Tuesday, June 20.
Winthrop was quite sick last night with cramp colic. I was up with him
the latter part of the night, so was dressed and ready for my visit to
Prairie Dog Town at an early hour. The little fellows were up, standing
at their doors, and greeted me with a welcoming bark. Some of them
turned and darted away, no doubt to tell others we had come, for they
immediately came back to peep out at us and bark and chatter, as if
carrying on a lively discussion. They seemed perfectly fearless as long
as we kept our distance, but if we tried to get a nearer view, they
whisked away, and were gone in an instant; then they would send out two
or three scouts, and if we had gone far enough away, they would come
again to their doors. They have been well described by many writers.
Cash and Frank joined me, while at Prairie Dog Town.
I rode horseback this morning, and Milt Walker rode with me. Winthrop
is about well this evening. His was the first sickness we have had.
Will Musgrove came up with us while we were halted for noon--his train
is a short distance behind--he rode with me in the wagon all afternoon,
and drove the horses, and mother rode Dick. We had a long talk about
friends at home. He took dinner with us, and then said good-bye, and we
will see him no more, for we will travel faster than the freight train.
* * * * *
Wednesday, June 21.
Mr. and Mrs. Morrison are large-hearted, cheerful people, who seem to
be always happy and trying to make others happy. Mrs. Morrison learned
that Miss Lyde Walker has her guitar, and sings beautifully, so she
invited her to come to their tent and help to entertain a few friends.
It was a very pleasant diversion. While Lyde was singing, the men and
boys from all over the corral came near to listen. When she sang “The
Cottage by the Sea,” both inside and outside the tent, there was great
applause that terminated in an encore. But no, she would not sing any
more; she murmured something about the rabble, and laid her guitar away.
If I was gifted with a talent, with which I could give pleasure to
people, I would certainly do so whenever opportunity was afforded. I
would be glad to promote the happiness, and dispel as much sorrow as
possible, in this sorrowful world.
* * * * *
Thursday, June 22.
We came through a place called Star Ranch, or Old California Crossing.
We are camped twelve miles below Julesburgh. Mr. Reade called this
evening; we told him we had decided to go to Montana. He seemed as
pleased as though personally interested. Says the Irvine train is only
half a mile ahead to-night, and invited us to go with him to call upon
the young ladies. We, with one accord, asked to be excused. We all felt
that we are not in calling costume.
* * * * *
Friday, June 23.
We are camping in Colorado. Came through Julesburgh, a rather
insignificant-looking place, to have such notoriety as it has in the
newspapers. We met a company of soldiers with about twenty Indian
prisoners. They were captured at Fort Laramie, and they are taking
them to Fort Kearney. The soldiers had a fight with about one thousand
Indians three weeks ago. There were no soldiers killed, though a number
were seriously wounded, and they lost a good many horses. There were
squaws and papooses with the prisoners, though not captives.
The Indians in the fight were Sioux and Cheyennes; they all look alike
to me. They were the most wretched-looking human creatures I ever saw,
nothing majestic, dignified, or noble-looking about any of the Indians
I have seen. An ex-Confederate soldier gave me my information about
the fight. There are a great many Southern soldiers on this route. We
passed another newly-made grave this afternoon. Mr. Reade called this
evening.
* * * * *
Saturday, June 24.
I was caught in a hail-storm this morning. I was half a mile from the
wagons, on a high bluff, looking over the river, watching the storm
coming. I did not realize that it was so near, but all at once it came
down pell-mell and gave me some pretty hard knocks. Dick seemed in a
hurry to get to the train, and I let him go. We seemed to fly over the
ground through the storm, but we had the benefit of it all, for it
stopped just when we reached the wagons.
I unsaddled Dick and turned him out, while I took passage in the
wagon, changed my wet clothes for dry ones and wrapped in a shawl to
keep from taking cold. When the teams were being hitched up at noon,
Hillhouse said to me, “Dick has not had water; you would better ride to
the river and give him a drink.”
The river was half a mile from the road, but in sight all the way. Dick
cantered to the watering place, drank all he wanted, and we started
back when I saw someone coming toward me. I will not say who it was
because of what followed.
“I thought you were getting too far behind for safety.”
“Oh, there isn’t any danger; you need not bother about me.”
“Bother? Oh, no.” And then came a declaration that about took my
breath. At first I felt that I would like to box the presumptuous boy’s
ears. Then I wanted so much to laugh. But when I saw how desperately in
earnest he was I thought, perhaps, I have been to blame for not seeing
how things were tending. I was perfectly amazed; such a thought never
occurred to me.
Our ride back to the train was rather embarrassing to me. I tried to
make him see the comicality of the whole business, but he would not see
it. We passed a station where the Indians had burned all that would
burn, but these adobe, dirt-roof houses, or cabins rather, would not
make much of a blaze I imagine. Inside one of the cabins--or what was
left of it--were two dead Indians that had been killed in the fray.
* * * * *
Sunday, June 25.
Mr. Reade came with six young ladies to call upon us this morning, also
one gentleman from the Irvine train. They had gone down into their
trunks and were dressed in civilization costumes. They were Misses
Nannie and Maggie Irvine--sisters--their brother, Tom Irvine, Miss
Mollie Irvine, a cousin--Miss Forbes, and two other young ladies,
whose names I have forgotten. They are all very pleasant, intelligent
young people.
The trains are keeping as close together as possible, for protection,
for the Indians are on the warpath. Every station and ranch-building
that we are passing these days have been destroyed.