By JESSE APPLEGATE.
(Read before the Oregon Pioneer Association in 1876; reprinted from
transactions of that society.)
The migration of a large body of men, women and children across the
continent to Oregon was, in the year 1843, strictly an experiment; not
only in respect to the members, but to the outfit of the migrating
party. Before that date, two or three missionaries had performed the
journey on horseback, driving a few cows with them, three or four wagons
drawn by oxen had reached Fort Hall, on Snake River, but it was the
honest opinion of the most of those who had traveled the route down
Snake River, that no large number of cattle could be subsisted on its
scanty pasturage, or wagons taken over a country so rugged and
mountainous.
The emigrants were also assured that the Sioux would be much opposed to
the passage of so large a body through their country, and would probably
resist it on account of the emigrants’ destroying and frightening away
the buffaloes, which were then diminishing in numbers.
The migrating body numbered over one thousand souls, with about one
hundred and twenty wagons, drawn by six-ox teams, averaging about six
yokes to the team, and several thousand loose horses and cattle.
The emigrants first organized and attempted to travel in one body, but
it was soon found that no progress could be made with a body so
cumbrous, and as yet so averse to all discipline. And at the crossing of
the “Big Blue” it divided into two columns, which traveled in supporting
distance of each other as far as Independence Rock on the Sweetwater.
From this point, all danger from Indians being over, the emigrants
separated into small parties better suited to the narrow mountain paths
and small pastures in their front.
Before the division on the Blue River there was some just cause for
discontent in respect to loose cattle. Some of the emigrants had only
their teams, while others had large herds in addition, which must share
the pasture and be guarded and driven by the whole body. This discontent
had its effect in the division on the Blue. Those not encumbered with or
having but few loose cattle attached themselves to the light column;
those having more than four or five cows had of necessity to join the
heavy or cow column. Hence the cow column, being much larger than the
other and much encumbered with its large herds, had to use greater
exertion and observe a more rigid discipline to keep pace with the more
agile consort. It is with the cow column that I propose to journey with
the reader for a single day.
It is four o’clock A. M.; the sentinels on duty have discharged their
rifles—the signal that the hours of sleep are over—and every wagon and
tent is pouring forth its night tenants, and slow-kindling smokes begin
largely to rise and float away in the morning air. Sixty men start from
the corral, spreading as they make through the vast herd of cattle and
horses that make a semicircle around the encampment, the most distant
perhaps two miles away.
[Illustration:
17.—“Oregon Buttes,”—taken from South Pass.
]
The herders pass to the extreme verge and carefully examine for trails
beyond, to see that none of the animals have strayed or been stolen
during the night. This morning no trails led beyond the outside animals
in sight, and by 5 o’clock the herders begin to contract the great,
moving circle, and the well-trained animals move slowly towards camp,
clipping here and there a thistle or a tempting bunch of grass on the
way. In about an hour five thousand animals are close up to the
encampment, and the teamsters are busy selecting their teams and driving
them inside the corral to be yoked. The corral is a circle one hundred
yards deep, formed with wagons connected strongly with each other; the
wagon in the rear being connected with the wagon in front by its tongue
and ox chains. It is a strong barrier that the most vicious ox cannot
break, and in case of an attack of the Sioux would be no contemptible
intrenchment.
From 6 to 7 o’clock is a busy time; breakfast is to be eaten, the tents
struck, the wagons loaded and the teams yoked and brought up in
readiness to be attached to their respective wagons. All know when, at 7
o’clock, the signal to march sounds, that those not ready to take their
proper places in the line of march must fall into the dusty rear for the
day.
There are sixty wagons. They have been divided into fifteen divisions or
platoons of four wagons each, and each platoon is entitled to lead in
its turn. The leading platoon today will be the rear one tomorrow, and
will bring up the rear unless some teamster, through indolence or
negligence, has lost his place in the line, and is condemned to that
uncomfortable post. It is within ten minutes of seven; the corral but
now a strong barricade is everywhere broken, the teams being attached to
the wagons. The women and children have taken their places in them. The
pilot (a borderer who has passed his life on the verge of civilization
and has been chosen to the post of leader from his knowledge of the
savage and his experience in travel through roadless wastes), stands
ready, in the midst of his pioneers and aids, to mount and lead the way.
Ten or fifteen young men, not today on duty, form another cluster. They
are ready to start on a buffalo hunt, are well mounted and well armed,
as they need be, for the unfriendly Sioux have driven the buffalo out of
the Platte, and the hunters must ride fifteen or twenty miles to reach
them. The cow drivers are hastening, as they get ready, to the rear of
their charge, to collect and prepare them for the day’s march.
It is on the stroke of seven; the rush to and fro, the cracking of
whips, the loud command to oxen, and what seemed to be the inextricable
confusion of the last ten minutes has ceased. Fortunately every one has
been found and every teamster is at his post. The clear notes of a
trumpet sound in the front; the pilot and his guards mount their horses;
the leading divisions of the wagons move out of the encampment, and take
up the line of march; the rest fall into their places with the precision
of clock work, until the spot so lately full of life sinks back into
that solitude that seems to reign over the broad plain and rushing river
as the caravan draws its lazy length towards the distant El Dorado. It
is with the hunters we shall briskly canter towards the bold but smooth
and grassy bluffs that bound the broad valley, for we are not yet in
sight of the grander but less beautiful scenery (of Chimney Rock, Court
House and other bluffs, so nearly resembling giant castles and palaces),
made by the passage of the Platte through the highlands near Laramie. We
have been traveling briskly for more than an hour. We have reached the
top of the bluff, and now have turned to view the wonderful panorama
spread before us. To those who have not been on the Platte, my powers of
description are wholly inadequate to convey an idea of the vast extent
and grandeur of the picture, and the rare beauty and distinctness of the
detail. No haze or fog obscures objects in the pure and transparent
atmosphere of this lofty region. To those accustomed only to the murky
air of the seaboard, no correct judgment of distance can be formed by
sight, and objects which they think they can reach in a two hours’ walk
may be a day’s travel away; and though the evening air is a better
conductor of sound, on the high plain during the day the report of the
loudest rifle sounds little louder than the bursting of a cap; and while
the report can be heard but a few hundred yards, the smoke of the
discharge may be seen for miles. So extended is the view from the bluff
on which the hunters stand, that the broad river glowing under the
morning sun like a sheet of silver, and the broader emerald valley that
borders it, stretch away in the distance until they narrow at almost two
points in the horizon, and when first seen, the vast pile of the Wind
River Mountains though hundreds of miles away, looks clear and distinct
as a white cottage on the plain.
[Illustration:
18.—“STEAMBOAT SPRING” ON THE BANKS OF THE BEAR RIVER.
]
We are full six miles away from the line of march; though everything is
dwarfed by distance, it is seen distinctly. The caravan has been about
two hours in motion and is now as widely extended as a prudent regard
for safety will permit. First, near the bank of the shining river is a
company of horsemen; they seem to have found an obstruction, for the
main body has halted while three or four ride rapidly along the bank of
the creek or slough. They are hunting a favorable crossing for the
wagons; while we look they have succeeded; it has apparently required no
work to make it passable, for all but one of the party have passed on,
and he has raised a flag, no doubt a signal to the wagons to steer their
course to where he stands. The leading teamster sees him, though he is
yet two miles off, and steers his course directly towards him, all the
wagons following in his track. They (the wagons) form a line
three-quarters of a mile in length; some of the teamsters ride upon the
front of their wagons, some march beside their teams; scattered along
the line companies of women are taking exercise on foot; they gather
bouquets of rare and beautiful flowers that line the way; near them
stalks a stately greyhound, or an Irish wolf dog, apparently proud of
keeping watch and ward over his master’s wife and children. Next comes a
band of horses; two or three men or boys follow them, the docile and
sagacious animals scarce needing this attention, for they have learned
to follow in the rear of the wagons, and know that at noon they will be
allowed to graze and rest. Their knowledge of time seems as accurate as
of the place they are to occupy in the line, and even a full-blown
thistle will scarce tempt them to straggle or halt until the dinner hour
has arrived. Not so with the large herd of horned beasts that bring up
the rear; lazy, selfish and unsocial, it has been a task to get them in
motion, the strong always ready to domineer over the weak, halt in the
front and forbid the weak to pass them. They seem to move only in the
fear of the driver’s whip; though in the morning, full to repletion,
they have not been driven an hour before their hunger and thirst seem to
indicate a fast of days’ duration. Through all the long day their greed
is never satisfied, nor their thirst quenched, nor is there a moment of
relaxation of the tedious and vexatious labors of their drivers,
although to all others the march furnishes some season of relaxation or
enjoyment. For the cow drivers there is none.
But from the standpoint of the hunters, the vexations are not apparent;
the crack of whips and loud objurgation are lost in the distance.
Nothing of the moving panorama, smooth and orderly as it appears, has
more attractions for the eye than that vast square column in which all
colors are mingled, moving here slowly and there briskly, as impelled by
horsemen riding furiously in front and rear.
[Illustration: