G. W. Thissell Crossing the Plains in '49 By G. W. THISSELL '-^r Oakland, California IQOg ^A'^'^ ^>^ COPY AiJDiiD Copyrighted 1903 By G. W. Thissell y I dedicate this little work to my beloved wife who shared my hardships and trials in a pioneer's life. 1 5879 1 CONTENTS. A Chapter from My Diary 13 The Last Hen 17 How Felix Killed His Deer 23 The Only Coffin 27 The Man that Ate the Horse 29 The Cat That Crossed the Plains in 1850 33 The Duel 37 The Buffalo Chase 39 An Indian Hunt 42 The Snow-storm 44 The Inhuman Wretches 48 Up the Platte .51 A Sabbath on the Plains 57 Lost in the Sand-hills 59 Only One Storm 61 Fort Laramie . . . . . . 63 Independence Rock 68 Summit of the Rocky Mountains 71 Echo Canyon 75 The Man That Sold His Wife 76 Brown and the Buffalo 78 The Mammoth Train 79 A Supper on the Plains ... 83 The Robbers 85 A Fight with the Indians , 91 Rattlesnake Canyon 94 The Stolen Boy 96 Salt Lake City loi The Wedding .... 108 The Good Indians .. iii The Man That Ate the Bacon Rind 115 Gravelly Ford 119 The Hopper Train 120 The Long Swim 122 The First Gold Dust 124 The Hero of 1857 125 The Bfg Indian 127 The Lone Grave 130 The Desert 133 How Hobson Rode the Buffalo 137 Carson River or Ragtown . . 143 The Pioneer Train of '49 146 Summit of the Sierras r . 151 A Pathetic Story 153 The Lone Wagon 157 The Boys Who Had the Gold Fever 158 The Burnt Wagon 165 The Camp-fire 168 Only Three Meals 171 INTRODUCTION. It is no light undertaking to prepare a story adequately describing the trip across the plains with an ox team, from the Missouri River to the gold fields of California, in '49-'50. No pen can describe the trials, the hard- ships, and priv^ations. One must make the trip to realize the difficulties and dangers en- countered. If there are errors, they are such as necessarily occur in writing a story that covers so vast an extent of territory, after so long a period of time. This story includes the experiences of many pioneers beside that .of the writer, who himself crossed the plains twice with an ox team. It is filled with thrilling adventures and hair- breadth escapes from death, as well as many amusing incidents. Trusting that, it w^ill be read with interest, and that the reader will not be disappointed, it is submitted without further comment. The Author. Contributors. — The author gratefully ac- knowledges contributions in this book from many old pioneers. lO CROSSING THE PLAINS IN 49. on all the water courses. Every steamer was impregnated with the germs of the disease. We had scarcely steamed a hundred miles when we landed at Louisville, Kentucky, and put off four of our dead, one an old patriarch, James Putman, bound for California. He came from Zanesville, and was the first man who died. No pen can describe the scenes on board the steamer for the next twenty-four hours. The dead and dying were in every berth. When within twenty miles of St. Louis, in the night we landed and put off nine more dead. All were buried in one large grave. Not even a stake was driven into the ground to mark their last resting-place. At St. Louis what a scene! The wharf was lined with men with the gold fever. After two days' delay, we boarded the steamer W infield Scott, bound for St. Joseph on the Missouri River. The banks were over- flowed, and the water had spread over the river bottom for miles. On the high knolls the horses, cattle, sheep, and hogs were hud- dled together, starving to death. When we arrived at St. Joseph, a cold March rain was falling in torrents. Our out- fit, consisting of one four-horse wagon and provisions for one year, was piled on the wharf in the rain. In the rush to leave the steamer, one old Dutchman was crowded off the gang-plank CROSSING THE PLAINS IN 49. II into the river. After much splashing and loud yelling, the old man w as saved from a watery grave. The gold fever had left him, however. Wet to the skin and chilled to the bone, the old man exclaimed, ''Mine Gott! I vish I vas at home." At St. Joseph every available camping- SUTTER'S MILL. ground was occupied. Men were rushing to and fro, all eager to buy mules, horses, and oxen for the journey. There the emigrants crossed the Missouri River and took the trail for California. The weather was cold ; the throng increased ; the excitement ran high. Men became im- 12 CROSSING THE PLAINS IN 49. patient, bought feed and extra teams to haul it, crossed the river, and left for the gold fields. During the weeks of delay, the cholera and winter fever made their appearance, and many sickened and died. Others, weary of the trials and hardships already endured, sold their out- fits and returned home. The day our train crossed the Missouri River, I was sick, and was left behind at St. Joseph. Too proud to return home, I made my way to the interior of Iowa, where I spent nine months working at my trade, that of a carriage maker. During this time a few of the ''forty-niners" returned with immense fortunes. The gold fever broke out anew, and the road was soon lined with emigrants bound for Council Bluffs, which had then become the starting-point for overland California emigrants. This was the border line of civilization. Here the emigrants crossed the Missouri River. I, too, had the gold fever, and at once set about preparing for the journey. Bob Gardener, Sam and Ike Harris, and myself formed a party and cast our lots together. Our outfit consisted of four yoke of oxen, one yoke of cows, one saddle horse, and one wooden-axle wagon, with hickory withes for bows, over which was drawn common muslin, to protect us and our provisions from the weather. The wagon bed was made with a false CROSSING THE PLAINS IN 49. 1 3 floor fifteen inches from the bottom of the bed. The Space was partitioned off into sections, or rooms, to suit the different articles of food we were to take, — beans, coffee, sugar, tea, pickles, and rice, — provisions enough to last one year. On the false floor were piled our bedding and clothing, while on the wagon bows hung our guns, powder, horn, and shot pouches ; for this was before the breech-loading guns were made. At the hind end of the wagon was a large box, the lid of which hung by hinges. Into this box were piled our cooking utensils and dishes, which consisted of tin plates, tin cups, knives, and forks, enough tinware, pots, ket- tles, and stew-pans to start a small store — just about three times as many as we needed. At the end of the coupling-pole hung a large churn, in which we put the milk every morn- ing. The constant shaking of the churn did the churning, and at noon or night we took out a nice lump of butter and a good supply of buttermilk. With rifle in hand, we bade our loved ones adieu, and began the long and tedious journey of two thousand miles, through the wilderness of unexplored land, inhabited only by wild beasts and savages of the forest. A CHAPTER FROM MY DIARY. March 6, 1850. — Left home this morning, Bellefontaine, Iowa. Ground frozen. Drove 14 CROSSING THE PLAINS IN 49. fifteen miles, and camped on Little Pedee. Slept in a barn and got very cold. March 7. — Snowed three inches to-day. Traveled twelve miles. Bought twenty dozen eggs at five cents a dozen. Passed a small store kept by a half-breed. Bought a deck of cards for ten cents, and five gallons of old rye whisky at twenty-five cents a gallon. Gold fever running high. Pulse 140. Drank my first whisky to-day. March 8. — Rained and hailed to-day. In crossing a slough, our wagon mired down. Had to unload and carry our provisions to solid ground. Bob Gardener got too drunk to do any work. Made ten miles to-day. Camped with an old pioneer. Square Frishey, who came from Ohio to Iowa. Found him a jolly old fellow. He had three fine-looking girls. The old man invited us to spend the evening with him. He got down his violin, and we all had a dance. One of the men brought in a bottle of old rye. This loosened the old man's tongue, limbered up his joints, and made the old violin hum. Ike Harris, to reward the old pioneer's kindness, stole a tur- key before we left. March 9. — Yesterday we overtook two wagons, four men to each wagon. They came from Charleston, Illinois, and we traveled to- gether to-day. While crossing a rapid stream, one wagon capsized. Everything got soaking CROSSING THE PLAINS IN 49. 1 5 wet. The flour and sugar were lost. Killed our first deer to-day. Ike Harris shot it from the wagon. The woods are full of deer. March ii. — One of the teams got fright- ened and ran down a steep grade, struck a stump, and one of the wheels broke down. We were twenty miles from a blacksmith shop. Here we were detained two days. March 14. — Sun rose bright and clear. The boys are running things high. We passed a log cabin to-day. They took in four fine, large turkeys as we came along.- The land is hilly and covered with heavy oak and hickory tim- ber, interspersed with walnut. On the creeks the land is rich and fertile. The settlers are ten to twelve miles apart. They live in «mall log cabins chinked and daubed with mud, and have only one window and door. The roof is held on by large weight poles. The children are robust and hearty. They live on wild meat, potatoes, cabbage, and turnips. In the fall they take up a portion of the floor, and bury their potatoes and turnips under the house near the fireplace. This keeps them from freezing. To-day we bought four bushels of potatoes for two dollars. March 16. — Bob Gardener and Elias Ramey have the measles. Gold fever is going down. Pulse 60. March 18. — David Bond has the blues. CROSSING THE PLAINS IN 49. 1 7 Gave his outfit to the company and started home, Bellefontaine, Iowa. THE LAST HEN. March 19. — Cold and frosty. Ground frozen. We are now on the frontier of Iowa. Pioneer cabins scarce and far between. The nicknacks we had when we left home are gone ; we are down to bread, bacon, and beans. We passed a lonely 12x16 log cabin; I went to the door and found a number of old ladies having an old-fashioned quilting-bee. I asked to buy eggs, butter, and chickens. One old lady informed me they had none to sell. Just then I saw the lady of the house picking one of the fattest old hens I ever saw. I offered her ten cents, the price of a hen, but it was no go. I asked her if she would take twenty-five cents. ''Nosiree." Her old man had walked three miles to get that hen for their dinner. The devil whispered to me, ''Lie a little." I hated to do it awfully bad, but I wanted that hen. So I told her one of the boys was very sick, and we were fearful he would die, and we thought a little chicken broth would be good for him. All the women quit work and listened to my tale of woe. They wanted to know if he had been sick long, how old he was, where he came from, what his name was. One motherly old soul asked if we had any cal- omel or cathartic pills. I assured her we had l8 CROSSING THE PLAINS IN '49. plenty. One loquacious old lady told the land- lady to give me the hen. But no. She was as firm as the rock of Gibraltar. There she stood with the hen grasped tightly in both hands, looking first at her company, then at me. I was now getting desperate. I told them how the poor boy raved at night, and how he called for his dear old mother and begged for chicken soup. That fetched her. With tears in her eyes she walked up to me and handed me their last hen. I offered to pay her, but, God bless that old soul, she refused to take a cent. My conscience now smote me, and I threw down ten cents and started ofT to over- haul the wagon. That night we feasted on stewed hen and dumplings, while the old ladies' quilting-bee dined on boiled turnips and bacon. March 20. — Last night we camped with an old Dutchman. He proved to be too much for all of us. Two of the men tapped his bee- hive, ate warm honey, and nearly died with the colic. To-day the old Dutchman overtook us with a double-barreled shotgun, and, planting himself in the road in front of the team, de- manded one dollar for the honey and two dollars each for stealing it. He got the money. We had to pay or kill the old tiger. That cooled us all ofT. We had learned our first lesson. March 21. — The sun rose from behind a dark bank of cjpuds, and soon the rain poured CROSSING THE PLAINS IN 49. I9 in torrents. To-day we arrived at White Breast. Here a trapper, with a coonskin cap, moccasin shoes, an Indian squaw wife, and three children, ran a ferr^. Paid him five dol- lars to take the wagons across, and we did the work. (The cattle swam all the streams from here to California.) March 22. — Snowed four inches last night. Wind from the north. Cold as Greenland. Bought one dozen hens for one dollar and thirty dozen eggs for live cents a dozen. Paid ten cents a bushel for corn, and forty cents for hay to feed four yoke of oxen over- night. William Jones has the mumps. Three of our oxen were foundered and could go no further, so we traded them for cows. The gold fever runs low. The excitement is wearing ofif. March 25. — Arrived at Council Bluffs, the border line of civilization. What a scene! I shall never forget it. Over fifteen hundred men were anxiously waiting to be ferried over the Missouri River. The boat was busy from daylight till dark. This is the last opportunity to mail a letter. Last night all wrote home. Some wrote to wife and children, others to father and mother. I wrote to the girl I left behind, Asberrene Chambers, (I returned in '51 and married her.) An amusing incident took place last night. 20 CROSSING THE PLAINS IN '49. Old Bob Smith was drunk — too drunk to write. Jerome Swim and the writer volun- teered to write for him. It has been fifty-three years since that night, and yet it creates a smile when I think of it. We wrote by the light of a tallow dip set in an old tin lantern. The wind was blowing and the light flickering. It was impossible to fol- low the lines. Time and time again did we start the letter, then he would have to read it, and the big tears would fall upon it. The poor drunken soul did not want his wife to know he was crying, so another sheet must be started. Then there would be something in that that did not suit him. At last we decided there was but one of two things to do, either let him dictate a letter or not write. Following is his letter : — ''Council Bluffs, March 26, 1850. ''Mrs. Robert Smith — Dear Wife: Kiss the baby. Council Bluffs, border line, all well. Kiss the baby. Missouri River., Kiss the baby. Had a good time. Last letter. Cross the river. Tell the baby papa, California. Dear wife, all well. Council Bluffs. Tell Johnnie, papa plenty of money California. Kiss the baby." He was now bellowing like a calf. We sealed the letter and addressed it to Mrs. Robert Smith, Bellefontaine, Iowa, and put it with the letters to be mailed. CROSSING THE PLAINS IN 49. 21 In justice to old Bob I must say he was not the only man too drunk to write home that night. Before crossing the river, the companies organized into a large train for protection from the Indians. Our train consisted of thirty-six wagons, two hundred and fifty head of work oxen, twenty head of milk cows, which we worked the same as the oxen. We also had thirty head of saddle horses. One man was elected cap- tain (John D. Chambers), wdio guided every movement of the train. Ours was the ''Cham- bers Train." Each train took its name from its captain. There was the Walker Train, the Chambers Train, and the Samuel Train. Those trains that passed and repassed each other were known all the way across the plains, and often visited each other at night, and had a dance, for in nearly every train there was a violin. April 2. — To-day w^e crossed the Missouri River in a flat-bottomed boat. A large rope was stretched from shore to shore, by which the boat was pulled back and forth, the emi- grants doing the work. Nothing but our wagons and provisions were ferried across, one wagon at a time, for which we paid fifteen dollars. Many of our cattle got into the quick- sand and were pulled out with ropes. In swimming the cattle across, Doc Bosier 22 CROSSING THE PLAINS IN 49. was drowned. He came from Cole County, Illinois. His body was not recovered. We drove five miles, and camped on low, rolling hills. It rained and hailed all night. The captain called out all hands on guard to herd the cattle. ^From here our route lies up the north side ot Platte River, five hundred miles Fort Laramie. April 5. — Last night we camped on Elk Horn. This is the first large stream we have crossed since we left the Missouri River. For three days we have been traveling over high, rolling prairie. But little grass has started, and feed is scarce. On the small streams we find some willow and cottonwood, which we cut down for the cattle to browse on during the night. They eat the limbs as large as a man's finger. Many elk horns are scattered along this stream. This morning William Booyer killed our first elk. Last night Jonathan Rich baited his hook with buffalo meat and caught a catfish that was four feet long and weighed fifty pounds. On this creek we saw the first Indians, the Pawnees. They were all armed with guns, bows, and arrows. They were dressed in buckskin, with moccasin shoes on their feet. They were mounted on Indian ponies, and CROSSING THE PLAINS IN 49. 23 rode around the train, taking a good look at us, and then went away over the plains. Many of the men have the blues. Gold fever running low. Nicknacks are giving out, and we are coming down to plain diet, — saleratus bread, bacon and beans, strong coffee, and sugar. To-day when we camped for dinner, al- most every man was cleaning up his gun. James Reed's gun was accidentally discharged, wounding one of the oxen, breaking its hind leg. The ox was dressed and the meat divided around the train. HOW FELIX KILLED HIS DEER. Many of the emigrants never owned a gun until they started across the plains. Felix Stone, to make sure of his game, bought a single-barreled shotgun. It was a muzzle- loader and looked like a beauty. Felix had loaded it for bear, and no bear had been seen. Anxious to kill something, he turned it loose on a deer. There in the willow, not five rods away, stood a fine buck gazing at the intruder. Felix raised his gun, took aim, and pulled the trigger, expecting to blow both eyes out of that deer. There was a roar; Felix and the gun dropped to the ground, and it was evident that the gun had shot at both ends. Felix soon rallied, and so did the deer, for it went stag- gering off through the brush. Felix felt for 24 CROSSING THE PLAINS IN 49. his shot and powder-horns, but he had left them at the camp. Lose that deer. No, siree. Felix dropped his gun and seized the deer by one hind leg. Just then the deer took the other foot from the pit of Felix's stomach. He let loose of the buck and sank to the ground. A thousand stars shot out before his eyes. He seized his gun by the muzzle and struck at the deer. It jumped to one side; the ground re- ceived the blows, breaking the gunstock entirely off. Mad? — I should say so. He now sailed in with the barrel. Did he kill the deer? — Of course he did. tie .broke every bone in his whole body. But poor Felix mourned the loss of that gun all the way across the plains. April 6. — We entered the Pawnee territory. All day long we have been traveling over a high, rolling prairie, through a drizzling rain ; the cold west wind drives it along with terrific force. Every man is chilled to the bone. It is evident we are leaving civilization far behind. The dim wagon trail has long since disappeared. There is nothing to guide us but the Indian and buffalo trails leading to the Rockies. Many of the trails were worn in the hard ground and sand rock fifteen to twenty inches deep. The constant tramp, tram]) of the In- dians and buffaloes had loosened the soil, and the fierce winds had blown it away. In other CROSSING THE PLAINS IN 49. 25 places for miles the trails were filled with the dri.fting sand. Days and weeks had passed, and nothing had occurred to mar our journey. But, alas, how soon a heavy gloom fell over the entire train ! David Long accidentally shot and killed William Brown. No loved one near, no toll- ing of the church bell, no marble slab to mark his last resting-place. With tender hands we wrapped him in his blankets, and with sorrow- ing hearts we laid him away. Then, turning from the spot, we resumed our journey, fol- lowing the Indian and buffalo trails leading to the west. To-day we experienced the most difficult traveling we have had. We are in the sand- hills. They resemble a thousand eggs set on end. Sand, nothing but sand, as far as the eye can reach. The wagon tracks are obliterated. The buffalo and Indian trails can not be found. No guide or guide-book. Men on horseback are far in advance of the train looking for water and feed. As the great luminary of the day sank in the west, we camped by a small pool of stagnant water. Here the buffalo come to drink. Around this pool or lake the mosquitoes swarm by the millions. I shall never forget those mosquitoes. They were nearly as large as Italian bees, and their bills more than a CROSSING THE PLAINS IN 49. 2/ half inch long; with these they bored right through our blankets. The cattle could not feed or rest, and the captain called out a double guard. We all rejoiced when the night wore away. Iiis calf. This morning we killed three buffaloes and one THE LOST TRAIL. April 10. — x\ll day long we have been travel- ing over sand-hills covered with sage-brr.sh. No feed for cattle, no water for man or beast. The wind blowing a gale, lifting the sand and whirling it into our eyes, almost blinding both man and beast. Darkness set in. Men on horseback were far in advance of the train, looking for water and feed. For miles we traveled in the dark. No wagon tracks could be found. We had lost the trail. Cold bread and jerked buffalo meat were our supper. At break of day we were on the back track, and struck the old trail six miles behind. THE ONLY COFFIN. As we scan the pages of the world's history, we find no more solemn scene than to stand by the open grave in the wilderness and see our friend or loved one lowered to his last resting- place, without box or coffin, simply wrapped in a blanket, and to realize that we would 28 " CROSSING THE PLAINS IN '49. scarcely have left the sacred spot ere the wolves and coyotes would dig for the remains. No matter how deep the grave, nor how many rocks and stones were piled upon it, they would tear it open. It was not an uncommon thing to see a leg or arm dragged from the grave. We had camped in Paradise Valley. It was an ideal morning in May, but the entire train was in sorrow. Death had entered the camp and claimed Doctor Watts, of Muscatene, Iowa. After four days' illness, the cholera had claimed its victim. Mrs. Watts, heartbroken with grief and sorrow, with her babe in her arms and the tears streaming down her pale cheeks, offered one hundred dollars for lumber with which to make a coffin, or even a rude box, that she might bury her husband secure from the wild beasts. Her grief knew no bounds when she thought of burying her hus- band without a coffin. Had she owned the world, she would gladly have given it for lumber with which to make one. But we were four hundred miles from the Missouri River, in the wilderness, and not a board could be had. But in her sorrow and bereavement God sent her relief. Joseph Reese and Benjamin Troutman, both of Des Moines, Iowa, tore their wagon bed from the wagon, made a rude coffin, and gave it to her. The entire train gathered around the grave, a hymn was sung. prayer was offered by John D. Chambers, and Washington Johnson CROSSING THE PLAINS IN ^49. 29 the body was lowered to its long resting-place, secure from the wild beasts of the forest. Reese and Troutman made a frame of wil- low poles, put it on their wagon, piled their provisions and clothing on it, and the train moved on. Although the writer crossed the plains twice with ox team, this was the only coffin or box in which to bury the dead he saw from the Missouri River to old Hangtown, a distance of two thousand miles. THE MAN THAT ATE THE HORSE. The writer is indebted to Washington John- son for the following narrative of his long and tedious journey to the land of gold. In 1858, when in his twenty-first year, with only sixty dollars in his pocket, he resolved to seek his fortune in the New Eldorado. April 2 he left his father's home in Jasper County, Pennsylvania, and made his way to Black Hawk, Iowa. Here he remained a few days, again starting on foot for Fort Leaven- worth, Kansas. On his arrival there, his money was all gone. He hired to John Mitchell to drive an ox team to Camp Floyed, in the Great Salt Lake Valley, sixty miles from' the city. Mitchell was freighting merchandise to the camp for the government, for which he received twenty-five cents per pound for every- 30 CROSSING THE PLAINS IN 49. thing, from a plug of tobacco up to a barrel of whisky. It was strictly in the contract that the drivers should walk, unless they were sick. The train consisted of forty-six wagons, with five yoke of oxen to each wagon. Hence there were forty-six ox drivers. Everything went lovely for a while, but the men soon became cross and ill-natured. The day the butter gave out, two men quarreled over the last morsel, drew their guns, and bloodshed was prevented only by the prompt interference of Johnson and Jake Wilcox. June 20 the Indians stampeded the cattle and drove off twenty-five head. Tim Hamil- ton, Jim Roberts, and Johnson followed the Indians into the mountains for ten miles, but failed to overtake them. After three days' delay they started on their slow and tedious journey, many days traveling only eight or ten miles. After five months' toil and hardship, tired and leg weary, they arrived at Camp Ployed. Jake and Jim Wilcox, William Steele, Robert Rouse, Jim Roberts, Billy Mason, and Wash- ington Johnson formed a company and bought eight Indian ponies for seven dollars and fifty cents apiece, packed them with blankets and provisions, and took the trail to Oregon by the old Fort Hall route, the men walking and leading their horses. CROSSING THE PLAINS IN 49. 3I When they had traveled one hundred and sixty miles, they met some trappers, who told them to go no farther ; the Indians were hostile, and they could not cross the mountains. They retraced their steps for sixty miles, and took the trail for the gold fields of California, by the way of Los Angeles. It is impossible for one to have any concep- tion, without actual experience, of the hard- ships and sufferings they endured from this point in their journey to Los Angeles. Days and wrecks came and passed, and still they plodded on, often without water or food for man or beast. Weeks lengthened into months. They were tired and weary, provisions almost gone, star- vation staring them in the face. August 15 they fell into company with eight other men with pack horses, who divided their jerked meat and hardtack with them. Soon this supply began to give out, and they were down to half rations. Day b)i day. meal by meal, they saw their provisions fade away. It was evident they must starve or kill a horse and eat him. Their horses were reduced to mere walking skeletons. Several had died already of starvation. September i they selected the fattest horse and killed him. The cook kindled a fire of buffalo chips and pre- pared a supper, which they heartily relished, though it was well peppered with the drifting 32 CROSSING THE PLAINS IN 49. sand. They jerked the meat and picked the bones. On this horse meat they Hved twenty- one days, until they reached Los Angeles. vSeptember 3, with a good supply of horse meat, they took hope and pressed on. It was hot and sultry. Jim Wilcox's horse gave out, and they left him for the buzzards. September 4 and 5 they were in tlie sage- brush plains. The horses traveled all day without a drop of water. September 6 they camped on Salt Creek. The water was very brackish. Billy Mason is sick, and they camp here three days. September 9 all were able to walk. Tlie sand was loose and deep, and they traveled only ten miles. September 10, cool wind from the west. William Steele killed a jack-rabbit, the first we have killed since we left Camp Floyed. September 11 and 12, still cool and nice. Sand deep and loose. vSeptember 13, hot and sultry. Water full of alkali. Robert Rouse killed his horse. It was too poor and weak to walk. They cut all the meat off of the bones they could and jerked it. September 14, still hot. A terrific north wind, which burns like fire. The last horse gave out to-day, and they take their blankets and guns, leaving everything except what they can carry on their backs. PLAINS IN '49. 33 September 15, 16, the heat is intense, and they travel early in the morning and late at night. September 17, 18, Jim Roberts is sick, and they camp and rest. September 19 they enter the ninety-mile des- ert. They start with a good supply of water. In many places the sand is hard, and they make good headway. What words can de- scribe their joy when they first caught sight of Los Angeles? Twenty-seven hundred miles Johnson had walked. From his father's home in Pennsyl- vania he had traveled over the barren plains, climbed the steep, snow-clad mountains, crossed the ninety-mile desert of burning sand, with only one gallon of water and jerked horse meat. After nine months of toil and suffering he arrived in Los Angeles, October 16. Here he gave his blankets for six meals, and pawned his watch for more. The watch is still in pawn where he left it forty-four years ago. He now lives in Pleasant Valley, where he has resided for forty-two years. THE CAT THAT CROSSED THE PLAINS IN 185O. On April 2, 1850, James Philly, w^ife, and three children, two boys and one girl, left West Point, Cass County, Missouri, for the new Eldorado. 34 CROSSING THE PLAINS IN 49. The wagon was loaded, the cattle impatient to start. Mrs. Philly was seated in the wagon; George had also climbed in, while Phillip stood clinging to old Bose, for he was to go to Cali- fornia. As they lifted little May, the five- year-old pet of the household, into the wagon, she burst into a big boo hoo. "What's the matter. May?" "I want Jip to go." No words or promises could quiet the big sobs, while the tears ran down her sweet cheeks. At last it was decided that old Jip, the house cat, should go to California. He needed no calling, for he was already at May's feet No one dreamed that he was to play a prominent part in sustaining little May's life while on the long and tedious journey of two thousand miles, or that old Bose would almost give his life to defend the grave of little George Philly. At St. Joseph they joined a large train, and on April 25 crossed the Missouri River, and, with thousands of other emigrants, took the Indian and buffalo trails leading to the west. James Philly was a prominent tobacco grower, and, knowing well that the average tobacco chewer would rather go without his bread than his tobacco, he loaded a wagon with it, for which he paid twenty cents per pound, and long before he reached Fort Lara- mie, only five hundred miles from the Missouri River, he was selling it at one dollar per pound. The Indians soon learned that Philly had CROSSING THE PLAINS IN 49. 35 tobacco, and they became * his best friends. They would do anything for tobacco or whisky. On several occasions the Indians surrounded the train, and, when Philly gave them a liberal supply of tobacco, they left. On one occasion they left Philly's train, and, going direct to another one in plain view, they robbed and massacred the entire train. They looked upon Philly as a great brave, and one of the gods that had a great charm. When the train reached Salt Lake City, Philly sold what tobacco he had left for five dollars per pound. Before they reached the headwaters of the Humboldt, many cattle had died, and others were so poor and weak they gave out and were left by the roadside. The train was reduced almost to starvation. Little May, the pet of the entire train, was nothing but skin and bones. She was so weak and frail she could not eat the coarse food. One morning they found a rabbit at the door of the tent. They dressed and cooked it, and, oh, how May did relish that rabbit ! How it came there none knew, but, strange to say, the next morning there was another rabbit at the tent door. For the next tw^o weeks, while traveling down the Humboldt, almost every morning there was a rabbit at the tent door. All knew now that the faithful house cat, Jip, 36 CROSSING THE PLAINS IN '49. had brought them there, for the willows along the river bank were full of them. Although it has been fifty-two years since Jip brought the rabbits to the camp, none can make Phillip Philly believe but that Jip saved his sister May's life. When they reached Ragtown on Carson River, a trader offered one hundred dollars for the cat, but, had he offered twice that, he could not have bought old Jip. Twenty miles from Ragtown, little George Philly died, and was buried in a lonely grave beneath a large pine tree. There was no mar- ble slab to mark the little pioneer's grave. Two large stakes were driven into the ground, and on the grave were piled immense rocks and stones. The child was wrapped in his blanket and laid in the little, narrow grave. The cold, hard clods were piled upon him, and so we left him sleeping alone in the wilderness. No sound to disturb the solitude save the soft cooing of the dove and the gentle sighing of the wind through the pines. Words can not describe the sorrow of that mother's aching heart as she stood beside the little, open grave that was to receive all that was mortal of little George Philly. The parting of that fond mother and her dead child was more than the frail body could stand. She sank to the ground, unal)le to walk. They carried her to the wagon. And when the last sad rite had CROSSING THE PLAINS IN 49. 37 been performed by tender hands and loving hearts, with sorrow the train moved on. Next morning old Bose could not be found. They went back to the camp where little George had died, and found, near the grave, the faithful dog. During the night he had returned to the grave. The wolves had gathered in great numbers. Bose had tried to drive them away, and they had torn him almost to pieces; he was tenderly cared for. and was the first dog to arrive in California. He lived to be an old dog, and died at Dutch Flat, Placer County. James Philly arrived in California, and, after many changes, he died in Santa Barbara. Mrs. Philly died in Santa Rosa, at the home of little May, while Phillip Philly, now an old man and full of rheumatics, travels from place to place in search of health. THE DUEL. If there is anything that tries a man's pa- tience and brings out his combativeness more than any other one thing, it is a trip across the plains with an ox team, in company with fifty or a hundred men. If there is any incli- nation to shirk, or do any little, mean trick, or the slightest tendency to hoggishness, it will soon develop in him, hence so much dis- content, wrangling, and quarreling in almost every train. We had been traveling all day long over a 38 CROSSING THE PLAINS IN 49. sandy plain. Not a sign of vegetation, except here and there a little stunted grass; not a weed, brush, or tree. No fuel, except the buffalo chips, and without kindling of some kind it was almost impossible to start a fire. Hence every man was on. the lookout for kindling. It was the rule for the team that led the train to-day to fall behind on the morrow. There were many advantages by being in the lead. Less dust and the choice of camping- ground. The men. in the lead would pick up every stick of wood or kindling. As a rule, the fortunate ones divided with those less for- tunate. But, unfortunately, there was a Shy- lock in almost every train. John Gordon had been very successful on the day of which I write. At night he hid his kindling under the wagon, and during the night it was stolen. Gordon accused Victor Dutrow, one of the men in the rear wagons, of taking it. Angry words ensued. Day after day the feud grew more bitter, many of their friends taking sides. It was soon evident there would be bloodshed over the affair. Everything was said and done that could be to settle the affair peaceably, but to no avail. At last it was decided the men should settle it with firearms, and end the feud. The preliminaries were arranged, and, just CROSSING THE PLAINS IN 49. 39 as the sun was dipping his disk behind the western horizon, the men took their stand twenty- five yards apart, with their rifles in their hands. I shall never forget that scene. John Pennel gave the word, "One, two, three." Before the last word fell from his lips, Gordon, mad with rage and excited, took deadly aim at his antagonist and fired. Dutrow, cool and calm, fired his gun in the air. It now dawned upon Gordon that the men had practiced a ruse on him ; there was no ball in his gun. He walked up to Dutrow, gave him his hand, and they were warm friends from that day on, and there was no more Shylock in the train. THE BUFFALO CHASE. There are but few pioneers that crossed the plains in '49 and '50 who can not call to mind many wild and exciting encounters with the buffalo. It was not necessary to hunt for them, for every day hundreds could be seen, while it was a common occurrence for them to cross our path and come so near that they would make the cattle stampede. But to kill a buffalo with the average gun the emigrant had was not so easily done, for the animals were so large they appeared to be much nearer to the hunter than they really were. When they ran, they went about three times faster than the hunter thought they did, and were 40 CROSSING THE PLAINS IN 49. getting away in double-quick time. It always took a good horse to bring the hunter up to them, and then they were the hardest animal to kill we found while crossing the plains. The chase of which I write I deem worthy of note, as it illustrates what fools men can make of themselves. We were traveling up Platte River, some time in May. Not many buffalo had been killed by our train, and for days nothing had been talked of but one grand buffalo chase, in which we were to kill not less than a dozen buffaloes, and bring the meat to camp and jerk it at night. At last the plan was all arranged ; twenty-four men, twelve on horseback and twelve on foot, were to join in the chase. They were to leave the camp one hour before the train left. They had gone about three miles when they saw a herd of buffalo quietly feeding, as they supposed, one mile away, while the truth is, they were more than three miles. Jerry Sullivan, who had been appointed to direct the chase, stationed the twelve men on foot (the writer being one of them) in a half circle, extending for a mile. Into this trap or ambush the horsemen were to drive the buffaloes, and we w^ere to kill all we wanted, and at the same time were not to leave our post until told to do so by one of the horse- men. The writer and Victor Metcalf took their position in a low swale or ravine, and CROSSING THE PLAINS IN 49. 4I here we watched and waited anxiously for the buffaloes to come. It was noon; not a man or buffalo had we seen since taking our post. We were with- out food, and had but little water; in the distance we had seen the train pass out of sight. One o'clock, two o'clock came, and still no buffalo or men could we see. We had left our post and wandered over the low, roll- ing hills, taking, as we supposed, a cut-off to reach the emigrant trail. Our water had given out, and we were becoming weak for want of food. The sun had sunk to rest ; it grew dark, and we came to a small brook lined with wil- lows. It was now almost dark, when a large buffalo cow walked into plain view, not five rods away, and we fired, and she fell dead. Accidentally we had killed her; one of the balls had penetrated her head. We cut two large pieces of meat from the hind quarters, but could not make a fire for want of matches. When we had rested, we filled our canteen with water, taking a southwest course, as that was the direction in which we had last seen the train. Weary and faint we sat down to rest, but soon our hearts leaped for joy, for we heard a train that was traveling at night. How rested our weary limbs were ! We fairly flew over the level plain, and soon hailed an ox team. They kindly took us in; but how we were surprised to learn that we were not 42 CROSSING THE PLAINS IN '49. five miles from the camp where we left in the morning, while our train was not less than fifteen miles ahead. Next morning as the sun rose, we came up to our train. Already they had sent men with water and food for the lost hunters, for lost they were; not ten men had come to camp. All day long the train remained in camp, while not less than fifty men were in search of the missing hunters. It was not till late at night when the last man was brought to camp. Only three buffalo had been killed, and not fifty pounds of meat had been brought to the train. Thus ended my first and last buffalo chase. AN INDIAN HUNT. One of the most interesting scenes we wit- nessed while crossing the continent in 1850 was an Indian hunt. It was Sunday, July 26. We were camped on a beautiful stream near an Indian village of friendly Indians. There were more than one hundred wigwams. In the village were some trappers, who told us that the Indians were to have a hunt that day. Not a gun, bow, or arrow would they take, so this increased our curiosity to witness the sport. Early in the day at least two hundred Indians left the village for the hills two miles away, marching in Indian file, one directly behind the other, stepping in each other's tracks, so that it left but one man's footprint. CROSSING THE PLAINS IN 49. 43 Not long after the hunters left, about seventy- five old squaws left the village and followed the hunters to a cluster of trees and under- brush. Here they secreted themselves; nat a squaw could be seen. When the hunters entered the timber, they armed themselves with clubs about three feet long, and then sep- arated, encircling hundreds of acres of land, full of wild animals, — bear, deer, panther, wolves, wildcats, raccoon, and rabbits. Ike and Sam Harris, Elias Barney, William Jones, and the writer had taken up their position on a high, rocky point that overlooked the hunt- ing ground. The sun had risen high in the cloudless sky; we had become impatient wait- ing and watching for the sport to begin. Not an Indian could be seen, nor a sound could we hear; all was still as death. At last in the distance could be heard the wild and savage yells of the hunters. It was evident that they were driving the wild animals to the center of their ring. Louder and louder grew the yells; nearer and nearer they came, until the circle had grown so small that the hunters were two deep. The wild animals, frantic with fear, rushed from line to line, only to be driven back with clubs. Now and then a large deer could be seen, with head high in the air, making a dash for liberty. Then, as a wild and savage yell would arise, the line would part, and away the deer would go. Then the 44 CROSSING THE PLAINS IN 49. line would close up and the yelling would be resumed. The climax was not reached until a huge l)^(^^vn bear, with mouth wide open, made a dash for the line. It was then the wild tumult reached its zenith. The yells of the excited mob made the very hills tremble. Again the line would part, and the bear was at liberty. At last the line closed in, and the cruel and brutal slaughter began, beating and clubbing everything to death inside of the ring. Many of the Indians were bespattered with blood, while the ground was strewn with dead and dying animals. x\t last all was quiet. The himters threw down their clubs and took up the march, in single file, for the village. Then the old squaws came and packed each other with the game, like mules and horses, some of them carrying one hundred and fifty pounds. That night they held a war dance. Then came the feasting, when many of them ate so much they lay around on the ground like drunk men. THE SNOW-STORM. Who has not witnessed a snow-storm ? But this one I deem worthy of recording, as the following incident actually occurred. It was the last day of April, 1850. We were travel- ing up Platte River. The sun had been hidden from view for two days; the air was raw and cold. The train had camped ; the dark shades CROSSING THE PLAINS IN '49. 45 of night drew on; all but the guards had retired, some in the tents and wagons, while many had spread their blankets in the open air. As the small hours of the night drew on, the thin, white flakes of snow^ began to fall, and, when the morning light fell upon the camp, it was wrapped in a white robe of snow three inches deep. Ox yokes, chains, and whips, pots and pans, beds and bedding were buried three inches deep. The men began to shake the snow from their beds and put on their clothes. At this point the fun began. James Darling threw a hand- ful of snow on William Boozers bare legs. This was the signal for a general free fight with the loose snow. Men were dragged from their beds, while the blankets and tents were torn from many others; not less than fifty men, barefooted and barelegged, with nothing but their shirts on, were all engaged in one free fight with the loose snow. Thick and fast the snow flew. Some of the boys were liter- ally buried in it. Not less than a dozen men were throwing snow on Jake Doughman. He lost his temper, rushed to the w^agon for his gun, and every man made for his tent; that ended the sport. Their feet and legs were as red as lobsters, while some of them were nearly frozen. 46 CROSSING THE PLAINS IN '49. THE HERO OF 185O. May I. — It was a lovely morning. We were camped on Platte River, one mile from tliQ hills. As usual, the cattle and horses were near the camp and were quietly resting, while all hands were at breakfast. John Samuels, of Arkansas, had saddled his little mustang horse, and had him in camp. We were all seated around on the ground eating, when, like a whirlwind, fifteen Indians on horseback came from the willows near by and ran off ten head of cattle. John Samuels grabbed a shotgun and a pair of old horse pistols, mounted his mustang, and pursued the fleeing Indians. As they reached the hills, he came up with them and cut loose with his shotgun, wounding two Indians. He then used his pistols. A real fight ensued, fourteen Indians against one white man; but Samuels stood his ground, while the arrows flew thick and fast. The Indians saw the other men coming, and fled, carrying the wounded with them. Sam- uels pulled six arrows from his horse and headed the cattle for the camp. It was found that three arrows had passed clear through his clothing. John Samuels and his brother Nathan, who was also a member of our train, settled in Suisun Valley. Later John moved to San Francisco, and died there. A nephew is living CROSSING THE PLAINS IN 49. 47 near Rag Canyon, Napa County. The famous mineral springs near Monticello bear our hero's name, and were named after the brothers. THE DEAD DOG. May 6. — One of the most unfortunate af- fairs that has happened during our long jour- ney took place last night. Joe Batton was taking a dog to California. Batton had prom- ised the captain to keep the dog tied, but became careless, and allowed it to run loose at times. Last night the dog left the camp and went among the cattle. Jerry Gullion, taking it to be an Indian, shot and killed it. That fright- ened the cattle, and they stampeded; then the Old Harry was to pay. Not a wheel did the train move that day. Batton tapped his keg of whisky, got drunk, and threatened to kill Gullion's cattle, and Gullion, too, if he did not pay one hundred dollars for the dog. Gullion refused. A trial was held, and Gullion was cleared of commit- ting any crime, and exonerated as a brave man for shooting the dog. That so exasperated Batton that he left the train and joined another company. Peace prevailed. Batton settled in Santa Rosa, where he lived for many years. 48 CROSSING THE PLAINS IN '49. THE INHUMAN WRETCHES. May 10. — To-day the writer and John Blay- lock found a man dead by the roadside. Two stakes were driven into the ground, and over them was drawn a piece of wagon sheet, under which the man lay. From his appearance we judged he had not been dead long. By his side was a cup of water and a piece of hard bread. Near by lay a card, with the following on it : ''Please give this man a cup of water and bread, if he needs it. He was not able to travel, and wanted to be left." The truth is, the inhuman wretches had left him there to perish, while they rushed madly on to the gold fields. In the dead man's pocket was a letter written at Charleston, Illinois, and addressed to William File, Council Bluffs. May 12. — Our train is in a state of rebellion. Two men quarreled last night. John Pritch- ard stabbed William Smith with a dirk and killed him. Pritchard had a trial, and was acquitted. Every one is cross and ill-natured. The cattle are restless and will not feed. Two men are sick. Some want to travel with the men, die or not die. The whole train is on the war-path. Everything is wrong. The feed is poor. Wood is scarce. Wind is blowing a gale from the north, cold as a Christmas morn- ing in Dakota. Reader, did you ever eat a meal in an old I CROSSING THE TLAINS IN 49. 49 California corral, with the wind blowing thirty miles an hour, holding your hat on with one hand, trying to appease nature with the other, your bread and meat covered with dust and dirt, the gravel and sand flying so thick you could not see? If not, you know but little of the many trials the emigrants of '49-' 50 had. May 13. — We have had the most exciting time since we left the land of civilization. The cattle scented a band of Indians to-day, became frightened, and stampeded. Almost every team left the beaten trail, and away they went at break-neck speed, over the plain, which was as level as a house floor, with here and there many deep gulches full of mud and water. It was almost impossible to stop them until they became exhausted or landed in a gulch, with the wagon piled on top of them. One wagon tongue was broken square off. It was repaired by taking a board from the false bottom in the wagon; after splitting this into narrow strips, the strips were nailed securely around the broken tongue, then they were tightly bound with a small rope. This wagon with the broken tongue was brought to old Hangtown, and sold for seventy-five dollars. Many of the wagons were capsized and the bows smashed and broken. Pots, tin pans, and cups w^ere scattered all over the plain. May 14. — Sunday. Rained all the fore- 50 CROSSING THE PLAINS IN 49. noon; in the afternoon all went fishing in the Platte River, one mile away. The river was full of catfish, and every man caught all he wanted. One man was left with each wagon as a guard. We had not gotten five rods away when old Bob Gardener tapped the keg of old rye whisky we had brought for snake bite. ( Every wagon had a keg of whisky for medicine and for snake bite.) In less than an hour Bob was drunk as a fool. He thought a few doughnuts would be nice for a change. When w^e re- turned, he was lying down. There were a sack of doughnuts, and twenty pounds of sugar wasted. We had doughnuts for a month. They got as dry as hardtack. May 15. — Roy Burges, who has been sick for three weeks, died. His death cast a gloom over the entire train. He was only eighteen years old, and a great favorite with all in the train. He came from Knoxville, Tennessee. Before he died, he wrote a farewell letter to his mother, and addressed it to Mrs. William Burges, Knoxville, Tennessee. The letter was left in the care of the captain of the train, John D. Chambers. He carried it to Sacra- mento, and there mailed it. Chambers in after years settled in Pleasants Valley, and died there in 1870. CROSSING THE PLAINS IN 49. 5I UP THE PLATTE. May 16. — The sun rose from behind great, black clouds, which were rolling up like moun- tains. This is the land of thunder and light- ning. No place on earth equals this for hail and rain, flashes of lightning, and peals, of thunder that make the earth tremble. For two days w^e have traveled through rain and hail, mud and water, sometimes knee deep. No dry wood to be had to get supper. The buffalo chips are wet, and will not burn. Nothing to eat but crackers and raw bacon. The country is level, and as far as the eye can see the road is lined wath emigrant wagons, covered with white muslin. On many of the wagons are mottoes, such as, ''Off for Cali- fornia," "Pike County, Missouri," "Prairie Flower," "California or Bust." The majority of them came from Missouri, Wisconsin, Michigan, and Illinois, and there are but few trains of mules or horses. Eighty per cent of the wagons are hauled by the faithful ox, from two to four yoke to a wagon. The driver, with his long whip, walks by the side of his team from morning till night. At the word, the faithful leader will go through water and mud, or plunge into a rapid stream, or climb the steep and rocky mountainside. Thus the driver can take the ox team where the mule or horse would not go. (THE PLAINS IN 49. 53 DOG TOWN. One of the oddest little creatures we found in our journey of two thousand miles was the prairie dog, about as large as the poodle dog. As they sat up on their hind legs, all over the prairie, they resembled a miniature kangaroo. The dogs were so quick it took the best of marksmen to kill one fifty yards away. Many of the men were positive the dogs could dodge the bullets. They were very fat, and we tried to eat them, but could not get them down. LOOP FORK OF THE PLATTE RIVER. May 17. — The sun looked out from behind the mountains of great black clouds for a moment, and then sank back. It was a dark, gloomy day. The thunder roared, and vivid flashes of chain lig;htninje: ran along the ground. Still on and on we plodded, through water and mud, the rain pouring down in torrents, while every man was wet to the skin. This is the worst day's travel we. have had since we left home. When we arrived at Loop Fork, it was bank full. There was no ferry there, and some of the men went up the river eighty miles to find a crossing. There were over three hundred men anxious to find a crossing. The river was ten feet deep, about forty yards across, and very sluggish. For thirty-six hours we 54 CROSSING THE PLAINS IN '49. cut and dragged willow brush to pile into the river. Fifty men swam the stream and piled brush in on the opposite shore, until the brush met. Then we swam our cattle across, while the men pulled the wagons over on the floating willow bridge. The last wagon had scarcely reached the bank when the water took the bridge away, and the next train must cross as best it can. Loop Fork is the home of the buffalo. Not a tree to be seen. Thousands of buffalo were quietly grazing less than a mile away. For days the road was lined with buffalo heads and skulls bleaching in the sun. (On Loop Fork, in 1853, the writer's oldest child was born, who is now Mrs. M. E. Brown, of Acampo.) May 20 was a perfect day. The sun shone bright and warm. We had camped for the night. The wagons, thirty-six in number, were drawn up in a circle, the cattle in the center for protection. The evening was calm. Not a leaf stirred. All nature seemed to be in repose. The guards were at their posts. The small hours of the night drew on, when peal after peal of thunder burst upon our ears. The heavens were aglow with the flashes of lightning. The rain and hail poured in tor- rents. The cattle swayed from side to side, bellowing and goring each other. All hands were called out on guard. With one wild and CROSSING THE PLAINS IN 49. 55 mad rush, two hundred and fifty head of work oxen went crashing over the wagons, tramp- ling one man, George Pike, to death, and wounding several others. Many of the cattle were not recovered. After two days of delay, we were on our journey again, traveling through broad prai- ries and over rolling hills covered with waving grass, like fields of grain. To our right and left were thousands of antelope. These were hard to kill, our com- pany killing only six on the journey. Here and there could be seen a white wolf sneaking away from some vacated camp-ground with a piece of buffalo meat that had been left there. May 21. — This morning we had an exciting time. Three buffalo ran into our camp. All hands rushed for their guns, but not until twenty balls had entered his hide did one of the buffalo come to the ground. In twenty minutes his hide was off and his carcass in the wagons. At night we jerked the meat. This is done by driving four small forks of wood into the ground. A frame of sticks is then made. The meat is cut in thin strips, then dipped in hot brine and hung over the sticks. A small fire is made under the frame, and from the heat the meat is quickly dried. This is called jerked buffalo meat. On this the emigrants lived fine. 56 CROSSING THE PLAINS IN '49. HOW JIM STOAKS KILLED HIS BUFFALO. Every emigrant, before leaving for Califor- nia in '49-'50, equipped himself with some kind of a gun, with which to protect himself from the Indians, as well as to shoot wild game. Hence there were firearms of all descrip- tions, — double and single-barreled shotguns and smooth-bore and double-twisted rifles. The favorite gun was the old Kentucky rifle, with a barrel three feet long, that carried sixty balls to the pound. Then there was the blunderbuss of the War of 1 81 2. Jim Stoaks selected a blunderbuss. It was short, light, and handy. It was a dangerous looking gun. It looked as if it would kill everything it was pointed at. It was a smooth bore and carried a half-ounce ball. Stoaks loaded it for Indians when we crossed the Missouri River. Days and weeks passed, and no Indians needed killing. The most ferocious thing we saw on the plains, except a band of friendly Indians, was a herd of buffalo. Jim became impatient to try his gun, and turned it loose on the buffalo. They were not one-fourth of a mile away. Jim got under the bank of a creek and crept up to within fifty yards of them. He took sight with both eyes CROSSING THE PLAINS IN '49. 57 Open, and, shaking like a trembling aspen leaf, he pulled the trigger. It was a flint lock, and it missed fire. Jim picked the flint and took aim once more, ex- pecting to blow a hole clear through that buffalo. There was a roar, then a crash, and Jim landed in the bed of the creek, while the gun lay on the opposite bank. When the smoke cleared away, Jim looked for his buffalo, and was just in time to see the herd go over the hill a mile away. Not a hair on their hide had been hurt. Should Jim Stoaks live to be as old as Methuselah, he will never forget the buffalo he did not kill. A SABBATH ON THE PLAINS. May 24. — Sunday. The sun shone warm and bright. The little birds chirped and sang their sweet songs. The gray and black squir- rels jumped from bough to bough. A clear mountain stream went rippling by. On this beautiful stream we had camped for the day. What a Sabbath in the midst of the wilderness! No ringing of the church bell, no prattling of the voices of happy children as they go to and from the Sabbath-school, but here we are, two hundred and fifty impatient and restless men. Some target shooting, oth- ers hunting, some washing, mending, and sew- 58 CROSSING THE PLAINS IN '49. ing on buttons, others reading or playing cards (for sport), while a few of the old patriarchs were holding prayer-meeting. All were happy and gay. Alas, what a change soon took place! The cholera ap- peared in the train, and almost every day we buried a man. I shall never forget the scene and the expe- rience of last night. Not a man closed his eyes in sleep. During the night Hi Dudly, Jake Snider, and Ben Ferguson died. The sick and dying are in every tent. No doctor to be had, and but little can be done. We had no cholera remedies except Ayers' Pain Killer, and that gave no relief. Many were sick only a few hours, and then died. No hope of relief until we reach the mountains, where we will have cool nights and pure, cold water. The wagons are full of sick men. The train will scarcely stop long enough to bury the dead. The only thought is to reach the mountains and get away from the cholera. To-day a man overtook us and begged the captain to stop the train and send men back to help bury some dead, but the majority of the men refused to do it, so the train rushed on, traveling all night. May 26. — We buried six men in one grave. Nothing to mark their last resting-place but a oile of loose stones at the head and foot. The emigrants on the south side of the CROSSING THE PLAINS IN 49. 59 Platte River are crossing over at Ash Hollow. They, too, have the cholera. Every man is panic-stricken. Last night five wagons pulled off and left the train. The road is lined with emigrants night and day, striving to get in front. The death-rate is fearful. We find fresh-made graves at nearly every camping- place. Turn back you can't; go forward you must. LOST IN THE SAN^-HILLS. It was a common occurrence for the emi- grants to take their guns and look for a cut- off. By this they could save many miles of walking, for many emigrants walked nearly the entire distance from the Missouri River to California. On June 4, Arthur Fisk and Silas Rhoads had taken a cut-off ; they missed their bearings and were lost in the sand-hills. For two days and nights they wandered around in the hills, without food or water. They killed a small buffalo calf and broiled the meat on the coals. When almost exhausted, they came out on the level plains. Their eyes were red and bloodshot, their tongues swollen and thick, and they could scarcely talk. Faint and weary, Fisk sank to the ground and could go no farther. Rhoads left him and went in search of water. Near by he found a stagnant pool, and, filling his boot with 6o CROSSING THE PLAINS IN '49. water, he carried it to Fisk, who soon revived and made an effort to walk. Rhoads carried the guns and a piece of meat. They reached the pool of water, and in the distance saw an emigrant train that came within a mile or two of them, then turned to the right and left them. They filled their boots with water and started for the trail. vSoon they saw another train pass by. They fired off their guns, but the emigrants, think- ing they were Indians, paid no attention to them. Faint and weary, they made one more effort to reach the emigrant trail, but soon sank to the ground. The stagnant water had made them deathly sick. Night set in. The air was cool, and with sage-brush they made a fire. Two of their company on horseback, who were looking for them, saw the fire and went to their relief. They were taken to the camp, and the next morning Fisk died. Rhoads was ill until we reached Salt Lake City, where he remained with the Mormons. June 6. — We broke camp at daylight. The stock had no water or feed last night. At ten we camped on Squaw Creek. This is the ill- fated camp where James Crockett, of Arkan- sas, while en route for Oregon in 1847, shot and killed an inoffensive squaw. The Indians at once sent the squaws to the mountains, and in less than twenty- four hours the train was CROSSING THE PLAINS IN '49. 61 surrounded by more than three hundred In- dians, demanding the man who had killed the squaw. There were only fifty white men in the train, and they could go no farther. After three days of parleying with the In- dians, to save the entire train, Crockett was surrendered to them. With yells of triumph the savages dragged him from the camp. In plain view they danced and yelled with hellish glee, torturing their victim with all the means known to the savages of the forest. Then they skinned him alive, and, when the spirit had left the body, and they could inflict no more pain, they tied his remains to a wild Indian pony and turned it loose on the plains. Then the Indians let the train proceed un- molested. ONLY ONE STORM. June 10. — We camped fifty miles below Fort Laramie on the Platte. The day had been a perfect one. Hundreds of wagons were in sight. Thousands of men were camped within a few miles of us. Everything was calm and serene. Horror ! What is it that so suddenly causes man and beast to tremble? A long, ominous roll of thunder swept up out of the distance. It was evident a hurricane was approaching. The heavens had grown intensely dark. Great, black clouds, like mountains, rolled up in the 62 CROSSING THE PLAINS IN 49. northwest. A faint, moaning wind stirred the tops of the trees. There was now and then a drop of rain. A cold, shivering chill per- vaded the atmosphere. In fact, we all felt the air was withering" cold. A brilliant glare of light burst suddenly upon us. The heavens seemed thrown open from end to end. A broad lake of quivering fire lay in the clouds, as dark as pitch. Only for a second, then on and on came the ever-increasing, rattling roar of thunder, that shook the very earth. The rain and hail poured in torrents. The tents were torn from their fastenings. The beds and clothing were buried in ice and hail six to seven inches deep. The men sought shelter under the wagons, that were blown over like paper houses. The cattle and horses fled before the storm in wild confusion, and scattered for miles over the plains. Many of the cattle and horses Avere never found. In less than one hour the storm had passed. Ruin and destruction lay in its wake. A SAD DAY. June 15. — We camped on Platte River. The day was cold and gray, and a gloomy one for all of us. We found a man dead in the river, lodged against a drift. We dug a grave by the water's edge, and with long poles we rolled him in. CROSSING THE PLAINS IN '49. 63 Two Indian arrows still remained in his body to show the cause of death. There w^as nothing to tell who he was except a small Testament in his pocket, in which was written, "Robert Vancleave, Bellefontaine, Iowa." FAREWELL TO THE PLAINS. June 19. — To-day we reached the base of the Rocky Mountains, and bade adieu to the land of thunder and lightning, hurricane and cy- clone, desert and garden, river and plain. What scenes we have witnessed ! what suf- fering and hardships we have endured ! Land of the savage, through thy fields of waving grass, over thy hills of sand, across thy barren, sandy plains, through thy sage- brush thickets, we have dragged our weary bodies along. We have slept beside thy stag- nant pools, fought thy bloodthirsty inhabit- ants, buried our companions in thy loose sand, food for the wolves. Land of sorrow, adieu. FORT LARAMIE. June 20. — Here we are, five hundred miles from the Missouri River. How every heart leaps with joy as we behold the fort, for it is the only house we have seen since we left the Missouri River. The fort is built of logs, and will garrison one hundred soldiers. Fort Laramie is located on Laramie River, at the base of the Rocky Mountains, and at 64 CROSSING THE PLAINS IN '49. the junction of the north fork of the Platte River. Fifty soldiers were stationed here. They kept a ferry, and charged us twenty-five dol- lars to take a wagon across. From here our route lay up the south side of the Platte sixty miles, where we crossed back over the Platte River. At this point the river is rough and rapid, and we found much difficulty in swimming our cattle across.' Some of them we had to pull over with ropes. Some trappers and Indians had canoes here, five of which were lashed together, with poles across them. On this the wagons were taken across the river. The water was cold as ice, and ran very rapidly. One man was drowned here to-day, — Andrew^ Long, of Edyville, Iowa. Here we enter the mountains. Our route lies up the north fork of the Platte River. To our left and in the distance rises the famous Black Mountain, in after years known as Pike's Peak. What a wealth of gold and silver ore lay buried in the depths of these black hills! We have now reached the mountains; the trail is very steep and rough. The emigrants find they have made a great mistake in over- loading the teams. As a rule, the emigrants, when making up their outfits, had but little idea what they needed. Hence, everything CROSSING THE PLAINS IN '49. 65 that a man's wife or a boy's mother could think of was piled in the wagons. Sheet-iron stoves, feather beds, pillows, pil- low-slips, blankets, quilts and comforters, pots and kettles, dishes, cups, saucers, knives, and forks. Many of these things about as much use to the emigrant as two tails to a dog. Talk about clothing, some men had enough to last five years. The writer saw men with trunks full of white shirts and plug hats. To cap the climax, one man was hauling a great walnut bedstead. He took it to Oregon. The wagons were full to the tops of the bows, and were twice as heavy as they should have been. Hence, every team was overloaded. The cattle soon began to give out, and the emigrants began to throw away their baggage. Out went the cook stove, then the feather beds and pillows and pillow-slips, for they were as black as the ground. The road was lined with all kinds of baggage. This the Indians gath- ered up and carried ofif. June 25. — This morning before sunup we broke camp and were ready for another day's hard work. There was a slight drizzle of rain falling. Rain and sunshine w^ere alike to us, and we pulled out of camp. We are now climbing the Rocky Mountains. These are filled wnth deep, dark canyons, through w^hich torrents of icy water go rush- 66 CROSSING THE PLAINS IN '49, ing to the Atlantic, thousands of miles away in the east. Here we find great forests where the brown and cinnamon bear, the panther, and thou- sands of other wild animals roam unmolested. Here is the home of the red men of the forest. Among them are some of the most savage and w^arlike tribes on the continent. As we near the summit, the valleys grow^ narrower, until they form great canyons, that dip deeper and deeper, until they form an im- penetrable barrier to our progress. All day long we have followed the steep and rocky trail, cutting logs and rolling rocks out of the w^ay, bridging canyons and gulches. Now up some long, narrow mountain slope, then down into some deep, dark canyon, then up out of the canyon the train must climb. Our long train of ox teams, winding around the steep and rough mountainside like some great serpent, a man at every wheel, the driver urging the poor brutes toward the summit. The task was one that made the strongest heart grow sick. All day long we have been climbing over rocks and up the steep mountain- sides. Logs and brush must be cut out of the way, and rocks rolled out of the trail. Night has overtaken us, and no camping- ground has been found. The cattle are chained to the trees, with no w^ater or food. Many of the men, weary with the toils of the CROSSING THE PLAINS IN '49. 67 day, ate crackers and raw bacon, and were glad to get it. When supper was over, we gathered around the bright camp-fire, smoked our pipes, and talked of the trials of the day. I lay on my back, looking up at the bright stars in the deep blue of the cloudless sky, and listened in fulness of contented delight to the chat of my companions. I remember well how my heart beat with joy to know that we had at last reached the Rocky Mountains and the cholera had left us. I lay and listened, and the tales told that night by the men sit- ting around the camp-fire have never been erased from my memory. The mountains are steep, rough, and rocky. Our train, consisting of forty-six wagons, two hundred and seventy-six oxen, and two hun- dred men, as it went rattling down the steep mountainside sounded like distant thunder, that could be heard for miles. The wagons are yet overloaded, and many of the- best cattle are lame. Their feet are bleeding, and they are giving out. On June 26 we shod our first ox. The ox is turned on his back and two pieces of thin iron nailed on each foot. June 27. — We passed through Blue Can- yon. Here the cliffs rise on either side of the trail, six to seven hundred feet high, assu- ming fantastic forms, 68 CROSSING THE PLAINS IN '49. It was here we found the grandest and most enchanting scenery we had yet beheld. The towering chffs, the wild blue water as it leaps from rock to rock, splashing and foaming in its mad rush to reach the waters below. High up on the jagged cliff stands the mountain-sheep, gazing in wonder at the strange intruder. As the noon-day sun penetrates this dark chasm, throwing a mellow light from cliff to cliff, all blends in one perfect hue of blue. The rocks, the cliffs, the trees and foliage, the men, the wagons and oxen, are all transformed into a perfect blue. I shall never forget the scenes in this wild canyon. As I stood beside great piles of bacon and flour, piled higher than my head, a notice on every pile, ''This is clean ; help yourself," little did I dream that, long before we reached the gold fields, many of us would be starving to death. Here in one pile was more than five tons of flour and bacon, left behind to lighten up the loads.' This the Indians would not eat for fear of poison. INDEPENDENCE ROCK. No description can do adequate justice to the grandeur and majestic beauty of this rock. It was named by Colonel Freemont, who eel- e CROSSING THE PLAINS IN 49. 69 ebrated the Fourth of July here iu 1842. He was then exploring the Rockies. Independence Rock was the landmark by which the trappers and the gold hunters steered their ox teams o the gold fields of California. Independence Rock! There it stands like some great sentinel keeping guard over the sacred bones of departed Indian warriors. Could that old sentinel relate the scenes it has witnessed, the very blood would curdle in our veins. The air never seemed so fresh and cool as it did in the shadow of this great sentinel. It is located on Sweet Water, and stands five hundred feet high. It is two hundred feet in diameter at its base. Thousands of names were carved on this rock by emigrants as they passed by. They had climbed as high as they could. The highest name of all was Cisro Dowd, of Ohio. On this old sentinel I saw the names of William Palmer and Henry Seamon. This was the first trace I had seen of the company that left me sick at St. Joseph. ^ On July 10, i^ or THf UNIVERSITY or J. M. Pleasants CROSSING THE PLAINS IN 49. 1 59 home, Mr. Pleasants and his two boys took the gold fever. The pleadings and prayers of loved ones fell on deaf ears, and they soon prepared to seek their fortunes in the land of gold. Mr. Pleasants, then in the prime of life, re- solved to be among the first to reach the gold fields. In an old thimble-skein wagon, with hickory poles for bows, over which was drawn common muslin for a cover, they piled blan- kets, clothes, and provisions enough to last them six months, while their old Kentucky rifles, shot pouch, and powder horns were se- curely fastened to the bows. On April i6, with four yoke of young cattle, two milk cows, and one saddle horse, a light wagon, and a well-selected outfit, they bade adieu to loved ones and civilization, and joined the pioneers in one mad rush for the gold fields. April 18 they joined a large train that took the Indian and buffalo trail leading to the west, up the south side of Platte River. The wild and desolate land, the ever-chang- ing scenery, the thousands of buffalo and elk and antelope that crossed their path, filled their }-oung hearts with joy. With what pleasure they pursued the wild game over the broad l^rairie and sand-hills ! Days and weeks had passed, and nothing- had transpired to mar the pleasure of their l6o CROSSING THE PLAINS IN '49. young hearts. But, alas, a sad gloom fell over the entire train long before they reached Ash Hollow, four hundred miles from the Missouri River. The cholera made its appearance in the train, and claimed John Coleman as its first victim. They had scarcely left the fresh- made grave when the dreaded scourge claimed Edwin Roe as another victim. The heat was intense, water poor, and men sick in almost every wagon. The train was almost panic-stricken. Nearly every day the cholera claimed a victim, until ten of their comrades had been left in lonely graves — no, not lonely graves, for other trains buried their comrades by their sides. Not till they reached the mountains, with cool nights and pure, cold water, did the scourge leave the train. Their cattle young, the wagon light and not overloaded, they were able to be among the pioneer wagons, hence they found wood, water, and feed for their cattle in abundance. The Indians were friendly, and in many instances aided them in finding feed and water for the cattle. Their greatest difficulty was in crossing the rapid streams and following the rough and crooked trail up and over the rough mountain- side, for many trees and rocks had fallen across their pathway. On many of the rapid streams there was no boat except a few Indian canoes, which were CROSSING THE PLAINS IN '49. 161 lashed together with long poles and the wagons and provisions taken over, while the cattle and horses swam across the stream. The train, which consisted of twenty-six wagons and one hundred men, was well or- ganized, and perfect harmony prevailed during the entire trip. Many little incidents and mishaps transpired, but after five months of toil and hardships they arrived at Bid well's Bar, on Feather River, and, like thousands of other emigrants, tried their luck at mining, but were not suc- cessful in finding a rich mine. Tired and dis- gusted with the mines, early in 1850 they made their way to Solano County, and located in what is now known as Pleasants Valley, in the very heart of the rich and early fruit belt. During the winter of 1850 Mr. Pleasants and his two boys spent their time in hunting, killing deer, elk, and bear, which they packed to Sacramento on mules, selling it for twenty- five to fifty cents per pound. Some of the bear would tip the scales at four to five hundred pounds, thus bringing from seventy-five to one hundred dollars per bear. For over fifty years Mr. Pleasants resided in Pleasants Valley, though visiting the home of his youth several times. At the ripe old age of ninety-one he passed over to the land from whence no traveler ever returns. W. J. Pleasants, the oldest boy of whom we 11 l62 CROSSING THE PLAINS IN '49. write, still lives on the old homestead, while Edward lives in Orange County, California. HOW JOHN REED KILLED HIS BEAR. The writer is indebted to James Lovejoy, a comrade of Reed's while crossing the plains in 1849, for the following thrilling story, told in his own words : — September 14. — We had camped for the night. Our oxen were tied to the trees. Sup- per w^as over, and we were still chatting around the camp-fire, while the smouldering embers were burning low. It was one of those still, clear nigts, which are so often found in the mountain gorges. The moon shown dimly, throwing the long shadows of the stately pines across the track- less forest. The air had become deathly still. Hark! what is that? Evidently a California lion is creeping upon our cattle. The moon had gone down. The stars were shut out by the dense forest and underbrush, and it had become intensely dark. We could not see a rod away. With rifle in hand we awaited the approach of the lion. He set up a most un- earthly growl, and seized one of the oxen. We could hear him breaking the bones of his prey, and yet we had no notion of interrupting him. Hours passed. The coyotes were gathering around, snarling and fighting, but dared not CROSSING THE PLAINS IN 49. 1 63 approach. Suddenly they left. Not fifty yards away came a grizzly bear crashing through the brush, making straight for the lion and ox. It was evident there would be a conflict be- tween them. The woods echoed with their savage growling. We waited, but not calmly, for the result. The lion, though not half the size of the bear, defended his prey with such courage and skill that old bruin soon found his match, and was compelled to retire. Pie discovered the other oxen tied to the trees, and made for them. They plunged and bellowed, but the bear soon laid one of them low, and on it gorged himself. Hours now seemed days to us. How we longed for the light of another day! Tired and weary with watching, we fell into a doze. As day dawned, John Reed roused from his slumber, and, seeing our noble and faithful ox, that had helped to drag our wagon across the plains and over the snow-capped mountains for two thousand miles, lying dead, he resolved to kill that bear or lose his life in the attempt. He quietly crept from his comrades, and, with rifle in hand, started on the bear's trail. Was General Jackson ever in a rage. Reed was more so. But how soon he was to bitterly repent of his folly! His imprudent and wild rage led him on and on. For miles Reed followed on the bear's trail, suddenly coming upon him. The bear rushed at him with open 164 CROSSING THE PLAINS IN '49. mouth. Reed fired, making a flesh wound; this only increased the bear's fury. Reed was forced to flee for his Ufe. Dropping his gun, he cHmbed a small tree, but not in time to escape the bear's claws. The bear seized Reed by one leg, but fortunately his boot pulled off, and the bear went crashing to the ground, taking with him Reed's boot and pants. Reed now climbed to the topmost branch. Time and time again did old bruin endeavor to reach him, but, the tree being small, the bear was obliged to give it up. The bear walked around the tree, taking a survey of things. He then flew at the tree, endeavoring to tear it down. The sun was sinking low in the western horizon. Still old bruin held his post. Reed's situation was now becoming critical, for at every gust of wind, which had risen, the tree would swing to and fro. The wind in- creased to a gale, and Reed saw the tree must soon go, and with it he must fall into the very jaws of death. The bear evidently knew Reed must soon come to the ground, for he watched him with the eagerness of a cat, ready to pounce upon its prey. The wind had increased to a hurricane, and the tree came crashing to the ground. With- out pants or boots, Reed struck out for dear life, with the bear close at his heels. At every CROSSING THE PLAINS IN 49. 1 65 jump he could feel the warm breath of the bear, so close was he upon him. Reed's strength was failing fast, and could hold out but a little longer, when the loud report of three rifles rang out upon the clear mountain air. After anxiously waiting and watching for Reed to return, Ike Harris, Bob Smith, and William Boyer took the bear's trail in search of Reed. Mile after mile they crept through the underbrush. Just as they came out into the open timber. Reed and the bear came rush- ing toward them. They fired, and old bruin fell dead at their feet. Reed gave a sigh of relief to know he was saved from old bruin's claws. THE BURNT WAGON. In Marion County, Iowa, in 1853, on the broad prairie, stood a lonely cabin, the home of Silas Brown and James Tong. Before the door stood an emigrant wagon and four yoke of restless oxen. With busy hands they piled bed and bedding into the wagon. All things ready, Mrs. Brown and Mrs. Tong, with her babe, took their seats in the wagon that was to be their home for six months. Little did they dream of the hardships that awaited them. Brown cracked his long whip, and the oxen started with their heavy load for the gold fields. At St. Joseph, Missouri, they joined a large 1 66 CROSSING THE PLAINS IN '49. train of twenty-eight wagons, one hundred and twelve men, six women, and three chil- dren, two hundred and twenty-four oxen, and two cows. They also had ten head of saddle horses. June 25. — Feed was scarce, cattle were poor, and many of them lame and giving out. Brown and Tong left the large train and camped by themselves, in hopes that their cat- tle might get more feed. July 4, 1853, was a lovely morning. No boomiing of the cannon. No sign of civiliza- tion. Not a sound could be heard in that vast wilderness, except the whistling of the mock- ing-bird and the twitter of the little sparrows at the approach of a new day. It was still dark when Brown and Tong went in search of their cattle, but no cattle could be found. The large train, that was camped in sight, pulled out and left them. They soon found the trail where the Indians had driven their cattle off. Brown and Tong left the women at camp and went in pursuit of the Indians. The women, tired and weary of waiting for the men to return, went to hunt berries, of which there were many on the banks of the creek. They had not left the wagon far when they saw the blue smoke curling up and a band of Indians dancing around the burning wagon CROSSING THE PLAINS IN '49. 1 67 and tent. Trembling with fear, they crawled into the brush with the babe, and hid. Higher and higher rose the sun, and the heat was intense. " They were nearly famished for water and food, but they dare not move lest they be discovered by the red devils. The sun was sinking low in the western horizon when, trembling with fear, and almost fam- ished for water, they crawled out from their hiding-place. In the distance they saw their husbands returning without an ox. They met the men at the camp, where all was in ashes, and not a morsel of food or a stitch of cloth- ing was left, except what they had on their backs, not a blanket to keep out the cold night air. They took the babe in their arms and started on the trail to overtake the train. Over the rough, rocky road, through the deep sand, and up and down the steep hills, they trudged along, carrying their precious burden. It had cried itself to sleep begging for something to eat. The sun had gone down behind the snow- capped mountains, and the bright, full moon had arisen, throwing the shadow of the tall, stately pines across the trackless forest. The shades of night had set in. Still weary and faint for want of food, they trudged along. Hark ! 'tis the sound of voices. "Indians ! In- dians !" the women exclaimed. With a moth- er's love, Mrs. Tong hugged her babe to her 1 68 CROSSING THE PLAINS IN '49. throbbing heart. They stopped in the trail, the men with rifles in hand, awaiting the ap- proach of the enemy. Nearer and nearer they came, when the voice of a white man fell on their ears. Then went up a shout of joy, for it was two men on horseback from their own train, with food and water for their unfortu- nate companions. The women and babe were taken on the horse, and at the dawn of day they reached the camp of the large train, and were saved. THE CAMP-FIRE. The most pleasant part of the trip across the plains in '49-' 50 was around the camp-fire. Supper over, dishes and pots out of the way, we would gather around the camp-fire and re- late the scenes of the day, and spin long yarns. Some played the violin, others the accordeon. A few would play cards, while the young men would sing their favorite California songs : — It rained all night, the day I left, The weather, it was dry. The sun so hot, I froze to death, * Susanna, don't you cry. Chorus: — Susanna, Don't you cry for me, I'm going to California, Some gold dust for to see. 1 had a dream the other night, When everything was still; CROSSING THE PLAINS IN '49. 1 69 I dreamed I saw Susanna, dear, A-coming down the hill. Chorus. The buckwheat cake was in her mouth, The tear stood in her eye, And all that I could say to her Was, Susanna don't you cry. Chorus. Though there were many pleasant and happy hours in camp, there were times when every heart was filled with sorrow. July 20 had been a long and weary day. Tired with the toils of the day, the entire train had sought rest — no, not all, for there was one who found no rest. Uncle Tobin, as he was called by all, lay suffering in his tent. He was taken sick on the Platte River, seven hundred miles behind. For weeks we had hauled him over the rough and rocky road, and not a murmur escaped his lips. The small hours of the night drew on. Lying in my tent, I could hear him offer up his feeble prayer and in low accents sing his favorite song: — On the other side of Jordan, In the sweet fields of Eden, Where the tree of Life is blooming There is rest for me. Poor old soul, that was his last song on earth, for, when the morning dawned, his spirit had taken flight. We wrapped him in his blankets and laid him away. We gathered CROSSING THE PLAINS IN 49. I7I wild flowers and strewed them on his grave, for we all had learned to love Uncle Tobin. September 15, 1850. — To-day we passed the first mining camp. The old log cabin of '49 has been crushed by the heavy snow. Near by stands the new trading post, made of shakes. In this camp the writer did his first day's work in the mines, and found one piece of gold w^orth eight dollars. This piece of gold he carried to Ohio, thence to Iowa, then back to Cali- fornia. Then, in 1854, his wife sold it to buy bread for her oldest child. In after years this camp was known as Johnson ranch. Three miles from this camp, in 1850, the Indians took two men, John Tuttle and James Deaner, laid them on a log, and cut them up by joints, and left them lying on the log. Two days afterward the writer saw twenty-one In- dians in one pile, that the miners had killed in revenge. ONLY THREE MEALS. The most amusing feature of the trip across the plains in '49-' 50 was the cooking. The outfit of cooking utensils when we got through was not elaborate, — one iron pot, one skillet or Dutch oven, in which we bak^d bread, one coffee-pot, and a teapot to each wagon. All the other pots, kettles, and pans had been thrown awav. As a rule, there were four men CROSSING THE PLAINS IN 49 173 to the wagon. John got the wood and started the fire; Dick fetched the water; Ben looked after the cattle ; Frank got supper, — fried bacon, cooked flapjacks, and made tea. It took an expert to cook flapjacks. When one side was done, they were flipped up in the air and lit in the pan the cooked side up. For breakfast, hot biscuit, made with cold water and saleratus, fried bacon, and coffee. Dinner, cold bread or crackers, w4th cold meat or raw bacon. Sundays wx had boiled beans and dumplings, and on special occasions we had a pot of boiled rice with sugar on it. September i6. — We arrived at Hangtown, the end of our journey. It is a long lane that has no end. So we found the trail that led to Califor- nia. After six months of toil and harships, across the dreary and sandy plains, through the hostile tribes of Indians, up the steep and rocky mountainside, across the raging streams, over the burning desert, through the snow- capped mountains, and down the steep and rocky canyons. We camped at old Hangtown, two thousand miles from the Missouri River. Sunburned, ragged, and dusty. The cattle poor and lean, wagons empty, provisions gone. We sold the cattle for two hundred dollars per yoke, wag- ons from fifty to one hundred dollars each, CROSSING THE PLAINS IN '49 I75 rifles and shotguns for from ten to twenty dollars. At Hangtown we found every nationality under the sun represented. The mountains and canyons were full of gold hunters. A few were making their for- tunes, while thousands of them were only making a living. In my pioneer mining days many amusing incidents occurred, but this one I deem worthy of recording, as it illustrates how we longed to see a white woman. It was in the winter of 1850. We were mining on the north fork of Weaver Creek, twenty-five miles east of old Hangtown, where Three- finger Jack was hanged in 1849. It was Sat- urday; the snow had been falling nearly all day, when Sam Hit came into camp with the joyful news that a white woman had come to Snow's camp, sixteen miles away. Next morn- ing I put on my best jeans pants, my mother had made, a pair of alligator boots that I gave an ounce of gold dust for ($18), a red flannel shirt that cost me four dollars, my old wool hat, lopped down over my ears. I struck out on foot to see the wonderful creature, a white woman. When I arrived at Snow's camp, it was late in the day, and as Mrs. Snow kept a restaurant, I ordered dinner, at $1.50. While eating, I saw some eggs in a pan. On inquiry, I learned thev were worth one dollar each, so 176 CROSSING THE PLAINS IN '49 I ordered one cooked. This brought my din- ner up to $2.50. It was dark long before I reached home. I had a long, weary walk over a steep moun- tain trail, and, should I live to be a hundred years old, I shall never forget the day I walked sixteen miles to see a white woman in Califor- nia. After four years of toil in the mines, I settled in Pleasants Valley. I have borne my share of pioneer life; the time is near when there will be no survivors of the pioneers of '49-' 50. But few are left to tell the tale. And now my story is ended. If I have been suc- cessful in conveying to the reader a little of the hardships, the toils, and privations the pioneers of '49-' 50 endured, then I shall be completely rewaj^^3lRSpJ^fet)or. Of THE" UNIVERSITY or 203167 RETURN TO: CIRCULATION DEPARTMENT 198 Main Stacks LOAN PERIOD 1 Home Use 2 3 4 5 6 ALL BOOKS MAY BE RECALLED AFTER 7 DAYS. Renewals and Recharges may be made 4 days prior to the due date. Books may be renewed by calling 642-3405. DUE AS STAMPED BELOW. SEP 4 200Z FORM NO. DD6 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA, BERKELEY 50M 6-00 Berkeley, California 94720-6000 FORM NO. DD6A BFRKFI F Y PA OA70n GENERAL LIBRARY ■ U.C. BERKELEY Boooao54ia