Holt County Collected by Richard Prosch

Author:Richard Prosch
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Lohman Hills Creative LLC

Chapter 2

On the 28th of October, 1882, eighteen year old Jens Nelsen lowered his head into the torrent of freezing wind and snow, whispered his prayers from the seat of his rugged covered wagon, and kept a tight grip on the ice-encrusted reins. He turned his head to shout at the man riding on horseback beside his wagon.

“How much further, Moline?”

“Another mile is all. Give or take a ways.”

To Nelsen, the landscape was a void of white, blowing snow, and even directly in front of him Moline was often little more than a blurry, bobbing.

Nelsen had read about storms like this, but living in the city his entire life, he never experienced anything like it. It was still October, for pity’s sake! They should be wallowing in a balmy change of seasons, not drowning in ice. His fingers and feet were numb, his body shivering uncontrollably. He feared for his family inside the wagon. Feared that Carol Lynn, his bride of two weeks, and her older sister, Rebecca Decker, might be faring even worse than he was. They were both so frail.

“We need to stop,” Nelsen mumbled to himself. “We need to stop and find shelter.” The wind howled around the creaking wagon, its wheels practically frozen in place, its weight literally drug through the snow by Nelsen’s ice-caked geldings. If only the damnable weather would let up. If only they could find a safe haven from the open Nebraska range. Maybe a cabin or one of the earthen houses Nelsen knew they built out here. Even an Indian’s tent would be a blessing, but he figured there would be none of those left in this day and age. No, there’d be no help from Indians or anybody else.

Lost and blind in an unforgiving wilderness, Moline was their only hope.

Nelsen and Carol Lynn had rolled into Nebraska early the previous morning from the east. As they had planned, they picked up Rebecca at Inman’s Grove and continued along the river, arriving in O’Neill that morning. Reading plenty of literature before setting out, Nelsen knew there would be men like Moline eager to earn a few dollars as guides to a new homesteader.

When he finally met Moline at the saloon, weather hadn’t been a concern. It was well above freezing with barely a cloud in the sky. Taller than Nelsen, Moline exuded a quiet sense of contagious well-being. He wore his black hair long, and his rugged fringed leather pants immediately identified him as an outdoorsman. Nelsen pegged him as one of those noble and trustworthy souls who was out here pushing the boundaries of the young nation. Once they agreed on a price (a pittance), Nelsen gave Moline the particulars for their claim on the South Fork, and the guide said he knew the exact spot where they were headed. He’d lead them directly there. He said he knew a shortcut across one of the creeks. The Nelsen family could inspect their property, then ride back to O’Neill in time for supper.

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