THE BOARDING HOUSE TRAIN
The boarding house train of the older days was not an institution
peculiar to the West alone, for we know that tramp outfits afforded
protection to wanderers in ancient times, and even now in the Orient and
for an agreed pecuniary consideration the peripatetic traveler may plod
along as best he may, or possibly ride at times, and have the dust of
the train and the society and fare of the Cameleers.
Although more or less familiar also with the mode of travel as seen in
the early immigration to the west of Lake Michigan, I had never seen
anything of its kind quite so picturesque or that in America brought
together so heterogeneous a party of men, as the boarding-house train
that I accompanied through the mountains in September, 1866.
The time had arrived when it was hoped that our big ox train would be
approaching the mountains, and desiring to meet it and assist in
bringing it through the canyons, I watched for an opportunity to join
some East bound train. The late summer and early autumn had given us
time to dispose of some merchandise that reached Salt Lake earlier in
the season, and I was now free to leave the city.
Learning of a small mule outfit that was about to start for the Missouri
River, I concluded arrangements for transportation.
This transportation embraced the so-called "grub" and the conveniences
of a covered wagon in which one might ride on easy roads, the
expectation being that the passenger would walk up the hills or over
difficult tracts.
The captain of the outfit, a big, burly freighter, seemed proud to have
come from Pike County, Missouri, which he stated had produced the most
distinguished men whom he had ever known.
It had not been my privilege to meet any of the passengers booked for
this Missouri outfit until their arrival at the corral at the appointed
hour for starting. In accordance with the custom of the country, each
passenger was to furnish his own lodging; in other words, each brought
such blankets as were supposed to be necessary for protection at night.
My bundle was deposited in the rear wagon, as I was desirous of securing
the advantage of an observation car, which would afford an unobstructed
view behind us. All the vehicles were ordinary large wagons with canvas
covers.
[Illustration: THROUGH THE WASATCH]
My companions in that wagon were two young men from Ohio, each of whom
had recently purchased a broncho horse, which he intended to take back
to the States and incidentally to use under the saddle, as he might have
opportunity, on the Eastward journey. These two quadrupeds were haltered
to the rear of the last wagon, which they were expected to follow. That
the bronchos might become gradually accustomed to a burden upon their
backs, the young men had cinched tightly upon them their bundles of
blankets. Thus equipped we rolled out from the city up the terraced
slope of "the bench" toward the entrance into Parley's Canyon. (It may
be stated that the bench is the narrow level table land, evidently an
ancient shore line, that skirts the foothills of those mountains and
indicates that during some period the waters in the valley reached that
high level).
The young men had commented favorably on the docility of their bronchos,
which had for a time followed the wagon in a satisfactory manner, and
expressed the belief that the animals would afford great comfort on the
long trip, by enabling them to take horse-back rides.
On entering an area covered with sage brush, a new purpose seemed
suddenly to enter the heads of the uncertain bronchos. It may have been
inspired by the sight of a little patch of grass on the otherwise arid
bench, or it may have been an innate inclination to do something
unexpected, an inclination very characteristic of the broncho. Suddenly
and almost simultaneously they dropped back on their halters and were
soon free and making a flight for the brush. The young men watched their
next proceedings with dismay. Having reached an eligible location in an
open space, the bronchos at once began a series of evolutions so
interesting that the train was brought to a halt. In his favorite
pastime of bucking, the broncho has no peer among all the quadrupeds of
the earth. It had been my privilege and misfortune to make a personal
test of this form of amusement and with the usual results, but never
before had I seen it so successfully performed upon inanimate matter, as
on this occasion in the sage brush of Utah.
The bundles upon the bronchos were light, and were strapped tightly upon
them with double girths. The buckers operating closely together
apparently entered into a contest, to ascertain which of the two could
first relieve himself of his impedimenta.
While the train was at rest, the boarders and drivers secured favorable
positions, where they might witness the match. Our captain from Pike
County, Missouri, broke forth into curses, berating the intelligence of
any man who would buy such good-for-nothing creatures, and yet he was
the first person to assist in their capture. Again and again the bucking
bronchos, facing each other, repeated their vicious plunges, leaping
into the air with heads down and backs curved upward, and coming down
upon their fore feet, until in some way the bundles were dashed upon the
ground and their contents were widely distributed under the animals'
feet, after which a sense of victory and freedom seemed to come over
them, and only after a long pursuit were they again secured. During the
time that I remained with the train, no human being ventured to mount
the refractory brutes.
The night came on as we turned into camp near the summit of the canyon.
The familiar fragrance of fried bacon and coffee was beginning to
pervade the atmosphere when the captain from Pike County gave the
command to "fall to," which was his method of announcing to the boarders
that supper was served. Drawing around the camp fire we faced the same
old "Menu" and the same type of battered tin dishes and cutlery that we
had become familiar with on our own train, except that the cooking and
serving paraphernalia bore evidences of greater antiquity and more
violent service.
We sat or kneeled upon the ground in a sort of irregular semi-circle.
With but few exceptions each man was a stranger to all the others. Each
man had a revolver in his belt, and in most cases the men had rifles
with their effects in the wagons. Each was curious to know where the
other fellow came from, and without much ceremony the blunt, but
good-natured question, "Where do you hail from?" was propounded to one's
neighbor in the circle. The roster was soon completed, and before we
left the camp fire my record showed that one of the party had recently
closed his apprenticeship under Morgan, the raider; another, an
ex-confederate, was from Old Virginia; one was from the Sandwich
Islands; one from New Hampshire; one each from Arkansas, South Carolina,
Michigan, and Wisconsin, and two were from Missouri. Our cook was a
young Snake Indian, but the rest of the crew had not yet disclosed any
facts concerning their life-history.
From the members of such a miscellaneous gathering there came naturally
some sparring and good-natured reviling tinged at times with acrimony,
for the bitterness of the Civil War had not yet materially lessened. But
after the first parry of words all realized that they were now comrades
for mutual protection.
A quiet place was soon found up the mountain side, and wrapping my
blanket around me I watched the bright stars until I fell asleep.
In the morning we had a touch of camp life that was calculated to bring
to the surface that trait of character which would manifest itself in an
hour of trial. The captain had been heard to shout from a distant point,
where he was attending to a mule, to ask the young Indian cook why in
h--l he didn't call breakfast, as it was time for the train to pull out.
The brush fire had burned long enough to have boiled coffee many times,
but the Snake Indian seemed to be wandering abstractedly round the
wagons as if searching for some missing article. As the Captain
approached and again demanded an explanation for the delay, the boy
informed him, in the few English words at his command, that some one had
taken the bacon. He declared that the great slab of meat referred to had
on the night before been placed in the covered mess box at the tail end
of the wagon.
The Captain again swore, and, with the air of a commander of men,
proceeded in his endeavors to solve the mystery. Two mules had been
picketed all night near the wagon, and the Captain, doubtless aware of
the omnivorous habits of those amalgamated beasts, examined their
surroundings, and observed squarely under the fore feet of one an
elevated surface that appeared suspicious. He backed the mule, and with
his foot scraped away an inch or two of dirt, beneath which he struck
the stratum of bacon, disfigured somewhat by the heavy pressure of the
animal's hoofs, but nevertheless recognizable as bacon. The mule had
evidently, at some time during the night, lifted the lid of the mess box
with his nose, and seizing the bacon with his teeth had undertaken the
task of eating it, but finding some coarser food better suited to his
incisors had abandoned the bacon in disgust, dropped it upon the ground,
pawed dirt upon it, and then planted his feet on the pile.
"Here's your bacon," said the Captain, with an oath, and a sneer of
superiority. "Now hurry up that breakfast." This event occurred prior to
the development of our present theory of germs and the sterilization of
food, so vexing to modern epicures.
An empty stomach needs no appetizing sauce. When I have listened to
adverse criticisms concerning dishes served at elaborately prepared
banquets, I have more than once recalled that breakfast of bacon and
coffee prepared by a Snake Indian cook in the Wasatch Mountains. There
was no bacon to be wasted.
On those clear frosty nights it was a pleasure to creep up the mountain
side, and beneath the open starry sky to roll up in a blanket and be
lulled to sleep by the music of streams rushing down those canyons.
Strange as it may seem, no colds ever resulted from this life in the
open air. Every breath inhaled in the waking hours or while asleep, was
of pure air not vitiated by exhalations from the lungs of others, nor
breathed in part over and over again. This immunity from colds is also
true under some conditions that might seem seriously dangerous to one
accustomed only to the comforts of civilized life. An example of this
was afforded on Tuesday evening, the 18th of September, when we reached
Quaking Asp Hill, near the summit of the Divide. A fine driving rain,
which extinguished our fires, began to fall at dusk, before we had
finished our bacon and coffee, and there were indications of a cold and
heavy storm. That he might the better protect himself against the
elements, the Sandwich Islander entered into negotiations to double our
blankets, a proposal that was promptly accepted, as he was provided with
one which was waterproof to place on the wet ground. Each of us had the
regular double army blanket and overcoat. This was not the first rainy
night that I had spent without a roof above me, but it was certainly the
wildest.
As the night advanced and the wind was blowing violently, we naturally
turned our feet toward the gale and loaded the edges of the blankets
with rocks to hold them in place. We then settled down to await the time
when the water would penetrate our clothing.
Fortunately the rain turned into a driving snow storm. The gale veered
round and came from the North, increasing in intensity, and although our
blankets were frozen, the wind now coming toward our heads, pressed down
between us and lifted the covering like a balloon until it found escape
at our feet, while the covers waved and flapped in the air. It seemed
too late to reverse our position, but we held tightly to the coverings
until the accumulating snow gradually weighted them down. The wind also
became more moderate toward midnight, but the snow continued to fall
rapidly until after we fell asleep. My companion and I had "spooned" as
closely as possible that we might share each other's warmth, and if one
was inclined to turn over his partner promptly responded.
I awoke after daylight, conscious of the heavy weight resting upon us.
Opening my eyes I looked upward through the white funnel in the snow
which had been formed by our breaths, melting the falling flakes, but
everything was still. The storm had ceased, and although the sun had not
yet risen above the mountain peaks, we saw that a bright morning was
dawning upon us. A council with my companion led us to lift the blankets
with care, and remove the weight of snow that covered us. After rising
to a sitting position, it was discovered that we were not alone. Here
and there at different points were undulations on the brilliant white
surface of the snow. In one end of each of these was the funnel which
told us that the warm breath of the sleepers had also preserved for them
an open view of the sky above.
Must we, as first-class boarders, dig the walks through the snow and
build the fire? We decided in the negative, and accordingly called the
camp to service. One by one snow mounds were lifted and living beings
arose from beneath the thick white mantle. The Captain had slept in his
wagon, but he promptly assumed command. Preparations were soon under way
for breakfast, and the stock was cared for. Nearly eight inches of snow
had fallen. Not a track was visible to guide us along the road during
the greater part of the following day, but as we descended into the
valleys, there was but little snow upon the ground, and that disappeared
rapidly. Not one of our party "caught cold."
The days rolled by until one morning after we had passed Fort Bridger,
we met our long ox train moving Westward. It halted until I could
transfer my baggage, after which I bade a hearty farewell to the fellow
travelers in the boarding-house train. Taking possession of a good
saddle horse, I started Westward again with our own long caravan.
This brings us to new experiences. It was no trifling matter to conduct
a long ox train up and down the mountain canyons, as will be discovered
later. This was not because it was difficult to find the trail, but it
was because the trail itself was often difficult. It was the principal
highway through the ranges of mountains, and from Fort Bridger westward
was the regular stage road, yet it was often steep and dangerous.
Captain Whitmore and his men were somewhat weary, having had a hard
trip, and my services, therefore, seemed to be very welcome. The
provisions were running low. Sugar for coffee and soda for bread were
long since exhausted. In fact, the stock of food was reduced to flour,
bacon, and a little coffee. Milk or vegetables were never obtainable,
and canned goods had not come into use. Two or three men who were with
the train had endeavored to incite the others to rebellion, and
appearing before Captain Whitmore told him substantially in the words
once addressed to Moses of the time when back in the States, "They sat
by the flesh pots and did eat bread to the full," but now they could not
get a square meal in the wilderness. It appears that these mutineers
were recognized by their companions as wasteful, shiftless men, too
proud and lazy to work when at home. From Whitmore's rulings there would
be no appeal in that country, except to the law of force. There were no
cucumbers, melons, leeks, or onions in that wilderness. Bacon or
unleavened bread or death was the alternative, unless they could hustle
for wild game. Regarding the subsequent careers of the three men above
referred to as an object lesson, it may be interesting to note the fact
that to the end of their lives none appeared ever to be in a position to
assist another, or to keep want from his own door.
It was along this road that we fell in with Captain Chipman's
ill-starred train of Mormon emigrants. Mingling with the Pilgrims in
their camp, I became interested in a young Englishman named S. W. Sears,
whose history is full of adventures and chequered with varied
experiences.
Although then but twenty-two years of age, he was chaplain of the train;
for be it known that notwithstanding the sins ascribed to the Mormons,
they maintained regular devotional services in camp as well as temple.
Sears' wife had died on their westward pilgrimage six months after their
marriage and was buried on the banks of the North Platte.
A few days later their train was attacked by Indians who captured 300 of
their horses and oxen.
The emigrants saved enough of their stock to move their wagons in
divisions until they escaped from the hostile Indian territory.
Sears became prominent both as a missionary of the Mormon faith and in
commercial life. Two wives survived him, one of whom was the adopted
daughter of the distinguished Daniel H. Wells and was born in a wagon
near the entrance to the city at the termination of her mother's long
journey across the plains.
Travel, like politics, makes strange bedfellows, and especially that
kind of travel in which all companions must, from necessity, mingle on a
common level, eat their simple rations by the same camp fire, and sleep
side by side beneath the same open sky. This observation is suggested by
a night spent in camp near Bear River. Our ox train had just forded that
rocky stream, to avoid the excessive toll which was demanded for the
privilege of crossing upon the new bridge. Before going into camp near
by, the Captain of a little train that had preceded us rode his horse
rapidly into the stream in his effort to head off some intractable
mules. The horse stumbled over some stones and fell upon its knees,
throwing the rider over his head in a fairly executed somersault into
the water. The feat evoked hearty applause from those who were fortunate
enough to witness it.
Now it happened that among the men with our train was a modest but
vigorous young man named Ferdinand Lee, whom I had known quite well
before he had served his full time during the war just ended as a
private in the Second Wisconsin Regiment, which distinguished itself as
part of the famous Iron Brigade.
After supper I walked up the bank of the stream with Ferd, which was the
name by which Lee was familiarly known, and we soon encountered a group
of men composed of stragglers from two small parties that were camping
near by and who like ourselves had gravitated toward the best camp fire.
"Was it your Captain what made that h--l of a dive from his hoss into
the river?" asked a tall, black-whiskered Southerner of a small,
red-headed chap, who we learned later was known as Sandy.
"I reckon it war. Didn't he do it all right?" was the reply. "What's
your name, anyhow?" he continued.
"Well, it don't make much difference, but these fellows call me Shorty,
and I was wondering if that Captain ever rid a hoss before."
"Guess he has, because he says he was in the army and raided in Kentucky
with the Rebs," replied Sandy. "Those Kentuckyans think they can ride,
you know." And with this he took a seat upon a little rock, lighted a
pipe, and others followed his example.
"I guess you're a Yank," said Shorty.
"Well, I reckon I am," said Sandy, "and while we are guessing I would
put you down for a Johnny Reb." A frown came over Shorty's face, when he
said, with some bitterness, "You think the Kentucky boys can't ride
much, hey?"
"I recollect hearing them tell about your General Winne, when he and
some of his boys here were pretty close together near the Wilderness
Tavern. He did the same thing in the water of Flat Run that your Captain
did in Bear River."
"War you in the Wilderness two years ago?" asked Sandy.
"I was in the Iron Brigade of Maryland, sir."
"Then I reckon you have seen General Winne. But don't you think you
fellows did a lot of careless shooting around there?"
"Wa'al, we pumped some lead the best we knew how, but were you careless
enough to be standing around in that country when shooting was going
on?" asked Shorty.
"There's a bullet inside of me that once in a while tells me that mebbe
I wasn't in jest the right place."
"What company were you in?" asked Shorty.
"I was fooling around a little with the Twentieth Maine," was the reply.
Ferd Lee had been a quiet but interested listener. One of our boys,
without turning his head remarked that Lee just behind him did some
business in the Wilderness.
"Lee? That's a good Virginia name. But you were not in our Brigade, were
you?"
"No," replied Ferd. "I loafed around a few years with the Second
Wisconsin in the Iron Brigade."
Shorty instantly rose to his feet, and approaching Ferd said, "I have
surely met you before, sir. Although I hate the Yankees, I respect the
bravery of the men in your Brigade, and I want to shake your hand."
Ferd rose, took the hand of the Confederate veteran, and they looked
into each other's eyes as the firelight flickered in their faces, when
Ferd said, "No men ever fought better than yours did."
The Iron Brigade had earned its name through the valor and inflexible
courage of its men on many battle-fields, and its Second Wisconsin
Regiment had borne an honorable part in its achievement.
Thus, for the first time since they had met in conflict on the
battle-fields of Virginia, those veterans again confronted each other.
True, the war was over, but it had left its bitterness. Nevertheless,
like other brave men, they were impelled to respect the soldiers on the
opposing side, whose deeds had been as valorous as those of any heroes
immortalized in poetry and song. Until late that night, by the peaceful
camp fire on the banks of Bear River, the boys rehearsed the thrilling
events in which they had participated in the effort to shed each
other's blood.
As would naturally be supposed, Captain Whitmore, as the opportunity
presented itself, gave me from time to time the story of his experience
thus far during his trip. One event, the particulars of which were
confirmed by his men, seemed to be so interesting that I asked him to
describe it again to another party of travelers at our night's camp. It
appears that one afternoon his ox train was slowly crawling along near
the north slope of a low range of hills west of Julesburg. A family of
emigrants from Illinois consisting of a man, his wife, a grown son and a
daughter about eighteen years of age, and a couple of assistants, had
accompanied the train from the last military post. As these emigrants
had horse teams, which travel somewhat faster than oxen, they were
accustomed to driving half a mile or more in advance of the big train,
although they had been warned of the hazard; but there they were on that
fatal day to receive unaided the brutal raid of a band of Indians which
swooped down from the hills. John Wilson on horseback and Mr. Stone of
Iowa on foot were out in opposite directions for a hunt. Simultaneously
with the attack on the emigrant's wagons, Wilson was seen racing down a
valley toward the train pushing his horse to the top of its speed, and
in close pursuit was a band of mounted savages yelling like demons. At
the same moment Mr. Stone, who was in full view not a mile distant,
became the object of an attack from still another detachment of warriors
also on horse-back. The train was corralled in a circle for defense as
speedily as possible. In the meantime Stone displayed marvelous tact and
coolness. He was armed with a Henry repeating rifle loaded with sixteen
cartridges, and, as was the usual custom with all hunters, he also
carried in addition a case of loaded cartridges. On discovering the
rapid approach of the savages he hastened to the top of a little mound
that was near by and dropped upon his face. Pursuing their usual tactics
the Indians in single file rode swiftly in a circle round and round the
apparently doomed Iowan, gradually approaching their victim, who would
soon be within range of their arrows. Stone remained quiet for a few
moments until his enemies, filing rapidly by the line of his aim as they
passed, were within fairly safe range, and then his rifle, directed with
careful precision, opened up a series of discharges such as they
probably had never before seen, for the Henry was a newly invented
weapon and the savages doubtless intended to close in as soon as the
rifle should be discharged. In Stone's first series of shots he emptied
three saddles of their riders and wounded two horses. While the savages
then swung outward for a moment, time was given him to refill the
chamber of his rifle with fresh cartridges when at once he renewed his
defensive tactics, with results that were startling. The Indians who
were still in action seemed to be perplexed by the strange, persistent
weapon that was turned upon them, and slowly withdrew. Stone retreated
toward the train and was soon under cover of its rifles. The emigrant's
party fared badly. All were slaughtered except the young girl, who was
captured alive and was taken off with the horses and the plunder from
the wagons. I learned later that she remained in captivity until the
following spring, when she was restored to the military and thence
transported to her former home.
Wilson reached a point where his exhausted horse, which had fully shared
in the panic, fell prostrate to the ground and never again rose to its
feet. The train, now well fortified and defended, escaped further loss.
It may be remembered, as was narrated in another chapter, that in the
early days of our expedition and away back in the little village of
Churchville, Iowa, a young girl disguised in boy's apparel succeeded in
joining the train and became an assistant to the man and his wife who
were the cooks for the outfit. After our little party proceeded in
advance of the big train from Nebraska City we received no definite
tidings concerning its progress until the meeting near Bridger, which
has just been described. It was therefore a great surprise, on now again
reaching the train, to learn that the girl had thus far shared the
hardships and perils of the entire journey. What would lead a young,
apparently modest, and prepossessing country maid to embark on a long
trip with a body of strangers destined to a far away Mormon town in the
mountains? Before being permitted to proceed from Nebraska City, it
appears that she gave out some statements concerning her history. From
these it transpired that she was an orphan about nineteen years of age.
She had a lover, who, she confidently believed, was in Salt Lake valley.
It seemed to be the old story of a trustful, confiding girl and possibly
a recreant wooer, in whom she still had unbounded faith. She was
intelligent for one of her years and was apparently sincere and
thoroughly in earnest.
"Yes, he is right there in the valley, and he does not know that I am
going to meet him," she said. But, young girl, there are hundreds of
canyons and branch canyons reaching out from the valleys around Salt
Lake basin. Many of them are seldom trodden. Some, difficult of access,
invite the adventurer to their remotest nooks, where the fortune-hunter
would seek for gold or silver. How will you find him?
"Hope is a lover's staff," and on that frail support her future rested.
She had come to be known to the boys with the train, many of whom had
been soldiers, as the child of the regiment.
We well remember how she then appeared as she was about to enter
practically alone into the turbulent life of the little city of Salt
Lake, for it must be understood that the train men must there separate,
and while she might receive some assistance, she must fight her own
battles.
If any old resident of Churchville, Iowa, knew a bright, handsome young
girl of medium height with dark hair and big dark eyes who in the spring
of sixty-six suddenly disappeared from that village he may get this
little glimpse of her history. Her real name was always withheld. The
name by which she was known to our boys would have no significance to
her former acquaintances. I never saw her again after the train reached
the city. She suddenly vanished in the whirlpool of western life.
It was reported that a young girl answering the description of our
whilom ward was one morning seen riding alone on horse-back up City
Creek canyon, to which valley hundreds of men had that year been
attracted by rumors of gold discoveries. And so must end a tale
half-told.
During those days I was assisting on horse-back in various ways, and at
times conducting the long train round the sharp curves in the canyons.
Six or eight yokes of oxen drawing two large wagons coupled together is
a long thing in itself, stretching out perhaps 150 feet. It may run
beautifully on a straight road, but in rounding a short bend in a
narrow roadway, where the inside of the bend is on the edge of a
precipice, the tendency is to bring the wagons dangerously near the
brink.
On the third of October, our train was winding along the narrow roadway
among the cliffs of Silver Creek Canyon. Looking across a deep ravine
before us we observed the last wagon in the train that was crawling
along in advance of ours, to be encroaching on the edge of a precipice,
and in a moment a wheel slipped over the bank. The great prairie
schooner capsized, breaking the tongue, detaching the wagon from the
teams, and turned upside down. Down, down it rolled, repeatedly bounding
over rocks and through bushes, until it found a resting place quite out
of sight near the bottom of the canyon. As we approached the scene of
the catastrophe an odor, recognized by experienced drivers as of
whiskey, came from the wreck of the wagon. We passed on as soon as the
way could be opened. A number of men from the delayed train seemed
inspired with a benevolent impulse that led them to assist in saving
something from the wreck, and were soon clambering down the rocks toward
the spot from which the fragrance came the strongest.
We learned nothing of the final results of the work of this salvage
corps. Their voices, which came up from the hidden depths, indicated
that they had found something, and the odors were evidence that enough
fire water had been spilled to have made a whole tribe of the solemnest
Indians hilarious.
On the afternoon of the same day, in going down a steep descent in the
same canyon, the failure to fasten the brake on one of our wagons caused
the two that were coupled together to gain so much headway that they
pressed the ox teams into a frightened mass. The breaking of the wagon
tongue turned the wagons down a long steep slope leaving the road more
than five hundred feet above. We now had our own troubles. After taking
a survey of our wreck, which consisted of a load of miscellaneous
merchandise and a wagon in trail, on which was a heavy boiler, I rode
back to the little settlement of Wanship for articles needed in repairs.
In the meantime the train was corralled further down the canyon, and the
stock wandered up the mountain valleys.
In the morning many oxen were missing which it was my pleasure to assist
in finding, for I loved the hills. Mounting a horse, I ascended a ravine
and crossed two or three mountain spurs where it was hoped a glimpse of
the strays or their tracks might be obtained.
Looking from a concealed position across a deep valley, I observed on
the opposite slope an animal which I became satisfied was a mountain
sheep, the Big Horn. I had seen many specimens of the various animals
and birds indigenous to the West, but never a mountain sheep, except in
captivity. They are wary animals, and like the chamois of the Alps are
at home on the rocky cliffs. I must be cautious. My horse was fastened
behind me, out of view, down the mountain slope. My Henry rifle was in
good condition. Lying on my face while carefully sighting through the
underbrush, I felt myself to be absolutely safe from discovery.
Calculating the distance as accurately as possible, a careful aim was
taken, but the bullet fell far short of the mark, striking the rocks
away beneath. The animal was evidently unconscious of my death-dealing
purpose, and nestled quietly half-concealed in a growth of underbrush.
Another shot was fired, when it became evident that my Henry was not of
sufficiently long range to reach the game. The opportunity before me was
too rare to be sacrificed without effort. Therefore, after tying a silk
handkerchief to a limb to mark the trail to my horse, I skirted the spur
of the mountain, on foot, slowly descended into the ravine, and
laboriously clambered up the other side.
The time and effort expended in accomplishing the ascent to the other
side made it clear that I had been greatly deceived in the distance, but
I was happy to make any physical effort to secure a mountain sheep. The
last quarter of a mile must be made with exceeding caution, because the
quick ear of the Big Horn would catch any unusual sound. After more than
an hour of vigorous but cautious climbing, an eligible point was
reached, toward which my course had been directed, and with rifle ready
to fire on the first sight of the game, my head was slowly raised above
a projecting rock in confidence that the game had not ascended the
mountain. There it was in full view, not more than a hundred yards
distant. It certainly had horns, but the sight of half a dozen ordinary
sheep huddled together in the background revealed to my obtuse
consciousness the fact that my game was a ram, which was guarding a
little flock of domestic sheep similar to those with which we are all
familiar.
Shall victory be wrested from defeat? Our boys needed meat, and I could
tumble a sheep's carcass down the mountain side. Conflicting emotions
throbbed within my breast, until approaching the sheep I was confronted
by a tough-looking mountaineer, after which I cared less for mutton.
"What are ye doin' up here?" was his interrogatory.
"Oh, I'm out a hunting."
"What kind of game are ye after?" he asked.
"Oh, any nice game that needs a good shot."
I noticed that the stranger had a revolver at his side, and in a few
moments another slouched-hat individual emerged from a little hut in a
side ravine.
"What kind of a rifle is that you've got?"
"It's a Henry."
"I've hear'n of one but never seen one before. Lemme see it," said the
mountaineer. He took the gun from me and carefully looked it over.
"Where are you from, anyhow?" he asked, without taking his eyes from the
gun. I gave the name of the town without any additional facts.
Continuing, he said, "I was there once. I lived up in Bark Woods awhile.
Do you know where Pumpkin Holler is, just beyond Hebron?"
"Yes."
"Did you ever know Jim Roach, who hauled logs to Joe Powers' saw mill at
Hebron?"
"The holler is several miles from my town, but I think I have heard the
name," I replied.
"Didn't you ever hear of Jim Roach's nephew Ben?" he asked.
"Maybe I have," was the answer.
"Well!" said the mountaineer, "I'm him."