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CHAPTER III

AMONG THE FOOT HILLS AND TROUBLESOME INDIANS

If you will take your atlas, and look on the map of Wyoming, at the base of the Wind Mountains, the most rugged group of the Rockies, you will find South Pass, with the headwaters of the Sweetwater River, cutting a canyon through it. Going westward from this point and following the Sweetwater River, we came to the headwater, which was called Atlantic Springs. A few hundred yards beyond, we came to the Pacific Springs. This small strip of land is the water shed or dividing point between the two oceans. The water which bubbles up from the Atlantic Springs, races eastward through the rocky canyon of the Sweetwater and to the Platte and from the Platte to the Missouri, thence the Mississippi, uniting with the waters of the Ohio, Illinois, Tennesse and Cumberland, the Monongahela, of the Allegheny Mountains, finally reaching Gulf of Mexico and the Atlantic Ocean.

But should you follow the course of the sparkling water that gushes from the Pacific Springs, you would course along the Big Sandy to the Green River, which cuts its way through the sand and rocks of that rough and tumble country of northern Utah and northwestern Colorado. Launch your boat on the turbulent waters and drift, if you were not capsized, in southern Utah, you would come to Colorado River and then soon in the shadows of the most wonderful canyons which scar Mother Earth, the Cataract, Marble and Grand Canyons, of world renown. These livid seething waters find rest in the bosom of the great Pacific.

We trailed westward across the Pacific Springs toward the Bear River which flowed south to Bear Lake in the northern part of Utah. We were on what was called Fremont and Carson route. This lead southwest to Salt Lake City. When northeast of Salt Lake City, we came to what was called the Truckey route. This route left Salt Lake City to our left. We were behind all the other trains and it had been reported that the Mormons had killed a whole train of men, women and children, for plunder and had laid it onto the Indians. Old Brigham Young had sent what he called his "Destroying Angels" and had murdered all of them and took all the stock and wagons. We decided to take the Truckey route and keep away from Brigham Young and his "destroying angels."

Perhaps one of the most interesting things I saw while traveling through the Bear River country in southern Utah, was a lava bed, about fifty or sixty feet high and I judge about two hundred feet wide at the base. At the crest, the lava was bubbling out as clear as water and running down the side of the mound, it would cool and turn into rock, forming a rocky mound. I saw three such mounds of lava or rock, which had been formed this way. The soil in the Bear River bottom was rich, black soil, and I thought what a pity it was that it should be covered with these mounds of lava.

There was a grave at the foot of this mound with a head board, on which we were informed that the deceased had drunk of the lava water and had died in a few minutes and that the water was poison.

We came across what was called Soda Springs and the water was as fine as any I had ever drank, and it came out of the ground foaming, a veritable natural soda water fountain. We also saw the Steam Boat Springs, which gushed from a hole in the basin of rock. The water was boiling hot and it bubbled and sizzled like boiling water on a stove. It would boil for a short time and then the steam would shoot up about fifteen feet high. Below this spring and near the river, was a strip of rocks about twenty feet wide, that seemed to be in motion with heat. The water in the river was so hot we could not hold our hands in it for two or three rods along the banks.

Down the river and off to one side, we came to Bear Rock. This rock was cut up with great crevices and if a man or beast had fallen into one of them, they would have disappeared from view in the bowels of the earth. I threw a rock into one of them and heard it rattling down into the depths until the sound gradually died away in what appeared to be bottomless. This serrated rock appeared to be about three miles across and it was the most dangerous place we had encountered. It had to be crossed as it was the path of the trail. A road had been made by wedging rock in the crevices and by means of picks, the way had been smoothed down so we were able to get across without serious accident.

While near Bear River, James Bailey and John Teril were driving a cow whose feet were so worn that she could not keep up with the rest of the drove. The boys would drive her along slowly and arrive late in the evening at the camp. She was a big red cow and uncle hated to lose her, but one evening she laid down and the boys could not whip her up and they had to come to camp without her. The next morning uncle sent Jim and I after her. As we came in sight of her, an awful sight came to our view. A pack of wolves were around her, snarling and gnashing on all sides. The cow was making a desperate struggle to keep off the ravenous wolves. When we saw the condition, we rode as fast as we could and the wolves took to the tall grass. We found the hind quarter of the cow bleeding and in some places the flesh was stripped off to the bone. There was nothing to do but to put her out of her misery, which I did with a shot from my gun.

Jim held my horse and I went near enough to the grass to shoot at them as they ventured out of the grass. I could not tell whether I killed any of them or not as they would leap back in the grass. I had in mind to go nearer to the grass to see the result of my shots, when Jim called to me and said, "Wash, come quick. Get on your horse, the grass is alive with them."

When I got on my horse, I could see on both sides of the trail the grass all in motion with the cat like movements of the wolves. We could not see them, but the waving grass showed that it was full of them. We put spurs to our horses and when we got to a safe distance, we stopped and looked back. The wolves had come out of the grass and were pilled upon the cow, resembling a small hay stack.

One day soon after this, when we had made a noon stop, an Indian chief, who could talk our language, told us that his men, while hunting, had found a white man who was nearly starved to death, and that he had carried him to his lodge. Uncle and some more of the men went with him to see if he was strong enough to be taken along. They found him too weak to be moved. After a council between uncle and the chief, it was decided to leave him there and the chief promised to look after him and when he was strong enough, that he would put him on a pony and send him to Salt Lake City. I believe the man was left in good hands and that the chief was a man of his word.

We were now coming to the desert country of Nevada and our cattle had been without water for a day, when we came to what is known as Poison Water. To get across this little stream, we put the cattle in bunches of twelve and whipped them across, not letting them stop to drink. We got all of our stock across without being poisoned. After we got across, on the side of the hill, we saw the awful effects of the poison water, as there were hundreds of dead cattle and rods at a time, we could step on dead cattle without stepping on the ground.

After we got back on the Freemont and Carson route and were making for the headwaters of the Humbolt River, we found some fair grass land for the stock. We followed the Humbolt River for many miles until we came to the Humbolt Sink. At first it was as smooth as a rock for some distance, but later we dropped off into sand and it was the worst travelling I ever saw. The sand was so light and fine, that one foot would go down until I would set the other foot on top of the sand and pull that foot out, before I could step one foot ahead of the other. It was about the same sort of motion and as slow as treading water. We were three days and nights crossing that desert.

After getting across this desert stretch, we came to the banks of the Carson River, which we were to follow for many miles to the borders of California. When we reached Carson River, we came to a trader's pound, constructed of wagon tires and log chains. It was about the size of an ordinary city lot. There were tires lengthwise and crosswise, hind wheel tires, front wheel tires and log chains, bound together in all kinds of shapes. There were tons of steel in that fence. We came across another pound on the Carson River, near the Sierra Nevada Mountains, built of logs. The logs were 100 feet or over in length and had notches cut in them. These logs were placed in two rows and were crossed by small logs resting in the notches. It was built high enough so that stock could not jump over.

One night when we were afraid the Indians would come in on us, a double guard was put on duty. Four men stood guard in the fore part of the night and four in the after part. The eight men to do duty were all the men in my mess. Uncle said that the bacon was getting low and that he wanted some one of our mess, to get up early and help kill a beef. I told him to have some of the men in the other mess to help, as we would be on guard duty all night. Uncle said, "All right."

The men of my mess had killed all the beeves and mutton up to that time. We did not care, nor did we think much about it, as one of our men was a butcher. The next morning uncle called for some one to get up and help him kill a beef. He called the second and third time, and no one got up and he said, "If no one will get up and help, you will do without meat."

Two of the men in my mess said, "If the other fellows will not help, we will."

I did not help as I was willing to do without meat rather than help after being on guard about all night. When I got up, I went over to the other camp to see what was the matter and why they would not help to kill the beef. They had all gone to look after the stock except John and Tom Brooks. Tom, the cook, did not have to help with the other work. I asked, "John, why did not you fellows get up this morning and help uncle?"

He looked at me, wrinkled up his face, swore and said as hateful as he could, "You will be a good deal prettier than you are, before I will help kill a beef."

"Johnny," I replied, "If you don't propose to do your part, you might get a dose you would not like so well."

I thought I would go back to my camp and say nothing more about it. I started off and had gone about a rod, when John said, "Now you go off to your own camp, or I will put Tom at you."

I turned around and looked at him and remarked, "You low lived insignificant scoundrel, you will put Tom at me?"

"Yes, and if you don't go to your own home, I will get at you," Tom cut in.

"You big necked, nigerfied, curly-headed villian, you will get at me?" I replied.

At that he came running toward me and as he came near, he ducked his head to butt me in the stomach. When I saw that, I ran backwards a little to kill the shock and I reached down and caught him in the cheek, gave him a jerk, and he fell on his back. He fell near the hind wheel of a wagon. He pulled himself up by holding to the wheel and I got him by the throat and pushed him back between the wheel and the bed, and beat his face and head like he did poor Jim Greek and gave him some for Nailor and some for abusing aunt, and some for jumping on to me. When I got through, he had a plenty and the great fighter was badly whipped and he had not given me a scratch.

This was the first fight I had ever had and I found out afterwards that he had told the boys, that if any of his mess helped kill the beef, they would have had him to whip first. Aunt saw the commotion and called for me to come to their camp fire and get my breakfast. She said, "I am going to give you the best breakfast you ever had on the plains, for whipping that low lived, good for nothing, Tom Brooks."

I ate breakfast with aunt – was the best meal on the plains and the only time I had eaten with her. Tom Brooks behaved after that.

One morning we missed a cow out of the herd. Several of us went to find her. We hunted for quite a while and finally all came back to camp with the exception of my brother, Crawford Bailey and Wint Crumley. There was a willow thicket along the river and they got out of sight of us. They had found the trail of the cow and followed it. The camp had moved on down the trail while George Bailey had taken his gun and went on foot to kill an antelope. While hunting on the side of the trail, he was surprised to see Crawford and Wint running their horses around a bend in the river. He made for the trail just in time to catch one of the horses by the tail and by that means, kept up with the fleeing men. The Indians who were after them, tried to cut them off, but when they came in sight of the camp, they gave up the chase and disappeared. The two boys had followed the track of the cow into a willow thicket and they came across the Indians with a cow's hide stretched across poles, scrapping it ready for tanning. The Indians saw them and gave chase, but the fleetness of the horses and George's lucky hold on the tail of the horse, saved their scalps.

A few nights after this incident, we had to drive late to get to where there was a good place to camp. It was dusk when we camped. We had to turn off to the right of the main trail and the river bent off to the north and I think it was a quarter of a mile from the main trail to where we camped. We had built our fires and were just ready to commence getting supper, when we heard the Indians begin holloing, "Show shony, show shony, humbugen, humbugen oss cawaw cawaw, cawowaw cawowaw cawowaw cawaw cawaw."

The first time they holloed this, uncle Joshua Bailey said, "There! We are going to be attacked. That is the war whoop. Put out the fires and corral the wagons."

The wagons were placed in a circle, running the tongues under each other so we could get inside and protect ourselves from their arrows as much as possible. When we got that done, which was in short order, he said, "All hands load your guns and your revolvers and have your knives ready."

We had been so long on the road that everybody had become careless. Some of the guns had not been used for a long time and were rusty and others had no bullets. Some had to prepare their guns, while others tried to run bullets. We had what we called ladles to melt lead in. They were made of wooden pieces split out of oak or some other kind of hard timber, four square, with one end hewed round for the handle, the other end, that is, the square end, had a hole cut down in with the corner of the ax. We would put lead in this ladle and put coals of fire in on the lead and blow the coals with our breath, and which would not make much light.

Joel Bailey, my cousin, had run off from home when a small boy, got on a steam boat at Ripley, Ohio, worked his passage as dish washer, and had gone to Wisconsin, where my three uncles were. While there, Joel got acquainted with the Indians and their ways more than I did, but I had got pretty well acquainted by this time myself.