We made the freight camp, however, just as the storm cut loose in deadly
earnest. Luckily for me, it was Baker's outfit. I took a long chance,
and stalked boldly in. And here I was treated to a surprise, one that
afforded both MacRae and me considerable food for thought; Horner, the
wagon-boss, a man I knew well, frankly declared that no one at Fort
Walsh had heard that we were accused of robbery and murder. For that
matter, he said, he didn't care a tinker's dam if we were; he had grub
and bedding and we were welcome to both.
So with this assurance of good-will we picketed our horses close by the
circle of wagons--where we could get to them quickly should any of
Lessard's troop happen into the camp--and prepared to devour the supper
Horner's good-natured cook bestirred himself to make ready. As we filled
our plates and squatted under the canvas that sheltered the cook's
Dutch-oven layout, a man under the hind end of the chuck-wagon propped
himself on elbow and shouted greeting to us. In the semi-dark I couldn't
see his face, but I recognized the voice. It was our friend of the
whisky-keg episode, Piegan Smith.
"Hello, thar, fellers!" he bellowed (Piegan always spoke to a man as if
he were a hundred yards away). "Say, Flood, yuh ain't been t' Benton an'
back already, have yuh?"
"Faith, no," I owned, between mouthfuls, "and it's hard telling when I
will get there.
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