CROSSING THE PLAIN WITH A COVERED WAGON TRAIN IN 1860 - James P. Locke [Submitted by Marilyn A. Walker Vollmer]

 [quote] I had been sick with inflammation of the lungs and rheumatism, and the doctor told my uncle that a trip across the Plains to California would be good for me – that it would either kill or cure me,

I heard of a company that was to start shortly from Beloit, a town about 12 miles from Janesville, Wis., where I then lived with my uncle and family. My aunt wrote to the head of the company, whose name was Cutts, and who replied that they were going to start on the 15th of April and that he would take me for 60 dollars, at that time considered quite a sum of money. But I was anxious to go, so my trip was paid for, and I was taken to Beloit in a buggy by a man named Martin. We arrived there about 4 o’clock in the afternoon and found Tom Cutts fighting drunk, swearing that he would not leave the town till he had licked the best man in it.

That frightened me so that I wanted Martin to take me back with him to Janesville. I did not want to go with a man like that, but Martin told me not to mind – that Cutts would be all right the next morning. So he started back to Janesville, leaving me very dejected. Some friends of his took me to Tom Cutts’ home where I was treated well. And the next morning he was all right.

There were three white canvas covered wagons, one owned by a man named Carroll, a two-seated light spring wagon into which I climbed and took my seat on the back seat. Carroll had two small horses, and as he jumped to his seat with his reins in the hand, his team gave one spring into the air causing such a jerk that it landed me head-over-heels in the street with the seat on top of me.

Thus was the inglorious start of my trip west.

It was half an hour before I came to and found myself in a drug store with a big crowd in front. But when I got up from the lounge, the only ill effects I felt was a pain in the back which left me after a few days.
So, without further delay, we traveled on, and the first night we slept in a hay loft. And, although I was doubled up with one of the other passengers, I was cold and my teeth chattered. After a while I fell asleep, but before daylight I was awakened by my bedfellow who I saw in the dim light standing with a dagger in his hand. I thought right away that he was going to kill me, you can bet that I was scared. But it turned out that he had lain down with his belt and weapons on, and was only trying to make himself more comfortable by removing them.

Nothing unusual happened in the next few days as we traveled westward. The weather was fine and the early spring blossoms dotted the fields. Toward evening we would begin looking for a good camping place with wood and water the principal items to watch for. The pain in my back left me. And although we had not tents, I did not seem to suffer from the exposure. If it rained, the men would sleep in the covered wagons and I would shift for myself. There was not room for all in the wagons, and we would crawl underneath or into any other place for shelter.

One evening about camping time a storm came up and some of us ran for a deserted old house some distance away. All night we lay on the floor while the rain came down in torrents and the wind blew a hurricane, taking off part of the roof.

In the morning it was calm and beautiful. But our horses, covered wagons and contents, including men, had suffered worse than we had.

We were now passing through Iowa, and at noon, while crossing a creek, we came upon lots of big frogs. We caught a large bucketful of them and fried the hind parts, which to me tasted better than any other kind of meat I had ever eaten.

Our Mr. Cutts (we called him “Captain”) was an expert in preparing a meal of that kind. He had but one failing – the love for whiskey. And to get that, he would trade anything in the outfit.

That part of Iowa through which we were passing was very bare of woods and there were no railroads, so we saw very few settlers…

After a few days we arrived at Council Bluffs, which was the outfitting point at that time for westbound emigrants, for, after crossing the Missouri River, there was no other place. So Captain Cutts bought our tent, bacon, flour and other provisions and things supposed to be enough to last us four months.
One night, while we were there it rained, and not far from the camp was a vacant house which the people said was haunted. It was open, so about eight of us braced up enough courage to try it for the one night. We were all stretched out on the floor when one of the inside doors blew open with such force that it scared me so much that I pulled my blanket up over my head. There must have been a cellar underneath, for very soon an unearthly sound came from below. But being with a crowd I soon recovered enough to fall asleep. I slept till the first peep of day, when I saw that I was all alone; the others had all left. So you can bet I soon left, too.

We were camped at the foot of the bluff. I remember that it was quite a distance from the Missouri, which we had to cross by ferrying the old-fashioned way. After crossing we proceeded up the road towards the little town of Omaha and drove right through it without stopping, camping quite a distance out and near a lot of Pawnee Indians. They were certainly not a very clean-looking tribe.

They were the first Indians we had seen in any great numbers. The next morning I lagged behind to buy a pair of mocassins. After I bought them, the Pawnees held me up and pulled the strings out of them, but I was glad to get away from them for by now my company was nearly out of sight.

One morning, as we were breaking out of camp, eight men on horses rode up and demanded a man who had been passing counterfeit bank bills on the few settlers that we had passed. But he must have seen them coming from a distance, for he was gone when they rode up, hiding among the brush. The captain paid the horsemen 50 dollars and they rode away. Shortly thereafter, the culprit came sneaking back into camp, and we proceeded on our way.

One bright, sunny morning we saw off in the distance quite a body of Indians riding toward us. They proved to be a band of Sioux warriors on the warpath against the Pawnees. When they rode up to our camp they merely grunted a salute, then passed on. Seeing them at first at the distance with the sun shining on their strings of silver breastplates was a grand and inspiring sight.

We soon came to the Platte River, which we followed for several weeks without much change. The valley is quite wide and then in the month of May, the river was very wide but shallow. Years later, going East in September on a trip, the great Platte River had all but disappeared. A little stream was pointed out to me, but seeing things from a railroad car window, and travelling by horse and covered wagons at the rate of 24 or 25 miles a day is quite different. Also, the season was different.

One night we had a heavy wind and thunder storm. Four men had to hold down the four corners of the tent. A horse staked outside was knocked down, and a man was blinded.

The rain came down in torrents and sifted right through our canvas tents. The flat lowland on which we were camped had all of six inches of water on it.

But the next morning the storm had passed and quite a lot of wild ducks were flying around. The water soon subsided and we proceeded on our way.

We were on the north side of the river. The valley is quite wide and the hills seemed quite a distance away, beyond which I suppose were the homes of the Indians. We did not see many – only an occasional one or two, riding across the prairie on horseback without saddle or bridle, but with different kinds of straps around them and Buffalo meat in strips tied on to dry and cure as they rode along.

At night we had to stake out our horses. The least thing would stampede them, for they seemed to be more easily scared than ourselves. The wagons would form a circle, creating a corral, inside of which the tents would be pitched and the “house-work” done. A guard was stationed near the horses, sometimes a little distance from the camp and where the best feed could be found. I had to take my turn on watch with the men. One would be on until midnight, then he would call another who would stand guard until morning.

Despite the guard, once in a while, on a very dark night, there would be a stampeded. And when they started, there was no stopping them. The horses would jerk up the stakes and disappear into the darkness. And the next morning it might be 10 o’clock before we got started. It might have been the scent of some animal or possibly some Indian some distance away that would startle them.

In the distance along the Platte Valley we would see lots of antelope and sometimes large herds of buffalo. The buffalo were sometimes stampeded by the Indians, who would ride wildly down from the hills making loud noises. The buffalo would then lower their heads and start running. And when they came to the river, they would go right over a six-foot embankment. In fact, nothing could stop them or even turn them once they had started on their mad flight.

I suppose the Indians expected some of them to be killed or crippled, and it was one of their ways of getting food.

The coyote was a sly, sneaky animal. Just as it was getting dark, he would make an appearance on the distant hills and howl. Sometimes he would muster up courage enough to sneak into camp and grab anything it could to eat without being noticed. One night the coyotes made off with a man’s boot and he was in a bad fix, for he had no other.

We came within sight of Chimney Rock on the south side of the river, and it remained within sight for some days. Also on the south side we saw Ash Hollow where, we learned, there had been an Indian massacre some years before. And we soon came within sight of Pike’s Peak and remained within sight of it for all of two weeks.

About that time the Pike’s Peak gold excitement had started, for we saw one covered wagon with a sign painted on it reading: “Pike’s Peak of Bust.” Two of our men got the fever, and when we came to the nearest point opposite the Peak, Captain Cutts outfitted them with a pony and provision. The Lord knows where they got more, for from where we were, their destination seemed a long distance away and they had the river to cross. But we bid them God-speed, and never heard from them thereafter.

There was no wood along the Platte River, so the only thing we had to use as fuel for cooking was buffalo chips. Our captain would often recite: “There’s not a log to make a seat along the river Platte, sir. So when you eat, you’ve to stand, or sit down square and flat, sir.”

We soon came within sight of Fort Laramie (not to be confused with the town Laramie, although both are in Wyoming) and the Loop Fork of the Platte River which we had to cross. There was an old-fashioned ferryboat there which lowered an apron down, after drawing as close to the shore as possible. Then the teams would climb up the apron, which had cleats nailed across it. It was watching one particular team which started upon the apron and, when they got near the top, the boat was pushed right out from under them and the horses were dropped into deep water. They had quite a time getting on, but finally crossed the river safely except for being badly soaked.

Captain Cutts, more to save money than for any other reason, decided to ford the river. There were stakes driven into the river which the teams were to follow. The water was muddy, and the bottom of quicksand you could feel drifting away under your feet. One of our teams broke a double-tree, and as I was wading along beside them, they sent me back ashore for another set. But before starting back, one of the men gave me a drink of whiskey. I got back with my load all right, and then started for shore again, but got off the track and soon I was in deep water. I could see ripples ahead where I knew the water was shallow, and by jumping and keeping my footing, I soon reached the shallow place. Then I saw a man coming on horseback for me. He had a job getting me out of the water onto the horses, but finally succeeded. And I often thought it was the whiskey which put me off the track.

We used to watch for the Pony Express to pass along. We would see them coming for a long distance. And, if the wagon road was crooked, the riders would cut across when they could in order to save distance. When they came into a station, a pony would be standing by, saddled and ready to receive the mailbag so the rider could be off again at once.

After leaving Fort Laramie, Pike’s Peak passed out of sight. We soon got into the Black Hills. (More likely the Laramie Range or what amounts to southern foothills of the Black Hills.) We often came to Indian villages, and we often saw some nice looking little ones playing around, and maidens combing and braiding each other’s hair. They were friendly, and I think the name of that tribe was Blackfoot.

A little ways back from the road at intervals were the prairie dog villages.

These little animals would sit on the mounds by their holes and give out little yelping barks. But at the least sign of danger they would dodge into their holes, then soon bob up, seeming to peek around.

Along the trail we had no vegetables and some of the men began to develop scurvy. So we cooked some kind of greens we found, and which seemed to produce the desired effect.

We soon came to Fort Bridger, and there we learned a soldier had been sent out after a horse thief. Our road led right through the fort, through which we passed into the hills. The next day we met the soldier on his way back to the fort with the stolen horse. He told us he had shot the man and buried him near the road. Later we passed by the very shallow grave in which the body of the unknown man lay, and which we expect was soon taken by wild animals.

We soon began to ascend the Rocky Mountains (the Central Rockies, or Northern Wasatch Mountains), which did not seem to be very steep. But in the distance we could see high snow-capped peaks, and in a gully by the road we passed a deep bed of snow. On reaching the summit and looking back, I could see what looked like a great valley, and, nearby, two streams of water, one running east, the other west. (Probably the Green River, which runs east there but later joins the Colorado River in the south, and the Opal Fork.)

From then on the descent was rugged and rocky. And in a few days we arrived at the entrance of Echo Canyon, at night and I remember lying down on one end of my blanket and rolling in it till I got to the other end

One side of the canyon is very precipitous, and along the edge on the top, a wall of stones had been built, running for some distance; and on the other side, rifle pits had been dug. A trench ran from one side to the other, but it had been filled in at the road crossing. Those preparations were made by the Mormons to combat Johnston’s army which was sent to Salt Lake City by Uncle Sam two years prior to our trip – 1858. But the army found another way of getting in, and escaped the trap which had been set for them.

After going through the canyon we passed through some fine scenery, past some hot springs and then cold springs within a short distance of each other, and then over big and little mountains. We soon came within sight of the Great Salt Lake Valley, and in the distance we could see the city and still further away the Great Salt Lake.

We descended into the valley and camped near the city. We had not been there long when women came out from their nearby homes, trying to sell vegetables from their gardens which were very acceptable to us because we had been so long without that kind of food. The women seemed intelligent, but poorly dressed in blue denim or the cloth that men’s overalls were made of. We were camped there nearly two weeks, and some of our men went on a Sunday to hear Brigham Young preach. I walked past his residences – two adjoining mansions. The main entrance to the grounds was through large and high gates, one mounted by a figure of a lion, the other by an American eagle. An armed guard marched back and forth on the walk in front.

After leaving the city and traveling about 10 miles west we passed over a bridge that spanned what was then called by the Mormons the River Jordan, and soon we came to the Dead Sea (Great Salt Lake). Our road was about 200 yards from the lake. Some of our men went down to the beach which looked white from the distance, I suppose because of the salt.

From there on we kept joining other wagon trains until there were nearly 100 wagons in line, since the Indians were reported to be “bad” between Salt Lake City and Carson Valley.

The Pony Express stations were all enclosed by stone walls about seven feet high with square holes for the occupants to see through and shoot through if necessary. At one station we passed, three dead Indians were lying outside, and the defender lay dead inside. It was supposed that many Indians were wounded before the station keeper (or keepers) was killed.

Near one station where we camped one night were two small lakes fed by hot springs. They were about 30 feet wide and about 50 feet long, narrowing to about three feet in width where the water escaped. The deepest part of the little lakes was between three and four feet. And the bottoms of coarse sand and the pleasantly warm water made for ideal bathing.

At the station that night we had dancing the music being furnished by a fiddler from the station.

At about 2 o’clock in the morning there was quite a lot of excitement. Everyone was awakened by the sound of horses’ feet coming toward the camp. In the still hours of the night the sound carried clearly. All the men had their guns ready, supposing an attack from Indians was impending. But very soon the Pony Express rider dashed up to the camp, taking it to be the station, and as he saw his mistake, he hastily hollered out: “Hold on, boys! Pony Express!”

He was leading an extra horse which had caused the excitement.

The next day we reached Deep Creek, a very narrow stream but quite deep. Major Egan, an officer of some degree, came on the same road with us in a light covered wagon, accompanied by the fiddler of the night before. On coming through Egan Canyon, the fiddler was shot dead. And his body was brought into Deep Creek Station by the major.

After leaving Deep Creek Station, we soon came onto the desert where grass and water were very scarce. The poor horses soon began to suffer for the want of those life savers.
Once we came to a waterhole – that is a hole dug into the sand about six feet deep, from the bottom of which we could dip up a cupful of water, then wait for another cupful to seep in. We would carry water in cans or buckets, and give the horses a little at a time.

One day a storm struck – it was a regular cloudburst. The rain fell in torrents, and the whole valley was knee-deep in water in half an hour. And in another half hour it was clear and hot, and you could hardly tell that it had rained at all. The water had sunk into the sand and the surface of the soil seemed bone dry again.

Fortunately, the Pony Express stations had wells.

We could only make 10 or 15 miles a day, for it was very hard pulling through the sand. And sometimes we would travel nights. The sand was so deep and the horses so weak that they would have to stop every little while. We would then walk on ahead and when we got a few miles ahead of the teams, we would lie down and sleep until they caught up.

One night we were camped near a station and there were several Indians around who performed an Indian war dance. They were all painted and decorated up with their feathers and had their war implements. They formed a large circle and began dancing around, shouting their war whoops and getting more and more excited until they were completely tired out.

It was a good exhibition of a regular Indian war dance, but, lucky for us, they were peaceful.

To me this side of Salt Lake seemed one range of hills after another with valley between. Looking from one range across to the other, they appeared to be only two or three miles apart, but it would take us all day to cross the valleys which were nearly 30 miles in width.

We were now near what was called the Mountain Meadows were in 1858 more than 200 emigrants, journeying peacefully toward their destination in California, were attacked and brutally murdered by Indians and Mormons disguised as Indians, led by a Mormon named, I think, Lee. He was arrested several years afterwards and tried for the terrible crime by the U. S. government, then taken out to where the atrocity was committed and shot.

Brigham Young, head of the Mormon church, whom some also thought guilty, died before his trial came off.

There were a great many little children in the company of murdered emigrants.

One night while we were camped in a canyon, I crossed a gulch to gather wood. I heard a terrible roar and looking up, saw a high wall of water coming at me. I scrambled up high enough to be clear of it, but had to wait till it passed before I could get back to camp on the other side. It was the result of a cloudburst op the canyon.

We soon arrived at the sink of the Carson River where there was plenty of good feed for the horses, and better food for ourselves, being near Virginia City. There our company disbanded and each individual was left to shift for himself, as all had concluded that they could do better there at the new silver mines than in California. [unquote]

(Editor’s note [by Marilyn Walker Vollmer]: This concludes James P. Locke’s story of his journey west as a boy of 16 with a wagon train in 1860. This was written in 1925 when he was 81and his niece typed the story from his notes, James P. Locke went on to San Francisco to make his home with his Uncle Guy Buckingham owner of Buckingham & Hecht Shoe Co., where he lived for some time. He married Bessie Bridget Regan July 17th 1867 in San Francisco. Around 1900 they moved to Marin (across the bay from San Francisco). He died in 1982 at the age of 89 in Oakland, California, at the home of one of his daughters.)