The Log of a Cowboy

FORTY ISLANDS FORD

After securing a count on the herd that morning and finding nothing short, we trailed out up the North Platte River.  It was an easy country in which to handle a herd; the trail in places would run back from the river as far as ten miles, and again follow close in near the river bottoms.  There was an abundance of small creeks putting into this fork of the Platte from the south, which afforded water for the herd and good camp grounds at night.  Only twice after leaving Ogalalla had we been compelled to go to the river for water for the herd, and with the exception of thunderstorms and occasional summer rains, the weather had been all one could wish.  For the past week as we trailed up the North Platte, some one of us visited the river daily to note its stage of water, for we were due to cross at Forty Islands, about twelve miles south of old Fort Laramie.  The North Platte was very similar to the South Canadian,—­a wide sandy stream without banks; and our experience with the latter was fresh in our memories.  The stage of water had not been favorable, for this river also had its source in the mountains, and as now midsummer was upon us, the season of heavy rainfall in the mountains, augmented by the melting snows, the prospect of finding a fordable stage of water at Forty Islands was not very encouraging.

We reached this well-known crossing late in the afternoon the third day after leaving the Wyoming line, and found one of the Prairie Cattle Company’s herds water-bound.  This herd had been wintered on one of that company’s ranges on the Arkansaw River in southern Colorado, and their destination was in the Bad Lands near the mouth of the Yellowstone, where the same company had a northern range.  Flood knew the foreman, Wade Scholar, who reported having been waterbound over a week already with no prospect of crossing without swimming.  Scholar knew the country thoroughly, and had decided to lie over until the river was fordable at Forty Islands, as it was much the easiest crossing on the North Platte, though there was a wagon ferry at Fort Laramie.  He returned with Flood to our camp, and the two talked over the prospect of swimming it on the morrow.

“Let’s send the wagons up to the ferry in the morning,” said Flood, “and swim the herds.  If you wait until this river falls, you are liable to have an experience like we had on the South Canadian,—­lost three days and bogged over a hundred cattle.  When one of these sandy rivers has had a big freshet, look out for quicksands; but you know that as well as I do.  Why, we’ve swum over half a dozen rivers already, and I’d much rather swim this one than attempt to ford it just after it has fallen.  We can double our outfits and be safely across before noon.  I’ve got nearly a thousand miles yet to make, and have just got to get over.  Think it over to-night, and have your wagon ready to start with ours.”

Scholar rode away without giving our foreman any definite answer as to what he would do, though earlier in the evening he had offered to throw his herd well out of the way at the ford, and lend us any assistance at his command.  But when it came to the question of crossing his own herd, he seemed to dread the idea of swimming the river, and could not be induced to say what he would do, but said that we were welcome to the lead.  The next morning Flood and I accompanied our wagon up to his camp, when it was plainly evident that he did not intend to send his wagon with ours, and McCann started on alone, though our foreman renewed his efforts to convince Scholar of the feasibility of swimming the herds.  Their cattle were thrown well away from the ford, and Scholar assured us that his outfit would be on hand whenever we were ready to cross, and even invited all hands of us to come to his wagon for dinner.  When returning to our herd, Flood told me that Scholar was considered one of the best foremen on the trail, and why he should refuse to swim his cattle was unexplainable.  He must have time to burn, but that didn’t seem reasonable, for the earlier through cattle were turned loose on their winter range the better.  We were in no hurry to cross, as our wagon would be gone all day, and it was nearly high noon when we trailed up to the ford.

With the addition to our force of Scholar and nine or ten of his men, we had an abundance of help, and put the cattle into the water opposite two islands, our saddle horses in the lead as usual.  There was no swimming water between the south shore and the first island, though it wet our saddle skirts for some considerable distance, this channel being nearly two hundred yards wide.  Most of our outfit took the water, while Scholar’s men fed our herd in from the south bank, a number of their men coming over as far as the first island.  The second island lay down the stream some little distance; and as we pushed the cattle off the first one we were in swimming water in no time, but the saddle horses were already landing on the second island, and our lead cattle struck out, and, breasting the water, swam as proudly as swans.  The middle channel was nearly a hundred yards wide, the greater portion of which was swimming, though the last channel was much wider.  But our saddle horses had already taken it, and when within fifty yards of the farther shore, struck solid footing.  With our own outfit we crowded the leaders to keep the chain of cattle unbroken, and before Honeyman could hustle his horses out of the river, our lead cattle had caught a foothold, were heading up stream and edging out for the farther shore.

I had one of the best swimming horses in our outfit, and Flood put me in the lead on the point.  As my horse came out on the farther bank, I am certain I never have seen a herd of cattle, before or since, which presented a prettier sight when swimming than ours did that day.  There was fully four hundred yards of water on the angle by which we crossed, nearly half of which was swimming, but with the two islands which gave them a breathing spell, our Circle Dots were taking the water as steadily as a herd leaving their bed ground.  Scholar and his men were feeding them in, while half a dozen of our men on each island were keeping them moving.  Honeyman and I pointed them out of the river; and as they grazed away from the shore, they spread out fan-like, many of them kicking up their heels after they left the water in healthy enjoyment of their bath.  Long before they were half over, the usual shouting had ceased, and we simply sat in our saddles and waited for the long train of cattle to come up and cross.  Within less than half an hour from the time our saddle horses entered the North Platte, the tail end of our herd had landed safely on the farther bank.

[Illustration:  SWIMMING THE PLATTE]

As Honeyman and I were the only ones of our outfit on the north side of the river during the passage, Flood called to us from across the last channel to graze the herd until relieved, when the remainder of the outfit returned to the south side to recover their discarded effects and to get dinner with Scholar’s wagon.  I had imitated Honeyman, and tied my boots to my cantle strings, so that my effects were on the right side of the river; and as far as dinner was concerned,—­well, I’d much rather miss it than swim the Platte twice in its then stage of water.  There is a difference in daring in one’s duty and in daring out of pure venturesomeness, and if we missed our dinners it would not be the first time, so we were quite willing to make the sacrifice.  If the Quirk family never achieve fame for daring by field and flood, until this one of the old man’s boys brings the family name into prominence, it will be hopelessly lost to posterity.

We allowed the cattle to graze of their own free will, and merely turned in the sides and rear, but on reaching the second bottom of the river, where they caught a good breeze, they lay down for their noonday siesta, which relieved us of all work but keeping watch over them.  The saddle horses were grazing about in plain view on the first bottom, so Honeyman and I dismounted on a little elevation overlooking our charges.  We were expecting the outfit to return promptly after dinner was over, for it was early enough in the day to have trailed eight or ten miles farther.  It would have been no trouble to send some one up the river to meet our wagon and pilot McCann to the herd, for the trail left on a line due north from the river.  We had been lounging about for an hour while the cattle were resting, when our attention was attracted by our saddle horses in the bottom.  They were looking at the ford, to which we supposed their attention had been attracted by the swimming of the outfit, but instead only two of the boys showed up, and on sighting us nearly a mile away, they rode forward very leisurely.  Before their arrival we recognized them by their horses as Ash Borrowstone and Rod Wheat, and on their riding up the latter said as he dismounted,—­

“Well, they’re going to cross the other herd, and they want you to come back and point the cattle with that famous swimming horse of yours.  You’ll learn after a while not to blow so much about your mount, and your cutting horses, and your night horses, and your swimming horses.  I wish every horse of mine had a nigger brand on him, and I had to ride in the wagon, when it comes to swimming these rivers.  And I’m not the only one that has a distaste for a wet proposition, for I wouldn’t have to guess twice as to what’s the matter with Scholar.  But Flood has pounded him on the back ever since he met him yesterday evening to swim his cattle, until it’s either swim or say he’s afraid to,—­it’s ‘Shoot, Luke, or give up the gun’ with him.  Scholar’s a nice fellow, but I’ll bet my interest in goose heaven that I know what’s the matter with him.  And I’m not blaming him, either; but I can’t understand why our boss should take such an interest in having him swim.  It’s none of his business if he swims now, or fords a month hence, or waits until the river freezes over in the winter and crosses on the ice.  But let the big augers wrangle it out; you noticed, Ash, that riot one of Scholar’s outfit ever said a word one way or the other, but Flood poured it into him until he consented to swim.  So fork that swimming horse of yours and wet your big toe again in the North Platte.”

As the orders had come from the foreman, there was nothing to do but obey.  Honeyman rode as far as the river with me, where after shedding my boots and surplus clothing and secreting them, I rode up above the island and plunged in.  I was riding the gray which I had tried in the Rio Grande the day we received the herd, and now that I understood handling him better, I preferred him to Nigger Boy, my night horse.  We took the first and second islands with but a blowing spell between, and when I reached the farther shore, I turned in my saddle and saw Honeyman wave his hat to me in congratulation.  On reaching their wagon, I found the herd was swinging around about a mile out from the river, in order to get a straight shoot for the entrance at the ford.  I hurriedly swallowed my dinner, and as we rode out to meet the herd, asked Flood if Scholar were not going to send his wagon up to the ferry to cross, for there was as yet no indication of it.  Flood replied that Scholar expected to go with the wagon, as he needed some supplies which he thought he could get from the sutler at Fort Laramie.

Flood ordered me to take the lower point again, and I rode across the trail and took my place when the herd came within a quarter of a mile of the river, while the remainder of the outfit took positions near the lead on the lower side.  It was a slightly larger herd than ours,—­all steers, three-year-olds that reflected in their glossy coats the benefits of a northern winter.  As we came up to the water’s edge, it required two of their men to force their remuda into the water, though it was much smaller than ours,—­six horses to the man, but better ones than ours, being northern wintered.  The cattle were well trail-broken, and followed the leadership of the saddle horses nicely to the first island, but they would have balked at this second channel, had it not been for the amount of help at hand.  We lined them out, however, and they breasted the current, and landed on the second island.  The saddle horses gave some little trouble on leaving for the farther shore, and before they were got off, several hundred head of cattle had landed on the island.  But they handled obediently and were soon trailing out upon terra firma, the herd following across without a broken link in the chain.  There was nothing now to do but keep the train moving into the water on the south bank, see that they did not congest on the islands, and that they left the river on reaching the farther shore.  When the saddle horses reached the farther bank, they were thrown up the river and turned loose, so that the two men would be available to hold the herd after it left the water.  I had crossed with the first lead cattle to the farther shore, and was turning them up the river as fast as they struck solid footing on that side.  But several times I was compelled to swim back to the nearest island, and return with large bunches which had hesitated to take the last channel.

The two outfits were working promiscuously together, and I never knew who was the directing spirit in the work; but when the last two or three hundred of the tail-enders were leaving the first island for the second, and the men working in the rear started to swim the channel, amid the general hilarity I recognized a shout that was born of fear and terror.  A hushed silence fell over the riotous riders in the river, and I saw those on the sand bar nearest my side rush down the narrow island and plunge back into the middle channel.  Then it dawned on my mind in a flash that some one had lost his seat, and that terrified cry was for help.  I plunged my gray into the river and swam to the first bar, and from thence to the scene of the trouble.  Horses and men were drifting with the current down the channel, and as I appealed to the men I could get no answer but their blanched faces, though it was plain in every countenance that one of our number was under water if not drowned.  There were not less than twenty horsemen drifting in the middle channel in the hope that whoever it was would come to the surface, and a hand could be stretched out in succor.

About two hundred yards down the river was an island near the middle of the stream.  The current carried us near it, and, on landing, I learned that the unfortunate man was none other than Wade Scholar, the foreman of the herd.  We scattered up and down this middle island and watched every ripple and floating bit of flotsam in the hope that he would come to the surface, but nothing but his hat was seen.  In the disorder into which the outfits were thrown by this accident, Flood first regained his thinking faculties, and ordered a few of us to cross to either bank, and ride down the river and take up positions on the other islands, from which that part of the river took its name.  A hundred conjectures were offered as to how it occurred; but no one saw either horse or rider after sinking.  A free horse would be hard to drown, and on the nonappearance of Scholar’s mount it was concluded that he must have become entangled in the reins or that Scholar had clutched them in his death grip, and horse and man thus met death together.  It was believed by his own outfit that Scholar had no intention until the last moment to risk swimming the river, but when he saw all the others plunge into the channel, his better judgment was overcome, and rather than remain behind and cause comment, he had followed and lost his life.

We patrolled the river until darkness without result, the two herds in the mean time having been so neglected that they had mixed.  Our wagon returned along the north bank early in the evening, and Flood ordered Priest to go in and make up a guard from the two outfits and hold the herd for the night.  Some one of Scholar’s outfit went back and moved their wagon up to the crossing, within hailing distance of ours.  It was a night of muffled conversation, and every voice of the night or cry of waterfowl in the river sent creepy sensations over us.  The long night passed, however, and the sun rose in Sabbath benediction, for it was Sunday, and found groups of men huddled around two wagons in silent contemplation of what the day before had brought.  A more broken and disconsolate set of men than Scholar’s would be hard to imagine.

Flood inquired of their outfit if there was any sub-foreman, or segundo as they were generally called.  It seemed there was not, but their outfit was unanimous that the leadership should fall to a boyhood acquaintance of Scholar’s by the name of Campbell, who was generally addressed as “Black” Jim.  Flood at once advised Campbell to send their wagon up to Laramie and cross it, promising that we would lie over that day and make an effort to recover the body of the drowned foreman.  Campbell accordingly started his wagon up to the ferry, and all the remainder of the outfits, with the exception of a few men on herd, started out in search of the drowned man.  Within a mile and a half below the ford, there were located over thirty of the forty islands, and at the lower end of this chain of sand bars we began and searched both shores, while three or four men swam to each island and made a vigorous search.

The water in the river was not very clear, which called for a close inspection; but with a force of twenty-five men in the hunt, we covered island and shore rapidly in our search.  It was about eight in the morning, and we had already searched half of the islands, when Joe Stallings and two of Scholar’s men swam to an island in the river which had a growth of small cottonwoods covering it, while on the upper end was a heavy lodgment of driftwood.  John Officer, The Rebel, and I had taken the next island above, and as we were riding the shallows surrounding it we heard a shot in our rear that told us the body had been found.  As we turned in the direction of the signal, Stallings was standing on a large driftwood log, and signaling.  We started back to him, partly wading and partly swimming, while from both sides of the river men were swimming their horses for the brushy island.  Our squad, on nearing the lower bar, was compelled to swim around the driftwood, and some twelve or fifteen men from either shore reached the scene before us.  The body was lying face upward, in about eighteen inches of eddy water.  Flood and Campbell waded out, and taking a lariat, fastened it around his chest under the arms.  Then Flood, noticing I was riding my black, asked me to tow the body ashore.  Forcing a passage through the driftwood, I took the loose end of the lariat and started for the north bank, the double outfit following.  On reaching the shore, the body was carried out of the water by willing hands, and one of our outfit was sent to the wagon for a tarpaulin to be used as a stretcher.

Meanwhile, Campbell took possession of the drowned foreman’s watch, six-shooter, purse, and papers.  The watch was as good as ruined, but the leather holster had shrunk and securely held the gun from being lost in the river.  On the arrival of the tarpaulin, the body was laid upon it, and four mounted men, taking the four corners of the sheet, wrapped them on the pommels of their saddles and started for our wagon.  When the corpse had been lowered to the ground at our camp, a look of inquiry passed from face to face which seemed to ask, “What next?” But the inquiry was answered a moment later by Black Jim Campbell, the friend of the dead man.  Memory may have dimmed the lesser details of that Sunday morning on the North Platte, for over two decades have since gone, but his words and manliness have lived, not only in my mind, but in the memory of every other survivor of those present.  “This accident,” said he in perfect composure, as he gazed into the calm, still face of his dead friend, “will impose on me a very sad duty.  I expect to meet his mother some day.  She will want to know everything.  I must tell her the truth, and I’d hate to tell her we buried him like a dog, for she’s a Christian woman.  And what makes it all the harder, I know that this is the third boy she has lost by drowning.  Some of you may not have understood him, but among those papers which you saw me take from his pockets was a letter from his mother, in which she warned him to guard against just what has happened.  Situated as we are, I’m going to ask you all to help me give him the best burial we can.  No doubt it will be crude, but it will be some solace to her to know we did the best we could.”

Every one of us was eager to lend his assistance.  Within five minutes Priest was galloping up the north bank of the river to intercept the wagon at the ferry, a well-filled purse in his pocket with which to secure a coffin at Fort Laramie.  Flood and Campbell selected a burial place, and with our wagon spade a grave was being dug on a near-by grassy mound, where there were two other graves.

There was not a man among us who was hypocrite enough to attempt to conduct a Christian burial service, but when the subject came up, McCann said as he came down the river the evening before he noticed an emigrant train of about thirty wagons going into camp at a grove about five miles up the river.  In a conversation which he had had with one of the party, he learned that they expected to rest over Sunday.  Their respect for the Sabbath day caused Campbell to suggest that there might be some one in the emigrant camp who could conduct a Christian burial, and he at once mounted his horse and rode away to learn.

In preparing the body for its last resting-place we were badly handicapped, but by tearing a new wagon sheet into strips about a foot in width and wrapping the body, we gave it a humble bier in the shade of our wagon, pending the arrival of the coffin.  The features were so ashened by having been submerged in the river for over eighteen hours, that we wrapped the face also, as we preferred to remember him as we had seen him the day before, strong, healthy, and buoyant.  During the interim, awaiting the return of Campbell from the emigrant camp and of the wagon, we sat around in groups and discussed the incident.  There was a sense of guilt expressed by a number of our outfit over their hasty decision regarding the courage of the dead man.  When we understood that two of his brothers had met a similar fate in Red River within the past five years, every guilty thought or hasty word spoken came back to us with tenfold weight.  Priest and Campbell returned together; the former reported having secured a coffin which would arrive within an hour, while the latter had met in the emigrant camp a superannuated minister who gladly volunteered his services.  He had given the old minister such data as he had, and two of the minister’s granddaughters had expressed a willingness to assist by singing at the burial services.  Campbell had set the hour for four, and several conveyances would be down from the emigrant camp.  The wagon arriving shortly afterward, we had barely time to lay the corpse in the coffin before the emigrants drove up.  The minister was a tall, homely man, with a flowing beard, which the frosts of many a winter had whitened, and as he mingled amongst us in the final preparations, he had a kind word for every one.  There were ten in his party; and when the coffin had been carried out to the grave, the two granddaughters of the old man opened the simple service by singing very impressively the first three verses of the Portuguese Hymn.  I had heard the old hymn sung often before, but the impression of the last verse rang in my ears for days afterward.

     “When through the deep waters I call thee to go,
     The rivers of sorrow shall not overflow;
     For I will be with thee thy troubles to bless,
     And sanctify to thee thy deepest distress.”

As the notes of the hymn died away, there was for a few moments profound stillness, and not a move was made by any one.  The touching words of the old hymn expressed quite vividly the disaster of the previous day, and awakened in us many memories of home.  For a time we were silent, while eyes unused to weeping filled with tears.  I do not know how long we remained so.  It may have been only for a moment, it probably was; but I do know the silence was not broken till the aged minister, who stood at the head of the coffin, began his discourse.  We stood with uncovered heads during the service, and when the old minister addressed us he spoke as though he might have been holding family worship and we had been his children.  He invoked Heaven to comfort and sustain the mother when the news of her son’s death reached her, as she would need more than human aid in that hour; he prayed that her faith might not falter and that she might again meet and be with her loved ones forever in the great beyond.  He then took up the subject of life,—­spoke of its brevity, its many hopes that are never realized, and the disappointments from which no prudence or foresight can shield us.  He dwelt at some length on the strange mingling of sunshine and shadow that seemed to belong to every life; on the mystery everywhere, and nowhere more impressively than in ourselves.  With his long bony finger he pointed to the cold, mute form that lay in the coffin before us, and said, “But this, my friends, is the mystery of all mysteries.”  The fact that life terminated in death, he said, only emphasized its reality; that the death of our companion was not an accident, though it was sudden and unexpected; that the difficulties of life are such that it would be worse than folly in us to try to meet them in our own strength.  Death, he said, might change, but it did not destroy; that the soul still lived and would live forever; that death was simply the gateway out of time into eternity; and if we were to realize the high aim of our being, we could do so by casting our burdens on Him who was able and willing to carry them for us.  He spoke feelingly of the Great Teacher, the lowly Nazarene, who also suffered and died, and he concluded with an eloquent description of the blessed life, the immortality of the soul, and the resurrection of the body.  After the discourse was ended and a brief and earnest prayer was covered, the two young girls sang the hymn, “Shall we meet beyond the river?” The services being at an end, the coffin was lowered into the grave.

Campbell thanked the old minister and his two granddaughters on their taking leave, for their presence and assistance; and a number of us boys also shook hands with the old man at parting.