OUT ON THE PLAINS.

As soon as a part of our outfits were landed on the right bank of the river our trouble with the Indians began, not in open hostilities, but in robbery under the guise of beggary. The word had been passed around in our little party that not one cent's worth of provisions would we give up to the Indians,—believing this policy was our only safeguard from spoliation, and in that we were right. The women folks had been taken over the river with the first wagon, and sent off a little way to a convenient camp, so that the first show of arms came from that side of our little community, when some of the bolder Pawnees attempted to pilfer around the wagons. But no blood was shed, and I may say in passing there was none shed by any of our party during the entire trip, though there was a show of arms in several instances. One case in particular I remember. Soon after we had left the Missouri River we came to a small bridge over a washout across the road, evidently constructed very recently by some train just ahead of us. The Indians had taken possession and demanded pay for crossing. Some ahead of us had paid, while others were hesitating, but with a few there was a determined resolution not to pay. When our party came up it remained for that fearless man, McAuley, in quite short order to clear the way though the Indians were there in considerable numbers. McAuley said, "You fellers come right on, for I'm going across that bridge if I have to run right over that Ingen settin' there." And he did almost run over the Indian, who at the last moment got out of the way of his team, which was followed in such quick succession and with such a show of arms that the Indians withdrew, and left the road unobstructed.

In another instance, I came very near getting into serious trouble with three Indians on horseback. We had hauled off away from the road to get water, I think, and became separated from the passing throng, and almost, but not quite out of sight of any wagons or camps. The Indians came up ostensibly to beg, but really to rob, and first began to solicit, and afterwards to threaten. I started to drive on, not thinking they would use actual violence, as there were other emigrants certainly within a half mile, and thought they were merely trying to frighten me into giving up at least a part of my outfit. Finally one of the Indians whipped out his knife and cut loose the cow that I was leading behind the wagon. I did not have to ask for my gun, as my wife in the wagon, who had seen the act, believed, as I did, that the time had come to fight, and handed me my trusty rifle out under the cover, and before the savages had time to do anything further they saw the gun. They were near enough to make it certain that one shot would take deadly effect, but instead of shooting one, I trained the gun in the direction so I might quickly choose between the three, and in an instant each Indian was under cover of his horse, and speeding away in great haste. The old story that "almost anyone will fight when cornered" was exemplified in this incident, but I did not want any more such experiences and consequently thereafter became more careful.

We did not, however, have much trouble with the Indians in 1852. The facts are, the great numbers of emigrants, coupled with the superiority of their arms, placed them on comparatively safe grounds. And it must be remembered, also, that this was before the treaty-making period, which has so often been followed by bloodshed and war.

But to return to the river bank. We crossed on the 17th and 18th of May, and drove out a short way on the 19th, but not far enough to be out of hearing of a shrill steamboat whistle that resounded over the prairie, announcing the arrival of a steamer.

I never knew the size of that steamer, or the name, but only know that a dozen or more wagons could be crossed at once, and that a dozen or more trips could be made during the day, and as many more at night, and that we were overtaken by this throng of a thousand wagons thrown upon the road, that gave us some trouble and much discomfort.

And now that we were fairly on the way the whole atmosphere, so to speak, seemed changed. Instead of the discordant violin and more discordant voices, with the fantastic night open-air dances with mother earth as a floor, there soon prevailed a more sober mein, even among the young people, as they began to encounter the fatigue of a day's drive and the cares of a night watch. With so many, the watchword was to push ahead and make as big a day's drive as possible; hence it is not to be wondered at that nearly the whole of the thousand wagons that crossed the river after we did soon passed us.

"Now, fellers, jist let 'em rush on, and keep cool, we'll overcatch them afore long," said McAuley. And we did, and passed many a broken-down team, the result of that first few days of rush. It was this class that unloaded such piles of provisions, noted elsewhere, in the first two hundred mile stretch, and that fell such easy prey to the ravages of the epidemic of cholera that struck the moving column where the throng from the south side of the Platte began crossing. As I recollect this, it must have been near where the city of Kearney now stands, which is about two hundred miles west of the Missouri River. We had been in the buffalo country several days, and some of our young men had had the keen edge of the hunting zeal worn off by a day's ride in the heat. A number of them were sick from the effects of overheating and indiscreet drinking of impure water. Such an experience came vividly home to me in the case of my brother Oliver, who had outfitted with our Hoosier friends near Indianapolis, but had crossed the Missouri River in company with us. Being of an adventurous spirit, he could not restrain his ardor, and gave chase to the buffaloes, and fell sick almost unto death. This occurred just at the time when we had encountered the cholera panic, and of course it must be the cholera that had seized him with such an iron grip, argued some of his companions. His old-time comrades and neighbors, all but two, and they could not delay. I said, "It's certain death to take him along in that condition," which they admitted was true. "Divide the outfit, then." The Davenport boys said they would not leave my brother, and so their portion of the outfit was put out also, which gave the three a wagon and team. Turning to Buck, I said, "I can't ask you to stay with me." The answer came back quick as a flash, "I am going to stay with you without asking," and he did, too, though my brother was almost a total stranger. We nursed the sick man for four days amidst scenes of excitement and death I hope never to witness again, with the result that on the fifth day we were able to go on and take the convalescent with us and thus saved his life. It was at this point the sixteen hundred wagons passed us as noted elsewhere in the four days' detention, and loose stock so numerous, we made no attempt to count them.

Of course, this incident is of no particular importance, except to illustrate what life meant in those strenuous days. The experience of that camp was the experience, I may say, of hundreds of others; of friends parting; of desertion; of noble sacrifice; of the revelation of the best and worst of the inner man. Like the shifting clouds of a brightening summer day, the trains seemed to dissolve and disappear, while no one, apparently, knew what had become of their component parts, or whither they had gone.

There did seem instances that would convert the most skeptical to the Presbyterian doctrine of total depravity, so brutal and selfish were the actions of some men; brutal to men and women alike; to dumb brutes, and in fact to themselves. And, yet, it is a pleasure to record that there were numerous instances of noble self-sacrifice, of helpfulness, of unselfishness, to the point of imperiling their own lives. It became a common saying to know one's neighbors, they must be seen on the Plains.

The army of loose stock that accompanied this huge caravan, a column, we may almost say, of five hundred miles long without break, added greatly to the discomfort of all. Of course, the number of cattle and horses will never be known, but their number was legion compared to those that labored under the yoke, or in the harness. A conservative estimate would be not less than six animals to the wagon, and surely there were three loose animals to each one in the teams. By this it would appear that as sixteen hundred wagons passed while we tarried four days, nearly ten thousand beasts of burden and thirty thousand loose stock accompanied them. As to the number of persons, certainly there were five to the wagon, perhaps more, but calling it five, eight thousand people, men, women and children, passed on during those four days—many to their graves not afar off.

We know by the inscribed dates found on Independence Rock and elsewhere that there were wagons full three hundred miles ahead of us. The throng had continued to pass the river more than a month after we had crossed, so that it does not require a stretch of the imagination to say the column was five hundred miles long, and like Sherman's march through Georgia, fifty thousand strong.

Of the casualties in that mighty army I scarcely dare guess. It is certain that history gives no record of such great numbers migrating so long a distance as that of the Pioneers of the Plains, where, as we have seen, the dead lay in rows of fifties and groups of seventies. Shall we say ten per cent fell by the wayside? Many will exclaim that estimate is too low. Ten per cent would give us five thousand sacrifices of lives laid down even in one year to aid in the peopling of the Pacific Coast states. The roll call was never made, and we know not how many there were. The list of mortalities is unknown, and so we are lost in conjecture, and now we only know that the unknown and unmarked graves have gone into oblivion.

Volumes could be written of life on the Plains and yet leave the story not half told. In some matter before me I read, "found a family, consisting of husband, wife and four small children, whose cattle we supposed had given out and died. They were here all alone, and no wagon or cattle in sight"—had been thrown out by the owner of a wagon and left on the road to die. In a nearby page I read, "Here we met Mr. Lot Whitcom, direct from Oregon—. Told me a great deal about Oregon. He has provisions, but none to sell, but gives to all he finds in want, and who are unable to buy." These stories of the good Samaritan, and the fiendish actions of others could be multiplied indefinitely, but I quote only extracts from these two, written on the spot, that well illustrate the whole.

Mrs. Cecelia Emily McMillen Adams, late of Hillsboro, Oregon, crossed the Plains in 1852, and kept a painstaking diary, and noted the graves passed, and counted them. Her diary is published in full by the Oregon Pioneer Association, 1904. I note the following: "June fourteenth. Passed seven new made graves. June 15th. Sick headache, not able to sit up. June 16th. Passed 11 new graves. June 17th. Passed six new graves. June 18th. We have passed twenty-one new made graves today. June 19th. Passed thirteen graves today. June 20th. Passed ten graves. June 21st. No report. June 22nd. Passed seven graves. If we should go by all the camping grounds, we should see five times as many graves as we do."

This report of seventy-five dead in 106 miles, and that "if we should go by all the camping grounds we should see five times as many graves as we do," coupled with the fact that a parallel column from which we have no report was traveling up the Platte on the south side of the river, and that the outbreak of the cholera had taken place originally in this column coming from the southeast, fully confirms the estimate of 5,000 deaths on the Plains in 1852. It is in fact rather under than over the actual number who laid down their lives that year. I have mislaid the authority, but at the time I read it, believed the account to be true, of a scout that passed over the ground late that year (1852) from the Loop Fork of the Platte to the Laramie, a distance approximating 400 miles, that by actual count in great part and conservative estimate of the remainder, there were six fresh graves to the mile for the whole distance—this, it is to be remembered, on the one side of the river in a stretch where for half the distance of a parallel column traveling on the opposite bank, where like conditions prevailed.

A few more instances must suffice to complete this chapter of horrors.

L. B. Rowland, now of Eugene, Oregon, recently told me the experience of his train of twenty-three persons, between the two crossings of the Snake River, of which we have just written. Of the twenty-three that crossed, eleven died before they reached the lower crossing.

Mrs. M. E. Jones, now of North Yakima, states that forty people of their train died in one day and two nights, before reaching the crossing of the Platte. Martin Cook, of Newberg, Oregon, is my authority for the following: A family of seven persons, the father known as "Dad Friels," from Hartford, Warren County, Iowa, all died of cholera, and were buried in one grave. He could not tell me the locality nor the exact date, but it would be useless to search for the graves, as all have long ago been leveled by the passing hoofs of the buffalo or domestic stock, or met the fate of hundreds of shallow graves, having been desecrated by hungry wolves.

A pathetic thought came uppermost in the minds of the emigrants as the fact dawned upon them that all the graves were fresh made, and that those of previous years had disappeared—either leveled by the storms of wind or rain; by the hoofs of the passing throng of stock; or possibly by ravages of the hungry wolf. Many believed the Indians had robbed the graves for the clothing on the bodies. Whatever the cause, the fact was realized that the graves of previous years were all, or nearly all gone, and that the same fate awaited the last resting place of those loved ones laid away in such great numbers.

One of the incidents that made a profound impression upon the minds of all; the meeting of eleven wagons returning and not a man left in the entire train;—all had died, and had been buried on the way, and the women were returning alone from a point well up on the Platte below Fort Laramie. The difficulties of a return trip were multiplied on account of the passing throng moving westward. How they succeeded, or what became of them I never knew, but we did know a terrible task lay before them.

As the column passed up the Platte, there came some relief for awhile from the dust and a visible thinning out of the throng; some had pushed on and gotten out of the way of the congested district, while others had lagged behind; and then it was patent that the missing dead left not only a void in the hearts of their comrades, but also a visible space upon the road, while their absence cast a gloom over many an aching heart.

As we gradually ascended the Sweetwater, the nights became cooler, and finally, the summit reached, life became more tolerable and suffering less acute. The summit of the Rocky Mountains, through the South Pass presents a wide, open undulating country that extends for a long distance at a very high altitude—probably 6,000 feet above sea level, until Bear River is reached, a distance of over 150 miles. This is a region of scant herbage and almost destitute of water, except at river crossings, for on this stretch of the Trail, the way leads across the water courses, and not with them.

The most attractive natural phenomena encountered on the whole trip are the soda springs near the Bear River, and in fact right in the bed of the river. One of these, the Steamboat spring, was spouting at regular intervals as we passed. These have, however, ceased to overflow as in 1852, as I learned on my recent trip.

When the Snake River was reached and in fact before, the heat again became oppressive, the dust stifling, and thirst at times almost maddening. In some places we could see the water of the Snake, but could not reach it as the river ran in the inaccessible depths of the canyon. Sickness again became prevalent, and another outbreak of cholera claimed many victims.

There were but few ferries and none in many places where crossings were to be made, and where here and there a ferry was found the charges were high—or perhaps the word should be, exorbitant—and out of reach of a large majority of the emigrants. In my own case, all my funds had been absorbed in procuring my outfit at Eddyville, Iowa, not dreaming there would be use for money "on the Plains" where there were neither supplies nor people. We soon found out our mistake, however, and sought to mend matters when opportunity offered. The crossing of the Snake River, though late in the trip, gave the opportunity.

About thirty miles below Salmon Falls the dilemma confronted us to either cross the river or starve our teams on the trip down the river on the south bank.

Some emigrants had calked three wagon-beds and lashed them together, and were crossing, but would not help others across for less than three to five dollars a wagon, the party swimming their own stock. If others could cross in wagon-beds, why could I not do likewise? and without much ado all the old clothing that could possibly be spared was marshaled, tar buckets ransacked, old chisels and broken knives hunted up, and a veritable boat repairing and calking campaign inaugurated, and shortly the wagon-box rode placidly, even if not gracefully on the turbid waters of the formidable river. It had been my fortune to be the strongest physically of any of our little party of four men, though I would cheerfully accept a second place mentally.

My boyhood pranks of playing with logs or old leaky skiffs in the waters of White River now served me well, for I could row a boat even if I had never taken lessons as an athlete. My first venture across the Snake River was with the wagon gear run over the wagon box, the whole being gradually worked out into deep water. The load was so heavy that a very small margin was left to prevent the water from breaking over the sides, and some actually did, as light ripples on the surface struck the "Mary Jane," as we had christened (without wine) the "craft" as she was launched. However, I got over safely, but after that took lighter loads and really enjoyed the novelty of the work and the change from the intolerable dust to the atmosphere of the water.

Some were so infatuated with the idea of floating on the water as to be easily persuaded by an unprincipled trader at the lower crossing to dispose of their teams for a song, and embark in their wagon beds for a voyage down the river. It is needless to say that these persons (of whom there were a goodly number) lost everything they had and some, their lives, the survivors, after incredible hardships, reaching the road again to become objects of charity while separated entirely from friends. I knew one survivor, who yet lives in our state, who was out seven days without food other than a scant supply of berries and vegetable growth, and "a few crickets, but not many," as it was too laborious to catch them.

We had no trouble to cross the cattle, although the river was wide. Dandy would do almost anything I asked of him, so, leading him to the water's edge, with a little coaxing I got him into swimming water and guided him across with the wagon bed, while the others all followed, having been driven into the deep water following the leader. It seems almost incredible how passively obedient cattle will become after long training on such a trip, in crossing streams.

We had not finished crossing when tempting offers came from others to cross them, but all our party said "No, we must travel." The rule had been adopted to travel some every day possible. "Travel, travel, travel," was the watchword, and nothing could divert us from that resolution, and so on the third day we were ready to pull out from the river with the cattle rested from the enforced detention.

But what about the lower crossing? Those who had crossed over the river must somehow get back. It was less than 150 miles to where we were again to cross to the south side (left bank) of the river. I could walk that in three days, while it would take our teams ten. Could I go on ahead, procure a wagon box and start a ferry of my own? The thought prompted an affirmative answer at once; so with a little food and a small blanket the trip to the lower crossing was made. It may be ludicrous, but is true, that the most I remember about that trip is the jackrabbits—such swarms of them I had never seen before as I traveled down the Boise Valley, and never expect to see again.

The trip was made in safety, but conditions were different. At the lower crossing, as I have already said, some were disposing of their teams and starting to float down the river; some were fording, a perilous undertaking, but most of them succeeded who tried, and besides a trader whose name I have forgotten had an established ferry near the old fort (Boise). I soon obtained a wagon-bed, and was at work during all the daylight hours (no eight-hour-a-day there) crossing people till the teams came up, (and for several days after), and left the river with $110 in my pocket, all of which was gone before I arrived in Portland, save $2.75.

I did not look upon that work then other than as a part of the trip, to do the best we could. None of us thought we were doing a heroic act in crossing the plains and meeting emergencies as they arose. In fact, we did not think at all of that phase of the question. Many have, however, in later life looked upon their achievement with pardonable pride, and some in a vainglorious mood of mind.

A very pleasant incident recently occurred in reviving memories of this episode of my life, while visiting my old time friend Edward J. Allen, [2] mentioned elsewhere in this work. It was my good fortune to be able to spend several day; with that grand "Old Timer" at his residence in Pittsburg, Pa. We had not met for fifty years. The reader may readily believe there had been great changes with both of us as well as in the world at large in that half century of our lives. My friend had crossed the plains the same year I did, and although a single man and young at that, had kept a diary all the way. Poring over this venerable manuscript one day while I was with him, Mr. Allen ran across this sentence, "The Meeker brothers sold out their interest in the ferry today for $185.00, and left for Portland." Both had forgotten the partnership though each remembered their experience of the ferrying in wagon-boxes.

From the lower crossing of the Snake River, at Old Fort Boise to The Dalles is approximately 350 miles. It became a serious question with many whether there would be enough provisions left to keep starvation from the door, or whether the teams could muster strength to take the wagons in. Many wagons were left by the wayside. Everything possible shared the same fate; provisions and provisions only were religiously cared for—in fact, starvation stared many in the face. Added to the weakened condition of both man and beast small wonder if some thoughtless persons would take to the river in their wagon-beds, many to their death, and the remaining to greater hardships.

I can not give an adequate description of the dust, which seemed to get deeper and more impalpable every day. I might liken the wading in the dust, to wading in water as to resistance. Often times the dust would lie in the road full six inches deep, and so fine that one wading through it would scarcely leave a track. And such clouds, when disturbed—no words can describe it.

The appearance of the people is described in the chapter following.