’Twas the third afternoon after their leaving Fort Bent that we again visit the emigrant train.
Although, as yet, Abe had seen nothing to warrant the supposition that Indians were near at hand, yet somehow he felt assured that such was the case; the old Indian-fighter had lived too long in the Indian country and knew their ways too well for him to feel safe after seeing the “White Vulture” at the fort.
The train moved slowly; the horse of the “White Vulture” was fleet; he could easily have joined the warriors and led them back to the attack, during the time the train had been on the march from Fort Bent.
The wagons had just started from their noon rest; this was their last day’s march by the Yellowstone; they would camp that night by the side of the river, and in the morning turn northward toward the Missouri.
The old hunter had thought the matter over carefully; he was convinced that the Indians were not before but behind him, probably following on his trail. To test the truth of this, all the morning he had lagged behind, leaving the train in the care of Dave. At one time he had been at least a mile behind the rest, offering a tempting opportunity to the trailing savages to swoop down upon and capture him, which might seem to them an easy task, but would have been in reality a hard and difficult one, as the guide was well armed and mounted on a roan horse of great speed and endurance. But somehow, if there were savages in the rear as the scout expected, they did not take advantage of the opportunity to capture the famous “Crow-Killer.” This was a puzzle to the old Indian-fighter; he pored over the fact; he could not account for it. Finally, an idea struck him; his face brightened up, and he drew a long breath of relief.
“What a cussed fool I’ve been!” he cried to himself, slapping his thigh vigorously as he rode along behind the train. “Thar’s brains at the bottom of it, in course! If they went for me, naterally I’d make a fight—a noise, and alarm the train; their idea is not to alarm us, but come down suddenly an’ bag us all like a blessed lot of turkeys—that is, if we let them do it. Why, I mought ’a’ knowed that, if I had as much sense as a yaller dog. That’s the identical idea, blamed if it ain’t!” And then the old hunter chuckled to himself, “Guess I mought as well interfere in that air leetle arrangement. I ain’t had a skirmish for some time, an’ I mought as well get my hand in. I mought as well tell Dave what I’m up to.” So, patting the gallant roan on the neck, he urged her forward, passed the train and joined Dave, who was riding on ahead, keeping a sharp look-out upon the country before him.
The two canvassed matters for awhile, when Dave said:
“But, are you sure, Abe, that there are Injuns back of us, on our trail? They may be on the other side of the river, or ahead between us and the Missouri.”
“You talk reason, Dave, but did you notice, jest after we started this morning, we roused a leetle flock of ducks out of the Yellowstone?” asked the “Crow-Killer.”