A RIVER TOWN OF THE DAY
From the western boundary of the state that bears its name, the
attenuated channel of the Missouri River stretched itself far out into
the unsettled Northwest, projecting its long antennae-like tributaries
into the distant mountains, where year after year the fur traders
awaited the annual arrival of the small river steamers, which in one
trip each summer brought thither supplies from St. Louis and returned
with rich cargoes of furs and peltries. On the western bank of
that turbid, fickle stream were half a dozen towns, known chiefly
as out-fitting places, which owed their existence to the river
transportation from St. Louis, whereby supplies consigned to the
mountains, or to the Pacific Coast, could be carried hundreds of miles
further west and nearer to the mining districts and the ocean than by
any other economical mode of transit. These towns had, therefore, become
the base of operations for commerce and travel between the East and the
far West, and so remained until the transcontinental railroads spanned
the wilderness beyond.
Nebraska City was a fair type of those singular towns, which possibly
have no counterpart at the present time. Like many western settlements,
Nebraska City was christened a city when in its cradle, possibly because
of the prevailing optimism of all western town-site boomers, who would
make their town a city at least in name, with the hope that in time it
would become a city in fact. The visitor to one of those towns at the
present day is sure to be impressed with the remarkable metamorphosis
wrought in five decades, if he stops to recall the hurly-burly and
bustle of ante-railroad days when the great wagon trains were preparing
for their spring migration.
It was at noon on the day of my arrival in Nebraska City when I debarked
from the ferryboat and rode my horse up the one street of the embryo
city until I discovered the primitive caravansary known as the Seymour
House, which provided entertainment not only for man and beast but
incidentally also for various other living creatures. The house seemed
to be crowded, but with the suave assurance characteristic of successful
hotel managers, the host encouraged me to cherish the hope that I might
be provided with a bed at night, which would be assigned me later. After
taking a hasty meal, being as yet undespoiled of the funds I had
transported, I entered a bank, and with little knowledge concerning its
solvency, gladly relieved myself of the burden of currency which I had
borne for many days and nights. Then I strolled out upon the busy
highway to see the town.
Rain had been falling intermittently for several days, leaving portions
of the roadway covered with a thick solution of clay, but there were
sidewalks which the numerous pedestrians followed. A panoramic view of
the streets could not fail to remind one of the country fairs in olden
times. Huge covered wagons, drawn by four or five yoke of oxen, or as
many mules, moved slowly up and down that thoroughfare. Mingled with
these were wagons of more moderate size, loaded with household goods,
the property of emigrants. I learned that the greater number of these
were taking on supplies for their western journey. Many men, some
mounted upon horses and others upon mules, were riding hurriedly up and
down the street, as if speeding upon some important mission. All these
riders seemed to have adopted a free and easy style of horsemanship
entirely unlike that which is religiously taught by riding masters and
practiced by gentlemen in our city parks. Their dress was invariably
some rough garb peculiar to the West, consisting in part of a soft hat,
a flannel shirt, and "pants" tucked tightly into long-legged boots,
which were generally worn in those days. To these were added the
indispensable leather belt, from which in many cases a revolver hung
suspended. Men of the same type thronged the sidewalks; many of them
with spurs rattling at their heels were young, lusty-looking fellows,
evidently abounding in vigor and enthusiasm.
I conversed with many of them, and learned that the greater number were
young farmers or villagers from the western and southern states. Some of
them were wearing the uniform of the Northern or the Southern army.
Assembled in and around the wide-open saloons there were also coteries
of men whose actions and words indicated that they were quite at home in
the worst life of the frontier. Hardly one of these men then upon the
streets, as far as I could discover, was a resident of the city; all
seemed to be planning to join some train bound for the West. Such were
some of the factors destined to waken into life the slumbering resources
of the broad, undeveloped regions beyond the Missouri.
Wandering further up the street, my steps were attracted toward a band
of Pawnee Indians, who had entered the town, and, standing in a compact
group, were gazing with silent, stolid solemnity upon the busy scene.
As was the custom with that tribe, their stiff black hair was cut so as
to leave a crest standing erect over their heads. Their blankets,
wrapped tightly around their bodies, partly exposed their bare limbs and
moccasined feet, their primitive bows and their quivers of arrows. They
had not yet degenerated into the mongrel caricatures of the noble red
man that are often seen in later days, garbed in old straw hats and a
few castaway articles of the white man's dress, combined with paint and
feathers; but they stood there as strong representatives of the last
generation of one of the proudest and most warlike tribes of America,
the most uncompromising enemy of the Sioux, and as yet apparently
unaffected by contact with civilization.
Led by a natural desire to learn what were the thoughts then uppermost
in their minds, I cordially addressed them with the formal salutation
"How," a word almost universally understood and used in friendly
greeting to Indians of any tribe. A guttural "How" was uttered in
return, but all further efforts to awaken their interest were fruitless.
I was not surprised to discover that no language at my command could
convey to them a single idea. The subject of their revery, therefore,
remains a secret.
I well knew, however, that we were then standing on a part of their
former hunting grounds and that lodges of their tribe had often stood on
that very bluff. Had I seen my home of many years thus occupied by
unwelcome invaders, I, too, might have spurned any greeting from a
member of the encroaching race. Those Pawnees certainly heard their doom
in the din and rattle upon that street where the busy white man was
arming to go forward through the Indian's country. They soon turned
their backs on the scene and I saw them file again slowly westward
toward the setting sun.
The time having arrived to return to the hotel, and, if possible to
perfect my arrangement for a room, I retraced my steps. The hotel at
night naturally became the _rendezvous_ for all classes of people, if it
can be properly said that there was more than one class. Most
conspicuous were the rough freighters, stock traders, and prospective
miners; and the few rooms were crowded to overflowing. Any request for a
private room was regarded as an indication of pride or fastidiousness on
the part of the applicant, and was almost an open breach of the
democratic customs of the West. But I passed the night without serious
discomfort and doubtless slept as peacefully as did my companions.
There were, however, other houses in Nebraska City for the entertainment
of guests. It was another hospitable tavern and another well remembered
night, to which I would now briefly refer. Accompanied by an older
companion, I repaired to this hostelry, because of our previous
acquaintance with the proprietor, who had formerly been a genial old
farmer near my native town and was known as Uncle Prude. He promised to
"fix us up all right" after supper. Accordingly we stepped out under a
spreading oak tree, where, upon a bench, were set two tin washbasins and
a cake of yellow soap, while from a shed nearby a long towel depended,
gliding on a roller and thoroughly wet from frequent and continued
service,--all of which instruments of ablution and detergence we
exploited to the greatest advantage possible. Sitting a little later at
one of the long, well-filled supper tables, we wondered how Uncle Prude
would dispose of the great number of people in and around his hostelry.
At an early hour we signified our inclination to retire, and by the
light of a tallow candle were escorted to a large room known as the ball
room, so called because on great occasions, like the Fourth of July and
New Year's night, it was used by the country swains and their lasses for
dances. It was now filled with beds, with only narrow passages between
them. A wooden shoe box, upon which was a tin washbasin and pitcher,
stood near the end of the room. A single towel and a well-used horn comb
still boasting a number of teeth, were suspended by strings. These, with
four or five small chairs, constituted the furnishings. Some of the beds
were already occupied by two persons, in some cases doubtless the result
of natural selection. We took possession of the designated bed, blew out
the light, and soon fell fast asleep. Later in the night we were
awakened by the arrival of a belated guest, who was ushered in by the
landlord's assistant. Taking a careful survey of the long row of beds,
the assistant pointed to the one next to that which we were occupying
and said, "You had better turn in with that fellow. I see it's the only
place left." Gratified by his good fortune in securing accommodations,
the guest thanked his escort, sat down on a chair and with his foot
behind his other leg proceeded to remove his long boots. The noise of
his grunts, or the falling of his boots upon the bare floor, awoke his
prospective companion, who, slowly coming to consciousness, addressed
the newcomer with the remark in kindly accents, accompanied with a yawn,
"Are ye thinking about coming in here with me, stranger?" "Wa'll yes,"
he replied, "Prude sent me up. He said you and I had about all that's
left. Pretty much crowded here tonight, they tell me," and he was soon
nearly ready to blow out the light. The man in the bed, apparently
revolving in his mind some serious proposition, added, "I think it's
nothing more than fair, stranger, to tell you that I've got the itch,
and maybe you wouldn't like to be with me." As a fact that undesirable
contagion was known to be somewhat prevalent in those parts. The
announcement, however, failed to produce the expected result. The
newcomer, apparently unconcerned, calmly replied, "If you've got the
itch any worse than I have, I am sorry for you. I guess we can get along
together all right," and then proceeded to turn down his side of the
bed. The occupant jumped to the floor, hastily gathered up his wearing
apparel and suddenly bolted out the door. With no word of comment, the
last comer blew out the light, turned into the vacant bed, and enjoyed
its luxury the rest of the night. We were unable to identify the
strangers on the following morning, but there were many questionings
among the guests concerning the manner in which a certain affection may
be transmitted.
On the following morning I had little choice but to follow the example
of other transients and join the throng upon the street. It was not
difficult to determine what thoughts were uppermost in the minds of the
many men whom I met along that thoroughfare. I heard negotiations for
the purchase of mules and oxen, and contracts for freight, often
ratified with Stygian sanctity by the invitation to "go in and have
something to drink." I was brought in contact with many men from
Missouri and Kentucky. In negotiating for a small purchase, the price
named by the seller was two bits. "What is two bits?" I asked. The
gentleman from Pike County, Missouri, appeared to be surprised when my
ignorance was revealed. After he had enlightened me, I found him to be
equally dense when I proposed to give two shillings for the article,
the shilling of twelve and a half cents being then a common measure of
value in my own state.
The signs over many of the stores of the town appealed to the
requirements of a migratory people, "Harness Shop," "Wagon Repairing,"
"Outfitting Supplies," being among those frequently observed. The legend
"Waggins for Sail" was of more doubtful and varied significance. The
symbols, "Mammoth Corral," "Elephant Corral," and other corrals,
indicated stables with capacious yards for stock, with rude conveniences
which the freighter temporarily needs until he is out on the plains. The
term "corral" was applied in the West to any enclosure for keeping stock
and supplies, as well as to the circle formed by arranging the wagons of
a train, as is the custom of freighters at night, for their protection
and for other obvious reasons. In these regions the significance of the
term widened so as to include any place where food or drink is meted out
to men, instead of to mules, and signs bearing the word "Corral" were
very common on resorts of that class. The sign "Bull Whackers Wanted,"
posted in many conspicuous places, was well understood by the _élite_ of
the profession to be a call for drivers.
The demand for firearms and knives seemed to be very active. The
majority of men who had recently arrived from the East seemed to regard
a revolver as quite indispensable, even in Nebraska City. As a fact,
however, they were equipping for the plains. The local residents who
were busy in their stores selling supplies apparently had no use for
revolvers, except to sell them as fast as possible.
Near the foot of the street is the levee, where at that season of the
year many steamers arrived and departed, their freight being discharged
and transported to warehouses, whence the greater part of it was
reshipped by wagon trains to the far West. I went aboard one of the
steamers and looked down upon the scene of feverish activity. The
merchandise was being rushed ashore, that the boat might be hurried back
to St. Louis, whence all freight to these towns was then brought. The
busy season was brief, and time was money.
A mate stood near the head of the gangplank urging the colored deck
hands to move more rapidly. The fervent curses that he hurled at the men
seemed to tumble over each other in the exuberance of his utterance.
While thus engaged, a coatless man walked rapidly up the gangplank and
with clenched fists approached the officer thus busied with his
exhortations. In threatening tones and manner and with an oath he
notified the mate that he had been waiting for him and now ----. The
mate, anticipating the man's evident purpose, instantly caught the
spirit of the occasion and without awaiting the full delivery of the
threat, himself delivered a powerful blow between the intruder's eyes,
which unceremoniously tumbled him into an open hatchway nearby. Casting
a brief glance through it into the hold, he asked the visitor if there
was any one else around there that he had been waiting for. The mate
then turned on the deck hands and cursed them for stopping to see the
sport. The "niggers" displayed their teeth and smiled, knowing that the
mate would have been inconsolable had there been no witnesses to his
encounter.
On the 30th of May, eight days after my arrival at Nebraska City, our
train arrived on the opposite side of the river, and I went over to
assist in the crossing. The stream had overflowed its banks and night
and day on its bosom a mighty drift of logs and trees went sweeping by.
"River, O River, thou roamest free
From the mountain height to the deep blue sea."
There was, however, no tint on the rushing, rolling waters of the
chocolate-colored Missouri that could remind one of the ocean blue.
The diary of a journey such as we embarked upon is probably of more
interest in those features that deal with early western life under then
existing conditions than in geological or archaeological observations.
With this idea in mind, I venture to narrate an incident as it was told
me on meeting our outfit at the river. The train had come to a halt in
the village of Churchville, Iowa. Just before the order to "Roll out,"
was given, a youth apparently fifteen or sixteen years of age,
approached and expressed a desire to see the proprietor of the
expedition. Captain Whitmore was indicated as that person. The youth
requested permission to accompany the train to Nebraska City, to find an
uncle. The Captain cast glances at the boy, whose fine, clear
complexion, delicate form, and quiet, unassuming manners indicated that
he was probably unaccustomed to a life of exposure and was hardly fitted
to enjoy the rough experience of an ox driver. "Young man," said the
Captain, "I guess this will be a little too severe for you; I hardly
think you will like this kind of travel." On being assured that no fears
need be entertained in this matter, but that the boy was not able to pay
the high rate of stage fare, the permission was finally granted. The
impression really made upon the Captain was similar to that made by
Viola on Malvolio, as given in _Twelfth Night_, where he is made to say:
"Not yet old enough for a man nor young enough for a boy! as a squash is
before 'tis a peascod, or a codling when 'tis almost an apple; 'tis
with him in standing water between boy and man. He is very well-favored
and he speaks very shrewishly."
The boy immediately, as if by instinct or delicacy, took a position in
the train with Mrs. Brown, the cook's wife. As an assistant the youth
did not assume the fresh manners expected from the average boy who is
gifted with attractive features and fine temperament, but rode quietly
along from day to day. In the course of time the Captain was led to
entertain a suspicion concerning the youngster, which was finally
embodied in a question concerning his sex. Without hesitation the boy
frankly admitted that he was a girl. Being exposed so suddenly and among
so large a number of men, she burst into tears, a very natural mode of
expression among women.
Her story was short. It was a story of wrongs suffered at the hands of a
step-father, and of desire to find an uncle in the West, which she had
taken this method of accomplishing. "But where's her hame and what's her
name, she didna choose to tell." She admitted having her proper apparel
in her satchel, which was substituted for her male attire in the house
of a farmer nearby. She then returned to the train and finished her
journey, keeping herself in close company with Mrs. Brown. I saw the
young woman soon after meeting the train. She was certainly a handsome,
refined, modest-looking village girl, not more than nineteen years of
age. We may catch another glimpse of the young girl's life later.
[Illustration: WILD CAT]
There have been but few writers who have laid the scenes of
their romances in the far West, but there are numerous bits of
history, supplied by the social life of the pioneers, like this
truthfully-related incident, which the pen of a ready writer might turn
into a tale as beautiful and interesting as that of Viola, who in the
role of page enacted her part and "never told her love."
On Saturday, June 2nd, additional crowds of people were attracted to the
town by its first election, at which an opportunity was offered the
people of the territory to vote upon the question of "State or no
State." We learned later, that the vote of the people as might have been
expected was in the affirmative, but on President Johnson's failing to
approve the measure, statehood was for a time denied them.
Our train passed on through Nebraska City and camped six miles westward.
We discovered later that the congestion of travel on the one
thoroughfare of the town was really the result of the lack of business.
The amount of freight to be moved from the river towns was less than had
been expected, and the shippers being unwilling to pay the rates that
had prevailed in former years, the freighters were refusing to carry the
merchandise and were lingering in the towns expecting better prices.
In the course of a few days some expected friends arrived from Wisconsin
with special merchandise and horse teams, and without waiting for the ox
train, it was decided that a few from our party should separate from the
others and with horse teams proceed westward at once. Negotiations with
reference to a common interest in the mercantile venture were finally
perfected. We purchased the supplies of provisions for our journey, and
after supper, on June 8th, pulled out five miles from the town to our
first Nebraskan camp. The sun had hardly set, closing the long June day,
when our party, now brought together for the first time on this
expedition, found its members all rounded on the grass in a prairie
valley and half reclining upon boxes and bags, discussing the future.
There was Peter Wintermute, a powerful, athletic young man; he was six
feet and three inches in height, and his long legs were stretched out
upon the grass. He was an experienced horseman, and had a team of four
fine animals with a modest wagon load of merchandise of some value,
which it was proposed to retail somewhere in the West. Paul Beemer, his
wagon companion, interested in the venture, was a small, nervous,
untiring fellow, and a fine shot with a rifle. This Peter and Paul had
few of the characteristics of the Apostles whose names they bore. It is
written of Peter, the Disciple, that on one occasion he swore and
repented. I fail to recall the occasion when our Peter did not
swear--and that is only one of many points of dissimilarity.
In the circle sat Daniel Trippe, another giant in strength and activity,
cultured and well informed on current and general topics, a man of
fine presence and wonderfully attractive in manner and appearance.
Noah Gillespie was financially interested with Dan in a proposed
manufacturing project in Idaho. Our Daniel, like his great prototype,
was something of a prophet and seer, indeed also something of a
philosopher, and his pronouncements were frequently invited. The
similarity between our Noah and the great navigator of diluvian days lay
chiefly in the fact that Gillespie also had met with much success in
navigation--while propelling a canoe in duck hunting on the Wisconsin
lakes. Moreover, so far as reported, the patriarch drank too much wine
on but one occasion, whereas our Noah excelled greatly in tarrying too
often at the wine cup; but he was a good fellow and a valuable companion
in time of peril. Noah and Dan had a fine team.
A grand old man was Deacon Simeon E. Cobb, who now sat in the circle
upon an empty cracker box, which he frequently used throughout the
trip. He was trying the life on the plains in the hope of relieving
himself of dyspepsia. He had a team and a light wagon with personal
supplies, including a small tent. Henry Rundle and Aleck Freeman were
also in the circle. They were vigorous, hardy and reliable men and they
too had a team. The especial companions of the writer were Ben Frees and
Fred Day. Ben was a compactly-built fellow of elephantine strength, and
although only twenty years of age, had been a first-lieutenant in a
Wisconsin regiment before Richmond at the surrender. Fred, who was still
younger, was delicate but vivacious and buoyant and abounded in all
those qualities that make for good fellowship.
And now spoke Dan, saying, "Boys, it's all right where we are now, but
only last summer on the Big Blue, only a little west of us, the Indians
were raiding and destroyed nearly all the stations from there on, beyond
and along the Platte. Keep your rifles in their proper places, loaded
and in perfect order." "All right, Dan," said Fred, "we'll keep 'em
loaded until we fire 'em off." Each of the party had in his wagon a
Henry repeating rifle and plenty of ammunition. Our supplies consisted
chiefly of bacon, flour, coffee and sugar, no available canned goods
then being on the market. With these preparations, we continued in the
morning out upon the broad plains.