Nearly but not quite every member of the party accepted a portion and made favorable comments on the flavor. There is possibly something in the familiar local name commonly applied to these animals that is not appetizing, but the name is really a misnomer, as the prairie dog does not belong to the canine family. Even that fact in itself may not commend him as a delicacy for the table. In some features he resembles the squirrel, but in habits and actions, as many people know, is more like a chipmunk, and the two are members of the same family. The generally accepted belief that these little animals dwell together in amity with rattlesnakes, which are rather numerous in the chosen territory of the prairie dog, need not add to their attractiveness on the menu.
I have found no definite authority on the subject, but I should conclude from observation and inquiry that the serpents are not the invited guests of the rodents, but hibernate with them during the winter as an economic measure, to avoid unnecessary labor in preparing their own subterranean apartments and in the ordinary spring housework, all of which is performed in common courtesy by the hosts. It may be imagined that the relations between the householders and their unbidden guests are not always cordial.
In the forenoon we had fallen in with a small party of emigrants, with whom I had already held some conversation. In one of their wagons were two brothers, one of whom was driving their span of mules. The older of the two, who was about to start on a hunt, drew his rifle from beneath the seat, when it was accidently discharged, the bullet entering his thigh. This was simply an incident to which travelers are liable. No doctor was at hand. I was riding near the wagon and assisted the unfortunate youth to the ground. It occurred to one of our party to apply for counsel to Dan Trippe, who was "a sort of all-around man," who always had a good jack-knife and had read some scientific works. He had possibly read something concerning surgery, for his father had been a physician. When Dan was summoned and the situation was briefly stated to him, it was suggested to him that he should not disclose the fact that he was not a regular practitioner, because it would materially detract from the good effect of what he might do. While the injured young man now stretched out upon the ground was apparently unconcerned, his youthful brother was heartbroken and in tears, realizing that an accident liable to prove serious had occurred far out in the wilderness.
Dan promptly responded to the call, and, approaching the sufferer, proceeded at once in a cool, self-possessed manner to examine the wound. Dan had studied Greek in a preparatory school, and was able to use a few anatomical terms any one of which would serve his purpose at the time as well as any other. He accordingly raised his eyebrows and looked wise, after the manner of experienced physicians. He then addressed to us a few recondite terms which came to his mind, assuming to indicate the probable direction which the ball had taken, all of which was about as clear and satisfactory as is the average diagnosis. The younger boy, anxious to obtain Dan's mature opinion on the case, asked with trembling voice, "Doctor, do you think brother will get well?"
After another moment, apparently given to careful consideration of the conditions, Dan replied, in slowly delivered, well accented words with an air indicating profound knowledge. Bringing into play a stock term which he often used humorously, a term suggested by an oft-told story, he said that there being no serious phlebotomization of the wound, the prognosis was favorable, and he was confident that under fair conditions the patient would speedily recover,—information that was more satisfactory to the youth than it was to Dan. Our boys could not suppress some smiles when they heard this oracle. A later informal and unprofessional conversation with a few friends, led to the decision, that as Dr. Brown was now an "uncertain proposition," the wounded man had best be sent ahead to Julesburg, now a small army post, where there was possibly a surgeon. The lightest wagon in the train was accordingly appropriated, and its freight distributed to the other wagons; a suspended bed, upon which the young man was swung as in a hammock, was constructed inside the box; provisions were put in for a three days' journey; and with the best span of mules available and a driver, the two boys started on their long and anxious journey, planning to drive as continuously as possible.
We had been undecided as to the course we should take west of Julesburg, but having received information that the Platte was rising, it was deemed expedient for our little party also to push on, so that if we did conclude to take a northern route we could more safely cross the river. We accordingly again pressed onward in advance of the train that we had recently joined. Unless the traveler upon those wide prairies was exceedingly dull and impassive something was sure to occur each day to arouse his interest. The sight of game or some unexpected incident invoked expressions of enthusiasm or curiosity.
On the forenoon after Dan assumed the role of doctor a small herd of antelope seemed to surprise themselves by coming directly upon us on their way from the river toward the bluffs to the south. When alarmed these beautiful beasts start with the speed of the wind in some direction without much regard for what may be in their course; so, in this case, they apparently took no notice of our big wagons until they were almost within thirty rods of them, when they suddenly turned to pass in our rear. The first impulse of man is to shoot the innocent creatures, and in a moment four or five rifles were out, and bullets were flying, but the little fellows were too rapid and escaped injury.
Immediately following this trifling incident dense black clouds with a fleecy border rolled up from the west and we soon faced a terrific squall, followed by a driving storm of heavy hail. The flattened icy meteors were of the regulation size, being as large as hens' eggs. Those of us who were on horseback hastily sought refuge in the wagons. Our horses, however, quickly became quite unmanageable from the incessant pelting, and it seemed humane to alleviate their suffering if possible. The men who were not driving again shared the battering of the big ice bullets with the horses, but any covering that we could put over them for protection was lifted by the gale. Peter Wintermute's fine four-horse team, which I often took pleasure in driving, reared and plunged to escape. Our saddle horses broke loose and started off with the wind, and for twenty minutes the panic continued, during which the canvas-covered wagons creaked as if in pain. After the storm had passed, the fugitive horses stopped in their flight and slowly returned to the companionship of the other animals, seeking on the way to crop a little grass from the scanty growth. In contrast with the clear air and bright skies for which that country is distinguished there is tremendous vigor in the elements when turned loose in Nebraska.
On Thursday evening we camped near Julesburg, an old town named in 1859 from Jules Beni, a trapper. All the buildings at this point had been burned by the Indians very recently, and we were informed that the few small structures there then had just been erected by the Government. I asked a survivor of the fire why the Indians burned Julesburg. The information was that they burned it because they wanted to. The old town, originally having but a few framed buildings, was familiar to all plainsmen, as it was the parting of two great trails.
Near by, within an hour's walk, was Fort Sedgwick, in command of Captain Nicholas J. O'Brien of the 18th Regiment of regulars, an old time friend and comrade of our Captain Ben Frees. Captain O'Brien had built this post under the instructions of the War Department. Ben secured from him much valuable information concerning the Indian situation. Captain O'Brien in the preceding year had been the hero of a desperate fight with a large force of Indians under the wily Chief Man-afraid-of-his horses, and with the loss of fourteen men saved the lives of four stage passengers, one of whom was a woman. The history of some of his daring exploits is narrated in Coutant's Wyoming.