We progressed peacefully enough till we made Plum Creek, thirty-six
miles west of Fort Kearney, on the South Platte. The trip had been full
of excitement for me. The camp life was rough, the bacon often rusty
and the flour moldy, but the hard work gave us big appetites. Plainsmen
learn not to be particular.

I remember that on some of our trips we obtained such "luxuries" as
dried apples and beans as part of our supplies. We could only have
these once every two or three days, and their presence in the mess was
always a glad occasion.

We were nooning at Plum Creek, the cattle spread out over the prairie
to graze in charge of two herders. Suddenly there was a sharp Bang!
Bang! Bang! and a thunder of hoofs.

"Indians! They've shot the herders and stampeded the cattle!" cried
McCarthy. "Get under the banks of the river, boys--use 'em for a
breastwork!"

We obeyed orders quickly. The Platte, a wide, shallow, muddy stream,
flows under banks which vary from five to thirty feet in height. Behind
them we were in much the position of European soldiers in a trench. We
had our guns, and if the Indians showed over the bank could have made
it hot for them.

McCarthy told us to keep together and to make our way down the river to
Fort Kearney, the nearest refuge. It was a long and wearying journey,
but our lives depended on keeping along the river bed. Often we would
have to wade the stream which, while knee-deep to the men, was