and knew of his Christian character. He said his life emphasized the fact that a man could be a leader in worldly business and guard the interests of a great corporation and be honest and honorable and Christlike. He paid a touching tribute to the worth of Mr. Millar, as one whose life had made the world better. JAMES H. CAPEN was born at Gardiner, Me., January 3, 1840, and drifted out to Kansas in the spring of 1860. His first trip across the plains to Denver was from Leavenworth with one of Jones & Cartwright's ox trains, when he was forty-two days on the road. He was, for a few months, employed as messenger on the Central Overland California and Pike's Peak Express line in the spring and summer of 1861. His run was from St. Joseph to Denver, but he reports few incidents of special interest happening on the route during the brief period he was connected with it. He was the first messenger to arrive, about four o'clock in the morning, at Rock Creek station, in southern Nebraska, where "Wild Bill" and "Dock" Brink, two stage-drivers, had killed the notorious McCandless gang of outlaws that had some time been watching for and threatening their lives. Capen saw the whole gang lying dead on the ground, where they fell in the desperate fight that took place between the two parties, an account of which appears elsewhere in this volume. Capen had a slight misfortune one trip while coming in from Denver. His coach was upset at one of the stations and the vehicle badly disabled, in consequence of the driver, who wanted to show off his skill as one of the best reinsmen on the line, making too short a turn. This accident caused considerable delay, and before resuming his trip the messenger was obliged to return to Fort Kearney to get another coach. The driver was reported to the division agent, who promptly discharged him for his carelessness. While Capen was in the stage company's service, Amos Hodgman was also employed as messenger alternately with him over the same route. Both young men afterwards enlisted in the Seventh Kansas Volunteer Cavalry (the famous "Jayhawker" regiment), commanded by the gallant Col. C. R. Jennison. The regiment went South during the war, and Hodgman was killed in battle at Wyatt, Miss., in 1864, but Capen served until the rebellion closed and is still alive and well, residing near Topeka, Kan. E. M. POLLINGER (better known as "Guv."), originally a driver in Kansas and Nebraska, was afterwards employed by Holladay as messenger on one of his mountain branch stage lines out of Denver on the Georgetown route. In an accident near Georgetown his stage was turned over by a wind-storm. All the passengers were saved without injury, but Pollinger was not so fortunate; he was caught in the wreck, the result being a broken log. A few others were now and then employed, but their names do not now occur to me. It is known that at least six of the above mentioned have gone "over the range" since they took those long, tedious rides back and forth across the plains. Mayfield, |
 SENECA, KAN., 1898. Main street looking east one of the first messengers employed, also the longest in
continuous service, died at his home in St. Joseph in the
later '60's. Lloyd, whose home was at Maysville, Ky., and
who only made a few trips in the capacity of messenger,
suicided more than a quarter of a century ago while on one
of Ben. Holladay's ocean steamers on the Pacific. Thomas,
formerly from Towanda, Pa., also one of the first messengers
employed, and who held the offices of sheriff and treasurer
of Shawnee county, and other important public positions,
died at his home in Topeka, Kan., in the later '80's. He was
a man greatly respected and left an estate worth over
$50,000, which was a better showing than some of the others
made. Addoms, who was formerly from western Missouri and one
of the pioneers of Atchison, Kan., passed away in the early
'90's at his home in Kansas City, at the age of more than
seventy-five years. McClelland died in Colorado in the early
'90's, having been proprietor of a stage line to some of the
prominent mining camps in the Centennial state. West also
died in the early '90's, in Montana. R. P. R. Millar died at
Lincoln, Neb., in 1900. And it may be that others of the
boys have since |
dropped off, but the whereabouts of only a few of the living is now known. Ellifrit, who resided at Weston, Mo., when a boy, is at Higginsville, Mo.; Gaylord is And has been for years in the Topeka (Kan.) insane asylum; Letson is an extensive farmer and horse-breeder at Horton, Kan.; W. L. H. Millar is in business in Cripple Creek, Colo.; Root is living at Topeka, Kan.; Spottswood is an extensive ranchman near Littleton, Colo.; Philip Rodgers resides at St. Joseph, Mo.; Pollinger is living on a ranch in Montana; and Wilson is in the grocery and commission trade, at Kansas City, Mo. What an interesting event it would be to meet once more--after a lapse of over a third of a century--with the remaining "boys" who made so many trips across the plains on the Concord coach in the old overland staging days. What stories, reminiscences and incidents of adventure they could relate of those early, exciting times; of the hardships and privations they were so often obliged to endure; of the clouds of dust and swarms of buffalo-gnats they frequently encountered; of the all-night rides facing blinding storms and piercing blizzards; of the runs for dear life surrounded by prairie fires; of the lonesome, dreary nights spent while lost on the plains; of the long night of suspense on an Indian reservation stuck in the mud, surrounded by high water; of the trying time when stopped by a band of Indian warriors; of the frequent risks they ran of being waylaid and the coach robbed by highwaymen; and of the hairbreadth escapes from being killed and scalped by prowling savages. But the most of those "boys" are old men now, white-haired and wrinkled, perhaps; and would needs tell the tales of adventure in less forceful language than of old. But what a volume of unwritten history those overland messengers could recite, if only they were assembled, and prompted by each others' presence to recall the incidents connected with some of their stage trips. It used to puzzle some of the passengers going from Atchison to Denver because we met a coach going in the opposite direction every twelve hours. They could not understand, at first, how we could meet twelve stages going across the plains in six days; but after the matter was explained to them that there were six coaches already on the road when we started, and that an additional one would leave every morning, likewise that it took six days to make the trip, the matter then was easily understood by those who |
were not too dull of comprehension. Frequently, during the rush of overland travel in the spring of 1864, the company was obliged to run extras, in which case each driver would have to double his route. On a trip early in the summer of 1863, owing to a slight accident, we were detained a few minutes on the South Platte at Beauvais ranch. While there the passengers and all hands were considerably amused to see two half-breed Indian boys about the premises, apparently not more than ten years of age, with bows and arrows. The lads were dressed like old-time warriors. They were very thinly clad; but what they lacked in the way of covering was made up in a plentiful supply of gorgeous war paint of several colors, daubed and striped over their faces, arms, and bodies. Their heads were trimmed with feathers and on their feet were the usual buckskin moccasins, only they were ornamented with beads. The passengers asked them to shoot, but they shook their heads. Some of the ranchmen about the premises said they possessed much skill in marksmanship and were quite proficient in the use of their favorite weapons. The little fellows wanted to shoot for money. After we had seen them shoot, we thought they were almost equal to some of the famous Sioux and Cheyenne warriors. It was a rather difficult matter at first to persuade the little fellows to get down to business, but our putting up a silver half-dollar or quarter at fifteen to thirty paces was just what they were after. They would draw up, offhand, and hit the little white pieces nearly every time. They shot without taking aim, and would almost invariably hit the pieces the first time, and then hastily pick them up and keep them. Their remarkable skill in archery astonished and greatly pleased the stage passengers; and it was genuine sport for the young aborigines, who were making money easily and rapidly, for every "scad" they hit was theirs. Prairie-chickens and quails, when I first went on the overland line were numerous between the Missouri river and the Platte. They were seen every day from the stage-coach, numbering thousands. Naturally they were the most plentiful along the stage route in northern Kansas in the vicinity of the settlements and ranches, and there were a great many along the Little Blue river in southern Nebraska. They were multiplying so rapidly |
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A Prairie Dog Town on the Plains. |
that it seemed that they never could be thinned out. For a long time they furnished much of the choice food for ranchmen, and the freighters and travelers shot thousands of them while on their way across the plains. A third of a century, however, has seen these birds almost completely disappear. Only now and then a few scattering ones may be seen.. There was an abundance of wild game in the '60's. In eastern Kansas large numbers of wild turkeys and a great many rabbits were seen. Along the Little Blue river there were also many wild turkeys and rabbits, and deer and antelope were also plentiful. In the Platte valley were a great many deer, antelope, and an occasional elk, while a few miles distant, south from the stream and away from the heavily traveled thoroughfare, buffaloes abounded by hundreds of thousands. A great many came north to the Platte and there slaked their thirst. Buffalo-wallows were numerous along the Platte in staging days. Throughout the mountain region a few miles from Denver were vast numbers of sage-hens and grouse, while elk, deer, antelope, mountain sheep, bear, mountain lions and other wild animals were plentiful. Down the South Platte for 200 miles east of Denver there were occasional sage-hens near the road; but few of the stage boys ate them, because, they said, it required a cast-iron stomach to digest them. Occasionally we ran across a pack of gray wolves on the plains, but usually they were scarce. The native prairie wolves--the coyote--were quite numerous, and many of them could at times be seen from the stage-coach. A pelican was now and then seen along the South Platte, in the vicinity of old Julesburg, but out of reach of the ordinary rifle of those early days. All of the mountain streams were full of trout, familiarly known as "speckled beauties," and the disciples of Izaak Walton could have as much sport angling for them as the most expert Nimrod ever got in the chase. It was a rare occurrence for a passenger, at an eating station on the overland stage route, to ask for a cup of tea. For each pound of tea used along the line it is probably no exaggeration to say that there was consumed in the neighborhood of a ton of coffee. And it was most always good coffee, too--some of it perfectly delicious; but once in a while we would strike a place where the stuff poured out and drank under the name of coffee was a decoction of something simply abominable. We always |
had plenty of the very best sugar, but seldom got cream for our coffee along the Platte. Those who preferred it, instead of drinking their coffee clear, could sometimes get the condensed lacteal fluid, that being almost the only kind used for the 400 miles between Fort Kearney and the mountains. The altitude of Atchison is about 750 feet above the sea. Between there and Fort Kearney a great portion of the road, except for a distance of about fifty miles along the Little Blue river, was over rolling prairie, some portions of it furnishing the most lovely landscapes to be found in northern Kansas or southern Nebraska. From Fort Kearney west for 400 miles, to Denver, the road followed along the south side, or right bank, of the Platte river. Notwithstanding the fact that the road along this river appeared to be a water grade, and the rise hardly perceptible while passing over it on the stage-coach, yet, upon arriving at the Colorado metropolis, it was discovered that we had gradually climbed to an altitude of 5150 feet, or more than nine-tenths of a mile above the level of the sea. While making my first trip to Denver, I must own up that I was somewhat frightened the second night out from Atchison, I did not know, when I first started out, that it was the custom of the drivers, when approaching a station at night, to most always send up a terrible yell. This was done to awaken the stock tender, so he might have the team harnessed, and also that the driver might be ready who was to succeed the incoming one on the next drive. We were going up the Little Blue valley. While asleep down in the front boot, under the driver's feet, I was suddenly awakened by what seemed to me one of the most unearthly yells I had ever heard from any human being. It appeared like the horrible yell of an Indian on the war-path. I felt quite sure that the savages were after somebody's scalp, but said nothing to the driver, a stranger. Soon I was agreeably disappointed when I discovered that I had only heard the yell of the driver. What he was making such a terrible yelling for was to me a puzzle at the time. I soon learned, however; and before I had made many trips could imitate the yell and make a screech as horrible sounding as any driver. The spelling and pronouncing of the yell might be something like "Ah-whooh-wah," but only those who have heard it from one of the "Overland" boys can have the remotest idea of the shrill and hideous-sounding noise. There was another yell |
that some of the drivers, not being possessed of the soundest lungs, used. It was "Yep, yep, yep," but there was nothing specially hideous about it. At one of the stations between 500 and 600 miles west of the Missouri, one of the drivers was lying on his bunk, trying to take a snooze. One of his companion drivers desired him to come out and help fix something about the coach that required hard work. He was asked politely two or three times and just as often failed to respond. Finally the anxious driver asked him again to come--telling him that lying on the bunk was not conducive to health, and that he needed some exercise. That remark seemed to provoke a broad smile from the snoozing driver, who forthwith followed, with the remark that he could "get all the exercise he wanted trying to masticate the tough beefsteaks furnished by Ben. Holladay." During my various trips by stage across the plains before any railroads were in operation in Kansas and Nebraska, I traveled almost far enough to make a journey around the globe. I used to enjoy some of the trips very much, although at times it was terribly fatiguing and the ride sometimes anything but pleasant. Notwithstanding my place was on the box with the driver, and that is where the messengers all were supposed to ride day and night, still, whenever an opportunity offered, I would crawl down into the boot, under the driver's feet, double myself up, and, covered with the front apron of leather, snooze away as comfortably as if lying on "flowery beds of ease." At first I thought I could never do it, but hundreds of miles have I ridden while asleep, sitting up on the box alongside the driver, both day and night; for it appeared out of the question for any ordinary human being to go six days and nights without sleep. After making a few trips and getting used to the business, it finally made little difference to me when, where or how I slept. I could go to sleep in a chair, snooze away on the "soft side of a plank," or lie comfortably on the ground with my head resting on a stone. Sleep I must have, and while on the plains I never failed to take it when I had a chance, no matter what the surroundings might be. A rather amusing and somewhat ludicrous scene occurred in the summer of 1864 at Cottonwood Springs. There had been some fresh Indian troubles along the Platte between Cottonwood and Fort Kearney, and the division agent had prudently exercised his |
prerogative by holding for two or three days all the stages at the former place until the road was deemed safe to travel. While the agent was getting the first east-bound coach in readiness for its departure, he stated that the through passengers would have precedence over those from Denver. It happened that there was a woman from Denver, and she weighed nearly 200 pounds. She was "chief engineer of a millinery shop and ran a sewing-machine." After listening attentively to the agent's remarks, and when the coach was about ready to depart--the passengers discussing among themselves who would--and who would not go on the first coach--she opened with her A CHICKEN ROOST. Page 91. |
"chin music," as follows: "Here are passengers from California, Nevada, Salt Lake, Idaho, and Montana. I suppose Denver is nowhere; but I'll play that I take the back seat"; and into the coach she climbed--and she "held the fort," She had paid full .fare, had arrived at the Springs from Denver on the first coach, and, being armed with a revolver, dared them to detain her. At one of the stations in the Little Blue valley, in southern Nebraska, where we stopped one night for supper, in the latter part of February, 1863, the men about the premises had been butchering their hogs that afternoon. Soon after supper I was invited by one of the stage boys into the back room to see the sight where the hogs that had been killed and split open were on the floor, lying on their backs. I was not a little surprised, and at the same time amused, to find a half-dozen or more hens quietly roosting on the sides of the mammoth "porkers." Whether there were other hens about the premises roosting on the meal barrel I did not take the time to determine, presuming that the good-natured ranchman, who was proprietor of the station, had obeyed the injunction of the traditional Hoosier farmer, who, the last thing before going to bed, invariably gave explicit orders to have the "backs of all the chickens turned to the wall." Now and then some rather strange things occurred on the "Overland." It was imperative that the stage-coach axles be greased (or rather "doped," as the boys used to call it) at every "home" station, and these were from twenty-five to fifty miles apart. This duty had time and again been impressed upon the drivers by the division agents, but occasionally one of them would forget the important work. As a natural consequence the result would be a "hot box." One afternoon early in the summer of 1863, while we were on the rolling prairies near the Little Blue river, one of the front wheels of the stage was suddenly clogged and would not turn. On examination, it was found to be sizzling hot. The stage had to stop and wait until the axle cooled off. As soon as practicable, the driver took off the wheel and made an inspection, the passengers and messenger holding up the axle. On further examination, it was found that the spindle had begun to "cut," and there was no alternative but to "dope" it before we could go any farther. But we were stumped; there was no "dope" on the stage. |
The driver, an old-timer at staging, suggested, since necessity is the mother of invention," that as a last resort he would bind a few blades of grass around the spindle, which he was certain would run us part way to the station, and we could stop and repeat the experiment. But one of the passengers chanced to have a piece of cheese in his grip sack, and a little of it was sliced off and applied; and it worked admirably, and was sufficient to run the coach safely to the next station, where the difficulty was quickly remedied by application of the proper "dope." An incident somewhat exciting, and at the same time not a little amusing, occurred on one of my trips, at Midway station, on the Platte, in the fall of 1863. It was at a rather late hour of the night, and the stock tender, who had been imbibing pretty freely of "forty-rod" whisky, went into the stable and staggered into one of the stalls where a span of mules were standing. Quicker than you could say "Jack Robinson," the long-eared animals with their heels lifted him bodily from the ground, and he landed against the heels of a span of the same kind of animals in a stall on the opposite side of the stable. Before the poor fellow hardly had time to realize his situation, he was once more lifted by the mules, landing against the heels of the first span. They instantly kicked him again, but this time he was landed on the ground in the center of the stable. One of the drivers was in the barn at the time and witnessed the lively and extraordinary feat in kicking. He expected to find the life kicked out of the stock tender--his form reduced to a mass of pulp; but, strange to say, the fellow was unhurt, being too "full" to be injured by a pommeling (sic) that would doubtless have killed a sober man. Occasionally changes were made in the location of the overland route. Early in July, 1862, permission was given to the contractor by the Postmaster-general to change the mail route so as to leave the road then traveled (which crossed the South Platte, as stated, at old Julesburg), and keep along the south side of that stream for about 140 miles westward; thence fording the river and diverging in a northwesterly course, following the "Cherokee trail," via Bridger's Pass, and intersecting the original mail route at Fort Bridger. While this proposed change did not save anything in distance, it was claimed that it was a better route and comparatively free from Indians, while the savages along the Lodge Pole route had from time to time been commit- |
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