The Buffalo Stampede

The Buffalo Stampede

An excerpt from the YA novel—Scout of the Oregon Trail

As the sun came up the third morning after our arrival at Fort Kearny, Mr. Lasiter had all the oxen yoked and the wagons lined up, ready to go. “It’s over two-hundred-seventy miles to Scott’s Bluff, and we have to do it in sixteen days to get there in order to stay on schedule,” Mr. Lasiter yelled from horseback. “And a hundred-sixty miles from here, we’ve got to ford the South Platte.” With that, he stood in his stirrups, raised his arm westward and shouted, “Wagons ho!”

The grass grew thinner and shorter as we headed west along the south bank of the Platte River. For the first time, my head was higher than the top of the grass. I could now actually see the countryside – both left and right. Luckily, the trail was fairly level, and streams feeding the Platte were few and generally small, so crossing them was relatively easy. However, the weather was not that forgiving. Storms rolled across the prairie on a regular basis, sometimes two or three times a week.

If the smoke from the morning campfires hung low to the ground, or if the sunrise was a reddish-brown, we could expect a storm that day. The storms were usually visible several hours in advance. Building up in the heat of the afternoon, massive thunderheads would form in the western sky, towering thousands of feet over the prairie.

I could always smell the change in the air as the clouds gathered. The clouds would start out dull white or gray and then quickly turn a threatening black. The wind would become almost dead calm, and the humidity would increase. I could always feel the heavy, damp air on my coat, and if we were close to the river or any other body of water, the frogs would noticeably increase their serenade.

Then, as the squall approached, the wind would suddenly increase. Brilliant bolts of lightning would shoot from the clouds, striking the ground with deafening claps of thunder. The canvas covers of the wagons would flap violently, frightening both children and livestock. As the sky turned from day to night, the wagon train would be pelted first by an icy shower of hail, followed moments later by a drenching cold rain. Mr. Lasiter would try to keep moving forward, but the oxen would turn their backs to the approaching storm, making travel almost impossible.

With three days to makeup, Mr. Lasiter pushed the wagon train hard. He wanted to cover twenty miles a day, which was extremely difficult on the oxen, the wagons, the emigrants, and me. Like the horse and oxen, I had to walk every mile. I never got to ride in the wagon. Ma and Sarah also walked most of the time, as it was just too rough to ride in the wagon – but they could ride if they wanted to. And little Molly generally rode on the wagon seat, as her leg was still very painful to walk on. Josh and Pa would take turns on the wagon seat if the terrain required the use of the brake. Otherwise, both Pa and Josh would walk, leading Max and Otto along the trail.

Every day, Mr. Lasiter would record the miles traveled as indicated on Dawson’s odometer in his journal and then mark our progress on the map he carried in his saddle bag. And according to his journal, we had covered a hundred-sixty-two miles when we reached a point where the trail obviously crossed the river. The Platte River had already split into the South Platte and North Platte about sixty miles back, so we were actually following the South Platte. It had taken us ten days to cover the hundred-sixty-two miles and Mr. Lasiter was frustrated that our progress was so slow. To make up time, he wanted to cross the South Platte that afternoon so we could continue up the North Platte toward Scott’s Bluff.

The Platte River looked like no river I had ever seen before. The Mississippi and Missouri Rivers were a single channel – wide and deep. The Platte was wide all right, but instead of one deep channel, it consisted of a series of shallow streams braiding back and forth in a bed of sandbars and small islands. Due to the recent storms, the South Platte was running full and fast when we arrived at its southern bank. It was already mid-afternoon, and though Mr. Lasiter wanted to cross, everyone else wasn’t quite so sure.

“Lasiter,” Pa called out as he brought the oxen to a halt. “It’s too high. It’s late. Let’s camp here and try it in the morning.”

“Churchill,” Mr. Lasiter yelled back, “We’re three days behind schedule. It may rain again tonight, and the river will be higher in the morning.”

Tired from a long day of travel, Pa handed Max’s rope to Josh and walked back to talk to other families. Mr. Lasiter walked his horse out into the river to judge the flow for himself. As Pa spoke with several other families, I could tell they all felt we should camp for the night. Soon, Mr. Lasiter rode back up the bank and approached the group of men who were still discussing the river crossing. He cleared his throat and said, “Alright, Churchill, we’ll camp here for the night.”

A sigh of relief spread over the group of men gathered at the riverbank. I’m sure many of them wanted to push on, but it was late in the day, and crossing with all twenty-four wagons would have taken hours.

We started early the next morning, attaching six oxen to each wagon and pulling them across two or three at a time. It had not rained the night before, and the river looked a little lower, but not by much. The sand was soft, and every wagon had to be pushed and pulled across with great effort. It was midday by the time all the wagons had made the crossing, and everyone agreed it would have been foolish to have tried it the night before. Safely across the river, we traveled only about two miles before stopping to make camp for the night.

Five more days up the North Platte, a tall and skinny rock appeared off in the distance. “Chimney Rock,” Mr. Lasiter called out from the back of his horse. “Chimney Rock.”

Ma and Pa had both been walking beside the wagon, keeping an eye on Molly as she continued to ride most of the time. Sensing that his father wanted to take a look, Josh yelled “Whoa” to the oxen as he pulled back on Max’s lead. Once the wagon came to a stop, Pa stepped up on the hub of the front wheel to see if he could make it out. Holding his hand over his eyes to shade them from the afternoon sun, and squinting to focus on the still distant landmark, he said to Ma, who was still standing beside him, “I think I see it.”

“What is it?” Josh asked as he kept a tight grip on the lead attached to Max’s halter. Josh had learned early on that if you take your hand off Max’s lead, he will go his own way, and the other three oxen will follow him.

“It’s our first major landmark,” Pa said as he jumped back to the ground and helped Ma up on the hub so she could get a look.

“Are we halfway yet?” Sarah asked. Sarah had been walking several paces behind the wagon with Jane, a girl about her age from the Pollock wagon. But when we came to a stop, they both stepped forward to see if they could see the upcoming landmark.

“No,” Pa said with a slight tone of disappointment in his voice. “We’re not even a third of the way yet.” He paused momentarily and then added, “But this is a major landmark, and we are making good progress.”

That afternoon, as we circled the wagons, Mr. Lasiter stopped by every campsite to warn us of an upcoming storm. “Churchill,” he said as he rode up to our campsite. “Looks like a storm brewing to the northwest. Batten down your camp tonight, and we’ll keep all the livestock inside the wagon circle,” he warned.

Off in the distance, I could see the storm building. I raised my nose to the northwest wind, and I could sense the ozone in the air. The wind was almost dead calm, and the sky overhead was deceptively clear and blue. But the black flies that regularly circled the cattle had mysteriously disappeared, and I could see the dark black clouds far off on the horizon. I agreed with Mr. Lasiter; something was brewing, and it did look threatening.

Besides the storm, there was another scent in the air: the scent of thousands of buffalo. We had seen buffalo before, but I strongly sensed that we hadn’t really seen anything yet. We ate supper early that evening, and along with every other family, we took extra precautions in anticipation of the looming storm. However, I had no way of warning them of the buffalo herd that I knew was lurking just over the nearby hills.

Before the sun had a chance to slip below the horizon, it disappeared behind a towering thunderhead while we sat around the campfire eating supper. We could all see sheets of lightning leaping between the ominous clouds, but it seemed so far away and not all that dangerous. Suddenly, I sensed a change in the air. I sat up first, and soon standing, I faced into the wind. The hair on the back of my neck stood up, and just as Josh said, “What is it, Scout?” a massive bolt of lightning struck the ground not far from our campsite, followed within seconds by a deafening clap of thunder.

The ground shook, and I immediately knew that it was more than just an ordinary lightning bolt. I laid back down, but as my belly touched the ground, I instantly felt a distant rumble, a deep rumbling of the ground I had never felt before. I slowly stood back up and, facing into the wind, began to whine, warning my family of the looming danger that I knew was coming.

“What’s the matter, Scout?” Pa said as he tried lighting his pipe with a glowing straw from the campfire. I barked several times. Slowly, the rumble became loud enough for the entire camp to hear it, and one by one, they began to stand and face the approaching storm.

As the people stood in silent awe, Mr. Lasiter came frantically riding through the camp, screaming at the top of his lungs, “Buffalo stampede—buffalo stampede!”

“What do we do?” Pa shouted back at him.

Mr. Lasiter turned his horse back toward our camp. “Get your family under your wagon – under your wagon,” he repeated several times before riding off to warn the other families. The rumble was now growing louder and louder. The ground was shaking, and I could see a cloud of dust rising up ahead of the approaching storm. Following Mr. Lasiter’s instructions, Pa quickly gathered the family under the wagon, and before he joined them, he grabbed his gun. I wanted to stand guard to protect our wagon, but Josh and Sarah kept calling me to join them under the wagon. Reluctantly, I eventually did.

Suddenly, I smelled smoke. I realized that the lightning had started a grass fire, and that was pushing the buffalo in our direction. It was a triple attack: a rapidly approaching thunderstorm, a buffalo stampede, and now an out-of-control grass fire. The thundering hooves of the buffalo got louder and louder. I admit I was scared, but I couldn’t show it. I stood again and began barking as loudly as I could. Josh held me by my collar, but I was determined to stand and fight. Finally breaking free of his grasp, I lunged forward. Molly was now screaming – “Scout, Scout … Scout, come back!”

The buffalo were soon within sight and racing straight toward our circle of wagons. The ground was visibly shaking under the pounding feet of thousands of wild buffalo. I could now see them as well as smell them, and as they reached our circle of wagons, I could hear the thundering hooves and feel the heated breath of the crazed beasts. As the hysterical herd breached our perimeter, I began to hear the crashing of wood as wagons were overturned and families started to scream in terror. Suddenly, I heard Pa’s scream, “Scout, move—move, Scout!”

In the confusion, not really understanding what he was asking, I turned to face him, and in doing so, I stepped to one side. He had had his rifle pointed straight at me, and as I moved aside, he fired! Immediately turning back around to follow the shot, a huge buffalo cow fell right in front of me, skidding to a stop, not fifty feet from where I was standing. Pa’s shot had hit the buffalo square in the forehead, killing it instantly with a single shot.

In shock, I ran back to the wagon. Molly broke free of Ma’s grip long enough to grab me around the neck and pull me to the ground next to where she was safely tucked between Ma and Sarah. With a massive buffalo now lying dead directly in front of our wagon, the rest of the herd seemed to part like water as it encountered a boulder in the middle of a stream.

When both Pa and Josh raised their heads to look around, and I thought the worst may have been over, the storm hit. An avalanche of hail hit with such force that it tore through canvas wagon tops and pummeled already damaged wagons. Families that had their wagons tipped over by the stampede were now running for cover. Looking like ants that had just had their mounds kicked, they ran as fast as they could to hide under wagons that were still upright.

Moments later, the hail passed, but a cold north wind picked up to almost gale strength and brought a driving rain. It drenched our camp like no rain I had ever seen or heard in my life. It rained so hard that night that Pa and Ma couldn’t possibly sleep in their tent, and there was no way Josh could stay dry under the wagon. Our wagon was still upright, and the canopy wasn’t that severely damaged, so Pa quickly said, “Into the wagon—everyone into the wagon. As the family scurried to get under cover, I sat in the cold, drenching rain.

“What about Scout?” Sarah said, realizing that I was stoically sitting in a rapidly growing mud puddle.

“Come on, Scout,” Pa said as he waved to me to get in the wagon.

I immediately jumped onto the wagon tongue, then to the wagon’s seat, and quickly into the wagon under the canopy. It was tight, and I was wet, but so was everyone else. As the two girls hugged and patted me, they both repeated, “Good dog—Good dog, Scout!”