DAN, THE DOCTOR
When one sleeps upon the open ground at night with nothing above one's
head but the clear blue sky, the sun seems to rise wonderfully early on
a bright, unclouded, midsummer morning. As our only artificial lights in
this wandering life were tallow candles in a lantern, we soon made the
interesting discovery that the night is made for sleep, whereupon we
naturally lapsed into the nocturnal habits of aborigines, which on the
whole were doubtless quite as consistent with nature as was our own
previous custom. So, on the evening after leaving Baker's ranch, the
story of the past day having been fully rehearsed, one after another, as
the evening shadows began to gather, the boys quietly sought as eligible
a spot as could be found on the ground nearby, and they sought it in
very much the same deliberate manner as the horse finds his chosen bed,
and sinks upon it at the close of day.
When the light of the yet unrisen sun was silently heralding the
approach of the on-coming day, it awakened our out-of-door sleepers, and
there began at once in both camps the usual early morning activities,
for both outfits were to pull out by sunrise. The delightful aroma of
coffee and frying bacon stole through the air, stimulating the appetites
of men whose stomachs were in waiting.
Our tin cups had not been emptied when from the southward we heard the
cracking of whips and the yelping of the mounted mule herders as they
came upon the run, rushing the long-eared drove toward the big corral,
which was separated from our camp by possibly the fourth of a mile. Soon
after the mules had been driven into the enclosure and were expressing
some uninterpretable emotions by loud yet plaintive brayings, our boys
were actively harnessing their horses, which had been picketed upon the
range; speedily they pulled out, while the big train soon uncoiled
itself not far behind. Three of us on horseback rode some distance in
advance.
The morning was indescribably beautiful. Many have written of Italian
skies, and I have often seen and recognized their beauty when they were
tinted with the mirrored blue of the Mediterranean, but I have never
seen brighter, clearer skies or breathed purer, more exhilarating air
than we found on that high and arid plain. Ben, Fred, and I proceeded
side by side upon the firm trail. There was no green grass nor were
there trees to soften the colors of the landscape, but there were many
large patches of cacti then in bloom, the prevailing colors of which
were scarlet and bright yellow. We noticed that the long ridges trending
toward the river were higher and presented a broader sweep, and the
intervening valleys that we crossed were correspondingly wider and
deeper than were those further east. Far behind at times we could see
our canvas-covered prairie schooners rising over those great fixed
billows, like the white-winged barks that bore the Pilgrim fathers over
the Atlantic's waves; or possibly like Abraham's ships of the desert all
alike drifting westward, ever westward, over a wilderness whether of
land or sea, destined to some new region far away.
On the forenoon of that day, June 26th, while riding over the crest of
one of those broad swells, we three simultaneously discerned on the
western horizon what appeared to be a placid lake of considerable size,
with a well-defined shore line on its further border. Its color, bright
azure blue, denoted a body of clear and deep water. It was a charming
feature in that treeless, arid landscape, but nothing upon our maps had
ever suggested to us the existence of such a body of water in that
country.
Not long previous to that time, I had seen from the shore of Lake
Superior a distant island invisible under ordinary conditions, but at
times apparently lifted above the horizon, with its well defined shore
line quivering unsteadily in the sky just above the surface of the
water. As we moved onward, this phantom Nebraska lake receded, and in an
hour it melted into the blue sky. We then knew that it was a mirage. The
same phenomenon reappeared, always in the West and under the same
conditions, at about nine o'clock on each of the two succeeding
mornings.
It is something of a tumble to turn the thoughts from a celestial vision
of rare beauty to the details of a dog dinner. Just while the beautiful
mirage, and other interesting phases of nature were lifting the trio to
an exalted frame of mind, Paul's ruling passion led him to one of the
many prairie dog settlements that we passed on our course, where he shot
two of the rodents and secured them before they had dropped into their
burrow. During our long noon rest he carefully prepared and cooked them
for our luncheon. When we assembled at the mess, the unrecognizable
dogs, fat and plump and nicely browned, were exhibited by Paul as
something rare and dainty.
Our usual mode of serving food was similar to that adopted in the modern
cafeterias, in which our methods seem to have been so far imitated that
each person takes his plate to the common source of supply for his
rations, but returns to his base of operations to devour them. On the
occasion of our dog feast, Paul, being ambitious to produce a favorable
impression with the roast dog, graciously conveyed it to each of the
banqueters as they sat upon the ground in an irregular circuit. It was
amusing to watch them as each cut a delicate morsel and conveyed it to
his mouth, then chewed the little fragment slowly and critically that
the organs of taste might fully sense the flavor. At the same time, with
compressed eye-brows, a far-away look in the eyes, and an occasional
glance toward the faces of others who were going through the same
ceremony, all were preparing to give an expert opinion on the dainty.
Nearly but not quite every member of the party accepted a portion and
made favorable comments on the flavor. There is possibly something in
the familiar local name commonly applied to these animals that is not
appetizing, but the name is really a misnomer, as the prairie dog does
not belong to the canine family. Even that fact in itself may not
commend him as a delicacy for the table. In some features he resembles
the squirrel, but in habits and actions, as many people know, is more
like a chipmunk, and the two are members of the same family. The
generally accepted belief that these little animals dwell together in
amity with rattlesnakes, which are rather numerous in the chosen
territory of the prairie dog, need not add to their attractiveness on
the menu.
I have found no definite authority on the subject, but I should conclude
from observation and inquiry that the serpents are not the invited
guests of the rodents, but hibernate with them during the winter as an
economic measure, to avoid unnecessary labor in preparing their own
subterranean apartments and in the ordinary spring housework, all of
which is performed in common courtesy by the hosts. It may be imagined
that the relations between the householders and their unbidden guests
are not always cordial.
In the forenoon we had fallen in with a small party of emigrants, with
whom I had already held some conversation. In one of their wagons were
two brothers, one of whom was driving their span of mules. The older of
the two, who was about to start on a hunt, drew his rifle from beneath
the seat, when it was accidently discharged, the bullet entering his
thigh. This was simply an incident to which travelers are liable. No
doctor was at hand. I was riding near the wagon and assisted the
unfortunate youth to the ground. It occurred to one of our party to
apply for counsel to Dan Trippe, who was "a sort of all-around man," who
always had a good jack-knife and had read some scientific works. He had
possibly read something concerning surgery, for his father had been a
physician. When Dan was summoned and the situation was briefly stated to
him, it was suggested to him that he should not disclose the fact that
he was not a regular practitioner, because it would materially detract
from the good effect of what he might do. While the injured young man
now stretched out upon the ground was apparently unconcerned, his
youthful brother was heartbroken and in tears, realizing that an
accident liable to prove serious had occurred far out in the wilderness.
Dan promptly responded to the call, and, approaching the sufferer,
proceeded at once in a cool, self-possessed manner to examine the
wound. Dan had studied Greek in a preparatory school, and was able to
use a few anatomical terms any one of which would serve his purpose at
the time as well as any other. He accordingly raised his eyebrows and
looked wise, after the manner of experienced physicians. He then
addressed to us a few recondite terms which came to his mind, assuming
to indicate the probable direction which the ball had taken, all of
which was about as clear and satisfactory as is the average diagnosis.
The younger boy, anxious to obtain Dan's mature opinion on the case,
asked with trembling voice, "Doctor, do you think brother will get
well?"
After another moment, apparently given to careful consideration of the
conditions, Dan replied, in slowly delivered, well accented words with
an air indicating profound knowledge. Bringing into play a stock term
which he often used humorously, a term suggested by an oft-told story,
he said that there being no serious phlebotomization of the wound, the
prognosis was favorable, and he was confident that under fair conditions
the patient would speedily recover,--information that was more
satisfactory to the youth than it was to Dan. Our boys could not
suppress some smiles when they heard this oracle. A later informal and
unprofessional conversation with a few friends, led to the decision,
that as Dr. Brown was now an "uncertain proposition," the wounded man
had best be sent ahead to Julesburg, now a small army post, where there
was possibly a surgeon. The lightest wagon in the train was accordingly
appropriated, and its freight distributed to the other wagons; a
suspended bed, upon which the young man was swung as in a hammock, was
constructed inside the box; provisions were put in for a three days'
journey; and with the best span of mules available and a driver, the
two boys started on their long and anxious journey, planning to drive as
continuously as possible.
We had been undecided as to the course we should take west of Julesburg,
but having received information that the Platte was rising, it was
deemed expedient for our little party also to push on, so that if we did
conclude to take a northern route we could more safely cross the river.
We accordingly again pressed onward in advance of the train that we had
recently joined. Unless the traveler upon those wide prairies was
exceedingly dull and impassive something was sure to occur each day to
arouse his interest. The sight of game or some unexpected incident
invoked expressions of enthusiasm or curiosity.
On the forenoon after Dan assumed the role of doctor a small herd of
antelope seemed to surprise themselves by coming directly upon us on
their way from the river toward the bluffs to the south. When alarmed
these beautiful beasts start with the speed of the wind in some
direction without much regard for what may be in their course; so, in
this case, they apparently took no notice of our big wagons until they
were almost within thirty rods of them, when they suddenly turned to
pass in our rear. The first impulse of man is to shoot the innocent
creatures, and in a moment four or five rifles were out, and bullets
were flying, but the little fellows were too rapid and escaped injury.
Immediately following this trifling incident dense black clouds with a
fleecy border rolled up from the west and we soon faced a terrific
squall, followed by a driving storm of heavy hail. The flattened icy
meteors were of the regulation size, being as large as hens' eggs.
Those of us who were on horseback hastily sought refuge in the wagons.
Our horses, however, quickly became quite unmanageable from the
incessant pelting, and it seemed humane to alleviate their suffering if
possible. The men who were not driving again shared the battering of the
big ice bullets with the horses, but any covering that we could put over
them for protection was lifted by the gale. Peter Wintermute's fine
four-horse team, which I often took pleasure in driving, reared and
plunged to escape. Our saddle horses broke loose and started off with
the wind, and for twenty minutes the panic continued, during which the
canvas-covered wagons creaked as if in pain. After the storm had passed,
the fugitive horses stopped in their flight and slowly returned to the
companionship of the other animals, seeking on the way to crop a little
grass from the scanty growth. In contrast with the clear air and bright
skies for which that country is distinguished there is tremendous vigor
in the elements when turned loose in Nebraska.
On Thursday evening we camped near Julesburg, an old town named in 1859
from Jules Beni, a trapper. All the buildings at this point had been
burned by the Indians very recently, and we were informed that the few
small structures there then had just been erected by the Government. I
asked a survivor of the fire why the Indians burned Julesburg. The
information was that they burned it because they wanted to. The old
town, originally having but a few framed buildings, was familiar to all
plainsmen, as it was the parting of two great trails.
Near by, within an hour's walk, was Fort Sedgwick, in command of Captain
Nicholas J. O'Brien of the 18th Regiment of regulars, an old time friend
and comrade of our Captain Ben Frees. Captain O'Brien had built this
post under the instructions of the War Department. Ben secured from him
much valuable information concerning the Indian situation. Captain
O'Brien in the preceding year had been the hero of a desperate fight
with a large force of Indians under the wily Chief Man-afraid-of-his
horses, and with the loss of fourteen men saved the lives of four stage
passengers, one of whom was a woman. The history of some of his daring
exploits is narrated in Coutant's _Wyoming_.
In addition to one company of the 18th regulars, there were stationed at
the post under O'Brien two companies of the 5th U. S. Volunteers, and a
company of the 2nd U. S. Cavalry. We learned that on the occasion of the
burning of the post at Julesburg, about two thousand savages, with yells
and whoops, suddenly closed in upon the town, but were met by a detail
of troops from the fort. The Indians used chiefly bows and arrows. The
surviving soldiers were relieved after twenty-two comrades had been
killed and scalped by the Indians. The town was pillaged and burned to
the ground with heavy loss of supplies to the stage company. Fifty
thousand dollars in money was captured from a single coach. The
estimated loss in Julesburg as the result of this attack, which occurred
on February 2, 1865, was $115,100. The additional losses sustained by
Ben Holliday in the raids occurring at that time, including losses of
horses and stages, and the various stage stations destroyed by the
Indians along the Platte River, were finally placed at $375,839, for the
recovery of which amount a bill was introduced in Congress. The loss to
emigrants would not be reported as would that of stage companies that
transport the U. S. Mail. The stage lines in those days were frequently
put entirely out of service for a time by Indian depredations.
If there had ever been any timber along the Platte near Julesburg, it
had now disappeared. A small pine log six feet in length which, it was
stated, had been brought sixty miles, was purchased by Paul Beemer for
one dollar, for fire wood. That price, however, was less than its
original cost, for Captain O'Brien stated that wood cost the Government
$625 per cord.
In a yard nearby, adobe or sun-dried bricks were being made, the size
being about 8x12 inches. They were to be used in the rebuilding of
Julesburg. None had yet been used in new construction. To be exact,
Julesburg at the time of our visit consisted of six widely separated
framed houses, on the old ruins, one being a blacksmith shop. The most
imposing of the buildings was a billiard parlor, as indicated by the
sign on its front. As a detachment from our party were sauntering by the
wide-open door of the last named palace of amusement, an altercation had
just commenced, the _casus belli_ being the price of two bags of shelled
corn. Two men who had just entered the room of the saloon at once
approached a stalwart man who was pushing ivory balls across a billiard
table, and demanded more money for the corn. "Not another cent; I paid
all I agreed to pay," was the sharp reply of the player, who for a
moment discontinued his game. "It's a damn lie and you know it, and if
you don't shell out damn quick, we'll take it out of you," was the call
to combat delivered by one of the newly arrived pair who, like all
others there except the proprietor, were transients. The big end of a
billiard cue, swung with terrific force, instantly crashed against the
head of the corn seller, and swiftly whirling again in the air it grazed
the disappearing form of the silent partner, who escaped through the
door. The prostrate spokesman of the pair was lifted to his feet by
bystanders and assisted to the open air, and the game proceeded.
We had previously learned that arrangements had been in progress for
several months, with the view of holding an important council at Fort
Laramie with several Indian tribes then on unfriendly terms with the
whites. It was hoped that a treaty might settle the issues which for a
considerable time had been the cause of continued dissension. At
Julesburg we learned that according to the latest advices received
there, no treaty had been concluded, although the tribes had assembled.
It was further reported that Indian warriors to the number of 15,000 had
disappeared from their customary haunts and were apparently removing
their families to safer places, preparatory to taking the war-path,
unless a satisfactory settlement should be made. The question for us now
to determine was, should we take the Bitter Creek route through
Bridger's Pass and thus keep as far south and west of the disputed
territory as possible, or proceed by Fort Laramie and "the new cut off"
by Fort Reno, the route which the Indians were demanding must be closed
to white travel.
A feeling of despondency prevailed among the few whites remaining at
Julesburg, mingled with a bitter sentiment toward the Government for the
manner in which the negotiations had thus far been conducted, it being
the belief that the interests of sutlers and Indian agents had been
treated as paramount. It seemed impossible for us at this time to obtain
definite information as we desired, but the almost universal impression
was that the Indians were being fed, armed, and otherwise put into
favorable condition to prosecute war upon the settlers and emigrants
whenever they should decide to turn their backs upon the unsatisfactory
terms demanded from them.
As is well known, Indians lack the faculty of organization on a large
scale. Tecumseh, Pontiac, and other tribal leaders finally failed
because of this fact. The tribes that were involved in the controversy
to which we have referred were chiefly the Sioux or Dakotas, the
Mountain Crows, the Cheyennes, and the Arapahoes. Each of these tribes
was divided into numerous independent bands, each recognizing no
authority beyond its own chief. A common language, and the tribal
superstitions and customs, are the only bond that was calculated to
unite them, otherwise, so far as can be learned from observation and
from various writings, they were as independent one of another as the
Anglo-Saxon stock of Minnesota is independent of the same stock in
Manitoba. A common cause might unite them for a time, but each would
still be under its own leadership. There is no great head to the tribe
as a whole. As the tribes are divided into bands, so each band is
divided into villages, each having its own chief. Parkman states that
the chiefs are "honored and obeyed only so far as their personal
qualities may command respect or fear." Some chiefs have attained much
power and are recognized in the histories of our country. Such were
Sogoyewatha, the orator of the Senecas, Blackhawk of the Sacs, Red
Cloud, to whom we shall refer later, and several other chiefs of
national reputation. The Western Dakotas, of late years known as Sioux,
had no fixed place of abode. They were incessantly wandering both in
summer and winter, and the buffalo furnished them most of the
necessities of life. Its flesh, which was usually sun-dried, or jerked,
as the process is termed, furnished food; its skin their habitations and
beds; its fat was fuel; other parts supplied powerful strings for their
bows, also glue, thread, cordage, and boats. Was it strange, then, that
the unnecessary slaughter of these valuable animals upon which they had
learned to depend, and their slaughter on the best of the remaining
hunting grounds, should arouse the earnest protest of the redskins?
In view of the general conditions, we held a council in the evening, and
as arguments are easily forthcoming to sustain any personal desire or
predilection, we, as many young men would have done, decided to go by
the Laramie route. This was on the theory or pretext that we were likely
to get over the mountains before the Indians could inaugurate a general
warfare, and before the treaty gathering at Laramie could be concluded.
As a fact, we were disposed to go by that route because we believed that
more of interest promised to happen along that trail; besides, the
natural attractions appeared more inviting than on the Bridger route.
The rapid rise in the river, indeed, brought rather a serious obstacle
to confront us, but we determined to attempt the crossing in the
morning. For a time in the year 1864, prior to the diversion of the
stage line to the Bridger route, a ferry was maintained at this
crossing, but in the following year it was permanently abandoned.
We had not forgotten to inquire after the condition of the wounded young
driver who had preceded us. The post surgeon reported that he was
progressing favorably and that the doctor who had dressed the wound had
done it as well as could be expected of an amateur; in other words, he
had done nothing except to bandage it. We were permitted to congratulate
the young man on his safe trip to that point.
[Illustration: BUFFALOS]
On our way back to the camp we were surprised to come upon Dr. Brown's
driver, John, who informed us that his party had just arrived. He
conducted us to the doctor's camp, where we received a cordial southern
welcome. When we informed Dr. Brown that we had decided to undertake the
northern route, he requested us to be seated for awhile. Occupying such
boxes and other objects as were the most available, we were soon in
comfortable positions. Ben and Fred made it convenient to sit one on
either side of the girls, who were as usual side by side. I was
pleasantly grouped with the doctor and his wife. John, after having
stimulated the camp fire, found a seat upon the front of one of the
wagons. The doctor was much older than we were, and we had observed that
the loss of many friends during the recent war and the abandonment of
his old Kentucky home, had filled his mind with sad and haunting
recollections. However, he and his family were fine examples of the best
and most cultured stock that went out from his state to make up the
permanent citizenship that entered into the building of the West.
For several minutes after we were all seated but few words were spoken.
The camp fire, which had been revived for light rather than for heat,
had begun to flash some flickering rays upon the faces of the little
company gathered around it. Finally the doctor said: "I much regret that
our paths must separate, and though our own plans are somewhat
uncertain, I hope that we may meet again."
In travel of the kind we have been describing, acquaintance often ripens
more rapidly than in ordinary life. Without preliminaries, we proceeded
to recite the incidents of our journey since our first separation from
their party, though Ben and Fred joined in the conversation but
incidentally, finding much more of interest in the subdued conversation
they contrived to carry on with the young ladies. The fact that Ben
(then hardly twenty-one years of age) had been a first-lieutenant in a
Wisconsin regiment in active service, did not seem to lessen his
admiration for the southern girl with dark hair, and possibly not for
the dignified father, who may have faced him on some southern
battlefield. Ben was a noble fellow of sterling worth and character. His
sincerity and good sense were sure to make their impression upon any one
whom he might meet. Fred was quite as true, and there was charm in his
presence. There they sat beside those bright but serious young ladies,
quietly making the best of the fleeting moments.
"Boys," I said, "don't you think it is time to leave our friends and
return to camp,--for we must try that ford early in the morning, you
know?"
My admonition roused the boys to a realization of the fact that the hour
was late. We rose from our seats, exchanged a hearty goodbye with the
Browns, and after lingering a moment with the young ladies on the edge
of the shadow of the wagons made by the camp fire, we tore ourselves
away and started through the darkness towards our own camp. We
separated, not expecting to meet the Browns again, but we met them once
more on this strange and interesting highway.