beautiful rolling prairies to our ranch. I was charmed with the scene,
which was vastly different from the mountains and narrow winding valleys
of Pennsylvania, and was determined to stay, though my brother had lost
his enthusiasm and gave me two weeks to change my mind. Many a homesick
spell I had when I would have very quickly returned to my father's home
of peace and plenty, but the danger of travel detained me. I assured my
brother that if he would only stay I would be very brave and economical.
I only wanted five small rooms plainly furnished and a horse and
carriage. When the place was ready we left Brownville in a big wagon,
drawn by oxen, and fortified by a load of provisions. When we came in
sight of our bungalow it proved to be a one-room, unpainted and
unplastered edifice, but I soon overcame that defect by the use of
curtains, and as all lived alike then, we were content with our
surroundings. Our first callers were three hundred Indians on an
expedition. I had been reading extensively about Indians, so knew when I
saw their squaws and papooses with them that they were friendly--in
fact, rather too familiar.
My brother fenced his land and planted it in corn and all kinds of
vegetables. The season being favorable there was an abundant crop, both
cultivated and wild. The timber abounded with grapes, plums, nuts, etc.,
and strawberries on the prairies. We had a well of fine water, a good
cellar or cave, and a genuine "creampot" cow. Instead of a carriage I
had a fine saddle horse (afterwards sold to a captain in the army), and
how we did gallop over the prairies! One of my escapades was to a
neighbor's home ten miles away for ripe tomatoes. In lieu of a sack we
tied together the neck and sleeves of a calico wrapper, filled it with
the tomatoes, then tied the bottom and balanced it astride the horse in
front of me. Going through the tall slough grass in one place near
Sheridan, now Auburn, the horse became frantic with heat and flies and
attempted to run away. The strings gave way and the tomatoes scattered.
Finally the saddle turned and the well-trained horse stopped. An
inventory revealed one sleeve full of tomatoes remaining.
Among our near neighbors were Mr. and Mrs. Milo Gates and family, and
Mr. and Mrs. Engle. Mrs. Gates's cheerful optimism made this pioneer
life not only possible but enjoyable.
After five months, my brother joined the army and went south as a
captain; was several times promoted, and stayed all through the war. A
year after I went back to Brownville to stay until the war was over, and
there made many valued acquaintances: Senator Tipton's sister, Mrs.
Atkinson, Judge Wheeler, H. C. Lett, the McCrearys, Hackers, Whitneys,
Carsons, Dr. Guin, Furnas, Johnson, etc. About this time the citizens
gave a party for the boys who enlisted, and there I met E. J. Randall,
whom I married soon after he returned from the army. Of the four Randall
brothers who enlisted one was killed, one wounded, and one taken
prisoner. Two of them still live, Dr. H. L. Randall of Aurora,
forty-seven years a practicing physician in Nebraska and at one time
surgeon at the Soldiers' Home, Grand Island; and A. D. Randall of
Chapman, Nebraska, who enlisted at the age of sixteen and served all
through the war.
After a college course of four years my husband entered the ministry and
served for twenty-five years in Nebraska, except for one year of mission
work at Cheyenne, Wyoming. The itinerant life is not unlike the pioneer
life and brought with it the bitter and sweet as well, but the bitter
was soon forgotten and blessed memories remain of the dear friends
scattered all over the state of Nebraska, and indeed to the ends of the
earth.
Dr. Wharton said when paying his tribute to my departed husband, "He
still lives on in the lives of those to whom he has ministered." Our
children are Charles H. Randall of Los Angeles, California, member of
congress, and Mrs. Anna Randall Pope of Lincoln, Nebraska.
STIRRING EVENTS ALONG THE LITTLE BLUE
BY CLARENDON E. ADAMS
_Painting a Buffalo_
The following narrative of Albert Bierstadt's visit to what is now
Nuckolls county, Nebraska, was told to me by Mr. E. S. Comstock, a
pioneer of the county. Mr. Comstock made his first settlement in this
county at Oak Grove, in 1858, and was in charge of the Oak Grove ranch
when this incident took place.
In 1863 Mr. Bierstadt returned from the Pacific coast via the Overland
stage route, which was then conducted by Russell, Majors & Waddell, the
pioneer stage and pony expressmen of the plains. Arriving at Oak Grove
ranch, Mr. Bierstadt and his traveling companion, a Mr. Dunlap,
correspondent of the New York _Post_, decided to stop a few days and
have a buffalo hunt. In company with E. S. Comstock, his son George, and
a neighbor by the name of Eubanks, who was killed by the Indians the
next year, they proceeded to the Republican Valley and camped the first
night in the grove on Lost creek, now known as Lincoln Park. The
following morning the party proceeded up the river to the farm now owned
by Frank Schmeling. Here they discovered a large herd of buffalo grazing
along the creek to the west and covering the prairies to the north for
several miles. Mr. Comstock says that it was one of the largest herds of
buffalo he had ever encountered and that Mr. Bierstadt became greatly
excited and said, "Now, boys, is our time for fun. I want to see an
enraged wounded buffalo. I want to see him so mad that he will bellow
and tear up the ground." Mr. Comstock said they arranged for the affray:
Mr. Bierstadt was to take his position on a small knoll to the east of
the herd, fix himself with his easel so that he could sketch the
landscape and the grazing bison, and when this was done the wounding of
one of the buffalo bulls was to take place.
Bierstadt was stationed on a small knoll in plain view of the herd; Mr.
Eubanks was stationed in a draw near Bierstadt, in order to protect him
from the charges of the buffalo, if necessary. George Comstock was to
select a buffalo bull from the herd and wound him and then tantalize him
by shaking a red blanket at him until he was thoroughly enraged, then he
was to give him another wound from his rifle and lead out in the
direction of Mr. Bierstadt.
The wounded buffalo became furious and charged Comstock's horse
repeatedly, but Comstock, being an expert horseman, evaded the fierce
charges and was all the time coming nearer to Bierstadt. When within
about three hundred yards Comstock whirled his horse to the side of the
maddened monster. As a buffalo does not see well out of the side of his
eyes on account of the long shaggy hair about the face, Comstock was
lost to his view. The infuriated animal tossed his head high in air and
the only thing he saw was Bierstadt. Onward he rushed toward the artist,
pawing the ground and bellowing furiously. Bierstadt called for help and
took to his heels. The buffalo struck the easel and sent it in splinters
through the air. Onward he rushed after the fleeing artist, who was
making the best time of his life. Mr. Comstock said he was running so
fast that his coat tails stuck so straight out that you could have
played a game of euchre on them. The buffalo was gaining at every jump.
At this point in his story Mr. Comstock became greatly excited. He was
standing on the identical spot telling me the story, and was living the
exciting scene over again. "Why," he said, "I thought Eubanks never
would shoot. I was scared. The buffalo nearly had his horns under
Bierstadt's coat tail. He was snorting froth and blood all over him, but
the gun cracked and the buffalo fell and Bierstadt was so overcome he
fell at the same time entirely exhausted, but saved from a fearful
death." When he recovered sufficiently to talk, he said, "That's enough;
no more wounded buffalo for me." Mr. Bierstadt was several days
recovering from his fearful experience, but while he was recovering, he
was painting the picture. "Mr. Dunlap, the correspondent, wrote a
graphic and vivid pen picture of the exciting scene," said Mr. Comstock;
"but when Mr. Bierstadt finished his picture of the infuriated charging
buffalo and the chase, the pen picture was not in it."
This was the painting that brought Bierstadt into prominence as an
artist. It was exhibited at the first Chicago exhibition and was sold
for $75,000. I saw the picture in Chicago before I heard Mr. Comstock's
narrative, and as I was one of the owners of El Capitan Rancho, the
landscape of the famous painting, I fixed his story vividly upon my
memory. Mr. Mike Woerner now owns a portion of El Capitan Rancho, the
landscape of this famous painting. A portion of this original painting
is embraced in Mr. Bierstadt's masterpiece, "The Last of the Buffalo."
_An Indian Raid_
The settlement of the section now included in Nuckolls county was
attended with more privation and suffering from Indian raids and
depredations than any other county in the state of Nebraska. The great
Indian raids of August 7, 1864, extended from Denver, Colorado, to Gage
county, Nebraska, at which time every stage station and settlement along
the entire line of the Overland trail was included in that skilfully
planned attack. A certain number of warriors were assigned to each place
and the attack was simultaneous along the line for four hundred miles in
extent.
The Oak Grove ranch was among the most formidable in fortifications and
a band of forty well-armed braves was sent to capture and destroy it. On
the day of the attack G. S. Comstock, owner of Oak Grove ranch, was away
from home; but besides his family there were five men at the stockade.
The Indians came to the ranch about mid-day in a friendly attitude. They
had left their ponies about a quarter of a mile away. They asked for
something to eat and were permitted to come into the house with their
guns and bows and arrows on their persons. They finished their dinner
and each received a portion of tobacco and some matches. Then without
any warning they turned upon the inmates of the ranch yelling and
shooting like demons, and only for the quickness and great presence of
mind of one of the Comstock boys the whites would all have been killed
or taken away captives to submit to the cruelty of the savage foe.
A Mr. Kelly, from Beatrice, was there and was the first to fall pierced
with an arrow. He had a navy revolver in his belt. The Indians rushed
for it but young Comstock was too quick for them and seized the revolver
first and shot down the leader of the braves. Seeing the fate of their
leader, the Indians rushed to the door in great fright. The revolver was
in skilful hands and three more of the braves went down under the
unerring aim of young Comstock. Kelly and Butler were both killed
outright. Two men by the name of Ostrander and a boy were wounded. All
the other occupants of the ranch had their clothes pierced with arrows
or bullets.
The Indians ran to their ponies, and while they were away planning
another attack, the wounded were cared for as best they could. The doors
were securely barred and the living were stationed in the most
advantageous places for defense. The friendly game of the Indians had
not worked as they expected, but they were not daunted and soon they
encircled the house, riding, shooting, and yelling. This fiendish
warfare they kept up all the afternoon. They tried several times to set
the buildings on fire but shots from experienced marksmen, both men and
women, kept them at bay.
The new leader of the Indians rode a white pony and seemed at times to
work his warriors up to great desperation, and young Comstock made up
his mind to shoot him the next time that he appeared. It was now too
dark to distinguish one man from another. Mr. Comstock, senior, was
mounted on a white horse and he was enroute home about the time the
Indians were expected to return. The vigilant son raised his gun, took
aim, and was about to shoot, when one of the girls, remembering that her
father rode a white horse, called out, "Father, is it you?" An
affirmative answer came back just in time to prevent the fatal shot
which would have followed in an instant more. Mr. Comstock had ridden
through the Indian lines, while returning to his ranch, unmolested. He
said to me he believed the Indians spared his life that evening on
account of favors he had always granted them.
Five miles east of the Comstock ranch that day a boy eighteen years old
by the name of Ulig was met by two Indians. One of them shook hands with
him while the other pierced his body with a spear and then scalped him
and left him writhing in the broiling sun to die on the prairie. This
savage and brutal act was followed by others unparalleled even in savage
warfare. Four miles above Oak Grove at a place called the Narrows on the
Little Blue river, lived a family of ten persons by the name of Eubanks.
They were from the East and knew nothing of Indians' cruel warfare and
when they were attacked they left their cabin and ran for the trees and
brush along the river banks. Nine of them were murdered in the most
brutal manner: scalped and stripped of their clothing. Two of the women,
Mrs. Eubanks, with a young babe in her arms, and Laura Roper, a school
teacher who was there on a visit, were the only ones who arrived at a
place of concealment and would have escaped had not the babe from heat
and fright cried out. The practiced ear of the Indians caught the sound
and they were made captives and subjected to the most inhuman and
beastly treatment by the horrible savages. After the mother was made a
captive the baby cried from hunger. The mother was so famished she could
not nourish the babe but held it fondly in her arms trying to soothe it;
and one of the merciless savages stepped up and brained it with his
tomahawk. No pen or brush can tell the horrors of this diabolical deed.
The two women were subjected to six months of bondage impossible to
describe. I was telling this story one day to the late Captain Henry E.
Palmer of Omaha, and learned from him that he and his command of
soldiers and Pawnee scouts followed these inhuman wretches over the
plains trying to bring them to bay, and finally down on the Solomon
river in Kansas captured some of the Indian chiefs and succeeded in
exchanging them for the two women captives.
This is one of the terrible chapters in the early settlement of Nuckolls
county and was graphically detailed to me by Mr. Comstock soon after I
settled in the county.
MY LAST BUFFALO HUNT
BY J. STERLING MORTON
(Read before the Nebraska State Historical Society, January 10, 1899)
Among all the glowing and glorious autumns of the forty-odd which I have
enjoyed in clear-skied Nebraska, the most delicious, dreamy, and
tranquil was that of 1861. The first day of October in that year
surpassed in purity of air, clouds, and coloring all the other October
days in my whole life. The prairies were not a somber brown, but a
gorgeous old-gold; and there drifted in the dry, crisp atmosphere
lace-like fragments of opalescent clouds which later in the afternoon
gave the horizon the look of a far-away ocean upon which one could see
fairy ships, and upon its farther-away shores splendid castles, their
minarets and towers tipped with gold. The indolence of savagery
saturated every inhalation, and all physical exertion except in the hunt
or chase seemed repellent, irksome, and unendurable.
Then it was that--like an evolution from environment--the desire and
impulse to go upon a buffalo hunt seized upon and held and encompassed
and dominated every fibre of my physical, every ambition and aspiration
of my mental, make-up. Controlled by this spontaneous reincarnation of
the barbaric tastes and habits of some nomadic ancestor of a prehistoric
generation, arrangements for an excursion to Fort Kearny on the Platte
(Colonel Alexander, of the regular army, then in command) were
completed. With food rations, tent and camping furniture, and arms and
ammunition, and pipes and tobacco, and a few drops of distilled rye (to
be used only when snake-bitten), a light one-horse wagon drawn by a
well-bred horse which was driven by the writer, was early the next
morning leaving Arbor Lodge, and briskly speeding westward on the
"Overland Trail" leading to California. And what rare roads there were
in those buoyant days of the pioneers! All the prairies, clear across
the plains from the Missouri river to the mountains, were perfectly
paved with solid, tough, but elastic sod. And no asphalt or block-paved
avenue or well-worked pike can give the responsive pressure to the touch
of a human foot or a horse-hoof that came always from those smooth and
comely trails. Especially in riding on horseback were the felicities of
those primitive prairie roads emphasized and accentuated. Upon them one
felt the magnetism and life of his horse; they animated and electrified
him with the vigor and spirit of the animal until in elation, the rider
became, at least emotionally, a centaur--a semi-horse human. The
invigoration and exaltation of careering over undulating prairies on a
beautiful, speedy, and spirited horse thrilled every sense and
satisfied, as to exhilaration, by physical exercise, the entire mental
personality. Nature's roads in Nebraska are unequaled by any of their
successors.
This excursion was in a wagon without springs; and after driving alone,
as far as the Weeping Water crossing, I overtook an ox train loaded with
goods and supplies for Gilman's ranch on the Platte away beyond Fort
Kearny.
One of the proprietors, Mr. Jed Gilman, was in command of the outfit,
and by his cordial and hospitable invitation I became his willing and
voracious guest for the noonday meal. With a township for a dining room
over which arched the turquoise-colored sky, like a vaulted ceiling,
frescoed with clouds of fleecy white, we sat down upon our buffalo robes
to partake of a hearty meal. There was no white settler within miles of
our camp. The cry of "Dinner is now ready in the next car" had never
been heard west of the Mississippi river nor even dreamed of in the
East. The bill of fare was substantial: bacon fried, hot bread, strong
coffee, stronger raw onions, and roasted potatoes. And the appetite
which made all exquisitely palatable and delicious descended to us out
of the pure air and the exhilaration of perfect health. And then came
the post-prandial pipe--how fragrant and solacing its fumes--from
Virginia natural leaf, compared to which the exhalations from a perfecto
cigar are today a disagreeable stench. There was then the leisure to
smoke, the liberty and impulse to sing, to whoop, and to generally
simulate the savages into whose hunting grounds we were making an
excursion. Life lengthened out before us like the Overland route to the
Pacific in undulations of continuously rising hillocks and from the
summit of each one scaled we saw a similarly attractive one beyond in a
seemingly never-ending pathway of pleasure, ambition, and satisfaction.
The gold of the Pacific coast was not more real then than the invisible
possibilities of life, prosperity, success, and contentment which were
to teem, thrive, and abound upon these prairies which seemed only farms
asleep or like thoughts unuttered--books unopened.
But the smoke over, the oxen again yoked to the wagons and the train,
like a file of huge white beetles, lumbered along to the songs,
swearing, and whip-crackings of the drivers toward the crossing of Salt
creek. However, by my persuasive insistence, Mr. Gilman left his wagon
boss in charge and getting into my wagon accompanied me. Together we
traveled briskly until quite late at night when we made camp at a point
near where the town of Wahoo now stands. There was a rough ranch cabin
there, and we remained until the following morning, when we struck out
at a brisk trot toward Fort Kearny, entering the Platte Valley at
McCabe's ranch. The day and the road were perfect. We made good time. At
night we were entertained at Warfield's, on the Platte. The water in the
well there was too highly flavored to be refreshing. Nine skunks had
been lifted out of it the day of our arrival and only Platte river water
could be had, which we found rather stale for having been hauled some
distance in an old sorghum cask. But fatigue and a square meal are an
innocent opiate and we were soon fast asleep under the open sky with the
moon and stars only to hear how loudly a big ranchman can snore in a
bedroom of a million or more acres. In the morning of our third day out,
we were up, breakfasted with the sunrise, and drove on over the then
untried railroad bed of the Platte Valley at a rattling gait. The stanch
and speedy animal over which the reins were drawn, a splendid bay of
gentle birth, had courage and endurance by heredity, and thus we made
time. Ranches were from twenty to thirty miles apart. And the night of
the third day found us at Mabin's.
This was a hotel, feed barn, dry goods establishment, and saloon all
under one roof, about thirty miles from Fort Kearny. After a reasonably
edible supper, Mr. Gilman and I were escorted to the saloon and informed
that we could repose and possibly sleep in the aisle which divided it
from the granary which was filled with oats. Our blankets and buffalo
robes were soon spread out in this narrow pathway. On our right were
about two hundred bushels of oats in bulk, and on our left the counter
which stood before variously shaped bottles containing alleged gin,
supposed whiskey, and probable brandy. We had not been long in a
recumbent position before--instead of sleep gently creeping over us--we
experienced that we were race courses and grazing grounds for
innumerable myriads of sand fleas. Immediately Gilman insisted that we
should change our apartment and go out on the prairies near a haystack;
but I stubbornly insisted that, as the fleas had not bitten me, I would
continue indoors. Thereupon Gilman incontinently left, and then the
fleas with vicious vigor and voracity assaulted me. The bites were
sharp, they were incisive and decisive. They came in volleys. Then in
wrath I too arose from that lowly but lively couch between the oats and
the bar and sullenly went out under the starlit sky to find Mr. Gilman
energetically whipping his shirt over a wagon wheel to disinfest it from
fleas. But the sand fleas of the Platte are not easily discharged or
diverted, from a fair and juicy victim. They have a wonderful tenacity
of purpose. They trotted and hopped and skipped along behind us to the
haystack. They affectionately and fervidly abided with us on the
prairie; and it is safe to say that there never were two human beings
more thoroughly perforated, more persistently punctured with flea bites
than were the two guests at Mabins's ranch during all that long and
agonizing night. However, there came an end to the darkness and the
attempt at sleep, and after an early breakfast we resumed the Fort
Kearny journey to arrive at its end in the late afternoon of the fourth
day.
There I found Colonel Alexander, of the regular army, in command. John
Heth, of Virginia, was the sutler for the post and after some
consultation and advisement it was determined that we might without much
danger from Indians go south to the Republican river for a buffalo hunt.
At that time the Cheyennes, who were a bloodthirsty tribe, were in arms
against the white people and yearning for their scalps wherever found.
But to avoid or mitigate dangers Colonel Alexander considerately
detailed Lieutenant Bush with twelve enlisted men, all soldiers of
experience in the Indian country, to go with us to the Republican Valley
as an escort or guard--in military parlance, on detached service. Thus
our party moved southward with ample force of arms for its defense.
The four hunters of the expedition were Lieutenant Bush, John Heth, John
Talbot (who had been honorably discharged from the regular army after
some years of service) and myself. The excursion was massed and ready
for departure at 8 o'clock on the bright morning of October 6, 1861. The
course taken was nearly due south from the present site of Kearney city
in Buffalo county. The expedition consisted of two large army wagons,
four mules attached to each wagon, a light, two-horse spring wagon, and
four trained riding horses experienced in the chase, together with
twelve soldiers of the regular U. S. army and the gentlemen already
named. It had not traveled more than twenty-five miles south of Fort
Kearny before it came in view of an immense and seemingly uncountable
herd of buffalo.