Dennison was still and peaceful when, at nine in the evening, we trailed up to its leading hotel, after a long and tiresome day's walk, for, to relieve Cheese and Mac A'Rony, Coonskin and I had journeyed half the distance on foot. But we left next day in good season for Arion, taking it slowly, as Cheese was noticeably lame; he had stumbled in the darkness the evening before. At Arion, so aggravated was his injury, that I tarried a whole day, for I appraised him a valued animal.
When I resumed the pilgrimage, I took it slowly, and relieved the animal from any burden more than his saddle. Coonskin and I took turns riding Mac, who was as chipper and strong as ever. He gloried in his health and vigor, and found amusement in chaffing his unfortunate comrade.
The eve of May thirtieth was spent in camp a few miles from Woodbine. The following morning, when we were still two miles from town, my courier, who had preceded us, wheeled back in company with an old, white-haired man leading three white Esquimaux dogs. The stranger managed his sportive pets with one hand, and carried a basket of apples in the other; and, introducing himself and shaking hands, he presented me with the delicious russet fruit, and welcomed me to his home in the distance as his guest for the holiday, a pleasure I was compelled to deny myself, for lack of time.
According to his own account, he was a hermit and lived in the society of his canine companions, as he had the greater part of his seventy-five years. Content to subsist on the product of his little thirty-six acre farm, he denied himself the use of any portion of a small fortune of $15,000 in gold which, he claimed, he had buried somewhere outside of that state; nobody had ever helped him to a cent, and he resolved that no one should enjoy a dollar of his money.
I put up at the Columbia Hotel, Woodbine, a pretty brick hostelry, and, after an enjoyable lounge in the parlor, we all went out to see the military and civic parade, in keeping with the usual Memorial day custom.
The band assembled from all quarters and kinds of quarters—doors, windows, cellars, barns, corn-cribs, hay-stacks, hencoops, smoke-houses, etc., and without delay began tuning instruments. Their uniforms challenged imitation. No two were dressed alike. Every horn was different; they tried to outvoice each other, when, suddenly, the bass drum banged away and upset the equilibrium of the horns, until the snare drums and cymbals interfered as peacemakers. At last, after much strain of nerve tissue, the medley of musical tools settled down to a good, sensible patriotic tune, which held sway for fifteen minutes.
But the procession that followed the band beggared description. The band acted as leaders, the Grand Army followed as pointers, then trailed the wheelers—carriages filled with citizens and farmers. There were democrat wagons, side-bar buggies, buckboards, carts, gigs, surreys, hayricks, baby carriages, wheelbarrows, goat carts, and velocipedes. Pedestrians then fell into line, and brought up the rear. To cap the climax, a big, fat man with inflated chest galloped past on a faded, wind-broken horse, and exhorted the excitable celebrators to strictly obey orders. "Remember, citizens," he yelled, "let us take care not to have any accident to-day, for we are not used to 'em here!" The procession had begun slowly to move forward, when suddenly the command was given to halt, and the bangity-bang, clapity-clap, rip-slap of wagon tongue against wagon boxes sounded like freight cars when the engine clamps on the brakes.
The firearms carried looked as if they had been loaned by some museum for the event. They were muskets, match-locks, flint-locks, and minus-locks; Winchesters, Remingtons, Ballards, Floberts, Sharps, Springfields; shot-guns, muzzle-loaders and breach-loaders; blunderbusses; carbines, bean-shooters, sling-shots and cross-guns—a most formidable looking arsenal. Such a pageant!
When the procession arrived at the cemetery, the hearse, filled with flowers, stopped in front of a newly made grave. Then the undertaker in black clothes and red cap, seated beside the driver in blue coat, white trousers and stovepipe hat, banged a bass drum in his lap with an Indian club, as each floral piece was placed on the several soldiers' graves.
Presently my attention was directed to a new excavation, before which solemnly stood Coonskin, as immovable and statuesque as a marble slab; and soon I observed an aged woman approach, bend toward the human statue, and read the pathetic epitaph on his back: "Take Blank's cathartic pills and keep healthy."
"Poor boy!" she exclaimed, sorrowfully, "a pity to have died so young."
That was too much for Coonskin, who instantly resumed consciousness, and wheeled about, as the frightened mourner gasped, "Bless my stars, alive!" When Mac took in the situation he brayed with merriment, almost shaking me out of the saddle.
The interesting proceedings concluded with a volley fired over a grave, and at once bird shot, buck shot, salt pork, hickory nuts, marbles, acorns, beans, and pebbles rained about us frightfully. When the firing was through, I assisted a quack doctor probe for a number one duck shot in Barley's shoulder and an acorn in Coonskin's leg. As I mounted my terrified donkey, I noticed the old woman had fainted. Bending over her was a gallant fellow countryman trying to fan her back to life with his broad-brimmed hat, while exposing patched trousers to an admiring crowd. As soon as she came to, we started for the hotel, congratulating ourselves on our narrow escape.
Next day we set out for Logan. Our arrival was signaled by an assembly of townspeople, headed by their Mayor, who greeted me cordially and asked to ride the celebrated donkey. He rode Mac up and down the central street before the cheering throng, as had the Mayors of other towns we had visited. Then I delivered a lecture on my travels, on a corner of the business street, after which Coonskin, who had lately received his banjo-guitar from home, accompanied me with my mandolin, recently purchased, as we gave a short serenade of music and song that made everybody sad and wish we would depart.
The morrow was the first of June; I welcomed summer joyfully. Missouri Valley was reached in the afternoon, and there, with my dog chained in the cellar of a hotel and the three donkeys stabled, we men retired and slept the sleep of the just.
The further I journeyed, the more primitive and squatty were both dwelling and store in small places, and the architecture reached the superlative of simplicity on the plains; but I observed more of a passion for flower gardens and shrubbery evinced west of the Mississippi than east.
The great bluffs characterizing the banks of the Missouri now loomed up, verdant and picturesque, after the genial showers and sunshine of spring. Every turn in the road presented a different kaleidoscopic effect to the landscape. Wild roses lined the roadside as we passed in review with our hats trimmed with blossoms, and songbirds caroled sweet melodies from early morn till eventide. Pure springs and wells were ever within reach, and the farmers treated us to brimming bowls of sweet milk and buttermilk. One day, after imbibing freely from a barrel of buttermilk, standing against the porch, where I was chatting with the housewife, I was astonished to see a calf walk up to the barrel and drink. After that I lost my appetite for buttermilk.
All through Iowa were droves or bunches of white-faced cattle, the predominating breed. I was told that the white-faced cattle make the best beef, which seemed to sustain the theory early advanced by the Indians, that pale-faces made the best roasts.
During the last few days, I noted a happy change in Damfino's demeanor, and a marked improvement in Cheese's tender feet. Damfino traveled faster and more smoothly, her long ears swinging back and forth with every stride like pendulums of a clock and apparently assisting her to walk to regular time.
Just as we were trailing out of Crescent City, a woman presented me with a large bouquet of flowers.
I had intended to travel ten miles that lovely June night, but when some five miles from town, on observing an inviting grassy lot, I decided to go into camp. We let our donkeys roam at will and graze, and spread our sleeping-bag under an apple-tree; then, with Don on guard and with the gleaming stars beaming on us through the boughs, we enjoyed a delightful sleep. At dawn we were awakened by the owner of the property, a short, crabbed individual, who lifted a dirty face above the top fence-rail and called, "Git out," to us.
I was awfully sleepy and dozed on luxuriously. After a while he again hailed us, now from the opposite quarter, but still on the outside of the enclosure, where I could see him eyeing disapprovingly my huge dog. Finally we induced him to come into our camp, on the promise that our dog wouldn't molest him, and even invited him to breakfast with us. When we departed he was in good spirits. He said he lived "over in that house yonder all alone," because he couldn't afford to live "together." Of course, we understood. He informed me that we were following the old Mormon trail to Council Bluffs, where Mormonism and bigamy flourished for a season before the historic band of pilgrims crossed the Missouri in 1848. Thursday, June third, my donkeys ambled into Council Bluffs.
BY MAC A'RONY.
He was mounted upon a mule, which he rode gineta fashion, and behind him, by the duke's order, was led his Dapple, adorned with shining trappings of silk, which so delighted Sancho that every now and then he turned his head to look upon him, and thought himself so happy that he would not have exchanged conditions with the Emperor of Germany.—Don Quixote.
The city of Council Bluffs is four miles from the Missouri River, and takes its name as many people do, from both sides of the house. Council comes from the old Mormon councils formerly held there, and Bluffs is borrowed from the bluffs on which the city is built.
Often such things are handed down for many generations; the Mayor seemed to be constructed on the bluff order. He had the consummate cheek to tell my master he wasn't allowed to sell photographs without procuring a license, and thought he had squelched him, but he almost fell out of his chair when Pod nonchalantly pulled out a fifty dollar bill and said, "Just make out a license at once." Then he went to work and did a land-office business, taking more money out of the town than the Mayor could put into it in a year's time.
Next morning Miss Damfino went shopping, coming back with a brand new pair of shoes. She said she saw lots of donkeys shopping, and began to distribute to a stableful of equine and asinine gossips such a lot of scandal that I was ashamed of her. She had also discovered the startling fact that there was one more river to cross. "Furthermore," said she, "our highfaluting, aristocratic, literary genius, Mac A'Rony, is to enjoy the distinction of crossing the great Missouri River Bridge in a wheelbarrow." This caused me to collapse. I fell on my knees and preyed on the bed of yellow straw, and brayed aloud for spirituous support, but all I got was a bucket of water. An hour afterward I was saddled for the show. I had experienced riding in a wheelbarrow before, and did not like the idea, but said nothing.
Sure enough, when we arrived at the bridge, there stood a wheelbarrow, just brought by a wagon from the Bluffs. I eyed the vehicle disdainfully. That was the same kind of carriage that a man once went to London with to fetch a wife home in, and now, as a fitting jubilee memorial of that historic event, I, a respectable scion of an ancient race, was to be toted across a bridge into a great city in this outlandish vehicle, to the cheers and jeers of a multitude. The event was heralded in the morning papers of both Council Bluffs and Omaha; I saw Pod reading about it on the way.
At the bridge, I was at once unsaddled, and my luggage distributed equally between Cheese and Damfino. The quilts and blankets were folded in the wheelbarrow, and with the help of two men Pod and Coonskin lifted me into the one-wheeled carriage, where I was strapped and roped so securely I couldn't budge without upsetting. Pod wheeled me a short way first, then Coonskin relieved him; in this way I crossed that bridge of size. When half way, I thought I would be easier if I turned over, for it was an awful long bridge; in a minute I was on the bridge proper, the wheelbarrow on the top of me, improper. Wasn't Pod mad though! A street-car line crossed the bridge, and cars full of curious passengers were passing continually, having paid extra, I reckoned, to see the circus. I had to be untied, and again deposited in the wheelbarrow, and do you believe, those human jackasses didn't have sense enough to lay me on my other side. Then another distressing circumstance happened soon after. I could see the street at the Omaha terminus jammed with people as on a Fourth of July, but that didn't matter; a horse-fly buzzed around me a minute prospecting, and suddenly made his camp-fire on my left hip. Soon the fire burned like fury, and I not able to stand it, made one super-asinine effort, ripped and tore, and upset myself and Pod, who was wheeling me. Then the crowd cheered louder than ever. Some boy with a large voice yelled, "Hurrah for Mac A'Rony!" and three cheers were given.
"I think he'll walk the rest of the way, Coonskin," said Pod, referring to me. "Save us the trouble of fixing him in the wheelbarrow again."
Thinks I, I'll just get even with the Professor at once, and I lay down as if I were in a barnyard for the night. It didn't take those men long to put me in the wheelbarrow again, I tell you. This time Pod didn't seem to care whether I was all in or not. My tail caught in the spokes of the wheel, and wound up so quickly that I was nearly pulled out on the bridge. The wheelbarrow came to such a sudden stop that Pod fell all over me. At first I thought I had lost my tail by the roots. It was sore long after. Couldn't switch off flies with it, and had to kick at them, and ten times out of nine I'd miss the fly and kick my long-legged rider in the leg or foot, whereupon I would catch it with whip and spur.
At length we crossed the bridge, and there I was dumped; then I had a good roll in the dust, just to show there was no hard feeling; after which a host of inquisitive spectators followed us to the Paxton Hotel in Omaha, where we were to have a two days' rest.
Good fortune began to fall before us now like manna from the sky. The first morsel came in the manner of a proposition for Pod and me to pose in front of a leading apothecary's shop in the business center, and extol the virtues of fruit frappe, and incidentally his perfumed soaps, insect powders, and dog-biscuits, in consideration of several dollars in silver. The frappe clause of the contract was most agreeably cool and delectable for that summer season, and the sample doses of the various ices to which Cheese and I, not to mention Pod, were treated, furnished rare sport for an appreciative audience. The cheerful proprietor, recognizing my blue blood, attempted to feed me with a long, silver spoon; I so admired the spoon that with my teeth I stamped it with our family crest.
As the demand for frappe increased, the brass-buttoned society began to gather from the four points of the compass, and finally attempted to arrest Pod for blocking the thoroughfare; and, but for the timely arrival of the druggist, there would have been a riot. Coonskin had two guns in his belt, and Pod declared he would not be taken alive.
On this occasion, besides the money received from the druggist, Coonskin sold many chromos, for the wily Professor was far-seeing enough to work in considerable nonsense about his travels, and got even the police so interested that several cops wedged through the gang and purchased souvenirs. We made a pretty fair street show. All were there but Miss Damfino, who felt indisposed and remained indoors.
One of our severest crosses (some folks think the ass has only one cross, and that on its shoulders), was experienced a few miles southwest of the city, where we donks refused to walk a narrow plank over a shattered bridge, and were forced to ford the stream.
BY PYE POD.
It was my good fortune to obtain in Omaha a most adaptable teepee tent, a triangular canvas bag, as it were. One man could put it up in a minute. This waterproof tent had a canvas floor stoutly sewn to the sides, and when the door was tied shut neither sand, water, nor reptile could invade its sacred precincts; mosquito netting across the two small windows kept out all kinds of insects. Three could sleep in it comfortably, besides allowing ample room for luggage and supplies; and the tent with its folding poles only weighed thirty pounds. This extra baggage was added to Damfino's pack, for she was large and strong, and by this time in good traveling fettle.
I could now thoroughly enjoy the outdoor life of the West, with its fresh and fragrant air; after sleeping a few nights under the stars, only some imperative emergency could induce me to spend a night indoors. Although my two attendants were not companions of choice they were fairly good company, but my courier unconsciously furnished entertainment for Coonskin and myself. He had such an absurd dialect—he said he had learned it in an eastern factory where Irish, Germans, and Swedes, and other nationalities were employed—and his gullibility was a constant challenge for practical jokes.
One day at supper, an idea of putting up a game on Barley came to mind.
"It's a pity we haven't blue beetle sauce for our quail, Coonskin," I said, giving my valet a sly wink, and he, suspecting I had some joke in mind, took up the argument.
"You bet," was his response. "Seen hundreds of beetles to-day."
Barley eyed Coonskin, then me, and satisfied that we were serious, queried, "Do yuse mean wese kin make sauce of de blue beetles what wese see in de road?"
"Why," I said, as with astonishment, "haven't you ever heard of it before? Man, they pay a steep price for blue beetles at Delmonico's. Only the wealthy enjoy such a luxury."
"The dandiest stuff I ever et on broiled birds of any kind," seconded my valet cleverly. The repast over, my courier was convinced of the surpassing virtues of blue-beetle sauce.
Next day the bettles came out thicker than ever. With enthusiasm, I dismounted, and began to fill my emptied purse with the insects, and Coonskin followed suit by filling a handkerchief, exclaiming: "By the very old Ned! Gather 'em all; we'll have a treat for the gods."
Up to this, Barley kept on his wheel within talking distance, but now he leaped off and made a dive in the dust with his hat, as if he had trapped a butterfly. "Remember, man," I called to him, "there should be seventeen in every family; bag every one of them."
"Here's fourteen Ise got, guess dey's one family, but can't see no more; besides my handkerchief's full. Has yus got a sock yuse kin lend me?" I said I had, and then he came to get the sock. His trousers pockets were filled with the strong smelling beetles.
Suddenly, he dived for a whole entomological tribe almost under Mac's feet; had the donkey not leaped over him, we all would have been hurt.
We lunched in a small village where I purchased peppermint oil for flavoring the sauce. That night, I made a concoction that would only satisfy a Siwash appetite. We had bagged two dozen quail and doves, so we had plenty of game, and an abundance of beetles; the next thing in order was a heap of fun.
After frying our potatoes, gun oil, peppermint oil, pink tooth-powder, butter milk, lemon juice, and beetles were stirred in the frying pan, and when it began to sizzle and steam, Barley was put in charge and cautioned to keep stirring it. I thought, when he looked at the repelling mess and inhaled a little of those bug aromas, he would smell the joke, but he didn't. He kept on stirring, and smacked his lips, and finally said that it looked done. I decided to bring the joke to an end. Going to the fence ostensibly to tie more securely the donkeys, Coonskin loosened Damfino's rope while I seated myself at our table, and called, "Supper is ready." At once that grinning youth chased the freed donkey plumb into our fire, and so surprised was my courier that he never knew whether Damfino or Coonskin kicked over the pan, and robbed us of the rarest delicacy on record.
I stormed about like a madman, and blamed both attendants, then went at the hot broiled birds inwardly delighted with the success of the joke. Barley never was the wiser. The following day, several times, he told me we were passing lots of beetles, but he wasn't going to spend his time catching them to be wasted.
Something followed the game supper which more fully explains my courier's displeasure. By oversight, one of the socks of bugs was left untied; the result was, beetles ran the tent all night. Barley claimed he found a beetle in his windpipe. Coonskin spent the night lighting matches and hunting the pests. I myself smothered a score of more in my pillow. That experience closed my calendar for practical jokes.
On to Lincoln was now the watchword. While still five or six miles from the city, a donkey and cart hove in sight, both gayly decorated with flags and bunting. The driver said he had been sent from Lincoln by a prominent citizen to escort me and my party into the city.
Barley had been busy stirring up the populace, so when I rode majestically up to the leading hotel on Mac A'Rony, I found a crowd of representative citizens there to give me a befitting greeting. As soon as my donkeys were anchored, a tall, fat, jovial member of the medical profession, advancing with outstretched hand, welcomed me to the city.
"Mr. Pod," said he, smiling all over, "I'm Dr. E—— and am at your service. I shall take pleasure in doing what I can to make your sojourn a pleasant memory."
The first thing the Doctor did was to take me to the Executive Mansion. We found the Governor absent, but easily traced him to a local sanitarium, where my escort found him on a couch, wrapped in swaddling clothes, apparently secure from all intruders but the genial Doctor himself. He had just finished a Turkish bath, but he sent the Doctor for me at once.
"We meet under difficulties," was his Excellency's smiling greeting. "I'm trying to knock out an attack of rheumatism."
"True enough," I acknowledged, extending my hand, "both of us are flat on our backs."
Gov. Holcomb then wrote some hieroglyphics in my autograph album, and expressed the hope that I would not find it as hot on the desert as I did in that room.
Our next stop was at a soda fountain. Then we visited a leading clothier—where I procured a contract to direct, with Mac's assistance, the public's attention to alluring bargains in its show-windows. For this I received a five dollar note.
My first evening in town was pleasantly spent in the company of Mrs. Bryan, who, on learning that I was in town, invited me to call.
I remained in the last evening to rest, while Coonskin and Barley took a trip to Burlington Beach, a famous local watering place.
"Wese taught, yuse see," said my little courier, in the morning, "dat it was something like Coney Island; so it's bein' only ten cents round trip dare, wese takes de trolley an' goes down.
"Well, yuse oughter seen de place. Before wese gets dare it begins to smell—why, Coney Island ain't in it fer smells. Den wese gets off de cars and shuffles our feet across a long wooden bridge over on to a island, where dare was a dance hall and lots of girls of all kinds and canal boats, and dongolas, and drinks, and beers—talk of beers!—say, wese had a tank dat high fer a nickel. Yuse see, de beach is on a island in a counterfeit lake, made of salt wells and sand, but day ain't no oysters, ner clams, ner crabs, day's nothin' but bad smells—but say, yuse oughter seen de lobsters crawlin' round wid dere sweethearts on dere arms! Say, dem peoples t'ought dey was havin' a big time. Gee, I wished day could see once Coney Island!"
We had not journeyed far beyond Lincoln Park before we approached the State Asylum for the Acute Insane. From the beginning of my pilgrimage, I had kept a sharp lookout for Insane Asylums, always passing them after dark, but Mac argued that the public had by this time found me harmless, and advised me to call. So I did.
"A patient has arrived," some one called to an attendant. I was startled, but soon recovered my equilibrium, when I observed several doctors and nurses rush out of doors to a carriage at the porch. The lunatic having been safely deposited in one of the wards, the Superintendent then welcomed me, and persuaded me to accept his invitation to visit and inspect the institution.
There was only one department that interested me. I had no sooner entered the kitchen than my omnivorous eye caught the pie-ocine stratum of a well-developed pie, and my curiosity led me to inquire if it were made by a lunatic.
"Why, most certainly, Professor!" exclaimed the Superintendent. "What's the matter with it?"
"As far as appearances go, I think it's all right—doesn't look different from any other pie I've seen and eaten. Shouldn't think a crazy man could make a decent pie, though; did he do it all alone, without anybody watching him?"
"Oh no, we employ a sane cook to supervise the cooking," explained the officer, much to my satisfaction. "Will you have a piece?" he asked.
"Y-y-y-y-yes," I said incredulously, "if you are sure there is no danger of insanity being transferred to me by such a delectable agency."
The head cook then butchered the great pie into quarters, and the Superintendent said, "Help yourself, boys."
I gathered up the juicy quarter, and saying, "My good sir, you have heard of dog eat dog, you shall now witness Pye eat pie." I proceeded to devour it. I couldn't recollect ever having eaten better pie; I was almost prompted to ask the cook to slaughter another, but, instead, carried the remaining quarter out to Mac A'Rony.
When we had left the asylum, I could not help but remark the scrutiny with which each man regarded the other.
At length we went into camp near a farm house, where we certainly acquitted ourselves in a manner to arouse the suspicions of any sane observer. We put our sleeping-bag on the ground outside of the tent, built a fire close to the tent on the windward side while a strong breeze was blowing, cooked creamed potatoes in the coffee pot, and steeped tea in the frying pan; and Coonskin tied all three donkeys and the dog to a small sapling by their tails. I felt sure that insanity was breaking out in our party in an aggravated form, and congratulated Cheese, Damfino and Don for not having eaten infected pie.
Camp Lunatic, as we called it was visited by the owner of the farm, a hospitable German, who had a large family. He gave us a generous donation of corn-cobs for fuel, milk, butter, fresh eggs, and water, then introduced his wife and children. I asked him how he came to have such a large family. He explained that he had a large farm and couldn't afford hired help, and he thought the best way to remedy the difficulty was to rear boys to help him. He looked hopeful, although he had eight girls, no boys.
Supper over, the farmer conferred on me every possible honor, even letting me hold his youngest girl, a child of ten months. He said, enthusiastically, he was going to name his boy after me; the wife smiled heroically.
To cap the climax, I was asked to write my name in the big family Bible. The book was in German. My host opened it to a blank page, and, without comment, I inscribed my name underneath the strangely printed heading—Gestorben, thus pleasing the whole family.
When we reached our tent, Barley began to find fault with me. "What for did yuse want to write your name on de Gestorben page?" he asked seriously. "Dat means bad luck, dat does."
"And why?" I inquired, puzzled.
"Gestorben is German and means death, yuse crazy loon!" he returned. "It's de lunatic pie dat's workin' already; wese all goin' crazy."
Next day was hot. In the afternoon my party rested three hours in the shade of a peach orchard, where we were treated to ice cream by the kind lady of the house close by. It was about 105 miles from Lincoln to Hastings, and we covered it in five days.
Threading the villages of Exeter, Crete, Friend, and Dorchester, we arrived in Grafton, where I caught my courier in a dishonest trick, and discharged him.
The party reached Hastings Thursday, June 17, where I purchased a saddle for Coonskin. Detained by a thunderstorm, we passed a miserable night in close quarters. Next morning, Mac pranced about like a circus donkey, and trailed to Kearney in a manner almost to wind his fellows.
Before leaving Hastings, the Superintendent of the Asylum for the Chronic Insane, three miles out of town, telephoned me to stop and dine with him. On this occasion I rode into the asylum grounds without hesitation or nervousness.
"You must earn your grub, according to contract, Professor," said the Superintendent, when the greetings were over, pointing to a wood-pile in the rear of the building. As soon as I fairly began to comply with the suggestion his young lady secretary, the daughter of a deceased and much esteemed congressman, trained a camera on me and the axe and secured a picture.
I was then notified I had more than earned my dinner, and was escorted into the family dining-room, where an enjoyable repast was accorded me, after which, some twenty wardens and matrons purchased photos at double price. Then I resumed the journey with more heartfelt blessings than had been expressed to me on similar occasions.
The trail was superb. But an intensely hot spell followed, and made all of us perspire. Two days of hard travel brought us to the old Government Reservation of Ft. Kearney, established by Gen. Fremont on his historic overland trip to California in pioneer days.
The fort has long since been abandoned. There the Mormons camped for a short period after leaving Council Bluffs.
Next evening, I made my camp on the site of the notorious Dirty Woman's Ranch of early days, and spent a Sunday in delightful rest and recreation in the shade of the grove of wide-spreading elms and cotton-woods that sighed mournfully over the deserted scene.
We crossed the long, low bridge over the Platte, early in the morning. It required nearly an hour and all our wits and energies to get the donkeys across, even after blindfolding them. And when my party ambled into Kearney, that sultry, dusty June day, grimy with dirt and perspiring, we all were in ripe condition for a swim. The little city looked to be about the size of Hastings, but did not show the same enterprise and thrift. In fact, the inhabitants ventured out in the broiling sun with an excusable lack of animation, and seemer to show no more interest in their local affairs than they did in Pye Pod's pilgrimage. It was here I first saw worn the Japanese straw helmet. It served as a most comfortable and effective sun-shade, and purchasing a couple, we donned them at once.
Kearney is said to be the half-way point, by rail, between New York and San Francisco. My diary, however, showed I had covered fully two thousand miles of my overland journey; I had consumed 227 days, with only one hundred and thirty-four days left me, the prospects of accomplishing the "feat" in schedule time looked dubious enough.
The great Watson Ranch, when my donkey party arrived, was experiencing its busiest season. But, while the male representatives were in the fields, the good matron in charge of the house made us welcome and treated us to cheering bowls of bread and milk. When Mr. Watson, Jr., arrived, he showed us about the place and enlightened me about alfalfa, of which he had over a thousand acres sown; fifty hired hands were busy harvesting it.
For a week or two we had, for the most part, been trailing through the perfumed prairies at an invigorating altitude ranging from two thousand to nearly three thousand feet, inhaling the fresh, pure air, gazing on the flower-carpeted earth, and enjoying a constant shifting of panoramic scenes of browsing herds, and bevies of birds, and occasional glimpses of the winding Platte and the sand dunes beyond.
The cities and villages, that formed knots in the thread of our travels on the plains, came into view like the incoming ships from the sea. At first one spied a white church-steeple in the distance like a pointed stake in the earth only a mile away, but soon the chimneys and roofs and finally door-yard fences would come into view, then what we thought a village, nearby, proved to be, as we journeyed onward, a town of much greater size seven or eight miles beyond the point of calculation. The crossbars on the telegraph poles, along the straight and level tracks of the Union Pacific, formed in the eye's dim perspective a needle, as they seemed to meet with the rails on the horizon. Little bunches of trees, scattered miles apart and then overtopped by the spinning wheel of an air motor, indicated the site of a ranch-house where we might procure water. The trail ahead became lost in a sea of flowers and grasses.
From time to time, as I dismounted to ease myself and little steed I picked from the stirrups a half dozen kinds of flowers, ensnared as my feet brushed through the grasses. Great beds of blood-red marshmallows; natural parterres of the wax-like blooms of the prickly pear; scattering stems of the flowery thistle with white corollas as large as tulips; and wild roses and daisies of all shades and colors—the white and pink, and the white wild roses being the first I ever saw; these with varicolored flowers of all descriptions were woven into the prairie grasses and likened the far-reaching plain to a great Wilton carpet enrolled from the mesa to the river.
Some of the sunsets were gorgeous. At times, the western sky glowed like a prairie fire; and the sunrises were not less magnificent. Sometimes, we were overtaken by severe electric storms, and obliged to pitch the tent in a hurry. When the lightning illuminates the plains at night, the trees and the distant towns are brought into fantastic relief against the darkness, like the shifting pictures of a stereopticon.
A flash of lightning to the right reveals a church or school-house, to the left, a bunch of cattle chewing the cud or grazing, ahead of us, a ranch house, and, sometimes, to the rear, a pack of cowardly coyotes, at a safe distance, either following my caravan, or out on a forage hunt.
Often, as the trains swept by, the engineers would salute with a deafening blast of whistles, frightening the donkeys and entertaining the passengers. Some of the prairie towns which look large on the map have entirely disappeared. In one case, I found more dead citizens in the cemetery than live ones in the village. Frequently, as a means of diversion, I left the saddle to visit these white-chimney villages of the dead. Such might be considered a grave sort of amusement, but really some of the gravestones contained interesting epitaphs. In one instance the following caught my eye:
Imagine the shock to my sobered senses on reading these lines cut on a white-washed wooden slab, close by:
Just below the heartrending epitaph appeared in bold letters the satisfactory statement—"This monument is pade fer."
On the lonely plains, miles from habitation, a single grave fenced in with barbed wire in a circular corral, I discovered a mate to the preceding epitaph, which illustrates the utter abandon with which the rugged, dashing "bronco buster" regards the perils of riding a bucking wild horse.
Sometime before parting with my courier, unknown to him we pitched camp one dark night in a graveyard. Barley was an early riser, and, as we know, as superstitious as he was gullible. He was the first out of the tent at dawn. Suddenly he rushed back, exclaiming: "De Resurrection has came, fellows, an' wese de first livin' on earth agin." And with terror in his eyes and voice, dragged Coonskin and me to see a strange sight indeed. There, some forty feet from the tent, stood a towering crucifix with a figure of the Saviour, life size, looking down upon us, while about us were tablets and mounds: the scene was so still and solemn no wonder that my awestricken courier thought the world had come to an end.
On the 24th of June, after a hot and dusty trail across an arid waste, where only occasional patches of buffalo grass and cacti matted the earth in the place of the long prairie grass and flowers we were tramping in a few days before, my weary troop, jaded and hungry entered the little village of Overton.
BY MAC A'RONY.
And the ass turned out of the way, and went into the field; and Balaam smote the ass, to turn her into the way.—Book of Numbers.
Shortly after reaching Overton, I took Pod with Coonskin and Don to pay our respects to Towserville, a large dog town so closely situated to Overton as to inspire a rivalry far more serious than that existing between Minneapolis and St. Paul. Overtonians complained of repeated raids made by prairie dogs of Towserville on their chickens and gardens. On the other hand, the Towser "villians" repudiated the calumny, then fled in confusion from the charge of shotguns and rifles.
As our party approached with guns trained for a complimentary salute, I saw his honor, the Mayor, seated in his hallway. The roof of his mound towered above the other habitations, and was undoubtedly the City Hall. Copying after New York, each burrow in Towserville had a representative in the City Council.
I'm sure we would have been welcomed cordially, had not Don wanted to be first to shake the Mayor's paw; his honor abruptly excused himself to avoid a scene, and his fellow townsdogs likewise, with the result that the above dogtown population rushed in and slammed the doors in our faces. The Professor was embarrassed. He had no visiting cards, so decided to leave at each door a sample box of cathartic pills; and a careful distribution was made.
Next morning as we passed Towserville, his dogcellency, the Mayor, his alderdogs and towndogs looked regretful of their slight to us, as each stood at his door or sat with his housekeeper, the owl, on the roof of his dwelling, nodding and waving at us. Others, however, were prostrate, either from remorse or Pod's magnanimity.
Sometime about noon, we approached the shallow current of the Platte, where we were unpacked and fed. We donks were almost roasted from the sun's scorching rays. Close by was a deep well, but no bucket in which to draw water. So Coonskin hitched a syrup can to the rope and drew water for Pod and himself. Soon a drove of cattle, accompanied by two ranchmen and a boy, came down to the river to drink with us donks, just to show there was no hard feeling. The lad laid down to drink from the stream.
"Here, boy, come and have a drink of cold water!" Pod called. "That ain't fit to drink."
"Fitter'n that well water," answered the lad.
Said Pod: "I'd like to know the reason."
"Well," replied the lad, approaching, "I dropped a dead jackrabbit in the well a week ago."
Somehow the men had drunk so much of that cool well-water they hadn't room for dinner; too cool water I guess aint' good for one when heated. After the dishes were washed, Pod took off everything but his socks and collar-button, and wrote his newspaper letter, while Coonskin went prospecting. Pretty soon the latter returned with a sand turtle and, hitching it up in a rope harness, said he was going to keep it for a pet. He named it Bill. He said it would make a fine center-piece for the table; it would keep the Buffalo gnats and mosquitos and flies off the victuals, and if tied at the tent door no centipede or tarantula would dare enter. Pod thought it a good scheme. So, when we packed up, Bill was put in one of my saddle bags, without my knowing it. All new luggage was generally tied on to Damfino; I supposed the turtle was.
After going a couple miles, I felt something mysterious crawling on my back. I looked around, but my master was in the way; so I up and kicked with all my might, determined to scatter that crawling thing to the four winds, but, instead, threw Pod completely over my head. Then I ran pell-mell down the desert trail, kicking and braying, with that terrible something gnawing my hair and bouncing and flopping with every jump I made. I ran fast and thought fast, and that thing stuck fast. Suddenly, I stopped, laid down, and tried to roll on it. This I couldn't do, on account of the saddle horn. But while I was still trying, the rest of the party came up, and solved the mystery by capturing the turtle, Bill; then they chained him on Damfino, and our outfit moved on peacefully for several miles, the men talking merrily. Said Pod, "Hitting the trail on the plains in summer isn't as comfortable as driving a city ice-wagon.
"Not much," Coonskin returned; "but the donkeys and dog have their woes, too."
"Verily so," confirmed the Professor. "For instance, there's Damfino; she thinks she's awfully persecuted. Being a female, she doesn't have much to say. But how about Mac? Doesn't he do more kicking than all the rest put together?"
"Oh, well," Coonskin answered, "you see Mac regards himself a pioneer and all the others mere tenderfeet."
I couldn't help grinning at the simple debate. The fact of the case was, our caravan had been growing larger with every day's travel. New articles were continually added. Cheese and I generally carried the men; but to our saddles were hung guns, revolvers, cameras, and the lantern, not to mention a bundle of blankets; all of which, added to the burden of our thoughts, a nagging whip and a pair of spurs, and a million and one buffalo gnats, mastodon mosquitos, and other kindergarten birds of prey, tended to make us lose our mental equilibrium a dozen times a day. In my case, there was a lump of avoirdupois in the saddle ranging between 150 and 160 pounds. Sometimes Pod would get out of his seat and walk a mile or two, to relieve me. With Cheese it was much the same. But that old spinster, Damfino, bore a burden, increasing daily. She was large and strong, and couldn't appreciate fine sentiments, or fine stuffs either, even complaining of sand in the wind, and coughed and snorted continually. Her sawbuck saddle corset was laced tightly around her robust bust, and to this unhealthsome vesture were hung on both sides large canvas panniers, packed with canned goods, medicines, salves, ink, cow-bells, vegetables, ham and bacon, vinegar, old shoes, toilet articles, including currycomb, clothes, soap, flour, salt, baking-powder, cheese, coffee, tea, kerosine oil, matches, cooking tools, ammunition, folding kitchen range, and two dozen et ceteras. On top and lopping over the panniers were roped the tent and tent-poles, folding beds, canteens, musical instruments, axe, and axle-grease, five iron picket-pins, packages of photos (for sale), a tin wash basin, two tin pails, extra ropes, a half dozen paper pads, and a dozen more et ceteras.
Beneath all that burden, she ambled along without a murmur, swinging her ears to help her outwalk the rest, except Don, who kept up a dog-trot.
A ranchman gave Pod some new potatoes one day (half of which I yanked out of the tent door at night and devoured), and in reply to his habitual inquiry, "Where'll we stow 'em?" Coonskin said, "On Damfino, of course." When some canned goods were added to the list of poisons, my master was puzzled. "Strap 'em on Damfino," advised Coonskin. Pod bought some canteens. "Where'll we put these?" he asked. "Oh, hang 'em on Damfino somewhere," said the wise "Sancho." One day a large package of chromos came, and the Professor was discouraged. "How the d—l can we carry these?" he asked with bewilderment.
"Why," ejaculated the valet chuckling, "right on Damfino." Just then that silent old maid looked at the men; and I saw blood in her eye.
Picture if you can our party trailing along the banks of the Platte that bright June afternoon. A few miles away loomed the cacti-covered sand-dunes, and between them and the river stared the desert of glistening alkali, sprinkled with cacti and sage, where an occasional steer was scratching an existence—and mosquito bites. We came to a muddy irrigation ditch, where the water had leaked out. Across it was an alfalfa field, and beyond that an adobe ranch house. We donks thought the mud in the ditch was stiff; the green field looked tempting. Damfino whispered that she would make a bolt for the field, if we would follow; and we said we would. At once she shied into the ditch, and the next minute was knee-deep in quicksand, and still sinking. Cheese and I stood riveted to the trail, while the men just gaped at Damfino with open mouths. Damfino, thinking she would soon be out of sight, brayed as she never brayed before.
When Pod got his senses he yelled, "Let's pull her out!"
"What with? Every rope and strap's on Damfino," said the truthful valet, running around like a head with the chicken cut off. Coonskin tried to reach a rope and, losing his balance, put a foot in the quicksand. Then, all excited, he attempted to pull his foot out, and got them both in. The Professor tried to reach a bridle-rein to his comrade, and went sprawling across the ditch on his corduroys and whiskers, his arms elbow-deep in the mire. This put Don in a panic. Seeing his master sinking, he grabbed his boots and pulled them off. Then he fastened his teeth in Pod's trousers, and I expected to see them come off too, but s' help me Balaam! the dog only pulled off one trouser leg, when Coonskin managed to free himself by crawling over Pod's corduroy road to dry land, and saved the day! At once, with a bridle-rein, the valet roped the Professor's feet and pulled him out, after which both men fastened the reins to Damfino's pack and tied the other ends to the saddles of Cheese and myself. Then that she-ass, wet and gray as a rat, with her burden, was dragged out of the ditch into the trail. Well, that quicksand pulled all the bad nature out of her, and she went a long time before she was tempted to leave the trail again.
The men looked grateful as they wiped the brine from their faces, and Pod remarked, "That was a narrow escape for all of us. Our donkey party came within two of going ass-under, sure."
BY PYE POD.