20. Covered Wagon Days

The settlement of the western part of the United States of America was full of hardships and dangers as well as excitement. We can have a glimpse of an early settler's journey west by reading the following letter written about fifty years ago by Mrs. Orpha Haxby.

The settlement of much of the territory west of the Mississippi River has taken place within the last one hundred years, within the memory of people now living. Rapid City, South Dakota, a fast-growing modern business center of some 60 000 people located at the eastern edge of the Black Hills, is a community that has been settled in recent years. The Black Hills, a region of low, beautifully wooded mountains in the western part of the state, first became known in the 1870s when gold was discovered there. Most of the South Dakota territory belonged to the Indians at that time, but the white men soon came to the Rapid City area in throngs, some to search for gold and some to farm or establish businesses for the new settlement.

Some years ago, the children of the third grade in one of the schools in Rapid City wrote to Mrs. Orpha Haxby, an 80-year-old resident of the city, to ask her about her childhood experiences as a real pioneer. The following letter is her reply telling about her 300-mile trip by covered wagon from Elk Point, South Dakota, to Rapid City. This journey that took seven weeks in 1876 can now be made in one day by car or in one hour by airplane. You will note that in writing to children she wrote from the child's point of view, emphasizing the excitement she felt as a child. She failed to mention, however, that the men were always conscious of the dangers involved and that the women were saddened by the breaking of home ties. Mrs. Haxby has said that her mother cried during the whole trip, feeling that she would never see her family again.

November 13, 1944

Rapid City, South Dakota

Dear Children:

Yes, I was a pioneer when I came with my father, mother, and two older sisters to the Black Hills of South Dakota.

We left Elk Point, South Dakota, in early October, 1876, in a covered wagon drawn by two yoke of oxen, with a few necessary belongings: our clothing, bedding, dishes, cooking utensils, a kerosene lantern, a tent, camp stove, my mother's rocking chair, and, of course, food. I was allowed to bring my schoolbooks and a few toys. We also had six cows, a crate of chickens on the rear end of the wagon box, and one pony. We started with four cats, as my father had promised some of his friends he would bring them each a cat. Well, we arrived with only one—my pet. I shall always feel grateful to him, for he slept at my feet all the way and kept them warm. The cats and chickens soon learned that the wagon was their home. But the cats would go hunting at night, and at different times three failed to get back in the morning before we were ready to start and had to be left behind. The chickens were always turned loose when we first made camp in the evening, to stretch their wings and get exercise. They cackled and scratched around until dark and then flew into their box to sleep. The cattle were different. They had to be watched at night by a man called the night herder. He slept in the wagon during the day as we jogged along.

After our tent was put up at night and a fire was going in the camp stove, we were comfortable, even though the snow sometimes had to be scraped away before putting up the tent. Many times I had to knock my feet together to keep them warm while waiting. After supper, we spread our beds on the ground.

Our food was cooked outside over an open fire. Our bread was baked in a Dutch oven, a heavy iron kettle with three short legs and a heavy iron lid with a rim about an inch high. The bread dough was patted out the size of the kettle and an inch thick. The oven was heated by placing it over a bed of hot coals, and more coals were placed on the lid, which shows the need of the rim to keep them from falling off. Some old-timers still say this is the best way to make bread, and it certainly is good.

Our food consisted mostly of bread, bacon, ham, rice, dried fruits, tea, coffee, and sugar. We had milk from the cows, and the hens occasionally laid eggs. We could not have vegetables or canned goods because they would freeze.

We carried our wood tied under the wagon unless we were going to camp near a stream where there was timber.

We had only two real rivers to cross, the Missouri and the Cheyenne. When we reached the Missouri River at Pierre, the ice was not strong enough to carry the heavily loaded wagons, so we waited about a week for it to get thicker. Even then we were not allowed to ride. Instead, we walked alongside at a safe distance, and I could see cracks in the ice radiating in all directions. By the time the last wagon came along, the ice was so weakened that it broke through just as it reached the edge, but the teams were on the bank and pulled it through. At the Cheyenne River the ice was not safe either; but since it was a shallow stream, a channel was cut through the ice wide enough for the wagons, and the river was forded.

As you know, an ox is a slow animal and when traveling day after day can only go 12 or 15 miles a day. That is why it took seven weeks to make a trip of around 300 miles. The riding was not very rough, as we traveled so slowly, although the road in some places was only a trail with deep ruts made by other wagons when the ground was wet.

The first day we went only as far as Vermillion. The second day we got to Yankton, where we were to meet a large ox train from Sioux City. The train, which was loaded with freight for the Black Hills, was delayed. It was not safe for one wagon to go alone, so we joined another train of ten wagons, which was leaving at once. In the party were ten men, three women, and two children. All the men had guns for protection, in case we should be attacked by the Indians.

After we left the settlements above Yankton we saw no more houses, with one exception, until we came to Fort Thompson, an Indian agency. This exception was a lonely sod house on the bare prairie that was occupied by a young man and his wife. We asked to go in and get warm at noon, for we made very short stops at that time, sometimes none at all, but we camped earlier at night. They were pleased to see us and treated us royally. They said they did not expect to see any more people until spring, as all their neighbors had gone away for the winter. They burned hay, which they twisted into hard rolls with their hands. They seemed to have little to eat but bread and some small potatoes they had raised and then placed in a hole in the dirt floor under the bed to keep them from freezing. The woman was so hungry for sugar that my mother gave her all she could spare from our supply. Their house was not as warm as our tent.

From Fort Thompson on, there were no more settlements until we reached a post office and store called Firesteel, which no longer exists, although the old store building still stands. We then traveled through an uninhabited country until we came to Pierre on the Missouri River. There were no settlements of white people from there to the Black Hills.

After we crossed the Missouri River we were on Indian land, but we did not see an Indian from there to Rapid City, a distance of nearly two hundred miles. They had been very hostile throughout the summer but had now gone back to their agencies for the winter. That is the reason we were traveling in cold weather. Along the road we saw several new graves of men who had been killed the previous summer.

We were now in a wild game country, but did not stop to hunt, although we saw bands of antelope. The lively little prairie dogs would sit up on the dirt mounds around their holes, jerk their little tails, and bark at us as we passed. My sister and I tried to catch some, but they always ducked into their holes just as we got there.

Our first sight of the Black Hills was from Grindstone Butte, a high point about seventy-five miles from them. They were just a dim, dark blue outline against the sky. The color is due to the heavy pine trees on their surface. They looked beautiful, and I was not disappointed when we got closer and I could see what they looked like. Our last camp before reaching Rapid City was at a spring called Wasta, an Indian word meaning "good". That night there was a blizzard, the worst storm of the trip. The cattle got away, the tent blew down on us, and I was awakened by the snow blowing in my face. With the help of the night herder my father got the tent up, and we went to sleep again. The next day we reached Rapid City after dark. A man came to the creek with a lantern to show us across. My father's friends had a warm supper of hot baking-powder biscuits, venison steak with gravy, and coffee ready for us. And was it good!

At first we lived in log houses with dirt floors and roofs made of poles, hay, and dirt. The roofs were fine unless it rained for several days until they were wet through, and then they did leak.

In the early days the land was claimed by what was called a "squatter's right," by marking it out with stakes at the corners, building a cabin, and living on it. It was the same with gold claims, except that one had to do a certain amount of mining work each year instead of living on them.

This is the story of my coming to the beautiful Black Hills, where I have since lived and hope to live for the rest of my life. There were hardships and dangers, but something new and interesting occurred every day, and I enjoyed every minute of the trip.

Most sincerely

Orpha LeGro Haxby

From Language and Life in the U.S.A., Volume II,

ed., Gladys G. Doty, 1960.