He had no idea what the date was, though he figured it to be sometime in mid-June or later. If he had remembered to find out the date before he left Rendezvous, he would know now, because he had carved a notch for every day since he left. He had been on the river now for thirty days. The days had been long and lonely since Clyde’s death. Once he made camp, Art took his rifle out into the woods, and less than half an hour later was back with a rabbit. He skinned the rabbit, salted it well, skewered it on a green willow branch, then put it over a fire, suspended between two Y-shaped sticks. Within minutes the rich aroma of roasted rabbit filled the air. Art had never gone down the Missouri, so he really had no idea how far it was to St. Louis, nor how long it would take him to get there. He was sure that the river didn’t go in a straight line. In fact, what with all the twists and turns, he would be surprised if the river route didn’t double the distance a crow flies. But he had neither horses nor mules, and floating down the river—even if it was longer—was certainly superior to walking.
