As Told by
Mary Dunn
The Long Journey Begun
At last on April 14, 1852, we
left
Keokuk in company with Uncle Claybourne and his family; Mr. Stanard,
who
married cousin Jane Hill and settled in Brownsville, Oregon; two
families
of Templetons; John Pelton and a number of others making a train of
thirty
wagons and some seventy-five people. The roads out of Keokuk were
almost impassible, and at times the wagons were mired up to the hubs,
and
travel was difficult and slow. Mud, mud, mud that had to be got
through
and such "Geeing" and "Hawing" to the unruly oxen, the cracking of
whips
and bellowing of loose cattle can neither be described nor
imagined.
To jump up meant to wade over shoe tops and no rubbers or galoshes were
known in those days. Think of that first night out with tents in
the mud, supper in the mud, and feather beds for the men in the
mud.
It was a great celebration for my sister Has's fourteenth birthday, but
I guess no one remembered it but she. It was very tedious all
thye
way across Iowa, and we had to double team to get through, but we
continued
on our way steadily and arrived at Council Bluffs, May tenth.
Here we found an immense city of
wagons
waiting to be taken over in flat-bottomed ferry boats, propelled by
oars.
The river was very high and some two miles wide. Father had
written
to the man in charge of the emigrant trains crossing the Missouri River
at this point and had informed him of the probable date of our arrival
and had received a permit to cross. When we drove up ready to
cross
with the tongue of each wagon made fast to the wagon ahead, those who
had
arrived ahead of us were very angry. They ran our wagons back
from
the river and placed theirs ahead, then our men rolled the wagons back
and placed ours in position again and stood guard iver them all
night.
There was great pushing and crowding, and many not belonging to my
father's
train got across on his permit. There were no houses then at
Council
Bluffs, and on the Nebraska side where Omaha now stands were only some
Indian teepees. It took three days, May 10,11 and 12, to
cross.
Almost all of our wagons were
transported
across the river the first day. The next morning, May 11, one of
our wagons and a boat loaded with cattle started across the
river.
My brother John, a young man twenty-three years of age, accompanied
them.
Suddenly the boat sank. An effort to save John was made, but it
was
unsuccessful. He was drowned and his body was not found. A
deepsense of loss and sadness fell upon us as we left the river to
continue
our journey, leaving John, who was so well beloved, behind us.
The next night we made camp on the
site of the city of Omaha. The roads were very soft and miry in
this
vicinity. We arrived at a bog over which a bridge had been
constructed
by previous emigrant trains. Here we encountered Indians for the
first time. They had surrounded the bridge and boldly insisted
that
we pay them to cross. My father told them to clear a path and get
out of the way or he would make it unpleasant for them. They did
as ordered in a hurry, and we went on our way unmolested.
Soon we discovered that three calves
had been left behind; my sister Lou and cousin Caroline volunteered to
go back and get them, provided they were supplied with pistols for the
trip. After they had found the calves and were returning, the
Indians
gathered at the bridge again and demanded the calves as pay for having
permitted the wagons to pass. Lou told them to take the calves,
but
Caroline drew her pistol and told them to get off the bridge.
They
did so without further parley.
The day we were comming to the
Platte
River we saw a black cloud, and father called to hurry up and try to
get
to lower ground, but the cattle were slow and the wind blew very hard
and
it hailed on us. However, when we arrived at the river, we found
that we had missed most of the storm. The wind had blown the
covers
off the wagons, flattened the tents, the cattle had stampeded and the
people
were greatly frightened. We were thankful to have missed being in
its path. Father endeavored to keep his teams in good condition
and
loaded one wagon with corn to feed the cattle till the grass got
better.
Brother Cicero had one yoke of big raw-boned oxen in his team of
four yoke. He named them "corn eaters." When he would get
in
the wagon, they would turn around and look at him, wanting some
corn.
Brother thought he would get even so he took the leather aprons
off
a saddle and made them some blinds. They presented a very funny
appearance
and caused a lot of laughter.
When we reached the Elkhorn River,
we found a great band of Indians already camped. Uncle Claybourne
selected a good spot for a tent and requested a young Indian who was
standing
there to move. The Indian refused, and Uncle pushed him out of
the
way. The Indian ran away and soon returned with a number of his
fellows
armed with bows and arrows. They insisted that Uncle be
punished.
Father talked to them in their jargon, and they finally agreed to make
peace if they could have a lot of bread. This was ag reed upon;
and
while it was hard on the cooks, we all got busy and they were soon
eating
the bread of peace. In the morning we crossed the river by
propping
up the wagon beds so they would be above the water.
During this time we were milking
about
thirty cows where we had good grass, and would fill a large five or six
gallon can with milk in the morning and put in the wagon. By
evening
we would have about a pound of butter. Soon, however, the grass
grew
scarce and the cows went dry, so we were without this food. The
corn
for the cattle became so reduced that one wagon had to be
abandoned.
It became hot and dry, but wheter under the scorching rays of the sun
or
in a p;ouring rain -- go we must or we would not get over the mountain
trail before winter came. Sickness must not stop us or even death
except for a short time. We girls were to cook supper and make
down
beds in the evening and to get breakfast and the packing done in the
morning.
It was our ambition to be started down the trail before the
train.
To get behind meant almost to be left behind. Along the Platte
River
all the cooking had to be done with "buffalo chips" for fuel, which we
girls gathered as we went along. We walked a large part of the
way;
and when our hired men struck, I had to drive one of the yoke of oxen,
so over that part of the road I at least doubled the distance.
Beautiful
scenery was often passed without a single look; we were so tired.
I think the journey was harder on the women than the men. It
usually
took a couple of days to cross a river, and the women washed at these
places.
We continued our journey along the
Platte and soon arrived at Loup Fork. There were many wagon
trains
trying to cross it as it was late evening. The bed of the river
was
mostly quicksand and was extremely dangerous to cross, so one wagon
could
not follow the track of a former. Father watched them for some
time
and decided we would go farther up the stream to find a firm
crossing.
We followed up the river for two days and crossed without any trouble.
Cicero became ill before we reached
Fort Laramie, and he could not ea t our usual far e of fat bacon and
beans.
He begged some of the boys to cross the river and get him some
potatoes.
Father was sure we could not get any potatoes until we reached Oregon,
but the boys crossed and came back with a bushel of them. They
made
a wonderful diversion for all of us to have a tast e. As our
small
cousin, Luceren Hill watched the potatoes baking by the camp fire he
solemnly
stated, "All I want in the world is just one more 'tater'."
Needless
to say, he got it.
At Fort Laramie, where we arrived
May 22, which was my birthday, we found that along the south side of
the
Platte the cholera had broken out and hundreds were dying. Every
one was eager to get away from the dread disease as quickly as
possible,
and they crossed to the north side below Laramie, bringing the cholera
with them. All was bustle, hurry and confusion. Father
realizewd
that it would be impossible to get away from it, so he calmly planned
to
go on our way and make the best of what should happen. He had a
doctor
in St. Louis prepare a box of medicines to use, and he probably saved
many
lives by prescribing these remedies. Many would pass us with
their
sick and dying, stopping only a few minutes to bury their dead by the
wayside.
It almost caused a riot in our own train. Those who had horse
teams
galloped ahead, but it only broke down their teams that they were
already
almost unfit to travel. The country here was barren and
waste.
Our cattle were getting very poor, and father lost two of his fine
mares,
but much worse was the fact that cholera had come into our midst.
Our train fared better than many others, having very little sickness
and
only one death. The little Pickens child was sick a day or so
before
father knew it, and she died. We managed to get a box for the
body
and gave here a Christaian burial. The cholera stayed with the
trains
until they reached the Cascade mountains. As we traveled that
three
hundred miles up the Platte we passed many graves where loved ones had
been left by the wayside. The depressing, lonely graves, coupled
with a constant fear of the Indians, caused us to face each day with a
dread of what it might bring to us.
The days when we were forced to do
without fresh water were extremely trying; when there was no water for
the stock, we traveled day and night. We had a fine Durham heifer
that belonged to my brother John who was drowned, and she was very
precious
to me. She was about to give out on account of the her and lack
of
water. I stole a cup of water out of our scanty supply and gave
it
to her, then walked by her side the rest of the day in order that i
might
hold an umbrella over her. That help (with a biscuit which I fed
her and for which I was roundly scolded) enabled her to reach the next
stopping place and water.
We could see Chimney Rock ahead of
us for days; it was a natural guidepost, and the road to it was very
straight.
We reached it June 6. One morning I was the first one up in
camp,and
upon leaving the tent I saw an immense herd of buffalo grazing
nearby.
I called the men, and one of them rushed out and began firing into the
herd. Immediately they stampeded and the ground shook so much
that
our cooking utensils rattled. It was a spectacular sight as they
went thundering off in the dawn. This hill where the buffalo went
out of sight was one of the few places I recognized when I followed the
trail as nearly as I could by train in 1902, just fifty years after.
Our route led past Independence Rock
which covered some twenty-seven acres of ground and towered more than a
hundred feet above Sweetwater river. We found good water here,
plenty
of green grass and many lovely flowers. Thousands of names
had been carved upon the sides by those who had camped in the
vicinity.
We travelled a long distance along the beautiful Sweetwater river and
eventually
came to the Devil's Gate, an opening through the solid rock, said to be
four hundred feet deep and nearly vertical. Practically all routes west
came through this cleft in the granite ledge, although they might take
other paths in other places. We drove down stream in the bed of
the
river for some distance. So full of deep holes was the river bed
that the passage was very rough and dangerous. Many of us were
freightened
and nervous.
At South Pass here we crossed the
Continental Divide we found the weather very raw and cold. There
were snow drifts all around, and I picked flowers standing in a
drift.
As we moved westward we crossed the Green river on July 2, then on into
Idaho where we reached Fort Hall on July 12. We crossed the Snake
river near here for the first time. We found the country across
Idaho
very trying. The weather was hot and the dust heavy. The
cattle
suffered for water, and we were glad when we reached the Boise river,
which
we followed down to the Snake which we crossed near where the city of
Boise
is now. It was now July 31, and we lay by for a day, and it took
us three days more to cross the river. The day the family crossed
Mother and sister Has went with the first load, and Lou and I stayed
with
the goods until the last. The sun was very hot, and there was a
group
of Indians near. One of their number had died, and the whole
tribe
howled all day to add to our misgivings. It was nearly dark when
father returned for us. He loaded the three running gears of the
wagons, piled all of the loose traps on top of them, and Lou and I
climed
to the very top of the load. Across the river we started.
Father
had been rowing all day and his arms and hands began to cramp so
painfully
that he could neither row nor steer the boat. We drifted down the
river for a mile or more before we finally found a landing place.
It was pitch dark by that time, and father told us that we would have
to
go to camp for help, as he could not leave the wagon. We could
see
the light from the camp fires, so we started out, making our way the
best
we could. We scrambled over rocks, brush and vines; sometimes we
were up and sometimes down. It did not take much imagination to
hear
all kinds of wild animals which added to our speed if not our
comfort.
We finally reached camp, two freightened, exhausted girls, and sent
help
to father.
Last updated by William P. Russell on Saturday, 08-Sep-2018 09:40:26 MDT