“I had just stepped onto Bridge Street, south of the depot, when I encountered an approaching juggernaut of hooves and wheels that made me shudder. It was a train of freight wagons, pulled by perhaps three dozen oxen with great horns. Each of the tall-sided wagons was bigger than a railway car. The rear wheels were taller than a man, and every wagon was heaped full of untold thousands of buffalo hides. The lead oxen were struggling, mud flying from their churning hooves. Their eyes were wild and... their necks strained against the load, while the bullwhackers cursed and whipped the team onward to keep the wagons from becoming hopelessly mired. The bullwhackers—a colorful frontier name for those men who drive the oxen—were a filthy lot, in clothes made of hides and buckskins, with wild rolling eyes and tangled hair. They loped alongside the oxen, snarling and cracking their fearsome whips, seeming altogether like a pack of animals instead of men. The lead bullwhacker, a tall man with billowing gray hair, was astride the ox nearest the starboard front wheel.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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