“The finest hunting-country in the world, down there,” asserted Sol. “Plenty running water, buffalo, antelope, beaver, and Injuns. But t’other side—I tell you, a jack-rabbit won’t go in without a canteen, and a crow sheds tears when he bids his family good-by.”
They camped this night on the west slope of Sherman Summit, amidst more strange rock figures, of chimneys and spires and castle turrets. Then they wound on down, to refit at Fort Sanders near present Laramie City of Wyoming—— “The terminal point of the 288 miles of track that we expect to lay this year, although people say that we can’t do it,” explained General Dodge.
At Fort Sanders they received bad news.
Young Mr. Duff brought the word out to the camp, while the general and others were at the post headquarters talking with Colonel Gibbon, the commander.
“Well, the Indians have added some more graves to the survey stakes, boys,” he said.
“What?”
“Where?”
“How do you know?”
“Mr. Van Lennep told me—and I heard it at headquarters, too. Van Lennep’s been here several days, waiting for us. It’s the Percy Browne party, this time. The Sioux struck them north of here, short time ago; killed a cavalry sergeant—fine fellow—and a civilian named Stephen Clark, from Albany, New York—another fine fellow. He was a nephew of Thurlow Weed, the big New York State politician and editor. The Indians almost captured the whole camp; ran off some mules and seized a lot of supplies. Mr. Browne brought Clark’s body in here, to the fort, for burial. Then he went out again. No Indians can stop those surveyors.”
“Did you hear anything about the Mr. Bates party?” Terry asked, anxiously.