USA > Nebraska > Furnas County > Pioneer stories of Furnas County, Nebraska > Part 7
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As my corn was now planted, I began to cut timber for the cabin. The talk of Indian outbreaks and my belief in their meth- ods, induced me to select the highest elevation on my claim for the location of the cabin. From it I had a perfect view of the surrounding country, and felt sure that no lurking savage could approach without observation Buffalo had made their appearance and could be seen every day grazing in herds and gradually trav- cling northward. Settlers continued to arrive and the country was being taken along the borders of the streams. Many spent much time in slaughtering the buffalo. A great deal of it was done in mere wantonness and the innate love for killing. It is true that we all feasted on buffalo steaks and used the hides to make ropes wherewith to stake or tether our stock. But it was sc easy to go out any time and enjoy the excitement of killing. and meat was so abundant that it was useless to be sparing of it. So we took the choicest cuts and left the bulk of the careasses for the wolves and buzzards. The air was so dry that we used to simply hang a ham of buffalo meat to the branches of a high tree and it kept perfectly sweet until we used it all. and then went after more from the herds all about us. It was a carnival of feasting. bragging, and adventure-and so time passed.
I finally had enough logs gathered to complete my eabin, and called on my neighbors to help ereet it. In less than a day the enclosure was completed, and afterwards Mr. Keiser helped me cover the roof with sods and dirt. The earth formed the floor. While I was completing the cabin. I was impressed with the intense heat of the wind from the southwest. It seemed as hot as the heat from an oven and the grass on the prairie be- came brown, dry and brittle. Nothing on the uplands remained green except the cactus plants. The flowers disappeared, and the
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country appeared a brown waste with no verdure except on the borders of the streams. I moved my family into the cabin and continued to work at "chinking," filling in the interstices be- tween the logs. 1
One day I had occasion to go to Bishop's, 7 miles away. It was a very hot day, and as all thoughts of Indians had passed out of my mind, I went without a gun or other arms. On my re- turn, as I neared the headlands at the junction of the Sappa and Beaver Creeks and almost in view of my cabin, I saw what I thought to be an Indian sitting at the head of the ravine some distance to the south of me. Presently he stood up and I know that he was looking at me. Ile descended into the ravine, and I did not feel that I desired any closer acquaintance. I saw that he had a bow, but I had no gun. So I simply walked along until I came to a point where I could see for a mile or more down the Sappa valley on the south, and beheld Indians on foot and on horseback, hundreds of them, and traveling to the northeast in the direction of my cabin, but they were already between my- self and that-and see, there goes Mary and the children run- uing away from it, and going in the direction of Rosenberg- er's. I can not save them or myself. An Indian on horseback is close by me. He stops. He has a bow and arrows, but he does not unsling them. Ile has a tomahawk. Evidently he consid- er me his victim without resistance as I am unarmed. I walk up near him looking at his face. He sits calmly. I say "How." Ile replies "How." I say "Pawnee." "No, Otoe." I say, "No, I believe Pawnee." "No, no," and patting his breast he says, "Otoe good injun," and fumbling in his bosom he pulled out a paper and with a grunt, handed it to me. It stated his name, which I can't remember, but said he was a good man, and it was signed by some one alleged to have authority. I said, "Where is your chief ?" He pointed to the rear of the column of Indians filing past. I felt much better and returned the paper, and as he took it he said, "watermelon." I shook my head, but he grunted and said "watermelon," making a motion of eating. I had no melons planted but Rosenberger had, so I pointed to- ward his patch and said, "There is watermelon, " and turned my steps in that direction myself. I passed or was passed by many Indians, and most of them said "how," and asked for water- melon. I simply pointed to Rosenberger's melons and passed on. I found my wife at Rosenberger's and badly frightened. I asked
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her what she had done with my rifle and bottle of alcohol on the shelf in the eabin. She said that she had not moved them, but that she had thrown all of the knives, forks and spoons into my tool chest, and elosed the lid. It had a spring loek, so the con- ients were safe unless the Indians took chest and all. As I looked toward my house, I saw a large group of Indians about it. There was nothing to prevent their entering if they chose to do so. I feared that they might, and I did not want them to take the rifle or drink the "firewater." Assuring my wife that the In- dians were friendly and would not harm any of us, I went to our place and greeted those there with "How" and a hand- shake with several, opened the door and said, "come in." Sev- eral of them complied. I said "Indian hungry ?" "Uhh! Heap hungry." "My squaw gone away. Ileap afraid Injun." "Uhh, Injun no hurt white squaw, good injun." I took the cover off from the wash boiler where my wife had put several loaves of bread, and proceeded to feed them. They continued to eat un- til there was but one loaf left, and I told them that there was no more. They smiled, and wanted to swap buffalo meat for salt pork. I made several exchanges. An old grizzled, white- headed Indian, a giant in size and build, came in and offered a large piece of elk meat for a small piece of salt pork. I changed with him. He talked at me in Indian, patting me on the breast, and then patting himself. I asked some of the others what he said, but they only smiled and would not reply. Finally he shook hands and pointing toward the reservation got on his pony and left. Two of them placed their hands on their sto- machs and said, "Siek, heap siek." I mixed one of them a dose of Ayer's Ague Cure and he swallowed it. To the other I gave a dose of Ayer's pills. They nearly all shook hands as they left, and one said, "Good white man." They were the cleanest Indians that I have ever seen that still wore blankets. They were Otoes and were on their way home from their annual buffalo hunt. Their reservation was then in the southern part of Gage County.
The weather continued hot and dry. I noticed my corn on the opposite side of the ereek seemed to have changed its color to a light tinge but had not taken time to visit it. Finally one day it began to rain. I sat at the window gazing at the corn, wondering what had changed its appearance. A flock of wild turkeys came into view west of the corn. I took my rifle
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and crossed the creek, coming out on the east side of the corn. I soon knew what was the matter with it. Every blade was eaten except the central stem and every ear except the tiny cob. Grasshoppers! Grasshoppers by the millions. My heart went to the bottom of my boots. Not an ear of corn in spite of my labor and happy anticpations. But I got one of the turkeys, although I didn't carry it very exultantly.
It was a serious ease to me. I had relied so much on that erop of corn. But it was gone and the season over and provisions for the winter and seed for another season had to be provided for.
I obtained some work during the winter helping settlers build sod houses, dig dugouts, and sold some hay, and managed to live through until spring when I obtained some work with my carpenter tools on buildings in the town of Melrose, one mile west of the present town of Orleans.
And so ended the first year in Furnas county to the writer.
It was during these first months that the writer for the first and only time felt the impulse of murder in his heart. It oc- curred through the following incident. A young man working for Bishop was set at breaking land with a yoke of oxen. Bishop had returned to the eastern part of the state on business, and on- ly this young man, myself, wife and children were left on the land selected by Bishop. The young man told me he needed a sharpened plow share. I prepared one for him and took it to him where he was breaking, accompanied by two of my children, a little girl 8 years old and a boy about 5. While adjusting the plow share the man said he would go to the camp to get a drink of water and some tobacco. While he was absent I started the team and went one round on the land he was plowing, followed by the children. As I was turning the oxen at the corner I saw him returning mounted on the herding pony, with a rifle in one hand. I asked him what was the matter, and where he was going. He said, "There are five Indians armed with guns coming from the hills towards our camp, and I am going to get out of here." I said, "You are not going to leave Mary and the chil- dren here with no one but me to protect them, are you?" He said, "I am going to take eare of myself," and giving the horse the spurs he started off on the run. It was then that I wanted to kill him and if I had had my gun I fear I would have done it-but, thank God, I was only armed with an ox goad. Stepping to the head of the cattle I unhooked the chain from the yoke, and taking
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each child by the hand, I said, "Come, let us go to mamma," and we started for the camp, situated on ground higher. The children kept saying, "Pa, you wont let the Indians kill us, will you?" "Pa, are the Indians going to kill us?" " Will the Indians kill mamma and all of us?" My feelings can be more easily imagined than deseribed. Reaching the camp, I met my wife with the baby in her arms, and our oldest girl by her side. My wife was as pale as a corpse. I said, "Where are the Indians?" She pointed south- westerly without speaking. I could see and count five men coming towards our camp, single file, as is enstomary with the Indians. i thought they carried guns-they did-but they were too distant to tell positively. I picked up the llenry rifle and filled the cham- ber with sixteen cartridges and buckled my belt, with a Reming- ton revolver with six loads in its chamber, about my loins. I then sat down on an empty box and watched the approaching men. I believed they were Indians and believed they would kill all of us. I knew we could not escape, and I expected to die pretty soon too, but I was determined to die the first one, before Mary or the babies. I thought of my friends in the East. How will they feel when they hear of the manner of our death, and when will they hear of it? There are five of the Indians and one of me. I cannot fire rapidly enough to escape them all. I thought of the stories I had read and heard of the Indians torturing their vic- tims-all this and much more passed through my mind as I sat there watching-and singular as it may seem-I felt no fear. I was not afraid, I realized there was very slight hope for us-I ex- pected to die-and that the family would be killed or reserved for a worse fate, but my nerve was steady and I thought of it and knew that I could take a steady aim when the moment came for it, and I watched-waiting. The men had ceased walking, they gathered in a group and stood. I saw they had guns. I saw them point with their hands towards us, and they pointed west- wardly. and eastwardly, and stood. They moved on again in single file and continued to approach. They are abont 80 rods from us, thay again stop, they stand, they sit down on the ground in a group. I can see they have guns. They continue to sit. Per- haps they are waiting for another party from another direction, but they still sit. I tell Mary I am going out to meet those In- dians. She protests and begs me not to go. The children join with her. I tell her I can shoot as well there as here, and you can see us, and if you see I am gone, you can do the best you can.
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I can do no more for you if I remain here than if I go, and you will have a better chance than if I stay here until they get here. i started toward the Indians, as I drew near my rifle was cocked and my finger on the trigger, with my eyes on the Indians. They remained sitting. I came still closer and sould see that they had caps and hats on their heads. They are not Indians! I walked up to them and said : "Men, are you aware that you came near being fired upon." Several of them laughed. One of them said : "Boys. didn't I tell you, not to do it, that you would fright- en the settlers." And to me he explained that the others had per- sisted in acting as they had against his protest. This man's name was Mattack. Ile claimed he had lived with the Indians and was an experienced trapper. That he was a good trapper he demon- strated while he sojourned in our neighborhood. All of these men took claims in the vicinity of what was afterwards Beaver City. Singular as it may seem-and I was surprised myself- after I discovered that we had been in no danger whatever, I found that my nerve suddenly collapsed, and I 'was trembling and felt that i was in danger. At other times since then I have had the same experience. I am more excited and nervous after a danger is past, than during the existence of the danger. The reader may explain this seeming inconsistency in his own way, but I am sure it is true in my case.
During the winter of 1872-3, I worked for John Mannering digging dugouts on four claims filed on by four of his sisters, and also built a small frame house for Mrs. Matthews, a very estimable woman, who with her son, Park Mathews, came in during the fall months. During this time our mail was sent to Alma City, a distance of eighteen miles. We sent Galen James with our mail, and received it sometimes in one and sometimes in two weeks. Our nearest railroad station was at Lowell, about sixty miles.
In the early part of the winter there was another excitement in regard to Indians. Some time in January, 1873, three Sioux Indians were killed by two white men, partners known as Wild Bill and "Jack" somebody. The Indians were a Sioux Chief, "Whistler," and his son, "Fat Badger." Wild Bill claimed that the Indians had run off his mules, but the hunters recovered them and moved their camp. Then three Indians came into their camp at night and ordered supper and coffee. Bill put the coffee pot on the fire but did not put in enough coffee to suit Whistler.
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A view from the Court House cupola in 1888, looking east. Residence of C. D. Stearns in the foreground
Whistler then tried to open the provision box and take coffee out, when Bill jumped on it and pinched the Indian's fingers. The Indians muttered in Sioux, not thinking the whites eould un- derstand but they did, and to save themselves, killed the Indians first. The Sioux then tried to throw the blame onto the Pawnees, who wre hunting in the same country. In the meantime the Sioux had run off thirty or forty ponies from the Pawnee and scalped one Pawnee. The Pawnees fled down the river and camped in the vicinity of Melrose, a mile east of the present town of Orleans and twelve miles east of my elaim. It was re- ported that the Pawnees had killed the Sioux, and a company of cavalry came out to return the Pawnees to their reservation, but on arriving at the camp it was learned that it had been the white men who did the killing, so the Pawnees were unmolested. The Sioux then demanded that the government deliver Wild Bill to them. But that could not be done until he could be caught, and I do not believe that any very strenuous efforts were made
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to catch him. The Sioux threatened revenge, and there were same who feared danger, but most of us apprehended no danger.
"Dashing Charlie," Whistler's son-in-law, a white man, came down with the soldiers, and said that he did not think that the Indians would make trouble. The Pawnees remained camped at Melrose a large part of the winter. The squaws tanned buffalo hides for many of the settlers, while many of the men trapped along the river and begged of the settlers. They were erest- fallen by their misfortunes at the hands of their hereditary foes, the Sioux, but would not talk about it At this time Melrose seemed. destined to be a permanent station on the hoped-for railroad to Denver. Several buildings were erected there. I was employed here as a carpenter during February and March. On Easter Sunday, 1873, there occurred a blizzard lasting nearly three days, and was only exceeded by the blizzard of 1887. Many cattle were lost during the storm, and it was reported that there were Imman lives lost also. With a companion I was compelled to re- main confined in a harness shop in Orleans during the storm, and suffered much agony of mind solicitous for the condition of the family left alone on the homestead twelve mile away. As soon as the storm passed I went home and found the family all safe. I merely mention this to illustrate some of the trials of the pi- oneers.
A view from the Court House cupola in 1888, looking west. Residence o John Plowman in the foreground 0
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That spring I hired more ground broken and planted it to corn. I sowed the previous year's breaking to wheat, planted potatoes and garden seeds, and worked for other settlers as they needed me.
The buffalo returned this season, but in greatly diminished numbers, and their meat was more of a rarity. Settlers contin- ued to arrive, and but a very few took claims on the uplands. A few gangs of antelope still lingered, and occassionally a flock of wild turkeys were seen. Rattlesnakes and prairie dogs still maintained their numerical strength. A man named JJacob Wolfe settled on a claim one mile east of me in Harlan county and put up a sod house and a blacksmith shop. One of his children, 4 years old, passing from the shop to the house, was bitten by a rattlesnake and died from the effects of it. This is the only death from snake bite that I recollect.
Like the previous season, April and May and part of JJune gave us plenty of rain, and the country assumed all of the beau- tiful and fascinating appearance of the previous year. But the dry, hot winds from the southwest again set in, and the country became crisp and brittle, and so continued for weeks, only var- ied at long intervals by terrific thunder storms. The ravines would become raging torrents and the creeks overflowed their banks. These storms afforded but temporary relief. During July, by looking towards the sun, the air could be seen filled with locusts or grasshoppers winging their way northward. In August the wind shifted slightly to the north, and straightway the "hop- pers" deseended upon our crops, and what slight hopes still remained for a light erop of corn vanished in a few short hours. Again, after a year's struggle and hopes, I found myself really in a worse condition than the year previous. Our clothing was worn out and all our means exhausted, except my individual ef- forts, and no opportunity in sight for even an effort. I had har- vested enough wheat to provide bread, and I had a large stack of hay, some of which I could sell
In the fall of 1873 an election was held for county officers and the selection of a site for the county seat. The rivalry was between Arapahoe and Beaver City. I was appointed clerk of eleetion for our election district. The place of election was at the old Spring Green postoffice, eight miles up the Sappa from my place. I was late in arriving and another had been sworn in in my place. I went to work writing ballots. I soon went outside
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to electioneer for Beaver City, but learned that the parties with whom I had ridden to the polls had returned home as the whole country south of ns was on fire. Sure enough, dense columns of smoke were rolling up driven by that strong south wind. Filled with fear and anxiety, I lost no time in starting on a run for home, and continued to run until I had reached within about a mile of home when I saw fire ahead of me, and all means of es- cape apparently cut off. I felt that my time had surely come. I was in despair, when a few rods south of me I saw a team and wagon with several men in it. I yelled and put on all speed possible to attract attention, and succeeded. Frank Gapen, a neighbor was driving, and slackened as he saw me. I clambored in and he again applied the whip to the already frantic team, and seizing an opportune moment, rushed through the burning grass onto ground already burned over. Gapen's stables and stacks were on fire, and they lost all of their crops in that fire. I hurried on home to find my house still standing, but deserted, my wife and children having gone to a neighbor's across the creek, where the fire had passed. This was a Mr. Spencer, who lost his stables and stacks. Another neighbor, Mr. Lathrop, see- ing me at home, eame over, and with his assistance we succeeded in burning a guard around my stack of hay before the fire reached it. Galen James and Ellis Hewitt, on their way to the election, when arriving at my place, had seen the approaching fire, and had kindly set a back fire around my wheat stack and thus saved it. I was the only settler in the neighborhood who lost nothing in that fire.
Many families loaded their goods in wagons, and left the country permanently. Others returned to the eastern part of the state and worked for farmers until the following spring, or lived with relatives, returning the following year to renew the struggle of subdning the wilderness.
That winter I resorted to many expedients to obtain the nec- cssities of life. I remember, during a mild spell of weather, I took off my clothes and waded into the cold waters of the Sappa clear to my chin in order to set trap for beaver. I would hurry into my clothes and take a run along the creek to warm myself, and then repeat the operation at the next discovery of a beaver sign. I would not do so again for all the beaver that ever bore fur. I was glad to even get a shot at a rabbit or a prairie hen, anything to help satisfy the hunger of the family We lived
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through, and again planted in hope in the spring of 1874. Hope that ever springs eternal in the human breast was surely the sheet anchor of our souls, and thus in raggedness, but withal also rug- gedness, I began the third year of my pilgrimage in the land of my air castles and ardent aspirations.
The year 1874 opened with as delightful and brilliant pro- mises as any of the preceding. With hope still strong, and with undiminished ardor, I again succeeded in putting in crop all the land I had broken, and worked for other settlers in breaking new land, and with my tools at whatever trifling little jobs were available, waiting and hoping for an abundant return at the end of the season. Vegetation grew most luxuriantly, and occasion- ally a stray and lonely buffalo made an appearance, only to be soon killed or scared out of the country by the hungry settlers. With an occasional wild turkey, and an antelope killed to diver- sify the staple diet of biscuit, bacon and beans, we struggled on. hoping and longing for the maturing of vegetables, and watch- ing the "hoppers" that returned with the sontherly winds that set in with the usual regularity, and accompanied with the same sultry heat, with only, if any difference, an additional intensity.
Again the refreshing and verdant colors of the prairie changed to the sombre brown and gray, and the crisp and dry buffalo grass would, and did, burn and turned the surface of the country, for long distances, into the dismal color of the mourners for the dead. The brilliant, glittering wings of the "hoppers" bespangled the blue vault of heaven with their sil- very sheen, as they in countless millions, winged their journey northward, with the steadily blowing winds from the parched plains of the southwest. With anxious and fearful hearts we could only watch and wait, with mental prayers that we might by some unknown and miraculous means be delivered from their rapacious jaws but as we contemplated the corn withering under the hot and dry blasts of the wind, we felt little hope of gar- nering any fruits of our toil, even if the "hoppers" disappeared as suddenly as the locusts of Egypt during the oppression of the Hebrews. We had not many days to wait and watch, and as our prayers were not accompanied with faith, they availed nothing. The wind shifted and the "hoppers" halted and began a forage on everything green that remained. The country was full of them ; they covered the short cornstalks with such numbers that they bent under their weight. The trees along the streams were
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soon denuded of their leaves and stood as bare of foliage as in the depths of winter, and the waters of the creek assumed the color of strong coffee, stained with the exerements of the insects, and could even be smelled, and cattle refused to drink, until com- pelled to by extreme thirst. "Hoppers" were so thick in the air that I could succeed in grasping several by a quick motion of the hand. They remained longer this season than at either of the previous ones, and the females began to deposit their eggs in the ground, and in many localities the earth was honey-combed with the holes made by them for this purpose. People became frantic. Many immediately abondoned the country never to return. Three failures in succession, all attributed to the same eause, had entirely disheartened them. Many more would have left if they had had the means wherewith to go. Meetings were called to devise means of relief, and it was determined to appeal to friends, relatives, and all people, and also to the state and general govern- ment for aid. Committees were chosen to go to the eastern states and appeal for and receive contributions for the stricken and suffering settlers. Committees from the east also visited the state and reported the situation as it presented itself to them. Letters were sent to friends, and it was not long ere words of en- couragement and contributions were received from our country- men, who-God bless them-have never yet failed to respond with generosity to appeals for help from those who have been the vic- tims of unavoidable distress and suffering. The contributions, while gratefully received. did not consist of many delicacies, but of substantial food, mostly of low grades of flour, corn meal, bacon, cast-off and second hand clothing, old blankets, cheapest kind of dry goods and groceries. But whatever came was wel- comed and thankfully received by those who were the recipients. It is tru y said that the best sauce is hunger. I know that during this distressful time many ate with a relish food that in ordinary circumstances they would have spurned with disdain. Some few of the settlers had the fortune to possess a hog or two, and as there was not wherewith to feed them, they were slaughtered, an ! actually they were so lean and void of fat. that the only method whereby the meat could be rendered eatable, was to boil it. It could not be fried, baked or broiled. Water was the only means of preventing it becoming an indigestible mass of burnt charcoal.
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