Chapter III

TRIALS OF THE LONG TRAIL; DANGEROUS RIVER
CROSSINGS; THE DEATH OF CATHERINE; WEST OF
THE ROCKIES; SEPARATION OF THE PARTY; NEW
HOMES IN THE OREGON COUNTRY.

The Dust--clouds of which were so dense that oftentimes the leaders of a team could not be seen--became almost intolerable. Kate adopted the sensible practice of starting early in the morning with the carriage and loose cattle so that her mother might escape as much of it as possible. One day Mulhall saw her riding hastily back to the team.

"Father," she exclaimed, "Ned has dropped dead in the harness and the carriage can't go any farther." Craig had been ill for several days and Mulhall was driving the team. Leaving it to Kate, he rode ahead to find Catherine in distress and his favorite, trusty horse lying stiff beside the carriage. Unsaddling Nell and harnessing her alongside Dick, the Squire started the outfit on the road, advising Catherine to camp as soon as a suitable place could be found.

The little twin girls had forgotten their loose stock, which by this time was widely scattered; part of it had gone on with the other herds, and some was on either side of the road. One old lame cow, Beckey, had laid down where the carriage stopped {68} and was unwilling to resume the journey. It was late in the evening when all came together at the camp; three head of stock were missing; water could be procured only from a deep ravine half a mile distant; no fuel was in sight for a camp fire, and "buffalo chips" had disappeared from near camping grounds.

With Ben's assistance, Kate unyoked both teams and started the oxen, whose tongues were out from thirst, and such of the loose stock as could be found, to the ravine for water. The entire party had been without water for several hours before reaching camp; and how could they prepare food without it, or fuel or Kate's help? Anyhow the oxen must have the first attention, and water procured for the camp; and it was a question whether or not they could get all the oxen out of the ravine after their thirst had been slacked. It was past midnight when Kate lay down to rest, and for the first time on the trip she gave way to grief. Her mother had gone to bed supperless; Kate had seen for some time that Catherine's strength was failing, and realized that the strain was likely to become too heavy for her to bear--a thought which fairly stunned and even terrified her. Blaming herself for favoring abandonment of the Missouri borne and undertaking the long trip, nature finally relieved her by deep and restful sleep.

Mulhall and his fellow travelers had come to dread river crossings without bridges or established ferries more than the Indians, dust, the fatigue, lack of {69} grass for the oxen or anything else on the trail. All were rejoiced to be safely across one, and hopeful that the next would be less dangerous; but in this they were often doomed to disappointment.

As they left the sluggish current of the main Platte River to ascend its chief tributary the North Platte, the current was found to be swifter as the trail led gradually up the east slope of the Rocky Mountains. An account of the crossing of one of these, written upon the spot at the time by W. P. Woods and preserved in his diary, will illustrate the difficulty and dangers to be surmounted:

Thursday, June 21, 1849--We made an early start and drove 12 miles to the mouth of Deer Creek, where we found teams crossing the Platte. Four boats, each consisting of two dug-outs fastened together, had been made by emigrants who had crossed before and gone on, others buying their rights and continuing the work. We paid $3 per wagon for the use of the boats, and swam the oxen.

Just before reaching here the accidental discharge of a gun by a member of the Pittsburg Company, who was unloading a wagon to make the crossing, killed a man from Illinois, the ball passing through the body just above the heart. A man was drowned here yesterday; and just 12 miles above seven men have been lost in two days while rafting their wagons across.

Friday, June 22, 1849--We were roused early, and in good season commenced crossing our wagons. The line for two miles along the river bank presented as busy an aspect as it ordinarily does in St. Louis, or any other small town in the States. Wagons in pieces, boxes and chattels of all kinds made a scene of extraordinary activity far out in this uninhabited western country.

Our "boat" was called the "Two Follies and Betsy," from their being two dugouts, with a log between them. Joining forces with the twelve Cincinnati mule trains, the "boat" started off in style with 30 men to cordelle it against the current. The men were obliged to work in the water, which {70} rendered it quite unpleasant; but by 4 o'clock P.M. we were across, and then drove the oxen down to swim.

With all of our efforts, swimming and wading from that time until dark, we could only get three of them across; so had at last to let them return to the shore, and were obliged to keep watch of them until morning. The water is remarkably swift and cold, the low temperature probably due to our proximity to the snows of the mountains. To the south of us, about four miles from the Platte, there arises a range of very high pine-clad hills, which appears to terminate in the Laramie Mountains.

Saturday, June 23, 1849--Again resumed our labors by recrossing the river for the purpose of crossing our ox-teams, but at first with no better success than the day before. Here we witnessed scenes far surpassing anything the imagination ever conceived--the long to be remembered crossing of the Platte. No pencil can portray or pen depict the scene as it really was.

Fancy for one moment our feelings on observing the vast aggregation of oxen, mules, horses and wagons mixed indiscriminately with men clothed, half-clad and even almost naked, encountering the elements that were temporarily stopping our progress. By about noon we succeeded in crossing; but both men and teams were extremely exhausted.

The onlookers witnessed sights ranging from the laughable to the alarming. In one place six men were assisted ashore by hanging to the tail of a mule, with a rider on him at that, while in another case extreme efforts were being made to save a man from drowning. A boat, with a wagon containing women and children, sank but was saved by striking a bar.

I was carried by the swift current outside the jam of cattle, and saved myself by catching hold of the tail of an ox as I passed him, and letting him tow me to shore. Those scenes are over, though we shall long remember them. We yoked our teams and drove on over a very rough sand road for about four miles, where we encamped on the river hank to feed our oxen and rest ourselves. Many a man here wishes himself back in the States.[1]

For a considerable sum, Mulhall secured a means of crossing by a train which had been provided for the emergency; and though not detained or endangered, {71} was much relieved when safely landed on the opposite shore. He knew, however, there were two more crossings of a mighty river on the western slope of the Rocky Mountains about a thousand miles ahead of them.

Catherine's strength had rapidly declined, and soon after the crossing just described it became evident that the day of her long rest was near at hand. Mulhall's first impulse was to stop and camp until she recovered her strength; but if he dropped out of the passing throng and was left alone, the peril of Indians would be greatly increased. He was in the mountains with no permanent settlements--in fact none on the whole length of the trail beyond the Missouri; during the winter which would be coming on with heavy falls of snow, his teams would undoubtedly perish, and his party suffer for lack of food and shelter.

Taking charge of the carriage himself and driving carefully, he fancied that Catherine's strength was gaining; but alas, was doomed to disappointment. The sorrowful end was not long delayed. Among the fleeting clouds well up on the eastern slope of the Rockies, nearly a mile and a half in altitude above the home they had left in old Missouri, they buried her in the shifting sands of the Sweetwater River Valley. Her last words to Kate, "Take good care of father," rang in her ears ever afterward; and she did--loyally and faithfully--until the last day of his life.

{72}

Nearly prostrated by the calamity that had befallen them, Kate felt that she did not want to go any farther; but gradually recovered her sense of duty to the little orphaned sisters, her father and herself. The anguish in leaving the lone grave can only be known to those who have been through some such experience; and the thought that the little mound of sand would soon be leveled by the fierce winds of the mountain slope added poignance to the already overwhelming grief.

Craig deeply sympathized with the stricken family. Little Sarah, one of the twins, who was of an age to realize her great loss and yet not old enough to be resigned--if that age ever arrives--would not be calmed when the hour of burial came. She clung to the rough box containing her mother's body, and with pitiable outcries pleaded with her father, "don't leave her here; _don't; don't!_"

"Child, do you see the rift in yonder mountains?" Craig asked. Between deep sobs she answered, "Yes."

"That's Split Mountain, two thousand feet high," Craig continued, "none other like it anywhere in sight of the trail. The two mountains stand so close together the space between them seems from here like a black ribbon, although, we know they are many rods apart."

The child fixed her gaze intently on the mountain while Craig continued, "That is almost exactly north of where your mother's grave will be; I saw the North Star last evening just above it."

{73}

Craig had arrested the child's attention for the moment, and in a tone of sympathy asked, "Did you notice those tracks in the stone made by the wagon wheels just where we turned off the trail to this camp? They are so deep they will last forever."

Craig had drawn the child's attention away from the bereavement, but had not arrested her deep grief; and added, "Those tracks will tell you where to stop to look for your mother's grave, if you ever come out to search for it when you grow up to be a woman--no others like them."

This thought impressed the little girl as no other words Craig had ever spoken. Between the long infrequent, tremulous sighs that could not be suppressed, she looked imploringly and trustfully into Craig's eyes while he continued, "You remember that grave we passed marked by a wagon tire half sunk in the ground?"

"Yes," answered Sarah, hesitating a moment, "I remember the name, 'Rebecca' inscribed on the tire, but have forgotten the other."

"Winters," Craig thought to himself, and then said, "that's it, Rebecca Winters. Now my little friend, I'll mark your mother's grave the same way, so you can find it the longest day you live;" and his own tears dropped on the hand of his little friend, which he held in his.

The scene was enough to melt a heart of stone; the faltering voice, the Scotch brogue, the deep sympathy with the distressed child, and Sarah's {74} trustfulness somewhat relieved the feelings of all, and the burial was completed in silence. Craig immediately afterwards disappeared from the camp, and returned after dark with a wagon tire noticed a few hours before they had camped. It was from one of the several wagons that had been burned--mute evidence of a massacre where none were left to tell the story.

Douglas Craig was an all-around, handy man; in his native country he had worked as a smithy, and was an expert with metals. Early the next morning echoes of his work could be heard; he was inscribing the name, "Catherine Mulhall, died 185-; aged fifty-seven."

All day long this labor of love went on with scarcely long enough intermission for a hasty dinner. Kate and the little girls went out in search of flowers to decorate the grave, and were rewarded by finding an abundance of wild roses and several other varieties of the flora in that region.

Kate noticed a very small but well formed pine tree that seemed likely to grow into a suitable landmark. The thought came to her mind that they might transplant it to grow on the grave; and Ben said they could, without disturbing the roots.

Both busied themselves nearly all day changing the beautiful little tree to its new home and planted it, with roots undisturbed, at the head of the grave, with a vigorous wild rose bush. The girls gathered leaves and decaying wood to mulch the ground. Before nightfall, the little mound built over the sacred {75} spot was partially leveled down, covered with flowers and the inscribed wagon tire set in place.

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The illustration shows the nature of the precautions adopted for defense--soon abandoned when trains began to disintegrate and break into smaller units, making it easier for the Indiana to attack and sometimes massacre a company, with a result like that shown in the illustration opposite page 175.

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Scenes like this were frequent on the Oregon Trail in the 50s, and are vividly remembered by a few survivors, including the author of this volume. Many suffered from thirst, hunger and exhaustion, particularly on long drives through the desert regions; sickness and death often disrupted or even annihilated families. When wagons were worn out or broken beyond repair, they were sometimes cut down to carts or abandoned, and members of the party continued along on foot, driving their live stock. Most of those who passed through experiences like this survived the hardships of the overland journey, and some of them became leading citizens of the Pacific Coast and Rocky Mountain States.

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The throng of moving teams could be traced for miles by the clouds of dust floating in the air; and the wagons were seen on the trail, which passed within a half mile of the grave. Both horses lost flesh until they appeared like skeletons; and it was decided to leave the carriage there.

Nearly all the horses of the emigrants had died for want of food and overwork, or both; and Mulhall feared he would soon lose his if conditions did not improve. He had lost one ox by straying; another, lamed, was sold to a trader, and now a second one had gone lame. It became necessary to reduce one team to two yoke, or yoke up an unbroken cow with the odd ox; the Squire chose the latter alternative, with one team weakened.

Though at the eastern line of the Oregon Country when the summit of the Rocky Mountains was crossed, they were not yet half way on the long journey. Reaching the crest of the Continent at the South Pass, they camped a short distance off the Trail; and when morning came found banks of snow in the hollows and on the northern slopes, and thin ice in the camp bucket.

A month later the party was struggling along the banks of the Snake River, which had to be crossed twice; and they were still confronted by the Blue and Cascade Mountain ranges. Apparently it was only a question of time when Mulhall would be {76} compelled to leave one of the wagons; this he did at the lower crossing of the Snake River, where two young pioneers[2] had lashed two wagon-boxes together, and constructed a platform to enable them to run a wagon onto it and cross the river without unloading.

Mulhall soon arranged to send over the wagons by this improvised ferry, swimming the oxen and horses. Ben mounted one of the horses and rode ahead as a decoy, while Craig and friendly helpers urged the oxen into the river until deep water was reached, when all followed Ben's lead and crossed safely. While this was being done, a woman died from exhaustion, leaving three little orphaned children to the care of the stricken husband and father--a pathetic incident which revived Kate's grief.

Men were never more loyal to one another than Ben and Craig were to Mulhall. From all appearances, they might have been his own sons; Kate had treated them as brothers and the whole outfit including the little twins, were like one family.

For several weeks Ben and Craig counseled between themselves as to the advisability, or possible necessity, of leaving father Mulhall after the last crossing of the Snake River, and going ahead on foot. Craig had carefully ascertained the amount of food on hand and calculated the quantity used each day to supply six persons constituting the party; and demonstrated to his own mind there was an insufficient {77} supply for the remainder of the trip, probably at least another three weeks.

"We ought to go ahead, Ben," Craig said in his broad Scotch brogue, particularly when considering grave subjects. "The two of us are consuming one-third of the daily food," he continued; "and, Ben, did you ever think of what an appalling calamity of famine would have overtaken us all had it not been for so many[3] dying on the way?"

"Won't you speak to father Mulhall about it?" Ben hesitated to approach the Squire on the subject lest he might think of the suggestion as a proposal of desertion. "Well, I'll talk to him," Craig said, seeing that Ben was reluctant to do so.

When broached on the subject by Craig, the Squire would not agree to it at all. The sacrifice and danger to Craig and Ben was too great; better go upon short rations and all keep together; leave one wagon and kill one ox--"Anything rather than to have 'the boys' take the risks and endure such hardships," he said to Kate.

That very morning Kate had given breakfast to two "tramps," who had been without food for forty hours, "Except a few grasshoppers, but not many," as one of them, a lad of twelve,[4] naively said, "they were too hard to catch."

{78}

A near famine now confronted the whole of the emigration; and finally all agreed that it was best for the two to go ahead on foot as they had discussed, for the young men could travel farther in one day than the ox-team could in two. Before reaching a final conclusion Ben and Kate consulted together, keeping their own counsel as to what passed between them. Ben and Craig had great respect for the Squire--if indeed affection would not be the more appropriate word; and it was with genuine feelings of regret that they parted from him.

On the fifth day, when it was estimated that they were a hundred miles ahead of "father Mulhall," as they now called him, the young men met the relief train coming out from Portland to the rescue, and arranged to have him supplied with such articles of food as they knew Kate and he needed most. Mulhall received the letter Ben had written and the provisions with tears of affection for "my boys," as he was fond of referring to them.

The supplies sent out to relieve the pressing wants of the incoming pioneers were not for sale, but for relief. If a man could pay, all right--the money received would be used to purchase more; but the majority who were unable to do so, were supplied without obligation as to future payment. Ben and Craig soon felt their strength failing from reduced rations; so when they heard of supply trains ahead, they resumed their usual allowance, and soon regained normal condition.

{79}

Knowing that she must be uneasy about him, Ben wrote to his mother at the end of his journey, and even before he slept under a roof. The trip had taken nearly two months longer than expected; and now he learned that another month would be required to send a letter back to Missouri. Under present circumstances he could not encourage Linda to think of coming to him, or expect that he could soon return to her.

Would she conclude that his love for her had declined, or lose faith in him if he wrote of the most insuperable barrier that now lay between them? At the time it occurred, he had written to Linda the facts of Kate's and his adventure in crossing the Missouri. The gossips had wagged their tongues and surmised that because he had rescued Kate, she would feel under obligations to marry him; and Squire Mulhall ardently wished that that, or something else, would bring about such a result.

Ben and Kate were both annoyed, but could do nothing to silence the busybodies; to deny it would only whet their zeal. So much talk going the rounds of the camp set Ben to wondering if the same gossip prevailed in his old neighborhood; and if so whether or not it had come to Linda's ears.

In this perplexing mood Ben went to bed inside a dwelling for the first time in more than half a year, and woke up in the morning with the memory of pleasant dreams of home and Linda. His anxiety to secure a home in the new country had not abated {80} one jot or tittle from the time he parted with her on the memorable Sunday evening before starting with Squire Mulhall for Oregon. The last words from Linda, "I'll be true to you to the end, Ben," still rang in his ears as if spoken but yesterday, and had followed him across the greater part of the continent.

At the parting with Kate he had given up his secret, reluctantly but prompted by intense loyalty to the girl of his choice. If anything should happen to him, he wanted Linda to know from Kate of his undying love for her to the last; and from Kate's own lips, or by letter from her, the senseless nature of the gossip concerning them.

Another matter he wished to confide to Kate--he was going to Oregon to secure a home for Linda and himself; and desired to make provision that Linda should fall heir to it in the event that he should die before they married. Ben was prompted to these serious thoughts by the experience of being close to death's door twice on the trip--once in the near catastrophe while crossing the Missouri, and again at the buffalo hunt, from both of which he had emerged without serious consequences.

He regretted to be parted from his mother for her sake and from Linda for her sake, but took very little thought for himself. The tenets of endless punishment after death, widely taught in his boyhood days, never found lodgment in his brain. He believed in a God of love, not of vengeance; and while clinging {81} to the present for the sake of those he loved, was resigned at any time to pass to the future life.

Douglas Craig and Benjamin Hardy had become fast friends; their mutual trials and duties had drawn them closer together as the journey progressed. "There isn't a lazy bone in Craig's body," the Squire said to Kate one day, to which she responded that the same could be said of Ben. Mulhall readily assented, saying that he had been blessed with "two of the best boys God Almighty ever made;" and added, "your mother thought the same, God bless her memory." Kate made no response, but the tears that came to her eyes at the mention of her mother's name expressed a deep and abiding sorrow.

In the morning Ben learned that it would be eight days before the next mail to "the States," as the pioneers were accustomed to speak of all the country east of the Missouri River; and so did not write to Linda as planned.

"Ben, I've a notion to go with you to hunt a claim," Craig said when he noticed the preparations Ben was making for the trip. "I don't like the idea of parting with you just now," he continued; "besides, maybe it's best for me to take a claim anyway, and not depend altogether upon working at my trade."

And so the two "boys," who had come down the Columbia River and to the southern part of the great territory, started off in search of a home for each. Mulhall had determined to go into the northern {82} district of the Puget Sound; so they did not expect to meet him until such time as they learned where he had located. After many days of searching, the spot that suited them was found, and a line agreed upon between the two adjoining claims.

"I golly," Ben said, "why can't we build one cabin and locate it for the line to cut through the middle? You can have your bed in one end, on your claim, and I can have mine in the other end on my claim;" and then he added, "if you want to work at your trade a part of the time you would not lose your residence; and if I"--. But Ben stopped there, for he was near to revealing his secret, if he had not already done so by his manner and confusion.

The pact was sealed and the cabin built; and here for the present we must leave our young friends to trace the fortunes or misfortunes of Squire Mulhall and his three girls. In due time also we shall learn whether or not Ben could leave his claim before the four years' residence required by the law to secure a title; and whether Linda remained true to him through all that time.

When Ben and Craig passed out of sight over the crest of the hill ahead, following the trail with packs on their backs, Mulhall could control his emotion no longer: and tears coursed down his cheeks as he spoke in a tremulous voice to Kate of their noble character and self sacrifices. Kate, more demonstrative than her father, gave way without restraint to manifestation of distress in voice and weeping. {83} Observing the unusual scene, little Sarah joined with childish soothing words to Kate and her father; but the more she said the deeper their distress, until all restraint was abandoned and the three were relieved by tears and words of praise for the two "boys."

David Mulhall, even though mild-mannered and gentle, was a man with a stout heart, and fully realized the gravity of the situation confronting him. It was a race with famine and lingering starvation or death. If he undertook to increase the speed of travel as some had done, his oxen would probably fail and leave him without a team; having noticed several such instances, he resolved to pursue the even tenor of his way.

The first formidable barrier to be met was the Blue Mountain ranges, which must be crossed at an altitude of about 4,200 feet; that steep ascent could not be avoided, and many outfits were stranded along the slope of the mountain. To lighten the load in the wagon, some clothing was packed on the horse Ned, while the girls and the Squire walked.

By a succession of short drives and long rests, the summit was reached, though a long stretch of rough roads and steep hills was still ahead. While not hazardous, the descent into the plains extending to the west and north was tiresome and tedious; it presented a scene of enchantment seldom equaled--the whole covered by a carpet of luxurious grass, dotted here and there with bands of Indian ponies and tepees of Indian villages.

{84}

Mulhall was now about twenty-five miles from the site of the Whitman Missionary Station, where help was given to all in need until the fateful day of the massacre, November 29, 1847. Here, at the foot of the mountain, Mulhall left the trail of Ben and Craig, who had followed the Columbia route down the river leading to Portland, and joined the gathering hosts of the migration along the new trail northward to Puget Sound.

It was a daring and momentous decision. Two formidable barriers were in the track--the mighty Columbia, the second river in length and volume of water on the Continent, and the Cascade Range, which proved to be the most formidable mountain obstruction of the whole trip, far greater than that of the Rockies.

As they passed the site of the former Whitman Mission, Mulhall tarried to view the locality which had witnessed the activities of Dr. Marcus Whitman and his gifted wife, Narcissa Prentiss Whitman, in their efforts to implant the Christian religion in the breasts of the Indians, and where they had relieved the suffering of many pioneer emigrants during eleven years of heroic struggle to maintain their mission. The day of the supreme sacrifice came unheralded, as recalled by the grass-grown graves of the thirteen victims, which Mulhall viewed with bared head in the presence of the three daughters, who had so recently witnessed the closing of the earth over the precious remains of their mother. When {85} shown the small grave and told the story of the drowning of the only child of the lonesome mother, Narcissa Whitman, Sarah's grief again became inconsolable, and only with great difficulty was she persuaded to leave the sacred grounds.

The Columbia River, more than a mile wide and with a swift current, was directly in their path some thirty miles away. How they were to cross was not yet definitely known, but it was the general belief that at the Hudson's Bay Company's fort, situated on the bank of the river, there would be some means of getting over it.

After two more days of driving, Mulhall drew up to the camp of more than two hundred detained emigrants. The first train to arrive, consisting of 148 people with thirty wagons, finding no means of crossing, undertook to build a boat large enough to carry a loaded wagon or several oxen.

Driftwood lodged on a sand-bar above the fort furnished the material, and a whip-saw was set to work cutting the lumber; it ran day and night, and in eleven days the boat was launched. Then the first crossing was made, and in four more days all were safely across, after the loss of fifteen days of precious time.

Whether or not snow in the mountains would block the trail, weighed heavily upon the minds of the whole company. The abundant grass in that locality had greatly strengthened the oxen and enabled them to make good progress, though as no wagons had {86} gone on ahead, it was necessary at times to stop and open the way. Measured by the current of the river they must follow, there were still about 200 miles between the crossing of the Columbia and the settlements on Puget Sound, about 100 of the whole following mountain streams.

Evidences of that drive through the gorges had been left, sometimes on sand-bars with rounded boulders imbedded in the sand, and then in the shallow streams. Other marks had been made on slippery boulders, until deep water compelled the emigrants[5] to cross the river or open a road through the timber and underbrush--one alternative and then another, until 62 crossings of the river were thus crudely recorded.

Just beyond the summit, a rim of almost perpendicular rock was encountered, so steep that it was impossible to drive the wagons down the declivity. Three steers were killed, and their hides cut into strips to lengthen the ropes assembled from the train; in that way thirty wagons were let down the mountain with the loss of only one of them. The tree used as a snubbing post was deeply encircled by the wear of the ropes and finally killed; but it stood {87} sentinel over the scene for another quarter of a century.

When Mulhall emerged from the deep forests of the foothills west of the Cascade Mountain range, he was fairly dazed at the sight that confronted him; and could scarcely believe his eyes. The evergreen trees were so tall and dense that they obscured the light and made it difficult to read common print at the noon hour, while the bright shining sun spread light and warmth over the tops of the forest giants. All through the mountains, the eyes of the pioneers had become accustomed to a lesser light than they had encountered in the open country.

That forest is one of the greatest and most notable on the Continent or in the world. Giant firs grow to a height of three hundred feet; large numbers of them measure six feet, with here and there one eight and in rare cases even twelve feet, in diameter. A monster tree fifteen and a half feet through at the base, and probably a thousand years old, could be seen as one laboriously followed the trail.

The mind of the Squire was affected in just about the same way as if he had suddenly emerged from a dark room into bright sunlight, with his eyes dimmed by the glare; it required time to recover and grasp the change. He had arrived at what is locally known as "Elk Plains" on the eastern margin of the famed Nisqually Plains, a wide extent of prairie country extending to the Nisqually River, twenty miles away to the south and nearly that distance to Puget Sound {88} on the west. The whole intervening space was interspersed with numerous small, clear lakes with pebbly bottoms into which the creeks emptied their limpid waters.

Occasionally a creek would issue from a lake fed by springs in the bottom; in other cases there was no inlet or outlet, and yet the water was as pure and sparkling as that running in the creeks. Here and there were small groves of evergreen timber surrounded by the prairies to lend enchantment to the landscape, a veritable fairy-land in the eyes of the wearied pioneers. Unexpectedly, off to the east, a large number of sheep were seen quietly grazing on the stunted grass that covered the soil.

Starting to drive toward one of the lakes, Mulhall suddenly came upon a herd of cattle that fled at the sight of his wagon and took refuge in a near-by grove. Kate was sure she saw three deer fleeing with the cattle--the latter now as wild as any creature that roamed the plains. At about the same time, a band of Indian ponies was suddenly encountered, as the outfit rounded a point of timber; the wild scene was then re-enacted as the ponies, with heads and tails in the air, snorted and ran.

The sight of the deer fired Kate's imagination; she thought of the rifle in the wagon, but could not stop to try her hand on the game of that region. She thought of Ben, who had saved her life--and Pelton too. No flowers could grow in the deep forests; but here on the prairies and margins of the lakes and {89} creeks many species, the wild rose predominating, grew to perfection. The little sisters eagerly picked some of the first flowers they had found for many weeks, and brought them to Kate as they had formerly done to their mother.

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Photograph from Washington Historical Society, Tacoma

Here, in Mr. Meeker's story, Kate Mulhall unyoked her oxen for the last time: see page 89. The inscription on the monument will be found on the reverse of this leaf.

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Fac-simile of inscription upon the monument shown on the reverse
of this leaf:

OCTOBER
1853 1913

COMMEMORATING
THE 50TH ANNIVERSARY
OF THE ARRIVAL OF THE
FIRST EMIGRANT TRAIN
COMING DIRECT TO THE
PUGET SOUND VIA THE
NATCHESS PASS. THEY
MADE THEIR LAST CAMP
OCT. 8TH 1853 ON THE
BANK OF CLOVER CREEK
THREE FOURTHS OF
A MILE SOUTH OF THIS
MONUMENT
ERECTED BY
WASHINGTON STATE HIST-
ORICAL SOCIETY--PIERCE COUNTY
PIONEER SOCIETY MEMBERS--DE-
SCENDANTS AND FRIENDS OF
THE NATCHESS EMIGRANT TRAIN

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The Squire soon came to the camp[6] on the margin of a creek, where he found more than half of the pioneers who had gone on ahead; and here, about twelve miles from Puget Sound, Kate unyoked her oxen for the last time. A fine carcass of beef had been sent there for them by the Chief Factor of the Hudson's Bay Company with the message, "divide this among yourselves;" and a near-by farmer brought a wagon-load of vegetables to give out "free for everybody." Just then a team arrived from the fort with sugar, salt and other provisions, of which they were greatly in need, and told the pioneers to help themselves.

All day and well into the night stragglers came in, some with teams and others with packs on their backs--all tired and hungry. Fearing that their teams might be unable to climb the hill out of the valley, a few had stopped at the last river crossing, and early next morning an expedition was sent to assist them.

As evening fell, all were safely camped together, with the consolation that not one life had been lost in the struggle over the mountain range. All of the {90} 148 attended a prayer-meeting held by the light of the camp-fires; the pent-up feelings of emotion were usually accompanied by silent tears of joy, though some gave way to boisterous manifestations of thankfulness for deliverance from the hazards of the trail.

Kate's spirits had risen; but not so with her father, who had made the perilous trip to secure a home and a farm. This charming region was suitable only for grazing, and besides was in possession of a foreign corporation. He was now in a strange land, without shelter for his family of girls or ready money, and so far as he knew without credit; with winter approaching, he could not stay in camp very long, and as he said afterwards, "I was stumped to know what to do."

A large majority of those who crossed the mountains with him were in the same state of perplexity. "I do not believe in that old saying, 'misery loves company.' To be sure, I did love that company of noble men and women, but not because they faced the trials that confronted me," was spoken many years later in a reminiscent mood. Mulhall could not help being relieved at the happiness of the girls, especially the twins or "little buds," as he fondly called them.

Sarah had recovered from the shock that so depressed her upon the death of her mother, and would often refer to her with tears of affection. Not being old enough to enter deeply into or think seriously of the cares of life, the girls often joyfully roamed the {91} byways of the trail in search of flowers or anything new.

"Mamma, what kind of a bird is this?" both asked at once. They had now become accustomed to calling Kate "mamma," and she had not discouraged them in doing so.

"That's a young robin," Kate answered, as she held the little bird in the palm of her hand; "where did you get it?" "Mayn't we keep it as a pet?" Sarah anxiously inquired.

"Yes," Kate answered, "but not as a prisoner;" and added, "it would be better off with its mother, don't you think?"

"But its mother wasn't there; we found it on the grass and it couldn't fly," both again spoke at once.

"Yes, but I am sure the mother was taking watchful care of her little one," said Kate. The girls had set their hearts on having a pet, but agreed that it was not right to take the young bird away, and cheerfully returned it to the spot where they found it; after watching awhile they saw the mother bird come and feed the little one.

The same evening the girls fairly raced to see who should first tell the story of an apron full of nuts they had found, and now exhibited them to "mam-ma." "Where did you find them, girls?" Kate asked. "In a hollow tree, the cutest little place you ever saw," Bess answered.

"But that was the winter store of a squirrel; would it be right to rob the treasure of the squirrel, which {92} might starve before winter ended?" The girls hadn't thought of it in that light; next morning without any further word from "mamma," they returned the nuts to the "cute squirrel's nest," and then started off for new adventures and discoveries. All of them were greatly benefited by the vigorous outdoor life; the father was delighted to see the rosy cheeks of the little girls and the returned sparkle in Kate's eyes.

"I have in my pocket a document that would be worth thousands of dollars back in Missouri; but here, where there are no banks, it is not worth the paper it is written on. What is the good of it if one can't get the money the writing calls for? No more than a pile of gold two thousand miles away from anything to eat," he said ruefully to Kate.

He was not going to be idle; but the more Mulhall looked over the near-by country, the less he liked it. Passing nearby the Hudson's Bay Company's fort he decided to go in and thank the Chief Factor for the beef sent to the pioneers; and to his surprise found a large stock of well assorted merchandise on the shelves of the store and numerous customers, principally Indians, buying or bartering furs for goods.

Asked if he wanted to purchase anything, he answered that he had no money, whereupon the clerk, Edward Huggins, surmising that he had something to barter, suggested that he see the Chief Factor. The Squire hadn't the least thought of buying anything when he went into the fort; but he did want to see {93} the head official and thank him for the beef. He met Dr. William F. Tolmie, a slightly corpulent man with flowing locks and an almost florid complexion, who spoke with a Scotch brogue and had the bearing of a kindly gentleman.

"Oh, that's nothing at all," he said in response to Mulhall's expression of thanks; "you could have had much more than that if you needed it." As the thought of the paper in his pocket and the possibility of using it to establish a credit flashed through his mind, he produced the precious document and handed it to the Factor.

A look of surprise followed the examination, for it represented a large sum for that time and place. "Do you want the money on this?" the head official quietly asked, to which Mulhall--fairly stunned and for once off his guard--replied, "Not all of it now, but I do urgently need some immediate supplies." "You can have either supplies or cash as may best suit your convenience--all of it, or part as you may wish, though we would be perfectly willing that you take all of it."

After a dinner with the Factor while dressed in his well-worn plainsman's garb, which the host appeared not to notice, the business was consummated; and Mulhall received from the great Company a certificate of deposit payable on demand. A cart was loaded with supplies and dispatched to his camp, and a servant was directed to take him to it. Mulhall arrived there first, and found Kate a little dejected, as {94} the flour was all gone and only vegetables were in sight for the coming meal.

She was surprised when the Squire leaned over her and imparted a kiss of joy at having rescued his little family from want, while the girls stood near-by in silent wonder. The pressing situation had been carefully concealed from the children, who were now accustomed to being limited in the variety of food; and when told that they could not have bread for supper, thought nothing of it. They were always associated with the memory of the cherished wife and mother now peacefully sleeping in the sands of the Sweetwater Valley near the summit of the Rocky Mountains; and "let them be happy" ran in the minds of both their father and Kate.

Within two years after Mulhall had completed this to him important arrangement, a very different scene was enacted a few miles distant. The American Government at that time began dealing with the Indians in the country west of the Cascade Mountains as tribes by making a treaty[7] with them; and a sorry mess was made of it by adopting the policy of driving the hardest possible bargains regardless of the future welfare of the Indian or the white race. Before another year elapsed a small war followed, with massacres of whites and Indians alike, a situation in which Mulhall became deeply involved.

The great Hudson's Bay Company that so long ruled the Oregon Country was an English corporation, {95} with headquarters in London; it was incorporated May 2, 1670, for the purpose of trading with the Indians of North America. Owing its origin and growth primarily to the fur business, it did not undertake to develop the agricultural possibilities of the country, a policy which had a far-reaching effect upon the history of that region.

Had the Company encouraged settlement, as the Americans did when they arrived from the eastern and central western States, the final solution of the question as to which Government would come into final ownership of the Pacific Northwest might, and probably would, have been different. It is generally believed that the firm hold of the American home builders influenced the minds of the English statesmen to yield in the final negotiations; they could not very well displace the large numbers of Americans who came to stay and build up the country.

Wishing to avoid legal complications in the region where Mulhall and his comrades had landed, the management of the Company had organized a subsidiary under the name of the Puget Sound Agricultural Company; and thus thinly disguised, occupied the Nisqually Plains with their sheep, cattle and horses, plowed the fields and erected cabins, but for occupancy by employes instead of independent home builders. The Factors (managers) of the Corporation were cultured gentlemen, known for their fair dealings alike with Indians and white people, following the policy of the parent organization; and it was {96} with the head official in that district that the Squire had dealt.

After the arrival of the cart loaded with supplies from the fort, Kate sent part of them to several pioneer families that yet remained in camp, and then revised the plan for their own dinner. Most of the big company had scattered, some to the timber camps, others to the shores of the Sound where shell fish abounded and a few to claims, already chosen, upon which they proposed to make their future homes.

The first and most urgent problem was that of shelter for so many new arrivals. In one notable instance a large hollow cedar stump served as "home" for a family of six until the husband and father was killed by the Indians. The pathos of that story, with many a parallel in American history, is mentioned here to illustrate the difficulties and dangers encountered by the emigration of which the Squire and his family were a part.

After dinner Mulhall and Kate took counsel far into the night, while the little girls were sleeping on their beds of boughs as peacefully as in a palace. The faint yelping of a pack of coyotes in the distance could be heard; and the cougar (closely allied to the American panther) that infested the country, was abroad seeking his prey. But Kate and her father paid no heed except to the all important subject as to their future; and it was midnight before a final conclusion was reached.

The opening of a farm under the varied and often {97} trying conditions prevailing in that region was very different from what they had been accustomed to in Missouri; and Mulhall was past the meridian of life. Why should he undergo a long period of toil to secure a competence, when he was possessed of sufficient means to live without the sacrifices incident to pioneer life on a new homestead?

Kate said, "Let's go to the county town where the girls can attend school and there are neighbors;" her father was of the same mind and that question was speedily settled. Then they thought of Ben Hardy, to whom Mulhall had promised one of the teams upon their arrival in Oregon as extra compensation for his services in crossing over the trail. Not a word had passed between them about that understanding at the parting of the Snake River, after which the Squire was reduced to one team, and it was doubtful whether or not he could complete the long journey with the one that was left.

"If I only knew where to reach him, I would send him enough money to buy a team," said Mulhall. Ben had gone into southern Oregon while the Squire had moved into the northern part, several hundred miles away; they might be five hundred or even a thousand miles apart, for Oregon was a big country without roads or the means of speedy communication. Where Ben had settled, or whither he had gone, was a problem difficult to solve.

Kate said, "I hear there is a newspaper in Oregon; let's advertise." Mulhall thought a better plan {98} would be to secure a list of post offices and address a letter for Ben to all of them; "Anyway," the Squire said, "we must not leave a stone unturned till we find the boy." Both retired to sleep and forgot their fortunes or misfortunes, but with a firm resolution to find Ben if they could.

Following the decision to remove to the county town, Mulhall soon purchased a nearly finished house at the county seat. The thriving village, built upon a slope facing west and fronting on a wide bay of Puget Sound, presented a charming view of the distant range of mountains bordering on the sea with perpetual snow-mantled peaks; the landscape of dark evergreen forest covered the islands and mainland in the nearer view.

The wide bay was dotted with Indian canoes floating on the tide twice each day; and at intervals a ship would pass or drop anchor in front of the village to discharge freight or barter for a cargo of timber. The fort, a group of log cabins situated a short distance back from the water-front and out of sight of it, commanded a splendid view of the landscape.

In the farther background, west of the Cascade Range, was Mount Rainier, completely encircled with a wonderland of timber and flowers--once seen never forgotten, and always cherished as the sight of a life-time. That majestic mountain of the American Continent, "kingly and alone," a great dome separated from the mountain range, standing nearly three miles high and covered with perpetual snow, is the father {99} of seven rivers and twenty-eight glaciers, and has a base of several hundred square miles. The alpine flower beds are simply wonderful to contemplate; according to John Muir, there are two hundred square miles between the timber and the summer snow-line circling the dome, with literally several thousand varieties of flowers, some of which force themselves up through the receding snow.

Kate at once took up the task of searching for Ben. Writing the first two words, "Dear Ben," she stopped to ask herself might he not think she penned them with a deeper meaning than merely a friendly beginning of a letter? However, Ben was dear to her; he had saved her life, had been loyal to her father, was always kind to all, industrious and truthful.

Before she had time to fully analyze what was passing in her mind, Kate began to realize that she was thinking of Ben more than as a brother. Her pen hovered over the paper; but she finally laid it down with nothing more than the two words already written. That evening at supper Kate asked her father if it would not be best for him to write to Ben.

"Oh, no! You know I scarcely ever write a letter; besides I am very busy on the house," replied Mulhall. "You write, Kate, it's just as well." The Squire did not have the least suspicion of why she should want him to write to Ben instead of doing so herself. If he had, the more he would have preferred {100} that Kate write, for he sincerely wished that she should marry the "dear boy," as he always thought of him.

Kate did not undertake to write to Ben that night, and the paper with the two words on it remained on her table untouched. The idea that Ben might interpret them in a different way from what she intended would not down, while she half realized that they meant more to her than she was willing to acknowledge. Not for mountains of gold would she betray the secret Ben had confided to her, and stand between his love for her very dear friend, Linda Shaeffer.

But Linda was more than two thousand miles away, with what Kate thought an insuperable barrier between them. The paper with the words "Dear Ben," was kept for several days without another word being added to it; and in fact the letter was never written. Kate hesitated to trust herself.

Hadn't she now abandoned all hope for the fruition of her first love, with a pang of regret and bitterness as she thought of Pelton? She would resolve never to marry, but hereafter devote her life to altruistic work for young girls. Kate had no knowledge of Isaac's resolution, while at that very moment he, with the one absorbing purpose in his mind, was feverishly carrying out plans to make the trip to Oregon and win her for his wife.

A few days later an advertisement appeared in the two Oregon newspapers asking Benjamin Hardy to communicate with David Mulhall at a certain post {101} office, and learn something of interest to him. As weeks passed without response, the Squire and Kate were greatly worried, and wondered if some accident had befallen him. She then began writing to postmasters with no better results.

Kate was almost in despair. Might it not be possible that he had found a good location, taken up a claim and then started back to Missouri for Linda? More weeks passed, then months; and yet not a word came. There was ever a warm corner in her heart for the playmate and companion of bygone school days; and she would never relax her efforts to unravel the mystery of his strange disappearance.

Ben was hard at work, in ignorance of the search for him; but often wondered what had befallen father Mulhall, as he always thought of the Squire, Kate and the little girls after their separation on the Snake River. He had written to Linda, but months elapsed and no answer had come. Though often alone in his cabin with only one neighbor in sight, he was too busy to be lonesome; Craig was off working at his trade most of the time while Ben was making improvements on both of their claims.

Once a month Craig would bring supplies to the cabin, stay over Sunday and then be off again. They sorely needed a team; and Craig was gradually saving so that they might be able to buy one by planting time in the spring. Ben gave no thought to the understanding by which he was to get a team from Mulhall; he would have rejoiced to hear of the safe {102} arrival and good fortune of the kind-hearted family which had treated him so tenderly in his sickness and, as he believed, saved his life.

Ben had written a second letter to Linda, receiving no reply; but attributed the delay to the slow and uncertain mail service. He was now in vigorous health, gaining in weight to surprise even himself; the pale spare face disappeared and a ruddy complexion took its place. Pure Oregon air, simple diet and steady work had developed him so that an old-time acquaintance would hardly have known him.

At last a letter written in a spirit of gloomy forebodings, came from Linda. She had heard of the misfortunes of the Mulhalls, and could not see how she could ever reach Oregon; but remembered her vow to be ever loyal and true to Ben no matter what happened.

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A considerable number of Mormons traveled to Salt Lake City as shown in this illustration; described on pages 48-49.

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[1] While somewhat unusual to insert a quotation in a work of this character, no better description of the difficulties and dangers of crossing the Platte in pioneer times has been, or is ever likely to be written. E.M.

[2] Edward J. Allen and Ezra Meeker, the author of this historical narrative.--Editor.

[3] It is estimated that fully 5,000 died that year on the Oregon Trail.

[4] The author knew the lad who made the remark and of his experience; he was afterward a successful merchant in Tacoma, Washington.

[5] The author personally knew a large majority of the people in that train, several of whom became prominent in the affairs of the Territory just founded, among them the actual personalities represented in this story by David Mulhall and his daughter Kate. Of the 148 comprising it, not one of the adults is now left, and only two or three of the younger members who vividly remember these events; their generation has nearly passed, but the memories of their deeds fortunately remain. E.M.

[6] A granite monument, suitably inscribed, erected by the State of Washington to perpetuate the memory and location of this camp, attests the importance of the event. See illustration and inscription inserted here. E.M.

[7] The Medicine Creek Treaty, December 26, 1854.

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