 STAGE STATION AT FORT KEARNEY, 1863. Coaches from Atchison, Omaha, and Nebraska City. |
In the language of Washington Irving, who wrote in 1832: The Platte river is the most magnificent and most useless of streams. Abstraction made of its defects, nothing can be more pleasing than the perspective which it presents to the eye. Its islands have the appearance of a labyrinth of groves floating on the waters. Their extraordinary position gives an air of youth and loveliness to the whole scene. If to this be added the undulations of the river, the waving of the verdure, the alternations of light and shade, the succession of these islands varying in form and beauty, and the purity of the atmosphere, some idea may be formed of the pleasing sensations which the traveler experiences on beholding a scene that seems to have started fresh from the hands of the Creator." Artemus Ward, who crossed the plains on Ben. Holladay's overland stage in 1864, soon afterwards wrote something of the peculiar stream. It was the opinion of the noted humorist that "the Platte would be a good river if set on edge." The stream was also described by Bill Nye as "having a wide circulation, but little influence." During the unprecedented flood in the spring of 1864, now and then could be seen a small party in a flatboat, who took advantage of the freshet and, to save the great cost in stage fare, made the trip by the water route from Denver to Missouri and Kansas. They were often seen by passengers from the stage-coach, sometimes hunting and fishing for the necessaries of life, at intervals on the way. While several hundred dollars would be saved to the party on the stage fare, the trip was a long and tedious one. Still there was considerable romance connected with it. and this alone was worth making the novel journey. Some writers were so enthusiastic in the '70's that they wrote of the probabilities of making the Platte a navigable stream. It was fully demonstrated, however, years before that it was not a navigable stream even for light-draft flatboats. While there was little risk of ever striking a snag, boats making the trip down frequently ran on sand-bars, even during high water, and the occupants would often suffer much inconvenience before getting off. The water in the Platte all the way down through eastern Colorado and Nebraska was almost as muddy as the Missouri river; hence not a very inviting stream to look upon. Quicksand, as many know who have forded the stream, also abounds in many |
places; and much of the time during the fall and winter a considerable portion of its bed is nothing but a vast stretch of dry sand. Often freighters and emigrants, destined for California and Oregon in early days, would experience vexatious delays in fording the river on account of the quicksand, which would frequently detain them for hours in making the somewhat hazardous trip across the broad, treacherous stream. The stage-drivers, so familiar with the Platte in the days of the overland mail, used to say that during the floods in that stream the water would seldom leave its banks. Notwithstanding the banks are very low, they are also composed of quicksand, and, as the water would rise, naturally the banks rose with it. It is said the banks in places have been known to rise with the water several feet, apparently floating, thus preventing the river from leaving the channel except in extraordinary floods.* When I first crossed the plains there were several farms already opened along the Little Blue river, but I don't think there was as much as a respectable-sized garden spot under cultivation at any of the various ranches along the Platte between Fort Kearney and a few miles east of the mountains. Where the old military road emerged from the rolling prairies and sand-hills and entered the Platte valley, a few miles east of Fort Kearney, the great highway afterwards skirted the south bank of the stream most of the way west to the Rockies. Along this wide and shallow river, except in a few places on the south fork, for 400 miles the Government thoroughfare was seemingly as level as a floor. A considerable portion of the country along the Platte, however, is rolling by turns. In places often were visible a range of mounds--"mountains in miniature"--in plain view to the north and south of the river, apparently a "solidified wave of the almost boundless prairie ocean." These mounds are yet visible in the heart of the great agricultural and farming region of the valley. Surrounded as they are with such splendid ranches--practically the garden spot of the state--and with so many large *"At the Wyandotte convention, the line of the future state was drawn at the one-hundredth meridian, which was supposed to be on the borders of the desert region. An attempt was made to annex to it all south of the Platte, and delegates from Nebraska were in attendance to urge it. One of them, a Mr. Taylor--in whom the annexation idea seemed to penetrate the whole essence, from his brown coat to his corpus callosum--urged that the Platte river had a quicksand bottom and could not be forded; it could not be bridged, because you could not find bottom for piers; and it could not be ferried for want of water." --Col. Wm. A. Phillips. |
bunches of fine cattle, no section of country in the great West, or anywhere else, for that matter, has been more remunerative to the tiller of the soil or those engaged, since the days of the buffalo, in producing the choicest beef for the various markets of the country. Along the South Platte from O'Fallon's Bluffs west, much of the country for more than 250 miles was, for agricultural purposes, believed by many to be the worst part of the overland route east of the mountains. A considerable portion of this distance appeared a sort of worthless sandy and alkali region, good for nothing except stock-raising, although there were, at intervals, many places where the bottom extended back a considerable distance south from the river. The most of this region, however, as was afterwards learned when the ranchmen began irrigating, proved to be of the very best for the growing of nearly all kinds of grain and vegetables and many choice varieties of fruit. What a mighty change in scenery was noticed as one would make the long trip of upwards of 400 miles by stage along the Platte from the eastern border of the military reservation at Fort Kearney into the mountains. From plains that appeared almost a water level, the scenery would finally change to seemingly almost impenetrable cañons and gorges, while the precipitous rocky cliffs and peaks, with their snow-capped summits, extended thousands of feet far up into cloudland. In some places the great valley was several miles wide, with rich meadows on either side of the river; then, again, the sandy or rocky bluffs on the south side of the stream would extend to near the water's edge, along which the old road had been laid out and over which the overland stage and all the teams crossing the plains traveled. While staging on this route in 1863-'65, there was hardly an island or a grove of timber or willows on the river for several hundred miles with which I was not familiar. There was hardly a tree on the "Overland" between Fort Kearney and Denver that I could not locate when the mail was carried across the Continent by the Concord stage-coach. Returning from Denver by stage one dark night a little after midnight, in the fall of 1863, and while coming down the Platte valley between Fort Kearney and Hook's station, we met with an accident that might have resulted seriously. By some means which the driver could not account for, the line of the off leader |
|
NARROW ESCAPE FROM AN ACCIDENT ON A DARK NIGHT. Page 249. |
broke, and the team, a rather spirited one, suddenly dashed ahead and left the road. The driver, Mr. Ed. B. Kilburn,* immediately took in the situation, and thought pulling steadily on the line that held the near lead horse would cause the animals to run around in a circle, and, finally, come to a stop. Every time around, naturally the circle grew a little smaller. The brake was out of gear and comparatively useless. For a time the horses went at full speed--the coach spinning around like atop. It was plain that, when two or three more circles were made, the coach would be overturned, and, quite likely, some one injured. It happened that there were no passengers on that trip between Fort Kearney and Atchison, all of them having left the stage at the fort and gone to the Missouri river by the Omaha route. I alone occupied the inside of the stage, and was having a glorious sleep when suddenly I was awakened by the runaway. Knowing the situation was becoming serious, the driver called me to jump out on the near side and take the leaders by the bits. This I was enabled to do by the dim light of a candle burning in one of the stage head lamps. But before I succeeded, however, in seizing the animals and bringing them to a standstill, the stage, in its short turns, was going around on the two near wheels. It was an exciting moment and a very narrow escape from upsetting, and the only mishap of the kind I ever experienced during all my trips across the plains. Having succeeded in stopping the horses, I took one of the *ED. B. KILBURN was one of the oldest and best drivers on the "Overland." He was a man of medium build, an honest, faithful and obliging employee, always at his post, and was never known to shirk a duty. On a score of occcasions (sic), for hours at a time, I have sat on the stage box and ridden with him day and night, along the Little Blue and up and down the Platte. No braver man ever held the reins of a stage team. He never knew what it was to fear danger; but in four years after that gloomy night, and only two years after I last rode with him between Denver and Julesburg, he met a horrible death by being shot from the stage box by Indians, on the morning of June 6, 1867, while driving for a few days down the South Platte, about 125 miles east of Denver. He had gone down the road as far as Godfrey's ranch. After breakfast, when he was about ready to start with the coach from Godfrey's, one of the stage boys jokingly said to him, "Ed., look out for your scalp." He removed his hat, smilingly remarking, "The Indians do n't want this old gray hair of mine." After the stage had gone about two miles down the river and was opposite an old adobe wall, a band of Indians lying secreted behind the wall fired a volley into the vehicle and Kilburn fell dead. There was only one passenger on the stage at the time, and he managed some way-- no one can tell how--to make his escape. When found the body of Kilburn was badly mutilated, every piece of clothing but his gloves having been stripped from his person. On one of his fingers was a heavy gold ring, a present from his faithful friend and companion driver, Sam. Getts. In due time a brother of the dead man came and the remains of poor Ed. were taken back to the old family home at Lansing, Mich. |
head lamps from the coach and started out to search for the road. The night being dark and foggy, I could see only a few rods ahead. Several times I lost my bearings and was obliged to yell out to know the whereabouts or direction of the driver. Hence it was several hours before I found the main road, having walked around over the same ground a dozen times or more, aggregating several miles. The driver himself confessed that he could not tell whether we were north or south of the stage road, and not until the break of day, when the surrounding landmarks began to be visible, did we discover which way was east and which way west. It was genuine sport for some of the stage passengers, even while moving along at a lively gait, to pull their revolvers and shoot out of the windows of the coach at a herd of antelope perhaps a few hundred yards distant. Often two or three persons would be peppering away at the same time, but it was a rare occurrence if any one of them was successful in bringing down one of the swift-running animals. The experience was just about the same with jack-rabbits and coyotes. It required only one shot into their ranks to send the fleet-footed animals bounding away, and in a few seconds they would be off beyond the reach of flying bullets. Snakes were numerous on the plains. On one of my trips up the Little Blue valley in the summer of 1863, while riding on the box alongside the driver, I noticed a queer sight on a gopher hill, a rod or so only from the road. It was near sunset, and we were bowling along at a steady gait when I asked the driver to stop. With revolver in hand I got down and went back a few rods to investigate. Approaching the spot cautiously, I saw a good-sized gopher being slowly but surely crushed in the folds of a big snake. Cocking my six-shooter I steadily advanced, and, when within a few feet of the spot, the serpent quickly raised its hideous head and opening its jaws darted a forked tongue towards me. Taking deliberate aim with my old-reliable "44," I fired, the bullet cutting the reptile in several places as it plowed its way along its coiled form. The gopher's death was a speedy one, also, the bullet having done its work thoroughly. Later during that same year (1863), way up on the South Platte, as the stage was in sight of the Rockies, I noticed in the tall weeds and dry grass by the side of the road, a monster snake |
nine or ten feet in length, and with its mouth wide open. I got down and walked back a few rods and took a peep at the reptile. Taking careful aim, I fired into the snake's mouth. In an instant there was a terrible crashing among the dry weeds, which caused me to believe that the monster had been badly hurt; still I had no time, even had I so desired, to stop and make an investigation; so I immediately climbed up on the stage and again took my place on the box with the driver and departed. Along the Platte, in 1863 and 1864, I shot quite a number of rattlesnakes, and one set of rattles I have kept to this day which I prize quite highly as a souvenir of overland staging days. Rattlesnakes were more numerous than any others on the upper South Platte between thirty and forty years ago, and, in consequence, the popular antidote for snake-bite had a great sale. In connection with my first trip by the overland stage-coach, I witnessed a grand and beautiful sight that I shall never forget. it was late in the afternoon of the 27th of January, 1863, in the South Platte valley, between Alkali Lake and old Julesburg, upwards of 400 miles west of the Missouri river. The air was cool, but the sun shone with dazzling brilliancy. Sitting on the box with the driver, as we were making good time up the valley, suddenly, a few miles beyond us to the west, there loomed up in the distance something that appeared to resemble a lake. Going a short distance farther, the scene changed, and there appeared a number of buildings, only they were above the horizon and inverted. It was one of the strangest and, to me, one of the grandest sights I had ever beheld. The farther we traveled towards it, the more the "houses" appeared to change and present an altogether different appearance, I was completely enraptured by the sight and it was some time before I could take my eyes from it. Perhaps I ought to add that I was also dumbfounded. I did not like to expose my ignorance to the driver on my first trip overland, but I was so completely nonplussed that, pointing in its direction, I finally asked him if he could explain the strange objects in the distance. "That," said the driver, "is mirage." This was something new to me, but I had read a little about it in books and papers when a boy, and had since noticed a few pictures purporting to represent the remarkable phenomenon as it appeared at sea when vessels could be seen apparently floating upside down, seemingly in space above the waves, as if reflected |
by a mirror. However, I little dreamed of having the pleasure of seeing such a sight myself, especially on what was then called the "Great American Desert." One of the most interesting attractions caused by the strange phenomena, on the Platte, some time later in 1863, was a vast herd of buffalo, apparently grazing on the range, some distance to the south of the river. The sight was one greatly admired by all the passengers on the stage-coach. It was a genuine treat, for many of them for the first time in their lives imagined they were almost in shooting distance of the shaggy bison, and soon would be within a stone's throw of them. Every few moments it seemed that they were gaining on the "sights"; but, as they passed on, it was observed somehow they never would get any nearer to them, when suddenly they would vanish. Time and again I viewed with delight the strange and remarkable phenomenon in the '60's along the Platte route. As time passed by I finally became so accustomed to the strange sights, from my frequent trips on the great stage line, that nothing strange was thought of them. Still, it was always a source of pleasure to gaze upon the apparently charming lakes fringed with forest-trees, the beautiful buildings and castles which would break the monotony of the plains, and many other objects which would for a moment appear, and, just as quickly, vanish like the mist. Such scenes cannot be accurately described; no pen can vividly picture them; the wildest imagination fails to comprehend them; they must be seen before even anything like a correct conception of them can be obtained. Located on the frontier, not far from the route of the Overland Stage Company's Line, in the early `60's, there was a fellow from Kansas who was known quite widely in the vicinity as "Ranger" Jones. He resided a few miles from the base of the eastern slope of the Rockies, in plain view of Long's Peak and the Snowy Range. He claimed to be, and doubtless was, an old plainsman and pioneer resident of the great West. If he had not lived long enough out on the frontier to gain a residence as an honorable, law-abiding citizen, he certainly had been there a sufficient time to enjoy a reputation among his neighbors as a first-class prevaricator. Jones spent a Sunday on the South Platte, near the Cache la Poudre, at Latham station, in the spring of 1864, and I had several hours' conversation with him. To tell the truth, I soon |
|
MEETING AN UGLY LOOKING ENEMY. Page 250. |
discovered, seemed almost an impossibility with Jones, but for downright lying no one would question his ability to double discount any one on the overland line. While the station keeper, stock tender and a couple of drivers and two or three ranchmen were all passing away the time telling stories on that Sunday at Latham, the "Ranger," just before starting home, told a yarn with all the solemnity possible. I had already discovered that he was a smooth, quite graceful story-teller. All in the room was as quiet as death, while each person sat attentively listening to one of his blood-curdling "personal" experiences. Having finished, for a few seconds all was continued silence, until a jolly fellow who had had not a little exciting experience as a driver on the plains and in the mountains looked the big story-teller squarely in the eye and remarked: "I hope, 'Ranger' Jones, that you don't expect me to believe this story." Looking the experienced driver closely in the eye, Jones, after dwelling a few seconds, said: "Well--no--really l don't. The fact is, I have lived out here in this Western country so long, and have been in the habit of telling so many d--d lies, the truth of it is, now, that I don't know when I can believe myself." Almost endless changes have taken place on the old overland road since those days of staging, and freighting with ox and mule teams. The sights along the route, however, are not enjoyed by the traveler to-day as they were nearly forty years ago. Now the tourist sees the region only for a brief time from the car window, as he is whirled across the continent in a palace coach in two days by the pioneer Union Pacific railroad. In the days of the Concord stage, nearly three weeks were consumed in the long journey from the Missouri river to the golden shores of the Pacific. The beaten highway along the Platte valley, over which hundreds of thousands of oxen, mules and horses annually trod, was almost constantly lined with white-covered prairie-schooners. Hundreds of teams daily passed along it. Ranches from ten to twenty-five miles apart furnished the tired teamster and weary pilgrim a place of entertainment at night, after the long, tedious day's drive. Frequently the way was obstructed by immense herds of buffalo, which almost daily crossed the old overland highway and slaked their thirst in the Platte. The Indians rode |
 |
 |
 |
 |
© 1999, 2000, 2001 for the NEGenWeb by Pam Rietsch, Ted & Carole Miller