MEMOIRS
OF
ORANGE JACOBS
WRITTEN BY HIMSELF
CONTAINING MANY INTERESTING, AMUSING AND INSTRUCTIVE
INCIDENTS OF A LIFE OF EIGHTY YEARS OR MORE,
FIFTY-SIX YEARS OF WHICH WERE SPENT IN
OREGON AND WASHINGTON.
SEATTLE, WASH.
LOWMAN & HANFORD CO.
1908
DEDICATION.
To the Pioneers of the State of Washington, whose privations nobly borne, whose heroic labors timely performed, and whose patriotic devotion to the Republic, gave Washington as a star of constantly increasing brilliancy to the Union—this book is gratefully dedicated.
CONTENTS.
| I. | My Autobiography. |
| II. | Incidents in crossing the Plains in 1852. |
| III. | Pen sketches of events, amusing, interesting and instructive of a Pioneer's life on the Pacific Coast, extending over fifty-six years. |
| IV. | Indian civilization, its true methods, its difficulties. |
| V. | Indian customs, legends, logic and philosophy of life. |
| VI. | Religion and reasons for some fundamental doctrines. |
| VII. | Official life and some incidents connected therewith. |
| VIII. | Game animals and birds of the State of Washington. |
| IX. | A few public addresses delivered by me. |
| X. | The result of Pioneer patriotism and energy. |
Introduction
I have often been requested by my friends to write a sketch book, containing, first, my autobiography, with some of the incidents of a life already numbering eighty years and more; secondly, some of the addresses and papers made by me as a private citizen or public official; and, thirdly, some of the impressions, solemn, ludicrous and otherwise, made upon me in my contact with all the forms of the genus homo, principally on the Pacific Coast, where I have resided since 1852—in Oregon for seventeen years; in Seattle, Washington, thirty-eight years, plus the dimming future.
I have finally concluded to undertake the delicate task. If it is ever completed and printed, I fondly hope its readers, if any, may be interested, if not instructed, by these extracts from a long experience of contact and conflict with the world.
I say "conflict," because every true life is a battle for financial independence, social position and the general approval of one's fellow-men.
If an autobiography could be completed by an accurate and simple statement of facts, such as one's birth, education and the prominent and distinguishing events or acts of one's career, it would be a comparatively easy task. But, even then, too great modesty might incline to dim the lustre of the paramount facts, or to narrow their beneficence; while a dominating egotism might overstate their merits and extent, and exaggerate their beneficial results. Both of these are to be avoided. But where is the man so calm, so dispassionate and discriminating as to avoid the engulfing breakers on either hand? If there could be an impartial statement of the facts I have suggested, still they would be but a veil encompassing the real man. The true man would but dimly appear by implication. Character, that invisible entity, like the soul, constitutes the true man. Any biography that does not develop the traits, the qualities, of this invisible entity is of no value. Character is complex and compound. It consists of those tendencies, inclinations, bents and impulses which come down through the line of descent and become an integral part of the man, and are therefore constitutional. These are enlarged and strengthened, or curbed and diminished or modified, by education, environment and religious belief. Education possesses no creative power. It acts only on the faculties God has given. It draws them out, enlarges and strengthens them—increases their scope and power—and gives them greater breadth and deeper penetration. By education I do not mean the knowledge derived from books alone, for Nature is a great teacher and educator. The continuous woods, the sunless canyon, the ascending ridges and mountain peaks, as well as the sunlit and flower-bestrewn dells and valleys—in fact all of the beautiful and variegated scenes in Nature—possess an educational force and power very much, in my judgment, underestimated. Man's emotional nature is enlarged—his taste for the beautiful quickened—and his love for the grand and sublime broadened and deepened by frequent intercourse with Nature. Byron felt this when he wrote
"There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,
There is a rapture on the lonely shore,
There is society, where none intrudes,
By the deep sea, and music in its roar:
I love not man the less, but Nature more,
From these, our interviews, in which I steal
From all I may be, or have been before,
To mingle with the Universe, and feel
What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal."
I have mentioned environment above. It is not only a restraining and quasi-licensing, but also an educational force. There are, I fear, in every community, especially on the Pacific Coast, many young persons, who, lacking in fixed moral principles and habits of life like the sensitive and impressionable chameleon, assuming the color of the bark on the tree which for a time is its home—take on the moral coloring of the society in which they move, and become for a time, at least, an embodiment of its moral tone. But let the conditions change—let such persons migrate and become residents of a society of darker moral hue and of lower moral tone—and, like the chameleon, they almost immediately take on the darkened coloring and echo the lower tone. If it is their nature to command, they become leaders in a career of associated viciousness or infamously distinguished in the line of individual criminality. The general result is, however, that having broken loose from their moral moorings, they drift as hopeless, purposeless wrecks on the sea of life.
During my residence on the Pacific Coast I have known many sad instances of this degeneration, and our own beautiful and prosperous city has not been free from such sad examples. It is a true, if not an inspired saying that "evil communications corrupt good manners." It is more emphatically true that evil associations corrupt good morals, which was probably the meaning intended by the translators.
I have mentioned religious belief as an element in the formation of character. The doctrine of no religious teacher has ever exercised such a dominating and controlling force in the formation of character in the civilized world, as have the doctrines of Christ. Before His advent the learned world received the philosophy of Aristotle, as a sufficient basis of moral doctrine and civic virtue. But that philosophy, great as it was, and impinging as it often did on the domain of absolute truth, has as a system of moral conduct, given way or been subordinated to the clear, direct yet simple enunciation of Christ, summed up in that grand and universally applicable rule of individual and civil conduct: "Do unto others as you would have others do unto you." A character in which this doctrine forms the basis will always respond to the demands of honor and right.
These observations must answer as a preface, or, as Horace Greely once styled such performances, as "preliminary egotism."
Autobiography
I was born in the Genesee Valley, Livingstone County, State of New York, on the second day of May, A. D. 1827. I was number two of a family of eight children,—six boys and two girls. My mother, while not in the popular sense an educated woman, having but a common-school education, had, as the philosopher Hobbes termed it, a large amount of "round-about common-sense." While she gave, as a religious mother, her assent to Solomon's declaration that he who spares the rod spoils the child, it was only in the most flagrant instances of disobedience that she put the doctrine in practice. She was firm, consistent, and truthful, indulging in no unfulfilled threats or promises of punishment in case of non-compliance with her orders. In fact, she acted upon the principle that certainty and not severity of punishment was the preventative of disobedience. Her all-prevailing governing power was affection—love,—thus exemplifying the teaching of the Master that "he who loveth Me keeps My commandments." I say it now, after eighty years of memory, that we obeyed her because we loved her. She has gone to her reward. My observation and experience is that the mother's influence over her sons, if she be a true and affectionate mother, is far stronger than that of the father. Her love is ever present in the conflict of life; it remains as an enduring and restraining force against evil, and a powerful impulse in favor of honor and right. Someone has said that there are but three words of beauty in the English language: "Mother, Home, Heaven."
My father owned a farm of forty acres in the Genesee Valley, and I first saw the light of day in a plain but comfortable frame house. Back of it, and between two and three rods from it, quietly ran in a narrow channel a flower-strewn and almost grass-covered spring brook, whose clear and pure waters, about a foot in depth, were used for domestic and farm purposes. I mention this brook because connected with it is my first memory. I fell into that brook one day when I was about three years old, and would have drowned had it not been for the timely arrival of my mother. As the years advanced, observation extended, experience increased and enlarged, and I became a parent myself, I have often considered how many children would have reached manhood or womanhood's estate wanting the almost divine affection and ceaseless vigilance of a mother's love.
The next circumstance in my life distinctly remembered occurred some two or three months after the water-incident stated above. Running and romping through the kitchen one day, I tripped and fell, striking my forehead on the sharp edge of a skillet, making a wound over an inch in length and cutting to the bone. The profuse flow of blood alarmed me; but my mother, who was not at all a nervous woman but calm, thoughtful and resourceful in the presence of difficulties, soon staunched the flow of blood and drew the bleeding lips of the gaping wound together. The doctor soon after added his skill; then Nature intervened; and, to use the stately language of court, the incident, as well as the wound, was closed.
I have stated these two events not as very important factors in the history of a life, but because they illustrate the teaching of mental philosophy, that memory's power of retention and in individual's ability to recall any particular fact depends upon the intensity of emotion attending that fact or event. Especially is this true of our youth and early manhood, when our emotional nature is active, vigorous and strong. In after years our emotional nature is not so active and not so readily aroused; still it exists, a latent but potent factor in memory's domain. Given the requisite intensity, it will still write in indelible characters the history of events on the tablets of memory.
Memory is of two kinds—local and philosophical. Local memory is the ability to retain and recall isolated and non-associated facts. The vast mass of early facts accumulated in memory's store-house rests upon this emotional principle. As the years increase and the mind matures, other principles become purveyors for that store-house. The laws of classification and association become in after years the efficient agencies of the cultivated mind to furnish the data for reflection and generalization. The operation of these laws constitutes philosophic memory. But such facts have no pathos,—no coloring. The recalled facts of our youthful days have a thrill in them; not always of joy, sometimes of sorrow. I must, however, dismiss these imperfect thoughts on mental philosophy, and return to autobiography.
My father, not being satisfied with his forty-acre farm, in the Genesee Valley, but being desirous of more extended land dominion, and inflamed with the glowing description of the fertile prairie and wooded plains in Southern Michigan, made a trip to that territory in the summer of 1831 and purchased in St. Joseph County two tracts of land of 160 acres each—one being on what was afterwards called Sturgis Prairie; the other, in what was known as the Burr Oak Openings. St. Joseph County, now one of the most populous in that great State, then had less than two hundred people within its large domain. Near the center of the prairie, which contained five or six sections of land, there were four or five log houses—the nucleus of a thriving town now existing there. There was also quite a pretentious block-house, manifesting the existence of the fear that the perfidious savage,—like the felon wolf,—might at any time commence the dire work of conflagration and massacre. There were many Indians in that section of the country. They belonged to the then numerous and powerful tribe called the Pottawattomies. Southern Michigan is a level and low country, abounding in small and deep lakes and sluggish streams. These lakes and streams were literally filled with edible fish. Deer and wild turkeys, also the prairie chicken, pheasant and quail, were abundant. Strawberries, cherries, grapes, plums, pawpaws and crabapples—as well as hazelnuts, hickory nuts, black walnuts and butternuts—were everywhere in the greatest profusion in the woodlands. It was a paradise for Indian habitation. I cannot omit from this a slight digression—the statement that, having lived on the frontier most of my life and having become acquainted with many Indian tribes, their habits and customs, they do not, like the tiger, or many white men, slaughter just for the love of slaughtering, but for food and clothing, alone; hence, game was always plentiful in an Indian country. The buffalo, those noble roamers over the plains, and which a century or less ago, existed in almost countless numbers, have nearly disappeared. The destructive fury and remorseless cupidity of the white man have done their work. The indian and the buffalo could and would, judging by the past, have co-existed forever. Now the doom of annihilation awaits them both.
In the spring of 1832 we started for our new home in the wilds of Michigan. Our outfit consisted of a wagon loaded with household goods and provisions—two yoke of oxen and a brood mare of good stock. We reached our destination in a little over a month. I say "we" and "our" because I wish it to be understood that I took my father and mother and elder brother along with me to our western home, for I thought that they might be useful there. I distinctly remember but two incidents of that journey; of not much importance, however, in the veracious history of a life. I became bankrupt in the loss of a jack-knife that a confiding friend had given me on the eve of our departure, with which I might successfully whittle my way through to the land of promise. I was inconsolable for a time. I had lost my all. My father, to alleviate my grief, promised me another. So true is it that faith in a promise, whether human or divine, assuages grief, lifts the darkening cloud, and often opens up a fountain of joy.
We had to cross Lake Erie on our journey. The not over-palatial floating palace in which we embarked was struck by a storm. She pitched and rolled and lurched in the tumbling and foaming waters. The passengers, save myself and some of the crew, as I was informed, lurched and foamed at the mouth in unison with the turbulent waves.
I was confined, for fear I might be pitched over-board; but I felt no inclination to join in the general upheaval. Since that time I have journeyed much on the lakes and on the ocean, in calm and in storm, but have ever been immune from that distressing torture.
We arrived at our destination on the first of June. There was no house or building of any kind on the land purchased by my father. By the kindly invitation and permission of a Mr. Parker, a pioneer in that country, we were permitted for the time being, to transform his wood-shed into a living abode. My father immediately commenced the cutting and the hauling of logs for a habitation of our own; but before he had completed the work he was summoned to join forces then moving westward for the subjugation of Blackhawk and the hostile tribes confederated under him, who were then waging a ruthless war on the settlers of Illinois. Any signal success by this wily chieftain, and his confederate forces might, and probably would, have vastly increased the area of conflict and conflagration. Indian fidelity as a general rule, is a very uncertain quantity. There are, I am glad to say, many noble individual exceptions, but perfidy is the general trait. Vigorous action was taken by the Government for the subjugation of the hostile tribes and for the capture of Blackhawk. This was accomplished in the early summer of 1832.
On the morning after my father's departure I accompanied my mother to a spring about a quarter of a mile from Mr. Parker's house, where we obtained water for domestic purposes. Mr. Parker's house was on the southern edge of the prairie which was fringed by a thick growth of hazel, sumach, plums, crabapples, wild cherries and fox grapes. This fringe was narrow and only extended back from two to four rods—beyond which was the open timber. The trail to the spring was in the open timber, but close to the inner circle of the copse. Nearing the spring, we saw, skulking near the outer edge of this thicket fringe, five Pottawattomie warriors. They seemed to be somewhat agitated and were intently observing the movements of the white soldiers and listening to the roll of the drum and the call of the bugle. My mother hesitated at first, but went on to the spring, and, having filled her pails with water, we went back with quickened steps to the house. Shortly after, these warriors came to the house. Mr. Parker, who imperfectly understood their language, succeeded, however, in explaining to them the meaning of this martial array, and they left, seemingly well satisfied. We saw them frequently afterwards and often purchased from them choice venison, turkey and other game birds, as well as fish, for a mere trifle. But those were troublous days and full of dire apprehension to the lone settler. Every night a few, principally old men, would gather at Mr. Parker's house, and when the door was closed and securely fastened, the light extinguished, the few men would lay down with their loaded rifles by their side. The door was not opened in the morning until a careful reconnoissance had been made through the port-holes, of the surrounding country. Apprehension has in it as much of terror as actual danger. The one is continuing—the other but momentary, and the one usually increases in its fervor, while the other disappears with its cause.
My father returned after an absence of about two months. He won no military glory—he saw no hostile indians—Blackhawk and his confederates having surrendered before the hostile country was reached by the command to which my father belonged.
Peace having been secured and confidence restored, father proceeded diligently in the erection and completion of a double log house on his own domain.
I love to think of that old log house with its hewed puncheon floors and thick oaken doors, where my youth was spent. It was a home of peace, of comfort, of plenty and prosperity. Its site was a beautiful one on a knoll near the great military road leading from Detroit to Chicago, and about midway between those cities. The next spring my father, my older brother and myself accompanying him, went to the nearby timber land and got two hundred young sugar maples, black walnuts and butternut trees that were presently planted in concentric circles around that home castle. My father did not believe in drilling ornamental trees into rank and file, like a column of soldiers. He had faith in Nature's beauty and did not think it could be improved by man. Nature should be subordinated to man's will only when cultivation becomes an essential element to the growth, which as a general rule holds only when the tree or plant or shrub is not indigenous to the soil.
In the fall of that year I was prostrated by a large abscess in the right groin. I could neither stand on my feet, nor sit in an upright position. A pallet on the floor, or in some shady nook outdoors when the weather was propitious, was my favorite, and for most of the time my lonely, resting place. On the morning of which I am about to write, my mother was urging my father, as the abscess by its color indicated that it was ripe for the surgeon's lance, to go for a doctor to examine it and my condition, and if proper, to open it and let out the long accumulated poison. The nearest doctor lived some thirty miles away, but my father, yielding to my mother's persuasions, concluded to go. Before he had arisen from his seat at the table he requested my brother to bring in some stove wood. Boy-like, brother piled up such a quantity on his left arm that he could not see over it, and, bending backward, he came into the house seemingly oblivious to my location, tripped against me and fell, striking the end of the wood upon the abscess. Effectually, but not in a very scientific manner, this opened it. I swooned away, and it was sometime before consciousness returned to me. As proof of my brother's surgical skill, a star-shaped scar over an inch in length, remains today. There were some mitigating circumstances, however, in this surgical work:—it saved a lonely journey and a large doctor bill. He received no compensation—but otherwise—for his effective treatment, and the resultant benefit.
On account of sickness and the want of opportunity, I did not attend school until I was nine years of age. I had a large number of picture books containing stories of bears, panthers, lions and tigers. I had to hire other boys to read them to me, and this kept me in a bankrupt condition. I was frantic to be able to read them myself, and when opportunity offered I soon accomplished this purpose.
When I was fourteen years of age the district school was taught by one Dowling—an Irishman—full six feet in height, a fine specimen of physical manhood, and an excellent teacher. He was employed by the Directors not only to teach, but also, if necessary, to subjugate the rebelious spirit theretofore existing among the larger boys attending the school. His presence and firm and courteous manner dispelled all fear of insubordination.
An incident occurred at that school which has remained fresh in my memory. There was a boy attending by the name of Joe Johnson. In age Joe was between fifteen and sixteen. He was quiet, meditative, awkward—the victim of many tricks, the butt of many jokes. One day Dowling ordered all who could write to turn to their desks and within half an hour to produce a verse of original poetry, or as near an approach to it as they were able to go. We had learned that for Dowling to command was for us to obey. I was sitting next to Joe. After meditating a few moments he rapidly wrote the following:—
"I saw the devil flying to the south,
With Mr. Dowling in his mouth;
He paused awhile and dropped the fool,
And left him here to teach a common school."
I looked over Joe's shoulder and read as he wrote, and when he had completed the verse—oblivious to the conditions—I laughed outright. Mr. Dowling, with vigorous application of his hazel regulator, soon restored my reckoning, and indicated my true latitude and longitude. Mr. Dowling read Joe's poetry to the school, to show the ingratitude of the pupil to his preceptor; but the matter was otherwise received by the older pupils, and it was dropped. This incident no doubt revealed to Joe that he possessed poetic ability of the highest order. Joe, after he had arrived at manhood's estate, published a small volume of poems full of wit, beauty of description, and pleasing satire.
I attended the district school in the winter and worked on the farm in the spring, summer and fall, until I was eighteen years of age, when I left the farm and enrolled myself as a student at the Albion College, a Methodist institution strict in its discipline, thorough in its teachings, and of good repute for its excellent educational work. I was there over four years, but did not graduate because of failing health. In measuring up intellectually with a host of other young men in debate and composition, I was inspired with the faint hope that I might at least win a few victories in the actual conflict of life. I gave much attention to the languages, and was especially proficient in Greek and Latin. I had an inclination and love for that line of study. I did not, however, neglect the exact sciences, but I had no intuition assisting in that direction. What I know of mathematics, and my studies in that line were quite extensive, is the result of pure reasoning. If proper here, let me observe that the best teacher of the exact sciences is he who obtains a knowledge of them as I did, because he will more fully appreciate all the difficulties met with by the ordinary student.
He who intuitively sees the relation of numbers, form and quantity, needs but little, if any, assistance from a teacher. It is he who, by slow and laborious process of correct reasoning, discovers or unfolds these relations, that needs the sympathetic assistance of a teacher.
I left school because my physician thought I needed more ozone than Greek—more oxygen and sunshine than Latin, and more and better physical development for any success in life's arduous work and its strenuous conflicts. While under the care of Nature's physician, I spent most of my time in hunting and fishing, with occasional work on the farm. This continued for nearly a year. The treatment was beneficial, and I enjoyed it. During this time I received an invitation from a literary society in the town to deliver before them a lecture, on such subject as I might choose and on such evening as I might designate. I accepted the invitation, and chose as my subject "The Eclectic Scholar." I named a day one month ahead. As this was my first appearance before a public audience, and that, too, composed of the companions and acquaintances of my youth—the most unpropitious of all audiences for a young man to face—I spent nearly the entire month in the preparation of that address. I will not attempt to give its substance or a skeleton of the topics discussed. It was published in the local paper with flattering comments, but I have neither the manuscript nor a copy. My first intention was to read it, but I finally concluded to commit it to memory, and to deliver it without the aid of the manuscript. An incident occurred in this connection that, annoying as it was to me at the time, I cannot omit. After the address had been memorized, I went to a dense copse on the land of Mr. Parker, selected a small opening and delivered the address with proper gesticulations to the surrounding saplings, thinking no human ear or eye heard or saw me; but I was mistaken. Old man Parker was out pheasant hunting. He was near me when I commenced to speak, and, quickly concealing himself, saw and heard from his ambush the whole performance. When I picked up my hat to go, he arose, came into full view, clapped his hands and said, as he approached me, "Well done, Orange." As I was not in a conversational mood I did not tarry. At the appointed time I had a full audience. A vote of thanks was tendered me and a request for a copy for publication. Since that time I have learned that many of the great addresses of the world by orators, and statesmen, are first carefully written, then memorized, then repeated in front of mirrors, before delivery to the audiences for whom they were intended.
Late in the fall of this year I concluded to study law, and to make its exposition and practice my life work. With this end in view I entered the office of Hon. John C. Howe, of Lima, La Grange County, Indiana. Here let me say by way of parenthesis, that our esteemed brother lawyer, James B. Howe of Seattle, is a near relative of his. A brief description of my preceptor may be admissible. He was a quiet, somewhat reserved man, and a great student. Though inclined to be taciturn, yet, when in the mood, his conversation was charming. I have often thought his mind was a little sluggish in its ordinary movement; but, let it be stimulated by an important case or a large fee, and he seemed to be, like Massena, almost inspired. It is said of Napoleon's great Marshal that in the ordinary affairs of life he was a dull and even a stupid man; but that when he saw the smoke of battle, and heard the roar of cannon, the rattling of musketry, and saw the gleam of bayonets in the hands of the charging legions, he was seemingly inspired, and never, amid the roar and tumult of battle, made a mistake. In a sense this was true of my preceptor. He was of strong physique and could work with an intensified industry that approached genius. He possessed great power of generalization and could readily reduce complicated and voluminous facts to their proper classes, and thus completely master them. Few men in American history have possessed this ability in a pre-eminent degree. I might, among the few, mention John C. Calhoun and Oliver P. Morton of Indiana. Another characteristic of my preceptor was his preferential love of English Reports and English authors; hence, in addition to Blackstone's Commentaries, I read Starkey on Evidence; Chitty and Stephen on Pleadings; Chitty on Contracts, on Notes, and Bills of Exchange; Coke on Littleton; Hale's Pleas to the Crown; Archibald on Criminal Law; Lord Redesdale's Equity Pleadings and Jurisprudence; and Seldon on Practice. I read Dr. Lushington's Admiralty Reports. Seemingly, I had no use for admiralty, living as I did in the inland empire; but I found such knowledge of great use after I was appointed to a Judgeship in Washington Territory. A little brushing-up and some additional reading enabled me to try the admiralty causes brought before me to the satisfaction of the bar. I cannot close this brief reference to my law preceptor without the narration of an incident in which he was one of the principal actors. The sheriff of St. Joseph County, Michigan, had been elected for four consecutive terms, and it was alleged and conceded that he was a defaulter in a large amount. He had given a different set of bondsmen for each term, and the question arose which of these sets was responsible. My preceptor was employed by the county; the bondsmen, of which my father was one, employed Columbus Lancaster, afterwards a delegate to Congress from Washington Territory, and one of the judges in the provisional government of Oregon. Lancaster was a witty and eloquent speaker and a successful trial lawyer. As the case was an important one, and the counsel distinguished, many lawyers attended the trial. At that time the laws of Michigan gave three justices of the peace, sitting in bank, all of the powers, by the consent of the parties, of the Superior Court. This was a trial before such tribunal. But little evidence was taken, just enough to raise the legal questions involved. The argument of Howe was clear, compact and to my mind conclusive. It had for its basis English authorities and cases. Lancaster answered in an eloquent and witty speech, and after a brief reply from Howe the case was submitted. The justices retired, but in a short time returned. Their judgment was for the defendants. Howe was manifestly disappointed and he said to Lancaster: "I will offer this: You may choose any three from the lawyers present, and we will re-argue the question and I will agree to abide by their decision." The answer of Lancaster was characteristic; he said: "I never run all day to catch a rabbit, and then let him go just to see whether I can catch him again."
Both of these men have long since been gathered to their fathers. They were just men and true, and in ability far above the average.
I was admitted to the bar in the fall of 1850. Under the laws of Michigan at that time, admission to the bar was not necessary to practice law in that State, but it was the usual and dignified course. The class seeking admission was quite a large one; most of them, in fact all of them save myself, were old lawyers seeking admission in the regular and time-sanctified order. An afternoon was given by Judge Wing, who presided, for the hearing of the petition of the applicants. The Judge and the Bar were the examiners. They all took a free hand. I thought I could discover a disposition on the part of the Judge and the Bar to put the old practitioners, whose knowledge of elementary principles had been somewhat dimmed by the lapse of years, at a disadvantage as compared with the accuracy of a young man fresh from the books. Hence, many questions were rushed to me for a full and accurate statement of the text-books, which in most cases I was able to give, to the manifest pleasure of the examiners. We were all admitted. In anticipation of so propitious a result, we had provided a banquet for Bench and Bar. At its conclusion the Judge said, "a motion for a new trial would be in order, and if such motion was made he would take it under advisement till the next term of the court, when he had but little doubt that it would be granted."
After my admission to the Bar I diligently continued my legal studies, confining myself, however, almost exclusively to American Reports and authors, such as Kent's Commentaries; Story on the Constitution, on Equity Jurisprudence and Pleadings; Greenlief on Evidence; Gould on the Form and the Logic of Pleadings; Bishop on Criminal Law; and many others. I have continued this extensive reading during all of my professional career when books were at hand. Looking back from a standpoint of eighty years' time, I am satisfied that I have read too much, and reflected, reasoned, analyzed, generalized and thoroughly digested too little. I often think of the saying of Locke, the philosopher, that if he had read as much as other men he would have known as little as they. There is much truth in this statement. To read without thought, without reflection, without analysis and a thorough digest of what one reads, is a waste of time. More, it weakens the memory, does not accumulate knowledge, and incapacitates the mind for serious work. While I have no admiration for a correctly-styled "case lawyer," yet, were I to live my professional career over again, I would get my legal principles from a small but well-selected library of authors of established repute; and then I would consult leading cases on each topic or subject, as a help for their proper and logical application. The practice of law consists in the application of a well-defined legal principle to a certain combination of facts. Whether the principle applies is a question for the courts; whether the facts that enter into the definition exist is a question for the jury. But, as I am not writing a legal treatise, I leave the topic here.
My father caught the gold fever, and early in the spring of 1849 started with an ox-team across the plains to the gold-fields of California. He returned in the winter of 1851-2, having been moderately successful. For many years I had been a sufferer from neuralgia. Its painful development was in the forehead. I was a pale and emaciated specimen of the genus homo, weighing less than 150 pounds. My father was of the opinion that the air of the Pacific Coast was rich in ozone, and his physical appearance indicated that his judgment was sound. "Go west, my son," he said; "go to Oregon—not to California—for you would amount to nothing as a miner. You will be subject to a continual alkaline bath on the plains, and this will prepare you for the renovating effects of the salubrious air of the Pacific Coast." My father was not a physician, but I readily consented to take his prescription, provided he would pay the doctor's bill. This he willingly consented to do. I soon found three other young men who had the Oregon fever in its incipient stages. It soon became fixed and constitutional, and they determined to go. A wagon was soon constructed under my father's direction—light but strong, with a bed water-tight and removable, so that it could be used as a boat for ferrying purposes; a strong cover for the wagon, and a tent which in case of storm could be fastened to the wagon to supplement the effectiveness of the cover. Each furnished a span of light, tough and dark-colored horses. White was not allowed on account of their alleged want of toughness and durability. Each was allowed two full suits of clothes and no more, and two pair of double blankets and no more. The object was to prevent overloading. Each was to have a rifle or shotgun, or both, and a pistol and sheath-knife. I am thus particular, because in this day of railroads and Pullman cars, these things are fast passing from memory.
On the first of March, 1852, we left Sturgis, Michigan. Our first point of destination was Cainesville on the Missouri River. We did our own cooking and slept in our wagon when the weather was clement; at hotels and farm houses when it was inclement. None of us had ever tried our hand at cooking before, and our development along that line had a good deal of solid fact, and but little poetry in it. We could put more specific gravity into a given bulk of bread than any scientific cook on earth. Taken in quantity, it would test the digestive energies of an ostrich; but we took it in homeopathic doses. We lived in the open air and survived, as our knowledge of the culinary art rapidly increased. The moral of this mournful tale is:—mothers, teach your sons to do at least ordinary cooking; they may many times bless you in the ever-shifting, and strenuous conflict of life.
I was born and reared in a cold climate; but when the mercury fell, the atmosphere lost its moisture; and while the wind was fierce and biting, it was dry. You can protect yourself against such cold; but when you come to face the cold, damp, fierce and penetrating winds that sweep over the prairies of Illinois and Iowa when winter is departing, they find you, and chill you through any kind or reasonable quantity of clothing.
On account of snow-storms we stopped for a week, in the latter part of March, at a farm-house in the outer settlements of Iowa. The people were intelligent and refined. Our hostess had two lovely daughters, and we young men were at home. Prairie chickens were very abundant in the vicinity, and with my shotgun I more than kept the family supplied while there. Our hostess was a good cook and we lived high. A short distance away was a log school-house also used for a church, and we accompanied the family to church on Sunday. The minister was a Methodist circuit-rider; and while he was not an eloquent man and did not, like Wirt's blind preacher, in the wilds of Virginia, tell us with streaming eyes that "Socrates died like a philosopher, but Jesus Christ like a God," yet with force and emphasis he preached Christ and Him crucified for a sinful world. This was the first church service we had attended since leaving home, and it gave us all a touch of homesickness.
As soon as the storm abated and the weather gave indications of more sunshine and less downpour, we bade adieu to our hostess and her fair daughters, and journeyed slowly onward over horrid roads towards Cainesville. We arrived at this bustling outfitting town on the 23rd of April. We found there a large number of persons and prairie schooners, but most of them were on a voyage to the gold-fields of California. By diligent inquiry I found seventeen wagons, with an average of four persons to the wagon, whose destination was Oregon. We agreed to cross the Missouri River on the 2nd day of May, and on the afternoon of that day we were all safely landed on the western shore. We were now beyond the realm of social constraint, conventional usage, and the reign of the law. It was interesting to me to note the effect of this condition upon a few men in our party. They seemed to exult in their so-called freedom. They spoke of the restraining influence of organized society as tyranny, and of the government of law as government by force. A meeting for organization was called for that evening. I was elected chairman, and in response to a request for my views, I said, that we on the morrow were to start on a journey of over two thousand miles through an Indian country; and while it was reported that the tribes through whose country we were to pass were at peace with the whites, yet it was a sound maxim, in the time of peace to be prepared for war; and that our safety, and that of our property, depended upon our strictness, watchfulness and unity of action, and these beneficial results could only be secured by organization; hence I proposed that, without being myself a candidate for any position and not desiring any, we organize ourselves into a semi-military company by the election of a captain and a first and second lieutenant. A motion was made in accordance with the views expressed by me, and seconded; I declared it open for discussion. One of the persons mentioned above, who thought he had just enhaled the air of perfect freedom, arose and said that he was opposed to the motion; he did not propose to be lorded over by any one; he would be governed by his own judgment and wishes. I replied that we did not propose to lord it over any one, but to govern in all ordinary matters by common consent, and in all matters by the laws of safety and decent morals. The motion was put and it was carried with only five dissenting votes. A vote was taken by ballot for Captain, and to my astonishment I received all the votes but two—one of which was cast by myself for a gentleman who had crossed the plains and who had returned to the States to get married, and, having accomplished that purpose, was returning with his wife and an unmarried sister of hers to his home in Oregon City; the other vote, presumptively, was cast by a gentleman that, on account of his military appearance and the arsenal of weapons which he carried on his person, and his alleged thirst for Indian blood, we styled Colonel. As the Colonel was an open candidate for the office, the opinion prevailed that he had voted for himself. The first and second lieutenants were soon elected and a quasi-military organization was soon formed. The first lieutenant was unpopular with the men. He was a good man, but possessed no fitness for the position; he had much of the fortiter in re, but none of the suaviter in modo. The second lieutenant was a doctor by profession and was eminently fitted for the position; he was calm, cool in danger, discreet in words and action, and courageous in conduct. Thus equipped, the next morning at eight o'clock we rolled out and made about twenty miles; we camped on a plateau covered with grass and by a brooklet of pure, cold spring water. The second and third days were but repetitions of the first. The fourth day we reached the Loup Fork, a large tributary of the Platte. We ferried over it successfully and resumed our journey across the valley of rather low but rich land, still covered in places with a mass of tall dry grass, the fading glory of last year's beneficence. We were in the Pawnee country. When we were about two and one-half or three miles from the river, from seventy-five to a hundred Indians arose suddenly out of the grass, stopped our teams, and by their unearthly yelling came near stampeding our horses. We were caught unprepared. We did not expect to meet hostiles, or even troublesome Indians within an hundred miles of the Missouri River. Many of the guns were not loaded. A lame chief, pretty well dressed in buck-skin, with a sword by his side, a pistol in his belt, a fine rifle in his hand, and a photograph of ex-President Fillmore, in a metallic frame, on his breast, was in command of the Indians. He, and three subordinate chiefs were standing near the head of the train, and I sent the doctor—the second lieutenant—and another discreet person to confer with them and ascertain what this meant. The other Indians in open order extended the full length of the train, and were about five rods away. All had bows and arrows or firearms. They used the weapons in their movements, with incessant yelling, in a menacing manner. All things being in readiness, I went to where the doctor and his companions and the chiefs were, near the head of the train. I asked the doctor what they wanted. He answered that they wanted one cow brute, a large quantity of sugar, tobacco and corn, for the privilege of crossing their country. They were in a squatting position, marking on the ground the boundaries of the country claimed by them. I told the doctor that we had no cow brute and could not give one; that we had but little sugar and tobacco, and could spare none; that if they wanted corn to plant, we would give them a sack of shelled corn, and no more. They understood what I said, and quickly sprang to their feet and covered the doctor and myself with their guns. I had a double-barreled shotgun by my side. I seized it; but before I could get it into position, the muzzles of the guns were lowered, the yelling ceased, and the sack of corn was accepted as toll. This was to me a new and rather startling application of the doctrine of posse comitatus for the enforcement of an unadjudicated demand; but I have since learned that civilized nations use battleships and cannon for that purpose.
The great Carlyle declares that if a person possess a quality in a high degree, whether that quality be mental or physical, he is unconscious of the fact; but if he be deficient in any quality, either moral or physical, he is always conscious of the deficiency; and, seeming to act on the supposition that what he feels so distinctly, he fears others might perceive, he is constantly hedging: therefore, a dishonest man is always talking about his honesty, and a coward about his bravery. All the men of our company behaved well but one, and that one was "the Colonel." I cannot refrain from recalling an incident connected with him. I have mentioned the unmarried lady who was accompanying her sister to her Western home. She was sitting in the wagon with the reins in her hand and a pistol in her lap, during all the excitement and uproar. As I passed up and down the train, I saw the Colonel, either at the rear or on the side of the wagons, away from the yelling Indians. The last time I passed the wagon, the Colonel stuck his head out from the opposite side and asked, "What are you going to do, Captain?" I said, "Fight, sir, if necessary." The young lady, looking at him, exclaimed: "Yes, sir; fight if necessary. Get on the other side of the wagon; be a man!" Although the Colonel subsequently, by his conduct at Shell Creek, partially redeemed his reputation, yet the insinuating jeers of the men, as to which was the safer side of the wagon, kept him in hot water, and, taking my advice, he left the train after the passage of Shell Creek, at the first opportunity. It was a good riddance, for a coward driven to bay, and constantly wounded by the shafts of ridicule, is dangerous.
Our toll having been paid and the excitement having abated, we resumed our journey across the Loup Fork valley and over the slightly elevated high land that separate its waters from the Platte. We descended from this high land by an easy grade, and made an early camp. Wood, water and grass were abundant.
We knew that a large ox-train, consisting of forty wagons or more and known as the Hopkins train, would cross the Loup Fork the next morning. There were quite a number of women and children in the train; hence our gallantry, as well as our bravery, prompted assistance. Further, we had concluded that it was wise to travel in larger bodies through the country of the Pawnees. According to our estimate, this train would arrive at the danger point, or toll gate, between ten and eleven o'clock a. m. Thirty of us volunteered to go back, to assist in case of difficulty. We were mostly mounted and ready for the start, when we saw a horseman rapidly approaching us, and we rode out to meet him. He told us that the Hopkins train had been attacked by the Indians, that two of his company had been seriously, if not mortally, wounded; and he asked for a doctor. The doctor was with us and readily consented to go, after returning to the wagon for instruments and medicine he might need. The rest of dashed up the gentle slope—hurry-scurry, pell-mell. At the top we slackened our speed for observation. We saw that the Indians had abandoned the conflict and were hurrying to the river, on the further side of which was their village. The occasional puff and report of a white man's rifle, at long and ineffective range, no doubt quickened their speed. We struck out on an acute angle to cut them off from the river, but failed. Those in boats had either reached or were near the other shore, some three or four hundred yards away; those in the water swam with the current and were practically out of danger: the boys, however, took some shots at the retreating heads. I think no Indian was killed or wounded by the shooting, but some of the boys were of a different opinion. We were at the river bank but a short time; but before we left it, the lame chief and his two subalterns, mentioned above, came down to the opposite shore, raised their hands to show that they had no weapons, then jumped into a canoe and rapidly crossed the river to us. They asked permission to go up with us to see their dead and to care for their wounded. The chief said five Indians were dead and many wounded. We saw but three dead and two slightly wounded. Two white men were wounded—one with a flint-headed arrow in the chest, the other shot with a large ball through the fleshy part of the thigh close to the bone. Although the arrow-head had entered the chest cavity, it had not pierced any vital organ, and recovery was rapid; the other wound was of a complex character, which I cannot mention, and was dangerous if not mortal. This man was slowly recovering, however, while he remained with us and under the doctor's assiduous care. What the final result was I never knew. The wounded having been attended to, the train was soon on the move for our camp. After a consultation held that evening, it was agreed that we should travel together through the Pawnee country, and that I should have general control of our united forces.
Shell Creek, which was full five days' travel ahead, was said to be one of the boundary lines separating the country of the Pawnees from that of the Sioux. Notices stuck up along the road warned us to look out for the Pawnees at Shell Creek. It was their last toll-collecting station. This fact and their difficulty with the Hopkins train put us on our guard. From what we saw of the action of the Indians, there were manifest indications, that they were collecting at Shell Creek. We saw every day on the opposite side of the river, long lines of them journeying towards that point. In the afternoon of the fifth day after our union, we arrived on the plain, through which the creek had cut its way to the Platte River. We made a corral with our wagons, some seventy-five or eighty rods from the creek.
A few small flags of different colors were floating from the top of the bank descending to the creek, indicating that the Indians were there. I called for seventy-five volunteers to go with me to the crossing. I am glad to say that the Colonel promptly stepped forward; and more than the requisite number offered to go. Where the road crosses Shell Creek valley, if it is proper so to call it, it is from fifteen to twenty feet below the general face of the country, the valley not being over four or five rods in width. It is a small stream, but its shallow waters flow over a bed of treacherous quick sand. The earlier immigrants had cut down the nearly perpendicular bank so as to make the descent and ascent practicable, to and from, the narrow valley. They had also, from the nearby timber in the valley of the Platte River, obtained stringers, placed them across the creek, and covered them with heavy split or hewn cottonwood puncheons.
I formed my volunteers in a line, open order, and facing the crossing. In this order we marched quite rapidly towards the creek until we were eight or ten rods away, when an order of double quick was given,—we dashed down to the bank, and found from seventy-five to a hundred Indians, all armed, at different points along the bank and near the crossing. We covered them with our rifles and shotguns. There was an ominous silence for a short time. They soon arose, however, and all but two crossed the creek and went to a bald knoll a short distance below the crossing. One or two started to come up to us, but we waved them off. The puncheons had been removed from the stringers and thrown into an irregular pile on the further side of the creek. Two Indians stood upon the pile. I asked for two young men to go down to replace the puncheons. Quite a number volunteered. I selected one standing near me, and another called Brad. Both were stalwart and muscular. Brad was a great boaster, but a noted exception to Carlyle's rule. He was as courageous as a lion. The puncheons were thick, water-soaked and heavy. One of the two Indians standing upon them departed as Brad and his companion approached; the other, silent and sullen, maintained his position on the pile, and when Brad took hold of the end of a puncheon he walked down to that end, thus compelling Brad to lift him as well as the puncheon. Someone said "hit him, Brad." I thought the order a proper one; so I said nothing. Brad, who was great in a power emanating from the shoulder and culminating in the knuckles of the hand, struck, with all his force, the Indian on the point of the jaw; the Indian fell to the ground a limpid heap, and did not recover until nearly all of the puncheons had been replaced. When he arose his face was covered with blood from either the effect of the blow or his fall. He walked slowly towards the knoll where the other Indians were, and his appearance among them created quite a sensation and uproar. It was manifest that there was no unity of purpose, or action among them. As soon as the bridge was repaired we crossed over with four-fifths of the men; the other one-fifth went back to help bring up the train, and to assist in the crossing if necessary. I left the command with the doctor, and as the evening was fast approaching I selected a camp about one-half of a mile beyond the crossing, where grass, water and wood were plentiful. The first lieutenant superintended the camping. When I returned I found that the doctor had "the lame chief" and two other younger chiefs as prisoners. They had crossed the line marked out by him, and he retained them as hostages. The lame chief was somewhat reconciled to his lot, but the young men were taciturn and sullen. The lame chief knew English and talked it sufficiently well for us to understand him. I told him that we would give them plenty to eat, with blankets upon which they could sleep, and that we would part as friends in the morning. I told him further that if the Indians attacked us that night he and the two young chiefs would be killed. I told him that he could control the Indians, and that we required him to do it. All of this was said to him in a most positive and emphatic manner, and he communicated it to the younger chiefs. I asked him what so many Indians, all armed, had come away from their villages and to the boundary of their country for? He said the Indians had no bad feelings towards the horse-train, but they had come to make the cow-train pay for the killed and wounded in the fight at Loup Fork. He said that they did not expect to find us with the cow-train. Certain it is, that every circumstance pointed to the conclusion that had not our train been present, the Hopkins train would have been compelled to contribute largely, or would have had another fight more disastrous, perhaps, than the first. The night was made hideous by the almost constant yelling of the Indians. I remained up until eleven, when I retired, worn out and with an acute attack of neuralgic head-ache. After a time I slept or dozed, notwithstanding the uproar. The doctor also had gone to his wagon. The first lieutenant was in command. About three o'clock he came to my wagon, and requested me to get up; he feared, he said, an attack. The Indians, he informed me, were already approaching us. I found that the warriors had left the strip of timber on the river and were within one hundred yards of our picket-line. I went around the camp and found nearly everyone awake and up. I then went with the lame chief and his guard to the picket-line. I told him to tell the Indians, that they must not come any nearer. The chief began to speak immediately and continued to talk for two minutes or more; and while we did not understand what he said, the tumult ceased, and from thence on, comparative quiet prevailed. In the morning we gave our hostages a good breakfast and presented them with a cow brute so lame that it could not travel farther. I saw it killed. An Indian with a strong, and to me almost inflexible bow, threw himself on his back, holding the steel or iron-pointed arrow with both hands against the string of the bow, and with his feet springing it sent the arrow deep into the heart of the animal, which fell at his feet. This was the first exhibition I had ever seen of the power of the bow as a weapon and life-extinguisher. At short range, with a cool nerve, with a full quiver, a person thus armed would be a dangerous foe.
We got an early start the next morning. We bade our hostages good-bye without regret, and entered onto the land of the Sioux with hopeful satisfaction. We journeyed full twenty miles that day, and camped on a treeless plain with good water and plenty of grass, but no wood save buffalo chips. This want of wood was to continue for hundreds of miles. It was amusing at first, to see the ladies handle the buffalo chips. They literaly cooked with their gloves on. But the principle announced by the poet soon asserted itself:
"Vice is a monster of so frightful mien,
As to be hated, needs but to be seen;
Yet seen too oft, familiar with her face,
We first endure, then pity, then embrace."
I do not mean to say that they embraced this fuel; only that they used it as they would other fuel—simply obeying a law of necessity and enduring it.
This morning we parted from the Hopkins train, got an early start and made a late camp over twenty miles away.
Early in the commencement of our jurney to the sunset land, I organized a hunting party of four good shots, two of whom I was personally acquainted with and knew that they were well qualified for their position; the other two were chosen on the recommendation of their acquaintances and friends. This selection turned out to be not only harmonious, but a fit and proper one. They organized by the election of the doctor and myself as alternate captains, expecting that one of us would accompany them on each day's hunt. The work was exciting, with a dash of danger in it, and was arduous. Heretofore there had been no opportunity for the proof of their skill. This day, having determined from our guide-book where to camp, I accompanied them to the hills. Shortly after noon the hunters came across a small herd of buffalo in a gully where there was a little pool of seepage water, and succeeded in killing two—one a yearling, the other a barren cow. I was not in at the killing, but I succeeded soon after in ending the swift-bounding career of a fine antelope. We cut the meat from the carcass of the two buffalo and placed it in sacks or rather strong saddle-bags made for that purpose. The bones, neck and horns, save tongue, as well as the hide, were left to be more thoroughly cleaned and devoured by wolves, the ever-ready scavengers of the plains. My trophy of this day's hunt, minus the head and neck, was strapped to the saddle of my horse, and thus by her, grudgingly, borne into camp; but she became accustomed to such work, and protested only at the stinging tightness of the cinch. This was our first ration of fresh meat since crossing the Missouri River. The meat was a treat, fat, juicy and tender. Two days after this the hunters, accompanied by the doctor, at an early hour started for the hills. They returned in the early evening, each with an antelope on his saddle. They saw plenty of buffalo, but could not approach them sufficiently near to get an effective shot. The meat of the antelope, while not as rich and juicy as that of the buffalo, is in the spring of the year, when the grass is green, sweet and tender. It is of much finer grain than that of the buffalo; and the animal is more select in his appetite, eating only the finer grass, with a delicate flavoring of the finest sage, which in many cases was quite distinguishable. I remember that not many years ago the choicest beeves were steers fattened on the rich and luxuriant bunch-grass of the hills, which a week or ten days before marketing were driven to and herded in the valleys where the small sage abounds. They ate it not as a matter of first choice, but of necessity. Such beef, to the epicures, was the realization of a long-felt want.
The work of the hunters was strenuous, and as a partial compensation for their longer hours, and the beneficent results of the successful work by them, they were excused from guard-duty in the night. To this all agreed.
On the second day after the doctor's debut as a hunter, I accompanied the hunters to the hills. We did not find game plentiful, but we occasionally caught the glimpse of an antelope bounding away out of range. The day was excessively hot. Late in the afternoon, however, the hunters started a large buffalo bull from the channel of a dry creek, he ran up the channel towards me; and as he attempted to pass me a few rods away, I fired and struck him in the heart, and he staggered, lunged and fell. This was my first buffalo, and I was, of course, elated with my luck. The hunters would probably have killed him had it not been for my fortunate intervention, for they were in close pursuit on the higher plateau on either side, and were fast converging towards him. He could have scarcely run in safety, the gauntlet of four such expert riflemen. As it was, however, the honor was mine. The pelt or robe was large and very fine, but we were compelled to leave it and the stripped bones to be devoured by the waiting wolves. From thence on until we crossed the Rocky Mountains, we had a liberal supply of fresh meat, consisting of antelope, buffalo, a few deer, three elk, one brown bear, and one bighorn Rocky Mountain sheep, or goat.
So far as travel was concerned, each day was but the tiresome repetition of the preceding one, with very slight variations. When we arrived at Fort Laramie we stopped for some three or four hours. We crossed the river and made a friendly visit to the officers of the fort. We found them to be true American soldiers and gentlemen. The commandant told us that he had heard of the Pawnee difficulty, and had sent an officer and a squad of soldiers to enquire into the affair. He was very anxious to hear from us a statement of the whole matter. I gave him as full a statement as I was able to, and both of us were of the opinion that it was precipitated by the want of proper discipline and control of the men in the train. This may not be very flattering to the white men, but it is the truth, notwithstanding.
I am not a military man, but I was not impressed with the idea that Laramie, surrounded as it is by an amphitheatre of commanding hills, was a fit site for a fort. As against an enemy with modern artillery, I thought it to be hopelessly defenceless. As against Indians it possibly might do. But then, I knew nothing of Plevna, similarly situated, and so heroically defended by the Turks against a superior and well-equipped Russian army.
Leaving Fort Laramie, we now entered the Black Hills country. After a two-days' journey in the hills, finding grass, water and wood in great abundance, we concluded to rest for two days for laundry and recuperative purposes. Our horses began to show the effects of the journey, and the want of their accustomed food. No animal has the power of endurance of man, unless it may be the wolf, "whose long gallop," says the poet, "can tire the hounds' deep hate and hunter's fire."
On the first day of our rest I accompanied the hunters into the hills for game. About three miles from camp, on a wooded side-hill, they came across a band of fifteen or more of elk and succeeded in killing three of them. I was not in at the killing, but caught a distant view of the noble antlered monarchs of the forest, as they sped away to deeper and safer retreats in the depths of the woods. As we did not kill for the love of slaughter, but for food, we declared the day's hunt a success, and prepared our meat for transportation to the camp, in the usual manner. I have killed quite a number of elk since that time in the mountains of Oregon, but I have never seen one larger than one of those, although I have seen much larger and finer antlers than adorned the heads of any of them. The purpose of the antlers, in my judgment, is not to furnish the animal a weapon in fight, but as a protection to his shoulders as he dashes through the brush in flight from an enemy or in pursuit of his mate. When he moves swiftly he elevates his nose until his face is nearly in a line with his back; the antlers, extending back on each side of the shoulders, thus affording them protection. The bucks always lead in such flights, and to a certain extent open the way; hence the females have no need, or not so much need, of such protection. Somewhat disappointed with my failure to get a shot at an elk on the preceding day, I again accompanied the hunters. We made a wide circuit through the hills, some of which were covered with timber, while others were bald. That it was a country abounding in game was manifest in the signs appearing everywhere. We saw a few antelope in full flight and out of range; we also startled from his sylvan couch a black-tailed buck, being the first of the deer kind seen in our journey. One of the hunters sent a ball after him as he bounded through the brush and timber, but, unscathed, he dashed on. As the day was fast waning we turned our horses' heads campward, and commenced the ascent of quite a high hill to take an observation of our latitude and longitude, and also to determine the exact location of our camp and the best route to it. The western side of this hill was covered with brush and fallen and dead timber. While we were standing on the top viewing the topography of the surrounding country, a large cinnamon bear, affrighted by our presence, started from his lair, and in all probability his patrimonial jungle, and dashed at a furious speed down through the brush and over the logs and rocks of this steep side-hill. We emptied our rifles at him as he plunged downward at such headlong speed. But one ball struck him and that broke his right shoulder, much diminishing his speed and almost entirely destroying his climbing powers. We soon came upon him at the foot of the hill in a bad humor, but we quickly ended his career. He was in fine condition; his estimated weight was from 275 to 300 pounds. We removed the pelt, with his feet, and took them into camp as a matter of curiosity; we also took the meat into camp, but it was not much relished. The hide as well as most of the meat was given to begging Indians.
At Laramie a man and his wife and one child—a little girl between seven and eight years of age—asked permission to travel with us. The man had started the year before, got as far as Laramie and had remained there during the winter. His team consisted of four yoke of young oxen, well conditioned for the trip. He had a hired man to drive them. He had a band of forty heifers and cows. Many of the cows were giving milk; thinking a little milk in our coffee would give it a home flavor, we readily acceded to the request. We helped him to drive his loose stock and do the milking. When we asked her, by politeness called his better half, for a small quantity of milk, we found that we were dealing with a Shylock. She had milk for sale, but not to give away. We were about to strike when the husband intimated that our canteens were useful. We took the hint, and after that, somehow, our coffee changed its color. To cut this narration short, let me say that while he was six feet tall and well proportioned, he stood still higher in the class of antivertebrates—henpecked nincompoops—than any specimen of the genus homo I have ever known; and she stood higher in her class of imperious virago. How a child, sweet in her disposition, and lovable in all her ways, could be the issue of such a union, was a mystery to us all. Afterwards I had the pleasure of saving the little girl from drowning in the crossing of Port Neuf near Fort Hall. A majority of the company voted to go by way of Fort Hall and to cross the Port Neuf near its junction with the Snake, instead of crossing it higher up, thus keeping continuously on the highlands. I protested, but finally yielded to this almost unanimous desire. I think the agreeable companionship of some of the factors of the company with whom we had become acquainted, at Soda or Steamboat Springs on Bear River, had much to do with this determination. From the Fort, where we were hospitably entertained, to the bluff and road beyond the Port Neuf was about five miles. The water of the Snake and the Port Neuf had but recently overflowed the valley between the two, and left it a miry quicksand morass, almost impossible of passing. It took us three days of hard labor and strenuous efforts to reach the bluffs. The heavily-loaded wagon of the nincompoop and the virago was almost constantly mired. We had little to do with him, but with her it was a constant conflict. At last we got her wagon to the river. He was on the highlands with the loose stock. The river for twenty feet or more was from seven to ten feet in depth. With a true team and a proper wagon this space could be safely passed. Her team, however, consisting of a horse and a mule, when they reached deep water made a lunge, then balked. The wagon filled with water and the current turned it over. She had insisted on driving and on having the little girl with her in the wagon. When it went over quite a number of us young men, who had been working nearly all day in our drawers and undershirts, plunged into the stream, and as we passed over the cover of the sinking wagon seized it and stripped it from its bows. Close beside me the little girl popped up; I seized her, and with a few strokes took her to shore, with no damage done her save a good wetting. It was a question, for a short time, whether the virago would drown the young men who were trying to save her, or they would succeed in their efforts. I went to their assistance and we brought her to the shore, but she needed the doctor's assistance. She had in ballast more water than was necessary, and by a rolling process was forced to give it up. Their team having been safely extricated—the wagon and its contents on shore, and soon transported to highlands, we found among their contents a large demijohn of first class brandy, to all appearances never opened, probably because the Snake country had not been reached; and as the dominant owner of said brandy was suffering from the too free use of water, we all drank to the toast, with a delicate courtesy, for her speedy delivery. Oblivious of the fearful danger of microbes, each tipped the demijohn at an angle and for a duration of time suited to the occasion. This spiritual passage having become historic, we hitched up our teams and journeyed onward to a creek about two miles distant, where we camped for the night. Next morning we bade a sorrowful adieu to the sweet, and much-loved and sprightly daughter of our train and our whilom companions, and resumed our journey down the left bank of the Snake River. This road led us over a desolate and treeless plain of sage-brush and grease-wood. The sun, at times, sent down its rays with scorching power. The alkaline dust, betimes rolled up in suffocating volumes. The pleasures of the chase were at an end. This dreary and waterless plain was not the abode of animal life, save the lizard, the horn toad and the rattlesnake. Game was said to be plentiful in the foothills and mountains, but they were too far away. The few Indians scattered along the river and the far-separated and uncertain tributaries had, I am informed, no organized tribal relation, but were the vagabonds driven off by contiguous tribes. Their subsistance was precarious, consisting of fish, grasshoppers, crickets or black locusts, and an occasional rabbit. But two incidents worthy of narration occurred in our journey down the river. One was a stampede of our horses by the Indians about two o'clock a. m. One of the four men detailed to guard them on that night informed me that he was unwell, and I took his place. The horses were on excellent grass a little over a mile from camp. A short time before sundown we rolled up our blankets and with our arms, departed for our night's work. We all took a careful survey of the surroundings and the horses, and then two of us rolled ourselves up in our blankets to be awakened at one o'clock a. m. Promptly at that time we were called. The watchmen reported that all was well; but the horses seemed a little restless and uneasy, and the watchmen thought that wolves were prowling around in the sage-brush, and although unseen by them, the presence of the wolves was detected by the keener scent and clearer vision of the horses.
