Wagon-master assistants, bull-whackers--thirty men in all not to
mention the cavayard driver--it was an imposing sight. This was to be a
long journey, clear to the Utah country, and I eagerly looked forward
to new adventures.

The first of these came suddenly. We were strung out over the trail
near the Platte, about twenty miles from the scene of the Indian attack
on McCarthy's outfit, watching the buffalo scattered to right and left
of us, when we heard two or three shots, fired in rapid succession.

Before we could find out who fired them, down upon us came a herd of
buffalo, charging in a furious stampede. There was no time to do
anything but jump behind our wagons. The light mess-wagon was drawn by
six yoke of Texas steers which instantly became part of the stampede,
tearing away over the prairie with the buffalo, our wagon following
along behind. The other wagons were too heavy for the steers to gallop
away with; otherwise the whole outfit would have gone.

I remember that one big bull came galloping down between two yoke of
oxen, tearing away the gooseneck and the heavy chain with each lowered
horn. I can still see him as he rushed away with these remarkable
decorations dangling from either side. Whether or not his new ornaments
excited the admiration of his fellows when the herd came to a stand
later in the day, I can only guess.

The descent of the buffalo upon us lasted only a few minutes, but so
much damage was done that three days were required to repair it before
we could move on. We managed to secure our mess-wagon, again, which was
lucky, for it contained all our provender.