I have thought since that this may have been a youthful error: the
Government probably meant no harm, and if I had served long enough I might
have become a captain. In time, if I lived, I should naturally have become
the senior captain of the Army; and then if there were another war and any
of the field officers did me the favor to paunch a bullet I should become
the junior major, certain of another step upward as soon as a number of my
superiors equal to the whole number of majors should be killed, resign or
die of old age--enchanting prospect! But I am getting a long way off the
trail.
It was near Fort C.F. Smith that we found our first buffaloes, and
abundant they were. We had to guard our camp at night with fire and sword
to keep them from biting us as they grazed. Actually one of them
half-scalped a teamster as he lay dreaming of home with his long fair hair
commingled with the toothsome grass. His utterances as the well-meaning
beast lifted him from the ground and tried to shake the earth from his
roots were neither wise nor sweet, but they made a profound impression on
the herd, which, arching its multitude of tails, absented itself to
pastures new like an army with banners.
At Fort C.F. Smith we parted with our _impedimenta_, and with an escort of
about two dozen cavalrymen and a few pack animals struck out on horseback
through an unexplored country northwest for old Fort Benton, on the upper
Missouri. The journey was not without its perils.
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