The Life of a Fossil Hunter

by Charles H. Sternberg

The valley contained thousands of wild turkeys, and it was a fine sight to see them come down in great droves from the hills at night to roost in the trees below. On the level prairie there were many antelope, also; and wild cats and coyotes were seen nearly every day. I remember one day, when crossing a low level prairie covered with bushes a couple of feet in height, seeing at my left a coyote which was running along in a straight line, with its nose pointed toward a certain spot, like a pointer dog after a prairie chicken. My interest was aroused, and to increase my curiosity, I caught sight of a short-tailed cat, the Canadian lynx, crawling along the ground in the same direction. I knew that they were both trailing some prey which each, unknown to the other, had scented, and imagining that it might be a calf, I shouted, as I did not want to see it torn to pieces. This startled the cat, and drove her off at a tangent to her trail. The coyote continued his course, but did not stop, for a Texas cow had run to the point toward which he was traveling, and stood with lowered horns, ready to repel his assault; while her calf sprang up and deliberately proceeded to take advantage of the situation to get his dinner.

In this region, as in the Kansas chalk beds, the question of water gave us a great deal of trouble. All the water in the river is that which goes by the name of alkali in the West, being thoroughly impregnated with salt and other mineral ingredients. There are, moreover, no wells or springs in the red beds. The surface rock is porous, and the water sinks through it to the compact gray beds below, from which it drains off into the river. These gray beds are some distance below the surface, and so far as I know, have never been reached in digging for water. One is, therefore, forced to depend upon rain water. This is collected either in artificial tanks built by the cattlemen, or in natural tanks, sometimes along the creek beds, but usually in the flood-plain in old creek beds, where the fine red mud has been puddled by cattle, perhaps, or in the olden days, by buffalo. These ponds hold water for years, although often they become very foul from the cattle that frequent and wade into them in summer to get away from the flies.

It is an odd sight to a stranger in the valley of the Big Wichita to see the rain come rushing down the hills. It soon becomes as thick as cream with the fine red clay, and to think of depending upon such water for drinking and cooking purposes is revolting to one who remembers the sparkling springs and clear wells of the East or any mountainous country. During quiet days, when the wind was not blowing, the red mud would settle in the bottom of the tanks, but one had to be careful not to pull out one’s pail suddenly or the water would instantly thicken with mud from the bottom.

Nothing would settle this water but boiling it, although it might be cleared a little by the pulp of cactus leaves. I have sometimes gone to the trouble of peeling the broad leaves of the prickly pear and beating them into a mucilaginous pulp to throw into a pail of muddy water. The mud attached itself to this material and sank with it to the bottom; but even then the clarified liquid remaining on top did not make a very tempting drink. I soon got used to the thick red water, however, as had the other inhabitants of the country, and for six seasons drank it thankfully, when I was thirsty. When a man is thirsty, he drinks first and tastes the water afterwards. I once asked an old cowman what he did for drinking water on the range, and he answered, “Wherever and whatever a cow can drink, I can.” And cows will take filthy water, if they can get no other.

All that winter I worked in these desolate beds, walking over thousands of acres of denuded rock, searching without success for the fossil fields. The dominant color of these beds is red, but the tints vary so that the eye is dazzled and wearied by the constant change. There are countless concretions too, all of which had to be looked over. If fine specimens had rewarded the labor, all would have been well, but I know of no work more trying than spending day after day in a fruitless search.

At last Hamman, having fattened his horses on two-dollar corn, started a quarrel with me, so that he might have an excuse for deserting me, and drove off with the team, which I had hired for some time longer, leaving me alone, thirty miles from town. Fortunately, however, I found a good, honest Irishman, Pat Whelan by name, who became not only a splendid assistant, but a true friend. Poor fellow! I learned a few years ago that he had frozen to death in Montana.

One warm, sultry day I sent him in to town for provisions. I had no tent at that time, but he left me the wagon sheet, and I had camped on the south side of a large tree, which was so effectually covered with green briers as to be an almost impenetrable defense against the north wind.

I was in the field after Mr. Whelan left me, and noticing the Texas cattle coming from the prairie to the heavy timber, I concluded, although there was not a cloud in sight, that they had scented a norther. Rushing to camp, I began rapidly to make preparations for the storm. First I cut a couple of crotches and sank them well into the ground on the south side of the brier-covered tree. Then I put up a ridgepole and stretched over it the wagon sheet, which I fastened securely to the ground on either side. I also heaped dirt on the edges, to keep out the snow. I thus had a dog tent, opening toward the northern barrier and toward the south.

There was plenty of fallen wood lying about, and I devoted every moment and all my strength to cutting it up and dragging it to the tent. I must have got several cords together before I heard the wind howling in the heavy timber to the north. I piled up this supply of fuel at the opening toward the green brier thicket, and built a big fire at the mouth of the tent.

Soon an awful storm was upon me, all alone, thirty miles from any human habitation. How the wind moaned through the creaking branches! A dense darkness spread like a pall over the heavens, and the shrieks and wails of the tempest echoed through the woods like the cries of lost souls. Then snow and sleet began to fall in fitful gusts, and beat upon the thin canvas that was my only shelter. At such a time a man loses much of his confidence in himself. Pretty small I felt myself when measured with that storm, which bent the great cottonwoods and elms like reeds before it.