Part 28 (1/2)
”What's the matter?”
”Why couldn't they have waited until we came along?”
”Don't talk foolis.h.!.+” Joe ordered sternly. ”Besides, if it was Indians, they'd have taken the wagon too.”
”Unless,” Tad pointed out, ”they were driven away by people shooting from other wagons.”
”That could be too, and maybe some fool driver just drove his oxen to death. Anyhow, we'd better be moving.”
”My guess is sick or poisoned oxen,” he explained to Emma when he got back on the seat and took the reins. ”There aren't any bullet holes in the wagon cover.”
”Oh, I do hope that whoever was in there is all right!”
”They probably are,” Joe rea.s.sured her. ”Probably picked up by another wagon.”
They drove on, sobered by this evidence of certain accident, and possible tragedy, along the Oregon Trail. The hard trail continued; rain country was definitely behind. But a cold north wind still blew and Joe urged on the mules. There was no summer weather behind that wind and he had no desire to be caught out here when snow fell. For a moment they rode in silence, and it seemed that there was something alien among them. Even the children were still, and Emma turned to Joe, vaguely puzzled.
”Do you hear anything?”
”By gosh, I thought I did.”
”I too.”
There was a distant, muted throbbing that came to them in discordant tempo, like a wind that blows in blasts instead of with steady force.
But the wind around the wagon was still steady and still from the north. Joe twisted uneasily on the wagon seat, for it seemed to him that there was much he should know about this that he did not know. He had a sense of danger, which was silly, for no danger threatened. The mules bobbed uneasy heads.
”Hey, Pa!”
Tad's voice was desperate and wild. Running hard, the youngster appeared on a near-by knoll. Joe stopped the team and waited, while fear's cold fingers caressed his spine. Tad's jacket was open, his face sweat-streaked, and he had run so far and so fast that he gasped for breath.
”My gos.h.!.+” he yelled. ”Must be a million of 'em!”
”A million what?”
”Buffalo!” Tad gasped. ”And they're headin' this way!”
”Get in quick!”
”How about Mike?”
Joe leaped from the wagon, cradled the dog in his arms, handed him up to Emma, and helped his exhausted son. He cracked the bull whip over both mules and gave them free rein.
”Hi-eee! Get up there!”
The mules sprang forward, jerking their traces tight, and the whip cracked over them again. They broke into a wild gallop while the wagon jolted over some unseen obstacle. Joe braced his feet and shouted to Emma,
”Get in back!”
She slid over the seat into the wagon box, and crouched down, drawing the children close to her while Joe cracked his whip again. He breathed a silent prayer as he did so. Though he knew nothing about buffalo stampedes, he had seen cattle run wild. Surely this must be worse.