LETTERS FROM HOME BROUGHT BY IMMIGRANTS.
We arrived at Hawlins, Wyoming, one bright sunny morning and planned to
get a square meal there and kinder clean up and take a shave. But this
was a sheep town and full of sheepmen and the odor of sheep was so
strong we just stopped long enough to fill our bottles and then
sauntered on ahead of our train, expecting to get on when it overtook
us. Well, we sauntered and sauntered, looking back from every hill, but
no train, and finally when we were tired from walking in the heat and
dust we found a shade tree, and, laying down, went to sleep. How long we
slept I don't know, but when we awoke it was night. In the darkness we
had hard work finding our way back to the railroad track, and for a
while were undecided which way to go, but finally took the wrong
direction, and after plodding along in the dark for several miles we
came on top a high hill and saw the lights of the town below us that we
left that morning. We now held a council as to who should go down to
town to get our bottles filled. Jackdo offered to go, but we had already
discovered we couldn't trust him on that kind of errand, as the bottles
would be just as empty when he got back as when he started, so finally
we sent Eatumup Jake and told him to inquire if our train was still
there or had gone sneaking by us when we were asleep. Jake returned
about midnight with the refreshments and the information that the train
was on ahead. So we started after it, exchanging ideas along the route
as to how far we would have to walk before we came to a sidetrack, as we
didn't doubt for a moment we would find the stock on the first siding it
could get in on. This was one of the pleasantest nights we had on our
whole trip, with good fresh air (we made the sheepmen and Jackdo walk
about three miles ahead of us and the wind was blowing in their
direction) and nothing to worry us. We talked of home and speculated as
to how many calves the boys at home had branded for us on their annual
roundups since we left.
Finally Chuckwagon stopped and sniffed a time or two and said he was
satisfied the sheepmen and Jackdo must have found the train. After we
walked a mile further we came to the sheepmen and Jackdo setting down at
a sidetrack, but the stock train was not there. We were much puzzled at
this, but after a great deal of argument Eatumup Jake, who had studied
Arithmetic some, proposed to measure the sidetrack. He suggested as the
only possible solution to the train not being there that probably the
track was too short for the train. The trouble now was to get some
proper thing to measure with. Finally we took Eatumup Jake's pants which
he had removed for the purpose, they being thirty-four inches inseam. By
taking the end of each leg they measured sixty-eight inches, or five
feet eight inches, to a measurement. Every time we made a measurement
Dillbery put a pebble in his pocket for feet and Chuckwagon put one in
his for inches. When we got through we made a light out of some sticks
and counted the pebbles. Dillbery had 292 and Chuckwagon 287. They both
insisted they had made no mistake, so we had to measure it all over
again. There had come up a little flurry of snow in the meantime, which
happens frequently at that altitude, and Eatumup Jake wanted them to
divide the difference between 287 and 292, but as one had inches and the
other feet, Eatumup Jake couldn't make the proper division in his head
and we had nothing to figure with. So we measured again and counted and
found they each had 287. As this would only equal forty-one stock cars,
and as there was forty-three cars of stock, five cars of California
fruit, three cars merchandise, nine tonnage cars and the way-car, we
knew our train couldn't possibly get in on this sidetrack. So Jake put
on his pants and we started on again, perfectly satisfied now that we
had solved what seemed at first a great mystery.
After walking several miles it became daylight and we discovered a man
and woman with a mule team and wagon, going the same way we were. As
they didn't seem to have much of a load and asked us to ride we
concluded to ride. However, as we couldn't all ride in the wagon at once
and as the wagon road wasn't always in sight of the track, we had Jackdo
and the two sheepmen walk along the track, and if they found the train
they were to holler and wave something to us so we would know.
Eatumup Jake had been kinder grumpy ever since he had to stand the
snowstorm without any pants on while we done the measuring, but now he
was to hear some good news which brought such overwhelming joy to him
as, indeed, it did to all of us, as our joys and sorrows were one on
this trip. It will be remembered that Eatumup Jake had married a buxom
Mormon girl about six weeks before we started with the cattle, and now
it turned out that these people, who were on their way from the Two
Wallys to Arkansas, had come by Jake's place in Utah and Jake's wife had
not only sent a letter by this couple to him, but the letter contained
the news that he was the father of twin boys. Jake's pride and joy knew
no bounds, and for a time he talked about going back and taking a look
at the twins and then catching up to us again. But we argued this would
bring bad luck, and anyway there were immigrants on the way from Oregon
to Arkansas all the time, and Jake's wife said all our folks in Utah had
agreed to send us letters every time anyone came by with a team going
east.
We now came in sight of our stock train as it was slowly climbing a
grade, but we were loath to give up our new-found friends, the
immigrants, and it wasn't till they had drove several miles ahead of the
stock train that we finally bid them a reluctant good-bye and sauntered
on back to meet the special. This is the first time I've used the word
special, but all stock trains are known as specials because they make
special time with them.
After we got on the train and had taken the prod pole, and drove the
sheepmen and Jackdo out and made them ride on top, we emptied a bottle
or so and Eatumup Jake got very hilarious and sang "The Little Black
Bull Came Running Down the Mountain," while we all joined in the chorus.
And finally when old Chuckwagon, Packsaddle Jack and Dillbery Ike had
gone to sleep on the floor of the car, Eatumup Jake got me by the button
hole and told me the story of his life in the following words. He talked
in a thick, slushy, slobbery voice, something like the mud and water
squirts through the holes in your overshoes on a sloppy day, but this
was on account of a great deal of whiskey and the fact that he had taken
a slight cold the night before standing in the snowstorm while we used
his pants to measure the sidetrack.