Down in the flat, before, a number of hooded wagons had partially corralled, or formed a circle—the horses still hitched. Beyond, a portion of the cavalry were pursuing some fleeing Indians; and the rest of the cavalry were rounding up and catching a quantity of loose horses and cattle.
Doctor Terry was busy, passing among the wagons, occasionally stopping here and there.
“Pshaw! We’re too late,” panted Mr. Duff, as everybody slackened pace. “What is it—emigrant train?”
“No. A grading outfit coming in to the road,” answered General Dodge. “Who were the Indians, major? Cheyennes, I judge.”
“Sioux, too, I reckon,” replied Jim Bridger. “A passel o’ Dog Soldiers, like as not.”
“Cavalry made ’em run. They can’t stand the cavalry,” exulted Mr. Corwith.
“Aw, sho’, now!” grunted Jim. “Pony soldiers don’t worry ’em none. It’s the walk-a-heap soldiers that set ’em to thinkin’. They know the walk-a-heaps have got to fight or be killed—can’t run off.”
“They certainly made a bold attempt, to attack like this within a mile of a military camp,” General Rawlins remarked.
“That’s their style of fighting, general,” replied General Augur. “When you don’t see them and don’t expect them, there they are.”
It was a Mormon wagon train to help the road along. The Indians had ambushed them from a ravine—had killed two men, wounded others, stampeded the loose stock, and likely would have “wiped out” the whole party, Jim Bridger asserted, had the troops not arrived in nick of time.