Cheyenne
Cheyenne Bodie was famous throughout the West as a guide and a scout. He knew the trails and the mountain passes and the great flat prairies as few men did.
He knews the Indians, too, for he had been adopted by the Cheyenne tribe as a boy and raised by them. That was why he was called Cheyenne.
Even in faraway Philadelphia, young Tom Murdoch had heard many stories of the famous scout. And when Tom’s father and mother decided to go West and settle, Tom was overjoyed.
“Maybe I’ll meet Cheyenne,” Tom said to his friends. “Maybe he’ll teach me how to be a scout.”
His friend laughed.
“Listen to Tom,” one of them said. “What a Wildwest scout he’ll make! He’d trip over his own shadow.”
Tom let them laugh. He’s show them.
Tom and his parents journeyed by stagecoach and steamboat to St. Louis. There they bought a covered wagon and oxen. They joined up with their settlers to from a wagon train. And the trip began.
“Soon we’ll be in Cheyenne’s country,” Tom thought with a thrill excitement.
But the journey westward was slow. There were many hardships, and some of the wagons turned back. Tom’s family went on, and Tom kept hoping that sometime, even in this great wilderness, he would met Cheyenne.
One night a tall man rode into the light of the campfire.
“Colonel McKee of Fort Fulton sent me to guide you the rest of the way,” he said. “You are now in Indian country. Most of the tribes are peaceful. But not Sioux. There may be trouble. Keep your rifles ready.”
The man introduced himself.
“My name is Bodie. But I am called Cheyenne.”
“Cheyenne!” Tom thought. “He’s here, just as I hope.”
Yet Tom found it hard to speak to Cheyenne. Why would the great scout bother with a boy? If only Tom could prove that he had the makings of a scout himself! Then Tom thought a plan.
The next morning when Cheyenne left camp to examine the country ahead, Tom trailed him. He used great care so that he wouldn’t be seen, slipping silently behind boulders.
Tom was startled when he heard Cheyenne’s voice.
“Why are you hiding back of that rock, boy?”
“I was trying to show you how good as a scout I was,” Tom said. “How did you know I was following you?”
Cheyenne laughed. “Next time you’re trailing somebody, don’t have the sun at your back. I saw your shadow.”
“I never thought of that.” Tom said. He turned away. He had made a fool of himself, and Cheyenne would never have anything to do with him again.
But Tom was wrong. Every day after that, Cheyenne had Tom ride close beside him at the lead of the wagon train.
The scout pointed out many things. He showed Tom a compass plant and explained how to tell directions from it leaves which always pointed north and south.
He taught him to know what kind of weather was coming by the color of the sky and the way the birds flew.
He showed him the tracks of wild animals. And he even took Tom along when he trailed and shot a buffalo, when the wagon train needed food.
“A good scout always keeps his eyes and ears open,” said Cheyenne one afternoon. He pointed to the ground. “See those marks. They were made by unshod Indian horses. And there is where an Indian dismounted, a Sioux. I can tell by the shape of the moccasin print. From now on we must be careful.”
The next morning the trail led along the bottom of a narrow canyon. Cheyenne called a halt.
“A perfect place for an Indian ambush,” he said. “I don’t see any of them lying in wait, but it’s too risky to go through. We’ll swing north instead.”
“That’ll take us miles out for our way,” the driver of the lead wagon said.
“Better than being scalped,” replied Cheyenne. He went back to tell his decision to the others.
“There are no Injuns around,” the lead driver growled to Tom. “I’m going through.”
“You heard what Cheyenne said,” Tom warned. “He knows best.”
But the driver cracked his whip and sent his wagon forward into the canyon.
It was then that Tom saw the shadow away up at the top of the canyon wall. The shadow of a man; an Indian.
“Stop,” Tom yelled. He ran forward to the head off the oxen. “Indians!”
There was a rumble from above and rocks began crashing down the side of the canyon.
“Ambush!” Cheyenne shouted.
He came racking back to help Tom and the driver get the wagon turned around and out of the canyon.
They were barely in time. The air was filled with falling rocks and dust. And through it came the war whoops of Indians.
The settlers seized their riffles. They crouched behind the wagons.
“Here they come!” said Cheyenne, and the Indians swarmed down the canyon walls and charged the wagon train.
But, under Cheyenne’s command, the settlers fought back. There was a wild, savage battle and the Indians gave up and fled.
When the wagon train reached Fort Fulson, Colonel McKee was out to greet the newcomers.
“I was afraid you wouldn’t get them all through,” he said to Cheyenne.
“I wouldn’t have except for his lad,” Cheyenne said. And he told what Tom had done, “He has all the makings of a real scout.”
Everybody cheered. At first Tom didn’t know what to said. Then he spoke up.
“Would you mind putting down what you just said in writing, Mr Bodie?” asked Tom. “I mean about me having the makings of a scout. And would you sign your name?”
Cheyenne was puzzled. “Sure, Tom. But why?”
Tom grinned. “I want to send it back to Philadelphia,” he said.
“I want some boys back there to read every word you said. I wish I could see their faces.”
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