What a precious, what a comforting, satisfying faith the Presbyterian faith must be, if one can really and conscientiously accept it. According to their belief one never dies, nothing ever happens without God’s providence, approval, and foreknowledge that it will happen in just that way.
I wish I could accept such a faith, and believe it, but I cannot. I do not believe it was ordained that Mr. Milburn should die in that way and at that time. I believe it was an accident that might have been prevented by the most trivial circumstance. The laws of nature are inexorable. If a bullet is shot into a vital part of the body it kills. Yet God is able to bring good out of this seemingly great and grievous evil. I do not know which suffers most—the poor boy whose gun did the deed or Gus. They seem to take comfort in each other’s society, and are together the most of the time to-day. I am so sorry for both of them.
The funeral services of the Presbyterian Church were held at two o’clock this afternoon, a resident minister officiating. Mr. Milburn was very nicely laid away, and his grave marked and enclosed with a neat, strong fence before Gus and I left the cemetery. The people have been so very kind. The funeral was largely attended for a stranger in a strange place. There is no telegraph office here, so we have had to write letters instead of sending telegrams.
I believe Gus’s plans are to go on with us to the Missouri River, sell her outfit, and return home by steamboat down the Missouri River, up the Mississippi to Canton, where friends will meet her and go with her to Etna.
Wednesday, May 17.
Another night with Gus. She wakes in the morning to weep. We started once more on our now sad journey. I have ridden with Gus all day. We do not hear the sound of song and laughter as we did last week; we all seem to be under a pall. We came through Redoak this morning, are camping in a beautiful place, near a pleasant, homelike farmhouse. The weather is perfect.
Thursday, May 18.
The friends that stayed with us Sunday night told us that the authorities are not allowing emigrants to take the northern route, because of the Indian depredations that have been committed on that route. That if we went to Council Bluffs we would have to come down the river to Platsmouth to get on the southern route. So we changed our course accordingly.
We came through Whitecloud, Glenwood and Pacific City to-day. At Whitecloud I made a few purchases, traded with a little German merchant who crossed the plains a year ago; he says we have a delightful trip before us. He expects to go again to the Rocky Mountains, and make his home there, as soon as he can sell out and settle up his business here.
Just before we came to Glenwood, as the girls passed on their ponies, Gus said to me, “Sallie, go ride your pony, too; you have not had a ride for several days. Pardon me if I have been selfish in my great sorrow.”
“No, Gus, I would rather stay with you than to ride Dick, as long as you need me.”
“Thank you, dear; your company has been very grateful to me, but now I would really enjoy seeing you ride through Glenwood.”
To please her, and myself, too, I soon had saddled and mounted Dick and overtaken the girls. As we were riding through Glenwood a photographer sent a messenger to request us to “Please stop five minutes and let him take our picture.” We rode to the position indicated, doffed our sun-bonnets, and looked as pleasant as we could. We did not wait to see the proof, and I expect he was disappointed.
Pacific City is on the Missouri bottom, or lowlands. Above the town are the highest bluffs I have ever seen. We hitched our ponies and climbed to the top. The view was magnificently grand, the sun sinking in the west, the river could be seen in the distance, with large trees on the banks, the lowland between the bluffs and the trees was dotted with cattle and horses grazing, here and there a pond or small lake with its waters shining and sparkling in the glimmering sunset, the city below us in the shadow of the bluffs. Everything was so sweet and peaceful, we were more than paid for our climb. The wagons had passed before we came down, so we mounted and hastened to overtake them before driving into camp.
Our journey across Iowa at an end, we are on the banks of the Big Muddy, opposite Platsmouth. We will stay here until Gus’s things are sold, and we have seen her off on the steamboat. I stay with her nights, and this afternoon is the first time I have left her since the 15th.
Friday, May 19.
I went over to Platsmouth on the ferryboat this morning with some friends that are camping near us, to do some shopping for Gus. I bought a black bonnet, crèpe veil and collar, and material for black suit, which we will make up in camp, as there is a dress-maker with us. I was away about five hours and came back tired and hungry. The weather is perfect. We have a very pleasant place to camp, and pleasant people camping near us. We are surrounded on all sides by emigrants’ camps, and still they come. It seems like a young town, only the houses are built of canvas instead of lumber, brick or stone. The boys have put up a swing, but I have no time for swinging to-day.
Saturday, May 20.
We have had a very, very busy day. Mr. Kerfoot has sold Gus’s wagon and team (three yoke of oxen) for $550, a good price every one says. More than they cost them, I believe. The freight will be sold at auction. We have all helped with Gus’s suit and it is almost finished. Hillhouse went up to Council Bluffs this morning, expecting to bring Brother Mac back with him. Instead of finding him he got a letter—also the one I wrote a week ago—saying he was not coming. He has decided to study medicine and will come west when he is an M.D. We are disappointed, of course, yet perhaps it is for the best—we must try and believe so anyway. Most perfect weather.
The Morrison and Harding outfit have come, also several other families from Lewis and Clark counties. The Kerfoots are acquainted with some of them. They had heard of the sad accident. Some of them were friends of Mr. Milburn.
Sunday, May 21.
Mr. Thatcher and his wife came to call upon Gus this afternoon, and invited her to their home in Platsmouth to stay until she takes the steamboat for home. Mr. Thatcher and Mr. Milburn have been friends for years. She accepted their invitation and will go there to-morrow.
As the people from different camps were sitting around an immense camp-fire, not far from our wagons, someone proposed music. Some of the men in Mr. Clark’s camp are fine musicians, they brought their violin and flute, and gave several instrumental pieces, then some familiar songs were sung and someone started “Just Before the Battle, Mother.” They had sung two verses when I heard a shriek from Gus’s wagon. I hastened to see what was the matter. “Oh, Sallie, tell them to please not sing that, I cannot bear it. Dear Brother John used to sing it so much. It breaks my heart to hear it now.”
I sent Winthrop, who had followed me, to ask them to stop singing. Poor Gus, she was more overcome than I have seen her since her bereavement.
Monday, May 22.
Mr. Kerfoot, Cash, Neelie, Ezra and I came with Gus to Platsmouth. She said good-bye to mother, Mrs. Kerfoot and the others this morning. All were sorry to part with her. She has become very dear to us all. Gus’s freight was brought over in the wagon and sold at public auction and brought good figures, thanks to Mr. Thatcher, who, when he saw anything going below its real value, bid it in himself. He has a grocery store. He and Mr. Kerfoot have attended to all business transactions for Gus, so that she has not been bothered at all, and have done better for her than they could have done for themselves.
We have had a quiet, pleasant day with Gus at Mrs. Thatcher’s home. She is very kind, and has invited us girls to stay with Gus until she takes the boat for home, and Gus begged us to stay with her as long as possible; so Cash and I are staying all night, and will see her on board the boat to-morrow morning. Neelie has returned to camp with her father and Ezra.
Ernest is a great care and worries his auntie. He will not stay in the house, and she cannot bear to have him out of her sight for fear something will happen to him; she has just now undressed him, heard his little prayer, and put him to bed in the next room. So I hope we can have uninterrupted quiet for awhile.
Tuesday, May 23.
Mr. and Mrs. Thatcher, Cash and I came with Gus and Ernest to the steamboat. We parted with them about nine o’clock on board the “Sioux City.” Dear friend, I have become greatly attached to her, in the three weeks we have been so intimately associated. May God grant her a quick and safe journey home. We cannot hope it will be a happy one.
Note.—Miss Milburn and her lover were married about six months after her return, and have lived happily, etc.
Cash and I came directly to camp, after saying good-bye to Gus; found every one busy getting ready for an early start to-morrow. We have been here almost a week, yet I have not had time to try the fine swing the boys put up the next day after we came here until this afternoon. The camps that were here over Sunday are all gone except those that will travel with us. It is probable there will be half a dozen more camps here before night. It is surprising to see what a great number of people are going west this Spring.
We hope to start very early to-morrow morning. I trust our party will not be so much like a funeral procession as it has been since the 15th. Vain regrets cannot remedy the past, and I believe it is our duty to be as cheerful and happy as possible in this life.
Wednesday, May 24.
We were up with the earliest dawn, and our own individual outfit ready for a very early start, yet it was the middle of the forenoon before all the wagons were landed on the west bank of the Missouri. It takes a long while to ferry fifteen wagons across the river. We girls rode our ponies onto the ferryboat. They behaved as if they had been used to ferryboats all their lives. As we were waiting near the landing a strangerA came, apologized for speaking to us, and asked, “Are you going to Montana?”
A This man is mentioned here because of what happened to him before he reached his journey’s end.
“No, sir, our destination is California, or Oregon; we are not fully decided which.”
“Oh, you ought to go to Montana; that is the place to get rich.”
He told of his marvelous success in that country since 1863; the Indians were mentioned. He spoke of them with such contempt; said he would rather kill an Indian than a good dog. Says he left a wife and six children in Iowa, the oldest boy about fourteen who wanted very much to go with his father, but his mother needed him. Last night he came into his father’s camp. He had run away from home; says he is going to Montana, too. His father told it as if he thought it smart, and a good joke. What sorrow and anxiety his poor mother is no doubt suffering.
Cash, Neelie, Sim Buford, Ezra, Frank, Winthrop and I while waiting in Platsmouth went to a photographer’s and had our pictures taken; tintype, of course, all in one group, then each one alone, then Sim and Neelie together and Cash and I on our ponies. We only came five miles after our rush to get an early start. There are nine families and fifteen wagons in our train now. Miss Mary Gatewood has a pony for her especial use, so there will be four of us to ride horseback. There are enough wagons now to make quite a respectable corral. I did suppose, as we had been resting so long, we would make a long drive. Feed for the stock is very good here, and as it is fifteen miles to the next good camping place, where there is plenty of water and feed, it has been decided that we stay here until to-morrow. The boys have put up the inevitable swing, and we have concluded “that what cannot be cured must be endured.” So we will make the best of it, but certainly at this rate we will not reach our destination before it is cold weather.
Thursday, May 25.
Oh, dear; here we are yet, only five miles from Platsmouth. Morrison and Harding have lost two fine cows, half a dozen men have been hunting them all day, but without success. There is not a doubt but that they have been stolen. Our stock will have to be herded, hereafter, to guard against thieves. We have spent the day reading, writing, sleeping, swinging, and getting acquainted with our neighbors. The Morrison family wagon is just in front of us, and the Kerfoot’s just behind, so we are to have the most pleasant neighbors possible to camp next to us. Mrs. Morrison is almost as pretty as Cash, although the mother of four children; she is so bright and cheerful, so full of life and fun, she will be great on a trip like this. Mr. Morrison has an impediment in his speech, and when he is excited—like he is this evening, because they cannot find their cows—he stutters dreadfully, and will say, “Or sir, or sir, or sir,” until it is hard to keep from laughing. In ordinary conversation and when not excited, he talks as straight as any one. He seems so fond and proud of his wife and children I like him. Neelie and Sim, and Frank and I took a stroll this afternoon in search of wild flowers. They are few and far between, yet we enjoyed the walk through the woods in this lovely springtime weather.
Friday, May 26.
We came fifteen miles, are camping on a high rolling prairie, not a tree or shrub within sight; we are near a neat white farmhouse. Everything seems to be very new, but does not have that “lick and a promise” appearance that so many farmhouses in Nebraska have. Things seem to be shipshape, the house completed and nicely painted, a new picket-fence, and everything on the place—barns, hen-house, etc., all seem well built, as if the owners are expecting to make a permanent home. I would prefer a home not quite so isolated and far away from anywhere. There do not seem to be any women about the place, perhaps they are coming when everything is ready for their comfort.
Saturday, May 27.
We came to Ashland, on Salt River, only a fifteen-mile drive, got here soon after noon and will stay over Sunday. Several of us young folks went fishing this afternoon. I have often gone fishing but do not remember ever catching anything of any consequence, or having any luck, as the boys say, so imagine my excitement and surprise when the fish began to bite, and I drew them out almost as fast as I could get my hook baited. Frank baited my hook and strung the fish on a forked willow switch. After I had caught six or eight they seem so dry and miserable I thought they would feel better in the water, so stuck the willow in the bank, so that the fish were in shallow water. I caught another fish and went to put it with the others, when lo, they were all gone. I could have cried, and the rest all laughed—well, I shall try again.
After securing the one I had—and leaving it on dry ground, I threw in my hook, and almost immediately I had caught something so large and heavy I could not draw it out and had to call for assistance. I was fearful it was a mud-turtle or something else than a fish, but it proved to be a fine, large fish, larger than all the small fish I had lost put together. When Frank had taken it from the hook, and strung it with the little one, I said, “Now I am going, before this fish gets away.” All had fairly good catches, but none that compared with my big fish. There are about twenty corrals within sight, each of from twelve to twenty wagons. Ashland is a miserable looking place, the houses log-cabins with dirt roofs. One store, where dry-goods, groceries, and whiskey are sold, and a blacksmith shop are all the business houses. I do not see anything that would pass muster as a hotel.
Sunday, May 28.
All the trains that camped near us last night, except one, have gone on their way, Sunday though it is. I am glad there are some people going West who regard the Sabbath day. Some of our young people went fishing, and some went rowing on the river in a canoe or small boat the boys hired. It has been a day of sweet rest, a quiet peaceful Sabbath.
Monday, May 29.
Traveled all day, and made a long drive without meeting anyone or passing a single habitation. We are camping near—what the people west of the Missouri River call—a ranch. There is a long, low log-cabin, with dirt roof, a corral, or inclosure for stock, with very high fence, and two or three wells of water in the vicinity, and that is all. No vegetable garden, no fields of grain, nor anything to make it look like farming. I think it is a stage-station, and the people who occupy do not expect to stay very long.
There are three other camps near, the people of the other trains are having an emigrant ball, or dance, in a room they have hired. They sent a committee with a polite invitation to our camp for us to join them, which was as politely declined. They are strangers, and the conduct of some of the women is not ladylike, to say the least.
Tuesday, May 30.
We girls were riding in advance of the wagons when we saw a long freight train coming. We stopped to let our ponies graze until they would pass. I glanced at the driver on the second wagon and recognized an acquaintance. “Why, girls, that is Kid Short,” I exclaimed.
He looked at me so funny, and began to scramble down from his high perch.
“Why, Miss Sallie, I could not believe my eyes at first. Where did you drop from?” shaking hands with each of us.
“Didn’t drop from anywhere; have been thirty days getting here by the slow pace of an ox-train. Sim Buford and some more boys that you know are with the train you see coming.”
He soon said good-bye to us, spoke to a man on horseback, who dismounted, gave him his horse and climbed to the seat Mr. Short had vacated in the front of the freight wagon, drawn by eight mules, while Kid hurried off to see the boys. He and Sim have been neighbors, schoolmates, and intimate friends all their lives. Sim says Kid is homesick and expects to go home as soon as he can after reaching Omaha. He has been freighting from Omaha to Kearney, and has been away from home since last Fall. We are camping near another station, with the same trains we camped near last night not far off.
Wednesday, May 31.
We are camping in the valley of the Platte. We are obliged to stop at the stage-stations to get water for ourselves and the stock from the wells. The water is very good, clear and cold. The same trains that have been camping near us since we left Ashland are here again to-night. Two of the women called upon us awhile ago. We were not favorably impressed. They are loud, boisterous and unladylike; they speak to strange gentlemen with all the familiarity of old acquaintances. According to Thackeray, they are “Becky Sharp” kind of women.
Thursday, June 1.
Our little village on wheels has stopped near a large two-story log-house that was built in the early fifties for a wayside tavern; there are fifteen rooms; there are frightful stories told of dark deeds having been committed under that roof, of unwary travelers homeward bound from California that never reached home, but whether true or not I cannot say. The people of the other trains are having a dance in the large dining-room of the old house.
Friday, June 2.
As Ezra and I were riding in front of the train we came to where a man was sitting on the ground hugging his knees, two men were standing near trying to talk to him, seemingly. As we rode up one of them came toward us, saying, “That is an Indian, over there.” We rode close to him, and Ezra said, “How;” but he did not even grunt. He was very disappointing as the “Noble Red Man” we read about. He wore an old ragged federal suit, cap and all. There were no feathers, beads nor blankets. He was not black like a negro, more of a brown, and a different shade from the mulatto. He was ugly as sin.
Saturday, June 3.
Here we are on the Platte with about two hundred wagons in sight. We are now on what is known as “The Plains.” My idea of the plains has been very erroneous, for I thought they were one continuous level or plain as far as the eye could reach, no hills nor hollows, but it is nothing else than the Platte River Valley with high bluffs on either side. There is some timber on the banks, but the timber of any consequence is on the islands in the middle of the river, out of reach of the axe of the emigrant. This is the junction of the roads from St. Joe and Plattsmouth, and that is why there are so many wagons here to-night. Surely, among all these people there must be a minister of the Gospel, so perhaps we will have public worship to-morrow. Our trip grows more interesting, even Mrs. Kerfoot seems interested, as so many people are going West, it must be the thing to do.
Sunday, June 4.
We are organized into a company of forty-five wagons, a captain and orderly sergeant have been elected, and hereafter we will travel by system. Mr. Hardinbrooke is our captain. He has gone on this trip before; he is taking his wife and little girl with him to Montana. A Mr. Davis is our orderly sergeant.
We are now coming into a country infested with Indians, so it is required by Government officials that all emigrants must organize into companies of from forty to sixty wagons, elect captains and try to camp near each other for mutual protection. The grass for stock is unlimited. About twenty of the wagons in our train are freight wagons, belonging to the Walker Brothers, Joe and Milt. Joe has his wife with him. Milt is a bachelor; their sister, Miss Lyde, and a younger brother, De, are with them. They are going to Montana. We have been introduced to Mr. and Mrs. Hardinbrooke, and to the Walkers and their ladies. They are pleasant, intelligent people, and will add much to the pleasure of our party, no doubt. Frank and I went horseback riding this afternoon to the station to get some good water from the well. I cannot drink the river water.
No public worship to-day, although there were so many of us here.
Monday, June 5.
We were awakened at an early hour this morning with a bugle call. Three companies were organized yesterday; there were about twenty wagons that were not asked to join either party, so they pulled up stakes and left while Frank and I were away. The strange women were of the party; they must be some miles ahead by this time, and I hope they will stay ahead. When our long train of wagons are stretched out upon the road, we make a formidable looking outfit for the Indians to attack. As far as the eye can reach, before us and behind us, there are wagons, wagons, wagons; some drawn by oxen, some by mules, and some by horses. All fall into the slow, sure gait of the oxen. There are whole freight trains drawn by oxen; there are more ox teams than all others.
After our evening meal, a number of us started for a stroll along the bank of the river. Before we reached the river, we were met by a perfect cloud of mosquitoes that literally drove us back. I never came so near being eaten up. There is a strong breeze blowing toward the river, which keeps them from invading the camps, for which I am thankful, otherwise there would be little rest or sleep for us to-night. They are the first mosquitoes we have seen on the road.
Tuesday, June 6.
It is sweet to be awakened with music, if it is only a bugle. Our bugle certainly makes sweet music. The road is becoming very dry and dusty, which makes riding in the wagon rather disagreeable sometimes. Mother and I take turns driving the horses and riding Dick. Rather the most of the time I ride Dick. One of our boys goes out with the herders at night, so one of them is generally sleepy, and sleeps during the day, while the other drives the ox-team.
Wednesday, June 7.
There is such a sameness in our surroundings that we seem to be stopping in the same place every night, with the same neighbors in front and back of us, and across the corral. When we organized, Mr. Kerfoot’s wagons were driven just in front of ours and Mr. Morrison’s just behind ours, so we have the same next-door neighbors, only they have changed places. We are in the central part of the left-hand side of the corral. The wagons occupied by the Walkers and Hardinbrookes are just opposite in the right-hand side of the corral.
We always stop in just this way, if only for an hour at noon—which we do every day for lunch, and to water the stock.
When we halted to-day, the rain began to pour, the stock scattered in every direction. When it stopped raining, the cattle could not all be found in time to start again this afternoon, so we only made half a day’s drive. It has commenced raining again, and promises a rainy night. It is not very pleasant camping when it rains, yet it would be much more unpleasant if it did not rain—to lay the dust, refresh the atmosphere, and make the grass grow.
When the captain finds a place for the corral, he rides out where all can see him, and gives the signal, the first and central wagons leave the road; the first to drive to where the captain stands, the other and all behind it cross over a sufficient distance to form the corral by the wagons stopping, so as to form a gateway, for the stock to pass through, turned so that they will not interfere with each other when hitching. The next wagon drives to position, with the right-hand side of cover almost touching the left-hand or back, outer edge of the wagon in front, with tongues of wagons turned out, so that all can be hitched to at one time. In this way the entire corral is formed, meeting at the back an oblong circle, forming a wall or barrier, the cattle cannot break through. The horses are caught and harnessed outside the corral, but the cattle have to be driven inside to be yoked.
Thursday, June 8.
It rained all night, seemingly without cessation; the wind did not blow, so there was no harm, but lots of good done. I am glad when the rain comes in the night-time, instead of day-time. Where the beds touched the covers they were quite wet this morning.
Friday, June 9.
We came through a little town—Valley City. There is a very pretty attractive looking house near the road. Cash and I had come on ahead of wagons. Our inclination to enter that pretty home was irresistible, so we dismounted, took off our habits, hitched our ponies, and knocked at the door. A very pleasant lady opened the door and gave us hearty welcome. We told her frankly why we came. She laughed, and said, “I have had callers before, with the same excuse, but you need not apologize, I am glad my home is attractive to strangers.”
The gentleman of the house is postmaster, and has his office in the room across the hall from the parlor. While we were there the coach arrived, and the mail was brought in. He did not know we were there, and called to his wife to “Come see this mail.” We went with her, and oh, such a mess. They had emptied the mail-sack on some papers that had been spread upon the floor, and such a lot of dilapidated letters and papers I never saw before. I picked up a photograph of an elderly lady, but we could not find the envelope from which it had escaped.
Perhaps some anxious son, away out in the mines, far from home and friends and mother, will look in vain for mother’s pictured face, and be so sadly disappointed. I am so sorry for the boy that will miss getting his mother’s photograph. She looks like such a sweet, motherly mother. A great many of the letters were past saving; if the owners had been there they could not have deciphered either the address or the written contents, for they were only a mass of pulp; the postmaster said it was “Because they send such old leaky mail-bags on this route; those post-office folk seem to think any old thing will do for the West, when we ought to have the very best and strongest, because of the long distances they must be carried.” All that could be, were carefully handled and spread out to dry; still, they would reach their destination in a very dilapidated condition.
We have made a long drive, are within four miles of Fort Kearney. There are a great many wagons within sight besides our own long train, whichever way we look we can see wagons. The road from Kansas City comes into this road not far from Valley City, and there are as many, or more, coming that way as the way we came. People leaving war-stricken Missouri, no doubt. I have never seen a fort. I do hope Kearney will come up to my expectations.
Saturday, June 10.
I was disappointed in Fort Kearney, as I so often am in things I have formed an idea about. There are very comfortable quarters for the soldiers; they have set out trees, and made it quite a pretty place, away out here in the wilderness, but there is no stockade, or place of defense, with mounted cannon, as I had expected.
Sim and I rode horseback through the fort while the wagons kept the road half a mile north of the fort. Only a few of us came by the way of the fort. A soldier gave us a drink of water from a well by the wayside. He seemed a perfect gentleman, but had such a sad expression. We were told that these soldiers were in the Confederate service, were taken prisoners, confined at Rock Island, and enlisted in the Government service to come out here and fight Indians. They are from Georgia and Alabama.
Two families have joined our train and come into corral on the opposite side, just behind the Walkers: Mr. and Mrs. Kennedy—a newly-married couple—and Mr. and Mrs. Bower, with a daughter fourteen and a son five. We only came one and a half miles west of the fort near Kearney City. I do not understand why we have made such a short drive, for the boys say the feed is not good, it has been eaten off so close.
Sunday, June 11.
We were obliged to leave camp and travel to-day, the first Sunday we have hitched up since we started. It was a case of necessity, as there was not feed for our large herds of cattle and horses. We made only a short drive, just to get good feed for the stock.
We are camping near a station that must seem like a military post, there are so many soldiers. Several soldiers came to our camp this afternoon; they confirmed what we heard yesterday. They are Confederate soldiers, they were prisoners, and their homes are in far-away Georgia and Alabama, and they are desperately homesick. It is a distressing sickness. I have been so homesick that I could not eat or sleep, and a cure was not effected until I was at home again. Then how nice it did seem to be home, and how good everything tasted. I do hope this cruel, homicidal war will soon be over, and these fine-looking Southern gentlemen will be permitted to go to their homes and loved ones, who, no doubt, are waiting and longing for their return. My heart aches for them.
Monday, June 12.
We stood by the graves of eleven men that were killed last August by the Indians. There was a sort of bulletin-board about midway and at the foot of the graves stating the circumstances of the frightful tragedy. They were a party of fourteen, twelve men and two women, wives of two of the men. They were camped on Plum Creek, a short distance from where the graves are. They were all at breakfast except one man who had gone to the creek for water, he hid in the brush, or there would have been none to tell the tale of the massacre.
There had been no depredations committed on this road all Summer, and emigrants had become careless and traveled in small parties. They did not suspect that an Indian was near until they were surrounded, and the slaughter had commenced. All the men were killed and scalped, and the women taken prisoners. They took what they wanted of the provisions, burned the wagons and ran off with the horses.
The one man that escaped went with all haste to the nearest station for help. The soldiers pursued the Indians, had a fight with them and rescued the women. One of them had seen her husband killed and scalped and was insane when rescued, and died at the station. The other woman was the wife of the man that escaped. They were from St. Joe, Missouri.
Ezra met with quite an accident to-day; he went to sleep while driving the family wagon—he was on guard last night—the horses brought the wheel against a telegraph pole with a sudden jerk that threw him out of his seat and down at the horses’ heels—a sudden awakening—with a badly-bruised ankle.
We are in the worst place for Indians on all this road. The bluffs come within half a mile on our left, and hundreds of savages could hide in the hollows; the underbrush and willows are dense along the river banks. There is an island, about a mile in length, that comes so near this side in many places that a man could leap from bank to bank. The island is a thick wood, a place where any number of the dreaded savages could hide, and shoot down the unwary traveler with the guns and ammunition furnished them by the United States Government.
How I would like to climb to the top of those bluffs, and see what is on the other side, but the captain says, “Stay within sight of camp.” And I must obey.
Tuesday, June 13.
Cash, Neelie and I created quite a sensation this morning. We waited, after the train had started, to mount our ponies as we usually do. Cash and I had mounted, but Neelie led her pony, and we went down to the river to water them, Neelie found some beautiful wild flowers, and she insisted upon gathering them. Of course we waited for her. The train was winding round a bend in the road, and the last wagons would soon be out of sight. We insisted that she must come. “The train will be out of sight in five minutes, and we may be cut off by savages in ambush.”
She did not scare worth a cent. She led her pony into a little hollow to mount when we saw two men coming toward us as fast as they could ride. Cash rode at an easy canter to meet them, while I waited for Neelie, who was deliberately arranging her flowers so that she would not crush them.
“Those men are coming after us, perhaps there are Indians around.” She took her time, just the same.
When the captain saw that the train would soon be out of our sight, he went to Mr. Morrison, who was on horseback, and said, “Ride quietly back and warn those girls of their danger, there are Indians around. They have been seen by the guard, on the island, and by the herders, in the hollows of the bluffs this morning. They would not be safe one minute after the train is out of sight.”
They had kept it quiet, as they did not wish to cause unnecessary alarm, for they knew there was no danger, for the Indians knew they were being watched, and besides we are too many for them. Mr. Morrison started, but not quietly; he snatched off his hat, whipping his horse with it, passed Mr. Kerfoot’s wagon as fast as his horse could go. Mr. Kerfoot asked, “What is the matter?” Some one said, “Indians!”
He wound the lines round the brake-handle, leaped from his high seat on the front of the wagon, grabbed the first horse in reach, snatched Mr. Gatewood’s boy out of the saddle, jumped on the horse and came tearing toward us, lashing the horse with his long whip—his hat flew off soon after he started, but he did not know it. He passed Mr. Morrison, and meeting Cash, he stopped long enough to bring his whip over her horse’s haunches with all his might, and sent her flying toward the train. He next met me—for I started, when I saw them coming, and was perhaps a hundreds yards ahead of Neelie—and stopped and said, “Miss Sallie, do you know that we are in the very worst Indian country there is on this road?”
He did not wait for a reply, but went on to Neelie, who was looking all about to see the Indians. He gave her pony a cut with his whip, as he had Cash’s, and we went flying over the ground, Neelie’s merry laughter pealing forth. Mr. Kerfoot did not speak to either of us. Mr. Morrison had turned back with Cash, and scolded all the way, she said he stuttered and stuttered, until she had hard work to keep from laughing. The captain had stopped the train, and we were greeted with loud cheering and hurrahs.
There was considerable joking about our being anxious for an adventure, and the young men were profuse in their declarations about what they would have done if we had been captured by the Indians. Every one laughed about our “narrow escape,” as they called it, except Mr. Kerfoot; he was pale and trembling. It is a shame that he should have been so unnecessarily frightened by our thoughtlessness, and I believe he thinks it was my fault. I wonder what he would have thought if I had left Neelie to come alone?
Wednesday, June 14.
One of the men found the skull of a human being to-day while we were stopping at noon. It seems horrible to think of one’s bones being scattered about in such manner. There is a storm coming; a storm on the plains is something to be dreaded, especially a wind-storm. Old men who have been freighting across the plains for years, say they have seen wagons upset with three tons of freight in a wind-storm. I am more afraid of a wind-storm than of Indians. The boys say I am not afraid of Indians at all.
Thursday, June 15.
The storm came with great violence last evening; we saw it coming in time to be prepared for it, so there was no damage done. The rain came down in torrents, and made the roads as hard and smooth as a floor, not any mud. It has been fine for horseback riding, everything seems so fresh and clean and pure, and not too warm. Mr. Milt Walker joined us about an hour before camping time. He seems a very pleasant gentleman.
Friday, June 16.
We had a storm last night, much more terrific than the night of the 14th, yet there was no harm done, more than to frighten some of the women and children. For my part I enjoyed the coming of the storm exceedingly. I never witnessed a storm-scene so sublimely grand. Oh, for the pen of an artist, that I might picture the majesty and grandeur of the coming of that storm.
Nellie Bower has a pony, and rides with us sometimes. She is a very mature young lady for her age, and very pleasant company. Neelie and I were riding together this morning, while Cash and Nellie Bower rode a short distance ahead. We had been on the road about half an hour when Dr. Fletcher and Milt Walker rode up, requesting the pleasure of our company, in a very formal manner. Of course we smilingly bowed assent, and the doctor rode with Neelie, and Milt with me. It is the first time there has been any formality in our pairing off while riding. The boys sometimes ride with us, but they come informally, we ride as we please, and stop and climb into the wagon when we please, without saying by your leave.
I am sorry any such formality has been commenced, for when I want to lope off, and be by myself, I want to feel free to do so, rather than to be constrained to entertain a beau, as we did this morning. Of course, Dr. Fletcher and Mr. Walker have not gone with us thus informally. I presume we succeeded in entertaining them, for when the train turned out for noon, each gentleman looked at his watch and wondered “If it could be possible it is noon?”
Dr. Fletcher is stepbrother of the Walkers—his mother and their father being married. He is physician for our train; an intelligent, handsome man, below medium in size. I think he must be dyspeptic, for he is always finding fault with everything. He seems to admire Neelie very much. We came through Cottonwood this morning. Stopped at noon where the feed is fine, so it has been decided that we stay here until to-morrow. The sky has the appearance of another storm this evening. We have had a busy afternoon.