WHEN one sleeps upon the open ground at night with nothing above one's head but the clear blue sky, the sun seems to rise wonderfully early on a bright, unclouded, midsummer morning. As our only artificial lights in this wandering life were tallow candles in a lantern, we soon made the interesting discovery that the night is made for sleep, whereupon we naturally lapsed into the nocturnal habits of aborigines, which on the whole were doubtless quite as consistent with nature as was our own previous custom. So, on the evening after leaving Baker's ranch, the story of the past day having been fully rehearsed, one after another, as the evening shadows began to gather, the boys quietly sought as eligible a spot as could be found on the ground nearby, and they sought it in very much the same deliberate manner as the horse finds his chosen bed, and sinks upon it at the close of day.

When the light of the yet unrisen sun was silently heralding the approach of the on-coming day, it awakened our out-of-door sleepers, and there began at once in both camps the usual early morning activities, for both outfits were to pull out by sunrise. The delightful aroma of coffee and frying bacon stole through the air, stimulating the appetites of men whose stomachs were in waiting.

Our tin cups had not been emptied when from the southward we heard the cracking of whips and the yelping of the mounted mule herders as they came upon the run, rushing the long-eared drove toward the big corral, which was separated from our camp by possibly the fourth of a mile. Soon after the mules had been driven into the enclosure and were expressing some uninterpretable emotions by loud yet plaintive brayings, our boys were actively harnessing their horses, which had been picketed upon the range; speedily they pulled out, while the big train soon uncoiled itself not far behind. Three of us on horseback rode some distance in advance.

The morning was indescribably beautiful. Many have written of Italian skies, and I have often seen and recognized their beauty when they were tinted with the mirrored blue of the Mediterranean, but I have never seen brighter, clearer skies or breathed purer, more exhilarating air than we found on that high and arid plain. Ben, Fred, and I proceeded side by side upon the firm trail. There was no green grass nor were there trees to soften the colors of the landscape, but there were many large patches of cacti then in bloom, the prevailing colors of which were scarlet and bright yellow. We noticed that the long ridges trending toward the river were higher and presented a broader sweep, and the intervening valleys that we crossed were correspondingly wider and deeper than were those further east. Far behind at times we could see our canvas-covered prairie schooners rising over those great fixed billows, like the white-winged barks that bore the Pilgrim fathers over the Atlantic's waves; or possibly like Abraham's ships of the desert all alike drifting westward, ever westward, over a wilderness whether of land or sea, destined to some new region far away.

On the forenoon of that day, June 26th, while riding over the crest of one of those broad swells, we three simultaneously discerned on the western horizon what appeared to be a placid lake of considerable size, with a well-defined shore line on its further border. Its color, bright azure blue, denoted a body of clear and deep water. It was a charming feature in that treeless, arid landscape, but nothing upon our maps had ever suggested to us the existence of such a body of water in that country.

Not long previous to that time, I had seen from the shore of Lake Superior a distant island invisible under ordinary conditions, but at times apparently lifted above the horizon, with its well defined shore line quivering unsteadily in the sky just above the surface of the water. As we moved onward, this phantom Nebraska lake receded, and in an hour it melted into the blue sky. We then knew that it was a mirage. The same phenomenon reappeared, always in the West and under the same conditions, at about nine o'clock on each of the two succeeding mornings.

It is something of a tumble to turn the thoughts from a celestial vision of rare beauty to the details of a dog dinner. Just while the beautiful mirage, and other interesting phases of nature were lifting the trio to an exalted frame of mind, Paul's ruling passion led him to one of the many prairie dog settlements that we passed on our course, where he shot two of the rodents and secured them before they had dropped into their burrow. During our long noon rest he carefully prepared and cooked them for our luncheon. When we assembled at the mess, the unrecognizable dogs, fat and plump and nicely browned, were exhibited by Paul as something rare and dainty. Our usual mode of serving food was similar to that adopted in the modern cafeterias, in which our methods seem to have been so far imitated that each person takes his plate to the common source of supply for his rations, but returns to his base of operations to devour them. On the occasion of our dog feast, Paul, being ambitious to produce a favorable impression with the roast dog, graciously conveyed it to each of the banqueters as they sat upon the ground in an irregular circuit. It was amusing to watch them as each cut a delicate morsel and conveyed it to his mouth, then chewed the little fragment slowly and critically that the organs of taste might fully sense the flavor. At the same time, with compressed eye-brows, a far-away look in the eyes, and an occasional glance toward the faces of others who were going through the same ceremony, all were preparing to give an expert opinion on the dainty.

Nearly but not quite every member of the party accepted a portion and made favorable comments on the flavor. There is possibly something in the familiar local name commonly applied to these animals that is not appetizing, but the name is really a misnomer, as the prairie dog does not belong to the canine family. Even that fact in itself may not commend him as a delicacy for the table. In some features he resembles the squirrel, but in habits and actions, as many people know, is more like a chipmunk, and the two are members of the same family. The generally accepted belief that these little animals dwell together in amity with rattlesnakes, which are rather numerous in the chosen territory of the prairie dog, need not add to their attractiveness on the menu.

I have found no definite authority on the subject, but I should conclude from observation and inquiry that the serpents are not the invited guests of the rodents, but hibernate with them during the winter as an economic measure, to avoid unnecessary labor in preparing their own subterranean apartments and in the ordinary spring housework, all of which is performed in common courtesy by the hosts. It may be imagined that the relations between the householders and their unbidden guests are not always cordial.

In the forenoon we had fallen in with a small party of emigrants, with whom I had already held some conversation. In one of their wagons were two brothers, one of whom was driving their span of mules. The older of the two, who was about to start on a hunt, drew his rifle from beneath the seat, when it was accidently discharged, the bullet entering his thigh. This was simply an incident to which travelers are liable. No doctor was at hand. I was riding near the wagon and assisted the unfortunate youth to the ground. It occurred to one of our party to apply for counsel to Dan Trippe, who was "a sort of all-around man," who always had a good jack-knife and had read some scientific works. He had possibly read something concerning surgery, for his father had been a physician. When Dan was summoned and the situation was briefly stated to him, it was suggested to him that he should not disclose the fact that he was not a regular practitioner, because it would materially detract from the good effect of what he might do. While the injured young man now stretched out upon the ground was apparently unconcerned, his youthful brother was heartbroken and in tears, realizing that an accident liable to prove serious had occurred far out in the wilderness.

Dan promptly responded to the call, and, approaching the sufferer, proceeded at once in a cool, self-possessed manner to examine the wound. Dan had studied Greek in a preparatory school, and was able to use a few anatomical terms any one of which would serve his purpose at the time as well as any other. He accordingly raised his eyebrows and looked wise, after the manner of experienced physicians. He then addressed to us a few recondite terms which came to his mind, assuming to indicate the probable direction which the ball had taken, all of which was about as clear and satisfactory as is the average diagnosis. The younger boy, anxious to obtain Dan's mature opinion on the case, asked with trembling voice, "Doctor, do you think brother will get well?"

After another moment, apparently given to careful consideration of the conditions, Dan replied, in slowly delivered, well accented words with an air indicating profound knowledge. Bringing into play a stock term which he often used humorously, a term suggested by an oft-told story, he said that there being no serious phlebotomization of the wound, the prognosis was favorable, and he was confident that under fair conditions the patient would speedily recover,—information that was more satisfactory to the youth than it was to Dan. Our boys could not suppress some smiles when they heard this oracle. A later informal and unprofessional conversation with a few friends, led to the decision, that as Dr. Brown was now an "uncertain proposition," the wounded man had best be sent ahead to Julesburg, now a small army post, where there was possibly a surgeon. The lightest wagon in the train was accordingly appropriated, and its freight distributed to the other wagons; a suspended bed, upon which the young man was swung as in a hammock, was constructed inside the box; provisions were put in for a three days' journey; and with the best span of mules available and a driver, the two boys started on their long and anxious journey, planning to drive as continuously as possible.

We had been undecided as to the course we should take west of Julesburg, but having received information that the Platte was rising, it was deemed expedient for our little party also to push on, so that if we did conclude to take a northern route we could more safely cross the river. We accordingly again pressed onward in advance of the train that we had recently joined. Unless the traveler upon those wide prairies was exceedingly dull and impassive something was sure to occur each day to arouse his interest. The sight of game or some unexpected incident invoked expressions of enthusiasm or curiosity.

On the forenoon after Dan assumed the role of doctor a small herd of antelope seemed to surprise themselves by coming directly upon us on their way from the river toward the bluffs to the south. When alarmed these beautiful beasts start with the speed of the wind in some direction without much regard for what may be in their course; so, in this case, they apparently took no notice of our big wagons until they were almost within thirty rods of them, when they suddenly turned to pass in our rear. The first impulse of man is to shoot the innocent creatures, and in a moment four or five rifles were out, and bullets were flying, but the little fellows were too rapid and escaped injury.

Immediately following this trifling incident dense black clouds with a fleecy border rolled up from the west and we soon faced a terrific squall, followed by a driving storm of heavy hail. The flattened icy meteors were of the regulation size, being as large as hens' eggs. Those of us who were on horseback hastily sought refuge in the wagons. Our horses, however, quickly became quite unmanageable from the incessant pelting, and it seemed humane to alleviate their suffering if possible. The men who were not driving again shared the battering of the big ice bullets with the horses, but any covering that we could put over them for protection was lifted by the gale. Peter Wintermute's fine four-horse team, which I often took pleasure in driving, reared and plunged to escape. Our saddle horses broke loose and started off with the wind, and for twenty minutes the panic continued, during which the canvas-covered wagons creaked as if in pain. After the storm had passed, the fugitive horses stopped in their flight and slowly returned to the companionship of the other animals, seeking on the way to crop a little grass from the scanty growth. In contrast with the clear air and bright skies for which that country is distinguished there is tremendous vigor in the elements when turned loose in Nebraska.

On Thursday evening we camped near Julesburg, an old town named in 1859 from Jules Beni, a trapper. All the buildings at this point had been burned by the Indians very recently, and we were informed that the few small structures there then had just been erected by the Government. I asked a survivor of the fire why the Indians burned Julesburg. The information was that they burned it because they wanted to. The old town, originally having but a few framed buildings, was familiar to all plainsmen, as it was the parting of two great trails.

Near by, within an hour's walk, was Fort Sedgwick, in command of Captain Nicholas J. O'Brien of the 18th Regiment of regulars, an old time friend and comrade of our Captain Ben Frees. Captain O'Brien had built this post under the instructions of the War Department. Ben secured from him much valuable information concerning the Indian situation. Captain O'Brien in the preceding year had been the hero of a desperate fight with a large force of Indians under the wily Chief Man-afraid-of-his horses, and with the loss of fourteen men saved the lives of four stage passengers, one of whom was a woman. The history of some of his daring exploits is narrated in Coutant's Wyoming.

In addition to one company of the 18th regulars, there were stationed at the post under O'Brien two companies of the 5th U. S. Volunteers, and a company of the 2nd U. S. Cavalry. We learned that on the occasion of the burning of the post at Julesburg, about two thousand savages, with yells and whoops, suddenly closed in upon the town, but were met by a detail of troops from the fort. The Indians used chiefly bows and arrows. The surviving soldiers were relieved after twenty-two comrades had been killed and scalped by the Indians. The town was pillaged and burned to the ground with heavy loss of supplies to the stage company. Fifty thousand dollars in money was captured from a single coach. The estimated loss in Julesburg as the result of this attack, which occurred on February 2, 1865, was $115,100. The additional losses sustained by Ben Holliday in the raids occurring at that time, including losses of horses and stages, and the various stage stations destroyed by the Indians along the Platte River, were finally placed at $375,839, for the recovery of which amount a bill was introduced in Congress. The loss to emigrants would not be reported as would that of stage companies that transport the U. S. Mail. The stage lines in those days were frequently put entirely out of service for a time by Indian depredations. If there had ever been any timber along the Platte near Julesburg, it had now disappeared. A small pine log six feet in length which, it was stated, had been brought sixty miles, was purchased by Paul Beemer for one dollar, for fire wood. That price, however, was less than its original cost, for Captain O'Brien stated that wood cost the Government $625 per cord.

In a yard nearby, adobe or sun-dried bricks were being made, the size being about 8x12 inches. They were to be used in the rebuilding of Julesburg. None had yet been used in new construction. To be exact, Julesburg at the time of our visit consisted of six widely separated framed houses, on the old ruins, one being a blacksmith shop. The most imposing of the buildings was a billiard parlor, as indicated by the sign on its front. As a detachment from our party were sauntering by the wide-open door of the last named palace of amusement, an altercation had just commenced, the casus belli being the price of two bags of shelled corn. Two men who had just entered the room of the saloon at once approached a stalwart man who was pushing ivory balls across a billiard table, and demanded more money for the corn. "Not another cent; I paid all I agreed to pay," was the sharp reply of the player, who for a moment discontinued his game. "It's a damn lie and you know it, and if you don't shell out damn quick, we'll take it out of you," was the call to combat delivered by one of the newly arrived pair who, like all others there except the proprietor, were transients. The big end of a billiard cue, swung with terrific force, instantly crashed against the head of the corn seller, and swiftly whirling again in the air it grazed the disappearing form of the silent partner, who escaped through the door. The prostrate spokesman of the pair was lifted to his feet by bystanders and assisted to the open air, and the game proceeded.

We had previously learned that arrangements had been in progress for several months, with the view of holding an important council at Fort Laramie with several Indian tribes then on unfriendly terms with the whites. It was hoped that a treaty might settle the issues which for a considerable time had been the cause of continued dissension. At Julesburg we learned that according to the latest advices received there, no treaty had been concluded, although the tribes had assembled. It was further reported that Indian warriors to the number of 15,000 had disappeared from their customary haunts and were apparently removing their families to safer places, preparatory to taking the war-path, unless a satisfactory settlement should be made. The question for us now to determine was, should we take the Bitter Creek route through Bridger's Pass and thus keep as far south and west of the disputed territory as possible, or proceed by Fort Laramie and "the new cut off" by Fort Reno, the route which the Indians were demanding must be closed to white travel.

A feeling of despondency prevailed among the few whites remaining at Julesburg, mingled with a bitter sentiment toward the Government for the manner in which the negotiations had thus far been conducted, it being the belief that the interests of sutlers and Indian agents had been treated as paramount. It seemed impossible for us at this time to obtain definite information as we desired, but the almost universal impression was that the Indians were being fed, armed, and otherwise put into favorable condition to prosecute war upon the settlers and emigrants whenever they should decide to turn their backs upon the unsatisfactory terms demanded from them. As is well known, Indians lack the faculty of organization on a large scale. Tecumseh, Pontiac, and other tribal leaders finally failed because of this fact. The tribes that were involved in the controversy to which we have referred were chiefly the Sioux or Dakotas, the Mountain Crows, the Cheyennes, and the Arapahoes. Each of these tribes was divided into numerous independent bands, each recognizing no authority beyond its own chief. A common language, and the tribal superstitions and customs, are the only bond that was calculated to unite them, otherwise, so far as can be learned from observation and from various writings, they were as independent one of another as the Anglo-Saxon stock of Minnesota is independent of the same stock in Manitoba. A common cause might unite them for a time, but each would still be under its own leadership. There is no great head to the tribe as a whole. As the tribes are divided into bands, so each band is divided into villages, each having its own chief. Parkman states that the chiefs are "honored and obeyed only so far as their personal qualities may command respect or fear." Some chiefs have attained much power and are recognized in the histories of our country. Such were Sogoyewatha, the orator of the Senecas, Blackhawk of the Sacs, Red Cloud, to whom we shall refer later, and several other chiefs of national reputation. The Western Dakotas, of late years known as Sioux, had no fixed place of abode. They were incessantly wandering both in summer and winter, and the buffalo furnished them most of the necessities of life. Its flesh, which was usually sun-dried, or jerked, as the process is termed, furnished food; its skin their habitations and beds; its fat was fuel; other parts supplied powerful strings for their bows, also glue, thread, cordage, and boats. Was it strange, then, that the unnecessary slaughter of these valuable animals upon which they had learned to depend, and their slaughter on the best of the remaining hunting grounds, should arouse the earnest protest of the redskins?

In view of the general conditions, we held a council in the evening, and as arguments are easily forthcoming to sustain any personal desire or predilection, we, as many young men would have done, decided to go by the Laramie route. This was on the theory or pretext that we were likely to get over the mountains before the Indians could inaugurate a general warfare, and before the treaty gathering at Laramie could be concluded. As a fact, we were disposed to go by that route because we believed that more of interest promised to happen along that trail; besides, the natural attractions appeared more inviting than on the Bridger route. The rapid rise in the river, indeed, brought rather a serious obstacle to confront us, but we determined to attempt the crossing in the morning. For a time in the year 1864, prior to the diversion of the stage line to the Bridger route, a ferry was maintained at this crossing, but in the following year it was permanently abandoned.

We had not forgotten to inquire after the condition of the wounded young driver who had preceded us. The post surgeon reported that he was progressing favorably and that the doctor who had dressed the wound had done it as well as could be expected of an amateur; in other words, he had done nothing except to bandage it. We were permitted to congratulate the young man on his safe trip to that point.

On our way back to the camp we were surprised to come upon Dr. Brown's driver, John, who informed us that his party had just arrived. He conducted us to the doctor's camp, where we received a cordial southern welcome. When we informed Dr. Brown that we had decided to undertake the northern route, he requested us to be seated for awhile. Occupying such boxes and other objects as were the most available, we were soon in comfortable positions. Ben and Fred made it convenient to sit one on either side of the girls, who were as usual side by side. I was pleasantly grouped with the doctor and his wife. John, after having stimulated the camp fire, found a seat upon the front of one of the wagons. The doctor was much older than we were, and we had observed that the loss of many friends during the recent war and the abandonment of his old Kentucky home, had filled his mind with sad and haunting recollections. However, he and his family were fine examples of the best and most cultured stock that went out from his state to make up the permanent citizenship that entered into the building of the West.

For several minutes after we were all seated but few words were spoken. The camp fire, which had been revived for light rather than for heat, had begun to flash some flickering rays upon the faces of the little company gathered around it. Finally the doctor said: "I much regret that our paths must separate, and though our own plans are somewhat uncertain, I hope that we may meet again."

In travel of the kind we have been describing, acquaintance often ripens more rapidly than in ordinary life. Without preliminaries, we proceeded to recite the incidents of our journey since our first separation from their party, though Ben and Fred joined in the conversation but incidentally, finding much more of interest in the subdued conversation they contrived to carry on with the young ladies. The fact that Ben (then hardly twenty-one years of age) had been a first-lieutenant in a Wisconsin regiment in active service, did not seem to lessen his admiration for the southern girl with dark hair, and possibly not for the dignified father, who may have faced him on some southern battlefield. Ben was a noble fellow of sterling worth and character. His sincerity and good sense were sure to make their impression upon any one whom he might meet. Fred was quite as true, and there was charm in his presence. There they sat beside those bright but serious young ladies, quietly making the best of the fleeting moments.

"Boys," I said, "don't you think it is time to leave our friends and return to camp,—for we must try that ford early in the morning, you know?"

My admonition roused the boys to a realization of the fact that the hour was late. We rose from our seats, exchanged a hearty goodbye with the Browns, and after lingering a moment with the young ladies on the edge of the shadow of the wagons made by the camp fire, we tore ourselves away and started through the darkness towards our own camp. We separated, not expecting to meet the Browns again, but we met them once more on this strange and interesting highway.