This was what Dick's father was doing, however, and Dick was the happiest boy on earth, he thought, when they started out on their journey. The big "prairie schooner" was their Pullman car, and the patient team of oxen the motive power. Dick was old enough to straddle a mustang, and so he rode by father and Uncle Billy. Mother and Aunt Mary, Sister Lou and Cousin Tommy all rode in the wagon, and when night came on they got the supper, all except Billy, of course; he just watched.
Father and Uncle Billy made the fire and unhitched the oxen and tethered the ponies.
Dick soon learned that the most important thing to do as the day came to a close was to find a good grazing place on which to pitch tent for the night, as the best grass for the animals must be selected with care, near water if possible. The animals must be looked out for first, otherwise how would they ever get anywhere if these faithful friends should become sick and die?
The next thing Dick did was to collect for the fire the dry buffalo dung which covered the prairie, and after making a pile in the shape of a huge cone he lighted a few sticks of kindling, a supply of which was always carried in a sack hung from the bottom of the wagon, and soon the heap was a mass of dull, glowing coals; then the tin coffee pail and the frying pan, and then, thank goodness!—for Dick was always hungry—supper.
After that they pulled down the big, long canvas back of the wagon cover, which was spread double over the top of the wagon during the day, and fastened it to the ground with pegs, and under this slanting roof, with their blankets between them and the earth, with their toes towards the fire, they slept quite comfortably through the night.
The oxen and the ponies knew enough not to stray any great distance from the campfire, and if frightened at anything would come rushing back, helter-skelter, for protection. They know that on the prairie man is their best friend and protector.
"What are those figures away over there to the westward?" said Dick's father. Uncle Billy shaded his eyes with his hand and looked in that direction for a few minutes without answering. "Don't know," he replied, uneasily. "They look like horses, but I don't see any riders." "Nor I," replied Dick's father, "but those wily redskins have a way of hanging over the far-side of the animal so's to deceive any one who happens to catch sight of them. They don't act like wild horses."
It was an anxious moment. Neither man spoke for some time, but rode along quietly, keeping a sharp look-out, however, in order to detect the slightest change in the appearance of the figures to the westward. "They seem to be following our way," suggested Uncle Billy about an hour later. "Supposing we pitch camp to-night a little earlier. That clump of trees yonder will give us some protection in case they turn out to be redskins."
"Good plan," murmured Dick's father, turning in the direction of the trees. "We needn't let on we're worried to the women folks," he added, "we'll just wait and see how things turn out. Maybe nothing will happen."
But something did happen. About midnight Dick's father awoke with a start. A shadow fell across the opening in the canvas. In another moment he was grappling with an Indian. Over and over he rolled, but the Indian had found his match. Dick's father was a powerful man, and, whipping out his revolver, shot him dead. None too soon, for Uncle Billy was being hard pressed by a number of redskins, two of whom he had already laid low with his rifle.