Kate Mulhall

CHAPTER II

OFF FOR OREGON; CROSSING THE MISSOURI; ENCOUNTERING THE BUFFALO; TROUBLES WITH THE INDIANS.

Ben Hardy was employed to help break in the team and for other necessary preparations; also, if his father would consent, to make the entire trip with them. Neither Ben, the Squire nor Kate knew anything about oxen; but all realized that they must have a team.

A few days after the party at the Mulhall cabin, the trio experimented in breaking in some cows to the yoke. Kate thought Brindle and Star would make a capital team, and at the first attempt succeeded in getting the yoke on Star—except that she broke away from them and circled around the yard with her tongue out, bucking and fiercely bellowing. Kate quickly climbed the fence in dismay, wondering why gentle old Star should object to be yoked.

Finally getting both cows under the yoke just before dinner call, Kate and her father went to the cabin while Ben started home for lunch. Kate, the first one out after dinner, could hardly believe her eyes. Star, yoked by them on the off side, stood on the near side, while Brindle had changed places with her, and was on the off side. Kate knew perfectly well that she had been yoked up last and on the near side.

In her astonishment she at first overlooked the yoke hanging under the necks of the cows instead of resting on top; they had turned the yoke, and as a sailor might report such an incident—"the starboard ox was on the larboard side, the larboard ox on the starboard side, and the ox-yoke had left the hurricane deck and gone below." Squire Mulhall could see the humor of the incident, but realized a very serious side to it, as illustrating how little they knew about outfitting for the great journey.

He ordered the attempt to break in a team discontinued for the time being; and the next morning mounted Nell and rode off, ostensibly in search of a team, though, as he afterwards said, with a notion to look at the country north of the Iowa line. "But what's the use of raising corn to burn in the stove to keep from freezing, or bacon as fuel for racing steamboats?" While in Iowa he was asked if he knew a man by the name of Pelton reported to live in the county from which he had just come.

"Yes, but what of it?" was the Squire's laconic reply.

"Nothing," the stranger continued, "except he has been looking for land to settle free negroes on, and the neighbors didn't like it."

Now for once in his life he had something to keep from Catherine, who had told him what she had surmised—and in fact knew—Kate's secret, although only through her motherly instinct to read signs often plainer than words. Again Mulhall wavered; to tell Catherine what he had heard would be equivalent to telling Kate, the apple of his eye. He could not bear the thought of losing her; in fact had resolved never to go to Oregon unless Kate went along.

During the Squire's search for a trained team (labor lost, for there were only here and there old, slow, broken-down or ill-matched oxen), he heard of a missionary or itinerant preacher who represented that he had been in Oregon. Mulhall eagerly took the track of this man and followed it for days before overtaking him; but was well rewarded by finding his new acquaintance a very intelligent, well-read man with large experience in the Oregon Country—just the one he was seeking.

But he had already been gone a week, was nearly a hundred and fifty miles from home, and Catherine would soon become very uneasy about him. The minister would probably also talk more about missionary work than topics Mulhall was eager to discuss. So on the second day arrangements were made for the two to go to the Mulhall home where the missionary could rest from his labors, recuperate his worn-down horse and confer at more length about outfitting for the trip to Oregon.[1]

This was done, and following the counsel of the visitor, preparations for the trip went on apace. The Squire purchased ten trim, well developed five-year-old steers, not off the range but farm raised, with two extras as a relief for lame or other temporarily unfit ones in the teams. In other matters the missionary's advice was adopted, with the result that when completed Mulhall's outfit was equal to any he afterwards saw on the plains, and far superior to the vast majority of them.

Ben Hardy, whose mother hesitated but finally gave way to his pleadings, was engaged to take charge of one of the teams. Mulhall offered such liberal compensation that Ben's father also consented, although the lad was still under age. The Squire knew that Ben would be true to his interests, and thought of him not as the hired man, but as one of the family; in fact, he promised Ben one of the teams for his own when they arrived in Oregon.

Ben had a secret of his own about which Mulhall knew nothing. He and the Shaeffer boys were friends, and no one suspected that Ben's frequent visits to their home had any other attraction than a good time with the boys; nor did they dream that "Bennie," as they called him, had any thoughts about their sister. But mother Shaeffer had detected more than mere friendship between Ben and Linda; and under the circumstances developments were not likely to be long delayed.

Ben resolved to make a clean breast of it and know from Linda's spoken words that she loved him and would await his return, or possibly come to him; and firmly concluded not to go unless Linda would consent. In this mood Ben boldly declared himself to Linda in a scene that need not be described here. Linda was a dutiful girl and would have no secret from her mother. "I will go with you now if mother will consent," she said between smiles and tears; "or I'll wait until I can come to you." The thought of having Linda go with him now had never entered Ben's mind until she suggested it, subject to her mother's consent.

"I'll be true to you, Ben, to the end," she said and submitted willingly to the sealing of the promise by a responsive kiss. "Come tomorrow night, Ben, and we'll talk it over with mother;" and so they parted.

Ben went home living in a new world, with increased confidence in the future and a happiness never before experienced. This scene was enacted a week before the start was to be made; and meanwhile Ben was busy at the Mulhalls' from dawn to twilight. Two ox-teams, each with two yoke of oxen, and a yoke of cows were used to haul fuel from a distant woodland for the new owner of the farm, training the teams and drivers to the road, as well as a token of good will.

Kate and her mother were busy preparing and cooking various articles of food, while the Squire was laying in a stock of provisions, water containers, tents and other necessities for a journey of more than two thousand miles extending over a probable period of six months. Mulhall had been warned that once across the Missouri River, he would be in the Indian Country and unable to renew his equipment except from overloaded outfits, abandoned property, or by dealing with the sharpers of the so-called trading posts, some of them regular dens of thieves, often kept by renegade white men.

A mishap to one of the teams on the road detained Ben until long after dark; and when he reached the Mulhall barn, the teams and all the loose stock had still to be cared for. So he could not keep his appointment with Linda; and it was near midnight when he crawled into the hay mow to snatch a few hours of sleep before daybreak.

"I wonder why Ben didn't come to-night as he said he would?"; and in spite of all efforts, Linda's voice betrayed her deep solicitude.

"I'll warrant he had good reasons," the mother responded; but Linda could not be satisfied in her own mind. The great journey was to begin the following Monday, and it was only seven days before the start. Upon awaking Tuesday morning, Ben resolved that at all hazards he would go to see Linda that day.

On his way to the Shaeffer home, conflicting thoughts ran through Ben's mind. What would Mulhall say? What would his own mother and, particularly Linda's mother, say? If she could go along, it would enable them to make an earlier start in life; and each would be entitled to a hundred and sixty acres of land from the Government free, whereas in a year or two at most, neither could secure any without purchase.

It was late Tuesday night when Ben left the Shaeffer home after a long visit with Linda. The mother did not positively forbid her going now, but strongly advised against it; upon second thought Linda herself began to doubt the advisability of such a move, though willing to go and share the hardships with Ben if he thought best.

With tears that could not be restrained by either, they decided that Ben had better go alone. Who can fathom the sacrifice of such a decision or decide as to the wisdom of it? Once made, cheerfulness returned, plans for the future were laid and sacred vows renewed; and life opened to them anew.

The wagons were loaded and the tent set up well in advance, so the start could be made early on the following Monday. When the time came, Kate had saddled Nell, and Dick and Ned had been hitched to the carriage for an hour; but the start was delayed, and Squire Mulhall remained in the cabin. At length, after consulting with Ben, the conclusion was reached that the ox-teams should go ahead and the carriage would follow later.

Catherine assumed a bold, cheerful attitude while the preparations were being made, and concealed her pent-up grief at leaving. Several of her children were born in the cabin, and one of them had died in it. She had passed many happy hours within its humble walls, and tender memories came vividly to mind. Even Mulhall was moved with emotion as never before, and determined to wait quietly until Catherine recovered her composure.

No one without the experience of parting with one can realize the deep feeling of affection for the home, even if it is only a cabin. The love of a lowly dwelling is often more intense than that of a princely palace, for a cabin becomes a part of one's self. No wonder that the good housewife should shed tears of regret upon parting with the home she had loved so well and so long.

After all the neighbors who came to bid Godspeed to the Mulhalls had left, Catherine quietly came out of the cabin, entered the carriage and drove in the track of the ox-teams without looking back, shedding a tear or making any sign of distress. The struggle was ended and the die cast, although the sacrifice required supreme courage.

In spite of all their efforts, Kate and the two younger sisters were unable to drive the loose stock fast enough to keep up with the ox-team, and finally lost one cow in the brush. Riding forward to overtake Ben and have him make an early camp, Kate had a foretaste of what was ahead of them on the journey.

Ben found a convenient barnyard and plenty of feed for the cattle, and a cheerful grass plat for the camp. He quickly had the tent up, fire in the stove and the oxen fed when the carriage and Kate arrived with the loose stock. Whoever has had the experience of a good camp under favorable conditions will realize the cheerful atmosphere that enlivens the spirits of all; the bracing air, the novelty and keen appetites due to the exertion of the journey, combined to bring joy and contentment.

They were only eight miles from the old home; but the start had been made, and all considered it a good distance for the first day. Early in the calm, warm mid-April evening, the sharp notes of the bob white quail rang in the ears of the campers, soon followed by the shrill whistle of the whippoorwill in the near-by meadow. Millions of fireflies, with their mysterious alternating of light and darkness, were floating in the air. Contentment reigned supreme in the camp, and care for the morrow was soon forgotten in peaceful slumber.

Difficulties and trials beset the early part of every trip like the Mulhalls'. In the deep, sticky Missouri mud, a well trained team drawing a light load could flounder through with great exertions; but with half-trained oxen and a heavy load it was frequently necessary to double the teams, or lighten the loads and make a second trip.

Walking alongside his wagon or prying up a wheel deeply sunk in the mire, Ben became bespattered with mud from head to foot, but did not lose patience. The cows would not keep in the road, often compelling Kate to dismount and go after them on foot. Neither would swear, though both at times felt like doing so; but when night came, they laughed off their troubles in the camp.

They had been acquainted for years, but neither had fully measured the other until now. "I golly, Kate, it's rough driving the cows, isn't it?" "Yes; but what about the teams? I think you catch it worse than I do." Their mutual trials drew them closer together; and each had unlimited faith in the other.

Squire Mulhall had great confidence in Ben when he engaged him for the trip, but every day his admiration for the lad increased as better acquaintance brought out his sterling character. Thoughts of Ben for a son-in-law flitted across his mind, and would involuntarily return; but he kept it to himself—the second secret from Catherine.

Finally, after a long struggle encountering mud, rain, wind-storms and quicksand, the Mulhall outfit arrived on the high bluffs overlooking the Missouri and the great encampment of emigrants. Hundreds of tents near the ferry landing and extending back from the river revealed the magnitude of the great western movement of the 50's. Squire Mulhall could not do otherwise than camp with the motley throng, and turned the ox-teams out to graze with several thousands of other stock in the river bottoms.

Looking around to size up the situation, he found people there from several States, of all conditions in life and with nearly as varied outfits as there were camps—scarcely any two alike. Here was one bound, like himself, for Oregon; right alongside, another emigrating to California; next a group of Mormons going to Salt Lake—all waiting their turn to be crossed over the Missouri by the two scows called a ferry.

The throng consisted of all ages from the very old to the infant in arms, and were in various moods. Near-by would be a religious meeting with singing, praying and preaching; others were engaged in pitching quoits, card playing or foot racing—anything to dispel the tedium incident to the long delay on the Iowa side of the river. Some of these people had been camping there fully two weeks, waiting for their numbers to be called, and might be obliged to remain several days more. A brisk trade in "turns" naturally resulted; in one case fifty dollars was paid to entitle the purchaser to immediate crossing.

Open gambling was seen in many places, and a great crowd congregated around a race-track. In a stroll of a couple of hours Mulhall noticed a number of intoxicated men, though not many were boisterous; the intoxicants evidently came from the camps. Here, as back in Missouri, whisky was pure but cheap (averaging 25c a gallon), and no regulation as to sale or disposal.

One corner of the encampment was particularly clean and orderly; no litter of papers or cast-off articles of any kind were in sight, and there was an entire absence of gambling, card playing or other amusements. Two of the emigrants in peculiar garb were digging a pit in which to bury rubbish. The men were usually either reading well-worn Bibles, writing or amusing the children, while the women were generally caring for the camp, sewing or knitting; one was weaving cloth on a hand-loom, and another spinning yarn on an old-time wheel, the sharp tones of the spindle vibrating in the air.

It was like part of a long established and law-abiding eastern community transplanted to the edge of civilization. A brief conversation disclosed that these campers were from a Methodist settlement in central Indiana, and that their pastor, though temporarily holding service at a near-by village, was traveling with them. Mulhall thanked them for the invitation to attend the evening meeting and continued his stroll, intending to do so if Catherine and Kate would accompany him.

The next group of camps visited presented a very different appearance. More than half of the party, which was bound for the Mormon settlement at Salt Lake City, had recently arrived from Europe. There were very few men; the greater part were women who huddled in tents almost devoid of camp conveniences, while a number of their ragged and dirty-faced children were playing in the vicinity.

Men and women alike showed a sober mien; here and there a man would be reading a Bible, and Mulhall noticed one reading the Book of Mormon. Like the Methodists, they held religious services every evening. There were very few wagons for so large a party, making the problem of their transportation unusually difficult. In a corner of the encampment were a number of hand-carts which a portion of those belonging to this camp intended to use in crossing the plains; and one man with a wheelbarrow completed the picturesque assemblage.

With the invitation in mind, the Squire and Catherine prepared to attend the Methodist meeting that same evening. Kate said, "Ben, let's go, too."

"I golly, Kate, that's just what I was going to say," Ben replied. So all dressed in their best and walked toward the Methodist camp, for which they had started, along a path which led near the Mormon part of the encampment.

Seeing the people gathering for religious services Mulhall, more out of curiosity than otherwise, suggested that they stop and listen for awhile. Catherine had only a faint idea of what "Mormon" meant; but held a deep prejudice against them, and said that she preferred to attend what she considered a real religious meeting. But as the rest of the party desired to hear the Mormons, Catherine consented, and all took seats among those provided for strangers.

The minister, a burly figure somewhat uncouth but evidently sincere, opened the meeting by reading a chapter from the Old Testament; he took his text from the chapter read, and to their surprise preached a real orthodox sermon, differing little from what they had often heard from itinerant Methodist preachers passing through their neighborhood. On the way back to their camp Mulhall berated himself for not attending the Methodist meeting as originally intended; he resolved to do so the next evening, and all the others said they would accompany him.

True to the resolution, preparations were made to go as the next evening approached. Ben had left early in the morning to look after their cattle running at large in the Missouri bottoms with thousands of others belonging to the numerous camps, and at dusk had not returned. Three of the oxen could not be found; whether they had strayed off on their own account or had been stolen he could not tell, but strongly suspected the latter. He did not return until dark and then was tired and hungry; Kate said she wouldn't go until Ben had dinner, and her mother was of the same mind.

Mulhall lost interest in the meeting when Ben came with the news; the loss of three of his best oxen would be very serious, and he was then in no mood to think of anything else. Early the next morning Kate saddled Nell and Ben borrowed a saddle for Ned; after an early breakfast the two mounted and started down the wide river bottom to look for the strays. Toward the end of nearly an all-day search they were found about seven miles from camp; but from that time on either Ben or the new hired man always stayed out with the herd.

A few mornings after the night watch had been inaugurated Ben, having had Dick for a bedfellow the night before, remarked, "I golly, I snuggled up close to his back and slept as warm as wool." That was the beginning, for him, of an experience shared by many pioneers, including the author; and is the origin of the term "bedfellow of the ox."

A few evenings later, when everything was still and calm, and not a breath of air stirring, Mulhall, while sitting in front of his camp, heard a number of voices in the distance. The sound came from the direction of the Methodist camp; he thought he caught a word or two, but was not sure.

Just then a gentleman passing by asked, "Do you hear the Methodists?" "Is that noise of voices we hear the Methodists?" Mulhall asked. "Yes, they have been going on that way for an hour," answered the stranger, who passed on and disappeared from sight.

Kate and Catherine had both retired for the night, but Mulhall resolved to go and hear what they were saying and see what they were doing. He walked briskly in the direction of the sound, sure enough, it was a "Methodist awakening," as the participants expressed it.

The reader would not doubt this part of the narrative if he had ever attended a meeting of the "shouting Methodists" of Indiana in early days, particularly after a sermon where endless punishment was preached for unbelievers. Now the Squire saw some of the men and women who a few days before were sedate in their industrious camp, shouting and violently gesticulating; some were fairly dancing in an ecstasy of joy, others praying or lying down as if in a trance or stupor.

When, after waiting three weeks, Mulhall's turn came to cross the river, he concluded to send one team and wagon ahead with the tent and cooking outfit; Ben and Kate went along with it to establish and prepare the camp for the remainder of the party. About mid-stream the boat upset. The heavy running-gear of the wagon immediately sank out of sight; but the bed, though partly submerged, and with Ben and Kate in it, continued to float, though it was being carried away from the scene of the mishap by the strong current.

Sometimes the outfit would sink to near the top of the cover, and in another moment the whirl of the turbulent current would leave the greater part of it visible again. Ben managed to remove the cover that had entrapped them, so they were not in immediate danger of drowning; he at once began throwing heavy things overboard, the stove first and then whatever else could be found to lighten the load.

At a bend of the river in sight from the crossing, the bed grounded on a sand-bar projecting upstream from the head of an island, and swung around broadside, affording the imprisoned occupants a safe landing. Seeing their peril, two Indians plunged fearlessly into the Missouri, and swam out to the rescue; others immediately followed in canoes, and soon landed both of them safely on the west side of the great river. Yet we sometimes hear thoughtless people say, "there are no good Indians but dead Indians!"

Kate returned to the Iowa side by the next boat, but Ben remained awhile longer on the west side to care for the team that had swam across. One wagon, the yokes, chains and a considerable part of the outfit had been lost. After arranging for the care of the team, Ben crossed back about dark to rejoin the remainder of the party still waiting there, and to consult with the Squire.

NEAR CATASTROPHE IN CROSSING THE MISSOURI

Illustrating a scene witnessed by the author and many other Pioneers to the Oregon Country. The sinking of the wagon, endangering the life of Kate Mulhall, the heroine of this story, and her rescue by Ben Hardy, as described on the opposite page, make a stirring incident of overland travel in the early 50s. An interesting reference to this "near catastrophe" a half century later, will be found on page 231.

TYPICAL EMIGRANT OUTFIT ON THE OREGON TRAIL

"Prairie schooner" unit of a line made up of vehicles drawn by horses, mules, oxen or cows, with three yoke of oxen (driven by a man walking along the left-hand side of the farther yoke), followed by the captain of the train and protected by an armed guard at the rear. Many an outfit like this one starting out in good condition was reduced to the situation illustrated in the drawing on page 75 before the end of the long journey.

At the time of the accident, Catherine was at the camp and knew nothing about it until told by Kate herself; then she fell upon her knees to offer thanks for the rescue of her daughter. When told that Kate had been saved by Ben's courage and cool-headed action, she gave way to tears of joy and gratitude, and exclaimed, "Where is he? Where is he, the dear, dear boy?" When he arrived, mother Mulhall kissed him again and again; even the Squire had difficulty in controlling his emotions, while Kate seemed dazed and said little. Of course the deep gloom in the camp was accompanied by rejoicing that there had been no loss of life.

The emigrants flocked around to praise Ben's act of bravery; but he made light of it, saying anybody but a coward would have done the same, and he wasn't entitled to any special praise. That evening an elderly Quaker with his wife and daughter came to Mulhall's camp.

"We came to see thee," he said, "to join in praise to God for his mercy in restoring thy son and daughter to thee; and further to tell thee the Spirit moves us to proffer aid to enable thee to repair thy loss." The Squire was deeply impressed with the evident sincerity of the man, and felt to some extent relieved from the feeling of depression he had been striving to dispel.

Catherine was unable to conceal her emotion or control herself; the shock upon the poor woman's nerves had been too great. Kate arose from a cot to assure her mother that she would be all right again in a little while, but seemingly without effect until the Quaker lady's sympathetic words wrought a change of promised relief.

One of the ferrymen came into the camp and witnessed the scene of the Quakers striving to alleviate Catherine's anguish. The two women were about the same age; and the daughter of the Quaker family had been a great comfort to Kate in her distress. Grasping the situation, and seeing that he could do nothing at the moment, the ferryman soon withdrew, beckoning Mulhall to follow him outside.

"I come," he said, "to tell you we think we ought to replace your wagon and outfit, and will do so to-morrow. A number of parties who have concluded not to go any farther will sell their wagons and outfits at a reasonable price. Come and see us in the morning."

At the moment Mulhall was more concerned about his wife than over the loss of a part of the outfit; but the calls of the Quaker and the ferryman were appreciated more for the sympathy manifested than for the offer of material aid. The Quakers stayed until long after midnight. Catherine had been induced to lie down; and with the hand of the good Samaritan on her brow, had fallen asleep and peacefully rested.

Kate's companion had exercised much the same influence upon her as the Quaker mother had upon Mrs. Mulhall; and shortly after midnight she also passed from consciousness to sweet slumber. The three visitors then noiselessly withdrew, and deep silence fell upon the camp. Catherine slept late and awakened calm, and reassured when she found that Kate was up and preparing breakfast.

True to promise, on the following day the ferryman gave the Squire his choice of three wagons and outfits; and before night he was ready to cross the Missouri to the Indian Country, then extending across the Rocky Mountains to the Pacific Ocean. Mulhall was confronted with a perplexing situation—one team was now on the west side of the river, and the other on the east or Iowa side. The hired man, who shall be nameless, seemed to delight in using his long whip-lash on the oxen, and goaded them to unnecessary exertion; and had proven very unsatisfactory in other ways. His language was also offensive; and when the Squire found that he had been indulging immoderately in liquor, summarily discharged him.

Fortunately for Mulhall, at this juncture Douglas Craig, the young man with the outfit presented to him by the ferryman, came highly recommended and expressed a desire to continue on the trip; the Squire immediately engaged him, and never had cause to regret it. As soon as Mulhall could move his camp to the landing, he crossed over without much difficulty, leaving Ben to follow when he could get the cattle up from the bottoms.

That night the campers heard the shrill whistle of a steamer from down the river, and soon saw the lights of the "Ajax" as it moved slowly up to the landing. A great throng greeted the captain as he came ashore, and vociferously clamored to be ferried across the river, with the promise of extra compensation if done that night. So the occupation of the open-scow ferryman was gone, and the steamer took its place; after that a hundred wagons with their teams were crossed by day and nearly as many at night.

One can scarcely imagine the confusion that followed the congestion on the one road leading, out from the landing place on the western side of the river. Outfits had been separated and cattle gone astray, children were separated from their parents, and thieving Indians mingled with the throng. Mulhall soon brought together his outfit (small as compared with some trains of fifty wagons) and drew off to a nearby camping place.

He had been cautioned by the missionary not to join in the rush to drive furiously forward, as others would certainly be doing. Kate became very impatient at the delay of a day that her father considered necessary to have everything in readiness. On the fourth day they were confronted with a narrow but deep river; and there was another struggle to get across.

USING A WAGON-BOX AS A "BOAT"

Many of the Pioneers crossed the rivers on the Oregon Trail with all of their outfits, except the oxen, in the manner shown by the illustration. At best it was a hazardous adventure; at one place on the North Platte nine men were drowned in making the attempt. The author crossed the Snake River twice by this method and swam his oxen; this photograph, taken in 1912 on the "Loup Fork," a tributary of the Platte River in Nebraska, shows his improvised craft in the middle of that great stream, and will convey some idea of the dangers encountered by the emigration of which he was a part. See pages 57, 69-70 and 213.

The confusion was increased by many coming into camp every hour day and night. Some were using a scow ferry entirely inadequate to accommodate the great numbers suddenly brought upon the scene; others were crossing on rafts, and still others in their boat-shaped wagon-boxes. A few had constructed "bull boats" (a light form of willow twigs, with a buffalo hide bottom).

Douglas Craig, the new man of the Mulhall outfit, proved to be an expert horseman and an all-around stockman; he soon managed to get the cattle over, while Ben crossed the wagons. An account of the experiences and daily incidents of even one such outfit as Mulhall's in its slow progress westward would fill a larger volume than this. So we will attempt only to briefly sketch the trials confronting the bold pioneers who passed over the Oregon Trail in the early days before the rivers were bridged, supply depots established or protection from the Indians given by the Government.

"What's that dark shade on the land?" Kate asked her father as she rode up to his carriage. Mulhall turned his glass in the direction indicated for a moment and replied, "Why as I live, that's buffalo." In the clear atmosphere of the plains an object many miles away often seems near-by. Kate was ready in an instant to go and bag some big game, but knew her mother would not consent; so she called to Ben, "Take my rifle and Nell, and get one. I'll drive your team."

By this time the whole line on the road had discovered the herd, and nearly all the men were making preparations to join in the big hunt. Just ahead there seemed to be a great commotion, teams turning out of the road and horsemen riding furiously back and forth. One, racing down the line, shouted in a loud voice, "Unhitch, unhitch; form corrals with your wagons; a buffalo stampede is coming. Quick, quick; don't shoot, don't shoot;" and like Paul Revere, he passed on to repeat the warning.

Mulhall had fallen in with several independent outfits and in the evenings the group had been forming a circle of wagons to guard against the loss of stock and lighten the burden of the night-watch. In a very short time the wagons were arranged and the loose stock placed inside the circle; but the buffalo were all traveling in one direction on their annual migration, not a stampede. Nothing but some insurmountable obstacle could turn the herd from the course that its almost incredible numbers were pursuing.

In their migratory movements buffalo are, as one might say, controlled by instinct like birds of the air. Here was a living mass, to all appearances one vast unit, passing over many miles of the trail, each animal traveling in the same direction as if guided by a compass or the North Star. The emigrants could do no more than guard their own stock and let the buffalo continue their majestic procession for hours.

After the mass had gone on and only stragglers remained in sight, the ban against shooting was removed and an exciting buffalo hunt was on. Ben followed Kate's suggestion by taking Nell and trying with his rifle to bring down a fat buffalo cow. Not being either an expert horseman or a crack shot, he had a rather prolonged and exciting race; but finally succeeded in securing a fine heifer. He could have more easily shot an old buffalo, as many did; but was out more to add to their depleted larder than for the excitement of the chase.

When Ben returned to camp it was evident that he was in virtual collapse, his strength nearly gone and his pulse weak. Thoroughly alarmed, mother Mulhall did everything she could to arouse him from the stupor into which he had fallen, but all to no purpose. Kate fairly ran over to the near-by camp for a doctor, who partially revived him but cautioned him to be careful and patient for several days. When questioned, the physician answered evasively as to a possible fatal result.

An epidemic of cholera was ravaging the camps and taking a fearful toll; only the day before the Squire and Catherine halted the carriage before a newly made burying-ground and counted forty-four graves, none more than three days old. Only those in the best of health seemed immune from the scourge. Mother Mulhall reproached herself for consenting to let Ben go on the hunt, and retired to pray in secret for his recovery.

Kate showed unmistakable evidences of deep grief, and also blamed herself for having encouraged Ben to go; she remained by his bedside throughout the night, and was reluctant to leave when morning came. As the day wore on there were signs of recovery, and by the third day he had sufficiently improved to warrant resuming their journey. Meantime more than a thousand wagons had passed on, leaving many detained in stricken camps to bury their dead.

Mulhall had been a witness to the great epidemic that lined the trail for a thousand miles with uncounted graves of dead pioneers. He had lost considerable weight on the way; how much he did not know, but realized the fact by the fit of his clothes. Catherine said the difference in food had wrought the change, to which the Squire responded that in such case he would probably lose in strength, while he felt stronger than for many years before. The fact gradually dawned upon him that the regular exercise taken on the trip had increased his strength while reducing his weight.

Under the hot sun Kate became tanned, but lost none of the fire in her eye nor her cheerfulness of spirit, although her patience was often tried by the wilful ways of the loose stock. The two little sisters helped her part of the time, until the sand became too hot for their bare feet; but were always welcomed in the carriage driven by their mother. When Ben was transferred to the carriage, their place of refuge was gone; after that one at a time would ride behind Kate, or she would often trudge along afoot while the two little ones rode Nell.

All the past glamour of the trip had now gone out of Kate's mind; but she could not admit to herself any regret that they were on the way to Oregon. At least they were free from the hated question of slavery! Then her mind would revert to Pelton, with the thought that she might have been too rash in her manner of rejecting his advances; had she known what her father knew—that Isaac intended at all hazards to free his slaves—grief would have seized her in spite of all efforts to restrain it.

Kate had intuitively come to discern what was in her father's mind with reference to Ben, and believed that her mother felt the same way as her father. When such thought came into her own mind, the vision of Pelton rose above them all. Love Ben? Yes—as a brother; and then she would try to think of something else.

"What's this?" Squire Mulhall asked aloud rather excitedly to himself, stopping his team in the middle of the road. Soon both wagons were driven to the outside, opening a passage for other teams pressing on from behind. "What's happened, stranger that you are here by the roadside with no team?" It needed only a short time to explain that the family had started across the plains with a neighbor who owned a team; but after some altercation, the neighbor became abusive, stopped and hurriedly pitched the bedding and clothing of the others out of the wagon, driving on with all the provisions.

"How long since?" the Squire asked. "About two hours ago," the stranger answered. "Put your things in my other wagon and let your wife and children get in here until we reach camp tonight," said the Squire, thoroughly aroused and with indignation manifest in his voice. "Perhaps we will overtake the brute by nightfall."

The family consisted of husband and wife, both apparently honest and intelligent, and three small children, the oldest about eight. Leaving his team in charge of the stranger as soon as they were back on the road (which was literally filled with passing wagons and loose stock), he soon found Kate; and taking Nell, rode on ahead as rapidly as possible.

He soon encountered a train of a dozen wagons which had no sooner been passed than another one of thirty was overtaken; each vehicle closely followed the one in front, and to make headway it was necessary to ride alongside the road, often obstructed by sage-brush. That evening the Squire said he believed that he had been obliged to go around at least five hundred wagons to gain five miles on the moving trains, all the while keeping a sharp lookout for the outfit which abandoned the family now traveling with him.

It was learned that the culprit, who had been recognized by the description, passed on just before dark and would probably travel all night. Three armed men were mounted and given instructions to continue on far enough during the night to be sure they were ahead of the outfit, and then to stop and wait for it. Just at daylight they overtook the guilty party and soon convinced him that resistance was useless and submission to arrest his only safe course.

The "unwritten law" of the plains was a tacit consent that all grievances, misdemeanors or accusations of crime must be laid before a jury of elderly men; and no one should take the law into his own hands—in a word, no mob violence. Squire Mulhall soon succeeded in bringing together several of the older pioneers, who resolved to take immediate action; swift and adequate justice was administered, and the incident was almost immediately closed. This code of action prevailed all along the line; no one was punished without a hearing, but there were no delays on technicalities, or any appeals.

Mulhall's trail followed the track that Marcus Whitman had made from the west bank of the Missouri River nearly two decades before, when that famous missionary was on the way to overtake the expedition of the American Fur Company before it reached the Indian tribe reported as hostile to white men passing through their country. It will be recalled how Dr. Whitman swam the Platte where it was a mile wide, and re-crossed with the cattle until nearly exhausted, while Mrs. Whitman and Mrs. Spalding were towed over in a frail bullboat by two Indian women swimming, accompanied by Indian boys who assisted them heroically.

On the sixth day out from this river, definite information was received that a camp of thirty Indian lodges was disputing the right of the emigrants to proceed farther without payment of toll for each wagon. A number of outfits which had already refused to pay were encamped there; Mulhall considered this a wise move until he could reconnoiter and find out just how serious the situation was.

After the rumor of the obstruction had been confirmed the evening before, the firing of a rifle startled the camp. Unobserved, Kate had slipped out of the camp with her rifle; if there was going to be trouble with the Indians, she would have a fresh load in it. The next day, when her father had concluded to go ahead and ascertain the facts about the detention, Kate said she would go along.

Mulhall had not thought of taking arms with him; but Kate noticed that a number had gone forward carrying their guns, and said it was better to be prepared. Catherine firmly approved the move, and added that they would put the camp in best shape possible for defense. Experienced pioneers all agree that the most retiring and apparently timid women usually were the most courageous in times of danger on the plains, whether from Indians or other causes.

Kate mounted Ned, bareback, while her father rode Nell. It was a ride of six miles past several camps and many teams standing in the road; and hundreds of excited men were found at the point of detention. The place chosen by the Indians was a small ravine where a recent washout had been bridged by a train of emigrants that had passed on sometime previous.

On the farther side the Indians were camped; most of the men were mounted, but had not put on their war paint. They were intending to dispute the crossing until payment was made for passing through their country—a plausible claim, as the white man's government had made no treaties with them.

Here the dilemma—whether to pay toll or force their way through—confronted the responsible men of the emigrant column. Was it just to force their way across the country if the Indians owned it? What right had the white man to pass through it, kill their buffalo, turn his oxen out on their range to eat off the grass, or to burn the scant supply of fuel?

Many of the pioneers had never thought about this and were puzzled; but when the Chief said, "One cow, one wagon," all saw instantly that to submit meant the disintegration or even stopping of the whole emigration. As that tribe did not claim to own the country farther than to the next river crossing, a similar demand might be made again and again.

While the improvised council was discussing this question, there was a great commotion. Many who did not go near the council had driven their teams close to the disputed bridge-head, when one bold pioneer spoke in a loud voice, "You fellows get ready to follow; I'm going across that bridge if I have to run right over an Injun!" and he did. The Indian narrowly escaped; other teams followed in quick succession; the blockade was broken, and for the next twenty-four hours, day or night, scarce a moment passed without a wagon on that bridge.

UNDER THE YOKE FOR THE FIRST TIME

In their struggles to shake it off, Brindle and Star had reversed the yoke, as described on page 38. Large numbers of cows were "broken" like oxen, and in many instances helped to make up a "team." This incident is recalled, half a century later, by the visit to the old homestead in Missouri described on page 234.

[1] See "The Missionary's Story," pages 235-283. E.M.

CHAPTER III

TRIALS OF THE LONG TRAIL; DANGEROUS RIVER CROSSINGS; THE DEATH OF CATHERINE; WEST OF THE ROCKIES; SEPARATION OF THE PARTY; NEW HOMES IN THE OREGON COUNTRY.

The Dust—clouds of which were so dense that oftentimes the leaders of a team could not be seen—became almost intolerable. Kate adopted the sensible practice of starting early in the morning with the carriage and loose cattle so that her mother might escape as much of it as possible. One day Mulhall saw her riding hastily back to the team.

"Father," she exclaimed, "Ned has dropped dead in the harness and the carriage can't go any farther." Craig had been ill for several days and Mulhall was driving the team. Leaving it to Kate, he rode ahead to find Catherine in distress and his favorite, trusty horse lying stiff beside the carriage. Unsaddling Nell and harnessing her alongside Dick, the Squire started the outfit on the road, advising Catherine to camp as soon as a suitable place could be found.

The little twin girls had forgotten their loose stock, which by this time was widely scattered; part of it had gone on with the other herds, and some was on either side of the road. One old lame cow, Beckey, had laid down where the carriage stopped and was unwilling to resume the journey. It was late in the evening when all came together at the camp; three head of stock were missing; water could be procured only from a deep ravine half a mile distant; no fuel was in sight for a camp fire, and "buffalo chips" had disappeared from near camping grounds.

With Ben's assistance, Kate unyoked both teams and started the oxen, whose tongues were out from thirst, and such of the loose stock as could be found, to the ravine for water. The entire party had been without water for several hours before reaching camp; and how could they prepare food without it, or fuel or Kate's help? Anyhow the oxen must have the first attention, and water procured for the camp; and it was a question whether or not they could get all the oxen out of the ravine after their thirst had been slacked. It was past midnight when Kate lay down to rest, and for the first time on the trip she gave way to grief. Her mother had gone to bed supperless; Kate had seen for some time that Catherine's strength was failing, and realized that the strain was likely to become too heavy for her to bear—a thought which fairly stunned and even terrified her. Blaming herself for favoring abandonment of the Missouri borne and undertaking the long trip, nature finally relieved her by deep and restful sleep.

Mulhall and his fellow travelers had come to dread river crossings without bridges or established ferries more than the Indians, dust, the fatigue, lack of grass for the oxen or anything else on the trail. All were rejoiced to be safely across one, and hopeful that the next would be less dangerous; but in this they were often doomed to disappointment.

As they left the sluggish current of the main Platte River to ascend its chief tributary the North Platte, the current was found to be swifter as the trail led gradually up the east slope of the Rocky Mountains. An account of the crossing of one of these, written upon the spot at the time by W. P. Woods and preserved in his diary, will illustrate the difficulty and dangers to be surmounted:

Thursday, June 21, 1849—We made an early start and drove 12 miles to the mouth of Deer Creek, where we found teams crossing the Platte. Four boats, each consisting of two dug-outs fastened together, had been made by emigrants who had crossed before and gone on, others buying their rights and continuing the work. We paid $3 per wagon for the use of the boats, and swam the oxen.

Just before reaching here the accidental discharge of a gun by a member of the Pittsburg Company, who was unloading a wagon to make the crossing, killed a man from Illinois, the ball passing through the body just above the heart. A man was drowned here yesterday; and just 12 miles above seven men have been lost in two days while rafting their wagons across.

Friday, June 22, 1849—We were roused early, and in good season commenced crossing our wagons. The line for two miles along the river bank presented as busy an aspect as it ordinarily does in St. Louis, or any other small town in the States. Wagons in pieces, boxes and chattels of all kinds made a scene of extraordinary activity far out in this uninhabited western country.

Our "boat" was called the "Two Follies and Betsy," from their being two dugouts, with a log between them. Joining forces with the twelve Cincinnati mule trains, the "boat" started off in style with 30 men to cordelle it against the current. The men were obliged to work in the water, which rendered it quite unpleasant; but by 4 o'clock P.M. we were across, and then drove the oxen down to swim.

With all of our efforts, swimming and wading from that time until dark, we could only get three of them across; so had at last to let them return to the shore, and were obliged to keep watch of them until morning. The water is remarkably swift and cold, the low temperature probably due to our proximity to the snows of the mountains. To the south of us, about four miles from the Platte, there arises a range of very high pine-clad hills, which appears to terminate in the Laramie Mountains.

Saturday, June 23, 1849—Again resumed our labors by recrossing the river for the purpose of crossing our ox-teams, but at first with no better success than the day before. Here we witnessed scenes far surpassing anything the imagination ever conceived—the long to be remembered crossing of the Platte. No pencil can portray or pen depict the scene as it really was.

Fancy for one moment our feelings on observing the vast aggregation of oxen, mules, horses and wagons mixed indiscriminately with men clothed, half-clad and even almost naked, encountering the elements that were temporarily stopping our progress. By about noon we succeeded in crossing; but both men and teams were extremely exhausted.

The onlookers witnessed sights ranging from the laughable to the alarming. In one place six men were assisted ashore by hanging to the tail of a mule, with a rider on him at that, while in another case extreme efforts were being made to save a man from drowning. A boat, with a wagon containing women and children, sank but was saved by striking a bar.

I was carried by the swift current outside the jam of cattle, and saved myself by catching hold of the tail of an ox as I passed him, and letting him tow me to shore. Those scenes are over, though we shall long remember them. We yoked our teams and drove on over a very rough sand road for about four miles, where we encamped on the river hank to feed our oxen and rest ourselves. Many a man here wishes himself back in the States.[1]

For a considerable sum, Mulhall secured a means of crossing by a train which had been provided for the emergency; and though not detained or endangered, was much relieved when safely landed on the opposite shore. He knew, however, there were two more crossings of a mighty river on the western slope of the Rocky Mountains about a thousand miles ahead of them.

Catherine's strength had rapidly declined, and soon after the crossing just described it became evident that the day of her long rest was near at hand. Mulhall's first impulse was to stop and camp until she recovered her strength; but if he dropped out of the passing throng and was left alone, the peril of Indians would be greatly increased. He was in the mountains with no permanent settlements—in fact none on the whole length of the trail beyond the Missouri; during the winter which would be coming on with heavy falls of snow, his teams would undoubtedly perish, and his party suffer for lack of food and shelter.

Taking charge of the carriage himself and driving carefully, he fancied that Catherine's strength was gaining; but alas, was doomed to disappointment. The sorrowful end was not long delayed. Among the fleeting clouds well up on the eastern slope of the Rockies, nearly a mile and a half in altitude above the home they had left in old Missouri, they buried her in the shifting sands of the Sweetwater River Valley. Her last words to Kate, "Take good care of father," rang in her ears ever afterward; and she did—loyally and faithfully—until the last day of his life.

Nearly prostrated by the calamity that had befallen them, Kate felt that she did not want to go any farther; but gradually recovered her sense of duty to the little orphaned sisters, her father and herself. The anguish in leaving the lone grave can only be known to those who have been through some such experience; and the thought that the little mound of sand would soon be leveled by the fierce winds of the mountain slope added poignance to the already overwhelming grief.

Craig deeply sympathized with the stricken family. Little Sarah, one of the twins, who was of an age to realize her great loss and yet not old enough to be resigned—if that age ever arrives—would not be calmed when the hour of burial came. She clung to the rough box containing her mother's body, and with pitiable outcries pleaded with her father, "don't leave her here; don't; don't!"

"Child, do you see the rift in yonder mountains?" Craig asked. Between deep sobs she answered, "Yes."

"That's Split Mountain, two thousand feet high," Craig continued, "none other like it anywhere in sight of the trail. The two mountains stand so close together the space between them seems from here like a black ribbon, although, we know they are many rods apart."

The child fixed her gaze intently on the mountain while Craig continued, "That is almost exactly north of where your mother's grave will be; I saw the North Star last evening just above it."

Craig had arrested the child's attention for the moment, and in a tone of sympathy asked, "Did you notice those tracks in the stone made by the wagon wheels just where we turned off the trail to this camp? They are so deep they will last forever."

Craig had drawn the child's attention away from the bereavement, but had not arrested her deep grief; and added, "Those tracks will tell you where to stop to look for your mother's grave, if you ever come out to search for it when you grow up to be a woman—no others like them."

This thought impressed the little girl as no other words Craig had ever spoken. Between the long infrequent, tremulous sighs that could not be suppressed, she looked imploringly and trustfully into Craig's eyes while he continued, "You remember that grave we passed marked by a wagon tire half sunk in the ground?"

"Yes," answered Sarah, hesitating a moment, "I remember the name, 'Rebecca' inscribed on the tire, but have forgotten the other."

"Winters," Craig thought to himself, and then said, "that's it, Rebecca Winters. Now my little friend, I'll mark your mother's grave the same way, so you can find it the longest day you live;" and his own tears dropped on the hand of his little friend, which he held in his.

The scene was enough to melt a heart of stone; the faltering voice, the Scotch brogue, the deep sympathy with the distressed child, and Sarah's trustfulness somewhat relieved the feelings of all, and the burial was completed in silence. Craig immediately afterwards disappeared from the camp, and returned after dark with a wagon tire noticed a few hours before they had camped. It was from one of the several wagons that had been burned—mute evidence of a massacre where none were left to tell the story.

Douglas Craig was an all-around, handy man; in his native country he had worked as a smithy, and was an expert with metals. Early the next morning echoes of his work could be heard; he was inscribing the name, "Catherine Mulhall, died 185-; aged fifty-seven."

All day long this labor of love went on with scarcely long enough intermission for a hasty dinner. Kate and the little girls went out in search of flowers to decorate the grave, and were rewarded by finding an abundance of wild roses and several other varieties of the flora in that region.

Kate noticed a very small but well formed pine tree that seemed likely to grow into a suitable landmark. The thought came to her mind that they might transplant it to grow on the grave; and Ben said they could, without disturbing the roots.

Both busied themselves nearly all day changing the beautiful little tree to its new home and planted it, with roots undisturbed, at the head of the grave, with a vigorous wild rose bush. The girls gathered leaves and decaying wood to mulch the ground. Before nightfall, the little mound built over the sacred spot was partially leveled down, covered with flowers and the inscribed wagon tire set in place.

A CORRAL AT AN OVERNIGHT STOP ON THE TRAIL THROUGH
THE INDIAN COUNTRY; SEE PAGES 58 and 169

The illustration shows the nature of the precautions adopted for defense—soon abandoned when trains began to disintegrate and break into smaller units, making it easier for the Indiana to attack and sometimes massacre a company, with a result like that shown in the illustration opposite page 175.

ALMOST "DOWN AND OUT"

A month later the party was struggling along the banks of the Snake River, which had to be crossed twice; and they were still confronted by the Blue and Cascade Mountain ranges. Apparently it was only a question of time when Mulhall would be compelled to leave one of the wagons; this he did at the lower crossing of the Snake River, where two young pioneers[2] had lashed two wagon-boxes together, and constructed a platform to enable them to run a wagon onto it and cross the river without unloading.

Mulhall soon arranged to send over the wagons by this improvised ferry, swimming the oxen and horses. Ben mounted one of the horses and rode ahead as a decoy, while Craig and friendly helpers urged the oxen into the river until deep water was reached, when all followed Ben's lead and crossed safely. While this was being done, a woman died from exhaustion, leaving three little orphaned children to the care of the stricken husband and father—a pathetic incident which revived Kate's grief.

Men were never more loyal to one another than Ben and Craig were to Mulhall. From all appearances, they might have been his own sons; Kate had treated them as brothers and the whole outfit including the little twins, were like one family.

For several weeks Ben and Craig counseled between themselves as to the advisability, or possible necessity, of leaving father Mulhall after the last crossing of the Snake River, and going ahead on foot. Craig had carefully ascertained the amount of food on hand and calculated the quantity used each day to supply six persons constituting the party; and demonstrated to his own mind there was an insufficient supply for the remainder of the trip, probably at least another three weeks.

"We ought to go ahead, Ben," Craig said in his broad Scotch brogue, particularly when considering grave subjects. "The two of us are consuming one-third of the daily food," he continued; "and, Ben, did you ever think of what an appalling calamity of famine would have overtaken us all had it not been for so many[3] dying on the way?"

"Won't you speak to father Mulhall about it?" Ben hesitated to approach the Squire on the subject lest he might think of the suggestion as a proposal of desertion. "Well, I'll talk to him," Craig said, seeing that Ben was reluctant to do so.

When broached on the subject by Craig, the Squire would not agree to it at all. The sacrifice and danger to Craig and Ben was too great; better go upon short rations and all keep together; leave one wagon and kill one ox—"Anything rather than to have 'the boys' take the risks and endure such hardships," he said to Kate.

That very morning Kate had given breakfast to two "tramps," who had been without food for forty hours, "Except a few grasshoppers, but not many," as one of them, a lad of twelve,[4] naively said, "they were too hard to catch."

A near famine now confronted the whole of the emigration; and finally all agreed that it was best for the two to go ahead on foot as they had discussed, for the young men could travel farther in one day than the ox-team could in two. Before reaching a final conclusion Ben and Kate consulted together, keeping their own counsel as to what passed between them. Ben and Craig had great respect for the Squire—if indeed affection would not be the more appropriate word; and it was with genuine feelings of regret that they parted from him.

On the fifth day, when it was estimated that they were a hundred miles ahead of "father Mulhall," as they now called him, the young men met the relief train coming out from Portland to the rescue, and arranged to have him supplied with such articles of food as they knew Kate and he needed most. Mulhall received the letter Ben had written and the provisions with tears of affection for "my boys," as he was fond of referring to them.

The supplies sent out to relieve the pressing wants of the incoming pioneers were not for sale, but for relief. If a man could pay, all right—the money received would be used to purchase more; but the majority who were unable to do so, were supplied without obligation as to future payment. Ben and Craig soon felt their strength failing from reduced rations; so when they heard of supply trains ahead, they resumed their usual allowance, and soon regained normal condition.

Knowing that she must be uneasy about him, Ben wrote to his mother at the end of his journey, and even before he slept under a roof. The trip had taken nearly two months longer than expected; and now he learned that another month would be required to send a letter back to Missouri. Under present circumstances he could not encourage Linda to think of coming to him, or expect that he could soon return to her.

Would she conclude that his love for her had declined, or lose faith in him if he wrote of the most insuperable barrier that now lay between them? At the time it occurred, he had written to Linda the facts of Kate's and his adventure in crossing the Missouri. The gossips had wagged their tongues and surmised that because he had rescued Kate, she would feel under obligations to marry him; and Squire Mulhall ardently wished that that, or something else, would bring about such a result.

Ben and Kate were both annoyed, but could do nothing to silence the busybodies; to deny it would only whet their zeal. So much talk going the rounds of the camp set Ben to wondering if the same gossip prevailed in his old neighborhood; and if so whether or not it had come to Linda's ears.

In this perplexing mood Ben went to bed inside a dwelling for the first time in more than half a year, and woke up in the morning with the memory of pleasant dreams of home and Linda. His anxiety to secure a home in the new country had not abated one jot or tittle from the time he parted with her on the memorable Sunday evening before starting with Squire Mulhall for Oregon. The last words from Linda, "I'll be true to you to the end, Ben," still rang in his ears as if spoken but yesterday, and had followed him across the greater part of the continent.

At the parting with Kate he had given up his secret, reluctantly but prompted by intense loyalty to the girl of his choice. If anything should happen to him, he wanted Linda to know from Kate of his undying love for her to the last; and from Kate's own lips, or by letter from her, the senseless nature of the gossip concerning them.

Another matter he wished to confide to Kate—he was going to Oregon to secure a home for Linda and himself; and desired to make provision that Linda should fall heir to it in the event that he should die before they married. Ben was prompted to these serious thoughts by the experience of being close to death's door twice on the trip—once in the near catastrophe while crossing the Missouri, and again at the buffalo hunt, from both of which he had emerged without serious consequences.