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[Illustration: DANGERS OF THE TRAIL--1865]
DANGERS OF THE TRAIL
IN 1865
A Narrative of Actual Events
By CHARLES E. YOUNG
GENEVA, N. Y.
1912
COPYRIGHT, 1912
BY CHARLES E. YOUNG
Press of W. F. Humphrey, Geneva, N. Y.
H. DeF. Patterson, Illustrator, Geneva, N. Y.
PREFACE
I present this narrative of actual events on a trip across the plains
to Denver, Colorado, in 1865 and of life in the Far West in the later
sixties.
An interesting and valuable feature is a map of the country, made in
1865, by Henry Bowles of Boston, showing the old Platte River and
Smoky Hill Trails of that day before there was a railroad west of the
Missouri River.
Everything is told in a plain but truthful manner, and this little
volume is submitted to the reader for approval or criticism.
CHAS. E. YOUNG
July, 1912
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I--Young Man, Go West
CHAPTER II--Arrival at Fort Carney
CHAPTER III--An Attack by the Indians
CHAPTER IV--Denver in 1865
CHAPTER V--A Proof of Marksmanship
CHAPTER VI--On to Leavenworth
CHAPTER VII--A Plucky German
[Illustration: (decorative)]
CHAPTER I
"YOUNG MAN, GO WEST"
[Illustration: E] Early in 1859 gold was discovered in Colorado, and
Horace Greeley, the well known writer and a power throughout the
country both before and during the Civil War, made, in the interest of
the _New York Tribune_, of which he was editor, an overland trip to
Denver by the first stage line run in that day. He started from
Leavenworth, Kansas, and with the exception of Mr. Richardson, of the
_Boston Journal_, was the only passenger in the coach. The trip was
not all that could be desired, for they met with numerous hardships
and many narrow escapes, as did hundreds of others who had preceded
them over that dangerous trail, many never reaching their
destination--having met death at the hands of the cruel Indians of the
plains.
During his stay in Denver Mr. Greeley wrote a number of letters to the
_New York Tribune_, confirming the finding of gold in the territory
and advising immigration. The people in the East were skeptical in
regard to its discovery and awaited a written statement from him to
this effect.
At the close of the war Mr. Greeley's advice to young men, through the
columns of his paper, was to go West and grow up with the country, and
it became a byword throughout the State of New York and the Nation,
"Young man, go West and grow up with the country."
Could Mr. Greeley have foreseen the number of young lives that were to
be sacrificed through his advice, I think he would have hesitated
before giving it; yet, it was the most valued utterance of any public
man of that day for the settlement of the then Far West.
After reading a number of these letters in the _New York Tribune_, I
became very enthusiastic over the opportunities that the West offered
for the young man. There was also a loyal friend of mine who became as
enthusiastic over it as myself. Thus, while we were still so young
as to be called boys, we made up our minds to follow Mr. Greeley's
advice, and "Go West and grow up with the country."
[Illustration: _MAP OF TRAILS
LEADING FROM
MISSOURI RIVER
TO DENVER, COLORADO
1865_]
In making our purchases for the trip we were obliged to make our plans
known to an acquaintance, who at once expressed a desire to accompany
us. After consultation, we consented and at the appointed time, the
fore part of July, 1865, just at the close of the Civil War, we
boarded a New York Central train at the depot in Geneva, N. Y., with
no thought of the hardships and dangers we would be called upon to
meet.
The first night found us at the Falls of Niagara--the most stupendous
production of nature that the country was known to possess at that
time. Our time was divided between the American and Canadian sides,
viewing the grand spectacle at all hours, from the rising to the
setting of the sun; and, awed by the marvelous masterpiece of
grandeur, we were held as if fascinated by its beauty, until we were
forced to leave for the want of food and to replenish our commissary.
When we boarded the cars to be whirled through the then wilds of Lower
Canada, we were liberally supplied with the best the country produced.
Upon the fifth day we rolled into Chicago, the cosmopolitan city of
the West. Two days later we reached Quincy, Ill., where we made
connection with the old Hannibal & St. Joe Railroad which was to take
us through Missouri to Atchison, Kansas. Missouri, after the war, was
not an ideal state for a law abiding citizen, much less for
inexperienced youths of our age, and we quickly realized that fact.
Many stations had their quota of what was termed the Missouri
bushwhacker, or, more plainly speaking, outlaws, who, during the war
and for some time after, pillaged the state and surrounding country,
leaving in their wake death and destruction. They had belonged to
neither side at war, but were a set of villians banded together to
plunder, burn, ravage and murder young and old alike; as wicked a set
of villians as the world has ever known. At many stations they would
nearly fill the car, making it very unpleasant for the passengers.
Their language and insults caused every one to be guarded in
conversation. The condition of the road, however, often gave us
relief, as we were obliged to alight and walk, at times, when arriving
at a point where ties or rails had to be replaced. Its entire length
showed the carnage and destruction of war, making travel slow and
dangerous as well as uncomfortable. On reaching the state of bleeding
Kansas and the then village of Atchison we were about used up. We at
once called at the Ben Holiday Stage Office and inquired the price of
a ticket to Denver, but finding it to be beyond our means, we decided
to go by ox conveyance.
COMMANCHE BILL
We were not long in finding what, in those days, was called a tavern,
located in the outskirts of the town. Having been chosen spokesman, I
stepped up to the rough board counter and registered. We were soon
confronted by the toughest individual we had yet seen. I pleasantly
bade him good morning but received no immediate recognition, save a
wild stare from two horrible, bloodshot eyes. I quickly came to the
conclusion that we were up against the real Western article, nor was I
mistaken. He didn't keep up waiting long, for he soon roared out an
oath and wanted to know where we were from. After telling him as near
as I possibly could, under the circumstances, he again became silent.
His look and brace of revolvers were not reassuring, to say the least.
He soon came out of his trance and did not keep us long in suspense,
for his next act was to pull out both of his life-takers, and, not in
very choice language, introduce himself as Commanche Bill from
Arkansas, emphasizing the Arkansas by letting the contents of both of
his instruments of death pierce the ceiling of his story and a half
shack. I have wondered many times since that I am alive. We had been
told by a fellow passenger that Atchison was a little short of Hades,
and we were fast realizing that our informer was not far out of the
way; yet, it was a haven in comparison to other places at which we
were yet to arrive. Commanche William, or whatever his right name
might have been, was a different person after his forceful
introduction.
He began to question me. He asked me if we had any money.
"Yes."
"Any friends?"
"Certainly."
"Well, then you had better get straight back to them, for if you
remain in these parts long, they will be unable to recognize you.
Where are you fellows headed for, anyway?"
"Denver, Colorado."
"By stage?"
"No, sir. By ox or mule conveyance."
"You are too light weight. No freighter will hire you."
"They will or we'll walk."
"You will not walk far for the Indians along the Platte are ugly. By
the way, do you pards ever take anything?"
Not wishing to offend such a character, I gave my companions the wink
and we followed him into the bar-room with the full determination of
making a friend of him. After all had done the sociable act--of course
gentlemen only drink for sociability sake--I took him to one side
purposely to draw him into a little private chat, and it was not long
before his self-conceit had the better of him. He ordered grub--as all
meals were called in the West in those days--for four, stating he was
in need of a bite himself. Before the meal had been finished, I became
convinced that the old fellow had a tender spot in his makeup, like
all tough outlaws, and, if one had tact enough to discover it, he
might have great influence over him; otherwise, we would be obliged to
sleep with both eyes open and each with his right hand on the butt of
his revolver.
THE AMERICAN INDIAN
The following day was passed in taking in the town and Indian
Reservation, which was but a short distance from the place. There we
came, for the first time, face to face with the American Indian, the
sole owner of this vast and fertile continent before the paleface
landed to dispute his right of ownership. Foot by foot they had been
driven from East, North and South, until at that time they were
nearly all west of the great Missouri River, or River of Mud, as the
Indians called it. At the suggestion of our landlord, we took with us
an interpreter, a few trinkets, and something to moisten the old
chief's lips. Upon our arrival we were duly presented to the chief,
who invited us to sit on the ground upon fur robes made from the pelts
of different animals, including the antelope and the buffalo, or
American bison, the monarch of the plains, and each one of us in turn
took a pull at the pipe of peace. We then made a tour of their lodges.
When we returned, the chief called his squaws to whom we presented our
gifts, which pleased them greatly. To the old chief I handed a bottle
of Atchison's best. As he grasped it, a smile stole over his ugly
face, and with a healthy grunt and a broad grin, he handed me back the
empty bottle. Indians love liquor better than they do their squaws. In
return he gave me a buffalo robe which later became of great service.
After taking another pull at the pipe of peace, we thanked him and
took our departure, having no desire to be present when Atchison's
invigorator commenced to invigorate his Indian brain.
The impression made by that visit to a supposedly friendly tribe, who
at that time had a peace treaty with the government, was not one of
confidence. The noble red men, as they were called by the Eastern
philanthropist, were as treacherous to the whites as an ocean squall
to the navigator. No pen or picture has or can fully describe the
cruelty of their nature.
It was dusk when we reached our tavern, and we found it filled with a
lawless band of degenerates, as repulsive as any that ever invested
Western plains or canyons of the Rockies. We were at once surrounded
and by a display of their shooting irons, forced to join in their
beastly carnival. It was not for long, however, for a sign from the
landlord brought me to his side. He whispered, "When I let my guns
loose you fellows pike for the loft." There were no stairs. No sooner
had he pulled his life-takers than all the others followed his
example. Bullets flew in every direction. Clouds of smoke filled the
room, but we had ducked and scaled the ladder to the loft and safety.
Sleep was out of the question until the early hours of the morning,
for the night was made hideous by blasphemous language, howls of pain
and the ring of revolvers. The first call for grub found us ready and
much in need of a nerve quieter, which the old sinner laughingly
supplied; but no word from him of the night's bloody work. Taking me
to one side, he said, "Take no offence, but repeat nothing you hear or
see in these parts, and strictly mind your own business and a fellow
like you will get into no trouble." I thanked him and followed his
advice to the letter during my entire Western life.
THE FIRST CAMP
After that night's experience, we decided to pay our bill and become
acclimated to camp life. We had taken with us a tent, blankets and
three toy pistols, the latter entirely useless in that country, which
proved how ignorant we were of Western ways. We were not long in
finding a suitable camping spot a mile from the town and the same
distance from the many corrals of the great Western freighters and
pilgrims, as the immigrants were called. For miles we could see those
immense, white covered prairie schooners in corral formation. Hundreds
of oxen and mules were quietly grazing under the watchful eyes of
their herders in saddle. It was certainly a novel sight to the
tenderfoot.
We soon had our tent up and leaving one of our number in charge the
other two went to town for the necessary camp utensils and grub.
Immediately on our return supper was prepared and the novelty enjoyed.
After a three days' rest I started out to make the rounds of the
corrals in search of a driver's berth. All freighters had a wagon boss
and an assistant who rightfully had the reputation of being tyrants
when on the trail, using tact and discretion when in camp. A revolver
settled all disputes. On approaching them they treated me as well as
their rough natures would permit; but I did not take kindly to any of
them. They all told me that I was undersized, and too young to stand
the dangers and hardships of a trip. I returned to camp much
disappointed but not discouraged.
The following morning we proceeded to the large warehouses on the
river front, where all Western freighters were to be found. In those
days all emigrants and oxen and mule trains with freight going to the
far Western Territories would start from either Council Bluffs, Iowa,
Leavenworth, Kansas, Atchison or St. Joe, Missouri; Atchison being the
nearest point, a large majority embarked from there. The freight was
brought up the Missouri River in flat-bottom steam-boats, propelled by
a large wheel at the stern, and unloaded on the bank of the river. The
perishable goods were placed in the large warehouses but the
unperishable were covered with tarpaulin and left where unloaded. They
were then transferred to large white covered prairie schooners and
shipped to their different points of destination in trains of from
twenty-five to one hundred wagons. The rate for freighting depended on
the condition of the Indians and ran from ten cents per pound up to
enormous charges in some cases.
SECURING PASSAGE
After making application to several of the freighters and receiving
the same reply as from the wagon bosses, we went a short distance down
the river to the last of the warehouses. On our approach we discovered
a genuine bullwhacker--as all ox drivers were called in that day--in
conversation with a short, stout-built fellow with red hair and
whiskers to match. The moment he became disengaged I inquired if he
was a freighter. He said that he was and that he wanted more men. His
name was Whitehead, just the opposite to the color of his hair, and as
I stepped up to him I wondered what kind of a disposition the
combination made--whitehead, redhead. I at once made application for a
position for the three of us. In rather a disagreeable voice, he asked
me if I could drive. I replied that I could.
"Can you handle a gun and revolver?"
"Certainly."
"How many trips have you made?"
"None."
"Then how the devil do you know you can drive?"
"For the simple reason I am more than anxious to learn, and so are my
friends." Then I made a clean breast of the position we were in and
urged him to give us a chance.
"Well," he said, "You seem to be a determined little cuss; are the
rest of the same timber?"
I told him they were of the same wood but not of the same tree.
After thinking the matter over, he said, "I'll tell you what I will
do. I will hire the big fellow for driver at one hundred and
twenty-five dollars per month, and the little fellow for night herder
at one hundred dollars a month, and yourself for cook for one mess of
twenty-five men and for driver in case of sickness or death, at one
hundred and twenty-five dollars a month."
We then gave him our names, and, in return, he gave us a note to Mr.
Perry, his wagon boss. We at once started for his corral, two miles
distant, where we found the gentleman. He asked where our traps were.
We told him, and also assured him that we would report for duty the
following morning.
When we reached our camp we were completely tired out, but passed the
remainder of the day in celebrating our success, and feeling assured
that if we escaped the scalping knife of the Indians, we would reach
Denver in due time, and, when paid off have a nice sum in dollars.
The following morning we had an early breakfast, broke camp, and
reported at the corral where each was presented with two revolvers and
a repeating carbine. I was then taken over to the mess wagon which was
liberally supplied with bacon (in the rough), flour, beans, cargum (or
sour molasses), coffee, salt, pepper, baking-powder and dried apples;
the latter we were allowed three times a week for dessert. There was
also a skillet for baking bread, which resembled a covered spider
without a handle.
When the assistant cook, with whom I was favored, had started the fire
and sufficient coals had accumulated, he would rake them out and
place the skillet on them. As soon as the dough was prepared, a chunk
was cut off and put in the skillet, the lid placed and covered with
coals; in fifteen minutes we would have as nice a looking loaf of
bread as one could wish to see, browned to a tempting color. When
eaten warm, it was very palatable, but when cold, only bullwhackers
could digest it. An old-fashioned iron kettle in which to stew the
beans and boil the dried apples, or vice versa, coffee pots, frying
pans, tin plates, cups, iron knives and forks, spoons and a
combination dish and bread-pan made up the remainder of the cooking
and eating utensils.
EXPERIENCES AMONG THE BUSHWHACKERS
It seemed that my assistant was exempt from bringing water, which
often had to be carried in kegs for two miles, so he fried the meat
and washed the dishes. I soon caught on to the cooking, and doing my
best to please everyone, soon became aware of the fact that I had many
friends among the toughest individuals on earth, the professional
bullwhackers, who, according to their own minds, were very important
personages. Their good qualities were few, and consisted of being a
sure shot, and expert at lariat and whip-throwing. They would bet a
tenderfoot a small sum that they could at a distance of twelve feet,
abstract a small piece from his trousers without disturbing the flesh.
They could do this trick nine times out of ten. The whips consisted of
a hickory stalk two feet long, a lash twelve feet in length with buck
or antelope skin snapper nine inches in length. The stalk was held in
the left hand, the lash coiled with the right hand and index finger of
the left. It was then whirled several times around the head, letting
it shoot straight out and bringing it back with a quick jerk. It would
strike wherever aimed, raising a dead-head ox nearly off its hind
quarters and cutting through the hide and into the flesh. When thrown
into space, it would make a report nearly as loud as a revolver. A
lariat is a fifty foot line with a running noose at one end and made
from the hide of various animals. It is coiled up and carried on the
pommel of the saddle. When used for capturing animals or large game,
it is whirled several times around the head when the horse is on a
dead run and fired at the head of the victim. A professional can place
the loop nearly every time.
During the third day of corral life, the steers arrived, and the hard
work, mixed with much fun, commenced. A corral is about the shape of
an egg, closed by the wagons at one end, and left open to admit the
cattle at the other, then closed by chains.
MEANS OF TRANSPORTATION
Our wheelers and leaders were docile, old freighters, the others were
long-horned, wild Texas steers. All of the freighters had their oxen
branded for identification, using the first letter of his last name
for the purpose. The brand was made from iron and was about four
inches in height, attached to a rod three feet in length. A rope was
placed over the horns of the animal and his head was drawn tight to
the hub of a heavy laden prairie schooner. A bullwhacker, tightly
grasping the tail of the beast, would twist him to attention. The man
with the branding implement heated to a white heat would quickly jab
the ox on the hind quarter, burning through hair and hide and into the
flesh. Then, after applying a solution of salt and water, he was left
to recover as best he could. The brand would remain in evidence more
than a year unless the steer was captured by cattle thieves, who
possessed a secret for growing the hair again in six months. When the
branding was completed, each man was given twelve steers to break to
yoke, and it was three long weeks before we were in shape to proceed
on our long Western tramp. The cattle were driven in each morning at
break of day, the same time as when on trail. Each man with a yoke on
his left shoulder and a bow in his right hand would go groping about
in almost total darkness to select his twelve steers. When they were
all found he would yoke them and hitch them to the wagons; the
wheelers to the tongue, the leaders in front and the balance to
section chains. For days we were obliged to lariat the wildest of them
and draw their heads to the hubs of the heavily laden wagons, before
being able to adjust the yoke, many times receiving a gentle reminder
from the hind hoof of one of the critters to be more careful. I went
into the fray with the full determination of learning the profession
of driver and at the tenth day I had broken in a team of extras.
ON THE SICK LIST
I was then taken sick and for two long weeks kept my bed of earth
under the mess wagon, with no mother or doctor, and two thousand miles
from home. You may be able to imagine my feelings, but I doubt it. At
the end of the second week Mr. Perry came and told me they would make
a start the next afternoon and, in his judgment, he thought it unwise
to think of making the trip in my present condition. I knew my
condition was serious, but I would rather have died on the road, among
those outlaws, than to have been left in Atchison among entire
strangers. They were all very kind and did what they could for me, but
were powerless to check my fast failing strength. I had wasted to less
than one hundred pounds in weight and was too weak to even lift an
arm.
I pleaded with Mr. Perry for some time and finally overcame his
objections. "Well," he said, "Charlie, I will fix a bed in my wagon
and you can bunk with me." I objected, for I did not wish to
discommode him in the least and told him a good bed could be fixed in
the mess wagon. "As you will," he said, and had the boys get some
straw which together with the Buffalo robe made a very comfortable bed
when not on the move.
A THUNDER STORM
The next day they picked me up and put me in the second or reserve
mess wagon. Shortly after that the start was made. We had covered less
than two miles when all of a sudden I heard the rumbling of distant
thunder. Very soon rain began to patter on the canvas covering of my
wagon. Then Heaven's artillery broke loose and the water came down in
torrents. Never in my young life had I witnessed such a storm. It
seemed as if thunder, lightning and clouds had descended to earth and
were mad with anger. The racket was deafening. Between the angered
claps could be heard the cursing of those Missouri bushwhackers, who,
in their oaths, defied the Almighty to do his worst and hurled
unspeakable insults at the memory of the mothers who gave them birth.
I knew they were trying hard to make corral; whether they could do it,
rested entirely with the wagon boss.
The cattle were crazed with fright and the moment they were loose,
would certainly stampede. The oxen were finally unyoked and such a
snorting and bellowing, it would be impossible to describe. As the
racket died away in their mad race, my thoughts turned to my chum, who
I knew was with them, and would be trampled beyond recognition by
their death-dealing hoofs, if he had not gained his proper position in
the rear.
[Illustration: LOG CABIN IN KANSAS]
THE LOG CABIN
At that juncture the front flaps of my wagon were parted and at a
flash I recognized two of the men, who bore me across the way to the
"Old Log Cabin" on the extreme edge of the then Western civilization.
As they laid me down I swooned from sheer exhaustion and fright.
Before I had become fully conscious I heard that gruff old wagon boss
telling the good woman of the cabin to spare nothing for my comfort.
She felt of my pulse, asked me a few questions and assured him that
she would soon have me on my feet. He bade "God bless me," and passed
out into the dark and stormy night. The good woman poked up the fire
and placed an old-fashioned, iron tea-kettle in position to do its
duty. At that juncture a young miss about my own age came from
somewhere, as if by magic, and was told by the good mother to prepare
a chicken, that she might make broth for the sick young man, pointing
to where I lay. For two hours that good mother worked over me, now and
then giving me draughts of hot herb tea, while the daughter deftly
prepared nature's wild bird of the prairie, occasionally shooting
darts of sympathy from her jet black eyes. When the bird had been
cooked, the meat and bones were removed leaving only the broth which
was seasoned to a nicety and given me in small quantities and at short
intervals until early morning, when I passed into dreamland with the
mother keeping vigil as though I were her own son. When I awoke I felt
refreshed and comfortable, and found her still at my side, doing for
me that which only a mother can.
At daybreak I heard footsteps above; presently the father and son came
in. The daughter was called and breakfast was prepared. They told me
that our cattle had stampeded and it might be days before they were
found. After a three days search my chum and the cattle were overtaken
miles from camp, but none the worse for their fearful experience. The
moment he arrived he came to see me. I was sitting up for the first
time, wrapped in Indian blankets, but very weak. I assured him that I
would certainly get well, emphasizing the fact, however, that had we
not run into that fearful storm, making my present haven of care
possible, I could never have recovered, and believed that the prayers
of a loving mother at home had been answered.
A CATTLE STAMPEDE
He then related his experience with those storm-maddened cattle. The
first clap of thunder awoke him, and when the rain began he knew he
was in for a bad night, and had taken every precaution to supply
himself with all things needful. His description of the storm and mad
race to keep up with those wild animals, crazed with fright, was
enough to congeal the blood of a well man, and in my condition it
nearly unnerved me. But I was delighted to know that he was safe, for
we were like brothers. His safe arrival, together with the motherly
care I had received and was receiving, put me rapidly on the gain. Not
a morning passed that the daughter did not shoulder her trusty rifle
and go out in search of some refreshment for me, always returning with
a number of chickens of the prairie. She was a sure shot, as were the
entire family, for they were all born and brought up on the border,
moving farther West as the country became settled. From the father I
learned the treachery of the Indians, their mode of warfare and
different methods of attack; in fact, I had the devilish traits of the
noble red men--as history called them--down to a nicety.
When the daughter's day's work was done, she would read to me and
relate stories of her life, which reminded me of the "Wild Rose" in
all its purity and strength.
The fifth day after the cattle were found the train broke corral and
proceeded on its long Western tramp. Before leaving, Mr. Perry made
arrangements with the old borderman for me to overtake them as soon as
I was able.
[Illustration: THE MARCH OF DESTINY]
The fourth day after the train had left, I made up my mind that I
would start the next morning at sunrise and so informed my Western
friends, whom, I felt, had saved my life. The old borderman expressed
regret at my leaving and informed me that both he and his son would
accompany me to camp. I thanked him and assured him that I felt a
mother could not have done more for her own son than his wife had for
me--they had all shown me every consideration possible--and that I
should always remember them, which I have. At this juncture the mother
spoke up gently, but firmly, and addressing her husband, said, "If you
have no objection, daughter will accompany Mr. Young. She is a sure
shot, a good horsewoman, and the horses are fleet of foot. We have not
heard of any Indians in the neighborhood for some time, and besides
she wants to go and the ride will do her good."
He replied, "My good woman, you cannot tell where the Indians are,
they may be miles away today, but here this very night."
"That is true," she said, "but the stage driver told me that he had
not seen a redskin since crossing the Nebraska line."
"That may be," he replied, "still they may have been in the bluffs, or
sand hills watching their opportunity to surprise one of the many
small trains of pilgrims, thinking to overpower them, run off their
cattle and massacre all."
"Yes, that is all true, but I'll wager they could not catch our girl."
After thinking silently for a few moments, he said, "Well, if you
wish, she may go; but if anything happens to our little one, you alone
will be blamed."
That settled it. We talked long after father and brother had bade us
good night. Mother and daughter finally retired; but, as for myself, I
was nervous and restless, sleeping little, thinking of home and loved
ones; not, however, forgetting the little "Wild Rose" that was
separated from me only by a curtain partition.
The following morning we were up at break of day, and at just 5:30 on
a lovely August morning the horses were brought to the door and both
quickly mounted. Her riding habit of buckskin, trimmed with colored
beads, was the most becoming costume I had ever seen on her during my
stay, and for the first time I wished that I were not going, but it
was for a moment only.
WITH THE WAGON TRAIN AGAIN
My destination was Denver, and nothing could change my plans except
death in the natural way, or being cut down by those treacherous
plains roamers. After a pleasant ride which lasted till noon, we came
in sight of the corral. When within a quarter of a mile of it, she
informed me she was going no farther. Both quickly dismounted. Our
conversation would not interest you. Suffice to say, the parting was
painful to both. I bade her good-bye and she was off like a flash. I
walked slowly into camp, now and then turning to watch the fast
retreating figure of as brave a prairie child as nature ever produced.
The men appeared glad to see me; the gruff old wagon boss more so than
any of the others, for he would not let me turn my hand to any kind of
work until I was able. Then I did my best to repay him for his many
kindnesses.
At 2 o'clock that afternoon the train broke corral, and for the first
time I realized the slowness of our progress, and the long trip before
us. Under the most favorable circumstances we could not make over ten
miles a day and more often at the beginning three, five and seven.
Our bed was mother earth, a rubber blanket and buffalo robe the
mattress, two pairs of blankets the covering, Heaven's canopy the
roof; the stars our silent sentinels. The days were warm, the nights
cool. We would go into camp at sundown. The cattle were unyoked and
driven to water. After grub the night herder and one of the drivers
would take them in charge, and if there were no Indians following,
would drive them to a good grazing spot over the bluffs.
We passed through Kansas, after crossing the Little and Big Blue
rivers, and part of Nebraska without seeing another log cabin or
woods. Every fifteen or twenty miles there was a stage station of the
Ben Holiday coach line, which ran between Atchison, Kansas, and
Sacramento, California. At every station would be a relay of six
horses, and by driving night and day would make one hundred miles
every twenty-four hours. They were accompanied by a guard of United
States soldiers on top of coaches and on horseback.
[Illustration: FORT CARNEY, NEBRASKA, 1859]