California, 1849-1913 | Page 2

a little coffee and some cakes and bacon, then I undertook to do a little
sleeping but it was no go. Thus ended my first night on the Plains.
In the morning we started on our journey to travel over a level
untimbered, uninhabited country for nearly four hundred miles, without
anything of especial interest occurring save cholera, from which there
was terrible suffering. We lost about seventy-five of our number before
we reached Fort Laramie, seven hundred miles from Missouri.
There was a Dutchman in my mess by the name of Lamalfa, who
understood but little of English. We had dubbed him "Macaroni" for
having brought a lot of the stuff with him and on our second night out it
came his turn to stand guard. He was detailed to the inner guard and
instructed as to his duties. On the relief of the outer sentinel and his
return to camp, Lamalfa issued the challenge which was to repeat three
times "Who comes there?" and in case of no response to fire, and as the
outer sentinel came upon him he called out "Who comes there three
times" and fired; fortunately he was a poor shot and no harm was done.
It seems that "Macaroni" was not aware of there being an outer guard.
When near Fort Childs, four hundred miles out, all the passengers left
the wagons, except the drivers, and walked on in advance, leaving the
wagons light (they were canvas covered). There came up one of those
terrible hailstorms, common in that country, which pelted the mules
with such severity as to cause them to take fright and run away,

breaking loose from the wagons which were taken by the storm in
another direction, first wheels up, then top, until the latter was all in
rags; then they stopped. When we came into camp at night they looked
sorry enough and you would have thought they had just come out of a
fierce fight.
We pursued our journey along the south bank of the Platte until we
reached Fort Laramie, capturing some antelopes and occasionally a
buffalo. Up to this time we had had a great deal of sickness in camp. I
remember one poor fellow (his name I have forgotten), we called him
Chihuahua Bob; he was a jovial, good natured fellow and drove one of
the eight-mule baggage wagons. I enquired about him one morning and
was told that he had died during the night of cholera, and had been left
in his shallow grave.
We met some returning emigrants that morning who had become
discouraged and were going back to their old homes This made me
think of home and friends, the domestic happy fireside, and all that I
had left behind, "but," said I to myself, "this won't do, I am too far out
now; pluck is the word and I'm not going back on it."
Early next morning we were once more upon our long journey, slowly
traveling towards the far, far West.
The first place of interest that presented itself to our view was a narrow
passage for the river between two perpendicular rocky banks, which
were about one hundred feet high and looked as though a man could
jump from one to the other at the top. This was called the "Devil's
Gate." Above and below was the broad prairie.
At intervals along the Platte were villages of prairie dogs, who were
about the size of large grey squirrels, but more chunky' of a brownish
hue, with a head somewhat resembling a bulldog. They are sometimes
eaten by the Indians and mountaineers. Their earth houses are all about
two feet deep; are made in the form of a cone; are entered by a hole in
the top, which descends vertically some two or more feet and then takes
an oblique course, and connects with others in every direction. These
towns or villages sometimes cover several hundred acres and it is very

dangerous riding over them on horseback.
We will now pass to another interesting object called "Chimney Rock"
which is not altogether unlike Bunker Hill Monument. It stands by
itself on the surrounding level country, with a conical base of about one
hundred and fifty feet in diameter and seventy-five feet high where the
nearly square part of the column commences, which is about fifty feet
on each of the four sides. It is of sandstone and certainly a very singular
natural formation. Altogether it is about two hundred feet high. I will
mention here that the banks of the Platte are low, that the bed is of
quicksand, that the river is very shallow and that it is never clear. One
of our company attempted to ford it on foot. When about two-thirds
over, in water up to his waist,