We were a good deal disappointed in not getting over into
Nebraska, because we had seen enough of Dakota, but there was no
help for it. A log had got caught in the paddlewheel of the
ferry-boat and wrecked it, and there was no other way of
crossing.
"Old Blacky could swim across," said Jack, "but Browny would
go to sleep and drown."
[Illustrations: Hats]
It is rather doubtful, however, about even Blacky's ability
to have swum the river, since it was a half-mile wide, and with a
rather swift current. In the afternoon we walked back to Yankton
and bought the biggest felt hats we could find, with wide and
heavy leather bands. We knew that we should now soon be out in
the stock-growing country, and that, as Jack said, "the cowboys
wouldn't have any respect for us unless we were top-heavy with
hat."
We were camped on the high bank of the river, opposite a
farm-house. It was getting dusk when we got back to the wagon,
with our heads aching from our new hats, which seemed to weigh
several pounds apiece. Jack, as cook, announced that there was no
milk on hand, and sent Ollie over to the neighboring house to see
if he could get some. Ollie returned, and reported that the man
was away from home, but that the woman said we could have some if
we were willing to go out to the barn-yard and milk one of the
cows. The others decided that it was my duty to milk, but I asked
so many foolish questions about the operation that Jack became
convinced that I didn't know how, and said he would do it
himself. We all went over to the house, borrowed a tin pail from
the woman, and went out to the yard.
We found about a dozen cows inside, of various sizes, but all
long-legged and long-horned.
"Must be this man belongs to the National Trotting-Cow
Association," said Jack, as he crawled under the barbed-wire
fence into the yard. "That red beast over there in the corner
ought to be able to trot a mile in less than three minutes."
He cautiously went up to a spotted cow which seemed to be
rather tamer than the rest, holding out one hand, and saying,
"So, bossy," in oily tones, as if he thought she was the finest
cow he had ever seen. When he was almost to her she looked at him
quickly, kicked her nearest hind-foot at him savagely, and walked
off, switching her tail, and shaking her head so that Ollie was
afraid it would come off and be lost.
"Can't fool that cow, can I?" said Jack, as he turned to
another. But he had no better luck this time, and after trying
three or four more he paused and said:
"These must be the same kind of cows Horace Greeley found
down in Texas before the war. When he came back he said the way
they milked down there was to throw a cow on her back, have a
nigger hold each leg, and extract the milk with a clothes-pin."
But at last he found a brindled animal in the corner which
allowed him to sit down and begin. He was getting on well when,
without the least warning, the cow kicked, and sent the pail
spinning across the yard, while Jack went over backwards, and his
new hat fell off. There was one calf in the yard which had been
complaining ever since we came, because it had not yet had its
supper. The pail stopped rolling right side up, and this calf ran
over and put his head in it, thinking that his food had come at
last. Jack picked himself up and ran to rescue the pail. The calf
raised his head suddenly, the pail caught on one of his little
horns, and he started off around the yard, unable to see, and
jumping wildly over imaginary objects. Jack followed. A cow,
which was perhaps the mother of the calf, started after Jack. The
family dog, hearing the commotion, came running down from the
house and began to pursue the cow. This wild procession went
around the yard several times, till at last the pail came off the
calf's head, and Jack secured it. Then he picked up his hat, the
brim of which another calf had been chewing, rinsed out the pail
at the pump, and tried another cow.
This time he selected the worst-looking one of the lot, but
to the surprise of all of us she stood perfectly still, only
switching him a few times with her tail. As soon as he got a
couple of quarts of milk he stopped and came out of the yard.
Ollie and I had, of course, been laughing at him a good deal, but
Jack paid no attention to it. As we walked towards the house he
said:
"Well, there's one consolation: after all of that work and
trouble, the woman can't put on the face to charge us for the
milk." A moment later he said to her: "I've got about two quarts;
how much is it?"
"Ten cents," answered the woman. "Didn't them cows seem to
take kindly to you?"
"Well, they didn't exactly crowd around me and moo with
delight," replied Jack, as he handed over a dime with rather bad
grace.
That evening a neighbor called on us as we sat about our
camp-fire, and we told him the experience with the cows.
[Illustration: Milking the Heifer that Wore a Sleigh-Robe]
"Puts me in mind of the time a fellow had over at the Santee
Agency a year or so ago," said our visitor. "There's a man there
named Hawkins that's got a tame buffalo cow. Of course you might
as well try to milk an earthquake as a buffalo. Well, one day a
man came along looking for work, and Hawkins hired him.
Milking-time came, and Hawkins sent the man out to milk, but
forgot to tell hint about the buffalo. The man was a little
green, and it was sort of dark in the barn, and the first thing
he tried to milk was the buffalo cow. She kicked the pail through
the window, smashed the stall, and half broke the man's leg the
first three kicks. He hobbled to the house, and says to Hawkins:
'Old man, that there high-shouldered heifer of yourn out there
has busted the barn and half killed me, and I reckon I'll quit
and go back East, where the cows don't wear sleigh-robes and kick
with four feet at once.'"
Bright and early the next morning we got off again. Nothing
of importance happened that day. We were travelling through a
comparatively old-settled part of the country, and the houses
were numerous. A young Indian rode with us a few miles, but he
was a very civilized sort of red man. He had been at work on a
farm down near Yankton, and was on his way to the Ponca
Reservation to visit his mother. As an Indian he rather disgusted
Ollie.
"If I were a big six-foot Indian," he said, after our
passenger had gone, "I think I'd carry a tomahawk, and wear a
feather or two at least. I don't see what's the advantage of
being an Indian if you're going to act just like a white man."
We camped that night in a beautiful nook in a bluff near a
little stream. The next day we reached Running Water. The
ferry-boat was a little thing, with a small paddle-wheel on each
side operated by two horses on tread-mills. A man stood at the
stern with a long oar to steer it. The river was not so wide here
as at Yankton, but the current was swifter, which no doubt gave
the place its name. It looked very doubtful if we should ever get
across in the queer craft, but after a long time we succeeded in
doing so. It gave us a good opportunity to study the water of the
river, which looked more like milk than water, owing to the fine
clay dissolved in it. The ferry-man thought very highly of the
water, and told us proudly that a glass of it would never settle
and become clear.
"It's the finest drinking-water in the world," he said. "I
never drink anything else. Take a bucket of it up home every
evening to drink overnight. You don't get any of this clear
well-water down me."
We tasted of it, but couldn't see that it was much different
from other water.
"Boil it down a little, and give it a lower crust, and I
should think it would make a very good custard-pie," said Jack.
We found Niobrara to be a little place of a few hundred
houses. We went into camp on the edge of the town, where we
stayed the next day, as it was Sunday. Early Monday morning we
were out on the road which led along the banks of the Niobrara
River. We were somewhat surprised at the smallness of this
stream. It was of considerable width but very shallow, and in
many places bubbled along over the rocks like a wide brook. We
spoke of its size to a man whom we met. Said he:
"Yes, it ain't no great shakes down here around its mouth,
but you just wait till you get up in the neighborhood of its
head-waters. It's a right smart bit of a river up there."
"But I thought a river was usually bigger at its mouth than
at its source," I said.
"Depends on the country it runs through," answered the man.
"Some rivers in these parts peter out entirely, and don't have no
mouth a' tall--just go into the ground and leave a wet spot. This
here Niobrara comes through a dry country, and what the sun don't
dry up and the wind blow away the sand swallers mostly, though
some water does sneak through, after all; and in the spring it's
about ten times as big as it is now. The Niobrara goes through
the Sand Hills. Anything that goes through the Sand Hills comes
out small. You fellers are going through the Sand Hills--you'll
come out smaller than you be now."
This was the first time we had heard of the Sand Hills, but
after this everybody was talking about them and warning us
against them.
"Why," said one man, "you know that there Sarah Desert over
in Africa somewhere? Well, sir, that there Sarah is a reg'lar
flower-garden, with fountains a-squirting and the band playing
'Hail Columbia,' 'longside o' the Newbraska Sand Hills. You'll go
through 'em for a hundred miles, and you'll wish you'd never been
born!"
This was not encouraging, but as they were still several
days' travel ahead, we resolved not to worry about them.
But the country rapidly began to grow drier and more sandy,
especially after the road ceased to follow the river. Before we
left the river valley, however, Ollie made an important discovery
in a thicket on the edge of the bank. This was a number of wild
plum-trees full of fruit. We gathered at least a half-bushel of
plums, and several quarts of wild grapes.
About the middle of the afternoon we came up on a great level
prairie stretching away to the west as far as we could see. There
seemed to be but few houses, and the scattering fields of corn
were stunted and dried up. It had apparently been an extremely
dry season, though the prospects for rain that night were good,
and grew better. It was hot, and a strong south wind was
blowing. Night soon began to come on, but we could find no good
camping-place. We had not passed a house for four or five miles,
nor a place where we could get water for the horses. As it grew
dark, however, it began to rain. It kept up, and increased to
such an extent that in half an hour there were pools of water
standing along the road in many places, and we decided to stop.
It was wet work taking care of the horses, but the most
discouraging thing was the report from the cook that there was no
milk with which to make griddle-cakes for supper, and as he did
not know how to make anything else, the prospect was rather
gloomy. But through the rain we finally discovered a light a
quarter of a mile away, and Ollie and I started out to find it.
Jack refused to go, on the plea that he was still lame from his
Yankton trip after milk.
[Illustration: Wet but Hopeful]
We blundered away through the rain and darkness, and after
stumbling in a dozen holes, running into a fence, and getting
tangled up in an abandoned picket-rope, at last came up to the
house. It was a little one-room board house such as the settlers
call a "shack." The door was open, and inside we could see a man
and woman and half a dozen children and a full dozen dogs. We
walked up, and when the man saw us he called "Come in!" tossed
two children on the bed in the corner, picked up their chairs,
which were home-made, and brought them to us.
"Wet, ain't it?" he exclaimed. "Rainy as the day Noah yanked
the gang-plank into the Ark. I was a-telling Martha there was a
right smart chance of a shower this afternoon. What might
you-uns' names be, and where might you be from, and where might
you be going?"
We told him all about ourselves, and he went on:
"Rainy night. Too late to help the co'n, though. Co'n's poor
this year; reckon we'll have to live on taters and hope. Tater
crop ain't no great shakes, though. Nothing much left but hope,
and dry for that. Reckon I'll go back to old Missouri in the
spring, and work in a saw-mill. No saw-mills here, 'cause there
ain't nothing to saw. Hay don't need sawing. Martha," he added,
turning to his wife, "was it you said our roof didn't need
mending?"
"I said it did need it a powerful sight," answered the woman,
as she put another stick of hay in the stove, and a stream of
rain-water sputtered in the fire.
"Mebby you're right," said the man. "There's enough dry spots
for the dogs and children, but when we have vis'tors somebody has
got to get wet. Reckon I oughter put on two shingles for vis'tors
to set under. You fellers will stay to supper, of course. We
'ain't got much but bacon and taters, but you're powerful
welcome."
"No," I said, "we really mustn't stop. What we wanted was to
see if we couldn't get a little milk from you."
"Well, I'll be snaked!" exclaimed the man. "That makes me
think I ain't milked the old cow yet."
"I milked her more'n two hours ago, while you was cleaning
your rifle," said his wife.
"That so?" replied the man. "Where's the milk?"
The woman looked around a little. "Reckon the dogs or the
young Uns must 'a' swallered it. 'Tain't in sight, nohow."
"Oh, we can milk 'er again!" exclaimed the man. "Old Spot
sometimes comes down heavier on the second or third milking than
she does on the first."
He took a gourd from a shelf, and told us to "come on;" and
started out. He wore a big felt hat, but no coat, and he was
barefooted. Just outside the door stood a bedstead and two or
three chairs. "We move 'em out in the daytime to make more
room," explained the man. The rain was still pouring down. The
man took our lantern and began looking for the cow. He soon found
her, and while I held the lantern, and Ollie our jug, he went
down on his knees beside the cow and began to milk with one hand,
holding the gourd in the other. The cow stood perfectly still, as
if it was no new thing to be milked the second time. We had on
rubber coats, but the man was without protection, and as he sat
very near the cow a considerable stream ran off of her hip-bone
and down the back of his neck. When the gourd was full he poured
it in our jug, and at my offering to pay for it he was almost
insulted. "Not a cent, not a cent!" he exclaimed. "Al'ays glad to
'commodate a neighbor. Good-night; coming down in the morning to
swap hosses with you."
He went back to the house, and we started for the wagon.
"He wouldn't have got quite so wet if he hadn't kept so close
to the cow," said Ollie, as we walked along.
"What he needs," said I, "are eave-troughs on his cow."