Our Party Grows Smaller
Before getting to Brule we had crossed over to the north side of the
river, and arriving in town and a storm coming up, we drove into a
barn and went to the hotel for supper. We had come just fifteen miles
and had let the horses walk practically all the way. The storm soon
blew over, but we did not go on, preferring to let the roads dry up
some, so slept in the wagon in the barn.
Here we met a man by the name of Hoover, who was going to Hershey,
near North Platte. He was hauling household goods. He had been working
for some contractors on an irrigation job and was going home. Finding
the roads so muddy he wanted to unload his big stove and send it on by
freight, but we made a little fun of his doing so because he had a
fresh strong team, and I told him, as he was going our way, if he got
stuck we would pull him out. This allusion to his team needing any
help rather fussed him, and he said he guessed if we were going on in
the mud he could.
He had a wide-tired wagon also, which is about the worst thing to
handle in the mud, outside of an auto without chains, so we had our
troubles together. While his team was fresh and very good walkers we
travelled together and managed to keep up with him, much to his
surprise, without pushing our team very much. Starting out, we drove
down the valley on the north side of the river, or rather river bed;
there is not much water in the river this time of year. What would
ordinarily be there is in the irrigating ditches. The day was fine,
and outside of an occasional bad spot in the road we made fairly good
progress.
At noon we camped about twelve miles from Brule, going to the river to
water the horses. Near us was another party of campers; a large family
and three poor horses. We had lost track of Hoover. He started ahead
of us and evidently didn’t know a good camping place when he saw it,
or else decided not to stop at all. Toward evening we overhauled him
and we went into camp together.
After getting our camp into shape we invited Hoover to eat with us,
which he seemed glad to do, but insisted on paying for his share of
the grub. He seemed quite interested in our fireless cooker and camp
outfit, but couldn’t understand why he had not left us behind during
the day. I could have told him, but I didn’t. I noticed he did not
have a brake on his wagon, so that going down hill he had to go slow,
while I let our team trot down, holding the wagon with the brake. In
this way I made up all I lost on the level and up grades, and didn’t
worry the horses either.
The next morning, Wednesday, August 10, we drove on through Paxton and
Sutherland, and camped about ten miles from North Platte. We had been
making from twenty to twenty-five miles a day. When we reached
Sutherland Mr. Hoover left us, following a different road, eight miles
to his farm near Hershey. When we made camp, which was by the side of
an irrigation ditch as usual, the wind blew so hard we had to take the
cover off the wagon to keep it from being blown over.
As soon as the blow was over, the boys got supper while I measured out
the oats and fed the horses. As usual, they crowded about the wagon,
but Bess laid down before I got her nosebag ready, which was so
unusual that I remarked to the boys that she must have a touch of
colic. She would not eat and I was quite worried about her, but we had
supper and the boys turned in, leaving me sitting on the wagon tongue
with the lantern between my feet watching Bess. I had put a blanket on
her to keep her warm, as the night was chilly.
We had nothing in our commissary that would relieve colic, so picking
up the lantern I started down the road to a farm house I had seen in
the distance, when we were making camp. It was a long way to the
house, or it seemed so in the dark, and when I got there I couldn’t
make out whether any one was at home or not; at least I could not wake
up any one but the dog, so came back to camp.
My impression was that we were going to lose a horse. Colic is not
always fatal, but I felt that not having anything to give her to
relieve the condition, the chances were she might die.
[Illustration: A MID-DAY CAMP]
As I came near enough to the wagon to see it, the white canvas top
made it look twice as large as in the daylight, and Bess was standing
up between me and the wagon, throwing a shadow on the canvas that
startled me. She was eating grass and was apparently much better.
While walking about and adjusting her blanket I was astonished to find
a little colt. It was dead, but, as I buried it, I could not help
smiling at my diagnosis of the case, and wondering what the boys would
say in the morning when I told them. Just then Norman called out from
the wagon, “What are you doing over there anyway?”
Not thinking what I was saying, I replied, “Burying Bess’s colic.”
The next morning, Thursday, August 11, we drove slowly into North
Platte, and put our horses in a barn and went to a hotel to clean up.
Pete was to leave us and go home on the train, so we did some rapid
work in getting everything arranged. The two Normans had ridden
horseback across Colorado, about five hundred miles, had done the
cooking and packing since leaving Denver, and now that one was
leaving, our party was to be cut down to two, Norman Bradley and
myself. I am not sure but we were wishing we might board the train
also with Pete, but no one mentioned it, and as the train pulled out
we felt rather lonesome. We two walked back up town and, while Norman
was buying some groceries, I stopped in at the bank to get a check
cashed.
The last time I had been in North Platte was twenty years ago, when
traveling for N. W. Harris & Co., buying bonds. At that time I had
met a young man by the name of McNamara who was working in one of the
banks here, and as I had to spend Sunday in town, he came around to
the hotel and invited me to go and call on a young lady with him.
I may not get this story right as to details, but the facts I have not
forgotten, and when I found that the president of the bank in which I
went to get my check cashed was Mr. McNamara, I was immediately
reminded of the Sunday, many years ago, when this same Mr. McNamara,
then quite a young man, and I had gone to call on a young lady by the
name of Cody. He had evidently called there many times before, but at
this time there was another young man calling also, who had ridden up
on a bronco, and when this young man left, wishing to make the right
sort of impression on Miss Cody, who by the way was a daughter of Wm.
Cody, or “Buffalo Bill,” he allowed his horse to rear up and fall over
on him, breaking his leg. Of course, he made an impression right
there, and was taken into the house and cared for, and we left. I had
often wondered since how it came out, _viz._, which had made the more
favorable impression, and now that I had met Mr. McNamara again I
said, “Well, whom did Miss Cody marry?” And he replied laughingly,
“The fellow who broke his leg, of course; it always ends that way.” So
after many years my mind was finally set at rest regarding a matter
into which I had often thought to inquire.
I had a short visit with Mr. McNamara and the folks in the bank, and
then gave up the afternoon to getting things ready to start in the
morning.
The next morning we left town at 10 A. M., crossed to the south side
of the river and drove until 1 P. M. The roads were good and the
country looked better on this side of the valley; the hills were close
to us on the south, and to the north the valley was very wide, as the
north fork of the Platte comes down and joins the south fork just
below here. Shortly after noon we met a party moving into northern
Nebraska. They had come up from Kansas. They had twelve horses and two
wagons, and had just camped in a schoolhouse yard.
The odd thing about this country was that there were hardly any
fences; each schoolhouse, however, stood in the middle of an acre of
ground, with a fence all around, which made a good place to camp.
There was usually a pump, a wood shed, and grass. What more could a
party want? They could turn their horses loose to graze and be happy,
especially as it was vacation time, and no scholars or teacher to
interfere.
This party told us they had been having quite a time with their horses
and colts, as on this main road they had met so many autos, and
inquired if we had had much trouble that way. Needless to say we
didn’t and hadn’t. Our animals were all broken to everything,
including going without eating when necessary. The only special
comment these folks had to make regarding our trip, when we told them
how far we had come, was that our horses didn’t look it.
We were tempted to stop and camp with them, but as it was early we
concluded not to lose half a day, and so went on. A shower that blew
up shortly after we left came near soaking us before we could get the
sheet down. It rained so much that it made the roads muddy, and by
night we had made only eighteen miles.
We had reached the National Soldiers’ Cemetery, and on inquiring if
there was any objection to our camping there, were made to feel at
home by Mr. Ingle, the superintendent. He showed us a good place to
camp, offered to let us cook on his stove if we wanted to, and
suggested we put our horses in his pasture. We did not need to use his
stove as we had dry wood, but had to hurry to get our supper and make
things tight for the night, as it soon began to rain again and kept it
up all night. I guess we were tired, because I remember we turned in
early, and when I woke the next morning I found the lantern still
burning. I had gone to sleep so quickly that I forgot to blow it out,
and slept soundly all night with it lighted and hanging right over my
head.
The next day, August thirteenth, was fine and clear, and we decided
not to start on until the roads had dried up some, and so visited with
Mr. Ingle for a few hours. He showed us the cemetery where all the old
soldiers who were killed in the Indian fights were buried, and told us
about this country when he first came through here as a young man in
the army. Then they were having more or less trouble with the Indians.
Now the Indians are all gone and he is an old man, looking after the
graves of those who died or were killed at that time. There is just
one Indian buried here, Spotted Horse, a staunch friend of the whites.
Norman was quite interested in the process of moving the bodies of
some of the soldiers that had been placed in the wrong locations, and
busied himself helping the men move them while Mr. Ingle talked to me
about the days when this country still belonged to the Indians.
He had a desk in his office, made of cedar. It had been made by hand
many years ago out of cedar cut from the hill back of the cemetery.
Sawed out by hand and fastened with wooden pins, it was nevertheless a
fine piece of furniture. His office was full of Government records of
soldiers and correspondence, and would be a good place for any one to
pick up old army tales, which could be written up under the trees
beside the graves, with no one to disturb.
This cemetery, miles away from any town, surrounded by a brick wall
and filled with trees shading every corner, seemed a very appropriate
place for those old Indian fighters to rest, and we were glad we had
had the opportunity of seeing it, and talking with the superintendent,
who knew so much about the men who were buried there.
Mr. Ingle wanted us to spend Sunday with him and, if time had
permitted, we should have liked to do so, but with our usual haste we
left at twelve o’clock, after selling our old saddle to one of his men
for seven dollars. We got our pay by cashing a check from Mr. Ingle,
less seven dollars, and as it was a Government pension check we took
no risk. As he wanted a dollar more I cashed his personal check on the
First National Bank of North Platte. I just mention this to illustrate
how checks are used as currency in this country and no questions
asked. Later I stopped at a country store and offered ten dollars in
payment for some small article and was told they could not change it
unless I would take small checks. They had cashed so many they were
out of currency. We managed to scrape up the change and went on.
Later, passing through a small town, I went into the railroad station
to send a telegram, for which the charges were sixty cents, and handed
the ticket agent the ten dollars. He said he would have to go over
town and get it changed if I did not have anything smaller. Just then
I thought of the check for one dollar that Mr. Ingle had given me, and
so I said, “I have a check for one dollar, if that will go.” He
snapped me up with “Why didn’t you say so before?” and handed out
forty cents, waiting until I had produced the check and endorsed it,
when he put it in the cash drawer, hardly looking at it. I left,
wondering how easy it might be to put bogus checks through, if even
the railroad company took them that easy. Well, we didn’t have to try
to pass any bogus checks, but it did seem that the people were a bit
careless.
Leaving the cemetery we drove to Brady Island, where we crossed to the
north side of the river on a bridge that seemed a mile long, but in
only one small channel was there any water running. We drove on a few
miles over sandy roads and then camped, about eleven miles from
Gothenburg. The next morning, we drove through Gothenburg, not
expecting to go far, but looking for a good camping place, which we
didn’t find. It was a sandy, muddy road to Gothenburg, and then we
drove six miles to Willow Island and five more to Cozad, and found no
good camp site. Then we thought we might come to a creek about two
miles farther on, but after driving three miles and not finding one,
we camped alongside of the road, making about twenty-five or
twenty-six miles for the day.
We met several prairie schooners to-day. One party of young men, going
to Sutherland, stopped us to ask about the roads west and where to
cross the river. Just before starting up one of them asked me where we
were from, and when I told him California, he seemed speechless for a
minute, but finally came to and, as we started up, asked me this
question, which I didn’t get a chance to answer--and perhaps he did
not expect me to--_viz._, “Say, stranger, where are you going to, or
don’t you know?”
Some way that question seemed to strike me as especially funny, and
the more I thought about it the funnier it seemed, until I found
myself laughing heartily. Norman didn’t hear his question, and when I
told him what I was laughing at, he said, “I suppose that fellow
thought we had started out and didn’t know enough to stop,” which
remark set me to laughing again and, when I could answer, I said,
“Well, I think he was perfectly justified in asking the question.
After this if any one asks us where we are from we will tell them from
North Platte, and if they ask us where we are going we can tell them
Kearney. This will be enough for them to know and will save
conversation and may keep us out of the lunatic asylum.”
We had shot a young rabbit, which we had for breakfast, and Norman
kept the foot for luck. The next day was foggy and, as we drove along
slowly, Norman shot two jack rabbits with the rifle, making a double,
so to speak. He saw only one of the jacks, and as he shot it the other
jumped into sight and ran away, but didn’t get far when Norman’s
second shot knocked him over. This we considered an omen of good luck,
as well as marksmanship.
Later we pulled an automobile out of a mud hole with Sally, after
having some fun with the men who were trying to start it. I charged
them two dollars for doing it, which amused Norman greatly. We divided
the money, two silver dollars, and drove on.
Next, Norman spied a quail sitting on a nest close to the road, on a
perfectly bare patch of ground. How a quail had the nerve to make a
nest in such an exposed place was more than we could tell. Mr.
Roosevelt would probably say that we didn’t see it in any such place.
To be sure, however, we stopped, walked over to her, and she ran away,
which proved that she was alive; and we counted sixteen eggs, which
proved that she was setting on them. There wasn’t anything as big as a
match to hide it, and the public road was not more than ten feet away.
Without molesting the nest we drove on about half a mile to Buffalo
Creek and made our noon camp. Here there was plenty of grass, and we
stayed until 4 P. M., and then drove on six miles to Lexington, where
we stayed all night. Our horses are doing fairly well, except Sally.
She is lazy and needs to be prodded most of the time.
Leaving Lexington at seven-thirty the next morning we had fair roads,
with the exception of a mud hole now and then, until we reached
Overton. The country is sparsely settled, flat, and uninteresting. At
Overton we were stopped by a fellow who said he wanted to buy a horse,
and I offered to sell him Sally, and after dickering on the price for
a while he said he would give me a saddle horse for her. He brought
out the saddle horse which looked like a good one, but I didn’t want
to trade horses; I wanted to sell one. Having spent an hour doing a
lot of talking to the edification of most of the population in the
little town, we drove on without selling Sally. Norman thought we
should have traded, just to be doing something, as the going was
monotonous and a new horse would give us something new to play with;
but I concluded we were better off without a horse we would have to
watch, tie up at night, and possibly find harder work disposing of
than Sally.
During the afternoon we drove through Simmons and Elm Creek, over some
dirt roads that were fine. It looked like rain, but a strong wind came
up and we concluded it would blow the rain away, so we were in no
hurry to get our supper over. We had camped about eleven miles from
Kearney, turned our horses loose, and were just washing up the dishes
after supper by lantern light, when a hard thunder shower came up, and
by the time we had got things under cover it was raining hard. Before
turning in for the night I concluded, as there was a field of alfalfa
near by that was not fenced, that I had best get the horses up for
fear they might stray into it during the night and get foundered. So
putting on my rubber coat and boots, I went out and hunted them up
and, with the aid of the lightning flashes, brought them up and tied
them to the wagon, and then we turned in and listened to the rain on
our canvas cover for about a minute, and the next minute (so it
seemed) it was morning, and the rain was over.
As we turned out that morning the country looked as if it had been
literally soaked; water stood in the fields, and the dirt roads that
were so fine the night before were seas of mud. It was still cloudy,
but we concluded, if we delayed starting, the sun would soon come out
and dry things up a bit and make it easier going. By eleven o’clock it
was still cloudy and we decided not to wait any longer, so hitched up
and drove very slowly through the mud the eleven miles to Kearney,
where we arrived at about 3 P. M., having stopped near the midway sign
for lunch. This sign, supposed to be half-way across the continent,
says:
“1,733 miles to Frisco, Boston 1,733.”
We wanted to change the sign so it would read
“1,600 miles to Los Angeles, and 800 miles to Chicago”
but knew no one would see any sense in putting up such a sign. There
did seem some sense in putting up this midway sign, although I told
Norman it seemed as though we should have come to it sooner. It seemed
too far east considering the time we had been on the road,--now three
months,--as it appeared as though we had gone _more_ than half way to
the Atlantic Ocean. Norman, however, thought if we had been going west
instead of east we would have expected to find the sign farther east;
at least we would have about the same feelings regarding the distance,
hardships of travel, etc., whichever way we were headed.
This reminded me of the old story of the Catholic priest, who was
riding a mule into town over a very muddy road, and meeting one of his
flock he said: “Good-morning, Pat, is it very bad going this morning?”
“Yes, Your Reverence,” said Pat, “and it is just as bad coming.” And I
believe they were both right.
Here at Kearney we decided to stay three or four days and rest up the
team and see if we could not get away from the rain. We seem to have
been traveling in it most of the time since leaving Denver and
conclude, if we stay here a few days, it may get ahead of us.
The first thing we did after putting our horses up in the livery barn
was to get our mail. Here I found a note from Mr. Adair, Cashier of
the City National Bank, asking me to call at once on a very important
matter. I concluded he probably had something to sell and had heard
somewhere that I was liable to come through his town, so I put the
note in my pocket and we went to the Midway Hotel and cleaned up,
planning to see Mr. Adair the next day.
The next morning, Thursday, August 18, was still cloudy. After looking
around town to see if it had improved much since I was there last,
about fifteen years ago, I went around to the livery and looked the
horses over and told the proprietor, Mr. E. C. Duncan, I wanted him to
sell Sally for me, if he could, during the next day or two. Then
recalling the request of Mr. Adair to call and see him on an important
matter, I went around to the bank. Here I found them very much
exercised about me. They said my father had wired them that I was
traveling across country with a wagon, and was due at Kearney about
this time,--and would they hunt me up at once, spare no expense, and
deliver to me the very important message he had sent me in their care?
I asked impatiently for the message, feeling something very unusual
had happened. Perhaps some one was sick or dead, and when they told me
that they had given the message to one of their men with instructions
to phone up and down the line and, as soon as he had located me, to
start in his auto with the message and deliver it to me as soon as
possible, I was quite worried. Just then a messenger came in and
reported that I had not gone through town, and if I wasn’t at any of
the hotels, they were going to take the road back toward North Platte
and see if they could find me. When informed that I was in the bank he
started out to find the man in the auto and get the telegram, and when
told it would be an hour before he could be back, I inquired about the
trains for Chicago and found one left at twelve o’clock. It was just
10:30. I would have time to get ready to leave town and be back at the
bank to get the telegram by the time the messenger could return, if I
hurried.
I returned at once to the hotel. Norman was somewhere about town and I
knew I could find him before train time, so I packed up my belongings
and his, paid the hotel bill, went to see Mr. Duncan, and told him to
take care of my horses and wagon, sell Sally, and, if I didn’t ever
come back, I would write him what to do with them. Thus I got back to
the bank just as the man drove up in his auto and brought in the
telegram. I opened it rather hurriedly and, glancing at its contents,
heaved a sigh of relief. No one was dead; no one was seriously sick;
just a case of important business which needed my attention. I was
almost inclined to be provoked because no one was dead. I had fully
expected something as bad from all the fuss, and here I was ready to
leave in thirty minutes for Chicago just on account of business
matters, when I had forgotten I ever had any business.
By this time my momentum had carried me out into the street, and
running across Norman I said, “Come on, kid, we are going to catch
that twelve o’clock train for Chicago.”
“Why, what’s wrong?” he said, very much surprised.
“Everything and nothing,” I said. “Just come along or we will miss the
train. I have got everything fixed and if I knew when I was coming
back I would let you stay here until then, but I can’t tell, so you
had better come along.”
We caught the train and discussed it afterward and concluded business
had no place in an overland trip. Norman left me the next morning at
Davis Junction to go home to Rockford, and I came on to Chicago,
arriving Friday, August 19.
Whether this is the end of the trip or not, I cannot say, but my
impression is that as soon as I can get the business attended to, I
will return to Kearney and take up the trail where I left off, and
finish it if I have to go alone. In the meantime the horses are having
a much needed rest and the prairie schooner is left at anchor without
a soul on board. Let us hope her journey is not over.