I have never been
a superstitious man, have never had a premonition of impending danger,
always rather felt an enthusiasm in my undertakings, yet that morning
when the flag over Fort Griffin faded from our view, I believe there
was not a man in the outfit but realized that our journey would be
disputed by Indians.
Nor had we long to wait. Near the juncture of Elm Creek with the main
Clear Fork we were again attacked at the usual hour in the morning.
The camp was the best available, and yet not a good one for defense,
as the ground was broken by shallow draws and dry washes. There were
about one hundred yards of clear space on three sides of the camp,
while on the exposed side, and thirty yards distant, was a slight
depression of several feet. Fortunately we had a moment's warning, by
several horses snorting and pawing the ground, which caused Goodnight
to quietly awake the men sleeping near him, who in turn were arousing
the others, when a flight of arrows buried themselves in the ground
around us and the war-whoop of the Comanche sounded. Ever cautious,
we had studied the situation on encamping, and had tied our horses,
cavalry fashion, to a heavy rope stretched from the protected side of
the wagon to a high stake driven for the purpose. With the attack the
majority of the men flung themselves into their saddles and started to
the rescue of the remuda, while three others and myself, detailed in
anticipation, ran for the ravine and dropped into it about forty yards
above the wagon.
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