ches frequently lay in wait among
the billowy sand-hills.

Thus it came about that the Bent caravan, this July of 1829, was
attacked on the very first day out from the Arkansas. It had marched
only nine or ten miles. The going was very bad, in the hot, flowing
sand. All around arose the sand-hills, shimmering yellow, with the sun
beating down out of a blue sky. The wagons were strung in a long
straggling line, while mules and oxen, their tongues hanging, tugged
hard. The teamsters, their feet blistering in their cowhide boots,
their beards and flannel shirts caked with dust, urged manfully.

The sand-hills, fifty feet high, formed a complete circle around this
sandy basin here. The caravan had entered by a narrow passage, and was
stringing across, for another narrow passage. Whether the passage
opened into the country beyond, nobody knew. Trader Lamme and two
companions spurred ahead, to find out: a foolish thing to do.

They disappeared among the hollows; were gone not half an hour, when on
a sudden, distant gun-shots soundly thinly, and back into sight
galloped two of the men, racing full tilt, bare-headed. Following fast
there came a drove of other figures--and as if from the very ground, on
right and left of the leading wagons, still more figures up-sprung. A
chorus of wild whoops echoed.

Injuns!

All the caravan was in confusion. Horsemen rode, teamsters shouted as
they grabbed their guns from the seats and swung their whips. Oxen
bellowed and jumbled, mules snorted and balked, the herders of the
caballada shrieked for help.

"Close up! Close up!"

"Corral!"

"Charge 'em! Meet the beggars!"

"No! Under yore wagon, everybody!"

"Get out o' my way! Yip! Gee, Buck!"

"Haw, Spot! Haw, Whity! Haw with you!"

"Durn these mules! We'll all be wolf meat."

"Look! There's nigh a thousand of 'em!"

The out-rider guards had lined, on either hand, to stand the enemy off
while the wagons bunched. A rear guard sped to protect the caballada.
Captain Charles Bent tore back from the advance. He was bare-headed.
His long black hair streamed in the breeze that he made. He was
mounted on a rangy, raw-boned black mule, with split ears--Comanche
brand. No man more fearless ever ranged the plains. A host in
himself, was Charles Bent.

His voice fairly thundered as he sped along the struggling line of
wagons and teams.

"Bring on those wagons! Corral! Don't lose your senses, men! We're