FORTY ISLANDS FORD
After securing a count on the herd that morning and finding nothing
short, we trailed out up the North Platte River. It was an easy
country in which to handle a herd; the trail in places would run back
from the river as far as ten miles, and again follow close in near the
river bottoms. There was an abundance of small creeks putting into
this fork of the Platte from the south, which afforded water for the
herd and good camp grounds at night. Only twice after leaving Ogalalla
had we been compelled to go to the river for water for the herd, and
with the exception of thunderstorms and occasional summer rains, the
weather had been all one could wish. For the past week as we trailed
up the North Platte, some one of us visited the river daily to note
its stage of water, for we were due to cross at Forty Islands, about
twelve miles south of old Fort Laramie. The North Platte was very
similar to the South Canadian,--a wide sandy stream without banks; and
our experience with the latter was fresh in our memories. The stage of
water had not been favorable, for this river also had its source in
the mountains, and as now midsummer was upon us, the season of heavy
rainfall in the mountains, augmented by the melting snows, the
prospect of finding a fordable stage of water at Forty Islands was not
very encouraging.
We reached this well-known crossing late in the afternoon the third
day after leaving the Wyoming line, and found one of the Prairie
Cattle Company’s herds water-bound. This herd had been wintered on one
of that company’s ranges on the Arkansaw River in southern Colorado,
and their destination was in the Bad Lands near the mouth of the
Yellowstone, where the same company had a northern range. Flood knew
the foreman, Wade Scholar, who reported having been waterbound over a
week already with no prospect of crossing without swimming. Scholar
knew the country thoroughly, and had decided to lie over until the
river was fordable at Forty Islands, as it was much the easiest
crossing on the North Platte, though there was a wagon ferry at Fort
Laramie. He returned with Flood to our camp, and the two talked over
the prospect of swimming it on the morrow.
“Let’s send the wagons up to the ferry in the morning,” said Flood,
“and swim the herds. If you wait until this river falls, you are
liable to have an experience like we had on the South Canadian,--lost
three days and bogged over a hundred cattle. When one of these sandy
rivers has had a big freshet, look out for quicksands; but you know
that as well as I do. Why, we’ve swum over half a dozen rivers
already, and I’d much rather swim this one than attempt to ford it
just after it has fallen. We can double our outfits and be safely
across before noon. I’ve got nearly a thousand miles yet to make, and
have just _got_ to get over. Think it over to-night, and have your
wagon ready to start with ours.”
Scholar rode away without giving our foreman any definite answer as to
what he would do, though earlier in the evening he had offered to
throw his herd well out of the way at the ford, and lend us any
assistance at his command. But when it came to the question of
crossing his own herd, he seemed to dread the idea of swimming the
river, and could not be induced to say what he would do, but said that
we were welcome to the lead. The next morning Flood and I accompanied
our wagon up to his camp, when it was plainly evident that he did not
intend to send his wagon with ours, and McCann started on alone,
though our foreman renewed his efforts to convince Scholar of the
feasibility of swimming the herds. Their cattle were thrown well away
from the ford, and Scholar assured us that his outfit would be on hand
whenever we were ready to cross, and even invited all hands of us to
come to his wagon for dinner. When returning to our herd, Flood told
me that Scholar was considered one of the best foremen on the trail,
and why he should refuse to swim his cattle was unexplainable. He must
have time to burn, but that didn’t seem reasonable, for the earlier
through cattle were turned loose on their winter range the better. We
were in no hurry to cross, as our wagon would be gone all day, and it
was nearly high noon when we trailed up to the ford.
With the addition to our force of Scholar and nine or ten of his men,
we had an abundance of help, and put the cattle into the water
opposite two islands, our saddle horses in the lead as usual. There
was no swimming water between the south shore and the first island,
though it wet our saddle skirts for some considerable distance, this
channel being nearly two hundred yards wide. Most of our outfit took
the water, while Scholar’s men fed our herd in from the south bank, a
number of their men coming over as far as the first island. The second
island lay down the stream some little distance; and as we pushed the
cattle off the first one we were in swimming water in no time, but the
saddle horses were already landing on the second island, and our lead
cattle struck out, and, breasting the water, swam as proudly as swans.
The middle channel was nearly a hundred yards wide, the greater
portion of which was swimming, though the last channel was much wider.
But our saddle horses had already taken it, and when within fifty
yards of the farther shore, struck solid footing. With our own outfit
we crowded the leaders to keep the chain of cattle unbroken, and
before Honeyman could hustle his horses out of the river, our lead
cattle had caught a foothold, were heading up stream and edging out
for the farther shore.
I had one of the best swimming horses in our outfit, and Flood put me
in the lead on the point. As my horse came out on the farther bank, I
am certain I never have seen a herd of cattle, before or since, which
presented a prettier sight when swimming than ours did that day. There
was fully four hundred yards of water on the angle by which we
crossed, nearly half of which was swimming, but with the two islands
which gave them a breathing spell, our Circle Dots were taking the
water as steadily as a herd leaving their bed ground. Scholar and his
men were feeding them in, while half a dozen of our men on each island
were keeping them moving. Honeyman and I pointed them out of the
river; and as they grazed away from the shore, they spread out
fan-like, many of them kicking up their heels after they left the
water in healthy enjoyment of their bath. Long before they were half
over, the usual shouting had ceased, and we simply sat in our saddles
and waited for the long train of cattle to come up and cross. Within
less than half an hour from the time our saddle horses entered the
North Platte, the tail end of our herd had landed safely on the
farther bank.
[Illustration: SWIMMING THE PLATTE]
As Honeyman and I were the only ones of our outfit on the north side
of the river during the passage, Flood called to us from across the
last channel to graze the herd until relieved, when the remainder of
the outfit returned to the south side to recover their discarded
effects and to get dinner with Scholar’s wagon. I had imitated
Honeyman, and tied my boots to my cantle strings, so that my effects
were on the right side of the river; and as far as dinner was
concerned,--well, I’d much rather miss it than swim the Platte twice
in its then stage of water. There is a difference in daring in one’s
duty and in daring out of pure venturesomeness, and if we missed our
dinners it would not be the first time, so we were quite willing to
make the sacrifice. If the Quirk family never achieve fame for daring
by field and flood, until this one of the old man’s boys brings the
family name into prominence, it will be hopelessly lost to posterity.
We allowed the cattle to graze of their own free will, and merely
turned in the sides and rear, but on reaching the second bottom of the
river, where they caught a good breeze, they lay down for their
noonday siesta, which relieved us of all work but keeping watch over
them. The saddle horses were grazing about in plain view on the first
bottom, so Honeyman and I dismounted on a little elevation overlooking
our charges. We were expecting the outfit to return promptly after
dinner was over, for it was early enough in the day to have trailed
eight or ten miles farther. It would have been no trouble to send some
one up the river to meet our wagon and pilot McCann to the herd, for
the trail left on a line due north from the river. We had been
lounging about for an hour while the cattle were resting, when our
attention was attracted by our saddle horses in the bottom. They were
looking at the ford, to which we supposed their attention had been
attracted by the swimming of the outfit, but instead only two of the
boys showed up, and on sighting us nearly a mile away, they rode
forward very leisurely. Before their arrival we recognized them by
their horses as Ash Borrowstone and Rod Wheat, and on their riding up
the latter said as he dismounted,--
“Well, they’re going to cross the other herd, and they want you to
come back and point the cattle with that famous swimming horse of
yours. You’ll learn after a while not to blow so much about your
mount, and your cutting horses, and your night horses, and your
swimming horses. I wish every horse of mine had a nigger brand on him,
and I had to ride in the wagon, when it comes to swimming these
rivers. And I’m not the only one that has a distaste for a wet
proposition, for I wouldn’t have to guess twice as to what’s the
matter with Scholar. But Flood has pounded him on the back ever since
he met him yesterday evening to swim his cattle, until it’s either
swim or say he’s afraid to,--it’s ‘Shoot, Luke, or give up the gun’
with him. Scholar’s a nice fellow, but I’ll bet my interest in goose
heaven that I know what’s the matter with him. And I’m not blaming
him, either; but I can’t understand why our boss should take such an
interest in having him swim. It’s none of his business if he swims
now, or fords a month hence, or waits until the river freezes over in
the winter and crosses on the ice. But let the big augers wrangle it
out; you noticed, Ash, that not one of Scholar’s outfit ever said a
word one way or the other, but Flood poured it into him until he
consented to swim. So fork that swimming horse of yours and wet your
big toe again in the North Platte.”
As the orders had come from the foreman, there was nothing to do but
obey. Honeyman rode as far as the river with me, where after shedding
my boots and surplus clothing and secreting them, I rode up above the
island and plunged in. I was riding the gray which I had tried in the
Rio Grande the day we received the herd, and now that I understood
handling him better, I preferred him to Nigger Boy, my night horse. We
took the first and second islands with but a blowing spell between,
and when I reached the farther shore, I turned in my saddle and saw
Honeyman wave his hat to me in congratulation. On reaching their
wagon, I found the herd was swinging around about a mile out from the
river, in order to get a straight shoot for the entrance at the ford.
I hurriedly swallowed my dinner, and as we rode out to meet the herd,
asked Flood if Scholar were not going to send his wagon up to the
ferry to cross, for there was as yet no indication of it. Flood
replied that Scholar expected to go with the wagon, as he needed some
supplies which he thought he could get from the sutler at Fort
Laramie.
Flood ordered me to take the lower point again, and I rode across the
trail and took my place when the herd came within a quarter of a mile
of the river, while the remainder of the outfit took positions near
the lead on the lower side. It was a slightly larger herd than
ours,--all steers, three-year-olds that reflected in their glossy
coats the benefits of a northern winter. As we came up to the water’s
edge, it required two of their men to force their _remuda_ into the
water, though it was much smaller than ours,--six horses to the man,
but better ones than ours, being northern wintered. The cattle were
well trail-broken, and followed the leadership of the saddle horses
nicely to the first island, but they would have balked at this second
channel, had it not been for the amount of help at hand. We lined them
out, however, and they breasted the current, and landed on the second
island. The saddle horses gave some little trouble on leaving for the
farther shore, and before they were got off, several hundred head of
cattle had landed on the island. But they handled obediently and were
soon trailing out upon terra firma, the herd following across without
a broken link in the chain. There was nothing now to do but keep the
train moving into the water on the south bank, see that they did not
congest on the islands, and that they left the river on reaching the
farther shore. When the saddle horses reached the farther bank, they
were thrown up the river and turned loose, so that the two men would
be available to hold the herd after it left the water. I had crossed
with the first lead cattle to the farther shore, and was turning them
up the river as fast as they struck solid footing on that side. But
several times I was compelled to swim back to the nearest island, and
return with large bunches which had hesitated to take the last
channel.
The two outfits were working promiscuously together, and I never knew
who was the directing spirit in the work; but when the last two or
three hundred of the tail-enders were leaving the first island for the
second, and the men working in the rear started to swim the channel,
amid the general hilarity I recognized a shout that was born of fear
and terror. A hushed silence fell over the riotous riders in the
river, and I saw those on the sand bar nearest my side rush down the
narrow island and plunge back into the middle channel. Then it dawned
on my mind in a flash that some one had lost his seat, and that
terrified cry was for help. I plunged my gray into the river and swam
to the first bar, and from thence to the scene of the trouble. Horses
and men were drifting with the current down the channel, and as I
appealed to the men I could get no answer but their blanched faces,
though it was plain in every countenance that one of our number was
under water if not drowned. There were not less than twenty horsemen
drifting in the middle channel in the hope that whoever it was would
come to the surface, and a hand could be stretched out in succor.
About two hundred yards down the river was an island near the middle
of the stream. The current carried us near it, and, on landing, I
learned that the unfortunate man was none other than Wade Scholar, the
foreman of the herd. We scattered up and down this middle island and
watched every ripple and floating bit of flotsam in the hope that he
would come to the surface, but nothing but his hat was seen. In the
disorder into which the outfits were thrown by this accident, Flood
first regained his thinking faculties, and ordered a few of us to
cross to either bank, and ride down the river and take up positions on
the other islands, from which that part of the river took its name. A
hundred conjectures were offered as to how it occurred; but no one saw
either horse or rider after sinking. A free horse would be hard to
drown, and on the nonappearance of Scholar’s mount it was concluded
that he must have become entangled in the reins or that Scholar had
clutched them in his death grip, and horse and man thus met death
together. It was believed by his own outfit that Scholar had no
intention until the last moment to risk swimming the river, but when
he saw all the others plunge into the channel, his better judgment was
overcome, and rather than remain behind and cause comment, he had
followed and lost his life.
We patrolled the river until darkness without result, the two herds in
the mean time having been so neglected that they had mixed. Our wagon
returned along the north bank early in the evening, and Flood ordered
Priest to go in and make up a guard from the two outfits and hold the
herd for the night. Some one of Scholar’s outfit went back and moved
their wagon up to the crossing, within hailing distance of ours. It
was a night of muffled conversation, and every voice of the night or
cry of waterfowl in the river sent creepy sensations over us. The long
night passed, however, and the sun rose in Sabbath benediction, for it
was Sunday, and found groups of men huddled around two wagons in
silent contemplation of what the day before had brought. A more broken
and disconsolate set of men than Scholar’s would be hard to imagine.
Flood inquired of their outfit if there was any sub-foreman, or
_segundo_ as they were generally called. It seemed there was not, but
their outfit was unanimous that the leadership should fall to a
boyhood acquaintance of Scholar’s by the name of Campbell, who was
generally addressed as “Black” Jim. Flood at once advised Campbell to
send their wagon up to Laramie and cross it, promising that we would
lie over that day and make an effort to recover the body of the
drowned foreman. Campbell accordingly started his wagon up to the
ferry, and all the remainder of the outfits, with the exception of a
few men on herd, started out in search of the drowned man. Within a
mile and a half below the ford, there were located over thirty of the
forty islands, and at the lower end of this chain of sand bars we
began and searched both shores, while three or four men swam to each
island and made a vigorous search.
The water in the river was not very clear, which called for a close
inspection; but with a force of twenty-five men in the hunt, we
covered island and shore rapidly in our search. It was about eight in
the morning, and we had already searched half of the islands, when Joe
Stallings and two of Scholar’s men swam to an island in the river
which had a growth of small cottonwoods covering it, while on the
upper end was a heavy lodgment of driftwood. John Officer, The Rebel,
and I had taken the next island above, and as we were riding the
shallows surrounding it we heard a shot in our rear that told us the
body had been found. As we turned in the direction of the signal,
Stallings was standing on a large driftwood log, and signaling. We
started back to him, partly wading and partly swimming, while from
both sides of the river men were swimming their horses for the brushy
island. Our squad, on nearing the lower bar, was compelled to swim
around the driftwood, and some twelve or fifteen men from either shore
reached the scene before us. The body was lying face upward, in about
eighteen inches of eddy water. Flood and Campbell waded out, and
taking a lariat, fastened it around his chest under the arms. Then
Flood, noticing I was riding my black, asked me to tow the body
ashore. Forcing a passage through the driftwood, I took the loose end
of the lariat and started for the north bank, the double outfit
following. On reaching the shore, the body was carried out of the
water by willing hands, and one of our outfit was sent to the wagon
for a tarpaulin to be used as a stretcher.
Meanwhile, Campbell took possession of the drowned foreman’s watch,
six-shooter, purse, and papers. The watch was as good as ruined, but
the leather holster had shrunk and securely held the gun from being
lost in the river. On the arrival of the tarpaulin, the body was laid
upon it, and four mounted men, taking the four corners of the sheet,
wrapped them on the pommels of their saddles and started for our
wagon. When the corpse had been lowered to the ground at our camp, a
look of inquiry passed from face to face which seemed to ask, “What
next?” But the inquiry was answered a moment later by Black Jim
Campbell, the friend of the dead man. Memory may have dimmed the
lesser details of that Sunday morning on the North Platte, for over
two decades have since gone, but his words and manliness have lived,
not only in my mind, but in the memory of every other survivor of
those present. “This accident,” said he in perfect composure, as he
gazed into the calm, still face of his dead friend, “will impose on me
a very sad duty. I expect to meet his mother some day. She will want
to know everything. I must tell her the truth, and I’d hate to tell
her we buried him like a dog, for she’s a Christian woman. And what
makes it all the harder, I know that this is the third boy she has
lost by drowning. Some of you may not have understood him, but among
those papers which you saw me take from his pockets was a letter from
his mother, in which she warned him to guard against just what has
happened. Situated as we are, I’m going to ask you all to help me give
him the best burial we can. No doubt it will be crude, but it will be
some solace to her to know we did the best we could.”
Every one of us was eager to lend his assistance. Within five minutes
Priest was galloping up the north bank of the river to intercept the
wagon at the ferry, a well-filled purse in his pocket with which to
secure a coffin at Fort Laramie. Flood and Campbell selected a burial
place, and with our wagon spade a grave was being dug on a near-by
grassy mound, where there were two other graves.
There was not a man among us who was hypocrite enough to attempt to
conduct a Christian burial service, but when the subject came up,
McCann said as he came down the river the evening before he noticed an
emigrant train of about thirty wagons going into camp at a grove about
five miles up the river. In a conversation which he had had with one
of the party, he learned that they expected to rest over Sunday. Their
respect for the Sabbath day caused Campbell to suggest that there
might be some one in the emigrant camp who could conduct a Christian
burial, and he at once mounted his horse and rode away to learn.
In preparing the body for its last resting-place we were badly
handicapped, but by tearing a new wagon sheet into strips about a foot
in width and wrapping the body, we gave it a humble bier in the shade
of our wagon, pending the arrival of the coffin. The features were so
ashened by having been submerged in the river for over eighteen hours,
that we wrapped the face also, as we preferred to remember him as we
had seen him the day before, strong, healthy, and buoyant. During the
interim, awaiting the return of Campbell from the emigrant camp and of
the wagon, we sat around in groups and discussed the incident. There
was a sense of guilt expressed by a number of our outfit over their
hasty decision regarding the courage of the dead man. When we
understood that two of his brothers had met a similar fate in Red
River within the past five years, every guilty thought or hasty word
spoken came back to us with tenfold weight. Priest and Campbell
returned together; the former reported having secured a coffin which
would arrive within an hour, while the latter had met in the emigrant
camp a superannuated minister who gladly volunteered his services. He
had given the old minister such data as he had, and two of the
minister’s granddaughters had expressed a willingness to assist by
singing at the burial services. Campbell had set the hour for four,
and several conveyances would be down from the emigrant camp. The
wagon arriving shortly afterward, we had barely time to lay the corpse
in the coffin before the emigrants drove up. The minister was a tall,
homely man, with a flowing beard, which the frosts of many a winter
had whitened, and as he mingled amongst us in the final preparations,
he had a kind word for every one. There were ten in his party; and
when the coffin had been carried out to the grave, the two
granddaughters of the old man opened the simple service by singing
very impressively the first three verses of the Portuguese Hymn. I had
heard the old hymn sung often before, but the impression of the last
verse rang in my ears for days afterward.
“When through the deep waters I call thee to go,
The rivers of sorrow shall not overflow;
For I will be with thee thy troubles to bless,
And sanctify to thee thy deepest distress.”
As the notes of the hymn died away, there was for a few moments
profound stillness, and not a move was made by any one. The touching
words of the old hymn expressed quite vividly the disaster of the
previous day, and awakened in us many memories of home. For a time we
were silent, while eyes unused to weeping filled with tears. I do not
know how long we remained so. It may have been only for a moment, it
probably was; but I do know the silence was not broken till the aged
minister, who stood at the head of the coffin, began his discourse. We
stood with uncovered heads during the service, and when the old
minister addressed us he spoke as though he might have been holding
family worship and we had been his children. He invoked Heaven to
comfort and sustain the mother when the news of her son’s death
reached her, as she would need more than human aid in that hour; he
prayed that her faith might not falter and that she might again meet
and be with her loved ones forever in the great beyond. He then took
up the subject of life,--spoke of its brevity, its many hopes that are
never realized, and the disappointments from which no prudence or
foresight can shield us. He dwelt at some length on the strange
mingling of sunshine and shadow that seemed to belong to every life;
on the mystery everywhere, and nowhere more impressively than in
ourselves. With his long bony finger he pointed to the cold, mute form
that lay in the coffin before us, and said, “But this, my friends, is
the mystery of all mysteries.” The fact that life terminated in death,
he said, only emphasized its reality; that the death of our companion
was not an accident, though it was sudden and unexpected; that the
difficulties of life are such that it would be worse than folly in us
to try to meet them in our own strength. Death, he said, might change,
but it did not destroy; that the soul still lived and would live
forever; that death was simply the gateway out of time into eternity;
and if we were to realize the high aim of our being, we could do so by
casting our burdens on Him who was able and willing to carry them for
us. He spoke feelingly of the Great Teacher, the lowly Nazarene, who
also suffered and died, and he concluded with an eloquent description
of the blessed life, the immortality of the soul, and the resurrection
of the body. After the discourse was ended and a brief and earnest
prayer was covered, the two young girls sang the hymn, “Shall we meet
beyond the river?” The services being at an end, the coffin was
lowered into the grave.
Campbell thanked the old minister and his two granddaughters on their
taking leave, for their presence and assistance; and a number of us
boys also shook hands with the old man at parting.