_Another trip across the plains with cattle._
From Christmas until the middle of March, 1854, the time passed
rapidly, with mother and father and with visits to old friends and
acquaintances. On April first, according to contract, we arrived
at Tom Allen's in Chariton County, and paid him the balance of two
thousand dollars--in gold--and got our hundred head of cattle, all
in good condition. As we passed Brunswick, we bought one hundred
more and attempted to ferry the whole herd across Grand River in a
flat-boat. We cut off a bunch and drove them down the bank on to the
boat. They all ran to the farther end of the boat and sunk it, and
the cattle went head foremost into the water. All swam back to the
same shore, but one steer. He swam to the other side and ran out into
the brush. We could do nothing but watch him go and gave him up for
lost. A strange thing happened in regard to that steer. Just a year
later, I found him on our ranch in California--the same marks and the
same brand, besides my recollection of him. There could be no mistake
about it. I can account for his presence there easily, for at that
time many men were driving cattle across the plains. Some one found
him and drove him along and, after arriving, as ranches were large and
unfenced, he wandered with other cattle up into our ranch.
After the unsuccessful attempt to ferry the cattle over the river
we changed our plan and drove them twenty miles up the river to a
point where it could be forded. Passed Carrollton where we picked up
a few more cattle, and came on up to John Wilson's in Clay County,
gathering a few here and there until we had three hundred head. Wilson
had a herd of one hundred which we bought. These four hundred with
two hundred purchased around home completed the herd. By the last day
of April we had six hundred head in father's pasture at home, thirty
head of horses and mules, two wagons loaded with provisions--four yoke
of cattle to each wagon--and twenty men employed to go with us. As
we laid the pasture fence down to let that drove of cattle out into
the wide world, every man had to be on his guard. It was a timbered,
brushy country and very hard to drive the cattle without losing
them. There were probably fifty of our neighbors on hand to see us
start--many of them on horse-back--and they gave us much assistance.
By two o'clock next day we had everything across the river at St. Joe
and the cattle herded on a sandbar above where Elwood now stands.
After starting off the sandbar we had the same trouble in the heavy
timber and with the Indians that we experienced on the first trip, but
finally got out on the high plains with horses, cattle and men fairly
well trained, and then considered our hard work finished, although two
thousand miles of plains and mountains were ahead.
Brothers James, Zack and Robert all started to accompany me on this
trip, but, as it was unnecessary to have so many along, James and
Robert returned after we had reached Big Blue, to gather up a herd
for the following summer, and Zack and I continued the journey. I was
considerably older than Zack, and the principal responsibility fell to
me. The cattle were very valuable, but, in addition to that, I felt
in a measure responsible for the lives of the thirty persons who
accompanied the train--at least, in any conflict with Indians, I would
be depended upon for counsel and guidance.
I shall not attempt to give the details of this trip. The road is now
familiar to the reader, and I hope also that, by this time, he can
appreciate the tediousness of such a journey. He may be aided in this
if I say here that we hadn't a pound of grain or hay with us, either
for the horses and work cattle or for the herd, but all of them had to
subsist by grazing. It was impossible, therefore, to make more than
a few miles a day and it was only by determined persistence and a
display of patience that I cannot describe, that we ever accomplished
the journey. There are a few incidents, which, in addition to the
ordinary hardships, served to make the trip still more tedious and
trying, and these I will mention.
One night we camped on a high, rolling prairie out beyond Little Blue.
The cattle were grazing peacefully and the horses and mules--except
those used by brother Zack and myself and by the guards--had been
picketed out, and everybody in camp was asleep. One of the mules
pulled up his picket stake and dragged it at the end of a long
rope through the camp and caught the picket stake in the bow of an
ox-yoke. This frightened the mule and he ran into the herd of cattle
still dragging the yoke. A stampede followed. Work cattle, horses
and mules--everything--and the noise sounded like an earthquake. The
guards could not hold the cattle at all. Zack and I, who kept our
horses saddled and bridled and tied to a wagon, were out in a moment,
but we could give little assistance to the two guards in managing the
crazy cattle, and the other men could not come to us for their horses
had gone with the cyclone. It was very dark and our only guide to
the location of the cattle was the roar of the ground. After a race
of a few miles the roar ceased and we knew the cattle had checked. We
rode in front of them and held them until daylight. They were badly
scattered and exposed to wolves and Indians. It was twelve o'clock
next day before we got them rounded up and ready to start forward. All
the cattle and horses were found, but one of our mules was missing. No
trace of him could be found anywhere, so we left him alone somewhere
on those plains for the Indians or the wolves, or possibly, for a
succeeding emigrant train.
Day by day and week by week the journey continued without incident,
until we reached a point high up on the North Platte. We camped one
night upon the banks of a small stream that emptied into the Platte,
and during the night a terrific hail storm came up. Shortly after
it broke upon us, one of the guards came and said the cattle had
gone with the hail storm, and the guards could do nothing with them.
Several of us were on our horses and after them at once. A flash of
lightning now and then helped us to find the main bunch, which we
rounded up on a sand-bar in Platte River. No more sleep that night.
When daylight came the hail lay two inches deep on the ground. I never
experienced such a hail storm in my life, and it is my opinion that
but few like it have ever visited this country.
The count that morning showed thirteen cattle missing. For fear of a
mistake we went forward and strung them out between us and counted
again. Still thirteen short. To leave them without further effort was
out of the question, so I picked five men--James and Russell Deakins,
Joshua Gidlett, Buchanan County boys, and Tom Sherman and Henry Marks,
two boys from Boston who joined our train at St. Joseph, and, with
our guns and blankets and a small amount of provisions, started back
to circle the camp and look for tracks leading away. I thought the
Indians had them and told the boys we would likely have to fight, but
all were willing to go. Zack was to move the train slowly forward
until he heard from us.
We did not search long after reaching the place where the cattle had
been grazing when the storm came up, until we found tracks leading to
the north, and by appearances we were able to conclude that there were
just about the number we had lost in the bunch that had been driven
away. We followed the tracks a few miles, looking all the time for
Indian tracks and pony tracks, and could see neither, but there were
numbers of what appeared to be dog tracks. This suggested wolves, and
I began to look closely at the tracks made by the cattle. Going up
the sides of the sand hills the cattle seemed to remain together, but
going down they would separate and run, and on level ground would get
together again and all circle around and wander back and forth. At
such times we had great difficulty in tracing them. The movements of
the cattle convinced me that wolves were after them.
The tracks led us to the north about ten miles and then turned
westwardly. We had followed in that direction about five miles when
night came. As soon as it grew so dark we could not see the tracks,
we staked out our horses, ate a lunch and spread our blankets down
on the ground. We rested, but slept little. We had seen no Indians,
but did not know how many had seen us, and might be following us.
Two stood guard at a time while the other three lay on the ground
in the darkness with their eyes wide open. At daybreak we were up,
and as soon as it was light were on the trail again. Some miles on
the tracks turned south, and this gave us courage, as Platte River
and the emigrant road lay that way, but the wolves still had our
cattle. The tracks led us on and on and finally up the side of a high
range of sand hills, from the top of which we could see the valley
of North Platte and the river far in the distance. We followed down
the opposite side into the valley, and when within about two miles
of the river I saw a bunch of cattle lying down near the bank. I was
confident they were our cattle, unless other emigrants had lost a
bunch in the storm, which was not probable. We hurried on and when
within half a mile of the cattle found a carcass lying in the high
grass and twelve or fifteen savage old wolves lying near by asleep.
We pulled our navies and waked them up with bullets--killed three and
wounded several others. We then rode on and found that the cattle were
ours--twelve of them. A three year old heifer missing--the carcass we
had found. The cattle were sore and gaunt, but otherwise unhurt. We
pulled the saddles off our horses and staked them out to graze and lay
down for a little rest. We had been gone from camp twenty-four hours,
had had but two scanty meals and were probably twenty-five or thirty
miles farther up the trail than the camp we left. Our train had not
passed, as there were no fresh tracks on the trail, and we decided to
endure our hunger and rest awhile before starting to meet it. In about
an hour, however, I looked down the valley and saw the train moving
slowly along. It reached us just about noon and all were greatly
rejoiced. The noon meal was prepared and I think my tin cup of coffee
was the best I ever drank.
The train moved on without incident until we reached a point on North
Platte some seventy-five miles above Fort Laramie, where a spur of the
mountain, or rather a very high bluff, prevented us from following
the river, as had been our purpose on this trip, and forced us across
ten miles or more of rocky, mountainous country. When I entered my
train upon that part of the journey I calculated there would be no
obstruction, as no emigrants were ahead that I had heard of, and I
knew no cattle trains were ahead of us. I rode in front always and
the lead cattle followed close to my horse's heels. Always the same
cattle, three or four in every herd, insisted on being in front, and
if left in the rear as the train started out in the morning, they
would crowd through the herd and be in front within an hour; then came
the whole drove and then the wagons, followed by the loose horses and
mules. Strung out in this fashion we started across this portion of
the road, which in many places permitted only one wagon and team and
not more than four cattle side by side. I led the long, winding string
to the top of a mountain, and from that point I could see a line of
dark objects a quarter of a mile long approaching us. I looked closely
and determined it was Indians, and passed word to that effect back
along the line. The men rushed to the wagons and got their guns, and
by the time they had returned to their places I had made out that the
Indians were moving and that we need not fear attack, as Indians never
fight when the squaws and pappooses are along, but I was surprised
at the little comfort I received out of that assurance. The puzzle
to me was how to meet and pass them without stampeding the cattle.
Cattle do not like Indians. They do not like their looks and they do
not like their smell, and it is hard work to get them to pass a band
of Indians on the broad prairie where they have plenty of room to
shy. To pass on this narrow road was out of the question. I stopped
to think and to look. Some distance ahead, but closer to us than the
Indians, I saw what appeared to be a cove or basin, almost completely
surrounded by high bluffs and opening upon the road. I rode hurriedly
forward, beckoning the men at the same time to push the cattle after
me. When I reached the mouth of the basin I stopped and turned the
cattle into it. Little more than half the herd had gone in when the
Indians came up. The cattle began to hoist their heads and shy, but
the Indians did not stop. I rode back a few paces and met them, bowed
and said "how-do" as friendly as I knew how, and made signs that I
wanted them to stop. They seemed not to understand until I pointed to
the cattle, still hoisting heads and tails, and when crowded forward,
jumping to the side and running into the basin. When they saw this
the whole train stopped. Our cattle and wagons and loose horses all
came up and turned in--the men standing along the roadside to see the
Indians pass in their turn. When everything was safely lodged in the
receptacle, which it seemed to me Providence had designed for just
such an emergency, I turned, took off my hat and bowed long and low
and rode aside. The Indians bowed in return and passed on. We stood
by the roadside and saw the whole caravan pass. There were probably
five or six hundred of them--a tribe of the Crows. The long tent poles
were tied one on each side of a pony, the ends dragging on the ground
behind with a platform or base joining them, on which the tents and
skins and such rude camp equipment as they had were piled. The shorter
tent poles were tied one on each side of a dog, with baskets resting
on the rear ends in which the pappooses were hauled or dragged along.
Everything turned loose--not a halter or strap on dog or pony--all
herded or driven like cattle. They were nearly an hour in passing us,
and the men who were on the plains for the first time thought it an
amusing experience. It required but a short time, after the movers had
passed, to get our cattle out and start them on the road again, and,
by night, we had passed over the mountains and were back on the river.
A double guard kept watch that night, as we feared a band of the bucks
that had passed us might come back and try to get some of our cattle,
but the moon shone very bright, and as our whole force had stood by
the roadside with guns across their saddles, they probably thought
such an attempt would be useless.
Our train moved on slowly, passed Independence Rock and over the
continental divide and down into Green River Valley. When we reached
Green River we rounded the cattle upon a sandbar and forced them all
into the water at once. They got to milling around and round and going
down the swift current, until we thought they would make the rest of
the journey by water, but they soon found the water too cold for their
enjoyment and headed for the farther shore. All got out but one.
We took Hedgepeth's cut-off and reached the head waters of Humboldt
without difficulty, thence down this river mile after mile, through
sage brush and grease wood and alkali shoe mouth deep. As the cattle
passed, a dense, black cloud rose above them, almost stifling men,
horses and cattle. At night the men were black as negroes and
complained of sore throat and sore lungs, but there was no escape.
Big Meadows, as I have heretofore described it, afforded a delightful
resting place just between the dense alkali and the sixty-mile
desert. But for this oasis, I may call it, where rest and food and
water could be had, it is doubtful if herds could have been taken
across the plains. Certainly a different trail would have been
required.
With all our precautions the trip across the sixty-mile desert was a
very hard one. The weather was hot. Not a drop of water nor a blade of
grass for thirty hours. When the cattle caught sight of Carson River
late one afternoon they went wild. No power could hold them. They
ran headlong into the river and next morning five were dead. After
the long march across the sand and alkali, the trip up Carson River
and over the Sierre Nevada mountains was an easy one, and we made
it without difficulty. Going down the opposite side we had to pass
through great forests of pine timber, and the cattle, after being so
long upon the treeless plains, seemed not to understand this and gave
a great deal of trouble. One night we camped near Leake Springs in a
heavy body of pine, quieted the cattle and had them all lying down,
as we thought, for the night. Something frightened them, and away
they started, right across our camp and back toward the top of the
mountain. At the first sound of the stampede we jumped to our feet,
whooped and yelled, threw our blankets in their faces and tried in
every way to stop them, but they paid no attention and came crashing
on through the brush. We were compelled to get behind trees to protect
ourselves, and after the tornado of cattle had passed, gathered our
horses and took after them. They were all strung out on the road,
running as fast as they could, and we had to pass them by making our
poor jaded horses outrun them. It was no easy task, and the leaders of
the bolt for home were some fifteen miles away before we overtook and
passed them. It was almost daylight when we succeeded in doing this,
and it required most of next day to gather all of them up and get back
to camp. Not a man had a morsel to eat until we returned to camp. We
decided to keep moving slowly throughout the entire succeeding night,
as the best means of preventing another stampede and in order to get
out of the timbered mountains and into the valley where the cattle
were not so apt to get excited. Early next day we reached the valley
and stopped. Horses, men and cattle took a good rest. This stampede
jaded both horses and cattle more than crossing the sixty-mile desert,
hard as that was.
After a day's rest we pulled on and passed through the mining district
of Weaver Creek and American River, and reached Sacramento River at
Sacramento City, crossed the river on a ferry and camped for the
night on the farther bank. No guard out that night--the first in four
months--and the boys went up to see the sights of the town. Human
tongue can hardly tell the relief I felt when I could lie down and
sleep without fear of Indians or wolves or stampedes. A better set
of men than I had with me never crossed the plains, always ready for
duty and to help me out of trouble. It was about thirty miles out to
our ranch and I told the boys if they would go out with me I would
board them as long as they wanted to stay. About half of them went and
the others began to look about for themselves. It was an affectionate
farewell that took place between us, and in all the years that have
passed I have never seen many of those boys, but I shall never forget
them.
We reached the ranch without difficulty and turned the cattle
loose. The poor things had been traveling so long and had become so
accustomed to it that we had to watch them every day for nearly a
month. They seemed to think they had to be moving, and after grazing
awhile in the morning would string out on any road or path they
could find and sometimes get miles away--the old leaders always
in front--before we would discover them. After awhile we got them
convinced that their journey had ended and that grass belly deep was a
reality which they might actually enjoy.