The
first
thing
we
did
on
that
glad
evening
that
landed
us
at
St.
Joseph
was
to
hunt
up
the
stage-office,
and
pay
a
hundred
and
fifty
dollars
apiece
for
tickets
per
overland coach
to
Carson City, Nevada.
The
next
morning,
bright
and
early,
we
took
a
hasty
breakfast,
and
hurried
to
the
starting-place.
Then
an
inconvenience
presented
itself
which
we
had
not
properly
appreciated before, namely,
that
one
cannot
make
a heavy
traveling
trunk
stand
for
twenty-five
pounds
of
baggage—because
it
weighs
a
good
deal
more.
But
that
was
all
we
could
take—twenty-five
pounds
each.
So
we
had
to
snatch
our
trunks
open,
and
make
a
selection
in
a
good
deal
of
a hurry.
We
put
our
lawful
twenty-five
pounds
apiece
all
in
one
valise,
and
shipped
the
trunks
back
to
St.
Louis
again.
It
was
a
sad
parting,
for
now
we
had
no
swallow-tail coats
and
white
kid
gloves
to
wear
at
Pawnee
receptions
in
the
Rocky
Mountains,
and
no
stove-pipe
hats
nor
patent-leather boots,
nor
anything
else
necessary
to
make
life
calm
and
peaceful.
We
were
reduced
to
a war-footing.
Each
of
us
put
on
a rough, heavy suit
of
clothing,
woolen
army
shirt
and
"stogy"
boots
included;
and
into
the
valise
we
crowded a
few
white
shirts,
some
under-clothing
and
such
things. My brother,
the
Secretary,
took
along
about
four
pounds
of
United
States
statutes
and
six
pounds
of
Unabridged Dictionary;
for
we
did
not
know—poor innocents—that
such
things
could
be
bought
in
San Francisco
on
one
day
and
received
in
Carson
City
the
next. I
was
armed
to
the
teeth
with
a pitiful
little
Smith & Wesson's seven-shooter,
which
carried a
ball
like
a homoeopathic pill,
and
it
took
the
whole
seven
to
make
a dose
for
an
adult.
But
I
thought
it
was
grand.
It
appeared
to
me
to
be
a
dangerous
weapon.
It
only
had
one
fault—you
could
not
hit
anything
with
it.
One
of
our
"conductors" practiced
awhile
on
a
cow
with
it,
and
as
long
as
she
stood
still
and
behaved
herself
she
was
safe;
but
as
soon
as
she
went
to
moving
about,
and
he
got
to
shooting
at
other
things,
she
came
to
grief.
The
Secretary
had a small-sized Colt's revolver strapped
around
him
for
protection
against
the
Indians,
and
to
guard
against
accidents
he
carried
it
uncapped. Mr.
George
Bemis
was
dismally
formidable.
George
Bemis
was
our
fellow-traveler.
We
had
never
seen
him
before.
He
wore
in
his
belt
an
old
original
"Allen" revolver,
such
as
irreverent
people
called
a "pepper-box." Simply drawing
the
trigger
back,
cocked
and
fired
the
pistol.
As
the
trigger
came back,
the
hammer
would
begin
to
rise
and
the
barrel
to
turn
over,
and
presently
down
would
drop
the
hammer,
and
away
would
speed
the
ball.
To
aim
along
the
turning
barrel
and
hit
the
thing
aimed
at
was
a
feat
which
was
probably
never
done
with
an
"Allen"
in
the
world.
But
George's
was
a reliable weapon, nevertheless, because,
as
one
of
the
stage-drivers
afterward
said, "If
she
didn't
get
what
she
went after,
she
would
fetch
something
else."
And
so
she
did.
She
went
after
a
deuce
of
spades
nailed
against a tree, once,
and
fetched a
mule
standing
about
thirty
yards
to
the
left
of
it. Bemis
did
not
want
the
mule;
but
the
owner came
out
with
a double-barreled
shotgun
and
persuaded
him
to
buy
it, anyhow.
It
was
a cheerful weapon—the "Allen." Sometimes
all
its
six
barrels
would
go
off
at
once,
and
then
there
was
no
safe
place
in
all
the
region
round about,
but
behind
it.
We
took
two
or
three
blankets
for
protection
against
frosty
weather
in
the
mountains.
In
the
matter
of
luxuries
we
were
modest—we
took
none
along
but
some
pipes
and
five
pounds
of
smoking
tobacco.
We
had
two
large
canteens
to
carry
water
in,
between
stations
on
the
Plains,
and
we
also
took
with
us
a
little
shot-bag
of
silver
coin
for
daily
expenses
in
the
way
of
breakfasts
and
dinners.
By
eight
o'clock
everything
was
ready,
and
we
were
on
the
other
side
of
the
river.
We
jumped
into
the
stage,
the
driver
cracked
his
whip,
and
we
bowled
away
and
left "the States"
behind
us.
It
was
a
superb
summer
morning,
and
all
the
landscape
was
brilliant
with
sunshine.
There
was
a freshness
and
breeziness, too,
and
an
exhilarating
sense
of
emancipation
from
all
sorts
of
cares
and
responsibilities,
that
almost
made
us
feel
that
the
years
we
had spent
in
the
close,
hot
city,
toiling
and
slaving, had been wasted
and
thrown away.
We
were
spinning
along
through
Kansas,
and
in
the
course
of
an
hour
and
a
half
we
were
fairly
abroad
on
the
great
Plains.
Just
here
the
land
was
rolling—a
grand
sweep
of
regular
elevations
and
depressions
as
far
as
the
eye
could
reach—like
the
stately heave
and
swell
of
the
ocean's
bosom
after
a storm.
And
everywhere
were
cornfields,
accenting
with
squares
of
deeper
green,
this
limitless
expanse
of
grassy land.
But
presently
this
sea
upon
dry
ground
was
to
lose
its
"rolling"
character
and
stretch
away
for
seven
hundred
miles
as
level
as
a floor!
Our
coach
was
a
great
swinging
and
swaying
stage,
of
the
most
sumptuous
description—an imposing
cradle
on
wheels.
It
was
drawn
by
six
handsome horses,
and
by
the
side
of
the
driver sat
the
"conductor,"
the
legitimate
captain
of
the
craft;
for
it
was
his
business
to
take
charge
and
care
of
the
mails, baggage, express matter,
and
passengers.
We
three
were
the
only
passengers,
this
trip.
We
sat
on
the
back
seat, inside.
About
all
the
rest
of
the
coach
was
full
of
mail
bags—for
we
had
three
days'
delayed
mails
with
us.
Almost
touching
our
knees, a
perpendicular
wall
of
mail
matter
rose
up
to
the
roof.
There
was
a
great
pile
of
it
strapped
on
top
of
the
stage,
and
both
the
fore
and
hind
boots
were
full.
We
had twenty-seven
hundred
pounds
of
it
aboard,
the
driver said—"a
little
for
Brigham,
and
Carson,
and
'Frisco,
but
the
heft
of
it
for
the
Injuns,
which
is
powerful troublesome 'thout
they
get
plenty
of
truck
to
read."
But
as
he
just
then
got
up
a fearful
convulsion
of
his
countenance
which
was
suggestive
of
a wink being
swallowed
by
an
earthquake,
we
guessed
that
his
remark
was
intended
to
be
facetious,
and
to
mean
that
we
would
unload
the
most
of
our
mail
matter
somewhere
on
the
Plains
and
leave
it
to
the
Indians,
or
whosoever wanted it.
We
changed
horses
every
ten
miles,
all
day
long,
and
fairly
flew
over
the
hard,
level
road.
We
jumped
out
and
stretched
our
legs
every
time
the
coach stopped,
and
so
the
night
found
us
still
vivacious
and
unfatigued.
After
supper
a
woman
got in,
who
lived
about
fifty
miles
further
on,
and
we
three
had
to
take
turns
at
sitting outside
with
the
driver
and
conductor. Apparently
she
was
not
a
talkative
woman.
She
would
sit
there
in
the
gathering
twilight
and
fasten
her
steadfast
eyes
on
a
mosquito
rooting
into
her
arm,
and
slowly
she
would
raise
her
other
hand
till
she
had got
his
range,
and
then
she
would
launch
a
slap
at
him
that
would
have
jolted a cow;
and
after
that
she
would
sit
and
contemplate
the
corpse
with
tranquil
satisfaction—for
she
never
missed
her
mosquito;
she
was
a
dead
shot
at
short
range.
She
never
removed a carcase,
but
left
them
there
for
bait. I sat
by
this
grim Sphynx
and
watched
her
kill
thirty
or
forty
mosquitoes—watched her,
and
waited
for
her
to
say
something,
but
she
never
did.
So
I finally
opened
the
conversation
myself. I said: "The
mosquitoes
are
pretty bad,
about
here, madam." "You bet!" "What
did
I
understand
you
to
say, madam?" "You BET!"
Then
she
cheered up,
and
faced
around
and
said: "Danged
if
I didn't
begin
to
think
you
fellers
was
deef
and
dumb. I did, b'gosh.
Here
I've sot,
and
sot,
and
sot, a-bust'n muskeeters
and
wonderin'
what
was
ailin' ye. Fust I thot
you
was
deef
and
dumb,
then
I thot
you
was
sick
or
crazy,
or
suthin',
and
then
by
and
by
I
begin
to
reckon
you
was
a passel
of
sickly fools
that
couldn't
think
of
nothing
to
say. Wher'd
ye
come
from?"
The
Sphynx
was
a Sphynx
no
more!
The
fountains
of
her
great
deep
were
broken
up,
and
she
rained
the
nine
parts
of
speech
forty
days
and
forty
nights, metaphorically speaking,
and
buried
us
under
a desolating deluge
of
trivial
gossip
that
left
not
a
crag
or
pinnacle
of
rejoinder
projecting
above
the
tossing
waste
of
dislocated
grammar
and
decomposed pronunciation!
How
we
suffered, suffered, suffered!
She
went on,
hour
after
hour,
till
I
was
sorry
I
ever
opened
the
mosquito
question
and
gave
her
a start.
She
never
did
stop
again
until
she
got
to
her
journey's
end
toward
daylight;
and
then
she
stirred
us
up
as
she
was
leaving
the
stage
(for
we
were
nodding,
by
that
time),
and
said: "Now
you
git
out
at
Cottonwood,
you
fellers,
and
lay
over
a
couple
o' days,
and
I'll
be
along
some
time to-night,
and
if
I
can
do
ye
any
good
by
edgin'
in
a
word
now
and
then, I'm
right
thar. Folks'll
tell
you't I've
always
ben
kind
o' offish
and
partic'lar
for
a gal that's
raised
in
the
woods,
and
I am,
with
the
rag-tag
and
bob-tail,
and
a gal has
to
be,
if
she
wants
to
be
anything,
but
when
people
comes
along
which
is
my equals, I
reckon
I'm a pretty
sociable
heifer
after
all."
We
resolved
not
to
"lay
by
at
Cottonwood."