by John Babb
The next morning, Del gave instructions on the finer points of buffalo pie selection. “Make sure they’re dry. Believe it or not, the dry ones don’t have much smell, and they kindle up purty quick. Gen’ly a good cookfire’ll take twenty or so of them big chips. Ya’ll won’t see hardly no wood a’tall for the better part of six weeks. Might as well start pickin’ up them pies, you’ns will be needin’ em for supper.”
The job of turd collector for the Fitzwater wagon fell to B. F. He longed for a small wagon or a wheelbarrow so he wouldn’t have to make so many trips back and forth to the train. He could really only carry a maximum of four pies at a time, and usually would have to go fifty yards or more from the wagon track in order to find nice, dry ones. The families toward the front of the train always had first pick of the pies closest to the track.
After about ten trips with armloads of buffalo chips, B. F. remembered the way the Indians back in West Port had been hauling furs. The next morning, he spied a lone Osage orange tree along the river, and he and Mr. Fitzwater cut three limbs to build a travois. Mary volunteered a six-foot long piece of her extra canvas to accommodate the load. After that, B. F.’s collection job only required about thirty minutes a day. Mary constructed two canvas bags that hung on the outside of either side of the wagon when filled with buffalo chips. At least this separated the lovely load from her family’s food and belongings.
It was B. F.’s goal to gather forty chips a day—enough for both supper and the next morning’s breakfast. But he tried to keep about thirty extra in case of rain. It didn’t take him long to figure out that trying to pick up wet buffalo pies was not his favorite job.
Nastier still were the mosquitoes that seemed to come out of nowhere after a rain shower. The only way to get clear of them even temporarily was to stand in the campfire smoke. So the choice seemed to be either get covered up by mosquitoes, or choke on turd smoke.
They had been moving west by northwest for several days, along the south bank of the Little Blue River. Wildflowers were blooming in huge clusters of white and yellows and literally every shade of red. They had actually feasted on strawberries for three nights in a row after B. F. and Jane, and even Ethan, found patches along the river. The berries were very small—half the size of the strawberries back in Indiana—but very tasty.
The Little Blue continued to get smaller and smaller as they approached its source, until finally one evening Del advised them that tomorrow would involve another long dry run up to the Platte. In fact, it was a distance of about twenty-five miles, so they should plan on one entire day and a piece of another away from any water source except what they could carry. The river was now little more than a trickle, so it required some real effort for everyone to top off their water barrels and canteens that evening.
By the time supper was completed, a fire, and perhaps a second were sighted way off on the prairie to the north and northeast. There was very little wind, which made it impossible to predict what direction the fire might take. Coggins spoke to the lookouts. “Ya’ll keep a sharp eye on them fires. We ain’t got no river to hide behind here. A fire could jump that little crick without no problem, and we’d have to fight.”
About three o’clock, B. F. was awakened by what must have been thunder, but then he realized that it had to be close because he could hear it better when he put his ear on the ground. The odd thing was, it didn’t stop and start, it just thundered more or less continuously. In fact, the ground was trembling beneath his straw mattress.
About the time he was well awake, he heard Del Coggins voice at the back of the wagon. “Hey George. You awake? There’s a herd of buffalo passin’ maybe a half mile north. We figure on shootin’ four or five for the train. You game?”
“Let me get my boots.”
B. F. was fully dressed, and waiting at the back of the wagon when Mr. Fitzwater came out. “Can I go with you?”
“I’ll not say no, but I’ve never done this before. I hear those beasts are big as an ox. It might be dangerous.”
“I’ll stay right with you. I promise not to get in the way. But I’ve got to see those buffalo.”
“I know what you mean. I have to see for myself. Come on then, but stay close.”
Eight men were assembled at the north side of the camp. Coggins was speaking in a low voice. “Wind is in our favor. Only about a quarter moon. Prob’ly that prairie fire got em movin’. Some of them bulls can take a lot of lead before they go down. Anyhow, the cows is the best eatin’.” He looked at B. F., winked, and took off at a fast walk.
By the time they walked a half-mile, the sound of the hooves and horns was tremendous. The group topped a slight rise and what they saw in the draw below was astounding. Thousands and thousands of buffalo spread out before them about three hundred yards away and extended to the horizon. Apparently, the beasts had finished their stampeding, and now various groups of them had begun to feed on the little bluestem grass, while others seemed to be slowly beginning to settle down.
“We cain’t wait ’til they get quieted down. Reckon they’re too busy to notice us. Each man get about twenty steps apart, then we’re gonna stay low and go slow. Get to about fifty yards, pick yore target and shoot. No point in no signal. Cain’t hear nothin’ anyways.”
B. F. and Mr. Fitzwater eased forward in the line for the better part of five minutes. They could barely see the outlines of the men on either side of them. B. F. figured they were close enough at least twice, and would swear later he could actually smell them before Mr. Fitzwater finally knelt down. The animals were all huge, but in the dark, it was difficult to tell a bull from a cow. B. F. was staring at what he thought was a good target. He jumped when Mr. Coggins fired. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! Don’t know if I missed or what.” He reloaded. “Here. It’s your turn, son.”
“I couldn’t take your gun, I. . . .” B. F. started.
“Take a shot. You’ll never learn any younger!” He handed B. F. the rifle. “I put in just a touch more powder.”
The animals seemed to be milling around more. Possibly they were getting ready to run again. B. F. steadied the musket across one knee, slowly let his breath out and squeezed. The cow jumped forward, but maybe he had missed too. He started to reload when he saw her knees buckle and she went down. Mr. Fitzwater gave a shout and slapped him on the shoulder. B. F. finished reloading and handed the gun to Mr. Fitzwater. This time his cow went down almost instantly. They both stood up and hollered just about the time the herd bolted straight away from them to the north.
There were seven buffalo on the ground. They all moved back toward Del. “You’ns done real good. We’re in for some fine eatin’. Paddy, you and B. F. go back and wake up the camp. Tell them to move the wagons up here. We’ll start the butcherin’ and skinnin’.”
They had tasted very little meat beyond bacon and an occasional rabbit or prairie chicken since they left West Port. The hundred and forty trekkers made every effort to make up for the last month. By mid-morning, they had all eaten until they were absolutely glassy-eyed.
According to Del, the prime cuts were considered to be the tongue, the hump, and the liver, but most folks went after what they knew best—the tenderloin. Despite their efforts, the carcasses they left behind were still replete with good cuts of meat. They only had time to smoke and salt down a very small percentage of the remaining meat over a low, slow fire. When they finally pulled off toward the Platte, many an eye looked with a bit of shame on all the roasts they were leaving behind. “Next time we oughta only shoot three,” remarked Mr. Fitzwater. “Never wasted so much meat in my life.”
By the time they reached the Platte in the early afternoon of the following day, their oxen were in bad need of water. The contents of the water barrels had been exhausted that morning. They formed up their circle of wagons and then drove their teams into the river, not only for a long drink but simply to cool off. For mid-May, it had been an extremely hot two days.
After another fifty miles, the train stood
opposite Fort Kearny, which was situated on the north bank of the Platte. The river was wide here, but for the most part, filled in with silt and sand bars. Del proclaimed it “too thick to drink and too thin to plow.” Thankfully, the water was shallow, and they were able to cross with no distress.
Mr. Fitzwater sighted a group of ramshackle buildings. Most were constructed of sod and a couple of wood. They seemed to be built around a flat area that was devoid of all grass. He waved down a soldier on the side of the trail. The man’s uniform had definitely seen better days. “Hello, friend, how far might it be to Fort Kearny?”
“Waal, if you’d jump down off that prairie boat, you’d be smack dab in the middle of the Fort Kearny Parade Ground.”
“But where is the fort?”
“Ain’t no real fort. Just them buildings yonder. Say, friend, you wouldn’t have any whisky would ye? I’d pay a dollar for a bottle.”
“So would I! Can’t help you there.”
As they passed along the dirty, unkempt road, Mary looked at her husband. “You mean this place is supposed to protect us from the Injuns? Why, the sodbusters we got on this wagon train are better men than them soldiers. I sure hope nobody told the Injuns what they’re up against here.”
Del called the train to a halt just as they passed the fort’s buildings. “Kearny got supplies they’re willin’ to sell if you need anythin’. Miz Campbell, you’ll be safe here if yer wantin’ to go back. West Port is about three hundred sixty miles southeast. Anybody else wanta turn around? Its three hundred miles on to Fort Laramie. That’s the next civilized place out here.”
Missus Campbell spoke up. “I got nothing to go back to.” She smiled at Paddy. “Mister Dowd has been a true gentleman to look after me. I reckon I’m going on to Oregon.”
Paddy grinned at Del as he pushed his hat high on his forehead. “I’m guessing ye didn’t know ye was in the company of a gentleman, did ye?”
Del shook his head at the thought. “Awright. We’ll sit right here for an hour if anybody needs stores. This here fort has fair prices. If you’ns need anythin’, get it now. From here on out, there ain’t nothin’ fair about what you hafta pay for goods.”
Eighteen
He’s Still Dead
Indian Territory 1849
Stopping that evening some ten miles beyond Fort Kearney, Del had a different conversation about Indians. “This here is Pawnee land. In about two weeks it’ll be Cheyenne and then Sioux. I think you seen today that the cavalry ain’t comin’ to yer rescue. Them Pawnee is some serious hoss thiefs. And the Sioux might be even worse. We got to keep a sharp eye now. Hafta double the watch from two men to four of a night. Nobody strays away from the train night or day. Hunters go out in pairs.”
Then began a series of days along the north bank of the Platte. The river bottom land was extremely flat, presenting virtually no obstacles to travel. The only variation was some eighteen days later when the South and North Platte Rivers joined as one.
They found buffalo two more times, and although they talked about not wasting meat, every man on the train wanted his chance to kill one of the beasts. So each time they left behind several thousand pounds of uneaten meat. And after the first attempts at skinning, they simply left the hides on the carcasses and harvested only the choicest cuts.
Unbeknownst to the train, the remains were not wasted, for no sooner had their wagon dust disappeared over the horizon, than Pawnee women seemed to appear from nowhere out of the ravines and low valleys. They quickly fell to work harvesting the meat and skinning the animals. But they did this with great disdain for their benefactors.
Every day the train continued to pass graves. Some appeared to have been dug up. One of the men asked Del if coyotes or wolves had dug them up. “Its most likely them two-legged wolves. If you stick a cross on a grave, that just marks the spot for the Injuns. They come along and dig ’em up for the clothes and the boots. Best thing you can do is not make the graves too easy to find.”
Two evenings later, the train made camp within sight of two substantial landmarks along the trail. The Courthouse and Jail Rocks rose up out of the prairie in the distance on the opposite side of the river. Although they appeared to be close at hand, Coggins advised that they were still a good day’s journey away.
Just after dusk, one of the lookouts spied a wildfire off to the north, and it seemed to be fairly close. Worse, although the wind was mild, it was blowing straight in their direction. Within a few minutes, another orange haze was spotted to the northwest.
Del asked Paddy and another man to get down to the river and check to see if there was a decent place to cross. Within a few minutes, they were back. “The bank is far too treacherous here, Del. Jeb went upstream and I meself went down. ’Tis no good crossing anywhere close, I’m sad to say.”
Del hollered for a meeting. “That fire is comin’ our way. We’re gonna hafta fight it. It looks to be here in not more’n an hour or so. I need every man to take a hoe, pick, or shovel and get about twenty yards out front of the wagons and start clearin’ prairie grass and sage brush at least twenty yards wide. Every woman start haulin’ water from the river to the space in front of the wagons. Get every piece of spare canvas or rags you got and soak em in water. When that fire gets close, everybody grab wet rags an’ get after the fire. Find a bandana or kerchief and tie it over yer mouth so you don’t choke. We need at least four men that cain’t work to stand guard. Now get movin’. Yer life is in danger!”
Before Mr. Fitzwater could pull a shovel out, B. F. already had a hoe in his hand, and they hurried together to the work detail. Junior Arbogast put his hand on B. F.’s shoulder. “Boy, you best help the women with the water. This here is a man’s work.”
Mr. Fitzwater spoke before B. F. could answer. “I reckon he’s man enough.”
Almost everybody flew to work. Two women herded the smaller children to one side of the wagon circle to get them out of the way and as far from the smoke as possible. Two other women seemed to retreat into the shadows by their wagons. They agreed that they had not been raised to engage in that kind of physical labor.
Missus Broderick spied them standing there with their arms folded and strode up to them. “Ladies, we’re in a fight for our lives here. If I come back here an’ see you’ns standin’ around again, so help me Jesus, I’m fixin’ to slap the stupid right out of you.” She didn’t wait for a response but trotted toward the river with her buckets.
“Can you believe that country woman talked like that to us?”
The other woman didn’t answer directly but kept looking toward the river. “She’ll be back here in just a minute. Maybe we better get busy.”
There were eighty men struggling with clearing the prairie grass. The roots were deep, but they knew that their survival depended on what they would do over the next hour or so. Each man was separated from his neighbor by about twenty feet. The hoes and shovels were flying, but the cleared space grew very slowly.
The women and older children carried bucket after bucket from the river, up the steep embankment, across the wagon circle, and to where the men were working. Each of them was responsible for a ten-by-sixty-foot section from the point where the clearing started back toward the wagons.
The fire was close enough that the acrid smoke began to burn their eyes and throats. Most of them had donned their bandannas and kept them as wet as possible, but everybody was coughing. From time to time, one of the men would have to retreat behind the wagons to get a drink of water before they could continue working.
B. F. was to the right of Mr. Fitzwater, bent over at the waist, and slashing a hoe into the prairie grass. The smoke was blowing directly toward them, and the old shirt Mary had tied around his face was only marginally effective in keeping him from coughing constantly. In the worst way, he wanted to turn around and run. Run right past the wagons. Run all the way across the river, away from the smoke and the heat. Run!
But he looked at Mr. Fitzwater, resolutely bent over hi
s shovel, then to Mr. Williams on his left side. Neither man wavered but just kept their head down while they worked. B. F. knew he couldn’t stop until they did.
The cleared space was expanding, but was it enough to create a fire break? Del ordered the women to use the water in their water barrels to save the trip back and forth to the river. “And throw a few buckets on yore wagons to get em good’n wet.”
He heard a shout from the east perimeter. “Injuns!” Followed by two muskets firing. At least ten painted Pawnee jumped through the wagon circle and ran toward the stock. Del fired his pistol almost point blank into one of them’s chest. He heard the two rifles from the other side firing as the Indians grabbed at the animals to try and get them to stampede. B. F. saw what he would describe later as a blurred bucket, as Missus Broderick hit one of them in the back of the head with a wooden bucket full of water. The man went down like he’d been kicked by a mule. There was a snort from Missus Broderick. “Dadgum Injun made me bust my pipe stem!”
Del was fighting now hand to hand with a Pawnee wielding a steel hatchet. He remembered thinking, “Damned trade goods. He’s gonna take my scalp with a trade good hatchet.” Someone saved him by sinking a hoe in the top of the man’s head. There was more shooting now—pistols. He saw one mule going through the circle, ridden by an Indian leaning low to keep from being a good target. But the quick assessment was that it appeared that was all they had lost.
One brave was surrounded by three men who had pistols in their hands. He tried to grab the Wingate girl, perhaps as a shield, but was shot dead before he could get her in front of him.
Del hollered. “They’re comin’ through us like a dose of salts through a widow woman! We need eight guards! Everybody else fight fire. Hurry!”
The roaring of the fire was so loud it made most communication impossible. Men retreated to the interior ring of where they had been clearing and kept at it, backing toward the wagons, throwing dirt behind them as fast as possible. The water kept coming until the barrels were dry. As the first flames began arriving at the cleared space, men used the wet canvas and rags to slap at the fire on the ground. It was all they could do to keep from choking. Their eyes were on fire with the smoke.