BUFFALO BILL AND THE
OVERLAND TRAIL
_The American Trail Blazers_
“THE STORY GRIPS AND THE HISTORY STICKS”
These books present in the form of vivid and fascinating fiction, the
early and adventurous phases of American history. Each volume deals
with the life and adventures of one of the great men who made that
history, or with some one great event in which, perhaps, several heroic
characters were involved. The stories, though based upon accurate
historical fact, are rich in color, full of dramatic action, and appeal
to the imagination of the red-blooded man or boy.
Each volume illustrated in color and black and white.
INTO MEXICO WITH GENERAL SCOTT
LOST WITH LIEUTENANT PIKE
GENERAL CROOK AND THE FIGHTING APACHES
OPENING THE WEST WITH LEWIS AND CLARK
WITH CARSON AND FRÉMONT
DANIEL BOONE: BACKWOODSMAN
BUFFALO BILL AND THE OVERLAND TRAIL
CAPTAIN JOHN SMITH
DAVID CROCKETT: SCOUT
ON THE PLAINS WITH CUSTER
GOLD SEEKERS OF ’49
WITH SAM HOUSTON IN TEXAS
WITH GEORGE WASHINGTON INTO THE WILDERNESS
IN THE RANKS OF OLD HICKORY
[Illustration: AS LAME BUFFALO HAD SAID, THE “LITTLE ONE” SHOT THE
STRAIGHTEST OF ANY]
BUFFALO BILL
AND THE
OVERLAND TRAIL
BEING THE STORY OF HOW BOY AND MAN WORKED HARD
AND PLAYED HARD TO BLAZE THE WHITE TRAIL, BY
WAGON TRAIN, STAGE COACH AND PONY EXPRESS, ACROSS
THE GREAT PLAINS AND THE MOUNTAINS BEYOND, THAT
THE AMERICAN REPUBLIC MIGHT EXPAND AND FLOURISH
BY
EDWIN L. SABIN
AUTHOR OF “WITH CARSON AND FRÉMONT,”
“ON THE PLAINS WITH CUSTER,” ETC.
_WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY_
CHARLES H. STEPHENS
_AND A PORTRAIT_
I hear the tread of pioneers
Of nations yet to be――
The first low wash of waves where soon
Shall roll a human sea.
――WHITTIER.
[Illustration]
PHILADELPHIA & LONDON
J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY
COPYRIGHT, 1914, BY J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY
SEVENTEENTH IMPRESSION
PRINTED IN UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
TO THE
OLD-TIME PLAINS FREIGHTERS
WHO UNDER THE ROUGH TITLE, “BULL WHACKERS,” PLODDING AT THREE
MILES AN HOUR, BRIDGED WITH THEIR CANVAS-COVERED SUPPLY WAGONS
THE THOUSAND HOSTILE MILES WHICH SEPARATED DESTITUTION FROM
PLENTY
FOREWORD
History is the record made by men and women; so the story of the
western plains is the story of Buffalo Bill and of those other hard
workers who with their deeds and even with their lives bought the great
country for the use of us to-day.
The half of what Buffalo Bill did, in the days of the Overland Trail,
has never been told, and of course cannot be told in one short book.
He began very young, before the days of the Overland Stage; and he was
needed long after the railroad had followed the stage. The days when
the Great Plains were being opened to civilized people required brave
men and boys――yes, and brave women and girls, too. There was glory
enough for all. Everything related in this book happened to Buffalo
Bill, or to those persons who shared in his dangers and his deeds. And
while he may not remember the other boy, Dave Scott, whom he inspired
to be brave also, he will be glad to know that he helped Davy to be a
man.
That is one great reward in life: to inspire and encourage others.
EDWIN L. SABIN
SAN DIEGO, CALIFORNIA, June 1, 1914
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. TALL BULL SIGNALS: “ENEMIES!” 17
II. THE HERO OF THE MULE FORT 30
III. WITH THE WAGON TRAIN 42
IV. VISITING BILLY CODY 58
V. DAVY GOES ON HERD 71
VI. DAVY HAS AN ADVENTURE 83
VII. DAVY CHANGES JOBS 100
VIII. THE GOLD FEVER 114
IX. THE HEE-HAW EXPRESS 127
X. “PIKE’S PEAK OR BUST” 140
XI. SOME HALTS BY THE WAY 157
XII. PERILS FOR THE HEE-HAWS 171
XIII. THE CHERRY CREEK DIGGIN’S 188
XIV. DAVY SIGNS AS “EXTRA” 204
XV. FREIGHTING ACROSS THE PLAINS 218
XVI. YANK RAISES TROUBLE 231
XVII. DAVY “THE BULL WHACKER” 244
XVIII. BILLY CODY TURNS UP AGAIN 257
XIX. DAVY MAKES ANOTHER CHANGE 267
XX. FAST TIME TO CALIFORNIA 280
XXI. “PONY EXPRESS BILL” 293
XXII. CARRYING THE GREAT NEWS 305
XXIII. A BRUSH ON THE OVERLAND STAGE 318
XXIV. BUFFALO BILL IS CHAMPION 336
ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
As Lame Buffalo Had Said, the “Little One” Shot the
Straightest of Any _Frontispiece_
William Frederick Cody (“Buffalo Bill”) 13
“Two; Give Two,” he Urged, Meaningly. “Take Rest” 98
“Give It to Them! Split ’em! Split ’em!” 155
“Why――Hello, Billy! Is That You?” 261
“That’s Right. Fight ’em off, Davy” 334
[Illustration: WILLIAM FEDERICK CODY
“BUFFALO BILL”
From a photograph taken in 1871, in the possession of Clarence S.
Paine, Esq.]
CHRONOLOGICAL TABLE
WILLIAM FREDERICK CODY
“BUFFALO BILL”
Celebrated American plains-day express rider, hunter, guide and
army scout, who before he was fourteen years of age had won
credit for man’s pluck and shrewdness. In his youth a dutiful
and helpful son; in his later years an exhibitor of Wild West
scenes, with which he has toured the world. Early known as
“Will,” “Little Billy,” “Pony Express Bill,” “Scout Bill Cody”;
by the Indians termed “Pa-he-haska” (“Long Hair”); but, the
globe around, famed as “Buffalo Bill.”
Born on the family farm near LeClaire, Scott County, Eastern Iowa,
February 26, 1845.
Father: Isaac Cody. Mother: Mary Ann Cody.
Childhood spent in Scott County, Iowa: at LeClaire and at Walnut Grove.
When eight years old, in 1853, is removed with the family overland to
Kansas.
In the Salt Creek Valley, near the Kickapoo Indian reservation and Fort
Leavenworth, Eastern Kansas, Mr. Cody takes up a claim and is Indian
trader.
Young William is reared among the Free State troubles of 1853–1861,
when the slave men and the anti-slave men strove against one another
to obtain possession of Kansas. Mr. Cody, the father, was of the Free
State party.
Aged 10, summer of 1855, Billy engages at $25 a month to herd cattle,
just outside of Leavenworth, for the freighting firm of Russell &
Majors. Gives the money, $50, to his mother.
Is instructed at home by Miss Jennie Lyons, the family teacher; attends
district school.
Aged 11, summer of 1856, makes his first trip into the plains, as
herder for a Russell, Majors & Waddell bull train.
Continues his cattle herding; and aged 12, in May, 1857, makes another
trip across the plains, as herder for the cattle with a Russell, Majors
& Waddell outfit bound for Salt Lake, Utah. Has his first Indian fight.
The same summer of 1857, is “extra man” with another Russell, Majors &
Waddell wagon train for Utah. Returning, has his second Indian fight.
Arrives home again, summer of 1858. Becomes assistant wagon master with
a fourth train, for Fort Laramie.
Fall of 1858, aged 13, joins a company of trappers out of Fort Laramie.
Winter and spring of 1859, attends school again, to please his mother.
To the Pike’s Peak country for gold, 1859.
Returns home to see his mother; and then spends winter of 1859–1860
trapping beaver in central Kansas.
Rides Pony Express, 1860–1861. The youngest rider on the line.
Ranger, dispatch bearer, and scout in the Union service, in Kansas,
Missouri and the Southwest, 1861–1863.
Enlisted in Seventh Kansas Volunteer Infantry, 1864, and serves with it
until close of the war.
Stage driver between Kearney, Nebraska, and Plum Creek, 35 miles west,
1865–1866.
Marries, March 6, 1866, Miss Louisa Frederici of St. Louis.
Proprietor of Golden Rule House hotel at his old home in Salt Creek
Valley, Kansas, 1866.
Government scout at Fort Ellsworth, Fort Fletcher, and Fort Hays,
Kansas, 1866–1867.
With William Rose, a construction contractor, promotes the town-site of
Rome, near Fort Hays, 1867. Rome is eclipsed by Hayes City, its rival.
Earns title “Buffalo Bill” by supplying the work gang of the Kansas
Pacific Railroad with buffalo, 1867–1868. In 18 months kills 4,280
buffalo.
Becomes Government scout with headquarters at Fort Larned, 1868.
Performs some remarkable endurance rides between the posts on the
Arkansas and those on the Kansas Pacific line. Once covers 355 miles,
in 58 hours of riding by day and by night.
Appointed by General Sheridan guide and chief scout for the Fifth
Cavalry, 1868.
Serves with the Fifth Cavalry on various expeditions, 1868–1872. Also
acts as guide for numerous sportsmen parties.
Temporary justice of the peace at Fort McPherson, Nebraska, 1871.
Guide for the Grand Duke Alexis of Russia, on a celebrated hunting tour
in the West, 1872.
Guide for the Third Cavalry, at Fort McPherson, 1872. Acts as guide for
the Earl of Dunraven, and other distinguished sportsmen.
Elected on the Democratic ticket to the Nebraska Legislature, 1872.
Resigns from the Legislature and in the winter of 1872–1873 stars, with
Texas Jack, as an actor in “The Scouts of the Plains,” a melodrama by
Ned Buntline.
Organizes the “Buffalo Bill Combination,” with Texas Jack and Wild
Bill, and plays melodrama in the Eastern cities, 1873–1874.
During 1874–1876 continues to be scout, guide and actor, according to
the season.
Takes the field again in earnest as scout for the Fifth Cavalry,
against the Sioux, spring of 1876. Fights his noted duel with Chief
Yellow Hand.
In partnership with Major Frank North, of the Pawnee Government Scouts,
establishes a cattle ranch near North Platte, Nebraska, 1877.
Seasons of 1876–1877–1878 resumes his theatrical tours in Western
melodrama, portraying the late Sioux War and the incidents of the
Mountain Meadow Massacre (1857).
Takes up residence at North Platte, Nebraska, spring of 1878. Continues
to hunt, ranch, and act; writes his autobiography and his own plays.
In 1883 organizes his justly celebrated “Wild West” combination, with
which for three years he tours the United States. In 1886 he takes it
to England, and in 1889 to the Continent.
In 1888 appointed brigadier general of the National Guard of Nebraska.
In 1890 he again serves as chief scout, under General Nelson A. Miles,
against the Sioux.
Since then, the “Wild West Show,” known also as the “Congress of Rough
Riders of the World,” has continued its career as a spectacle and an
education. Colonel Cody (still known as “Buffalo Bill”) is ranked as
one of America’s leading characters in public life. He has shown what
a boy can do to win honor and success, even if he starts in as only a
cattle-herder, with little schooling and no money.
BUFFALO BILL AND THE OVERLAND TRAIL
I
TALL BULL SIGNALS: “ENEMIES!”
Since early dawn forty Indians and one little red-headed white boy had
been riding amidst the yellow gullies and green table-lands of western
Nebraska, about where the North Platte and the South Platte Rivers come
together. The most of these Indians were Cheyennes; the others were a
few Arapahoes and two or three Sioux. The name of the little red-headed
boy was David Scott.
He was guarded by the two squaws who had been brought along to work
for the thirty-eight men. They worked for the men, little Dave worked
for _them_; and frequently they struck him, and told him that when the
Cheyenne village was reached again he would be burnt.
In the bright sunshine, amidst the great expanse of open, uninhabited
country, the Indian column, riding with its scouts out, made a gallant
sight. The ponies, bay, dun, black, white, spotted, were adorned with
paint, gay streamers and jingly pendants. The men were bareheaded
and bare bodied; on this warm day of June they had thrown off their
robes and blankets. But what they lacked in clothing, they supplied in
decoration.
Down the parting of the smoothly-combed black hair was run vermilion;
vermilion and ochre and blue and white and black streaked coppery
forehead, high cheek-bones and firm chin, and lay lavishly over
brawny chest and sinewy arms. At the parting of the braids were stuck
feathers――common feathers for the braves, tipped eagle feathers for
the chiefs. The long braids themselves were wrapped in otter-skin and
red flannel. From ears hung copper and brass and silver pendants. Upon
wrists and upper arms were broad bracelets and armlets of copper. Upon
feet were beaded moccasins worked in tribal designs. The fashion of
the paint and the style of the moccasins it was which said that these
riders were Cheyennes.
The column had no household baggage and no children (except little
Dave) and no dogs; and it had no women other than just the two. The men
were painted and although they rode bareheaded, from the saddle-horn
of many tossed crested, feathered bonnets with long tails. These were
war-bonnets. All the bows were short, thick bows. These were war-bows.
All the arrows in the full quivers were barbed arrows. Hunting arrows
were smooth. The lances were tufted and showy. The shields, slung to
left arm, were the thick, boastfully painted war shields. The ponies
were picked ponies; war ponies. Yes, anybody with half an eye could
have read that this was a war party, not a hunting party or a village
on the move.
Davy could have proven it. Wasn’t he here, riding between two mean
squaws? And look at the plunder, from white people――some of it from
his own uncle and aunt, all of it from the “whoa-haw” trains, as the
Indians had named the ox-wagon columns of the emigrants and freighters.
Ever since, two weeks back, these Cheyennes had so suddenly out-charged
upon his uncle’s wagon and another, strayed from the main column,
they had been looking for more “whoa-haws.” This year, 1858, and the
preceding half dozen years had been fine ones for Indians in search of
plunder. Thousands of white people were crossing the plains, between
the Missouri River and the Rocky Mountains; their big canvas-covered
wagons contained curious and valuable things, as well as women and
children. They were drawn by cattle and horses or mules, and behind
followed large bands of other cattle and horses and mules. Sometimes
these “whoa-haw” people fought stoutly, sometimes they had no chance to
fight――as had been the case with little Dave’s uncle.
Tall Bull was the young chief in charge of the squad that had attacked
the two wagons. Now Tall Bull was one of the scouts riding on the
flanks and ahead of the war party, so as to spy out the country. In
his two weeks with the Cheyennes Dave had learned them well. They
were no fools. They rode cunningly. They were disciplined. While they
kept to the low country their scouts skirted the edges of the higher
country, in order to see far. By wave of blanket or movement of horse
these keen-eyed scouts could signal back for more than a mile, and
every Indian in the column could read the signs. Then the head chief,
Cut Nose, would grunt an order, and his young men would obey.
The march was threading the bottom of a bushy ravine. Cut Nose, head
chief, led; Bear-Who-Walks and Lame Buffalo, sub-chiefs, rode with
him. Behind filed the long column. In the rear of all trailed the two
squaws, guarding the miserable Davy.
Suddenly adown the column travelled, in one great writhe, a commotion.
A scout, to the right, ahead, was signalling. He was Tall Bull. His
figure, of painted self and mottled pony, was plainly outlined just
at the juncture of brushy rim and sky. Now he had dismounted, and had
crept forward, half stooped, as if the better to see, the less to
be seen. But back he scurried, more under cover of the ravine edge;
standing he snatched his buffalo robe from about his waist and swung it
with the gesture that meant “Somebody in sight!”
He sprang to his spotted pony, and down he came, riding in a slow
zigzag and making little circles, too. The slow zigzag meant “No
hurry” and the little circles meant “Not many strangers.” And he signed
with his hand.
However, large party or small party, the news was very welcome. All the
other scouts sped to see what Tall Bull had seen. From side ravines out
rushed at gallop the little exploring detachments. ’Twas astonishing
how fast the news spread. The two squaws jabbered eagerly; and the
aides of Cut Nose went galloping to reconnoitre.
As for Cut Nose himself, he halted, and thereby halted the column,
while he composedly sat to receive reports. The rear gradually pressed
forward to hear, and the squaws strained their ears. Davy could not
understand, but this is what was said, by sign and word, when Tall Bull
had arrived:
“What is it?”
“White men, on horses.”
“How many?”
“Three.”
“How far?”
“A short pony ride.”
“What are they doing?”
“Travelling.”
“Any baggage?”
“No.”
“Are they armed?”
“Yes. Guns.”
Cut Nose grunted. Now Lame Buffalo, sub-chief, came scouring back. He
had seen the three men. It was as Tall Bull had said. Two of the men
were large, one was small. They were riding mules, and were dressed in
“whoa-haw” clothes, so they were not trappers or hunters, but probably
belonged to that “whoa-haw” train of many men that the column had
sighted travelling east. They were riding as if they wished to catch
it. But they could be reached easily, said Lame Buffalo, his black eyes
blazing. Blazed the black eyes of all; and fiercest were the snappy
black eyes of the two squaws. The three “whoa-haws” could be reached
easily by following up a side ravine that would lead out almost within
bow-shot. Then the white men would be cut off in the midst of a flat
open place where they could not hide.
“Good,” grunted Cut Nose; and he issued short, rapid orders. Little
Dave had not understood the words but he could understand the gestures
and signs that made up more than half the talk; and he could understand
the bustle that followed. The Cheyennes, the few Arapahoes and Sioux,
were preparing themselves for battle.
Blankets and robes were thrown looser. Leggings were kicked off, to
leave the limbs still freer. The rawhide loops by which the riders
might hang to the far side of their ponies were hastily tested. Quivers
were jerked into more convenient position. Arrows were loosened in
them. The unstrung bows were strung. The two warriors who had old
guns freshened the priming and readjusted the caps upon the nipples.
Several of the younger warriors hurriedly slashed face and chest anew
with paint. War bonnets were set upon heads; their feathered tails fell
nearly to the ground.
With a single eagle glance adown his force Cut Nose, raising his hand
as signal, dashed away up the ravine. After him dashed all his array,
even to the two squaws and little Dave.
Braids tossed, hoofs thudded, war bonnets streamed, and every painted
rider leaned forward, avid for the exit and the attack. Dave’s heart
beat high. He was afraid for the white men. The Cheyennes were so many,
so eager, and so fierce.
The scouts before kept signing that all was well. The white men
evidently were riding unconscious of a foe close at hand. At the side
ravine Cut Nose darted in. Its farther end was closed by brush and low
plum trees, which rose to fringe the plateau above. A scout was here,
peering, watching the field. He was Yellow Hand, son of Cut Nose. He
signalled “Come! Quick! Enemy here!”
Thus urged, up the slope galloped Cut Nose, Lame Buffalo, Bear-Who-Walks;
galloped all. At the top, emerging, Cut Nose flung high his hand, shaking
his war bow. Over the top after him poured the racing mass, savage in
paint and cloth and feather and decorated weapon. Swept onward with them
rode little Dave, jostled between the two squaws, who whipped his pony
as often as they whipped their own.
The halloo of Cut Nose rose vibrant.
“Hi-yi-yi-yi-yi; yip yip yip!” he whooped, exultant and threatening.
“Hi-yi-yi-yi-yi; yip yip yip!” yelped every rider, the squaws chiming
in more piercingly than any others.
Out from the plum tree grove and into the plateau they had burst, and
went charging furiously.
The sun was shining bright, for the day was glorious June. The plateau
lay bare, save for the grass dried by weather and the few clumps of
sage and greasewood. And there they were, the three whites, stopped
short, staring and for the moment uncertain what to do.
They were alone, between bending blue sky and wide plain; a little trio
in the midst of a vast expanse. As the scouts had claimed, no shelter
was near. At the other edge of the plateau flowed the North Platte
River, but too distant to be reached now.
Louder pealed the whoops of the warriors, louder shrieked the shrill
voices of the squaws, as onward charged, headlong, the wild company, to
ride over the white dogs and snatch scalp and weapon.
Almost within gunshot swept forward the attack. Already had spoken,
recklessly, with “Bang! Bang!” the guns in the hands of the two excited
warriors. Were the white men going to run, or stand? They were going to
stand, for they had vaulted to ground. One of them was small enough
to be a boy. Three puffs of blue smoke jetted from them. The leading
Indians ducked low――but the shots had not been for them! Look! Down had
dropped the three mules, to lie kicking and struggling.
The white men (yes, one was a boy!) bent over them, stoutly dragging
and shoving; and next, in behind the bodies they had crouched. Only
the tops of their broad hats and their shoulders could be described,
and their gun muzzles projecting before. This, then, was their fort:
the three dead mules arranged in triangle! Evidently the two men, and
perhaps the boy, had fought Indians before. Davy felt like cheering;
but from the forty throats rang a great shout of rage and menace. The
squaws had halted, with Dave, to watch; unchecked and unafraid the
warriors forged on, straight for the little barricade.
“Kill! Kill!” shrieked the squaws, glaring.
The warriors were shooting in earnest; arrows flew, the two guns again
belched. The charge seemed almost upon the fort, when from it puffed
the jets of smoke. “Bang! Bang! Bang!” drifted dully the reports; and
with scarce an interval followed other jets, rapid and sharp: “Bang!
Bang-bang! Bang! Bang!”
From the painted, parted lips of the two squaws issued a wilder,
different note, and little Dave again felt like cheering; for from
their saddles had lurched three of the Cheyennes, and a pony also had
pitched in a heap.
Cut Nose swerved; he and every warrior flung themselves to the pony
side opposite the fort, and parting, the column split as if the fort
were a wedge. In two wings they went scouring right and left of it.
Around and around the mule-body triangle they rode, at top speed, in a
great double circle, plying their bows.
Their arrows streamed in a continuous shower, pelting the fort. They
struck, quivering, in the mule bodies and in the ground. Now from every
savage throat rang another shout――high, derisive. On their ponies the
squaws capered, and shook their blanket ends. An arrow was quivering
in a new spot――the shoulder of one of the whites. Now Davy felt like
sobbing. But it was not in the shoulder of the boy; it was in the
shoulder of the man beyond him, and facing the other way. However, that
was bad enough.
Still, the man was not disabled; not he. His gun remain levelled,
and neither the boy nor the other man paid any attention to him. The
three occasionally shot, but lying low against their ponies’ sides the
Indians, galloping fast, were hard to hit.
Cut Nose raised his hand again, and from the circle he veered outward.
The circle instantly scattered, and after their chief galloped every
warrior.
Forward hammered the two squaws, with vengeful look at little Dave
which bade him not to lag. The warriors had gathered in a group, out
of gunshot from the fort. Cut Nose was furious. Indians hate to lose
warriors; and there were three, and a pony, stretched upon the plain.
“Are you all old women?” scolded Chief Cut Nose, while Dave tried to
guess at what was being shouted, and his two guardians pressed to the
edge of the circle. “You let three whites, one of whom is very little,
beat us? The dogs will bark at us when we go back and the squaws will
whip us through the village. Everybody at home will laugh. They will
say: ‘These are not Cheyennes. They are sick Osages! They are afraid to
take a scalp, and when an enemy points a stick at them, they run!’ Bah!
Am I a chief, and are you warriors, or are we all ghosts?”
Panting, the warriors listened. They murmured and shrugged, as the
words stung.
“Those whites shoot very straight. The little one shoots the
straightest of any. They must have many guns. They shoot once and
without loading they shoot again,” argued Lame Buffalo.
“You talk foolish,” thundered Cut Nose. “These whites cannot keep
shooting. All we need to do is to charge swift and not stop, and when
we reach them their guns will be empty. Shall Cheyennes draw back and
leave three brothers and a good pony lying on the prairie? These whites
will go on and join their whoa-haw train, and tell how they three, from
behind dead mules, fought off the whole Cheyenne nation! Or shall we
send our squaws against them, to kill them! The little white boy will
laugh,” and he pointed at Dave. “He will not want to be a Cheyenne; he
will stay white. Cheyennes are cowards.”
Through the jostling company ran a hot murmur; but Lame Buffalo,
especially scolded, almost burst.
“No!” he yelled. “Cheyennes are not cowards! I am a Cheyenne. I can
kill those three whites myself. I will go alone. I ask no help.”
He whirled his pony; he burst from the dense ring, and tossing high his
plumed lance, with a tremendous shout he launched himself straight for
the mule fort. He did not ride alone; no, indeed! Answering his shout,
and imitating his gesture, every warrior followed, vying to outstrip
him. Now woe for the whites. Dave’s heart beat so as well-nigh to choke
him. His eyes leaped to the fort.
The two men and the boy in the little triangle had been busy. They had
rearranged the carcasses to give more protection; the arrow had been
pulled from the shoulder of the wounded man; he was as alert as if
he had not been hurt at all; and over the mule bodies jutted the gun
muzzles, trained upon the Indian charge.
Could that tiny low triangle formed by three dead mules outlast such a
yelling, tearing mob, sweeping down upon it? Could it beat back Lame
Buffalo alone――that splendid feather-crowned horseman, riding like a
demon, shouting like a wolf? He still led, and with every few jumps of
his pony he shook his lance and whooped.
Well might those three whites in the mule triangle be afraid, at last;
and who could blame the boy, there, if he, particularly, was afraid? It
was a bad place for a boy. Dave watched him anxiously, and wondered.
The boy was facing toward the charge; the two men also were facing
outward, to right and left of him, that they might cover the charge as
it spread.
Up rose the boy’s gun; the two men seemed to be waiting upon him. He
was aiming, but he would not shoot yet, would he, with the Indians so
far off?
Yet, he shot! His gun muzzle puffed smoke. The squaws started, cried
out, waved frantic hands――for three hundred yards from the muzzle had
toppled, toppled from his pony, Lame Buffalo, smitten in mid-course! It
seemed to Dave that he could hear the two white men cheering; but to
the cries of the squaws were added the terrific yells of the warriors,
drowning out every other sound.
Nevertheless, that was a long, long shot, for boy or man; and a _good_
shot. The charge split again; and not daring even to pick up Lame
Buffalo, who was crawling painfully and pressing a hand to his side, it
circled around and around the mule fort, as before.
As Lame Buffalo had said, the “little one” shot the straightest of any.
II
THE HERO OF THE MULE FORT
Cut Nose signalled his band to council again. Four warriors had fallen,
and two ponies. Now at a safe distance from that venomous, spit-fire
little fort, they all dismounted, except for a few scouts, and squatted
for a long confab.
“Kill! Kill!” implored the two squaws.
“Shut up!” rebuked Cut Nose; and they only wailed about the dead.
On the outskirts of the council, and annoyed by the wailing of the
squaws, Dave could not hear all the discussion. Cut Nose asked the
sub-chiefs for their opinion what to do; and one after another spoke.
“There is no use in charging white men behind a fort,” said
Bear-Who-Walks. “We lose too many warriors, any one of whom is worth
more than all the white men on the plains. It is not a good way to
fight. I like to fight, man to man, in the open. If we wait long
enough, we can kill those three whites when their hearts are weak with
thirst and hunger.”
“They have medicine guns,” declared Yellow Hand. “They have guns that
are never empty. No matter how much they shoot, they can always shoot
more. The great spirit of the white people is helping them. It is some
kind of magic.”
At this, Dave wanted to laugh. The two white men and the white boy were
shooting with revolvers that held six loads each, and the Cheyennes
could not understand. The only guns that the Indians had were two old
muskets which had to be reloaded after every shot.
“We will wait,” said Cut Nose. “We have plenty of time. The whoa-haws
in front will travel on, leaving these three whites. We will wait,
and watch, and when they have eaten their fort and their tongues are
hanging out for water, we will ride to them and scalp them before they
die. That is the easiest way.”
Some of the warriors did not favor waiting; the two squaws wept and
moaned and claimed that the spirits of the slain braves were unhappy
because those three whites still lived. But nobody made a decisive
move; they all preferred to squat and talk and rest their ponies and
themselves.
Meanwhile, in the mule body triangle the two men and the boy had been
busy. They did not waste any time, talking and boasting. It was to be
seen that they were digging hard with their knives, and heaping the
dirt on top of the mule bodies, and between them. An old warrior noted
this.
“See,” he bade. “The fort is stronger than ever. But by night the wind
will change and we can make the whites eat fire. That is a good plan.”
“Yes,” they agreed. “Let us wait till dark. White men behind a fort in
daytime are very hard to kill. There is no hurry.”
The afternoon passed. The Indians chewed dried buffalo meat, and squads
of them rode to the river and watered the horses. While lounging about
they amused themselves by yelling insults at the mule fort; and now and
again little charges were made, by small parties, who swooped as close
as they dared, and shot a few arrows.
The two men and the boy rarely replied. They, also, waited. Their
barricade was so high, that in the trench behind it they were
completely sheltered.
But over them and over the field of battle constantly circled two great
black buzzards. Lame Buffalo had ceased to crawl, and lay still. The
squaws begged the young warriors to go out and bring him in――him and
the other stricken braves. The young men only laughed and shook their
heads. One did dash forward; but a bullet from the gun of the boy
grazed his scalp-lock, and ducking he scurried back faster than he had
gone!
That boy certainly was cool and brave and sharp-sighted. Dave was proud
of him; for Dave, also, was white, and a boy.
So the afternoon wore away. Evening neared. The sun, a large red ball,
sank into the flat plains. A beautiful golden twilight spread abroad,
tinging the sod and the sky. The world seemed all peaceful; but here
in the midst of the twilight were waiting and watching the painted
Cheyennes, as eager as ever to get at those three persons in the mule
fort. This twilight, Dave imagined, must be a very serious moment for
the fort. The twilight warned that night was at hand.
Dusk settled, and deepened into darkness. The Sioux made no camp-fires.
Davy wrapped himself in an old buffalo-robe, and guarded by the two
squaws, one on either side of him, tried not to sleep. As he listened,
while he gazed up at the million stars, and the plains breeze fanned
across his face, he wondered what the boy in the mule fort was doing.
No doubt he was listening, too, and wishing that the stars would come
down and help, or else send a message to those freight wagons which
were travelling on.
Davy must have dropped off to sleep, in spite of himself; because
suddenly he was aroused by the squaws sitting up and jabbering. Had
morning come? The plains yonder were light. No; that was fire! The
Cheyennes, just as they had planned, had set the grass afire, to
windward of the mule fort. While Davy, too, sat up, his heart beating
wildly, the fire seemed to be sweeping right toward the fort. Behind
the line of flames and smoke he could see the dark figures of the
Indians fanning with blankets and robes, to make the line move faster
and fiercer.
“Humph! A poor fire,” grunted one of the squaws. “Grass too short.”
“Yes. But it makes a smoke, so the men can charge up close,” answered
the other.
That, then, was the scheme, if the fire itself did not amount to much.
Some of the dark figures behind the line of fire fanned; others were
stealing forward, into the smoke itself. The moment was exciting. The
smoke was drifting across the fort; would the two men and the boy
suspect that the Indians were following it in?
The line of fire seemed almost at the low mound which contained the
three whites; the smoke drifted thick and fast; the figures of the
Indians stole forward. Abruptly, from the dim mound spurted a jet of
flame, and sounded a hollow “Bang!” Another jet spurted, with another
“Bang!” And――“Bang! Bang! Bangity-bang-bang!” Hurrah! That fort was not
being fooled; no, indeed. It was ready for anything. It knew what was
behind the smoke, and had only been waiting.
“Kill! Kill!” shrieked the two squaws, enraged again. But the warriors
gave up, as soon as they found that their smoke scheme had not worked.
They shot their bullets and a few arrows, and lay low. Soon the fire
and the smoke had passed beyond the mule fort. Some of the braves
returned to the camp; the others continued to sneak about, on guard
over the fort. Silence reigned.
“We might as well go to sleep,” said one squaw to the other. “Nothing
will happen until morning.”
“Lie down, white red-head,” bade the second squaw, roughly, to Dave.
“To-morrow we will have three more whites, and that will mean lots of
fun.”
Davy obeyed. It was warmer lying down than sitting up. Thankful that
the three whites were still unbeaten, and too smart for the Cheyennes,
he fell asleep. When again he wakened, it really was morning. The sky
was pink, and stars pale, the brush showed plainly. But he had no time
to meditate, or invite another “forty winks.” The squaws had sprung to
their feet; the air was full of clangor and shouting and shooting; the
Indians were making a charge, the little fort was holding them off.
It was the angriest charge yet, all in the chill, pink dawn flooding
high sky and broad plain. However, it didn’t work. The two men and the
boy were just as ready as ever, and the charge split. Cut Nose waved
his hand and motioned. The circle of galloping horsemen spread wider,
and dismounting, the riders, holding to their ponies’ neck-ropes, sat
down to wait like a circle of crows watching a corn-field.
The two squaws were disgusted. They grumbled, as they prepared
breakfast; and under their scowls Davy felt afraid. He wondered what
the Indians would do next.
Plainly enough, they did not intend to make any more charges. The sun
rose high and higher. His beams were hot, so that the plain simmered.
Without shade in that little open enclosure formed by the mule
carcasses, the three whites would soon be very uncomfortable. One was a
boy and one was wounded. Circling and waiting, the two black buzzards
had been joined by a third. Forming a wide ring of squatting warriors
and dozing ponies, the Indians also waited. The air was still; scarcely
a sound was to be heard, save as now and then the squaws with Davy
murmured one to the other, or a warrior made a short remark.
What was to be the end? The grim siege was worse than the charges. The
sun had climbed well toward the noon mark, and Davy felt heart-sick for
those three prisoners in the mule fort, when, on a sudden, a new thing
happened. First, a warrior, on his right, up-leaped, to stand gazing
westward, listening. Another warrior stood――and another, and another.
Cut Nose himself was on his feet; ponies were pricking their ears; the
two squaws, bounding to their feet, likewise looked and listened.
Davy strained his ears. Hark! Distant shooting? Flat, faint reports of
firearms seemed to drift through the stillness. No! Hurrah, hurrah!
Those reports were the cracking of teamsters’ bull-whips. A wagon
train was coming! Another wagon train, from the west! See――above that
ridge there, only half a mile away, a wagon already had appeared:
first the team of several span of oxen, then the white top of the big
vehicle itself, and the driver trudging, and several outriding horsemen
flanking on either side.
Team after team, wagon after wagon, mounted the ridge, and flowed over
and down. It was a large train, and a grand sight; only, it was not a
grand sight for the Indians. But in the mule fort the two white men and
the boy had jumped up and were waving their hats and cheering. Davy
wanted to join, and wave and cheer.
To their ponies’ backs were vaulting all the Indians. The two squaws,
panic-stricken, rushed to the safety of their saddles. They seemed to
forget little Dave. Cut Nose had dashed to the front, his men were
rallying around him. Evidently they were debating whether to fight
or run. Louder sounded the smart cracks of the bull-whips; the wagon
train was coming right ahead, lined out for the very spot. The Indians
had short shift for planning. The two squaws, having hastily gathered
their belongings, galloped for the council. Davy started to follow,
but lagged, and paused. His own pony was making off, dragging his neck
rope, to catch up with the other ponies. Davy wisely let him go.
Now Cut Nose raised his hand; and turning, quickened his pony to a
furious gallop. Shrill pealed his war-whoop; whooping and lashing,
after him pelted every warrior, with the two squaws racing behind.
Straight for the little fort they charged. The three whites had dropped
low, to receive them. And――look, listen――from the wagon train welled
answering yell, and on, across the plain, for the fort, spurred a dozen
and more riders shaking their guns and shouting.
Davy dived to cover of a greasewood bush, and lay low. But the
Cheyennes did not stop to get him. They kept on; at the little fort
they split, as before, and shooting and yelping they passed on either
side of it. The three whites received them with a volley and sent a
volley or two after them as they thudded away. And that was the end of
the siege.
Davy did not dare to stand and show himself. To be sure, the Cheyennes,
both men and squaws, were racing away, as hard as they could ride; but
even yet they might send back after him. So he lay and peeped. However,
in the mule fort the two men and the boy had risen upright, again to
wave and cheer. Waving and cheering, the mounted men from the wagon
train came galloping on, and presently the three in the fort stepped
outside. Arrived, the foremost riders from the train hastily flung
themselves from their saddles, and there was apparently a great shaking
of hands and exchange of greetings. With volleys renewed, from their
whip lashes, the teams also were hastening for the scene. The Cheyennes
already were almost out of sight. So Davy stood, and trudged forward.
He had half a mile to walk, through the low brush. The first of the
wagons beat him to the fort. When he drew near, the lead wagon had
halted, and the others were trundling in one after the other. The men
were crowding about their three comrades who had been rescued, and for
a few moments nobody seemed to notice ragged little red-headed Dave,
toiling on as fast as he could.
It was a large train. There were twenty-five wagons, with their
teamsters, and about two hundred extra men, some mounted on mules and
horses. However, most of the men were afoot. The wagons were tremendous
big things, with flaring canvas tops on, or else with the canvas
stripped, leaving only the naked hoops of the frame-work. Each wagon
was drawn by twelve panting bullocks, yoked in pairs, or spans.
The majority of the men were dressed alike, in flat, broad-brimmed
plains hats, blue or red flannel shirts, and rough trousers belted at
the waist and tucked into high, heavy boots. The teamsters were armed
in hand with their whips, of short stock and long lash and snapper
which cracked like a pistol shot. Those cracks could be heard half a
mile. The extra men carried mainly large bore muskets, called (as Davy
knew) Mississippi yagers; and all had knives and pistols, thrust into
waist-band and belt. Whiskered and unshaven and tanned and dusty, it
was a regular rough-and-ready crowd.
However, of course the three defenders of the mule fort took the chief
attention. They were the two men (the shoulder of one was rudely
bandaged with a blue bandanna handkerchief) and the boy. Even the boy
wore freighter plains costume, of broad hat and flannel shirt and
trousers tucked into boots; and he held a yager in his hand, and had
a butcher knife and two big Colt’s revolvers stuck in his belt. He
and the two men looked pretty well tired out, but they stood fast and
answered all kinds of questions.
The mule fort showed how hot had been the battle, for the mule bodies
fairly bristled with arrows. Arrows were everywhere on the ground about.
The freighters had crowded close, and everybody was talking and
laughing at once. Davy stood unnoted on the outskirts, gazing and
listening――until on a sudden he was espied by a tall, lank teamster
with long dusty whiskers.
“Hello, thar!” the man called, loudly. “Whar’d you come from, Red?
Lookee, boys! Reckon we’ve picked up a trav’ler. Whoopee! Come hyar,
son. Give us an account of yoreself.”
One after another, they all looked. Davy flushed and fidgeted and felt
much embarrassed. The tall whiskered freighter strode forward and
grasped him by the ragged shirt-sleeve.
“What’s yore name?”
“David Scott.”
“Whar’d you come from?”
“The Indians had me. They killed my uncle and aunt and made me go
along.”
“Whar was that?”
“Back on the Overland Trail. We were with a wagon train and got
separated.”
“How long ago?”
“Two weeks, I think.”
“What Injuns?”
“Those――――” and Davy pointed in the direction taken by the Cut Nose
band.
“I want to know!” The teamster gaped wide in astonishment, and from the
crowd came a chorus of exclamations. “How’d you get away?”
“When you scared them off I hid behind a bush. Two squaws had me, and
they didn’t wait.”
“You mean to say you war with those same pesky Injuns who war attackin’
this fort hyar?”
“Yes, sir. But I didn’t do any of the fighting.”
“No, o’ course you didn’t. Wall, I’m jiggered!” And the whiskered
freighter seemed overwhelmed with amazement. But he rallied, as a
thought struck him. “Come along hyar. I’ll interduce ye to another
boy.” And by the sleeve he led Davy forward, through the staring crowd.
“Hyar, now; I want to interduce ye to a reg’lar rip-snorter, not much
older’n you are. Red, shake hands with little Billy Cody, the hero of
the mule fort.”
III
WITH THE WAGON TRAIN
“Little Billy Cody” was the boy who had been with the two men in the
mule fort. Surrounded by the staring crowd Davy felt rather timid and
did not know exactly what to do. But Billy Cody promptly put out his
hand, Davy extended his, and Billy gripped it warmly.
“Hello,” he said, gruffly. “Where do you hail from?”
“I was out there, with the Indians, while you were fighting,” explained
Davy.
“Didn’t we give it to ’em!” asserted Billy Cody. “They thought they had
us; but they didn’t.”
“I saw you shoot Lame Buffalo,” said Davy, eagerly. “I guess you killed
him.”
“He shore did,” declared the wounded man. “When little Billy draws bead
on anything, it’s a goner.”
“Well, I had to do it,” said Billy Cody. “Lew told me to.”
“So I did,” uttered the second of the two men. “It was time those
Injuns knew what they were up against, when they tackled us and Billy.
That one shot licked ’em.”
“Hurrah for little Billy!” cheered the crowd, good-natured; and Billy
fidgeted, embarrassed, although anybody could see that he was rather
proud.
He was a good-looking boy, although now his face was burned and grimy,
and his clothing rough. He stood a little taller than Davy, but he was
slender and wiry. He had brown hair and dark brown eyes and regular
features; and under his grime and tan his skin was smooth. He was
dressed just like the men, and carried himself like a man; but the
muzzle of the long heavy yager extended above his hat-brim. Evidently
his two companions thought highly of him, and so did the men of the
wagon train.
“Some of you tend to Woods’ shoulder; then if you’ll hustle a little
grub we’ll be ready for it,” quoth the man called Lew. “Those mule
carcasses served a good purpose but they weren’t very appetizing.”
“First of all, I want a drink,” announced the man called Woods.
Prompt hands passed forward canteens, and Billy and the two men took
long, hearty swigs of water.
“Arrow wasn’t pizened, was it?” queried several voices, of Mr. Woods.
“No. Lew looked at it, and said not. So he put a hunk o’ tobacco on it,
and we haven’t paid much more attention to it,” answered Mr. Woods.
“But it’s powerful sore.”
“Here; I’ll fix it up,” proffered a quiet man, who had not been saying
much. Now noticing him, Davy thought that he was the finest figure in
the whole party. This man was young (he could not have been more than
twenty, but this pioneer life turned youths into men early) and was
splendidly built. He stood a straight six feet, with slim waist and
broad shoulders and flat back; his hair was long and light yellow, and
his wavy moustache also was light yellow. His eyes were wide and steel
gray, his nose hawk-like, his chin square and firm. His clothes fitted
him well, and were worn with an easy grace. About his strong neck was
loosely knotted a red silk handkerchief.
“All right, Bill,” responded Mr. Woods, sitting down. “’Twon’t need
much, except a little washing.”
Bill calmly proceeded to inspect the arrow wound in the shoulder. Other
men were hastily producing food from the wagons.
“Here, Red,” they bade, to Davy; and sitting in the half circle with
Mr. Lew and Billy Cody, Davy gladly ate. It seemed good to be with
white people again.
“How long did the Injuns have you?” asked Billy.
“About two weeks.”
“They were Cheyennes, weren’t they. Who was their chief?”
“Cut Nose. He was head chief. But Lame Buffalo and Bear-Who-Walks were
chiefs, too.”
“That Cut Nose is a mean Injun,” pronounced Billy, wagging his big
hat. “But he didn’t catch _us_――not with Lew Simpson bossing our job.
I thought we were wiped out, sure, till Lew told us to kill our mules
quick and get behind ’em. That was a great scheme.”
“It shore was,” agreed all the men around, wagging their heads, too,
while they listened. “Injuns hate to charge folks they can’t see well.”
“Weren’t you afraid?” asked Davy. He liked this Billy Cody, who acted
so like a man and yet was only a boy.
“He afraid? Billy Cody afraid?” laughed the listeners. “You don’t know
Billy yet.”
“Whether or not we were afraid, we were mighty glad to have those mules
in front of us, weren’t we, Billy?” spoke up Lew Simpson. “They made a
heap of difference.”
“That’s right,” answered Billy, frankly. And everybody laughed again.
The meal was quickly finished. It consisted of only cold beans and
chunks of dried beef, but it tasted tremendously good to Davy; and he
didn’t see that Billy or Mr. Simpson slighted their share, either. Mr.
Woods had been eating while his wound was being dressed.
“George, you’d better ride in a wagon for a day or so,” called Mr.
Simpson, rising, to Mr. Woods. “Well, Red,” and he addressed Davy, “I
reckon you’ll travel along with us. We’re bound back to the States. Got
any folks there?”
“No, sir,” said Davy, with a lump in his throat. “But I’d like to go on
with you.”
“All right-o. Now, some of you fellows hustle us a mule apiece, while
Billy and I plunder those Injuns out there. Then we’ll travel.”
Mr. Simpson spoke like one in authority. Billy Cody promptly sprang
up, and he and Mr. Simpson strode out into the plain, where the dead
Indians and the ponies were lying. Lame Buffalo was the farthest of
all; but he was still, like the rest. Evidently he would ride and fight
no more.
The wagon train men bustled about, reforming for the march. Three mules
were saddled, as mounts for Davy and the two others. Having passed
rapidly over the field, Mr. Simpson and Billy returned, laden with the
weapons and ornaments of the warriors and the trappings of the ponies.
They made two trips. Davy recognized the shield and head-dress of Lame
Buffalo, who would need them not again. Billy proudly carried them and
stowed them in a wagon.
“Those are yours, aren’t they?” asked Davy, following him, to watch.
“They’re mine if I want them,” said Billy. “Reckon I’ll take ’em home
and give ’em to my sisters.”
“Where do you live?”