Name’s Martin. I direct my Bull Wackers, mile after mile, freighting what keeps forts and towns alive. Dust in summer and fall, mud in spring, snow andd cold in winter—still honest work and a good horizon.  I ride mile after mile along side my men each guiding a long string of oxen as they pull heavy freight wagons across the prairie, up the hills, and through the muddy streams to their destinations in the Black Hills, and then back to Ft. Pierre for more supplies from the Riverboats.  

Each wagon train can stretch two hundred yards. Each team of thirty oxen, pulling 3 wagons, loaded with 30,000 pounds of freight. Creaking wheels, steady hooves, and a man with a whip who knows every ox by name.  From a distance, the dust cloud we reaise could be seen for miles.  That dust gets into my eyes, my cloths, and my food, but I grew used to it.  We never complain, just keep walking, calling to the oxen by name.  You have to be stuborn enough to keep those wheels turning.