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In 1859 there was an immense emigration to the Pike's Peak gold region. These gold hunters made use of every conceivable vehicle and contrivance -- Conestoga wagons hauled by ox, horse or mule teams, farm wagons, spring wagons, buckboards, buggies, sulkies, pushcarts, baby buggies, children's wagons, and even wheelbarrows, while others footed it across the plains with their outfits on their backs.
Five young fellows on their way west, navigating a push-cart, or small wagon, got stalled in the mud at Rock Creek ford. William Spaulding, a strapping big fellow, was there at the time, and noting their futile efforts in getting out of their dilemma, called to them, "Hey, boys! You didn't have enough oats this morning." He then took hold and gave them a lift, so they finally got through. Their little wagon was loaded to the limit, and aside from the usual food and blankets included brick, hammers, picks, shovels and drills as well. While on the plains I witnessed a prairie fire which had started in the buffalo grass. There was a strong wind blowing and a man driving a team was caught in a manner that prevented his escape. Realizing the impossibility of getting away, he turned his horses loose, upset the wagon and crawled beneath the box. The fire swept by soon after, killing the team, while he providentially escaped. Several buffalo and a prairie swift, hemmed in by the fire, also perished.
In October, 1864, a short time before I was twenty years old, came the great scare occasioned by the threatened raid of General "Pap" Price into Kansas. At this time the most of the able-bodied young men of the state were already in service. Then came the call for volunteers. Both father and I joined the forces raised in our vicinity, enrolling at Louisville, in Company E, 14th Kansas state militia. We were soon started for the eastern border of the state to help stem the onward advance of Price. We got as far as Olathe,
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Johnson county, where our company went into camp. We were about as inefficient a force as could have been mobilized anywhere on earth to check the advance of a seasoned army. We were without military training of any kind, and worse still, were unarmed. What would have happened were we subjected to gunfire can better be imagined than described. Fortunately the Confederates were turned back before they reached us raw recruits. After a service of about twenty-one days we were permitted to return home, where we received our discharges.
In March, 1865, tiring of farming, I decided to get a job in the government service driving teams. At this period there was much freighting to the west along the line of the Santa Fe Trail, and up the Smoky Hill, transporting soldiers and supplies to the various posts to the west. Going to Fort Riley I had no trouble in securing employment. My job was that of teamster, and consisted of driving a team of six mules hitched to a government wagon. In the vernacular of that day I was designated a "mule skinner."
On starting out on my first trip I was advised to get me a gun. At Salina came my first opportunity to secure a revolver of the prescribed style, so I invested $20 of my capital for the same, getting a belt and scabbard along with it. Strapping my six-shooter on, I sallied forth, the gun swinging with every step and worrying me not a little. I wore it till about ten o'clock the next morning when, unable to endure it any longer, I unstrapped the belt and tossed my artillery into the box at the front of the wagon. Shortly after this we entered the Indian country, and one of my crew asked me what had become of my gun. I pointed down into the box and said: "It's down there." "Why don't you put it on and wear it?" he asked. "I've got no use for a gun," I told him. "What did you pay for it? I'll give you what you paid," he said. I told him, "The gun is yours." He paid me when we got back to Fort Riley.
At Fort Riley at this time there were some two hundred Confederate soldiers encamped a little below the fort on the Republican river. These men had been captured during the war, and had been paroled on condition they would go west and fight the plains Indians, who at this period were most troublesome. These Confederates were known in the West as "galvanized soldiers." and at this time were awaiting to be sent out to Fort Dodge. They were a miserable looking, decrepit lot, run down physically, and unable to make a long march. They were to accompany a train of twenty-five wagons loaded with supplies about to be sent out to Forts Ellsworth, Zarah, Larned and Dodge. On account of their poor physical condition orders had been given to limit the daily marches of these "galvanized soldiers" to eight miles a day, the teams also being limited to an eight-mile haul, instead of the usual twenty-mile haul.
Our route lay up the valley of the Smoky Hill to Salina, thence to Fort Ellsworth (Fort Harker), thence to the southwest, striking the Santa Fe Trail at Fort Zarah, near the great bend of the Arkansas. From this on we followed up the Arkansas river to Fort Larned, taking the "dry trail" that ran across the plains in a straight line till it hit the river, and then on to Fort Dodge.
Our start was made from the ferry on the Republican river about the tenth of May, but on account of our short hauls each day, the journey lasted until about the end of June. I was driving six mules, riding the nigh (left
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wheeler) and driving, as were all the others, with a single line that reached the leaders.
This wagon train was under the charge of one John Lanahan, a rather profane Irishman but a most efficient wagon boss. A lieutenant of the regulars, from Fort Riley, accompanied the train. He and Lanahan did not get along well from the start, the lieutenant having wished to place one of his pets in charge of the train. This friction resulted in a ruction which came to a head at Salina. Things were finally smoothed over and the train proceeded on its journey. But this was not to last, for the trouble broke out again with such bitterness that at Fort Larned the lieutenant had Lanahan arrested and locked in the guardhouse. And there he remained while the train proceeded on to Fort Dodge, discharged its load and returned some time later. On the return trip Lanahan was released, and he immediately announced to the lieutenant that he was going to accompany the train back to Fort Riley.
On this return trip our train was surrounded by Indians on Coon creek, a little distance southwest of Fort Larned. The Indians were after horses and tried to stampede our stock. On getting ready they came dashing in on horseback, yelling and shooting, waving blankets and whooping as only a redskin knows how to whoop. The lieutenant ordered his escort not to fire at the Indians unless he gave the signal. After the attack was over he gave as his excuse that he was afraid these Indians wanted to draw the fire of the soldiers, while another force of Indians much larger in number would attack before the men could reload their guns. During this attack the Indians raced their ponies around the camp, making them jump the creek as they reached it, and continuing their waving of blankets, whooping and shooting. One of the Indians, riding a particularly fine animal, in attempting to make it jump the creek, failed in the attempt, the animal stumbling and throwing him. On regaining his feet it raced into our camp and on through. The Indian got to his feet as quickly as he could and got out of the danger zone as fast as he could go.
One of our men, a Mexican wagon boss, noticed the fine horse the Indian had ridden, and decided he would like to have it for his own. Quick as a flash he saddled one of his own horses and started in pursuit, a lariat dangling from his hand. It was a pretty race for a few hundred yards. Then the Mexican swung his lariat about his head a time or two and threw. The rope circled through the air and landed directly over the Indian pony's head. The Mexican's horse, seeming to know as well as its rider just what to do in such ease, immediately stopped, sinking back on its haunches. A second later the Indian pony was yanked off its feet, and then captured.
When the Mexican returned to camp with his prize it excited the cupidity of the lieutenant, who tried to claim it, representing that the pony belonged to the government. The men accompanying the train were indignant at this petty attempt to cheat the Mexican out of his pony, and openly advised him to hang onto it. Finding he could not get the pony in that manner, the lieutenant offered the Mexican $125 for his prize, which the boys advised the Mexican to refuse.
In this attack by the Indians two Mexican drivers had been killed, and one Mexican boy, a lad about thirteen years old, had been wounded and scalped. He had been shot through the left arm above the elbow, receiving a ball
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which broke the bone in two, and left the arm dangling helplessly. While in this condition he had been scalped, the Indians not taking the time to kill him before removing his scalp. As soon as possible the boy was brought in and given medical attention, his head first being bandaged. Then the surgeon began picking the hindered bone out of the arm, the boy heroically watching the whole process through. He had not been given an anesthetic, none being available at the time. The two dead Mexicans were then wrapped in new army blankets and buried in a grave dug alongside the road.
Among the drivers employed during this trip, besides myself, I can remember the names of but three -- Ezra Nixon, Frank Martell and Johnny Hays.
On this return trip, at a point between Forts Zarah and Ellsworth, on the old military road, I witnessed a sight such as I had never before seen. It was that of a vast herd of buffalo on their way south. Our wagon train had been traveling homeward in the usual monotonous manner, when suddenly the driver in the lead wagon yelled back the words, "Buffalo! buffalo! buffalo!" A big herd was just coming into sight, and the wagon train was in the direct path of the animals, and buffaloes rarely turned aside for anything. The members of the wagon train were in a perilous position, as well as their teams. Whatever was to be done had to be done quickly. At once an order went forth, "Close up the train in the form of a wedge." This was done with all possible dispatch, and the forty dragoons who accompanied the train as a protection against Indians were stationed at the point of the wagon train, forming a compact triangle where the buffalo would first meet.
On came those galloping, shaggy monsters. The whole landscape seemed to be one vast dark-brown flood, which rose and fell with the contour of the ground, Stretching out on either side as far as the eye could reach, and extending away to the north where the end was lost to sight. There were thousands upon thousands, more likely millions, of them in that herd.
Scarcely had the men got the wagons in position with the dragoons in front than the held approached like one vast flood, the sound of their hoofs striking the earth resembling the roll of thunder. When about twenty-five yards distant the dragoons fired point blank into the vanguard, hoping this would divide the herd. Everyone in the train held his breath awaiting the outcome, fearing his last hour had come. At a point but a few feet from the dragoons the herd divided, galloping by and uniting once more when the last wagon had been passed, surrounding the wagon train, much like an island in the middle of a turbulent sea. On they came like an overwhelming flood, the whole landscape as far as the eye could reach in every direction being one seething mass, and moving southward. It was a sight one sees but once in a lifetime, and under conditions one would not care to repeat. How slowly the time seemed to drag as they went charging by. After an eternity we could see the herd's proportions were beginning to diminish, and finally when the few last stragglers galloped by one of the crowd who had glanced at his watch at the start, remarked that a little more than a half hour had elapsed from the time the herd reached them and had gone by.
After it was all over we took stock to see just what had happened, and discovered that there was just one dead buffalo to show for the fusillade the dragoons had fired into the herd. The only casualty to our outfit happened to one of the horses, which in some unaccountable manner had a knee shot off.
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I was nearing Fort Zarah on a return trip from the west in April, 1865, when we received word that the war had come to a close. There were about twenty wagons in this train, mine being fourth from the rear. When about half a mile from the fort "Wild Bill" Hickok, on a dandy horse, came riding by on a run, shouting out as he rode by: "Lee's surrendered! Lee's surrendered!" He was a striking figure as I noticed him, a large broad-brimmed hat on his head, long drooping mustache, long flowing hair that fell about his shoulders, a brace of ivory-handled revolvers strapped to his waist, and an extra pair in holsters that fitted about the horn of his saddle where he could reach them instantly. These latter were long-barreled ones, capable of carrying quite a distance. It was common talk that he had got many an enemy with them just on account of their long-range qualities.
As our wagon train neared the fort the soldiers, having a few minutes before obtained word of the surrender of Lee, decided to celebrate the good news. Dragging out their small brass cannons, they loaded them with a good charge of powder and crammed them to the muzzle with wet gunny sacks. As soon as the lead wagon of our train came within shouting distance of the outpost the gunners pointed their cannons up into the air and fired. The firing alone possibly would not have frightened our mules, but when those gunny sacks hurtled up into the air, were caught by the wind and opened up and then went floating off, they were enough to startle the dead. Not knowing we were going to be treated to a reception like this, we were not prepared for what followed. Before anything could be done to quiet them, the lead-wagon team ducked away at a right angle and went stampeding across the prairie, the driver finding he was unable to manage them and hopping off his mount to "save his bacon." The next shots following in quick succession caused the next team to follow suit. And no sooner had it left the beaten track than the next and the next, down the line, followed suit -- each following as soon as the one in front had got out of the way.
Seeing what was happening I decided to try preventing my team doing as the others had done. Jumping off my horse, I made my way hurriedly to the leaders, and grasping them by the bits, firmly held back, and just as the wagon in front of me left the road and went ricocheting across the prairie like a toy vehicle dragged by a frightened team, I yelled a command to my wheelers to "back." This they did. I held back on my leaders, and with some little difficulty prevented my team from joining in the mad stampede. But I saved the day. The teams in my rear never realized there was anything wrong, and as the firing had long since ceased, when the soldiers saw what effect it was having on the train, the balance of our outfit drove into the fort as though nothing had happened. It took some time to round up the balance of the train, however.
One day a government teamster came into Fort Riley. He had a fine mule which was something of an outlaw, and thinking to have some fun, offered five dollars to a boy employed there if he would ride the mule over to the blacksmith shop, a short distance away, get him shod, and then bring him back. The boy climbed on, rode over to the blacksmith shop, waited around till the mule was shod, and in due time returned the mule to its owner no worse for
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his experience. The teamster was game and paid the bet. Later in the day the owner of the mule wished to get his animal home, and asked the boy if he would ride him again for him. The boy agreed, and proceeded to climb on. Then the fun commenced. In less time than it takes to relate it, the mule pitched the boy up into the air as neatly as the job was ever done. Nothing daunted, the boy climbed on again, when the performance was repeated. The crowd around to enjoy the fun increased as the boy climbed on a third time with no better results. With a determination to do or die, the boy climbed once more to the mule's back where he was once more whisked off with neatness and dispatch. Concluding the fun was a trifle too much one-sided, the boy turned to the owner and in tones of withering disgust re- marked: "Ride your damned old mule home yourself."
Speaking of mules, they soon learned where we usually camped. As a usual thing they would begin to bray loudly when within half a mile of a camping place.
John Lanahan, one of the bosses, had a big black horse to which he would fasten a bell when he turned it out to graze at night. This horse would not stray far from camp. It was a sort of "bell wether" among the horses, and mules, and the drivers and teamsters always knew they would find their teams close to where the old black horse was.
During my freighting days we usually made a schedule of about twenty miles a day. We were expected to make this distance day in and day out, rain or shine, Sundays as well. From twenty to twenty-five wagons were in our trains. On one occasion we were joined by a lot of freighters, and all came in together. In this cavalcade there were no less than 184 wagons, and they strung out for considerably over a mile, some being drawn by mules, some by horses, and some by oxen, with six, eight and ten animals to a wagon. The old road at all times of day was alive with the big prairie schooners and freight wagons, and the amount of freight hauled west over the old Santa Fe Trail was enormous.
During my freighting days there were no settlements beyond Saline other than the frontier posts.
Fort Ellsworth, in 1865, was the first settlement beyond Salina. It was a typical frontier outpost. The most imposing building there at this time was the commissary's building, a sod house about 25 by 40 feet in size, overlooking the Smoky Hill river. The barracks and officer's quarters consisted of dugouts in the bank along the river front. No stockade of any sort surrounded the fort. It was the first and only settlement between Salina and Fort Zarah on the Arkansas river, and was about a one-company post. It was established in August, 1864. In 1866 the name was changed to Fort Harker. The following year the fort was removed to a new site about a mile east of the old one, where it remained until the post was abandoned in 1873.
Fort Zarah, the next stop, was located on the left bank of Walnut creek, about two miles from its mouth and about four miles east of the present city of Great Bend. The fort was built of sandstone taken from the bluffs about three miles distant. It was 116 feet long and about 50 feet wide, a good portion being two stories in height. Some of the earlier buildings were of adobe, as were the buildings of other early outposts in the sixties.
Fort Larned, as I recollect it, was considered a most important post and
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was one of the largest on the Santa Fe road, quartering at least two companies at times. The buildings were of adobe construction at first. In 1867 some of these were replaced by sandstone structures. In 1865 some of the soldiers were housed in tents. The site of this outpost was on the south bank of Pawnee fork, about eight miles from its confluence with the Arkansas river, and had been established as a protection against hostile Indians along the Santa Fe Trail in October, 1859. It was abandoned in 1868. There was no other settlement between Fort Zarah and this place. At one time in 1865 no wagon trains of less than fifty wagons, accompanied by an armed escort, were allowed to proceed westward, on account of hostile Indians. There were two routes west from Fort Larned, the "dry" route which followed along the divide and ran to the southwest until it again struck the old trail, and the "wet" route which followed close to the Arkansas river the whole distance. The dry route was often without water the whole distance, and trains making the journey either way were obliged to go into camp to recuperate their stock. There were many fights with Indians in and around Fort Larned.
Fort Dodge in 1865 was considered the most important of all the forts along the Santa Fe Trail in Kansas, and quartered more soldiers than any other post on the plains. It was in the heart of the Indian country. The commissary and quartermaster's building was of sod, as were all the soldiers' quarters, these latter being located on the ledge of the north bank of the Arkansas river. There were ruins of some earlier forts on the Arkansas, a few miles to the west of Fort Dodge, which had been abandoned in the early fifties. Fort Dodge was established in 1864 and abandoned as a military post in 1882. The State Soldiers' Home now occupies the old reservation.
The old "California Road," or properly "Oregon Trail," ran through Pottawatomie county, and not far from father's farm. After leaving the Kansas river it headed to the northwest, crossing Rock Creek ford about a quarter mile from the limits of the present town of Westmoreland. A suitable camping ground was afforded freighters for their teams on the north side of the creek, and this camp of an acre or two was always occupied, at times the ground being literally covered with big prairie schooners and freight wagons. The ford at this place was a rock-bottom one, and an abundance of good water for all purposes was always available, while stock could always find an abundance of grass close at hand. From the ford the road swerved to the west, cutting across what is now the southwest corner of Westmoreland, and on to the Blue river.
There were many shooting matches in my neighborhood in the early days, and I rarely missed one. On one occasion the prize was a beef. On this occasion all the local sportsmen were present, and a few outsiders as well-some English sportsmen who came over via St. George, and wished for a match. They were equipped with fine guns, all trimmed up with nickel plating, and were real beauties. My partner in these shooting matches was Louis Vieux, and he and I were present on this occasion. When he saw the fine guns of those Englishmen he got cold feet and decided he would not shoot. I remonstrated and told him that if that English outfit beat me, I would throw my gun, "Old Silversides,'' and a good one by the way, into the Vermilion river. Vieux finally agreed to shoot. A pony purse of $4 was made up and each
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contestant was to have three shots, the best shot to take the money. The target was placed and the match was on. The Englishmen proved to be better sportsmen than riflemen. I won the money the first shot, and quit shooting because I had made a good shot. Those Englishmen, in a spirit of levity, had dubbed my gun "Old Tin Sides." But it was good enough to put a ball where you held it. After the match was over the Englishmen rode home with me, and one of the losers paid "Old Silversides" this compliment: "Say, that old gun of yours can shoot!" My son Daniel now has this old gun.
Later, when the country began to settle up, the men of the community often met to engage in target practices frequently meeting as often as three or four days a week when there was no farm work that could be done to advantage.
One day, early in 1873, I had gone to Louisville for one of those shooting matches, when one of my acquaintances came up and called me aside. "Darnell," said he, "could you hit a target at 150 or 175 yards?" "If I couldn't I'd throw my gun away and quit." "Could you hit a deer at that distance?" he asked me. "All I want is a chance to show you," I told him. "Come with me at once. There are two down the valley now, and you ought to get at least one." I went and we tracked the game where they had followed along one of the stake-and-rider fences, coming to a place where the deer had worked their way through the fence instead of jumping the obstruction, as they would have done if they had not been tired. The deer had been headed off, and I posted myself in a cornfield, telling the young man who had informed me, "If you hear any racket in the corn here any place, stay where you are. Keep still. Don't move!"
The young man promised faithfully. The deer were turned and coming back, edging their way through the corn. I was waiting for a sight of them. At length I glimpsed one and fired, killing it dead in its tracks. I hastily loaded my rifle, and a few seconds later fired again, bringing down a doe but not killing it. This animal, severely wounded and unable to travel, was thrashing around in the corn, tearing down a lot and making a terrible racket. I was loading my gun to finish a couple of fawns which were following, when the young man I had cautioned to remain quiet came riding in on horseback post haste, scaring the fawns before I could get my gun loaded to shoot. They were of course frightened away, and I never saw them afterwards. As soon as I saw him, I asked the young fellow in rather forcible language, "Why in blazes didn't you keep still and stay where you were? I'd have got the whole bunch if you'd kept out!" The young man was all meekness, and replied: "Well, when I heard all that racket I just couldn't keep still." Later I learned that hunters had been after these deer up on the Big Blue, but the deer had got away and came down to the Rock creek valley
On another occasion three men came to Louisville hunting a match. They had good guns and were good riflemen. They came in with a load of wood, and had their guns covered with a quilt. They hitched their team and entered the "Dew Drop Inn" saloon, run by Charley Cooper. After hearing their conversation for a time, Charley sensed their desire for a match, and told them that if that was their desire, they could get it. They told Charley they were "looking for that fellow who was doing all that shooting down here." They
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were harboring a notion I would be afraid to try a match with them. Cooper told them there was no running, and if they wanted a match he could have his man there in five minutes. He came after me, and I took my old rifle and went along. I had won three turkeys at previous matches, so we put them up at $1.50 each, and the match started. When it was all over I had the three turkeys and had their money, too. Cooper then offered to bet them I could knock out the center of the target the first shot. He probably would have lost his money as it was not a very good target to shoot at. However, my marksmanship had discouraged them, and they declined to risk any more "long green" on me, so climbing onto their wagon they drove away.
Another shooting match occurred at the Louisville mill site on Christmas, 1873, for turkey prizes. Charley Foot, who built this mill, borrowed my gun, "Old Silversides," when it came his turn to shoot. He made a good shot, hitting the target about an eighth of an inch from the center. He began to crow, and asked all the boys down to eat Christmas dinner with him. When it came my turn to shoot, Bill Conger picked up my board and went out and placed it in position, asking me how it was. I told him it was fine. He then took off his hat and held it over the mark, which was about the size of a rifle patch. The crowd asked him if he was going to stand there and hold his hat. He said he was, and did. After I shot the pin and patch disappeared and were never found. And Charley Foot lost his turkey match, much to the amusement and pleasure of the crowd.
When we came to Kansas, the jack rabbit did not exist in these parts. Once James Limerick and an English sportsman went farther west for a hunt, the jack rabbit being common in western Kansas. The story of the great jack rabbit they brought back was like this: "They were so big and so swift, they could jump up right under one's feet and make a clean get-away." However, father thought he could kill one, as he was a good shot.
I loved to hunt, and during my younger days killed buffalo, deer, bobcats, wild turkeys, geese, ducks, rabbits, prairie chickens, quails, in fact all the wild game that was so plentiful here in the early days. Since passing my eightieth year, I only want about one shot to knock a squirrel out of a tree.
James Limerick, who came into Kansas with father, was a typical Irish fiddler, who played by ear and danced at the same time. Father was a rather sedate fellow, and his line of entertainment differed considerably from Limerick's. However, they were good friends, as this story shows. Limerick's old fiddle is now owned by my third son, Charles Darnell, of Topeka, and is highly prized. The first time I saw this old instrument was on the banks of the Grand river, in Missouri, in the spring of 1855.
In 1874, the grasshopper year, we kept hearing stories of the hoppers coming from the west. They reached our neighborhood about ten in the morning. By noon not a leaf was left on our trees. One tree that had lost its leaves and fruit put out fresh leaves and bloomed again and brought forth a small crop of small fruit late in the season. Inside of two days from the time the hoppers came there was not a leaf to be seen in the timber in the whole neighborhood. I had a patch of five acres of corn and thought to save it by cutting and shocking it. I was young and stout and hopeful, and worked like a Trojan getting it cut and shocked. It was labor lost, however, for when
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that horde of grasshoppers alighted and got through I found they had literally gutted that corn, and I had not even fodder left. After coming to Kansas there were many times when we felt the effects of the scarcity of money. Anything and everything produced on the farm during those years sold for little or nothing. One year, after I was farming on my own account l had accumulated a fine herd of milk cows and was making a specialty of butter, which I would take to the store in hundred-pound lots quite frequently. My wife was a splendid butter maker, and when one of those hundred-pound lots brought only seven cents a pound it vexed her. She decided to send the next lot to another dealer, feeling certain he would give her all it was worth. She got just seven cents a pound for this lot. Right then and there we decided we would make no more butter for market until the price got better. At this time I had almost a hundred young calves that I had bought up to feed. I turned these calves in with the cows and let them suck. That season I raised some mighty fine calves. That year one could buy a whole bucketful of eggs for twenty-five cents.
After my freighting experiences I went back to the farm and followed that for a living. Politically I vote with the Democrats, and I worship with the Methodists.
On the first of October, 1876, at Louisville, Kan., I was married to Miss Jane Dodgion, daughter of William Dodgion* and Mary Eliza Henderson. She was born in Buncombe county, North Carolina, December 8, 1851, and lived in that state until April, 1874, when the Dodgion family arrived in Kansas. She died at Louisville, Kan., November 9, 1918. We were parents of nine children, all born in Pottawatomie county, Kansas, as follows: Lee, born August 4, 1878; died October 21, 1927; married Grace Atkinson, August 20, 1902, in Pottawatomie county. William, Jr., born June 22, 1880; married Bessie Atkinson, August 21, 1906, in Pottawatomie county. Charles, born March 11, 1882: married Hattie Herring, June 5, 1907, at Royal, Neb. Bertha, born January 28, 1884; married Joe Chrest, December 17, 1902, at Louisville, Kan. Daniel, born November 17, 1888; married Pearl McCune, December 1, 1919, in Concordia, Kan. Ray and Roy, twins, born February 23, 1891. Roy died December 23, 1891. Ray married Theresa Rezac, January 15, 1921, at Cleveland, Ohio.
* William Dodgion was born in Buncombe County, North Carolina, November 2, 1810; came to Kansas about 1872; died December 13, l892, and is interred in the Louisville cemetery. His wife departed this life during the following year and lies alongside of him.