_Sojourn in California._
The fall of 1854 and the winter and spring of 1855 were not unlike
our previous winters in California. There was but little to do except
watch the cattle to keep them from straying. Hunting was about the
only diversion and game was still plentiful. Grass was abundant all
through the winter and the cattle fattened rapidly. During the spring
and summer months we marketed all that were in proper condition,
still receiving excellent prices. About the first of August brother
Zack and I rigged up our pack mules and started back to meet James
and Robert who had turned back the year before to gather up another
herd and bring it across the plains during the summer. We passed over
the mountains and reached the sixty-mile desert, which was about two
hundred and fifty miles back on the plains from our ranch. In all the
year we had heard nothing from home, and the only information we had
that they were on the road was the promise they made us as they left
our train the year before.
We camped just at the western edge of the desert and during the night
a train pulled in off the desert. We inquired of them next morning
whether they had seen or heard of Gibson's train. They said they had
passed it somewhere on Humboldt River, but could not give the exact
location. They also told us the Indians had killed one of the Gibson
boys. They did not know which one--had just heard of the circumstance
as they passed. This sad news was a great blow to us. We broke camp
hurriedly and started across the desert, weighed down by the sad
reflection that we would meet only one of our brothers--both equally
dear, not only from boyhood association and ties of kindred, but from
association in hardship across the dreary plains. We carried our
weight of sorrow all that day and all the following night, across
the barren sand, and at daylight we could barely make out Humboldt
Lake in the distance. Upon closer approach we saw a large herd of
cattle just being rounded up preparatory to the start across the
desert. We hurried forward, hoping it was the train we were looking
for, and yet fearing to know the truth of the rumor we had heard. A
few moments dispelled our doubts. It was Gibson's train and Brother
James was alone with his cattle and his men. Robert, our mother's
baby, seventeen years old, was the victim. Brother James, with tears
streaming down his sunburnt face, related to us the manner of his
death at the hands of treacherous Indians, and the train halted on the
threshold of the desert long enough for us to hear the story and dry
the tears from our eyes.
He said one day while on their journey over the mountains between Fort
Laramie and the higher waters of North Platte, and while the herd was
moving forward in order, he rode ahead to locate a camping place for
the night and left Robert in charge. He had been gone but a short time
when six Indians came up to the train and in their way inquired for
the captain. One of the men told them he was in the rear. They rode
back and when they reached the men in the rear turned their ponies
and rode along with the train some distance. Robert, who, though only
seventeen, had made four trips across the plains and understood the
Indians, told the boys to watch them as he thought they were up to
mischief. He feared they intended to get between the wagons, which
were traveling close up behind the cattle, and loose horses and
mules, which were in the extreme rear, and cut them off, so he dropped
back and motioned the men who were driving the horses and mules, to
close up and at the same time stopped the wagons. He had the stock
driven around the wagons, thus placing them between the cattle and the
wagons, leaving the wagons in the extreme rear. He then took his place
alongside the cattle. All this time the Indians had said nothing,
had simply followed along with the train. The show of authority was
what they were waiting for. They evidently could not believe the boy
they saw was in fact the captain. As soon as Robert took his place by
the side of the cattle three of the Indians rode up by his side and
began to jabber and make signs. The other three rode up behind him.
One of the three behind had an old army musket and while the three in
front engaged Robert the one with the gun rode up very close and shot
him in the back. He fell from his horse and was dead in an instant.
The Indians whirled and galloped away as fast as their ponies could
carry them. One of the boys rode forward to notify Brother James and
met him returning at full speed. He had heard the report of the gun
and knew by the sound that it was an Indian's gun, and that it meant
mischief of some kind. As soon as he returned to the train he mounted
ten men and armed them and started after the Indians. After following
about five miles he came in sight of them. About the same moment the
Indians spied him and laid whip to their ponies. They were making for
the mountains, but soon saw they would be overtaken and turned in the
direction of the river. A hot race followed with the white men gaining
all the time, but the Indians reached the river and plunged their
ponies in. They had hardly reached the farther shore when James and
his men were upon the bank. They fired at them but the distance was
too great for the shots to take effect. The party thought it unwise to
cross the river in pursuit, as it might be difficult to recross and
all this time the cattle and the train were insufficiently guarded, so
they turned and made their way back, conscious that had they overtaken
the Indians and slain them all such an act could not have restored
Robert to them, and their hearts would still have been heavy with
their loss.
When they returned to the train the boys had rounded up the cattle and
were standing guard over them and the dead body. Nothing could be done
but move on, but what was to be done with Robert's body? James said
to attempt a burial where the wolves and coyotes would dig the body
up was out of the question, and then he could not bear the idea of
leaving him alone on those desolate mountains. So he put the body in
one of the wagons and carried it forward two days journey, where they
came to a trading post on the upper crossing of North Platte kept by
an old Frenchman. There they procured a wagon box which they used for
a coffin and buried him the best they could and protected the grave
from wolves. James, learning that the Frenchman intended to go back
to St. Joseph in about two months, employed him to take the body back
with him and gave him an order for five hundred dollars in gold on
Robert Donnell. I may as well relate here that the Frenchman kept his
promise, brought the body back and got his money, and that Robert now
lies buried in the old family cemetery in Tremont Township. I learned
this on my return, and that mother identified the body by examining
the toes, one of which Robert had lost in an accident when quite a
little boy.
Although the story was a sad one and our hearts were very heavy, still
we could not tarry with our grief. The cattle must cross the desert
and reach food and water beyond. James asked if we had had breakfast.
I told him we had not--that we had traveled hard all night, but that
we had a camp outfit and would prepare something after the cattle
had started across the desert. When the train was under full way, we
stirred the coals of their camp fire, threw on some greasewood brush
and soon prepared bread and meat and coffee. The mules browsed on
grease wood and we rested a couple of hours and then started after
the train. All that day and all the next night--a steady drive, only
now and then an hour's halt for food for ourselves and rest for the
cattle. By eleven o'clock the following morning we were on Carson
River, and glad we were, too. Zack and I had crossed over, taking
twenty-four hours and back thirty hours--fifty-four hours without
sleep or rest except two hours at the end of our first journey. In all
my travels, and I look at it now after more than fifty years, with
the experiences of the Civil War intervening, I have never seen a
place so beautiful as Carson River and valley, not because it is more
picturesque or naturally more enchanting than many places I have seen,
but because it was so welcome with its cold mountain waters and fresh
green vegetation after our weary journeys across the barren desert,
and I never thought it more beautiful to behold than on this, my last
visit.
Men, cattle and horses all took a good long rest, but the train was
up and many miles on the road before Zack and I awoke and followed.
Two weeks more and the cattle were safe on the ranch and we were
off duty once more, and as events transpired, off the plains for all
time--after nearly seven years of almost constant hardship.
During the fall of 1855 and the spring of 1856 we marketed off the fat
cattle. Sold Graham and Henry of Georgetown five hundred head to be
delivered fifty head every two weeks. Georgetown was a mining camp one
hundred miles northeast of our ranch. Our cattle were scattered over
our own ranch and the ranches of Phillips, Wolfscale and Barker, and
were well mixed with their wild cattle and horses. It rained almost
constantly. The plains were boggy and the streams full of water. We
had no time to lose and were in the saddle almost day and night, if
not on the road to Georgetown, then rounding up and sorting out the
cattle. We delivered the first fifty head on the fifteenth day of
October and the last on the first of April, and were glad when our
task was over.
The summer following passed without event worthy of mention. In the
fall we sold Graham & Henry three hundred more cattle to be delivered
in the same manner as the first, and had much the same experience,
except that our work did not last so long.
In the fall of fifty-seven, we sold our fat cattle and dairy cows to
Miller & Lux, wholesale dealers in cattle in San Francisco. Delivery
there was not so difficult. Our ranch was but twenty miles from San
Francisco Bay, and after a drive to the shore of the bay the cattle
were shipped across to the city. In the spring of eighteen hundred and
fifty-eight, Brother Isaac withdrew from the business and returned to
Missouri. We gave him fourteen thousand dollars in gold and deeded
him sixty acres of land in Tremont Township, Buchanan County, for his
interest. We continued the business through the year 1859 as partners.
Brother William remained with us, but had his own cattle and kept
them on our ranch. Zack and I still had about one thousand head of
stock cattle, and during the year, we bought several lots both of
stock cattle and heifers. One bunch of a hundred heifers we turned
over to James Glenn and Barsh Kessler, Buchanan County boys, to keep
three years and breed for us, with the understanding they were to have
half of the increase as pay for their trouble. Another bunch of fifty
heifers was turned over to Perry Jones, another Buchanan County boy,
on the same terms.
Toward Christmas we heard that our mother had died. This left our old
father alone on the farm with the negroes, and we decided to leave our
cattle in the care of Jones, Glenn and Kessler and go back and visit
him. It was too late in the season to attempt the plains. The hot, dry
summer on the plains had parched and withered the scant vegetation
that had grown in the spring and early summer, and the excessive cold
and accumulations of snow in the higher altitudes, rendered a trip by
land almost impossible in winter, so, much as we disliked the trip
by water, we decided to make it. I will not attempt to relate the
incidents of this trip, as they were unimportant. There was, besides,
little to distinguish it from the first voyage over the same route,
which I have already described.
After reaching home we remained with our father until the first
of May, when the start back overland must be made. It was decided
that one of us must remain with father, and as Zack and I were in
partnership and William was alone in his business, the choice of
remaining at home lay between Zack and myself, as either of us could
easily care for our cattle. I gave the choice to Zack and he decided
he would go, and he and William, accordingly, rigged up our outfit and
started.
I took charge of the farm at home and with the help of the negroes,
managed it through the season, and thus relieved father of all worry
and responsibility. He had his horse and buggy and a black boy to
care for it and drive him about the farm and over the neighborhood.
Everything moved along in the usual way and I had a pleasant and
restful summer--not so much restful from work, but restful compared
with the excitement and over-exertion incident to a journey with
cattle across the plains. I congratulated myself upon the choice Zack
had made and was preparing for a year or two more of peace and quiet,
but the death of my father the following fall left me alone with the
farm and negroes. I remained with them throughout the winter, lonely
and unpleasant as it was without my father, and planted and harvested
most of the crop in sixty-one under many trying conditions. Stirring
public events which began with the breaking out of the war interrupted
my farming operations, and my part in them will furnish the material
for several succeeding chapters.