In another letter giving an account of Indian depredations, I stated: “I will not attempt to follow their war path, for it is too long,” but allow me at this time to vary a little from that assertion. My object in doing so is to add to the already written history of this portion of the Northwest, where I have lived from my early manhood, and this portion of the country which was then in its infancy as far as civilization and settlement were concerned, therefore, to use a common expression, “we growed up together.”
Though a frontier life is free and fascinating, still, like everything else, there is a dark side to it, and this letter is principally intended to show the “dark side” of the life of the pioneer.
As a frontiersman, I, myself, may not care to again experience what I have passed through, yet, with all its perils and dangers I would not give my pioneer days in the West for all the balance of my life.
The following events occurred in Northern Montana. All are facts, and some of them I know of my own personal knowledge. Some of those whose names appear hereafter were killed by Indians, others died from exposure. I have often thought of the many victims that have fallen in the West; even their death never has been known nor heard of by anyone. Many remains of white men have been found without a trace of anything to lead to their identification.
Once there were three of us in the mountains prospecting. In a sheltered place under a projecting cliff there lay the skeleton of a man. It appeared that he had laid down to rest or to sleep. Nothing could be found to indicate whose remains it was. The clothing was weatherbeaten and torn, and an old silver watch and a gun laid on the ground with the scattering bones. The hair was light in color. It was one of those instances of “somebody’s boy” dying without even a stranger to record his last words.
By examining the following list the reader will find that the identification or names of twenty per cent of the unfortunate victims herein mentioned were not known, and that all included in the list, except six or seven, were killed in what was then Choteau county. They are but few in comparison to all that were killed in what is now the state of Montana.
First on the list is Little Tex, who was killed in 1866 by Blood Indians at the agency on what was then known as the government farm, on Sun river; then Indians set fire to the buildings. There is no certainty as to the number that perished.
Early in the spring of 1866 three men were murdered by Blackfeet not far from old St. Peter’s mission, which was then located on the Missouri river near Ulm on the Montana Central railroad. April 6th of the same year John Fitzgerald, an employe of the mission, was killed almost in sight of the buildings by Bloods. His grave and that of a man by the name of Johnson, a blacksmith, who was formerly at Fort Benton, and about fifteen other graves, mostly of Indians, are at the foot of the hill and near the Montana Central track, about half a mile from Ulm. The next day after the killing of Fitzgerald, Father Giorda, and all the inmates of the mission left for Helena, fearing that more trouble might come.
Lagree and Hunicke were murdered by Blackfeet and Bloods at Three Tree Coulee, Jan. 9, 1866. James Chembers was killed by Blackfeet at Dearborn in 1866, and old man Thebeaw killed at Dearborn the same year.
The murder of the builders of the town of Ophir occurred in May, 1865. Ophir was a new place located at the mouth of the Marias river, twelve miles below Fort Benton. At this period there had been only one or two houses built. The men, eleven in number, were about one mile above the location cutting logs and some of them were chopping wood for the steamers that were coming up the Missouri to Fort Benton. They were at work when the Indians killed them; not one escaped. When the news reached Fort Benton a party went and buried the unfortunate victims on the bank of the Missouri river near where they were killed. Thirty-four years have passed since then and the gradual cutting of the bank by the swift current has washed away that little graveyard, and now the resting place of these founders of states and builders of cities has been swept from the face of the earth and its occupants swallowed up by that mighty stream.
Six men were killed by Bloods on Old Man’s river early in 1865. The victims came from Fort Garry (now Winnipeg), and were reported to possess a large amount of money. Their leader was an old white-haired man.
William Berry was killed by Bloods on Elbow river, and Joe Monroe was killed by Bloods on Old Man’s river in 1874.
Miller was killed by Bloods on Old Man’s river in 1872.
McMillan was wounded by Assinnaboines, near Bow river, in 1874.
Two unknown men were killed by Assinnaboines, near Milk river, in 1874. The bodies were found tied to trees and riddled with bullets. Cottle and another man were killed in their house on Flat creek in 1877. The Nez Perces were supposed to be the murderers, as a few stragglers of that tribe were seen in the vicinity about the time the deed was done.
A party of men, women and children were killed by Bloods near Porcupine mountain in 1865. Their identification could not be obtained.
A soldier was killed by Piegan Indians on Marias hill, not far from Fort Benton, in 1873.
Wey and Mitchell were killed by Piegans on Badger creek in 1875. Five days before they were killed, both stayed over night at my ranch and bought some oats to feed their horses while on this unfortunate prospecting trip.
Joe Day and Howard were killed by Piegans, near the Marias river, in 1875.
John Rock was killed by Blackfeet, at the mouth of Sun river, in 1875. An account of him I have given in my letter “From the Mines to the Farm.”
Jack Gorman and Frank Keisser were killed by Assinnaboines, on the Milk river, the same year.
Frank Robinson was killed by Gros Ventres Indians, near Cow creek, in 1877.
Joseph Spearson was killed by Bloods, on Belly river, in 1870.
Nelse Kyse, George Huber and one man, name unknown, were killed by Sioux Indians, on Squaw creek, near the mouth of Musselshell river.
Andy Harris was killed by Assinnaboines on Milk river in the winter of 1867, and a soldier was killed by Piegans at Camp Cook in the spring of that year.
Bozell A. Bair was wounded by Piegans on Eagle creek in 1867.
Paul Vermette was killed on the Teton river in 1866.
Champion was killed by Arrapahoe Indians at Fort Hawley in 1867.
Malcolm Clark was killed by Piegans in 1869. Clark had been a classmate of General Sherman’s at West Point. The former, after finishing his term, instead of entering the army, came west as an employe of one of the fur companies which operated in the upper Missouri river country. After following the Indian trading business for many years he located in the Prickly Pear canyon, about twenty miles north of Helena, and kept a stage station. The place is now known as “The Mitchell Ranch.” Once a party of Piegan warriors came to the premises. One of the Indians, who was well acquainted with Clark, approached the door and asked for the latter; just as Clark stepped into the door he was shot and killed by this Indian. Several shots were fired into the house. A bullet struck Clark’s wife, and one of his sons was shot in the nose; in course of time both recovered from their wounds, but the tragedy caused the mother to go insane and she died a few years ago still in that condition. Clark is buried near the house, and now his resting place is marked by a railing crowning the grave. A few months later the “Col. Baker Indian Massacre on the Marias river” occurred. And when the firing commenced on the Piegan camp the murderer of Clark was there sick in bed; when he was told that the soldiers had come there to kill him, he took a long knife and plunged it into his heart.
When General Sherman passed through this section in 1875 on his tour of inspection of the government posts at Fort Shaw and Benton, he stopped for dinner at Clark’s old ranch. The general inquired for Malcolm Clark. He said that Clark had been a schoolmate of his at West Point, but had gone west to trade with the Blackfeet Indians while he was yet but a young man. When the story of Clark’s career and of his death had been told, and the grave of his early associate shown him, he had been but a few moments on the spot when he showed signs of grief and requested to be left alone for a while. He stayed for some time and when he came away traces of tears could be seen on the cheeks of the brave old warrior.
Charles Carson was killed by Piegans, near Dearborn river, in 1866. He was a nephew of Kit Carson, of frontier fame. He was killed and buried near the ford on the Dearborn.
Mrs. Jennie Smith, who at one time lived in Helena, was scalped alive by Sioux Indians at the mouth of Musselshell river in 1869. The unfortunate woman recovered and was still living in 1879.
Jack Leader was killed by Sioux at the mouth of the Musselshell river in 1869.
A man named Lowe was killed by Blackfeet. His remains are buried on the old Helena and Benton road at the crossing of what is now known as “Deadman Coulee.” The place received its name because it is the place of the death and burial of Mr. Lowe.
Macgregor and Tabor were killed by Sioux, and another man wounded, near Fort Peck in 1868. Also two unknown men were killed by Sioux near the same place and in the same year.
Ross and McKnight were killed in 1868, by Sioux, at the mouth of Musselshell river. McKnight was a brother to the Hon. J. H. McKnight of this city. At the time the tongue of their wagon had broken, and, while they were cutting a tree to make a new one, they were killed.
Nat Crabtree was killed by Piegans, near Camp Cook, in 1868.
Old man Lee was killed, and Charley Williams and Drew Denton wounded by Sioux, near Carroll, 1870. Denton’s life was saved by the bullet striking his pocket in which he had a plug of tobacco and some letters.
A Frenchman was killed by Piegans in the summer of 1868 on Sun river, south of where now stands Pressle Rowls house.
McArdle and a comrade were killed by Crow Indians near Benton in 1869.
Tom Ross was killed by Sioux near Fort Peck in 1873.
Michael Thebault was killed by Piegans on the Teton in 1868.
James Quail was killed by Piegans, near Silver creek, in 1869. He was killed only half a mile from where I was mining at the time, and about nine miles from Helena. He was getting his horse, which was grazing on the slope of a hill near his cabin, when he was shot and killed by an Indian who robbed him of his horse and of a gold watch on which his name was engraved. The watch was seen afterwards in the possession of an Indian in a Piegan camp on the Marias river.
Clark was killed by Piegans on Sun river in 1868, of whom I have given an account in my letter, “Indian wars and tragedies on Sun river.”
Dauphant was killed by Sioux near the mouth of Milk river in 1865.
Charley Desronin was killed by Indians near the Bear Paw mountains in 1870.
Little Frenchie was killed by Assinnaboines on Milk river in 1869.
A man who was taking care of some cattle for Carroll and Steell was killed by Indians on Milk river in 1869, and Sam Rex was killed by Bloods the same year on Eagle creek.
Fifteen men and one woman and two children were killed by Sioux in 1863. They were returning from the mines, and on their way by the Missouri river route in a Mackinaw boat, which they had built at Fort Benton. Their names I cannot give, except one whose name was Thomas Mitchell, and who joined the party at one of the trading posts further down the river.
It was plain to be seen that the Indians did not kill them for their gold, for it was spilled on the shore where the mutilated bodies of the men lay. The woman was hanging to a limb of a tree, the limb being driven through her chin; the two children, one on each side of the mother, were hanging in the same manner, and the bodies were full of arrows.
Jim Matkins was wounded by Piegans, near Benton, in 1868. Mr. Matkins was one of my best friends. At the time he was shot by the Indians he was an employe of the “Diamond R. Company,” a firm that had several ox teams engaged in hauling freight from Fort Benton to various towns and points in the territory. He related to me the following particulars of the chase he had with the Indians at the time he was shot. He said: “One day at Fort Benton I loaded sixteen of the company’s wagons with freight for Helena. Tom Clary and J. C. Adams had charge of the outfit. They pulled out that day and camped the following night at Eight Mile spring. I was clerking for the company at the time. I could not get the bills of lading ready at the time they left; so, late in the evening, after dark, I got on my saddle horse and started for their camp. After I had gone about three miles I heard the clatter of horses’ hoofs, and, looking back, I saw eight Indians coming as fast as their horses could carry them, and bullets began whizzing by me; but what frightened me the worst was their fearful “Indian yell.” I put the spurs to my horse and rode for dear life towards Clary and Adams’ camp, which was five miles further. I had a Winchester rifle that had sixteen loaded cartridges; I fired several shots at the Indians. In this way I kept them at bay for a while. But there was one who had a very fast horse and he was the only Indian that could keep pace with me, for mine was a good runner; but this redskin could run up to my side whenever he wanted to. After running in this way for about three miles, and in a shower of bullets, I discovered that I was shot in the hip. I could see but one Indian and he had slacked up his pace to load his gun. I dismounted and took as good aim as I could in the dark and fired four shots. I believe that I wounded him or his horse, for he came no further. I could feel that my boot was filling up with blood and I was getting very weak; it was as much as I could do to mount my horse. When I arrived at the camp I told all that had occurred. I was put in a wagon drawn by two yoke of oxen, and Clary and Adams, with two other men took me back to Benton that night, and my wound was dressed. The bullet is still in my hip.”
Mr. Matkins afterwards died from the effects of this injury. He is buried in the Highland cemetery at Great Falls.
This recalls one Decoration day when the Grand Army veterans were on their way to the cemetery with beautiful flowers to cover the graves of their comrades. I spoke to one of them: “Say, comrade, I am a veteran pioneer. An old comrade of mine is buried in that cemetery. He was shot by the Indians and died from the effects. I have a few wild flowers with me and I am going to decorate his grave. Won’t you ‘take me in’ and let me march with you?” I did not march, but the wild flowers were placed on poor Jim Matkin’s grave.
Old man Long, Foster and Jordan were killed by Sioux near the mouth of Pouchette creek.
Henry Simpson was killed near my ranch on Sun river in 1870. He was shot twice.
A shepherd by the name of Hunt was killed near Grassy Lake, eight miles north of my home, in 1883. He was found with several bullet holes through the body.
George Horn was killed by Assinnaboines on Cow creek in 1874.
Bill Morrison and John Hughes were killed by River Crows on Arrow creek in 1877.
Antelope Charley and Cook were killed by Piegans at the mouth of Eagle creek in 1873.
Little Rock was killed by Sioux on Judith mountain in 1874.
Buckshot and Poulett were killed by Assinnaboines at Rocky spring in 1871.
Joseph Gipperich was killed by Bloods on Saint Mary’s river in 1872.
E. B. Richardson and Charles Steel, James Downey, Charles Buck, J. J. Barker and an African were killed by the Nez Perces in October, 1877, near Cow creek, during the tour of Chief Joseph through the country.
One man, name unknown, was found dead near the Marias in 1875. He was killed by some of the Northern Indians.
One man, name unknown, was killed by Piegans on Sun river in 1868. No clue to the murderers could be had.
Seven unknown travelers were killed by Sioux on the Missouri river, above Fort Peck, in 1868. It was supposed that they were on their way from the East to the gold mines, for they were well equipped for a long journey.
Two men, names unknown, were killed by Sioux at the mouth of the Musselshell in 1868.
Four men, names unknown, were killed by Sioux at the mouth of the Musselshell in 1873.
One man, name unknown, was killed by Piegans on Warm Spring creek, near the Judith river, in 1874.
The remains of a man were found a few miles up the Missouri river, from the mouth of Sun river, in 1887. His identification could not be had. The opinion was that death had come from exposure.
The above are a few of the shadows that darkened the life of the pioneer.
It is human nature that every person is pleased to hear others saying something good about him. Joaquin Miller said of the pioneers of Montana that some fell from overtoil, others in battle with savages; some died even as they sat for the first time by the new-laid hearthstone waiting for wife and babes to arrive with the first flowers of spring; and that the world does not, perhaps, understand what it cost to come here in the early days.
And, as Mr. Miller says, the Pilgrim fathers set forth in the ship and landed on Plymouth Rock; the Cavaliers of Virginia sailed pleasantly up the James river and scarcely knew what a camp in the wilderness was until they sat down in their future home; the Argonauts of California, many of them, merely sailed from port to port; but Montana was a thousand miles from any ocean, a wilderness in the center of an untrodden country with savages in her every pass and valley, and so, necessarily, every man that came here among the first was in some way a soldier, yes, a veteran soldier, who had mustered, camped, marched and battled, endured hunger and exposure to all kinds of weather—all that the bravest soldier endures—before he ever came within sight of the Mecca that he was toiling to reach. He truly says that there was a great difference between the Montana veteran and the bravest of the brave in any war that has ever been; that the soldiers Caesar, Napoleon and Grant had their governments to clothe, feed, pay and pension them, but the hero of Montana stood alone.
I have just given the names of seventy-six of those heroes who fell victims to the wrath of the redskins, and of several that were wounded and died afterwards. The names of the fourteen men, the woman and the two children, I have not, but their relatives were informed of their sad death. Of the other party of men, women and children no further account of them but the finding of their bodies could be obtained. And, in addition to all, we have twenty-two unknown who were killed; not a trace of their identification could be found—no one knew either their names or where their homes were—therefore, an account of their death could not be given to friends or relatives, who may never know what has become of their dear ones who went West years before.
Think of the affectionate sister who had ceased receiving letters from her brother who had gone to the unsettled West to try and better his condition in life. She said: “My brother John used to write to me often, but now, for a long time he has not written. It may be that he is in the mountains prospecting, and that he has no way to send a letter to me. I expect the next letter, when it comes, will be full of good news.” Month after month has passed and she is patiently waiting for that newsy letter to arrive. Poor girl! She does not know the fate that has befallen her brother. And thus of a loving wife, with a babe on her arm, and with her other arm embracing her kind and loving husband when he left home to go to the gold fields of the “Rockies” to hunt enough of the yellow metal to pay off the mortgage that was on their little home. She said that her husband had been gone nearly four years; that during the first three years he wrote every month, and, in every letter there was some money for her, and that in the last letter he stated that he had good prospects and hopes of “striking it” before she would get another, and would be home with enough money to pay off everything. And she, too, is waiting, waiting. It has not entered her mind that her beloved husband has been——.
Again a fond and loving mother, bent with age, and who parted with her only son several years before. For a long time after he left for the gold regions, she said: “He used to write to me very often and always send me some money, and one time he sent me a nice specimen from the mines, but now I have not heard from him for a long time and I am afraid something has happened to him. I am getting so I can’t sleep at night thinking of my darling boy.” He was advertised in the newspaper nearest where his last address was, and the editor of the paper, for the sake of a broken-hearted mother, left the advertisement in double the time the contract called for, besides inserting, “other papers please copy.” But no one responded. All this time an unheard voice was saying: “He is one of the unknown that were killed by the Indians in an isolated place in the Rocky mountains a long time ago.” It may be that some of the relatives of those unfortunates are still hoping that the lost son, brother, husband, or father is yet alive; but the fact is, their remains are resting in an unmarked grave on the plains, or, may be, far in some lonely gulch in the mountains, and the once little mound is now leveled by the elements and the secret spot robed with herbs and wild grasses, so that even his fellow pioneer who buried him cannot designate the place where the remains sleep and rest forever.
One night, when lying in nay blankets under the spreading bows of a pine tree, thinking of those lonely graves that are scattered here and there through the west, in which lay the “unknown,” the following lines occurred to me:
Some people, after reading this letter, may say that it was wrong for those daring men and brave women to go into such a country, occupied only by savages. Well, that may be so, but the unexplored West never would be developed were it not for the immigrants, miners and prospectors who had the ambition, courage and pluck to commence to conquer. They are the “John the Baptists” of civilization, and the founders of states that are represented by stars in our banner and of those yet to come.
I came to Montana when a young man, now I am old, enjoying excellent health, but I may be robbed of this greatest gift to man, and I may, like “Job,” be reduced to poverty, but there is nothing that can rob me of the pride and glory of being a “hero of Montana,” one of those who stood by its cradle.
Robert Vaughn.
March 4, 1898.
The winter of 1869 and 1870 was my first winter in Sun River valley. For a while I boarded with Mr. and Mrs. Armstrong, who kept the Leaving Station adjoining my ranch. This place was so named because it was at this point the road leaves (Leaving) the Sun River valley to Fort Benton. (This was the winter that Col. Baker made a raid on the Indian village on the Marias river.) Also this same winter and spring the smallpox caused many deaths among the Indians. Several whites died also from the same disease. Two stage drivers who drove from Benton to the Leaving died; and as they stopped at the station where I boarded, I took the smallpox in a mild form and was very sick for two weeks, but it left no marks. About this time I concluded to fence the farm. Early in the spring I went to a bend in the Missouri river about ten miles south to cut posts and poles for this purpose. Here there were several log buildings that had been erected sometime in the early sixties by some of the Catholic missionaries and used as an Indian Mission (old St. Peter’s Mission). In 1868 it was abandoned for missionary purposes. After that it was occupied in winter by Indians. In the same bend is now what is known as “The Churchill Ranch.” During the time I was chopping I lived in an old empty cabin that had been built by some trappers; it was in the edge of the woods about a quarter of a mile from the old Mission buildings. There was neither a door nor a window, but it had a good fireplace; I hung a blanket for a door, and cut lots of wild rye-grass for my bed. Although alone, I was very comfortable and slept well at night, for I worked hard all day. There were in all about thirty Indians in the old buildings, many of whom were sick with the smallpox; and a great many had died of the same disease. Their mode of burying the dead was to wrap the corpse in a buffalo robe and lay it under a tree in some secret place in the woods and cover it with leaves and branches off the trees; others were placed on a scaffold in trees, as heretofore described. There were a great many buried in this way in the woods where I was working. One Indian buried his wife and two children two days before I came. The female relations showed great grief by hacking their legs from the ankle to the calf into many small cuts barely through the skin; and they would sit alone with a robe over their heads and mourn and sigh. Once in the dead of the night, when I was asleep, some unearthly noise awoke me. It was at my cabin door. I raised on my elbow in my bed which was on the ground. As usual, when danger came, I grabbed my old gun which was under my head and pointed it at the door where the blanket hung. I listened, and finally decided that it was a human voice. It was a kind of chanting talking and in the most mournful tone, with now and then a deep, pitiful sigh as though it came from the bottom of the heart. It was the most mournful and pitiful utterance ever made by a human voice. It was kept up for at least twenty minutes. There was living with the Indians a half-breed who could speak English. His name was Simpson. (Afterwards he was killed by the Indians on the hill across Sun river from my ranch.) Next morning I told the half-breed of what took place at my cabin the previous night and he interpreted to me that it was an Indian, “the husband and father of the woman and two children that died the other day,” and that he was praying, and asking me to ask the Great Spirit to stop the smallpox. A few minutes later the Indian and the half-breed came together to see me; the Indian said to me that his wife and two of his children were already dead and that more of his relations were sick. He firmly believed that I could do a great deal towards preventing the disease.
I told him that the Great Spirit was listening to his praying last night and heard every word, and as soon as the “warm winds” came the smallpox would be no more. This appeared to be of great consolation to him. It was plain to be seen that the poor fellow loved his family. He was the Indian that saved Mr. and Mrs. Kennedy’s lives only few months before at the Kennedy ranch near the mouth of the Prickly Pear canyon when the Indians took them out of their home and were going to kill them, but this Indian came forward and stood between Mr. and Mrs. Kennedy and the other Indians that would be murderers. He raised his gun and spoke in a firm voice: “If you kill this man and woman you must kill me first.” He stood them off and saved the lives of two good citizens. He was well known by the whites and was always friendly and honorable. He went by the name of “Cut Lip Jack.” This kind and brave Indian is dead, but Mr. and Mrs. Kennedy are alive and live in Missoula county, Montana. Will Kennedy of this city is their nephew.
Robert Vaughn.
Jan. 14, 1898.
In the month of August, 1871, I went near the mouth of Sun river to make hay. John Traxler, the man I had hired, was with me. I had a very fine span of gray mares which were brought to Montana from the State of Missouri, and they had cost me three hundred dollars. We pitched our tent on the open prairie and away from the brush, for it was a safer place in an Indian country, beside the mosquitoes were very bad. Each of us had an old army needle gun with several rounds of ammunition. When night came we picketed the horses about five hundred yards off where there was good grass; the picket pins were iron and the ropes were new, so we had the horses well secured. We went to bed and covered our heads to keep the mosquitoes from biting us. When morning came I went to change the pickets for the horses so that they could get fresh grass, and John went to prepare breakfast. But to my surprise the horses were gone, and on investigation I found that the ropes had been cut near the picket pins, I decided at once that they had been stolen and so reported to John. He could see that I was feeling very badly over losing my fine team. “Well,” he said, “I will let you have all the money I’ve got to get another team.” After breakfast and discussing what was best to do, we went to see in what direction the horses had been taken. We found moccasin tracks near where the horses had been picketed, and we tracked them going north. It was plain to be seen that Indians were the thieves. John went up the valley and I took the direction the horses had gone, each of us taking his gun and ammunition; we soon lost sight of each other. After I had gone about four miles, and on the flat north of Alkali Springs, I found the tracks of the horses and they were very plain, for the gray mares were shod. Going a little further I discovered where they had been changing saddles, for there were pieces of buffalo robes and old Indian blankets that were full of horse hair and wet with sweat from horses; no doubt there the change had been made from the Indian ponies to the gray mare. I followed the tracks crossing the Benton road and in the direction of the Teton river. After traveling in a northerly direction for fifteen miles I changed my course and headed for the ranch. I was eight miles from home. I got home in the afternoon and found John there. Early next morning I went to Fort Shaw and told my story to the commanding officer, who was General Gibbon. He at once called for Bostwick, the interpreter, and asked him what Indians were camping up the valley. Bostwick replied that they were Gray Eagle’s party. “Go and bring Gray Eagle here to me,” the general said. Bostwick, with six mounted men, went after the old chief, and in about three hours they had him and two of his staff in the general’s headquarters. The general told Gray Eagle (through Bostwick, the interpreter), that some of his men had stolen my horses and if they were not returned immediately that he and his people would be severely punished, and he further said that he was in this country with his soldiers to look after such thieves as they. The old Indian listened eagerly, and said, that he was very sorry that my horses had been stolen; but he assured us that there were none of his men out that night, and said in the most emphatic manner that none of his men stole the horses; but that he would do all in his power to find them and bring them back to me. After considerable discussion about the matter, the general told the chief that if he would get those horses and bring them to the fort that he would give him a sack of sugar, and I said that I would give a sack of flour. Again the general said: “If you let me know who stole Mr. Vaughn’s horses, I will give you a sack of coffee and a sack of bacon.”
The old Indian promised faithfully that he would do all in his power to find the horses. However, after eleven days from the time the horses were stolen, the morning of the twelfth, the first thing after opening my cabin door was to see the two gray mares feeding on the grass only a few yards from my door. And I was a happy man. No one asked for the reward. That was the only time the Indians ever stole anything from me.
Robert Vaughn.
Jan. 25, 1898.
In the years 1865–66 there were from fifteen to twenty thousand people in the various mining camps of Montana, and its mountains were swarmed with daring prospectors. In those times nearly every day had its new discovery, and the slightest whisper of a new “find” would create a stampede, in which instances the most extraordinary endurance and courage were displayed. There is no animal on earth that will stampede quicker, keep on going with the same stubbornness and determination, as a fortune hunter; they are worse than Texas cattle. For one instance, I will relate the following: McClellan, an old mountaineer and prospector, and who was the discoverer of the “McClellan Gulch,” but sold his claim in that renowned mine for a song, and, after having two or three weeks’ good time in town, he began laying his plans for another prospecting tour.
In the following fall (1865) he decided to go to the Sun river country, that was about one hundred miles north of Helena, and hunt for more mines. He was considered a lucky prospector in finding gold, and when a report came from him it could be relied upon.
After having prospected for two or three months the cold weather began to set in, and, as he had already found some gold, he decided to build a cabin and keep on prospecting till spring. In a week or so he had his house up and everything in apple-pie order, except one thing, and that was, to have some one to have his meals ready after returning from the hills where he had been working hard all day. As there was a Piegan camp not far off he went there one day and engaged a squaw to come and cook for him. As the new employe had many relations, who became her frequent visitors, it was not long before the proprietor discovered that a few extras in the line of groceries had to be gotten, an extra sack of flour, a few pounds of soap, and so forth; besides some calico, beads, brass ear rings and bracelets for the new housekeeper, who was trying her hand for the first time in her life at house-keeping.
One day Mc mounted his pony, and, with another pack horse, struck for Helena to get the goods. On his arrival he met many of his old friends, and of course they were anxious to learn what success he had prospecting. He said that so far he had not discovered anything that would pay, although he had found what he called good indications. For all that a close watch was kept on the old prospector during the few days he was in town, and a suspicion was aroused among many that on account of the fact that he was buying considerable goods he must know of something greater than he wanted to tell. To one of his confidential friends he told of the pleasant home he had in the Sun river country, and, in a whisper, his last sentence was: “I have got as good a thing as I want,” meaning his new housekeeper and the household outfit that he had just purchased. Two of the anxious ones stood near and overheard him saying, “I have got as good a thing as I want.” They decided at once that a new find was meant. The news spread like wild fire to every camp in the vicinity, and, like the story of the “three black crows,” something was added to the first report as it went from camp to camp. A tremendous stampede followed, and, although it was in the month of January and the thermometer stood thirty-five degrees below zero, and there was over a foot of snow on the level, this did not check the rush. From twelve to fifteen hundred rugged miners participated in this stampede; some went on horseback, others on foot, and, after traveling about one hundred miles, the new Eldorado could not be found. Before returning home several suffered severely from cold and hunger and two died from exposure. Some threats were made against the one giving the false report, but no foundation could be found that McClellan had said that a discovery of gold had been made, but to the contrary it was proven that he had said that no diggings had been found. And, when the particulars of what started the stampede were learned, no further complaint was made. All returned home except a few who had supplied themselves with enough provisions; they stayed and prospected.
Mr. Thomas Moran of St. Peter, who was on this stampede, told me only a few days ago that at least seven hundred men were one night in camp in a bend of the Missouri river and near where the St. Peter’s Mission was then. He said that Father C. Imoda, who was in charge of the Mission, treated them kindly and gave assistance to many that were suffering from cold and hunger. Mr. Moran said that the thermometer registered forty degrees below zero that night.
All of the old timers remember this event, and it is known at the present time as the “Great Sun river stampede in the winter of 1866.”
Robert Vaughn.
April 21, 1899.
It was about the 20th day of April, 1866, that the first wagon train drawn by oxen pulled out of Virginia City and down the famous Alder Gulch bound for Fort Benton, the head of navigation on the Missouri river; and this train was the property of Sutherlin Brothers, of whom the writer hereof was a member. The train was not a large one, for our firm was not rich and had all it could do to equip four teams. Work cattle were then worth from $130 to $160 per pair, and they could be bought only for gold. One feature of this little train was the coupling of wagons together which had never been in practice before, so that one driver could handle five or six yoke of oxen pulling two wagons carrying from seven to eight thousand pounds. This was the first train of the kind to go on the road, a view to economy caused its invention. Our firm had some wagons of four thousand pounds capacity and could secure lighter ones for trails, while to buy big “Prairie Schooners” was out of the question. We had tried the plan of coupling wagons together for the saving of drivers the year before and found it practicable, hence no risk was taken in outfitting upon a more extensive scale for general freighting. The usual freighter had but one heavy wagon to a team, but it was noticed that our little train hauled as much per team as they, and made better time, consequently many adopted the same plan, and in a few years rich firms had gone into the freighting business, with teams of from nine to twelve yoke of oxen, and four wagons; each team hauling from sixteen to twenty thousand pounds. Eight to ten teams constituted a train. One driver to a team, a night herder and wagon boss, was all that was necessary to make a full crew.
At the time we made this trip to the head of navigation there were no stage coaches, except the lines to Salt Lake and Helena, and there were no liveries, the principal means of travel being on horseback, the traveler taking his bed in a roll behind his saddle or upon an extra horse, together with frying pan and coffee pot.
The large number of steamboats which had left St. Louis for Fort Benton, laden with merchandise, seemed to offer an easier means of going east and south, then fifteen days and nights of stage coaching via Salt Lake to Denver, then to Omaha or Kansas City; and, as a great many people had already made quite a fortune, passage on a freight train to Fort Benton was acceptable, even with our ox train, which was among the first to leave Virginia City. The mule trains had the preference until reports came of the Indian raids and danger of loss of mules when the business was quite evenly divided. An ounce of gold dust was the customary fare from Virginia City to Fort Benton.
Our crew was fairly well armed and the passengers were generally provided with revolvers; as many of them carried considerable gold dust weapons of defense were considered essential to safety.
From morning until night our little train moved along, fifteen miles being the usual extent of a day’s drive. Down the valley by Pete Daly’s station, then to “Garney’s,” across the Jefferson, up White Tail over the Boulder range, the Boulder valley and into “Last Chance.” I remember my first glimpse of Bridge street, then the principal thoroughfare of the new metropolis, Helena, for the greater part of Main street was a winding wagon road over piles of tailings, around sluice boxes and miners’ huts; and I remember, too, the winding road out into the unsettled and apparently valueless valley that spread out as we proceeded northwestward and the large herd of antelope that scampered away as we approached, disappearing in the virgin meadows which hid them. The little town of Silver City, where a few people were placer mining, lay to the left of our road. The head of Prickly Pear canyon, the home of the brave Malcolm Clark, has a place in my memory, for it seemed to be the sunniest spot in the wilderness. Lyons Hill, Medicine Rock, and other somewhat mountain-like high places were passed, and then the crossing of the Dearborn river, which was made between showers when the stream was so deep that the water came into the wagon beds, I do not forget.
At “Bird Tail Rock” some of our party took their first hunt. Mountain sheep in considerable numbers were seen at the base and far up the rugged sides of that great landmark, and a taste of the rare mutton in the mountain wilds they longed for before getting back, as they said, to “God’s country, America,” but the jaunt was a long one, further to the game than they had anticipated, and the ramble was abandoned, the party reaching camp long after camping time satisfied to go home without the taste of mountain mutton.
At Sun river an unexpected halt was made; we called it a “layover.” There had been copious rains, together with the melting snow, and the river was booming, out of its channel in some places. The ferry boat, a small craft built of whip-sawed lumber and capable of carrying only one wagon and one yoke of oxen, was intact, but the cable had to be stretched. In doing this, after several efforts, the end was landed on the opposite shore, but in drawing it up out of the water the strong current parted it. This was repaired after much exertion, but, in crossing, the first wagon of the Bullard train, which was among the number in waiting, the trail rope again parted, and it was with difficulty that the boat and contents was landed. J. J. Healey, the ferryman of the boat crew had already departed for Benton to secure a new cable, and there followed several days of waiting before his return. During the days of waiting a number of trains arrived. Finally the ferryman came with a new cable and then followed the task of placing it in position, a job more difficult than the first, owing to the continued rise of the river. Effort after effort was made, each proving a failure. The end of the cable was brought across the river, but it was not possible to draw it out of the water, and when, with a long team of oxen, it had been drawn across from the east shore J. J. Healey and many freighters had almost despaired of placing it in position. Ben Anderson and his three associates volunteered to perform the task. These Indiana boys had for years followed the business of rafting saw-logs down the Wabash river and proved to be the right men in the right place on this occasion. They made several rafts out of dry cottonwood logs, and, locating them at intervals up the bank of the stream, the cable was stretched on them in such a manner that it was held above the water, then starting with the upper end the rafts were swung around, the further one reaching the opposite shore, when it was easily raised to the proper height without touching the rapid current. It did me good to see the hats go up and hear the round of applause that echoed out upon the beautiful Sun river valley as the cable was anchored—“hurrah, hurrah, hurrah for the boys, the Indiana boys.” This feat gave our little train the first right of way over the ferry, and we crossed in time to drive as far as the “Leavings,” a nine-mile pull down the river bank.
I almost forgot to state that Mr. Healey, besides bringing the big rope from Benton, brought the report that a large body of Blackfeet Indians were camped on the Teton river not many miles away to the north, and that their mission was to steal horses, pillage and murder. This was not pleasant news to the passengers who, though well armed, felt that they “might be taken in.” It was sundown when camp was made at the “Leavings,” and I cannot forget the anxiety manifest as I went around to the several campfires. Up to that date we had no night watchman, but it was easy to see the necessity of a night sentinel, therefore I volunteered to perform that duty. It was not a new duty by any means, for I had seen weeks of it in crossing the plains to Denver in 1863 and coming to Montana in 1864. To make the night easy my friend, Joe Lacky, volunteered to take the first half of the night and went on his beat at nine, all rolling into bed about the same time.
It was 12:30 when I was awakened by a whisper, to which was added: “The camp is all right.” With my revolver in my belt and Ballard rifle in hand I was soon on duty. The oxen were lying down, broken clouds hung over head, and all was quiet except the hooting of owls in the hills across the river and who seemed to be keeping company with their neighbors located some distance away. So far away were these that they were but faintly heard. At first I paid little attention to the hooting, but as the hours began to grow longer and the clouds thickened, the hooting became more interesting. These hootings came at intervals, while between them the stillness seemed almost unbearable.
There is much that I might write of that night of picket duty at the “Leavings,” but least I may tire the reader the same is passed. Writing at this time, thirty-three and a half years later, my thoughts go back to more recent scenes of the place, and I cannot pass on without recalling just one or two visits there quite as distinct as the first. The Sun river tour of 1879, when introducing the “Rocky Mountain Husbandman,” comes fresh. It was then I rested a day with my friend, Robert Vaughn, who had cultivated on that lonely spot a fine farm, built a good home, and owned herds of horses and cattle. We talked of the early days gone by, of Indians and Indian hunting, and wound up the day of pleasure in a hunt among the feathered tribes—geese, ducks and swan. Mr. V. showed not alone his markmanship, but his skill in selecting young birds of which it was less than an hour’s sport on the river to capture a dozen. But this is digressing from my subject.
The morning of that lonely night in 1866 dawned, the oxen arose to feed and the expected attack by Indians did not materialize. We were on the road early, for the drive to the lakes was a longer one than we had usually made. Without especial incident the day passed and we reached the head of the lakes about sundown. The wagons were corralled—drawn up in a close half circle, cattle turned out to graze, supper cooked, etc. No Indians or signs of Indians had been seen and our passengers were buoyant with hopes, for it seemed that the head of navigation would be reached in safety, there being but two more days’ travel before us. Having the lead from the ferry we were a day’s travel ahead of the other trains, and realizing this added somewhat to the anxiety and I might say fear. The night passed quietly, particularly the latter part. We were too far away from the cliffs to hear the hooting of the owls, and the only charm I can remember was when a breeze came up from the southeast which brought with it the roar of the great Missouri river falls, some twenty or more miles away.
The following day’s travel was also long on account of the scarcity of water. Getting an early start the journey was made, arriving at Twenty-eight-Mile Springs about sunset. Just before turning the summit of the ridge west of this well known place we were overtaken by a large mule train, probably forty wagons, four to six animals to each wagon, and they were well loaded with passengers—probably about one hundred and forty persons. This train pulled by, and, passing the springs, turned south and went into camp on the summit of the elevated lands six or seven hundred yards away, while our little train halted for the night close to the springs. Soon after turning out our teams several visitors came from the big train. Nearly all were from Virginia City, and among them there were few ladies. Several of the passengers carried large amounts of gold dust, the estimated amount in the train being over $400,000. This train had been making fast time, having that day come from the “Leavings,” a distance of twenty-five miles. Fresh stories were told us of the large Indian camp and the probable raid, for at this time we were near to their camp. We were solicited to join the big party, but our teams were turned out and we had to decline. This request came several times, and lastly in the shape of a message from his excellency, Acting Gov. Thomas Francis Meagher, who was among the passengers. This brought our firm and friends together for council, at which it was decided to remain where we were. If an attack was made by the Indians the object would be to secure the mules and horses, as they could not expect to drive our cattle away, and if siege was made we would be better off in reach of water than on the hill. Further summing it up, we considered our people better off camped as we were, and as the mule outfit was placing a strong guard for the night we could all turn into our beds and sleep. Soon after dark the lights were put out and quiet reigned. The night was cloudy, and in getting into my bed under a wagon it was surmised that I might be driven out by rain before morning. We had but one horse and he was tied with a long lariat to a wheel of the wagon under which I slept. That horse was my body guard. I knew that if Indians appeared he would snort and try to pull away, which would awaken me.
It was perhaps 3 o’clock in the morning when a single report of a gun rent the air south of the mule camp, and following close on this I heard in the distance the sound of many hoofs. Then a general commotion ensued at the mule camp. General Meagher was among the first to rise and his strong voice could be heard giving orders. He was the self-constituted commander on this occasion, and I could hear him knocking on the sides of the wagon and commanding every one to get out and prepare for an attack. A messenger came down to inform us that Indians had attempted to stampede the mules, but the guards had succeeded in rescuing them and driving them into the corral, and an attack was expected. General Meagher sent us word to leave our wagons and join the mule camp, and for a few moments it seemed that some of our passengers were willing to do this, but better judgment prevailed, and all decided to remain with their wagons and protect, if possible, their own valuables, which could not well be removed at that hour. Our men were all up and in readiness, but the night was too dark for one to shoot with any degree of accuracy, and it seemed hardly reasonable that the “Redskins” would make an attack until the beginning of daylight. There was, however, no let up to the racket in the mule camp. General Meagher got his fellow passengers out in line and marched them in regular soldier form around and round the big corral in which the mules were secured. This corral was composed of wagons drawn up in a circle and ropes so tied between that the mules once inside could not get out. I could hear the commands given and I listened with interest to the exchange of words with some of the men who attempted to evade the duty. “I have but a small pistol and can do no good if I come out there,” said one of the men. “Yes, you can do good,” said Meagher, “these helpless women and children must be protected and I beseech you to come like a man to their rescue.” “Fall in line, shoulder arms, forward, march!” “Why, sir, do you dare disobey orders?” “Oh, why, I was just looking into the wagon to see if things were all right.”
The truth of the matter was that those fellows who protested had little pets in their wagons in the shape of sacks of gold dust which were unhandy to carry and they were afraid of losing the treasure. But the energetic general appeared to take more interest in the safety of those women and children than of those gold sacks, and his strong voice echoed for nearly three long hours, as he gave commands to keep in line ready for action and protect the camp. Quite an episode when, after marching for more than an hour, the general chanced to find a little Jew covered in his blankets and crouched down in one end of a wagon. Loud calling did not seem to disturb him—all this time he was playing that he could not hear—but by prodding he was aroused, and the general, thinking him deaf, shouted very loudly trying to arouse him to action in resisting the enemy. It was said that the fellow could hear as well as anybody, but took that plan of evading the general’s orders, preferring to keep closer watch of his treasures which, it appears, were too heavy to be handily carried, but the general kept on urging until he got the Jew into line. Perhaps the most laughable incident that occurred during the scare was when the general’s messenger returned from a visit to our camp and reported that “them folks with the ox train are Missourians and won’t get up.” It was a mistake, however, as our party did get out and were ready for the fray, and afterwards one of them remarked that it was really too bad that the “Redskins did not give us a fight, that we were entitled to have some fun after so much preparation.”
Early next morning our train was on the road, and the mule train, at the general’s suggestion, fell in and kept company. Plenty of evidences were seen to establish the fact of the near approach of the Indians that night, and I attributed their failure to attack to the action of General Meagher and men in the mule camp. Forty wagons and teams added to our little train, with from eighty to a hundred armed men marching by their sides and about thirty mounted on horseback scouting in advance on either side, made up a pretty formidable procession. I had the honor of accompanying General Meagher on horseback as an advance picket during most of the day, and it was rare enjoyment listening to sketches of his early life adventures, his leave taking of the old country, and incidents of his connection with the war of the rebellion.
The general was en route to meet his wife who came up on the “Josephine.” Our trip of the day was without material interest, and it was cheering to my soul to see the glad faces of our passengers as our caravan hove in sight of the quaint little fort and city, nestled beneath the rounded hills, and three Missouri river steamers, the “St. John,” the “Waverly” and another moored at the wharf discharging their cargoes.
Will H. Sutherlin.
White Sulphur Springs, Mont., Nov. 12, 1899.