twice around my head, and, with a sudden jerk, threw him at least ten feet high and fully three rods away. In swinging the animal round his weight tore the flesh from my finger, badly lacerating it, and he fell heavily to the ground, remaining insensible for a few seconds, but recovered and ran into the station. The stage boys saw me going through some unusually queer antics--dancing around like a chicken with its head cut off and yelling like a wild Comanche--trying to shake off the "pet." They all looked at me and laughed at the fun: they thought it a splendid show, but I couldn't see anything especially funny to laugh at. On the contrary, I never before felt so much like swearing; but on this occasion I was like the fellow who thought he was unable to do the subject justice. The station keeper was a looker-on, and witnessed all the fun; so he joined in with the drivers and laughed just as heartily as they. After it was all over, he tried to console me by saying that the dog was merely "playing with me"; but all this I felt was little consolation. In consequence of the bite I suffered intense pain for hours; but I have something to show for the "fun." It is a scar that I shall carry as long as life lasts, which will make me remember until the end that "pet" prairie-dog. Speaking of prairie-dogs, we are reminded that a pair of the animals, in the '80's, by some means got to Lawrence, Kan., and, according to a paper, "located in the Union Pacific park. They were not disturbed, and they multiplied rapidly, until now they hold possession of about ten square rods in the park, and number several hundred. They have not disturbed the gardens in the vicinity, and they are very tame. The citizens feed them with cabbages during the winter. The 'town' is increasing its limits rapidly, and it may not be long before Lawrence will have to take up arms against the little animals." During my various trips on the overland stage, I took but one drink of liquor, but I refused 126 invitations to "take something" on my first round trip across the plains, in January and February, 1863. It was during the spring of that year, while going west between Valley and Beaver Creek stations, that I was caught in one of the worst storms I ever experienced on the plains. On this trip I had forgotten to take my rubber coat with me. My clothes were soaked to my skin. The rain was followed by sleet for some time, winding up with such a blinding snow |
storm that it was with difficulty we could see the leaders. Before I was aware of it I was nearly frozen, while thus facing the fierce nor'wester, with every stitch of clothing covering me wet through. The driver had on a gum coat and was safe from the storm, but I was thoroughly chilled and, with my clothing frozen stiff, could hardly move. The nine passengers inside the coach saw that I was in a serious condition and that something must be done for me at once. One of them volunteered to change seats with me. He had a bottle of brandy, and, pouring out a glassful, he gave it to me. I drank it, but felt no more ill effects than if it had been so much sweet cider or water. It was apparently just what I needed at the time, and it probably saved me from a dangerous spell of sickness--perhaps saved my life; but had I drank one-fourth the amount under other conditions there is little doubt that I would have been a fit subject for the calaboose, and, in due time, perhaps, working out a fine on the rock pile. In the spring of 1863, while making my third or fourth trip as messenger on the overland stage line between Atchison and Denver, I had an experience that furnished an incident I shall never forget. At Fort Kearney, on the way west, I was notified by several of the stage men that there was a man just getting over the smallpox. who was anxious to get to his home in Denver. He was isolated, in a little log building, a few rods west of the stage station, and sent for me to come and see him; he wanted to talk with me. I went to his room and saw him, and he told me a truly pitiable tale; how he was taken sick on his way home and obliged to stop there; and how, like a dog, he had been lying in his present dingy quarters for two or three weeks, apparently shunned like a viper, and how his family and his business at Denver required his immediate presence, etc. His face, as he looked at me, presented a horrible sight. It resembled a pounded beefsteak more than it did that of a human being, and I hardly knew, under the circumstances, what to do. There was no seat for him or any one else in the stage. He was a stranger to me and had his passage paid to Denver; but the agent of the stage line at Fort Kearney had refused to allow him a seat in the coach, owing to the vigorous protests that had been made by the passengers. For five minutes or more we talked the matter over. I told him there was no room on the coach for a passenger; besides, I thought it dangerous, not only for himself |
but for others going overland, to take him along. There was danger of his taking cold, which would complicate matters and make his case, in my mind, extremely critical. He recognized the possible dangers, but he was getting desperate. He assured me that he was perfectly willing, so far as he was individually concerned, to take all risks. It so happened on that trip that I was all alone, but I had a full coach load of express packages, and there was not a passenger out of Atchison for the West. There was something in the man's eye and the tone of his conversation that pleased me. I wanted to accommodate him, if possible to do so. Remembering that I had had a siege of varioloid six years before, and that I was supposed to be proof against the smallpox myself, I told the stranger that I was all alone and would try and make "room for one more"; and that if he could put up with such accommodations as I could fix for him he could go through with me. He assured me that he could put up with anything. I rearranged the boxes and packages as best I could, and spread his robe and blankets on top of them so he could lie down quite comfortably, but it was out of the question to fix one of the coach seats for him. The fact that he was allowed to go with me appeared to be one of the happiest events of his life. At once his heretofore despondent feelings changed, and he appeared like a different person. I inquired of the stranger his name, and learned it was George Tritch. He kept a small stove and tin-shop in a little rough, one-story frame building on the west side of F street (Fifteenth), a few doors north of Blake street. For nearly 400 miles we had the coach all to ourselves. At night I turned in with my companion, and, with the assistance of my robe and blankets, we had a bed good enough for a Pullman car, and slept together all the way up the Platte for four nights. Several way-passengers along the route wanted a seat in the stage, but the sight of "the gentleman from Denver" scared them away in a hurry, particularly after learning he had just got out of bed from a terrible siege of smallpox. During the trip I did everything I possibly could for my unfortunate companion. Every hour we seemed to get better acquainted. We had both traveled the "rough and rugged road" years before, and soon became the warmest friends. During those four days and nights we had a jolly good time, for the sick man |
had somehow forgotten that he had ever been sick. I found him a pleasant, warm-hearted, genial traveling companion, a pleasant conversationalist, and we became quite devotedly attached during the long, monotonous stage ride. That was more than a third of a century ago, when we were both young men (he a few years my senior), but the time has swept swiftly by. Mr. Tritch was one of the Denver pioneers, and, although I had not seen him for nearly a score of years, I can never forget him and the good opinion I formed of him on our journeying together by stage up the Platte years before a railroad had been built across the plains. I am pleased to learn that, for a quarter of a century, he was one of the foremost business men of Denver, independently wealthy, an honored, highly esteemed citizen, of whom the entire city and the great state of Colorado could justly feel proud. While I was in the employ of the overland stage line in the early '60's Mr. Tritch often saw me and thanked me for the kindness and attention I had shown him at a time that then appeared the darkest and most gloomy days of his early life. He died at his home in Denver in 1899. Sometimes there would be a load of jolly passengers who, finding it impossible to sleep for the first few nights out, would want to do something to relieve the monotony of the long, tedious stage ride. It frequently happened that some one of the number would have a pack of cards in his pocket, and a game of whist, euchre or old sledge would be indulged in for pastime. Now and then there would be some one who thought there was hardly enough fascination about such amusement, and a change would be made to the more exciting game of poker. At intervals during the civil war I saw poker played by people crossing the plains by stage when the "ante" would be nothing less than a five-dollar greenback. Many of the passengers were provided with apparatus for lights on the trip. Although the lights were far from being equal to the dazzling brilliancy of the modern electric, or even the kerosene light, in reality they were not much ahead of the old-time tallow dip used in the backwoods a half-century ago. Under the circumstances, the light appeared to answer all purposes--even for the entertaining game they were so enthusiastically engaged in. But, in gambling, some one must always lose. Complaints were made in due time to the division agents by some of the pas- |
sengers who had, as they claimed, been "roped in" and had lost heavily at the exciting game. An effort was made by the official, to stop passengers from gambling in the stage-coaches while en route, but it was found an impossibility to enforce any such edict. Not infrequently there were some good singers among a coach load of passengers, and they would now and then entertain their fellows, whiling away the weary hours with some of their choicest vocal pieces, At times they would be singing some of the sweetest hymns; then again a change would be made to a comic or some lively patriotic song. Occasionally there were some good storytellers among them, and they would entertain their companions with yarns that perhaps were not always as moral and chaste in character as they should have been, but they served to prevent an attack of the dyspepsia. Now and then there would be a passenger who would deliver to the "large and respectable" audience inside a regular broadside speech on politics or some other topic. If it happened to be the Fourth of July, a sort of "spread eagle" discourse was almost sure to be forthcoming. While making a journey in the summer of 1863, 1 well remember a half-dozen through passengers on their college vacation overland. In the party there appeared to be a little of everything going on and much that never ought to have been tolerated in a civilized community. The party was composed of a sort of seemingly good-natured fellows, but there was apparently nothing in the way of college scrapes and deviltry that they were not versed in. They were all splendid talkers and could sing nicely, but they were a sacrilegious crowd. With sanctimonious faces, in all solemnity, they would go, through with the services of an old-fashioned revival. First, all, would join in singing a good, old Methodist hymn; "Parson Jones" would offer a short prayer and preach a brief but able discourse; "Elder Brown" would then give out a hymn in which the "congregation" would all join and sing; "Deacon Smith" would then make a fervent prayer; then "Brother Obadiah" and "Brother Hezekiah" would give their experience, and tell "how good they felt" to be there. When the "exercises" were about drawing to a close, "Brother Johnson" suggested that, as one of the most important parts of the meeting was likely to be overlooked, he would call their attention to the indispensable duty of passing the contribution box, |
at the same time exhorting the "brethering" to shell out liberally to help on his back salary and to liquidate a long standing church debt. His hat was substituted for the box and passed around, without getting a cent. After an examination of the result of the "collection," the "parson" returned thanks for getting his hat back. He then gave out a hymn beginning: That yields me no supply." "Deacon Smith" suggested that they
ought to close by singing the "sockdologer." The order of
exercises was then changed, The demijohn was passed and each
drank freely. Then they sang another hymn, and this was
followed by a talk. In a short time they had all become
boozy and were somewhat boisterous. Another "good old hymn"
was sung, winding up with a sacrilegious effusion: And we will drink it all." In a short time the outcome was a
regular old-fashioned carousal. A sort of rough and tumble
play followed, in which all took a hand; then came a
knock-down argument; and the final result was blows and
black eyes and bloody noses, which so soon had taken the
place of the solemn (?) proceedings that had occurred a few
minutes before. |
all the way from Denver, and, while he couldn't induce any of the passengers to stop off with him over Sunday, he decided to stop by himself. A day's stop-over, he said, wouldn't delay him long; besides, he couldn't think of traveling on the Sabbath. Failing to get any passengers to stop off with him, he tried his best to get me to join him, and remain. over Sunday with him at Sandy until the arrival of the east-bound coach. He was an earnest talker, but with all his forcible entreaties he failed to fetch me to time. He waited patiently at the station for twenty-four hours, and the sight of the next coach coming in from California was something extremely pleasant to him. With grip in hand, and greatly refreshed from his Sabbath-day rest after so long a stage ride, he was ready to take his seat in the old Concord, but was soon sorely disappointed. The stage-coach happened to be crowded with through passengers, and there was no room either inside or on top of the vehicle for another person. The old adage "always room for one more" did n't seem to work in this instance. The Gospel expounder for the time being was stumped--could n't tell what to do. His business, he argued, was extremely urgent. He tried to reason with Ed. Farrell, the station agent at Sandy insisted that he had a right to a seat; but he was told that, according to the rules of the stage company, he had forfeited his seat by stopping off; his only alternative now was to wait until there was room. This the preacher undoubtedly knew to be true; still he was so anxious to get away he could not help reasoning with the agent. It was not long until he began to realize that he must put in another long twenty-four hours at the station. The arrival of the next stage-coach east-bound gave him no relief; for, like the one that had preceded this one, it, too, was crowded with through passengers, and the excited, anxious preacher was again obliged to stop at least another day. The next stage from the west arrived on time, and, to the mortification of the learned divine, it also was crowded; so was the next one, and the next, and the next. Five stages from the west continued to arrive for that number of days in succession, each one so filled with passengers that there was not room for another. Finally, by mere chance, he was able, after waiting six days and nights at Big Sandy, to get a seat. As he climbed up into the old coach the drivers and all around the station eagerly |
watched him. When they saw he was to get away at last they thought he was one of the happiest men they ever saw. He certainly was glad to get away; but he did not reach Atchison until the following Sunday morning, just as the bells were ringing and the churchgoing people on their way to the various houses of worship throughout the city. He spent the Sabbath at the Massasoit House, speaking in the evening at one of the churches, having had a week in which to prepare a special "broadsider" for the occasion. He opened his batteries on the overland stage line. The principal part of his remarks were in denouncing, in most severe terms, the officials and nearly every one else in any manner connected with Ben. Holladay's stage line. Many a time, way out on the plains as far as one could see, have I noticed, while sitting on the stage-box with the driver, a tiny cloud of dust, but could only conjecture what might have caused it. Small as it appeared at first, it would steadily grow larger and, for a few moments, invariably set one to thinking and asking himself "What is it?" Who knows but it might be a squad of cavalry scouting along the Platte; possibly it might be a band of hostile savages preparing for the war-path; or perhaps it might be a train of ox or mule overland freight wagons. No one at first could tell. The cloud was becoming larger and rapidly drawing nearer. We knew that it would not be long until our curiosity would be gratified. Soon it was discovered to be the approaching stage-coach, which could now and then be seen in spite of the dust, as it rounded a curve and gently rocked to and fro on its thoroughbraces. The two vehicles were steadily coming nearer together. Only a minute or two more and the prancing, foaming steeds bitched to the two Concords had drawn up and stopped alongside each other. After the drivers had exchanged the usual "Howdy," and perhaps with a laugh or a joke, or "Give me a chaw of tobacker," or "Will you join me in a drink of 'tarantula juice'?" each would then throw the lash into his leaders, and the two vehicles were almost instantly moving away from each other towards the rising and setting sun. In making one of my trips in the summer of 1863, the stage stopped a few minutes at a ranch on the South Platte just in time for us to hear the wagon bosses of two ox trains trying to settle some trifling dispute. The two men were once old friends and doing business together, but they were now at outs. The longer -33 |
they continued arguing, the farther apart they seemed to be from a settlement. Both were armed, and first it looked to an outsider as if a shooting scrape was inevitable. I never learned how they adjusted their differences; but if one could believe half what each said, both were awfully mean men. In arguing they became extremely personal, and alternately, in rapid succession, continued to bombard each other with a string of "chin music that was especially forcible if not elegant. When the stage moved away, apparently they were no nearer a settlement, but still exchanging vulgar epithets. They shook their fists defiantly, and the vilest maledictions appeared to roll from their tongues as easily as water runs off a duck's back. While on the way east down the South Platte, on one of my trips in the summer of 1863, going from the Bijou to Beaver Creek station, there was an ugly slough several rods wide to cross. As repaired, the road was barely wide enough for two vehicles, by the most careful driving, to pass. The stage company, at considerable expense, had fixed up the crossing in good shape for their own accommodation, and, quite naturally, precedence should be given the fast mail-coach in going across this part of the road. It so happened that, as the east-bound stage came to the west approacb, a man west bound, with a single team and spring wagon, at the same instant, reached the east approach. The stage-driver yelled in ample time to the fellow to wait there until he got across. But, instead of doing so, he insultingly replied: "Go to h--- , you --- -----. Both started at the same instant, the stage-driver quickly giving his team a cut from the lash, and the animals suddenly dashed ahead. There was a collision. It reminded one a little of two trains attempting to pass each other on a single track. The old-reliable Concord coach came across the slough apparently as sound as the day it left the shops, but the pilgrim was not so fortunate with his vehicle. It was a three-wheeled concern after the collision. Nearly three weeks afterward, when I made MY next trip to Denver, the fellow was camping at the same old spot. He had had ample time for reflection, but he got out of there, a few days afterward, doubtless a wiser man, having been obliged to send the demolished wheel more than 100 miles, to Denver, the nearest shop, for repairs. |
In the Kearney Herald of November 17, 1866, appeared the following items: "A considerable snow-storm occurred on Tuesday evening, and a big frost the same night. The Platte is full of floating ice." |
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