Kate Mulhall A romance of the Oregon Trail
On the farther side the Indians were camped; most of the men were
mounted, but had not put on their war paint. They were intending to
dispute the crossing until payment was made for passing through their
country--a plausible claim, as the white man's government had made no
treaties with them.
Here the dilemma--whether to pay toll or force their way
through--confronted the responsible men of the emigrant column. Was
it just to force their way across the country if the Indians owned
it? What right had the white man to pass through it, kill their
buffalo, turn his oxen out on their range to eat off the grass, or to
burn the scant supply of fuel?
Many of the pioneers had never thought about this and were puzzled;
but when the Chief said, "One cow, one wagon," all saw instantly that
to submit meant the disintegration or even stopping of the whole
emigration. As that tribe did not claim to own the country farther
than to the next river crossing, a similar demand might be made again
and again.
While the improvised council was discussing this {66} question, there
was a great commotion. Many who did not go near the council had
driven their teams close to the disputed bridge-head, when one bold
pioneer spoke in a loud voice, "You fellows get ready to follow; I'm
going across that bridge if I have to run right over an Injun!" and
he did. The Indian narrowly escaped; other teams followed in quick
succession; the blockade was broken, and for the next twenty-four
hours, day or night, scarce a moment passed without a wagon on that
bridge.
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In their struggles to shake it off, Brindle and Star had reversed the
yoke, as described on page 38. Large numbers of cows were "broken"
like oxen, and in many instances helped to make up a "team." This
incident is recalled, half a century later, by the visit to the old
homestead in Missouri described on page 234.
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[1] See "The Missionary's Story," pages 235-283. E.M.
{67}
CHAPTER III
TRIALS OF THE LONG TRAIL; DANGEROUS RIVER
CROSSINGS; THE DEATH OF CATHERINE; WEST OF
THE ROCKIES; SEPARATION OF THE PARTY; NEW
HOMES IN THE OREGON COUNTRY.
The Dust--clouds of which were so dense that oftentimes the leaders
of a team could not be seen--became almost intolerable. Kate adopted
the sensible practice of starting early in the morning with the
carriage and loose cattle so that her mother might escape as much of
it as possible. One day Mulhall saw her riding hastily back to the
team.
"Father," she exclaimed, "Ned has dropped dead in the harness and the
carriage can't go any farther." Craig had been ill for several days
and Mulhall was driving the team. Leaving it to Kate, he rode ahead
to find Catherine in distress and his favorite, trusty horse lying
stiff beside the carriage. Unsaddling Nell and harnessing her
alongside Dick, the Squire started the outfit on the road, advising
Catherine to camp as soon as a suitable place could be found.
The little twin girls had forgotten their loose stock, which by this
time was widely scattered; part of it had gone on with the other
herds, and some was on either side of the road. One old lame cow,
Beckey, had laid down where the carriage stopped {68} and was
unwilling to resume the journey. It was late in the evening when all
came together at the camp; three head of stock were missing; water
could be procured only from a deep ravine half a mile distant; no
fuel was in sight for a camp fire, and "buffalo chips" had
disappeared from near camping grounds.
With Ben's assistance, Kate unyoked both teams and started the oxen,
whose tongues were out from thirst, and such of the loose stock as
could be found, to the ravine for water. The entire party had been
without water for several hours before reaching camp; and how could
they prepare food without it, or fuel or Kate's help? Anyhow the
oxen must have the first attention, and water procured for the camp;
and it was a question whether or not they could get all the oxen out
of the ravine after their thirst had been slacked. It was past
midnight when Kate lay down to rest, and for the first time on the
trip she gave way to grief. Her mother had gone to bed supperless;
Kate had seen for some time that Catherine's strength was failing,
and realized that the strain was likely to become too heavy for her
to bear--a thought which fairly stunned and even terrified her.
Blaming herself for favoring abandonment of the Missouri borne and
undertaking the long trip, nature finally relieved her by deep and
restful sleep.
Mulhall and his fellow travelers had come to dread river crossings
without bridges or established ferries more than the Indians, dust,
the fatigue, lack of {69} grass for the oxen or anything else on the
trail. All were rejoiced to be safely across one, and hopeful that
the next would be less dangerous; but in this they were often doomed
to disappointment.
As they left the sluggish current of the main Platte River to ascend
its chief tributary the North Platte, the current was found to be
swifter as the trail led gradually up the east slope of the Rocky
Mountains. An account of the crossing of one of these, written upon
the spot at the time by W. P. Woods and preserved in his diary, will
illustrate the difficulty and dangers to be surmounted:
Thursday, June 21, 1849--We made an early start and drove 12 miles to
the mouth of Deer Creek, where we found teams crossing the Platte.
Four boats, each consisting of two dug-outs fastened together, had
been made by emigrants who had crossed before and gone on, others
buying their rights and continuing the work. We paid $3 per wagon
for the use of the boats, and swam the oxen.
Just before reaching here the accidental discharge of a gun by a
member of the Pittsburg Company, who was unloading a wagon to make
the crossing, killed a man from Illinois, the ball passing through
the body just above the heart. A man was drowned here yesterday; and
just 12 miles above seven men have been lost in two days while
rafting their wagons across.
Friday, June 22, 1849--We were roused early, and in good season
commenced crossing our wagons. The line for two miles along the
river bank presented as busy an aspect as it ordinarily does in St.
Louis, or any other small town in the States. Wagons in pieces,
boxes and chattels of all kinds made a scene of extraordinary
activity far out in this uninhabited western country.
Our "boat" was called the "Two Follies and Betsy," from their being
two dugouts, with a log between them. Joining forces with the twelve
Cincinnati mule trains, the "boat" started off in style with 30 men
to cordelle it against the current. The men were obliged to work in
the water, which {70} rendered it quite unpleasant; but by 4 o'clock
P.M. we were across, and then drove the oxen down to swim.
With all of our efforts, swimming and wading from that time until
dark, we could only get three of them across; so had at last to let
them return to the shore, and were obliged to keep watch of them
until morning. The water is remarkably swift and cold, the low
temperature probably due to our proximity to the snows of the
mountains. To the south of us, about four miles from the Platte,
there arises a range of very high pine-clad hills, which appears to
terminate in the Laramie Mountains.
Saturday, June 23, 1849--Again resumed our labors by recrossing the
river for the purpose of crossing our ox-teams, but at first with no
better success than the day before. Here we witnessed scenes far
surpassing anything the imagination ever conceived--the long to be
remembered crossing of the Platte. No pencil can portray or pen
depict the scene as it really was.
Fancy for one moment our feelings on observing the vast aggregation
of oxen, mules, horses and wagons mixed indiscriminately with men
clothed, half-clad and even almost naked, encountering the elements
that were temporarily stopping our progress. By about noon we
succeeded in crossing; but both men and teams were extremely
exhausted.
The onlookers witnessed sights ranging from the laughable to the
alarming. In one place six men were assisted ashore by hanging to
the tail of a mule, with a rider on him at that, while in another
case extreme efforts were being made to save a man from drowning. A
boat, with a wagon containing women and children, sank but was saved
by striking a bar.
I was carried by the swift current outside the jam of cattle, and
saved myself by catching hold of the tail of an ox as I passed him,
and letting him tow me to shore. Those scenes are over, though we
shall long remember them. We yoked our teams and drove on over a
very rough sand road for about four miles, where we encamped on the
river hank to feed our oxen and rest ourselves. Many a man here
wishes himself back in the States.[1]
For a considerable sum, Mulhall secured a means of crossing by a
train which had been provided for the emergency; and though not
detained or endangered, {71} was much relieved when safely landed on
the opposite shore. He knew, however, there were two more crossings
of a mighty river on the western slope of the Rocky Mountains about a
thousand miles ahead of them.
Catherine's strength had rapidly declined, and soon after the
crossing just described it became evident that the day of her long
rest was near at hand. Mulhall's first impulse was to stop and camp
until she recovered her strength; but if he dropped out of the
passing throng and was left alone, the peril of Indians would be
greatly increased. He was in the mountains with no permanent
settlements--in fact none on the whole length of the trail beyond the
Missouri; during the winter which would be coming on with heavy falls
of snow, his teams would undoubtedly perish, and his party suffer for
lack of food and shelter.
Taking charge of the carriage himself and driving carefully, he
fancied that Catherine's strength was gaining; but alas, was doomed
to disappointment. The sorrowful end was not long delayed. Among
the fleeting clouds well up on the eastern slope of the Rockies,
nearly a mile and a half in altitude above the home they had left in
old Missouri, they buried her in the shifting sands of the Sweetwater
River Valley. Her last words to Kate, "Take good care of father,"
rang in her ears ever afterward; and she did--loyally and
faithfully--until the last day of his life.
{72}
Nearly prostrated by the calamity that had befallen them, Kate felt
that she did not want to go any farther; but gradually recovered her
sense of duty to the little orphaned sisters, her father and herself.
The anguish in leaving the lone grave can only be known to those who
have been through some such experience; and the thought that the
little mound of sand would soon be leveled by the fierce winds of the
mountain slope added poignance to the already overwhelming grief.
Craig deeply sympathized with the stricken family. Little Sarah, one
of the twins, who was of an age to realize her great loss and yet not
old enough to be resigned--if that age ever arrives--would not be
calmed when the hour of burial came. She clung to the rough box
containing her mother's body, and with pitiable outcries pleaded with
her father, "don't leave her here; _don't; don't!_"
"Child, do you see the rift in yonder mountains?" Craig asked.
Between deep sobs she answered, "Yes."
"That's Split Mountain, two thousand feet high," Craig continued,
"none other like it anywhere in sight of the trail. The two
mountains stand so close together the space between them seems from