CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE A TERRIBLE JOURNEY
When I returned from Nevada to Utah, I found that mother had moved to Cache Valley, so I went up there and stayed all winter with her. It proved to be a very sad winter for me, though it began very happily. I found here my first sweetheart, a beautiful girl, who made me love her very dearly by her sweet ways and her kind heart; for she helped my mother nurse me through a dangerous illness.
We had spent the time delightfully for about a month, when I got hurt. My horse, which I was riding one day very fast, struck some ice, slipped and fell, throwing me to the ground. My head struck the ice so hard that it nearly killed me. I was carried home; brain fever came on and I lay in bed till spring. To make matters worse, the wound in my head broke out again and I was delirious for part of the time. But this dear girl stayed by my bedside day after day, and helped me past death’s door. They thought I was dying one day, and she was driven half wild for fear I might go; but the next day I had rallied and from then on I recovered very fast.
Our intention was to get married; but before we could realize our hopes they were blighted and destroyed by certain men who should have been our friends. These men poisoned the minds of her parents against me, while I was away driving the stage and guarding the cattle of the people against the Indians; her parents refused to allow her to answer my letters; and finally they succeeded in making her give me up and marry one of the men who had turned them against me.
The little bunch of cattle, which I had bought with the money I had received for my team, were stolen that winter, presumably by the Indians. I hunted for them for a while, but not one did I ever get back. The money I had saved for a “wedding stake,” I gave to mother; and as I had no heart to stay in that town any longer, I started for the road again.
That summer I worked for John Bolwinkle of Salt Lake City, as his wagon boss, in charge of his ox-team freighting from Carson City, Nevada. A mail route had been established from Salt Lake City to Bannock, Montana, and Mr. Leonard I. Smith obtained the contract to carry this mail. Knowing of my experience in this business, he induced me to drive the stage from Salt Lake north that winter.
We started out some time in November with a wagon-load of dry goods to trade for horses along the road. Besides this, we had one light coach and two buggies, in which were seven passengers. We went on our journey through Ogden, Brigham City, and other towns north, buying what horses we could as we went along. For a few days we stopped at Soda Springs to arrange about making a mail station there. At that time a large company of soldiers were wintering in the town. It was the plan of Mr. Smith to make me division agent from Soda Springs to Salt Lake, but I was to go on with him to Bannock to get acquainted with the whole route.
When we got to Bannock, winter had set in. It snowed very hard while we were there, and kept snowing all of the way back. By the time we got to Snake River, the snow was deep, and there was no place where we could buy feed for our horses. We had two passengers with us, and Mr. Smith had not provided us with supplies enough to last us half way back to Soda Springs.
We could not travel as fast as he had planned on account of the deep snow, and the horses were getting very weak for want of food. For these reasons we could not come back on the road by which we had gone, so we kept down the Snake River to where the Blackfoot empties into it. There we ate the last of our provisions. We were still one hundred miles from any place where we could get more, and the snow was becoming deeper every day. When we got up the Ross Fork Canyon we had to stop for the night. Here three of the horses gave out, and we had to leave them and one of the buggies. We had left the coach at Beaver Canyon.
The next morning we started before breakfast, for we had eaten the last thing the morning before. The snow kept falling all the time, and by noon, it was at least three feet deep. All of us but the driver would walk ahead of the team to break the road. We had four horses on the buggy, and the buggy would push up the snow ahead of it until it would run in over the dashboard and sides. That day two more of the horses gave out and we had to leave them, but we reached the head of the Portneuf.
That night we all turned out and kicked the snow off a little space so the poor horses could get some frozen grass, but it was so very cold and they were so tired that they could not eat very much.
The next morning we made another early start, and Mr. Smith said we would get to Soda Springs that day, but I knew we could not get there that day, nor the next day, either. I told the passengers that if we were to leave the buggy, we might make it in two days, but the way we were fooling along with the worn-out horses, we never would get there. They told Mr. Smith what I said and he upbraided me for it. He said I had scared the passengers nearly to death and he wanted me to stop.
Well, by noon that day, we came to the road we had come out on, but Mr. Smith did not know the place and wanted to follow the road over which we had traveled in going to Bannock. I told him the way we wanted to go was south, but the way he wanted to go was north. He told me I was wrong and ordered me to keep still. “Well,” I said, “I will go to Soda Springs and you can go to the other place,” so I took what I wanted out of the buggy and started off, but I had not gone far when I heard some one calling me. It was so foggy and the frost was falling so fast that I could see only a few yards, and as I hesitated about going back, one of the passengers came up to me and asked me if I was sure I knew where I was going, and begged me to come back to the buggy.
Caspar W. Hodgson
A snowy road through an Idaho forest.
One of the passengers was a large, strong Irishman, and appeared to be well educated; the other was a sickly looking Englishman. I don’t remember their names, but they called each other Mike and Jimmy. I went back to the buggy and Mike saw that I did not want anything to say to Mr. Smith, so he did the talking. He questioned Mr. Smith and then me for quite a while, and then he said he believed that I was right. He told the driver to turn the team around and follow me. The driver obeyed although it made Mr. Smith very angry.
After turning south we had not traveled over four miles, when one of the remaining horses gave out and we could not get the poor thing to move, so we had to leave the buggy. We went on about three or four hundred yards to a clump of quaking aspen, and built a large fire. When we all got warm, I went to bring up the horses and buggy, and when I got back to the fire, Mr. Smith and Mike were quarreling. Mr. Smith said that we were going away from Soda Springs, and that he intended to turn and go the other way.
It was already quite dark, but we could travel just as well in the night as in the day, for we could not see very far anyhow on account of the fog. I said I knew I was right and for all those who wanted to go to Soda Springs to fall in line, for I was going to start right then. I went to the buggy and got a pair of buffalo moccasins I had there, put them on, and started down the trail. “Hold on,” called Mike, “I will go with you.” Then Jimmy said he was not going to stay there and starve to death, that he would go with us, too. So the three of us went our way and left Mr. Smith and the driver standing there in the fog and snow.
It was about eleven o’clock at night when we left the buggy. We did not feel much like pushing our way through the snow, for we had already walked many miles that day, and had been three days without anything to eat. Mike said he would take the lead to break the path, I was to come next, and Jimmy was to follow me. There was about a foot of snow with a crust on it, not quite hard enough to hold one up, and on top of this was about two feet of lighter snow, so you see it was very hard traveling.
We had not been out over two hours, when Mike said his feet were frozen. I had a few matches in my pocket wrapped in paper, and we kicked around to find some dry sagebrush, but it was all wet and frozen. We broke up some and tried to make a fire, but it would not burn. Pretty soon Mike said we should give him the matches and he would try it. He took them and laid them down by his side while trying to light one, and Jimmy came up, struck them with his foot, and scattered them all through the snow. We could not find a single one of them, so we had to go without any fire.
We trudged along, stumbling over sagebrush and rock until morning. Mike said we must be very near Soda Springs, for he thought we had traveled twenty miles or more during the night, and he could not believe me when I told him we had not made over eight miles. I told them before we left the buggy that it was about thirty miles to Soda Springs, so I knew we had over twenty miles yet.
Jimmy and I were about played out, and had to stop every little while to rest. Mike had long legs, but Jimmy and I were so short that when we tried to step in his tracks we had to jump, and that made it harder for Jimmy and me. During the night we had traveled too far to the east and had left the trail through the lava beds and sagebrush, and had started to cross the big meadow and swamps along the Blackfoot River. The tall slough grass and bulrushes were so tangled and frozen together that we could hardly get through them. Sometimes Mike would forget himself and step about six feet over a large mass of grass and rushes, and Jimmy and I would have to wallow through them.
About noon the fog rose a little and we could see a large butte which we called the Chinaman’s Hat, and which I knew was twelve miles from Soda Springs. The butte was about four miles ahead of us, which would make it sixteen miles from where we were to Soda. Jimmy said his feet were frozen, and that he was too tired to go much farther. I was about worn out, too, so we were in a pretty bad fix. The fog soon settled again, and was so thick that we could not see fifty yards, and we were all so tired out that I knew we could not reach the Chinaman’s Hat before ten o’clock that night.
We decided that we must not stop to rest more than ten minutes at any time, and that at least one of us must keep awake, for we knew that if all went to sleep at the same time we would never again wake up.
It was a bitter cold night. There was no wind blowing, and it was very still, not even a bird, rabbit, or coyote was to be seen or heard—not a sound but the ringing in our ears. By this time I had gotten over my being hungry, but I was very thirsty, and I had eaten so much snow to satisfy my thirst that my mouth and tongue had become so sore and swollen that I could scarcely speak. Jimmy was so used up by this time that we could hardly get him to move after we had stopped to rest, and Mike would sometimes carry him a little way; but Jimmy said it hurt him, so Mike would have to put him down again.
Well, night was coming on again, and I do not think we had traveled over three or four miles that day, but we were doing the best we could. About four o’clock in the afternoon we stopped for a minute’s rest; I settled back in the snow and put one foot out for Jimmy to lay his head on. Soon it was time to start again and I shook Jimmy, but he did not stir. Mike had already started, so I pulled my foot out from under Jimmy’s head, and as I did so his head sank in the snow. Then I took hold of him and tried to raise him, but I could not. I called for Mike, and when he came back, we raised Jimmy up, and I saw that he was dead.
I cannot tell you what happened in the next half hour, but from what he said in his sorrow over Jimmy’s death, I learned for the first time that Jimmy had married Mike’s sister. After a while I scraped the snow away clear to the ground, and while doing this, I found a dry thistle stalk about fourteen inches long. I took the dead man’s coat off, laid him in the hole, spread the coat over his face, and covered him with snow, making a little mound like a grave. I tore some of the lining from my coat, tied it to the thistle, and stuck it over the grave.
Shoshone tepee. Brush across entrance means “No one at home.”
It was hard work to get Mike started again. He said we were all going to die anyway, and he would rather stay there with Jimmy. I told him we were nearly to Soda Springs, and if he would try, we could get there; but he said I had told him that so much that he didn’t believe I knew where Soda Springs was. He said I had told him when we first started from the buggy that it was only thirty miles and he knew we had traveled over seventy miles by this time. I told him I knew if we traveled as fast as we could that we would be in Soda Springs in two hours.
We talked there a long time, and I began to think that Mike had really made up his mind not to try to go on any more, when just before dark he seemed to take fresh courage. He jumped up and started out so fast that I could not keep up with him. After a while he stopped and sat down again in the snow, and when I caught up to him I found him sound asleep. I let the poor fellow sleep a few minutes, and then I found it almost impossible to wake him. After pulling and shaking him, I finally got him on his feet, but he would start off the wrong way. Then I would get hold of him and start him off right, but he would turn around and go the wrong way. He did not know what he was doing, so I had to take the lead. Then he would stop and I would have to go back and get him.
After a little time he seemed to come to himself, and took the lead again for about a mile, and then he sat down in the snow and said he was done for, and that he would not go another step. I did all I could to rouse him, but he would not stir. He gave me a small memorandum book and a little buckskin bag full of gold dust, and told me he had a sister living in Mississippi, and that I would find her address in the book. I talked to him a long time to try to get him to come with me, but he would not move.
I saw that it was of no use, and that I would have to leave him or lie down in the snow and die with him. This I felt like doing, but for the sake of my mother and sisters, I thought I would make one more effort to reach the town, so I left him and had gone about seventy-five yards, when I stumbled over something and fell headlong into the snow. I cleared the snow away from my face, and sat there thinking about home and how badly my mother would feel if she knew where I was, and how easy it would be to lie there in the snow and go to sleep.
Drowsiness had nearly overcome me when, suddenly, I heard the far-away tinkle of a bell. I knew then that I was not far from Soda Springs. I jumped up and ran back to Mike as fast as I could go, and when I got to him, I found him stretched out on the snow with his hands folded over his breast and sound asleep. It was all but impossible to wake him. I am certain he would have died if he had been left ten minutes longer. When I got him awake enough to tell him about the bell, the sound had ceased. He would not believe what I told him about it, so I could not get him to come with me.
I went back to the place where I first heard the bell and sat down again. In a few minutes I heard it louder than before. Then I rushed back to Mike and found him awake, and when I got him to listen he heard the bell this time, too. He jumped up and started so fast in the direction of the sound that I could not keep up with him. When he would see me falling behind, he would come back and take hold of my hands and pull me along. I begged him to let me alone and told him it hurt me to be jerked over the snow in that way. Then he would kick the snow and say that he would make a good road for me if I would only come.
We had traveled this way for about half an hour, when the fog rose a little and we saw, a short distance ahead of us, a faint light. He then left me and started for the light as fast as he could go. I tried to follow, but slipped and fell, and found that I could not get up again. Many times I tried to rise, but fell back every time. I thought if I lay there a while and rested, then perhaps I could get up and go on. I guess I must have fallen asleep, for the first thing I knew, two men had hold of me and were carrying me to the hotel where we had seen the light. Mike had reached there and had told the men in the hotel that one of his companions was dead and another was out there just a little way dying in the snow.
When we got to the door, Mike was standing there with a big glass of whiskey in his hand. “Down this, old boy,” he said, “and it will be the making of you,” but I could not bear the smell of this liquor, to say nothing of drinking it.
They set me down in a chair near the stove, but the heat soon made me feel sick, and I had to move as far from the fire as I could get. The cook brought something for us to eat, but my mouth and tongue hurt me so that I could hardly eat anything. Then the light began to grow dim and I could feel them shaking me and could hear them talking to me, but I could not answer, for my tongue was so swollen. Then I seemed to go away off.
The next thing I remember, they were telling me that the doctors had come, and I saw that the house was full of people. They told me that Mike’s feet were frozen and that two men were holding them in a tub of cold water to try to draw the frost out. The doctor was pulling my moccasins off and I heard him say that my feet were all right. It seems that they were giving me hot soup or something every minute, but I was so sleepy that I hardly knew what was going on. I soon found myself in bed with two doctors standing over me. One of them was the faithful Doctor Palmer who, years afterwards, became a dear friend and neighbor of mine. He told me they had just brought in the dead man, and that they did not know what to do with him until either Mike or I was able to talk. They were going to hold an inquest over the body and wanted witnesses to tell how he died. I tried to ask if they had sent for Mr. Smith, but they could not understand what I said.
I don’t know how much time had passed, when an army officer came in and began talking to Doctor Palmer. I heard Doctor Palmer say, “Is that so?” The officer said it was. Then Doctor Palmer said, “I did not know he was that bad.” I rose to ask what was the matter, but Doctor Palmer told me to lie still. The officer said, “Shall I tell him?” Doctor Palmer said, “Not now, let the other doctor tell him.” The officer went out and soon the old doctor came in. He told me that the man who came with me had his feet so badly frozen that he could not save them and they would have to be taken off. He said he would leave Sergeant Chauncey with me while Doctor Palmer assisted him in cutting off Mike’s feet. He told me to keep very quiet and in a few days I would be all right.
About two hours after Mike and I reached the hotel, a company of men started out to find Mr. Smith; and when they reached the buggy, they found Mr. Smith and the driver all right. They had the meat of two horses cut up and hanging in the trees. When they told Mr. Smith that Mike and I had reached Soda Springs but that Jimmy was dead, he said he was surprised that we were not all dead, for he was certain that I was leading them right away from the town.
The party that went out for Mr. Smith got back the day the doctors were going to cut Mike’s feet off. Mr. Smith came in to see me, and he almost cried when he saw the fix I was in. He said he would take me right to Salt Lake City, where I would get better care than I could in Soda Springs. They would not allow him to move me, however, though he tried his hardest to take me.
S. N. Leek, Jackson, Wyoming
Winter scene near Uncle Nick’s home in Jackson’s Hole. Thousands of elk come into this valley during the “snowy moons.”
Owing to the skill of Doctor Palmer I got along pretty well, but it was several weeks before I was able to get around very much. Poor Mike suffered terribly after his feet were taken off, but he got well and strong as ever, except for the loss of his feet.
When I got well, I drove the mail from Soda Springs to Franklin during the rest of the winter. That June Jimmy’s wife came out from Mississippi. She was Mike’s sister, and a most beautiful woman.
She and Mike induced me to stop driving the mail for a while and take them back over the road we traveled those awful days to reach Soda Springs. I secured a buggy for us to ride in, a small spring wagon to carry the camp outfit, and a good cook to go with us to do the cooking and drive the mess wagon.
We first stopped where Jimmy died. The spot was still marked by the pieces of my coat lining that were lying around. Then we went to where we had left Mr. Smith and his driver. When we reached the place where Mr. Smith wanted to turn north and follow the old trail in the wrong direction, Mike told his sister that if it had not been for me that day, they would all have gone the wrong way and there, somewhere on that lonely trail, have perished in the snow. From there we went to the Snake River, where we had eaten our last meal on that awful trip.
We found here a large band of Indians, and among them were several that I was acquainted with. We could not get away from them, they were so glad to see me, so we stayed here four days. They wanted to know why I didn’t come back in those days and live with them all the time. Then I had to tell them all about where I had been ever since I went away from them and what I had been doing all that time. They took turns asking me questions until I thought they would talk me to death.
These were the first Indians this woman had ever seen, and she was frightened of them until she noticed how glad they were to see me and how kind they were; then she felt better towards them. She said she was delighted to hear me talk to them, that they were certainly a queer people, and that I must have been a strange boy to leave my home and go to live with them.
After I had finished my visit with the Indians we turned back over the same road. When we got to mother’s home, Mike and his sister stayed with us three weeks. They kept trying all the time to induce me to go with them to her home in Mississippi, but my mother objected so strongly that I would not go, although I wanted to very much. They would have treated me very kindly, I am sure. They even offered to share their property with me; but I thought more of my mother than I did of anybody else in the world and I could not leave her to make my home among strangers.
“Finally she came to my white mother’s home.”