“Nowhere, I guess,” replied Davy, trying to smile.
“Pshaw!” sympathized Billy. “That’s sure hard luck. Ride along with me
and I’ll tell you about things.”
“Here, boy――crawl into this,” called a teamster nearby; and he tossed
at Davy a red flannel shirt. “It’ll match yore ha’r.” And he laughed
good-naturedly.
“It’s my color all right,” responded Davy, without being teased, as
he picked up the shirt. “Much obliged.” He slipped it over his head.
It fitted more like a blouse than a shirt, but he needed something of
the kind. After he had turned back the sleeves and tucked in the long
tails, he was very comfortable.
“Climb on your mule, Red,” bade Billy Cody. “We’re going to start, and
Lew Simpson won’t wait for anybody.”
Mr. Simpson was already on his mule. The other mounted men were in
their saddles. Mr. Simpson cast a keen glance adown the line.
“All ready?” he shouted. “Go ahead.”
The long lash of the leading teamster shot out with a resounding crack.
“Gee-up!” he cried. “You Buck! Spot!” And again his whip cracked
smartly. His six yoke of oxen leaned to their work; the wagon creaked
as it moved. All down the line other whips were cracking, and other
teamsters were shouting, and the wagons creaked and groaned. One after
another they started, until the whole train was in motion.
Mr. Simpson and two or three companions led, keeping to the advance.
The other riders were scattered in bunches back on either side of the
train; the teamsters walked beside their wagons; and in the rear of
the train ambled a large bunch of loose cattle and mules, driven by a
herder.
Billy Cody and Dave rode together, well up toward the front.
“Did you ever freight any?” queried Billy. “What was that train you
were with? Just emigrants?”
“Yes,” answered Davy. “We were going to Salt Lake.”
“Mormons?” demanded Billy, quickly.
“No. After we’d got to Salt Lake maybe we’d have gone on to California.”
“Expect I’ll go across to California sometime,” asserted Billy. “How
old are you, Red?”
“Eleven.”
“I’m thirteen, but I’ve been drawing pay with a bull train three trips
out and back. The first time I was herder from Fort Leavenworth out to
Fort Kearney and back. Next time I was herder from Leavenworth for Salt
Lake, but the Injuns turned us at Plum Creek just beyond Fort Kearney
and we had to quit. I killed an Injun too dead to skin, but I was so
scared I didn’t know what I was doing. Last summer I went out as extra
hand with a big outfit for the soldiers at Salt Lake, but the Mormons
held us up and took all our stuff, so we couldn’t help the army,
and we had to spend the winter at Fort Bridger, and all of us nearly
starved.”
“What’s an extra hand?” asked Davy.
“He takes the place of any other man, who may be sick or hurt,”
explained Billy, importantly. “I’m drawing man’s pay; forty a month.
I’m saving it to give to my mother, as soon as I get back. Weren’t you
ever with a bull train before?”
Davy shook his head.
“No.”
“This is a Russell, Majors & Waddell outfit,” proceeded Billy. “They’re
the big freighters out of Leavenworth across the plains and down to
Santa Fe. Gee, they haul a lot of stuff! We’re travelling empty, back
from Fort Laramie to Leavenworth. This is only half the train; there’s
another section on ahead of us. Lew and George and I were riding on to
catch up with it, when those Injuns corralled us. If Lew hadn’t been
so smart, they’d have had our hair, too. We wouldn’t have stood any
show at all. But those mules did the business. And I had a dream that
helped. Last night I dreamed my old dog Turk came and woke me; and when
I did wake I saw the Injuns sneaking up on us. Then we all woke, and
drove ’em back. I’m going to thank Turk for that. I don’t know how he
found me. This isn’t the regular trail; but Lew thought he’d make a
short cut.”
“Is he the captain?” asked Davy.
“He’s wagon boss; he’s boss of the whole train, and he’s a dandy. I
reckon he’s the best wagon boss on the plains. George Woods――the man
who was wounded――he’s assistant boss. He’s plucky, I tell you. That
arrow didn’t phase him at all. Lew bound a big chunk of tobacco on it,
and George went on fighting. Do you know what they call this outfit.
It’s a bull outfit, and those drivers are bull-whackers. Jiminy, but
they can throw those whips some!”
“When will we get to Leavenworth, do you think?”
“In about twenty-five days. We’re travelling light, and I guess we
can make twenty miles a day. We’ve got a lot of government men with
us, from Fort Laramie, and the Injuns will think twice before they
interfere, you bet. We’re too many for ’em. I reckon those Cheyennes
didn’t expect to see another bull train following that first one.”
“No. They thought you were left behind and were trying to catch up. So
they waited to starve you out. That’s what fooled ’em.”
“It sure did,” nodded Billy, gravely. “Say, there’s another fine
man with this outfit. He’s the one who dressed Woods’ shoulder. His
name’s Jim Hickok, but everybody calls him ‘Wild Bill.’ Isn’t he a
good-looker?”
“That’s right,” agreed Davy.
“Well, he isn’t just looks, either,” asserted Billy. “He’s all there.
He’s been a mighty good friend of mine. Because I was a boy some of
the men thought they could impose on me. A big fellow slapped me off a
bull-yoke, when I was sitting and didn’t jump the instant he bade me. I
was so mad I threw a pot of hot coffee in his face; and I reckon he’d
have killed me if Wild Bill hadn’t knocked him cold. When he came to
he wanted to fight; but Wild Bill told him if he or anybody else
ever bullied ‘little Billy’ (that’s what they call me) they’d get such
a pounding that they wouldn’t be well for a month of Sundays. Nobody
wants trouble with Wild Bill. He can handle any man in the outfit; but
he doesn’t fight unless he has to. He’s quiet, and means to mind his
own business.”
With the wagons creaking and groaning, and the oxen puffing and
wheezing, and the teamsters cracking their long whips, the bull
train slowly toiled on, across the rolling prairie. The trail taken
occasionally approached the banks of the North Platte River, and soon
there would be reached the place where the North Platte and the South
Platte joined, to make the main Platte, flowing southeastward for the
Missouri, 400 miles distant. Beyond the Missouri were the States,
lined up against this “Indian country” where all the freighting and
emigrating was going on.
The train made a halt at noon, and again at evening. Nothing especial
had occurred since the rescue of the three in the mule fort. Davy was
very glad, at night, to lie down with Billy Cody under a blanket, among
friends, instead of shivering in an Indian camp.
Start was made again at sunrise. To-day the main travelled Platte Trail
would be reached, and the going would be easier. Just as the trails
joined in mid-morning, a sudden cry sped down the long line of wagons.
“Buffalo! Buffalo!”
All was excitement. Davy peered.
“See ’em?” said Billy, pointing. “That’s a big herd. Thousands of ’em.
Hurray for fresh meat.”
Ahead, between the river at one side and some sand bluffs at the
other, a black mass, of groups as thick as gooseberry bushes, had
appeared. The mass was in slow motion, as the groups grazed hither
and thither. On the edges, black dots told of buffaloes feeding out
from the main body. There must have been thousands of the buffalo.
Davy had seen other herds but none so large as this one. His blood
tingled――especially when Lew Simpson, the wagon boss came galloping
back.
“Ride on, some of you men,” he shouted. “There’s meat. You whackers
follow along by the trail and be on hand when we’re butchering.”
“I can’t go, can I?” appealed Davy, eagerly, to Billy.
“No; you haven’t any gun,” answered Billy. “I’m going, though. I can
kill as many buffalo as anybody. You watch us.”
Forward galloped Lew Simpson and Billy and twenty others. From a wagon
George Woods, his shoulder bandaged and painful, stuck out his head,
and lamented the fact that he was too sore to ride. The buffalo hunt
promised to be great sport; and, besides, the fresh meat would be a
welcome change.
So away the hunters galloped, Lew Simpson and little Billy leading. The
train, guarded by the other men, followed, closely watching. Even the
very rear of it was excited.
Now arose another cry, passing from mouth to mouth.
“Lookee there! More hunters!”
That was so. Beyond the buffalo, up along the river were speeding
another squad of horsemen, evidently intent upon the same prey. They
were coursing rapidly, but already the buffalo had seen them, and with
uplifted heads the farthest animals were gazing, alarmed.
“Our fellows will have to hurry,” remarked the teamster nearest to
Davy. “Shucks! That’s no way to hunt buff’ler. Those fellers must be
crazy. They’ll stampede the whole herd!”
“They’ll stampede the whole herd, sure,” agreed everybody.
It was a moment of great interest. Davy thumped his mule with his
heels, and hastened ahead, the better to witness. The party led by
Lew Simpson and Wild Bill and little Billy had been making a circuit,
keeping to the cover of the low ground, until they were close enough to
charge; but those other hunters were riding boldly, as if to run the
buffalo down. And as anybody should know, this really was not the right
way to hunt buffalo.
“They’ll drive ’em into our fellows,” claimed several voices. “They’ll
do the runnin’ an’ we’ll do the killin’!”
“Or else they’ll drive ’em into _us_!” cried others. “Watch out, boys!
Watch yore teams! Steady with yore teams, or there’ll be the dickens to
pay.”
That seemed likely. The stranger hunters were right upon the herd; the
outside buffalo had wheeled; and tossing their heads and whirling, now
with heads low and tails high the whole great herd was being set in
motion, fleeing to escape. The thudding of their hoofs drifted like
rolling thunder. After the herd pelted the stranger hunters.
Part of the herd plashed through the river; part made for the
sand-hills――but smelling or sighting the Simpson party, they veered and
came on, between the river and the sand-hills, straight for the trail
and the wagon-train. In vain out dashed, to turn them, the Simpson
party; from the train itself the horsemen spurred forward, as a bulwark
of defense; the teamsters shouted and “Gee-hawed” and swung their
bull-whips, and the oxen, surging and swerving, their nostrils wide and
their eyes bulging, dragged the wagons in confusion. In his excitement
Davy rode on, into the advance, to help it.
To shout and wave at those crazy hunters and order them to quit their
pursuit was useless. They didn’t see and they couldn’t hear; at least,
they did not seem to understand. Panic-stricken, the buffaloes came
straight on. Off to the side Lew Simpson and Wild Bill and little
Billy and companions were shooting rapidly; the stranger hunters were
shooting, behind; and now the reinforcements from the train were
shooting and yelling, hoping to split the herd. Some of the buffaloes
staggered and fell; others never hesitated or turned, but forged along
as if blind and deaf. One enormous old bull seemed to bear a charmed
life; he galloped right through the skirmish line; and the next thing
that Davy, as excited as anybody, knew, the bull sighted him, and
charged him.
Davy found himself apparently all alone with the big bull. He did not
need to turn his mule; his mule turned of its own accord, and away they
raced. Davy was vaguely conscious of shouts and shots and the frenzied
leaps of his frightened mule, which was heading back to the wagon
train. Davy did not know that he was doing right, to lead the angry
bull into the train; he tugged in vain at his mule’s bit, and could
not make the slightest impression. Then, down pitched the mule, as if
he had thrust his foot into a hole; and the ground flew up and struck
Davy on the ear. In a long slide he went scraping on ear and shoulder,
before he could stagger to his feet.
The mule was galloping away; but Davy looked for the buffalo. The big
bull had stopped short and was staring and rumbling, as if astonished.
The change in the shape of the thing that he had been chasing seemed
to make him angrier. He stood, puzzled and staring and rumbling, only
about twenty yards from Davy. Suddenly the red shirt must have got into
his eyes, for his fore-hoofs began to throw the dirt higher, and Davy
somehow knew that he was going to charge.
Not much time had passed; no, not a quarter of a minute, since the mule
had fallen and had left Davy to the buffalo. The wagon train men were
yelling and running, from the one direction; the hunters were yelling
and riding, from the other; and whether they were yelling and hurrying
on his account, Davy could not look, to see. Down had dropped the
bull’s huge shaggy head, up had flirted his little knobbed tail; and on
he came.
Davy never knew how he managed――he dimly heard another outburst of
confused shouts, amidst which Billy Cody’s voice rang the clearest,
with “Dodge him, Red! This way, this way!” He did not dare to glance
aside, and he felt that it was not much use to run; but in a twinkling
he peeled off the crimson shirt (which was so large for him) and
throwing it, sprang aside.
Into the shirt plunged the big bull, and tossed it and rammed it and
trampled it, while Davy watched amazed, ready to run off.
“Bully for you, Red!” sang out a familiar voice; riding hard to Davy’s
side dashed Billy Cody, on lathered mule; he levelled his yager, it
spoke, the big bull started and stiffened, as if stung. Slowly he
swayed and yielded, with a series of grunts sinking down, and down;
from his knees he rolled to his side; and there he lay, not breathing.
IV
VISITING BILLY CODY
“All right, Red,” panted Billy Cody. “He’s spoiled your shirt, though.
Lucky you weren’t inside it. Say, that was a smart trick you did. Get
up behind me. The wagon train’s in a heap of trouble. Let’s go over
there.”
Davy’s knees were shaking and he could not speak; he was ashamed to
seem so frightened, but he clambered aboard the mule, behind the
saddle. Away Billy spurred for the wagon train. Other hunters were
spurring in the same direction.
The wagon train certainly was having a time of it. Those stranger
hunters, from down the river, had driven the buffaloes straight into
the teams. The cavvy of loose cattle and mules had scattered; ox-teams
had broken their yokes or had stampeded with the wagons. Several wagons
were over-turned; and a big buffalo was galloping away with an ox-yoke
entangled in his horns. Wild Bill overhauled him in short order and
returned with the yoke; but hither and thither across the field were
racing and chasing other men, ahorse and afoot, trying to gather the
train together again.
By the time that the buffalo charge had passed on through and the
animals were making off into the distance, most of the train’s hunters
had arrived. The other hunters, from below, also arrived. They proved
to be a party of emigrants, for California, who did not understand how
to hunt buffalo. In fact, they had not killed a single one. However,
Lew Simpson gave them a pretty dressing down for their carelessness.
“You’ve held us up for a day, at least,” he stormed; “and you’ve done
us several hundred dollars’ worth of damage besides.”
“Well-nigh killed that boy, too,” spoke somebody. “Did you see him peel
that shirt? Haw-haw! Slipped out of it quicker’n a snake goin’ through
a holler log!”
“Little Billy came a-runnin’, though,” reminded somebody else.
“Yep; but didn’t save the shirt!”
That was true――everybody agreed that Davy would not have been saved had
he not acted promptly. He was given another shirt (a blue one) to take
the place of the one sacrificed to the big buffalo.
The California party rode away, taking a little meat that Lew Simpson
offered them after they had properly apologized for their clumsiness.
The rest of the day was spent in cutting up the buffaloes, and in
repairing the wagons and harness. Not until the next noon was the train
able to resume its creaking way, down the Platte River trail, for the
Missouri River at Fort Leavenworth.
About twenty miles a day were covered now, regularly, and during the
days Davy learned considerable about a “bull train” on the plains. He
learned that he was lucky to ride instead of walk; nearly everybody
with a bull train walked. However, this train was travelling almost
empty, back from Fort Laramie, on the North Platte River in western
Nebraska (for Nebraska Territory extended to the middle of present
Wyoming), to Fort Leavenworth in eastern Kansas Territory. It was
accompanied by a lot of government employes, who did not work for
the train, and these rode if they could furnish their own mules. Lew
Simpson, the wagon boss, and George Woods, the assistant wagon boss,
Billy the extra hand, and the herder, rode, because that was the
custom; all the other employes walked.
The oxen or “bulls” (as they were called) were guided by voice and
whip. The whip, though, rarely touched them hard; just a flick of the
lash at one side or the other of the leading span was enough. A sharp
“Gee up!” or a “Whoa, haw, Buck!” and a motion of the lash, did the
business. Some of the oxen seemed to be very wise.
“Do you know what those whips are, Red?” asked Billy.
“Raw hide.”
“Better than that. I’ll get one and show you when we camp.”
So he did that noon.
“Hickory stock, and lash of buffalo hide, tanned, with a buck-skin
cracker,” informed Billy. “Eighteen inch stock, eighteen foot lash, and
cost eighteen dollars. You ought to see some of these whackers sling
a whip! They can stand at the fore wheel and pick a fly off the lead
team! Yes, and they can take a chunk of hide out, too――but they don’t
often do that.”
Davy curiously examined the bull whip. The stock was short and smooth,
the lash was long and braided thickest in the middle, like the shape of
a snake. The cracker was about six inches in length, and already had
frayed at the tip; and no wonder, for it had often been made to snap
like a pistol shot!
“I can swing the thing a little, but it’s sort of long for me,”
announced Billy, proceeding to practise with it, until he had almost
taken off his own ear, and made the whole mess uneasy. “I’m not going
to quit, though,” he added, “until I can throw a bull whip as good as
anybody;” and he took the whip back to its owner.
Billy was quite a privileged character, at camp and on the march.
Everybody liked him, and considered him about as good as a man. To be
an “extra hand” was no small job. It meant that whenever any of the
teamsters was sick or hurt or otherwise laid off, “little Billy” took
his place. The “extra hand” rode with the wagon boss (who was Lew
Simpson), carried orders for him down the line, and was held ready to
fill a vacancy. So this duty required a boy of no ordinary pluck and
sense.
Besides, it was generally known that Billy was drawing wages to give
to his mother, who was a widow trying to raise a family. Billy was the
“man” of the family, and they depended on him. The wagon train liked
him all the more for this. Everybody spoke well of “little Billy,” for
his good sense and his courage. Davy heard many stories of what he had
done. The fight in the mule fort had showed his quality in danger; and
he had proved himself in several other “scrimmages” with the Indians.
He and Davy and Lew Simpson and George Woods and Wild Bill and a squad
of government men formed a mess, which ate together. The pleasantest
part of the day was the noon halt, around the camp-fire; and the
evening camp, at sunset. Billy put in part of his rests at practising
writing with charcoal on any surface that he could find. Even when
Davy had joined the train, the wagon boxes and tongues and wheels
bore scrawls such as “Little Billy Cody,” “Billy Cody the Boy Scout,”
“William Frederick Cody,” etc. However, as a writer Dave could beat
Billy “a mile,” as the teamsters said. Billy was not much of a figurer,
either. But he was bound to learn.
“Ma wants me to go to school some more,” he admitted. “So I suppose
I’ll have to this winter. I went some last winter, and we had a teacher
in the house, too. A little schooling won’t hurt a fellow.”
“No, I suppose it won’t,” answered Davy, gravely. “I’ve had to go to
school. But I’d rather do this.”
“So would I,” confessed Billy. “I like it and I need the money――and I
need the schooling, too. Reckon I can do both.”
As for Davy himself, the wagon train seemed to consider him, also,
somewhat of a personage, because he had shown his “smartness” when the
buffalo bull had attacked him. Of course, he had only slid out of his
big flannel shirt, and fooled the buffalo with it; but that had been
the right thing done in the right place at the right time, and this
counted.
Nothing especial happened as the long train toiled on. The trail was
fine, worn smooth by many years of travel over it. This was the old
Oregon Trail, and California, from the Missouri River, over the plains
and the mountains, clear to the Pacific coast of the West. Beaver
trappers and Indian traders had opened it, thirty years ago, and it
had been used ever since, by trappers and traders, and by soldiers and
emigrants, and its name was known the world around.
The wagon train frequently met other outfits, freight and emigrants,
bound west; and before the train turned off the main trail for the
government road branching southeast for Leavenworth, the Hockaday &
Liggett stage-coach from St. Joseph on the Missouri for Salt Lake
City passed them. It wasn’t much of a stage, being only a small wagon
covered with canvas and drawn by four mules, and running twice a
month; but it carried passengers clear through from the Missouri River
to Utah. The wagon train gave it a cheer as it trundled by.
“What are you going to do when you reach Leavenworth, Red?” asked Billy
one day, when they were riding along. Leavenworth was now only a few
days ahead.
“I don’t know,” answered Davy. “I guess I can find a job somewhere.
I’ll work for my board.”
“Oh, pshaw! I’ll get you a job with a bull train,” spoke Billy
confidently. “I’ll ask Mr. Russell or Mr. Majors. They’ll take care of
any friend of mine, and you’ve proved you’re the right stuff. But first
you come home with me. I’ll give you a good time. Wild Bill’s coming,
too, after a while.”
“Maybe your folks won’t want me.”
This made Billy almost mad.
“They will, too. What do you talk that way for? You ought to see my
mother. I’ve got the best mother that ever lived. She’ll be glad to see
anybody that I bring home, and so will my sisters, and Turk. You come
along. The trail goes right past the place, and we’ll quit there, and
not wait to reach Leavenworth. I’ll get paid off first.”
There was no resisting Billy, and Davy promised.
Yes, evidently Leavenworth and the end of that long Overland Trail
were near. The talk in the train was largely of Fort Leavenworth and
Leavenworth City, where the train would be broken and reorganized for
another trip, and the men would have a short rest and see the sights,
if they chose. New farms were being passed, and the beginnings of new
settlements; and the number of emigrant outfits was much increased.
The greetings all referred to the farther West――Kansas, Utah, and
California were on every tongue. Over the trail hung a constant dust
of travel, and the air was vibrant with the spirit of pioneers pushing
their way into a new country. These men, women and children, travelling
with team and wagon, were brave people. Nothing, not even the Indians,
was keeping them back. They intended to settle somewhere and establish
homes again. The sight sometimes made Davy sick at heart, because he,
too, had been travelling with one of these household wagons; but the
Indians had “wiped it out.”
Well, he was in good hands now. Billy Cody would see him through.
“We’ll strike the Salt Creek Valley to-morrow morning,” announced
Billy. “Hurrah! I’ll get my pay order to-night, so we can cut away
to-morrow without any waiting.”
The morning was yet young when Billy pointed ahead.
“When we get over this hill we’ll see where I live, Red. It’s yonder,
on the other side.”
The trail was ascending a long hill. From the top Billy waved his hat.
“There’s the Salt Creek Valley. I can see the house, too. That’s it,
down below. Goodby, everybody. Come on, Red.” And with a whoop away
raced Billy down the hill.
As he rode he whistled shrill.