My companions in that wagon were two young men from Ohio, each of whom had recently purchased a broncho horse, which he intended to take back to the States and incidentally to use under the saddle, as he might have opportunity, on the Eastward journey. These two quadrupeds were haltered to the rear of the last wagon, which they were expected to follow. That the bronchos might become gradually accustomed to a burden upon their backs, the young men had cinched tightly upon them their bundles of blankets. Thus equipped we rolled out from the city up the terraced slope of "the bench" toward the entrance into Parley's Canyon. (It may be stated that the bench is the narrow level table land, evidently an ancient shore line, that skirts the foothills of those mountains and indicates that during some period the waters in the valley reached that high level).
The young men had commented favorably on the docility of their bronchos, which had for a time followed the wagon in a satisfactory manner, and expressed the belief that the animals would afford great comfort on the long trip, by enabling them to take horse-back rides.
On entering an area covered with sage brush, a new purpose seemed suddenly to enter the heads of the uncertain bronchos. It may have been inspired by the sight of a little patch of grass on the otherwise arid bench, or it may have been an innate inclination to do something unexpected, an inclination very characteristic of the broncho. Suddenly and almost simultaneously they dropped back on their halters and were soon free and making a flight for the brush. The young men watched their next proceedings with dismay. Having reached an eligible location in an open space, the bronchos at once began a series of evolutions so interesting that the train was brought to a halt. In his favorite pastime of bucking, the broncho has no peer among all the quadrupeds of the earth. It had been my privilege and misfortune to make a personal test of this form of amusement and with the usual results, but never before had I seen it so successfully performed upon inanimate matter, as on this occasion in the sage brush of Utah.
The bundles upon the bronchos were light, and were strapped tightly upon them with double girths. The buckers operating closely together apparently entered into a contest, to ascertain which of the two could first relieve himself of his impedimenta.
While the train was at rest, the boarders and drivers secured favorable positions, where they might witness the match. Our captain from Pike County, Missouri, broke forth into curses, berating the intelligence of any man who would buy such good-for-nothing creatures, and yet he was the first person to assist in their capture. Again and again the bucking bronchos, facing each other, repeated their vicious plunges, leaping into the air with heads down and backs curved upward, and coming down upon their fore feet, until in some way the bundles were dashed upon the ground and their contents were widely distributed under the animals' feet, after which a sense of victory and freedom seemed to come over them, and only after a long pursuit were they again secured. During the time that I remained with the train, no human being ventured to mount the refractory brutes.
The night came on as we turned into camp near the summit of the canyon. The familiar fragrance of fried bacon and coffee was beginning to pervade the atmosphere when the captain from Pike County gave the command to "fall to," which was his method of announcing to the boarders that supper was served. Drawing around the camp fire we faced the same old "Menu" and the same type of battered tin dishes and cutlery that we had become familiar with on our own train, except that the cooking and serving paraphernalia bore evidences of greater antiquity and more violent service.
We sat or kneeled upon the ground in a sort of irregular semi-circle. With but few exceptions each man was a stranger to all the others. Each man had a revolver in his belt, and in most cases the men had rifles with their effects in the wagons. Each was curious to know where the other fellow came from, and without much ceremony the blunt, but good-natured question, "Where do you hail from?" was propounded to one's neighbor in the circle. The roster was soon completed, and before we left the camp fire my record showed that one of the party had recently closed his apprenticeship under Morgan, the raider; another, an ex-confederate, was from Old Virginia; one was from the Sandwich Islands; one from New Hampshire; one each from Arkansas, South Carolina, Michigan, and Wisconsin, and two were from Missouri. Our cook was a young Snake Indian, but the rest of the crew had not yet disclosed any facts concerning their life-history.
From the members of such a miscellaneous gathering there came naturally some sparring and good-natured reviling tinged at times with acrimony, for the bitterness of the Civil War had not yet materially lessened. But after the first parry of words all realized that they were now comrades for mutual protection.
A quiet place was soon found up the mountain side, and wrapping my blanket around me I watched the bright stars until I fell asleep.
In the morning we had a touch of camp life that was calculated to bring to the surface that trait of character which would manifest itself in an hour of trial. The captain had been heard to shout from a distant point, where he was attending to a mule, to ask the young Indian cook why in h—l he didn't call breakfast, as it was time for the train to pull out. The brush fire had burned long enough to have boiled coffee many times, but the Snake Indian seemed to be wandering abstractedly round the wagons as if searching for some missing article. As the Captain approached and again demanded an explanation for the delay, the boy informed him, in the few English words at his command, that some one had taken the bacon. He declared that the great slab of meat referred to had on the night before been placed in the covered mess box at the tail end of the wagon.
The Captain again swore, and, with the air of a commander of men, proceeded in his endeavors to solve the mystery. Two mules had been picketed all night near the wagon, and the Captain, doubtless aware of the omnivorous habits of those amalgamated beasts, examined their surroundings, and observed squarely under the fore feet of one an elevated surface that appeared suspicious. He backed the mule, and with his foot scraped away an inch or two of dirt, beneath which he struck the stratum of bacon, disfigured somewhat by the heavy pressure of the animal's hoofs, but nevertheless recognizable as bacon. The mule had evidently, at some time during the night, lifted the lid of the mess box with his nose, and seizing the bacon with his teeth had undertaken the task of eating it, but finding some coarser food better suited to his incisors had abandoned the bacon in disgust, dropped it upon the ground, pawed dirt upon it, and then planted his feet on the pile.
"Here's your bacon," said the Captain, with an oath, and a sneer of superiority. "Now hurry up that breakfast." This event occurred prior to the development of our present theory of germs and the sterilization of food, so vexing to modern epicures.
An empty stomach needs no appetizing sauce. When I have listened to adverse criticisms concerning dishes served at elaborately prepared banquets, I have more than once recalled that breakfast of bacon and coffee prepared by a Snake Indian cook in the Wasatch Mountains. There was no bacon to be wasted.
On those clear frosty nights it was a pleasure to creep up the mountain side, and beneath the open starry sky to roll up in a blanket and be lulled to sleep by the music of streams rushing down those canyons. Strange as it may seem, no colds ever resulted from this life in the open air. Every breath inhaled in the waking hours or while asleep, was of pure air not vitiated by exhalations from the lungs of others, nor breathed in part over and over again. This immunity from colds is also true under some conditions that might seem seriously dangerous to one accustomed only to the comforts of civilized life. An example of this was afforded on Tuesday evening, the 18th of September, when we reached Quaking Asp Hill, near the summit of the Divide. A fine driving rain, which extinguished our fires, began to fall at dusk, before we had finished our bacon and coffee, and there were indications of a cold and heavy storm. That he might the better protect himself against the elements, the Sandwich Islander entered into negotiations to double our blankets, a proposal that was promptly accepted, as he was provided with one which was waterproof to place on the wet ground. Each of us had the regular double army blanket and overcoat. This was not the first rainy night that I had spent without a roof above me, but it was certainly the wildest.
As the night advanced and the wind was blowing violently, we naturally turned our feet toward the gale and loaded the edges of the blankets with rocks to hold them in place. We then settled down to await the time when the water would penetrate our clothing.
Fortunately the rain turned into a driving snow storm. The gale veered round and came from the North, increasing in intensity, and although our blankets were frozen, the wind now coming toward our heads, pressed down between us and lifted the covering like a balloon until it found escape at our feet, while the covers waved and flapped in the air. It seemed too late to reverse our position, but we held tightly to the coverings until the accumulating snow gradually weighted them down. The wind also became more moderate toward midnight, but the snow continued to fall rapidly until after we fell asleep. My companion and I had "spooned" as closely as possible that we might share each other's warmth, and if one was inclined to turn over his partner promptly responded.
I awoke after daylight, conscious of the heavy weight resting upon us. Opening my eyes I looked upward through the white funnel in the snow which had been formed by our breaths, melting the falling flakes, but everything was still. The storm had ceased, and although the sun had not yet risen above the mountain peaks, we saw that a bright morning was dawning upon us. A council with my companion led us to lift the blankets with care, and remove the weight of snow that covered us. After rising to a sitting position, it was discovered that we were not alone. Here and there at different points were undulations on the brilliant white surface of the snow. In one end of each of these was the funnel which told us that the warm breath of the sleepers had also preserved for them an open view of the sky above.
Must we, as first-class boarders, dig the walks through the snow and build the fire? We decided in the negative, and accordingly called the camp to service. One by one snow mounds were lifted and living beings arose from beneath the thick white mantle. The Captain had slept in his wagon, but he promptly assumed command. Preparations were soon under way for breakfast, and the stock was cared for. Nearly eight inches of snow had fallen. Not a track was visible to guide us along the road during the greater part of the following day, but as we descended into the valleys, there was but little snow upon the ground, and that disappeared rapidly. Not one of our party "caught cold."
The days rolled by until one morning after we had passed Fort Bridger, we met our long ox train moving Westward. It halted until I could transfer my baggage, after which I bade a hearty farewell to the fellow travelers in the boarding-house train. Taking possession of a good saddle horse, I started Westward again with our own long caravan.
This brings us to new experiences. It was no trifling matter to conduct a long ox train up and down the mountain canyons, as will be discovered later. This was not because it was difficult to find the trail, but it was because the trail itself was often difficult. It was the principal highway through the ranges of mountains, and from Fort Bridger westward was the regular stage road, yet it was often steep and dangerous. Captain Whitmore and his men were somewhat weary, having had a hard trip, and my services, therefore, seemed to be very welcome. The provisions were running low. Sugar for coffee and soda for bread were long since exhausted. In fact, the stock of food was reduced to flour, bacon, and a little coffee. Milk or vegetables were never obtainable, and canned goods had not come into use. Two or three men who were with the train had endeavored to incite the others to rebellion, and appearing before Captain Whitmore told him substantially in the words once addressed to Moses of the time when back in the States, "They sat by the flesh pots and did eat bread to the full," but now they could not get a square meal in the wilderness. It appears that these mutineers were recognized by their companions as wasteful, shiftless men, too proud and lazy to work when at home. From Whitmore's rulings there would be no appeal in that country, except to the law of force. There were no cucumbers, melons, leeks, or onions in that wilderness. Bacon or unleavened bread or death was the alternative, unless they could hustle for wild game. Regarding the subsequent careers of the three men above referred to as an object lesson, it may be interesting to note the fact that to the end of their lives none appeared ever to be in a position to assist another, or to keep want from his own door.
It was along this road that we fell in with Captain Chipman's ill-starred train of Mormon emigrants. Mingling with the Pilgrims in their camp, I became interested in a young Englishman named S. W. Sears, whose history is full of adventures and chequered with varied experiences.
Although then but twenty-two years of age, he was chaplain of the train; for be it known that notwithstanding the sins ascribed to the Mormons, they maintained regular devotional services in camp as well as temple. Sears' wife had died on their westward pilgrimage six months after their marriage and was buried on the banks of the North Platte.
A few days later their train was attacked by Indians who captured 300 of their horses and oxen.
The emigrants saved enough of their stock to move their wagons in divisions until they escaped from the hostile Indian territory.
Sears became prominent both as a missionary of the Mormon faith and in commercial life. Two wives survived him, one of whom was the adopted daughter of the distinguished Daniel H. Wells and was born in a wagon near the entrance to the city at the termination of her mother's long journey across the plains.
Travel, like politics, makes strange bedfellows, and especially that kind of travel in which all companions must, from necessity, mingle on a common level, eat their simple rations by the same camp fire, and sleep side by side beneath the same open sky. This observation is suggested by a night spent in camp near Bear River. Our ox train had just forded that rocky stream, to avoid the excessive toll which was demanded for the privilege of crossing upon the new bridge. Before going into camp near by, the Captain of a little train that had preceded us rode his horse rapidly into the stream in his effort to head off some intractable mules. The horse stumbled over some stones and fell upon its knees, throwing the rider over his head in a fairly executed somersault into the water. The feat evoked hearty applause from those who were fortunate enough to witness it.
Now it happened that among the men with our train was a modest but vigorous young man named Ferdinand Lee, whom I had known quite well before he had served his full time during the war just ended as a private in the Second Wisconsin Regiment, which distinguished itself as part of the famous Iron Brigade.
After supper I walked up the bank of the stream with Ferd, which was the name by which Lee was familiarly known, and we soon encountered a group of men composed of stragglers from two small parties that were camping near by and who like ourselves had gravitated toward the best camp fire.
"Was it your Captain what made that h—l of a dive from his hoss into the river?" asked a tall, black-whiskered Southerner of a small, red-headed chap, who we learned later was known as Sandy.
"I reckon it war. Didn't he do it all right?" was the reply. "What's your name, anyhow?" he continued.
"Well, it don't make much difference, but these fellows call me Shorty, and I was wondering if that Captain ever rid a hoss before."
"Guess he has, because he says he was in the army and raided in Kentucky with the Rebs," replied Sandy. "Those Kentuckyans think they can ride, you know." And with this he took a seat upon a little rock, lighted a pipe, and others followed his example.
"I guess you're a Yank," said Shorty.
"Well, I reckon I am," said Sandy, "and while we are guessing I would put you down for a Johnny Reb." A frown came over Shorty's face, when he said, with some bitterness, "You think the Kentucky boys can't ride much, hey?"
"I recollect hearing them tell about your General Winne, when he and some of his boys here were pretty close together near the Wilderness Tavern. He did the same thing in the water of Flat Run that your Captain did in Bear River."
"War you in the Wilderness two years ago?" asked Sandy.
"I was in the Iron Brigade of Maryland, sir."
"Then I reckon you have seen General Winne. But don't you think you fellows did a lot of careless shooting around there?"
"Wa'al, we pumped some lead the best we knew how, but were you careless enough to be standing around in that country when shooting was going on?" asked Shorty.
"There's a bullet inside of me that once in a while tells me that mebbe I wasn't in jest the right place."
"What company were you in?" asked Shorty.
"I was fooling around a little with the Twentieth Maine," was the reply.
Ferd Lee had been a quiet but interested listener. One of our boys, without turning his head remarked that Lee just behind him did some business in the Wilderness.
"Lee? That's a good Virginia name. But you were not in our Brigade, were you?"
"No," replied Ferd. "I loafed around a few years with the Second Wisconsin in the Iron Brigade."
Shorty instantly rose to his feet, and approaching Ferd said, "I have surely met you before, sir. Although I hate the Yankees, I respect the bravery of the men in your Brigade, and I want to shake your hand."
Ferd rose, took the hand of the Confederate veteran, and they looked into each other's eyes as the firelight flickered in their faces, when Ferd said, "No men ever fought better than yours did."
The Iron Brigade had earned its name through the valor and inflexible courage of its men on many battle-fields, and its Second Wisconsin Regiment had borne an honorable part in its achievement.
Thus, for the first time since they had met in conflict on the battle-fields of Virginia, those veterans again confronted each other. True, the war was over, but it had left its bitterness. Nevertheless, like other brave men, they were impelled to respect the soldiers on the opposing side, whose deeds had been as valorous as those of any heroes immortalized in poetry and song. Until late that night, by the peaceful camp fire on the banks of Bear River, the boys rehearsed the thrilling events in which they had participated in the effort to shed each other's blood.
As would naturally be supposed, Captain Whitmore, as the opportunity presented itself, gave me from time to time the story of his experience thus far during his trip. One event, the particulars of which were confirmed by his men, seemed to be so interesting that I asked him to describe it again to another party of travelers at our night's camp. It appears that one afternoon his ox train was slowly crawling along near the north slope of a low range of hills west of Julesburg. A family of emigrants from Illinois consisting of a man, his wife, a grown son and a daughter about eighteen years of age, and a couple of assistants, had accompanied the train from the last military post. As these emigrants had horse teams, which travel somewhat faster than oxen, they were accustomed to driving half a mile or more in advance of the big train, although they had been warned of the hazard; but there they were on that fatal day to receive unaided the brutal raid of a band of Indians which swooped down from the hills. John Wilson on horseback and Mr. Stone of Iowa on foot were out in opposite directions for a hunt. Simultaneously with the attack on the emigrant's wagons, Wilson was seen racing down a valley toward the train pushing his horse to the top of its speed, and in close pursuit was a band of mounted savages yelling like demons. At the same moment Mr. Stone, who was in full view not a mile distant, became the object of an attack from still another detachment of warriors also on horse-back. The train was corralled in a circle for defense as speedily as possible. In the meantime Stone displayed marvelous tact and coolness. He was armed with a Henry repeating rifle loaded with sixteen cartridges, and, as was the usual custom with all hunters, he also carried in addition a case of loaded cartridges. On discovering the rapid approach of the savages he hastened to the top of a little mound that was near by and dropped upon his face. Pursuing their usual tactics the Indians in single file rode swiftly in a circle round and round the apparently doomed Iowan, gradually approaching their victim, who would soon be within range of their arrows. Stone remained quiet for a few moments until his enemies, filing rapidly by the line of his aim as they passed, were within fairly safe range, and then his rifle, directed with careful precision, opened up a series of discharges such as they probably had never before seen, for the Henry was a newly invented weapon and the savages doubtless intended to close in as soon as the rifle should be discharged. In Stone's first series of shots he emptied three saddles of their riders and wounded two horses. While the savages then swung outward for a moment, time was given him to refill the chamber of his rifle with fresh cartridges when at once he renewed his defensive tactics, with results that were startling. The Indians who were still in action seemed to be perplexed by the strange, persistent weapon that was turned upon them, and slowly withdrew. Stone retreated toward the train and was soon under cover of its rifles. The emigrant's party fared badly. All were slaughtered except the young girl, who was captured alive and was taken off with the horses and the plunder from the wagons. I learned later that she remained in captivity until the following spring, when she was restored to the military and thence transported to her former home.
Wilson reached a point where his exhausted horse, which had fully shared in the panic, fell prostrate to the ground and never again rose to its feet. The train, now well fortified and defended, escaped further loss.
It may be remembered, as was narrated in another chapter, that in the early days of our expedition and away back in the little village of Churchville, Iowa, a young girl disguised in boy's apparel succeeded in joining the train and became an assistant to the man and his wife who were the cooks for the outfit. After our little party proceeded in advance of the big train from Nebraska City we received no definite tidings concerning its progress until the meeting near Bridger, which has just been described. It was therefore a great surprise, on now again reaching the train, to learn that the girl had thus far shared the hardships and perils of the entire journey. What would lead a young, apparently modest, and prepossessing country maid to embark on a long trip with a body of strangers destined to a far away Mormon town in the mountains? Before being permitted to proceed from Nebraska City, it appears that she gave out some statements concerning her history. From these it transpired that she was an orphan about nineteen years of age. She had a lover, who, she confidently believed, was in Salt Lake valley. It seemed to be the old story of a trustful, confiding girl and possibly a recreant wooer, in whom she still had unbounded faith. She was intelligent for one of her years and was apparently sincere and thoroughly in earnest.
"Yes, he is right there in the valley, and he does not know that I am going to meet him," she said. But, young girl, there are hundreds of canyons and branch canyons reaching out from the valleys around Salt Lake basin. Many of them are seldom trodden. Some, difficult of access, invite the adventurer to their remotest nooks, where the fortune-hunter would seek for gold or silver. How will you find him?
"Hope is a lover's staff," and on that frail support her future rested. She had come to be known to the boys with the train, many of whom had been soldiers, as the child of the regiment.
We well remember how she then appeared as she was about to enter practically alone into the turbulent life of the little city of Salt Lake, for it must be understood that the train men must there separate, and while she might receive some assistance, she must fight her own battles.
If any old resident of Churchville, Iowa, knew a bright, handsome young girl of medium height with dark hair and big dark eyes who in the spring of sixty-six suddenly disappeared from that village he may get this little glimpse of her history. Her real name was always withheld. The name by which she was known to our boys would have no significance to her former acquaintances. I never saw her again after the train reached the city. She suddenly vanished in the whirlpool of western life.
It was reported that a young girl answering the description of our whilom ward was one morning seen riding alone on horse-back up City Creek canyon, to which valley hundreds of men had that year been attracted by rumors of gold discoveries. And so must end a tale half-told.
During those days I was assisting on horse-back in various ways, and at times conducting the long train round the sharp curves in the canyons. Six or eight yokes of oxen drawing two large wagons coupled together is a long thing in itself, stretching out perhaps 150 feet. It may run beautifully on a straight road, but in rounding a short bend in a narrow roadway, where the inside of the bend is on the edge of a precipice, the tendency is to bring the wagons dangerously near the brink.
On the third of October, our train was winding along the narrow roadway among the cliffs of Silver Creek Canyon. Looking across a deep ravine before us we observed the last wagon in the train that was crawling along in advance of ours, to be encroaching on the edge of a precipice, and in a moment a wheel slipped over the bank. The great prairie schooner capsized, breaking the tongue, detaching the wagon from the teams, and turned upside down. Down, down it rolled, repeatedly bounding over rocks and through bushes, until it found a resting place quite out of sight near the bottom of the canyon. As we approached the scene of the catastrophe an odor, recognized by experienced drivers as of whiskey, came from the wreck of the wagon. We passed on as soon as the way could be opened. A number of men from the delayed train seemed inspired with a benevolent impulse that led them to assist in saving something from the wreck, and were soon clambering down the rocks toward the spot from which the fragrance came the strongest.
We learned nothing of the final results of the work of this salvage corps. Their voices, which came up from the hidden depths, indicated that they had found something, and the odors were evidence that enough fire water had been spilled to have made a whole tribe of the solemnest Indians hilarious.
On the afternoon of the same day, in going down a steep descent in the same canyon, the failure to fasten the brake on one of our wagons caused the two that were coupled together to gain so much headway that they pressed the ox teams into a frightened mass. The breaking of the wagon tongue turned the wagons down a long steep slope leaving the road more than five hundred feet above. We now had our own troubles. After taking a survey of our wreck, which consisted of a load of miscellaneous merchandise and a wagon in trail, on which was a heavy boiler, I rode back to the little settlement of Wanship for articles needed in repairs.
In the meantime the train was corralled further down the canyon, and the stock wandered up the mountain valleys.
In the morning many oxen were missing which it was my pleasure to assist in finding, for I loved the hills. Mounting a horse, I ascended a ravine and crossed two or three mountain spurs where it was hoped a glimpse of the strays or their tracks might be obtained.
Looking from a concealed position across a deep valley, I observed on the opposite slope an animal which I became satisfied was a mountain sheep, the Big Horn. I had seen many specimens of the various animals and birds indigenous to the West, but never a mountain sheep, except in captivity. They are wary animals, and like the chamois of the Alps are at home on the rocky cliffs. I must be cautious. My horse was fastened behind me, out of view, down the mountain slope. My Henry rifle was in good condition. Lying on my face while carefully sighting through the underbrush, I felt myself to be absolutely safe from discovery. Calculating the distance as accurately as possible, a careful aim was taken, but the bullet fell far short of the mark, striking the rocks away beneath. The animal was evidently unconscious of my death-dealing purpose, and nestled quietly half-concealed in a growth of underbrush. Another shot was fired, when it became evident that my Henry was not of sufficiently long range to reach the game. The opportunity before me was too rare to be sacrificed without effort. Therefore, after tying a silk handkerchief to a limb to mark the trail to my horse, I skirted the spur of the mountain, on foot, slowly descended into the ravine, and laboriously clambered up the other side.
The time and effort expended in accomplishing the ascent to the other side made it clear that I had been greatly deceived in the distance, but I was happy to make any physical effort to secure a mountain sheep. The last quarter of a mile must be made with exceeding caution, because the quick ear of the Big Horn would catch any unusual sound. After more than an hour of vigorous but cautious climbing, an eligible point was reached, toward which my course had been directed, and with rifle ready to fire on the first sight of the game, my head was slowly raised above a projecting rock in confidence that the game had not ascended the mountain. There it was in full view, not more than a hundred yards distant. It certainly had horns, but the sight of half a dozen ordinary sheep huddled together in the background revealed to my obtuse consciousness the fact that my game was a ram, which was guarding a little flock of domestic sheep similar to those with which we are all familiar.
Shall victory be wrested from defeat? Our boys needed meat, and I could tumble a sheep's carcass down the mountain side. Conflicting emotions throbbed within my breast, until approaching the sheep I was confronted by a tough-looking mountaineer, after which I cared less for mutton.
"What are ye doin' up here?" was his interrogatory.
"What kind of game are ye after?" he asked.
"Oh, any nice game that needs a good shot."
I noticed that the stranger had a revolver at his side, and in a few moments another slouched-hat individual emerged from a little hut in a side ravine.
"What kind of a rifle is that you've got?"
"It's a Henry."
"I've hear'n of one but never seen one before. Lemme see it," said the mountaineer. He took the gun from me and carefully looked it over. "Where are you from, anyhow?" he asked, without taking his eyes from the gun. I gave the name of the town without any additional facts. Continuing, he said, "I was there once. I lived up in Bark Woods awhile. Do you know where Pumpkin Holler is, just beyond Hebron?"
"Yes."
"Did you ever know Jim Roach, who hauled logs to Joe Powers' saw mill at Hebron?"
"The holler is several miles from my town, but I think I have heard the name," I replied.
"Didn't you ever hear of Jim Roach's nephew Ben?" he asked.
"Maybe I have," was the answer.
"Well!" said the mountaineer, "I'm him."
IN later years, through the influence of one of its ambitious citizens, the little settlement referred to in the last chapter as Pumpkin Holler had come to be known by the more classic if less appropriate name of Rome. There was, however, nothing in my recollection of that sleepy crossroads or of its alleged former citizen, Benjamin Roach, and his friend, that would tempt me to remain longer than necessary in their mountain fastness, nor did I invoke their aid or inform them that a number of our cattle had strayed up the adjacent valleys. It was the current belief that some men who lived in those parts, having no other visible means of support, were inclined to care for stray stock, and pursued that avocation as a pastime chiefly in their own interest. As soon, therefore, as the Henry rifle was again in my hands, I retreated down the mountain side through the thickets of underbrush and then up the other side of the valley. The silk handkerchief, which had been left on the opposite cliff as a landmark, served a good purpose as it enabled me to reach my horse by a fairly direct course.
The lengthening shadows on the mountain slopes were a warning that I should speedily proceed to the business of hunting cattle. It was nearly sunset when I caught a glimpse of oxen nearly a mile distant and partly concealed by a grove near which they were grazing. Being confident that they were part of our missing stock I started to reach them. The steep, rough, and rocky mountain slope which was hurriedly descended in the quest was ill adapted to horse-back riding and the pathless groves of underbrush proved to be serious obstructions to progress. Becoming entangled in the unyielding branches the stock of my rifle was broken squarely off, and a few new holes in size beyond the skill of the novice to repair, were punched through my garments in places where additional holes were unnecessary. On emerging into an open space, it was found that both horse and rider had received a few scratches, and the bridle was broken. All these mishaps were ordinary incidents to which any stock hunter is subject if he is inclined to wander unnecessarily into new and untrodden paths, but the big whip, the favorite artillery of the cowboy, was saved. Our wayward oxen were finally rounded up far up a valley where the grass grows the greenest, but with temper not unlike that of men they evidently preferred the freedom of the mountains to a condition of servitude. Apparently understanding my purpose they scattered in a wild race to avoid, if possible, being again brought under the heavy yoke, but were finally brought to the corral down the canyon.
Our troubles were not yet ended. On the following day two more wagon wheels collapsed on a steep slope. The train was again halted. The stock was turned out upon the range with its numerous ramifications of ravines and thickets, and before the morning dawned many of the animals were out of our sight.
We were not traveling on schedule time, yet this delay brought forth some outbursts of profanity from those who were accustomed to swear, all of which produced no effect on the cattle scattered up the valleys. On the following morning there began another series of experiences in hunting stock, which afforded a fair illustration of the manner in which the Western Mountaineer of that day lived and tried to sleep.
Taking a heavy horse, which unfortunately was not adapted to mountain climbing, I started alone southward up a long side ravine directed in part by the tracks of the oxen. Having reached rather a high altitude, and desiring to obtain a better view of the surrounding country, I followed the projecting spur of a barren mountain, which on further advance proved to be unexpectedly steep. In turning a crest of the ridge my horse stumbled, and while I very properly landed on the uphill side, he rolled completely over downward, and after a series of evolutions impossible to describe, became anchored flat upon his back, tightly wedged in against a small solitary quaking asp tree, which fortunately stood upon the edge of an almost perpendicular declivity at whose foot, several hundred feet below, was a wet swamp, in which was a dense thicket of willows, possibly the source of a mountain brook. The feet of the horse were pawing the air. After a few ineffectual efforts to disengage himself he turned his head and cast a pathetic glance downward, evidently realizing his dangerous and helpless position. As a matter of fact, the situation was not pleasant either for the horse or for him who was partly responsible for its plight.
After carefully crawling down to where he was held as in a vise, I unloosed his saddle girths and supporting myself partly by the little tree and partly by the rock beneath it, seized the horse by his foretop and slowly swung him round until his head turned up the slope, and then assisted him to roll upon his face as a preliminary to an effort to rise upon his feet. He took one more solemn thoughtful look downward toward the gulf beneath him, and then began his struggle for life in the effort to gain a safe footing up the mountain side, to which effort I gave some assistance from my anchorage. I put my trust in the quaking asp and held to it firmly until the loose stones which the horse dislodged in his scramble had rolled by, and then dragging the saddle, I slowly crawled up by the same pathway and found the animal quietly awaiting my arrival, with an expression upon his countenance that seemed to indicate a desire to give thanks for what was really a narrow escape from a disastrous plunge. He was again saddled, but was not again mounted until we reached a safer footing. Finding myself at a point from which it seemed that the summit of the mountain could now be reached, and led as is the average young man by an irrepressible desire to descend into the deepest hole or reach the top of the highest hill at any time within the range of vision, I determined to complete the ascent and take a look down upon that part of the world. On nearing the summit I observed a dense mist slowly creeping along the eastern slope of the mountain and bridging the ravine with soft billowy folds upon which the bright sunlight rested. When it had risen to within a few hundred feet of my course, the cloud became luminous for an instant. The flash was quickly followed by a sharp report like the discharge of a piece of artillery at hand and the detonation combined with its echo back from another mountain side in one single sharp response. This was quickly repeated three or four times with startling effect. As I have often observed, when thunder storms among mountain peaks float beneath the observer, there is no prolonged roar and rumbling, as when the deep-toned thunder reverberates above lower levels. The prospect of being wrapped in the cold and wet embrace of the rising storm clouds, when upon a difficult and untried mountain pathway, was not cheering. The sky overhead had been clear, and the bright light intensified the grandeur and beauty of the soft billows below, which seemed as sharply outlined as the waves of the ocean, but there came some scurrying clouds in a higher stratum above the summit which later sent down driving snow flakes, all of which melted in the air on nearly the level where I stood, on coming into contact with the warmer current near the storm below. The lower storm did not rise to the mountain top, but majestically moved onward somewhere by a course the eye could not follow, and on its fleeing skirts was painted a beautiful rainbow, as welcome in its promise of hope as any I have ever seen. The complete arch, perfect in every detail, its bright hues radiant against the dark background, rested in the deep valley far beneath. The sky had again cleared and in many directions the bright sun lit up the sides of the surrounding mountains, and slowly the coveted view of the extensive landscape of mountain and valley unfolded. That storm was a glorious spectacle never to be forgotten. The mountain slopes as revealed when the clouds rolled by were seen to be scarred by narrow ravines dark and gloomy in the path of the retreating storm and in striking contrast with the little patches of glistening snow on many of the northern slopes, relics perhaps of some less recent snow fall. The view from any mountain top inspires the most phlegmatic with some emotion, but on this Utah peak the sense of cold and hunger began in time to assert itself.
I was supposed, also, to be hunting stock, and not even the dullest ox would go to a rocky barren mountain top to feed. I ventured to attempt a descent by a course other than that first taken and leading down another valley. After a few miles of travel I was surprised by the welcome sight of a little log cabin, the first human habitation discovered during the day. The little home seemed to offer a much desired protection for the coming night. My thoughts upon the subject were frankly expressed to a woman having slightly gray hair, who stood in the open door as I approached. She invited me to hitch my horse and come in. Accepting a proffered chair, I soon found myself in the presence of five comparatively young women, none but the one already mentioned being apparently more than twenty-five years of age. The women, some of whom remained standing, gathered round in a rather expectant attitude, as if desiring to see and hear all that might transpire. Although not a close observer of women's apparel, a single glance showed me that there was a striking similarity in the material and style of their dresses and sun-bonnets.
"Are all these young women members of your family?" I asked.
"Yes, there are seven of us here."
"A fine large family, indeed," said I, "but is the man of the house here?"
"No," replied the older woman, "he is down at Provo with some cattle."
"And you women are up here alone, and I suppose it is your husband who is at Provo," I added with the hope that the answer might shed some daylight upon the relationship which the women held one to another. Some of the women quietly glanced one at another, until one of them replied in the affirmative. Here then the remarkable Scripture had had a remarkable fulfilment: "In those days it shall come to pass that seven women shall lay hold upon one man."
Two of the seven, who during our preliminary conversation had been outside, now entered the room from the rear, apparently aware that there was a caller in the house. Visits not being frequent events in their secluded home, they would naturally desire to share the interest of any new face, be it welcome or otherwise.
The family was now supposed to be accounted for and present except the pater-familias, and to what extent the absent member was entitled to the distinction of being a father had not yet become clear to me, nor to what extent he was a husband.
I observed that the cabin consisted of a single room, of fairly good size, and what appeared to be a small kitchen under a rudely constructed lean-to, built against the rear of the cottage. On opposite sides of the main room were berths made of balsam poles and constructed in tiers of three, one above another. There was no ceiling or attic above the room, which was open to the sloping roof. There being twelve berths, the provisions for sleeping were manifestly ample, and on being informed that I could be accommodated for the night I decided to remain at least for supper, after which my judgment would be more enlightened. I was fearfully hungry. They would have supper at five o'clock. An old fashioned fall-leaf table was pulled out from the wall, the leaves were lifted up, and the preparation was begun, when I stepped out from the door to take an observation.