains, and he'll take his own time. You think he did not go on to California?" "We'll know he'll didn't." Carson stood and thought for a time.
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