BY PYE POD.
We may live without poetry, music and art;
We may live without conscience, and live without heart;
We may live without friends; we may live without books;
But civilized man cannot live without cooks. --_Lucile._
It was my good fortune to obtain in Omaha a most adaptable teepee
tent, a triangular canvas bag, as it were. One man could put it up
in a minute. This waterproof tent had a canvas floor stoutly sewn
to the sides, and when the door was tied shut neither sand, water,
nor reptile could invade its sacred precincts; mosquito netting
across the two small windows kept out all kinds of insects. Three
could sleep in it comfortably, besides allowing ample room for
luggage and supplies; and the tent with its folding poles only
weighed thirty pounds. This extra baggage was added to Damfino's
pack, for she was large and strong, and by this time in good
traveling fettle.
I could now thoroughly enjoy the outdoor life of the West, with
its fresh and fragrant air; after sleeping a few nights under the
stars, only some imperative emergency could induce me to spend a
night indoors. Although my two attendants were not companions of
choice they were fairly good company, but my courier unconsciously
furnished entertainment for Coonskin and myself. He had such an
absurd dialect--he said he had learned it in an eastern factory
where Irish, Germans, and Swedes, and other nationalities were
employed--and his gullibility was a constant challenge for
practical jokes.
One day at supper, an idea of putting up a game on Barley came to
mind.
"It's a pity we haven't blue beetle sauce for our quail,
Coonskin," I said, giving my valet a sly wink, and he, suspecting
I had some joke in mind, took up the argument.
"You bet," was his response. "Seen hundreds of beetles to-day."
Barley eyed Coonskin, then me, and satisfied that we were serious,
queried, "Do yuse mean wese kin make sauce of de blue beetles what
wese see in de road?"
"Why," I said, as with astonishment, "haven't you ever heard of it
before? Man, they pay a steep price for blue beetles at
Delmonico's. Only the wealthy enjoy such a luxury."
"The dandiest stuff I ever et on broiled birds of any kind,"
seconded my valet cleverly. The repast over, my courier was
convinced of the surpassing virtues of blue-beetle sauce.
Next day the bettles came out thicker than ever. With enthusiasm,
I dismounted, and began to fill my emptied purse with the insects,
and Coonskin followed suit by filling a handkerchief, exclaiming:
"By the very old Ned! Gather 'em all; we'll have a treat for the
gods."
Up to this, Barley kept on his wheel within talking distance, but
now he leaped off and made a dive in the dust with his hat, as if
he had trapped a butterfly. "Remember, man," I called to him,
"there should be seventeen in every family; bag every one of
them."
"Here's fourteen Ise got, guess dey's one family, but can't see no
more; besides my handkerchief's full. Has yus got a sock yuse kin
lend me?" I said I had, and then he came to get the sock. His
trousers pockets were filled with the strong smelling beetles.
Suddenly, he dived for a whole entomological tribe almost under
Mac's feet; had the donkey not leaped over him, we all would have
been hurt.
We lunched in a small village where I purchased peppermint oil for
flavoring the sauce. That night, I made a concoction that would
only satisfy a Siwash appetite. We had bagged two dozen quail and
doves, so we had plenty of game, and an abundance of beetles; the
next thing in order was a heap of fun.
After frying our potatoes, gun oil, peppermint oil, pink tooth-powder,
butter milk, lemon juice, and beetles were stirred in the
frying pan, and when it began to sizzle and steam, Barley was put
in charge and cautioned to keep stirring it. I thought, when he
looked at the repelling mess and inhaled a little of those bug
aromas, he would smell the joke, but he didn't. He kept on
stirring, and smacked his lips, and finally said that it looked
done. I decided to bring the joke to an end. Going to the fence
ostensibly to tie more securely the donkeys, Coonskin loosened
Damfino's rope while I seated myself at our table, and called,
"Supper is ready." At once that grinning youth chased the freed
donkey plumb into our fire, and so surprised was my courier that
he never knew whether Damfino or Coonskin kicked over the pan, and
robbed us of the rarest delicacy on record.
I stormed about like a madman, and blamed both attendants, then
went at the hot broiled birds inwardly delighted with the success
of the joke. Barley never was the wiser. The following day,
several times, he told me we were passing lots of beetles, but he
wasn't going to spend his time catching them to be wasted.
Something followed the game supper which more fully explains my
courier's displeasure. By oversight, one of the socks of bugs was
left untied; the result was, beetles ran the tent all night.
Barley claimed he found a beetle in his windpipe. Coonskin spent
the night lighting matches and hunting the pests. I myself
smothered a score of more in my pillow. That experience closed my
calendar for practical jokes.
On to Lincoln was now the watchword. While still five or six miles
from the city, a donkey and cart hove in sight, both gayly
decorated with flags and bunting. The driver said he had been sent
from Lincoln by a prominent citizen to escort me and my party into
the city.
Barley had been busy stirring up the populace, so when I rode
majestically up to the leading hotel on Mac A'Rony, I found a
crowd of representative citizens there to give me a befitting
greeting. As soon as my donkeys were anchored, a tall, fat, jovial
member of the medical profession, advancing with outstretched
hand, welcomed me to the city.
"Mr. Pod," said he, smiling all over, "I'm Dr. E---- and am at
your service. I shall take pleasure in doing what I can to make
your sojourn a pleasant memory."
The first thing the Doctor did was to take me to the Executive
Mansion. We found the Governor absent, but easily traced him to a
local sanitarium, where my escort found him on a couch, wrapped in
swaddling clothes, apparently secure from all intruders but the
genial Doctor himself. He had just finished a Turkish bath, but he
sent the Doctor for me at once.
"We meet under difficulties," was his Excellency's smiling
greeting. "I'm trying to knock out an attack of rheumatism."
"True enough," I acknowledged, extending my hand, "both of us are
flat on our backs."
Gov. Holcomb then wrote some hieroglyphics in my autograph album,
and expressed the hope that I would not find it as hot on the
desert as I did in that room.
Our next stop was at a soda fountain. Then we visited a leading
clothier--where I procured a contract to direct, with Mac's
assistance, the public's attention to alluring bargains in its
show-windows. For this I received a five dollar note.
My first evening in town was pleasantly spent in the company of
Mrs. Bryan, who, on learning that I was in town, invited me to
call.
I remained in the last evening to rest, while Coonskin and Barley
took a trip to Burlington Beach, a famous local watering place.
"Wese taught, yuse see," said my little courier, in the morning,
"dat it was something like Coney Island; so it's bein' only ten
cents round trip dare, wese takes de trolley an' goes down.
"Well, yuse oughter seen de place. Before wese gets dare it begins
to smell--why, Coney Island ain't in it fer smells. Den wese gets
off de cars and shuffles our feet across a long wooden bridge over
on to a island, where dare was a dance hall and lots of girls of
all kinds and canal boats, and dongolas, and drinks, and
beers--talk of beers!--say, wese had a tank dat high fer a nickel. Yuse
see, de beach is on a island in a counterfeit lake, made of salt
wells and sand, but day ain't no oysters, ner clams, ner crabs,
day's nothin' but bad smells--but say, yuse oughter seen de
lobsters crawlin' round wid dere sweethearts on dere arms! Say,
dem peoples t'ought dey was havin' a big time. Gee, I wished day
could see once Coney Island!"
We had not journeyed far beyond Lincoln Park before we approached
the State Asylum for the Acute Insane. From the beginning of my
pilgrimage, I had kept a sharp lookout for Insane Asylums, always
passing them after dark, but Mac argued that the public had by
this time found me harmless, and advised me to call. So I did.
"A patient has arrived," some one called to an attendant. I was
startled, but soon recovered my equilibrium, when I observed
several doctors and nurses rush out of doors to a carriage at the
porch. The lunatic having been safely deposited in one of the
wards, the Superintendent then welcomed me, and persuaded me to
accept his invitation to visit and inspect the institution.
There was only one department that interested me. I had no sooner
entered the kitchen than my omnivorous eye caught the pie-ocine
stratum of a well-developed pie, and my curiosity led me to
inquire if it were made by a lunatic.
"Why, most certainly, Professor!" exclaimed the Superintendent.
"What's the matter with it?"
"As far as appearances go, I think it's all right--doesn't look
different from any other pie I've seen and eaten. Shouldn't think
a crazy man could make a decent pie, though; did he do it all
alone, without anybody watching him?"
"Oh no, we employ a sane cook to supervise the cooking," explained
the officer, much to my satisfaction. "Will you have a piece?" he
asked.
"Y-y-y-y-yes," I said incredulously, "if you are sure there is no
danger of insanity being transferred to me by such a delectable
agency."
The head cook then butchered the great pie into quarters, and the
Superintendent said, "Help yourself, boys."
I gathered up the juicy quarter, and saying, "My good sir, you
have heard of dog eat dog, you shall now witness Pye eat pie." I
proceeded to devour it. I couldn't recollect ever having eaten
better pie; I was almost prompted to ask the cook to slaughter
another, but, instead, carried the remaining quarter out to Mac
A'Rony.
When we had left the asylum, I could not help but remark the
scrutiny with which each man regarded the other.
At length we went into camp near a farm house, where we certainly
acquitted ourselves in a manner to arouse the suspicions of any
sane observer. We put our sleeping-bag on the ground outside of
the tent, built a fire close to the tent on the windward side
while a strong breeze was blowing, cooked creamed potatoes in the
coffee pot, and steeped tea in the frying pan; and Coonskin tied
all three donkeys and the dog to a small sapling by their tails. I
felt sure that insanity was breaking out in our party in an
aggravated form, and congratulated Cheese, Damfino and Don for not
having eaten infected pie.
Camp Lunatic, as we called it was visited by the owner of the
farm, a hospitable German, who had a large family. He gave us a
generous donation of corn-cobs for fuel, milk, butter, fresh eggs,
and water, then introduced his wife and children. I asked him how
he came to have such a large family. He explained that he had a
large farm and couldn't afford hired help, and he thought the best
way to remedy the difficulty was to rear boys to help him. He
looked hopeful, although he had eight girls, no boys.
Supper over, the farmer conferred on me every possible honor, even
letting me hold his youngest girl, a child of ten months. He said,
enthusiastically, he was going to name his boy after me; the wife
smiled heroically.
To cap the climax, I was asked to write my name in the big family
Bible. The book was in German. My host opened it to a blank page,
and, without comment, I inscribed my name underneath the strangely
printed heading--Gestorben, thus pleasing the whole family.
When we reached our tent, Barley began to find fault with me.
"What for did yuse want to write your name on de Gestorben page?"
he asked seriously. "Dat means bad luck, dat does."
"And why?" I inquired, puzzled.
"Gestorben is German and means death, yuse crazy loon!" he
returned. "It's de lunatic pie dat's workin' already; wese all
goin' crazy."
Next day was hot. In the afternoon my party rested three hours in
the shade of a peach orchard, where we were treated to ice cream
by the kind lady of the house close by. It was about 105 miles
from Lincoln to Hastings, and we covered it in five days.
Threading the villages of Exeter, Crete, Friend, and Dorchester,
we arrived in Grafton, where I caught my courier in a dishonest
trick, and discharged him.
The party reached Hastings Thursday, June 17, where I purchased a
saddle for Coonskin. Detained by a thunderstorm, we passed a
miserable night in close quarters. Next morning, Mac pranced about
like a circus donkey, and trailed to Kearney in a manner almost to
wind his fellows.
Before leaving Hastings, the Superintendent of the Asylum for the
Chronic Insane, three miles out of town, telephoned me to stop and
dine with him. On this occasion I rode into the asylum grounds
without hesitation or nervousness.
"You must earn your grub, according to contract, Professor," said
the Superintendent, when the greetings were over, pointing to a
wood-pile in the rear of the building. As soon as I fairly began
to comply with the suggestion his young lady secretary, the
daughter of a deceased and much esteemed congressman, trained a
camera on me and the axe and secured a picture.
I was then notified I had more than earned my dinner, and was
escorted into the family dining-room, where an enjoyable repast
was accorded me, after which, some twenty wardens and matrons
purchased photos at double price. Then I resumed the journey with
more heartfelt blessings than had been expressed to me on similar
occasions.
The trail was superb. But an intensely hot spell followed, and
made all of us perspire. Two days of hard travel brought us to the
old Government Reservation of Ft. Kearney, established by Gen.
Fremont on his historic overland trip to California in pioneer
days.
The fort has long since been abandoned. There the Mormons camped
for a short period after leaving Council Bluffs.
Next evening, I made my camp on the site of the notorious Dirty
Woman's Ranch of early days, and spent a Sunday in delightful rest
and recreation in the shade of the grove of wide-spreading elms
and cotton-woods that sighed mournfully over the deserted scene.
[Illustration: "_Trail through the timber._"]
[Illustration: "_He had caught a nice mess._"]
[Illustration: "_Climbing Pike's Peak._"]
We crossed the long, low bridge over the Platte, early in the
morning. It required nearly an hour and all our wits and energies
to get the donkeys across, even after blindfolding them. And when
my party ambled into Kearney, that sultry, dusty June day, grimy
with dirt and perspiring, we all were in ripe condition for a
swim. The little city looked to be about the size of Hastings, but
did not show the same enterprise and thrift. In fact, the
inhabitants ventured out in the broiling sun with an excusable
lack of animation, and seemer to show no more interest in their
local affairs than they did in Pye Pod's pilgrimage. It was here I
first saw worn the Japanese straw helmet. It served as a most
comfortable and effective sun-shade, and purchasing a couple, we
donned them at once.
Kearney is said to be the half-way point, by rail, between New
York and San Francisco. My diary, however, showed I had covered
fully two thousand miles of my overland journey; I had consumed
227 days, with only one hundred and thirty-four days left me, the
prospects of accomplishing the "feat" in schedule time looked
dubious enough.
The great Watson Ranch, when my donkey party arrived, was
experiencing its busiest season. But, while the male representatives
were in the fields, the good matron in charge of the house made us
welcome and treated us to cheering bowls of bread and milk. When Mr.
Watson, Jr., arrived, he showed us about the place and enlightened
me about alfalfa, of which he had over a thousand acres sown; fifty
hired hands were busy harvesting it.
For a week or two we had, for the most part, been trailing through
the perfumed prairies at an invigorating altitude ranging from two
thousand to nearly three thousand feet, inhaling the fresh, pure
air, gazing on the flower-carpeted earth, and enjoying a constant
shifting of panoramic scenes of browsing herds, and bevies of
birds, and occasional glimpses of the winding Platte and the sand
dunes beyond.
The cities and villages, that formed knots in the thread of our
travels on the plains, came into view like the incoming ships from
the sea. At first one spied a white church-steeple in the distance
like a pointed stake in the earth only a mile away, but soon the
chimneys and roofs and finally door-yard fences would come into
view, then what we thought a village, nearby, proved to be, as we
journeyed onward, a town of much greater size seven or eight miles
beyond the point of calculation. The crossbars on the telegraph
poles, along the straight and level tracks of the Union Pacific,
formed in the eye's dim perspective a needle, as they seemed to
meet with the rails on the horizon. Little bunches of trees,
scattered miles apart and then overtopped by the spinning wheel of
an air motor, indicated the site of a ranch-house where we might
procure water. The trail ahead became lost in a sea of flowers and
grasses.
From time to time, as I dismounted to ease myself and little steed
I picked from the stirrups a half dozen kinds of flowers, ensnared
as my feet brushed through the grasses. Great beds of blood-red
marshmallows; natural parterres of the wax-like blooms of the
prickly pear; scattering stems of the flowery thistle with white
corollas as large as tulips; and wild roses and daisies of all
shades and colors--the white and pink, and the white wild roses
being the first I ever saw; these with varicolored flowers of all
descriptions were woven into the prairie grasses and likened the
far-reaching plain to a great Wilton carpet enrolled from the mesa
to the river.
Some of the sunsets were gorgeous. At times, the western sky
glowed like a prairie fire; and the sunrises were not less
magnificent. Sometimes, we were overtaken by severe electric
storms, and obliged to pitch the tent in a hurry. When the
lightning illuminates the plains at night, the trees and the
distant towns are brought into fantastic relief against the
darkness, like the shifting pictures of a stereopticon.
A flash of lightning to the right reveals a church or school-house,
to the left, a bunch of cattle chewing the cud or grazing,
ahead of us, a ranch house, and, sometimes, to the rear, a pack of
cowardly coyotes, at a safe distance, either following my caravan,
or out on a forage hunt.
Often, as the trains swept by, the engineers would salute with a
deafening blast of whistles, frightening the donkeys and
entertaining the passengers. Some of the prairie towns which look
large on the map have entirely disappeared. In one case, I found
more dead citizens in the cemetery than live ones in the village.
Frequently, as a means of diversion, I left the saddle to visit
these white-chimney villages of the dead. Such might be considered
a grave sort of amusement, but really some of the gravestones
contained interesting epitaphs. In one instance the following
caught my eye:
"God saw best from us to sever
Darling Michael, whom we love;
He has gone from us forever,
To the happy realms above."
Imagine the shock to my sobered senses on reading these lines cut
on a white-washed wooden slab, close by:
"Here lays Ezekiel Dolder,
Who died from a jolt in the shoulder;
He tried to shoot snipe
While lighting his pipe,
And now underneath his bones moulder."
Just below the heartrending epitaph appeared in bold letters the
satisfactory statement--"This monument is pade fer."
On the lonely plains, miles from habitation, a single grave fenced
in with barbed wire in a circular corral, I discovered a mate to
the preceding epitaph, which illustrates the utter abandon with
which the rugged, dashing "bronco buster" regards the perils of
riding a bucking wild horse.
"Here is buried my bronco, Ah Sam,
Beside me--I don't give a damn!
While bucking he killed me;
On this spot he spilled me,
And now the devil's I am."
Sometime before parting with my courier, unknown to him we pitched
camp one dark night in a graveyard. Barley was an early riser,
and, as we know, as superstitious as he was gullible. He was the
first out of the tent at dawn. Suddenly he rushed back,
exclaiming: "De Resurrection has came, fellows, an' wese de first
livin' on earth agin." And with terror in his eyes and voice,
dragged Coonskin and me to see a strange sight indeed. There, some
forty feet from the tent, stood a towering crucifix with a figure
of the Saviour, life size, looking down upon us, while about us
were tablets and mounds: the scene was so still and solemn no
wonder that my awestricken courier thought the world had come to
an end.
On the 24th of June, after a hot and dusty trail across an arid
waste, where only occasional patches of buffalo grass and cacti
matted the earth in the place of the long prairie grass and
flowers we were tramping in a few days before, my weary troop,
jaded and hungry entered the little village of Overton.