[or-roots] Aunt Charlotte's Book ( Making camp at night)

[DaviesWalt at cs.com]

Each night, when it came time to camp, the lead wagon would swing out and 
around, the others  following in turn, till the very last wagon had become a 
part of the completed circle. Then at a  given signal each driver would stop 
his team. They were always quite ready and willing to stop  when the  day's 
travel was done. Each wagon came into position so that its tongue rested  
against the wagon just ahead, the lead wagon stopping just behind the one 
that had been last in  the line during the day's march.

    Then the tents were pitched within the big circle and a guard fire was 
kindled in the very center. I  think of it now as a queer place for a guard 
fire.

    One night in the wee hours, when everything was as quiet as a prairie 
night could be, everyone  was brought to his feet by the bang of a big 
musket. On the still night air, it sounded like a cannon. Hearts pounded, 
women and children screamed and cried, men scrambled in the  darkness for 
boots and guns. We were in a bad Indian country and Indians, it undoubtedly 
was.  Everyone waited for the answering volley or rain of arrows. The camp 
was in an uproar before  the sound had died away. Every man and boy, who 
owned a gun held it cocked and ready.  Women and children were told to get 
behind whatever protection they could find.

    We waited, But nothing happened except what had already happen to 
Zander's old black mule.  He had somehow slipped his tether rope and being 
sociably inclined had attempted to join the  group around the guard fire. A 
lad on guard, seeing the poor blundering fellow, had mistaken  him for an 
Indian and shot him square between the eyes, when he failed to answer the  
challenge. The gentle old beast had crumpled in his tracks without making a 
sound.

    Zanders was furiously angry, but no one was sorry for him. He was as mean 
as a man could be  and no one liked him. No one was sorry for the old mule, 
for Zanders was cruel to everything  that belonged to him. our men had 
already had trouble with him. He was arbitrary and  quarrelsome. 

Walt Davies
Monmouth, OR
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