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Buchanan Co. Mo. May 3rd 1850 

Dearest Mother

As the time of my writing and the circumstances that surround me are a little novel to me and perhaps somewhat romantic, I will try to give you a faint idea of them. The scene is laid in the about mentioned county about 12 miles S.E. from St Joseph. Coming from the north through a section of county unrivalled in point of fertility and native beauty by any land on the earth, glides the clear, crystal waters of the beautiful stream, La Platte. Its banks are clothed with a dense forest of those trees which are found only in the most generous soils and its sparkling tide noiselessly sweeping over a bed of limestone, fully entitles it to the name of the loveliest river in the state. Through this forest on the western side of the river, steals a rippling streamlet, crossing the road to St Joseph about a quarter of a mile from the ford of the Platte. When, within a few paces of the road, beneath the shelter of the leafless limbs of two or three large linn trees is our encampment. Two wagons from Monroe are with us, increasing our force to eleven men, besides a couple of visitors, from a camp six or eight miles distant. We have been here three days waiting for the grass to make its appearance before starting out upon the plains. I am sitting on a California chair with my paper on my knee, while another at my side supports in very peaceable companionship with a huge dragoon's pistol, my lantern and its wasting inch of spermaceti. Before me the huge trunk of a fallen tree constitutes the 




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back log of a glowing fire, and disseminates a genial warmth which the cold night brings from the North renders very necessary to comfort. All day it has been cloudy and unpleasant but now the sky is clear and the bright stars glitter and sparkle through the purified atmosphere as though no cloud was ever interposed between them and the inhabitants of earth. The moon's silver crescent is faintly glimmering through the thicket just above the horizon, casting here and there a ray of light among the trees, and relieving the dark forest of its gloom which over hangs it like a funeral pace. Silence reigns supreme; -no disturber of the peace of her realm being heard, just when the solemn owl sends forth his occasional call, in unison with the mournful sighing of the night wind among the swaying tree-tops. My comrades are wrapped in sleep, and I alone am conscious of what is passing around us. It is the "fifth watch", between one and two o'clock, and it fell to my lot to be sentinel for this hour to night. We have been keeping guard over our horses at night for nearly a week and expect to do so regularly hereafter, till we reach California. We take this precaution to secure ourselves against the depredations of the swarm of horse thieves and other characters equally reputable who are at this moment infesting this whole country. We have heard of a number of horses that have been carried off almost beneath the eyes of the emigrants, and as such a misfortune would place us completely hors du combat, we are determined to guard against it by every means in our power. Each night after supper, we choose eight of our number by lot to stand each one hour from 9 till 5, and then consign ourselves to rest without any sleeping anxiety with regard to our animals.



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At first it was a little unpleasant to be aroused from a sweet, refreshing slumber at midnight, to shoulder a musket and parade around among the horses for an hour at a time but like a great many trivial inconveniences on a California trip, habit soon rendered it "A mere matter of moonshine".

I have been absent from my seat for the last five minutes and will tell you why - mules are singularly sagacious in detecting the approach of an enemy or any unusual object even in the darkest night, and as I finished the above paragraph I heard one of them belonging to the company, which was tethered about 25 rods from my seat, breathe a startling snort. I stopped my pen and listened. Another snort and a trampling among the horses was all I heard. Laying aside my paper, I arose and by no means forgetting my homely friend, the dragoon's pistols which was heavily loaded with rifle balls, I stepped quickly yet cautiously in the direction of the startled mule. The moon did not enable me to see more than a rod in advance, and I could not ascertain whether the animal was safe or not. As I approached nearer to him however, a singular cowbell commenced tinkling in quite a peculiar manner, and the thought instantly struck me that it might be a stratagem devised by some scamp to approach our animals without suspicion. I advanced more rapidly and the bell moved slowly off with the sound of retreating footsteps. It turned down an obscure path to the left and I hastily followed, constantly endeavoring to penetrate the darkness with my eyes and catch a glimpse of the thieving scoundrel. At length the bell suddenly stopped. I did the same and listened for footsteps. Hearing nothing I groped warily around, till a dark, indistinct object near a 



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large tree a few rods in front attracted my attention. Quick as thought I leveled my pistol and pulled the trigger. The cap burst with a loud explosion, and an old bell-wether frightened nearly out of his wits by the noise, jumped up out of the thicket, and fled over the hill as fast as a lame leg would allow him, rattling his cracked cow-bell in a manner that probably amazed all the listening inmates of the forest. So much for my first adventure with a horse thief. My hour has long since passed and I will call my successor and for the present retire from view. We expect tomorrow to move our camp some 8 or 10 miles up the road towards St Joe - being informed that on one of the branches of the Platte there is a large bottom prairie where the grass is sufficiently high to furnish very good grazing for our horses. So for the present, dear Mother, good night.

Tuesday morning May 7th

We are now encamped on the bank of "One hundred and two", a pretty little stream that pours its limpid waters into the Platte several miles below us. The origin of the name of the stream I have not been able to ascertain accurately but believe that it was given by the early settlers here because it is 102 miles distant from the fort at Council Bluffs. In a bend of the creek above us, about a third of a mile distant are seven waggons, from Monroe, with which are many of our acquaintances so that we are by no means, so lonely as you might imagine. They visit us frequently, and last evening we were invited to take tea with them at four o'clock. We went up accordingly and found a beautiful supper prepared in a manner that would do honor to many a table in the 



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heart of civilization. Whatever delicacies were not found on the board were forgotten in the keen relish which an emigrant's life always affords for even the plainest diet.

Our chat after supper however was cut short by the appearance of our six ponies who came flying around the point of timber that separates our camps, dashing directly towards us. We sprang to our feet in the expectation of seeing them stomp past us into the depths of the woods, perhaps to be lost for days. But they stopped at the sound of our voices, and permitted us to approach and secure them. It appears that while we were absent at tea, our cook whom we left to keep camp, undertook to bring them all at once up to our waggons where we give them corn twice a day. He pulled up the picket pins, iron stakes 18 inches long to which their halters are tied - and taking the ropes in his hand commenced leading them in. A little Spanish pony who generally follows without leading, he left loose, but becoming frightened at something or wishing to try his legs he started on a gallop and came racing among the rest of his companions at the top of his speed. They too, became filled with the spirit of freedom and with one bound broke loose from the astonished African, and were once more restored to their native liberty among the prairies and forests. He might then, as well have waved a straw in the path of the whirlwind to arrest its progress, as to have sought by words to check the careen of our ponies. You may be assured that we considered ourselves fortunate as we led them back to camp and fastened them for the night. 



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I would give you a description of the most beautiful basin, on the edge of which we are now lying, if I thought it would instruct you: but I have spent so much time in saying nothing that I imagine you are getting tired of it. You probably wish to hear about "St Joe" and the prospects for a pleasant and successful trip across the plains this season.

A week ago to day we came within 12 miles of St J. and wishing to learn for myself the actual state of things there, I mounted my horse and rode into town. The country through which I passed was beautiful and very rich but little improved. The town itself I must confess far exceeded my expectations. You see the environs at a distance, but you do not see the town and can tell nothing about its location till you arrive at the summit of a hill approaching from the S.E. and see it all at a glance lying at your feet in a lovely valley below. On the south are high, rough irregular lines of sandy hills whose rugged points terminate in the edge of town. On one of these far above the town stands a fine court house with its dome brightly gleaming in the sun. On another directly west of the court house, and about a half a mile distant, is a rude cross erected on the far, barren crest of the hill, marking the grave of the Indian wife of the first settler of the place, - Roubidoux. He is a Frenchman, now about 75 or 80 yrs of age, and came there nearly 40 years ago to trade with the Indians. He was very successful and is now quite wealthy. He does not appear to have much respect



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for the memory of his departed wife, for nothing marks her grave save the big rude cross that I have mentioned and the spot is every hour desecrated by the careless feet of hundreds of stupid	 
[?] who like myself climb up to the spot to examine it and obtain a view of the surrounding country.

But I cannot start to describe St J. in full. There is much around it and connected with it, that is to me entirely interesting and which had I time I might make somewhat so to you. Perhaps you will hear more about it before I leave.

When we shall leave is now very uncertain. With you as with us the season is probably very backward. Grass grows very slowly and will not probably be found in the plains for 6 or 8 days yet. The weather for a number of days had been cool and a little unpleasant: but yesterday after an extremely cold night the sun rose warm and bright. We hailed it with joy as the sun [forewarns?] of our speedy departure.

At nightfall the heavens were mantled in heavy clouds with the wind blowing through from the North. Mine was the "sixth watch" between 2 and 3 A.M. and when at eleven I awoke and heard it raining violently I anticipated no pleasant time. But I slept on uninterruptedly, and found this morning when I arose at 8 that about three inches of snow which had fallen by no means has increased the delights of my situation. The guard next preceding me came to the wise conclusion that it was too bad a night even for a horse thief and went back to bed without standing guard himself or waking his successor. So I escaped.

My companions as well as myself are in the enjoyment 



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of excellent health. I think in my last I wrote that I had been a little unwell; but I have long since regained my usual health and am rapidly gaining flesh and muscular power. Although I was somewhat reduced by dysentery, I now weigh considerably more than when I left Paris and am stronger than I have been for years.

I am much more contented than I was at Paris as I have something to employ me all the time. I begin to think that I have found the life that suits me better than any other.

On Sunday [week?] Jno Click, Culbertson & Co passed us as we were encamped about 20 miles
below this. They expected to cross the river at Weston. Since then I have not heard anything from
them. This backward spring is discouraging a good many, and some are turning back. Some will go back
to Monroe Co. but I shall be the last unless I am compelled to go. I must close without finishing. Give my love to all. I shall write to the rest as soon as I get time, but I am busy every day about something.

Yours most affly
Elisha