In the Rocky Mountains | Page 2

the house.
A stream, issuing from the heights above, fell over the cliffs, forming a
roaring cataract; and then, rushing through the canon, made its way
down into the valley, irrigating and fertilising the ground, until it
finally reached a large river, the Platte, flowing into the Missouri. From
this cataract our location obtained its name of "Roaring Water;" but it
was equally well-known as "Uncle Jeff's Farm."
Our neighbours, if such they could be called in this wild region, were
"birds of passage." Now and then a few Indian families might fix their
tents in the valley below; or a party of hunters or trappers might
bivouac a night or two under the shelter of the woods, scattered here
and there; or travellers bound east or west might encamp by the margin
of the river for the sake of recruiting their cattle, or might occasionally
seek for shelter at the log-house which they saw perched above them,
where, in addition to comfortable quarters, abundant fare and a
hospitable welcome--which Uncle Jeff never refused to any one,
whoever he might be, who came to his door--were sure to be obtained.
But it is time that I should say something about the inmates of the
house at the period I am describing.
First, there was Uncle Jeff Crockett, a man of about forty-five, with a
tall, stalwart figure, and a handsome countenance (though scarred by a
slash from a tomahawk, and the claws of a bear with which he had had
a desperate encounter). A bright blue eye betokened a keen sight, as
also that his rifle was never likely to miss its aim; while his well-knit
frame gave assurance of great activity and endurance.
I was then about seventeen, and Uncle Jeff had more than once
complimented me by remarking that "I was a true chip of the old
block," as like what he was when at my age as two peas, and that he

had no fear but that I should do him credit; so that I need not say any
more about myself.
I must say something, however, about my sister Clarice, who was my
junior by rather more than a year. Fair as a lily she was, in spite of
summer suns, from which she took but little pains to shelter herself; but
they had failed even to freckle her clear skin, or darken her light
hair--except, it might be, that from them it obtained the golden hue
which tinged it. Delicate as she looked, she took an active part in all
household duties, and was now busy about some of them at the further
end of the big hall, which served as our common sitting-room,
workshop, kitchen, and often as a sleeping-room, when guests were
numerous. She was assisted by Rachel Prentiss, a middle-aged negress,
the only other woman in the establishment; who took upon herself the
out-door work and rougher duties, with the exception of tending the
poultry and milking the cows, in which Clarice also engaged.
I have not yet described the rest of the party round the fire. There was
Bartle Won, a faithful follower, for many years, of Uncle Jeff; but as
unlike him as it was possible that any two human beings could be.
Bartle was a wiry little fellow, with bow legs, broad shoulders (one
rather higher than the other), and a big head, out of which shone a pair
of grey eyes, keen as those of a hawk--the only point in which he
resembled Uncle Jeff. He was wonderfully active and strong,
notwithstanding his figure; and as for fatigue, he did not know what it
meant. He could go days without eating or drinking; although, when he
did get food, he certainly made ample amends for his abstinence. He
was no great runner; but when once on the back of a horse, no animal,
however vicious and up to tricks, had been able to dislodge him.
Gideon Tuttle was another faithful follower of Uncle Jeff: he was a
hardy backwoodsman, whose gleaming axe had laid many monarchs of
the forest low. Though only of moderate height, few men could equal
him in strength. He could fell an ox with his fist, and hold down by the
horns a young bull, however furious. He had had several encounters
with bears; and although on two occasions only armed with a knife, he
had come off victorious. His nerve and activity equalled his strength.

He was no great talker, and he was frequently morose and ill-tempered;
but he had one qualification which compensated for all his other
deficiencies--he was devotedly attached to Uncle Jeff.
There were engaged on the farm, besides these, four other hands: an
Irishman, a Spaniard, a negro, and a half-breed, who lived by
themselves in a rough hut near the