Pack mules were brought up, the supplies were loaded on them and they departed in the direction of the general camp, those engaged in the conference soon following.
In the evening, before we broke camp, two young bucks came galloping into the camp. Addressing Captain Chiles, they said that by instruction of their chief they had come to return a pair of blankets that had been stolen by one of the tribe. They threw down the blankets and the captain called to the men at the mess wagon to give them a cup of sugar each, saying that it was the first instance in his life when an Indian had restored stolen property.
VII.
To the Cimarron.
Escaping any further delay from Indians or from other causes, good headway was made by the trains up the Arkansas until we reached the “lower crossing.” It had been determined by the wagonmasters that we would cross the river here, taking the Cimarron route. Although the river was fordable, yet it was quite tedious and difficult to get the heavily loaded wagons across the stream, the water being waist-deep and the bottom uneven.
Neither an ox nor a mule will pull when he gets into water touching his body. The mule, under such circumstances, always has a tendency to fall down, and so get drowned, by becoming entangled in the harness. To meet this emergency the ox teams were doubled, ten yoke being hitched to each wagon, and were urged to do their duty by a half-dozen drivers on each side, wading through the water beside them.
The greater part of one day was taken up in getting the wagons across, but it was accomplished without serious loss. Everything being over, we encamped at the foot of the hill on the opposite side, and rested a day, in recognition of the Fourth of July. We fired some shots, and Captain Chiles brought forth from his trunk some jars of gooseberries, directing the cooks to make some pies, as an additional recognition of the national holiday. The gooseberries were all right, but the pie crust would have given an ostrich a case of indigestion.
The old Santa Fé trail, from the lower crossing of the Arkansas, ran southwest to the Cimarron, across a stretch of country where there was no water for a distance of nearly sixty miles, if my memory serves me correctly. All the water casks were filled from the Arkansas river for the use of the men, but of course there was no means of carrying water for horse or ox.
The weather was warm and dry, and now we were about to enter upon the “hornada,” the Spanish word for “dry stretch.” Intending to drive all night, starting was postponed until near sundown. Two or three miles from the Arkansas we apparently reached the general altitude of the plains over which we trudged during the whole night, with nothing but the rumbling of the wagons and the occasional shout of one of the drivers to break the silence of the plain.
DIFFICULT TO GET THE HEAVILY LOADED WAGONS ACROSS.