JUSTIN WILLARD MILES, b 18 Jun 1830 (Part 2 of 3)

MILES

Posted By: Donna Moldt Walker (email)
Date: 7/11/2004 at 08:05:35

I staid with my father on his extensive farm in Canaan during my minority. In March, 1852, I concluded to go to California across the plains. Capt. Durling, who had crossed the plains in 1850, had just returned and advertised to take another company across for $125 per capita. He agreed to furnish every necessary equipment, but the company must do the work. The conveyances were to be hauled by ox teams. In a few days the necessary number of applications was received, and on March 18 the company (100 men and five women) started from Wooster, Ohio, on a journey so full of varied and thrilling experiences, that it will ever be fresh in memory.

We went by rail to Wellsville, on the Ohio River. From here we took a steamer down the Ohio to its mouth, and up the Mississippi to St. Louis. At St. Louis Capt. Durling selected nine of us Canaan boys and ten others to cross the country with him to Independence, Mo., for the purpose of buying up the stock required. The balance of the company was sent direct to Independence by steamer, where they encamped until we arrived. We bought 130 head of cattle and fifteen horses. On the night before leaving St. Louis Capt. Durling's quick wit and self-command saved him from being held up and robbed while he had more than $30,000 on his person. Late in the evening two men stopped him on the street, pushed him into an alley, and told him to disgorge if he wanted to live. He said to them in a very cool manner: "Who do you think I am?" They replied: "You are Capt. Durling, from Ohio, on your way across the plains." In the same cool manner he said again: "Gentlemen, you are mistaken; I am on the same business that you are. I know where Capt. Durling is, and if you fellows will join me, we shall do him up." They were completely disarmed, and so went with him. He soon met two policemen and handed the would-be robbers over to them, agreeing to appear against them the next morning. But when morning came we left the city early, and no doubt the thugs were turned loose again.

About April 1 we arrived at Independence with our stock, and in ten days were started on our trip. We crossed the Kansas river on a rope ferry about ten miles above its mouth, and had a very pleasant time through Kansas and into Nebraska, until we struck the Cotton Mound River. Here the cholera broke out during the first night in camp. A young man in tent No. 9 was taken about 9 o'clock and died before twelve. His brother next younger was taken soon after, and at 2 o'clock he was dead. Our mess, No. 8, buried them both in one long grave, wrapped only in their blankets. This was our first sad experience. The train moved on at daybreak, thinking there might be something in the locality that had brought on the disease. It stuck to us, however, for ten days. During this time twelve died and as many others recovered. We Canaan boys seemed cholera proof. None of us were attacked by it.

Early in May we arrived at the Platte River, a few miles below Ft. Kearney. Here a little good fortune befell our mess. We had scarcely gone into camp when I noticed a covered wagon about a half-mile from us. On going over to visit it I found two men and two women, who had started from St. Louis with one wagon and three yoke of oxen, to make their way to the gold fields of California. One ox had died, they could not buy another to replace it, nor could they advance or go back without one. I told the men that if one of the women would cook for our mess during the remainder of the journey, I would persuade the Captain to take them into our train. This they heartily agreed to, and the bargain was soon made. So we had an excellent cook thereafter. The next day we crossed the Platte River at Kearney, and continued on the north side. Here we ran into the Pawnee Indians. They were on the war path that summer, and we had to look out for them. On the 15th of May we camped near a little stream, making, as usual, a corrall of our wagons, to prevent the Indians from stampeding our stock. The twenty-six wagons made a corrall large enough for all the cattle, but the horses were picketed outside and a guard placed over all. About 2 o'clock, a.m., some Indians crawled up the bed of the stream and scared the horses. They came rushing up to the wagons, snorting and pawing until they stampeded the cattle. The whole herd made a rush for the opposite side of the corrall, went pell mell over one wagon, and reduced it to atoms. Not a wheel remained unbroken, yet strange as it may seem, not a hoof was hurt. In less time that it takes to read this, every critter had disappeared in the darkness, except six horses. This was hard luck, but it might have been worse had they all gone. At dawn Capt. Durling, with five of us Canaan boys on the six remaining horses, we on their trail, well armed and determined. We overtook them about ten miles from camp, driven by fifteen Indians. The Indians were not going to give up their prize without a struggle. They faced about to give us battle. It was open prairie, so we commenced shooting at long range. We soon had three of them down, and we were encouraged to go nearer. It was not long until two more were wounded, and a third fell dead. The rest fled, taking one of our horses with them. Capt. Durling gave chase, and was rapidly gaining on the enemy when the fellow dismounted at the river's edge and dove from sight. When he appeared at the opposite side the Captain shot him dead. Every animal was recovered, and our return to camp with them was the occasion of much rejoicing. This was our last attempt to form a corrall of the wagons, but instead we placed a strong guard over the stock.

Shortly after this experience Charles Burdett, one of our Canaan boys, was taken with mountain fever, and after suffering severely for fifteen days he died, and we buried him at Ash Hollow. This was the first loss from our company, and we all felt it bitterly. I never saw such a homesick lot in my life. For my part, had the earth been mine, I believe I should have given it that morning to have been at home. It looked hard to leave the bones of our fellows to bleach on the plains.

In due time we arrived at Ft. Laramie. From here we soon struck the Sweetwater, a beautiful stream and a lovely country. This was the home of the Crow Indians. They were at peace, and we had no further trouble until we arrived at the Humboldt River.

July 4 was celebrated at Independence Rock, and on the 15th of the same month we crossed the Rockies by the South Pass. There was still snow in some of the ravines. The roads were excellent from this on to the Green River, which river we crossed on a ferry to Ft. Bridges. Here I was taken with mountain fever, and by the time we reached Salt Lake I was a mere skeleton, and could move about only by the help of a cane.

On our first night in the valley we camped six miles from the city, which, as it lay at our feet, looked most inviting and cheerful after so long a tramp across the barren desert. There was a trading post near camp, kept by a fellow who made it his business to catch all emigrants when they first entered the valley, as they were likely to have more money then than when they left. Two of us boys went into his store to get something I could eat. After buying a few vegetables I sat down to rest. When my companion thought I had rested long enough he said: "Miles let's go." The storekeeper said: "Did you speak to me?" My friend replied: "No, I spoke to my companion here." "Well," said her, "that is my name," I had noticed along the route to Salt Lake City several advertisements painted on huge rocks, signed, "Miles Bros., Pioneers for the Mormons," and this young man proved to be one of them. I had a short talk with him and found him to be my own cousin. His grandfather, whose name was Thomas Miles, settled in Pennsylvania after the Revolutionary War. He was a brother of Timothy Miles, my grandfather. This young MIles was about my age. He had two brothers, one sister and a widowed mother. The father had died near Akron, Ohio, on his way to join the Mormons, then located at Nauvoo, Ill. The other members of the family had been with the Mormons ever since. He took me home with him the next morning, and I remained with the family for two weeks. Under their kind treatment and good care I recovered rapidly. They were all single at that time, and were non-believers in polygamy. My cousin showed me all the interesting features of the city, and introduced me to Brigham Young and Orson Pratt. I called on these men almost daily after that until we left the City. They all urged me to become a Mormon and remain with them. Brigham offered me a commission in his army, under my cousin, who was captain; but I had started for California, and nother but death could stop me. We were there, however, on July 24, the anniversary of their arrival at Salt Lake. They had an immense celebration, equal to our Fourth of July. One might have thought, judging by the speeches of their leaders, that they owned and ruled - yes, and ever would - the whole earth and most of heaven. Our company had no cause for complaint, however, for they treated us all very nicely. We left them the latter part of July, feeling greatly refreshed and much more jubilant than when we entered the valley.

The first night in camp after leaving the Mormon city we missed one of our men, (Walcot, who was a Methodist preacher.) He had been converted to the Mormon faith, and they made him an Elder. I heard of him but a few years since. He is still with them.

Leaving this interesting spot in the thread of our story, let us hasten on. In a few days we reached the Humboldt River, and traveled its entire length, until it was swallowed up in the desert, at a place called Humboldt Sink. The Humboldt Indians occupied this whole region. They had been very hostile ever since the Mormons entered the valley, and the scalp of many a Saint, as well as Gentile, adorned their wigwams. At a place called Stony Point, they gave emigrants more trouble than at any other one place. When our train arrived in this vicinity we camped in a big bend of the river, where the feed was good for the stock. Both banks of the river were thickly overgrown with willows from ten to fifteen feet high. There was no other shrubbery in the whole Humboldt Valley, which is six miles in width, and bounded on either side by high mountains. Capt. Durling arranged the guards this night, and nothing unusual happened. The picket next to the river reported that he saw Indians on the opposite bank just after day light. After breakfast Capt. Durling told me to mount my pony, follow a path leading through the willows below camp, for the stream, and learn what I could concerning the redskins. I asked Harrington, a chum of mine, to go with me. He mounted the pony behind me, and we were soon on the opposite bank of the stream. Emerging from the willows and looking toward the bluff we saw a dozen or fifteen Indians, about a half-mile distant, coming toward us. We slipped back into the willows to watch their movements. They seemed to be making for the very path we were in. As they approached near to us we discovered that they had with them two white men, prisoners. We hurriedly decided to lay low until they were within thirty yards of us, then to empty our rifles and revolvers at them so rapidly as to impress them of greater numbers, believing that what we did not kill or wound would run, leaving us the prisoners. But our scheme failed, for while they were yet fifty or sixty yards distant they turned abruptly to our right, crossed the river fifteen rods below us, and disappeared in the willows. We put back to camp and reported what we had seen. It was then about ten o'clock, but as we had planned to remain there that day, the Captain took fifty-five men, leaving the rest to guard the camp, and crossed the river again where we had crossed. We soon found the Indian trail, and following it were led back across a portion of the river on to an island. Continuing on our trail through the willows we suddently came upon an Indian village of more than fifty wigwams. The occupants, bucks, squaws, and papooses, all fled into the bushes on the opposite side of the island. We did not fire at them, but thought "if they will but go, they can not go too quick nor too far."

On entering the chief's wigwam we found the two prisoners tied to the center pole, and they were two happy men when we cut their fetters and set them free. They were from Kentucky, and had left their train to shoot some ducks they had seen light in a little lake. When they were far enough from their fellows these Indians had pounced upon them from the long grass, and had captured them. They were doomed to burn at the stake on the very evening we rescued them.

Some of the men set fire to several of the wigwams, and in no time the whole village was in a blaze. When the red men saw the smoke of their burning city they raised the war whoop and charged through the willows. Our Captain took in the situation in a second, and instantly arranged his men within ten paces of the brush. When the Indians appeared we gave them a volley that sent them suddenly back behind their fortress. The old chief could not get them to charge again, although he tried for thirty minutes. Capt. Durling was quite anxious to know what was on the other side of the bushes, so an old veteran of the Mexican War, who was in the company, volunteered to crawl through and report. In about ten minutes he returned with a bad arrow wound over his eye. The Captain then asked me to stand in my saddle and report what I could see. This I did. The Indians were huddled together in an opening of the brush they did not see me. There was one not more than forty yards distant with a rifle in his hand, standing by a large American horse. I drew a bear on him, but my gun missed fire. He heard the snap and returned the compliment almost instantly. His ball struck my saddle but did no further damage. By this time I had a new cap on my gun, so fired again. I saw both Indian and horse fall to the ground. The same bullet had killed them both. I regretted the death of the horse very much, for he would have been worth $300 in California. The Indians now made a rush past our left flank for the river. As they passed the only opening we fired upon them, killing several and wounding others. This ended the battle. The Indians lost more than thirty in killed and wounded, while but two of our men were hit at all.

Brigham Young soon heard of our victory and dispatched a courier after us with his sincere thanks and a pretty flag, which we kept flying from our lead-wagon until we arrived in California.

These same Indians, however, were eager for revenge, and they harrassed our track for more than two weeks, pouncing upon any of us whenever we chanced away from camp alone.

The fourth evening after the battle of Stony Point one of our horses strayed a half-mile from camp. The Captain sent me and a mess-mate of mine to bring him in. We thought of no danger, and so went out unarmed. My companion rode the horse while I trudged along behind. As we passed a covert of bushes on the bank of the river a treacherous redskin, from his concealment, fired an arrow at me, which cut completely through my clothing across my chest, inflicting a slight wound as it whizzed by. I assure you no grass grew under my feet from there to camp.

A few days later two of our party, Capt. Robinson and a boy by the name of Webb, thought the train moved too slow for them, so they filled their knapsacks and declared they would take it afoot the rest of the way. The first night out they suppered by the roadside, and after dark sought the shelter of some sage bushes about forty rods distant, for the night. About 12 o'clock five Indians pounced upon them, disarmed them as they (the Indians) supposed, bound their hands with rawhide, and thus made them prisoners. They immediately started northward, but had not gone far when two of the Indians who were mounted rode away, leaving the other three to bring the prisoners. The Captain worked vigorously at his fetters in the darkness, and was soon rewarded in the satisifaction that he could slip one hand out whenever a favorable opportunity offered itself. Presently they ascended a little hill, at the right of which ran a little stream. Two of the Indians went down to drink. When they were at the foot of the hill Robinson unloosed his hands, drew a revolver from his boot leg, and placing it within six inches of the Indian's body, sent him howling into Eternity. The other two rushed back to the summit, but as they drew near he fired again, wounding another of the trio. The third fled for his life, and they saw him so more. Robinson then took a bowie knife from the dead Indian's belt, cut the boy's bonds asunder, and sent him to settle with the wounded Indian. He said the lad would have made mince meat of him, had he not called him away. They made their way back to the trail about daylight, found another train, and induced them to wait until we came up. This was the last attempt by any one to walk on ahead of the train.

We arrived one evening a few days later at the Humboldt Sink, and being in a dreary desert without food or water for the stock, we pushed on, traveling thirty miles that night, along what was called Trunkey route. We arrived about dawn at Boiling Springs. These Springs can be heard several miles away. The water is a little brackish, and comes up boiling hot. One can make very good tea or coffee from it, and cattle will drink it after it is cooled.

One day later we arrived at the Trunkey River, forded it, and camped on the opposite side. This was the first stream since we left the Platte that was not impregnated with alkali; and coming up it right out of the desert we thought it the most beautiful stream in the world. Water, wood, and grass being abundant, we remained here several days, to improve ourselves and our stock.

(To be continued)

("Portrait and Biographical Album of Jackson County, Iowa", originally published in 1889, by the Chapman Brothers, of Chicago, Illinois.)