CHAPTER II
FOLLOWING THE TRAIL
The
second morning after my arrival I took the stage for the West. The
outfit was similar to the now historic Deadwood Coach. With seven
passengers besides myself, it started down the road for the bridge over
the Des Moines River, and the limitless prairies beyond. Sitting bolt
upright for thirty-six hours, with only short intervals to stretch your
legs and supply the inner man, was quite a change from the lower berth
of a Pullman and "dinner is now ready in the dining-car.'' Think of the
forty-niners; they had sixteen days and nights of it! They deserved the
gold they got. Following one of the old stage routes across the plains
would have been a bonanza for the "old hats'' man of the city, as the
road was strewn with hats jostled off from dozing passengers.
Frequently passing us, both day and night, were horsemen going like the
wind, whom I learned were special government and express messengers.
During the night a feeling of lonesomeness came over me. At every turn
of the wheels I felt myself going farther and farther from the Bowery.
It seemed as if I were cutting loose from everything. I commenced for
the first time to realize the situation, and was fast getting a case of
"cold feet."
Think of leaving behind the gay Fashion Course and Hiram Woodruff, as
we often saw him, holding the ribbons over some fast trotter! What a
delight after the day's work was done to stroll down Broadway to
Niblo's Garden, and after the show to drop into John Morrissey's for a
midnight lunch, and to play the ace to win. What a pleasure it was to
look across the footlights at old John Gilbert and Lester Wallack, or
to feel your blood tingle as Edwin Booth in Hamlet would repeat the
lines "Do you see nothing there?" What! never to see Dan Bryant and
Dave Reed dance "Shoefly" again? The idea! What a recreation it was to
go over to the Elysian Fields in Hoboken in the afternoon and see the
Mutuals play the great American game, and in the evening see old Mike
Phelan and Dudley Kavanaugh toy with the ivories! We often passed the
time of day with Commodore Vanderbilt while driving through Central
Park. How that gifted speaker, James T. Brady, during the war, used to
enthuse our patriotism! What a treat it was to drop into some forum and
liear the learned Charles O'Conor lay down the law. Often have we gone
to the large hall of Cooper Institute and listened to that graceful
elocutionist, Wendell Phillips, deliver one of his famous lectures, and on Sunday morning to Brooklyn and heard
Brother Beecher tell us what we had to do to reach the promised land,
and in the afternoon to Coney Island, to eat clams on the half shell at
the old Pavilion, see the three-card monte men fleece the
unsophisticated, and try to wash our sins away among the great combers
of the deep.
I was leaving all this, and more, and what for? My health. Can health
come to the body with the mind in gloom? Why couldn't we all have
health all the time? God help the one who has the money and the health
question to contend with at the same time. One is always being
neglected for the other, and, under the pressure of the combination,
frail humanity soon gives way. What a sweep there is to the imagination
and what timidity comes with the stilly night! I felt as if I wanted to
jump from the stage and bolt back to Boone, and very likely would if I
hadn't suddenly been brought to my senses by a sharp command - ''Halt,
throw up your hands!" Two shots almost sitnultaneously, a crack of the
whip, and the sudden lunge of the stage forward. I soon learned that a
lone bandit had attempted to hold us up, and had been shot by the
Wells-Fargo express messenger who sat beside the driver. I was
satisfied to sit still. Instead of meditating, I was congratulating
myself that I was alive and my money safe. It is an old but true saying
that we never know when we are well off. That little episode dispelled
the gloom, and "Richard is himself again."
At dusk on the second day we had covered the one hundred miles between
Boone and a little hamlet forty miles east of Council Bluffs,
consisting of a store, a post-office, a tavern, two houses and a mill,
known as Woodbine, my destination. Not very exhilarating surroundings to a youth fresh from Broadway.
Little did I know that years afterward a flourishing municipality by
the same name would be built near by on the Northwestern Railroad, and
I would have the honor of being its mayor.
The last twenty-five miles were down the far-famed valley of the Boyer
River of the valley of the Boyer, Woodbine], afterward to prove to be one of the most productive valleys of
one of the best agricultural States of the Union. It was a lovely
spring day. In the early morn the soft, melodious crowing of the
prairie chickens greeted us. The prairies were decked out in the
flowers of the wild, and as we bowled along it seenieil as if Nature
was doing all she could to make us welcome. Everything was quiet,
peaceful and content. A few years ago I passed down the same valley.
What a change in forty years! It was gashcd by two railroads, and where
the prairie flower once bloomed and the wild game flourished, and the
Indian, the only contented individual who ever inhabited America,
roamed at will, were hard-working toilers trying to eke out an
existence. Little hamlets were scattered here and there, with the daily
life similar in all communities, containing more shadow than sunshine,
and the question was forced upon me, would it not have been better if
the transformation had never been made?
Twentv miles from Woodbine, in the isolated vallev of the Pigeon River,
I was to live for the next fifteen years. Near Woodbine on a stock
ranch lived the man wvith whom 1 had become acquainted through
correspondence, the one whom I sought and who willingly assisted me in
the enterprise in which I was about to embark. A man made after God's
own image, no more upright, honorable human being was ever born than
the one whom I was afterward to be associated with in the great cattle
industry of the plains, Byron O. Adams, better known all over the West
and to every shipper of live stock to Chicago as "By" Adams, and I hope
there is a hereafter, that I may meet my dear friend again.
Upon my arrival at Woodbine, I learnt that my friend "By" Adams had
gone to Shelby County, to bring back with him one Bill Cuppy who had
been drafted, and would not return for a couple of days. "By" was a
deputy provost marshal during the war, his duties consisting of
rounding up the drafted men. And thereby hangs a tale.
From a map of Iowa I purchased in Chicago, and from my experiences
thereafter, I found that the word "exaggeration" was in the Iowa
lexicon. I expected to find creeks called rivers, ponds lakes, but I
did not expect to find a "city" a house and a barn. According to the
map, "Jeddo City" was about two hours' drive away, and I decided that
the two days "By" was after Cuppy I would spend in the gay resorts of
Jeddo City. The tavern-keeper supplied a driver and the necessary rig,
and the next morning after my arrival, over the prairies we went to
Jeddo City. How gay and happy I felt as we trotted along for Jeddo !
How I longed for a taste of city life again! I could see myself
entering one of the leading hotels of the city and writing my "John
Hancock" on its register and taking the elevator for my room. I did not
expect to find a New York, but certainly "Jeddo City" would have
similar earmarks. I could see myself strolling along the main
thoroughfare of the city with the gay crowd by day, and at night
admiring the chorus as they swung along the footliglits. I could see
myself in the crowded restaurants ordering the choice of the menu. In
fact, I was picturing to myself a counterpart of the big city on the
Hudson.
There was one thing about the driver that I could not quite fathom.
Every time I asked him anything about Jeddo City, he would look at me
and smile. I attributed the smile to a reminder of some of his
experiences in the great city of Jeddo. It was ten miles from Woodbine
to Jeddo City. After we had traveled what I thought was the ten miles,
I inquired of the driver how much further it was to Jeddo. Instead of a
smile, he said two miles. At every rise of the road thereafter I
expected to see the spires and hear the roar of the town. At times I
thought I could detect the chimes of cathedral bells. I commenced to
get so excited with the pleasant anticipation that I felt like jumping
from the buggy and taking it on the run.
As I began to think those two miles were the longest I ever experienced
the driver brought his horse to a stop in front of a house which had
for its companion a solitary barn. I asked him what he stopped for. He
replied: "This is Jeddo City." I used to "buck the tiger" at the
resorts along Broadway and there learned the art of being a good loser.
That acquirement stood me in good stead. In a moment I smothered my
surprise and disappointment and tried to play my part. I got out of the
buggy, telling the driver to wait a moment, and started for the house.
I saw ''Post Office" on a board on the side of the house. I took the
cue and inquired if there was any mail for me, and returned to the
buggy, telling the driver that the man that I wanted to see had died
the night before and we would return to Woodbine. If I had kept my
mouth shut regarding my trip to Jeddo, nobody would have been any the
wiser, but I told my friend Adams of the object of my visit to Jeddo,
and "By," ever after, used my Jeddo City experience as one of his stock
stories, and the boys had many a ^"drive" at me. But when Bill Cuppy
came back from Missouri, he told me the story of when ''By'' Avent to
Shelby County to gather him in, and whenever ''By" would forget
himself, and start that Jeddo City story, all I had to say was "Bill
Cuppy," and "By'' would change the subject.
Before Adams started for Cuppy, friends told "By" he would never bring
Cuppy back, and that he should be mighty careful not to let Cuppy get
the drop on him, for Bill was a bad man. The story Bill told me was as
follows: He knew he had been drafted and was expecting "By" any
day. It was in the fall of the year and Cuppy had a corn field he was
trying to husk out and expected to take a little trip thereafter, and
was hoping that "By" would not show up until the work was done and he
had gotten away. One afternoon while Cuppy was working might and main
ripping husks and throwing corn against the extra sideboard, he saw the
smiling countenance of the deputy provost marshal coming down between
two rows of corn. The two men were acquainted, so the greeting was
mutual.
Cuppy explained the situation to "By," stating that he was perfectly
willing to go back with him, but he was awfully anxious to get that
field of corn in the crib, and that it would take only another day's
work. From what they told "By" about Cuppy, the deputy provost marshal
concluded that was an easy way out of it. For company's sake and to
help matters along, "By," who was a good corn busker, took one row and
Cuppy another. The next morning "By" was up bright and early ready to
finish the job and start with his prisoner for Council Bluffs. The
afternoon was nearly gone as the last ear of com was shoveled into the
crib. "By'' agreed with a suggestion of Cuppy's, that they had better
not start over the dreary waste between the Nishnabotna and Boyer
rivers at that time of day. "By'' and Cuppy played cards until about
midnight. As "By'' came down to breakfast the next morning, instead of
meeting Cuppy, he found the following note at his plate:
"'By' - When we meet again, I shall insist on
paying you for helping me husk out that field of corn. In haste, "Bill."
It seems that while the deputy provost marshal was sweetly snoring the
night away, Cuppy was behind his best span of horses heading for
Missouri to make an old friend a long visit. "By's" story of the event
didn't agree with Cuppy's, and I always thought that Cuppy's version of
the circumstances of his arrest was told as a joke on the deputy
provost marshal, as Bill Cuppy never ran away from anything, but there
seemed to be enough in it to silence "By" when he opened up the Jeddo
City story.
Chapter 1 -- Chapter 3
