"
"Trot out the mule," I told him. "It is good enough for me. I am ready
at any time."
The mule was forthcoming. At dark I pulled out for Fort Larned, and
proceeded without interruption to Coon Creek, thirty miles from Fort
Dodge. I had left the wagon road some distance to the south, and
traveled parallel to it. This I decided would be the safer course, as
the Indians might be lying in watch for dispatch-bearers and scouts
along the main road.
At Coon Creek I dismounted and led the mule down to the river to get a
drink of water. While I was drinking the brute jerked loose and struck
out down the creek. I followed him, trusting that he would catch his
foot in the bridle rein and stop, but he made straight for the wagon
road, where I feared Indians would be lurking, without a pause. At last
he struck the road, but instead of turning back toward Fort Dodge he
headed for Fort Larned, keeping up a jogtrot that was just too fast to
permit me to overtake him.
I had my gun in hand, and was sorely tempted to shoot him more than
once, and probably would have done so but for the fear of bringing the
Indians down on me. But he was going my way, so I trudged along after
him mile after mile, indulging from time to time in strong language
regarding the entire mule fraternity. The mule stuck to the road and
kept on for Fort Larned, and I did the same thing.
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