We took the Santa Fe trail and the buffalo were so numerous along
the way that we had to take some pains to avoid them, as when they
were traveling or on a stampede, nothing could turn or stop them
and we would be in danger of being ground to atoms beneath their
thousands of hoofs.
In two days more of travel we reached another Indian village, on
another beautiful plain, in what is now Pawnee Co., Kan. Here the
country was so level that one could see for miles in any
direction, and the sun rising or setting, seemed to come up or go
down, as a great golden disk, out of or into the earth. We could
see many bands of wild horses feeding on the luxuriant grasses,
and little did I think, then, that I would live to see the day
when that broad and unfenced plain would be converted into homes
for hundreds of the pale-faced race.
We were met on the outskirts of the village by White Horse, Chief
of the Comanches, who, being an intimate friend of Uncle Kit,
shook hands with us and conducted us to his own wick-i-up. There
we unpacked the animals and piled up our goods, and White Horse
detailed an Indian to guard the packs day and night.
After our horses had been picketed out to grass, the Chief took us
into his lodge to dine with him, and here again we had boiled dog
and the peace smoke.
White Horse insisted upon our being his guests until morning, it
being about noon when we arrived, and as our horses were much
jaded we decided to give them the advantage of such a rest.
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