Camp was moved down the ravine, to a cottonwood grove in a grassy little bottom-land upon the bank of the Platte. In this open place between the river and the bluffs, pole frame-works were erected, on which to hang the strips of buffalo meat, above fires, to dry.
Louis Ménard was horse-guard. Fortunately, he had a quick eye, had Louis—and on a sudden the busy camp, with all hands at work “making meat,” was startled by his loud shout, the “Whang!” of his Hall’s carbine, and the tumultuous thud of hoofs as he raced his herd for the grove.
“Injuns! Des sauvages!” he yelled, pointing over his shoulder.
True enough. Down from the bluffs at the upper end of the bottom-land were galloping a score of half-naked Indians, while into the sky-line of the summit behind them were pouring many more.
“To the grove! To the grove!” cried French and Americans, Frémont and Carson men.
“The cannon!” ordered Sergeant Zindel, gutturally. “Qvick! Dis vay!”
All raced, afoot, for the grove, where Louis was driving his herd.
“R-r-round mit id!” gasped Sergeant Zindel.
The majority of the voyageurs and trappers instantly ranged themselves flat upon the ground, amidst the brush, or crouched behind trees, carbines and rifles at a ready. But the sergeant, and Jacob Dodson the colored man, and two others, remained out with the gun, before the grove. They were the cannoneers. Lieutenant Frémont calmly walked forth, and stood by.
On dashed the red warriors—their robes and feathers flying, war bonnet and decorated braids streaming in the air. Brandishing bow and lance and gun and shield, with shrill yelps they now were charging across the level.