About the first of November, the four of us left the ranch for San Francisco. There we bought four tickets for New York for eight hundred dollars, and each man belted a thousand dollars in twenty-dollar gold pieces around him. Our ship was the John L. Stephens, and carried about a thousand passengers, besides a large quantity of freight. It was my first experience on the water, and as we sailed out through the golden gate and into the open sea, I had many misgivings and wished myself back upon the plains among the Indians. But in a little while I grew accustomed to life on the ship and really enjoyed the whole trip. At some point on the coast of Old Mexico the ship anchored and took on board a drove of beef cattle, and that was the only stop between San Francisco and Panama.
When we reached Panama the ship anchored about a mile from shore and little black natives rowed out in small boats to carry the passengers in. When the boats reached the side of the ship, they were hoisted by ropes to a level with the deck, loaded with passengers and lowered again to the water. The natives grabbed the oars and away we went. All passengers remained in Panama over night, and next morning a train of pack mules was lined up for the overland trip. We rode twenty miles on mules to the Charges River, then down the river in boats twelve miles and then eight miles by railway to Aspinwall. The ship, George Law, was waiting for us, but it required two days to get all the passengers and baggage across the isthmus and loaded. During that time we remained in Aspinwall. It was a wonder to me that the task could be finished so quickly. There were a thousand passengers—many women and children—and the sick who had to be carried on stretchers by the natives twenty miles over the mountain to Charges River. Besides, the road was a mere pack trail through rocks and cliffs, often very steep and very rough. To make the task more difficult, the passengers of the George Law—about as many as were on the John L. Stephens—were making the trip in the opposite direction to take our ship back to California. Those were busy days for the natives.
The George Law steamed right up to shore against a rock bluff and the passengers walked directly over the gang plank on to the ship. When all was ready the seamen hauled in the cables and we sailed for New York. The sea was very rough all the way—that is, it seemed so to us. We landed at Key West, but remained there only a few hours and stopped next time at New York City. As the passengers started for shore the captain told them to look out for their pocket books. We had done that back in San Francisco when we put on our belts.
Our first thought on landing was clothing. We were dressed for summer time, as the climate we had been in required, but it was winter in New York, with deep snow on the ground. The afternoon after landing saw us duly provided with plenty of warm clothing and tickets by railroad and boat to St. Louis—railroad by way of Buffalo, Toledo and Chicago to Quincy, and from Quincy to St. Louis by boat. At St. Louis brother Robert was taken sick and we all remained there a week. The usual course from St. Louis home was by stage, but we met a man named Andrew Jackson from Holt County, who told us if we would pay him stage fare—twenty-five dollars each—he would buy a span of mules and a carriage and drive us through—as he needed both the mules and the carriage at home. This arrangement was made and we left St. Louis about the middle of December. The weather was very cold, snow a foot deep or more, and the roads very rough in many places. One pleasant thing about the trip was that we always had good, warm lodging places for the night along the road. Towns were close enough together to enable us usually to reach one of them and put up at the tavern, but if we failed in this, we always found good treatment at the farm houses by the way.
A few miles west of Keytesville, Chariton County, we put up one night with a man named Tom Allen, who had a hundred head of steers ranging from two to four years old. They were exactly what we wanted, but were so far from our starting point that we were uncertain whether we could take them. He asked three thousand dollars for the herd. Next morning we looked them over carefully, and told him if he would keep them until the first of April we would take them. He agreed to this and we paid him a thousand dollars down and continued our journey. He was a complete stranger to us and we to him, but in those days men seemed to have more confidence in one another. No writing of any kind was entered into and we felt not the slightest uneasiness about getting the cattle.
We reached home Christmas day, 1853, having made the trip in less than two months.
From Christmas until the middle of March, 1854, the time passed rapidly, with mother and father and with visits to old friends and acquaintances. On April first, according to contract, we arrived at Tom Allen's in Chariton County, and paid him the balance of two thousand dollars—in gold—and got our hundred head of cattle, all in good condition. As we passed Brunswick, we bought one hundred more and attempted to ferry the whole herd across Grand River in a flat-boat. We cut off a bunch and drove them down the bank on to the boat. They all ran to the farther end of the boat and sunk it, and the cattle went head foremost into the water. All swam back to the same shore, but one steer. He swam to the other side and ran out into the brush. We could do nothing but watch him go and gave him up for lost. A strange thing happened in regard to that steer. Just a year later, I found him on our ranch in California—the same marks and the same brand, besides my recollection of him. There could be no mistake about it. I can account for his presence there easily, for at that time many men were driving cattle across the plains. Some one found him and drove him along and, after arriving, as ranches were large and unfenced, he wandered with other cattle up into our ranch.
After the unsuccessful attempt to ferry the cattle over the river we changed our plan and drove them twenty miles up the river to a point where it could be forded. Passed Carrollton where we picked up a few more cattle, and came on up to John Wilson's in Clay County, gathering a few here and there until we had three hundred head. Wilson had a herd of one hundred which we bought. These four hundred with two hundred purchased around home completed the herd. By the last day of April we had six hundred head in father's pasture at home, thirty head of horses and mules, two wagons loaded with provisions—four yoke of cattle to each wagon—and twenty men employed to go with us. As we laid the pasture fence down to let that drove of cattle out into the wide world, every man had to be on his guard. It was a timbered, brushy country and very hard to drive the cattle without losing them. There were probably fifty of our neighbors on hand to see us start—many of them on horse-back—and they gave us much assistance. By two o'clock next day we had everything across the river at St. Joe and the cattle herded on a sandbar above where Elwood now stands. After starting off the sandbar we had the same trouble in the heavy timber and with the Indians that we experienced on the first trip, but finally got out on the high plains with horses, cattle and men fairly well trained, and then considered our hard work finished, although two thousand miles of plains and mountains were ahead.
Brothers James, Zack and Robert all started to accompany me on this trip, but, as it was unnecessary to have so many along, James and Robert returned after we had reached Big Blue, to gather up a herd for the following summer, and Zack and I continued the journey. I was considerably older than Zack, and the principal responsibility fell to me. The cattle were very valuable, but, in addition to that, I felt in a measure responsible for the lives of the thirty persons who accompanied the train—at least, in any conflict with Indians, I would be depended upon for counsel and guidance.
I shall not attempt to give the details of this trip. The road is now familiar to the reader, and I hope also that, by this time, he can appreciate the tediousness of such a journey. He may be aided in this if I say here that we hadn't a pound of grain or hay with us, either for the horses and work cattle or for the herd, but all of them had to subsist by grazing. It was impossible, therefore, to make more than a few miles a day and it was only by determined persistence and a display of patience that I cannot describe, that we ever accomplished the journey. There are a few incidents, which, in addition to the ordinary hardships, served to make the trip still more tedious and trying, and these I will mention.
One night we camped on a high, rolling prairie out beyond Little Blue. The cattle were grazing peacefully and the horses and mules—except those used by brother Zack and myself and by the guards—had been picketed out, and everybody in camp was asleep. One of the mules pulled up his picket stake and dragged it at the end of a long rope through the camp and caught the picket stake in the bow of an ox-yoke. This frightened the mule and he ran into the herd of cattle still dragging the yoke. A stampede followed. Work cattle, horses and mules—everything—and the noise sounded like an earthquake. The guards could not hold the cattle at all. Zack and I, who kept our horses saddled and bridled and tied to a wagon, were out in a moment, but we could give little assistance to the two guards in managing the crazy cattle, and the other men could not come to us for their horses had gone with the cyclone. It was very dark and our only guide to the location of the cattle was the roar of the ground. After a race of a few miles the roar ceased and we knew the cattle had checked. We rode in front of them and held them until daylight. They were badly scattered and exposed to wolves and Indians. It was twelve o'clock next day before we got them rounded up and ready to start forward. All the cattle and horses were found, but one of our mules was missing. No trace of him could be found anywhere, so we left him alone somewhere on those plains for the Indians or the wolves, or possibly, for a succeeding emigrant train.
Day by day and week by week the journey continued without incident, until we reached a point high up on the North Platte. We camped one night upon the banks of a small stream that emptied into the Platte, and during the night a terrific hail storm came up. Shortly after it broke upon us, one of the guards came and said the cattle had gone with the hail storm, and the guards could do nothing with them. Several of us were on our horses and after them at once. A flash of lightning now and then helped us to find the main bunch, which we rounded up on a sand-bar in Platte River. No more sleep that night. When daylight came the hail lay two inches deep on the ground. I never experienced such a hail storm in my life, and it is my opinion that but few like it have ever visited this country.
The count that morning showed thirteen cattle missing. For fear of a mistake we went forward and strung them out between us and counted again. Still thirteen short. To leave them without further effort was out of the question, so I picked five men—James and Russell Deakins, Joshua Gidlett, Buchanan County boys, and Tom Sherman and Henry Marks, two boys from Boston who joined our train at St. Joseph, and, with our guns and blankets and a small amount of provisions, started back to circle the camp and look for tracks leading away. I thought the Indians had them and told the boys we would likely have to fight, but all were willing to go. Zack was to move the train slowly forward until he heard from us.
We did not search long after reaching the place where the cattle had been grazing when the storm came up, until we found tracks leading to the north, and by appearances we were able to conclude that there were just about the number we had lost in the bunch that had been driven away. We followed the tracks a few miles, looking all the time for Indian tracks and pony tracks, and could see neither, but there were numbers of what appeared to be dog tracks. This suggested wolves, and I began to look closely at the tracks made by the cattle. Going up the sides of the sand hills the cattle seemed to remain together, but going down they would separate and run, and on level ground would get together again and all circle around and wander back and forth. At such times we had great difficulty in tracing them. The movements of the cattle convinced me that wolves were after them.
The tracks led us to the north about ten miles and then turned westwardly. We had followed in that direction about five miles when night came. As soon as it grew so dark we could not see the tracks, we staked out our horses, ate a lunch and spread our blankets down on the ground. We rested, but slept little. We had seen no Indians, but did not know how many had seen us, and might be following us. Two stood guard at a time while the other three lay on the ground in the darkness with their eyes wide open. At daybreak we were up, and as soon as it was light were on the trail again. Some miles on the tracks turned south, and this gave us courage, as Platte River and the emigrant road lay that way, but the wolves still had our cattle. The tracks led us on and on and finally up the side of a high range of sand hills, from the top of which we could see the valley of North Platte and the river far in the distance. We followed down the opposite side into the valley, and when within about two miles of the river I saw a bunch of cattle lying down near the bank. I was confident they were our cattle, unless other emigrants had lost a bunch in the storm, which was not probable. We hurried on and when within half a mile of the cattle found a carcass lying in the high grass and twelve or fifteen savage old wolves lying near by asleep. We pulled our navies and waked them up with bullets—killed three and wounded several others. We then rode on and found that the cattle were ours—twelve of them. A three year old heifer missing—the carcass we had found. The cattle were sore and gaunt, but otherwise unhurt. We pulled the saddles off our horses and staked them out to graze and lay down for a little rest. We had been gone from camp twenty-four hours, had had but two scanty meals and were probably twenty-five or thirty miles farther up the trail than the camp we left. Our train had not passed, as there were no fresh tracks on the trail, and we decided to endure our hunger and rest awhile before starting to meet it. In about an hour, however, I looked down the valley and saw the train moving slowly along. It reached us just about noon and all were greatly rejoiced. The noon meal was prepared and I think my tin cup of coffee was the best I ever drank.
The train moved on without incident until we reached a point on North Platte some seventy-five miles above Fort Laramie, where a spur of the mountain, or rather a very high bluff, prevented us from following the river, as had been our purpose on this trip, and forced us across ten miles or more of rocky, mountainous country. When I entered my train upon that part of the journey I calculated there would be no obstruction, as no emigrants were ahead that I had heard of, and I knew no cattle trains were ahead of us. I rode in front always and the lead cattle followed close to my horse's heels. Always the same cattle, three or four in every herd, insisted on being in front, and if left in the rear as the train started out in the morning, they would crowd through the herd and be in front within an hour; then came the whole drove and then the wagons, followed by the loose horses and mules. Strung out in this fashion we started across this portion of the road, which in many places permitted only one wagon and team and not more than four cattle side by side. I led the long, winding string to the top of a mountain, and from that point I could see a line of dark objects a quarter of a mile long approaching us. I looked closely and determined it was Indians, and passed word to that effect back along the line. The men rushed to the wagons and got their guns, and by the time they had returned to their places I had made out that the Indians were moving and that we need not fear attack, as Indians never fight when the squaws and pappooses are along, but I was surprised at the little comfort I received out of that assurance. The puzzle to me was how to meet and pass them without stampeding the cattle. Cattle do not like Indians. They do not like their looks and they do not like their smell, and it is hard work to get them to pass a band of Indians on the broad prairie where they have plenty of room to shy. To pass on this narrow road was out of the question. I stopped to think and to look. Some distance ahead, but closer to us than the Indians, I saw what appeared to be a cove or basin, almost completely surrounded by high bluffs and opening upon the road. I rode hurriedly forward, beckoning the men at the same time to push the cattle after me. When I reached the mouth of the basin I stopped and turned the cattle into it. Little more than half the herd had gone in when the Indians came up. The cattle began to hoist their heads and shy, but the Indians did not stop. I rode back a few paces and met them, bowed and said "how-do" as friendly as I knew how, and made signs that I wanted them to stop. They seemed not to understand until I pointed to the cattle, still hoisting heads and tails, and when crowded forward, jumping to the side and running into the basin. When they saw this the whole train stopped. Our cattle and wagons and loose horses all came up and turned in—the men standing along the roadside to see the Indians pass in their turn. When everything was safely lodged in the receptacle, which it seemed to me Providence had designed for just such an emergency, I turned, took off my hat and bowed long and low and rode aside. The Indians bowed in return and passed on. We stood by the roadside and saw the whole caravan pass. There were probably five or six hundred of them—a tribe of the Crows. The long tent poles were tied one on each side of a pony, the ends dragging on the ground behind with a platform or base joining them, on which the tents and skins and such rude camp equipment as they had were piled. The shorter tent poles were tied one on each side of a dog, with baskets resting on the rear ends in which the pappooses were hauled or dragged along. Everything turned loose—not a halter or strap on dog or pony—all herded or driven like cattle. They were nearly an hour in passing us, and the men who were on the plains for the first time thought it an amusing experience. It required but a short time, after the movers had passed, to get our cattle out and start them on the road again, and, by night, we had passed over the mountains and were back on the river. A double guard kept watch that night, as we feared a band of the bucks that had passed us might come back and try to get some of our cattle, but the moon shone very bright, and as our whole force had stood by the roadside with guns across their saddles, they probably thought such an attempt would be useless.
Our train moved on slowly, passed Independence Rock and over the continental divide and down into Green River Valley. When we reached Green River we rounded the cattle upon a sandbar and forced them all into the water at once. They got to milling around and round and going down the swift current, until we thought they would make the rest of the journey by water, but they soon found the water too cold for their enjoyment and headed for the farther shore. All got out but one.
We took Hedgepeth's cut-off and reached the head waters of Humboldt without difficulty, thence down this river mile after mile, through sage brush and grease wood and alkali shoe mouth deep. As the cattle passed, a dense, black cloud rose above them, almost stifling men, horses and cattle. At night the men were black as negroes and complained of sore throat and sore lungs, but there was no escape. Big Meadows, as I have heretofore described it, afforded a delightful resting place just between the dense alkali and the sixty-mile desert. But for this oasis, I may call it, where rest and food and water could be had, it is doubtful if herds could have been taken across the plains. Certainly a different trail would have been required.
With all our precautions the trip across the sixty-mile desert was a very hard one. The weather was hot. Not a drop of water nor a blade of grass for thirty hours. When the cattle caught sight of Carson River late one afternoon they went wild. No power could hold them. They ran headlong into the river and next morning five were dead. After the long march across the sand and alkali, the trip up Carson River and over the Sierre Nevada mountains was an easy one, and we made it without difficulty. Going down the opposite side we had to pass through great forests of pine timber, and the cattle, after being so long upon the treeless plains, seemed not to understand this and gave a great deal of trouble. One night we camped near Leake Springs in a heavy body of pine, quieted the cattle and had them all lying down, as we thought, for the night. Something frightened them, and away they started, right across our camp and back toward the top of the mountain. At the first sound of the stampede we jumped to our feet, whooped and yelled, threw our blankets in their faces and tried in every way to stop them, but they paid no attention and came crashing on through the brush. We were compelled to get behind trees to protect ourselves, and after the tornado of cattle had passed, gathered our horses and took after them. They were all strung out on the road, running as fast as they could, and we had to pass them by making our poor jaded horses outrun them. It was no easy task, and the leaders of the bolt for home were some fifteen miles away before we overtook and passed them. It was almost daylight when we succeeded in doing this, and it required most of next day to gather all of them up and get back to camp. Not a man had a morsel to eat until we returned to camp. We decided to keep moving slowly throughout the entire succeeding night, as the best means of preventing another stampede and in order to get out of the timbered mountains and into the valley where the cattle were not so apt to get excited. Early next day we reached the valley and stopped. Horses, men and cattle took a good rest. This stampede jaded both horses and cattle more than crossing the sixty-mile desert, hard as that was.
After a day's rest we pulled on and passed through the mining district of Weaver Creek and American River, and reached Sacramento River at Sacramento City, crossed the river on a ferry and camped for the night on the farther bank. No guard out that night—the first in four months—and the boys went up to see the sights of the town. Human tongue can hardly tell the relief I felt when I could lie down and sleep without fear of Indians or wolves or stampedes. A better set of men than I had with me never crossed the plains, always ready for duty and to help me out of trouble. It was about thirty miles out to our ranch and I told the boys if they would go out with me I would board them as long as they wanted to stay. About half of them went and the others began to look about for themselves. It was an affectionate farewell that took place between us, and in all the years that have passed I have never seen many of those boys, but I shall never forget them.
We reached the ranch without difficulty and turned the cattle loose. The poor things had been traveling so long and had become so accustomed to it that we had to watch them every day for nearly a month. They seemed to think they had to be moving, and after grazing awhile in the morning would string out on any road or path they could find and sometimes get miles away—the old leaders always in front—before we would discover them. After awhile we got them convinced that their journey had ended and that grass belly deep was a reality which they might actually enjoy.
The fall of 1854 and the winter and spring of 1855 were not unlike our previous winters in California. There was but little to do except watch the cattle to keep them from straying. Hunting was about the only diversion and game was still plentiful. Grass was abundant all through the winter and the cattle fattened rapidly. During the spring and summer months we marketed all that were in proper condition, still receiving excellent prices. About the first of August brother Zack and I rigged up our pack mules and started back to meet James and Robert who had turned back the year before to gather up another herd and bring it across the plains during the summer. We passed over the mountains and reached the sixty-mile desert, which was about two hundred and fifty miles back on the plains from our ranch. In all the year we had heard nothing from home, and the only information we had that they were on the road was the promise they made us as they left our train the year before.
We camped just at the western edge of the desert and during the night a train pulled in off the desert. We inquired of them next morning whether they had seen or heard of Gibson's train. They said they had passed it somewhere on Humboldt River, but could not give the exact location. They also told us the Indians had killed one of the Gibson boys. They did not know which one—had just heard of the circumstance as they passed. This sad news was a great blow to us. We broke camp hurriedly and started across the desert, weighed down by the sad reflection that we would meet only one of our brothers—both equally dear, not only from boyhood association and ties of kindred, but from association in hardship across the dreary plains. We carried our weight of sorrow all that day and all the following night, across the barren sand, and at daylight we could barely make out Humboldt Lake in the distance. Upon closer approach we saw a large herd of cattle just being rounded up preparatory to the start across the desert. We hurried forward, hoping it was the train we were looking for, and yet fearing to know the truth of the rumor we had heard. A few moments dispelled our doubts. It was Gibson's train and Brother James was alone with his cattle and his men. Robert, our mother's baby, seventeen years old, was the victim. Brother James, with tears streaming down his sunburnt face, related to us the manner of his death at the hands of treacherous Indians, and the train halted on the threshold of the desert long enough for us to hear the story and dry the tears from our eyes.
He said one day while on their journey over the mountains between Fort Laramie and the higher waters of North Platte, and while the herd was moving forward in order, he rode ahead to locate a camping place for the night and left Robert in charge. He had been gone but a short time when six Indians came up to the train and in their way inquired for the captain. One of the men told them he was in the rear. They rode back and when they reached the men in the rear turned their ponies and rode along with the train some distance. Robert, who, though only seventeen, had made four trips across the plains and understood the Indians, told the boys to watch them as he thought they were up to mischief. He feared they intended to get between the wagons, which were traveling close up behind the cattle, and loose horses and mules, which were in the extreme rear, and cut them off, so he dropped back and motioned the men who were driving the horses and mules, to close up and at the same time stopped the wagons. He had the stock driven around the wagons, thus placing them between the cattle and the wagons, leaving the wagons in the extreme rear. He then took his place alongside the cattle. All this time the Indians had said nothing, had simply followed along with the train. The show of authority was what they were waiting for. They evidently could not believe the boy they saw was in fact the captain. As soon as Robert took his place by the side of the cattle three of the Indians rode up by his side and began to jabber and make signs. The other three rode up behind him. One of the three behind had an old army musket and while the three in front engaged Robert the one with the gun rode up very close and shot him in the back. He fell from his horse and was dead in an instant. The Indians whirled and galloped away as fast as their ponies could carry them. One of the boys rode forward to notify Brother James and met him returning at full speed. He had heard the report of the gun and knew by the sound that it was an Indian's gun, and that it meant mischief of some kind. As soon as he returned to the train he mounted ten men and armed them and started after the Indians. After following about five miles he came in sight of them. About the same moment the Indians spied him and laid whip to their ponies. They were making for the mountains, but soon saw they would be overtaken and turned in the direction of the river. A hot race followed with the white men gaining all the time, but the Indians reached the river and plunged their ponies in. They had hardly reached the farther shore when James and his men were upon the bank. They fired at them but the distance was too great for the shots to take effect. The party thought it unwise to cross the river in pursuit, as it might be difficult to recross and all this time the cattle and the train were insufficiently guarded, so they turned and made their way back, conscious that had they overtaken the Indians and slain them all such an act could not have restored Robert to them, and their hearts would still have been heavy with their loss.
When they returned to the train the boys had rounded up the cattle and were standing guard over them and the dead body. Nothing could be done but move on, but what was to be done with Robert's body? James said to attempt a burial where the wolves and coyotes would dig the body up was out of the question, and then he could not bear the idea of leaving him alone on those desolate mountains. So he put the body in one of the wagons and carried it forward two days journey, where they came to a trading post on the upper crossing of North Platte kept by an old Frenchman. There they procured a wagon box which they used for a coffin and buried him the best they could and protected the grave from wolves. James, learning that the Frenchman intended to go back to St. Joseph in about two months, employed him to take the body back with him and gave him an order for five hundred dollars in gold on Robert Donnell. I may as well relate here that the Frenchman kept his promise, brought the body back and got his money, and that Robert now lies buried in the old family cemetery in Tremont Township. I learned this on my return, and that mother identified the body by examining the toes, one of which Robert had lost in an accident when quite a little boy.
Although the story was a sad one and our hearts were very heavy, still we could not tarry with our grief. The cattle must cross the desert and reach food and water beyond. James asked if we had had breakfast. I told him we had not—that we had traveled hard all night, but that we had a camp outfit and would prepare something after the cattle had started across the desert. When the train was under full way, we stirred the coals of their camp fire, threw on some greasewood brush and soon prepared bread and meat and coffee. The mules browsed on grease wood and we rested a couple of hours and then started after the train. All that day and all the next night—a steady drive, only now and then an hour's halt for food for ourselves and rest for the cattle. By eleven o'clock the following morning we were on Carson River, and glad we were, too. Zack and I had crossed over, taking twenty-four hours and back thirty hours—fifty-four hours without sleep or rest except two hours at the end of our first journey. In all my travels, and I look at it now after more than fifty years, with the experiences of the Civil War intervening, I have never seen a place so beautiful as Carson River and valley, not because it is more picturesque or naturally more enchanting than many places I have seen, but because it was so welcome with its cold mountain waters and fresh green vegetation after our weary journeys across the barren desert, and I never thought it more beautiful to behold than on this, my last visit.
Men, cattle and horses all took a good long rest, but the train was up and many miles on the road before Zack and I awoke and followed. Two weeks more and the cattle were safe on the ranch and we were off duty once more, and as events transpired, off the plains for all time—after nearly seven years of almost constant hardship.
During the fall of 1855 and the spring of 1856 we marketed off the fat cattle. Sold Graham and Henry of Georgetown five hundred head to be delivered fifty head every two weeks. Georgetown was a mining camp one hundred miles northeast of our ranch. Our cattle were scattered over our own ranch and the ranches of Phillips, Wolfscale and Barker, and were well mixed with their wild cattle and horses. It rained almost constantly. The plains were boggy and the streams full of water. We had no time to lose and were in the saddle almost day and night, if not on the road to Georgetown, then rounding up and sorting out the cattle. We delivered the first fifty head on the fifteenth day of October and the last on the first of April, and were glad when our task was over.
The summer following passed without event worthy of mention. In the fall we sold Graham & Henry three hundred more cattle to be delivered in the same manner as the first, and had much the same experience, except that our work did not last so long.
In the fall of fifty-seven, we sold our fat cattle and dairy cows to Miller & Lux, wholesale dealers in cattle in San Francisco. Delivery there was not so difficult. Our ranch was but twenty miles from San Francisco Bay, and after a drive to the shore of the bay the cattle were shipped across to the city. In the spring of eighteen hundred and fifty-eight, Brother Isaac withdrew from the business and returned to Missouri. We gave him fourteen thousand dollars in gold and deeded him sixty acres of land in Tremont Township, Buchanan County, for his interest. We continued the business through the year 1859 as partners. Brother William remained with us, but had his own cattle and kept them on our ranch. Zack and I still had about one thousand head of stock cattle, and during the year, we bought several lots both of stock cattle and heifers. One bunch of a hundred heifers we turned over to James Glenn and Barsh Kessler, Buchanan County boys, to keep three years and breed for us, with the understanding they were to have half of the increase as pay for their trouble. Another bunch of fifty heifers was turned over to Perry Jones, another Buchanan County boy, on the same terms.
Toward Christmas we heard that our mother had died. This left our old father alone on the farm with the negroes, and we decided to leave our cattle in the care of Jones, Glenn and Kessler and go back and visit him. It was too late in the season to attempt the plains. The hot, dry summer on the plains had parched and withered the scant vegetation that had grown in the spring and early summer, and the excessive cold and accumulations of snow in the higher altitudes, rendered a trip by land almost impossible in winter, so, much as we disliked the trip by water, we decided to make it. I will not attempt to relate the incidents of this trip, as they were unimportant. There was, besides, little to distinguish it from the first voyage over the same route, which I have already described.
After reaching home we remained with our father until the first of May, when the start back overland must be made. It was decided that one of us must remain with father, and as Zack and I were in partnership and William was alone in his business, the choice of remaining at home lay between Zack and myself, as either of us could easily care for our cattle. I gave the choice to Zack and he decided he would go, and he and William, accordingly, rigged up our outfit and started.
I took charge of the farm at home and with the help of the negroes, managed it through the season, and thus relieved father of all worry and responsibility. He had his horse and buggy and a black boy to care for it and drive him about the farm and over the neighborhood. Everything moved along in the usual way and I had a pleasant and restful summer—not so much restful from work, but restful compared with the excitement and over-exertion incident to a journey with cattle across the plains. I congratulated myself upon the choice Zack had made and was preparing for a year or two more of peace and quiet, but the death of my father the following fall left me alone with the farm and negroes. I remained with them throughout the winter, lonely and unpleasant as it was without my father, and planted and harvested most of the crop in sixty-one under many trying conditions. Stirring public events which began with the breaking out of the war interrupted my farming operations, and my part in them will furnish the material for several succeeding chapters.
Shortly after the beginning of the war, Elijah Gates organized a company of southern boys, and most of my neighbors enlisted for six months. They wanted me to join them, but I said "no." I had been in camp for ten years and had some idea of the hardship of a soldier's life. I knew my place there on the farm would give me a far better opportunity to take the rest I felt to be so needful after my years of activity on the plains and in camp, and I could not be easily induced to leave it. Besides, I could not believe that a terrible war was upon us, and for a long time I had great faith that wise counsel would prevail and some reasonable adjustment be made of the differences between the North and the South.
Gates' company and the regiment to which it had been assigned left home with a great flying of colors, but notwithstanding my expressed sympathy with the South, this did not tempt me and I remained at home with my crop. I took no part in the wild talk that could be heard on every hand and paid close attention to my own business, but I soon found that I would not be permitted to live in peace. The Southern boys had no sooner left for the front than the opposition began to pour in around me. My sentiments were well known—in fact I had never tried to conceal them, believing that a man in this country had a right to his opinions, but no man could point to a hostile word uttered by me. Notwithstanding this, those who were not willing to allow me to hold my opinions in peace began to harass and threaten me. I endured it until about the first of August, when I saddled my horse, buckled my navies around me and started alone to join the Southern army. I rode to Liberty where I expected to fall in with a company that I had heard was being organized, but it had gone. I met a man from St. Joseph by the name of Walter Scott, who was likewise disappointed at arriving too late for the company, and he and I set out together to join Price in Arkansas. We rode slowly along, stopping at night at farm houses and talked little to anyone about our plans. When within about ten miles of Springfield we stopped for the night with a man who told us that Lyon's army was at Springfield and that Price was camped at Wilson's Creek, about ten miles southwest of Springfield.
I knew there was going to be a fight, and I slept little that night. It came sooner than I expected, for about sun up next morning we heard cannon off to the southwest. We sprang out of bed, and without waiting for breakfast, saddled our horses and galloped away. I knew Gates' company and my neighbors were in the fight and I wanted to help all I could. We had no trouble finding the way as the cannon and muskets were roaring like loud thunder and the smoke was boiling up out of the valley like a black cloud. We guessed right that Lyon had advanced out of Springfield and was between us and Price's army, but we hurried on expecting to take care of that situation after getting closer to the battle. When within a few miles of the battle ground the firing ceased and shortly afterwards we saw Federal soldiers coming toward us. We galloped away from the road and hid behind a cliff of rock and watched them go by. They were completely disorganized. Every man was pulling for Springfield in his own way, from five to fifty in a bunch, the bunches from one to three hundred yards apart. Some had guns, some had none. Some had hats, some were bare-headed. Every battery horse carried two and some carried three—all hurrying on. We finally grew tired, and at the first opportunity dashed across the road between squads and made our way along a by-path toward the battlefield. We had not gone far until we met wounded men trying also to make their way back to Springfield. Some would walk a short distance and get sick and lie down by the roadside and beg for water. Some would hobble on in great misery, stopping now and then to rest. Others, and the more fortunate it seemed to me, had crawled off in the brush and died.
In advancing we found it would be necessary to cross the main battlefield in order to reach Price's camp which was located down on the farther side of Wilson's Creek. Here we found the dead lying so thick that we had to pick our way and then often had difficulty in going forward without riding over a dead body.
We reached the camp and asked to be shown to Gates' company. All were glad to see us and made many inquiries about home and families and friends. They were just cooking breakfast. William Maupin apologized for their late breakfast by saying that "Pap" Price had called upon them very early to do a little piece of work and they had just finished it and that had delayed their breakfast. I told them what I had seen on the road down and up upon the battlefield, and asked how their company had fared. They told me that one man, George Shultz, was shot through the head the first round and that was the only loss their company had sustained. This was the tenth day of August, 1861.
Next day I helped bury the dead Federal soldiers, and when this was done Price moved his army up to Springfield, as the Union army had in the meantime gone back to St. Louis. We remained there some two or three weeks. During my stay, Mrs. Phelps, the wife of Colonel Phelps, who commanded a regiment in Lyon's army at Wilson's Creek, and who had gone with the army to St. Louis, called on General Price for protection. She lived about two miles east of Springfield, and by the way, if I remember correctly, General Lyon was buried out at her place. Price sent Gates with his company, and as I had joined that company, I went along. We remained there as long as Price was camped in Springfield and took good care of her premises.
Price decided to go north and this greatly pleased the boys. He had no army—just a lot of boys who furnished their own horses, guns, ammunition and blankets and most of the time their own provisions. He had little, or at least he didn't attempt to have much, discipline. We elected our own lieutenant, captain and colonel by vote, and General Price seemed entirely satisfied so long as we were all on hands when there was any fighting to be done.
When we reached Little Osage River on our way north, Price went into camp and next day sent Gates out on a scout. Gates went in the direction of Fort Scott. We traveled about fifteen miles and came within a short distance of the Fort where we found two soldiers herding a drove of horses and mules on the grass. Lane was in Fort Scott with a large force, but evidently he had no idea Price was anywhere near for he had no pickets out. We made a run for the horses and mules and took them and tried to get both men, but one of them got away. We knew he would report and that would give us trouble. If we could only have secured both men we could have had the entire herd in our camp before Lane could have discovered that it was gone. We determined to do our best and get away if possible. Each horse and mule had a long rope attached to his neck which dragged along behind and this gave us much trouble and prevented fast traveling, as the horses stepped on the ropes and checked their speed. We got some four or five miles away and when on top of a high hill we looked back across the prairie and saw what appeared to be about two thousand mounted soldiers coming in hot haste after us. Gates had but five hundred men. The ground was hilly and Gates picked a few men and sent them on with the horses. He then stopped half his men just over the turn of the first hill, dismounted them and detailed every fourth man to take the horses further down the slant and hold them. The remainder lay flat down on the ground. The other half of his company he sent over beyond the next hill with directions to follow the same course. When our pursuers were a little more than half way up the hill coming toward us, we arose and fired into them. Lane dismounted his men and threw them in line of battle. By that time we were on our horses and gone. They could not see that we were gone and approached the top of the hill with great caution. This caused delay and that was what we wanted. When they found we were gone they mounted and followed. When about half way up the next hill the other half of our company gave them another round and, as they feared we intended this time to make a stand, they again dismounted and prepared to fight. They were again disappointed. This was kept up for several miles. When we first saw we were pursued a courier was sent to Price, but before Price could rally his army and reach us Lane gave up the idea of recovering his horses and went back to Fort Scott. We had one man wounded in the arm.
We all returned to camp on Little Osage and next morning broke camp and started off as usual. I did not know the plan, but when Gates' company was placed in front and led off over the same road we had traveled the day before, I knew an attack on Fort Scott was in mind. When about ten miles out we came to the top of a hill overlooking a wooded valley with a small dry creek running through it. We could see a long distance across the valley into the prairie hills beyond, but could see no sign of soldiers. The whole force halted and Gates was directed to go forward across the valley and through the timber, which I judge was nearly a mile in width. We passed down the hill and went very cautiously through the woods, but neither saw nor heard anything to arouse suspicion. On reaching the farther side of the timber we stopped and got off our horses to rest and allow them to graze. The whole company was entirely off guard and the boys were talking and laughing and having a good time, when suddenly cannon and muskets began to roar behind us.
We soon saw what had happened. The Federal troops lay concealed in the timber and on discovering that we were but an advance guard, allowed us to pass, guessing aright that Price, after allowing us time to pass through, would, if we were not molested, move his main force forward. Price had followed us and the guns we heard were the beginning of the attack upon him. In a moment every man was in the saddle. We dashed back through the timber and found that Lane had advanced and attacked Price in the open and while in the line of march. We could see some confusion, and it took a good while to get the men up out of the line of march and in a position to fight. Bledsoe's battery, however, was in action and Lane's men charged and captured it, wounding Bledsoe. Presently two regiments came up and recaptured the battery. By that time a second battery had come up and opened fire. We were still in the rear of Lane and in great danger from our own men. We picked a time when everybody on both sides seemed to be engaged and started around to the right of Lane and up the crest of a long ridge that led to the top of the hill. When about half way to the top a company of cavalry started up a little valley to our left to cut us off. We had the best horses and a little the advantage in distance. Besides we were going toward our own army and getting safer all the time, while the company pursuing us was all the time getting closer to danger. We hoped they would follow until a company of our men could cut in between them and their main force, but they were too cautious for that and abandoned the chase. We galloped around, reaching our forces just as the fight was over.
When our whole force was brought up and placed in fighting line the situation got too severe for an army with a good shelter behind it, so Lane's men broke ranks and started for the timber. They made no attempt to rally and come again, but went directly on to Fort Scott. The road was dry and the dust fogged up through the timber like a black cloud and made a good target for our batteries. Lane lost more men and horses in the retreat through the timber than in the main fight. Price crossed to the opposite side of the valley and camped for the night. Next morning very early he sent a scouting party with directions to ascertain as far as possible the probable strength of the forces in Fort Scott. The party found the place completely evacuated and so reported. Price made no attempt to follow, but continued his journey to the north.
When within a few miles of Warrensburg, we learned that a portion of Mulligan's force was camped there. We camped for the night and next morning discovered that the detachment had gone during the night to join the main force at Lexington. Gates was ordered to follow them. We traveled all day on a forced march, and when within a short distance of Lexington were fired upon from both sides of the road from behind corn shocks. We hastily dismounted and commenced shooting at the corn shocks. The firing from behind then soon ceased and the men hurried away towards Lexington. We followed, but as we were then less than a mile from the town we thought it unwise to go too close until our main force came up.
Next day Price came up and made his headquarters in the fair ground just south of town. We camped there three days picket-fighting but getting ready all the time to attack Mulligan behind his breast-works. We had to mold our bullets and make our cartridges and when sufficient ammunition had been prepared we were ready. We marched up and were met at the edge of the town where the fighting began. We marched down the sidewalks on each side of the streets with a battery in the center of the roadway. Mulligan's men fought well and kept the street full of musket balls, but when the battery would belch out its grape shot they had to go back. I well remember, that at every opportunity we would jerk the picket fences down and go in behind the brick walls to shun the bullets. When the end of the wall was reached we had to step out on the sidewalk and face the music. They made a great effort to keep us out of town before they went behind their breast-works, but they had to go.
When Mulligan reached and went behind his fortifications we closed in and surrounded him except upon the side next the river. Price sent a regiment up the river and one down the river. They charged and captured those portions of the breast-works which prevented us from getting to the river front and thus in their rear. This was done late in the evening and Gates' regiment lay on the hillside behind a plank fence all night to prevent a recapture. They made several attempts during the night but failed each time.
The warehouses were full of hemp bales, and next morning we got them out and rolled them up the hill in front of us—two men to the bale—both keeping well down behind it. When we got in sight of their ditches we had a long line of hemp bales two deep in front of us, and then the fight commenced in earnest. They shot small arms from their ditches and cannon balls from their batteries. Sometimes a ball would knock down one of our top bales, but it soon went back in place. We brought our battery up behind the breastworks and by taking the top bale off we made an excellent porthole for the muzzles of our guns. The fight went on some two or three hours in this way. They in their ditches and we crouched behind our hemp bales. Every time a man showed his head half a dozen took a shot at him. They soon learned to keep their heads down, but they would put their hats on gun sticks and hold them up for us to shoot at, but we soon discovered this device and wasted very few bullets afterwards.
If this situation continued it looked as if the siege might last a month, so we decided to move closer. The top bales were pushed off and rolled forward with two men lying nearly flat behind each bale. When within forty yards of the trenches the front row halted and waited for the rear line of bales to come up. It took but a moment to hoist the one upon the other and thus we put our breastworks in much better position. Our batteries came up with little trouble, as we covered the opposite line so completely that no one dared to raise his head and shoot. Their batteries were posted on an exposed hill some two hundred yards away, but not a man was to be seen about them. Their gunners had all gone to the trenches. Our only suffering was when moving our hemp bales up the first time, and again when we advanced them the second time, as at these times we were too busy to return the fire, but we were well protected and lost very few men.
We lay in this position for three days. Mulligan's trench must have been nearly two miles long. We had no idea what was going on at any other point, but guessed the situation was very much the same along the whole line. We could hear through the woods a single gun now and then, reminding us more of a squirrel hunt than a battle. At the end of three days Mulligan surrendered. We were glad to see the white flag, not so much because it meant victory for us as because we were hungry and tired.
Mulligan marched his men out and had them stack arms. Then we marched them away from their arms and lined them up unarmed. Price took charge and put a guard around them, and then paroled them and sent them home. Some of them went back to Buchanan County where they told friends of ours that Price had no privates in his army; that they saw nobody under a lieutenant. They may have reached this conclusion from the way all left the hemp bales and went up to see the surrender.
Price went back to Springfield and Gates and his company came home. Billy Bridgeman, a nephew of mine who lived near Bigelow, in Holt County, was with us and when we reached my home he wanted me to go on with him to his home. It was a dangerous trip. St. Joe, Savannah, Forest City and Oregon were full of soldiers. We left home in the morning about daylight, passed up east and north of St. Joe, crossed the Nodaway River just above its junction with the Missouri, hurried across the main road between Oregon and Forest City, where we were most apt to be discovered, and reached his home on Little Fork, about night. We remained there about three days when some zealous female patriot saw us and reported us. We learned that we had been reported and kept a close watch all day and at night, feeling sure that the Forest City company would try to capture us, we saddled our horses and rode out away from home. It was bright moonlight, and when about two miles from home we heard them coming and stopped in the shadow of some trees. When they got within forty yards of us we fired into them with our navies, and kept it up until we had emptied our six-shooters. They whirled and ran back as fast as their horses could carry them. We loaded our guns and followed. The first house they passed one man jumped off his horse and left him standing in the road. We stopped at the fence and called. A woman came out of the house. I asked her if any soldiers had passed there. She said—I use her words just as she uttered them: "Yes, they went down the road a few minutes ago like the devil was after them." Billy and I did not know we had scared them so.
The fine mare Billy's father had given him hurt her foot in some way and was limping badly, so he pulled off the saddle and bridle and turned her loose. She started at once for home, and Billy saddled up the horse that had been left and we started on. It was then midnight and we had sixty miles before us. It was dangerous to ride in daylight, but more dangerous to stop anywhere on the road as we had no friends or acquaintances on the way. We could do nothing but go on and take chances. When, early in the forenoon, we reached the ford of the Nodaway on the old Hackberry road leading from Oregon to Savannah, we met a man who told us that a regiment of soldiers had left Savannah that morning for Oregon. We crossed the river and turned to the right, leaving the main road and picking our way to the bluffs of the Missouri and down along these bluffs to a point just above St. Joseph. There we left the bluffs and went across the country to Garrettsburg on Platte River and reached home just at night. I called our old black woman out of the house and asked her if she had heard of any soldiers in the neighborhood and if she thought it would be safe for us to stop for supper. She said she had heard of no soldiers and she thought there would be no danger, but that Brother Isaac and George Boyer were up at Brother James' house waiting for us, so we rode on up there.
We watered and fed our tired and hungry horses and had a good supper—the first mouthful since supper the night before—and all sat down to rest and talk. The house was a large two-story frame building fronting north, built upon a plan that was very popular in those days. A wide hall into which the front door entered from a portico, separated two large rooms—one on the right and the other on the left. A long ell joined up to the west room or end and extended back to the rear. A wide porch extended along the east side of the ell and along the south side of the east room of the front or main part of the building. A door in the rear of the front hall opened upon this porch, while doors from each of the rooms in the ell also led out upon the porch. We were all in the east front room with Brother James and his family. Brother Isaac and I were talking over our business affairs. Bridgeman had lain down upon a sofa and dropped off to sleep, and Boyer and Brother James and his family were chatting pleasantly, when a company of soldiers sneaked up and stationed themselves around the house. After they were sufficiently posted the captain gave us the first notice of their presence by calling out in a loud voice, "Come out, men, and give yourselves up, you will not be hurt." We knew by that call that a good strong force was outside and that trouble was at hand. We hurriedly lowered the window shades and blew out the light and remained perfectly still. The captain called again, urging that we would be treated as prisoners of war if we would surrender. We knew too well the value of such a promise made by the captain of a self-appointed gang of would-be regulators, who did not know the duty of captors toward their prisoners, and if they had known were not to be trusted. Besides we had no notion of surrendering as long as our ammunition held out.
When the captain found we were not to be coaxed out by his false and flattering promises, he began to show his real intentions. He said, "Come out! G— d—— you, we have got you now." We still gave no answer. Then he said if we did not come out he would burn the house down over our heads. When that failed he called on us to send the women and children out so he could burn the house. We accommodated him that much and sent them out. I told them to go out at the front door and to be sure and close it after them. When the women were gone we opened the door and passed into the hall and then to the back or south door, Bridgeman in front. He opened the door just enough to peep out. He had a dragoon pistol in his right hand and a Colt's navy in his left. When the door opened a man stepped up on the porch with his bayonet fixed and told Billy to come on. Billy gave him an ounce ball and he fell back off the porch. The fight was then on and had to be finished. Just after Billy fired the shot he accidentally dropped his navy from his left hand and it fell behind the door in the dark. He stooped to feel for it and Brother Isaac asked, "Billy was that you shot?" I told him that it was. He then said, "we must get out of here now." With that, and before Billy found his gun, I jerked the door wide open and went out. Brother Isaac followed me, Boyer next and Billy last. There was no one to be seen but the dead man by the side of the porch. The others had taken shelter behind the east end of the house and the south end of the ell. I went south along the ell porch and Isaac followed close behind me. When I got to the end of the porch I jumped off and there I found about a dozen men lined up. They fired at me but the blaze went over my head. I turned my face to them and took a hand myself. By that time Brother Isaac was at my side, and, although unaccustomed to warfare, he did good service. We opened fire and they turned and ran. We followed them around the house and ran them off the premises and out into the public road.
When Billy found his navy and came out, he saw men at the east end of the house firing across at us from the rear so he ran down the porch that led to that end of the house. Just as he reached the end of the porch a man stepped from behind the house and raised his gun to shoot at us. Quick as a flash Billy stuck the end of his navy within six inches of the man's face and shot him in the mouth. The man dropped down on the ground and bawled like a steer. At this the men farther around in the chimney corner broke and ran and Billy followed. They did not stop running and Billy did not stop shooting until they were well off the premises.
Boyer who was the third man out of the house afterwards related his experience to me. He jumped off the porch and ran out through the back yard. He stumbled and fell over a bank of dirt that had been thrown out of a well, but Brother Isaac and I were keeping all of them so busy that no one seemed to notice him. He was up in a moment and going again. When he got to the rear of the smoke house he ran over a man who lay hid in the weeds. The fellow jumped up and ran and Boyer shot at him, but both kept on running. Boyer reached a corn field and lay hid the remainder of the night.
After the fight was over Billy, Brother Isaac and I went down into the woods and sat for a long time talking it over. We had no idea how many men were in the company, but were confident that it went away somewhat smaller than when it came. They got our horses and saddles and, as we had fired all the loads out of our pistols in the fight, we had nothing but the clothes on our backs and our empty revolvers. We didn't dare go back to the house, so, late in the night, we started out first to replenish our ammunition. We stopped at Jack Elder's, a mile to the west. He gave us powder and bullets, but he had no caps. We then went over to Judge Pullins' who had a good supply and furnished us plenty of them. After loading our guns we went north to the home of Joe Evans. Evans was a lieutenant in the Southern army, and his wife, who was Nelly Auxier, was at home with her children. We had known her from childhood, so we went in and went to bed. Nelly sat up the remainder of the night and kept watch. This was the first sleep in nearly forty-eight hours. At seven she woke us for breakfast. About ten o'clock Judge Pullins, who knew where we were, brought over the morning St. Joe paper. It contained a long account of the fight, and said that Penick's men had gone down into "the hackle" the night before and killed two of the Gibson boys and captured the remainder of the "gang." This was amusing news, and about as near the truth as most reports of that kind.
Although it was dangerous for us to travel by daylight, we concluded we might, with proper caution, get back over the ground and see for ourselves what had been done. We kept well in the timber and reached Brother James' house about noon. The house was considerably scratched up by bullets and blood was strewn all around it. Four men had been killed and five wounded. Harriet, our old negro woman, told us the soldiers had first stopped at father's old place and inquired for us. She started across the fields at once to notify us, but could not make the half mile on foot in time and had reached only a safe distance from the house when the fight began.
We remained in the neighborhood, hidden at first one place and then another for several days. Brother Isaac, being rather too old to go in the army left home and went to Illinois for safety, as he knew there would be no peace for him after the fight, no matter how conservative he had been in the past or how well behaved he might be in the future. The unfortunate circumstance which, on account of his association with us, had compelled him to fight for his life, had rendered his efforts to remain at home out of the question. Billy and I, having lost our horses, saddles and blankets, were compelled to remain, in spite of the fact that soldiers were hunting us like hounds, until we could get properly equipped to leave. We were not long in doing this, and then we set out on horseback through a country patroled by many soldiers to join our company at Springfield.