All these men fascinated me, especially
Carson, a small, dapper, quiet man whom everybody held in profound
respect.
I used to sit for hours and watch him and the others talk to the
Indians in the sign language. Without a sound they would carry on long
and interesting conversations, tell stories, inquire about game and
trails, and discuss pretty much everything that men find worth
discussing.
I was naturally desirous of mastering this mysterious medium of speech,
and began my education in it with far more interest than I had given to
the "three R's" back at Salt Creek. My wagon-beds became splendid
playhouses for the Indian children from the villages, who are very much
like other children, despite their red skins.
I joined them in their games, and from them picked up a fair working
knowledge of the Sioux language. The acquaintance I formed here was to
save my scalp and life later, but I little suspected it then.
I spent the summer of '58 in and about Laramie. I was getting to be a
big, husky boy now, and felt that I had entered on what was to be my
career--as indeed I had.
In January, '59, Simpson was ordered back to Missouri as brigade
train-master of three wagon-trains, traveling a day apart. Because of
much travel the grass along the regular trail was eaten so close that
the feed for the bulls was scanty.
Instead of following the trail down the South Platte, therefore,
Simpson picked a new route along the North Platte.
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