This was to be a long journey, clear to the Utah country, and I eagerly looked forward to new adventures.
The first of these came suddenly.

We were strung out over the trail near the Platte, about twenty miles from the scene of the Indian attack on McCarthy's outfit, watching the buffalo scattered to right and left of us, when we heard two or three shots, fired in rapid succession.
Before we could find out who fired them, down upon us came a herd of buffalo, charging in a furious stampede.

There was no time to do anything but jump behind our wagons.

The light mess-wagon was drawn by six yoke of Texas steers which instantly became part of the stampede, tearing away over the prairie with the buffalo, our wagon following along behind.

The other wagons were too heavy for the steers to gallop away with; otherwise the whole outfit would have gone.
I remember that one big bull came galloping down between two yoke of oxen, tearing away the gooseneck and the heavy chain with each lowered horn.