Mules and Pests

The recent intrusion of a small mouse in the pantry, and the resulting confusion reminded me of some experiences we had in our early Western service, with rodents and other wild and lively pests.

The Army Dougherty wagons were our only means of transportation in that vast expanse of country, outside of the transcontinental railroads that ran in as direct lines as possible, East and West. as I have mentioned in a previous paper, such travel was far from being uncomfortable, though it was tedious, and comparatively slow. Starting on a journey, one was liable to have any kind of experiences, not the least exciting possibility being that of meeting unfriendly Indians. Weather also was a variable factor in our calculations, as was more than forcefully proved.

My husband and I were the only occupants of an Army wagon at one time, when, near the close of day, we reached a ford. Our driver halted a moment at the sight of the stream. Recent rains had so swollen it that even at the ford it threatened to submerge the wagon. Streams stand on no more ceremony that does, proverbially, the tide, and this stream was rising visibly as we watched it. Realizing the ford must be made, and that quickly, the driver urged the team ahead. The team was composed of mules, in whom the sight of deep water accentuated their most characteristic trait: they moved not an eyelash, so to speak. The driver, an experienced hand with mules, and with this team in particular, used the lash and a voluble stream of “giddies.” Neither phased the mules as they stood serenely contemplating the rising stream. Anxious and provoked, the driver used every method of persuasion and force with which I was familiar, but without effect. Then, with a “do or die” expression on his flushed face, he turned to us. His tone was apologetic, yet determined, as he said:

“Will the young Madame please put her fingers in her ears?”

Alarmed for our safety, my husband leaned forward, fearing to hear that our plight was serious. But the mule-driver explained:

“Lieutenant, I just can’t do anything with these mules with whip or coaxing. I’ve got to talk to them the only way they understand. So if the young Madame will just hold her ears shut while I’m using mule talk, we’ll get across all right.”

Though somewhat mystified, at my husband’s request I complied. I am inclined to think that Mr. H. did not, for he has since told me that it would have been impossible for even a mule to misunderstand the driver. They evidently did not, for we crossed to safety before the recent rainfall near the source of the stream made it impossible.

On another trip the elements more roughly disputed our right to progress. We were traveling “express” -- that is, with relays -- and ran into a storm of wind and hail. The hailstones were as large as hen’s eggs, and so fiercely did they pelt us that we feared serious injury to the mules.
To my mind, for all the hardships patiently borne, the rough work constantly performed, and the effectual filling of a place as nothing else in animal form could fill, the old Army mules deserve an epitaph to perpetuate their memory after death. Whether pelted by a hail of earthly or heavenly artillery, they performed their tasks with the same hardihood and dogged stubbornness.

One stop we made, on an ambulance trip, I shall never forget. We put up for the night at an isolated ranch belonging to a half-breed Indian. As I, the only lady in the party, entered the ranch house, a white man in the rancher’s employ came forward. At sight of me he raised his hands and gazed with a kind of awe. Tears ran down his cheeks as he exclaimed with a beautiful, though awkward, reverence, that he had not seen a a white woman for seventeen years!

He looked about him deprecatingly, shook his head and spread out his hands. “This is no place to entertain a lady,” was the burden of his complaint as he hurried about on little errands conducive to my comfort. There was nothing good enough to cook for me, he declared, as the evening meal was being prepared.

The sleeping apartment assigned to us was a rude- barn-like room, with log rafters and beams, like a canopy, over our heads. After supper I saw the white man cut open several empty flour sacks, sew them into one big sheet, then attach the corners to the rafters of our sleeping-room. This odd addition to the bedroom furnishings, unsightly as it was, I soon learned was for a very practical purpose. The man explained that there were many rats, and some snakes, abiding in the roof among the rafters. Although they were harmless, he thought they might annoy me if some of them dropped down in the night. He had fixed this large “canopy” of flour sacks to cover the space just over our bed, in order to lessen the chance of any unceremonious descents upon me as I slept. He told me this to warn me not to be frightened if either carolers or scampers should approach me too closely. I had the assurance that they would not harm me, and that with the additional protection of his hasty device I might rest peacefully.

It may easily be conjectured that I never closed my eyes that night; but the imagination would be taxed to understand what I suffered! All night long the flour sacks were rustled and scratched by the pattering of rats. I listened in chilly horror of what might have been, or what might yet be, should the flour sacks, or the stitches that held them together, give way. One quartet of clawed paws after another crossed the “canopy.” As I lay still, coldly fascinated by the sounds, my nerves bade fair to snap when I thought I detected the stealthy progress of a snake just over my head. Would its weight prove too much for the cloth? or, crossing safely, would the reptile continue its stroll down the wall and over the bed? I was in a fever of fear in the impenetrable darkness. After that I became more accustomed to snakes, with which the country seemed infested. I saw at one time bunches of several hundreds of snakes, and later killed more than one singly; but never have I had the horror of reptiles than I felt in that sleep-infested darkness, in the unseen presence of rodents. I came in no closer contact with the pests, but their noises were sufficiently impressed upon my memory as yet to be very vivid.

The huge bunches of snakes that I have just mentioned were coiled and interwoven like a hopelessly tangled skein. It is their custom so to bunch themselves in hollows or protected places, to hibernate for the winter. I may safely say that there were no less than a thousand full-grown snakes in any one pile, coiled as they were, like piles of rope. It was a peculiarly hideous sight. If Medusa’s head boasted a heavy crop of “locks,” it is no wonder that a glimpse of her meant death -- perhaps from fear.

There were smaller, and what proved to be more annoying pests than rats and snakes, out West. At Camp Poplar River we suffered intensely from fleas. Our new post had been on the site of an old Indian camp, and we were nearly eaten alive by sand fleas. Four or five times a day I have undressed myself when fleas were torturing me. It was my custom to spread a white blanket to stand on as I removed my clothing. I was thus enabled to see the annoyances -- tiny only in size -- against the white blanket, and on it their legs tangled, and made them east prey. The process was slow, as I shook each garment before laying it aside. Sometimes, when the insect finally came to light, it escaped, with an agility unequaled, by jumping clear of the blanket.

At one time I was put to bed with fever induced by these miserable insects. They had so tormented me that I scarcely knew what I was doing; my temperature rose, and I collapsed. The physician pronounced my malady “flea fever.”

At another time we were taking a wayside meal in a stage ranch, when we heard a gnawing, crunching sound behind an open door. The ranchkeeper, with superb nonchalance, observed that it was “nothing but a polecate eating a bone,” and added that “they often come right int he house, and we don’t mind them, for the never bother us if we don’t bother them.” It is needless to say that my appetite was not stimulated.

At Fort Yates, Dakota, we had much to endure when the sand storms rages. At times the wind blew for days, carrying with it fine sand, that sifted into every crack and cranny, buried itself in our clothing, stung every inch of skin exposed, and became so all-pervading that we ground it in our teeth with our food, coughed it when we talked, and felt its grittiness in our sleep.

The severe sand storms were infrequent, but there was a sand always present with us, and that not always apparent. I refer to the hidden quicksand. Many times while driving or riding, my companions or I have seen the ground suddenly give, and felt our horse pulled from below as by magic. Only prompt action saved us at such a time. The horses became so wary and quick to feel the danger, that a sudden lunge or spring put us out of danger almost before we were aware of its proximity.

One day, while driving with my husband, our little horse stepped into quicksand. She was in so far when she began to struggle that her efforts to extricate herself only forced her deeper into the treacherous ground. perceiving the danger, my husband seized the whip and reins. With commanding voice, touches of the whip, and strong pulling on the reins, he sought to back her out of danger. The day was hot, and to add to her fear and torture, swarms of flies settled upon her. Of course it was decidedly unsafe, and useless for Mr. H. to get out and try to guide the horse’s head, as it was her fore feet that were being sucked in and he would have perished in the quicksand. After a quick and intense struggle the horse was saved, but when it was over her entire hide was a mass of blood splotches where the flies had bitten her. Between quicksand and flies, it was some time before the little animal was herself again.

One very hot summer another insect worked sad havoc in our garrison. For a spell the heat had been intense, and when the soldiers got paid at the end of the month some of them ignorantly sought relief in drink. During the consequent carousal two of the intoxicated men declared they were tired of the service and intended to “quit it.” None heeded the drunkenly expressed bravado, and at taps their absence caused surprise. The post was isolated, so there was no place else to go for companionship, and the conclusion was that the two men had actually deserted.

Very early the next morning, before search could be instituted, one of the missing men came staggering into the post. He seemed to have to his wits during the night, but was suffering terribly from the bites of mosquitoes, which swarmed in the bunch-grass and greasewood. He declared that he had returned to give himself up, and that some one must go with him to bring in the other man, It seemed that his companion had been too overcome with liquor to make his way back when the mosquitoes became too great a torture to endure.

His comrade led a small party of soldiers to the place where he had left the man. There they found him, lying in the sage brush, where the liquor had overcome him. But the mosquitoes had gotten in their deadly work, and had literally sucked the life from his body, which lay bloated and practically bloodless -- a bitter temperance lesson to the garrison men.

This chronicle of pests seems like a modern description of the plagues visited upon Egypt, yet my own good memory, and that of many who passed through the same experiences, attest their authenticity; and with it all, though I must needs endure them again, I should not hesitate choosing to relive that free, helpful, healthy, happy life of the Western frontier Army garrisons, which recall so many pleasures and friendships, and whose trying experiences so developed the very best qualities of human nature.