Weeks passed, and boredom settled over the village. The warriors became restless. Every legend had been told at least twice in the sweat lodge, and every deed worth telling had been heard by all. One day, Hunts Alone came to Beckwourth.
“I grow weary of winter,” he said. “We are many of us going on a ride. Come with us. Let us ride out together and feel the blood in our veins again.”
“Where will we go?” asked Beckwourth.
“Let us go to the white traders,” said Hunts Alone.
“White traders?” This was news to Beckwourth. “Where are there white traders?”
“Five sleeps travel to the great muddy river. Did you not know of them?”
The ‘great muddy river’ could only be the Missouri. “You might think that all whites know each other, but it is not true,” said Beckwourth. These traders were probab
