As the boys reluctantly ceased contemplating the fascinating Indian trail, and moved on behind the rest of the party, Charlie said: “I suppose we must make allowance for Younkins’s prejudices. He is like most of the border men, who believe that all the good Indians are dead. If the Cheyennes and the Comanches could only tell their story in the books and newspapers, we might hear the other side.”
The idea of a wild Indian’s writing a book or a 120 letter to the newspapers tickled Sandy so much that he laughed loud and long.
Some two miles above the point where the settlers’ ford crossed the Republican Fork, the stream swept around a bluffy promontory, and on a curve just above this was the tract of timber land which they now proposed to enter upon for their second claim. The trees were oak, hickory, and beech, with a slight undergrowth of young cottonwoods and hazel. The land lay prettily, the stream at this point flowing in a southerly direction, with the timber claim on its northwesterly bank. The sunny exposure of the grove, the open glades that diversified its dense growth, and the babbling brook that wound its way through it to the river, all combined to make it very desirable for a timber claim. At a short distance from the river the land rose gradually to a high ridge, and on the top of this grew a thick wood of spruce and fir.
“That’s what you want for your next cabin,” said Younkins, pointing his finger in the direction of the pines. “Best kind of stuff for building there is in these parts.” Then he explained to the boys the process of cutting down the trees, splitting them up into shakes, or into lengths suitable for cabin-building, and he gave them an entertaining account of all the ways and means of finishing up a log-cabin,––a process, by the way, which they found then more entertaining in description than they afterward found it in the reality. 121
That night when Sandy lay down to refreshing sleep it was to dream of picturesque Indian fights, witnessed at a safe distance from afar. Accordingly, he was not very much surprised next morning, while he was helping Charlie to get ready the breakfast, when Oscar ran in breathless, with the one word, “Indians!”
“Come out on the hill back of the cabin,” panted Oscar. “There’s a lot of ’em coming out on the trail we saw yesterday, all in Indian file. Hurry up!” and away he darted, Sandy hastening with him to see the wonderful sight.
Sure enough, there they were, twenty-five or thirty Indians,––blanket Indians, as Younkins would have said,––strung along in the narrow trail, all in Indian file. It amazed the lads to see how the little Indian ponies managed to keep their feet in the narrow path. But they seemed to trot leisurely along with one foot before the other, just as the Indians did. Behind the mounted men were men and boys on foot, nearly as many as had passed on horseback. These kept up with the others, silently but swiftly maintaining the same pace that the mounted fellows did. It was a picturesque and novel sight to the young settlers. The Indians were dressed in the true frontier style, with hunting-shirt and leggings of dressed deerskin, a blanket slung loosely over the shoulder, all bareheaded, and with coarse black hair flowing in the morning breeze, except for the loose 122 knot in which it was twisted behind. Some of them carried their guns slung on their backs; and others of them had the weapons in their hands, ready for firing on the instant.
“There they go, over the divide,” said Oscar, as the little cavalcade reached the last roll of the prairie, and began to disappear on the other side. Not one of the party deigned even to look in the direction of the wondering boys; and if they saw them, as they probably did, they made no sign.
“There they go, hunting buffalo, I suppose,” said Sandy, with a sigh, as the last Indian of the file disappeared down the horizon. “Dear me! don’t I wish I was going out after buffalo, instead of having to dibble corn into the sod all day! Waugh! Don’t I hate it!” And the boy turned disconsolately back to the cabin. But he rallied with his natural good-humor when he had his tale to tell at the breakfast-table. He eagerly told how they had seen the Indians passing over the old trail, and had gazed on the redskins as they went “on the warpath.”
“Warpath, indeed!” laughed Charlie. “Pot-hunters, that’s what they are. All the warfare they are up to is waged on the poor innocent buffalo that Younkins says they are killing off and making scarcer every year.”