We learned from him that Bill Anderson, with whom he belonged, was crossing the river with his band of bushwhackers about a mile below, and had sent him out as a picket. He went down with us and assured Anderson that we were his friends. The night was very dark. Anderson had forty-five men and one small skiff. Two men besides the oarsman got into the boat, each holding the bridle of his horse. The horses were then forced in, one on each side, and the skiff put off. It was a long swim for the horses and a long wait for the skiff's return, but it was better than drifting on cottonwood logs, as we had expected to do. With the boat we could all land at the same place. Anderson's men had been crossing since early in the evening and by midnight all were over and the skiff delivered to us. The last of our company reached the southern shore just at sun up, and our long journey seemed almost over with the river behind us.
Anderson, after crossing, learned that a Federal regiment was in camp at Sibley. He took his forty-five men and surprised them. They charged through the whole regiment, yelling and shooting, and killed,wounded and ran over about twenty of them without losing a man. Not satisfied with this they charged back, and by that time, the soldiers had collected their senses and their guns. Anderson was killed and three of his men wounded. I have always believed that Anderson and most of his men were half drunk that morning. The wounded men were placed in a tent in the thick willows and left to the care of sympathizing women. Anderson's death left his men without a leader. Forty-one remained able to go forward and they joined with our thirty. This made a pretty strong squad and we traveled the public roads in day light.
After two days our provisions gave out and we separated into little companies of from four to six in order to get provisions and horse feed from the residents of the country along the road, arranging in advance to unite at a given place. I recall an incident of this trip which afforded us great amusement. It happened near the north bank of the Osage River. Our straggling parties had united in order to be together at the fording of the river, and as we passed down toward the river we met a squad of about ten militia. Neither party appeared to be suspicious of the other, and the militia really thought we were a part of their own forces. We rode directly up to them and spoke very politely. Asked them where they were going and they told us they were going home. Said they had been after Price and had driven the d——d old Rebel out of Missouri once more and were just getting home. We then told them we were a part of Price's forces that had not been driven out, and drew our navies on them. It was pitiful to see the expressions of terror that came over their faces. We made them dismount and disarm themselves. They did so with the greatest apparent willingness. We destroyed their arms as we had nouse for them, and made them swear a dreadful oath and promise they would never molest Price or any of his men again. When they did this they were ordered to move on, and seemed greatly rejoiced that their lives had been spared. The many bitter experiences I had during the war led me to doubt seriously whether we would have been as well treated had we been caught by our enemies at as great a disadvantage as we had them. And some of our men had long been with Bill Anderson, about whom the most dreadful stories of cruelty have been written—by men I presume who never dared to come out of hiding and who wrote the terrors of their own cowardly souls rather than anything real or true.
It must be understood that I am not attempting a defense of Anderson or his men further than to relate what their conduct was while I was with them. It was by chance only, in the manner I have related, that I was thrown with these men on this trip southward, and though we met a number of returning squads of militia in the same way and always had the advantage of them, not a man of them was mistreated other than to be disarmed, if that may be called mistreatment. The situation may and probably was different when these men were attacked or when the enemy was campaigning against them. I have heard it said that, under such circumstances, men who encountered Anderson's men had to fight, run or die.
With more or less difficulty and with many hardships, but without any incident worth mentioning, we made our way to the Arkansas River about twenty miles below Fort Smith. The river was running pretty full and there was no hope of finding a ferry without encountering Federal troops, so we constructed a rude raft of cottonwood logs, got on it and swam our horsesalongside. This occasioned considerable delay, but we got safely over and made our way to Red River, where we had much the same experience. We reached Price at Clarksville, Texas, and remained with him there until January.
At this time Price's army was all cavalry—just as it came off of the raid into Missouri—and consisted of about five thousand men. Early in January he moved down on Red River about fifty miles distant in order to get feed for his horses. Horse feed was scarce about Clarksville, but in Red River bottom the cane was abundant and the move was made that the horses might be grazed upon the cane. Price remained there until spring and was still there when Lee surrendered. Price and his staff prepared to go to Mexico and seven of us—Buchanan and Platte County neighbor boys—saddled our horses, bade him goodby and started for home.
The members of our party were Bill and Jack Evans, Curly Smith, Mose Cunningham of Camden Point, and one of his neighbors, whose name I do not now recall, Wall Brinton and myself. Our horses were in good condition, and, though the war was over, we supplied ourselves well with arms and ammunition and it was well we did, for in all my experiences, I never suffered such hardships or came so near losing my life as on this journey home after the war was over. We traveled a long distance, as it seemed then, and met with no difficulty except lack of food. Homes in that country were few and far between and when we chanced upon a house no one was at home but half starved, ragged women and children. They had little to offer us and lived themselves by taking their dogs to the woods and chasing game or wild hogs which had gone through the winter and were unfit for food. They always offered to divide, but we did not have the heart to accept their offer, and lived on such game as we could kill as we traveled along. We always gave these women such encouragement as we could, told them the war was over and they might soon expect their husbands and sons to return to them. We did not say if they were still alive, but we and they sadly understood always that such a condition might well have been added.
I do not recall how we got across the Arkansas River, but I do remember that in the heavy timber on this side we came upon nine men in camp who claimed to be "bushwhackers." They invited us tojoin them and as we were tired and hungry we did so. We rested the remainder of the day and at night they told us there was to be a dance—frolic—in the neighborhood and invited us to go. We did so and witnessed a dance in truly Arkansas style. I took no part, but enjoyed looking on at the others. When we reached camp late in the night we all spread our blankets down around the fire and slept, feeling the greatest security. Next morning three of their men and three of our horses were gone. We said nothing, but cooked and ate our breakfasts and went back to the cane-brake to make further search for the horses. We hunted until noon, but could not find them. We returned to the camp where the six remaining members of the party were and got dinner. After dinner at a given signal we drew our navies and made them disarm, which they did with much more haste than "bushwhackers" would have done. We then asked them to tell where our horses were. Three of the six proved to be really our friends and knew nothing about the horses. The other three were in with the men who had gone. The missing horses belonged to Mose Cunningham, Wall Brinton and myself. They told us various stories. One said that my horse had been taken by the son of a widow woman who lived seven miles east. Others said the horses had been taken to Fort Smith, twenty miles west. We settled the matter by saddling three of their horses and riding away. We rode the remainder of the day and until two o'clock in the night without anything to eat. About this hour we came upon a house and roused the inmates and told them we must have provisions. We got a ham, some flour, sugar and coffee and started on. By nine o'clock next morning we had gotten far up into the rugged, mountainous country where it seemed safe to stop. We dismountedand cooked breakfast, but took the precaution to send two men back on the mountain to keep watch. I had eaten my breakfast, saddled my horse and was ready to go. The other boys were taking more time. I reminded them that we might be followed and that they had better make haste. I had scarcely uttered the words when the boys on the lookout came running down the mountain and before they reached the camp a company of soldiers appeared at the crest. They commenced throwing hot lead down at us, and we returned it and kept it up until the boys got into camp and grabbed up a handful of provisions. I made a breastworks of my horse and stood and shot across my saddle until the horse fell at my feet. By that time our guns were empty, and without time to reload we ran to the mountains, leaving everything but our guns and the clothes upon our backs.
It was disheartening to think that, tired and hungry as we were, we could not have peace long enough to cook and eat the poor provisions secured at the farm house the night before, and it was still more disheartening to reflect upon where the next meal was to be found. In spite of this we still had much to be thankful for. Although left on foot and without provisions, we still had our lives and plenty of powder and lead, and, in those days when human life was so cheap, these were our greatest concern.
The party attacking did not follow us into the brush on the mountain side. We had all the advantage there and were desperate enough to have used it to any extent and without much conscience, had occasion required. Our little party was scattered, each man taking care of himself. Some kept moving up the mountain while some crouched like hunted quails in what appeared to be safe hiding places. In a littlewhile our pursuers gathered up our horses and the fragments of provisions we had left and started away. After a long wait the boys began to signal each other and shortly we were united.
It was a long and weary trudge to Fayetteville. We were compelled to keep near the main traveled road, (which was little better than a bridle path), because the country was so rough and the timber so heavy that we feared we might lose our way. Our only food was the game we killed—squirrels and wild turkey and now and then a deer. This we dressed and broiled over a camp fire and ate without bread or salt. Hard as this method of subsistence was, it had at least one advantage over an army march—we had plenty of time. The bare ground had been our resting place so long that we were quite accustomed to it, and even, without the luxury of a blanket, we slept and rested much.
At Fayetteville we got the first square meal since leaving the camp on the Arkansas River, and, as it was by no means safe to remain there, we secured such provisions as we could carry, and started on, still on foot. Above Fayetteville the country became less mountainous and, although we always slept in the timber, we found little trouble in securing food. We crossed Cowskin River and made our way to Granby, where the lead mines were located. In a little valley shortly out of Granby we found a drove of poor, thin horses. They had fared badly during the winter, but looked as though they might be able to help us along somewhat, so we peeled hickory bark and made halters and each man caught himself a horse. We had not gone far when we discovered that riding barebackedon the skeleton of a horse was a poor substitute for walking, so we turned our horses loose and continued the journey on foot.
Johnstown, a small town in Bates County, is the next point, I remember distinctly. A company of militia was stationed there and all the people in the country round-about were colonized in and near the town. Although we knew the militia were there, we took our chances on going quite near the town, for we were compelled to have food. Late in the afternoon we stopped at a house in the outskirts of the town and found the man and his family at home. The man belonged to the militia company, so we held him until the family cooked supper for us. After we had eaten we started on, taking the man with us to prevent him from reporting on us, advising his family at the same time that if we were pursued it would be because some of them had informed on us and in that event the man would never return. They were glad enough to promise anything that would give them hope of his return, and we felt quite sure we would not be discovered from that source.
We left the house between five and six o'clock and had not gone far when we saw three militia men who had been out on a scout, riding toward us. When they came within a hundred yards or so the leader called on us to halt. He asked, "Who are you?" Wall Brinton replied, but I do not recall what he said. The leader evidently did not believe him for he replied by telling us to consider ourselves under arrest. This was, under our circumstances, equivalent to opening hostilities, so we replied with our navies. One horse fell with the man on him. The other two hastily assisted the rider to mount behind one of them. They galloped back and took another road toward the town. We hurried on toa thick grove of timber some distance ahead where we could secure protection against the attack that we felt sure would later be made upon us. As the news of our presence had now gone back to headquarters, our prisoner could be of no more service, so we turned him loose. We reached the timber and waited and watched, but, for some reason, no attempt was made to capture us. Darkness soon came on and we lost no time in making our escape. At daylight next morning we were at Little Grand River, fifteen miles north.
Shortly after we left our hiding place in the timber near Johnstown, it began to rain and rained on us all night long as we journeyed. Little Grand River was running nearly bank full, but we had to cross. We made a raft by binding logs together with hickory bark, placed the guns and clothing upon it and pushed out, each man holding on at the rear, swimming and pushing. We were soon across and as it seemed to be a wild, uninhabited spot, we built a fire and warmed ourselves and dried our clothing, and all got a little sleep, one man always standing guard. About ten o'clock I grew restless and uneasy and awakened the boys and told them we had better move on, as that company of militia might start early in the morning to follow us and, if they did so, they might be expected to appear at any time. Wall Brinton, our captain, agreed to this and we made another start, although some of the boys opposed it and said we had as well be killed as run ourselves to death.
We traveled westwardly, up the river, about two miles and then north to the bluffs where we found what appeared to be sufficient protection in the timber and hills to warrant a stop for further rest. It was a beautiful day after the rain the night before and we layin the warm sunshine and slept as well as hungry men could sleep. We peeled slippery elm bark and ate it, but it did little to satisfy our hunger.
Late in the afternoon, Curly Smith, Wall Brinton and I were chewing upon our elm bark and six of our boys were fast asleep, when a company of soldiers rode up in twenty yards of us before we saw them. Smith saw them first and said to me, "Who is that?" I sprang to my feet, turning around as I did so. I knew them at a glance and knew also that we were in trouble. There was no time to plan—no time even to run—and six of the nine of us fast asleep. My first thought was to wake the boys so I called out at the top of my voice, "Who are you?" They gave no answer, but opened fire upon us. Brinton, Smith and I each took a tree and let them come on. It was a desperate situation and every load in the brace of six-shooters we carried must be made to count. When they were close enough for our work to be effective, we began on them. From the way they dropped out of their saddles I am sure very few of our bullets went astray. The captain kept urging his men on, calling "Give them hell, boys!" and we kept busy. The captain himself galloped up within two rods of me, threw his saber around his head and ordered me to surrender. I had, as I thought, just one shot left. I put it through his heart. I saw it twist, as it seemed, through his coat, and I shall never forget the writhing of his body and the dreadful frown as he fell from his horse. Most of them who were left had now exhausted the loads in their guns, and when they saw their captain fall retreated. We whirled and ran with all our might. The boys who had been asleep were gone. They had awakened and started at the first volley. A short run brought us in sight of the other boyswho were at the moment trying to pass around a long, narrow slough, which lay between them and timber on the other side. Brinton's right arm was broken between the wrist and elbow. He had received the wound as he threw his arm from behind the tree to shoot. It was bleeding badly, but we kept running and calling to our companions to turn and fight. They paid no attention to us, but kept on around the slough. During this time the men who attacked us had rallied and were riding down upon us. Brinton kept calling and urging the boys to turn and fight, and finally as our pursuers drew closer they turned and fired, and this checked the men who were after us for a moment. By this time poor Wall had grown weak and sick from loss of blood and could go no farther. We had been running side by side. The last words he said to me were, "I am sick, I can't go on. I will have to surrender. Make your escape if you can." Such a thing seemed impossible at the moment, but I feared nothing so much as the "mercy" of the men who were after us. Wall threw up his well arm and I ran as fast as I could toward the slough or lake and plunged right in. The brush and vines on the other side were my only hope, aside from the discovery I made as I ran that I had one more load in my navy. Our enemies, except one man, took after the boys who were running around the lake. As I waded in water nearly waist deep the man who had followed me rode up to the edge of the lake and ordered me to halt. I paid no attention to him but waded on, watching him all the time. He rode out into the water, raised his gun as if to shoot and called the second time. I stopped and turned and leveled the muzzle of my navy at his belt and fired. He fell off his horse into the water. When I got across I looked back and saw him struggling to keep his headout of the water. I do not know what became of him. I foresaw when he came up and rode into the lake that he or I would be doing that very thing, and I felt that the chance load left in my navy was, as it proved to be, my only protection against it. The fight was still going on up the lake. I looked and saw Jack Evans down in the water and heard him calling for help. The other boys were just wading out. I ran to them and as I came up I saw blood streaming from the leg of one of the men. He had been shot in the thigh, but was still able to walk.
We soon got out of sight in the thick brush and they did not follow us. Including the man who remained with us, four of our men had been wounded in the fight. Three of them, Wall Brinton, Jack Evans and one of the Platte County boys, were compelled to surrender, and we learned that all of them, wounded prisoners though they were, were shot in cold blood. We never knew how many of their men were killed and wounded.
We hurried on through the brush back toward the river, and when we reached it we found a log for our wounded man and all swam across to the south side. After traveling a few miles down the river we crossed in the same manner and made directly north. Just before dark we came to an abandoned log house and stopped. We were in a pitiable condition. No food since the night before, tired and wet, depressed in spirits by the loss of our comrades, whom we knew had already been killed, and with a wounded man upon our hands. To remain there so close to the men who were after us meant that we would be captured and killed.
We talked the matter over. The wounded man, whose name I do not recall, in company with hisbrother, fell in with us at the Arkansas River. He was so weak and was suffering so much that he could go no farther, so he and his brother decided to remain at the cabin through the night and trust to the mercy of some one whom they might find next day to give them assistance and shield them from the soldiers who had pursued us from Johnstown. They agreed that the four of us who were uninjured would not be so apt to secure sympathy and that we had better move on.
It was a sad farewell that we bade our wounded companion and his brother that night, and it was, for me at least, a farewell indeed, for I have never seen or heard from them since, but it seemed the best and only thing that could be done. As soon as it was dark we started and traveled all night, though very slowly, and until late in the afternoon of the day following. At that time we came near a small place, the name of which I do not now remember. We went up close to the town and stopped at a house. Two men in blue clothes were there with the family and we immediately took charge of them and ordered supper. They prepared a splendid meal for us and we ate it as only men can eat who have gone forty-eight hours without food. It was a cool evening and they had a small fire in an old-fashioned fire-place. After supper we asked them to spread some bed clothes before the fire and three of us lay down and slept while the fourth stood guard over the men. We took turns standing guard through the night and next morning ordered an early breakfast and left as soon as it was daylight.
We started north, and as soon as we got out of sight of the house turned east a short distance and then went back south about a mile to a high knoll covered with black jack. We lay there all day and watched the maneuvers of the blue coats. Theyscoured the country to the north far and near, but never approached the knoll on which we were hidden. We had a fine rest after our two good meals, and we needed it following the events of the past two days. When night came and everything got still we came down and went to the same house for supper. The men had not returned from hunting us, and the women were much surprised to see us. They gave us a good supper and we bade them goodby and started north, listening all the time for approaching horses from either direction. We had no difficulty, and by morning were well out of the way.
The next place I remember was in Jackson County near Independence. As we were worn out, ragged and almost barefooted, and as the war was over, we decided to see the provost marshal and get a pass on which we could travel on to our homes in safety. I went to a good Union man's house and told him what I wanted. He promised to see the marshal for me, and I directed him where to find us. Upon his return he said the pass would be provided. Next morning they sent a small company of soldiers out and we saw that we had been deceived. They looked us over carefully and talked pretty saucy, but did not harm us. We looked so shabby that they evidently thought we did not amount to much. They put us in a two-horse wagon and took us to Warrensburg, forty miles farther from home. There we were placed in a guard-house where we were kept two or three days, without telling us what their plans were. One morning a guard came and took one of our men—a mere boy—down to headquarters and quizzed him to find out if he knew anything about the fight on Little Grand River. He denied it. Then they came and got one of the other boys, but he managed also to convince themthat we had been together—just the four of us—since we left the south. This seemed to satisfy them for they did not call on me, but we were not released.
The day following a guard came and marched us out to the edge of town and set us to work hoeing in a garden, with a negro woman for a boss. I called her "aunty," and cut up as many beans and peas as I did weeds. I kept my "boss" busy showing me how, and she got precious little work out of me. I began to suspect they were trying to connect us with the Grand River affair, and feared they might get some one who would identify us or pretend to do so, and I did not like the prospect, so I made up my mind I would leave them some how and go home without a pass. The guard-house was a brick building that had been a dwelling. A water tank stood out in the yard and the prisoners all went there for water. Four men stood guard day and night, and it was customary at six o'clock to turn the men in and lock them up. On the evening that I decided to escape I managed to hide in a pile of lumber that lay in the yard near the water tank, and when the guards put the men in and locked the doors they did not miss me. I lay very still until late at night. I could hear the guard pass on his beat and by the time required to pass me and return I could judge the length of his beat. When I thought it safe to make my dash I watched and after he had passed south, I waited until he had gone, as well as I could estimate, to the end of his beat, then I leaped across his path so quickly that he did not have time to think, much less shoot. I ran down a dark alley and had no trouble in reaching the outskirts of the town. I took across the fields, not knowing where I was going, nor caring much, just so I was getting away. I had been gone but a little while when I heard the town bell ring and knew the alarmhad been turned in. Then I heard horses galloping out, as I supposed, on every road from town. I heard the horses gallop across a bridge some distance from town, and concluded I would cross no bridges that night. I moved cautiously on, and by and by came to a creek somewhat in the direction I had heard horses cross the bridge. I followed the creek, watching all the time for bridges and after a while came to a foot-log. I crossed and made my way out of the thick brush and stopped to get my bearings. It was a starlight night. I located the north star and took it for my guide and traveled all night.
When daylight came I found myself in a creek bottom and in a body of very large timber. I found a large, hollow sycamore with a hole in the side reaching down to the ground large enough to admit me. I sat back into that tree to get a little rest and possibly a little sleep. I watched and listened. A good while after sun up I saw a man going with a yoke of cattle toward a field, which I could see through the timber, to plow. Two big, savage looking dogs were following him. The dogs raised their heads and came toward me as though they scented me and I made sure I would be discovered, but they turned in another direction before they got very near and did not disturb me. I sat there all day and, in spite of my hunger, slept and rested. When night came I made another start as soon as I could see the north star. I traveled all night and when morning came I still had but little idea where I was. I went up on a high hill which was covered with brush and from which I could see all about me. Everything was quiet, so I lay down and slept. I awoke about ten o'clock and saw a stage-coach loaded with passengers passing along a road below me. This was the first information I had that I was near a public road. I remainedin the brush awhile and then decided to move along cautiously by daylight. I saw a house now and then and, though terribly hungry, I did not dare approach it and ask for food. Toward night I reached the rugged hills, from which I judged I must be near the Missouri River. Just before dark I found an empty tobacco barn and crawled into it and remained throughout the night. This was the third night with two days intervening—sixty hours—in which I had not tasted food, and I was worn out with my long tramp besides.
I did not sleep well that night. My accommodations were very poor and my gnawing appetite, made me wakeful. I had one comfort, however, I was well hidden, and this reflection rewarded me for much of my suffering. Since this trip home I have had a warm sympathy for all hunted beasts.
When day began to dawn I commenced observing my situation without. I saw a house near by and watched it for an hour. I could only see two women, and from the way they attended the work outside as well as in the house, I concluded there were no men about the place and that it would be safe for me to venture up and ask for something to eat, and, if I got into trouble, trust my legs, the only weapons I had, to get me out. I went up cautiously and found what I could not discover from my hiding place, that one was an old lady and the other a girl just grown. I spoke to the old lady and told her my famished condition. She said she was sorry for me, but she had orders to feed nobody on either side and that she could not disobey them without getting into trouble herself. I told her the war was over and that I was trying to get home. I had tried to quit fighting when I left Price on Red River, but had had greater difficulty in keeping myself from being killed since I quit fighting than before. She stillrefused to give me anything. Finally, my entreaties won the girl. She spoke up and said, "Mother, I have made no promises. You have kept your promise and have refused him food. I will give him something to eat." With that she told me to draw my chair to the table and she began to set such a meal before me as I had not tasted in years, it seemed. Cold boiled ham, light bread, milk and butter, preserves, honey, cake and pie—plenty of all, and rations I had not heard of in months. I will not attempt to describe how ravenously I ate. I was probably as shabby looking a mortal as ever sat down to a meal at a civilized table. My hair and beard were long and had not been combed for days. I had not washed my face since I escaped from the guard-house. My clothes—what was left of them—were, with walking through mud and rain, wading lakes and sloughs and swimming rivers, soiled and grimy beyond description. When I had finished eating the girl asked me if I would take a lunch along with me. Of course I told her I would, and that I would always be grateful to her, and I have kept my promise. I have many times remembered that kindness and thanked that young lady over and over a thousand times in my heart.
I took my package and bade the girl and her mother goodby and started for the woods. I soon reached level ground and heavy timber and knew I was in the river bottom. I went cautiously along until I saw the river in the distance. Then I selected a good shade and lay down and had a fine rest after my good meal. I awoke some time along in the afternoon. Everything was quiet—no sound of human foot or voice. I ate my lunch and went down to the river bank to select a good crossing place. I found a place that suited me. Then I prepared three logs and broughtthem to the water's edge and tied them firmly together with hickory bark which I peeled from the saplings near by. I found in a drift close at hand a clap-board suitable for an oar, and my craft was ready to sail. I might have made the crossing in daylight without being molested, but, not knowing what I might encounter on the other shore, I decided to wait for night.
As soon as it began to grow dark I went down and pushed my raft into the water and tied it to the root of a tree. I then got astride of it with feet and legs up to the knees in the water to see if it would bear my weight. It appeared to be sufficiently strong, so with my clap-board in my hand I cut loose. The current caught me and took me rapidly down stream, but I was sure if I kept using my paddle it would have sufficient effect to land me on the other side some time. It soon grew very dark, so that I could not see the shore on either side, and I could not tell I was moving except by the water running past my feet and legs. After what seemed a very long time, and after I had grown very tired both with my labor and my position on the raft, I felt my feet strike the sand. I got up and towed the raft to shore and pulled it up on dry land. Then I took a rest and planned. I might be on an island and in that case I would have further need for my raft. I could only ascertain my position by investigating, so when sufficiently rested I started on across the land, breaking the top of a bush every few steps to guide me back in case I should find myself upon an island. I soon came to a slough which I waded without difficulty and passed on. A little farther on I came to another slough, which I also waded. The ground under my feet seemed to grow firmer as I walked away from this slough. I passed into a body of good sized timber and finally I came to a wagon road, and I knew then that Iwas on the main land and the Missouri River which had given me so much trouble during the four preceding years was again behind me. My little raft might rest and I should have no need to retrace my steps by the broken bushes.
I had no idea what time of night it was. I was tired and wet, but with all that, felt much better than on the preceding night when so hungry. I thought it must be twenty miles or more to where my sister lived in the northeast portion of Clay County, so I again took the north star for my guide and set out, bearing west somewhat when I found traveling that way agreeable, but never east. I paid no attention to roads unless they led in my direction. When daylight came I was at a loss to know where I was. I saw a house in the distance and went up near it. No one was up, so I sat down to wait. In a little while a girl came out to a wood pile and began picking up chips. I went up and asked her how far it was to Greenville. She said one mile. I asked her which direction and she pointed east. I thanked her and started in the direction she pointed. I was no sooner out of sight than I turned my course due north, for I was then in less than two miles of my sister's home. I arrived shortly after sun up, and as I went into her house and sat down to a good breakfast, I felt that my troubles ought to be fairly over, now that the war had closed; but my terrible experiences on the way home caused me to doubt whether I could go back and live in peace, even if there was no war.
I remained with my sister a day or two, never showing myself in daylight, for I learned from her that now since fear of southern soldiers was over, all those who were too cowardly to go to the front but had remained at home and robbed and harassed old men and women and children, were giving the communitymore trouble than at any time during the war. They were all very brave then and organized companies and marched and drilled and galloped over the roads, seeking all manner of pretenses to rob and kill those who had sympathized with the south. Returning Confederate soldiers, were, in those first days after the close of the war, in greater danger than when in the front of battle, as my own recent experience had shown, and I was not alone, for my sister told me of a number of soldiers who had returned from the south only to be killed after reaching home.
I was sure I would find much the same condition in Buchanan County that I had encountered all along my route home, and I did not like the prospect that lay before me.
I learned from my sister that Trav. Turner, a neighbor of hers, was at St. Joseph fitting up a freight train for Salt Lake. I knew Turner well. He had carried food to Brother James and me while we lay in the brush waiting to hear the fate of Charley Pullins who was captured when we were all overtaken at the home of Reuben Eastin in that neighborhood, and I knew, if I could reach him, I would have no difficulty in getting away from the country. Something had to be done. If I should be discovered at the home of my sister it would give the "yard dogs," as those brave murderers of that community were called, a pretext for robbing her and probably for killing her husband or some of her family. We decided upon a plan. I shaved very clean and parted my long hair in the middle, put on one of my sister's dresses and both of us put on sunbonnets. We got in a buggy and started for Saint Joseph. We passed right through old Haynesville, the center of all the patriotic parading of the "yard dogs," on through Plattsburg and reached the home of Jack Elder, a half milefrom my old home, where we stayed all night. Next morning we drove on to Saint Joseph and took dinner with my brother, Isaac. I remember this incident particularly for the family had company for dinner. I was introduced as a Clay County friend of Mrs. Wilson's and sat down at the same table, and the visitors did not suspect me through my disguise. After dinner we drove to the ferry at the foot of Francis Street and drove on. The boat was crowded and they had to place our buggy in line in order to make room for others. Two men took hold of the buggy to lift it around. My sister said, "Wait and we will get out." The men said, "No, sit stillladies, we can lift it with you in it." We sat still, and crossed over. On reaching the other side we drove out through the woods and found Turner's camp. Passing on beyond and out of sight, I removed my disguise, after which we returned to the camp and I bade my sister goodby.
I was perfectly at home in Turner's camp, not only on account of my acquaintance with him, but on account of my old familiarity with plainsmen's ways.
There were nineteen men in the train, and but three of them, Turner, Cap. Hughes, the wagon boss, and James Curl, of Rushville, knew me. They were all discreet and kept their knowledge to themselves. I went by the name of John Allen. Just before we were ready to start my brother-in-law, James Reynolds, sent me a mule, bridle and saddle and a small amount of money. We pulled out early one morning, sixteen wagons, four yoke of oxen to each wagon, and forty hundred in each load. Some time was required to get the men and cattle accustomed to traveling, and for a while our progress was slow. At Fort Kearney the soldiers stopped our train. They told us the Indians were on the warpath ahead and the authorities refused to permit any train to pass on without fifty men. This forced us to wait until another train came up. During this time we were required to organize ourselves into a company of soldiers, elect a captain and drill several hours every day. The captain ordered me out to drill with the boys. I told him I knew as much about drilling as I wanted to know and refused to go. Turner thought he had to obey the authorities and had all his men drill very industriously. I told him he had better stop that foolishness and pull out or he would not reach Salt Lake before Christmas. He said he did not know how to get away from the orders given him by the soldiers. I told him toturn the matter over to me and I would show him. He did as I requested and gave orders that until further notice I should be obeyed.
The following morning I was out before daylight. I quietly aroused the men and ordered them to prepare to move. Everything was soon ready and before sun up we were on the road. I made twenty-five miles that day, which put us so far ahead that we never again heard of soldiers or of the trains that expected to accompany us. Turner wanted me to remain in charge of the train, but I told him I could not do it, as I had had trouble enough the past four years, but that I would give him all the assistance in my power.
The train moved along slowly over the old road up the Platte which was so familiar to me, until it reached the upper crossing at South Platte, where I crossed in forty-nine. From that point we continued up South Platte over a road with which I was not familiar. When we reached the mouth of the Cache le Poudre River we crossed and left the Platte and followed the Cache le Poudre up about 75 miles, as I remember it. There we left the river and passed over a high plateau, or divide as we called it, and down into a beautiful valley, the head waters of Laramie River. After crossing this valley we passed through a very rough country that lay between the Laramie and the North Platte. On this stretch of the road and at a point I do not now remember, we passed a government fort. There I saw Gillispie Poteet, with whom I had gone to school as a boy. He was a private in the Federal service. I do not know whether he recognized me or not. I passed him without speaking or making myself known. My experiences in the war had made me doubtful of even my old school mates when I saw them in such company as I found him.
After crossing North Platte, which was but a small stream at that point, we passed into the worst alkali country I ever saw in my life. It extended from the North Platte to the Colorado River—a distance of one hundred and fifty miles or more.
We had a hundred and twenty-five head of cattle and about one-fifth of them gave out before we were half way across the desert and had to be herded behind the train. In this state of affairs, which seemed about as bad as it could well be, Turner was taken sick. He and Captain Hughes had been having trouble with the men, and Turner was greatly worried, and I thought at first that he was homesick. The second day after Turner was taken sick he came to me and asked me to take charge of the train and let him go on by stage to Salt Lake City where he could rest and see a doctor. I had been thinking for several days that I would like to leave the train and go on by stage myself, but did not like to leave Turner while he was in trouble. So when he proposed to go on I suggested that he leave the train with Captain Hughes and that I go along with him to care for him. He said he could not consent to go on unless I remained with the train; that if we both went the men would abandon the train on the desert. I then told him I would do my best; that he had stood by me when I was in trouble, had carried food to me in the brush when, if he had been discovered, it would have cost him his life, and that I was ready to do everything I could for him. I saw Captain Hughes and found it was agreeable to him that I take charge.
We had then been nearly three months on the road. The cattle were poor and worn out and there was little food for them upon the desert. The men were tired and had been inclined to rebel against Turner and Hughes, and many times it was all that all of us could do to keepthem from abandoning the train. Under these trying conditions, I took charge, much against my inclination, but out of a sense of duty to Turner.
Turner took the stage and left us. I immediately gave the men to understand that I would have no foolishness and that I intended to push the train on in good order and as rapidly as conditions would permit. The men seemed to believe I could do what I said I could do and became very well satisfied. I had trouble with only one man—a negro that Curl had picked up at Fort Kearney, and placed in charge of one of his teams. He weighed about 180 pounds, and had just been discharged from the Union army. He felt very important, and still wore his blue uniform. The trouble arose in this way: At night we placed the wagons so as to form a large corral, leaving a gap on one side. In the morning the cattle would be rounded up and driven into the corral to be yoked. This negro would not go out in the roundup, but would remain at the camp until the cattle came up, then in place of waiting until the cattle were safely in the corral, he would pick up his yoke and start for his cattle directly in front of the drove. Many of the cattle would frighten at this and run away and have to be rounded up again. The boys had scolded him frequently, but he paid no attention to them, and when I went in charge they complained to me. I spoke to the negro firmly but kindly and told him to wait until the cattle were all driven in before attempting to yoke his cattle. He paid no attention to me, and as usual frightened the cattle back. I said nothing more to him. The next morning I took one of the long bull whips, the stock of which was of seasoned hickory and eight or ten feet long, and took my stand at the side of the gap as though I intended to assist in driving the cattle in. When the front cattle cameup the negro started for his oxen with the yoke in his hands. Quick as a flash I changed ends on the whip-stock and with the butt of it I gave him such a rap on the side of the head that he dropped his yoke and staggered out of the way. That was the last trouble I had with that negro. He was as obliging and obedient to me after that as I could ask a negro to be.
I got the train to the Colorado River where there was plenty of water and grass, and rested three days. I crossed the river and moved on up Black Fork about forty miles to Fort Bridger. There I met Turner who had returned from Salt Lake to see how we got along. I drove the train up close to the fort and stopped on a stream. The cattle were unyoked and I had gone with them to the stream to see that they all got water. It was a beautiful place to camp, and with the fort so close at hand I thought we could all lie down and rest without fear of Indians. While I was at the creek three men with yellow stripes on their shoulders rode up and asked me where the owner of the train was. I directed them to Turner, who was at the camp. They rode off and I followed and reached the camp in time to hear them tell Turner that he must move on; that he could not camp in five miles of the fort; that they were saving the grass for hay. Turner asked me what he should do. I told him there was but one thing to do—move on. That the fort was placed there for the purpose of protecting emigrants, and freighters, but that did not matter. Those gentlemen in blue clothes and yellow stripes must be protected or they could not draw their salaries.
The dead line they had drawn was five miles beyond, and it was nearly night and our cattle were hungry and we were foot-sore and worn out, and all the Indians on the plains could rob and scalp us that distance away from the fort and not a gentleman in blueclothes and yellow stripes be disturbed by it, but we had to move. I was rebellious again—more so I believe than at any moment during the war, which had just closed—and but for my recent efforts and my dismal failure, I should have felt much like challenging the whole regiment with my twenty cowboys. We were not the only sufferers. An emigrant train of about twenty families, men, women and children from near Rushville, Buchanan County, in which were Joe Hart and Tom Hill, who I remember had fallen in with us and were traveling close behind, they, too, had to pack up and start. It was late at night when we reached a safe distance from the fort under escort of the gentlemen in blue clothes and yellow stripes, and we stopped on a desert so barren that we had to corral the cattle and hold the poor hungry things all night. In the morning we moved on some miles farther and found grass and water and stopped the remainder of the day. A little less than a week later we pulled into Salt Lake, seventy miles west of Fort Bridger, with the merchandise in good condition, but with the cattle pretty well played out. I remained with Turner until his wagons were all unloaded. When that was finished my free boarding house was closed. My mule was so poor that he was almost worthless. I had but little money, and my friends were all preparing to start back. I could not think of going with them and I felt the necessity for stirring about and finding something to do.
In a few days a large train pulled in from the west. I went to the boss and asked him what his plans were. He told me he was hauling flour from Salt Lake City to Helena, Montana. I asked him about the Montana country, and where and how he wintered his cattle. He said he grazed them on Boulder Creek near Helena, and that there was no better range in the west. I learnedfarther that he would start on his last trip before winter in about a week. I did not tell him that I thought of applying for a job driving an ox team.
Next day Turner, having disposed of his goods, asked me what he owed me. I told him he owed me nothing; that he had paid me long ago by protecting me in time of war, and had brought me away from danger free of charge. Turner said he would not have it that way; that if I had not been along his train would be back upon the alkali desert, and that he proposed to pay me. I then told him of my plan to drive an ox team on to Montana, as I was a pretty good bull-whacker and had to have some place to go. In reply to this he said I must do no such thing; that if I would name the place I wanted to go he would see that I had a way to get there without driving a team. I told him I had no place in particular in mind, but would be satisfied anywhere among the mountains and Indians—just so I could get away from the old war troubles back in civilization.
In a few days Turner came back and told me his cattle were so poor that he could not sell them, and proposed that I buy them and take them along with me. I replied that I had no money, besides I was alone and felt that I could not handle the cattle. He said I did not need any money, that he would take my note and as to the other matters he would fix them. He then made me a present of a fine mare, a gun and a hundred dollars in money. He also gave me a wagon loaded with provisions. With this equipment, it began to look as though I could take the cattle, and that the plan he had made for me was much better than any I could have made for myself. Jim Curl, a Buchanan County boy, had sixteen head of cattle which he addedto mine. He loaded a wagon with provisions and each of us hired a man to drive our team, and with this arrangement made we were ready to start.
We remained at Salt Lake until Turner had finished his business. His entire outfit at St. Joseph cost him about seven thousand dollars. He paid about two thousand dollars in wages to the men who assisted him. He received twenty-five thousand six hundred dollars for his cargo. I saw him get the money and put it in a bank. I realized then what a loss it would have been to him had he failed to get his train across, and he often told me if I had not been along he might never have succeeded. I gave Turner my note for four thousand dollars for the cattle and he took the stage for home. The next day Curl and I left for Boulder Valley.
For seventy-five miles or more out of Salt Lake we had to pass through the Mormon settlements and we had great difficulty in keeping the cattle out of the fields and gardens. We crossed Bear River just above the point where it empties into Salt Lake and, after crossing a range of mountains, found Hedgepeth's cut-off, a road I had traveled in 1854. A short distance farther on, and from the top of a high divide, I could see Snake River valley near Fort Hall, my old trail in 1849. When we got down to the river and crossed the deep worn trail, the scene was quite familiar to me, although it had been a good many years since I had viewed it the last time. After crossing Snake River we set out across the mountains for our destination. I can't remember the names of many points on this trip. In fact the road was comparatively new and but few places had names. I remember passing over a broad, sandy desert, where our cattle nearly famished for water, and then down a long grade over almost solid rock. Near the bottom of this grade I saw a smallstream some distance away, and rode down to see if I could find a way by which the cattle could reach water. I recall this distinctly because while hunting a path to the water I saw two queer looking animals, the like of which I had never seen before. I learned afterwards that they were lynx.
Next day we passed into a beautiful valley where we had plenty of water and grass, but it snowed most of the day—a wet snow that soon melted and did not interfere much with grazing. Passing on we reached Black Tail Creek, (so named after the black tail deer), which we followed down to Nelson River. After crossing Nelson River we passed over a low range of mountains and down into Boulder Valley, the place we set out to reach. In spite of the high recommendation given this valley as a place to winter cattle, I did not like it, and we moved on up the river about fifty miles, and reached a place where the grass was abundant, but the frost had killed it. Curl thought this was the place to stop, but I was not satisfied. I saw no bunch grass, and my experience with cattle in California told me that we would not be safe unless we found a place where bunch grass grew on the mountain sides. However, we camped at this point and remained a few days to look about. Just above our camp a small creek, which seemed to come down from a big mountain in the distance, put into Boulder River. Curl and I passed up this creek toward the mountain, which was covered with snow. Some miles up we found the finest bunch grass I ever saw growing upon the low hills which surrounded the high peak. We spent the whole day looking over the place and went so far as to select the site for our cabin. Returning to camp, entirely satisfied with our day's work, we planned for the winter. Next morning early we were on our way to the mountain home we hadselected. The grade was steep, our wagons were heavy and there was no road. We had to circle about the hills and wind and twist in order to get along at all. It was nearly night when we arrived at the spot selected.
I had expected, from reports given me, to find a white settlement in Boulder Valley, but there was none, and if there was a white person within fifty miles of our camp that night we did not know it. Virginia City and Helena were mining towns about a hundred miles apart, and we were half way between them. I could hardly have found a place in the whole western country where the chance of meeting a white man was so small. It was, by good fortune, the very spot I set out to find when I left Missouri. I told my friends when I left that I was going out among the savage Indians for protection against the "yard dog" militia, who had not been in the war, and who only commenced fighting after the war was over and returning Confederate soldiers were at their mercy.
A hurried camp, such as we were accustomed to make when traveling, was all we did the night of our arrival. Next morning we were up bright and early and, after attention to the cattle to see that none of them had strayed, we began building our winter home. We had but one axe and one shovel—one implement for each of us. Abundance of pine and cedar grew near. I took the axe and began cutting the logs while Curl with the shovel leveled the earth upon the site selected for the cabin. Curl's task was soon done, but not until I had a number of logs ready to be taken in. The oxen were then yoked and as fast as the logs were cut they were dragged in. When we decided logs enough were upon the ground, building began. It was slow work and hard work. Each log had to be raised and laid in its place and notched carefully so that it would holdfirm and leave as little space as possible to be "chinked." When the proper height for the eaves had been reached, we elevated one side by adding logs to give slant to the roof. Stout poles were then laid side by side, over which we spread a thick layer of cedar branches and covered the whole with gravel. We chinked the spaces between the logs and plastered over the chinking with mortar made of mud. We then cut out a door, over which we hung a heavy blanket, and with such stones as we could select, suitable to be used, built a fire-place, laying the stones in the same kind of mortar used in the chinking. Thus we had a house without a nail or a piece of iron about it.
Before I left Salt Lake, I bought two fine greyhounds. I trained them to sleep just inside our door. I told Curl they must serve as a lock to our door. They were faithful and obedient and I knew no Indian could get near us without warning. I felt more secure when I lay down to sleep with those dogs by my door than if I had had a puncheon door, barred and locked.
We moved into our cabin late in October, and I felt for the first time in more than four years that I was at home. I was glad also to get a rest. I had left Red River, fifty miles above Shreveport, in April, walked the seven hundred miles to Buchanan County, fighting, running and hiding—much of the time without food, as I have related; then twelve hundred miles to Salt Lake, with a week's rest, then six hundred miles to Boulder Valley—six months of trial and hardship which few men are called upon to endure. In view of this I looked upon my winter in the cabin, in spite of its loneliness, with a good deal of pleasure.
There was an abundance of game all about us. Elk, deer, antelope, bear, moose, and smaller game, grouse, pheasants and sage hens plentiful. Elk was myfavorite meat, and, while we had great variety, I always kept as much as one hind quarter of elk hanging upon the corner of our cabin. Any day I chose I could take my gun and go out upon the mountain side among the cattle and bring back just such meat as my appetite fancied.
We lived thus until near the first of the year 1866, without once seeing a human face—either white man or Indian. One morning about the time mentioned, Curl and I went out to get our ponies when we saw a dozen buck Indians chasing an antelope down the valley. Some were on foot and some on ponies. We hurriedly climbed up the side of a mountain which gave us an extended view of the whole plain, and to our astonishment we saw, about three miles away, a perfect village of wigwams. We were no longer without neighbors. Curl was considerably alarmed, but I told him we had nothing to fear, except that our game would not be so plentiful and so easily procured. He asked me how I knew we were in no danger. I pointed to the squaws, and pappooses which we could see about the village, and told him that my experience with Indians was that they were always peaceable when they had their families along. I told him, however, that we must be discreet and make friends with them, and assured him that I knew how to do that and that he must follow my advice.
Out of extra caution we went back to the cabin and immediately put all our guns in good condition. We had hardly finished our task, when about noon, two Indians ran upon our cabin, to their utter astonishment. They stopped and looked in consternation. Our dogs went after them and I had hard work to make the dogs understand that they must not harm them. When the dogs were quiet I went up to them, showing my friendlinessin every way I could. They answered me with signs showing that they too were friendly. When I had convinced them I meant no harm, I had them come into the cabin, and there I tried to find out what their plans were in the valley. I could understand but little they said, but I felt perfectly sure that by proper cultivation we should soon become quite friendly.
I then set food before them. I had a kettle of thoroughly cooked navy beans simmering over our fire. I filled a couple of pans from the kettle, set them out and provided bread and meat. They went in on the beans and ate them ravenously. I tried to induce them to eat bread and meat, but not a morsel would they touch, but kept calling for beans. I told Curl we must find some way to stop them if possible, as so many beans in their starved stomachs might make them sick and the tribe would think we had poisoned them. We both then began to make all manner of signs toward the bread and meat, but it was useless. The two ate the entire kettle of beans and looked around for more. When they saw the beans were gone, they ate large quantities of bread and meat, and made signs that they were much pleased with their meal. When they left they made us understand that we were invited to see them. They pointed to their camp and said "wakee up." We made them understand that we would come and when they were gone I told Curl we must keep our promise.
Next day we saddled our horses, buckled our navies on the outside of our clothes and each with a rifle in front across the horn of the saddle, rode down. The dogs followed us. When we rode up the squaws and pappooses ran for the tents like chickens that have seen a hawk in the air. But few bucks were in camp, the majority of them being out hunting. Fortunately for usone of the bucks who had dined with us so heartily on beans the day before was lying in his tent (perfectly well, to our surprise), and when the alarm was given he came out and recognized us. He came up and bade us welcome, and invited us into his tent. I was surprised to see how comfortably he was fixed. The poles of his tent were probably twenty feet long and tied together at the top. The lower ends of the poles were set in a wide circle, making a room twelve or fourteen feet across. It was a cold, winter day and a small stick fire was burning in the center directly beneath an opening at the top of the tent. The draft was such that the smoke all arose and escaped from the tent. They had gathered pine needles and packed them upon the floor around the fire and over them had spread dressed buffalo robes, making as fine a carpet as I ever set foot upon.
We sat down by the fire and talked as much as we could to our host, making him understand that we were entirely friendly. Our dogs, seeing the good feeling between the Indians and ourselves, accepted the situation and throughout the entire winter made no hostile demonstrations toward them except when they came about the cabin. From this visit the whole tribe became aware that we were friendly, and within a very short time the very best feeling prevailed.
Their only means of subsistence was the game they killed, and as they had no weapons but bows and arrows it required almost constant effort upon the part of the bucks to keep the tribe supplied with food. They were very clever in their methods and would bring in game when white men under such circumstances would have failed entirely. One of their favorite plans was this: Fifty or more would mount their ponies and make a wide circle, driving always toward CottonwoodCreek. The banks of this stream were very steep and there were but few crossing places. The antelope on becoming alarmed would start for these crossings, and as they passed down the narrow gulches, other Indians with bows and arrows waylaid them from behind rocks and brush, and shot them down. They did wonders with their bows and arrows, but many antelope passed through without being touched. Others, though wounded, escaped.
We soon began to join in these hunts, and I have from my station behind a rock at one of these crossings killed as many as fifteen antelope in a single hunt. I was an expert with the navy in those days and rarely missed a shot. I always gave them every one to the Indians, as neither Curl nor I cared for antelope meat, and they were, of course, greatly pleased and regarded us both with our skill and navies as fortunate acquisitions, and we lost nothing by our kindness to them.
We had a hundred and sixteen head of cattle and four horses. The Indians had about two hundred ponies. All herded and grazed together in that valley for four months. When the Indians left in the spring we rounded up our cattle and found every one of them.
About the first of May, 1866, we moved our cattle over on Indian Creek, about forty miles north. There was a little mining town near and we set up a butcher shop, furnishing our own beeves to it. The town was not large enough to enable us to do much business and, after two months, we moved to Helena, another mining town, but larger than the first. At that time Virginia City was the capital of the territory. By the first of September we had disposed of all our cattle one way or another and were ready for something else.
While we were deciding what next to do, Brother William and his family arrived in Helena. I had not seen him for six years—since he and Brother Zack left me at home in 1860 to care for father while they went back to California to look after the cattle. I had heard little from our ranch and our cattle in California, but was hardly prepared to learn that war times had been so bad there. From William I learned that great lawlessness prevailed in California and that our cattle had been shot and driven away and that long before the war was over William and Zack had nothing left but their families. They went to Idaho and mined a while, and then on to Montana. While in Idaho, Brother James, who had escaped from prison in St. Louis—and a death sentence also—had managed to join them with his family. James and Zack had bought a drove of cattle and had them in another portion of Montana, so William, Curl and I decided to come home.