The Awakening of the Desert

by Julius Charles Birge

"From his brimstone bed at break of day
A-walking the Devil is gone,
To look at his snug, little farm of the World,
And see how his stock went on—"

This chasm is about six miles from Independence Rock, and there were believed to be many herds of stolen stock concealed back in the valleys beyond what would seem to be an eastern spur of the Sweetwater range of mountains. Ben, Fred, Paul and I undertook an exploration of the summit of the mountain and also of the gorge, which we entered at the point from which the stream emerges from the chasm. We followed up the right bank of the river, clambering over the rocky shore, all of which proved rather an easy task. From a slight elevation we were able to look through the entire extent of the chasm, which appeared to be about twelve hundred feet in length, and varied from four to ten rods in width. In the narrowest pass it is compressed within walls hardly more than two rods apart. The sides of the cliffs rise to a height of about four hundred feet. Why and how the river forced its way through this isolated, granite cone, seems a mystery, as there is apparently no obstacle to prevent its flowing undisturbed round the lower borders of the south slope. Some great convulsion of nature must have split the mountain through its center and opened this channel. The chasm was certainly not formed by erosion, for the sides of the cliff expose a face of grey, weather-stained granite, with perpendicular seams and scoriated trap rock.

Reaching the narrowest point in the gorge we found it impossible to proceed further, as the swift, foaming waters of the rapids swept along the base of the high walls, rushing over and between the broken masses of rock that had tumbled down, leaving no footing near the banks of the stream.

At this narrow point we discovered four or five groups of names painted upon the face of a granite cliff and beneath a low, over-hanging rock that protected them from the tempest. Among them, neatly printed with blue ink, were what appeared to be the names of the members of a small party. The last name in this group was Emily Wheeler and was followed by the date July, 1864. We thought little more of this young explorer until, on the following day, while riding a few miles westward beyond Devil's Gate, my attention was attracted to a small board standing about a fourth of a mile south of the trail and apparently placed there to mark the spot. Led by curiosity, I rode through the sage brush and found upon a little barren knoll a grave at which the board had been squarely set. Upon this marker painted in blue ink, were the following words: "To the memory of Emily Wheeler, who died July 19, 1864—age 17 years." It was the same name, the same month, and the same neat lettering that we had seen on the cliff and it was printed with the same kind of ink. On the rocks I remembered having seen below the names and also in blue ink the word "Illinois." We, therefore, inferred that the party came from that state. There were crowded into those few words painted in blue the outlines of a sad story. They fairly illustrated an experience that befell nearly every party of emigrants, who in those days made the long and hazardous trip across that country. Some one without doubt knows the rest of the story of Emily Wheeler and the different circumstances under which the two inscriptions were written. It would appear that her friends were compelled to leave her in that far away wilderness, over which the Arapahoe hunted his game, where,

"No tears embalm her tomb,
None but the dews by twilight given,
Where not a sigh disturbs the gloom,
None but the whispering winds of heaven."

The Sweetwater River becomes smooth and placid immediately after it emerges from the Devil's Gate, flowing on quietly through picturesque scenery. Westward from this point the granite ridges rise from the northern bank of the river in rugged cliffs. The country in general, while very interesting, is barren, the chief vegetation being the artemesia or wild sage, which in those parts is found growing to a large size, so as to furnish very good fuel.

On the evening of July 26, 1866, we camped at Three Crossings, forty-two miles west of Platte Bridge. Within a few rods it was necessary to ford the rapidly running Sweetwater three times. The number of these crossings doubtless gave rise to the name by which this place seems to have been known. It was also recognized as one of the most dangerous sections of the western country for peaceful travelers, by reason not only of the frequent attacks of Indians, but also of the fact that bands of white thieves and robbers had made their headquarters near there somewhere in the mountains, and were quite as much to be feared as were the savages. In 1865 William F. Cody (who became known as Buffalo Bill) accepted this precarious route as a stage driver, and here met with some of the experiences that contributed to his fame.

In the following season, the year of our trip, the stages were transferred to the southern route on account of these frequent Indian raids and attacks of robbers. On one trip, near Three Crossings, Cody sustained an attack of several hundred Sioux. The Division Agent sat upon the box of the stage with Cody. There were also seven passengers inside the stage, all well armed, as was almost the invariable custom. Cody applied the lash to the horses, amid a shower of arrows, some piercing the stage, some wounding the frightened animals. The agent who sat with Cody was also dangerously wounded. The men inside the box kept themselves busy with their rifles and revolvers from their less exposed position, and as the stage rattled over the rocky road brought a few of the savages low and held the enemy at bay. It was a running fight in which the bleeding and terrified horses fully bore their part. Cody was able to reach Three Crossings, where men at the station joined in the fight and forced the Indians to fall back. I am informed by Colonel Cody that this is the event which in the earlier days of his Wild West show he endeavored to picture in as realistic a manner as possible, with a score of tamed red men with repeating rifles.