Chapter One.

My friends the Raggets—Our proposed migration—Journey commenced—Attack of the Indians—A shot through my leg—Horrible anticipations—Hide in a bush—Climb a tree—My thoughts in my concealment—Listen in expectation of an attack—Starving in the midst of plenty—Some one approaches—I prepare to fire.

In few countries can more exciting adventures be met with than in Mexico and the southern and western portions of North America; in consequence of the constantly disturbed state of the country, the savage disposition of the Red Indians, and the numbers of wild animals, buffaloes, bears, wolves, panthers, jaguars, not to speak of alligators, rattlesnakes, and a few other creatures of like gentle nature. My old school-fellow, Dick Onslow, has just come back from those regions; and among numerous incidents by flood and field sufficient to make a timid man’s hair stand on end for the rest of his days, he recounted to me the following:—

After spending some time among those ill-conditioned cut-throat fellows, the Mexicans, I returned to the States. Having run over all the settled parts, of which I got a tolerable bird’s-eye view, I took it into my head that I should like to see something of real backwoodsman’s life. Soon getting beyond railways, I pushed right through the State of Missouri till I took up my abode on the very outskirts of civilisation, in a log-house, with a rough honest settler, Laban Ragget by name. He had a wife and several daughters and small children, and five tall sons, Simri, Joab, Othni, Elihu, and Obed, besides two sisters of his wife’s and a brother of his own, Edom Ragget by name. I never met a finer set of people, both men and women. It was a pleasure to see the lads walk up to a forest, and a wonder to watch how the tall trees went down like corn stalks before the blows of their gleaming axes. They had no idea I was a gentleman by birth. They thought I was the son of a blacksmith, and they liked me the better for it.

Some months passed away; I had learned to use my axe as well as any of them, and a fine large clearing had been made, when the newspapers, of which we occasionally had one, told us all about the wonderful gold-diggings in California. At last we talked of little else as we sat round the big fire in the stone chimney during the evenings of winter. Neighbours dropped in and talked over the matter also. There was no doubt money was to be made, and quickly too, by men with strong arms and iron constitutions. We all agreed that if any men were fit for the work, we were. I was the weakest of the party, do ye see? (Dick stands five feet ten in his shoes, and is as broad-shouldered as a dray man.)

Just then, an oldish man with only two stout sons and a small family drove into the forest with a light wagon and a strong team of horses, to look about him, as he said, for a location. He came to our house, and Laban and he had a long talk.

“Well, stranger,” said Laban, “I guess you couldn’t do better than take my farm, and give me your team and three hundred dollars; I’ve a mind to go further westward.”

The offer was too good to be refused. The bargain was struck, and in two days, several other settlers having got rid of their farms, a large party of us were on our way to cross the Rocky Mountains for California. The women, children, and stuff were in Laban’s two wagons. Other settlers had their wagons also. The older men rode; I, with the younger, walked, with our rifles at our backs, and our axes and knives in our belts. I had, besides, a trusty revolver, which had often stood me in good stead.

We were not over-delicate when we started, and we soon got accustomed to the hard life we had to lead, till camping-out became a real pleasure rather than an inconvenience. We had skin tents for the older men, and plenty of provisions, and as we kept along the banks of the rivers, we had abundance of grass and water for the horses. At last we had to leave the forks of the Missouri river, and to follow a track across the desolate Nebraska country, over which the wild Pawnees, Dacotahs, Omahas, and many other tribes of red men rove in considerable numbers. We little feared them, however, and thought much more of the herds of wild buffaloes we expected soon to have the pleasure both of shooting and eating.

We had encamped one night close to a wood near Little Bear Creek, which runs into the Nebraska river. The following morning broke with wet and foggy weather. It would have been pleasant to have remained in camp, but the season was advancing, and it was necessary to push on. All the other families had packed up and were on the move; Laban’s, for a wonder, was the last. The women and children were already seated in the lighter wagon, and Obed Ragget and I were lifting the last load into the other, and looking round to see that nothing was left behind, when our ears were saluted with the wildest and most unearthly shrieks and shouts, and a shower of arrows came whistling about our ears. “Shove on! shove on!” we shouted to Simri and Joab, who were at the horses’ heads; “never mind the tent.” They lashed the horses with their whips. The animals plunged forward with terror and pain, for all of them were more or less wounded. We were sweeping round close to the edge of the wood, and for a moment lost sight of the rest of the party. Then, in another instant, I saw them again surrounded by Indian warriors, with plumes of feathers, uplifted hatchets, and red paint, looking very terrible. The women were standing up in the wagon with axes in their hands, defending themselves bravely. A savage had seized one of the children and was dragging it off, when Mrs Ragget struck with all her might at the red-skin’s arm, and cut it clean through; the savage drew back howling with pain and rage. Old Laban in the meantime, with his brother and two others, kept in front, firing away as fast as they could load while they ran on: for they saw if once the redskins could get hold of the horses’ heads, they would be completely in their power. All this time several of the things were tumbling out of the wagon, but we could not stop to pick them up. Why the rest of the party, who were ahead, did not come back to our assistance, I could not tell. I thought that they also were probably attacked. We four ran on for some way, keeping the Indians at a respectful distance, for they are cowardly rascals—notwithstanding all the praise bestowed on them—if courageously opposed. I was loading my rifle, and then taking aim at four mounted Indians who appeared on the right with rifles in their hands. They fired, but missed me, as I meantime was dodging them behind the wagon. During this, I did not see where Obed was. I hit one of them, and either Simri or Joab, who fired at the same time, hit another. The other two wheeled round, and with some companions, hovered about us at some little distance. Just then, not hearing Obed’s voice, I looked round. He was nowhere to be seen. I was shouting to his brothers to stop and go back with me to look for him, when half-a-dozen more Indians, joining the others, galloped up at the same moment to attack the headmost wagon. Simri and Joab, lashing their horses, rushed on to the assistance of their family. The savages fired. I was springing on when I felt myself brought to the ground, grasping my rifle, which was loaded. A shot had gone right through both my legs. I tried with desperate struggles to get up, but could not lift myself from the ground. All the horror of my condition crowded into my mind. To be killed and scalped was the best fate I could expect. Just as I was about to give way to despair, I thought I would make an attempt to save my life. From my companions I could expect no help, for even if they succeeded in preserving their own lives they would