with shouts and crack of whip, into the wagon corral, where under a
dust cloud they stood grunting and jostling. Yank posted himself at one
gap of the corral Charley at the other.
“Catch up! Catch up, boys!” called Charley, the wagon boss; the cry
was repeated, and the men sprang to their yokes. Every man with his
yoke on his shoulder, a yoke pin in his hand, another in his mouth, and
an ox-bow slung on his arm, the gang poured into the corral. It was
an interesting sight, and a number of emigrants who had camped near
gathered to witness.
There was a rivalry among the men as to which should yoke up first.
Davy wondered how they found their bulls so readily; but in rapid
succession every man, working hard, had yoke and bows on a pair of his
team, and led them forth to his wagon. First the yoke was laid over
the neck of a bull, the bow was slipped under and the pins thrust in
to fasten bow to yoke; then the other bull was yoked; and this done,
dragging the chains they were led out in a hurry. This pair, Davy saw,
were the wheel team――the team next to the wagon. They supported the
wagon pole, which hung in a ring riveted to the centre of the yoke. As
soon as the wheel teams were hitched to the wagon the men hastened to
yoke and lead out the lead teams, which were the teams at the other end
of the six. Then the space was filled in by the four other teams, all
the chains were hooked, the men straightened out their six yoke, and
the train was ready to move.
It all had been done, as Davy thought, very quickly; but Joel Badger,
whom Davy liked exceedingly, thought differently.
“We make rather a botch of it at first,” said Joel, as beside his fine
team he stood, whip in hand, waiting for the word to start. “Some of
the bulls are sure to be green or ornery, and not used to their drivers
or each other. After they have pulled together for a time all the bulls
in each team will sorter flock in a bunch, in the corral, and a fellow
won’t have to hunt through the herd. You’ll see some fast work before
you get to the end of the trail.”
“Aren’t the mules as good as bulls?” queried Davy.
“No. They used to have mules and mule skinners instead of bull whackers
down on the Santa Fe Trail, and I reckon they’ve used ’em on the
Overland Trail, too. Bulls are better all ’round. They can walk as
fast as a mule if they’re pushed; they can live on grazing that a mule
can’t; and they’re not so liable to be stampeded. If Injuns run off any
cattle we can overtake ’em by mule or horse and fetch ’em back. No, for
freight hauling the bulls are the best. Those used down on the southern
trails are Texas cattle largely; small-bodied kind, with flaring big
horns. These we use in the north, on the Overland Trail, are some
Durhams, some Herefords, and so on. I reckon I’ve got about the best
team in the outfit; they’re black Galloways, with a yoke of red Devons.”
“Line out, men! Hep!” called Wagon Boss Charley.
Joel launched his whip with a tremendous crack above the backs of his
team.
“Haw, Buck! Muley! Spot! Yip! Yip!”
“Haw! Whoa――gee! Yip! Yip! Hep!” The air was full of dust and shouts
and cracking of whips; and one after another out for the trail rolled
the huge wagons, until the circle of the corral had straightened into
the day’s line.
The teamsters walked at the left side of their teams until, when the
wind began to blow the dust into their faces, they changed about to the
clear side. They sang, they joked, occasionally they cracked their long
whips, and now and then one perched sideways on the wagon-pole behind
the wheel yoke, and swinging his legs rode a short distance. But nobody
entered a wagon; the men either walked or sat on the pole for a brief
rest.
Charley, the wagon boss, kept position near the head of the column;
Yank, the assistant wagon boss, usually was found at the rear. Davy
sometimes was sent back with word from Charley; and once he was
dispatched five miles ahead to take a message to another wagon train.
He enjoyed these gallops over the prairie on official business, and he
enjoyed riding with Charley.
“I suppose you know the make-up of a team,” proffered Charley, who
seemed disposed to teach Dave as much as he could. “The first yoke next
to the wagon are the wheel yoke; sometimes we call them the pole yoke.
The other yokes are the swing yokes, until you come to the leaders, and
these are the lead yoke. In a mule team the middle or swing spans are
the pointers. Fact is, a four-span mule team is divided into wheelers,
swing team, pointers and lead team. You didn’t time us this morning,
did you?”
“No, sir,” confessed Davy.
“I hear Mr. Majors timed his outfit once, when it was in good trim;
and it was sixteen minutes from the moment the men grabbed their yokes
until the teams were hitched and the train was ready to start. That’s
pretty fair for six yoke of bulls. I don’t believe we can beat it, but
we’re going to try after a bit.”
“This noon I’ll show you how to pop a whip,” called Joel to Dave.
The men used their whips chiefly for the noise they made. They drove
with the whips; the long lash flew out over the backs of the six yoke
and seemed to crack wherever the wielder wished it to crack. Sometimes
it barely flicked the back of some ox who required a little urging, but
it never landed hard. Those bull whips were like living things, and
in the hands of Joel and his rivals were as accurate as a rifle. The
most of the men carried their whips with the lash trailing over their
shoulder ready to be jerked forward like a cowboy’s rope. Dave felt a
burning ambition to “pop” a whip. It must be quite an art.
The trail continued to be lined with emigrants, all pushing west, the
vast majority for the “Pike’s Peak diggin’s,” but a few for California
by way of the Overland Trail to Fort Laramie, and on over the South
Pass to Salt Lake and the farthest West. The road was littered with
cast-off stuff――so much of it that nobody seemed to think it worth
picking up again.
“Great times for the Indians,” quoth Charley. “But they don’t savvy
stoves and furniture yet. What they like most is the hoop iron off of
the baled hay that the Government sends out to the posts. That hoop
iron is fine for arrow points; many a poor fellow crossing the plains
is killed with Government hoop-iron.”
“Will we meet many Indians, do you think?” asked Davy.
Charley shook his head.
“We may meet a few gangs of beggars; but the trail is too thick just
now for much trouble. The Indians haven’t got roused yet and started
in on the war-path. But they will, later. I reckon if you get off the
trail a ways you’ll meet with plenty trouble, though. On the trail
there are so many outfits that they can help each other, you see. The
Indians are learning to shy off from bull outfits. We’re ready for them
any time, and it costs them too many scalps. But when these plains
begin to be settled with ranches then look out for the Indians.”
That noon the train halted on the far side of a creek. According to
Joel, trains always tried to cross a creek before camping, in case a
sudden storm might come and hold the train back by swelling the ford.
They corralled, this noon, by a new evolution. One-half the train, in
regular order, formed a half of the circle; the other half then formed
the second half of the circle. This was called corralling with the
right and left wings.
While dinner was being cooked and the bulls were herded off to water
and graze, the men lounged in the shade of their wagons. Dinner was the
same as supper and breakfast: fat salt pork or “sowbelly,” which came
to the plate in slabs six or eight inches thick; hot bread baked in
the kettle-like Dutch ovens; beans from the supply baked in the ashes
the night before; and black coffee with sugar. That was the regulation
until the buffalo and antelope country was reached. The last of the
sugar was used, too; after this camp, all the way to Denver the coffee
would be sugarless. But that was only ordinary. Nobody objected to the
menu; appetites were splendid.
“Here,” spoke Joel, after dinner, rising, to Dave. “I said I’d show you
how to pop a whip, didn’t I?”
“Joel can do it, all right,” approved Charley; and several other men
nodded, agreeing with him.
And Bull Whacker Joel could. A heavy thing was that whip; the lash, of
braided buffalo hide, was eighteen feet long and thick like a snake in
the middle. It had a cracker of buck-skin, six inches long, split at
the end; and a hickory stock eighteen inches long. Joel said it cost
eighteen dollars in Leavenworth. Flicking it forward, from where it
trailed on the ground, he landed the tip wherever he wished. With the
cracker he picked up small objects at the full extent of the lash; he
snipped the tips from the sage and cut blossoms; and how he “popped”!
“He’s a boss bull-whip slinger,” laughed Charley, approvingly. “You’ll
never see a better one to pick flies off the lead team.”
“I’ve seen others,” uttered Yank, who somehow appeared to have a grudge
against the train. “These fancy tricks will do for show, but give me
the man who can spot a bull twenty feet off an’ take a piece of hide
out with the cracker. I don’t want no fancy fly-killer in my train.
Bull whips are made for business.”
“You don’t want bull whackers; you want butchers,” retorted Joel,
contemptuously. “Here, Dave, try your luck. Give him room, boys.”
Dave tried, but the long lash on the short handle proved a queer thing
to handle. It persisted in flying crooked or falling short, and several
times he almost hanged himself or narrowly escaped losing an ear.
However, before he surrendered the whip to Joel he had got the knack of
popping it; that was something.
“Hurray!” encouraged Joel. “We’ll make a bull whacker of you before the
end of this trip. You’ll be able to pop a whip with the best of us.”
Davy scarcely expected this skill; but he was resolved to do so well
that he could show Billy Cody.
XVI
YANK RAISES TROUBLE
The bull train plodded on and on, day by day, across the rolling
prairies, whose soil, black, made blackish dust. One day was much like
another. The principal excitement was the passing of the stages. The
Leavenworth & Pike’s Peak Express Company had changed from the Smoky
Hill route to Denver, and were running on the famous Platte trail now:
by the Government road from Leavenworth to the Platte at Fort Kearney,
thence up the Platte and the South Platte――the same road that the bull
train was taking.
Regularly once a day the stage from the east and the stage from the
west passed the train, which, like everything else, drew aside at the
sign of the well-known dust ahead or behind, and with wave of whip
and shout of voice greeted the flight of the four mules and the heavy
coach. At gallop or brisk trot the stage swept by――the driver scarcely
deigning a glance at bull whackers――and disappeared in its own cloud.
For the bull train there were two halts each day: at noon and at
evening, when the wagons were corralled, usually by the right and left
wing, the oxen unyoked, and camp made for rest and meals. Then, about
one o’clock and about six in the morning, the march was resumed. The
men walked beside their wheel cattle and by stepping out a little and
“throwing” the whip to the full extent of lash, stock and arm, they
could flick the backs of their lead cattle.
However, they rarely needed to use the whip as a punishment. The
whole train maintained the pace set by Joel’s lead team and followed
that. Each team kept close behind the wagon in front of them, so that
the lead yoke’s noses almost touched the rear end. It was a close
formation, preserved by the bulls themselves without urging. The
teamsters really had little to do while on the level trail. But when
the trail was very soft, or creeks or gullies had to be crossed, then
there was work for all. Sometimes the teams were doubled, until ten
or twelve yoke of bulls were stretched as one team, hauling the heavy
wagons across in turn.
It was a great sight――the long line of panting, puffing oxen, with
nostrils wide and eyes bulging and muscles of neck and back knotted,
tugging all together, while the whips cracked and the men shouted, and
slowly the huge white-topped wagon, swaying and creaking, and weighing,
with its load, five tons or more, rolled onward out of difficulty.
At such times Davy felt like giving the sweaty bulls a cheer.
In the morning early, before the sun blazed and the dust and wind
gathered, the plains were wonderfully peaceful, and in the clear air
the flowers seemed many and the antelope and rabbits and prairie dogs
more lively. In the evening the men joked and told stories and sang
songs around their camp-fire ashes. The favorite songs appeared to be
one called “Days of Forty-nine,” another called “Betsy From Pike,” and
another called “Joe Bowers.” This was a very long song, especially when
the men made up verses to fit it. Charley said that anybody could begin
it at Leavenworth and end it at the mountains. But the song that Davy
liked the best was sung by “Sailor Bill,” one of the bull whackers.
It was “The Bay of Biscay, O!” and in a deep bass voice Bill sang it
finely, because he had been a sailor:
Loud roared the dreadful thunder,
The rain a deluge show’rs;
The clouds were rent asunder
By lightning’s vivid pow’rs.
The night both drear and dark
Our poor devoted bark,
Till next day
There she lay,
In the Bay of Biscay O!
It was a strange song to sing out here in the midst of the dry plains;
but with Bill booming and his comrades joining in the chorus it sounded
particularly good.
The trail was divided off by various names, as city blocks are divided
off by streets. Most of the men could call the route by heart. There
was Salt Creek and Grasshopper Creek and Walnut Creek and Elm Creek
and the Big Blue, and the Big and Little Sandy, and Ash Point and the
Little Blue and Thirty-two Mile Creek and Sand Hill Pond and the Platte
River and then Fort Kearney, where, 294 miles from Leavenworth, the
main Overland Trail to Denver and Salt Lake was struck.
On the Little Blue, before reaching Fort Kearney, the train had its
first accident――and a peculiar accident that was. Davy first learned of
it when, as he came riding back from an errand for Charley to another
train behind, he saw a wagon at the middle of his train pull short and
heard a shout and saw teamsters, their teams also halted, go running to
the place.
“What’s the matter? Rattlers?” This was the first thought――that the
teamster had been bitten by a rattlesnake.
“No. Somebody run over!”
The rear half of the train had stopped, of course; the fore half, after
pulling on a little way, also had stopped. Charley came galloping back,
Yank galloped forward, and so did Davy. The men ahead had gathered in
a group and were carrying something out from under the wagons. It was
Sailor Bill, poor fellow. He had been riding sitting on the pole of his
wagon behind his wheel yoke, and he must have dozed, for he had fallen
off and the wheels of his wagon had passed over him.
“My old lead bulls snorted and jumped like as if they’d stepped on a
rattler,” was explaining the teamster who had shouted and halted his
team. “I thought it _was_ a rattler, of course; but when I looked I
saw _him_! Right under my second swing team’s hoofs! But he was done
breathing before ever we got to him. I’m sartin of that. His own wagon
did for him; and mighty quick.”
“Yes,” they all nodded soberly, “poor Bill like as not never knew what
was happening to him.”
“Anybody know who his folks are or where?” demanded Charley.
Heads were shaken.
“Never heard him say. He ran away to sea when he was a kid and never
went home again, I reckon.”
“Well,” uttered Charley, “we’ll do the best we can.”
It was a solemn company which with bared heads stood about the spot
where they laid Sailor Bill. A deep hole was dug beside the trail, and
what was left of Sailor Bill, wrapped in a blanket, was lowered into
it. Charley read a chapter from the Bible, the hole was filled, and the
wagons made a little detour to drive across the spot and pack the soil
so that the coyotes would not be tempted to dig there.
“We’ll certainly miss Bill and his ‘Bay of Biscay, O!’” said the men;
and they did.
Henry Renick was appointed by Charley to Sailor Bill’s wagon and team,
and the train rolled on.
Fort Kearney was four days, or fifty miles, ahead. On the fourth day
a great dust, crossing the Leavenworth trail, made a cloud against the
horizon; and Charley, pointing, remarked to Davy: “There’s the Platte
trail. We’ll be in Kearney to-night.”
Fort Kearney was located on the south bank of the Platte River,
at the head of a large island thirty miles long, which was called
Grand Island. The military reservation extended on both sides of the
river. The fort was not nearly so pleasant or so well built as Fort
Leavenworth. The bluffs and the country around were bare and gray, and
the buildings were old frame buildings, rather tumble-down. The only
timber was on Grand Island, which made a green spot in the landscape.
Fort Kearney was a division point on the Overland Trail for Russell,
Majors & Waddell. Charley reported to the company agent here, and the
train laid up for a day to rest and restock with what provisions were
needed. The meat was running short, for buffalo had been scarce all the
way from Leavenworth.
At Fort Kearney the Leavenworth trail joined the main trail that came
in from Omaha and Nebraska City. That trail crossed the Platte just
above Fort Kearney, and there met the Leavenworth trail; and as one
they proceeded west up the south bank of the Platte.
People at Fort Kearney claimed that on some days 500 wagons passed,
headed either west or east. Joel Badger started in to count the number
of teams in sight throughout an hour, but quit tired. And truly,
the scene at old Fort Kearney was a stirring one: the long lines of
white-topped wagons slowly toiling in from the east and the southeast,
and, uniting above the fort, toiling on out, under their dust cloud, up
the river course into the west.
Charley did not delay here longer than was absolutely necessary, and
Davy, as well as others in the train, was glad to be away on the trail
again. Yank, the assistant wagon boss, and Charley, his chief, almost
had a fight, despite the pledge that they had taken, for Yank had begun
drinking in the groggeries of vicious Dobytown on the edge of the post
and was uglier than usual.
“You hear what I say,” spoke up Charley loud enough for everybody else
to hear, too. “Any more of this and you’re discharged without pay.
Those are company orders and you knew it when you signed the roll.”
“The company that discharges me without pay I’ve earned will wish it
hadn’t,” snarled Yank.
“I’ll take the responsibility,” retorted Charley, angrily. “If you
don’t obey company rules you’re discharged; see? And if I can’t enforce
those rules I’ll discharge myself.”
Yank said “Bah!” and swaggered off; but he stayed away from Dobytown.
Fort Kearney seemed to mark a dividing point of the country as well as
of the great trail. The country from Leavenworth up through Kansas
had been prairie-like, with many wooded streams and considerable green
meadows. But here at the Platte the greenness dwindled, and the trail
wound along amidst sand and clay which grew chiefly sage brush and
buffalo grass.
The Platte was a shallow, shifty stream, full of quicksands, so that
drivers must be very careful in crossing. Charley told of a time when
he saw a whole freight wagon, load and all, sink and disappear in
what looked to be hard sand under only two inches of water! The trees
in sight were for the most part on the islands in the river, for all
timber within easy reach along the trail had long ago been cut and
burned by the emigrants. Even buffalo chips were very scarce, so that
Charley took pains to camp on the sites of previous camps, where cattle
had left fuel similar to buffalo chips, although not so good.
The buffalo chips burned slowly and held the fire a long time, making
splendid coals. The men seemed to think that this was because they had
been lying out for years, maybe, and were well baked; whereas the cow
chips and the bull chips were newer.
The Platte was frequently bordered by high clay bluffs; and where the
road climbed or descended the scene at night was very pretty, with all
the camp-fires of the emigrants and other bull trains sparkling high
and low. The bluffs also were good coverts for Indians; and Charley
ordered that each mess have a man on guard all night. Fort Kearney was
considered the jumping-off place for the Indian country and the buffalo
country. Beyond, the country was, as Charley said, “wide open.”
“To-morrow we’ll cross Plum Creek,” quoth Joel to Davy on the second
day out from Kearney. “We ought to see buffalo at Plum Creek; ’most
always do.”
Plum Creek was 330 miles from Leavenworth and thirty-six out of Fort
Kearney. As they approached it, Charley and others uttered a glad cry,
for buffalo were in sight by the hundreds. They were grazing on the
hills and flats north of the river. Some emigrants already were among
them, chasing them hither and thither; so Captain Charley ordered Andy
Johnson and another teamster called “Kentuck” (because he was from
Kentucky) to take Davy’s and Yank’s mules and go with him after meat.
That was as quickly done as said. Away the three spurred through the
shallow water and on.
“We’ll have short ribs and roast hump to-night, boys,” shouted back
Charley. He and Andy and Kentuck were good hunters.
This left Yank in charge of the train. He had not been pleasant since
that scene at Kearney, when he and Charley had the row; just now he
was more irritable and mean, because he had to walk. He grumbled and
snarled, and said a number of unkind things about Charley which Dave
knew were not true.
“Wants to take the huntin’ himself, that feller does,” grumbled Yank,
“an’ leaves us other fellers to hoof it. Who ever heard of an assistant
wagon boss havin’ to walk? I didn’t hire out to walk, you bet.” And he
yelped out to Joel: “Hurry on your bulls there, you lead team man. Give
’em the gad or you’ll get stuck.”
For the head of the train had reached a sandy hollow, and Joel’s team
were tugging through it. The sand rolled in a stream from the tires and
from half way up the spokes; but the twelve bulls――the ten blacks, and
the two burly reds forming the pole yoke――were pulling together nobly.
“They don’t need it,” returned Joel, shortly. “They’re doing well. Let
’em alone.”
“You’ve held the lead so long and done as you please that you’ve got
sassy,” sneered Yank. “You need a new boss, an’ now you’ve got him,
see? I tell you to hustle those fat pets o’ yourn along an’ give
somebody else a chance in here. Do you call that pullin’? Which way you
movin’? Touch ’em up, my man; touch ’em up.”
“I’m driving this team,” answered Joel, roundly, “and I don’t need
advice from any assistant wagon master as to _how_ to drive. They pull
better without the lash.” And he sung out vigorously: “Buck! Muley!
Hep, now! Hep with you!”
The wagon moved steadily, ploughing through the sand and encouraging
the teams behind. But Joel’s reply seemed to enrage Yank――who had been
waiting for just such a chance.
“Oh, gimme that whip!” he snarled, and snatched it from Joel’s hand.
“Get out o’ there with you!” he yelled. The lash flew hissing; the
snapper landed with a distinct “thut!” on the haunch of the right lead
ox; it jerked smartly back and out-sprang at the spot where it had
struck a rim of blood on the sweaty, dusty black hide. The whip end had
cut through to the quick!
As fast as lash could travel (and that was fast indeed) the other lead
ox felt like smart and humiliation. With frenzied, panting snort and
groan the yoke quivered and strained, setting shoulders forward and
fairly jerking the swing yokes after them. It was an unnecessary strain
and Davy knew it.
“Whoa-oa-oa, boys!” soothed Joel. “Easy now!” And turning like a tiger
on Yank, who again was swinging the whip, he knocked him flat on his
back.
The team went toiling on but Joel stood, panting, over Yank, and
watched him scramble up. Yank’s hand flew to his revolver butt――and
there it stopped; for when he got that far he was looking into the big
muzzle of Joel’s own Colt’s navy.