Thus it came about that the Bent caravan, this July of 1829, was attacked on the very first day out from the Arkansas. It had marched only nine or ten miles. The going was very bad, in the hot, flowing sand. All around arose the sand-hills, shimmering yellow, with the sun beating down out of a blue sky. The wagons were strung in a long straggling line, while mules and oxen, their tongues hanging, tugged hard. The teamsters, their feet blistering in their cowhide boots, their beards and flannel shirts caked with dust, urged manfully. The sand-hills, fifty feet high, formed a complete circle around this sandy basin here. The caravan had entered by a narrow passage, and was stringing across, for another narrow passage. Whether the passage opened into the country beyond, nobody knew. Trader Lamme and two companions spurred ahead, to find out: a foolish thing to do. They disappeared among the hollows; were gone not half an hour, when on a sudden, distant gun-shots soundly thinly, and back into sight galloped two of the men, racing full tilt, bare-headed. Following fast there came a drove of other figures--and as if from the very ground, on right and left of the leading wagons, still more figures up-sprung. A chorus of wild whoops echoed. Injuns! All the caravan was in confusion. Horsemen rode, teamsters shouted as they grabbed their guns from the seats and swung their whips. Oxen bellowed and jumbled, mules snorted and balked, the herders of the caballada shrieked for help. "Close up! Close up!" "Corral!" "Charge 'em! Meet the beggars!" "No! Under yore wagon, everybody!" "Get out o' my way! Yip! Gee, Buck!" "Haw, Spot! Haw, Whity! Haw with you!" "Durn these mules! We'll all be wolf meat." "Look! There's nigh a thousand of 'em!" The out-rider guards had lined, on either hand, to stand the enemy off while the wagons bunched. A rear guard sped to protect the caballada. Captain Charles Bent tore back from the advance. He was bare-headed. His long black hair streamed in the breeze that he made. He was mounted on a rangy, raw-boned black mule, with split ears--Comanche brand. No man more fearless ever ranged the plains. A host in himself, was Charles Bent. His voice fairly thundered as he sped along the struggling line of wagons and teams. "Bring on those wagons! Corral! Don't lose your senses, men! We're all right. But corral, corral!" The two fugitives arrived, breathless, their animals sweat-covered and blown. Alas, neither of them was Samuel Lamme, and Samuel Lamme had not appeared. "We've lost Lamme!" they shouted. "The Injuns got him, first fire." "Fetch up that cannon. Unlimber," Captain Bent was shouting. It was a small brass cannon, but had been so wrapped to protect it from the sand that the men could scarcely untie the knots. Away galloped Captain Bent, on his split-ear mule, to encourage the skirmishers' line. He had to be everywhere at once.