MIXED-BAGGER AWARD...

Handsome citations pay tribute to gunners' prowess afield

NEBRASKA, THE "Nation's Mixed-Bag Capital", offers hunting opportunities found nowhere else in the country. Sportsmen can hunt 365 days a year, if they so desire, and seasons on major game species span 5 months from September to January.

With this vast array of gunning opportunities, hunters are sometimes hard pressed to decide on a favorite. But, for those hunters who enjoy the challenge of learning the tricks and then pitting their skills against a variety of game, there is a special bonus beginning this year. The Nebraska Game and Parks Commission will honor their prowess with the new "NEBRASKAland Mixed-Bagger Award."

There are three categories, and it may not be as easy to qualify as it may appear at first glance. Skill is essential for the qualifying hunter.

Categories include "Expert", "Sharpshooter", and "Marksman". A Marksman must bag his quota of four of the eight species eligible. A Sharpshooter miist score on six of the eight, while the top honor of Expert is reserved for those who can reach the standard for all eight species. While all species need not be taken the same day, the quota for a given species must be bagged and certified in a single day afield. And, qualifying species must be taken during a single calendar year.

Quotas for any combination of the following species may be taken to qualify for the various categories: pheasant, 2; quail, 3; prairie chicken, 1; sharp-tailed grouse, 1; duck, 2; goose, 1; cottontail rabbit, 4; and squirrel, 2. The hunter's bag must be certified on an official application by a permit vendor, conservation officer, NEBRASKAlander, or Game Commission employee. After all species necessary for the award indicated have been certified, the application should be mailed to NEBRASKAland Mixed-Bagger, Game Commission, State Capitol, Lincoln, Nebraska 68509. Application forms are also available from the same sources.

Quotas may be certified for only one award. For example, if a hunter applies for a Marskman citation and takes his quotas for pheasant, quail, rabbit, and squirrel, he may not use those same bags to qualify as a Sharpshooter. He must take those species again, plus two more, or any other combination of six to become a Sharpshooter.

When all requirements are met and the application is accepted, the gunner will receive a handsome, personalized, multicolored certificate suitable for framing. Printed on high-quality parchment, the award will make an attractive addition to any trophy room, recreation room, gun room, or den. It will also be an unusual reminder of

exciting and challenging days afield in NEBRASKAland. While such an award is particularly appropriate to the Nation's Mixed-Bag Capital, it is also the Game Commission's way of recognizing those sportsmen who are truly sportsmen.

Try your hand at becoming an Expert, Sharpshooter, or Marksman. All it takes is the skill, the will, a current small-game permit, and the necessary upland-game-bird and "duck" stamps.

Speak Up

NEBRASKAland invites all readers to submit their comments, suggestions, and gripes to SPEAK UP. Each month the magazine will publish as many letters as space permits. Pictures are welcome. NEBRASKAland reserves the right to edit and condense letters.— Editor.

SCRAPBOOK — "I put the stories and pictures in NEBRASKAland that I want to keep in a scrapbook. I especially value the historical articles and particularly enjoyed Paper Territory and Autumn Along the Platte in the October issue. I collect view or picture post cards of Nebraska county courthouses and want to get all 93 counties. Can any of your readers help me?" —Mrs. Harlan Cashatt, Milford.

LEATHER BOUND-"Everyone here reads my NEBRASKAland until its worn out. Maybe you should print it on leather." — H. E. Schmidt, Wichita, Kansas.

FINE MAGAZINE-"In NEBRASKAland, you have one of the finest magazines that I have ever read. In passing through your state about 2 years ago, I saw as much game as I have ever seen, and I have been in 33 states. As an avid sportsman, I am looking forward to hunting in Nebraska. Keep up the good work." —C. E. Burroughs, Germantown, Maryland.

PAR EXCELLENCE-"From the viewpoint of an amateur photographer, your June and August hostesses are subjects par excellence. Other good photos were glowing camphre and the pitching horse on pages 14 and 15 of the June issue. In the August issue, all the photographs of mushrooms were fine as were those on the Birth of a Creek.

"You should give the lens opening, shutter speed, and the photographer's JANUARY 1970 name in all cases. Anyone who can take such pictures deserves credit; especially if he can get such nifty subjects to pose." — Ralph N. Leidy, Aurora, Missouri.

MAKES NOTES-"We enjoy the many interesting articles that appear month after month in NEBRASKAland, and throughout the year we constantly make notes on both the numerous historical and scenic places of which you have so very many. We recently spent three weeks in Buffalo County, in and about Kearney. Each year we eagerly look forward to exploring more and more of "never - to - be - forgotten" NEBRASKAland.—Robert E. Lawrence, Wayne, New Jersey.

BIG BARN—"Our family has passed the big barn at the 1733 Ranch near Kearney that was mentioned in the June 1969 Speak Up many times. A story on it would be very interesting. The pictures of S. D. Butcher in the March 1969 NEBRASKAland brought back many memories. It would be nice if you published more of his work."—Rita Lawrence, Hiawatha, Kansas.

WANTS HELP-"The article, S. D. Butcher, Pioneer Cameraman, in the March 1969 NEBRASKAland caught my eye. Can any reader tell me if Mr. Butcher ever took a picture of the James Milton Kelsey family? They lived near Broken Bow at one time."—Mrs. R. F. Wilkie, Box 105, APO New York 09080.

WHOOPING CRANE-"My father, H. Gilbert Westberg, was an early Ord photographer, and had just returned from Fort Robinson where the Ord militia was stationed during the Indian insurrection when he sighted a flock of whooping cranes. He shot one and found it was almost a skeleton. My father was a tall man, and when he held the bird up, it was as long as he was tall.

"His dog was a beautiful, black Gordon setter with tiny golden patches above his eyes. He was called 'Bird-O'." — Mrs. Winnie D. Meyers, North Loup.

M.O. Steen, director of the Nebraska Game and Parks Commission, has played an important role in the preservation of the whooping crane. Here is a brief resume of his experience with this majestic bird. — Editor.

"My first effort to save the whooping crane came when I was a young man working in the North Dakota Game and Fish Department. My father, a pioneer settler in that state, told me that the whooping crane nested on the Dakota prairies, but the bird had disappeared as a nester there by the time I was born (1896). The first whooping crane I ever saw was a single migrant bird traveling with a large flock of sandhill cranes about 1930.

"I have been keenly interested in the whooping crane all of my adult life and have done what I could to aid in its preservation. I am a charter member of a select national committee, organized for deciding on and expediting the best ways to preserve this species.

"The whooping cranes reached a low of about 18 birds, but we now have more than 50 in the wild and in captivity. Wild birds winter on the Texas Gulf Coast at the Aransas National Wildlife Refuge, and nest in Wood Buffalo Park in the vicinity of Great Slave Lake, Northwest Territories.

"I believe the fight to preserve this magnificent bird has been won. The wild cranes continue to gain ground, and our ability to rear these birds in captivity seems assured. The whooping crane has been saved from extinction and I am happy to have had the privilege to play a part in making this come true." —M. O. Steen.

FROM WAGON TO "LIZZIE" - Looking back on my 95 years, some of my most enjoyable memories are linked to early transportation in eastern Nebraska. First is the old spring wagon that we used for going to the nearest town, 10 miles away. The rig was a plain two-seater affair, topless, and pulled by a team of horses. It was really a modified lumber wagon and anything but luxurious. We had to have lap robes in summer, buffalo robes in winter, whips, and all other accessories.

"It took us two hours to go to town and on the way we had to ford the Little Blue River, a fearful event in my young life. Mother would put me in the bottom of the wagon and cover me over until all danger was passed. Then, too, rainstorms would come up quickly and since we had no top on the wagon we would drive to a farmhouse for shelter. Sometimes we would stay all night.

"Soon the wagon gave way to a vehicle with a carriage top and springs. It demanded a special team known as carriage horses. They required special care and a separate stall.

"About that time we moved from the cabin to a frame house and that brings back another memory. We had an ice-house on the place. The ice was cut by hand and hauled 2¥i miles from the Little Blue to the icehouse where it was packed in straw.

"We were coming up in the^world and my father was active in politics, so with the new status came an improvement in our transportation. We got a new carriage with a full top, mudguards, and a genuine carriage team. My family moved to Lincoln so I could go to high school and about this time I became interested in boys. One of my dates used to take me for rides in his phaeton. It had one seat, a heavy top, a clean lap robe, and a whip, sticking up from the dashboard. The horse was a well-fed, broad-backed animal who seldom traveled faster than a walk. Later (Continued on page 14)

Funnel of Terror

by Minnie Swanson as told to NEBRASKAland

A TORNADO IS a violent, destructive whirlwind, as I can testify from experience. It carries death in its ominous vortex, and many are the wild stories of its pranks. Fortunately, it gives warning of its coming, and my advice is, "Take heed!"

Perhaps you've heard the terrible force of a tornado can drive a straw through a 2 by 4. I've seen it. Do you believe it can lift a house and set it down in the next county? I know it can. With all its malevolence, a tornado can be delicate. Nature's prankster can tear a wall from a room without disturbing milady's fine china on the table. They are few, but there are people who have been lifted by the giant wind and put down gently.

My experience with a twister came on Easter Sunday 1913, when a tornado couldn't have been further from my mind. It was a crisp, cold morning, the kind of day that dawns clear and warms fast, and I was hurrying to get ready for church.

Our farm was 4 1/2 miles south of Yutan, and in our years there, we had sighted plenty of tornados on the unobstructed skyline. It was like looking at a whirlpool from the bottom of an ocean. The storms usually came from the southwest and bubbled down out of the clouds like a gray funnel —or the finger of God, pointing out an Old Testament path of destruction.

Nebraska is in "tornado alley" and the storms do occur here, but more tornados hit states south of Nebraska. Each of the 48 states in the continental United States has reported tornados at one time or another.

Sky watchers would spot the fearsome funnel clouds and hurriedly herd their families into a storm cellar, away from the house. Those with only basements to hide in clung to the southwest corner, assuming that a storm coming from that direction would blow the toppling structure away from them. Anyone caught in the open huddled against the ground and hoped his time hadn't come.

But that Sunday, spring was coming, and I was an eager 17-year-old bent on looking my best for church. My sister, Anna, and I hitched Bert, our family horse, to the buggy and drove to Yutan. We were late getting started and late getting to my grandmother's house in town.

We stabled the horse at grandma's, and after church and lunch, we visited the William Gilster family. It was already getting hot by 1 p.m. and it was sticky, humid. We had all 4

the elements for a big storm — and for a tornado. The morning's cold front had met a warm front, and the two were not mingling well.

The fireworks started gently enough with a nice spring rain. That, in turn, became a "gulley washer". Then came hail pinging off the shingles like a regiment of wooden soldiers, marching to a hundred different cadences. But the weather was soon forgotten in the merriment of Sunday company. We didn't look for the black cylinder that swayed across the prairie. But it was there, moving in our direction.

There were nine people in that house at five in the afternoon and we were in different rooms. William Gilster was trying to give medicine to his son, who was crying loudly. We heard nothing of the roar outside. Suddenly, every window in the house shattered, spilling glass out into the afternoon blackness that was darker than any night.

It must have been the furious outer side of the funnel which caught the house. But there wasn't much time to think about it then. Horrified, I watched the furniture do a little jig before the house lifted, seemed to breathe a deep sigh, then whammed down again, shattering like a slivered mirror.

My sturdy, wooden kitchen chair folded over me, pinning me down but protecting me from the tons of blowing debris, first clutched then dropped by the windstorm. Then the vortex with its electric field of brilliant blue light passed us by. The wind had actually lasted a few seconds, but seemed like only a fraction of an instant.

Within seconds a force as intangible as moving air had reached a velocity of 600 miles per hour or more. And that air, the very breath of life, invisible, and without substance, had become solid through speed and came crashing in on nine unsuspecting victims.

When finally the whirling ceased and quiet settled in its place, plaster dust was settling, too. All nine of us had been gathered by the wind as though to talk, beneath the scattered debris of the house. The walls between our respective rooms had disappeared and the house was nothing but rubble.

Seven of us clawed frantically out of the wreckage into a flurry of NEBRASKAland frightened people running for any shelter they could find. Another storm was coming, they said. But my sister was missing —and Mrs. Gilster.

Fires had started throughout the area, carried by blowing straw. People were scrambling to get the dead and injured from the burning debris, and into some kind of shelter before the next onslaught of nature.

It was horrible, but most horrifying of all, we found Mrs. Gilster pinned under the huge base burner, a big rectangular stove used in those days for heating. It had toppled and crushed her, killing her instantly. The stove struck my sister, Anna, too, and she was burned from her hip down. The lower right side of her body was blistered.

We were all frantic, all scurrying for shelter —any shelter. And then there was the feeling of empty helplessness. We could only cower in the storm cellars, barely daring to hope the second storm would not take us. Seventeen died in Yutan that day and dozens were injured as the whole northwest corner of town was demolished. After the storm passed the area was covered with straw, and plaster dust, and fire.

There was no water; the tornado had taken the city water tower. Fires could only be left to burn themselves out. Yutan citizens took the dead and injured to Gilster's neighbor who sheltered them until they could be treated as well as possible and taken home, if they still had one. There was no organized rescue effort. Neighbor just helped neighbor. Slowly, as it became evident that there would be no other storm that day, things quieted down.

Yutan took years to recover from the disaster. We never did, for none of us who lived through that horrible afternoon ever faces a storm without uneasiness. My sister recovered from her burns without visible scars, but she, too, watches the skies with anxiety.

Today's improved communications have provided lifesaving warning systems to protect against natural disasters like tornadoes. Someday, man may find a way to better protect his home and family. But, until then, we keep an eye on the skies. THE END

For the record... THE OUTER LIMITS

The turkey is so distinctly American that it, rather than the bald eagle, came nearly being chosen our national bird. The wild turkey originated on the North American continent and six geographical races (subspecies) have been identified. The original range of these subspecies extended from Maine and southern Ontario west to the Dakotas, Colorado, and Arizona, and into southern Mexico.

When the white man first came to Nebraska, wild turkeys were numerous along the stream courses and river valleys where trees were present. Although turkeys were abundant in all of this North American range, their requirement for trees limited their distribution in the Great Plains. That habitat requirement still exists. Since Nebraska is basically a prairie state, only those areas with heavy timber are suitable.

In addition to timber, the bird also needs extensive range wherein few, if any, domestic fowl are present. The turkey is highly vulnerable to some diseases of the barnyard chicken, especially coccidiosis and blackhead. Turkey producers have problems keeping coccidiosis and blackhead out of their flocks, even under controlled conditions, and in wild flocks the diseases can run rampant.

The ranch country of Nebraska, which has timber and few domestic chickens, provides habitat where the wild turkey can succeed. It is in such areas that we have restored the wild turkey, but it is improbable that we can extend the Nebraska turkey range much beyond that already occupied. There are localized spots in the Platte and Republican valleys where a few birds exist but their outlook is not encouraging.

The significance of environment in the success or failure of wildlife is dramatically illustrated by the reestablishment of the turkey in Nebraska. Native wild flocks were extirpated about 100 years ago. Since that time many unsuccessful attempts were made to establish the turkey, but one by one, these plantings failed. It was not until 1959, when the Nebraska Game and Parks Commission introduced Merriam's turkey into northwestern Nebraska, that restoration efforts succeeded. This geographical strain comes from the southwest (Colorado, New Mexico, Arizona) out of a range very similar to our own Pine Ridge country. How right we were in testing a geographical strain that we believed suited to the habitat we had available in Nebraska. We stocked 28 live-trapped Merriam's turkeys in 1959, and opened our first turkey season in 1962.

Environment is the key to the survival, distribution, and abundance of ALL life. In our use of the land for the production of food and fiber, we manipulate environment for the benefit of our domestic crops and livestock. Unfortunately, the farmer or rancher has no choice, if he is to stay in business. Occasionally, however, he has an opportunity to help restore desirable wild creatures. Such is the case with the wild turkey.

While scientific game management must be given first credit for the restoration of the wild turkey, a second and equally important factor is the keen interest demonstrated by ranchers and farmers. Much of the credit for restoring this bird to Nebraska must go to them.

M.O. Steen Director, Nebraska Game and Parks Commission NEBRASKAland

Roundup and What to do

State hosts potpourri of January action from snowmobiling to tennis

AS THE New Year toddles into the state, Nebraska resolves to provide sports action galore for all in 1970, and judging from this month's events, it is going to do it with style to spare. Helping to keep the action roaring is Kay Richardson, NEBRASKAland's Hostess of the Month. Kay is a year-round sportswoman and lists rodeos, horse shows, knitting, sewing, and photography as her hobbies. Her first love is horseback riding, and she presently holds the title of Miss Sportsmanship from the National Collegiate Rodeo finals. Kay also served as secretary of the University Rodeo Club for two years and was elected Miss Congeniality at the 1969 Miss NEBRASKAland Beauty Pageant at North Platte. Our Hostess of the Month is a senior at the University of Nebraska where she is majoring in animal science. She is the daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Charles Richardson of Ainsworth.

Kay, as a sports enthusiast, is always looking for something new in outdoor entertainment, and has become a follower of the state's newest winter sport, snowmobiling. Nebraska's Sand Hills near Kay's home town lend themselves especially to the excitement of the outdoor vehicles.

The accent is on winter sports and nothing can beat ice hockey as a spectator sport when icy winds whistle around the eaves. The Omaha Knights play six games against four teams on home ice this month. They meet the Oklahoma Blazers on January 2 and the Fort Worth Wings 2 days later. Other teams testing the Knights' resolution to win are the Tulsa Oilers on the 10th and the Fort Worth skaters again on the 16th. The Tulsa Oilers follow for a rematch on the 25th, with the Dallas Black Hawks providing a final challenge on the 28th.

Thousands of other skaters will take to indoor and outdoor ice in a less strenuous manner, as Old Man Winter hardens hundreds of ponds and lakes across the state. Nebraska's cities and towns will give the cold season a helping hand by flooding areas for those who enjoy the glide and swirl of sharpened blades. Hunters still have a large chunk of month to test their skills against bobwhites and pheasants. These seasons will be open until January 11. Squirrel hunters have all month to trade strategy with the bushytails, and cottontail hunters will also have all of January to shoot them where they see them provided they have permission to do so.

Nebraska's special-point season on mallards extends until January 4. Western hunters with a special free permit may find great mallard shooting during the tail end of the special season. And sportsmen, eyeing NEBRASKAland's Mixed-Bagger Award, shouldn't have too much trouble qualifying. Requirements for this award are listed in the NEBRASKAland Hunting Guide.

As lakes and ponds freeze up, fishermen will come into their own, for there is some excellent ice fishing in Nebraska. Some of the Sand Hills lakes are practically bulging with always-hungry bluegill, some of them big enough to qualify for Master Angler awards.

Basketball, too, gets in its licks during this first month of the New Year. The University of Nebraska will greet Kansas State on January 13 and then host Colorado on the 17th. Creighton University in Omaha has a full schedule with the Blue Jays meeting Tahoe College on the 7th, Portland College on the 10th, Colorado on the 12th, St. Francis College on the 14th, La Salle College on the 21st, and New Mexico State College on the 29th.

Tennis buffs will flock into Omaha on January 28 to see the International Indoor Tennis Championships decided. Action of a different kind will come to Lincoln on January 28 and 29. Golden Glovers will trade leather in a series of elimination bouts to decide who will be in the finals at Omaha sometime in February. Youngsters, 16 and over, participate in these matches and are matched with opponents by weight. Other Golden Glove elimination bouts will be held in various communities. Chambers of commerce will be glad to furnish dates upon JANUARY 1970 request. Another ring sport, wrestling, will add its excitement to the January sports calendar when the University of Nebraska grapplers meet Missouri and Minnesota on the 16th and 17th.

For those who prefer the cultural activities, there is an abundance of musical and theatrical productions. Lincoln's Community Playhouse will present "Lion in Winter", the story of King Henry II and his choice of a successor to the English throne. High school class plays and concerts will give future Sandy Dennises or James Coburns the chance to catch the footlight bug.

Art lovers will have ample opportunities to see some excellent work at the Sheldon Art Gallery in Lincoln. Sharon Behrends and Robert Nelson, both artists of note, will have exhibitions at the gallery beginning January 6. Two weeks later selections from the private collection of Mrs. A. B. Sheldon will be displayed for the first time together.

Several films will also appear at the gallery during the month. These include Charlie Chaplin's "Gold Rush" on the 4th, "Man with a Million" on the 10th, art films on the 11th, the French film, "La Ronde" on the 13th, Greta Garbo's "The Kiss" on the 18th, and "Le Jour Se Leve" on the 27th.

Excitement and entertainment ranges from the flashing action of the sports arena, to the solitude of field and blind, to the glitter of stage and the smell of grease paint. Resolve now to enjoy all the activities that this state of thrills has to offer in this New Year.

What to do 1 — New Year's Day 2 — Oklahoma City Blazers vs. Omaha Knights, ice hockey, Omaha 4 — Fort Worth Wings vs. Omaha Knights, ice hockey, Omaha 4 — Experimental duck season closes 7—Tahoe College vs. Creighton, basketball, Omaha 8 — University of Nebraska chamber music recital, Lincoln 10 —Tulsa Oilers vs. Omaha Knights, ice hockey, Omaha 10 —Portland College vs. Creighton, basketball, Omaha 10 —Pancake feed, Ord 11 —Pheasant and quail seasons close 11-13-Midwest Gift Show, Omaha 12 —Colorado vs. Creighton, basketball, Omaha 13 —University of Nebraska faculty recital, Lincoln 13 —Rural recognition banquet, Columbus 13 —Kansas State vs. Nebraska, basketball, Lincoln 14 —St. Francis College vs. Creighton, basketball, Omaha 15 —Contemporary Symposium, Lincoln 16 —Fort Worth Wings vs. Omaha Knights, ice hockey, Omaha 16 —Missouri vs. Nebraska, wrestling, Lincoln 17 —Colorado vs. Nebraska, basketball, Lincoln 17 —Minnesota vs. Nebraska, wrestling, Lincoln 20 — Lincoln Symphony Orchestra concert, Lincoln 21 — LaSalle College vs. Creighton, basketball, Omaha 25 —Tulsa Oilers vs. Omaha Knights, ice hockey, Omaha 28 — Dallas Black Hawks vs. Omaha Knights, ice hockey, Omaha 28 —International Indoor Tennis Championships, Omaha 28-29 —Golden Gloves, boxing, Lincoln 29 —New Mexico State College vs. Creighton, basketball, Omaha 31 —Pancake feed, Arapahoe No date — Northeast Nebraska Hereford show, Norfolk THE END 11

SAVING A "BUCK"

Here's how a few scraps can turn those old antlers into a top-notch trophy for the den

by Lowell Johnson

MANY BIG-GAME hunters bring down bucks with bragging-size racks and then stash the antlers in the garage because they don't want to spend the money to have them properly mounted.

But, head for that storage bin, fellows, for there is a way to display those prize antlers without coughing up a painful lump of loot — and display it right handsomely, too. The answer is to do the job yourself. Only the simplest tools are needed and the materials can be scraps, yet the result can highlight the plushest den or game room.

First task, after extricating your antlers from the pile of old hose, sleds, and bicycles, is removing all the hide, then trimming the skullcap to a tidy size, leaving just enough to give good support to the beams. Next, round up a plaque-size piece of wood. This can be fancy hardwood or simply a slab of pine, depending on your scrap pile or your connections at the lumberyard. Normally, a 1-inch-thick board about 12 or 14 inches long and 10 or 11 inches wide is ample for even the most massive rack.

The board is converted to a symetrical shield or other suitable shape by folding a piece of paper, drawing half the desired shape, cutting it out, then unfolding it and using it as a template. A rectangle with fancy corners or an oval are other possibilities. After shaping with a coping saw or a narrow-blade power saw, sand the plaque smooth by hand or with a disk or drum sander.

For a professional look, it is advisable to rout the edges of the mounting board with a molding cutter, but this can be bypassed by neatly rounding the edges. After dampening and final sanding to take off all whiskers, stain and varnish the wood to the desired finish.

When completely dry, the plaque is ready for the antlers. Drill two holes through the skullcap to take mounting screws or lag bolts. Position the antlers so they are centered sideways, and about one-third of the way down from the top of the plaque. When straight with the world, attach them with the screws. Pilot holes will be necessary if you select a hardwood plaque.

Next, form a two-inch-thick piece of styrofoam into an egg shape. This will represent the deer's head, but it should not be too large. A chunk, nine inches long by six inches wide, is plenty. The back side of this foam is recessed to fit over the bone, and

12 up snug against the base of each antler. Take the material off gradually, using a hand rasp. The front surface will also have to be sanded down so it tapers down to the edges all around, so the center doesn't stick up much above the antlers.

A scrap of velvet, corduroy, or other thick-pile cloth is the finishing touch. Any color is all right, but red or green is usually preferred. The material can be either pinned or sewn across the back side of the foam, but make sure the front is wrinkle free. Then contact cement the whole works to the plaque.

An alternate method of forming the "head" is to build up a smooth mound around the antlers with papier mache, or with excelsior covered with plaster of Paris. The cloth is then glued directly to this mound. A chunk of chamois or buckskin can be used in place of cloth. Also, a metal plate, giving the place and date the deer was taken, can be added to the bottom of the mounting board to keep memories accurate. If you're the lazy sort and don't want to scrounge up the materials there are regular kits at hobby and sports stores that contain everything you need but the antlers.

All that remains is to hang the completed project in a conspicuous place so visitors will ask, "Wow, when did you shoot that?" From there you can launch into the details of the hunt and you are on your own. Next month's NEBRASKAland will give the anglers some tips on how to display their prizes with a do-it-yourself kit. THE END

JANUARY 1970

SPEAK UP

(Continued from page 3)

when I went away to teach school my favorite rig was a surrey with a fringe on top. It could seat several, so we young people began traveling in gangs to various affairs. The surrey gave way to the family carriage, a grand rig, and it in turn was replaced by a Tin Lizzie.' It brings back another memory.

"A neighbor had one and she would take me on Sunday-afternoon drives. It was quite a car. A two-seater, it had no top, but it did have a magnificent brass band around the front of the engine. In 40 years, I had spanned the transportation gap from the spring wagon to the automobile." — Mrs. Grace Cook Jones, Berkeley, California.

AVAILABLE —"Is it possible to have enlargements of the prints used in NEBRASKAland?"-Mrs. K. A. Scheibe, Sioux City, Iowa.

Yes. A 16 x 20 enlargement from the original transparency cost $20.50. We do not process the pictures ourselves, but we will handle all the details. Just place your order with the Nebraska Game and Parks Commission, State Capitol, Lincoln, Nebraska 68509 with an accompanying check made out to WALTZ, The Camera Man. The pictures will be shipped directly from an Ohio laboratory. — Editor.

EDITORIAL BOARD-"Since you have decided to let the old maids, cranks, and crackpots decide your editorial format and contents, I have decided to let them support you." —Clyde H. Meacham, Grove, Oklahoma.

ROAD RANCHER —"I was most interested in Road Ranches West in the December 1968 NEBRASKAland. The first stop on the Great Central Trail Route out of Nebraska City was at Wilson's Bridge at what is now Dunbar. This stop was my great-grandfather's home. He was Thomas Wilson and his wife was Jane Dunbar Wilson. He was responsible for getting a bridge built across Wilson Creek and also put up a large barn for 40 span of oxen and horses."—Miss Ida G. Wilson, Los Osos, California.

HILL GAL- Talk about nostalgia, Rabbit Talk in the November 1969 NEBRASKAland really took me back — back to 1929 in the hills south of Broken Bow.

"Mother was a city-raised girl and she tried her best to love ranch life, so at the beginning of the hunting season, she bought a 410-gauge shotgun for $7.95 (a fortune in those days) from a drugstore in Oconto. She went hunting once, shot once, and when the gun 'kicked' she handed it to me and went home.

"I took it and hunted bunny rabbits and cottontails (jackrabbits). On my first 14 trip I came back with seven white-tailed and two black-tailed rabbits. We didn't have freezers in those days, so mother soaked them in salt water and baked them. I never remember coming home empty-handed, but my first trip was the best.

"They took the gal out of the hills, but to this day, they can't take the hills out of this gal." —Mrs. Jean Miner Schoer, Kearney.

Mrs. Schoer s reference to "cottontails" or "bunny rabbits" is a bit off, for both are one and the same. However, a lot of people refer to jacks as cottontails and the smaller rabbits as bunny rabbits.—Editor.

EARLY BIRD —"I was particularly interested in They Wore Wings in the August NEBRASKAland, because of my memories of early flying in Lincoln. I was one of the kids who were reprimanded for touching the plane of Lincoln Beachey at the Nebraska State Fair in 1914.

"This renowned stunt flyer demonstrated man's capability to manage an airplane as he pulled out of a nose dive, looped-the-loop, banked steeply, and flew upside down. Before take off the front wheel of the plane was placed in a hole in the ground to serve as an anchor. Attendants also held onto the back edges of the wings until the propeller attained sufficient speed. At a signal from the pilot they bore down on the wings to free the wheel from the hole and the plane sped across the ground in the center of the racetrack.

"After World War I a neighbor boy who had served as a ground man in the Air Force, resumed his engineering studies at the University of Nebraska. I think it was in 1920-21 that he worked for Harding, Zook, and Bahl in Lincoln rehabilitating wrecked planes. I wonder where their partnership fit into Lincoln's airplane production." —Hugh P. Stoddard, Auburn.

OUTSTANDING-Ive let too many months go by without telling you how much I enjoy NEBRASKAland. It is outstanding.

"As you know, Duluth was the site of this year's gathering of outdoor writers. I attended and made a point of driving through Nebraska on my way to and from. Because of your magazine I was prepared to enjoy much of what I saw. Particularly fine are Lou Ell's photographs. They interpret.

"I know a really good job when I see it. Your wildlife, your history, your scenery, your economy, your outlook on life as Nebraskans comes through. The magazine made me want to 'see' the state with my senses. And I did." —Doyle Kline, Santa Fe, New Mexico.

EXCUSED — "When I was in Nebraska this summer someone gave me a copy of NEBRASKAland and I brought it home to show my family. Now, I have got the idea that you maybe would take a letter under Speak Up.

"On every tour you take around the world you will find some places you like very much — some places you want to go back and visit as soon as possible. This summer I was in the U.S.A., and saw a lot of places, but I didn't see a place I liked better than Nebraska.

"In Nebraska I found a beautiful landscape. There are so many places where you can find silence, because Nebraska is not too crowded. You have land. I enjoyed the Capitol in Lincoln for its excellent architecture and art and for a nice guided tour. But most of all I liked the people of Nebraska.

"Personally, I fell in love with the people around Kronborg and Marquette. I like you - NEBRASKAland - Wonderland."—Hans Verner Lollike, Copenhagen, Denmark. P.S. "Please excuse bad English."

IN FINE FETTLE-"I hope you enjoy Mrs. Nellie Christensen's poem, Our NEBRASKAland as much as I have. Mrs. Christensen of Miller, Nebraska is 94 years young and in fine fettle." — Mrs. H. A. Oestreich, Farmington, Michigan.

OUR NEBRASKAland by Mrs. Nellie Christensen Far out in the desolate prairies, Where hostile Indians did roam, Came dauntless men and women Seeking a place to call home. What can we know of their struggle, Of the hardship, sorrow, and pain, As they toiled in heat and in blizzard Out in the windswept plain? To carve a home for the future, Though often they struggled in vain Knowing seedtimes with no harvest, Because of the dearth of rain. No pen can write the story, No voice can find words to say, What toil and sweat and heartache, Ever marked their valiant way. But their courage never faltered. Their vision held, staunch and true. Someday their faith would conquer, As they planted and hoped anew. Today as we praise our Nebraska, Her cities, ranches, and farms, Her colleges, churches, and culture, Warm homes blest in heavenly charms. The beautiful Capital City, The people who've won renown, The state house, majestic and regal Towering over the town. Let us honor these brave men and women. Whose courage and love were so grand. Our hearts overflow with Thanksgiving, For this, OUR NEBRASKALAND. NEBRASKAland

LAST WAGON TRAIN WEST

For 22 modern-day pioneers caught in a prairie time machine called imagination, calendar read June, 1849

by Bob Snow 16 NEBRASKAland

THE DATE WAS August 1969, but for 22 modern-day pioneers caught in a prairie time machine called imagination the calendar read June 1849. The place was Ash Hollow, a famous pioneer campground, and ours was the last wagon train to head west on the mightiest highway ever, the Oregon Trail. For all of us, this was the start of a 3-day adventure on a history-rich stretch that lies between Ash Hollow and Courthouse Rock, an overland distance of about 60 miles.

For the most part, scars of this great western highway have been chiseled away by the elements or plowed into oblivion by man. But in the Panhandle of Nebraska there are several spots where these tracks of history are still visible. To make our journey as authentic as possible, our three-wagon train would stay on or very near the actual ruts of the Oregon Trail. In some stretches the trek would be easy, for county roads follow part of the trail, but where they ended or turned JANUARY 1970 away our wagon train would have to head across rough, open prairie.

Now a Nebraska State Historical Park, Ash Hollow offers one of the best recollections of what pioneers had to endure on their journey west, so it was fitting that our trek started there. After eyeing rain-threatening clouds our wragon boss, Ray Brown of Lewellen, waved the train forward and started a chain reaction of wild shouts, snorting teams, and creaking wagons. As a western-history buff I "volunteered" to cover the story.

Our introduction to pioneering wasn't as appealing as we had hoped, for it was a cold, overcast morning. As Bill Hamilton's wagon lumbered over the old ruts in the park, the husky Lewellen teamster needed only a dash of imagination to hear the cracking whips, the squeal of tortured wood and metal, and the cries of mourning at a trail-side funeral of a century past. To the other two teamsters, Bert Guenin of Chappell and 17  

Lewis Fox of Big Springs, it was an opportunity to recapture the personal struggles and hardships of the "49'ers".

To make the trip as true to life as possible the party carried food, cooking utensils, bedrolls, and water in the wagons. The Hamiltons tied an old plow to one side of their prairie schooner and a usable water barrel to the other. Hay and oats for the horses would be hauled out to our evening campsites. A team of mules was hitched to the Guenin wagon, while horses pulled the Fox and Hamilton outfits.

Our party, about equally divided between kids and grownups, faced the unknown ahead with uneasy anticipation as each of us reviewed our reasons for making the jaunt. Old-timers Ray Brown and Walt Guenin came because it was a chance to return to the days when horsepower referred to hoofed animals instead of engines. For Lewis Fox and his family this was a road test for a covered wagon they had made, while for Bert Guenin and his "Clodhoppers", a collective nickname for his nieces and nephews, it was a challenge and a 18 chance to do something different. For the Hamiltons it was a family affair.

The three families, who were strangers to one another until the morning of our departure, were taking on an excursion that required endurance, patience, and dedication. When Ray, who made most of the arrangements, told me about the trek I wondered if the wagons would even make it out of Ash Hollow. But a 12-year-old girl proved to me that these modern-day pioneers were just as serious about this trip as those who had preceded them. As the wagons rumbled past Ash Hollow Cemetery, Kathy Hamilton broke away from the train to visit the grave of another girl, Rachel E. Pattison, who had traveled the Oregon Trail. Rachel never made it past Ash Hollow, for like hundreds of others, she died of cholera in 1849 and was buried along the trail. I sensed that Kathy had made a solemn promise that she would make it to our end-of-the-trail.

Although Indians, a lack of grass near the trail for livestock, and cholera were problems of the past, we also had obstacles to overcome. In place of Indians we NEBRASKAland

had roads with marauding cars; instead of a shortage of grass we had an overabundance of barbed wire, and in place of cholera our disease was a chronic wish for comforts and the conveniences of the 20th Century. Like the 49'ers we didn't know what to expect on the trail ahead, so time, a common goal, and adventure made us a tightly-knit community on wheels.

To experience pioneering 49'er style, we had to get off roads and head across the open prairie, so Ray made arrangements with several ranchers to cut across their lands. By now we were used to civilization sliding behind us, but we weren't quite ready for the discomforts of traveling on the open prairie. As our two scouts, Ray and Walt, led us through a meadow and into a shoulder-high sunflower field, we soon learned that a plump behind was a major asset for wagon travel.

With towering bluffs of the North Platte River Valley to the south and nothing but prairie ahead, I could almost smell the sweat of a thousand pioneers struggling to make one mile after another. In this era of rapid transportation the wagons seemed slow, but JANUARY 1970 they did have advantages. Today, if the kids get restless on a trip a mother can only threaten, while a pioneer woman could shove the children out of the wagon and force them to run off their excess energies.

At noon the wagons rolled into a semicircle, and as the women prepared lunch the men watered the stock. Time and miles passed slower than we had expected, and although we were not discouraged we were far from encouraged, for we had made only nine miles. The train had to make another 11 miles before quitting time, so after an hour's lunch Ray formed us up. No one likes to eat trail dust, so after each major stop the lead wagon fell back to let another take its place at the head of the train.

With plenty of time and nothing to do, I decided to snooze in the Hamilton wagon. Two-year-old Roger and six-year-old Danny Hamilton curled up under the driver's seat to take naps, but for a six-foot cowboy that was out of the question. I propped myself against an old trunk and dangled my No. ll's out of the back of the wagon. My legs (Continued on page 51)

19

THE CAT'S MEOW

Fifteen hooks and what do you get? Another night older and deeper in mud. But that all changes when I decide to call in the "subs"

by Ron Brion as told to NEBRASKAland

EVERY MAN WANTS to own a mountain, but in Nebraska that is hard to do. I am a part owner in the next best thing — a hunk of scenery along the Missouri River just north of Lynch that equals anything the Rockies offer. Although I live in Ewing where I am a banker, I spend most of my off hours either enjoying the scenery or working at the ranch. Most of the time I combine the two.

With the Missouri River as the north border to my property, there is always something to do. In the summer it is water skiing, in the fall, deer hunting, and in the winter, snowmobiling. Of course, fishing is early spring to late-fall entertainment, and the Missouri has more than enough catfish and sauger to keep me interested. Most of the time I have the river figured out, but the Missouri threw me a catfish curve on a late-September foray.

It was a typical autumn-scented afternoon when I left Ewing and headed for Lynch. Although there was ranch work to do, I was using it as an excuse to take the next day off. My freezer was catfish bare and with cold weather just a short time off I had to get with it to alleviate that situation. Besides, I had an archery-deer permit and I knew where there was a buck.

A total of 15 hooks with no more than 5 hooks on a line is permitted on the Missouri River. My objective was to put out setlines, so that I could catch cats while scouting deer or working on the ranch. Although I have tied 5 hooks on a 15-foot line, I have found an 11-foot line with 3 hooks works best. The obvious advantage of the shorter line is that it allows you two more sets.

Rigging a setline is easy. I tie long-shanked, No. 2 snelled hooks to 8-inch drop lines, and space them 3 feet apart on the 150-pound-test line. The combination of drop line and long-shanked hook allows the fish to mouth the bait and hook himself, essential in setline catfishing. For weights, I use railroad spikes, because they are easy to handle and will hold in the river's current. Cats took big minnows in the past and I couldn't see changing baits now.

Rigging setlines may be easy, but putting them in just the right spot is a real trick. A spot below a dropoff 20

bank a quarter of a mile upriver from my boat dock has produced two to three-pound catfish. Although it takes a boat and a pair of waders to put out and check the lines, the trip is usually worthwhile.

The chill of night was just a half hour off when I tied the boat to some roots sticking out of the bank. With darkness moving in, I put all five lines along the bank rather than scattering them at several different locations. Engineers at Fort Randall Dam, about 20 miles on upriver, had been letting out more water than usual and the river was high, so that meant walking in ankle to knee-deep water with a muddy underfooting. If the river had carved out a hole, I wanted to know about it, so I broke off a dry limb for a wading staff. With catfish up to 70 pounds or even bigger a possibility, I made sure my lines were securely tied to their bank anchors. After hooking the minnows through the tail, I used an underhand toss to throw out the spikes.

The moon was backlighting the Nebraska-side trees when I tied my boat to the dock. From past experiences, I knew catfish seem to go on a feeding spree around 11 p.m., so I planned to check the lines at midnight. Until then I had nothing to do except lounge around in my house trailer, feed Benjie, my black Lab, and myself, and check my archery gear. Usually, my wife, Pat, makes the trip up to the ranch with me on overnight trips, but this time she had to stay home.

At midnight I fired up the boat and headed upriver. The Missouri River at night is treacherous and even though I have traveled this same stretch of river hundreds of times I still respect it. I have had my run-ins with the Missouri and believe me it isn't fun. One time I tipped over a light fishing boat in the river and another time I watched a duck-hunting buddy come up wet and cold after stepping into a Missouri River hole. So far, I have been lucky, but I don't plan to give this river another chance. A clear night and a near-full moon made navigation easier, but my hand-held boat spotlight was on the blink, so I had to depend on a pressure lantern for light. I had to stay within 25 feet of shore to spot my setlines.

Sounds carry for miles in the night quiet of the Missouri River. As I swung over the side of the boat, a coyote's howl echoed against the Nebraska hills. My first setline was tied to a tree root. After groping in the cold water for the line, I felt the pleasing tug of a fish on the other end. Quickly, I hung the lantern on an overhanging branch. With the fish net in my right hand, I began bringing in the line with my left. Suddenly, a two-foot fish splashed into the circle of light. "Not a prize catch," I whispered to myself. "But not a bad specimen of Missouri River gar."

I carefully pried the hook loose from the "alligator" mouth, for gar are known for their extremely sharp teeth. Probably as old as the Missouri River itself, this living fossil is a holdover from prehistoric times and is found exclusively in North America. These long, narrow fish are fun to catch, but few people like to eat them. After examining my catch, I threw him back.

My next line had an edible fish on the end, but it wasn't what I wanted. The three-pound drum put up quite a tussle before I netted him. By the time I checked my fifth and last setline, I had a pretty good indication that things weren't going the way they should. The unpredictable Missouri had thrown me a catfish curve, but at 1:30 in the morning I didn't care. Besides the gar and drum, the setlines had accounted for a goldeye and a small white bass.

Late nights and early mornings discourage many would-be setline fishermen. Most of the action comes after sundown and just (Continued on page 53)

21

22 NEBRASKAland

Patterns of Winter

Snow is a gentle flake, a place for animal tracks, a frozen beauty mark

Photographs by Lou Ell, Text by Marjorie Ann Kohler

THE FIRST SNOW, the new snow, is always the loved snow. The next snow, the old snow, is not so loved. But, it depends on how you look at it.

There's nothing more warming or welcome to a weary winter walker than the sight of a glowing window at dusk. Its warm light lays on the snow patterns like small shimmering diamonds, or little fireflies twinkling in the night.

It makes you aware of the beauty that winter really holds within its icy fingers. When a snow wanderer sees the snowflakes touch the arm of his coat, what does he think? How long does it take for an intricate and delicate snowflake to form and to fall? And, how much time does the eye have to grasp and appreciate that beautiful form before it melts against the warmth of the fabric?

Looking on ahead, you see a very familiar sight —tracks pressed into snow by someone who passed unseen, but who left an undeniable record of his journey.

In summer it is so easy to believe that you are the only one who ever passed along a special path, but in winter, it's easy to see that many creatures have 23  

24 trod the path ahead and left their special "patterns" in the snow.

There are small impressions in the not-so-hard snow. Farther on, tracks lead to a small bundle of furry warmth under a bush; a cottontail with one little black, beady eye showing. He is so still, so like a soft, brown ball with two ears growing out.

When the sun begins to drop and the snow clouds move away, they leave a few behind, and then, then comes the best sight of all. The clouds are frosty pink, reminding one of soft, pink angel's hair around a Christmas tree.

Have you ever seen, in the gleam of a porch light, the water drip, drip, dripping from a frigid faucet to form a rounded, smooth, and glassy statue? The urge to reach down and touch that wet and icy sculpture is overpowering — and that's good. Come the steamy, hot summer days, long after that little pillar has melted into the earth, it will be soothing in recall.

Here, beside an ice-locked stream, stand the gaunt, finger-like ghosts of summer weeds, now garbed in Cinderella gowns of sparkling white. Prisoners of the snow, they lean forward, savoring their reflected glory in the clear and glassy ice. Their summer curse of being 25  

26 weeds is now forgotten in a new-found glory.

Rising above the lesser growth are regal cattails. They wear little topknots of pure white snow like winter stocking caps. Often their furry brown bodies are swathed in sequined ice, giving them an appeal that cannot be denied.

Some of the trees are brown and leathery; so dead to the eye. The naked branches reach up, as if to pray: "Dear Lord above, send back the warm, send back a perfect day. If this You'll do, though snow may fall and chilling winds may blow, we'll stand upright against it all and ne'er our sadness show."

Then spring comes, like spring always does; slowly, pushing through the hard, cold earth, but the special patterns of winter remain in mind and heart. THE END

27

CHIEF BLACK BIRD

Leader of Omahas created his own legend by commanding the "dark angel" of death

by Glenda Peterson

THIS IS THE scene as it might have been, more than 200 years ago in the darkened lodge of an Omaha Indian. The mighty Black Bird, chief of the Omahas, had prophesied the young brave's death before many more suns. Now, the warrior writhed in agony, his vitals a seething fire. But even in his final torment, the young man did not condemn the chief who had visited this awful punishment upon him. Others who had defied the great Black Bird had suffered a like fate, and the stricken brave knew there would be no reprieve. The chief, alone of all men, could command the Dark Angel, the destroyer, to do his bidding and no one should question this supernatural gift. Yet, the dying man's squaw could not help but wonder at its source.

She remembered Black Bird as a young warrior, vain, arrogant, boastful, and proud, yet there was no question of his ability. As a boy, he had been a prisoner of the Sioux, but he escaped and later led his fighting 28 men against them. Black Bird had also fought the Pawnee and took scalps from the Kansas tribes. To the Omahas, he was a great figure, the once-in-an-age.leader who sometimes came to the Indians. Yet, the squaw reasoned, there were other "Messiahs" in other tribes and they could not summon death so unerringly.

The squaw recalled Black Bird's trip to St. Louis and his triumphant return to announce that he had been appointed chief of the Omahas by the whites. His people accepted his word, for the palefaces were seemingly endowed with powerful "medicine". Besides the Omahas traded with the whites and the source of beads, gun powder, red paint, and other niceties dear to the primitive heart might be cut off if the white men were disobeyed. Shortly afterward, Black Bird assumed the power of prophecy, or so the legends say.

The life and times of Chief Black Bird, who died in 1800, are largely legends, stories related around the NEBRASKAland campfires or handed down from father to son, but all legends have a basis of truth and even stripped of all embellishment, there is ample proof that Black Bird was a remarkable Indian.

He was a man of many parts. His tribal lands, along the Missouri River between the present cities of Omaha and Sioux City, were nominally controlled by the French and Spanish. Yet, Black Bird was a visionary and he knew the Americans would be the dominant influence in time to come. He wooed them well. The chief was a majestic figure, tall and proud with a distinguished bearing and a great gift of oratory. Ruthlessly disposing of anyone who opposed him, he was ever zealous in protecting the rank and file of his people.

Of all the legends surrounding Black Bird none is more picturesque or more grisly than his death prophecy. Years later, the secret of this power was revealed, but by that time his people were so cowed that JANUARY 1970

none dared throw off his tyranny. A white trader, invited to hunt with the Omahas, is credited with this tale of the chief's iron discipline over his people.

"It had been a long, hard hunt and all of us were parched when we came to a spring. The Indians were almost frantic to reach the water. Yet, a sharp command from the chief stopped them. Only I was allowed to drink."

Black Bird, a primitive, superstitious, and uneducated Indian by white standards, was as devious as the Italian Borgias in his political dealings. In a way, he was a reincarnation of those Italian masters of intrigue, for he worked his whim with poison, too. He had obtained arsenic, an innocuous looking, grayish powder from the white traders, and was briefed on its use. It didn't take him long to realize its tremendous potential.

Whenever someone aroused his ire, the chief would invite the luckless one to (Continued on page 56)

29

30 NEBRASKAland

BUG'S EYE VIEW

Often objects of loathing, the lesser creatures mix beauty with basic natures

Photographs by Steve Kohler

WITH MEN commuting to the moon, and space probes hurtling toward the nearer planets, there is much speculation about life forms on other worlds. With the interest in interspatial exploration, we tend to overlook life forms here in NEBRASKAland that can rival anything that may be found on Mars or Venus for abundance, complexity, adaptability, diversity, beauty, and all-around fascination. Unfortunately, most of us dismiss these life forms as "bugs", and with few exceptions view them with loathing and contempt. The old English definition of a bug-"Any small creature which is small and horrid" —dies hard.

These 10 pages of close-up photographs of some of the colorful and

JANUARY 1970 31   32 NEBRASKAland JANUARY 1970 33   34 NEBRASKAland grotesque insects and spiders found in Nebraska are only a sampling of the great variety of bugs that inhabit this state. The specimens shown here were collected during the "buggy" months from late spring to early fall, and for the most part were photographed in their natural surroundings. Anyone interested in collecting bugs can find plenty of information in the public libraries. Many of the better books contain excellent photographs and drawings to aid in identification as well as instructions on collecting and preserving the various specimens.

There are striking parallels between individuals in the insect world and human society. There are "good" bugs and "bad" bugs just as there are "good" men and "bad" men. In some instances, bugs, like men, are mixtures of both good and bad. We hate the mosquito because he makes our lives miserable, yet we laud the honey bee for her industry. Still, the bite of a mosquito is far less painful than the sting of the bee. We recoil at the sight of a spider, yet we marvel at its artistry when we view its dewfresh web. And, so it is with men. There are individuals we cannot tolerate, yet we admire their accomplishments.

Some bugs and some men can live in harmony with their fellows and work for the common good. The bees and ants are prime examples of this community spirit. On the other hand, the insect world, like the human world, has its ruthless loners. Perhaps the best representative of these loners is the praying mantis, who might better be called the "preying" mantis. He is a cold and emotionless figure who lives by a simple and uncompromising code, kill or be killed, eat or be eaten. There are men who live by a similar philosophy.

The comparison can be carried further. There are indolents among humans, and indolents in the insect world. These shiftless fellows go through life with a come day, go day, God send Sunday attitude that often irritates the more industrious, who like the indefatigable bee, are constantly working. A typical example is the walkingstick, a nondescript insect that never gets excited about anything and will never get an ulcer or suffer a nervous breakdown. Perhaps, he is to be envied in this fastpaced, never-slow-down world.

Then there are the noisy ones in both societies — the ones who are always long on racket and short on accomplishment. In the bug world,

JANUARY 1970 35   36 NEBRASKAland JANUARY 1970 37   38 these are the katydids, dapper green fellows who are constantly arguing "Katy did or Katy didn't" but aren't about to search out the facts and settle the dispute once and for all. It may be that katydids, like some people, have long since forgotten the root controversy and are simply fascinated by the sounds of their own voices. To be absolutely accurate, it must be pointed out that the male katydid is the noisemaker.

Another loud member of the winged, six-legged tribe is the cicada, who is probably the envy of every hen-pecked husband in the world. It must have been a long-suffering husband who coined this charming little couplet about the cicada and his rasping sound.

"Happy be the cicadas' lives. For they have voiceless wives." But the cicada is more than just a noisemaker. He is among the handsomest of insects with a delightful blend of colors and intricate designs on his wings and body. A hand lens is a great help in studying this large, well-known resident of Nebraska. Sometimes he is mistakenly called a locust and is supposed to predict the coming of frost six weeks after he starts tuning up. His music is actually a mating call which is surprising, for lady cicadas have no ears and are supposedly deaf. Somehow, they get the message.

Back east, a charming ne'er-do-well person is often referred to as a grasshopper, hopping from this to that and never looking to the future. The comparison is an apt one, for the grasshopper is the ne'er-do-well of the insects, yet no one really dislikes him, unless like the human counterpart he becomes too plentiful and causes all kinds of woe.

There are quiet ones in the insect world, just as there are quiet ones among humans. Often, they brighten their little corner with their presence, but they leave no lasting impressions. They go about their "work," live out their lives, and in due time die without any particular fuss. The lady bugs, the dragonflies, and many of the beetles are like the great majority of humans, nonentities as individuals but powerful and important in toto. Just as the "little" people keep their world turning, so do the "little" ones of the insect kingdom contribute their bit to the "Grand Design".

Big bug, little bug, colorful or colorless, silent or strident, bold or shy, plentiful or rare, insects are part and parcel of the human environment. THE END

JANUARY 1970 39

DEPOTS Vanishing Americana

Like one-room schools, these two meeting places are part of past. A few, though, adapt

by Elizabeth Huff

ONCE UPON A TIME, the railroad was mighty in the land. Where its twin ribbons of steel went, change was swift and certain. Because of it, some towns boomed while others withered away and died. It linked the nation and brought the immigrants from faraway lands to till the prairie and build a state. It did good and it did evil. And, wherever it went, anything it touched was never again the same.

Today, that undiluted power is gone. Other methods of transport and communication have exacted their toll from the mammoth monopoly. Automobiles, buses, trucks, and planes —all supply the needs and services that were once the prerogative of the railroads alone. The railroads switched emphasis from "people" moving to freight hauling, a job they do with great efficiency.

Almost daily, it seems, there is another petition before a railway commission somewhere to discontinue another passenger train. And, for each one that stops, never to run again, another bit of Americana dies. Once-busy stations stand silent in the gathering dusk. Old No. 97 no longer rumbles through at 4 o'clock, and part of the community's daily routine is but a memory. Surely, big-city terminals are still going strong, but the small-town depot is fading into history before our eyes. Like the one-room school, these village gathering places are being displaced by a different way of life.

Kids no longer gather at the depot to wave at the engineer and listen to the stories of the local sages gathered around the pot-bellied stove. The platform that saw so many joyous greetings and tearful farewells is conspicuously empty. The excited chattering of the telegraph key is silenced, replaced by high-speed microwave communication. Even the clackety-clacking freight seems to hurry past the forlorn little depot as if haunted by the spectres of its happier days.

Slowly at first, rails snaked across the land. Railroads grew more and more powerful. Their influence was felt throughout Nebraska and the nation, for in those pioneer days the railroad meant communication with the outside world. It wielded life and death power over fledgling communities, and towns like Grand Island moved lock, stock, and barrel when city fathers realized they would be doomed if the rails passed them by.

Many towns owed their very existence to the black-belching Iron Horse, for the railroad platted them, named them, and then brought in homesteaders to settle them. No less than 100 villages in NEBRASKAland were named for railroad men or their relatives. Many no longer exist, but that they came into being at all was due to the railroads. Often, the community began simply as a station along the route. The brand new depot standing proudly next to the glistening tracks was a beginning. Soon, a village grew up in its shadow.

Years and then decades passed. Civilization came to the Plains. Mighty diesels replaced the puffing steam engines. Society chugged into mobility, following the rails to prosperity. The change was subtle. Communities thrived while the proud little depot became less and less important.

Mail contracts went to the airlines, and the railroads turned from passenger traffic as unprofitable. The small depots became lonelier and more forlorn as the trains became fewer and fewer.

Then, it happens. Word comes "Close it down. Abandon it. Get rid of it." And thus it comes to pass.

For awhile, the unwanted, forgotten station withstands the onslaught of the elements. But, it cannot last. All too soon the lack of care takes its toll. Finally, bruised, battered, neglected, and ravaged by time, the station quietly gives way to collapse. Or, it feels the brutal bite of the wrecking crews that pick it to pieces for salvage. In either case, it vanishes.

In 1968, the Union Pacific alone closed stations at Sumner, Picknell, Riverdale, Elkhorn, Primrose, Veteran, Martin, Lodgepole, Maxwell, Raymond, and Willow Island. Many others went before and still others will follow, replaced by more modern, more customer-oriented facilities.

What then will be their fate? The slow process of decay? The wrecking crew? Perhaps not. Some people and communities are not so quick to forget or to relinquish this link with the past. Some depots will continue to serve. Granted, they will no longer shelter the weary wayfarer waiting (Continued on page 55)

TO GRASS A GROUSE

Pasture management and wildlife management dovetail to keep hunters, ranchers, and sharptails happy

by Kip Hinton

NINE OUT OF 10 hunters claim the wild turkey or Canada goose are trophy birds. In terms of effort there is only one trophy bird —the sharp-tailed grouse of the Nebraska Sand Hills. With the Sand Hills sharptail, it's walk your legs off or you don't find him. Forest Ranger Dan Heinz of the Bessey Division of the Nebraska National Forest at Halsey and I were hunting sharptails in the undulating grassy hills and after two unsuccessful hours of loping over the choppies I wasn't too enthusiastic about the whole deal. I'm an information specialist with the U.S. Forest Service, stationed in Denver, and this was my first sharptail hunt.

"Grasshoppers and meadowlarks, maybe —but upland game birds —in this stuff? You have to be kidding," I scoffed.

Dan's answer was cut short. Pushed out by a panting retriever, two grayish-brown birds catapulted from the grass. Distracted by me, Dan was caught flatfooted. The churlish "keck, keck" of the grouse was interrupted by shots from others in the party. As the dog went 42 NEBRASAKland about his business of retrieving, I felt a little foolish; thankful I hadn't asked yet another foolish question: "What is a ranger—a U.S. Forest Service Ranger yet —doing in the middle of all this sand and grass?"

The little delay in admiring the downed grouse let me answer it myself. I knew the Halsey Division covered 90,350 acres with only 22,000 of them in trees. So, it was obvious there had to be a lot of sand and grass left over. Still, the whole area is Nebraska National Forest land and under Dan's management.

As a self-invited guest, my contribution to our 1968 hunt was a flat-coated retriever named "Ramblin' Wreck", and a continuous volley of questions. I was, frankly, a pest. So much so that when we topped a rise and three grouse flushed, Heinz neatly tripled. It was a defensive move on his part. His limit filled, he could concentrate on the babbling scribe trotting along beside him.

The Bessey Division, with headquarters at Halsey and a division office near Valentine, offers a staggering amount of public land to hunt. With 90,350 acres on the Bessey unit proper and its northern Niobrara Division of 110,000 acres —all potential grouse ground — grouse can be, and are, almost everywhere. It is the art of pinpointing the exact spot in this look-alike morass of Sand Hills that creates the problem. "Art", in this case, is loosely translated to "walk".

Road hunters will find few sharptails. For one thing, there are few roads in the Sand Hills. I found that a semi-deskbound writer loaded with cameras instead of a shotgun, fared little better than road hunters. Hunting here is more suited to the long legged, walk-them-out type of hunter. There were two of these in the party, Floyd Pulliam and his crony, Tim Britton, both of Sargent. Before our hunt was over, I was ready to break one of Floyd's 74-year-old legs, just to keep up with him.

Floyd has been hunting sharptails since he was 12, but this was his first hunt on the Nebraska National Forest. At the other end of the age scale was 10-year-old Johnny, son of Ranger Heinz. This was Johnny's first hunt. Somewhere in the middle was Ken Weyers, a range and wildlife expert on the supervisor's staff of Nebraska National Forest, from Chadron.

With Heinz and Weyers, weekend hunting is secondary to their interest in what makes the game flourish. They find birds, not because they know exactly where they are, but because they know where the birds should be. The moral, if any: To find a bird, first learn his habits. Cover, food, water, weather, all enter into the wildlife biologist's hunting plans.

In the Sand Hills area sharp-tailed grouse do not depend upon cultivated crops at any time of year. This rules out the hunting tactics used on ringnecks or quail. Grouse feed on insects, weed seeds, wild grasses, buds, twigs, leaves, and wild-rose hips. Birds dropped on our hunt had crops bulging with rose hips and sunflower seeds

"They like the breezy hilltops during the heat of the day," Heinz said. He neglected to mention there are seventy-eleven breezy hilltops per square mile in the Sand Hills.

Early morning and late afternoon found us hunting the likely feeding grounds. There was always a windmill or stock pond nearby. We hunted those breezy ridges, plus wild-plum thickets during the heat of the day.

Food and cover, or habitat, proves the key to successful hunting. As Ken explained it, habitat spells room and board for wildlife. Wildlife production, be it sharp-tailed grouse, deer, turkey, pheasant, quail, waterfowl, antelope, or the kindred other birds and beasts which frequent Nebraska National Forest, depends upon available food. Because of careful management, in cooperation with the Nebraska Game and Parks Commission, the National Forest is rapidly becoming one of the more popular wildlife boarding houses in the prairie states.

We made wide sweeps through the hills, working in an arc to finally return, footsore and thirsty, to the car. Hunting conditions were not the best. There had been no frost, it was hot, and the birds were scattered. After a good freeze, preferably with some snow, the sharptails bunch together. While the birds kept their cool on the ridge tops, we labored to reach them. They could see us coming, flushing far ahead. We marked them down as best we could, then took off in weary pursuit.

Although in constant field-trial training, after two days of rambling through sand, sandburs, cactus, and sharp-spined yucca, my dog proved well named. He was a physical wreck. Even Floyd's young pointer, Sport, accustomed to the land, pulled up lame. An encounter with a porcupine didn't help his spirits. Good dogs are important. Flushing wild at first, the sharptail, if pursued, changes tactics. He can hold as tight as a rooster pheasant. It takes a dog to move him, and once downed by the gun, the bird blends into the grass. The pointer, retriever combination worked well for us.

Being under Forest Service management and protection, the land we hunted had multiple use. For example on Bessey, there are 6,500 head of cattle using the same grass necessary for sharptail production, plus antelope and deer. Ranchers whose cattle are permitted to graze the land are cooperating in sound range-management programs designed not only to benefit the stockmen but which also improve wildlife conditions.

At one juncture, at least eight birds flushed at once. There was no shooting. The birds flew directly at a herd of cattle. I had wondered about cattle grazing during the hunting season. Most places, a rancher looks with

JANUARY 1970 43   jaundiced eye on a gun, even a shotgun, within 10 miles of his cows. This being public land and under multiple-use management, cows and hunting have to get along.

"We haven't had one complaint," Heinz said. "No one has reported livestock losses due to hunter carelessness"

As we marked the birds down and started after them, Dan pointed out that at one time the plow and the cow threatened extirpation of sharp-tailed grouse. Today, in the Sand Hills, the plow is virtually extinct. The cow? There are more beef cattle in the Nebraska Sand Hills alone than there are in some western states noted for beef production. Grouse and grass go together, along with cattle, according to Dan.

"Of course, if we ever start overgrazing this country, we'll lose the sharptail. But then we'd lose the cow business, too. These Sand Hills ranchers are proud of their grass and use it wisely. They're going to look after it. I think it's safe to say the grouse and cows are here to stay."

"Grazing could conflict with wildlife management," the ranger continued, "but with proper management it doesn't. We rotate the pastures, so that the grasslands get a good rest. This assures future production. Rotation pasture management dovetails neatly with wildlife management. Everybody's happy — the hunter, the rancher, and, of course, the birds."

Game biologists with the Nebraska Game Commission have been conducting intensive research on grouse habitat and populations for the past seven years. Part of the program includes wing samples collected by hunters, for it is the shape of the outer two primary flight feathers which indicate the age of the bird. On young of the year the feathers are pointed and have a frayed edge, while on adults they are rounded and have a smooth, unworn edge.

Wildlife programs on the forest are a good example of the quiet campaign being waged by state and federal

wildlife managers to not only maintain, but improve our hunting. Costs and manpower are split between the Forest Service and Commission wildlife technicians.

Some of this cooperation approaches the unique. Each spring the sharptail puts on quite a show at his dancing grounds. Cocks try to outdo each other in attracting hens. Both Forest Service and the Commission people thought the public should see this early morning act, so a blind was erected near Halsey and opened on a first-come basis to the public. For the first time, many people saw the sharptail strut his stuff.

There's method behind this movement. The more people interested, the better chance of gaining support for wildlife work. As Dan pointed out, hunting is considered recreation, yet wildlife-habitat work is not getting the dollars that campground construction or other types of National Forest recreation sports are attracting through public demand. It's a point to keep in mind.

Federal and state cooperation does not begin or end with the sharptail. Food plots are being planted. Again, the costs and labor are divided between Forest Service and the Nebraska Game Commission. The food plots provide emergency winter food for grouse, turkey, quail, pheasants, as well as white-tailed and mule deer. If the plots are never used, it means there is plenty of food available. Insurance, not a substitute for natural foods, is the purpose of the food-plot program.

We kept moving into bird territory as Dan filled me in on the forest's multiple-use concepts and its overall hunting potentials. When we worked toward a likely spot, I maneuvered behind young Johnny for a possible picture. His old, bolt-action 16 gauge was almost as tall as he was. On instructions, he carried it with the safety on and the bolt up. A single grouse spurted from the grass, and John's shoulder jerked back. He had dropped his first Sand Hills sharptail.

Thanks to Forest Ranger Dan Heinz, and all the others who are protecting and managing Bessey, it won't be his last. THE END

NOTES ON NEBRASKA FAUNA. . . TIMBER RATTLESNAKE

Deadly but beneficial, this pit viper stalks prey by body heat and "feel"

by Bill Shoenecker Section Chief, Fisheries

AN EARLY-DAY author wrote of the rattlesnake, "But the i good God marked the beast by putting a cloche (bell) on its tail." Snakes, especially poisonous ones, have always fascinated man and the timber rattlesnake, Crotalus horridus horridus (Linneaus), has always had his fair share of publicity, some fact, some fiction. He is not very common in Nebraska with only a few specimens recovered in Cass, Gage, and Richardson counties.

A timber rattler is classed as a pit viper because he has "pits" or facial depressions between his eyes and nostrils. These sensory organs let him detect the presence of warmblooded animals without seeing them. Such ability means food, for the timber rattler is primarily a night hunter. Heat sensing also helps in locating prey that was fanged but managed to travel a few feet before stopping. The snake folltfws up the heat "waves" of his victim and recovers his meal.

The snake is believed deaf in the sense of "hearing" noises. However, he is sensitive to vibrations and apparently "feels" sounds. His eyesight is considered good, but like that of all animals, it is more perceptive of moving objects.

This reptile uses his venom to either kill or immobilize his prey. Observers say the strike is very JANUARY 1970

light, almost a "brush" or "touch" rather than the all-out strike that occurs when the snake is defending himself. Apparently, the reptile releases just enough venom to kill the mice, rabbits, birds, and other small mammals that make up his diet. Once the prey is reached, the snake swallows it, usually starting at the head and literally drawing himself over it. Hinged jaws and a distensible throat structure enable him to swallow relatively large animals.

The timber rattlesnake blends well with his surroundings although there are color variations. Generally, they have dark, chevron-shape crossbands on a basic ground color of yellowish brown or brownish gray. The darker bands may or may not be outlined with a lighter color border. The tail of an adult is usually black. At one time it was thought that color variations indicated males and females, but more study revealed these variations to be mere color phases. Timber rattlers found in the eastern portion of their geographic range are often of the dark phase, but all of them collected in Nebraska are of the light.

Average adult size is 3 1/2 feet, but individuals of slightly over 6 feet have been noted. The old belief that each rattle indicates a year of age dies hard, but it is untrue. A new rattle is added each time the snake sheds his skin and this happens several times a year. Rattles are composed of "keratin", the same substance found in horn, hair, nails, and feathers. Like these other animal products, it withstands hard wear, however, snakes do lose their rattles through accidents. The idea that rattlers always "rattle" or buzz before striking is another fallacy. They may or may not sound off before striking. Some researchers believe the buzz is primarily a nervous reaction when the snake is alarmed.

Timber rattlers, like practically all snakes, can swim, but are not particularly water loving. Some observers claim a swimming rattler makes a conscious effort to keep his rattles dry, but this is open to argument.

Cool weather drives the timber rattlesnake into hibernation often with other species of snakes. Their winter homes are rocky crevices or other protected areas usually below ground level. They emerge in the spring and mate then. Females are, in scientific terminology, ovoviviparous, or bearing live young from eggs contained in the mother's body. The young snakes are born in the fall. Timber rattlers are comparatively long-lived reptiles in the wild, but like all wild things they face death every day. They are vulnerable to hawks, owls, skunks, snake-eating snakes, hogs, and man. Cold blooded, timber rattlers cannot survive direct exposure to high temperatures for very long.

Timber rattlers frequent rocky hillsides covered with underbrush and hardwood trees. Specimens have been collected from hollow logs during the daylight hours. Apparently they are not particularly antisocial toward other species, for one herpetologist recovered a female timber rattler with several young from one end of a hollow log and a copperhead also in the family way from the other.

Like all rattlesnakes, the timber rattler is dangerous, but due to his limited distribution in Nebraska, few people here will ever encounter him. Yet, he deserves respect and a wide berth. His size and potent venom make him as lethal as any other rattler.

In a way, the timber rattler is beneficial for he eliminates many rodents, but few people remember this. Like all venomous reptiles, he is decidedly unpopular with humans. So much so, that his numbers will continue to dwindle because of man's encroachment of his habitat. THE END

47

PHANTOM DRIFTWOOD CREEK

What is the mysterious thing? Where will it strike next? The unseen monster left his calling card written in blood

by Martha E. Lambert

IT HAPPENED 82 years ago when I was only 6, but it gave me such a fear complex that I remember it like yesterday. My father, lured by free land, had fone homesteading in 1884, so we had been in Neraska only 3 years when it happened. Our home was a log house on the banks of Driftwood Creek, 12 miles south of the village of Culbertson.

Nebraska was then a frontier of sod shanties and buffalo wallows. The buffalo were gone, but their bleaching bones and peeling horns could still be found in the shifting soil. Many poor homesteaders made an extra dollar by gathering the bones for shipment east to sugar refineries and other processors.

Then in the fall of 1887, some unknown monster — a "phantom" — invaded our privacy. No one had ever seen him, but he left his calling card written in blood. Yearling calves, colts, and other livestock, too big to be killed by wolves, coyotes, and other native predators, were found slaughtered and partly eaten.

Then in November after a light snow, two neighbor boys, Ed and John Knobbs, were hunting rabbits in the woods back of our house. Suddenly Old Liz, their rabbit hound, stopped dead in her tracks when the bunny trail she was following was crossed by the imprint of a big paw. It was a strange-looking track, shaped like a dog's foot, but as big as a mustang's hoof. The boys had heard about the phantom and were 48 scared. However, curiosity overcame fear and they and the hound followed the tracks to where, at the edge of the creek, the mysterious thing had leaped the narrow stream leaving deep, cuplike tracks in the half-frozen mud of the opposite bank.

Neither hunters nor hound had courage to cross the creek and pursue the trail. They forgot about rabbits and hurried home to tell what they had seen. That night, Al French, a homesteader north of the creek, had a good-size hog killed, carried out of the pen, and dragged half a mile to where it was partly eaten.

Now, the neighborhood really buzzed with excitement. What is the mysterious thing? Where will it strike next? The phantom was the discussion around every fireside. Glassy-eyed, I listened to bloody tales and conjectures and had nightmarish dreams of dragons and witches.

Sometime later, Fonce McDonald was riding home about midnight after spending an evening with the Knobbs boys. As he approached the Driftwood bridge his horse shied and snorted at every shadow and refused to go forward except from a sharp jab of the spurs. Suddenly, at the brow of the hill leading down to the creek, the horse froze in her tracks. Standing in the road was a jgreat shadowy outline with eyes that glowed like balls of fire. For a moment both horse and rider were too petrified to move. Then the horse wheeled, almost pitching Fonce from the saddle, and raced back to the Knobbs house.

Fonce tumbled from his mount and ran into the house too scared to knock. Stammering in fright, he told the Knobbs boys what (Continued on page 50)

NEBRASKAland

PHANTOM OF DRIFTWOOD

(Continued from page 48)

he had seen. They looked at each other with wide eyes, remembering the tracks in the snow. To bolster their own courage, while they saddled their horses to ride back to the creek with Fonce, they kidded him about "seeing things".

It was an eerie night. A light fog hung in the air like a filmy curtain. The horses champed their bits and puffed white steam from their nostrils. They could hear dogs barking for miles up and down the creek. Out on the lonely prairie, coyotes yodeled into the stars. Whining, Old Liz sniffed the air and kept close to the horses' heels.

They had almost hit the creek when THERE IT WAS! A great shadowy outline with eyes that gleamed like candles in the dark. Their horses reared, wheeling so suddenly they bumped heads, knocking one horse to his knees. Then they were off at a mad run home with Old Liz in the lead.

The phantom became the subject of conversation at every gathering. Farmers scratched their heads in wonderment when they met on street corners at the village or toasted their shins at the potbellied stove in the local store.

"What is the darn thing?" Sam Edwards blurted.

"Maybe it's a ghost," someone volunteered.

"Could be a ghost," Sam added. "Ghosts are just shadows like this thing is. Nobody ain't seen this thing except as a shadow."

"Ain't no ghost can kill a hog," Al French declared.

"Maybe it's the devil," my father chuckled. "You fellows better mind your prayers."

Everyone had a different idea about the phantom, but most agreed it was best to finish their trading early and get home before nightfall. No one wanted to cross Driftwood after dark.

It was nearing the Christmas holidays when father decided to do the winter's butchering and hired the Knobbs boys to help. The day proved properly cold and by noon three fat hogs hung from scaffolds, their clean, scraped hides glistening white in the winter sunshine. By mid-afternoon it began to warm up and a dampness in the air hinted of snow. All hands got busy quartering the porkers and getting the meat ready to carry into the smokehouse before dark.

It so happened that the day of the butchering was the day for the once-a-week mail that came out from the village to the country post office in the home of two maiden ladies who lived a mile across the creek. Mail was always an important occasion. The continued story in the Kansas City Weekly Star was something the entire family looked forward to. Also, there would be letters from the folks back home in Iowa. Even the catalogs and circulars were eagerly scanned in our literature-starved neighborhood.

As was the custom of the country when anyone butchered, he shared some of the fresh meat with his neighbors. So father carried along a basket of meat for the postmistresses. Since the night was dark and he had to cross the creek on a foot-log, he carried a lantern to light his way. He'd been gone only a few minutes when our dog, Shep, came scratching and barking frantically at the door. This seemed strange since he was never allowed in the house. As mother opened the door cautiously to look out, the dog slipped between her feet and ran whining behind the stove. He was ordinarily a brave dog but now his eyes gleamed with fear. For a moment, mother stood peering into the impenetrable darkness. Suddenly, the night was shattered by a blood-curdling scream. It seemed to come from the wild-plum thicket just back of the house. The first sound was like the terrified shriek of a woman, then it died away in the sob-like bray of a mule.

"The phantom!" mother screamed, slamming the door and pushing the bolt tight. She was terribly frightened. Her panic alarmed me and I began to cry and cling to her skirt.

When father came home he pounded furiously on the locked door. Mother slid back the bolt and he stepped in quickly, locking the door behind him. My father was no coward, and mother had often said, "Father wouldn't be afraid if the devil came and stood in the doorway," but now he was visibly and shakingly frightened.

"Did you hear the awful scream?" he asked, trying to control his trembling voice.

"Yes!" mother breathed. "It seemed to come from right back of the house, Shep was so scared he whined back of the stove."

"It must have been the phantom!" Father stammered. "I had just crossed the footlog when something tried to get into the basket of meat. I thought it was Shep, but when I would swing around 50

NEBRASKAland with the lantern the thing would slink back into the bushes. I was almost out of the woods when it tried again to get into the basket. I whirled around with the lantern and it jumped back in the bushes with eyes gleaming like live coals. Then it gave that awful scream. It almost shook the ground under my feet."

He caught his breath and went on. "I tossed the basket of meat into the bushes and hurried on to the post office. Mother, I was really scared. I dreaded to walk home through the woods, but I knew you'd be frightened if I didn't come back. I thought it might smell the blood from the butchering and come right up to the house. I believe it was the lantern that saved my life. If it hadn't been afraid of the light it might have attacked me. I've heard that wild animals are afraid of fire."

The mystery of the phantom was solved a few weeks later when Sam Edwards' prize yearling failed to come home one morning with the milk cows. Sam was counting on that yearling for his winter's meat, so he marched straight into the house, pulled his gun down from the rafters, and walked swiftly down the cow trail to the canyon. At the edge of the woods he found the yearling, its throat torn open and a hind quarter partly eaten. Big, gory tracks in the snow led up the canyon wall where a ledge of rocks jutted out from the bank. Sitting in the sun, licking his paws was a big, tawny mountain lion. Glutted with meat, he was preparing for his morning nap.

Sam turned to a statue, not daring to breathe. He knew he was too far away for a good shot. He knew, too, that a lion can cover an incredible distance in a few giant leaps. Would it attack if only slightly wounded? Seething with rage over his dead yearling, Sam knew he had to take a chance. He raised the gun, took careful aim up the slope, and fired. With a cry of pain, the lion leaped high in the air, turned tail, and headed for the woods.

The lion was wounded, Sam knew, but he didn't know how badly. He gave chase but dropped the trail of blood where the lion ducked into a wild-plum thicket. The man was afraid to follow through the tangle of vines and bushes where the lion would have the advantage in an encounter. Sadly, he walked back to the house.

The phantom was never seen in our neighborhood again, but a short time later we had a letter from a friend at Ogallala who told of having killed a half-starved mountain lion with a broken leg.

We felt sure it was the phantom, but my childish mind had been so terrified by tales of his depredations that to this day the sight of a lion gives me goose pimples. THE END

There are 10 reported and 2 confirmed sightings of mountain lions in Nebraska since 1880. It is possible the puma mentioned in this story strayed out of Colorado JANUARY 1970 and worked eastward along the Republican River Valley. However, there is no record of one being taken near Ogallala in 1888. — Editor.

LAST WAGON TRAIN WEST

(Continued from page 19)

fell asleep, but the rest of me never did.

To keep entertained I tried wagon hopping. After leaving the Hamiltons I joined Bert. Climbing in and out of a wagon takes skill and agility. The trick is to put your foot on the hub, grab hold of the side of the wagon, make a giant step for the foot rest, then in one motion pull your bulk up and to the right. One miscue and you find yourself on the ground looking up at a mule's tail.

"I don't know how they stood it," Bert muttered as I settled beside him. "This trip, if it teaches me anything, will give me respect for the men and women who traveled the Oregon Trail. When they were this far out they couldn't turn back, while we can head into the nearest town if something happens.

He had put his finger on the only major fallacy in reconstructing our trip. Ours wasn't a life-or-death proposition, while for many of the 49'ers it was. But knowing that help was close also put us at a disadvantage. We could quit now, tonight, or tomorrow and it wouldn't make much difference. So, it took courage and extra effort to plug along hour after hour when we knew the comforts of a soft chair and television were close at hand.

As the trail moved closer to the river and the shadows lengthened, we pulled to a stop at a windmill. We needed a place to circle the wagons for the night and, unlike the pioneers, we had to ask the landowner's permission. Scouts were sent to a nearby ranch and a short time later they returned saying we could camp next to the North Platte River and on the ruts of the old trail. We had made our 20 miles. Although the Platte and the bluffs to the south were extremely beautiful there was little time to study the grandeur of the historic setting. Camp work, like woman's work, is never done.

When the pioneers traveled west wood was scarce, so buffalo chips were used for fuel. To keep the trip true, Bill tried to convince Kathy that she should gather cow chips instead of firewood, but she wrinkled her freckled nose in disagreement. While the men watered the stock the Hamilton children and the Guenin Clodhoppers gathered wood for the night fire. After eating dust all day, our primary objective was to substitute food, so the women peeled potatoes, shucked corn, and made coffee.

As we ate, three deer waded across the river to a small island and began browsing. Immediately, 22 pairs of eyes focused on the picture-pretty scene. When the deer finally disappeared, Ray leaned against the wagon and looked down at a new-found friend.

"I drink crickets in my coffee to kill the taste," Ray said as he took a sip. "Bet you don't," Clodhopper Susan Riley laughed.

OUTDOOR CALENDAR

HUNTING Cock Pheasant - Through January 11, statewide. Quail - Through January 11, statewide. Rabbits - No closed season, statewide. Squirrels - Through January 11, statewide. High Plains Mallards - Through January 4. West of U.S. 83. Varments - No closed season, statewide.

TRAPPING Muskrat-Through February 28, statewide. Mink-Through January 15, statewide. Beaver* -Through February 28, Designated area. See 1969 NEBRASKAland Hunting Guide. No trapping of any kind permitted on state parks or state-owned lakes and marshes without special-written permission from the Nebraska Game and Parks Commission.

FISHING All species - Hook and line. Statewide. Season open all year. Archery - Nongame fish only, year-round, sunrise to sunset. Hand — Nongame fish only, year-round, sunrise to sunset. Spearing Underwater powered Spearfishing— No closed season on non-game fish. Snagging - Missouri Riveronly. All otherwatersclosed. State special-use areas are open to hunting in season the year-round unless otherwise posted or designated. Hunting permitted in season in state-recreation areas from October 1 to April 1 unless otherwise posted or designated.

FOR COMPLETE DETAILS Consult NEBRASKAland hunting and fishing guides, available from conservation officers, NEBRASKAlanders, permit vendors, tourist welcome stations, county clerks, all Game Commission offices, or by writing the Game Commission, State Capitol, Lincoln, Nebraska 68509.

"Done it ever since I was a boy," the old-timer came back.

By now a crowd of children and grown-ups had gathered. "If I find a cricket, will you put it in your coffee?"

"Aren't any big enough around here to kill the coffee taste," Ray said as he rubbed his white goatee.

Immediately several small hands were pawing through the grass.

"Here's one!" Clodhopper Bobbie Sue Thornburg shouted.

"Not big enough," Ray answered.

"I knew you wouldn't do it," Susan laughed.

"Sure I will," Ray blurted dropping the bug into his coffee.

With a chorus of voices urging him on, Ray, caught in his own joke, raised the cup to his lips, faked a sip and a swallow, then tossed the remaining coffee and the cricket on the ground.

"Told you too small a cricket would spoil the coffee," he laughed.

A new-found admiration swept through Susan's eyes, and for the rest of the trip Ray was more than just an old-timer with stories to tell. There was still enough light left to do some exploring, so our group broke up. The Hamilton kids washed off the trail dust by wading in the river, the Clodhoppers picked cattails and rode horses, and 16-year-old John Fox and his Big Springs neighbor, Jay Dixon, headed downriver to walk off their dinner. While the men secured camp for the night the women washed dishes.

With darkness came a story-telling session and Ray led the way. But, travel the next day meant an early bedtime and long before most of us wanted to move away from the fire, it was sack time. The wagons were beds for some, but most of us slept on the ground. As I watched the fire slowly die, I saw a mule walk by my bedroll. I gave the alarm, "Stock loose," and for well over an hour Bert and Walt chased the mules before catching them. They finally returned with the critters, thanking their lucky stars that barbed wire was a barrier on the plains.

At dawn the smell of fresh coffee floated through the air, and as the men hitched up the animals the women prepared to break camp. The morning before we were a spritely crew, eager to conquer the trail ahead. But by mid-morning of the second day, the children could manage only hollow-eyed grins and the men were almost asleep as they stared into the distance. It is difficult for anyone who has not traveled by wagon to understand how monotonous it can be to sit hour after hour watching the land slowly sliding away under the spokes.

The first day out I walked several miles because I had read that many pioneers walked their way west. If the 49'ers could walk 1,000 miles, I told myself, I could stand 10 miles a day. That assumption got me in trouble. My legs felt like rubber bands tied in knots when we headed out at sunrise of the second day. The only way to get rid of stiffness is to walk it off, so as the wagons bumped along the old trail, I jogged behind. As I tried to forget my board-like legs, my mind wandered back to some books I had read on the Oregon Trail. I remembered that the pioneers, to conserve their strength and keep a steady walking pace, would hang onto the sides or backs of NEBRASKAland their wagons and let them pull them along.

If that method worked in the 1840's it was worth a try in the 1960's. The first requirement was to catch the wagons, and if you are a sit-in-the-office writer, that's pretty hard to do. To catch them I had to run and the last time I did that was when my wife chased me down the wedding aisle. Somehow I managed a quick burst of speed and latched onto the rear of the wagon. With a grin I leaned back and let the rig pull me along. The method did make walking easier.

By lunch my stiffness was gone, but Lew's horses and Bert's mules were starting to feel the miles. Bill's husky team was still in good shape. The sky was overcast, and as the wagons lumbered relentlessly west they rolled toward a thunderstorm. With lightning flashing in the distance the wagoners began to wonder if their rag tops would shed water. I ran for the Hamilton wagon as the first raindrops plopped into the dust. Their wagon leaked like a sieve, but the cold rain felt good as it washed away the trail dust. The other wagons were shedding water, but our outriders were getting soaked. During a lull in the storm I hopped out of the Hamilton outfit and joined Lew. With sunset four hours off, the livestock worn out, and a wet crew of outriders, we decided to find a campsite. When the scout returned we headed for a site on the North Platte River some 25 yards off the old trail. We made about 18 miles and were still some 20 miles from Courthouse Rock.

After the horses were watered and the fire started, Bert Guenin walked my way and called a meeting.

"My animals are beat," Bert said as he crouched down. "We are a good three-fourths day out from the rock and I don't think my mules can make it. Besides, we have to be done by noon tomorrow because we have to truck these outfits back home."

"I'd like to see one team make it to within sight of the rock, but I don't think my horses can do it," Lew indicated. "I hate to quit, but my animals aren't up to a long haul like this."

"I checked my team and they are in pretty good shape," Bill said. "They are more used to this type of pulling than the other stock and I think they can go for at least another half-day."

"It's not my place to tell you what to do and what not to do, but if Bill wants to go on, I know of a perfect spot to end this trip," I entered in. "There is an Oregon Trail marker just east of Bridgeport and you can see Courthouse Rock from there. We can make it in half a day and still have time to haul the wagon back."

Although none of the wagons would reach our ultimate objective, Bill agreed to roll within sight of Courthouse Rock. That night camp was solemn. In two short days we had become a community on wheels and hated to break up. Visitors from nearby ranches came into camp to sip coffee and talk around the fire. When they had left, Ray got out his harmonica and for the first time in 100 years music from a ring of wagons floated into the crisp night air.

The next morning, Bill hitched up at dawn and headed West alone. It was 11 miles to the trail marker but the time passed quickly. Suddenly, the end of the trail was in sight. As the wagon rolled to a stop beside the marker, Ruth, Bill's wife read: "Amanda, consort of M. J. Lamin of Devonshire, England, Born Feb. 22, 1822, Died June 23, 1850 of Cholera." Courthouse Rock loomed in the distance behind the marker, and the last wagon train West was now history. THE END

THE CAT'S MEOW

(Continued from page 21)

before sunrise. I like to check my lines at sunrise, because I am sure I lose some fish by waiting until late morning. When my first alarm clock went off at 6:15 a.m. I didn't hear it and when my second clock rang at 6:30 I ignored it. At 9:15 I finally struggled down to the boat. My luck hadn't changed while I was asleep. I had caught another drum and added a fourth species to my Missouri River catch —a throwback sauger. It was apparent that I would have to change tactics to catch cats.

The finicky cats evidently had lost their taste for minnows, so the first step was to come up with a substitute. I loaded Benjie in the truck and we headed for Lynch. Luckily, a local grocery store had two boxes of bait shrimp and some liver, but I had another ace up my sleeve, too. I prefer to use natural baits and when all else fails frogs are my old reliables.

Experience has taught me that frogs are hard to catch by hand in the daytime, so I grabbed a .22 rifle and a box of shells and headed for a small pond. My plan was perfectly legal, for I had a small-game hunting permit and that's all you need to shoot frogs. A sneak attack works the best on the cautious critters, so I bellied up a hill overlooking the pond and spotted a dozen or so sunbathing frogs. I steadied the rifle on the first hopper and squeezed off a shot. A direct hit, and I had bait for at least one hook. I sighted in on another splotch of green but my shot threw dirt up behind him. The frog was nervous and made two hops, then stopped. My next shot bagged him. Before it was over I had eight frogs. The shots didn't seem to disturb the hoppers, but when I got up to retrieve the dead ones several others jumped for the water.

My catfish strategy also included moving four of my five setlines to new locations. The change would mean more boat travel and wading, but if that meant catching catfish it would be worth it. After rebaiting the one remaining line at the drop-off bank, I headed for a sandbar. On the south side of the sandbar the bank drops straight down to form a perfect catfish hole and that's where I placed my second line. My last three setlines were spaced out on the south bank of my property. A hole beneath a huge cottonwood looked good, so I tied one line to some exposed roots. I anchored another line to a partly submerged tree that was about 15 feet offshore, and my third line was thrown behind a tree that had fallen in the river.

Sunset was just three hours off when I docked the boat. That gave me a couple of hours to check the cattle and talk to my hired man before I staked out an alfalfa patch for deer. My ranch is a mixture of towering bluffs and deep valleys and from any (Continued on page 55)

JANUARY 1970 53

Outdoor Elsewhere

Unusual Cash Crop. Crows are a cash crop in Oklahoma, according to the state's tourism commission. Officials reported that Caddo County took in some $130,000 from crow shooters in recent years, $30,000 of which came from 90 nonresidents who bagged 30,000 birds. Based on these figures, each of the non-residents spent approximately $333 and bagged about 333 crows. That makes the crows worth exactly a buck apiece. — Oklahoma

"Chop Chop" Policy. Visitors to the U.S. Forest Service campgrounds in Oregon and Washington will either have to get with the program and chop their own wood at designated do-it-yourself woodpiles, or buy it from concessionaires. Rising costs boosted the annual expense of providing free firewood to about $200,000. That's enough money to build 100 additional campground units that will accommodate another 500 camping rigs. If you're planning a trip to this particular area, you had better take your axe along and be prepared to "chop".— Oregon

Costly Phone Bill. Three Arkansas men wound up with a mighty expensive telephone bill-$300 each —and all for a local call. It seems the trio was "telephoning" for fish, an illegal pastime, and got connected with the wildlife-enforcement officers. The judge evidently wants to put a halt to such calls and refused to suspend any portion of the fines. — Arkansas

Water Haul. A New York striped-bass charter boat captain is finally retiring after being dogged by other skippers for 20 years. It seems the veteran captain always knew where the stripers were and was the envy of all other fishermen. He recalls a day when several skippers 54 ganged up on him and followed him 14 miles offshore for what they hoped would be lots of stripers. But, to their surprise, all he did was to obtain a sample of water for a biologist making a study. When he put the cork back in the bottle and started back, they cursed him blue. The envious skippers stopped dogging the captain for quite awhile after that episode.— New York

Ungrateful Mutt. A Pennsylvania trapper found a dog in one of his fox traps. Very gently, the trapper released the pooch. The dog sat down and licked his wounded paw for a couple of minutes. Then he jumped up, bit the trapper, and ran off. That's really biting the hand that frees you. —Pennsylvania

Sure Snake-Getter. Mayonnaise may be hazardous to your health, if you're a Texas snake, that is. A trio of east-Texas men demonstrated their techniques for killing with mayonnaise when they encountered an especially belligerent cottonmouth moccasin while hauling hay. After a quick, unsuccessful search for a stick or rock, one of them remembered a jar of mayonnaise in his lunch bag. A well-aimed toss incapacitated the snake long enough for the men to administer the final coup with quart cans of motor oil. —Texas

Submarine Warfare. Sonar, an apparatus used to detect enemy submarines, is being employed by Minnesota's fish-and-game officials to rid the state of a different type of underwater enemy. Fisheries biologists have adapted the sonar technique to pinpoint schools of carp and other unwanted rough fish for quick removal by netting. Formerly, it was a hit-or-miss effort since the location of rough fish was highly uncertain. — Minnesota

A "Littery-ary" Lesson. Litterbugs in Maine may simply be "courting" disaster. One judge levied a $20 fine against a Greenville resident who had pitched one soda pop bottle. There was only one catch. The litterbug had to earn the fine by picking up and cashing jn returnable bottles along the highway until he raised enough to meet the court's tab. And, at 2 cents a bottle, $20 is exactly 1,000 bottles.— Maine

No Cherry Blossom. Kids not only say the darndest things but sometimes write them, too. Such was the case when an anxious 11-year-old boy in Nova Scotia wrote the American Automobile Club concerning the Cherry Blossom Festival in Washington, D.C. The letter read:

"My family wants to come down there in April for that Cherry Blossom Festival thing, but I'm not so sure about it. There was a Cat Festival in this boy's house in Amherst last month and you had to have a cat to get in. I got a cat, but I ain't never seen no cherry blossom around here."

The youth was assured that there would be cherry blossoms enough in Washington without his having to bring any. — Washington, D.C.

Paint Job. The New York Conservation Department has banned goldfish as bait. However, anglers who favored the goldies for taking lake trout were undaunted. They simply visited the local dime store and bought cans of gold paint. The fishermen then painted the saw-bellies. The imitation goldfish apparently are doing the job. —New York

Pocketbook Problems. Assuredly, many jokes have been made about a woman's pocketbook. However, a Pennsylvania game warden witnessed an incident that beats them all. While on patrol he spotted a woman fishing from a dock and asked her how fishing was. The warden noticed she didn't have a fishing license displayed, so he asked to see it.

"Just a minute, I have it here somewhere," she said. The hunt began. She looked and dug and scratched and searched. Finally, the woman dumped the pocketbook upside down on the dock. Curlers, salmon eggs, hairpins, sinkers, bobbers, lipstick, comb, hooks, splitshot, money, pliers, and dozens of other odds and ends poured out. And believe it or not, way down at the bottom, the license. —Pennsylvania

Fishing for Crooks. Law-enforcement officers in Nashville, Tennessee recently used fishing equipment to break up a burglary ring. An electronic fish-locating device, which works on sonar principles, helped the officers locate two safes and a panel truck in the deep, muddy Cumberland River. With the evidence all rounded up, the officers easily wrapped up the case. They aren't sure how the fancy equipment works on fish, but it certainly does the job locating trucks and safes. — Tennessee

Incredible Fall. While quail hunting with her master near Tucson, Arizona, Ginger, a golden retriever, fell into an abandoned mine shaft. The shaft was 110 feet deep. Ginger's master went for help and soon the dog was topside again — absolutely unharmed. But, that's only the half of it. Rescuers found the dog still holding a bird in her mouth.— Arizona

Rabbit Tracks. A Pennsylvania hunter got thoroughly soaked and chilled after a few hours afield. Then, he happened to look down at an old bucket. Inside sat a rabbit all warm and dry. The hunter didn't shoot him since he figured the rabbit had more sense than he did. At least, he knew enough to come in out of the rain.—Pennsylvania

NEBRASKAland

THE CAT'S MEOW

(Continued from page 53)

of the hills is spread out before you a miles-long view of the unchannelized Missouri River. Late September finds the river valley embroidered with tinges of green, red, and yellow, and to me it is the prettiest time of the year. Although I have viewed the river hundreds of times from these same hills, I always feel an unexplainable comfort. Watching a sunset from the bluffs is an unforgettable sight, but this time, my appreciation of it was less than my desire to try for a buck.

After parking my pickup, I walked through some timber toward a small field. An unexpected animal crossed a few feet in front of me and when I stopped, he stopped. Catching a skunk by surprise has its drawbacks, so I carefully moved out of his range. As I crested a small knoll, I spotted a buck and doe in the middle of the field. A sneak would be impossible, so I would have to wait them out and hope they moved my way. Unfortunately, darkness put an end to my plan.

The night before, a moon made my nightly rounds on the Missouri much easier. But when I headed upriver at 11:45 p.m. to check my lines an overcast sky limited my world to the lantern's 25-foot ring of light. My first line felt limp at first, but as I started to bring it in a sudden jerk pulled the cord from my hand. After groping again for the line, I rolled a 3V2-pound cat to the surface. A few seconds later he was in the net. As I unhooked the channel cat from the third or bottom hook, a devoured frog was proof that my shooting spree paid off.

With new-found vigor I headed for the sandbar where I found my second line and a catfish on the first hook. At the cottonwood tree I didn't have to feel the familiar tug of a fish to know I had one. Instead of being straight out from the bank, the line ran parallel to it. That shrimp-eating cat weighed three pounds.

The line attached to the offshore tree produced a three-foot gar and I considered the outing a success even with one more line to check. I had another shrimp eater on that line to give me a pretty decent average of four cats on five lines. The night's excitement had kept me going, but all of a sudden I was tired. It was 2 a.m. and I had to be back on the river in four hours.

Get-up time came too soon, but I wanted to check my lines before heading back to Ewing and work. Night-feeding cats had ignored all my lines but one. A channel catfish was waiting for me at the cottonwood. Analyzing my take, I found that frogs had accounted for three of the five cats while shrimp had taken the other two. The liver hadn't gotten a nibble, while the minnows had taken fish, but not catfish. All the cats had taken baits on either the first or third hooks, although several of the rough fish had been caught on the second hook. Was it circumstance or was there a reason? Foraging cats feed in the shallows at night, so that accounts for fish on the first hook. But what about the second and third hooks? My theory is that the second hook JANUARY 1970 was floating free and wasn't touching the bottom. Fish like drum, white bass, and gar are more apt to take a free-floating bait than the bottom-feeding cat. That may explain why I took channel cats on the third hook. I know the third hook is touching bottom because it is right next to the weight.

But whatever the case, setline fishing, if you will pardon an old expression, is still the cat's "meow". THE END

DEPOTS- VANISHING AMERICANA

(Continued from page 40)

for the 7:52, but new and exciting futures lie in store for the fortunate few.

The old Lowell depot, abandoned by the Burlington in the 1950's, has found tender loving care at Harold Warp's Pioneer Village, and visitors can see the seven floors that were uncovered during restoration. It took a lot of use to wear out that many floors.

Mr. and Mrs. James D. O'Keefe of Hastings bought the Union Pacific's Glenvil station and are transforming it into a four-bedroom house to replace their home, which was destroyed by fire.

Some towns have pumped new life into still active depots. It's been nearly 30 years since the heyday of North Platte's popular U.P. Canteen, which opened originally to care for the needs of servicemen during World War II. When peace came the project was abandoned, but it made a highly-successful comeback during NEBRASKAland Days in 1969. And, the depot rocked with applause and laughter generated by the nightly shows staged there.

Museum usage is popular for many of the antique depots. The Union Pacific donated its Willow Island station to the Dawson County Historical Society, and the village of Lodgepole asked for and received the abandoned depot there. In 1965, Red Cloud's Willa Cather Foundation purchased the 1897 Burlington depot and has completely restored it. It will be ready for inspection this spring.

Usually, the railroads want the old depots removed from their original sites, so even if the station is donated there is the expense of moving the structures. However, this might not be necessary if the railroad wants to dispose of the land as well.

Private enterprise is getting into the old depot act, too. And, the stations have been converted to such uses as fruit or vegetable markets, rock shops, and antique stores. With a twist like combining history and business, the old depots make good people-stoppers.

Perhaps the most spectacular undertaking by either an organization or business was the conversion of the Rock Island depot in Lincoln into a drive-in bank. Located on a triangular piece of land, the station was ideally suited to the transformation. And, the bank has kept the old-time atmosphere through its renovation.

Like it or not, NEBRASKAland and America are changing, and the changes will mean the end of such things as the small-town depot. Still, there is time to act to preserve this tiny part of vanishing Americana. THE END

55

CHIEF BLACK BIRD

(Continued from page 29)

his teepee for a meal. At an appropriate time, Black Bird would go dramatic and in a voice heavy with doom tell the unfortunate guest that he had displeased the tribal spirits and must die. The victim did not realize that his meal had been laced liberally with the deadly arsenic. It had little taste and in a time when food preparation was far from a science, an "off" flavor went unnoticed.

Black Bird was a press agent. He made sure the word got around that "Man Who Came To Dinner" was going to die at about such and such a time. And, when Man Who Came To Dinner sickened and died in great agony at the prescribed time, it was only natural for the Omahas to believe that Black Bird was the master of death and could summon it when he wished.

The chief was handy with the ladies and had a passel of wives as befitted a man in his position. And so another legend grew.

He bought a Ponca maiden who loved another, but true to tradition, she obeyed her father and went to live in Black Bird's lodge. She was his favorite wife, but the girl was unhappy. In time she trysted with her former lover and tried to escape. The enraged chief brought her back and beat her to death. Then the chief got a guilty conscience. He refused to eat or drink and pined away the days in his lodge with a blanket over his head. Finally, the Omahas sent a little child with a cup of water to the great chief's tent. Black Bird couldn't resist the child's entreaty and drank the water. Afterward, he discarded his obvious manifestations of grief, but it is said he remained gloomy and remorseful to the end of his days.

This legend of the unfaithful wife bred yet another. Oldsters claimed that for many years following her murder, the cry of a woman could be heard on a certain night of every year. The wails came from everywhere and nowhere, and it was believed they came from the shade of the dead wife floating over Black Bird Hill. It hasn't been heard for many years, but there is a charming if not highly logical explanation. It is claimed the night noises of the white world drown it out.

Gluttony was one of Black Bird's vices and as he grew heavy with the years, it was increasingly difficult for him to walk or ride. He traveled from place to place on a buffalo robe carried by his servants. He would doze during these journeys and disliked a sudden awakening. His minions, well aware that his wrath could be fatal, soon devised a way to arouse him without an explosion. They used a straw to tickle his nose and chase sleep away.

But it was not too much feasting or even his own horrible medicine that ended Black Bird's despotism. Ironically, it was the white man, who had been his friend, who had made him chief, and who had given him his omnipotent power, who proved his undoing.

Smallpox, the diga tunga, (big pimples) was the destroyer. It killed Black Bird and 400 of his people. It raged through the demoralized Indians until they even 56 fired the teepees of the mortally sick, roasting the victims to death, in a vain attempt to stop the Red Death. In desperation, the Omahas scattered across the prairie trying to outrun the scourge.

Few did.

It is said Black Bird caught the disease while on a visit to the Pawnee and came back to his village nigh to death. This man who had pointed the finger of death at others, did not hesitate to turn it upon himself. He knew his hours were numbered, but he was a chief and a chief must depart this world with proper ceremony.

"Bury me on high," he ordered. "High on the bluff above us, on the highest point, that I may see the boats which the palefaces say will come up the river in great numbers. Place me on the highest point that I may see you all; that Black Bird still may rule."

The campfire accounts of his funeral differ, but the grain of accuracy within them indicates that his funeral was impressive by any standard. His body was dressed in full regalia complete to a war bonnet of eagle plumes. Then the remains were carefully wrapped in deer skins and placed on a travois drawn by his favorite white horse. The procession, including the pitiful remnants of the Omahas, several fur traders, and others, climbed to the summit of the highest point on the Nebraska side of the Missouri and prepared his grave.

They placed the chief on his horse, put his bow in his hand, slung his shield and quiver by his side along with his pipe. A medicine bag and a tobacco pouch were filled to last him on his journey to the "beautiful hunting grounds of the shades of his fathers".

The medicine man administered the last rites as other Indians began piling chunks of sod around the horse and its dead rider. Finally, the last clod was jammed into place, forming a mound 12 feet in diameter and 16 feet high. A cedar pole was placed at the center. Some versions of the burial claim the horse was strangled and placed beside the chief's body. Scholars put more faith in this, for it was contrary to Omaha tradition to bury a horse with a warrior. Explorers Lewis and Clark reportedly used the cedar pole for a flagstaff when they made their famous journey up the Missouri in 1804.

Fires were lighted at the gravesite for four consecutive nights to light Black Bird's spirit on its way. Food was placed beside the grave for a longer period.

Black Bird was dead, but he was not soon forgotten by his people. For years, they felt his watchful eye was upon them and they recalled him with the same fearful awe they had accorded him in life. Yet, Black Bird was not destined to lie in peace. In 1832, George Catlin, a noted artist who spent much time with the various Indians of the West, reportedly dug out a gopher hole at the base of the burial mound and found a skull. He wrapped it in a blanket and later took it to Washington, D.C., where it was placed in the Smithsonian Institution.

Removal of his skull, if it was his skull, to the halls of the palefaces is perhaps appropriate, for Black Bird was always more at home with the whites than with his own oppressed people. THE END

NEBRASKAland

Where to go

Jailhouse Museum, Sutherland State Special-Use Area

AN OLD JAIL seldom becomes an historical museum, but this is the case in Antelope County. Jailhouse Museum in Neligh houses a collection of historical objects that reflects Nebraska's past ways of life.

The museum is located on U.S. Highway 275 across from the courthouse in Neligh. The displays are open from 2 to 5 p.m. on Fridays and Sundays, or by appointment. To make arrangements call Mrs. Elmer Carpenter or Mrs. Vern McPherson, both of Neligh, or Mrs. Warren Robertson of Elgin.

Indian artifacts, animals, and a general cross section of tools, household utensils, and other items used by Antelope County pioneers and settlers are the mainstays of the displays. Visitors need only a bit of imagination to place man in the natural surroundings of the past and fill his hands with the tools of that day. An Indian woman grinds corn while her man hunts buffalo, a pioneer dressed in his Sunday best which was none too luxurious; these are the ways of life reflected in Jailhouse.

The building itself has a history that chronicles that of the county. It was built in 1892 as a gymnasium for Gates College. But when the college declined around 1900 the county began looking at the gymnasium's possibilities as a jail. It had solid brick walls and good, sturdy floors. The cells from the old jail could be easily moved in. So in the spring of 1901 the structure was remodeled, and for over 60 years, until a new jail was built in 1964, the building housed the law-enforcement agency.

Now the old cells serve another use. They house history. The cell block which once held prisoners has been kept, along with the wall which separated the sheriffs office from the women's cell. The wall has been stripped of accumulated wanted notices, bulletins, and other paper to reveal its irregular construction. Most of the conversion work was done by volunteers.

The Indian room contains an array of geometric designs constructed entirely of arrowheads, arranged in pattern after pattern, like gigantic bead work. The 2,000-piece Marwood arrowhead collection is supplemented by items like a peace pipe, and various stone tools. A log cabin beckons kindred spirits to its pioneering days. Repaired and reroofed, the old building brings a touch of reality to the bygone tales of hardship.

From the Neligh jail of history, to the Sutherland State Special-Use Area is but a short automobile hop for today's travelers, but it's worlds away in its appeal. The lakes south of Sutherland host some of the state's largest duck concentrations with as many as 50,000 mallards gathered there in early December.

To reach the special-use area take the Sutherland exit from Interstate 80 and drive south on Nebraska Highway 25. The road curves around the reservoir.

Blinds are not regulated and the competition for sites is keen. The best hunting is in the morning and evening when ducks fly out to feed. During the main part of the day the birds often raft up in the middle of the reservoir.

Geese, too, stop off in the area with up to 300 Canadas putting in an appearance there. Occasionally some blues and snows will stop, too.

Sutherland is indeed a mixed-bag spot in the Mixed-Bag Capital, for pheasant hunting is good and quail abound along the nearby river. The river is on private land so permission to hunt is required.

Minimum camping and rest-room facilities are available on the reservoir, with more complete services available in Sutherland. Processors in nearby North Platte will clean and package the game.

For information on Sutherland and its hunting and sight-seeing attractions, contact the Game Commission District IV office in North Platte by phoning 532-6225, area code 308. THE END

BOOT HILL Today, a visit to Boot Hill is a two-way journey, but in the early West it was the final stop for those who were slow on the six-gun trail. Travelers on U.S. Highway 26 can find the marker by turning west on West 10th Street in Ogallala and watching the north side of the street. 58 NEBRASKAland