CHAPTER VIII
ATMOSPHERIC DISTURBANCES
While
I was raising stock in the valley of the Pigeon for the benefit of the
Beef Trust and the railroads, I saw the start and finish of one of the
greatest scourges that ever afflicted a fanning community - the
destructive locust or grasshopper. Anything that can bring a
fast-running train to a standstill certainly deserves recognition. Many
a time I saw grasshoppers stop a passenger train on the Northwestern. I
don't mean they would catch hold of the cars and stop the train by main
strength, or hop aboard and pull the bell cord, but they covered the
rails in countless thousands, and, like the tramp preferring to die
rather than move, the locomotive in squashing out their lives so
greased the track that the driving-wheels failed to hold to the rails.
One fall, about the time the corn crop was nearing maturity, there came
whirling through the air millions of grasshoppers. Looking toward the
sun they appeared like snowflakes. As they descended they acted as if
they hadn't had a square meal for a month; they covered the corn, in
fact, everything. The only citizens who seemed to meet them with a glad
hand were the turkeys. Unlike the historic bird, he didn't have to
sneak up behind, but like the enemy of the Light Brigade at Balaklava,
the grasshoppers were on all sides. After the pests had devoured
everything that was oreen and palatable, they deposited their
eggs in the soil and winged their flight to pastures new. The spring
sun hatched out the eggs, and the newly born devoured the growing crops
and took their departure as soon as their wings developed. There seemed
to be nothing to destroy these pests. For several falls they made us a
visit, then, possibly tiring of our society, left us never to return.
As the plains to the west of us settled up, the breeding places of the
locust were encroached upon and destroyed, and the grasshopper ceased
to be a burden.
Those who have not lived on the prairie will not believe the stories of
actual occurrences with the wind. It is one continual blow night and
day from one year's end to the other. I started one day for market with a load of oats. It was my
first experience transporting that article. The wind was blowing a
gale, and as it struck the wagon it formed a whirl over the oats and
they commenced to circle in the air. In spite of all that I could do
they kept on circling, and by the time I arrived at the market not a
peck of oats was left and I had seeded down the country. I was running
my ranch at the time the insurance companies first inserted a clause in
their policies against "straight winds.'' For two weeks, night and day,
there came a wind from the southwest that caused my house to vibrate so
we dared not sleep in it. During those two weeks we slept on the
prairie. How trees ever grew in that country is beyond my comprehension!
The greatest dread of the inhabitant of the prairies is the cyclone. No
one has any conception of a Western cyclone unless he has been on the
ground, or, I might properly say, in the air. One of the worst that ever occurred in the West I saw,
but, thank Heaven, did not feel. I was in Mills County, Iowa, buying
cattle. It was one of those awful hot, muggy days in July, when you
could look for hailstorms, thunderstorms and cyclones.
Speaking of hailstorms, I attribute my early baldness to an experience
I had with a hailstorm. The day the particular hailstorm I refer to
occurred was about as hot as hunmnity could bear. I had gone on
horseback to drive up some cattle. One of the dogs went along with me.
I was in my shirt sleeyes without any undershirt, and wore a straw hat,
or what was left of it. 1 say what was left of it, as the top of the
hat was gone, leaving my ambrosial locks exposed to the rays of the
sun. I was as good as bareheaded. You often hear of stories of
hailstones being as large as hens' eggs and possibly doubted them, but
if you will believe me, I have seen hailstones as large as eggs, and
double-yolk eggs at that. I was on my way back with the herd, and as I
came over the divide and started down a long hollow that led to the
Pigeon I saw a hailstorm coming up the river. When I first saw it, it
was about a quarter of a mile away and coming as fast as the wind. The
stock could feel the chill and knew what was coming as well as I did,
and all hands started on the jump down the hollow for the river, in
order to get under the protection of the bank. Before any of us got
half way to the river the storm was upon us. Hailstones commenced
bouncing off the top of my head and welting me on the back. I jumped
off the horse and tried to keep him between me and the storm, but in
trying to hold him, we were going around and around in a kind of a
"two-step,'' so to speak. There was nothing to do but let go of the
horse and strike out for the river bank. I have heard of the Delaware
whipping-post, and I can imagine how a fcllow's back feels. My dog was
at my heels, getting it with the rest; every little way he would lie
down in the prairie grass and whine and then up and after me
again. I would hold up my hands over my head and ward off the stones
till I could stand it no longer, then my head would catch it again.
There is one redeeming feature about
hailstorms - they are of short duration. But that one lasted long
enough to keep me company to the river bank. As I reached the bank over
I went and crawled under the protection of an overhanging sod. The sun
shone forth again; the cattle, one by one, came out of the river bottom
; the horse had gone to the stable, but the ever-faithful dog was at my
side. The hair had partially protected my scalp, but my back looked
like that of a smallpox patient. That hailstorm utterly destroyed one
of my corn fields, consisting of one hundred acres.
I recall a little episode which occurred in an adjoining corn field a
month later that laid low another portion of my corn crop. Among the
other dogs on the place was a bulldog. A cattle ranch and bulldogs do
not dove-tail very well, but as this particular dog was a pet of the
female contingent his society was allowed. Like all bulldogs, this one
was on the popular side of the monopoly question, for if he was ever
called upon to help the other dogs out, where the herd was concerned,
he would pick his animal and leave the balance of the herd to the rest of the dogs. So if any
reader of this volume intends embarking in the cattle business and is a
bulldog fancier, he will find it necessary to figure one bulldog with every head of stock. The little
episode I refer to occurred on a certain occasion when the cattle broke
into a corn field, not an uncommon occurrence on all well-regulated
farms, and we started with a shepherd and a Newfoundland dog to drive
them out. Without our knowledge the bulldog sneaked along. After the other dogs had quietly and successfully, or, at least,
we thought they had, cleared the field, we heard an awful racket down
at one end. Following the noise we found the bulldog and a
three-year-old dancing the minuet while smashing down corn by the rod.
The dog had the animal by the nose, and the steer was swinging him
around like a professional club swinger. Before we got the dog's grip
loose, between the men, horses, dogs and steer we destroyed more corn
than the animal would have eaten in a month. The bulldog no doubt
thought he had performed a heroic act, and he never could quite
understand, whenever thereafter the other dogs started after the stock,
why he was left in his kennel to meditate.
In trying to describe a blizzard I mentioned the fact that Webster's
and Worcester's dictionaries failed to supply the necessary words. If
in addition to Messrs. Webster and Worcester, Mrs. Webster and Mrs.
Worcester and all the little Websters and Worcesters were to compile
dictionaries, there would still be adjectives to coin to properly
describe a Western cyclone. As already stated, the cyclone to which I
particularly refer was in Mills County. While sitting on the piazza of
a hotel we heard a low moaning sound which one of the bystanders
remarked was the forerunner of a cyclone. Off to the southwe st black
clouds commenced to loom above the horizon; higher and higher they
arose and commenced to whirl in a circle. The moaning we had heard
changed to a roar. The clouds became funnel-shaped, with a long narrow
tail hanging toward the ground. From the hotel steps we saw it bounding
along the prairie,
leaving a track a quarter of a mile wide swept as clean as a floor. The
little whirlwind in the streets gives you the principle of the cyclone.
Like it a cyclone forms a vacuum,
lifting everything from the ground. The cyclone passed about a mile
south of where I stood. After its passage the inhabitants of the
adjoining country rushed to the aid of
the stricken ones. Such a sight I never saw, nor ever listened to such
experiences. Men, women and children were found dead, with every strip
of clothing gone. Houses taken bodily from their foundations, torn into
pieces and carried away for miles. Gullies full of dead animals and
refuse, dead chickens without a feather, iron machinery
twisted like a pretzel, ruin and desolation on all sides. A Mr. Osier's
place, a gentleman from whom I had recently bought some stock, was in
the track of the storm. His
whole family lost their lives; he was saved. He told me that at one
time he was at least two hundred feet in the air, and sailing along
with him was a pet colt so close he
could have put his hand on it. In one of Mr. Osier's corn-cribs there
was over 5,000 bushels of corn; not a piece of the corn-crib nor an ear
of the corn remained. The
blacksmith of a village over which the storm passed was at work, and as
the shop, which had a dirt floor, lifted and started heavenward, he
caught hold of the anvil and hung on and thereby saved his life. The
Eastern farmer sometimes deplores his lot, but if he had seen what I
saw that day he would conclude there was something worse to contend
with than railroads, commission men, book agents, candidates and poor
markets.
It was while I was battling with the elements on the Pigeon that the
old settler had to admit that the record-breaking winter storm
occurred. The storm and the intense cold of the 13tli of January, 1888,
will neyer be effaced from the memory of those who experienced it. Up
to 3 p.m. the wind was in the Southwest, with no atmospheric warnings
of what was to come. Suddenly the wind whirled to the Northwest, and
that fine snow which is the forerunner of a blizzard came sifting along
the frozen ground. The bulb in the thermometer began to sink, and with
each passing moment the fury of the storm increased. For thirty-six
hours it raged. Parents lost their lives endeavoring to reach the isolated school-houses where the children were marooned.
Usually in storms the stock is the first consideration, but they were
left to shift for themselves, consequently thousands perished. Forever
after the dread of an approaching 13th of January to the Western
stockman was like the guillotine to the condemned criminal.
Chapter 7 -- Chapter 9
