Deadwood was transformed from a gulch full of dead timber to a lawless city. The one aim of everybody was gold. Some got it in the thousands of industrious mining projects, most of them one man or a few men placer mines. Some got it by selling food and supplies, some got it by gambling, and some by robberies. Deadwood was in a state of wild chaos.

Preacher Smith, or Henry Weston Smith “drifted in” about this time. He had come from the East with the Custer gold rush and had migrated north to Deadwood, on foot, at the time of the discovery and boom there. He preached in the street mostly. He was a Methodist, about forty years of age, and of fine physique, quiet and unassuming.

On August 20, 1876, Smith started for Crook City to preach a sermon. He left a note that he would be back at 3:00 P. M. if God were willing. But God had planned otherwise. The Indians killed him on the way. His body was discovered soon afterward and was brought to Deadwood. His remains now rest in Mt. Moriah Cemetery above Deadwood, while his monument stands near where he was killed.

Wild Bill came to Deadwood in June, 1876. He was not, as his name might indicate, a desperado, but rather a refined enforcer of law and order. His full name was James Butler Hicock. He had married a widow whose husband had been shot while attempting to prevent some desperadoes from forcing an entrance to his wagon show. Wild Bill travelled with the show to protect it and finally married the widow. With the gold rush he was drawn to Deadwood. His wife remained in Cheyenne.

Wild Bill earned his name by his expert pistol shooting. Before coming to the Black Hills he had been employed as a government scout, as a hunter of horse thieves, and as a gunman law enforcer. He had been hired by Abilene, Kansas, at $1,000 a month to clean up the town, and later by Ft. Hayes for the same purpose. His speed on the draw saved his life many times.

The law respecting faction in Deadwood finally decided to organize some form of local government. They did so and Wild Bill was suggested for chief of police. The rougher lawless element notified him that he would be shot if he did not leave town. His friends tried to get him to leave, but he was determined to stay. A notorious outlaw stole quietly through the side door of a saloon where Bill was playing cards, drew his gun, and shot Bill through the back of the head, killing him instantly. The assassin was tried by his friends, acquitted, and permitted to leave the state. He was soon re-arrested, convicted, and hanged.

Wild Bill is Deadwood’s idol. On his gun at the time of his death there were thirty-six notches all alleged to have been in self defences and law enforcement. His remains, too, are interred in Mt. Moriah Cemetery. A Johnny Riordian chiseled statues of Preacher Smith and Wild Bill both of which now stand at the head of their respective graves.

Calamity Jane (Martha Jane Cannary) was a woman whose life was interwoven with the early history of the Black Hills. She was an army scout with General Crook, and later a desperate and notorious character as well as an idol of the region. Her life story is not that of a self-respecting woman, and yet her ideals in her attitude toward her fellow beings were very high. She was always ready to share her money and provisions with those who needed it. She fought Indians and desperadoes as unflinchingly as any man. Her aim saved many a man’s life, especially from the Indians. Once she had to hold up a store to obtain groceries for a family who were very ill and out of money. After the family were nursed back to health Jane went on her way.

Calamity Jane had a deep reverence and respect for Wild Bill. Her dying request was that she be buried beside him, and there, today, her grave is to be found. Her funeral was the largest Deadwood has ever seen.

Not only Deadwood but thousands of visitors climb this hill to visit the shrine of these three early idols.

Now we proceed up the hill to the cemetery. A good driver might pilot his car up and down later with comparative safety, but the hill is very steep, and ascent by foot might be more advisable.

The cemetery proper is located on the slope of a mountain, high up, overlooking the city of Deadwood. From the cemetery a path takes us higher and higher, to the very peak of the mountain, one mile and six feet high. The peak is of bare white rocks, and is so named, “White Rocks.” It is over 700 feet higher than the city. The view from here is remarkable. Hills, valleys, mountains, and cities are visible from the peak on clear days. Here is a worth while mountain climb, possible for everyone.

After descending from the cemetery we cross Deadwood Gulch right on main street beside the Franklin hotel. We take a steep street on the opposite (north) side, and follow a winding road up Mt. Roosevelt. The road is steep and precipitous, winding and none too wide, though cars can pass almost any place with a matter of inches to spare. The lower part of the road is good, up to the foot-path. But from there up, if one wishes to go by car the driver requires some skill, a good horn, and well adjusted brakes. With a little patience, and a few hazardous looks down the steep mountain sides we reach the summit. If the foot path is taken the trip is shorter and less hazardous. These mountain paths are excellent for exercise, believe it if you can, or try it.

The view from Mt. Roosevelt is probably as good or better than from any other elevation in the Black Hills. With field glasses on a clear day one may see four states from here. On the topmost peak of the mountain stands a monument, the first ever erected in honor of Theodore Roosevelt. It is, we are told, erected in the environment and among the scenes that Roosevelt loved. Visitors are requested to leave their autographs in a visitor’s book within the tower. One precaution, do not pick a cold cloudy day to visit Mt. Roosevelt.

After the return to Deadwood we must by all means spend some time in this metropolis of the interior of the “Hills.” The gold rush days are not much in evidence. Deadwood is a modern city and a thriving business center. The stores, curio shops, and souvenir sellers invite our curiosity, and are likely to hold us for sometime. The remains of mines, the slag heaps from smelting days, and the open mine shafts are indeed curiosities. While in Deadwood we must not forget the fine municipal bathing pool and park.

Here again we might take the Boulder Canyon road or leave it as an unseen point of interest.

CHAPTER XIII
Pactola, Silver City and Camp Wanzer

The bed is a welcome place after the mountain climbing. Somehow the meals and rest afterward add to the satisfaction of these invigorating and inspirational tramps.

After three enjoyable nights at Pine Crest we leave for the central part of the Hills. We take S. D. 85 to the left, just before entering Deadwood. The road is an excellent, improved highway, bordered by interesting scenery.

We start the trip with an upward climb of six and a half miles. This has a tendency somehow to warm up the motor a bit. Now we follow a mountain top trail. The scenery is beautiful as we skim along over good roads with gentle grades. In places the trees are thick, in other places thin. There are pines, cottonwood, aspen, spruce, and others. In places forest fires have left a devastated appearance. These sights leave with one a feeling of sadness, that carelessness and destruction must claim these great potentialities of usefulness and beauty. They leave with us a deeper resolve to “Put out campfires before leaving them.”

It is thirty-one miles to Pactola on Rapid Creek. Just after we cross the creek and before crossing the railroad we turn to the right, following the creek, and drive up to Silver City. As near as we can find out they do not mine silver here. The place is a group of log cabins and is used for a summer resort. It is a beautiful little place.

Going up the creek we take a winding road, almost a path. Along this road are many church and other camps. We come to Camp Wanzer a few miles beyond Silver City in Bear Canyon.

Camp Wanzer is not a tuberculosis camp. It is a camp for building up physically run-down children. No one with tuberculosis or other communicable disease is admitted. The plan is to have the children live out here away from vices and irregularities of city life, where proper hours, food, exercise and supervision may build up their run-down bodies. The records show remarkable results. Children are required to rise at a certain time, observe exercise periods, rest periods, to eat wholesome meals at regular times and to sleep enough each night. They have a nice swimming hole, too. The children enjoy the vacation. They are kept for three to six weeks, and in practically every case leave there stronger and happier than when they came. A person is highly impressed with what this camp means to these children. There were fifty-five there in 1928. Children come from all parts of the state. Parents pay for it where they can and the Christmas seals sale pays for the rest. After seeing where our Christmas seal proceeds go we are ever so much more willing and even anxious to contribute to the fund.

We again follow a beautiful mountain stream, Spring Creek, through Sheridan and down to Hill City. Along the road we find some real rock cliffs running up several hundred feet and we can here see the plan of the rock layers, thrown in, tilted on edge, the formation which is general throughout the Black Hills. At Sheridan there is a good looking tourist camp, including cabins.

CHAPTER XIV
Hill City and Keystone

We put up for the night in one of the Hill City cabins. These are not in some ways as nice as some of the others, but are very comfortable nevertheless. We must try the cabins by all means while in the Hills. Most of them cost a dollar a night. In them, generally are a bed or two, a cook stove, table and cooking utensils, with possibly other conveniences including stove wood.

Hill City is in the heart of the Black Hills. It has excellent connections with various cities, fishing grounds and places of scenic interest. Sylvan Lake is nine miles distant, Rapid City 20, Deadwood 40, Custer 15 and the Game Lodge 27. Hill City is only a small place, but it is an “up and coming” progressive little town. They believe in advertising, and a few of its citizens are rather farsighted in their attitude toward visitors. The tourist park is not like some of the rest, but it affords shelter and many conveniences. In a few years it will be coming to the front.

We have not been in Hill City long before the “filling station information bureau” tell us that no trip to the Hills is complete without a visit to the Keystone mines and Rushmore Mountain. So, for them we start. Keystone is about ten miles from Hill City. We leave town at the north end, over the railroad tracks, headed due east. The road is very, very winding. It follows the valley of Battle Creek, going up and down over small hills, tributary springs and streams, and around rocks. It crosses the railroad no less than sixteen times in the ten miles, two times under the track.

Covering the entire road and surface of the hills is a layer of powdered mica. One must pinch himself to see if he is actually living and awake and not riding along over the streets of gold in the hereafter. Maybe some of us had better take a good look, for our streets in the next life may be of coal dust or cinders.

We stop along the road to collect a few specimens of the rocks of this vicinity. We hope that we may pick up some rose colored quartz, the rock that is most popular for decorative purposes in the “Hills.” Here an unexpected pleasure awaits us. A young fawn is standing across the ravine watching us innocently. When we discover it we cannot help turning to stare, rapt in wonder. Soon a doe, then another, and behind them two bucks and more emerge from a thicket. One of the bucks raises his front foot and points his muzzle toward us. The whole herd turn and bound gracefully out of sight. It is a scene that will long remain in our memories.

Trout fishing is good in Battle Creek and Slate Creek on the other side of Hill City.

Just before reaching Keystone we turn up a side road to the right. We come to two very impressive log houses. These, we decide, are just the type we would like to build for ourselves. We drive in and ask the man in the yard what a house like that would cost. Imagine our chagrin when he tells us the houses belong to the millionaire owner of the Etta Lithia Mine, one of the larger mines of the Hills. The large house is the house in which the owner lives for two weeks each summer.

It cost $6,000, we are told. On the inside we find all sorts of fishing and other sporting equipment. There is a beautiful hardwood floor in the house, running spring water, soft rain water from a cistern, a fireplace in each room, rustic furniture with bark still on, and even twin beds.

The other cabin is only slightly less in finish and equipment, it being the residence of the manager of the mine. The owner lives in New Jersey. The sight of these is highly inspirational to those who appreciate this sort of life.

Upon invitation of the manager we go up into the hills to the mine. The road is well improved; it must be to carry the great truck loads of ore in all kinds of weather. After a little driving we round a bend in the road and gaze upon a great ridge of white quartz, probably nearly a hundred feet high. As one gazes at it he ponders upon the enormous potential wealth of this heap, if it could be put to use. Rumor tells us that a glass factory for the Black Hills is not out of reason and will probably soon be a reality.

At present this quartz is an undesirable stuff which must be separated from the mineral and piled into great scrap heaps. We climb the slope to the top of the ridge where a tunnel leads to the open cut spodumene mine.

But before going to the top we might look into the opening of the old underground mine.

A narrow gauge railroad runs into the tunnel. A warning is posted against the entrance. A gaze into the tunnel however, makes one think the walls are lined with gold. But on closer examination the gold turns out to be mica in very fine flakes.

On the top of the quartz pile, just outside the top tunnel or the one from the open cut another narrow gauge railroad takes the quartz to the end of the dump pile in small ore cars. Following the short tunnel through a hill we come to the mine proper. It is just a huge hole in the ground, not now worked, from which the ore was taken with dynamite, picks, shovels and derricks. The useful ore, valued at about fifty dollars a ton, stands in the layers of quartz and granite at a tipsy angle, like huge tree trunks of pure white. The sight is really worth seeing. Spodumene is a substance resembling grained rock embedded in quartz and mica but soft enough to be crushed in the hand. It is raised from the cut, emptied into cars and carried through the tunnel where it is dumped into a long chute. When the chute gets filled up, trucks back under the gate at the lower end, fill up with the mineral and take it to the railroad cars at Keystone. From here it is shipped east, where lithium oxide is made of it for storage batteries.

Going from the Etta Mine up, over the next rise, we come to the Juga Feldspar Mine. This, too, is an open cut mine in the top of a mountain.

The feldspar, used for enamel in lining bathtubs and making dishes, is found, mined, loaded and shipped much as is the lithia. Valuable by-products of the mine, mica, tourmaline and lepidolite and others are found in small quantities.

Back through the valley we go and up the opposite slope to a mica mine. This, too, is an open cut, the men working in the shade of a large tarpaulin awning. Slabs of mica varying from small scraps to large sheets are all loaded in the chute, hauled to Keystone and shipped east.

We go down from the mines and take a winding road up to Rushmore Mountain. On the way we try fishing. Here one of the most exasperating experiences of the trip takes place. I peered into the clear stream and spied a beautiful speckled beauty of somewhat larger than average proportion. Carefully I sent a fly up to him, but he was not interested. I tried every fly I had with the same result. Then I sent him a nice, fresh, green grasshopper, then a yellow one. Mr. Trout never batted an eye. I then offered him a frog leg. He only wagged his tail as though amused. The last resort was a nice juicy worm. I trailed it down the stream until it bumped him on the nose. That dumb trout was too lazy to even open his mouth. Possibly I misjudge him. He may have just had lunch, but at any rate he should have shown some interest in an extra bite. Well, I decided that if he was going to have his laugh on me, I’d get even with him.

I took my fishing rod and gave him a real poke in the ribs. I had the satisfaction of seeing him wake up rather hurriedly and disappear upstream.

On the way up to Rushmore we see a large leaning rock with a tree growing out of the top of it. This is only one of the phenomena of the “Hills” that fires the curiosity of the visitor.

The road up to Rushmore is on a mountain facing the one being carved. It is steep and winding. Cars go up several miles, but it is quite a climb. At the top is a long cable over which supplies are transported to the top of Rushmore. The carving is just begun. It has been discontinued for lack of funds, much to the regret of the people of the “Hills” and of South Dakota. If the work is finished it will be a monument of no mean calibre and a shrine for tourists. We did not take the footpath to the top, though such can be done. By climbing the steep precipitous crags facing it one gets a remarkable view of the grand and majestic bald peak.

From Rushmore we go on to Keystone. On the road we see abandoned gold mines and some still running. Within the town we come to the Keystone Consolidated Mines. At present they operate three gold mines with the main mill, the Columbia, the Keystone and the Holy Terror. Two stories are told of the naming of the last. One is that its inaccessibility clear up in the mountain top is responsible. The other is that the discoverer’s wife insisted that he name the mine after her. The miner went to take out his claim and when he returned he answered, to his wife’s insistent queries, “yes, he had named the mine after her,” and he showed her the papers.

Going on through Keystone we stop at a miner’s house, and he shows us many kinds of ore including tin, tourmaline, spodumene, copper, topaz, several kinds of quartz, gold, ruby studded rocks and so on. We cross the creek then and pick up our own specimens of rubies.

Now we go back to Hill City and from there up a long gradual incline into the most noted scenic spot of the Black Hills.

CHAPTER XV
Needles Road, Sylvan Lake, Harney and the Gorge

The road winds through the needle rocks, amid beautifully vegetated valleys and mountains to Sylvan Lake.

These roads are the much talked of feats of engineering skill. We can easily see why they are so considered. No barrier, no matter how formidable has proved indominable. In some places the road is merely a shelf on the side of a mountain. The rock is blasted out and the nice wide road, the perfect replica of our modern prairie highways, surfaced, is superimposed upon it. Slopes are gradual, the road wide enough for safety anywhere, and every other means of convenience to motorists has been considered. In one place there are possibly a half dozen switchbacks making it possible for a person to ascend a high mountain by gradual ascent on the shelf-like road, switchback and ascend more, almost straight above the road over which he has just come. You can look over the brink of the chasm and see several laps of the road up which you have come, and can look above and see the shelves built up there, over which you are to go before you reach the top. Marvelous, indeed, are the means that man through the divine guidance of a higher Being, we are forced to believe, has devised for overcoming the seemingly impossible problems. And the view from the road is marvelous. The great majestic stone mountains, the broad, deep, beautiful valleys, the swift tumbling mountains streams, fed by mountain springs, the so-called Needles, and last the sense of conquering all these, affords a feeling almost beyond description to the soul of the traveler.

We drive down through heavily wooded roads to the lake, the most widely advertised place in the Black Hills. Sylvan Lake is about a half mile in length, located right in the top of the mountains. It owes its size to the fact that its north end is made up of a dam filling the gorge through which the water tumbled in its course from its mountain streams, through Sunday Gulch to Spring Creek.

The lake is a beautiful one, bounded by tall, cold, gray stones, majestically reaching for the sky, and fringed with luxuriant forest trees. On one side of the lake is the Sylvan Lake Hotel and on the other side is the camp grounds. The Indians have named the lake “Karanip” or “Tear of the Mountain.” We go directly to the camp grounds and get settled for the night. The camp is not overequipped with conveniences, but is nevertheless a good camp, with a little store conveniently close.

We go to bed early so that we may get up early for the ascent of Harney Peak. Even with the early retiring three A. M. comes rather soon. But we are all life as soon as we awaken and we lose no time. Well shod we begin the ascent. This is to be an event. The climb covers three miles and a half. You’ll be ready to agree with me after making it, though these Black Hills people are very generous in the size of their miles. We start up the road marked “Harney Peak.” We could take our car part way, but the short distance and rough road makes this a poor policy.

We soon come to the stables where burros and ponies can be hired by those not wishing to make the trip on foot. These are not for the early or the ambitious. We pass them by.

The path soon begins to ascend. Progress becomes slower. The perfect road narrows into a footpath cut through the timber.

Up, up we go. At places the timber clears, giving us a grand view of the surrounding country. Then we plunge into the forest again and continue up, up, up. At the end of a mile or so we top a ridge and are relieved to begin descending into a shallow valley. This is a rest and encouraging. At the bottom of the valley is a brooklet of clear spring water. Here we take a drink before continuing our ascent.

Now we begin a real climb. The path is easy and open and the slope is gradual. But even at that it begins to tax one’s muscles. Squirrels and chipmunks dart across the path and gaze at the intruders from a safe perch in the trees. And some of these trees are giants, probably the largest found in the Hills. Springs arise here and there along the way. Beautiful flowers dot the path. Great gray rocks jut into the air at intervals. The path is indeed interesting. The coolness of the forest adds to its entrancing powers.

By and by the path grows steeper and we begin to take a switchback course up, up, up. Finally the vegetation thins out and the surface is mostly rock. We climb the rocks and at last emerge at the foot of a ladder leading up the crags where the fire lookout house is located. Up the ladder we go, and over the rocks toward the top. We catch a glimpse of the ranger giving us a dirty look as he hurriedly finishes his breakfast and makes up his bed. We give him plenty of time, while we gaze in four directions at the remarkable panorama extending a hundred miles before us. The sun, which we had expected to see rising, is smiling indulgently at us from far up in the sky. To the west we see Sylvan Hotel, mountains and forests. Turning toward the south we find ourselves looking at the historical Custer and on past into Wyoming. Far, far, to the south is the border of the hills. Closer are the Needles and Cathedral Spires and Mt. Coolidge. On to the east, fifty miles away and more, are the Badlands. Closer Mt. Rushmore sticks up its head as do various other bald heads. Away off to the northeast Bear Butte stands alone and to his left are Roosevelt Peak, Terry Peak and many of our other friends.

The view is nothing short of wonderful on a clear day, but is not as good when the clouds float below us or when the air is filled with mist. We go on up to the lookout station and register. Of course, we must ask the ranger our share of foolish questions. We would not be human if we did not display our ignorance up here. We just naturally feel that we must ask some kind of a question to commemorate the fact that we are up here.

We are now on the highest point in the Black Hills. Not only this, it is the highest point in the state and greater still, the highest point in the United States east of the Rocky Mountains. We are 7,244 feet above sea level and about a thousand feet above Sylvan Lake. This little house away up on the top of a rock looks pretty frail beside the boulders upon which it stands. One would think that a breeze would blow it over the precipice hundreds of feet straight down. The house, though, is pretty well established, with heavy steel cables firmly rooting it to its place. Even at that, they’d better not hire a forest ranger up there who walks in his sleep.

We are given a card telling us that in the “Harney National Forest 20,000,000 board feet of lumber is harvested annually and through reforestation about 1,587,667,000 board feet are maintained permanently. 12,000 horses and cattle and 4,000 sheep graze on the forest annually. The area (net) is 508,000,057 acres. The annual revenue to the United States is $80,000 and to local counties $20,000. Summer sites may be secured from the Supervisor at Custer, S. D.”

The lookout away up here is for the purpose of spotting forest fires.

In the little house are instruments for seeing and exactly locating fires. By getting the exact angle of fires from two different stations and telephoning the results its location may be determined exactly by drawing a line at these angles from their respective stations. The fire would be where the lines crossed.

Well, we are the first up there this morning and now we prepare to descend. We start down the rocks and meet several people coming up, they, too, thinking they had been first up this morning. We must take a few pictures before going down to convince the folks at home that we’ve climbed Harney.

Down we go, down the ladder and around the corner to Peak Inn. Here refreshments and souvenirs may be procured. These have all been brought up the mountain by burroes at some little expense. An interesting trip, they tell us, is to make the return trip through Cathedral Spires. We, however, do not do this.

The descent can be made in a little less time than the ascent. Some short cuts can be made directly across where contours and cutbacks had to be made going up. Going down is decidedly easier than going up. All the way down we meet puffing folks; some fat, some tall, some carrying babies, all asking the same question, “How much farther?” Many a good natured joke is exchanged on the way. We meet troopers as well as pedestrians. The former seem about as anxious to reach the top as those walking. Perhaps those experienced in riding burros and trail ponies understand the reason for this.

Seven miles, at least, the round trip is quite a hike, but for those who can stand it (and this includes most of us), it is by far the better method of going up. Each one who makes it feels proud of the accomplishment. One boy about seven years of age remarked, “By Gawsh, I didn’t need to make it on any donkey. My own feet are good enough for me.” Well, we finally come to the stables again. We have met possibly fifty people going up and more are just starting. Some burros are all saddled and bridled, sleepily waiting for the start. Temptation prompts us to mount for a picture, even though our friends do insist on asking, “Now which is which?”

We arrive back in camp about five hours after we had started up. Pancakes, bacon and eggs are awaiting us. The question “are we hungry?” is a mild way of putting it. Food seems to disappear like magic, not just a little but great quantities of it. This little stroll seems to make one ravenously hungry and we derive genuine satisfaction from this meal. Somehow our fatigue seems to be appeased with our hunger.

Now we are ready for an inspection of the lake and its surroundings. The swans are the first things that draw our attention. They are beautiful, floating over the silvery surface.

Many are the fishermen trying for croppies and trout from the edge of the lake. Some have substantial strings of fish, too.

We take our leisurely way around the lake and find dozens of cars before the hotel. We join the group who are inspecting the souvenir shop and the hotel lobby. Both are interesting; both containing many curios from the hills. The hotel is especially interesting, and we must by all means take a meal with its charming host and hostess. We now go back through a slit in a rock to the gorge behind the dam. The first thing we see and hear is the water gurgling out of Gorge Springs and over the dam. From here we pick our way over the great boulders to the precipice where the water tumbles into the narrow gorge. What boy or girl or grownup is not thrilled by the descent, sometimes on foot, sometimes dangling sometimes crawling between huge rocks (the largest in the hills) sometimes leaping chasms, through dark holes around seemingly blind bends, finally emerging on the rocks far below, without having fallen off the rocks or getting our feet wet. Oh boy! it’s certainly great. We are now in the home of the elves. We can follow the stream down, down, until our view opens out far to the north.

We pick our way back and take a new route far up through the crags, towering above Sylvan Lake. Here again we get a marvelous view of the surrounding territory. Reluctantly we descend again, only to climb the crags on the opposite side of the gorge. Down again, we find our muscles getting a trifle fatigued.

We go back to camp near evening, having eaten lunch in the gorge. Now we get our dinner. Needless to say we are ready for it. We have packed several days’ experiences into a day. And it has been a memorable day. We spend the night and then start over that world’s renowned Needles Highway. The entrance is made through a gigantic gateway of towering rocks. A huge tunnel is blasted through one rock.

We must drive back to the wide ledge and park our car while we gaze over the edge of the precipice and past the great valleys to the high mountains of stone Needles in all directions. The view is indeed one to remember. The feeling of the grandeur of nature that this leaves with us is something that lives with us forever.

We pass on over this remarkable road cut through the mountain tops. The Needles Highway is all it is reputed to be. But one must take it slowly and stop to admire it to fully appreciate it.

CHAPTER XVI
Custer

We go off to the left a few miles to the State Game Lodge. This is the famous Summer White House of President Coolidge. Before we reach it we see a fine group of elk along the road and another of deer. The latter bound gracefully into a thicket when we stop to watch them. Along this road are several tourist camps. Galena and the Game Lodge are the larger ones.

We will leave the game lodge and zoo, however, and take them in our return from Hot Springs. Accordingly we take trail 36 back to Custer, about twenty miles. A few miles before we come to Custer we find a tall stone shaft rising beside the road. A bronze plate attached to it tells us that this is a monument erected to the memory of Mrs. Anna D. Tallent, the first white woman in the Hills. To the right, down a lane a few rods is a reconstructed replica of the old Gordon Stockade. The saplings are driven into the ground, spiked on top, just as the old fort had been. Within the inclosure are a couple of buildings, one where the Tallents lived and one where other folks of the party had lived. French Creek flows just south of the stockade.

Just when gold was discovered in the Hills is a question. Probably it was before 1850, or shortly thereafter. One tale runs that a party of sixteen left the California Trail at Fort Laramie in 1852 because friendly Indians reported gold in the Black Hills.

The men journeyed north, trying several places to mine for gold. They got small quantities until they finally ended up near Deadwood. There the quantity became greater, and the men were elated. Three of the men started back to tell the people at Salt Lake City of their good fortune. The remainder kept on prospecting. One day one of those remaining went out to shoot a deer for meat. Upon his return the camp was in flames and the scalps of his comrades dangled at the ends of poles carried by the Indians. The man made sure that none of the party remained but himself, and he started out for the trail to the south. After terrible hardships, out of matches, with no ammunition left, living off berries and roots, he arrived at the trail too late for the last train of the season. His boots were soleless and his clothing in tatters. He hobbled on, and finally came almost at death’s door to a Mormon hunting party. They brought him slowly back to life and strength and he told them his story.

The story of Ezra Kind is probably true. His Sandstone Carved with a jack-knife was found hidden among some rocks on Lookout Mountain. Indian traditions bear out the story. Much gold was taken by the Indians when the men were killed.

The Gordon Stockade party, however, was the party that started the rush to the Hills. One of General Custer’s mining engineers Horatio N. Ross found gold along French Creek near the present city of Custer, on July 27, 1874. William T. McKay shares honors with Ross. As soon as Custer’s report came out the government issued orders that no white people would be permitted to enter the Black Hills until a treaty could be made with the Indians, for this was guaranteed a hunting ground for them when the eastern land was wrested from them.