When we started from Camp No. 1, January 29, Puyallup, Washington, Twist weighed 1,470 pounds. After we crossed two ranges of mountains, had wallowed in the snows of the Blue Mountains, followed the tortuous, rocky canyons of Burnt River, up the deep sand of the Snake, this ox had gained in weight 137 pounds, and weighed 1,607 pounds. While laboring under the short end of the yoke that gave him fifty-five per cent. of the draft and an increased burden he would keep his end of the yoke a little ahead, no matter how much the mate might be urged to keep up.
There are striking individualities in animals as well as in men, and I had liked to have said virtues as well; and why not? If an animal always does his duty, is faithful to your interest, industrious—why not recognize it, even if he was "nothing but an ox"?
We are wont to extol the virtues of the dead, and to forget their shortcomings, but here a plain statement of facts will suffice to revive the memories of the almost forgotten past of an animal so dear to the pioneers who struggled across plains and over mountains in the long ago.
To understand the achievements of this ox it is necessary to state the burden he carried. The wagon weighed 1,430 pounds, is a wooden axle and wide track and had an average load of 800 pounds. He had, with an unbroken four-year old steer—a natural-born shirk—with the short end of the yoke before mentioned, hauled this wagon 1,776 miles and was in better working trim when he died than when the trip began. And yet am I sure that at some points I did not abuse him? What about coming up out of Little Canyon or rather up the steep, rocky steps of stones like veritable stairs, when I used the goad, and he pulled a shoe off and his feet from under him? Was I merciful then, or did I exact more than I ought? I can see him yet in my mind, while on his knees holding the wagon from rolling back into the canyon till the wheel could be blocked and the brakes set. Then, when bade to start the load, he did not flinch. He was the best ox I ever saw, without exception, and his loss has nearly broken up the expedition, and it is one case where his like can not be obtained. He has had a decent burial and a head-board will mark his grave and recite his achievements in the valuable aid rendered in this expedition to perpetuate the memory of the Old Oregon Trail and for which he has given up his life.
What shall I do? Abandon the work? No. But I can not go on with one ox, and can not remain here. And so a horse team was hired to take us to the next town, Gothenburg—thirteen miles distant—and the lone ox led behind the wagon.
GOTHENBURG, NEBRASKA.
"Gothenburg, Nebraska, August 10, 1906. Camp No. 121, odometer 1,549.—The people here resolved to erect a monument, appointed a committee, and a contribution of some fifteen dollars was secured."
LEXINGTON.
Again hired a horse team to haul the wagon to Lexington. At Lexington I thought the loss of the ox could be repaired by buying a pair of heavy cows and breaking them in to work, and so purchased two out of a band of 200 cattle nearby. "Why, yes, of course they will work," I said, when a bystander had asked the question. "Why, I have seen whole teams of cows on the Plains in '52, and they would trip along so merrily one would be tempted to turn the oxen out and get cows. Yes, we will soon have a team," I said, "only we can't go very far in a day with a raw team, especially in this hot weather." But one of the cows wouldn't go at all; we could not lead or drive her. Put her in the yoke and she would stand stock still just like a stubborn mule. Hitch the yoke by a strong rope behind the wagon with a horse team to pull, she would brace her feet and actually slide along, but wouldn't lift a foot. I never saw such a brute before, and hope I never will again. I have broken wild, fighting, kicking steers to the yoke and enjoyed the sport, but from a sullen, tame cow deliver me.
"Won't you take her back and give me another?" I asked. "Yes, I will give you that red cow (one I had rejected as unfit), but not one of the others." "Then, what is this cow worth to you?" Back came the response, "Thirty dollars," and so I dropped ten dollars (having paid him forty), lost the better part of a day, experienced a good deal of vexation. "Oh, if I could only have Twist back again."