CROSSING THE QUICKSANDS.
As soon as Glen found a chance to talk to Binney Gibbs he asked him how
his mule happened to throw him in such a peculiar fashion.
"He didn't throw me," answered Binney, with a look of surprise; "I
jumped off."
"What on earth did you do that for?"
"Because he was running away, and I couldn't stop him. I saw that your
pony couldn't keep up with him, and, of course, I wasn't going to leave
you behind to fight all those Indians alone. So I got off the only way I
could think of, and started back to help you. It was mighty lucky I did,
too. Don't you think so?"
"Indeed I do!" answered Glen, heartily, though at the same time he could
not help smiling at the idea of Nettle not being able to keep up with
Binney's mule. He would not for the world, though, have belittled the
other's brave act by saying that he had purposely remained behind to
cover his companion's flight. He only said, "Indeed I do, and it was one
of the finest things I ever heard of, Binney. I shall always remember
it, and always be grateful for it. You made a splendid shot, too, and I
owe my life to it; for that Indian was just lifting his hatchet over my
head when you rolled him over. I tell you it was a mighty plucky thing
for anybody to do, especially--" Glen was about to say, "especially for
a fellow who has never been considered very brave;" but he checked
himself in time, and substituted, "for a fellow who never had any
experience with Indians before."
Binney knew well enough, though, that the Brimfield boys had always
thought him a coward; for they had never hesitated to tell him so. Now,
to be praised for bravery, and that by the bravest boy he had ever
known, was a new and very pleasant sensation. It was even better than to
be called generous, and he mentally vowed, then and there, never again
to forfeit this newly gained reputation.
There is nothing that will so stimulate a boy or girl to renewed efforts
as a certain amount of praise where it is really deserved. Too much
praise is flattery; and praise that is not deserved is as bad as unjust
censure.
While the boys were thus talking they received word that General Lyle
wished to see them. They found him sitting, with Mr. Hobart, in an
ambulance; for it had been ordered that no tents should be pitched in
that camp. When they stood before the chief-engineer he said, kindly:
"Boys, I want both to reprimand and thank you. I am surprised that you
should have so disobeyed my positive orders as to lose sight of the
train when on a march through an Indian country. This applies to you,
Matherson, more than to your companion; for your late experience should
have taught you better. I trust that my speaking to you now will prevent
any repetition of such disobedience. Your carelessness of this afternoon
might have cost many precious lives, including your own. That is all of
the reprimand. The thanks I wish to express are for your timely warning
of the presence of Indians, and for the individual bravery displayed by
both of you during our encounter with them. That is all I have to say
this time, and I hope next time the reprimand may be omitted."
As the two boys, feeling both ashamed and pleased, bowed and took their
departure, the chief, turning to his companion, said: "They are fine
young fellows, Hobart, and I congratulate you on having them in your
division. Now let us decide on our plans for to-night."
This last remark referred to the decision General Lyle had formed of
placing the river between his party and the Indians before daylight. He
knew that the Indians of the Plains, like all others of their race, are
extremely averse to undertaking anything of importance in the dark. He
also knew that their favorite time for making an attack is when they can
catch their enemy at a disadvantage, as would be the case while his
wagons were crossing the river and his men and animals were struggling
with its probable quicksands. Another serious consideration was that,
during the summer season, all the rivers of the Plains are liable to
sudden and tremendous freshets, that often render them impassable for
days. Thus it was unwise to linger on the near bank of one that was
fordable a moment longer than necessary. He had, therefore, decided to
make the crossing of this stream that night, as quietly as possible, and
as soon as darkness had set in. For this reason none of the baggage,
except the mess-chests and a sack of corn, had been taken from the
wagons, so that a start could be made at a few minutes' notice.
With the last of the lingering daylight the chief, accompanied by Mr.
Hobart and the wagon-master, crossed the river on horseback, to discover
its depth, the character of its bottom, the nature of the opposite bank,
and to locate a camping-ground on its farther side. They found the water
to be but a few inches deep, except in one narrow channel, where it had
a depth of about three feet. They also found the bottom to be of that
most treacherous of quicksands which is so hard that a thousand-pound
hammer cannot force a post into it, yet into which that same post would
slowly sink of its own weight until lost to sight, and held with such
terrible tenacity that nothing short of a steam-engine could pull it
out. Such a quicksand as this is not dangerous to the man or animal who
keeps his feet in constant motion while crossing it, but woe to him if
he neglects this precaution for a single minute. In that case, unless
help reaches him, he is as surely lost as though clasped in the
relentless embrace of a tiger.
The only place on the opposite bank where teams could emerge from the
water was very narrow, and a team striking below it in the dark would
almost certainly be lost. Thus the problem of a safe crossing at night
became a difficult one. It would be unsafe to build fires or use
lanterns, as these would surely draw the attention, and probably the
bullets, of the Indians.
Finally the plan was adopted of stretching a rope across the river, from
bank to bank, on the lower side of the ford, with a line of men
stationed along its entire length, so that no team could get below it.
These were charged, as they valued their lives, to keep their feet in
constant motion, and on no account to let go of the rope.
First the ambulances were put across. Then the spare stock and
saddle-animals were led over, and securely fastened. Six spare mules,
harnessed and attached to a loose rope, were held in readiness, on the
farther bank, to assist any team that might get stalled in the river.
Then, one by one, the heavily laden wagons began to cross, with two men
leading each team. There was little difficulty except at the channel,
where the mules were apt to be frightened at the sudden plunge into
deeper water.
A mule hates the dark almost as much as an Indian; he dislikes to work
in water, and above all he dreads miry places or quicksands, for which
his small, sharp hoofs are peculiarly unfitted. He is easily
panic-stricken, and is then wholly unmanageable. A team of mules,
finding themselves stalled in a stream, will become frantic with terror.
They utter agonized cries, attempt to clamber on one another's back, and
frequently drown themselves before they can be cut loose from the traces
and allowed to escape.
In spite of all the difficulties to be overcome, the wagons were got
safely over, until only one remained, and it had started on its perilous
journey. Those members of the party who stood in the water holding the
rope were becoming thoroughly chilled, as well as wearied by the
treadmill exercise necessary to keep their feet from sinking in the
quicksand. Thus, though they still stuck manfully to their posts, they
were thankful enough that this was the last wagon, and noted the sound
of its progress with eager interest. They were all volunteers, for
nobody had been ordered to remain in the river, and this fact added to
the strength of purpose with which they maintained their uncomfortable
positions.
Among them were Glen Eddy and Binney Gibbs, who, when volunteers were
called for to perform this duty, had rushed into the river among the
first. Now they stood, side by side, near the middle of the stream, and
close to the edge of the channel. They rejoiced to see the dim bulk of
the last wagon looming out of the darkness, and to know that their weary
task was nearly ended.
The mules of this team were unusually nervous, splashing more than any
of the others had done, and snorting loudly. The rope had been cast
loose from the bank the party had so recently quitted, and all those who
had upheld it beyond Glen and Binney had passed by them on their way to
the other side. They, too, would be relieved from duty as soon as the
team crossed the channel.
But there seemed to be some difficulty about persuading the mules to
cross it. As the leaders felt the water growing deeper and the sandy
bank giving way beneath them, they sprang back in terror, and threw the
whole team into confusion. The wagon came to a standstill, and everybody
in the vicinity realized its danger. The driver, feeling that the need
for silence and caution was past, began to shout at his mules, and the
reports of his blacksnake whip rang out like pistol-shots.
In the excitement of the moment nobody noticed or paid any attention to
a gleaming line of white froth that came creeping down the river,
stretching from bank to bank like a newly formed snow-drift. Suddenly a
rifle-shot rang out from the bank they had left, then another, and then
a dozen at once. The Indians had discovered their flight, and were
firing angrily in the direction of the sounds in the river. The teamster
sprang from his saddle, and, cutting the traces of his mules, started
them towards the shore, leaving the wagon to its fate.
"It's time we were off, too, old man," said Glen, as he started to
follow the team.
"I can't move, Glen! Oh, help me! I'm sinking!" screamed Binney, in a
tone of inexpressible anguish.
Glen dropped the rope, and sprang to his companion's assistance.
At the same instant there came a great shout from the bank, "Hurry up,
there's a freshet coming! Hurry! Hurry, or you'll be swept away!"
With both arms about Binney, Glen was straining every nerve of his
muscular young body to tear his friend loose from the grasp of the
terror that held him. He could not; but a wall of black water four feet
high, that came rushing down on them with an angry roar, was mightier
even than the quicksand, and, seizing both the boys in its irresistible
embrace, it wrenched them loose and overwhelmed them.