His horse neighed as he grabbed the reins. The Boston air was cold with snow. A group of people gathered around to watch him as he passed. The whispers held on their lips. Do you know who he is? I hear he went mad. No he’s not mad, he’s been to the otherside. Hell itself. That’s what the town whispered. The man had long dark furs, browns of the buffalo. His hat a beaver pelt was good for winter. The whispers began again as people followed close behind the man. He’s leaving again, they say he’s a ghost. They say Indians killed him. No they didnt kill him he ran 200 miles and killed 9 Braves. The whispers grew. No, I heard he died and went to hell. He wrote about hell. He said that it oozes with steam like a train. The ground boils like a steaming kettle and the rock is hot like the devil’s brimstone. Gasps as the crowd pictured the site. Who is this man? they whispered. The man stepped into the stirrup. An old man, he only cared to be in one place. The crowd stopped and a silence came over the now large crowd. The man turned and looked over his shoulder. He smiled and waved. The town whispered as John Colter rode out of site.
Housed and Fed 