A Christmas joy-ride

True story of one Wyoming Christmas
 
By Sheila Hart 
 
(Reprinted from a Dec. 25, 1937, issue of the News 
Letter Journal)
 
Wyoming had not yet attained dignity of statehood, that winter of 1888. Her vast domain of mountain and forest and plain was, for the greater part, uninhabited only by the wild creatures who found here a refuge from encroaching civilization. Along the Union Pacific, it is true, a town or two had grown to size which permitted them to put some of the airs of a city. Adjacent to them a few mines were open to supply their need for fuel but the untapped liquid gold
of the old fields lay in its
underground reservoirs, its presence almost unsuspected. The cattle industry reigned supreme and the widely scattered towns were merely trading posts or outfitting stations for the cattle companies. The cowboy sang his doleful song in the wake of the trail herd and the rustler rode abroad in the land and waxed fat. Farming was discouraged by the cattle men, who resented any curtailment of their free use of the public land.
In spite of this a few adventurous ranchers were starting to drift into the broad valleys and sheltered canyons where the range cattle had heretofore wandered at will. My father, A.M. Nelson, was one of these few. My parents, both scions of those sturdy pioneers who had pushed from the Atlantic coast to the plains of the middle west, had moved their family from drought-stricken Kansas during the spring of ’88. A slow, tedious journey by rail from our Kansas home ended at Whitewood, Dakota Territory. Here we transferred ourselves and our numerous bags, bundles and food baskets (no luxurious dining cars with its snowy linen and perfect service for use in those days) to the Concord stage coach which awaited us its six rearing, plunging, half broken horses promising speed, if not safety in reaching our destination — the beautiful Spearfish valley in the heart of the Black Hills of South Dakota. 
The comfort, or more properly speaking, the discomfort of the swaying, bumping coach was shared by a traveling man or two, our own party, of seven, and two Swedes who spoke hardly a word during the whole trip, except when one of them, looking disgustedly out into the red clay hills through which the road wound its torturous way, remarked pessimistically he “didn’t see how a man was going to make any money in these hells.” Probably he meant hills but hells seemed to be part of his state of mind as well as accent.
No telephone’s cheery tinkle broke the day’s monotony; no hum of a motor brought far away friends to our door with the ease and speed of a magic carpet. Our only means of travel were the slow moving oxen and one little Indian pony. The horse teams belonged to my uncle, who had returned to his home at Spearfish after he had helped us get settled. In the springtime, the eldest sister and her husband drove out from Kansas to take up land near us. When they arrived at the ranch, in a new ”Studebaker” wagon, gay with red and green paint, its commodious interior protected by a canvas cover, fitted up most conveniently — somewhat after the manner of the well-known sheep wagon of today, and drawn by a prancing team of beautiful horses the equipage seemed, to my childish eyes, almost as grand as Cinderella’s pumpkin coach, and when I rode upon its high spring seat, and the horses trotted, we moved with such unaccustomed swiftness that I became dizzy.
The pony had seemed rather a luxury when we made our plans for the ranch, but it was well we had her, for our two cows, and the oxen were apt to wander afar and mingle with the herds of range stock. To separate them from the wild cattle was difficult, sometimes a dangerous, proceeding and would have been impossible without a good cow pony.
Two pigs, two dozen chickens, a dog and a cat were also numbered among our possessions. The cat proved its worth the very first day we were at the ranch, slaying no less than twelve field mice which had taken up home steads among the grain sacks. The dog, besides being the boon companion and play fellow, of us children, was a great help in keeping at a distance, the herd of wild cattle whose curiosity sometimes led them uncomfortable near the house. 
Every egg laid by out industrious old hens was a real event, and we permitted “Little Bule” a pert, inquisitive biddy, to slip into  the house each day, hop upon the foot of the bed and deposit her egg. Quietly she would slip out again, not making a sound until she reached the chicken yard, when she would burst forth with a series of “Cut-cut-ca-daw-cuts”—that woke the echoes far and near. In the spring, when our lady pig presented us with six beautiful sons and daughters and two little red calves were added to the “cattle herd” we felt that we had all the wealth of Croesus.
During the summer days which followed our arrival at Spearfish, the plans for the future matured. Slowly father and mother, aided by the utmost of our childish ability by us children, gathered together the essential equipment for life on a ranch in the midst of the wilderness. In the fall, father drove into Wyoming, selected a spot in the fertile Oil Creek valley bordering the Southern edge of the Black Hills and staked his claim. He made for us a snug little nest — a real old fashioned “dug out” in the side of a hill which sloped toward the south — a sixteen foot square excavation, roofed with boards and earth, with a window in the upper half of the one door to let in sunlight. When it was finished, he came back to Spearfish for us, and another phase of our journeying began. Four long days it took to reach the new ranch, traveling steadily from dawn until dark, the big slow oxen setting a pace the horses did not object to following, for the snow was deep, the road, at best, only a dim trail and we had all our worldly possessions together with a year’s supply of provisions, in those three heavy wagons.
Father led the way with the ox team, he and my brother walking beside the wagon most of the time, mother, May and the little sister shared the seat of the second wagon, the two women taking turns in driving, while Uncle Charlie and I brought up the rear. When night came we stopped at a ranch house if possible, but if none happened to be near we camped at the side of the road. 
We arrived at the ranch late in the evening of Dec. 18th, 1888. Snow had been falling all day and we were chilled thru and thru, stiff and cramped from sitting so long in the high wagon seats. More and more as the years go by and understanding comes to me, do I wonder at the fortitude of my father and mother; though their hearts must have been heavy with loneliness though the burden of responsibility in this new venture must have seemed almost to great to bear, we children saw only the cheerful smiles, caught only the note of hopeful adventure and high courage of the voices as they set about, in the cold, snowy dusk of a winter day to make that bare little dugout a home.
First of all the big shining range was unloaded, set in place and a roaring fire built. Then after a warm supper and a thorough toasting of our numbed fingers and toes we tucked into our camp beds and sleep came almost at once. 
By the next night the earth floor had been covered with a thick layer of cat tail rushes—how we children worked cutting rushes — a bright rag carpet nailed securely over them; the walls were lined with musten; the beds were up, our little store of furniture and the miracle was accomplished — it was home, rich in all that the word implies — shelter, food, warmth, light, love, companionship. 
Can you picture it all, you pampered folk of today? Fifty miles from any settlement, one hundred and fifty from a railroad, not a church, not a school nor a doctor within fifty miles; not a woman neighbor nearer than six miles, our little dugout and the tiny cabin of a bachelor neighbor half a mile away the only signs of human life on all the broad valley—look as you might.
Tom and John the oxen, were as unlike as two animals could well be. Tom was big and red, with rather short straight horns and a mild kindly disposition that never failed us, no matter how heavy the load or how long the way. Once when we were trying to cross a boggy stream with a load of sand he pulled so hard he broke the wooden bow from about his neck. Finding himself free he walked calmly out onto the bank, turned and looked back at his mate with a look in his eye which seemed to ask what the trouble was all about. Always willing to pull to the last bit of strength in his great muscular body, he was in direct contrast to old John, his cantankerous, treacherous team mate.
John was black and white with long, needle-pointed curving horns that betrayed his “dogie” ancestry, and that were sometimes a menace when yoking time came and John was in a bad humor. If he pushed too hard with a load he would snort with anger, toss his head, and his tail would twist into knots until it resembled nothing so much as a spotted snake.