A Fight with the Indians.
When setting out the next morning, Frank noticed that the wagons,
instead of starting off singly, and straggling, as they had formerly
done, kept close together, and traveled more rapidly. The trapper,
too, instead of taking the lead, and getting in advance of the train,
seemed satisfied to remain with the others. Upon inquiring the reason
for this, Dick replied:
“You may find out afore night, youngster, that we are in a bad bit of
Injun country. The train that went out afore us had a scrimmage here
with nigh five hundred of the red-skins, who stampeded some of their
stock. So keep your eyes open, an’ if you see a Injun, let me know to
onct.” The trapper said this with a broad grin, that was meant to
imply that if they were attacked, the Indians would make their
appearance before a person so inexperienced as Frank could be aware of
it.
“The red-skins don’t gener’lly keer ’bout an out-an’-out fight,”
continued the trapper, “’cause they don’t like these long rifles, an’
they know that these yere pioneers shoot mighty sharp. All the Injuns
want--or all they can get--is the stock; an’ they sometimes jump on to
a train afore a feller knows it, an’ yell an’ kick up a big fuss,
which frightens the cattle. That’s what we call stampedin’ ’em. An’,
youngster, do you see that ’ar?”
As the trapper spoke, he pointed out over the prairie towards a little
hill about two miles distant. After gazing for a few moments in the
direction indicated, Archie replied:
“I see something that looks like a weed or a tuft of grass.”
“Wal, that’s no weed,” said the trapper, with a laugh, “nor grass,
neither. If it is, it’s on hossback, an’ carries a shootin’-iron or a
bow an’ arrer. That’s a Injun, or I never seed one afore. What do you
say, Bob?” he asked, turning to the old trapper, who at this moment
came up.
“I seed that five minutes ago,” was the reply, “an’ in course it can’t
be nothin’ but a red-skin.”
The boys gazed long and earnestly at the object, but their eyes were
not as sharp as those of the trappers, for they could not discover
that it bore any resemblance to an Indian, until Mr. Winters handed
them his field-glass through which he had been regarding the object
ever since its discovery. Then they found that the trappers had not
been deceived. It was a solitary Indian, who sat on his horse as
motionless as a statue, no doubt watching the train, and endeavoring
to satisfy himself of the number of men there might be to defend it.
In his hand he carried something that looked like a spear adorned with
a tuft of feathers.
“I wish the varlet was in good pluggin’ distance,” said Dick, patting
his rifle which lay across his knees. “If I could only get a bead on
him, he would never carry back to his fellers the news of what he has
seed.”
“Do you suppose there are more of them?” asked Archie, in a voice that
would tremble in spite of himself.
“Sartin,” replied old Bob Kelly, who still rode beside the wagon;
“thar’s more of ’em not fur off. This feller is a kind o’ spy like,
an’ when he has seen exactly how things stand, he’ll go back an’ tell
the rest of ’em, an’ the fust thing we know, they’ll be down on us
like a hawk on a June-bug. But they’ll ketch a weasel, _they_ will,
when they pitch into us. Dick, when they do come, don’t forget Bill
Lawson.”
The trapper turned his head, for a moment, as if to hide the emotion
he felt, at the mention of the name of his departed companion, but
presently replied:
“This aint the fust time that you an’ me have been in jest sich
scrapes, Bob, an’ it aint likely that we’ll soon forget that we owe
the varlets a long settlement. Thar aint as many of us now as thar
used to be; more’n one good trapper has had his har raised by them
same red-skins--fur I know a Cheyenne as fur as I kin see him,
youngsters--an’ mebbe one o’ these days, when some one asks, ‘What’s
come on ole Bob Kelly an’ Dick Lewis?’ the answer will be, ‘Killed by
the Injuns!’”
It may be readily supposed that such conversation as this was not
calculated to quiet the feelings of Frank and Archie--who had been
considerably agitated by the information that there was a body of
hostile Indians at no great distance--and to their excited
imaginations the danger appeared tenfold worse than it really was. At
that day, as the trapper had remarked, it was a very uncommon
occurrence for a large train to be engaged in a regular fight with the
Indians, for the latter had learned to their cost that the pioneers
were always well armed, and that there were some among them who
understood Indian fighting. They generally contented themselves with
sudden and rapid raids upon the stock of the emigrants, and they
seldom departed empty-handed. But it is not to be wondered that the
trappers, who had participated in numberless engagements with the
savages, and witnessed deeds of cruelty that had awakened in them a
desire for vengeance, should delight to talk over their experience.
The boys, although considerably frightened, were still greatly
encouraged by their example. Dick twisted uneasily on his seat, as
though impatient for the fight to begin, now and then looking toward
the spy, as if he had half a mind to venture a shot at him; while old
Bob Kelly rode along, smoking his pipe, apparently as unconcerned as
though there was not a hostile Indian within a hundred miles of them.
Mr. Winters evidently partook of the old man’s indifference, for,
after satisfying himself that his weapons were in readiness, he drew
back beside his nephews, and said, with a smile:
“Well, boys, you may have an opportunity to try your skill on big game
now. This will be a little different from the fight you had in the
woods with those Indians who stole your traps. Then you had the force
on your side; now the savages are the stronger party. But there’s no
danger,” he added, quickly seeing that the boys looked rather anxious;
“every man in the train is a good shot, and the most of them have been
in Indian fights before. I don’t believe all the red-skins on the
prairie could whip us while we have Dick and Bob with us.”
The boys themselves had great confidence in the trappers--especially
Dick, who, they knew, would never desert them. But even _he_ had
several times been worsted by the Indians. Frank thought of the story
of the lost wagon train. But then he remembered that the reason that
train was captured, was because the emigrants had not “stood up to the
mark like men.”
All this while the train had been moving ahead at a rapid pace, and
many an anxious eye was directed toward the solitary Indian, who
remained standing where he was first discovered until the wagons had
passed, when he suddenly and mysteriously disappeared. All that day
the emigrants rode with their weapons in their hands, in readiness to
repel an attack; and when they halted at noon, guards were posted
about the camp, and the cattle were kept close to the wagons. But,
although now and then a single Indian would be seen upon one of the
distant swells, the main body kept out of sight; and the boys began to
hope that the train was considered too large to be successfully
attacked. At night old Bob Kelly selected the place for the
encampment, which was made according to his directions. The wagons
were drawn up in a circle to form a breastwork, and the cattle were
picketed close by under the protection of a strong guard. Fires were
built, and preparations for supper carried on as usual, for, of
course, all attempts at concealment would have been time and labor
thrown away. As soon as it began to grow dark, the cattle were secured
to the wagons by long stout ropes, which, while they allowed the
animals to graze, effectually prevented escape. Then guards were
selected, and the emigrants made every preparation to give the savages
a warm reception, in case they should make a dash upon the camp. No
one thought of his blanket. The idea of going to sleep while a band of
Indians was hovering about, watching their opportunity to pounce down
upon them, was out of the question. The two trappers, after satisfying
themselves that every thing was in readiness for an attack, began to
station the guards. Frank again thought of the story Dick had related
of the lost wagon train, and, desiring to witness an exhibition of the
skill that had enabled him to detect the presence of the Indians on
that occasion, proposed to Archie that they should stand guard with
him. The latter, who always felt safe when in the company of their
guide, agreed; and when the trapper started off with the guards, he
was surprised to find the boys at his side.
“Whar are you goin’?” he asked.
“We want to stand guard with you!” replied Frank.
“Wal, I never _did_ see sich keerless fellers as you be,” said the
trapper. “You get wusser an’ wusser. Much you don’t know about this
bisness. I guess you had better stay here whar you’re safe.”
“Wal, wal!” said old Bob Kelly, who was not a little astonished at the
request the boys had made, “they’ve got the real grit in ’em, that’s a
fact, if they are green as punkins in Injun fightin’. A few year on
the prairy would make ’em as good as me or you, Dick Lewis. But you’ll
get enough of Injuns afore you see daylight ag’in, youngsters. So you
had better stay here.”
So saying he shouldered his rifle, and, followed by the guards,
disappeared in the darkness. The boys reluctantly returned to their
wagon, where they found Uncle James, seated on the ground, whistling
softly to himself, and apparently indifferent as to the course the
Indians might see fit to adopt. But still he had not neglected to make
preparations to receive them, for his rifle stood leaning against one
of the wheels of the wagon, and he carried his revolvers in his belt.
The boys silently seated themselves on the ground beside him, and
awaited the issue of events with their feelings worked up to the
highest pitch of excitement. The fires had burned low, but still
there was light sufficient to enable them to discover the emigrants
stretched on the ground about the wagons, talking to one another in
whispers, as if almost afraid to break the stillness that brooded over
the camp, and which was interrupted only by the barking of the prairie
wolves, and the neighing and tramping of the horses. Two hours were
passed in this way, when suddenly the sharp report of a rifle,
accompanied by a terrific yell, rang out on the air, causing the
emigrants to grasp their weapons and spring to their feet in alarm.
For an instant all was silent again. The stillness was so deep that
Frank thought the camp was suddenly deserted. Then a long drawn out
whoop arose from the prairie, followed by a chorus of yells that
struck terror to more than one heart in that wagon train. Then came a
clatter of horses’ hoofs; the yells grew louder and louder; and the
boys knew that the Indians were coming toward them. The emigrants
rushed to the wagons, and the next moment the savages swept by. The
boys saw a confused mass of rapidly-moving horsemen; heard the most
terrific yells, the report of fire-arms, and the struggles of the
frightened cattle as they attempted to escape, and then all was over.
The Indians departed as rapidly as they had come, and the boys,
bewildered by the noise, had not fired a shot. On the contrary, they
stood holding their rifles in their hands, as if they had suddenly
forgotten how to use them. Uncle James, however, was not confused. He
had heard the war-whoop before, and as he came out from behind the
wagon, he began to reload one of his revolvers, remarking as he did
so:
[Illustration]
“There are some less in that band, I know.”
“Did you shoot?” asked Archie, drawing a long breath of relief to know
that the danger was past. “Why, I didn’t have time to fire a shot.”
“That’s because you were frightened,” replied Mr. Winters. “You see I
have been in skirmishes like this before, and their yells don’t make
me nervous. I had five good shots at them, and I don’t often miss.”
“I say, youngsters, are you all right?” exclaimed Dick, who at this
moment came up. “See here! I’ve got two fellers’ top-knots. Bless you,
they aint scalps,” he continued, as the boys drew back. “They’re only
the feathers the Injuns wear in their har. I don’t scalp Cheyennes,
’cause I don’t keer ’bout ’em. I make war on ’em ’cause it’s natur.
But when I knock over a Comanche, I take his har jest to ’member ole
Bill by. But, youngsters, warn’t that jolly! I haven’t heered a Injun
yell fur more’n a year, an it makes me feel to hum. You can take these
feathers, an’ when you get back to Lawrence, tell the folks thar that
the Injuns that wore ’em onct attacked the train you belonged to.”
The emigrants’ first care, after having satisfied themselves that the
Indians had gone, was to count their stock; and more than one had to
mourn the loss of a favorite horse or mule, which had escaped and gone
off with the Indians. Mr. Winters, however, had lost nothing--the
trapper having tied the animals so securely that escape was
impossible. Not a person in the train was injured--the only damage
sustained being in the canvas covers of the wagons, which were riddled
with bullets and arrows.
The boys were still far from feeling safe, and probably would not have
gone to bed that night had they not seen the trappers spreading their
blankets near the wagon. This re-assured them, for those men never
would have thought of rest if there had been the least probability
that the Indians would return. So the boys took their beds out of the
wagon and placed them beside those of Dick and his companion, who were
talking over the events of the night.
“This bisness of fightin’ Injuns, youngsters,” said the former, “is
one that aint larnt out of books, nor in the woods about Lawrence. If
you had a-been with us, you would a seed that. Now, when I fust went
out thar, you couldn’t ’a’ told that thar war a red-skin on the
prairy. But I laid my ear to the ground, an’ purty quick I heerd a
rumblin’ like, an’ I knowed the noise war made by hosses. Arter that,
I heerd a rustlin’ in the grass, an’ seed a Injun sneakin’ along, easy
like, t’wards the camp. So I drawed up my ole shootin’ iron, an’ done
the bisness fur him, an’ then started fur the camp, loadin’ my rifle
as I ran. In course the Injuns seed then that it warn’t no use to go
a-foolin’ with us, so they all set up a yell, an’ here they come. I
dodged under the wagon, an’ as they went by, I give ’em another shot,
an’ seed a red-skin go off dead.”
“Go off dead!” repeated Frank. “How could he go off when he was dead?”
“Why,” said the trapper, with a laugh, in which he was joined by old
Bob Kelly, “every one of them Injuns war tied fast to his hoss, so
that if he war killed he wouldn’t fall off; an’, in course, his hoss
would keep on with the rest, an’ carry him away. I seed more’n one
Injun go off dead to-night, an’ the way I come to get them feathers,
b’longin’ to them two chaps, war, that somebody had shot their hosses.
I seed ’em on the ground, tryin’ to cut themselves loose from their
saddles, so I run up an’ settled ’em. That war four I rubbed out.
Good-night, youngsters. You needn’t be afraid, ’cause they won’t come
back again to-night.”
As the trapper spoke, he placed his cap under his head for a pillow,
re-arranged his blanket, and was soon in a sound sleep.
During the next two weeks nothing occurred to relieve the monotony of
the journey. The train took up its line of march at daylight, halted
at noon for an hour or two, and shortly after sunset encamped for the
night. The fight with the Indians had not driven all thoughts of the
antelopes out of the boys’ minds. And while the train journeyed along
the road, they scoured the prairie, in search of the wished-for game.
The appearance of the “sea of grass,” which stretched away on all
sides, as far as their eyes could reach, not a little surprised them.
Instead of the perfectly level plain they had expected to see, the
surface of the prairie was broken by gentle swells, like immense waves
of the ocean, and here and there--sometimes two or three days’ journey
apart--were small patches of woods, called “oak openings.”
One night they made their camp in sight of the Rocky Mountains. While
the trapper was cooking their supper, he said to the boys, who had
thrown themselves on the ground near the wagon:
“It aint fur from here that me an’ ole Bill Lawson lost that wagon
train. I never travel along here that I don’t think of that night, an’
I sometimes feel my cap rise on my head, jest as it did when them
Injuns come pourin’ into the camp. But the varlets have been pushed
back further an’ further, an’ now a feller’s as safe here as he would
be in Fort Laramie. The ole bar’s hole aint more’n fifty mile from
here, an’ if your uncle don’t mind the ride, I should like to show you
the cave that has so often sarved me fur a hidin’-place.”
The boys looked toward Mr. Winters, who, having frequently heard the
guide speak of the “ole bar’s hole,” felt some curiosity to see it.
So, after being assured by both the trappers that there was no danger
to be apprehended, he gave his consent, remarking:
“We are in no hurry. I don’t suppose there is any possibility of being
lost so long as we have Dick and Bob for guides; so we will go there,
and take a week’s rest and a hunt.”
The boys were delighted, and the next morning, when the train resumed
its journey, the emigrants were not a little surprised to see Mr.
Winters’ wagon moving off by itself.
That night, when our travelers encamped, they were thirty miles from
the train, and about the same distance from the “ole bar’s hole.” The
mountains were plainly visible, and the boys could scarcely believe
that they were nearly a day’s journey distant. They were certain that
a ride of an hour or two would bring them to the willows that skirted
their base.
“’T aint the fust time I’ve seed fellers fooled ’bout sich things,”
said Dick. “Do you see that ’ar high peak?” he continued, pointing to
a single mountain that rose high above the others. “Wal, thar’s whar
the ole bar’s hole is. If we reach it afore dark to-morrer night, I’ll
agree to set you down in Sacramento in two weeks.”
The boys were still far from being convinced, and they went to sleep
that night fully believing that they would reach the mountains by noon
the next day.