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About The McCook tribune. (McCook, Neb.) 1886-1936 | View Entire Issue (Jan. 26, 1894)
THE RED WING. By DAN DE QUILLE. (Copyright, 18UU, by American Press Associa tion.] CHAPTER 1. THE WRECKED EMIGRANT KAMII.Y. One scorching hot ilay in October. 1860, I left the little town of Dayton on tho Carson river for Carson City, now the capital of the state of Nevada. It was as hot as in midsummer. The road was at that time a dreary one to travel. It was tho regular "Old Emigrant road” —the road leading from tho sink of the Humboldt across the great Humboldt desert to the Carson river, thence over the Sierra Nevada mountains by way of the Placerville route to California. 1 was on foot and had before me a tramp of over 13 miles with nota human hab itation in sight. My road lay through a sterile waste of alkali lands that spread away on almost a dead level in all di rections to distant ranges of barren and rocky hills. Wearily I toiled through the sand and alkali dust—tho same sand and dust through which had toiled during that summer and every summer since 1840 long emigrant trains from the states east of the Missouri river. At the time of which 1 am speaking thousands of emigrant wagons were still rolling in across the "plains” every summer, and for some years later—until a railroad was built across the continent—they continued to pour in across the moun tains and deserts. But as I tramped along I saw neither trains nor single wagons. It was late in the season for emigrants to be abroad. Most of those on the plains that year had reached and crossed the Sierras in September Even the traders at the posts out near the deserts had folded their tents and re turned to California, considering their trade over for the season. Though no wagons were in sight on the road, signs of the great stream of emigration were to lie seen on all sides. The trail along w.**Hi had moved the great annual, procession was well mark ed. The carcasses of hundreds and thou sands of cattle, horses and mules strew ed the ground for several hundred yards on each side of tho road. Some of these carcasses wore those of animals that had dieil only the week or tho month before perhaps, while others were those of animals that had there fallen and died as early as 1849 or 1850. Here on theso alkali plains dead animals be come mummies. They do not decay' as in other places, but dry up. It was about on that portion of the load over which 1 was traveling that such animals as had received deadly doses of alkali on the Humboldt, the Twenty-five Mile and other great des erts succumbed and fell to rise no more. The early settlers made miles of fences, both in town and country, out of the skins of the mummified animals that Btrewed this road, for at that time there was no lumber in the country. Twist ed thongs made of the skins were stretched between posts as we now see wire fences made in many places. In this way both town lots and ranches were inclosed. As 1 was plodding along I had sev eral times caught glimpses through the flickering heat waves that hovered over the alkali whitened plain of an object that looked like a small tent pitched in the midst of the broiling desert. At last I was able to make out that the white object was a small covered wag on, standing directly in the road. Finally, as I approached, 1 could see several persons seated on the roadside near the wagon, a small two horse af fair. Then I saw that one of the horses was down, while his mate stood by with drooping head. “Hero is trouble." said I. “Evi dently a sick horse.” When I pulled up alongside the ship wrecked family, not one of them said a word. They were the most woebegone and forlorn party 1 had ever seen on the plains. They hardly raised their heads to look at me. All seemed utterly de jected—given over to some inconsolable grief. A hasty survey of the scene before me showed a small and light two horse wagon, looking very shaky about the wheels, broken about the box and sur mounted with a cover stretched ever bows of very unequal height. The cov er was of homespun linen, was patched in places with pieces of butternut col ored jeans and had painted on one side in great sprawling letters the defiant warwhoop ‘‘Oaleforny or Bust.” A large water cask was slung underneath the wagon, and a red feed trough, near ly gnawed in two, hung behind. In front of the rickety wagon stood an old bald faced horse, still attached to the vehicle by the trace chains and his end of the neckyoke. Poor old fel low! Such another angular, harness galled, sunken eyed, melancholy beast I had not seen in many a day. Near by his mate lay dead—“alka lied. ” He seemed to have dropped down in his tracks and died—died with no greater struggle than to throw his head and neck out across the footpath j running by the side of the wagon track. I On a fragment of rock near the dead horse sat a man—a man about 45 years of age—looking as though hope had ut terly forsaken his breast. His feet, in cased in alkali reddened and torn bro gans, were half hidden in the dust of the road in which they were listlessly planted. His head was bowed until it almost reached his knees, and the wilt ed brim of his home wrought straw hat almost concealed his sun browned and unshaven face. Near to this man—the head of the family—sat a bundle—a bundle which 1 should not immediately have recog nized as a human being had I not ob served a pair of shriveled, clawlike hands clasped across what seemed the knees. There was something so weird about this object in its shapelessness that, after 1 had discovered it to be alive and evidently human, it quite fas cinated me. I found myself constantly . turning to watch it. A rather star tling phenomenon was that the bundle continually rocked to and tro and occa sionally gavo out some kind of mutter ings, during tho delivery of which n rocked quite violently. As the face and all the upper part of the body were covered with a huge sunbonnet—a bon net to which was attached an extraor dinarily voluminous cape—1 arrived at the conclusion that the mumbling "par ty” before me was a woman and prob ably the grandmother of the"expedi tion. *' Two boys of about 8 and 10 years each with bis baggy tow . linen trow sers bitched up nearly to his chin, sat flat in the dust at the bead of tho dead horse, whose nose one of them was fondly stroking. The faces of both were smeared with dust and tears, and both were still quietly blubbering and whispering together. A girl of about 17 sat in the front ot the wagon, vainly striving to quiet a child that was moaning in a weak, sick way in her arms. The features of the girl were finely formed, but her face was sadly sunburned. Her bonnet was off, and a wealth of brown hair fell in waves over her shoulders and hnng lu tangles about her face. At a glance it was to be seen that many cares and troubles had fallen upon this young girl, leaving her little time in which to think of herself or her personal appear ance. A little girl, with flaxen locks hang ing about her eyes. was on her knees be side tho young woman, leaning over the end board of the wagon and gazing with bine eyes full of wonder upon all around—that is. when she was not en gaged in gnawing, childlike, at the board upon the edge of which her two little brown paws rested. All this I saw almost at a glance. For some mo All thin I saw almost at a glance. ments 1 stood gazing on the really dis tressing scene, yet no one broke the sor rowful silence. They seemed persons who had seen so little of kindness and who had received so little aid or sym pathy from any one that they had lost faith in their kind. At last 1 went up to the man seated on the small bowlder. 1 touched him on the shoulder and said, “Stranger, you appear to be about at the end of your string here." “Yes, sir. Clean done fori Clean done fori” giving me a single mourn ful glance, then turning to pick ab stractedly at a thread in a blue jeans patch on the knee of his butternut trousers. At first i felt like laughing ns 1 gazed upon the lugubrious faces all about me. but a moment’s reflection showed me that, as the man said, they were “clean done for,” sure enough. Not a man nor a team was in sight in any direction. All about lay the sterile, waterless alkali waste, covered or rather made ragged by a sparse growth of sagebrush. “Have yon any money, my friend, with which to buy another horse?” 1 at last asked, though I felt that it was an idle question. " Money 1” cried the man, as though startled and shocked at the question, and he turned and looked me full in the face for the first time with wide open eyes. “Money? No, sir. Not a cent, sir—not the first red centl That thar team was all I iotch from ole Mis souri with me—it was my only hope.” Again he relapsed, hung his head and resumed picking at the patch on his knee, just as though having said all that could be said in regard to the sit uation it was useless to waste breath in further talk. 1 stood hesitating for a moment and then again shook the man up: "Stran ger, what do you think of doing? If you stay here, all hands of you will perish. This is a terrible place, my friend!” " Wa-al.I kain’t somehow think what ter do.” said the man, without raising his head. “I’m er tryin ter think, but somehow 1 kain't think.” CHAPTER n. GRANDMOTHER MUMFORD, “THE LIVING BUNDLE.” The living bundle seated on the road side bank near at hand now attracted my attention. It began to swing back and forth in a very violent manner, and at last, after some few preliminary in ternal rumblings, it gave utterance to these words:"Oh, Alumfordl Oh, Mum ford I” Turning to the man on the rock. 1 shook him up and asked, “ Is your name Mumford?” “No, sir," said he. “No, 6he’s a-thinkin of—a-thinkin ’bout her ole man—him she lost. ’’ “Well, come, rouse up, my friend!" cried I, almost losing my patiei.je. "Yon can’t remain here with this fam ily on your hands. What do you think of doing?” “1 know it's bad for the folks,” said the man, never raising his head, "but what kin I do? I’m clean done for, an I try to think what ter do, but some how 1 bain’t think.” “Oh, MumfordI Ob, Mumford!” cried the old lady bidden somewhere within the bundle in such a loud and thrilling tone that I turned and looked at her in alarm. She was rocking her self at such a rate that she seemed to oonnce an inch or two off the ground at each pendulumlike vibration. Again all was silent. The old lady was still diligently vibrating, hut was now voiceless. The man on tho rock seemed trying to pull an idea of some kind out of the patch on the knee of his trousers. "Pore ole Betty!" said one of tho lit tle hoys as he patted the neck of the dead mare, as 1 now discovered tin horse to lie. "Pore ole Betty!" "Will daddy leave her wif all of der nasty dead cows?” queried tho younger boy, trying to open and look into ono of the dead mare’s eyes. About this time I felt a sort of lump rising in my throat and began to want to seo something like action somewhere. "Come, my friend,” said 1 as a thought struck me; “rouse up!” slap ping the man on the back. “There art dozens of big freight teams going back to California every day from Virginia City, and all return without back loads of any kind. You here are not far from the main California road, and one of these return teams will haul you and all your traps. Come, my man, you’ll be all right yet!" "But I hain’t got no money. ’Tain’t no use. I've seed teams and teams, an I’ve axed ’em to help me along. None ot ’em wouldn’t haul me. They all come on an left us alone back in tho des erts. They all talked money, money— money fust an money last. I hain’t get no money. ” "But that was while your team was still on its legs. Now they can’t re fuse. Besides, tho California teamsters are very different men fiom those who passed you ou tho plains, where it is ‘devil take the hindmost.' “ “I tell yor ’tain’t no use!" cried the man pettishly. “Oh,Mumford! Oh. Mumford!” cried the old lady, and she began to bounce about so violently that 1 feared she would roll off the bank into the road. “Tut, tut, mammy!” remonstrated tny man. Beginning to lose patience with all this idle mummery, I turned suddenly to tho swaying bundle and said, "For God’s sake, what is the meaning of all this nonsense abont Mumford?” This was like giving the bundle an electrical shock. Half springing from her seat, the old woman gave her im mense poke bonnet so vigorous an up ward thrust that it was sent flying from her head into the dust, exposing to view for the first time a thin, wrinkled face and spare, diminutive form—a little “atomy” of a woman. “What is the nonsense about Mum ford? Is that what you ask, sir? There is no nonsen so abont Mumford!" Her alkalied gray hair stood bristling all over her head. A wild light burned in her sunken gray eyes, and she stretch ed out toward mo a skinny arm and clawlike hand almost in a menacing manner. "There never was any non sense about Mumford! No. sir! Mum ford, sir, was my husband for 40 years, and there was no nonsense about him! But,’’/she added in a calmer tone, "Mumford is not—he is no more. He sleeps on the banks of Green river. We left him there. He sleeps there un der the trees, where 1, too, should sleep!” Her hand dropped, and in a sobbing voice she said: “Yes, under the trees, thank God for that! Under the beautiful green trees! He was born among the tall green trees of Kentucky, lived among trees all his life, died among trees! When, far out in the des ert, the doctor told him he was dying, that he had only a .few minutes to live, he asked to lie raised up that he might look out of the wagon. ‘No,’said he, ’1 can’t die here, and, what is more. 1 won't! There is not a tree in sight! Drive on! When you’ve come to some decent sort of place for a man to die in, 1 won t hgnt against going, tie lived, sir, while the wagon crawled over miles and miles of desert—lived till we reach ed Green river and was laid on his bed under the trees. Then he took my hand anil said: 'Ah. the trees are green, and 1 hear the birds singing. Sally, goodby —I'll die now.1 1 said ‘Goodby, Mum ford, 1 and ho was dead. ” "Thomas! Thomas!” called a 6hrill but weak voice from the wagon. “Thomas, is that mother a-talkin?” Thomas—the ‘‘doubting Thomas’’— who had all this time remained sitting dejectedly on the rock, arose and slouch ed along to the wagon, hardly lifting his feet above the dust. The animated bundle followed Thom as with her eyes. Turning to me, she then said: “I’m his mother-in-law. He’s a stick—a perfect stick!” said she decidedly. “Yes,” repeated she, “a perfect stick! Oh, that by keeping Mumford before him—that by calling Mumford up in his mind—I could get him to show a little of the spirit of Mumford!” In a moment Thomas came back and said to me: "Nancy—that’s my wife, sir—wants to see you. She’s a-lyin sick in the wagon. ” Nodding to the young girl, who was holding the sick child at the front of the vehicle, and placing a hand on the flaxen locks of the little one by her side, 1 looked into the interior of tbo “fam ily mansion” just as a tall, thin, hol low eyed woman was rising from some quilts. Resting in a sitting position by hold ing on to the side of the wagon, the wo man gazed wistfully at me. ”1 am told that you are ill, good woman, ” said 1. “Oh, yes, sir—very, sir! I’ve moun tain fever. ” Now that I fully comprehended the distressed condition of this poor, sick, friendless, moneyless, shipwrecked fam ily, 1 was so overcome that, as I stood facing the wistful eyes of the sick wo man, I knew not how to speak in a way to comfort her. Nodding toward the young girl hold ing the infant, the woman said: “Mary says she heenl yon tell daddy—my hus band out thar—that some of the teams goin lack to Califomy might help us. Oh, sir, if they only would! When pore ole Betty stopped, fell down and died, everything for ns stopped right thar. In a mimt every hope wo u ia vraagone. it wdi bud enough for daddy before, but when he seed the ole mare drap dead he jist let go all holts. Pore man! He’s clean discouraged." 1 assured the woman that all 1 had said of the teams and teamsters was true. "Are there many teams on the road now, sir?" asked Mary. "A great many- hundreds. The !e.vu Bess houses and the big mining com panies of the Comstock are now getting in their winter goods and supplies Hundreds of teams are coming and go ing across the mountains. We should see many of them were we a few miles farther on—were we where this road falls into the one that leads over the mountains. ” "Oh, if I could see them, sir!" cried Mary. "If they could see mother see us all—see the awful place we are in, they would help us. sir. Yes, they would help us to get away from here!" “Indeed they would,” said 1. "They may look rough—their work is rough— but the majority are noble hearted fel lows, and there is not. a man among them all so mean that he would pass you bv. ” "Oh, thank you, sir! Thank yon! Oh, mother, do you hear?” And the kind hearted girl began kissing the sick baby to hide her tears. Looking • up presently, she said: “Mother has been sick to long, and now poro little Kitty is sick, and we haven’t any money and hardly anything left that’s lit even for ns well ones to eat. What can we do hero in this desert but die?” "No, you will not die. You are all safe now. and you will soon all be well and happy.” “Oh. mother, do you hear that? The stranger says we arc all safe now!” and again the worn young creature began kissing Kitty, tears streaming down her cheeks. "Look about you, Mary—look about at the desert and the dead beasts all about us, and you’ll see how safe we air!” And thus speaking the sick and despondent mother groaned aloud. "Be of good cheer, child, and try to put some heart into tlio others,” said I to'Marv. " 1 still say you are all safe. Our Comstock people have assisted hun dreds of emigrants that have come in here off the deserts in distress. You are but a few miles away from Virginia City. Tlie people there will most cer tainly take care of you and find a way for you to get to California.” “God bless them!” said Mary. "Will you please call Thomas, my husband, sir, to get me some water?” asked the siek woman, who had fallen back on her couch and was trying to moisten her parched lips with her equal ly dry and fevered tongue. I at once went to the husband, and giving him a shake to rouse him out of his state of dreamy dejection told him what his wife required. As I was about to return to the wagon to tell Mary that I would not lose sight of them until they were hauled out of the desert and safe, I felt a clutch at the skirt of my coat. Turning about, I found the old woman gazing keenly, eagerly, upon my face. This old wom an 1 now began to see had an eye and an ear open for all that was going on about her, notwithstanding that at first sight she seemed a mere heedless, im becile bundle. That man, said she, “is a good enough husband to my darter, but, la! he ain’t oneof our kind—ho ain’t Kain tncky stock! He ain’t like jiore Mum ford was—hain’tgot the stir! When things went like this, Mumford he’d git mad. La. you jest ought to see how he'd t’ar round! Swar? Why, he’d swar terrible, Mumford would. But he’s at rest now, pore man! On the banks of the Green river he lies, under the beautiful trees, where the birds sing all the day long. Mumford, now, he was a man. sir. as could do justice to a sitervation sich as this. But lie— dear soul—lie lias gone to his reward.” Suddenly changing her tone, the old lady laid a bony hand upon my arm: “Now, see here, you jist see what you ‘‘Now, see here, you jist sec what you kin do for us!” kin do for ns! Ho”—nodding her head toward the wagon—"he’s a stick, yon know.” I faithfully promised the Mumford relict that I would see them all out of their troubles. CHAPTER III. THE "RED WIXG.” After getting a drink of water out of the barrel that hung under the wagon, I left to seek assistance, bidding all be of good cheer, as relief would reach them in a few hours at furthest. 1 struck out west, across the desert to the much traveled California road, which wound along the foothills. Not a California team was in sight. Turn ing north on the road toward Virginia City. I pushed forward in the hope of goon meeting a string of teams headed for California. I had followed the road leading to Virginia City about four miles, to a point almost in sight of Silver City, when the music of bells greeted my ears —bells such as are worn by the animals in the big 10, 13 and 14 mule teams. Soon a long string of big teams came in tialif militia- tit, writlt a m-rfert ornclt (Continued on pag-eS) DR. HATHAWAY & GO., . ^SPECIALISTS-^ (Regular Graduates.) *re the leading and moet successful specialists and | vlil give you help. Young and mid die aged men. Remarkable re suits have follow ed our treatment. Many yeari of varied ami sucress lui experience In the us** of cura tive methods that we aloneownand control for all dla ordersol men who have weak, unde veloped or dl« gcased organa, or gwho are suffering Strom errors of ■youth ami excess ■or who are nervous ifand Impotent, rathe scorn of their gyfcllows and the ^ contempt of their friends and com panions. leads tts i *o criiarantoe to all patients. 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