The Prairie Schooner

by William Francis Hooker

Driving seven yoke of oxen hauling two wagons attached by a short rig similar to that used in coupling cars, along a desert road, is enough to keep an able-bodied ox-train brakeman busy. But when, in addition to keeping his wild "leaders" in the road and his "wheelers" filling their yokes, he has to keep an eye on a distant bad land bluff or a roll in the surface, he has his hands more than full.

This was the situation when the bull outfit, from Cheyenne to Spotted Tail, was slowly moving along north of the Platte river in August, 1875—a time when Red Cloud and Spotted Tail agencies were nearly deserted, and all the young bucks were chasing antelope and incidentally collecting scalps of white men when they could find a white man alone and unprepared to defend himself; or when they could outnumber a bull outfit one hundred or two hundred to one and get its members in a "pocket," which was not often.

At this particular time a young man who, a couple of years previous, had never known anything less comfortable than a feather bed, or a job harder than writing railroad way-bills, was one of two in the cross-country freighter crew who had been assigned by Wagon-boss Watson to mount a "pinto" pony and ride all day at least 1,000 yards away from the trail and keep to the high places where he could see what was going on, if anything, in the vicinity. He had been told to dismount and examine any signs of life on the ground where it was bare, or in the grass, and when found to fire one shot from his revolver to let the bullwhackers know that they had "company" not far off; and if he saw one Indian or a hundred to shoot not once but three times in rapid succession and then gallop to the wagon train with details.

The movement across the desert-like country this day began at four a. m., and continued until ten a. m. The featherbed youngster was well equipped with an army Springfield of large calibre, forty rounds in his belt, two Remington revolvers and a butcher knife with a five-inch blade for the possibility of close quarters. He had a bottle of spring water and a saddlebag full of sandwiches of bread and fried sowbelly and plenty of chewing and smoking tobacco.

Maybe you think this youngster thought of his soft bed at home or a pot shot from ambush that would leave his skeleton bleaching in a sandy desert sun after it had been stripped of its flesh by wolves; or that he wished someone else had been chosen to guard one side of the overland train of flour, bacon, corn and sugar and its custodians, but that is not so. It was one of the proudest days of his life and I know he will never forget it. He was highly honored by Watson and he appreciated it, for the reason that only two years before he had come to Wyoming a green city boy and was then known in the parlance of the plains as a "tenderfoot," which was a truthful description of any man or boy when he first entered upon the life of the bullwhacker, the then popular master of transportation between civilization and its outposts. He never dreamed of death when he got his orders, because he was young and foolish. Sometimes it is called bravery, but that isn't the right word. It can't be described unless it is called blind or reckless indifference. Perhaps that isn't it; anyway the youngster, as he mounted and galloped away and waited on a neighboring knoll for the outfit to string out along the sandy trail, hoped he wouldn't be disappointed. He wanted an eventful day and he fairly prayed for it. "I hope," he ruminated to himself half aloud, "that I cross a tepee trail, at least, even if I don't get my eye on an Indian."

It wasn't long until he began to wonder, for it was still barely daylight, if it wouldn't be possible for a buck of good aim to pick him off, especially if the buck practiced the usual tactics of concealing himself behind a sand-dune or a butte. He wasn't afraid—he didn't know the word—but he wondered. For this reason he kept his pony moving, reasoning that it is easier to hit a stationary target than a swiftly whirling one. But the pony appeared to be a dead one even when a spur was roughly rubbed upon his belly, until, as the train had gotten well out of camp and the teams strung along for a mile, he found his pony to be interested in something, for he insisted on frequent stops and moved his ears back and forward and snorted lightly.

Finally it seemed next to impossible to get him to move, and Featherbed was sure the pony had been owned by Indians at some time and was of the trick variety, being trained to a brand of treachery that meant delivery of his mount into the hands of the reds.

And while these things were passing through the youngster's brain his only concern was that the train was leaving him, and that he was not guarding it. He heard a coyote's mournful note, but that was a common occurrence, although he wondered if it couldn't be possible that an Indian was doing the howling. It sounded like an imitation.

The pony snorted some more, and then Featherbed, finding his blunt pointed spurs were not getting him anywhere, unsheathed his butcher-knife and pricked his cayuse on the back. He tried to buck, but he wore a double cinch—one fore and one aft—and it kept him on all fours.

Things were getting worse and the voices of the bullwhackers yelling at their teams grew fainter and fainter as the outfit slowly but surely put distance between Featherbed and his companion, when there was a sound that resembled the dropping of a stick in the water preceded by a distinct swish as if it had been thrown through the air like a boomerang.