Part 3

“Whether or not we were afraid, we were mighty glad to have those mules in front of us, weren’t we, Billy?” spoke up Lew Simpson. “They made a heap of difference.”

“That’s right,” answered Billy, frankly. And everybody laughed again.

The meal was quickly finished. It consisted of only cold beans and chunks of dried beef, but it tasted tremendously good to Davy; and he didn’t see that Billy or Mr. Simpson slighted their share, either. Mr. Woods had been eating while his wound was being dressed.

“George, you’d better ride in a wagon for a day or so,” called Mr. Simpson, rising, to Mr. Woods. “Well, Red,” and he addressed Davy, “I reckon you’ll travel along with us. We’re bound back to the States. Got any folks there?”

“No, sir,” said Davy, with a lump in his throat. “But I’d like to go on with you.”

“All right-o. Now, some of you fellows hustle us a mule apiece, while Billy and I plunder those Injuns out there. Then we’ll travel.”

Mr. Simpson spoke like one in authority. Billy Cody promptly sprang up, and he and Mr. Simpson strode out into the plain, where the dead Indians and the ponies were lying. Lame Buffalo was the farthest of all; but he was still, like the rest. Evidently he would ride and fight no more.

The wagon train men bustled about, reforming for the march. Three mules were saddled, as mounts for Davy and the two others. Having passed rapidly over the field, Mr. Simpson and Billy returned, laden with the weapons and ornaments of the warriors and the trappings of the ponies. They made two trips. Davy recognized the shield and head-dress of Lame Buffalo, who would need them not again. Billy proudly carried them and stowed them in a wagon.

“Those are yours, aren’t they?” asked Davy, following him, to watch.

“They’re mine if I want them,” said Billy. “Reckon I’ll take ’em home and give ’em to my sisters.”

“Where do you live?”

“In Salt Creek Valley, Eastern Kansas, near Leavenworth. Where do you?”

“Nowhere, I guess,” replied Davy, trying to smile.

“Pshaw!” sympathized Billy. “That’s sure hard luck. Ride along with me and I’ll tell you about things.”

“Here, boy――crawl into this,” called a teamster nearby; and he tossed at Davy a red flannel shirt. “It’ll match yore ha’r.” And he laughed good-naturedly.

“It’s my color all right,” responded Davy, without being teased, as he picked up the shirt. “Much obliged.” He slipped it over his head. It fitted more like a blouse than a shirt, but he needed something of the kind. After he had turned back the sleeves and tucked in the long tails, he was very comfortable.

“Climb on your mule, Red,” bade Billy Cody. “We’re going to start, and Lew Simpson won’t wait for anybody.”

Mr. Simpson was already on his mule. The other mounted men were in their saddles. Mr. Simpson cast a keen glance adown the line.

“All ready?” he shouted. “Go ahead.”

The long lash of the leading teamster shot out with a resounding crack.

“Gee-up!” he cried. “You Buck! Spot!” And again his whip cracked smartly. His six yoke of oxen leaned to their work; the wagon creaked as it moved. All down the line other whips were cracking, and other teamsters were shouting, and the wagons creaked and groaned. One after another they started, until the whole train was in motion.

Mr. Simpson and two or three companions led, keeping to the advance. The other riders were scattered in bunches back on either side of the train; the teamsters walked beside their wagons; and in the rear of the train ambled a large bunch of loose cattle and mules, driven by a herder.

Billy Cody and Dave rode together, well up toward the front.

“Did you ever freight any?” queried Billy. “What was that train you were with? Just emigrants?”

“Yes,” answered Davy. “We were going to Salt Lake.”

“Mormons?” demanded Billy, quickly.

“No. After we’d got to Salt Lake maybe we’d have gone on to California.”

“Expect I’ll go across to California sometime,” asserted Billy. “How old are you, Red?”

“Eleven.”

“I’m thirteen, but I’ve been drawing pay with a bull train three trips out and back. The first time I was herder from Fort Leavenworth out to Fort Kearney and back. Next time I was herder from Leavenworth for Salt Lake, but the Injuns turned us at Plum Creek just beyond Fort Kearney and we had to quit. I killed an Injun too dead to skin, but I was so scared I didn’t know what I was doing. Last summer I went out as extra hand with a big outfit for the soldiers at Salt Lake, but the Mormons held us up and took all our stuff, so we couldn’t help the army, and we had to spend the winter at Fort Bridger, and all of us nearly starved.”

“What’s an extra hand?” asked Davy.

“He takes the place of any other man, who may be sick or hurt,” explained Billy, importantly. “I’m drawing man’s pay; forty a month. I’m saving it to give to my mother, as soon as I get back. Weren’t you ever with a bull train before?”

Davy shook his head.

“No.”

“This is a Russell, Majors & Waddell outfit,” proceeded Billy. “They’re the big freighters out of Leavenworth across the plains and down to Santa Fe. Gee, they haul a lot of stuff! We’re travelling empty, back from Fort Laramie to Leavenworth. This is only half the train; there’s another section on ahead of us. Lew and George and I were riding on to catch up with it, when those Injuns corralled us. If Lew hadn’t been so smart, they’d have had our hair, too. We wouldn’t have stood any show at all. But those mules did the business. And I had a dream that helped. Last night I dreamed my old dog Turk came and woke me; and when I did wake I saw the Injuns sneaking up on us. Then we all woke, and drove ’em back. I’m going to thank Turk for that. I don’t know how he found me. This isn’t the regular trail; but Lew thought he’d make a short cut.”

“Is he the captain?” asked Davy.

“He’s wagon boss; he’s boss of the whole train, and he’s a dandy. I reckon he’s the best wagon boss on the plains. George Woods――the man who was wounded――he’s assistant boss. He’s plucky, I tell you. That arrow didn’t phase him at all. Lew bound a big chunk of tobacco on it, and George went on fighting. Do you know what they call this outfit. It’s a bull outfit, and those drivers are bull-whackers. Jiminy, but they can throw those whips some!”

“When will we get to Leavenworth, do you think?”

“In about twenty-five days. We’re travelling light, and I guess we can make twenty miles a day. We’ve got a lot of government men with us, from Fort Laramie, and the Injuns will think twice before they interfere, you bet. We’re too many for ’em. I reckon those Cheyennes didn’t expect to see another bull train following that first one.”

“No. They thought you were left behind and were trying to catch up. So they waited to starve you out. That’s what fooled ’em.”

“It sure did,” nodded Billy, gravely. “Say, there’s another fine man with this outfit. He’s the one who dressed Woods’ shoulder. His name’s Jim Hickok, but everybody calls him ‘Wild Bill.’ Isn’t he a good-looker?”

“That’s right,” agreed Davy.

“Well, he isn’t just looks, either,” asserted Billy. “He’s all there. He’s been a mighty good friend of mine. Because I was a boy some of the men thought they could impose on me. A big fellow slapped me off a bull-yoke, when I was sitting and didn’t jump the instant he bade me. I was so mad I threw a pot of hot coffee in his face; and I reckon he’d have killed me if Wild Bill hadn’t knocked him cold. When he came to he wanted to fight; but Wild Bill told him if he or anybody else ever bullied ‘little Billy’ (that’s what they call me) they’d get such a pounding that they wouldn’t be well for a month of Sundays. Nobody wants trouble with Wild Bill. He can handle any man in the outfit; but he doesn’t fight unless he has to. He’s quiet, and means to mind his own business.”

With the wagons creaking and groaning, and the oxen puffing and wheezing, and the teamsters cracking their long whips, the bull train slowly toiled on, across the rolling prairie. The trail taken occasionally approached the banks of the North Platte River, and soon there would be reached the place where the North Platte and the South Platte joined, to make the main Platte, flowing southeastward for the Missouri, 400 miles distant. Beyond the Missouri were the States, lined up against this “Indian country” where all the freighting and emigrating was going on.

The train made a halt at noon, and again at evening. Nothing especial had occurred since the rescue of the three in the mule fort. Davy was very glad, at night, to lie down with Billy Cody under a blanket, among friends, instead of shivering in an Indian camp.

Start was made again at sunrise. To-day the main travelled Platte Trail would be reached, and the going would be easier. Just as the trails joined in mid-morning, a sudden cry sped down the long line of wagons.

“Buffalo! Buffalo!”

All was excitement. Davy peered.

“See ’em?” said Billy, pointing. “That’s a big herd. Thousands of ’em. Hurray for fresh meat.”

Ahead, between the river at one side and some sand bluffs at the other, a black mass, of groups as thick as gooseberry bushes, had appeared. The mass was in slow motion, as the groups grazed hither and thither. On the edges, black dots told of buffaloes feeding out from the main body. There must have been thousands of the buffalo. Davy had seen other herds but none so large as this one. His blood tingled――especially when Lew Simpson, the wagon boss came galloping back.

“Ride on, some of you men,” he shouted. “There’s meat. You whackers follow along by the trail and be on hand when we’re butchering.”

“I can’t go, can I?” appealed Davy, eagerly, to Billy.

“No; you haven’t any gun,” answered Billy. “I’m going, though. I can kill as many buffalo as anybody. You watch us.”

Forward galloped Lew Simpson and Billy and twenty others. From a wagon George Woods, his shoulder bandaged and painful, stuck out his head, and lamented the fact that he was too sore to ride. The buffalo hunt promised to be great sport; and, besides, the fresh meat would be a welcome change.

So away the hunters galloped, Lew Simpson and little Billy leading. The train, guarded by the other men, followed, closely watching. Even the very rear of it was excited.

Now arose another cry, passing from mouth to mouth.

“Lookee there! More hunters!”

That was so. Beyond the buffalo, up along the river were speeding another squad of horsemen, evidently intent upon the same prey. They were coursing rapidly, but already the buffalo had seen them, and with uplifted heads the farthest animals were gazing, alarmed.

“Our fellows will have to hurry,” remarked the teamster nearest to Davy. “Shucks! That’s no way to hunt buff’ler. Those fellers must be crazy. They’ll stampede the whole herd!”

“They’ll stampede the whole herd, sure,” agreed everybody.

It was a moment of great interest. Davy thumped his mule with his heels, and hastened ahead, the better to witness. The party led by Lew Simpson and Wild Bill and little Billy had been making a circuit, keeping to the cover of the low ground, until they were close enough to charge; but those other hunters were riding boldly, as if to run the buffalo down. And as anybody should know, this really was not the right way to hunt buffalo.

“They’ll drive ’em into our fellows,” claimed several voices. “They’ll do the runnin’ an’ we’ll do the killin’!”

“Or else they’ll drive ’em into _us_!” cried others. “Watch out, boys! Watch yore teams! Steady with yore teams, or there’ll be the dickens to pay.”

That seemed likely. The stranger hunters were right upon the herd; the outside buffalo had wheeled; and tossing their heads and whirling, now with heads low and tails high the whole great herd was being set in motion, fleeing to escape. The thudding of their hoofs drifted like rolling thunder. After the herd pelted the stranger hunters.

Part of the herd plashed through the river; part made for the sand-hills――but smelling or sighting the Simpson party, they veered and came on, between the river and the sand-hills, straight for the trail and the wagon-train. In vain out dashed, to turn them, the Simpson party; from the train itself the horsemen spurred forward, as a bulwark of defense; the teamsters shouted and “Gee-hawed” and swung their bull-whips, and the oxen, surging and swerving, their nostrils wide and their eyes bulging, dragged the wagons in confusion. In his excitement Davy rode on, into the advance, to help it.

To shout and wave at those crazy hunters and order them to quit their pursuit was useless. They didn’t see and they couldn’t hear; at least, they did not seem to understand. Panic-stricken, the buffaloes came straight on. Off to the side Lew Simpson and Wild Bill and little Billy and companions were shooting rapidly; the stranger hunters were shooting, behind; and now the reinforcements from the train were shooting and yelling, hoping to split the herd. Some of the buffaloes staggered and fell; others never hesitated or turned, but forged along as if blind and deaf. One enormous old bull seemed to bear a charmed life; he galloped right through the skirmish line; and the next thing that Davy, as excited as anybody, knew, the bull sighted him, and charged him.

Davy found himself apparently all alone with the big bull. He did not need to turn his mule; his mule turned of its own accord, and away they raced. Davy was vaguely conscious of shouts and shots and the frenzied leaps of his frightened mule, which was heading back to the wagon train. Davy did not know that he was doing right, to lead the angry bull into the train; he tugged in vain at his mule’s bit, and could not make the slightest impression. Then, down pitched the mule, as if he had thrust his foot into a hole; and the ground flew up and struck Davy on the ear. In a long slide he went scraping on ear and shoulder, before he could stagger to his feet.

The mule was galloping away; but Davy looked for the buffalo. The big bull had stopped short and was staring and rumbling, as if astonished. The change in the shape of the thing that he had been chasing seemed to make him angrier. He stood, puzzled and staring and rumbling, only about twenty yards from Davy. Suddenly the red shirt must have got into his eyes, for his fore-hoofs began to throw the dirt higher, and Davy somehow knew that he was going to charge.

Not much time had passed; no, not a quarter of a minute, since the mule had fallen and had left Davy to the buffalo. The wagon train men were yelling and running, from the one direction; the hunters were yelling and riding, from the other; and whether they were yelling and hurrying on his account, Davy could not look, to see. Down had dropped the bull’s huge shaggy head, up had flirted his little knobbed tail; and on he came.

Davy never knew how he managed――he dimly heard another outburst of confused shouts, amidst which Billy Cody’s voice rang the clearest, with “Dodge him, Red! This way, this way!” He did not dare to glance aside, and he felt that it was not much use to run; but in a twinkling he peeled off the crimson shirt (which was so large for him) and throwing it, sprang aside.

Into the shirt plunged the big bull, and tossed it and rammed it and trampled it, while Davy watched amazed, ready to run off.

“Bully for you, Red!” sang out a familiar voice; riding hard to Davy’s side dashed Billy Cody, on lathered mule; he levelled his yager, it spoke, the big bull started and stiffened, as if stung. Slowly he swayed and yielded, with a series of grunts sinking down, and down; from his knees he rolled to his side; and there he lay, not breathing.

IV

VISITING BILLY CODY

“All right, Red,” panted Billy Cody. “He’s spoiled your shirt, though. Lucky you weren’t inside it. Say, that was a smart trick you did. Get up behind me. The wagon train’s in a heap of trouble. Let’s go over there.”

Davy’s knees were shaking and he could not speak; he was ashamed to seem so frightened, but he clambered aboard the mule, behind the saddle. Away Billy spurred for the wagon train. Other hunters were spurring in the same direction.

The wagon train certainly was having a time of it. Those stranger hunters, from down the river, had driven the buffaloes straight into the teams. The cavvy of loose cattle and mules had scattered; ox-teams had broken their yokes or had stampeded with the wagons. Several wagons were over-turned; and a big buffalo was galloping away with an ox-yoke entangled in his horns. Wild Bill overhauled him in short order and returned with the yoke; but hither and thither across the field were racing and chasing other men, ahorse and afoot, trying to gather the train together again.

By the time that the buffalo charge had passed on through and the animals were making off into the distance, most of the train’s hunters had arrived. The other hunters, from below, also arrived. They proved to be a party of emigrants, for California, who did not understand how to hunt buffalo. In fact, they had not killed a single one. However, Lew Simpson gave them a pretty dressing down for their carelessness.

“You’ve held us up for a day, at least,” he stormed; “and you’ve done us several hundred dollars’ worth of damage besides.”

“Well-nigh killed that boy, too,” spoke somebody. “Did you see him peel that shirt? Haw-haw! Slipped out of it quicker’n a snake goin’ through a holler log!”

“Little Billy came a-runnin’, though,” reminded somebody else.

“Yep; but didn’t save the shirt!”

That was true――everybody agreed that Davy would not have been saved had he not acted promptly. He was given another shirt (a blue one) to take the place of the one sacrificed to the big buffalo.

The California party rode away, taking a little meat that Lew Simpson offered them after they had properly apologized for their clumsiness. The rest of the day was spent in cutting up the buffaloes, and in repairing the wagons and harness. Not until the next noon was the train able to resume its creaking way, down the Platte River trail, for the Missouri River at Fort Leavenworth.

About twenty miles a day were covered now, regularly, and during the days Davy learned considerable about a “bull train” on the plains. He learned that he was lucky to ride instead of walk; nearly everybody with a bull train walked. However, this train was travelling almost empty, back from Fort Laramie, on the North Platte River in western Nebraska (for Nebraska Territory extended to the middle of present Wyoming), to Fort Leavenworth in eastern Kansas Territory. It was accompanied by a lot of government employes, who did not work for the train, and these rode if they could furnish their own mules. Lew Simpson, the wagon boss, and George Woods, the assistant wagon boss, Billy the extra hand, and the herder, rode, because that was the custom; all the other employes walked.

The oxen or “bulls” (as they were called) were guided by voice and whip. The whip, though, rarely touched them hard; just a flick of the lash at one side or the other of the leading span was enough. A sharp “Gee up!” or a “Whoa, haw, Buck!” and a motion of the lash, did the business. Some of the oxen seemed to be very wise.

“Do you know what those whips are, Red?” asked Billy.

“Raw hide.”

“Better than that. I’ll get one and show you when we camp.”

So he did that noon.

“Hickory stock, and lash of buffalo hide, tanned, with a buck-skin cracker,” informed Billy. “Eighteen inch stock, eighteen foot lash, and cost eighteen dollars. You ought to see some of these whackers sling a whip! They can stand at the fore wheel and pick a fly off the lead team! Yes, and they can take a chunk of hide out, too――but they don’t often do that.”

Davy curiously examined the bull whip. The stock was short and smooth, the lash was long and braided thickest in the middle, like the shape of a snake. The cracker was about six inches in length, and already had frayed at the tip; and no wonder, for it had often been made to snap like a pistol shot!

“I can swing the thing a little, but it’s sort of long for me,” announced Billy, proceeding to practise with it, until he had almost taken off his own ear, and made the whole mess uneasy. “I’m not going to quit, though,” he added, “until I can throw a bull whip as good as anybody;” and he took the whip back to its owner.

Billy was quite a privileged character, at camp and on the march. Everybody liked him, and considered him about as good as a man. To be an “extra hand” was no small job. It meant that whenever any of the teamsters was sick or hurt or otherwise laid off, “little Billy” took his place. The “extra hand” rode with the wagon boss (who was Lew Simpson), carried orders for him down the line, and was held ready to fill a vacancy. So this duty required a boy of no ordinary pluck and sense.

Besides, it was generally known that Billy was drawing wages to give to his mother, who was a widow trying to raise a family. Billy was the “man” of the family, and they depended on him. The wagon train liked him all the more for this. Everybody spoke well of “little Billy,” for his good sense and his courage. Davy heard many stories of what he had done. The fight in the mule fort had showed his quality in danger; and he had proved himself in several other “scrimmages” with the Indians.

He and Davy and Lew Simpson and George Woods and Wild Bill and a squad of government men formed a mess, which ate together. The pleasantest part of the day was the noon halt, around the camp-fire; and the evening camp, at sunset. Billy put in part of his rests at practising writing with charcoal on any surface that he could find. Even when Davy had joined the train, the wagon boxes and tongues and wheels bore scrawls such as “Little Billy Cody,” “Billy Cody the Boy Scout,” “William Frederick Cody,” etc. However, as a writer Dave could beat Billy “a mile,” as the teamsters said. Billy was not much of a figurer, either. But he was bound to learn.

“Ma wants me to go to school some more,” he admitted. “So I suppose I’ll have to this winter. I went some last winter, and we had a teacher in the house, too. A little schooling won’t hurt a fellow.”

“No, I suppose it won’t,” answered Davy, gravely. “I’ve had to go to school. But I’d rather do this.”

“So would I,” confessed Billy. “I like it and I need the money――and I need the schooling, too. Reckon I can do both.”

As for Davy himself, the wagon train seemed to consider him, also, somewhat of a personage, because he had shown his “smartness” when the buffalo bull had attacked him. Of course, he had only slid out of his big flannel shirt, and fooled the buffalo with it; but that had been the right thing done in the right place at the right time, and this counted.

Nothing especial happened as the long train toiled on. The trail was fine, worn smooth by many years of travel over it. This was the old Oregon Trail, and California, from the Missouri River, over the plains and the mountains, clear to the Pacific coast of the West. Beaver trappers and Indian traders had opened it, thirty years ago, and it had been used ever since, by trappers and traders, and by soldiers and emigrants, and its name was known the world around.

The wagon train frequently met other outfits, freight and emigrants, bound west; and before the train turned off the main trail for the government road branching southeast for Leavenworth, the Hockaday & Liggett stage-coach from St. Joseph on the Missouri for Salt Lake City passed them. It wasn’t much of a stage, being only a small wagon covered with canvas and drawn by four mules, and running twice a month; but it carried passengers clear through from the Missouri River to Utah. The wagon train gave it a cheer as it trundled by.

“What are you going to do when you reach Leavenworth, Red?” asked Billy one day, when they were riding along. Leavenworth was now only a few days ahead.

“I don’t know,” answered Davy. “I guess I can find a job somewhere. I’ll work for my board.”