“Here, Chief,” said Davis, offering Beckwourth a plug of tobacco as the boat surged forward under the force of the pole men’s efforts.
“I’m no chief here.”
“You got family in St. Louis?”
Beckwourth nodded as he prepared his pipe. “Near to it. My father’s home is in St. Charles. Sisters are there, too.” He envisioned life in St. Louis as a man of wealth and substance, attending to business by day, saloons by night. They glided past familiar terrain, past the rolling hills that now felt like home. The rhythm of the Frenchmen’s chants soothed him and hinted of home. Beckwourth passed the time by swapping tales with Davis, day after lazy day. Every evening they pulled out and camped, ever alert for danger. Days passed into weeks, and the terrain beyond the tree-lined river changed from roll
