Part 13 (1/2)

”Ye mebbe war sheddin' a little,” laughed Tom, ”but you'd 'a' shed them thieves afore ye petered out. Tell me about it.”

”Thar ain't nothin' ter tell,” replied Hank. ”I'm nat'rally suspicious by bein' up in th' Crow country so much o' my time, an' I got ter thinkin' 'bout Schoolcraft. I'm mostly stronger on hindsight than I am on foresight, but this hyar's onct I sorta lined 'em both up an' got a good bead. I snuk up ter his shanty an' heard him an' that thar greaser chawin' tough meat with each other. So I come down hyar, expectin' ter lay fer 'em with Abe; but danged if him an' them warn't at it already! I only got two feet, two han's an' one mouth, an' I had ter waste one foot a-standin' on it; but th' rest o' me jined th' dance. Then you come.

That's all.”

”How long war you two holdin' off th' six o' 'em?” demanded Tom of Abe with great interest, and thinking that Cooper's trust was well placed.

”'Twarn't long; two comets an' about six hundred stars, I reckon,”

mumbled the shrinking hero between swollen lips. ”I war jest gittin' mad enough to go fur my knife when Hank gits in step with th' music, an'

jines han's with us. What we goin' ter do with 'em?”

”Oh, give 'em a kick apiece an' turn 'em loose without thar weapons,”

suggested Hank.

Tom shook his head. ”They come from Schoolcraft; let's take 'em back to him,” he suggested.

”Go ahead!” enthused Abe. Then he scratched his head. ”But who's goin'

ter watch th' goods while we're gone? Jake ain't due fer couple o' hours yet.”

”You air!” snorted Hank. ”You need a rest, an' us two is sh.o.r.e enough.”

He prodded the figures on the ground with the toe of his moccasin. ”Git up, you squaw dogs!” he ordered.

In a moment five thoroughly cowed men were plodding before their guards.

The sixth, who was still wandering about on the far side of the boundary of consciousness, was across Tom's shoulder. Reaching the horse-dealer's shanty, the prisoners opened the door by the simple expedient of surging against it as they shrunk from the p.r.i.c.ks of Hank's skinning knife. The two men inside escaped the cras.h.i.+ng door by vaulting over a small table, and before they could recover their wits in the face of this amazing return of their friends they were looking down the barrels of two six-shooters.

Tom dumped his burden onto the table, kicked a chair through a closed window, swept an open ink bottle onto Schoolcraft's manly stomach, and made a horrible face at the pop-eyed Mexican. ”Hyar they air, polecat,”

he growled. ”Any more raids on our goods an' I trail ye an' shoot on sight. Don't give a cuss who does it, or why; _I'll git you_. If I miss, Hank won't; an' we both got good friends. Come on, Hank, it stinks in here.”

Tom turned and stalked out, but not so Hank. He backed out behind his newfangled weapon, pleasantly thinking of its six ready shots, slid along the outside of the shack and then waited with great hope for a head to pop out of the door. Having had no chance to try out the Colt he was curious regarding its accuracy. No head popped, however, and after a moment he sighed, slipped along the corral wall and crossed the street when far enough away to be covered by the darkness. Hank had no faith in hostile humans and did not believe in showing off. The thieving, treacherous Crows agreed that the brave who took Hank Marshall's scalp would be ent.i.tled to high honors; with the mournful reflection that by the time it was taken, if ever, the tribe would have paid a very high price for it.

CHAPTER IX

THE CARAVAN

At last came the day, and the dawn of it showed a cloudless sky, a sleeping town and a little caravan winding, with rattle of chains and squeak of harness, past the silent, straggling houses, bound westward for the ”prairie ocean.” Despite the mud and the slowness of the going high spirits ruled the little train. Youth was about to do and dare, eager for the gamble with fate; and age looked forward to the lure of the well-known trail even as it looked backward in memory for faces and experiences of the years gone by. The occasion was auspicious, for the start was prompt to the minute and earlier than any they would make later. They were on the luxuriant and better wooded eastern rim of the great plains, and would be on it for several days.

Joe Cooper, driving the small wagon with Patience seated at his side, led the way, eager and exultant. Following him closely came his two great Pittsburg wagons with their still spotless new sheets, each loaded with nearly three tons of selected merchandise, their immense wheels grumbling a little as they slid a fraction of an inch along their well-greased axles, their broad, new tires squas.h.i.+ng out twin canyons in the mud. Next came two emigrant wagons, their proprietors fearing that they would not reach the Oregon-bound train at its rendezvous in time to leave with it. Under their stained and patched canvases two women slept as though in a steady bed, their children at their sides. Weeks of this traveling had given to them the boon of being able to fall asleep almost at will. Then came Enoch Birdsall and Alonzo Webb, sober and gay, abusing each other humorously, each in his own wagon, handling their strung-out teams with nonchalant ease. Close to the rear of the last wagon came the eight mules of Tom Boyd and Hank Marshall, four to a string, followed by their horse-mounted owners; and behind them were Jim Ogden and Zeb Houghton, each driving two mules before them.

The road was in execrable condition, its deep ruts masked by a mud as miry as it appeared to be bottomless, and several times the great wagons were mired so hard and fast that it took the great ox teams of Alonzo and Enoch, hooked on in addition to the original mule teams, to pull them out; and the emigrant wagons, drawn by over-worked oxen, gave nearly as much trouble. The story of their progress to Council Grove would be tiring, since it would be but little more than a recital of the same things over and over again--the problems presented by the roads.

At Round Grove they said good-bye to the emigrants, who joined the rear guard of their own caravan at this point. Along the so-called Narrows, the little ridge forming the watershed between the Kansas and Osage rivers, for a stretch extending quite some distance westward from Round Grove, the roads were hardly more than a series of mudholes filmed over and masked by apparently firm ground. In some of these treacherous traps the wagons often sank to the hubs, and on two occasions the bottom of the wagon-box rested on the mud. It was hopeless to try to pull them out with the animals so deep in mud, and only by finding more firm ground along the side of the trail, the use of long chains and the aid of every draft animal in the train were the huge wagons dragged out. The men themselves waded into the traps, buried at times almost to the waist, and put their shoulders to wheels and wagon-boxes and pushed and heaved and floundered; and they kept their spirits high despite the penetrating cold of the mire. Under these conditions stops were frequent to rest both teams and men, the ”noonings” were prolonged, camp made earlier in the evening than was usual and left later in the morning. The tally of miles was disheartening, and to make matters worse a heavy downpour of chilling rain fell half a day before they reached 110 Mile Creek which, besides making everyone miserable and spoiling the cooking, swelled the stream so much that it was crossed only with the greatest difficulty.

One of the few things they were grateful for was the fact that they did not have to keep regular guard watches at night, for while the Kaws and Osages might steal an animal or two in hope of receiving a little whiskey, powder, or tobacco for its return, there was no danger of wholesale stampeding, and a man or two was sufficient to watch the camp.

One pleasant incident occurred when they pulled in sight of Switzler's Creek, where they found another section of the caravan in camp. The augmented train now numbered about twenty-six wagons and formed a rear guard worthy of the name. The weather had cleared again and the sun shone brightly all the way to Council Grove. To offset the pleasant effect of joining the other train, it was at Switzler's Creek that a hard-pushed mule train overtook them. With it came the little Mexican and half a dozen of his compatriots, and several of Ephriam Schoolcraft's chosen bullies. At their appearance Hank Marshall found a new interest in life, and there was very little occurring in the new mule train that he missed. His habits now became a little similar to those of the cat tribe, for he resorted to his old trick of dozing while riding, catching naps at the noonings, before dark and after dawn. With him awake at night and Tom awake during the day, and with Jim Ogden's and Zeb Houghton's nocturnal prowlings thrown in the balance, it looked as though Hank's remark about ”n.o.body ketchin' these beavers asleep”

would be fully justified.

Council Grove was reached one noon, and they learned that they would have plenty of time to do the many little things neglected on the way, for they would stay here two days. This was welcome news, as it gave them an opportunity to let the draft animals rest and feed well in preparation for the long prairie haul ahead.