One more page from my ‘Ride,’ and the reader will, I think, have a fair conception of its general character. For the last two hours the ascent of the Blue Mountains had been very steep. We were in a thick pine forest. There was a track—probably made by Indians. Near the summit we found a spring of beautiful water. Here we halted for the night. It was a snug spot. But, alas! there was nothing for the animals to eat except pine needles. We lighted our fire against the great up-torn roots of a fallen tree; and, though it was freezing hard, we piled on such masses of dead boughs that the huge blaze seemed to warm the surrounding atmosphere.
I must here give the words of my journal, for one exclamation in it has a sort of schoolboy ring that recalls the buoyancy of youthful spirits, the spirits indeed to which in early life we owe our enterprise and perseverance:
‘As I was dozing off, a pack of hungry wolves that had scented us out set up the most infernal chorus ever heard. In vain I pulled the frozen buffalo-robe over my head, and tried to get to sleep. The demons drew nearer and nearer, howling, snarling, fighting, moaning, and making a row in the perfect stillness which reigned around, as if hell itself were loose. For some time I bore it with patience. At length, jumping up, I yelled in a voice that made the valley ring: You devils! will you be quiet? The appeal was immediately answered by silence; but hearing them tuning up for a second concert, I threw some wood on the blazing fire and once more retired to my lair. For a few minutes I lay awake to admire a brilliant Aurora Borealis shooting out its streams of electric light. Then, turning over on my side, I never moved again till dawn.’
The first objects that caught my eye were the animals. They were huddled together within a couple of yards of where we lay. It was a horrible sight. Two out of the three mules, and Samson’s horse, had been attacked by the wolves. The flanks of the horse were terribly torn, and the entrails of both the mules were partially hanging out. Though all three were still standing with their backs arched, they were rapidly dying from loss of blood. My dear little ‘Strawberry’—as we called him to match William’s ‘Cream’ and my mare were both intact.
A few days after this, Samson’s remaining horse gave out. I had to surrender what remained of my poor beast in order to get my companion through. The last fifty miles of the journey I performed on foot; sometimes carrying my rifle to relieve the staggering little mule of a few pounds extra weight. At long last the Dalles hove in sight. And our cry, ‘The tents! the tents!’ echoed the joyous ‘Thalassa! Thalassa!’ of the weary Greeks.
CHAPTER XXIX
‘Where is the tent of the commanding officer?’ I asked of the first soldier I came across.
He pointed to one on the hillside. ‘Ags for Major Dooker,’ was the Dutch-accented answer.
Bidding Samson stay where he was, I made my way as directed. A middle-aged officer in undress uniform was sitting on an empty packing-case in front of his tent, whittling a piece of its wood.
‘Pray sir,’ said I in my best Louis Quatorze manner, ‘have I the pleasure of speaking to Major Dooker?’