Kate Mulhall A romance of the Oregon Trail
here like a black ribbon, although, we know they are many rods apart."
The child fixed her gaze intently on the mountain while Craig
continued, "That is almost exactly north of where your mother's grave
will be; I saw the North Star last evening just above it."
{73}
Craig had arrested the child's attention for the moment, and in a
tone of sympathy asked, "Did you notice those tracks in the stone
made by the wagon wheels just where we turned off the trail to this
camp? They are so deep they will last forever."
Craig had drawn the child's attention away from the bereavement, but
had not arrested her deep grief; and added, "Those tracks will tell
you where to stop to look for your mother's grave, if you ever come
out to search for it when you grow up to be a woman--no others like
them."
This thought impressed the little girl as no other words Craig had
ever spoken. Between the long infrequent, tremulous sighs that could
not be suppressed, she looked imploringly and trustfully into Craig's
eyes while he continued, "You remember that grave we passed marked by
a wagon tire half sunk in the ground?"
"Yes," answered Sarah, hesitating a moment, "I remember the name,
'Rebecca' inscribed on the tire, but have forgotten the other."
"Winters," Craig thought to himself, and then said, "that's it,
Rebecca Winters. Now my little friend, I'll mark your mother's grave
the same way, so you can find it the longest day you live;" and his
own tears dropped on the hand of his little friend, which he held in
his.
The scene was enough to melt a heart of stone; the faltering voice,
the Scotch brogue, the deep sympathy with the distressed child, and
Sarah's {74} trustfulness somewhat relieved the feelings of all, and
the burial was completed in silence. Craig immediately afterwards
disappeared from the camp, and returned after dark with a wagon tire
noticed a few hours before they had camped. It was from one of the
several wagons that had been burned--mute evidence of a massacre
where none were left to tell the story.
Douglas Craig was an all-around, handy man; in his native country he
had worked as a smithy, and was an expert with metals. Early the
next morning echoes of his work could be heard; he was inscribing the
name, "Catherine Mulhall, died 185-; aged fifty-seven."
All day long this labor of love went on with scarcely long enough
intermission for a hasty dinner. Kate and the little girls went out
in search of flowers to decorate the grave, and were rewarded by
finding an abundance of wild roses and several other varieties of the
flora in that region.
Kate noticed a very small but well formed pine tree that seemed
likely to grow into a suitable landmark. The thought came to her
mind that they might transplant it to grow on the grave; and Ben said
they could, without disturbing the roots.
Both busied themselves nearly all day changing the beautiful little
tree to its new home and planted it, with roots undisturbed, at the
head of the grave, with a vigorous wild rose bush. The girls
gathered leaves and decaying wood to mulch the ground. Before
nightfall, the little mound built over the sacred {75} spot was
partially leveled down, covered with flowers and the inscribed wagon
tire set in place.
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The illustration shows the nature of the precautions adopted for
defense--soon abandoned when trains began to disintegrate and break
into smaller units, making it easier for the Indiana to attack and
sometimes massacre a company, with a result like that shown in the
illustration opposite page 175.
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Scenes like this were frequent on the Oregon Trail in the 50s, and
are vividly remembered by a few survivors, including the author of
this volume. Many suffered from thirst, hunger and exhaustion,
particularly on long drives through the desert regions; sickness and
death often disrupted or even annihilated families. When wagons were
worn out or broken beyond repair, they were sometimes cut down to
carts or abandoned, and members of the party continued along on foot,
driving their live stock. Most of those who passed through
experiences like this survived the hardships of the overland journey,
and some of them became leading citizens of the Pacific Coast and
Rocky Mountain States.
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The throng of moving teams could be traced for miles by the clouds of
dust floating in the air; and the wagons were seen on the trail,
which passed within a half mile of the grave. Both horses lost flesh
until they appeared like skeletons; and it was decided to leave the
carriage there.
Nearly all the horses of the emigrants had died for want of food and
overwork, or both; and Mulhall feared he would soon lose his if
conditions did not improve. He had lost one ox by straying; another,
lamed, was sold to a trader, and now a second one had gone lame. It
became necessary to reduce one team to two yoke, or yoke up an
unbroken cow with the odd ox; the Squire chose the latter
alternative, with one team weakened.
Though at the eastern line of the Oregon Country when the summit of
the Rocky Mountains was crossed, they were not yet half way on the
long journey. Reaching the crest of the Continent at the South Pass,
they camped a short distance off the Trail; and when morning came
found banks of snow in the hollows and on the northern slopes, and
thin ice in the camp bucket.
A month later the party was struggling along the banks of the Snake
River, which had to be crossed twice; and they were still confronted
by the Blue and Cascade Mountain ranges. Apparently it was only a
question of time when Mulhall would be {76} compelled to leave one of
the wagons; this he did at the lower crossing of the Snake River,
where two young pioneers[2] had lashed two wagon-boxes together, and
constructed a platform to enable them to run a wagon onto it and
cross the river without unloading.
Mulhall soon arranged to send over the wagons by this improvised
ferry, swimming the oxen and horses. Ben mounted one of the horses
and rode ahead as a decoy, while Craig and friendly helpers urged the
oxen into the river until deep water was reached, when all followed
Ben's lead and crossed safely. While this was being done, a woman
died from exhaustion, leaving three little orphaned children to the
care of the stricken husband and father--a pathetic incident which
revived Kate's grief.
Men were never more loyal to one another than Ben and Craig were to
Mulhall. From all appearances, they might have been his own sons;
Kate had treated them as brothers and the whole outfit including the
little twins, were like one family.
For several weeks Ben and Craig counseled between themselves as to
the advisability, or possible necessity, of leaving father Mulhall
after the last crossing of the Snake River, and going ahead on foot.
Craig had carefully ascertained the amount of food on hand and
calculated the quantity used each day to supply six persons
constituting the party; and demonstrated to his own mind there was an
insufficient {77} supply for the remainder of the trip, probably at
least another three weeks.
"We ought to go ahead, Ben," Craig said in his broad Scotch brogue,
particularly when considering grave subjects. "The two of us are
consuming one-third of the daily food," he continued; "and, Ben, did
you ever think of what an appalling calamity of famine would have
overtaken us all had it not been for so many[3] dying on the way?"
"Won't you speak to father Mulhall about it?" Ben hesitated to
approach the Squire on the subject lest he might think of the
suggestion as a proposal of desertion. "Well, I'll talk to him,"
Craig said, seeing that Ben was reluctant to do so.
When broached on the subject by Craig, the Squire would not agree to
it at all. The sacrifice and danger to Craig and Ben was too great;
better go upon short rations and all keep together; leave one wagon
and kill one ox--"Anything rather than to have 'the boys' take the
risks and endure such hardships," he said to Kate.
That very morning Kate had given breakfast to two "tramps," who had
been without food for forty hours, "Except a few grasshoppers, but
not many," as one of them, a lad of twelve,[4] naively said, "they
were too hard to catch."
{78}
A near famine now confronted the whole of the emigration; and finally
all agreed that it was best for the two to go ahead on foot as they
had discussed, for the young men could travel farther in one day than
the ox-team could in two. Before reaching a final conclusion Ben and
Kate consulted together, keeping their own counsel as to what passed
between them. Ben and Craig had great respect for the Squire--if
indeed affection would not be the more appropriate word; and it was
with genuine feelings of regret that they parted from him.
On the fifth day, when it was estimated that they were a hundred
miles ahead of "father Mulhall," as they now called him, the young
men met the relief train coming out from Portland to the rescue, and
arranged to have him supplied with such articles of food as they knew
Kate and he needed most. Mulhall received the letter Ben had written
and the provisions with tears of affection for "my boys," as he was
fond of referring to them.
The supplies sent out to relieve the pressing wants of the incoming
pioneers were not for sale, but for relief. If a man could pay, all
right--the money received would be used to purchase more; but the
majority who were unable to do so, were supplied without obligation
as to future payment. Ben and Craig soon felt their strength failing
from reduced rations; so when they heard of supply trains ahead, they
resumed their usual allowance, and soon regained normal condition.
{79}
Knowing that she must be uneasy about him, Ben wrote to his mother at
the end of his journey, and even before he slept under a roof. The
trip had taken nearly two months longer than expected; and now he
learned that another month would be required to send a letter back to
Missouri. Under present circumstances he could not encourage Linda
to think of coming to him, or expect that he could soon return to her.
Would she conclude that his love for her had declined, or lose faith
in him if he wrote of the most insuperable barrier that now lay
between them? At the time it occurred, he had written to Linda the
facts of Kate's and his adventure in crossing the Missouri. The
gossips had wagged their tongues and surmised that because he had
rescued Kate, she would feel under obligations to marry him; and
Squire Mulhall ardently wished that that, or something else, would
bring about such a result.
Ben and Kate were both annoyed, but could do nothing to silence the
busybodies; to deny it would only whet their zeal. So much talk
going the rounds of the camp set Ben to wondering if the same gossip
prevailed in his old neighborhood; and if so whether or not it had
come to Linda's ears.
In this perplexing mood Ben went to bed inside a dwelling for the
first time in more than half a year, and woke up in the morning with
the memory of pleasant dreams of home and Linda. His anxiety to
secure a home in the new country had not abated {80} one jot or
tittle from the time he parted with her on the memorable Sunday
evening before starting with Squire Mulhall for Oregon. The last