Ox-Team Days on the Oregon Trail

<h3>MESSAGES AND MESSENGERS</h3> <div class='unindent'><span class="smcap">At</span> last we were really settled and could begin the business for which we had come West; henceforth the quiet life of the farmer was to be ours, we thought. But again we had not reckoned with the unexpected.</div> <p>While we were working on our new cabin, we received a letter from father, saying: "Boys, if Oliver will come back to cross with us, we will go to Oregon next year." The letter was nearly three months old when we received it.</p> <p>Our answer was immediate: "Oliver will be with you next spring."</p> <p>Then came the question of money. Would Davenport, who had bought the Columbia River claims, pay in the fall? Could he? We decided that we must go to the timber camp to earn the money to pay the expenses of Oliver's journey, that we must not depend altogether on the Columbia River asset.</p> <p>"What shall we do with the things?" asked my wife.</p> <p>"Lock them up in the cabin," suggested Oliver.<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_107" id="Page_107"></SPAN></span></p> <p>"And you go and stay with the Dofflemires," I added.</p> <p>"Not I," she returned. "I'm going along to cook."</p> <p>All our well-laid plans were thus suddenly changed. Our clearing of the land was deferred; the chicken house, the inmates of which were to make us rich, was not built; the pigs were not bought to fatten on the clams, and many other pet schemes were dropped that Oliver might go back East to bring father and mother across the Plains.</p> <p>We struck awkward but rapid and heavy strokes in the timber camp established on the bluff overlooking the falls at Tumwater. The little cook supplied the huckleberry pudding for dinner, with plenty of the lightest, whitest bread, and vegetables, meat, and fish served in style good enough for kings. Such appetites! No coaxing was required to get us to eat a hearty meal. Such sound sleep, such satisfaction! Talk about hardships&mdash;it was all pleasure as we counted the eleven dollars a day that the Tullis brothers paid us for cutting logs, at one dollar and seventy cents a thousand. We earned this every day. Yes, we should be able to make money enough together to pay Oliver's passage to Iowa.</p> <p>It was to be a long journey&mdash;over to the Columbia River, out from there by steamer to San Francisco, then to the Isthmus, then to New York. After that, by rail as far west as there was a railroad, then on foot to Eddyville, Iowa, where the start was again to be made. It would take Oliver two months to reach Eddyville, and then at least seven more to lead the newcomers over the trail from Iowa to Puget Sound.</p> <p>Oliver was soon speeding on his way, and again my wife and I were left without money and with but a scant supply of provisions. How we made out through the winter I can hardly remember, but we managed somehow and kept well<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_108" id="Page_108"></SPAN></span> and happy. Soon after Oliver's departure our second baby was born.</p> <p>In the latter part of August, 1854, eight months after Oliver had left us, James K. Hurd, of Olympia, sent me word that he had been out on the immigrant trail and had heard that some of my relatives were on the road, but that they were belated and short of provisions. He advised me to go to their assistance, to make sure of their coming directly over the Cascade Mountains, and not down the Columbia River.</p> <p>How my people, with Oliver's experience to guide them, should be in the condition described, was past my comprehension. However, I accepted the statement as true. I felt the particular importance of their having certain knowledge as to prevailing conditions of an over-mountain trip through the Natchess Pass. The immigrants of the previous year had encountered formidable difficulties in the mountains, narrowly escaping the loss of everything, if not facing actual starvation. I could not help feeling that possibly the same conditions still prevailed. The only way to determine the question was to go and see for myself, to meet my father's party and pilot them through the pass.</p> <div class="figright"> <ANTIMG src="images/illus-118.png" width-obs="187" height-obs="400" alt="We struck awkward but rapid and heavy strokes." title="" /> <span class="caption">We struck awkward but rapid and heavy strokes.</span></div> <p>But how could I go and leave wife and two babies on our<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_109" id="Page_109"></SPAN></span> island home? The summer had been spent in clearing land and planting crops, and my money was very low. To remove my family would cost something in cash, besides the abandonment of the season's work to almost certain destruction. Without a moment's hesitation my wife said to go; she and Mrs. Darrow, who was with us as nurse and companion, would stay right where they were until I got back.</p> <p>I was not so confident of the outcome as she. At best the trip was hazardous, even when undertaken well-prepared and with company. As far as I could see, I might have to go on foot and pack my food and blanket on my back. I knew that I should have to go alone. Some work had been done on the road during the summer, but I was unable to learn definitely whether any camps were yet in the mountains.</p> <p>At Steilacoom there was a certain character, a doctor, then understood by few, and I may say not by many even to the end. Yet, somehow, I had implicit confidence in him, though between him and me there would seem to have been a gulf that could not be closed. Our habits of life were diametrically opposite. I would never touch a drop, while the doctor was always drinking&mdash;never sober, neither ever drunk.</p> <p>It was to this man that I entrusted the safe keeping of my little family. I knew my wife had such an aversion to people of his kind that I did not even tell her with whom I would arrange to look out for her welfare, but suggested another person to whom she might apply in case of need.</p> <p>When I spoke to the doctor about what I wanted, he seemed pleased to be able to do a kind act. To reassure me, he got out his field glasses and turned them on the cabin across the water, three miles distant. Looking through them intently for a moment he said, "I can see everything<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_110" id="Page_110"></SPAN></span> going on over there. You need have no uneasiness about your folks while you are gone."</p> <p>And I did not need to have any concern. Twice a week during all the time I was away an Indian woman visited the cabin on the island, always with some little presents. She would ask about the babies and whether there was anything needed. Then with the parting "<i>Alki nika keelapie</i>,"<SPAN name="FNanchor_8_8" id="FNanchor_8_8"></SPAN><SPAN href="#Footnote_8_8" class="fnanchor">[8]</SPAN> she would leave.</p> <div class="figleft"> <ANTIMG src="images/illus-120.png" width-obs="220" height-obs="350" alt="Twice a week the Indian woman visited the cabin." title="" /> <span class="caption">Twice a week the Indian woman visited the cabin.</span></div> <p>With a fifty-pound flour sack filled with hard bread, or navy biscuit, a small piece of dried venison, a couple of pounds of cheese, a tin cup, and half of a three-point blanket, all made into a pack of less than forty pounds, I climbed the hill at Steilacoom and took the road leading to Puyallup. The first night was spent with Jonathan McCarty, whose cabin was near where the town of Sumner now stands.</p> <p>McCarty said: "You can't cross the streams on foot; I'll let you have a pony. He's small, but sure-footed and hardy, and he'll carry you across the rivers anyhow." McCarty also said: "Tell your folks this is the greatest grass country on earth. Why, I am sure I harvested five tons of timothy to the acre this year."</p> <p>The next day found me on the road with my blanket under the saddle,<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_111" id="Page_111"></SPAN></span> my sack of hard bread strapped on behind. I was mounted to ride on level stretches of the road, or across streams, of which I had fully sixty crossings to make.</p> <p>White River on the upper reaches is a roaring torrent; the rush of waters can be heard for a mile or more from the high bluff overlooking the narrow valley. The river is not fordable except in low water, and then in but few places. The river bed is full of stones worn rounded and smooth and slippery, from the size of a man's head to large boulders, thus making footing for animals uncertain. After my first experience, I dreaded the crossings to come more than all else on the trip, for a misstep of the pony's might be fatal.</p> <p>The little fellow, Bobby, seemed to be equal to the occasion. If the footing became too uncertain, he would stop stock still and pound the water with one foot, then reach out carefully until he could find secure footing, and finally move up a step or two. The water of the river is so charged with sediment that the bottom cannot be seen; hence the necessity of feeling the way. I soon learned that my pony could be trusted on the fords better than I. Thereafter I held only a supporting, not a guiding, rein and he carried me safely over all the crossings on my way out.</p> <p>Allan Porter lived near the first crossing. As he was the last settler I should see and his the last place where I could get feed for my pony, other than grass or browse, I put up for the night under his roof.</p> <p>He said I was going on a "Tom Fool's errand," for my folks could take care of themselves, and he tried to dissuade me from proceeding on my journey. But I would not be turned back. The following morning I cut loose from the settlements and plunged into the deep forest of the mountains.<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_112" id="Page_112"></SPAN></span></p> <p>The road, if it could be called a road, lay in the narrow valley of White River or on the mountains adjacent. In some places, as at Mud Mountain, it reached more than a thousand feet above the river bed. There were stretches where the forest was so dense that one could scarcely see to read at midday, while elsewhere large burned areas gave an opening for daylight.</p> <p>During the forenoon of this day, in one of those deepest of deep forests, Bobby stopped short, his ears pricked up. Just then I caught an indistinct sight of a movement ahead, and thought I heard voices; the pony made an effort to turn and bolt in the opposite direction. Soon there appeared three women and eight children on foot, coming down the road in complete ignorance of the presence of any one but themselves in the forest.</p> <div class="figright"> <ANTIMG src="images/illus-123.jpg" width-obs="452" height-obs="600" alt="White River in the upper reaches is a roaring torrent." title="" /> <div class="attrib">Edward S. Curtis</div> <span class="caption">White River in the upper reaches is a roaring torrent. </span></div> <p>"Why, stranger! Where on earth did you come from? Where are you going, and what are you here for?" asked the foremost woman of the party.</p> <p>Mutual explanations followed. I learned that their teams had become exhausted and all the wagons but one had been abandoned, and that this one was on the road a few miles behind. They were entirely out of provisions and had had nothing to eat for twenty hours except what natural food they had gathered, and that was not much. They eagerly inquired the distance to food, which I thought they might possibly reach that night. Meanwhile I had opened my sack of hard bread and had given each a cracker, at the eating of which the sound resembled pigs cracking dry, hard corn.</p> <p>Neither they nor I had time to parley long. The women with their children, barefoot and ragged, bareheaded and unkempt, started down the mountain, intent on reaching food, while I went up the road wondering how often this scene was to be repeated as I advanced on my journey.<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_113" id="Page_113"></SPAN></span></p> <p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_114" id="Page_114"></SPAN></span></p> <p>A dozen biscuits of bread is usually a very small matter, but with me it might mean a great deal. How far should I have to go? When could I find out? What would be the plight of my people when found? Or should I find them at all? Might they not pass by and be on the way down the Columbia River before I could reach the main immigrant trail? These and kindred questions weighed on my mind as I slowly ascended the mountain.</p> <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/illus-124.png" width-obs="246" height-obs="225" alt="on the ground" title="" /></div> <div class="footnotes"><h3>FOOTNOTES:</h3> <div class="footnote"><p><SPAN name="Footnote_8_8" id="Footnote_8_8"></SPAN><SPAN href="#FNanchor_8_8"><span class="label">[8]</span></SPAN> By and by I will return.</p> </div> </div> <hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_115" id="Page_115"></SPAN></span></p> <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/illus-125.png" width-obs="500" height-obs="291" alt="The boy led his mother across the log." title="" /> <span class="caption">The boy led his mother across the log.</span></div> <h2>CHAPTER FIFTEEN</h2> <div style="break-after:column;"></div><br />