By Mrs. M. H. Weeks
When I look upon the little city of Fairbury and see the beautiful trees, fine lawns, and comfortable homes, it is hard to realize the feelings I had in July, 1873, when as a bride, coming from the dear old Granite state, we came to our future home. I wanted to "go on" somewhere else, for everything that is usually green was so parched and dreary looking and desolate. The only trees were at the homes of L. C. Champlin and S. G. Thomas.
We spent the night at the Purdy house, and the following day drove to our homestead; and in fording the river where the Weeks bridge is now, the water poured into the express wagon (finest conveyance in town) driven by Will Hubbell. At least two of the party were much alarmed—our sister Mary Weeks and the writer.
It was the first of many peculiar experiences, such as taking my sewing and a rocking chair, on a hayrack, to the hay field, rather than stay home alone for fear of the Otoe Indians. The first intimation of their presence would be their faces pressed against the window glass, and that would give one a creepy feeling.
I have ridden to town many times on loads of sand, rock, and hay; and when the ford was impassable with wagons, I would go on horseback, with arms around the neck of faithful Billy, and eyes closed for fear of tumbling off into the water. On the return trip both of our horses would be laden with bags of provisions.
In 1867 my husband went with a party of twenty-five on a buffalo hunt with a man by the name of Soules as guide. They secured plenty of elk, deer, and buffalo. The wagons were formed in a circle, to corral the horses and mules nights for fear of an attack by the Indians; each one taking turns as sentinel. The mules would always whistle if an Indian was anywhere near, so he felt secure even if he did sleep a little. They only saw the Indians at a distance as they were spearing the buffalo.
All things have surely changed, and now we ride in autos instead of covered wagons. What will the next fifty years bring?