A Hundred Years of Rip and Roarin Rough and Ready By Andy Rogers (1952)(Hathitrust) (117 pages)

By the flickering firelight, graves were dug, and little Jonathan's mortal ashes mingled with the other two, to join forever the infinite dust of the illimitable prairie. No tears were shed. Those pioneers were brave. In the course of a life time, I have felt many sorrows of. others, as well as some of my own. I have known none braver. The next morning we journeyed on. Over the first rise of the prairie, waited a familiar statuesque figure, mounted on a stout Pinto stallion. Our wagon was in the lead; I was riding Blaze near the wagon. Ponto it was. He looked anxiously into my face. ‘Where your man?" "He was killed,” I sobbed over wrought nerves, and little Jonathan's death made it easy to weep. "Father," I said, “this is Ponto, who saved most of our lives." Say Ponto, “Me like un go with you." Father assented. He and all of us had no better friend than Ponto through the years. One morning, an unusual sound smote our ears. In the distance we saw a bend of buffaloes thundering across the plain. It was the first sight that any of us had had of these animals. Under the direction of Jim Cross and Ponto, the former of whom besides his infatuation for his homely wife, was an exceptionally good shot, a splendid rider, and ten young men soon returned with four dead buffaloes. The meat was very welcome; most of the party had consumed the meat of the steers, brought with them. Ponto tanned the hides and gave two to me. Ann received the other one. My hides adorned the floor of my bedroom for years. We saw no more buffaloes.They were already becoming scarce, and those that were left, kept timidly out of the way of wagon trains. The meat was the last fresh meat until we reached the Rockies, where Jim Cross and his posse took over and furnished us with mountain goat meat. Some old Billies were tough, but made good soup. The goat skins were distributed among the rest of the women in the party. Spring with all its beauty was in evidence when we reached the Rockies; here we camped for several days as the oxen needed rest. All stock refreshed themselves with lururious green grass. Never having seen mountains higher than the Blue Ridge, the battlemented domes and lofty peaks of the Rockies awed and amazed me. I watched fascinated, the sunrise, and the sunset over the stupendous splendor of thé mountain giants. I had never felt so near heaven before. Father asked me not to wander far. He did not feel it was safe. We finally compromised if I would take Ponto, the boys were too young and inexperienced to be guides. ‘We decided to let the horses rest and regale themselves with the good grass, preparatory for the rest of the journey. We had many hours of delightful exploration on foot over the steep mountain trails. One day I was a few steps in advance of Ponto, when a hugh object blocked my way. I ran to Ponto, who said, "No be fraid bear, him fraid you too." The great creature turned clumsily and left the trail, dashing and stumbling down the mountain side. We journeyed the next day. I have often thought of our encounter with the Grizzly; he could have hugged us to death, had he known his strength. Google 61 We had all come to depend much on Ponto. I felt ae ycouta be trusted to any extent, though always quite devoted and helpful, he did not again express any particular liking for me. 4 The desert country came next very trying and hot during the day, but fascinating at night.: There was a moon and the effect on the sage brush and low desert shrubs was beautifuls the desert odor was pungently sweet. The air had a caressing warmth at night that was almost intoxicating. We reached the Sierra's in the early fall. Approaching the end of the trek, everyone was tired. There had been no rain. We rested! again almost a week. Here Ponto presented me with a pair of beautiful soft skinned moccasins, which were directly responsible for an untoward accident which befelled me a rattle snake bite. Ponto, never far away, tied a ligature above the wound, sucked the poison out, applied herds, and there was scarcely any soreness from the bite. I, however, abandoned the moccasins until we arrived at our destination, and donned again my stout high boots, which no rattlesnake's fangs could pierce. While lacking the wild, rugged grandeur of the Rockies, the Sierra Nevada Mountains appeal to me as more intimate and homey. Possibly because for the most of my life I lived as it were, in the shadow of that range, the foothills, mentally I have tried to des. cribe the Sierra. Always my description fell short. Many years after, I found this description by John Muir; It more nearly expresses my feeling. It seems to me the Sierra's should be called not the Nevada or Snowy Range, but the Range of Light. After ten years spent in the heart of it, rejoicing and wondering, bathing in its glorious floods of Light, seeing the sunbursts of morning among the icy peaks, the noon day's radiance on the trees, rock and snow, the flush of the alpen glow, and the thousand dashing waterfalls with their marvelous abundance of rised spray..it still seems to me, above all others, in Range of Light, the most divinely beautiful of all the mountain chains I have ever seen. Crossing the Sierra Divide, without great aifficulty, we saw the great California plain. Here was our first sight of the dry grass of California. The South and Middle West were always green; we crossed the prairies and the Rockies during the witohery of Spring. Continually amazed at the lack of venture, we arrived in Sacramento. Sach pioneer went to his prospective destination. Father remained until spring, he and Ponto making excursions in search of a home. The money from his Virginia plantation arrived, a goodly sum. The boys and I were happy, riding the horses, exploring the country for miles around. With the spring blossomed on the south to us had never done. Possibly it was a contrast with the dry grass of summer and the dormant earth of winter, which made the blooming more surprising. Amid bird music and flower perfume, we exultantly journeyed to the foothills of the Sierra Nevada, where was a small Valley, most appropriately named Pleasant Valley. Father had learned that situated in this valley, was the Wilson House with its six hundred adjoining acres, which was for sale. Fonto approved and the rest of us were pleased, and for us here was the home we craved. Father, mother and Mr. Wilson went to Sacramento, to make final arrangements of the

By the flickering firelight, graves were dug, and little Jonathan's mortal ashes mingled with the other two, to join forever the infinite dust of the illimitable prairie. No tears were shed. Those pioneers were brave. In the course of a life time, I have felt many sorrows of. others, as well as some of my own. I have known none braver. The next morning we journeyed on. Over the first rise of the prairie, waited a familiar statuesque figure, mounted on a stout Pinto stallion. Our wagon was in the lead; I was riding Blaze near the wagon. Ponto it was. He looked anxiously into my face. ‘Where your man?" "He was killed,” I sobbed over wrought nerves, and little Jonathan's death made it easy to weep. "Father," I said, “this is Ponto, who saved most of our lives." Say Ponto, “Me like un go with you." Father assented. He and all of us had no better friend than Ponto through the years. One morning, an unusual sound smote our ears. In the distance we saw a bend of buffaloes thundering across the plain. It was the first sight that any of us had had of these animals. Under the direction of Jim Cross and Ponto, the former of whom besides his infatuation for his homely wife, was an exceptionally good shot, a splendid rider, and ten young men soon returned with four dead buffaloes. The meat was very welcome; most of the party had consumed the meat of the steers, brought with them. Ponto tanned the hides and gave two to me. Ann received the other one. My hides adorned the floor of my bedroom for years. We saw no more buffaloes.They were already becoming scarce, and those that were left, kept timidly out of the way of wagon trains. The meat was the last fresh meat until we reached the Rockies, where Jim Cross and his posse took over and furnished us with mountain goat meat. Some old Billies were tough, but made good soup. The goat skins were distributed among the rest of the women in the party. Spring with all its beauty was in evidence when we reached the Rockies; here we camped for several days as the oxen needed rest. All stock refreshed themselves with lururious green grass. Never having seen mountains higher than the Blue Ridge, the battlemented domes and lofty peaks of the Rockies awed and amazed me. I watched fascinated, the sunrise, and the sunset over the stupendous splendor of thé mountain giants. I had never felt so near heaven before. Father asked me not to wander far. He did not feel it was safe. We finally compromised if I would take Ponto, the boys were too young and inexperienced to be guides. ‘We decided to let the horses rest and regale themselves with the good grass, preparatory for the rest of the journey. We had many hours of delightful exploration on foot over the steep mountain trails. One day I was a few steps in advance of Ponto, when a hugh object blocked my way. I ran to Ponto, who said, "No be fraid bear, him fraid you too." The great creature turned clumsily and left the trail, dashing and stumbling down the mountain side. We journeyed the next day. I have often thought of our encounter with the Grizzly; he could have hugged us to death, had he known his strength. Google

61 We had all come to depend much on Ponto. I felt ae ycouta be trusted to any extent, though always quite devoted and helpful, he did not again express any particular liking for me. 4 The desert country came next very trying and hot during the day, but fascinating at night..: There was a moon and the effect on the sage brush and low desert shrubs was beautifuls the desert odor was pungently sweet. The air had a caressing warmth at night that was almost intoxicating. We reached the Sierra's in the early fall. Approaching the end of the trek, everyone was tired. There had been no rain. We rested! again almost a week. Here Ponto presented me with a pair of beautiful soft skinned moccasins, which were directly responsible for an untoward accident which befelled me a rattle snake bite. Ponto, never far away, tied a ligature above the wound, sucked the poison out, applied herds, and there was scarcely any soreness from the bite. I, however, abandoned the moccasins until we arrived at our destination, and donned again my stout high boots, which no rattlesnake's fangs could pierce. While lacking the wild, rugged grandeur of the Rockies, the Sierra Nevada Mountains appeal to me as more intimate and homey. Possibly because for the most of my life I lived as it were, in the shadow of that range, the foothills, mentally I have tried to des. cribe the Sierra. Always my description fell short. Many years after, I found this description by John Muir; It more nearly expresses my feeling. It seems to me the Sierra's should be called not the Nevada or Snowy Range, but the Range of Light. After ten years spent in the heart of it, rejoicing and wondering, bathing in its glorious floods of Light, seeing the sunbursts of morning among the icy peaks, the noon day's radiance on the trees, rock and snow, the flush of the alpen glow, and the thousand dashing waterfalls with their marvelous abundance of rised spray...it still seems to me, above all others, in Range of Light, the most divinely beautiful of all the mountain chains I have ever seen. Crossing the Sierra Divide, without great aifficulty, we saw the great California plain. Here was our first sight of the dry grass of California. The South and Middle West were always green; we crossed the prairies and the Rockies during the witohery of Spring. Continually amazed at the lack of venture, we arrived in Sacramento. Sach pioneer went to his prospective destination. Father remained until spring, he and Ponto making excursions in search of a home. The money from his Virginia plantation arrived, a goodly sum. The boys and I were happy, riding the horses, exploring the country for miles around. With the spring blossomed on the south to us had never done. Possibly it was a contrast with the dry grass of summer and the dormant earth of winter, which made the blooming more surprising. Amid bird music and flower perfume, we exultantly journeyed to the foothills of the Sierra Nevada, where was a small Valley, most appropriately named Pleasant Valley. Father had learned that situated in this valley, was the Wilson House with its six hundred adjoining acres, which was for sale. Fonto approved and the rest of us were pleased, and for us here was the home we craved. Father, mother and Mr. Wilson went to Sacramento, to make final arrangements of the