Ox-Team Days on the Oregon Trail

<h3>A BIT OF BAD LUCK</h3> <div class='unindent'>"<span class="smcap">Old</span> Oregon Trail Monument Expedition, Brady Island, Nebraska, August 9, 1906, Camp No. 120. Odometer, 1,536<small>⁵/₈</small>. Yesterday morning Twist ate his breakfast as usual and showed no signs of sickness until we were on the road two or three miles, when he began to put his tongue out and his breathing became heavy. But he leaned on the yoke more heavily than usual and determined to pull the whole load. I finally stopped, put him on the off side, gave him the long end of the yoke, and tied his head back with the halter strap to the chain; but to no purpose, for he pulled by the head very heavily. I finally unyoked, gave him a quart of lard, a gill of vinegar, and a handful of sugar, but all to no purpose, for he soon fell down and in two hours was dead."</div> <p>Such is the record in my journal of this noble animal's death. I think he died from eating some poisonous plant.<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_205" id="Page_205"></SPAN></span></p> <p>When we started, Twist weighed 1470 pounds. After we had crossed two ranges of mountains, had wallowed in the snows of the Blue Mountains, followed the tortuous, rocky canyon of Burnt River, and gone through the deep sands of the Snake, this ox had gained 137 pounds, and weighed 1607 pounds. While laboring under the short end of the yoke that gave him fifty-five per cent of the draft and an increased burden, he would keep his end of the yoke a little ahead, no matter how much the mate might be urged to keep up.</p> <p>There are pronounced individualities in animals as well as in men. I might have said virtues, too&mdash;and why not? If an animal always does his duty and is faithful and industrious, why not recognize this character, even if he is "nothing but an ox"?</p> <p>To understand the achievements of this ox it is necessary to know the burden that he carried. The wagon weighed 1430 pounds, had wooden axles and wide track, and carried an average load of 800 pounds. Along with an unbroken four-year old steer, a natural-born shirk, Twist had hauled the wagon 1776 miles, and he was in better working trim just before he died than when the trip began. And yet, am I sure that at some points I did not abuse him? What about coming up out of Little Canyon, or rather up the steep, rocky steps of stones like stairs, when I used the goad, and he pulled a shoe off his feet? Was I merciful then, or did I exact more than I ought?</p> <p>I can see him yet, in my mind, on his knees, holding the wagon from rolling into the canyon till the wheel could be blocked and the brakes set. Then, when bidden to start the load, he did not flinch. He was the best ox I ever saw, without exception, and his loss nearly broke up the expedition. His like I could not find again. He had a decent burial. A headboard marks his grave<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_206" id="Page_206"></SPAN></span> and tells of the aid he rendered in this expedition to perpetuate the memory of the old Oregon Trail.</p> <div class="figright"> <ANTIMG src="images/illus-216.png" width-obs="225" height-obs="250" alt="Twist, a noble animal." title="" /> <span class="caption">Twist, a noble animal.</span></div> <p>What should I do&mdash;abandon the work? No. But I could not go on with one ox. So a horse team was hired to take us to the next town, Gothenburg, thirteen miles distant. The lone ox was led behind the wagon.</p> <p>Again I hired a horse team to haul the wagon to Lexington. At Lexington I thought the loss of the ox could be repaired by buying a pair of heavy cows and breaking them in to work, so I purchased two out of a band of two hundred cattle.</p> <p>"Why, yes, of course they will work," I said, in reply to a bystander's question. "I have seen whole teams of cows on the Plains in '52. Yes, we will soon have a team," I declared with all the confidence in the world, "only we can't go very far in a day with a raw team, especially in this hot weather."</p> <p>But one cow would not go at all! We could neither lead her nor drive her. Put her in the yoke, and she would stand stock still, just like a stubborn mule. Hitch the yoke by a strong rope behind the wagon with a horse team to pull, and she would brace her feet and actually slide along, but would not lift a foot. I never saw such a brute before, and hope I never shall again. I have broken wild, fighting, kicking steers to the yoke and enjoyed the sport, but from a sullen, tame cow, deliver me!</p> <p>"Won't you take her back and give me another?" I asked the seller.<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_207" id="Page_207"></SPAN></span></p> <p>"Yes, I will give you that red cow,"&mdash;one I had rejected as unfit,&mdash;"but not one of the others."</p> <p>"What is this cow worth to you?"</p> <p>"Thirty dollars."</p> <p>So I dropped ten dollars, having paid forty for the first cow. Besides, I had lost the better part of a day and experienced a good deal of vexation. If I could only have had Twist back again!</p> <p>The fact gradually became apparent that the loss of that fine ox was almost irreparable. I could not get track of an ox anywhere, nor even of a steer large enough to mate the Dave ox. Besides, Dave always was a fool. Twist would watch my every motion, and mind by the wave of the hand, but Dave never minded anything except to shirk hard work. Twist seemed to love his work and would go freely all day. It was brought home to me more forcibly than ever that in the loss of the Twist ox I had almost lost the whole team.</p> <p>When I drove out from Lexington behind a hired horse team that day, with the Dave ox tagging on behind and sometimes pulling on his halter, and with an unbroken cow in leading, it may easily be guessed that the pride of anticipated success died out, and deep discouragement seized upon me. I had two yokes, one a heavy ox yoke, the other a light cow's yoke; but the cow, I thought, could not be worked alongside the ox in the ox yoke, nor the ox with the cow in the cow yoke. I was without a team, but with a double encumbrance.</p> <p>Yes, the ox has passed, for in all Nebraska I was unable to find even one yoke.</p> <p>I trudged along, sometimes behind the led cattle, wondering in my mind whether or not I had been foolish to undertake this expedition to perpetuate the memory of the old Oregon Trail. Had I not been rebuffed at the<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_208" id="Page_208"></SPAN></span> first by a number of business men who pushed the subject aside with, "I have no time to look into it"? Hadn't I been compelled to pass several towns where not even three persons could be found to act on the committee? And then there was the experience of the constant suspicion that there was some graft to be discovered, some lurking speculation. All this could be borne in patience; but when coupled with it came the virtual loss of the team, is it strange that my spirits went down below a normal point?</p> <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/illus-218.jpg" width-obs="500" height-obs="282" alt="The railroad bridge at Omaha, crossing the Missouri where in 1853 we went over by ferry." title="" /> <div class="attrib">Brown Bros.</div> <span class="caption">The railroad bridge at Omaha, crossing the Missouri where in 1853 we went over by ferry.</span></div> <p>Then came the compensatory thought of what had been accomplished. Four states had responded cordially. Back along the line of more than fifteen hundred miles already stood many sentinels, mostly granite, to mark the trail and keep alive the memory of the pioneers. Moreover, I recalled the enthusiastic reception in so many places, the outpouring of contributions from thousands of school children, the willing hands of the people that built these<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_209" id="Page_209"></SPAN></span> monuments, and the more than twenty thousand people attending the dedication ceremonies. These heartening recollections made me forget the loss of Twist, the recalcitrant cow, and the dilemma that confronted me. I awakened from my reverie in a more cheerful mood.</p> <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/illus-219.jpg" width-obs="500" height-obs="321" alt="Sugar-beet factories were seen when we left behind us the open ranges of the Wyoming country and came into the sugar-beet section in Nebraska." title="" /> <div class="attrib">Brown Bros.</div> <span class="caption">Sugar-beet factories were seen when we left behind us the open ranges of the Wyoming country and came into the sugar-beet section in Nebraska.</span></div> <p>"Do the best you can," I said to myself, "and don't be cast down." My spirits rose almost to the point of exultation again.</p> <p>We soon reached the beautiful city of Kearney, named after old Fort Kearney, which stood across the river, and were given a fine camping place in the center of the town. It was under the shade trees that line the streets, and we had a fresh-cut greensward upon which to pitch our tents. People came in great numbers to visit the camp and express their appreciation of our enterprise. Later a monument was erected in this city.<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_210" id="Page_210"></SPAN></span></p> <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/illus-220.jpg" width-obs="500" height-obs="303" alt="In the corn lands of Nebraska." title="" /> <div class="attrib">Brown Bros.</div> <span class="caption">In the corn lands of Nebraska.</span></div> <p>At Grand Island I found public sentiment in favor of taking action. It was decided, however, that the best time for the dedication would be in the following year, upon the occasion of the fiftieth anniversary of the settlement. I was a little disappointed in the delay, but felt that good seed was sown.</p> <p>Grand Island, with its stately rows of shade trees, its modest, tasteful homes, the bustle and stir on its business streets, with the constant passing of trains, shrieking of whistles, and ringing of bells, presented a striking contrast to the scene I saw that June day in 1852 when I passed over the ground near where the city stands. Vast herds of buffalo then grazed on the hills or leisurely crossed our track and at times obstructed our way, and herds of antelope watched from vantage points.</p> <p>But now the buffalo and antelope have disappeared; the Indian likewise is gone. Instead of the parched plain of 1852, with its fierce clouds of dust rolling up the valley and engulfing whole trains, we saw a landscape of smiling,<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_211" id="Page_211"></SPAN></span> fruitful fields, inviting groves of trees, and contented homes.</p> <p>From Grand Island I went to Fremont, Nebraska, to head the procession in the semi-centennial celebration in honor of the founding of that city. In the procession I worked the ox and cow together. From Fremont I went on to Lincoln.</p> <p>All the while I was searching for an ox or a steer large enough to mate the Dave ox, but without avail. Finally, after looking over a thousand head of cattle in the stockyards of Omaha, I found a five-year-old steer, Dandy, which I broke in on the way to Indianapolis. This ox proved to be very satisfactory. He never kicked or hooked, and was always in good humor. Dave and Dandy made good team-mates.</p> <p>"As dumb as an ox" is a very common expression, dating back as far as my memory goes. In fact, the ox is not so "dumb" as a casual observer might think. Dave and Dandy knew me as far as they could see; sometimes when I went to them in the morning, Dave would lift his head, bow his neck, stretch out his body, and perhaps extend a foot, as if to say, "Good morning to you; glad to see you." Dandy was driven on the streets of a hundred cities and towns, and I never knew him to be at a loss to find his way to the stable or watering-trough, once he had been there and was started on a return trip.</p> <p>I arrived at Indianapolis on January 5, 1907, eleven months and seven days from the date of departure from my home at Puyallup, twenty-six hundred miles away.</p> <hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_212" id="Page_212"></SPAN></span></p> <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/illus-222.jpg" width-obs="500" height-obs="343" alt="Along the Erie Canal, part of the National Highway to the West." title="" /> <div class="attrib">Brown Bros.</div> <span class="caption">Along the Erie Canal, part of the National Highway to the West.</span></div> <h2>CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT</h2> <div style="break-after:column;"></div><br />