Chapter II

Omaha--Homestead Land--Coming Onto the Plains--Cold Winds--Platte
Valley--Republican Forks--Fort Wallace--Big Sandy--Old
Battle-Ground--Arkansas Valley--Irrigation Farming.

The great _emigrant land_ of which we had heard so much had at last been reached, and the din from the streets of the great _western exchange_ was borne to our ears upon the evening breeze. Omaha is built upon the side of a large hill, and is quite a pretty place; and being the wholesale city for many miles of the surrounding country, business is lively, and the people say _hard times_ never reach them. We could but wonder, as we gazed upon these two cities, perched as they are upon hill-sides upon opposite sides of the river, and covering the surface which was so _lately_ the rich pasture-land of the wild _prairie animal_. Truly, said we to ourselves, there must be some virtue in the surrounding country which supports these rapidly-growing cities.

Eager to learn the true merits of the _homestead land_, we pushed boldly into the country, with eyes keen to see the advantages and disadvantages of the great, historical, _poor man’s home_. Proceeding but a few miles from the river-banks we opened into the _land of promise_. Here lay a broad, rolling, and fertile prairie, all covered with richest vegetation and well watered in all directions. Timber had entirely disappeared, except the pretty little _cotton-woods_ which gilded the banks of most all the little streams. Many homesteads have been taken up here, and the little sod-houses which dot the country in all directions mark the abodes of the settlers. Timber being very dear, the country is not incumbered with fences, and the dark, rich surface being as beautiful as any the sun ever shone upon, the scene, upon the whole, was truly _impressive_. A great deal of the sod has been broken, and the rich, golden grain that waves in the western wind speaks the great strength of the soil. All the latest improved farming implements are used here, and tilling and sowing those large, clear fields is perfectly delightful. Lands along the railroads are being rapidly improved, and ere long the eastern and southern parts of Kansas and eastern Nebraska will find a place upon the first pages of the agricultural history of America.

Many poor families from the _overthronged_ East have found themselves fine homes here, and from the rapid growth of the country they are promised great wealth. The eastern part of Kansas being of the same nature as that just described, we simply remark that the voice of the pen is too feeble to do justice to so beautiful a country.

Kansas and Nebraska are included in what Fremont termed the “Great American Desert,” in the year 1842; and the settlers say that even as late as ten years ago places that are now productive were barren and sandy. It appears that the more farming there is done there the greater the dampness becomes; and they now have plenty of rain where everything used to parch. Some think the whole western plains will at some day become productive; but more of that hereafter.

Game is quite abundant here, and the prairie-chickens often fly up in such great flocks that the hum of their wings sounds like thunder. They fly _very_ swiftly. Here the first _jack rabbit_ showed himself to us, and upon our giving chase we were greatly surprised at his sudden disappearance with only a light streak through the air to mark the course he had taken. They are about four times as large as the _cotton-tails_, and have ears about five inches long. We had a great deal of sport at hunting, and spent many days wandering up and down this beautiful country, visiting the settlers in their humble homes, and conversing with them of olden times and their experiences in the settling of a new country. They were very hospitable, and though a little sod-house and stable, with grass growing green upon every part but the doors and windows, sitting out alone upon the wide prairie, without a fence and often without a tree to shelter them from the broiling summer’s sun, usually constitute their homes, they are nevertheless happy, and say that though their accommodations and conveniences are very limited, and they do not get a high price for their produce, their crops are usually abundant, and they can live off of this until things can develop. It has been discovered by trial that timber grows very rapidly, and whole acres of little walnut and cotton-wood sprouts lately planted promise that at some time in the future there will be some pretty forests here. When this is the case, the birds will immigrate here, the insect tribe--_such a pest to the country_--will diminish, and the settlers will sit in their doors in the thick, beautiful shade, and listen to the songs that are sung in the green foliage. As it is, the flies are very troublesome through the day, and at night you are compelled to build a smudge and sit in the smoke to keep the mosquitoes from carrying you off.

Thinking that perhaps this part has been _sufficiently_ described, I will refer the reader to the letters which close this work for _unmentioned_ particulars, and again turn our faces toward the west. We had not traveled many days, however, until settlements had dwindled to lonely domicils upon the wide prairie; the dark, rich soil began to fade to a lighter and more sandy, and great herds of cattle tramped the unbroken surface. A few weeks more and all vegetation had faded away, and we were upon the Fremont desert. The grass, instead of being long, slender _prairie-grass_, was short, thickly-set buffalo-grass. The soil was dry and scarcely ever knew a rain; and then it was that we found ourselves upon the great western plains. The surface is usually smooth, and perfectly delightful to travel over, and we could sometimes see for many miles around us. But the _danger_ of traveling in this dry, barren wilderness, where scarcely any one lives, and of which we had been _warned_, we now began to realize. True, there were old, deeply-worn _emigrant_ roads, one via Kansas City, and one via Omaha and Cheyenne, which we could have traveled with comparatively little danger or difficulty; but it was our purpose to see and experience something _new_, and accordingly we chose the wild prairie. We had purchased a _barrel_ at Lincoln, Nebraska, which we always filled when leaving water, and with no guide but the compass we boldly sped onward, not knowing what each day would bring forth. The scene, however, was materially the same--one broad, open plain, stretching out like an ocean as far as the eye could reach. Our camp at night was truly a lonely one, with no company but the shy antelope that sniffed the air at a distance, and nothing to break the deep, death-like stillness that reigned around us but the howl of the _grey wolf_, whose keen eye was upon our every move. Stretching ourselves upon a blanket, with nothing but the starry heavens above us, we lay dreaming of killing buffaloes, scalping Sitting Bull, and other adventures too numerous to mention.

We had often heard of the _cold winds_ and sudden changes in the atmosphere that all the western country was subject to, but our first _experience_ on this score was while traveling in western Nebraska, on the seventh day of September. The morn was a bright and glorious one, and as we steered our way over the dry desert we remarked that a more beautiful day we had never seen. But about three o’clock the atmosphere began to change and the wind to blow a hurricane. In the course of an hour the soft, warm wind had changed to a howling, wintry storm, and we were compelled to unhitch and picket our horses, and make our bed in the wagon as a retreat from the piercing winds which almost lifted us from the ground. It was almost _impossible_ to keep _warm_ with our light covering, and only after we had torn up every spare cloth we had to stop the cracks in the wagon-bed, we succeeded in rendering ourselves tolerably comfortable. A peep at the horses showed their shivering, and the big blood-hound under the wagon lending his tones to the winds that hurried by, spoke the necessity of sharing our comfort with him. This he gladly accepted, and without anything to eat or drink we lay covered over head and ears until the next day at noon. We then stepped from our asylum to hear the last roar of the hurricane dying away in the distance, and warm ourselves in the sun which had burst its stormy veil. This little fast had keened our appetites, and we eat our dinners with a relish. After turning our horses to graze for awhile, and watering them from the barrel, we resumed our journey over the dry desert, and at length reached the valley of the Platte. This valley is _wide_ and _level_, and is carpeted with the richest pasture. With its cool, purple waters rolling through the thick shade of the little branching cotton-wood trees, piercing the dry, barren plain, bereft of bush or weed, it appears a perfect paradise. Great herds of cattle feed upon the green grass, and every ten or fifteen miles there is a little pole-shanty and picket _corral_ built upon the river-side among the trees; and here stay the cow-men, one at a place, to watch over the cattle. They make a trip after _provisions_ once a year, and of course do their own cooking. They always have the best of _meat_; and this, with biscuits, is about all they eat. It is very often that they do not see a man for several months; and, strange to say, they are used to that way of living and enjoy themselves better than many who live in a land of luxuries, surrounded by mankind, where the din of business is noisy and loud. They have five and six ponies apiece, and their buffalo and antelope chases over the river-hills are as pleasant and exciting to them as though viewed by thousands of people. We had many pleasant chats with them, and many a feast did we have together.

I had seen many heavy storms, but I assure you I thought we had entered the store-house of thunder-storms when we came into this valley; for such terrible rumbling and glaring I had never heard nor seen. I tell you, when the thunder bursts forth with an earthquake shock and reverberates among the river-hills, and the lightning begins to play upon the cattle’s horns, these old hunters and herders, who have been hardened in the wilds for many years and who have seen the bloodiest of frontier life, come to their knees.

Leaving this valley we steered south-west and struck the valley of the _Republican_, at the forks of the river, one beautiful evening just as the sun was tinging with gold the western sky. Who can imagine the _beauty_ of this valley,--as it appeared to us,--all decked with little branching cotton-wood trees and carpeted with velvet green, winding its way through the midst of the broad and silent wilderness. The great herds of cattle reclining beneath the trees, the voices of the little calves borne to our ears upon the evening zephyrs, and the rude shanty upon the bank of the stream, all spoke of comfort and content, and we could not help recognizing this as a _happy home_, though far in the western wilds. The lone man who lived there appeared to be glad to see us, and we were not a little delighted to converse with one who had lived with his herds for many years upon the frontier. He told us how comfortably he could live there and how rapid were his gains with so little outlay. He told us that we could find cow-ranches upon almost every _stream in the West_, and explained to us the way the business was carried on. Upon his telling us there were many buffaloes a few days’ journey to the north-west, among the _sand-hills_, we became very impatient and could hardly wait for the morning to start upon a buffalo expedition. When we were ready to start, he said we should be a little _careful_, for the _Cheyennes_ had broken from the agency, and while on the war-path were scalping hunters and cattle-men in all directions. Johnny having stopped for a _home_ in _eastern Nebraska_, we were but two in number, but--in our estimation--a more precious two never died in any country. There was as much danger upon one side as upon the other, however, and we were going for the buffaloes, Indians or no Indians. It was part of our _mission_ to kill Sitting Bull and Spotted Tail, and this might prove to be a favorable opportunity.

We had not left the valley far when we came among the great sand-hills, which grew higher and softer until they were almost untraversable. Keeping in the vicinity of a small stream called Rock Creek, which courses its way among the bluffs, we traveled several days, keenly watching for anything that looked like meat. We never became careless, however, and the fire was always deadened before dark, while the wagon was placed upon some high spot for the night, in order to avoid the treachery that might be lurking behind the hills.

Breaking our way through the soft, deep sand, we were compelled to travel very slowly. Sighting a single _buffalo_, upon one occasion, we fully expected to find a great herd behind every hill. That was the only one, however, that we got a glimpse of; and not having killed even a _rabbit_ since we left the river, and our horses becoming very much worried, we concluded to turn back. The many _skeletons_ that were scattered over the face of the country showed that the soft surface was not _always_ trackless, and that we were not the first hunters who had plowed the sands of that region. However, the great herds that we had expected to find had sought another range, and not even a wolf howled in the deep silence. We could but feel a little discouraged at so great a disappointment; and as we journeyed back toward the river, each mile was an effort.

We reached the river again after a circuit in the sand-hills of just fourteen days; and during this time we had eaten nothing but flap-jacks. It is needless to say that we were hungry for _meat_, and there being many _cattle_ in the valley, we imagined the little calves to be buffaloes; and it was not long after sight, nor with much ceremony, that we were eating something that had not stuck in our teeth for two long weeks.

After learning from an old hunter, whom we met on the prairie, that buffaloes journeyed north in the spring and south in the fall, we determined to follow them if they went to _South America_.

In an unsettled country there are, of course, no bridges over the streams and chasms, and not many good crossings. So, choosing what we thought to be a good place to cross, we splashed into the waters of the Republican. The stream is about one hundred yards wide, and in some places is real deep. This was our first experience in _quicksand_; and we managed to get to about the middle of the stream, when, in about two feet of water, the wagon dropped to the axle in the sand. The longer it stood the deeper it sunk, until there was not much wagon above the water. Being lightly loaded we jumped into the water, and after lifting the wheels to let the sand wash under them, John lifted while I tried to start the team. But the wind was blowing and the water waving, and the horses being in about as deeply as the wagon, it was no go, and we were the worst stuck outfit that river ever knew. This was the first time that we had ever yielded that _hell_ was _upon earth_; and I will bet that if old Father Moses and his followers had been stuck in the quicksand when crossing the channel of the Red Sea, and had felt as we did at that time, Pharaoh and all his hosts would have been nothing to whip. However, after struggling for some time the horses became as impatient as ourselves, and we began to yell desperately. The water began to splash. The cattle of the vicinity becoming excited, curled their tails up over their backs and began to run and bawl. The wagon began to move, and we were soon safely landed on the other side. Not taking the Irishman’s advice, we had omitted laughing before we started in, and being now too much fatigued we concluded that there was no fun about the affair, and only looked back to think what a job to cross a _Republican_ and to sympathize for one moment with the poor Democrats.

It had been some time since we had been where we could buy anything, and our supplies running short, we steered south for Fort Wallace, Kansas. This was several days’ travel--and lonely ones they were to us, too, seeing but two men until we arrived within a few miles of the fort. We found most of the ranchmen of the vicinity centered there for protection from the savages, who had been scalping within sight of the government fort. We were heartily congratulated upon our safe arrival through the very heart of dangers; but we had been told this too often to appreciate it, and partly concluded that it was not alone _luck_ and _chance_ that took us through, but that there must be something bold or daring in our appearance.

How like home it appeared to us when we saw the blue smoke curling from the chimneys, the children playing around their homes, and heard the shrill whistle of the engine which pierced the deep silence of the open plain.

This little town is comparatively an insignificant place of fifteen or twenty houses, and is situated in the midst of a dry and barren prairie, far from the beauties of civilization and cultivation. Nevertheless, here were houses whose walls echoed the cheerful din of several families. Domestic animals were feeding in the vicinity, and here were the United States wagons, passing back and forth to the fort which stood in the distance. All this spoke _home_ and _comfort_ to us; and it is needless to say that after a journey of many days in the solitude of the wilderness, during which time we saw but few persons and scarcely a trace of human mechanism, we were deeply impressed and let our reflections carry us back to the land from whence we came. After enjoying the novelty of the place, which is but a star in the prairie-world and connected with civilization by naught but the iron rail, we prepared for further adventure.

There is not the least plant cultivated here, and the most exorbitant prices were charged us for our little necessaries. I recollect I wanted to buy a funnel here to use with our water-barrel. I had never bought a _funnel_, but I supposed a small one would cost about twenty-five cents. So I picked out one to suit me and threw down fifty cents to the store-keeper, and looked for change. Now, what do you think? Why, he stood there looking at me until I asked him what he wanted. “I want the rest of the price of that funnel.” “Why, what is the price of it?” said I. “Six bits; the usual price is a dollar,” said he. I felt a little surprised at being asked seventy-five cents for a little funnel; so I said to him, “Is it silver?” “No.” “Is there any virtue in it that would be conveyed to the water upon running through it?” “No.” “Well, then, is it a legacy from your grandmother? or what the thunder makes it so valuable?” said I, appearing somewhat curious. “Well,” said he, “I will give you five minutes to settle up.” “Well,” said I, “this is too valuable a thing to take out on the prairie and run the risk of its being stolen, so I will give you just five minutes to hand over that half dollar.” He said I had bought the funnel and must pay for it. At this I grabbed four funnels, and told him that I considered I was in hell anyhow, and if he thought he could better or worse my condition any to just draw his brakes; and we started for the door. He came running after us and said he would let us have the funnel for fifty cents. We told him we did not need any funnels. “Well,” said he, “here’s your half dollar.” “Well,” said I, “you owe me more than that.” “Why, how can that be?” said he. “Why,” said I, “if everything else is worth so much, money is worth something too, and that half dollar has drawn twenty-five cents interest.” “Well,” said he, “this is hell!” We told him that was what we took it for, and went on. He came running into the prairie and paid us the fifty cents, with interest, and took his funnels. If we could have got him a little farther from the fort we would have charged him _compound_ interest and all the funnels; but under the circumstances we concluded to settle reasonably. We then picked up an old oyster-can and set it over the hole in the barrel, and with a picket-pin and the ax we drove a hole through the bottom of the can, and then had a funnel and a quarter for our trouble.

We now steered for Colorado, due west. Stopping at the _Smoky Hill Fork_ to fill our barrel, we were told by a ranchman that the next water in that direction was the _Barrel Springs_,--so called from the barrels sunk there by hunters years ago,--thirty-five miles distant. We had not had any _trouble_ about water _yet_, and did not think it necessary to ask many questions. So we marched as true to the direction pointed out to us as possible, and wended our way slowly along, killing jack-rabbits and antelopes for supplies, and conversing upon such subjects as would best pass away the time. Our barrel held seven bucketfuls of water, and the drive being but thirty-five miles, we were in no hurry and not as saving with the water as we might have been.

The first night out was a pleasant camp, and a little chase afforded us great sport. Directly after striking camp upon a spot whence we could see several miles in any direction, so level was the surrounding country. A deer was seen watching us in the distance. “Ah,” said John, “now for a race.” So, with carbine in hand, he mounted the gray mare; and the deer was soon seen bounding away with head erect, and John in close pursuit. Luckily for _me_, the chase was around camp; and the fun of viewing that race was all to myself. The _deer_ at first appeared to think it all sport; but seeing the gray mare gaining upon him, and John’s long hair streaming in the wind while hurling lead from the old carbine, he appeared to realize his situation, and started off as if in a race for life, only touching the high places. John slowly returned from the chase, and riding into camp asked me if we needed any meat. “If we do,” said he, “I can get that deer very easily.” “Oh,” said I, “that meat is like the funnel, it is too _dear_ entirely. I suppose we can do without it.”

The next morning, after taking our breakfast, we moved on, expecting to reach the Barrel Springs about noon, having but one bucket of water left. Noon came, and no water was left in the barrel; and the springs were not yet in sight. Twilight began to curtain the light of day, and our suspicions were aroused lest we had passed the looked-for spot. The weather was warm, the air dry, and our horses that night looked in vain at the empty barrel that lay drying in its hoops, and from which they had quenched their thirst so often. Our sleep that night was haunted with the thought of our probably serious condition; and the next day at early dawn, without breakfast, we hastened in the prescribed direction, knowing that if we had passed the springs, which was the most probable, it might be many miles before we could again find the cooling fluid so essential to life. To turn back to find it was equally as uncertain, so we determined to go forward. The plain grew very sandy, and the sun, without one cloud to veil its brightness, darted its torrid rays upon us with mighty power. Each hour of that long day was an anxious year, and greater pains than we took at every little green spot and hollow to find water by digging deep into the soil could not be taken by any one searching for a morsel upon which hung the last hope of mortal life. Our _horses_, too, by their tardy gait, showed their great weariness; and the whole was truly a thirsty outfit. Night came and no water. That night there was not one cloud in the sky; but the moon did not seem bright to our eyes, and the stars did not seem to twinkle. We were alone in the desert, deserted by all animation, and without one single thing to whisper to us a word of encouragement. To see those poor perishing horses licking that empty barrel, and then gaze at us with their ears dropped to the side of their heads, as if to say, “We are dying of thirst,” was enough to sadden any human, and to call up before our minds the terrible accounts of which we had read of whole outfits of men, women, and little children, whose bones were found withering upon the burning sands. O God! what must be the agony of a parent whose little infants are fast gathering in their innocent countenances the picture of death, and without one drop of water to give them in their last appeal! Softly the night melted into day, and the morn brought no relief. But without showing one spark of discouragement, we pushed on with parched lips. About noon one of the horses became so weak that he could do his part no longer. We unhitched him and put the other one at the end of the tongue; and while I led the fore horse, John whipped the hind one along, followed by the big blood-hound with his great red tongue lolling from his mouth. I imagine many of the most sorrowful sights are only seen by their unfortunate presenters. We would have given five dollars for a cup of water as freely as we ever gave five cents for a glass of soda. Toward evening John became so weak that he was obliged to ride, and I could see that his heart had sunk far into his bosom. I wore just as brisk an appearance as the circumstances would permit of, and trudged along leading the gray mare and whistling as much comfort to my perishing comrade as could be done with swelled lips. I will never forget that effort! I never _could_ whistle a single tune in God’s world, and I imagine that tune I got off then was rather killing John than amusing him. Nevertheless, it was my best.

About nine o’clock we made another dry camp. The country had grown rough, showing signs of water; and seeing a cow-track by the bright light of the moon, we were assured that water was near. But we were tired; and the first pangs of thirst having somewhat subsided, we concluded to wait for the morn. That night John did a great deal of _dreaming_, and said so many funny things that I am sure if there had been a shorthand reporter there he could have written an _interesting volume_, and might have had love-letters that would have been models for the most affectionate writers. In the morning I arose early and mounted the gray mare that had been so gallant, and then over the hills for water. I followed the cow-track that I had seen in the evening; and the tracks became more and more numerous, until deep paths were seen, winding among the hills. After traveling about four miles from camp I came upon an elevated spot, whence I viewed such beauties that the occasion shall never be forgotten, though time shall find me aged and gray, and my faithful companion far away. There in front of me, and at my feet, lay a most beautiful valley, carpeted with richest green, and tenderly holding upon its bosom little pools of the liquid for which we had so long searched. The little sprouting cotton-wood trees that decked the slopes of that treasured spot seemed to call out to us to come and see the beauties so rarely seen by aught else but the wild herds that trampled beneath their green foliage. Without the least ceremony, a gray mare and thirsty rider might have been seen dashing down the hill-side toward the fountain of life. The cattle that were standing in the water lashing the flies, with great astonishment at the sight of their new visitors, readily yielded their rights to us, and in we went.

Oh give me not a golden cup,
My parching lips to cool;
But, like the _wild beast_, I will sip
The water from the pool.

As soon as we had all we wished we pushed off with all speed for camp. There, among the barren hills, lay the bay horse stretched out upon the sand, and apparently resigned to his fate, while John was sitting under the wagon, viewing the surroundings as though wishing the power to bring water from the barren bluffs. Though I did not bring water from the _rocks_, I brought it in a tin bucket; and it was quite natural that I should imagine myself the Moses of old, watering the perishing in the midst of the desert. After drinking of the water John was greatly refreshed, and there was enough left to take the dimness from the eyes of the perishing horse. We now prepared to move down to the water. It was only with great difficulty that we succeeded in getting our fainting horse to the valley; and it was an affecting scene when the pool met his eye to see him prick up his ears and stagger into the water. After we were all refreshed, we turned the horses to graze, and set about getting something to eat. We had often been warned of the great peril of traveling over the unmarked prairie without a guide, and had read of many outfits dying of thirst, but this was our first experience. We had come from a land of plenty, and relished the many knickknacks and rarities of a civilized country; but the most pleasant draught we had ever taken in our lives, was that from the beautiful little lake in the green valley of Big Sand Creek. Some may relish _liquors_, while others will choose milder and more delicate drinks; but when your system is racked with a thirsty fever, and the blood is drying in your veins, then is naught half so delicious as the unadulterated fluid that flows so freely from the fountain of nature. There were many antelopes here; and we camped for several days in this beautiful valley, recruiting our weary team upon the rich pasture, and killing antelopes and drying their meat.

One clear evening, while sitting in our lonely camp watching the sun as it sunk low in the far horison, we saw an object moving in the dim distance. Quickly the glass was sighted and the focus told the person of a man on horseback moving toward us. We were overjoyed at this sight, and were glad to meet one who could tell us where we were and explain the surrounding. We received him most cordially, and after feasting him to the best we had, we all felt refreshed and seated ourselves for a chat. He told us that we were upon the Big Sandy, forty miles above the Arkansas River, into which it flows, and that we would find cow-ranches all the way down. He said he lived at the mouth of the creek, and gave us the history of the country through the many years that he had been breathing pure western air. New-comers on the plains are called _tender feet_; and having been called that before, we concluded to take advantage of this occasion and be as big an Indian-killing outfit as any he could tell of, though of course we were strangers in that _part_ of the country. After he had narrated some interesting events, we began telling some of _our_ experiences, and among other things incidentally mentioned our coming across from Wallace. Upon his asking us if we had struck the _Barrel Springs_, we told him that we had not, and he was very much astonished and wondered how we got across. “Oh,” said John, “it only took a couple of days to come across; and any outfit that could not travel two or three days without food or drink, were what we called _tender feet_ in our country.” I then took the opportunity to inquire what kind of a place the springs was. He told us that they were at the end of a gravel-ridge, where stood quite a little bush; and at that season of the year you would have to dig about two or three feet into the earth to find water. This was a sufficient description to fully convince us that this was not the place we were looking for; and it was no wonder that we had passed them in looking for a stream of water springing from the ground with a flow of a hundred gallons per minute. We made no reply, but looked at each other as much as to say, “Springs in this country are not such as we are _used to_.” Twilight was gathering, and after telling us the old battle-ground where General Chivington and his followers massacred five hundred Indians one morning before breakfast, several years ago, was but a few miles above us, he said that he would go, as he wanted to stop at a ranch two miles below for the night. Bidding us good-night, and asking us to call upon him as we passed, we parted.

We could not rest until we went to see this spot so well known to every person throughout that whole country, and survey the ground where so many eyes were closed in death in one short hour. We found the spot marked by many old pieces of camp-equipments, bows, and saddles, etc., all pierced with bullets, while the many skeletons that lay bleaching in the sun told the number of ponies that fell in that great struggle. The same barren hills that re-echoed the screams of the squaws and papooses, and the whoop of the warriors, are still overlooking the spot; the same little trees that spread their tender branches over a slumbering nation upon that last night, though all filled with lead, were still waving in the breeze. But where, oh, where is the _warrior and his family_! They are sleeping in the little green mounds beneath the same trees under which they fell, and their _war-cries_ are no more to be heard. The war-dance is over and the gory hatchet lies rusting in the earth. The wild herds are unconsciously cropping the rich grass from the graves, and in a few years the fate and memory of a whole nation will be buried in the solitude of Sand Creek Valley. The scene made an impression upon my mind that time can not obliterate, and in silence we turned away.

We had now spent several days in this beautiful valley; and our team with ourselves having become thoroughly recruited, we again broke camp and wound slowly down the creek toward the river. Cattle became very numerous as we advanced, and we had many a good chat with the cow-boys who stayed in the little pole-cabins to watch over the cattle.

In a few days we were in sight of the Arkansas Valley, and heard the roar of the great stream. The river rolls through a most lovely valley about two miles wide; and thousands of cattle are pasturing upon the rich grass. Thick groves of _cotton-wood_ skirted the banks, and a merrier party than we while reclining in the green shade of the little trees never pegged a tent to the soil.

It was now the latter part of _August_; and the weather being very warm, we concluded to wander up and down the river, fishing and hunting to pass away the time until _October_, when we intended to go south for a winter’s hunt. There is much of this valley homesteaded and pre-empted, and many little pole and adobe-shanties deck this pretty level bank. Here we could hear the voice of the merry housewife, and the din of the playing children was borne to our ears upon the evening breeze. It had been some time,--aside from Wallace,--since we had seen settlements of this kind; and cultivating their acquaintances, we found them quite hospitable, and spent many a happy evening in their modest little homes.

It was here for the first time that we saw farming done by _irrigation_--this being the only way anything whatever can be raised in these parts where there is not a sprinkle for sometimes nine months at a period. Upon the principle of a mill-race, they go away up the river, and at some good place lead the water from the stream into a ditch which winds along the edge of the plain, according to the fall, until it is higher than the valley, which is usually very level, as though designed by the great Creator to be thus used. This ditch is sometimes owned by the _landowners_, and sometimes by companies, who charge the settlers so much per annum for the water to irrigate. The channel ofttimes is very long, and it there are many farmers along its borders, stock in this is well invested. When the water is at hand, the land is plowed and the seed is sown or planted in the loose, sandy soil. The gates at the ditch are then lifted, and with hoe and shovel they watch and see that the surface is all covered with water. If corn or potatoes are planted, a furrow is drawn along each side of the row, and the water is let to course through these until the soil is thoroughly saturated. This irrigation must be done usually once or twice a week, depending somewhat upon the temperature of the atmosphere and the nature and condition of the soil. We have seen some good crops thus raised; and strange to say, some persons who have lived here for several years say they would farm in no other country; “for,” they say, “we do our own raining, and never have droughts or floods.” Of course we were very glad to see them so well satisfied with their fortunes; but as for us, we preferred living in _God’s country_, where the water falls from the _clouds_.

Following the river east, claims became more and more numerous until we arrived at Wichita, when we found the whole valley settled up, and were surprised to see the great buffalo-range of so few years ago bearing upon its bosom great fields of rich, golden grain. Going west toward the mountains, the farmers became fewer and fewer, and the valley and plain are left to the stock-men. About sunset thousands of cattle may be seen coming in to water from all directions, until the whole valley is a moving mass. The plain is high and dry, covered with a thick growth of buffalo-grass, and perfectly destitute of all else. Not even a _bush_ can be seen except along the streams or little lakes, which are often forty and fifty miles apart. The cattle and all wild animals range along the water, feeding five and six miles out upon the plain. The waters on the plains stand in pools, in long, deep arrowas; and in the spring, when the snow melts in the mountains, the water courses its way through these gulches toward the rivers. The _rest_ of the year they are but _pools_; and these seldom dry up. Crossing over the dry plain from one water to another, a journey of often a couple of days, without seeing so much as a wolf to break the monotony, it is needless to say that upon coming into one of the valleys it appears like entering a paradise. Having spent several weeks hunting over these parts, it was now the latter part of September, and we prepared to start south for a buffalo hunt.