As
the
sun
went
down
and
the
evening
chill came on,
we
made
preparation
for
bed.
We
stirred
up
the
hard
leather
letter-sacks,
and
the
knotty
canvas
bags
of
printed
matter
(knotty
and
uneven
because
of
projecting
ends
and
corners
of
magazines,
boxes
and
books).
We
stirred
them
up
and
redisposed
them
in
such
a
way
as
to
make
our
bed
as
level
as
possible.
And
we
did
improve
it, too,
though
after
all
our
work
it
had
an
upheaved
and
billowy
look
about
it,
like
a
little
piece
of
a
stormy
sea.
Next
we
hunted
up
our
boots
from
odd
nooks
among
the
mail-bags
where
they
had settled,
and
put
them
on.
Then
we
got
down
our
coats, vests,
pantaloons
and
heavy
woolen
shirts,
from
the
arm-loops
where
they
had been swinging
all
day,
and
clothed
ourselves
in
them—for,
there
being
no
ladies
either
at
the
stations
or
in
the
coach,
and
the
weather
being hot,
we
had
looked
to
our
comfort
by
stripping
to
our
underclothing,
at
nine
o'clock
in
the
morning.
All
things
being
now
ready,
we
stowed
the
uneasy
Dictionary
where
it
would
lie
as
quiet
as
possible,
and
placed
the
water-canteens
and
pistols
where
we
could
find
them
in
the
dark.
Then
we
smoked
a
final
pipe,
and
swapped
a
final
yarn;
after
which,
we
put
the
pipes,
tobacco
and
bag
of
coin
in
snug
holes
and
caves
among
the
mail-bags,
and
then
fastened
down
the
coach
curtains
all
around,
and
made
the
place
as
"dark
as
the
inside
of
a cow,"
as
the
conductor
phrased
it
in
his
picturesque
way.
It
was
certainly
as
dark
as
any
place
could
be—nothing
was
even
dimly
visible
in
it.
And
finally,
we
rolled
ourselves
up
like
silk- worms,
each
person
in
his
own
blanket,
and
sank peacefully
to
sleep. Whenever
the
stage
stopped
to
change
horses,
we
would
wake
up,
and
try
to
recollect
where
we
were—and succeed—and
in
a
minute
or
two
the
stage
would
be
off
again,
and
we
likewise.
We
began
to
get
into
country, now, threaded
here
and
there
with
little
streams.
These
had high,
steep
banks
on
each
side,
and
every
time
we
flew
down
one
bank
and
scrambled
up
the
other,
our
party
inside
got mixed somewhat.
First
we
would
all
be
down
in
a
pile
at
the
forward
end
of
the
stage, nearly
in
a sitting posture,
and
in
a
second
we
would
shoot
to
the
other
end,
and
stand
on
our
heads.
And
we
would
sprawl
and
kick, too,
and
ward
off
ends
and
corners
of
mail-
bags
that
came
lumbering
over
us
and
about
us;
and
as
the
dust
rose
from
the
tumult,
we
would
all
sneeze
in
chorus,
and
the
majority
of
us
would
grumble,
and
probably
say
some
hasty
thing, like: "Take
your
elbow
out
of
my ribs!—can't
you
quit
crowding?"
Every
time
we
avalanched
from
one
end
of
the
stage
to
the
other,
the
Unabridged
Dictionary
would
come
too;
and
every
time
it
came
it
damaged
somebody.
One
trip
it
"barked"
the
Secretary's elbow;
the
next
trip
it
hurt
me
in
the
stomach,
and
the
third
it
tilted
Bemis's
nose
up
till
he
could
look
down
his
nostrils—he said.
The
pistols
and
coin
soon
settled
to
the
bottom,
but
the
pipes, pipe-stems,
tobacco
and
canteens
clattered
and
floundered
after
the
Dictionary
every
time
it
made
an
assault
on
us,
and
aided
and
abetted
the
book
by
spilling
tobacco
in
our
eyes,
and
water
down
our
backs. Still,
all
things
considered,
it
was
a
very
comfortable
night.
It
wore gradually away,
and
when
at
last
a cold
gray
light
was
visible
through
the
puckers
and
chinks
in
the
curtains,
we
yawned
and
stretched
with
satisfaction,
shed
our
cocoons,
and
felt
that
we
had slept
as
much
as
was
necessary.
By
and
by,
as
the
sun
rose
up
and
warmed
the
world,
we
pulled
off
our
clothes
and
got
ready
for
breakfast.
We
were
just
pleasantly
in
time,
for
five
minutes
afterward
the
driver sent
the
weird
music
of
his
bugle
winding
over
the
grassy solitudes,
and
presently
we
detected
a
low
hut
or
two
in
the
distance.
Then
the
rattling
of
the
coach,
the
clatter
of
our
six
horses' hoofs,
and
the
driver's crisp commands,
awoke
to
a
louder
and
stronger
emphasis,
and
we
went
sweeping
down
on
the
station
at
our
smartest speed.
It
was
fascinating—that
old
overland stagecoaching.
We
jumped
out
in
undress uniform.
The
driver tossed
his
gathered
reins
out
on
the
ground,
gaped
and
stretched complacently,
drew
off
his
heavy buckskin gloves
with
great
deliberation
and
insufferable dignity—taking
not
the
slightest notice
of
a
dozen
solicitous
inquires
after
his
health,
and
humbly
facetious
and
flattering accostings,
and
obsequious
tenders
of
service,
from
five
or
six
hairy
and
half-civilized station-keepers
and
hostlers
who
were
nimbly unhitching
our
steeds
and
bringing
the
fresh
team
out
of
the
stables—for
in
the
eyes
of
the
stage-driver
of
that
day, station-keepers
and
hostlers
were
a
sort
of
good
enough
low
creatures, useful
in
their
place,
and
helping
to
make
up
a world,
but
not
the
kind
of
beings
which
a
person
of
distinction
could
afford
to
concern
himself
with; while,
on
the
contrary,
in
the
eyes
of
the
station-keeper
and
the
hostler,
the
stage-driver
was
a hero—a
great
and
shining
dignitary,
the
world's
favorite
son,
the
envy
of
the
people,
the
observed
of
the
nations.
When
they
spoke
to
him
they
received
his
insolent
silence meekly,
and
as
being
the
natural
and
proper
conduct
of
so
great
a man;
when
he
opened
his
lips
they
all
hung
on
his
words
with
admiration
(he
never
honored
a
particular
individual
with
a remark,
but
addressed
it
with
a
broad
generality
to
the
horses,
the
stables,
the
surrounding
country
and
the
human
underlings);
when
he
discharged a
facetious
insulting
personality
at
a hostler,
that
hostler
was
happy
for
the
day;
when
he
uttered
his
one
jest—old
as
the
hills, coarse, profane, witless,
and
inflicted
on
the
same
audience,
in
the
same
language,
every
time
his
coach
drove
up
there—the
varlets
roared,
and
slapped
their
thighs,
and
swore
it
was
the
best
thing
they'd
ever
heard
in
all
their
lives.
And
how
they
would
fly
around
when
he
wanted a
basin
of
water, a
gourd
of
the
same,
or
a
light
for
his
pipe!—but
they
would
instantly
insult
a
passenger
if
he
so
far
forgot
himself
as
to
crave
a
favor
at
their
hands.
They
could
do
that
sort
of
insolence
as
well
as
the
driver
they
copied
it
from—for,
let
it
be
borne
in
mind,
the
overland driver had
but
little
less
contempt
for
his
passengers
than
he
had
for
his
hostlers.
The
hostlers
and
station-keepers treated
the
really powerful
conductor
of
the
coach merely
with
the
best
of
what
was
their
idea
of
civility,
but
the
driver
was
the
only
being
they
bowed
down
to
and
worshipped.
How
admiringly
they
would
gaze
up
at
him
in
his
high
seat
as
he
gloved
himself
with
lingering
deliberation,
while
some
happy
hostler
held
the
bunch
of
reins aloft,
and
waited
patiently
for
him
to
take
it!
And
how
they
would
bombard
him
with
glorifying
ejaculations
as
he
cracked
his
long
whip
and
went careering away.
The
station
buildings
were
long,
low
huts,
made
of
sundried, mud-colored bricks, laid
up
without
mortar
(adobes,
the
Spaniards
call
these
bricks,
and
Americans
shorten
it
to
'dobies).
The
roofs,
which
had
no
slant
to
them
worth
speaking
of,
were
thatched
and
then
sodded
or
covered
with
a
thick
layer
of
earth,
and
from
this
sprung a pretty rank
growth
of
weeds
and
grass.
It
was
the
first
time
we
had
ever
seen
a man's front
yard
on
top
of
his
house.
The
building
consisted
of
barns, stable-room
for
twelve
or
fifteen
horses,
and
a
hut
for
an
eating-room
for
passengers.
This
latter
had bunks
in
it
for
the
station-keeper
and
a
hostler
or
two.
You
could
rest
your
elbow
on
its
eaves,
and
you
had
to
bend
in
order
to
get
in
at
the
door.
In
place
of
a
window
there
was
a
square
hole
about
large
enough
for
a
man
to
crawl
through,
but
this
had
no
glass
in
it.
There
was
no
flooring,
but
the
ground
was
packed
hard.
There
was
no
stove,
but
the
fire-place served
all
needful purposes.
There
were
no
shelves,
no
cupboards,
no
closets.
In
a
corner
stood
an
open
sack
of
flour,
and
nestling against
its
base
were
a
couple
of
black
and
venerable
tin
coffee-pots, a
tin
teapot, a
little
bag
of
salt,
and
a
side
of
bacon.
By
the
door
of
the
station-keeper's den, outside,
was
a
tin
wash-basin,
on
the
ground.
Near
it
was
a
pail
of
water
and
a
piece
of
yellow
bar
soap,
and
from
the
eaves
hung
a hoary blue
woolen
shirt, significantly—but
this
latter
was
the
station-keeper's
private
towel,
and
only
two
persons
in
all
the
party
might
venture
to
use
it—the stage-driver
and
the
conductor.
The
latter
would
not,
from
a sense
of
decency;
the
former
would
not,
because
did
not
choose
to
encourage
the
advances
of
a station- keeper.
We
had towels—in
the
valise;
they
might
as
well
have
been
in
Sodom
and
Gomorrah.
We
(and
the
conductor) used
our
handkerchiefs,
and
the
driver
his
pantaloons
and
sleeves.
By
the
door, inside,
was
fastened
a small
old-fashioned
looking-glass frame,
with
two
little
fragments
of
the
original
mirror
lodged
down
in
one
corner
of
it.
This
arrangement
afforded
a
pleasant
double-barreled
portrait
of
you
when
you
looked
into
it,
with
one
half
of
your
head
set
up
a
couple
of
inches
above
the
other
half.
From
the
glass
frame
hung
the
half
of
a
comb
by
a string—but
if
I had
to
describe
that
patriarch
or
die, I
believe
I
would
order
some
sample coffins.
It
had
come
down
from
Esau
and
Samson,
and
had been
accumulating
hair
ever
since—along
with
certain
impurities.
In
one
corner
of
the
room
stood
three
or
four
rifles
and
muskets,
together
with
horns
and
pouches
of
ammunition.
The
station-men wore
pantaloons
of
coarse, country-woven stuff,
and
into
the
seat
and
the
inside
of
the
legs
were
sewed
ample
additions
of
buckskin,
to
do
duty
in
place
of
leggings,
when
the
man
rode horseback—so
the
pants
were
half
dull
blue
and
half
yellow,
and
unspeakably picturesque.
The
pants
were
stuffed
into
the
tops
of
high boots,
the
heels
whereof
were
armed
with
great
Spanish
spurs,
whose
little
iron clogs
and
chains
jingled
with
every
step.
The
man
wore a
huge
beard
and
mustachios,
an
old
slouch hat, a blue
woolen
shirt,
no
suspenders,
no
vest,
no
coat—in a
leathern
sheath
in
his
belt, a
great
long
"navy" revolver (slung
on
right
side,
hammer
to
the
front),
and
projecting
from
his
boot
a horn-handled bowie-knife.
The
furniture
of
the
hut
was
neither
gorgeous
nor
much
in
the
way.
The
rocking-chairs
and
sofas
were
not
present,
and
never
had been,
but
they
were
represented
by
two
three-legged stools, a pine-board
bench
four
feet long,
and
two
empty candle-boxes.
The
table
was
a greasy
board
on
stilts,
and
the
table-
cloth
and
napkins
had
not
come—and
they
were
not
looking
for
them, either. A
battered
tin
platter, a knife
and
fork,
and
a
tin
pint
cup,
were
at
each
man's place,
and
the
driver had a queens-ware
saucer
that
had
seen
better
days.
Of
course
this
duke
sat
at
the
head
of
the
table.
There
was
one
isolated
piece
of
table
furniture
that
bore
about
it
a touching air
of
grandeur
in
misfortune.
This
was
the
caster.
It
was
German
silver,
and
crippled
and
rusty,
but
it
was
so
preposterously
out
of
place
there
that
it
was
suggestive
of
a tattered
exiled
king
among
barbarians,
and
the
majesty
of
its
native
position
compelled
respect
even
in
its
degradation.
There
was
only
one
cruet
left,
and
that
was
a stopperless, fly-specked, broken-necked thing,
with
two
inches
of
vinegar
in
it,
and
a
dozen
preserved
flies
with
their
heels
up
and
looking
sorry
they
had
invested
there.
The
station-keeper upended a
disk
of
last
week's bread,
of
the
shape
and
size
of
an
old-time cheese,
and
carved
some
slabs
from
it
which
were
as
good
as
Nicholson pavement,
and
tenderer.
He
sliced
off
a
piece
of
bacon
for
each
man,
but
only
the
experienced
old
hands
made
out
to
eat
it,
for
it
was
condemned
army
bacon
which
the
United
States
would
not
feed
to
its
soldiers
in
the
forts,
and
the
stage
company
had bought
it
cheap
for
the
sustenance
of
their
passengers
and
employees.
We
may
have
found
this
condemned
army
bacon
further
out
on
the
plains
than
the
section I
am
locating
it
in,
but
we
found it—there
is
no
gainsaying
that.
Then
he
poured
for
us
a
beverage
which
he
called
"Slum gullion,"
and
it
is
hard
to
think
he
was
not
inspired
when
he
named
it.
It
really pretended
to
be
tea,
but
there
was
too
much
dish-rag,
and
sand,
and
old
bacon-rind
in
it
to
deceive
the
intelligent
traveler.
He
had
no
sugar
and
no
milk—not
even
a spoon
to
stir
the
ingredients
with.
We
could
not
eat
the
bread
or
the
meat,
nor
drink
the
"slumgullion."
And
when
I
looked
at
that
melancholy vinegar-cruet, I
thought
of
the
anecdote
(a very,
very
old
one,
even
at
that
day)
of
the
traveler
who
sat
down
to
a table
which
had
nothing
on
it
but
a
mackerel
and
a
pot
of
mustard.
He
asked
the
landlord
if
this
was
all.
The
landlord said: "All! Why,
thunder
and
lightning, I
should
think
there
was
mackerel
enough
there
for
six." "But I don't
like
mackerel." "Oh—then
help
yourself
to
the
mustard."
In
other
days
I had
considered
it
a good, a
very
good, anecdote,
but
there
was
a
dismal
plausibility
about
it, here,
that
took
all
the
humor
out
of
it.
Our
breakfast
was
before
us,
but
our
teeth
were
idle. I
tasted
and
smelt,
and
said I
would
take
coffee, I believed.
The
station-boss stopped
dead
still,
and
glared
at
me
speechless.
At
last,
when
he
came to,
he
turned
away
and
said,
as
one
who
communes
with
himself
upon
a
matter
too
vast
to
grasp: "Coffee! Well,
if
that
don't
go
clean ahead
of
me, I'm d—-d!"
We
could
not
eat,
and
there
was
no
conversation
among
the
hostlers
and
herdsmen—we
all
sat
at
the
same
board.
At
least
there
was
no
conversation
further
than
a single hurried request,
now
and
then,
from
one
employee
to
another.
It
was
always
in
the
same
form,
and
always
gruffly friendly.
Its
western
freshness
and
novelty
startled me,
at
first,
and
interested me;
but
it
presently
grew
monotonous,
and
lost
its
charm.
It
was: "Pass
the
bread,
you
son
of
a skunk!" No, I forget—skunk
was
not
the
word;
it
seems
to
me
it
was
still
stronger
than
that; I
know
it
was,
in
fact,
but
it
is
gone
from
my memory, apparently. However,
it
is
no
matter—probably
it
was
too
strong
for
print, anyway.
It
is
the
landmark
in
my
memory
which
tells
me
where
I
first
encountered
the
vigorous
new
vernacular
of
the
occidental
plains
and
mountains.
We
gave
up
the
breakfast,
and
paid
our
dollar
apiece
and
went
back
to
our
mail-bag
bed
in
the
coach,
and
found
comfort
in
our
pipes.
Right
here
we
suffered
the
first
diminution
of
our
princely state.
We
left
our
six
fine
horses
and
took
six
mules
in
their
place.
But
they
were
wild Mexican fellows,
and
a
man
had
to
stand
at
the
head
of
each
of
them
and
hold
him
fast
while
the
driver gloved
and
got
himself
ready.
And
when
at
last
he
grasped
the
reins
and
gave
the
word,
the
men sprung suddenly
away
from
the
mules'
heads
and
the
coach
shot
from
the
station
as
if
it
had
issued
from
a cannon.
How
the
frantic
animals
did
scamper!
It
was
a
fierce
and
furious
gallop—and
the
gait
never
altered
for
a
moment
till
we
reeled
off
ten
or
twelve
miles
and
swept
up
to
the
next
collection
of
little
station-huts
and
stables.
So
we
flew
along
all
day.
At
2 P.M.
the
belt
of
timber
that
fringes
the
North
Platte
and
marks
its
windings
through
the
vast
level
floor
of
the
Plains came
in
sight.
At
4 P.M.
we
crossed
a
branch
of
the
river,
and
at
5 P.M.
we
crossed
the
Platte itself,
and
landed
at
Fort
Kearney, fifty-six
hours
out
from
St. Joe—THREE
HUNDRED
MILES!
Now
that
was
stage-coaching
on
the
great
overland,
ten
or
twelve
years
ago,
when
perhaps
not
more
than
ten
men
in
America,
all
told,
expected
to
live
to
see
a
railroad
follow
that
route
to
the
Pacific.
But
the
railroad
is
there, now,
and
it
pictures a
thousand
odd
comparisons
and
contrasts
in
my
mind
to
read
the
following
sketch,
in
the
New
York
Times,
of
a
recent
trip
over
almost
the
very
ground I
have
been describing. I
can
scarcely
comprehend
the
new
state
of
things: