Alone in a Prairie Schooner
Kearney is about eight hundred miles from Chicago, and with fair wind
and weather I started on the trip alone. No, not exactly alone either.
There were five of us, including the dog, as we left Kearney at
3 P. M., Saturday, September 3. Sally had been disposed of, but Kate,
Dixie, and Bess were in good condition, having had two weeks’ rest,
and I had brought Cress to keep me company and watch the wagon. She
did the latter vigilantly, but was a very poor conversationalist. How
I managed to get back to Kearney in two weeks, and why I came alone,
is really not so important as the fact that I got back, and did start
alone; the why-for is merely incidental.
My aim was to get over that eight hundred miles as quickly as possible
and not hurt the horses. It looked easy, and as the horses were
rested, I thought I could make at least twenty-five miles per day,
which ought to land me at the farm at Williams Bay, Wisconsin, October
4 or 5. There were, however, a good many things I had not counted on,
which, while they added to the difficulties, did not expedite my
journey.
My first stop was at Gibbon, fourteen miles out of Kearney, where I
put up at Bill Smith’s livery, got supper at a restaurant, and slept
in the wagon. It rained nearly all night, which didn’t make the going
any better. Bill Smith was quite a horseman in his day, and had owned,
according to his story, Smuggler, Acton, and one or two more famous
race horses.
The next morning, Sunday, it was foggy, and I did not pull out till
nine-thirty, leaving Smith still talking about race horses. I drove
through Shelton and on about five miles farther, where I got my dinner
alongside of the road, and, as it had dried up and the sun came out, I
hung all the blankets out on the wagon to air, as I found things a bit
musty from the two weeks’ lay-over at Kearney, on account of having
been put away damp.
Putting everything away again I drove on through Wood River, which is
fourteen miles from Gibbon. I should have stopped there as a storm was
coming up, but as it was only 4 P. M. and the roads were getting
better, I kept on for about two miles, thinking I would find a better
camping place and get settled before it rained, but I lost out. Of a
sudden it turned loose, and, before I could get the wagon sheet down,
it was raining hard and the wind was blowing a gale. I turned into a
farm yard and got behind a barn to keep from being turned over, and
from this shelter I managed to get the sheet down, don my rubber coat
and boots, and help the farmer get his barns closed up. He allowed me
to bring my horses in out of the storm.
Here I spent another night sleeping and eating in the wagon during the
rain, and had only made sixteen miles, which was not up to my schedule
of twenty-five, and muddy roads in sight.
The next day, starting at 10 A. M. in the rain, I managed to reach
Grand Island, sixteen miles, by 4:30 P. M., where I stopped for the
night, and filled my grub box with eggs, bacon, oatmeal, etc. The
country about here looks fine, splendid crops, and land selling at one
hundred dollars per acre. The horses have only been walking thus far,
but they are walking fast; to-morrow, if possible, we will start to
drive in earnest, and I hope to make at least thirty miles, or at
least reach Central City, which is twenty-four miles.
Leaving Grand Island the roads were better, and I got to Chapman,
twelve miles, by ten-thirty; reached Central City at 2:30 P. M. and
kept on to Clark, eleven miles more, making thirty-five miles for the
day, which was the farthest we had ever driven in one day. Chapman is
a small place, but Central City is a fine little town and looked very
clean and prosperous. Clark is just a little hamlet.
The roads to-day were fine, except a mile or two of sand. The country
through which I passed was as fine a farming section as I had seen
anywhere. Incidentally I saw a few yellow blackbirds among a flock of
crow blackbirds, the first I had seen anywhere, except at Delevan
Lake, Wisconsin, several years ago.
It is thirty-one miles from my camp here to-night to Columbus and I am
going to try to drive that far to-morrow with Kate and Dixie. Bess
shows signs of a sore neck and so I decide to take her out of harness
for to-morrow and lead her.
Wednesday, September 7, starting at 7:15 A. M., I reached Duncan,
twenty-three miles, at twelve-thirty. Starting on again at two-thirty
I reached Columbus at 5 P. M., making from thirty to thirty-two miles
for the day, which made up for the first three or four days of slow
travel. The country all along here looks prosperous. I drove across
Crystal Creek between Duncan and the town of Crystal Creek, and over
the Loup River, just at the town of Columbus. As I turn in, it looks
like rain again. It certainly is not ideal camping weather.
The following morning, after the usual rain during the night, I was
late in getting started. Before leaving Columbus a bright thought had
come to me. It was to telegraph to an old chum of mine by the name of
Lewis, who was living in Omaha, to come out to Fremont and ride into
Omaha with me.
After getting this telegram off, I started on toward Fremont. There
was a cold north wind blowing, and what few people I met driving had
on overcoats, and were wrapped up in lap robes. I got as far as
Schuyler for dinner. This was only eighteen miles for the morning, but
far enough considering the roads which were bad again, on account of
the rain. I tried here to connect up with Lewis over the phone, but
couldn’t. Then I drove on to Rodger, eight miles farther, where I
managed to talk to Lewis over the phone. He says he will meet me
to-morrow night at the Ono Hotel at Fremont, at 6 P. M. It seemed good
to hear a familiar voice and I shall be truly glad to have some
company. Cress manages to relieve me of any care for the wagon when I
leave it temporarily, as she will not allow any one to look into it.
It is seventy-five miles from Rodger to Omaha and I have made
twenty-six miles to-day, in spite of bad roads, so feel encouraged.
I went over to a hotel for supper and when it was called, the men
(about twenty) filed into the dining-room, dropped into the chairs,
ate everything in sight, never said a word and, when through, got up
and filed out in the same way. It was a queer performance, but the
meal was not so bad. It consisted of scrambled eggs, cold meat, fried
potatoes, coffee, bread and butter, beans, preserves, and cake, and
water in beer bottles--all for twenty-five cents. It wasn’t as clean
as my kitchen, but I get tired eating alone, so like to drop into a
hotel occasionally and try some one else’s cooking and see different
kinds of human nature.
The next day I drove twenty-five miles to Fremont, passing through
Ames on the way. Ames was once quite a town. A sugar beet refinery was
located here; also large feeding barns for sheep, but the sugar beet
refinery, and sheep barns, are out of commission and the people have
moved away and the town site is for sale, including all the barns and
empty houses. Question: What is a town site and houses worth if there
are no people in the town to occupy the houses, or any excuse for
getting them to move in? I found one family of women folks who hadn’t
money enough to move, as they explained when I stopped to water the
horses, so I made a donation and moved on.
From here into Fremont the road was very good, so that I arrived at 4
P. M. I had seen a great many posters on the fences and telegraph
poles as I drove along and there seemed to be something familiar about
the picture. On closer examination I was surprised to find it was my
friend Lewis’ picture. He was running for the State Legislature.
Passing a livery stable in town I was hailed by the proprietor who
asked me if my name was Harris.
Quite astonished I pulled up and said, “Yes, who are you?”
He laughingly replied, “I’m only the livery man, but I was told by Mr.
Lewis to have you put up here and he would be back shortly.”
“Well, I like his nerve,” I said.
“Most people do,” said he.
“I believe you,” I replied, and came down.
Mr. Lewis soon appeared and we had a chance to talk over old times
while driving into Omaha the next day, Saturday. Sunday I spent with
him and his family. He has a country place of about ten or fifteen
acres, and while their house was large enough, I insisted on his
sleeping in the wagon with me, much to the disgust, I think, of Mrs.
Lewis, who thought I should be glad of a good bed. They have a very
interesting family and I enjoyed my Sunday with them very much.
Monday, Lewis offered to go with me across the river and through
Council Bluffs to Weston as guide. I had come all the way to Omaha
without a guide and without getting lost or off the trail, but I
accepted his offer gladly. Much to his disgust and my amusement he got
lost in the Bluffs, and we had to make several inquiries regarding the
road and did not reach Weston until after dark, and just in time for
him to catch a train back to Omaha.
Having “roasted” him considerably for getting lost, I concluded I had
had fun enough at his expense to call it even, but he evidently
thought differently, for he wrote up my trip for the Omaha
_World-Herald_, including several pictures, and then sent me a copy
with the remark, “Now will you be good?”--and I had to admit he had
got ahead. If he wasn’t a good guide, he was a good scribe. All over
that section of Iowa, where the _World-Herald_ was taken, the farmers
came out with a copy of the paper and stopped me and wanted to ask me
questions, and look me and the outfit over. I was thankful when I got
out of its territory.
The State of Iowa is familiar to the traveling public that travel in
trains, and it is considered one of the best farming States in the
Union. Admitting the many advantages possessed by the State, for me it
presented few attractions. It rained every other day on an average
while I was driving across it; when it did not rain every other day,
it rained two days in succession.
Passing from Council Bluffs through Weston, I followed what is called
the “River to River Road” as far as Newton, Iowa. This is a road the
citizens of Iowa are very proud of, and it runs across the State to
Davenport. While it is kept up as well as possible, it is nothing but
a dirt road after all, and rain does not help it any, as I discovered
on entering the State, and was never able to forget, as it was one
struggle with rain and mud all the way.
I imagine if a profile map of this cross section of the State were
made, it would look like a lot of old-fashioned beehives set closely
together, or a lot of eggs packed closely in sawdust, with the big
ends sticking out about one-third of the way. Driving through such a
country one is either going up, or going down, most of the time, and
what might have been an easy pull up, and a slide down, resolved
itself into a desperate struggle to get up, and a pull going down, on
account of the mud. This was, of course, such a drag on the horses
that I sometimes despaired of getting through with them anywhere near
as soon as I had planned, but there were many amusing incidents _en
route_ which helped break the monotony.
Near Guthrie Center I met a very large red-faced woman in the road.
She seemed much excited and out of breath. Stopping me she said her
husband was stuck in the mud at the foot of the hill,--and would I
pull him out?--she couldn’t. I hurried on to the bottom of the hill
much excited myself, only to find a wagon stuck in the mud, and the
man, an old soldier, bewailing his luck. I pulled up short and
laughingly said, “I thought you were stuck in the mud, but I see it is
your wagon.” I saw he was not in any mood to be laughed at, so I got
down, and without saying any more took Bess out and asked him to
unhitch his poorest horse, and I would pull him out.
He seemed quite disgusted and said, “Why don’t you take your team and
put them on ahead of mine? You can’t pull her out with one horse.”
Still, to make a long story short, I did, and he apologized for his
team and said they could have pulled the wagon out if they had been
fresh, but they had pulled that load all the way from Guthrie Center.
As I was putting Bess back to the wagon I could not help saying, “Yes,
I am sure if your team had been fresh they could have pulled you out,
but it is a long way to Guthrie Center, and this mare has only pulled
her share from Los Angeles, California, and is quite fresh, you see.”
Climbing up into the wagon and reaching over for the lines I could not
help but smile at the old man. He took his hat off and walking up
alongside of the wagon, as I released the brake, he said, “Good Lord,
stranger, I might have known you didn’t belong in these parts, or you
wouldn’t have put yourself out to help me. I have been here an hour
and a half, and lots of passers, and no one but you offered to help. I
wish you good luck and lots of it.” I promised Bess an extra feed of
oats that night on the old man’s account, and I hope he never gets
stuck again where his wife can’t pull him out.
I had expected to reach Des Moines, Sunday, the eighteenth, and meet
Mr. Lingle, who had offered to come out and spend a few days of his
vacation with me in the schooner. As I was behind my schedule and had
no way of telling when I would reach town, I telephoned into Des
Moines and got my friend, Mr. Hippee, to bring Mr. Lingle out in his
auto to meet me.
This arrangement resulted in my meeting Mr. Polk and Mr. Hippee,
together with Mr. Lingle, in their auto just east of Adel at 11 A. M.,
Monday morning, the nineteenth. I was just twenty-four hours behind my
schedule, but in view of the weather, and the going, I was much
farther along than I had expected to be.
After a few words of greeting the auto went back, and Mr. Lingle and I
continued on into Des Moines, which we reached at 6 P. M. Here we
deserted the wagon for the hotel and spent a very enjoyable evening
with friends.
[Illustration: WE ARRIVE AT KEMAH]
From here on we had two days without rain, and, with fairly good
roads, we drove through Colfax, Newton, Kellogg, Grinnell, Brooklyn,
and to Victor before it began again. From Victor into Ladora it rained
hard and continued raining all night and all the next day. We had made
very good progress, however, averaging about thirty miles per day for
four days and not driving very hard either. Mr. Lingle would ride the
lead horse several miles each day and, just as I was beginning to get
used to good roads, and he to a prairie schooner, it had to begin
raining again and Mr. Lingle had to return to “store clothes” and the
city. He left me at Ladora, where I remained all day, while the rain
played havoc with the roads.
Leaving here and going on through Marengo I arrived at Cedar Rapids,
Monday, September 26, having driven through three towns of the Amana
Colony along Bear Creek and the Iowa River, and through another rain
storm or two. By way of diversion I stopped long enough in Cedar
Rapids to call on some friends, who had compassion enough on me to
take me out for dinner.
I had another amusing experience at Marion, just after leaving Cedar
Rapids. I had left my wagon at the livery stable that night and
concluded to stay at the hotel. I was sorry afterward, but I concluded
to add this to my experience and stayed. The hotel was evidently full.
Court must have been in session by the conversation I overheard at the
table and in the office afterward. Wishing to retire, I had to hunt up
the landlady and find where I was to sleep. It seemed to be quite a
problem, but I was finally ushered into a closet off the main hall,
that contained two cots, a small table with a lamp on it, and nothing
else--not even a chair. I was told to leave the door open for fresh
air, and not to blow out the light as another man would occupy the
second cot.
My first thought was to go back to the schooner, but I had never slept
in a closet before and I might never get another chance; besides, I
wondered who else would be fool enough to sleep there, so I said
nothing and turned in. Before I went to sleep the other man came in.
He turned out to be a Dago junk dealer. We got quite well acquainted.
At least, I did with him. He told me where he lived, and all about his
business and family, and when he finally thought to ask me a question,
it was this: “What are you peddling?” He had blown out the lamp and
turned in, so he could not see the contortions I went through before I
could answer. When I thought it was safe to talk, I told him I was not
peddling anything, just taking some horses to Chicago. This seemed to
satisfy him and we let it go at that.
[Illustration: THE LAST ANCHORAGE OF THE PRAIRIE SCHOONER]
The next morning we left the stable about the same time. Starting out
in his express wagon, with a poor decrepit old horse hauling some old
iron, he took off his hat, and wished me good luck. I found him very
human; in fact, I think I should have liked that Dago. He seemed very
much like a white man. He didn’t grumble about sleeping in the closet,
or about the weather, so I followed his example the best I could and
have simply remembered that I made his acquaintance there.
Leaving Marion I drove through Springville, Martelle, and Brockton;
then to Anamosa and from there to Amber. At Amber I bought a
black-and-tan foxhound of a Mr. Weiss. I had Cress for a watch dog,
but things were so quiet about the wagon that I wanted a dog that
would make a noise, and also chase rabbits along the road, so as to
make a bit of a diversion. This dog’s name was Joe, and from here to
Williams Bay he and Cress made it very interesting for all the rabbits
that came in their way.
We now made quite a presentable appearance and Joe lent quite the
necessary touch to the outfit. A prairie schooner should have some
sort of a hound following it. Cress had ridden in the wagon and I had
overlooked the necessity of having a thin hound-like dog, trotting
along behind, to complete the outfit. Now, however, we were strictly
in style.
We go on through Monmouth and Maquoketa, and I made my last camp in
Iowa about two miles from Preston Junction, after passing through the
only real good piece of timber since leaving Denver. Just before going
into camp the road followed a long ridge from which I had a fine view
of the surrounding country, which is still rolling.
Getting an early breakfast, and catching up the horses, I was soon on
my way to Sabula, which I reached at 2:30 P. M. The valley of the
Mississippi looked good to me that morning as I drove down into it
from the hills and, as I drove the wagon onto a barge, to be ferried
over to Savanna from Sabula, I felt that I was nearly home.
Mr. Bradley, who had kept track of my progress, met me here at Savanna
and stayed with the schooner, taking his old place in the galley until
we got to Pecatonica. The weather in Illinois does not seem much
better than in Iowa, but it did not rain Saturday or Sunday, and in
these two days we drove through Mt. Carroll, Lanark, Shannon, and
Freeport.
[Illustration: WE TURN KATE OUT TO PASTURE]
Monday morning at Pecatonica Mr. Bradley took the train for Rockford
and I drove in alone. When I reached Rockford it was raining hard and
it was still raining when I left for Beloit, Wisconsin, the next
morning.
I had spent the night with Mr. Bradley and his family, and we planned
for him to come up to Beloit in the afternoon, on the train, and drive
with me over to the farm. It is only fifty miles from here to the end
of my journey, so I started out cheerfully through the rain and mud.
At Beloit, I met Bradley as planned, and we found a splendid place for
a camp that night in the woods, about seven miles east of town. While
we got supper the dogs put in the time running rabbits around a patch
of brush just back of us, and it was quite a temptation to leave
supper and go and shoot one, but we put it off until afterward, and
then it was dark, and too late.
We had a typical camp here, and when we had turned the horses loose
for the night and got everything in shape, we lighted our pipes and
spent the evening discussing the trip. It was our last camp.
To-morrow, if nothing unforeseen happened, we would reach our
destination and the trip would be over.
It had been an especially interesting as well as enjoyable one to all
concerned. The Doctor and Bob had enjoyed the desert end very much;
Mr. Bradley the trip over the mountains; and to the boys (the two
Normans), who had made the trip from Grand Junction to Nebraska, it
was a new as well as novel experience. The total distance travelled
had been 2,492 miles. Deducting the two weeks’ lay-off at Kearney, the
trip had been made in four months and four days, or an average of
twenty miles per day, which, considering we had the same horses all
the way, we thought was creditable.
I was reminded again of how near I had come to my schedule when
Bradley said, “To-morrow will be October fifth.” When I left Kearney I
had planned to be at the farm by the fifth of October, and here I was
almost certain to do it, in spite of all the setbacks I had
encountered, in the way of rain and roads. This was only another
instance of our good fortune during the whole trip. We had somehow
managed to be at given places when we planned to be. We were very
fortunate in not breaking down or getting lost, and in always having
enough to eat and drink.
[Illustration: BESS ALSO IS TURNED OUT: “GOOD OLD BESS”]
The one thing which seemed to stand out more prominently than any
other, however, as we discussed it that night, was the fact that no
one had been sick. In spite of all the bad water, and the canned
stuff, which might have made some one of us sick, we had got through
it all, including the intense heat, without any one being laid up.
This I attributed largely to the fact that we had the advice of a
doctor who did not want to be bothered with sick folks on the trip. At
home we might not have taken his advice, but on this trip we did take
it, and were not sick, and the Doctor wasn’t bothered. It was probably
very late when we finally turned in, but this is not surprising under
the circumstances.
The next day we drove the remaining twenty miles, arriving at the farm
at 4 P. M., and the thing was done. The horses were turned loose, our
luggage put away, and the overland trip of 1910 was a thing of the
past.
* * * * *
No more camp fires, and no more camping in the open places, with the
trail ahead. The city calls, and even here, before I get into my store
clothes, a gentleman is awaiting me with a request to take the first
train for New York. So quickly am I whisked from the gipsy life I have
been leading, to the whirlpool of a big city, that I am fairly dazed,
and I hardly recover before I find myself getting off a train in the
Grand Central Station, New York. Yes, it is surely over. The Castle is
built--even to the moat, and the draw-bridge is up. We cannot go back.
THE END
End of Project Gutenberg's The Cruise of a Schooner, by Albert W. Harris