Buffalo Bill and the Overland Trail

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Title: Buffalo Bill and the Overland Trail
Author: Sabin, Edwin L. (Edwin Legrand)
Language: English
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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

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

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.

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?”

“In Salt Creek Valley, Eastern Kansas, near Leavenworth. Where do you?”

“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.

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.

“Watch for Turk,” he cried to Red, galloping behind. And presently he
cried again: “There he comes! I knew he would!”

Sure enough, from the house, before and below, near the trail, out
had darted a dog, to stand a moment, listening and peering――then,
head up and ears pricked, to line himself at full speed for Billy. On
he scoured (what a big fellow he was when he drew near), while Billy
whistled and shouted and laughed and praised.

When they met, Billy flung himself from his saddle for a moment, and he
and the big dog wrestled in sheer delight.

“Isn’t he a dandy?” called Billy to Red. “Smartest old fellow in
Kansas. He saved my sisters’ lives once from a panther. I’d rather have
him than a man any time.”

They rode on, with Turk gambolling beside them. He was a brindled boar
hound, looking like a Great Dane.

Now Turk raced ahead, as if to carry the news; and several people had
emerged from the house and were gathered before the door gazing. Billy
waved his big hat, and they waved back. They were a woman and four
girls.

“That’s ma and my sisters,” said Billy. Down he rushed, at full gallop
of his mule; Davy thudded in his wake.

“Hello, mother! Hello, sisses!”

“Oh, it’s Will! Will!”

Dismounting, Billy was passed from one to another and hugged and
kissed. He was held the longest and closest in his mother’s arms. Turk
barked and barked.

“Here, Red; come on,” ordered Billy, of Dave. “Mother, this is my
friend Dave Scott. He’s going to visit us, and then I’ll get him a
job on the trail. These girls are my sisters, Dave. Don’t be afraid
of them. Take care of him, Turk. He’s all right, old fellow. He’s a
partner.” And Turk, sniffing of Davy and wagging his great tail, seemed
to understand.

“Any friend of Will’s is more than welcome,” said Billy’s mother, and
she actually kissed Dave. The girls shyly shook hands, and he knew that
they welcomed him, too.

Then they all went into the house, where Billy must sit down and tell
about his experiences. That took some time, for he had been gone a
year. But before he started to talk and answer questions, he said:
“Here, ma; here’s my pay check. How do you want it cashed――gold or
silver?”

“For goodness sake, Will!” gasped Mother Cody, while his sisters
peeped. “Is this all yours?”

“No,” said Billy, solemnly shaking his head. “I can’t say it is,
mother.”

“Then whose is it?” she asked anxiously.

“Yours,” laughed Billy.

The Cody house was a heavy log cabin of two rooms and a rough roof, in
the Salt River Valley across which ran the Salt Lake overland trail.
Fort Leavenworth and the Missouri River were only four miles eastward,
and two miles below Fort Leavenworth was Leavenworth City. The Cody
farm had been located by Billy’s father as soon as Kansas had been
opened for settlement, in 1853, but Billy’s father had died two years
ago. As Davy soon saw, Billy was the man of the family, and whatever he
earned was badly needed.

It was good fun visiting at the Codys. There was Mrs. Cody and the four
girls, Julia, Eliza, Helen and May, who seemed to think that Billy
knew everything. Julia was older than he, but the others were younger.
There was Turk the big dog; and not far from the Cody place lived other
settlers who had children. But among all the boys Billy Cody was the
only one who had been out across the plains drawing man’s pay with a
wagon train.

The Codys lived right at the edge of the Kickapoo Indian reservation.
Billy knew the Indians and they liked him; he could shoot with bow and
arrow, and could talk Kickapoo, and had learned a lot of clever ways to
camp and travel.

Best of all, past the Cody place, across Salt Creek Valley wended the
Overland Trail――climbing the hill here, and disappearing into the west.
Over it always hung that veil of dust from the teams and wagons that
had set out. All kinds of “outfits,” as Billy called them, travelled
it: the straining, creaking “bull trains,” carrying freight for the
big freighting firm of Russell, Majors & Waddell; the settlers, bound
westward, with their canvas-topped wagons bursting with household
goods, the women and children often walking alongside; soldiers, for
the forts of the Indian country; gold-seekers with pack mules; “tame”
Indians, from the reservations or from outside villages; parties
returning for the “States,” from California and Utah and the mountains,
some of them with droves of horses, some without anything at all.

It was a very important highway, this Salt Lake, California and Oregon
“Overland” Trail, which had one beginning at Leavenworth on the
Missouri, only six miles from the Cody place; and the Codys saw all the
travel that started on it. So no wonder Billy had made up his mind to
be a plainsman and work on the trail; and no wonder that Davy wanted to
do likewise. It seemed a useful work, and much needed; but it called
for stout mind and brave heart, as well as sturdy body. As for sturdy
body the work itself made people strong. The proper mind and heart were
the more necessary qualifications.

Billy soon took the two mules into Leavenworth, and returned them to
the company. When he came home, he gave his mother a double handful of
gold pieces.

“Will, it doesn’t seem possible that you’ve earned all this!”

“Well, I guess if you’d been along, ma, you’d have known that I earned
them; wouldn’t she, Dave!” laughed Billy. “I earned enough just while I
was in the mule fort to keep us the rest of our lives――only, I haven’t
got it yet.”

“You’ll never go out again, will you, Will?” appealed his mother
anxiously. “Promise me.”

Billy put his arms about her and hugged her tight. She was a frail
little mother, not nearly as strong as Billy, and she never felt well,
Billy had explained to Dave. Now he said, holding her:

“I can’t promise, ma. We need the money, and that’s the quickest way
to earn it. But I always come back safe, don’t I? Don’t you ever worry
about _me_. I can take care of myself. I’m as good as a man, you know.”

Mother Cody only sighed, and kissed him. She said nothing more.

DAVY GOES ON HERD

“Red,” said Billy, after three weeks had passed, “what do you want to
do? I’m going out again.”

“Where, Billy?” asked Dave.

“Out across the plains. Got another job with a bull train. I can’t
stand this loafing. You can stay here, I reckon. My mother’ll be glad
to have you. Or I’ll get you a job with the company.”

Of course, Davy had no notion of staying on at the Cody home, where
means were scant and where Mrs. Cody, helped by Billy, had all she
could do to take care of her own children. No; he wanted to earn his
way in the world.

“I think I’d rather go to work,” he answered. “When will you start,
Billy?”

“Next week. Come on into town. We’ll see Mr. Russell. He’ll fix you
out.”

“Maybe I’m too small.”

“No, you aren’t. Size isn’t what counts, out here. It’s what a fellow
does, not how he looks. See?”

This sounded encouraging, for Billy seemed to know. Hadn’t he gone
to work himself herding cattle for the Russell, Majors & Waddell
Freighting Company, when he was aged only ten? And now at thirteen he
was almost the same as a man! Davy determined to show his own pluck,
and do his best, and make himself a place as a worker in those busy
days when the great West was being settled.

That noon Billy borrowed a couple of ponies from a neighbor, and he and
Dave rode in to Leavenworth City.

“That Mr. Russell is the finest man you ever met,” declared Billy.
“Mr. Majors is a good one, too, but Mr. Russell is the one who’s taken
special care of me. He was a mighty close friend of my father’s; when
dad was selling hay to Fort Leavenworth Mr. Russell let me ride about
the country with him and I learned a lot about the freighting business.
Times looked kind of hard and somebody stole my pony, and he told me
to keep a stiff upper lip and come to Leavenworth and he’d give me a
job herding at twenty-five a month. That was four years ago. I’ve been
working for the company ever since, except when I had to go to school.
When I started in, it was just Russell & Majors――William H. Russell
and Alexander Majors; last spring Mr. William Waddell joined them,
and now the company is Russell, Majors & Waddell. Mr. Majors has been
freighting ever since eighteen forty-eight, on the Santa Fe Trail down
into New Mexico. Now the company hauls all the government stuff from
Fort Leavenworth across the plains to Fort Laramie and over to Salt
Lake. That train I went out with last summer carried nearly two hundred
thousand pounds of freight. They’re running about three thousand wagons
now, and use four thousand men. They’re a big company, but they treat
their men right; and whatever Mr. Russell or Mr. Majors offers you, you
take. If we don’t find either of them at the fort they’ll be in town, I
reckon.”

Fort Leavenworth was located on the high land, overlooking the Missouri
River, two miles above Leavenworth City. It was an important, solid
fort, with stone buildings grouped about a large parade ground, and the
flag floating in the breeze. Soldiers of the infantry, cavalry, and
dragoons were moving hither-thither, drilling or attending to other
duties, and on the outskirts of the post were parked a great number of
freight wagons, attended by their teamsters.

As he and Davy rode through the wagons, on either side of the trail,
Billy called out to one of the men.

“Hello, Buck.”

“Hello, Billy.”

“Is Mr. Russell around here?”

“Yes. He’s over at the quartermaster’s office.”

“When do you pull out, Buck?”

“Thursday the tenth, Billy.”

“All right. I’ll be on hand.”

“That’s Buck Bomer,” explained Billy, as he and Davy rode on. “He’s the
wagon boss I’m going out with. Now we’ll find Mr. Russell.”

They had no difficulty in passing the guard stationed beside the road
where it entered the edge of the post. Billy seemed to be a familiar
figure here. He led the way to a large building that looked like
a warehouse, where several freight wagons were standing and where
soldiers and civilians were trudging about, as if loading freight.

At the end of the platform Billy slipped off his horse, and tied him;
Dave did likewise.

“Come on,” bade Billy. “There’s Mr. Russell now. That sandy little man
talking with the officer. We’ll hail him when we get the chance.”

They lingered a few minutes, while Billy edged closer, waiting to be
recognized. Davy followed him about anxiously. Presently Mr. Russell
caught sight of Billy, and smiled and nodded. The officer turned away,
and Billy sprang forward to seize the opportunity.

“How are you, Billy,” greeted Mr. Russell. “What can I do for you?”

“I’ve brought my friend Dave Scott over, Mr. Russell,” informed Billy.
“He’s the boy I spoke about. He’d like a job, if you can give it to
him.”

Mr. Russell eyed Dave up and down. A small man was Mr. Russell. He had
a freckled complexion, a rather dried-up appearance, and an abrupt
manner; and he was as keen as tacks. He did not seem to be a man who
could handle rough teamsters; but evidently he could. Davy tried to
stand his gaze, and not to be embarrassed.

“What can you do?”

“He’ll tackle anything.”

“He’s the boy who left his shirt to the buffalo, is he?”

“Yes, sir. We all liked him with the wagons.”

“Well, I can’t send him out this time. We don’t need him with a train.”
Mr. Russell spoke directly to Davy. “Did you ever herd?”

“Not much, sir. But I think I could.”

“Well, you go on down to Leavenworth and see Mr. Majors. He’s hiring
the herding end of the business. If he wants to take you on, all
right.” And Mr. Russell turned away. He was a man of short speech.

“Much obliged, Mr. Russell,” answered the two boys.

“Come on, Dave,” bade Billy, making for the two ponies.

They mounted, to go on to Leavenworth City. This was in plain sight
from the high land where the fort was located. It was nestled
prettily in a wooded basin beside the river two miles southeast. Fort
Leavenworth was on the trail between it and Salt Creek Valley, and the
trail continued to the Missouri at the town itself.

A lively place Leavenworth proved to be. It contained about five
thousand people, living there, and a lot more who were simply pausing
until they had outfitted for the trail westward. The streets were
crowded with teams and wagons and people; and the river was dotted with
rowboats, barges and several steamboats.

Billy Cody hustled right along, without giving Dave much time to look
about. Evidently he was bound for the company office. In fact, suddenly
he said so.

“There’s the Planters’ Hotel, Red,” he spoke, pointing. “It’s the
biggest. The company’s office is right across the street, kittycorner.
See it?”

Kittycorner from the Planters’ Hotel (which was a large three-story
building, with a wide porch and a verandah, too, running around its
face) Dave saw a sign reading, in big letters, “Russell, Majors &
Waddell,” on a brick building. The streets hereabouts were more crowded
than at any other point, and the two boys had difficulty in threading
their way, dodging people and horses and oxen and wagons.

“Better tie up here,” spoke Billy abruptly, his quick eye sighting
a vacant hitching spot at the sidewalk. “This place is getting too
populous for me; can’t hardly breathe.”

They wedged in, tied their horses, and Billy led the way to the
Russell, Majors & Waddell office――headquarters of the great overland
freighting firm.

“That’s Mr. Majors at the desk,” he informed, undertone, to Dave, on
the threshold. And――“How do you do, Mr. Waddell?” he said respectfully,
as another man was brushing past them.

“How-do-do, Billy,” responded the man. “Back again, are you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, take care of yourself, my boy,” and Mr. Waddell hastened away,
as if on matters important.

“He’s the third partner,” whispered Billy. “But you don’t see him very
often. Mr. Majors and Mr. Russell seem to run the plains part of the
business.”

Mr. Waddell had been a stoutly-built man, with florid complexion and
full, heavy face inclining to jaw. Mr. Majors was almost his opposite,
being a rather tall man, although strongly built, with a kindly, sober
face and a long brown beard. As Billy and Dave approached his desk he
glanced up.

“How do you do, Mr. Majors?” said Billy, hat in hand.

“How are you, Billy?”

“This is my friend Dave Scott, Mr. Majors. He’s looking for a job. He’s
been staying at my house since we came in last month with Lew Simpson’s
train from Laramie. I’m going out again in a day or so, and he wants to
get to work. We saw Mr. Russell up at the fort, and he said for us to
come down here to see you.”

“When did you see him?” queried Mr. Majors crisply.

“We just come from him. He thought there might be a job of herding
open.”

“That boy’s pretty young.”

“He’s not any younger than I was when I started in, Mr. Majors.” Billy
spoke like a man, and Mr. Majors appeared to regard him as a man.

“Where are your parents?” asked Mr. Majors of Davy.

Dave gulped.

“I haven’t any. I was with my uncle.”

“Where’s he?”

Davy shook his head and gulped again. Billy helped him out.

“The Injuns struck their wagon on the trail and wiped them out, Mr.
Majors. The Cut Nose band had Dave, and he came into our train after
that mule fort fight. He made good with us; Lew Simpson and Wild Bill
and George Woods and everybody will say that; and he’ll make good
anywhere you put him, I believe.”

“Well,” said Mr. Majors, “if he has no folks that’s a different matter.
I don’t want to encourage any boy to leave his home when he ought to be
going to school, and getting the right bringing up generally. It’s a
rough life for a boy or man either out on the plains. Do you swear?” he
demanded, suddenly.

Dave stammered.

“I don’t mean to. I don’t think I do.”

“That’s right,” asserted Mr. Majors. “I won’t have anybody around or
working for our company who blasphemes or lies. I won’t have it at all.
There’s no sense in swearing. All right then. I can put you at herding,
if you really want to work. We’ll pay you twenty-five dollars a month,
the same as we pay all herders. Got a horse?”

“No, sir,” said Davy.

“That doesn’t matter. We’ll furnish you a mount, of course. You can
have the one that other herder’s using. I hope you’ll make a better
herder than most of the others. Herding is a business just like any
other business, my boy. Whatever you do, do well. If you make a good
herder, we’ll give you a chance at something more. Nearly everybody
has to start in at herding. Billy here did. Now he’s drawing full pay
with the wagon trains. He’ll tell you what to do. You can sign the pay
roll and start in this afternoon. Mr. Meyers,” and Mr. Majors addressed
his book-keeper, “have this boy sign the pay roll and the pledge. He’s
going on herd, with the cattle out west of town.”

“Yes, Mr. Majors,” answered the book-keeper, opening a large book.
“Come over here, boy.”

Davy thought this rather sudden, but made no comment. He walked boldly
over to the book-keeper.

“Sign here,” bade Mr. Meyers, indicating with his finger. And Davy
wrote, in his best manner: “David Scott.”

“Here’s something else,” bade the book-keeper. “Better read it. We all
have to sign it, if we work for the company.”

Davy read the slip. It said:

“While I am in the employ of Russell, Majors & Waddell, I agree not to
use profane language, not to get drunk, not to gamble, not to treat
animals cruelly, and not to do anything else that is incompatible with
the conduct of a gentleman. And I agree, if I violate any of the above
conditions, to accept my discharge without any pay for my services.”

Mr. Majors had strolled over, to inspect, as Davy signed. He nodded.

“I’m glad to see you can write, my boy,” he said. “That’s more than
some of the men can do. Billy here had to make his mark the first time
he signed with us.”

“He can write now, though,” informed Davy, loyally, remembering the
scribbling on the wagon. “I’ve seen him.”

“Yes, Billy’s found out that he’s no worse off for having put in some
time at school. He’ll be glad enough of all the school that he can get
before he’s gone much farther. Have you got bedding, my boy?”

“N-no, I haven’t,” faltered Davy. “Maybe I can find some though.”

“We can rake up a quilt or two for you,” offered Mr. Majors. But Billy
spoke quickly.

“No; we’ll fix him out with bedding. We’ve some extra quilts at the
house, Mr. Majors. I’ll get them on our way out.”

“Can you go out with him, Billy, and tell him what to do? Number two
herd is out six miles. You can find it. Stop at the fort and tell Mr.
Russell to furnish him a mule.”

“Yes, sir.”

“All right. You take him and post him.” Mr. Majors extended his hand
to Davy, who shook with him. “Do your duty, and a little more whenever
you have the chance; don’t curse, don’t learn to drink, keep Sunday as
much as you can, read the Bible, and look people in the face. Don’t do
anything your mother wouldn’t want you to do. I hope to hear a good
report of you. We need the right kind of men in the west, and the boy
like you will make the man of to-morrow.”

“Yes, sir,” said Davy. “I’ll try.”

He followed Billy out; and they remounted their ponies.

“Good,” remarked Billy, as they rode away up the thronged street.
“Mr. Majors is a queer sort, but he’s the right stuff. He’s a crank
on swearing and drinking. We all have to sign that pledge, and if he
hears a man swearing he goes straight to him and makes him quit. But
everybody likes Mr. Majors, and they all try to keep the pledge. Mr.
Russell isn’t so strict, though he backs up Mr. Majors. That’s a new
wrinkle to the plains――that pledge business.”

Davy nodded.

“There’s no sense in swearing, anyhow,” mused Billy. “Jiminy, but my
mother hated to have me start out bull whacking. It’s a tough life,
and some of the teamsters, too, are about as tough as you make ’em.
Ma saw Mr. Russell and Mr. Majors and they talked with her and said
they’d look out for me: and she read the pledge, and so she let me go.
Lew Simpson is a hard looker, you know. She didn’t like him until she
found out from Mr. Russell that he wasn’t half as bad as he seemed. I’m
mighty glad I’m here to post you on that herding business. It’s no easy
job herding a thousand cattle. But you’ll make good. All you have to do
is to tend to your job. Mother’ll fix you up with bedding, and if you
need any clothes that we haven’t got, you can get them on the company
account and they’ll take it out of your pay. See?”

So, Billy chatting and Davy listening, they trotted along on the road
up to the fort.

Mr. Russell was still at the quartermaster’s building busy loading a
bull train and checking it up. Billy reported to him, and he nodded.

“All right,” he said. “On your way out you tell Buck Bomer to give you
a mule from his outfit.”

They found Buck in the wagon camp outside the fort. He turned over to
them a little mouse-colored mule, with a rawhide bridle and an old
stock saddle. The bridle had rope lines and the saddle was worn and
ragged, and the saddle-blanket was a piece of sacking. Altogether the
equipment looked rather sorry, but Davy said not a word. He made up his
mind that he would be better than his outfit.

“You don’t care,” consoled Billy. “It’s good enough as a starter. If
you need better you’ll get it after a while. We’ll stop at the house,
and get the other stuff. Then we’ll go on. I know where the herd is.”

DAVY HAS AN ADVENTURE

At least a thousand cattle were spread out, grazing in the grassy
bottom. Much of the grass was still green, some patches had been cured
by the sun; and the broad expanse, under the blue sky, with the shadows
of the cattle now clearly cast by the setting sun, made a pleasant
picture. On the edges of the grazing herd were the herders, sitting
their horses or mules. The canvas top of the mess wagon shone white
beyond the herd. Down the hill into the valley, and up the opposite
hill, out of the valley, were toiling slowly two emigrant trains of
wagons and people, following the Overland Trail into the farther west.

“We’ll go over to the mess wagon and I’ll introduce you; then I’ll skip
back,” said Billy. “Stand in with the cook, do what the boss tells you,
mind your own business, and you’ll get along fine. Don’t be fresh,
that’s all.”

Davy resolved that he would remember. He wanted to be a success.

On their mounts they galloped across the turfy bottom, and rounding
the herd arrived at the mess wagon. Smoke was already rising from the
cook’s fire; and the cook himself was moving about, from wagon to
fire, and fussing with his row of black kettles, set beside the fire or
atop the coals. The fire had been made in a long shallow trench. The
pots had covers on them. Their steam smelled good.

The cook merely glanced up as the two boys approached. Halting and
dismounting nimbly, Billy hailed him.

“Hello, Sam.”

The cook now paused and gazed. He was a short, pudgy man, with a big
bristly moustache and a broken nose. He wore a wide brimmed hat and a
floursack apron, and boots. Odd enough he looked, cooking at the fire.

“Hello, Billy. What’s the matter?”

“Nothing much. Sam, this is Dave Scott, a friend of mine. He’s going on
herd. Dave, shake hands with Sam Bean, the best cook on the plains.”

Davy advanced and shook hands with Sam.

“Shucks,” mused Sam, surveying Dave. “Another kid, is it? Who sent him
out; the old man?”

“Yes; Mr. Majors. Mr. Russell, too.”

“Well,” said Sam, proceeding with his cooking, “I hope he’s a better
kid than that other one we’ve had. That lad was no good. All he thought
of was eatin’ an’ sleepin’.”

“Davy’ll make good, all right,” assured Billy, loyally. “I’ll back him
up on that. He came in with us in Lew Simpson’s train.”

“He’s the kid who left his shirt to the buffalo?” queried Sam.

“You bet,” answered Billy.

“Huh!” grunted Sam, now surveying Davy with new interest and a little
respect.

“Where’s the boss?” asked Billy.

“Comin’,” said Sam, with jerk of his head.

A horseman was galloping in from the herd; but part way he whirled, and
went back again.

“That’s Hank Bassett, isn’t it?” asked Billy, keen eyed. “He’s a good
one, Dave. He’ll treat you right if you don’t get fresh. Well, I reckon
I’ll light out. I’ll leave you with Sam. See you later.”

He shook hands with Dave and climbed on his pony.

“Where you bound, Billy?” queried Sam.

“Going out again Thursday with Buck Bomer to Laramie.”

“Good luck.”

“Same to you,” replied Billy, and rode away. Looking back once, he
waved his hand; Sam and Dave waved answer.

“Might as well unpack your mule an’ lay out your beddin’,” advised Sam,
gruffly, to Dave. “Wouldn’t unsaddle yet, though. Wait till the boss
comes in. Tie your mule to a wagon wheel.”

Davy promptly set about it; he unpacked his bedding, and tied his mule.

“If you’re not too busy,” quoth Sam, sarcastically, “you might fetch
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.

From the post Davy and Mr. Baxter rode on down to Leavenworth City.
Leavenworth never had seemed so busy. New buildings had gone up, the
streets were crowded with people and teams, and the levee was lined
with steamboats bound north and south. But the people all were bound
west. They had gathered from every quarter of the States. The twang
of the Yankee, the drawl of the backwoodsman, and soft slur of the
Southerner mingled in a regular hubbub.

Mr. Majors was in his office; Mr. Russell was out somewhere on the
trail; Mr. Waddell was down home at Lexington, Missouri, visiting his
family. And who should be sitting in a chair in the office but Wild
Bill Hickok――as handsome and as gentlemanly as ever.

“Hello, there,” hailed Wild Bill. “How goes it?”

Mr. Baxter nodded cheerily at him.

“Fine,” answered Davy, feeling rather awkward in his worn-out old
clothes and his long hair, but not ashamed of what he had been doing.

“I hear you’re making good, boy,” asserted Wild Bill. “I reckon you can
hold your own as well as Billy.”

“He certainly can,” claimed Mr. Baxter. “He’s the hero of the camp.”

“Bassett sent you in, did he?” queried Mr. Majors. “How are things at
the camp?”

“Same as usual, Mr. Majors,” answered Mr. Baxter. “Davy’s a hero now, I
suppose you’ve heard.”

Mr. Majors nodded with his long beard.

“So they say,” he replied simply. “Well, we’re reducing our force out
in the cattle camps now, so you two needn’t go back this fall. The
cashier’ll pay you off. And――Dick,” he continued to the cashier, “give
Davy an order for a suit of clothes with the company’s compliments.
Make it clothes, shoes and hat complete.”

Davy blushed hotly, and didn’t know quite what to do. That the word of
his adventure with the Indians had reached the office so quickly was
very embarrassing. But he was glad to get some clothes, and Mr. Majors
had spoken in earnest, so it would have been bad taste in him to make
much ado about what he had or hadn’t done. Mr. Majors wasn’t a man to
say what he didn’t mean, or to offer more than anybody deserved. So
Davy stammered “Thank you, Mr. Majors,” and, clapped heartily on the
back by Mr. Baxter, went forward to the cashier.

“Here you are,” said the cashier, shoving out the money and the order.
“What’s the news out yonder? Anybody booming Cherry Creek?”

“Yes. A bunch of men who claimed they were from there passed us coming
in,” answered Mr. Baxter. “They had a big story about plenty of gold,
but we noticed they didn’t show any!”

“Color talks,” remarked Wild Bill. “When I see color I’m going out thar
but not before.”

“Yes, we’ll all wait a bit,” commented Mr. Majors.

“Those new towns out there will make more freight business, Mr.
Majors,” said Mr. Baxter.

“Shouldn’t wonder. We’re hauling down from Laramie for them now, and up
from Bent’s Fort on the Santa Fe trail. There’ll have to be a new trail
straight across, eventually. But we’ve got about all the business we
can handle. The government work alone takes thirty-five hundred wagons,
four thousand men and over forty thousand oxen. We’ve hauled over
sixteen million pounds of government freight, most of it clear through
to Utah.”

Nearly four thousand wagons, four thousand men, forty thousand bulls!
Davy gasped. It certainly was a big company, and he was proud to be
working for Russell, Majors & Waddell, even if he was only one in the
four thousand.

“Well,” said Mr. Majors, “I want to thank you two _men_ for your
faithful service and if there’s anything more I can do for you let me
know. Baxter, I suppose you can take care of yourself for a while.
What are you going to do, my boy?”

“I don’t know,” said Davy, in doubt. “Get another job, I guess.”

“Save your money. Don’t spend it foolishly. If you want to put it on
deposit with us we’ll give you a receipt for it; then you’ll be sure of
having it as you need it.”

Davy fingered the gold pieces, making his pocket warm and heavy. There
were seven ten-dollar pieces and one five-dollar piece. He would have
liked to carry them all around for a time until he could show them to
Billy Cody or Billy’s mother. But Mr. Majors’ offer sounded sensible,
so he fished out the ten-dollar pieces and passed them over to the
cashier.

“I’ll keep five dollars,” he said.

“What are you and the Reverend going to do?” queried Wild Bill. “That
is, if it’s any of my business.”

“Oh, Davy can range around with me for a while till he’s settled,”
answered Mr. Baxter. “First thing, we’ll get a hair cut. I’m going down
to St. Louis later, where I’ve got some folks.”

“Lookee here, Davy,” pursued Wild Bill; “if you haven’t any pressing
engagement come on out to the Cody ranch with me. I’m going to ride
over thar and the Reverend can do as he pleases. The Codys will sure
be glad to see you. Mebbe you can get a job for your schooling this
winter. Thar’s a fine school opened again near the Codys, I hear.”

“That’s right. Go to school while you can. You’ll never regret it,”
put in Mr. Majors. “Then when all this country’s settled up and you’re
among people who can read and write and figure, you won’t be ashamed.
Besides, you’ll command more wages. The school house and the church
are of more value to this country than the ox teams. The people with
schools and churches are here to stay and grow.”

Davy wanted to see the Cody family again, but it seemed rather tame to
be going to school when he might be riding the plains. He hesitated a
moment until Mr. Baxter said:

“Billy Cody goes to school when he’s home. He’s found out that a little
education helps a fellow along. I shouldn’t wonder if his mother turned
him into school again this winter when he gets back.”

Since Billy Cody the “Boy Scout” went to school there must be something
in it worth while. Davy began to feel that maybe he, too, who was
a kind of hero, could afford to take a little time off from making
himself famous and attend to making himself more of an all-round man.

“All right,” he said to Wild Bill. “I’ll go and see, anyway.” He shook
hands with Mr. Baxter, who promised to keep track of him, and left with
Wild Bill.

Mrs. Cody and the girls and Turk the dog were glad indeed to see them.
Davy must answer all their questions as to what he had done since
he had been there last. He did not mean to say anything about his
adventure with the Indians, but Wild Bill told it and praised him, and
then there was more ado.

“Billy’ll be pleased to hear that,” declared Mrs. Cody. And she sighed.
“I wish he were home.”

“Have you heard from him, Mother Cody?” inquired Wild Bill.

“He sent us word from Fort Laramie that he was going on with a train
for another post.”

“He sent us some money, too,” cried Helen, proudly.

“Billy’s a good boy, all right,” nodded Wild Bill.

“I wish he were home, though,” insisted Mrs. Cody, quietly. “He ought
to have more schooling. These girls will be far ahead of him. Lack
of education will be a great handicap to him after he gets out among
cultured people.”

“That’s what we’ve been telling Davy here,” quoth Wild Bill. “The
winter’s no time for him to be on the plains, anyway. He’d better be
going to school till things open up in the spring. Do you reckon he
could get a place hereabouts where he could work for his keep while he
went to school? ’Tisn’t a right place for a boy in Leavenworth.”

“Why,” mused Mrs. Cody, flushing, “we’ve always got room for Davy or
any friend of Billy’s or yours, Mr. Hickok. Of course, there isn’t much
work for an extra hand. You see, when Billy left he hired a man to
tend to the farm. But if Davy’ll stay he’s welcome.”

“Oh, Davy’ll stay!” cried the girls, dancing gaily; and Turk barked.
“You will stay, won’t you, Davy? We’ll have lots of fun.”

But Davy promptly shook his head.

“I think you’ve got enough,” he said. Mrs. Cody did not look at all
strong, and the girls were little. “I guess I’d rather find a place
where I can work enough to pay for my keep.”

“Well,” resumed Mrs. Cody, “maybe you would feel more independent,
Davy, although you’re welcome to stay right here as long as you like.
But there’s a new family on a claim about a mile and a half over
yonder. The man’s sick and his wife’s doing too much work. I expect
they’d be glad of somebody to tend to the chores. You might go over and
see.”

“Come ahead, Davy,” bade Bill.

“You’ll be back and have supper with us and stay all night, won’t you?”
invited Mrs. Cody, quickly.

“We’ll get Dave settled first, thank you, Mother Cody,” called back
Bill. “Then we’ll be mighty glad to stop off if we come this way.”

“Goodby, Dave,” called the girls. “There’s a splendid school started.
We’re all going.”

With Bill, Dave rode to the settler’s house spoken of by Mrs. Cody.
That was tremendously kind of Wild Bill, to go to so much trouble for
just a boy; but Davy found out that this Mr. Hickok was the kind of a
man who would do anything for anybody deserving it.

The new family’s name was Shields. They were from Massachusetts. Mr.
Shields had taken up a homestead of 160 acres, and now he was miserable
with fever and ague, so that he was unable to work steadily. He and
Mrs. Shields and the baby had come by railroad to St. Louis and by
steamboat from St. Louis to Leavenworth. There they had loaded their
goods into a wagon drawn by a yoke of oxen and had settled on this
claim where they had found a cabin already standing.

It wasn’t much of a cabin, being only twelve by eighteen feet square,
and built of logs. The floor was of rough boards with wide cracks
between them; torn muslin was stretched as a ceiling to keep the dirt
of the sod roof from sifting down. Over the walls Mrs. Shields had
pasted newspapers, right side up, so she could read them sometimes as
she worked. A muslin curtain, hung on a wire, divided the room; behind
the curtain was a bed, of poles laid on notched posts and a mattress
stuffed with hay. Clothes were hung on wooden pegs. On the other side
of the curtain was a cook stove, and a table of rough-sawed slabs, and
a couple of stools.

No, it wasn’t much of a place for people like Mr. and Mrs. Shields, who
were used to a comfortable house in Massachusetts; but it was home.

All this Davy found out in due time, while he worked for his board and
lodging. At night he slept on the floor by the stove; and he must rise
at daylight to milk the cow and feed the cow and the oxen and the few
chickens, and split the wood and bring the water from the well, and
make an early start for school, which was four miles away. After school
and on Saturdays he had other chores waiting, and drove the oxen while
Mr. Shields held the plough to break the sod for the spring sowing.

VIII

THE GOLD FEVER

Even while Davy had been herding a change had occurred in this Salt
Creek Valley. The number of settlers seemed almost to have doubled,
and cabins and houses and ploughed fields were everywhere. Amidst them
ran the Leavenworth end of the great Overland Trail. Until after the
first snows the emigrants and settlers toiled along it, down the hill
into the valley and up the hill out of the valley; and all winter the
bull trains plodded back and forth. Weather rarely stopped the Russell,
Majors & Waddell outfits.

Mr. DeVinne was the teacher in the school. It was the best school
yet, according to the Cody girls, because there were more pupils, and
Mr. DeVinne seemed to know how to teach. Of course the school was not
graded; it consisted of only one room, where the boys and girls sat on
long benches, with other benches for desks. The scholars ranged from
little Eliza Cody, who was six, up to big boys of twenty. The pupils
had come from all over――from Missouri, Illinois, Vermont, Carolina,
Mississippi, and the other States east and south. Davy, who had been
herding for Russell, Majors & Waddell, and had proved his pluck, felt
as big as any of them.

Steve Gobel, who tried to be a kind of boss (when Billy Cody wasn’t
there), started in to tease Davy, who was little and red-headed. Davy
stood the teasing as long as he could; but when Steve grabbed his hair
and pulled, saying: “Here, Red! Lemme warm my fingers,” Davy flared
up. He would have fought Steve then and there, but another boy sprang
between them.

“You’d better let him alone, Steve Gobel, or Billy Cody’ll give you
another licking.”

“Yes, he will!” cried Helen Cody and all the girls. “He’s coming back
pretty soon now.”

“Aw, he never licked me. He ain’t big enough,” snarled Steve.

“Well, he’s man enough, whether he’s big enough or not,” retorted the
boys. And――――

“He did, too, lick you. And he’ll do it again as soon as he gets home,”
called the Cody girls, loyally.

Steve growled, but he strolled off and after that he let Davy pretty
much alone. Davy learned that Steve had bullied Billy Cody, too――until
in a fight Billy had been made mad enough to hurt him. Billy was the
school’s hero, for he was out on the plains doing a man’s work and
helping to support his mother and sisters. Everybody liked Billy if
they knew him, or they wanted to see him if they didn’t know him.

The cold, snowy winter of Kansas and a new West set in. The days and
nights were below zero, blizzards of wind and snow swept through
plains and valleys; and in the frontier cabins the settlers schemed
hard to keep warm. His chores at the Shields cabin and his trips to
school and back kept Davy busy; but he must make the best of his school
term, for when winter quit school would quit too. Once in a while he
stopped in at the Cody home; Mrs. Cody was putting up a large house as
a hotel and eating place for the overland travellers, particularly the
teamsters of the wagon trains. The girls named it “The Valley Grove
House.”

Then, in February, who should appear at school but Billy himself.

“Hurrah! There’s Billy Cody!”

“Hello, Red!”

“Hello, Billy.”

“When did you get back, Billy?” asked everybody.

“Yesterday.”

“Where’ve you been this time?”

“Out to Laramie and Fort Walbach at Cheyenne Pass. Been trapping on the
Chugwater, south of Laramie, too.”

“How’d you come back? With a bull train?”

“Nope. A couple of fellows and I started with our own pack outfit, but
the Injuns jumped us on the Little Blue, and we ran into snow, and we
mighty nigh never got through.”

“What you going to do now, Billy?”

“Going to school a while, I reckon.”

And so he did. He also told Davy his adventures. He had been assistant
wagon master with Buck Bomer from Leavenworth northwest to Fort
Laramie, and from Laramie south sixty miles to new Fort Walbach. After
that he had gone trapping, but hadn’t caught much. In December he had
started home mule-back with two other “men.” The Indians had chased
them in central Kansas, and they had tried to sleep in a cave until
they found that it was strewn with skeletons; and a snowstorm had
buffeted them, but at last they had reached Leavenworth.

This seemed considerable for a boy of fourteen to have done. Billy
brought home his wages, as usual, for his mother, and now he settled
down to school again. Davy was very glad to have him back.

Once in a while he and Billy rode into Leavenworth on errands. As the
winter wore away rumors of the Pike’s Peak region and the Cherry Creek
gold diggings in it grew more and more numerous. A few travellers from
that western border of Kansas (for Kansas Territory extended clear to
the Rocky Mountains) arrived in Leavenworth and declared that things
out in the Pike’s Peak region were booming. Two towns, Auraria and
Denver, had been founded on Cherry Creek; and from the sands gold was
being washed out. It was claimed that the mines would equal those of
California――and they were much nearer to the States.

Soon after Billy had come home he and Davy met Mr. Baxter on the
street in Leavenworth. Mr. Baxter looked fine, and shook hands heartily
with them.

“What are you doing for yourselves?” he asked.

“Going to school. What are you doing?”

“Oh, visiting ’round, waiting for the trail to open.”

“The green grass will sure look good,” quoth Billy, wisely. “What are
you going to do, Reverend? Bull whack?”

“No. I think I’ll strike out for the new Cherry Creek diggings.”

“Thought you didn’t count much on those stories,” reminded Davy.

“I didn’t, but I do now. Just got back from Omaha. Boys, I saw six
quills full of gold there from the Pike’s Peak country. Everybody up
at Omaha is wild about it. They’re all going. The newspapers from my
home town in Massachusetts are full of gold stories. The whole East
is excited. By spring you’ll see the biggest crowd starting on the
Overland Trail since the days of Forty-nine and the California boom.
Leavenworth won’t be big enough to hold the people outfitting here.”

“Hurrah for Cherry Creek, then!” cried Billy. “Reckon we’ll have to go,
Davy!”

“I’ll go,” agreed Davy eagerly.

“We’ll all go,” said Mr. Baxter. “Everybody’ll go.”

A lean, sallow, unshaven man in jeans and flannel shirt and boots and a
huge muffler around his neck and a round fur cap on his head had been
standing near. He nodded.

“Right you are, pards,” he put in. “That’s the place.”

“How do you know?” queried Billy, quickly.

“I’ve been thar, an’ now I’ve come back to tell my friends. Why, boys,
out thar all you’ve got to do is to pull up the grass by the roots an’
shake out the gold. Pike’s Peak is solid gold, ’most. A feller can make
a flat-bottom boat an’ set knives in the hull an’ slide down, scraping
up the gold in slivers.”

“Did you ever see that done?” demanded Mr. Baxter.

“Not exac’ly, stranger. But I’m goin’ to do it.”

That sounded like a tall story――although of course it _might_ be true.
Billy and Mr. Baxter put small stock in the tale; but it filled Davy’s
mind with delightful visions. He dreamed of taking a plough up Pike’s
Peak and ploughing golden furrows clear to the bottom.

Suddenly Salt Creek Valley and all the frontier along the Missouri
River from St. Louis up to Omaha was excited. The Leavenworth papers
printed wonderful stories of the new gold fields, where miners were
washing out the precious metal. The Georgia party of miners, some of
whom were Cherokee Indians, which had outfitted at Leavenworth last
fall and had gone out by the southwest Santa Fe Trail to the mountains
and thence north to Cherry Creek, had “struck it rich,” and had sent
back the quills of gold to prove it. Already emigrants from the East
were arriving in Leavenworth, wild to push on as soon as the spring
opened. Between themselves Billy and Dave determined to join the crowd.
It was all they could do to wait.

One day early in March Davy was making a brief call at the Cody house,
when Billy excitedly pointed from the front porch.

“There’s the first one!” he cried. “There’s the first prairie schooner
bound for the diggings! Let’s go down and meet it!”

Away he rushed; Davy followed, and so did the girls. Mrs. Cody stood
shading her eyes, watching. Across the valley crept a white-topped
wagon drawn by two yoke of oxen. Beside the wagon was trudging a man,
and behind followed another man pushing a two-wheeled cart. When Billy
and Dave met the outfit they saw that two women were in the big wagon;
one held a baby; on the other side of the wagon were sturdily trudging
a boy and girl. A big shaggy dog barked at Turk, and Turk growled back.

The wagon was a farm wagon covered with the cotton hood and stuffed
with household goods. On the sides the hood bore, in scrawly black
paint: “PIKE’S PEAK OR BUST.”

“Hello!” hailed Billy. “Where you bound?”

“To the new diggin’s, stranger,” responded the driver of the oxen. “See
our sign?”

“Do you live hyar’bouts?” asked the man who was pushing the
hand-cart――which also was loaded with household stuff and camp stuff.
The ox-team paused; the man pushing the hand-cart wiped his forehead
with a red handkerchief.

“Yes; we live up yonder near the top of the hill.”

“How long do you reckon it’ll take us to get to Cherry Creek?” pursued
the ox-team driver.

“Two months if you keep going,” said Billy.

“’Twon’t take as long as that, stranger,” replied the man. “We can
travel right smart.”

“They do say you can dig out the gold with a shovel,” quavered the
woman. “We hear tell you can dig out a pound a day. Were you ever
there?”

“No,” answered Billy. “But we’re going. Aren’t you a little early?”

“Wall, we reckoned we’d start ’arly, an’ make our pile ’fore the other
folks got thar,” explained the driver. “Thar’s a tarnel lot o’ people
gathered behind us, an’ those that come later won’t find ’nough grass
for their critters. Gee-up, Buck! Spot! Get along with you.”

Creaking, the wagon resumed its way. The man with the hand-cart pushed
in the wake. The mud was ankle deep, and Dave felt sorry for the whole
outfit.

“Better stop on the hill and rest,” bade Billy. “Guess we can give you
some coffee.”

“Nope, thank ye, stranger,” said the driver. “We’re goin’ on through.”
And he swung his whip, urging his oxen.

Billy and Dave and the girls raced ahead; and when the wagon and the
hand-cart, with the oxen and men alike panting, toiled up hill near
the Cody house Mrs. Cody rushed out with a pail of hot coffee. But the
emigrants scarcely halted to drink it. Even the women were anxious to
proceed, as if already they saw the gold.

“Poor things,” sighed Mrs. Cody, while the girls waved goodby to the
two children. “They’ll have a hard time.”

But Billy and Dave watched until the “Pike’s Peak or Bust” sign was
only a blur, and the wagon a crawling dot.

“Shucks!” said Billy. “If it wasn’t for mother and school I’d join ’em.
But I wouldn’t go by the regular Overland Trail. When we go we’ll take
the Smoky Hill trail, Dave; up the Kansas River, to Fort Riley, and on
out by the Smoky Hill branch or the Republican. That’s shorter.”

This “Pike’s Peak or Bust” outfit was only the first of a long series
of gold-field “pilgrims” (as they were called), all enthusiastic.
And soon Leavenworth City was a sight! As Mr. Baxter had predicted,
the city was scarcely large enough to hold the new-comers. Two and
three steamboats a day arrived, loaded to the gunwales, at the levee,
bringing up from St. Louis and Kansas City Eastern and Southern
people, their teams and goods.

The streets were thronged with the strangers, young and old, in all
kinds of costumes and of all professions――farmers, lawyers, ministers,
doctors, merchants, teachers――buying supplies and exchanging opinions.
The lodging houses and hotels and spare rooms were overflowing, and
around the city and in the vacant lots were hundreds of tents, where
were camped overland parties of men and whole families.

A constant procession of “pilgrims” wended slow way through the
Salt Creek Valley, past the Cody home and the Shields home, and
northwestward to the main Salt Lake Overland Trail which led up the
Platte River; at the South Platte they might branch for the “diggin’s”
by a cut-off. Many of the wagon hoods bore that queer legend “Pike’s
Peak or Bust!” Some men trundled wheel-barrows, loaded, and a few were
trying to carry packs through on their backs.

But the greatest procession went out over the new route from
Leavenworth southwest to the Kansas River; thence on to Fort Riley at
the forks, and either northwest up the Republican branch or west up
the Smoky Hill River branch. Still other people travelled by the Santa
Fe Trail――the southernmost trail of all――up the Arkansas River to the
mountains, and then north along the base of the mountains past Pike’s
Peak itself to Cherry Creek and Denver.

Mr. Russell, of Russell, Majors & Waddell, and Mr. John S. Jones
put in a stage line to Denver by the Smoky Hill route. It was called
the “Leavenworth & Pike’s Peak Express Company,” Jones & Russell,
Proprietors. Two stages, travelling together for protection against
the Indians, each drawn by four fine Kentucky mules and carrying six
passengers, left Leavenworth every morning for Denver, and covered
the 700 rolling miles in ten days. Soon the return stages would be
arriving, and everybody was expecting great news. It was calculated
that already 25,000 people had started for the diggings. The trails
were said to be white with the wagons and the camps.

The streets and the levee of Leavenworth were so full of fascinating
sights that Davy took every moment he could spare from chores and
school to go in with Billy and look and listen. The best place was
in front of the Planters’ House Hotel, across the street from the
office of Russell, Majors & Waddell. Here the stages started, and here
people gathered to bid one another goodby. The conversation was most
interesting, as people on the ground called up to passengers in the
stages.

“Send us back a sack of gold, John.”

“Hold tight to your scalps, boys.”

“Let us know how things are. Be sure and write.”

“Kill a buffalo for me, Frank. I want a good big hide, remember.”

“Leave a message for me on the top of Pike’s Peak.”

“Look out for the ‘Rapahoes.’”

“Goodby, goodby, old fellow.”

“Don’t forget to give Robinson that package from his wife.”

“Most of these people don’t know where they’re going or why,” remarked
a man near Davy, to another man. “There’ll be much suffering from this
mad rush.”

He was a tall, slender, erect man of about thirty-five, with long
bronzed, florid face, sandy complexion and crisp, sandy beard.

“That’s Lieutenant William T. Sherman, formerly of the Army. He’s
practising law here now with Judge Ewing,” said another man, aside,
to a companion. In a few more years he would be the famous “General
Sherman.”

Billy Cody, too, was of the opinion that the green-horns on the trail
would meet with trouble; and in Davy’s opinion Billy ought to know.
Already reports were to the effect that the route up the Smoky Hill and
the Republican were short of grass and exposed to the Indians, and that
the emigrants were being compelled to throw away much of their baggage.

However, this did not stop anybody from starting. Davy and Billy had
the gold fever bad. Even Mr. Shields had decided to take his wife and
baby and leave the ranch for the diggings, where he counted on making
more money in a week than he could make here in a year. So Davy only
waited on Billy, to start, himself.

“Shucks!” exclaimed Billy, in May. “I’ve got to quit, Dave, and go on
the trail again. Mother said last night ‘All right.’ She’ll let me go.
She needs the money and I’ll send her back a lot. Come on. We’ll raise
a gang and start.”

“When, Billy?”

“Right away, as soon as we get the men and the outfit. This green grass
makes me restless. Got any money left, Dave? We have to buy a wagon and
team.”

Yes, Davy had almost all his herding wages on deposit with Mr. Majors.
He was proud to say so, and to be able to pay his own way.

THE HEE-HAW EXPRESS

Now Billy wasted no time with the preparations. That was his style. The
Reverend Mr. Baxter, who had been ill in Leavenworth, and so had not
started before, promptly agreed to join the party. He and Billy and
Dave clubbed together with an outfit that Billy knew. These were Jim
Barber and Hi Wilson and another man called “Left-over Joe.” Jim and
Hi had been teamsters with Russell, Majors & Waddell bull trains; but
“Left-over Joe” seemed to be nobody in particular――and that is why they
nicknamed him “Left-over Joe.”

A big emigrant outfitting camp had been established in the Salt Creek
Valley near the Cody home, and while Jim and Hi were here getting ready
to move on, this lean, lank, very long-necked hobbledehoy of squeaky
voice and nineteen or twenty years had wandered into their camp and
adopted them. So they let him stay.

Jim and Hi had a team of mules: Billy and Dave and Mr. Baxter added an
old light wagon. The party thought themselves lucky, for oxen had risen
in price to $175 and $200 a yoke, and mules and horses were scarcer
yet. Wagons were scarce, too.

By the time that the supplies of salty pork and beans and flour and
coffee had been laid in for “grub,” and picks and spades and gold-pans
for digging out the gold and separating it, and ammunition for killing
game and fighting Indians, Davy’s money was about gone. However, that
did not matter. They all would find gold enough to last them the rest
of their lives!

Billy owned the Mississippi “yager” smoothbore musket and the two
Colt’s navy revolvers that he had used when in the mule fort. He gave
Davy one of the revolvers. With it belted at his waist, Davy felt like
a regular scout indeed. Hi and Jim also owned guns. Hi’s was a yager
similar to Billy’s. Jim’s was a heavy Sharp’s “Old Reliable” rifle, of
fifty calibre holding six cartridges underneath, and one in the breech.
It was a tremendously hard-shooting gun. Whoever had a Sharp’s “Old
Reliable” had the best gun on the plains.

The Reverend Mr. Baxter had no gun at all and did not want one, he
claimed. “Left-over Joe” had no gun at all, but wanted one badly. Hi
promised to let him shoot the yager sometime.

The Salt Creek camp was a lively place. Here were assembled a thousand
emigrants, all “Pike’s Peakers,” making ready to travel on westward and
find their fortunes. About every kind of an outfit was to be seen, and
all sorts of people. Many of the men never had driven oxen or mules
before; they had bought what they could get; some of the animals proved
not to be broken to drive, and when the green-horns tried to hitch up
the green “critters” then there was fun for the onlookers.

However, nobody was delaying to watch the “fun.” By the hundred,
parties were setting out every day from the camp as well as from
Leavenworth. Thousands of gold-seekers already had left Omaha and
Kansas City and St. Joseph. It was reported that along any of the
trails a person could walk from the Missouri River to the Rocky
Mountains on the tops of the prairie schooners――so thick was the
travel. It beat the celebrated stampede to California in 1849.

There were four trails to the “diggin’s.” The two best known were the
Santa Fe Trail, on the south, which followed up the Arkansas River
in southern Kansas, to the mountains, and then turned north for the
gold fields; and the big Salt Lake Overland Trail, on the north, which
from the Missouri River followed up the Platte River, until in western
Nebraska the gold hunters turned south for Pike’s Peak. Omaha and
St. Joseph were the outfitting points for this northern trail, and
Leavenworth traffic struck it by the government road which ran through
Salt Creek Valley on into the northwest. The Russell, Majors & Waddell
“bull trains” hauled their freight over this route.

The other two trails were new central trails, made especially for
the Pike’s Peak rush. One trail followed up the Republican River
through southern Nebraska; the other followed up along the Smoky Hill
Fork River, through central Kansas. Emigrants coming in by St. Joseph
were taking either the Salt Lake and California Overland route or the
Republican route; the emigrants outfitting at Leavenworth and the Salt
Creek Valley were taking the Smoky Hill route or else the Overland
Trail route.

By the Overland Trail (the Salt Lake and California Trail) it was
accounted 580 miles from Omaha to the diggin’s; and the Pike’s Peak
Guide-book recommended that trail. But from Leavenworth it was 100
miles further, and the Smoky Hill Trail was said to be the straightest
and the shortest. The Leavenworth & Pike’s Peak Express Company stages
had chosen that route.

“I reckon that’s the route for us,” said Hi. “I hear we can follow the
Smoky clear to the mountains, and have water all the way.”

“When the first stage comes back we’ll know more about it, but we can’t
wait,” mused the Reverend Mr. Baxter.

“Oh, we’ll get through,” spoke Billy, quickly. “And the sooner we start
the better, before all the grass and fuel are used up. Look at the
people, will you, pulling out every day!”

“Do you think one wagon will be enough to bring back our gold?”
squeaked Left-over, anxiously. “I don’t want to quit till I get a
million dollars’ worth for myself alone.”

“Then what’ll you do, Left-over?” asked Jim, with a wink at the rest.

Left-over Joe scratched his long freckled neck and looked like a
chicken.

“I’d buy a gun and have all the pie I wanted, too,” he declared
foolishly.

Now everything had been made ready. The night before the start Billy
and Dave spent in camp with the rest of the party. Mr. Shields and
family had gone; their log cabin was empty, their claim abandoned
again. If they had stayed they could have made lots of money selling
produce to the emigrants; but they, like the thousands of others,
wished to get rich quick.

This last evening in the Salt Creek emigrant camp the party elected
their officers. Hi was chosen captain or wagon-master, Billy was
chosen lieutenant or assistant, Mr. Baxter volunteered to cook, and
“Left-over” was appointed “cavarango” or herder of the two mules. This
left Jim and Davy for the general work of march and camp.

With the provisions and bedding and mining tools and other stuff the
wagon was well loaded for two mules to haul across the plains; so it
was decided that all the party except the driver must walk. They would
take turns driving and riding; and after the mules were well broken in
and the trail was rougher then probably nobody would ride.

“I reckon we ought to make twenty miles a day, with mules,” quoth
Billy, wisely. “But those oxen the other folks are using won’t make
more than twelve or fifteen miles a day. Some of ’em are liable to be
sixty days on the road.”

“Well, we’ll be lucky if we get through in thirty,” said Mr. Baxter.
“It will be nearer forty.”

“Do we have to walk forty days?” squealed “Left-over.”

“That’s nothing to a bull whacker,” said Hi, gruffly. “I’ve walked
clean from Leavenworth to Salt Lake and back again.”

“So have I,” nodded Jim. “That’s twelve hundred miles each way――and
most of it up-hill, too!”

The Smoky Hill Fork trail was to be struck at Fort Riley, 132 miles
southwest from Leavenworth. Here the Smoky Hill Fork and the Republican
Rivers joined to form the Kaw or Kansas River. Settlements extended to
Fort Riley and a short distance beyond; but after that the country was
the “Indian Country.”

“Lookee here,” suddenly exclaimed Billy Cody, that last night before
the start, when everybody was under blankets and almost asleep. “We’ve
got to have a name painted on our wagon.”

“Can’t we travel anonymous?” queried the Reverend Mr. Baxter, sleepily.

“I dunno what that means but it sounds pretty good,” spoke Hi. “Can you
spell it?”

“Oh,” chuckled Mr. Baxter, “that doesn’t mean anything.”

“Huh!” grumbled Hi. “I thought it was an animile like a hippopotamus,
mebbe.”

When the camp turned out at sunrise Billy had already been up, and on
the wagon hood he had painted, with the stick and tar-pot used for
greasing the wagon, the title: “HEE-HAW EXPRESS.” So, amidst laughter,
the Hee-Haw Express it was which, soon after sun-up, joined the
procession that, anew each day, filed out for the long trail to Pike’s
Peak.

The Hee-Haw Express, being mule-power, travelled faster than many of
the other outfits. The road certainly presented a series of strange
sights, as if everybody had thrown together whatever he could and
was hastening from a fire or a plague. The Hee-Haw Express, at amble
and fast walk, with Hi driving and his partners trudging as fast as
they were able beside, gradually passed men with packs, men pushing
handcarts and wheel-barrows, crippled ox teams, next an ox and a cow
harnessed together, next a mule and an ox harnessed together; and so
forth and so forth, all in the dust and the shouting and the rumbling
and creaking and whip cracking.

Almost all the other “Pike’s Peak pilgrims” passed by the Hee-Haw
Express waved and shouted their greetings.

“Trade you my wheel-barrow for a mule.”

“You must be in a rush, strangers.”

“What’s the fare?”

To this Billy answered gaily:

“Regular stage rates. Twenty-five cents a mile or hundred dollars to
the mountains.”

For that was what the Leavenworth & Pike’s Peak Express Company charged.

Many of the other wagons also bore signs. “Pike’s Peak or Bust!”
“Noah’s Ark!” “Root Hog or Die!” “Pike’s Peak Special!” “Bound For
the Diggin’s!”――thus ran some of the lines to be noted as the Hee-Haw
Express sturdily pressed forward.

That night the road was one continuous camp, with fires glowing and
canvas glimmering as far as the eye could see in either direction.
Parties visited back and forth, men and women exchanged news and views,
children played in the firelight shadows, babies cried, dogs barked,
and not until after nine o’clock was the trail quiet enough so that
nervous persons might sleep. However, Davy was not nervous; and from
the snores he might judge that Billy and the rest were not nervous
either.

The next day the Hee-Haw Express started early, and was on the road
even before sun-up. Billy and Hi and all were anxious to pass Fort
Riley and strike the Smoky Hill Fork as soon as possible, and in
advance of as many of these “pilgrims” as possible. The only excitement
of this day was a sudden cheer adown the line and a craning of necks
and waving of hands. Before, from the west, were approaching two
vehicles――by the looks of them, and by the four mules, stages, both!

And two stages they proved to be, as, skirting the procession of
“pilgrims,” they dashed along, bound for Leavenworth. The first bore
a lot of bright bunting and streamers, and on its sides a banner that
said: “Greetings from the Gold Mountains of Kansas.” By its dusty
appearance and the appearance of its driver and passengers, this coach
evidently had come clear from Pike’s Peak. The second coach, close
following, was its escort from Fort Riley in to Leavenworth.

Speedily the word travelled through the column of Pike’s Peakers
that the first coach actually was the first return coach from the
gold mines, and that it carried to Leavenworth $3500 in gold dust.
Leavenworth, as was afterwards reported, had a big celebration.

Of course, the sight of the travel-stained coach, and the rumors as to
what it contained and what news it bore, excited the emigrants. Some
of them began to throw away stuff in order to lighten their loads; so
that from here on to Fort Riley the trail was strewn with what Billy
called “useless plunder.” But the Hee-Haw party were experienced enough
to start out only with what they needed, and they had nothing to throw
away yet.

The last of the settlements was Junction City, just beyond Fort Riley.
While the rest of the party were making camp along with the other
“pilgrims,” outside the little town, Billy and Dave rode the mules in
to see if there were any provisions worth buying. Mr. Baxter, the cook,
said that if they could find any dried apples he would make a pie!

But there were no dried apples or any other such delicacies in rude
little Junction City, here at the edge of the Indian country. Every
store seemed to be a saloon; and the streets were thronged with rough
emigrants and soldiers from the fort. Only whom did the boys meet but
Wild Bill Hickok!

He was standing on the edge of the plank sidewalk of the one business
street, with several other men, apparently expecting something.

“Why, hello, Bill!”

“Hello, Billy. How are you, Dave? Where’d you come from, if I may ask?”

“Salt Creek,” answered Billy Cody.

“Going to Pike’s Peak,” announced Davy.

“Good enough,” approved Wild Bill. “People are taking a little gold out
o’ thar, that’s sure. But I don’t believe all I hear.”

“What are you doing here, Bill?”

“I? Well, I may go to the diggin’s myself, and I may drive stage.
To-day’s stage westbound is due now. That’s what we’re looking for.”

“She’s a comin’,” remarked one of the other men, with a nod.

Sure enough, up the trail from the east, along the north bank of
the Smoky Hill Fork, in the dusk and the dust came at a gallop the
Leavenworth stage for the Pike’s Peak country, drawn by its four fine
mules. It halted before the Junction House Hotel, and the passengers
clambered stiffly out from under the canvas top that arched over the
wagon box.

They were only two, and one from the driver’s box. The two plainly
enough were Easterners. The first was a rather young man, with a thin
sandy beard and a soft slouch hat; the second was a stoutish, elderly
man, with a round rosy face and a fringe of white whiskers under his
chin. He wore a rather dingy whitish coat; the younger man wore a
regulation duster. They both gazed about them alertly before entering
the hotel.

“Hello, Bill,” nodded the stage driver, descending, after tossing his
lines to the hostler from the stage stable――for Junction City was
Station Number Seven on the stage route.

“Who’s yore load, Tom?” queried somebody.

“That old fellow in the white coat, he’s Horace Greeley. Other fellow’s
named Richardson――Albert D. Richardson.”

“Where they from?”

“N’ York, I reckon.”

“Where they going?”

“Out to the diggin’s.”

“What line they in?”

“Newspaper fellows of some sort, I hear tell. Anyhow, they ask a heap
of questions. That old chap in the white coat he’s been speech-makin’
all through Kansas. As I understand it, he an’ that young fellow are
goin’ out to the mines to write up the country, so the people of the
East’ll know what’s true an’ what ain’t.” And Tom the driver walked on
into the hotel to wash and eat.

“Seems to me I’ve heard of Horace Greeley,” mused Wild Bill. “He’s
quite a man.”

“Sure. He’s editor of the New York _Tribune_,” asserted a man who
had not spoken before. “He’s the biggest man on the biggest paper in
the States, and what he says will influence the people more than a
stage-load of gold. Richardson’s a newspaper man, too; and another
reporter, named Henry Villard, of Cincinnati, is out at the diggin’s
now. But Greeley’s the biggest of the lot. They say only one printer in
his office can read his writing; but the old man has come out here to
get the truth, and if he tells the people to ‘go West’ they’ll go.”

“That,” quoth Wild Bill emphatically, “is the best thing that’s ever
happened to this country. But it seems to me it’s a lot of trouble for
a man to take. Do you reckon he’s going to start a paper out thar at
Cherry Creek?”

“No, sir! They say Horace Greeley is wedded to two things: his New York
_Tribune_ and his old white coat.”

“Well, if he makes any speech here to-night I’m going to hear him,”
said Wild Bill.

Horace Greeley did make a speech to citizens and emigrants, in a
partly-finished stone church. He talked on “Republicanism.” But Dave
and Billy and Hi and Jim and “Left-over” were too tired to go and hear
him; and so were the majority of the “pilgrims.” The Reverend Mr.
Baxter went in and reported that it was very good for those who agreed
with it.

Bearing Horace Greeley and Journalist Richardson, the stage continued
westward in the morning. So did the Hee-Haw Express.

“PIKE’S PEAK OR BUST!”

Already the procession had considerably thinned out. Some of the
outfits had broken down and some had quit discouraged. The Pike’s Peak
region was still 500 miles distant, and the worst of the journey lay
before. However, the Hee-Haw Express had no thought of quitting.

“We’ll have to travel under discipline from now on, boys,” spoke
Captain Hi at noon camp. “You bear in mind I’m boss, and Billy is
second boss. We’ll try to be as easy on you as we can, but what we say
goes. The only person who doesn’t need to pay much attention is the
cook. He’s his own boss. The rest of us will mount guard every night
and follow a regular schedule. I appoint Jim the official hunter,
because he’s got the best gun. Jim, you watch out for meat. Ought to
see buffalo, plenty.” And Jim nodded. “Davy, you’re assistant to the
cook. You get him fuel and water.” And Davy nodded. “Left-over and
Billy and I’ll tend to the mules.”

“What I want to know is, why don’t we ever have pie. If I’d thought
we’d eat just bacon and beans and coffee all the way across to the
mountains I wouldn’t have come,” squeaked Left-over, earnestly.

“Sowbelly and beans will make a man of you,” growled Hi. “After you’ve
stood a steady diet of that for a couple o’ months nothing can kill
yuh.” And he rose. “All right; catch up, boys. Let’s be moving.”

“Catch up” (or “Ketch up,” as Hi pronounced it) was the regulation
signal in the freighters’ trains on the plains for harnessing the mules
and oxen to the wagons. So now the span of mules were put back into
their places on either side of the tongue, and Left-over climbed into
the seat; it was his turn to drive.

Just before sunset Left-over, peering ahead from his driver’s seat,
uttered a shrill whoop and tried to whip up his mules.

“Hyar! What’re you aiming to do?” demanded Captain Hi, severely.

“Aw, can’t you let a feller be?” whined Left-over. “I was going on
ahead, is all, and see what I could buy.”

On a little hillock, before, beside the trail was what appeared to be
another stage station of canvas, but the top of the tent (for wall
tent it turned out to be) displayed in large black letters the sign:
“Grocery.” This explained Left-over’s hurry. However, as the nearest
“pilgrims” were behind he would have the grocery to himself, so
Captain Hi calmed him down with――

“Don’t be so brash about it, then. If you go and kill off one of those
mules we’ll put you in harness with the other one.”

“And that will be a pair,” added Billy, quick as a wink.

“Never mind, Left-over,” comforted the Reverend. “Maybe we can get our
dried apples there and have that pie I promised you.”

But as they toiled on nearer, the tent grocery seemed deserted. It had
no customers and no proprietor.

“Whoa!” yelled Left-over loudly, pulling down his mules opposite the
tent. “Whoa, there!” And――“Hello,” he hailed shrilly.

At this slowly emerged from between two large barrels the figure of a
gaunt, frowsy-headed man――like a dog crawling out of a kennel. The man
must have been asleep. He yawned and stretched and stared.

“Howdy?”

“Howdy, strangers.”

“What do you keep?”

“Everything.”

“Got any dried apples?” demanded Left-over, eagerly.

“Nary apple.”

“Got any crackers?”

“Nary cracker.”

“Any ham?” queried Hi.

“Nary ham.”

“Any molasses?” asked Billy.

“Nary molasses.”

“Any salt?” asked Jim.

“Nary salt.”

“What have you got, then?”

“Pickles and smokin’ tobacco, strangers. Which’ll you have?”

“That’s a great grocery stock!” scoffed Billy, as the Hee-Haw party
proceeded. “Pickles and smoking tobacco!”

“I should say!” agreed Davy. “Not much chance for a pie there!”

“I didn’t s’pose the country was going to be as bad as this,” whined
Left-over, from the wagon seat.

“Wait till you strike the wust of it,” answered Jim.

“Somebody’s broken down ahead, hasn’t he?” queried the Reverend Mr.
Baxter.

“Looks so. We’ll go on and make camp there, anyway, and see,” directed
Captain Hi.

The trail had veered apart from the Smoky Hill Fork and was cutting
through a wide, flat bottom-land, grown to short buffalo grass and
a few cottonwood trees. In the midst of the stretch was a “prairie
schooner,” halted, its white hood just visible in the gathering dusk.
Lonely enough it looked, too――solitary there with not another token of
human life near it. It did not have even a camp-fire.

In the twilight the Hee-Haw Express drew upon it and halted also. The
owner of the wagon was sitting on the tongue, smoking an old clay pipe.

“Howdy, strangers?” he greeted, coolly.

“Howdy,” they responded; and suddenly Billy nudged Davy and pointed to
the wagon hood.

“Pike’s Peak or Bust!” said the one sign; and under that had been
added: “Busted, by Thunder!”

“What’s the matter, pardner? Stuck?” asked Captain Hi.

The man jerked his thumb toward the wagon hood.

“Read for yoreself, stranger,” he bade. “Busted!”

“Where’s your party?”

“I’m the party. I sent the old woman and the kids back by stage, and I
air hyar and hyar I stay, I reckon.”

“Where are your animals?”

“My critters war a hoss and a caow, hitched together. Injuns stole my
hoss; the old caow’s had a calf daown in the willows; and I’m busted.
How far to Pike’s Peak yet?”

“’Bout five hundred miles.”

“Wall,” drawled the man, yawning, “in case my old woman doesn’t find
another outfit back at the Missouri I reckon I can wait till the calf
grows up.”

“Nothing we can do for you?” invited Mr. Baxter.

The man slowly shook his head.

“Nope, stranger. I air comfortable. ’Bout two miles on you’ll find a
better campin’ place. Water and fuel right around hyar I’m goin’ to
need, myself.”

So, thus politely dismissed, the Hee-Haw Express moved along until,
where the trail crossed a creek, they found the wood and water.

The trail stretched ever on and on. For one only six or eight weeks old
it was remarkable. Hundreds of wagons and animals had worn it wide and
plain; and, moreover, on either side of it were scattered cook-stoves,
trunks, bedsteads, bureaus, and other bulky household stuff, cast
overboard to relieve the tiring teams. Davy found a rag doll and Billy
picked up a thick hank of false hair. As Jim remarked: “A fellow could
follow this trail in the dark by stubbing his toes!”

“Busted” outfits were constantly passed. The strain of the wild march
to “Pike’s Peak” was taking its toll of the weak and the illy prepared.

The stage stations were placed from ten to twenty miles apart. They had
been located in a hurry; wagons sent out from Leavenworth by Jones &
Russell had dropped off the station agents and their outfits as fast
as possible all the way through to Denver. Some of the stations were
merely pieces of canvas laid over pole frames; and some were caves in
clay banks of streams; but under the canvas and in the caves were
living not only men but their wives.

However, the fact that the stations had been established at all in such
a rush across 600 miles of uninhabited country struck Davy as no small
feat. And every day, on this Smoky Hill route trail, a stage coming
from the west was met, and another coming from the east passed them.
The stages went galloping along hauled by four dusty mules. The report
was that the company had spent three hundred thousand dollars before
the first coach had been started, and that the expenses were eight
hundred dollars a day! The fare from Leavenworth to Denver was $100.

The sight of the two stages each day was quite an event to the toiling
Pike’s Peak Pilgrims, and they levelled all kinds of questions at
driver and passengers whenever they had a chance.

The trail did not cling to the Smoky Hill Fork, but frequently was far
north of it. Numerous side creeks were crossed, supplying water and
wood; and again there would be no fuel but the gleaning of buffalo
chips. The country was flattening out into short-grass plains――buffalo
country.

Captain Hi and Lieutenant Billy saw to it that the span of mules were
well attended to at noon and at evening, and that the daily marches of
the Hee-Haw Express were steady and systematic. So the party forged
straight along. The mules were fast walkers.

“Strangers, you must be in a powerful hurry to dig out that pound of
gold a day,” hailed a “Lightning Express” that the “Hee-Haw” passed.

This Lightning Express was taking a whole sawmill out――as well as a
large family. The household wagon bore the sign “Lightning Express”;
it was drawn by a mule and an ox, pulling together. Then followed a
freighting wagon loaded with the sawmill, and drawn by a yoke of oxen
and a horse, the horse being in front of the yoke of oxen. A woman and
several children were trudging beside the covered wagon. A man afoot
drove with his whip.

“Right you are,” replied Captain Hi to the hail.

“Have you heard any news?” quavered the woman. “Is it true that people
are putting knives in the bottom of their wagon-boxes and sliding down
Pike’s Peak and scraping up the gold in big slivers?”

“I’ve heard about it but I’ve never seen it, ma’am,” said Hi,
truthfully.

“When do we see the mountains?”

“Oh, not for a few hundred miles more,” informed the Reverend, kindly.

“Well, when you get there and see Jacob Smith from Posey County,
Injianny, tell him we’re coming as fast as we can,” she called after
them.

“We will.”

“Shouldn’t wonder if that was Jacob Smith or some other pilgrim on his
way back already,” proclaimed Jim, pointing. “Reckon he’s made his pile
and is heading home to spend it.”

“Wish we were doing the same!” squeaked Left-over. “I’d buy pie; all I
could eat.”

“I don’t,” announced Billy Cody. “Do you, Dave! I want the fun of
finding before I have the fun of spending.”

“Yes,” agreed Mr. Baxter; “it’s a heap more fun to earn what you get.”

A man on horseback was wending way down the trail from the west. It was
an exception to meet anybody travelling east; he was the first since
they had left the stage line. If he came from the Pike’s Peak country
he ought to bring much news.

So, as he met them, Captain Hi halted the Hee-Haw Express and hailed
him.

“Howdy, stranger? Bound far?”

“To the States if I can get there.”

“Come from far?”

“Far enough, mister. I come from the Cherry Creek diggin’s.”

Hurrah! Davy had been eyeing him keenly. He was an unshaven, thin
but powerful man, with cadaverous face and fierce black eyes; and he
bestrode a mule as cadaverous as himself. He carried a musket; and that
seemed to be about all. Anyway, his saddle-bags were disappointingly
flat. But he may have had his gold stowed out of sight or deposited to
his account somewhere.

“Clear from the diggin’s, eh?” pursued Hi. “How are things out thar?
Booming?”

The man stroked his black beard and surveyed the party.

“Do I look booming, mister?” he demanded. “I wouldn’t give an acre in
old Missouri for the whole of the Pike’s Peak country. You going out
yonder after gold?”

“Yes.”

“Wall, you’re on the hardest trail you ever tackled, mister; no wood,
no water, no forage, and game mighty scarce. And when you get to the
end you won’t find much. That story about gold is the biggest hoax ever
invented. From now on you’ll meet about as many people turned back as
there are going on.”

“What’s the matter? Isn’t there any gold at all?” asked Billy, dismayed.

“Mighty little and hard to get.”

“I’m going on just the same and see,” said Billy, doggedly.

“We’re with you, Billy,” encouraged the Reverend. And――“What’s
happening out there, anyway?” he queried of the returning pilgrim. “We
hear that twenty thousand people are on the road.”

“They’ve made two towns on Cherry Creek; one’s Auraria, t’other’s
called Denver now. They’ve had a meeting, too, and organized to send
a delegate to Congress from the Territory of Jefferson; and the first
Monday in June they held a convention to form the State of Jefferson.
That was after I left, so I dunno what you will find when you get
there. But you won’t find gold; at least not to amount to anything.
And my advice is turn around now ’fore you starve to death.”

With that, he clapped his heels against his mule, and continued. So did
the Hee-Haw Express――but in the opposite direction.

“I reckon,” said Captain Hi, “we’ll keep going. Little Billy said it.”

That was a great disappointment――to have such a report. The man seemed
to have spoken the truth, for from now on the returning goldseekers
rapidly increased in numbers, and they all insisted that the Pike’s
Peak country was a hoax, and the trail to it very bad. Indeed, many
“pilgrims” were turning back without having reached the “diggin’s” at
all.

The Hee-Haw party were now well out in the midst of the Great Plains
which stretched from the Missouri to the Rocky Mountains. Afar extended
on either hand and before and behind, the rolling, sandy surface,
covered with the short, woolly buffalo grass, and broken here and there
by little hills and occasional willows and cottonwoods growing by the
creeks. Jack-rabbits, as large as fox-terriers, and prairie-dogs and
coyotes and gray wolves and antelope scampered from the trail, and the
paths made by the buffalo frequently crossed and recrossed.

These paths were worn deep, like bridle paths. Jim kept the camp
in fresh meat from the antelope that he shot. He stalked them very
cleverly, as Dave thought, by lying out in the brush, and waving his
handkerchief from the end of his wiping stick. The flag seemed to
fascinate the curious-minded antelope, who edged nearer and nearer to
him, circling around and around and peering and stamping, until he shot
what he wished, at his leisure.

The meat was tender and sweet, but according to Billy and the others,
it was nothing compared with buffalo meat. Buffalo meat gave more
strength, and Billy claimed that anybody could eat it for weeks at a
time and not tire of it. So they all wanted buffalo――and especially
Left-over. He was clamorous to shoot a buffalo, and began to whine
about it continually.

“Lookee here, Left-over,” finally spoke Jim. “If we let you shoot a
buffalo will you quit this etarnel gab about that and pie?”

“I will. Truly I will, Jim,” promised Left-over.

“All right, then. As soon as we sight buffalo, where we can get at ’em,
you can shoot one, and after that shut up till we get to Denver.”

“With your gun, Jim?”

“Yes, with my gun.”

Only a few buffalo had been seen thus far. The “pilgrim” travel on the
trail had split their herds and had made them wary. But on the very
next day it was that Billy, driving the laboring mules, from the wagon
seat whooped exultantly:

“Buffalo! Plenty o’ ’em. There’s yore chance, Left-over.”

Left-over came running from the rear.

“Where, Billy?”

“Over there, of course. Don’t you see them?” and Billy reined in his
mules.

“I see ’em! I see ’em!” yelled Left-over, much excited. “Where’s my
gun? Is it loaded? How’ll I get ’em?”

He would have grabbed the gun from Jim and have set right out afoot,
but Captain Hi and Jim both stopped him.

“Easy, easy, now!” exclaimed Hi, gazing calculatingly. “Thar’s buffalo
enough for all, I reckon. Must be two thousand. But if you try to run
’em down on foot we’ll lose every one. Let’s unharness the mules, fust.”

Left-over promptly jumped to help. The buffalo were plain in sight. To
the right of the trail, slightly ahead and just out of gun-shot, they
were grazing in a great herd which speckled the landscape like a mass
of gooseberry bushes.

“Looks as if we had ’em all to ourselves,” quoth Jim, as the mules were
speedily unharnessed from the wagon. “No ‘pilgrims’ around to interfere
with this herd. Reckon if we don’t get a mess it will be our own fault.”

“Where do I come in?” whined Left-over, anxiously. “You promised me,
didn’t you?”

“Yes, I did, and I never break a promise. Hyar’s your gun, now. You
stay right whar you are. We’ll drive the buffalo in to you. Otherwise
you’ll jest shoot up the landscape and mebbe yourself or us in the
bargain. Lend me one of your shooting-irons, Billy. The pistol’s
enough. Thanks.”

So saying, he vaulted on one of the mules, Hi did the same. They rode
bareback with the traces tied short, and used the coiled lines as
bridle-reins. Hi carried his long-barrelled Mississippi yager, Jim held
the Colt’s navy revolver in his right hand. On a wide circuit they set
out, as if to get behind the buffalo and turn them toward the wagon.

“What are we goin’ to do? Where do we come in?” wildly appealed
Left-over.

“We stay here, I reckon,” said Billy coolly.

“You and Davy and Left-over can whang away,” bade Mr. Baxter, with a
laugh. “I’ll sit in the reserved seat and see the fun.”

So saying, he calmly clambered aboard and into the seat, where he
stowed himself at languid ease.

“If those mules aren’t broken to buffalo there won’t be any fun――except
for the buffalo,” observed Billy.

“Yes, Hi and Jim are liable to be stampeded clear back into
Leavenworth,” chuckled Mr. Baxter.

With the four at the wagon keenly watching, Hi and Jim pursued their
circuit. They rode at rapid gallop, and presently disappeared in a
shallow draw. The next sign of them was the action of the buffalo
herd. Animals on the farther outskirts began to lift their heads and
stare and show uneasiness. Gradually the whole herd were staring in the
one direction; and on a sudden, like a vast blanket tossed by the wind,
forth they lunged into motion. And with reason, for out into the open,
on the far side of them, came racing hard on their long-eared mules, Hi
and Jim.

“Hurrah!” cried Billy Cody, exultant. “Those mules are O. K. Lie low
and stay by the wagon, fellows. Meat’s coming.”

“What’ll I do?” yelled Left-over. “Where’ll I go?

“You do as I say,” ordered Billy, thoroughly alive. “Stay right here.
We may have to split that herd.”

On blundered the buffalo. The roll of their hoofs sounded like
heavy thunder, and the dust floated over their dark backs. Pressing
valiantly, Hi and Jim held their mules in the rear, and, still
circuiting, forced the herd over toward the wagon.

“Great Cæsar’s ghost, boys!” gasped Mr. Baxter, straightening in his
seat. “Don’t forget that I’m up aloft here, and I’ll land hard if that
herd strikes us!”

The herd arrived almost before he had finished speaking. The
foremost――a big cow in the lead――went streaming past just in front of
the wagon; and the whole van of the shaggy, crazy army loomed in one
grand charge on either hand.

“I’ll tend to this side; you and Left-over tend to the other,”
shouted Billy to Dave. “Give it to them! Split ’em! Split ’em! Wave
yore hat, Reverend.”

[Illustration: “GIVE IT TO THEM! SPLIT ’EM! SPLIT ’EM!”]

“Now’s your chance, Left-over,” exclaimed Dave, levelling his revolver.

The Reverend waved his broad hat and shouted lustily.

“Bang!” spoke Billy’s yager. Davy pointed his revolver at the nearest
buffalo and pulled trigger. He dimly saw the huge creature plunge
forward to its knees, but he did not wait to see more; he only pulled
trigger as fast as he could right into the faces of the pelting herd.
He had a vague vision of bulging eyes and lolling red tongues, and
short horns and tangled foreheads and lunging shoulders, and ever the
dark, panting mass flowed past.

Suddenly a tremendous report in his ear well-nigh deafened him, and
Left-over yelped loudly, crying, “I got him! I got him!”

“Hooray!” screamed the Reverend, choking with glee, and laughing so
that he doubled and swayed.

Left-over was on his back, heels high, gun waving. He sat up, pulled
trigger, and over he went again, kicked flat by the heavy Sharp’s. At
every shot he yelped, sprawled backward, sat up, shot, and yelped again.

Davy’s revolver was emptied, and he had space to watch. Now Left-over’s
gun was empty, too; and dusty and perspiring and wild-eyed, he picked
himself up.

“How many did I kill?” he squealed hoarsely. “Are all those mine?”

For the herd had passed, the wagon was untouched, and the chief token
of the battle was the half dozen bulky forms lying prone almost in the
very trail itself. Davy drew a long breath. That had been an exciting
moment. Hi and Jim came galloping in, their mules lathered and puffing.

SOME HALTS BY THE WAY

“Good work,” praised Hi, with casual glance. “Thar are three or four
more out yonder. Reckon we’ve got meat enough now for a while.”

“Which are mine?” squealed Left-over. “Did you other fellows kill any?
I’d have killed fifty if I’d had any more cartridges.”

“You killed one, all right, Left-over,” asserted the Reverend. “I saw
you. You killed him six times and once more for luck.”

“No, I didn’t, either!” disputed Left-over. “I killed seven, mebbe
more. I shot seven times.”

“Which is it, Reverend?” asked Hi.

The Reverend Mr. Baxter pointed, with a grin; and grinning, Hi and Jim
rode forward to inspect. Davy went, too; he was certain that a couple
of buffalo had fallen to his revolver, and as there were only three on
this end of the wagon, he did not see where Left-over’s seven could be.

Hi and Jim were gazing down upon a huge buffalo bull, who lay with his
nose touching the fore wheel of the wagon. He made a great pool of
blood, which flowed from wounds in his head and his shoulders and back
and legs and everywhere, apparently.

“You certainly peppered him, Left-over,” assured Hi. “I reckon he’s
dead.”

“Did I do all that?” queried Left-over. And he began to strut. “Well,
I think that’s pretty good. If I hadn’t been here he’d have run right
over the wagon. I picked him out on purpose. But I must have killed
a lot more.” And chattering and strutting he roamed about, every few
seconds returning to examine the holes that he had made or to thrust
the carcass with his toes or to proclaim how large it was.

“You surely made your mark. Now you can rest a while,” chuckled Jim.
“What’s your count, Billy?”

“Two at my end,” reported Billy, who had shot and killed, and had
reloaded like lightning and shot and killed again.

“And two for Davy, and another who’s dropped yonder; and those that
Jim and I got. That makes a mess,” said Hi. “Wall, reckon we’d better
butcher ’fore the wolves spoil the meat. You fellows go ahead here, and
Jim and I’ll fetch in the rest.”

“Davy didn’t do so bad, himself; did he?” remarked Mr. Baxter, climbing
out of the wagon. “Did you aim, Davy?”

“No,” confessed Davy; “not after the first shot. My eyes were full of
buffalo.”

“Mine’s the biggest, anyhow,” boasted Left-over. “If I hadn’t shot him
so much he’d have got away.”

With Davy and Left-over helping the best that they could, Billy and the
Reverend dressed the buffaloes that were near the wagon; and before
they were done Hi and Jim came in, packing the best portions of those
lying out in the wake of the herd. Even though only the best parts――the
humps and rib roasts――were taken, the outfit had what looked to be more
meat than they could use. But Hi and Jim were up to snuff.

“We’ll jerk this as we go,” said Hi. “Cut it into strips, fellows.”

So they cut much of the meat into strips about two inches wide and as
thick as one’s finger and a foot long, and hung it on cord all around
the wagon, row after row. So dry was the air and so pure out here in
the great open plains that before the wagon had travelled an hour the
strips already were curing hard and dark. They resembled strips of
leather. That considerable dust settled on them apparently did no harm.

“Now they’ll keep forever,” declared Hi, striding along after a brief
inspection. “You can chaw ’em as they are, or fry ’em; and you’ll find
’em the sweetest meat you ever stuck between your jaws. Thar’s nothing
better than buffalo jerky.”

That afternoon they passed another stalled Pike’s Peak outfit――a whole
family, this time, with their wagon mired down to the hubs in a boggy
place that sometimes was a creek. The canvas top proclaimed: “Root Hog
or Die! We’re from Ohio. Bound for the Gold Fields.”

“Started rooting a leetle early, haven’t you?” queried Hi, as the
Hee-Haw Express halted to survey.

A thin, sallow woman was sitting on the ground holding a baby. Three
children were playing about. A cookstove stood out, with dishes
scattered around. A yoke of scrawny lame oxen grazed near.

At Hi’s good-natured hail the woman gave a weak, tired answer.

“Howdy, strangers. Yes, ’pears like we’re stuck. We’ve been here since
yesterday. Can’t seem to get out.”

“Are you alone?” asked Mr. Baxter.

“No, sir. But my man he’s thar in the wagon, sick. Reckon he’s got the
janders, and he isn’t any good.”

But a boy younger than Davy walked forward from the other children. He
was a ragged, sharp-faced youngster, and now full of business.

“I’m boss of this outfit,” he asserted. “Say, can’t you hitch on your
mules an’ give us a lift. Those oxen of ours can’t pull grass up by the
roots, they’re so plumb wore out. It’s a hard trail, strangers.”

“Sure we can,” replied Hi, promptly. “Unhitch, boys. Let’s snake ’em
out o’ thar.”

“Want our oxen, too?” keenly queried the boy.

“Nope, sonny. We can haul the wagon, but we can’t haul the bulls at the
same time.”

At shout and crack of lash the Hee-Haw mules sturdily put their
shoulders to their collars and with heave and groan the wagon rolled
out to the firm ground.

“Much obliged,” said the boy. “What do we owe you?”

“Nothing,” answered Hi.

“Strangers,” spoke a quavering voice, and the man himself poked his
face out from under the hood, “how’ll you trade some of that meat for a
sack of flour. I’ve a powerful hankering for fresh meat.”

He was as yellow as a sunflower, and looked pretty miserable.

“Take ten feet of it and welcome,” proffered Mr. Baxter at once. “We
don’t want your flour.”

“No; we’ve got plenty flour,” added Hi.

“Thank you,” said the woman, “but we don’t travel on charity. My man’s
got a turrible hankering for meat, and if you’ll trade we’ll be right
glad to dicker with you. I reckon you can use the flour, can’t you?”

“Just as you say, then, ma’am,” responded Hi. “But you’re welcome to
the meat.”

Billy was already slashing at a string of the jerky; down it came.
Seeing this, the Ohio boy dived into the wagon and lustily dragged
forth a sack of flour.

He shouldered it and staggered with it toward the Hee-Haw wagon. Billy
sprang to take it, but the boy shook his head stubbornly.

“I’m man enough to tote this,” he panted.

“I reckon you are, sonny,” grinned Hi. “But you’ll lemme help you toss
it into the wagon, won’t you? You’re so strong and sassy you’re liable
to bust a hole through the box!”

“How far to Pike’s Peak, strangers?” asked the woman, anxiously.

“A few hundred miles, ma’am.”

“It seems a powerful long road,” she sighed. “We’ve come clear from
Ohio; drove the whole way. We started last fall, an’ wintered in
Missouri. That’s where this baby was born.”

“We’ll get there, ma,” encouraged the boy. “Pap’ll feel better now, an’
we’ll go a-whoopin’.”

“I hope so,” she faltered. “But they do say there isn’t any gold,
anyhow.”

Davy felt sorry for her. Evidently so did the Reverend Mr. Baxter.

“What is your name, if you please?” he asked.

“Jones. Mrs. Jasper Jones. My man’s a blacksmith.”

“Well, Mrs. Jones, we understand there’s quite a town going up out at
the mountains; and if we get there before you do we’ll trade this flour
in for a corner lot and your husband can start in blacksmithing.”

“Will you?” she exclaimed, brightening. “Now that’s mighty kind of you.”

“I’ll take care of you, ma,” comforted the boy, quickly. “I’ll take
care of you an’ pap, too, as soon as we get where there’s some work.”

“I believe you will, sonny,” spoke Jim admiringly. “You’ll make the
fur fly. We’ll tell ’em you’re coming, so they’ll leave space for you.”

And Billy added as good measure:

“When you get to the diggin’s, if you don’t see me you ask for Billy
Cody. I’ll fix you out.”

“Aw, crickity!” gasped the boy, staring. “Say――are you Billy Cody, the
Boy Scout?”

“I’m Billy Cody, all right,” responded Billy, now somewhat confused,
while Hi and Jim and Mr. Baxter laughed loudly.

“We know you. We read all about you in the paper,” proclaimed the boy,
excited. “That time you fought the Injuns. Say――will you shake hands
with me?”

“Aw,” stammered Billy, trying to hide behind the wagon, “forget about
that, will you? I’m nobody.”

“Terrible modest all of a sudden, isn’t he!” chuckled Jim, as he and Hi
and the Reverend finished harnessing the mules again.

“I killed a big buffalo! Biggest one you ever saw!” squealed Left-over.
“Shot him all to pieces jest as he was running into us. Didn’t I,
Billy?”

“Hooray for Left-over!” cheered Hi. “Well, catch up, boys. We’d better
be moving or we’ll never get thar.” And he addressed the other outfit.
“Can we do anything more for you?”

“No, thank you, strangers,” said both the woman and the man. “We can
make it, now our wagon’s out. And that meat’ll taste powerful good.”

“Goodby, then,” called the Hee-Haws.

“Goodby.” And the woman added. “Don’t forget that corner lot.”

“We won’t.”

The timber lining the course of the various streams had shrunken, and
the streams themselves were dwindling ever smaller. It was a barren
country, this, wide and sandy and dotted with occasional thumb-like
hills called buttes. Across it wound the trail, marked by dust and
canvas-topped wagons.

“We must be getting near the mountains, boys,” called Hi. “That last
station agent said we were only two hundred miles from Denver.”

“We ought to see them, then, pretty soon, I should think,” remarked Mr.
Baxter.

“The chances are we’ll be looking for water instead,” declared Jim.
“The country’s going dry on us.”

The trail had swerved in to the Smoky Hill Fork again; and the Smoky
Hill Fork itself seemed about to quit. It contained only a mere trickle
of water.

“You can follow the stage route on west to the Big Sandy,” informed
a squad of returning Pike’s Peakers, “or you can cut over to the
northward and find water there. It’s more than twenty-five miles to
where the stage route strikes the Big Sandy, and there isn’t any water
even then. But we hear tell there’s water on the short cut to the
north, where you strike the Big Sandy higher up.”

Hi nodded thoughtfully.

“All right,” he said. “How’s the country north?”

“There’s nothing to brag on anywhere you go in this whole region,
stranger. We’re bound back to the States. We’ve had enough. But if
you try the short cut north watch out for the Injuns, ’Rapahoes and
Cheyennes both.”

Hi nodded again.

“We will.”

Davy noted Left-over’s mouth open and his eyes begin to pop. Presently
Left-over could hold in no longer.

“Lookee here,” he squealed. “Let’s quit. Let’s turn around with those
other fellows and go home. I’m tired, and I don’t feel very well, and
there isn’t anything at the other end anyhow.”

“If you want to quit you can join the next party bound east. We can
do without you,” spoke Jim. “But I’m going on if I have to carry the
mules.”

“So am I,” declared Billy; and the others, including Davy, felt the
same way.

“I reckon Left-over’s afraid of the Injuns,” commented Hi.

This seemed to arouse Left-over’s wrath.

“I’m not, either,” he squealed frantically. “The Injuns had better not
bother _me_. Did you see the way I downed the big buffalo? That’s what
any Injuns’ll get who tackle _me_. You fellows don’t know me when I’m
mad. I’m bad. I’m a regular tarrer. I’m half horse and half alligator.
Those Injuns had better keep out of my way!”

“We’re mighty glad of your company, Left-over,” claimed Mr. Baxter
soberly. “If I were you I’d ride the trail and hire out to emigrant
parties to see them through safely.”

Left-over continued to bluster as they marched; and Billy only remarked
to Davy:

“If his ‘do’ is half as big as his ‘tell’ he could lick Wild Bill,
couldn’t he?”

Late that afternoon Hi pointed to the north.

“Here’s a chance for Left-over,” he called. “We’re going to have
visitors!”

“Injuns!” said Billy quickly, shading his eyes and peering. They all
peered――Davy, who was driving, from the wagon seat.

A band of horsemen were rapidly approaching across the level sandy
plain. By their figures and the way they rode Indians they certainly
were; some twenty of them. Left-over bellowed wildly.

“I see ’em!” he cried. “I see ’em! Gimme a gun! Get behind the wagon!
Aren’t you going to stop? Going to let us all be scalped?”

“Quit your yawp!” bade Hi, roughly. “Drive along, Davy. Handle your
guns, boys, so they’ll know we’re ready. Don’t let them think we’re
afraid. I’ll tend to them at the proper time.”

Minding these instructions of Captain Hi, the Hee-Haw outfit proceeded
as if intent on their own business. Left-over whimpered and showed a
strong disposition to climb into the rear of the wagon, but Billy said
sternly:

“None of that! You stay outside. Thought you were an Injun-fighter.”

“I am,” piped Left-over. “I was going to protect the wagon.”

“Huh!” grunted Billy.

Up on the seat, in plain sight, driving the mules, Davy felt rather
alone and exposed; but he drove steadily. The mules were pricking their
long ears and showing uneasiness.

“Watch your animals, Dave,” cautioned Jim. “A mules hates Injuns wuss
’n a rattlesnake.”

And Davy hung tight.

The Indians bore down at full gallop, as if to cut the wagon off. But
at sight of the guns in the hands of Hi and Jim and Billy, when within
a hundred yards they reined in sharply and the leader threw up his
hand, palm outward. Hi answered with similar sign. He rode forward
halfway, so did the Indian; they met.

“’Rapahoes,” exclaimed both Billy and Jim.

“Regular beggars,” commented the Reverend, easily. “Hi’ll fix them.”

Hi and the Arapaho leader came riding toward the wagon, and the others
in the band slowly edged closer. They were armed mainly with bows and
spears, and did not look very formidable.

“Just a lot of rascals out on a thieving expedition, picking up what
they can from the emigrants,” announced Hi. “But of course they claim
to be ‘good.’ The chief here’ll show you his recommendations.”

The chief (who was a villainous appearing old fellow, cross-eyed and
marked by small-pox and wearing a dirty ragged blanket) passed from one
to another of the Hee-Haw company, saying “How, how?” and shaking hands
and extending a bit of dingy paper.

When the paper reached Davy he read:

“This Indian is Old Smoke. He’ll steal the tail off a mule.
Watch him and pass him along.

“PIKE’S PEAKER.”

The chief grinned and grunted, evidently well pleased with himself and
the impression that he thought he was making.

“Soog!” he said eagerly. “Soog!”

“No sugar,” answered Hi. “Drive on, Dave. Needn’t stop.”

But the old Indian kept pace.

“Tobac’. Give tobac’?”

“Nope,” answered Hi, shaking his head. “Puckachee! Be off! Vamose!”

“Look out for those other Injuns!” suddenly warned Billy, the alert.
“They’re coming right in!”

“Don’t let ’em!” begged Left-over, excited. “Give him some sugar, so
he’ll go away. I’ll give him some.”

“No, you won’t,” retorted Hi, quickly. “Then he’ll want something else.
Here, you――” and he spoke in earnest to the chief. “Puckachee!” And
Hi waved his hand and patted his yager meaningly. “Get! All of you! No
soog, no tobac’, nothing. Keep close to the wagon, boys,” he warned to
his party, “and show ’em we mean business. Drive the mules right along,
Dave.” He shouted to the advanced Indians: “No! No!” And facing about
shifted his gun as for action.

The chief had paused, uncertain; and now his followers paused. The
Hee-Haw wagon, flanked by its body-guard, with the mules snorting and
straining but controlled by Davy, pressed on. In a moment the chief
rode back to his band, and all went cantering away.

“Lucky for them they didn’t try to make us trouble,” boasted Left-over,
changing his tune but still suspiciously pale. “We’d have shown ’em!”

“Lucky for us, you mean,” growled Hi. “If once those fellows had got in
amongst us and started to crowding us thar’s no knowing what mightn’t
have happened. That’s the mistake lots of these emigrants make. They
try to parley and give presents, thinking they’re buying the Injuns
off; and fust thing they know they’re overrun and helpless and lose
their whole outfit.”

“Were you scared up there, Dave?” called Billy.

“No. Were you down there?” retorted Dave.

“Not so anybody noticed it, I hope,” answered Billy.

“Well, one thing’s certain,” said Jim. “We’ve got wuss ahead of us
than Injuns, I reckon. Water’s petered out.”

Before their eyes the shallow head-waters of the Smoky Hill Fork
disappeared abruptly, as if soaking down through the sand of its bed.
Davy checked his mules while Hi and the others surveyed before. Not a
token of water showed beyond or as far as they could see.

Billy Cody had promptly trudged on in the advance; and now he shouted
and waved.

“Trail forks,” he reported. “One fork keeps on, other turns off to the
right.”

“We’ll follow that right fork as far as we can before dark,” quoth Hi.
“How’s the water bar’l? Fill her up.”

The Reverend Mr. Baxter sprang to the river bed and with the camp spade
dug vigorously. The others took pails and pans and kettles and carried
water, as fast as the hole supplied it, to the big cask that, slung
fast at the rear of the wagon, formed part of the trail kit.

It was slow work filling this cask through the bung-hole, but Hi kept
them at it until the cask was well-nigh running over. By this time dusk
was settling, and with a shrewd glance about at the landscape Captain
Hi said:

“Unspan, boys. We might as well camp right hyar. But it’s mighty poor
grazing for the mules, I tell you!”

XII

PERILS FOR THE HEE-HAWS

Many emigrants had camped here, evidently. The grass had been eaten off
for several acres around, and Davy roamed in a circle of a quarter of a
mile before he had gleaned enough buffalo chips for the supper fire.

“Better get enough for breakfast, too, Dave,” warned Mr. Baxter, the
cook, with a weather-wise eye cocked at the horizon. “Hear the thunder?
We’re liable to be soaked and so will the chips.”

Buffalo chips when dry were fine, quick, hot fuel; but when wet they
were hopeless, like soggy paste-board. Mr. Baxter’s warning had been
well founded, for the air was heavy and warmish, and from some distant
point echoed the rumble of a storm.

Up to this time the journey from Leavenworth had been very comfortable
as to weather, with sunny days and occasional little rains. But,
according to Billy and all, some of these plains storms were regular
“tail twisters” and “stem winders,” drowning even the prairie-dogs out
of their holes!

“Left-over’s first on guard to-night,” directed Captain Hi. “We must
keep eye and ear open for those Injuns. They may sneak up and run off
our mules.”

“They’d better not try it when I’m on guard,” blustered Left-over, in
his funny squeak. “You’ll lemme have your gun, won’t you, Jim?”

“Not much!” rapped Jim. “I may want that gun myself. Take one of
Billy’s. Let him have your yager, Billy. What have you got in it?”

“A bullet and three buckshot. I loaded her for Injuns.”

“That’s right. Left-over can do a toler’ble lot of shooting with that
load.”

Pleased, Left-over took the gun and posted himself just outside the
firelight, where he could oversee camp and mules (now tethered near)
and any prowling figures approaching. The night settled black and
thick, with the stars faintly twinkling through a haze; but wrapped in
his blanket beside Billy, Dave soon fell asleep.

He was awakened by a loud bang, and a louder howl from Left-over, who
seemed to be stepping on everybody at once.

“Injuns! I’m killed! Help! Murder! Wake up! Why don’t you wake? Help!
Murder! Injuns! Injuns!”

Before Davy had collected his own wits and was out from the blanket
Billy had sprung up like a deer; with the one motion he was on his
feet, free of the blanket, revolver in hand, ready to obey Captain Hi’s
sharp voice.

“Shut up! (to Left-over, who was cavorting around like whale in a
flurry). Lie low, boys! Over here, together, away from the fire. Where
are they, Left-over? What’s the matter? What’d you see?”

“I’m killed,” wailed Left-over. “The whole country’s full of
Injuns――’Rapahoes. I shot into ’em when they were sneaking up, and then
they shot me through the head. It all happened at once. But I saved
the mules. I gave my life for ’em, and you-all.” And Left-over groaned
vigorously.

Half deafened by the wails of Left-over, Davy had been listening hard
for Indian whoop or rustle, and peering for shadowy forms. But he
heard only the breathing of his companions and the grunty sighs of the
aroused mules. Not a figure, except those of the shadowy mules, just
visible against the sky-line, could be descried.

“Aw, shucks!” grumbled Billy, suddenly, breaking the suspense. And
standing boldly, he strode to the smouldering camp-fire and thrust a
bit of paper into the live ashes. He made a plain target, but he did
not seem to care, and waited for the paper to flare.

In the flare they all stared around; the mules were the first things
noted――but Mr. Baxter exclaimed:

“Look at Left-over! By jiminy, he is wounded! Start that fire more or
make a torch so we can see. Wait a minute, Left-over.”

Left-over certainly presented an alarming sight. His face was welling
blood, which streamed down upon his chest. His eyes rolled and he
groaned dismally.

As Billy made another flare, Jim, nearest to Left-over, hastily
examined, with eyes and deft fingers, Left-over groaning now terribly.

“Don’t find anything――there ain’t any new hole; mostly mouth,” Jim
reported. “Can’t you hold your yawp, Left-over, long enough to tell us
what happened to you?”

“I saw the Injuns sneaking up and we all shot at the same time, and
I killed them and they killed me,” sobbed Left-over. “If you don’t
believe me go out and look.”

“I know,” quoth Billy Cody. “That gun kicked him in the face and plumb
broke his nose! She was loaded to do business.”

“Huh!” grunted Left-over, venturing to sit up and feel of his face.

“If you fellows’ll watch I’ll scout around a bit and see what’s what
outside,” proffered Billy. “I keep seeing something lying out yonder.
Shouldn’t wonder if Left-over did kill an Injun.”

The lightning was fitful but incessant; its pallid flashes played over
the landscape――momentarily revealing the drooping mules, the spots of
sage, the wagon, the faces on Davy’s right and left, and (as seemed to
Davy) exposing, for a brief instance, a dark mass lying farther out on
the prairie.

“Well――――” began Captain Hi; but he was interrupted. As if borne on the
wings of a sudden cool gust from the west there came fresh blare of
thunder and glare of lightning. Peal succeeded peal, flash succeeded
flash, with scarce an interval. Hi’s voice rang sternly.

“Billy, you and Dave see to those mules, quick, or they’ll stampede.
The rest of you pitch what stuff you can into the wagon and stretch
guy-ropes to hold her down. This is an old rip-snorter of a storm, and
it’s coming with its head down and tail up!”

Nobody paused to question or debate. The storm seemed right upon them.
Following Billy, Dave leaped for the mules.

“Tie ’em to the wagon wheels,” yelled Billy, in the pale glare tugging
at a picket pin.

He and Davy hauled the mules along to the wagon, where Hi and Jim, Mr.
Baxter and even the gory Left-over were hustling frantically to put
things under cover and make the wagon fast with guy-ropes stretched
taut over the top.

But the storm scarcely waited. The bellow of the thunder and the fierce
play of the lightning increased. There was a pause, a patter, a swift
gust; and rushing out of the inky night charged the rain.

Rain? Sheets of it! Blinding, drenching sheets of it, driven by gust
after gust, and riven by peal after peal, glare after glare.

“Hang to the wagon, everybody!” shouted Captain Hi; and Davy, hanging
hard, could see, amidst the cataract of water, his partners also
hanging hard to guy-ropes and wagon-sheet corners. The mules stood
drooped and huddled, their ears flat and their tails turned to the
storm.

Never had there been such lightning, never such thunder, never such
rain! All in a moment, as it seemed to Davy, he was soaked through and
through, and the ground under him was running with water an inch deep.
The wagon top bellied and slapped and jerked, and every instant was
threatening to tear loose and sail away, or else lift the wagon and all
with it.

“Hurrah!” yelled Billy gaily, braced and panting, as he tried to anchor
his corner. Nothing daunted Billy Cody. “Now we’ve got water a-plenty!”

As suddenly as it had arrived the bulk of the storm departed, leaving
only a drizzle, and a very wet world. The Hee-Haw party might release
their grip on the wagon, and take stock. The rain had driven through
the canvas top into the bedding and other stuff, and the rest of the
night bid fair to be rather uncomfortable.

“What are we going to do now?” whined Left-over.

“Do the best we can,” answered Captain Hi. “Stand up or lie down,
whichever you please, till morning.”

“Aren’t you going out to look at my Injun?”

“He’ll keep. We’ve got enough to tend to right hyar.”

Mr. Baxter lighted the lantern, and they overhauled the bedding.

“Come on, Davy,” quoth Billy. “I’m going to sleep. Crawl in and we’ll
shiver ourselves warm.”

Billy’s buffalo robe was spread down on a spot where the rain already
had soaked into the sandy soil, and snuggled beside him, under a
blanket, dressed just as he was, Dave soon found himself growing warm.

“’Twon’t hurt us any,” murmured Billy. “I’ve been wet this way many a
time before. If we don’t change our clothes we won’t catch cold.”

That was fortunate, for they had no clothes to change to!

When Dave awakened, the sun was almost up; he was nearly dry, and had
not been uncomfortable, after all. The Reverend Mr. Baxter was trying
to start a fire with bits of wood from some of the boxes in the wagon,
and to dry out a few buffalo chips. Left-over was snoring lustily, but
the rest of the camp was turning out. Billy, who was sitting up, gazing
about, whooped joyously.

“Look at Left-over’s Injun!” he cried, pointing. Out he sprang and
hustled across the plain. The camp began to laugh――all but Davy, who
stared, blinking, and Left-over, who stirred, half aroused.

At the dark spot, which was Left-over’s Indian, Billy stopped; he waved
his hand and cheered, and came back, dragging the thing. As he drew
near, Davy saw what the others had seen. The Indian was a big calf!

“Shot it plumb through the head!” yelped Billy. “’Rah for Left-over!”

“What is it? What’s the matter?” stammered Left-over, struggling to sit
up, while he blinked, red-eyed.

“Better take his tail for your scalp, Left-over,” bade Jim. “It’s a
pity we don’t need meat, but you can butcher him if you want to.”

Not for some weeks did the Hee-Haw outfit get done teasing Left-over
about his “Injuns.”

“Anyway,” soothed Mr. Baxter, “you made a good shot. Nobody can deny
you that.”

“Huh!” agreed Left-over, swelling importantly. “I knew it was
something, and I drew bead and whaled away.”

“Purty good to draw bead in the dark,” remarked Captain Hi. “Left-over
must have eyes like a cat!”

They ate a rather scant breakfast, mostly cold; and leaving the
luckless calf (which must have wandered from some emigrant party) minus
a few steaks, they turned northwest on the cut-off to the next water.
The stage route went straight on, over a bare plateau; but a number of
emigrants evidently had been turning off here on a trail of their own.

So sandy was the soil and so hot the sun that very soon the ground was
as dry as before, and Billy’s boast of “plenty water” failed to make
good.

About the middle of the morning they passed an emigrant train of a
large party still recovering from the storm. Wagons had been capsized,
tents torn up bodily, and equipage scattered far and wide. One wagon
had been carried away completely.

“How far to the mountains, strangers?” queried one of the emigrants. It
was the same old question. All the Pike’s Peak travellers appeared to
have the one thing in mind――the mountains.

“Follow us and you’ll get thar,” replied Captain Hi. “What do you know
about this cut-off?”

“Nothing at all, stranger. There looked as if somebody had gone up this
way, so we came too.”

“It’s a terrible dry road, though,” sighed a woman. “Maybe if we’d have
kept on west we’d have done better.”

“Well, by jiminy!” said Hi, as the Hee-Haws toiled on. “I sort of think
so, myself. This trail doesn’t look good to me; not a little bit.”

“Shall we turn back?” proposed Mr. Baxter.

“I hate to turn back,” spoke Billy promptly. “I like to keep a-going.”

“Oh, we might as well go on,” added Jim. “I hate to back track, too.
But there aren’t many emigrants on this trail, that’s certain.”

“The trouble is they’ll follow like sheep,” asserted the Reverend. “If
this cut-off is no good somebody ought to put a sign on it.”

Hotter and hotter grew the day. The trail, which was not so large after
the emigrant party had been passed, wound among blistering sand-hills,
and soon the mules were plodding doggedly, with tongues out, hides
lathering. They guided themselves, for the Reverend, whose turn it was
to drive, had mercy on them and walked. That night at camp he uttered a
sudden exclamation.

“Water’s more than half gone, boys,” he announced. “Either this keg
leaks or the air drinks faster than we do.”

“We’ll have to be easy on water, then,” ordered Captain Hi. And they
all went to bed thirsty.

Davy had a miserable night, and probably the rest did, too, although
nobody except Left-over said anything. The mules started out stiffly.
But Mr. Baxter suddenly shouted, in a queer wheeze, pointing:

“Cheer up, fellows! There’s either a cloud or a mountain――see?”

They peered. Away in the west, just touched by the first rays of the
sun, peeped over the rolling desert, at the horizon edge, a vague
outline that did look like the tip of a cloud.

“There’s another!” cried Billy, pointing further to the north. “If
those are mountains I reckon this one is Long’s Peak; maybe that other
is Pike’s Peak.”

Davy gazed constantly at the two vague, cloudlike breaks in the line of
horizon and sky. As the sun rose higher they seemed to grow whiter; but
they did not move. They must be mountains, then; and oh, so far away!
Occasionally, as the wagon labored over a swell in the desert, Davy
thought that he could descry other mountains in an irregular ridge
connecting the tip in the north with the tip at the south. However, as
the sun shone fiercer the whole sandy plain quivered with the heat rays
and the horizon blurred. Nobody seemed to care about the mountains now;
the main thought was getting through to water.

The trail was almost drifted over by sand; the Hee-Haw party appeared
to be the only party travelling it. That was discouraging. The mules
scarcely moved. At noon they were given a little drink out of Hi’s hat,
for the wooden bucket had warped and leaked like a sieve. Davy never
had been so thirsty in all his life, and Left-over had to be forced
back by main strength from the nearly empty cask. That night, camped in
a dry watercourse, where they dug and dug without finding any moisture,
they used the last of their water for coffee.

“It’s make or break, to-morrow, boys,” said Captain Hi. “We’ll start
as early as we can see, and push right through. Ought to strike water
soon. The nearer we get to the mountains the better the chance for
water from them.”

Sunrise of the third day caught them plodding ahead, the poor mules
groaning and wheezing, the wagon rolling sluggishly, and Davy, like
the rest, with mouth open and tongue bone dry, in the wake. The cloud
things in the horizon had remained stationary; some of them were
whitish, some purplish; and mountains they certainly were!

About ten o’clock Billy cried out thickly.

“Water, fellows! Look at those mules’ ears! They smell it!”

“’Pears like a creek yonder, sure,” mumbled Captain Hi. “Don’t be
disappointed, though, if it’s another mirage.” For they had been fooled
several times by the heat waves picturing water.

“Those mules smell water, just the same, I bet you,” insisted Billy.

Far in the distance shimmered now a thin fringe of green. The mules
actually increased their pace; they broke into a labored trot; and
shambling heavily behind the outfit pressed on. Left-over groaned and
dropped, to lie and moan dismally.

“I’m dying,” he wheezed. “I can’t move a step. Are you fellows going on
and leave me?”

There was no holding the mules. As they forged along Billy exclaimed
quickly:

“Wait here, Left-over. Go ahead, fellows. I’ll fetch him back a drink.”

And seizing the coffee-pot he sturdily ran and stumbled to the fore.
All hastened after him, rivalling the frantic mules, but he beat.

Water it was! When they approached it did not vanish as a mirage would;
and they met Billy returning with coffee-pot actually dripping as its
precious contents slopped over.

Davy felt a strong impulse to halt Billy, wrest the pot from him, and
drink long and deep. But of course this was only a thought. Puffing,
Billy passed.

“There’s plenty water waiting you,” he announced. “I’ll bring Left-over
on after he’s had his drink.”

Yes, water it was――a real stream flowing crooked and shallow in a deep
bed bordered by brush and willows. The trail led to a ford. Wagon and
all, the mules fairly plunged in, and burying their noses to their eyes
gulped and gulped. First Jim, then in quick succession Davy and Captain
Hi and Mr. Baxter (who was the last of all) imitated the mules. Whew,
but that drink was a good long one! It seemed to Davy, as he sucked
again and again, that he simply could not swallow fast enough.

“Some head stream or other, I reckon,” finally spoke Captain Hi.
“Shouldn’t wonder if we had water now all the way in. We’re getting
where the drainage from the mountains begins to cut some figger.”

Billy arrived with Left-over. They spent the rest of the day beside the
welcome stream; and by morning they left about as strong as ever.

The trail that they were following now crossed at least one stream a
day, so that the water cask was kept filled. The buffalo jerky had
been eaten or was not eatable; but antelope and black-tail deer were
abundant. So the trail proved pleasant. Captain Hi called attention
to the fact that the water was growing colder to the taste; and he
said that the snow mountains must therefore be nearer. Indeed, the
mountains were nearer; they lined the whole western horizon, and made a
humpy, dark ridge extending from straight ahead far up into the north.
A haze like to a fog veiled them much of the time, and the Hee-Haw
party were always expecting a better view.

Anyway, there were the Rocky Mountains in sight; and little by little
the trail was approaching them. Yet it was a long, long trail, and who
would have imagined that the plains were so broad from Leavenworth to
the digging!

However, one morning a surprise occurred. The trail had been threading
a little divide which evidently separated one stream from another. A
few pines were growing on it. They smelled good. When the mules had
tugged the wagon over the last rise and were descending a splendid
spectacle unfolded to the eyes of the Hee-Haws. Involuntarily they
cheered――hooray! and again hooray! For right before them was the main
trail once more, with the wagons of emigrants whitening it and with a
stage dashing along.

Down hastened the Hee-Haws, even the mules being glad of company.

“Hooray for Cherry Creek and the diggin’s, strangers!” was the
greeting, as the Hee-Haw party entered at a break in the toiling
procession.

“How much further, lads?” asked Captain Hi.

“Whar?”

“To the mountains?”

“Seventy miles to the diggin’s, we hear tell. This is the head o’
Cherry Creek, hyar; and as soon as the fog lifts you’ll see what you’re
looking for, I reckon.”

The fog, which had cloaked the horizon since sunrise, already was
thinning; and staring, the Hee-Haws waited the result.

“I see them!” cried Jim, waving his battered hat.

“Where, Jim?”

“Yonder, straight in front.”

“So do I!” yelped Billy. “There’s Long’s Peak――that big peak up at the
north end. I’ve seen him from the Overland Trail. Look at the snow,
will you!”

“Isn’t it wonderful!” breathed the Reverend Mr. Baxter, in awed tone.

And it was. Almost halting, spell-bound, they gazed. As the fog broke
and melted away it exposed a mighty barrier, extending in a vast sweep
from the right to the left――two hundred miles of mountains, the front
range soft and purplish, the back range dazzling white with snow. The
rugged plains, brushy and somewhat timbered, and lighter green where
meandered Cherry Creek, reached to their very base.

“Where’s Pike’s Peak?” demanded Left-over.

“That lone peak at our end, stranger,” informed an emigrant.

Round and bulky and snow covered, standing out by himself, like an
exclamation-point completing the range, Pike’s Peak seemed the biggest
peak of all.

“That’s not far. ’Tisn’t more than ten miles!” declared Left-over.
“Come on! Let’s go and climb it. Get out your picks, fellows! Don’t you
see a kind of yellow patch? That’s gold, I bet you.”

“Keep cool, young man,” warned the emigrant. “You try to walk it before
night and you’ll find out how far that peak is. More than fifty miles,
I reckon.”

“It looks powerful cold up yon,” quavered a woman. “They do say the
snow never melts off.”

The trail was now much more interesting. Some of the emigrants had come
out, like the Hee-Haws, over the Smoky Hill Fork Trail, and the others
were from the Santa Fe Trail up the Arkansas River, to the south. A
trail along the base of the mountains connected this with Smoky Hill
Trail. Soon the trail by way of Republican River joined in. The triple
travel on Cherry Creek Trail was now so thick that Davy again wondered
where all the people were coming from.

The marvellous panorama of the Rockies remained ever in sight before.
Nobody tired of gazing at it, wondering which of the peaks, besides
Pike’s Peak, were inlaid with gold and if a fellow could live on top of
Pike’s Peak or back yonder among those other peaks while getting out
his fortune. Some of the emigrants (Left-over included) asserted loudly
that they could see the gold shining!

However, the first sight of the Pike’s Peak settlements――Denver and
Auraria――began to be watched for the most eagerly. The mountains
gradually drew nearer, Pike’s Peak gradually fell behind until on the
afternoon of the third day, down the winding, white-topped procession
swept a glad cry. Whips were flourished, sun-bonnets were waved, hats
were swung; men and women cheered, children shouted, dogs barked.

“The Cherry Creek diggin’s! There they are! There are the gold fields
and the pound a day!”

People seemed to forget the bad reports spread by the disgruntled
emigrants bound back to the States. Hopes were again high for success
and fortune at the end of the long, long trail.

Sure enough, several miles before, in a basin set out from the
mountains a short distance, were a collection of wagons and tents and
other canvases, and a number of cabins, also, jumbled together on both
sides of the creek, apparently, and bounded before by a wooded river.
At the edges was a fringe of little camps like those of emigrants
stopping by the way.

Evening was nigh; the sun was low over the snowy range; smoke was
curling from camp-fire and chimney.

“We won’t make it to-day, fellows,” spoke Captain Hi. “But we’ll pull
in the first thing in the morning.”

“Goodness! Look at the people pouring in by the northern trail, too!”
exclaimed Mr. Baxter.

For glinting in the last rays of the sun a long wagon train of
emigrants, resembling crawling white beads, was heading in from the
opposite direction.

“That’s the cut-off down from the Salt Lake Overland Trail up the
Platte,” quoth Billy, promptly. “The bull trains travel that trail.”

XIII

THE CHERRY CREEK DIGGIN’S

With so many people making for Cherry Creek over several trails it
seemed a pity to waste a night by camping. But when darkness settled
the trail was ablaze with the camp-fires of the emigrants who, like the
Hee-Haw outfit, had halted until dawn. Afar blinked the lights of the
“Pike’s Peak settlements”; and miles distant, north across the plain,
were the bright dots betokening the camps of those emigrants entering
by the Salt Lake Overland Trail.

The whole procession was early astir with the dawn; even Left-over was
up as soon as anybody, eager to be digging out his pound of gold a day.

The trail down Cherry Creek was six inches deep with dust, ground to
powder by the constant wheels and hoofs. In a great cloud it rose as
the wagons and animals and persons ploughed through it; to the north
lifted other dust lines, where the rival travel likewise pressed
forward to the goal. It was an inspiring scene, almost as good as a
race; but Left-over grumbled:

“I don’t call this Pike’s Peak,” he said. “And where’s Denver City? I
don’t see any city.”

“City or not,” remarked the Reverend Mr. Baxter, “it’s a wonderful
thing, Davy――all these people, from all over the United States, setting
out overland, breaking new trails, and founding a town away out here,
six hundred miles across the desert, at the foot of those snowy
mountains! It’s taken a lot of pluck and a lot of trust in Providence.”

“Where do you calculate on stopping, boys?” queried a black-eyed,
sharp-nosed man who was riding down along the column.

“I don’t know,” drawled Captain Hi. “What’s the difference?”

“All the difference in the world. Throw in with Auraria. She’s on the
mountain side of the Creek, and she’s bound to be the biggest city west
of Omaha. We’ve got the buildings, the people, and the ferry across the
Platte River. Remember that. Don’t let these Denver boomers fool you.
Stop at Auraria and we’ll treat you right.”

And he rode on down the line talking about “Auraria.”

But he was close followed by another man――a fatty, red-faced man.

“Keep right on down the east side of the creek to Denver City,” he
proclaimed. “The travelled side, the side next to the States. Buy a
town lot in Denver; it’ll be a nest-egg for you while you’re at the
diggin’s. Denver, Denver, Denver! Remember the east side of the creek.”

And he, also, proceeded on, chanting the praises of “Denver City.” The
Reverend Mr. Baxter laughed.

Before they reached the settlement district the trail forked. A large
sign, pointing to the left-hand fork, said: “AURARIA. Direct Route to
the Gold Fields.” Another sign, pointing before, said: “Straight Ahead
for DENVER CITY. Nearest and Best.”

“Which will it be, boys?” queried Captain Hi.

“Let’s try Denver. It’s on this side of the creek and it’s named for
the governor of Kansas,” spoke Mr. Baxter.

So they continued on down to Denver City. Denver and Auraria were
separated by only the almost dry channels of Cherry Creek, and both
extended along it nearly to the Platte River below, into which Cherry
Creek emptied. As soon as the Hee-Haw party had pitched their camp on
the outskirts of Denver, they hastened about their business. Davy and
Mr. Baxter paired off to wander about. Billy and Hi and Jim undertook
some errands. Left-over was wild to grab shovel and pick and pan and
start right in digging and washing.

Many persons, in plain sight all up and down the creek bed, were
working hard panning for gold. Some of the emigrants had begun almost
before they had unharnessed their teams. And yonder, northwest,
glimpses of the Platte River, flowing past both Denver and Auraria,
gave glimpses also of other miners delving away.

Billy walked straight to the nearest group in the creek bed.

“How are you making it, pardner?” he asked.

“Have you fellows come for your pound a day, too?” asked the man. Even
his wife was wielding a dish-pan while he shovelled.

“You bet,” assured Billy.

The woman paused, and the man laughed wearily and wiped his forehead.

“You’ll be lucky if you make fifty cents,” he said.

“Yes,” quavered the woman. “It’s awful poor picking along this creek. I
expect we’re all going to starve, provisions are getting so high.”

“Where are the diggin’s, then?”

“Yonder, up in the mountains, stranger. We hear tell they’ve made a big
strike there. We’re going on as soon as we can travel. But our oxen are
about petered out.”

“How far’s Pike’s Peak?” demanded Left-over. “Where’s the Pike’s Peak
country? Why don’t you go to Pike’s Peak?”

“That’s Pike’s Peak down south, seventy-five miles,” answered the man.
“They call this the Pike’s Peak country, but it’s only a name. I reckon
you’ve heard of them sliding down Pike’s Peak and scraping up the gold
as they slide. Don’t you believe it, mister. The peak’s above snow line
and the ground is frozen solid. See that line of wagons? They’re all
heading to the new Gregory diggin’s, west in the mountains about forty
miles. That’s the big strike.”

“Oh, shucks!” exclaimed Billy.

Davy felt his heart sink; this, then, was not the end of the
gold-seekers’ trail, and the snowy mountains, topping the barrier of
the tumbled foot-hills, looked like a hard country.

“Come, Davy,” said the Reverend Mr. Baxter. “We’ll see the sights
first, anyway.”

So they left Left-over, hauling out his pick and spade and gold-pan to
join the squads working along the creek; and Hi and Jim and Billy, who
set forth on errands; and trudged away “to see the sights.”

“This gold craze is all right as a means of attracting the people
here,” remarked the Reverend Mr. Baxter, thoughtfully. “But the most
wonderful part to me is the settlement itself. There must be fifteen
hundred population already in scarce a year, and emigrants are pouring
in at the rate of a thousand a day, I hear. There are fifty thousand
on the way, Dave. I don’t give a snap for the mines; but look, what
has happened! This gold excitement is going to settle the plains. The
United States has jumped at a leap from the Missouri River six or seven
hundred miles to the mountains. With a city here, and cities at the
other end, there’ll soon be cities in between. A whole lot of waste
country is due to be made useful.”

“I don’t call this much of a city yet,” commented Davy, considerably
disappointed over the end of his trip.

“Well,” said Mr. Baxter, “it’s the starter for one if the people don’t
starve to death. The weak hearts will go back; the strong ones will
stick; it’s only a question of holding out for a while until the land
is cultivated.”

Truly, Denver was a strange collection of tents and shacks, with a
few good buildings. The houses were of hewn logs, sod roofs and dirt
floors, and the furniture was made mostly from slabs and planks. There
were few windows; and these were filled with sacking stretched across
or else had wooden shutters. As far as Davy could see, the whole town
did not have a pane of glass.

However, the streets (and particularly the two main streets named
Blake and Larimer) were thronged with people as thick as the crowds at
the other end of the route, Leavenworth. Indians, Mexicans and whites
fairly jostled elbows, and conversation in every variety of speech was
heard. The whites wore costumes ranging from the broadcloth frock coat
and flowing trousers of the St. Louis and New York merchant to the
flannel shirt, jeans trousers and heavy boots of the regular plainsman
and miner. The Mexicans wore their broad, high-peaked hats and their
serapes or gay Mexican blankets, draped from their shoulders. The
Indians stalked about bare-headed, and enveloped in their blankets
also. There were few women.

Several stores handling general merchandise had been opened, but
according to the signs goods were expensive. One sign said: “Antelope
Meat, 4 cents a lb.” Picks and spades were the cheapest; they could
be bought for fifteen cents apiece, and nobody seemed to be buying
at that! This was a bad sign; it showed how disgusted many of the
overlanders had become when they found that they could not dig gold out
by the pound where they stopped!

Right in the centre of Denver was a large village of Indians, camped in
their tipis. By the hundreds they were lounging about, men, women and
children, the men unclothed except for a girdle about the waist, and
the children wearing nothing at all.

“Arapahoes,” pronounced Mr. Baxter. “Come on, Davy. There’s the stage.
Let’s go over to the hotel.”

A large cloth sign before a long one-story log building said: “Denver
House.” It was next to the Arapahoe village. People were hurrying
across to this hotel, for a stage-coach, with crack of whip and cheer
from passengers and driver, had halted short in front of it.

The coach, drawn by its four mules, dusty and lathered, bore the
lettering: “Leavenworth & Pike’s Peak Express Co.” So this, then, was
the daily Leavenworth stage. Already the street before the hotel was
crowded with onlookers who had gathered to receive the coach. When Davy
and Mr. Baxter arrived the travel-worn passengers were clambering out.
The first was Mr. Majors himself! Davy recognized the long beard and he
and Mr. Baxter pressed forward to welcome their friend.

“Why, hello, boys,” quoth Mr. Majors. “Where’d you drop from?”

“Just got in,” answered Mr. Baxter, shaking hands, as did Davy. “We
came by mule and wagon with Billy Cody and two or three others.”

“How?”

“Up the Smoky.”

“Joined the gold rush, did you?”

“Yes, sir. But I’ve about decided I’d rather plant potatoes.”

“How about you, Dave?” queried Mr. Majors.

“I’d like to eat one,” asserted Davy ruefully.

“You’ve got the right idea, I guess,” approved Mr. Majors. “But I
understand Horace Greeley has told the people here they ought to plant
potatoes, and they laughed at him. Potatoes are a better crop than
gold, in my opinion; but this country certainly doesn’t look very
promising for them. How people are going to live I don’t know. It will
be good for the freighting business, though. We’ll be hauling stuff in
here with every team we can muster. Did you know we’ve taken over the
stage line, too?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, we have. It’s run by Russell, Majors & Waddell now. Call in on
me before I leave, and I’ll give you a pass to Leavenworth in case you
want to go back.”

“All right. Thank you, Mr. Majors.”

“If I were you, my lad, I wouldn’t stay around here long,” continued
Mr. Majors to Davy. “This place is going to be a good place, and I
haven’t any doubt that lots of gold will come out of these mountains
as soon as the people are experienced in finding it. But looking for
gold haphazard is a poor job for a boy. I think you’ll do much better
on the plains. A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush, you know;
and there’s a big work to be done in helping these people live. If the
freight outfits aren’t kept moving the diggings will starve. If you’ll
come in to Leavenworth we’ll put you to work with the bull trains.”

“You’d better do it, Davy,” advised Mr. Baxter. And Davy soberly nodded.

“I guess I will, then.”

“I’m up at our Nebraska City office most of the time now,” said Mr.
Majors. “But you’ll find Mr. Russell at Leavenworth and I’ll tell him
to fix you out.” And Mr. Majors shouldered his way into the hotel.

“Whar’s the post-office, stranger?” asked a voice; and turning they
faced an emigrant evidently newly arrived.

“I don’t know. We’re lost around here, ourselves,” explained Mr. Baxter.

“Pardon. I tella the way,” spoke somebody else. He was a tall,
swarthy-visaged man, with heavy black moustache and black bushy
eyebrows, a large meerschaum pipe in his mouth. However, he was neatly
dressed, even to natty shoes. He looked like a foreigner, and his
accent sounded foreign. He continued rapidly: “That beeg house w’ere
you see-a the line of men.”

“Thank ’ee,” acknowledged the emigrant, after a hearty stare. And he
strode off.

“And you, signors? Canna I direct you zomeplace?” inquired the foreign
man, with a bow.

“We’re just looking around, is all,” informed Mr. Baxter.

“Then later. Perhappa for the hair or the whiskers; perhappa for the
wash. Permitta me.” And with another bow he handed to Mr. Baxter and to
Davy his card.

It read: “H. Murat. Tonsorial Artist. Shaves, Trims and Cuts. Laundry
Done.”

“Do you know who he is?” piped another voice at Davy’s side, as the
dark foreigner disappeared in the crowd. “He’s a count, a real Italian
count.”

The speaker was a slender, fair-haired little fellow, not much older
than Dave himself.

“He’s Count Murat. His father was a big man in Italy. But out here the
count’s a barber and his wife takes in washing.”

“I declare!” ejaculated Mr. Baxter. “And where did you come from, son?”

“From the States. I’ve been up in the diggin’s, but I froze my feet and
I’m going home.”

“Are your folks here?”

“No, sir. I ran away. But I’ve got enough and when I reach home I’m
going to stay there.”

“Well, you’d better,” approved Mr. Baxter. “You’re too young to be out
here alone.”

“I guess I am,” admitted the little fellow. “Life out here is fierce
unless you’re used to it.”

“How are the diggin’s?” queried Davy, eagerly.

“Forty miles into the mountains――and then always a little farther,”
asserted the young fellow. “If you can stick it out and don’t freeze to
death or starve to death you may make a few hundred dollars――and you
may not. Did you ever mine?”

“No,” said Davy, and Mr. Baxter shook his head, smiling.

“Then you’re tenderfeet like I am. That’s the trouble in there. Half
the people don’t know how to find gold and the other half don’t know
it when they do find it. It’s fierce, I tell you. _I’m_ bound home,
busted. I had to walk in, fifty miles; but I’ve earned just enough to
take me through to the Missouri.”

“How?” asked Davy.

“Sweeping out for one of the gambling houses,” and with a gesture of
disgust the slender youngster turned away.

Mr. Baxter watched him a moment.

“Davy,” he uttered, “that’s no boy. That’s a girl. Great Scott! What a
place for a girl!”

And later they found out that Mr. Baxter had spoken the truth. They
were glad to learn that the pretended boy took the next stage back to
Leavenworth and reached there safely.

“Let’s try our luck at the post-office,” proposed Mr. Baxter. “I’d like
to get a letter, myself.”

They threaded their way in the direction of the office. The mail had
recently come in, for from the post-office window a line of men, single
file, extended over a block. However, before they two took their places
Billy Cody stopped them.

“I asked for your mail,” he announced. “There wasn’t any. I got a
letter from ma. All she said was: ‘Dear Will. Let us know how you are.
We are well. Mother.’ And I had to pay fifty cents for it down from
Laramie. The new stage line carries letters for twenty-five cents. Wish
ma had written more for the money. She might just as well.”

“What’s the news, Billy? What are you and the rest of the outfit going
to do?”

“Hi and Jim and I are going on up to the diggin’s right away. See that
line of travel?” And Billy pointed to the constant procession of wagons
and of people afoot, extending from the settlement as far as the eye
could reach, westward into the hills fifteen miles distant. They’re all
going. Left-over’s quit and joined another outfit. He couldn’t wait.
Jim and Hi are buying supplies. Did you notice the prices? Eggs are
two dollars and a half a dozen. Milk fifty cents a quart. Flour ten
dollars for a fifty-pound sack. Reckon beans and sowbelly will do for
us. They say even game is scarce around the diggin’s.

“If you fellows don’t mind I believe I’ll stay around here for a while
till people cool down a little,” said the Reverend Mr. Baxter.

“Cool down!” exclaimed Billy. “Huh! The stage driver says he passed ten
thousand emigrants all heading this way!”

“Then I guess I won’t be missed,” laughed Mr. Baxter.

“How about you, Dave?” asked Billy.

Davy hesitated. What the “boy” (who was a girl) had told them rather
weighed on his mind. And the same old story of “beans and sowbelly” did
not sound inviting any longer.

“We saw Mr. Majors. He offered Dave a job freighting and a pass to
Leavenworth,” put in Mr. Baxter.

“Take it if you want to, Dave,” said Billy, quickly. “Life in the
diggin’s will be mighty tough, but I’ve got started and I’m going in.
You do as you please.”

“Well,” faltered Dave, “I reckon maybe I’ll stay out a while.”

“All right,” quoth Billy. “We’ll see you before we leave. We want to
pull right out, though.”

Nothing could stop Hi and Jim and Billy; and sure enough that
afternoon they did pull out for the diggings forty and more miles west,
among the mountains. They settled with Mr. Baxter and Dave for the two
shares in the Hee-Haw outfit, and left with a cheer.

Davy felt a momentary twinge of regret that he was not going, too; but
when he remembered what Mr. Majors had said about “haphazard looking”
and a “bird in the hand” he decided that, after all, he had done what
was best. The work of bridging the plains was a great work and very
necessary if these settlements at the mountains were to live.

“Let’s go over to Auraria and see that, Dave,” invited Mr. Baxter.
“Then we can find a place to stop in over night. I’m tired of bedding
out on the ground.”

Cherry Creek was almost dry. Camps and cabins had been located right
in the middle of it, so they easily walked across. Auraria was larger
than Denver, but the buildings were not so good. They were of rough
cottonwood logs, whereas the Denver logs were smoothed and many were
of pine brought down from the timber in the hills. Auraria had the
newspaper, the _Rocky Mountain News_, whose press and type and so forth
had been hauled overland by the editor, Mr. W. N. Byers. Like Denver
City, Auraria was bustling with all kinds of people.

“How are you, strangers? Don’t you want to buy a city lot and make your
fortune?” invited an alert man of the two Hee-Haws.

“What’s the price?” asked Mr. Baxter.

“What’ll you give? Cash or trade? The best lots in the city. Can’t be
beat.”

“Will you take a sack of flour?” demanded Mr. Baxter.

“Done!” snapped the man. “Flour’s better than money, friend. Where’s
your flour?”

“Where are your lots?”

“Right yonder. I’ll show you.”

The man promptly led them on. The lots proved to be somewhere in the
midst of bare, sandy ground half a mile out from the business street.
They looked forlorn and lonely, and Davy did not think much of them.
Neither, evidently, did Mr. Baxter. One rude cabin stood there.

“Cabin too?” queried Mr. Baxter.

“Sure.”

“How many lots?”

“Five, my friend. Five of the finest lots in this bustling metropolis
for your sack of flour. And remember this is Auraria; ’tain’t measley
Denver. I reckon you could buy half of Denver for your flour and then
you’d be cheated.”

“All right. We’ll take you, won’t we, Davy?” responded Mr. Baxter,
off-hand. “And we’ll move right in.”

“Show me your flour and we’ll go to the land office and close the
deal.”

So they delivered to him the flour. At the land office the clerk asked
their names.

“This is the Jones’ flour, Dave,” reminded Mr. Baxter, eyeing Davy.
“We’ll have that deed made out to Jasper Jones; he’s on the way.
Meanwhile we’ll occupy the cabin.”

That was certainly a good scheme――besides, as occurred to Dave, being
very honest. Only it seemed rather a high price to pay for just five
lots away from everywhere. The next time that Davy saw those lots they
were quoted at a thousand dollars apiece!

XIV

DAVY SIGNS AS “EXTRA”

One more day in Denver and Auraria satisfied Dave. He had seen about
all there was to see, and had loafed long enough. He wanted to go to
work. However, many other people wanted to go to work, too. But work
was scarce and money scarcer, and provisions were tremendously high.
Travellers were constantly coming back from the mountains with tales
of woe and with empty pockets and sore feet. The great editor, Horace
Greeley, had advised people to plant crops; then he had continued on
west, for California. But the people were bent on getting rich all at
once by mining instead of waiting for crops. This made the situation
bad, especially for a boy.

“You’d better take the stage back to-morrow, Dave,” counselled Mr.
Baxter. “I’ll see you later.”

“Guess I will, then,” said Dave. “What will you do, though?” For he did
not like to desert his partner.

“Oh,” laughed Mr. Baxter, “there’s a good living in hauling timber in
from the foothills. Another fellow has offered to furnish the team and
do the hauling if I’ll do the chopping. But that’s no life for a boy,
Dave. You’ll learn more, freighting out of Leavenworth; and then you
can go to school in the winter. See?”

That sounded sensible. Thus the Hee-Haw outfit had divided: Billy Cody
and Hi and Jim and Left-over mining; Mr. Baxter cutting timber, and
Davy freighting across the plains. Such was life in the busy West.

Davy engaged passage in the next morning’s Leavenworth & Pike’s Peak
stage, east bound to the States. It had taken the Hee-Haw outfit forty
days to come out; now Davy was going back in six. This was luxury.
The coach held six passengers, with one on the seat. There was a
school-teacher from Vermont, a merchant from Ohio, a banker from
Chicago, an army officer from Fort Leavenworth, a man and wife from
Boston, and Davy. All, except Davy, had been to the “diggin’s”――and the
Ohio merchant let slip the fact that he had located a good claim there
where he and his partner were washing out two hundred dollars a day! So
he was returning for his family.

Yes, it was an interesting company; but as best of all, the driver was
Hank Bassett!

“Why, hello!” greeted Hank of Dave. “Bully for you. Get up here on the
seat. I’ll take you through in style.”

“I engaged that seat,” objected the school-teacher.

“Not much,” retorted Hank. “It’ll make you seasick. I can have what I
want in this seat; and the boy rides there. I can depend on him if I
need a hand, and that’s very important, mister.”

“You know him, do you?”

“You’re right I know him. We’ve worked together before, haven’t we,
Dave?”

Davy blushed, somewhat embarrassed by Hank’s hearty manner; but Hank
had ordered, and Hank was boss, and Dave climbed to the seat beside him.

With crack of whip and cheer from the crowd gathered to watch, at a
gallop out surged the four mules for the nigh seven hundred miles to
the Missouri River and the States. Davy thoroughly enjoyed that trip.
Hank sent his mules forward at a rattling pace; for, as he explained,
he changed teams at every station, eighteen or twenty miles apart.
Night and day the stage travelled, making its one hundred miles each
twenty-four hours, halting only to change teams and for meals.

And night and day the Pike’s Peak pilgrims were in sight. The westward
travel was even more pronounced than earlier in the year, when the
Hee-Haws had joined in it. There were new signs, too, on the wagons.
“Bound for the Land of Gold.” “Family Express; Milk for Sale!” “Mind
Your Own Business.” “We Are Off for the Peak. Are You?” “Hooray for
the Diggin’s!” These and other announcements Davy read on the prairie
schooners as the hurrying stage passed.

“Horace Greeley, the New York editor, wrote back east that the Pike’s
Peak country is O. K.,” said Hank to Davy. “That’s what’s set the
tide flowin’ in earnest. People were waitin’ to get his opinion. He
inspected the diggin’s, and he says the gold is thar――although most
people would do better to take up land in Kansas and go to farmin’. If
you call this trail a busy one you ought to see the Salt Lake Overland
Trail up the Platte. I hear three hundred wagons a day pass Fort
Kearney. This booms the freightin’ business. The old man (Hank meant
Mr. Majors) and his pards are puttin’ on every team they can lay hands
to for haulin’ goods an’ provisions. Why, this hyar stage line is usin’
a thousand mules and fifty coaches. You’re thinkin’ of bull whackin’,
are you?”

“Mr. Majors offered me a job,” answered Davy.

Hank spat over the lines.

“It’s a good firm to work for,” he said. “And a man’s job. After you’ve
bull whacked a while you’ll be drivin’ stage like I am.”

That sounded attractive. To handle four mules at a gallop, dragging a
coach across the plains in spite of Indians and weather, appeared quite
a feat. Driving stage meant taking care of people as well as of animals.

However, holding up one’s end with a freight outfit was not to be
despised, these days. On arriving at Leavenworth Davy lost no time in
reporting at the Russell, Majors & Waddell office. Mr. Majors was not
here. He had removed his family up to Nebraska City, on the Missouri
above Leavenworth, where a branch office had been established in
order to relieve the crowded state of the Leavenworth shipping yards.
However, if Mr. Majors was gone, here was Mr. Russell, as snappy and
alert as ever, taking care of whatever came his way.

“All right, my boy,” he greeted promptly. “If you want a job you’re
just in time. When did you get in?”

“This noon, Mr. Russell.”

“I suppose you’re ready to start back again for the mountains?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. We’ve got a train made up to leave in about an hour. Charley
Martin’s wagon master. You’ll find him a fine fellow. He comes from
a wealthy family in my home town, Lexington, Missouri. You’ll be an
‘extra’ at forty dollars a month, and have a mule to ride. I expect you
to do as well as Billy Cody’s done. You know what your duties are, do
you? You’ll act as the wagon master’s orderly, or messenger, to carry
word along the line; and if necessary you’ll fill the place of any hand
who’s sick. Let’s see――you signed the pledge once, didn’t you?”

“Yes, Mr. Russell.”

“Well, we changed that pledge a little to make it stronger. Mr. Majors
has drawn up a new one. Read it before you sign,” and Mr. Russell
reached out his tanned, freckled hand for a pad of printed forms.

Davy read: “I, ――――, do hereby swear, before the Great and Living God,
that during my engagement and while I am in the employ of Russell,
Majors & Waddell, I will, under no circumstances, use profane language;
that I will drink no intoxicating liquors; that I will not quarrel or
fight with any other employe of the firm, and that in every respect I
will conduct myself honestly, be faithful to my duties, and so direct
all my acts as to win the confidence and esteem of my employers. So
help me God.”

This was an impressive promise, but it sounded just like the strict and
Christian Mr. Majors. Dave had no hesitation in signing it.

“All right,” crisply approved Mr. Russell. “If you keep that pledge
you’ll never be far wrong. Here’s your Bible. To every man employed in
our trains we give a Bible. There’s no time or place when the Bible
isn’t a help and a comfort. The more of them we get on the plains the
better. Now I’m going out to the camp. You come along and I’ll start
you off.”

Davy tucked the compact little leather-bound Bible into his pocket, and
followed Mr. Russell’s wiry active figure out of the door. Russell,
Majors & Waddell certainly organized their business on somewhat unusual
lines; Davy had heard the pledge and the Bible both laughed at by
outsiders as being foolishness for running bull trains. But nobody was
enabled to point out the harm done, and few denied that considerable
good might result. At any rate, no better bull outfits crossed the
plains than those of Russell, Majors & Waddell. They did what no other
outfits could do; nothing stopped them.

The streets of Leavenworth were busier than ever, with emigrants,
teamsters, rivermen, soldiers, and Indians――Kickapoos, Osages and
Pottawattamies; with wagons, oxen, mules and horses. The company’s
freight trains were started from a large camp on the outskirts of town.
Hither Mr. Russell, with Davy in tow, hastened.

Charley Martin was speedily found working hard――together with the
assistant wagon master, who was nicknamed “Yank.”

“Here’s your ‘extra,’ Charley,” announced Mr. Russell.

Charley paused and wiped his forehead. He gazed, rather puzzled.

“What name does he go by, Mr. Russell?”

“Davy Scott.”

“Sometimes they call me ‘Red,’ too,” volunteered Davy.

Charley Martin smiled; and when he smiled, Davy instantly liked him.

“Oho! This must be Billy Cody’s pard on the trail and at the Cody home,
I reckon. I’ve heard about him, but I never had the pleasure of meeting
him. You must have been growing some, haven’t you, Red? I thought you
were a runt.” And Davy fidgeted, embarrassed. During his sturdy life in
the open air he had indeed been growing; he had shot up and broadened
out, and had acquired a steady eye and a manner of self-reliance.
“Where’ve you been keeping yourself lately?” continued Charley.

“I’ve just got back from Pike’s Peak.”

“Good for you. Well, if you’ve travelled with Billy Cody, and Mr.
Russell recommends you, too, you’ll do.” And Charley called to his
assistant: “Here’s our ‘extra,’ Yank.”

Charley was small and compact, tanned and gray-eyed, and so quick and
cheery that anybody felt like calling him by his first name at once.
“Yank,” the assistant wagon boss, was high-shouldered, long-legged,
slouchy, and very different from Charley. His sullen face was bristly
with carroty stubble, his eyes were small and close together, and his
lips were thin and hard-set, leaking tobacco-juice. Him, Davy did not
fancy at all; and by his glance and contemptuous grunt he evidently did
not fancy Davy.

Further exchange of conversation was interrupted by the incisive voice
of Mr. Russell reproving a teamster who had a perverse ox in hand.

“My man, don’t you understand there’s to be no cursing while you’re
working for this company?”

“I’m not cursing,” retorted the man, with a dreadful oath.

“But you’re cursing right this minute!” asserted Mr. Russell, sharply.

“I’m not, either,” answered the man, with another oath.

“Why, you curse every time you open your mouth,” asserted Mr. Russell,
red with anger.

“I don’t,” insisted the man, as before.

That was too much for Mr. Russell. As if not knowing quite what to do
with such an ignoramus as this he walked off, scratching his head, and
left the puzzled teamster scratching his.

“Well, Red, get busy if you’re to travel with this outfit,” bade
Charley to Davy; and proceeded to give orders right and left.

The train was made up and almost ready to start. The last covers were
being drawn taut, and the last wagon, which had been delayed to load in
town, was approaching.

“All set?” shouted Charley to the teamster who, standing beside the
rear pair of his team, seemed to have been appointed as the leader.

The teamster nodded.

“All set.”

“String out,” ordered Charley, and the word was carried along: “String
out, boys! Fall in!”

The lead teamster flung his lash; it flipped forward and cracked like a
pistol-shot over the backs of his twelve oxen.

“Spot! Dandy! Yip! Yip with you!”

The twelve oxen lunged all together as a well-trained team; and
creaking, the huge wagon rolled ahead.

“Haw! Whoa――haw! Hep! Hep!”

To the shouts, and the volley of whip-snappers, the grunts of the oxen,
creakings of the wagons and yokes, and rattle of the ox-chains, the
train uncoiled from the mass that it had formed and lengthened out into
a long line. Led by that first teamster whose “bulls,” sleek-coated,
evidently were his pride, the white-topped bull train stretched out for
the farther West.

Charley, the wagon master, rode well up with the leading team, and
Davy, his assistant, as his aide or orderly, rode at his elbow ready
for orders. Yank, assistant wagon master, was down the line. At the
rear, behind the few loose cattle taken along for use in case of
accidents, rode on a mule the “cavvy” herder――a young Eastern chap who
was Mr. Waddell’s nephew and wanted to learn plains life. “Cavvy” of
course was the short for “cavvy-yard,” and “cavvy-yard” was the slang
for “caballada,” Spanish of “horse-herd.”

There were twenty-six wagons in the train: twenty-five loaded with
freight and one mess-wagon carrying the supplies. They were enormous
wagons, some of them seventeen feet long, the broad boxes five or six
feet deep, the great wheels wide tired; and over all a flaring hood of
canvas labelled “Osnaburg” (the trademark of the famous mills which
furnished most of the duck and sheeting used on the plains), stretched
upon bows, nailed fast at the edges to the wagon-box, but at either end
puckered tight by draw ropes, leaving an oblong hole. As Davy knew,
the wheels, axles and other running gear were the very best of wood.
Even the ends of the axles, on which fitted the wheels, were wood.
The wheels were held on by an iron linch-pin thrust through the axle
outside the hub. These wooden axles on the sandy, dusty plains required
much greasing, and from the rear axle of each wagon hung a pot of tar
for greasing. On the reach-pole, which was the pole projecting from
underneath the box, out behind the wagon, was slung a ten-gallon keg of
water.

Each wagon was drawn by twelve oxen, yoked together in six pairs. This
was the regular fashion; twenty-five freight wagons to a train, and six
yoke of bulls to a wagon. There were thirty-one men in the outfit: a
teamster for each of the twenty-six wagons, the wagon master and the
assistant wagon master, Davy the “extra” another “extra” (who was a
regular teamster), and the cavvy herder. The teamsters trudged beside
their teams; the only persons who rode were Charley and Yank and Davy
and the cavvy herder, on their mules.

The freight train was called a “bull train”; the wagons were “bull
wagons”; the oxen were “bull teams”; the teamsters were “bull
whackers”; the wagon master was the “bull wagon boss”; and the whole
array was a “bull outfit.”

Stretched out in a line a quarter of a mile long, the train made a
handsome sight to Davy, proudly looking back from his post at the flank
of Charley’s mule. The oxen, fresh for the start, with heads low and
necks fitted into great wooden yoke and bow, pulled stanchly, at a
dignified, steady plod, keeping the heavy ox-chains tight. The majority
of the “bulls” were spotted white and red or black; there were a number
of roans and reds and a few black. The head team were black, except
the pair next to the wagon, which were red. Several had been dehorned
because they were fighters.

The teamsters strode sturdily, cracking their whips, shouting to their
teams and to one another, and occasionally singing. One and all wore
neither coat nor vest, but heavy flannel shirt of red or blue, and a
silk or cotton handkerchief about the neck. Their shirts were tucked
into coarse trousers, and the trousers into high, stout cowhide boots.
On their heads were the regular broad-brimmed, flat-crowned felt hats
that plains travellers liked best. About the waists of the most of the
men were strapped one or two big Colt’s revolvers, and through the belt
was thrust a butcher-knife. They all had a gun somewhere, either belted
on or else as a yager or a rifle stowed handily in the wagon. And every
teamster carried, trailing or coiled, his long-lashed whip.

The train was, as Charley remarked roundly to Dave, “a crack outfit.”

“We’ve got some of the top-notcher teams and whackers of the whole
Russell, Majors & Waddell concern,” he said. “There’s not a better
bull-whip slinger or a better six yoke of bulls on the trail than
right here with this lead wagon. Of course, I suppose we’ve some
crooked sticks, like every train has; but they’ve got to behave
themselves while I’m boss.”

The train was bound for Denver by the regular Overland Trail up the
Platte River, through central Nebraska. The Government road from
Leavenworth, to strike the main trail, was that travelled road which
crossed the Salt Creek Valley; Davy seized the chance to dart aside for
a moment and say “how-de-do” to Mother Cody and the girls. He gave them
what word he could of Billy, but they gave him none, for they had not
had time to hear from Billy since he had reached the diggings.

The bull train toiled on over the hill and out of the valley. Now it
was fairly launched upon its day-by-day journey of 700 miles. It did
not travel alone. The trail before and behind was alive with other
outfits, chiefly emigrants, likewise bound for the “Peak,” and Charley
asserted that when the main trail was entered, at Fort Kearney, where
the travel from Omaha and St. Joe and Nebraska City joined with the
travel from Leavenworth, there’d scarcely be room to camp!

“How long will we be on the road, do you think?” asked Dave.

“Leavenworth to Denver? About fifty days if we have reasonable luck.
The trail’s so crowded and dusty and fodder’s so scarce I don’t reckon
we’ll average more than twelve miles a day. We’re hauling seventy
hundred pounds in some of those wagons. But I have averaged fifteen
miles a day; and travelling empty a smart bull train headed for home
can make twenty.”

It now was past midsummer; it would be fall when the train reached the
mountains, and winter before it got home again.

FREIGHTING ACROSS THE PLAINS

“Do you know,” drawled Charley Martin, lazily, after supper this
evening, “there’s a heap of money wrapped up in one of these bull
outfits?”

They had made camp at sunset――and the sight had been an inspiring one.
On order from Charley, the lead wagon had turned from the trail and
halted; the second wagon had pulled up opposite and also halted; the
third wagon had halted behind the first, a little outside of it, with
tongue pointing out and the fore wheels about on a line with the other
wagon’s rear wheels. The fourth wagon had halted in similar position
behind the second wagon. And so forth. Each wagon widened the circle
until it was time for them to begin to edge the other way and narrow
the circle. At the last the circle was complete, save for an opening at
either end. When the ox-chains had been linked from wagon-wheel to next
wagon-wheel then the bull corral, as it was called, was finished. Or,
no; after the bulls had been unyoked and driven to water and pasture
each wagon tongue was hung off the ground, slung in the draw ropes of
the front end of the hood. This weight kept the canvas hood pulled taut
in case of storm.

It took considerable skill in driving to swing the long bull teams and
land the wagons just right to form the corral. Yes, and the animals
needed to be well trained, too. By the way that all went to work this
wagon outfit knew their business.

The corral was useful for yoking the bulls and for standing off
Indians. No Indians dared to charge a wagon corral when the men inside
it had guns and ammunition.

The bulls were put out to pasture in charge of two teamsters selected
as herders. The men had been divided into four messes. Each mess chose
a cook and their water carrier and fuel gatherers and guards――when
guard was needed. Davy was in Captain Charley’s mess, which consisted
of Charley and Yank, Davy, the cavvy herder, the lead teamster, whose
name was Joel Badger, and the extra teamster, Henry Renick, who did the
cooking. This was the smallest mess.

Each mess had its fire, about which the men lounged after eating, to
smoke their pipes and joke and tell stories.

“Yes, siree; there’s a lot of money wrapped up in a bull outfit,” quoth
Wagon Boss Charley. “Take this train here. The most of those wagons are
‘Murphies’ (by which he meant wagons manufactured by J. Murphy, of St.
Louis), or else the Conestoga pattern built down at Westport (and by
Westport was meant Kansas City). Only the best of stuff goes into those
wagons. Hickory, generally――though osage orange is said to be better,
for it won’t warp. But second growth hickory and sound white oak answer
the purpose if they’re so well seasoned that they won’t shrink or warp.
This dry air out on these plains plays the dickens with wheels; it saps
them dry and makes them so they want to fall to pieces. Well, I reckon
you all know this better than I do. But as I was going to say, one of
these wagons figures easily three hundred dollars, including bows and
canvas. Then, bulls have been seventy-five dollars a yoke, but they’re
rising to double that. Taking the six yoke at five hundred dollars,
and adding the yokes and bows and chains and other gear, you’ll have
nigh to a thousand dollars in each wagon outfit. With twenty-five and
twenty-six wagons making a train there’s twenty-five thousand dollars
in outfit alone. And Russell, Majors & Waddell have bull trains like
this every five or six miles clear across from the Missouri River to
Salt Lake!”

“Not to speak of the wages of the men and the cost of the supplies,”
added Joel Badger.

“Yes, sir; not to mention the thirty or more men with every train at a
dollar a day up; and the beans and flour and sowbelly and coffee they
use.”

“Just the same,” observed Joel, “I hear that in Fifty-six, before
Waddell joined, Majors & Russell cleaned up about seventy thousand
dollars with three hundred wagons at work.”

Charley nodded.

“You can sum up for yourself. We’re hauling flour at nine cents a
pound, meat at fifteen cents, furniture at thirty cents, hardware at
ten cents; and my waybill shows we’re loaded with one hundred and
sixty-three thousand pounds of freight, averaging, I reckon, at least
fifteen cents.”

“Which totals up between twenty-five and twenty-six thousand dollars,
as I make it,” proffered Joel.

“Of course, the outfits don’t earn that both ways,” reminded Henry
Renick, scouring a skillet. “They travel back empty.”

“Well, twenty-five thousand dollars for the round trip to the mountains
isn’t so bad,” said Charley.

“No,” grunted Yank, the assistant wagon boss. “Russell, Majors &
Waddell are makin’ their profits, all right. They can sit at home an’
take things easy. But the trail’s a hard life for the rest of us.”

“Don’t you believe they take it easy,” retorted Charley. “Did you ever
hear of Alex Majors taking it easy? And look at Billy Russell, with
all the Leavenworth freighting on his shoulders. Besides, they know
that one big blizzard or one Indian war would wipe them out in spite of
their hustle. No; they’ve got the worry; we’ve got the picnic.”

“’Twould serve ’em right if they did get wiped out once in a while,”
growled Yank, who evidently was as narrow-minded as his eyes indicated.
“That psalm-singin’ old whiskers has too many notions. No swearin’, no
drinkin’ no bull skinnin’, no fightin’, every man read the Bible an’
lay up on Sunday! An outfit can’t do freightin’ on these plains an’
follow any such rules as those.”

“See here,” bade Charley, sternly. He was a gritty little chap.
“You’re new amongst us, my man, and I’ll warn you that when you speak
to us of Mr. Majors or Mr. Russell or Mr. Waddell either, you want to
do it civilly. They may have their peculiar notions of how to run a
bull outfit, but I notice they’ve made good already with about twenty
million pounds of Government freight, and that’s a pretty big contract.
They’re a firm whose word is equal to a United States banknote; and
there’s not a man who ever worked for them that won’t stick up for
Russell, Majors & Waddell. A kinder man than Mr. Majors never lived;
and if he tries to spread a little Christianity along the trail all the
more credit to him, and all the better for the rest of us. We need some
of that out here. The fact is a Russell, Majors & Waddell bull train is
the best on the trail, besides being decent.”

“Well,” rapped Yank, “as long as I do the work I’m hired to do I’ll
allow no man to tell me how to act. When I signed that pledge for the
whiskers outfit I didn’t mean to keep it an’ I sha’n’t if I don’t
choose.”

He stalked off; they gazed after――Charley with a keen glint in his gray
eyes.

“There’s a man” spoke Henry the mess cook, “who’ll take it out on
animals when he gets mad. He’s just mean enough.”

“He’ll not take it out on my team,” remarked Joel, quietly. “I don’t
whip my bulls.”

“No, nor on mine,” asserted Henry.

“Anybody who thinks he has to beat bulls to drive them doesn’t know how
to drive,” added Charley.

That night they all slept on the ground under blankets and quilts
and buffalo robes; many of the men slept beneath their wagons. The
neck-yokes of the oxen, with an overcoat folded into the hollow of the
curve in them, made comfortable pillows. At least so Davy found his
when, to be a veteran bull whacker, he borrowed a yoke and tried. Two
men at a time night-herded the cattle. Davy, being an “extra,” did not
go on herd yet.

The mess cooks were up at dawn preparing breakfast; and speedily the
collection of little camps was astir. The men called back and forth,
washed at the nearby creek, brought water in buckets, and what fuel
they found, and were ready for breakfast when breakfast was ready for
them. The company, Davy learned, furnished everything, even to the
gunny sacking in which buffalo chips and bull chips were gathered;
everything except the men’s revolvers. These the men owned.

By the time that the breakfasts were over the cattle had been driven,
with shouts and crack of whip, into the wagon corral, where under a
dust cloud they stood grunting and jostling. Yank posted himself at one
gap of the corral Charley at the other.

“Catch up! Catch up, boys!” called Charley, the wagon boss; the cry
was repeated, and the men sprang to their yokes. Every man with his
yoke on his shoulder, a yoke pin in his hand, another in his mouth, and
an ox-bow slung on his arm, the gang poured into the corral. It was
an interesting sight, and a number of emigrants who had camped near
gathered to witness.

There was a rivalry among the men as to which should yoke up first.
Davy wondered how they found their bulls so readily; but in rapid
succession every man, working hard, had yoke and bows on a pair of his
team, and led them forth to his wagon. First the yoke was laid over
the neck of a bull, the bow was slipped under and the pins thrust in
to fasten bow to yoke; then the other bull was yoked; and this done,
dragging the chains they were led out in a hurry. This pair, Davy saw,
were the wheel team――the team next to the wagon. They supported the
wagon pole, which hung in a ring riveted to the centre of the yoke. As
soon as the wheel teams were hitched to the wagon the men hastened to
yoke and lead out the lead teams, which were the teams at the other end
of the six. Then the space was filled in by the four other teams, all
the chains were hooked, the men straightened out their six yoke, and
the train was ready to move.

It all had been done, as Davy thought, very quickly; but Joel Badger,
whom Davy liked exceedingly, thought differently.

“We make rather a botch of it at first,” said Joel, as beside his fine
team he stood, whip in hand, waiting for the word to start. “Some of
the bulls are sure to be green or ornery, and not used to their drivers
or each other. After they have pulled together for a time all the bulls
in each team will sorter flock in a bunch, in the corral, and a fellow
won’t have to hunt through the herd. You’ll see some fast work before
you get to the end of the trail.”

“Aren’t the mules as good as bulls?” queried Davy.

“No. They used to have mules and mule skinners instead of bull whackers
down on the Santa Fe Trail, and I reckon they’ve used ’em on the
Overland Trail, too. Bulls are better all ’round. They can walk as
fast as a mule if they’re pushed; they can live on grazing that a mule
can’t; and they’re not so liable to be stampeded. If Injuns run off any
cattle we can overtake ’em by mule or horse and fetch ’em back. No, for
freight hauling the bulls are the best. Those used down on the southern
trails are Texas cattle largely; small-bodied kind, with flaring big
horns. These we use in the north, on the Overland Trail, are some
Durhams, some Herefords, and so on. I reckon I’ve got about the best
team in the outfit; they’re black Galloways, with a yoke of red Devons.”

“Line out, men! Hep!” called Wagon Boss Charley.

Joel launched his whip with a tremendous crack above the backs of his
team.

“Haw, Buck! Muley! Spot! Yip! Yip!”

“Haw! Whoa――gee! Yip! Yip! Hep!” The air was full of dust and shouts
and cracking of whips; and one after another out for the trail rolled
the huge wagons, until the circle of the corral had straightened into
the day’s line.

The teamsters walked at the left side of their teams until, when the
wind began to blow the dust into their faces, they changed about to the
clear side. They sang, they joked, occasionally they cracked their long
whips, and now and then one perched sideways on the wagon-pole behind
the wheel yoke, and swinging his legs rode a short distance. But nobody
entered a wagon; the men either walked or sat on the pole for a brief
rest.

Charley, the wagon boss, kept position near the head of the column;
Yank, the assistant wagon boss, usually was found at the rear. Davy
sometimes was sent back with word from Charley; and once he was
dispatched five miles ahead to take a message to another wagon train.
He enjoyed these gallops over the prairie on official business, and he
enjoyed riding with Charley.

“I suppose you know the make-up of a team,” proffered Charley, who
seemed disposed to teach Dave as much as he could. “The first yoke next
to the wagon are the wheel yoke; sometimes we call them the pole yoke.
The other yokes are the swing yokes, until you come to the leaders, and
these are the lead yoke. In a mule team the middle or swing spans are
the pointers. Fact is, a four-span mule team is divided into wheelers,
swing team, pointers and lead team. You didn’t time us this morning,
did you?”

“No, sir,” confessed Davy.

“I hear Mr. Majors timed his outfit once, when it was in good trim;
and it was sixteen minutes from the moment the men grabbed their yokes
until the teams were hitched and the train was ready to start. That’s
pretty fair for six yoke of bulls. I don’t believe we can beat it, but
we’re going to try after a bit.”

“This noon I’ll show you how to pop a whip,” called Joel to Dave.

The men used their whips chiefly for the noise they made. They drove
with the whips; the long lash flew out over the backs of the six yoke
and seemed to crack wherever the wielder wished it to crack. Sometimes
it barely flicked the back of some ox who required a little urging, but
it never landed hard. Those bull whips were like living things, and
in the hands of Joel and his rivals were as accurate as a rifle. The
most of the men carried their whips with the lash trailing over their
shoulder ready to be jerked forward like a cowboy’s rope. Dave felt a
burning ambition to “pop” a whip. It must be quite an art.

The trail continued to be lined with emigrants, all pushing west, the
vast majority for the “Pike’s Peak diggin’s,” but a few for California
by way of the Overland Trail to Fort Laramie, and on over the South
Pass to Salt Lake and the farthest West. The road was littered with
cast-off stuff――so much of it that nobody seemed to think it worth
picking up again.

“Great times for the Indians,” quoth Charley. “But they don’t savvy
stoves and furniture yet. What they like most is the hoop iron off of
the baled hay that the Government sends out to the posts. That hoop
iron is fine for arrow points; many a poor fellow crossing the plains
is killed with Government hoop-iron.”

“Will we meet many Indians, do you think?” asked Davy.

Charley shook his head.

“We may meet a few gangs of beggars; but the trail is too thick just
now for much trouble. The Indians haven’t got roused yet and started
in on the war-path. But they will, later. I reckon if you get off the
trail a ways you’ll meet with plenty trouble, though. On the trail
there are so many outfits that they can help each other, you see. The
Indians are learning to shy off from bull outfits. We’re ready for them
any time, and it costs them too many scalps. But when these plains
begin to be settled with ranches then look out for the Indians.”

That noon the train halted on the far side of a creek. According to
Joel, trains always tried to cross a creek before camping, in case a
sudden storm might come and hold the train back by swelling the ford.
They corralled, this noon, by a new evolution. One-half the train, in
regular order, formed a half of the circle; the other half then formed
the second half of the circle. This was called corralling with the
right and left wings.

While dinner was being cooked and the bulls were herded off to water
and graze, the men lounged in the shade of their wagons. Dinner was the
same as supper and breakfast: fat salt pork or “sowbelly,” which came
to the plate in slabs six or eight inches thick; hot bread baked in
the kettle-like Dutch ovens; beans from the supply baked in the ashes
the night before; and black coffee with sugar. That was the regulation
until the buffalo and antelope country was reached. The last of the
sugar was used, too; after this camp, all the way to Denver the coffee
would be sugarless. But that was only ordinary. Nobody objected to the
menu; appetites were splendid.

“Here,” spoke Joel, after dinner, rising, to Dave. “I said I’d show you
how to pop a whip, didn’t I?”

“Joel can do it, all right,” approved Charley; and several other men
nodded, agreeing with him.

And Bull Whacker Joel could. A heavy thing was that whip; the lash, of
braided buffalo hide, was eighteen feet long and thick like a snake in
the middle. It had a cracker of buck-skin, six inches long, split at
the end; and a hickory stock eighteen inches long. Joel said it cost
eighteen dollars in Leavenworth. Flicking it forward, from where it
trailed on the ground, he landed the tip wherever he wished. With the
cracker he picked up small objects at the full extent of the lash; he
snipped the tips from the sage and cut blossoms; and how he “popped”!

“He’s a boss bull-whip slinger,” laughed Charley, approvingly. “You’ll
never see a better one to pick flies off the lead team.”

“I’ve seen others,” uttered Yank, who somehow appeared to have a grudge
against the train. “These fancy tricks will do for show, but give me
the man who can spot a bull twenty feet off an’ take a piece of hide
out with the cracker. I don’t want no fancy fly-killer in my train.
Bull whips are made for business.”

“You don’t want bull whackers; you want butchers,” retorted Joel,
contemptuously. “Here, Dave, try your luck. Give him room, boys.”

Dave tried, but the long lash on the short handle proved a queer thing
to handle. It persisted in flying crooked or falling short, and several
times he almost hanged himself or narrowly escaped losing an ear.
However, before he surrendered the whip to Joel he had got the knack of
popping it; that was something.

“Hurray!” encouraged Joel. “We’ll make a bull whacker of you before the
end of this trip. You’ll be able to pop a whip with the best of us.”

Davy scarcely expected this skill; but he was resolved to do so well
that he could show Billy Cody.

XVI

YANK RAISES TROUBLE

The bull train plodded on and on, day by day, across the rolling
prairies, whose soil, black, made blackish dust. One day was much like
another. The principal excitement was the passing of the stages. The
Leavenworth & Pike’s Peak Express Company had changed from the Smoky
Hill route to Denver, and were running on the famous Platte trail now:
by the Government road from Leavenworth to the Platte at Fort Kearney,
thence up the Platte and the South Platte――the same road that the bull
train was taking.

Regularly once a day the stage from the east and the stage from the
west passed the train, which, like everything else, drew aside at the
sign of the well-known dust ahead or behind, and with wave of whip
and shout of voice greeted the flight of the four mules and the heavy
coach. At gallop or brisk trot the stage swept by――the driver scarcely
deigning a glance at bull whackers――and disappeared in its own cloud.

For the bull train there were two halts each day: at noon and at
evening, when the wagons were corralled, usually by the right and left
wing, the oxen unyoked, and camp made for rest and meals. Then, about
one o’clock and about six in the morning, the march was resumed. The
men walked beside their wheel cattle and by stepping out a little and
“throwing” the whip to the full extent of lash, stock and arm, they
could flick the backs of their lead cattle.

However, they rarely needed to use the whip as a punishment. The
whole train maintained the pace set by Joel’s lead team and followed
that. Each team kept close behind the wagon in front of them, so that
the lead yoke’s noses almost touched the rear end. It was a close
formation, preserved by the bulls themselves without urging. The
teamsters really had little to do while on the level trail. But when
the trail was very soft, or creeks or gullies had to be crossed, then
there was work for all. Sometimes the teams were doubled, until ten
or twelve yoke of bulls were stretched as one team, hauling the heavy
wagons across in turn.

It was a great sight――the long line of panting, puffing oxen, with
nostrils wide and eyes bulging and muscles of neck and back knotted,
tugging all together, while the whips cracked and the men shouted, and
slowly the huge white-topped wagon, swaying and creaking, and weighing,
with its load, five tons or more, rolled onward out of difficulty.

At such times Davy felt like giving the sweaty bulls a cheer.

In the morning early, before the sun blazed and the dust and wind
gathered, the plains were wonderfully peaceful, and in the clear air
the flowers seemed many and the antelope and rabbits and prairie dogs
more lively. In the evening the men joked and told stories and sang
songs around their camp-fire ashes. The favorite songs appeared to be
one called “Days of Forty-nine,” another called “Betsy From Pike,” and
another called “Joe Bowers.” This was a very long song, especially when
the men made up verses to fit it. Charley said that anybody could begin
it at Leavenworth and end it at the mountains. But the song that Davy
liked the best was sung by “Sailor Bill,” one of the bull whackers.
It was “The Bay of Biscay, O!” and in a deep bass voice Bill sang it
finely, because he had been a sailor:

Loud roared the dreadful thunder,
The rain a deluge show’rs;
The clouds were rent asunder
By lightning’s vivid pow’rs.
The night both drear and dark
Our poor devoted bark,
Till next day
There she lay,
In the Bay of Biscay O!

It was a strange song to sing out here in the midst of the dry plains;
but with Bill booming and his comrades joining in the chorus it sounded
particularly good.

The trail was divided off by various names, as city blocks are divided
off by streets. Most of the men could call the route by heart. There
was Salt Creek and Grasshopper Creek and Walnut Creek and Elm Creek
and the Big Blue, and the Big and Little Sandy, and Ash Point and the
Little Blue and Thirty-two Mile Creek and Sand Hill Pond and the Platte
River and then Fort Kearney, where, 294 miles from Leavenworth, the
main Overland Trail to Denver and Salt Lake was struck.

On the Little Blue, before reaching Fort Kearney, the train had its
first accident――and a peculiar accident that was. Davy first learned of
it when, as he came riding back from an errand for Charley to another
train behind, he saw a wagon at the middle of his train pull short and
heard a shout and saw teamsters, their teams also halted, go running to
the place.

“What’s the matter? Rattlers?” This was the first thought――that the
teamster had been bitten by a rattlesnake.

“No. Somebody run over!”

The rear half of the train had stopped, of course; the fore half, after
pulling on a little way, also had stopped. Charley came galloping back,
Yank galloped forward, and so did Davy. The men ahead had gathered in
a group and were carrying something out from under the wagons. It was
Sailor Bill, poor fellow. He had been riding sitting on the pole of his
wagon behind his wheel yoke, and he must have dozed, for he had fallen
off and the wheels of his wagon had passed over him.

“My old lead bulls snorted and jumped like as if they’d stepped on a
rattler,” was explaining the teamster who had shouted and halted his
team. “I thought it _was_ a rattler, of course; but when I looked I
saw _him_! Right under my second swing team’s hoofs! But he was done
breathing before ever we got to him. I’m sartin of that. His own wagon
did for him; and mighty quick.”

“Yes,” they all nodded soberly, “poor Bill like as not never knew what
was happening to him.”

“Anybody know who his folks are or where?” demanded Charley.

Heads were shaken.

“Never heard him say. He ran away to sea when he was a kid and never
went home again, I reckon.”

“Well,” uttered Charley, “we’ll do the best we can.”

It was a solemn company which with bared heads stood about the spot
where they laid Sailor Bill. A deep hole was dug beside the trail, and
what was left of Sailor Bill, wrapped in a blanket, was lowered into
it. Charley read a chapter from the Bible, the hole was filled, and the
wagons made a little detour to drive across the spot and pack the soil
so that the coyotes would not be tempted to dig there.

“We’ll certainly miss Bill and his ‘Bay of Biscay, O!’” said the men;
and they did.

Henry Renick was appointed by Charley to Sailor Bill’s wagon and team,
and the train rolled on.

Fort Kearney was four days, or fifty miles, ahead. On the fourth day
a great dust, crossing the Leavenworth trail, made a cloud against the
horizon; and Charley, pointing, remarked to Davy: “There’s the Platte
trail. We’ll be in Kearney to-night.”

Fort Kearney was located on the south bank of the Platte River,
at the head of a large island thirty miles long, which was called
Grand Island. The military reservation extended on both sides of the
river. The fort was not nearly so pleasant or so well built as Fort
Leavenworth. The bluffs and the country around were bare and gray, and
the buildings were old frame buildings, rather tumble-down. The only
timber was on Grand Island, which made a green spot in the landscape.

Fort Kearney was a division point on the Overland Trail for Russell,
Majors & Waddell. Charley reported to the company agent here, and the
train laid up for a day to rest and restock with what provisions were
needed. The meat was running short, for buffalo had been scarce all the
way from Leavenworth.

At Fort Kearney the Leavenworth trail joined the main trail that came
in from Omaha and Nebraska City. That trail crossed the Platte just
above Fort Kearney, and there met the Leavenworth trail; and as one
they proceeded west up the south bank of the Platte.

People at Fort Kearney claimed that on some days 500 wagons passed,
headed either west or east. Joel Badger started in to count the number
of teams in sight throughout an hour, but quit tired. And truly,
the scene at old Fort Kearney was a stirring one: the long lines of
white-topped wagons slowly toiling in from the east and the southeast,
and, uniting above the fort, toiling on out, under their dust cloud, up
the river course into the west.

Charley did not delay here longer than was absolutely necessary, and
Davy, as well as others in the train, was glad to be away on the trail
again. Yank, the assistant wagon boss, and Charley, his chief, almost
had a fight, despite the pledge that they had taken, for Yank had begun
drinking in the groggeries of vicious Dobytown on the edge of the post
and was uglier than usual.

“You hear what I say,” spoke up Charley loud enough for everybody else
to hear, too. “Any more of this and you’re discharged without pay.
Those are company orders and you knew it when you signed the roll.”

“The company that discharges me without pay I’ve earned will wish it
hadn’t,” snarled Yank.

“I’ll take the responsibility,” retorted Charley, angrily. “If you
don’t obey company rules you’re discharged; see? And if I can’t enforce
those rules I’ll discharge myself.”

Yank said “Bah!” and swaggered off; but he stayed away from Dobytown.

Fort Kearney seemed to mark a dividing point of the country as well as
of the great trail. The country from Leavenworth up through Kansas
had been prairie-like, with many wooded streams and considerable green
meadows. But here at the Platte the greenness dwindled, and the trail
wound along amidst sand and clay which grew chiefly sage brush and
buffalo grass.

The Platte was a shallow, shifty stream, full of quicksands, so that
drivers must be very careful in crossing. Charley told of a time when
he saw a whole freight wagon, load and all, sink and disappear in
what looked to be hard sand under only two inches of water! The trees
in sight were for the most part on the islands in the river, for all
timber within easy reach along the trail had long ago been cut and
burned by the emigrants. Even buffalo chips were very scarce, so that
Charley took pains to camp on the sites of previous camps, where cattle
had left fuel similar to buffalo chips, although not so good.

The buffalo chips burned slowly and held the fire a long time, making
splendid coals. The men seemed to think that this was because they had
been lying out for years, maybe, and were well baked; whereas the cow
chips and the bull chips were newer.

The Platte was frequently bordered by high clay bluffs; and where the
road climbed or descended the scene at night was very pretty, with all
the camp-fires of the emigrants and other bull trains sparkling high
and low. The bluffs also were good coverts for Indians; and Charley
ordered that each mess have a man on guard all night. Fort Kearney was
considered the jumping-off place for the Indian country and the buffalo
country. Beyond, the country was, as Charley said, “wide open.”

“To-morrow we’ll cross Plum Creek,” quoth Joel to Davy on the second
day out from Kearney. “We ought to see buffalo at Plum Creek; ’most
always do.”

Plum Creek was 330 miles from Leavenworth and thirty-six out of Fort
Kearney. As they approached it, Charley and others uttered a glad cry,
for buffalo were in sight by the hundreds. They were grazing on the
hills and flats north of the river. Some emigrants already were among
them, chasing them hither and thither; so Captain Charley ordered Andy
Johnson and another teamster called “Kentuck” (because he was from
Kentucky) to take Davy’s and Yank’s mules and go with him after meat.

That was as quickly done as said. Away the three spurred through the
shallow water and on.

“We’ll have short ribs and roast hump to-night, boys,” shouted back
Charley. He and Andy and Kentuck were good hunters.

This left Yank in charge of the train. He had not been pleasant since
that scene at Kearney, when he and Charley had the row; just now he
was more irritable and mean, because he had to walk. He grumbled and
snarled, and said a number of unkind things about Charley which Dave
knew were not true.

“Wants to take the huntin’ himself, that feller does,” grumbled Yank,
“an’ leaves us other fellers to hoof it. Who ever heard of an assistant
wagon boss havin’ to walk? I didn’t hire out to walk, you bet.” And he
yelped out to Joel: “Hurry on your bulls there, you lead team man. Give
’em the gad or you’ll get stuck.”

For the head of the train had reached a sandy hollow, and Joel’s team
were tugging through it. The sand rolled in a stream from the tires and
from half way up the spokes; but the twelve bulls――the ten blacks, and
the two burly reds forming the pole yoke――were pulling together nobly.

“They don’t need it,” returned Joel, shortly. “They’re doing well. Let
’em alone.”

“You’ve held the lead so long and done as you please that you’ve got
sassy,” sneered Yank. “You need a new boss, an’ now you’ve got him,
see? I tell you to hustle those fat pets o’ yourn along an’ give
somebody else a chance in here. Do you call that pullin’? Which way you
movin’? Touch ’em up, my man; touch ’em up.”

“I’m driving this team,” answered Joel, roundly, “and I don’t need
advice from any assistant wagon master as to _how_ to drive. They pull
better without the lash.” And he sung out vigorously: “Buck! Muley!
Hep, now! Hep with you!”

The wagon moved steadily, ploughing through the sand and encouraging
the teams behind. But Joel’s reply seemed to enrage Yank――who had been
waiting for just such a chance.

“Oh, gimme that whip!” he snarled, and snatched it from Joel’s hand.
“Get out o’ there with you!” he yelled. The lash flew hissing; the
snapper landed with a distinct “thut!” on the haunch of the right lead
ox; it jerked smartly back and out-sprang at the spot where it had
struck a rim of blood on the sweaty, dusty black hide. The whip end had
cut through to the quick!

As fast as lash could travel (and that was fast indeed) the other lead
ox felt like smart and humiliation. With frenzied, panting snort and
groan the yoke quivered and strained, setting shoulders forward and
fairly jerking the swing yokes after them. It was an unnecessary strain
and Davy knew it.

“Whoa-oa-oa, boys!” soothed Joel. “Easy now!” And turning like a tiger
on Yank, who again was swinging the whip, he knocked him flat on his
back.

The team went toiling on but Joel stood, panting, over Yank, and
watched him scramble up. Yank’s hand flew to his revolver butt――and
there it stopped; for when he got that far he was looking into the big
muzzle of Joel’s own Colt’s navy.

“None o’ that either!” growled Joel, boiling mad. “Gimme that whip,”
and he snatched it back again. “I’ve a notion to lay it on _your_ back.
You call yourself a man and abuse dumb beasts that are doing the best
they can and doing it well?” He shook his big fist in Yank’s evil face,
which was turning from the red of anger to the white of fierce hate.
“You touch my team again and I’ll _kill_ you!” roared Joel. “I told you
they were to be let alone and I mean it. Stick that in your pipe and
smoke it.”

Yank said nothing. His eye, where Joel’s fist had thudded, was swollen
shut, but out of the other he glared steadily; and while he did not
move a muscle (he knew better than to move with that revolver muzzle
trained upon him), if a look could have killed, then Joel would have
dropped in his tracks.

Joel slowly backed away, keeping his Colt’s ready.

“Remember,” he warned. “Don’t try that again.” And finally, having
backed far enough, beyond the fringe of men who had gathered, he
hastened after his wagon. Davy’s heart could beat again.

“Joel was right in this,” proclaimed a teamster. “You may be assistant
wagon boss but even the boss himself has no business whipping another
man’s bulls.” And as the men resought their wagons heads wagged and
voices murmured in agreement therewith.

As for Yank, he was growing red again; he cautiously wiped his injured
eye, his hand twitched upon the butt of his revolver, and picking up
his hat he stumbled forward as if in a dream. The way he acted was more
dangerous, it seemed to Davy, than if he had stormed and threatened.
And Davy was afraid for Joel.

The train passed through the sandy hollow without further mishap; and
when they climbed out and pulled on over the next rise they met the
buffalo hunters returning. The mules’ saddles were red with meat, and
the three riders were well pleased with their hunt.

The sun was low over the trail before, making golden the dust of travel.

“We’ll camp here, boys,” called Charley, cheerfully, “and do what
butchering we need on those buffalo carcasses. Swing out, Joel. Whew,
man! You must have had to lay on the lash a bit heavy, didn’t you?” For
the haunches of the lead team were bloody welted. More than that, the
cracker seemed to have taken a piece of hide out the size of a quarter!

“No,” said Joel, briefly. “I didn’t.”

“Well,” continued Charley, “let’s corral where we are. Yank,
you――what’s the matter with your eye, man?”

“I fell down,” answered Yank, steadily. And at the laugh which went up
he reddened deeply again, and again his hand twitched.

XVII

DAVY “THE BULL WHACKER”

Charley scanned him quizzically for a moment.

“You must have fallen mighty hard,” he remarked. “Who hit you, Yank?”

“That lead teamster o’ yours,” growled Yank, with a string of oaths.
“I’ll get him for that. No man can strike me and stay long on this
earth. The dirty hound!” And he abused Joel horridly.

Joel heard the loud words, and suddenly leaving his team where it
stood, came walking fast.

“None of that!” he called. “You keep a quiet tongue in your head. You
can see what he did to my bulls, Charley. He laid my whip on them. I
allow no man to cut my bulls. I never cut them myself. They were doing
as well as they could.”

Charley quickly stepped between the two――for the hand of each was
poised for the dart to revolver butt.

“That’s enough,” he bade. “There’s to be no fighting in this train and
no swearing. You both know that. Give me your guns. Pass ’em over.”

“All right, Charley,” answered Joel. “Here are mine if you say so. I
don’t need a gun to deal with that fellow.” And unbuckling his belt he
tossed it aside.

“Now it’s up to you, Yank,” addressed Charley.

Yank flushed.

“My guns are my own, an’ I’m goin’ to wear ’em as long as I please,” he
blurted.

“No, you aren’t, Yank,” retorted Charley, coolly. Looking him in the
eye, he walked straight to him. “You needn’t give them to me; I’ll take
them. See?”

He was a little man, was Charley, but he had a great heart and the
nerve to back it up. Reaching, while Yank stood uncertain and cowed, he
jerked both revolvers from the holsters; then he stepped back to put
his foot on Joel’s belt.

“That’s enough,” he said. “I want this matter to end right here. If you
laid whip on another man’s bulls when there wasn’t any need of it I
reckon you got about what you deserved. We’re not bull skinners in this
train. But I’ll have no fighting in the outfit. You fellows can settle
your differences after you leave. Go on and finish your corralling,
Joel. Yank, you saddle a fresh mule from the cavvy and ride out and
help Kentuck and Andy butcher those buffalo. Your mule’s plumb worn
out. Hear me?”

Yank glared at him for a moment, but Charley returned eye for eye.
Presently Yank whirled on his heel, and snatching the bridle of his
mule strode off, muttering, to the cavvy. Joel went back to his team.
Charley shook the cylinders out of the four revolvers, dropped them
into his pockets, and stowed the useless weapons in one of the wagons.
The train proceeded about the business of the hour, and Davy, whose
heart had been beating high, helped.

“The ride out yonder will help to cool his blood a bit,” commented one
of the teamsters, referring to Yank――who, leading Andy and Kentuck, was
galloping furiously away. As for Joel, he was acting as if the recent
trouble was ancient history――except that when he examined the wounds on
his two beloved oxen he shook his head.

The teams had been unhitched from the wagons and were being led aside
to water and pasture, when a sudden shout arose.

“Look at Yank! Look at him, will you! Where’s he going?”

Everybody stared. Leaving Andy and Kentuck behind, Yank, without
slackening pace, was galloping on and on through the area where the
buffalo herd had been and where the carcasses were lying. Andy and
Kentuck yelled at him, but he paid no heed. And from the wagon train
welled another chorus of cries.

“He’s taking French leave! He’s deserting!”

“Let him go, boys,” quoth Charley, coloring, but making no move. “I’ll
send him his guns sometime; but he’s forfeited his pay. If he wants to
have things that way, good enough. We’re better off without him.”

The men grunted, satisfied; nobody liked the unruly, foul-mouthed Yank.
Soon he disappeared over a rise and he was not seen again by Davy for a
year.

The camp that evening seemed much pleasanter without the presence of
Yank. With him absent and with plenty of buffalo meat on hand, the men
laughed and joked to even an unusual extent. It was a carefree camp.

“Here are your guns, Joel,” said Charley, returning them. “Guess I can
trust you with them now. Well, we’re a short train, with two men shy.
I’d rather lose Yank than Sailor Bill; but they’re both gone. Kentuck,
you’re promoted to assistant wagon boss; and I’ll have to turn your
team over to Dave, here. They’re well broken and I reckon he can drive
them. How about it, Dave?”

Davy was somewhat flustered. He to be a bull whacker? Hurrah!

“I’ll try,” he stammered.

“Sure you will; and you’ll make good. Fact is, those bulls drive
themselves. But you can learn a heap, anyway. All right. You take
Kentuck’s outfit in the morning and go ahead. The boys will help you
if you get in trouble. I can’t spare Joel; he’s too good a man in the
lead, and we need him there.”

That night Davy could scarcely go to sleep. He was excited. He wondered
if he really could “make good” as a bull whacker. He had practised with
the whip and could “throw” it pretty well, although it was a long lash
for a boy. But he had found out that to wield a bull whip and “pop” it
required a certain knack rather than mere strength; and, besides, the
bull teams behind kept up with the wagons before as a matter of habit.
Of course, corralling and yoking were the chief difficulties. But he
had watched closely what the men did every day, and he thought that
he _knew_ how, at least. At any rate, he was bound to try. To handle
twelve oxen seemed to him a bigger job than being a messenger.

It was a proud Dave who, early in the morning, after breakfast, at the
cry “Catch up, men! Catch up!” shouldered his yoke and the two bows,
and sturdily trotted for the corral. He knew how to begin. The proper
method was to lay the heavy yoke across one shoulder with the bows
hanging from your arm. One pin was carried in your mouth, the other in
your hand. The ends of the bows passed up through the yoke, so that
only one end needed a pin thrust through above the yoke to hold it; the
other end stayed of itself.

Davy felt that the men were watching him out of the corners of their
eyes. He heard somebody say, aside, bantering: “Look out, boys, or
that kid will beat us!” Of course he could not do _that_! Not yet. But
Charley called to him from the forward gap, where somebody must stand
to keep the cattle in: “The wheel team first, Dave. You know them, do
you? A pair of big roans.”

Davy nodded. He remembered them; he had marked them well by a good
scrutiny when the herd was being driven in from pasture.

“All right,” said Charley. “You’ll find them together. The whole bunch
ought to be together.”

The corral was crowded with oxen and men, and appeared a mass of
confusion; but there was little confusion, for by this time the oxen
and the men all knew their business. Davy pushed his way straight to
the two big roans (the largest and stoutest bulls always were chosen
for the wheel team, because they must hold up the heavy pole and also
must stand up to the weight of the wagon down hill), and in approved
fashion laid the yoke across the neck of one.

“Be sure you yoke ’em like they’re used to travellin’, lad,” warned a
kind teamster. “The near and the off bull, or you’ll have trouble.”

Davy nodded again. He had noted this also. The “near” bull meant
the bull that was yoked to stand on the left; the “off” bull was
the right-hand one. The near bull of this team had a short horn, he
remembered. He slipped the bow under the near bull’s neck, and standing
on the outside, or left, inserted the ends of the bow up through the
yoke and slipped the pin in to hold it. Then he hustled around to the
opposite side of the “off” bull, who was standing close to his mate,
shoved him about (“Get ’round there, you!” ordered Davy, gruffly), and
reaching for the yoke lifted it across, adjusted the bow (from the
outside), slipped in the pin from his mouth――and there he had his wheel
pair yoked together!

Now proud indeed, he led his yoke out through the other bulls to his
wagon. They took position on either side of the pole, although they
seemed a little puzzled by the change in manager. Now it only remained
to lift the pole and put the end through the ring riveted to extend
below the middle of the yoke.

“Lead team next,” said Davy, wisely, to himself, leaving his wheel team
and hurrying to shoulder another yoke and its bows and re-enter the
wagon corral.

Every man was supposed to know his twelve bulls as a father knows
his children. Davy’s lead team were spotted fellows, with long black
horns. He went straight to them where they stood, waiting; yoked
them masterfully and led them, too, out to the wagon. He put them in
position, and with the four other yokes built his whole team――starting
from the rear. The train was ready and watching, but not impatient. The
men gave him time.

From the middle of each yoke the massive log chain by which they pulled
ran between them back to the yoke of the pair behind――save that the
wheel team pulled by the tongue and had no chain. Davy worked hard to
hook the chains. A man stepped forward to help him; but Charley called
promptly:

“Let him alone, boys. He’s doing well. He’ll get the hang of it. Every
man to his own team, you know.”

And Davy was glad.

“All set,” he announced shrilly, for his team were hooked at last.

“All set,” repeated Charley. “Line out, boys.”

To brisk shout from Joel and crack of his whip the lead team
straightened their chains and the wagon moved ahead. One after another
the other wagons followed; and Davy’s team fell into place almost
before he had “popped” his whip and had joined in the cries:

“Haw, Buck! Hep! Hep with you!”

The train retook the trail, Davy trudging like any other bull whacker
on the left side of his wheel yoke, his whip over his shoulder, his hat
shoved back from his perspiring forehead. He doubted if even Billy Cody
could have done better; and he wished that Billy might see him.

Ever the trail unfolded on and on, sometimes skirting the shallow
Platte, sometimes diverging a little to seek easier route. It traversed
a country very unattractive, broken by the clayey buttes and by deep
washes, and running off into wide, sandy plateaus and bottoms, rife
with jack-rabbits, coyotes, prairie-dogs, antelope, and occasional
buffalo. The rattlesnakes were a great nuisance; the men killed them
with the whip lashes by neatly cutting off their heads as they coiled
or sometimes shot them. And almost every morning somebody complained of
a snake creeping into his warm blanket.

The processions of emigrants continued as thick as ever, bound for
“Pike’s Peak,” for Salt Lake, California and Oregon. Each day the stage
for Denver and the stage for Leavenworth passed, dusty and hurrying;
and now was given a glimpse, once in two weeks, of the Hockaday &
Liggett stages, which travelled twice a month between St. Joseph,
above Leavenworth, and Salt Lake City. Occasionally Indians――Cheyennes,
Arapahoes, Pawnees and Sioux――came into the camps begging for “soog”
and “cof” and “tobac.”

Davy enjoyed every mile and he did splendidly. He enjoyed even the
never-varying diet of “sowbelly” (salt pork), baked beans, hot bread,
and sugarless, milkless coffee, eked out by buffalo meat and antelope
meat when they could get it. Some of the men tried prairie-dogs――which
weren’t so bad as they sound, tasting and looking like chicken or
rabbit. The main difficulty was to get them after they had been shot,
for they almost always managed to tumble into their holes. Then, when
anybody put a hand in to drag them out, it was met by the angry whirr
of a rattle-snake. A rattle-snake and a little owl seemed to live in
each hole along with the prairie-dog family!

There were storms, coming up with startling suddenness. One storm, at
Cottonwood Springs a hundred miles west of Kearney, Davy never forgot.
It was a hail storm. First a mighty cloud of deep purple shot through
with violet lightning, swelled over the trail in the west. Emigrants
scuttled to secure their wagons, and at Charley’s sharp commands so did
the bull train.

“It looks like a twister, boys,” shouted Charley, riding back along the
train. “Better corral. I’m afraid for these bulls.”

So the train corralled in a jiffy; and, unyoked, the bulls were driven
inside. The tongues were hung in the draw ropes of the wagon covers and
the wheels were chained, wagon to wagon. Slickers were jerked out from
the wagons and donned; and the men prepared to crawl under the wagon
boxes if necessary.

With angry mutter and swollen shape the purple cloud came on at a
tremendous pace. The spin-drift of it caught the plain far ahead, and
one after another the trains of the emigrants were swallowed in the
blackness. When the first gust struck the bull train the touch was icy
cold.

“Hail, boys! Hail!” shouted Charley. “Watch the bulls!”

Now sounded a clatter like rain on a sheet-iron roof; and across the
landscape of sand and clay, and a cottonwood grove at the mouth of the
creek, swept a line of white. The men dived for cover like prairie-dogs
whisking into their holes.

Yes, it was hail! Such hail! Driven by a gale the stones, some as large
as hickorynuts, and all as large as filberts, lashed the huddled train;
whanged against canvas and wagon-box and with dull thuds bounded from
the bulls’ backs. Some of the animals shifted uneasily, for the stones
stung. The others stood groaning and grunting with discomfort, shaking
their heads when a particularly vicious missile landed on an ear. Under
the wagons the men were secure; but Dave felt sorry for the poor bulls
who turned and sought in vain.

As quickly as it had come the storm passed, leaving the ground white
with the hail. Almost before the men had crawled out from underneath
their wagons the sun was shining.

The hail had not damaged the bull train to any extent. There were dents
in the tough wood where the heavy stones had struck, and several of
the wagon sheets, forming the hoods, had been punctured in weak spots;
but thanks to Charley’s promptness in corralling, the animals had
not stampeded. However, some of the emigrants had not fared so well,
because they had not known what to do. After the bull train was yoked
up again and was travelling on, it passed two emigrant outfits stalled
by the trail, trying to recover their teams which had run away. Many of
the flimsy cotton hoods used by the emigrants were riddled into strips.

The Overland Trail followed up the south side of the Platte, the same
way by which Dave had come down with the Lew Simpson train a year
before, after the fight in the mule fort. Where the North Platte
and the South Platte joined current it continued on up the South
Platte――and now to the north a short distance was the place where the
mule fort had been located so hastily by Billy Cody and Lew and George
Woods.

Soon the main trail for Salt Lake and California forded the South
Platte to cross the narrow point of land for Ash Hollow at the North
Platte and for Laramie and Salt Lake City. But the Denver branch
proceeded on into the west by the newer trail to the mountains and
Denver.

This branch of the Overland Trail down to Denver was only six months
old, but already it was a well-worn trail, scored deep by the stages
and by the thousands of emigrants and the constant freight outfits. The
travel eastward, toward the States, was almost as great now as that
westbound, for fall had come and everybody who was intending to return
to the States had started so as to get there before winter. A winter
journey by wagon across these plains was no fun.

After the parting of the trail, the next station on the route was
Jules’ Ranch. Jules was an old French-Indian trapper and trader, whose
full name (as he claimed) was Jules Beni. His mother was a Cheyenne
Indian, and Jules had built a trading post here, a mile beyond
Lodgepole Creek, for trade with the Cheyennes. Now Jules had turned his
attention to the new business that had opened, and he was selling flour
to the Pike’s Peak “pilgrims” at a dollar a pound. He had been smart
enough to break a new trail that would bring the travel between the
North and the South Platte past his place――for the regular crossing was
east of him. He was smart, was Old Jules, and now he had just been made
stage agent.

“I want all you fellows to keep clear of Old Jules,” cautioned
Charley, as the train approached what some of the men jokingly called
“Julesburg.” “I’ve never seen him when he wasn’t drunk and he’s a
corker for losing his temper and picking fights. Then he wants to kill
somebody. When he’s in liquor he’s plumb crazy. He’s shot two men and
carries their ears in his pocket. I’m not afraid of him, and neither
are you; but to-morrow’s Sunday and we’ll tie up near his place, and I
don’t want trouble.”

“Why don’t you pull right through, Charley?” asked Andy Johnson, as a
spokesman. “We’re agreeable. ‘Dirty Jules’ is no great attraction.”

“Well,” said Charley, “we usually do ease off on Sunday, and it’s
company orders and I don’t propose to change the programme at this
stage of the game.”

XVIII

BILLY CODY TURNS UP AGAIN

The Russell, Majors & Waddell bull trains were under instructions to
lie by over Sunday whenever possible. By some people this was accounted
a waste of time. However, Mr. Majors especially insisted that Sunday
should be Sunday wherever it fell, in town or on the danger trail. One
day in seven might well be spent in rest even with a bull train. It
brought the men and cattle through in better shape, and was a gain that
way instead of any loss.

So that evening the wagon train corralled near the Platte River
crossing, where the Salt Lake Trail turned north, about half a mile
east from Jules’ Ranch. The river was a great convenience, for on
Sunday the men usually tried to slick up by bathing and washing their
clothing and tidying generally. Therefore, after breakfast the brush
near the river bank was soon displaying shirts and handkerchiefs of red
and blue, and sundry pairs of socks, spread out to dry, while their
owners sat around and fought mosquitoes and watched the wagon outfits.
Some of these forded the river for Salt Lake, Oregon or California, but
most of them kept on up the Denver branch.

This was interrupted by a distant hullabaloo――a yelling and cheering
mingled. The air was thin and still and very clear, so that sound and
eyesight carried far through it. The hullabaloo evidently came from
Jules’ Ranch, where at the group of buildings a crowd of people had
gathered. Davy’s shirt was dry, and he reached for it.

“Must be having a celebration over yonder,” drawled Kentuck. “Reckon
I’ll go see.”

He donned his red shirt and started. Several others made ready to go;
and Davy, as curious as anybody, decided that he would go, too. So,
wriggling into his clothes, whether they were dry or not, he followed
along up the trail to Jules’ place.

The ranch was a small collection of adobe or sun-baked clay buildings,
and a log shack which was the store. The main excitement was centred
in front of the store. The crowd had formed a circle at a respectful
distance. They were emigrants and a few of the Charley Martin bull
train.

“What’s the row?” queried Kentuck of a man at his elbow.

“’Pears like this fellow Jules is having a leetle time with himself,”
answered the man. “I ’low he’s crazy. He’s got whiskey and flour out
thar on the ground and says he’s mixing mortar. It’s a good place for
the whiskey, but it’s an awful waste of flour.”

Edging through the circle, Davy peered to see. A dirty, darkly sallow
visaged, hairy man, in soiled shirt, and trousers sagging from their
belt, was capering and screeching, and hoeing at a white mass which
might have been real mortar. But the smell of whiskey was strong in the
air, and there stood a barrel of it with the head knocked in. The white
stuff was flour, for, as Davy looked, the capering hairy man grabbed a
sack, tore it open and emptied it on the pile.

“I show you how I mek one gr-r-rand mortarr,” he proclaimed. “Flour
at one dollar ze pound, whiskey at ten dollars ze quart; zat ze way
ol’ Jules mek gr-r-rand mortarr. Wow! Hooray! If anybody teenk he mek
one better mortarr, I cut off hees ears. Dees my country; I do as I
please.” And he hoed vigorously at his “mortar bed,” and screeched and
capered and threatened and boasted and made a fool of himself.

Some of the crowd laughed and applauded; but the majority were
disgusted. To Davy it seemed a great pity that any human being should
so lose all control of himself and be less human than an ape. He
speedily tired of this silly exhibition by Jules, the store-keeper, and
turned away for fresh air. He and Charley, the wagon boss, emerged from
the crowd together.

“Old Jules is spoiling his own business, I reckon,” observed Charley.
“How any man can watch that in there and ever taste whiskey again is
more than I know. To see him make a fool of himself is better than
signing a pledge.”

The crowd rapidly wearied of this drunken Jules and his antics and
dwindled away. As for Davy, he had decided to take a walk to the mouth
of Lodgepole Creek, up the river a short distance. Lodgepole Creek
emptied in on the opposite side of the Platte, and was named because
the Cheyennes used to gather their lodge poles along it.

The Platte flowed shallow and wide, with many sand bars and ripples,
and many deepish holes where the water eddied rapidly. The banks were
fringed with willows not very high. From a rise in the trail Dave,
trudging stanchly in his heavy dusty boots, beheld an object, far up
the channel, beyond the willow tops, floating down.

It was a large object flat to the water, and as he peered he saw a
flash as from an oar-blade. A boat! No――too large and low for a boat.
It must be a raft with somebody aboard. Davy waited, inquisitive; for
craft floating on the Platte were a curiosity. The upper river was too
shallow, especially at this time of the year.

The raft came on gallantly and swiftly. It carried three persons and
their outfit. The crew were standing up: one of them steering, behind,
and one at either edge, with oars, was helping to fend off from the
bars. It looked like an easy mode of travel, and Davy prepared to stand
out and give the voyagers a cheer.

But just before the raft arrived opposite, going finely, it appeared to
hang on a snag or else strike a sudden eddy; or perhaps it did both
at once; nobody could tell. Under Davy’s astonished eyes it stopped for
a moment in mid-stream; the crew wildly dug with their oars and fell to
their hands and knees; whirling around and around the platform fairly
melted away underneath them, leaving only three black dots on the
surface of the water. These were heads!

Waking to the situation, Davy waved and shouted; the swimmers may
have seen him, he thought, because they were making for his side.
The current bore them along, as sometimes they swam and sometimes
they waded; and he kept pace to encourage. As the foremost neared the
bank, Davy rushed down and waded in to meet him and help him ashore.
He wasn’t a very large person――that drenched figure floundering and
splashing for safety; he wasn’t large at all; and extending a hand, to
give him a boost, Davy gasped, only half believing:

“Why――hello, Billy! Gee whiz! Is that you?”

[Illustration: “WHY――HELLO, BILLY! IS THAT YOU?”]

“Hello, Dave,” answered Billy Cody, muddy and dripping, but calmly
shaking Dave’s hand. “I guess it must be. Where are Hi and Jim?” And he
turned quickly to scan the river. “Good. They’re coming. I knew they
could swim. They can swim better than I, so I reckoned I’d get ashore
as soon as I could. What are you doing here and where are you bound
for?”

“I’m bull whacking for Russell, Majors & Waddell from Leavenworth to
Denver,” informed Davy, proudly. “Where are you bound for?”

“Back to the river.” And by “the river” Davy knew that Billy meant the
Missouri. “We didn’t have any luck in the diggin’s, so we thought we’d
float home down the Platte to the Missouri and down the Missouri to
Leavenworth. Well, we got this far, anyhow.”

“Jiminy crickets!” shouted Hi, now plashing in. “If here isn’t Dave
waiting for us! Did you come all the way from Leavenworth to meet us,
Dave?”

And there was a great shaking of hands.

“I dunno what the dickens happened to us out there,” volunteered Jim,
gazing at the river suspiciously. “One moment we were just sailing
along and next moment we were swimming. No more sailoring for me; I’d
rather walk with a bull team. Here we’ve lost our whole outfit and
we’re going home from the diggin’s ‘busted’ flat.”

“We didn’t have much to lose; that’s one comfort,” said Billy. “Think
how bad we’d be feeling if we’d struck it rich up in the mountains and
every ounce was now at the bottom of the Platte! Huh! We’ve had our
fun, anyhow. Who’s your wagon boss, Dave?”

“Charley Martin.”

“Where are you camped?”

“At the Platte crossing, just below Jules’.”

“All right,” quoth Billy, cheerily. “Come on, boys. I’m going down to
the camp and see what I can get, and Charley’ll grub-stake us home.”

They had clambered up the bank into the dryness, and now they continued
down the trail――Billy and Hi and Jim clumping and squashing, Davy
tramping sturdily in his teamster costume of flannel shirt and trousers
tucked into big boots.

“So you’re a sure-’nough bull whacker, are you?” asked Hi of Davy, with
a grin.

“I was hired just as an ‘extra’ for carrying messages, you know,” said
Davy, to be both honest and modest. “But we ran short of men so Charley
put me at whacking. I can sling a whip some; that is, pretty good. The
bulls are trained, anyway.”

“When did you begin?” asked Billy.

“Back at Plum Creek.”

“If you’ve held your job this far, then, I guess you can hold it as
long as you like. Bully for you, Red.” And at Billy’s generous praise
Davy blushed.

The excitement at Jules’ trading store had quieted and only the mess of
whiskey-sodden flour remained. Billy and Jim paid scant attention to
this, except that they, too, were disgusted when they heard what old
Jules had been up to. They were more intent upon getting to the wagon
train camp. And here Charley Martin and the whole outfit, in fact,
received them with a great ado. Everybody in the train seemed to know
Billy, and almost everybody knew Hi and Jim.

There was a stranger to Davy in camp. He had arrived in a light buggy
drawn by a strong, spirited team of black horses, and was chatting with
Charley. His name proved to be B. F. Ficklin――“Ben” Ficklin. He shook
hands with Billy, and Billy introduced Dave.

“Mr. Ficklin, this is my friend Dave Scott, youngest bull whacker on
the plains.”

“You want to watch out or he’ll catch up with you, Billy,” bantered Mr.
Ficklin.

“I shouldn’t wonder,” answered Billy, carelessly. “But I’ve got a head
start over him. I’m a prairie sailor sure now, and navigation on the
Platte is closed!”

Not only in sailing on the Platte, but in many other feats Dave never
did catch up with Billy Cody.

Mr. Ficklin was the general superintendent of the Russell, Majors &
Waddell freighting and staging business. He bore the news that the
company had taken over the stage outfit of Hockaday & Liggett, which
ran twice a month from St. Joseph on the Missouri to Salt Lake on the
Platte River Overland Route, and were going to combine the Leavenworth
& Pike’s Peak Express with it. He himself was on his way from Denver,
back down the trail to inspect the condition of the stations from the
Platte crossing to the Missouri.

“We’re going to make this stage line a hummer, boys,” he informed.
“Hockaday & Liggett have been running two times a month on a schedule
of twenty-one days to Salt Lake; no stations, and same team without
change for several hundreds of miles at a stretch. The company are
putting in stations every ten and fifteen miles all along the Overland
route from the river to Salt Lake, and stocking them with provisions
and fodder. We’re buying the best Kentucky mules that we can find and
ordering more Concord coaches; and we’re going to put a coach through
every day in the year, from the Missouri to Salt Lake, on a ten-day
schedule, by the Salt Lake Overland Trail to the crossing here, then
north to Laramie and over the South Pass. A stage will be sent down to
Denver, too.”

Mr. Ficklin evidently was an enthusiast. Davy had heard of him――a hard
worker and a booster for the company that he loved.

“What’s ever become of the scheme of yours and that California senator,
Gwin, to put a fast mail service through, horseback, from St. Louis to
San Francisco, by the Overland route, at $500 for each round trip,”
asked Joel of Mr. Ficklin.

“Nothing yet. Senator Gwin was right for it after our talk on the stage
from California five years ago, and he introduced a bill in Congress;
but the bill died. The California people are howling, though, for
something better than news three weeks to six weeks old from the East.
And mark my words,” continued Mr. Ficklin, earnestly, “that’s what will
happen next――a pony express from the Missouri to the coast that will
beat the stage.”

“Do you think they’ll stretch a line of relays clear across for two
thousand miles and keep it going day and night passing the mail along?”
demanded Billy, his eyes sparkling at the fancy.

“Yes, sir,” answered Mr. Ficklin, shortly.

“Well, when they do I want to ride one of the runs――one that will keep
me hopping, too,” declared Billy.

XIX

DAVY MAKES ANOTHER CHANGE

“Did you see my mother when you were back East, Dave?” asked Billy.

“Yes.”

“How’s she looking?”

“Not extra good, Billy. She’s not very well, and she said if I came
across you to tell you she’d like to see you as soon as she could.”

“How are the girls?”

“They’re all right.”

“I’m sorry about ma,” mused Billy, soberly. “If she’s poorly I’m going
home as straight as I can travel, you can bet on that.”

“We can give you a job with the bull train, Billy,” proffered Charley
Martin. “We’re short of men.”

But Billy shook his head.

“No, sir. I’m due at the Cody place in Salt Creek Valley.”

“Well, Billy, in that case I’ll pass you through on the next stage, if
there’s room,” volunteered Mr. Ficklin.

“I can hang on somewhere,” asserted Billy. “The pass is the main thing.
Never mind the room.”

While they all were talking a new arrival halted near. It was an army
ambulance――a wagon with black leather top, seats running around the
inside, and four big black army mules as the team. It was bound west.
A soldier in dusty blue uniform was the driver, and a corporal of
infantry sat beside him, between his knees a Sharp’s carbine. From
the rear of the ambulance another soldier briskly piled out. By his
shoulder straps and the white stripes down his trouser-seams he was an
officer; by the double bars on his shoulder straps a captain. He wore a
revolver in holster.

He walked over to the group and nodded.

“Hello, Ben.”

“How are you, captain.” And Mr. Ficklin arose to shake hands.

“Gentlemen,” continued Mr. Ficklin, “I want to introduce Captain Brown.”

“I believe I know the captain,” spoke Charley, also shaking hands.

“Hello, Billy,” addressed the captain, catching sight of him. “What’s
the matter? Been swimming?”

“Yes,” laughed Billy. “The water’s a little cold up in the mountains,
so I took my annual down here.”

“Billy’s been at the diggin’s, captain,” vouchsafed Mr. Ficklin. “He
brought down so much gold in his hide that he couldn’t travel till he’d
washed it out.”

Billy took their joking good-naturedly. That he was going home “broke”
had not discouraged him at all.

“I know one thing, gentlemen,” he declared. “I’m not a miner, but I
had to learn. The plains for me after this. You’ll find me bobbing up
again.”

“Yes, you can’t keep Billy Cody down, that’s a fact,” agreed Mr.
Ficklin. “Where are you bound, captain? Denver?”

“No, sir. Laramie. I’ve just come through from Omaha. I hear you
fellows are putting on a daily stage to Salt Lake to connect there with
the line for San Francisco.”

“Yes, sir. It’ll be running this month, and it’ll be a hummer. I’m on
my way to inspect the stations now.”

“This is my friend Dave Scott, captain,” introduced Billy, in his
generous way. “He’s the youngest bull whacker on the trail.”

“He must be a pretty close second to you, then, Billy,” remarked
Captain Brown, extending his hand to Davy, who, as usual, felt
embarrassed. “You started in rather young yourself!” The captain (who
was a tanned, stoutly-built man, with short russet beard and keen
hazel eyes) scanned Davy sharply. He scratched his head. “I don’t see
why I can’t get hold of a boy like you or Billy,” he said. “I prefer
red-headed boys. I was red-headed myself once, before the Indians
scared my hair off.”

“You’re a bit red-headed now, captain,” slyly asserted Charley; for
the captain’s bald pate certainly was well burned by the sun.

“Well, I _feel_ red-headed, too,” retorted the captain. “So would you
if every time you got a clerk he deserted to the gold fields. Lend me
this boy, will you, Martin? He’s in your train, isn’t he? I’ll take him
on up to Laramie with me and give him a good job in the quartermaster’s
department. There’s a place there for somebody just about his size,
boots and all.” And the captain, who evidently had taken a fancy to the
sturdy Dave, smiled at him.

All of a sudden Davy wanted to go. He had heard of Fort Laramie, that
important headquarters post on the North Platte in western Nebraska
(which is to-day Wyoming) near the mountains, and he wanted to see
it. Billy had been there several times with the bull trains out of
Leavenworth, and had told him about it.

“I’d like to oblige you, captain,” answered Charley. “But we’re short
handed this trip, and Davy’s a valuable man. He’s making quite a bull
whacker. Besides, I reckon he’s counting on going to school this winter
in Leavenworth; aren’t you, Davy?”

Davy nodded.

“I thought I’d better,” he said. “That’s one reason I left Denver.”

“He can go to school at Laramie,” asserted the captain quickly. “We
have a school for the post children there, and it’s a good one.”

Davy listened eagerly, and it was plain to be seen how _he_ was
inclined. Denver meant only a short stay, for Charley was anxious to
start back again before winter closed in on the plains, and there might
not be any chance to see Mr. Baxter, after all. Laramie sounded good.

“Oh, shucks!” blurted Jim. “If you want to let Dave out, Charley, I’d
as lief go on to Denver and finish with you.”

“So would I,” added Hi.

“How about it, Dave?” queried Charley. “Is it Denver or Leavenworth, or
Laramie, for you?”

“I’d like to try Laramie first-rate but I don’t want to quit the train
unless you say so,” answered Dave, honestly. “I hired out for the trip,
and Mr. Russell and Mr. Majors expect me to go through.”

“Mr. Majors knows me and so does Billy Russell,” put in the captain.
“I’ll write Majors a letter and give him a receipt for one red-headed
boy, with guarantee of good treatment. I tell you, Martin, the
United States has need for one red-headed boy, name of Dave, in the
quartermaster service at Fort Laramie; and I believe I’ll have to send
a detail out on the trail and seize him by force of arms.” The captain,
of course, was joking, but he also seemed in earnest. “If he’s employed
by Russell, Majors & Waddell that’s recommendation enough, and I want
him all the more.”

Charley laughed.

“Oh, in that case, and if he wants to go, I suppose I’ll have to let
him, and take Jim and Hi on in his place. They two ought to be able to
fill his job. If you say so, Dave, I’ll give you your discharge right
away, and a voucher for your pay to date, and you can see how you like
the army for a change.”

“Go ahead, Red,” bade Billy. “You’ll learn a heap, and I’ll be out that
way myself soon. First thing you know you’ll see me coming through
driving stage or riding that pony express. Whoop-la!”

And of this Davy did not have the slightest doubt.

Captain Brown declined an invitation to stay for dinner with the mess.
He was in a hurry. So the exchange of Davy from bull whacking to
Government service was quickly made. Before he was an hour older he had
shaken hands with everybody within reach and was trundling northward
in the black covered ambulance beside Captain Brown. He knew that in
another hour or two Billy himself would be travelling east, back to
Salt Creek Valley and Leavenworth; and that early in the morning the
bull train, with Charley and Joel and Kentuck and Hi and Jim and all,
would be travelling west for the end of the trail at Denver.

This was just like the busy West in those days; friends were constantly
mingling and parting, each on active business――to meet again a little
later and report what they had been doing in the progress of the big
country.

“You’re too young to follow bull whacking, my boy,” declared the
captain. “It’s a rough life and a hard one. To earn your own way
and know how to hold up your end and take care of yourself is all
very well; but you’d better mix in with it the education of books and
cultured people as much as you can while you go along. Then you’ll grow
up an all-round man instead of a one-sided man. Laramie’s a long way
from the States; but we’ve got a small post school and a few books, and
it’s the home of a lot of cultured men and women. You’ll learn things
there that you’ll never learn roughing it on the trail.”

And Davy looked forward to life at old Fort Laramie, the famous army
post and freight and emigrant station on the Overland Trail to Salt
Lake, Oregon and California.

The fording of the Platte was made in quick time to foil the
quicksands. The North Platte was now scarce eighteen miles across the
narrow tongue of land separating the two rivers above their juncture.
It was struck at Ash Hollow. Ash Hollow had a grocery store for
emigrant trade. The sign read “BUTTE, REGGS, FLOWER and MELE.”

Captain Brown halted here long enough to buy a few crackers and some
sardines.

“Thought we’d stock up while we can,” he explained to Dave. “These and
what buffalo meat we have will carry us quite a way. Laramie’s one
hundred and sixty miles, and I’m going to push right through.”

The four stout mules ambled briskly at a good eight miles an hour,
following the trail into the west, up the south bank of the river. The
trail was broad and plain, but it was not so crowded with emigrants
as it had been before the Pike’s Peak portion of it had branched off.
However, there still were emigrants; and there were many bull trains
bound out for Laramie and Fort Bridger and Salt Lake, for this was the
main Overland Trail, dating back fifty years.

The ambulance rolled on without slackening, except for sand or short
rises, until after sunset. Then the captain gave the word to stop. By
this time he knew Dave’s history, and Davy was liking him immensely.
They clambered stiffly out. The driver and corporal unhitched the
mules: and while the corporal made a fire for coffee, the driver (who
was a private) put the mules out to graze.

“We’ll take four hours, Mike,” said the captain to the corporal. “Then
we’ll make another spurt until daylight.”

“Yes, sir,” answered the corporal, saluting.

“You’d do well to crawl in the wagon and sleep, after supper, Dave,”
advised the captain to Davy. “We’ll be travelling the rest of the
night. Can you stand it?”

Davy laughed. A great question, that, to ask of a boy who’d just been a
bull whacker walking across the plains!

Nevertheless, Davy took a nap in the bottom of the ambulance; and more
than a nap. When he awakened, he had been aroused by the jolting of
his bed. A buffalo robe had been thrown over him, the captain was
sitting in a corner snugly wrapped, and by the light of a half moon the
ambulance was again upon its way.

In the morning, when they once more halted to rest and feed the mules,
the country was considerably rougher, with hills and fantastic rocks
breaking the sagy, gravelly landscape. The white-topped wagons of
emigrants and the smoke of their camp-fires were in sight, before and
behind; and not far ahead a bull outfit were driving their bulls into
the wagon corral to yoke up for the day’s trail.

Breakfast was coffee and buffalo meat; but Corporal Mike mounted one
of the mules and rode off the trail. When he returned he had some sage
chickens and an antelope. The sides of the ambulance had been rolled
up; and about noon, pointing ahead the captain remarked to Davy:

“That’s Laramie Peak, beyond the post. We’ve got only about eighty
miles to go and we’ll be in bright and early.”

The landmark of Laramie Peak, of the Black Hills Range of the Rocky
Mountains, remained in sight all day, slowly standing higher. The sun
set behind it. Davy snoozed in the bottom of the ambulance. The captain
had spoken truth, for shortly after sunrise they sighted the flag
streaming over Fort Laramie.

Old Fort Laramie was not so large a post as Fort Leavenworth; it was
not so large as Fort Kearney, even. Davy was a little disappointed, for
“Laramie” was a name in the mouth of almost every bull whacker in the
Russell, Majors & Waddell trains out of Leavenworth, and the men were
constantly going “out to Laramie” and back. The post stood on a bare
plateau beside Laramie Creek about a mile up from the Platte; some of
the buildings were white-washed adobe, some were logs, and some were of
rough-sawed lumber. Back of the fort were hills, and beyond the hills,
to the southwest, were mountains――Laramie Peak being the sentinel.

It was the important division point on the Overland Trail to Salt Lake;
maintained here in the Sioux Indian country to protect the trail and
to be a distributing point for Government supplies. It was garrisoned
by both cavalry and infantry; on the outskirts were cabins of Indian
traders and trappers and other hangers-on, and there were a couple
of stores that sold things to emigrants. Sioux Indians usually were
camping nearby, in time of peace.

Davy changed his rough teamster costume for clothes a little more
suited to a clerk and messenger in the quartermaster’s department,
and was put to work by Captain Brown, the acting quartermaster. The
post proved a busy place, with the quartermaster’s offices the busiest
of all; but the captain and Mrs. Brown saw that Dave was courteously
treated and given a fair show. He went to evening school, and had
books to read; and once in a while was allowed time for a hunt. In
fact, Fort Laramie, away out here, alone, guarding the middle of the
Overland Trail through to Salt Lake, was by no means a stupid or quiet
place.

Of course, the trail was what kept it lively, for every day news from
the States and from the farther west arrived with the emigrants and the
bull trains; and scarcely had Dave been settled into his new niche,
when arrived the first of the new daily stages from the Missouri. It
was preceded by a slender, gentlemanly man named Bob Scott, dropped off
by one of the company wagons which was establishing the stations. Bob
Scott was to drive stage from Fort Laramie on to Horseshoe, thirty-six
miles, and he was here in readiness. He seemed to be well known on the
trail, for many persons at the post called him “Bob.”

“When do you expect to start on the run, Bob?” asked the captain.

“I think about next Tuesday, captain,” answered Bob, in his quiet, easy
tone. “The first coach leaves to-day, I understand, from St. Joe.”

“They’ll make it through in six days, will they?”

“Yes, sir. Ten days to Salt Lake is the schedule――an average of one
hundred and twenty miles a day. At Salt Lake the express and passengers
are transferred to the George Chorpening line to Placerville,
California, and from Placerville they’re sent on to Sacramento and
San Francisco. I understand the time from the Missouri River to San
Francisco will be about eighteen days.”

“You haven’t heard what’s to be the name of the new company, have you,
Bob?”

“Yes, sir. ‘Central Overland, California & Pike’s Peak Express’ is to
be the name; the ‘C. O. C. & P. P.’”

Stables and express station and a relay of horses had been established
adjacent to the post. The old stage company, Hockaday & Liggett, had
worked on a loose, go-as-you-please system which was very different
from the way that Russell, Majors & Waddell went at it. Now, with
things in readiness along the line, clear to Salt Lake City, Tuesday
dawned on a post eagerly hoping that Bob Scott’s calculation would
prove true.

About eleven o’clock a murmur and hustle in the post announced that the
stage was in sight. It came with a rush and a cheer――its four mules at
a gallop, up the trail, the big coach swaying behind them, the driver
firm on his box. Stain of dust and mud and rain and snow coated the
fresh coach body, for all the way from the Missouri River, 600 miles,
had it come, through all kinds of weather, and had been travelling
night and day for six days. At top and bottom of the frame around the
stiffened canvas ran the legend: “Central Overland California & Pike’s
Peak Express Co.”

“Wild Bill” Hickok himself it was who, coolly tossing his lines to
the hostler, waiting to take them and lead the horses to the stable,
drawing off his gloves bade, for the benefit of his passengers:

“Gentlemen, you have forty minutes here for dinner.”

At the same moment the station keeper’s wife began to beat a sheet-iron
gong as dinner signal.

FAST TIME TO CALIFORNIA

Dave was heartily glad to see Wild Bill again――and Wild Bill seemed
glad to see Davy.

“I heard you were out in this region,” said Wild Bill, after they had
shaken hands. “Billy Cody told me.”

“When did you see him, Bill?”

“Last time was when I was out to his house about a month ago. He was
planning on a trapping and hunting trip with a man named Harrington up
in the Republican country north of Junction City. But he’ll be on the
trail again in the spring; you mark my word.”

“So you’re driving stage, are you, Bill?”

“Yes; I’m running between Horse Creek and Laramie, forty-two miles.
It’s a great outfit, the C. O. C. & P. P.――the finest coaches and mules
I’ve ever seen, and plenty of stations and feed. Now it’s up to the
drivers to make the schedule.” And Wild Bill sauntered off, nodding to
acquaintances, to wash and eat.

Davy joined the group admiring the coach. It evidently had been
prepared especially for the occasion of the first trip through. It was
a new “Concord,” built by the famous stage-coach manufacturers, the
Abbot-Downing Company, of Concord, New Hampshire. The large round,
deep body was enclosed at the sides by canvas curtains that could be
rolled up; and behind, it was extended to form a large roomy triangular
pocket, or “boot,” for mail and baggage. The driver’s seat, in front,
was almost on the level with the roof; and beneath it was another
pocket, or boot, for express and other valuables. A pair of big oil
lamps sat upon brackets, at either end of the driver’s seat. The coach
body was slung upon heavy straps forming the “throughbrace,” instead of
resting upon springs; and here it securely cradled. It had been painted
red and decorated with gilt.

This coach had space for six passengers, three in a seat facing three
others in an opposite seat. The coach was filled, when it had arrived,
with the six passengers and a lot of mail; Wild Bill on the box, and
beside him a wiry little man, who was Captain Cricket, the express
messenger.

Bob Scott and Wild Bill ate dinner together at the station. The fresh
team of mules had been harnessed into the traces, and were being held
by the heads. Bob looked at his watch, drew on his gloves, circuited
the mules with an eye to their straps and buckles, laid his overcoat (a
fine buffalo coat with high beaver collar) on his seat, and grasping
lines and whip climbed up. Captain Cricket nimbly followed.

“All ready, gentlemen,” announced Bob, his foot on the brake, poised
to release it. The passengers came hurrying out and into the coach.
Bob gave one glance over his shoulder. Then――“Let ’er go,” he bade the
hostlers.

“Whang!” his brake released; the hostlers leaped aside; out flew his
lash, forward sprang the mules, and away went coach and all, in a
flurry of dust, for the next run, to Horseshoe Creek, thirty-six miles.
Run by run, up the Sweetwater River, over South Pass, down to the Sandy
and the Green Rivers, through Fort Bridger and Echo Canyon, one hundred
and more miles every day, would it speed, by relays of teams and of
drivers, until the last team and last driver would bring it into Salt
Lake.

Wild Bill took a horse and returned to his east station, to drive in
the next westbound stage. Every day a stage came through, and presently
the stages from the west began coming back. The driver who brought in
a stage from one direction took back the stage going in the opposite
direction.

The stages through to Salt Lake and to the Missouri brought considerable
new life to Fort Laramie. Papers and letters from New York and San
Francisco arrived so quickly after being mailed that it was easy to see
what a great treat this service was to Salt Lake and Denver and every
little settlement along the whole route.

Mr. Ficklin was general superintendent of the line, and was constantly
riding up and down. No person who passed by was better liked than
Superintendent Ficklin. Mr. Russell was in Washington, but Mr. Majors
appeared, once, stepping from the stage; and he had not forgotten Davy.

“Your pardner, Billy Cody, almost met his end this winter, my lad,” he
informed. “Did you hear about it?”

“No, sir,” gasped Dave.

“Well, he did. He was up in central Kansas on a trapping trip, and
lost his oxen and broke his leg and had to be left alone in a dug-out
while his companion went one hundred and twenty-five miles, afoot, to
the nearest settlement for a team and supplies. Billy got snowed in,
couldn’t move anyway, a gang of Indians plundered him and might have
murdered him, and when, on the twenty-ninth day――nine days late――his
friend finally arrived and yelled to him, Billy could scarcely answer.
Even then the snow had to be dug away from the door. But he reached
home safely and he’s getting along finely now. He’s plucky, is
Billy――and so was his friend, Harrington.”

“Maybe he won’t want to go out on the plains any more,” faltered Dave.

“Who? Billy Cody?” And Mr. Majors laughed. “You wait till the grass
begins to get green and the willow buds swell, and you’ll see Billy
Cody right on deck, ready for business.”

Back and forth, between Salt Lake and the Missouri River shuttled the
stages of the Central Overland, California & Pike’s Peak Express. They
seemed to be making money for the company, but rumors said that the
company needed more money; in fact, the company were in a bad way. The
expenses had been tremendous. The big coaches cost $1000 apiece――and
there were fifty of them. The harness for each four-mule team was made
in Concord, and it cost about $150. Then there were 10,000 tons of hay
a year, at twenty to thirty dollars a ton; and 3,000,000 pounds of corn
and another 3,000,000 pounds of grain, at several cents a pound; and
2000 mules at seventy-five dollars each; and the wages of the men――$100
a month and board for the division agents, $50 and $75 a month for the
drivers, $50 a month for the station agents, and $40 a month for the
hostlers who took care of the mules.

But even under this expense it seemed as though the passenger fare of
$125 to Denver and $200 to Salt Lake (meals extra at a dollar and a
dollar and a half), and the heavy rates on express ought to bring the
company a profit. Davy, trying to figure out the matter, hoped so. Of
course, it was not his business, but a fellow likes to have his friends
successful; and Dave looked upon Mr. Majors, and Mr. Russell, and Mr.
Waddell as very good friends of his.

He took a trip, once in a while, on the stage east with Wild Bill, or
west with “Gentleman Bob,” on quartermaster’s affairs, to some of the
stations. There always was room on the driver’s box, and generally Wild
Bill or “Gentleman Bob” was glad to have him up there along with the
messenger.

“Gentleman Bob” proved to be as remarkable a character as Wild Bill
Hickok. When approaching stations Wild Bill signalled with a tremendous
piercing: “Ah-whoop-pee!” and arrived on the run. Gentleman Bob
whistled shrilly. The teams for either of them had to be changed in
less than four minutes, or there was trouble. The Overland stage waited
for naught.

Wild Bill passed the news on to Gentleman Bob, and Gentleman Bob it was
who passed it to Davy, as one fresh, windy morning in this the spring
of 1860, Dave gladly clambered up to the driver’s box to ride through
to the end of the run at Horseshoe.

“Let ’er go!” yelped Bob, kicking the brake free; and to mighty lunge
and smart crack of lash the coach jumped forward, whirling away from
the station for another westward spurt.

“This, oh this is the life for me,
Driving the C. O. C. & P. P.”

warbled Gentleman Bob, flicking the off lead mule with the whip
cracker. No bull whacker in any Russell, Majors & Waddell outfit could
sling a whip more deftly than “Gentleman Bob,” a “king of the road.”
“Do you know what that means, nowadays, Red――‘C. O. C. & P. P.’?”

“What, Bob?”

“Clean Out of Cash & Poor Pay!”

“Aw!” scoffed Davy. “Is it as bad as that?”

“Pretty near,” asserted Bob. But that wasn’t his news. His news
followed. “Do you know something else; what’s going to happen next on
this blooming road?”

“Pony express!” hazarded Dave.

Bob turned his head and coolly stared.

“How’d you find out?”

“I guessed. Mr. Ficklin spoke about it a long time ago.”

“Well, she’s due, and Ben Ficklin and Billy Russell and Alex Majors and
that crowd are back of it. You saw Billy Russell go through Laramie
last month. He’s been buying hosses――the best in the country, two
hundred of ’em, at from one hundred to two hundred dollars apiece.
Read this advertisement in the paper; that’ll tell you the scheme.”
And reaching in behind the leather apron which covered the front of
the pocket or “boot” under his seat, Bob extracted a newspaper. He
indicated with his thumb. “Read that,” he bade.

It was a “Missouri Republican,” date of March 26. The article said:

TO SAN FRANCISCO IN EIGHT DAYS
BY
THE CENTRAL OVERLAND CALIFORNIA
AND
PIKE’S PEAK EXPRESS CO.

The first courier of the Pony Express will leave the Missouri
River on Tuesday, April 3, at 5 o’clock p. m., and will run
regularly weekly thereafter, carrying a letter mail only. The
point of departure on the Missouri River will be in telegraphic
connection with the East and will be announced later.

* * * * *

The letter mail will be delivered in San Francisco in ten days
from the departure of the Express. The Express passes through
Forts Kearney, Laramie, Bridger, Great Salt Lake City, Camp
Floyd, Carson City, The Washoe Silver Mines, Placerville, and
Sacramento.

* * * * *

W. H. RUSSELL, President.
LEAVENWORTH CITY, KANSAS,
March, 1860.

There was more than this to the advertisement, but these were the
paragraphs that appealed to Davy.

“Pretty slick they’ve all been about it, too,” resumed Bob, tucking the
paper away again.

“You’re right,” spoke the express messenger――who was Captain Cricket,
again on his way through to Salt Lake. “They’ve bought the ponies and
hired the riders, sixty of them. The route’s being divided into runs of
seventy-five or a hundred miles, and stocked with horses, every ten or
fifteen miles, for change of mounts.”

“Do you think it’ll pay?” asked Gentleman Bob.

“Pay? No! It can’t pay. But it’ll be a big advertisement for this
company. They count on showing the Government that the Salt Lake Trail
can be travelled quicker and easier than the old Butterfield overland
trail through Texas, and on taking the mail and express business away
from it.”

“I’d like to ride one of those runs,” asserted Dave, boldly.

Gentleman Bob laughed and cracked his silk lashed whip, of which he was
very proud.

“I expect you would, Red,” he agreed. “But this riding a hundred miles
or more at a gallop without rest is no kid’s job, you’d find.”

“Billy Cody’ll ride, though, I bet a dollar,” returned Davy.

Gentleman Bob scratched his cheek with his whip stock, and deliberated.

“Well,” he said, “I shouldn’t wonder if he would.”

Events moved rapidly now after the Pony Express had been announced.
Three new horses were stabled at the stage station; two were wiry
ponies, the other was a mettlesome horse of such extra good points
that Gentleman Bob pronounced him a Kentucky thoroughbred. The station
force of men were increased by Pony Express employees, and a rider
himself arrived who had been engaged to take the run from Laramie west
to the next “home” station, Red Buttes, ninety-eight miles. His name
was “Irish Tom,” and he did not weigh more than one hundred pounds; but
every pound of him seemed to be good hard muscle.

Irish Tom had come in from the west. He said that he had been one
of sixty riders hired at Carson City, Nevada, by Bolivar Roberts,
who was the superintendent of the Western Division of the Pony
Express. According to Irish Tom every man had to prove up that he
was experienced on the plains and in the mountains, and could ride.
Altogether, there were eighty riders waiting, stationed all the way
across the continent from St. Joseph on the Missouri to Sacramento in
California; there were over 400 picked horses, which would gallop at
top speed up hill and down, through sand and mud, snow and water and
sun, for at least ten miles at a stretch.

The start from both ends of the route, from St. Joseph and from
Sacramento, was to be made (as advertised) on April 3. Of course there
was no way of knowing at Laramie, for instance, whether the start had
been made; the Pony Express would bring its own news, for the railroad
and the telegraph were the only things that could beat it, and these
seemed a long way in the future. As for the Overland Stage, the Pony
Express was scheduled to travel two miles to the stage’s one!

April 3rd passed; so did April 4th and 5th. It was figured at the post
and stage station that on a schedule of ten miles an hour, including
stops, the 600 miles to Laramie would bring the first rider through
early on April 6th. The west-bound rider would reach Laramie before the
east-bound rider, because the distance from the Missouri River was the
shorter distance.

Davy was among those who turned out at daybreak to watch for the first
rider. He hustled down to the stage station. The air was frosty, ice
had formed over night, and the sunrise was only a pink glow in the
east, beyond the expanse of rolling, sage-brush plain. A group of stage
and pony express employees and of people from the post had gathered,
wrapped in their buffalo-robe coats and army coats, shivering in the
chill air, but waiting. By evidence of this group the rider had not
come; but the fresh horse was standing saddled and bridled (he was the
Kentucky thoroughbred), and Irish Tom was also standing, ready, beside
it. Irish Tom wore a close-fitting leather jacket and tight buckskin
trousers, and boots and spurs and a slouch hat tied down over his ears
with a scarf. At his belt were two revolvers and a knife; and slung to
his back was a Spencer carbine, which could fire eight shots.

All eyes were directed down the trail.

“He’s due,” spoke the station agent. And――

“There he comes!” shouted somebody. “There he comes!”

“There he comes! Hurray! There he comes!”

Upon the dun sandy trail had appeared a black speck. How rapidly it
neared! Every eye was glued to it; Irish Tom put foot into stirrup,
hand upon mane; his horse, as if knowing, pawed eagerly.

Now the speck had enlarged into a horseman, rising, falling, rising,
falling, upon galloping steed. The horse itself was plain――and through
the still thin air floated the heralding beat of rapid hoofs.

The rider was leaning forward, lifting his mount to its every stride;
the horse’s head was stretched forward, he was running low and hard,
and now the steam from his nostrils could be seen in great puffs. On
they swept, they two, man and horse, every second nearer――and suddenly
here they were, the horse’s chest foam-specked, his nostrils wide and
red, his legs working forward and back, forward and back, his rider a
little fellow not much larger than Dave, crimson faced from the swift
pace through the cold night. He swung his hat, and whooped, exultant.
Up rose a cheer to greet him; and the crowd scattered, for into its
very midst he galloped at full speed.

He jerked from underneath him a set of saddle-bags, and ere he had
stopped he flung them ahead; the station agent sprang to grab them,
and before the rider had landed upon the ground had slung them across
Irish Tom’s saddle and shouted: “Clear the way!”

Into his saddle leaped Irish Tom, tightened lines, thrust spurs against
hide, and at a single great bound was away, bending low and racing like
mad at full gallop on up the trail for Red Buttes, almost 100 miles
westward again. In an astonishingly brief space of time he was around
the turn and out of sight; but the rapid thud of his hoofs still echoed
back.

XXI

“PONY EXPRESS BILL”

The name of the rider who had just arrived was Charley Cliff. As he
stiffly swung from the saddle, a dozen hands were thrust at him to clap
him on the shoulder and to shake his hand in congratulation.

“What did you make it in?”

“What time is it?” he panted.

“You arrived at five ten.”

“Is that so? Then I made the last twenty miles in sixty-two minutes.”

The horse looked like it. It staggered, weak-kneed, as the hostler
carefully led it to the stable. Charley also slightly staggered from
stiffness as he walked away with the agent through a lane of admirers,
for breakfast and sleep.

Before the east-bound mail arrived on its swift journey from California
to the Missouri River, Davy and everybody else at Laramie knew just how
the system was being worked. Charley had been well questioned.

Only the best horses were used――horses that could beat Indian horses or
anything else on the road. The Pony Express riders were supposed not
to fight but to run away. Their Spencer carbine and two revolvers and
knife were carried for use only in case that they couldn’t run away.
They all had to sign the regular Russell, Majors & Waddell pledge, and
each one was given a calf-bound Bible, just as with the bull trains.
Small horses were preferred, and a very light skeleton saddle was used.
A set of saddle-bags called a mochila (mo-cheela) was hung across the
saddle; each corner was a pocket for the mail. The pocket flaps were
locked by little brass keys, and could be unlocked only by the station
agents. The mochila was passed from rider to rider, and the mail was
taken out or put in along the route. Of course, the most of the mail
was through mail, from the East to the Coast, and from the Coast to the
East. The rate was five dollars a half ounce, and most of the letters
were written on tissue paper; the New York and St. Louis papers also
were to be printed on tissue paper for mailing by the Pony Express.
The limit was twenty pounds. Charley thought that he had brought
about three pounds. The letters were wrapped in oiled silk, so that
they would not soak with water, and were in Government Pony Express
envelopes, which cost ten cents apiece. Later Dave saw some of these
letters, directed to Laramie. Several addressed to the post sutler,
for instance, from merchant houses, had as much as twenty dollars in
postage stamps and Pony Express stamps on the envelopes!

Gradually the names of the Pony Express riders passed back and forth
along the line. There were eighty of the riders, forty carrying the
news in one direction, forty carrying it in the other. Out on the
west end――the Pacific Division――were riding Harry Roff and “Boston,”
and Sam Hamilton (through thirty feet of snow on the Sierra Nevada
mountain range!) and Bob Haslam, and Jay Kelley, Josh Perkins, Major
Egan. In and out of Laramie rode Irish Tom, and Charley Cliff, who was
only seventeen years old. In and out of Julesburg rode Bill Hogan, and
“Little Yank,” who weighed a hundred pounds and rode 100 miles without
a rest. Further east, down the Platte, were Theo Rand and “Doc” Brink,
and Jim Beatley, and handsome Jim Moore, and little Johnny Frye――who
took the first trip out of St. Joe.

Their names and the names of other riders travelled from mouth to
mouth――and soon tales were being told of storms and Indians and
outlaws and accidents that tried to stop the express but couldn’t. No
matter what conspired to stop him, the Pony Express rider always got
through. The first relays had carried the mail from the Missouri River
to Sacramento, California, 1966 miles, in nine days and twenty-three
hours――one hour under schedule! And after that the mail went through,
both ways, on schedule time or less.

So, regularly as clockwork, into Laramie galloped the rider from Mud
Springs, with the west-bound mail, and the rider from Red Buttes with
the east-bound mail; in fifteen seconds the saddle bags were changed
from horse to horse and out galloped the fresh riders. Davy burned to
vault aboard the saddle, like Irish Tom or Charley, and scurry away, on
business bent, to carry the precious saddle bags to the next rider.

But meanwhile, where was Billy Cody?

The question was soon answered by Billy himself when, one afternoon,
into Fort Laramie pulled a Russell, Majors & Waddell bull outfit with
Government freight from Leavenworth; also with Billy Cody riding beside
Wagon Boss Lew Simpson! Never was sight more welcome to Dave, who from
the quartermaster’s office espied the familiar figure and immediately
rushed out to give greeting.

Billy looked a little thin after the strenuous time that he had had on
the trapping expedition when he was disabled and snowed in helpless;
but he could shake hands and exchange a “Hello,” before he swung from
his mule and made for Jack Slade.

Mr. Slade was division superintendent of the stage and Pony Express,
with headquarters at Horseshoe Station, thirty-six miles west from
Laramie. Just now he was coming across the grounds and Billy stopped
him.

“How are you, Mr. Slade?”

“How are you?”

“My name’s Billy Cody, Mr. Slade. I want to ride pony express. Mr.
Russell’s sent me out to your division with a letter.” And Billy
extended the letter.

Mr. Slade was a straight, muscular, rather slender man, with
smooth-shaven face, high cheek-bones, cool, steady gray eyes and thin
straight lips. He had the reputation of being a dangerous man in a
fight, and already he had driven Old Jules, down at Julesburg, into
hiding. He was rapidly cleaning his division of outlaws and thieves.

Without opening the letter he scanned Billy from head to foot. Billy
stood stanch.

“You do, do you?” presently said Mr. Slade. “You’re too young for a
pony express rider, my boy. It takes men for that business.”

Evidently he did not know Billy Cody.

“I rode a while on Bill Trotter’s division, sir,” responded Billy,
eagerly. “I filled the bill there, and I think I can do as well or
better now.”

Mr. Slade seemed interested.

“Oh! Are you that boy who was riding down there a short time back, as
the youngest rider on the road?”

“Yes, sir. I’m the boy.”

Mr. Slade proceeded to read the Russell letter. It must have
recommended Billy highly, for Mr. Slade appeared to be satisfied.

“All right,” he said. “I’ve heard of you. I shouldn’t wonder if it
would shake the life out of you, but maybe you can stand it. I’ll give
you a trial, anyhow; and if you can’t stand up to it you can tend stock
at Horseshoe. I’ll let you know your run in the morning.”

He walked away, and Billy turned to Dave with face aglow.

“I’ve got it!” he asserted. “Hurrah! It’s on the toughest division
west of the mountains, too! I tell you that’s no joke, riding pony
express――making eighty or a hundred miles at a dead gallop night
and day, and changing horses every ten miles or so in less than two
minutes.”

What luck! Or, no, not luck; Billy had earned it. That evening Dave
and he had a great old-time visit exchanging news. Dave did not have
much, it seemed to him, worth while to report, but Billy was full of
adventures, as usual. Davy heard again all about the trapping trip of
last winter, and how another Dave――Dave Harrington――had fought a heroic
fight with the snow to find Billy in the dug-out, and rescue him. Billy
was all right now; and after having had a short, rather easy, pony
express run down the line, was here anxious to tackle something harder.

Mr. Slade went on to Horseshoe early the next morning, but he saw Billy
before he left, and Billy got the assignment. He hailed Dave in high
feather.

“I’m off,” he announced. “But I’m on, too. I’ve got the run between Red
Buttes and Three Crossings! Seventy-six miles――about the hardest run on
the toughest division of the trail! Reckon maybe he thinks he has my
scalp, but he hasn’t. I’ll go through like greased lightning. That’s an
Injun and outlaw country both; and I have to ford the Sweetwater three
times in sixty yards! Slade’s a hard man to work for, too, they say.
He won’t stand for any foolishness. But I’ll get along with him all
right as soon as he finds out I do my duty. So long, Red. I’ll see you
later. You’ll hear from me, anyway. I told you I was going to ride pony
express, remember? I used to think I’d be president; but I’d rather
have this run than be boss at Washington all the rest of my life!”

He hastily shook hands. Dave envied him heartily, but he also wished
him success. Nobody deserved success more than Billy. Of course, to be
the youngest rider on the whole route from St. Joe to Sacramento was
a big thing, and nobody can blame Davy for a trace of honest envy. He
went back to his day’s routine. The bull train pulled out at once, and
Billy started with it for his new job.

Soon word from him travelled back to Laramie and Dave by Irish Tom, who
received the saddle bags from him at Red Buttes, and by Gentleman Bob,
who heard from him through the other stage drivers. “Pony Express Bill”
he began to be called; the “kid” rider between Red Buttes and Three
Crossings, on the Platte and Sweetwater Rivers of the Salt Lake Trail
in what is to-day south central Wyoming but which was then western
Nebraska Territory.

Great things were reported of Billy. One time when the rider west of
him was killed, Billy rode his own run and the other run, too, and all
the way back again――322 miles at a stretch! When Mr. Slade learned of
this he said: “That boy’s a brick!” and he gave Billy extra pay.

Another time bandits stopped Billy and demanded his express package,
which they knew contained a large sum of money. But Billy was smart.
He had hidden the real package under his saddle, and now he threw them
a dummy package containing only paper. When they stooped to pick it
up and examine it he spurred his horse right over them and was away,
flying up the trail――and although they fired at him they never touched
him!

Another time the Sioux Indians ambushed him, and when he dashed past
they chased him. But he lay flat on his pony’s back while the arrows
whistled over him, and he rode twenty-four miles without stopping.

Another time one bandit halted him in a lonely canyon.

“You’re a mighty leetle fellow to be takin’ sech chances,” said the
bandit, while he held his gun pointed at Billy’s head.

“I’m as big as any other fellow, I reckon,” answered Billy, coolly.

“How do you figure that?” asked the bandit.

Billy tapped his Colt’s revolver.

“I may be little, but I can shoot as hard as if I were General
Jackson,” he warned.

“I expect you can, an’ I reckon you would,” chuckled the bandit,
tickled with Billy’s nerve; and he let him ride on.

So it was not long before “Pony Express Bill” was drawing $150 a month
pay, which was the top wages paid on the road.

Meanwhile Dave felt that his work at Fort Laramie was rather tame.
It was just the same thing day after day, with only ordinary pay,
and three meals a day, and a good bed at night, and a lot of
friends――and――and――that seemed about all, except that he was learning
all the time from books and from the people about him; and he knew
that he was growing inside as well as outside. To tell the truth, he
was doing first-rate and getting ahead, and was being given more and
more responsibility and showing that he could carry it; but of course
he wanted to prove his pluck by riding pony express. That _seemed_
bigger――whether it really was or not.

His chance came, as it generally does to everybody who waits for it
and holds himself ready. All the summer there had been talk among the
army officers at the post and between them and the stage passengers who
passed through of affairs in the East, where a presidential campaign
was being hotly carried on. It appeared, by the talk and by the papers,
that a man named Abraham Lincoln was a candidate of the North, and
that Stephen A. Douglas was a candidate of the South, and that if
Mr. Lincoln was elected South Carolina and other Southern States
threatened to withdraw from the Union. They claimed that each State had
the right of governing itself, and that States and Territories should
decide for themselves whether or not they would own slaves within their
borders.

The question as to whether Kansas should be “slave” or “free” had
caused fighting when that territory was being settled; and Billy
Cody’s father, who was a “Free State” man, had been so badly stabbed
that he never recovered. The settlement of Nebraska Territory also
had brought on much bitter feeling between North and South――for the
North was against the extension of slavery. So was Abraham Lincoln.
The army officers at Fort Laramie, some of whom were Northerners and
some Southerners, declared that the election of Lincoln would mean war;
according to the Northern officers, if the Southern States tried to
withdraw; according to the Southern officers, if the Southern States
were not permitted to withdraw.

The election was to be held on November 6, and it would be November 10
before the news of who won could reach Laramie by the Pony Express.
That was a long time at the best when such important events were
occurring; but even at that Davy (who was as impatient as anybody)
found that he might be disappointed, for he was ordered by Captain
Brown to take the stage west in the morning and go up the line to
Horseshoe Station on Government business.

When the stage left, early, Irish Tom was still standing ready beside
his horse to take the saddle bag from Charley Cliff. Charley had not
come――and it was learned afterward that the mail was late in starting
from St. Joseph because it had waited for the election news.

So Dave mounted the driver’s box on the C. O. C. & P. P. stage beside
Gentleman Bob, and they drove away and left the unknown news behind
them.

However, not for long. They had gone scarcely fifteen miles when
Gentleman Bob, who had been constantly glancing over his shoulder,
exclaimed: “There he comes! Look at him, will you!”

By “he” could be meant only one person――the Pony Express rider. Yes,
the Pony Express it was――a dark spot, rising, falling, rising, falling,
pelting up the dusty trail.

“He’s certainly going some,” commented the stage messenger, who this
time was not Captain Cricket, but was Jack Mayfield.

Bob flung his lash over the backs of his four mules and broke them into
a gallop. But although the stage was empty this trip and the mules
fresh, and the road smooth, the pony express closed in as fast as if
the coach were standing still.

“Going to pass us,” laughed Bob, and slowed his team.

And the pony express _did_ pass them. There was sudden staccato of
hoofs, like a long roll of a drum――a rush, a whoop――“Who’s elected?”
yelled Bob, turning in his seat to meet the onswoop.

“Lincoln. New York gives fifty thousand majority,” shouted back Irish
Tom; and in a cloud of dust he was away, leaving a flake of froth on
the coach box at Davy’s feet.

“Lincoln, huh?” remarked Gentleman Bob. “Well, I wonder what’ll happen
now. But that boy’s sure riding,” and he gazed reflectively after Irish
Tom.

XXII

CARRYING THE GREAT NEWS

“Lincoln’s elected!” The words continued to ring in Davy’s ears, and
the flying shape of the Pony Express, bearing the great news, was
constantly in his eyes as at trot and gallop the stage rolled along the
Salt Lake Overland trail from Fort Laramie on. Irish Tom and his hard
pushed pony were out of sight, but they were not forgotten.

The trail was almost deserted this morning; only one emigrant train was
passed, and, drawing aside to let the stage by, it cheered to the three
persons on the box: “Hooray for Lincoln!”

Davy cheered back; but Gentleman Bob and Messenger Mayfield looked
straight ahead and said nothing. That was the fashion. Emigrant trains
and bull trains were considered beneath the notice of the stage coach
box.

However, in another mile something did attract the notice of Gentleman
Bob, whose eyes were ever on the lookout, although he usually spoke
little.

“Looks like trouble, yonder,” he remarked, pointing with his whip.
“How’s your gun, Jack? O. K.?”

“Yes.”

“Better have it ready. Red, you get down in the boot under the seat and
stay there, when I say so. You’re liable to be shot full of holes.”

Bob gathered his lines tighter and peered keenly. His jaw set, as,
holding up his mules, prepared for sudden dash, he sent them forward at
brisk trot. Messenger Mayfield shifted his short double-barrelled gun
loaded with buckshot from between his knees to his lap and pulled down
his hat.

Half a mile before, in the hollow of the sweeping curve which the coach
was rounding, was a riderless horse moving restlessly hither-thither in
the brush beside the trail; he was equipped with saddle and bridle――at
least so Bob muttered, and so the messenger agreed, and so Davy
believed that he, also, could see――but of the rider there was no sign
_yet_.

Indians! Then why hadn’t they taken the horse? Or road agents, as the
bandits were called! The rider must have been shot from the saddle. And
would the coach, passing, find him? Or were the Indians, surprised in
the act, ambushed and waiting? Or what _had_ happened, anyway?

“That’s the Pony Express horse, gentleman,” said Bob, quietly. “I know
the animal. There’s been bad work.”

Mr. Mayfield, who was as nervy as Bob himself, nodded; Davy breathed
faster, his heart beating loudly; Bob flung his lash, straightened out
his team, and with brake slightly grinding descended the hill at a
gallop.

“I see him!” exclaimed Messenger Mayfield. “At the edge of the road.
He’s hurt, but he can move.”

Davy, too, could see a dismounted man――Irish Tom or somebody else――half
raising himself from the ground, and crawling into the trail, where he
sat waving his handkerchief.

With rattle and shuffle and grinding of brake the coach bore down,
prepared to stop――and prepared for anything else that might befall.

Yes, it was Irish Tom, the Pony Express rider, and that was his horse,
the saddle bags still on it, fidgeting in the brush. Tom was half
lying, half sitting, supporting himself with one arm and waving with
the other. His hat was gone, his uplifted hand bleeding, one leg seemed
useless, and altogether he appeared in a sad state.

In a cloud of dust from the braced hoofs and locked wheels Gentleman
Bob halted with the leaders’ fore hoofs almost touching Tom.

“What’s the matter here?”

Tom’s face, grimy and streaked and pinched with pain, gazed up
agonizedly, but he did not mince words. The Pony Express rider was
superior even to a stage driver.

“Catch that horse for me. I’ve broken my leg.”

Down from the box nimbly swung Mr. Mayfield; jamming his brakes
tighter and tying the lines short, down swung Gentleman Bob. Down
clambered Dave.

“How’d it happen?”

“Fell and threw me. Catch him and help me on; and hurry up.”

“Catch him, Jack; you and Dave,” bade Bob, crisply. “Where’s it broken,
Tom?”

“High up, but that doesn’t matter. I’ll ride if it kills me. I’m late
now.”

Luckily the horse was easily caught; his dragging lines, entangled in a
sage clump, held him until Mr. Mayfield laid hand upon them. When Dave,
with Mr. Mayfield leading the horse, returned into the road and hustled
back to Bob and Tom, Bob was arguing tensely.

“But you can’t, Tom! You can’t do it, man! You can’t fork a saddle with
your hip broken.”

Tom struggled to sit up――and the great beads of sweat stood out on his
red brow.

“You help me on, and tie me there; that’s all I ask. I’ll make it. I’ve
_got_ to.”

“We’ll take you on to the next station, and the saddle bags, too,”
retorted Bob. “That’s the quickest way. Strip that horse, Red. Give me
a lift with Tom, here, Jack. Open the coach door.”

“But there’s nobody except the agent at the next station, Bob!”
appealed Tom, wildly. “Who’ll take the express?”

“Then we’ll go through to the next station. They can send somebody from
there, I reckon.”

Suddenly a great thought struck Davy――and he wondered why the same
hadn’t occurred to the others.

“I’ll ride it, Tom! I’ll ride it, Bob! Let _me_.” And he sprang for the
express pony.

Bob slapped his dusty thigh: The idea struck him.

“Go it,” he exclaimed. “Take those lines. Unbuckle your guns, Tom, old
man, while I hold you.”

“Somebody put my spurs on him,” panted Tom, tugging at his belt buckle.

Words had been rapid, fingers worked fast; and almost in less time than
it takes to tell it, after the halting of the coach, Davy was in the
Pony Express saddle, with the final orders filling his ears.

“Now ride, boy; ride!”

Scarcely yet settled into the stirrups, he bounded forward (the jerk of
the mettlesome pony almost snapped his head loose), and was away.

“Ride, boy; ride!”

Davy jammed tighter his hat; his feet clinging to the stirrups, he half
turned in the saddle and waved his hand to the little group behind.
They would see that he was all right. They were grouped just as he had
left them: Mr. Mayfield standing, where he had strapped the spurs to
Davy’s heels after Dave had mounted; Gentleman Bob half erect, over
Tom, from whom he had passed the revolver belt.

But even as Davy looked, they all moved, preparing to lift Tom into
the coach. Davy faced ahead and settled to his work.

“Ride, boy; ride!”

Well, he _could_ ride! he knew how; and if he didn’t know how he was
bound to stick, anyway. There were the plump saddle bags under him,
crossed by his legs; he was carrying the fast mail――and Lincoln was
elected!

The pony ran without a break and needed no urging. He was trained to
his work――a stanch, swift, apparently tireless animal. The wind smote
Davy in the face, bringing water to his eyes; the sandy, beaten trail
flowed backward beneath them like a dun torrent, the sage and rocks
reeled dizzily past on either hand, and amidst the rhythmic beat of
hoofs the pony’s breaths rose to snorty grunts.

Now another emigrant train for Salt Lake City and the Mormon colony
dotted the trail before. Past them thudded Dave, and as he raced down
the line he yelled shrilly:

“Lincoln’s elected! Lincoln’s elected!”

“By how much?”

“New York gives him fifty thousand!”

Dave was not certain what this conveyed, exactly, but it had sounded
important from Irish Tom.

Some of the train cheered, some growled, but he speedily left both
cheers and growls behind him.

The first of the stations appeared ahead――a blot of darker drab beside
the trail. This was one of the way stations――the stations where horses
were changed in less than two minutes. Two minutes was the limit, but
frequently the change was made in fifteen seconds.

Dave’s pony seemed to know where he was and what was at hand. He
snorted, and at pick of spur let himself out a little longer in his
stride and doubled and stretched a little faster.

The station swiftly enlarged. A poor place it was, Dave remembered: a
low log cabin, sod roofed, with rude log stable close behind it, and
a pole corral. The station man would be about as rude in appearance:
unshaven, well weathered, dressed in slouch hat, rough flannel shirt,
red or blue, belted trousers and heavy boots. There he lived, by
the roadside, 700 miles into the Indian country, alone amidst the
unpeopled, rolling sagy hills through which flowed the North Platte
River and extended, unending, the ribbon-like road. Dave could see him
standing in front of the buildings, holding the relay horse and peering
down the trail for its rider. The stations were required by the company
to have the fresh horse saddled and bridled and ready half an hour
before the express was due.

Dave knew his duty, too. Not slackening pace, he loosened from the
fastenings the saddle bags under him. Up at full gallop he dashed, and
even before he had pulled his pony to its haunches, he tore the saddle
bags from beneath him and tossed them ahead. Then he was off in a
twinkling, staggering as he landed.

“Quick!” he gasped, out of parched throat.

The station man had stared, but he grabbed the saddle bags.

“Who are you? Where’s Tom?”

“Hurt. Coming on stage.”

The saddle bags were clapped on the other saddle. Dave grasped the
bridle lines.

“Bad?”

“Leg broken.” And Davy, thrusting foot into stirrup, vaulted aboard
almost over the station man’s head.

One last twitch to the saddle bags.

“What’s the news?”

“Lincoln’s elected. New York gives him fifty thousand majority.” And
away sprang Dave, headlong on the next leg of his route.

Thudding through the sand, clattering over the rocks, echoing through
short defiles, ever urging his pony, rode Davy. He was resolved to go
clear through, to the home station at Red Buttes, over sixty miles. The
stations ahead had no means of knowing that an accident had befallen
the regular rider; and to mount another substitute, at short notice,
would consume valuable time. At Red Buttes Billy Cody would take the
saddle bags――and to give them to Billy he must.

At the next station, fourteen miles, the station man had helpers in the
shape of two hostlers or stable hands. They also gazed, astonished at
sight of Dave instead of Irish Tom; but no one wasted precious moments
in explanations. The conversation was much the same as before――and on
his fresh horse Dave spurred again up the long, long trail. He passed a
toiling bull train. “Lincoln’s elected,” he shrieked as before; but he
was going so fast that he did not catch their response. He only noted
them wave their whips in salute.

Horseshoe Station hove into view. This was headquarter’s station for
the division. Here stayed, when not on the trail, Mr. Slade, the
division superintendent; and he was in front of the station cabin with
the other men, peering down the road.

Davy galloped in. He was assailed by a volley of queries――until Mr.
Slade cut them short.

“No matter,” he bade curtly. “Fasten that mochila. Now ride, my lad;
you’re half an hour late!”

“Lincoln’s elected,” gasped Davy, spurring away.

He was getting tired. His feet were growing numb, and his ankles were
being chafed raw. Before he arrived at the next station, the Platte
River had to be forded. As he passed through, a man sprang into sight,
in the trail at the farther bank. Dave’s heart leaped into his throat.
The man was partially screened by willows. He was armed. With ears
pricked, the horse forged ahead, and the man waited. To leave the
stream bed required a little climb up the rather steep bank, and as
Dave reached it out whipped the man’s revolver and the muzzle was
trained true at Dave. It seemed to him that the round hole covered
every inch of his body. His horse shied and balked.

“Throw off that mail bag.”

The man was “Yank,” assistant wagon boss under Charley Martin! Dave
recognized him at once, although the slouch hat was pulled low. But
beneath the brim the eyes were those of “Yank.”

“No,” panted Dave, trying to hold his voice steady and think of what
Billy Cody or Irish Tom would do. “It’s only election news.”

“Throw off that mail and be quick, too,” ordered “Yank,” with a string
of curses.

Hardly knowing what he did, but resolved to do something, Dave plunged
his spurs into his pony’s heaving flanks. With a great snort and a long
leap the pony lunged forward straight up the bank. “Yank” uttered a
sudden vicious exclamation and dived aside; but the horse’s shoulder
struck him, hurled him aside, and at the instant veering sharply into
the fringe of willows Dave sent his mount crashing through. The willows
slapped him in the face and on the body. He bent low――in a moment more
they were out of the willows, again into the trail, and tearing onward.
He heard a shot――just one; but the bullet went wide, and thudity,
thudity, he was galloping safe. A little shaky, Dave laughed; he felt
like giving a whoop――although he could not spare breath for even that.
He imagined, though, how mad “Yank” must be, and this was what had made
him laugh.

Even with the excitement of the hold-up that failed, the road began to
seem wearisome, the ride one monotonous pound. The chafing stirrups
tortured his ankles almost beyond endurance――but not quite; no, not
quite. The saddle chafed his thighs. His mouth was parched, he could
scarcely breathe; he could scarcely see, when, ever and anon, his head
swam giddily. He forded the river again. From throbbing pain, his
ankles changed to the relief of numbness, and his feet, blistered, and
his blistered thighs gradually ceased to be his; they felt as if they
belonged to somebody else.

He had vague recollection of arriving at the way stations, of
staggering from horse to horse, of being helped into the saddle, of
voices hailing him, and hands and voices forwarding him on again. Once
he passed the east-bound stage――and again he passed it, or another: and
he piped to the staring faces: “Lincoln’s elected. New York gives fifty
thousand majority.” The words issued mechanically, and he did not know
what effect they had.

He had vague recollection that a bevy of Indians yelled at him and
flourished their bows, and that he heard the hiss of arrows travelling
even faster than he; but he could not stop to argue. The one fact that
stuck in his mind was that he was nearly on time. “Three minutes late,”
he thought that somebody said at the last station where he changed
horses. And――“Go it, lad! You’re a plucky one.”

“Three minutes late” was all. The thought buoyed him up and glued him
to his saddle. Gallop, gallop, over rock and sand, through brush and
through the bare open and through occasional scrubby growth of trees;
through shaded canyons, and through the burning, windy sunshine.

Was that Red Buttes? Was that really Red Buttes at last――the end of his
trip, where waited Billy Cody? Supposing Billy wasn’t there; would they
want _him_ to continue riding, riding, forever? He uttered a little sob
of despair, but he set his teeth hard, and resolved that he’d do it;
he’d do it, if he _had_ to.

The road was hilly and his horse flagged. He spurred ruthlessly and
struck with his hat. If he did not arrive on time he would be ashamed,
for nobody could know how hard he had tried. Up the hill he forced
his pony and would not let him relax into a trot. Down the grade he
galloped――every forward jump a torment. Red Buttes――that _must_ be
Red Buttes――wavered strangely amidst the level expanse before. But he
reached it. At least he thought that he reached it, and he fumbled at
his saddle bags to loosen them.

Somebody rushed forward as if to meet him and help him; and he saw,
lined plainly amidst the confused other countenances and figures, the
astonished face of Billy.

“It’s Red! Look out! He’ll fall off!” Billy’s voice rang like a trumpet.

“Where’s the regular man?” they demanded.

“Tom’s hurt――away back. I took his place. Quick, Billy! Go on.
Election news. Lincoln’s elected.”

Billy vented an exclamation. He was into the saddle atop the saddle
bags; he sprang away.

“Take good care of that kid,” he called back. “He’s a good one.”

“You bet we will.”

“Am I on time?” wheezed Davy, vaguely, unable to see straight.

“Two minutes ahead of time, lad.”

Then they picked up Davy and carried him in, for he had fallen. He felt
that he was entitled to fall. Besides, he could not have walked to save
his life, now that he was done with the saddle bags.

XXIII

A BRUSH ON THE OVERLAND STAGE

Davy was so stiff and sore that for several days he moved around very
little; but he learned that the news which he had brought in was being
rushed westward at a tremendous rate. Billy Cody had ridden the last
ten miles of his own run in thirty minutes; and by special rider from
Julesburg the tidings “Lincoln’s elected!” had been taken into Denver
only two days and twenty-one hours out of St. Joseph――665 miles.

When Davy was on his way back to Laramie he heard, at Horseshoe
Station, that the news had been carried through to California in eight
days――two days less than schedule! That was riding! And although he
never again was on Pony Express, he felt that to the end of his life he
would be proud of having ridden it once and of having performed well.

The people at Fort Laramie appreciated what Davy had done, and if he
had not been a sensible boy the praise that he got would have turned
his head. Captain Brown it was who summoned him over to the Brown
quarters one evening and asked flatly:

“Dave, how would you like to go to West Point and be educated for a
soldier?”

Dave gulped, in surprise, and blushed red. Such an education had been
beyond his dreams.

“You have the right stuff in you, boy,” continued the captain, eyeing
him. “You’ve made a good start, but you can’t continue knocking around
this way. The frontier won’t last forever. When the telegraph comes
through, connecting the West with the East, the Pony Express will have
to quit; and there’ll soon be a railroad, and then the stage coach
business will have to quit. If we have war (and things look like it),
I’ll be ordered out; so will the other officers and men here, and what
will happen to you is a problem. See? If you want to go to West Point
you ought to begin preparing, so as to be ready when you’re old enough
to enter. It’s no easy matter to take the course at the Academy; but
it’s the finest education in the world, even if you don’t stay in the
army. I don’t want you to go there with the idea of being a fighting
man. Army officers are the last persons of all to wish for fighting.
The army has a great work to do outside of war. We’re supposed to
civilize the country and keep it peaceful. At West Point your body is
built up, and what you learn, you learn thoroughly. You come out fit to
meet every kind of emergency. What do you say? If you say ‘yes,’ then
I’ll make application for you to the President direct and ask him to
appoint you ‘at large,’ as he has a right to do, just as if you were my
own son.”

“Yes, sir,” stammered Davy, red. “I’d like to go.”

“Good!” exclaimed the captain, shaking with him. “I’ll make arrangements
so that if I’m ordered out you’ll be in the right hands.”

Events seemed to occur fast. By Pony Express dispatches and the tissue
newspapers it was learned that South Carolina had withdrawn from the
Union and that the other Southern States were following suit. Abraham
Lincoln in his inauguration address besought peace but stood firmly
for a United States. His address was carried from Saint Joseph to
Sacramento, 1966 miles, in seven days and seventeen hours――a new
record. But when arrived the word that on April 12 the South Carolina
troops had bombarded Fort Sumter, then everybody knew that the war had
begun.

Another important thing, also, occurred. Before spring a stranger who
created considerable talk came through by stage bound west. He was Mr.
Edward Creighton――a pleasant gentleman with an Irish face; and was on
his way to Salt Lake looking over the country with a view to putting
in a telegraph line through to Salt Lake City. A California company
was to build from California east to Salt Lake and it was rumored that
the Government offered a payment of $40,000 a year to the company that
reached Salt Lake the first. This meant, of course, a line clear
across from the Missouri to the Pacific coast.

In the hurly-burly of troops preparing to leave for the front in the
East, Davy had the idea that he, too, should go as a drummer boy,
maybe. The sight of Billy Cody hurrying through was hard to bear.

Billy appeared unexpectedly on the stage from Horseshoe Station, where
he had been an “extra” rider under direct orders of Superintendent Jack
Slade himself.

“Hello, Billy!”

“Hello, Dave.”

“Where are you going now, Billy?”

“Back home. I haven’t been home for a year, and my mother wants to see
me. She’s poorly again. I guess I’d better be where things are boiling,
too. This war won’t last more than six months, they say; but Kansas
is liable to be a hot place with so many Southerners just across the
border in Missouri. I ought to be on hand in case of trouble around
home.”

That was just like Billy――to be on hand! Dave had more than half a
mind to accompany him to Leavenworth, and Captain Brown, about to
leave himself, had about decided that Leavenworth would be the best
place, when the matter was solved by the appearance of the Reverend Mr.
Baxter, who arrived on the next stage from the west.

“Gee whillikins!” exclaimed Dave, overjoyed, rushing to meet him. “What
are _you_ doing here?”

“Oh, merely coming through on my way from Salt Lake back to Denver,”
laughed Mr. Baxter. “I’m messenger on the stage between Julesburg and
Denver, but I’ve been off on a little vacation with a survey party for
a new stage road. I heard you were here. You’re celebrated since you
made that splendid ride, Davy.”

Davy blushed again. He hated to blush, but he had to.

“What are you doing these days?” demanded Mr. Baxter.

As soon as he heard of Davy’s plans and present fix, he insisted that
Davy travel down to Denver with him and stay there.

“Room with me, Dave?” he proffered generously. “I need a bunky. You can
get work easy enough――I know the very place where they can use a boy
who can write and figure――and I’ll tutor you. It will do me good to
brush up a little in mathematics and all that.”

Captain Brown agreed, and the matter was promptly settled. Away went
Dave, and the next day Captain Brown himself left for Fort Leavenworth,
and then――where? His going would have made Laramie rather empty for
Dave.

Denver had grown amazingly. There was now no “Auraria”; all was Denver
City――and what had been known as “Western Kansas” and the “Territory
of Jefferson,” was the Territory of Colorado. On both sides of Cherry
Creek many new buildings, two and three stories, some of the buildings
being brick, had gone up; potatoes and other produce were being raised,
and the streets, busier than ever, were thronged with merchants and
other real citizens, as well as with miners and bull whackers.

Mr. Baxter took Davy over to see the lots that they had bought for the
sack of flour two years before. Then, the lots had been out on the very
edge of town; now they were right in the business district. The Jones
family had not cared for them; had sold them for a mere song and had
pushed on to “get rich quick” mining. The Joneses had gone back to the
States, poor; but the lost lots were being held by the present owners
at $1000 apiece.

Mr. Baxter made good his promise, and Dave found a niche (which
appeared to have been made especially for a red-headed boy, with spunk,
who could read and write as well as take care of himself on the trail)
in the Elephant Corral. This was a large store building and yard for
the convenience of merchants and overland traffic. It dealt in flour
and feed and other staples consigned to it, and was headquarters for
bull outfits arriving and leaving.

The war excitement continued. Colorado, like Kansas and Nebraska, sent
out its volunteers in response to the calls of President Lincoln. Mr.
Baxter tried hard to be accepted as a chaplain, but the examining
surgeons refused him, he confided to Davy, because he had a “bum lung.”

“So, Davy boy,” he said, “you and I will have to fight the battle of
peace, and win our honors there, at present.”

They heard that Captain Brown had been made a general, and Billy Cody
and Wild Bill, too, were serving on the Union side as scouts and
despatch bearers in Kansas and Missouri. As for Davy, he pegged along,
rooming and boarding with Mr. Baxter, doing his work at the Elephant
Corral and studying evenings.

Meanwhile, the staging and freighting across the plains and to Salt
Lake continued, when not interrupted by the Indians. The Butterfield
“Southern Overland,” through Texas and New Mexico and Arizona to
California, which had been carrying the Government mail for two years,
had to be discontinued on account of the war and the Apache Indians;
and the contract was given to the “Central” route, operated by Russell,
Majors & Waddell. This meant $400,000 a year from the Government, and
it looked as though the Central Overland, California & Pike’s Peak need
no longer be called the “Clean Out of Cash & Poor Pay”; but soon the
word came that the whole line had been bought in by a big creditor, Ben
Holladay.

Great things were expected of Ben Holladay. Dave had seen him once or
twice――a large, heavy man, with square, resolute face; clean-shaven
cheeks, and gray beard. He was a veteran freighter and trader on the
plains, and had been in business in Salt Lake, California, St. Louis
and New York, and was a hustler. He hastened to increase the service
of his stage line. No expense or trouble was too much for him. The
line was known now as “Ben Holladay’s Line,” and “The Overland Stage.”
The old route north from Julesburg and around by Fort Laramie was
changed to a shorter route (the route which Mr. Baxter had helped
survey for Russell, Majors & Waddell at the time when he picked up Dave
at Laramie), which from Latham, sixty miles north of Denver, veering
northwest crossed the mountains at Bridger’s Pass for Salt Lake. At
Salt Lake the celebrated Pioneer Stage Line continued with passengers
and mail and express for Placerville, California.

The very fall after Dave arrived in Denver Mr. Creighton finished his
telegraph line into Salt Lake City, and won the $40,000 a year prize
offered by the Government. The California company met him there; the
first message was flashed through from coast to coast (“The Pacific
to the Atlantic sends greeting,” it said; “and may both oceans be dry
before a foot of all the land that lies between shall belong to any
other than a united country”); and, as Captain Brown had predicted, the
Pony Express must stop. The Holladay stages carried the mails.

Every morning at eight o’clock sharp they left Atchison below St.
Joseph on the Missouri River; at Latham the Salt Lake coaches
proceeded on to Salt Lake and the Denver coaches turned south to
Denver――and usually got in with such regularity that Denver people
set their watches by them! There never had been such a stage coach
magnate as Ben Holladay. His six- and nine-passenger Concord coaches
were the best that could be built――and on the main line alone he used
100. His horses were the best that could be bought――and of these and of
mules he had, on the main line, 3000. His drivers were paid the best
salaries――$125 and $150 a month. And for carrying the mails he received
from the Government $650,000 a year. When, several times a year, he
went over his whole lines he travelled like a whirlwind and caused a
tremendous commotion.

But speedily the regular operation of the Holladay Overland Express was
badly interrupted, for the Indians began to ravage up and down. All the
way from central Kansas to the mountains they destroyed stations and
attacked stages. The stages ran two at a time, for company, and were
protected by squads of soldiers; but even then they did not always get
through, and Denver was cut off from the outside world for weeks at
a time. Whenever Mr. Baxter started out as messenger Dave was afraid
that he would not come back alive; but somehow he managed to make the
trip, although he was apt to return in a coach riddled with arrows and
bullets.

The summer of 1864, when Davy was almost seventeen and old enough to
enter the Military Academy, was the worst season of all for Indian
raids. Stations and ranches for hundreds of miles at a stretch were
pillaged, and the stages ceased altogether between the mountains and
the Missouri. Then, in the fall, there came a lull――of which Dave was
heartily glad, for he had been ordered to report at Fort Leavenworth
for examination. His appointment had come, signed by Abraham Lincoln.

“I’ll see you through to Atchison, Dave,” said Mr. Baxter; “and to
Leavenworth, too. The return trip will be my last run.”

“Why so, Ben?” asked Davy, astonished.

“Because I’m going to change to a more permanent business while I can.
The railways are coming. The Central Pacific’s building a little every
year east out of California, and as soon as the war’s over the Union
Pacific will start from its end, at the Missouri. When the two roads
meet, with trains running across the continent, this staging business
will be knocked flat, and we messengers will be stranded. I’ve got my
health now; I’m as good a man as anybody, and when I get back from
Atchison I’ll go into something different. I’ve several offers pending.
See?”

That sounded like sense; but Dave was pleased that Mr. Baxter had not
quit before this trip, for he had counted on going out in Ben’s coach.

The fare from Denver to the Missouri River was up to $175, but Davy had
saved this, and more. The stages left from the Planters’ Hotel. The
first stage out, after the long interruption, created much excitement.
At least fifty passengers clamored for places, but there was room for
only nine in the body――and even they were crowded by mail sacks. Dave
sat on the driver’s box with Ben and the driver, who was Bob Hodge.

Everybody on the line knew Bob Hodge; he was one of the “king whips,”
and very popular. The Holladay stage drivers out of the principal
stations dressed the best that they could, for they were persons of
consequence. Polished boots, broadcloth trousers tucked in, soft silk
shirts with diamond stud, rakish hat and kid gloves were none too good
for them. Bob wore a suit of buckskin――with its decorations of beads
and fringes, the finest suit in Denver. As he stepped from the hotel
he elegantly drew on a pair of new yellow kid gloves. He nodded to Ben
and Dave, and tucked a brass horn, which was his pride, in the seat.
On this horn he was accustomed to perform when he wanted amusement and
when he approached stations. His other pride was his whip――of ebony
handle inlaid with silver. All the Holladay stage drivers owned their
whips and would not lend them.

Bob climbed aboard, Ben and Dave followed. Two hostlers held the
six-horse team by the bits; another handed up the lines to Bob――who
condescended to receive them.

“Think she’ll get through, Bob?” queried several voices, referring to
the coach.

“Oh, I reckon. She’s been through several times before,” drawled Bob.

And by the looks of “her,” she evidently had been through something. It
had been a beautiful coach, in the beginning, painted a glossy bright
green, trimmed with gilt; but now it was scarred by storm and Indians.
The very boot curtain behind Dave’s feet was punctured in two places by
arrows, and there were other holes through the coach sides.

Bob glanced at his gold watch. He grasped lines and whip, nodded at
the hostlers (they sprang from the leaders’ bits), released the heavy
brake with a bang; to the crack of his whip forward leaped the six gray
horses, whose harness was adorned with ivory rings. The watching crowd
gave a cheer, and, driving with one hand, Bob played what he called
“Into the Wilderness.”

Bob’s run was only to Latham, sixty miles down the Platte. Here he
descended, in lordly fashion, from his seat――and out of the coach must
issue the passengers, much to their disgust. The mails from the west
had been piling up for six weeks, and were of more importance than
people. Forty-one sacks were stored aboard by the station agent, until
the coach was heaped to the roof, and the big boot was overflowing. The
coach now carried a ton of mail――and Ben, Davy and the driver.

Express messengers rode an entire division, such as between Atchison
and Denver, between Denver and Salt Lake, and between Salt Lake and
Placerville of California. So Ben continued on, with Dave as his guest.
The new driver was “Long Slim”――another odd character. “Long Slim” was
six feet three inches tall, and so thin that he claimed when he stood
sideways he wouldn’t cast a shadow. He was much different from dandy
Bob Hodge; for he wore cowhide boots, a blue army overcoat, and a
buffalo fur cap.

Long Slim drove to Bijou Station, and here another driver took charge.
Stage drivers drove forty or fifty miles, or from “home” station to
“home” station. In between, about every ten miles, were the “swing”
stations, where the teams were changed. Meals were served at the home
stations.

The change of drivers was interesting, and really made little
difference to Dave, for none of them talked much; and as the coach
rolled further eastward into the Indian country the talk was less and
less. At the swing stations the teams were always standing, harnessed
and waiting. The driver grandly tossed down the lines and yawned; the
old team was whisked out in a jiffy, the new team trotted into place
without being told, the station men handed up the lines to the box, and
away went the stage again.

At the home stations the driver――“Long Slim,” or “Deacon,” or “Dad,” or
“Mizzou,” or whatever he was called, followed his lines to the ground,
said (if he chose): “All quiet so far, Hank,” and strolled into the
station. If he mentioned a drink of water, half the station force
rushed to get it for him. He was a king, was the driver on the Overland
Stage!

At Bijou Station, six soldiers of the Colorado cavalry picked up the
stage and escorted it, riding three on a side, for about 100 miles.
At least they were there when Davy peeked out of the boot under the
driver’s seat, where he slept, curled in a ball, very comfortably,
while the coach rocked and swayed through the night.

The Seventh Iowa Cavalry next took the stage, galloping and trotting
beside it down the trail along the Platte River.

The stage stations and the ranches looked as if they had been having a
tough time. Most of the ranch buildings were in ruins and abandoned;
many of the stage stations had been burned, and the station men were
living in dug-outs, some of which were merely holes in the ground,
roofed over with a pile of dirt loop-holed for rifles. Meals at the
home stations were $1.50, cooked by the station agents’ brave wives or
by the men themselves. Some of the meals were very poor, too――and some
astonishingly good.

All went well with the stage until between Cottonwood and Fort Kearney
the driver, who was known as “Waupsie,” pointed to the south with his
whip.

“There they are,” he said quietly; and instantly flung out his lash.

The silken snapper cracked like a pistol shot, and out launched the
team. Down from a low row of sandy buttes half a mile to the south and
ahead were speeding a bevy of dark dots. Davy’s heart skipped a beat.
The dots were making for the trail, as if to cut off the coach. They
were Indians, sure.

“What’ll we do, Waupsie?” asked Ben, coolly. “Beat ’em in?”

“We’ll do the best we can. Six miles to go is all,” answered Waupsie,
in grim manner. And he yelled to the cavalrymen: “You’ll have to ride
faster than that, boys.”

The corporal in charge of the squad had spoken gruffly. Three before,
three behind, the soldiers were rising and falling in their stirrups
and urging on their horses. The grade was slightly down hill, and
it was evident that the cavalry horses were no match for the stage
team――six splendid blacks, grain fed and long-legged. Soon the coach
gradually drew even with the leading soldiers and began to pass them in
spite of their efforts.

“Can’t wait,” yelled Waupsie, “Goodby. Fact is,” he remarked, half to
himself, “I can’t hold ’em. Drat their skins!”

The whoops of the Indians were plainly heard; the breeze was from the
south, and as if smelling the red enemy the stage horses were wild with
fear. Braced, Waupsie sawed on the lines; his foot pressed the brake
hard, but he might as well have saved his strength.

Waupsie had no time or opportunity to use a gun; his business was to
drive. Ben cocked his shot-gun lying across his knees.

“Get in the boot, Dave,” he bade.

Davy started to slide under, but stopped ashamed. In a rush the
Indians, whooping and frantically brandishing bows and lances, charged
the trail, cutting in behind, and racing on both sides before. The
cavalry squad were now far in the rear.

With a thud an arrow landed full in the coach side; another quivered in
the flank of the off wheel horse――and he leaped prodigiously.

“Steady! Steady, boys!” besought Waupsie.

The arrows were hissing and thudding. The painted Indians looked like
demons. Ben flung up his gun, took hasty aim, and at the report the
nearest Indian on the left (a particularly determined fellow) swerved
away, reeling in his saddle pad. Red spots could be seen on his side
where the buck-shot had struck. At the rear the cavalrymen were
shooting vainly, and suddenly Waupsie gave an exclamation.

“Take these lines, quick!” he said. “Confound it!”

An arrow had pinned his right arm to his side. He jerked at it and
could not budge it, and Ben grabbed the lines.

“You take my gun, Dave,” he ordered. “Don’t shoot unless you have to;
and then shoot the ponies. Fight ’em off.”

Dave promptly seized the gun from Ben’s lap, and at once he saw the
reason in the last order. The Indians were racing on either side;
whenever he raised the gun to aim every Indian on that side ducked
to the opposite flank of his horse, and left only a moccasin sole in
sight. That was a small mark at which to aim from a jolting coach. Dave
aimed and aimed again; whenever he paused, up bobbed the Indians; when
he pointed the gun at them, down they ducked; and all the time they
were shooting from underneath their ponies’ necks or from the saddle.

“That’s right. Fight ’em off, Davy. It’s as good as emptying your gun,”
panted Ben, hanging hard to the lines. Waupsie was plying the whip――now
and then to drop it and level his revolver.

[Illustration: “THAT’S RIGHT. FIGHT ’EM OFF, DAVY”]

“Fight ’em off, Davy!”

A sharp shock almost paralyzed Dave’s right arm, and through shoulder
and arm surged a red-hot pain. He nearly dropped the gun. He glanced at
his shoulder and saw a flush of crimson dyeing his shirt. But no arrow
was sticking there as he had feared. It was only a gash. All right.

“Hurt, Dave?” queried Ben.

“No, not much,” said Davy, firmly.

“We’ll make it,” uttered Waupsie. “Got to. Fight ’em off, boys!”

The sandy plain flowed past; another horse had been wounded and the
coach was fairly bristling with shafts. But the gallant team never
slackened their furious pace, and suddenly with a final chorus
of whoops and a last volley, the Indians turned and raced away; for
yonder, around the turn, appeared the home station.

“Humph!” muttered Waupsie. “Those Injuns are just on a lark. Now I’ll
get quit of this arrow.”

The cavalry squad did not arrive until after the coach had left;
another squad escorted it to Fort Kearney, and by the time Atchison was
reached, two days afterward, Dave’s shoulder was beginning to heal.

“It doesn’t hurt much, really, Ben,” he insisted; but he was proud of
his wound. The scar he carries to-day and other scars besides.

From Atchison he and Ben went down to Leavenworth. On the street at
Leavenworth a hand clapped him on his shoulder (fortunately his well
shoulder), and looking up he looked into the face of Billy Cody.

XXIV

BUFFALO BILL IS CHAMPION

It was not “Little Billy Cody” now――the slender boy whose boots had
seemed too large for him even when he was riding Pony Express. It was
“Scout Cody”――a man with wide, piercing brown eyes, long wavy yellow
hair, a silky light-brown moustache, a pair of broad shoulders above a
wiry waist, and an alert, springy step. But he was “Billy Cody” after
all.

He and Wild Bill Hickok had been serving together with the Union army
in Missouri and Arkansas; and now he was at Leavenworth on a furlough
from detached duty at St. Louis.

He could give Davy only a half hour; Davy heard some of his adventures
and learned also that “Mother Cody” had gone (what a brave, sweet woman
she had been!), and that the Cody home in Salt Creek Valley had been
broken up. Truly, the West was undergoing great changes.

Greater changes still occurred in the next three years. Dave entered
West Point in June of the next summer, 1865, and for the succeeding two
years he studied hard. When he was given his furlough he spent part of
it with General Brown, who, luckily, was stationed at Fort Leavenworth.

The two years at the Military Academy had formed a different boy of
Dave. The strict discipline had taught him how to make the most of his
time, and the constant drill exercises had straightened him up and
trained all his muscles as well as his mind. He felt quite like a man
as he shook hands with the general and met his approving eye.

One of his first questions to the general, after the greetings and
polite inquiries, was about Billy Cody.

“‘Billy’ Cody, you say?” laughed the general. “Haven’t you been reading
the papers?”

“I’m afraid I haven’t, general,” confessed Dave. “We don’t have much
time to read the papers at the Academy, you know.”

“That’s so,” chuckled the general. “You don’t. But your friend and
mine, Billy Cody, has a new name. He’s now ‘Buffalo Bill.’ He’s been
supplying buffalo meat to the grading contractors on the Kansas
Pacific. They need about twelve buffalo a day, and he took the job for
$500 a month. It’s been a dangerous business, and he hunts alone out
on the plains, with one man following in a wagon to do the butchering
and load the meat, and the Indians are always trying to get Bill’s
scalp. So far he’s outwitted them, and he’s been bringing in the meat
so regularly that at night when he rides in the boys in the camps yell:
‘Here comes old Bill with more buffalo!’ and ‘Buffalo Bill’ he is. He’s
been married, too, you know.”

“Oh, has he?” And Dave spoke impulsively. “I’d like to see him mighty
well.”

“You can. The railroad’s running trains about 500 miles west from the
river, nearly to Sheridan, and you’ve got here just in time to go along
with us and see a big contest between Buffalo Bill and Billy Comstock,
the chief of scouts at Fort Wallace there. They’re to hunt buffalo
together for eight hours, and the one who kills the most wins a nice
little purse of $500, gold. Billy Comstock is a fine young fellow, a
great hunter and a crack shot――but I’ll back Buffalo Bill.”

So, thought Dave, loyally, would he, too.

The contest had excited great interest. An excursion for friends of
the rivals and for sight-seers was to be run clear through from St.
Louis. Every army officer and soldier who could leave was going from
Fort Leavenworth. Leader of all was General George A. Custer, the
famous “Boy General with the Golden Locks” (as during the war the
newspapers had called him), who with his fighting Seventh Cavalry had
arrived at Fort Leavenworth after a summer’s campaign on the plains.
Of course, everybody in army circles knew about General Custer, the
dashing cavalryman, with his curling yellow hair and his crimson tie.
Introduced to him by General Brown, Dave blushed and stammered and felt
that he must cut a very poor figure.

It seemed strange that a railroad actually was on its way across the
plains. In fact, there were two railroads jutting out from the Missouri
River for the farther West. Northward from Omaha the celebrated Union
Pacific had built clear to Julesburg, and was hustling along to Utah
at the rate of five and six miles a day. It followed the old Overland
Trail up the Platte, and ate the stages as it progressed.

Here at the southward the Kansas Pacific, or “Eastern Division” of the
Union Pacific, was reaching westward out of Leavenworth for Denver. It
followed the Smoky Hill Fork Trail taken by the Hee-Haw Express――the
memorable outfit of Dave’s and Billy’s and Mr. Baxter’s, and all, to
the “Pike’s Peak Country” and the “Cherry Creek diggin’s.” Yes, it
did seem strange to Dave to be riding that trail in a train of cars
drawn by a snorting steam-engine and crowded with laughing, shouting
people――travelling in an hour a distance that would have required from
the Hee-Haw Express a day, perhaps! But the Hee-Haw Express had not
been such a bad experience after all, and it had been fun as well as
work.

Gracious, how Kansas had settled! The Salt Creek Valley, people said,
was all taken up by farms. The railroad route from Leavenworth down
to the Kansas River at Lawrence certainly passed through nothing but
farms and settlements, and on up the Kansas to the Smoky Hill Fork at
Junction City all the country was farms, farms, farms, punctuated by
towns and cities.

Along the Smoky Hill Fork trail a number of new forts had been
established, protecting the way for the railroad. First beyond Fort
Riley, which Davy remembered from the time when the Hee-Haws passed it,
was Fort Harker, next would come Fort Hays, and then Fort Wallace near
Sheridan.

The train left Leavenworth early in the morning; the run to the end of
the track would take about twenty-five hours, with stops for meals.
It would appear, from the looks of the country between Lawrence and
Junction City across the river from Fort Riley, that there were no
more wild Indians and buffalo; but westward from Junction City things
suddenly changed; and when Dave awakened from a brief doze here were
the same old brown plains again, ready for the bull whacker, the stage
coach, the buffalo and the Indians.

The train was jammed with all kinds of people from St. Louis, Kansas
City, Leavenworth, Lawrence, Topeka――everybody having a good time.
In the last car were Mrs. Cody and little daughter Arta. Davy had a
glimpse of her――a handsome woman with glowing dark eyes. Buffalo Bill
had met her during the war, in St. Louis, and they had been married
two years now. She and little Arta and General Custer were the main
attraction on the whole train.

The train was a travelling arsenal. At the front end of Davy’s car
was a stand containing twenty-five breech-loading rifles and a large
chest of cartridges, with the lid opened. The conductor (who, people
said, was an old Indian fighter) wore two revolvers at his waist, and
carried his rifle from car to car. Almost every man was armed with some
sort of a gun, and all the passengers and train crew were constantly
on the lookout for “Injuns” and buffalo. As the train roared onward
further into the plains, its snorty, busy little engine sounded five
short whistles. Out from the windows down the line of coaches were
thrust heads. Men who had no gun made a rush for the stand of arms, and
grabbed rifles and cartridges.

“Buffalo! Buffalo!”

“Where? Quick!”

“There they go!”

“Where? Oh, I see them!”

“Mercy, what monsters!”

There were people aboard who actually never had seen a buffalo.

“What beards!”

“Are those really buffalo?”

“Shoot!”

“Conductor! Stop the train!”

Bang! Bangity-bang! Bang! Bang! Everybody who could get a glimpse
poked his gun out of a window and fired. Two big buffalo bulls were
racing the train; heads down, tails up, trying to cross in front of it.
The rain of bullets had not touched them. One crossed; but the other
suddenly whirled on the track and charged the engine. The cow-catcher
lifted him high――Davy had sight of his great shaggy shape turning a
somersault in the air, and funny enough he looked, too, with mane and
tail flying. He landed with a thump; people laughed so that they forgot
to shoot again until too late; and gazing back Davy was glad to witness
him scramble to his feet, shake himself, and glare after the train and
bellow defiance.

It struck Dave as rather of a shame to pepper the buffalo from the
windows of a moving train――which, he heard, sometimes did not even stop
to make use of the meat, but left the carcasses lying for the wolves.
Dusk soon settled, so that there was little more shooting. With a stop
for water and supper, on through the darkness rumbled the train. The
passengers slept in their seats――an uncomfortable way, but they did
not mind. Judging from the looks of Forts Harker and Hays, which were
merely log cabins with sod roofs, the cars were the best place.

The talk among the passengers was mainly of buffalo and of the Indians
(who had been fighting the advance of the railroad through their
hunting-grounds), and of the match between Buffalo Bill Cody and Scout
Will Comstock.

As for Will Comstock, the people said that he was a young fellow with
the figure of a mere boy and the face of a girl――but that no braver
scout ever rode the plains. However, Billy Cody seemed to have the
majority. He had been making a great record since the war. He had
driven stage for a little while on the Overland Trail; then he had
married; and soon he was scouting again for the army on the Smoky Hill
Trail. He had guided General Custer on a dangerous trip out of Fort
Harker, and had been guide and dispatch bearer out of Fort Hays, and
nobody except Wild Bill (who was a scout on this line, too) was thought
to be quite his equal.

Almost as famous as Buffalo Bill were his buffalo horse, Brigham, and
his rifle, Lucretia; against these three Billy Comstock, good as he
was, did not stand much show.

It was a jolly excursion crowd this: soldiers and civilians, city
people and country people, residents and tourists, men, women and
some children, all packed tight and bent on seeing the “big match”
advertised to take place between Buffalo Bill Cody and Will Comstock,
the other famous scout.

Early in the morning the tracks ended about twenty miles this side of
Sheridan. And here, on the open prairie, were gathered an astonishing
amount of vehicles, animals and horsemen. The spot looked like a land
opening――or a picnic. Davy recognized Billy Cody at once.

With a group of army officers, scouts in buckskin, and other horsemen,
Billy was sitting on his horse at the edge of the mass of carriages.
The train-load of excursionists fairly burst from the cars, even
climbing out through the windows, and made a rush for the vehicles.
Davy forged ahead for Billy Cody. Billy had left his horse and when
Davy saw him next he was gallantly escorting his wife and little
daughter to an army ambulance; as he came back Dave caught him.

“Hello, Billy.”

“By thunder! That name sounds familiar, Dave! Well, I’m certainly glad
to see you.”

They gripped hands. As Buffalo Bill, Billy looked older than he had
as Scout Cody, even, during the war. His face had been bronzed deeper
by hard plains riding, day and night, and on his firm chin he wore
a little goatee. His suit of Indian tanned buckskin was beaded and
fringed, and fitted him to perfection. A fine figure of a man he was,
too; every inch of him.

There was little time to exchange greetings or words. Everything was
confusion――and the day would soon pass.

“Go in and win, Billy.”

“You bet I will, Dave.”

And with that Billy strode hastily back to his horse――brushing by the
many hands held out to stay him a moment.

The match was to last from eight in the morning to four in the
afternoon if buffalo could be found. Slim and active, and as
picturesque as Buffalo Bill himself, General Custer, from horseback,
announced in a loud voice that the spectators were to follow the
hunters until the herd was sighted and then must stay behind so as not
to alarm the buffalo, until the shooting had begun. After that they
might go as near as they pleased.

Buffalo Bill and Scout Comstock led away; behind them rode the
horsemen, chiefly scouts and army officers. A large bunch of cavalry
mounts had been sent out from Fort Wallace, near Sheridan, for the
visitor officers, and Davy (who was almost an officer) was accorded the
courtesy of one. So he was well fixed. Trailing the horsemen came the
excursionists in army ambulances and old coaches and spring wagons and
even buggies――raked and scraped from far and near.

Thus they all proceeded across the rolling prairie. The scene resembled
a picnic more than ever.

Buffalo Bill, the talk said, was riding Brigham, his favorite buffalo
runner――and a scrubby looking horse Brigham was, too, for a hunter
and a racer. Billy’s gun was a heavy, long-barrelled single-shot――a
breech-loading Springfield army gun of fifty calibre.

Will Comstock was apparently much better mounted and better armed. His
horse was a strong, active, spirited black, and his gun was a Henry
repeating carbine. He himself seemed a young fellow to be chief of
scouts at Fort Wallace; his face was smooth and fair, his eyes roundly
blue, and his waist was as small as a girl’s.

Suddenly Buffalo Bill raised his hand; and at the instant a hum of
excitement welled from the crowd. There were some buffalo――there, about
a mile ahead on the right, a good-sized herd, peacefully grazing.
Away sped Buffalo Bill and Scout Comstock and two other horsemen, to
get to the windward. The two other horsemen were the referees, one to
accompany each hunter and keep tab on him.

The rest of the crowd followed slowly, so as to give the hunters plenty
of time to begin.

On and on spurred the group of four. They swerved for the buffalo herd;
and separating, as if by agreement, into pairs, dashed into the herd
that way――Buffalo Bill and his referee on the right, Scout Comstock and
his referee on the left. As soon as the first shot echoed back across
the prairie, the cry went up: “They’re in! They’re in!” and wildly
excited, straight for the field broke the eager spectators.

The wagons jounced and bounded, the horses and mules snorted,
women screamed, men shouted――and better equipped than those other
excursionists, on horseback amidst his army friends Davy forged to the
front.

When they arrived the contest was well under way. Scout Comstock had
ridden almost out of sight, pelting along and shooting into the rear
of his bunch. He had left a trail of dead buffalo, as if he had made
every shot count. Buffalo Bill, however, was right here, working by a
different system. Evidently he had hastened to the head of his bunch
first, and turned them――until now he had them all actually running in
a small circle. He was riding around the outside at an easy lope on
Brigham, and steadily firing, oftentimes without raising his gun from
across the saddle horn.

Brigham’s bridle lines were hanging loose. He needed no guiding. He
knew just what was to be done. He loped to the side of a buffalo and
stayed there a moment until the gun went “Bang!” Then, even before the
buffalo had fallen, he loped on to another, put his master in good
position, and at the report of the rifle continued to the next!

“A wonderful horse! A wonderful horse!” ejaculated General Brown. “Why,
teach that horse to shoot and he wouldn’t need a rider. Bill could sit
and look on!”

“He nurses the buffalo together and all Bill has to do is to load and
fire. He scarcely needs to aim,” said another officer.

Presently Buffalo Bill had shot down every buffalo in the bunch; there
were thirty-eight, dead as doornails. When Bill Comstock returned, his
horse blown, from chasing his bunch as far as he could, his referee
reported twenty-three as that count.

The horses were rested until another herd appeared. Out of this
Buffalo Bill killed eighteen with the help of old Brigham, and Billy
Comstock killed fourteen. So at noon the score stood: Buffalo Bill (and
Brigham), fifty-six; Billy Comstock only thirty-seven.

Luncheon was spread out on the prairie by the excursionists and
everybody ate. The opinion was that Buffalo Bill had won; Billy
Comstock never could catch up――not even if they traded horses!

After luncheon Buffalo Bill suddenly stood, and, going to Brigham,
quickly stripped him of saddle and bridle.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” announced Billy, “in order to give my friend
Comstock a chance I’m going to finish my hunt without saddle and
bridle――and even then I’ll wager I’ll down more buffalo than he will.”

“Oh, Mr. Cody! Please don’t!” begged one of the women excursionists,
who had been nervous all along. “You’ll certainly be hurt.”

Buffalo Bill smiled and shook his head.

“There’s not the slightest cause for alarm,” he said. “I’ve ridden this
way many a time. Old Brigham knows as well as I what’s to be done――and
sometimes a great deal better.”

Riding thus without saddle and bridle, out of the next herd Buffalo
Bill, so cleverly guided by Brigham, easily killed thirteen more
buffaloes. The last he drove with a rush straight toward the
spectators, and laughed as he downed it almost at their feet. Slipping
from his bareback seat, he doffed his hat and bowed.

“You see?” he bade.

Scout Comstock came in with a count of only nine.

“I’m done,” he said frankly. “How many in all, Bill?”

“Sixty-nine.”

“Forty-six here.” And he shrugged his slender shoulders. “Well, Bill,
you’re a wonder. There’s not another man on the plains could have done
it. Ladies and gentlemen,” he called, “three cheers for Buffalo Bill
Cody, the boy ‘extra,’ the kid express rider, the champion buffalo
hunter, and the best man that ever rode the plains.”

* * * * *

The excursion train returned that night, and Davy returned with it. But
Buffalo Bill stayed out on the plains, scouting for the army against
the Indians. Davy kept track of him, for the name of “Buffalo Bill,”
dispatch bearer and guide, was constantly in the papers. When in June,
1869, Davy graduated from the Military Academy, and soon was assigned
to the Fifth Cavalry in Nebraska, Buffalo Bill had been appointed by
General Phil Sheridan as chief of scouts to serve with it.

This spring the Union Pacific Railway had met the Central Pacific
Railway in Utah and the tracks joined. The Overland Trail had been
spanned at last by iron rails; but there was still much work to be done
to make the plains safe for the settler, his home, his church and his
school-house; and helping to do it, Dave and Buffalo Bill often rode
together, man and man.

* * * * *

Transcriber’s Notes:

――Text in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_).

――Except for the frontispiece and portrait, illustrations have been
moved to follow the text that they illustrate.

――Printer’s, punctuation and spelling inaccuracies were silently
corrected.

――Archaic and variable spelling has been preserved.

――Variations in hyphenation and compound words have been preserved.

*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Buffalo Bill and the Overland Trail" ***

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