It is four o’clock A.M.; the sentinels on duty have discharged their
rifles—the signal that the hours of sleep are over; and every wagon
and tent is pouring forth its night tenants, and slow-kindling smokes
begin largely to rise and float away upon the morning air. Sixty men
start from the corral, spreading as they make through the vast herd of
cattle and horses that form a semi-circle around the encampment, the
most distant perhaps two miles away.
The herders pass to the extreme verge and carefully examine for trails
beyond, to see that none of the animals have strayed or been stolen
during the night. This morning no trails lead beyond the outside
animals in sight, and by five o’clock the herders begin to contract
the great moving circle and the well-trained animals move slowly
toward camp, clipping here and there a thistle or a tempting bunch of
grass on the way. In about an hour five thousand animals are close up
to the encampment, and the teamsters are busy selecting their teams
and driving them inside the “corral” to be yoked. The corral is a
circle one hundred yards deep, formed with wagons connected strongly
with each other, the wagon in the rear being connected with the wagon
in front by its tongue and ox chains. It is a strong barrier that the
most vicious ox cannot break, and in case of an attack of the Sioux
would be no contemptible entrenchment.
From six to seven o’clock is a busy time; breakfast is to be eaten,
the tents struck, the wagons loaded, and the teams yoked and brought
up in readiness to be attached to their respective wagons. All know
when, at seven o’clock, the signal to march sounds, that those not
ready to take their proper places in the line of march must fall into
the dusty rear for the day.
At seven the bugle sounds and the party moves out, led by the pilot and
his guards. Meantime, a group of young men form a hunting party to look
for buffalo. It is from the viewpoint of the hunters on the bluffs of
the river that we next see the emigrant train:
We are full six miles away from the line of march; though everything
is dwarfed by distance, it is seen distinctly. The caravan has been
about two hours in motion and is now as widely extended as a prudent
regard for safety will permit. First, near the bank of the shining
river, is a company of horsemen; they seem to have found an
obstruction, for the main body has halted while three or four ride
rapidly along the bank of the creek or slough. They are hunting a
favorable crossing for the wagons; while we look they have succeeded;
it has apparently required no work to make it passable, for all but
one of the party have passed on and he has raised a flag, no doubt a
signal to the wagons to steer their course to where he stands. The
leading teamster sees him though he is yet two miles off, and steers
his course directly towards him, all the wagons following in his
track. They (the wagons) form a line three quarters of a mile in
length; some of the teamsters ride upon the front of their wagons,
some march beside their teams; scattered along the line companies of
women and children are taking exercise on foot; they gather bouquets
of rare and beautiful flowers that line the way; near them stalks a
stately greyhound or an Irish wolf dog, apparently proud of keeping
watch and ward over his master’s wife and children.
Next comes a band of horses; two or three men or boys follow them, the
docile and sagacious animals scarce needing this attention, for they
have learned to follow in the rear of the wagons, and know that at
noon they will be allowed to graze and rest. Their knowledge of time
seems as accurate as of the place they are to occupy in the line, and
even a full-blown thistle will scarcely tempt them to straggle or halt
until the dinner hour has arrived. Not so with the large herd of
horned beasts that bring up the rear; lazy, selfish and unsocial, it
has been a task to get them in motion; the strong, always ready to
domineer over the weak, halt in front and forbid the weaker to pass
them. They seem to move only in fear of the driver’s whip; though in
the morning full to repletion, they have not been driven an hour
before their hunger and thirst seem to indicate a fast of days’
duration. Through all the long day their greed is never satisfied, nor
their thirst quenched, nor is there a moment of relaxation of the
tedious and vexatious labors of their drivers, although to all others
the march furnishes some season of relaxation or enjoyment. For the
cow-drivers there is none....
The pilot, by measuring the ground and timing the speed of the wagons
and the walk of his horses, has determined the rate of each, so as to
enable him to select the nooning place, as near as the requisite grass
and water can be had at the end of five hours’ travel of the wagons.
Today, the ground being favorable, little time has been lost in
preparing the road, so that he and his pioneers are at the nooning
place an hour in advance of the wagons, which time is spent in
preparing convenient watering places for the animals and digging
little wells near the bank of the Platte. As the teams are not
unyoked, but simply turned loose from the wagons, a corral is not
formed at noon, but the wagons are drawn up in columns, four abreast,
the leading wagon of each platoon on the left—the platoons being
formed with that view. This brings friends together at noon as well as
at night....
It is now one o’clock; the bugle has sounded, and the caravan has
resumed its westward journey. It is in the same order, but the evening
is far less animated than the morning march; a drowsiness has fallen
apparently on man and beast; teamsters drop asleep on their perches
and even when walking by their teams, and the words of command are now
addressed to the slowly creeping oxen in the softened tenor of women
or the piping treble of children, while the snares of teamsters make a
droning accompaniment.
As the sun goes down, the pilot halts the column for the night. The
evening meal is prepared, watches are set, and another day of the march
comes to an end.