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[Illustration: _R. Pitcher Woodward at his journey's end._]


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  ON A DONKEY'S HURRICANE DECK


  A Tempestuous Voyage of Four
  Thousand and Ninety-Six Miles
  Across the American Continent on
  a Burro, in 340 Days and 2 Hours

  STARTING WITHOUT A DOLLAR AND
  EARNING MY WAY

  BY

  R. PITCHER WOODWARD
  (PYTHAGORAS POD)

  AUTHOR OF

  "TRAINS THAT MET IN THE BLIZZARD"

  Containing Thirty-nine Pictures from
  Photographs Taken "en Voyage".


  1902

  I. H. BLANCHARD CO., PUBLISHERS

  NEW YORK




  COPYRIGHT, 1902,

  BY

  R. PITCHER WOODWARD

  [Illustration]

       *       *       *       *       *




CONTENTS.


PART I.

      I.   Madison Square to Yonkers             11

     II.   Donkey's many ailments                19

    III.   Polishing shoes at Vassar             27

     IV.   An even trade no robbery              35

      V.   The donkey on skates                  42

     VI.   Mac held for ransom                   51

    VII.   I mop the hotel floor                 60

   VIII.   Footpads fire upon us                 68

     IX.   In a haymow below zero                74

      X.   An asinine snowball                   83

     XI.   One bore is enough                    90

    XII.   At a country dance                    98

   XIII.   A peculiar, cold day                 105

    XIV.   I bargain for eggs                   111

     XV.   Gypsy girl tells fortune             116

    XVI.   All the devils are here              123

   XVII.   Darkest hour before dawn             132

  XVIII.   Champagne avenue, Chicago            142


PART II.

BY PYE POD AND MAC A'RONY.

    XIX.   Donk causes a sensation              153

     XX.   A donkey for Alderman                158

    XXI.   A donkey without a father            169

   XXII.   Rat trap and donkey's tail           173

  XXIII.   Mac crosses the Mississippi          178

   XXIV.   Pod hires a valet                    183

    XXV.   Done by a horsetrader                190

   XXVI.   Pod under arrest                     197

  XXVII.   Adventure in a sleeping bag          208

 XXVIII.   Mayor rides Mac A'Rony               213

   XXIX.   Across the Missouri in wheelbarrow   219

    XXX.   Pod in insane asylum                 224

   XXXI.   Narrow escape in quicksand           237

  XXXII.   At Buffalo Bill's ranch              243

 XXXIII.   Fourth of July in the desert         250

  XXXIV.   Bitten by a rattler                  253

   XXXV.   Havoc in a cyclone                   260

  XXXVI.   Two pretty dairy maids               265

 XXXVII.   Donks climb Pike's Peak              273

XXXVIII.   Sights in <DW36> Creek              280

  XXXIX.   Baby girl named for Pod              287

     XL.   Treed by a silvertip bear            293

    XLI.   Nearly drowned in the Rockies        304

   XLII.   Donkey shoots the chutes             309

  XLIII.   Paint sign with donk's tail          319

   XLIV.   Swim two rivers in Utah              326

    XLV.   Initiated to Mormon faith            339

   XLVI.   Typewriting on a donkey              343

  XLVII.   Pod kissed by sweet sixteen          348

 XLVIII.   Last drop in the canteen             352

   XLIX.   How donkey pulls a tooth             364

      L.   Encounter with two desperadoes       369

     LI.   Donk, boy and dried apples           380

    LII.   Lost in Nevada desert                385

   LIII.   A frightful ghost dance              393

    LIV.   Across Sierras in deep snow          400

     LV.   All down a toboggan slide            409

    LVI. 'Frisco at last, we win!               415




LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.


(Portrait) The traveler at the journey's end.

"I bade my friends farewell."

"We consumed a half hour in the gigantic task."

"I found the captive drinking with other jackasses."

"We tramped tired and footsore into the village."

"Mac could draw my luggage instead of carrying it."

"Mac's little legs would get stuck."

"Mac supervised the work."

"The only time I got ahead of him."

"I scrutinized his hat inquisitively."

"He accused me of attempting suicide."

"We made slow headway to the Mississippi.

"In this way I crossed that bridge of size."

"And I saw the streak of daylight."

"Mac was so slow that his shadow beat him to town."

"Over the Platte bridge, after blindfolding them."

"I killed my first rattlesnake."

"That was the town of Korty."

"Climbing Pike's Peak."

"He had caught a nice mess of trout."

"Trail through the timber."

"Independence Pass; one of the loftiest of the Continental
  Divide."

"Trail to Florisant."

"Two days of hard climbing to cross Western Pass."

"Through thickets, tangled roots and fallen trees."

"To swim and float on Salt Lake."

"Skull Valley desert, we stopped to feed and rest."

"The last and only drop."

"Just finished lunch when the posse arrived."

"Coonskin and I took shelter behind our donkeys."

"Through Devil's Gate, their panniers scraped the walls
  of the rocky gateway."

"Fired their revolvers in the air."

"Some Piute Indians who had camped close by."

"Playing Solitaire on Damfino's broad back."

"Began to plow snow toward Placerville.

"The cattle passed us, after we donks had broken the
  trail."

"Across on the exclusive Solano."

"I pointed toward the goal."

"The ferry approach in 'Frisco was choked with a
  rabble."

       *       *       *       *       *




PROLOGUE.


This is as true a story of my "voyage" as I am capable of writing.
Besides the newspaper accounts, two magazine articles, illustrated
on this subject have been published, the only ones contributed by
me, and they hardly outlined the trip. I have left out a hundred
interesting incidents and culled and edited until I am tired, in
order to condense this volume to convenient size. On the other
hand, notable adventures only recalled by my photographs have been
cheated of a mention, because the donkey ate my notes--he ate
everything in sight, and did not discriminate between a comic
circus poster and a tragic diary.

Ever since completing the trip, I have promised this book "next
month," but owing to the checkered career of the MS. with
ninety-seven publishers (all of whom declared that the book should be
brought out at once, but they lacked the nerve to publish it), I
am only now able to fulfil my promises. This is no romance. When I
did not walk with the donkey or carry him, he carried me the whole
four thousand and ninety-six miles, which includes the distance
traveled when he balked and backed.

With my two cameras I secured six hundred pictures descriptive of
the journey across eleven states, through the four seasons, during
that long, long year; only by them and my diary am I brought to
realize it is not a wild, weird dream. Now it is over, I sometimes
smile over things recalled which, when they happened, found
me as serious as the donk--grave in the superlative degree--and
thought-less people and those who never even crossed the plains by train
may style my experience a mere outing or "picnic." General Fremont
and other distinguished pioneers emphasize in their writings the
pleasures of their overland trips. They, as did the emigrants of
the '40s and '50s, set out in spring time from the Missouri or the
Mississippi in companies, with money, wagons, cattle and supplies,
and with one-third of the continent already behind them. The
Indians and big game of the prairies provided excitement that
lent a charm to the undertaking; it is dull monotony that kills.

I started four days before winter, practically without money, to
support, from earnings only, myself and dumb partner from New York
city to San Francisco.

It required twelve weeks to traverse the Empire State, through a
severe season when and where I suffered the most. The delightful
part of the journey was while crossing the Rockies. Instead of
taking the shortest cut, I had to consider the towns where I might
best make expenses, to look for the best roads and desert trails
by springs. Three times when lost I traveled far out of my course,
once twenty miles into a mountain forest.

It is only five days across by rail. Have you traveled it--in
summer? How monotonous grew those seas of alkali, sand (rock
waste), cacti and sage as the hours lengthened into days! Yet with
comfortable beds, shade, meals served, cool drinks, and books to
read, at times feeling yourself speeding through the air a
mile to,the minute, you wearied of the "voyage." Five days!
Multiply them into weeks, then into months, double and add five
weeks--forty-nine weeks! Fancy yourself for such a period on a slow
burro which walks half your natural pace, and so small that if you wear
roller skates while in the saddle you may ease the animal; ride one mile
astride; when you feel about to split, ride the second mile
side-ways; when your back feels ready to break, ride the third
mile Turkish fashion; by this time your legs are benumbed and your
feet asleep, so walk a mile and carry the jackass; you will
thereby quiet your nerves, rest your bones, and make better time.

If ever you are tempted to ride a donkey overland, REFRAIN. Rather
creep across backwards on your hands and knees, or circumnavigate
the globe in a washtub. If you still persist, why, ride a donkey
twenty miles in a pouring rain, then follow your own judgment. If
you wish my donkey's advice, I will introduce him. His head is
longer than his ears, which was not the case when he set out with
me.

  R. P. W.

[Illustration: "_I bade my friends farewell._"]

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PART 1.


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On a Donkey's Hurricane Deck




CHAPTER I.

    By this hand, thou think'st me as far
  in the devil's book as thou and Falstaff,
  for obduracy and persistency. Let the
  end try the man.
                  --_Shakespeare._


A noisy, curious, gaping multitude was crowded about the Bartholdi
Hotel, New York. It was just after the noon hour on Friday,
November 27, 1896, the day on which I was to start on my long and
memorable journey across the continent on a donkey. The corridors
were filled with interested guests, the reception room held about
a hundred of my friends who had come to bid me God-speed, and less
than a hundred thousand people choked Madison Square and the
streets leading into it.

I had agreed with a friend to forfeit to him five thousand
dollars, in case I should fail to make a donkey trip from New York
to San Francisco in three hundred and forty-one days, under the
following conditions:

Start from New York City, without a dollar in pocket and without
begging, borrowing, or stealing, procure a donkey, and, riding or
leading the beast, earn my way across the continent to San
Francisco, and register at its leading hotel within the schedule
time. I must cover the whole distance with a donkey by road or
trail only; announce in a prominent newspaper of New York my
start, at least twenty-four hours in advance, and mention the
hour, day, and starting point. Seated on a donkey, I must parade
on portions of Broadway, Fourteenth and Twenty-third Streets,
Fifth, Madison, and West End Avenues; both the donkey and I must
wear spectacles, and I a frock-coat and "plug" hat, but, the
latter to be discarded at pleasure when once across the
Mississippi River, the coat to be worn to San Francisco.

I slyly suggested the two most absurd conditions, believing it
would be easier to earn my way in the role of a comedian than in
the garb of a serious-thinking, imposed-upon mortal. I reasoned
that I should have to live on sensation and notoriety, and,
perhaps, keep from starving by employing my wits. These
reflections I kept to myself. My "friend" chuckled amusedly,
doubtless picturing in his mind the circus I was about to provide.

Without delay I began the preparations for the asinine journey.
After much troublesome searching, I managed with the help of
Hennessy, a stable-keeper, and Dr. Moore, a veterinary surgeon, to
secure an option on a small donkey at James Flanagan's sale
stables. Macaroni was the animal's name, and the price to be paid
was $25. Then I got our coachman to go among his friends to see if
he could get hold of a coat--a Prince Albert--and stove-pipe hat.
He succeeded admirably, and when I had ordered spectacles for
myself and the donkey, I was ready for the trip. I reached the
hotel on the appointed day at one o'clock, borrowed the donkey for
my official start, sent him back to the stables, then went to the
Reception Room. Among my friends awaiting were my "friend," the
landlord of the hotel, a photographer who had taken a picture of
me seated on the donkey a few days before, and had come to deliver
the photos; and my attorney, for the Chief of Police had refused
me a permit to parade on the streets, and threatened my arrest if
I proved to be a public nuisance. I borrowed a pen and bottle of
ink, and, after bowing a greeting to my friends assembled, set to
work putting my autograph on the pictures, which I offered for
sale at twenty-five cents.

Bless my suspenders, and how they went! I made up my mind that we
"two donkeys" would many times have greater difficulty in
obtaining quarters before I reached my destination. For an hour
the fist of Pye Pod swung a powerful quill and inscribed on each
photograph a name that would go into his-story. Silver jingled on
the table; the anxious hands of the crowding patrons got mixed in
the shuffle, and some got two pictures and others got none; the
ink flew about recklessly, and there were no blotters at hand; my
heart thumped, and I was so excited that I kissed by mistake an
indignant girl friend in place of my sister; and finally stole my
sister's lace handkerchief, instead of that of a sweetheart, but
which, however, I failed to discover till six months afterward;
and still I lacked the requisite sum.

I now had twenty-four dollars, but I needed at least forty-one.
Although I had made a five-dollar payment to Flanagan, that money
came from my private purse and must be redeemed and returned;
besides, I must pay $12 to the photographer for the 200 photos
delivered to me, and $4 more to the blacksmith's representative
for shoeing the donkey.

"I will lend you all the money you want," said the president of
one of my clubs; and my "friend's" ears and eyes were directed
upon me.

"I cannot beg, borrow, or accept gratuities," I exclaimed, firmly;
"I propose to fulfill the terms of my wager to the letter, and
when I accomplish it, be able to make a sworn statement to that
effect."

Just then I heard a newsboy calling, "EXTRA--ALL ABOUT THE GREAT
DONKEY RIDE."

At once I dispatched a friend with money to purchase the papers,
while I followed him to the hotel exit, where I stationed myself
in full view of the crowd and drew from my pocket a blue lead
pencil, ready for a new task. The papers secured and brought to
me, I scribbled my name on them and offered them for a dime
apiece.

"I have no time to make change, so give me the amount you wish to
pay," I said to the eager purchasers. In fifteen minutes I had
enough dimes and quarters and fifty-cent pieces to enable me to
square my accounts and send for my donkey.

In the course of a half hour, Macaroni was induced by sundry
persuasions to invade the noisy precinct of Madison Square and
come up to the hotel door; and, with a small surplus of cash in
pocket, I bade my friends farewell and got into the saddle.

Amid a deafening "tiger" from the multitude, the "lion" of the
hour majestically proceeded down Broadway to Fourteenth Street;
and the most sensational parade New York had ever witnessed had
begun.

My lazy steed barely crawled; he stopped every rod or two, and
generally in front of a car or other vehicle. It was an event for
the street gamins, and, had they not trailed close behind us
through the city and given Mac occasional goads and twists of the
tail, I doubt if I could have reached Harlem by midnight. It was a
terrible ride, and I often have wondered since how I escaped with
my neck.

Passing down Fourteenth Street, we turned up Fifth Avenue, crossed
Madison Square, paraded Madison Avenue to Thirty-third Street, turned to
the left over to Fifth Avenue and passed the Waldorf-Astoria,
followed Forty-second Street to the Boulevard, and up the avenue to
Seventy-second Street, and then up West End Avenue, past my "friend's"
residence. There I was stopped by a member of the mounted police, and,
to my surprise, was tendered a Loving-cup Reception by my "friend's"
pretty daughter, who, with a number of our mutual friends, welcomed me
while her father was at his office expecting a telegram that Pye Pod had
given up his trip.

All drank to the pilgrim's progress. Wines, flowers and ice cream,
tears, and best wishes, all contributed to the happy function,
while out of doors, an incident happened that caused me to rush to
my donkey's side. It seems that, in looking through his green
glasses, he mistook the iron picket screen that guarded a young
and hopeful shade tree for some kind of verdant fodder, and
destroyed a couple of teeth. The incident threw a damper on the
reception, so I made my adieux, and resumed my fated journey with
a heart still hopeful, yet heavier than it ever felt before.

It was 7 P. M. when Mac and I stopped at the Minot Hotel, Harlem,
and registered for the night. Among my several callers that
evening was a Professor of a Riding Academy who claimed to have
ridden horseback from ocean to ocean a few years previous and
within several feet of his death after losing several horses; and
he described to me the perils of my prospective trip, the
boundless, waterless deserts and snow-covered mountains, the
tornadoes and tarantulas, and the untamed Indians, and ferocious
prairie dogs, and begged me to give up the journey. Dear old
Professor, how often on that voyage on the hurricane deck of my
donkey, did I indulge in grievous meditation on the wisdom of your
advice!

I simply thanked the gentleman for his tender concern about my
welfare, and sold him a chromo for a quarter.

After a bath, I enjoyed a delicate sleep, and next day set out in
a dripping rain for Yonkers, over twenty miles away, with less
than a dollar in pocket. I had only sold enough pictures on the
way to Harlem to defray my hotel bill, as a stringent city
ordinance prohibited it without a license, and I had difficulty in
avoiding the vigilant police.

But, although fortune and the weather frowned on me, I ground my
teeth and headed for the Golden Gate.

Trailing up Seventh Avenue, I gradually left the busy metropolis
to my rear and entered a more open country. Some urchins of the
suburbs tagged behind us meddlesomely, and finally a Dutch vixen
hit Macaroni with a potato, almost causing me to leave the saddle.
That paradox of asininity chased the potato, and ate it. He,
doubtlessly, feared lest the missile might strike him again, and
decided it best to put it out of the way.

At 2 P. M. I had crossed McComb's Dam Bridge, and at five I
crossed another of the same description. It was low and narrow,
and Mac was so afraid of the water that I had to blindfold him to
get him across. Shortly after occurred our first disaster.

On nearing a little hamlet that had reached the horse-car stage of
progress a counterfeit breeze sprang up which soon developed into
a howling hurricane, as a huge beer wagon filled with dragons, or
flagons of vile spirits wheeled down upon us. They wanted to scare
the jackass, and they did. The wagon wheels got into the car
tracks, and when the wagon turned out for us the wheels slid, and
hit my partner in the vicinity of his tail