"This is the country for me!" he said; "if I could only carry the
buffalo that are killed here every month down to St. Louis I'd make
my fortune in one winter. I'd grow as rich as old Papin, or
Mackenzie either. I call this the poor man's market. When I'm
hungry I have only got to take my rifle and go out and get better
meat than the rich folks down below can get with all their money.
You won't catch me living in St. Louis another winter."
"No," said Reynal, "you had better say that after you and your
Spanish woman almost starved to death there. What a fool you were
ever to take her to the settlements."
"Your Spanish woman?" said I; "I never heard of her before. Are you
married to her?"
"No," answered Raymond, again looking intelligent; "the priests don't
marry their women, and why should I marry mine?"
This honorable mention of the Mexican clergy introduced the subject
of religion, and I found that my two associates, in common with other
white men in the country, were as indifferent to their future welfare
as men whose lives are in constant peril are apt to be. Raymond had
never heard of the Pope. A certain bishop, who lived at Taos or at
Santa Fe, embodied his loftiest idea of an ecclesiastical dignitary.
Reynal observed that a priest had been at Fort Laramie two years ago,
on his way to the Nez Perce mission, and that he had confessed all
the men there and given them absolution.
