“On the morrow the Piegan forces were largely augmented by these new arrivals and the chief deemed it best to immediately move against the Crows, who were reported by the scouts as being intrenched at what were then called the “Breaks.” Every preparation having been made, the whole force moved forward in one vast column. Soon they fell in with the Crows and drove their outposts into their trenches, and then commenced one of the most bloody battles ever fought between two nations having a red skin. The Piegans, after fighting all that day and night, finally succeeded in dislodging the enemy, who, early in the morning, began to move off down the valley. After resting until evening, they again started in pursuit, and overtook the Crows at what the white men now call the “Middle Bridge,” which is about two miles below the town of Sun River. Here, if you remember, a high point of bluff puts in close to the river, affording great defensive advantages. This is where the Crows made their second stand. Bright and early on the morning of the third day, the Piegans moved forward, and, against the most fearful odds, succeeded, just as night was coming on, in driving the Crows out of their intrenchments; but, owing to the peculiar formation of the bluffs at this point, it was of no great advantage, as the ground immediately beyond was as well adapted to defense as that just lost.
“The Crows had again intrenched themselves, and when morning came, yells of defiance answered the taunts of the Blackfeet. Both parties had received such reinforcements that the combatants numbered 5,000 on either side, each bent on the extermination of the other; and so near did they accomplish this, that when the fight was over five hundred Piegan warriors marked the spot where the fight was made. For two days the fight continued, the Crows yielding but a little at a time. They seemed to still have some hope of victory, but fate was against them. Just across the river from where is now Robert Vaughn’s place, they made their last stand. Here the hardest fighting was done, and when the last charge was made by the Blackfeet the ground was literally piled with killed and wounded of both tribes. The Piegans were so crippled by the continuous battle that when the Crows broke from their cover and retreated down the river and across the Missouri, they were satisfied and made no effort at further pursuit. Although,” said Little Plume, “it took the Blackfeet nation over twenty years to recover their strength, Skoon-a-taps-e-guan was only partially avenged. As long as there remains a Crow and Piegan, so long will there be war. When the last Crow shall have been killed, then, and not till then, will the ‘Strong Man’ be avenged.”
Little Plume was one of the chiefs who were friendly to the whites.
In the fore part of July, 1876, when the Sioux war was going on, and soon after the Custer massacre, the chiefs of the Piegans, Bloods and Blackfeet were invited by the head men of the Sioux to an Indian council held at Cypress mountain. Among the attendants was Chief Little Plume. When the Yanktons and Santees, of the Sioux nation, proclaimed a war of extermination against the whites, Little Plume would not consent, thereby breaking up the council, thus saving the lives of many settlers. Judge Burcher and Mr. John Largent, of Sun River, who have lived in northern Montana since the early sixties, always speak highly of Chief Little Plume, and at the time of his last visit he was treated kindly by those gentlemen. Little Plume is now living on the Blackfoot reservation, in this state, and holds the honorable post of lieutenant of Indian police. He is about seventy-five years of age.
Several years later a great battle was fought where is now located the Floweree ranch. I am not able to state who were the forces, except that the Blackfeet and Piegans were on one side.
Some of the old employes of the fur trading companies, who are now living, state that the old Indians who were living when they came here about fifty years ago were telling them then that the Flatheads and Blackfeet were often having great battles in the valley of the Sun river. One of these long-ago encounters took place near where is now Allick Pambron’s ranch; no one can tell who were the participants. All that the oldest Indians who are now living can say as to the time this battle was fought is that it was “heap long ago.” It must have been in prehistoric times, for the arrows they used then had flint points, for many of this kind of arrow points have been gathered on this old battlefield. Mrs. McKalvy, who is one of Mr. Pambron’s daughters, told me a few days ago that she and her little brothers used to pick up these points off this historic spot, filling several tobacco sacks for General Gibbon at Fort Shaw.
In 1858, and near where the Sun river irrigation channel is taken from the river, an agency for the Blackfeet Indians was built. In 1866 the same Indians killed its occupants and burned the agency.
In June, 1869, a party of Piegans had come to the Healy and Hamilton trading store at Sun river crossing, with buffalo robes, pelts and furs to trade. They had with them a great many horses. At the same time there was a party of Pend d’Oreilles, whose home was west of the main range, and who were on their way back from the Judith country, where they had been hunting buffalo during the previous winter, and at this time were in camp several miles down the river. One day many of the Pend d’Oreilles were at the trading store. The Piegans suspected that there would be trouble that night. They placed their horses in a corral that was near J. J. Healy’s house. Sure enough, late in the night, the Pend d’Oreilles made an attack, and, when breaking down the corral where the horses were, a desperate battle was fought, lasting about twenty minutes or more. Next morning seven dead Indians were found. One, after he was shot, fell into the well. The Pend d’Oreilles stole all the horses. The bullet holes in Healy’s old house can be seen at the present time. The following night, while the Pend d’Oreilles were in camp on Flat creek, the Piegans recaptured their own horses and many more besides.
Another time a white man named Clark was killed near the Middle bridge by two Indians; one of them was hung to a tree by the citizens, and the other was shot while trying to escape. Not later than one week ago Judge Burcher, of Sun River, stated to me that he and D. H. Churchill, in 1874, were across the Missouri river, opposite the mouth of Sun river, and on the slope of the hill near where now stands the south side school house in the city of Great Falls. There they found four dead Indians, lying not far from each other. By the beadwork designs on their moccasins, the judge recognized that they were Piegans. Likely they had been killed by the Crows.
A Frenchman was murdered by Indians on the Sun river, south of Presly Rowles’ house.
“Little Dog,” a Piegan chief, who was friendly to the whites and lived most of the time (up to his death in 1869) in the Sun river valley, had built a low log cabin for himself and family where now is located the Birkenbuell ranch. He was a man gifted with good sense and considerable intelligence for an Indian, and was as brave as a lion. But at last he was murdered by his own people.
The following was written by J. J. Healy and appeared in the Benton Record in regard to this noted warrior:
“It so rarely happens that an Indian is gifted with good, solid sense that when one of this kind is born into the world he soon becomes a prominent member of his tribe. Not that Indians as a race are wanting in intelligence, but there are few whose intellect is sufficient to overcome their brutish instincts or to understand that their habits and mode of life are slowly but surely wiping them from the face of the earth.
“Little Dog, the soldier chief of the Piegans, was one of the noted exceptions to this rule. He was braver than the bravest member of his tribe, a terror to his enemies, but always a devoted friend of the whites. No doubt he inherited the universal feeling of his race that the whites were his natural enemies and oppressors, but he had the good sense to understand and acknowledge that they were the superior of his people in all things and that entire submission to their rule could only be a question of time. And these truths he endeavored to impress upon the minds of his tribe, using arguments when his great oratorical powers were likely to prevail, but adopting force when, in opposition to his commands, the warriors committed the slightest depredation upon the surrounding settlements.
“Little Dog had a son who was the father’s counterpart in personal appearance, and also possessed the reckless courage and remarkable intelligence of his parent. It is said, and I have personal knowledge of more than one instance in proof of the assertion, that these two men were, in deadly encounter, more than a match for ten of the best warriors of the tribe, and such was the confidence felt in their skill and prowess that a war party under their command would follow them into the very jaws of death. I will relate one instance to show the sort of stuff these two Indians were made of.
“A war party of Piegans, consisting of twenty well armed and mounted men, had encountered six Assinaboines. The latter had taken shelter in an Indian war house, a structure built of logs and affording a strong and safe defense to those within. After fighting hard all day, the Piegans were unable to take the fortifications, and would probably have withdrawn from the contest after the sun went down. But towards evening Little Dog and his son, attracted by the firing, came up, and learning that the war house was defended by only six men, they laughed at their own warriors, the Piegans, calling them cowards and squaws, and without a moment’s hesitation dashed up to the fort in the face of a deadly fire from those within, leaped over the logs, killed four of the defenders, and dragged the remaining two by the hair out of the fort and turned them over to the squaws to be put to death.
“It was no uncommon thing when a war party returned to camp with horses or other property stolen from the whites for Little Dog and his son to turn out with pistols and tomahawks in hand, and kill every one of the thieves and then return the property to its rightful owners; but when the offenders were too numerous to be punished, the two men would leave the tribe and live together with the whites until the time the improved conduct of the tribe appeased their anger.
“But the depredations of the Piegans gradually became more frequent, in spite of the efforts of the chief to prevent them, and finding at last that his threats and punishments failed to have the desired effect, he came to Fort Benton to consult with the agent as to the best course to be pursued. Gad E. Upson was then agent for the Piegans and the agency was located on Front street. The chief told his story and was advised by the agent not to kill the offenders, but to arrest them and bring them to Fort Benton and that he would punish them.
“In compliance with this advice, Little Dog and his son arrived in town one day with a prisoner who had stolen some horses from the whites. ‘Hang him, shoot him; do anything you please with him,’ said the chief. ‘I can do nothing with him.’
“But however much the tribe feared the great chief and his son, they were not willing to submit to this sort of treatment, and no sooner had the prisoner been turned over to the whites than they concocted a scheme to rid themselves of these dreaded men.
“While returning to camp, after delivering up the prisoner, the party, who had provided themselves with a good supply of whisky, halted near the river bank to rest and have a social time. The plotters, headed by a half-breed named Isadore, suggested that as they were liable to get drunk, they had better put away their arms to provide against accidents. Little Dog and his son gave up their weapons without hesitation, and the boy left the party to indulge in a bath in the river.
“The spree then began. After the cowardly plotters had nerved themselves sufficiently for the bloody work, they secretly recovered their weapons and then began to quarrel with the chief. The latter, with his usual intrepidity, replied to their sneers and insults with contemptuous epithets, and finally brought the quarrel to a climax by kicking three of them over the river bank. The cowards then opened fire upon the defenseless chief and he fell riddled with bullets. Meanwhile the son, attracted by the noise, left the water and came to the assistance of his father. He was shot down four times, but reached the spot where his father laid and fell dead upon his body.”
Many other skirmishes have taken place between Indians of different tribes in this vicinity, of which I shall make no mention, and, as Chief Little Plume said: “As long as there remains a Crow and Piegan, so long will there be war.”
One more instance to confirm this statement I wish to refer to. It was in 1874. There were six of us working on an irrigation ditch near the bank of the Sun river, two miles from Fort Shaw, and on the opposite side of the river. One day, when we were eating our dinner that was spread on the sod, and near to the edge of the woods which grew thick on both sides of the stream, suddenly twelve Crow warriors rode up on us. They wanted to know how far up the valley the Piegan camp was. It appeared that the Piegans had been stealing some of their horses. Not satisfied with the information they sought for, they dismounted and began to take possession of our dinner. One of the Indians reached for my coffee, which was in a tin cup; just then I gave him a shove which landed him on his back on the ground, but he took it in good humor. Another one grabbed Tom Cristy’s tin plate which contained his dinner. Tom, being always a daring fellow, jumped to his feet and slapped the Indian in the face; it was no fun for this Indian. He gave a savage look, ground his teeth and tried to swear in English. His face, which was already red with war paint, began to get still redder. By this time indications were that there was going to be a general fight. At this juncture I invited the leader of the party to come with me, and told him I would direct him to where the Piegan camp was. He followed me up a steep hill, to the elevation of about two hundred feet, and in plain view of Fort Shaw, and, as it happened, a small squadron of soldiers were preparing for target practice. There, said I, pointing at the fort, is the Piegan camp. The Indian stared for a moment, then his jaw dropped like the lower half of a bellows, and I fancy that his complexion became nearer like that of a pale face than it ever was before. They spared no time in going down the valley as fast as their horses could carry them, and crossed the Missouri river at the ford near the place now spanned by the Great Northern railway bridge. They did not get any dinner either.
Evidently they did not know of the close proximity of Fort Shaw, for at this time they were away from their home and in the Blackfeet country.
All this goes to show that the Blackfeet nation and Crows were always enemies. Of course, “now” they are on their respective reservations, and are taught the principle of “Love thy neighbor as thyself.”
Robert Vaughn.
Oct. 20, 1898.
The following sketch, from Charles Choquette, appeared in the New York Sun in the summer of 1899. Mr. Choquette says:
“My home was in the state of Missouri, near St. Louis. One day in 1843, when I was twenty years old, I went to St. Louis, and, against the will of my parents, hired to Pierre Choteau, who was the head man of a fur trading company that operated on the upper Missouri river. A few days after signing articles with the company I was put in charge of a crew to take Mackinaw boats loaded with goods to trade with the Indians. Our destination was Fort Union, which was a trading post belonging to the company to whom I hired. The distance from St. Louis to Fort Union is about two thousand miles. As oars were of little service, the big boat had to be towed nearly all the way. First on one side and then on the other, tugging on a rope, at times up to our waists in chilly water, and at other times forcing our way through brush that grew thick on the banks of the stream. After seventy-two days of hardships and dangers, we arrived safely at Fort Union, which was near the mouth of the Yellowstone river.
“It was not long before I and others were sent out along the various streams and into the mountains to trap fur-bearing animals that were very plentiful then. Many trappers had been killed by Indians, and others were continually robbed by them. It was not until I finally married a Blackfoot woman and traveled about with the tribe that I felt reasonably safe of getting my season’s catch of furs to the company posts. For several years after I arrived at Fort Union I went with one or two companions each season up the Milk river to the Snowys or the Little Rockies, and about half of the time the Indians stole our furs. The first big catch I made was the time I met Jim Bridger, the great trapper, hunter and scout, and one of the bravest men that ever lived. Now I will tell how it happened that we met.
“In the spring of 1848 we returned to Fort Union and we had only the few beaver we caught coming down the river. We had wintered up on the Fourchette, and the Assinaboines had raised our cache. We worked around the fort all summer, hunting for the company, and finally the time came for us to start out for another season’s trapping. There were three of us—Antoine Busette, Louis La Breche and myself. All summer we had been trying to decide on the best place to go, where there would be plenty of beaver and where we would be likely to be safe from the Indians. We concluded to try the country of the Yellowstone. There were many Indians to pass—Cheyennes and Crows and Snakes—besides the chance of war parties of other tribes, but once in the mountains beyond these people who always hunted on the plains, we felt we would be safe. We played Indian ourselves and traveled nights, hiding in some good place during the daytime.
“We left the fort late in August. Each of us had a saddle horse and two pack horses. Our outfit was simple; a couple of skillets and pots, a little bedding, an Indian lodge for shelter, a couple of axes, three dozen traps, and plenty of ammunition and tobacco. Having crossed the Missouri just below the mouth of the Yellowstone, we struck out over the rolling prairie, keeping far enough back from the latter stream to head its long coulees and breaks. None of us had ever been up the Yellowstone, but we had obtained a general idea of the country from the Indians who visited the fort. On every side there were buffalo and antelopes in countless thousands, from which we could have selected a fat one for our breakfast, but there was no water, and we were as thirsty as we were hungry; so we kept wearily on towards some wooded breaks a long ways ahead, where water as well as game was sure to be found. When we got within a mile of our destination, a dozen or more horsemen suddenly rose up out of the valley and came straight at us. Our hearts sunk; it seemed as if we had jumped out of the frying pan into the fire. Our horses were played out; we could not retreat, and were preparing to dismount and fight the best we knew how when we discovered that the strangers were white men. We had never expected to meet anything but Indians in that wild country. On they came, a big, strong, broad shouldered, flaxened-haired, and blue-eyed man in the lead, riding as fine a saddle animal as I ever saw. They were now quite close; they came within a few paces and stopped.
“‘How?’ exclaimed the big man.
“‘How, how,’ we exclaimed, shaking hands with him in turn.
“‘Who are you?’ he asked, ‘free trappers?’
“‘No,’ I replied, ‘we belong to the Company. And you?’
“‘My name is Bridger,’ he said, ‘Jim Bridger. Maybe you’ve heard of me.’
“We had. There wasn’t a man west of the Mississippi river who did not know him or know of him, for he was the greatest hunter, trapper, and Indian fighter of us all. As we rode along with him and his men to their camp, we told of Indians we had seen the day before, and advised Bridger to move at once, as there was a big camp in the vicinity. He laughed, and just then we came to the edge of the valley, and, with a sweep of his hand, he said: ‘Does that look much like running?’
“It didn’t; around a number of small fires his band of white men—eighty in all, as we afterwards learned—were whiling away the time, smoking, cooking, cleaning guns, and mending clothes.
“‘No,’ said Bridger, as he noticed our astonishment, ‘we only move when we get ready to, and God help the Indian outfit that tries to stop us. We’ve fought our way out here and we can fight some more.’
“This was Bridger’s first trip into the Yellowstone country, he having before always trapped south of it. He told us that he left St. Louis in July and had fought his way through the country of the Sioux, the Pawnee, the Cheyenne, and the Crow, and that he intended to winter wherever he could find a good fur country. Well, we joined in with him and next day moved westward. It was on the Little Big Horn that we met him, and did not think that twenty-six years later our soldiers would be killed by the Indians there. We traveled on up the Yellowstone for a number of days until we came to the mountains, where, on a little tributary of the river, we built some cabins, got everything in shape for the winter, and then spread out over the country, each one for himself, in search of beaver and other furs. Bridger was sick nearly all winter, but kept doctoring himself with various roots he found and along towards spring recovered his health. He was unable to do any trapping himself, but his men got a big pile of fur, beaver, otter, fisher and marten, of which he owned a share. It was his intention to turn his furs over to the American Fur Company and get drafts for them on St. Louis, so when spring came we all packed up and started for the nearest post, which was Fort Cotten, situated on the Missouri river about forty miles below the Falls.
“We crossed the Yellowstone and swung up into the Musselshell country, trapping leasurely along the way, and by the time we reached the point of the Snowy mountains our animals, even the saddle horses, were so heavily loaded with furs and skins that they could carry no more. At that time of the year beaver trapping was at its best and they were so numerous that every one of us hated to quit. So we made a big cache of our furs, each one putting a tag with his name on his bundle. Three men were then sent to the fort to notify the company to come and haul in the furs, and the rest of us continued on our course, skirting the foot of the Snowy, the Judith and the Belt mountains. I never saw beaver more plentiful, and it was not long before our horses were again well laden. It was in the latter part of April that we came to the Missouri river, exactly where the city of Great Falls stands to-day. All the morning we had seen occasional Indians riding and dodging about ahead of us, and finally we came to the bank of the Missouri, opposite the mouth of Sun river and could look up that valley for quite a distance and we were not surprised to see a string of lodges scattered along the edge of the timber as far as the eye could reach. ‘Bridger,’ says I, ‘those are surely Blackfeet and we’ve got to fight them. Don’t you think we had better find a better place to camp than this unprotected flat?’
“‘No,’ he replied, ‘this is good enough for us. If they come at us here I reckon they’ll get their bellyful of trouble.’
“I said no more, and we went into camp beside the river, at the upper end of the flat on which the city is built. Night came on and the horses were all brought in, hobbled, and staked close to the river, and we made our beds in a circle about them, each one piling his furs, saddles, and whatever he had at the head of his couch as a sort of breast-work. Double guards were put on and betimes the rest of us turned in. I don’t think many of us slept much at first and the time seemed to pass slowly. At midnight the sentries were changed, Bridger himself taking a turn. It was just daylight when the air was filled with whoops, yells and the high-keyed war song of about 400 Indians, as they charged down upon us from all directions.
“‘Don’t get excited, boys, and be sure of your aim. Take it easy, now,’ Bridger hollered out.
“Well, ‘twas good advice, and we did our best, but I tell you the sight of 400 yelling, painted and feathered Indians coming down on you just as fast as their horses could run was mighty trying to one’s nerves. I guess they expected to find us asleep and to stampede our horses in the first round. But when our rifles began to crack and some of them began tumbling out of their saddles, they were more surprised than we, and they turned and wheeled off. Some of them tried to pick up their dead, but we made it too hot for them. One fellow, who had his horse shot under him as he was trying this, lit out, running, and I guess as many as a dozen bullets struck him at once. He tumbled all in a heap. They had done some shooting, too, and two of our men were dead and one wounded. Besides that, some of our horses had been shot. We could count eleven Indians lying out on the plain here and there, and some of the boys started out to scalp them, and did get the hair off several of the nearest ones. But that brought the others back again, and for a while we had another exciting time, as some of the bravest came right at us. If the rest had followed them it would have been all day with us; but they didn’t have the nerve, and of those who did attempt to close in on us few got away. One great, tall fellow had his horse shot from under him and when he struck the ground he made for Bridger, holding a wicked-looking war club in his right hand and a knife in the other. His gun was empty and he had thrown it away.
“Bridger just laughed as he saw him come, and he motioned us to let him alone. His gun was empty, too, but he had a pistol in his left. He wouldn’t use that, though. When they met the Indian aimed a blow at him with his war club, but Bridger caught it on the barrel of his rifle and it flew away off to one side. Then the Indian tried to knife him, but Bridger just punched him with his rifle barrel, so the fellow couldn’t close in, and all of a sudden he hit him square in the forehead and smashed his skull just as cool and easy as could be. We all saw this out of the tail of our eyes, you may say, for we were pretty busy on our own account for a while. But our rifles and good shooting were too much for the Indians, and we made them draw off once more, having killed a lot of them and they only one of our party. We thought then that they had got enough of it and would go away. About 10 o’clock, however, they charged once more, but they didn’t come with half the spirit they had previously shown, and in a few minutes they left us for good and recrossed the river at the ford below. That afternoon we saw them break camp and move up Sun river towards the mountains. They had left forty-seven of their number on the plains before us.”
I have known Mr. Charles Choquette for twenty-nine years. He formerly lived in the Sun river valley and was engaged in farming and stock raising there for several years. He has always been considered one of our best citizens.
The home of Mr. Choquette at the present time is in Teton county in Northern Montana at the foot of the “Rockies,” not far from the Great Northern railroad. He is still a prosperous farmer and stock raiser. He is seventy-six years old, but hale and hearty. Although having roughed it fifty-seven years in the “Rockies,” few men twenty years his junior can keep up with him in climbing mountains and riding horseback. I do not know of one white person who is as old a citizen of what is now the State of Montana as Charles Choquette.
Robert Vaughn.
Great Falls, Mont., Jan. 15, 1900.
In the fall of 1872 I made a contract with Gov. Pollinger, the manager of the Wells-Fargo stage line between Fort Benton and Helena, to furnish firewood to the Leaving and the Twenty-Eight-Mile Spring Stations. It was in the month of November that I delivered the wood to the latter place. My teams were six yoke of oxen and two wagons coupled together. The days were getting short, therefore I had to leave the ranch very early in the morning to get through in one day, for the oxen were very slow. Besides I had on the two wagons five cords of wood, which made a heavy load, and I had to travel through unsettled country all the way. I left home about two hours before daylight. The air was cold and frosty; I was watching anxiously for the sun to rise. Before long the eastern sky was colored by the beautiful Montana sunrise, soon the top of the mountains was the color of gold, and by the time I was crossing the first ridge the bright sunshine was at my feet. It was on this morning that I first saw the sun, moon and stars at the same time, for there was not a cloud in the sky. I stopped at the lakes for two hours to rest and graze the cattle, and to eat my lunch; then I yoked the oxen and started on my journey. After I had gone about two miles I discovered some Indians peeping over a small hill and apparently watching me, and as I came nearer they made their appearance for the second time and made a rush for the road a few hundred yards ahead of me. There were sixteen of them, all on foot; they had ropes and were well armed with bow and arrows and five had guns; apparently they were equipped for a horse-stealing expedition. Likely it was good for me that I had cattle and not horses. One Indian started towards me. I quickly got my gun ready and this one lifted up his hand and gave the sign that they were good Indians. He came and met me and offered his hand, at the same time saying, “Me good Indian,” I shook hands with him, while at the same time I had my gun in the other hand. I did not stop the oxen, but kept them going and at the same time speaking to the Indian. He walked close to my side, and as we came to the other Indians he ordered them one by one to shake hands with me; after we got through shaking hands they all followed me. The first Indian still kept walking close to my left, as the cattle were on my right. I became suspicious of him that he might be waiting for an opportunity to grab my gun, which I had in my right hand; I kept an eye on this Indian and a firm grip on the gun. I had the whip in my other hand and now and then made a ringing crack at the oxen, for then I could use the “bull whip” to perfection. And as I was driving the oxen and calling them by their names the other Indians were walking promiscuously, some behind the wagons and others opposite to me and on the other side of the cattle. They would repeat the names of the oxen after me. It was not long before they knew the names of them all, especially Tom and Jerry, the leaders, and would laugh every time I would speak the name of the off wheeler, which was “Chief.” I could not get them to tell why they were following me, but would make signs that they were going to cross the Missouri river to the Crow country. Some of them inclined to be ugly and spiteful, acting as if they wanted to make me angry. At one time one of them came from behind and gave me a shove and then ran; as he was getting away I gave him a crack with the whip; then the others would laugh and wanted me to run after him, but I stayed with the outfit, for I could see that they had some bad motive in view. Already they had traveled five or six miles with me, and by this time it was dark and I had several miles yet to go. It is true that I had lots of company to make the time short, but somehow at that time of the night, considering the complexion of my companions, I would rather have been left alone with but the cattle. When on top of the hill two miles from the station I stopped the oxen and told the Indians to get on top of the loads, for the balance of the way was down grade; in an instant they were on, and this was the first time that my left-hand bower deserted me; he was the first one to get on. When I spoke to the oxen and called on Tom and Jerry and the wagons began to move, all the Indians began to sing, and they kept up the concert until I stopped to unyoke the oxen at the station. It was fun for me to listen to their singing. Some of them humming, others barked like a fox or wolf, but they managed to keep good time and the chords were excellent; the ones that were humming would be half an octave or an octave lower than the barkers, or vice versa. I really enjoyed their singing as well they enjoyed the ride. By the time I had the yokes off the cattle I could not see an Indian. Now it was 9 o’clock and very dark, for the moon was not yet up. I had to drive the oxen to a spring, which was about a quarter of a mile off, for I knew they were very thirsty. In about half an hour I was back and got my roll of bedding off the wagon and went to the stable. Here I found the Indians peeping through the windows and cracks to see if any one was in. The stableman was there alone; the room where he cooked and slept joined the stable. He was scared nearly to death, for he had not been there long and had not seen many Indians; beside I was a stranger to him. It was some time before I could persuade him to let me in to spread down my blankets. Dutch Jake, the man who kept the station, was on the Teton, hunting buffaloes. The Indians were hungry, tired and cold. I took them to an empty cabin which was near by; the door was locked, but I took the window out. I went in and the Indians after me. Inside of the cabin we found six quarters of fresh buffalo meat with the hide on. The cabin had a good fireplace, and they soon had a fire. I told them to take a quarter of the meat; that it belonged to my friend, and that I would settle for it. I went back to the stable; the hostler had hot coffee, good bread, and plenty of fried buffalo steak for me, and I ate a hearty supper.
After supper we both went to see how the Indians were getting along, and they, too, were eating broiled buffalo meat and having a good time. I got up very early the next morning, but the Indians were not to be seen. Several years afterwards I met some of those Indians, and they always remembered me.
ROBERT VAUGHN.
Jan. 28, 1898.
Friend Vaughn: As per your request I give you the following sketch of my early days in what is now the State of Montana:
I hired out to the American Fur Company in the spring of 1862 at St. Louis, Mo., to go to Fort Benton at the head of navigation on the Missouri river. My pay was to be $19.50 per month, including board. I had a friend and companion by the name of Thomas Mitchell, who concluded to undergo the dangers and hardships of the three-thousand-mile trip and go with me. We took passage on a steamboat called the Spread Eagle and landed in Fort Benton ninety days afterwards; and I assure you these days were not spent in picnicking. The adventures had, the trials encountered, the hardships endured cannot be detailed in the limited space alloted for this sketch. I can only say that, while we took passage on the boat named above, it did not carry us all the way to Fort Benton by any means; in fact, the reverse happened; we tugged and carried it much of the distance. We stayed in Fort Benton during the remainder of the summer. There were no buildings in Benton at that time except the fort. Our time was occupied principally in repairing adobe buildings about the post. Andrew Dawson was chief in charge of affairs. Major Culbertson, who held some interest in the company, and who, with his wife, had made the trip from St. Louis with us, was here. About twenty-four white men comprised the entire force at the fort, and, as far as I could learn, it was fully half the white population of what is now known as Northern Montana. Matters and things had changed very materially since I had quit civilization in the “states,” but I soon adjusted myself to the situation.
The Indian tribes who came here to trade were North Bloods, Mountain Crows, Blackfeet and Piegans. Coffee and tea were sold to them at one dollar per pint in trade; tobacco, five to eight dollars per pound. Major George Steell, now so well known throughout Montana, and who was for several years the agent at the Blackfeet Agency, was then one of the trusted employes of the company. In the fall of 1862 he was sent to the mouth of the Musselshell river to build and superintendent afterwards a new trading post to be called Fort Andrews. Steell took me with him and was the means of having my wages raised from the before stated salary of $19.50 to $40 per month. I said Mr. Steell took me with him; this is incorrect, inasmuch as he sent me and my friend Mitchell overland with the horses while he himself and eight other men went down the river in a Mackinaw boat, carrying the goods and provisions. I remember the names of some of the men were as follows: W. R. Teasdale (Col. Spikes), James Chambers, William Oliver, Unica and John Wren; the three others I have forgotten.
In order that you may understand the hardships and privations endured by Mitchell and myself on this overland trip I will state that we were provided with a gun each. I had a muzzle-loading rifle; Mitchell had an old flintlock. In the way of provisions we had a few hardtacks and a small quantity of salt. There were no matches at that time to be had here. In place of them we used “flint rock,” a piece of steel and gun powder. We reached our destination after being out four days and five nights. A detailed description of this trip would make an interesting sketch, but let us pass on to scenes more familiar to me.
After arriving we at once went to work building the post and other winter quarters. A house was first erected to live in, then a stockade surrounding it. Our provisions and ammunition ran short during the winter, and after that we subsisted partly on wolf meat; these animals we caught with traps; other diet I think of now was corn. A lot of this had been brought there to trade with the Indians; it was all disposed of, but the mice had carried some of it into their burroughs. This we found and dug out and ground it in a coffee mill into meal and made bread of it. The mice had eaten the kernel or heart out of this corn and it was strongly impregnated with mice pepper, but the bread fitted pretty well in our hollow stomachs. The Indians were very troublesome, and great care had to be taken to preserve our lives and property. Much of my time was engaged as hunter to secure meat for the men at the post. The post was enclosed with a stockade made of logs. At one corner there was a large gate. From the time I would be sent out to hunt, a man was placed on the outside of this gate to open it at once in case I should be run in by the Indians. I have had some close calls for my life on these occasions. One day I went out in the hills to slay some buffaloes, for we needed meat. I saw a large herd feeding and started to approach them when suddenly I heard and saw the whole herd stampeding. I rode up on a hill to better view the situation. I discovered that Indians were on both sides of me and buffaloes in front of me, and all running towards me. I saw that my only chance for life was to flee ahead of the buffaloes, and spurring my horse ahead of them, I went. The Indians discovered my intentions and tried to head me off, but by this time the herd had me surrounded and the Indians could not reach me. Finally I reached a descending bluff that separated the herd and over which myself and horse tumbled, but, again with myself in the saddle and the horse on his feet I kept going, the dust that was created had the effect of hiding me from view of the Indians long enough to reach the fort and get behind the gate. The horse that I rode on this occasion was the property of Charles Carson, one of the famous Kit Carson’s family. Charles was killed some time afterwards by the Indians at Dearborn river.
I had another close call for my life by the Indians while at this fort. Bill Oliver (known as “Canada Bill”) and myself went out one day to rustle for meat. Elk and deer were plentiful at that time. We had reached a point ten miles from the fort, and were on the lookout for game, also Indians. We saw Indians first and lost our interest in game. The Indians were on foot and we could easily have escaped from them on our horses, but Oliver mistook them for “friendlies” and would not run away. The Indians were coming towards us, running and yelling, when I said to Oliver “turn your horse and run!” He replied: “No, I shall not do it; these are friendly Piegans.” I said: “Go to the devil, then; I am going to get out of this sage brush.” I had an unbroken colt, and when I tried to move him I found he would not leave Oliver’s horse. I struck at him with a small hatchet I had in my hand at the time; missing the horse my left hand caught the blow and it nearly severed one of my fingers. The Indians soon reached us, but they proved to be Bloods, a savage band, and out skirmishing for easy prey. Bill shook hands with the red devils and said, “how! how!” but he was deceived, for they were on the war path and we were in imminent danger of being murdered by them at any moment. After taking my horse, gun and knife they held council for a few minutes, during which time they kept looking at me. I could understand by the signs they made that I was considered to be an important capture, while my partner Bill was not in it, so to speak. I well remember of ruminating on my chances of ever again being set at liberty. I observed upon counting that there were twenty-seven Indians of the party.
A movement forward was finally made. Three of the ugly devils had gotten astride my colt, and two on Bill’s horse, he being allowed to ride with them, while I was made to walk. The party marched single file and kept me near the center of the column. My anxiety as to the object of our capture was quieted somewhat when I discovered we were moving up the river and towards the fort.
The Indians soon after got tired of packing my gun, fired the charge out and made me pack it. Night soon came on and they camped near some dead timber and made a series of fires in one grand circle and one in the center. I was told that the center one was for me. I took a seat on the ground, and to all outward appearances was at home; but there was an inward awkward feeling that belied it. My friend Oliver was allowed certain freedom to move about, but I was carefully guarded; however, I was not roasted, as they threatened. During the evening no supper was eaten; and I must confess I did not sleep very well that night. The next morning an Indian brought me a small piece of raw meat and gave me a pointed stick to reach out over the fire and cook my meat on. My wounded finger was paining me some now, the excitement having subsided somewhat. Soon after daylight we started on the move again, the imps still keeping a close watch on me. During all this journey we were heading towards the fort; this action was a query to me, and I marveled much what it meant. We finally halted within about two miles of the fort, and there I learned that I was being held for ransom, and that the object in going there was to offer the American Fur Company my freedom for a certain consideration. The Indians sent Oliver with two of the party to the fort to state the terms, which were a quantity of blankets, coffee, tea and tobacco. George Steell soon came out and paid them what they asked and I was again at liberty. I thus became indebted to the company for quite a sum of money, for it must be remembered that these goods were very expensive here at that time. However, I was glad to get back to the fort once more; but I was mad at those Indians and have not yet forgiven them for the manner in which they treated me.
In connection with this story, and while held here in the hands of the Indians, and about the time Steell arrived with my value in goods, another white man was captured and brought into the Indian camp. This man was none other than Nels Kies, the prospector, who is known to have discovered and worked a gold mine somewhere in the lower country, and but a short time after this occurrence, and who, to the disappointment of many, was killed by the Indians before the location of his mines was made known. Our honored citizen, John Leply, and others were interested in this discovery, but on account of Kies being killed the mines never have been found. It may be that the “Nels Kies lost mines” are in the vicinity of Fort Andrews. Kies was allowed to go to the fort with us, but remained only a short time when he departed alone, stating that he was going to his camp.
We had a number of scraps with the Indians at this post. They came in once ostensibly to trade, but in reality to clean us out. George Steell, who was in the trading house, discovered their intentions and calling the boys to arms checked them before they started to murder us.
At the time of which I speak the Gros Ventres and Mountain Crows were at war with each other, and their battle grounds were near Fort Andrews. In one battle fought here it was estimated that one-fourth of the warriors on each side were killed. One morning, just at daylight, an alarm was given, and someone shouted: “Hostile Indians in the corral!” All rushed out at once and discovered a party of Indians and one of them leading away my favorite saddle horse. I forced my way forward and took hold of the rope attached to the animal’s neck and made a sign to the Indian that I loved that horse and would not part with him without trouble. He said that he was going to keep him and motioned me to let go of the rope. I refused. He then strung his bow and pointed the arrow at my breast. I still held on to the rope and told him that he might kill me, for I would not give up my horse. He then struck me in the breast with an arrow, cutting me quite freely, so much so that I felt the blood running down my body. I then let go of the rope, mentally resolved that if I ever got an opportunity I would make a good Indian out of that fellow. He was killed about two years after this by one of a party of white men out hunting for Crows.
My friend Mitchell, having made up his mind to return to his home in Illinois, desired to kill a bear before leaving the West, and I was very anxious that his wish should be gratified and sought every means to aid him to get his bear. One morning a splendid opportunity came for this. I discovered a bear passing down a trail close to the fort. I hustled my friend outside the enclosure. A tree had fallen near the trail mentioned, and to it I piloted Mitchell, who, while in hiding there, was instructed to shoot the bear at close range and in a vital part which I pointed out was directly behind the shoulder. Watching Mitchell, I gave the word to fire and at the same time shot at the bear myself, fearing his shot might not be a deadly one. The bear fell, growling and roaring in the underbrush. I then asked Mitchell where he hit him, and he said in the heart. I then proceeded to reload my gun and requested him to do the same, and when he did so, he discovered his gun cocked and still charged—he had not fired it off at all. I was mortified over this because I wanted the boy to at least think he had killed a bear and be able to tell the story when he arrived home. The following sketch will show, however, that this was all useless, for he never again met the loved ones at home:
About the first day of August, 1863, there came a Mackinaw boat down the river from Fort Benton with a party composed of fourteen men, one woman and her two children. These people had come overland from the Frazier river mines, by the way of Bannock, and had in their possession a considerable quantity of gold. At Benton they built their boat. The party stayed with us for several days making some repairs. The men built breastworks on the boat for protection against Indian attacks. During this time the lady and her children stayed in the fort. My friend Mitchell, who, as before mentioned, being homesick, determined to return with the party. He used much persuasion to induce me to return with him. The risk of losing one’s life in going or remaining was equally great, and I chose to stay where I was. So we separated.
One bright morning they bade us good bye and the little craft started on its long voyage down the Missouri river, with all on board jolly and happy. Five days afterwards we received news of the massacre of the entire party by the devilish Sioux Indians. It was never revealed to the whites just how it was done. A half-breed Indian reported at Fort Berthold the finding of the bodies horribly mutilated, the remains of the men laying on a sand bar with their feet in the water; having been placed there by the Indians; the woman was found hanging by the chin, hooked on the limb of a tree, and the children, one on each side of the mother, hanging the same way. The Indians apparently knew nothing of the value of gold, for they had cut the buckskin sacks containing it and strewn it all about the bar. Some of it was gathered up by half-breeds and taken into Forts Randall and Berthold some time afterwards.
Jerry Potts, a half-breed Indian, who lived and worked with us at Fort Andrews, started out with a companion one day to go to Fort Gilpin, a trading post at the mouth of Milk river. The Indians got after them and they retreated and came back to the fort. Potts was carrying a powder horn which was pierced by an arrow thrown by an Indian while they were retreating, the horn saving him from being killed. Some time after this we got orders from Fort Benton to move to this post and a boat was sent to us to transport our goods down the Missouri river from Fort Andrews to Fort Gilpin. I had orders to take charge of the boat and send our horses overland in charge of two of the men. The boat crew was to be provided with firearms, including a small cannon, which were to be used in case of attack by foes. After we got the goods on board and ready to start, I found that none of the men would take the horses on account of the danger of being taken in by the Indians, so I was compelled to make the overland trip myself. I selected Chambers to accompany me, and Colonel Spikes to take charge of the boat crew and about seventeen thousand dollars’ worth of goods, and he holloed “all aboard for Gilpin,” and moved away. Chambers and myself soon after started for the same point overland. We traveled mostly by night, under cover of darkness, in order to avoid the Indians stealing our horses and killing us.
We succeeded very well until the last night out, when we left the hills about twenty miles west of Fort Gilpin to go to some timber near a point then called Dry Fork, now called Big Dry. I took the lead and Chambers brought up the rear. Soon I heard a dog barking, saw a dim light in the distance and in front of us, I concluded at once we were running into a nest of Indians. I gave Chambers the danger signal (a smothered whistle sound); this he returned, and, turning around, we retraced our route back to the hills and then made a circle around the Indians undiscovered by them, arriving at Fort Gilpin just at daybreak. While at breakfast, soon afterwards we heard the report of a cannon, and knew at once that our boat was near by; that the men on board were attacked by Indians, and that a fight was on. The very Indians that Chambers and myself avoided were at that time in hiding, waiting to capture this boatload of goods. As we subsequently learned they got these goods without much fighting, and, of course, all the blame for the loss of them was thrown on me, by the owners, just because I did not do as instructed or as was expected of me, which was to stay with the goods. It seems the party was attacked while moving along in the boat and the men ran it to land, took the cannon out and fired one shot at the redskins, then ran to the brush near by. The Indians, being satisfied with their capture of the goods, did not follow them, and they reached the fort unharmed, except a few scratches received in the scramble to get away from danger. I remember we all stood at the gate watching eagerly to learn the outcome of the fight, when, suddenly, a man came out of the willows; he was hatless and his hair stood pompadour, one foot shoeless and his clothes torn in strips. This was Colonel Spikes; following him came the six others before mentioned. They reported that a large party of Indians, probably a hundred and fifty strong, had attacked them with results as stated above. Our force was too small to go out and fight them, so we stayed in the fort until they left. We then went out and found that all there was left of seventeen thousand dollars’ worth of goods was the cannon. The Indians had taken away, and otherwise destroyed, everything else. The robes and furs were thrown into the river and the other goods carried away. Major Dawson was coming up along the river from Fort Berthold with an extra wagon train of goods bound for Fort Benton. Chambers and myself went out and met him, and Chambers informed him of the loss of the goods. Dawson looked at me and said: “Where in hell were you, John?” I explained to him that I was compelled to bring the horses, as no one else would do it. He said: “That accounts for the loss of seventeen thousand dollars’ worth of goods and not a man killed,” and he added: “If you had stayed with the goods they would not have been lost.”
We joined the men with the train here and went up the Milk river part of the way, thence to Fort Benton. This was about the last days of October, 1864. We had many Indian encounters on our way up to Benton, but reached there in safety. I stayed here about fifteen days, and then pulled out for Virginia City. This was a long trip to make, taken in the winter as it was, and at a time when the road agents were bad, a description of which would make interesting reading, but this was to be a short sketch of my first days in Montana, so I must quit.
Your friend,
John Largent.
Sun River, May 10, 1899.