I was persuaded now that I was destined to lead a life on the Plains.
The two months that our ill-fated expedition had consumed had not
discouraged me. Once more I applied to Mr. Majors for a job.
"You seem to have a reputation as a frontiersman, Billy," he said; "I
guess I'll have to give yon another chance." He turned me over to Lew
Simpson, who was boss of a twenty-five wagon-train just starting with
supplies for General Albert Sidney Johnston's army, which was then on
its way to Great Salt Lake to fight the Mormons, whose Destroying
Angels, or Danites, were engaged in many outrages on Gentile
immigrants.
Simpson appeared to be glad to have me. "We need Indian fighters,
Billy," he told me, and giving me a mule to ride assigned me to a job
as cavayard driver.
Our long train, twenty-five wagons in a line, each with its six yoke of
oxen, rolled slowly out of Leavenworth over the western trail.
Wagon-master assistants, bull-whackers--thirty men in all not to
mention the cavayard driver--it was an imposing sight. This was to be a
long journey, clear to the Utah country, and I eagerly looked forward
to new adventures.
The first of these came suddenly. We were strung out over the trail
near the Platte, about twenty miles from the scene of the Indian attack
on McCarthy's outfit, watching the buffalo scattered to right and left
of us, when we heard two or three shots, fired in rapid succession.
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