The whacker always began his orders to his bulls in a low tone, increasing it as the necessity for action presented itself, and ending in a string of oaths that would make an old-time Mississippi steamboat mate ashamed of his reputation. Frequently teams were stalled on a high hill or in the sand, when it would be necessary to gee the team of seven yokes at an almost right angle, with chains between each yoke slackened and with "wheelers" filling their yokes. Then the whacker would walk out half way to his leaders and soothingly coax them to come haw—toward him—on a trot, until all the chains between the other yokes were tightened. By this time, however, Mr. Whacker was back to his wheelers, perhaps punching the near one in the ribs, and then throwing his eighteen or twenty foot lash over the backs of any of the yokes that were not clawing the sand properly. In this way the men often worked for days at a time, making sometimes only a few rods by each repetition of the operation. Then again, the wagon boss would order a doubling-up process and two whackers and fourteen yokes of oxen would work on one pair of wagons, taking them along perhaps a mile, and then returning, repeat the process until the bad road was left behind.
This was transportation in the old days, and "trains" of this kind first hauled the heavy traffic from Leavenworth and Nebraska City to the Pacific and intermediate settlements in Colorado, Utah and Wyoming. After the Union Pacific was built this bullwhacker transportation increased, especially in the country between Utah and the Missouri River, in both directions away from the railroad, for the government had a line of forts on the North Platte River and Indian Agencies were established in Western Nebraska, Wyoming and what is now South Dakota.
Two of these agencies, Red Cloud, on White River, and Spotted Tail, forty miles to the north, were big traffic points. Train loads of bacon, flour, sugar and other things were hauled to these agencies on government contract, the provisions being in payment to the Sioux and other tribes for the land they occupied near the North Platte River. Along the Platte there were forts—two famous in their day—Fort Laramie at the junction of the Platte and Laramie Rivers, and Fort Fetterman, one hundred miles west of Fort Laramie, on the Platte at Lapariel Creek. Soldiers here depended upon the "bull outfits" for their provisions, nearly all being hauled in over mountain range and plain by contractors.
Those were wild and woolly days, and the man who lived the life of out-of-doors was a rugged, devil-may-care, hungry, healthy, happy fellow. He knew how to face a freezing blizzard, or a baking sun without flinching; he knew how to take care of himself with a minimum of discomfort under the most adverse circumstances. He was afraid of nothing. It wouldn't do otherwise. He was there, usually beyond the arm of any law other than ordinances made and provided by himself and companions and enforced by the same law-givers. Stealing was a worse crime than life-taking. There never was an excuse for the first, but nearly always one could be trumped up for the latter. To take a man's horse was worse than cold-blooded murder; to rob him of his gun or his blankets was equally as bad a crime. But if he had been cheated in a game of "freeze out," or called a name that reflected upon his origin it was not uncommon for him to become judge and executioner then and there.
So men who engaged in this early day transportation of food and fodder for soldiers and their mounts and for the followers of Sitting Bull, Old Red Cloud and other chiefs, were careful in their social intercourse, and when the harsh word was passed, as frequently was the case, it was no uncommon thing for men to settle their score with pistols; and the winner in these duels seldom, if ever, was punished. But a cold-blooded murder—a wanton killing—was never tolerated. In a fight with pistols it was always considered that the man who did the killing was justified.
Unlike the present day fliers, bull trains did not run on schedules, although there was a pretense of regularity about the day's routine, and it was about as follows:
At break of day the night herder who had been out with the bulls all night—it is always daybreak to him whether three o'clock or five—drives his herd into the corral, usually singing some refrain of his own composition, but always having for its motive the same that animates the pestiferous alarm clock set by a master to disturb the slumber of a tired servant. However, a half hour before the herder appears the cook and his helper, both bullwhackers, doing their turn of a week, have been on the job with the coffee and bacon, and as soon as the herder sounds his first note, the cook takes up the song, which is perhaps:
Bacon in the pan,
Coffee in the pot;
Get up and get it—
Get it while it's hot.
And then, and it is always so, some of the lively stock, as it approaches the corral, takes the notion that there is some nice sweet buffalo bunch grass to the rear that looks better than a day's work, and there is a bolt often approaching a stampede. Curses? You never heard the like, for the wagon boss and an assistant are already in their saddles helping the herder. If you tried to sleep just a minute longer it would be impossible, therefore you roll out from your bed on the ground, fold up your blankets, tie them with a strap and throw them on your trail wagon.
Coffee and bacon are swallowed in haste, and if you are like the majority, you grab a piece of bacon and a chunk of bread, bang them together into a huge sandwich and put them in the jockey box of your wagon for a lunch at eight or nine o'clock.