A party of emigrants have halted for the night, and this is the first camp-fire that has been started, for it is not only cold, but there is cooking to be done, and a fire is indispensable.
The emigrant party numbers some twenty men, a half-dozen women, and about double that number of children. They are on their way to Oregon, and have penetrated thus far without encountering any obstacle worth noting, although for days they had been journeying through the very heart of the Indian country.
Among the party was a man named Fred Hammond, who had joined it more for the purpose of adventure than any thing else. He was mounted on a magnificent black horse, was an amateur hunter, and a general favorite with the company.
Among the latter was not a single experienced mountaineer or prairie-man. They had secured the service of an old man, who professed to be thoroughly acquainted with the overland route to Oregon, but there was more than one who suspected his knowledge and believed he was nothing but a fraud.
Extremely good fortune had attended them thus far. They had caught sight of numerous parties of Indians, and indeed scarcely a day passed without something being seen of them. They had exchanged shots at quite a distance, but no harm had befallen the whites, and they had penetrated thus far on their way to distant Oregon.
But Hammond and one or two of the members were filled with misgiving. Through the day they had seen evidence of an immense Indian party being in their vicinity, and they feared the worst. It was with pain that they saw the huge camp-fire kindled, and Hammond called his comrade, Beers, to one side, and said, in his earnest voice:
“I tell you, things look darker than ever before.”
“So I think.”
“I believe we are followed by over a thousand Indians, and they intend attacking us to-night.”
“What shall we do?”