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Ox-Team Days on the Oregon Trail
[Illustration: Ezra Meeker.]
[Illustration: Signature: Ezra Meeker]
_Pioneer Life Series_
* * * * *
Ox-Team Days on the Oregon Trail
by
_Ezra Meeker_
in collaboration with
_Howard R. Driggs_
Professor of Education in English
University of Utah
[Illustration]
_Illustrated with drawings
by F. N. Wilson
and with photographs_
Yonkers-on-Hudson, New York
_World Book Company_
1927
WORLD BOOK COMPANY
THE HOUSE OF APPLIED KNOWLEDGE
Established 1905 by Caspar W. Hodgson
YONKERS-ON-HUDSON, NEW YORK
2126 PRAIRIE AVENUE, CHICAGO
The Oregon Trail--what suggestion the name carries of the heroic toil of
pioneers! Yet a few years' ago the route of the trail was only vaguely
known. Then public interest was awakened by the report that one of the
very men who had made the trip to Oregon in the old days was traversing
the trail once more, moving with ox team and covered wagon from his home
in the state of Washington, and marking the old route as he went. The
man with the ox team was Ezra Meeker. He went on to the capital, where
Mr. Roosevelt, then President, met him with joy. Then he traversed the
long trail once more with team and wagon--back to that Northwest which
he had so long made his home. This book gives Mr. Meeker's story of his
experiences on the Oregon Trail when it was new, and again when,
advanced in years, he retraced the journey of his youth that Americans
might ever know where led the footsteps of the pioneers. The publication
of this book in its Pioneer Life Series carries forward one of the
cherished purposes of World Book Company--to supply as a background to
the study of American history interesting and authentic narratives based
on the personal experiences of brave men and women who helped to push
the frontier of our country across the continent.
[Illustration]
PLS:MDOTD-5
Copyright 1922 by World Book Company
Copyright in Great Britain
_All rights reserved_
PRINTED IN U. S. A.
AN INTRODUCTION TO THE AUTHOR
OUT in the state of Washington recently, a veteran of more than ninety
years stepped into an aeroplane with the mail pilot and flew from
Seattle to Victoria in British Columbia, and back again. The aged
pioneer took the trip with all the zest of youth and returned
enthusiastic over the adventure.
This youthful veteran was Ezra Meeker, of Oregon Trail fame, who
throughout his long, courageous, useful life has ever kept in the
vanguard of progress. Seventy years ago he became one of the
trail-blazers of the Farther West. In 1852, with his young wife and
child, he made the hazardous journey over plains and mountains all the
way from Iowa to Oregon by ox team. Then, after fifty-four years of
struggle in helping to develop the country beyond the Cascades, this
undaunted pioneer decided to reblaze the almost lost Oregon Trail.
An old "prairie schooner" was rebuilt, and a yoke of sturdy oxen was
trained to make the trip. With one companion and a faithful dog, the
veteran started out. It took nearly two years, but the ox-team journey
from Washington, the state, to Washington, our national capital, was
finally accomplished.
The chief purpose of Mr. Meeker in this enterprise was to induce people
to mark the famous old highway. To him it represented a great battle
ground in our nation's struggle to win and hold the West. The story of
the Oregon Trail, he rightly felt, is an American epic which must be
preserved. Through his energy and inspiration and the help of thousands
of loyal men and women, school boys and school girls, substantial
monuments have now been placed along the greater part of the old pioneer
way.
Two years ago it was my privilege to meet the author in his home city.
Our mutual interest in pioneer stories brought us together in an effort
to preserve some of them, and several days were spent in talking over
the old times and visiting historic spots.
Everywhere we went there was a glowing welcome for "Father Meeker," as
he was called by some of his home folks, while "Uncle Ezra" was the name
used affectionately by others. The ovation given him when he arose to
speak to the teachers and students of the high school in Puyallup--the
city he founded--was evidence of the high regard in which he is held by
those who know him best.
Other boys and girls and older folk all over the country would enjoy
meeting Ezra Meeker and hearing of his experiences. Since this is not
possible, the record of what he has seen and done is given to us in this
little volume.
The book makes the story of the Oregon Trail live again. This famous old
way to the West was traced in the beginning by wild animals--the bear,
the elk, the buffalo, the soft-footed wolf, and the coyote. Trailing
after these animals in quest of food and skins, came the Indians. Then
followed the fur-trading mountaineers, the home-seeking pioneers, the
gold seekers, the soldiers, and the cowboys. Now railroad trains,
automobiles, and even aeroplanes go whizzing along over parts of the old
highway.
Every turn in the Trail holds some tale of danger and daring or romance.
Most of the stories have been forever lost in the passing away of those
who took part in this ox-team migration across our continent. For that
reason the accounts that have been saved are the more precious.
Ezra Meeker has done a signal service for our country in reblazing the
Oregon Trail. He has accomplished an even greater work in helping to
humanize our history and vitalize the geography of our land, by giving
to us, through this little volume, a vivid picture of the heroic
pioneering of the Farther West.
HOWARD R. DRIGGS
CONTENTS
INTRODUCTION TO THE AUTHOR v
PART ONE--FROM OHIO TO THE COAST
1. BACK TO BEGINNINGS 1
2. BOYHOOD DAYS IN OLD INDIANA 9
3. LEAVING THE HOME NEST FOR IOWA 15
4. TAKING THE TRAIL FOR OREGON 21
5. THE WESTWARD RUSH 33
6. THE PIONEER ARMY OF THE PLAINS 38
7. INDIANS AND BUFFALOES ON THE PLAINS 43
8. TRAILING THROUGH THE MOUNTAIN LAND 49
9. REACHING THE END OF THE TRAIL 57
PART TWO--SETTLING IN THE NORTHWEST COUNTRY
10. GETTING A NEW START IN THE NEW LAND 69
11. HUNTING FOR ANOTHER HOME SITE 78
12. CRUISING ABOUT ON PUGET SOUND 86
13. MOVING FROM THE COLUMBIA TO PUGET SOUND 99
14. MESSAGES AND MESSENGERS 106
15. BLAZING THE WAY THROUGH NATCHESS PASS 115
16. CLIMBING THE CASCADE MOUNTAINS 122
17. FINDING MY PEOPLE 128
18. INDIAN WAR DAYS 135
19. THE STAMPEDE FOR THE GOLD DIGGINGS 141
20. MAKING A PERMANENT HOME IN THE WILDS 146
21. FINDING AND LOSING A FORTUNE 154
22. TRYING FOR A FORTUNE IN ALASKA 160
PART THREE--RETRACING THE OLD OREGON TRAIL
23. A PLAN FOR A MEMORIAL TO THE PIONEERS 165
24. ON THE OVERLAND TRAIL AGAIN 177
25. TRAILING ON TO THE SOUTH PASS 185
26. REVIVING OLD MEMORIES OF THE TRAIL 195
27. A BIT OF BAD LUCK 204
28. DRIVING ON TO THE CAPITAL 212
29. THE END OF THE LONG TRAIL 219
THE WORLD'S GREATEST TRAIL
WORN deep and wide by the migration of three hundred thousand people,
lined by the graves of twenty thousand dead, witness of romance and
tragedy, the Oregon Trail is unique in history and will always be sacred
to the memories of the pioneers. Reaching the summit of the Rockies upon
an evenly distributed grade of eight feet to the mile, following the
watercourse of the River Platte and tributaries to within two miles of
the summit of the South Pass, through the Rocky Mountain barrier,
descending to the tidewaters of the Pacific, through the Valleys of the
Snake and the Columbia, the route of the Oregon Trail points the way for
a great National Highway from the Missouri River to Puget Sound: a
roadway of greatest commercial importance, a highway of military
preparedness, a route for a lasting memorial to the pioneers, thus
combining utility and sentiment.
[Illustration: Signature: Ezra Meeker]
PART ONE
FROM OHIO TO THE COAST
[Illustration: NORTH AMERICA IN 1830]
This map shows the main divisions of North America as they were when
Ezra Meeker was born. The shading in the Arctic region shows how much
there was still for the explorers to discover.
The Oregon Country is shown as part of the United States, although the
whole region was in dispute between the United States and Great Britain.
In the United States itself the settled part of the country was east of
the dotted line that runs from Lake Ontario to the Gulf of Mexico. West
of this line was the Indian country, with only a few forts as outposts
of settlement. Several territories had been organized, but Oregon,
Missouri, and Nebraska were little more than names for vast undetermined
regions.
[Illustration: The old Meeker homestead near Elizabeth, New Jersey.]
CHAPTER ONE
BACK TO BEGINNINGS
I WAS born in Huntsville, Butler County, Ohio, on December 29, 1830.
That was, at this writing, more than ninety years ago.
My father's ancestors came from England in 1637. In 1665 they settled
near Elizabeth City, New Jersey, building there a very substantial house
which stood till almost 1910. More than a score of hardy soldiers from
this family fought for the Colonies in the War of Independence. They
were noted for their stalwart strength, steady habits, and patriotic
ardor.
Both my parents were sincere, though not austere, Christian people.
Father inherited to the full the sturdy traits of his ancestors. I well
remember that for three years, during our life in Indiana, he worked
eighteen hours a day as a miller. For this hard service he received only
twenty dollars a month and bran for the cow. Yet out of the ordeal he
came seemingly as strong and healthy as when he entered it.
My mother's maiden name was Phoebe Baker. English and Welsh strains of
blood ran in her veins. Her father settled in Butler County, Ohio, in
the year 1804, or thereabouts. My mother, like my father, could and did
endure continuous long hours of severe labor without much discomfort. I
have known her frequently to patch and mend our clothing until very late
at night, and yet she would invariably be up in the morning by four to
resume her labors.
Small wonder that with such parents and with such early surroundings I
am able to say that for fifty-eight years I was never sick in bed a
single day. I, too, have endured long hours of labor during my whole
life, and I can truthfully say that I have always liked to do my work
and that I never watched for the sun to go down to relieve me from the
burden of labor. My mother said I was "always the busiest young 'un" she
ever saw, by which she meant that I was restless from the
beginning--born so.
According to the best information obtainable, I was born in a log cabin,
where the fireplace was nearly as wide as the cabin. The two doors on
opposite sides permitted the horse, dragging the backlog, to enter at
one and then to go out at the other. Of course, the solid floor of split
logs defied injury from such treatment.
The skillet and the Dutch oven were used instead of the cook stove to
bake the pone or johnny cake, to parch the corn, or to fry the venison
which was then obtainable in the wilds of Ohio.
A curtain at the farther end of the cabin marked the confines of a
bedchamber for the "old folks." The older children climbed the ladder
nailed to the wall to get to the loft floored with loose clapboards that
rattled when trodden upon. The straw beds were so near the roof that
the patter of the rain made music to the ear, and the spray of the
falling water would often baptize the "tow-heads" left uncovered.
[Illustration: Bringing in the backlog.]
Our diet was simple, and the mush pot was a great factor in our home
life. A large, heavy iron pot was hung on the crane in the chimney
corner, where the mush would slowly bubble and sputter over or near a
bed of oak coals for half the afternoon. And such mush!--always made
from yellow corn meal and cooked three hours or more. This, eaten with
plenty of fresh, rich milk, furnished the supper for the children. Tea?
Not to be thought of. Sugar? It was too expensive--cost fifteen to
eighteen cents a pound, and at a time when it took a week's labor to
earn as much money as a day's labor would earn now. Cheap molasses we
had sometimes, but not often, meat not more than once a day, but eggs in
abundance.
Everything father had to sell was low-priced, while everything mother
must buy at the store was high. Wheat brought twenty-five cents a
bushel; corn, fifteen cents; pork, two and two and a half cents a pound,
with bacon sometimes used as fuel by reckless, racing steamboat
captains of the Ohio and Mississippi.
My earliest recollection, curiously enough, is of my schoolboy days,
although I had so few. I was certainly not five years old when a
drunken, brutal teacher undertook to spank me because I did not speak a
word plainly. That is the first fight of which I have any recollection.
I could hardly remember that but for the witnesses, one of them my
oldest brother, who saw the struggle. My teeth, he said, did excellent
work and drew blood quite freely.
What a spectacle--a half-drunken teacher maltreating his pupils! But
then, that was the time before a free school system. It was the time
when even the parson would not hesitate to take a "wee drop," and when,
if the decanter was not on the sideboard, the jug and gourd served as
well in the field or in the house. In our neighborhood, to harvest
without whisky in the field was not to be thought of; nobody ever heard
of a log-rolling or barn-raising without whisky. Be it said to the
everlasting honor of my father, that he set himself firmly against the
practice. He said his grain should rot in the field before he would
supply whisky to his harvest hands. I have only one recollection of ever
tasting any alcoholic liquor in my boyhood days.
I did, however, learn to smoke when very young. It came about in this
way. My mother always smoked, as far back as I can remember. Women
smoked in those days, as well as men, and nothing was thought of it.
Well, that was before the time of matches,--leastwise, it was a time
when it was necessary to economize in their use,--and mother, who was a
corpulent woman, would send me to put a coal in her pipe. I would take a
whiff or two, just to get it started, you know, and this soon developed
into the habit of lingering to keep it going. But let me be just to
myself. More than forty years ago I threw away my pipe and have never
smoked since, and never will smoke again.
My next recollection of school days was after father had moved to
Lockland, Ohio, then ten miles north of Cincinnati. It is now, I
presume, a suburb of that city. I played hooky instead of going to
school; but one day, while I was under the canal bridge, the noise of
passing teams so frightened me that I ran home and betrayed myself. Did
my mother whip me? Bless her dear soul, no! Whipping of children, both
at home and in the school-room, was then about as common as eating one's
breakfast; but the family government of my parents was exceptional for
that time, for they did not think it was necessary to rule by the rod.
Because my mind did not run to school work and because my disposition
was restless, my mother allowed me to work at odd jobs for pay instead
of compelling me to attend school. This cut down my actual school days
to less than six months. It was, to say the least, a dangerous
experiment, and one to be undertaken only by a mother who knew her child
better than any other person could. I do not by any means advise other
mothers to adopt such a course.
In those days apprenticeship was quite common. It was not thought to be
a disgrace for a boy to be "bound out" until he was twenty-one,
especially if he was to be learning a trade. Father took a notion he
would bind me out to a Mr. Arthens, the mill owner at Lockland, who was
childless, and one day he took me with him to talk it over. When asked,
finally, how I should like the change, I promptly replied that it would
be all right if Mrs. Arthens would "do up my sore toes," whereupon
there was such an outburst of merriment that I never forgot it. We must
remember that boys in those days did not wear shoes in summer, and quite
often not in winter either. But mother put an end to the whole matter by
saying that the family must not be divided, and it was not.
Our pioneer home was full of love and helpfulness. My mother expected
each child to work as well as to play. We were trained to take our part
at home. The labor was light, to be sure, but it was service, and it
brought happiness into our lives. For, after all, that home is happiest
where every one helps.
Our move to Indiana was a very important event in my boyhood days. This
move was made during the autumn of 1839, when I was nine years old. I
vividly remember the trip, for I walked every step of the way from
Lockland, Ohio, to Attica, Indiana, about two hundred miles.
There was no room in the heavily laden wagon for me or for my brother
Oliver, aged eleven. It was piled so high with household goods that
little space was left even for mother and the two babies, one yet in
arms. But we lads did not mind riding on "Shank's ponies."
The horses walked so briskly that we had to stick to business to keep up
with them. We did find time, though, to throw a few stones at the frisky
squirrels, or to kill a garter snake, or to gather some flowers for
mother and the little ones, or to watch the redheaded woodpeckers
hammering at the trees. The journey was full of interest for two lively
boys.
Our appearance was what might well be called primitive, for we went
barefooted and wore "tow pants" and checkered "linsey-woolsey" shirts,
with a strip of cloth for "galluses," as suspenders were at that time
called. Little did we think or care about appearance, bent as we were
on having a good time--and that we surely had.
[Illustration: On the corduroy road.]
One dreary stretch of swamp that kept us on the corduroy road behind the
jolting wagon I remember well; this was near Crawfordsville, Indiana. It
is now gone, the corduroy and the timber as well. In their places great
barns and comfortable houses dot the landscape as far as the eye can
reach.
One habit that we boys acquired on that trip stuck to us all our lives,
until the brother was lost at sea. When we followed behind the wagon, as
we did part of the time, each took the name of the horse on his side of
the road. I was "Tip," on the off side; while brother was "Top," on the
near side. Tip and Top, a span of big, fat, gray horses that would run
away "at the drop of the hat," were something to be proud of. This habit
of Oliver's walking on the near side and my walking on the off continued
for years and through many a mile of travel.
[Illustration: Plowing through the oak grubs on the Wabash.]
CHAPTER TWO
BOYHOOD DAYS IN OLD INDIANA
WHEN we reached Indiana we settled down on a rented farm. Times were
hard with us, and for a season all the members of the household were
called upon to contribute their mite. I drove four yoke of oxen for
twenty-five cents a day, and during part of the time boarded at home at
that. This was on the Wabash, where oak grubs grew, my father often
said, "as thick as hair on a dog's back;" but they were really not so
thick as that.
We used to force the big plowshare through and cut grubs as big as my
wrist. When we saw a patch of them ahead, I would halloo and shout at
the poor oxen and lay on the whip; but father wouldn't let me swear at
them. Let me say here that I later discontinued this foolish fashion of
driving, and always talked to my oxen in a conversational tone and used
the whip sparingly.
That reminds me of an experience I had later, in the summer when I was
nineteen. Uncle John Kinworthy--a good soul he was, and an ardent
Quaker--lived neighbor to us in Bridgeport, Indiana. One day I went to
his house with three yoke of oxen to haul into place a heavy beam for a
cider-press. The oxen had to be driven through the front dooryard in
full sight and hearing of Uncle John's wife and three buxom Quaker
girls, who either stood in the door or poked their heads out of the
window.
The cattle would not go through the front yard past those girls. They
kept doubling back, first on one side and then on the other. Uncle
Johnny, noticing that I did not swear at the cattle, and attributing the
absence of oaths to the presence of ladies, or maybe thinking, like a
good many others, that oxen could not be driven without swearing at
them, sought an opportunity, when the mistress of the house could not
hear him, to say in a low tone, "If thee can do any better, thee had
better let out the word."
My father, though a miller by trade, early taught me some valuable
lessons about farming that I never forgot. We--I say "we" advisedly, as
father continued to work in the mill and left me in charge of the
farm--soon brought the run-down farm to the point where it produced
twenty-three bushels of wheat to the acre instead of ten, by the
rotation of corn and clover and then wheat. But there was no money in
farming at the prices then prevailing, and the land for which father
paid ten dollars an acre would not yield a rental equal to the interest
on the money. The same land has recently sold for six hundred dollars an
acre.
For a time I worked in the _Journal_ printing office for S. V. B. Noel,
who published a Free Soil paper. A part of my duty was to deliver the
papers to subscribers. They treated me civilly, but when I was caught in
the streets of Indianapolis with the Free Soil papers in my hand I was
sure of abuse from some one, and a number of times narrowly escaped
personal violence from the pro-slavery people.
In the office I was known as the "devil," a term that annoyed me not a
little. I worked with Wood, the pressman, as a roller boy, and in the
same room was a power press, the power being a stalwart negro who turned
a crank. Wood and I used to race with the power press, and then I would
fly the sheets,--that is, take them off, when printed, with one hand and
roll the type with the other. This so pleased Noel that he advanced my
wages to a dollar and a half a week.
One of the subscribers to whom I delivered that anti-slavery paper was
Henry Ward Beecher, then pastor of the Congregational Church that faced
the Governor's Circle. At that time he had not attained the fame that
came to him later in life. I became attached to him because of his kind
manner and the gentle words he always found time to give me.
[Illustration: Carrying papers to Henry Ward Beecher.]
One episode of my life at this time I remember because I thought my
parents were in the wrong. Vocal music was taught in singing school,
which was conducted almost as regularly as were the day schools. I was
passionately fond of music. Before the change of my voice came I had a
fine alto voice and was a leader in my part of the class. This fact
coming to the notice of the trustees of Beecher's church, an effort was
made to have me join the choir. Mother first objected, because my
clothes were not good enough. Then an offer was made to clothe me
suitably and pay me something besides. And now father objected, because
he did not want me to listen to preaching of a sect other than that to
which he belonged. The incident set me to thinking, and finally drove
me, young as I was, into a more liberal faith, though I dared not openly
espouse it.
Another incident that occurred while I was working in the printing
office I have remembered vividly all these years. During the campaign of
1844, the Whigs held a gathering on the Tippecanoe battle ground. It
could hardly be called a convention; a better name for it would be a
political camp meeting. The people came in wagons, on horseback,
afoot--any way to get there--and camped, just as people used to do at
religious camp meetings.
The journeymen printers of the _Journal_ office planned to go in a
covered wagon, and they offered to make a place for the "devil" if his
parents would let him go along. This was speedily arranged with mother,
who always took charge of such matters. When the proposition came to
Noel's ears, he asked the men to print me some campaign songs. This they
did with a will, Wood running them off the press after the day's work
while I rolled the type for him.
My, wasn't I the proudest boy that ever walked the earth! Visions of a
pocketful of money haunted me almost day and night until we arrived on
the battle field. But lo and behold, nobody would pay any attention to
me! Bands were playing here and there; glee clubs would sing and march,
first on one side of the ground and then on the other; processions were
parading and crowds surging, making it necessary to look out lest one be
run over. Although the rain would pour down in torrents, the marching
and countermarching went on all the same and continued for a week.
An elderly journeyman printer named May, who in a way stood sponsor for
our party, told me that if I would get up on the fence and sing the
songs, the people would buy them. Sure enough, when I stood up and sang
the crowds came, and I sold every copy I had. I went home with eleven
dollars in my pocket, the richest boy on earth.
In the year 1845 a letter came from Grandfather Baker in Ohio to my
mother, saying that he would give her a thousand dollars with which to
buy a farm. The burning question with my father and mother was how to
get the money out from Ohio to Indiana. They actually went in a covered
wagon to Ohio for it and hauled it home, all silver, in a box. This
silver was nearly all foreign coin. Prior to that time but a few million
dollars had been coined by the United States Government.
Grandfather Baker had accumulated his money by marketing small things in
Cincinnati, twenty-five miles distant. I have heard my mother tell of
going to market on horseback with grandfather many times, carrying eggs,
butter, and even live chickens on the horse she rode. Grandfather would
not go into debt, so he lived on his farm a long time without a wagon.
He finally became so wealthy that he was reputed to have a barrel of
money--silver, of course. Out of this store came the thousand dollars
that he gave mother. It took nearly a whole day to count the money. At
least one of nearly every coin from every nation on earth seemed to be
there, and the "tables" had to be consulted in computing the value.
I was working on the _Journal_ at the time when the farm was bought, but
it seemed that I was not cut out for a printer. My inclinations ran more
to open-air life, so father placed me on the farm as soon as the
purchase was made and left me in full charge of the work there, while he
gave his time to milling. Be it said that I early turned my attention to
the girls as well as to the farm and married young, before I reached the
age of twenty-one. This truly was a fortunate venture, for my wife and I
lived happily together for fifty-eight years.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: The first railroad in Indiana.]
CHAPTER THREE
LEAVING THE HOME NEST FOR IOWA
IN the early '50's there lived near Indianapolis two young people. Their
fathers were old-time farmers, keeping no "hired man" and buying very
little "store goods." The girl could spin and weave, make delicious
butter, knit soft, well-shaped socks, and cook as good a meal as any
other country girl around. She was, withal, as buxom a lass as ever grew
in Indiana. The young man was a little uncouth in appearance,
round-faced, rather stout in build--almost fat. He loved to hunt possums
and coons in the woods round about. He was a little boisterous, always
restless, and not especially polished in manners. Yet he had at least
one redeeming trait of character: he loved to work and was known to be
as industrious a lad as any in the neighborhood.
These two young people grew up to the age of manhood and womanhood,
knowing but little of the world outside their home sphere. Who can say
that they were not as happy as if they had seen the whole world? Had
they not experienced the joys of the sugar camp while "stirring off"
the lively, creeping maple sugar? Both had been thumped upon the bare
head by the falling hickory nuts in windy weather; had hunted the black
walnuts half hidden in the leaves; had scraped the ground for the
elusive beechnuts. They had ventured to apple parings together when not
yet out of their 'teens.
"I'm going to be a farmer when I get married," the lad quite abruptly
said to the lass one day, without any previous conversation to lead up
to the statement.
His companion showed by her confusion that she had not mistaken what was
in his mind. After a while she remarked, "Yes, I want to be a farmer
too. But I want to be a farmer on our own land."
Two bargains were confirmed then and there when the lad said, "We will
go West and not live on pap's farm," and she responded, "Nor in the old
cabin, nor any cabin unless it's our own."
So the resolution was made that they would go to Iowa, get some land,
and grow up with the country.
About the first week of October, in 1851, a covered wagon drew up in
front of Thomas Sumner's house, then but four miles out from
Indianapolis on the National Road. It was ready to be loaded for the
start.
Eliza Jane, Thomas Sumner's second daughter, the lass already described,
was now the wife of the young man mentioned (the author). She also was
ready for the journey. She had prepared supplies enough to last all the
way,--cake and butter and pumpkin pies, jellies and the like, with
plenty of substantials besides. The two young people had plenty of
blankets, a good-sized Dutch oven, an extra pair of shoes apiece, cloth
for two dresses for the wife, and an extra pair of trousers for the
husband.
Tears could not be restrained as the loading progressed and the
realization faced the parents of both that the young people were about
to leave them.
"Why, mother, we are only going to Iowa, you know, where we can get a
home that shall be our own. It's not so far away--only about five
hundred miles."
[Illustration: A Dutch oven.]
"Yes, I know, but suppose you get sick in that uninhabited country; who
will take care of you?"
Notwithstanding this motherly solicitude, the young people could not
fail to know that there was a secret feeling of approval in the good
woman's breast. After a few miles' travel the reluctant final parting
came. We could not then know that this loved parent would lay down her
life a few years later in a heroic attempt to follow the wanderers to
Oregon. She rests in an unknown and unmarked grave in the Platte valley.
What shall I say of that October drive from the home near Indianapolis
to Eddyville, Iowa, in the delightful atmosphere of Indian summer? It
was an atmosphere of hope and content. We had the wide world before us;
we had good health; and above all we had each other.
At this time but one railroad entered Indianapolis--it would be called a
tramway now--from Madison on the Ohio River. When we cut loose from that
embryo city we left railroads behind us, except where rails were laid
crosswise in the wagon track to keep the wagon out of the mud. No matter
if the road was rough--we could go a little slower, and shouldn't we
have a better appetite for supper because of the jolting, and sleep the
sounder? Everything in the world looked bright.
The great Mississippi was crossed at Burlington. After a few days of
further driving, we arrived at Eddyville, in Iowa. Though we did not
realize it at the time, this was destined to be only a place to winter,
a way station on our route to Oregon.
My first introduction to an Iowa winter was in a surveyor's camp on the
western borders of the state. This was a little north of Kanesville, now
Council Bluffs. I began as cook for the camp, but very soon changed this
position for that of flagman.
If there are any settlers now left of the Iowa of that day, they will
remember that the winter was bitter cold. On the way back from the
surveying party to Eddyville, just before Christmas, I encountered one
of the bitterest of those bitter days.
A companion named Vance rested with me overnight in a cabin. We had
scant food for ourselves or for the mare we led. It was thirty-five
miles to the next cabin; we must reach that place or lie out in the
snow. So a very early start was made before daybreak, while the wind
lay. The good woman of the cabin baked us some biscuits for a noon
lunch, but they were frozen solid in our pockets before we had been out
two hours. The wind rose with the sun, and with the sun two bright sun
dogs--a beautiful sight to behold, but arising from conditions
intolerable to bear. Vance came near freezing to death, and would have
done so had I not succeeded in arousing him to anger and getting him off
the mare.
[Illustration: NORTH AMERICA IN 1850
By 1850 the general divisions of the continent had taken the shape that
they have today. The states of Texas and California and the territories
of Utah and New Mexico had been added to the United States, all as a
result of the war with Mexico. The dispute with Great Britain over the
Oregon Country had been settled by a compromise. The region just west of
the Missouri, known as the Nebraska Territory, was still beyond the
frontier.]
I vowed then and there that I did not like the Iowa climate, and the
Oregon fever that had already seized me was heightened. The settlement
of the northern boundary by treaty in 1846 had ended the dispute between
the United States and Great Britain for ownership of the region north of
the Columbia. As a consequence, American settlers were beginning to
cross the Columbia in numbers, and stories were coming back of the
wonderful climate, the rich soil, and the wealth of lumber. The Oregon
Country of that day included the present states of Oregon, Washington,
and Idaho, and parts of Montana and Wyoming.
It was a special consideration for us that if we went to Oregon the
government would give us three hundred and twenty acres of land, whereas
in Iowa we should have to purchase it. The price would be low, to be
sure, but the land must be bought and paid for on the spot. There were
no preemption laws or beneficial homestead laws in force then, nor did
they come until many years later.
But what about going to Oregon when springtime came? An event was
pending that rendered a positive decision impossible for the moment. It
was not until the first week of April, 1852, when our first-born baby
boy was a month old, that we could say we were going to Oregon in 1852.
It would be a long, hard journey for such a little fellow, but as it
turned out, he stood it like a young hero.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: Crossing the muddy Missouri.]
CHAPTER FOUR
TAKING THE TRAIL FOR OREGON
WHEN we drove out of Eddyville, headed for the Oregon Country, our train
consisted of but one wagon, two yoke of four-year old steers, and one
yoke of cows. We also had one extra cow. This cow was the only animal we
lost on the whole journey; she strayed away in the river bottom before
we crossed the Missouri.
Now as to the members of our little party. William Buck, who had joined
us as partner for the expedition, was a man six years my senior. He had
had some experience on the Plains, and he knew what outfit was needed;
but he had little knowledge in regard to a team of cattle. He was an
impulsive man, and to some extent excitable; yet withal a man of
excellent judgment and honest as God makes men. No lazy bones occupied a
place in Buck's body. He was scrupulously neat and cleanly in all his
ways; courteous to every one; always in good humor and always looking
upon the bright side of things. A better trail mate could not have been
found.
Buck's skill in camp work and his lack of ability to handle the team
naturally settled the division of the work between us. It was he who
selected the outfit to go into the wagon, while I fitted up the wagon
and bought the team. We had butter packed in the center of the flour,
which was in double sacks; eggs packed in corn meal or flour, enough to
last us nearly five hundred miles; fruit in abundance, and dried
pumpkins; a little jerked beef, not too salt. Last though not least,
there was a demijohn of brandy "for medicinal purposes only," as Buck
said, with a merry twinkle of the eye.
The little wife had prepared the homemade yeast cake which she knew so
well how to make and dry, and we had light bread to eat all the way
across. We baked the bread in a tin reflector instead of the heavy Dutch
oven so much in use on the Plains.
The butter in part melted and mingled with the flour, yet it did not
matter much, as the "shortcake" that resulted made us almost glad the
mishap had occurred. Besides, did we not have plenty of fresh butter,
from the milk of our own cows, churned every day in the can by the
jostling of the wagon? Then the buttermilk! What a luxury! I shall
never, as long as I live, forget the shortcake and corn bread, the
puddings and pumpkin pies, and above all the buttermilk.
As we gradually crept out on the Plains and saw the sickness due to
improper food, or in some cases to its improper preparation, it was
borne in upon me how blessed I was, with such a trail partner as Buck
and such a life partner as my wife. Some trains were without fruit, and
most of them depended upon saleratus for raising their bread. Many had
only fat bacon for meat until the buffalo supplied a change; and no
doubt much of the sickness attributed to the cholera was caused by bad
diet.
I am willing to claim credit to myself for the team, every hoof of which
reached the Coast in safety. Four steers and two cows were sufficient
for our light wagon and the light outfit, not a pound of which but was
useful (except the brandy) and necessary for our comfort. I had chosen
steers that had never been under the yoke, though plenty of broken-in
oxen could have been had, generally of that class that had been broken
in spirit as well as to the yoke.
The ox has had much to do with the settlement of the country. The
pioneers could take care of an ox team in a new settlement so much
cheaper than a horse team that this fact alone would have been
conclusive; but aside from this, oxen were better for the work in the
clearings or for breaking up the vast stretches of wild prairie sod. We
used to work four or five yoke to the plow, and when dark came we
unhitched and turned them on the unbroken sod to pasture for the night.
I have often been asked how old an ox will live to be. I never knew of a
yoke over fourteen years old, but I once heard of one that lived to be
twenty-four.
On the Plains, oxen were better than horses for getting their feed and
fording streams. There was another advantage, and a very important one,
to oxen: the Indians could not run them off at night as easily as they
could horses.
[Illustration: The tin reflector used for baking.]
The first day's drive out from Eddyville was a short one. When we got to
plodding along over the Plains, we made from fifteen to twenty miles a
day. That was counted a good day's drive, without unusual accidents or
delays.
As I now remember, this was the only day on the entire trip when the
cattle were allowed to stand in the yoke at noontime, while the owners
lunched and rested. When it was near nightfall we made our first camp.
Buck excitedly insisted that we must not unyoke the cattle.
"What shall we do?" I asked. "They can't live in the yoke always."
"Yes, but if you unyoke here you will never catch them again," he said.
One word brought on another until we were almost in a dispute, when a
stranger, Thomas McAuley, who was camped near by, stepped in. He said
his own cattle were gentle; there were three men of his party, and they
would help us yoke up in the morning. I gratefully accepted his offer
and unyoked, and we had no trouble in starting off the next morning.
After that, never a word with the least semblance of contention to it
passed between Buck and me.
Scanning McAuley's outfit in the morning, I was quite troubled to start
out with him. His teams, principally cows, were light, and they were
thin in flesh; his wagons were apparently light and as frail as the
teams. But I soon found that his outfit, like ours, carried no extra
weight, and he knew how to care for a team. He was, besides, an obliging
neighbor, which was fully demonstrated on many trying occasions, as we
traveled in company for more than a thousand miles, until his road to
California parted from ours at the big bend of the Bear River.
Of the trip through Iowa little remains to be said further than that the
grass was thin and washy, the roads muddy and slippery, and the weather
execrable, although May had been ushered in long before we reached the
little Mormon town of Kanesville (now Council Bluffs), a few miles
above the place where we were to cross the Missouri River. Here my
brother Oliver joined us, having come from Indianapolis with old-time
comrades and friends. Now, with the McAuleys and Oliver's party, we
mustered a train of five wagons.
[Illustration: A yoke of oxen.]
It was here at Kanesville that the last purchases were made, the last
letter sent back to anxious friends. Once across the Missouri and headed
westward, we should have to cross the Rocky Mountains to find a town
again.
We had now come to the beginning of the second stage of our long
journey. We had reached the Missouri River. From the western bank of the
river we should strike out across the Plains, through what is now
Nebraska and Wyoming, to the crest of the continent. We should follow
the ox-team trail along the north bank of the Platte, and then up the
north fork of the Platte to the mountains. But first we must get across
the Missouri.
"What on earth is that?" exclaimed one of the women, as we approached
the landing for the ferry which crossed the river to a point a few miles
below where Omaha now stands.
"It looks for all the world like a big white flatiron," answered
another.
[Illustration: On this page and the following are shown the main trails
that stretched across the continent, west of the Missouri, in the years
before the building of railroads. The Oregon Trail from Kanesville to
Portland is marked with the heaviest line. The lighter line from
Huntsville to Kanesville shows Ezra Meeker's early travels; this marks
not a trail but a main-traveled road. People starting out from St. Louis
for the Oregon Country went by way of the Santa Fe Trail about as far as
Fort Leavenworth, then northwest to Fort Kearney on the Platte River,
where they joined the trail from Kanesville. The Santa Fe Trail was the
earliest trail to be made; trading expeditions had gone from St. Louis
to Santa Fe since the early 1800's. The California Trail and the Oregon
Trail are the same as far as the big bend of the Bear River, at which
point the California Trail goes off to the southwest.]
[Illustration]
We drivers had little time for looking and for making comparisons. All
our attention had to be given to our teams, for as we neared the
landing we found the roads terribly cut up on account of the
concentrated travel.
It was indeed a sight long to be remembered. The "white flatiron" proved
to be wagons with their tongues pointing to the landing. A center train
with other parallel trains extended back in the rear, gradually covering
a wider range the farther back from the river it went. Several hundred
wagons were thus closely interlocked, completely blocking the approach
to the landing.
All about were camps of every kind, some without any covering at all,
others with comfortable tents. Nearly everybody appeared to be intent on
merrymaking, and the fiddlers and dancers were busy; but here and there
were small groups engaged in devotional services. These camps contained
the outfits, in great part, of the wagons in line; some of them had been
there for two weeks with still no prospect of securing an early
crossing. Two scows only were engaged in crossing the wagons and teams.
The muddy waters of the Missouri had already swallowed up two victims.
On the first day we were there, I saw a third victim go under the drift
of a small island within sight of his shrieking wife. The stock had
rushed to one side of the boat, submerging the gunwale, and had
precipitated the whole load into the dangerous river. One yoke of oxen
that had reached the farther shore deliberately reentered the river with
a heavy yoke on, and swam to the Iowa side; there they were finally
saved by the helping hands of the assembled emigrants.
"What shall we do?" was the question passed around in our party, without
answer. Tom McAuley was not yet looked upon as a leader, as was the case
later.
"Build a boat," said his sister Margaret, a most determined maiden lady,
the oldest of the party and as resolute and brave as the bravest.
But of what should we build it? While a search for material was being
made, one of our party, who had got across the river in search of
timber, discovered a scow, almost completely buried, on the sandpit
opposite the landing. The report seemed too good to be true.
The next thing to do was to find the owner. We discovered him eleven
miles down the river.
"Yes, if you will agree to deliver the boat safely to me after crossing
your five wagons and teams, you may have it," said he.
[Illustration: Digging out the scow.]
The bargain was closed then and there. My, but that night didn't we make
the sand fly from the boat! By morning we could begin to see the end of
the job. Then, while busy hands began to cut a landing on the
perpendicular sandy bank of the Iowa side, others were preparing sweeps.
All was bustle and stir.
Meanwhile it had become noised around that another boat would be put on
to ferry people over, and we were besieged with applications from
detained emigrants. Finally, the word coming to the ears of the
ferrymen, they were foolish enough to undertake to prevent us from
crossing without their help. A writ of replevin or some other process
was issued,--I never knew exactly what,--directing the sheriff to take
possession of the boat when it landed. This he attempted to do.
I never before or since attempted to resist an officer of the law; but
when that sheriff put in an appearance and we realized what his coming
meant, there wasn't a man in our party that did not run to the nearby
camp for his gun. It is needless to add that we did not need to use the
guns. As if by magic a hundred other guns came in sight. The sheriff
withdrew, and the crossing went on peaceably till all our wagons were
safely landed.
We had still another danger to face. We learned that an attempt would be
made to take the boat from us, the action being not against us, but
against the owner. Thanks to the adroit management of McAuley and my
brother Oliver, we were able to fulfill our engagement to deliver the
boat safely to the owner.
We were now across the river, and it might almost be said that we had
left the United States. When we set foot upon the right bank of the
Missouri River we were outside the pale of law. We were within the
Indian country, where no organized civil government existed.
Some people and some writers have assumed that on the Plains each man
was "a law unto himself" and free to do his own will,--dependent, of
course, upon his physical ability to enforce it. Nothing could be
farther from the facts than this assumption, as evil-doers soon found
out to their discomfort.
It is true that no general organization for law and order was effected
on the western side of the river. But the American instinct for fair
play and a hearing for everybody prevailed, so that while there was no
mob law, the law of self-preservation asserted itself, and the counsels
of the level-headed older men prevailed. When an occasion called for
action, a "high court" was convened, and woe betide the man that would
undertake to defy its mandates after its deliberations were made public!
An incident that occurred in what is now Wyoming, well up on the
Sweetwater River, will illustrate the spirit of determination of the
sturdy men of the Plains. A murder had been committed, and it was clear
that the motive was robbery. The suspected man and his family were
traveling along with the moving column. Men who had volunteered to
search for the missing man finally found evidence proving the guilt of
the person suspected. A council of twelve men was called, and it
deliberated until the second day, meanwhile holding the murderer safely.