Chapter 5: The Decision

The next day our departure was still a moot question. The daylight had failed to bring us to a decision, and while the matter was in abeyance I started for the fort. Col. Griscom, in a friendly manner, told me that it would be foolish to push on.

“The territory of the United States extends to the Pacific,” said he, “but the power of the Government to protect its people ends at gunshot from this fort”

The Indian, Onomo, was standing near. His face was as expressionless by day as it was by night, but when Col. Griscom went away Onomo did not follow him. Instead, he walked over to me and said:

“Will the white boy and his friends start upon the journey?”

“I do not know,” said I. “What does Onomo think of our chances of getting through?”

Onomo drew a large, double-edged knife from his belt and held it up.

“Does the white boy fear that?” he asked.

I was somewhat startled at his action and question, but I replied and said I presumed I was no more afraid than any other would be in my place.

“There are many such as that in the path of the white boy and his friends,” said Onomo, gravely, tapping the knife-blade with the forefinger of his left hand.

The face of the Indian remained as impassive as ever.

“Well, I should not wish to run against the edge of any of them,” said I, not knowing what else to say.

“The young Indian warrior would not fear the danger of the prairie,” said Onomo, suddenly putting his face closer to mine. “Often he goes alone into the country of a hostile tribe and seeks for scalps. Is the white boy less brave than the red boy?”

“What do you mean?” I exclaimed, for I saw a flash in his eye for the first time.

“Onomo wished to see what the white boy thought of the dangers,” he said, and he smiled benevolently. Then he turned and glided away, his footfalls making no sound.

I stayed in the fort some time, and passed Onomo more than once, but he did not speak to me again. Indeed, he seemed not to see me. He looked over and beyond me, and there was so little expression on his face it might have been carved out of so much stone.

I know I should have been ashamed of such a feeling, but the Indian’s words rankled in my mind. Did he mean to imply that I was afraid to venture out on the plains? Had he, when he was my age, gone alone and fearlessly into hostile country? This Indian had seen much of white life and was loyal to the whites, but perhaps, after all, he ranked them inferior in courage and wilderness lore to his own people.

My temper was not at all improved by my running up against the little Frenchman, Pierre Bonneau, who was hopping about the fort as fiery, as irascible and as impatient as he had been the night before.