The Life of a Fossil Hunter

by Charles H. Sternberg

When I saw that Isaac was safe, I could not help laughing, and in consequence was told that if I was so smart I could get up the slope myself. I quickly gave orders that the picket ropes be tied together and fastened to the hind axle of the wagon, and that the horses be led singly up the trail. The rope was then carried to the top of the ridge, and the horses were hitched to it, and driven down the steep slope on the opposite side, thus drawing up the wagon. We then righted it so that it straddled the ridge and could be safely hauled out to the level prairie.

After this we had to go back on horses and bring the camp outfit, which we had left at Dog Creek, to the wagon.

About three o’clock that afternoon our scout, who had not showed up during the heavy labor of getting the outfit up to the prairie, was seen coming from the south through a break in the foothills, while at the same time another horseman approached at full speed from the east. At a sign from the scout, our driver stopped his horses, and Isaac and I rested in our saddles.

The second horseman soon proved to be Professor Cope, who galloped up to the guide and stopped him, the gestures of the two men and the sound of their raised voices indicating that an animated argument was going on between them. Finally the scout, his face heated and scowling, came up to the wagon, and without a word, got out his roll of blankets and extra clothing, and started off in the direction of Fort Benton.

The cook shouted after him, and then, springing from the wagon, followed him. When they were out of earshot, the scout stopped, and the two began an excited conversation. Then it was the cook’s turn to show of what poor stuff he was made, for, coming back to the wagon, he loaded his blankets and grip on his broad shoulders, and struck out on foot for a wood-camp a few miles to the north, on the river.

When Cope came up he told us that these two men, whom he had paid in full for three months’ work, had deserted him here on the open prairie, a hundred and twenty miles from his base of supplies.

It seems that the scout had come across Sitting Bull’s war camp, where thousands of warriors, drunk with the blood of Custer and the brave men of the Seventh U. S. Cavalry, were defying the Government in the inaccessible canyons around the Dry Fork of the Missouri. The camp was only a day’s journey from us, and the scout and our valiant cook had concluded that their precious scalps were too valuable to risk.

The Professor asked us whether we could carry on the double work which their dishonorable conduct had made necessary, and we willingly undertook to do so, even if it were to mean working our fingers to the bone.

Isaac took the seat, and we prepared to start on, but misfortunes never come singly. Our four-year-old colt, who had had a chance to rest during the delay, suddenly decided that he too would try to put a stop to the expedition. He balked, and when the Professor went up to him to lead him along, he struck out viciously with his fore feet.

Now I imagine that the Professor had put up with about all that he was willing to bear. The cowardly desertion of our men, combined with the discomforts of our situation,—we had had nothing to eat or drink since we left Dog Creek, and the only spring on the route at which we could get good water was miles away,—left little mercy in his heart for this miserable, obstinate horse. He told Isaac to unhitch the animal and tie him to a hind wheel, while I got on top of the wagon, armed with a club to prevent his trying to climb in.