kodaks at two antelopes; but they were too far off to make good
pictures. Our road was leading us obliquely up a gentle hill, gradually
approaching nearer to one of the antelopes. I noticed that he would come
toward us for a while and then turn around and look the other way for a
while. Then we saw what at first we took to be a kid, or young antelope;
but soon we discovered that it was a coyote wolf, prowling on the track
of the antelope, and watching both of us. Just after the wagon had
stopped, I saw six big, fat sage hens feeding not more than twice the
length of the wagon away, just as I had seen them in 1852.
[Illustration: Jim, the collie that made the journey from Washington to
Washington.]
The dog, Jim, had several other adventures with animals on the way.
First of all, he and Dave did not get along very well. Once Dave caught
Jim under the ribs with his right horn, which was bent forward and stood
out nearly straight, and tossed him over some sage brush near by.
Sometimes, if the yoke prevented him from getting a chance at Jim with
his horn, he would throw out his nose and snort, just like a horse that
has been running at play and stops for a moment's rest. But Jim would
manage to get even with him. Sometimes we put loose hay under the wagon
to keep it out of the storm, and Jim would make a bed on it. Then woe
betide Dave if he tried to get any of that hay! I saw Jim one day catch
the ox by the nose and draw blood. You may readily imagine that the war
was renewed between them with greater rancor than ever. They never did
become friends.
One day Jim got his foot under the wheel of our wagon, and I was sure it
was broken, but it was not; yet he nursed it for a week by riding in the
wagon. He never liked to ride in the wagon except during a thunderstorm.
Once a sharp clap of thunder frightened Jim so that he jumped from the
ground clear into the wagon while it was in motion and landed at my
feet. How in the world he could do it I never could tell.
Jim had some exciting experiences with wild animals, too. He was always
chasing birds, jack rabbits, squirrels, or anything in the world that
could get into motion. One day a coyote crossed the road just a few rods
behind the wagon, and Jim took after him. It looked as if Jim would
overtake him, and, being dubious of the result of a tussle between them,
I called Jim back. No sooner had he turned than the coyote turned, too,
and made chase, and there they came, nip and tuck, to see who could run
the faster. I think the coyote could, but he did not catch up until they
got so near the wagon that he became frightened and scampered away up
the slope of a hill.
At another time a young coyote came along, and Jim played with him
awhile. But by and by the little fellow snapped at Jim and made Jim
angry, and he bounced on the coyote and gave him a good trouncing.
Before we sheared him, Jim would get very warm when the weather was hot.
Whenever the wagon stopped he would dig off the top earth or sand that
was hot, to have a cool bed to lie in; but he was always ready to go
when the wagon started.
Cokeville was the first town reached in Wyoming. It stands on Smith's
Fork, near where that stream empties into Bear River. It is also at the
western end of the Sublette Cut-off Trail from Bear River to Big Sandy
Creek, the cut-off that we had taken in 1852.
[Illustration: _Brown Bros._
Coal mining is one of the industries that have grown up in Wyoming.]
The people of the locality resolved to have a monument at this fork in
the old trail, and arrangements were made to erect one out of stone from
a local quarry. This good beginning made in the state, we went on,
climbing first over the rim of the Great Basin, then up and across the
Rockies.
I quote again from my journal: "Pacific Springs, Wyoming, Camp No. 79,
June 20, 1906. Odometer, 958. [Miles registered from The Dalles,
Oregon.] Arrived at 6 P.M., and camped near Halter's store and the post
office. Ice found in camp during the night."
On June 22 we were still camped at Pacific Springs. I had searched for a
suitable stone for a monument to be placed on the summit of the range,
and, after almost despairing of finding one, had come upon exactly what
was wanted. The stone lay alone on the mountain side; it is granite, I
think, but mixed with quartz, and is a monument hewed by the hand of
Nature.
[Illustration: _Chas. S. Hill_
Wyoming oil wells.]
Immediately after dinner we hitched the oxen to Mr. Halter's wagon. With
the help of four men we loaded the stone, after having dragged it on the
ground and over the rocks a hundred yards or so down the mountain side.
We estimated its weight at a thousand pounds.
There being no stonecutter at Pacific Springs to inscribe the monument,
the clerk at the store formed the letters on stiff pasteboard. He then
cut them out to make a paper stencil, through which the shape of the
letters was transferred to the stone by crayon marks. The letters were
then cut out with a cold chisel, deep enough to make a permanent
inscription. The stone was so hard that it required steady work all day
to cut the twenty letters and figures: THE OREGON TRAIL, 1843-57.
We drove out of Pacific Springs at a little after noon and stopped at
the summit to dedicate the monument. Then we left the summit and drove
twelve miles to the point called Oregon Slough, where we put up the tent
after dark.
The reader may think of the South Pass of the Rocky Mountains as a
precipitous defile through narrow canyons and deep gorges. Nothing is
farther from the fact. One can drive through this Pass for several miles
without realizing that the dividing line between the waters of the
Pacific and those of the Atlantic has been passed. The road is over a
broad, open, undulating prairie, the approach is by easy grades, and the
descent, going east, is scarcely noticeable.
All who were toiling west in the old days looked upon this spot as the
turning point of their journey. There they felt that they had left the
worst of the trip behind them. Poor souls that we were! We did not know
that our worst mountain climbing lay beyond the summit of the Rockies,
over the rugged Western ranges.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: Nooning beside the prairie schooner.]
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
REVIVING OLD MEMORIES OF THE TRAIL
THE sight of Sweetwater River, twenty miles out from South Pass, revived
many pleasant memories and some that were sad. I could remember the
sparkling, clear water, the green skirt of undergrowth along the banks,
and the restful camps, as we trudged along up the stream so many years
ago. And now I saw the same channel, the same hills, and apparently the
same waters swiftly passing. But where were the camp fires? Where was
the herd of gaunt cattle? Where the sound of the din of bells? The
hallooing for lost children? Or the little groups off on the hillside to
bury the dead? All were gone.
An oppressive silence prevailed as we drove to the river and pitched our
camp within a few feet of the bank, where we could hear the rippling
waters passing and see the fish leaping in the eddies. We had our choice
of a camping place just by the skirt of a refreshing green brush with
an opening to give full view of the river. It had not been so fifty-four
years before, with hundreds of camps ahead of you. The traveler then had
to take what he could get, and in many cases that was a place far back
from the water and removed from other conveniences.
[Illustration: _United States Geological Survey_
Devil's Gate, on the Sweetwater River, one of the many beautiful streams
in the uplands of Wyoming. The pioneer trail followed the course of this
river.]
The sight and smell of carrion, so common in camping places during that
first journey, also were gone. No bleached bones, even, showed where the
exhausted dumb brute had died. The graves of the dead pioneers had all
been leveled by the hoofs of stock and the lapse of time.
The country remains as it was in '52. There the trail is to be seen
miles and miles ahead, worn bare and deep, with but one narrow track
where there used to be a dozen, and with the beaten path that vegetation
has not yet recovered from the scourge of passing hoofs and tires of
wagons years ago.
As in 1852, when the summit was passed I felt that my task was much
more than half done, though half the distance was scarcely compassed.
On June 30, at about ten o'clock, we encountered a large number of big
flies that ran the cattle nearly wild. I stood on the wagon tongue for
miles to reach them with the whipstock. The cattle were so excited that
we did not stop at noon, but drove on. By half-past two we camped at a
farmhouse, the Split Rock post office, the first we had found in a
hundred miles of travel since leaving Pacific Springs.
The Devil's Gate, a few miles distant, is one of the two best-known
landmarks on the trail. Here, as at Split Rock, the mountain seems to
have been split apart, leaving an opening a few rods wide, through which
the Sweetwater River pours in a veritable torrent. The river first
approaches to within a few hundred feet of the gap, then suddenly curves
away from it, and after winding through the valley for half a mile or
so, a quarter of a mile away, it takes a straight shoot and makes the
plunge through the canyon. Those who have had the impression that the
emigrants drove their teams through this gap are mistaken, for it's a
feat no mortal man has done or can do, any more than he could drive up
the falls of the Niagara.
This year, on my 1906 trip, I did clamber through on the left bank, over
boulders head high, under shelving rocks. I ate some ripe gooseberries
from the bushes growing on the border of the river, and plucked some
beautiful wild roses, wondering the while why those wild roses grew
where nobody would see them.
The gap through the mountains looked familiar as I spied it from the
distance, but the roadbed to the right I had forgotten. I longed to see
this place; for here, somewhere under the sands, lies all that was
mortal of my brother, Clark Meeker, drowned in the Sweetwater in 1854.
[Illustration: _United States Geological Survey_
Devil's Gate, on the Sweetwater River, one of the famous landmarks on
the old trail.]
Independence Rock is the other most famous landmark. We drove over to
the Rock, a distance of six miles from the Devil's Gate, and camped at
ten o'clock for the day. This famous boulder covers about thirty acres.
We groped our way among the inscriptions, to find some of them nearly
obliterated and many legible only in part. We walked all the way around
the stone, nearly a mile. The huge rock is of irregular shape, and it is
more than a hundred feet high, the walls being so precipitous that
ascent to the top is possible in only two places.
Unfortunately, we could not find Fremont's inscription. Of this
inscription Fremont writes in his journal of the year 1842: "August 23.
Yesterday evening we reached our encampment at Rock Independence, where
I took some astronomical observations. Here, not unmindful of the custom
of early travelers and explorers in our country, I engraved on this rock
of the Far West a symbol of the Christian faith. Among the thickly
inscribed names, I made on the hard granite the impression of a large
cross. It stands amidst the names of many who have long since found
their way to the grave and for whom the huge rock is a giant
gravestone."
On Independence Day, 1906, we left Independence Rock. Our noon stop was
on Fish Creek, eleven miles away. The next night we camped on the North
Platte River. Fifty-four years before, I had left the old stream about
fifteen miles below here on my way to the West.
Next day, while nooning several miles out from Casper, we heard the
whistle of a locomotive. It was the first we had heard for nearly three
hundred miles. As soon as lunch was over, I left the wagon and walked to
Casper ahead of the team to select a camping ground, secure feed, and
get the mail.
A special meeting of the Commercial Club of Casper was held that
evening, and I laid the matter of building a monument before the
members. They resolved to build one, opened the subscription at once,
and appointed a committee to carry the work forward. Since then a
monument twenty-five feet high has been erected at a cost of fifteen
hundred dollars.
Glen Rock is a small village, but the ladies there met and resolved they
would have "as nice a monument as Casper's." One enthusiastic lady said,
"We will inscribe it ourselves, if no stonecutter can be had."
At Douglas also an earnest, well-organized effort to erect the monument
was well in hand before we drove out of town.
As we journeyed on down the Platte, we passed thrifty ranches and
thriving little towns. It was haying time, and the mowers were busy
cutting alfalfa. The hay was being stacked. Generous ranchers invited us
to help ourselves to their garden stuff. All along the way was a spirit
of good cheer and hearty welcome.
Fort Laramie brings a flood of reminiscences to the western pioneer and
his children. This old post, first a trappers' stockade, then in 1849 a
soldiers' encampment, stood at the end of the Black Hills and at the
edge of the Plains. Here the Laramie River and the Platte meet.
[Illustration: _Brown Bros._
The desert before irrigation.]
The fort was a halfway station on the trail. From the time we crossed
the Missouri in May, 1852, until we reached the old fort, no place name
was so constantly in the minds of the emigrants as that of Fort Laramie.
Here, in '52, we eagerly looked for letters that never came. Perhaps our
friends and relatives had not written; perhaps they had written, but the
letters were lost or sidetracked somewhere in "the States." As for
hearing from home, for that we had to wait patiently until the long
journey should end; then a missive might reach us by way of the Isthmus,
or maybe by sailing vessel around Cape Horn.
There is no vestige of the old traders' camp or the first United States
fort left. The new fort--not a fort, but an encampment--covers a space
of thirty or forty acres, with all sorts of buildings and ruins. One of
the old barracks, three hundred feet long, was in good preservation in
1906, being utilized by the owner, Joseph Wilde, for a store, post
office, hotel, and residence. The guard house with its grim iron door
and twenty-inch concrete walls is also fairly well preserved. One frame
building of two stories, we were told, was transported by ox team from
Kansas City at a cost of one hundred dollars a ton. The old place is
crumbling away, slowly disappearing with the memories of the past.
[Illustration: _Brown Bros._
The desert after irrigation.]
From Fort Laramie onward into western Nebraska we passed through a
succession of thriving cities. The Platte has been turned to splendid
service through the process of irrigation. Great canals lead its
life-giving waters out to the thirsty plains that now "blossom as the
rose." Rich fields of grain and hay and beets cover the valley. Great
sugar factories, railroads, business blocks, and fine homes tell of the
prosperity that has leaped out of the parched plains we trailed across.
Scott's Bluff, however, is one of the old landmarks that has not
changed. It still looms up as of old on the south side of the river
about eight hundred feet above the trail. The origin of the name,
Scott's Bluff, is not definitely known. Tradition says: "A trapper named
Scott, while returning to the States, was robbed and stripped by the
Indians. He crawled to these Bluffs and there famished. His bones were
afterwards found and buried." These quoted words were written by a
passing emigrant on the spot, June 11, 1852. Another version of the tale
is that Scott fell sick and was abandoned by his traveling companions.
After having crawled almost forty miles, he finally died near the bluff
that bears his name. This occurred prior to 1830.
From the bluff we drove as directly as possible to a historic grave, two
miles out from the town and on the railroad right of way. In this grave
lies a pioneer mother who died August 15, 1852, nearly six weeks after I
had passed over the ground. Some thoughtful friend had marked her grave
by standing a wagon tire upright in it. But for this, the grave, like
thousands and thousands of others, would have passed out of sight and
mind.
The tire bore this simple inscription: "Rebecca Winters, aged 50 years."
The hoofs of stock tramped the sunken grave and trod it into dust, but
the arch of the tire remained to defy the strength of thoughtless hands
that would have removed it.
Finally the railroad surveyors came along. They might have run the track
over the lonely grave but for the thoughtfulness of the man who wielded
the compass. He changed the line, that the resting place of the pioneer
mother should not be disturbed, and the grave was protected and
enclosed.
The railroad officials did more. They telegraphed word of the finding of
this grave to their representative in Salt Lake City. He gave the story
to the press; the descendants of the pioneer mother read it, and they
provided a monument, lovingly inscribed, to mark the spot.
[Illustration: _United States Geological Survey_
Chimney Rock, an old sentinel on the trail in western Nebraska.]
About twenty miles from Scott's Bluff stands old Chimney Rock. It is a
curious freak of nature, and a famous landmark on the trail. It covers
perhaps twelve acres, and rises coneshaped for two hundred feet to the
base of the spire-like rock, the "chimney," that rests upon it and rises
a full hundred feet more.
A local story runs that an army officer trained a cannon on this spire,
shot off about thirty feet from the top, and for this was
court-martialed and dishonorably discharged from the army. I could get
no definite confirmation of the story, though it was repeated again and
again. It seems incredible that an intelligent man would do such an act,
and if he did it, he deserved severe punishment.
It is saddening to think of the many places where equally stupid things
have been done to natural wonders. Coming through Idaho, I had noticed
that at Soda Springs the hand of the vandal had been at work. That
interesting phenomenon, Steamboat Spring, the wonderment of all of us in
1852, with its intermittent spouting, had been tampered with and had
ceased to act.
[Illustration: Going up the steep, rocky sides of Little Canyon.]
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
A BIT OF BAD LUCK
"OLD Oregon Trail Monument Expedition, Brady Island, Nebraska, August 9,
1906, Camp No. 120. Odometer, 1,536 5/8. Yesterday morning Twist ate his
breakfast as usual and showed no signs of sickness until we were on the
road two or three miles, when he began to put his tongue out and his
breathing became heavy. But he leaned on the yoke more heavily than
usual and determined to pull the whole load. I finally stopped, put him
on the off side, gave him the long end of the yoke, and tied his head
back with the halter strap to the chain; but to no purpose, for he
pulled by the head very heavily. I finally unyoked, gave him a quart of
lard, a gill of vinegar, and a handful of sugar, but all to no purpose,
for he soon fell down and in two hours was dead."
Such is the record in my journal of this noble animal's death. I think
he died from eating some poisonous plant.
When we started, Twist weighed 1470 pounds. After we had crossed two
ranges of mountains, had wallowed in the snows of the Blue Mountains,
followed the tortuous, rocky canyon of Burnt River, and gone through the
deep sands of the Snake, this ox had gained 137 pounds, and weighed 1607
pounds. While laboring under the short end of the yoke that gave him
fifty-five per cent of the draft and an increased burden, he would keep
his end of the yoke a little ahead, no matter how much the mate might be
urged to keep up.
There are pronounced individualities in animals as well as in men. I
might have said virtues, too--and why not? If an animal always does his
duty and is faithful and industrious, why not recognize this character,
even if he is "nothing but an ox"?
To understand the achievements of this ox it is necessary to know the
burden that he carried. The wagon weighed 1430 pounds, had wooden axles
and wide track, and carried an average load of 800 pounds. Along with an
unbroken four-year old steer, a natural-born shirk, Twist had hauled the
wagon 1776 miles, and he was in better working trim just before he died
than when the trip began. And yet, am I sure that at some points I did
not abuse him? What about coming up out of Little Canyon, or rather up
the steep, rocky steps of stones like stairs, when I used the goad, and
he pulled a shoe off his feet? Was I merciful then, or did I exact more
than I ought?
I can see him yet, in my mind, on his knees, holding the wagon from
rolling into the canyon till the wheel could be blocked and the brakes
set. Then, when bidden to start the load, he did not flinch. He was the
best ox I ever saw, without exception, and his loss nearly broke up the
expedition. His like I could not find again. He had a decent burial. A
headboard marks his grave and tells of the aid he rendered in this
expedition to perpetuate the memory of the old Oregon Trail.
[Illustration: Twist, a noble animal.]
What should I do--abandon the work? No. But I could not go on with one
ox. So a horse team was hired to take us to the next town, Gothenburg,
thirteen miles distant. The lone ox was led behind the wagon.
Again I hired a horse team to haul the wagon to Lexington. At Lexington
I thought the loss of the ox could be repaired by buying a pair of heavy
cows and breaking them in to work, so I purchased two out of a band of
two hundred cattle.
"Why, yes, of course they will work," I said, in reply to a bystander's
question. "I have seen whole teams of cows on the Plains in '52. Yes, we
will soon have a team," I declared with all the confidence in the world,
"only we can't go very far in a day with a raw team, especially in this
hot weather."
But one cow would not go at all! We could neither lead her nor drive
her. Put her in the yoke, and she would stand stock still, just like a
stubborn mule. Hitch the yoke by a strong rope behind the wagon with a
horse team to pull, and she would brace her feet and actually slide
along, but would not lift a foot. I never saw such a brute before, and
hope I never shall again. I have broken wild, fighting, kicking steers
to the yoke and enjoyed the sport, but from a sullen, tame cow, deliver
me!
"Won't you take her back and give me another?" I asked the seller.
"Yes, I will give you that red cow,"--one I had rejected as unfit,--"but
not one of the others."
"What is this cow worth to you?"
"Thirty dollars."
So I dropped ten dollars, having paid forty for the first cow. Besides,
I had lost the better part of a day and experienced a good deal of
vexation. If I could only have had Twist back again!
The fact gradually became apparent that the loss of that fine ox was
almost irreparable. I could not get track of an ox anywhere, nor even of
a steer large enough to mate the Dave ox. Besides, Dave always was a
fool. Twist would watch my every motion, and mind by the wave of the
hand, but Dave never minded anything except to shirk hard work. Twist
seemed to love his work and would go freely all day. It was brought home
to me more forcibly than ever that in the loss of the Twist ox I had
almost lost the whole team.
When I drove out from Lexington behind a hired horse team that day, with
the Dave ox tagging on behind and sometimes pulling on his halter, and
with an unbroken cow in leading, it may easily be guessed that the pride
of anticipated success died out, and deep discouragement seized upon me.
I had two yokes, one a heavy ox yoke, the other a light cow's yoke; but
the cow, I thought, could not be worked alongside the ox in the ox yoke,
nor the ox with the cow in the cow yoke. I was without a team, but with
a double encumbrance.
Yes, the ox has passed, for in all Nebraska I was unable to find even
one yoke.
I trudged along, sometimes behind the led cattle, wondering in my mind
whether or not I had been foolish to undertake this expedition to
perpetuate the memory of the old Oregon Trail. Had I not been rebuffed
at the first by a number of business men who pushed the subject aside
with, "I have no time to look into it"? Hadn't I been compelled to pass
several towns where not even three persons could be found to act on the
committee? And then there was the experience of the constant suspicion
that there was some graft to be discovered, some lurking speculation.
All this could be borne in patience; but when coupled with it came the
virtual loss of the team, is it strange that my spirits went down below
a normal point?
[Illustration: _Brown Bros._
The railroad bridge at Omaha, crossing the Missouri where in 1853 we
went over by ferry.]