me in some more buffalo chips, if you can find ’em. There ought to be
some, out a ways, if those blamed emigrants ain’t cleaned ’em up. It’s
a wonder to me how far they’ll go lookin’ for fuel. Here, take a sack.”
And he tossed an old gunny sack at Davy. “Jest pile ’em on it; don’t
stop to stuff ’em inside.”
Davy alertly seized the sacking, and started out. He knew what buffalo
chips were: the dried droppings of the buffalo that used to roam by
thousands through the valley. They had been driven out of it, largely
by the traffic, but they had left their wallows and their “chips.”
The chips had been well gleaned for other cooks, and he must wander
some distance from the wagon before he found enough to pay for the
picking up. However, in due time he returned with all that the sack
could hold. The buffalo chips made a fine fire, with little smoke
and much heat. And they were easy and cheap. Everybody used them in
travelling across the plains.
Sam grunted, whether pleased or not, as Davy dumped the load by the
fire.
“Now fetch me some fresh water from the creek, will you?” bade Sam.
“There’s a bucket.”
The creek was a side branch of the Salt Creek, and both streams were
running low; but Davy managed to dip the bucket almost full of water.
He brought it back. Sam grunted what might have been thanks or not.
“There comes the boss,” he said.
The man on the white horse was galloping in again; presently he
dismounted at the fire. He was a tall man, with scraggy beard, gray
eyes and a very tanned skin. He wore slouch hat, blue flannel shirt,
jeans trousers and boots. He glanced keenly at Dave.
“Here’s another kid for you to break in, Hank,” informed the cook
shortly.
“How’d you get here?” demanded Hank of Dave.
“Billy Cody fetched him out,” said the cook, over his shoulder, from
the wagon.
“Who sent him?”
“Mr. Russell and Mr. Majors told me to come out and help herd,”
answered Davy, speaking for himself.
“Did you ever herd before?”
“No, sir; except with an emigrant train. I herded horses and cattle
there some.”
“Have you crossed the plains?”
“Just part way.”
“He’s the kid the Injuns had when they corralled Simpson and Woods and
little Billy, out near Cedar Bluffs last summer,” reported Sam the
cook. “Billy says he’s all right.”
“Well, he’s a different color, anyhow,” remarked Hank, referring to
Davy’s red head. “How old are you?”
“Ten going on ’leven,” replied Davy.
“What’s your name?”
“David Scott. Billy and the others call me ‘Red.’”
“Got any folks?”
“No, sir.”
“Injuns wiped ’em out,” informed Sam the cook. “Remember?”
Hank nodded.
“Yes. All right,” he continued, in tone more kindly, to Dave; “you can
help the cook to-night. In the morning you can go on herd, and see
if you can hold the job. That red thatch ought to give you plenty of
spunk, anyhow!”
“Yes, sir,” said Davy, encouraged.
Two herders came in for supper, leaving one on guard over the herd.
They were rough-appearing men, and Davy and his red head had to take
considerable banter and joking. He stood that well. He tried not to
be “fresh” or impertinent; and when he didn’t know what he ought to
say he said nothing and only grinned. After a while the men seemed to
accept him as a pretty good kind of a boy. The fact that Billy Cody had
vouched for him was a great help.
That night Davy slept on the ground again (as he had slept when with
the wagon trains), rolled in his quilts, his saddle for a pillow.
Breakfast was called before sunrise; and after breakfast he went out on
herd.
“You’ll be eight hours on and four off,” instructed Hank, “except when
you ride in for meals. Tend to business and don’t bother the cattle
except when they’re straying. They’re here to rest and get their flesh
on. When they stray too far turn ’em back, but don’t run ’em. I suppose
Billy told you about what to do, didn’t he?”
“Yes, sir; he told me to look out for Indians and emigrants passing
through.”
There were two herders for the herd to which Davy was appointed. Davy
thought that he was lucky in his partner, whose name was the Reverend
Benjamin Baxter. When the other men had called him “Reverend,” Davy
thought they were joking; but he found out that Mr. Baxter actually
was a minister of the gospel. He was a pleasant-faced, thin young man,
with dark eyes and hollow cheeks, and an occasional cough. Evidently he
was out on the plains for his health. His home was Massachusetts; but
in his plains garb and his tan he looked as much of a Westerner as any
Missourian. Yes, Davy was lucky to be paired off with Mr. Baxter, who
had been well educated and whom everybody seemed to like because, while
he was a “preacher” he was also much of a man.
“You ride around your half of the herd and I’ll ride around my half,
Davy,” said Mr. Baxter. “When we’re about to meet we’ll turn back. Take
things easy. You don’t have to ride every minute, you know; just enough
to keep the cattle from straying out where they’re liable to get out of
sight or be picked up by somebody passing. I’ll let you know when it’s
time to go in for dinner.”
The herding did not strike Davy as hard work, except that it was rather
monotonous and steady. It was more interesting at first than later. The
cattle, spread out loosely over a wide area, required considerable of
a ride along their edges. They were all work cattle――steers or oxen,
young and old, used for hauling the wagons of the Russell, Majors &
Waddell “bull trains.” Some were decrepit, worn out in the hard service
across the plains; others were yet strong, and needed only rest and
feed. In the beginning Davy bestirred himself more than was required;
he was so afraid lest any of them might stray too far. Soon he was
sharp enough to note that as long as they were only grazing, and he
could keep his eyes on them, the stragglers might be permitted to
have a little freedom to pick the best grass. In fact, the whole herd
constantly shifted ground, gradually moving on from clump to clump and
patch to patch.
About the middle of the morning Mr. Baxter’s first shift of eight hours
was up, and another herder relieved him.
“Now I’ll take a sleep,” he called back, gaily, to Dave as he galloped
for the wagon. “Have to sleep when we can, you know.”
Davy continued his herding with the new partner――who was gruff and
silent, very different from Mr. Baxter. However, that made little
difference, for herding did not give much chance to gossip.
At noon Davy was sent in for his turn at dinner; and when his four
hours recess arrived he was glad to dismount at the wagon and lie in
the shade. After he had served half the night on night guard and had
not made any mistakes, when he crawled in, in the chill and dark, under
his quilts, and settled for his short sleep, he felt like a veteran.
So the days and nights passed, of long hours in the saddle and short
hours afoot. The bull herd moved from pasturage to pasturage, with Sam
and his mess wagon keeping handy. The days were sunny fall, the nights
were crisp, the air pure except for the dust stirred up by the hoofs of
the herd or sometimes drifting from the great trail, the cattle gave
little trouble, the mess food was plenty although about the same every
meal, and herding on the plains proved not such a disagreeable business
as might have been expected.
The chief annoyance was the rattlesnakes――although Sam and Hank and
several others claimed that the emigrants and the cattle had cleaned
about all the snakes out. However, on his first day Davy rode over two,
and scarcely a day passed that he did not see three or four. He was
told that he must not let one bite his mule, for mules often died from
snake bite. Horses and cattle seemed stronger; anyway, the cattle of
the bull herd seemed to be what Mr. Baxter called “snake educated”;
Davy could tell from their movements that a rattlesnake was near them.
The most interesting part of herding was the sight of the travel on
the great Overland Trail. The Trail entered the Salt Creek Valley by
a hill on the east and left it by a hill on the west; and at any hour
of the day the white-topped wagons of emigrant train and freight train
could be seen descending and crossing and ascending, some bound to
Leavenworth, but the majority bound westward for the plains trip.
Where they all were going Davy used to wonder. It seemed as though
everybody from the East was moving into the far West. Of course, some
of the emigrants were bound for western Kansas, where in Arapahoe
County, at the base of the Rocky Mountains, people were seeking
for gold. Some were hoping to take up farms in Kansas. Others were
aiming for the Salt Lake region, where the Mormons under Brigham
Young had settled. And others were bound clear across the continent
to California for gold and for land. And many did not know exactly
where they were going, except that they were moving west, ever west,
to found new homes. The freight trains of the great Russell, Majors &
Waddell Company were carrying government stores to Fort Kearney, in
Nebraska, and Fort Laramie, also of Nebraska, on the North Platte,
and Fort Bridger, in Utah, and Salt Lake, where troops had been sent
last winter. The dusty trail, bordered by camps old and new, and by
abandoned pots and pans and boxes and clothing and deserted skeletons
of cattle and horses, was never vacant, night or day. Whenever the
herding business led Davy near to it he viewed it with wonder.
Herding took all of Davy’s time. Occasionally Hank Bassett went
into Leavenworth, and occasionally the other men rode in――all but
Mr. Baxter. He and Davy stayed out. The weather continued clear and
pleasant, with the days soft and sunny, and the nights crisp and still.
Nobody paid much attention to Davy now, for he was proving a good
herder, and was accepted as a member of the herding mess. He was as
hard as nails, everything he ate tasted good, long hours on mule back
did not stiffen him, and he thought that he knew every steer in the big
herd.
One big steer he especially watched. It was a large red and white
steer, with a sore hoof which did not heal. Every now and again a
portion of the herd was separated and driven in to Fort Leavenworth
for another trip across the plains; and new bunches took their places,
to rest up again. But the old red and white steer stayed. He was foot
sore, but he also was a wanderer, for he loved to stray. Several times
during each day he would edge out farther and farther, leading some of
his cronies; and in due time Davy must ride in front of him and turn
him back. He was a pesky animal, and caused much trouble; the third
herder wanted him killed, but Davy and Mr. Baxter only laughed and kept
persuading Hank to save him. After all, he was only a steer, with a
mind of his own. Maybe he would get well. Davy rather hoped that he
wouldn’t; he seemed to have such a good time, and the worked cattle
were so gaunt and scarred when they returned from their long, hard
trips.
Now it was November of 1858. The days were shorter, the nights were
colder, the grass was failing, and Indian summer was about to end.
Soon the herds would be taken off the plains, for the snow was due and
there would not be enough feed. One day Mr. Baxter was ill in camp; the
other herder was off, and Davy found himself left on herd alone for a
brief time. This he did not mind. He felt capable of handling the herd
himself. So he slowly rode around and around, occasionally halting for
a survey of the landscape.
This week the herd had drifted farther than usual from the trail and
from the settlements, to the very edge of the Salt Creek Valley, where
in numerous pockets amidst low hill the grass was still abundant. Davy
never understood exactly how it happened, but all of a sudden he missed
the red and white lame ox. His eyes ran rapidly over the herd, seeking
the old fellow. The red and white ox was a “marker”; when he was
present then the chances were that the herd was holding together, but
when he was absent then something must be done at once.
Well, he was absent; he was not even in sight. This meant that probably
he had led off a dozen or so followers. From his mule Davy cast keen
gaze over the herd and over the surrounding rolling country.
“Gwan!” he ordered to his mouse-colored mule, and striking into a
gallop he set off on a wide circle.
From the top of the nearest rise he saw nothing moving. But the top of
the second gave him a wide view――and he saw something of much interest.
There, about half a mile from him, and out in the open, was a line of
moving dots. He made out the red and white steer――he recognized the
color and the limp. At least a dozen other cattle were with him. They
were strung out in a little group; and behind, several horsemen were
driving them. Yes, actually driving them! Indians! Indians were driving
off a bunch of strays!
Davy’s heart skipped a beat and suddenly thumped violently. But he
didn’t sit looking long. Not he. He knew what Billy Cody would do,
and he knew what any herder with spunk would do. He clapped his heels
against his mule and away he went straight for the Indians.
They might be Kickapoos. Kickapoos from the reservation frequently
visited the cattle camps to beg for food and clothes; and many of
them would carry off more than was given to them. A sick steer was
their especial delight. They picked up strays, too, when they could.
So likely enough these Indians were Kickapoos. Davy was not afraid of
Kickapoos, although, of course, any Indian might be surly when he had
the advantage.
On galloped Davy, urging his mule. The Indians had seen him, for they
tried to quicken their pace; but the lame steer held them back. Good
for the lame steer, who could not travel fast! So Davy rapidly drew
nearer.
As he approached he made up his mind that these were not Kickapoos.
They wore blankets like any Indians, but their hair was not worn like
that of Kickapoos, whose hair was combed back smoothly. And they were
not Osages――another reservation tribe of Kansas. The hair of the Osages
was roached like a rooster’s comb. No; by their braids and by the way
they rode these were Cheyennes or Sioux! Whew! That was bad.
They did not even glance around as Davy rode upon them. Still at a
gallop he rode around them, and whirling short, bravely throwing up his
hand, halted squarely in the path. The baker’s dozen of steers (there
were thirteen of them) bunched and stopped, panting. The Indians stared
fixedly at Davy; two of them rode forward.
Yes, they were Cheyennes, except one Sioux; and the leader was Tall
Bull!
“What are you doing with those cattle?” demanded Davy.
“Go. Our cattle,” grunted Tall Bull.
“They aren’t, either,” retorted Davy. “They’re my cattle from that herd
yonder.”
“No,” denied Tall Bull, angrily; his companion’s eyes were blazing.
Davy felt them, and the hot eyes of the four other Indians, in the
rear. “You go. Our cattle.”
“Where’d you get them, then?” demanded Davy.
“Buy ’em. Take ’em an’ eat ’em. Puckachee! (Get out!)”
“Puckachee yourself,” answered Davy, now angry. “You can’t have ’em.
I take ’em back. Savvy? They belong to Russell, Majors & Waddell. See
that brand?”
The two Indians grunted one to another. The Indians behind called in
their own language.
“Get out of the way,” ordered Davy, boldly. “Gee, Buck! Whitey!
Gee-haw!”
The cattle began to turn; but Tall Bull interposed by reining his pony
and forcing them around again.
“No whoa-haws; ours. Buy ’em. How much?”
“Can’t sell ’em. Whoa-haw cattle. Gee, Buck! Get out of the way, you
two.”
“Give one. Give one, take rest.”
“No!” stormed Davy, stoutly. “None.”
The Indians all were armed with bows and arrows. Suddenly the old
Indian with Tall Bull strung his bow like lightning, fitted arrow to
string, and Davy found the steel head quivering on taut string within
six inches of his chest. The black eyes of the Indian glared into his,
the swarthy face was fierce with a scowl of hatred.
Davy did not dare to move; even if he had had a gun or pistol he could
not have used it. The arrow would have been through him before he
could pull trigger. There he must sit, waiting for the string to be
released. His flesh in front of the arrow point shrank and stung, as
if already the keen point had driven into it. If the Indian’s finger
should slip――!
Half a minute passed; it seemed to Davy like an hour. Tall Bull spoke
again.
“Two; give two,” he urged meaningly. “Take rest.”
[Illustration: “TWO; GIVE TWO,” HE URGED, MEANINGLY. “TAKE REST”]
Davy shook his head. He felt white and queer, but his mind was made up.
“No,” he answered, trying to speak naturally, but suspecting that his
voice was rather shaky. “None.”
The arrow head was still at his breast; the Indian’s bow was still
stretched taut until it quivered with the strain; the Indian’s eyes
glared, his face scowled. Davy did not glance aside. He was afraid to.
“One,” now urged Tall Bull. “Boy give one, or mebbe boy die an’ lose
all.”
Davy shook his head.
“No.”
Now another Indian rode forward. With the corner of his eye Davy saw
that he was the Sioux. The Sioux spoke to the two Cheyennes; they
grunted answer, and the bow of the old warrior slowly relaxed, as if it
hated to.
The Sioux extended his hand to Davy. He was a young buck, and good
looking, with a sober cast of features.
“How, cola? (How do you do, friend?)” he said; and Davy shook hands
with him. “All right. Brave boy. You go. Take cattle. Goodby.”
“Goodby,” said Davy. He promptly turned the lame steer aside and the
others followed. He did not delay a moment. Would the Indians try to
stop him again? No; they let him work. Driving the steers he started
on the back trail, past the three Indians in the rear. Every moment he
expected to feel an arrow plump into him between his shoulders; but he
did not even look around. He attended to business. When at last he did
look around, the six Indians were riding along at a jog. Davy quickened
his pace, and when he arrived with his little bunch at the herd he was
glad indeed.
He had proved his mettle. He felt that nobody would have done better.
VII
DAVY CHANGES JOBS
The Reverend Mr. Baxter came on herd soon; and Davy told him about the
Indians.
“You might have let them go, Davy,” said Mr. Baxter, “and nobody would
have blamed you.”
“Yes, sir; but I couldn’t,” answered Davy.
“Well,” mused Mr. Baxter, gazing at him with a rueful smile, “I don’t
believe I could either. But lots of fellows would. Six armed Indians
are rather many for one unarmed boy to tackle. But right makes might,
Davy.”
“Yes,” agreed Davy. “I guess it does.”
Anyway, Hank Bassett and Sam the cook and the other men in the camp
congratulated Davy on his spunk, until he wished that Billy Cody was
there to know. But Billy was out with the bull train, and nobody might
say when he would turn up again at this end of the trail.
“I guess I’ll send you in with a part of the herd to-morrow, Red,”
quoth Hank, as if that were a reward for Davy’s pluck. “How’d you like
to see Leavenworth again?”
“First-rate, Mr. Bassett,” answered Davy.
“You and the Reverend can drive a bunch in as soon as we cut ’em out
in the morning. Then you’d better report at the office. I don’t think
we’ll need you out here till spring.”
That was good word――at least, the Leavenworth trip was. Davy felt as
though he would be glad to see people and buildings again and mingle
with the world. Besides, he would be paid off at last, and would have a
pocket full of money well earned.
“All right, Davy,” spoke Mr. Baxter, with a grin. “We’ll take in the
sights and buy a suit of clothes to boot, won’t we!”
Davy nodded happily.
The herd had drifted near to the great trail again, so he and Mr.
Baxter drove their bunch along that route for the fort where they were
to be delivered to the company. Riding behind in the dust on one flank
while Mr. Baxter rode on the other, Davy felt like a veteran.
The fort was eight miles distant, about three hours drive if they did
not hurry. The best of the steers had been cut out from the main herd,
so that without difficulty or pushing the trip might easily be made in
less than three hours. The trail was still lively, with bull trains
and overlanders making their best speed westward, to cross to their
destination before the fall storms set in.
One outfit, drawing aside to give the cattle room, hailed Davy with
a question. It was an emigrant outfit, of a farm wagon covered with
dingy cotton-cloth hood, hauled by a yoke of oxen. A woman holding a
baby peered from the seat; a boy and girl about Davy’s age trudged
alongside, a sallow, whiskered man, walking, drove with an ox-goad, and
a younger man rode a mule.
“How much further to the Cherry Creek gold diggin’s, young feller?”
queried the whiskered man.
“About seven hundred miles,” answered Davy.
“When can we see the mountings?” quavered the woman, anxiously.
“Oh, goodness!” laughed Davy. “Not for a long time. You’ve got to cross
the plains yet.”
“I didn’t think it was so fur,” she sighed. “Do you hear they’re
findin’ lots of gold there?”
“You didn’t come from out thar, did you?” asked the younger man.
“No,” said Davy. “We’ve been herding in the valley here.”
“Keep going and you’ll arrive sometime,” called Mr. Baxter. And he and
Davy passed on.
“That’s pretty tough, Dave,” he spoke across as they proceeded in the
one direction while the wagon proceeded in the other. “Those people
haven’t any more idea where the Cherry Creek country is than these
cattle have; but there they go, woman and baby and all. They’ll find
what seven hundred miles of ox travel means before they get through.
And then they’re liable to be disappointed.”
“Don’t you think there’s any gold out there?” asked Davy.
“Oh, folks have been panning out a little gold for half a dozen years,
but it hasn’t amounted to shucks. I’d rather take my chances herding
cattle. Expect we’ll know more about it soon now. A gang are out there
from Georgia, who know how to mine; and the governor sent out another
gang from Lawrence last summer, you know, to locate a town and report
back.”
That was so. Davy was familiar with the name “Cherry Creek,” which
seemed to be a new gold region lying out at the foot of the Rocky
Mountains, near Pike’s Peak. But, like Mr. Baxter, the majority of
the herders and teamsters seemed to put little stock in it. They were
waiting to “see color,” as some of them who had been to Salt Lake and
to California put it.
Behind, a little party of travellers eastward bound along the trail
were overtaking the herd. There were three of them mule-back, driving a
couple of pack mules. As they passed on Mr. Baxter’s side they cheered
and waved good-naturedly.
“Hurrah for Cherry Creek!” they hallooed. “You’re heading the wrong
way, pardner.”
“Why?”
“Turn around and make your fortune. That’s why.”
“Already made it,” retorted Mr. Baxter.
“How, stranger?”
“Herding cattle at twenty-five a month and grub. Have you made yours?”
“Mighty near. We’ve seen gold. The Georgia crowd’s been finding it.
We’re just back from the Cherry Creek diggin’s. Thar’s plenty color
thar, we tell you.”
“Show me some.”
“Hain’t got it, stranger. But it’s thar. We’re goin’ back in the
spring. Better join us. Go out an’ buy lots in St. Charles City.”
“No, sir. Buy ’em in Auraria, across the creek,” shouted another.
“Auraria’s booming; St. Charles won’t last.”
“Thanks,” laughed Mr. Baxter. “I’ll think about it. Just now
twenty-five dollars in the pocket seems better than nothing in a hole
in the ground.”
“Wall, you’ll miss out,” warned one of the men as the little party
pressed on in a great hurry.
Mr. Baxter laughed and bantered all the way in to Leavenworth.
“We want to see some of that gold before we pack up and go on a wild
goose chase, don’t we, Davy?” he called. “And I’d rather have a yoke of
steers on the hoof than a city lot on paper.”
This sounded like wisdom; but Davy imagined what an effect the report
of those returned Cherry Creekers would have on that emigrant wagon!
The men and the woman would be looking for the mountains more eagerly
than ever.
He and Mr. Baxter turned the bunch of cattle over to the Russell,
Majors & Waddell’s foreman at the fort, where another bull train was
being made up, loaded high with government supplies for the west. Buck
Bomer, Billy Cody’s wagon-master, had not come in yet from the Laramie
trip, and there was no news from Billy himself. He was still out.
Report said that he had gone on from Laramie to another fort, so nobody
could tell when he would be back.