The Awakening of the Desert
by Julius Charles Birge · English · Gutenberg #41333 · 729,932 chars · public domain (US)
The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Awakening of the Desert
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.
Title: The Awakening of the Desert
Author: Julius Charles Birge
Release date: November 9, 2012 [eBook #41333]
Most recently updated: October 23, 2024
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/41333
Credits: Produced by Greg Bergquist, Charlie Howard, and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE AWAKENING OF THE DESERT ***
Transcriber's note: Italics text is denoted by _underscores_.
[Illustration]
THE AWAKENING OF THE DESERT
THE AWAKENING
OF THE DESERT
BY
JULIUS C. BIRGE
_With Illustrations_
[Illustration]
RICHARD G. BADGER
THE GORHAM PRESS
BOSTON
_Copyright 1912 by Richard G. Badger_
_All Rights Reserved_
_The Gorham Press, Boston, U. S. A_.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I A Call to the Wilderness 11
II "Roll Out" 18
III The Advancing Wave of Civilization 24
IV A River Town of the Day 38
V Our Introduction to the Great Plains 52
VI The Oregon Trail 64
VII Society in the Wilderness 76
VIII Jack Morrow's Ranch 88
IX Men of the Western Twilight 102
X Dan, the Doctor 118
XI Fording the Platte in High Water 133
XII The Phantom Liar of Greasewood Desert 142
XIII The Mystery of Scott's Bluffs 156
XIV The Peace Pipe at Laramie 167
XV Red Cloud on the War Path 186
XVI The Mormon Trail 196
XVII Wild Midnight Revelry in the Caspar Hills 211
XVIII A Night at Red Buttes 223
XIX Camp Fire Yarns at Three Crossings 237
XX A Spectacular Buffalo Chase 252
XXI The Parting of the Ways 267
XXII The Banditti of Ham's Fork 281
XXIII Through the Wasatch Mountains 290
XXIV Why a Fair City Arose in a Desert 303
XXV Some Inside Glimpses of Mormon Affairs 324
XXVI Mormon Homes and Social Life 342
XXVII The Boarding House Train 359
XXVIII Some Episodes in Stock Hunting 380
XXIX Adventures of an Amateur Detective 393
XXX The Overland Stage Line 409
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
Trail Through Salt Lake Desert Frontispiece
Facing page
Elk 16
Wild Cat 48
The Oregon Trail, Through Mitchell Pass 64
Chimney Rock, One of the Old Landmarks of the '49 Trail 74
Grizzly Bear 96
Cougar 112
Buffalos 130
Jail Rock and Court House Rock 148
Scott's Bluff, Showing Dome Rock in the Distance 155
The Old Company Quarters at Fort Laramie 184
Sage Brush Growth 202
The Rockies 252
Fremont Peak and Island Lake on the West Slope of the
Wind River Range 268
Red Sandstone Cliffs, on Wind River 280
Weber River, Mouth of Echo Canyon 294
Joseph Smith 304
The King of Beaver Island 308
Brigham Young 316
First House Built in Salt Lake City 330
Great Salt Lake 346
Through the Wasatch 360
Dead Man's Falls, Little Cottonwood, Utah 386
Sutter's Fort Before Restoration, Sacramento, Calif 406
First House in Denver 420
THE AWAKENING OF THE DESERT
[Illustration: TRAIL THROUGH SALT LAKE DESERT]
THE AWAKENING OF THE DESERT
CHAPTER I
A Call to the Wilderness
"Will you join us in a camping trip to the Pacific Coast?" This alluring
invitation was addressed to the writer one cold, drizzly night in the
early spring of 1866 by Captain Hill Whitmore, one of a party of six men
who by prearrangement had gathered round a cheerful wood fire in a
village store in Whitewater, Wisconsin.
The regular business of the establishment had ended for the day; the
tight wooden shutters had been placed upon the doors and windows of the
store as was the custom in those times; and the key was now turned in
the lock to prevent intrusions. All the lights had been turned off,
except that of a single kerosene lamp, suspended from the ceiling near
the stove; the gentle glow revealed within a small arc on either side of
the room the lines of shelving filled with bolts of dry goods, but
toward the front and the rear of the long room it was lost in the
darkness. The conditions were favorable for a quiet, undisturbed
discussion of a proposed enterprise, for even Ray, the clerk, after
ramming a maple log into the fire, had quietly stretched himself out
upon one of the long counters near the stove, resting his head upon a
bolt of blue denim.
Tipping back in a big wooden chair against the opposite counter, at the
Captain's side, with his feet on the rail by the stove, sat big John
Wilson. John had made a trip across the plains with Whitmore the
preceding year, and was now arranging to become his partner in a similar
venture on a larger scale. Trader and adventurer by instinct, Wilson, as
his record had shown, would promptly accept a brickyard or a grocery in
exchange for live stock or a farm, and preferred any new enterprise to a
business with which he was familiar.
Fred Day, an interesting young man of twenty years, was a consumptive.
He and I sat side by side at the front of the stove, while nervous
little Paul Beemer, when not pacing back and forth between the counters
behind us, sat astride a small chair, resting his arms on its back, and
listening with close attention.
Stalwart Dan Trippe sat in a big arm chair near Paul. He had already
been informed in a general way that a transcontinental expedition was
being planned. Dan also was ever ready to consider any new venture. He
had once crossed the plains to Pike's Peak, and had no present vocation.
Running his fingers through his curly hair, as was his habit in serious
moments, he launched a question toward the opposite side of the stove.
"Well, John, what's the proposition? What's the scheme?"
Dropping his chair forward upon its four legs, and knocking the ashes
from his pipe, John proceeded to outline the tentative plan then in
mind. Briefly stated, the project was to fit out a wagon train with the
view of freighting from the Missouri River to the Coast. In the
preceding year the rates for transportation to Salt Lake had been from
twenty to thirty cents per pound, affording a fine profit if the train
should go through safe.
Hill Whitmore, a vigorous, compactly built man, then in the prime of
life, and who since the discovery of gold in California had more than
once piloted such trains across the wide stretch of plains and mountains
to the Pacific Coast, would be a partner in the enterprise and the
Captain of the expedition. We had known him long and well.
An opportunity was now offered for the investment of more capital which,
if no mishap should befall the train, would pay 'big money.'
A few young fellows could also accompany the outfit and obtain a great
experience at a moderate cost. Being myself a convalescent from a
serious attack of typhoid fever, and having temporarily withdrawn from
business at the recommendation of physicians, Fred's condition commanded
my serious consideration. I gently pulled his coat-sleeve as a signal
for him to follow me, and we leisurely sauntered down into the shadows
near the front of the store where, backing up against a counter, we were
soon seated together on its top. We both knew, without exchanging a
word, that we had some interests in common. Ordinarily, he was a genial
and affable companion, but we both remained silent then, for we were
absorbed in thinking--and doubtless along the same lines. The mere
suggestion of the trip at once brought vividly to my mind all the little
I then knew of the West. Like all Gaul in the days of Caesar, it seemed
in some vague way to be divided into three parts, the plains, the
mountains, and the region beyond.
The indefiniteness of the old western maps of the day left much to the
imagination of the young student of geography and suggested the idea of
something new to be discovered. The great American Desert was
represented as extending hundreds of miles along the eastern slope of
the mountains. Other deserts were shown in the unoccupied spaces
beyond, and
"As geographers in Afric's maps
With savage pictures fill their gaps,"
so here and there on our maps of the western territories was inserted
the name of some Indian tribe which was supposed to lead its wild,
nomadic life in the district indicated. A few rivers and mountain peaks
which had received the names of early explorers, Great Salt Lake to
which the Mormons had been led, and other objects to which had been
applied the breezy, not to say blood-curdling, appellations peculiar to
the nomenclature of the West, all were perhaps more familiar to the
average American schoolboy than were the classic names which have lived
through twenty centuries of history. In the imagination of youth, "Smoky
Hill Fork," "Devil's Slide," and "Rattlesnake Hills" figured as pretty
nearly what such terms naturally suggest. Along the first-mentioned
stream--then far away from civilization--the soft haze and smoke of an
ideal Indian summer was supposed to rest perpetually, and it was
believed that in days of long ago, weird demons were really wont to
disport themselves on the mountain slope called Devil's Slide. The far
West seemed to be a mystic land always and everywhere wooing to
interesting adventure.
"Do you think that Ben would go?" asked Fred in an earnest tone.
"That's a bright thought, Fred. With Ben, we would be a harmonious
triumvirate; but let's hear more of the program." So we returned to our
seats by the stove.
Whitmore was outlining some of the details and indicating the provisions
which it would be necessary to make, in view of the fact that no
railroad had as yet been laid even across Iowa, much less between the
Missouri and the Pacific.
"Now boys, you must understand that we're cutting loose from all
established settlements. There won't be any stores to drop into to buy
anything that you have forgotten to bring along. Anybody that wants
lemonade will have to bring along his lemons and his squeezer. After we
get beyond the Missouri River you will find no white peoples' homes
until you strike the Mormon settlement in Utah, so we'll have to take
along enough grub to feed us for several months;--of course we ought to
kill some game on the way, which will help out. Our stock must live
wholly upon such pasturage as can be found along the way. The men must
also be well armed with rifles; wagons must be built; and the cattle
must be purchased. There is a lot to do to get ready, and we must start
in on it at once."
During the preceding year, as was well known, the Indians in the West
had been unusually hostile. Many parties of freighters, among them
Whitmore's train, had been attacked, and a great number of travelers had
been massacred. That year and the one to be described, are still
mentioned in the annals of the West, as "the bloody years on the
plains." This state of affairs was fully considered and discussed, not
solely from the standpoint of personal safety, but also with reference
to the success of the enterprise.
Having been reared among the Indian tribes of Southern Wisconsin, and
within a mile of the spot where Abraham Lincoln disbanded his company at
the close of the Black Hawk War, I was disposed to believe that I was
not entirely unfamiliar with the manners and customs of the aborigines.
Searches for arrows and spearheads in prehistoric Aztalan and in other
places, visits to Bad Axe and to other scenes of conflict with Indians
had been to me sources of keen delight. Over these battlefields there
seemed to rest a halo of glory. They were invested with interest
profound as that which, in later years, stimulated my imagination when I
looked upon more notable battlefields of the Old World, where the
destinies of nations had been decided. But at this time the experiences
of my youth were fresh in my mind and the suggestion of a western trip
found in me an eager welcome.
It was not indeed the lure of wealth, nor entirely a search for health
that attracted the younger members of the party to a consideration of
the project, nor in contemplating such an expedition was there enkindled
any burning desire for warfare; it was the fascination of the wild life
in prospect that tempted us most powerfully to share the fortunes of the
other boys who had been our companions in earlier years and whom we
fervently hoped would join the party. Fred undoubtedly expressed our
sentiments when he said:
"My enthusiasm might take a big slump if a raid of those red devils
should swoop down upon us, but if I go, I shall feel as if I didn't get
my money's worth, if we don't see some of the real life of the Wild
West."
We had all been accustomed to the use of firearms and could picture in
our imagination how, from behind an ample rock, with the aid of good
long-range rifles, we would valiantly defend ourselves against an enemy
armed with bows and arrows, we being far beyond the range of such
primitive weapons.
[Illustration: ELK]
Immense herds of buffalo and other large game were also known to range
over the plains from the Canadian border to the Gulf of Mexico, and
these at times might receive proper attention. Yea, there were some
present who even expressed a desire to capture a grizzly bear in the
mountains--of course under sane and safe conditions--though none up to
that time had seen the real thing.
A former schoolmate, Billy Comstock, best known as "Wild Bill," who rode
the first pony express from Atchison, and had often been called upon by
our Government to act as Indian interpreter, was said to be somewhere on
the plains. This was encouraging, for William would be able to give us
some interesting pointers.
"We will meet here again after the store closes tomorrow night" was the
word that passed round as we went out into the sleet and rain, and the
door closed behind us.
At the earliest opportunity our friend, Ben Frees, who had recently
returned from the war, was interviewed with favorable results.
"Yes, I will go with the boys," was my decision finally reached after a
full discussion of the subject at home.
And the three boys went.
CHAPTER II
"ROLL OUT"
Whitmore and Wilson, who were the leading spirits in our expedition,
urged that twenty-five Henry repeating rifles (which had recently been
invented) and thirty Colt's revolvers should be secured for our party;
this in view of their experience on the plains in the preceding year and
of recent reports from the West. If any trifling precaution of that
nature would in any way contribute to the safety and comfort of those
gentlemen, it would certainly meet with my approval. They were to leave
families behind them and should go fully protected. In fact certain
stories that had been related in my hearing had excited even within my
breast a strong prejudice against the impolite and boorish manner in
which Indians sometimes scalped their captives. Orders were accordingly
transmitted for the arms to be shipped from Hartford. The sixty wagons
were built specially for the purpose in question and thirty-six vigorous
young men, the most of whom had seen service in the Civil War just
ended, were secured to manage the teams.
Under the new white canvas cover of each wagon lay at least one rifle.
The men had practiced more or less the use of the peculiar whip that
seemed necessary for the long teams. It consisted of a very short stock
and an exceedingly long lash, which the expert can throw to its utmost
length so as to reach the flank of a leader with accuracy, and without
injury to the beast, producing a report rivaling in sharpness the
explosion of a firecracker. The loudness of its snap was the measure of
the skill with which the whip had been wielded.
The afternoon of Wednesday, April 18th, beheld a lively scene on the
streets of the old town. Three hundred and sixty oxen, strong and
healthy, but in some instances refractory, (as might have been
expected), were carefully distributed and yoked up in their assigned
positions. With the wagons they were lined out in the long street, the
train extending about three-fifths of a mile, while the men in position
awaited the command to move. In addition to the crowds of children and
other curious onlookers, there were gathered at each wagon many friends,
relatives, and, in some cases, sweethearts of the young men in charge of
the several teams, to speak the tender words of farewell. It may sound
strange now to say that many tears were shed. In this day of safe and
swift travel, it is not easy to find occasion that would justify such a
demonstration. It must be remembered, however, that the trip, even to
Salt Lake City, on which this train was about to set out, would consume
more time than now would be necessary to circle the globe. Moreover, the
war, during which partings had come to be serious occasions, had but
just ended. After leaving the Missouri River by the route contemplated,
communication with friends at home would be suspended or uncertain for
many months. The alarming indications of trouble with Indians on the
plains were also in every mind, but were doubtless viewed less seriously
by the strong young men now departing than by those who were left
behind, even by such as would not be apt "to fear for the fearless were
they companions in their danger."
The appointed hour of four o'clock having arrived, the command "roll
out," which afterwards became very familiar, was given. Under vigorous
and incessant cracking of the new whips, the long train began to move on
its journey westward. Expressions of kind wishes blended with cheers and
the voices of the drivers, who were as yet not familiar with the great
teams which they were to manage.
The undignified conduct of some of the young, untrained oxen, which
occasionally persisted in an endeavor to strike off for themselves
(possibly to seek their former masters' cribs), and the efforts of
inexperienced drivers to bring them under subjection, were the cause of
much amusement, especially when one long team, inspired by some sudden
impulse, swung round its driver and doubled up in a confused mass, while
a lone but unobserved country woman in a buggy was endeavoring to drive
by. His years of experience in a country store were then of little avail
to the young whipmaster who was less expert in wielding a long lash than
in measuring calico for maidens. While raising his voice to its highest
pitch, he was also striving to demonstrate his skill in manipulating the
formidable thong by landing its resounding tip on the flank of an unruly
steer full fifty feet away. As the long cord whirled swiftly in its
broad circuit behind him it completely enwrapped the body of the woman.
A terrific scream was the first intimation which came to our busy driver
telling him the nature of the obstruction against which he was tugging.
Her horse at once joined in the _mêlee_, and, starting, dragged the whip
behind the buggy, until assistance was given and apologies were made.
The woman pleasantly remarked that she would not feel safe on her farm
with many such drivers around.
Before sunset the train reached Harrington's Pond, the objective point
of the first night's camp. The cooks at once pitched their tent, while
the teamsters, having corralled the wagons into a circle, prepared to
turn the cattle loose to feed upon the range. Before they were released,
Whitmore shouted to the driver inside the circle:
"Now boys, everybody must look at his oxen mighty careful so as to know
them and know where they belong in the teams, because if you don't
you'll have a tussle in the morning picking out your stock and yoking
them right when they'll be mixed up with four hundred other oxen."
Hearing this admonition, Gus Scoville, who had long been a store clerk,
stood beside his oxen in a state of doubt and dire perplexity and
finally opened his heart:
"Say Jule, these oxen all look just alike to me. How in thunder is a
fellow going to know them in the morning; it's hard enough to know some
people."
"Why Gus, they have lots of expression in their faces, and know each
other mighty well. Say, I'll tell you how to work it, get a black rag
and tear it into long strings and tie a strip around the tail of each
ox."
I don't know from whose old coat Gus tore the black lining, but the oxen
were soon decorated with emblems of mourning. The guards to watch the
stock having been assigned, the men came down to the realities of camp
life: no more china plates set by dainty hands on white linen
tablecloths; no more delicate tidbits such as a housewife in a
comfortable home so often serves; no easy chairs in which to rest in
comfort, and no cleanly beds in which to pass the night,--yet no one was
disappointed, and good spirits prevailed. The tin plates with bacon and
hot bread, and the big tin cups of coffee, without milk, were disposed
of with evident relish, born of exercise and good digestion.
After the earlier evening hours had been whiled away with song and jest,
one by one the pilgrims retired to their respective covered wagons,
wrapped their blankets round them and maybe with boots beneath their
heads for a pillow, sought the peace of sleep. Now and then the voice of
some exuberant youth yet untamed would break the stillness of the night
with an old song inappropriate to the hour, and from out some remote
wagon another would join in the refrain.
As the mariner on the first glimpse of the morning light looks out
toward the sky to see what are the signs for the coming day, so on their
first morning in camp the boys, hearing the murmur of raindrops on their
wagon covers or tents, looked out to take an observation, and discovered
indications of an approaching storm. After the first preliminary gusts,
the weather settled down into a steady rain, which continued thirty-six
hours. It was deemed inexpedient so early in the trip to subject the men
to unnecessary exposure, and the party was continued in camp. There
were many duties to perform. The guard for the stock was changed
periodically, but the boys in general devoted their energies to keeping
dry and to drying out what had become wet. This was no easy matter,
because the camp became surrounded by a sea of mud, and little comfort
could be derived from an open, out-of-door bonfire, upon which the
heavens were sending a drenching rain. The meals were served largely in
the wagons, in some of which a number of the party would gather for
mutual comfort and warmth, the food being conveyed to them by
self-sacrificing young men, who with a pail of hot coffee in one hand
and tinware in the other, braved the elements for the common good.
They were already beginning to learn who were the good fellows, ready to
do service, and who were the "gentlemen," too selfish or indifferent to
share fully with others the responsibilities and sacrifices of this mode
of life. Travel of the kind upon which they were embarking brings out
the inward characteristics of men more quickly and thoroughly than can
anything else. The spirit of Burns' _Grace before Meat_ is consoling
when all does not go smoothly:
"Some hae meat and canna eat,
And some wad eat that want it;
But we hae meat and we can eat,
Sae let the Lord be thankit."
The gloomy day was followed by a night of inky blackness, during which
the April wind made the wagon covers flap incessantly, while the rain
steadily rattled on the sheets and the air was chilly and penetrating.
The conditions were not favorable to hilarity, and there was little
noise except that caused by the elements; so until noon of the following
day everyone sought to make the best of existing conditions, believing
that, as had always been their observation, there never was a night so
dark, nor a storm so severe that it was not followed by a sunburst.
CHAPTER III
THE ADVANCING WAVE OF CIVILIZATION
Have you ever carefully watched the movements or caught the earnest
spirit of the immigrant who, after traveling many hundreds of miles
along the difficult roads through an unbroken country to a strange land,
there seeks a spot where he may build a home for his family? Many of the
young men in our party were on such a mission. That we may better
understand the motives which inspired them and the movement of which
they became a part, a retrospective glance seems almost necessary.
Having late in the thirties become the first scion of the pioneers in
the country where I was born, I ought to be qualified to throw some
light upon the experiences of the frontiersman, because primeval
Wisconsin, as it lay untouched by civilization, and the inflow of its
population as I saw it, left upon my mind vivid impressions. There was a
blending of pathos and humor in the arduous lives of these builders of
the nation.
Without then comprehending its significance, I had observed from time to
time the arrival of sturdy and intelligent home-seekers from New England
and New York, transporting their household effects in country wagons
along the old, but almost impassable territorial road. I was once led
to accompany two other children, who, with their parents, were on such a
pilgrimage. In their two-horse wagon were tightly packed a little
furniture and a few boxes. The wagon cover had been turned that the view
might be unobstructed. At one time the immigrants paused as they forded
a running brook; they looked up and down the green valley; then they
drove out from the road to the summit of a nearby knoll, where their
horses were again rested. Here the father rose to his feet; he turned
his eyes earnestly and intently now in one direction and now in another
across the inviting stretches of unoccupied territory. An entrancing
panorama of small valleys and vistas of groves, all clothed in soft
verdure of June, was spread out before him; not a thing of man's
construction, nor even a domestic animal, was visible on the landscape,
except their faithful dog, which was scurrying among the hazel bushes.
To me there seemed a long delay. The father finally lifted his little,
young wife so that she stood upon the wagon seat, supporting her with an
encircling arm, his two boys standing before him. The children looked
with wondering eyes, as he pointed to a far-away green meadow traversed
by a brook, from near which rose a wooded slope. He asked if that would
be a good place for a home. A simple but expressive nod, a tear in her
eye, and a kiss on her husband's cheek, were the only signs of approval
that the sick and weary wife was able to give. In later years, when I
had learned their history, I knew better the meaning of the mother's
emotion. The father drove down the bushy slope to the meadow, then
taking his axe he crossed to the woodland, and there he blazed a tree as
an evidence of his claim. Returning to the shelter of another settler's
home, he was welcomed, as were all comers, by the pioneers, and one
little room was for many days the home of the two families once
accustomed to eastern comforts. There they remained until the father
could drive fifty miles to the Government land office, there perfect his
title, and return to "roll up" his log cabin.
Such was the beginning of that colonization. I watched the first wagon
train that later heralded the coming tide of thrifty Norwegians, and
many of their trains that followed. I had never before seen a foreigner.
They all followed round the Great Lakes in sailing vessels to Milwaukee.
There they piled high their great wooden chests upon farmers' wagons by
the side of which in strange, short-waisted, long-skirted woolen coats
and blue caps, and with their women and children at their side, they
plodded along on foot, first through the forests, then over the openings
along the same territorial road. Both men and women often slept at night
under the loaded wagons. I have observed them at their meals by the
wayside where nothing was eaten but dry sheets of rye bread little
thicker than blotting paper, and much like it in appearance. A few
villages had then sprung up. From these the Norwegians scattered,
chiefly among the hills, and there built little homes and left their
impress upon the country.
But westward, and farther westward, the tide continued to flow. As some
of the young men in our train were emigrating to the West to establish a
home in the new country which they had never seen, I now found myself to
be a part of this wonderful westward movement and was again to share in
its peculiar vicissitudes and experiences; however, as a participant,
favored with special opportunities, observing others also borne forward
in the flux of nations.
As our train was traversing the first five-hundred-mile lap to the
Missouri River, we discovered that the homes beyond a certain point in
Central Iowa seemed suddenly as it were to be few and far apart, leaving
increasing stretches of unoccupied land between them. The population
rapidly thinned out, until its last ripples were reached in the western
part of the state, where the serenity of nature was hardly disturbed by
the approaching flood of immigration.
There was already a line of small towns along the west bank of the
Missouri, which were the starting points for transcontinental traffic,
where freight was transferred from river steamers to wagons. Beyond the
Missouri and a narrow strip of arable land along its western shore, lay
the vast territory believed to be fit only for savages, wild beasts, and
fur traders, a wide, inhospitable waste, which men were compelled to
cross who would reach the Eldorado on the Pacific, or the mines in the
mountains.
The line of demarcation between the fertile and the arid country was
supposed to be well defined. On one side Nature responded to the spring
and summer showers with luxuriant verdure; on the western side the
sterile soil lay dormant under rainless skies. It was believed that
immigration would certainly be checked at this line as the ocean tide
faints upon a sandy shore; but it had now begun to flow along a narrow
trail across the desert to a more generous land beyond. To this trail
our course was now directed.
It would be an exceedingly dull company of emigrants and ox drivers
which while traveling together even through a somewhat settled country,
and sharing with each other the free life of the camp, would not have
among its members a few whose thoughts and activities would at times
break out from the narrow grooves of prescribed duties. Our life of
migration through the inhabited country was intensely interesting,
furnishing many peculiar experiences, all flavored to some extent by the
character and temper of the persons concerned. As the eagerness of the
men to emancipate themselves from the restraints of civilization
increased, they began soon to adopt the manners of frontiersmen, and to
resort to every possible device within the range of their inventive
powers for diversion.
Young Moore, who hoped to reach Oregon, was an exuberant fellow
preferring any unconstrained activities to regular duties. In former
days he had distinguished himself in "speaking pieces" in the district
school. This training led him often to quote poetry very freely and
dramatically. It was Moore who sighted the first game worthy of mention,
when he observed two beautiful animals at the moment that they glided
into a copse of bushes nearly half a mile from the train. Transferring
the care of his team to another, he hastened for his gun and started
upon the first interesting hunt of the trip. This being really his
maiden experience in the fascinating sport, he was desirous of winning
for himself the first laurels of victory in the chase. Not knowing the
nature of the animals to be encountered, he approached as closely as
possible to the coveted game, penetrating the thicket where the animals
were concealed. The first discharge of his gun probably wounded one of
the animals which, by the way, had a means of defense that baffles the
attacks of the most powerful foe. The more experienced drivers soon knew
that he had encountered the malodorous _Mephites Americana_, commonly
known as skunk. Both of the animals and possibly some unseen
confederates of the same family, must have invoked their combined
resources in the conflict with Moore, for the all-pervasive pungent odor
loaded the air and was wafted toward us, seemingly dense enough to be
felt. Moore retreated into the open and ran toward the train for
assistance, but he was no longer a desirable companion. While it might
be truly said that he was a sight, it might better be said that he was a
smell.
The train moved on in search of pure air, and Moore followed, bearing
with him the reminder of his unfortunate experience. Wheresoever he went
he left behind him an invisible trail of odor which had the suggestion
of contagion, and from which his fellows fled in dismay or disgust.
In the calm stillness of the next evening, when voices were easily heard
at a distance, and when through the soft air of spring, perfumes were
transmitted in their greatest perfection, Moore stood alone, far away
from the camp, and delivered an eloquent but pathetic monologue,
concluding with the servant's words to Pistol, "I would give all my fame
for a pot of ale and safety." Then across the intervening space he
calmly discussed with his friends the advisability of burying his
clothes for a week to deodorize them, a custom said to be common among
farmers who have suffered a like experience. It was finally conceded
that he should hold himself in quarantine for the night, and not less
than a mile from the train, and that during the ensuing days his
garments might be hung in the open air on the rear of the hind wagon.
The sequel to this hunt was approximately forty miles long, for the
train covered more than that distance before it ceased to leave in its
trail the fragrant reminder of Moore's first essay in hunting.
On a Saturday the long train rolled through the comparatively old town
of Milton, a little village settled in the forties by a colony of
Seventh Day Baptists. As is well known, these people honor the seventh
day, or Saturday, as their Sabbath, or day of rest. We filed through
the quiet, sleepy town while the worshippers were going to their church.
It seemed as if we had either lost our reckoning of time, or were
flagrantly dishonoring the Lord's Day.
After we had passed through to the open country beyond, some of the boys
who had been riding together in the rear and had been discussing the
Sunday question brought to mind by this trifling occurrence, decided to
interview our highest authority upon the subject, and accordingly rode
alongside of Captain Whitmore, who had been riding in advance.
"Captain," said one of the party, in a dignified and serious manner, "we
know that your recent life has been spent very much in the mountains and
that you have not been a regular attendant at church, although we
believe your wife to be a good Methodist. What has been your practice in
this kind of travel with reference to Sabbath observance?"
"Well, now, my boy," replied the Captain, "I have never cared very much
for Sunday or for churches, but you must know that when we get out on
the plains we can't afford to stop all our stock to starve on a desert
where there is no feed or water just because it is Sunday. Sometimes
there may be grass enough on a little bottom for a night, but it will be
cropped close before the stock lies down. To remain another night would
mean starvation to the stock, which would be roaming in every direction.
Of course I don't know the ranges as well as the buffaloes do, but there
are a few places, and I know pretty near where to find them, where in
most seasons stock can feed a second day, unless others have too
recently pastured it. When I find such a place I lie over for a day and
don't care if it is Saturday, Sunday or Monday. But," he added, with
earnestness, "I want to tell you one thing. I have crossed the plains
to the coast many times, and I can take a train of oxen or mules and
turn them out one whole day every sixth or seventh day, free to range
for twenty-four hours, and I can make this trip in less time and bring
my stock through to the Pacific in better condition than any fool can
who drives them even a little every day."
"Now, Cap," said one, "you are getting right down to the philosophy of
Sabbath observance. Why can you drive farther by resting full days
rather than to rest your stock a little more each day?"
"Well, I don't know, except that I have tried both ways. Animals and men
seem to be built that way. Now, here's these Seventh Day Baptists whose
Sunday comes on Saturday. They're all right, but they would be just as
correct if they would regularly use any other day as the Sabbath, and I
believe the Lord knew what we ought to have when he got out the fourth
commandment. I know 'em all as well as you do. I think Mrs. Whitmore is
right in going to church on Sunday, and in making me put on a clean
shirt when at home, even though I do not go with her. It would be better
for me if I would go with her, but I have roughed it so much that I have
got out of the way of it."
Thus was announced the Captain's policy for our _quasi_ weekly days of
rest, and the affair was conducted accordingly.
As our train crawled across Rock River, whose banks were once the
favorite hunting grounds of the Winnebagoes and Pottawattamies, I
recalled a final gathering of the remnant of the latter tribe, which I
witnessed, when, for the last time, they turned from their beautiful
home and started in single file on their long, sad trail toward the
setting sun, to the reservation set apart for them forever. We shall
note more of this type of historical incident as we pass beyond the
Missouri, for the white man was pushing the Indian year by year farther
back into the wild and arid lands then supposed to be of no use for
cultivation.
The overshadowing events of more recent years cause us almost to forget
that Zachary Taylor, Winfield Scott, Jefferson Davis, Abraham Lincoln,
Robert Anderson of Fort Sumter fame, and other men who became
distinguished in American affairs, were once engaged in pursuing the
Sacs and Foxes up these streams which we crossed while on our journey to
the land of the yet unsubdued Sioux and Cheyennes.
Passing beyond the Mississippi, and to the western limit of railroad
transportation, I was joined at Monticello by my old friends, Ben Frees
and Fred Day.
Walking back six miles from the frontier station we struck the camp in
time for a late supper. The dark evening hours were brightened by a
rousing bonfire that the boys had built. The shadows of night had long
since settled down upon the camp, and, there being no apparent occasion
for us to retire immediately, Ben, Fred and I wandered together out into
the gloom far away from the now flickering camp fire, which like some
fevered lives, was soon to leave nothing but gray ashes or blackened,
dying embers. We had just come together after our separation, and we
conversed long concerning the unknown future that lay before us, for no
definite plans for our trip, nor even the route that we were to take,
had been perfected, and this was the second of May.
Our footsteps led us toward a rural cemetery, some miles east of the
town of Monticello, in which we had already observed a few white grave
stones, indicating that the grim reaper had found an early harvest in
this new settlement. Our attention was soon attracted to a dim light
slowly floating around the ground in a remote ravine within the
enclosure. A lonely graveyard at night had never appealed to me as a
place of especial interest, yet I had heard of one unfortunate, who in
his natural life had done a great wrong; when consigned to the tomb, his
spirit, unable to rise, was held to earth, and yearly on certain nights
it hovered over the grave where his own body had gone to dust.
"Boys," said Fred, "that light is certainly mysterious; it is not the
light of a candle." A slight chill ran up my spinal column, concerning
which I made no comment. It was at once suggested that there was nothing
we were able to do about it; moreover our diffidence and modesty
naturally inclined us to avoid mixing up in the private, sub-mundane
affairs of the departed, especially those with whom we had had no
acquaintance, or whose character was uncertain. If, instead of this
strange light, the appearance had been something of flesh and blood, we,
being as we believed, quite courageous, would have proceeded at once to
investigate its nature. Curiosity, however, led us to advance cautiously
forward. Ben, being a trifle shorter than I, was permitted to move in
advance, as I did not wish to obstruct his view. The phosphorescence, or
whatever it was, soon ceased to move, and rested near a little
gravestone, the form of which we could faintly discern in outline.
Quietly drawing nearer, we caught the subdued sound of something like a
human voice coming, as we believed (and as was truly the fact), from the
earth; the words, as nearly as we could understand, were, "help me out."
Surely this was a spirit struggling to escape, and our approach was
recognized. At that moment we were startled to discover an arm reaching
upward from the earth. Another dark form, emerging from the shadow of a
nearby copse of bushes, in the dim light could be seen approaching
toward the extended hand, which it appeared to grasp, and a body was
lifted to the surface, from which came the words of kind assurance,
"It's all right, Mike." "Sure," said Ben, "that is an Irishman, and I
think Irishmen are generally good fellows, but I believe they are
robbing a grave."
Drawing still nearer we discovered that the light which we had observed
was an old-fashioned tin lantern, suspended from a small tree, and its
feeble rays now brought to our view a plain, wooden coffin resting upon
the ground. Inspired by a better knowledge of the situation, we quickly
came to the front, and, as if vested with some authority for inquiring
concerning this desecration, we demanded an explanation, for it was now
past midnight.
"And wad ye have all the facts?" asked the Irishman, as we looked into
the open grave. We firmly urged that we must understand the whole
situation. The two men glanced at each other. "Well," said one, "this
man in this coffin ferninst ye, died last night of smallpox, and we were
hired to bury him before morning, because ye wouldn't have a smallpox
stiff around in the day time, wad ye?" The path out of the graveyard was
tortuous and dark; in fact, we found no path through the dense
underbrush, but we reached the road in safety. Unseen and immaterial
things are usually more feared than are visible and tangible objects.
The combination of smallpox and spirits departed verges visibly on the
uncanny.
On a tributary of the Des Moines River we found the first Indians thus
far seen, possibly two score of miserable, degraded beings who were
camping there. They had little of the free, dignified bearing of
representatives of the tribes with which I had once been familiar. A
little contact with civilization and a little support from the
Government had made them the idle, aimless wanderers that nearly all
savages become when under such influence. Keokuk, the successor of Black
Hawk, and Wapello, became chiefs of the united tribes of the Sacs and
Foxes, and along with Appanoose, a Fox chief, received reservations
along these streams. Wapello was buried at Indian Agency near Ottutumwa,
beside the body of his friend and protector, General Street.
Our men had not yet reached a state of savagery in which there was not
occasional longing for the good things commonly enjoyed by civilized
beings. Among these was milk. On the day that we met the Indians, and at
some distance from the camp, a solitary cow was seen feeding on the
prairie. Several days had passed since our men had been permitted to
enjoy the luxury of milk for coffee. It occurred to Brant that a golden
opportunity was presented, which if seized upon would place the camp
under lasting obligations to him. He struck across the country and
gradually approaching the animal succeeded so thoroughly in securing her
confidence that he soon returned with a pail of the precious liquid. The
question arose as to whether or not Brant could set up a valid defense
against a charge of larceny in case the owner of the cow, having proof
that he had extracted the milk, should prefer charges against him. The
case was argued at the evening session, and I preserved a record of the
proceedings. Evidence was adduced to show that at the time the milk was
taken, the cow was feeding upon the public domain, or what is known as
Government land; that the grass and water which were taken for its
support and nourishment were obtained by the said cow from public lands
without payment therefor; that a portion of said grass taken by said cow
and not required for nourishment did, through the processes of nature,
become milk; that the said milk at the time of its extraction had not
become either constructively or prospectively an essential part of said
cow, nor could any title thereto become exclusively vested in the owner
of said cow, except such milk as said cow should have within her when
she should enter upon the premises of her owner. It was admitted that
the milk was obtained from said cow under false pretences, by virtue of
the fact that Brant's manner in approaching her was such as was
calculated to cause any cow of ordinary intelligence to believe that he
was duly authorized to take said milk. It was assumed, however, that
under the statutes of Iowa there was no law by which said cow could
become a plaintiff in a case, even through the intervention of a nearest
friend.
As the milk was to be served freely to all the boys for breakfast, and
as we were desirous that all questions of justice and equity should be
fairly settled before any property should be appropriated to our use
which might have been unlawfully acquired, the jury, after prayerful
consideration decided that as the food taken by said cow to produce said
milk was public property, the milk also was the property of the public.
We, therefore, used the milk in our coffee for breakfast. It was also
the last obtained by the men for many months.
At this juncture I was to be sent upon a mission. There had been
transported in the Captain's wagon a little more than $8,000.00 in
currency to be used in the purchase of supplies. Whitmore was anxious
that this currency, which was quite a large sum for that day, should be
deposited in some bank in Nebraska City. Improvising a belt in which
the money was placed, I started out alone for that town, and soon
encountered heavy storms, which delayed progress. On one day in which I
made a continuous ride of seventy-eight miles, one stretch of
twenty-four miles was passed along which no house was visible. This
indicated the tapering out of civilization and the proximity of the
western limit of population in that territory.
On the 22d of May I crossed the Missouri River by a ferry, after fording
a long stretch of flooded bottom lands to the landing, five days after
leaving our train, and reached Nebraska City, then an outfitting point
for transcontinental travel.
CHAPTER IV
A RIVER TOWN OF THE DAY
From the western boundary of the state that bears its name, the
attenuated channel of the Missouri River stretched itself far out into
the unsettled Northwest, projecting its long antennae-like tributaries
into the distant mountains, where year after year the fur traders
awaited the annual arrival of the small river steamers, which in one
trip each summer brought thither supplies from St. Louis and returned
with rich cargoes of furs and peltries. On the western bank of
that turbid, fickle stream were half a dozen towns, known chiefly
as out-fitting places, which owed their existence to the river
transportation from St. Louis, whereby supplies consigned to the
mountains, or to the Pacific Coast, could be carried hundreds of miles
further west and nearer to the mining districts and the ocean than by
any other economical mode of transit. These towns had, therefore, become
the base of operations for commerce and travel between the East and the
far West, and so remained until the transcontinental railroads spanned
the wilderness beyond.
Nebraska City was a fair type of those singular towns, which possibly
have no counterpart at the present time. Like many western settlements,
Nebraska City was christened a city when in its cradle, possibly because
of the prevailing optimism of all western town-site boomers, who would
make their town a city at least in name, with the hope that in time it
would become a city in fact. The visitor to one of those towns at the
present day is sure to be impressed with the remarkable metamorphosis
wrought in five decades, if he stops to recall the hurly-burly and
bustle of ante-railroad days when the great wagon trains were preparing
for their spring migration.
It was at noon on the day of my arrival in Nebraska City when I debarked
from the ferryboat and rode my horse up the one street of the embryo
city until I discovered the primitive caravansary known as the Seymour
House, which provided entertainment not only for man and beast but
incidentally also for various other living creatures. The house seemed
to be crowded, but with the suave assurance characteristic of successful
hotel managers, the host encouraged me to cherish the hope that I might
be provided with a bed at night, which would be assigned me later. After
taking a hasty meal, being as yet undespoiled of the funds I had
transported, I entered a bank, and with little knowledge concerning its
solvency, gladly relieved myself of the burden of currency which I had
borne for many days and nights. Then I strolled out upon the busy
highway to see the town.
Rain had been falling intermittently for several days, leaving portions
of the roadway covered with a thick solution of clay, but there were
sidewalks which the numerous pedestrians followed. A panoramic view of
the streets could not fail to remind one of the country fairs in olden
times. Huge covered wagons, drawn by four or five yoke of oxen, or as
many mules, moved slowly up and down that thoroughfare. Mingled with
these were wagons of more moderate size, loaded with household goods,
the property of emigrants. I learned that the greater number of these
were taking on supplies for their western journey. Many men, some
mounted upon horses and others upon mules, were riding hurriedly up and
down the street, as if speeding upon some important mission. All these
riders seemed to have adopted a free and easy style of horsemanship
entirely unlike that which is religiously taught by riding masters and
practiced by gentlemen in our city parks. Their dress was invariably
some rough garb peculiar to the West, consisting in part of a soft hat,
a flannel shirt, and "pants" tucked tightly into long-legged boots,
which were generally worn in those days. To these were added the
indispensable leather belt, from which in many cases a revolver hung
suspended. Men of the same type thronged the sidewalks; many of them
with spurs rattling at their heels were young, lusty-looking fellows,
evidently abounding in vigor and enthusiasm.
I conversed with many of them, and learned that the greater number were
young farmers or villagers from the western and southern states. Some of
them were wearing the uniform of the Northern or the Southern army.
Assembled in and around the wide-open saloons there were also coteries
of men whose actions and words indicated that they were quite at home in
the worst life of the frontier. Hardly one of these men then upon the
streets, as far as I could discover, was a resident of the city; all
seemed to be planning to join some train bound for the West. Such were
some of the factors destined to waken into life the slumbering resources
of the broad, undeveloped regions beyond the Missouri.
Wandering further up the street, my steps were attracted toward a band
of Pawnee Indians, who had entered the town, and, standing in a compact
group, were gazing with silent, stolid solemnity upon the busy scene.
As was the custom with that tribe, their stiff black hair was cut so as
to leave a crest standing erect over their heads. Their blankets,
wrapped tightly around their bodies, partly exposed their bare limbs and
moccasined feet, their primitive bows and their quivers of arrows. They
had not yet degenerated into the mongrel caricatures of the noble red
man that are often seen in later days, garbed in old straw hats and a
few castaway articles of the white man's dress, combined with paint and
feathers; but they stood there as strong representatives of the last
generation of one of the proudest and most warlike tribes of America,
the most uncompromising enemy of the Sioux, and as yet apparently
unaffected by contact with civilization.
Led by a natural desire to learn what were the thoughts then uppermost
in their minds, I cordially addressed them with the formal salutation
"How," a word almost universally understood and used in friendly
greeting to Indians of any tribe. A guttural "How" was uttered in
return, but all further efforts to awaken their interest were fruitless.
I was not surprised to discover that no language at my command could
convey to them a single idea. The subject of their revery, therefore,
remains a secret.
I well knew, however, that we were then standing on a part of their
former hunting grounds and that lodges of their tribe had often stood on
that very bluff. Had I seen my home of many years thus occupied by
unwelcome invaders, I, too, might have spurned any greeting from a
member of the encroaching race. Those Pawnees certainly heard their doom
in the din and rattle upon that street where the busy white man was
arming to go forward through the Indian's country. They soon turned
their backs on the scene and I saw them file again slowly westward
toward the setting sun.
The time having arrived to return to the hotel, and, if possible to
perfect my arrangement for a room, I retraced my steps. The hotel at
night naturally became the _rendezvous_ for all classes of people, if it
can be properly said that there was more than one class. Most
conspicuous were the rough freighters, stock traders, and prospective
miners; and the few rooms were crowded to overflowing. Any request for a
private room was regarded as an indication of pride or fastidiousness on
the part of the applicant, and was almost an open breach of the
democratic customs of the West. But I passed the night without serious
discomfort and doubtless slept as peacefully as did my companions.
There were, however, other houses in Nebraska City for the entertainment
of guests. It was another hospitable tavern and another well remembered
night, to which I would now briefly refer. Accompanied by an older
companion, I repaired to this hostelry, because of our previous
acquaintance with the proprietor, who had formerly been a genial old
farmer near my native town and was known as Uncle Prude. He promised to
"fix us up all right" after supper. Accordingly we stepped out under a
spreading oak tree, where, upon a bench, were set two tin washbasins and
a cake of yellow soap, while from a shed nearby a long towel depended,
gliding on a roller and thoroughly wet from frequent and continued
service,--all of which instruments of ablution and detergence we
exploited to the greatest advantage possible. Sitting a little later at
one of the long, well-filled supper tables, we wondered how Uncle Prude
would dispose of the great number of people in and around his hostelry.
At an early hour we signified our inclination to retire, and by the
light of a tallow candle were escorted to a large room known as the ball
room, so called because on great occasions, like the Fourth of July and
New Year's night, it was used by the country swains and their lasses for
dances. It was now filled with beds, with only narrow passages between
them. A wooden shoe box, upon which was a tin washbasin and pitcher,
stood near the end of the room. A single towel and a well-used horn comb
still boasting a number of teeth, were suspended by strings. These, with
four or five small chairs, constituted the furnishings. Some of the beds
were already occupied by two persons, in some cases doubtless the result
of natural selection. We took possession of the designated bed, blew out
the light, and soon fell fast asleep. Later in the night we were
awakened by the arrival of a belated guest, who was ushered in by the
landlord's assistant. Taking a careful survey of the long row of beds,
the assistant pointed to the one next to that which we were occupying
and said, "You had better turn in with that fellow. I see it's the only
place left." Gratified by his good fortune in securing accommodations,
the guest thanked his escort, sat down on a chair and with his foot
behind his other leg proceeded to remove his long boots. The noise of
his grunts, or the falling of his boots upon the bare floor, awoke his
prospective companion, who, slowly coming to consciousness, addressed
the newcomer with the remark in kindly accents, accompanied with a yawn,
"Are ye thinking about coming in here with me, stranger?" "Wa'll yes,"
he replied, "Prude sent me up. He said you and I had about all that's
left. Pretty much crowded here tonight, they tell me," and he was soon
nearly ready to blow out the light. The man in the bed, apparently
revolving in his mind some serious proposition, added, "I think it's
nothing more than fair, stranger, to tell you that I've got the itch,
and maybe you wouldn't like to be with me." As a fact that undesirable
contagion was known to be somewhat prevalent in those parts. The
announcement, however, failed to produce the expected result. The
newcomer, apparently unconcerned, calmly replied, "If you've got the
itch any worse than I have, I am sorry for you. I guess we can get along
together all right," and then proceeded to turn down his side of the
bed. The occupant jumped to the floor, hastily gathered up his wearing
apparel and suddenly bolted out the door. With no word of comment, the
last comer blew out the light, turned into the vacant bed, and enjoyed
its luxury the rest of the night. We were unable to identify the
strangers on the following morning, but there were many questionings
among the guests concerning the manner in which a certain affection may
be transmitted.
On the following morning I had little choice but to follow the example
of other transients and join the throng upon the street. It was not
difficult to determine what thoughts were uppermost in the minds of the
many men whom I met along that thoroughfare. I heard negotiations for
the purchase of mules and oxen, and contracts for freight, often
ratified with Stygian sanctity by the invitation to "go in and have
something to drink." I was brought in contact with many men from
Missouri and Kentucky. In negotiating for a small purchase, the price
named by the seller was two bits. "What is two bits?" I asked. The
gentleman from Pike County, Missouri, appeared to be surprised when my
ignorance was revealed. After he had enlightened me, I found him to be
equally dense when I proposed to give two shillings for the article,
the shilling of twelve and a half cents being then a common measure of
value in my own state.
The signs over many of the stores of the town appealed to the
requirements of a migratory people, "Harness Shop," "Wagon Repairing,"
"Outfitting Supplies," being among those frequently observed. The legend
"Waggins for Sail" was of more doubtful and varied significance. The
symbols, "Mammoth Corral," "Elephant Corral," and other corrals,
indicated stables with capacious yards for stock, with rude conveniences
which the freighter temporarily needs until he is out on the plains. The
term "corral" was applied in the West to any enclosure for keeping stock
and supplies, as well as to the circle formed by arranging the wagons of
a train, as is the custom of freighters at night, for their protection
and for other obvious reasons. In these regions the significance of the
term widened so as to include any place where food or drink is meted out
to men, instead of to mules, and signs bearing the word "Corral" were
very common on resorts of that class. The sign "Bull Whackers Wanted,"
posted in many conspicuous places, was well understood by the _élite_ of
the profession to be a call for drivers.
The demand for firearms and knives seemed to be very active. The
majority of men who had recently arrived from the East seemed to regard
a revolver as quite indispensable, even in Nebraska City. As a fact,
however, they were equipping for the plains. The local residents who
were busy in their stores selling supplies apparently had no use for
revolvers, except to sell them as fast as possible.
Near the foot of the street is the levee, where at that season of the
year many steamers arrived and departed, their freight being discharged
and transported to warehouses, whence the greater part of it was
reshipped by wagon trains to the far West. I went aboard one of the
steamers and looked down upon the scene of feverish activity. The
merchandise was being rushed ashore, that the boat might be hurried back
to St. Louis, whence all freight to these towns was then brought. The
busy season was brief, and time was money.
A mate stood near the head of the gangplank urging the colored deck
hands to move more rapidly. The fervent curses that he hurled at the men
seemed to tumble over each other in the exuberance of his utterance.
While thus engaged, a coatless man walked rapidly up the gangplank and
with clenched fists approached the officer thus busied with his
exhortations. In threatening tones and manner and with an oath he
notified the mate that he had been waiting for him and now ----. The
mate, anticipating the man's evident purpose, instantly caught the
spirit of the occasion and without awaiting the full delivery of the
threat, himself delivered a powerful blow between the intruder's eyes,
which unceremoniously tumbled him into an open hatchway nearby. Casting
a brief glance through it into the hold, he asked the visitor if there
was any one else around there that he had been waiting for. The mate
then turned on the deck hands and cursed them for stopping to see the
sport. The "niggers" displayed their teeth and smiled, knowing that the
mate would have been inconsolable had there been no witnesses to his
encounter.
On the 30th of May, eight days after my arrival at Nebraska City, our
train arrived on the opposite side of the river, and I went over to
assist in the crossing. The stream had overflowed its banks and night
and day on its bosom a mighty drift of logs and trees went sweeping by.
"River, O River, thou roamest free
From the mountain height to the deep blue sea."
There was, however, no tint on the rushing, rolling waters of the
chocolate-colored Missouri that could remind one of the ocean blue.
The diary of a journey such as we embarked upon is probably of more
interest in those features that deal with early western life under then
existing conditions than in geological or archaeological observations.
With this idea in mind, I venture to narrate an incident as it was told
me on meeting our outfit at the river. The train had come to a halt in
the village of Churchville, Iowa. Just before the order to "Roll out,"
was given, a youth apparently fifteen or sixteen years of age,
approached and expressed a desire to see the proprietor of the
expedition. Captain Whitmore was indicated as that person. The youth
requested permission to accompany the train to Nebraska City, to find an
uncle. The Captain cast glances at the boy, whose fine, clear
complexion, delicate form, and quiet, unassuming manners indicated that
he was probably unaccustomed to a life of exposure and was hardly fitted
to enjoy the rough experience of an ox driver. "Young man," said the
Captain, "I guess this will be a little too severe for you; I hardly
think you will like this kind of travel." On being assured that no fears
need be entertained in this matter, but that the boy was not able to pay
the high rate of stage fare, the permission was finally granted. The
impression really made upon the Captain was similar to that made by
Viola on Malvolio, as given in _Twelfth Night_, where he is made to say:
"Not yet old enough for a man nor young enough for a boy! as a squash is
before 'tis a peascod, or a codling when 'tis almost an apple; 'tis
with him in standing water between boy and man. He is very well-favored
and he speaks very shrewishly."
The boy immediately, as if by instinct or delicacy, took a position in
the train with Mrs. Brown, the cook's wife. As an assistant the youth
did not assume the fresh manners expected from the average boy who is
gifted with attractive features and fine temperament, but rode quietly
along from day to day. In the course of time the Captain was led to
entertain a suspicion concerning the youngster, which was finally
embodied in a question concerning his sex. Without hesitation the boy
frankly admitted that he was a girl. Being exposed so suddenly and among
so large a number of men, she burst into tears, a very natural mode of
expression among women.
Her story was short. It was a story of wrongs suffered at the hands of a
step-father, and of desire to find an uncle in the West, which she had
taken this method of accomplishing. "But where's her hame and what's her
name, she didna choose to tell." She admitted having her proper apparel
in her satchel, which was substituted for her male attire in the house
of a farmer nearby. She then returned to the train and finished her
journey, keeping herself in close company with Mrs. Brown. I saw the
young woman soon after meeting the train. She was certainly a handsome,
refined, modest-looking village girl, not more than nineteen years of
age. We may catch another glimpse of the young girl's life later.
[Illustration: WILD CAT]
There have been but few writers who have laid the scenes of
their romances in the far West, but there are numerous bits of
history, supplied by the social life of the pioneers, like this
truthfully-related incident, which the pen of a ready writer might turn
into a tale as beautiful and interesting as that of Viola, who in the
role of page enacted her part and "never told her love."
On Saturday, June 2nd, additional crowds of people were attracted to the
town by its first election, at which an opportunity was offered the
people of the territory to vote upon the question of "State or no
State." We learned later, that the vote of the people as might have been
expected was in the affirmative, but on President Johnson's failing to
approve the measure, statehood was for a time denied them.
Our train passed on through Nebraska City and camped six miles westward.
We discovered later that the congestion of travel on the one
thoroughfare of the town was really the result of the lack of business.
The amount of freight to be moved from the river towns was less than had
been expected, and the shippers being unwilling to pay the rates that
had prevailed in former years, the freighters were refusing to carry the
merchandise and were lingering in the towns expecting better prices.
In the course of a few days some expected friends arrived from Wisconsin
with special merchandise and horse teams, and without waiting for the ox
train, it was decided that a few from our party should separate from the
others and with horse teams proceed westward at once. Negotiations with
reference to a common interest in the mercantile venture were finally
perfected. We purchased the supplies of provisions for our journey, and
after supper, on June 8th, pulled out five miles from the town to our
first Nebraskan camp. The sun had hardly set, closing the long June day,
when our party, now brought together for the first time on this
expedition, found its members all rounded on the grass in a prairie
valley and half reclining upon boxes and bags, discussing the future.
There was Peter Wintermute, a powerful, athletic young man; he was six
feet and three inches in height, and his long legs were stretched out
upon the grass. He was an experienced horseman, and had a team of four
fine animals with a modest wagon load of merchandise of some value,
which it was proposed to retail somewhere in the West. Paul Beemer, his
wagon companion, interested in the venture, was a small, nervous,
untiring fellow, and a fine shot with a rifle. This Peter and Paul had
few of the characteristics of the Apostles whose names they bore. It is
written of Peter, the Disciple, that on one occasion he swore and
repented. I fail to recall the occasion when our Peter did not
swear--and that is only one of many points of dissimilarity.
In the circle sat Daniel Trippe, another giant in strength and activity,
cultured and well informed on current and general topics, a man of
fine presence and wonderfully attractive in manner and appearance.
Noah Gillespie was financially interested with Dan in a proposed
manufacturing project in Idaho. Our Daniel, like his great prototype,
was something of a prophet and seer, indeed also something of a
philosopher, and his pronouncements were frequently invited. The
similarity between our Noah and the great navigator of diluvian days lay
chiefly in the fact that Gillespie also had met with much success in
navigation--while propelling a canoe in duck hunting on the Wisconsin
lakes. Moreover, so far as reported, the patriarch drank too much wine
on but one occasion, whereas our Noah excelled greatly in tarrying too
often at the wine cup; but he was a good fellow and a valuable companion
in time of peril. Noah and Dan had a fine team.
A grand old man was Deacon Simeon E. Cobb, who now sat in the circle
upon an empty cracker box, which he frequently used throughout the
trip. He was trying the life on the plains in the hope of relieving
himself of dyspepsia. He had a team and a light wagon with personal
supplies, including a small tent. Henry Rundle and Aleck Freeman were
also in the circle. They were vigorous, hardy and reliable men and they
too had a team. The especial companions of the writer were Ben Frees and
Fred Day. Ben was a compactly-built fellow of elephantine strength, and
although only twenty years of age, had been a first-lieutenant in a
Wisconsin regiment before Richmond at the surrender. Fred, who was still
younger, was delicate but vivacious and buoyant and abounded in all
those qualities that make for good fellowship.
And now spoke Dan, saying, "Boys, it's all right where we are now, but
only last summer on the Big Blue, only a little west of us, the Indians
were raiding and destroyed nearly all the stations from there on, beyond
and along the Platte. Keep your rifles in their proper places, loaded
and in perfect order." "All right, Dan," said Fred, "we'll keep 'em
loaded until we fire 'em off." Each of the party had in his wagon a
Henry repeating rifle and plenty of ammunition. Our supplies consisted
chiefly of bacon, flour, coffee and sugar, no available canned goods
then being on the market. With these preparations, we continued in the
morning out upon the broad plains.
CHAPTER V
OUR INTRODUCTION TO THE GREAT PLAINS
"Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And departing leave behind us,
Footprints on the sands of time."
It was in the gray light of the quiet early dawn, when all members of
the camp except one were in peaceful slumber, that these familiar lines
of Longfellow's heartening lyric were suddenly howled forth from the
interior of Fred's tent. Coupled with the ill-mated refrain,
"Co chee co lunk che lunk chelaly,"
that dignified stanza had been often sung by boys like Fred, who
persistently turned the serious things of life to levity. Because of
frequent showers it had been really decided to make an early morning
start, if conditions should prove favorable. Ordinarily Fred did not
aspire to catch the worm, and in fact, after rousing the camp he lapsed
back into his blanket and was the last man out for further service, in
remarkable fulfillment of the famous Scripture. He had brought his
companion, Ben, to his feet, who inflicted on him some harmless
punishment for his breach of the peace.
Aroused by Fred's ill-timed outburst, I poked my head outside my wagon
cover and surveyed the situation. The white-covered prairie schooners
were parked in a row, as they had been on the preceding night. The two
little tents, one of which sheltered the venerable deacon, stood side by
side. Not far distant our horses were picketed by ropes. At this first
indication of human activity, the faithful animals one by one scrambled
to their feet, shook their manes, and doubtless expected the usual
supply of morning oats, in which expectation they were doomed to
disappointment, for hereafter they had to make an honest living by
foraging on the country. There was sufficient light to reveal the
sparkling of the heavy dew upon the grass. Fred's matin song had
accomplished its purpose, and many good-natured but vigorous epithets
were thundered toward his tent by members of the party as they emerged
from their wagons, and he himself was finally pulled forth from his
lair.
It seems needless to state that to some members of our party who were
early pioneers of Wisconsin, a primeval forest, or a broad, virgin
prairie was not an unfamiliar sight. Nevertheless, there was something
in the expanse of the Nebraska plains as they then were, before the
farmer had desecrated them, that was wonderfully impressive. The almost
boundless stretch of undulating green extended in every direction to the
horizon, at times unrelieved by a single tree or shrub, and only now and
then we observed the winding course of some little stream indicated by a
narrow line of small timber half hidden in the valley, whose inclined
and stunted growth told of the sweeping winds that had rocked them. Even
those thin green lines were few and far between.
Bryant beautifully described this type of scenery when he wrote of the
prairies:
"Lo, they stretch
In airy undulations far away,
As if the ocean in its gentlest swell
Stood still, with all its billows fixed
And motionless forever."
We finally reached a little, solitary sod hut, which a pioneer had
recently constructed. Not another work of man was visible in any
direction. If Cowper sighing "for a lodge in some vast wilderness" had
been placed in control of this sequestered cabin, his ardent desire
would have been fully realized. It seemed as if it might well afford to
any one grown weary of the wrong and outrage with which earth is filled,
a spot where he might spend his remaining days in unbroken peace and
quietude. But no! this cabin was but a little speck in advance of the
on-coming tide of human life whose silent flow we had seen slowly but
steadily creeping westward across the Iowa prairies. Thousands of men
released from service in the army were turning to the West for homes,
and the tens of thousands of foreigners landing at the Atlantic ports
were then as now spreading over the country, adding volume and momentum
to the westward movement.
The following night found us beside a little brook, on the banks of
which wild strawberries were abundant. Our horses were picketed on the
range, each being tied with a rope fifty feet in length, attached to an
iron pin driven into the ground, as was the usual custom. Aleck Freeman,
however, concluded to tie the lariat of one of his horses to the head of
a nearby skeleton of an ox. In fact, Aleck commented duly upon his own
sagacity in conceiving that idea. All went well until the horse in
pulling upon the rope, detached the skull from the remaining vertebrae.
The animal seemed to be mystified on observing the head approach him as
he receded, and for a moment regarded it thoughtfully and inquiringly.
Backing still further away, he gazed with growing apprehension at the
white skull, which continued to pursue him at a uniform distance. The
horse evidently was unable to comprehend the cause of this strange
proceeding and, like a child frightened at an apparition which it does
not understand, his first impulse was to escape. He therefore gave a
vigorous snort, wheeled, and with head high in the air, suddenly started
southward toward the Gulf of Mexico. The faster the horse ran, the
louder rattled the skull behind him. An occasional backward glance of
the flying animal revealed to him the same white skull still pursuing,
and at times leaping threateningly into the air as it was pulled over
any slight obstruction; and thus they sped wildly away until they
disappeared from sight. Aleck watched the affair from afar with dismay.
What could stop the flight of this Pegasus but sheer exhaustion? It was
soon many miles away. Securing another steed and starting in pursuit, he
too was soon lost to view. In the late hours of the night he returned to
camp leading the tired runaway, and himself too tired and hungry to tell
his story until morning. It seems that about seven or eight miles away
the skull had caught in a cottonwood bush, which was fortunately on an
upward grade and the speed of the horse was temporarily slackened. The
animal doubtless believed that the skull for the moment had stopped its
pursuit, that it also was very weary. The horse when reached was well
fastened and easily captured. Aleck urged that the Government
authorities should have cottonwood bushes set out on all the hills of
Nebraska, and that the heads of all carcasses on the prairie should be
securely tied to the rest of the skeleton.
Violent storms of wind and driving rain, accompanied by terrific
lightning, forced us at noon to camp in the mud beside a swollen brook.
We endeavored to build a fire in the wet grass, for we sighed for
coffee. The combined skill of our best hunters failed to start a blaze.
We were wet to the skin, and our saturated boots with trousers inside,
down which the water ran in streams, were loaded with black Nebraskan
mud; for every man had been out in the storm to picket his horses
securely, as they were uneasy during the tempest. The few chunks of
tough bread culled from the remnant found in the mess box served but
little that night to fill the aching voids.
Not far away on a hill slope was an unoccupied frame house not yet
completed. This building, which was about twenty-five miles west from
Nebraska City, was the last farmhouse that we passed, but even here
there was no sign of cultivation. To this, as the day was closing, we
plowed our way through the mud, for the storms continued. Its partly
finished roof furnished us a welcome protection through the following
stormy night. A peck of shavings more or less was equitably distributed
among the party for bedding, but there were no facilities for building a
fire without igniting the structure itself. On the floor we endeavored,
with our internal heat, to steam our garments dry. We had previously
observed a few huts built of sod, with roofs of the same material laid
upon poles. I ascertained that at least one of those structures was
strengthened by a framework of logs, but the scarcity of timber and the
expense of transporting it from where it was produced, led to the use of
the more available material. The huts were similar in appearance to many
that I have seen in Ireland, though the fibrous Irish sod cut from the
bogs of the Emerald Isle is more durable--like all else that is Irish!
A few ducks and plover had fallen before the Noachian and were gladly
appropriated in the mess department, but we were on the _qui vive_ for
bigger game. We had been tantalized daily by dubious reports of antelope
alleged to have been seen in the distance, and had been anxiously
watching for an opportunity to test our Henry rifles on this elusive
game.
Paul Beemer was a veritable Nimrod, always vigilant, frequently scanning
the horizon for signs of animal life. Riding ahead of the wagons, he
suddenly announced the discovery of antelope on a far away hillside. It
was a long _detour_ for Paul to outflank his game and get to the leeward
of it. "Not this time, Paul," said Dan, but Paul made the attempt, and
the airy creatures, whatever they may have been, were quickly gone from
his gaze like a beautiful dream. Noah, who claimed to have had a good
view of the animals, declared that they were foxes, but Paul indignantly
replied that his own verdict was absolutely final.
After six days' progress through storms and mud, we crossed tributaries
of the Big Blue River, where the preceding year numerous Indian raids
had occurred and many travelers had been massacred. We had not as yet
seen a Red Man since we left Nebraska City. The sun was now shining
brightly on the scene of the recent carnage, but we discovered no trace
of those disastrous struggles with the savage warriors of the plains. I
wandered off from the trail alone. Not a moving object dotted the
graceful undulations of the green prairie, which lay peaceful in the
June sunlight. Not a sound came from hill or valley. The perfect silence
was impressive. It is well now and then to be thus alone, where no
distraction turns one's thoughts from the serene face of Nature.
Despite all this apparent serenity, we knew not what enemy might lurk in
those unseen valleys, which lately were the hiding places of bands of
the subtle Sioux. We had already perfected our organization for
protection, as was then the practice with all trains in the West. Each
man took his turn standing guard at night, the first watch being until
midnight, when the next in order was called to remain on duty until the
cook for the week was summoned in the morning. Deacon Cobb was excused
from this service, despite the Gospel injunction on all to watch as well
as pray, as was also the cook during his week of service.
This cooking "proposition" presented something of a problem. The
training which we had received in domestic science was rude and
elementary, even compared with that now given in colleges for women. The
so-called bread, which was in general the only article that was prepared
and baked for our use, was seldom fit for human nourishment. The flour
was stirred with water. A little shortening and soda were introduced
with no well defined idea as to the proper quantity of each. This
chemical compound was put into a skillet, a cast iron pan having a cover
of the same material, with a short handle. It was then placed upon the
open camp fire, which was made of such combustible substances as the
country afforded, rarely wood. The duration of the baking process was
regulated by that inestimable faculty which Yankee housewives call
"gumption." Few if any of our party were endowed therewith in high
degree. Sometimes our bread was of the consistency of putty; at other
times the surface of the loaf was burned to a blackened crisp. But we
did improve by practice, profiting by the censorious comments of the
disgusted eaters who for the time were not managing the mess. We had no
vegetables, milk, butter, or eggs. Bacon was the staple article of diet.
The coffee was boiled in an open kettle, and served as black as night
and strong as it was black. The earth was our table and all our
tableware was tin. There were no lines of caste by which the cook was
relegated to a lower social level than the banqueters, and if any one
should too severely criticise the flavor of his coffee the cook would be
apt to rise to the dignity of his office, seize the iron skillet, and
threaten to terminate the existence of persistent grumblers. And Deacon
Cobb highly relished this diet of bread nearly as tough as cork and took
it with fresh air as a possible specific for dyspepsia and therewithal
professed to be truly thankful.
Later observations made after we reached the main line of travel
indicated that similar fare and experience were enjoyed or endured by
other travelers. It was a matter of common remark that those who in
seriousness did the most kicking concerning the food were such as either
drank the most whiskey or did the least work, yet it is also true that
both the mind and the maw must be in prime condition to respond
uncomplainingly at all times to the rough fare of camp life, such as we
provided. Very interesting it was to watch the rapid cleansing of the
culinary utensils after breakfast, for an early start was usually
desired. There were three methods of accomplishing this work, which in
our camp were technically known as sanding, grassing and washing. The
first two processes were regarded as preferable, chiefly by reason of
the fact that the work involved could be accomplished with greater
expedition. It may be explained that sanding consists in revolving the
dish or kettle in the soil, preferably sand,--which is certainly an
economical method. Grassing is simply the use of grass or any similar
material for the same purpose. Washing is a more complicated and
laborious process, as the water sometimes must be brought some distance,
and water without soap fails to develop any chemical affinity for the
residuum of fried bacon. An occasional sanding kept the plates in such
excellent condition that at times it could be plainly seen or at least
gravely suspected that they were tinware. The sanitary condition of the
culinary department was as good as circumstances would permit. The
provisions which may have been cooked and were being transported to
another camp, or articles which had been prepared for cooking, were
carried on the tail end of the wagon in what was known as the mess box,
a simple box with a lid. No flies or other insects were permitted to
enter the box except such as could pass through the half-inch opening
beneath the cover; and any accumulated dust that had gathered upon the
food during the day's journey was carefully shaken from it, at least in
good measure.
A short distance west of the Big Blue, we made a descent upon a village
of prairie dogs, the first that we had seen. Paul and I quickly
despatched two of the inhabitants. Scores of the little rodents sat upon
the mounds, which were only a few feet apart, marking the entrances to
their subterranean homes, into which many of them would instantly drop
like a flash on the slightest cause of alarm. These were the alert and
vigilant sentinels which until danger threatened sat upright and
motionless upon their earthworks and appeared like inanimate objects.
The heroic few, which after an alarm faithfully remained upon their
parapets, uttered frequent shrill, short barks, each accompanied by a
vigorous wiggle of their dark little tails. What useful function this
wiggling subserved I know not, unless it was a semaphoric signal to
their comrades in the intrenchments beneath, but the wiggle aided in
making the little animals more conspicuous and therefore easier marks.
The prairie dog villages in that day frequently covered areas of sixty
or seventy acres and undoubtedly sheltered a dense population. We
frequently inspected the exterior of their premises, but during that
investigation all was as silent as a city of the dead, and one would
hardly suspect that a labyrinth of corridors abounding in active life
existed beneath the surface.
In the middle of one forenoon, out upon that treeless, rolling prairie,
all were riding lazily along, when someone observed a covered wagon far
off at the right, just as it was descending behind a gentle slope. Was
it possible that there could be another trail to the North? If there
was, it was equally true that we might be on the wrong course, for we
were supposed to be steering for the Platte River, which was also in the
same direction. An investigation revealed the fact that one of our
wagons was missing. Mounting a horse I rode rapidly over the prairie and
in half an hour overtook the prairie schooner which was marking an
entirely new trail of its own across the virgin green. Riding up beside
the horses and looking in beneath the canvas, I discovered one occupant,
and that was Uncle Simeon Cobb, who in a sleep as peaceful as that of
childhood was unconscious of the fact that in his advanced years he was
wandering far away from the true path out into an unknown wilderness.
"Hello, Deacon," I shouted, and the old gentleman slowly roused himself
from his slumbers and after rubbing his eyes looked out upon the
pathless prairie. "Well, by George," he remarked, passing to the extreme
limit of his profane vocabulary, "I must have been asleep." His horses
being halted, I explained to him how he happened to be discovered. Our
little train was already out of sight and he promptly admitted that he
was unable to tell from which side of the trail his horses had turned;
and the tracks of his light wagon not being distinct he could hardly
have retraced his course. The deacon was invariably calm and
self-possessed and with a keen sense of the humorous in every situation.
He therefore gravely stated that it seemed providential that he should
be reclaimed from his wanderings in time for lunch. Having been escorted
back to the train, it was decided that in the future he should not drive
at the tail end of the procession, as he had done previous to that time.
The night of the 16th was glorious with a waxing moon. It was my turn on
guard for the watch until midnight. As I sauntered off toward where the
stock was picketed, with my rifle on my shoulder, my attention was
called to the incessant yelp of the prairie wolves. In my timid
excursions into Greek mythology I had read something of Orpheus and his
lyre. The recollection of the alleged power of his melodies over animate
and inanimate objects, led me quietly to enter our wagon and take out
the violin with which I had occasionally whiled away an hour; and seated
on the ground I drew the bow to the best of my ability. The night was so
still that the sound was doubtless carried a great distance and
evidently reached the sensitive ears of numerous wolves on their
nocturnal prowl. The response was certainly tremendous. In a few minutes
I had an enthusiastic audience in the not far distance, which might have
been regarded as highly complimentary had it not been quite so
demonstrative. Strangely enough, the music failed to calm their spirits
until I had ceased for a time to torture the catgut. Whenever the sound
of the instrument reached them, the din of yelps was returned from all
points of the compass. The prairie wolves are simply scavengers and
though possibly subject to pleasurable emotions (probably otherwise in
the instance just given) yet their chief concern is to supply their
ravenous appetites. Like vultures they scent the carrion from afar, and
as it was Paul's week to cook they may have sniffed the aroma of his
burnt bacon wafted to their acute olfactory nerves through the still air
of the night. After the camp is vacated, and the wolves can find no food
in a more advanced state of decomposition than the few morsels which the
camper leaves behind, they will then regale themselves on the scraps
left around the abandoned campfire.
On the following day, after crossing many deep gullies, we struck the
Platte River trail from Omaha, which follows near the southern bank of
that stream.
CHAPTER VI
THE OREGON TRAIL
We were now upon the most frequented thoroughfare of western
transcontinental travel, known as the old Oregon trail, and this course
was pursued for the succeeding two weeks. It was the route taken by
Major Stephen Long, who in 1820 explored this valley as far west as the
junction of the North and the South Platte. It also appears to have been
followed by Captain E. D. Bonneville and his company in 1832, and in
1834 and 1839 by Whiteman and Spalding, the missionaries to Oregon; also
by Colonel John C. Fremont in 1842, when on his first exploring
expedition.
[Illustration: THE OREGON TRAIL THROUGH MITCHELL PASS]
While these western trails may not have been the scenes of conflict in
which numbers were engaged on any one occasion, nevertheless, for two
generations they have doubtless been the theatre of a greater number of
encounters with Indians than have ever occurred in any other equal area
of our country. The reasons for this become apparent on a moment's
thought. The numerous tribes that occupied this vast territory were in
every sense of the word warriors, having had experience in their
peculiar mode of warfare in frequent conflicts between the tribes. The
majority were expert horsemen, which peculiarly fitted them for
guerrilla tactics. The California, Pike's Peak, and Mormon settlements
formed nuclei for a rapidly increasing population, the supplies for
which were transported chiefly by this thoroughfare across the plains,
which until a later date remained the undisputed home of these nomadic
tribes.
The travel across this broad stretch of Indian territory was in the main
confined to a very few well defined pathways through an open,
unprotected country on which the strength of a traveling outfit could be
fairly estimated by the enemy concealed in the many hiding places in
ravines intersecting the prairie, so that freighter and emigrant were
exposed to unexpected forays at any moment, and especially when the
relations with the Indians were not entirely friendly. It was
exceedingly difficult, at times, for the traveler to ascertain with
certainty what was the present spirit of any tribe. An unprovoked wrong
inflicted by some one reckless white man upon an Indian was liable to be
avenged by an attack on some train, the owners of which were ignorant of
the inciting cause. In like manner, the insult of a white by an Indian
led to the conclusion that the tribe was hostile and on the war-path,
and the freighters governed themselves accordingly. The reckless
destruction of buffaloes by the whites was the cause of intense
bitterness on the part of the Indians; and moreover, the ill-adjusted
relations between our War Department and the tribes, to which we may
make future reference, were not always favorable to a friendly attitude
on the part of the Indian.
This Oregon trail, however, as far as it followed the main channel of
the Platte River, had now become a well-traveled, natural road. Because
of the fact that the country remote from this stream was arid and devoid
of water courses, the Platte valley was the only practicable route for
freighting, except the one far south along the tributaries of the
Arkansas.
On my first opportunity I took a stroll back from the river to the
bluffs, which were three or four miles distant, and which mark the
boundary between the valley and the higher lands to the south, with a
view to ascertaining if there were any evidence of civilization beyond.
The air was wonderfully clear, dry, and hot. There was a marked contrast
between this country and the prairies of Eastern Nebraska. The thin
grass was parched and brown, and the surface of the valley was barren
and apparently lifeless. A solitary black buzzard, poised upon a carcass
which I passed, added but little of attractive life to the inanimate
scenery.
Observing the skeletons and carcasses of numerous buffaloes it occurred
to me to count those which I might pass on my walk to the foothills. The
number observed near my path reached nearly two hundred. There are but
few objects that could be more suggestive of desolation than were these
huge, bleaching skeletons. The killing of the greater number of these
buffaloes was doubtless a result of the vandalism of so-called
sportsmen, who regarded even the crippling of a few of these noble
animals as a laudable achievement, even though the buffaloes were shot
while in a compact herd of a thousand or more. Hundreds of thousands of
their bodies were scattered over the country, especially near the river
valleys of Kansas and Nebraska. From personal observation, it was
evident that a great number of them were not killed by the Indians,
because the skins, which were of value for their own uses, and for
traffic with the whites, in many instances had not been removed.
Later in these records reference will be made to the vast numbers of
these valuable animals, which we saw further South. In the interesting
work of Colonel Henry Inman, statistics are given concerning the number
of buffaloes killed in the thirteen years 1868 to 1881. He states that
the facts as written were carefully gathered from the freight
departments of the railroads, which kept a record of the bones that were
shipped; and the quantities were verified from the purchase of the
carbon works at various points from which was paid out the money for the
bones. These figures show that during the period named there was paid
out $2,500,000 for buffalo-bones gathered on the prairies of Kansas
alone; and at the rate paid this sum represented the skeletons of more
than thirty millions of buffaloes, a number that seems almost
incredible. Sheridan, Custer, Sully, and Inman report having ridden in
1868, two years later than my visit, for three consecutive days through
one continuous herd which must have contained many millions. The writer
had a similar experience in the autumn of 1866. The wanton destruction
of the last of these magnificent and valuable animals is but a single
illustration of the folly and improvidence of the American people in
dealing with their magnificent natural resources, and their disregard
for the comfort and the needs of future generations.
The bluffs on the margin of the valley which have been already referred
to, were next ascended. From them, looking outward over the high,
rolling, and arid plains beyond, nothing could be seen except one
interminable brown, with hardly a shrub visible, to relieve the dull
monotony. Toward the north and skirted by a strip of cottonwood trees
and brush, the turbid river glistened in the glaring light, its
chocolate-colored waters bearing to the distant gulf its unceasing
tribute of clay and sand. Here and there its tawny breast was scarred
with barren sand bars, but over all the broad landscape nothing could be
discerned that was the product of human agency save the distant trail
near the river, along which our train was lazily creeping, like a
wounded anaconda.
Buzzing around me, as if seeking some companionship on that lonely
bluff, was a solitary bee. For some time I watched its erratic
movements, hoping to discover the nature of its engagements. I could see
nothing, except here and there a cactus or a thistle, from which it
seemed possible that it could extract the sweets needed for future use.
It was possibly an adventurer that had drifted off as I had done, from
the parent colony. Bryant writes of this busy insect in words which, if
applied to the future of this then desolate plain, seem prophetic:
"THE BEE"
"A colonist more adventurous than man
With whom he came across the eastern deep,
Fills the Savannas with his murmurings,
And hides his sweets, as in the golden age,
Within the hollow oak. I listen long
To his domestic hum, and think I hear
The sound of that advancing multitude
Which soon shall fill these deserts. From the ground
Comes up the laughter of children, the soft voice
Of maidens, and the sweet and solemn hymn
Of Sabbath worshippers. The low of herds
Blends with the rustling of the heavy grain
Over the dark brown furrows. All at once
A fresher wind sweeps by and breaks my dream,
And I am in the wilderness alone."
So vividly was mirrored in the poet's fancy the future of the Nebraskan
desert. I must confess my inability, as I sat alone on the highest lump
of earth available, to have in any degree forecast the future of that
country, for I would have hardly given my jack-knife for all the land in
sight, with forty years' exemption from taxes. Yet to me this waste was
profoundly interesting and impressive, not unlike the great deserts of
Africa, although I could see in it no promise or potence of prosperity.
To one who has personally observed the final reclamation of those broad
lands, the words of Bryant picture with wonderful accuracy the
transformation that really has taken place, and my own early
observations now seem like a dream.
In proof that my impressions were shared by others, we may quote the
statement of Colonel William A. Phillips, that at the Wyandotte
convention, which was held about that time, the line of the future state
of Nebraska was being drawn at the 100th meridian, which was supposed to
be the border of the desert region. An attempt was being made to annex
to it all the land south of the Platte, and delegates from Nebraska were
in attendance to urge it. One delegate, a Mr. Taylor, who seemed
thoroughly penetrated with the annexation idea, urged that the Platte
River had a quicksand bottom, and could not be forded; that it could not
be bridged, because there was no bottom, for piers; and that it could
not be ferried, for want of water. In short, in the minds of many,
Western Nebraska, with its river, its climate, and its expanse of
sterile soil, was of no value except to hold other portions of the earth
together. But there lay the great undeveloped West, its prairies and
beyond these its mountains, an inert expanse ready to be developed into
vast productive states rich in soil and minerals.
Returning to the train after my long tramp, we lunched, and after the
usual noonday rest for the stock, mounted our horses and proceeded on
our afternoon drive. We had not advanced far, when we saw that we were
approaching a single covered wagon some distance ahead, near which were
riding two young ladies, and a gentleman of fine appearance. Ben and
Fred commented with much satisfaction on the agreeable prospect of
meeting two interesting girls in whom they might find occasional
companionship on the long journey that lay before us.
The gentleman addressed us cordially and naturally inquired whither we
were bound. As a fact, we could not state definitely what our route
would be beyond Julesburg, except that our first objective point was
Salt Lake City. We learned that he with his family was destined for
Denver, where he expected to follow his profession as physician. He
ventured to introduce us to his daughters, one of whom was a brunette;
the other bore a wealth of bright auburn hair, and was of fair
complexion, except that a little tan and a few freckles, caused by the
Nebraska sun and breezes, were noticeable. Their ages were between
eighteen and twenty-one years, about the same as my companions. Fred was
an attractive, cheerful young fellow, an agreeable converser, and always
popular at home. Ben was more vigorous physically, and at once impressed
one with his sterling qualities and good sense. So Dr. Brown, as we may
now call him, expressed pleasure at the prospect of sharing with us the
adventures of the journey. We camped near a ranch which a few months
before had been attacked by the Indians.
Along this road, as far as Julesburg, these so-called ranches, strewn
from eight to twelve miles apart, were maintained chiefly in the
interest of Ben Holliday's stage line, for the care of the horses,
which were exchanged at such stations. With few exceptions, the
buildings were made of adobe and contained two rooms. No attempt even at
simple gardening was made; in fact, we observed no phase of agriculture
along this route. Some of the buildings were partially surrounded by a
wall built of sods, as an enclosure for the horses. The interior was for
the main part a grog shop, with a combined sleeping and cooking room
attached at the rear.
On the 18th of June, when fully ten miles from Fort Kearney, the flag of
that post became visible in the distance, as we looked up the level
valley. Ben and Paul hastened in advance to ascertain where we might
camp. They returned to meet us, with the information that two miles in
each direction from the Fort extended the Government reservation, and
that a notice had been posted on the wayside forbidding the driving of
teams across that property. On reaching these sacred precincts, we rode
through on horseback and discovered that there was really no fort at
Fort Kearney. There was a small plaza or park, bordered by cottonwood
trees, in the center of which stood the flagstaff from which floated the
nation's colors; near by were mounted two or three small brass cannon;
around the plaza were built the barracks and officers' quarters, with
other buildings used apparently by officers. A soldier was pacing back
and forth before the open door of the magazine, and another was
performing a similar duty in front of the guardhouse, from which came
the notes of a familiar melody sung by the recreants within, who were
making the best of their confinement. The only semblance of a
fortification was an adobe wall facing the bluffs. The fort was
garrisoned by two companies of the 5th U. S. Volunteers.
Fort Kearney is the oldest white settlement in the interior of Nebraska,
and was named after a general who served in the Mexican war. A station
two miles west from the Government post was dignified by the name of
Kearney City and embraced half a dozen small adobe structures, each of
which was said to be a whiskey dive; its small population of men and
women was apparently of a worthless type. The spot was usually referred
to as Dobytown. The post itself was abandoned long ago.
We learned from the provost, that by order of the War Department, no
trains were allowed to move westward with less than twenty wagons and
thirty armed men. As yet we had seen no Indians, and travelers from the
West made the same observation, but stated great numbers of Indians were
reported to be in the vicinity of Laramie, where they were being fed and
petted by Government agents as preliminary to an effort to make a
treaty. Many travelers affirmed that the Indian agents were temporizing
and procrastinating, and that some officers did not desire permanent
peace, believing that it would make unnecessary certain fat offices then
existing, and would also check opportunities for the profitable barter
which was being conducted with the tribes.
The demands of these latter appeared to be that the Powder River country
and the Smoky Hill route should be absolutely abandoned by the whites
and left in the undisturbed possession of the Indians. The Red Man could
not fail to recognize the fact that he was losing his most valuable
hunting grounds by the encroachment of civilization, and the current
belief among the whites was that the Sioux were preparing to make
trouble. In view of the general interest in the subject which prevailed,
it was natural for travelers to exchange views upon it with those who
might have any new information; and a stage station ranchman a few miles
from Kearney also gave us his views on the situation. This man, after
advancing some opinions concerning the personnel of the troops that had
been sent for their protection (views that were anything but
complimentary), said that a common expression among those not well
informed was that one white man was enough for ten Indians. In front of
the little ranch where we then stood, he had recently been witness to
the fact that six Indians armed only with bows and arrows had driven ten
cavalrymen, armed with carbines and revolvers, back into the ranch,
where they were supported by a greater number of troops. We asked if any
of the soldiers had been wounded. "Yes," he replied, "one of them
intercepted an arrow which fortunately did not enter a vital part, but
it did penetrate certain muscles in his back, which made it painful for
him to sit." The action of the troops was reported in such glowing terms
to the Department by the officer in command that the soldier who was
shot in the back and could not sit, received a medal for his bravery.
This, however, was not a fair report concerning the valor of our
soldiers as a whole, for before that year ended some of them performed
heroic acts and deeds of daring hardly surpassed in history.
We camped away from the trail, to the west of the post and in sight of
the miserable huts of Dobytown. There was but little feed for the stock,
yet we had to remain. It was either at Dobytown or at the post itself,
that a party of travelers who were parked near us secured a box
containing bottles labelled "Hostetter's Bitters." These so-called
stomach bitters were a widely advertised concoction purporting to be a
valuable tonic and a never failing remedy for dyspepsia, and all the
other ills that the stomach, and the inner man generally, is ever heir
to. If the extraordinary box said to have been presented by Zeus to
Pandora is worthy of mention as a magazine of innumerable pent-up ills,
which a girl unwittingly turned loose among men, then surely the eminent
Dr. Hostetter should have a high place in the classic lore of the
future, as the fabricator of a bottled-up compound, which when uncorked,
had wonderful potentialities, not in curing ills but in raising the
devil generally. As already stated, the men purchased the box of
bitters, which (as an eye-witness I testify) was as innocent in
appearance as a box of bottles of pepper sauce. They also used the
contents freely as a beverage, and soon were raving drunk. Having
neither tasted nor analyzed this potent and invincible anti-dyspeptic
and gastric regenerator, I know naught of its peculiar constitution and
virtue, but am informed that its base is a poor grade of raw whiskey and
is in fact the concentrated extract of "drunk." Having become absolutely
delirious from their potations of the infallible specific, the revellers
returned to the dens of Dobytown and began a season of Saturnalia which
had not ended when we moved from that camp. Supplies of the tonic were
secured by another party and enjoyed with similar results.
[Illustration: CHIMNEY ROCK, ONE OF THE OLD LANDMARKS OF THE '49 TRAIL
HEIGHT ABOUT 800 FEET ABOVE THE RIVER]
As we traveled on we learned that the wonderful demand for this nervine
was in some measure due to the convenient form in which it was sold; and
that these bitters were the element frequently used in barter with the
Indians, and for which they were ready to exchange their most valued
possessions. Some men wonder why the Red Man is at times so insane in
his brutality. The uncorking of bottles of bitters of this general type
has caused more than one of our protracted wars with the Indians, and a
cost of millions of dollars to our Government, a fact that is
attested by incontrovertible evidence. There were indeed other and more
notable causes of our Indian wars. It must be understood that the
savages knew nothing of our national boundaries made by treaty with
Great Britain. Some tribes with which we have been at war roamed freely
on both sides of that line. Every one of our territories from Wisconsin
to the Pacific has furnished scenes of Indian conflicts with the Whites.
Yet in some way, Canada has avoided these expensive experiences too
terrible to describe. As we follow our vagabond life with the emigrants,
and from time to time see the Indians in their various encounters, and
dodge the massacres that befall our companions, we hope incidentally to
discover some of the reasons why our Government has failed to cope
successfully with this problem.
CHAPTER VII
SOCIETY IN THE WILDERNESS
Late in the afternoon of June 18th, when the tin supper dishes had been
laid aside and the men were enjoying their after-dinner smoke, the four
closely parked groups of wagons, comprising as many camps separated from
each other by perhaps a hundred feet in distance, seemed for the time to
be in a condition of perfect serenity. The members of each party by
itself were quietly awaiting developments.
Dan and I strolled out toward the fort, and from a distance watched the
movements of mounted men at that post. Soon we observed a long mule
train approaching from the east beyond Kearney. It halted for a few
moments, and then like a huge serpent it slowly circled round the
reservation; and by orders from the guards its wagons were finally
corralled beyond our camp.
As was the custom with all large outfits, the train, although moving in
an unbroken line, consisted of two divisions. On being ordered to
corral, the head wagon of the first division made a sharp _detour_ to
the right, followed by the succeeding teams, and finally turning to the
left, that division formed a great semi-circle. The first team was
halted at a designated point at which was to be the opening of the
proposed corral; and each of the mules of the succeeding teams of that
division was made to swing suddenly to the left after bringing the great
wagons rather close together. On reaching the point from which the first
division made its _detour_, the head team in the second division swung
sharply out in the opposite direction, turning again as it advanced to
meet the leading team in the first division, and before stopping, each
of the teams of the second division was also made to swing suddenly
toward the center of what became a great circle or enclosure in which
all the mules were unharnessed and temporarily confined. This method of
corralling was universal with western freighters.
In case of an unexpected attack, or for other obvious reasons a
fortification of wagons was quickly made, with all the stock massed
within the enclosure, and the work was accomplished in the time required
for the train to travel its own length. The immense wagons of this train
were of the type known as the Espenschied, a kind largely used by the
Government. They were heavily built, with very high boxes projecting
slightly both at the front and rear, like the ends of a scow boat, and
like all wagons used on the plains, were roofed with regulation canvas
tops supported by bows. After the three hundred or more mules of this
train had been unharnessed, they were driven in a herd from the mouth of
the corral several miles from camp, to a place where they might find
some feed in the valleys, there to be guarded through the night by
herders. All the processes in these evolutions were commonplace to any
plainsman, but may not be entirely familiar to modern palace car
travelers.
There also rolled round the Kearney reservation closely in the wake of
the big train, a small outfit consisting of half a dozen wagons with
horse teams. Under directions from the post, it also camped on the
barren bottom land west of the fort. There was, therefore, now camped
upon the arid plain beyond Dobytown a sufficient number of armed men and
wagons to meet the requirements of the War Department for two trains. It
was accordingly ordered that the big mule train should pull out in the
morning, and the remaining outfits should unite and follow in another
body.
The muffled roar of the hoofs of the galloping mule herd, urged on by
the yells of the mounted herders as they were rushing toward the corral,
was the signal for the beginning of activities on the following morning.
By the aid of the men the animals were driven into the enclosure. The
vociferous braying of the mules mingled with the clamorous voices of the
drivers, as each struggled to secure and bring into subjection his own
big team of eight or ten mules. It was with remarkable celerity that the
long-eared animals were harnessed to their respective wagons, and the
command to roll out was given by the captain. Accompanied by the
vehement shouts of the drivers and the cracking of whips, the train of
forty wagons gradually uncoiled itself, stretching slowly out into the
road, and in a solid line perhaps two-thirds of a mile in length
"trekked" westward in a cloud of dust.
The time for our own departure soon arrived, and all who remained of the
campers on the plains of Dobytown were ordered to move on. Doctor
Brown's two wagons and our own teams, lined out in the van, were
followed by the two outfits with the Hostetter's Bitters, and the last
arrival was in the rear. All were found to be properly armed, and all
other requirements of the Government being satisfied, we were soon
following the windings of the trail. Among other items of freight which
were being transported by our combined outfit, was a full wagon load of
whiskey in four-gallon tin-box cans, and another wagon containing
material for a distilling plant to be used in Idaho.
The orders of the War Department did not provide that after leaving any
post a train should thereafter continue as a consolidated organization.
To avoid unnecessary dust, and for other reasons, it was therefore
mutually agreed among the parties composing our train that we should
separate at our convenience.
With love for the country as God has made it, we gladly rolled out
westward from Kearney City; away from the hybrid civilization, its dirty
dives, its gambling dens and gamesters, who, like the flotsam on the
crest of a rising flood, have too often been upon the surface near the
front of western migration, depraving and demoralizing even the savages.
Although the writer has devoted much time to travel, none of his
journeys has been the source of more profound interest than were the
first months spent in those broad areas of the West in which there were
no visible traces of the white man's presence. The cities and states of
America have struggled to increase their population by immigration,
apparently on the theory that the rate of that increase was to be the
measure of growth in the happiness and prosperity of its people. When
our national heritage shall have been partitioned among the nations of
the earth, and the wild, wooded hillsides shall have been denuded by axe
and fire, giving place for farms and cities, then they whose fortune it
has been in childhood to roam through the primitive forests or over the
yet free and trackless plains, would hardly exchange the memories of
those years for a cycle on the streets of Constantinople or New York.
Impelled by such sentiment, we soon separated from the train, to the
mutual protection of which we had been assigned by the officers at Fort
Kearney, and with the Browns took our chances against the Indians.
As soon as we were well away from the Fort, I again strayed out as I
often did later, and with rifle upon my shoulder was soon striding over
the highlands south of the river. It was a pleasant diversion to get out
of the level valley, which at this point spread out some miles back to
the bluffs. For a brief rest I selected an eligible spot, from which a
wide view of the surrounding country was laid open. The atmosphere was
wonderfully dry, clear, and exhilarating, and there seemed to be no
suggestion of moisture either in the air or in all the broad landscape
except in the muddy waters of the distant Platte. The thin grass, even
thus early in the season, was scanty in growth and brown, as if touched
by autumn.
Along the banks of the river further east we had in places observed
trees, chiefly cottonwood, but from the bluff where I now stood, hardly
a bush was visible save only upon the islands in the river, nearly all
of which, except such newly formed sand bars as from year to year are
shifted by each successive flood, were rather well wooded,--I knew not,
but wondered, why.
Recalling to mind the prairies and openings of the North Mississippi
River country, I remembered that in many cases those prairies ended at
the banks of a stream, on the other side of which a dense and extensive
forest began sharply at the water's edge. Fox, Bark and other rivers, as
they were sixty years ago, were fair illustrations of this fact, but now
even those forests are gone. It seemed to me that timber must at some
time have grown upon all those Nebraska plains and prairies. The fact
that trees still remained where protected by a stream would indicate
that far-reaching and probably repeated fires have swept across those
countries and stopped at the shore. The destruction of large areas of
timber would increase the aridity of the climate, just as the later
cultivation of what was once the plains has caused an increase in
humidity.
The belief to which such reflections seemed to guide me, that those
western plains were once wooded, was strengthened by the discovery of
large sections of petrified wood, which I found on the high and now
treeless land farther west, apparently _in situ_, where they had grown.
My side-trip out upon these uplands was inspired quite as much by a
desire to hunt game, as to formulate theories concerning the prehistoric
conditions of the country. Not strange, then, that I became suddenly
interested in a small herd of antelopes, which I discerned some distance
to the southward, the first that I had seen under favorable conditions.
Knowing their senses of smell and hearing to be wonderfully acute, I
felt confident that no approach could be successfully made from the
windward side, and that my movements must be carefully concealed if I
hoped to get within reach of the vigilant animals, for the Henry rifle
was not a long range gun. Being familiar with the oft repeated story,
that expert hunters frequently attach a bright red handkerchief to the
top of a ramrod, the other end of which is stuck in the ground, and that
this decoy will attract the antelope, I determined to adopt that
stratagem. I had a silk handkerchief, as did many men in that day. As
repeating rifles have no ramrods, and no bush or stick was available, I
propped up the gun, surmounted by the handkerchief, upon a little mound
in sight of the game, and lying on my face, concealed in a slight
depression, waited patiently for developments. The wary animals were not
enticed by the sham allurement.
Any earnest hunter is willing to subject himself to any reasonable
humiliation to achieve success. Therefore, upon my knees with rifle in
one hand I crawled abjectly for a full hour over the gravelly soil,
keeping to the leeward as much as possible. This devotional exercise was
continued until I discovered that my trousers were worn through to the
skin, and that the tissues were beginning to yield to abrasion, which
threatened soon to reach through to the bones of my knees.
The mess certainly needed meat; therefore I adopted other tactics.
Abandoning the fruitless efforts to reach the game by stealth, I rose to
my feet but was instantly discovered. I sent two or three shots at a
venture as the little herd faced me, but the bullets fell short of the
mark, and with a few bounds the game was over the hills and far away. It
became clear to me that the capture of the alert antelope, on the open
plain, is quite a different undertaking from the shooting of deer in the
forest. It would have been a far greater pleasure, and quite as easy, to
have written that I went back to the trail for horses, and again
returned with two fine antelope which were proudly exhibited amid the
grateful plaudits of the admiring camp!--but the statement would lack
veracity if not verisimilitude. It is true, however, that we did secure
several antelope later.
A description of this out-of-door life would be incomplete if it failed
to give at least a glimpse of a certain type of unanticipated events,
which now and then were unfolded in our pathway; exotics quite out of
their native setting, like an oil painting in a woodshed. Now, on that
very night, Doctor Brown had pitched his big tent about a mile south of
our camp. In the stillness of the evening, we heard issuing from it the
sound of several voices in well rendered music. The familiar melodies
were like a letter from home and in pleasing contrast with the yelping
of prairie wolves, to which we had grown accustomed.
In the morning, when we moved out into line the Browns were in advance.
The ladies sat upon their horses gracefully, as Kentucky girls usually
do, using old-fashioned side saddles. The cow-girl saddle even in the
West appears then not yet to have come into use. Fred addressed the
young ladies, expressing appreciation of the music we heard on the
preceding evening. They did not seem to have suspected that their voices
would be heard at so great a distance. One of the boys, who rarely
attempted to produce any music (except now and then a rollicking negro
melody), spoke to the young ladies in unqualified praise of the music
sometimes discoursed in our camp, whereupon the Doctor at once invited
us to come over that evening and bring any noise-producing instruments
that we might boast. With some proper if not necessary apology for the
undeserved compliment from our companion, we accepted the invitation,
stating that we should come, not indeed in hope of contributing anything
of value to the music, but in the pleasant expectation of meeting Mrs.
Brown and also of gaining more knowledge from the Doctor, who appeared
to be a man from whom we might learn very much, as he seemed to be well
informed in botany and geology. Incidentally (!) we hoped to meet the
young ladies again.
The regular evening chores having been performed, the boys proceeded to
shave, and otherwise to prepare for the evening call. The bottom of
their "pants" remained tucked in their long-topped boots, but
shoeblacking was a luxury not to be obtained. Flannel shirts without
coats and waistcoats were regarded as _costume de rigueur_ for the place
and occasion. Thus attired we sauntered over to the Browns just as the
sun was sinking in the west. The young ladies had put some fresh ribbons
in their hair, and were attractively dressed for such an _al fresco_
gathering. The wagon seat was placed upon the ground and along with some
boxes and a couple of camp chairs served us admirably. The preparations
for the evening entertainment have been described in such detail solely
that the events of the coming night may be better understood.
We returned to our camp at a seasonable hour. The air of the early
evening had been unusually soft and still. Fred having already pitched
his little tent, had turned into it with Ben for sleep, while I sought
an eligible spot on the open ground, and rolled up in my blankets. Not
long after midnight Paul, who was on guard, was startled by a vivid
flash of lightning in the southwest. The sleepers were aroused, and
peering out from their blankets saw signs of an approaching storm, for
the fleecy clouds, which often presage the coming tempest were rolling
in a threatening manner. It was thought prudent at once to drive the
stakes of the tent more firmly, and tie down the wagon covers; this done
we watched the rising clouds. We did not wait long, for hardly ten
minutes had passed when the squall suddenly burst upon us with great
fury, accompanied with a deluge of driving rain. The wagon covers
creaked, and in two or three minutes the little tent was lifted and
overturned. The horses picketed near-by were seen to run hither and
thither in alarm, and some of them broke away. In the midst of the
severest gust, a woman's voice in a tone indicating great alarm, came
from the direction of the Doctor's camp.
"They are in trouble over at the Browns," said one.
"And why not?" was the reply, as the tempest shrieked and the driving
rain poured upon us. We could now do no good service where we were and
therefore started rapidly in the direction of the Browns' tent,
shouting, so as to be heard above the roar of the storm, that we were
coming. Sure enough the family had been sleeping in their large wall
tent, and the squall had lifted it into the air, leaving it flapping in
the wind and held by one tent pin.
Everything that had been within it was drenched with rain. The Browns
were soaked and we were soaked, but what was worse, the gale had carried
away upon its wings many light articles likely to be much needed in the
morning. They had not arranged their wagons for sleeping, as we had
arranged ours, having relied upon their tents for such purposes. There
they stood helpless in the driving storm, each of the ladies wrapped in
such blanket or covering as she happened to snatch when the tent was
lifted from over their heads.
Each flash of lightning revealed for an instant the pitiable condition
in which they were left. But they had doubtless passed through even
greater trials than this in their exile from their old Kentucky home
during the Civil War. When satisfied that the worst had passed, they
forced a laugh in contemplating their ridiculous situation, and proposed
to climb into their wagon and await the dawn. Mrs. Brown suggested that
possibly they had a few dry articles there, but in the saturated
condition in which they all were, with the water running down their
wrappings, they would deluge everything in the wagon. We then informed
the Doctor that Uncle Simeon Cobb, one of our party whom he had already
seen, and a fine old gentleman, on a slight cessation of the storm
would cheerfully migrate to another wagon from his own, an arrangement
that would afford all the ladies fair protection until morning. The
Doctor, remarking that this reminded him of some phases of his life in
the Confederate Army, gratefully accepted the offer. He decided to go
with us, and then return to watch out the night and protect the family
effects as best he could. The storm had nearly passed when the little
party slowly made its way over the wet plain through the darkness
to the Deacon's wagon, where Uncle Simeon was safe and dry in his
double-covered prairie schooner. He had heard the crashing of the
thunder and the shrieking of the gale, and readily comprehended the
situation on a brief explanation. His matches and lantern enabled him to
light his apartment; and in the course of time he donned his waterproof,
and came forth amid the ladies' expressions of deepest regret that they
had been compelled to disturb his comfort. But they were thankful for a
harbor of refuge.
It was a great involuntary shower bath they had taken. One end of the
Deacon's wagon was wet in the morning. When the day began to dawn, the
sky was clear and bright. The Doctor then made many trips between the
two camps. The dry clothes of the ladies which he excavated from the
trunks in their wagon were transported in chunks, here a little and
there a little, but in his clumsiness and ignorance of woman's
requirements he seemed unable to produce the right articles. There were
too many of one kind of garment or too few of another to clothe his
family fully, in the conventional manner. As he tucked a tight bundle of
white or colored goods under the Deacon's wagon cover, after but a
moment of delay there came back through the canvas many sounds of
distress indicating the conviction that everything in the trunks was
topsy-turvy and that garments were strung along his entire pathway. It
was fully two hours before a full complement of apparel had been
transported the half mile between the camps, so that the feminine
members of the Brown family were able to emerge from under the wagon
cover. Scattered around in the wagon there remained for future rescue
many mysterious garments, diaphanous or bifurcated, all entirely out of
place in the Deacon's apartment, but possibly of some use in the future
society life in Denver. When the sun had dried the surface of the
ground, these and some others found elsewhere were collected, and the
girls now arrayed in town clothes, having filed back to their camp soon
appeared to be taking an inventory of what are conveniently termed
dry-goods but which were now very wet. In the meantime the boys, jumping
upon horses, rode in the direction taken by the storm; and here and
there, caught upon stunted grubs or bushes, were found various articles.
One of the straw hats had been carried fully two miles. During the
forenoon both camps had the appearance of laundry establishments, a
multitude of garments being spread out to dry in the sun.
CHAPTER VIII
JACK MORROW'S RANCH
On a following night we camped on what for the lack of a better word I
would term the shore of the so-called Plum Creek. There was naught in it
of what is generally regarded as the chief characteristic of a creek,
to-wit, water; but it had one feature that is proper for a creek, and
that was a gully, which we regarded as unnecessarily deep, but which was
absolutely dry. I was informed, no plums have ever been known to grow on
its treeless margins. I remember, indeed, having read in later Nebraska
agricultural reports that twenty varieties of wild plums are native to
the territory, but that they are so similar one to another that none but
an expert can distinguish or classify them. They may grow on the river
islands, though I observed none on our course.
Near the waterless creek was a newly built stage station, known also as
Plum Creek. The station formerly on its site had been destroyed by the
Indians, one in each of the two preceding years. Such was the history of
nearly all the stations along the Platte.
A few miles west of Plum Creek, we became satisfied that somewhere along
there we should cross the one-hundredth meridian, which had figured
prominently in the literature of the day as approximately defining the
border of the American desert, beyond which undefined line there was no
hope for the agriculturist. Fremont had described the country as "a
vast, arid desert, impregnated with salts and alkali."
Mr. Holton, in an address before the Scientific Club in Topeka, as late
as the year 1880, is reported to have said that, "Commencing at the
Rocky Mountains and extending eastward toward the Missouri, and from the
Gulf of Mexico to the Northwestern part of the United States, lay the
great American desert of thirty years ago," and, he added, "the
geographies of that day were right."
As I rode from day to day far back upon the uplands, I, too became
convinced that they were right.
"The stinging grass, the thorny plants,
And other prickly tropic glories,
The thieving, starved inhabitants
Who look so picturesque in stories,"
about constitute the impression received by one observer.
Somewhere along this belt we certainly passed by slow gradation into a
still more arid country having an exceedingly scant vegetation, in which
the stubby, spiny, prickly types were prominent. The buffalo grass,
having a short, rounded blade resembling the needles of a pine tree, and
which cured like hay in the dry air, was very nutritious for the stock,
but even where it grew, its small brown bunches covered but little of
the soil. I have observed, and it is generally conceded, that the
eastern prairie grass has of late each year spread westward, because
"rain follows the plow."
Across that seemingly forbidding expanse, tens of thousands of Mormon
emigrants had passed, to reach another desert equally inhospitable,
where the "soil was impregnated with salts and alkali." Hundreds of
trains had transported the families of gold hunters to California and
the Pike's Peak region, and now we were watching the tide of migration
still press westward along this trail, but as far as I could discern,
not one person of all these voyagers had deigned to pause and leave his
impress upon this land. Their pathway was marked only by the bleaching
bones of horses and oxen that had perished in thousands by the wayside;
and these bones were nearly all that those travelers left behind. This
slumbering, inert expanse must slumber on, until some one shall find and
develop its springs of life.
On the evening of June 22nd, our national flag was seen in the west,
streaming out from the staff at Fort McPherson, a post named in memory
of our general who fell in front of Atlanta. The station was known also
as Cottonwood. As we passed on to where we camped beyond it, we observed
three small buildings made of cedar logs, also a quartermaster's
building, and a small barracks of the same material. Three adobe barns
were in the rear. In one of the buildings was the sutler's store, an
institution that was always present at every post, where supplies both
wet and dry were obtainable. The agreeable fragrance of cedar induced
us, at a considerable sacrifice of money, to purchase a small log to
carry with us for fuel, as we had become weary of being scavengers of
refuse material for our fires. On investigation we learned that two
companies of U. S. Volunteers, and two companies of U. S. Cavalry, were
then stationed at the post, for protection against the Indians.
At night the mosquitoes proved themselves to be the most ferocious and
blood-thirsty creatures we had as yet encountered. Hoping to secure
some immunity from their attacks, a few of us decided to sleep in the
tent and in it start a dense smudge produced by some coarse,
semi-combustible material, on the generally accepted theory that those
insects could be driven out by smoke. While this process was going on,
we sat outside on the smoky side of the camp, hoping there to obtain
some relief. As additional protection, the smokers lighted their pipes
and cigars in the confident belief that their troubles were over for a
time; but when we counted five large, long-legged mosquitoes perched
serenely upon a single lighted cigar, in addition to the uncounted
insects encamped on the face of the smoker, we concluded that the smoke
habit was not offensive to those impertinent marauding pests. On lying
down in our tent we were suffocated with the smoke, the only chance for
respiration being to put our noses out from under the canvas, where they
became instant centers of attack from fresh invaders. There was little
sleep to be had that night, and we determined that, in the future, we
should camp on higher lands back from the river, whenever it was
practicable.
At this post, as at Kearney, a reorganization of trains had to be made.
As illustrating the average composition of these trains, from the
records made at the post, we found that there preceded us in one day,
three trains equipped as follows:
Captain J. S. Miller, 42 men, 3 women, 7 children, 33 oxen, 25
revolvers, 15 guns. Destination, Denver.
Captain Harmon Kish, 30 men, 20 ox wagons, 8 guns, 23 revolvers.
Destination, Denver.
Captain S. M. Scott, 34 men, 32 wagons, 34 revolvers, 20 guns.
Destination, Salt Lake City.
This number of trains in one day was doubtless above the average.
As the result of a conference, Dr. Brown with his family had dropped
behind us with another train that would afford better protection. Having
been assigned to the convoy of a large outfit, we moved out with it on
the following day, but quickly separated from it and camped twelve miles
distant in the bluffs beyond and overlooking the ranch of the
redoubtable Jack Morrow, concerning whom we had heard many remarkable
tales. He had been reported as an occasional visitor to the river towns,
which he painted a vivid red after he had taken sufficient booze to
bedim his usually clear judgment. We had been informed in Nebraska City
that when on his recreation visits to the river towns he frequently
indulged in the pastime of lighting his cigar with a bank note,--and no
one dared to interfere! If his history were truly written it would be
made up largely of thrills.
All except Pete and the Deacon went down to the ranch rather early, to
spend the evening with Jack and his associates. The establishment was
the most extensive that we saw on all our travels, and consisted in part
of a large, two-story building, well constructed of logs. Entering the
large room, which was the business part of the ranch, we observed that
it was well stocked with staple goods adapted to the requirements of
emigrants and for barter with the Indians. A few saddles were suspended
by their stirrups from pegs driven in the logs that formed the side
walls of the apartment. Behind a solid rough counter were barrels of
sugar and other groceries. On the shelves were articles of clothing of
coarse material, also piles of moccasins, and upon the floor a pile of
furs, doubtless received in trade with the Indians.
The heavy log beams that supported the low second floor were exposed,
and from over the counter and near the side of the room there hung from
the beams a multitude of articles, all for sale or exchange. Half a
dozen men were lounging in the room, and one of Morrow's assistants was
sitting upon the wide lower shelf with his feet upon the counter. As no
traders were in the store, there was a free and easy "nothing doing"
atmosphere pervading the establishment.
Soon after our arrival, Jack entered the room from a side door. On his
first appearance he impressed us with the conviction that he was a man
of more than ordinary power; and the effect of his entry upon all who
were in the room indicated that he was a leader of men. His striking
personality would attract attention in any company. His nose, which was
strongly prominent, was decidedly aquiline; his eyes were small and
bright; and a face is rarely seen that would so quickly suggest that of
an eagle. Comporting perfectly with the quick and penetrating glance of
his eyes, his athletic frame seemed to be closely knit; he was vigorous
and alert. He wore a negligee shirt, a soft hat and, strapped to his
waist, a brace of revolvers. He observed us immediately on entering the
room, and coming at once to where we were standing in a group he entered
into conversation, freely answering our many questions. Later in the
evening, after having been called away for a time, he returned, and
having asked us to be seated he was led to relate many interesting
incidents connected with his western life.
During Jack's absence, Dan and I took a seat in another part of the room
beside a man who had recently entered, and who, I learned, was an
_attache_ of the ranch. In the course of conversation, he described in
these words a recent event which had occurred on the ranch.
"One afternoon a few weeks ago, while Jack and I were here alone, a
band of hot-headed Sioux crowded into the ranch here to clean it out, as
they have done at some time with almost every ranch on the Platte. I
reckon they had got too much whiskey somewhere. Anyhow, you see there's
lots of things in the store, and they wanted to get what they could
before they burned the building. Jack saw just what was coming, and
backed up against that wall over there, and I went and stood with him,
and he was as cool as a cucumber. I was just waiting to see what he
would do, for we had our guns all right.
"Their chief and two of the older Indians who knew Jack better than the
young bucks did, were up pretty close to us. The chief told the bucks to
let the stuff alone. One of them said he had sworn by his fathers that
he would take anything he wanted. I understood what he said, you know,
and then the redskins began to load up with stuff. At this, the chief in
a flash drew his bow to the arrow's head and quicker than lightning the
arrow point was stuck deep into the Indian's side, and he dropped on the
floor in a chunk. The chief said to the young bucks, 'Take him away, for
have I not said it?' They took the body out and Jack hasn't been
troubled any more. But if their chief hadn't stopped the business just
then, there would have been carcasses for more than one Indian funeral,
for both Jack and me had a gun in each hand when we were backed against
that wall. You know, when they come in such crowds they scare lots of
these fellows, but they can't scare Jack if he has any sort of a chance,
and he is a great shot and never gets rattled. He's always ready for a
fight, and he has had lots of 'em."
We were informed by one of the loungers in the ranch that Jack was
living with two Indian wives who were then in the building. This
statement was confirmed by freighters whom we saw later. His brother,
who had an Indian wife, was associated with him in business. We were not
disposed to question the rancher concerning so trifling a matter as that
of his domestic relations. It would be thoroughly consistent for so
eminent an Indian-American diplomat to adopt the most advanced customs
of the distinguished heads of the tribes with whom he usually preserved
pleasant relations (for Jack, being familiar with the language of some
of the tribes, had served the Government as an interpreter in Indian
treaties). Polygamy was common among the chiefs of many western tribes.
Both Parkman and Catlin cite numerous cases of plurality of wives which
came under their observation among the Indians. They also mention
instances in which wives were sold, the almost universal price being a
horse, a highly cherished possession among the savages. The stealing of
wives is also mentioned in old writings concerning the tribes. A trapper
stated to us that any Indian might steal a squaw, and if he chose
afterwards to make an adequate present to her rightful proprietor, then
the easy husband, to quote the language exactly, "for the most part fell
asleep." Parkman refers to Mahto Tatonka who, out of several dozen
squaws whom he had stolen, could boast that he had never paid for one,
but snapping his fingers in the face of the injured husband had defied
the extremity of his indignation; and no one had dared to lay the finger
of violence upon him. Men of the West say that an arrow shot from a
ravine, or a stab in the dark, an act which demands no great valor, and
is especially suited to the Indian genius, has often proved the sequel
to the stealing of a squaw. The theft of a horse, I really believe, is
regarded as a graver offense.
It was my good fortune to learn from Jack Morrow some facts concerning
my former friend and schoolmate, Billy Comstock. Comstock, well-known on
the plains as "Buffalo Bill," was descended from excellent stock. He was
born in Comstock, Michigan, a town that was named in honor of his
father. As a boy I remember him as being almost as dark in complexion as
an Indian, and with hair as black as a raven. He was slender, but firmly
built, and was a successful sprinter, having great endurance. His
temperament well-fitted him for a roving life, and when but a youth he
was on the plains. He was on the mount of the first pony express to
Pike's Peak, which started on April 4, 1859, and shared the thrilling
experiences of the daring young men who on their flying steeds
transported the mails through the Indian country. They exchanged their
horses at frequent intervals, usually vaulting from one saddle to that
of a fresh horse held in waiting. As he had become familiar with the
Indian dialects, Comstock's services as interpreter were frequently
secured by the Government. He had his headquarters at Jack Morrow's
ranch a considerable part of the time during the years 1864 and 1865.
Two years after our visit to Jack Morrow, (to be more exact, in the year
1868), Comstock was reported to have been killed by the Indians about
fifty miles northeast of Sheridan, Kansas. Later information indicated
that he was killed by Sharp Grover, a noted scout. Grover was in turn
killed in a row at Pond City, near Fort Wallace. These facts were
confirmed in a later interview with William F. Cody. Cody, who was a
close personal friend of Comstock, but somewhat younger, was also a
frequent guest at the Jack Morrow ranch. The two were among the
distinguished characters on the plains.
[Illustration: GRIZZLY BEAR]
Cody received his _sobriquet_ "Buffalo Bill" as the result of a
contest with Billy Comstock. It happened that a short time prior to the
death of the latter, while the work on the Pacific Railroad was being
pushed in Kansas, the superintendent of construction was dependent
largely on the buffalo for meat for the workmen. Some of the hunters
failed to furnish the required quantity. This condition resulted in
putting these two famous men into competition. The number killed by each
in the time agreed has been given to the writer by one of the
contestants. Suffice it to state that William F. Cody secured the
championship, wresting the title from Comstock, and has since been known
as Buffalo Bill. Cody has been the guide for princes and presidents on
hunting and other expeditions through the far West, and with his Wild
West Show, so well known throughout America, he has appeared before the
crowned heads of many European countries. Not long ago the writer
discovered him in Rome, where Cody introduced the Italian King and a
royal party to the types of western life which he succeeded so well in
presenting.
Cody was born in Scott County, Iowa, in 1845. He was started on his
public career by Colonel Judson, better known as Ned Buntline, a writer
of sensational stories. One of Ned Buntline's stories has been
dramatized under the title of "Buffalo Bill, the King of Border Men."
While at the Junction house we learned from Morrow that a large band of
Sioux was reported to have come down recently from the North to a point
on the river twenty-seven miles farther West; and from information
received concerning their conduct Jack was of the opinion that trouble
was brewing. Returning to our camp we quickly secured our blankets and
slept upon the open ground. The air was so dry, clear, and exhilarating
that even Fred's little tent was not pitched. At about midnight Pete,
who was on guard, quietly crept to where Paul and I were sleeping, and
gently arousing us, whispered that he had discovered figures moving
round in the shadows, and at one time saw them distinctly as they passed
over the hill. It was at once decided that we should quietly inform our
men, and then ascertain who were the interlopers. Pete had been unable
by the faint light of the stars to determine whether they were Indians
or whites.
The stealing of stock was a common pursuit of many men of both races,
and the fact that these intruders were lurking in the valley led us to
conclude that the visitors were thieves. We silently separated, and by
prearrangement secured our rifles; in twos we noiselessly circled the
valley, and like a net gradually closed in to the center.
Two skulking men were evidently surprised when an equal number of our
party confronted them and shouted a signal to the other boys to close
in. The intruders were thus corralled almost before they were aware that
they were discovered.
"What the devil are you after, creeping around our camp at this time of
night?" said Pete sternly to the strangers, and at the same time he
snapped the cock of his gun. With a stammering voice one replied that
they were hunting for stock. "Whose stock are you hunting?" was asked
with considerable vehemence. The stragglers both swore that they had
lost some stock which they were trying to find. Our boys had closed in
upon the captives, who, doubtless knowing the unwritten law of the
plains, became manifestly uncomfortable.
They protested so fervently and made so many contradictory statements
that we were convinced of their guilty intentions. Dan, with vigorous
tones, informed them that if they believed that any stock which they
might have missed had become mixed with our horses, they should not
unnecessarily hazard their lives by endeavoring to secure their property
by stealth at midnight, because stragglers, who should invade and lurk
around an isolated camp in that country at that hour were liable to be
shot at sight, as a precautionary measure. In the general clamor there
were other similar arguments presented. We finally conducted the
suspects to our camp for further examination, where by the light of a
lantern we found them to be well armed. Their guns were temporarily
placed in Paul's custody. The flickering glare of the lamps also
revealed their features and dress, and if they were not thieves they
certainly had all the prevailing symptoms.
It devolved upon us to hold a council and pass upon the prisoners. Our
form of procedure was not restricted by any established code. The burden
of evidence seemed to be so overwhelming against the accused that the
majority promptly decided in favor of the usual punishment for western
horse thieves. Deacon Cobb, however, argued for a commutation of the
sentence: he urged that the suspects should report forthwith at Jack
Morrow's ranch, should rouse him from his slumbers, and return with his
certificate of their good character. They were reinvested with their
guns, having assured us that they would conform to the terms, and on
Pete's report that none of our horses were missing, were allowed to
start on their mission; as was expected they were seen by us no more.
At day-break on the following morning while our breakfast was being
prepared, Dan and I were on a bluff watching the glorious sunrise.
Before us was the junction of the North and South branches of the Platte
River. The course of those streams could be followed far to the west,
and the main channel, which we had been following, was glistening in the
east. Near the junction, and far below us, was Jack's ranch, visited the
previous night, and also known as the Junction House,--but Jack had a
wider reputation than the forks of the Platte.
We observed that the river valley had gradually narrowed and that the
bluffs were nearer to the stream than they were further east. As we were
surveying the beautiful scenery, we were suddenly startled by the music
of a brass band coming from behind a spur of the bluffs in the west. The
booming of cannon could not have been a greater surprise to us. Changing
our position to another spur in the hills, we discovered a regiment of
cavalry, which we learned later was the 11th Ohio. It was preceded by a
long mule train transporting baggage and some invalids. This was
followed by the mounted officers, who immediately preceded the band
wagon. The cavalry moved along further behind with little regard for
order. In the rear were about fifty Indians mounted on horses, riding
rapidly back and forth, as if to give an exhibition of their superior
horsemanship.
Possibly, like children they were attracted by curiosity; more probably,
however, as we concluded later, they were following to create the
impression that all was serene with the Indians; and they were
undoubtedly pleased to see the troops moving eastward from their
country, and desired to report their progress to their chiefs, whose
lodges were not far away in the northwest. We learned that the cavalry
was on its way home, to be discharged. The band was playing for the
special entertainment of Jack Morrow, and continued from time to time
until it reached his ranch. Jack would be sure to open something
attractive for the entertainment of the whole party. Before the troops
or the Indians left Jack's ranch we were again on the trail, rolling
westward.
CHAPTER IX
MEN OF THE WESTERN TWILIGHT
Jack Morrow's ranch was left far behind us before the sun appeared above
the hills, for we had made an early start, as had been our recent
practice, so that we might rest during the heat of the early afternoon.
On the following morning we were on O'Fallon's bluff, so named in memory
of Benjamin O'Fallon, of St. Louis, who was killed there by Indians.
Topographical surveys give the elevation of the valley below the bluffs
as 3,012 feet above sea level, or about 2,000 feet above Omaha. These
surveys also show the bed of the Platte River to average about 300 feet
higher than the Republican River at the South, and parallel streams at
the North, at the various points in the same longitude West. O'Fallon's
bluff, however, is not a commanding eminence, but seems to be nothing
more than a good-sized, irregularly shaped sand dune.
As we were dragging along the sandy road we observed approaching us four
somewhat excited men, who with a two-mule team, were hastening eastward.
Three of them, two of whom were bareheaded, were walking up the grade as
rapidly as possible, while the driver on the wagon, although urging his
mules forward, seemed unable to press them into a gait faster than
a walk, because of the heavy road and the ascending grade. When
they halted at our side, the mules and the walkers were wet with
perspiration. We also stopped, and leaving our horses, gathered round
the strangers, as it was evident that they had something to communicate.
As soon as they had recovered enough breath after their arduous climb to
talk coherently, one of them, to quote his own words, informed us that
the Indians were raising the devil up the river only a few miles away,
and that some of the savages were moving eastward. Another ejaculated
that seven hundred Ogallala Sioux had camped on an island near Baker's
ranch, and that the ranch was invaded and would probably be destroyed.
They urged us to turn back until we could get a strong escort. Each had
some item of information and word of counsel.
Having obtained all possible particulars concerning the situation, we
found ourselves very much in the frame of mind of the average small boy,
who, learning that a fight is on around the corner, is disposed to rush
immediately to the center of disturbance. We had no definite knowledge
concerning the whereabouts of other trains moving westward, with one of
which, according to Government orders, we ought perhaps to have been
traveling. There certainly was no wagon in sight between us and the
place where the white sandy trail curved up the slopes of the bluffs
beyond and was lost to sight some miles westward.
We threshed out the matter thoroughly in the presence of our new
friends, and all members of our party were more and more inclined to
press forward as rapidly as possible, fearing we might fail to witness
something that might be of interest; and all this directly against
valuable advice given in the Book of Proverbs. When we thanked the
gentlemen and bade them good-bye, they wished us good luck and a safe
trip, and as a final admonition urged us to be on our guard.
Passing over the western extremity of the bluffs, where the trail begins
to descend again into the Platte valley, our train came into view of the
little house well known as Baker's ranch. Beyond it flowed the muddy
Platte, the channel of which could be traced many miles of its course.
It then appeared to the eye as if divided into many channels, which
formed numerous islands or sand bars. Many of these islands in the
Platte are almost as unstable as the ancient Delos, or as the waters
that sweep over them in flood time, appearing in one place today, in
another tomorrow, because the quicksands are always rolling and shifting
under the action of the swift current. On the other hand, the clayey
formation in the valley of the lower Platte, termed loess by geologists,
seems throughout that course of the river to assume a crystalline form;
and as the stream washes away its shores, it carves out many
perpendicular banks having the columnar form of basaltic cliffs, but of
a neutral red color.
As from the hills we looked with our field glass to a point beyond the
ranch, we observed, and perhaps for the first time along the river, a
bank that was low and easily fordable, for we saw two mounted Indians
rapidly enter the stream and ride through it to a large island, which
like an oasis in the desert was well covered with verdure. Upon the
island was an Indian village; and beyond the island, and beyond the
further channel of the sparkling river, the brown plain gradually sloped
upward to the table-lands at the North.
Clustered rather closely together upon the island, and standing out
clearly in the bright sunlight, were seventy white circular lodges, each
tapering gracefully to a point, and appearing from far away like a
crest of fringe; at the top of each lodge, were the lodge poles, with
their small ends crossed at the apex. Around and among the tents, was a
scene of animation in which warriors, squaws, and children confusedly
intermingled like a legion of busy red ants in a city of ant hills, each
forming a moving dot of bright color. All this striking and beautiful
scene, as more clearly discerned through the field glass, resembled
rather a motion picture than a scene in real life, for not a sound
reached us through the still air from that cluster of Indian tepees. As
the Sioux lodges average about ten occupants each, it appeared safe to
estimate the population of the village at about 700. They were men of
the western twilight, as fantastically named by Karl G. Carus.
Having surveyed rather carefully the general landscape, our party
proceeded observantly until we lined up in front of Baker's ranch. We,
who were on horseback, alighted, and passing unmolested by a dozen
athletic red warriors, we entered the open door. To our surprise we
found the floor nearly covered with Indians reclining in various
postures. Stepping over two or three of these recumbent forms, an act
that did not make them move a hair's breadth, we picked our way toward
the corner of the room, where we met the valiant Lew Baker, then in the
prime of his young manhood. The counter extended along the east side of
the building, after the fashion of many country stores, and behind it
stood its owner.
A little woman, the wife of Baker, was also seated behind the same
counter near a window at the front of the room, somewhat protected and
concealed by a desk upon that end of the counter, and was therefore not
readily observed by persons entering. In her arms was their only child,
Elma, then four months old. Baker introduced us to his wife, with whom
I exchanged a few words. Johnny Baker, the famous crack shot and for
many years a star feature as sharpshooter in Buffalo Bill's Wild West
Show, was a later scion of this stock. While careful not to betray any
interest concerning the red visitors in the ranch, we embraced the first
opportunity to obtain from Baker all information possible regarding the
situation. We asked if he believed that any of the Indians present would
understand our conversation. He gave it as his opinion that they would
not, though as we all well understand, our manner and tone of voice
might suggest much to them.
Baker, continuing, and turning his eyes toward the ceiling as if
conversing on some general topic, said, "Those Indians you see lying
around you on the floor, entered the room this morning almost at the
break of day, taking very nearly their present positions on the floor,
and not one of them since their arrival seems to have spoken a word;
they have scarcely moved." Nor had there been any expressions upon any
one of their faces, except the same unchanged sullenness that we could
then observe. During our interview neither one of us appeared to notice
the subjects of our conversation.
As is well known, there is a certain peculiar strain clearly marked in
the character of most Indians of the warlike tribes. If they become
offended, it is not their practice to remove their outer garments if
they should happen to be wearing a blanket, and like an impetuous
Irishman, at once rush to the front with clenched fists, or like a
volatile Frenchman, pour out a volley of sacres, to indicate their self
confidence, nor are apologies considered an adequate satisfaction for
any injury. They are not loquacious at any time. They are more disposed
to nourish their wrath in silence and like a sulky child refuse to
communicate with their enemy, until the opportunity comes when they may
strike an unexpected blow under conditions favorable to themselves. The
Sioux, indeed, at the time of which we are writing, had ample grounds
for resentment, and although the ranch-man was powerless to right their
wrongs, they regarded all whites as common parties to the controversy
yet unsettled. Baker well understood their temper, but did not know when
the storm might burst. He had placed his little wife and child where he
could best shield them, relying chiefly upon himself for protection; his
quick eye was ready at all times to detect the faintest hostile
movement; and he declared himself determined to defend his little wife
and baby to the utmost.
It was a remarkable feature of the demonstration that occurred while we
were in Baker's ranch, that at intervals of but a few minutes one Indian
after another, usually in pairs, silently entered the opened door, and
with a soft, noiseless tread of moccasined feet, moved across the room,
among or across the impassive warriors, who lay stretched out upon the
floor apparently unnoticed, with whom as far as we could discern they
exchanged no word or sign whatever. On reaching Baker, some offered a
trifling article in exchange for others of much greater value,
preferably for a side of bacon or a bag of flour, which were taken
without comment, and the articles so taken were at once carried away. In
some cases an Indian would actually take possession of a coveted article
without any payment in return, and at once leave the building with the
property; but during all this time the Red Men on the floor lay in
silence, utterly indifferent to all that was taking place.
We offered Mr. Baker any assistance that our small party could afford,
and urged him in any event to abandon his ranch and seek safety for
himself and family with some armed train. He finally replied that he
would endeavor to hold the situation until some outfit should arrive,
bound eastward, but such trains were now far apart. In the meantime, his
stock of merchandise was being rapidly depleted. Although his ranch for
that day was spared by the band which was then investing it, it was
twice attacked and destroyed by the Indians within the ensuing eighteen
months, the particulars of which attacks were furnished me by Johnny
Baker as matters of family history, although he himself was too young
then to have personal recollections of the stirring events.
As we could be of little service to the beleaguered young rancher and
his little family, for which we felt great solicitude, and as he would
not go westward at that time, we pushed onward a mile beyond, to a point
near the river bank, for our luncheon. Instead of picketing our horses
in the usual manner, we tied them to the wagon wheels and compelled them
to forego their noon grazing until we could get our bearings. While the
meal was being prepared, three of the boys, Ben and Fred being two of
the number, had the temerity to ford the river and visit the Indian
village. What the purpose of such a proceeding might have been cannot
now be imagined. Curiosity certainly got the better of good sense. Ben
was usually to be relied upon as sane and sensible.
It proved easy for them to ford the comparatively shallow but rather
wide channel of the river flowing between the mainland and the island
where the Indian lodges were rather closely grouped together. The
Indians evidently had selected this island for their temporary abode, on
account of the grass with which portions of it were covered, the
mainland being very dry and furnishing but little forage for stock.
Our estimate of the number of their horses and ponies was about 600.
These were wandering about on the island, many standing in the water's
edge, switching the flies with their tails. The lodges, as was the
custom of the plains at that time, were made of dressed buffalo skins,
which in the distance looked comparatively white. They were well made
and the skins were firmly sewed together. On a closer approach the color
was seen to be slightly tawny.
The larger tents were about twenty-five feet in height, generally with
thirty poles supporting each tent. We had been informed that nearly all
their lodge poles were obtained from near the foot of the Rocky
Mountains, and plainsmen stated, on the authority of the Indians, that
many of them have thus been in use for a hundred years. One, and perhaps
two, of the large tents would have afforded space for forty persons to
dine in its shelter.
Around the lodges were scores of squaws, many of them at that hour half
reclining in the doors of their tents, in costumes generally quite
decollete. One young girl was observed whose apparel indicated that she
was connected with a family of distinction. She wore a balmoral skirt of
brilliant hues, which was possibly secured in some trade by her admiring
father or lover. She was also loaded with beads and tinsel. Many
papooses were decorated with beads and similar trifles. These cheap
articles with brilliantly colored calico, were often received in
exchange for furs and robes.
The Indian bucks were much in evidence when we first saw the village,
although but few were there when we reached it. We concluded that many
of them had gone out on some expedition after we had obtained our first
view of the village from O'Fallon's bluff. Our party hardly felt at
ease, as there was a manifest lack of cordiality towards us among the
inhabitants, which was not explained by our unfamiliarity with their
language; our boys, therefore, were not obtrusive.
Having sauntered leisurely among the malodorous lodges for a time, we
suddenly observed the rapid approach of a large body of mounted Indians
from away beyond the North side of the river. They were coming with such
headlong impetuosity that we instantly concluded that we might be
greatly needed in our own camp. Accordingly we recrossed the river
without unnecessary delay and were soon relating our experiences around
the camp fire while we ate a hasty lunch. The meal had hardly been
despatched when Noah, on casting his eyes in the direction of the river,
immediately turned and exclaimed, "There's a band of those devils
fording the stream, and I'll bet they are coming to return that visit."
Sure enough they were, and a social obligation is rarely discharged with
greater alacrity and spontaneity. They were probably a portion of the
band that first came in from the North, and learning of the call made at
their home during their brief absence, they made an instantaneous rush
across the stream, and immediately on touching dry land on our side,
came on a dead run for our camp. On reaching it, their horses were
brought to a sudden stop. At the same moment the Indians were on their
feet upon the ground as quick as a flash, and almost simultaneously;
and, more quickly than it can be told, they were everywhere in our camp,
and we seemed to be nowhere. They made themselves thoroughly at home.
As the result of a common impulse, we also quickly found ourselves
within close speaking distance of each other. None of our party were
able to state the exact number of the invaders, but twenty-five was a
later estimate. They were young, vigorous warriors, all armed with bows,
arrows, and knives; none of them, so far as we observed, bore firearms.
Like all the Western and Northwestern Indians, except the Sacs, Foxes,
and Pawnees, their hair was long and straight. They wore no articles of
dress which had been adopted from the whites, but they presented
themselves in the primitive simplicity of feathers and paint, limbs and
breast being bare. One of them wore big feathers. He may have been the
great Chief Hole-in-the-Ground, and we should have been pleased if he
had stayed in the hole.
Possibly we did not greet them with a cordial welcome. There was
certainly no need to extend them formally the freedom of the camp. As a
matter of fact, this ceremony was forgotten, but it was never missed. We
were also slightly embarrassed and perhaps uncommonly modest. The
visitors came upon us unexpectedly, like a great family of distant
relations by marriage. There was too little prepared food in our camp to
furnish a collation that would comport with the dignity of the chief
with the big feathers, and his minions. His highness, however, relieved
us from any concern on that score, for without standing on ceremony he,
and his red-skinned satellites, proceeded at once to help themselves to
everything within reach. This was accomplished with all desirable
despatch. It was observed that four or five of the number had
thoughtfully provided themselves with blankets. As the day was very
warm, this was not done for protection against the weather, but, as we
discovered in a few moments, with the subtler purpose of using them as
vehicles for plunder,--satchels and suit-cases having not yet become
popular.
The raid was first made upon the little food which we had in sight upon
the ground. We had not yet fully comprehended their plans, but regarded
the savages as being a trifle "fresh." Fred, who like the rest of us was
watching these proceedings with the resignation that is born of
helplessness, remarked to me, "If they ever try to digest any bread like
that which I ate for breakfast, they will regret their visit." Fred was
not inclined to be solemn at any time, but to others as well as to me
the situation was rapidly becoming serious. The cooking utensils were
then all hastily gathered up by the audacious freebooters and put into
their blankets, as if this were a commonplace business affair that must
be quickly performed. Simultaneously, and with perfect concert of
action, others proceeded to the mess boxes at the rear of the wagons,
and rapidly, and in a confident and business-like manner emptied them
one by one of their contents. About half of the invaders remained
inactive, but held their bows in their hands as if to overawe us and, if
necessary, defend the raiders.
The situation was now becoming exceedingly tense. The plan of the
Indians was rapidly developing; it was, first to appropriate our lighter
effects, as we knew had often been done that year in other cases, and
then to follow this by capturing our horses, after which we should be
left destitute, without even a skillet or a cup in which to cook a Jack
rabbit. Our guns must be saved. Every one of our number seemed eager to
act at once, for the moment for resistance had certainly come now if
ever. In a minute more it would be too late.
[Illustration: COUGAR]
It has been written as the experience of the old fur-traders, that
the timorous mood and dilatory tactics of many of the emigrants in their
relations with the Indians often exposed them to real danger and final
disaster, and that a bold stand and self-confident bearing often
resulted in safety. We were happy in that the leaders of our party met
the situation promptly and coolly. Some one said in a clear voice, "Dan,
you are Captain." In an instant Dan seemed invested with full authority,
and at once with ringing voice gave the order, "Get your guns quickly
and line up here." Each man had in his wagon, concealed under a flap in
the side of the cover, a good Henry rifle, which by mutual agreement for
any emergency, was always loaded with sixteen fixed cartridges and
always in perfect condition. Separating for but a moment, and in some
cases dodging round a redskin, we were again together in quick time, but
now in line with rifles to our shoulders.
Previous to that moment there was a question as to the expediency of
showing resistance. The bringing out of the guns, however, meant war,
unless the savages should immediately withdraw. Even Deacon Cobb, with
his long white hair floating in the breeze, stood in line bareheaded,
and as cool as any veteran, with his eye along his rifle awaiting a
further order. Each man also had a revolver in his belt, all of which
were in sight. As a fact there had been considerable rifle practice
carried on from time to time by our party, and for short range some of
the men had proved good shots. The Henry rifle, however, was not very
reliable at long range and the projectiles were light, but for an affair
such as this was likely to be they were simply perfect, because of their
rapid fire.
Our enemy, now at such close quarters, did not fail to take notice, but
we were surprised that our action produced so little effect. It
remained for Dan to speak the next word. Now Dan Trippe, with the
exception of the Deacon, was the oldest member of our party; and as many
persons still well remember, he was gifted with a magnificent physique,
a remarkably forceful presence, and a voice of tremendous power.
Moreover, in profanity, the only element in our language which the
Indians were said to understand, his style was vigorous, yea,
unsurpassed in vehemence, persuasiveness and unction. His oaths, though
reserved chiefly for emergencies, were drawn from a carefully chosen
glossary.
Observing that our challenge failed to check the raid, before giving the
order to fire Dan quickly stepped slightly to the front, and in a manner
not to be forgotten, delivered his call to combat. He added force to his
defiance by his vigorous gestures and actions, all freely emphasized by
strong, resonant vocables (few of which are to be found in the school
dictionaries), and all uttered in an unhesitating, stentorian voice that
could have been heard on the island. The purport of his Philippic,
stripped of its invectives, was that articles which the thieves had
appropriated must be laid down instanter, and they themselves must
immediately "vamoose" the camp, otherwise he would not be responsible
for their untimely decease. It was the pantomime, the gesticulations and
the voice in which Dan had few rivals that were to produce conviction in
savages to whom our language was as Latin.
There was a moment of hesitation, then a brief parley among the Indians,
through which we waited, and remained in line, at the right of which now
stood Dan with his gun. All of a sudden the articles were dropped upon
the ground. The Indians mounted their horses, but without the slightest
indication of haste or fear quietly rode in a body about a half a mile
westward, and there they appeared to hold a brief conference. We
carefully watched their movements, retaining our rifles as we remained
in line. In a few minutes as if by common understanding the savages
suddenly started back down the road toward our camp which they passed
within fifty feet; every horse was pushed to the top of its speed,
racing one behind another in single file. The long black hair of the
warriors was flying in the wind. At times they were riding on the sides
of their horses, each having but one leg and possibly the head exposed
to our view. The savage, dissonant yells which they uttered to the limit
of their voices, as they swept by us, as if for a challenge, were
calculated to make the hair stand on end. They did not pause as we
thought they might do, but sped by us with a rush, at the same time
indicating by their manner and motions that they dared us to shoot and
that they proposed even yet to obtain satisfaction. It was a dare-devil
demonstration and an exhibition of superb horsemanship. We were
certainly tempted strongly to give them a volley, but we wisely saved
our powder. Their exhibition of cool audacity had roused in us a
fighting spirit, at least that is what we all said after the affair was
over. We were on the verge of a strife for which we were well prepared.
It had been our opinion, obtained from various sources, that Indians
will not offer fight when near their homes. This is doubtless their
general policy, but as we had but five wagons, they were at first
confident in their superior numerical strength and their ability to
obtain speedy reinforcements. Their purpose without doubt was to get
horses and other property, and preferably without a struggle--but that
preference could not have been overpowering. Indians were then taking
stock in large numbers from emigrants, a practice which continued for
several months thereafter.
The band upon leaving us, did not slacken its speed until it reached the
ford. Unless we desired to fight, and that, too, possibly at night, it
was clearly unsafe for us to remain where we were, as the band that
visited us could easily secure large reinforcements. Hitching our horses
to the wagons as quickly as possible, we immediately started westward
with the hope of reaching a certain mule train which we were confident
could not be many miles in advance. As our little party followed the
road that wound up the first foothills we reached, on glancing backward
as we had frequently done since leaving the last camp, we observed the
squaws and boys scatter almost simultaneously from the Indian village in
various directions. In less time than it takes to tell it, the skin
coverings were removed from every lodge, and the pine poles thus left
bare were instantly upon the ground; and before we had lost sight of the
island, which could not have been more than an hour, the whole outfit
was loaded upon ponies, the poles being dragged at their sides, and the
cavalcade of mounted warriors and squaws, with all their camp equipage,
had forded the opposite channel of the river to the north side. A
village had been moved in less than sixty minutes. We were astounded at
the perfect system that must have been followed and at the celerity of
their operations.
The reason for this hasty move was not then known to us, but we soon
learned of a big flood that was coming down the river, concerning which
they would certainly be informed; without doubt their chief had given
the order to abandon the island. The removal of these lodges was the
best exhibition of Indian team work that I have ever witnessed. It is
interesting to read in Catlin's _Indians of North America_, Vol. 1, p.
50, that he saw 600 Sioux skin-lodges struck and packed on horses in a
few minutes. In one minute after the signal had been given by the chief,
the 600 lodges, which before had been strained tight and fixed, were
seen waving and flapping in the wind. In one minute more, every lodge
was flat upon the ground. The loading was also equally rapid. As we had
opportunity to verify later, the poles of each lodge are divided into
two bunches, and the smaller ends of the two bunches are fastened one
upon each side of the shoulders of the horse, leaving the butt ends to
drag upon the ground. Just behind the horse a brace or pole is tied
across, which keeps the poles in their respective places. Upon this is
placed the tent material, rolled up with other articles of domestic
furniture. The women do the work, and many of them walk, but the noble
warriors ride.
Before the sun had set we were happy to discover the corral of the train
we had hoped to reach. The companionship of its members was welcome, and
our guard duties were divided with them.
CHAPTER X
DAN, THE DOCTOR
When one sleeps upon the open ground at night with nothing above one's
head but the clear blue sky, the sun seems to rise wonderfully early on
a bright, unclouded, midsummer morning. As our only artificial lights in
this wandering life were tallow candles in a lantern, we soon made the
interesting discovery that the night is made for sleep, whereupon we
naturally lapsed into the nocturnal habits of aborigines, which on the
whole were doubtless quite as consistent with nature as was our own
previous custom. So, on the evening after leaving Baker's ranch, the
story of the past day having been fully rehearsed, one after another, as
the evening shadows began to gather, the boys quietly sought as eligible
a spot as could be found on the ground nearby, and they sought it in
very much the same deliberate manner as the horse finds his chosen bed,
and sinks upon it at the close of day.
When the light of the yet unrisen sun was silently heralding the
approach of the on-coming day, it awakened our out-of-door sleepers, and
there began at once in both camps the usual early morning activities,
for both outfits were to pull out by sunrise. The delightful aroma of
coffee and frying bacon stole through the air, stimulating the appetites
of men whose stomachs were in waiting.
Our tin cups had not been emptied when from the southward we heard the
cracking of whips and the yelping of the mounted mule herders as they
came upon the run, rushing the long-eared drove toward the big corral,
which was separated from our camp by possibly the fourth of a mile. Soon
after the mules had been driven into the enclosure and were expressing
some uninterpretable emotions by loud yet plaintive brayings, our boys
were actively harnessing their horses, which had been picketed upon the
range; speedily they pulled out, while the big train soon uncoiled
itself not far behind. Three of us on horseback rode some distance in
advance.
The morning was indescribably beautiful. Many have written of Italian
skies, and I have often seen and recognized their beauty when they were
tinted with the mirrored blue of the Mediterranean, but I have never
seen brighter, clearer skies or breathed purer, more exhilarating air
than we found on that high and arid plain. Ben, Fred, and I proceeded
side by side upon the firm trail. There was no green grass nor were
there trees to soften the colors of the landscape, but there were many
large patches of cacti then in bloom, the prevailing colors of which
were scarlet and bright yellow. We noticed that the long ridges trending
toward the river were higher and presented a broader sweep, and the
intervening valleys that we crossed were correspondingly wider and
deeper than were those further east. Far behind at times we could see
our canvas-covered prairie schooners rising over those great fixed
billows, like the white-winged barks that bore the Pilgrim fathers over
the Atlantic's waves; or possibly like Abraham's ships of the desert all
alike drifting westward, ever westward, over a wilderness whether of
land or sea, destined to some new region far away.
On the forenoon of that day, June 26th, while riding over the crest of
one of those broad swells, we three simultaneously discerned on the
western horizon what appeared to be a placid lake of considerable size,
with a well-defined shore line on its further border. Its color, bright
azure blue, denoted a body of clear and deep water. It was a charming
feature in that treeless, arid landscape, but nothing upon our maps had
ever suggested to us the existence of such a body of water in that
country.
Not long previous to that time, I had seen from the shore of Lake
Superior a distant island invisible under ordinary conditions, but at
times apparently lifted above the horizon, with its well defined shore
line quivering unsteadily in the sky just above the surface of the
water. As we moved onward, this phantom Nebraska lake receded, and in an
hour it melted into the blue sky. We then knew that it was a mirage. The
same phenomenon reappeared, always in the West and under the same
conditions, at about nine o'clock on each of the two succeeding
mornings.
It is something of a tumble to turn the thoughts from a celestial vision
of rare beauty to the details of a dog dinner. Just while the beautiful
mirage, and other interesting phases of nature were lifting the trio to
an exalted frame of mind, Paul's ruling passion led him to one of the
many prairie dog settlements that we passed on our course, where he shot
two of the rodents and secured them before they had dropped into their
burrow. During our long noon rest he carefully prepared and cooked them
for our luncheon. When we assembled at the mess, the unrecognizable
dogs, fat and plump and nicely browned, were exhibited by Paul as
something rare and dainty.
Our usual mode of serving food was similar to that adopted in the modern
cafeterias, in which our methods seem to have been so far imitated that
each person takes his plate to the common source of supply for his
rations, but returns to his base of operations to devour them. On the
occasion of our dog feast, Paul, being ambitious to produce a favorable
impression with the roast dog, graciously conveyed it to each of the
banqueters as they sat upon the ground in an irregular circuit. It was
amusing to watch them as each cut a delicate morsel and conveyed it to
his mouth, then chewed the little fragment slowly and critically that
the organs of taste might fully sense the flavor. At the same time, with
compressed eye-brows, a far-away look in the eyes, and an occasional
glance toward the faces of others who were going through the same
ceremony, all were preparing to give an expert opinion on the dainty.
Nearly but not quite every member of the party accepted a portion and
made favorable comments on the flavor. There is possibly something in
the familiar local name commonly applied to these animals that is not
appetizing, but the name is really a misnomer, as the prairie dog does
not belong to the canine family. Even that fact in itself may not
commend him as a delicacy for the table. In some features he resembles
the squirrel, but in habits and actions, as many people know, is more
like a chipmunk, and the two are members of the same family. The
generally accepted belief that these little animals dwell together in
amity with rattlesnakes, which are rather numerous in the chosen
territory of the prairie dog, need not add to their attractiveness on
the menu.
I have found no definite authority on the subject, but I should conclude
from observation and inquiry that the serpents are not the invited
guests of the rodents, but hibernate with them during the winter as an
economic measure, to avoid unnecessary labor in preparing their own
subterranean apartments and in the ordinary spring housework, all of
which is performed in common courtesy by the hosts. It may be imagined
that the relations between the householders and their unbidden guests
are not always cordial.
In the forenoon we had fallen in with a small party of emigrants, with
whom I had already held some conversation. In one of their wagons were
two brothers, one of whom was driving their span of mules. The older of
the two, who was about to start on a hunt, drew his rifle from beneath
the seat, when it was accidently discharged, the bullet entering his
thigh. This was simply an incident to which travelers are liable. No
doctor was at hand. I was riding near the wagon and assisted the
unfortunate youth to the ground. It occurred to one of our party to
apply for counsel to Dan Trippe, who was "a sort of all-around man," who
always had a good jack-knife and had read some scientific works. He had
possibly read something concerning surgery, for his father had been a
physician. When Dan was summoned and the situation was briefly stated to
him, it was suggested to him that he should not disclose the fact that
he was not a regular practitioner, because it would materially detract
from the good effect of what he might do. While the injured young man
now stretched out upon the ground was apparently unconcerned, his
youthful brother was heartbroken and in tears, realizing that an
accident liable to prove serious had occurred far out in the wilderness.
Dan promptly responded to the call, and, approaching the sufferer,
proceeded at once in a cool, self-possessed manner to examine the
wound. Dan had studied Greek in a preparatory school, and was able to
use a few anatomical terms any one of which would serve his purpose at
the time as well as any other. He accordingly raised his eyebrows and
looked wise, after the manner of experienced physicians. He then
addressed to us a few recondite terms which came to his mind, assuming
to indicate the probable direction which the ball had taken, all of
which was about as clear and satisfactory as is the average diagnosis.
The younger boy, anxious to obtain Dan's mature opinion on the case,
asked with trembling voice, "Doctor, do you think brother will get
well?"
After another moment, apparently given to careful consideration of the
conditions, Dan replied, in slowly delivered, well accented words with
an air indicating profound knowledge. Bringing into play a stock term
which he often used humorously, a term suggested by an oft-told story,
he said that there being no serious phlebotomization of the wound, the
prognosis was favorable, and he was confident that under fair conditions
the patient would speedily recover,--information that was more
satisfactory to the youth than it was to Dan. Our boys could not
suppress some smiles when they heard this oracle. A later informal and
unprofessional conversation with a few friends, led to the decision,
that as Dr. Brown was now an "uncertain proposition," the wounded man
had best be sent ahead to Julesburg, now a small army post, where there
was possibly a surgeon. The lightest wagon in the train was accordingly
appropriated, and its freight distributed to the other wagons; a
suspended bed, upon which the young man was swung as in a hammock, was
constructed inside the box; provisions were put in for a three days'
journey; and with the best span of mules available and a driver, the
two boys started on their long and anxious journey, planning to drive as
continuously as possible.
We had been undecided as to the course we should take west of Julesburg,
but having received information that the Platte was rising, it was
deemed expedient for our little party also to push on, so that if we did
conclude to take a northern route we could more safely cross the river.
We accordingly again pressed onward in advance of the train that we had
recently joined. Unless the traveler upon those wide prairies was
exceedingly dull and impassive something was sure to occur each day to
arouse his interest. The sight of game or some unexpected incident
invoked expressions of enthusiasm or curiosity.
On the forenoon after Dan assumed the role of doctor a small herd of
antelope seemed to surprise themselves by coming directly upon us on
their way from the river toward the bluffs to the south. When alarmed
these beautiful beasts start with the speed of the wind in some
direction without much regard for what may be in their course; so, in
this case, they apparently took no notice of our big wagons until they
were almost within thirty rods of them, when they suddenly turned to
pass in our rear. The first impulse of man is to shoot the innocent
creatures, and in a moment four or five rifles were out, and bullets
were flying, but the little fellows were too rapid and escaped injury.
Immediately following this trifling incident dense black clouds with a
fleecy border rolled up from the west and we soon faced a terrific
squall, followed by a driving storm of heavy hail. The flattened icy
meteors were of the regulation size, being as large as hens' eggs.
Those of us who were on horseback hastily sought refuge in the wagons.
Our horses, however, quickly became quite unmanageable from the
incessant pelting, and it seemed humane to alleviate their suffering if
possible. The men who were not driving again shared the battering of the
big ice bullets with the horses, but any covering that we could put over
them for protection was lifted by the gale. Peter Wintermute's fine
four-horse team, which I often took pleasure in driving, reared and
plunged to escape. Our saddle horses broke loose and started off with
the wind, and for twenty minutes the panic continued, during which the
canvas-covered wagons creaked as if in pain. After the storm had passed,
the fugitive horses stopped in their flight and slowly returned to the
companionship of the other animals, seeking on the way to crop a little
grass from the scanty growth. In contrast with the clear air and bright
skies for which that country is distinguished there is tremendous vigor
in the elements when turned loose in Nebraska.
On Thursday evening we camped near Julesburg, an old town named in 1859
from Jules Beni, a trapper. All the buildings at this point had been
burned by the Indians very recently, and we were informed that the few
small structures there then had just been erected by the Government. I
asked a survivor of the fire why the Indians burned Julesburg. The
information was that they burned it because they wanted to. The old
town, originally having but a few framed buildings, was familiar to all
plainsmen, as it was the parting of two great trails.
Near by, within an hour's walk, was Fort Sedgwick, in command of Captain
Nicholas J. O'Brien of the 18th Regiment of regulars, an old time friend
and comrade of our Captain Ben Frees. Captain O'Brien had built this
post under the instructions of the War Department. Ben secured from him
much valuable information concerning the Indian situation. Captain
O'Brien in the preceding year had been the hero of a desperate fight
with a large force of Indians under the wily Chief Man-afraid-of-his
horses, and with the loss of fourteen men saved the lives of four stage
passengers, one of whom was a woman. The history of some of his daring
exploits is narrated in Coutant's _Wyoming_.
In addition to one company of the 18th regulars, there were stationed at
the post under O'Brien two companies of the 5th U. S. Volunteers, and a
company of the 2nd U. S. Cavalry. We learned that on the occasion of the
burning of the post at Julesburg, about two thousand savages, with yells
and whoops, suddenly closed in upon the town, but were met by a detail
of troops from the fort. The Indians used chiefly bows and arrows. The
surviving soldiers were relieved after twenty-two comrades had been
killed and scalped by the Indians. The town was pillaged and burned to
the ground with heavy loss of supplies to the stage company. Fifty
thousand dollars in money was captured from a single coach. The
estimated loss in Julesburg as the result of this attack, which occurred
on February 2, 1865, was $115,100. The additional losses sustained by
Ben Holliday in the raids occurring at that time, including losses of
horses and stages, and the various stag
Showing first 200,000 characters. Full text: gutenberg.org/ebooks/41333