UP THE SMOKY HILL FORK.

DENVER, COLORADO

AFTER my arrival at Junction City, the rains which had flooded all Eastern Kansas, stopping stages and railroad trains alike, ceased entirely, and the weather became clear and fine. Although my main object in visiting Junction was to secure a good night’s rest before setting out on the Plains, I was immediately requested to lecture that evening. There was no hall, the only one having been recently burned; no church yet completed; no announcement had been made — but in these far-western towns nothing is impossible. A store-building, just floored and plastered, without windows, and, indeed, occupied by carpenters at work, was selected; planks carried in for seats, a temporary platform built, messengers sent around to give private information to the people, and in two hours’ time lo! there was a good audience assembled.

All Tuesday I waited vainly for the Overland stage-coach. The accounts from down the Kaw Valley represented the streams as being impassable, and toward sunset the enterprising population considered that my delay was now so far extended as to warrant a second lecture. With less time for preparation, they achieved the same result as the first night; and, truly, I have rarely had a more agreeable audience than the hundred persons who sat upon the planks in that unfinished store-building. What other people than the Americans would do such things?

While at Junction I witnessed a very interesting experiment. The bluffs of magniesian limestone behind the town precisely resemble, in color and texture, that which forms the island of Malta. In the quarry it has a pale buff tint, with a soft, cheesy grain, which may be cut with a good hatchet, or sawed with a common handsaw; yet, after some exposure to the air, it becomes hard and assumes a rich, warm color. Messrs. McClure and Hopkins, of Junction, had just received a sawing-machine, driven by horse power, and several rough blocks were awaiting the test. Nothing could have been more satisfactory. The saw cut through the stone as easily and steadily as through a block of wood, dressing a smooth face of eighteen inches square in exactly two minutes. The supply of stone being inexhaustible, this is the beginning of a business which may make the future cities of Kansas and Missouri the most beautiful in the world.

I stated the population of the place at four or five hundred, but I am told it is nearly one thousand, each building representing thrice the number of inhabitants as in the East. So I hasten to make the correction, for nothing annoys these frontier towns so much as either to understate their population or underestimate their prospective importance. Junction City will soon be the terminus of railroad travel, and the starting-point of the great overland freight business, which will give it certainly a temporary importance. The people, I find, desire that the road shall run up the Republican Valley, in order to secure, at least, the New-Mexican trade for a few years; but this is not a matter to be decided by local interests or wishes. The distance thence to Denver by the Republican route would be one hundred and thirty-nine miles longer than by the Smoky Hill route.

Another comfortable night at the Eagle Hotel, and Wednesday came, warm and cloudless, without any sign of the stage. Mr. McClure kindly offered to drive me to Salina, the last settlement on the Smoky Hill Fork, forty-five miles further, and we set out soon after breakfast. The road along the bottom being too deep, we took that leading over the rolling country to the north. Climbing through a little glen to the level of the bluffs, we had a charming backward view of the junction of the rivers, with the buildings of Fort Riley crowning the wooded slopes beyond; then forward, over many a rolling mile of the finest grazing land in the world. Two miles further we found a train of wagons just starting with supplies for the stage stations along the line. Mr. Stanton, the superintendent, informed me that he had come through from Denver to Fort Riley this spring, with ox-teams, in twenty-seven days. He expects to make three round trips this season, taking up corn, and bringing back lumber for the houses and stables to be built on the line.

We had occasional views over the bottoms of the Smoky Hill, which, the people claim, are even richer than those of the Kaw Valley; but that seems impossible. Twelve miles of pleasant travel brought us to Chapman’s Creek, the first stage-station. Here, however, the stream was nine feet deep, and the people at the ranche informed us that we would have to take a ford two miles higher up. It seemed to me better to return to Junction and await the stage there, than to risk missing it by leaving the main road; so we put about and retraced our journey.

At noon, when we had reached the bluffs and were thinking of dinner, what should we see but the stage, at last, driving toward us from the town! Hunger, then, was to be my first experience on the Overland journey. We turned out of the road; I alighted with my baggage, and awaited the approach of a face well-known in the Tenth Street Studio Building. There were two passengers, but neither of them was my friend. In fact, the driver shouted to me before he pulled up his horses, "Your friend didn’t come." One of the passengers handed me a letter from the agent at Topeka, informing me that Mr. Beard would probably not be able to reach that place for three or four days, on account of the floods. My arrangements in Denver would not allow me to wait; so I deposited myself, blankets and baggage, in the stage, and was fairly embarked for crossing the Plains.

I traversed, for the third time that day, the route to Chapman’s Creek. The water was still rising, and we, therefore, tried the upper ford, and successfully. The road beyond this descended from the Smoky Hill, and followed the broad, level bottoms of that river. The soil was, indeed, of wonderful fertility, though but little of it, as yet, is under cultivation. Toward sunset we reached the village of Abilene, or Abeline (how or whence the name was derived I cannot imagine, unless it is an abbreviated corruption of "Abe Lincoln "), and here I determined on having something to eat. Upon questioning a stalwart fellow who hung upon the coach while it was crossing Mud Creek, he declared, with emphasis, "It’s the last square meal you'll get on the road!" My experience of a "square meal," therefore, is that it consists of strong black coffee, strips of pork fat fried to a sandy crispness, and half-baked, soggy, indigestible biscuits. For these I paid the square price of one dollar.

The sun set, — there was no moon, — and our coach made toilsome progress over the muddy bottoms toward the Solomon’s Fork. Mosquitoes began their attacks, and thenceforth worried us the whole night. About ten o’clock the driver commenced an imitation of the bark of the coyote, which, it appeared, was a distant signal of our approach to the ferryman at the Solomon Crossing. It was too indistinct to note anything but the dark masses of timber on either side, and the gleam of water between; but from the length of time we occupied in crossing, I should judge that the stream is a hundred yards wide. The bottom-land along the Upper Solomon is said to be equal to any in Kansas, and emigration is fast pouring into it, as well as along the Republican and the Saline.

I should not wonder if "The Great American Desert" should finally be pronounced a myth. In my school geographies, it commenced at the western border of Missouri; now, I believe, it is pushed some two hundred and fifty miles further west, leaving some of the finest agricultural land on the globe behind it. So far, I had found the reverse of a desert; I determined, therefore, to be on the lookout, and duly note its present point of commencement.

What a weary drag we had that night over the deep mud between the Solomon and Saline Forks! Either sleeping and stung to inflammation, or awake, weary, and smoking in desperate defence, two or three hours passed away, until the yelping and howling of the driver announced our approach to the Saline. In the dark, this river appeared to be nearly equal in volume to the Solomon. Its water is so salt as sometimes to affect the taste of the Smoky Hill at Junction City.

Nine miles more in the dark brought us to Salina, a village of two or three hundred inhabitants, and the end of settlement in this direction. Our driver kept us waiting two hours for a new bit for one of his bridles, and in this interval I snatched a little sleep. Of Salina I cannot say that I really saw anything, but I learned that it contains several stores and two physicians. The two or three houses near the tavern were shanties of frame or logs. Travellers west of Topeka are expected to sleep two in a bed, and several beds in a room. It was only through the courtesy of the landlord at Junction that I was exempted from this rule. In other respects customs are primitive, but not rough. People wash themselves more frequently than elsewhere (because it is more needed), and there is as much cleanliness in the cabins, all circumstances considered, as in many hotels which I have seen. I even noticed one man in Kansas, who carried a tooth-brush in his pocket, which he pulled out now and then to give his teeth a dry brushing.

On leaving Salina, the road strikes nearly due west across the rolling country, to cut off the great southern bend of the Smoky Hill. Two or three miles terminated the mud and mosquitoes; we struck a dry, smooth road, a cool, delicious breeze, and great sweeps of green landscape, slowly brightening with the dawn. Distant bluffs and mounds broke the monotony of the horizon line, and the gradual, gentle undulations of the road were refreshing both to team and passengers.

By six o’clock we reached Pritchard’s, the next station, sixteen miles from Sauna. Here there was a stable of rough stones and mud, and a cabin cut out of the steep bank, with a rude roof of logs and mud. I was surprised by the sight of a pretty little girl of seven, and on entering the cabin found a woman engaged in getting our breakfast. The walls and floor were the bare soil; there was a bed or two, a table, two short benches for seats, and a colony of tame prairie-dogs in one corner. I asked the little girl if she would not like a companion to play with, but she answered, —" I think I have more fun with the horses and prairie-dogs!" What a western woman she will make!

Water was furnished plentifully for our ablutions, breakfast resembled the "square meal" of the preceding evening, with the addition of canned peaches, and we resumed our seats with a great sense of refreshment. The air of this region seems to take away all sense of fatigue; it is cool and bracing, even at mid-day. Soon after starting, we saw a coyote sneaking along a meadow on our left; then a huge gray wolf, at which one of my fellow-passengers fired without effect. He trotted away with a disdainful air, stopping now and then to look at us. At the same time a rattlesnake gave an angry signal by the roadside. There was no longer a question that we were now beyond civilization.

The limestone formation here gives place to a dark-red sandstone, which crops out of the ridges in rough, irregular walls and towers. Although rising to no great height, they nevertheless form picturesque and suggestive features of the landscape: in the distance they might frequently be taken for buildings.

The flora seems also to undergo a change. The grass was everywhere starred with large crimson anemones, a variety of the helianthus, with golden blossoms, a velvety flower of the richest brown and orange tints, white larkspurs, and dark-blue spiderwort. For many a league the country was one vast natural garden of splendid bloom. There were places where a single flower had usurped possession of a quarter-acre of soil, and made a dazzling bed of its own color. I have seen nothing like it, save on the hills of Palestine, in May.

After leaving Clear Creek, fourteen miles further, we approached the Smoky Hill. Two companies of the Second United States Cavalry were drawn up on the plain. Looking out, we beheld the encampment of Fort Ellsworth ahead of us. At present this is but a collection of temporary log barracks and stables, but the foundations of a permanent post have been laid on the rising ground, a little further from the river. ‘We only stopped to deliver mails, but I had time for a brief interview with Lieutenant Lester, and a glass of excellent beer from a barrel in the sutler’s quarters. General Palmer was inspecting the progress of the new fort, and I did not see him. Everybody — especially the private soldiers — was anxious to hear about the Fenian movement.

There had been no Indian troubles on the road, but the officers seemed to anticipate trouble from the continued absence of Indians from the country. The old trappers consider that withdrawal of intercourse, on the part of the Indians, indicates preparations for an attack. The Smoky Hill route, I find, is regarded with a little uneasiness this year, on account of the troubles last fall. The traders and train-men from Santa Fe represent that the tribes of the  plains are not in an amiable mood; and I confess I am therefore surprised that a thoroughfare so important as the Smoky Hill route is not more efficiently guarded. As far as I can learn, the difficulty seems rather to lie in the existence of a mongrel band of outcasts from various tribes, half-breeds and a few whites, who are known, collectively, under the name of "Dog Indians." Most of the atrocities heretofore committed are charged upon this class, which ought to be extirpated at once.

When we reached the station at Buffalo Creek, ten miles from Fort Ellsworth, the driver surprised me by saying: "Here‘s where the attack happened, three weeks ago!" I had heard of no attack, and was informed by the agents of the line that none had occurred. The account the driver gave was, that a band of forty (Pawnees, he supposed) had stopped the coach, attempted to upset it, and made various insolent demonstrations for a while. One passenger, who made a show of resistance, was knocked down with a club. "There was a Commodore aboard," said the driver; "he was terribly scairt; and a woman, and she was the coolest of ‘em all." This band is supposed to be under the command of Bent, a half-breed, son of the famous old frontiersman.

At the next station, Lost Creek (fifteen miles), we found a small detachment of soldiers posted. This looked threatening, but they assured us that everything was quiet. Thenceforth, indeed, we ceased to feel any anxiety; for, on a ridge, two miles away, we saw our first buffalo, — a dozen dark specks on the boundless green. Before night small herds of them grew quite frequent, making their appearance near us on both sides of the road. They set off on a slow, lumbering gallop at our approach, their humps tossing up and down behind each other, with the regular movement of small waves. Several shots were fired from the coach, but only one took effect, wounding a huge bull in the shoulder. It is this wanton killing of their game, simply in the way of amusement, which so exasperates the Indians. On the Smoky Hill bottoms, toward evening, we saw the largest herd, numbering some four or five hundred animals. The soldiers at Lost Creek had shot two or three the previous day. They had a quarter hanging upon the stake, but the meat both looked and smelled so disagreeably that I had no desire to taste it.

Antelopes and prairie-dogs also made their appearance in large numbers. The former were mostly single or in pairs, leaping nimbly along the elevations, or lifting their graceful heads in curiosity and watching us as we passed. The prairie-dogs sat upright at the doors of their underground habitations, and barked at us with a comical petulance. Toward evening their partners, the owls, came forth also to take the air. The rattlesnakes, I presume, were still in-doors, as we saw but two or three during the whole journey.

After passing a small stream near Fossil Creek, the driver suddenly stopped the team and jumped down from his seat. He leaned over the water, started back, took courage again, and presently held up to view a turtle which would weigh twenty-five or thirty pounds. The creature kicked and snapped viciously, as he was suspended by the tail, nor was his odor very attractive; but such a prospect for soup does not often arrive in this land of salt pork and indigestible biscuit; so he was tumbled into the boot, and the cover strapped down over him. For several miles, we on the back seat could hear him scratching behind us, but when the boot was opened at Big Creek Station, lo! no turtle was there. The driver’s face was a picture of misery and disgust.

As the cool, grateful twilight came down upon the boundless swells of grass and flowers, I examined my sensations, and found that they were of pure, peaceful enjoyment in the new and beautiful world which I now beheld for the first time. The fatigue, so far, was trifling; the fear of |Indians had disappeared; the "square meals" had, somehow or other, managed to digest themselves; and I heartily congratulated myself on having undertaken the journey.

Here I leave you, one hundred and seventy-five miles west of Fort Riley, in the centre of what once was "The Great American Desert."   NEXT