The Western Echo / A Description of the Western State and Territories of the United States. As Gathered in a Tour by Wagon

by George W. Romspert

Thinking that perhaps this part has been sufficiently described, I will refer the reader to the letters which close this work for unmentioned particulars, and again turn our faces toward the west. We had not traveled many days, however, until settlements had dwindled to lonely domicils upon the wide prairie; the dark, rich soil began to fade to a lighter and more sandy, and great herds of cattle tramped the unbroken surface. A few weeks more and all vegetation had faded away, and we were upon the Fremont desert. The grass, instead of being long, slender prairie-grass, was short, thickly-set buffalo-grass. The soil was dry and scarcely ever knew a rain; and then it was that we found ourselves upon the great western plains. The surface is usually smooth, and perfectly delightful to travel over, and we could sometimes see for many miles around us. But the danger of traveling in this dry, barren wilderness, where scarcely any one lives, and of which we had been warned, we now began to realize. True, there were old, deeply-worn emigrant roads, one via Kansas City, and one via Omaha and Cheyenne, which we could have traveled with comparatively little danger or difficulty; but it was our purpose to see and experience something new, and accordingly we chose the wild prairie. We had purchased a barrel at Lincoln, Nebraska, which we always filled when leaving water, and with no guide but the compass we boldly sped onward, not knowing what each day would bring forth. The scene, however, was materially the same—one broad, open plain, stretching out like an ocean as far as the eye could reach. Our camp at night was truly a lonely one, with no company but the shy antelope that sniffed the air at a distance, and nothing to break the deep, death-like stillness that reigned around us but the howl of the grey wolf, whose keen eye was upon our every move. Stretching ourselves upon a blanket, with nothing but the starry heavens above us, we lay dreaming of killing buffaloes, scalping Sitting Bull, and other adventures too numerous to mention.

We had often heard of the cold winds and sudden changes in the atmosphere that all the western country was subject to, but our first experience on this score was while traveling in western Nebraska, on the seventh day of September. The morn was a bright and glorious one, and as we steered our way over the dry desert we remarked that a more beautiful day we had never seen. But about three o’clock the atmosphere began to change and the wind to blow a hurricane. In the course of an hour the soft, warm wind had changed to a howling, wintry storm, and we were compelled to unhitch and picket our horses, and make our bed in the wagon as a retreat from the piercing winds which almost lifted us from the ground. It was almost impossible to keep warm with our light covering, and only after we had torn up every spare cloth we had to stop the cracks in the wagon-bed, we succeeded in rendering ourselves tolerably comfortable. A peep at the horses showed their shivering, and the big blood-hound under the wagon lending his tones to the winds that hurried by, spoke the necessity of sharing our comfort with him. This he gladly accepted, and without anything to eat or drink we lay covered over head and ears until the next day at noon. We then stepped from our asylum to hear the last roar of the hurricane dying away in the distance, and warm ourselves in the sun which had burst its stormy veil. This little fast had keened our appetites, and we eat our dinners with a relish. After turning our horses to graze for awhile, and watering them from the barrel, we resumed our journey over the dry desert, and at length reached the valley of the Platte. This valley is wide and level, and is carpeted with the richest pasture. With its cool, purple waters rolling through the thick shade of the little branching cotton-wood trees, piercing the dry, barren plain, bereft of bush or weed, it appears a perfect paradise. Great herds of cattle feed upon the green grass, and every ten or fifteen miles there is a little pole-shanty and picket corral built upon the river-side among the trees; and here stay the cow-men, one at a place, to watch over the cattle. They make a trip after provisions once a year, and of course do their own cooking. They always have the best of meat; and this, with biscuits, is about all they eat. It is very often that they do not see a man for several months; and, strange to say, they are used to that way of living and enjoy themselves better than many who live in a land of luxuries, surrounded by mankind, where the din of business is noisy and loud. They have five and six ponies apiece, and their buffalo and antelope chases over the river-hills are as pleasant and exciting to them as though viewed by thousands of people. We had many pleasant chats with them, and many a feast did we have together.

I had seen many heavy storms, but I assure you I thought we had entered the store-house of thunder-storms when we came into this valley; for such terrible rumbling and glaring I had never heard nor seen. I tell you, when the thunder bursts forth with an earthquake shock and reverberates among the river-hills, and the lightning begins to play upon the cattle’s horns, these old hunters and herders, who have been hardened in the wilds for many years and who have seen the bloodiest of frontier life, come to their knees.

Leaving this valley we steered south-west and struck the valley of the Republican, at the forks of the river, one beautiful evening just as the sun was tinging with gold the western sky. Who can imagine the beauty of this valley,—as it appeared to us,—all decked with little branching cotton-wood trees and carpeted with velvet green, winding its way through the midst of the broad and silent wilderness. The great herds of cattle reclining beneath the trees, the voices of the little calves borne to our ears upon the evening zephyrs, and the rude shanty upon the bank of the stream, all spoke of comfort and content, and we could not help recognizing this as a happy home, though far in the western wilds. The lone man who lived there appeared to be glad to see us, and we were not a little delighted to converse with one who had lived with his herds for many years upon the frontier. He told us how comfortably he could live there and how rapid were his gains with so little outlay. He told us that we could find cow-ranches upon almost every stream in the West, and explained to us the way the business was carried on. Upon his telling us there were many buffaloes a few days’ journey to the north-west, among the sand-hills, we became very impatient and could hardly wait for the morning to start upon a buffalo expedition. When we were ready to start, he said we should be a little careful, for the Cheyennes had broken from the agency, and while on the war-path were scalping hunters and cattle-men in all directions. Johnny having stopped for a home in eastern Nebraska, we were but two in number, but—in our estimation—a more precious two never died in any country. There was as much danger upon one side as upon the other, however, and we were going for the buffaloes, Indians or no Indians. It was part of our mission to kill Sitting Bull and Spotted Tail, and this might prove to be a favorable opportunity.

We had not left the valley far when we came among the great sand-hills, which grew higher and softer until they were almost untraversable. Keeping in the vicinity of a small stream called Rock Creek, which courses its way among the bluffs, we traveled several days, keenly watching for anything that looked like meat. We never became careless, however, and the fire was always deadened before dark, while the wagon was placed upon some high spot for the night, in order to avoid the treachery that might be lurking behind the hills.

Breaking our way through the soft, deep sand, we were compelled to travel very slowly. Sighting a single buffalo, upon one occasion, we fully expected to find a great herd behind every hill. That was the only one, however, that we got a glimpse of; and not having killed even a rabbit since we left the river, and our horses becoming very much worried, we concluded to turn back. The many skeletons that were scattered over the face of the country showed that the soft surface was not always trackless, and that we were not the first hunters who had plowed the sands of that region. However, the great herds that we had expected to find had sought another range, and not even a wolf howled in the deep silence. We could but feel a little discouraged at so great a disappointment; and as we journeyed back toward the river, each mile was an effort.

We reached the river again after a circuit in the sand-hills of just fourteen days; and during this time we had eaten nothing but flap-jacks. It is needless to say that we were hungry for meat, and there being many cattle in the valley, we imagined the little calves to be buffaloes; and it was not long after sight, nor with much ceremony, that we were eating something that had not stuck in our teeth for two long weeks.

After learning from an old hunter, whom we met on the prairie, that buffaloes journeyed north in the spring and south in the fall, we determined to follow them if they went to South America.

In an unsettled country there are, of course, no bridges over the streams and chasms, and not many good crossings. So, choosing what we thought to be a good place to cross, we splashed into the waters of the Republican. The stream is about one hundred yards wide, and in some places is real deep. This was our first experience in quicksand; and we managed to get to about the middle of the stream, when, in about two feet of water, the wagon dropped to the axle in the sand. The longer it stood the deeper it sunk, until there was not much wagon above the water. Being lightly loaded we jumped into the water, and after lifting the wheels to let the sand wash under them, John lifted while I tried to start the team. But the wind was blowing and the water waving, and the horses being in about as deeply as the wagon, it was no go, and we were the worst stuck outfit that river ever knew. This was the first time that we had ever yielded that hell was upon earth; and I will bet that if old Father Moses and his followers had been stuck in the quicksand when crossing the channel of the Red Sea, and had felt as we did at that time, Pharaoh and all his hosts would have been nothing to whip. However, after struggling for some time the horses became as impatient as ourselves, and we began to yell desperately. The water began to splash. The cattle of the vicinity becoming excited, curled their tails up over their backs and began to run and bawl. The wagon began to move, and we were soon safely landed on the other side. Not taking the Irishman’s advice, we had omitted laughing before we started in, and being now too much fatigued we concluded that there was no fun about the affair, and only looked back to think what a job to cross a Republican and to sympathize for one moment with the poor Democrats.

It had been some time since we had been where we could buy anything, and our supplies running short, we steered south for Fort Wallace, Kansas. This was several days’ travel—and lonely ones they were to us, too, seeing but two men until we arrived within a few miles of the fort. We found most of the ranchmen of the vicinity centered there for protection from the savages, who had been scalping within sight of the government fort. We were heartily congratulated upon our safe arrival through the very heart of dangers; but we had been told this too often to appreciate it, and partly concluded that it was not alone luck and chance that took us through, but that there must be something bold or daring in our appearance.