The Prairie Schooner Part 3

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

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

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

The movement across the desert-like country this day began at four a.

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

Maybe you think this youngster thought of his soft bed at home or a pot shot from ambush that would leave his skeleton bleaching in a sandy desert sun after it had been stripped of its flesh by wolves; or that he wished someone else had been chosen to guard one side of the overland train of flour, bacon, corn and sugar and its custodians, but that is not so. It was one of the proudest days of his life and I know he will never forget it. He was highly honored by Watson and he appreciated it, for the reason that only two years before he had come to Wyoming a green city boy and was then known in the parlance of the plains as a "tenderfoot," which was a truthful description of any man or boy when he first entered upon the life of the bullwhacker, the then popular master of transportation between civilization and its outposts. He never dreamed of death when he got his orders, because he was young and foolish. Sometimes it is called bravery, but that isn't the right word.

It can't be described unless it is called blind or reckless indifference. Perhaps that isn't it; anyway the youngster, as he mounted and galloped away and waited on a neighboring knoll for the outfit to string out along the sandy trail, hoped he wouldn't be disappointed. He wanted an eventful day and he fairly prayed for it. "I hope," he ruminated to himself half aloud, "that I cross a tepee trail, at least, even if I don't get my eye on an Indian."

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

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

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

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

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

Then the pinto got busy. It was an arrow!

There were several more, and one of them clipped the pommel of the saddle before Featherbed thought of his orders to fire once on sight of disturbed gra.s.s or a moccasin track on bare ground; or, upon sighting an Indian, to fire three times.

Then he let go with his Springfield in the supposed direction of the enemy, and headed for the trail, which he readily found, and soon caught up with the mess-wagon which always formed the rear guard with one whacker, the night herder inside, and the extra herd horses tied behind.

Featherbed met Watson galloping toward the rear.

"What is it, boy?" he shouted.

"They got a piece of my Texas pommel," he replied, "but I don't know where the arrow came from. I'll go back and see."

He wheeled his pony to go and would have been off to take up his station a thousand yards from the trail had not Watson said, laughingly:

"You're crazy--wait a minute till I send word up ahead to corral."

"You (to the mess wagon driver) untie them hosses, saddle 'em up and wait for Blucher Brown and Archer; they'll be back in a minute."

Featherbed, as the sun peeped over a rise in the land, waited impatiently. So did the pony, for the miserable Indian-bred cuss had a good nose that was keen to the smoky smell of an Indian, or to the odor of another horse, especially of his own breed, and he was all animation and ready to go.

When the party finally got away Watson, turning to Featherbed as they galloped side by side along the high spots near the back trail, said:

"If yer not afraid, pull out ahead with that pony and lead the way."

Featherbed pressed the Rowell spur to the pony's side and he responded like a real cow-pony, much to Featherbed's surprise, and before Watson could gather his breath to call the youngster back he led them by 200 yards. Finally he did manage to yell between his laughter:

"Hold on, you danged idiot--I didn't mean--"

But he didn't finish the sentence, although he continued yelling, this time expressing himself to the effect:

"My hoss has been creased in the neck--dismount, give me your hoss and lead mine back to the outfit; we'll take care of these galoots."

Featherbed protested, but it was no use, and he returned and joined the whackers who had corralled and gathered the bulls inside the wagons, forming two half circles on a high spot near the trail. There were several other horses in the outfit, so Featherbed quickly slipped the boss' fine $200 rig on the back of a buckskin of the cow-puncher variety and sped back to the scene of action.

But it was all over. The sneaking Indians had disappeared, and the only evidence of their presence was a spot of crumpled gra.s.s behind a knoll where several of them had lain in complete safety while they tried to send Featherbed to the Happy Hunting Ground.

The sun was too high for the Indians, so they disappeared, skulking at safe distance to wait for darkness and perhaps other prey.

Featherbed, after another shift of mounts and saddles and bridles, again took his post 1,000 yards from the trail, smoked his pipe, munched his sandwiches and drank the spring water.

At ten o'clock camp was struck for the mid-day stop close to a creek of sweet cold water that ran through some small hills covered with stunted pines, a few miles from a range of black mountains out of the bad lands and sand.

Featherbed was here promoted to the position of a.s.sistant wagon boss, presented with a big sorrel horse called "America" (because he was not Indian-bred) and given the lead team to drive in the outfit. This meant that, in co-operation with the "big boss," he would help select the camps, govern the speed of the "train," look after the manifests, act as check clerk in loading and unloading, and besides wear a red sash to designate his official position.

Featherbed took his honors modestly, in fact he was surprised and couldn't understand it until someone told him the "old man" was pleased when he (Featherbed) took the wounded horse back to the train, saddled up another and returned to help find where the arrows came from.

CHAPTER V

RATTLESNAKES AND REDSKINS.

The night-herder's song awoke me at four a. m.--the first streak of day--and I didn't have time to pull on my boots before the bulls were inside the corral; so, in bare feet, I yoked my fourteen head and then proceeded to pull on the cowhides, roll up my blankets and throw them on my trail wagon. Due to the haste--for nearly everyone else in the outfit was ready to "pull out" in response to the a.s.sistant wagon boss'

order--I proceeded to pull on the left boot without the usual precautions. My fingers were in the straps as I sat on the ground,[1]

and in another minute my toes would have been in the boot. But the rattler that had spent the night in it stuck out his head. I shook him out, first calling my pard to come with his whip.

[Footnote 1: This was in the center of a prairie dog town covering perhaps twenty acres; and the "town" was inhabited not only by these marmots but rabbits, owls and rattlesnakes, apparently living in perfect peace and harmony in the same burrows.]

After the rattler was dead I plucked off eleven beautifully graduated white rattles and a black b.u.t.ton, later on adding them to a hatband of several hundred which I had sewn together, using silk thread and a cambric needle. The other boot was tenantless.

The blankets, in a neat roll secured by a heavy leather strap, were thrown on top of the freight in the trailer, and away we went for a dry camp in the bad lands, where we spent six hours of the middle of the day hiding under our wagons to escape the hot rays of the sun.

A late afternoon start ended at nine p. m., in a moonlit camp on a creek that ran swiftly through chalk-like bluffs--perhaps the headwaters of the Niobrara river. In those days none but a geographer or a government surveyor knew the names of many of the waterways, if they had names. It had been a hard drive through deep sand most of the way, and after the bulls had been relieved of their yokes and the chains that held the teams together, all hands raced for the water, both for internal and external purposes.

Our night camp was on a flat between the bluffs and a few yards from the stream in a most inviting spot, the edge of the crooked channel being lined with stunted and gnarled box-elder, while farther back were a few dozen dead and gaunt cottonwoods. Some small bushes grew in clumps here and there, but our camp commanded a good view, even in the night, of the country for a mile in at least two directions--north and south.

Though tired, it was too nice a night even in this wilderness to go to bed; for a youngster who had acquired two revolvers, a Winchester rifle, a butcher knife and other weapons believed the crumpled gra.s.s he had seen at the edge of the creek indicated the presence not far away of others of the human family, and he intended to find out about it. He had confided this suspicion to one other youth of the outfit, and as the supper camp-fire died down to a bed of coals and a cool wind began to fan the hot earth these boys stole out of camp, waded the creek, and carefully examined the earth up and down its margin until they came upon a distinct moccasin, pony and lodge pole trail. They followed it along the bottoms for two miles to a jutting bluff where around the corner they saw six tepees, near which were picketed several ponies.

All was silent as the boys, concealed in a safe spot, viewed the scene.

Then there was a sound, low at first, like the crooning of a mother to a babe, which grew louder and louder, until finally there emerged from one of the tepees a big buck who stood silently for a full minute, listening. He wore nothing but a breech-clout, and over his shoulder hung a buckskin strap upon which was attached the arrows for the big bow held in his hand. He did wear a bonnet and it consisted princ.i.p.ally of feathers that looked exactly like some of the creations worn by women of the present day.

When he had located the sound he moved toward the hiding boys but stopped at the nearest tepee. The crooning grew to a lamentation. Then other tepees showed signs of life, and in a few moments bucks, squaws and papooses were running hither and thither in a bewildering way. But the boys remained silent, for there was no sign of a movement of camp and not an indication that there was an outside alarm. Then what could it be? What was all this fuss about? The lamentations became louder and louder and the excitement apparently greater.