USA > Missouri > Centennial history of Missouri (the center state) one hundred years in the Union, 1820-1921, Volume I > Part 58
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"We saw millions of buffalo on the trip. They were so gentle that it was no trouble to get in close range of a feeding herd, and any one could kill the younger animals. When a calf was cut off from the herd it would follow the horses right into our camp. This method of capturing the young was quite commonly practiced, and we were seldom without a good supply of the tenderloins of the buffalo calf. We had plenty to eat at all times, and only suffered for water. Now and then nothing but the worst kind of alkali water could be found, and this would only increase the thirst of man and beast if drank. Each man had a ten-gallon water keg, which he filled at every pure spring, but this supply often proved insufficient, and the cattle suffered greatly sometimes. We traveled about thirty miles a day when no serious obstructions were encountered. We had to make our own roads often by filling up gulches and bridging treacherous quicksand streams. Poole kept the train on the 'divides' as much as possible, thus avoiding the roughest country.
"The greatest wonder of the whole trip was the change which came over the cattle as soon as we struck the plains. The wild nature of the original bovine seemed to return to the oldest plow steer in the train after he had traveled a few days over the pathless wilderness. He became a new animal, and would every day astonish his driver and the entire party. Not only did the cattle travel better after they had eaten the wild grass and drank the brackish water of the Arkansas Valley for a few days, but the old work steers would run away in the yoke or stampede at night on the slighest provoca- tion. The first serious affair we had with the cattle was caused by a very little circum- stance. One of the horses had a sore back, and the animal was turned loose with a saddle on to follow the train. The saddle got turned under the horse's belly, and this scared the pony. He started to run along by the train, kicking and snorting, while the saddle dangled and flapped between his legs. This started one of the teams, and in an instant the whole train had caught the spirit of fright. Every steer of the 800 seemed to bellow at once, and the wildest runaway ever seen in an ox train began. There was no such thing as stopping the frantic beasts. They rushed madly over the plain in all directions, snorting, bellow- ing, and making the earth tremble with their wild plunges and the heavy wagons pulled after them. Some of the wagons were turned over and wrecked, many of the cattle crippled and the train scattered for miles. It took a whole day to get the train straight- - ened up after this runaway.
"But the worst of all the stampedes occurred one night. We always made a corral of the wagons by driving them around in a circle before going into camp. Inside of this the cattle were placed to protect them from the Indians. The guards were stationed
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on the outside of the wagons. It was early in the night, before we had gone to bed, when an ox, in rubbing his neck against a wagon, knocked down a yoke. The steer jumped and snorted, and like a flash of powder the signal was communicated to the whole herd. In two seconds every ox in the corral was on his feet, and the stampede began. For a -few minutes the cattle ran round and round in the corral, getting more terrified and resistless as the mighty mass of hoofs and horns thundered and rattled. The men were helpless. A herd of wild buffaloes could have been as easily tamed as those frightened steers checked at that moment, and we could only take refuge in the wagons and watch the terrific spectacle. Soon the circling herd make a break on the corral. Two or three wagons were overturned and through the gap the cattle plunged madly. Before the last ox had left the corral the ill-fated wagons were a mass of ruins, fit only for kindling wood, and several steers lay in the passage, disabled or dying. The men mounted their horses and followed the scattering herd, but the cattle could not be rounded up that night. Some of the steers ran thirty miles, and it took three days to get the train in motion after the stampede.
"Indians were seen almost every day, but they gave us no actual trouble. We had several false alarms, which caused great sensations at the time, and much amusement in camp afterwards. One night, when D. C. Smith, of our company, was officer of the guard, a fellow on duty saw a buffalo calf approaching the camp, and thought it was an Indian. He fired and retreated into the corral. . Smith called to his men, shouting at the top of his voice: 'Fall behind the water kegs!' He thought the kegs would make the safest breastworks that could be hastily formed to resist the attack of the savages. As the Indians did not make their appearance a reconnoiter of the field soon discovered the cause of the alarm. It was also ascertained that instead of 'falling behind the water kegs' most of the men had hidden in the wagons, and were making breastworks of the grub boxes, when the scouts reported no enemy but a buffalo calf near the camp.
"At another time, when most of the men were out hunting a mile or two from the train, they saw the drivers begin to corral the teams. This was the signal for danger, and we all supposed that the Indians were about to attack the train. Then every man started toward the wagons at his best speed possible, those on foot trying to keep up with the horsemen. Some of the mounted men ran into a gulch, and were badly hurt. When we reached the train the drivers had discovered that the Indians were only hunting buffalo, and not seeking our scalps.
"All the time Poole went scouting the country on both sides of the train. He rode a small gray horse, and left the wagons every morning with his favorite squad of guides and prospectors. The man seemed in dead earnest, but often greatly perplexed. As summer wore on and no gold was found, the men began to get very impatient. But few of us had any idea of the country we were travelling over, and the distance home seemed now very great. We had been out several months, and the treasure sought seemed as far away as ever. Poole grew more and more uneasy and confused as we advanced toward the region where he had claimed the gold would be found. He talked less and less about the exact location of the mine and seemed much in doubt at times as to his bearings. We had reached the foot of the Rocky Mountains, and the country was getting very rough. It took a great deal of work often to get the train over a gulch. The vision of the rich treasure, which had allured us over the alkali plains, began to vanish as we saw the per- plexity of our leader. At last the dream was broken, and the men refused to go farther in pursuit of such an uncertain prize. Poole made excuses for his failure, and still declared that the gold could not be far away, and wanted a little more time to hunt, but the men would not advance another step after they held a general council, and discussed the situation. The leader's influence over his followers was completely gone now, and Poole became more alarmed for his own safety, as he saw the demoralized condition of the camp.
"When the vote was taken nearly every man favored a return home, but before the train changed its course toward the rising sun Poole and his little gray pony had dis- appeared. We never heard of the man after the wagons started homeward. The fellow got afraid he would be killed, in spite of the pledge, we had all signed. There was much
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disagreement among the men, after the first feeling of disappointment passed off, as to the character of Poole. Some thought he was honest and had seen at least what appeared to be gold, while others regarded him as an out-and-out fraud. I never could see what motive the man had if he was an imposter. He must have had some faith in the move- ment or the expedition would never have been organized. Whatever became of the man I never knew. He never came back to Missouri as far as I could ascertain.
"We partially reorganized the command when Poole left, and began to retrace our steps. It was not difficult to follow backward the trail of the train. The tread of the Soo oxen and the wheels of eighty wagons left their unmistakable signs on the open plains. The Fourth of July soon came after we started back. Not a wheel turned on that day. We were too patriotic to travel on the anniversary of liberty, homesick, as most of the men had become by this time. We had some whisky in our kegs yet, and every man drank a health to the Stars and Stripes and his native state that morning. Then the boys began to hunt for fun. After some old Tennessee pastimes in the way of trials of strength and activity, a difficulty between two companies arose. It was an old grudge that had been growing ever since the train left the Verdigris river. This we thought was a good time to have the feud settled. The combatants were accordingly disarmed and led by pairs into a ring, where they fought under old Tennessee fist-and-skull rules, until one of the men announced in loud and unmistakable, tones that he was whipped. By the time one fight was over another couple would be ready for the ring, and in this way we spent a good part of the day, umpiring these rough-and-tumble combats. By night the strife between the two companies was exhausted, and the plight of some of the men could hardly be imagined. They had fought in the corral, rolling over and over on the ground often, and their clothes were - soiled with all the filth about the camp. Some had lost their shirts in the fight, and black eyes and swollen noses and lips told where gouging thumbs and pounding fists had done their bloody work.
"When the train reached the Arkansas river the companies began to separate, each one taking the most direct course home. Our men traded some of their provisions to the Indians for dressed deer skins, and then we hurried on to Springfield, glad to get back, but not a little ashamed of the result of the trip."
Parson Keithley's Mysterious Hoard.
Old Parson Keithley was one of the strange characters of the Ozark country. One day in the week he preached. The other six he roamed the country with his gun on his shoulder and his dog at his heels. He loved solitude. It was his custom to disappear. For days his family would hear nothing of him. Then he would return as suddenly as he had gone. He was reticent. Nothing more than disjointed accounts of his wanderings ever came from him. Relatives learned to. ask no questions. When the old man buckled on his belt and went over the ridge he might be back for supper or he might be gone weeks.
When the California gold fever spread the parson was well advanced in years. One day he walked out of the house. Months afterward a brief letter came from him. It was written in the Rocky Mountains. In it the parson said he was on his way to California. Two years and eight months passed. One day the old man walked into the house, greeted his family pleasantly and resumed his old way of living. Little by little the family learned that the parson had found gold. He had acquired all that he wanted and had come back by Cape Horn, landed at New Orleans and made his way overland to the Ozark country. Nobody ever learned how much the parson brought back. The neigh- borhood story, which took no account of avoirdupois, was that the parson had actually lugged $6,000 in gold into the Ozark country. What he did with the
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treasure was a mystery. He made no exhibition of it, and he did not keep it in the house. There was a garden and an apple tree some distance off. At intervals of weeks or months the old man would draw from his pocket a $10 gold piece and hand it to his daughter, saying, "See here what I've found." The gold was usually produced on some occasion of domestic need. Where the gold was "found" the old man never told. The "shiner" came to light just after the old man had been taking a walk. Some of the family supposed that the treasure was buried under the old apple tree in the garden, and unearthed a piece at a time. Others speculated that the hiding-place was in a cave to which the parson was wont to retire for meditation. So much did he frequent the place that it became known, and is still known, as Keithley's cave.
The strangest part of the parson's career came toward the end. Shortly after the close of the war he told his friends that he felt he had not much longer to live. It was his fondest wish to make the cave his tomb. He set about the preparations for that purpose. A portion of the cave was very dry, and that was chosen by the parson for his last resting place. He walled off a room and built of rock an entry five wide feet leading to it. The stones for the purpose he carried from some distance on the hillside, dressing them so that they would fit well, but laying them without mortar. At the entrance to the passage Keithley built a double stone door, inclined at an angle. The door was of two slabs, eighteen inches wide and three feet long. In the sides he made handles. When he entered his tomb the parson pulled the doors over and their weight held them snugly in position. On one side of the inclosed room, close to the wall, he laid up a stone coffin just large enough to hold him comfortably. For this he had a slab which he could work into position so as to cover the top after he had lain down inside. For several years before the end came Keithley was in the habit of retiring to the cave, closing the doors of the tomb and pulling the slab upon the coffin. There he would lie for days at a time waiting for death. Then, when the feeling of weakness or depression passed away, the old man would come out and preach and hunt. At all times he impressed it upon his people that they must see to it his bones rested in the cave, if death came suddenly when he was away from the chosen spot. In his leisure the parson carved on the wall of the cave a short sermon. The text he engraved was, "Behold, I stand at the door and knock." The Ozark country has many Keithleys, some of them direct descendants of the old parson.
The floor or bottom of the coffin was dry clay, and stretched at full length upon it the parson passed many nights and days. The darling wish of Parson Keithley's heart was not fulfilled. The old man was far past 90 when the sud- den summons came. His waiting and watching in the tomb had been in vain. Death found him in a lonely spot on the mountain, several miles from the cave. Faintness had come upon him. He had rested his gun against a tree and had lain down. The dog had dropped beside him. Days afterward the searchers who had failed to find him in the tomb came upon the body.
The Fruitville Experiment.
Perhaps the most notable institute to teach the possibilities of the Ozarks is Fruitville Farms of Howell county. The professor was Jay Linn Torrey. One of the interesting characters in the present generation of Missourians was Colonel
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Torrey. He was colonel by right of commission. He first suggested to President Mckinley the organization of Rough Riders as specially adapted to the cam- paign in Cuba and was given the command of the Second Regiment.
Torrey was born in Pike county, Illinois, and lived in Pike county, Mis- souri. He worked his way at Columbia and was senior captain in the cadet organization of the University of Missouri. Then he practiced law in St. Louis for twenty years, was president of the three national bankruptcy conventions and framed the present bankrupt law. Going to Wyoming in the days of the cattle barons, Torrey conducted a ranch and sold Herefords by the train load. After such varied experiences came his fascination with the Ozarks. About ten years ago Torrey bought 11,000 acres of land and began the development of Fruitville Farms. He satisfied himself as to the unparalleled versatility of the soil and climate by raising in a season 167 varieties of grains, grasses and vegetables, many of these products taking first premiums at the Missouri state fair. He ascertained by study and experiment that air drainage on certain slopes of the Ozarks is one of the peculiar advantages the orchards enjoy. Long growing seasons. healthful altitude and clear cold water are the combination that give an extra profit to dairying in the Ozarks. The flora of Fruitville Farms has been tested for honey production with the conclusion that the long season of flowers and the short mild winters are found to offer special encour- agement to the apiary. Another of the very practical experiments on Fruitville Farms has been the immunizing of hogs. In a great oak forest Colonel Torrey defied cholera and produced pork with a greater margin of profit than is obtained anywhere outside of the Ozarks. With cattle, horses, mules, sheep and goats and especially with poultry, results were obtained which in Colonel Torrey's judgment show the Ozarks to be ideal for profitable production.
The time was when squatters' rights were thought to suffice for title in the Ozarks. Men took land, reared families and passed away without going through the formality to record an entry, although $14 would have secured the farm to the children. Heirs came to the county seats to have estates administered upon only to discover that Uncle Sam still owned the land upon which they had been "born and raised." Nobody thought of disturbing a squatter. It wouldn't have' been safe. But when lawyers came to settle estates they were up against the absence of title. In another peculiar way some of the early settlers held their farms. They homesteaded the land, but before the time came to patent it the right was relinquished by the holder and another member of the family made a fresh entry. In this way some farms have remained from before the war until now in the possession of the same family by successive homestead entries without final patent. The advantage of this kind of land holding is that taxation is es- caped. But "the bum," as one old settler called the boom, came. All kinds of lands in the Ozarks were in demand. Complete titles had market value. The . squatter hustled to make sure of his homestead and to be in a position to sell when the fruit raiser, the dairyman, the chicken farmer and the miner came.
Habitat of the Peach and the Apple.
Away from main traveled roads and in the remote parts of the Ozarks the explorer comes not infrequently upon some long abandoned homestead. The pioneer settler, restless for a change has pulled up stakes and moved on. A
IN SOUTHEAST MISSOURI
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PALISADES OF BIG RIVER
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heap of stones marks the wreck of the chimney, and that is all remaining of the house. The once cleared ground has grown over with black oak and young pines. Every vestige of fence has disappeared. Yet in the midst of such dis- couraging conditions will be found apple and peach trees thriving and loaded with fruit. There are peach trees in the Ozarks which have been bearing longer than the oldest settler can remember. There is the "horse" appletree said to have been brought to the Ozarks by Tennesseans long before the Civil war.
It is characteristic of the men who have seen most of the Ozark country to be warmest in their expressions of confidence in its future as a fruit-raising section.
"I have been here thirty years," ex-Congressman Tracey once said, "and in that time I have seen only one failure of the apple crop. Our orchards are in- creasing by additions of thousands of acres annually. This will be the apple country of the world. There is as much certainty about the apple crop of the Ozark country as there is-well, as there is in the interest of a well secured loan. It is the same way with the small fruits."
The fact may have escaped the rest of the busy world that Missouri is making rapid progress in fruit production. This state now stands nearly at the top of the list. When Northwestern Arkansas, Eastern Kansas and Southeastern Ne- braska are added to Missouri the limits of the greatest fruit-producing section in the world are defined.
Peaches and Peaches.
"If you will guarantee me 71/2c a bushel, I'll undertake to deliver to you 1,000 bushels of peaches. I know I've got 1,600 bushels on my place." This was the proposition an Ozark farmer made to the manager of an evaporator. Of course, these were not the great rosy, Stump-of-the-World, or the far-famed Elbertas, and certainly not the White Heath cling, which, seen through the glass of the air-tight jar, make a man's mouth water. They were the seedlings. Still they were peaches, and 71/2c a bushel seemed very low for any kind of a peach. The seedling is the peach tree which comes up in that encouraging country wherever a peach pit is dropped. If not cut for a switch or plowed up in the course of cultivation for something else, the seedling flourishes. All it asks is to be let alone. Like Topsy the thousands of seedling peach orchards of South Missouri have "just growed." The fence corner is a favorite spot for the seedling peach. Among the apple trees, around the back doors of the farm houses, beside the hog lots, are clumps of seedling peach trees.
If the Ozark farmer had gone forth with his jack-knife and a bundle of buds some spring morning the southern counties of Missouri would be shipping train loads of peaches where they now send out car loads. But the farmer didn't do it. And so, on countless farms there are from half a dozen to half a thousand seedling peach trees. In good peach seasons the boughs bend toward the ground with the festoons of these little peaches clustered as thick as they can stick. Farmers' wives and daughters pare the seedling peaches for drying. Every shed roof is preempted. Some of these seedlings are no larger than a hickory nut. Others reach the size of a goose egg. Some are hard and about as agreeable in flavor as a green apple. Others are soft, juicy and sweet. There is as great variety in the seedling peach as in the native population. With all of the
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other uses which may be found for the enormous seedling peach crop of Howell, it still remains a fact that many thousands of bushels go to feed the hogs. Good feed they make. Hogs put on fat and never sicken from a seedling peach diet. The peach crop is beyond capacity for human consumption, even at a nickel a bushel.
There is another view of the peach problem of the Ozarks. Several years ago, in the pioneer period of the industry. Howell county peaches were carefully packed and inclosed in refrigerator boxes with enough ice to insure cold storage for a long journey. When these peaches were taken out in New York they sold readily at $4 a bushel. The price was not exceptional. Similarly prepared peaches have brought $6 a bushel. Here, then, are the extremes of the peach business in the Ozark country from 5c to $4 a bushel. The tree which produced the $4 peaches started on equal terms with that which gave the 5c surplus. Neither had the advantage in original seed or soil. But in one case a pruning- knife was applied and a bud was inserted when and where it would do the most good. On the other hand. the original shoot grew into a tree. The same sun- shine and the same showers brought both to fruition. A discriminating market put the $4 approval on one and the 5c condemnation on the other.
The Apple-Drying Season.
In the early days of autumn the Ozark country is one big evaporator. The apple-drying season is at its height. Every farmer's wife has a basket at her feet and a sharp knife in her hand. From morning until night she pares and slices. Thousands of bushels, hundreds of thousands of bushels, it may be said, which would be sent to market if the transportation facilities would warrant, are saved in this form. The horticulturists call it "evaporating." The farmers . say "drying." The process amounts to the same result. By various methods, natural or artificial. the apple is reduced to one-tenth its weight on the tree. Ninety per cent is evaporated. Two hundred bushels of apples, weighing 10,000 pounds, become 1.000 pounds of dried fruit.
The primitive way is to take the quilt which is not needed on the beds at this time of year and lay it on the roof of a shed. The sliced apples are spread out on the quilt. If a rain storm comes up, the four corners of the quilt are lifted and the apples carried indoors until the clouds roll by. Some of the Ozark people . do not go to so much trouble, but let the sun and rain alternate until the fruit is cured. The forehanded Ozark farmer constructs of thin boards shallow trays which will hold 20 to 30 pounds of sliced apples. The women folks are able to handle these trays easily and carry them indoors when it rains.
Frequently. in the corner of the house lot, a home made evaporator may be seen smoking away. Sometimes the evaporator is constructed of boards, but often of logs. The trays are placed on supports in the upper part of the little building and a fire is started below either in a stove or in a furnace which will throw out heat. The only openings in these little houses are the door by which the trays are put in and the flute by which the smoke gets out. A stranger . passing would guess a long time for the purpose of these almost airtight structures unless he saw the evaporation going on. These home-made evaporators are from three to five feet wide, from five to eight feet long and as high as a woman can
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