Saturday, June 3.
Here we are on the Platte with about two hundred wagons in sight. We
are now on what is known as “The Plains.” My idea of the plains has
been very erroneous, for I thought they were one continuous level
or plain as far as the eye could reach, no hills nor hollows, but
it is nothing else than the Platte River Valley with high bluffs on
either side. There is some timber on the banks, but the timber of any
consequence is on the islands in the middle of the river, out of reach
of the axe of the emigrant. This is the junction of the roads from St.
Joe and Plattsmouth, and that is why there are so many wagons here
to-night. Surely, among all these people there must be a minister of
the Gospel, so perhaps we will have public worship to-morrow. Our trip
grows more interesting, even Mrs. Kerfoot seems interested, as so many
people are going West, it must be the thing to do.
* * * * *
Sunday, June 4.
We are organized into a company of forty-five wagons, a captain and
orderly sergeant have been elected, and hereafter we will travel by
system. Mr. Hardinbrooke is our captain. He has gone on this trip
before; he is taking his wife and little girl with him to Montana. A
Mr. Davis is our orderly sergeant.
We are now coming into a country infested with Indians, so it is
required by Government officials that all emigrants must organize
into companies of from forty to sixty wagons, elect captains and try
to camp near each other for mutual protection. The grass for stock is
unlimited. About twenty of the wagons in our train are freight wagons,
belonging to the Walker Brothers, Joe and Milt. Joe has his wife
with him. Milt is a bachelor; their sister, Miss Lyde, and a younger
brother, De, are with them. They are going to Montana. We have been
introduced to Mr. and Mrs. Hardinbrooke, and to the Walkers and their
ladies. They are pleasant, intelligent people, and will add much to
the pleasure of our party, no doubt. Frank and I went horseback riding
this afternoon to the station to get some good water from the well. I
cannot drink the river water.
No public worship to-day, although there were so many of us here.
* * * * *
Monday, June 5.
We were awakened at an early hour this morning with a bugle call. Three
companies were organized yesterday; there were about twenty wagons that
were not asked to join either party, so they pulled up stakes and left
while Frank and I were away. The strange women were of the party; they
must be some miles ahead by this time, and I hope they will stay ahead.
When our long train of wagons are stretched out upon the road, we
make a formidable looking outfit for the Indians to attack. As far as
the eye can reach, before us and behind us, there are wagons, wagons,
wagons; some drawn by oxen, some by mules, and some by horses. All fall
into the slow, sure gait of the oxen. There are whole freight trains
drawn by oxen; there are more ox teams than all others.
After our evening meal, a number of us started for a stroll along
the bank of the river. Before we reached the river, we were met by
a perfect cloud of mosquitoes that literally drove us back. I never
came so near being eaten up. There is a strong breeze blowing toward
the river, which keeps them from invading the camps, for which I
am thankful, otherwise there would be little rest or sleep for us
to-night. They are the first mosquitoes we have seen on the road.
* * * * *
Tuesday, June 6.
It is sweet to be awakened with music, if it is only a bugle. Our bugle
certainly makes sweet music. The road is becoming very dry and dusty,
which makes riding in the wagon rather disagreeable sometimes. Mother
and I take turns driving the horses and riding Dick. Rather the most
of the time I ride Dick. One of our boys goes out with the herders at
night, so one of them is generally sleepy, and sleeps during the day,
while the other drives the ox-team.