Transcript

In April, 1862, I left Manti for the Missouri River. There were three other boys besides myself to herd at night the teams going back for Mormon immigrants. We traveled two thousand miles, twenty to twenty-five miles a day and I only missed one or two nights during this time of being at my post; often wet to the skin while holding the reins of my horse ready if the flashes of lightening showed the cattle straying and needing to be brought back to the herd. The thunder and lightening storms at this particular time were the worst I have ever experienced. The oxen fed all night and in the morning were ready for the yoke again. We herders slept in the wagon bed as we journeyed along.

Our Captain, John Murdock, was a good, kind man who had traveled over the road so many times that he knew how to manage everything to the advantage of all. There were two wagon tracks covering this route so that there was room for one wagon train going and one wagon train coming. We were continually passing great train loads of costly merchandise. Costly because of the distance of miles through untold dangers that the drivers of these wagon trains had to travel; for bands of savage Indians constantly crossed our paths. We tried to meet them in a friendly way and were not afraid of them because we were strong in numbers.

One day we were passing a Ute Indian village and our captain suggested that if we wanted buffalo robes that now was a good time to get them.

Each one of us men put two sacks of flour on the wagon, then chose our captain to go and bargain for us. For every sack of flour he got two beautiful robes and they made him a present of an overcoat made of two buffalo robes with a cap similar to those worn by the Eskimo, a useful and beautiful thing.

I surely enjoyed my robes especially when winter came and with our girls we went sleighing. No winter winds could pass through them.

Getting back to my story, we were now nearing Missouri. We had heard that we might expect a little layoff and a chance to see some of the sights. At Florence we met an old friend, James Wareham, returning from a mission and had been put in charge of the incoming immigrants. We shook hands with him and he said, "Haslam, you have a brother here." He then introduced me to John Peacock whom I had never seen before, unless, perhaps I was too young to remember. John was fleeing with his family from the Civil War. I went back with him to the Elk Horn River where I spent the night with them. He was coming West, I was going East[.] I caught up with him in Utah….