Chapter 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.