THE STAGE DRIVERS OF THE PLAINS—OLD BOB—"JAMAICA AND GINGER"—AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE—BEADS OF THE PAST—ROBBING THE DEAD—A LEAF FROM THE LOST HISTORY OF THE MOUND BUILDERS—INDIAN TRADITIONS—SPECULATIONS—ADOBE HOUSES IN A RAIN—CHEAP LIVING—WATCH TOWERS.

The stage drivers of the plains are rapidly becoming another inheritance of the past, pushed out of existence by the locomotive, whose cow-catcher is continually tossing them from their high seats into the arms of History. What a rare set they are, though! No two that I ever saw were nearly alike, and they resemble not one distinctive class, but a number. The Jehus who crack their whips over the buffalo grass region, and turn their leaders artistically around sharp corners in rude towns, are made up on a variety of patterns. Some are loquacious and others silent, and while a portion are given to profanity, another though smaller number are men of very proper grammar. Some with whom I have ridden would discount truth for the mere love of the exercise, while others I have found so particular that they could not be induced to lie, except when it was for their interest to do so.

In a village on the shores of Lake Champlain, in the frozen regions of northern New York, where mercury becomes solid in November, and remains so until May, I got on intimate terms, when a boy, with a stage driver. During the long winters the coaches were placed on sleds, and well do I remember the style in which "Old Bob," as he was universally called, would come dashing into the town on frosty mornings, winding uncertain tunes out of a brass horn, given him years before by a General Somebody, of the State Militia. In front of the long-porched tavern, the leaders would push out to the left, in order to give due magnificence to the right hand circle, which deposited the coach at the bar room door. Bearish in fur, and sour in face, Bob would then roll from the seat, rush up to the bar, and for the first time open his mouth, to ejaculate, "Jamaica and ginger!" The fiery draught would thaw out his tongue, as hot water does a pump, and after that it was easy work to pump him dry of any and all news on the line above.

That was many years ago, and in a spot half a continent away. One morning, while at Sheridan, I heard the blast of a horn up the street, whose notes awakened echoes which had long lain dead and buried in boyhood's memory. A moment more, and out from an avenue of saloons the overland stage rattled, and on its box sat the friend of my childhood, "Old Bob." He had the identical horn, and it was the identical tune, which I had so often heard in the by-gone years, the only difference being that both were cracked, and the lungs behind the mouth-piece, touched by the winters of sixty-odd, wheezed a little. As the coach came to the door, I jumped up by the "boot," and grasping the old fellow's hand, introduced myself. Old Bob rubbed his eyes, which were weak and watery, and scanned me closely.

"Well, well, lad," he said, "your face takes me now, sure enough. I mind your father and mother well, and you're the little rascal that stole my whip once, when I was thawing out with Jamaica and ginger. Did you tell me by the old tune? You did, eh? Well, truth is, lad, the horn won't blow any other. It's got to running in that groove, and when I try to coax any thing new out, it sets off so that it frightens the horses."

The coach was now ready for starting, and, as he gathered up the reins, my friend of auld lang syne called out to me, "When you get back to York State, if you see any Rouse's Point people that ask for Old Bob, tell them he doesn't take any Jamaica and ginger now. Tell them he's out on the plains, tryin' to get back some of the life the cussed stuff burnt out of him." And away the stage coach rattled, and soon was out of hearing.

Next day's down stage brought intelligence that Bob's coach had been attacked by Indians, but the old fellow had handled his lines right skillfully, and brought mails and passengers through in safety.

Our last day at Sheridan, for the Professor, was marked by two important events, namely: a communication from the living present, and another from the dead past. The first came, as the postmark showed, by way of Lindsey, on the Solomon river. The Professor said it was simply an answer to some scientific inquiries, but, to our intense amusement, he blushed like a school-girl when Sachem bluntly remarked that the handwriting was feminine, and that the scientific information in question must certainly be contraband, as it was not offered for our benefit at all.

A geologist in love is a phenomenon. The dusty museum is no place for Cupid. In his flights, the mischievous boy is apt to hit his head against fossil lizards, and his darts are intercepted by skulls which were petrified before he ever wandered through Paradise and tried his first barb on poor Adam. The atmosphere which inwraps the geologist comes from an unlovable age, in which monstrosities existed only by virtue of their expertness in devouring other monstrosities. No stray spark of love-light flickered, even for an instant, over that waste of waters and gigantic ferns.

It was apparent that science would suffer, unless the Solomon river was included in our homeward route. We had examined the heart of Buffalo Land, having traversed its center from east to west, and our party was disposed to oblige the Professor by returning along the northern border. Southward two hundred miles was the Arkansas, flowing near the southern limit of the buffalo region. While there were some reasons why we desired to visit it, and though it was, perhaps, equally rich in game, it promised nothing of greater interest, upon the whole, than the district we now proposed traversing. But of this more in the next chapter.

Toward evening came our introduction to what we were pleased to imagine was a beauty of the past, which happened thus: As we were wandering among the Mexican teamsters loafing around the depot, an urchin, with half a shirt and very crooked legs, ran up to us, and exclaimed, over a half masticated morsel of cheese, "Mister, there's a bufferler!" His crumby fingers pointed in a direction midway between the horizon and a Mexican donkey, which its owner was trying to drag across the valley, and there, true enough, on the side of a brown ridge, not a mile off, we saw the game, feeding as usual.

Here was a chance for horseback hunting again, which we had not attempted for several days. And what a splendid opportunity of showing the natives how well we could do the thing! Our wagons had groaned under the burden of pelts and meats with which we had loaded them, and we were suffering just then from that dangerous confidence which first success is so apt to inspire.

Half the pleasure of hunting, if sportsmen would but confess it, consists in showing one's trophies to others. It was not at all surprising, therefore, that the send-off found two-thirds of our force in the field. The day was warm, and, though the hunters ran far and fast, the bison went still further and faster, and escaped. He led us, however, to greater spoil than his own tough carcass; for underneath the sod which his hoofs spurned, lay a treasure which glittered as temptingly to geological eyes as gold to the miner, when first struck by his prospecting pick.

The Professor trotted out of town with becoming dignity, following the hunters merely to avail himself of their protection, while examining the ridges around. A mile out, the heat and his rough-paced nag proved too much for him, and he threw himself upon the ground for a rest. Lying there, watching idly the little insects wandering about, his attention was attracted to a colony of burrowing ants, who, with a hole in the earth half an inch in diameter, were continually coming up, rolling before them small grains of sand and pebbles, the latter obtained far below, and a small mound of them already showing the extent of their patient labors. The Professor began to mark more closely the tiny builders, imagining that he could distinguish one of the citizens going down, and recognize him again as he came up again with his burden from below.

Occasionally, it seemed to the observant savan, something blue was brought out, which glittered more than sand. Looking closer, he discovered that the shining particles were beads of some bright substance, and resembling exactly those worn by the Indians of to-day. It thrilled him, as if he had been brought face to face with the far-off ages, when the world was young. Beneath, evidently, lay the dead of some forgotten tribe, and horse and man were resting upon a place of sepulcher. There was no mound to mark the spot, and if any ever existed, the seasons of ages had obliterated it. The savage races which now roam the plains never bury their dead, but lay the bodies on scaffolds, or hang them in trees. And so these little ants, robbing the graves far beneath us, were bringing to our gaze, on a bright summer day in the Nineteenth Century, the mysteries of ages already hoary with antiquity when Columbus first saw our shores.

We found ourselves wondering to what race the hidden dead belonged, and whether the unpictured maidens of those days were pleasant to look upon, or true ancestors of the hideous and unromantic creatures who, with their savage lords, now roam the plains. Thinking of the tribes of the past brought those of the present to mind, and, not wishing to have our hair presented as tribute to some maiden wooed by treacherous Cheyenne, we turned our horses' heads homeward, bringing the beads with us, safely deposited in one of our entomologist's pocket-cases. They remain among the trophies of our expedition, and Mr. Colon has lately written me that he will have an excavation made, during the present year, at the spot where they were found.

These beads, I can not but think, form one link in a chain connecting an ancient people, perhaps the mound-builders, with the savage tribes of the present. There is a tradition among some of the Western Indians that, centuries ago, a people, different in language and form from the red men, came from over the seas to trade beads for ponies. The buffaloes were then larger, and the climate warmer, than now. Dissensions finally arose, in which the strangers were killed. Is there not reason to believe that this tradition gives us a glimpse of the time when some of the large mammals still existed on the plains, and the genial sun looked down upon pastures clothed in rich vegetation—a time and region, probably, of perennial summer?Once, during our stay in Kansas, we were directed by a hunter to a spot where he had seen portions of an immense skeleton, and there found one vertebra only remaining of a mastodon. It afterward transpired that, shortly before our trip, some Indians had passed Fort Dodge with the large bones lashed on their ponies, taking them to a medicine-lodge on the Arkansas, to be ground up into good medicine. They stated that the bones belonged to one of the big buffaloes which roamed over the plains during the times of their fathers. At that period, the Happy Hunting Ground was on earth, but was afterward removed beyond the clouds by the Great Spirit, to punish his children for bad conduct.

Many reasons, besides dim traditions, exist for the belief that those mysterious nations whose paths we have been able to trace from the Atlantic west, and from the Pacific east, pushed inward until they met in the middle of the continent. The numerous mounds in the Western States, with the curious weapons and vessels which they contain, show that the nations then existing, and migrating toward the interior, were not only powerful but essentially unlike our modern Indians. To instance but one illustration of this, there are near Titusville, Pa., ancient oil wells, which bear unmistakable evidences of having been dug and worked by the mound-builders. Thus they speculated in oil, which of itself is a token of high civilization.

Coming east from the Pacific coast, we find existing on the very edge of the desolate interior extensive ruins of ancient cities, of whose builders even tradition gives no account. By these and other remains which the gnawing tooth of Time has still spared to us, the people of those days tell us that they were full of commercial energy; and who knows but they may have been as determined as our nation has ever been, to push trade across from ocean to ocean? It is highly probable also that the Indians of the interior were then far superior to the present tribes, as seems very fairly determined by many of the traditions and customs which obtain among the latter.

In view of the foregoing considerations, it is not remarkable that the beads, denoting, as they did, a place and manner of burial unlike that of the savages of the plains, interested us so much. It was a leaf, we could not but think, from the lost history of the mound-builders.

A noticeable feature of life on the plains is the sod-house, there called an adobe, from some resemblance to the Mexican structures of sun-dried brick. The walls of these primitive habitations are composed of squares of buffalo-grass sod, laid tier upon tier, roots uppermost. A few poles give support for a roof, and on these some hay or small brush is laid. Then comes a foot of earth, and the covering is complete. When well-constructed, these houses are water-proof, very warm in winter, and cool in summer; but when the eaves have been made too short to protect the walls, the latter are liable to dissolve under a heavy shower. During a sudden rain at Sheridan, being obliged to turn out early one morning to protect some goods, we discovered that the neighboring habitation had resolved itself into a mound of dirt, resembling somewhat a tropical ant-hill. We were still gazing at the ruins, when the owner, clad in the brief garment of night-wear, came spluttering through the roof, like a very dirty gnome discharged by a mud-volcano. While he stood there in the rain, letting the falling flood cleanse him off, he remarked, in a manner that for such an occasion was certainly rather dry—"Lucky that houses are dirt-cheap here, stranger, for I reckon this one 's sort o' washed!"

A person of small capital, as may readily be inferred, can live very comfortably on the plains. His house may be built without nail or board, and his meat may be obtained at no other expense than the trouble of shooting it.

We saw many wooden buildings at the different stage stations, which had subterranean communications with little sod watch-towers, rising a couple of feet above the ground, at a distance of forty or fifty yards from the main building. Loop-holes through their walls afforded opportunities for firing, and if the wooden stations were burned, the occupants could find a secure retreat. We heard of but one occasion in which the tower was ever used, but then it was most effectively, the savages, gathered close around the main building, being surprised and put to sudden flight, by the murderous fire which seemed to spring out of the ground at their rear.