So far the only traces of travel preceding had been those of Indian travel. This afternoon who should appear upon the trail but a large red ox! Had he been an elephant he would have created no keener interest, and both the Frémont party and the Carson party collected about him. “Ma foi!” exclaimed Fran?ois Badeau. “Mebbe we back in Missouri, hey?”
“That’s shuah a big fine ox,” commented Jacob Dodson. “Guess some o’ those emigrants we saw at Kansas Landing are ahead of us.”
“Not very close, Jacob,” answered the lieutenant. “The Oregon Trail is a hundred and more miles north, yet.”
“Seems to me this ox must have cut loose from his party at the Green, an’ he’s making a short cut back through the hills, for Missouri,” decided Kit Carson.
With their red ox in charge the expedition proceeded. It seemed to Oliver rather mean to turn the brave animal about and make him retrace his trail; but in the morning he could not be found, and the lieutenant ordered the men not to look for him.
[148]
“Fact is,” declared the lieutenant, to Kit, “I’m glad he got away. He’s won his life, so far as we’re concerned. I’d rather starve a while than kill the old fellow and eat him.”
“Wall,” drawled Kit, “we’ll see if we can’t do better than pore beef.”
Whereupon, as if in reward, that evening he brought into camp a buffalo cow whose fat was two inches thick: the finest buffalo, asserted every man, that he ever had tasted.
To date the march had been not hard, and not unpleasant. The gun-carriage and the spring-wagon had come through without mishap. However, this next evening occurred the first accident, when, the company having crossed the North Platte River to the north of the Bull Pen or New Park, they were caught by the gathering dusk in a deep ravine, where grew sage six feet high. Both lamps of the spring wagon were knocked off, a thermometer was broken, and finally, at ten o’clock, camp was pitched in the dark. Supper was at midnight. Some of the men, who were out hunting buffalo, did not get in at all.
When they did come, in the morning, they brought much meat, and the lieutenant and Kit agreed that it would be wise to dry this meat, for a store against future need. There would be few buffalo, on the Pacific side of the Rockies.
Camp was moved down the ravine, to a cottonwood grove in a grassy little bottom-land upon the[149] bank of the Platte. In this open place between the river and the bluffs, pole frame-works were erected, on which to hang the strips of buffalo meat, above fires, to dry.
Louis Ménard was horse-guard. Fortunately, he had a quick eye, had Louis—and on a sudden the busy camp, with all hands at work “making meat,” was startled by his loud shout, the “Whang!” of his Hall’s carbine, and the tumultuous thud of hoofs as he raced his herd for the grove.
“Injuns! Des sauvages!” he yelled, pointing over his shoulder.
True enough. Down from the bluffs at the upper end of the bottom-land were galloping a score of half-naked Indians, while into the sky-line of the summit behind them were pouring many more.
“To the grove! To the grove!” cried French and Americans, Frémont and Carson men.
“The cannon!” ordered Sergeant Zindel, gutturally. “Qvick! Dis vay!”
All raced, afoot, for the grove, where Louis was driving his herd.
“R-r-round mit id!” gasped Sergeant Zindel.
The majority of the voyageurs and trappers instantly ranged themselves flat upon the ground, amidst the brush, or crouched behind trees, carbines and rifles at a ready. But the sergeant, and Jacob Dodson the colored man, and two others, remained out with the gun, before the grove. They were the cannoneers.[150] Lieutenant Frémont calmly walked forth, and stood by.
On dashed the red warriors—their robes and feathers flying, war bonnet and decorated braids streaming in the air. Brandishing bow and lance and gun and shield, with shrill yelps they now were charging across the level.
“Cheyenne an’ ’Rapahoe,” muttered William New. “Wagh! I wonder if they know what they’re doing?”
Oliver anxiously watched the cannoneers. How rapidly they worked. Sergeant Zindel evidently understood his business. With jerky stiffness he bustled hither, thither—but already the piece had been swung about, to open down the bottom-land, a load in red flannel bag had been rammed home, and Jacob Dodson was thrusting after it a case of canister.
“R-r-ready!” ordered Sergeant Zindel, squinting along the breech, while Jacob turned the elevating screw. He sprang up, blowing a match or slow-fire fuse. “Back mit you! Back-vaaerts, all!” And Jacob and the two other helpers recoiled, out of range of the imminent explosion.
“The blame fools!” muttered William New, at the Indians. “They’ll be blown to smithereens. Wagh! they will! It’ll rain scalps.”
The racing reds now were scarce two hundred yards away, charging madly, hammering their ponies’ flanks with moccasined heel, urging to top speed.
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