Poredevil's Beaver Tales by Edward Louis Henry

Author:Edward Louis Henry
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Christopher Matthews Publishing

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The Jug

The beaver trade was rough, the weather and the country harsh, and the mountain men who lived and worked there were rude and tough, many of them more savage than the Indians they found there. But buried deep within most men is a memory, however dim, of gentle things and stories learned at their mother's knee. Such a tale is this one. It's called The Jug.

The Jug

You ask me jist exac'ly how

did I come by this liquor jug,

how come I come to make it mine?

It's true, it's got a curious design

— now that I will allow, like none I ever seen before —

but how I made it my own property, well, fact is,

I don't precisely know jist how.

As nigh as I can recomember,

'twas in the skinny days o' late December,

'long about the year o' twenty-five,

when snow lay cold an' halfway deep

enough to keep the Blackfoot liars

fast beside their tipi fires,

palaverin' about their coups an' sich

— a time when beaver trappers thrive

an' if a mountain man will match with work

his greed for all the plunder he desires,

a time to reap a harvest rich

in close-haired beaver hides.

We'd been lucky, Patch Malone an' me,

takin' our fair share o' beaver plews

an' makin' all the meat two men could use,

avoidin' ev'ry grizzly bear, stayin' loose from Bloods

an' keepin' holt of our top hair,

talkin' out the nights, so's to keep our reason,

an' gen'rally a-biddin' fair to make o' this'n

our most successful trappin' season.

O' course it wasn't altogether luck.

It takes a mite o' pluck to grit your teeth

an' freeze your butt while searchin' underneath

an icy pond to find a beaver in your trap,

meanwhile a-wonderin' jist what

might be awaitin' on the shore

— a bear or perhaps a pair o' Kah-ee-nah young braves

come out to even up a score.

But, all in all, the beaver trappin' hadn't been

altogether bad that fall.

Howsomever, Patch an' me, we knew 'twas time to go

an' find our winter lodgin' down amongst the Crow.

It's grief enough to spend your days a-dodgin'

Big Bellies, Bloods, an' Pee-koo-nees,

but I'd as lief fight all

the Blackfoots in these Shinin' Hills

as face the chills o' January snow.

We baled our plews an' struck our camp,

saddled horses, packed our mules,

an' headed mostly south an' somewhat west,

satisfied we'd had the best

o' trappin' 'fore the icy clamp o' winter in the Rockies

replaced the chilly autumn damp.

We made fair time, ol' Patch an' me,

breathin freer, yessiree! ever mile we put betwixt

ourselves an' all those Blackfoot braves,

who fixed to wear our hair or sell it to the Company.

As we drew nigh to Absaroka land

I got to ruminatin' on a pert an' purty Absaroka lass

belongin' to ol' High Owl's band

an' wond'rin' if she'd be there waitin',

greetin' me with open arms

an' willin' still to trade her charms

for beads an' cloth to stitch an' sich,

an' p'raps a lookin'-glass,

an' thinkin' shavin' ev'ry day

would be a measly price to pay

for all the pleasant nights we'd pass.

I reckon all my cogitatin', anticipatin' all the fun

I figgered that there'd be there waitin',

once we got to High Owl's band,

stole my mind away from tendin' to the job I had at hand.

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