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A GOLD HUNTER'S EXPERIENCE
BY CHALKLEY J. HAMBLETON
CHICAGO
PRINTED FOR PRIVATE CIRCULATION
1898
I have often been asked to write an account of my
Pike's Peak Expedition in search of gold. The following
attempt has been made up partly from memory and partly
from old letters written at the time to my sister in
the east.
C. J. H.
A Gold Hunter's Experience
Early in the summer of 1860 I had a bad attack of gold fever. In Chicago
the conditions for such a malady were all favorable. Since the panic of
1857 there had been three years of general depression, money was scarce,
there was little activity in business, the outlook was discouraging, and
I, like hundreds of others, felt blue.
Gold had been discovered in the fall of 1858 in the vicinity of Pike's
Peak, by a party of Georgian prospectors, and for several years
afterward the whole gold region for seventy miles to the north was
called "Pike's Peak." Others in the East heard of the gold discoveries
and went West the next spring; so that during the summer of 1859 a
great deal of prospecting was done in the mountains as far north as
Denver and Boulder Creek.
Those who returned in the autumn of that year, having perhaps claims and
mines to sell, told large stories of their rich finds, which grew larger
as they were repeated, amplified and circulated by those who dealt in
mining outfits and mills. Then these accounts were fed out to the public
daily in an appetizing way by the newspapers. The result was that by the
next spring the epidemic became as prevalent in Chicago as cholera was a
few years later.
Four of the fever stricken ones, Enos Ayres, T. R. Stubbs, John Sollitt
and myself, formed a partnership, raised about $9,000 and went to work
to purchase the necessary outfit for gold mining. Mr. Ayres furnished a
larger share of the capital than any of the others and was not to go
with the expedition, but might join us the following year. Mr. Stubbs
and I were both to go, while Mr. Sollitt was to be represented by a
substitute, a relative whose name was also John Sollitt, and who had
been a farmer and butcher and was supposed to know all about oxen. Mr.
Stubbs was a good mechanic, an intelligent, well-read man, and ten years
before had been to California in search of gold.
Our outfit consisted of a 12-stamp quartz mill with engine and boiler,
and all the equipments understood to be necessary for extracting gold
from the rock, including mining tools, powder, quicksilver, copper plate
and chemicals; also a supply of provisions for a year. The staple
articles of the latter were flour, beans, salt pork, coffee and sugar.
Then we had rice, cornmeal, dried fruit, tea, bacon and a barrel of
syrup; besides a good supply of hardtack, crackers and cheese for use
while crossing the plains, when a fire for cooking might not be found
practicable. These things were all purchased in Chicago, together with
the fourteen wagons necessary to carry them across the plains. Then all
were shipped by rail to St. Joseph, Mo., where the oxen were to be
purchased. The entire outfit when loaded on the cars, weighed
twenty-four tons.
I stayed in Chicago till the last to help purchase and forward the
outfit and supplies, while Stubbs and Sollitt (the substitute) went to
St. Joe to receive and load them on the wagons and to purchase the oxen.
On the 1st day of August, all was ready, and we ferried our loaded
wagons and teams across the Missouri River into Kansas to make a final
start next morning into regions to us unknown. Stubbs started the same
day by stage for the mountains, to prospect and look out for a
favorable location and then to meet the train when it arrived at Denver.
Sollitt was to be trainmaster, which involved the oversight and
direction of the teams and drivers, and the duty of frequently going
ahead to pick out the best road and select a favorable place to camp at
night, where water and grass could be had. I was the general business
man of the expedition, had full power of attorney from Mr. Ayres to
represent and manage his interest, and hence I had the control and
responsibility in my hands and practically decided all important
questions relating to the business.
The fourteen ox-drivers were all volunteers, who drove without
pay--except their board--for the sake of getting to the gold regions to
make their fortunes there. Most of them were from Chicago--three married
men who left families behind, and one a young dentist. Another was the
son of a prominent public woman who was a rigid Presbyterian, and when I
left Chicago his father gave me a satchel full of religious books to
give to him in St. Joe to read on the plains. He deliberately pitched
them into a loft, where they were left. Another was a young Illinois
farmer, named Tobias, a splendid fellow. Among those we secured in St.
Joe were one German and two Missourians.
The principal article in the outfit of each individual, aside from his
ornaments in the shape of knives and pistols, was a pair of heavy
blankets. One of the Missourians first appeared without any, but next
morning he had a quilted calico bed cover, stuffed with cotton, borrowed
probably from a friendly clothesline, and which, at the end of the
journey, presented a very dilapidated appearance.
Early in the morning of August 2d all were busy yoking oxen and
hitching them to the wagons, but as most of the drivers were green at
the business and did not know "haw" from "gee," and a number of the oxen
were young and not well broken, it was several hours before our train
was in motion and finally headed for "Pike's Peak." The train consisted
of fourteen wagons, a driver for each, forty yoke of oxen, one yoke of
cows and one pony with a Mexican saddle and a rawhide lariat thirty feet
long, with an iron pin at the end to stick in the ground to secure the
animal.
For the first two or three miles, while crossing the level valley, all
went well, but when we reached the bluffs and ravines that bounded the
river valley on the west, the green oxen began to balk and back and
refused to pull their loads up the hills, and the new drivers were
nonplused and helpless. The better teams went ahead and were soon out
of sight, while the poorer ones had to double up, taking one wagon up a
hill and then going back for another, and consequently made slow
progress. Instead of riding or walking along like a "boss" at ease, I
soon found myself fully occupied in whipping up the poorly broken oxen
on the off side, while the green drivers whipped and yelled at those on
their side of the team. It was surprising how soon the nice city boys
picked up the strong language in use by teamsters on the Western plains.
The teams got separated, and the train stretched out two or three miles
long. Then Sollitt rode ahead, picked out a camping place, and directed
the drivers to halt and unyoke as they reached it; but when it became
dark three or four teams were still from a quarter of a mile to a mile
behind, and in trouble, so they unhitched the oxen and let them run in
their yokes for the night. Our lunch and our supper that day consisted
of crackers and cheese, as we had no time to cook.
About dark a shower came up, and it drizzled a good part of the
night--the last rain we met with for many weeks. We rolled ourselves up
in our blankets on the ground, under the wagons or in a small tent we
had, for sleep. At daylight next morning we all started in different
directions through the wet bushes that filled the ravines to find the
scattered oxen, and before noon they were all collected at camp. We had
hot coffee and some cooked things for breakfast. But several accidents
had occurred. The cows had fallen into a gully with their yoke on and
broken their necks, one load of heavy machinery had run down hill and
upset, one axle, two wagon tongues, one yoke and some chains were
broken. Sollitt, with two or three of the drivers who were mechanics,
went to work to repair damages. As we seemed short of oxen, I rode back
to St. Joe and bought two yoke more, spending the last of our money
except about fifty dollars.
By next morning we were ready for a new start. Experience had already
taught us something, and we adopted more system and some rules. All the
teams were to keep near together, so as not to leave the weaker ones
behind in the lurch. Our cattle were to be strictly watched all night by
two men on guard at a time--not together, but on opposite sides of the
herd. Two would watch half the night and then be relieved by two others
who stood guard till morning. We all took our turns except the cook, who
was relieved from that duty and from yoking and hitching up his own
team, as cooking for sixteen men while in camp was no sinecure. The man
chosen for cook was one of the drivers from Chicago named Taylor, who
had cooked for campers and for parties at work in the woods. He was
really a good plain cook. His utensils consisted of some large boiling
pots and kettles, a tin bake oven, two or three frying pans, a
two-gallon coffeepot and a few other usual articles.
Each person had a tin plate, a pint tin cup with a handle, and an iron
knife, fork and spoon. The food was placed in the dishes and cups on the
ground, and while eating we stood up, sat on the ground or reclined in
the fashion of the ancient Romans, according to our individual tastes.
The article of first importance at a meal was strong coffee and plenty
of it. Next came boiled beans with pork, whenever there was time to cook
them; and that could generally be done during the night. Then we had
some kind of bread, cake or crackers, and sometimes stewed dried fruit.
About the third day out our open air prairie appetites came, and it
seemed as if we could eat and digest anything. I had been a little out
of health for some time, was somewhat dyspeptic, and had not tasted pork
for years. Soon I could devour it in a manner that would have shocked my
vegetarian friends; and for the next two years I was conscious of a
stomach only when hungry.
The third day the teams went a little better, but we had to double up
sometimes to pull the wagons up the hills and out of the deep gullies we
had frequently to cross, so we only made seven or eight miles. In a few
days we got out on the level prairie and went along faster. But every
morning for a week, one or more of our cattle would be lost from the
herd. They would sneak away during the night and hide in the bushes and
ravines, or start back toward home. As I had no special duties in camp,
or in yoking up in the morning, hunting them fell to my lot. If not
found in the first search before starting time, I would ride back on the
pony for miles, scour the country and hunt through the gullies and
bushes for hours till the lost animal was found; then drive him along
until the train was overtaken. That could easily be followed by the
tracks of the wheels on the prairie. Hiawatha, Kansas, and a few
scattered cabins some miles to the west of it were about the last signs
of settlement and civilization that we saw.
That season was a very dry one in Kansas and on the Western plains. The
prairies were parched and looked like a desert, except a fringe of green
along the water courses. The heat was intense and the distant hills and
everything visible seemed quivering from its effects. The dry ground and
sand reflected the sun's rays into our faces, till a few with weak eyes
were seriously affected. The iron about the wagons, and the chains were
blistering to the touch. The southwest wind was like a blast from a
heated furnace. It was worse than stillness, and I frequently took
shelter behind a wagon to escape its effects.
This heat was very trying and debilitating to the oxen. They would pant,
loll their tongues out of their mouths, refuse to pull, and lie down in
their yokes. Sometimes we were compelled to keep quiet all day, and
drive in the early evening and morning, and during the night when we
could find the way. The most important thing was to find water near
which to camp. Wolves began to surround our camp and the herd of oxen at
night, and break the silence by their piercing howls. After we had gone
to sleep, they would sneak into camp to pick up scraps left from supper,
then come within a few feet of some one rolled up in his blanket and
startle him with a howl. But with all their noise these prairie wolves
were great cowards, and would run from any movement of a man.
Soon after starting out one evening for a night drive, after a very hot
day, one of the weak oxen lay down and refused to go. That the train
might not be delayed, they tied his mate to a wagon, and I concluded to
stay behind with him till morning to see if he would recover. Soon after
dark the wolves seeming to divine his condition and the good meal in
store for them, collected around us a short distance off, and seated on
their haunches, with howls of impatience waited for the feast. They were
plainly visible by their glaring, fire-like eyes. I varied the monotony
of the long night by walking around, sitting down, lying upon the
ground, and occasionally falling asleep beside the sick ox. Then the
wolves emboldened by the stillness, would sneak up close to us and break
out in piercing howls, but they would instantly vanish when I got up
and threw something at them.
Daylight came at last; the ox had grown worse instead of better, and I
left him to his fate and the wolves, and followed the wagon tracks till
I overtook the train in camp, early in the day, with an appetite for a
quart of strong coffee and something to eat.
In this hot weather the oxen with their heavy loads did not make more
than a mile an hour when on the march, so with the numerous delays it
was nearly two weeks before we reached Marysville on the Big Blue River.
This was a small settlement on the verge of civilization, with a few
ranches, saloons and stores, situated on that branch of the old Oregon
trail which started northward from Westport, Mo., and passed near Fort
Leavenworth, Kan. The inhabitants had the reputation of being mostly
outlaws, blacklegs and stock thieves. Their reputation inspired us with
such respect for them that we kept extra watch over our cattle and
possessions while in the vicinity.
About a week after starting, one of the drivers got homesick,
discouraged and disgusted with the trip, left us and started back home
on foot. This compelled Sollitt and me to drive his team. One of our
wagons not being made of properly seasoned wood, became shaky from the
effects of the heat and dry air of the plains. At Marysville I traded it
off to a ranchman for a yoke of oxen and had the load distributed on the
other wagons so that again we had as many drivers as teams. I also
traded some of our younger, weaker oxen for old ones that served our
purpose better, though they were of less market value.
We learned that between this place and the Little Blue, there was no
water to be found to enable us to camp for a night, so we were
compelled to make the trip--some twenty miles--at a single drive. As the
weather was hot we started late in the afternoon, drove all night, and
arrived early next day, at that small river, where we found water and
grass. Sollitt rode ahead much of the time to pick out the road.
Our course for several days was now along the Little Blue in a northwest
direction, toward Fort Kearney on the Platte. To avoid the side gullies
and ravines, which were water courses in the spring, though now dried
up, we frequently circled off two or three miles on to the level
prairie, but had to return near the stream when we camped, in order to
get water.
One day, off to the west, a mile or two away, we saw a single buffalo
which had probably been outlawed and driven from the herd to wander in
solitude over the plains. Our pony had crossed the plains before and
was well used to buffalo. Sollitt mounted him, and, rifle in hand, rode
for the lone beast. When approached he began to run, but the horse soon
overtook him, and he received a bullet. Then he turned savagely on the
horse and rider, and, with head down, chased them at high speed before
trying to escape. The horse overtook him a second time and he received
another bullet. Then he charged after the horse and rider again. When
the horse's turn to chase came next, the buffalo received a third shot
and soon fell dead. This was quite exciting sport for us "tenderfeet"
who had never seen a buffalo hunt.
Sollitt, who was a butcher by trade, was now in his glory. He rode back
to camp, sharpened his knives and with the help of one or two of the men
carved up the animal and brought back a supply of fresh meat. This
proved rather tough as the animal was an old bull, nevertheless the
tongue and the tenderloin were relished, after having eaten only salt
pork for three weeks.
The small stream of water in the Little Blue grew less and less as we
approached its source, and the last night that we camped near it, there
was no running water at all. The little that was to be seen stood in
stagnant pools in the bottom of the river bed. When we would approach
these pools, turtles, frogs and snakes in great variety, that had been
sunning themselves on the banks, would tumble, jump and crawl into the
water, and countless tadpoles wiggled in the mud, at the bottom, so that
the water was soon black and thick. Its taste and smell were anything
but appetizing. The oxen, though without water since morning, refused to
drink it, even after we had dipped it up in pails and allowed it to
settle. We boiled it for the coffee, but the odor and flavor of mud
still remained. The situation had become serious and our only hope was
to reach the Platte river before the oxen were famished from thirst.
Earlier in the season, before the streams dried up, this was a favorite
route of travel, but it was not so at this time of year and we saw very
few passing teams.
By daylight next morning the oxen were yoked and hitched up and we
commenced a forced march for water and salvation. The old trail seemed
still to follow the course of the dried-up stream, bearing much to the
west. We concluded to leave it and steer more to the north with the hope
of striking the Platte at the nearest point. The prairie was hard and
level, the day not excessively hot, and everything was favorable for a
long drive. The rule for keeping together was ignored and each team was
to be urged to its best speed, in the hope that the strong and the swift
would reach the goal though the weak and the weary might fall by the
way.
Before noon the teams were much separated. They halted for a nooning;
the oxen browsed a little on sage brush and dried grass; the men lunched
on crackers, cold coffee and the remnants of breakfast, but our water
keg was empty. By the time the last team was at the nooning place, the
head ones were ready to start on.
Sollitt rode ahead to explore and pick out the road, carrying his rifle
on the saddle, as we were liable at any time to meet bands of
treacherous, pillaging Pawnees, whose haunts were on the lower Platte. I
formed the rear guard with the hindmost wagon, so that it would not be
deserted and alone in case of accident. Each team was always in sight of
the next one ahead of it, though the train was stretched out some three
miles long. Late in the afternoon Sollitt rode back with the cheering
news that he had seen the Stars and Stripes waving over Fort Kearney to
the west and that he had picked out a camping ground near the river a
few miles below. Soon after dark the last team was in camp and the men
and beasts were luxuriating in the clear running water of the Platte.
The next forenoon we drove on to the fort and camped a mile or two west
of it for a day's rest. This was on the 20th of August, so we had been
out twenty days on the road from St. Joe. At the fort was a postoffice
and here we received letters from our friends in the East, and spent a
good part of the day in writing, in response to them. Letters were
brought here by the coaches of the overland express which carried the
United States mail to California.
The fort consisted of a few buildings surrounded by a high adobe wall
for protection; and adjoining was a strong stockade for horses and
oxen. There were a few United States troops here. Just outside the fort
grounds were some ranches, stores, saloons and trading posts. The two
Missourians proceeded forthwith to get dead drunk and it took them till
next day to sober up. By way of apology they said the whisky tasted "so
good" after being so long without it. We had no whisky on our train. It
was one of the very few that crossed the plains in those days without
that, so considered, essential article in frontier life.
Personally, through the entire period of my "Pike's Peak" experience, I
adhered strictly to my custom of not tasting spirituous or malt liquors,
nor using tobacco in any form.
We were now on the main central route of travel from the States to the
mountains, Salt Lake, California and Oregon. We saw teams and trains
daily going in both directions, and Kearney was a favorite place for
them to stop over a day and rest. Our course now lay along the south
side of the Platte, clear to Denver; and with the prospect of level
roads and plenty of grass and water, we looked forward hopefully to a
pleasant trip the rest of the way. The valley of the Platte is a sandy
plain, nearly level, extending westward for hundreds of miles from
Kearney, bounded on the north and the south by low bluffs, some four or
five miles apart. Back of these lie the more elevated, dry plains
extending to great distances.
Winding through this valley is the Platte river, a half a mile or more
wide, with water from an inch to two feet deep, running over a sandy
bottom and filled with numberless islands of shifting sand. The banks
were lined with willows and cottonwood bushes and bordered in many
places by green, grassy meadows, but trees were a rarity and for some
two hundred miles we did not see one larger than a good sized bush.
The day we camped near Kearney we began to see buffalo in small groups
off a few miles to the south and west. When I awoke next morning, soon
after daylight, I saw a lone one quietly eating grass about half a mile
from camp. I got out a rifle and went toward him, stooping or going on
my hands and knees through the wet grass, till within good rifle shot. I
then stood up, took deliberate aim just behind the shoulder, and fired.
He gave a quick jump, looked around and started toward me on the run
with head down, in usual fashion, for a charge. My thought was that I
had hit, but not hurt him. I dropped into the grass and made my way on
hands and knees as fast as possible toward camp, a little agitated.
Losing sight of me the animal soon stopped, stood still a few minutes
and then suddenly dropped to the ground. He had been shot through the
heart.
This was my first and last buffalo, as sneaking up to them and shooting
them down did not seem much more like sport than shooting down oxen. I
was neither a sufficiently expert rider nor hunter to chase and shoot
them on horseback. The one I shot was carved by Sollitt and one of the
men, and furnished us fresh meat for breakfast and several meals
thereafter.
During the day we passed a ranch, occupied by a man and his son, twelve
or fourteen years old. The boy had eight or ten buffalo calves in a pen,
which he said he had caught himself and intended to sell to parties
returning to their homes in the East. He had a well-trained little pony,
which he would mount, with a rope in hand that had a noose at the end,
and ride directly into the midst of a small drove of buffalo, and while
they scattered and ran would slip his rope about the neck of a calf and
lead it back to the ranch. The calf would side up to the pony and follow
it along as if under the delusion that it was following its mother. The
man traded in cattle by picking up estrays and buying, for a song, those
that were footsore and sick, keeping them till in condition and then
selling them to passing trains that were in need.
We now began to see buffalo quite plentifully off to the southwest, in
small groups, and in droves of twenty or more. Sometimes hunters on
horseback, who had camped near Kearney, were indulging in the excitement
of the hunt, chasing and shooting, and in turn being chased by the
enraged animals. That evening we camped on the verge of the great herd
that extended some sixty or seventy miles to the westward, and blackened
the bluffs to the south, and the great plains beyond as far as the eye
could reach. This great herd was not a solid, continuous mass, but was
divided up into innumerable smaller herds or droves consisting of from
fifty to two hundred animals each. These kept together when grazing,
marching or running, the bulls on the outside and the cows and calves in
the center. Sometimes these small herds were separated from each other
by a considerable space.
This great herd had probably started northward from the Arkansas in the
spring and had now reached the Platte, where they lingered for water and
the better grass that was found along the river. Following in the wake
and prowling on the outskirts of this slowly moving host, were thousands
of wolves, collected from the distant plains, to feast upon the young
and the weakly, and the carcasses of those that were killed by accident
or the hunter's gun.
The turn for watching the cattle the first half of that night fell to
the lot of two of the boys from Chicago. The cattle were grazing in a
good meadow off toward the river, half a mile from camp. At dusk the
boys went off to take charge of them. After dark the wolves began to
howl in all directions and sometimes it sounded as if a hundred hungry
ones were fighting over a single carcass. Then the buffalo bulls chimed
in with the music and bellowed, apparently by thousands, at the same
time. Pandemonium seemed to reign. The two boys got nervous, then
frightened and finally panic-stricken, and long before midnight came
rushing into camp declaring that they were surrounded by droves of
hungry wolves and furious buffalo. The cattle were also disturbed and
inclined to scatter and wander off.
Next morning early, all of us, except the cook, started off to hunt them
up. Some went up stream, some down, and some back along the road we had
come. Tobias and myself waded the river to the north side to hunt them
there, but we found neither cattle nor cattle tracks. We did find a huge
rattlesnake, which we killed. The river was about three-quarters of a
mile wide, and in no place over two feet deep. Wading it was easy enough
if one kept moving, but if he stood still he would gradually sink into
the quicksand till it was difficult to extricate his feet.
By noon, after this thorough search, we had collected all of our oxen
but two, which could not be found. Sollitt was very suspicious of cattle
thieves, and, whenever an ox was lost, his first opinion was that it had
been stolen. Mine was that it had strayed off and hidden in some ravine
or clump of bushes. He decided that these two lost ones had been taken
by some ranchman or passing train. I believed they had gone off with
the buffalo and that when they wanted drink badly they would come back
to the river. I therefore concluded to let the train go on, while I,
with the pony and some food, would stay behind and patrol the river for
a day or two. I rode back eastward along the river's edge, searching in
the bushes, and at night came to a ranch, near which I picketed the pony
and slept on the ground. Next morning, after first examining the
ranchman's cattle, I started westward again, making another thorough
search as I went along. In the afternoon I found the stragglers quietly
eating grass near the river, and then drove them along as fast as
possible till the train was overtaken.
We were now right in the midst of the great herd, through which we
journeyed for nearly five days. The anxiety they gave us was greater
than that of any of our previous troubles. To avoid having the oxen
stampeded, or run off with the buffalo at night, we wheeled our wagons
into a circle when camping at the end of a day's drive, and thus formed
a corral, into which we put as many oxen as it would hold, for the
night, and chained the rest in their yokes to the wagon wheels on the
outside. This was hard on the oxen, as they could not rest as well as
when free, nor could they graze a part of the night, as was their habit.
Whenever we looked off to the south or southwest, we would see dozens
and dozens of the small droves of one or two hundred buffalo moving
about in all directions. Some of the droves would be quietly eating
grass, some marching in a slow, stately walk, and others on the run,
going back and forth between their grazing grounds and the river. But
each separate drove kept in quite a compact body.
Sometimes they would keep off from the trail along which we traveled,
for several hours at a time and not trouble us. At other times they
would be going in such great numbers across our route, passing to and
from the river, that we had to wait hours for them to get out of our
way. Often a drove would get frightened at a passing wagon, the report
of a gun, the barking of a dog, or some imaginary enemy, and would start
on a run which soon became a furious stampede, the hindermost following
those before them, and in their blind fury crowding them forward with
such irresistible force that the leaders could not stop if they would.
If they came suddenly to a deep gully the foremost would tumble in till
it was full, and thus form a bridge of bone and flesh over which the
rest would pass. Several times these frightened droves passed so near
our wagons as to be alarming.
One drove came within a few yards of one of our wagons, and some of the
drivers peppered them with bullets from their pistols. Though these
frightened droves could not be stopped, they would shy to the right or
left if an unusual commotion was made in time in front of them. When a
drove, at some distance, seemed to be headed toward our train, we often
ran toward it, yelling, firing guns, and waving articles of clothing.
The leaders would shy off, and that would give direction to the whole
body, and thus relieve us from danger for the time being.
Every teamster, traveler and hunter that crossed the plains felt that he
must kill from one to a dozen or more buffalo. The result was that the
plain was dotted and whitened with tens of thousands of their carcasses
and skeletons. With this general slaughter and the increase of travel
induced by the discovery of the Pike's Peak gold fields, no wonder that
this was the very last year that these animals appeared in large
numbers in the Platte valley. We always estimated their numbers by the
million.[1] For some years after they appeared in large numbers in some
parts of the great plains of the West, but they rapidly declined in
number till they became extinct in their wild state.
[Footnote 1: The estimate was probably not an
exaggeration.
In a late work it is stated on the authority of railroad
statistics that in the thirteen years from 1868 to 1881
"in Kansas alone there was paid out _two millions five
hundred thousand dollars_ for their bones gathered on
the prairies to be utilized by the various carbon works
of the country, principally in St. Louis. It required
about one hundred carcases to make one ton of bones, the
price paid averaging eight dollars a ton; so the above
quoted enormous sum represented the skeletons of over
thirty-one millions of buffalo."--_The Old Santa Fe
Trail, by Col. Henry Inman p. 203._
The author further says, "In the autumn of 1868 I rode
with Generals Sheridan, Custer, Sully and others for
three consecutive days through one continuous herd,
which must have contained millions. In the spring of
1869 the train on the Kansas Pacific railroad was
detained at a point between Forts Harker and Hays from
nine o'clock in the morning until five in the afternoon
in consequence of the passage of an immense herd of
buffalo across the track."
Horace Greeley crossed the plains in 1859 in a stage
coach, and as stated in his published letters, he saw a
herd of buffalo that he estimated to contain over five
millions.]
While in their midst we not only had fresh meat at every meal, but we
cut the flesh in strips and tied it to the wagons to dry and thus
provided a small supply of "jerked" meat. In the dry, pure air of this
region, though in the heat of August, fresh meat did not spoil but
simply dried up, if cut in moderate sized pieces. This was also found to
be the case with fresh beef in the mountains. We felt relieved and
heartily glad when the last drove of buffalo was left behind.
Familiarity with them, as with the Indians, destroyed all the poetry and
romance about them. They were not a thing of beauty. An old buffalo bull
with broken horns and numerous scars from a hundred fights, with woolly
head and shaggy mane, his last year's coat half shed and half hanging
from his sides in ragged patches and strips flying in the breeze, the
whole covered over with dirt and patches of dried mud, presented a
picture that was supremely ugly.
On the journey from St. Joe to Kearney we found, along the water courses
and ravines, enough of dry wood and dead trees to supply us plentifully
with fuel for cooking and occasionally to light up the camp in the
evening. To make sure of never being entirely out of wood, a small
supply was carried along on the wagons. Along the Platte there was
practically no wood to be had. For one hundred and fifty miles we did
not see a single tree, but the buffalo supplied us with a good fuel
called "buffalo chips," which was scattered over the plains in
abundance, and which in this dry country, burned freely and made a very
hot fire. When approaching camp in the evening, the drivers would pick
up armsfull of fuel for the use of the cook and for the evening camp
fire, and place it in a pile as they came to a halt.
As soon as we reached camp and while others were taking care of the
oxen, the cook built a fire, drove two forked sticks into the ground,
one on each side of the fire, placed a cross stick on them, and then
hung his pots and kettle over the blaze. A big pot of beans with pork
was boiled or warmed over. Coffee was prepared, and dough made of flour
and baking powder was baked either in the tin oven or a Dutch oven.
Frequently some of the men were seated on the ground around the fire,
stick in hand with a piece of pork on the end of it, held near the coals
to toast. While eating and during the early evening, talking, story
telling and ironical remarks about the prolonged picnic--as the trip was
called--were indulged in.
We were now on the main route of travel between the East and the Pike's
Peak gold fields. Horse and mule teams going West, and traveling faster
than our ox train could go, passed us frequently, and gave us the latest
general news from the States. We also began to meet the vanguard of the
returning army of disappointed gold seekers. They came on foot, on
horse back and in wagons drawn by horses, mules and oxen, and many of
them were a sorry, ragged looking lot. Judging from their requests from
us, their most pressing wants were tobacco and whisky. In those days
Western towns were full of enthusiastic, sanguine, roving men who were
ever ready for any new enterprise, and they were the first to rush to
the gold regions in the spring. But lacking pluck, perseverance and the
staying qualities, they were the first to rush back when the
difficulties and discouragements of the undertaking appeared in their
way.
These returners told sad stories about life in the mountains, the
prospects and the danger from Indians on the road. They said that there
was but little gold to be found, that very few of the miners were making
expenses, that food was scarce, and that before we reached our
destination, nearly everybody there would be leaving for home. Besides,
they said, there were hundreds of Indians along the route, robbing and
murdering the whites. Such stories had a discouraging effect on some of
our drivers and I was very fearful that a few of them would leave us and
join the homeward procession.
Some of these chaps showed a humorous vein in the mottoes painted on the
sides of their wagons. On one was "Pike's Peak or bust," evidently
written on going out; under it was written, "Busted." On another was,
"Ho for Pike's Peak;" under it was, "Ho for Sweet Home."
Each exaggerated account of the Indians made by these people, brought us
nearer and nearer to them and made them seem more and more dangerous.
Finally one morning as we reached the top of a gentle swell in the
plain, a large band of them suddenly appeared in full view, camped at
the side of our road about half a mile ahead of us. From all
appearances there were five or six hundred or more of them. They
belonged to the western branch of the Sioux tribe. We stopped a few
minutes to consider the situation. We had heard and read enough about
Western Indians to know that the safest thing to do was to appear bold
and strong, while a show of weakness and timidity was often dangerous.
So we placed in our belts all our ornaments in the shape of pistols and
ugly looking knives, and those who had rifles carried them. Then we
drove boldly forward toward the camp. I rode the pony beside the driver
of the foremost wagon with my old shot gun in hand. Soon two or three of
their mounted warriors or hunters rode at full speed toward us and then
without stopping circled off on the plain and back to their camp. They
were evidently making observations.
Off to the north several hundred shaggy ponies were grazing in a green
meadow near the river, and the greater part of their men seemed to be
there with them. The camp was made up of some forty lodges, which looked
like so many cones grouped on the plain.
These lodges were formed of poles, some fifteen feet long, the larger
ends of which rested on the ground in a circle, while the smaller ends
were fastened in a bunch at the top, with a covering of dressed buffalo
skins stitched together. On one side was a low opening, which served for
a door.
As we approached we were first greeted by a lot of dirty, hungry looking
dogs, which barked at us, snarled and showed their teeth. Then there was
a flock of shy, naked, staring children who at first kept at a safe
distance, but came nearer as their timidity left them. The boys with
their little bows and arrows were shooting at targets--taking their
first lessons as future warriors of the tribe.
When we got near the edge of the camp several of the old men came
forward to greet us with extended hands, saying "how! how! how!" and we
had to have a handshake all around. Some of them knew a few words of
English. They asked for whisky, powder and tobacco. Instead, we gave
some of them a little cold "grub." They looked over all the wagons and
their contents, so far as they could, and were particularly interested
in the locomotive boiler which was placed on the running gear of a wagon
without the box, and with the help of a little rude imagination,
somewhat resembled a huge cannon. I told them it was a "big shoot," and
that seemed to inspire them with great respect for it. They looked under
it and over it and into it with much interest.
The greater part of the squaws were seated on the ground at the
openings of their lodges, busily at work. Some were dressing skins by
scraping and rubbing them, some making moccasins and leggings for their
lazy lords, some stringing beads and others preparing food. The oldest
ones, thin, haggard and bronzed, looked like witches. The young squaws,
in their teens, round and plump, their faces bedaubed with red paint
toned down with dirt, squatted on the ground and grinned with delight
when gazed at by our crew of young men. We all traded something for
moccasins and for the rest of the trip wore them instead of shoes.
Curious to see inside of the lodges, I took a cup of sugar and went into
two or three under pretence of trading it for moccasins. Their
belongings were lying around in piles, and the stench from the partly
prepared skins and food was intolerable.
One old Indian seemed to think that I was hunting a wife, for he
offered to trade me one of his young squaws for the pony. A pony was the
usual price of a wife with these Western Indians. They exhibited no
hostility whatever toward us. It might have been otherwise, had we been
a weak party of two or three possessing something that they coveted.
They asked us if we saw any buffalo. When we told them that at a
distance of two or three days' travel the plains were covered with them,
they seemed greatly interested and before we got away began to take down
some of their lodges and start off. They were out for their yearly
buffalo hunt to supply themselves with meat for the winter. In moving
they tied one end of their lodge poles in bunches to their ponies and
let the other ends spread out and drag upon the ground, and on these
dragging poles they piled their skins and other possessions. The young
children and old squaws would often climb up on these and ride.
Cactus plants in hundreds of varieties grew in great abundance on these
dry plains. They were beautiful to the eye, but a thorn in the flesh. As
we walked through them their sharp needles would run through trousers
and moccasins and penetrate legs and feet. We often ate the sickishly
sweet little pears that were seen in profusion.
Prairie dogs by the million lived and burrowed in the ground over a vast
region. The plains were dotted all over with the little mounds about two
feet high that surrounded their holes. On these mounds the little
animals would stand up and bark till one approached quite near, then
dart into the holes. In places the ground was honeycombed with their
small tunnels, endangering the legs of horses and oxen, which would
break through the crust of ground into them. I shot at many of them,
but never got a single animal, as they always dropped, either dead or
alive, into the hole and disappeared from sight.
Many small owls sat with a wise look on top of these little mounds, and
rattlesnakes, too, were often found there. When disturbed the owls and
snakes would quickly fly and crawl into the holes. It was a saying that
a prairie dog, an owl and a rattlesnake lived together in peace in the
same hole. Whether the latter two were welcome guests of the little
animal, or forced themselves upon his hospitality, in his cool retreat,
I never knew.
One day we came to a wide stretch of loose dry sand, devoid of
vegetation, over which we had to go. It looked like some ancient lake or
river bottom. The white sand reflected the sun's rays and made it
unpleasantly hot. The wheels sank into the sand and made it so hard a
pull for the oxen that we had to double up teams, taking one wagon
through and going back for another, so we only made about three miles
that day.
The unexpected was always happening to delay us. The trip was dragging
out longer than was first reckoned on, and the early enthusiasm was
dying out. Walking slowly along nine or ten hours a day grew monotonous
and tiresome. Then, after the day's work, to watch cattle one-half of
every third night was a lonely, dreary task, and became intolerably
wearisome. Standing or strolling alone, half a mile from camp, in the
darkness, often not a sound to be heard except the howling of the
wolves, and nothing visible but the sky above and the ground below, one
felt as if his only friends and companions were his knife and his
pistol.
In the early part of September violent thunderstorms came up every
evening or night, with the appearance of an approaching deluge. Very
little rain fell, however, but the lightning and thunder were the most
terrific I ever saw or heard. There being no trees or other high objects
around, we were as likely to be struck as any thing. For a few wet
nights I crawled into one of the covered wagons to sleep, where some
provisions had been taken out, and right on top of twelve kegs of
powder. I sometimes mused over the probable results, in case lightning
were to strike that wagon. We passed one grave of three men who had been
killed by a single stroke of lightning. Graves of those who had given up
the struggle of life on the way, were seen quite frequently along the
route. They were often marked by inscriptions, made by the companions of
the dead ones on pieces of board planted in the graves.
Now we came to extensive alkali plains, covered with soda, white as new
fallen snow, glittering in the sunshine. No vegetation grew and all was
desolation. An occasional shower left little pools of water here and
there, strongly impregnated with alkali, and from them the oxen would
occasionally take a drink. From that cause, or some other unknown one,
they began to die off rapidly, and within three days one-third of them
were gone. The remainder were too few to pull the heavy train. The
situation was such that it gave us great anxiety.
What was to be done? Either leave part behind and go on to Denver with
what we could take, or else keep things together by taking some of the
wagons on for a few miles and then go back for the rest. The conclusion
was to leave four loads of heavy machinery on the plains and go on with
the other wagons as fast as possible. I asked the drivers if any of them
would stay and guard those to be left. Tobias and the German volunteered
to stay.
We selected a camping spot a mile away from the usually traveled road so
as to avoid the scrutiny of other pilgrims and look like a small party
camping to rest. Then we left them provisions for two or three weeks and
went ahead. We guessed that we were then about 150 miles from Denver.
The two left behind had no mishaps, but found their stay there all alone
for two weeks very dreary and lonesome.
Tobias was for over a year one of my most valuable and agreeable
assistants. The German, when in the mountains a short time, lost his
eyes by a premature blast of powder in a mining shaft. I helped provide
funds to send him East to his friends.
A few days before this misfortune of the death of our oxen and when the
drivers were in their most discontented mood, Sollitt, ever suspicious,
came to me quite agitated with a tale of gloomy forebodings. He said he
had overheard fragments of a talk between the Missourians and some
others who were quite friendly with them, which convinced him that a
conspiracy was hatching to terminate the tiresome trip, by their
deserting us in a body, injuring or driving off the oxen, or committing
some more tragic act. He thereupon armed himself heavily with his small
weapons, and advised me to do the same.
Instead of following the advice, I became more chatty and friendly with
the men and talked of our trials and our better prospects. I discovered
in a few a bitter feeling toward Sollitt, occasioned by some rough words
or treatment they had received. Sollitt was honest and faithful and in
many things very efficient, but was devoid of tact and agreeable ways
toward those under his control, especially if he took a dislike to them.
One man urged me to assert my reserved authority and take direct charge
of the whole business of the train to the exclusion of Sollitt. I had no
longings for the disagreeable task of a train master, and simply poured
oil on the troubled waters, and went ahead.
When the oxen began to die off, Sollitt told me that he thought one of
the Missourians had poisoned them and he disemboweled a number of the
dead animals to see if the cause of death could be discovered. He found
no signs of poison and nothing that looked suspicious in the stomachs;
but he said, the spleens of all of them were in a high state of
inflammation. I did not, however, understand that the oxen got their
ailment from the Missourians.
One evening we saw the clear cut outline of the Rocky Mountains,
including Long's Peak. We differed in opinion, at first, as to whether
it was mountain or cloud and could not decide the question till next
morning, when, as it was still in view, we knew it was mountain. For
several days, though traveling directly toward the mountains, we seemed
to get no nearer, which was rather discouraging.
Small flocks of antelope, fleet and graceful, were frequently seen
gliding over the plain. They were very shy, and kept several gunshots
away. But their curiosity was great, and if a man would lie down on the
ground and wave a flag or handkerchief tied to a stick till they noticed
it, they would first gaze at it intently and then gradually approach. In
this way they were often enticed by hunters to come near enough for a
shot.