THURSDAY, MAY 27th.
Getting up this morning about 7.30, I find we are crossing another desert—at least it has that appearance. We have left Ellensburg and are running through a dry, sandy country along the Yakima River. Here and there we pass a ranch where plots of land under irrigation are being cultivated, and from the fertile appearance of these irrigated tracts it would seem that this country needs but plenty of water to make it a blooming paradise. This much I discover by looking out the window while waiting my turn to wash and comb, for Brothers Terry, Brown, and Horner are ahead of me this morning. We work on the principle “first come first served,” and all good naturedly wait when there is nothing else to do. Completing my toilet, I go to the smoker and find the genial conductor who is running the train, and learn that he is a member of Mt. Hood Division No. 91; name, W. B. Hale.
“I took charge of your train at Ellensburg,” he says, on being asked the question, “and am going with you as far as I can. We have engine No. 333, run by Engineer Brant, who will take us to Pasco, 122 miles.” “This is a barren-looking country for stock raising,” I remark, as I see a large drove of cattle kicking up the dust in the desert as we pass them; “what do they live on?” “Those cattle are from away back toward the hills, where there is plenty of ‘bunch grass’ that they feed on, and are coming to the irrigation canal for water, or perhaps they are being driven to the railroad station for shipment. You would be surprised at the amount of stock shipped from North Yakima, Prosser, and Kennewick,” is the reply. “There seems to be no trouble about growing plenty of stuff where there is water,” I venture to assert, seeing a verdant-looking plantation, like an oasis in the desert, a short distance away. “Lack or scarcity of water is the only hindrance to agricultural industry,” is the answer, “and this drawback is being rapidly overcome by the construction of large irrigating canals by companies formed for that purpose.”
“Breakfast is now ready in the dining car,” chimes the welcome voice of Conductor McDonald at the open door. Several of our people had entered the smoker during the last half hour, and all arise as one person at the music of that well-known voice, that always brings “tidings of great joy.” “I think Mr. McDonald has the loveliest voice, for a man,” is the flattering remark of Mrs. Matthews as we make a break for the diner. Not one of us but what thinks so too, but of course we know Mrs. Matthews is thinking of the song McDonald sang to us a few evenings before.
“There’s a tramp hidden between the ice chests under this car beating his way, I heard some one say awhile ago,” says Manager Wyman at the breakfast table. As we finish eating the train stops at the little station of Kiona and we all get out to see the stowaway. Sure enough he’s there. In a narrow space between the ice chests, about 16 inches wide, he has placed a board on the dining-car ladder which is kept there, and crawled in on it, a place so narrow that he cannot change his position
or turn. We can see him all covered with dust, but he does not move, and we are not sure that he is alive, for this Yakima dust is something terrible and he has certainly got a dose of it. One of the dining-car boys brought him out some bread and meat, a can of water, and a sponge to protect his mouth and nostrils from the dust. We can see that he is alive when these things are pushed into him, for he reaches out a hand as far as he can to receive them. After passing Kennewick we cross the Columbia River and are soon at Pasco, where a stop is made to change engines. While this is being done we persuade our “mascot” to come from beneath the car. As he crawls from his hiding place and straightens up Brother Ristein, who has his kodak ready, takes a snap. We can see through the ginger-colored Yakima dust on his face that he is a negro. “What’s your name?” I ask. “John Bell, sah.” “Where do you live?” asks Brother Matthews. “Al’bama, sah.” “Where did you get on this car?” asks Manager Wyman. “Tacoma, sah.” “How did you get to Tacoma?” asks Brother Dougherty. “Cargo hosses, sah.” “Where do you want to go, now?” asks Conductor Hale. “Montana, sah.” “Well, crawl in your hole; we’re going to start,” replies Captain Hale, and turning to Manager Wyman continues, “We may as well allow him to keep his place, for soon as you rout him out there will be another one ready to crawl in. It’s impossible to get through this part of the country without being troubled with hoboes.”
We leave Pasco at 12.55 Eastern (9.45 Pacific) time with engine No. 405, Engineer Tom Allen and Fireman W. W. Thompson, who run us to Spokane, 146 miles. Much of the country through which we are now passing is very dry and barren-looking, but we are informed by Captain Hale that it is considered a rich grazing district. From Lind to Sprague, a distance of 45 miles, many large herds of horses and cattle are seen. Just before reaching Sprague we run for two miles on the border of Spring Lake, a fine body of water that looks very refreshing after so many miles of dry and dusty territory. We stop at Sprague a few minutes for water and notice the place has had a very serious fire not long since.
“Captain,” I ask, addressing Brother Hale, who is near by, “what has happened to Sprague?” “The town was nearly wiped out about a year ago by a very bad fire,” is the reply, “and it is a great pity, for Sprague was a pretty little place and a thriving town. It is the county seat of Lincoln County, and had a population of about 2000. It is the headquarters of the Idaho Division of the Northern Pacific Railway, and the company’s machine shops and roundhouse were completely destroyed and all those engines ruined,” and he points to where can be seen about a dozen locomotives, burned and warped, standing on the tracks that had been the interior of the roundhouse and shops.
Another run of 25 miles through good farming and grazing territory, interspersed with considerable timber land, brings us to Cheney, where we again make a short stop. Since crossing the Columbia our course has been upward, and from an elevation at Kennewick of 350 feet we have now reached 2300 feet. Cheney is a growing business place of 1200 inhabitants. It is nicely located on the great plateau of the Columbia and surrounded for many miles with rich farm land and abundant timber.
Here we meet Mr. H. W. McMaster, chief dispatcher of Northern Pacific Railway at Spokane, whom we find to be a very courteous and agreeable gentleman. On a sidetrack near where our train stands, Mr. McMaster shows us the largest locomotive on the Northern Pacific Railway, No. 150. Engine and tender without fuel or water weigh 106 tons; it has a 34-inch cylinder; was built in Schenectady, N. Y., since the first of the year. They have had it but a short time but find it very satisfactory. It is in charge of Engineer J. Bruce and is run in the freight service between Spokane and Pasco. Mr. McMaster accompanies us to Spokane, where we arrive at 5.20 P. M. Eastern (2.20 P. M. Pacific), and are met at the station by Dr. E. D. Olmsted, Mayor of Spokane. We are introduced to the Mayor by Mr. McMaster in a neat little speech. His Honor responds in a pleasant manner, bidding us welcome and giving us the freedom of the city. The street railway management offers us the use and freedom of their lines so long as we wish to remain in the city. We have but two hours here, and the municipal authorities and street railway managers vie with one another in their efforts to show us as much of the city as possible in the short time we will be with them. A number of carriages are sent around and quickly loaded up, accommodating about one-half of the party, the remainder board street cars, and we start on a tour of the city.
Spokane is the county seat of Spokane County, with a population of about 32,000. It occupies a remarkably picturesque location on both sides of the Spokane River, a mighty mountain torrent, the rush and roar of whose eternal, resistless energy holds the visitors to-day spellbound and speechless with admiration, amazement, and awe. We had looked upon, we supposed, during the past two weeks, all varieties and degrees of running, rushing, and falling waters, but at no time have we gazed upon such a tumbling, seething, foaming, roaring torrent as this that now fascinates us with its sublime grandeur and astounds us with its terrific force.
Right through the centre of the city, with a fall of 150 feet in the space of half a mile, this mighty torrent tears, dashing and splashing, surging and foaming against and amongst the great rocks and boulders that beset its course with a fury that is indescribable, and we feel as we gaze upon this wonderful, awe-inspiring spectacle that there is no more limit to the power of the elements than there is to the measure of eternity. This magnificent river that never freezes runs the great electric plant that lights the city and operates 45 miles of electric railway. It furnishes power for numerous flour and saw mills, factories and foundries that can be seen in operation along its banks, giving an aspect of business activity to the place that is a pleasing manifestation of prosperity and enterprise.
Its fine, substantial, costly church, school, municipal, and other public buildings and superb private residences are indications that there is wealth in Spokane. Because of the advantages and facilities of its admirable location, surrounded by vast forests of valuable timber, fertile agricultural valleys, rich mining districts, and the traffic of seven railroads, we predict for Spokane a phenomenal future. It is destined, we are sure, at an early day to be the first city of the great Northwest. Not one of the party will ever forget our short visit to
Spokane. Mr. McMaster took Brothers Maxwell and Reagan around with his own team and Captain Hale took Manager Wyman. The street-car party was under the escort of James Mendenhall, Esq., an old schoolmate of Brother James Matthews. Mr. Mendenhall came West several years ago, located at Spokane, and engaged in real estate business. He is now one of the prominent citizens of the place and closely identified with the business interests and enterprises of the city. We also met Mark Mendenhall, Esq., a brother of James, who is a leading attorney in Spokane. No, we will not forget the courtesy and kindness of the good people of Spokane, and the good people of Spokane will not forget us, for they have only to remember that on the afternoon of May 27th, 1897, street-railway traffic was blocked for thirty minutes by a car abandoned by the Pennsylvania Railroad conductors and kept waiting for them while they viewed the grandeur of Spokane Falls for half an hour from the rear balcony of the brewery.
At 7.40 P. M. Eastern (4.40 P. M. Pacific) time we are all aboard our train once more, and with Engineer Secord at the throttle of engine No. 119 we quickly leave beautiful Spokane far in our rear. Captain Hale is still with us, his brakeman being A. S. Harding. A hobo is discovered lying on the truss rods of the combined car; he can be seen by looking around the side of the car; his position seems a perilous one, but our train makes no stop till it gets to Hope, 84 miles, so he is allowed to remain and take his chances. For several miles we pass through magnificent cattle ranges and fine farming lands. As we approach Hope the road skirts the shores of Lake Pend d’Oreille for about three miles, giving us a fine view of this beautiful body of water. We arrive at Hope 10.00 Eastern (7.00 Pacific) time and stop twenty-five minutes to change engines. Here a change is also made in time; it changes from Pacific to Mountain time, one hour later than Pacific and two hours earlier than Eastern time. Hobo No. 2 changed his position from the truss rods of the combined car to a pile of ties when the train stopped at Hope. He was given a lunch by one of the dining-car boys and advised not to anchor himself in the same place again, as the position was not only a dangerous one, but very conspicuous. When asked his name he said it was J. W. Kelsey, that he was trying to get home, had been away for two years, and wanted to see his mother. Hobo No. 1 lays low, for he knows should he for a moment vacate his narrow quarters under the “Lafayette” there would be a scramble for his place. It is growing dusk, and through the gloom of the dying day we have counted no less than fifteen skulking forms about the train, watching for an opportunity to secrete themselves underneath or about the train for the purpose of obtaining free transportation.
Bidding adieu to big-hearted, genial Captain Hale, who has been with us for 357 miles, we leave Hope at 10.25 P. M. Eastern (8.25 P. M. Mountain) time with N. P. engine No. 438, with Engineer Jim Bailey at the throttle, whose fireman is John Ryan. Conductor William Gilbert has charge of the train and his brakemen are T. S. McEachran and F. R. Foote. This crew runs us to Helena, 297 miles. Ten miles from Hope we cross Clark’s Fork, a branch of the Columbia River,
and through the gathering darkness we can see that we have entered a wild and rocky region, the road winding around and among mountain ranges and snow-capped peaks, following the course of the stream we just crossed for 60 miles.
Captain Gilbert and his brakemen are lively, interesting company, and entertain us during the evening with anecdotes and stories of Western life. “Are you troubled much with tramps, captain?” some one asks, as Conductor Gilbert, during the conversation, made some allusion to the profession. “They do not give us much real trouble,” is the reply, “yet they are a matter of concern, for we are never without them, and need to be constantly on guard; there is always a Wandering Willie around somewhere, and you never know what mischief he may be up to. There are at least a dozen on this train to-night. The trucks are full and several on top of the cars.” This is rather startling information, and I notice Brother Sheppard clap his hand on his right hip pocket to make sure the “critter” is there, and Alfalfa quietly unlocks the cupboard door, where “our artillery” is kept. I see no sign of fear on the serene countenance of Captain Gilbert and believe we’re not in danger; yet Brothers Maxwell and Terry start through the train to make sure the vestibule doors are barred and step traps fastened down. At Trout Creek, a small station 48 miles from Hope, we stopped for water, and F. Hartman, roadmaster of the Missoula and Hope Division, got aboard and went with us to Horse Plains. It is now near midnight, and making my way from the smoker to the “Marco” I turn in, wondering how the poor fellows who are hanging on to the brake beams are enjoying themselves, for Bailey with the “438” is switching them around the curves at a pretty lively rate.