It was a hard dose to swallow, but Swipes took it philosophically, and persisted in believing there was some hope of recovering them. At least, as the Comanches took the same direction that the train was following, he concluded to remain with the latter for the present.
CHAPTER VII.
FORT MIFFLIN INSTITUTE.
Until the great Pacific Railroad is completed, traveling across the plains must always be a wearisome labor. The rapid staging between many of the distant points, has in a measure toned down this laborious monotony; but, even with this improvement, hundreds who have made the trip will testify to its wearying sameness.
But, when an emigrant train starts forth it is the very impersonation of monotony to an impatient spirit. For a time the variety of landscape occupies the mind and in a great degree relieves the tedium; but, although some of the finest scenery in the world is in the West, it soon loses its power to amuse, and all feelings are absorbed in those of apprehension regarding dangers and anxiety to get ahead—manifested in some by a figuring and calculation as to the number of suns that must yet rise and set before they can hope to see their destination; in others to hurry and make the best time possible, and in still others by a dogged resolve to plod along without noting the distance traveled, but with the intention of suddenly awaking to the fact that they have completed their journey, and their travels are at an end. The only objection to carrying out this whim, is that he who undertakes it, is sure to find himself in spite of all he can do to divert his mind, looking for the denouement long before it is due.
The emigrant train, which from this time forth must occupy a prominent part in our narrative, was one of those that have plodded patiently all the way from the Mississippi, until now having passed three-fourths of the distance, it was on the very border of the wild regions of California.
On the whole they had experienced good fortune. They had not lost an animal or a member of the party since starting, excepting their guide who was slain in the manner already narrated. Not a man, woman or child had seen an hour’s sickness, and all were now in the best of spirits.
But they had encountered more hardships than they anticipated, and on this day instead of having such a stretch of wild wilderness before them, it was their confident expectation to be at Fort Mifflin. They had terrible times in crossing some of the swift rivers; their horses had been carried away, and many a precious hour had been spent in recovering them; ten of their wagons had been hopelessly mired, and a large portion of their most valuable goods had been whirled away by the rushing torrents.
Then storms, whose fierceness they had never seen equalled in their own home, had swept over the prairie, causing them to tremble for their very lives—but here at last they all were, secure, intact, with a skilful guide at their head. So had they not every reason to be thankful, to take courage and to press on?
Ward Lancaster appreciating the magnitude of his charge, rode some distance at the head of the train, his eye constantly sweeping the prairie, and his mind taken up with the duty before him. He rode alone, except when some of his friends chose to keep company with him; but these generally found him as morose and incommunicative, that they were glad to fall back again and join the more sociable portion.
The horsemen were scattered all through the train, so that in case of attack they could rally to the defence of any portion without unnecessary delay. As naturally was to be expected, intimate friends and acquaintances found their way into each other’s society.