Twenty Miles From A Match: Homesteading In Western Nevada

Chapter Nine

.~( Nine ]~ S omeone has said, "Where ignorance is bliss, 'tis folly to be wise." In our case it was when ignorance is bliss it is a blessing. That winter of 1910-11 when we were snowed in, the Shoshone Indians went on their last warpath. They came down into Nevada from Southern Oregon and killed a few isolated ranchers. When they were finally stopped they were only about fifty miles north of us. We would very likely have met the same fate, but word of the uprising got to the Washoe County sheriff in Reno. He made up a posse of about fifty picked men and wiped out the ravaging warriors. There was one young squaw with a little papoose, whom they were bringing into the Washoe jail the day A. J. arrived in town for supplies. He had gone to the jail to dispose of some coyote scalps and heard the whole story. Had we known of that uprising while we were snowed in, we would surely have had some sleepless nights. Washoe County had a hard time deciding what to do with the little squaw and her papoose. After keeping her for several months they finally sent her back to her tribe in Oregon. When Daddy returned he had a broken-down miner to teach our school. True, he was a Yale graduate and had no trouble in getting a permit to 78 TWENTY MILES FROM A MATCH teach. If our children had been in high school he might have been satisfactory, but he was too highly educated and his talk went over their heads. After teaching for a month, he realized that he was a failure and resigned. This time it was my turn to choose a teacher. I'd gained some confidence in myself, and anyway I couldn't do any worse than Daddy had. It was now April and there was beautiful spring weather. Luck was with me in getting a teacher. A big German girl, Elsie Von Dornam, who had just finished her seven months' school term down at Bullfrog, an old mining camp in the southern part of the state, had reported to our school superintendent that she would like to have another short term of school if she could get it. I had asked the superintendent's help in getting a teacher, and he sent me to see her. I told her that our school was isolated and that she might not like it out there. She thought she would, for she was young and just beginning her teaching career. She would be glad to come. She had lots of courage or she never could have made that trip. Our old horse had gotten sick on the way out. They had fed him alfalfa hay at the livery stable, which had given him colic. We had gone only three miles when I had to unhitch him, remove the harness and let him roll. After he rolled and groaned and I led him around for awhile, I hitched him up again and we slowly crept along. All that thirty-five miles he was so sick he could scarcely pull the wagon. I unhitched him frequently and let him roll. The last seven miles from home the going was heavy because of the upgrade. We always dreaded that last, long pull. I consoled myself with the thought, "Well, he can't CHAPTER NINE 79 go any slower when we reach the grade than he has all the way out." I was mistaken. The first step he took upgrade he stopped and wouldn't pull a pound. There we were with a heavy load on the wagon, it was sundown, and we were seven miles from home. What to do next? I knew I could easily walk that seven miles, but I hesitated to ask the new teacher to do so. I tactfully said, "I'll walk five miles up to the sheep ranch and get another horse. Then I can come back and get you and the wagon." Just then a coyote let out a howl. It frightened Miss Von Dornam. Evidently she had never seen a coyote or heard one holler. "Oh, no, I'll walk with you. I can make it if you can." I unhitched Johnny and led him slowly along. When we reached Warm Springs Creek, which is usually a dry wash on the desert, it was a...