CHAPTER VIII.

_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.