The Slower Road

… “Just then the gentleman came in and the wife said, ‘Frank, come here; here is the milk that this man traveller has brought to me in return for the kindness he has received from us.’ ‘Stranger,’ he answered, ‘it is about time for the express train from the East, it will be here in about ten minutes. Take this pail of milk to the depot and when the train arrives, go and sell your milk. Wife, have you a tin dish that will hold a little more than a pint?’ She got such a dish.

“Taking the cup from his wife he continued, saying, ‘This cup full is worth ten cents, even change every time, the value of a dime. It is now ten minutes after eight o’clock, I will go with you and we will see the depot master, he may have objections, if so, you can sell it on the highway, don’t stand on the platform and call out milk.’ We went to the depot and saw the depot master, my friend saying: ‘Mr. Chamberlain, this man is from Eureka, Humboldt county, on his way East, to Massachusetts, he stopped here to get his cow shod. In doing this the shoes are put on so tight she can’t travel, and so this man is obliged to stop here a short time. The cow is a fine one, and here is her milk. I told him to bring it here to sell. Will you allow him to do so on the trains?’ ‘How long do you intend to stop here?’ asked the depot master. ‘But a short time, I hope to be able to travel in three or four days at the longest,’ I answered. ‘It is strictly against our rules to allow peddling in or around the depots, but situated as you are, I will allow you to sell any where around the depot.’

“When the train arrived I went aboard the cars and sang out, ‘I have better milk than any of you have had since leaving Omaha, don’t take my word for it, but try it.’ One man said, ‘Bring some here, pour it into this cup.’ I filled it, he tasted, saw it was good and had it refilled.

“Then the man said, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, it is the best milk I have tasted since leaving Massachuesetts.’ ‘Are you from there?’ ‘I am.’ ‘So am I and now on my way back; I belong in Webster when at home. This milk I have got from a cow that I have led from California to this place, more than seven hundred miles and which I intend to take to Massachusetts. I may fail, but I intend to try.’ ‘Stranger, we hope you will succeed,’ was answered.

“I entered the cars with two gallons of milk and came out with one dollar and thirty-five cents in return. I went back to my camp and commenced to bathe the cow’s feet. About half-past ten, I went to bed and slept till about midnight, when I awoke and gave her another wetting and more grass. I went back to bed but could not sleep, so soon got up again; I examined the cow’s feet and found them very hot and feverish, so I bathed them most of the remainder of the night.” …

continued from yesterday …

“Turning to the crowd I said: ‘Gentlemen, you see the condition in which I am placed; being obliged to stop a few days. Where can I get grass for my cattle? I prefer grass to hay as they have been fed mostly on grass during my journey.’ ‘Stranger, I have grass and a grass cutter, and you may have all your cattle can eat as long as you stay and I won’t charge you a dime.’ ‘Friend, where is your grass?’ ‘One house this side of where you stopped this morning; I will show you.’

“I led the cow by the halter, but it was no use, she could scarce walk, and she laid down; I got a pail of cold water and poured it upon her hooves continuously for several hours. About six o’clock, I took my horse and carriage and went to the man’s lot for grass, but had not been there very long before the cow came into the yard. ‘Well, Bessie, you have done finely. Did you think that we had left you? No, we only came for grass for you, and you shall have some,’ I said to the cow. I gave her the grass, which she ate greedily as she lay down. I continued to pour cold water on her feet, rubbing her ankles and legs occasionally.

“The whole town knew where I was and in what condition; many came to see me and learn my intentions. Ten thousand questions were asked and answered.

“The time had arrived for milking, her bag was hard-full, I got a pail and went to the cow, and said ‘Bessie, you must be milked, then you will feel more comfortable. Get up and let me milk you.’ She got up and I milked her, filling the pail. ‘Good Bessie, you have done well; lie down and I will bathe your feet.’ She lay down and I bathed her feet. All I said to her she understood; she could not talk but made motions that I understood.

“I carried the milk into the house and offered it to the lady; she was reluctant to take it, saying that she did not know what to do with so much milk.” …

As we follow Mr. Johnson’s current tale (the shoeing of his cow, during a stopover in Reno), I want to clarify that Bessie’s iron shoes wouldn’t have been the same as those used on horses.

I found a blog devoted to American milking Devons, which has this explanation on its “about oxen” page:

Cattle’s hooves can be fitted with iron shoes to protect their feet and provide traction. “Oxen if used upon snowy or icy roads, must be well shod, and kept sharp” (The American Agriculturist, Volume 29, 1870). Because cattle have cloven hooves, a shoe is required for each claw and a total of eight shoes are needed per animal. Ox shoes were a critical item on the trails of the westward migration.

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Now that we’ve cleared that up, let’s get back to Mr. Johnson’s story:

… “About this time, the whole town had assembled to witness the shoeing; many questions were asked and answered at leisure. The blacksmith had commenced nailing on the shoes. He would strike on the nail, driving it in about one-third of its length, or until bending, then drawing it out and taking another, drive that in further, and so on, until the whole were driven and the shoes securely put on; the harness of the hoof causing many of the nails to bend. Her feet having been seared three times, made them hard and flinty. While all this was being done, Bessie behaved herself bravely. Two nails were driven that made her flinch; these nails were marked, so that should they trouble the cow they could be removed. On taking her from the brake she could scarcely travel; we got her back into the brake and had those two nails drawn and replaced, which made quite a difference.

“The blacksmith said that the soreness would wear away. He charged me not to take the shoes off, but keep them on and remain here for a few days until she could travel again. Should I take them off I should be in a very bad fix. Without shoes, I could not get her along, and now they are on good, wait until she can travel. It may be three days, perhaps five or more, but be contented. I am sure [said the blacksmith,] you will by the gainer by so doing.” …

Continuing from yesterday …

“It is two a.m., as I leave this house and travel on until sunrise when I came in sight of Reno. At six o’clock I came to a good grass patch where I stopped for my companions to get a nibble. At seven, I journeyed on and entered the town of Reno at half-past eight o’clock, passing through and halting about eighty rods west of the town. Having secured my cattle, I went in search of a blacksmith to shoe my cow.

“I inquired of several but did not find the right one, but was told that such a man could shoe her; I went there and inquired for the proprietor, of whom I asked, ‘Can you shoe a cow for me? I am traveling east with a horse and carriage, leading a cow. I have traveled about seven hundred miles and have not been able to get her iron shoes; I have had her feet seared three times, which have worn very small.’ ‘I have never shod a cow, but have shod a great many oxen and think I can shoe her.’ ‘How much will you ask me to put iron shoes on her?’ ‘My price for oxen is four dollars; if you and I can do it, I will charge you but two dollars.’ ‘When will you shoe her?’ ‘After dinner. Where is she?’ ‘But a short distance from here.’ ‘Lead her down after dinner and I will see what we can do,’ said the blacksmith.

“About one o’clock, I drove down to the shop with my horse, carriage, and cow. I had not said a word to any one but the blacksmith, but on my arrival there were scores of people to see the cow shod. Many were the questions leveled at me, which I patiently answered with as little show as possible. ‘Stranger,’ said the blacksmith, ‘lead your cow around into the brake, we will see what can be done.’

“I untied the cow from the carriage and led her around the shop to the brake. The horse was very much troubled at seeing her led away, but on coming in sight of the horse she was all right again. I am in the habit of talking to my cattle and think they understand much more than we give them credit for. ‘Come, Bessie,’ I said, ‘get into that brake, it will not harm you.’ I went into the brake ahead of her and she followed me without any further trouble.

“A strap was put under her belly and she was raised from her feet; this was more than she would stand, so I asked the blacksmith to let her down again, which he did. I then went to my carriage and got some rope. Putting a rope around each hind leg, and bringing her feet back under her rear parts, I took up her forward foot, telling the blacksmith to make it fast, which he did. She tried to get loose but could not. In the meantime, I had taken the horse out of the carriage and fastened her beside the cow, telling the blacksmith to make a good job. He answered that he would do his best.”

to be continued …

When we last heard from Mr. Johnson, he had fallen in with some shepherds who were guarding a huge flock of sheep from wolves, on the road to Reno.

That same night …

“It was about midnight when I left my camp; I concluded it would be safer to move on than stay there with all those wolves around me. I filled my lantern with oil and moved on; after traveling about a half mile I found that I had a big hill to descend, it was very dark and could scarce see my way. I roped my wheels and descended the hill with bated breath, not knowing what might happen; I could see on my left a deep canyon, the road was apparently wide and good. Having made the descent safely I breathed more freely; on going some further distance I came to a house, which I approached and knocking at the door a voice answered, ‘Who is there?’ ‘Get up, friend, I would like to ask a few questions.’ ‘Go on, I can hear you without coming there,’ was answered. ‘I won’t harm you, I am traveling and from Eureka, three hundred miles from San Francisco.’ ‘You from Eureka?’ ‘I am, sir.’ ‘You talk as I used to do at home; I left Maine for Eureka in 1868. I am a Yankee, as evidently you are by your talk?’

“[I replied,] ‘You are right; I am. I came by way of Grass Valley, on the Henness trail, by Webber’s Lake. When I reached the turnpike I was in the rear of a herd of sheep and could not pass them and was obliged to travel in their rear until we came to the old saw mill on the hill where they turn into the canyon, while I camped opposite the mill. There seems to be any quantity of wild animals in that canyon; the herdsmen kept firing away all the first part of the night. I went to bed but dared not sleep, and became so much excited that I broke camp and came on here, running my chances of safely reaching Reno early in the day. How is the road thereto, is it safe to travel at night and is there much timber on the road?’ ‘From here to Reno is twelve miles and the road is both good and safe either night or day; there is no timber on the way.’ ‘How far am I from the railroad?’ ‘Not more than a half mile. This is Verdi, you will not pass the depot, as it is to your right a few rods. Stranger, you have been passing through the most dangerous part of California; no part being so dangerous as the last hundred miles you have come so far unharmed, and so far you are a very lucky man, I hope you will succeed as well on your longer journey, good morning.'” …