states had responded cordially. Back along the line of more than fifteen
hundred miles already stood many sentinels, mostly granite, to mark the
trail and keep alive the memory of the pioneers. Moreover, I recalled
the enthusiastic reception in so many places, the outpouring of
contributions from thousands of school children, the willing hands of
the people that built these monuments, and the more than twenty
thousand people attending the dedication ceremonies. These heartening
recollections made me forget the loss of Twist, the recalcitrant cow,
and the dilemma that confronted me. I awakened from my reverie in a more
cheerful mood.
[Illustration: _Brown Bros._
Sugar-beet factories were seen when we left behind us the open ranges of
the Wyoming country and came into the sugar-beet section in Nebraska.]
"Do the best you can," I said to myself, "and don't be cast down." My
spirits rose almost to the point of exultation again.
We soon reached the beautiful city of Kearney, named after old Fort
Kearney, which stood across the river, and were given a fine camping
place in the center of the town. It was under the shade trees that line
the streets, and we had a fresh-cut greensward upon which to pitch our
tents. People came in great numbers to visit the camp and express their
appreciation of our enterprise. Later a monument was erected in this
city.
[Illustration: _Brown Bros._
In the corn lands of Nebraska.]
At Grand Island I found public sentiment in favor of taking action. It
was decided, however, that the best time for the dedication would be in
the following year, upon the occasion of the fiftieth anniversary of the
settlement. I was a little disappointed in the delay, but felt that good
seed was sown.
Grand Island, with its stately rows of shade trees, its modest, tasteful
homes, the bustle and stir on its business streets, with the constant
passing of trains, shrieking of whistles, and ringing of bells,
presented a striking contrast to the scene I saw that June day in 1852
when I passed over the ground near where the city stands. Vast herds of
buffalo then grazed on the hills or leisurely crossed our track and at
times obstructed our way, and herds of antelope watched from vantage
points.
But now the buffalo and antelope have disappeared; the Indian likewise
is gone. Instead of the parched plain of 1852, with its fierce clouds of
dust rolling up the valley and engulfing whole trains, we saw a
landscape of smiling, fruitful fields, inviting groves of trees, and
contented homes.
From Grand Island I went to Fremont, Nebraska, to head the procession in
the semi-centennial celebration in honor of the founding of that city.
In the procession I worked the ox and cow together. From Fremont I went
on to Lincoln.
All the while I was searching for an ox or a steer large enough to mate
the Dave ox, but without avail. Finally, after looking over a thousand
head of cattle in the stockyards of Omaha, I found a five-year-old
steer, Dandy, which I broke in on the way to Indianapolis. This ox
proved to be very satisfactory. He never kicked or hooked, and was
always in good humor. Dave and Dandy made good team-mates.
"As dumb as an ox" is a very common expression, dating back as far as my
memory goes. In fact, the ox is not so "dumb" as a casual observer might
think. Dave and Dandy knew me as far as they could see; sometimes when I
went to them in the morning, Dave would lift his head, bow his neck,
stretch out his body, and perhaps extend a foot, as if to say, "Good
morning to you; glad to see you." Dandy was driven on the streets of a
hundred cities and towns, and I never knew him to be at a loss to find
his way to the stable or watering-trough, once he had been there and was
started on a return trip.
I arrived at Indianapolis on January 5, 1907, eleven months and seven
days from the date of departure from my home at Puyallup, twenty-six
hundred miles away.
[Illustration: _Brown Bros._
Along the Erie Canal, part of the National Highway to the West.]
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
DRIVING ON TO THE CAPITAL
AFTER passing the Missouri, and leaving the trail behind me, I somehow
had a foreboding that I might be mistaken for a faker and looked upon as
an adventurer, and I shrank from the ordeal. My hair had grown long on
the trip across; my boots were somewhat the worse for wear, and my
old-fashioned clothes (understood well enough by pioneers along the
trail) were dilapidated. I was not the most presentable specimen for
every sort of company. Already I had been compelled to say that I was
not a "corn doctor" or any kind of doctor; that I did not have patent
medicine to sell; and that I was not soliciting contributions to support
the expedition.
The first of March, 1907, found me on the road going eastward from
Indianapolis. I had made up my mind that Washington should be the
objective point. For my main purpose--to secure the building of a
memorial highway--Congress, I felt, would be a better field to work in
than out on the hopelessly long stretch of the trail, where one man's
span of life would certainly pass before the work could be accomplished.
But I thought it well to make a campaign of education to get the work
before the general public so that Congress might know about it.
Therefore a route was laid out to occupy the time until the first of
December, just before Congress would again assemble. The route lay
through Indianapolis, Dayton, Cleveland, Columbus, Buffalo, Albany, New
York, Trenton, Philadelphia, and Baltimore, to Washington.
For the most part I received a warm welcome all along the route. Dayton
treated me generously. Mayor Badger of Columbus wrote giving me the
freedom of the city; and Mayor Tom Johnson wrote to his chief of police
to "treat Mr. Meeker as the guest of the city of Cleveland," which was
done.
At Buffalo, a benefit performance for one of the hospitals, in the shape
of a circus, was in preparation. A part of the elaborate program was an
attack by Indians on an emigrant train, the "Indians" being
representative young men of the city. At this juncture I arrived in the
city, and was besought to go and represent the train, for which they
would pay me.
"No, not for pay," I said, "but I will go."
So there was quite a realistic show in the ring that afternoon and
evening, and the hospital received more than a thousand dollars'
benefit.
Near Oneida some one said that I had better take to the towpath on the
canal to save distance and to avoid going over the hill. It was against
the law, he added, but everybody did it and no one would object. So,
when we came to the forks of the road, I followed the best-beaten track
and was soon traveling along on the level, hard, but narrow way, the
towpath. All went well that day.
We were not so fortunate the next day, however, when a boat with three
men, two women, and three long-eared mules was squarely met, the mules
being on the towpath. The mules took fright, got into a regular mixup,
broke the harness, and went up the towpath at a two-forty gait.
As I had walked into Oneida the night before, I did not see the sight or
hear the war of words that followed. The men ordered Marden to "take
that outfit off the towpath." His answer was that he could not do it
without upsetting the wagon. The men said if he couldn't they would do
it quick enough. They started toward the wagon, evidently intent upon
executing their threat, meanwhile swearing at the top of their voices
while the women scolded in chorus, one of them fairly shrieking.
My old muzzle-loading rifle that we had carried across the Plains lay
handy. When the men started toward him, Marden picked up the rifle to
show fight and called on the dog Jim to take hold of the men. As he
raised the gun to use it as a club, one of the boatmen threw up his
hands, bawling at the top of his voice, "Don't shoot! Don't shoot!" He
forgot to mix in oaths and slunk out of sight behind the wagon. The
others also drew back. Jim showed his teeth, and a truce followed. With
but little inconvenience the mules were taken off the path, and the ox
team was driven past.
The fun of it was that the gun that had spread such consternation hadn't
been loaded for more than twenty-five years. The sight of it alone was
enough for the three stalwart braves of the canal.
It took New York to cap the climax--to bring me all sorts of
experiences, sometimes with the police, sometimes with the gaping
crowds, and sometimes at the City Hall.
[Illustration: _Brown Bros._
In the great automobile factory near Cleveland, Ohio, the old prairie
schooner came into vivid contrast with the new means of following the
trail.]
Mayor McClellan was not in the city when I arrived; but the acting mayor
said that while he could not grant me a permit to come in, he would have
the police commissioner instruct his men not to molest me. Either the
instructions were not general enough, or else the men paid no attention;
for when I got down as far as 161st Street on Amsterdam Avenue, a
policeman interfered and ordered my driver to take the team to the
police station, which he very properly refused to do.
It was after dark and I had just gone around the corner to engage
quarters for the night when this occurred. Returning, I saw the young
policeman attempt to move the team, but as he didn't know how, they
wouldn't budge a peg, whereupon he arrested my driver and took him away.
Another policeman tried to coax me to drive the team down to the police
station. I said, "No, sir, I will not." He couldn't drive the team to
the station, and I wouldn't, and so there we were. To arrest me would
make matters worse, for the team would be left on the street without
any one to care for it. Finally the officer got out of the way, and I
drove the team to the stable. He followed, with a large crowd tagging
after him. Soon the captain of the precinct arrived, called his man off,
and ordered my driver released.
It appeared that there was an ordinance against allowing cattle to be
driven on the streets of New York. Of course, this was intended to apply
to loose cattle, but the policemen interpreted it to mean any cattle,
and they had the clubs to enforce their interpretation. I was in the
city and couldn't get out without subjecting myself to arrest, according
to their view of the law; and in fact I didn't want to get out. I wanted
to drive down Broadway from one end to the other, and I did, a month
later.
All hands said nothing short of an ordinance by the board of aldermen
would clear the way; so I tackled the aldermen. The _New York Tribune_
sent a man over to the City Hall to intercede for me; the _New York
Herald_ did the same thing. And so it came about that the aldermen
passed an ordinance granting me the right of way for thirty days, and
also endorsed my work. I thought my trouble was over when that ordinance
was passed. Not so; the mayor was absent, and the acting mayor could not
sign an ordinance until after ten days had elapsed. The city attorney
came in and said the aldermen had exceeded their authority, as they
could not legally grant a special privilege.
Then the acting mayor said he would not sign the ordinance; but if I
would wait until the next meeting of the aldermen, if they did not
rescind the ordinance, it would be certified, as he would not veto it.
Considering that no one was likely to test the legality of the
ordinance, he thought I would be safe in acting as though it were
legal. Just thirty days from the time I had the bother with the
policemen, and having incurred two hundred and fifty dollars of extra
expense, I drove down Broadway from 161st Street to the Battery, without
getting into any serious scrape, except with one automobilist who became
angered, but afterwards was "as good as pie."
Thirty days satisfied me with New York. The crowds were so great that
congestion of traffic always followed my presence, and I would be
compelled to move. One day when I went to City Hall Park to have my team
photographed with the Greeley statue, I got away only by the help of the
police, and even then with great difficulty.
[Illustration: In Wall Street, New York City.]
A trip across Brooklyn Bridge to Brooklyn was also made, and then, two
days before leaving the city, I came near to meeting a heavy loss.
Somehow I got sandwiched in on the East Side of New York in the
congested district of the foreign quarter and at nightfall drove into a
stable, put the oxen in the stalls and, as usual, the dog Jim in the
wagon. The next morning Jim was gone. The stableman said he had left the
wagon a few moments after I had and had been stolen. The police accused
the stablemen of being parties to the theft, in which I think they were
right.
Money could not buy that dog. He was an integral part of the expedition:
always on the alert; always watchful of the wagon during my absence, and
always willing to mind what I bade him do. He had had more adventures on
this trip than any other member of the outfit. First he was tossed over
a high brush by the ox Dave; then, shortly after, he was pitched
headlong over a barbed wire fence by an irate cow. Next came a fight
with a wolf; following this, came a narrow escape from a rattlesnake in
the road. Also, a trolley car ran on to him, rolling him over and over
again until he came out as dizzy as a drunken man. I thought he was a
"goner" that time for sure, but he soon straightened up. Finally, in the
streets of Kansas City, he was run over by a heavy truck while fighting
with another dog. The other dog was killed outright, while Jim came near
to having his neck broken. He lost one of his best fighting teeth and
had several others broken. I sent him to a veterinary surgeon, and
curiously enough he made no protest while having the broken teeth
repaired or extracted.
There was no other way to find Jim than to offer a reward. I did this,
and feel sure I paid twenty dollars to one of the parties to the theft.
The fellow was brazen enough, also, to demand pay for keeping him. That
was the time when I got up and talked pointedly.
But I had my faithful dog back, and I kept him more closely by me while
I was making the rest of my tour. Six years later it chanced that I lost
Jim. While we were waiting at a station, I let him out of the car for a
few minutes. The train started unexpectedly and Jim was left behind. A
good reward was offered for him, but nobody ever came to collect it.
[Illustration: Welcomed by President Roosevelt at the Capitol.]
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
THE END OF THE LONG TRAIL
I WAS glad enough to get out of the crowds of New York. It had given me
some rich experiences, but that big city is no place for ox teams. It
was good to get away from the jam and the hurry out on to the country
roads.
On the way to Philadelphia, between Newark and Elizabeth City, New
Jersey, at a point known as Lyon's Farm, the old Meeker homestead stood,
built in the year 1676. Here the Meeker Tribe, as we call ourselves,
came out to greet me, nearly forty strong.
On the way through Maryland we saw a good many oxen, some of them driven
on the road. The funny part of it was to have the owners try to trade
their scrawny teams for Dave and Dandy, offering money to boot, or two
yoke for one. They had never before seen such large oxen as Dave and
Dandy, and for that matter I never had myself. Dandy was of unusual
size, and Dave was probably the largest trained ox in the United States
then; he was sixteen hands high and eight feet in girth.
I reached Washington, the capital, just twenty-two months to the day
from the time I left home in Washington, the state. As soon as
arrangements could be made I went to see President Roosevelt. Senator
Piles and Representative Cushman, of the Washington Congressional
delegation, introduced me to the President in the cabinet room.
Mr. Roosevelt manifested a lively interest in the work of marking the
trail. He did not need to be told that the trail was a battlefield, or
that the Oregon pioneers who moved out and occupied the Oregon Country
while it was yet in dispute between Great Britain and the United States
were heroes. When I suggested that they were "the winners of the Farther
West," he fairly snatched these words from my lips. He went even further
than I had dreamed of or hoped for, in invoking Government aid to carry
on the work. Addressing Senator Piles, the President said with emphasis:
"I am in favor of this work to mark this trail. If you will bring before
Congress a measure to accomplish it, I am with you and will give my
support to do it thoroughly."
Mr. Roosevelt thought the suggestion of a memorial highway should first
come from the states through which the trail runs. However, it would be
possible to get Congressional aid to mark the trail. In any event, he
felt it ought to be done speedily.
Unexpectedly the President asked, "Where is your team? I want to see
it."
Upon being told that it was nearby, without ceremony, and without his
hat, he was soon alongside, asking questions faster than they could be
answered, not idle questions, but such as showed his intense desire to
get real information, bottom facts.
President Roosevelt was a man who loved the pioneers and who understood
the true West. His warm welcome remains in my heart as one of the
richest rewards of the many that have come as compensation for my
struggle to carry out my dream.
On the eighth of January, 1908, I left Washington, shipping my outfit
over the Allegheny Mountains to McKeesport, Pennsylvania. From
McKeesport I drove to Pittsburgh, and there put the team into winter
quarters to remain until the fifth of March. Thence I shipped by boat on
the Ohio River to Cincinnati, stopping in that city but one day, and
from there I shipped by rail to St. Louis, Missouri.
My object now was to retrace the original trail from its beginnings to
where it joined the Oregon Trail, over which I had traveled. This trail
properly ran by water from St. Louis to Independence, thence westward
along the Platte to Fort Laramie.
At Pittsburgh and adjacent cities I was received cordially and
encouraged to believe that the movement to make a great national highway
had taken a deep hold in the minds of the people.
I was not so much encouraged in St. Louis. The city officers were
unwilling to do anything to further the movement, but before I left the
city, the Automobile Club and the Daughters of the American Revolution
did take formal action indorsing the work. St. Louis had really been the
head and center of the movement that finally established the original
Oregon Trail. It was from here that Lewis and Clark started on the
famous expedition of 1804-05 that opened up the Northwest. Here was
where Wyeth, Bonneville, and others of the early travelers on the trail
had outfitted.
[Illustration: _Brown Bros._
The homeward trip took us through the great industrial cities of the
Middle states, among them Pittsburgh.]
The drive from St. Louis to Jefferson City, the capital of the State of
Missouri, was tedious and without result other than that of reaching the
point where actual driving began in early days. Governor Folk signified
his approval of the work, and I was given a cordial hearing by the
citizens.
On the fourth of April I arrived at Independence, Missouri, which is
generally understood to be the eastern terminus of the Santa Fe Trail. I
found, however, that many of the pioneers had shipped farther up the
Missouri, some driving from Atchison, some from Leavenworth, others from
St. Joseph. At a little later period, multitudes had set out from
Kanesville (now Council Bluffs), where Whitman and Parker made their
final break with civilization and boldly turned their faces westward
for the unknown land of Oregon.
The Santa Fe and Oregon trails from Independence and Kansas City were
identical for forty miles or thereabouts, out to the town of Gardner,
Kansas. From there the Santa Fe Trail bore on to the west and finally to
the southwest, while the Oregon Trail bore steadily on to the northwest
and encountered the Platte valley below Grand Island in what is now
Nebraska. At the forks of the road, the historian Chittenden says, "a
simple signboard was seen which carried the words 'Road to Oregon,' thus
pointing the way for two thousand miles. No such signboard ever before
pointed the road for so long a distance, and probably another such never
will."
I determined to make an effort to find the spot where this historic sign
once stood, and if possible to plant a marker there. Friends in Kansas
City, one of whom I had not met for sixty years, took me by automobile
to Gardner, where, after a search of a couple of hours, two old
residents were found who were able to point out the spot. These men were
Mr. V. R. Ellis and Mr. William J. Ott, aged respectively seventy-seven
and eighty-two years, whose residence in the near vicinity dated back
nearly fifty years. The point is at the intersection of Washington
Street and Central Street in the town of Gardner.
I planned to drive up the Missouri and investigate the remaining five
prongs of the trail--Leavenworth, Atchison, St. Joseph, Kanesville, and
Independence. I drove to Topeka, the capital city of Kansas, where I
arrived the eleventh of May (1908). There the trail crosses the Kansas
River under the very shadow of the State House, not three blocks away;
yet only a few knew of it.
On the twenty-third of May the team arrived at St. Joseph, Missouri, a
point where many pioneers had outfitted in early days. While public
sentiment there was in hearty accord with the work of marking the trail,
yet plainly it would be a hard tug to get the people together on a plan
to erect a monument. "Times were very tight to undertake such a work,"
came the response from so many that no organized effort was made.
[Illustration: The ox-team pioneer of 1852 tries the airplane trail in
1921.]
The committee of Congress in charge of the bill appropriating fifty
thousand dollars to mark the trail, by this time had taken action and
had made a favorable report. Such a report was held to be almost
equivalent to the passage of a bill. So, all things considered, the
conclusion was reached to suspend operations, ship the team home, and
for the time being take a rest from the work. I had been out from home
twenty-eight months, lacking but five days; hence it is small wonder
that I concluded to listen to the inner longings to get back to home and
home life. On the twenty-sixth of May I shipped the outfit by rail from
St. Joseph to Portland, Oregon, where I arrived on the sixth day of
June, 1908, and went into camp on the same grounds I had used in March,
1906, on my outward trip.
As I returned home over the Oregon Short Line I crossed the old trail in
many places. This time, however, it was with Dave and Dandy quietly
chewing their cud in the car, while I enjoyed all the luxuries of an
overland train.
I began vividly to realize the wide expanse of country covered, as we
passed first one and then another of the camping places. I was led to
wonder whether or not I should have undertaken the work if I could have
seen the trail stretched out, as I saw it like a panorama from the car
window. I sometimes think not. All of us at times undertake things that
look bigger after completion than they did in our vision of them. We go
into ventures without fully counting the cost. Perhaps that was the
case, to a certain extent, in this venture; the work did look larger
from the car window than from the camp.
Nevertheless, I have no regrets to express or exultation to proclaim.
The trail has not yet been fully or properly marked. We have made a good
beginning, however, and let us hope the end will soon become an
accomplished fact. Monumenting the old Oregon Trail means more than the
mere preservation in memory of that great highway; it means the building
up of loyalty, of patriotism, as well as the teaching of our history in
a form never to be forgotten.
Words can not express my deep feeling of gratitude for the royal welcome
given me by the citizens of Portland. I was privileged to attend the
reunion of the two thousand pioneers who had just assembled for their
annual meeting.
The drive from Portland to Seattle is also one long to be remembered; my
friends and neighbors met me with kindliest welcome. On the eighteenth
day of July, 1908, I drove into the city of Seattle and the long journey
was ended. My dream of retracing the way over the Old Trail had come
true.
[Illustration]
THE WHITE INDIAN BOY
BY E. N. WILSON
_In collaboration with Howard R. Driggs_