Frank on the Prairie :: CHAPTER V. A Fight with the Indians.

CHAPTER V. A Fight with the Indians.

WHEN setting out the next morning, Frank noticed that the wagons, instead of starting off singly, and straggling, as they had formerly done, kept close together, and traveled more rapidly. The trapper, too, instead of taking the lead, and getting in advance of the train, seemed satisfied to remain with the others. Upon inquiring the reason for this, Dick replied:

“You may find out afore night, youngster, that we are in a bad bit of Injun country. The train that went out afore us had a scrimmage here with nigh five hundred of the red-skins, who stampeded some of their stock. So keep your eyes open, an’ if you see a Injun, let me know to onct.” The trapper said this with a broad grin, that was meant to imply that if they were attacked, the Indians would make their appearance before a person so inexperienced as Frank could be aware of it.

“The red-skins don’t gener’lly keer ’bout an out-an’-out fight,” continued the trapper, “’cause they don’t like these long rifles, an’ they know that these yere pioneers shoot mighty sharp. All the Injuns want—or all they can get—is the stock; an’ they sometimes jump on to a train afore a feller knows it, an’ yell an’ kick up a big fuss, which frightens the cattle. That’s what we call stampedin’ ’em. An’, youngster, do you see that ’ar?”

As the trapper spoke, he pointed out over the prairie towards a little hill about two miles distant. After gazing for a few moments in the direction indicated, Archie replied:

“I see something that looks like a weed or a tuft of grass.”

“Wal, that’s no weed,” said the trapper, with a laugh, “nor grass, neither. If it is, it’s on hossback, an’ carries a shootin’-iron or a bow an’ arrer. That’s a Injun, or I never seed one afore. What do you say, Bob?” he asked, turning to the old trapper, who at this moment came up.

“I seed that five minutes ago,” was the reply, “an’ in course it can’t be nothin’ but a red-skin.”

The boys gazed long and earnestly at the object, but their eyes were not as sharp as those of the trappers, for they could not discover that it bore any resemblance to an Indian, until Mr. Winters handed them his field-glass through which he had been regarding the object ever since its discovery. Then they found that the trappers had not been deceived. It was a solitary Indian, who sat on his horse as motionless as a statue, no doubt watching the train, and endeavoring to satisfy himself of the number of men there might be to defend it. In his hand he carried something that looked like a spear adorned with a tuft of feathers.

“I wish the varlet was in good pluggin’ distance,” said Dick, patting his rifle which lay across his knees. “If I could only get a bead on him, he would never carry back to his fellers the news of what he has seed.”

“Do you suppose there are more of them?” asked Archie, in a voice that would tremble in spite of himself.

“Sartin,” replied old Bob Kelly, who still rode beside the wagon; “thar’s more of ’em not fur off. This feller is a kind o’ spy like, an’ when he has seen exactly how things stand, he’ll go back an’ tell the rest of ’em, an’ the fust thing we know, they’ll be down on us like a hawk on a June-bug. But they’ll ketch a weasel, they will, when they pitch into us. Dick, when they do come, don’t forget Bill Lawson.”

The trapper turned his head, for a moment, as if to hide the emotion he felt, at the mention of the name of his departed companion, but presently replied:

“This aint the fust time that you an’ me have been in jest sich scrapes, Bob, an’ it aint likely that we’ll soon forget that we owe the varlets a long settlement. Thar aint as many of us now as thar used to be; more’n one good trapper has had his har raised by them same red-skins—fur I know a Cheyenne as fur as I kin see him, youngsters—an’ mebbe one o’ these days, when some one asks, ‘What’s come on ole Bob Kelly an’ Dick Lewis?’ the answer will be, ‘Killed by the Injuns!’”

It may be readily supposed that such conversation as this was not calculated to quiet the feelings of Frank and Archie—who had been considerably agitated by the information that there was a body of hostile Indians at no great distance—and to their excited imaginations the danger appeared tenfold worse than it really was. At that day, as the trapper had remarked, it was a very uncommon occurrence for a large train to be engaged in a regular fight with the Indians, for the latter had learned to their cost that the pioneers were always well armed, and that there were some among them who understood Indian fighting. They generally contented themselves with sudden and rapid raids upon the stock of the emigrants, and they seldom departed empty-handed. But it is not to be wondered that the trappers, who had participated in numberless engagements with the savages, and witnessed deeds of cruelty that had awakened in them a desire for vengeance, should delight to talk over their experience. The boys, although considerably frightened, were still greatly encouraged by their example. Dick twisted uneasily on his seat, as though impatient for the fight to begin, now and then looking toward the spy, as if he had half a mind to venture a shot at him; while old Bob Kelly rode along, smoking his pipe, apparently as unconcerned as though there was not a hostile Indian within a hundred miles of them. Mr. Winters evidently partook of the old man’s indifference, for, after satisfying himself that his weapons were in readiness, he drew back beside his nephews, and said, with a smile:

“Well, boys, you may have an opportunity to try your skill on big game now. This will be a little different from the fight you had in the woods with those Indians who stole your traps. Then you had the force on your side; now the savages are the stronger party. But there’s no danger,” he added, quickly seeing that the boys looked rather anxious; “every man in the train is a good shot, and the most of them have been in Indian fights before. I don’t believe all the red-skins on the prairie could whip us while we have Dick and Bob with us.”

The boys themselves had great confidence in the trappers—especially Dick, who, they knew, would never desert them. But even he had several times been worsted by the Indians. Frank thought of the story of the lost wagon train. But then he remembered that the reason that train was captured, was because the emigrants had not “stood up to the mark like men.”

All this while the train had been moving ahead at a rapid pace, and many an anxious eye was directed toward the solitary Indian, who remained standing where he was first discovered until the wagons had passed, when he suddenly and mysteriously disappeared. All that day the emigrants rode with their weapons in their hands, in readiness to repel an attack; and when they halted at noon, guards were posted about the camp, and the cattle were kept close to the wagons. But, although now and then a single Indian would be seen upon one of the distant swells, the main body kept out of sight; and the boys began to hope that the train was considered too large to be successfully attacked. At night old Bob Kelly selected the place for the encampment, which was made according to his directions. The wagons were drawn up in a circle to form a breastwork, and the cattle were picketed close by under the protection of a strong guard. Fires were built, and preparations for supper carried on as usual, for, of course, all attempts at concealment would have been time and labor thrown away. As soon as it began to grow dark, the cattle were secured to the wagons by long stout ropes, which, while they allowed the animals to graze, effectually prevented escape. Then guards were selected, and the emigrants made every preparation to give the savages a warm reception, in case they should make a dash upon the camp. No one thought of his blanket. The idea of going to sleep while a band of Indians was hovering about, watching their opportunity to pounce down upon them, was out of the question. The two trappers, after satisfying themselves that every thing was in readiness for an attack, began to station the guards. Frank again thought of the story Dick had related of the lost wagon train, and, desiring to witness an exhibition of the skill that had enabled him to detect the presence of the Indians on that occasion, proposed to Archie that they should stand guard with him. The latter, who always felt safe when in the company of their guide, agreed; and when the trapper started off with the guards, he was surprised to find the boys at his side.

“Whar are you goin’?” he asked.

“We want to stand guard with you!” replied Frank.

“Wal, I never did see sich keerless fellers as you be,” said the trapper. “You get wusser an’ wusser. Much you don’t know about this bisness. I guess you had better stay here whar you’re safe.”

“Wal, wal!” said old Bob Kelly, who was not a little astonished at the request the boys had made, “they’ve got the real grit in ’em, that’s a fact, if they are green as punkins in Injun fightin’. A few year on the prairy would make ’em as good as me or you, Dick Lewis. But you’ll get enough of Injuns afore you see daylight ag’in, youngsters. So you had better stay here.”

So saying he shouldered his rifle, and, followed by the guards, disappeared in the darkness. The boys reluctantly returned to their wagon, where they found Uncle James, seated on the ground, whistling softly to himself, and apparently indifferent as to the course the Indians might see fit to adopt. But still he had not neglected to make preparations to receive them, for his rifle stood leaning against one of the wheels of the wagon, and he carried his revolvers in his belt. The boys silently seated themselves on the ground beside him, and awaited the issue of events with their feelings worked up to the highest pitch of excitement. The fires had burned low, but still there was light sufficient to enable them to discover the emigrants stretched on the ground about the wagons, talking to one another in whispers, as if almost afraid to break the stillness that brooded over the camp, and which was interrupted only by the barking of the prairie wolves, and the neighing and tramping of the horses. Two hours were passed in this way, when suddenly the sharp report of a rifle, accompanied by a terrific yell, rang out on the air, causing the emigrants to grasp their weapons and spring to their feet in alarm. For an instant all was silent again. The stillness was so deep that Frank thought the camp was suddenly deserted. Then a long drawn out whoop arose from the prairie, followed by a chorus of yells that struck terror to more than one heart in that wagon train. Then came a clatter of horses’ hoofs; the yells grew louder and louder; and the boys knew that the Indians were coming toward them. The emigrants rushed to the wagons, and the next moment the savages swept by. The boys saw a confused mass of rapidly-moving horsemen; heard the most terrific yells, the report of fire-arms, and the struggles of the frightened cattle as they attempted to escape, and then all was over. The Indians departed as rapidly as they had come, and the boys, bewildered by the noise, had not fired a shot. On the contrary, they stood holding their rifles in their hands, as if they had suddenly forgotten how to use them. Uncle James, however, was not confused. He had heard the war-whoop before, and as he came out from behind the wagon, he began to reload one of his revolvers, remarking as he did so:

“There are some less in that band, I know.”

“Did you shoot?” asked Archie, drawing a long breath of relief to know that the danger was past. “Why, I didn’t have time to fire a shot.”

“That’s because you were frightened,” replied Mr. Winters. “You see I have been in skirmishes like this before, and their yells don’t make me nervous. I had five good shots at them, and I don’t often miss.”

“I say, youngsters, are you all right?” exclaimed Dick, who at this moment came up. “See here! I’ve got two fellers’ top-knots. Bless you, they aint scalps,” he continued, as the boys drew back. “They’re only the feathers the Injuns wear in their har. I don’t scalp Cheyennes, ’cause I don’t keer ’bout ’em. I make war on ’em ’cause it’s natur. But when I knock over a Comanche, I take his har jest to ’member ole Bill by. But, youngsters, warn’t that jolly! I haven’t heered a Injun yell fur more’n a year, an it makes me feel to hum. You can take these feathers, an’ when you get back to Lawrence, tell the folks thar that the Injuns that wore ’em onct attacked the train you belonged to.”

The emigrants’ first care, after having satisfied themselves that the Indians had gone, was to count their stock; and more than one had to mourn the loss of a favorite horse or mule, which had escaped and gone off with the Indians. Mr. Winters, however, had lost nothing—the trapper having tied the animals so securely that escape was impossible. Not a person in the train was injured—the only damage sustained being in the canvas covers of the wagons, which were riddled with bullets and arrows.

The boys were still far from feeling safe, and probably would not have gone to bed that night had they not seen the trappers spreading their blankets near the wagon. This re-assured them, for those men never would have thought of rest if there had been the least probability that the Indians would return. So the boys took their beds out of the wagon and placed them beside those of Dick and his companion, who were talking over the events of the night.

“This bisness of fightin’ Injuns, youngsters,” said the former, “is one that aint larnt out of books, nor in the woods about Lawrence. If you had a-been with us, you would a seed that. Now, when I fust went out thar, you couldn’t ’a’ told that thar war a red-skin on the prairy. But I laid my ear to the ground, an’ purty quick I heerd a rumblin’ like, an’ I knowed the noise war made by hosses. Arter that, I heerd a rustlin’ in the grass, an’ seed a Injun sneakin’ along, easy like, t’wards the camp. So I drawed up my ole shootin’ iron, an’ done the bisness fur him, an’ then started fur the camp, loadin’ my rifle as I ran. In course the Injuns seed then that it warn’t no use to go a-foolin’ with us, so they all set up a yell, an’ here they come. I dodged under the wagon, an’ as they went by, I give ’em another shot, an’ seed a red-skin go off dead.”

“Go off dead!” repeated Frank. “How could he go off when he was dead?”

“Why,” said the trapper, with a laugh, in which he was joined by old Bob Kelly, “every one of them Injuns war tied fast to his hoss, so that if he war killed he wouldn’t fall off; an’, in course, his hoss would keep on with the rest, an’ carry him away. I seed more’n one Injun go off dead to-night, an’ the way I come to get them feathers, b’longin’ to them two chaps, war, that somebody had shot their hosses. I seed ’em on the ground, tryin’ to cut themselves loose from their saddles, so I run up an’ settled ’em. That war four I rubbed out. Good-night, youngsters. You needn’t be afraid, ’cause they won’t come back again to-night.”

As the trapper spoke, he placed his cap under his head for a pillow, re-arranged his blanket, and was soon in a sound sleep.

During the next two weeks nothing occurred to relieve the monotony of the journey. The train took up its line of march at daylight, halted at noon for an hour or two, and shortly after sunset encamped for the night. The fight with the Indians had not driven all thoughts of the antelopes out of the boys’ minds. And while the train journeyed along the road, they scoured the prairie, in search of the wished-for game. The appearance of the “sea of grass,” which stretched away on all sides, as far as their eyes could reach, not a little surprised them. Instead of the perfectly level plain they had expected to see, the surface of the prairie was broken by gentle swells, like immense waves of the ocean, and here and there—sometimes two or three days’ journey apart—were small patches of woods, called “oak openings.”

One night they made their camp in sight of the Rocky Mountains. While the trapper was cooking their supper, he said to the boys, who had thrown themselves on the ground near the wagon:

“It aint fur from here that me an’ ole Bill Lawson lost that wagon train. I never travel along here that I don’t think of that night, an’ I sometimes feel my cap rise on my head, jest as it did when them Injuns come pourin’ into the camp. But the varlets have been pushed back further an’ further, an’ now a feller’s as safe here as he would be in Fort Laramie. The ole bar’s hole aint more’n fifty mile from here, an’ if your uncle don’t mind the ride, I should like to show you the cave that has so often sarved me fur a hidin’-place.”

The boys looked toward Mr. Winters, who, having frequently heard the guide speak of the “ole bar’s hole,” felt some curiosity to see it. So, after being assured by both the trappers that there was no danger to be apprehended, he gave his consent, remarking:

“We are in no hurry. I don’t suppose there is any possibility of being lost so long as we have Dick and Bob for guides; so we will go there, and take a week’s rest and a hunt.”

The boys were delighted, and the next morning, when the train resumed its journey, the emigrants were not a little surprised to see Mr. Winters’ wagon moving off by itself.

That night, when our travelers encamped, they were thirty miles from the train, and about the same distance from the “ole bar’s hole.” The mountains were plainly visible, and the boys could scarcely believe that they were nearly a day’s journey distant. They were certain that a ride of an hour or two would bring them to the willows that skirted their base.

“’T aint the fust time I’ve seed fellers fooled ’bout sich things,” said Dick. “Do you see that ’ar high peak?” he continued, pointing to a single mountain that rose high above the others. “Wal, thar’s whar the ole bar’s hole is. If we reach it afore dark to-morrer night, I’ll agree to set you down in Sacramento in two weeks.”

The boys were still far from being convinced, and they went to sleep that night fully believing that they would reach the mountains by noon the next day.

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