Suddenly there was a sharp Bang!
Bang! Bang! and a thunder of hoofs.
"Indians! They've shot the herders and stampeded the cattle!" cried
McCarthy. "Get under the banks of the river, boys--use 'em for a
breastwork!"
We obeyed orders quickly. The Platte, a wide, shallow, muddy stream,
flows under banks which vary from five to thirty feet in height. Behind
them we were in much the position of European soldiers in a trench. We
had our guns, and if the Indians showed over the bank could have made
it hot for them.
McCarthy told us to keep together and to make our way down the river to
Fort Kearney, the nearest refuge. It was a long and wearying journey,
but our lives depended on keeping along the river bed. Often we would
have to wade the stream which, while knee-deep to the men, was
well-nigh waist-deep to me. Gradually I fell behind, and when night
came I was dragging one weary step after another--dog-tired but still
clinging to my old Mississippi Yaeger rifle, a short muzzle-loader
which carried a ball and two buckshot.
Darkness came, and I still toiled along. The men ahead were almost out
of hearing. Presently the moon rose, dead ahead of me. And painted
boldly across its face was the black figure of an Indian. There could
be no mistaking him for a white man. He wore the war-bonnet of the
Sioux, and at his shoulder was a rifle, pointed at someone in the
bottom below him.
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