WE MEET A FRIEND.
Tuesday, May 30.
We girls were riding in advance of the wagons when we saw a long freight train coming. We stopped to let our ponies graze until they would pass. I glanced at the driver on the second wagon and recognized an acquaintance. “Why, girls, that is Kid Short,” I exclaimed.
He looked at me so funny, and began to scramble down from his high perch.
“Why, Miss Sallie, I could not believe my eyes at first. Where did you drop from?” shaking hands with each of us.
“Didn’t drop from anywhere; have been thirty days getting here by the slow pace of an ox-train. Sim Buford and some more boys that you know are with the train you see coming.”
He soon said good-bye to us, spoke to a man on horseback, who dismounted, gave him his horse and climbed to the seat Mr. Short had vacated in the front of the freight wagon, drawn by eight mules, while Kid hurried off to see the boys. He and Sim have been neighbors, schoolmates, and intimate friends all their lives. Sim says Kid is homesick and expects to go home as soon as he can after reaching Omaha. He has been freighting from Omaha to Kearney, and has been away from home since last Fall. We are camping near another station, with the same trains we camped near last night not far off.
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Wednesday, May 31.
We are camping in the valley of the Platte. We are obliged to stop at the stage-stations to get water for ourselves and the stock from the wells. The water is very good, clear and cold. The same trains that have been camping near us since we left Ashland are here again to-night. Two of the women called upon us awhile ago. We were not favorably impressed. They are loud, boisterous and unladylike; they speak to strange gentlemen with all the familiarity of old acquaintances. According to Thackeray, they are “Becky Sharp” kind of women.
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Thursday, June 1.
Our little village on wheels has stopped near a large two-story log-house that was built in the early fifties for a wayside tavern; there are fifteen rooms; there are frightful stories told of dark deeds having been committed under that roof, of unwary travelers homeward bound from California that never reached home, but whether true or not I cannot say. The people of the other trains are having a dance in the large dining-room of the old house.
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Friday, June 2.
As Ezra and I were riding in front of the train we came to where a man was sitting on the ground hugging his knees, two men were standing near trying to talk to him, seemingly. As we rode up one of them came toward us, saying, “That is an Indian, over there.” We rode close to him, and Ezra said, “How;” but he did not even grunt. He was very disappointing as the “Noble Red Man” we read about. He wore an old ragged federal suit, cap and all. There were no feathers, beads nor blankets. He was not black like a negro, more of a brown, and a different shade from the mulatto. He was ugly as sin.