The Gunboat Series
Books for Boys, by a Gunboat Boy
FRANK, ON THE PRAIRIE.
R.W. Carroll & Co. Cincinnati, O.

THE GUN-BOAT SERIES.
FRANK, THE YOUNG NATURALIST,
FRANK ON A GUN-BOAT,
FRANK IN THE WOODS,
FRANK ON THE PRAIRIE,
FRANK BEFORE VICKSBURG,
FRANK ON THE LOWER MISSISSIPPI.
Price, $1.25 per volume, or $7.50 per set, in a neat box,
forming a most excellent and interesting
Library for Young Folks.

THE GUN-BOAT SERIES.

Frank ON THE PRAIRIE.

BY
HARRY CASTLEMON,
“THE GUN-BOAT BOY.”

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS.

CINCINNATI:
R. W. CARROLL & CO., Publishers,
117 West Fourth Street.
1869.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the years 1868, by R. W. Carroll & Co.,
in the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the United States, for the Southern District of Ohio.
STEREOTYPED AT THE FRANKLIN TYPE FOUNDRY, CINCINNATI.

Contents.

FRANK ON THE PRAIRIE.

[CHAPTER I.]
Ho for the West!

FOR two months after their return from their hunting expedition in “the woods,” Frank and Archie talked of nothing but the incidents that had transpired during their visit at the trapper’s cabin. The particulars of Frank’s desperate fight with the moose had become known throughout the village, and the “Young Naturalist” enjoyed an enviable reputation as a hunter. He was obliged to relate his adventures over and over again, until one day his thoughts and conversation were turned into a new channel by the arrival of an uncle, who had just returned from California.

Uncle James had been absent from home nearly ten years, and during most of that time had lived in the mines. Although the boys had not seen him since they were six years old, and of course could not remember him, they were soon on the best of terms with each other. Uncle James had an inexhaustible fund of stories; he had crossed the plains, fought the Indians, was accustomed to scenes of danger and excitement, and had such an easy way of telling his adventures, that the boys never grew tired of listening to them. The day after his arrival he visited the museum, gazed in genuine wonder at the numerous specimens of his nephews’ handiwork, and listened to the descriptions of their hunting expeditions with as much interest as though he had been a boy himself. Then he engaged in hunting with them, and entered into the sport with all the reckless eagerness of youth.

The winter was passed in this way, and when spring returned, Uncle James began to talk of returning to California to settle up his business. He had become attached to life in the mines, but could not bear the thought of leaving his relatives again. The quiet comforts he had enjoyed at the cottage he thought were better than the rough life and hard fare to which he had been accustomed for the last ten years. He had left his business, however, in an unsettled state, and, as soon as he could “close it up,” would return and take up his abode in Lawrence. The cousins regretted that the parting time was so near, for they looked upon their relative as the very pattern of an uncle, but consoled themselves by looking forward to the coming winter, when he would be settled as a permanent inmate of the cottage.

“I say, Frank,” exclaimed Archie one day, as he burst into the study, where his cousin was engaged in cleaning his gun preparatory to a muskrat hunt, “there’s something in the wind. Just now, as I came through the sitting-room, I surprised our folks and Uncle James talking very earnestly about something. But they stopped as soon as I came in, and, as that was a gentle hint that they didn’t want me to know any thing about it, I came out. There’s something up, I tell you.”

“It’s about uncle’s business, I suppose,” replied Frank. But if that was the subject of the conversation, Archie came to the conclusion that his affairs must be in a very unsettled state, for when they returned from their hunt that night the same mysterious conversation was going on again. It ceased, however, as the boys entered the room, which made Archie more firm in his belief than ever that there was “something up.”

The next morning, at the breakfast-table, Archie’s father announced his intention of returning to Portland at once, as his business needed his attention; and, turning to the boys, inquired:

“Well, have you had hunting enough this winter to satisfy you?”

“Yes, sir,” was the answer.

“Then I suppose you don’t want to go across the plains with your Uncle James?”

“Hurrah!” shouted Archie, springing to his feet, and upsetting his coffee-cup. “Did you say we might go?”

“Be a little more careful, Archie,” said his father. “No, I did not say so.”

“Well, it amounts to the same thing,” thought Archie, “for father never would have said a word about it if he wasn’t intending to let us go. I knew there was something up.”

We need not stop to repeat the conversation that followed. Suffice it to say, that Uncle James, having fully made up his mind to return to the village as soon as he could settle up his business, had asked permission for his nephews to accompany him across the plains. Their parents, thinking of the fight with the moose, and knowing the reckless spirit of the boys, had at first objected. But Uncle James, promising to keep a watchful eye on them, had, after considerable argument, carried the day, and it was finally decided that the boys could go.

“But remember,” said Mr. Winters, “you are to be governed entirely by Uncle James; for, if you have no one to take care of you, you will be in more fights with bears and panthers.”

The boys readily promised obedience, and, hardly waiting to finish their breakfast, went into the study to talk over their plans.

“Didn’t I tell you there was something up?” said Archie, as soon as they had closed the door. “We’ll have a hunt now that will throw all our former hunting expeditions in the shade.”

As soon as their excitement had somewhat abated, they remembered that Dick Lewis, the trapper, had told them that it was his intention to start for the prairie in the spring. If he had not already gone, would it not be a good plan to secure his company? He knew all about the prairie, and might be of service to them. They laid the matter before Uncle James, who, without hesitation, pronounced it an excellent idea. “For,” said he, “we are in no hurry. Instead of going by stage, we will buy a wagon and a span of mules and take our time. If we don’t happen to fall in with a train, we shall, no doubt, want a guide.” As soon, therefore, as the ice had left the creek so that it could be traveled with a boat, Uncle James accompanied the boys to the trapper’s cabin.

Dick met them at the door, and greeted them with a grasp so hearty, that they all felt its effects for a quarter of an hour afterward.

“I ain’t gone yet,” said he; “but it won’t be long afore I see the prairy onct more.”

“Well, Dick,” said Frank, “we’re going, too, and want you to go with us.”

The trapper and his brother opened their eyes wide with astonishment, but Uncle James explained, and ended by offering to pay the trapper’s expenses if he would accompany them. After a few moments’ consideration, he accepted the proposition, saying:

“I have tuk to the youngsters mightily. They’re gritty fellers, an’ I should like to show ’em a bit of prairy life.”

Uncle James and the boys remained at the cabin nearly a week, during which their plans were all determined upon, and, when they arrived at home, they at once commenced preparations for their journey. Their double-barreled shotguns were oiled, and put carefully away. They were very efficient weapons among small game, but Uncle James said they were not in the habit of using “pop-guns” on the prairie; they would purchase their fire-arms and other necessary weapons at St. Louis.

The first of June—the time set for the start—at length arrived, and with it came the trapper, accompanied by his dog. Dick carried his long rifle on his shoulder, his powder-horn and bullet-pouch at his side, and a knapsack, containing a change of clothes and other necessary articles, at his back. He had evidently bestowed more than usual care upon his toilet; his suit of buckskin was entirely new, and even his rifle seemed to have received a thorough rubbing and cleaning preparatory to its introduction into civilized life. Frank and Archie meeting him at the door, relieved him of his rifle and pack, and conducted him into the house. But here the trapper was sadly out of place. He sat on the edge of his chair, and was constantly changing the position of his feet, and looking down at the rich carpet, as if he could hardly believe that it was made to walk upon. The inmates of the cottage used every exertion in their power to make him feel at his ease, and, to some extent, succeeded; but he breathed much more freely when the farewells had been said, and the party was on its way to the wharf. In due time they arrived at Portland, where they remained nearly a week. Here the trapper again found himself in hot water. He was installed in a large, airy room in Mr. Winter’s elegant residence; but he would much rather have been assigned quarters among the trees in the yard. The sights and sounds of the city were new to him, and at every corner he found something to wonder at. When on the street, he was continually getting in somebody’s way, or being separated from his companions, who found it necessary to keep a vigilant watch over him. But it was on the train that his astonishment reached its height. He had never before traveled in the cars, and, as they thundered away, going faster and faster as they left the city behind, the trapper began to clutch his seat, and to look wistfully out the window at the woods, which appeared to be dancing by, as if he never expected to be permitted to enter his natural element again. He would have preferred to “foot it,” as he remarked, and, when at last they reached St. Joseph, he drew a long breath of relief, mentally resolving that he would never again tempt destruction by traveling either on a steamboat or railroad car.

It was midnight when they reached the hotel. Being very much fatigued with their long journey, they at once secured rooms and retired, and were soon fast asleep.

[CHAPTER II.]
The Wagon Train.

ON awaking the next morning, the boys found themselves surrounded by new scenes. While they were dressing, they looked out at the window, and obtained their first view of a wagon train, which was just starting out for the prairie. The wagons were protected by canvas covers, some drawn by oxen, others by mules, and the entire train being accompanied by men both on foot and on horseback. Fat, sleek cows followed meekly after the wagons, from behind whose covering peeped the faces of women and children—the families of the hardy pioneers now on their way to find new homes amid the solitude of that western region.

The boys watched the train until it disappeared, and then went down stairs to get their breakfast. Uncle James was not to be found. In fact, ever since leaving Portland, he seemed to have forgotten his promise to his brother, for he never bothered his head about his nephews. It is true, he had watched them rather closely at the beginning of the journey, but soon discovered that they were fully capable of taking care of themselves and the trapper besides. He did not make his appearance until nearly two hours after the boys had finished their breakfast, and then he rode up to the hotel mounted on a large, raw-boned, ugly-looking horse. He was followed by the trapper, who was seated in a covered wagon, drawn by a span of mules, while behind the wagon were two more horses, saddled and bridled.

“Now, then, boys,” said Uncle James, as he dismounted and tied his horse to a post, “where’s your baggage? We’re going with that train that went out this morning.”

“An’ here, youngsters,” exclaimed Dick, as he climbed down out of his wagon, “come an’ take your pick of these two hosses. This one,” he continued, pointing to a small, gray horse, which stood impatiently pawing the ground and tossing his head—“this feller is young and foolish yet. He don’t know nothin’ ’bout the prairy or buffaler huntin’; an’ if whoever gets him should undertake to shoot a rifle while on his back, he would land him on the ground quicker nor lightnin’. I ’spect I shall have to larn him a few lessons. But this one”—laying his hand on the other horse, which stood with his head down and his eyes closed, as if almost asleep—“he’s an ole buffaler hunter. The feller that your uncle bought him of has jest come in from the mountains. He can travel wusser nor a steamboat if you want him to, an’ you can leave him on the prairy any whar an’ find him when you come back. Now, youngster,” he added, turning to Frank, “which’ll you have?”

“I have no choice,” replied Frank. “Which one do you want, Archie?”

“Well,” replied the latter, “I’d rather have the buffalo hunter. He looks as though he hadn’t spirit enough to throw a fellow off, but that gray looks rather vicious.”

“Wal, then, that’s settled,” said the trapper; “so fetch on your plunder, an’ let’s be movin’ to onct.”

Their baggage, which consisted of three trunks—small, handy affairs, capable of holding a considerable quantity of clothing, but not requiring much space—was stowed away in the wagon. When Uncle James had paid their bill at the hotel, they mounted their horses, and the trapper, who now began to feel more at home, took his seat in the wagon, and drove after the train. Archie soon began to think that he had shown considerable judgment in the selection of his horse, for they had not gone far before the gray began to show his temper. After making several attempts to turn his head toward home—a proceeding which Frank successfully resisted—he began to dance from one side of the street to the other, and ended by endeavoring to throw his rider over his head; but the huge Spanish saddle, with its high front and back, afforded him a secure seat; and after receiving a few sharp thrusts from Frank’s spurs, the gray quietly took his place by the side of Archie’s horse, and walked along as orderly and gentle as could be wished.

The trapper, who was now the chief man of the party, had superintended the buying of their outfit, and, although it was a simple one, they were still well provided with every necessary article. The boys were dressed in complete suits of blue jeans, an article that will resist wear and dirt to the last extremity, broad-brimmed hats, and heavy horseman’s boots, the heels of which were armed with spurs.

Their weapons, which were stowed away in the wagon, consisted of a brace of revolvers and a hunting-knife each, and Archie owned a short breech-loading rifle, while Frank had purchased a common “patch” rifle. The wagon also contained provisions in abundance—coffee, corn meal, bacon, and the like—and ammunition for their weapons. Their appearance would have created quite a commotion in the quiet little village of Lawrence, but in St. Joseph such sights were by no means uncommon. Buckskin was much more plenty than broadcloth, and the people who passed them on the streets scarcely noticed them.

At length, just before dark, they overtook the train, which had stopped for the night. The wagons were drawn up on each side of the road, and altogether the camp presented a scene that was a pleasant one to men wearied with their day’s journey. Cattle were feeding quietly near the wagons, chickens cackled joyously from their coops, men and women were busily engaged with their preparations for supper, while groups of noisy children rolled about on the grass, filling the camp with the sounds of their merry laughter.

The trapper drove on until he found a spot suitable for their camp, and then turned off the road and stopped. He at once began to unharness the mules, while the boys, after removing their saddles, fastened their horses to the wagon with a long rope, and allowed them to graze. When the trapper had taken care of his mules, he started a fire, and soon a coffee-pot was simmering and sputtering over the flames, and several slices of bacon were broiling on the coals. After supper, the boys spread their blankets out under the wagon, and, being weary with their day’s ride (for it was something new to them), soon fell asleep.

The next morning, when they awoke it was just daylight. After drawing on their boots, they crawled out from under the wagon, and found the trapper, standing with his hat off, and his long arms extended as if about to embrace some invisible object.

“I tell you what, youngsters,” said he, as the boys approached; “if this aint nat’ral; jest take a sniff of that ar fresh air! Here,” he continued, looking about him with a smile of satisfaction—“here, I know all ’bout things. I’m to hum now. Thar’s nothin’ on the prairy that Dick Lewis can’t ’count fur. But, youngsters, I wouldn’t travel on them ar steamboats an’ railroads ag’in fur all the beaver in the Missouri River. Every thing in them big cities seemed to say to me, ‘Dick, you haint got no business here.’ Them black walls an’ stone roads; them rumblin’ carts an’ big stores, war sights I never seed afore, an’ I never want to see ’em ag’in. I know I was treated mighty kind, an’ all that; but it couldn’t make me feel right. I didn’t like them streets, windin’ an’ twistin’ about, an’ allers loosin’ a feller; an’ I wasn’t to hum. But now, youngsters, I know what I’m doin’. Nobody can’t lose Dick Lewis on the prairy. I know the names of all the streets here; an’, ’sides, I know whar they all lead to. An’ as fur varmints, thar’s none of ’em that I haint trapped an’ fit. An’ Injuns! I know a leetle ’bout them, I reckon. It’s funny that them ar city chaps don’t know nothin’ ’bout what’s goin’ on out here; an’ it shows that all the larnin’ in the world aint got out o’ books. Send one of ’em here, an’ I could show him a thing or two he never heern tell on. But I must be gettin’ breakfast, ’cause we’ll be off ag’in soon; an’ on the prairy every feller has to look out fur himself. You can’t pull a ring in the wall here, an’ have a chap with white huntin’ shirt an’ morocker moccasins on come up an’ say: ‘Did you ring, sir?’ An’ how them ar fellers knowed which room to come to in them big hotels, is something I can’t get through my head. Thar’s no big bell to call a feller to grub here. Take one of them city chaps an’ give him a rifle, an’ pint out over the prairy an’ tell him to go an’ hunt up his breakfast, an’ how would he come out? Could he travel by the sun, or tell the pints of the compass by the stars? Could he lasso an’ ride a wild mustang, or shoot a Injun plumb atween the eyes at two hundred an’ fifty yards? No! I reckon not! Wal, thar’s a heap o’ things I couldn’t do; an’ it shows that every man had oughter stick to his own business. It’s all owin’ to a man’s bringin’ up.”

While the trapper spoke he had been raking together the fire that had nearly gone out; and having got it fairly started, he began the work of getting breakfast. The boys, after rolling up their blankets and packing them away in the wagon, amused themselves in watching the movements of the emigrants, who now began their preparations for their day’s journey. By the time Uncle James awoke, the trapper pronounced their breakfast ready. After they had done ample justice to the homely meal (and it was astonishing what an appetite the fresh invigorating air of the prairie gave them), the boys packed the cooking utensils away in the wagon while the trapper began to harness the mules. This was an undertaking that a less experienced man would have found to be extremely hazardous, for the animals persisted in keeping their heels toward him, and it was only by skillful maneuvering that Dick succeeded in getting them hitched to the wagon. By the time this was accomplished, Uncle James and the boys had saddled their horses and followed the trapper, who drove off as though he perfectly understood what he was about, leaving the train to follow at its leisure.

Dick acted as if he had again found himself among friends from whom he had long been separated; but it was evident that sorrow was mingled with his joy, for on every side his eye rested on the improvements of civilization. The road was lined with fine, well-stocked farms, and the prairie over which his father had hunted the buffalo and fought the Indian, had been turned up by the plow, and would soon be covered with waving crops. No doubt the trapper’s thoughts wandered into the future, for, as the boys rode up beside the wagon, he said, with something like a sigh:

“Things aint as they used to be, youngsters. I can ’member the time when thar was’nt a fence within miles of here, an’ a feller could go out an’ knock over a buffaler fur breakfast jest as easy as that farmer over thar could find one of his sheep. But the ax an’ plow have made bad work with a fine country, the buffaler an’ Injun have been pushed back t’wards the mountains, an’ it won’t be long afore thar’ll be no room fur sich as me; an’ we won’t be missed neither, ’cause when the buffaler an’ beaver are gone thar’ll be nothin’ fur us to do. These farms will keep pushin’ out all the while; an’ when folks, sittin’ in their snug houses beside their warm fires, hear tell of the Injuns that onst owned this country, nobody will ever think that sich fellers as me an’ Bill Lawson an’ ole Bob Kelly ever lived. If ole Bill was here now, he would say: ‘Let’s go back to the mountains, Dick, an’ stay thar.’ He wouldn’t like to see his ole huntin’ grounds wasted in this way, an’ I don’t want to see it neither. But I know that the Rocky Mountains an’ grizzly bars will last as long as I shall, an’ thar’ll be no need of trappers an’ hunters an’ guides arter that.”

Dick became silent after this, and it was not until the train halted for the noon’s rest, that he recovered his usual spirits.

[CHAPTER III.]
Antelope Hunting.

GRADUALLY the train left the improvements of civilization behind, and, at the end of three weeks, it was miles outside of a fence. Here the trapper was in his natural element. He felt, as he expressed, “like a young one jest out o’ school,” adding, that all he needed was “one glimpse of a Comanche or Cheyenne to make him feel perfectly nat’ral.”

In accordance with the promise he had made Frank before leaving St. Joseph, he now took Pete (that was the name the latter had given his horse) under his especial charge; and every morning, at the first peep of day, the boys saw him galloping over the prairie, firing his rifle as fast as he could reload, as if in pursuit of an imaginary herd of buffaloes. At first the spirited animal objected to this mode of treatment, and made the most desperate efforts to unseat his rider; but the trapper, who had broken more than one wild mustang, was perfectly at home on horseback, and, after a few exercises of this kind, Pete was turned over to his young master, with the assurance that he was ready to begin buffalo hunting. According to Frank’s idea, the animal had improved considerably under the trapper’s system of training, for he would hardly wait for his rider to be fairly in the saddle before he would start off at the top of his speed. The boys, who considered themselves fully able to do any thing that had ever been accomplished by any one else, having seen Dick load and fire his rifle while riding at full speed, began to imitate his example, and in a short time learned the art to perfection. In addition to this, each boy looked upon his horse as the better animal, and the emigrants were witnesses to many a race between them, in which Sleepy Sam, as Archie called his horse, always came off winner. But Frank kept up the contest, and at every possible opportunity the horses were “matched,” until they had learned their parts so well, that every time they found themselves together, they would start off on a race without waiting for the word from their riders.

One morning, just after the train had left the camp, as the boys were riding beside the wagon, listening to a story the trapper was relating, the latter suddenly stopped, and, pointing toward a distant swell, said: “Do you see that ar’, youngsters?”

The boys, after straining their eyes in vain, brought their field-glass into requisition, and finally discovered an object moving slowly along through the high grass; but the distance was so great, they could not determine what it was.

“That’s a prong-horn,” said the trapper at length. “An’ now, Frank,” he continued, “if you’ll lend me that ar hoss, I’ll show you that all the huntin’ in the world aint larnt in that leetle patch of timber around Lawrence.”

Frank at once dismounted, and Dick, after securing his rifle, sprung into the saddle, saying:

“Come along easy-like, youngsters, an’ when I tell you, you get off an’ hide behind your hoss.”

Frank mounted Sleepy Sam behind Archie, and they followed the trapper, who led the way at an easy gallop. Useless, at his master’s command, remained with the wagon. They rode for a mile at a steady pace, and then, seeing that the game had discovered them, the boys, at a signal from the trapper, stopped and dismounted, while Dick kept on alone, his every movement closely watched by Frank and Archie, who, having often read of the skill required in hunting antelopes, were anxious to see how it was done. The trapper rode on for about half a mile further, and then the boys saw him dismount, unbuckle the bridle, and hobble his horse so that he would not stray away. He then threw himself on his hands and knees, and disappeared. A quarter of an hour afterward the boys saw his ’coon-skin cap waving above the grass. If this was intended to attract the attention of the game, it did not meet with immediate success, for the antelopes continued to feed leisurely up the swell, and finally some of their number disappeared behind it. The boys regarded this as conclusive evidence that the trapper’s plan had failed; but at length one of the antelopes, which stood a little apart from the others, and appeared to be acting as sentinel, uttered a loud snort, which instantly brought every member of the herd to his side. They remained huddled together for several moments, as if in consultation, and then began to move slowly down the swell toward the place where the trapper was concealed. There were about twenty animals in the herd, and they came on in single file, stopping now and then to snuff the air and examine the object that had excited their curiosity. But nothing suspicious was to be seen, for the trapper was concealed in the grass, the only thing visible being his cap, which he gently waved to and fro as he watched the movements of the game. The antelopes advanced slowly—much too slowly for the impatient boys, who, concealed behind their horse, closely watched all their movements, fearful that they might detect the presence of the trapper, and seek safety in flight. But the latter well understood the matter in hand, and presently the boys saw a puff of smoke rise from the grass, and the nearest of the antelopes, springing into the air, fell dead in his tracks. The others turned and fled with the speed of the wind.

In an instant Frank and Archie had mounted, and when they reached the place where the trapper was standing, he had secured his prize, which was one of the most graceful animals the boys had ever seen. It was about three and a half feet high at the shoulders, and, although Dick pronounced it very fat, its body was slender and its limbs small and muscular. After having examined the animal to their satisfaction, they all mounted their horses, Dick carrying the game before him on his saddle; and as they rode toward the wagon, Archie exclaimed:

“Now, Frank, we know how to hunt antelopes. It isn’t so very hard, after all.”

“Isn’t it?” inquired the trapper, with a laugh. “You don’t understand the natur of the critters, when you say that. I know I killed this one easy, but a feller can’t allers do it. Howsomever, you can try your hand the next time we meet any, an’ if you do shoot one, I’ll allers call you my ‘antelope killers.’ Them red handkerchiefs of your’n would be jest the things to use, ’cause the critters can see it a long way. If you can bring one of ’em into camp, it will be something wuth braggin’ on.”

It was evident that the trapper did not entertain a very exalted opinion of the boys’ “hunting qualities;” but that did not convince them that they could not shoot an antelope. On the contrary, it made them all the more anxious for an opportunity to try their skill on the game, if for no other reason than to show the trapper that he was mistaken.

Half an hour’s riding brought them to the wagon, which was standing where they had left it, and, after the buck had been skinned and cleaned, the trapper mounted to his seat and drove after the train, followed by the boys, who strained their eyes in every direction in the hope of discovering another herd of antelopes. But nothing in the shape of a prong-horn was to be seen; and when the train resumed its journey after its noon halt, they gradually fell back until the wagons were out of sight behind the hills. Then, leaving the road, they galloped over the prairie until they reached the top of a high swell, when they stopped to look about them. About two miles to the left was the train slowly winding among the hills; but the most faithful use of their glass failed to reveal the wished-for game. All that afternoon they scoured the prairie on both sides of the wagons, and when it began to grow dark, they reluctantly turned their faces toward the camp.

“What did I tell you?” asked the trapper, as the boys rode up to the wagon, where the latter was unharnessing the mules. “I said you couldn’t shoot a prong-horn.”

“Of course we couldn’t,” answered Archie, “for we didn’t see any to shoot.”

“I know that,” replied the trapper with a grin; “but I seed plenty. The next time you go a huntin’ prong-horns, be sartin that the wind blows from them t’wards you, an’ not from you t’wards them. They’ve got sharp noses, them critters have.”

The boys were astonished. They had not thought of that; and Archie was compelled to acknowledge that “there was something in knowing how, after all.”

[CHAPTER IV.]
The Best Trapper on the Prairie.

THAT night the train encamped a short distance from one of the stations of the Overland Stage Company. The trapper, as usual, after taking care of his mules, superintended the preparations for supper, while the boys, wearied with their day’s ride, threw themselves on the grass near the wagon, and watched his movements with a hungry eye. Uncle James, as he had done almost every night since leaving St. Joseph, walked about the camp playing with the children, who began to regard him as an old acquaintance. Presently the attention of the boys was attracted by the approach of a stranger, whose long beard and thin hair—both as white as snow—bore evidence to the fact that he carried the burden of many years on his shoulders.

He was dressed in a complete suit of buckskin, which, although well worn, was nevertheless very neat, and, in spite of his years, his step was firm, and he walked as erect as an Indian. He carried a long heavy rifle on his shoulder, and from his belt peeped the head of a small hatchet of peculiar shape, and the buck-horn handle of a hunting-knife. He walked slowly through the camp, and when he came opposite the boys, Dick suddenly sprang from the ground where he had been seated, watching some steaks that were broiling on the coals, and, striding up to the stranger, laid his hand on his shoulder. The latter turned, and, after regarding him sharply for a moment, thrust out his hand, which the trapper seized and wrung in silence. For an instant they stood looking at each other without speaking, and then Dick took the old man by the arm and led him up to the fire, exclaiming:

“Bob Kelly, the oldest an’ best trapper on the prairy!”

The boys arose as he approached, and regarded him with curiosity. They had heard their guide speak in the highest terms of “ole Bob Kelly,” and had often wished to see the trapper whom Dick was willing to acknowledge as his superior. There he was—a mild, good-natured-looking old man, the exact opposite of what they had imagined him to be.

“Them are city chaps, Bob”—continued the trapper, as the old man, after gazing at the boys for a moment, seated himself on the ground beside the fire—”an’ I’m takin’ ’em out to Californy. In course they are green consarnin’ prairy life, but they are made of good stuff, an’ are ’bout the keerlessest youngsters you ever see. What a doin’ here, Bob?”

“Jest lookin’ round,” was the answer. “I’m mighty glad to meet you ag’in, ’cause it looks nat’ral to see you ’bout. Things aint as they used to be. Me an’ you are ’bout the oldest trappers agoin’ now. The boys have gone one arter the other, an’ thar’s only me an’ you left that I knows on.”

“What’s come on Jack Thomas?” asked Dick.

“We’re both without our chums now,” answered the old man, sorrowfully. “Jack an’ ole Bill Lawson are both gone, an’ their scalps are in a Comanche wigwam.”

The trapper made no reply, but went on with his preparations for supper in silence, and the boys could see that he was considerably affected by the news he had just heard. His every movement was closely watched by his companion, who seemed delighted to meet his old acquaintance once more, and acted as though he did not wish to allow him out of his sight. There was evidently a good deal of honest affection between these two men. It did not take the form of words, but would have showed itself had one or the other of them been in danger. They did not speak again until Mr. Winters came up, when Dick again introduced his friend as the “oldest an’ best trapper agoin’.” Uncle James, who understood the customs of the trappers, simply bowed—a greeting which the old man returned with one short, searching glance, as if he meant to read his very thoughts.

“Now, then!” exclaimed Dick, “Grub’s ready. Pitch in, Bob.”

The old trapper was not in the habit of standing upon ceremony, and, drawing his huge knife from his belt, he helped himself to a generous piece of the meat, and, declining the corn-bread and the cup of coffee which the boys passed over to him, made his meal entirely of venison. After supper—there were but few dishes to wash now, for the boys had learned to go on the principle that “fingers were made before forks”—the trapper hung what remained of the venison in the wagon, lighted his pipe, and stretched himself on the ground beside his companion.

The boys, knowing that the trappers would be certain to talk over the events that had transpired since their last meeting, spread their blankets where they could hear all that passed, and waited impatiently for them to begin; while Mr. Winters, who had by this time become acquainted with every man, woman, and child, in the train, started to pay a visit to the occupants of a neighboring wagon.

For some moments the two men smoked in silence, old Bob evidently occupied with his own thoughts, and Dick patiently waiting for him to speak. At length the old man asked:

“Goin’ to Californy, Dick?”

The trapper replied in the affirmative.

“What a goin’ to do arterward?”

“I’m a goin’ to take to the mountains, an’ stay thar,” replied Dick. “I’ve seed the inside of a city, Bob; have rid on steam railroads an’ boats as big as one of the Black Hills; an’ now I’m satisfied to stay here. I’d a heap sooner face a grizzly or a Injun than go back thar ag’in, ’cause I didn’t feel to hum.”

“Wal, I’m all alone now, Dick,” said the old man, “an’ so are you. Our chums are gone, an’ we both want to settle with them Comanche varmints; so, let’s stick together.”

Dick seemed delighted with this proposition, for he quickly arose from his blanket and extended his hand to his companion, who shook it heartily; and the boys read in their faces a determination to stand by each other to the last.

“I’ve got a chum now, youngsters,” said Dick, turning to the boys; “an’ one that I aint afraid to trust anywhar. Thar’s nothin’ like havin’ a friend, even on the prairy. I come with the boys,” he added, addressing his companion, who, seeing the interest Dick took in his “youngsters,” slowly surveyed them from head to foot—“I come with ’em jest to show ’em how we do things on the prairy. They can shoot consid’ble sharp, an’ aint afraid. All it wants is the hard knocks—fightin’ Injuns an’ grizzlies, an’ starvin’ on the prairy, an’ freezin’ in the mountains, to make trappers of ’em.” And here Dick settled back on his elbow, and proceeded to give the old man a short account of what had transpired at Uncle Joe’s cabin; described Frank’s fight with the moose and panther in glowing language; told how the capture of the cubs had been effected, until old Bob began to be interested; and when Dick finished his story, he said:

“The youngsters would make good trappers.”

This, as the trapper afterward told the boys, was a compliment old Bob seldom paid to any one, “for,” said he, “I’ve knowed him a long time, an’ have been in many a fight with him, an’ he never told me I was good or bad.”

“Wal,” said Dick, again turning to his companion, “You said as how Jack Thomas was rubbed out. How did it happen?”

Old Bob refilled his pipe, smoked a few moments as if to bring the story fresh to his memory, and then answered:

“When I heered that Bill Lawson war gone, an’ that you war left alone, I done my best to find you, an’ get you to jine a small party we war makin’ up to visit our ole huntin’ grounds on the Saskatchewan; but you had tuk to the mountains, and nobody didn’t know whar to go to find you. Thar war eight of us in the party, an’ here, you see, are all that are left. As nigh as I can ’member, it war ’bout four year ago come spring that we sot out from the fort, whar we had sold our furs. We had three pack mules, plenty of powder, ball, an’ sich like, an’ we started in high sperits, tellin’ the trader that bought our spelter that we’d have a fine lot fur him ag’in next meetin’ time. We knowed thar war plenty of Injuns an’ sich varmints to be fit an’ killed afore we come back, but that didn’t trouble us none, ’cause we all knowed our own bisness, and didn’t think but that we would come through all right, jest as we had done a hundred times afore. We didn’t intend to stop afore we got to the Saskatchewan; so we traveled purty fast, an’ in ’bout three weeks found ourselves in the Blackfoot country, nigh the Missouri River. One night we camped on a leetle stream at the foot of the mountains, an’ the next mornin’, jest as we war gettin’ ready to start out ag’in, Jack Thomas—who, like a youngster turned loose from school, war allers runnin’ round, pokin’ his nose into whatever war goin’ on—came gallopin’ into camp, shouting:

“‘Buffaler! buffaler!’

“In course, we all knowed what that meant, an’ as we hadn’t tasted buffaler hump since leavin’ the fort, we saddled up in a hurry an’ put arter the game. We went along kinder easy-like—Jack leadin’ the way—until we come to the top of a swell, an’ thar they war—nothin’ but buffaler as fur as a feller could see. It war a purty sight, an’ more’n one of us made up our minds that we would have a good supper that night. We couldn’t get no nigher to ’em without bein’ diskivered, so we scattered and galloped arter ’em. In course, the minit we showed ourselves they put off like the wind; but we war in easy shootin’ distance, an’ afore we got through with ’em, I had knocked over four big fellers an’ wounded another. He war hurt so bad he couldn’t run; but I didn’t like to go up too clost to him, so I rid off a leetle way, an’ war loadin’ up my rifle to give him a settler, when I heered a noise that made me prick up my ears an’ look sharp. I heered a trampin, an’ I knowed it war made by something ’sides a buffaler. Now, youngsters, a greenhorn wouldn’t a seed any thing strange in that; but when I heered it, I didn’t stop to kill the wounded buffaler, but turned my hoss an’ made tracks. I hadn’t gone more’n twenty rod afore I seed four Blackfoot Injuns comin’ over a swell ’bout half a mile back. I had kept my eyes open—as I allers do—but I hadn’t seen a bit of Injun sign on the prairy, an’ I made up my mind to onct that them Blackfoot varmints had been shyin’ round arter the same buffaler we had jest been chasin’, an’ that they didn’t know we war ’bout till they heered us shoot. Then, in course, they put arter us, ’cause they think a heap more of scalps than they do of buffaler meat.

“Wal, as I war sayin’, I made tracks sudden; but they warn’t long in diskiverin’ me, an’ they sot up a yell. I’ve heered that same yell often, an’ I have kinder got used to it; but I would have give my hoss, an’ this rifle, too, that I have carried for goin’ nigh onto twenty year, if I had been safe in Fort Laramie, ’cause I didn’t think them four Injuns war alone. I war sartin they had friends not a great way off, an’ somehow I a’most knowed how the hul thing was comin’ out. I didn’t hardly know which way to go to find our fellers, ’cause while we were arter the buffaler we had got scattered a good deal; but jest as I come to the top of a swell I seed ’em a comin’. Jack Thomas war ahead, an’ he war swingin’ his rifle an yellin’ wusser nor any Injun. I’ll allow, Dick, that it made me feel a heap easier when I seed them trappers. Jack, who allers knowed what war goin’ on in the country fur five miles round, had first diskivered the Injuns, an’ had got all the party together ’cept me, an’ in course they couldn’t think of savin’ their own venison by runnin’ off and leavin’ me.

“Wal, jest as soon as we got together we sot up a yell and faced ’bout. The Injuns, up to this time, had rid clost together; but when they seed that we warn’t goin’ to run no further jest then, they scattered as if they war goin’ to surround us; an’ then we all knowed that them four Injuns warn’t alone. So, without stoppin’ to fight ’em, we turned an’ run ag’in, makin’ tracks for the woods at the foot of the mountains. An’ we warn’t a minit too soon, fur all of a sudden we heered a yell, an’ lookin’ back we seed ’bout fifty more red-skins comin’ arter us like mad. They had a’most got us surrounded; but the way to the mountains war open, an’ we run fur our lives. The varlets that had followed me war in good pluggin’ distance, an’ when we turned in our saddles an’ drawed a bead on ’em, we had four less to deal with. It warn’t more ’n ten mile to the foot of them mountains, but it seemed a hundred to us, an’ we all drawed a long breath when we found ourselves under kiver of the woods. The minit we reached the timber we jumped off our hosses, hitched them to the trees, an’ made up our minds to fight it out thar an’ then. We knowed, as well as we wanted to know, what the Injuns would do next—they would leave a party on the prairy to watch us, an’ the rest would go sneakin’ round through the woods an’ pick us off one at a time. The only thing we could do—leastwise till it come dark—war to watch the varlets, an’ drop every one of ’em that showed his painted face in pluggin’ distance. We war in a tight place. Our pack mules, an’ a’most all our kit, had been left in the camp, an’ we knowed it wouldn’t be long afore the Injuns would have ’em, an’ even if we got off with our bar, we wouldn’t be much better off—no traps, no grub, an’ skeercely half a dozen bullets in our pouches.

“Wal, the Injuns, when they seed that we had tuk to the timber, stopped, takin’ mighty good keer, as they thought, to keep out of range of our rifles, an’ began to hold a palaver, now an’ then lookin’ t’wards us an’ settin’ up a yell, which told us plain enough that they thought they had us ketched. But we, knowin’ to an inch how fur our shootin’ irons would carry, drawed up an’ blazed away; an’ we knowed, by the way them red-skins got back over that swell, that we hadn’t throwed our lead away. They left one feller thar to watch us, howsomever, but he tuk mighty good keer to keep purty well out of sight, showin’ only ’bout two inches of his head ’bove the top of the hill. While the Injuns war holdin’ their council, we had a talk ’bout what we had better do. The truth war, thar war only one thing we could do, an’ that war to stay thar until dark an’ then take our chances. We had all fit savage Injuns enough to know that they wouldn’t bother us much so long as daylight lasted; but arter that, if we didn’t get away from thar, our lives war not worth a charge of powder. We soon made up our minds what we would do. We divided ourselves into two parties—four of us watchin’ the prairy, an’ the others keepin’ an eye on the woods, to see that the varlets didn’t slip up behind us.

“Wal, we didn’t see nothin’ out of the way all that day. Thar war that feller peepin’ over the hill, an’ that war the only thing in the shape of a red-skin we could see; an’ we didn’t hear nothin’ neither, fur whatever they done, they didn’t make noise enough to skeer a painter. At last it come night, an’ it war ’bout the darkest night I ever see—no moon, no stars—an’ then we began to prick up our ears. We all knowed that the time had come. You can easy tell what we war passin’ through our minds. Thar warn’t no sich thing as a coward among us eight fellers, but men in sich a scrape as that can’t help thinkin’, an’ I knowed that every one thar drawed a long breath when he thought of what he had got to do. I tell you, Dick, it war something none of us liked to do—leave one another in that way—men that you have hunted, an’ trapped, an’ fought Injuns with, an’ mebbe slept under the same blanket with, an’ who have stuck to you through thick an’ thin—sich fellers, I say, you don’t like to desart when they’re in danger. But what else could we do? We war a’most out of powder an’ lead, an’ the Injuns war more’n six to our one. You have been in sich scrapes, an’ in course know that thar warn’t but one way open to us.

“Wal, as I was sayin’, as soon as it come fairly dark, the boys gathered ’round me, an’ waited to hear what I war goin’ to do. In course, I couldn’t advise ’em, ’cause it war every feller look out fur himself, an’ the best men war them as was lucky enough to get away. So I said:

“‘I’m goin’ to start now, boys. It’s high time we war movin’, cause if we stay here half an hour longer, we’ll have them red-skins down on us in a lump. Thar’s somethin’ goin’ on, sartin. They don’t keep so still fur nothin’.’

“Wal, we whispered the matter over, an’ finally settled it. The oldest man war to go fust; the next oldest, second; an’ so on; an’ that them as got away should draw a bee-line fur Fort Laramie, an’ get thar to onct, so that we might know who got off an’ who didn’t. We didn’t think we should all get away. Some war sartin to go under; an’, Dick, we didn’t forget to promise each other that those of us that lived would never let a red Injun cross our trail. When every thing was settled, I, bein’ the oldest man in the comp’ny, began to get ready fur the start. I put fresh primin’ in my rifle; seed that my knife and tomahawk war all right; then, arter shakin’ hands with all the boys, an’ wishin’ ’em good luck, I crawled away on my hands an’ knees. I didn’t go back into the woods, but tuk to the edge of the prairy, an’ found the way cl’ar. Not an Injun did I hear. As fur seein’, you couldn’t a told your mother, if she warn’t two foot from you; an’ in ’bout half an hour I found myself on the banks of a leetle creek. How long I lay thar, an’ how much of that water I drunk, I don’t know; but I thought water never tasted so good afore. Then I walked into the creek, an’ had waded in it fur ’bout half a mile, when all to onct I heered a yellin’ an’ whoopin’, followed by the crack of rifles, an’ then I knowed that I hadn’t been fooled consarnin’ what the red-skins meant to do. They had got what war left of our fellers surrounded, an’ made the rush. Fur a minit I stood thar in the water an’ listened. I heered a few shots made by our poor fellers, ’cause I can tell the crack of a Missouri rifle as fur as I can hear it; an’ then one long, loud yell, told me that it war all over.

“Wal, I laid round in them mountains fur more’n six weeks, starvin’ fur grub an’ water, an’ listenin’ to the yellin’ varlets that war huntin arter me; but I got back safe at last, arter walkin’ all the way from the Rocky Mountains to the fort, an’ thar I found Jack Thomas. Me an’ him war the only ones that got out. When the Injuns got them six fellers, they rubbed out nearly the last one of our comp’ny. Me an’ Jack war mighty down-hearted ’bout it, an’ it war a long time afore we could b’lieve that we war left alone. We didn’t feel then like ever goin’ back to the mountains ag’in, ’cause we knowed it would be lonesome thar. In course, we could easy have made up another expedition, fur thar war plenty of hunters an’ trappers—good ones, too—hangin’ round the fort; but somehow we didn’t feel like goin’ off with any one outside of our own comp’ny.

“Wal, me an’ Jack laid round as long as we could stand it, an’ then we got a couple of hosses, another new kit, an’ sot off ag’in. We didn’t think it safe fur only two of us to try the Blackfoot country ag’in, so we struck for the huntin’ grounds on the Colorado. At that time thar war plenty of beaver in that river; so it didn’t take us long to find a place that suited us; an’ we settled down, comfortable-like, to spend the winter. Fur three months we had plenty of sport, an’ the sight of our pile of furs, growin’ bigger an’ bigger every day, made us happy an’ contented. One mornin’ we sot out bright an’ ’arly, as usual, to ’tend to our bisness, takin’ different directions—fur my traps war sot on the side of the mountain, an’ Jack had sot his’ne on the banks of the creek that run through the valley. I had been gone frum him but a short time, when I heered the crack of his rifle. Somehow, I knowed it war somethin’ ’sides a varmint he had shot at; an’ I warn’t fooled neither, for a minit arterward I heered another gun, an’ then afore I could think twice a Comanche yell come echoin’ from the valley, tellin’ me plainer nor words that my chum war gone. An Injun had watched one of his traps, an’ shot him as he come to it. I knowed it as sartin as if I had seed the hul thing done.

“Wal, I warn’t in a fix kalkerlated to make a feller feel very pleasant. I war three hundred miles from the nighest fort, in the very heart of the Comanche country, an’ in the dead of winter, with the snow two foot deep on a level. But I didn’t stop to think of them things then. My bisness war to get away from thar to onct. In course, I couldn’t go back arter my hoss or spelter, fur I didn’t know how many Injuns thar war in the valley, nor whar they had hid themselves; so I shouldered my rifle an’ sot off on foot t’wards the prairy. A storm that come up that night—an’ it snowed an’ blowed in a way that warn’t a funny thing to look at—kivered up my trail; an’ if I war ever follered, I don’t know it.

“I finally reached the fort, an’ I’ve been thar ever since. I’m an ole chap now, Dick; but when I hunted an’ trapped with your ole man, when me an’ him warn’t bigger nor them two youngsters, an’ hadn’t hardly strength enough to shoulder a rifle, I never thought that I should live to be the last of our comp’ny. In them days the prairy war different from what it is now. It war afore the hoss-thieves an’ rascals began to come in here to get away from the laws of the States; an’ them that called themselves trappers then war honest men, that never did harm to a lone person on the prairy. But they’ve gone, one arter the other, an’ only me an’ you are left.”

As the old trapper ceased speaking, he arose suddenly to his feet and disappeared in the darkness, leaving Dick gazing thoughtfully into the fire. It was an hour before he returned, mounted on his horse, which he picketed with the others. He then silently rolled himself up in his blanket and went to sleep.

[CHAPTER V.]
A Fight with the Indians.

WHEN setting out the next morning, Frank noticed that the wagons, instead of starting off singly, and straggling, as they had formerly done, kept close together, and traveled more rapidly. The trapper, too, instead of taking the lead, and getting in advance of the train, seemed satisfied to remain with the others. Upon inquiring the reason for this, Dick replied:

“You may find out afore night, youngster, that we are in a bad bit of Injun country. The train that went out afore us had a scrimmage here with nigh five hundred of the red-skins, who stampeded some of their stock. So keep your eyes open, an’ if you see a Injun, let me know to onct.” The trapper said this with a broad grin, that was meant to imply that if they were attacked, the Indians would make their appearance before a person so inexperienced as Frank could be aware of it.

“The red-skins don’t gener’lly keer ’bout an out-an’-out fight,” continued the trapper, “’cause they don’t like these long rifles, an’ they know that these yere pioneers shoot mighty sharp. All the Injuns want—or all they can get—is the stock; an’ they sometimes jump on to a train afore a feller knows it, an’ yell an’ kick up a big fuss, which frightens the cattle. That’s what we call stampedin’ ’em. An’, youngster, do you see that ’ar?”

As the trapper spoke, he pointed out over the prairie towards a little hill about two miles distant. After gazing for a few moments in the direction indicated, Archie replied:

“I see something that looks like a weed or a tuft of grass.”

“Wal, that’s no weed,” said the trapper, with a laugh, “nor grass, neither. If it is, it’s on hossback, an’ carries a shootin’-iron or a bow an’ arrer. That’s a Injun, or I never seed one afore. What do you say, Bob?” he asked, turning to the old trapper, who at this moment came up.

“I seed that five minutes ago,” was the reply, “an’ in course it can’t be nothin’ but a red-skin.”

The boys gazed long and earnestly at the object, but their eyes were not as sharp as those of the trappers, for they could not discover that it bore any resemblance to an Indian, until Mr. Winters handed them his field-glass through which he had been regarding the object ever since its discovery. Then they found that the trappers had not been deceived. It was a solitary Indian, who sat on his horse as motionless as a statue, no doubt watching the train, and endeavoring to satisfy himself of the number of men there might be to defend it. In his hand he carried something that looked like a spear adorned with a tuft of feathers.

“I wish the varlet was in good pluggin’ distance,” said Dick, patting his rifle which lay across his knees. “If I could only get a bead on him, he would never carry back to his fellers the news of what he has seed.”

“Do you suppose there are more of them?” asked Archie, in a voice that would tremble in spite of himself.

“Sartin,” replied old Bob Kelly, who still rode beside the wagon; “thar’s more of ’em not fur off. This feller is a kind o’ spy like, an’ when he has seen exactly how things stand, he’ll go back an’ tell the rest of ’em, an’ the fust thing we know, they’ll be down on us like a hawk on a June-bug. But they’ll ketch a weasel, they will, when they pitch into us. Dick, when they do come, don’t forget Bill Lawson.”

The trapper turned his head, for a moment, as if to hide the emotion he felt, at the mention of the name of his departed companion, but presently replied:

“This aint the fust time that you an’ me have been in jest sich scrapes, Bob, an’ it aint likely that we’ll soon forget that we owe the varlets a long settlement. Thar aint as many of us now as thar used to be; more’n one good trapper has had his har raised by them same red-skins—fur I know a Cheyenne as fur as I kin see him, youngsters—an’ mebbe one o’ these days, when some one asks, ‘What’s come on ole Bob Kelly an’ Dick Lewis?’ the answer will be, ‘Killed by the Injuns!’”

It may be readily supposed that such conversation as this was not calculated to quiet the feelings of Frank and Archie—who had been considerably agitated by the information that there was a body of hostile Indians at no great distance—and to their excited imaginations the danger appeared tenfold worse than it really was. At that day, as the trapper had remarked, it was a very uncommon occurrence for a large train to be engaged in a regular fight with the Indians, for the latter had learned to their cost that the pioneers were always well armed, and that there were some among them who understood Indian fighting. They generally contented themselves with sudden and rapid raids upon the stock of the emigrants, and they seldom departed empty-handed. But it is not to be wondered that the trappers, who had participated in numberless engagements with the savages, and witnessed deeds of cruelty that had awakened in them a desire for vengeance, should delight to talk over their experience. The boys, although considerably frightened, were still greatly encouraged by their example. Dick twisted uneasily on his seat, as though impatient for the fight to begin, now and then looking toward the spy, as if he had half a mind to venture a shot at him; while old Bob Kelly rode along, smoking his pipe, apparently as unconcerned as though there was not a hostile Indian within a hundred miles of them. Mr. Winters evidently partook of the old man’s indifference, for, after satisfying himself that his weapons were in readiness, he drew back beside his nephews, and said, with a smile:

“Well, boys, you may have an opportunity to try your skill on big game now. This will be a little different from the fight you had in the woods with those Indians who stole your traps. Then you had the force on your side; now the savages are the stronger party. But there’s no danger,” he added, quickly seeing that the boys looked rather anxious; “every man in the train is a good shot, and the most of them have been in Indian fights before. I don’t believe all the red-skins on the prairie could whip us while we have Dick and Bob with us.”

The boys themselves had great confidence in the trappers—especially Dick, who, they knew, would never desert them. But even he had several times been worsted by the Indians. Frank thought of the story of the lost wagon train. But then he remembered that the reason that train was captured, was because the emigrants had not “stood up to the mark like men.”

All this while the train had been moving ahead at a rapid pace, and many an anxious eye was directed toward the solitary Indian, who remained standing where he was first discovered until the wagons had passed, when he suddenly and mysteriously disappeared. All that day the emigrants rode with their weapons in their hands, in readiness to repel an attack; and when they halted at noon, guards were posted about the camp, and the cattle were kept close to the wagons. But, although now and then a single Indian would be seen upon one of the distant swells, the main body kept out of sight; and the boys began to hope that the train was considered too large to be successfully attacked. At night old Bob Kelly selected the place for the encampment, which was made according to his directions. The wagons were drawn up in a circle to form a breastwork, and the cattle were picketed close by under the protection of a strong guard. Fires were built, and preparations for supper carried on as usual, for, of course, all attempts at concealment would have been time and labor thrown away. As soon as it began to grow dark, the cattle were secured to the wagons by long stout ropes, which, while they allowed the animals to graze, effectually prevented escape. Then guards were selected, and the emigrants made every preparation to give the savages a warm reception, in case they should make a dash upon the camp. No one thought of his blanket. The idea of going to sleep while a band of Indians was hovering about, watching their opportunity to pounce down upon them, was out of the question. The two trappers, after satisfying themselves that every thing was in readiness for an attack, began to station the guards. Frank again thought of the story Dick had related of the lost wagon train, and, desiring to witness an exhibition of the skill that had enabled him to detect the presence of the Indians on that occasion, proposed to Archie that they should stand guard with him. The latter, who always felt safe when in the company of their guide, agreed; and when the trapper started off with the guards, he was surprised to find the boys at his side.

“Whar are you goin’?” he asked.

“We want to stand guard with you!” replied Frank.

“Wal, I never did see sich keerless fellers as you be,” said the trapper. “You get wusser an’ wusser. Much you don’t know about this bisness. I guess you had better stay here whar you’re safe.”

“Wal, wal!” said old Bob Kelly, who was not a little astonished at the request the boys had made, “they’ve got the real grit in ’em, that’s a fact, if they are green as punkins in Injun fightin’. A few year on the prairy would make ’em as good as me or you, Dick Lewis. But you’ll get enough of Injuns afore you see daylight ag’in, youngsters. So you had better stay here.”

So saying he shouldered his rifle, and, followed by the guards, disappeared in the darkness. The boys reluctantly returned to their wagon, where they found Uncle James, seated on the ground, whistling softly to himself, and apparently indifferent as to the course the Indians might see fit to adopt. But still he had not neglected to make preparations to receive them, for his rifle stood leaning against one of the wheels of the wagon, and he carried his revolvers in his belt. The boys silently seated themselves on the ground beside him, and awaited the issue of events with their feelings worked up to the highest pitch of excitement. The fires had burned low, but still there was light sufficient to enable them to discover the emigrants stretched on the ground about the wagons, talking to one another in whispers, as if almost afraid to break the stillness that brooded over the camp, and which was interrupted only by the barking of the prairie wolves, and the neighing and tramping of the horses. Two hours were passed in this way, when suddenly the sharp report of a rifle, accompanied by a terrific yell, rang out on the air, causing the emigrants to grasp their weapons and spring to their feet in alarm. For an instant all was silent again. The stillness was so deep that Frank thought the camp was suddenly deserted. Then a long drawn out whoop arose from the prairie, followed by a chorus of yells that struck terror to more than one heart in that wagon train. Then came a clatter of horses’ hoofs; the yells grew louder and louder; and the boys knew that the Indians were coming toward them. The emigrants rushed to the wagons, and the next moment the savages swept by. The boys saw a confused mass of rapidly-moving horsemen; heard the most terrific yells, the report of fire-arms, and the struggles of the frightened cattle as they attempted to escape, and then all was over. The Indians departed as rapidly as they had come, and the boys, bewildered by the noise, had not fired a shot. On the contrary, they stood holding their rifles in their hands, as if they had suddenly forgotten how to use them. Uncle James, however, was not confused. He had heard the war-whoop before, and as he came out from behind the wagon, he began to reload one of his revolvers, remarking as he did so:

“There are some less in that band, I know.”

“Did you shoot?” asked Archie, drawing a long breath of relief to know that the danger was past. “Why, I didn’t have time to fire a shot.”

“That’s because you were frightened,” replied Mr. Winters. “You see I have been in skirmishes like this before, and their yells don’t make me nervous. I had five good shots at them, and I don’t often miss.”

“I say, youngsters, are you all right?” exclaimed Dick, who at this moment came up. “See here! I’ve got two fellers’ top-knots. Bless you, they aint scalps,” he continued, as the boys drew back. “They’re only the feathers the Injuns wear in their har. I don’t scalp Cheyennes, ’cause I don’t keer ’bout ’em. I make war on ’em ’cause it’s natur. But when I knock over a Comanche, I take his har jest to ’member ole Bill by. But, youngsters, warn’t that jolly! I haven’t heered a Injun yell fur more’n a year, an it makes me feel to hum. You can take these feathers, an’ when you get back to Lawrence, tell the folks thar that the Injuns that wore ’em onct attacked the train you belonged to.”

The emigrants’ first care, after having satisfied themselves that the Indians had gone, was to count their stock; and more than one had to mourn the loss of a favorite horse or mule, which had escaped and gone off with the Indians. Mr. Winters, however, had lost nothing—the trapper having tied the animals so securely that escape was impossible. Not a person in the train was injured—the only damage sustained being in the canvas covers of the wagons, which were riddled with bullets and arrows.

The boys were still far from feeling safe, and probably would not have gone to bed that night had they not seen the trappers spreading their blankets near the wagon. This re-assured them, for those men never would have thought of rest if there had been the least probability that the Indians would return. So the boys took their beds out of the wagon and placed them beside those of Dick and his companion, who were talking over the events of the night.

“This bisness of fightin’ Injuns, youngsters,” said the former, “is one that aint larnt out of books, nor in the woods about Lawrence. If you had a-been with us, you would a seed that. Now, when I fust went out thar, you couldn’t ’a’ told that thar war a red-skin on the prairy. But I laid my ear to the ground, an’ purty quick I heerd a rumblin’ like, an’ I knowed the noise war made by hosses. Arter that, I heerd a rustlin’ in the grass, an’ seed a Injun sneakin’ along, easy like, t’wards the camp. So I drawed up my ole shootin’ iron, an’ done the bisness fur him, an’ then started fur the camp, loadin’ my rifle as I ran. In course the Injuns seed then that it warn’t no use to go a-foolin’ with us, so they all set up a yell, an’ here they come. I dodged under the wagon, an’ as they went by, I give ’em another shot, an’ seed a red-skin go off dead.”

“Go off dead!” repeated Frank. “How could he go off when he was dead?”

“Why,” said the trapper, with a laugh, in which he was joined by old Bob Kelly, “every one of them Injuns war tied fast to his hoss, so that if he war killed he wouldn’t fall off; an’, in course, his hoss would keep on with the rest, an’ carry him away. I seed more’n one Injun go off dead to-night, an’ the way I come to get them feathers, b’longin’ to them two chaps, war, that somebody had shot their hosses. I seed ’em on the ground, tryin’ to cut themselves loose from their saddles, so I run up an’ settled ’em. That war four I rubbed out. Good-night, youngsters. You needn’t be afraid, ’cause they won’t come back again to-night.”

As the trapper spoke, he placed his cap under his head for a pillow, re-arranged his blanket, and was soon in a sound sleep.

During the next two weeks nothing occurred to relieve the monotony of the journey. The train took up its line of march at daylight, halted at noon for an hour or two, and shortly after sunset encamped for the night. The fight with the Indians had not driven all thoughts of the antelopes out of the boys’ minds. And while the train journeyed along the road, they scoured the prairie, in search of the wished-for game. The appearance of the “sea of grass,” which stretched away on all sides, as far as their eyes could reach, not a little surprised them. Instead of the perfectly level plain they had expected to see, the surface of the prairie was broken by gentle swells, like immense waves of the ocean, and here and there—sometimes two or three days’ journey apart—were small patches of woods, called “oak openings.”

One night they made their camp in sight of the Rocky Mountains. While the trapper was cooking their supper, he said to the boys, who had thrown themselves on the ground near the wagon:

“It aint fur from here that me an’ ole Bill Lawson lost that wagon train. I never travel along here that I don’t think of that night, an’ I sometimes feel my cap rise on my head, jest as it did when them Injuns come pourin’ into the camp. But the varlets have been pushed back further an’ further, an’ now a feller’s as safe here as he would be in Fort Laramie. The ole bar’s hole aint more’n fifty mile from here, an’ if your uncle don’t mind the ride, I should like to show you the cave that has so often sarved me fur a hidin’-place.”

The boys looked toward Mr. Winters, who, having frequently heard the guide speak of the “ole bar’s hole,” felt some curiosity to see it. So, after being assured by both the trappers that there was no danger to be apprehended, he gave his consent, remarking:

“We are in no hurry. I don’t suppose there is any possibility of being lost so long as we have Dick and Bob for guides; so we will go there, and take a week’s rest and a hunt.”

The boys were delighted, and the next morning, when the train resumed its journey, the emigrants were not a little surprised to see Mr. Winters’ wagon moving off by itself.

That night, when our travelers encamped, they were thirty miles from the train, and about the same distance from the “ole bar’s hole.” The mountains were plainly visible, and the boys could scarcely believe that they were nearly a day’s journey distant. They were certain that a ride of an hour or two would bring them to the willows that skirted their base.

“’T aint the fust time I’ve seed fellers fooled ’bout sich things,” said Dick. “Do you see that ’ar high peak?” he continued, pointing to a single mountain that rose high above the others. “Wal, thar’s whar the ole bar’s hole is. If we reach it afore dark to-morrer night, I’ll agree to set you down in Sacramento in two weeks.”

The boys were still far from being convinced, and they went to sleep that night fully believing that they would reach the mountains by noon the next day.

[CHAPTER VI.]
Lost on the Prairie.

THE next morning, by the time the sun had risen, the travelers had eaten their breakfast, and were again on the move. The entire party was in high spirits. The trappers laughed and joked with each other, and pointed out to Mr. Winters the familiar objects that met their eye on every side, while the boys galloped on before, and in a few moments had left the wagon far behind. Their horses were in excellent trim, and bounded along over the prairie as if some of their riders’ spirits had been infused into them.

“I say, Frank,” said Archie, at length, suddenly drawing in his rein, “what if Dick was mistaken about the Indians all being gone, and a party of Comanches should suddenly pounce down on us? Wouldn’t we be in a fix? I declare, I see an Indian now,” he added; and, as he spoke, he pointed toward an object that could be dimly seen moving along the summit of a distant swell.

“That’s something, that’s a fact,” said Frank, gazing in the direction indicated; “but it don’t look like that Indian we saw the other day. If it was a Comanche, he wouldn’t move about and show himself so plainly. There’s another—and another,” he continued, as several more objects came over the brow of the hill. “Let us ride up a little nearer. If they are Indians, we can easily reach the wagon before they can overtake us.”

“Well, come on,” said Archie. “If we should get into a fight all by ourselves, and come safely out of it, it would be something to talk about, wouldn’t it?”

The boys rode cautiously toward the objects, which were still increasing in number, holding themselves in readiness to beat a hasty retreat in case they should prove to be Indians, until they had gone about half a mile, when Frank suddenly exclaimed:

“They are antelopes!”

“Are they?” asked Archie, excitedly. “Let’s shoot one of ’em,” and, springing from his saddle, he began to unbuckle his halter and hobble his horse, as he had seen the trapper do on a former occasion.

Frank followed his example, and then, securing their rifles, they threw themselves on their hands and knees, and began to crawl toward the game, which was fully a mile and a half distant. But that was no obstacle to the boys then. They would willingly have gone twice that far to have a shot at an antelope, if for nothing more than to show the trapper that they were better hunters than he had supposed. It is true they did not expect to succeed, but the name “antelope killers” was well worth trying for, and they determined to do their best. They crawled along slowly and as carefully as possible, pausing now and then to look over the grass at the animals, which, to their delight, they found were feeding directly toward them.

“I don’t think it is safe to go much further,” said Frank, after they had crawled nearly half the distance in this manner. “Let’s stop and see what we can do.”

“Well,” said Archie. “If you will hold up your handkerchief on your ramrod, I’ll try and shoot one of them, if they come near enough.”

Frank, in compliance with his cousin’s suggestion, drew his ramrod from his gun, fastened his handkerchief to it, and, throwing himself upon his back, carefully raised it above the grass. While in this position he could not, of course, see the movements of the game; but Archie kept vigilant watch, and at length whispered:

“They see it! They’re coming!”

The animals had, in reality, caught sight of the handkerchief, and, after regarding it for a few moments, they began to approach it—a fine large buck leading the way.

Now the boys knew that the hunt began in earnest. The least awkward movement on their part—the exposure of the smallest portion of their bodies, or the slightest noise in the grass—might, as Archie expressed it, “knock the whole thing in the head.” Frank lay perfectly quiet, watching the movements of his cousin; and he could tell, by the expression of his countenance, pretty near what the game was doing. When the antelopes stopped—which they did every few feet—Archie put on an exceedingly long face, as if fearful that they were about to turn and run; and when they approached, the fact would be indicated by a broad grin and a nervous twitching at the lock of his gun. For fully half an hour—it seemed much longer to the impatient boys—they remained in their place of concealment; but at length their patience was rewarded, for the game was within easy rifle range. In an instant Archie’s nervousness all vanished, and Frank almost held his breath when he saw him slowly, inch by inch, raise his gun to his shoulder. He took a long, steady aim, pulled the trigger, and sprung from the ground, shouting:

“I’ve got him! I’ve got him!”

Frank was on his feet almost as soon as his cousin, and, to his delight, saw the leader of the antelopes struggling on the ground, while the rest of the herd were scampering away at the top of their speed.

“What will Dick and Bob say now?” exclaimed Archie, who skipped about as though he were almost beside himself. “What will they—hold on—hold on—shoot him, Frank!” he shouted. “We’re going to lose him after all.”

Archie’s shot had not been fatal. The buck was only disabled for a moment, and, after a few struggles, he succeeded in regaining his feet, and started to run. Had his cousin been as excited as he was, they certainly would have had all their trouble for nothing, for Archie, instead of stopping to reload, dropped his gun and started in pursuit of the wounded animal, which—although he ran but slowly—was fast leaving him behind, when Frank, by an excellent shot, again brought him to the ground. This time the wound was fatal; but Archie, to put all further attempts at escape out of the question, ran up and seized the buck by the horns.

“He’s done for now,” said Frank, as he proceeded to reload his rifle; “I shot him through the head.”

“I see you did,” replied his cousin, still retaining his hold upon the antelope; “but there’s no knowing what he might do. I wouldn’t trust him.” And it was not until he had turned the deer over several times, and fully satisfied himself that he had ceased to breathe, that Archie released him.

“What will Dick and Bob say now?” he continued, as Frank came up, and they began to examine their prize, which was much larger than the one the trapper had killed. “You know they said we couldn’t shoot an antelope. Now, the next thing is to get him back to the wagon. He’s too heavy for us to carry, so if you’ll stay here, and watch him and keep the wolves off, I’ll go back and get the horses.”

Frank agreed to this arrangement, and Archie, after he had found and reloaded his gun, started off after the horses. He was gone almost two hours—so long that Frank began to be uneasy; but at length he appeared, riding post-haste over a neighboring swell, mounted on Sleepy Sam, and leading Pete by the bridle. As soon as he came within speaking distance, he exclaimed, with blanched cheeks:

“Frank, we’re lost! I can’t see the wagon any where.”

“Don’t be uneasy,” replied his cousin, who, although thoroughly alarmed by this announcement, appeared to be perfectly unconcerned. “Don’t be uneasy.”

“But I haven’t seen the wagon since we left it this morning,” persisted Archie. “I thought it was close behind us. I tell you we’re lost.”

“Oh no, I guess not,” answered Frank, as he lifted the antelope from the ground and placed it on the saddle before his cousin. “The wagon is no doubt behind some of these hills. Besides, Uncle James won’t be long in hunting us up.”

“I wouldn’t stay alone on the prairie to-night for any thing,” said Archie. “I know it wouldn’t be the first time I have camped out, but then there are no wild Indians in the woods about Lawrence.”

Frank had by this time mounted his horse, and together they set out at a rapid gallop to find the wagon. The mountain which Dick had pointed out the night before was plainly visible, and the boys determined to travel toward it with all possible speed, in hopes that they would overtake their friends before they halted for the night. Frank thought the wagon could not be far off, and every hill they mounted he gazed about him as if fully expecting to discover it; but, after riding an hour without seeing any signs of it, he began to be a good deal of his cousin’s opinion, that they were lost. But he made no remark, for he knew that a good deal depended upon keeping up Archie’s courage.

“We have not been gone from the wagon three hours,” said he, “and they haven’t had time to get very far away from us. We’ll find them behind some of these swells. Perhaps we’ll be in time to give them a piece of our antelope for dinner.”

Archie made no reply, for he derived no encouragement from this; but he silently followed his cousin, who led the way at a rapid gallop, riding over this swell, and turning round that, as though he was perfectly familiar with the ground over which they were traveling. For two long hours they kept on in this way, almost without speaking, each time they mounted a hill straining their eyes in every direction, in the hope of discovering the wagon. Sometimes they were almost certain they saw its white cover in the distance; but upon taking a second look, it proved to have been merely a creation of their imagination; and Frank began to be discouraged. To add to their discomfort, the heat was almost intolerable, and they began to be tortured with thirst. Their animals also appeared to be suffering, for they paid less attention to the spur, and were constantly jerking at the reins, and endeavoring to go in a direction almost contrary to that which the boys desired. The hours seemed lengthened into ages, and at three o’clock in the afternoon they had seen no signs of the wagon, and the mountains appeared to be as far off as ever.

“There’s no use talking,” said Archie, at length, reining in his horse, “I can’t stand this any longer, I’m so thirsty.”

“But what else can we do?” asked Frank, in a husky voice, for his tongue was so parched that he could scarcely talk plainly. “We can’t find our friends, or water either, by staying here. We must go on.”

As he spoke, he again spurred his horse into a gallop, Archie, as before, following after him, now and then looking down at the antelope, which lay across his saddle—and which he considered to be the cause of all their trouble—as though he heartily wished him safe among the others of the herd. Two miles more were passed, but still no signs of water. The idea of finding the wagon had now given away to a desire to discover some stream where they might quench their thirst, which was becoming almost unbearable. But the dry, parched prairie stretched away on each side of them, while in front loomed the mountains, apparently as distant as when they started in the morning. Their horses grew more and more restive. Upon applying the spur, they would gallop for a few yards, and then settle down into a slow walk, turning their heads and pulling at the reins as if anxious to go in a contrary direction. This set Frank to thinking. He had often read of the remarkable sagacity sometimes displayed by the horse—how the animal had been known to carry his lost rider safely into the midst of his friends—and, turning to his cousin, he exclaimed:

“Archie, I’m going to let Pete take his own course. Both the horses want to go back, so let’s see where they will take us to. We can’t be in a much worse fix than we are now.”

As he spoke, he threw the reins on his horse’s neck, and the animal, finding himself at liberty, at once turned, and, pricking up his ears, galloped off exactly at right angles with the course they had been pursuing. Archie, too dispirited to raise any objections, followed his cousin’s example, and the old buffalo hunter, which, during the last two hours, had traveled with his head down, as if scarcely able to take another step, snuffed the air and bounded off at a rapid pace. For an hour the animals tore along at a tremendous rate; but discovering no signs of the wagon, Frank was rapidly losing faith in the sagacity of his horse, when, as they came suddenly around the base of a swell, they found before them a long line of willows. Toward this the animals made their way with increased speed, carrying their riders through the trees into a stream of clear, running water.

[CHAPTER VII.]
The Trapper’s Reminiscence.

THE horses did not stop on the bank, but, in spite of the desperate efforts of the boys, kept on, until the water reached half way to their backs. The old buffalo hunter, not satisfied with this, persisted in lying down; and Archie and the antelope were deposited in the middle of the stream. Under any other circumstances, the young hunter would have been angry; but, as it was, the cool bath was most refreshing after his long ride over the dry prairie, under the hot, scorching sun; so seizing the antelope, he dragged him to the shore, leaving his horse to take care of himself.

Thirsty as the boys were, they still retained their presence of mind; instead of endangering his life by drinking freely of the water, Archie contented himself with repeatedly bathing his head, while Frank, who was still in his saddle, reached down and scooped up a few drops in his hand.

“I say, Frank, isn’t this glorious?” said Archie at length, as he divested himself of his coat, which he hung upon a limb to dry. “But it’s lucky that my ammunition is water-proof. If you had been in my fix, you wouldn’t be able to do much more shooting until we got back to our wagon. I declare, it’s getting dark. Where do you suppose that wagon is? If we don’t find it inside of fifteen minutes, we shall have to camp.”

“Let’s stay here,” said Frank, as he rode his horse out of the water, and fastened him to a tree. “We must stay somewhere all night, and this is as good a camping-ground as we can find.”

“If Dick or Bob was here,” said Archie, “I wouldn’t mind it; but I don’t like the idea of our staying here alone. This is the worst scrape I was ever in; but if I once get along-side of that wagon again, I’ll stay there.”

“Oh, you’ve been in worse scrapes than this,” said Frank, who saw that his cousin was losing heart again.

“I’d like to know when and where?” said Archie, looking up in astonishment.

“Why, you were in a much more dangerous situation while you were hanging by that limb, fifty feet from the ground, when you were after that ’coon that led you such a long chase.”

“I can’t see it,” replied Archie. “I knew that if I got down safe, I would be among friends, and if I had to camp in the woods there would be no Comanches or grizzly bears waiting for a chance to jump down on me. I say, Frank, there may be grizzly bears about here,” and Archie peered through the trees, reaching rather hurriedly for his gun, as if fully expecting to see one of those ferocious animals advancing upon him. “But what are you about?” he continued, as he saw Frank removing the saddle from his horse.

“I’m getting ready to camp,” replied Frank, coolly.

Archie at first strongly objected to this, but Frank finally carried the day, by assuring him that it was the much better plan to “take matters easy,” and wait for daylight, when they would again set out. Besides, if they traveled in the dark, they might go miles out of their way. Archie, although not convinced, finally agreed to his cousin’s proposition, remarking:

“If you were in the fourth story of a burning house, I wonder if you wouldn’t talk of taking matters easy?”

It was settled then that they should remain where they were for the night, and they began to make preparations accordingly. Archie’s horse was relieved of the saddle, and, after both the animals had been led on to the prairie, they were hobbled and left to graze. Frank then began to skin and dress the buck, while Archie gathered a supply of wood, and kindled a fire. In half an hour several slices of venison were broiling on the coals, and the boys were lying before the fire, talking over the events of the day, and wondering what Dick and Bob would say when they learned that their “youngsters” had killed an antelope, when they were startled by a well-known bark, and the next moment Useless came bounding through the trees into the very center of the camp, where he frisked and jumped about with every demonstration of joy. The boys had scarcely recovered from their alarm, when they heard a familiar voice exclaim:

“Bar an’ buffaler! You keerless fellers!” and the trapper came through the willows with long, impatient strides.

The boys were always glad to see Dick, but words are too feeble to express the joy they felt at his sudden and wholly unexpected appearance. For a moment they seemed to have lost the power of speech.

The trapper glanced hastily from one to the other, took in at a glance the preparations for the night, and, dropping the butt of his rifle heavily to the ground, again ejaculated:

“You keerless fellers!”

“What’s the matter, Dick?” asked Archie, whose spirits were now as exalted as they had before been depressed. “We’re all right. Sit down and have some supper.”

“Youngsters,” said the trapper, seating himself on the ground, and depositing his rifle beside him, “I jest knowed I would find you all right. Now, tell me whar have you been, an’ what a doin’?”

“Do you see that?” exclaimed Archie, jumping up and pointing to the remains of the antelope, which Frank had hung up on a tree. “Do you see it? You said we couldn’t kill a prong-horn, but we’ve done it.”

The boys then proceeded to recount their adventures, telling the trapper how they had killed the antelope, of their long ride under the scorching sun, and how at last their horses had brought them to the water—to all of which the trapper listened with amazement, and feelings of admiration that he could not disguise.

“Wal,” said he, when they had concluded, “I won’t tell you to try it over ag’in, ’cause you can’t allers be so lucky.”

“What did uncle say?” inquired Archie, who was rather apprehensive of a “lecture.”

“Oh, he knowed as how thar war no Injuns to massacre you, an’ when we camped fur noon, I heered him say, ‘I wonder what the boys have got fur dinner?’ I knowed me and Useless could easy find you. That ar dog knowed jest as well that I war arter you as I did myself.”

“Well,” said Frank, “whenever you get ready, we’ll go back to the camp.”

“To camp!” repeated the trapper. “Haint you rid fur enough yet? Can you stand twenty miles more to-night?”

“Twenty miles!” echoed both the boys, in surprise.

“Sartin! You’re further away from the ole bar’s hole now than you were last night.”

The young hunters were astonished. Although they had had the Rocky Mountains for a guidepost, they had been completely turned round, and had actually traveled ten miles back toward St. Joseph.

“That’s what comes of not knowin’ nothin’ ’bout the prairy!” continued the trapper, helping himself to a piece of the venison. “But we’ll stay here to-night, an’ strike fur camp in the mornin’.”

The boys were very well satisfied with this arrangement, for their long ride had wearied them, and Archie was willing to brave grizzly bears, so long as he was in Dick’s company.

After supper—which consisted of venison, without bread or coffee—the trapper lighted his pipe with a brand from the fire, and, settling back on his elbow, said:

“I’ve seed the time, youngsters, when it wouldn’t a been healthy fur you two fellers to be out here alone. I’ve seed that prairy a’most black with Comanches, an’ have heered ’em yellin’ among these ere very willows. If you had been settin’ whar you are now ’bout fifteen year ago, you would have seed me goin’ through these trees, an’ swimmin’ that ar creek, with a hul tribe of yellin’ an’ screechin’ red-skins clost to my heels. I showed your uncle, this mornin’, the very place whar I onct run the gauntlet of more’n a hundred Comanches. I tell you, youngsters, I know every foot of this ground. Many a time me an’ poor ole Bill Lawson have skrimmaged with the Injuns through here, when it war more’n a feller’s har war wuth to come to this creek arter a drink o’ water. But I told you ’bout runnin’ the gauntlet. The way it happened war this:

“’Bout fifteen year ago, me an’ ole Bill Lawson war trappin’ among the mountains, twenty-five miles from the ole bar’s hole. We, in course, had fine sport, ’cause me an’ ole Bill allers knowed whar to go to find the best trappin’ grounds; an’, by the time spring opened, we had as much spelter as we could tote away on our backs. It war gettin’ purty nigh time fur the Comanches to come round on their spring hunt, an’ we began to talk of leavin’; but thar war plenty of beaver left in the valley, an’ we didn’t like to go so long as thar war any game to trap, so we kept puttin’ it off, an’ when at last we did start, it war too late to get off with our plunder.

“One mornin’, jest at daylight, while I war in front of the shantee cookin’ my breakfast, ole Bill come in from ’tendin’ to his traps, an’ said:

“‘Dick, the valley’s chuck full o’ red-skins. I jest seed more sign down by the creek than I ever seed afore ’bout this place, an’ that’s sayin’ a good deal. We had better shoulder our spelter an’ be off to onct.’

“I didn’t stop to think any more ’bout breakfast jest then, but I ran into the shantee, grabbed my furs, which I allers kept tied up ready for a move, an’ me an’ ole Bill started out. The Injuns must have come in durin’ the night, ’cause the day afore thar warn’t a bit of sign to be seed fur ten miles ’round the valley. But we didn’t stop then to think how or when they got in, but how should we get out. It warn’t no easy thing to do, youngsters—to go through them mountains, swarmin’ with red-skins. They don’t walk through the woods like a feller does when he’s squirrel huntin’, but they go sneakin’ round, an’ listenin’, an’ peepin’; an’ if a chap don’t understand their natur, he’d better not go among ’em.

“Wal, ole Bill led the way, sometimes a’most on his knees, his rifle in his hand, an’ his bundle of furs on his shoulder, I followin’ clost at his heels—both of us keepin’ our eyes open, an’ stoppin’ now an’ then to listen. We had made ’bout a mile up the mountain in this way, when, all to onct, ole Bill stopped and looked straight before him. I stopped, too, an’ seed three big Comanches comin’ along easy like, lookin’ at the ground, examinin’ the bushes, an’ whisperin’ to each other. They had found a trail that either me or ole Bill had made the day afore, an’ war tryin’ to foller it up. But me an’ the ole man warn’t the ones to leave a path that could be follered easy when we thought thar war red-skins ’round; an’ I guess it bothered them rascals some to tell which way we had gone, an’ how many thar war of us. But they did foller it up slowly, an’ while we war lookin’ at ’em they were jined by another Injun, who seemed to be a chief, for he whispered a few orders, an’ two of the Comanches made off. They had been sent to rouse the camp, an’ we knowed that we couldn’t get away from that valley any too fast. The red-skins warn’t more’n a hundred yards from us, an’ we knowed it would take mighty keerful movin’ to get away from them without bein’ diskivered. But it war life or death with us, an’ we began to crawl slowly through the bushes. A greenhorn couldn’t have heered a leaf rustle if he hadn’t been two foot from us; but thar’s a heap of difference atween a greenhorn’s ears an’ them that a Injun carries. But they didn’t hear us, fur as long as we war in sight we seed them still follerin’ up the ole trail; an’ as soon as we thought we had got out of hearin’ of them, we jumped to our feet an’ run like a pair of quarter hosses. We didn’t make no more noise than we could help, but we hadn’t gone fur afore the mountains echoed with the war-whoop, an’ a couple of arrers whizzed by our heads. The Injuns had diskivered us. In course, we both dropped like a flash of lightnin’, an’, while I war lookin’ round to find the varlets, ole Bill struck out his hand, sayin’:

“‘This is a bad scrape, Dick, an’ mebbe me an’ you have done our last trappin’ together. But we musn’t get ketched if we can help it, ’cause we couldn’t look fur nothin’ but the stake.’

“While the ole man war speakin’, I seed one of the rascals that had shot at us peepin’ out from behind a log. He didn’t show more’n two inches of his head, but that war enough, an’ I reckon that red-skin lay thar till his friends toted him off. Jest the minit I fired, ole Bill throwed down his furs, jumped to his feet, an’ run, an’ I done the same, although I did hate to leave that spelter that I had worked so hard fur all winter. But, in course, thar war no help fur it. Thar war plenty more beaver in the mountains, an’, if I got safe off, I knowed whar to go to find ’em; but if I lost my scalp, I couldn’t get another. So, as I war sayin’, I put arter the ole man, an’ jest then I heered something ’sides a arrer sing by my head. It war a bullet, an’ the chap that sent it warn’t sich a bad shot neither; fur, if I had the ole ’coon-skin cap I wore then, I could show you whar a piece of it war cut out. I didn’t stop to look fur the feller, howsomever, but kept on arter ole Bill, loadin’ my rifle as I ran. The woods war so thick we couldn’t keep clost together, an’ I soon lost sight of him; but that didn’t skeer me, fur I knowed he could take keer of his own bacon. As fur myself, I never yet seed the Injun, or white man either, that could ketch me, if I onct got a leetle start of him; an’ if all the Injuns in the mountains war behind me, I could laugh at ’em. But thar war some in front of me, as I found out afore I had gone fur. I had jest got my rifle loaded, an’ war settlin’ down to my work—makin’ purty good time, I reckon, the Injuns behind me yellin’ an’ hootin’ all the while—when, all to onct, up jumped about a dozen more of the rascals.

“I didn’t stop to ax no questions, but sent the nighest of ’em down in a hurry; but in a minit arterward I war down, too; an’ when I war pulled to my pins ag’in, I war a pris’ner, my hands bein’ bound behind me with hickory bark. It warn’t a pleasant sight I seed, youngsters, as I stood thar, lookin’ at them scowlin’ Injuns. At that day thar war few of them Comanches that didn’t know me an’ ole Bill, an’ when they seed who I war, they all set up a yell, an’ began dancin’ ’round me like mad, shakin’ their tomahawks, an’ pintin’ their rifles an’ arrers at me; an’ one feller ketched me by the har, an’ passed his knife ’round my head, as though he had half a notion to scalp me to onct. They kept goin’ on in this way until all the Injuns in that part of the woods had come up to see what the fuss war ’bout; an’ they, too, had to go through the same motions. All to onct they happened to think of ole Bill. The chief set up a shout, an’ all but four of the Injuns put off on his trail. It showed me, plain enough, that the rascals war afraid of me, when they left so many to guard me. But no four of them Comanches would have stopped me from gettin’ away if I could have got my hands free. I tell you, I done my best, makin’ that tough hickory bark crack an’ snap, but it war no go—I war fast. As soon as the others war out of sight, one big feller ketched me by the har, an’ begun to pull me t’wards the camp.

“He didn’t help me along very easy, but dragged me over logs an’ through bushes, as if he meant to pull my head off, while the other fellers, findin’ nothin’ else to do, follered behind with switches, that cut through my old huntin’-shirt like a knife. At last, arter they had got me purty well thrashed, we reached the camp, which war jest at the foot of the mountains—I’ll show you the place in the mornin”—an’ here they stood me up ag’in a post. Then I ketched it from every body—men, women, an’ young ones. The most of the braves war still out arter the old man, an’ I could easy tell by the way they whooped an’ yelled that they hadn’t ketched him. I knowed they wouldn’t get him, neither, unless they surrounded him like they did me.

“Wal, arter tormentin’ me fur a long time, an’ findin’ that I didn’t keer fur ’em, the Injuns finally let me alone; an’ one ole dried-up squaw brought me a piece of buffaler meat. They wouldn’t untie my hands, but that ole woman sot thar on the ground, an’ fed me like I war a baby. I eat a heap of that meat, ’cause I war hungry, an’ if I got a chance to have a race with the varlets, I didn’t want to run on an empty stomach; ’sides I might have to go without eatin’ fur two or three days afore I could find ole Bill. Jest afore dark the braves began to come in, one arter the other. They hadn’t ketched the ole man, an’ I could see, by the way they scowled at me, that I would have to stand punishment for his deeds, an’ my own into the bargain. I could have yelled, when I knowed the old feller war safe, an’ I made up my mind that if the Injuns would only give me half a chance, I’d soon be with him ag’in.

“Wal, when the chiefs come in, I war tied fast to the post, and left thar. They didn’t try to skeer me any more, ’cause they seed it war no use, an’ ’sides, they wanted to save all their spite fur the mornin’, fur it war too late to begin bisness that night. I war fast enough—as fast as if I had been wrapped up in chains—but them Injuns war afraid to trust me. They actooally kept half a dozen of their braves watchin’ me, from the time it began to grow dark till daylight the next mornin’. I didn’t sleep very easy, fur I war standin’ ag’in that post, an’ the bark they had tied me with war drawed so tight that it cut into my arms; but I made out to git a nap or two, an’ when mornin’ come, an’ I had eat another big chunk of that buffaler meat, I war ready fur ’em to begin.

“As soon as the sun war up, the chief called a council. It didn’t take ’em long to say what should be done with me, fur sooner than I had thought fur, one of the chiefs set up a yelp, which war answered by the hul tribe, an’ men, women, an’ children began formin’ themselves into two lines, with whips, clubs, tomahawks, or whatever else they could ketch hold of; an’ two fellers come up to set me free. I war to run the gauntlet. I tell you, youngsters, if thar is any thing that will make the har rise on a feller’s head, it is fur him to stand an’ look atween two lines sich as I saw that mornin’. It warn’t the fust time I had been in jest sich scrapes, an’ I knowed, too, that the Injuns didn’t mean to kill me then—they wanted to save me for the stake—but somehow I couldn’t help feelin’ shaky. I didn’t let the Injuns see it, howsomever, but tightened my belt, stretched my arms, an’, ’walkin’ out in front of the lines, waited fur the word to start. The head of the line war t’wards the camp, an’ at the foot, which war t’wards this creek, stood five or six big fellers, waitin’ to ketch me when I come out.

“Wal, it didn’t take me long to see how the land lay, an’ when the chief yelled to let me know that the time had come, I started. The way I traveled through ’em lines war a thing fur ’em Comanches to look at. I got plenty of clips as I passed, but this war the only one that hurt me.”

As the trapper spoke, he bared his brawny shoulder, and showed the boys a long, ragged scar. The wound must have been a most severe one.

“That one,” continued Dick, “war made by a tomahawk. It didn’t hinder my runnin’, howsomever, an’ I warn’t half a minit comin’ to the end of ’em lines. But when I got thar I didn’t stop. The Injuns that war waitin’ thar, tried to ketch me, but I passed them like a streak of lightnin’, an’ drawed a bee-line fur this ere creek. In course the hul camp war arter me to onct; but I knowed that I war safe, fur all the Injuns war behind me, an’ I wouldn’t have been afraid to run a race with a hoss. I didn’t do as well as I had done afore, nor nigh as well as I could do now, fur I war stiff an’ lame from bein’ tied up so long; but I run plenty fast enough to git away. As I told you, I run through these willows, swam the creek—which war wide an’ deep then, on ’count of the snow an’ ice meltin”—then tuk to the mountains, an’ started to make a circle round to the ole bar’s hole. I traveled in every little stream I could find; walked on logs, an’ on the second day, found ole Bill. The ole feller had been mighty down-hearted since I war ketched—fur the yells of the Injuns plainly told him what had become of me—an’ had never expected to take me by the hand ag’in. But, when he seed me safe an’ sound, he sot right down on the ground an’ cried like a child.

“Wal, we lay ’round the ole bar’s hole till the Injuns had gone, an’ then set out fur the fort. We war on foot, an’ had but one rifle atween us, but we got through all right, an’ in less’n a month, war on our way to the mountains ag’in.”

[CHAPTER VIII.]
The “Ole Bar’s Hole.”

NEXT morning, after a hasty breakfast, the boys saddled their horses, and, led by the trapper, set out to find the wagon. Now it was that the latter showed the young hunters his extraordinary “travelin’ qualities,” as he expressed it; for as soon as the boys were in their saddles, he shouldered his rifle and started off, at a rapid pace, which he did not slacken at all until they arrived on the banks of a small stream, where they stopped to quench their thirst.

“Now, youngsters,” said the trapper, seating himself on the ground, and wiping his forehead with his coat sleeve, “There’s the place. The Comanche’s camp war pitched jest in the edge of them ar’ willows, an’ right where you see them bushes war where I stood afore I started to run the gauntlet. The chief’s wigwam stood thar then. I tell you, it warn’t healthy fur a feller to go foolin’ ’round here them days.”

The boys gazed long and earnestly at every object the trapper pointed out, and listened to his narration of the various incidents that had transpired during his captivity, until they almost fancied they could see the prairie covered with painted savages, and their guide, in the midst of his foes, awaiting the signal to begin his race for life. Dick, himself, was no less interested, for he sat for a long time feasting his eyes on every familiar object; now and then casting suspicious glances toward the distant willows, as if he almost expected to catch a glimpse of a hostile warrior, or hear the war-whoop which had so often awoke the echoes of those very mountains.

“Wal, youngsters,” said he, at length, “let’s be movin’! I never expected to see the time when I could travel over these ere prairies without bein’ in danger of havin’ my har raised; an’ if you live to be as old as I am, you’ll see the day that ’em city chaps will ride through here on ’em steam railroads; an’ if they see this place, they’ll never dream that such things as I have told you about ever happened here.”

The travelers again set out, Dick leading the way, at a still more rapid pace, and in two hours they arrived at the camp. Mr. Winters and old Bob were lying in the shade of the wagon, and as the boys approached, the former raised himself on his elbow, and inquired:

“Well, boys, how do you like traveling on your own hook? Do you think you could find your way to California without a guide?”

“Oh, they war all right!” exclaimed Dick, leaning his rifle against the wagon, and picking up the antelope skin which Archie had thrown down, and which contained some choice pieces of meat. “They war all right! Me and Useless found ’em down on Muddy Creek, Bob. They had killed this prong-horn, made their camp, an’ war takin’ matters easy like, as though they had never heered tell on a Comanche—the keerless fellers.”