Читать книгу Buffalo Bill and the Overland Trail - Edwin L. Sabin - Страница 11

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“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.”

“Oh, pshaw! I’ll get you a job with a bull train,” spoke Billy confidently. “I’ll ask Mr. Russell or Mr. Majors. They’ll take care of any friend of mine, and you’ve proved you’re the right stuff. But first you come home with me. I’ll give you a good time. Wild Bill’s coming, too, after a while.”

“Maybe your folks won’t want me.”

This made Billy almost mad.

“They will, too. What do you talk that way for? You ought to see my mother. I’ve got the best mother that ever lived. She’ll be glad to see anybody that I bring home, and so will my sisters, and Turk. You come along. The trail goes right past the place, and we’ll quit there, and not wait to reach Leavenworth. I’ll get paid off first.”

There was no resisting Billy, and Davy promised.

Yes, evidently Leavenworth and the end of that long Overland Trail were near. The talk in the train was largely of Fort Leavenworth and Leavenworth City, where the train would be broken and reorganized for another trip, and the men would have a short rest and see the sights, if they chose. New farms were being passed, and the beginnings of new settlements; and the number of emigrant outfits was much increased. The greetings all referred to the farther West—Kansas, Utah, and California were on every tongue. Over the trail hung a constant dust of travel, and the air was vibrant with the spirit of pioneers pushing their way into a new country. These men, women and children, travelling with team and wagon, were brave people. Nothing, not even the Indians, was keeping them back. They intended to settle somewhere and establish homes again. The sight sometimes made Davy sick at heart, because he, too, had been travelling with one of these household wagons; but the Indians had “wiped it out.”

Well, he was in good hands now. Billy Cody would see him through.

“We’ll strike the Salt Creek Valley to-morrow morning,” announced Billy. “Hurrah! I’ll get my pay order to-night, so we can cut away to-morrow without any waiting.”

The morning was yet young when Billy pointed ahead.

“When we get over this hill we’ll see where I live, Red. It’s yonder, on the other side.”

The trail was ascending a long hill. From the top Billy waved his hat.

“There’s the Salt Creek Valley. I can see the house, too. That’s it, down below. Goodby, everybody. Come on, Red.” And with a whoop away raced Billy down the hill.

As he rode he whistled shrill.

“Watch for Turk,” he cried to Red, galloping behind. And presently he cried again: “There he comes! I knew he would!”

Sure enough, from the house, before and below, near the trail, out had darted a dog, to stand a moment, listening and peering—then, head up and ears pricked, to line himself at full speed for Billy. On he scoured (what a big fellow he was when he drew near), while Billy whistled and shouted and laughed and praised.

When they met, Billy flung himself from his saddle for a moment, and he and the big dog wrestled in sheer delight.

“Isn’t he a dandy?” called Billy to Red. “Smartest old fellow in Kansas. He saved my sisters’ lives once from a panther. I’d rather have him than a man any time.”

They rode on, with Turk gambolling beside them. He was a brindled boar hound, looking like a Great Dane.

Now Turk raced ahead, as if to carry the news; and several people had emerged from the house and were gathered before the door gazing. Billy waved his big hat, and they waved back. They were a woman and four girls.

“That’s ma and my sisters,” said Billy. Down he rushed, at full gallop of his mule; Davy thudded in his wake.

“Hello, mother! Hello, sisses!”

“Oh, it’s Will! Will!”

Dismounting, Billy was passed from one to another and hugged and kissed. He was held the longest and closest in his mother’s arms. Turk barked and barked.

“Here, Red; come on,” ordered Billy, of Dave. “Mother, this is my friend Dave Scott. He’s going to visit us, and then I’ll get him a job on the trail. These girls are my sisters, Dave. Don’t be afraid of them. Take care of him, Turk. He’s all right, old fellow. He’s a partner.” And Turk, sniffing of Davy and wagging his great tail, seemed to understand.

“Any friend of Will’s is more than welcome,” said Billy’s mother, and she actually kissed Dave. The girls shyly shook hands, and he knew that they welcomed him, too.

Then they all went into the house, where Billy must sit down and tell about his experiences. That took some time, for he had been gone a year. But before he started to talk and answer questions, he said: “Here, ma; here’s my pay check. How do you want it cashed—gold or silver?”

“For goodness sake, Will!” gasped Mother Cody, while his sisters peeped. “Is this all yours?”

“No,” said Billy, solemnly shaking his head. “I can’t say it is, mother.”

“Then whose is it?” she asked anxiously.

“Yours,” laughed Billy.

The Cody house was a heavy log cabin of two rooms and a rough roof, in the Salt River Valley across which ran the Salt Lake overland trail. Fort Leavenworth and the Missouri River were only four miles eastward, and two miles below Fort Leavenworth was Leavenworth City. The Cody farm had been located by Billy’s father as soon as Kansas had been opened for settlement, in 1853, but Billy’s father had died two years ago. As Davy soon saw, Billy was the man of the family, and whatever he earned was badly needed.

It was good fun visiting at the Codys. There was Mrs. Cody and the four girls, Julia, Eliza, Helen and May, who seemed to think that Billy knew everything. Julia was older than he, but the others were younger. There was Turk the big dog; and not far from the Cody place lived other settlers who had children. But among all the boys Billy Cody was the only one who had been out across the plains drawing man’s pay with a wagon train.

The Codys lived right at the edge of the Kickapoo Indian reservation. Billy knew the Indians and they liked him; he could shoot with bow and arrow, and could talk Kickapoo, and had learned a lot of clever ways to camp and travel.

Best of all, past the Cody place, across Salt Creek Valley wended the Overland Trail—climbing the hill here, and disappearing into the west. Over it always hung that veil of dust from the teams and wagons that had set out. All kinds of “outfits,” as Billy called them, travelled it: the straining, creaking “bull trains,” carrying freight for the big freighting firm of Russell, Majors & Waddell; the settlers, bound westward, with their canvas-topped wagons bursting with household goods, the women and children often walking alongside; soldiers, for the forts of the Indian country; gold-seekers with pack mules; “tame” Indians, from the reservations or from outside villages; parties returning for the “States,” from California and Utah and the mountains, some of them with droves of horses, some without anything at all.

It was a very important highway, this Salt Lake, California and Oregon “Overland” Trail, which had one beginning at Leavenworth on the Missouri, only six miles from the Cody place; and the Codys saw all the travel that started on it. So no wonder Billy had made up his mind to be a plainsman and work on the trail; and no wonder that Davy wanted to do likewise. It seemed a useful work, and much needed; but it called for stout mind and brave heart, as well as sturdy body. As for sturdy body the work itself made people strong. The proper mind and heart were the more necessary qualifications.

Billy soon took the two mules into Leavenworth, and returned them to the company. When he came home, he gave his mother a double handful of gold pieces.

“Will, it doesn’t seem possible that you’ve earned all this!”

“Well, I guess if you’d been along, ma, you’d have known that I earned them; wouldn’t she, Dave!” laughed Billy. “I earned enough just while I was in the mule fort to keep us the rest of our lives—only, I haven’t got it yet.”

“You’ll never go out again, will you, Will?” appealed his mother anxiously. “Promise me.”

Billy put his arms about her and hugged her tight. She was a frail little mother, not nearly as strong as Billy, and she never felt well, Billy had explained to Dave. Now he said, holding her:

“I can’t promise, ma. We need the money, and that’s the quickest way to earn it. But I always come back safe, don’t I? Don’t you ever worry about me. I can take care of myself. I’m as good as a man, you know.”

Mother Cody only sighed, and kissed him. She said nothing more.