We had our first, and only, fatality that first night at Wolf Creek. An old man - I've forgotten his name - died in his sleep. He was probably much too old to be making the trip, but he'd wanted to come with his son on an "'adventure." He seemed to be doing all right to that point, but his son said he had complained the previous evening about "feeling poorly."
We were going to dig the grave there at Wolf Creek, but the son asked that we bury him a little closer to the Platte. We honored the request, and buried him that evening at what somebody called "Blue River"- I don't know if that was its official name.
I didn't see why it mattered where the old man was laid to rest. The temporary marker wouldn't last through the first big wind or snow, and no one would ever come looking for the grave, anyway. He'll just be one of the hundreds (thousands, probably!) who died along the way, and might or might not even be remembered by anybody in later years. I think the only rule about burying should be to make the hole deep enough that the prairie wolves can't immediately dig up the corpse. I guess I've never been sentimental about that kind of passing. Dead is dead, and death in the wilderness is dead and gone!
It took us over three weeks to travel from Wolf Creek up the Platte River to where the North and South forks divide. Most of the way is along a flat plain, with almost no trees, and little vegetation taller than a medium-sized bush. It must be unusual to have a river that long with no trees along its banks. I guess it is because the spring snow melt and the occasional flash floods come down through the area with such force that everything is scoured out of the way. That's probably why the river is so wide.
I've heard people say that the Platte was one, or two, miles wide. That's misleading, as the main channel is hardly wider than a wagon and its span of oxen. On the other hand, it is somewhat true. Because of the regular flooding, the area around the main channel is a maze of ox-bows and sloughs and swales. It is often relatively easy to cross the main river, but then one finds oneself in a no-man's-land of sand and soft ground that may be very difficult to take a wagon through. They say that in the entire length of the main Platte, there are only a few reliable places to cross.
The lack of trees by the Platte meant there was no firewood for long distances along that part of the route. Luckily, although we saw herds of buffalo only a few times and mostly at a great distance, buffalo chips (dried manure) was everywhere. That may not sound appealing but, after the chips had dried for a few weeks, they were solid and had almost no odor. They had enough plant matter in them to burn hot, just like coal. I don't know how we could have crossed the plains without them.
The trip along the Platte was not only monotonous and uninteresting, it was also extremely dirty. The grass hadn't yet grown enough to cover the ground, and at times the dirt in the air was so thick that we could barely make out the wagons ahead of us. By the time we stopped for the evening, we were so covered with grime that it was hard to imagine we were really humans. Ox-drawn covered wagons are not a pleasant way to travel!
The only sign of civilization along this stretch is the military base at Fort Kearney. If you imagine a "fort," I suspect you envision someplace with high walls to keep out and repel enemies. With no trees for timber, this "fort" is a mere collection of buildings made out of sod.
"Sod" is just what it says it is - big strips of prairie soil, held together by the dense mats of grass roots. As they dry out, the "bricks" of sod are stacked on top of one another to make walls. I guess the walls don't last forever, but they last a long time, and they can be replaced as needed. Like everything else in this area, you use what you have, or do without.
We had a few incidents along the way to temporarily relieve the boredom. Not long after passing the "fort," one of our wagons broke down. It must have been poorly constructed, because it just seemed to collapse, and could not be salvaged. We moved all the supplies to other wagons, and the two men joined other parties. We "inherited" Joe Wright, who turned out to be an amenable "partner." A bonus was that we also got the use of one of his yoke of oxen. Our two yokes had proven sufficient to that point, but having the third was a definite help when we got into the steeper, rougher country. Their other two yoke of oxen were distributed to other wagons.
I haven't said anything about Indians. We saw them regularly, but usually they kept their distance. They weren't above trying to make off with a mule or some of our supplies, so we always posted guards at night, operating in shifts. We didn't lose anything, but came close one night. Our sentry saw some motion where he didn't think there should be any motion. One shot in the air was enough to discourage the potential thief.
Speaking of mules, I had wondered at the start of the trip if mules might not be better to pull our wagons that oxen. Mules could certainly move us along faster than our plodding oxen. Nick had oxen, and mules were expensive, so we went with what we had, and could afford.
I think it turned out to be a good choice. A few of our wagons were mule-driven. Mules were capable, sure-footed, and faster moving, for sure, but they were also onery, and seemed to delight in throwing tantrums, just for the sake of being bad. They also seemed to have an uncanny ability to get loose in the night, prompting delays while they were found and returned to the fold. It really took someone with special mule-handling talents to handle mules, and I don't think any of our men qualified. Consequently, the mule drivers were often slower getting started in the mornings that us plodding ox-masters. We never waited, but Ikenberry always assured that we were all accounted for by nightfall.
We had hoped to supplement our food supply with wild game, but it wasn't to be. We saw buffalo - sometimes by the thousands - but they were almost always across the river, and too far away for us to pursue. A hunter in another party managed to kill a large bull, and shared some of the meat with us. I believe it must have been one of the two that Noah brought on his ark. The flesh seemed to have a good flavor, but the meat was so tough, it was inedible. Others who have had buffalo meat say it is as good as beef - some say even better - but I never had a chance at any other than Noah's pet.
The only other animal we saw in any numbers was the swift little antelope. There were a lot of them, but I'm sure they could outrun any horse, and we had no way to pursue them. One of our party did manage to kill one, and we all shared a bit of the meat. It was delicious - very tender and wonderfully flavored, a little more delicate than venison - but, alas, that was our only sample.
***
It was the middle of May when we reached the spot where the two forks of the Platte River come together to form the larger stream that we had been following for so long. We had all become accustomed to boring and tedious, but the next two weeks were to prove much different.
After we left the junction of the two streams, we continued on more or less level ground for another day, but the scenery had changed. Close on our right was a ridge of hills, and soon we found we had to climb up those hills. It wasn't particularly difficult, but we hadn't taken our team uphill very often. The teams did well, but when we reached the top of the ridge, we found we had to descend what was steeper than any hill I had ever seen a wagon try to navigate. Deep wheel ruts indicated that many had done it before us, but it certainly looked daunting. We locked the wagon wheels, so they could only slide, not turn, and with the help of ropes and manpower, we lowered the wagons as gently as we could. All got down safely, but it took all day before everyone was at the bottom.
We were in Ash Hollow, already well-known among overland travelers. Of course, after weeks of mundane travel along the Platte, the steep hill came as a real surprise, and the start of a new type of terrain, but it was more than that. The Hollow itself had real trees - not a forest, but large ash and juniper, the first tall vegetation we had seen in weeks. We had firewood, not buffalo chips. The stream through the hollow had cold, clear water, excellent for drinking, bathing, and caring for our stock. The grass was lush already, just what our oxen and mules needed. As others did before and after us, we paused a couple of days to relax, repair and reorganize our wagons, and get ready for the second half of the trip.
Not long after leaving Ash Hollow, we rejoined the North Platte, which had made a long detour to the north while we crossed over the ridges. Not long after that, we were overtaken by a tremendous hail storm. Spring hailstorms are not unknown to Midwesterners, but this hail fell in clumps as large as goose eggs. Luckily for us, the "stones" were quite soft, and caused us little damage.
That was not the case on the following day, May 22, when we were caught unexpectedly by a powerful storm, complete with lightning, thunder, strong winds, hail, rain and even a little snow. We didn't have time to get our livestock unhitched from all the wagons, all the noise and confusion of the storm frightened them, and we had a minor "stampede." Several wagons got overturned, one suffered a broken axle, and hail - smaller than the previous day, but solider - caused some damage to wagon covers. We lost most of two days, making repairs.
There were no more major storms in the next week, but it rained almost every day, and the traveling was slow and miserable. We passed several well-known landmarks: two rock formations close together, one small and one large, known as "the Jail" and "the Courthouse;" a tall single spire called Chimney Rock; and a large edifice named Scott's Bluff. I heard several stories about the naming of the bluff, on this trip, and again when we passed in 1852. The only thing they had in common was some fellow named Scott, who either died there, almost died there, or was there for some other reason. There are a variety of such tales told along the trail.
On May 26, we were camped near Fort Laramie, when a most unfortunate incident occurred. It involved the partners Kessler, Patton, and Starkey. As far as anyone knew, the three were doing well, together, but that evening, Kessler got to gambling and drinking with a party of trappers. I had heard he lost considerable money, but I can't confirm that. In any event, there is no question he was very much liquored up when he came back to camp. Immediately, he told his partners that he was taking their wagon, oxen and supplies, and returning home. They objected, as you might guess, and tried to restrain Kessler. He shot Starkey in the thigh - seriously, but not mortally - and Patton shot him. It appeared that Kessler's wound would prove fatal. We left him at the fort, presumably to die. The company held a meeting, and unanimously agreed that Patton and Starkey were blameless. The next day, we headed west, again.
Most of us knew nothing more about this incident until we returned to Iowa. Then, we found out that Kessler did not die, but was eventually transported east with a party of Mormons. To explain his situation at home, he described how Starkey and Patton had attacked him, trying to steal his property. He had fought back, but been seriously wounded. The company had tried Patton and Starkey, and expelled them.
Probably no one locally believed any of this. The Starkeys were a popular local family, and John Starkey himself was a "pillar of the community." He didn't fit Kessler's portrayal as a villain. Unfortunately, the story was published in newspapers in both San Francisco and New York City, so Patton and Starkey found it hard to escape their bad name. I don't know what happened to Kessler.
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