On A Donkey's Hurricane Deck

<h3><SPAN name="CHAPTER_XXX" id="CHAPTER_XXX">CHAPTER XXX.</SPAN> <br/>Pod in insane asylum</h3> <p class="toclink"><SPAN href="#TOC-II">TOC</SPAN></p> <p class="center">BY PYE POD.</p> <div class="poembox"> <div class="stanzaleft"> <div class="verse0">We may live without poetry, music and art;</div> <div class="verse0">We may live without conscience, and live without heart;</div> <div class="verse0">We may live without friends; we may live without books;</div> <div class="verse0">But civilized man cannot live without cooks. </div> <cite class="citefarright">—Lucile.</cite></div> </div> <p>It was my good fortune to obtain in Omaha a most adaptable teepee tent, a triangular canvas bag, as it were. One man could put it up in a minute. This waterproof tent had a canvas floor stoutly sewn to the sides, and when the door was tied shut neither sand, water, nor reptile could invade its sacred precincts; mosquito netting across the two small windows kept out all kinds of insects. Three could sleep in it comfortably, besides allowing ample room for luggage and supplies; and the tent with its folding poles only weighed thirty pounds. This extra baggage was added to Damfino's pack, for she was large and strong, and by this time in good traveling fettle.</p> <p>I could now thoroughly enjoy the outdoor life of the West, with its fresh and fragrant air; after sleeping a few nights under the stars, only some imperative emergency could induce me to spend a night indoors. Although my two attendants were not companions of choice they were fairly good company, but my courier unconsciously furnished entertainment for Coonskin and myself. He had such an absurd dialect—he said he had learned it in an eastern factory where Irish, Germans, and Swedes, and other nationalities were employed—and his gullibility was a constant challenge for practical jokes.</p> <p>One day at supper, an idea of putting up a game on Barley came to mind.</p> <p>"It's a pity we haven't blue beetle sauce for our quail, Coonskin," I said, giving my valet a sly wink, and he, suspecting I had some joke in mind, took up the argument.</p> <p>"You bet," was his response. "Seen hundreds of beetles to-day."</p> <p>Barley eyed Coonskin, then me, and satisfied that we were serious, queried, "Do yuse mean wese kin make sauce of de blue beetles what wese see in de road?"</p> <p>"Why," I said, as with astonishment, "haven't you ever heard of it before? Man, they pay a steep price for blue beetles at Delmonico's. Only the wealthy enjoy such a luxury."</p> <p>"The dandiest stuff I ever et on broiled birds of any kind," seconded my valet cleverly. The repast over, my courier was convinced of the surpassing virtues of blue-beetle sauce.</p> <p>Next day the bettles came out thicker than ever. With enthusiasm, I dismounted, and began to fill my emptied purse with the insects, and Coonskin followed suit by filling a handkerchief, exclaiming: "By the very old Ned! Gather 'em all; we'll have a treat for the gods."</p> <p>Up to this, Barley kept on his wheel within talking distance, but now he leaped off and made a dive in the dust with his hat, as if he had trapped a butterfly. "Remember, man," I called to him, "there should be seventeen in every family; bag every one of them."</p> <p>"Here's fourteen Ise got, guess dey's one family, but can't see no more; besides my handkerchief's full. Has yus got a sock yuse kin lend me?" I said I had, and then he came to get the sock. His trousers pockets were filled with the strong smelling beetles.</p> <p>Suddenly, he dived for a whole entomological tribe almost under Mac's feet; had the donkey not leaped over him, we all would have been hurt.</p> <p>We lunched in a small village where I purchased peppermint oil for flavoring the sauce. That night, I made a concoction that would only satisfy a Siwash appetite. We had bagged two dozen quail and doves, so we had plenty of game, and an abundance of beetles; the next thing in order was a heap of fun.</p> <p>After frying our potatoes, gun oil, peppermint oil, pink tooth-powder, butter milk, lemon juice, and beetles were stirred in the frying pan, and when it began to sizzle and steam, Barley was put in charge and cautioned to keep stirring it. I thought, when he looked at the repelling mess and inhaled a little of those bug aromas, he would smell the joke, but he didn't. He kept on stirring, and smacked his lips, and finally said that it looked done. I decided to bring the joke to an end. Going to the fence ostensibly to tie more securely the donkeys, Coonskin loosened Damfino's rope while I seated myself at our table, and called, "Supper is ready." At once that grinning youth chased the freed donkey plumb into our fire, and so surprised was my courier that he never knew whether Damfino or Coonskin kicked over the pan, and robbed us of the rarest delicacy on record.</p> <p>I stormed about like a madman, and blamed both attendants, then went at the hot broiled birds inwardly delighted with the success of the joke. Barley never was the wiser. The following day, several times, he told me we were passing lots of beetles, but he wasn't going to spend his time catching them to be wasted.</p> <p>Something followed the game supper which more fully explains my courier's displeasure. By oversight, one of the socks of bugs was left untied; the result was, beetles ran the tent all night. Barley claimed he found a beetle in his windpipe. Coonskin spent the night lighting matches and hunting the pests. I myself smothered a score of more in my pillow. That experience closed my calendar for practical jokes.</p> <p>On to Lincoln was now the watchword. While still five or six miles from the city, a donkey and cart hove in sight, both gayly decorated with flags and bunting. The driver said he had been sent from Lincoln by a prominent citizen to escort me and my party into the city.</p> <p>Barley had been busy stirring up the populace, so when I rode majestically up to the leading hotel on Mac A'Rony, I found a crowd of representative citizens there to give me a befitting greeting. As soon as my donkeys were anchored, a tall, fat, jovial member of the medical profession, advancing with outstretched hand, welcomed me to the city.</p> <p>"Mr. Pod," said he, smiling all over, "I'm Dr. E—— and am at your service. I shall take pleasure in doing what I can to make your sojourn a pleasant memory."</p> <p>The first thing the Doctor did was to take me to the Executive Mansion. We found the Governor absent, but easily traced him to a local sanitarium, where my escort found him on a couch, wrapped in swaddling clothes, apparently secure from all intruders but the genial Doctor himself. He had just finished a Turkish bath, but he sent the Doctor for me at once.</p> <p>"We meet under difficulties," was his Excellency's smiling greeting. "I'm trying to knock out an attack of rheumatism."</p> <p>"True enough," I acknowledged, extending my hand, "both of us are flat on our backs."</p> <p>Gov. Holcomb then wrote some hieroglyphics in my autograph album, and expressed the hope that I would not find it as hot on the desert as I did in that room.</p> <p>Our next stop was at a soda fountain. Then we visited a leading clothier—where I procured a contract to direct, with Mac's assistance, the public's attention to alluring bargains in its show-windows. For this I received a five dollar note.</p> <p>My first evening in town was pleasantly spent in the company of Mrs. Bryan, who, on learning that I was in town, invited me to call.</p> <p>I remained in the last evening to rest, while Coonskin and Barley took a trip to Burlington Beach, a famous local watering place.</p> <p>"Wese taught, yuse see," said my little courier, in the morning, "dat it was something like Coney Island; so it's bein' only ten cents round trip dare, wese takes de trolley an' goes down.</p> <p>"Well, yuse oughter seen de place. Before wese gets dare it begins to smell—why, Coney Island ain't in it fer smells. Den wese gets off de cars and shuffles our feet across a long wooden bridge over on to a island, where dare was a dance hall and lots of girls of all kinds and canal boats, and dongolas, and drinks, and beers—talk of beers!—say, wese had a tank dat high fer a nickel. Yuse see, de beach is on a island in a counterfeit lake, made of salt wells and sand, but day ain't no oysters, ner clams, ner crabs, day's nothin' but bad smells—but say, yuse oughter seen de lobsters crawlin' round wid dere sweethearts on dere arms! Say, dem peoples t'ought dey was havin' a big time. Gee, I wished day could see once Coney Island!"</p> <p>We had not journeyed far beyond Lincoln Park before we approached the State Asylum for the Acute Insane. From the beginning of my pilgrimage, I had kept a sharp lookout for Insane Asylums, always passing them after dark, but Mac argued that the public had by this time found me harmless, and advised me to call. So I did.</p> <p>"A patient has arrived," some one called to an attendant. I was startled, but soon recovered my equilibrium, when I observed several doctors and nurses rush out of doors to a carriage at the porch. The lunatic having been safely deposited in one of the wards, the Superintendent then welcomed me, and persuaded me to accept his invitation to visit and inspect the institution.</p> <p>There was only one department that interested me. I had no sooner entered the kitchen than my omnivorous eye caught the pie-ocine stratum of a well-developed pie, and my curiosity led me to inquire if it were made by a lunatic.</p> <p>"Why, most certainly, Professor!" exclaimed the Superintendent. "What's the matter with it?"</p> <p>"As far as appearances go, I think it's all right—doesn't look different from any other pie I've seen and eaten. Shouldn't think a crazy man could make a decent pie, though; did he do it all alone, without anybody watching him?"</p> <p>"Oh no, we employ a sane cook to supervise the cooking," explained the officer, much to my satisfaction. "Will you have a piece?" he asked.</p> <p>"Y-y-y-y-yes," I said incredulously, "if you are sure there is no danger of insanity being transferred to me by such a delectable agency."</p> <p>The head cook then butchered the great pie into quarters, and the Superintendent said, "Help yourself, boys."</p> <p>I gathered up the juicy quarter, and saying, "My good sir, you have heard of dog eat dog, you shall now witness Pye eat pie." I proceeded to devour it. I couldn't recollect ever having eaten better pie; I was almost prompted to ask the cook to slaughter another, but, instead, carried the remaining quarter out to Mac A'Rony.</p> <p>When we had left the asylum, I could not help but remark the scrutiny with which each man regarded the other.</p> <p>At length we went into camp near a farm house, where we certainly acquitted ourselves in a manner to arouse the suspicions of any sane observer. We put our sleeping-bag on the ground outside of the tent, built a fire close to the tent on the windward side while a strong breeze was blowing, cooked creamed potatoes in the coffee pot, and steeped tea in the frying pan; and Coonskin tied all three donkeys and the dog to a small sapling by their tails. I felt sure that insanity was breaking out in our party in an aggravated form, and congratulated Cheese, Damfino and Don for not having eaten infected pie.</p> <p>Camp Lunatic, as we called it was visited by the owner of the farm, a hospitable German, who had a large family. He gave us a generous donation of corn-cobs for fuel, milk, butter, fresh eggs, and water, then introduced his wife and children. I asked him how he came to have such a large family. He explained that he had a large farm and couldn't afford hired help, and he thought the best way to remedy the difficulty was to rear boys to help him. He looked hopeful, although he had eight girls, no boys.</p> <p>Supper over, the farmer conferred on me every possible honor, even letting me hold his youngest girl, a child of ten months. He said, enthusiastically, he was going to name his boy after me; the wife smiled heroically.</p> <p>To cap the climax, I was asked to write my name in the big family Bible. The book was in German. My host opened it to a blank page, and, without comment, I inscribed my name underneath the strangely printed heading—Gestorben, thus pleasing the whole family.</p> <p>When we reached our tent, Barley began to find fault with me. "What for did yuse want to write your name on de Gestorben page?" he asked seriously. "Dat means bad luck, dat does."</p> <p>"And why?" I inquired, puzzled.</p> <p>"Gestorben is German and means death, yuse crazy loon!" he returned. "It's de lunatic pie dat's workin' already; wese all goin' crazy."</p> <p>Next day was hot. In the afternoon my party rested three hours in the shade of a peach orchard, where we were treated to ice cream by the kind lady of the house close by. It was about 105 miles from Lincoln to Hastings, and we covered it in five days.</p> <p>Threading the villages of Exeter, Crete, Friend, and Dorchester, we arrived in Grafton, where I caught my courier in a dishonest trick, and discharged him.</p> <p>The party reached Hastings Thursday, June 17, where I purchased a saddle for Coonskin. Detained by a thunderstorm, we passed a miserable night in close quarters. Next morning, Mac pranced about like a circus donkey, and trailed to Kearney in a manner almost to wind his fellows.</p> <p>Before leaving Hastings, the Superintendent of the Asylum for the Chronic Insane, three miles out of town, telephoned me to stop and dine with him. On this occasion I rode into the asylum grounds without hesitation or nervousness.</p> <p>"You must earn your grub, according to contract, Professor," said the Superintendent, when the greetings were over, pointing to a wood-pile in the rear of the building. As soon as I fairly began to comply with the suggestion his young lady secretary, the daughter of a deceased and much esteemed congressman, trained a camera on me and the axe and secured a picture.</p> <p>I was then notified I had more than earned my dinner, and was escorted into the family dining-room, where an enjoyable repast was accorded me, after which, some twenty wardens and matrons purchased photos at double price. Then I resumed the journey with more heartfelt blessings than had been expressed to me on similar occasions.</p> <p>The trail was superb. But an intensely hot spell followed, and made all of us perspire. Two days of hard travel brought us to the old Government Reservation of Ft. Kearney, established by Gen. Fremont on his historic overland trip to California in pioneer days.</p> <p>The fort has long since been abandoned. There the Mormons camped for a short period after leaving Council Bluffs.</p> <p>Next evening, I made my camp on the site of the notorious Dirty Woman's Ranch of early days, and spent a Sunday in delightful rest and recreation in the shade of the grove of wide-spreading elms and cotton-woods that sighed mournfully over the deserted scene.</p> <div class="figcenter"> <SPAN name="Trail-He-had-caught-PikesPeak"></SPAN> <SPAN href="images/i232-hd.jpg">larger <ANTIMG src="images/i232.jpg" width-obs="359" height-obs="600" alt="" /></SPAN> <div class="caption">A. "Trail through the timber."</div> <div class="caption">B. "He had caught a nice mess."</div> <div class="caption">C. "Climbing Pike's Peak."</div> </div> <p>We crossed the long, low bridge over the Platte, early in the morning. It required nearly an hour and all our wits and energies to get the donkeys across, even after blindfolding them. And when my party ambled into Kearney, that sultry, dusty June day, grimy with dirt and perspiring, we all were in ripe condition for a swim. The little city looked to be about the size of Hastings, but did not show the same enterprise and thrift. In fact, the inhabitants ventured out in the broiling sun with an excusable lack of animation, and seemer to show no more interest in their local affairs than they did in Pye Pod's pilgrimage. It was here I first saw worn the Japanese straw helmet. It served as a most comfortable and effective sun-shade, and purchasing a couple, we donned them at once.</p> <p>Kearney is said to be the half-way point, by rail, between New York and San Francisco. My diary, however, showed I had covered fully two thousand miles of my overland journey; I had consumed 227 days, with only one hundred and thirty-four days left me, the prospects of accomplishing the "feat" in schedule time looked dubious enough.</p> <p>The great Watson Ranch, when my donkey party arrived, was experiencing its busiest season. But, while the male representatives were in the fields, the good matron in charge of the house made us welcome and treated us to cheering bowls of bread and milk. When Mr. Watson, Jr., arrived, he showed us about the place and enlightened me about alfalfa, of which he had over a thousand acres sown; fifty hired hands were busy harvesting it.</p> <p>For a week or two we had, for the most part, been trailing through the perfumed prairies at an invigorating altitude ranging from two thousand to nearly three thousand feet, inhaling the fresh, pure air, gazing on the flower-carpeted earth, and enjoying a constant shifting of panoramic scenes of browsing herds, and bevies of birds, and occasional glimpses of the winding Platte and the sand dunes beyond.</p> <p>The cities and villages, that formed knots in the thread of our travels on the plains, came into view like the incoming ships from the sea. At first one spied a white church-steeple in the distance like a pointed stake in the earth only a mile away, but soon the chimneys and roofs and finally door-yard fences would come into view, then what we thought a village, nearby, proved to be, as we journeyed onward, a town of much greater size seven or eight miles beyond the point of calculation. The crossbars on the telegraph poles, along the straight and level tracks of the Union Pacific, formed in the eye's dim perspective a needle, as they seemed to meet with the rails on the horizon. Little bunches of trees, scattered miles apart and then overtopped by the spinning wheel of an air motor, indicated the site of a ranch-house where we might procure water. The trail ahead became lost in a sea of flowers and grasses.</p> <p>From time to time, as I dismounted to ease myself and little steed I picked from the stirrups a half dozen kinds of flowers, ensnared as my feet brushed through the grasses. Great beds of blood-red marshmallows; natural parterres of the wax-like blooms of the prickly pear; scattering stems of the flowery thistle with white corollas as large as tulips; and wild roses and daisies of all shades and colors—the white and pink, and the white wild roses being the first I ever saw; these with varicolored flowers of all descriptions were woven into the prairie grasses and likened the far-reaching plain to a great Wilton carpet enrolled from the mesa to the river.</p> <p>Some of the sunsets were gorgeous. At times, the western sky glowed like a prairie fire; and the sunrises were not less magnificent. Sometimes, we were overtaken by severe electric storms, and obliged to pitch the tent in a hurry. When the lightning illuminates the plains at night, the trees and the distant towns are brought into fantastic relief against the darkness, like the shifting pictures of a stereopticon.</p> <p>A flash of lightning to the right reveals a church or school-house, to the left, a bunch of cattle chewing the cud or grazing, ahead of us, a ranch house, and, sometimes, to the rear, a pack of cowardly coyotes, at a safe distance, either following my caravan, or out on a forage hunt.</p> <p>Often, as the trains swept by, the engineers would salute with a deafening blast of whistles, frightening the donkeys and entertaining the passengers. Some of the prairie towns which look large on the map have entirely disappeared. In one case, I found more dead citizens in the cemetery than live ones in the village. Frequently, as a means of diversion, I left the saddle to visit these white-chimney villages of the dead. Such might be considered a grave sort of amusement, but really some of the gravestones contained interesting epitaphs. In one instance the following caught my eye:</p> <div class="poembox"> <div class="stanzaleft"> <div class="verse0">"God saw best from us to sever</div> <div class="verse1"> Darling Michael, whom we love;</div> <div class="verse0">He has gone from us forever,</div> <div class="verse1">To the happy realms above."</div> </div></div> <p>Imagine the shock to my sobered senses on reading these lines cut on a white-washed wooden slab, close by:</p> <div class="poembox"> <div class="stanzaleft"> <div class="verse0">"Here lays Ezekiel Dolder,</div> <div class="verse2">Who died from a jolt in the shoulder;</div> <div class="verse0">He tried to shoot snipe</div> <div class="verse0">While lighting his pipe,</div> <div class="verse2">And now underneath his bones moulder."</div> </div></div> <p>Just below the heartrending epitaph appeared in bold letters the satisfactory statement—"This monument is pade fer."</p> <p>On the lonely plains, miles from habitation, a single grave fenced in with barbed wire in a circular corral, I discovered a mate to the preceding epitaph, which illustrates the utter abandon with which the rugged, dashing "bronco buster" regards the perils of riding a bucking wild horse.</p> <div class="poembox"> <div class="stanzaleft"> <div class="verse0">"Here is buried my bronco, Ah Sam,</div> <div class="verse0">Beside me—I don't give a damn!</div> <div class="verse1">While bucking he killed me;</div> <div class="verse1">On this spot he spilled me,</div> <div class="verse0">And now the devil's I am."</div> </div></div> <p>Sometime before parting with my courier, unknown to him we pitched camp one dark night in a graveyard. Barley was an early riser, and, as we know, as superstitious as he was gullible. He was the first out of the tent at dawn. Suddenly he rushed back, exclaiming: "De Resurrection has came, fellows, an' wese de first livin' on earth agin." And with terror in his eyes and voice, dragged Coonskin and me to see a strange sight indeed. There, some forty feet from the tent, stood a towering crucifix with a figure of the Saviour, life size, looking down upon us, while about us were tablets and mounds: the scene was so still and solemn no wonder that my awestricken courier thought the world had come to an end.</p> <p>On the 24th of June, after a hot and dusty trail across an arid waste, where only occasional patches of buffalo grass and cacti matted the earth in the place of the long prairie grass and flowers we were tramping in a few days before, my weary troop, jaded and hungry entered the little village of Overton.</p> <div style="break-after:column;"></div><br />