Wagon Train
“Wagon Train” is one of the most popular shows on television. It tells about pioneers, about the people who went West in wagon trains to build new homes, to farm new lands. Here is a wagon story about a boy and his dog; a dog that wouldn’t be left behind.
It was the first day out with the wagon train. The line of canvas-covered wagons, California bound, moved slowly west from the Missouri River.
Major Adams, the wagon master, was in lead. Beside him rode Flint McCullough, the scout.
All long the line, you could hear snatches of song and shouting and laughter. Everybody was happy that first day out. Everybody, except the year-old Sam Parker.
Day and night on back of the farm Sam had thought of nothing but going to California. But that was before he learned that Tag, his dog, was to be left behind.
“We can’t spare our food for pets,” Major Adams had said. “You’d better giving your dog away.”
So the black and white shepherd dog was sent to live with a neighbor. And Sam sat in a corner of the covered wagon, and grieved for his dog.
“Circle up! Here’s where we camp!” called Major Adams, when the day was gone by and twilight had come.
“Circle up!” Flint McCullough, the wagon train scout, carried the command from one wagon to the other. “Circle up! Here’s where we camp!”
With a cracking of wooden wheels, and a “geeing” and “hawing” of the oxen and horses and mules, the covered wagons were moved into a great circle in the clearing.
Sam climbed down to unsaddle Dorcas, the mare, and tether her for the night. Dorcas probably knew how he felt. Dorcas missed Tag, same as he did.
One by one, campfires were lighted and the good smell of bacon and hoe-cakes sweetend the air. Flint McCullough got out his banjo after supper, and young folks began dancing and singing in the bright circle. But Sam couldn’t join in the fun.
“Cheer up, son,” his mother said. “Pa’ll get you another dog in California.”
“Don’t want another dog,” Sam answered. “I just want Tag.”
All at once, there was a rustle in the tall grass. A wet nose nuzzled Sam’s face. A dusty paw pulled at his shirt.
“Tag!” Sam cried. Then he dropped his voice to a whisper. “Be quiet,Tag. I’ll have to hide you.”
Just then. Major Adams came up to the Parker’s campfire. “Everything all right, folks?” he began.
Then he stopped short. “What’s that dog doing here? Pets were to be left behind.”
“We did leave the dog, Major,” Sam’s father said. He stared at Tag as if he couldn’t believe his eyes.
“The rascal must have broken away and picked up our trail.”
“Must have followed us all of twenty miles, then,” the Major said. And then he laughed. “Well, I don’t know as there’s anything to do but let him stay.”
For three months Sam and Tag rode the wagon trail. The settlers plodded from daybreak to dark across the endless prairies. At night they tended to their chores and sang to Flint McCullough’s music :
“Oh, Susanna, don’t you grieve for me
I’m off to Californy with my banjo in my knee.”
But on the evening the high peaks of the Rockies came into view, Flint McCullough did not play his banjo. He was looking for a fording place on the river.
At daylight Flint McCullough returned to camp with bad news. Melting snow from the mountains had made a flash flood on the river.
“We’ll have to build rafts and ferry the wagons over,” said the scout.
Major Adams wasted no time. Food supplies were getting low. He took must of the able-bodied men out of camp, down the rough trail to build rafts for the crossing.
But Sam Parker’s father, and couple of other man who had good saddle horses, stay behind to hunt bear.
“Folks haven’t had any fresh meat since we left buffalo country,” Flint McCullough said. “Bacon’s been used up long ago. Flour and corn meal’s getting scarce.”
The evening meal that night was scanty. The women and children, left in camp, went to bed a little hungry. Tag was hungry, too. He prowled restlessly on the outskirts of the camp. But when Sam rolled up in his blanket under the wagon, Tag was curled close to him as usual.
Just before daybreak the boy woke, feeling that something was wrong. He sat up right in the darkness.
It was true. Tag was gone!
With the first streak of daylight, Sam slipped away from the camp to look for his dog. Once out of the clearing and over the hill, he whistled and called Tag’s name. But there was no sign of Tag.
Once he heard a rustle in the leaves. “Tag!” said Sam. But the rustle turned to a hiss, Sam leaped aside just in time to escape the forked tongue of a rattlesnake.
Sam gave up the search for his dog. He climbed a tree and looked around. As far as he could see there were only trees and rocks and then more trees. No smoke rose up to show the campsite.
There was no sign of the wagon train.
Saw was lost!
All day long he wandered, a lost boy in the forest. Night comes early under the big trees in the Rockies. Sam kept calling his dog. It was a comfort to hear his own voice in the darkness.
Once an owl answered with a hoot.
A red squirrel scolded from a tree branch.
Then, suddenly, there was another sound. Tag’s bark! The special, welcoming, joyful bark that Sam knew so well! The dog came bounding up.
With Tag at his heels, Sam didn’t feel lost anymore.
Still, he knew he must get back to the camp. His family would worry, and Major Adams might move on without him as soon as the rafts were built.
Sam kneeled down and spoke softly to his dog, “Home Tag! Go home!”
Tag’s nose went down to the earth, sniffing. “Home” was just a covered wagon in the wilderness, but Tag understood. At last he picked up the scent, and trotted off.
“Go on Tag!” shouted Sam. “I’m one that’ll tag alone this time.”
On and on Tag trotted, with Sam close behind. Sometimes the boy stumbled in the underbrush or bumped against the dark treetrunks. Suddenly, a black shadow loomed, darker than the trees.
At first sam thought it was a huge rock.
Then the shadow rose up, taller than a man.
A bear !
“Tag! Come back!” yelled Sam.
But the dog had leaped to the attack and fight was on.
“Tag! Tag!” Sam screamed helplessly.
If he only had a gun or a club! He tugged at a tree branch, trying to break it off with his hands.
But Sam’s frightened cries had been heard.
“It’s the boy! He’s found!” came Flint McCullough lough’s voice.
Two horsemen crashed through the underbrush and Sam felt himself lifted to the saddle in his father’s strong arms.
He saw Flint McCullough raise his gun and aim at the struggling beasts; bear and dog.
Sam burried his face in Dorca’s mane, so as not to see Tag killed by a bullet.
A shot rang out. And another. Sam heard a thud and then, seconds later, the panting, joyful whimper of his dog.
Flint McCullough had got the bear clean between the eyes. It was dead. And Tag was safe.
“And the best of it is,” Flint McCullogh said, as they made their way back to the camp, “we’ll have a feast of roasted bearmeat before we cross the river.”
“Yes,” said Sam happily. “It’s sure is good to have a dog along on a wagon train.”
