YALE UNIVERSITY
LIBRARY

DISCOVERY
AND
SETTLEMENT
OF
WESTERN
NORTH AMERICA

COLLECTION OF
WILLIAM
ROBERTSON
COE

OUR FAMILY

Y FATHER, Thomas McCowen, was born October 16th, 1808, of Irish-Scotch parents, in Patterson, New Jersey. When he was a small boy the family removed to Warren County, Ohio, twenty-one miles from Cincinnati.

My mother, Amily Leonard, born in Addison County, Vermont, October 25th, 1812. A year later her parents removed to Ohio and settled on a farm and were near neighbors of the McCowens. The children of both families attended the same school.

Thomas McCowen, eldest son of James and Jane McCowen, and Amily Leonard, second daughter of John and Catherine Leonard, were married March 29th, 1832. It was then the beautiful brown eyes came to the McCowen family, and were inherited by four of her five children. Three children were born in Ohio. George, March 18th, 1833; Helen, April 22, 1838; Emily, June 21st, 1841.

My father took a course at a Medical College in Columbus, Ohio, and practiced for a number of years successfully for the patients. Living in a pioneer country and the "Thompsonian" system comparatively new, with roots, herbs and steaming, the remuneration was very small; most persons preferred the old Allopathic way with

calomel, blisters, and blood letting. Father finally engaged in any employment available to support the family. Doubtless that was the reason for so many changes of residences. In the Spring of 1844, a long move was accomplished by going to Indiana. I remember three places in Terre Haute where we lived. Then in 1846 we went thirty miles to Annapolis, Parke County. We lived in sight of Dr. Cannon's home. I will always carry his mark on my left arm about the size of a dime, where he vaccinated me. While we lived there he was sent by the Quakers,—or Friends, as they preferred to be called,—with a sum of money they had contributed to purchase slaves,—to give them their freedom. He went to North Carolina and brought back quite a number with him. I remember seeing some of them. Two or three years after that he was drowned while trying to ford Sugar Creek on horseback. At times it was a large rushing stream. He was the father of well known "Uncle Joseph G. Cannon," whose brother "Willie" (long since deceased) was a school mate one term at the "Pin Hook"—Aseneth Clark, teacher.

In the Spring of 1847, we made another move, about eighteen miles to Clark's Mills on Sugar Creek (flour and saw mill). There we lived in a log cabin. It was there that brother Hale was born August 17th, 1848. According to precedent (Alamo P. O.) that would have entitled him to be a candidate for the Presidency. But no doubt his labors as County Clerk of Mendocino County for over twenty years have been as isfactory. In 1849 brother George went back

to Parke County to attend the Quaker High School at Bloomingdale, near Annapolis. The teacher, Harvey Thomas, had work for any pupils, out of school hours, if they wished, and pay them four cents an hour. At the end of the term he owed George nine cents; he hesitated about the payment but finally adjusted it by giving five cents and four sheets of paper. George came home for vacation and worked at a saw mill. One morning one of the proprietors sent him to oil the machinery. His first move was to tie up the bands; he had not been there long when he saw the water gate rising; he gave a leap but the machinery caught the toe of his left boot, jerking his leg out of place at the hip and run in the cogs up to the hip. Men carried him home on a stretcher and O! what a long and excruciating confinement. Father and mother doctored and nursed him through it all. The anxiety and work almost killed mother. At one time the calf of his leg was swollen to more than twice its usual size and looked like it would burst. Finally the flesh dropped out till there was two large holes, on the inside as large as a tea cup, clear to the bone, we could see the white cords. Soon there was "proud flesh" and the old time remedy was "burnt alum," after that was picked out; there would be the same each day—father said that would never do so he tried his botanic remedy, Cayenne pepper and No. 6 and everyone would shudder to think of that, but the flesh was dead, so there was no feeling. In a very short time the flesh began to pucker around the edges, showing plainly that it was healing. All neighbors that saw it

had prophesied amputation. And surgery at that time was without anaesthetics. The author of all that suffering then, and for more than seventy-five years of discomfort, was a man that had been using the turning lathe at the mill. He had not yet come to work and when he did get there he started the machinery before putting on the bands. Had he touched the bands brother would not have been hurt. While the other men were doing all they could for relief, he scurried for home and never came to see the hurt boy. At the end of six months we moved one and a half miles to Alamo, a small town in Montgomery County. George was on crutches, he could put his toes to the ground, but his heel up two inches or more. He had been confined so long that he longed to go hunting, so he started out. The woods were quite near; he soon came to a ten rail fence and of course wanted to get over it; he pushed gun and crutches through then climbed up; just as he reached the top he was startled by a whole family of hornets swarming up to revenge the wrecking of their nest (by gun and crutches). He never thought of his sore leg, but leaped to the ground, tearing the cords loose in the sore where they had grown to the bone; no one knows how many hours he lay there more dead than alive. Near evening he managed to get home without the gun, and sister Helen was sent after it. He told mother it seemed to him that he suffered more than all he had passed through before, but that saved him from being a cripple the rest of his life.

While at Alamo, I attended school. When the

Fourth of July came the teacher showed his patriotism by having the pupils march from the school house to the church, the boys in the lead proudly bearing a banner with large letters that he had prepared, "Knolege is Power."

In the Fall of 1851 we moved to a farm near the Quaker High School, Bloomingdale, P. O. at Annapolis, Parke County, where we lived four years and attended that school, managed entirely by the "Friends." Barnabas C. Hobbs, principal; John Pickard, first assistant; Mary E. Pinkham, second assistant. Every Wednesday the pupils must walk a mile to the "Meeting House" and sit there an hour without hearing a word, unless "The Spirit" moved some one to speak,—then it was in a sing-song manner. Once Andrew Tomlinson gave them a chapter from the Bible. It chanced to be one I had learned for Sunday School at Alamo, so I knew what was coming next. He started off this way: "My endeared friends each and every one of you, the Kingdom of Heaven is likened unto ten virgins who went forth to meet the bridegroom, five of them were wise and five were foolish. They that were wise took oil in the vessels with their lamp, and they that were foolish took no oil with them." And so on to the end of the chapter. At the end of an hour, the Elders dismissed meeting by shaking hands. You may imagine how sedate every one was expected to be from the reading of one Rule of the school: "No singing or whistling allowed on the school grounds." The pupils were nearly all young men and young women, usually about eighty. Think of that number being bottled up,

as it were, by such restrictions. The only noise
was on the football ground. Once a month the
Committee, eight or ten, old men and women,
would spend the day at the school. They were
the board of control. Woe to any culprit guilty
of the infraction of any rule. They would be
sent to the Library, where the Committee would
give their tongue lashing. The style of clothing
(for the Quakers) must conform to their fashion.
The men's coats were the old "swallowtail",—
pockets in the tail at the back,—three buttons
in front; some daring ones had the modern coat
with pockets at the sides. The old ladies
promptly sewed them up. A watchful eye was
kept on the girls to keep off any fashionable
frills. Caps were not allowed. One evening
George went to neighbor Kersey's to sit up with
a sick student. As it was zero weather he wore
a cap with tabs over the ears. Next morning
he went from there to school. He was called in
the committee room and given a "going over,"
and warned not to wear it there again,—and
he did not. Near the time for closing school
the Committee would all come to the assembly
room and many of them would give a talk. Once
one of the women made quite a little speech;
when she sat down the next woman got to her
feet and indorsed it by saying: "Hanner spoke
my mind," and down she sat.

Their marriage ceremony was said by the con-
tracting parties. A month before a couple ex-
pected to marry they would "Pass in meeting."
The man would go to the woman's side of the
house and the women to the men's side and

each would declare the intention to marry such
a one as such a date, if there was no objection.

I saw four school mates married one day at
meeting (they never called it church). The
women were twin sisters. After sitting a good
portion of the hour, the bridal couples arose and
began the ceremony:

Wm. Bronson first: "I take this my friend,
Mary Pickett, to be my wife, promising with
Divine assistance to be unto her a loving and
faithful husband until death shall separate us."

Then Mary said: "I take this my friend,
William Bronson, to be my husband, promising
with Divine assistance to be unto him a loving
and faithful wife until death shall separate us."

Then followed Ira Newlin and Ann Pickett
with the same ceremony.

During the first term of school, two students
were near expulsion for being present at a mar-
riage by a justice of the peace. The Discipline
says that the "Friends" bear testimony against
War, Intemperance, Slavery, and the Hireling
Ministry." Mary Wright and George Coffin, her
partner, were read out of school for attending
a ball, at the home of her father.

Time has brought changes even to the Quakers.
Sixty years later brother George visited Bloom-
ingdale, but very few of the old residents re-
mained, but their descendants who once were
forbidden to sing or whistle had an organ in the
church and a paid preacher.

One term in 1854 sister Helen was sent to
St. Mary's School, four miles from Terre Haute.
It is now called "St. Mary's in the Woods." The
environment was so different from the staid

Quaker regime that she imbibed much profit and pleasure in the change that stayed with her to the end of life.

In March, 1854, brother George left home to go with a company that were starting from Illinois to cross the plains for California. That Fall father with uncles Sam and Tom Mewhinney went to Kansas Territory that had recently been opened for settlement, to take up a preemption. Before returning father hired a man to build a cabin, that would secure the land for six months without other improvements. The following March we started for the promised land, by teams to Terre Haute, thirty miles. The other families were not quite ready so we waited. Three families, five in each, boarded the train for Evansville; by steamboat from there to St. Louis, a change of boats there for Kansas City (on the Herald). Everything seemed favorable for a quick trip—but not for long. The boat made long stops at different landings, then aground on a sand bar; when free from there soon on another. And thus time passed for ten days; it seemed very strange while other steamers were constantly passing and repassing. A great many passengers were sick, especially children, from eating hearty food, so little exercise and drinking the muddy Missouri River water. I was one that felt I would give anything for a drink of good water. We dragged along for one hundred miles till late afternoon of the tenth day when the "Polar Star" hove in sight. It had passed us soon after our leaving St. Louis, then back to St. Louis, and now coming to pass us for the third time. But the movers of the

"Herald" rushed the steamer for a race, but it was of short duration. A loud report sent passengers and waiters scurrying in every direction. One lady, a Mrs. Hall, who had been very ill, sprang from her couch, grabbed her two children and ran to the guards intending to jump overboard, but was caught in time. The panic was caused by the blow-out of a cylinder head. All could soon realize "Where we were at." The "Polar Star" had a full load so would not take more passengers but cheered us with the prospect of getting aboard the next steamer, due about midnight—if all were ready—when it came the transfer was quickly made. The Captain of the "Herald," knowing the passengers were helpless, refused to refund any of the passage money, so it cost them double fare from St. Louis to Kansas City. I was told that most of the passengers were home seekers in the new Territory and a goodly number of them were from Eastern States.

An election of officers for the Territory was to be held on April 1st. At that time there was such bitter feeling between Pro-Slavery and Free State parties that our company judged they could see a design in our aggravating delay. April 1st passed then they were willing to race. The conviction was strengthened when we heard that "Parties with Missouri mud on their boots had taken charge of the Polls."

We reached Kansas City at last—rented a room for a day, while the uncles sallied forth to buy some oxen, they were successful, and as they had shipped their lumber box wagons, we were soon loaded in, ready for the fifty mile trip to

Ottawa (Ot-taw-wah, the Indian pronunciation) Creek, our destination. Fine rolling prairie, but from ten to twenty miles between watering places. I believe the first little brook was Indian Creek, with a few scrub oaks. When we reached Bull Creek, there was a deserted cabin. That we thankfully took possession of. Only for that our beds would have been made on the grass with the sky overhead; four of our company were children, all less than eight years of age, and all had been sick, one little cousin was still very ill. I shall always remember my discomfort that night, for an aching tooth routed me up to sit by the fireplace; finally relief was secured with hot ashes tied in a rag to hold to my face.

The last afternoon was very depressing as we jolted along, with little cousin Ray, not four years old, delirious, crying and pointing for something no one could understand. That evening near dark we reached the home of Amos Hanna, on April 6th, Ottowa Creek, a cabin of three rooms, but somehow we were all under shelter. (Mrs. Hanna was Uncle Sam's sister. Uncle Tom and family stayed there a few weeks; little Ray buried April 22.) The next day Uncle Sam took us to his hewed log cabin, one good sized room—with loft—for the boys' sleeping room, reached by a ladder. John and Hugh had been there through the winter, so their home was secure. But we had delayed so at both ends of the trip that the six months was past and a man had “jumped” father's claim. By searching about the men folks discovered a quarter section adjoining Uncle Sam's claim,

where we made our home for two years. Father and John went with the teams back to Kansas City for the remainder of our freight,—it took them near a week. In handling the heavy boxes father's back was wrenched and he could scarcely walk by the time they got back, and from that time for ten days he was unable to move without great pain. As soon as he was able to get about, he began making a garden. Then a house was the next consideration. Now to look back at that time, it seems almost incredible that so many of us were able to find a sleeping place.—a bunk in two corners, the other beds spread on the floor, the boys' beds on the loft. The beds rolled up by day. Father was just able to leave his bed by day when another one was occupied for two weeks. George Ripley and wife and sister, with two little children, relatives of Uncle Sam's, were traveling by ox team; two days before reaching Ottawa Creek, as the wagon jolted it threw the year and a half old baby out at the front; the mother trying to save the baby was also pitched out. The father walking by the team saw he could save but one, so as the front weel ran over the baby's head he snatched the mother from between the wheels; one hip was hurt; they halted long enough to bury the baby.

At the time the RPLEYS came, cousin Fremont, Uncle Sam's youngest—a boy of near eight years—was very ill for nearly three weeks, supposed to be sun stroke. His ailment commenced the next day after going with the big boys where they were swimming. He was in and out, wad-

ing in the cold water for an hour or two. He was buried July, 1855.

When the warm weather was coming on, a temporary shed was added at the east side of the house for a kitchen. There was no timber except scrub oaks—these were cut down, sawed and split into a semblance of boards to be put up perpendicular, with posts in the ground and poles across, at the ground, middle and top. You may know it was no quick or easy task to construct a dwelling of the tough knotty oaks, 20 x 20. And I, a girl of fourteen, was his constant helper. As soon as enclosed, a thick layer of dried grass was spread down and mother's good rag carpet was pegged down; then we were ready to move in. One morning while making my bed, I discovered on the strip along the side of the house, right by the bed rail, where I could easily have touched it with my hand, a little rattlesnake a foot long. Afterwards the walls were all covered with white muslin. That carpet added comfort and distinction, even though our doors were closed by quilts hung up. The cooking was over a camp fire at the north of the house. The luxury of a fireplace was not enjoyed until the first week in December, when Uncle Tom helped father build one. Long before that each one of our family had a siege with chills and fever. That affected nearly every resident in the late Fall. Soon after our arrival in the neighborhood sister Helen was engaged to teach school. An empty cabin half a mile away was appropriated. Pupils came on horseback from one to three miles away; some families were well represented, among

them were the Kaesers, Mewhinneys, Shores and Hackets. And right here I will mention that the pay she received was given for a cow whose milk was a great luxury to help our often scanty fare. But the next year she was stolen, we thought possibly by the former owner, as he was a Pro-Slavery man, and even at that early period such ones stigmatized my father as a "d—d abolitionist." The "Pro-Slavery" advocates were anxious to make Kansas a slave State and were very hostile toward the "Free State" believers. The ferment was constantly increasing, and raiding companies of "Border Ruffians" was of frequent occurrence. Sometimes there would be a knock on a man's door at night, when opened he would be dropped by a bullet. We knew of threats against my father and it was a wonder he was not killed, for he never hesitated to voice his honest convictions. In October, 1855, a neighbor rode up hurriedly to tell father of the report that a company was coming in to attack Lawrence, the main town sixteen miles away. Then away he went to warn others and they to go in another direction to call for volunteers,— and so on, and on, all were to meet at Sam Shore's. When assembled there were eighteen. The start for town was near evening, so it was late when they reached there, guards were watching for enemies and at first did not believe our folks were friends until they stacked their guns in a corner. Father had a fine big mare that he rode,—her three months old colt was left at home,—the only available place to tie her was to a wagon wheel, but that was the last time he saw her. In her place in the morning was a

little old crowbait of a mare. Some of the boys described her as able to "trot all day in the shade of an oak tree." For some reason there was no attack at that time. But long afterward the town was surprised and many buildings demolished, among them was the Free State Hotel, a two story concrete. There must be others that remember the "Sacking of Lawrence," when Quantrell with four hundred men invaded Lawrence, burning and pillaging the town and killing one hundred and fifty defenseless citizens.

The hardships of a pioneer life are enough to bear when there is peace, struggling to produce sustenance for a family, and have a home in a free country. Alas! at that time we felt it was everything but *free*, with a constant dread of the invaders. Some months after we were there, a man from Virginia, named Keith, took up a claim in the neighborhood. He never joined with the Free State men, but when they were hindered from their work he had his wagon and horses making frequent trips to Westport for freight. Once at our house he was talking with father, he seemed very contented and satisfied. He said: "Oh, I don't believe there would be any trouble if you don't take sides." After he had made a good many trips, he got a jolt that helped him to change his mind. He had been to Westport and got his load in the usual way, then driven out about five miles to Indian Creek and camped; while preparing for his supper two men appeared with pistols and ordered him to throw up his hands. They mounted his horses and compelled him to mount in front of one of them, thus they rode for some distance away from

the road, out in the brush. As they came near a fallen tree, and in the darkness, in one unguardedly moment he flipped from the horse and was off through the brush. It was so unexpected, and they with horses that had done their day's work, and not prepared for a race, found themselves outwitted as they threshed about through the brush swearing and beating the horses. Keith only ran a short distance till like a rabbit he whirled and circled back to near where he started, then laid down close to a log. Finally his pursuers gave up the hunt, then hitched to the wagon and drove back toward Missouri. It was a long time before Keith dared leave his hiding place to start on his lone trip home; his scare was so great that he only dared travel at night, and lay low in the daytime. Any moving object on the prairie could be seen so far. Three days before he reached home, and all he had to eat was a few berries. Remember, there were no habitations on the way and these experiences given covered but a small portion of the country. Other sections had similar or worse to endure, so it finally was designated as "Bloody Kansas." In June, 1856, the climax came by the fight at Black Jack. A very large company from Missouri had camped there, but watchful scouts had forestalled their coming, and the words as on the wings of the wind flew to all friends for help to resist the invaders. The company was not gathered till night, then they started to meet the foe. Just at dawn, June 2d, they reached a high point overlooking the camp, where servants were just starting morning fires. Energetic shooting soon routed the whole camp, from which

a few mounted horses or mules and left for
home while the going was good; the others
quickly returned the firing. But they were taken
so by surprise and at such a disadvantage that
at last they surrendered. A number wounded in
each company. A. O. Carpenter, a young Ver-
mont man, who afterward married my sister,
was wounded, the bullet striking very near the
heart, but in such a manner that it followed the
ribs and came out below the shoulder blade.
Several days after the opening was black, the
first thought was mortification, but bathing and
picking with a needle it was found to be a piece
of his coat the bullet had carried nearly through.
Quite a number of the defeated company were
wounded, one seriously in the jaw, but they
were all cared for by the "Free State" doctor.
The prisoners were taken to the homestead of
A. O. Carpenter, where they were camped and
guarded for nearly a week. Several of our
women took turns going to the house to cook
for their husbands. Mother and Helen were
there one day baking bread and doing other
cooking. The day and the cabin was hot—the
doors and window open—when Fred Brown,
"old John Brown's son," whose mind was af-
fected at times, sprang from a couch and quickly
closed window and doors, saying: "We must
be ready in case of an attack." He and his
father were both in the battle at "Black Jack."
He told mother that "Bullets went to the right
of me and left of me but none touched me."

The poor peaceable settlers had been harassed
for so many months by the "Border Ruffians"

and no relief sent them, the only recourse
seemed to be for them to fight.

Then mark the change as soon as they were
the victors. The United States troops were on
hand to disband them. "No armed bodies al-
lowed in the Territory." So all were allowed to
go home, the Missouri troops had only gone
about a mile when they came to a man who was
near his home. I believe his name was Cantrell.
They took him along as a prisoner. When night
came and he did not return, the anxiety of his
wife caused her to send a messenger to the
Colonel telling that her husband had been taken
away, but no investigation was made until the
message was repeated next day, when a few
soldiers were sent on the trail of the marauders,
who had camped at Bull Creek but had ample
time to get home. Three dead bodies were
found in the brush. Then the wife was taken
to see them. Some hair was found that she said
"looked like her husband's." No word was ever
heard of him while we were there. Oh, the grief
and hardships for that wife and mother with
three little children and soon to be another, and
in the land of savages.

Two years after that time we were at a way-
side hotel in Placer County, California. A
stranger staying over night in conversation with
father told of being in Kansas. Then incidents
were rehearsed,—among others was that of the
battle at Black Jack Creek. The stranger claimed
to have been with that Missouri company, and
remembered the taking of Cantrell; said he with
two or three others were taken off in the brush
while camp was at Bull Creek. He heard a man

say, "My God, are you going to kill me!" Some
shots were fired and all that went in the brush
did not come back, but no questions were asked.
Would he have told that about his own company
if not true?

We often heard of trouble down on the Ossa-
watamie, that was the home of "old John
Brown." At that time he was called "Ossawat-
amie" Brown. He had many enemies that
seemed determined to exterminate the whole
family. Six of his relatives were killed,—sons
and sons-in-law. In retaliation five Pro-Slavery
men were killed at Potawatamie May 24, 1856.

For an extended view of his life and under-
takings, see "The Americana Reference Library,"
Vol. 3.

After the Potawatamie fight then came the
battle at Black Jack, as before mentioned.

The candidates for the Presidency were John
Charles Fremont and James Buchanan. Here
are a few lines from campaign songs of that
period:

"Pennsylvania's favorite son
Will have a hard road to run
And keep up his spirits accordin'.
Before Election Day,
We'll find him far away,
Squinten on the other side of Jordan.
Pull off your coat, boys, and roll up your sleeves,
For Jordan am a hard road to travel,
Pull off your coat, boys, and roll up your sleeves,
For Jordan am a hard road to travel, I believe."

"The mustang is a full blood colt,
Du da, du da.
He cannot shy and he will not bolt,
Du da, du da, day.

We're bound to work all night,
We're bound to work all day,
I'll bet my money on the mustang colt.
You'd better not bet on the gray."

Colonel Fremont was the first Republican can-
didate for President and was a great favorite
with many. In 1842 he with a company ex-
plored the Rocky Mountains and portions of
Oregon and California. He explored the South
Pass.

The young people in the Territory were starv-
ing for sociability and entertainment and during
intervals of peace would have a dance at some
one's home, where they had a room little larger
than enough for a quadrille. Like all pioneer
countries the dance was the greatest social at-
traction, with refreshments of coffee and dough-
nuts or pie.

Preacher Jones had services twice, once at
Uncle Sam's, the other day at the little cabin
where the school was held.

Years before—when the Territory belonged to
the Indians—an Eastern lady went there as a
Missionary. I have no knowledge how long she
was there before she married a big Indian. When
we were there he was known as Ottawa Jones.
I have often wondered if she gave him her name.
I never saw her but once.

December 25th, 1856, sister Helen and Aurelius
O. Carpenter were married by Preacher Jones

at Prairie City, a city of three houses, three miles away. About that time we heard that our section of the country was to be called Douglas County.

Father asked very innocently of the man that told him, if it was named for Fred Douglas (a very noted darkey with a white father), while knowing as well as any one that it was named for Stephen A., afterwards the opponent of Abraham Lincoln, for the Presidency.

After father's mare was stolen that night at Lawrence, a neighbor loaned him a horse to ride. One night it, and Carpenter's little Indian pony were picketed on the prairie, a little ways above the house. Along in the night they came charging past the house at such speed that they were out of sight before any one could look out. The settlers had been kept so uneasy for so long by the frequent raiding of "Border Ruffians" that we *knew of course* they had the horses. The next day father went to tell the owner of the horse of its disappearance, and there the animal was at home. But there was no word of the little pony. Several months after that Helen and I were going home by a different trail from ever before, when down in the ravine was a fallen tree top and the body of poor little Bess, with picket rope tangled in the branches. The signs showed she had lived a long time.

1857, February 15th, seven persons were in our home. Father, mother, two aunts, Sis and Catherine, Mrs. Tomlinson, Helen and I, all anxiously awaiting the arrival of another member of our family.

The tense strain of the night was relieved by a lusty squall and some one said "It's a little lady." The bright eyes were gazing, and another remarked: "She's looking for the Missourians." We had lived thru such long months of anxiety and fear of the enemy, that that was the first thought expected to interest the new comer. That little one and myself are the only ones left of that group.

Well! in spite of illness—"Border Ruffians"— all sorts of disadvantages, dis-illusions, snow and wind, we managed to exist for two years and a few weeks before the start was made for the long contemplated trip to California, where brother George had been for three years. He advised starting as soon as grass was sufficient for the animals. And the first trains of the season were less liable to be troubled by Indians. And another suggestion, many trains would go by Salt Lake to replenish their food supply, to save hauling so much from the start, so that was our intention.

Father sold the Homestead for $500.00, bought a wagon with a brake, the first I had ever seen so equipped. The old way was to rough lock with a chain fastened to the bed, run thru the wheel and fastened together. The bows on the wagon were straight across the top, making it more comfortable than the rounding ones. Pockets on inside of cover were a great convenience. Then three yoke of oxen to the wagon, and a blue roan horse to ride, if the oxen strayed too far. Everything we had was sorted over and very little taken except food, clothing and bedding. Everything else was left with relatives for safe