CHAPTER LV.
THE PIONEERS CROSS THE PLATTE—GOVERNOR BOGGS AND THE MISSOURIANS—COL. BRIDGER—"A THOUSAND DOLLARS FOR A BUSHEL OF WHEAT"—THE PIONEERS' FIRST GLIMPSE OF THE VALLEY OF THE GREAT SALT LAKE.
The pioneers now crossed the Platte, hiring a flatboat for that purpose from Mr. Bordeaux, a Frenchman, the principal man at the fort. From him they learned that their old enemy, Governor Boggs, of Missouri, had recently passed over with two companies, on their way to California. True to his instincts and traditions, Governor Boggs had maligned the characters of the Mormons to Mr. Bordeaux, who answered that the Mormons could not be any worse than his party, who were quarreling and stealing all along the way.
Prior to crossing the river the pioneers had broken a new road over the plains for several hundred miles, along which tens of thousands of the Saints subsequently traveled. It was known for many years as the "old Mormon road," until the railroad came to cover it up and obliterate almost from recollection the toils and trials of the ox-team journeys of early days. But now the brethren were in the wake of the Missouri companies, traveling towards the land of gold.
At the Black Hills they were seven days in crossing the river. Having there overtaken the Missourians, they ferried them over, also, at the rate of $1.50 for each wagon and load, taking their pay in flour, meal and bacon at Missouri prices. By this time their stock of provisions was well-nigh exhausted. To have it thus replenished in the Black Hills, and at the hands of their old enemies, the Missourians, they regarded as little less than a miracle.
In this locality Heber discovered a fine spring of clear, cold water, which he named for himself, "Kimball's Spring."
The Missourians, who traveled on Sundays, while the pioneers rested and kept the holy day, were quarreling among themselves continually, and, not satisfied with this, began to insult and annoy their Mormon neighbors. One evening, as Heber and Ezra T. Benson were riding ahead of their company to look out a camping ground, six men, dressed as Indians, being clothed in white and blue blankets, suddenly sprang up from the grass, about half a mile to the left of the road, and mounting their horses started on. Seeing that the sight of their blankets failed to terrify the Mormon scouts, who continued leisurely on their way, one of the party left his companions and retracing a few steps, motioned with his hand for the brethren to go back. They kept on, however, and the pseudo savage and his comrades then scampered off and disappeared behind a ridge some distance ahead.
Heber and his companion rode on, and having gained the summit, were just in time to see the six Missourians, for such they were, ride into camp, no doubt to relate how badly they had scared the two "Mormons." The brethren treated the matter with silent contempt, though naturally a little indignant at the gratuitous insult offered them.
Independence Rock on the 21st of June; South Pass on the 26th. Two days later Colonel Bridger came into camp. In council with the Mormon leaders, he gave them some information, mostly of a discouraging character, in regard to the region towards which they were traveling, and in conclusion said that he would give a thousand dollars for the first bushel of wheat raised in Salt Lake Valley.
On went the heroic band, nothing daunted, wading rivers, crossing deserts and climbing mountains; trusting in God and their great destiny. It did not desert them. On the afternoon of Saturday, July 24th, 1847, their dust-covered wagons emerged from the mouth of the ravine now known as Emigration Canyon, and the Valley of the Great Salt Lake burst like a vision of glory upon their enraptured view.
Ah! marvel nothing if the eye may trace
The care-lines on each toil-worn hero's face,
Nor yet, if down his cheek in silent show,
The trickling tides of tender feeling flow;
Tears not of weakness, nor of sorrow's mood,
As when o'er vanished joys sad memories brood,
Far richer fount those fearless eyes bedewed,
They wept the golden drops of gratitude.
Wherefore! Ask of the bleak and biting wind,
The rivers, rocks and deserts left behind,
The rolling prairie's waste of moveless waves,
A path of pain, a trail of nameless graves;
The city fair where widowed loneliness
Weeps her lost children in the wilderness;
The river broad along whose icy bridge
Their bleeding feet red-hued each frozen ridge;
The Christian world that drove them forth to die
On barren wilds beneath a wintry sky.
Would e'en the coldest heart forbear to say
Good cause had gratitude to weep that day?
Or censure for a flow of manly tears
That brave-souled band, immortal Pioneers?