To and Through Nebraska

by Frances I. Sims Fulton

Most that I see on this side of the river are dry, grassy, and barren of tree or bush, while off on the other side, can be seen many well filled with burr oak, pine, and cedar.

Views such as I have had from the Stone Butte, along the Keya Paha, on the broad plains, and now of the valley of the Niobrara well repays me for all my long rides, and sets my mind in a perfect query of how and when was all this wonderful work done? I hope I shall be permitted to some day come again, and if I cannot get over the ground any other way, I will take another ride behind oxen.

Several years ago these canyons afforded good hiding places for stray(?) ponies and horses that strayed from their owners by the maneuvering of "Doc." Middleton, and his gang of "pony boys," as those who steal or run off horses from the Indians are called. But they did not confine themselves to Indian ponies alone, and horses and cattle were stolen without personal regard for the owner.

But their leader has been safe in the penitentiary at Lincoln for some time, and the gang in part disbanded; yet depredations are still committed by them, which has its effect upon some of the colonists, who feel that they do not care to settle where they would be apt to lose their horses so unceremoniously. A one-armed traveler, who took shelter from the storm with a sick wife on the island, had one of his horses stolen last week, which is causing a good deal of indignation. Their favorite rendezvous before the band was broken was at "Morrison's bridge," where we spent the rainy Sabbath. Oh, dear! would I have laid me down so peacefully to sleep on the table that night had I known more of the history of the little house and the dark canyons about?

But the house has another keeper, and nothing remains but the story of other days to intimidate us now, and we found it neat and clean, and quite inviting after our long ride.

After supper I went out to take a good look at the Niobrara river, or Running Water. Boiling and surging, its muddy waves hurried by, as though it was over anxious to reach the Missouri, into which it empties. It has its source in Wyoming, and is 460 miles long. Where it enters the state, it is a clear, sparkling stream, only 10 feet wide; but by the time it gathers and rushes over so much sand, which it keeps in a constant stir, changing its sand bars every few hours, it loses its clearness, and at this point is about 165 feet wide. Like the Missouri river, its banks are almost entirely of a dark sand, without a pebble. So I gathered sand again, and after quite a search, found a couple of little stones, same color of the sand, and these I put in my satchel to be carried to Pennsylvania, to help recall this sunset picture on the "Running Water," and, for a more substantial lean for memory I go with Mr. N. on to the island to look for a diamond willow stick to carry home to father for a cane. The island is almost covered with these tall willow bushes. The bridge was built about four years ago. The piers are heavy logs pounded deep into the sand of the river bed, and it is planked with logs, and bushes and sod. It has passed heavy freight trains bound for the Indian Agency and the Black Hills, and what a mingling of emigrants from every direction have paid their toll and crossed over to find new homes beyond! Three wagons pass by this evening, and one of the men stopped to buy milk from Mrs. Slack "to make turn-over cake;" and made enquiry, saying:

"Where is that colony from Pennsylvania located? We would like to get near it."

It is quite a compliment to the colony that so many come so far to settle near them; but has been quite a hindrance. Long before the colony arrived, people were gathering in and occupying the best of the land, and thus scattering the little band of colonists. Indeed the fame of the colony will people this country by many times the number of actual settlers it itself will bring.

Mrs. S. insists that I "give her some music on the organ," and I attempt "Home sweet, home," but my voice fails me, and I sing "Sweet hour of prayer," as more befitting. Home for me is not on the Niobrara, and in early morn we leave it to flow on just as before, and we go on toward Stuart, casting back good-bye glances at its strangely beautiful valley. The bluffs hug the river so close that the valley is not wide, but the canyons that cut into the bluffs help to make it quite an interesting picture.

There is not much more to be told about the country on the south side of the river. It is not sought after by the claim-hunters as the land on the north is. A few new houses can be seen, showing that a few are persuaded to test it.