Back in present-day Pennsylvania, I was anxious to hear what Towell and Wilson had learned about my would-be assassins. Not much, as it turned out.
"I think we talked to just about everybody living up in that area," Will Towell explained. "Nobody seemed to know anything, and I didn't get the impression they was hiding anything."
Marcus Wilson agreed. "Also, we didn't run across nobody named Paul or Frank. I'd be real surprised if they turned out to live in that area."
I pondered that for a few moments. "I'm pleased to hear that our nearest neighbors are not in any conspiracy against us, no matter how they feel about our job. What worries me is that the other possibility is that someone has been specifically hired to get me - to get us, probably. That 'somebody' almost has to be that deserter, Tom Adams. They say he's gathered quite a gang of deserters and deniers around him, but up to now, he's been avoiding capture. It could be a real serious problem if he's changing his tactics to include attack."
"You think it's Adams?" Marcus asked.
"I don't see how it could be anybody else. Hardly anybody really likes the law, but the usual reaction is just to keep out of sight, and not attract attention."
"So, what should we do, now?' asked Will.
"I guess I need to think some, on that score. One thing, I sure don't want you two out doing your usual job, until we know a little better what's going on. For now, work in the office and around town as much as you can, and don't make yourselves obvious targets, or draw attention to yourselves.
"Wait, here's another thought coming to me. You know, our office had two jobs to do, to enroll everybody, then go after obvious violators. We did the first part without too much trouble, thanks to you helping me. The next part, the enforcement, I don't see how we can really do that - not with just the three of us. We can't go after the Adams gang without a real posse, and we're not going to raise one of those in this county. Not everybody's opposed to the law, but nobody wants to get crossways with their neighbors, or put themselves at any risk. We were pretty well stymied, already. If they're hunting us now, that really puts an end to anything we can do.
"When we first started to get word of Adams forming a gang, I suggested to the Provost that we might call the Army in for a one-time raid. He didn't want to do it, feeling it not bad enough to bring troops in for what should be a civilian action. I suspect he was right, then. I don't think that is the case, anymore. I'm going to make a formal request for troops, specifically to raid the Adams operation and take him out of circulation.
"I'm not trying to get rid of you, but let me suggest if you have any other job possibilities, you might start looking into them. If the Provost should say 'no' to this new recommendation, I think I will strongly consider resigning. I'm already barely-living proof of what can happen. For my own sake and for my family, I'm not going to keep putting myself at risk, unless I know I have good support."
***
I started our next story-telling session at Fort Laramie, where we had left off with the shooting incident. However, it was also a good place to take a look back over our journey to date. Perversely, perhaps, the bad roads and horrible weather since Ash Hollow had given our party back a little life. So had the terrible Kessler business. However, it wasn't enough to cover our overall depression and discouragement about the trip, to date. We had been on the road since March, it was almost June, and we still had probably three months left to go - and that was if all went well. The trip along the Platte had been dirty, monotonous, and demoralizing. Where we were near Fort Laramie, I think only the idea of having to go back over that same route kept some of our party from abandoning the whole adventure, and returning home. If, as the Bible says, we had "the wings of eagles," we might have all "mounted up" and flown off. I know I would have. My decision might have been easier than some, because I have spoken the truth when I've said that the lure of gold was not influencing me. Frankly, I think the call of mining riches was very quiet at that point with almost everyone. It was all so far in the future, and there was still so much to do before we could even begin to reap the rewards. Clearly, we were a discouraged band of "Forty-niners," and the only thing that drove us onward was that going forward looked slightly better than going back.
It was probably a good thing that the next eight days were quite strenuous. I wouldn't say they were difficult. The roads were not too bad, but the whole way was constant uphill and downhill, across numerous rivers and creeks - sometimes fording, occasionally on ferries - and never really a break in the need to be doing something. We only gained about 1,000 feet of altitude in that time, but we must have done 20,000 in all the ups and downs we had to do!
This stretch was the first really mountainous area we had yet passed through, so it might surprise some to know that we had been gaining elevation rather steadily ever since we left St. Joe. I've described the country as flat, all the way from the Missouri River to "California Hill," the ridge we crossed to get to Ash Hollow. To view it, that's certainly true, but St. Joe is less than 1,000 feet above sea level, and by the beginning of our crossing to Ash Hollow - seemingly flat all the way to that point! - we had risen 2,000 feet. From there to Fort Laramie, we gained another 1,000 feet, and now 1,000 more. As we left the North Platte for the last time, and began to follow the Sweetwater River west, we were at an elevation of nearly 5,000 feet above sea level - far, far higher than I'd ever been, and there was more height to be gained before we were done.
The high plain through which the Sweetwater courses is more interesting than the Platte, but there aren't many significant features to draw attention to. The main one is Independence Rock, a massive bread loaf of black rock that looks likes it should be lava, but is actually granite. The name is said to have come from a party of fur trappers who camped near the Rock on July 4, 1830, and held a brief celebration for the birthday of our country.
Many people had written their names on the Rock in paint or axle grease, or scratched into its surface. When I stopped in 1852, there were thousands more.
A little farther up, the Sweetwater flows through Devil's Gate, a slit through solid rock that is too narrow for two wagons to pass. Luckily, the trail does not go through the narrows, but travels a grassy hillside a short distance away. After that, the route ambles through open land, climbing very gradually, until suddenly you find yourself atop South Pass, elevation 7,500 feet, and you are gazing into country in which all the rivers are now flowing westward. It's still a long, long way to California, but it's hard not to think that you have accomplished something out of the ordinary.
There isn't much to say about the four weeks after descending South Pass. We crossed a barren desert stretch to the Green River ("Ham's Fork"), where there was a ferry. Then it was up, down, across, up, down until we arrived on the plain of the great Snake River near Fort Hall. The "fort" (I don't think any soldiers were actually stationed there) is memorable only because it is the first real sign of "civilization" (roughly speaking!) since leaving Fort Laramie. Like Fort Kearney, the walls were not made of timber, but of "bricks" of soil and vegetation. It had been a fur trapper trading post for many years, and there were many Indians nearby (but I don't think there was ever much trouble with them).
There wasn't anything but the novelty to keep us at the fort, so we fairly quickly continued our travels down the Snake River plain, arriving a fairly easy day-and-a-half later at Raft River, where the Oregon Trail continues straight west down the Snake, and the California Trail (our route) heads up Raft River, then crosses to the Mary's River in Nevada Territory.
I think by that time, the Mary's River was officially called the Humboldt, but you will find both names mentioned in stories about the trip. In any event, it is the river that we followed west until it emptied into the horrible Humboldt Sink. This probably deserves a little explanation.
During the great Ice Age, most of the northern half of North America was covered with glaciers. When the Earth began to warm up, and the glaciers melted, all the water poured into the lowest areas of land, creating lakes that were sometimes close to 100 miles long and wide. As the world continued to warm up and dry out, the lakes shrunk, until most of them had completely disappeared, leaving only vast low areas of barren desert. These low areas were often called "sinks," because there was no way for the waters to escape them to flow on to the sea. This was true of the Humboldt River flowing from the east, but also the Carson and Truckee rivers, draining the snow fields of the high Sierra Nevada from the west. The rivers just emptied their supply, and disappeared.
Some years, if there had been a lot of snow to melt, some water might remain in the sinks. Still, even in the wettest of years, most of the former lake beds were the severest of deserts - no trees for sure, but few shrubs, even. Almost no grass for livestock, and no water for man or beast, except for a noxious salty wetness here and there in the vast alkali flats. Much of the route was across dry alkali plains, but there was deep sand in places that made it hard for oxen or mules to pull a wagon through.
And this desert was no small area we had to traverse . Some say it was 100 miles across. It certainly felt like that to us, but in reality I think it was nearer 50 miles - even that, of course, was far more than we wanted to have anything to do with! And there was no way around it. We could see the mountains ahead of us - our last obstacle before reaching the gold fields There was more than one route across them, but we had to survive the desert before we could make a choice. Looking ahead at that point, I don't think that any of us though "survival" was guaranteed.
I suspect that those biblical eagles came to my mind again, at about that point. If we could have mounted up on those wings, we could have been across the desert in a few hours, and over the high mountains in not much more time. Alas, we had no wings.
We traveled across the flats by night, as much as possible, to at least escape from the direct glaring sun and heat. We had no fear of losing our way because, in addition to the ruts of the wagon wheels that preceded ours, the way was lined in dead livestock, abandoned wagons, and piles and piles of personal items - carried almost 2,000 miles across the plains, only to end abandoned on the Nevada desert. There were also markers for human graves. We could not escape the stench of decaying animal carcasses, and - as we had been warned - there really was no water and no forage. It was a nightmare that went on and on. Just talking about it after all these years, the memories are still vivid.
Finally, we reached the Carson River, before it disappeared into the desert sands. The water was deliciously fresh from melting mountain snow, and solved some of our problems. However, it was still several days before we found enough forage for our livestock to have more than a taste. When we finally reached a spot that had both good water and good grass, we stopped for two days to rest, regroup, and count up our losses. Losses included two or three abandoned wagons, almost everything we had with us that weighed very much, and six or eight oxen and several mules. Thankfully, we suffered no human losses.
Considering what we had experienced, one had to think about the hundreds - perhaps thousands - of wagons that were coming behind us. We weren't in the vanguard, but we were fairly early, and even then there was nothing for our livestock to eat for days at a time. Whatever is less than nothing is what would greet the next trains after ours, then less than less than nothing for each group following them! The way across the desert would become the site of many more abandoned wagons, many more dead livestock, and - saddest of all - many more human graves. (Later, when we met new arrivals in California, our direst predictions were proving true.)
***
On July 30, we began our climb over the Sierra Nevada. We started close to the river, which we followed for several days. It was slow going, with both sandy and marshy areas interspersed with steep climbs through rocky defiles. Water was plentiful, but livestock feed was intermittent.
Our first big test came on August 3rd, when we had to ascend an amazingly long, steep, rocky slope. It was a frightening proposition, and made one wonder if wagons had really crossed ahead of us. It was here that the real importance of being together with others was shown. Most of us had traveled across the country to that point with two yoke of oxen, or a comparable team of mules. Here, we found the hill required ten yoke of oxen all pulling together, while a dozen men pushed, guided, cracked whips, and otherwise worked with the animals to make it up the hill. We had to repeat this for each wagon, so we traveled only about six miles forward that day.
We had several more days like that one, and a lot of slow, rough traveling in between. Our camps were quite wonderful, set in forest of tall firs, spruce and cedar, with abundant water, and ample lush grasses for our stock. The nights were quite frigid but, with memories of the desert still fresh in our minds, we couldn't bring ourselves to complain too vigorously.
Although we were over the mountain divide, we still had a number of days travel before we reached the first human habitation. We arrived at "civilization" on August 12th, a metropolis of a butcher shop and a boarding house. Most exciting was that two men were there who had actually found gold that very day. They each had about a half-ounce of gold to show us, in bright grains, some the size of small grains of corn. One man said that in the past six days he had cleared $10 to $20 per day, even taking into account the extremely high price of every commodity in the gold country.
The sight of actual, real, shining gold kindled fevers that had been mostly dormant for the past several months. After our ordeal getting there, we were ready to claim our reward.
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