"BUT SOMEWHERE THE MASTER HAS A COUNTERPART OF EACH."
"O Lord Almighty, aid Thou me to see my way more clear. I find it hard
to tell right from wrong, and I find myself beset with tangled wires. O
God, I feel that I am ignorant, and fall into many devices. These are
strange paths wherein Thou hast set my feet, but I feel that through Thy
help and through great anguish, I am learning."
This modern prayer, as prayed by the hero of a modern tale, would have
fitted most completely into the spirit and conditions prevailing in our
camp on a certain morning in early June, 1852, as we were completing
arrangements preparatory to the extremely dangerous crossing of the
Platte River, owing to its treacherous quicksand bottom.
Despite the old proverb, "Never cross a bridge till you get to it," we
had, because of the very absence of a bridge, been running ahead of
ourselves during the entire trip, to make the dreaded crossing over
this deceptive and gormandizing stream. We had now caught up with our
imaginings and found them to be realities. There was not much joshing
among the boys that morning as we made the rounds of the horses and
wagons and saw that every buckle and strap and gear was in the best
possible condition, for to halt in the stream to adjust a mishap would
mean death. "Once started, never stop," was the ominous admonition of
the hour.
About 9 o'clock, all things being in readiness, two of us were sent out
to wade across the river and mark the route by sticking in the sand long
willow branches, with which we were laden for that purpose. The route
staked, we returned and the train lined up. It need not require any
great feat of imagination on the part of the reader to hear how
dirge-like the first hoofs and wheels sounded as they parted the waters
and led the way. Every man except the drivers waded alongside the horses
to render assistance if it should be required. Mrs. Wadsworth was
remarkably brave, sitting her wagon with white, but calm face. Scarcely
a word was spoken during the entire crossing, which occupied about
twenty-five minutes. We passed on the way the remains of two or three
wagons standing on end and nearly buried in the sand. They were grewsome
reminders of what had been, as well as of what might be. But without a
halt or break, we drove clear through and on to dry land. To say that we
all felt happy at seeing the crossing behind us does not half express
our feelings. The nervous strain had been terrible, and at no time in
our journey had we been so nearly taxed to the utmost. One man dug out a
demijohn of brandy from his traps and treated all hands, remarking,
"That the success of that undertaking merits something extraordinary."
The crossing was made at the South Fork of the Platte, immediately where
it flows into the main river. What is now known as North Platte and
South Platte was then known as North Fork and South Fork of Platte
River.
It was at the South Fork and just before we crossed that I shot and
killed my first buffalo. It was also very early in the morning, and
while I was still on guard duty. A bunch of five of them came down to
the river to drink, buffalo being as plentiful in that region, and time,
as domestic cattle are here today. My first shot only wounded the
creature, who led me quite a lively chase before I succeeded in killing
him. We soon had his hide off, and an abundance of luscious, juicy steak
for breakfast. I remember that we sent some to another company that was
camping not far distant. This was our first and last fresh meat for many
a day.
A few days after this an incident occurred in camp that bordered on the
tragic, but finally ended in good feeling. My guard mate, named Charley
Stewart, and myself were the two youngest in the company, and, being
guards together, were great friends. He was a native of Cincinnati, well
educated, and had a fund of stories and recitations that he used to get
off when we were on guard together. This night we were camped on the
side of some little hills near some ravines. The moon was shining, but
there were dark clouds occasionally passing, so that at times it was
quite dark. It was near midnight and we would be relieved in an hour. We
had been the "grand rounds" out among the stock, and came to the nearest
wagon which was facing the animals that were picketed out on the slope.
Stewart was armed with a "Colt's Army," while I had a double-barreled
shot-gun, loaded with buckshot. I was sitting on the double-tree, on the
right side of the tongue, which was propped up with the neck-yoke.
Stewart sat on the tongue, about an arm's length ahead of me, I holding
my gun between my knees, with the butt on the ground. Stewart was
getting off one of his stories, and, had about reached the climax, when
I saw something running low to the ground, in among the stock. Thinking
it was an Indian, on all fours, to stampede the animals, I instantly
leveled my gun, and, as I was following it to an opening in the herd, my
gun came in contact with Stewart's face at the moment of discharge,
Stewart falling backward, hanging to the wagon-tongue by his legs and
feet. My first thought was that I had killed him. He recovered in a
moment, and began cursing and calling me vile names; accusing me of
attempting to murder him, etc. During these moments, in his frenzy, he
was trying to get his revolver out from under him, swearing he would
kill me. Taking in the situation, I dropped my gun, jumped over the
wagon tongue, as he was getting on to his feet, and engaged in what
proved to be a desperate fight for the revolver. We were both sometimes
struggling on the ground, then again on our knees, he repeatedly
striking me in the face and elsewhere, still accusing me of trying to
murder him. As I had no chance to explain things, the struggle went on.
Finally I threw him, and held him down until he was too much exhausted
to continue the fight any longer, and, having wrested the revolver from
him, I helped him to his feet. In trying to pacify him, I led him out to
where the object ran that I had fired at, and there lay the dead body of
a large gray wolf, with several buckshot holes in his side.
Stewart was speechless. Looking at the wolf, and then at me, he suddenly
realized his mistake, and repeatedly begged my pardon. We agreed never
to mention the affair to any one in the company. Taking the wolf by the
ears, we dragged him back to the wagon, where I picked up my gun, and
gave Stewart his revolver. I have often thought what would have been the
consequence of that shot, had I not killed the wolf.
Along in this vicinity, the bluff comes down to the river, and,
consequently, we had to take to the hills, which were mostly deep sand,
making heavy hauling. This trail brought us into Ash Hollow, a few miles
from its mouth. Coming down to where it opened out on the Platte, about
noon, we turned out for lunch. Here was a party of Sioux Indians, camped
in tents made of buffalo skins. They were friendly, as all of that tribe
were that summer. This is the place where General Kearney, several years
later, had a terrific battle with the same tribe, which was then on the
war-path along this valley.
My hoodoo wheel had recently been giving me trouble. The spokes that I
made of green oak, having become dry and wobbly, I had been on the
outlook for a cast-off wheel, that I might appropriate the spokes. Hence
it was, that, after luncheon I took my rifle, and started out across the
bottom, where, within a few rods of the river, and about a half a mile
off the road which turned close along the bluff, I came upon an old
broken-down wagon, almost hidden in the grass. Taking the measure of the
spokes, I found to my great joy, that they were just the right size and
length. Looking around, I saw the train moving on, at a good pace,
almost three-quarters of a mile away. I was delayed some time in getting
the wheel off the axle-tree. Succeeding at last, I fired my rifle
toward the train, but no one looked around, all evidently supposing that
I was on ahead.
It was an awful hot afternoon, and I was getting warmed up myself. I
reloaded my rifle, looked at the receding train, and made up my mind to
have that wheel if it took the balance of the day to get it into camp. I
started by rolling it by hand, then by dragging it behind me, then I ran
my rifle through the hub and got it up on my shoulder, when I moved off
at a good pace. The sun shining hot, soon began to melt the tar in the
hub, which began running down my back, both on the inside and outside of
my clothes, as well as down along my rifle. I finally got back to the
road, very tired, stopping to rest, hoping a wagon would come along to
help me out, but not one came in sight that afternoon. In short, I
rolled, dragged and carried that wheel; my neck, shoulders and back
daubed over with tar, until the train turned out to camp, when, I being
missed, was discovered away back in the road with my wheel. When relief
came to me, I was nearly tired out with my exertions, and want of water
to drink.
Some of the men set to work taking the wheel apart and fitting the
spokes and getting the wheel ready to set the tire. Others had collected
a couple of gunny-sacks full of the only fuel of the Platte Valley,
viz., "buffalo-chips," and they soon had the job completed. The boys
nearly wore themselves out, laughing and jeering at me, saying they were
sorry they had no feathers to go with the tar, and calling me a variety
of choice pet names.
The wheel, when finished and adjusted, proved to be the best part of the
wagon, and, better than all else, had provided a season of mirth to the
whole company, which, considering the all too serious environments of
our march, was really a much needed tonic and diversion.
We learned so many wonderful lessons in those days, lessons that have
never been made into books. We learned from nature; we learned from
animal nature; we learned from human nature; and where are they who
studied from the same page as did I? So often and so completely have the
slides been changed, that among all the faces now shown by life's
stereopticon, mine alone remains of the original twenty-five, of the
trail of '52. But somewhere the Master has a counterpart of each.