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These days I'm a fur trapper but theys still calls me the Desert Hermit.
Miser'ble wet spring goin' on. Mud everwhare. Dangnation, I gets back t'town and they tells me the fur trade done gone belly up. Ain't nobody wearing them big felt top hats no more. Got next t'nothing fer me pelts. Sad day fer the likes of me. So I sits here in a tent at Independence 'stead of headin' up the Missouri River in a bullboat t'git beaver pelts from the high country. Now I got ta figger how ta keep vittles in me belly. Time t'go drown me sorrows in a bott'l o whiskey.
April 16, 1846
The whole town's talkin' bout the bank robbery last night. Missed out chasin' after them robbers. The posse left before daylight this mornin'. Five of them fellers dug a tunnel under the bank wall and cleaned out the safe. Thar's talk about a Spanish treasure missin'.
Aside from that, everbody's done gone plumb loco--folks rushin' round getting' together gear and provisions, buildin' wagons with canvas covers and buyin' oxen t'pull 'em. Never saw so many people in me life. Interestin' listenin' ta the speculations of whut they aim ta find in Californy and Oregon. Whole families headin' out. Gonna find a new life and make a fortune in a land of milk an' honey.
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Dang! They's jus' crazy, if'n you ask me. Y'know whut though? I got a hankerin' t'head for them green valleys of Californy m'self, maybe spend me final days settin' in the sun, with that sweet li'l Melinda by me side. Went thar onct with ol' Jed Smith, scoutin' fer beaver. I gots t'figure how t'git there. The Missouri goes too far north. All this writin' makes me thirsty-gonna go git me some whiskey and study me prospects.
April 18, 1846
The posse ketched them bank robbers. I seen three of 'em layin' in the mud in front of the bank, deader'n a door nail. Turns out most of that loot wuz meant t'journey west t'be collateral fer openin' a bank in San Francisco. They says all the loot wuz recovered cept'n fer them Spanish gold coins. Figger one or two robbers got clean away with the gold.
Me big news is runnin' into a gentl'man named Reed. He's takin' a bunch of wagons t'Californy and hirin' teamsters. Fer drivin' a supply wagon and helpin' get his wagons and cattle through, I gets vittles and $8 a month fer me troubles. Guessin' I don't look too old fer that. Only trouble is, they ain't no ways ready t'leave yet, so I'll be heppin get ready. Thar's other trains leavin', but they's all goin' t'Oregon. Guessn' I'll give Mr Reed a try-seems like a fair-nuf feller.
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