18 In Camp

We made merely a brief examination of the vicinity, and re-entering the tunnel, for such it was, began our return journey. We passed the pit, on the verge of which our encounter had taken place, and peered shudderingly into its dismal depths. About the middle of the afternoon we reached the other mouth of the tunnel, and found that nothing had occurred during our absence. Of course there was great joy at the result of our trip, though all were some what startled at our adventure with the Indian.

“Vat a death, to drop down into the bowels of the earth!” exclaimed Bonneau.

Pike at first thought of waiting until night for our passage through the tunnel. Then the darkness would cover our escape across the mountains. But on second thought he concluded that as one Indian had found the tunnel another might do the same, and it would be better for us to leave immediately.

We gathered up our arms, ammunition and food, and refilling our canteens from the brook, started on the reverse route through the passage. We knew that the Indians would not learn of our departure for a long time, for they would not dare to approach the mouth of the cavern by daylight, and we felt safe from immediate pursuit.

When we emerged from the subterranean passage it was late in the afternoon. The setting sun illumined the bleak mountain-side with unusual brilliancy, but we could see nothing to indicate the proximity of enemies.

“They’re still watchin’ fur us in the pass down thar,” said Pike, “and while they’re enjoying themselves at that sort of business we’ll be puttin’ miles between us and them. Ef we don’t have bad luck we’ll never see that crowd agin.”

We picked our way up the stony mountain-side, which was broken here and there by deep gulches. When darkness fell we were very near the crest of the range which, fortunately for us, was not so high here as at other points. We began to suffer from the cold which the elevation and the lateness of the season rendered acute. We still had our blankets, which Pike would not let us abandon, even in the extremest danger, and we were now very thankful to him for his foresight. We wrapped them around our bodies, and they protected us in some measure.

We pressed on in the night, which was not very dark, and made good progress, when the roughness of the way is taken into consideration. About two hours after dark it began to snow, though not heavily. This increased our difficulties so far as travel was concerned, but Pike said it protected us from the danger of Indians, unless we blundered right into the camp of a party, which, however, was exceedingly improbable on a bleak mountain-side.

An hour or two after we reached the line of snowfall we passed over the crest of the range and began to descend the far side of the mountain. The slope there was not great and the going was rather easy. We stopped about half-way between night and morning and, finding good shelter under some projecting rocks, rested there until day.

When the light came and we looked ahead we saw stretching before us another plain, bare, brown and endless, like that we had left on the other side of the mountains. Our road to California of necessity lay through it.

“Thar’s nothin’ to do,” said Pike, “but make the venture. We can’t go back to the valley. Our scalps wouldn’t be safe on our heads an hour thar. We’ve got to strike out across that plain thar and trust to luck. Anyway, luck has stood by us so fur. We ain’t got any right to complain.”

Pike spoke the truth. Providence had been our merciful ally in many dangers. That thought inspired us. We had become inured to hardships and the struggle for life. Our fibre had been toughened and I do not think that any of us was discouraged even at the dreary prospect before us. We shouldered our guns again and, still in good spirits, resumed our tramp down the mountain-side.

The plain did not prove to be so extensive as we feared, for we crossed it with a two-days’ march and came into some pretty good country, through which a shallow little river ran. Here we found both buffalo and antelope. As these were good hunting grounds, we feared the presence of Indians and exercised the greatest caution in our movements. But we saw no indications that they were in the vicinity and concluded that our fears were groundless.

We stopped in a little grove where we could find shelter from the keen winds which now blew over the prairie, and Pike and I went out to shoot a buffalo. As we had no horses, hunting buffalo was now a somewhat difficult matter with us. We found one of the animals grazing near the river-bank and managed to creep up within firing distance before alarming him. Pike fired a shot at him, but his aim was not as good as usual and he merely wounded the brute.

The buffalo, which proved to be a ferocious old bull, turned and charged rapidly upon us. He rushed at Pike, who leaped to one side. I heard a groan of pain, and, to my great surprise, saw Pike tumble over on the earth. The bull had turned for another dash at him, but I was fortunate enough to bring the animal down with a bullet. Then I ran to Pike’s assistance. He was sitting up, but his face was pale.

“I’ve winged myself for a while, Joe,” he said; “I wrenched my ankle when I turned thar to save myself from the bull. I think I’ve got a bad sprain that’ll lay me up for a while. I don’t know but what it sarves me right for makin’ sech a bad shot. Give me your hand and help me up.”

Leaning on my shoulder he struggled to his feet, though he groaned again with pain. His fears proved true, for his right ankle was severely sprained. This was a piece of very bad luck, for Pike, with his great experience of border life and his naturally clear intellect, was the brains of our party. Without him we were so many children in leading strings, and we owed our lives to him a half dozen times over.

We made our way back to the camp very slowly and painfully, and Pike’s accident caused much dismay. Starboard Sam had seen much of surgery aboard ship, and his experience stood us in good stead now. He bathed Pike’s ankle and bound it up with some strips of clothing, but said he would not be able to walk for days. Then we held a council of war. To go on at present was impossible.

“Boys,” said Pike, “thar ain’t but one thing for us to do. We’ve got to stay right whar we are an’ make a winter of it in this grove. The cold weather’s comin’ fast. We kin feel it already in the air, an’ winter on these plains ain’t no picnic. As we can’t start now thar’ll never be a chance fur us to get through to Californy this winter. We’ve got to build a cabin here, an’ this’ll be our home for the next four or five months.”

The wisdom of Pike’s remarks was obvious. There was no longer any hope of getting through to California until the following spring, and it would be necessary for us to stay in the grove and take our chances with the winter and the Indians. Had we been supplied with plenty of ammunition we would not have cared much, but both powder and lead were getting low, and it would be necessary for us to husband our resources very carefully.

It was a difficult task to build a house without tools, but we were spurred on by necessity, and Henry and I really enjoyed the work. Pike could do little with his hands, but his active intellect was busy with suggestions and orders. We found a steep little hill near the grove and with strips that we sharpened with our hunting-knives we dug down its side until it was as steep as a wall. Then we built a lean-to. There was enough fallen timber and broken boughs in the grove to make the two sides of a house. We piled the logs and sticks on each other in any sort of fashion, and filled in between with great clods of earth and turf. We ran sticks across the top and covered over with turf in the same manner. The side of the hill formed the rear of the house, and we closed up part of the front with brush, leaving just room enough for us to enter. We also heaped up clods of earth with the brush, and our house was as snug as you please. It would shed the rain, and a thick bed of dry leaves made a dry and comfortable floor.

Our cabin, as we called it, was not large, but all could sleep in it at the same time, and I have seen houses that were not as cozy and as warm as ours.

By the time we had finished the house Pike’s ankle was well. We had jerked the meat of the buffalo we had killed, and also of several deer and some elk that we had killed. Even if we should find no game in the course of the winter we would have plenty of meat.

We had made ourselves comfortable for the winter, when Henry and Sam went out one afternoon to take a look at the country. As they were following the course of the river there was no danger that they would get lost.

“Look out for Indians,” said Bonneau as they left; “we won’t let you into our house if you come back without your scalps.”

The two promised to keep a good watch, for we now had had enough experience to wish for no more of the troublesome company of the redskins. Henry and the sailor were gone several hours, and we were expecting their return when I heard a distant prolonged cry. It set my heart a-beating, for it reminded me of something I had heard back in the valley when we were surrounded by the Indians. I was much alarmed, and instantly called Pike’s attention. He listened, and we heard the long-drawn note again.

“It’s an Indian signal,” I explained. “They have found us again!”

“I think not,” said Pike. “That howl this time comes from a genuine four-legged wolf. But he may be as dangerous as the two-legged kind. It was in that direction that Sam and Henry went. Get your weepins and call Bonneau.”

I divined at once what he meant, and shouting to Bonneau, we seized rifle and pistol and ran down the river. The howling increased until it sounded like the yelling of a pack of hounds. Then we heard a rifle shot, followed by another.

“That’s good,” said Pike. “Them two shots so close together show that neither of ’em is down yet.”

Panting and excited, we ran around a curve of the stream, and in the twilight which had now come on, saw two human figures speeding towards us. Behind them came two score of long-limbed animals, leaping over the earth and howling in an infernal chorus. One of the men turned and fired a pistol-shot into the howling mass. The animals stopped to rend and tear something and fight with each other over it. While the pursuers battled the two figures came on with increased speed, and in another minute Starboard Sam and Henry, with faces that unmistakably indicated fright, met us.

“Break for the cabin, boys,” said Pike, “or they’ll tear us all to pieces. Don’t any of you fire at ’em. I’ll tend to that part of it When I call for a gun, hand it to me.”

The wolves now resumed the chase and would have overtaken us easily, but Pike fired and wounded one of them. While the others stopped to slay and devour him we widened the distance between us. The trick was repeated three times before we reached the cabin, Pike firing one of his shots almost from the front door. Then we tumbled in and hastily threw up the logs which served as a door. Such was the ferocity of the wolves that they endeavored to rush in upon us. One jumped up and thrust his nose between two logs, where he hung until Bonneau cut his throat with his hunting-knife and pushed him back.

“Wa’al, boys, we’re safe now ef our house holds,” said Pike. “How did it all happen?”

Henry briefly related that he and Sam had gone a long distance down the river-bank. They could not resist a shot at a deer feeding among some trees, and had killed the animal They cut out the best part of the venison, and were bringing it back to the cabin. Before they had come a mile they heard howls behind them, and soon saw a large pack of wolves in pursuit. Alarmed by their number and apparent ferocity, they had thrown down the venison and taken to their heels. The wolves had stopped to eat the meat, and then had resumed the chase. They were following so fast that the two fugitives turned and fired into them. These were the shots we had heard, and the rest we knew.

“Trailed you by the blood of the deer you killed, I guess,” said Pike. “That’s as bad a lot of devils out thar ez a fellow ever had to face. Timber wolves, too, the boldest and wust of the hull wolf tribe.”

It was a sight to send the chill into a man’s blood. The great wolves, gaunt with famine, threw themselves against the walls of our little cabin. It was well indeed that we had built the place tight and strong, or we would speedily have been torn to pieces by the blood thirsty pack. All the time they kept up a fearful snarling and howling and thrust their sharp noses between the logs in an effort to reach us, showing their white teeth and bloodshot eyes as they snapped and snarled. They had already devoured the wolf whose throat Bonneau had cut, and the appetite of the cannibals was whetted for more.

“Let ’em snarl away,” said Pike; “we’ll rest awhile after that long run, and then we’ll see ef we can’t fix up a plan to give ’em some amusement.”

We sat on the floor and composed our spirits as best we could, while the demon crew outside howled and fought to get at us. Pretty soon we heard a noise overhead, and all of us except Pike started to our feet in alarm.

“Never mind,” said Pike, “its jest some of the wolves on the roof of our house. They had nuthin’ to do but walk from the hill right out on it. But they can’t get in.” The roof was indeed strong and wolf-proof, but I could not help feeling uneasiness at having wolves on all sides of us and above us into the bargain. But Pike was very complacent, and rested as calmly in his bed of leaves as if there were not a wolf in a thousand miles. After a while he said:

“I think, boys, that concert out there has lasted long enough. I’ll see if I can’t change the style of their music a leetle.”

He offered no explanation of his plan, and we watched him with curious interest He took a long, slender pole which was lying in a corner, and with some deer thongs, lashed the handle of his hunting-knife tightly to the end of it. Then he grasped the pole in both hands and approached the door. When he came near the fury of the wolves redoubled, and in their efforts to reach him they bounded against the stout logs.

One old fellow, rearing up on the wall and thrusting his nose between the logs, exposed his throat full and fair. Pike, using the pole as a lance, jabbed the knife-blade into his throat. When the animal tumbled to the ground the others, all their cannibalistic instincts aroused, sprang upon him and devoured him. As they tore at him Pike jabbed the knife into another, and they fell upon him in turn.

For an hour this thing went on, and it was the most horrible sight I ever beheld. The incessant snapping and snarling of the wolves, the rending of flesh, the yelps of the dying and the reek of steaming blood sickened me. I shut my eyes, but I could not close my ears or my nostrils. Even the face of Starboard Sam, hardened as he was to adventure and danger, looked ghastly in the moonlight which filtered between the logs.

The wolves themselves must have sickened at it, for after many of their number had perished, either under Pike’s lance or the teeth of their companions, they slunk out of reach. They sat down, in a land of semicircle about twenty yards away and set up a mournful howl, which Henry said was a dirge for their dead.

“I hate to waste good ammunition,” said Pike, “but I think if I give ’em a shot now they’ll scatter.”

He brought down one with a pistol-ball, and the others, evidently cowed by their reception, glided away in the darkness.

We did not venture outside the cabin that night and kept a guard until daybreak, but as soon as the sun came up we took down the poles and went out to look at the dead wolves, or rather what was left of them uneaten. Pike said we were not likely to be troubled again by wolves, for they had plenty of sense and would keep away from a place where they had met such bad luck.

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