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Following

Old Trails

STONE

1933

FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS

A Trailblazer - — Painting by Paxson.

FOLLOWING OLD
TRAILS BY
ARTHUR L. STONE
EDITOR., THE MISSOULIAN

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS

MISSOULA, MONTANA
MORTON JOHN ELROD
19 13

PRESS OF
MISSOULIANPUBLISHING COMPANY MISSOULA MONTANA

TO TPIE MONTANA PIONEERS
The men and women who blazed these
trails — the finest type, I believe, of the
western state-builders — this book is
respectfully dedicated by
THE AUTHOR.

PUBLISHER'S NOTE

The plan of printing Following Old Trails in book form orig
inated at a social gathering, when several persons suggested that
the stories that had been running each Sunday in The Missoulian
for almost a year were too- valuable to be left in the files of a
newspaper, and should be printed in some form that would make
them accessible to the general reader, and place them perma
nently in libraries. So many volunteered to help in the cause
that a letter was prepared and sent out to such persons as might
be interested, asking for help. The response was ready and
prompt. It seemed that many were of one mind, namely, that
these historical descriptions of men, places and events should be
saved and grouped together. In a short time it was seen that the
public wanted the book, and the plan was perfected.
It would be unwise to select from the long list of advance
subscribers the names of persons who have rendered help. Each
contributed what he could afford. To all these kind friends most
sincere appreciation is given.
Due credit for the illustrations is given with each. The
Daily Missoulian has very kindly loaned several cuts of persons
mentioned in the stories. Mr. E. S. Paxson, our talented home
artist, has drawn special illustrations for the book. Photographs
of two of his large paintings which were made for the Missoula
county court house have been used, these paintings having been
photographed by R. H. McKay.
I am glad to have been of service in placing these historical
facts in this form. It has been a pleasure to assist the author,
whose genial fellowship makes his friendship most valuable, as
well as to do something for the community and the state.
MORTON J. ELROD.
University of Montana, November 22, 1913.

FOREWORD

The stories which make up this little book were written orig
inally for The Missoulian and for a year constituted a feature of
the Sunday edition. The suggestion that they be collected in
permanent form came from friends who, I fear, have over-esti
mated their value. When it came to arranging these journeys
over old Montana trails for book form, I realized more than ever
that they bear evidence of the haste in which most of them were
prepared. All were written under the high pressure of a daily-
newspaper office and with no thought that they would ever be
called back out of the old files. That they do appear, finally, in
this volume is the result of the insistence of some of the friends
who read them in newspaper form and had neglected to preserve
those which pleased them. It has seemed best, therefore, to pre
sent them in the order of their newspaper appearance. This will
account for what may seem like a failure to make a systematic
arrangement of the stories. Some of these tales have been print
ed before in other form ; some of them, as far as I know, were
never in type until they appeared in The Missoulian. In con
senting to their publication, I have not been imaware of their
unworthiness as book material, but I have let them go in the hope
that their publication may prove an incentive to the preserva
tion, by abler pens than mine, of some of the intimate details and
the personal side of the life of the^ men and women who, in
Montana, hewed a magnificent commonwealth out of a wilder
ness. Every community has tales like these. They must be pre
served soon or they will be lost forever. Por the Montana pio
neer, to whom this work is dedicated, is rapidly following that
old trail over the Great Divide — the trail which leads but
one way. — A. L. S.
Missoula, Dec. 1, 1913.

CONTENTS

Page.

The Road to Hamilton

17

The Prenchtown Road

22

The Coriacan Defile

27

Tramping into Windfall

34

Supper on Sunrise

41

To the Top o'Deep .

48

Pour Famous Ports

55

A Famous Pass

61

Local Names and History

63

Council Grove

76

Chariot's Last March

83

Back to the Bitter Root

91

Up the Blackfoot

97

The Great Council

103

Pearson's Great Ride

110

A Quick Descent

117

The Straight and.Narrow Way

123

Hell Gate's Death Rate .

129

Early-Day Farming

137

The Maginnis Gulch Stampede

143

Fighting for Paint

151

Coeur d'Alene

158

The Villard Invasion .

165

A Pioneer Courtship .

173

CONTENTS {continued)
The Dragon of the Selish  179
Montana's First Christmas .... 187
The Call of the West  195
Aboriginal Horsetraders . . . 202
Fighting a Way to Montana . . . 209
Finding a Home .... . 217
The Canyon of First Things .... 225
The First Pay Gravel ... .233
Starting Things for Montana . . 241
A Journey's End .... .249
The Man Who Looked Ahead . . 257
Fighting for Logs .... 263
How the Granite Mountain Was Found . . 270
How the Black Robes Came .... 277
The Case of Joe Sarish  285
A Lost Pilgrim  293
Historic Trailblazing . . . 302

ILLUSTRATIONS

The Trailblazer .
Hotel Ravalli
Old Fort Owen .
Victor's Camp
Chief Chariot
The First Jocko Agency
The Blackfoot Valley
Judge Woody
St. Mary's Mission
The Painted Rocks on Flathead
McDonald Peak .
The Dragon of the Selish
Lewis and Clark at Lolo
Fording in Buffalo Skins
Duncan McDonald
Granville Stuart
Entrance to Hell Gate Canyon
Old W'orden Store at Hell Gate
The Great Falls
Paris Gibson
Father Ravalli
Ravalli's Arrival at St. Mary's
A Lost Pilgrim

Page.
Frontispiece 1656 75
84 96
98
118130
150 166
180 188
210224232240248256
257 276280292

Ravalli Hotel

THE ROAD TO HAMILTON

IN ALL western Montana — and that means in all the world —
there is no more beautiful trail than that which leads from
Missoula to Hamilton. It was always a pleasant trail to
travel, even when the old Sun Cure train consumed seven hours
in the passage, and time has destroyed none of its native beauty
while it has added many new charms. Always beautiful, yet
never exactly the same, the trail up the Bitter Root furnishes
as delightful a jaunt as any traveler ever made.
Back in 1894 it was my good fortune to pilot Dr. Elliott
Coues of the Smithsonian Institution up through the Bitter
Root valley and, with a military escort from the old Twenty-
fifth infantry, we traced the trail which was made by the first
white travelers who ever toured the Bitter Root — Dr. Coues was
then engaged in his investigation of the route of Lewis and
Clark. Dr. Coues was a famous globetrotter. He had scaled the
Alps and had climbed the Himalayas; he had traversed Africa
and had explored Greenland. The famous scenery of the world
was an open-book to him. But when he saw the sunrise tint the
Bitter Root mountains one morning, he exclaimed: "I have
never seen anything in my life more beautiful than that." So,
when anyone questions my estimate of the beauties of the Bitter
Root trail, I fall back upon the excellent authority of Dr. Coues.
It was some time before that journey with Dr. Coues that I
made my first trip over the trail to Hamilton. It was while I
was making my tenderfoot tours of western Montana that I
climbed aboard the old Sun Cure train one afternoon with
Charles M. Crutchfield and went up to Hamilton to keep an
appointment with Marcus Daly. Both these men have since trav
eled the Long Trail which crosses the Great Divide, but I shall
never forget that trip in which they both figured and which
gave me my introduction to a country which has since become
my home and which is the home of so many of my best friends.
Those two friends were good friends of western Montana —
there were never any better — and it is one of the proud mem
ories of my life that they were my friends, too. My first night
in the Bitter Root was spent beneath the roof of Mr. Daly on
17

18 FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS
the farm which he afterward made famous wherever good horses
are known and loved. It was he who first made the Bitter Root
famous and this is something of which we should not lose sight in
these days of publicity advertising. That night, seated before
an open fire of big logs, Mr. Daly told us some of his plans for
the ' ' ranch. ' ' Those plans included some of the details whieh it
was left to others to work out regarding the Bitter Root, but Mr.
Daly lived long enough to see his predictions verified as to the
productiveness of the bench lands which were at that time left
to range cattle as pasture.
Hamilton was new then and the Bitter Root farm had but
begun to reveal the splendid advantages which it was to demon
strate, later. But it was all beautiful, even then, and it is never
possible for me entirely to disassociate Mr. Daly and the Bitter
Root. There have been many men whose service in the develop
ment of the valley has been notable, but it will always seem to me
that the man of them all to whom the valley owes the greates!
debt was Marcus Daly.
Last Sunday evening I walked several miles over the roads
of the Daly farms, roads which I had once traveled with the man
who made the ranch. I do not believe I shall ever do it again.
It made me homesick — I like to think of the big farm as Mr.
Daly left it and it is not that way any more. There was never
much commercialism about the farm when Mr. Daly was at its
head. There is a good deal of it in evidence now. But I have no
doubt that, had Mr. Daly been spared to develop fully his plans,
the great place would have proved profitable. It would have
been profitable upon the splendid scale in which it was conceived
and planned. But there is nobody now who could carry out
that plan; the mind which formed it was the one which would
have perfected it.
But the Daly farm is magnificent now. It presents another
phase of the valley 's possibilities than that which it was designed
to show but it stands as the great example of the possibilities of
irrigation in the Bitter Root. It was the great experiment farm
upon which were worked out many problems which, when solved,
revolutionized the farming of the Bitter Root and which made
possible the, present greatness of the valley and its more splen
did future. The tourist of the valley should see the Daly farm,
by all means, but the man who knew this farm when its great
promoter was living would better not visit it now if he wishes
to spare himself a heartache.
But, to revert to that years-ago first journey of mine up the
Bitter Root. I remember that the brakeman lighted the lamps
in the car just before we reached Stevensville. We had left Mis
soula in the middle of the afternoon. "Crutch" was telling me
tales of the valley and its people — he was an oldtimer of two

FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS 19
years' residence then — when we stopped at Stevensville station.
A man entered and, the car being crowded, asked if he
might share our seats. He was welcomed and Crutchfield intro
duced me to "Dud" Bass. Since then I have learned to know
this man well and to esteem highly his splendid service to the
horticultural interests of the valley. That night he made me
acquainted with the big Alexander apple of the Bitter Root.
The ride had been long and I was hungry. I presume I said so.
I don't remember just what led up to it, but I do remember Mr.
Bass' pulling a great, red apple out of his gripsack and telling
me to eat it. It was the biggest apple I had ever seen. I have
seen bigger ones since but none of them have ever looked as big
as that one did.
And then Mr. Bass told me about his orchard and of his
plans for a great fruit business in the valley. Those plans
matured perfectly. Mr. Bass, by honest dealing and careful
orcharding, gave the Bitter Root apple a reputation which not
even the crooked methods of some of his contemporaries was
able to destroy. He has retired from active business now. He
lives in a beautiful home in Stevensville, resting upon the honors
which he so splendidly won. I have always been glad that it
was he who gave me my first intimate acquaintance with the
Bitter Root apple.
These are the three men whom I remember in connection
with that first trip up the Bitter Root over the trail to Hamil
ton — Marcus Daly, Charlie Crutchfield and D. C. Bass. I met
a lot of others, but the incidents in which these three figured are
'the ones which I recall distinctly when I think of that pleasant
jaunt. And it was these incidents which passed through my
mind, last Sunday afternoon, as I traveled again the trail to
Hamilton. All along the trail there have been many changes. Some of
the old landmarks are gone, but the beauty of the river is
unchanged and the grandeur of the peaks remains. There are
orchards now where there was forest then and there are broad
fields of grain where there was only bunch grass, years ago.
Rude cabins have been replaced by handsome farmhouses and the
cayuse stock has yielded place to as fine harness horses as can be
seen in any valley. Viewed from the standpoint of the husband
man, the valley along the trail is delightfully bettered. And the
improvement is not finished, not by any means.
And, as with the trail, so with the town at its southern end.
The Hamilton of today is vastly different from the Hamilton of
the nineties. It was a baby town then, but it possessed all the
elements which go to make a good town and it has abundantly
justified the faith of its friends of those days. They used to
call Hamilton a one-man town; they roasted it as a company

20 FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS
town ; they said all the mean things about it they could think of.
But Hamilton didn't mind them. Hamilton just kept on
growing. The friends of Hamilton knew that, all about them, was the
greatest farm and orchard region in the world. They knew they
would come into their own some day. They knew that the devel
opment of the region about them would bring growth to their
town ; they knew that the scenic beauties of their location would
one day make Hamilton famous as a summer resort. And they
just kept on growing.
Then came the discovery of the Bitter Root by the eastern
ers. It was Sam Dinsmore who led the first party of these dis
coverers into the Bitter Root; Sam's enthusiasm was infectious
and when he had led his party of explorers over the trail to Ham
ilton and then had doubled back with them, each one of the party
was boosting for the Bitter Root. Out of that trip over the old
trail came the magnificent development work of the Bitter Root
Valley Irrigation company and the other concerns which fol
lowed it into the valley.
Within four years, the Bitter Root valley has practically
doubled its acreage. It has not yet stopped growing. There will
presently be acres farmed which are now absolutely wild. The
growth of the valley will continue — don't make any mistake
about that. As I journeyed over the old trail this week, I was
specially interested in noting the way the timber line is being
crowded back. Grain fields and orchards lie away up on the
hillsides and are extending their line of advance each month.
The boom of the dynamite as it blasts the stumps from the old
woodland is heard regularly. The pall of smoke from the fires
which are clearing the brushland is the banner of the advancing
line of cultivation. The spirit of progress is everywhere at work.
One could write on and on for hours about the scenes along
the trail to Hamilton and then half would not be told. The end
less variety of the natural resources along this route and their
magnificent extent make the Bitter Root the great valley that it
is. Its wonderful climate, its wonderful soil, its wonderful
water courses, its wonderful scenery — all these make it the great
valley of them all. Name a single attribute of the Oregon valleys
and you will find it duplicated in the Bitter Root. Name all the
advantages of the Washington valleys — they are all here. And
there is none of the dust and wind in the Bitter Root. More
than that, you can take all of these valleys of the state to the
west of us, bunch them together and place them in the Bitter
Root and then have more area left than they have.
But the best way to learn is to see for yourself. Take the
train some afternoon at Missoula or climb into an automobile and
run up over the admirable roads of the valley — make the jaunt

FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS 21
yourself and you will see a picture that cold type cannot repro
duce, a scene that baffles the skill of the painter. And at the
end of the journey you will find a welcome that, of itself, will
make you glad you came.
To sojourn at the Ravalli hotel in Hamilton is ample recom
pense for the effort of the journey. To sit upon its shaded
porches and listen to the word pictures of the hotel's owner is to
become right away a booster. For there is no more loyal, sincere
friend of the valley than J. 0. Read. He makes your stay happy,
he makes your acquaintance with the Bitter Root complete. He
and J. E. Totman of the big sawmill are types of the present-day
Bitter Root man. They are delightful companions, they are
earnest citizens, they are the best friends a fellow ever could
have. And thus it is that the journey's end is the happiest part of
the jaunt over the trail to Hamilton, happy as that jaunt is sure
to be. There's comfort and immense satisfaction in a stay at
the end of this journey. The country itself makes it pleasant
and the welcome that awaits the traveler intensifies the enjoy
ment. It's the Hamilton way. It is the manifestation of the
spirit which was awakened by Marcus Daly and which is kept
alive by as fine a bunch of men as ever labored for the perfec
tion of a good idea. When you have traveled the Hamilton trail
you will discover that this idea is to make the most of the greatest
advantages which a generous Creator ever bestowed upon any
community in this world. And you will find that they are doing
it on the square.
July 1, 1911.

THE FRENCHTOWN ROAD

THERE is much that is interesting along the old trail that
leads to Frenchtown. This road is one of the oldest trails
in 'western Montana; it was a thoroughfare long before
there was any Missoula and it has played a considerable part in
the development of this section of the State. Over this trail
moved the commerce of the early days between Montana camps
and Walla Walla, which was the coast terminus of the packtrain
days. Over this trail traveled missionary and miner, priest and
pariah, trapper and tourist. Over this trail one day came pur
suers and pursued racing from the vigilante court in Alder
gulch, the one seeking to enforce the stern decree of that tribunal
and the other desperately endeavoring to evade the service of the
hempen writ. The race went to the side of justice and at old
Hell Gate town the mandate of the court was executed and
three human forms wriggled and then were still, suspended from
the high crossbar of an old gate. That was the last vigilante exe
cution in Montana. It is but a few years since the three mounds
which marked the graves of the victims of this law enforcement
were leveled by plow and harrow.
Over the Frenchtown trail moved the immigration of the
thrifty farmers who settled the lower valley and whose national
ity gave the ronde its name. Their energy and thrift, too, gave
this region its fame as a farming district ; they didn 't talk much
but they farmed a great deal and their produce became in a
short time a demonstration of the agricultural possibilities of this
section. French was the local language along this old trail then
and it is yet ; the descendants of these people remain on the old
farms ; they have preserved their entity wonderfully well ; their
community remains French to this day in many of its customs and
practices, though there is no one who will say that these men and
women are not mighty good Americans.
Over the Frenchtown trail moved the chasers of the will-o '-
the wisp in the famous Cedar creek stampede and over this trail
came back much of the wealth of gold which was washed out of
that great old gulch. There are dark chapters and there are
bright chapters in the history of the Frenchtown road. Always
22

FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS 23
it has been well-beaten — this trail — since it was blazed and now
it is a busy thoroughfare. Here and there are traces of the life
of former days; here and there may be seen some of the old
houses, landmarks which are monuments to the first occupants of
this fertile region.
Down a little way from Missoula on the Frenchtown trail is
the site of old Hell Gate town, the first settlement in the Mis
soula valley — really the mother of Missoula. There are one or
two of the old cabins of the town yet standing — outhouses at a
ranch. Here was the old store of Worden & Company, the pio
neer mercantile establishment of this valley, the store in which
Judge Woody served as clerk in the early days. Here was start
ed the town which was deserted when the water power of the
Rattlesnake caused the removal of the settlement after Missoula
Mills had been created. There are a good many stories connected
with this old town — some of them have never been told and some
of them will never be told, but if you are fortunate enough to
travel the Frenchtown trail with an oldtimer some day, you
may get some of them that will entertain you and will enlighten,
as well. For there were doings at old Hell Gate in those days.
There are many farms along the trail which will suggest
interesting incidents to your oldtimer companion. If you want
to get them don 't ride in an automobile — travel behind a jogging
horse and the suggestions will not come so fast that their impres
sions will be lost. There is the old Winters ranch ; it has been
famous in its day for the fast horses that have had" their homes
here. There is the Austin ranch, too-, and on the other side of the
road there are the tall, green trees that shade the hospitable
homestead of the Flynn farm, beyond which are the old Hogan
and England ranches.
There is the White farm — everybody in western Montana has
heard of that. In this farmhouse, yet standing in its old place,
four sons were born who were natives of four different states,
though the house was never moved an inch. The development of
the northwest was shifting territorial boundaries rapidly in those
days and, though the house was not moved, the sons were, respec
tively, natives of Oregon, Washington, Idaho and Montana. And
the old house is yet there, near the famous spring which is the
delight of picnickers and fishermen alike.
Halfway down the Frenchtown trail is Grass Valley, which
remained for so many years a contented, prosperous community
of farmers, near enough to a railway to be comfortable, but far
enough away not to be annoyed, until the Milwaukee, pushing
westward, threw up a'high embankment which separates the val
ley into halves, its rude, gray walls rising like a bulwark. Cyr,
Deschamps, Dussault, Palin, Hamel— these are names which at
once suggest themselves as you see Grass, Valley or as you read

24 FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS
of it. These and many others are intimately connected with the
delightful pastoral history of this section, where have been bred
fine horses and where has been raised fine grain for almost half
a century. Sturdy men and beautiful women are here, born and
reared within the confines of this pleasing vale. The Cyr hotel,
a celebrated road inn, stands pleasantly beneath the shade of tall
poplars and, across the trail, is the substantial schoolhouse of the
district. At two world 's fairs the gold medal, won in competition with
the farmers of the whole earth, the gold medals for oats and hay
have been awarded to the products of Grass Valley ; it is a famous
piece of farm land but its people bear their honors modestly.
They knew for a good many years that they had the best oats
and hay in the world and they do not see any reason for making
a fuss about it just because the world at large has discovered
what they knew for so long.
A few miles below the Grass Valley hotel, the basin narrows
almost to the width of the river channel. Then suddenly it
widens again into the broad expanse of the Frenchtown valley, a
replica of the one above. In every direction, even up on the
hillsides, stretch the waving seas of grass and grain. There are
substantial farm homes scattered all about. Thrift is everywhere
visible and manifest. And in the midst of it is Frenchtown, a
place that is worth knowing.
Frenchtown— the name suggests Jack Demers and his gra
cious hospitality, General Marion and his courtly greeting — these
and the old-time celebration of St. John's day. Never can cele
bration of this holiday be the same held anywhere else than at
Frenchtown, no matter how modern the facilities. For St. John 's
day belongs to Frenchtown. There it encounters no alien atmos
phere. There it is in its own environment. There nothing seems
strange that looks peculiar elsewhere.
Nobody who has had the enjoyment of participation in a cel
ebration of the French holiday at Frenchtown will question this.
Frenchtown and St. John's day are inseparable in the mind of
all who have shared the happiness of this occasion. For nearly
half a century, once a year, the Frenchtown trail has been hot
with the rush of travel on the 24th of June. This year found
the trend of travel away from Frenchtown upon this occasion,
but it is not likely to occur again. The Frenchmen had a good
time, but it was not the old Day of St. John.
Frenchtown has changed but not so much that there are not
reminders of the old town ; on all sides there are suggestions of
the jovial Jack Demers, whose hospitable home was always open
to the wayfarer and at whose table there was ever a plate for the
stranger or the friend who came unannounced; of General Joe
Marion, who will be remembered as long as the name of French-

FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS 25
town endures; of Peter Scheffer, pioneer farmer and successful
business man ; of scores of oldtimers who have been making hay,
history and happiness in this beautiful valley for two genera
tions. Frenchtown has grown. It has grown attractive and pros
perous with the continued development of the wonderfully rich
region about it. But it retains enough of its individuality to
make it Frenchtown still. If you are in quest of local color and
human interest, visit Frenchtown. Visit the old place as a friend,
not as a critic. Its people will receive you with the rare hospi
tality whieh has ever characterized the place ; they will bid you
welcome and they will share with you what they have. It is
a delightfully interesting place.
All along the Frenchtown trail there are farms; there is
nothing else to divide interest or to share attention. They are
thrifty farms, the grass and grain wave high — the air is heavy
with the perfume of the blossoming clover. High in the air the
lark sings his song of joy, in the grass the baby grouse rush to
cover, in the hedges broods of young ducks scurry to shelter.
The drone of insects hums on every side and induces slumber.
As your horse jogs on, your head nods and you are almost asleep.
The click of the mower arouses you for the season of growth is
reaching its climax and the heavy crop is ready for the harvest.
As I drove along the Frenchtown trail this week, the harvest was
just beginning ; the clover hay was being cut. The yield will be
great this year. Never before did the fields of these fertile val
leys bear upon their bosom such a wealth.
There is justice in the policy which has selected the French-
town trail for the scientific road-building of this year. This old
trail should be made a good one. And that is what it is getting
to be. The great steam roller and grader has been working its
way up from Huson on the lower edge of the valley, toward Mis
soula. Before the season's work is done, the old trail will be
a boulevard. It will be a strange experience to drive over this
historic route and not encounter the cumbering gumbo clay, but
it is disappearing beneath a heavy covering of white gravel. It
will be a pleasanter drive but there will be no loss of charm or
interest. Always this jaunt will be delightful; always it will be
remindful of the past and ever it will be suggestive of the possi
bilities of the future. It is a jaunt that is ripe for July. Take
it and you will be glad you spared the time. You will come home
with renewed confidence in the future of this region ; your faith
in its people will be strengthened; you will understand better
how it is that western Montana is becoming great and is destined
to become greater.
And, as you pass the monuments of early days in the ronde,

26 FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS
you will see what has made western Montana strong. You will
understand as your mind goes back over the history of this val
ley, why there has been naught but a forward movement. For
you will see in the story of the past and in the realities of the
present the men of industry and perseverance whose close appli
cation and indomitable courage has made this a land of produc
tiveness and a region of law-abiding citizenry. There is much
along the Frenchtown trail that is calculated to make you want
to take the jaunt again. It had been trodden a good many years
when I first journeyed over it in 1892, but it has been traveled
more constantly since. , And its travel will ever be more and more
constant and important. The past of the Frenchtown trail is
rich but there is greater importance in its future. One will have
to travel often to keep pace with the development there.
July 8, 1911.

THE CORIACAN DEFILE

THERE is nobody about here — red or white — who can
remember when there was not a trail up through 0 'Keef fe
canyon into the Jocko valley. When the first whites came
to western Montana, there was a path through this picturesque
defile, worn deep by the passing of moccasined feet. It was
then an Indian highway and the marks of travois poles were
sharp upon its winding course ; it was the route between the Mis
soula valley and the lake country. Here had passed the hunting
parties of the reds ; here had sojourned their women on the year
ly quest for the bitter root which was the staple food of
these aborigines; here had moved the tribal trains upon expedi
tions of peaee and of war ; here had the Black Robes made their
way, carrying the message of the cross to the hungry souls of the
Indians of the beautiful valleys to the westward.
Until the advent of the railway, this route was not the main-
traveled road to the coast; the packers went up the St. Regis
river, over into the Ooeur d'Alene country in the late winter and
during high water, this canyon route was used to the coast ; but
the trail up the narrow pass to the north was ever busy with the
travel of the Indian and, later, with local commerce. But the
railway surveyors ran their line by the northern route; they
spanned the narrow defiles with high bridges and climbed the
side of the mountains which overlook the narrow rift that forms
this truly beautiful pass. They made of the canyon a new
thoroughfare of commerce but nature forced them to keep so far
away from the dashing stream that the beauty of the pass was
not marred and it yet possesses the charm which for half a cen
tury called forth expressions of admiration from lovers of the
beautiful. The establishing of the Flathead reservation gave new impor
tance to the trail through the canyon and, eventually, it was
widened into a wagon road. At best, it was a tough road to
travel. Ledges of shale shelved across it, slippery, and uneven,
affording insecure footing for horses and a precarious track for
wheels. Each spring a freshet gullied the road so that it was
impassable for weeks. A beautiful trail it was, but not comfort-
27

28 FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS
able. It is different now. It is yet a beautiful road over which
to travel. The good-roads spirit has worked here with wonder
fully fine results.
As I have said before, he who travels these old trails of west
ern Montana with the purpose to get the most out of the jaunt,
should either walk or take a horse ; the automobile skips some of
the most interesting features of these journeys ; it goes too fast.
Firm in this belief, I accepted the other day an invitation from
Major Morgan of the Flathead agency and drove up to1 see the
Indian dances. Two horses furnished the motive power for our
journey and, though the autos whizzed past us in the canyon, I
believe we had a pleasanter trip than did the folks who rode by
gasoline. But this is a mere matter of taste — and smell.
The day was perfect. Overhead was a cloudless July sky,
out of which the sun worked so effectively as to register the
year's maximum temperature before the day was over; but in
the densely-shaded canyon there was little penetration by the
heat and the ride was one long delight. The roads, I have said,
were excellent. Out into the bright morning swung the team,
across the valley to DeSmet, which is at the foot of the pass and
which bears the name of the first Black Robe totra verse the trail
through the canyon, the brave young priest who had left all that
he had of earthly ties to bring the Gospel to this region. It was
a glorious drive.
Around DeSmet the dry-farmer holds sway. This is his year
and his realm is beautiful. For miles there stretch away in every
direction the great fields of waving grain. It is but a very few
years since it was discovered that these rolling foothills could be
farmed to advantage ; less than five years ago, most of them were
held, if held at all, for pasturage. Now their slopes are heavy
with ripening crops. It is a happy sight to stand on the hill
beyond DeSmet and look out over this great sea of grain. In
western Montana, with the exception of the reservation district,
there is no region which emphasizes more forcibly than this, the
great development which is taking place.
Up and around the DeSmet hill the road is wide and smooth ;
the climb is not irksome and when the summit is reached the
traveler beholds the splendid vale into which the canyon widens,
with its rich farms, its great orchards and its hundreds of thou
sands of newly-planted trees. It is a sight to kindle intense
admiration. It is a picture of peace and plenty such as is seldom
seen. The principal feature of this basin is the old 0 'Keeff e ranch,
now known as Fruitvale. Ever since 1861 this valley and the
canyon back of it have been intimately associated, in one way or
another, with the affairs of Missoula county. It was in the fall
of 1861 that The O'Keeffe, Baron 0 'Keeff e he was and right

FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS 29
royally he bore the title, located this body of land and reared his
roof tree there. Later 0 'Keef f e became a member of the territo
rial legislature and he was chairman of the commissioners of
Missoula county during an important period of the county's
existence. There is no end to the stories which are told of The 0 'Keef f e
and they're all good ones. The splendid farm which now spreads
its broad acres over this vale and extends back into the canyon
behind is evidence of the excellent judgment of this soldier of
fortune who, after having traveled the world over, drove his
stakes at the mouth of the canyon which now bears his name. He
was a gentleman and a scholar ; he was Irish to the backbone and
he had a stiff backbone. He was ponderous in his oratory, flow
ery in his speech and fond of full-sounding words. He it was
who gave to this canyon the name, Coriacan defile, which it bore
for many years.
Judge Woody told me this story of the origin of the name :
Neil MacArthur was a Hudson Bay company factor who after
ward went into trading for himself on the old emigrant road.
He was in charge of one of the old Hudson Bay "brigades"
which had been an expedition from the post to an Indian camp
down near where Frenchtown is. He had had a successful trad
ing season and was returning to the post over the old trail.
One of his men was a Kanaka, named Koriaka, and this man rode
the bell mare at the head of the line. In the canyon, as the
"brigade" was returning to the post, it was waylaid by a war
party of Blackfeet in the little gulch where the Marent trestle
is built. The ambush was not a success, as the Blackfeet did
not wait for the main body of the "brigade," but shot Koriaka
as he came into sight on the trail. The following line at once
fell back, raillied and drove back the hostiles. There was no
other life lost than that of the poor Kanaka and the canyon was
given his name. The old Indian name seems to have been entire
ly lost ; whatever it was, it was superseded by the name ' ' Kori
aka 's canyon," and this it retained until The O'Keeffe rounded
it out into ' ' The Coriacan defile. ' '
But there was too much individuality about this Irish baron
for any other name than his to be applied to any place where
he was and soon the basin was known as "0 'Keeff e's place,"
and the defile became ' ' 0 'Keef f e 's canyon, ' ' by which name it
is yet called. Poor Koriaka was not important enough to be
retained in history, even though he gave his life to win a place
there. The Celtic force asserted itself; it was the survival of
the fittest. From the crest of the DeSmet hill, the road winds through
the grain fields and pastures down to the basin where the water
has been spread out from the canyon's flow, over orchard and

30 FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS
garden until a splendid place has developed, which will one day
become one of the famous orchard districts of this region. T. T.
Black has developed an elaborate irrigation system here and has
transformed the hillsides into great orchard tracts through which
the old trail winds its way to the canyon beyond.
Past the ranch of The O'Keeffe and the ranch of David
O'Keeffe, his brother, both farms now absorbed into one, the
trail takes its way ; it is a delightful drive. The handsome house
and the spacious barns of this home ranch stand just about
where The 0 'Keef f e built his primal cabin in 1861. He had come
here with Lieutenant Mullan, building the famous Mullan trail,
in 1859. The party had wintered that year in quarters built
near DeBorgia on the St. Regis de Borgia river and from there
had carried on the construction work of the year, building dur
ing that winter the hill road between Superior and St. Regis.
This done, the party had been taken to Fort Benton and dis
banded. But The O'Keeffe remained here. The Mullan pack
horses had been wintered in the Bitter Root, the Jocko and in
this basin at the mouth of the canyon, which was afterward to
bear The O'Keeffe's name. He had seen the land and it had
looked good; so he took his discharge from government service
before the return to Benton and remained here.
It was at' the cabin of The O'Keeffe that the pursuing Vig
ilantes overtook Bob Zachery after they had hanged Johnnie
Cooper, Alex Carter and Si Skinner at old Hell Gate. The baron
had been entertaining Zachery unaware of the identity of his
guest and the household was wrapped in slumber when the Vig
ilantes came up and demanded their man. They got him with
out trouble and they were for hanging Zachery at once, then and
there. There are two stories told to explain why the Zachery exe
cution was not held on the O'Keeffe place. One is that The
O'Keeffe, hurriedly called from bed and with his stalwart pro
portions concealed only by the folds of a shirt, exhausted his
powers of argument and of oratory before he could convince the
Vigilantes that he "would see ghosts forever" if Zachery were
hanged there; the executioners, however, were finally convinced
and they took their man back to Hell Gate for the final cere
mony. The other story is that Dave O'Keeffe came out of his
cabin, across the trail, and at the point of a gun drove the Vigil
antes and their prisoner from the soil of the 0 'Keeff e clan. The
weight of evidence is in favor of the former tale. At any rate,
there is no record of any ghosts having disturbed the peace of
this beautiful valley.
It is a wonderfully fertile spot, this valley at the mouth of
the canyon. The trail leads up the gentle slope after passing
the O'Keeffe place and then a turn swings the traveler into the

FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS 31
narrow gorge. The vegetation is fairly tropical in its density
here ; the trees and the ferns and the flowers crowd close into the
trail, brushing the wagon as you pass along. Behind this wall of
verdure on one side, the farmer has crowded the line of his cul
tivation close to the line of the trail ; on the other side, the moun
tain wall rises almost sheer. The canyon 's stream dashes noisily
along beneath overhanging foliage and scores of living springs
send their little streams across the trail. Great pines make
eolianl music high above, a subdued accompaniment to the sum
mer songs which are trilled in the meadows and thickets below.
It is one of the most beautiful spots in a region of great scenic
charm. The dew was yet heavy upon grass and leaf as we swung
into the canyon 's entrance the' other morning ; the summer sun
had just found its way into the cleft in the hills ; there was fra
grance everywhere. The horses felt the inspiration and didn't
recognize the uphill of the way. The trail itself has been made
into a splendid road during the last two years and adds to the
comfort and enjoyment of the drive. There was a fleet
ing glimpse of the lofty Marent trestle high in the air, spanning
the gulch where poor Koriaka lost his life and gave the pass a
name ; there was a cheery salutation from the pretty little farm
house whieh nestles beneath the walls of this gulch ; and then we
were in the narrow pass.
There was no company the rest of the way up the trail
except two passing automobiles going up and two others which
were coming down. It was just ourselves and nature — ourselves,
enjoying every foot of the way, and nature in her happiest mood.
We had almost forgotten there was such a thing as a railway
in the world when the last turn in the defile brought us out into
the Evaro meadows. A crossing of the track, a swing through
the little railway town at the summit another crossing and then
the trail led into the glorious timber belt.
The ride through the timber was a continuation of the
delights of the pass. The panorama was different, but was no
whit less beautiful. The great pines and firs, the thickets of
the undergrowth, the grassy parks along the way — all these made
the morning delightful, and a refreshing breeze swept down
from the Mission mountains, enhancing the comfort of the hour.
In a beautiful open park on Finley creek we camped for
dinner. It was fine and all did justice to it. The horses were
rested and we were refreshed. The little campfire was thor
oughly drenched and we struck out again for the agency.
Through the timber again. The road was good for the greater
part of way but the recent rains had left some chuckholes in
one of which one of our automobile precursors had been stuck.
There are. long loops in this road, where the trail finds an easy

32 FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS
way down the hill, but they are all well graded and not the
least dangerous. It was a fine drive.
The horses were in fine fettle after their rest and romped
down this slope as if there were not 20 miles behind them. And
so, on and out of the timber. The timber line is sharply drawn
and the trail emerges suddenly into the Jocko valley. We
turned a curve and there, in the midst of the valley, was the
camp of 60 lodges grouped about the dance tent. For a moment
we could fancy that time had rolled back half a century and
that we were drifting down toward an old-time camp of the
reds. But there were intervening fences and fields of grain
which soon dispelled the dream and we drove on through the
winding lanes. The old, straight-cut road which I used to know
across this valley is all fenced now and it is a long way around
sometimes. Just where the trail emerges from the timber, there is one
of its famous stretches which has not been effaced by the
farmer. It is the "Course de Femmes," a straight, level piece
of road about which the old-timers tell an interesting story. The
name was given to the place, they say, back in the forties when
the Hudson Bay traders were getting acquainted with the Indi
ans. One of these traders was Francois Armintinger and he
arrived with his party in the Jocko valley while a pauty of Flat-
heads was camped there. The Indians had a fine stock of furs
and skins and Armintinger was anxious to detain them in order
that he might do some trading.
He selected a lot of his gaudiest stock, cloth, trinkets and
beads and placed it all in a glittering heap, the Indians the
while watching him with keen interest. Especially did the
women and the girls crowd about with eager concern. When he
had the stuff displayed to good advantage, Armintinger stated
his plan. He proposed that the Indian women should run a race
and that the winner should receive all the stuff in the pile.
Born gamblers that they are, the Indians assented and the women
and girls made ready for the race. There were forty of them in
line when the word was given. Armintinger used to describe
the race with keen zest.
The wife of Charlie La Moose won the race. The course was
to a pine tree and back, along the beatenl trail, a total distance
of two and a half miles. The La Moose woman was young and
handsome, a popular member of the tribe and something of a
runner for the story goes that she had the bunch distanced
before the turn was reached and that she ran the last quarter so
fast that mounted Indians, following along the side of the
course, had to use their quirts to keep pace with her fleet feet.
She was given the trinkets and Armintinger, a shrewd man, pre
sented consolation prizes to all the racers. He had the good will

FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS 33
of the tribe, right there, and he traded most successfully.
As we drove over this stretch of the trail, this old story
came back to me. When we got to the dance tent at the Indian
camp, we found Joe La Moose, dignified grandson of the red-
skinned Atalanta, leading in the dance.
It was the end of a delightful journey over one of the
most beautiful in all the broad scope of western Montana. It
is a trail that is so close to Missbula that it should be more pop
ular, for the road is good and the scenes along the way are
charming. July 15, 1911.

TRAMPING INTO WINDFALL

THE miner did not blaze the first trails in western Montana
but when he did get to tramping through these hills, he
made some paths that were important in their day and are,
in some instances, pretty thoroughly traveled yet. Into Bear
gulch he wore a trail that was the transport route for enough gold
to have paved every inch of it. Into Cedar creek he blazed a path
that was famous the world over and from this trail other trails
digressed which led the goldseekers to the treasure which they
sought. Into California gulch, into Oregon and over Hungry
Hollow into Deep creek. Trout creek, Windfall, Ohio, Sunrise,
Meadow and Quartz — all these creeks and their canyons were
traversed and not so long ago that the trails are not yet visible
and there are many of them that are yet used for their orig
inal purpose. There are more men working through the sum
mer months in the gulches of the Bitter Root range than Mis
soula people realize. The oldtimers did not get all the treasure
from the golden sands of these Missoula county gulches; it is
yet yielded up before the insistent and persistent diggers who
are dredging and ground-sluicing as long as the flow of water
gives them the means each summer.
It is surprising — the number of men who are at work in the
hills of Missoula county ; there are crews of them in some of the
gulches ; in others of the canyons, the miners are working singly,
slowly sluicing and more slowly cleaning their bedrock, all
through the spring and summer. Journeying over these old
trails, one finds them most unexpectedly, and they are always
glad to see the visitor. The miner's welcome is always cordial
and a share of the store of grub in his cabin is always placed
before the traveler. And how hungry the miner is for the news
from the outside ! He asks questions as fast as he can talk and
his first query is usually a pretty good index to the thoughts
which have been running through his mind since his last visit
to the postoffice.
Last week I tramped in the sunshine over one of the oldest
trails in the Bitter Root mountains. One man could not wait to
tell me he was glad to see me, so anxious was he to know who
34

FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS 35
won the big prizefight on the Fourth. At the next camp, the
first question that was fired was about the earthquake in San
Francisco — some wireless report had reached that remote camp
to the effect that the Golden Gate had been destroyed by a
shake. One man wanted to know if Lorimer had been fired out
of the senate and another was interested to know if the war in
Mexico was finished. It was mighty interesting to answer these
questions and to note the effect of the replies. Wolgast had
been the favorite with most of the miners ; every one of them was
on record as against Lorimer and most of them were pulling
for the overthrow of Diaz. They were willing to talk at any
length on the news of the outside but it was a different mat
ter when I tried to get them to tell me something about their
work — they said it was nothing that anybody cared to know
about ; there was nothing in it that was not just the same every
day and there had been such a good run of water this season that
they hadn't had any time to go fishing.
In the crews in these hills, ground-sluicing or dredging or
hydraulicing, there are boys of eighteen and there are gray-head
ed, veterans who were in the procession which first moved over
these trails, fifty years ago, and who have been digging in these
gulches ever since. To the former, the operations of today are
merely a commercial proposition. To the oldtimers the pres
ent-day work is the last chapter in the story of the pursuit of
gold ; to them the gulches are peopled with memories of the past ;
they live and work among the ghosts of the days of long ago;
They forget that the streets of the old stampede towns are
grass-grown now and that the old cabins whieh lined those
streets are crumbling and rotting. Daily they work in the
gulches ; each summer they clean up the bedrock which they have
washed ; probably the cleanup is sufficient to insure another year
of comfort in the old cabin which has been home for so many
years ; if it is not, there is a tragedy unless some more fortunate
man of the former days comes to the rescue with a grubstake.
There is a good deal that is pathetic in what one sees as he
traverses these old trails of the miner. There is a lot that is
pleasant, too.
Last week I went over the old trail from Quartz into Wind
fall and Trout creek and then up toward the Top o'Deep. I
climbed over the Sunrise pass and went up into Ohio gulch. I
saw a lot of the oldtimers and I saw some others who are not so
old, but who are making the dirt fly just the same. It was a
trip that I shall always remember. I had been over the trail
before but I saw a lot this time that I hadn't seen before. This
time I walked — perhaps that's why I saw so much. I had
always ridden before. It was a complete demonstration of my
theory that the best way to see a region is to walk through it. I

36 FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS
saw all there was to see on this trip. If I could only tell all that
I saw," I am sure this would be the most entertaining story ever
written, for I never enjoyed a trip and never saw such beauty
in the hills as I did last week, tramping into Windfall.
For a long time I had been promising A. M. Stevens that
I would make him a visit at his camp in Windfall. Last week,
with the city commission elected, I felt that Missoula could get
along without me for a few days and I set out to keep that
promise. I had a real tenderfoot who wanted to see some placer
mining and there was no better place that I knew of than Wind
fall, where he could see a lot of it. So we started out.
There were to be two saddle horses for us at Quartz, but
the wires got crossed in some way and there was only one. We
decided that I was too heavy and needed exercise, so the Tender
foot mounted the old white mare and I walked. If there is any
thing anybody wants to know about the trail to Windfall, I can
tell it to him. The thermometer at Dickson's store at Quartz
registered 90 degrees when we pulled out up the coulee. There
was no thermometer on the sunny side of the slopes that we
traversed and I don't dare tell how hot it seemed. But there
were long intervals of cool shade and there is a big spring at the
foot of the trail over Sunrise creek, where the old man Perkins
is yet washing out dust — and these breaks in the trail make it
mighty pleasant. The shade is so refreshing and the water is so
cool and good that it is worth the steep climb between, just to
enjoy them.
It was late in the sixties that the rush of California miners
poured into the Idaho diggings and peopled the valleys on the
other side of the Bitter Root mountains. It was early in the sev
enties that Louis Barrette and his companions discovered gold
on Cedar creek on the Montana side of the range. The trails in
the Bitter Roots radiate from the first trail into Cedar. There
are hundreds of them; they are blazed with blasted hopes and
they are measured by bitter disappointments ; but there were
millions in dust taken out of these gulches, just the same. Alter
nating with the men who had missed the rich bars, came the men
who had struck it rich and there was many a well-filled sack
packed out over the same trails that were traversed by those
whose hearts were the only heavy load borne over the hills. It is
the story which tells itself all along the trail, even now.
Out of Quartz the trail is broad. It is a wagon road along
Meadow creek, past Bob Etching's ranch beyond the school-
house, with the Donley and the Snow farms off on the other
side. It is easy moving until the path turns off in the dense
cedar and swings up toward the crossing of Sunrise pass.
Through cedar and fir, brushing dense brakes of fern and thick
ets of syringa and roses, this beginning of the old trail is delight-

FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS 37
ful ; the air was fresh and sweet as we entered this narrow way ;
the leaves were moist and there was fragrance all along until we
got 'to Big Spring. I thought of this coolness and fragrance a
good many times before we got to the top of the1 hill. I drank
deep at the spring. Then I unbuttoned my collar and rolled up
my sleeves and we started up the hill.
The tail of that old white mare was firmly rooted, else it
would have been pulled out for she towed me up the steepest
parts of the range to the top of Sunrise pass. The trail winds
along the sides of the hills, loop after loop and swing after
swing, but always rising. There's a steep pitch as it leaves the
spring and then it settles into a steady rise until the final preci
pice is reached that takes you up to the jumping-off place. It
is climb, climb, climb — all the way climb.
As altitude is attained, the syringa and the roses disappear
along the trail and the cedars are left behind ; but there is a gen
erous growth of pines and plenty of underbrush ; and the flow
ers of the lower stages are replaced by others no less beautiful.
There is only one queer thing about the Sunrise trail. That is
the way the summit backs away from you. Every time you
breast a steep pitch, you are sure you are gaining the top ; you
divert the course of the perspiration that is running down into
your eyes, you look out and — there's another steep pitch just
ahead. They say there were more prospectors lost in these hills than
in any other stampede's history, and it is easy to believe — the
hills all look alike for miles. For a long way, Meadow creek
babbles audibly hundreds of feet below at the foot of the steep
est sort of a hill. One misstep would send a horse rolling down
into the wet. Stevens had a horse make the trip down the hill
when he was packing his first supplies into Windfall but it
doesn't often happen. Scolloping around the hillsides, ever
higher and higher, the trail swings up and up. There's a glori
ous view all the way to the summit. This year there is no dust ;
the forest is damp ; there is rich verdure where last year it was
brown and dry. It makes the trip very pleasant now.
Finally we got through the woods far enough to leave the
tantalizing ripple of Meadow creek out of earshot. By that sign
I knew we were nearing the summit. Here we met Perkins of
Sunrise City — the only one left of the hundreds who one time
swarmed the gulch—who is yet washing gravel in the old place ;
he was going out to Quartz for a day. He asked a question or
two, told me it was a hot day and informed me that the steep
est part of the trail was ahead. I already knew that the day
was warm and the information about the trail didn't make the
weather seem any pleasanter. Mr. Perkins said everything was
all right when I asked him about his work, but that was all.

38 FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS
We bade him good-bye and hiked ahead. By this time I had
my second wind and the last steep climb didn 't seem so bad. We
hit the high places hard and soon we were at the summit ; there
was ample compensation there for all the effort of the hard
climb. A fine breeze fanned us — we had been moving through
a dead, sultry atmosphere for an hour — and the wind from the
eternal snowbanks on Illinois peak and from the great drifts on
the top of Sunrise mountain was refreshing. We fairly drank
the fresh air.
And the view ! For miles and miles before us rose and fell
the peaks and canyons of the Bitter Root range. Magnificent
in its beauty, the scene which spread before us was one never to
be forgotten. I can close my eyes and see it even now. "I
didn't think there were so many mountains in the world," was
the comment of The Tenderfoot, as he reverently looked out over
the impressive landscape. It was a wonderful panorama.
But Steve was waiting over in Windfall and we couldn't
spare much time in the contemplation of landscapes ; there were
some more miles to be traversed and we went on. From this
first summit, the trail has a delightful course down to Sunrise
creek, which we forded right at the site of old Sunrise City.
Here is where Perkins is still working, after forty years of wash
ing in the gravel whieh made this camp one of the busy diggings
of the old stampede days. His is the only cabin left of the long
lines which once bordered the main street of the camp ; the
ruins of some of the others are visible if you look closely, but the
grass and shrubbery have mantled most of the traces. It is a
graveyard of forlorn hopes. But Perkins digs and washes, year
after year, .getting enough for his grubstake and contented
enough -with that. If he were to get more, he wouldn't know
what to do with it.
The water in Sunrise creek is sweet and cold. It would be
worth more than all the gold that was ever taken out of Sunrise,
if it could be run into New York or Washington these hot days.
It is the best cure for dry throat and excessive perspiration that
I ever found. The location of Sunrise City is beautiful; the
little opening is a veritable garden — all wild except the tiny
enclosure, in which Perkins grows his lettuce and radishes. But
it is a picture of beauty which no landscape gardener could
excel. Perkins has a shower bath rigged under the spring above
his house and I was tempted to try it but it was getting close to
supper time and we didn't stay.
An easy climb, through more fragrant woods and past more
banks of flowers, birds singing all about and God's golden sun
shine flooding over all, brought us to the last summit on the
slope of Sunrise — the top of the pass. We were 6,000 feet above
the sea. Illinois peak was right ahead. Sunrise peak was just

FOLLOWI.NG OLD TRAILS 39
at our left. Clear to the western horizon extended the ragged
line with breaks revealing the rich gulches between them and
with deep shadows faintly indicating the wealth of timber which
their sides bear.
Just a bit to the right and miles ahead, Hungry Hollow
showed on the contour, indicating where the old trail breaks over
into Cedar. Below that, Deep creek stretched, a scar on the
green showing where hundreds of thousands of gold value has
been washed out and where Dr. Eddy is now sluicing. Up at
the left, a nearer scar in the hillside showed where Adam Thielen
is washing in Ohio gulch and getting lots of money. At the far
right the giant cedars of the Trout creek swamp rose from the
basin. Straight down, at the foot of Landowner mountain, two
miles away and 2,000 feet beneath us, were the Windfall dig
gings. That was the end of our trail.
For a long time we studied the scene. Below us there was
gold everywhere; right at the north base of Landowner, five of
the richest gulches of the range mingle their sands; in each of
these gulches there is yet plenty of activity and there is much
dust being taken out. Millions have been taken from there and
there are millions remaining. In the contemplation of this
remarkable map of treasure-trove, we forgot for the time the
scenic beauty which had claimed our attention as we breasted
the summit and broke into the splendid breeze. Not in all the
world is there a more interesting area crowded into closer limits
than that which the traveler sees as he looks down the Sunrise
trail. There was snow in sight on many of the peaks ahead. Just
off the trail where we stood, was the trace of the last drift on the
Sunrise trail; the ground was yet damp from its moisture and
the packer told us afterward that the last snow had disappeared
but two days before we crossed. We were rested, cooled and
refreshed ; we had seen enough to keep us busy for a long time.
Before us was the 2,000-foot drop in two miles, at the end of
which was Windfall, where supper would be waiting. So we
started on the down grade.
If there is anybody who thinks it is easier to walk down
hill than it is to climb up, let him go down into Windfall. We
hit the high spots and were going at a speed which exceeded the
limit set by law when we swung around the last turn upon the
comparatively level stretch that marked the last descent. At
last we were in Windfall; we had climbed over in two hours
and twenty minutes and had gained appetities that were tremen
dous. But there's a fine cook at Windfall— Grant is a Maine-
woods Yankee and he had a small mountain of fried trout wait
ing for us. He said he liked the way we ate but I suspect he
was glad when we left. We kept him working overtime for

40 FOLLOWING OLD- TRAILS
three days. Steve's welcome was cordial. The camp was com
fortable. Everything was fine. And the Sunrise trail was
behind us.
For three days we scouted those gulches. Of the trails we
traveled there, I shall write something later. The Sunrise trail
is enough for one story. We made some pleasant visits ; we met
some delightful men; everybody was kind to us. I have never
crowded more enjoyment into any three days and that is why
I am going to take another week to tell the rest of it — of Adam
Thielen and Charlie Moorehouse in Ohio gulch, of Dr. Eddy in
Deep, of Ives on lower Windfall, of the streams and the water
falls, of the timber and the. gold, of the trout and the scenery.
It is hard to stop, but we have reached the end of the old Sun
rise trail and that's a pretty good journey for one day. We
went to sleep that night to the boom of the big reservoir as it
discharged its flood upon the bedrock which Stevens is clean
ing. There were frequent shots of dynamite during the night,
but they didn't bother us. We had climbed the old trail and
had enjoyed a mighty happy day.
July 22, 1911.

SUPPER ON SUNRISE

HE WHO starts out to follow the trails which the placer
miners blazed forty years ago- in the region around Trout
creek and Cedar soon realizes that there were some strong
travelers among the men who chased the will-o'-the-wisp, fortune,
through these hills. It takes strong legs and good lungs to fol
low these trails at anything like the scheduled time which the
men who tramped them first are said to have made. There is,
of course, lacking in these later-day pilgrimages the incentive
to quick walking which urged the early travelers to high speed,
but if they traveled over the Bitter Roots from gulch to gulch at
the rate they are reputed to have made, they wanted gold dust
mighty bad. This was the conclusion whieh I reached after three
days of tramping in the hills around Windfall.
Except in the wonderful cedar swamp on Trout creek, there
is not a foot of level ground in this whole country. There is
more scenery there to the mile than can be found anywhere else
in this country. There is so much of this scenery that it had
to be ended up to get it all-in. It's hard to reach but it is won
derfully beautiful. It is not the movable, shifting scenery which
used to bother Bert Palmer in the early days of the operation
of the Coeur d'Alene branch and which has, since then, occa
sioned some difficulty in Milwaukee maintenance-of-way circles.
It is firmly fixed. Any man will tell you that who has tried to
wash any of it in order to get the gold that is hidden beneath it.
It is good, solid scenery. It bore my weight without bend
ing and I stepped pretty heavily some of the time. It is im
pressively grand in places, delicately beautiful in others and al
ways inspiring. Were it not for the charm of the region, tramp
ing there, without the lure of gold to draw one on, would be
mighty tiresome. But in the three days that I tramped around
and rode with Steve and The Tenderfoot, I forgot all weariness
in the delights of these grand hills, their wealth of beauty, their
dense timber, their wonderful streams, their rugged gorges and
their tumbling waterfalls. It was a glorious experience and I
would like to repeat it.
I waked, next morning after the tramp over the Sunrise
41

42 FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS
trail into, Windfall, ready for anything, especially for breakfast.
We spent some time in the inspection of the work that is being
done in Windfall. Mr. Stevens has done a vast amount of
development this year; he has moved gravel at a rate that has
made oldtimers sit up and take notice. Incidentally, he has taken
out a good bit of gold. He was beginning to clean up while we
were there. But he has gone ahead systematically, preparing the
gulch for the extensive operations which he has planned. The
diggings are in fine shape for the next season's work. Three
hundred feet or more of bedrock have been cleaned this year —
and it was hard digging.
After we had looked over this ground, we journeyed up the
trail on the South Fork to where Steve has built a sawmill. He
has a great power there, enough to light a city were he to hitch
it to a dynamo, and he has a wealth of fir timber that makes
one pause in reverent admiration. Everywhere there are streams
on this slope. And, also, everywhere there is down timber — ¦
just enough to block the trail when you think you've struck a
good straightaway course. There is no dead timber here ; the
forest fires did not get over this ridge last year and the virgin
forest is magnificent. It is a wonderful reserve for the opera
tions which have been planned for Windfall. And it is up to
the region's standard for scenery. It is hard to make time over
a trail whose scenic charms compel such constant attention. And
there are the creeks — their water is so clear and cold and spark
ling that you have to stop for a drink every time you cross one.
For half a day we wandered about on these hills and, toward
the middle of the afternoon, we struck on an obscure trail
through the timber in Ohio gulch, where Adam Thielen and
Charlie Moorehouse live and mine.
For thirteen years Adam has been mining in Ohio gulch.
He has a rich bar and he works it slowly, in his own way.
There 's great money there and he knows it 's there ; each year he
takes out what he needs and he makes no effort to get more ; so
long as his surplus is in the gravel, he knows where it is and he
doesn't have to fret about it.
Adam's pit is several hundred feet long and it's fifty feet
deep at the place where we found him when we rode up that hot
afternoon. He was cleaning bedrock. He was close under the
bank; the gravel is almost white and the sun was tremendously
busy. Slowly he straightened up as we hailed him and he walked
across to where we waited on the edge of the bank. His greeting
was cordial. He shook my hand heartily and exclaimed : "Well,
at last you got here. It 's three years now you 've been coming. ' '
Then we went down into the pit with him. He washed out
a pan for The Tenderfoot ; there were some fine colors in it and
he was pleased — so were we. But it was hot. Accustomed as he

FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS 43
is to the place and the conditions, Adam showed that he felt it.
Wiping his brow, he remarked:
"I tell you one thing. If it gets no cooler, Adam has got
money enough this year."
That's the way to do placer mining. There's no rush as
there was in the old days when the first trail was blazed into
Ohio gulch. Adam was there in those days ; he mined in all the
gulches for a long time before he settled down in Ohio on his own
ground. I don't believe he was as calm about it then as he is
these days ; but he has the right system now.
When he had panned the colors to show us the quality of his
bedrock, he tossed the pan to one side and bade us follow him to
the cabin. He had done enough work for one day and he wanted
us to stay to supper with him and Charlie.
"Charlie's off locating some huckleberries," said Adam as
we climbed up to the cabin. ' ' But he '11 be back pretty soon. ' '
Twin cabins there are on the shoulder of Sunrise peak which
shadows the rent which Adam has washed in Ohio gulch. Here
dwell these two men — types of the race which made the west.
It were possible to write pages upon their fine traits and their
interesting peculiarities. It is Adam's ground and he works the
mine. Charlie has retired from activity ; he came to Ohio, after
hard experiences, as Adam's guest. He is independent as to
fortune and he pays his way, of course, but he would be happy
and content in no other place.
Both these men were in these gulches when the diggings were
new; each of them knows the whole country as well as I know
the way down Higgins avenue ; each has the history of the region
always in mind. Neither of them would go elsewhere; each
could go any time if he wanted to. Adam is a sturdy German ;
strong and clean and big — he's a fine type of the placer miner.
He has not grown old — not at all. "¦
It would take Remington properly to paint Moorehouse. In
fact the fine old fellow is not unlike the veteran cavalryman who
is in so many of the pictures of the famous painter. He is tall
and sinewy ; grizzled and grim. His story is one of the most in
teresting personal narratives I ever heard.
He was born in California in the days of the Argonauts., As
a child he was left an orphanin Sacramento and he was reared
by the miners — rough nurses," perhaps, but tender. When the
rush to Idaho started, he was quite a boy and he came north with
the miners' stampede — north into the Clearwater and St. Joe
districts — led by the lure of gold. There they mined for a sea
son or two in the summer, until driven out by the heavy snow
that comes on the ocean side of the Bitter Roots. There they
were when the rich bars of Cedar were found by Louis Barrette
and his comrades.

44 FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS
In the next spring they heard of the new diggings on this
side of the hills and over they came. And ever since then Mon
tana has been the home of this life-long miner — Montana his
home with the Bitter Root mountains as his habitation. In Cedar
and on Trout, in Deep and on Quartz; in California gulch and
in Oregon gulch — all through these trails he has tramped. And
here he was when he learned, one early summer day, that war
had been declared against Spain. At the same time he heard
that Uncle Sam needed packers. He didn't wait. He just went
as a packer.
And his service as government packer took him to the
Philippines, where he led trains through the fever-infested passes
of hills that were far different from his own. He got the fever.
They did the best they could for him in the army hospitals, but
that wasn 't much and, seeing that he was homesick, they shipped
him back to Frisco to die.
He didn't stop at Frisco. On the way across the Pacific,
Moorehouse had been thinking about his own old mountains and
he had made up his mind just how they looked at that time of
year. He could see their streams and their cool shade ; he knew
their higher slopes were abloom with the plumes of the bear grass
and he knew that the huckleberries were ripening.
As he thought about it, he became convinced that if he could
get some of the huckleberries that grow in Windfall and Ohio
gulches, he would get well. The Moorehouse mind is very posi
tive ; when it is made up, it stays right there. Consequently, not
many days after that transport landed, Adam Thielen, going
over the Sunrise trail to Quartz, found the wreck of Moorehouse
there, looking pretty tough.
The story was told and Moorehouse asked Adam if he could
go over and live in Adam's old cabin — Adam has moved his
cabin six times ; he calls it moving, but he means that he has
built a new one six times, when the old ones have had the ground
sluiced out from under them. He told Adam he could take care
of himself ; he had money enough for that, but he wanted to get
up into Ohio gulch where he could get some huckleberries and
get well. He was welcomed — not to the old cabin but to the new
one — the newest one it was then ; there has been one other built
since. And he has stayed there since. Which is how these two
veterans came to be partners in {he cabin that looks away down
over Ohio gulch.
Walking beside Adam I went up from the pit to the cabin.
Absorbed in the interesting talk of the man, I did not realize
until we reached the cabin door what a magnificent vantage
point the home of these old miners occupies. When I turned to
look back, the glorious scene burst upon me with all the sudden
ness of an unveiled picture. I have said before that the scenery

FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS 45
of this region is incomparably impressive. It seemed, just then,
as if I were looking upon a section of it which was grander and
more beautiful than any of the rest. There is; no use trying to
describe it. I can't do it successfully. Silver threads of crystal
water wound their way through the dark green of the fore
ground forest; eternal snows stretched their white expanse
above; rugged cliffs broke, here and there, through the wall of
verdure ; for miles and miles the view extended, the great range
broken at frequent intervals by deep gulches and grand canyons ;
overhead was the cloudless sky and a sweet breeze floated out of
the balsam firs.
"There's gold in every one of those gulches," said Adam.
Pragmatic, that ; but I noticed that care had been taken that
none of the great plumes of bear-grass blossoms in the space
about the cabin should be broken.
We talked for awhile, Adam conversing with the hungry
eagerness of the man who seldom has the opportunity to talk
with anybody from the outside. Then Moorehouse came in. I
had never seen him before, but his greeting was cordial and he
renewed the invitation extended by his partner that we stay for
supper. The invitation accepted, Charlie busied himself with
preparations for the meal, all the while carrying on a running
comment that was as interesting as it was original.
"We have the last of the venison in the kettle — it was
corned last winter — there will not be any more till fall — Adam
was going fishing — we ought to have some trout, but he hasn't
got his license yet — you can't do anything without a license now
— the miner used to have this country for his own but he has
no rights now — there's a forest ranger on every section corner —
they have a camp over the hill where they practice target shoot
ing — that's so they can kill the miners — 'Our orders are not to
be friendly with the miners, ' is what one of them told me — and
we found these hills before they were born — pretty soon we'll
have to get a license to pick huckleberries — that's what Teddy
Roosevelt did for this country — it's against the constitution but
there is no constitution any more — I 'went over to Quartz creek
on the Fourth to pay a visit and every man in the camp was
working — what do you think of a camp where the men work on
the Fourth— no wonder we have no rights — but we have some
new potatoes if we haven't any trout — I couldn't get any at
Quartz, so I sent to Frisco and had a hundred pounds sent by
express — they're pretty good — and there's the venison and some
ham — I don't know as you'll like this bread — it's miner's bread
— I didn 't find many huckleberries but there '11 be a lot ripe soon
— and there'll be lot of deer this fall — when the bear grass blos
soms heavy the deer are always fat — and we'll have to get our
licenses right away — these rangers will have to let us alone

46 FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS
they have no right to interfere with us — they're a lot of boys —
fight fire — you ought to see the way they do it — it shows what
they know — "
And so it went on. All the while the old miner was peeling
potatoes, frying ham, fixing bread and sauce and preparing a
dinner that was fit for a king. Out of a closet Adam brought a
long piece of summer sausage that he had got from George Nink
months ago when he was in town. This was added to the bill of
fare as a special treat and we sat down at a table where the hos
pitality was sincere and the good fellowship was cordial.
My seat at the table was where I could look out of the win
dow that commanded the wonderful view which we had enjoyed
as we came in. I suppose I became abstracted at times as I gazed
out over Ohio gulch at the hills. Frequently I was reminded
that I was not maintaining my reputation as a trencherman. But
my hosts, I am sure, sympathized with my enjoyment of their
panorama and in time I made good at the table.
It was a great meal ; the viands were delicious ; the table-talk
was delightful ; the surroundings were glorious. I don 't think I
shall ever forget that supper; it was a bit of Montana oldtimes
served for my benefit.
I watched my hosts as they talked and as I ate. These old
trails that I had been following were the trails which they had
blazed and which had been for 40 years their daily by-ways.
Those mountains which I had been enjoying were the open book
of these men. Their love for the hills is strong ; they have made
their home at the head of the Ohio gulch trail, almost at the
summit of the range. There they will probably camp until
they take the last tramp on that other trail which crosses the
Great Divide and which is traveled in only one direction.
As we turned our horses' heads toward Windfall and de
scended the old trail in the brilliant sunset light, winding
through masses of flowers which would make an eastern city
park famous, crossing the singing streams whose vesper music
mingled with the good-night songs of the birds, breathing the in
spiring atmosphere of the Bitter Root mountains, inhaling the
fragrance of the balsam and the blossoms — I thought of the serv
ice which these men and their kind have rendered Montana and
I sympathized with their view of the officious forest ranger.
Moorehouse said they had had a man who was all right ; he was
a gentleman and he was on the square ; he wished they had that
same man now. And I wondered how any man could have so
little tact and horse sense as to antagonize such splendid citizens
as these old miners, simply because the letter of his law gave him
the technical right to be obtrusive.
The descent of the trail was another delightful experience.
Following the supper on Sunrise, it suggested many things. We

FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS 47
stopped at a cabin clearing just at sunset to let the horses browse
in the grass there. Above us a stream plunged 300 feet down the
hillside, about us was the musical quiet of the hills, behind us
was a delightful memory. We didn't talk much, each of us was
thinking a good deal. More than ever it was borne in upon me
that the real history of Montana is written in these old trails and
I realized that I had just been privileged to read one of its most
pleasing and instructive chapters. And so we went down to
Windfall and to bed.
The night shift continued its bombardment of the boulders
all that night — so they told me — but my sleep was undisturbed;
the dynamite might have tipped over the cabin without disturb
ing me then; the tramp over the hills and the supper on Sun
rise brought sound slumber — and no bad dreams.
There were two other days in Windfall. I had thought to
tell of all of them in this little story but their incidents are too
many and the travels and the people that filled those other days
must go over for another Sunday morning. That supper on Sun
rise was too much of an event to, yield space to other experiences
and that journey up Ohio gulch was too fine an experience to be
condensed by other jaunts. So of Deep and Trout creeks, of the
great cedar swamp and of the people down that way, I shall
write another week.
I esteem the experience here set down as one of the most in
teresting I have ever enjoyed. I shall always remember my sup
per on Sunrise.
July 29, 1911.

TO THE TOP O' DEEP

THERE are some trees that the moon can't get over,"
said Steve. "It has to pass around when it wants to
get by."
It was mid-afternoon and we were in the heart of the great
cedar swamp on Trout creek. Except here and there a little
patch of sunshine on the ferns underfoot, it was almost dark in
the great forest. The sun was blazing overhead, but we could see
more of its brightness and we could feel none of its heat.
All about us towered the giant cedars, reaching 200 feet or more
into the mountain air. Their great shaggy butts stood about
us like mammoth guards, whose ranks stretched away in
every direction as far as we could see. The eerie light of twi
light dusk was all around and there was no sound save the
occasional call of a distant bird and the murmur of Trout
creek as it ran through the swamp and even the stream moved
more quietly than it had in the gulch above. It was an impres
sive scene. The Tenderfoot and I took off our hats. He said it
made him feel like being in church and that was the very
thought that had occurred to me. We sat there on our horses,
silent and reverent, the summer breeeze through the tops of the
cedars emphasizing the impression with its suggestion of a pipe-
organ. It was our third day in the Windfall country. Ever since
early morning we had been on the move. We had got on our
mountain legs and we moved with some speed at last. All day
we had been following old trails and I think we struck, that day,
the worst trail and the hardest to travel, there is in all the world.
If there is a tougher trail than the one down Trout creek, I don 't
want to travel it. When we had traversed a part of it I under
stood why it is easier to get into Windfall from the back way,
over Sunrise, than it is to go straight up the stream.
There is a Missoula man who has solved the mystery of the
Trout creek trail. He says that the first man who went down
the stream thought he had lost his way and climbed to the sum
mit to get his bearings. He went back down and traveled a hun
dred yards when he got lost again. He repeated his previous
48

FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS 49
performance and the act became continuous until he had reached
the mouth of the gulch. The theory seems reasonable when you
have traveled over the trail ; it alternates between the top of the
hill and the creek level all the way down. Every man who has
journeyed down the gulch, since that first traveler made the trip,
has followed the original tracks and the practice continues. The
Trout creek trail makes the Sunrise route seem like a boulevard.
But the cedar forest iu the big swamp is a sight which more
than compensates for the difficulties of a trip up Trout. If you
cannot reach it any other way, it is worth the endeavor. But the
pleasantest way is to go as we did ; travel down Windfall, around
Landowner mountain, and cross Trout creek on the old bridge
which the miners built, back in the sixties, and a turn to the
right lands you in the midst of the giant cedars. It's a pleasant
jaunt that way, there's no trouble in the trip and the journey's
end is delightful.
About that cedar forest centers one of the most interesting
regions of the Bitter Root mountains. For two days we had been
looking down upon it from the hills above. Since we breasted
the crest of the Sunrise trail, we had been gazing into this
remarkable basin. We had looked at it from the slope of Sunrise,
we had seen it from the head of Ohio gulch, we had studied it
through field glasses from Windfall. Now we stood in its very
center. Breakfast had been early in the Windfall camp that morn
ing — early for us, that is, and the grass and shrubbery were
heavy with dew as we started down the trail for Trout creek
and the Top o'Deep. It was fine, that morning ride. The air
was intoxicating, even the old white mare, which the Tenderfoot
bestrode, felt its influence and frisked a bit. Ripening huckle
berries and big, red raspberries hung over the trail, and the
fragrance of blossoms was heavy in the air. It is no wonder the
mountain men get up early; the night always leaves a different
tang to the air from the taint whieh clings to the town atmo
sphere after darkness has passed. It isn't necessary to wait till
the sun has sterilized the air.
Windfall is a beautiful gulch, whichever way you travel
within its walls. Its course seemed specially attractive that
morning ; two days had not staled the charm for us and we rev
eled in that ride. We paused for a moment to look at the Ives
diggings, below the old Miller workings, and then rode on, down
and ever down, toward the crossing of Trout. We were follow
ing the oldest trail in the district, the historic path which led
out of Cedar, and there, around the end of Landowner, we could
see Hungry hollow and the Top o'Deep, where the way led over
into Cedar. Thousands had traveled that way — thousands of
elated, happy miners, treasure-trove, and thousands more of

50 FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS
hopeful fellows, certain that their rainbows struck the earth just
ahead and that their hidden treasure lay in the gulch just
beyond. Over this trail had journeyed the pack-trains, laden
with the supplies which kept the placer camps alive — bacon and
flour, tobacco and whisky, shirts and shoes. Out over this trail
had been carried the treasure of the successful Argonauts and
over this route had plodded the disappointed seekers after the
dust. These hills had echoed to shouts of exultation and they had
thrown back the wail of the despairing. In its time it had been
a busy artery of commerce. But it isn't traveled so much now.
A turn to the left and we were in the midst of a growth of
vegetation which was fairly tropical in its luxuriance. Great
ferns were all about us, blossoming shrubs hung over our heads,
making the trail a bower. The beauty of the place banished
retrospect and commanded consideration of the present. Springs
bubbled up on each side. Birds were singing everywhere. The
trees and the undergrowth shut out all sight of the hills. For
the moment we were transplanted into a new region ; this was
different from anything we had seen.
This bridge sent back our thoughts to the days when the
crossing was built, the days of the supreme activity of these
gulches and these hills. Here was the center of that activity.
Just ahead, about 300 yards, was Deep creek, along which the
tide of fortune-seekers had overflowed from Cedar when the
great stampede set in. Behind us lay Windfall and Ohio and
Sunrise ; at our right was the big swamp ; at our left was Trout.
Landowner mountain towered above us. If the theories of the
geologists are correct there are millions in the ground upon
which we stood. Millions in dust are there, waiting the operator
with nerve and capital enough to get them out. Above, in all
directions, are rich bars and all lead that way. Why should
there not be millions there?
We turned up Trout creek and rode through more of the
maze. Up a sharp slope, over a point of rocks, down a winding
path, and we were at the mouth of Deep. Deep creek has been
the scene of activity in placer mining for a good many years.
The tailings are spread clear across the lower end of the gulch
and the old trail" there is obliterated. But the way is plain.
From the vast bed of tailings it is a straight view up to the
historic Top o'Deep, where the old path leads over from Cedar.
¦We picked our way over the tailings and climbed the other bank
of Deep, fording the stream, dwindled to small volume so late in
the season, and we were in the comfortable camp of Dr. Eddy
of Michigan, whose summers are spent here in the pleasant work
of extending the scar in. the gulch and gathering the gold which
is left behind. Dr. Eddy and his partner, 0. A. Klingensmith,
also of Michigan, were cordial in their welcome.

FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS 51
We dismounted, turned out the horses and prepared for the
tramp up Trout creek, another one of the arteries which give
life to this wonderful basin in the heart of the Bitter Root moun
tains. Dr. Eddy made us promise to get back to camp in time
for dinner. He had no need to exact that pledge from me, for
the jaunts through the hills had given me an unerring instinct
as to the time and the place of meals. No homing pigeon was
ever more accurate in placing his location than was I when it
came time to eat. But it was different with the Tenderfoot. Of
which, this narrative will furnish developments.
Steve was going to fish and the Tenderfoot had a yearning
to catch a mountain trout. I have not much inclination that way
and when I looked over the rapids, the riffles and the eddies in
Trout creek that morning and saw swarms of salmon flies hover
ing above the water, undisturbed, I concluded the trout had had
their breakfast and wouldn't be hungry for artificial flies. The
sequel proved the correctness of my theory. While I tramped up
the creek, Steve caught three trout and the Tenderfoot landed
one. But each of them had a good time. So did I.
The trail up Trout creek from the mouth of Deep, leads
along the old flumes which furnished water for the earlier opera
tions on Deep. Dr. Eddy has washed so far back up the creek
that the flume will no longer reach and he depends solely upon
the flow of Deep. It's a big flume and, one of these days, when
the right man comes along with a plan for getting the gold out
of the great bar of the swamp, it will generate a lot of electric
power for him. I tramped up the trail away above the flume.
The gulch of Trout creek is narrow up there and its steep walls
shut out the rest of the world completely.
It was easy to imagine the eagerness with which the prospec
tors of days past traveled up this stream ; every one of its turns
promises gold and every one of them has been examined a good
many times. Some of them made good and some of them were
as faithless as the campaign pledges of a politician. There is a
lot of wealth credited to Trout creek and there is more in the
bars of the stream which will yield one of these days to modern
methods. Far up the stream there are promising diggings in
which Harry Shapard of Missoula and others are interested. The
lure is there and, it seems certain that the gold is there, too, or
was it that the spell of the place had seized upon me and I had
become infected with the fever which led those old-day miners
to give their lives to the quest for the yellow dust in these hills 1
Perhaps that was it. Anyway, I found myself longing for a
pan and a shovel as I tramped along.
But the spell was not so strong upon me that I did not heed
the signal of the approach of noon. My mountain-given instinct
told me that it was time to turn. And I turned. I was more

52 FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS
strongly impelled to get something to eat than I was to hunt for
gold. Back down the trail to Deep I trudged. There was much
I had overlooked on the way up — these trails always present
something new. The back trail was as delightful as had been
the tramp up the stream. Just above Deep creek, I encountered
Steve and his three trout. Together we went back to Dr. Eddy's
camp. Dinner was there, but the Tenderfoot was not. We felt
sure he was all right, so we ate. Dinner was ended and the
Tenderfoot had not appeared. Two of the men at the diggings
said they had seen him cross the tailings at the mouth of the
creek, so we knew he was chasing fish with all his stubborn
Yankee persistency. We filled our pipes and waited. But no
Tenderfoot. Then I went down the stream a ways and signaled.
No response. We were not worried except for the appetite of
the Tenderfoot, so we waited.
At length he appeared. He had fished all the way down
Trout creek to the old bridge before he had realized where he
was. So intent had he been upon his angling that he had passed
the camp without noticing his bearings. Not until he struck the
bridge had he located himself. But he had caught one trout and
was happy and hungry. I went with him to the cookhouse to
keep him company, chaffing him about getting so wet, while I
had kept dry.
Pride went before a fall with me. The bench at the end of
the table in the Deep creek cookhouse has an extension end. I
sat upon this end, opposite the Tenderfoot, just to be sociable —
I had no yearning for food ; my appetite had gone. As I sat
down, the bench naturally tipped up, for my 200 pounds were
too much for its extension. There was a big bucket of drinking
water at the end of the bench for convenience and I didn't fall
to the floor — I went right into that bucket. The cook and the
Tenderfoot were much amused and I had nothing to say about
anybody's getting wet.
When the Tenderfoot's appetite had been satisfied, we went
up to the diggings with Dr. Eddy. He has done a vast amount
of work on Deep and his men were cleaning bedrock when we
visited the place. The returns were good; we saw a lot of gold,
much of it big nuggets. It was good to see. It made clear the
incentive there is to the continued battle against the bars of this
region to force them to yield their treasure. Just to hold that
yellow stuff is to want to dig out more of it. It is not the lust
for wealth as much as it is the satisfaction of having compelled
the bars to give up. It is the sense of having conquered.
Above Dr. Eddy's diggings is the Top o'Deep. There was a
strong temptation to go on over the old trail into Cedar. I
looked longingly at the old path up the hill. But Billy Murphy,

FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS 53

who was a kid in the days of the old stampede and who handled
a pack train over this old trail, had promised me that, before
winter, he would go into Cedar with me. He knows every foot
of that country and I want to follow that old trail in his com
pany. So I turned back and left Hungry hollow for another
day. But I promise myself lot of enjoyment when Billy and I
go_into Cedar.
It was on the way back from Deep that we made the detour
into the great cedar swamp on Trout creek. We recrossed the
old bridge and went down stream. In a few steps we were in the
midst of a skeleton forest.
For perhaps half a mile the tailings from upstream have
killed the cedar monarchs and their lifeless, whitening limbs
reach out from their ghost-like bodies, stretching like demon
arms over the head of the traveler. It is positively uncanny. A
new growth has started upon the tailings dump ; it reaches 20
or 30 feet into the air, but above it tower these gaunt and life
less forest kings, shorn of their glory in the battle for gold. The
scene was like one of Dore's illustrations of Dante's "Inferno";
it sent the chills up and down my back.
A few minutes of this was enough and I was glad when we
got through the dead timber. Soon the trail led into the living
cedars and weirdness yielded to wonderful beauty and grandeur.
It did not seem possible that we were in Montana. It was like
a strange land. Impressively grand are these giants; solemn
they are and majestic; beautiful with a beauty that possesses
dignity and repose. Older than man are these giants ; they have
seen the earth grow old and have witnessed the making of his
tory. They have smiled at the puny efforts of man and they
look down upon the marks of his endeavor with proud defiance.
Yet one day these cedars will fall before the arm of man when
he essays to find the gold which lies at their feet, the gold which
has, ages gone, washed down from the five rich gulches above, the
gold whieh the geologist says is there, the gold which has tempted
the expenditure of fortunes. But this gold will some day be
taken and these cedars, felled and cut into blocks, will furnish
some of the capital which will bring their own undoing. It seems
a sacrilege to talk of destroying this wonderful forest, but its
destruction is an essential part of the plan which is being formed
to wrest the millions from the Trout creek swamp. Then there
will be a new trail into Trout creek. But it will never possess
the interest which attaches to the old one we followed on this
memorable day.
The sun was hanging low over Landowner's summit when
we emerged from the cedar forest and turned for our last climb
toward the Windfall camp. It beat hot against the east wall of
the canyon, along which the trail runs. On the other side of the

54 FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS
gulch, the shades of evening were already descending. We
moved toward home in the sunset glow.
For a few moments we halted at the Ives diggings, long
enough to see him wash out a couple of fine nuggets along with
the dust of his cleanup. Then we swung up on the high trail,
through the huckleberries again and above the diggings, where
Ed Miller had spent the summers of his later life and where
he had wrested fortune against heavy odds. Below us roared
the discharge of Steve 's big reservoir as it swept away the debris
from the Windfall diggings. Yellow and turbid poured the flood.
Was it leaving behind the grains of gold for which all this work
is being done? fy
The flood passed. We breasted the high hill that commands
the whole canyon. Below us, but up the stream, the boom of
dynamite told that the miners were preparing for another reser
voir head.
That was our last jaunt in the Windfall country. The next
morning we climbed back out, over Sunrise. We had tramped
and ridden over some of the most interesting trails in Montana.
They had told us the story of the making of a new country, told
it more clearly than pages of books could set it forth. We left
the basin with genuine regret.
Aug. 5, 1911.

FOUR FAMOUS FORTS

ONLY once in the history of the Bitter Root country has
there been an incident out of tune with the peaceful tone
of the delightful region ; only once has the jarring note of
war disturbed the harmony of its development. From the very
first, the Indians, whose ancestral home was in this valley, were
the friends of the white man ; it was, in fact, their solicitation
which brought the Jesuit missionaries into this region ; so eager
were they to receive the message which the Gospel teaches that
they sacrificed the lives of some of their best young men in order
to get the request through the hostile country of their hereditary
foes — the Sioux and the Blackfeet — into the hands of the Black
Robes in St. Louis. Peace .has been the keynote of the history
of the Bitter Root. Gentle and brave were its early inhabitants ;
the friendliness of the Indians was not the servile friendliness
of fear — the Flatheads had often demonstrated their prowess in
war with the Indians of the eastern valleys. Theirs was the
peacefulness of courage; they were at heart fond of quiet, but
they proved worthy foes of the belligerent Blackfeet , their
quarrelsome eastern neighbors.
Hardly had the echoes of the fearful conflict on the Little
Big Horn died out, hardly had the people of western Montana
ceased to shudder over the horrible details of the massacre of
Custer and his command, when word came from the west side
of the Bitter Root mountains that the Nez Perces were on the
warpath and that settlers had been murdered in cold blood. The
Nez Perces were kinsmen of the Bitter Root Indians; the rela
tions between the tribes had always been friendly and there was
fear that the, Indians across the range might enlist the braves
of Chariot's tribe as allies. It was in July, 1877, just a year
after the Custer battle, that the first word of the Nez Perce
uprising came over the mountains to strike terror to the hearts
of the settlers on the Montana side of the divide. At first the
rumors were vague; then they became more definite and, finally,:
the news of the revolt of Joseph's people came up the St. Joe
and over into Cedar creek, from which place it was taken to the
Missoula valley, to Deer Lodge and to Silver Bow by Billy
55

.... - ,

V

5st#»-'V

' i;*..A;

Old Fort Owen
-Drawn by B. S. Paxson.
FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS 57
Murphy, who made one of the most notable rides in Montana's
history to bring the news.
The incidents which followed found their climax in the
march of Joseph through the Bitter Root, over the Lewis and
Clark trail into the Big Hole, and his encounter with Gibbon's
command on the bluffs that overlook Trail creek. This week has
been the anniversary of these stirring events ; they have been
much talked about in western Montana as the dates have been
checked off the calendar since last Sunday. The history of the
days of alarm in 1877 has been recounted in the words of some
of the participants; some new incidents have been recalled in
this connection and some others have been graphically retold.
The reiteration has been interesting to the newer residents of
western Montana and has refreshed the memories of the older
ones. It has recalled the one warlike chapter in the Bitter Root's
history and has pointed attention once more to four famous forts
which had place in the valley and which were, it developed,
entirely unnecessary; they were — three of them — built as places
of refuge for the settlers when it was known that Joseph was
coming through the Bitter Root valley. Fort Fizzle, Fort Skee-
daddle and Fort Skalkaho were deprived of usefulness in the
Nez Perce invasion, by the intervention of Chariot in behalf of
the whites. Fort Owen, the fourth of the citadels, was historic
in the part it had already played in the development of the
valley; it was a permanent establishment; some of its adobe
buildings yet stand in the beautiful valley near Stevensville.
As a fitting jaunt on this anniversary week, I have been
traveling over a part of Joseph's trail through the Bitter Root
I have' seen again the sites of the four forts which figure in the
history of the only military invasion of the valley. About twenty
years ago when I made this trip the first time, there were yet
standing traces of the walls of these hastily constructed forts,
the sod walls for Fort Skeedaddle were one of the sights of the
valley for a long time. Fort Fizzle was not much of a fortress ;
it was an earthwork and timber breastwork combined ; there are
yet in Missoula some men who served behind it during the blood
less encounter in Lolo canyon, when Joseph told the military he
never turned back, then made good his assertion, doing it without
firing a shot or disturbing the peace of the slumbers of the men
entrenched within Fizzle. Fort Skalkaho was no more necessary
than its contemporaries ; by the time Joseph was that far along
on his march, it became recognized that he didn't intend to
molest the Bitter Root country.
When the news of Joseph 's war got across the Bitter Root
range, there was a good deal of speculation as to the route he
would follow. Volunteer companies were organized in the border
towns ; Missoula had one ; Stevensville had one ; Deer Lodge mus-

58 FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS
tered another; Silver Bow turned out some of her best men;
Virginia City stood ready to do her best in the repulsion of the
invader. Then it became known that Joseph was coming over
through Lolo pass and it was concluded at once that he would
turn down the river and march upon Missoula as soon as he
struck the Bitter Root. Fort Missoula was then in course of
erection; its little garrison and the Missoula volunteers marched
to Lolo pass to head off Joseph and his warriors. Hence, Fort
Fizzle. Fort Fizzle — not so named by the men who threw up the
earthworks and there awaited the advance of the red-skinned
general. Fort Fizzle — so called by reason of the conclusion of
the battle which waged there — a battle of words and a flank
movement by the wily chief which left the whites in their fort,
watching an empty canyon, while the Nez Perces marched on
down the pass and into the Bitter Root country. Fort Fizzle —
well named, indeed.
It was afternoon, hot and dusty, when Joseph's braves
marched down the Lolo trail toward the fort which was to turn
them back. There was a parley between Joseph and the com
mandant of the Fort Missoula garrison, then intrenched in Fort
Fizzle, which resulted in this ultimatum, delivered by Joseph to
the interpreter: "Tell him I never turn back; tell him I shall
not turn back now."
And each side went into bivouac, resting on its arms. The
Missoula volunteers have told me that John Barleycorn took a
prominent part in the council of war which was held in Fort
Fizzle that night. Perhaps that is why nobody heard Joseph
break camp and march around on the side of the hill. Whatever
the reason, it is certain that nobody heard him, and when day
light came the soldiery was amazed to discover that there was
nothing but the smoldering Indian campfires left burning to de
ceive the watchers, while the braves and the squaws and all
their equipment moved around the defenders of Missoula.
Then there was mounting in hot haste and running to and
fro. Perhaps Joseph even then was moving across the flat to
pillage and burn Missoula; it was even possible that the massacre
of the town 's inhabitants might already have been accomplished.
Fort Fizzle was above where the Hollensteiner ranch now
presents a picture of plenty to the visitor ; there is nothing there
to indicate the bloodless battle which Joseph, consummate gen
eral, won over his white foes that August night, years ago. The
mad dash of the white defenders of Missoula was down the
canyon to the mouth of Lolo creek. There they made the grati
fying discovery that Joseph had turned up the river and Mis
soula was safe. Perhaps it was their display of force that in
fluenced Joseph to spare Missoula and perhaps Joseph had never

FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS 59

had any designs against the town. He never told anybody, but
the christening of Fort Fizzle indicated the conclusion which was
reached by the people of the town which was saved.
Fort Skeedaddle stood right alongside what is now the county
road about three miles this side of Corvallis. When I first saw
it, its walls had not crumbled to any extent, though it had been
built about fifteen years. It did not figure in the events of the
march of the Nez Perces and it figures in the history of that
stirring incident only as an interesting memory. Fort Skalkaho
was built near the stream from which it took its name and, this
too, was only a monument of what might have happened had it
not been that Father Ravalli and his influence averted the ter
rible possibility of a march of plunder and pillage and made the
passing of Joseph through the valley merely the movement of a
band of Indians going somewhere.
Fort Owen, the fourth of the famous citadels of the Bitter
Root, has an interesting and enduring history. It yet remains,
in part, as it was builded in the early days of the valley. It was
to have been the refuge of the people about Stevensville had
the march of Joseph been warlike, but it was not built for that
purpose. It was never a military fort; it was a trading post,
erected by Major Owen when he purchased the improvements
made by the Jesuit missionaries at the original St. Mary's.
Troublesome traders and trappers, jealous of the influence of
missionaries over the Indians, had succeeded in poisoning the
minds of the latter against the priests to such an extent that
the position of the missionaries had become unsafe and they
were ordered to abandon the mission for a time. Their im
provements were sold to Major Owen and the priests retired to
the Coeur d'Alenes. Thus Fort Owen became the commercial
center of the Bitter Root country. This was in 1850. Years
later St. Mary's mission was re-established, but at another
site. Fort Owen later passed into the possession of Major
MeCormick and it is yet the property of his heirs. It was here
that Major MeCormick was killed by the unroofing of a building
during a gale of wind. Of the old structures, two adobe sheds
are now standing; they mark the site of the first white settle
ment in Montana, of the first civilizing influence which entered
this region, of the first permanent occupancy of this valley by
the race which has conquered the west.
There is much of absorbing interest in a trip over the trail
which Joseph followed through the Bitter Root, though but one
of the landmarks remains. The contemplation of the crumbling
walls of Fort Owen suggests the splendid development which
has taken place in the years which have ensued. The complete
obliteration of the other forts is significant of the completeness

60 FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS
of the triumph of the new order of things. The old order
changeth. Looking southward from the crumbling ruins of Fort Owen,
one sees embowered in the shade of the cottonwoods which sur
round it, St. Mary's mission church, erected by the revered
Father Ravalli when the mission was re-established, the church
built by his hands, the trees planted by him. Above to the west
ward, towers the magnificent peak of "dear old St. Mary's," as
Father Ravalli called the grand mountain. The splendid peak,
the modest spire of the little log church and the simple marble
shaft which marks the last resting place of this wonderful man
— all these tell of the influence which averted bloodshed when
Joseph made his trail through the Bitter Root. But for this man
and his influence, the history of these four forts of the Bitter
Root would have been a very different story, and the memory
of the forts themselves would not be evanescent — it would be
indelibly stamped in blood upon the pages of western Montana's
history. The enduring impression of the jaunt over this old trail
is the realization of the great debt which western Montana owes
to this great man. The week whose anniversary has just passed
was a critical point in the history of the Bitter Root. Let us not
forget that the one man who, more than all others, made it possi
ble to write this peaceful story of the four forts, was Father
Ravalli. August 12. 1911.

A FAMOUS PASS

THERE is a good deal of climbing involved in crossing the
Gibbon pass that leads from the east fork of the Bitter
Root river into the Big Hole basin. Foot for foot, there
is more ascent to this trail than to almost any other that I know
about. Also, there is more history connected with every foot of
this mountain path than with any other with which I am famil
iar. It is one of the most remarkable trails in Montana.
Over this trail came Lewis and Clark on their way to the
Pacific coast. In Ross' Hole, at the Bitter Root end of the trail,
the explorers met the Indians whom they named "Flatheads,"
though the name was improperly given. Over this trail marched
the Indians to meet Father DeSmet on his way to answer the
call of these people and their appeal for knowledge of the new
religion. Over this trail came Judge Frank H. Woody, who is
now the oldest white resident in Montana, when he made his
entrance into the state. Over this trail marched Chief Joseph
on his famous expedition. Over this trail passed Gibbon in hot
pursuit of the Indian leader.
Is that not a list of events sufficient to substantiate my
statement that this is one of the most important of the old trails
of Montana ? Deeds of peace and deeds of war have been enacted
along this pathway. Over its abrupt course have marched the
explorer, the priest, the warrior and the pioneer. Its path has
been beaten hard by the impact of moccasined feet, by the tread
of military boots, by the shuffle of patient oxen and by the
tramp of iron-shod steeds. Its walls of living pines, tall and
stately, have echoed to the prayer of the missionary, to the pro
fanity of the bullwhacker, to the gutterals of the red man, to the
command of the soldier and to the labored breathing of them all.
For the man does not live who can climb Gibbon pass and main
tain his normal respiration.
More than ten years ago I climbed this trail for the first
time. Upon that occasion I had the pleasure of the company
of Judge Woody, who had not been over that hill since he
crossed it the first time, when he came into Montana in 1856.
The judge 's companionship added amazingly to my enjoyment of
that trip. He made some very mean comments upon my knee
61

62 FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS
action, I remember, as I pegged along up the hill, but the sting
of these is lost in the memories of his pleasant remarks upon
other topics connected with the trip. The judge had little dif
ficulty in locating the route by which he had descended the hill
when he first came to the Bitter Root ; the pass is a permanent
bit of scenery and does not change much, even in half a century.
Judge Woody was even able to point out the sidehill, where he
had incurred the wrath of the wagon-boss by upsetting his outfit
in the descent.
Nor has the Gibbon pass changed much since I saw it the
first time. There has been a good deal of improvement about its
base ; the valley of the east fork and the little basin of its south
branch have been settled considerably ; the cabins of a decade ago
have yielded place to substantial homes; the grainfields are
crowding out the old meadow grass; the orchards are forcing
away the pines. But neither civilization nor cultivation has
reduced the angle of the slope of the Gibbon pass. It is cer
tainly just as steep as it was in 1805 when the first whites
tramped over it — perhaps it is a little steeper.
There is none of the pleasant and restful effect of inter
mittent level stretches on this trail, which is found/ on most of
the mountain passes of the Bitter Roots. It is, every foot of it,
up one way and down the other way. The only satisfaction
which attends the physical effort of climbing this pass is the
exhilaration which comes from the consciousness that you are
getting somewhere. There is no lost motion in this climb — all
the way and every foot of the way, you're going up. There is
absolutely no compromise about this trail ; it sets out to get over
the mountains and it wastes no time or distance in going around
or in temporizing. It goes directly at the business in hand.
When, after two hours — if you 're right quick — of hard climbing,
you get to the summit, there is not any doubt in your mind that
you have been climbing. You know it for a fact.
The pines crowd low on the Bitter Root side of the pass.
Leaving the beautiful basin which we call Ross' Hole, but which
is worthy of a more fitting name, the road turns up the south
fork. Along this stretch there is evidence of the rapid settle
ment of the upper Bitter Root ; there are many delightful ranch
homes here now; they are productive and they are permanent.
It was at the Waugh ranch that Judge Woody and I stopped on
that trip, a decade ago, to spend the night before making the
climb over the pass. It is a beautiful place and the judge in a
very few minutes caught enough trout for our supper. We did
some tall sleeping that night and were ready for breakfast in the
morning. Likewise, we were in good mood for the climb.
Up through the pines, from the ranch — past the Gallogly
hot springs — the trail strikes straight along the stream for the

FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS 63
base of the mountain. Even to its very foot, this mountain is
uncompromising. It leaves the valley with all the abruptness of
a man refusing to sign a subscription list. And all the way up
it maintains its unyielding determination to get to the top with
as little deviation from the straight and unswerving course, as
possible. I can testify that the trail is wonderfully successful in
the accomplishment of its purpose. It gets to the top and it gets
there without circumvention.
But there is, after all, nothing which is worth having which
comes easily. The summit of the Gibbon pass is glorious in
itself; it is worth the climb to attain that eminence. On either
side are higher altitudes; the pass is a saddle in the divide's pro
file. And they are glorious peaks ; to behold them once is never
to forget them. And, away in the distance, rise the summits of
the main range. They are snowclad ever but they are inspir
ing. It was within the splendid amphitheater of these hills
that Father DeSmet in 1840 had his first meeting with the
Indians, among whom he was later to labor to such great advan
tage. It was over this pass that they journeyed to meet him.
Two thousand there were of them — Flatheads, Kootenais, Nez
Perces and Kalispells — who had been advised of the coming of
the Black Robe and who had crossed the pass to meet him and
to greet him. It was in sight of these inspiring pinnacles, that
he held his first conference with the sons of the mountains. As
a result of this meeting there were many of them baptized, and
the priest agreed to return the following year and locate per
manently among the people who welcomed him so cordially and
who were so hungry for The Message which he brought.
Thrilled by his experience, burning with the enthusiasm of
the zealot, inspired by the nearness of God which these moun
tains always brings and filled with hope and with the confidence
which the hills beget — Father DeSmet climbed one of these
peaks and looked over the valleys which he was to conquer for
his Master. But it was the mountains which held his eye and
enthralled his heart and he wrote these linees, which have been
preserved in the record of his journeyings :
"Ye Rockies, hail! Majestic mounts!
Of future bliss the favored shrine !
For you God 's heart, of gifts divine,
Opens this day its precious founts. ' '
Standing upon this summit, looking back over the tops of
the pines through which the ascent has been made and gazing
forward at the wonderfully beautiful panorama which spreads
before us, it is easy to comprehend the ecstatic state of mind in
.which the young priest found himself. And it is easy, too, to
understand why it was that the Indians of this region were

64 FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS
always gentle and brave, mild and courageous. It was the influ
ence of their environment.
The glaring sun of the eastern prairies and the sweep of
their terrible winds gave the red-eyed ferocity to the Sioux. The
blazing heat and the dust-laden storms of the southern deserts
bred in the Apache the brutality and ferocity which were his
characteristic traits. The inspiration of the mountains, the soft
ness of their atmosphere, the fragrance of their forests, the
splendor of their valleys — these had made of the Indians of
western Montana a gentler race, not prone to war but brave and
fearless in the defense of their rights.
These were the people who first trod the trail over the Gib
bon pass. It was their path which Lewis and Clark followed
when, in September, 1805, they left the headwaters of the Big
Hole river and its wonderful basin and climbed into the Bitter
Root country. The Big Hole side of the pass is not as strenuous
as the Bitter Root slope; it is more gradual and it leaves the
forest for the meadows earlier in its descent. But these meadows
of the Big Hole, along Trail creek, are more than a thousand feet
higher than the fields of the Bitter Root across the range.
Nowhere else in the world, I believe, is there such grass as
that which grows along the Big Hole side of the Gibbon pass after
it leaves the timber. The trail, hard-traveled though it is, be
comes almost lost in the tall native grass that grows in it and
about it. In places this grass reaches to the heads of the horses.
It is not the coarse, inedible forage which grows rank in so many
places — it is beef-making, nourishing, succulent grass and it is
marvelous in its luxuriance. Steep-banked creeks flow through
this wealth of forage, dismaying the traveler as he comes unex
pectedly upon them, hidden in the tall grass. It is a paradise
for cattle during its brief summer seaason. There are many
sheep and cattle grazed here during the open months. It is a
clean, healthful region, but blankets are needed all the time, for
there are heavy frosts at night, even in August.
The first whites to enter the Bitter Root country were the
men of the Lewis and Clark expedition ; they came over the Big
Hole basin and the Gibbon pass in September, 1805. In Ross'
Hole at the head of the Bitter Root, they came upon the Indians
encamped there on a hunting expedition. The meeting was
friendly and I have talked with one or two old Indians who
remembered the advent of the whites. One of these, an old
Indian woman named Eugenie, was living at St. Ignatius while
Major Ronan was Indian agent, and I have heard her tell of the
amazement of her people when they saw the whites.
In 1743, a French priest, Sieur de LaVarendrye, had pene
trated the Missouri river country and had there met a party of
the Bitter Root Indians on a buffalo hunt; the seeing of these

FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS 65
white men was a legend of the tribe, but the meeting of the peo
ple with Lewis and Clark in 1805 was the first contact with the
new race.
Eugenie was a girl of 14 when she saw the white men first.
Her description of the event tallies with the story told in the
record of the expedition. The Indians were delighted; they
greeted the "white gods" with all the awe of their simple natures
and offered gracious hospitality to these strange visitors. They
furnished willing escort to the travelers and the journey through
the Bitter Root was like a triumphant march. The negro servant
of the explorers was the source of amazement ; the Indians could
not understand whether he was of a higher race or a lower than
the whites; those who dared, touched his black skin with their
fingers. There was formal feasting, a council and a solemn
assurance of the friendliness of the red people.
Lewis and Clark, it is believed, thought that they had
reached the Pacific coast when they mounted the crest of the
Gibbon pass. They had heard of the Flathead Indians of the
coast whose name comes from the malf orming of the skulls of the
children, and they assumed that the Indians they met in Ross'
Hole were of this tribe, though there could certainly have been
nothing in their appearance to warrant the conclusion. But in
no other way can the accident be explained which fastened upon
this people the name which they have since borne to the exclu
sion of their proper appellation, Selish.
Next in order in the list of events which have given fame
to the Gibbon pass was the expedition of the Indians to meet
Father DeSmet. So eager were they to hear the gospel from the
lips of one of its ordained teachers that they journeyed far to
meet the messenger of peace, the Black Robe for whom they had
sent. How they found him and how they secured his promise
to come and live among them have been told. It was the fore
running event of an important chapter in the history of Mon
tana, the raising of the cross in this valley.
It was in October, 1856, that Judge Frank H. Woody, driv
ing an ox team, came over this trail. The judge had started
from Salt Lake and the outfit was headed for the Hell Gate
river. Judge Woody crossed the Gibbon pass into the Bitter
Root with the bull teams and this has been his home ever since ;
in point of residence, he is the oldest white Montanan. The
trail was no better then than it is now, and is evidenced by the
judge's story of his first crossing of the pass.
"We crossed Big Hole prairie," he says, "and came up
Trail creek to the summit of the divide, which we crossed at
what is now called Gibbon pass, and came down into Ross' Hole.
The road across the mountains at Gibbon pass was the most
difficult which we traversed on the entire journey. From the

66 FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS
summit of the mountain down to the valley of Ross' Hole was
some two miles, with no road except an Indian trail, through
the timber, and much of the way the descent was very steep and
in many places quite abrupt. In order to get our wagons down,
it was necessary to lock both the rear wheels and put rough locks
on them by wrapping chains around them and also by hitching
two yoke of cattle to the rear end of each wagon with a man
at their heads with a club, to make them pull back. Even then
they came down the mountain at railroad speed. These were the
second lot of wagons over the trail. In the fall of 1855, two or
three wagons, lightly loaded, were brought over this trail, piloted
by an old Mexican trapper, named Emanuel Martin, generally
known and called by the name ' Old Manwell, the Spaniard. ' ' '
That was the entrance of the veteran of all the western
Montana veterans. The trail has been cleared of fallen timber
and stumps since he first traversed it, but there is yet the steep
incline. Time has not modified that in the least.
On my desk as I write, there is a relic which recalls another
historic crossing of the old trail — the crossing which gave to it
the name it now bears. This relic is one of the four shells which
were fired from the mountain howitzer which General Gibbon's
men dragged over the hill and which was used in the battle of
the Big Hole. I believe it was Joe Blodgett who was the gun
ner; the howitzer was a hard proposition on the trail and was
late getting into action. Four times it was fired before Joseph's
Indians got behind it and drove away its crew. This one shell
did not explode; it was picked up, years afterward, in the mud
along Trail creek and was given to me by Arthur Holt of Grants-
dale. The pursuit of Joseph by General Gibbon and Captain Cat-
lin with their commands was probably the most dramatic cross
ing of this old trail. At the south end of the trail was fought
one of the most sanguinary combats in the history of Indian
warfare. Trail creek ran blood on the morning of August 9, and
the waters of Ruby creek verified their name. Good lives were
sacrificed there because a stubborn commander would not heed
the advice of veteran frontiersmen. But the spirit of the rebel
lious Nez Perces was broken, their great medicine man was slain
and the march of Joseph, after that, was an ingenious and mas
terly retreat.
How the military column passed the steep pass on the
morning of August 8, 1877, is told by one of the men who was
there. "At 5 o'clock in the morning," writes this soldier, "the
command started up the main divide of the Rocky mountains.
Three miles of hard climbing were before them — three miles of
steep mountain trail, filled with rocks and fallen trees. Teams
were doubled and dragropes manned and at 11 o'clock, after six

FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS 67
hours of hard, unremitting toil, the summit was reached. Just
before the last wagon was up, a dispatch was received from the
front stating that the trail was 'hot'; that the Indians were
moving and that the discovery of the scouts would mean danger.
The general read the dispatch and simply said: 'Keep the
column closed.' And we pushed down the mountain. From
time to time played-out mules were left along the trail, but the
men never flinched. At bad crossings axes, shovels and picks
were plied with desperate energy; the comrades in front were
in danger. It seemed as if the men were doing all that nerve
and muscle could do, but when later in the day a second courier
met us with the news that the village was located, renewed life
was thrown into the step and at sundown the column filed into
Bradley's bivouac. After a scanty supper of hard bread and
raw bacon, the tired men lay down to rest. The genial camp-
fire, the stimulating coffee and the soothing pipe were for
bidden." There were abundant evidences of the terrific battle at the
forks of Trail and Ruby creeks the first time I visited the
ground, the trail to which leads over the pass which takes its
name from the events of that terrible night, and morning. Now
they are nearly effaced. The monument which marks the site
of the disastrous fight on the bluffs has been protected by a
steel cage, else it, too, would have been razed by— not time-
but ruthless relic-hunters.
Coming back over this trail the other day, I thought over
its history and it seemed to me that, as I said at the outset of this
story, there is no trail in all Montana which possesses greater
historical significance than this.
Aug. 19, 1911.

LOCAL NAMES AND HISTORY

I HAVE an interesting letter this week from Frank D. Brown,
historian of the Society of Montana Pioneers, regarding the
preservation of the historical details of the making of Mon
tana. Mr. Brown approves of these little stories of Montana
trails and suggests that their scope be extended to cover more
than the western Montana region which is The t Missoulian 's
home. It is doubtful if this task, pleasant though if; would be,
can be undertaken at present. These stories have been written
between-times in the busy hours of daily newspaper routine ; an
attempt has been made to set down in their lines some of the
interesting facts of the early days of western Montana, as they
have been recounted by the men and women who were partici
pants in the scenes described. They are simple little stories, but
they serve at least the purpose to preserve some incidents which
otherwise might be forgotten, for the actors in these scenes are
passing over the Long Trail and soon the chance to get from
their lips the chapters of a history which should be preserved
will be lost.
But what I have undertaken in this field others might take
up in other parts of the state. There should be no time lost in
this endeavor to perpetuate the story of Montana. And, right at
the hand of each one of us, there is abundant material for an
indefinite amount of this intimate history of the most interest
ing period of our state 's building — a period which is not excelled
in the charm of its incidents and their thrilling details. Every
day we pass in our routine walks and rides the scenes of events
which were important; the men who participated in them are
our neighbors; they could tell us, if we would ask them, all of
the little things which possess the real value of any history. If
we do not pick up these stories now, we shall lose them, for it
will not be long when these veterans pass beyond our reach.
Take, for instance, our own situation here in Missoula. I
think the name of our town is the prettiest name I ever heard.
There are not many visitors who come here who do not ask
what it means and from what it came ; there are not very many
home folks who can answer the question. Unfortunately, the
68

FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS 69
musical sound of the name Missoula is not mated with a pretty
meaning. But the story of the origin of the name is none the
less interesting and gives us a bit of insight into the life of the
original inhabitants of this valley. It is an everyday affair now,
the derivation of the University city's name, but one of these
days there will be nobody to tell it unless it is set down in black
and white. I doubt not that thera are like conditions in every
town in Montana ; I know of a good many of them. These should
be written now. Mr. Brown is right in this respect.
But, to the matter of this latest of the old trails that we are
following this summer. Some of them have been hard to climb,
though all of them have been deeply interesting. This one
involves not even the changing of your shoes ; it is right at home,
but it tells a chapter in early Montana history that is worth
preserving. Of all the men who have delved into the early lore
of this state's territory, there is none whose opinion is worth
more than that of the scholarly Father Palladino, revered priest
of the Missoula parish and companion of the pioneer Jesuit mis
sionaries who brought the Cross to the valleys of western Mon
tana. In his analysis of the origin of the name Missoula, Father
Palladino says: "The full Indian name was likely 'Lm-i-sul-
etiku,' or else ' Nm-i-sul-etiku, ' contracted in pronunciation into
' Lm-i-sule, ' or ' Nm-i-sule, ' as I have heard it! pronounced hun
dreds of times by the Indians and halfbreeds in this part of
Montana. The '1' and 'n' are prepositions and stand for 'at'
'in' or 'to' — the former letter being used more commonly by the
Flatheads, while the Spokanes and Kalispells use the latter more
frequently. Besides, these prefixes, when followed by 'm,' are
scarcely heard in pronunciation and the 'm' on 'nm' stand fre
quently for 'nem,' which is the prefix of the future tense. From
the radical 'i-sul,' or rather 'sul,' as the 'i' is here a prefix,
expressing 'truly' or altogether,' and emphasizing the meaning
of the root, are formed the derivative verbs, 'i-chin-sul' — 'I am
taken by surprise,' 'frightened,' 'chilled with fear' and the like
— and ' jes-sulem'— 'I take him by surprise,' or 'I chill him with
fear.' The future tense of this verb would be 'nemsulem' or
'nm-i-sulem.' Whence ' lm-i-sul-etiku ' or 'nm-i-sul-etiku' would
seem to signify 'at the stream of surprise or ambush.' The
'etiku' standing — in — composition — for 'water' and here refer
ring to the stream near the place described."
There is the philological analysis of the word, which the
Indians used to describe — for all their names were descriptive—
the mouth of the canyon just above Missoula city, the place
where the waters of the Rattlesnake mingle with the current of
the river. Taking the name from the Indians, the Hudson Bay
men retained the idea in the appellation which they fixed upon

70 FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS
the spot, ' ' Porte d 'Enf er. ' ' This their English successors trans
lated literally and gave us "Hell Gate." The Indian name has
clung to the city and its valley, while the harsher word has
become fixed upon the canyon and the stream. In all the range
of the Rocky mountains there is no finer gateway than is afford
ed by the canyon thus named. It is a natural route.
Indian and trapper, warrior and miner, priest and pros
pector — all followed this path through the hills into the beau
tiful valley where Missoula has grown. The first travelers came
this way; they were followed by the pack trains; the stage
coach widened the trail and the railways followed the course
of the stages. It was easily traversed, save for its narrowness in
places. Also, it was singularly beautiful. Almost its entire
length, the trail down the canyon led through a magnificent
pine forest ; the road was arched in places with the sprays of the
wild brier; one of the early descriptions of this trail calls it the
"Canyon of Wild Roses."
So, leading westward, there was little in the nature of the
canyon or of its western gateway to suggest the terrible name
which was attached to it. It was a delightful route and it led
to a beautiful valley. Through fragrant forest it led and among
arbors of bloom. Clear and sparkling was the stream which
flowed along it and crystal springs gushed from its sides. Even
yet, after a generation of the sway of the lumberman's axe and
the devastating force of the railway builder's explosives, there
remains much of the natural charm and beauty of this road
through the hills.
Not, then, to its natural appearance can we look for the
sources of the name which was applied to the western terminus
of this nature-built roadway. There is naught in its charm to
suggest the dire place whose name it has borrowed. Elsewhere
we. must seek for the derivation of the somber appellation which
was given this canyon entrance. But it is not hard to find.
One of the passengers on the second ship sent to the Pacific
coast by John Jacob Astor, just a hundred years ago, was a
young Englishman named Cox, who afterward wrote a book
upon his adventures among the Indians of the northwest. Aside
from the journal of the Lewis and Clark expedition, this book
contains the first description of the Indians of the Bitter Root
and neighboring valleys. Cox spent a winter at the Astor trad
ing post which was built at the mouth of the Missoula river,
near where Paradise now stands. There he met many of the
Flatheads and there he witnessed the return of one of their vic
torious war parties from the Blackfeet country. His description
of this people and their ways contains this comment, which fur
nishes the key to the application of the name which was given
to Missoula — the name which yet endures.

FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS 71

"The Flatheads were formerly much more numerous than
they were at this period," writes Cox, "but owing to the con
stant hostilities between themselves and the Blackfeet Indians,
their numbers had been greatly diminished. While pride, policy,
ambition, self-preservation or the love of aggrandizement often
deluges the civilized world with Christian blood, the only cause
assigned by the natives of whom I write, for their perpetual war
fare, is the love for the buffalo. There are extensive plains to
the east of the mountains, frequented in the summer and autum
nal months by great herds of buffalo. Hither the tribes of the
river country repair to hunt these animals, that they may pro
cure as much of their meat as will supply them until the suc
ceeding season. In these expeditions they often meet and the
most sanguinary conflicts follow. The Blackfeet claimed all
that part of the country immediately at the foot of the moun
tains, east of the main range, which was most frequented by the
buffalo; and alleged that the Flatheads, by resorting there to
hunt, were intruders whom they were bound to oppose upon all
occasions. The latter, on1 the contrary, asserted that their fore
fathers had always claimed and exercised the right of hunting on
these disputed lands ; and that while one of their warriors
remained alive, the right should not be relinquished. The con
sequence of these continued wars was dreadful, particularly to
the Flatheads, who being weaker in numbers, were generally
the greater sufferers. Independent of their inferiority in this
respect, their enemy had another great advantage in the use of
firearms which they obtained from the company's trading posts,
established in the department of Forts des Prairies. To those
the Flatheads had nothing to oppose but bows and arrows and
their own undaimted bravery. Every year previous to the com
ing of MacMillan's party witnessed the gradual diminution of
their numbers and total annihilation would shortly have been the
consequence but for the establishment of the post at the mouth
of the Missoula, with a plentiful supply of arms and ammuni
tion for trade. They were overjoyed at the opportunity to pur
chase them and quickly stocked themselves with a sufficient
quantity of both. From this moment affairs took a decided
change in their favor and in their subsequeent contests the num
bers of killed and captured were more equal. ' '
It is the testimony of all writers who have told us of the
characteristics of the Flathead Indians as they were originally,
that the tribe was peaceable, gentle and of superior intelligence.
They did not seek war but they were brave in the defense of
their rights. Lewis and Clark, Father DeSmet, Cox and Major
Ron an have all left records to this effect. But the robes and the
meat of the buffalo were, they held, the gift of the Great Spirit,
and they were not to be deprived of the privilege of hunting on

72 FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS
the eastern range. For this right they fought for generations
and the record is that, despite superior numbers of their foes,
they always brought back meat and hides from the buffalo
country. Through the canyon east of Missoula was their natural route
to the east side hunting grounds. Take a walk into the canyon
some day. Walk around the end of Mount Jumbo to where the
canyon widens into the basin which reaches almost to the mouth
of the Big Blackfoot. Look around on the east side of Jumbo
and see what a perfect place for an ambush it affords. Down
the stream which bears their name, came the Blackfeet at the
time when they knew the Flatheads would be likely to start for
the buffalo hunt. Then the ambush. There in that natural
amphitheater, the battle.
These canyon walls have flung back the sound of many a
warcry; the clash of combat has resounded many times in this
basin ; the soil has frequently been drenched with the blood of the
combatants. The Flatheads fought bravely; they battled for
their rights and they struck as long as there was breath in their
bodies. The later chapters of this long warfare are filled with
tales of glorious triumphs on the part of the west-side Indians ;
their possession of rifles and ammunition placed them upon
terms of equality and they proved themselves to be no mean
warriors. There is a story of the almost complete extermination
of a Blackfeet band on what is now Post creek, whieh avenged
the defeats of many years.
But these sanguinary conflicts in this hill-locked battlefield
gave the entrance to the canyon the reputation which furnished
its name. Finally the Flatheads no longer entered the canyon
through its gateway. Until the settlement of the Rattlesnake
valley and the slope on the eastern side of Mount Jumbo which
was the battlefield of ages, there was a trail which was plainly
visible, leading over the north end of the mountain from the Rat
tlesnake side. This trail led, on the other side, into the "Place
of Ambush" in such a way that the field was plainly visible
all the way down and it was almost impossible for the Blackfeet
to waylay their hereditary antagonists. Even yet there are places
where this old trail may be traced. Its summit affords a fine
outlook over the basin which was for so many years the scene '
of bloodshed. It is a fine view and is worth the climb.
It is, however, the trail through the gateway of the canyon
which won for this place the name, Missoula. Here were enacted
the scenes which have been perpetuated in the nomenclature of
the red man. "Missoula" tells it all if you only know what
it means. And we came near to being known as "Hell Gate"
for all time. This valley was called "Hell Gate ronde" for a
long time and its town was Hell Gate for many years. Then

FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS 73
Captain Higgins founded Missoula with Major MeCormick and
Hell Gate moved bodily up toward the mouth of the canyon. It
was a good move, even if it had done nothing more than to
change the name of the town. But the old name sticks to the
canyon and the upper river. Recently the geographical board
has told us that the name of the river is to be Clark's Fork
from now on. I think there should be a protest against that
action. Missoula is a much finer name and it should be retained
all the way down the stream. It is a name with a significance
and it has a sweet sound.
Standing the other day on the old trail through the canyon
and thinking over the matters that suggested this chapter in the
Old Trails series, it occurred to me that, after all, the signifi
cance of the name, Missoula, can be made as pleasing as its
sound. The "Place of Fright" has a good meaning or a sinister
one, according to whether or not it is the right kind of fright
which is created. Missoula might be made a place where evil
things and evil doers would be afraid to appear; it might be
made a place which would merit the literal interpretation of its
name and that would be something worth while.
Hypocrisy and greed might be stamped out and the city
might be made just the sort of place that we would like to
have it. Four-flushers and bunco artists in the reform game
might also be given the same fear in their hearts. Then we
would have given a new interpretation to the name of the city,
an interpretation which would be worth having blazoned upon
the city seal. The environment of the city is in keeping with
the musical sound of the name. Rippling waters course through
it, the winds sing their songs in its trees, the bright faces of
flowers add their laughter to the scene and gardens and orch
ards tell of the fertility of the land. So far the simile endures.
Now if the proper translation can be given to the name, if the
fright can be made the right sort, the name will be given signif
icance and it will be a pleasure to translate it.
The name which the Indians gave, applied to the entrance
to the canyon. That is why, probably, the voyageurs dubbed it
"The Gate of Hell." Custom extended the application of the
name to the entire length of the canyon and to the river and the
trail which course between its walls. This is a canyon which
has played an important and interesting part in Montana's his
tory ; many of the most notable incidents in the state 's develop
ment were enacted in this canyon. It will require a good many
trips and a good many meanderings to follow them all.
But it is always refreshing to recall that, just beyond Hell
Gate, lies Paradise. That is pleasing and it is even more so when
we consider that Missoula is on the Paradise side of the gate.
Some years ago, the Northern Pacific undertook to simplify the

74 FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS
names of some of its stations in western Montana. E. J. Pear
son was then the local superintendent of the road and one day
he showed me a letter that he had received, in which his corre
spondent wrote as follows:
"I see you have taken the 'Horse' from Plains and have
removed the 'Falls' from Thompson. Will you be good enough
to advise me early of any intention you may have of taking
the 'Gate' from Hell?"
The ' ' Gate ' ' still hangs on its hinges. Unlike its prototype,
however, it does not bid all who pass its portals to surrender
hope. For this gate swings out — not in. It opens toward Para
dise and Elysian fields and all who pass through the entrance-way
gain new strength and new hope from the things which are upon
our side of it. It is a queer name unless you know about it.
When you understand it, it is the simplest proposition in the
whole list of names. Just take the easy walk over this trail,
look over the ground and you will understand this bit of old-
time history.
August 26, 1911.

Victor's Camp at Council Grove

— From a Sketch Made for Stevens' Report, 1855.
-Hell Gate in Background

COUNCIL GROVE

ABOUT nine miles below Missoula, on the banks of the
Bitter Root river, there yet stand two <if the tall pines
which formed the famous Council Grove, beneath whose
shade, early in July, 1855, Governor Stevens concluded the first
treaty made with the Indians which now comprise the Confeder
ated Tribes. This is one of the historically important spots in
western Montana, yet it is passed daily by hundreds of people
who do not give it a thought.
It was always — judging from the early accounts of the
region — a beautiful place. Though it has changed much with
the passing of time, it is yet beautiful. The broad meadows of
1855, dotted with a few pines and clumps of deciduous trees,
have given place to great stretches of grain and of gardens. But
even some of the old pines remain and the eternal hills maintain
their watch over the peaceful valley which reaches away from
the river skirting their base. Drive down the Grass Valley road,
any day, and you will feel the spell of the place, but specially
impressive is it in the golden days of Indian summer and in the
wealth of harvest time.
It was a glorious setting which Governor Stevens selected
for the council which he held with the kindred tribes of this
region. It lies just below the confluence of the Missoula and
Bitter Root rivers ; the gentle murmer of the magnificent stream
makes pleasant music on such a summer day as that upon which
I visited the scene this week. In the north the rugged peaks
of the Mission range form the horizon ; eastward, Sentinel and
Jumbo, impressive landmarks, guard the entrance to the great
basin; southward stretches the broad sweep of the Bitter Root
valley with its western wall of grand mountains, the snow of
Lolo breaking into the blue of the sky; westward there is the
continued sweep of the Bitter Root range and the marvelously
fertile Frenchtown valley which extends from its base line.
There are fields whose golden wealth is greater than that other
gold for which men risked their lives in early days; there are
groups of houses which tell of this wealth collected and made to
benefit a thrifty people ; there is an atmosphere of content and
76

FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS 77
prosperity pervading all with the charm of the beauty of this
famous spot everywhere felt.
There are few more beautiful spots in this vast region of
scenic wonder. It is easy to understand how, in the midst of
this scene, in the very heart of the region which was his home as
it had been for ages the home of his people, old Chief Victor
and his fiery rival, Alexander, hesitated about entering into an
agreement which would deprive them of any portion of it or
would in any manner circumscribe their rights in this splendid
demesne, the home of their fathers, their ancestral realm. Also,
it is easy to appreciate the keenness of the foresight of the chiefs
who, two years before, had told Governor Stevens that they wel
comed the visits of the white man who came hunting or who
came "wearing swords," but they dreaded the approach of "the
whites with plows, axes and shovels in their hands. ' ' After all,
it was the farmers who conquered this country. The wise old
Indian foresaw that it would be so.
And it was this treaty, made in this old Council Grove,
which was the first step in the peaceful conquest of western
Montana. The way had been smoothed by the presence of the
Jesuit missionaries and was made easier by the counsel of the
priests. But it was this treaty which gave the white man his first
strong foothold upon this region which has become the garden
spot of the west. And in this fact lies the great importance of
the Stevens treaty. In this and in that other fact that the treaty
expedition brought to this valley the man who was later to
become the founder of Missoula and one of its most respected
citizens. This man was the backbone of the expedition. It was
he who declared, when even the Indian guides hestitated, that he
would "go with Stevens to hell, if necessary." It was he who,
ten years later, staked out the townsite of Missoula, and it was
he who did much to build the little town into a fine city.
That man was Christopher P. Higgins — ' ' Captain ' ' Higgins
of Missoula. He was the packmaster of -the expedition, upon
the rolls, but he was the adviser and counsellor of the leader, his
help in trying times of threatened war and of impending mutiny.
It was his physical prowess and indomitable courage which ena
bled the expedition to cross the Bitter Root river at its July
flood stage and to reach the spot where the council was held.
Always he was the pacemaker and the peacemaker. And it, was
in his capacity of pacemaker of the Stevens expedition that
Captain Higgins first saw the beautiful valley which was to
become his home and the scene of, his life labor. How well he
wrought and how keenly he observed is made clear by the city
which he builded.
Governor Stevens came to the country of the Selish — mis
named Flatheads — from his council with the Nez Perces, their

(O FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS
cousins across the range. He had come out of the Nez Perce
country by way of the Coeur d'Alene river, past the old mission
and through the basin which is now the greatest lead-mining
region in the world, over the pass where now two transconti
nental railways cross the Bitter Root range, down the St. Regis
river and then up the Missoula, which he calls the Bitter Root
in his report.
It was July Fourth when the expedition crossed the river.
This was at a point fixed by Stevens as 55 miles below the
Council Grove, which would make it somewhere near St. Regis,
as we know the country at present. The Stevens report describes
the river as, at this point, "one hundred and fifty yards wide,
with a swift, strong current, and fordable only at the lowest
stages of water in fall and winter." When the expedition
reached it, the river was at flood height and the problem of
getting across was serious. The men were at once started upon
the construction of rafts.
While the rafts were building, a large band of Indians,
encamped nearby, took down their lodges and ferried themselves
across the swollen stream with all their impedimenta in less than
an hour, their primitive method being so effective as to aston
ish the whites. Their crossing at this time was evidently a bit
of irony — it was their joke at the expense of the clumsy invaders
— but there was no smile to indicate the purpose of the hurried
ferry. This method of the Indians is well known to the old-
timers. The buffalo hides which formed the covering of the
lodges, were spread out at the water's edge and all the blankets
and provisions, arms and other equipment were piled upon them ;
then their corners were drawn up and securely tied, forming
huge bundles as we now tie up a handkerchief. The squaws,
pappooses and dogs climbed upon these, and the bucks, swim
ming their horses, towed the huge bundles across. Governor
Stevens describes the scene as curious and exciting, but the
women and children, riding on the queer craft, took it as a mat
ter of course.
But the whites kept on with their rafts — they would not risk
the Indian method. There were three of the rafts built from
logs. Two of them were poled safely across, the animals swim
ming. When it came to getting the third over, an incident
occurred which illustrates the importance of Captain Higgins as
a member of the party. This last raft was the largest of the
three. It bore the governor and his party and became unmanage
able. It was carried far down the stream and was swept into a
swifter current that threatened to wreck it, when Captain Hig
gins seized a pack rope and leaped into the raging stream. He
swam to shore and landed his rope; but the speed of the raft
had become so great that he could not check it. Racing along the

FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS 79
bank to keep pace with the raft, he clung to the rope until he
came to a big tree, around which he threw a turn of the rope,
checking the raft which then swung into shore. The unwieldly
craft had been swept two miles down the stream.
Two days were spent marching up the valley from the point
of crossing. The party was impressed by the beauty of the region
and Stevens refers often to the clearness of the river and the
abundance of fish. On the morning of the 7th of July, soon
after breaking the camp, the party was met by the 300 braves
of the Flathead, Kootenai, Upper and Lower Pend d'Oreilles.
The reception was most cordial. There was a salute of musketry,
followed by a display of horsemanship, and the visitors were
escorted to the Indian camp, a mile or more up the Missoula
river. Greetings exchanged with the chiefs, Governor Stevens
moved to the lower stream and selected the site for his camp
and for the council. In the afternoon there was a brief parley
with Chief Victor of the Flatheads, Alexander of the Pend
d 'Oreilles and Michel of the Kootenais. This was Saturday. An
agreement was reached for a council on Monday and the camps
separated. On Monday, July 9, at 1:30 o'clock in the afternoon the
great council began, the chiefs having returned according to
their promise. Governor Stevens opened the session in a speech
in which he explained at length the terms offered by the govern
ment in case the Indians made a treaty to live on a reservation
and expatiating upon the advantages which would follow the
acceptance of these terms. The Indians, always friendly to the
whites, had no objection to the general proposition of a reserva
tion agreement ; their differences were not with the whites. But
there was a serious stumbling block in the way of adoption of
the Stevens proposition and this lay in the chronic objection of
each tribe of leaving its own country and going to live elsewhere,
in the country of other Indians. Upon this rock they split and
for eight days the council was racked by debate and denuncia
tion. It required all the persistence and diplomacy of Governor
Stevens, all of his knowledge of the Indian character and all
of his eloquence to bring the Indians to an agreement. But,
after eight days, this was done.
The governor required the three tribes, as they were really
one people — all Selish — speaking a common language and closely
intermarried and allied, and, further, as their numbers were
small, to unite upon one reservation. He offered to agree upon
the upper Bitter Root or the Horse Plains and Jocko valleys as
the reservation upon which all should go, , urging the Indians to
decide upon one or the other of these locations. The Bitter Root
was Victor's home country and the Jocko and Plains valleys
were the home of the Pend d'Oreilles. Neither tribe was willing

80 FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS
to leave its own country, and about this point the long debate
centered for the eight days of the council.
On the opening day, following the governor's opening state
ment, Victor and Alexander made lengthy replies. Michel seems
to have been dominated by Alexander, who usually spoke for
both. Victor did his own talking except on one day when he
refused to speak at all and left the council in dudgeon, "to think
it over. ' ' In his opening speech, Victor voiced the weariness of
his people over the generations-long warfare with the Blackfeet
and their desire to come under the protection of the whites,
but he was non-committal on the matter of selecting a reserva
tion site. He claimed the chieftainship of the entire region,
holding that the allied tribes were sub-divisions of his people.
"I have two places," he said. "Here is mine (pointing to the
Flathead and Clark's Fork country). I will think of it and will
tell you which is best. I believe you wish to assist me to help my
children here so they may have plenty to eat and so that they
may save their souls. ' '
Alexander expressed doubt as to his ability to induce his
young men to enter into the agreement or to abide by it. He was
shy of the white man's laws. He did not know what to do. "Now
this is my ground," he concluded. "We are poor, we Indians.
The priest is settled over there (in the Jocko) ; there, where he
is, I am satisfied. I will talk hereafter about the ground. I am
done for today."
There were other brief talks by sub-chiefs and the first day 's
session adjourned, the Indians going to their own camp and
entering into a council of their own. The second day, Tuesday,
developed nothing new except that it revealed the fact that the
Indians had talked very earnestly in their private council. They
had discussed the promises which Stevens had made to them two
years before and some of them held that these had not been kept.
They argued if the pledges of 1853 had been broken, the new
ones would not help the Indian. The important speech of the
second day was made by Big Canoe, a Pend d 'Oreille chief, who
said: "Talk about treaty; when did I kill you? When did you
kill me ? What is the reason we are talking about treaties ? We
are friends. We never spilt the blood of one of you. I never
saw your blood. I want my country. I thought no one would
ever want to talk about my country. Now you talk, you white
men. Now I have heard, I wish the whites to stop coming. Per
haps you will put me into a trap if I do not listen to you, white
chiefs. It is our land, both of us. If you make a farm, I would
not go there and pull up your crops. I would not drive you
away from it. If I were to go to your country and say, 'Give
me a little piece,' I wonder would you say, 'Here, take it.' I

FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS 81
expect that is the same way you want me to do here. This coun
try you want to settle here, me with you. You tell us, 'Give us
your land. ' I am very poor. This is all the small piece I have
got. I am not going to let it go."
There followed a general discussion, which resulted in Vicr
tor's agreement with the reservation plan, but developed his
unwillingness to have the reservation anywhere but in the Bitter
Root. Alexander and Michel also, gave approval to the union of
the tribes, but did not commit themselves as to location. They
were asked to talk it over some more.
Wednesday 's council was fruitless, and a messenger was sent
to the mission to summon Father Hoecken in the hope that his
influence might help. Thursday was given up to a feast and
Indian powwow. Friday was no better, except that Ambrose, a
Flathead chief, explained that, in the Indian council, Alexander
and Michel had agreed to move into Victor's country and live
there, but Victor would not speak. Then Stevens put the ques
tion to Victor again, but the chief mereely said he would not
talk. The governor berated him: "Is Victor not a chief? Or
is he, as one of his people called him, an old woman? Dumb
as a dog ? If Victor is a chief, let him speak now. ' '
That brought a talk, all right. Victor said he had not
understood the offer of Alexander to be as stated. He did realize
that there was some question as to Victor's sovereignty and he
would not consent to see anybody placed over him. He wanted
to do what was best for his people. Then he stalked out of the
council. Some of his chiefs made excuses for him and said he
had gone to think it over. Stevens told them all to go and think
it over with him and reach an agreement.
On Saturday, Victor sent word that he had not made up
his mind ; he was yet thinking it over. The council was adjourned
until Monday, and Sunday the Indians kept very much to them
selves. Victor brooded over the fancied attempt to deprive him
of his leadership.
Monday was the eighth day. Father Hoecken had come
from the mission and gave assurance that he was in no way
opposing the completion of the treaty. It was 11 o'clock Mon
day morning when the council convened, and Victor was ready
to talk. He opened the session, which was to be, it developed,
the last. Victor opened the council with the proposition which
became the basis of the treaty. Its vagueness led to later diffi
culties with the Flatheads after Victor was dead. But it was
the thing that brought about the agreement at Council Grove.
This is what Victor said :
' ' I am now going to talk. I was not content. You gave me
a very small place. Then I thought they are giving away my
land. That is my country over there at the mission, this also.

82 FOLLOWING OLD, TRAILS
Plenty of you say Victor is chief of the Flatheads. The place
you pointed out above is too small. From Lolo fork, above, all
should be mine. * * * We will send this word to the Great
Father, 'Come and look at our country.' When you look at
Alexander 's place and say the land is good and say ' ' Come Vic
tor, ' ' I will go. If you think this above is good land, then Victor
will say, "Come here, Alexander," and then our children will
be content. ' That is the way we will make the treaty, my father. ' '
Governor Stevens at once accepted the proposition, as far as
he himself was concerned and asked Alexander and Michel if
they would do the same. The agreement was presented. Victor
signed. There was a dramatic pause — then Alexander and
Michel followed. The treaty was an accomplished fact. The
way was opened to a final settlement of the question of location.
Presents were distributed among the 1,200 Indians present.
There was feasting. Governor Stevens was delighted. But
there lurked in the breasts of the chiefs that jealous distrust of
each other which appeared again in the next generation ; it was
at best a makeshift. It was, however, important. It opened the
way. The trouble which followed the attempt to carry out the
provisions of the treaty is another story. The signing of the
document at Council Grove made it possible for Governor Stevens
to proceed across the range to the Buffalo Country, there to go
into the famous council with the Blackfeet — but that was anothe-
trail, to be followed later.
Sept. 2, 1911.

CHARLOT'S LAST MARCH

PERHAPS there are more beautiful trails in this world than
that which leads from old St. Mary's mission at Stevens
ville, in the heart of the Bitter Root, to the valley in which
the Jocko agency nestles at the foot of the mountains which rise
abruptly from its fertile slope. If there are any trails more
beautiful than this, I have never seen any of them. Certainly
there are few trails anywhere which possess the sad — tragic, I
had almost said — associations which cluster about this road.
It was along this trail that grim old Chariot made his last
march. After years of determined and, at times, defiant, strug
gle against the inroads of white settlement, the stern and em
bittered chief yielded to the inevitable and with the little remnant
of his people turned his back upon the valley which had been
his ancestral home and marched to the place allotted to him on
the Jocko reservation. Chariot is dead. Next Monday his people
will travel back over the old trail to Stevensville to join with
the people of that town in their celebration of the twentieth
anniversary of the departure of the Indians.
This week I spent a good deal of time along portions of
this trail. The splendor of autumn was over, the towering
mountains, the glory of the harvest time was upon the valley.
The breeze which wafted down from St. Mary's peak was ting
ling with the crispness of late summer. The water in the river
was clear as crystal as it murmured along beneath overhanging
trees. The incomparably beautiful Bitter Root landscape was
never more appealing — grand mountains, rolling valleys, broad
meadows, dense groves, the bluest sky that spans the earth, the
brightest sun that shines upon it and the intoxicating atmos
phere of this western realm.
Upon just such a morning did Chariot, chieftain and the
son of chieftains, bid good-bye to the valley which had always
been his home as it had been the home of his fathers. Looking
over the scene the other day as I walked from the mission over
toward Fort Owen, I could easily understand the bitterness which
filled the heart of the old man as he marched away from all that
was dear to him, to make a new home for himself and his people
83

84 FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS

Michel Revais (left) and Chief Chariot.
These two were for years notable figures in Flathead councils.
Michel, blind almost from childhood, was gentle, intelligent and loyal —
one of the really trustworthy Indians. He was a great help in the
treaty negotiations. Chariot, chief and son of chiefs, was truly a royal
Indian. His face is stern but nobility is there. This is the last picture
ever made of the two. It was taken by Superintendent Morgan of the
Flathead agency.

FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS 85
in a place he did not like and under conditions which were
humiliating to him and which broke his old heart.
His father had refused to leave the valley. Old Victor had
fought with all his Indian wily diplomacy to retain the dwelling
place which he and his people loved so dearly. And with the
fight against the removal of his tribe there had been interwoven
a struggle for his supremacy as the titular head of the people
he ruled. To both of these struggles his son had fallen heir when
he inherited the symbols of tribal authority and bravely had he
maintained the contest.
Deceived by the agents of the government, betrayed by the
special representatives of the president, conspired against by
some of his own people, trusting only the few whites who were
his close neighbors— the odds were heavy against the sturdy old
fellow, but he resisted steadfastly. As Victor had sought to
retain his home in argument with General Stevens in 1855, so
did Chariot maintain the struggle in debate with General Gar
field in 1872.
But, in the end he was beaten. It was not, however, the
argument of the white man which convinced him against his
will. It was not the threat of the emissary of the Great Father
which daunted him into submission to the government's will. It
was the suffering of his people, the wails of the starving children
of his tribe, their destitution, their nakedness and hopelessness
that touched his heart and led him into acquiescence with the
will of the Great Father at Washington.
And, as he marched forth from St. Mary's with his people,
with the benediction of his priest upon his head, with these
memories in his mind and with the bitterness in his heart which
came from a consciousness of the deceit that had been practiced
against him — it is not to be wondered that he was sore and sullen.
It was the year after this exodus that I first saw and talked
with Chariot. He would talk to me of everything except the Bit
ter Root; of his old home there was no word. I had gone to
him with the approval of Mrs. Ronan, whom Chariot reverenced
for her tenderness, and he knew that I was friendly. Whatever
else I asked him on that Sunday afternoon in the Jocko valley,
he answered readily enough. But of the Bitter Root, no word.
Nor would he, to the end, have aught to say of the beautiful
place he had left. It was a painful subject to him and no one
who knew him ever pressed it upon him. During his later days
he softened somewhat. He came to regard Fred Morgan, super
intendent of the reservation, as a trusted friend and his last days
were the most peaceful he had known.
But there was none of that peace in his heart when he set
forth that October morning, 20 years ago, to lead his people to
their new home, prescribed by the government and made neces-

86 FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS
sary by the impoverished condition of his tribe. His good-bye
had been said to his old friends at Stevensville ; he had severed
the ties. He said he would never return. As nearly as I can
learn, he never did return, except once when he was brought to
the valley as a witness in a lawsuit over a water right in which
his old friend, Abe Mittower, was involved. It is said that he
did not go to Stevensville then ; he went with his friend to look
over the ground on the hills.
Down the river he marched his people. Through the
fields where they had played as children and had hunted as men,
fields which they had never stained with white man's blood,
fields upon whose bosom they had been nurtured and beneath
whose breast their fathers slept, they marched in solemn train.
Not in haste, not in disorder, not in an uproar, but slowly, with
dignity and in silence they moved out from the mission. Out
past Owen and across the river and then down the valley, ever
amid scenes which had been their daily environment for a life
time, each step reluctant and each mile a pang. There was a
night camp in the Missoula valley and then the march to Jocko
was resumed in the morning — so deliberate was the retreat of
the vanquished warrior. In the afternoon the Flatheads entered
the Jocko valley. Chariot's last march was ended.
The events which led up to this departure are interesting.
They reveal the utter lack of honor which characterized many
of the government representatives in their dealings with the
Indians ; they make plain the duplicity which too often governed
the negotiations with the reds ; they awaken sympathy with the
Indian and they furnish ample reason for the bitter hatred which
Chariot bore to everything which bore a Washington postmark
and to everybody who hailed from the capital. Governor Stevens
understood the Indian; he dealt with him as man with man; he
made promises which were intended to be kept.
It was in 1855 that Stevens concluded his treaty with the
Flatheads and their kindred tribes at Council Grove, below Mis
soula. Victor, the father of Chariot, had ceded, in this treaty, a
large area in which is now western Montana ; upon yielding this
region, Victor had insisted that his people retain that portion
of the Bitter Root valley above Lolo creek. But there had been
an alternative clause agreed to, which empowered the president
to make surveys and to determine from them whether it was
better for the Flatheads to remain in the Bitter Root or to go to
the Jocko reservation. Until 1872 there had been no survey made
nor had the government kept its promise to send carpenters,
blacksmiths, artisans and school teachers to the tribe as had been
promised in the treaty.
Consequently the Indians resisted a presidential order, made
in 1871, which declared that the Indians should be transferred

FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS 87
to the Jocko valley. Congress appropriated $5,000 to defray
the expenses of removal and in 1872 General Garfield was dis
patched to the Bitter Root to arrange a treaty covering the
removal. It was in August, 1872, that Garfield came to the val
ley. He said in his official report that he found the Indians
unwilling to move because for 17 years the government had taken
no step to carry out the provisions of the Hell Gate treaty. How
ever, General Garfield prepared an agreement, which was pub
lished as having been signed by Chariot, first chief of the Flat-
heads; Arlee, second chief of the Flatheads; Adolf, third chief
of the Flatheads — these as principals — and William H. Claggett,
D. G. Swain, W. F. Sanders, J. A. Vail and B. F. Potts, then
governor of Montana, as witnesses.
This treaty contained the provisions that the Flatheads
should move to Jocko; that the government should build 60
houses for them; that 600 bushels of wheat should be delivered
to the Indians the first year; that land be broken and
fenced for the Indians and they be given agricultural imple
ments; that the $5,000 appropriated for their1 removal be given
to the Indians ; that the sum of $50,000 be paid to them in ten
annual installments and that the Indians should move as soon
as the houses were built for them at Jocko, except such. as chose
to take up land in the Bitter Root valley in the regular manner.
Chariot was outraged when he learned that it had been pub
lished that he had signed the treaty. He declared he had never
signed it and that he had told the commissioner that he would
not sign it, but that he would never go, alive, to the Jocko. His
sense of honor was wounded; his dignity was shocked; his last
bit of trust in the whites was shattered.
Meanwhile, the houses were built near the agency at Jocko.
Arlee, with his personal following, who had recognized the Gar
field treaty, moved to their reservation, and Arlee was designated
by the government as the chief of the Flatheads. This added to
the resentment of Chariot. He persisted in his declaration that
he had never signed the treaty and that he was not bound by its
provisions. And he held the fort at Stevensville.
Major Ronan had become agent of the Flatheads; he sym
pathized with Chariot, but he recognized the futility of the con
tinued resistance of the old chief, and sought to dissuade him
from his course. The Bitter Root was settling rapidly. The
hunting grounds of the Flatheads were gone. They were starv
ing. More than that, the crowding of the settlers called for their
removal. The matter got to congress.
Senator Vest of Missouri and Major Maginnis, Montana's
delegate in congress, were named as a special commission to inves
tigate conditions. They visited the Jocko agency and then went
to Stevensville. They investigated the conditions. They listened

88 FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS
to Chariot's story. They heard Father Ravalli's account of the
case. They concluded that Chariot was absolutely correct and
they forced from General Garfield, later, the admission that
Chariot had not signed the treaty. The original document on file
at Washington did not bear the old man's mark. Garfield's
explanation of the publication of the treaty as having been
signed by Chariot was that he deemed it best to proceed as if
Chariot had signed, as he felt that Chariot, when he saw the
work progressing, would conclude to join with the "other chiefs"
and keep the tribe unbroken. It showed how little Garfield
knew Chariot.
Vest and Maginnis were much impressed by the honesty
and dignity of Chariot. Their report expresses regret that Gar
field committed the act of misrepresentation, as it had wronged
the chief and had doubly embittered him, especially as the act
of the department had placed Arlee, whom Chariot characterized
as a " Renegade Nez Perce, ' ' at the head of the tribe. The com
missioners talked earnestly with Chariot, urging him to accept the
terms of the treaty and promised to do all they could to see that
he was treated right. But the old man was too bitter and sore
at heart. In 1884, Major Ronan took Chariot and five of his sub-chiefs
to Washington for conference with the president and the secre
tary of the interior. There were further promises made to
Chariot if he would consent to the removal, but he would not
yield. ' He was told that he might remain in the Bitter Roof as
long as he was friendly with the whites — this he had always
been; he had saved them from dire disaster on more than one
occasion. The expedition returned with no better result than a
clearer understanding on Chariot's part. He had learned that
Major Ronan was his friend and when, a year later, there was a
distribution of supplies to the Bitter Root band, he softened con
siderably. Wagons, horses and plows were also issued and an
attempt was made, through Ronan 's influence, to give the Indians
a chance to make good on their located lands.
And so time wore on. The Indians were not successful
farmers and their condition became deplorable. General Car-
rington was sent in 1891 to try to induce Chariot to move. Arlee
had died and conditions were such that it was felt that the old
chief might at last consent. And this hope was, it proved, well
founded. Chariot talked with Major Ronan. He also called in
some of his Bitter Root friends. He consulted with Amos Buck
and with the father of Dave Whaley, who gave me this account
of Chariot 's speech after the old chief had reached his decision :
"I will go — I and my children. My young men are becom
ing bad; they have no place to hunt. My women are hungry.
For their sake I will go. I do not want the land you promise.

FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS 89
I do not believe your promises. All I want is enough ground for
my grave. We will go oyer there. ' '
Immediately the arrangements were made. Chariot's last
march was begun. In the afternoon of the next day, October 17,
1891, he reached the new home of his people in the Jocko. Major
Ronan had hastened ahead and was at the agency to greet the old
chief, whose people, also, received him with proper demonstra
tion. Mrs. Ronan, who witnessed the reception, gives this account
of the end of the march from the Bitter Root :
"It was a unique and, to some minds, pathetic spectacle,
when Chariot and his band of Indians marched to their future
home, the Jocko reservation. Their coming had been heralded
and many of the reservation Indians had gathered at the agency
to give them welcome. When within a mile of the agency church,
the advancing Indians spread out into a broad column. The
young men kept constantly discharging their firearms, while a
few of the number mounted on fleet ponies, arrayed in fantastic
Indian paraphernalia, with long blankets partially draping the
forms of the warriors and steeds, rode back and forth in front
of the advancing caravan, shouting and firing thein guns until
they neared the church, where a large banner of the Sacred
Hearts of Mary and Jesus was erected on a tall pole. Near the
sacred emblem stood a valiant soldier of Jesus Christ, Rev. Ph.
Canistrelli, S. J. With outstretched hands the good priest
blessed and welcomed the forlorn looking pilgrims. Chief Char-
lot 's countenance retained its habitual expression of stubborn
pride and gloom, as he advanced on foot, shaking hands with all
who had come to greet him. After the' handshaking was over,
all assembled in the agency chapel to the benediction of the most
Holy Sacrament. The '0 Salutaris' and 'Tantum Ergo' chanted
by those untutored children of the forest, told better than any
other words could of the patient teachings of the Jesuit fathers.
Every word of the beautiful Latin verses sounded as distinct as
if coming from cultivated voices. If the poor creatures reflected
on the meaning of these words:
' Bella premunt hostilia,
Da robur, fer auxilium, '
they must have felt that the touching sentiment truly expressed
the feeling of their hearts. After the benediction, the good and
learned Father Canistrelli, who has spent may years laboring
among the Indians, striving to enlighten their hearts, addressed
them in their own language. The good words seemed to console
and comfort them, if the peaceful expression of their counten
ances indexed aright their minds."
Such was the end of Chariot's last march. At its end he did
not find immediately the peace which had been promised him.

90 FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS
To the last he nursed his grievances and they were many.
Genuine wrongs he had and he brooded over them until they
magnified and multiplied. He never loved the Jocko. He was
never reconciled to this change of homes. Some satisfaction he
found in the bettered condition of his people and that was all.
He distrusted all whites. Had it not been for the indorsement
which I brought him at first from Mrs. Ronan and the subse
quent recommendation which Major Catlin gave me — the major
had been one of Chariot's trusted Stevensville friends — I doubt
if any of the several visits which I made at the Jocko cabin
would have been as pleasant and as satisfactory as they were.
But I gained an insight into the old man's heart that always
gives me sympathy even with his utter stubbornness. If the
whites had been as honest with him as he was with them, his
last days would have been happier.
As I walked along the route of his last march the other day
I could net help thinking of this thing. The beauty of the val
ley which he loved so much and all of the associations which
gathered about its scenes must have been constant visions before
his sightless eyes during those last bitter years. And the memory
of that last sad march down the valley must have been a pain
ful thought for him. Next Monday his people will march again
over the old trail, but it will be a travesty of that march of 20
years ago.
Sept. 9, 1911.

BACK TO THE BITTER ROOT

THE JAUNT of the Bitter Root Indians over the old trail
which they traversed twenty years ago, a jaunt which took
them back to Stevensville, was a decided success. This was
the first time the trail had been traveled by the entire tribe
since old Chariot led them forth for the last time from the valley
which was their ancestral home. A week ago I recalled some of
the incidents which attended the exodus of Chariot's people. It
was one of the most pathetic stories in western Montana's history.
During the week there have been many interesting reminiscences
among the men, white and red, who were figures in the incidents
which made the autumn of 1891 a memorable season in the cen
tral Bitter Root.
During the week I talked with a good many of the people
who were participants in the scenes of those weeks twenty years
ago. Naturally, the theme upon which all lingered was the atti
tude of Chariot in oppoing the removal of his people from the Bit
ter Root. I have always believed that Chariot told the truth when
he declared that he had never: signed the Garfield treaty, even
though it was published bearing his signature. In this belief, all
those who knew Chariot well share. The priests who were his
counsellors, Major Ronan, who was his good friend, Mrs. Ronan,
who had his confidence as much as anybody, Major Catlin, who
was his close friend for many years at Stevensville, Amos Buck
and all the old residents of the central valley — these have at one
time or another expressed unqualifiedly the opinion that Char-
lot told the truth when he said that he had not signed the Gar
field agreement.
"I know positively that Chariot did not sign the treaty,"
said Mrs. Ronan to me the other day. "Major Ronan had at the
agency the duplicate copy of the agreement which was given
him to keep for the Indians. I saw it many times and we often
looked at it again when the controversy was renewed. I know
that the name of Chariot did not have his mark beside it. He
was stubborn and sour, but he was always honest, and he grieved
much that the whites, whom he said he had always helped when
he could, should have done him this wrong. General Carrington
91

92 FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS
believed Chariot. It was the fact that he believed the old fellow
and understood him, that made it possible for General Carring-
ton to accomplish what others had failed to do.
' ' General Carrington came out here first in 1889. He made
Chariot 's acquaintance then and heard his story. We were pleased
that General Carrington took the view he did of the situation ;
from the first we were sure he would eventually succeed. And
he did. He discussed the situation very thoroughly with Major
Ronan and returned to the east with an excellent understanding
of the situation. ' '
Mrs. Ronan has a letter which General Carrington wrote to
Major Ronan after he had ended his first visit here. It shows
how thoroughly he had grasped the situation and gives an insight
into his policy which was the only one which could have won
Chariot. In this letter, General Carrington made the plans for
his subsequent visit, which proved successful. This is what he
wrote :
"Please advise Chief Chariot Victor that I desire another
interview with him. He is the only living Flathead chief. He
has the right and the ability to decide many minds which look
to him for words of wisdom. ' If times have changed and
he sees now what he could not see years ago, that the
very existence of his tribe depends very much upon his
action now, he will feel that it is worthy the character
and dignity of a great chief to decide differently from
his former decision. Any Indian who would find fault and say
that Chief Chariot changed his mind, does not understand that
it is only a wise and able chief who has the courage to change his
mind when times change. The Indian gave up the arrow and
bow because the gun made them useless. So the Bitter Root val
ley patents are becoming surrounded by white settlement and are
useless to the Indians. The reservation gives a home for the
whole tribe. I must proceed to appraise the patented lands.
The Indians refused to accept their patents, but the government
wishes to give them the value of those lands, the same as if they
did accept them. They went on the lands and made some
improvements. The improvements will also be appraised for their
benefit. I wish to have Michel explain to Chief Chariot why I
desire to see him again here, before going to his home in the
Bitter Root valley. I think if Chief Chariot would lead his peo
ple and say so, on paper, now, he wrould have a light heart once
more and feel that the spirit of Victor said to him: 'Chariot,
save our people. ' The tribe would be happy. Only men who are
jealous of Chariot and other Indians who are jealous of the
Flatheads would talk foolish. Brave men and wise men would
say: 'Chariot is a wise chief and has the courage to conquer

FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS 93
his own opinion, when change comes, for his people's sake.'
Please advise Chariot at once. ' '
How well the seed was planted in the heart of Chariot by
this letter was made evident when General Carrington returned
for the final negotiations. In the two 'years which intervened,
Chariot conquered his own spirit. He saw in the light which
Carrington turned on. General Carrington, better than anybody
else since Stevens, had the right system for dealing with the
Indians. It is true that Chariot complained, later, that some of
the promises of Carrington were not kept, but the old chief must
have been the victim of incompetent or indifferent interpreters.
There were times during the negotiations when Michel and
Francois were both compelled to be at the Jocko agency and then
Carrington was obliged to depend upon the interpretation of
Mary Lumphrey, a well-meaning woman, but not thoroughly
competent. It is likely that it was her fault that Chariot obtained
a wrong impression. Every official record shows that the word
of Carrington was kept to the letter.
This week the tribe came back. To the younger members,
the excursion was in the nature of a pleasure junket. To the
older members, it was — no matter what they thought when they
started — a solemn occasion. Every ridge in the mountains that
overlook the valley recalled to them the old days, when this was
their home and when they were unmolested and unchallenged in
its possession ; every turn in the river had some suggestion of the
days when they fished and hunted along its banks ; it was their
old home and the homecoming reminded them again of the sacri
fice they had made. Inevitable was that sacrifice, of course ; it
had tocome; but each one of the old members of the tribe knows
how little his people received in exchange for what they gave
up. The reminiscences which were prompted by the homecoming
were not all pleasant, then. There was a strain of sadness and of
regret running through them all. Some of the guests of Stevens
ville this week had not been in the old town since that October
day, twenty years ago, when they followed their old chief down
the main street of the town and started on their last march away
from the mission.
But the tribe is vastly better off now than it was when
Chariot consented to go forth from the Bitter Root. There is
no question that it is better off than it would have been had
Chariot not receded from his position. Never in the old days
were the Indians as well dressed, as gaily caparisoned and as
well fed as they were this week. Their parade was gorgeous;
they had evidently laid themselves out to impress their old
neighbors with the idea that the tribe had done well in leaving
the Bitter Root. But they had good appetites and the Bitter

94 FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS
Root beef tasted good to them. Nor did they seek to disguise the
fact. * They ate with gusto — also with their fingers.
There were, however, some of the older Indians, to whom
the return visit brought recollections which were melancholy.
Moiese, sturdy chieftain that he is, is one of those who have never
lost their love for the valley which was their old home. It was
with some reluctance that he consented to take part in the
celebration. He was not sure he wanted to see Stevensville again.
But he yielded and, once he was in sight of St. Mary's, he was
glad he came. He gazed long at the grand old peak and many
times during the stay in the valley he became lost in contempla
tion of the splendid old mountain in whose shadow his early life
had been spent. Moiese is a character. He, of all the tribe,
possesses the ideals which governed Chariot, perhaps to the same
extent. He loves the valley. Say what you will of the lack of
sentiment in the Indian, your belief would all be shattered were
you to talk with Moiese when he is communicative.
' ' I don 't know why my people were driven from the valley, ' '
said Moiese Wednesday, as he sat in his camp in the old Fort
Owen field. "When we lived here in the old days, we were
many people. Now this is all of us — and his arm swept around
in a gesture which included the camp — we are few. The Black
Robes sent answer to us that they would teach us the new relig
ion if we would come to meet them. We went over the hills
there — and he pointed to the Big Hole pass — six days to a great
prairie. There we met them. They came to us and they taught
us. Since then our people have died. I think it is too much
study. They taught us to drink. Before the Black Robes came
and we lived in this valley, each year we used to choose a boy
and send him to the top of the mountain — St. Mafy's — and he
fasted there and made medicine for the people. Then he came
back and we were well. That was all the studying we had to do
then. Up on the mountain where the boy went there was, long
ago, a cottonwood tree, but it died. My father told me about it.
He had seen it. Under this tree there was many pebbles. Every
body who went there put some of those pebbles in his shirt to
bring back to the valley, but nobody ever brought one down.
Always they were lost before the foot of the mountain was
reached. They could not be brought away. But in those days
we were happy. The valley was our home. If we had not
learned to think, we would not have been driven out. ' '
There was another good story told to me during the week.
When General Carrington was told that Chariot had arrived
to talk with him, the general did not at once go to meet him. He
donned his full military uniform, as calculated to make a better
impression upon the chief than the civilian clothes in which he
had been attired during his conference with Major Ronan. Then

FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS 95
he went out to receive the chief. It was well — as the general
discovered — that the thought had occurred to him to wear the
regimentals. For Chariot was decked out in style, himself. His
poverty showed in every thread of his costume, but he was
bravely clad in regal fashion. The stovepipe hat which many of
us remember topped his head. Over his shoulder and across his
breast he had thrown a beaded sash and wristlets and anklets to
match this sash were drawn over his shabby clothes. Mrs. Ronan
has a photograph of Chariot, taken as he waited for the general.
Louison is another of the chiefs who survives. He was help
ful in bringing Chariot to a right way of thinking. Michel, the
blind interpreter, was another helpful Indian. He was a loyal
assistant to Major Ronan and General Carrington in the nego
tiations. But of all those concerned in the council and of all
who dealt with the Flatheads in those days, there was none who
did as much as did Major Ronan. A photograph, taken by F. M.
Ingalls of Missoula, during the course of the negotiations while
the party was passing back and forth between Jocko and Ste
vensville, shows Major Ronan, General Carrington, Michel and
Louison. Upon a copy of this photograph which he presented to
Mrs. Ronan, General Carrington wrote this inscription :
"Mrs. Mary Ronan will please accept with my regards, this
picture in which I am happy to be associated with her husband
who, more than any other man, has worked for the welfare of
the Flathead Indians. — Henry B. Carrington, IT. S. A."
These are a few of the interesting sidelights which this week
developed in connection with the twentieth anniversary of Char-
lot's last march. The week has been interesting, extremely so.
The scenes connected with the celebration in Stevensville were
picturesque; the Indians were never more impressive in their
demonstrations. Perhaps it was the paucity of their numbers
which made it so, as much as anything else. The delegation
which came down from Jocko to revisit the old tribal home was'
practically the whole tribe as it is today. It was a prosperous
delegation, but it was small ; its reduced numbers told of what is
happening with the red man.
I don't believe there will be any desire on the part of the
older members of the tribe to visit Stevensville again in celebra
tion. They had a fine reception and the Stevensville people were
hospitable in the extreme. It was a memorable occasion. But
it was sorrowful for some of the older men and women. The
visit revived old memories and freshened old wounds. Each of
the old men, warriors once, and good ones, will tell you — if he
talks to you — of the olden friendship of his people for the
whites. He will tell you of the times when the Flatheads pro
tected the whites from massacre or from robbery. He will relate
incidents in which he, himself, participated. Then he will say

96

FOLLOWING

OLD

TRAILS

that the white man has repaid this friendliness in poor sort.
And, if you were an Indian, would you not view the matter
in the same- way ? > l
Sept. 16, 1911.

The First Jocko Agency

UP THE BLACKFOOT

UP THE BLACKFOOT runs one of the particularly
interesting trails of western Montana. Longer than the
oldest Indian can remember this trail was the highway
of his people to the buffalo country on their annual hunting
expeditions. Over this trail crept the war parties of the stealthy
Blackfeet on their way to give battle to the Selish or to lie in
ambush for the western Indians as they journeyed to the eastern
hunting grounds to procure buffalo meat and hides for the win
ter. The mountains which overshadow this trail have resounded
to the war cry of the savages as they hurled themselves upon
their foe and have given back the answering shout of the
attacked as they rallied for the defense. The loud chant of vic
tory and the wail of mourning have echoed through the canyon
walls, between which the trail makes its way. These same hills
have, later, been invaded by the woodsman and the sound of the
axe and the crash of falling trees have stirred the echoes to a
different note. And now, before many weeks, the whistle of the
locomotive will be heard where the cry of the savage warriors
once disturbed the quiet. So swings the pendulum of time.
Moccasined feet first beat the trail "Up the Blackfoot. " It
was the connecting thoroughfare between the broad plains of the
buffalo country and the sheltered valleys of the western slope.
Eastward along its picturesque way went the Flatheads and the
Nez Perces, the Kalispells and the Pend d'Oreilles after the
bison of the prairies, which furnished them their food, clothing
and shelter for the winter season. Westward they came, later,
laden with the spoils of the chase if they had been successful or
burdened with the weight of defeat if they had been outnum
bered and outgeneraled in the almost inevitable conflict with the
eastern foes. Nor was it always for war that the Blackfeet and
the Crows came westward over this trail; sometimes they crept
silently down its course, intent upon the theft of the Flatheads'
horses! If these expeditions were successful, the canyon resound
ed to the patter of ponies' feet as the raiders returned, driving
the stolen steeds ahead of them and losing no time in getting
back to their own country. For the Flatheads were certain to
97

The Blackfoot Valley

— Ftom a Sketch Made for Stevens' Report, 1855.

FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS ,99
pursue and more than once they fell upon and punished the
marauders. Always there was something happening along this
trail. Here were won the laurels of many a young brave and
here were fought the battles which won chieftaincies for more
than one bearer of the eagle's wing.
Lewis and Clark traveled this trail and in later years it was
widened and the creaking wagon of the freighter and the lumber
ing stagecoach traversed its length. There are broad valleys
along this trail and the invading farmer early found his way
to their grass-covered slopes. Thousands of cattle fed upon the
hills and countless sheep browsed up hill and down. Fences
appeared and the whirr of the reaper became the autumn music
in these vales. The main divide of the continent is the trail's
crest ; there are two crossings — one bears the names of the great
explorers; the other is called Cadotte's pass. The western slope
of the trail is abundantly watered by thousands of streams and
by many beautiful lakes; its valleys are wonderfully fertile and
its mountains are grand. The wealth of timber makes this one of
the richest regions of Montana, supplementing the marvelous
productivity of the valleys. It is a beautiful trail to travel and
it possesses historical associations that add to the delight of the
journey. I have made a good many trips over this old trail. It was
an old one when I first drove up the river, almost twenty years
ago, but when I traveled it the other day, the changes made me
feel like a pioneer as I looked back at what it was when I first
saw it. It was in October that I made my first journey up the
Blackfoot — October, nineteen years ago. Fred Sterling intro
duced me to this wonderful country and I shall never forget
that drive. Mr. Sterling had a team in those days that I would
rather ride behind than to travel in an automobile — that is, if
somebody else was driving. Bay Star was a horse from the Ray
mond ranch ; he could- go more miles in a day than any other
animal that ever looked through a bridle, and he could travel
these miles quicker and come in fresher than anything else that
ever stood on steel— anything except the "Allen mare" that was
his driving mate. Star was a puller— he could trot up hill and
down twenty miles with four men pulling on each rein and
never break his .stride. It required a man with Sterling's
strength to drive him successfully. But when he was hitched
beside the "Allen mare" he, lost some of his impetuosity and
.became very much a gentleman; the team used to move like
machinery. And.it was this team, that took me up the Blackfoot
for the first time. The road from Bonner used to lead tip the
right side of the canyon, along the' famous old Blue Slide. It
was as treacherous a piece of road as ever was mapped. On
that day a great rock slid' down, loosened by the jar of our pas-

100 FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS
sage, and would have taken off a hind wheel had it not been for
Sterling's quickness with the team. There had been a snow
storm in the upper country ; when we got to the Stairs place, we
traded our buggy for a sleigh and the way we hit the road the
rest of route was breathless. It was a great ride. On the way
back, we came upon a splendid bighorn buck, standing squarely
in the middle of the road; the sheep looked at us and trotted
out of the road; Sterling left me to watch and drove to Jeff
Demmons ' place to get a rifle. He came back with Jeff and the
rifle, the sheep having obligingly waited within twenty yards of
me. The return of the team didn't feaze the buck ; he stood like
a statue while Jeff got a rest on a small tree and fired at him.
Jeff missed. What ensued were better left unsaid.
At that time there were a few ranches on Camas prairie;
beyond, at Sunset and at Clearwater, there were centers of scat
tering farmers. Ovando and Helmville, beyond, were the busi
ness points for a country that was of older settlement and of
longer cultivation. It was all a country of inviting richness,
but there was nothing to it then, compared with what there is
today. The Blackfoot country today is one of the most remark
able farming sections of western Montana. The railway which is
pushing its way up the Blackfoot canyon to the Landing will
push farther along before a great while, the possibilities beyond
are too great to be resisted. There is no finer grain and grass
land in the world than is found in this region ; there are no val
leys so splendidly watered as these ; there are no meadows more
fertile ; there are no crops more abundant than those which are
produced in these valleys that skirt the Blackfoot trail. And this
country has at last been discovered. For a long time fortunes
have been quietly made in the Blackfoot by the farmers, the
cattlemen and the sheepgrowers. But there has been no booming.
The country has just quietly come into its own ; the settlers are
many now.
One of the most historically important trips ever made over
the Blackfoot trail, after the march of Lewis and Clark along its
route, was that of Governor Stevens and Captain C. P. Higgins
in 1855. This was immediately after Stevens had concluded his
treaty with Chief Victor at Council Grove, just below Missoula.
The parley with Victor had taken a longer time than was expect
ed, and, as soon as it was concluded and the necessary formalities
had been recognized, the treaty party resumed its march to Fort
Benton, where it was expected a council would be held with the
Blackfeet, a council whose object was to end the warfare with the
tribes on the western slope of the mountains and to establish
peace with the Crows, the Gros Ventres and other plains tribes.
Governor Stevens expected, also to meet at Fort Benton Commis
sioner Cumming, who had been appointed from Washington to

FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS 101
operate with him in securing this treaty. Victor and Alexander,
with their braves, were to participate in this council and were
to be parties to the new treaty, of which the one signed at
Council Grove was but a preliminary.
Governor Stevens was anxious to reach Benton ; if Cummings
had traveled on scheduled time, he would be waiting for the
governor and the latter knew enough about the bureau fellows
in Washington to know that Cummings wouldn't stand for
much waiting. Later events proved that Cummings had failed
to follow instructions and had nearly been prevented from get
ting to Benton at all ; it was Stevens who did the waiting. But
when Victor and Alexander had signed the Hell Gate treaty, the
governor felt the need of haste and he hurried.
Before the close of the Hell Gate council, Stevens' agents,
Tappan and Craig, had arrived with the delegation of Nez Perces
under Looking Glass, Spotted Eagle, Eagle-from-the-Light and
others. It was agreed that the Nez Perces, with Victor and Alex
ander and their Flatheads and Pend d'Oreilles, accompanied by
Agent Tom Adams and Interpreter Ben Kiser, should cross the
mountains to the buffalo country and hunt on the plains south
of the Missouri until the time came for holding the great peace
council at Benton, of which they would be notified. The agents
were to establish courier systems, to guard against all possible
collisions with the Blackfeet and to get word to the Crows of the
time of the council.
These arrangements concluded, Governor Stevens started his
expedition on the march to Fort Benton. "For six miles," the
record of the expedition says, ' ' we crossed the broad, level valley
here known as the Hell Gate ronde, and, passing the deep, dark
portal of that name, six miles beyond it, we camped on the Hell
Gate river. During the next five days and one hundred miles,
the party traversed the broad plateau of the great mountain
chain over a beautiful rolling country of wide, grassy valleys and
gently-rolling prairies, interspersed with low, wooded hills and
spurs, and well watered with clear, cold, rapid mountain streams.
It was hard to realize that this beautiful and diversified prairie
country was the top of the Rocky mountains, the backbone of the
continent. At the second day's camp, the Indian hunter and
guide, a Pend d 'Oreille furnished by Alexander, brought in a
fine string of mountain trout, and, not content with this, started
out again and soon returned with an elk, and after this the
messes were rarely out of game — elk, deer, antelope and moun
tain trout."
The trail followed the Missoula river and the Big Blackfoot,
and it will be seen from this description that the country has not
changed so very much in sixty years. The game yet lingers close
to the valleys; it is a veritable hunters' paradise yet, though the

102 FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS
settler has taken possession of the valley and cattle and sheep
browse where elk and deer formerly found pasturage. It is a
wonderfully beautiful country now as it was then.
Governor Stevens followed up the Blackfoot to the main
divide and there crossed by the Lewis and Clark pass. The sum
mit of the pass was reached an hour before sunset and the gov
ernor wrote an illumined description of the view which he beheld
as he looked back over the plains that lay before him. He char
acterized the scene as a "magnificent and beautiful view, with
the main chain stretching away to the north and the broad plains,
broken by many streams and coulees, extending as far as the eye
could reach, like an illimitable sea."
With Captain Higgins, his packmaster and lieutenant,
Stevens agreed upon a routine which proved successful in getting
the train over a good deal of country each day with compara
tively little effort. It was the practice to start rather late in the
morning — usually at 8 o'clock — and to move at a brisk pace
without stopping at noon for rest or meal, making camp early in
the afternoon. This afforded the animals plenty of time for
feeding in the evening and morning, and made it possible to make
a daily march of at least twenty miles, which was often increased
to thirty or forty as occasion demanded. It was as fine a train
as ever crossed the mountains and the record shows that there
was never a sore-backed animal.
Of the handling of the train by Captain Higgins the record
says : "As soon as an animal showed signs of needing rest, a
fresh animal from the loose herd relieved the distressed one. The
packers worked in couples, each pair caring for and handling
ten mules. The riding animals were picked Indian horses. The
mules were of large American stock. Thorough discipline and
the best feeling prevailed among the party. There was scarcely
a quarrel during the whole nine months that the expedition
lasted. It was noticeable that, though hard-worked and only
grass-fed, the animals actually improved in condition — a unique
experience on the plains."
Over the Lewis and Clark pass, the train left the Blackfoot
country behind. Yet they were just entering the real country
of the Blackfeet. Back of them were the prairies, groves and
streams of the wonderful plateau; before them were the vast,
rolling plains — gray and arid, save for the mighty rivers which
had their sources in the hills behind. Camping one night on the
Dearborn river, one on the Sun and three on the Teton, the party
covered 130 miles and reached the vicinity of Fort Benton on the
fifth clay, making camp on the Teton river, four miles from the
post. The end of the Blackfoot trail was reached.
Sept. 23, 1911.

THE GREAT COUNCIL
THERE is a vast difference, even now, between the western
slope of the main divide and the great, rolling plains
which stretch away from the eastern side of the Rocky
mountains. But, before the magic touch of the irrigator had
transformed the browns and grays of the east side prairies to
the bright green of the grain field, the contrast was greater and
it is easy to understand how Governor Stevens, journeying over
the Blackfoot trail from his council with Victor at Hell Gate,
felt that he was in a new region as he crossed over the Lewis and
Clark pass and moved toward Fort Benton for that other council
which was destined to establish new relations between the tribes
of Montana. On the west side, the numerous lakes and streams
kept the meadows green long after the summer sun had cured
the eastern grasses to their dull gray. Dense forests and innu
merable groves of evergreen were here and there interspersed with
the deciduous trees. It had been a veritable paradise. On the
east side the country was rolling and broken with many cou
lees, but water-courses which, earlier in the season had been run
ning streams were dry gulches or else contained but pools of"
stagnant water as the Stevens party found its way down the trail
from the summit of the pass and out upon the plains. There
were mighty rivers, but their banks were high and steep and
their flow gave slight verdancy to the nearby growths.
Since that time, the waters of the streams along which Gov
ernor Stevens camped on his way from the summit to Fort Ben
ton have been diverted by dams and canals until they spread over
vast areas which they have reclaimed for purposes of agricul
ture. In places, the transformation of the country has been
remarkable ; it seems almost like uncanny magic. Dearborn, Sun
and Teton rivers furnished the camping places for the party on
its important mission. Here and there were meadows which pro
vided the forage necessary for the maintenance of the train. That
was all in the year 1855, when the expedition made its memorable
march. Now these meadows have been extended ; the benches,
then dry and sparsely grassed, are now productive.
It is an interesting region which lies between the head
waters of the Big Blackfoot river and the turbid flood of the
Missouri as it sweeps past Fort Benton. The advance of the tide
of civilization has not changed it much in this respect. It was
103

104 FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS
great buffalo country in those days ; later, it became great cattle
country and vast fortunes were made and lost by the men who
engaged in the range industry; yet later, it was the scene of
reclamation work — some of it genuine and some of it devoted to
the enrichment of its promoters at the expense of some body else.
Dearborn has been the center of helpful reclamation work
under the Cary act, which has resulted in much good. Sun river
is now skirted by some of the finest farms in Montana. The
Teton has been made to reclaim its own basin and even the
benches which stretched at what once seemed an impractical
height above the stream. There are interesting chapters con
nected with the history of these reclamation projects ; they have
not been perfected without some hard fighting. Some of these
chapters will probably never be written; others of them have
been told or will be told one of these days.
Some years ago, I had a pleasant trip up Sun river. As the
road ran then from Great Falls, it skirted for some distance a
ditch — -then dry and grassgrown — whieh had played an import
ant part in the early "reclamation" work of that region, work
whose aim was to ' ' reclaim ' ' great areas of land from the public
domain and to transfer it to the holdings of the cattle barons,
through the medium of the operation of the then loosely con
structed desert-land law.
This ditch, along which we drove that summer day, crossed
places which must have been the camping ground of the Stevens
party. It looked as if it were old enough to have been in use in
1855. It was so neglected and overgrown with weeds and grass
•that it seemed as if it had not carried water for more than a
generation. It wasn 't a very big ditch when it was new. It was
even smaller then, choked as it was by the accumulations of sev
eral summers. It was easy to step across it anywhere.
Yet, some men whose names are prominent in Montana his
tory had, in testimony given at a hearing in the general land
office in Washington, testified that this ditch was so large that
they had seen a boat sail through it. Their testimony won for
them many broad acres of land. I knew of this testimony and
I looked at the ditch.
"How did they do it?" Tasked of my friend in the buckboard.
' ' Was it just a plain lie or a varnished one ? ' '
"It was well varnished," was the reply. "When they fin
ished this ditch, they built an alleged boat and placed it in the
trough where the water should have been. Then they hitched
a team to the boat and dragged it along on the dry bottom of
the ditch. There was never any Sun river water in the ditch;
all the flow it ever had was from the water which drained into
it in the spring. But that was the way they reclaimed land in
those days."

FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS 105
However, Governor Stevens was not reclaiming land and
was not building ditches. He was seeking to reclaim the savages
from warfare and he went about it honestly. Had he been dig
ging ditches, he would have done it on the square, for he was
an honorable man and he dealt with the Indians on a fair-play
basis. Otherwise, the history of Montana would be different
from what it is. Governor Stevens dealt honorably with the
Indians ; the promises he made them were made to be kept. Until
the civil war removed him from this field of labor and, eventual
ly, from all earthly strife, he saw to it that the Indians were
given all that had been promised them. ' How difficult this was,
the Benton council showed.
When Governor Stevens left Hell Gate, he expected to find
Alfred Cumming, superintendent of Indian agencies, waiting
for him at Fort Benton. Mr. Cumming had been named as com
missioner to act with Stevens in the council with the Blackfeet.
General Palmer of Oregon, the third commissioner, had declined
to take the risk of the trip across the mountains. Governor Ste
vens had impressed upon the authorities at Washington the
necessity for having Cumming on time, as he was to bring the
treaty supplies and the rations for the expedition. The govern
ment's promptness in this respect would have a good influence
upon the Indians and the government had agreed to have Ste
vens ' recommendations carried out to the letter. But Cumming
was of the pompous, official type and did things his own way.
He was so, late getting up the river that his steamer could not
get farther than old Fort Union ; here the supplies were unload
ed and were being towed up the stream by a force of men walk
ing along the bank. All this Stevens learned when he had jour
neyed down the Missouri to meet his tardy associate.
It was a perplexing situation. Stevens' party was without
food, having brought only enough rations for the trip, expecting
to find Cumming 's supply at Benton; the post traders had no
stock of provisions, as their shipments had been delayed by
Cumming 's dilatory tactics; there were 2,000 western Indians
in the Missouri valley, as delegates to the great council and the
problem of keeping them out of trouble was grave. The Crows
were to be dealt with and brought to the council. There were
innumerable vexing conditions. And Cumming, opposed1 to the
pacific policy of handling the Indians, despising the country,
which he declared was not worth treating for, assuming the
entire authority of the commission until Stevens showed him his
place — he was the most difficult problem of all.
Governor Stevens impressed the men upon whom he could
depend and organized a fleet messenger service which kept him
in touch with the tribes. The Indians were assigned to camping
grounds, as far south as the Musselshell river, where the western

106 FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS
tribes. had their main village. By constant communication, Ste
vens kept the Indians all in line. Hunting parties provided an
abundance of meat and, though there was no flour, coffee or
tea, the companions of the governor were loyal and sympathetic.
It was a hard problem to cover all this ground by express mes
senger service; the men must be dependable as well physically
able; the governor's 13-year-old son was impressed into this
service, so trying did the situation become at times. The young
ster made some remarkable rides.
So passed July and then August. Still the boats which
should have come with Cumming, did not appear. The range
was becoming poor and the hunting was not good. It became nec
essary for the Nez Perces to drift south to the Yellowstone. The
Flatheads sent word that, if the council was not held in fourteen
clays, they also must go to new grounds. But there was no strife
amongst the Indians; they observed strictly their agreement
with Stevens and these long-time foes visited and hunted
together. Only once was there any threat of trouble. Four Pend
d'Oreilles had come to Benton to see the governor. He told
them to turn their horses out with his. When they sought their
steeds, the animals were gone — stolen by Blackfeet. None of
the Stevens horses had been taken. The governor immediately
dispatched Little Dog, a Blood chief, to find the trail of the
thieves, and sent his secretary, Doty, to the northern; Blackfeet
camps. Little Dog rode nearly 200 miles and did not find the
trail. Doty rode 230 miles north into British territory, making
better than 50 miles a day. On Bow river he struck a camp
only two hours later than the arrival of the thieves. He called
together the chiefs and demanded the stolen horses. Lame Bull,
the head chief, returned three of the animals, but said thai! the
thieves had escaped with the other. He offered two of his own
horses in place of the one not recovered and expressed great
regret at the incident. By this time Little Dog had overtaken
Doty and to him the surrendered horses were turned, with
instructions to take them back to Benton. Doty pushed on in
pursuit of the thieves. On Elk river he found another camp of
Blackfeet, where the chief, Bull's Head, immediately surrendered
the horse and gave two others as amends for the misconduct of
his young men. Sixteen days after the theft, Doty returned the
horses to the Pend d'Oreilles at Benton and what promised to
be a distressing incident served to strengthen the faith of the
Indians in the word of the governor.
It was September 8 when the Nez Perces moved to the Yel
lowstone. It was two days later when the Flatheads sent word
that they could not stay more than a fortnight longer. The
couriers said that, unless the council were held in less then three

FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS 107
weeks, there would not be a western Indian there. Cumming
remained indifferent, even opposing the suggestions of Stevens
as to the nature of the treaty which should be submitted to the
council. He took no part in the strenuous efforts made to hold
the Indians together, though it was his incompetence which had
caused all the trouble.
The boats had not yet arrived. Stevens sent messengers
down the river and found they had not yet reached the mouth of
the Judith and would not be there before October 8. That was
a hundred miles below Benton and 25 days would be required to
tow the cargo that distance. The Indians were scattering and,
though their friendliness continued, they were becoming rest
less. It was essential that the council be held at the earliest
possible moment; it was the psychological time, when all the
Indians were in the right mood.
To his agents and couriers, who had been told to assemble
the Indians October 3, the governor confided a new plan and
sent them scattering with the message. The council would be
held at the mouth of the Judith, where the boats would be
unloaded. All of the tribes were brought together, the entire
western delegations attending and the Blackfeet sending selected
parties with their chiefs. Had Cumming brought the supplies
through on time, there would have been 12,000 Indians at the
council; as it was there were 3,500.
In assembling the Indians at the new council place, some
lively messenger work had been done. Hazard, the governor's
13-year-old son, rode 150 miles between 10 o'clock one morning
and 3 o'clock the next afternoon. Doty rode 300 miles in quick
time ; Higgins went to the Yellowstone, 200 miles to the south ;
Tappan and Adams rode as far.
Three days were spent explaining to the chiefs the neces
sity for the change in the place of the council and on Wednes
day, October 10, Governor Stevens went down to the mouth of
the Judith. On the next day he reached the point where the
boats were unloading, a mile below the Judith. He prepared
the council ground and assigned the Indians to their respective
grounds as they arrived. Cumming came down the river in a
skiff and did not reach the Judith until Saturday. Monday,
the last of the Indians had come and on Tuesday, October 16,
the council was opened.
Vexatious though the delay had been, it had served thor
oughly to acquaint the Indians with the purpose of the treaty
and to give them an understanding of the attitude of all con
cerned. The Crows were the only one of the tribes summoned,
not represented. The Snakes had been compelled to return to
their, home, but wer.e counted upon to support the treaty. In
the council were the Bloods, Blackfeet, Piegans, Gros Ventres —

108 FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS
eastern tribes — ¦ and Nez Perces, Flatheads, Kootenais, Pend
d 'Oreilles — western.
Two days only were required to reach an understanding as
to the treaty. The governor referred to the fact that all the
tribes were at peace with the white man and he wanted them to
be friendly, each with the others. There was no dispute except
as to the zone in which the Flatheads and Pend d'Oreilles should
be permitted to hunt buffalo. The Blackfeet wanted them to
go south into the Yellowstone country; the Pend d'Oreilles
wanted to hunt in the Missouri valley, as it was closer to their
pass over the mountains. The Blackfeet finally agreed and the
treaty was signed. October 18, 19 and 20, the days following
the signing of the treaty, were devoted to the distribution of
presents, to feasting and rejoicing. They fraternized pleasantly
and all agreed, though the Crows were not represented, there
would be no attack made upon them by any of the treaty tribes.
The treaty was signed in time to establish peaceful condi
tions in the great central valleys of Montana before the arrival
of the immigrants who came in the early sixties. It insured for
the immigrants immunity from the outrages which had char
acterized the settlement of the Sioux country and the far south
west. It was a timely treaty and it was well kept by the Indians.
There were many pleasant incidents connected with the
council. In fact, almost the only disagreeable feature of the
session was the presence of Cumming and his persistent opposi
tion. He held aloof from Stevens and the others, even socially.
When the council sessions closed he withdrew to his own tent
and did not join in the evenings of feasting and story-telling
which were so pleasat for the others. But the governor had a
good time and took no pains to conceal the fact.
As the office tent, the Indians had erected an unusually
large lodge of buffalo skins and here, when the work of the
evening was over Governor Stevens would assemble the men of
his party, a few chiefs and some of the interpreters ; there would
follow what the governor termed "a regular Homeric feast"
of buffalo ribs, flapjacks and melted sugar, and hot coffee. The
whole side of a buffalo, well roasted, would be brought in and
each member of the party would cut off a rib for himself.
These dainties were about three feet long, but there was no
discount to the zest with which the sweet meat was separated
from the bones. There were stories by the interpreters and
guides and the sessions usually lasted till midnight.
The treaty was more than a mere peace agreement; it con
tained special agreements between the Blackfeet and the gov
ernment, similar to those which had been made with the western
tribes in separate councils. The Blackfeet were to have a res
ervation, were to be paid annuities to the amount of $50,000;

FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS 109
were to have an agent and schools. The whole country between
the Missouri and the Yellowstone was to be common hunting
ground. The senate ratified the treaty the next winter and in
April, 1856, it was proclaimed by the president. The tribes
represented were : Blackfeet nation, 11,500 ; Nez Perces, 2,500 ;
Flathead nation, 2,000.
The credit for the amicable agreement is due to the tireless
efforts of Governor Stevens. He won despite the passive and
active opposition of Superintendent Cumming, who was a fair
specimen of the old-time bureaucrat. It required great tact, a
thorough knowledge, of the Indians and a spirit of fair play.
Governor Stevens had made a preliminary trip in 1853 to
prepare the Indians for this event. He had told them only
the truth; they had checked him up and had found him abso
lutely correct. When he came back for the final council, they
trusted him. The Judith council was not as difficult as was
that on the Hell Gate save for the delay caused by the indiffer
ence and the incompetence of the governor's associate. Its
results were far-reaching. It was one of the great contributing
factors in the building of the state. It made it possible for
whites to come in and not be disturbed.
September 30, 1911.

PEARSON'S GREAT RIDE

THE Indians were great highway engineers. The mountain
passes over which they made their journeys and the river
routes which they adopted for their passage through the
valleys were afterward accepted by the trappers and traders as
the most convenient course for their movements. This was natural
enough. The trappers had practically the same impedimenta that
the Indians carried ; the Indian trail was just what they wanted.
The packers followed and their trains moved along the paths
which the Indians had blazed and which the trappers had beat
en deeper. With the exception of here and there a difficult
mountain crossing, these trails served the purposes of the freight
ers when the heavy wagon succeeded the packhorse as a means
of transportation. When, yet later, the government's engineers
came to survey routes for the highways which had been estab
lished by congress, they sought in vain for a better place some
where than the ones which the Indians in the experience of long
travel had selected. Nor were the railway surveyors able to
improve upon this selection ; the lines of steel which now span
the continent stretch along the lines of the old Indian travel
of generations ago.
So it is that two great railways have lines over the Coeur
d'Alene pass which was the route of the Mullan road built by
the government, which in turn had followed the path of the
old Walla Walla packers, who had taken the course which Nez
Perce and Coeur d'Alene warriors and hunters had traversed
for untold years. This was the summer trail, only, in the days
of Indian travel and the packers used to make their spring trips
and their late fall pilgrimages by way of the Pend d 'Oreille,
preferring to risk the perils of the Lightning creek crossing to
the dangers of the deep snows on the Bitter Root mountains
at the Coeur d'Alene pass. But the railways have to fight the
snow all winter; they cannot take the alternative course which
the earlier transportation outfits could choose. And the rail
ways have learned with the hard knocks of experience that it is
no child's play to combat the snows of these hills when they are
good and deep — and they are that almost every winter. The
no

FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS 111
precipitation is great upon these summits ; the moisture-laden
winds from the Pacific here encounter the high, cold barrier
which robs them of their burden and sends them speeding east
ward, dry and crisp.
It was a long time before the Northern Pacific's line over
this pass settled into anything like permanency ; there were years
after the road opened, when it was a question in winter and
spring whether trains would get through or not. The improve
ment of the rotary plow has made it possible to keep the track
open now and there is little delay from this source and most of
the movable scenery has slid down upon the track and been shov
eled off down the banks below, so that the danger from this
source has passed, as well. The Milwaukee has had an experi
ence somewhat similar, though the extreme danger was avoided
by the construction of the long St. Paul tunnel. However, there
is considerable portable scenery along this road which possesses
the tendency to slip down and this was annoying at first ; the
disagreeable tendency has been largely overcome since the start.
So, also, at first, the Milwaukee had snowslides to bother the
even tenor of operation ; but these have been governed and
subdued to a fine system of control which amounts practically
to the subjugation of the fierce old pass.
In the early days of railway transportation over this pass,
there were a good many interesting experiences. The rotary
snowplow was then comparatively a new institution and had not
been acclimated to the altitude of the Bitter Roots. It was used
to bucking the Dakota drifts on the plains, but it was a long
time before it got accustomed to cutting around the curves on
the 4 per cent grade. One day — S. G. Ramsey was division
superintendent then — the rotary was coming east from Wallace
and had got successfully over the hill. Coming into the Saltese
yard, the rotary left the rails at the old west switch and was
shoved along through the snow, which was about 17 feet deep
at that point, until it struck the west end of the station platform,
more than 10 feet away from the track. For several years the
scars which the rotary blades inflicted upon the planking of
the station were visible. That was the year when the pole props
were placed under the overhang roof of the Saltese station plat
form ; the weight of snow was so great that the roof threatened
to collapse. The snow level was even with the sills of the sec
ond-story windows in the station and the people on the street
behind the station had to tunnel through the great bank — there
were no drifts ; it was all level — to get to the railway. The
snow doesn't seem to get so deep in later years.
Joe Sawhill and Joe Bradley were conductors on the line
then. They used to start out in the winter, expecting to be gone
anywhere from two days to two weeks. Their way cars were

112 FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS
equipped with scores of shovels and picks; when a train got
stuck," passengers were expected to help shovel. It was more or
less primitive, but it was ijiteresting, especially as there was
always a big chest in the car, filled with bread and boiled ham
and coffee. Once, I remember, the chest was exhausted and the
snow looked deeper and more impenetrable than ever. We
were between Saltese and DeBorgia and we were also mighty
* hungry. Two of us struggled through the snow to the section
house at DeBorgia, expecting to find supplies there. But the
family had left and all we could find when we searched the
house was soda crackers and big onions. We took it all and
that was what we had to eat for 17 hours. It was hard railroad
ing, but it served to emphasize the realization of the difficulties
which used to attend the crossing with a pack train.
There have been some perilous crossings of this old pass.
One of the best couriers that ever rode a horse was W. H. Pear
son, the express rider whose wonderful endurance and courage
saved the Stevens expedition in 1855, after the treaties had been
signed with the western Indians and with the different Black
feet tribes. All through the expedition Pearson had served the
governor, keeping him in touch with affairs at Olympia. Two
of his rides across the Bitter Root were the most interesting of
all the incidents connected with the crossing of the Bitter Root
mountains. One of these crossings was in the early weeks of an
exceptionally snowy winter. The other -was made in such quick
time that its story is almost incredible, but it is vouched for by
the official records of the expedition. The midwinter crossing
of Governor Stevens and his party is one of the most interest
ing incidents in the history of western Montana.
About the region which is contiguous to the Coeur d'Alene
pass there has been thrilling history written. Fire and flood
have contributed to the material of this history; disaster and
destruction have held sway here ; the pluck and perseverance of
the people have furnished an example which might well be fol
lowed by the talking boosters who hold the floor in some other
communities. Grand is the scenery here ; marvelous is the beauty
of the hills ; sweet is the music of the streams ; glorious is the
promise for the future in the mineral wealth which is hidden
here. But the hills are seared and scarred with the marks of
the conflict between man and the elements. Blackened are some
of the slopes ; others are swept bare. Yet kindly Mother Nature
is hastening to cover the wounds and to protect the avalanche-
swept hillsides; there are new forests springing up and the
spirit of progress which moves the people of this region is in
emulationi of the dauntless courage of nature.
It is an interesting trail to follow, even now, when the hand
of man has transformed it from its old appearance ; but it must

FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS 113
have been a wonderful place when Pearson rode across it, accom
panied only by an Indian guide, to deliver the news of the west
side to the governor who was in council on the Missouri. It is
not a difficult matter to picture its appearance then, if it is seen
now in midwinter, for the great depth of snow which falls here
obliterates almost entirely the landmarks which man has estab
lished and restores the summit to its primeval condition. Save
for the thin, dark line which the railway makes, there is noth
ing here in midwinter to indicate that there has been an invasion
of this mountain wilderness by man. It is weirdly beautiful and
it is so silent that the stillness rings. — But the story of Pearson ;
that's the thing.
W. H. Pearson was his name. He was one of the many men
whose deeds contributed immeasureably to the peaceful conquest
of the northwest — deeds which outshine many of those that have
been blazoned upon the scroll of history and have been immor
talized in song. But these have received scant mention — unless
the head of the enterprise in which they were performed was,
like Stevens, a gentleman and an appreciative one, they have
not been mentioned at all.
Pearson, the express rider, was a native of Philadelphia. He
is described as small but well-knit, with muscles of steel and
with spirit and endurance that no exertion apparently could
break down ; he had waving chestnut hair, a fair high forehead, a
refined and pleasant face and the manners and voice of a gen
tleman. It is a long way from that description to the picture of
the lank, uncouth, buccaneering fellow who is popularly por
trayed as the successful pioneer and trailblazer, but this man
rendered to Stevens and to Montana services which were invalu
able in character and incredible in extent. Here is the tribute
which Stevens pays to him in the official report of the expe
dition :
' ' Hardy, bold, intelligent and resolute, having a great diver
sity of experience, which had made him acquainted with the
relations between Indians and white men from the borders of
Texas to the 49th parallel, and which enabled him to know best
how to move, whether under the southern tropics or the winter
snows of the north, I suppose there has scarcely ever been any
man in the service of the government who excelled Pearson as
an expressman." Pearson was still young when he joined the Stevens expedi
tion ; he was but 35 years old ; but he had seen service as a Texas
ranger, as a scout, as an Indian fighter and as an express rider,
when he applied to the governor for a place on the roster of
the expedition of 1855. He knew the frontier from the Rio to the
Columbia and across to the Missouri — knew it not superficially,
but knew it well.

114 FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS
Pearson accompanied the expedition as far as the Walla
Walla council. As soon as that council's treaty had been signed,
the rider was sent back to Olympia with the records and the
news and was bidden to bring back whatever there was at the
capital which concerned the governor. He had rejoined the
governor at Hell Gate and had waited there for the conclusion
of the treaty with Alexander and Victor. This done, he turned
his horse westward again and galloped off toward Olympia.
This was July 18, 1855.
It was August 27 when he reported next to the governor,
who was then waiting at Fort Benton ; Pearson this time brought
news that the western country was quiet, that gold had been
discovered on the Columbia and that the miners' stampede to
Colville was the only unusual condition. In the time between his
departure from Hell Gate and his reporting to the governor at
Benton, Pearson had ridden 1,750 miles. Of his performance,
Governor Stevens said :
"Pearson rode 1,750 miles by the route he took from the
Bitter Root valley to Olympia and back to Benton. His riding
time was only 38 days. He was less than three days going from
Fort Owen to Fort Benton, a distance by the route he traveled
of some 250 miles, which he traveled without a change of ani
mals, having no food but the berries of the country, except a
little fish which he killed on Traveler's Rest creek of Lewis and
Clark, the; morning after he left Fort Owen, which served him
for a single meal. ' '
On his trips Pearson usually drove two extra horses ahead
of him and when the one he was riding showed signs of fatigue
he would change to one of the others. "He could ride any
thing that wore hair ' ' and was expert with the rope. He always
contrived to exchange his tired mounts for fresh animals when
he reached a post or trading agency. Sometimes he traded with
Indians. But he was sure, in some way, to have fresh horses
most of the time. He rode relentlessly, insensible to fatigue,
cold or hunger, speeding alone across plains and mountains.
What a figure for heroic verse!
Resting from his trip, Pearson made another ride to Olym
pia. On the night of October 29, when the Stevens party had
made camp on the bank of the Teton river, returning from the
great council at the mouth of the Judith, Pearson returned.
Supper was just over and the men were gathering around the
eampfires, when a lone horseman was discerned in the west,
making his way slowly toward the camp. The approach was
so different from the usual dash of Pearson that nobody sup
posed it was he and there was speculation as to the identity of
the horseman. All were on the alert and there was genuine
surprise when Pearson rode in, his horse so weary that it stag-

FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS 115
gered and himself so exhausted that he had to be lifted from
the saddle. It was the first time anybody had ever seen Pear
son feazed. He was unable to stand and hardly able to, speak,
but his emaciated appearance, his wild and haggard face, told
of fearful hardship and his friends waited eagerly for the news.
Pearson handed his dispatches to the governor and then the
men devoted themselves to reviving him with food and warmth.
Then he told his news — shocking news it was for the little party,
alone on the plains and a thousand miles from home. The great
tribes on the Columbia were on the warpath, disregarding their
treaties, and the disaffection was spreading to the Nez Perces!
But it was the story of Pearson's ride which interested the
men most, thrilling though the news was which he brought. He
had run the gauntlet of the hostile tribes with the dispatches
upon which depended the lives of the governor and his party.
He had left The Dalles on his return trip, well mounted, and had
ridden the first day to McKay's ranch on the Umatilla, where
he had rested and had got breakfast for himself, the place being
deserted. He had then roped a big horse in a band nearby and,
after a hard struggle had saddled and mounted the animal when
he was surprised by a band of Indians racing toward him in
war-paint and crying "Kill the white man!" Pearson's horse
was pitching, but took fright at the Indians and in an all-day
race outstripped the reds. When night fell, Pearson pushed the
horse for all it would stand, doubled on his trail and rode all
night, crossing the Walla Walla above the usual ford.
He rested his horse a couple of hours and then rode to Red
Wolf's camp, where he procured a fresh horse. The second day
he rode to the Lapwai, where he rested a day and then started
for the crossing of the Bitter Root with fresh horses and a young
Nez Perce brave as a companion. To save time he took the
direct Nez Perce trail to the Bitter Root Valley. That night a
heavy snowstorm set in. A tree fell and struck the Indian sense
less. Pearson was horrified; he feared the Nez Perces would
think he had killed the Indian and would themselves go on the
warpath. But the Indian was only stunned and soon revived.
Three days the storm raged. When it ceased Pearson sent the
Indian back with the horses and, packing his food and dispatches
on his back, set out on some snowshoes that he had fashioned
during the storm. Four days he struggled through the snow,
which completely hid the trail, and he reached Fort Owen almost
dead from weariness and exposure.
At Fort Owen Pearson rested but for a few hours. The
friendly Flatheads furnished him with a new horse and equip
ment and he took the saddle once more, worn and weary though
he was. Down the Bitter Root, up the Hell Gate and the Black
foot he rode, and over the pass to the Dearborn; then to Sun

116 FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS
river and over the rolling benches of the Teton, where he found
the governor, three days after leaving Fort Owen. It was a
terrible trip.
The dispatches told Stevens, in detail, of the Indian upris
ing and urged him to go down the Missouri and to return to
Olympia by way of the isthmus. Stevens reached his decision
with characteristic promptness. He said he would go back the
direct way and would move quickly. A messenger was sent
back to Benton for additional arms and ammunition and plans
were made for forced marches. At Fort Owen he bought more
mules and replenished his supplies. Then he moved back down
the Bitter Root to Hell Gate. He knew that the hostiles were
waiting to waylay him on the Pend d 'Oreille trail; he kept his
plans to himself, but when he reached the fork of the trail he
turned toward the Coeur d'Alene pass, though it was deep in
snow. The men entered into the spirit of the dash and the
crossing through the snow was made with incredible promptness.
Stevens surprised his friend and foe alike by appearing at the
Coeur d'Alene mission. From there, the snow was gone, it was
possible to move rapidly and the Coeur d'Alenes and Nez Per
ces were held in line by the very dash of the governor's move
ments. He succeeded eventually in restoring peace with the
other tribes before the war reached a serious stage. And all this
was made possible by the great rides of Pearson.
Oct. 7, 1911.

A QUICK DESCENT

FIFTY-FIVE years ago this week, a young North Carolinan
was trudging down the Bitter Root valley, swinging a whip
over a four-yoke bull team and heading for the Hell Gate
river — unknown to him as the Nile but to which he had contract
ed to pilot that team of plodding steers. October 15, 1856, just
55 years ago it will be on Sunday, this young man and his party
reached their destination. The tar was so well worn from the
heels of this North Carolina boy that when he reached the Hell
Gate ronde, he stayed there and ever since it has been his home.
And thus it happens that the Sunday upon which this story
will be printed is the anniversary of the arrival in the Missoula
valley of the man who is the oldest white citizen of Montana in
point of length of residence, a citizen who is honored by his fel
lows and respected by all, Judge Frank H. Woody, of Missoula.
I esteem it an unusual privilege that I have been admitted
to some degree of intimacy with Judge Woody. In the visits
we have had together during the 20 years that we have been
friends, he has given me the clearest idea I have ever obtained
from anybody of the conditions and the customs of Montana's
early days. But more than that, the pleasant association which
I have had with Judge Woody has given me a good insight into
the sturdiness of the men who made Montana; it has implanted
in me a wholesome respect for the effort which they made and
for the hardships which they passed through to build this state
for us who came later.
It is not that Judge Woody has preached or has ever com
plained. I have never heard from him any story which was not
happily told and in which the humorous side of the situation
was not given at least all the prominence which it deserved. His
word-pictures are always painted in bright colors, but they are
portrayed in such accurate detail that they afford the listener the
opportunity to see for himself the incidents which they depict.
It is, therefore, rather from the study of these details that I
have formed my impressions than from any appeal which the
judge ever made for sympathy for the pioneer or from any
117

Judge Woody

FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS 119
gallery play which he might have made for applause — for he
has never done one or the other.
The strongest appeal which can be made is the presentation
of conditions so graphically that the listener forms his own con
clusions — or, at least, thinks he does — from the story which is
told. Judge Woody is one of the best story-tellers that ever
lived. He possesses a remarkable memory for details and when
he has recited an incident of early Montana days, it makes the
hearer so thoroughly familiar with what happened that he feels
himself so well qualified for the pioneer class that he is likely to
apply for membership in the Montana oldtimer society; before
he escapes from the spell, he is apt to imagine that he, himself,
was here before 1865.
It would be a great thing for Montana if Judge Woody
would tear himself away from the consideration of water-right
litigation and forget his law library, devoting himself for awhile
to the preservation in black and white of the recollections which
he has of the days when Montana was young. I know of no other
man who is so well qualified to present accurately and in detail
incidents which, otherwise, will be lost. And Montana can hard
ly afford to lose these stories.
• I sat in Judge Woody 's office the other afternoon and asked
him if there was any detail which he wished to add to the
story which he had already told me of his arrival in Montana. I
told" him of my purpose to make his story the subject of this
week's Old Trail contribution and gave him the chance to illu
mine it further if he wished.
"I guess not," he answered with a laugh. "I never think
of coming over the Big Hole pass on that trip that I do not
recall just how fast we came down that hill. I don't know as I
ever told you how fast we came but I don 't know as' I could tell
you if I tried. I never traveled so fast before down any hill and
I know I never have since. There was just a streak of wagons
and oxen in an atmosphere of dust and profanity. It was a reg
ular toboggan slide and we slid it. That is the one feature of
that crossing of the divide into the Bitter Root that I see first
whenever the thought of the trip comes to1 me. I think the rec
ord we made that day for speed on a mountain road will never
be equaled, I don't want to be on the trip if it is."
It was about sixteen years ago that Judge Woody first told
me the story of how he came to Montana. We were driving up
the Bitter Root, headed for the Big Hole country, following the
trail over which the judge had come in 1856. He had not been
over that portion of it since the first time he traveled it and he
was alert for landmarks. As we jogged along over the road, he
told me the tale. Shortly afterward, I wrote it and laid it away.
This anniversary seems to me to be a good time to call the story

120 FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS
out of the drawer where it has been folded so long. It is an
interesting chapter in Montana history.
In 1855 the Kansas fever raged along the Atlantic coast.
Judge Woody was a boy then but he caught the fever and started
west from North Carolina. He reached Leavenworth in the
spring of that year and looked about. The lure of the west by
this time had a strong hold upon him and he looked out for a
chance to get further from the states. A job as muleskinner
presented itself which would have taken him to eastern Montana,
but he didn't like the look of the army mules. So he waited
and the next chance was offered by a Mormon outfit that was
starting for Salt Lake. The young man accepted this chance
and headed for Zion.
Salt Lake was reached in August. But Woody didn't get
there with the outfit. He participated in a mutiny against a
drunken and abusive wagon boss and left the train with eight
other young fellows. They made their way to Salt Lake by a
roundabout route and wintered in Utah. During that autumn
and winter, the future Montanan had tough experiences ; he was
without funds and he was not a Mormon, which was a bad situa
tion for a youngster in Utah in those days. He worked at
making adobe bricks, he found some employment as a farm hand
and he helped dig a big irrigating ditch. Once or twice he found
it necessary to pose as a Mormon, but he was a good-enough
actor to make the bluff work to the extent that he got food and
shelter when both were badly needed. So passed the winter and
the spring of 1856 found the young man well seasoned and ready
for almost anything. He worked again in the farming districts
and got a combination job as ditch digger and cook on an irri
gating scheme. Here he worked until August, when he quit and
went to Salt Lake with an order on the contractors for his pay.
"That order was what started me for Montana," said the
judge. ' ' I went to the office of Hooper & Williams to draw some
of my money, when Captain Hooper stopped me and asked if I
could drive oxen. If there was anything I had learned, it was
driving oxen, on that trip across Kansas. I told the captain I
could certainly drive oxen and he said there was a man in town
who wanted to go to the Flathead country to trade with the
Indians for horses ; he wanted to take two ox-teams and he was
looking for drivers. I didn't know where the Flathead country
was, but I was willing to take a chance. I was anxious to get out
of that God-forsaken country and I didn't care what the chance
was that took me out.
' ' The result was that my chum and I contracted to take these
ox-teams to the Hell Gate river, 600 miles or so, for $15 a month,
and to start in two or three days. Our boss was a Mormon,
named Van Etten. Hooper & Williams sent a three-team outfit

FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS 121
along with our two teams. Both of our teams were oxen, four
yokes each. The other outfit had two similar ox-teams and one
mule-team. Early in September we headed north. Our route
was along the lake and then up the Malade valley; then over
Bannack mountain and down the river of the same name ; across
country to the Port Neuf river and north to the Snake river at
Fort Hall. Then we followed the Snake until we could ford it,
then over to Market lake and Medicine Lodge creek, where we
struck an Indian trail which took us over the Rocky mountains
and down to Red Rock creek.
"This brought us into what is now Montana. As nearly as
I can remember, it was about the first of October that we struck
this place and for the first time I saw our state — not formed
then. The journey had been without mishap and we had made
good time. Ahead of us loomed the mountains that marked the
location of the Bitter Root and we turned across Horse Prairie
to the Big Hole basin.
"Over the Big Hole country, we moved rapidly. It was a
wonderful valley, we thought then, and I think so now. Such
grass I had never seen before. The stock got fat, despite
the pace at which we moved. And soon, one night found us at
the very head of the Big Hole. We faced the steep pass of the
continental divide. We camped there on Trail creek that night
and pulled out early the next morning for the climb over the pass.
"That was the worst teaming we had on the trip. The
streams — and there are a good many of them — have cut deep
channels in the soft soil of the valley. It was terrible fording.
I managed to upset my outfit and had a lively scene with the
boss. But I got righted after a while and we struggled on out of
the valley and up the hill. All day we pounded those steers up
that hill ; they pulled and heaved and strained, but it was night
before we reached an open glade at the summit and I am sure
the animals were as glad as we were, when we made camp. It
was a beautiful park and didn't seem, except for the chill air, as
if we were on the top of the divide. We slept well that night.
' ' In the morning came the preparation for the descent on the
Bitter Root side. We prospected the trail and found that we
had two miles of straight-down trail ahead of us. There was no
road — just an old Indian trail. One wagon outfit had been over
the pass the year before, but it was lightly loaded and had made
no road. Emanuel Martin — known as Old Manwell, the Spaniard,
had taken three wagons over, we learned later, but it didn't help
us much. We looked over the old Indian trail and followed that.
"The Indians were better road makers than most of the
civil engineers ; they didn 't know much about grades and levels,
but they had good sense in picking a route. Our trail ran a little
to the east from the present road over the pass, but it was prac-

122 FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS
tically the same, and you know how steep it is now. It was just
as steep then, only it hadn't been dug at all anywhere.
"We rough-locked the wagon wheels and took the two swing-
yokes of oxen and hitched them behind, to pull back. With the
leaders and wheelers in front and the swing-teams behind, we
started down the hill, two men pounding the swing-teams over
the heads to make them pull back; they just slid down the hill.
And the dust they made ! The yells and the snorts and the dust
made a Bedlam. But we got to the bottom all right and were
mighty thankful to find everybody there and everything right-
side up. That was the hardest bit of traveling that I ever did.
' ' We straightened out and went down along the stream to
Ross' Hole. There is a good road down the Bitter Root from
there now, but there was none at all through the canyon then,
and we had to make a detour over a small but steep mountain on
the east side before we got into the Bitter Root proper. We did
this, however, without accident, and entered the famous valley.
"The rest of the way was easy going. When we reached
the mouth of Willow creek, just below the site of Corvallis, we
found the first sign of white settlement. Here were the cabins
of Lieutenant Mullan 's camp of 1853. There were a couple of
white men there then, herding some stock. At old Fort Owen
we found a log stockade and a little group of cabins. Major
Owen was away at Benton at the time, but there were three white
men at the fort, Henri M. Chase being in charge. The journey
from there to the Hell Gate river was without incident and we
reached the end of our journey October 15. That was my first
glimpse of the Missoula valley. Where Missoula now stands,
there were that day 300 lodges of Indians, camped for trading
with Owen when he should come back from Benton. I have been
away from this valley for short periods at different times since
then, but this place has ever since been my home and it is as
good a place as I have ever found. There have been a good many
changes here since then, but the picture of the valley as it looked
to me that day is now as distinct as if it were only yesterday.
And I have never since traveled as fast as I did that day coming
down the Big Hole pass. "
October 14, 1911.

THE STRAIGHT AND NARROW WAY

IT IS a significant fact in connection with the early history
of Montana that the first permanent white settlers in this
territory were not miners or hunters or traders. The first
trail into Montana which had no back track was blazed by
soldiers of the Cross. The first permanent white settlement in
the territory which is now the state of Montana, was builded in
the shadow of that Cross.
Across the state's map there are dotted lines which repre
sent the routes followed by early explorers, by trappers and by
treasure seekers, but they all double back toward the east. The
first traveler, white of skin, who came this way to stay was
Father DeSmet, who brought the Message of the Cross to the
Indians of the Bitter Root valley. The first permanent settle
ment in this region was the mission founded by this good man.
With the miners and the farmers who built the early towns
of Montana, came the preacher. Closely interwoven with the
warp of the story of the quest for fortune in those early days is
the woof of the record of the quest for souls. There are many
deeds of daring which have been recorded in the story of those
thrilling days which pale into insignificance beside the narrative
of the self-sacrifice and the devotion of the early gospel mes
sengers of Montana. There was no journey too long for them to
undertake it if there was suffering to be relieved at the end of it.
There was no exposure too great or too severe for their interest
in the spiritual welfare of their fellows in the wilderness. There
was no hardship so terrible as to cause them to turn back from
an errand of mercy.
It is told of these early ministers that they never turned
deaf ears to calls for their services. When sickness came or
when death threatened in some of its more sudden and violent
forms, the roughest blasphemer harked back to the days when
at his mother's knee he had received the lessons which he had so
long let go unheeded and he sought the consolation which could
be afforded only by one of these good men of the frontier.
But not all of the settlers were scalawags. There were many
pious men in the ranks of those who came from the east to carve
123

124 FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS
a state out of the wilderness, and among these the clergyman who
had sought this field found congenial comrades and helpful
encouragement. There were churches built when towns were
young. These soldiers of the Cross fought always upon the fore
most skirmish line.
Thus it is that the intimate history of the state of Montana
contains the names of DeSmet and Ravalli, of Comfort and Iliff,
of Tuttle and Blanchard, of Torbet and Hough — men who min
istered to the spiritual needs of the early Montanans, needs which
were many and exacting. Thus it is that we find a preacher on
the ground when Road Agent Slade is being executed for his
bloody crimes and we find that Baptist preacher, at the request
of Slade 's wife, officiating at the funeral of that well-hanged
desperado. That these early ministers required great tact can be under
stood; that they possessed it is clearly demonstrated by the
remarks which this preacher made at the funeral of Slade: "I
have preached the Gospel for 30 years and have never in a
funeral discourse been accustomed to refer to the life of the
deceased. I shall not depart from that rule at this time."
It has been my good fortune to know some of the men who
labored in this early field, where the harvest was so great and the
reapers were so few. They were splendid men; they met with
many discouragements ; but they were brave and adaptable ; they
were true to their cause and they were fearless in their service.
Most of them have passed to their reward — saintly men who
earned their crowns by hard campaigning.
Some of them yet live and are continuing, either in this or
other fields, the good work in which they were then engaged.
They knew more of the real history of this region than anybody
else; some of their experiences they could tell; others of their
stories of human interest were locked by the seal of the confes
sional — whispered messages from lips fast chilling beneath the
touch of the dark angel, or secrets murmured in hours of despair
when encouragement could come only from the men of God.
These early preachers and priests practiced well ; their pre
cepts were made effective by their acts as well as by their words.
They possessed the confidence of the rough-and-ready men who
were the pioneers of this state. When they found listeners, they
preached ; but their most eloquent sermons were their deeds of
mercy and their thoughtful ministrations. They required no
lofty cathedral for their services ! I believe no more earnest ser
mons were ever preached in the world than some of those deliv
ered in the rude log cabins of the Montana frontier settlements.
In the living room of a God-fearing family, perhaps, a handful
of neighbors listened to the words of exhortation and encourage
ment; maybe it was in the hut of a miner that the words were

FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS 125
spoken ; not infrequently it was in the rough surroundings of a
saloon or a gambling house, whose paraphernalia had been pushed
to one side while the "sky pilot" had the floor.
But, everywhere and. as soon as possible, these men built
churches. These rude outposts of the army of the Lord were con
structed ofttimes before any other permanent structure had been
built. The church and its people played a not unimportant part
in the building of this state. And to those who love this state
it is always pleasant to hear of the work of these early preachers
and it is specially a happy occasion when one of them is met in
personal contact.
It is one of the pleasant incidents of the event which will
bring, October 29, to Missoula so many of the men who have been
foremost in advancing the work of a great church, that the dedi
cation of the beautiful new building of the Missoula Methodists
is to be the occasion of the return to this city of the man who
built the first church in Missoula, Dr. Thomas Corwin Iliff.
Dr. Iliff will receive a cordial welcome in 1911, just as he
did 40 years ago, when he came here to make his home for a sea
son — the first pastor to call Missoula home. In 1871 there was
no creed in the greeting which was extended to him — Methodists
were joined by Catholics, by Baptists, by Presbyterians and by
men who would have found it difficult to locate their belief.
When he comes again, next week, his welcome will be the same
universal, hearty salutation that warmed his heart when he took
up his early work in this untrodden field. It will be the welcome
of a whole city and some of the hands which will be extended to
him will be those which grasped his in that early day.
It was in 1871 that Dr. Iliff came to Missoula to live. Aside
from the Indian missions, there was no regularly organized parish
church on the western slope, of Montana. About six miles below
Missoula — three-quarters of a mile the other side of the old town
of Hell Gate — on the bench that overlooks the confluence of the
Missoula and Bitter Root rivers, Father Grassi had built a little
log church and he and Father Menetry had erected another at
Frenchtown, but these were dependencies of St. Ignatius. There
was no Protestant church at all and only these two little Catholic
churches for the whites.
There had been one Methodist minister here before Dr. Iliff
came. In 1869, Rev. George Comfort had visited Missoula, look
ing over the country and spying out the land. His, however, was
but a temporary call and he continued his journey of exploration.
Two years later came Dr. Iliff, then new in the ministry, but now
known the world over for his effective accomplishments in his
chosen work.
He was then a young man — 26 years old — but he had had
valuable experience. He had served in the Civil war as a private

126 FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS
soldier from Ohio, his native state. He had received his collegiate
degree and had been ordained a minister in 1870. In March,
1874, he had married. And in that same year he faced westward,
in the Rocky mountains to take up his ministerial labors. This
was the first experience of the earnest man, whose field has since
broadened until it embraces the whole nation. To the nation he
has endeared himself in later years, just as he did to the people
of the little hamlet to which he came in 1871.
With earnestness which has been characteristic of his whole
life, Dr. Iliff took up his work vigorously. As I have said, he
found a cordial welcome here. Speedily he organized the First
Methodist church society and immediately he started out to build
a home for the church. So well did he labor that the new church
was finished ih September, 1872. On the 15th day of that month
the building was dedicated. It occupied the site of the hand
some new building which 1911 is to see consecrated to the use of
the church. Dr. Iliff was then, as he is now, one of the men who do not
ask others to do what he is not willing to do himself. When he
had prepared his subscription list to provide the fund for the
new building, he gave $500 as his share. That was a large sum
for a young minister. From the Church Extension society he
obtained a loan of $500. The balance of the $2,300, which was
the cost of the little building, was given by the people of the town.
There was no denominationalism, no sectarianism in the
donations, to this fund. The money came from all. It was July
when the Iliffs came to Missoula. The old courthouse afforded a
meeting place for the congregation which gathered about the
earnest young preacher until winter made it impracticable to
meet in the old barnlike place. In the audiences which faced Dr.
Iliff in those days there were representatives of all sections of
the country and there were adherents of all faiths. But they all
admired the zealous preacher and they gloried in his spunk. If
there was anything in their presence, they were willing to afford
him that encouragement; they went to his meetings and they
adopted him as a townsman. He became one of them, respected
and trusted.
But the support of these people was more than mere lip-
service. When Dr. Iliff told them that Missoula needed a church
and that he proposed to have one right away, they applauded his
determination and they dug down into their jeans for the where
withal to build it.
The first class which Dr. Iliff assembled at the outset of his
work numbered seven. He had a juvenile Sunday school whose
enrollment was 20. From these small beginnings has come the
Missoula Methodist church of today and, also, there has developed
one of the great men of Methodism. In those small beginnings

FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS 127
in the hamlet at the mouth of Hell Gate canyon, was laid the sub
stantial foundation of the present-day developments.
Hardly had the young preacher got his bearings in the new
field, when he took up the plans for the church building. He
contributed vastly more than his own personal share of the funds,
but he and his wife did this willingly and hopefully; from the
church-extension people in the east, he coaxed the loan of $500 —
they didn 't know much about the west then. Then he talked with
his new neighbors and they responded according to their means
— none of them as liberally as the preacher himself, but all of
them in some fashion or another.
It was a year and two months from the time of the arrival
of the Iliffs in Missoula to the date of the dedication of the little
church. It had cost $2,300; the money had been donated with
the exception of the $500 which was loaned by the extension
society. It was a happy day for the young man when he was able
to hold service in the church building, dedicated to the Lord.
The courthouse had served, after a fashion, and the winter meet
ings which had been held in the pastor's home, had been an
inspiration. But there was lacking the atmosphere of the sanctu
ary. This was provided by the new building.
In his letter to the local Methodists, accepting their invita
tion to participate in the approaching dedication ceremony, Dr.
Iliff refers to the hearty co-operation which he received in those
early days. "It was the day of small things, but of blessed
memories, ' ' writes the venerable clergyman, ' ' especially the great
kindness of those dear oldtimers — Wordens, Higginses, Danas,
McCormicks, Woodys, Blaines, Dickinsons and others."
And if Dr. Iliff has not forgotten them, be sure these old-
timers have not forgotten him. There are a good many of them
yet left to greet him and to give the welcome which will come
from the heart. The passing of the little, old, frame church —
the pioneer House of God in Missoula — is regretted in that it has
been the tie that binds the present to that eventful and happy
past. But the spirit that was behind the erection of that modest
little house of worship is exemplified again in the beautiful
building which has taken its place upon the historic corner which
it occupied. It is pleasant to know that the good man who built that
pioneer church is to be here for the dedication of its successor.
It is good that there are so many of the laymen who wrought
with him yet left to greet him when he comes back to his first
parish home. His dauntless courage was the motive force behind
that pioneer building movement and he builded better than he
knew. Missoula waits to welcome him. The autumn of his life has
brought a bountiful harvest of results from the earnest effort of

128 FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS
a lifetime and it is interesting to note that, after almost half a
century, he is engaged in the good work of aiding in the con
struction of new churches in the west.
There is "Brother Van," also. "Brother Van" poses as a
Methodist, but if ever there was a man in whom the broad spirit
of the brotherhood of man was exemplified, he is that one. I
don 't want to discredit his Methodism a bit, but I do want to pay
my little tribute to his worth as a man. He was the minister who
reorganized the local Methodist church and who got it moving
along on the lines which it has since followed — there had been a
bit of a lapse after Dr. Iliff went to another charge, and ' ' Brother
Van" came here as pastor when the tide was at ebb. He put new
life into the society and he infused his splendid personality into
the members. He will be here unless there is a slip in plans,
and his presence will shed sunshine through all the services.
"Brother Van" is an everlasting ray of sunshine, himself. He
is the impersonation of the practical religion that goes out into
the byways and gathers in the lost sheep. There are hundreds
of Montanans who can testify to the helpfulness of his minstra-
tions ; he is still working in this field. When the name of Rev.
W. W. Van Orsdel is called, there will be new interest given to
the dedicatory ceremonies.
October 21, 1911.

HELL GATE'S DEATH RATE

WHEN the afternoon sun illumines the entrance to Hell
Gate canyon, the scene is remarkably beautiful. This
canyon is one of the natural gateways through the moun
tains ; its walls rise abruptly from the level floor, their lines soft
ened by their covering of trees ; all day these blankets of pine and
fir and tamarack lie dark and somber upon their steep-pitched
resting places ; the dense green is almost black in the shadow of
Mount Sentinel. But when the afternoon sun turns its searchlight
into the canyon's opening, it reveals new beauties; new lines
spring into sight ; new details become visible and the green-black
forest takes on a multitude of hues, blending beautifully into a
perfect chromatic scheme. Beholding thisi transformation, the visi
tor in this scene wonders regarding the derivation of the forbid
ding name of this canyon entrance. In an earlier story I have told
how the name originated ; it was not the appearance of this gate
way which suggested the appellation; it came from the bloody
Indian history which was written there. But as the beholder gazes
at the enrancingly beautiful scene which spreads before
him as he looks into the canyon, he regrets that it does not bear a
designation more in keeping with its rare beauty.
And so it is with the valley which derived its former name
from this canyon entrance. Singularly beautiful is this basin,
hemmed in by inspiring mountains, watered by charming streams
and decked with great stretches of meadow and rolling prairie.
"Hell Gate ronde, " it was called by the early settlers, and it
retained this name until the growth of Missoula forced a change
in the nomenclature, giving a name not dissimilar in its deriva
tion and original significance, but certainly more musical in
sound. It is truly a beautiful valley which reaches from the
canyon's mouth, where the waters of the Rattlesnake and the
Missoula mingle, away to where the Bitter Root ripples along in
the shadow of Lolo mountain and westward to where the blue
waters of Nine Mile flow over their golden sands to add to the
tide of the greater stream which runs on to the ocean. But this
valley used to be known as the Hell Gate and that, also, was the
129

: j. iM
— Photograph by Showel.,

FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS 131
name which was borne by the first town builded upon its gentle
slope. Fair it is now — this valley — and fair it was to look upon
when the white men first beheld it. Each of the early visitors to
this region wrote eloquently of the charm of this basin. Each
described its beauty, dwelling upon the loveliness of its streams,
the grandeur of its mountain walls and the fertility of its fields.
It was here that the Selish chiefs met in council with Governor
Stevens ; it was here that old Chief Victor stood and claimed the
valley as the center of his tribal domain. Here camped the Selish
tribes on their way eastward to the buffalo grounds — camped
for barter and for rest. Here they camped on their way back,
for recuperation if worsted and for celebration if victorious in
their eastern sorties. It had been a favorite meeting place for the
kindred tribes. It was the center of their hereditary domain.
Unimpressionable we are wont to regard the Indian, but we find
that he always chose his camping places where beauty of sur
roundings appeals to us now — and it must have appealed to
him, unconsciously, perhaps, but strongly nevertheless.
But if there is much in the appearance of this valley that
makes the name seem incongruous, there is much in the history of
the old town of Hell Gate that makes it seem singularly appropri
ate, even as the Indian history of the old trail up the canyon
made the name fit there. Hell Gate was founded as a white
settlement in 1860. It retained its identity until 1865. During
its existence its maximum population was 14 — the average was
12 — but in the months that it was doing business there were no
less than nine men who died there with their boots on. For
them, surely, it was the entrance to Hades, though the growl of
Cerberus took the form of the bark of a Colt 's army gun.
There is not much left to mark the site of the first town in
this valley. Two or three of its buildings remain ; they are out
houses now of a prosperous ranch. There is no trace of its single
street. A guide is necessary to locate the buildings. Four mounds
were there until a few years ago, which marked the resting places
of the last of the victims of the righteous wrath of the Montana
Vigilantes. But now even these have disappeared before the level
ing influence of the wheat-farmer's plow. Unless you know the
corner of the old rail fence in which they were planted, you can
not locate now the place where these offenders against pioneer
law were hustled when they were cut down from their impromptu
gallows. It was in August, 1860, that Frank L. Worden and Christo
pher P. Higgins, partners under the firm name of Worden &
Company, armed with a sutler's license to trade with the Indians,
came from Walla Walla with a pack train bearing a stock of
merchandise and established the town of Hell Gate. They had

132 FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS
intended to locate near Fort Owen in the Bitter Root, but they
found that the government was then engaged in establishing an
agency at Jocko — the present reservation headquarters. They
didn't like to go to either of the Indian headquarters for fear of
losing the business of the other, so they settled upon the location
at Hell Gate, midway between the two. And so the little town
was started. Judge Frank H. Woody, who had been in the employ of
Worden at Walla Walla, came with the outfit from the coast and
participated in the establishment of the town. The first store
was opened in a tent. It was August and the tent was comfort
able enough ; but immediate preparations had to be made for the
approaching winter and the partners began to skirmish about for
logs for building material.
Prospecting about the country, they found David Pattee
living with Captain Grant on what is now the county road, two
miles west of Missoula 's present location. Pattee had got out and
hewed a set of cottonwood logs for building a house for himself.
The logs were framed for a building 16 feet by 18 and they were
bought on the spot, Pattee agreeing to deliver them at the place
where was erected the first building in Hell Gate.
Pattee fulfilled the terms of his contract and Woody and a
Frenchman — Narcisse Sanpar — erected the building, making the
roof of poles covered with sods. That building yet stands near
the county road to Frenchtown. It was the first store or trading
post built within the present limits of the county of Missoula. In
fact, it was the first mercantile establishment in western Montana,
except the post at Fort Owen, near what is now Stevensville, and
the old Hudson Bay company post, where Angus McDonald had
headquarters on Post creek, six miles the other side of St. Igna
tius mission. When Hell Gate was founded, it was in the territory of
Washington. Afterward, it was in Idaho; later, it was in the
territory of Montana. It had a lively set of changes as to post-
office address, but it remained stationary as to location.
This little log cabin was the only structure erected that year.
In 1861, Worden & Company built another store and W. B. S.
Higgins erected a building which was used as a residence. In the
autumn of 1861, P. J. Bolte built a little house which he used as a
saloon. In 1863 there was a blacksmith shop added to the collec
tion of houses ; Judge Woody thinks it was built by Henry Buck-
house; his is the only information which is available. In 1864,
Woodward & Clements brought in a stock of merchandise and
started an opposition store. That same summer J. P Shockley
built a house which was used as a boarding house. This con
stituted the entire architectural strength of the town of Hell Gate.
But, though the town was small, it was active. There was

FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS 133
something doing there all the time. I have heard from Judge
Woody and others of those who were of the Hell Gate population
and from them I have learned a good many interesting incidents
of the life in this pioneer town. There is good material for a
"trail" story in the early merchandising experiences of these
days. But this story will deal with the remarkable death rate of
the town of Hell Gate.
It should not be inferred that the climate of Hell Gate ronde
was not salubrious ; there was no malaria in the air ; there were
no bacilli in the streams; there were no lurking germs to prey
upon the pioneers. Death did not lurk in any of these insidious
forms in Hell Gate. The dark angel's -work was all done in the
open. Bolte's saloon, opened in 1861, didn't last very long. Bolte
went out of business the following year. This furnishes reason
able evidence that John Barleycorn had comparatively little to do
with the death rate 'diich is the really remarkable feature of tbe
history of Hell Gate. When Bolte closed his bar, there was no
saloon in Hell Gate for more than a year. In 1863 a stranger
came to town, giving the name of Cyrus Skinner. He bought a
stock of booze and opened a saloon in the old Bolte building. His
place became the loafing place of some tough-looking characters
who followed him to the town and was never a popular resort.
He kept his establishment going, however, until one dark night
in January, 1864, when he went out of business suddenly and his
going started the boom in Hell Gate's death rate.
On this dark night, aforesaid, the quiet of Hell Gate was
disturbed by the sound of galloping hoofs. There was an arrival
in town. It was a party which was made up of a delegation of
Vigilantes from Virginia City. The arrival was unheralded, but
the visitors lost no time in introducing themselves and in stating
their business. When they had presented their credentials and
had held a brief parley, Cyrus Skinner and two of his loitering
companions, Alex Carter and Johnnie Cooper, were dangling
from a pole which had been fastened into a log corral in the
lower part of town. Continuing their rapid ride across the valley
and up the trail into the Coriacan defile, the Vigilantes stopped
at the 0 'Keef f e ranch and located Bob Zachery, who was brought
to Hell Gate and hanged there alongside the others, Baron
0 'Keef f e having entered violent protests against an execution on
his ranch. This was the last Vigilante execution in Montana.
A couple of months later, in March, Hell Gate's death rate
received another boost. This time the affair was a home pro
duction. The Hell Gate people and the farmers in the valley had
become alarmed by the actions of a couple of young Indians who
were known to have killed a prospector named Ward in the
canyon near where the town of Clinton now stands. They had

134 FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS
become offensive and had attacked a Frenchman in the Coriacan
defile. They were boldly insolent and were threatening an upris
ing of the reds. The settlers around Hell Gate dispatched Milton
W. Tipton, a farmer living near Frenchtown, to Alder gulch with
an appeal to the miners at Virginia City for assistance. The
Indians soon learned of this move and it became their turn to
be alarmed. They knew it meant trouble if the miners came
down to fight. The chief of the Pend d'Oreilles was the father
of the chief offender and, upon the demand of his people, he
delivered his son to the Hell Gate people. The young Indian was
brought in, tied and disgraced. The Hell Gate men led him to
the pole which had served as gallows for the road agents and the
old corral was once more decorated with a dangling human form.
Hell Gate 's death list had reached a total of five.
In the autumn of 1864, a man named Crow, who had been
loafing about the village with no apparent means of support, was
shot and killed by Matt Craft at the tent whieh was Craft 's home,
about a quarter of a mile above the Worden store. Craft claimed
that Crow had come to the tent and had insulted Mrs. Craft.
This statement was accepted. There were no officers of the law
in the country and nothing was done to the shooter. The death
list totaled six.
The visit of the Vigilantes had closed Hell Gate 's saloon and
it was not reopened until the fall of 1864, when William Cook
stocked the old building with liquors and conducted a place which
became a popular resort for men who were traveling back and
forth between Fort Owen and Jocko. Everybody played poker
in those days and there was almost always a game in progress at
Cook's place. One afternoon two Irishmen had come to Cook's
and had played cards until nearly dark. They became involved
in a quarrel over the settlement of their game. A matter of $2.50
was the issue and they left the saloon wrangling about it.
There were no electric lights in Hell Gate. The illumination
of the rough interior came from a big fireplace in one side of
the room and from candles stuck about. On the night of the day
that the Irishmen, McLaughlin and Doran, had quarreled over
their cards, there were some of the Hell Gate men seated at a
table in front of the fireplace, playing a friendly game, when
the two returned — they were quarreling. That night added two
more names to the list of Hell Gate 's dead. One of the men who
sat at the little table has told me this story of the spectacular
events of that evening :
"We were playing at a little table near the fireplace, from
which we got most of our light. We had also a candle on the
table. Doran had walked over to our side of the room and stood
with his back to the fire. McLaughlin, who had been an employe
at the Jocko agency, was sitting on a whisky barrel, leaning

FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS 135
against a brandy keg. He had evidently apprehended trouble, for
he had borrowed a big navy pistol from Captain Higgins. He
wore an old blue army overcoat and, though we didn't know it,
had the gun in his lap under the cape of the coat.
"The men came into Cook's quarreling and they continued
their argument. They were not talking very loud, but seemed
very much in earnest. Standing in front of the fire, Doran
reached for his hip under his coat, evidently to draw his pistol.
McLaughlin leaped to his feet, exclaiming, ' I 've a pistol as well as
yez. ' He threw back the cape of his coat. There were two
flashes at the same instant. All the candles were extinguished
and the close of the tragedy was enacted in the fitful light from
the fireplace. "At the table, we jumped up. The men were firing across
the way to the front door and we couldn 't get out that way. But
we wanted mighty bad to get out. There was a thin board par
tition across the back of the room, separating Cook's living quar
ters from the saloon. Through this we dashed. I was in the lead.
We upset a sheetiron stove which was in the living room; we
scared Cook's half breed wife and her baby and they screamed;
the discharge of the pistols sounded like artillery — it was the
greatest confusion I ever knew.
"Reaching the back door, the others pressed so hard against
me that I couldn 't swing the door. While I was struggling with
it, Cook came out and said 'I can open it. Go tell Captain Hig
gins I am shot.' I hurried to the store. Higgins returned with
me and we met two men supporting Cook, who was hardly able
to move. The shooting was all over. McLaughlin had fired but
one shot. Doran had continued his bombardment until he was
out of ammunition. He had fled and there was darkness and
silence when we returned with our burden.
' ' Cook was laid upon the counter and an examination showed
that a bullet had passed through his body, entering above the
left hip and lodging right under the skin on the side. Captain
Higgins used a razor to extract the bullet, but that was about all
we could do. There was no doctor and no means of cleaning the
wound. We placed poor Cook in his bed and he died Thursday.
Everything we could do was done for him. Father Grassi came
up from Frenchtown to see him, but said the shot had pierced the
bowels and it was a hopeless case. Cook was buried near the little
church which Father Grassi had built just belcw Hell Gate."
This made the death list eight. McLaughlin had died almost
immediately; when found he had crawled to the back room in
Cook's and was breathing his last. Doran fled across the river
on the ice and made his way to Stevensville. There was a sup
posed justice of the peace there, Roop by name, and there was
the mere form of a hearing before him. Despite the testimony

136 FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS
of John Chatfield, who was one of the party playing cards in
Cook's when the shooting occurred, Doran was released. He went
over to Madison county then. Oldtimers report having seen him
in Stevensville and Hamilton this summer. To one of them at
least he mentioned his identity and referred to Hell Gate inci
dents. The last chapter in the mortuary record of Hell Gate was
written in the early spring of 1865, when J. P. Shockley deliber
ately shot himself with a pistol at his own home, which has been
mentioned as the last house built in the town. His death made the
total list number nine, which was a fairly good record for a town
of 14 people in two years. There were no other deaths in the
town. Its people were strong and healthy. Those of them who
died, died quickly and without the preliminary of being sick.
There is, as far as I can find, no trace of the little burying
ground of Hell Gate. There were five bodies placed in it — the
victims of the Vigilantes having been buried in a field apart from
the others. When I first visited the site of old Hell Gate and for
a good many years after, there were mounds visible where the
burials had been made. But time has worn these level and there
is nothing left to show that the scythe slashed vigorously for a
little while in the days when Hell Gate died with its boots on.
October 28, 1911.

EARLY DAY FARMING

IF WE could get the intimate story of the little things which
the pioneers of Montana did — the story of their home lives —
we would have the very best history of this state which could
be written. If we could know of all the little troubles they had in
getting their farms started ; if we could get a picture of the dif
ficulties which beset them every day, what a clear insight we
would have into the tremendous task they accomplished. We
would entertain a higher respect for the trailblazers, even, than
that whieh we hold now. For it is the little things which count.
A great opportunity is passing in Montana in the failure to obtain
this intimate history while it is possible to get it. Soon the last
of the pioneers will be laid at rest in his long sleep and, as he is
placed in the narrow bed beneath the shadow of the grand old
mountains which we all love so sincerely and which were the wit
nesses of his deeds long years ago, there will be buried with him
the record of many things which we should know.
I have heard from the lips of these Montana pioneers tales
which surpass in dramatic interest and thrilling detail any fiction
that I have ever read. I have wished for the time in which to
give them permanence — this in the absence of a more worthy
chronicler and merely that they might be preserved in some defi
nite form. In this series of Sunday stories in The Missoulian,
under the collective heading, "Following Old Trails," I have
sought to put into permanent form some of these stories as they
have come to me in the course of a good many years of reportorial
work among the men who made this state. In every corner of
Montana, there is some man or woman who can contribute to the
historical record of the state. If a systematic effort were made to
collect these stories, Montana's history would be recorded in a
fashion which would be of lasting benefit to the Montanans yet
unborn and which would make Montana's record incomparably
a valuable contribution to the record of the commonwealths of the
Union. We are accustomed to think of the Montanans of 1865 as
miners only. We do not consider that, even then, there were men
here who were farming. The story of Martin Barrett of Beaver-
137

138 FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS
head county is interesting in that it gives a glimpse of the great
difficulties which beset farming in those days. Also, it presents
some little sidelights upon events of great importance ; such
illumination adds to our understanding of the movement of
affairs in those stirring days. These are little details, which are
mentioned as mere incidents to a story which has often been told,
but which really add materially to our record of these greater
events by the better understanding which they afford of the
minutiae. Martin Barrett was a lad of seven years in Ireland when the
famine of 1847 brought desolation to the Emerald Isle. The father
had completed preparations to bring his family to America, when
he fell a victim to an accident which caused his death. The
mother, however, went on with the plans and started with her
nine sons for Canada. The voyage was made in a sailing vessel
and consumed 30 days, during which two of the children died
and were buried at sea. In this stern school was the lad prepared
for the later hardships which he met and overcame so valiantly
as a pioneer of the state which now honors him.
The family settled in Ontario, where a brother of the lad's
dead father lived. There young Martin learned farming and was
apprenticed to a currier. His trade learned, the boy went to St.
Joseph in 1859 and, in the following year, made his first trip
across the plains with an emigrant train bound for Salt Lake,
earning his passage by driving an ox team. "When I got to Salt
Lake," says Mr. Barrett in his story, "I found a tannery and
asked the tanner for a job. He told me that, in the seven years
he had been in business there, he had received only one silver dol
lar ; he had taken all the rest of his pay in trade. As I was not
a family man, I saw this was no place for me, and that was the
last tannery I ever saw. I went back to St. Joseph. ' '
In 1862 Barrett went to Colorado. He worked there that
summer and made friends who were destined to become his life
long companions and business associates. With one of them, Joe
Shineberger, he decided to return home for the winter; the two
to meet in St. Joseph the next spring and then to join the migra
tion to the placer mines of the northwest, Salmon City being their
objective point. This program was carried out. Barrett spent
the winter in Ontario and was at St. Joseph in the following
spring. Before the young gold-seekers reached the Idaho fields,
the stampede to Bannack, Mont., swept them to one side and they
came this way.
Eleven miles south of Bannack, the two young men located
a ranch and built a little log cabin. Barrett was elected to man
age the ranch and his partner went on to the mines. Shineberger
worked at Bannack and Alder gulch for the first summers and
spent the cold seasons on the ranch. Barrett did well by "ranch-

FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS 139
ing" freight cattle and horses, as he had good feed on his range
and there were many of the freighters who were glad to have
their stock cared for under these conditions.
"We had a red and white flag," says Mr. Barrett, telling of
those early experiences, "whieh we used as a signal to call the
men from the fields for dinner. In 1864 a party of patriotic emir
grants saw this flag flying and at once held an indignation meet
ing over the 'secesh' flag — though I had no idea what they were
fussing about. The emigrants reported the matter to Governor
Edgerton in Bannack and he sent us word that we had better
take down the old signal flag. I did this very willingly, as I had
not had a thought of any offense to anybody's feelings. I was
yet a Canadian and had no part in the local conflict. ' '
Secluded as he was upon his ranch, Mr. Barrett was remote
from the exciting incidents of the operations of the Vigilantes in
1865, but one day he got word from a friend that "Dutch John"
was coming to the Prairie to take a big gray horse that the farm
ers owned. Shineberger and Barrett watched all night for the
arrival of the bad man, but he didn't show up to get the gray
horse, and in the morning they went out to find him. They
tracked him to some willows on their meadow.
Telling of his dealings with this desperado, Barrett says : "I
bought his bedding when we found him camped there, but I sold
him an old mule, so that when we finished trading, he owed me
$25. Dutch John went from there to Snake river, where he was
arrested by the Vigilantes and sent back to Bannack under guard.
This guard stopped at the ranch and while they were resting
Dutch John told me that if I would go to Bannack he would pay
me the $25 he owed me. It was cold winter — 40 degrees below
zero, the next day when I went up to Bannack to collect that bill.
I found Dutch John hanging by his neck to the ridgepole of a
carpenter shop, his body frozen stiff, and I called the deal off.
In that same shop, there were two other bodies of hanged high
waymen which had been thrown aside to make room for the
hanging of Dutch John — these lay on the bench and the floor,
wherever there had been a chance to toss them. Henry Plum-
mer's body was one of them — he had been the leader of the road
agents and at the same time the sheriff of the county. He died
like a coward, begging and promising anything. ' '
Prices for farm products were good in those days when Mr.
Barrett began to cut hay in Montana. In the winter of 1865 he
made a contract with the stage company to deliver 100 tons of
hay at Pine Buttes, a stage station near the divide. The haul was
50 miles and the price was to be $100 a ton. The winter, as has
been said, was terribly cold, but the partners thought they would
be able to make some profit out of the deal, and Shineberger

140 FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS
started with the first loads, using ox teams. He didn 't get back
to the ranch as soon as he was expected and Barrett started out
to see if anything had gone wrong. Up the trail several miles
Shineberger was found with hands, feet and face frozen — he was
not enthusiastic over the future of the hay-contract business and
declared to Barrett: "If you want any more hay hauled, you'll
haul it yourself."
Barrett, confident that he could make more satisfactory
delivery of the hay, made the next trip. Starting early in the
morning, he reached the stage station at Pine Buttes at midnight.
It had taken hard driving and the thermometer showed a tem
perature of 50 degrees below zero. It was too cold to measure
hay and, even at the price of $100 a ton, the stage people were
willing to guess with Barrett at the weight of the loads. "It was
a high price, ' ' says Mr. Barrett, commenting upon the deal, ' ' but
Bateman, who bought the hay, didn't lose anything on the trade,
as he sold it for 25 cents a pound. I concluded, however, that I
had had enough of hay-hauling in the winter. We didn 't do any
thing more with that contract."
When the partners had become fairly established in their
ranch business, Barrett painted a big sign, which was nailed to
the cabin and which bore the legend : ' ' Stock Bought and Sold
Here. ' ' They thought it looked all right, but some waggish fel
low — when nobody was looking — altered the lettering so that it
read : ' ' Stock Bought and Stole here. ' ' Fortunately, the young
men had established a reputation which stood the test of this joke
and the sign was allowed to remain without bringing them trou
ble. It was one of the jokes of the trail until the weather blotted
out the lettering.
Barrett started in the winter of 1866 on another visit to his
mother, back in Canada. The high cost of stage transportation
made that means of conveyance practically prohibitive for the
young man and he decided to make the trip with one of his own
teams. He got to Salt Lake all right, but was compelled to wait
there until a wagon train could be formed, as it was dangerous
for a small party to cross the plains alone. It was during this
stay in Salt Lake that Barrett witnessed one of the anti-Gentile
outbreaks; he was near enough to hear the shot that killed Dr.
Robinson. The Mormons had the transients so frightened that it
didn 't take much time to get the train organized after this.
The trip home was made safely and in the spring of 1867.
Barrett came back to Montana. He brought a span of brood
mares and a wooden "tumbling" rake — probably the first one
brought to Montana. Mr. Barrett says: "In the train from
Omaha there was one lone girl. Girls were a scarce article in our
country, and this was a specially fine girl. I thought I'd better
cultivate her and take her in. I did — later. And this is the way

FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS 141
the affair worked out: When we got to our ranch on the trail,
I found my partner sitting in the doorway of the cabin, mending
his clothes. He hadn't heard from me since I left the fall before
and he had concluded that I was dead. When I spoke to him as
I came up, he jumped and lost his needle — the only one he had.
He asked me if I had brought back a wife. I told him I had not,
but that I knew a mighty fine girl. 'Go and get her,' he said,
' as I have lost my needle. ' ' All right, ' I replied, and I went and
got her. ' '
With a woman on the ranch, a garden became a necessity,
and that summer a fence was built around a little patch of ground
about a hundred feet square. It was a novelty which attracted
attention. It made some folks homesick and it made the family
on the ranch feel quite at home. The ranch business prospered
and has been prospering ever since. The log cabin was succeeded
by a two-story brick house, the brick being made and burned on
the ranch. The building of the brick house created even more
excitement than the fencing of the little garden.
While the construction of the house was in progress, Mr.
Barrett was summoned to serve on the grand jury in Bozeman.
This placed him in a dilemma. His master mason and head car
penter were at swords ' points — one was Irish and the other Eng
lish, and it kept Barrett busy intervening in their disputes. It
would never do to go to grand jury with these men on the place ;
they would have the new house in ruins. "In this predicament,"
says Mr. Barrett, "I went to Dillon, saw a doctor and explained
to him my dilemma. He very kindly provided me with a disease
and the medicines to match. I forwarded his certificate of illness
and was permitted to remain at home, where I was needed more
than I was in Bozeman."
Mr. Barrett, however, was not unmindful of the duty of a
citizen to his state and he became a member of the territorial
legislature in 1878. He was a member of the special session of
the summer of 1879, at which the question of a Montana subsidy
for the Northern Pacific railway was fought out so stubbornly
and was ultimately defeated. Barrett was in the thick of this
fight, bitterly opposed to the subsidy. The capital had been
moved to Helena; and it was there that the legislature was in
session. Barrett and enough of his associates to prevent a quo
rum, walked out of Helena one night to avert a vote on the ques
tion next morning, when the friends of the subsidy would prob
ably have carried their point.
They walked to Ten Mile creek, where they were overtaken
by the stage in the morning. Some of them, Barrett being one
of the party, went on to Fort Benton in the stage and there suc
ceeded in interesting W. G. Conrad in the fight. Mr. Conrad
returned with them to Helena and jumped into the contest. The

142 FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS
subsidy bill was beaten and it was the ten-day vacation which was
enforced by this little band of absentees, which beat it.. It was
one of the most vital legislative battles in the state's history. The
people of the then territory were much wrought up over it. Many
of the men who had voted in the legislature for the subsidy were
burned in effigy by their outraged constituents. Those of the
Barrett party were banqueted and feted when they reached home.
These are just a few of the little sidelights which are found
in the story of the life of this sturdy pioneer. Surely, they illu
mine some of the pages of Montana's history as the mere narra
tion of the main points in the story could not do. That little
story of Barrett 's trip to Bannack to- collect the $25 which Dutch
John owed him — I think that is one of the best human interest
tales that I have heard in a long time. To ride through a tem
perature of 40 degrees below zero to collect a balance due on the
sale of a mule and then to run against the man who was to pay
the bill, hanging by the neck, dead and frozen, that was something
of an experience.
Barrett's story of how he was influenced to commit matri
mony when he did isn't a bad sidelight, is it? Of course, he
would have married the girl ultimately, for he had made up his
mind to that on the long trip across the plains, and he is of the
sort which, having made up its mind, doesn't turn aside from
the performance of the plan. Also, Mrs. Barrett must have
reached a similar conclusion previously, off hand. But that the
marriage was hastened by the loss of the last needle at the bach
elors' ranch — that is a good story, it seems to me.
I believe that it is these incidents which make up the most
interesting part of our state history. That is why I am anxious
that there should be a systematic effort made to secure the materi
al for a thousand similar tales, before it is too late. The intimate
history of the commonwealth of Montana is the history which we
need to get. The salient points have been well enough taken care
of ; we have the chronology well arranged. But the little stories
of the real life of the pioneer — they are what is needed to make
complete Montana 's story. The following of old trails is a pleas
ant task and it may be made useful to the state. I hope others
will join in what has become to me a pastime, rather than a labor.
Nov. 4, 1911.

THE MAGINNIS GULCH STAMPEDE

IF A REPORT were to reach Missoula today that rich diggings
had been found in Montana there would be a quickening of
the pulses of the old fellows who, 40 years ago, responded to
the call of many such reports, and they would forget the years
which have intervened ; they would shake off the stiffness of these
years and would hit the trail for the new camp. A man never
gets too old to feel the thrill which the news brings that new dig
gings have been found, if he has once experienced that thrill. It
is more than the mere lure of gold ; it is the call of the trail.
When the rich bars in Alaska were discovered, the men who
rushed toward the Arctic circle were not all young. There were
veterans of a good many of the Montana stampedes in the throng
whieh journeyed to the land of the midnight sun. It was only
the other day that Tom Irvine, one of the best-known of the
early-day Montanans, came into my office and greeted me ; he
had been prospecting in the Alaska fields ; he left Montana when
the news came. And he was a type of thousands who responded
to that same news. And as long as these old fellows can walk,
they will line up for the march to new diggings.
There are men in Montana — good men, too — who have fol
lowed with pick and pan a good many of these reports, followed
them each time with renewed hope and with the spring of youth
in their footsteps, spurred by the inspiration of their belief that
at last they were moving to the pot of gold at the rainbow 's foot,
moving forward only to find disappointment at the end of the
journey, but always ready to undertake just such another journey
when the call was repeated. There are other men in the ranks
of Montana 's pioneers who were more successful in their quest —
they found the gold, for them the rainbow held its brightness and
did not vanish into empty air before they reached the treasure
whieh it pointed out.
But it is not the measure of success which attended their
early quest which is the criterion of the interest which these men
feel in the call as it comes again. On the march to new fields, the
man who struck it rich touches elbows with the man who missed
the pay streak ; they are comrades in the new search ; each of them
143

144 FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS
is burning with the passion of the quest. So strong is this pas
sion that it destroys judgment sometimes ; there is not the inquiry
which caution would prompt ; it is just a case of getting there first
and driving stakes.
It was in the winter of 1878 and 1879 that it was whispered
in Missoula that rich diggings had been found in Maginnis gulch,
west of the Flathead reservation, beyond Camas prairie. Martin
Davis, who lived for a good many years on the Flynn ranch,
below Missoula, after that, had been prospecting over beyond and
on his return had seen what looked like good gravel; he had
panned some of it and he had obtained a number of colors which
grew every time the story was repeated. Davis had meant to
keep it dark ; winter was a poor time for a stampede and he didn 't
want any excitement.
But Davis told Jim Meininger and Meininger told somebody
else and it was not long before Missoula was buzzing with the
whispers of the men who were in the secret. Then it was no secret
at all. It was a matter then of watching your neighbor to see
that he didn't hit the trail before you did. Missoula wasn't very
big then, but it was lively with distrust, what there was of it. No
man believed his closest friend. There had to be a rollcall every
morning before anybody would believe that somebody else had not
stolen away in the night to get the first claim on Martin Davis'
rich ground in Maginnis gulch.
This was the state of affairs in February, 1879, when some of
the uneasy ones one morning made the discovery that the expected
exodus had taken place and some of the townspeople were not
accounted for when the daily census was taken. Billy Lyons was
not to be found; Tom McNamara was not in his usual haunts;
John Sheehan was missing and so were Dick Cunningham and
about a dozen others. It was a clear case. They had hit the trail
for Maginnis gulch.
Clarence Prescott was a young fellow then — he isn 't so very
old now. He had been in on the secret early in the game and he
was as anxious as the next man to get stakes driven in that rich
ground. He had talked the matter over with Meininger a good
many times during the winter and they had plans made for a
tolerably early start in the spring. But this new situation upset
all these plans ; a new lineup had to be made and it had to be
made quickly. Prescott hunted up Meininger, who was also hunt
ing him, and the new arrangements were speedily concluded. In
the afternoon a little bunch of horsemen galloped out of town,
headed westward toward the Coriacan defile, beyond which lay
the reservation and the supposedly rich gravel of Maginnis gulch.
In all the world there are few trips as delightful as the ride
from Missoula across the reservation to Camas prairie. Recently
there have been many men who have made this discovery ; some of

FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS 145
us have known it for a good many years and have had the enjoy
ment of the beauties of the trip which these later discoverers have
missed. But the grandeur of the mountains, the charm of the
valleys, the delight of the streams — these, delightful though they
are in the summer, lose their attractiveness when the breath of a
February storm sweeps across the country. And it was straight
into a February storm that the Argonauts rode as they galloped
westward. In the party were Clarence Prescott, Jim Meininger, Captain
Townsend (afterward murdered in the Flathead country), Bill
Chinn, Pat Mahoney, Joe Booth, Sam Mitchell and three or four
others. They outfitted in a hurry, there was not any time to lose.
Each man had his own saddle horse, but there was no packhorse
in the outfit. At the back of each saddle, tied to the skirt, was a
bundle of lunch; there was a little feed of oats for the horse,
about 10 pounds of flour and a little coffee in each bundle. Some
pieced this out with bacon while others took sardines. Nobody
anticipated anything more than a winter picnic on the fifty-mile
ride. Most of the men took whisky with them after the fashion
of the day. Prescott, experienced in riding, packed three small
flasks of imported brandy and kept them out of sight.
The calvacade reached Alex Morrigeau's place on the Jocko
just before dark. There was a little, one-room cabin there, where
the substantial farmhouse stands now. Morrigeau, even then, had
a family of considerable size, but he took in the wanderers for
the night. A blanket was hung up in front of the Morrigeau bed
in one end of the cabin and the goldseekeers slept on the floor
in the other end of the little room. The horses were under rude
shelter outside. Thus was the first stage of the Maginnis gulch
stampede. The rest of the experience is best told just as Colonel
Prescott told it to me the other day when I asked him for this bit
of western Montana history for these trail stories.
"We were just getting to sleep," said the colonel, "and this
was not as easy a matter as you might think — when we were
roused by the arrival of another party from Missoula. These
fellows were in a sleigh. I remember that Billy Kennedy was one
of them ; Tom McManus was another and I think Charlie Winter
was also in the sleigh. They were leading saddle horses, as they
expected to have to race for the diggings when they got to the
hills. They were going by way of the Little Bitter Root. There
was no room for them in the cabin so they drove on through the
night. "Pat Mahoney and Joe Booth were wide awake at once.
They thought it would not do to let the Kennedy party get so far
ahead of us and they insisted that the thing for us to do was to
push right along after them. So we got on the road again at 11

146 FOLLOWING OLD- TRAILS
o 'clock that night with an Indian to show us the way across the
river at Antoine 's ford.
' ' We rode hard all night and just before daylight we reached
the river at the ford, which was to let us across to Camas prairie
for the final dash for the mountains beyond where we expected to
find gold. The Indian led us all right and we got across without
much trouble. As day broke, we pulled up at the edge of Camas
prairie and camped for breakfast.
"The weather was mild when we left Missoula. It was win
ter, all right, but there was no sign of a storm and we started,
confident that good weather was a matter of course. The night
ride had been rapid but not cold ; we had moved too fast to get
chilled and we were too intent upon getting to the diggings first
to pay much attention to the weather, anyway.
' ' While we were at Antoine 's ford, a little sifting snow began
to fall. Those of us who knew the country, knew that the storm
was starting in a fashion that was not encouraging. While we
were at breakfast on the east edge of Camas, the storm strength
ened. We didn't stop to make any coffee. There wasn't any
wood for a fire and we hadn't time for a little thing like that.
We gave the horses some oats and we ate what we could in the
cold. It wasn't much.
"Just as soon as the horses had eaten their oats, we were on
the trail again and it was but a few minutes before we were in the
midst of a firstclass blizzard. We were on the open prairie and
the wind and snow were terrific. I have seen some hard storms
but I have seen only one which was worse than that. In the win
ter of 1885 and 1886, when I was riding range in Chouteau
county, I was in the great storm which killed so many cattle.
That was the only one I know of that was as bad as the one we
faced that February morning on Camas prairie.
"Bill Chinn had a poor horse and he couldn't keep up with
the rest. I had wet my feet at the ford, so I was compelled to
walk part of the time to keep my feet from freezing. So Chinn
and I fell behind the rest of the crowd and soon we lost all trace
of them. The storm was so severe that in a few minutes the trail
that the eight of them made was entirely obliterated. The storm
grew_ worse and worse. It got so bad that the horses wouldn't
face it any more.
'We're lost,' said Chinn, 'and we'd better camp right
here. '
"I suggested that there was no wood there in the open prairie
and we would freeze to death if we tried to stop there. But
Chinn said we could find a low place, spread our blankets and
let the snow cover us. He had his way. We lay down there in
the snow with our horses tied to us.
"Chinn was mistaken about the warmth of the snow blanket

FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS 147
which was going to pile over us. In about 20 minutes I had sw-h
a chill that I jumped up and declared my intention of going
somewhere. Chinn had been pretty well keyed up, but his whisky
was dying out then and he had lost all his courage. He just
wanted to lie there. Then he got scared clear through and set
up a wail about our being lost. When he saw I was determined
to go on, he crawled to his feet and we discussed the best way
to go. ' ' I knew the horses would not go against the storm. I wanted
to turn around and drift with the wind, which would take us
back over the trail we had traveled in coming from the ford.
Chinn declared he was going to follow the others who had gone
ahead of us into the teeth of the storm. I told him to go to —
any old place he wanted to, but I was going with the storm. And
I started out, walking and leading my horse, for my feet were by
this time in frightful condition.
"The snow was so thick that it was impossible to see much
farther than the length of a horse, but I looked back after I had
gone a little way and I could see Chinn following close upon the
heels of my horse. Then I gave him a drink from my flask of
brandy. I had refused to give him any while he was lying in the
snow. That brandy' put warmth and a little courage into him.
and we moved along in better spirits.
"At night we reached the river. The storm had taken us
back to the ford and I wanted to cross right away. I was chilled
and my feet were hurting. I didn't dare to cut off my shoes as
I had nothing else to put on my feet, but it didn't seem as if I
could stand it with them on. My feet were swollen and I knew
I could never get the shoes back on if I took them off.
' ' But here Chinn had his way. He insisted upon staying on
that side of the river and not trying the ford till morning. He
said there was dry wood where we were and there might not be
any on the other side. So with our hunting knives we cut some
wood and started a fire. All the food we had left was a box of
sardines. We ate part of that for supper that night and then we
took turns sleeping and watching the fire. In the morning we
ate the rest of the sardines for our breakfast and then turned our
attention in getting across the river.
"The storm was still raging, though it was not as severe as
it had been when we lost the rest of our party. We got to the
river, but found there was so much slush ice running that it was
impossible to ford. We were in a bad way.
"After we finally abandoned the idea of trying the ford,
we rode out on the prairie. The-storm had lessened considerably.
We found a steer that was huddled up in the shelter of a little
bunch of cotton woods and had decided to kill the animal when
we saw the outlines of a pack outfit in the storm. We forgot

148 FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS

our cold and stiffness and thought only of getting to that train.
We reached it in a few jumps and found that it was Alex Dow,
Camille McGown and some other Frenchtown men, with a sub
stantial outfit, going to the diggings. They had more than a
quarter of a beef and were well provisioned otherwise. They fed
us and got us to feeling better. Then they said we might join
their crowd and we started out.
' ' We hadn 't gone far before we met the crowd that had left
Missoula the day before we did. There were Billy Lyons, Tom
McNamara, Dick Cunningham, John Sheehan and some others
whom I don't remember now. They had got through to the
reputed diggings before the storm came and had started back,
completely disgusted. They advised us to turn back, telling us
that we would have our trouble for nothing, as there was never
any gold in Maginnis gulch and they knew it. Pretty soon we
were joined by the advance guard of our own party, whom we
had lost in the storm. We took counsel together and it was
decided that the best thing to do was to get home as soon as we
could. "Alex Morrigeau was with the first party we met and he
took the lead as guide. All agreed that it was impossible for us
to cross the river at the ford so we went down on the west side
of the stream to where the Jocko empties into the Pend d 'Oreille.
There, at the mouth of the Jocko, Morrigeau shouted to> an
Indian on the other side of the river, telling him to ride in and
find a ford where we could get across.
"The Indian demurred, but we offered him five dollars if
he would make the attempt. He stripped and rode his horse into
the icy stream till the water reached his neck. Then we told him
to go back ; that we didn 't want any such ford as that. Finally,
we found a place where we could get across. Morrigeau 's horse
was shod and he rode him right against the shore ice, spurring
him so he climbed upon the ice and broke it with his shoes. This
opened a way for the rest of us and we went along up the Jocko
till we got opposite Morrigeau 's place, where we forded the Jocko
and had a rest and a feed at the place where we had tried to
sleep the first night out.
"From there we rode back to Missoula, where we arrived
late at night. It was through storming, but the thermometer
was 40 below zero. That was the end of the Maginnis gulch
stampede. I never saw the gulch myself then or since. I had
all the experience with it that I wanted. My feet were badly
frozen. My toenails all came off and the flesh peeled from my
heels; there were bad cracks between my toes and I. suffered a
good deal. If I had been able to get off my shoes back at
Antoine 's ford, I would have lost my feet. As it was, the doctor
talked for a while about amputating them.

FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS 149
"All that I got on the trip I got from Indian blankets, and
I had to burn all my clothes and fumigate myself. Even then I
was lousy for a good while. Some of the others were as badly
frostbitten as I was and there was a sore lot of placer miners in
Missoula for all that winter. They were sore from the frost bites
and they were sore from the disappointment of the wild-goose
chase. "I had never seen Martin Davis at that time, though I got
to know him well in later years. He was an honest old fellow
and he was honest in his belief that he had found rich gravel.
But he didn't know as much as he might about placer gold.
"I met him at Plains — I think it was the next summer —
and I asked him for the truth of the Maginnis gulch discovery.
He said he had stopped on his way back from the mountains and
he had seen a bar that looked like pay graved. He had panned
a shovel of it and had 'got a nugget that weighed a cent.' I
didn't say a word. I just looked at him. I saw that he meant
it and thought he was all right. So I let it go at that. But
my feet have never gotten entirely well. Every winter they
get sore when the cold comes and I have to go around with a
double supply of stockings and these big shoes."
With the exception of Charles Winter and Colonel Prescott,
the participants in the Maginnis gulch stampede have crossed
on the trail which leads to the city where the pavements are gold
and where there is no need to prospect to find it. But if Gabriel
wants to rouse them quickly on the morning of the Great Resur
rection, he will make a megaphone announcement that there has
been a rich bar found somewhere. For the call of the trail is
strong. He who has listened to it once, never forgets its lure. It
is irresistible. November 11, 1911.

Piti'l

The Painted Rocks on Flathead Lake
— Photograph by Elrbd.

FIGHTING FOR PAINT

DID YOU EVER stop to wonder where the Indians of this
country got their paint colors in the days before the white
man came? Always they painted. They painted them
selves brilliantly for festal occasions, they daubed the color on
thick when they were in mourning. Their use of paint for per
sonal decoration was one of the Indian characteristics which
impressed the early whites most strongly. And they were artists
in the decoration of the skins which they tanned for their tepees
and their clothing as well as of their own epidermis. Upon the
smooth face of many a cliff, also, their pictured historical paint
ing yet endures, though the storms of generations have beaten
against it; these pictures of long years ago have endured won
derfully well.
In the wide circle of wigwams which surrounded the great
dance tent at last summer's gathering of the Selish tribes near
the Jocko agency, there was one old tepee which is historic among
the Flatheads. It is known to be at least 80 years old — per
haps it is even older than that. Its fabric is of buckskin, tanned
soft and pliable as only the squaws of years and years ago knew
how to do it; it is discolored with the smoke of long decades of
use; but upon its exterior may yet be discerned the emblazoned
heraldic designs placed there by the artist hand of some Indian
woman, perhaps a century ago. What they mean — these symbols
— there are but few, if any, of the Indians who know. I have
not been able to find a man or woman of the tribe who can tell
exactly. They all say that the pictures, dimmed with age,
recount the deeds of valor of the original owner of this ancient
house of skins. "He was a big man," they say. "He killed
many Blackfeet. This tells how."
At that same dance, last summer, Big Sam — veteran of many
Flathead wars and a participant in the Stevens council of 1855 —
wore a white robe upon which was recorded by an Indian artist
the personal history of the wearer; the pictures told of his dar
ing thefts of Blackfeet and Crow horses ; they told of his cap
ture of Crow thieves who had stolen white men's horses and of
the return of the animals to their rightful owners ; they told of
151

152 FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS
the battles in which he had fought with the hereditary foes of
his people. Where Flathead lake narrows, toward its foot, to the strait
in which there are picturesque islands which compel the most
indifferent tourist to pause in admiration, there are high cliffs
which rise abruptly from the water's edge. Upon the surface
of these rocks there are pictured stories of the tribal triumphs of
the red men whose home this was as far back as there is any
history. Nor storm nor sleet has effaced these picture writings
of ages past. The pictured writings of the red-skinned -artists of
years long gone have survived the buff etings of the icy blast of
winter and the fierce assault of summer storm.
All of these paintings are more or less familiar to those who
know anything at all about western Montana. By some, they
are passed by as a matter of not much importance. By a few
they have been studied with care. Interesting they are as the
hieroglyphs of Egypt or of Peru ; yet they are regarded indiffer
ently by many. They present an interesting subject for detailed
investigation. It is not the purpose of this story, however, to
discuss the interpretation of the Indian writings. I started out
with the question, where did the Indians get their paint? That
is a topic interesting enough, it seems to me for a Sunday story.
Where did the Indians get their paint? If a present-day
dealer in covering for roofs — for instance — could discover the
base of their compound and their method of mixing their pig
ments, would he not have a proposition that would be better than
the Sellers eye-water which Mark Twain made famous 1 No gold
mine ever known equaled the profits which would be his. He
could advertise to any extent and he could deliver the goods. It
would be such a treasure as Pizarro never found in the vaults
of the Incas ; it would be of greater value than the wealth which
Cortez uncovered in the storehouses of the Aztecs.
But where was it and how did the Indians treat it? It is
a question which doesn't occur, perhaps, to many who often see
the pictures. It probably does not suggest itself to very many who
see the brilliantly-hued faces of the painted Indians who yet fol
low the custom of their ancestors. The Indian today buys his
paint at a store. Thereare not many of the young Indians who
know more than the significance of the colors; they cannot tell
where their fathers and their mothers got their paint before
there was a white man's store at which to purchase it.
As a matter of fact, there are few of the younger Indians
who care much for tribal custom or legend or practice. The
other day I asked Duncan McDonald something about the old-
time history of his mother's people and his reply came in the
form of a protest against the indifference of the young Indians
toward the habits of their people. It was an indignant protest —

FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS 153
sincere and emphatic and it came from the heart of the speaker.
For Duncan McDonald knows more of the old customs of these
Indians than any other man and he deplores their passing.
"Why," said Duncan as his eyes flashed, "there are no
young Indians who know much about these things. It is not
long ago that one of the Pablo buffalo was injured near my
place, while he was being loaded for Canada — so badly hurt that
he had to be killed. And Pablo said to me : ' Duncan, take the
animal and do with it as you please.' I thought I would have
a feast for the Indians and I called some of the young fellows
who were there and asked them to skin the carcass. They could
not do it; they didn't know how. They made an excuse that
they didn't like buffalo meat. The fact was, they didn't know
whether they did or not. And it was not until I found three old
Indian women that I was able to get that buffalo skinned and
made ready for cooking. Those women dug into it and soon had
the animal skinned; they knew how; they had skinned buffalo
on the east-side plains when their husbands and fathers were on
the chase in the land of constant battle."
But this is a long way from the paint question. Duncan,
in fact, didn't start out to discuss that question nor was it the
matter of paint that I had in mind when I asked him the first
question of the pleasant afternoon chat that led up to it. We
had started out to discuss Indian names. But he who expects
to come directly to the point in any talk with an Indian, even
an Indian so intelligent as Duncan, has another guess coming.
But one thing is certain — any talk with Duncan McDonald is
sure to be interesting. I wish I could have one every week. He
knows more old trails and bypaths than anybody else whom I
ever met.
It all started a week ago, just after Duncan had placed his
name upon the great register of Missoula county as a voting citi
zen. He, to the manor born, a native of Missoula county and a
resident for more than 60 years, had attained full citizenship
for the first time. "Where were you born, Duncan?" I asked.
I knew that he had told me, years ago, of his early days as a boy
at the old Hudson Bay post which gave its present name to Post
creek in the Mission valley, but I had forgotten the exact loca
tion of the house where he first saw light.
' ' At the old post, ' ' was his reply. And he reached out for
a pencil and a pad of paper. Rapidly he sketched a map, which
showed the course of the creek and the immediately surrounding
country. " Quil-lin-tzi-mape, " he said, "was the name which the
Indians gave to the creek. Here — and he indicated with his
pencil — was a dense line of bushes and small trees. It made a
natural inclosure. Along the creek it was so dense that it could

154 FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS
hardly be penetrated and it circled away from the water in two
broad curves which almost met at the side of the big circle farth
est from. the stream. This made a natural corral and into this
the Indians used to drive horses when they wanted to capture
them. A few Indians standing with waving buffalo robes at
the narrow entrance to this corral could hold the herd while
others went in with ropes and captured them. The brush was so
dense that no horses ever broke through. It was from the narrow
entrance to this corral that the place got its name. ' Quil-lin-tzi-
mape' means 'a narrow way' like you call a strait a narrow
passage of water leading from a lake or a sea.
"The post was built about a quarter of a mile west of this
corral. My father had planned to build it nearer the stream but
the Indians told him it was too dangerous. They said the hostile
Blackfeet would find the trees a good place for an ambush and
would be sure to attack the buildings from cover if the post was
built near the stream. There were some fine springs a quarter
of a mile away and there is where the post was built. There are
some of the old buildings standing yet. I was born there in
1849." And then we got to talking about other names and their
origin. Mission creek was called Sin-yal-e-min by the Indians.
The name signifies ' ' Surrounded ' ' and is derived from the great
battle which the Flatheads fought there when they avenged the
defeats of years and utterly routed an invading force of Black
feet who had ventured across the range, for war. Overconfident,
the Blackfeet had boldly encamped in the very midst of their
enemies ' country. They were surrounded in their camp ; many
were slain ; a number of captives fell into the hands of the Flat-
heads; others escaped and fled back over the range. It was a
mighty triumph and the place became a sort of national park
for the west-side Indians, who named it to commemorate the
event. Of all the west-side streams, the Rattlesnake alone seems to
have retained the name bestowed by the Indians, though it has
been translated. ' ' Kehi-oo-le ' ' is the Indian name for the pretty
stream which flows through Missoula and furnishes the city with
its water supply. It means rattlesnake — just what we call the
stream now, though why it is so called nobody seems to know for
there are no snakes anywhere along its course. "Tim-sim-klich"
is the aboriginal name for Lolo creek; it means "the stream with
no salmon." " In-tschu-tet-tschu, " which signifies "Willow
river, ' ' was the red man 's name for the Bitter Root. ¦ *
And this brought us to the discussion of the paint question.
Duncan had smiled at my attempts to express the guttural syl
lables of the Indian in letters. It is, indeed, not possible to do
it accurately. ' ' Et-tschu, ' ' which was the closest I could get to

FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS 155

two of the syllables of frequent occurrence, I find by reference
to the discussion by Father Palladino, to be given by that writer
as "etiku, " which means water when it is used in combination
with other syllables. But as Duncan pronounced it, it didn't.
sound as either looks when placed in letters. The Indian guttural
is purely a throat performance.
It was this which suggested the Yellowstone to my friend
and he said : ' ' The river which you call Yellowstone is not the
stream which the Indians called by that name. Their name for
the Yellowstone was ' Et-tschu-min. ' It is derived from a
peculiar sort of edged tool which the Indians used to separate the
shreds of flesh from the inside of the skins which they were pre
paring for tanning — a 'flesher' it is called. There is a promi
nent bluff along the Yellowstone which is corrugated on its rim
like the edge of this tool and the Indians, noting the resem
blance, gave the name of the tool to the river.
"When we went to Washington last winter, ,h said Duncan,
"old Louison, looking out from the car window, pointed out to
me this bluff and explained how the name was given to the river
along which our train was running and along which he had
hunted as a boy. ' '
But the Indians had a Yellowstone. According to Mr.
McDonald, it was what the present-day map of Montana shows
as Wolf creek, flowing into the Judith. It was so called from the
fact, that, near its head, there were large caves in which were
great deposits of chrome-yellow clay. These caves were deep and
there was some peril in securing the yellow paint from their
depths. This peril came from the depth and the treacherous
windings of the caves and, also, from the fact that all of the
tribes, east and west, were constantly battling for the right to get
this desirable coloring material. It was always disputed ground ;
there were battles fought there which were as fierce as any that
were ever waged over the right to hunt buffalo on the plains
between the Missouri and the Yellowstone. But the Flatheads
risked the battles to get the yellow. It was one instance when
a streak of yellow did not signify cowardice. The Indian who
crossed the range to get this paint was no coward; there are
many thrilling stories told of the excursions over the range in
quest of this yellow paint. When the color tone of an Indian's
decorative scheme was yellow, it was pretty certain that the
color on his face was the only yellow there was about him.
"Somewhere between the ridge back of East Helena and
Townsend," said Mr. McDonald, continuing the color talk,
"there was a deposit of vermilion which furnished the Indians
with their red paint in those days. This was, likewise, disputed
ground and there was everlasting combat waged over the , right
to use this iron clay. These fights were not as fierce as were

156 FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS
those which were waged farther east over the yellow paint, for
the location was out of the regular Crow and Blackfeet country,
but there was always more or less scrapping over the red sup-
ply." The green coloring which the Flatheads used, they got from
a deposit on the south fork of the Blackfoot, near Lincoln gulch.
This was in the Flathead territory and was theirs to defend if
there was any fighting over its possession. But there does not
seem to have been the dispute in this regard which went on over
the other hues.
' ' There is not an Indian living, ' ' said Duncan, ' ' who knows
the exact location of this green-paint supply. They know the
general neighborhood and some of them remember having gone
there as boys. But I have never found one who knew precisely
where it was. I suppose it was some copper stain which they
gathered as that is a copper region. But that is where they
went. And they got the color. They used a good deal of green
in their painting."
The journey for black was northward. Over across the
Canadian border the Indians traveled. The black was needed in
large quantities and there appears to have been little difficulty
in the way of getting it aside from the long journey. Mr.
McDonald thinks the black paint was some petroleum compound
— some asphalt, perhaps — as there is now oil in that country and
the black mud is common. But there was a particular black
which they sought for this painting work. Possibly the petro
leum was responsible for the durability of the outdoor painting
which the Indian decorators did.
These four colors furnished the foundation for the mixtures
of the Indian painters. There are yet some of the old Indian
women who know something of the method of mixing and pre
paring the colors. But there are not many of them and there
seems to be, as Mr. McDonald says, no tendency on the part of
the younger Indians to become familiar with these old processes.
The Indian made much of his pilgrimages. They were all
affairs of tribal state. Formal dances, in which the chant was of
the nature of an incantation or a petition for success, preceded
the departure of the tribe upon a hunting expedition or a war
sortie. When the Flatheads left these western valleys for the
trip across the mountains on their annual buffalo hunt, there
was a dance. When they returned, if they were successful, there
was another dance to celebrate the triumph. The war dance
which was the formal celebration of victory was a prime event;
it was the climax of the pomp of the Indian.
There were other pilgrimages; some for the theft of horses
from the Plains Indians and some for the recapture of horses
which had been stolen from here. There were journeys for social

FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS 157
visits with kindred and friendly tribes. The Indians were rest
less for they had so little to do. Annually they journeyed to
gather the bitter root, which was their staple vegetable food ; they
were upon one of these expeditions in Ross ' Hole, when they met
Lewis and Clark coming over from the Big Hole country. And
so there was always some journey for each season of the year.
The deer hunt, the foraging expedition and the like furnished
occupation, each in its season.
But we have never thought enough about the matter to
consider that a journey for paint was an essential feature of
the Indian's calendar. Yet, why should it not have been? The
paint was as much a necessity as the buckskin of his moccasins
and leggings. He had to have paint for his personal adornment
and for the expression of his feelings. When he went to war,
he wore more paint than he did clothes and when he was plunged
into mourning the paint which covered his face possessed the
same significance as the crape veil which is worn by our people.
So, when you come to think of it, the item of paint was
important for the Indian. He needed it and he had to get it.
He risked life to obtain the bright colors which he craved. But
was he so much of a pagan just for that 1 Do not we spend our
hours, often in risky ventures, for the gratification of whims
as unsubstantial as the Indian's quest for yellow stuff?
And wasn't the Indian's scheme a good one, after all.
Would there not be some satisfaction to ourselves if we could, by
streaking a stripe of color across our cheeks in the morning, pro
claim to family and friends the state of our feelings. Would it
not sometimes save a lot of needless trouble if we came down
stairs wearing blazoned upon our faces the sign of our grouch 1
November 18, 1911.

COEUR D'ALENE

ROMANTIC in its location is the Old Mission. Thrilling is
its history. In the records of the Jesuits it is called the
Mission of the Sacred Heart but the people of northern
Idaho, the early missionaries, the trappers and the packers who
journeyed over the old Walla Walla trail, all knew it as the Old
Mission. The old building is delightfully situated upon a slight
eminence, overlooking the beautiful valley of Mission river. It
lacks the grandeur of environment which is possessed by old St.
Mary's with its towering peaks of the Bitter Roots behind it —
or the mission at St. Ignatius in the shadow of the lofty summits
of the Mission range, but there is a softness about its surround
ing scenery which suggests at once a water-color painting of some
old-country scene, so soft are the hues, so tender the colorings and
so restful the outlines of the picture.
At the foot of the little hill upon which the old church
stands sweeps the Mission river, whose mirror-like surface
reflects in perfect duplication every detail of the entrancingly
beautiful scene which it traverses. Its banks are lined with a
dense fringe of willows and cottonwoods and the broad meadows
which stretch from its course to the base of the rolling hills on
either side are as velvety and green as an English field. There
is beauty, restful and complete, in whatever direction the ob
server turns his gaze. The eye lingers as the beholder drinks in
this quiet beauty, reluctant to lose any part of it, unwilling to
miss any bit of its charming detail. It is easy to understand
that the Jesuit missionaries found here a helpful influence of
Nature in their work.
The streams which feed Lake Coeur d'Alene on its eastern
side are all peaceful rivers. The St. Joseph, St. Maries and
Mission rivers are aptly designated as "shadowy" streams; their
surfaces bear the ghosts of mountains and trees and bending
shrubbery ; the reflections of blossoming roses, flowering clematis,
waving grasses and shimmering grain may be seen upon the
water's glassy tide. "Shadowy" they are indeed, these streams,
and wonderfully beautiful. To see them is to remember them
always as parts of pictures which baffle the skill of the most
158

FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS 159
expert artist, but which are so impressively beautiful that they
need no artist's brush to preserve them. They are like other
beautiful memories, precious treasures of the past.
This was the home country of the Coeur d'Alene Indians
when the white men first entered this region. They were cousins
of the Nez Perces and the Pend d'Oreilles — kindred also of the
Flatheads and the Kalispells. In this region they lived, upon
these meadows their horses fattened, in these hills they chased
the deer, the elk and the moose. It was a beautiful place when
the white man first beheld it ; it became a favorite camping place
for the hunter, the trapper and the freighter. Protected on the
east by the rugged range of the Bitter Roots, these Indians did
not suffer as did the Flatheads from the incursions of the eastern
plains Indians. By nature they were gentle, and though brave,
they did not seek combat.
When the Black Robes brought the message of the gospel
to the Flatheads in the Bitter Root and, in 1841, built the mission
at St. Mary's, the Coeur d'Alene Indians had learned of the new
religion. In October of that year, when Father DeSmet made his
first journey to the western coast to obtain seed wheat, oats and
potatoes for the mission in the Bitter Root, he visited the Coeur
d'Alene Indians. They urged him to establish a mission with
them and obtained from him a promise that this would be done
when more priests could be brought into the field. In 1842,
Father DeSmet visited them again. In the autumn of that year
the mission was founded and in 1843 Father Hoecken and
Brother McGean joined Father Point and Brother Huet, who
had established the church there. The mission was originally
located upon a meadow in the basin of the St. Joseph, but the
high water there compelled the removal in 1846 to the Coeur
d'Alene or Mission river.
In 1850, when the defection of the Flatheads compelled the
priests to abandon St. Mary 's mission in the Bitter Root, Father
Ravalli was assigned to the Old Mission and there, among the
Coeur d'Alenes, he labored for the next seven years. It was he
who built the church at Old Mission ; there may yet be seen his
handiwork, evidence of his artistic temperament and his skillful
hand. The old church was originally built without a nail. Where
a nail was needed, a hole was bored and a wooden pin was driven.
The building is one of the monuments of his work, like the little
church at St. Mary's and the larger one at St. Ignatius.
There have been many historic scenes enacted in the valley
of the Old Mission. The' old church has looked down upon war
like acts in the great drama of the northwest; it has witnessed
scenes of joyous revelry ; it has listened to the chant of holy men,
has heard the fiery eloquence of Indian councils, has echoed the
red man's warcry and, in comparatively recent years, has flung

160 FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS
back the sound of rifle's crack and the scream of terror from
innocent lips, in the horrible incidents of labor warfare.
In this valley, in 1853, Governor Stevens held a. preliminary
council with the Coeur d'Alene chiefs; again, in 1855, he met
them here and in the spring signed with them the treaty which
had been negotiated at the earlier council. Returning on his
wonderful march from the great council on the upper Missouri,
during which he crossed the Bitter Roots in deep snow over the
Coeur d'Alene trail Governor Stevens, warned by Courier Pear
son, found the Coeur d'Alenes in rebellious mood and on the
brink of bloody war against the whites. All unexpected — for the
Indians had no thought of the white man 's attempting the Bitter
Root crossing in deep snow — Stevens descended upon the Indians
and by the very dash of his arrival and the courage of his
demand that they adhere to their treaty agreement, he forced
them into the renewal of their declaration of friendliness which
their later and soberer thought approved.
Here it was that the tact and influence of Father Ravalli
with the red men were helpful in promoting peace and in pro
tecting the lives of the white men. As was the case, later, in the
Nez Perce war when Joseph led his band through the Bitter Root,
Father Ravalli went among the Indians and counselled them for
peace. He was yet a young man when he came to the assistance
of Stevens. But he was strong for the right and he was fearless.
Always he was arrayed courageously and self-sacrificingly upon
the side of righteousness, no matter how great the odds against
him. Montana will never know the extent of her debt to him.
Daily during the long years of his activity in this region, he
added to the amount of that indebtedness, but he did it without
ostentation and he never kept books. There was never a state
ment rendered.
It was here at the Old Mission that Governor Stevens, giving
his men and animals a brief rest after their terrific exertion in
crossing the Bitter Roots in the deep snow, organized his forces
for the war which was ahead of him along the lower Columbia,
where the reds were already lighting their trails with the flames
of burning cabins and blazing their paths with the blood of white
settlers. At the head of one of his companies he placed Chris
topher P. Higgins, who as trainmaster and counsellor had been
his comrade on the long march into eastern Montana and back.
And it was this commission which gave Higgins the title "Cap
tain," by which he was known in his later years. There were
a good many Missoula and Bitter Root people who never knew
him by other name than ' ' Captain ' ' Higgins.
Governor Stevens went forth from the Old Mission to a vic
torious campaign. The little nucleus of his fighting force which
he led away after the rest had recuperated its members, was the

FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS 161
mainspring of a small army which gave irresistible force to the
movement against the ugly reds in the lower country. That vic
tory prevented a backward movement in the development of the
northwest. It gave new courage to the whites and it taught the
Indians that they must be good — by treaty agreement if they
would, but at the point of rifle if they would not.
Many are the stories of comfort, of encouragement, of hos
pitality and of kindliness which can be told by the oldtime pack
ers regarding the Old Mission. The crossing of the Bitter Roots
by the Coeur d'Alene trail was a difficult climb at best and it
often happened that an unexpectedly early snowfall rendered it
perilous and the packers often reached the Old Mission at the
west foot of this trail, worn and battered in their struggle with
the elements. Always was there a welcome for them at the mis
sion, always a word of cheery greeting, always protection from
storm. The light which shone from the windows of the mission
was a beacon, marking the place of safety.
Out across the valley from the Old Mission is Fourth of
July canyon, in whose confines occurred the shooting of helpless
and defenseless men and women in the first of the memorable
labor conflicts which swept over the Coeur d'Alene mining
region. This was in a year that is not far removed from the
present. The Old Mission was then abandoned as a scene of
Catholic activity, the priests having moved to populous centers ;
but the old church heard the shots and its walls echoed the
shrieks which followed them. It was the darkest chapter in the
history of the old valley.
The earliest white men in the northwest found a trail leading
past the site of the Old Mission. Over this trail the Indians
crossed the Bitter Root mountains, except in winter, when the
deep snows made it impassable. The marches of Governor Ste
vens were made along this old Indian trail. The careful surveys
made by Lieutenant Mullan, under the direction of Stevens,
failed to discover a better crossing of the range and this trail,
eventually, became a part of the famous Mullan road. When the
Northern Pacific sought an east entrance into the great Coeur
d'Alene mining region, the surveyors could find nothing more
satisfactory than the acceptance of the Mullan line and the old
trail became the roadbed of a railway. Over the mountains it
led and down the narrow valley to the Old Mission. A tribute,
this, to the excellence of the judgment of the Indian.
The trails of the Coeur d'Alene Indians were not altogether
upon land. They were water trails, some of them, for the Coeur
d'Alene Indians were canoe Indians as well as horse Indians;
they combined the two means of locomotion. There was good
reason for this. Their country fronted upon the beautiful Coeur
d 'Alene lake ; it was penetrated in all directions by the beautiful

162 FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS
rivers which feed that lake. The route to the westward was direct-
by water and extremely circuitous by land, for the man on horse
back had to circle the lake, whose contour is devious and of great
extent. So the main trail to the west led by river and lake.
And the white man, seeking a western outlet from this region
found the most direct route to be by way of a little, narrow-gauge
railway from Wallace to the Old Mission and thence down the
river and across the lake by boat. It was another indorsement of
the engineering ability of the red man. Later, a railway found
its route around the lake, but for many years the favorite way
from Wallace to Spokane was over the old narrow-gauge to Old
Mission and thence down the river and over the lake.
It was a beautiful lake. The Northern Pacific, through the
brilliant publicity methods of Colonel Charles Fee, made it one
of the scenic attractions of the line whenever these were paraded
before prospective tourists. From Missoula to Wallace over the
Coeur d'Alene pass, the railway followed the old Coeur d'Alene
trail. From Wallace to Old Mission, the little narrow-gauge traced
the route which had been originally defined by the tramp of
rnoct asined feet. From Old Mission across the lake, the Northern
Pacific's steamers followed in the wake of the Coeur d'Alene
canoes which riffled the placid surface of the stream and had
disturbed the waves of the beautiful lake. He who took this
trip, enjoyed one of the rarest treats afforded by western travel
routes. But the inevitable happened. The romantic trip over the
little, wobbly, narrow-gauge road and the ensuing ride down the
shadowy river and out upon the broad expanse of the lake, enjoy
able though they were had to yield to the utilitarian demand for
quicker service and fewer changes. The orders came west to
tear up the narrow-gauge track and to dismantle the steamer.
This week is the anniversary of the last trip of the Georgia
Oakes from Coeur d Alene City to Old Mission and of the last
schedule-run of the narrow-gauge from there to Wallace. E. J.
Pearson, afterward chief engineer of the Chicago, Milwaukee &
Puget Sound railway, was division superintendent of the North
ern Pacific in 1896, when the orders came to tear up the little
track. He was just starting on the monthly pay trip when the
message was received and he invited me to go with him in the
pay car to Hope, then the western terminal of the division, and
then to accompany him to Spokane and back across the lake and
on the last ride up the river. J. W. Buford, now assistant treas
urer of Missoula county, was pay clerk and the three of us were
companions on the interesting ride.
I had made the trip before and it had become one of my
favorite jaunts. On this account the final run of the steamer up

FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS 163
the Coeur d'Alene river was specially interesting. It was a
farewell to familiar and loved scenes. It was November, 1896,
and we got back home on Thanksgiving day. The trip was pleas
ant from start to finish. The lake was more than usually beauti
ful, it seemed to me. Winter was a bit early that year but there
was no sign of ice in the lake ; it was not until we turned into
the river that we encountered this visible sign of winter. Slush
ice was running freely there, but the big steamer didn't mind it
and we found an added element of interest in watching the floes
sailing toward us.
Across the lake from Coeur d'Alene City we steamed to Harri
son, the sawmill town at the mouth of the river. There was a stop
there for the transfer of freight and then the prow of the boat
was turned up the river. The fragrance and color of summer
were not there ; but the crisp November air made the ride invig
orating and our attack upon the famous fried chicken dinner for
which the boat had a reputation remembered by all who ever
made this trip, won us fame as valiant trenchermen.
We followed the winding course of the river between banks
which were then fringed with bare-limbed trees. The summer
cloak of foliage had fallen before the touch of Jack Frost. Here
and there, rounding a bend in the stream, we would see a man
or a woman signalling from the bank ; there would be a stop per
formed with all the ceremony of a tieup of a Mississippi boat, the
passenger would be taken aboard and on we would steam toward
the Old Mission. It was fine, this ride, even though it was the
last. The constantly changing scenes, the inspiring surround
ings, the pleasant company, all conspired to intensify the pleasure
of the voyage. There was everything to make it pleasant ; there
was nothing to detract from the enjoyment of the day.
Finally, the steamer poked her nose around the last turn in
the river and there, before us, on the pedestal, nature-built, where
Father Ravalli had chosen the site so many years before, stood
the Old Mission church. The autumn sunshine illumined the
building against the gray background of the mountains. The
building stood out like a clearcut cameo and the picture which it
formed is yet distinct in my mind. Around that last bend the
steamer glided. Bells jangled in the engine room. Up in the
pilot house the steersman whirled his great wheel quickly. The
paddle wheels stopped. The big boat swung around. Another
jangle of bells and the engines reversed. The boat was slowed
down and eased in toward the landing. Deckhands ran to and
fro; the hawser was passed out; the boat was made fast and the
last voyage of the old steamer up Mission river was ended.
We took the baby train on the narrow-gauge and another
hour found us in Wallace. The pay car had come around to meet
us and our holiday was over. We worked our way back over the

164 FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS
rest of the Coeur d'Alene trail. It is a beautiful name, Coeur
d'Alene, and there has been a good deal of discussion as to its
derivation. The best information I can get, traces the origin of
the words — which mean ' ' heart of awl ' ' — to the alleged comment
of one of the old tribal chiefs, who characterized a rapacious
trader as having a ' ' heart like an awl. ' '
November 25, 1911.

THE VILLARD INVASION

WINDING around on the abrupt slope of McDonald peak
on what was until very recently the Flathead reservation,
there is the trace of an old trail. It is pretty well
obscured now with brush and young timber, but for a good many
years it was distinct on the mountain side and there were few
travelers across the reservation who did not ask what it was and
why. The old stage-drivers on the reservation lines used to have
its history well at their tongues' ends and they told a good story
about it.
The trail originally was a wagon road, laboriously dug out
of the steep side of the mountain at an easy grade and it reached
a long way up the peak. It was a part of the plan of Henry
Villard for the entertainment of his guests at the celebration
which attended the opening of the Northern Pacific for through
business. This celebration had its culmination in the driving of
the golden spike at Gold Creek and it attracted great financiers
from the European money centers, dukes and earls and lesser fry
in the ranks of nobility. Many of the prominent men of this
country were there and practically all of Montana made the pil
grimage to Gold Creek, saw the crowd, heard the hammer drive
the spike and then went hungry while they watched the distin
guished visitors dine sumptuously and wash down their viands
with champagne.
The spike had been driven and the crowd had dispersed.
But between Gold Creek and Puget sound there were many
things which Henry Villard wished to show the men who had
financed his railway venture and who must be entertained at any
cost. There were novelties innumerable along the newly con
structed line and there were beauties which the visitors must see.
Among these special attractions was McDonald peak with its
glaciers and with the gem of a lake which nestles at its base. So,
as a supplementary entertainment, the great promoter had
arranged an excursion to the mountain which is the summit of the
Mission range.
Down Hell Gate canyon from Gold Creek, the excursion
trains had moved with cautious pace, leaving the little town to
^63

: 'JMW^M—M Bj

McDonald Peak — Photograph hy Elrod.

FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS 167
rest in the memory of its one great day and the recollection of its
one great throng. Through Missoula and up the hill, overlooking
the Coriacan defile, the excursionists had been hauled over rails
which were feeling for the first time the friction of transcon
tinental wheels. Over the crest of the secondary divide the trains
had moved and then had dropped down the easy grade to Ravalli.
Back of Ravalli, the bluffs of clay rose, gray and uninviting,
then as' now. Out from Ravalli led the narrow coulee which is
the one way through this forbidding wall. Along beside the track
rippled the beautiful current of the Jocko and that was the only
attractive feature of the landscape. The gray wall of the bluffs
hid the lofty range beyond ; there was no hint to the curious tour
ists of the grandeur of mountain and the beauty of valley which
lay upon the other side of this forbidding screen.
But Villard knew. He possessed all the talents of a success
ful showman ; he was nothing if not spectacular, and in this side
excursion he had arranged as dramatic an experience as could be
planned anywhere. Nowhere in the world is there a sight so
dramatically impressive and so impellingly beautiful as the first
glimpse which the traveler gets of the Mission range and of the
valley at its base, as he drives slowly up that little coulee back of
Ravalli and breasts the crest of the hill and looks over upon the
magnificent picture which is spread before him.
Villard had seen this and he knew its spectacular possibilities.
He had planned to take every advantage of his opportunity. To
make it possible to get out of it all there was in it, he had con
structed that wagon road which made the ascent of McDonald
peak an easy jaunt to a man who had ordinary activity. And to
crown his plan, he had arranged to have the expedition person
ally conducted by Duncan McDonald.
' Duncan McDonald, all through the days of the preliminary
survey and the later excitement of the construction, had been the
intimate friend and adviser of the Northern Pacific people in
their dealings with this part of the country. He had piloted'
them to hidden passes, he had' ferried them over treacherous
streams and he had found them food and shelter when they were
hungry and weary. They had learned to depend upon this man,
more Scotch than Indian by breeding, but much more Indian
than Scotch by inclination and sympathy. And Villard knew
that, as guide, Duncan would add to the dramatic possibilities of
the occasion. Major Ronan was then agent. He had co-operated in the
arrangement of the plans for the excursion to McDonald peak and
he was at Ravalli with Duncan McDonald to meet the tourists and
to show them something well worth their while. There were
between 200 and 300 of the tourists who wanted to see the coun
try, but who did not want to make even the exertion necessary

168 FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS
to ride up the trail; there were perhaps half that number who
felt equal to the task of the trip up the mountain. And it took
some time to get the two parties lined up.
This was the situation which presented itself to Duncan
McDonald when he reported for duty on the morning after the
Gold Creek incident. It was not as had been arranged, but it was
a condition which had to be met and the arrangements had to be
changed to alter the situation. There were not any too many
wagons and buggies in that part of the country in those days;
when all had been impressed for service in the transportation of
the tenderfoot sightseers, there was no surplus and, as may be
imagined, there was a motley collection in the line that was drawn
up to receive passengers for the excursion.
Recently I asked Mr McDonald for some of the details of
this remarkable invasion of the Mission valley. He laughed. ' ' It
was the greatest thing I ever saw," he said. "There was never
anything like it, I guess."
' ' I went to the train to see what the plans were that morn
ing, " continued Duncan. "General Grant was not feeling well
and could not make the trip. Villard was not equal to the ride,
he said, and he would stay with the train. But there was a small
party of young men who wanted to climb the peak over the road
that had been built for their convenience. There were also more
than two hundred of the tourists who were either too old or too
fat to make the trip up the mountain, but who wanted to see the
lake and the valley. They said they would be ready after a while
and Mr. Villard said we must have them back at Ravalli by 4
o 'clock. "So I told Angus, my brother, to take the ones who were
going to climb the mountain and to get started with them right
away as they would have to move fast to get back on time. Angus
took them after a short wait and I had to stay for the old ones,
the fat ones and the English lords to get ready. There were pro
visions enough packed to take an expedition to the pole, though
they were not just of the sort that an Arctic expedition would
take. Champagne and fried chicken were the chief provisions
and the room which was left was filled in with bread and the rest
of the accompaniments.
"We finally got them all loaded. As guide, I had to ride
ahead and the long line of carts, wagons and buggies followed.
You can imagine how many it took to carry almost three hundred
of them, with the drivers and the lunch. The wagon right behind
me had a driver and three passengers. Tight behind that drove
Major Ronan in a cart with one passenger. I don't remember
who it was that the major had, but in the wagon right behind
me there was a little, slim New York man sitting beside the driver
and on the back seat were Senator Edmunds of Vermont and

FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS 169
Lord Norwood of England. I shall never forget that wagon-
load; it made me more trouble than all of the rest of the experi
ences that day.
"As we went up the hill, leaving Ravalli, the little man on
the front seat called out to me to get out of the way as I was
making too much dust. I knew I wasn't making dust enough to
annoy anybody who was decently civil and I kept right on. He
kept calling to me, though, and I got tired of hearing him. So I
rode ahead, faster, and got out of the way. I could even then
hear him saying something, but I had got far enough out of the
way so that I couldn 't tell what it was he was saying and I didn 't
care. "They made a great picture, those fellows in that wagon.
The little, mean chap on the front seat leaned forward and away
from the driver as far as he could, all curled up and squinting
ahead at me. He would have liked to shoot me, by the way he
looked. On the back seat Edmunds leaned back comfortably and
seemed to take a good deal of interest in the country. Lord Nor
wood, the representative of British nobility, was a weak little
fellow. He hadn't strength enough to hold himself on the seat.
Every jolt of the wagon sent him bobbing one way or the other;
he flopped about all the way over the hill but he made no mur
mur. The little lad on the front seat did all the jmurmuring for
the crowd. The Englishman tried to be good natured about it but
it was hard work for him to smile.
"Well, I kept so far ahead that I couldn't hear his growling
and I don't know whether it was far enough or not to keep my
dust from bothering the lad on the front seat. I'm sure I didn't
care whether it bothered him or not. We went over the hill and
down the road to the mission ; there was plenty of admiration for
the scenery and the kicker didn't have so much to say after we
got out of the draw into the road down to the valley. Things
were going first rate, when an accident happened to that front
wagon. ' ' Getting down into that valley toward the mission, the road
crossed some low, wet places. Cattle had been wallowing in some
of these sloughs and had made them rather miry and that front
wagon drove through one whieh was particularly soft. The team
gave a jump to pull the wagon through the mire and the sudden
yank threw the back seat with its two occupants right over back
ward into that soft mud.
' ' I heard a yell and turned back. It was the funniest sight
I ever looked at. The seat had dropped so that its back was in
the mud and the men had retained their positions on the seat.
This left them with their feet in the air and their heads and
backs in the mud, into which they were sinking without any more
effort to get out than a mired mule would make. They were just

170 FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS
settling down into the soft mud and their friend from the front
seat was doing a dance around them, shouting that they would be
drowned, calling for help and accusing me of having arranged
that spill on purpose.
"Major Ronan, who was driving right behind the unfortu
nate rig, just turned his cart so as to avoid the mudhole and the
other rigs behind followed him so there was no further accidents
and the long procession passed the men in the mud, some of the
travelers being amused and some of them being alarmed, but
none offering to help them out.
"I got to the scene of trouble and as quickly as I could
helped Lord Norwood and Senator Edmunds to their feet on
solid ground. They were fairly plastered with soft mud. I got
some grass and curried them down, getting all of the mud off
that I could, but they were rather streaked even when I had
done my best. And all the time that mean little fellow from
New York was jumping around and accusing me of doing it all
on purpose. He said I had arranged it with the driver and he
talked to me as if he were a slavedriver and I, his slave. But I
kept on wiping the mud from the unfortunates and wishing all
the time that it had been the front seat that had upset. If that
mean little cuss had' been the one in the mud, he would have
gone a whole lot deeper before I pulled him out. I tried to tell
him that it was the fault of the men on the seat that they had
not got out more quickly.
"Well, I got them loaded into the wagon again, with the
seat tied down, and we went on to the mission, where the rest of
the party had landed ahead of us. It was all so new to them
that these easterners had scattered all over the place. They
were examining the beadwork on the Indians ' clothes ; they were
guessing as to whether certain Indians were men or women and
making bets on it ; they were chasing butterflies ; some were
chasing the naked Indian babies that were toddling about the
grounds ; others were investigating the old church and some were
looking at the schools.' They were everywhere and I had to read
the riot act to get theni together.
"I got a few of them together and told them that my
instructions were to get them back to their train at 4 o'clock in
the afternoon and if they wanted to see Lake McDonald they
would have to get together in a hurry or we would turn back
right there. There was a scurrying and the roundup was made.
We got the line formed and we moved on toward Post creek.
"We got to the lake all right. The visitors were well pleased
with a small look at the scenery and then demanded lunch. Out
of the wagons came the greatest lunch that was ever spread in
the Mission valley ; there was an ocean of champagne and there
was fried chicken and cake and fruit in great quantities. It was

FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS 171
a champagne crowd, all right, and when they had taken one dip
into the wine, the scenery looked better to them than it had
before. They scattered along the shore of the lake and admired
the scenery as they ate their lunch. They were hungry and they
showed it.
"But there was not one of them who thought that I might
be hungry. There was never an invitation to me to have a bite.
And I was getting angrier the longer I watched them eat. Lord
Norwood had recovered from his scare and was doing more eat
ing than I ever saw a weak man do before. He was still muddy,
but he was happy and didn't seem to remember his troubles at
all. I lost sight of the mean little fellow of the front seat and
I didn't care, if I never found him.
"But I finally saw Edmunds detach himself from his com
panions and with an old chum who had been in another wagon,
move from the crowd a bit behind a bunch of bushes. I followed
them and got up to them in time to hear Edmunds say to his
friends : ' This is the greatest trip I ever had. I never saw such
wonderful scenery as this and I never in my life saw anything
half as funny as our spill in the mud. I haven't dared laugh
before for fear of hurting the feelings of somebody. But I have
got to laugh now. '
"I let him laugh some and then I stepped up to him. 'Mr.
Edmunds, ' I said, ' has it occurred to you that I might like some
thing to eat. If somebody doesn't get me some lunch right away,
I am going back to the mission to get some, and I shall not come
back here again. I'll just leave you to find your way back to
the train.' "Well, I think Edmunds was truly sorry that I had been
overlooked. Of course, my threat about leaving them didn't
amount to anything ; they couldn 't miss the way back to Ravalli ;
all they would have had to do was to follow their own tracks, but
they didn 't think of that. They were scared as well as sorry and
they hustled when Edmunds told them the conditions.
' ' You should have seen the lunch that I got then. There was
everything that anybody could want and there was enough of it
for a dozen men. They looked at the scenery and admired the
light on the peaks and marveled at the glaciers till I told them it
was time to go back to the train.
"The return trip was made without incident and it was a
tired crowd that got back to Ravalli, just in time. When I saw
the way those fat old fellows went for the fried chicken and
champagne, I understood why it was that they didn't feel equal
to the longer trip up the mountain. The ride they had was all
they could stand; they were all in when we got back to the
train and there was another raid on the commissary right away.
Angus got back with his smaller party from the climb up the

172 FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS
mountain and we turned over to Mr. Villard all of his guests,
uninjured except for the clothes of Senator Edmunds and Lord
Norwood. And they were not troubled about that. The injured
feelings of the mean little fellow on the front seat were slower in
healing than were the scattered wits of the two men who had
fallen out of the wagon.
' ' We turned away from the train after we had received the
thanks of Mr. Villard and pretty soon the excursionists left for
the west, to see new wonders and more scenery. That was one
of the queerest experiences I have ever had in connection with
visitors at the reservation and I have met a good many since
then." It would be interesting to take the trip across the reserva
tion now with some of the men who were members of that old
Villard excursion. They would find the grandeur of the moun
tains undimmed; they would see the same glory of sunset light
on the immortal peaks of the Mission range ; they would discover
the beauty of Lake McDonald unchanged; they would find the
valley even more beautiful than it was when they saw it. They
would find the farmer where they saw the Indian. They would
marvel at the wonderful development which has followed the
invasion which they started and which was made possible by the
construction of the road which their money built. They would
discover that Henry Villard, though a good deal of a showman
in the arrangement of his stage settings, had, nevertheless, rare
foresight and that his wobbly line of rails across the continent
has strengthened into one of the most substantial railways in
the world. December 3, 1911.

A PIONEER COURTSHIP

SOME day I hope to hear, from the lips of some of the pio
neers who crossed the plains with one of the old wagon
trains, the story of the pleasant incidents which filled in
the days of the long, slow journey. When I do hear it, I shall at
once transfer it to paper, for it is the missing link which is needed
to make complete the chain of narrative, covering that wonder
ful period of western life. We know of the difficulties which
attended the routine of teaming — the breaking of mules and
oxen, the herding of the animals on the way, the repairing of
broken wagons, the hard drives to reach night forage — all these
and the hurried formation of the wagon train for defense against
the attacks of the red men are familiar to us, almost as famil
iar as if we had been participants — all of us — in the scenes which
are described so graphically and so interestingly by those who
actually did take part in them. But I am sure that the long
trip across the plains was not all irksome ; there must have been
many delightful experiences on those journeys; we know that
strong friendships were formed there ; we have been told of the
excitement of the buffalo hunt and the keen pleasure of stalking
antelope. Then there were the evenings before the early bed
time — there must have been some pleasant hours there. It is
natural that these little sidelights should have been forgotten in
the narrations which we have had ; they were the every-day
things which didn't seem to count when there were so many big
things to tell about. But I believe we should dig after them
while it is yet possible to get them.
I came west early enough to experience some of the pleas
ure of riding the plains. I have spent a good many days and
nights in saddle and buckboard on the Wyoming prairies, and I
know there is nothing more beautiful than a moonlight night in
summer on these plains. That is what leads me to the belief
that it was not all work and no play on the trips of the trail-
blazers across the great plains that stretched between the out
posts of civilization and the pot of gold which awaited the emi
grants when they should reach the rainbow's foot in the moun
tains of the far west. They were mostly young people in those
173

174 FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS
wagon trains and where there are young people, the plodding of
oxen cannot permanently depress nor can the violence of stern
warfare entirely dispel pleasure. Pranks there must have been,
happy excursions there surely were, pretty romances there must
have been. There is a great supply of historical narrative in
this field if we can get at it. And these stories would be the
very best that could be written of the hegira to the land of gold.
A few weeks ago I wrote the story of an early-day Montana
farmer and told of some of the experiences of Martin Barrett in
getting started in the ranch business on the trail to Bannack. To
me, there was no incident in that bit of interesting personal his
tory than the chapter which told of the way in which Mr. Bar
rett got his wife. It will be remembered that the young farmer
had gone back to his Canadian home in the autumn to get some
supplies and a team of good horses for his farms, leaving his
miner-partner at the ranch. Not a word did he write to the
partner and the latter supposed Barrett was dead until, one day
the next summer, Barrett showed up at the ranch and spoke so
unexpectedly that the partner fell over backward and lost the
only needle on the place, with which, at the time, he was engaged
in the arduous task of mending his trousers. "He asked me,"
said Barrett, "if I had brought home a wife. I told him I had
not, but that I knew a mighty fine girl. 'Go and get her,' said
he, 'as I have lost my needle.' 'All right,' I replied, and I went
and got her."
The woman who became Mrs. Barrett under these somewhat
precipitate circumstances had been the companion of the return
ing ranchman on the way from Omaha to Montana. She was the
one girl in the wagon train with which he traveled and Mr. Bar
rett admits ingenuously that he got to know her pretty well. Cer
tain it seemed when we read his story that there had been some
mutual understanding between them; the wedding was not by
any. means as impromptu as it seemed from a casual reading of the
pretty story. I believed that then, and since then there have
fallen into my hands the notes of some reminiscences of Mrs.
Barrett. Looking through these, I am more certain than ever
that there is material in the history of that important trip across
the plains for a delightful romance. Circumstantial evidence all
points that way. The outcome justifies the conclusion.
It is possible to frame up the story of a beautiful courtship
between these two on that long ride from Omaha to Denver and
then to Montana. It does not require much imagination to do it,
either. I am pretty sure that the days were happy days, that
the moon never shone as brightly before as it did for these two in
the evenings in camp, that the promise of the land ahead was
only an incident, it was overshadowed by the supreme happiness
of the days that were the todays then and that left little to be

FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS 175
desired for tomorrow. I had framed some such romance as this
just by considering the story as it was given in meager detail by
Martin Barrett. The little imaginative tale becomes a reality,
though none the less romantic, as I read between the lines in the
notes which are before me, covering the story which Mrs. Barrett
tells of that eventful journey.
There were days of weariness, of course, when the dust
seemed intolerable as it rose from the scuffling feet of the mules
or the dragging hoofs of the oxen. There were days of terror,
too, when an attack by the Indians seemed certain to come. But
these were mere passing incidents in the glorious whole and the
trip was the journey of all journeys to these two young people —
the lusty, ambitious young Irishman and the quiet, little Missouri
girl who was on her way west to teach school, but who found
another position. And there is pleasure in the contemplation of
the pictures which we can readily conjure up of the happiness of
those days — they were together on the trail more than two months
— and it is easy to imagine the delight the other members of the
party took in the romance which was developing as the miles
were counted off. The way must have been happier for them
all, and the miles shorter.
It was in the spring of 1867 that Alice E. Cook and her
brother started overland from Missouri for Montana. They drove
a mule team and were to meet their father in Montana, he having
gone up the Missouri by steamer. The brother and sister drove
their team to Fort Kearney and there they had to wait for the
assembling of a wagon train for the journey through the Indian
country, the reds being particularly bad that year. Among the
outfits which joined the Cooks to make up the train was Martin
Barrett, returning from his winter's visit in Canada to his new
home in Montana. In her notes, Mrs. Barrett does not mention
this fact until later, but she tells one incident which proved that
something had happened between Kearney and Denver.
"At Denver," she writes, "an uncle of ours stayed and he
wanted me to stop there, too. He brought "a man to the wagon
who offered me seven dollars a week if I would stay — big wages
in those days for a girl. I declined, saying I was coming to Mon
tana to teach school ; he told me I would have to have credentials ;
I had them, all right, but — here the ingenuousness of it — I took
another situation after reaching Montana. ' '
There were the usual Indian scares on the journey ; the young
men and boys on guard had the habit of seeing hostile Indians
behind every sage brush. But there was no actual attack and the
train reached Denver without accident. Mrs. Barrett tells of the
loss of some horses along the Platte river and of the daring of one
of the men, Samuel Silvy, who swam the river to bring them
back and was compelled to remain on the other side all night. In

176 FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS
the morning when he swam back, he nearly drowned, but was
revived by the efforts of his friends. He became a lifelong friend
of the Barretts in Montana. The wife of the captain of the train
had had experience in Indian fighting ; she was a tender woman
and made the journey pleasant by her kindness to the girl who
was so alone and so new to the plains life. The older woman
declared she would take her own life rather than fall into the
hands of the Indians and sought to exact a promise to that effect
from the girl. But life held much for the girl, and she would
not promise. Happily, there never rose an occasion to make such
desperate action necessary.
The stay in Denver was brief. Those who were going fur
ther took up the march as quickly as possible and journeyed on to
Salt Lake. Here the train divided, a considerable number fol
lowing the California trail. The train captain led the Montana-
bound travelers northward. His home was at Red Rock. The
only exciting incident of the northward journey occurred at the
ferry on the Snake river, where the man ih charge of the ferry
was somewhat the worse for liquor. His protestations that he
would see no harm come to the young woman, as she was the
second girl to cross that year, did not tend to relieve her much.
But she was ferried over safely. At Red Rock, just three months
after she had left her Missouri home, Miss Cook found a tem
porary home with Mr. and Mrs. S. Estes. This was July 1 0. The
notes do not set forth directly the reason why the journey was
ended there instead of being continued to the meeting which had
been arranged with the father at Helena or at Benton. But the
sequel does show it.
' ' I stayed with Mrs. Estes, ' ' writes the reminiscent pioneer,
"until the sixth of August, when I was married to Martin Bar
rett, who crossed the plains with us from Fort Kearney. He had
a ranch on Horse Prairie and there we have lived for 40 years. ' '
There was a reason why the girl didn't stay in Denver for
seven dollars a week ; there was the same reason why she stopped
at Red Rock instead of going on to Helena to meet her father.
It was a mighty good reason, and its name was Barrett. It was a
fortunate thing for the young man that he joined just the train'
he did at Fort Kearney. It was a pleasant act of Providence,
too, for the girl. There on the primitive ranch at Horse Prairie,
she entered upon her new life, which was destined to be so happy.
The casual meeting at Kearney, the happy companionship on the
plains, the passing-up of Denver, the evidently agreed pause at
Red Rock led up to a climax which was hastened by Barrett's
partner — but it was a climax which would have been reached ulti
mately without the providential loss of that needle; it had evi
dently been all arranged, though neither of the parties to the
transaction says so ; the needle incident merely served to insure

FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS 177
the indorsement of the ranch partner. Home would not be home
without a needle and the young wife brought that.
"When I came to the Prairie," says Mrs. Martin, "there
wasn't another woman nearer than Bannack, eleven miles away.
Once I did not see a woman for two months. When, one day, a
woman camped near the house I took a small pitcher of cream
(as an excuse) and visited the lady."
With a wife in the home, a garden became necessary, and it
was fenced. The place, we may be sure, assumed an inviting
appearance which attracted the attention of passers-by. It was
home, indeed, and a happy home. The Barretts became known
through the county; their friends multiplied; they were the
pioneer farmers of that region and their farm is today one of the
landmarks of the country.
A year after the wedding, in the summer of 1868, the Bar
retts made a trip to Helena to see the parents of the young wife
and to explain to them why she had not been able to see them
sooner. It was a happy meeting. The Cooks had come up the
river. The family reunion was pleasant and the young people
returned somewhat regretfully on some accounts, to their farm.
They camped beside the trail, going and coming, and the trip to
Helena, made in this fashion, became the rule with them each
year until the railways came.
An interesting experience in the life of the young woman
pioneer came in 1877, when Chief Joseph and his Nez Perce war
riors, after the battle of Big Hole, came down toward the Prairie
in their flight from Howard. There was a state of terror pre
valent for days which was not allayed until the retreating reds
had passed. "All the women on Horse Prairie and at Red Rock," says
Mrs. Barrett, "were taken into Bannack and remained there for
two weeks. The men had the courthouse barricaded ; two barrels of
water were taken into the building and the windows had feather
beds piled against them so the shot and bullets would not reach
us. The men had also a small fort in the street near the well.
When our first scare came, one man, Con Bray, was in the fort.
One brave fellow had a young wife and he told her to go to the
courthouse while he would hide in the willows; and that is just
what he did. We had several such scares. In one of them a
woman fainted in the street because she could not find her little
girl. Another woman carried a satchel which flew open in her
flight and its contents spilled; they were not pearls, but silver
spoons, which were quite as scarce at that time.
"One night, while we were in the courthouse, T. H. Hamil
ton came in from upper Horse Prairie, 20 miles above our place,
with the news that the Indians were coming and he had cut the
traces of his team and ridden for his life. He had stopped at our

178 FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS
house and roused the boys and was very indignant because they
had taken his horse to corral their own. Then we learned of the
march of the Indians by Bloody Dick creek ; here five men were
killed at the Montague & Winters place. Some of the men at
Bannack went out with a wagon to get the bodies. Mrs. Winters
went with them and found her home all torn up and Montague,
her husband's partner, dead in the doorway. The men had
remained to finish putting up the hay; they had thought there
was no danger. Three bodies were found here. The men didn't
go further up as miners reported the Indians to be hiding in the
willows above. The other two bodies were not recovered till later.
These two were the remains of Cooper and his partner who had
been hiding in the willows, and had been told by Major Jim, a
smart Indian, to come out and they would not be harmed;
Cooper was taken over a hill and shot down by the Indians.
Another man, Farnsworth, had slept in a dry ditch safely ; in the
morning he had crawled out to reconnoiter and was shot by a
band of the Indians.
"There was an impressive funeral in Bannack when the
three bodies were brought in. The cemetery was on a hill and
while the funeral was in progress some drunken fellows gave t'ie
alarm that the Indians were coming; there was a stampede at
once. When the war scare started some of the local stockmen
were in the Sheep creek country; they knew nothing of the
trouble. In the party were two Wadarns boys, whose mother was
with us in Bannack. She tried to get somebody to ride out and
warn the boys ; when none of the men would go, she rode the
forty miles herself, gave the warning and was unharmed. My
husband and G. M. Brown rode down the Horse Prairie that
night without seeing anybody. They buried the account books
of the ranch and hid the household valuables in the wilknvs.
When General Howard came along he placed a guard at the ranch.
The cache was not molested except by some whites, who took some
food which was needed and which was not begrudged them,
except in one instance when a skulker stole a confederate bill and
a hair switch. Did his wife need it or did he want it to show
for a scalplock?"
That ended the Nez Perce scare. There was another the
next year when it was rumored that the Bannacks had risen, but
it was a groundless report and nothing came of it except a week's
stay by the women in town.
These were incidents of the early life of this brave Montana
farm woman. Soon after came greater comforts with the advent
of the railway; books and more frequent mails were not the
least. But the memories of the days when women were few and
perils many linger. They form interesting chapters in the history
of the state. December 9, 1911.

THE DRAGON OF THE SELISH

ONE SUMMER afternoon, a good many years ago, while the
Flathead reservation was yet a national reserve, I lay in the
shade of the grove along the bank of the Jocko river, oppo
site Ravalli station, waiting for a train which was six hours late.
It was an ideal Montana summer day. There were b;rds in the
trees above me and the Jocko's ripple made music at my feet.
The drone of insects furnished the accompaniment in subdued
chords, while the rustle of the leaves in the summer breeze —
lazily stirring — set the tempo quite in accord with the afternoon
and its mood. I had been several days upon the reservation,
visiting with friends, Indian and white, and had heard some
pleasant tales of the days when the reservation was primitive,
when the white man was just finding the way over the wall back
of the Jocko which shuts out the Mission valley along the over
land trail. It was a day for dreams and I indulged in the con
templation of scenes based upon the stories which had been told
to me. The quiet of the summer lent its magic to my day-visions
and the red men seemed real warriors and hunters. I had
harked back to the days before the Black Robes came. It was.
as if I were a spectator at a drama designed for me alone.
Came then Duncan McDonald — came so quietly that I knew
not he was there until a twig cracked beneath his moccasined foot,
came as if he were a figure in the drama I had been building,
came with the quiet, cordial greeting which is his wont, came
unexpectedly but so naturally did he fit into my dreams that it
seemed as if I had been waiting for him to appear. Duncan
drew forth his tobacco pouch and sat upon his heels beside me.
I filled my pipe and, as we smoked, he told me stories of the
mythology of his Indian ancestors. Told me of the doings of
Coyote, of Grizzly Bear, the Salmon, told me of the infinite
powers which Coyote possessed and of how he employed them for
the benefit of the Red Man, equipping the Indian for the strug
gle for existence which he must wage if he were to survive in the
contest with the elements among which the Great Spirit had
placed him. Coyote, in the legends of the Selish, is the counter
part of Br'er Rabbit in the negro myths, except that the clever-
179

The Dragon of the Selish (Indicated by Arrow) —Photograph by Elrod.

FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS 181
ness of Coyote was employed to help the Red Man and to cir
cumvent the plots of his foes. And of all the stories which I
heard that afternoon, the legend of how some animals are small
and others large is the one which has always seemed to me to be
the most picturesque.
I wish I could give the story the graphic touch which Dun
can gave it. However carefully I write, the tale must lose in
dramatic effect. It was told with the orchestral accompaniment
of all of Nature's summer instruments. It was as if we two
were alone in the world, save for the beasts and birds and the
inanimate things about us. No other human voice disturbed the
recitative Indian monotone and all the other sounds blended to
add to the effect of the story of the Dragon — the Dragon which
had Grizzly Bear for a dog and which was worsted by Coyote in
a struggle which set free all the animals of the earth. Innumer
able cigarettes were rolled and smoked by the narrator. So ab
sorbed was I that I let my pipe go out. I lay there and listened
to what was the most dramatic recital that I ever heard. And
here, robbed of its dramatic associations, set down in colorless
language — but the best I can do — is the story of the Dragon and
how it was done to death by Coyote:
There had been a great landslide away down on the Colum
bia river, which had formed a great dam across the stream, a dam
so high that the Salmon could no longer come up to the head
waters on his pilgrimages. The Salmon was sorry because he
could not get up the stream and the people in the land of the
Pend d 'Oreilles — who were the cousins of the Flatheads and were
of the Selish nation — were sorry because the Salmon came no
more to visit them. And Coyote heard of the distress of the peo
ple and of the sorrow of the Salmon. The wisdom and the clever
ness of Coyote were infinite and he came up the Columbia to
remove the obstruction and to clear the stream for the Salmon's
pilgrimage. He found the great dam that had been thrown across
the river by the landslide and he struck it a mighty blow. The
dam opened and let the water through. The way was clear for
the Salmon. Up the river came Coyote to tell the people what he had done
and to see if the way were clear all the distance. Up the river
he came to the Pend d 'Oreille river, along the lake and up to the
mouth of the Jocko, which is near where the town of Dixon stands
now. The stream was open all the way and the Salmon could
come up the river for his visit to the people in the Pend d 'Oreille
country. Coyote had opened the dam and had made the way easy.
By the mouth of the Jocko — which the Indians called Wild
Plum creek — the Lark had her nest, where she stood watch over
the entrance to the Jocko valley. Coyote saw the Lark in her
nest and he stepped carefully so as not to harm her. His two

182 FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS
front feet he lifted over her and she was not harmed. One hind
foot passed and the Lark was not disturbed, but the second hind
foot stepped upon the Lark's right leg and broke it. And the
Lark cried aloud in pain and anger.
' ' I had a secret to tell you, ' ' she cried angrily, ' ' but I will
not tell you now, though it would save you from death. For you
have hurt me. "
Coyote had not meant to hurt the Lark and was sorry. He
had, however, power which was almost infinite and he stroked
the broken limb. Lo, as he rubbed it, the Lark's leg was made
well and strong again and she sang with happiness.
"Now I will tell you the secret," said the Lark. And she
told Coyote of a terrible Dragon, whose jaws were the bluffs
tween Dixon and Ravalli, whose belly was the Jocko valley
and whose tail was the canyon which is called the Coriacan defile
and which reaches to De Smet, just west of Missoula.
This Dragon was powerful and he swallowed all who came
that way. That he might not fall a victim to the Dragon 's power,
the Lark told Coyote the secret and told him how to guard him
self against the strength of the monster.
The Dragon had the Grizzly Bear for a dog and nothing had
escaped his might which had passed that way. There was one
way by which Coyote might proceed and yet escape the dragon.
' ' Listen, ' ' said the Lark, ' ' and do as I tell you. ' '
Even now there can be seen, growing along the Jocko, a tall
weed which has a tough and stringy bark. From this weed the
Indians used to make ropes which were strong like the hempen
ropes of today. There are now old Indian women who know how
to fashion strong ropes from this weed. And the Lark told
Coyotte to make ropes of this weed and, as he traveled up the
valley, to fasten them about his body, attaching the other ends
to stumps and rocks and trees so that he could not be pulled from
them. And Coyote did as the Lark told him. Five ropes he made.
As he moved up the Jocko he fastened them to the trees and the
stumps and the rocks by the trail, fastening two before he
loosened the others and moving slowly and with great caution all
the way. Thus he advanced until he came to the bluffs which
are two miles west of Ravalli.
As Coyote came to these bluffs, he felt a terrible wind. It
was not so strong at first, but it became stronger with each gust
and finally it was so fierce that it took Coyote off his feet and
held him in the air. But his ropes which the Lark had told him
to make held fast and Coyote was not dragged loose from his
fastenings. Again the wind blew and again the ropes held. A third time
the wind swept Coyote from his feet and held him suspended in

FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS 183
the air. But the third time the ropes held and Coyote was not
blown away. He was sore with the strain and the ropes had cut
him, but he was safe.
For the wind was caused by the breath of the Dragon as he
sucked into his great jaws the air of the valley, breathing with
such force that he drew in all that was before him. And in this
way he had made captives of all the living things which came
his way. But the ropes had saved Coyote and the Dragon was
afraid for the first time. Here was a creature which he could
not take. And he shut his jaws tight together lest Coyote should
get inside. For he was fearful of this new creature which resisted
.his might. Then Coyote slapped the jaws of the Dragon, slapped them
hard till the sound of the blows echoed through the forest and
through the valley. But the Dragon held his mouth shut until a
blow struck him on the nose and made him sneeze. As the Dragon
sneezed, Coyote leaped between his jaws and was upon the inside.
And the Dragon was angry that he had had his jaws slapped and
he closed his mouth upon Coyote, even though he was fearful
that harm might come to him from this strange creature which
had leaped in of his own desire.
When Coyote found himself in the Dragon's belly, which
was the valley of the Jocko, he looked around to see what was
there. He saw many creatures — the Deer, the Elk, the Moose and
the Buffalo were there and the Trout and the Fly and the Gnat
— all these and many others had been sucked in by the terrible
breath of the Dragon and were prisoners in his belly. The Horse
was there and the Louse and the Ant and all living things and
they were all of the same size ; the Ant was as large as the Deer
and the Fly was great like the Moose. For that was the way
they had been created and of that fashion were they when the
Dragon captured them.
And Coyote noticed as he walked about, that the animals who
were near the throat of the Dragon were all strong and active.
Those which were farther down in the body of the beast were
slow and stupid, while those which were near the tail were dead or
were near to death.
When he had seen these things, Coyote went back to the
animals which were yet strong and told them the things which
he had seen. And he told them that they must kill the Dragon
or they would all be dead, even as those which were crowded near
the tail. And they asked Coyote how' it could be done, for they
were hopeless.
Coyote said that they must find the heart of the Dragon
and must stab it as that was the only way they could kill him.
And he set out to find the Dragon's heart.
Out in the Jocko valley, east of Arlee and between Arlee

184 FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS
and the agency, there is a little butte, low and round. This was
the heart of the Dragon and this Coyote found after he had
searched. And he told the other animals what he had found.
He bade them all give him their knives that he might cut down
the heart of the Dragon. And he warned them that when they
saw the heart fall they must rush for an opening. It must be
everyone for himself and it must be done quickly, for the collapse
of the great body of the Dragon would kill all who were caught
within. They gave their knives to Coyote and he attacked the heart
of the Dragon. He stabbed it and slashed it until he saw it
begin to yield to his attack. He shouted a warning for all to be
ready for the rush, each one for himself. Then he stabbed it
once more and the heart began to fall down. You can look at
the butte in Jocko valley now and see how it flattened, for it
was one time a rightly shaped heart.
As they heard the warning cry of Coyote, all the animals
rushed to get out. Those who ran toward the mouth, the eyes
and the ears of the Dragon found easy exit and were not crowd
ed, for the Dragon opened his mouth in his agony when he felt
his heart cut. And these animals got out without being crowded
and are yet large, for they were not pressed. These are the Buf
falo, the Moose and the Elk and their kind. The smaller animals,
the Deer and the Beaver and the Goat, were crowded some and
were squeezed and they are not as large as the Buffalo and the
Moose and the Elk. But they escaped and were not pressed out
of their original shape.
But the animals which ran toward the tail of the Dragon,
which was the Coriacan defile, these were in great numbers and
they were squeezed mightily. This is why the fish are small and
why the Fly and the Gnat and the Wood Tick are tiny. They
are those which were crowded most in the rush to escape.
All of the animals escaped and in safety, though some of
them were crowded so that they became small. The Ant was the
last one out. He did not get clear out before the body of the
Dragon collapsed, so great was the crowding. The Ant was half
way out when the big body of the Dragon fell in. The Ant was
caught in the middle of his body by the collapse and that is why
he has such a small waist.
But the Dragon was slain and all the creatures save those
that had died were released again upon the earth. Coyote had
saved them, through the warning of the Lark. And when the
Lark saw them coming back she was glad, for she loved Coyote;
though he had broken her leg, yet he had made it well and strong
again. And she sang the song of rejoicing which is the song
which we hear her sing even now as the sun rises.
Two miles west of Ravalli there are high bluffs on each side

FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS 185
of the Jocko as it flows toward the Pend d 'Oreille, where the
Lark had her nest. As he finished the story of the Dragon,
Duncan McDonald paused to roll another cigarette. When he
had it lighted, he blew a great cloud of smoke into the air and
then looked down toward these bluffs.
' ' On the north side of the river there, ' ' he said, as he point
ed to the height, ' ' in the slide rock you can see the form of a man
with a dog beside him. The head of the man is downward, the
arms and legs are extended. This form has been on the rocks
there, the Indians say, ever since Coyote killed the Dragon. It
has been there ever since I was first told this story, 50 years ago.
It was shadowy, but yet clearly traceable then, just as it is now.
Since I have been here, it has not changed. And on the cliff on
the other side of the river, which we cannot see from here, there
is the same figure in the rock which lies there. It is the monu
ment of the Dragon and his dog. ' '
Lazily the breeze ruffled the leaves above our heads; the
subdued ripple of the Jocko made soft music at our feet. The
birds sang their summer afternoon song, a crooning lullaby it
seemed ; the drone of the insects had not ceased. A trout leaped
from the stream after a fly that had ventured too close to the
riffles. There was a splash as it struck the water again. And
Duncan McDonald looked up.
"All these living things," said he, "would not be here if
Coyote had not saved them from the Dragon. He was a great
friend for the Indian. He did many things for the Red Man.
He taught him all he knew about woodcraft and he provided
him with the string for his bow that he might shoot strongly;
he gave him the flint for his arrow points that his shots might
kill. He stocked the streams with fish and he saved the animals
of the forest that the Indian might have the game to hunt.
' ' The Indian has many stories of Coyote and everywhere in
the Selish country there are traces of what he did. The old
Indian used to tell these stories about the campfires; some of
them could tell them like actors. The stories were handed down
from generation to generation and there are many points of
resemblance between these tales and the mythology of the old
Greeks. The Indians, too, have some legends which are similar
to the stories in the Bible.
"It is strange where some of them had their origin. The
Indians think that theirs are the original tales and that the others
were borrowed from them. I cannot tell where they came from.
But they are tribal history and in old days they were carefully
taught to the younger boys that they might not be lost. But
lately this has not been done and in another generation there will
not be many of them left. The young Indians do not know them
now. It is too bad they cannot be preserved."

186 FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS
Down the valley, where Coyote met the Lark and received
the warning which made it possible for him to redeem the beauti
ful valley of the Jocko from the horrible Dragon, the Northern
Pacific's eastbound express whistled for Dixon station. The
echoes of the shriek of the locomotive rang back and forth between
the walls which had thrown back the death cry of the Dragon,
ages ago, as the living animals sprang forth from their living
tomb. My train was coming and soon I would be speeding along
through the valley which had been the scene of the death strug
gle. It was a rude awakening. My happy afternoon was ended.
Duncan McDonald rose from his heels, upon which he had been
sitting through the long session. We shook hands. ' ' Some day, ' '
he said, ' ' I must tell you other stories of Coyote. ' ' How well he
kept that promise, perhaps another of the Old Trail stories will
one day tell. Coyote deserves to be preserved in black and white
now that the Indian no longer passes down the tales to his son.
December 16, 1911.

MONTANA'S FIRST CHRISTMAS

FOR nearly eighty miles after it emerges from Hell Gate can
yon, the Missoula river skirts the base of the Bitter Root
mountains, gaining in volume and in picturesqueness as it
receives accessions from the hundred tributaries which emerge
from the rocky rifts in the magnificent chain of peaks which
tower above it, until its current blends with the sparkling flow of
the St. Regis de Borgia. The beautiful stream here becomes more
beautiful and changes its course from the general westerly direc
tion which it has followed, turning almost at right angles and,
with accelerated speed, dashing through a narrow box canyon for
twenty miles. In this canyon the river pours over tempestuous
precipices, plunges between rocky walls — foaming, seething
swirling — for nearly the entire distance. Then its bed broadens ;
it flows between fertile fields ; it becomes a placid, almost mirror
like river. It debouches into the beauty of Paradise valley — ¦
rightly named if ever spot upon earth were rightly named.
Here, in the midst of the beauty of Paradise valley, the Mis
soula mingles its waters with those of the Pend d 'Oreille or Lower
Flathead, whose flow here is mighty mild, whose color is either
blue or green, according to the point of view, but always bril
liant. The union of these splendid streams gives the Clark's Fork
of the Columbia, through which the drainage of the western
slope of Montana finds its way into the Pacific ocean. This, to
my mind, is one of the beauty-spots of Montana. It is a glorious
place. The mountain background is rugged and substantial.
Great shoulders of naked rock jut out from the somber green
cloak of pine which covers the slopes and silver streams form
shining threads all through the fabric. Broad benches slope
away from the abrupt sides of the hills and, in turn, pitch —
often suddenly — down to the level of the meadows which skirt
the streams. There are groups of deciduous trees upon the
benches ; there are tall grass and brilliant flowers in the summer
time. In the winter the snow banks high upon the mountain
slopes ; there is a considerable depth upon the bench lands. But
the valley is not often snowbound. It is like spring there, always.
It appears to be a correct statement that the first buildings
187

Lewis and Clark at Lolo Creek

-Painting by Paxson.

FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS 189
erected by white men in the territory included in the present
boundaries of Montana were constructed in the spring of 1813 at
the point of land between these two rivers. The builder was
Factor McMillan of the Astor furtraders, who had been sent
inland from Astoria to establish trade relations with the Flat-
heads, after the arrival of the good ship Beaver at the mouth of
the old trading post built here, but we have an accurate and
detailed account of the life at the post and there can be no reason
able doubt of its authenticity. The records of the fur company
establish the fact that the post was constructed there ; it was
known as McMillan's trading post. A book, published in Eng
land in 1817, "Cox's Adventures on the Columbia River," fur
nishes a really graphic description of the happenings at McMil
lan's post during the sojourn of the writer at that place. Also,
the Flatheads tell of the coming of McMillan. For years, before
he came, the Flatheads had been getting the worst of it in their
annual engagements with the Blackfeet, the latter having been
able to obtain rifles and ammunition from the Missouri river
nomadic traders, while the Flatheads were yet primitively armed.
The advent of McMillan brought a supply of arms and powder
which restored the prestige of the west-slope Indians and enabled
them to wreak vengeance upon their foes, for — on equal footing —
they were better fighters and braver men than their eastside ene
mies. So their tribal records show the turn of the tide in their
warfare when McMillan came.
We may, then, assume the correctness of the statement that
the first buildings erected in Montana by white men were those
which McMillan constructed at the mouth of the Missoula river.
Their site was, later, the western boundary of the Flathead Indian
reservation. It had for years been one of the meeting places for
council among the Pend d'Oreilles. The Upper Pend d'Oreilles
spent most of their time in the Moiese valley ; they were ' ' horse ' '
Indians and possessed great herds. The Lower Pend d'Oreilles
had their headquarters in the Plains valley ; they were ' ' canoe ' '
Indians and subsisted mainly upon fish. They seldom joined in
the expeditions to the buffalo country. They obtained tlieir skins
by trading ; they were not good riders. But they were great trap
pers and their store of beaver and mink and other desired pelts
was great. They were wealthy and, of all the Selish tribes, they
had suffered less in warfare than the others, on account of their
comparative remoteness from the Blackfeet 's country.
Cox, the young Englishman who wrote the book which has
been mentioned, -was a cabin passenger on the Astor ship Beaver.
Upon his arrival at Astoria, he was placed in command of an
expedition which was ordered to proceed to McMillan's post with
a general stock of trading supplies, to replenish the post and to
bring back the furs taken in trade from the Indians. The journey

190 FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS
to the mouth of the Missoula was made without incident, except
that the party was hard put for meat and was forced to kill some
of its horses. There was a brief pause in the Spokane country,
but no other stop was made on the march. Cox had received
instructions from the head of the fur company at Astoria which
ordered him, in case he was forced to kill any of his horses, to
select the poor ones for slaughter. In his reminiscences, Cox
admits that he disregarded this order and, when a horse was
butchered, it was one of the best-conditioned in the bunch. He
didn't think emanciated steeds would make good eating. Aside
from the horse meat diet, there was nothing on the journey, to
cause any discomfort.
It was the day before Christmas, 1813, when Cox and his
party arrived at the mouth of the Missoula river and presented
their credentials to the factor at McMillan's post. The buildings
of the post consisted of a good trading store, a comfortable house
for the trader, his clerks and assistants. Here Cox and his com
panions established themselves for the winter.
A night's rest under roof was agreeable to the travelers and
they rose on Christmas morning, refreshed and ready for the
celebration of the day. They had not lost track of the date and
their English habits called for a proper observance of the holiday,
even though they were in a wilderness and in a land where Christ
mas was then unknown and unrecognized. It was a queer setting
for a Christmas celebration — strange, indeed, to the men from
England and the Atlantic states. But they had the Christmas
spirit and they had brought with them, also, some of the Christ
mas spirits which were in those days considered an indispensable
feature to the celebration of the great holiday. They were cheer
ful over their successful completion of the long march through
the forests and the snug cabin furnished a delightful contrast to
the tent shelter which had been their protection during the weeks
of their slow journey. The glow of the McMillan fire was enough
to compensate for the absence of some of the features of the
Christmas celebration to which they had been accustomed all their
lives and they proceeded to make the most of the material at hand
and to crowd all the cheer possible into the day.
Not long ago, I looked over the valley at the confluence of
the rivers and thought of that Christmas celebration of so many
years gone. It seemed to me then that the first Christmas celebra
tion in Montana must have been a jolly affair. Certainly there
could be no finer setting for such an event. The valley with its
background of pine-clad hills, with its rivers and its broad mea
dows, with all its natural beauty and with the pleasant associa
tions furnished by the permanent shelter and the warm fire — ¦
the valley on that Christmas morning almost one hundred years
ago, must have been a place indeed in which to observe the Christ-

FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS 191
mas holiday. I could imagine the complete satisfaction which Cox
must have felt in sleeping under a roof, even if that roof were in
an entirely new place and amid surroundings which were strange
to him. Montana is so new that we don't often have an opportunity
to write or to talk of events more than fifty years removed. So
this Christmas of within two years of a century ago is a novel
theme. This was almost forty years before the Jesuit mission
aries came to Montana with the true message of Christmas. Pos
sibly there was a Bible in the McMillan camp, but it isn't likely
that it entered to any great extent into that first Christmas cele
bration. There is, I take it, a distinction between an observance
and a celebration, and the affair at McMillan's camp was prob
ably a celebration. We know that rum played an important part
in the program, though it was not, evidently, conspicuous enough
to cause the celebration to become anything like an orgy as far
as the white men were concerned. Cox, in his book, tells us enough
about that celebration to warrant the belief that the day was
orderly. When Cox and his companions reached the fort, they found
a great camp of Indians there. These were warriors of the Flat
head tribes who had just, come back from the buffalo country
where they got a lot of hides and won a decided victory over the
Blackfeet, thus avenging a disastrous defeat of the year before.
They had brought back a lot of Blackfeet captives, men and
women. The Flatheads had been in camp there for a few days
when Cox came with supplies to replenish the depleted stock of
McMillan. It was a welcome arrival on that account, as the
tobacco had been entirely exhausted and the Indians had learned
to like the weed. It was a coincidence that shaped matters so
that the Flatheads had planned the torture of their prisoners—
for Christmas day. That they were persuaded from carrying out
in full their program of torture, is what makes me believe that
the whites did not dip too deeply into the rum.
The hunters had brought in some mountain sheep for the
feast of the day and there had been a general distribution of
tobacco. From his private store Cox supplied a sack of flour, a
sack of rice, a generous supply of tea and coffee, some arrowroot
and fifteen gallons of prime rum. Here was the material for the
Christmas celebration as Cox had planned it. But he had arrived
only the night before and he did not realize, as he made his pro
gram that Christmas morning, the influence which the Indians
would have in upsetting his arrangements. Their enthusiasm
came, but from their joy over their victory and their elation over
the prospect of a sufficient supply of rifles and bullets to repeat
the defeat of the Blackfeet upon the occasion of the next journey
across the range. They had many defeats and indignities to

192 FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS
avenge, and it was their nature and their practice to make the
torture of their captives atone for many of the humiliations whicii
had been forced upon them. Indeed, the captives expected noth
ing else, for they had tortured Flatheads and they knew that
torture was the inevitable sequel to capture.
In his book, to which reference has already been made, Cox
describes the remarkable experiences of that first Montana
Christmas. He tells how his expected pleasure was spoiled by the
Indians. It is best to quote his words; they are graphic. He
says: "We spent a comparatively happy Christmas, and by the
side of a blazing fire in a warm room, forgot the sufferings we
had endured in our dreary progress through the woods. There
was, however, in the midst of our festivities a great drawback
from the pleasure we should otherwise have enjoyed. I allude to
the unfortunate Blackfeet who had been captured by the Flat-
heads. Having been informed that they were about putting one
of their prisoners to death, I went to their camp to witness the
spectacle. The man was tied to a tree, after which they heated
an old barrel of a gun until it became red hot, with which they
burned him on the legs, thighs, neck, cheeks and stomach. Then
they commenced cutting the flesh from about the nails, which
they pulled out, and next separated the fingers from the hand,
joint by joint. During the performance of these cruelties, the
wretched captive never winced and, instead of suing for mercy,
he added fresh stimulant to their barbarous ingenuity by the
most irritating reproaches, part of which our interpreter trans
lated as follows : ' My heart is strong ; you do not hurt me ; you
cannot hurt me ; you are fools ; you do not know how to torture ;
try it again ; I do not feel any pain yet. We torture your rela
tives much better, because we make them cry out loud like little
children. You are not brave; you have small hearts; you are
afraid to fight. '
" Then, addressing one Flathead in particular, the captive
said : ' It was by my arrow that you lost your eye. ' Upon which
the Flathead darted at him and in a moment with a sharp knife
scooped out one of his eyes, at the same time cutting the bridge of
his nose almost in two. This did not stop him ; with his remaining
eye he looked sternly at another and said : ' I killed your brother
and I scalped your fool of a father. ' The warrior to whom this
was addressed instantly sprang at him and separated the scalp
from his head. He was then about to plunge a knife into his
heart when he was told by the chief to desist. The raw skull, the
bloody eyesocket and the mutilated nose presented a horrible
appearance, but by no means changed his note of defiance.
" 'It was I,' said he, addressing the chief, 'that made your
wife a prisoner last fall — we put out her eyes, we tore out her
tongue, we treated her like a dog.'> The chief became incensed

FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS 193
the moment his wife's name was mentioned; he seized his gun
and, before the last sentence was ended, a ball from it passed
through the brave fellow's heart and terminated his sufferings.
Shocking, however, as this dreadful exhibition was, it was far
exceeded by the atrocious cruelties practiced upon the female
prisoners. We remonstrated against such horrible (iruelti.es. They
responded by saying the Blackfeet treated their prisoners in the
same manner ; that it was the course adopted by all red warriors
and they could not think of giving up the gratification of their
revenge to the foolish and womanish feelings of white men.
"Shortly after this, we observed a young female led forth,
apparently not more than fourteen or fifteen years of age, sur
rounded by some old women, who were conducting her to one end
of the village, whither they were followed by a number of young
men. Learning of their intentions to torture this young girl, we
renewed our remonstrances but received nearly the same answer
as before. Finding them still inflexible and wishing to adopt
every means in our power consistent with safety, in the cause of
humanity, we ordered our interpreter to acquaint them that,
highly as we valued their friendship and much as we esteemed
their furs, we would quit their country forever unless they dis
continued their unmanly and disgraceful cruelties to their prison
ers. This had the desired effect and the miserable captive was
led back to her sorrowing group of friends. Our interference was
nearly rendered ineffectual by the furious old priestesses who had
been conducting her to the sacrifice. They told the young war
riors they were cowards, fools and had not the hearts of fleas, and
called on them in the names of their- sisters, mothers and wives
to follow the steps of their forefathers and have their revenge on
the dogs of Blackfeet. They began to waver, but we affected not
to understand what the old woman had been saying. We told
them that this act of self-denial on their part was particularly
grateful to the white men and by it they would secure our per
manent residence among them and, in return for their furs, they
would be furnished with guns and ammunition sufficient to repe)
the attacks of their old enemies and preserve their relatives from
being made prisoners. This decided the doubtful and the chief
promised faithfully that no more tortures would be inflicted upon
the prisoners, which I believe was rigidlv adhered to, at least dur
ing the winter of 1813."
Thus there was something of the real spirit of Christmas in
the first Montana celebration, after all. Cox appears to have
acquired some influence over the Flatheads by his square dealing
with them. Later in that winter, he persuaded the war chief to
return a party of Blackfeet men and women to their own country.
The captives were furnished with horses and dried meat — for
which Cox paid — and were told to go home. The Blackfeet did

194 FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS
not understand it, but they went. The Flatheads were not
enthusiastic over the decision of the chief, but they wanted to be
sure of their supply of arms and ammunition and they did not
dare to antagonize the men who furnished them. The first lesson
in forbearance was thus taught to the Flatheads on this Christ
mas day,. 98 years ago.
This is a strange story — this tale of the first white Christmas
in Montana — but it is vouched for by records which are unim
peachable: The site of the old McMillan post is all that remains.
The last vestige of the ruins of those old log cabins has disap
peared. The Flatheads have lost even their tribal relations now.
But the-two great rivers yet mingle their waters in Paradise
valley. And the lesson of peace and good will is better .under
stood than it was on that far-back Christmas day when a young
Englishman sought to teach it to the Indians of the wilderness and
succeeded to a degree which is surprising when we consider the
conditions which attended the effort. I have no doubt that, though
he had been shocked, he enjoyed his Montana Christmas dinner
all the more for having exercised the Christmas spirit. Thinking
it over, I am inclined to recall what I said about this incident and
to speak of Cox's Christmas as an observance, after all, and not
as a celebration.
December 23, 1911.

THE CALL OF THE WEST

WHAT is the call of the west 1 We have all felt it and we
shall all feel it again if, by any chance, we are separated
again from the west for any considerable length of time.
It is irresistible, we know that, and it is stronger if one has once
been of the west a part, even if a small part, but it is not to be
described. It is homesickness, to be sure, but it is such a home
sickness as nobody knows who has not had a home in the west,
who has not made friends of its mountains, who has not gained
terms of intimacy with its streams, who has not been accepted as
a comrade by its valleys. We have all experienced homesickness,
but the longing for the west is something stronger than just that.
Think how many people you have known who thought they were
tired of the west and tried to live back east. Think, then, how
few of them succeeded. The call of the west brought them back.
It does it now and it did the same thing fifty years ago. The
west has claimed many of the best men and women of the east,
but the east has robbed us of very few of our own people. I have
been reading, lately, the stories of some of our older Montanans.
The experiences of some of them have inspired the thought here
expressed — there is no call like the call of the west. Witness the
story of Major Bill Doney of Yamhill as an instance — an instance
that is often repeated in the stories of the men and women who
have been coming west for half a century, who have thought they
didn't like the west and then have returned east only to find that
their affection for the western country was too strong to be dis
regarded. The story of Major Bill Doney and the trails he traversed is
not unusual. In my experience and in my acquaintance it has
been duplicated many times. So it has in yours, each one of you.
But I have taken it as a type because I know Major Bill pretty
well and because he is known to so many of the people who read
these old trail stories. He came west first in 1865, did Major Bill,
and he returned almost at once from Denver. But he was back
again in 1867, this time in Montana. And it was not a Pullman
car trip back and forth in those days — it was walk, every step of
the rough way, walk and take the dust of a team of oxen, shuf f-
195

196 FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS
ling along over the plains trail. Major Bill thought he didn 't like
the west, but even the crude west of 1865 called so strongly that
he came back as soon as he could — came back through the most
perilous conditions that the plains' trails knew, fighting Indians
nearly all the way, risking life and all else, just for the sake of
being in the west again.
And Major Bill learned his lesson sooner than some of them
did. The second time he got out west, he stayed. Almost all the
time he has been in Montana; once he went down into Utah for
a while to help finish the Union Pacific construction and to assist
in driving the golden spike at Promontory point; then he came
back and since then he has been in western Montana ; is yet placer
mining on Gold creek, the stream where the first colors were
found in Montana. You couldn't drag him east with an ox-team
like one of those he drove back and forth across the plains before
he became convinced that the west called more strongly than any
other place on earth.
Major Bill was christened William J. Doney. He was born
back in Illinois in 1842. He was taken to Wisconsin as a boy and
lived there until 1865, when he first heard the call of the west.
He responded and got a job as bullwhacker on the old Kansas
trail. He followed his plodding oxen all the weary miles between
the Missouri and Denver. He spent the summer in the Colorado
country, but the approach of autumn found him getting homesick
for the Wisconsin forests, and he took his old job and tramped
back with the oxen to< the river which was then the line of embark
ation for passengers in the fleet of prairie schooners which for
years dotted the great plains. It was a long, slow journey, but
home was at the end of it, and the young, man plodded on, content
in the realization that each step took him nearer to the place
where he wanted to be.
He thought it was the place where he wanted to be. But
when he got to the Wisconsin woods again, they didn't seem like
the forests he had left. Their charm was gone; something had
come into his life that had broken the spell. Overpowering his
homesickness was that insistent call of the west, that call which
reminded him constantly of the region whose acquaintance he
had formed and which had won his allegiance, all unconsciously
to himself. There are many of us who have shared this expe
rience. There has been at times a longing for the old home;
when we have been able to satisfy that longing, how different
things have seemed from the memories we had cherished and
how much more beautiful, how much more satisfactory the west
has appeared when viewed from that distance. And how readily
we have come back, glad that we might return, contented that we
were of the west and that the west was ours.
One season in Wisconsin served to convince Major Bill that

FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS 197
he had made a mistake and the early spring of 1867 found him
hunting a job as bullwhacker again on a westward trail. The
tide of emigration that season had set in toward the rich diggings
of western Montana, and it was upon that tide that Doney
embarked, again swinging a whip over the backs of an oxteam.
For the third time he plodded over the trail across the plains
and presently the Rocky mountains loomed ahead, the goal for
which he was headed, the realm which he was never again to
forsake, the region which was to be his home for life. Now, as
he nears the three-score-and-ten mark in his life's journey, he is
yet in the heart of those mountains, contented and happy, wash
ing gold in the old diggings of Yamhill.
That third trip across the plains was no pleasure- jaunt.
There were skirmishes with the Indians almost from the time
the outfit left the Missouri river behind. It was a bad year,
anyway. The plains Indians were irritable and hostile ; they
feared the result of the completion of the new railway; they
hated the race which was building it ; they sought to prevent by
their guerilla warfare the advance of the white line. More and
more threatening became the reds and, at the western border
of Nebraska, almost in Wyoming — it was at a little settlement
known as Castle Pool — the outfit with which Doney was travel
ing was held back for ten days by the fighting ahead, in which
government troops were engaged in the attempt to drive back
the reds and to teach them to behave themselves. The troops
succeeded in forcing a surrender of the hostile band and the
outfit was allowed to proceed.
Some of the drivers had deserted earlier in the trip ; others
refused to proceed from Castle Pool. The number of bullwhack-
ers was reduced one-half but Doney was one of those who stayed
with the job. He had double work to do for the remainder of
the trip, but he stuck. The call of the west was stronger than
the fear of the Indians. And so Major Bill came to Montana.
He came through a shower of arrows and a rain of lead, but
he got through safely and he has never been sorry that he came.
Major Doney 's introduction to Montana, was at Bannack.
He arrived in the lively old mining camp — then young — Octo
ber 3, 1867. Bannack had yielded her supremacy at that time
to Virginia City and, after a fortnight in the old placer diggings,
Doney moved on to the newer ones in Alder gulch. The dust
was being taken from the rich bars which Fairweather, Edgar
and their companions had found, being taken in quantities
which made the old gulch the marvel of the world. But there
seemed to be no new ground and the only opening which pre
sented itself to the new arrival was a job at day-wages and he
wasn't quite satisfied with that.
Making inquiry as to what else there was in Montana, the

198 FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS
major learned about Bozeman, then a little trading and farming
town, and over into the Gallatin valley he went to see what the
offering of that region might be. It was not altogether an
encouraging field for the ambitious young man at that season of
the year; the movement of overland travel had ceased for the
year and the farming was all done ; the placer miners were enter
ing upon their season of comparative idleness and the demand
for the farm products was light. About a month spent in Boze
man satisfied Doney that the Gallatin country was great in pos
sibilities but that there was nothing there that would pay his
board for the winter. So he hiked westward over the range to
Missoula, riding horseback.
Christmas day, 1867, Major Bill had his first glimpse of
Missoula. "It wasn't very much of a place when I came to it
that Christmas day," said the major, as he related his story to
me the other day. "There were two stores and a hotel besides
the Missoula mills and the few houses that had been built for
the folks who started the town. But there was more in Missoula
in the way of winter employment than there had been anywhere
else that I had visited and I stayed in Missoula all that winter.
It was good to me, Missoula was, and I have always liked it ever
since then."
The spring of 1868 led Major Bill to the Pioneer district,
which has since become his permanent home. He rode up from
Missoula to Henderson gulch, where he looked over the ground.
Hearing of other diggings, he went over past Bear gulch to
Maginnis gulch on the Blackfoot side of the range. There was
nothing there which appealed to him and he saddled again to
take the trail, this time riding over into Madison county again,
the camp at Sheridan being his objective point. In Sheridan he
became acquainted with a couple of young fellows about his own
age and they persuaded him to join them in a trip down into
Utah. "That trip to Utah," says Major Doney, "was the hardest
journey I ever made. It was worse than the time we came
across the plains, dodging Indians all the way. We got along all
right until we entered the Soda Springs mountain region and
there we lost our way entirely. For three days and nights we
were as completely lost as any three fellows ever were. We
wandered back and forth, looking for some landmark that we
might recognize but we didn't see a single place that looked
natural until, all at once, we came out at Soda Springs. There
we were able to get something to eat and we were put on the
right trail. It was late in the fall of 1868 and those nights in
the hills without anything to eat were cold and discouraging.
But we were all right as soon as we got something to eat and
we didn't have any more trouble on the trip."

FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS 199
The travelers made short stays in Cache valley and at Salt
Lake and then went to work on the construction of the Union
Pacific, which was then nearing its completion. All through the
winter Doney worked on the railway building. He quit the job
in May, 1869, just a week before the golden spike was driven,
and he went into Promontory with the big crowd to witness the
official completion of the first transcontinental line.
"That was the toughest, wildest crowd I ever saw," says
the major, describing his adventures in helping the Oakes Ames
folks to get their big job finished. "Two big gangs had been
working, one eastward and the other westward, and there were
30,000 graders turned loose all at once when the two lines met.
All of these men had been paid off. The golden spike driving
had been well advertised and every crook and sure-thing man
west of the Mississippi had moved to Promontory to have a share
in picking the rich profits that were supposed to be there. No
mining camp that I ever saw could compare in toughness with
Promontory when we graders got there. It was a crude, shack
town — but it was wide open night and day. There was every
form of gambling that could be thought of; there was one con
tinuous round of noise and hurrah. The sure-thing games were
not fast enough for some of the thugs and they robbed the
paid-off men whenever they got them in singles, killing them if
they couldn't get the money any other way. This was the only
town I was ever in where they 'had a man for breakfast every
morning. ' I had heard of such places but this was the only one
I ever saw. And one was enough. When the spike was driven,
the crowd vanished. Promontory had had its day. ' '
Major Bill was fortunate in being permitted to play the role
of observer during his sojourn in the temporary town. He
escaped the holdups and was not attacked by the thugs. When
the big event had been pulled off, he and his two companions,
who had stuck together during all the excitement, began to think
again of Montana. They had saved a little money and they
started north again from Ogden, in a spring wagon, driving
one good team of horses and leading another. They hadn't been
molested by the thieves while in Promontory, but no sooner had
they hit the trail than their led team was stolen.
They discovered the theft in time to locate the trail of the
thieves and they lost no time in taking up the pursuit. The
chase was lively but the thieves were run down after a couple of
days and the horses were recovered without a fight. There was
no attempt to bring the thieves to justice. The conditions were
such that it would have been useless. The young men were
glad to get their horses back and were well satisfied as they
turned their faces once more toward Montana with their posses
sions all intact. The trip north was made without further inci-

200 FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS
dent and Major Bill found himself in Bannack again in the fall
of 1869. That winter Major Bill spent his time around Virginia City
and Henry's Lake, Idaho. The next spring he went to Butte,
passing through the lively placer camp at Silver Bow. At Butte,
he found occupation at odd jobs that kept him busy until sum
mer, when he went to Deer Lodge City, where he lived for a
year. His principal source of income during this year was
catching fish; he fished in Warm Springs creek, above where
Anaconda now stands, as far as Silver lake. It was good fishing
and Major Bill's trout were one of the things that made the old
Scott house famous in Deer Lodge and among passengers on the
old stagecoach trail. During that summer he also found employ
ment with Black & Morgan, the firm that had the contract for
the construction of the federal prison, now the state peniten
tiary, in Deer Lodge.
In the fall of 1870, Major Bill came down Hell Gate as far
as where Clinton now stands. There he remained until March,
1871, when he went to Yamhill on Gold creek and there he has
made his home ever since. The summer of 1885 he spent on Flat
head lake and the summer of 1891 he was in the vicinity of
Ovando. Aside from these visits, he has been steadily at Yam
hill, placer mining and freighting, satisfied that he has found
the place he sought in all his wanderings. When he located at
Yamhill, that camp and Pike's Peak, its rival, were flourish
ing placer camps. Pioneer, below, had a population of about
1,500 and was prosperous and lively. These towns have had
their day ; the gold has been washed from the bars and Major
Doney and the few others who remain are washing, washing,
washing — keeping up the old occupation and finding recom
pense in the dust which the gravel yet yields to their persistent
effort. In the autumn of 1883, Major Bill participated in the driv
ing of another golden spike; he was one of the throng which
gathered at Gold Creek station to witness the completion of
another trail of steel across the country. The driving of that
spike made possible the movement of steam-driven trains along
the trail which he had so often traveled afoot or on horseback.
The day of the pioneer was passing to make way for a new era
and Major Bill retired to the Yamhill diggings.
For a good many years, Major Bill has lived in one of the
buildings which are a part of the faded glory of Yamhill. Last
summer, he built a new house for himself and he has torn down
the old one. He is planning for many pleasant years in the
new home and there is nothing to indicate that he will not be
spared to realize his expectations. He is active yet; there are
not many men of fifty who are as spry as he. His air castles

FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS 201
are modest structures and his dreams are rose-tinted only to a
mild degree. But he possesses, undimmed; the spirit of the Argo
nauts and it burns strongly within him. The days ahead are
as bright for him as were those days ahead which he could see
when he first responded to the call of the west.
0, the call of the west ! Gentle, insistent, irresistible. Ver
ily, he who answers it finds what man has sought for long cen
turies of quest — that eternal youth which manifests itself in the
firm tread, the bright glance and the clear tones of the man
whose years are three-score but who is seventy years young. 0,
call of the west ! He who answers it does not always find the
pot of gold at the rainbow 's foot, but he finds what is better — he
comes into possession of the companionship of the mountains, the
comradeship of the streams, the intimate society of the valleys of
the grandest home that God made for man. 0, call of the west !
Who shall say that Major Bill has not found happiness as great
and cohifort as enduring as any of his comrades of 1865 who
gather their gold from bond-coupons while he gets his from
washing, washing, washing the dust from the gravel at Yamhill ?
0, call of the west; seductive, alluring, sweet. We who have
answered you have come into a kingdom, the full glory and
happiness of which cannot.be comprehended by those who have
heard you not. There is much in the story of Major Bill — plain
and simple as it is — which will not appeal to the man of the east.
But we of the west can read between the lines.
December 30, 1911.

ABORIGINAL HORSETRADERS

THERE are a good many of the things which we count as
our resources which the Indians overlooked during the
ages-long period when they were the unchallenged lords
of this vast, rich northwest. There were many of the endow
ments of this region which they disregarded entirely, but the
rich blue- joint grass of these western Montana valleys was not
one of them. The Indians well knew the value of the forage
which grows here now and which grew here then. Their cattle
were sleekest, their horses were strongest and fleetest. The stock
which was raised by the Selish tribes was in demand by all the
tribes. Those who were strong enough came over and stole the
horses they wanted; those who were not able to steal, traded
when they could. But the horses of the western Montana val
leys were the best horses known in the northwest, even before the
white man came and improved their breeding.
The Flatheads in the Bitter Root valley were rich in horses.
So were their cousins, the Pend d'Oreilles of the Mission valley,
and their other relatives, the Nez Perces, whose home was on
the west side of the Bitter Root mountains in the rich meadows
of the Coeur d'Alene and the Clearwater. The earliest white
men to enter this region found great herds of fine horses in
these valleys. Some of the Indians were owners of thousands.
It was not always the chiefs who were richest in horseflesh. The
leadership of the Selish tribes was not bartered. It was usually
a hereditary honor and the positions of war chiefs were deter
mined by personal valor. The acquisition of these herds by
some of the members of the western tribes appears to indicate
that there are Rockefellers in every race and Morgans among
every people, who attain fortunes at the expense of their fellows,
whether wealth be measured by the standard of dollars, of horses
or of clam-shells.
Some of these wealthy Indians, perhaps, secured their for
tunes by trading. Others, unquestionably, gave some attention
to the breeding of their stock. But the great fortunes in Indian
horseflesh were made by gambling, for the Indians were always
willing to bet themselves naked on the result of a horserace and
202

FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS 203
many a herd has been doubled through the winning of a contest
of this sort. In an earlier trail story I have told of the heavy
wagers made upon a race between Indian women on the "Course
du Femmes, " near Arlee. Then there were raids in which the
Flatheads were the aggressors and which increased the size of
their herds through acquisitions from the Crows and the Black
feet. There were get-rich-quick plans among the aborigines no
less bold than those of today and certainly not as questionable.
The richest of the Indians of this region were the Nez
Perces. The same reason which had prevented their decimation
in warfare protected their herds from the east-side raiders — the
geography of the situation was such as to make it almost impos
sible for the Blackfeet to reach the Nez Perces when they came
west for war or robbery or for both; the lands of the Selish
lay close to the west slopes of the main divide, while the
Nez Perces were further protected by the high wall of the
Bitter Root range. The Flatheads in the Bitter Root valley
had fine herds and some specially good individual animals. The
Upper Pend d'Oreilles, whose range was between Missoula and
Flathead lake, had also some excellent animals. Each tribe was
proud of its herds, though the ownership was private, and each
would back to the limit the racers of its braves. Next to the
winning of a battle, the tribal instinct was strongest in a contest
on the racecourse. Sometimes, it is true, warfare developed in
a contest on the racetrack. But, as a rule, the Indians were
good losers — they were real sports.
With the coming of the whites, the Indians found added
opportunity for trading in horses and, later, when the real
immigration set in and the travelers to the north-Pacific coast
passed through this region and the country to the south, they
began to acquire cattle in addition to their original horses. The
stock which the immigrants drove or led often became footsore
and unable to travel and the Indians picked up many good bar
gains in this way. They were shrewd traders and he was a
mighty fortunate immigrant who got the better of them on a
horse trade or any other deal.
When Governor Stevens left Lieutenant Mullan in the Bit
ter Root valley to survey a possible overland road through this
mountain region, he left with him a considerable band of horses.
Later, when Lieutenant Mullan began the construction of the
famous trail which bears his name, he had large herds of stock
which he recuperated and wintered in the Bitter Root and its
neighboring valleys. Baron O'Keeffe and his brother David
came to this valley and had their attention directed to its fer
tility through having charge of one of Mullan 's winter herds.
From these herds the Indian stockmen succeeded in getting some

204 FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS
good blood to breed with that of their own animals. They were
ever alert to grab a bargain.
"Nobody ever traded quickly with an Indian," said Judge
Woody to me the other day, "and this was specially true when
they were bartering for horses. They traded deliberately and
with solemnity as if they were debating questions of state. A
horse-trade was carried through with all the formality of a
council. There were two or three pipes smoked over every horse
that was swapped and there was any amount of parley with each
pipe smoked. The Flatheads had a great many buckskins ; these
were tough horses and were in demand. When they bought up a
bunch of horses for trade or for sale, they always showed the
poorest one first. They would haggle over the price to be paid
for this animal until they had forced it up as high as they
thought they could get it. Then they would close the deal and
would bring in a horse that was a little better than the first.
The start in the negotiations would be made at the figure
received for the poorer animal and would be boosted as high as
the patience of the white man would stand. This concluded,
there would be a better horse trotted out. This performance
would be repeated as long as the Indians had any horses left.
The Indian usually got the price he wanted. Time was no
object to him and the white man was usually in a hurry."
The Nez Perces had, as I have said, the largest herds of the
Indians of this region. Five Crows, one of the Nez Perce chiefs,
had four thousand horses. Reuben, another Nez Perce who was
locally famous, had nearly six thousand in his herds. In these
herds, the finest horses were big, rangy roans. There were some
exceptionally fine animals in these bands. The roans came from
some horses that were brought from the coast by the Nez Perces,
obtained by trade and otherwise from the Umatillas and other
tribes on the salt water, who had secured them in their south
ern raids, getting them from the Mexican and Spanish stockmen
in California. There was better size to these animals than to
some of the others and the Nez Perce herds were the envy of
their neighbors.
"These big herds were handled upon practically the same
system which was later adopted by the white stockmen of the
ranges, ' ' said Judge Woody when I asked him about some of the
details of the old Indian horse business. "They were cut up
into small bands and assigned to different ranges. The owners
had riders who looked after the separated bands in a general
sort of way. The roundup was an Indian feature, too. Occa
sionally, the entire holdings of a big Indian would be assembled.
I suppose this was as often for the purpose of making a demon
stration as for the need of finding out how many there were. ' '
The introduction of the better-bred horses came, as I have

FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS 205

said, through the acquisition of footsore stock from the immi
grants who could not afford to spend on the trail the time which
was necessary for the recuperation of the trail-worn animals.
The Indians and the white traders would take these foot-sore ani
mals and turn them into the meadows in western Montana and
in a few weeks the hoofs would grow out and the stock would be
fat and as good as ever. In this way some really fine stock was
brought into the country.
In this way, also, the Indians obtained cattle. Draught
oxen and milch cows wore out on the long tramp over the plains.
Some of the Hudson Bay company's men saw the possibilities
which lay in this situation and entered into the trading business
for themselves in preference to continuing with the company.
Neil MacArthur, who was well known in western Montana and
Idaho, was one of these. He became a successful stockman and
freighter through his enterprise in this direction. Fort Hall in
Idaho was a favorite trading point. It was on the old Oregon
trail and there the travelers usually rested after their journey
across the plains and before entering upon the trip through the
mountains. Here many good animals were picked up and sent
into the Bitter Root valley.
It seems strange, but it is vouched for as a fact by oldtimers,
that the Indians were exceedingly fond of milk and when they
began to acquire cows as a part of their stock holdings, they rev
eled in the luxury. The squaws, of course, had to do the milking.
They had their own method for performing this operation, as they
had for doing everything else which they undertook.
"When a squaw went to milk," said Judge Woody, contin
uing his description, "she wouldn't touch a cow until the hind
legs of the animal were tied. This, of course, was to prevent the
cow from kicking and it might have been necessary at first. But
when the cows got used to the squaws and the latter got used to
the cows there was nothing to indicate that it was anything more
than a habit. The tying was a mere formality. The bit of rope
would be loosely thrown around the hind legs of the cow and
the creature would stand as quietly as if she were hog-tied. ' '
It is easy to imagine the early experiences which led to this
practice of tying the hind legs of the cows. It is not a stretch
of the imagination to picture a squaw picking herself up from a
wreck of bucket and a plaster of milk and mud and conversing
in gutturals very earnestly with that cow.
Anybody who has lived on a farm knows how mean a cow
can be when she gets the kicking habit. I have heard from early
farmers in western Montana some amusing stories of experiences
with cows which had been purchased from Indians. The animals
would never — no matter how quiet they were — submit to being

206 FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS
milked unless they were at least given the impression that they
were* tied.
' ' We had a cow on the farm when I was a small boy, ' ' said
A. J. Violette when I asked him the other day what he knew
about Indian milking, "that my father had bought of an Indian.
She was as gentle as could be in every other respect, but she
would not be milked unless she thought she was tied as to her
hind legs. All that was necessary was just to toss a little piece
of rope around her hind legs. That gave her the idea that she
was tied fast and she would stand stock-still as long as that rope
was there. But if anybody ever tried to milk her without the
rope, she would kick the milker on the top of the head every
time." The Indians, as far as I can learn, didn't cut hay for the
winter feed for their stock. They relied entirely, as did the
eastern-range stockmen later, upon the grass which cured stand
ing. But the early white stockmen, of whom MacArthur was a
type, naturally thought it necessary to prepare some hay to
carry them through the winter. They guarded their meadows
and saved them for the winter feed. And it was splendid forage
which they found in these valleys of western Montana; it
required but a short experience to prove to them that there was
no better grass anywhere and it was to the Bitter Root and its
neighboring valleys that the early stockmen brought their horses
and cattle whenever they could.
"The first job I had in Montana," said Judge Woody, while
we were talking about this subject, "was cutting hay. When we
drove our ox teams down the Bitter Root valley on that first trip
I ever made here, Bill Madison and I were asked by the man
who was in charge of the MacArthur stock near what is now
Corvallis, if we wanted a job cutting hay. We told him we did
but we had to go through to Hell Gate with our outfit. As soon
as we had completed our contract with the freighter and had
delivered our ox-teams at the Hell Gate river, we went back up
the valley. It was October, but the frost had not touched the
grass more than to nip the tops a little in places. I never saw a
finer stand of grass than that was. The meadow where we did
the cutting was, I think, a part of the McLeod ranch now. It
was waist-high in fine grass and we went at it with hand
scythes. Then we cocked it up with forks, eastern fashion, before
getting it stowed away. There was a big lot of cattle ranging
near there and they were fat and playful. They didn't seem to
care much for our hay, but they delighted in tossing our little
stacks about. We would have the work to do all over. Several
nights they repeated this performance. They would go at the
haycocks with their horns and toss the hay about faster than a
machine would do it now. They made us a lot of extra work,

FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS 207
but we were working by the day and we had been so long follow
ing oxen on the trail that the work didn't seem irksome. Any
thing would have been a good change from whacking steers on
the trail." Along the Bitter Root, in the valley at the mouth of the
Coriacan defile, in the Frenchtown meadows and on the flat
near where Superior now stands — in each of these places, the
early stockmen wintered their stock. These localities were early
selected as the best in the country. On the other side of the
Bitter Root divide, the great stretches of bottom land along the
^ Coeur d'Alene furnished another favorite field. How excellent
was the judgment of these pioneers in the stock business, later
experience has shown. They have since become the sites of the
finest farms in the world — these same valleys. There has been
some of the finest stock ever grown developed upon these fields ;
there are some of the best orchards on earth growing now upon
the slopes above those meadows.
We who have seen the peerless Ogden, the matchless Ham
burg, the gallant Tammany go forth from the pastures of the
Bitter Root to wonderful victories on the eastern turf; we who
have watched the prowess of Prodigal, Red Cherry, Brown Silk,
China Silk and Doctor Spelman after they left their paddocks in
the Bitter Root valley; we who have gloried in the triumphs of
the Bitter Root colors on eastern tracks — we know of the later
conquests of the stock which was nurtured upon the forage of
these western Montana fields.
We who have seen the cattle go frotm these valleys to the
great markets of the world and there command, year after year,
the highest price paid for beef; we who have seen the butter
record of the world challenged by the Mills Jersey herd, sent
out from its Lolo home in the lower Bitter Root — we know what
magic there is in the forage which grows upon the meadows of
this great valley.
We are proud of the record that has been made by western
Montana stock and we are inclined to think that we have made a
great discovery in finding out the wonderful properties of the
grass which grows here. We have a right to boast of the superi
ority of our hay and our grain — each merits the highest honors.
But we have found nothing new. The Indians knew as much as
we of the properties of Bitter Root grass, long before a white
man had ever set foot upon this valley.
The fame of the horses which were raised in the Bitter Root
in the Indian days was great — comparatively as great as the
reputation of the stock which is sent out from there now. The
horses of the Flatheads were as fine as anj^ that were known.
We have intensified the application of the forage which
grows upon our fields ; we conserve it and we improve its qual-

208 FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS
ity as we are able ; but we have only retained it in the position
which it occupied under Indian dominion. It was the best in
the world then. It is only that now. We have developed other
resources amazingly ; we have unearthed some of which the
Indian never dreamed; we have found use for others which he
spurned as of no value ; but we are no wiser than he in our
application of the grass of our meadows. The aboriginal stock
man was keen — it seems to be a way with stockmen to be keen.
He knew it took good grass to produce good stock and he found
where the good grass was. We have followed the trails he
blazed, we have walked in the paths which he trod in many
directions. But in none have we followed more precisely in his
footsteps than in our development of the stock-raising industry.
The modern horsetrader is cited as the type of shrewdness
which is sharp to the extent of disregarding the strict truth ;
but the Indian horsetrader of a generation or two ago was his
counterpart; the modern could give no pointers to the ancient;
the white could add nothing to the shrewdness of the red.
There is some of the old Indian stock left. In some parts
of the reservation, the old Indian ponies are yet to be found.
But most of the red men have' improved their stock. There are
some mighty fine animals now in the red man's herd. In this
respect he has kept up with the times. He has taken more
kindly to stockraising than to any other branch of agriculture
for it is the heritage of the Flathead and the Pend d 'Oreille and
the Nez Perce to love good horses and to do anything he can to
get them. His forefathers had the best horses of their time. He
aspires to the same distinction. There will not be any Indians
at all, one of these days, but the last Indian will have the best
horse he can get. It may not be a very good horse, for that
last Indian is apt to be a specimen of hard luck, but it will be
the best horse he can get and if he has a chance to trade it for
a better one. he will do it. Don't think, however, that he will
trade it for a poorer one. He will not, because he is an Indian
and because it is a horse.
January 6, 1912.

FIGHTING A WAY TO MONTANA

CERTAIN it is, the federal troops in the years immediately
following 1865 found a great difference between fighting
Indians and fighting the men in gray uniform who had
faced them for the four years preceding. It is the testimony of
many of the early emigrants who crossed the plains in 1866 and
the following year, that the presence of the troops was not par
ticularly helpful. In some instances, it was easier to get through
the Indian country without troops than it was to move west
ward with them.
The Indians of the plains had acquired a contempt for the
soldiers which they were bold to express ; they thought they could
defeat the bluecoats with clubs. In after years they learned to
respect the hardened fighters of the army. The soldiers had a
terrible schooling, but they profited by it and they afterward
fought the red men to a standstill, but it was not until they
had learned the difference between fighting Indians and fight
ing white men. In the years of which I write, they had not
changed their tactics from the practice of the civil war. It was
then that the old plainsmen shared with the Indians the contempt
which they felt for the soldiery.
Comfortable and contented in his western Montana home,
Major John B. Catlin of Missoula lives the days of the autumn
of his life — comfortable as he is comfortable who has fought his
way through perils of trail and mountain to the promised land,
contented as only he can be who looks back upon a fight well-
fought and a race well-won. He knows a lot about Indians. In
1866 he fought Sioux and Cheyennes ; in 1877 he led the civilian
volunteers in the battle of the Big Hole against the Nez Perces.
Between times, he lived among the friendly Flatheads in the Bit
ter Root and, later, he had experience as agent among the Black
feet on their reservation.
Some of the things he knows about the Indians, Major Catlin
tells willingly. Others, he tells with some reluctance. Yet others,
he will not tell at all. But there are those who will tell the things
about which the major will not talk, and what they tell is all to the
major's credit, for it deals with hard fighting, stern shooting and
209

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Fording in Buffalo Skins—Painting by Paxson.

FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS 211
conspicuous bravery which, in these days of Carnegie medals,
would have covered Major Catlin from head to foot with silver
and gold trophies. It is his modesty which seals his lips when I
ask him about the incidents which he refuses to discuss, but some
day I am going to write the story of these deeds of the major 's
as they are told to me bj' those who witnessed what he did. This
story, however, deals with Major Catlin 's advent into Montana,
and is told as nearly as possible as he has told it to me at different
times during the couple of decades that I have been privileged to
call him my friend.
It isn't so very easy to get Major Catlin to talk about him
self. He Avould rather tell about the things which somebody else
did. A good many times, when I have got him started upon a
story about himself, he has switched off upon another tack until
I have headed him up into the wind again. We have talked
together — Major Catlin and I — a good many hours and the story
which forms this chapter in the Old Trails series is made up of
information which has come to me in piecemeal form during
these talks. I expect, if the Old Trail stories are continued, there
will be some others drawn from this same materi;>'i. I feel in
duty bound to tell Major Catlin 's part in the Big Hole battle, but
I cannot tell that from his own story — I am going- to draw that
picture as some of his comrades have painted it for me. The
major tells the Big Hole story in a way that does not give himself
the credit which he deserves ; I have appointed myself the
historian of that battlefield and I have the material for what
seems to me a good story and some day I am going to write it
just as I please, without submitting it to the major.
But this story is the major's own and I wish I could "ell it
as he has told it to me. He is a good storyteller and is at times
picturesque in his descriptions. This, however, is a Sunday morn
ing story and it would not do to repeat verbatim some of the
major's descriptions of Indians and quitters. The ministerial
association would not approve the story and the United States
mails would not carry it. But it is set down here substantially
as the major has told it to me at intervals during a good many
years. The major had served through the years of the Civil war.
He was mustered out after the grand review at Washington and
was turned loose as a civilian in Indianapolis in the summer of
1865. With him was a youngster about his own age — Steve
Grover — they had been chums in the war days and they stuck
together after they were mustered out. They tried to become
farmers in the Hoosier state. Until the spring of 1866 they
made a sort of stagger at it, but how successful they were may be
inferred from a talk which they had in April. Steve asked what
could be done to relieve the monotony. Catlin declared it was

212 FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS
the ' ' far west ' ' for him and his comrade joined in the declaration.
There were some formalities to be observed, but the summer
found the two in the guise of buUwhackers, contracted to drive
oxen from Nebraska City to Montana. Neither of them had ever
spoken to a plains steer before and they had some interesting
experiences before they learned that the plains "bulls" were a
different lot of animals from the meek oxen of the Indiana farms.
Major Catlin, with that good luck which had always characterized
him and which has since attended him, drew the mess wagon as
his assignment and with it the only bull-team that had any sem
blance of experience in the yoke. Even with his good luck, Catlin
managed to tip over the mess-wagon on the first day out. The
experience which he gained from observing the way steers acted
and the remarks which were addressed to him by the wagon boss
and other members of the party made an experienced bullwhacker
out of him, and that night's camp found him a hardened plains
man. Some people learn quickly and some have their instruction
handed to them in condensed form. The initiation of Catlin into
western ways partook of each of these methods and was effective.
After that first day's experience nobody had to tell him anything
about what to do with his team of bulls.
"The trouble with Steve Grover and me," said Major Catlin
to me one day, as we were driving up the Coriacan defile to the
Jocko agency, ' ' was that we felt sure we were the men who had
put down the rebellion. This made us over-confident, perhaps.
But we were not over-confident more than twenty-four hours after
we joined that bull train. Not much."
The trail followed the Union Pacific construction up the
Platte. It was monotonously dull, plodding along beside the
train. And there was no variation in the monotony when the
trail left the railway line and swung up to Fort Laramie.
But at Fort Laramie the pilgrims left the beaten path.
They were planning to take the Bozeman trail from there
into Montana and the condition of the country ahead of
them made it necessary that they travel with a big outfit. By
this time the youngsters had acquired a mule team and a pair of
saddlehorses ; they had a wagon to go with the mules and might
have traveled alone but they were warned and looked about them
to find a large outfit with which they might make the journey.
Nelson Story was at Fort Laramie on his way to Bozeman
with 3,000 head of Texas cattle which he was going to feed on
the Gallatin. He had also a big wagon train, loaded with the
stock for a grocery store which he was going to start in Bozeman.
The boys were glad of the opportunity to get away under such
good conditions and they were welcomed by Mr. Story. Their
outfit became a part of his train and started northward.
Along the trail the government was erecting a chain of mili-

FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS 213
tary posts. General Carrington, who afterward negotiated the
removal of Chariot from the Bitter Root, was in command of
the troops engaged in the construction. One post, Fort Reno, had
been completed. The building of Fort Kearney was in progress.
The posts further north had been located but not built. Some of
them were never built.
The train moved on without serious incident. The country
was alive with Indians. There were signs of fighting — burned
wagons and dead stock — in places and at times the Story outfit
would spy Indians at a distance. But it was not until within
about 10 miles of Fort Reno that there was any open hostility
toward the train. This was probably due to the keen lookout
which Story kept and to his intimate knowledge of the country.
There were thousands of Indians within striking distance of the
trail, but the train was not molested until it reached a point so
close to the new post as to seem safe.
In the edge of the bad lands, the train was attacked. There
was a brisk engagement ; it didn 't last long ; probably the Indians,
who had been spying upon the train, were merely trying it out or
perhaps they couldn't resist the temptation of the stock cattle
that were being driven with the train. However it was, the reds
swooped down upon the travelers- with a flight of arrows and a
charge to stampede the stock. The men of the train responded
briskly with their rifles. Two of the drivers were wounded by
arrows, but nobody was killed.
The Indians retreated as fast as they had advanced, but they
took with them a little bunch of the stock cattle, hustling the
steers ahead of them as they withdrew into the fastnesses of the
bad lands. "Hjow many cattle did you lose?" I asked Major Catlin.
' ' Lose ? ' ' repeated he. ' ' We didn 't lose a single head. We
just followed those Indians into the bad lands and got the cattle
back." ' ' Did they yield the steers willingly 1 ' '
"Yes. We surprised them in their camp and they were not
in shape to protest against the surrender of the cattle. ' '
The recaptured stock was driven back to the trail. The
train had camped where the little battle had taken place and
there the cattle were turned back into the herd. Three of them
had been wounded in the fighting and had to be killed ; they fur
nished beef for the train.
Messengers were sent to Fort Reno for an ambulance for the
wounded. When this transportation came, the whole outfit moved
to Reno, where there was a brief rest. The wounded men were
left at Reno, where they subsequently recovered, but they never
rejoined the train. One of them was a Texan who had been in
Charge of the longhorns that had been driven up from his state.

214 FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS
' ' About an hour before we had the little fight below Reno*, ' '
said Major Catlin, "we had met a little Frenchman and a boy
with what seemed to be a trapper's outfit. They were unhar
nessing their team and making camp. We told them the Indians
were thick and that we were going to camp a short distance above.
We invited them to turn back and camp with us for greater
safety. The Frenchman said he wasn't half as much afraid of
Indians as he was of some white men. That set us going and,
telling him to be careful, we moved along. After the fight, we
went back — a couple of us — to see if the Frenchman had escaped.
We found the bodies of the man and boy, scalped and mutilated.
Their wagon was burned ; their horses were gone ; their provisions
were scattered over the ground. We buried the bodies and went
back to the train. ' '
From Fort Reno the train moved on to Fort Phil Kearney.
There General Carrington was personally directing the erection
of new buildings. The train was halted by soldiers, three miles
from the new post and Story was told not to camp any nearer
to the post than that, as the general wanted to save the meadows
for the army stock. Also, Story was forbidden to proceed on his
march on account of the danger from Indians along the trail
ahead. "Here was our predicament," said Major Catlin as he
laughed over the situation when he told me about it. ' ' We were
camped three miles from the post, so far that the soldiers could
not have rendered us any assistance if we were attacked ; we were
forbidden to proceed, as the soldiers couldn 't leave their building
operations to escort us ; we just had to sit still and twirl our
thumbs. There were three miles of the fine meadow grass between
us and the post. The troops had a few mule teams that were
being used to transport logs and hay and General Carrington
had one saddle horse left that the Indians had not captured. That
three miles of grass was for the saddle horse, I suppose.
"We built two field corrals, one for the work cattle and one
for the Texas stock. Then we settled down to wait for Carring
ton 's permission to move on. We waited two long weeks and one
night Story proposed that we move ahead without Carrington 's
permit. ' He said if we started in the night, we could get so far
from the post before morning that none of the soldiers would
dare come after us and we could then keep going.
"That listened good to us. We talked over the plan and
then voted on it. There was only one man who voted against it.
His name was George Dow and we at once arrested him and
placed him under guard so he could not tell Carrington of our
plan. We took him along with us for the first night's inarch
and then turned him loose to go back to the post. It was too late
for them to catch us then.

FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS 215
"There were 27 men in our party. There were 300 troops
at the fort. But the Indians were more afraid of us than they
were of the soldiers. We were armed with Remington breech
loaders and the troops had only the old Springfield rifles. The
little brush we had with the Indians below Reno had taught them
something of the effectiveness of our fire, and I guess they were
a little superstitious. Twenty-seven of those Remingtons were
enough to stand off the 3,000 reds with bows and arrows after we
had got them scared. But the troops had never scared thein and
they were bold enough around the fort.
"We made our preparations according to Story's plan and
pulled out one night after the post was asleep. That first night's
drive was so successful that we decided to keep up the plan of
traveling nights and resting days. The result was that we were
attacked only two or three times and each time was when we
were resting during the day ; we easily stood off the reds and had
no trouble at all. Close to the fort there were more than three
thousand Indians. As we moved up toward the Big Horn coun
try, they became fewer. We left Kearney on the night of October
22 ; on December 21, the Indians attacked the post and killed
more than a hundred of the troops ; probably they were muster
ing for the attack while we were there. All the while they kept
up their attacks upon the hay trains, wood trains and detached
parties of soldiers. But they got only one of our men on the
whole trip. !
' ' That was while we were waiting on Carrington 's orders at
Kearney. One morning a herder dashed into camp saying he had
heard suspicious noises and he suspected that something was
wrong with his partner on the night herd. We hurried down to
the stock corral and, after some search, found the man's body.
He had been scalped and his body was shot so full of arrows that
he looked like a big pincushion. We buried him. That was our
only fatality. Had we remained under Carrington 's orders, we
would all have been included in the December massacre. ' '
The Story train continued by night marches as far as Fort
Smith on the Big Horn. This brought them into the territory
of the friendly Crows and it was possible to relax somewhat the
vigilance of the earlier march. The Yellowstone was forded at
the site of Fort Fisher, which was one of Carrington 's forts that
was never built. Then it was an easy journey down through
Emigrant gulch to Bozeman, where Story paid off his men, left
his cattle and unloaded his grocery stock. He took the rest of
the train through to Virginia City, which was reached December
9. There the Hoosier boys left him, but they have always re
mained admirers of the sturdy old pioneer, who built the city of
Bozeman. "I never saw Nelson Story after we left him in Virginia

216 FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS
City," said Major Catlin the other day, "until he came over to
Missoula in 1892, talking for Bozeman for the capital. We had a
pleasant visit then. But I want to say now that, even after three
years on the skirmish line in the Civil war, I had never seen a
fighting man like Nelson Story. He hunted a fight and when he
found it he knew how to handle it. He never carried a rifle, but
there were always two big navy revolvers on his hips. He was
always splendidly mounted and would ride like the wind. He
would say ' Come on, boys, ' and ride away. Of course, we 'd fol
low him — we 'd have followed him to hell — but accustomed as the
Civil war had made me to following almost any daredevil leader,
there were a good many times when Nelson Story had me guess
ing. The Indians soon got to know him. Also they feared him.
They knew he would go through with whatever he undertook and
they had no time to bother with him. ' '
At Virginia City the Hoosiers bade goodbye to Story. They
took their team and their saddle horses and started out to find
the best place in Montana. How they found it and the troubles
they had in getting to it must furnish the material for another
story some day. It is enough now to say that Major Catlin lives
in Missoula and that he is one of the few men in the world who
are thoroughly satisfied. He has faced some stern situations ; he
has passed through some dangerous experiences; he has made
some enemies — for he is a very positive individual — but they
leave him alone; he has a host of friends and in their midst he
moves happily — erect, jaunty and with a spring in his step that
many a younger man envies. He is "seventy years young." He
is the type of the men who made Montana. I am mighty glad
to be able to call him friend. If his friendship for me stands the
test of this chapter in the Old Trails series, I have another to
write whieh concerns him. For the sake of the history in it and
specially for my own sake, I earnestly hope he will give this his
approval. January 13, 1912.

FINDING A HOME

THE general eastern idea of Montana, even now, is pretty
vague. And this condition exists in spite of the publicity
which has been given our state and its resources, in spite
of the easy means of transportation, in spite of the records that
have been made by its people and its products. It is easy, then,
to understand that the conception of Montana in 1866 must have
been very misty in the minds of those people of the east who set
out to locate in the then territory.
They had much trouble — most of them — in reaching their
destination. In these Old Trail stories I have related the experi
ences of some of those early participants in Montana homeseeker
excursions. The very hardships which were encountered along
the overland trail insured a good population for Montana, for if
ever there was a case of the survival of the fittest, it was in the
journey to Montana in the days when the bull-team held the place
which the Pullman now occupies. Montana got the persistent,
earnest ones ; the others dropped out along the way.
When they finally got to Montana, these early arrivals were
not altogether sure that they liked the place. It was different,
perhaps, from what their fancy had pictured it, and the gold
nuggets didn 't rattle into their pans as fast as they had expected.
Certainly it was very different from the places they had left
behind. They had no basis for comparison other than that and
they wanted — some of them — to size up Montana along with other
western sections. There were a good many of them who did that
very thing. After a stay in Montana, they moved on through
Idaho, to the coast territories and drifted through the camps in
Oregon and Washington. And the records show that a good many
of them came back. Montana stood their test and there was noth
ing better in their estimation.
Of this class is Major John B. Catlin, of whose arrival in
Montana I wrote a week ago. He and his partner, Steve Grover,
having fought their way through Indians and having dodged the
protection of soldiers, arrived in Virginia City, December 9, 1866.
They looked about the placer camp a bit and concluded that it
was not a very good place for a tenderfoot to winter in. So they
217

218 FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS
took another partner and set out to find a place where they could
winter comfortably and economically. The three had three sad
dle horses, a team of mules and a wagon. They loaded supplies
into the wagon and set out upon their tour of discovery. It was
a good many months before any of them located permanently and
when this did happen, they were all well scattered. But in the
case of Major Catlin the long trail led back to Montana and to
the Bitter Root valley.
"I have had a good many chances," said the major to me
the other day as he reviewed some of the incidents which are
here set down. "If I had done differently in regard to some of
them, I might be a millionaire now. But I had also a good many
chances to be dead. I passed those up, as well, and I am alive
and in Missoula, well satisfied with the way things have turned
out and not begrudging any of the good fortune which came to
those who picked up some of the chances which I passed by and
sorry for the fate of some of those other fellows who accepted
the chances which I missed and are now a long time dead."
The three tenderfeet with their winter outfit, left Virginia
City over the old stage-road, which they followed toward Silver
Bow as far as the mouth of Divide creek. There they turned up
into the Big Hole valley and drove to the first stream. It is now
called Charcoal creek and it is where the dam is built which sends
power and water to Butte. They had taken in two older men
who were experienced in western life, and the five of them built
a cabin, 16 by 24 feet in size, near this creek. There they spent
the winter of 1866-67.
Thirty years after that winter — in 1896 — Major Catlin 's
son, Wilbur, went up Divide creek to make surveys and measure
ments for the Big Hole dam. It was a job that required nearly
the entire winter's time. Young Catlin and his partner, looking
about for quarters, came upon an old cabin. They cleaned it out
and lived in it all winter. In the spring he mentioned the cabin
to his father. The major listened. "Where was it?" he asked.
He was told that it was on the first creek above the mouth of
Divide. Wilbur described it — the sill logs were big firs, two
feet through, and the rest were cottonwoods ; a big stone fireplace
was in one end : and so on. It was the cabin which Father Catlin
and his partners had built the winter after they left Virginia
City. "I couldn't cook," Major Catlin says, "so in the division of
labor that winter I was made packer. We killed a lot of antelope
and deer and some elk and sheep. When our supplies got low,
I would pack meat down to the stage station at Divide and trade
it there for groceries. The station was run by Mrs. Fischer,
whose husband drove the stage between Silver Bow and Virginia
City. She was a fine cook and when I got down there I used

FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS 219
to stay as long as I could. When I got home I'd tell the boys
about the rough trail. They accepted the story all winter and it
was not until we went out in the spring and stopped at Mrs.
Fischer's for dinner that they understood, and then, under the
influence of that dinner, they couldn't blame me. I used to stay
a week at a time. Hay for my horse was 40 cents a pound, but
I could pay for it in meat, so I didn't care. Mrs. Fischer used to
send up and down the line by her husband for books and papers
and she lent us all she got. We had something to read — though
there was no news in it — and our winter was comfortable and
pleasant. It was one of the finest winters I ever spent in my
life." It was Christmas day when the little cabin was finished on
Charcoal creek. In March the boys said farewell to their winter
quarters and moved down the trail to the stageroad. The season
was early that spring. The water started running well in late
March and when they got to Silver Bow the tenderfeet made a
contract with a man named Walker to work some ground on
shares. Walker was to furnish water, sluiceboxes, tools and
cabin ; the boys were to be allowed $3 a day out of the first gold
taken out; the balance was to be divided equally. The boys
stripped ground for the first pit, Walker good-naturedly showing
them how to do it, and had that first pit cleaned up in 30 days.
The cleanup netted them $11 a day for the time they worked. The
next pit cleared them $9 a day; on the third they earned $7 a
day. That ended their contract work and they found employment
at $6 a day for the rest of the summer.
In the fall of 1867, Catlin and Grover left their partners and
went to Bannack, Boise, Baker City, Umatilla, Portland, Olympia
and Seattle. They wanted to satisfy themselves as to which part
of the country was best. They traveled in their own outfit to
Umatilla; there they sold their horses and went down the river
by steamer. That winter they worked in a sawmill at Port Dis
covery, 12 hours a day.
In the spring of 1868, they talked it over and agreed that
they had seen nothing as good as Montana and decided they
would return to the mountains. They bought an outfit and
started across the range. It was too early and the snow was so
deep in the passes that the blazes on the trees were hidden and
the travelers were forced to retreat. They shipped to Portland
and then went to The Dalles, where they planned to outfit again
for the trip over the Columbia trail. In the afternoon of the day
they reached The Dalles, each bought a saddle horse ; they
planned to buy a pack horse in the morning.
"We went to bed that night," said Major Catlin reminis-
cently, "both firmly determined to come to Montana. I was
surprised in the morning when Steve said he was going back to

220 FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS
Portland. He was positive. I was equally positive that I was
going to Montana. He gave me the saddle horse he had bought.
I went to the wharf to see him aboard the steamer. We shook
hands and parted, after years as blanket mates. So quickly do
things happen. I have never seen Steve since. Last year I
heard he was living in California."
Catlin then went to get his horses ; he had no need to buy a
pack animal. His was a roan and the Steve horse was a gray.
Saddle, pack and supplies were bought and Catlin started alone
over the Columbia trail, back to Montana. He got to Montana
all right, but there were many things which happened before he
got there. "The trail was the worst I ever saw," said the major con
tinuing his narration. "It ran along blue slide rock for miles
and miles. Now and then there was a scraped stone, where a
horseshoe had marked it, but for two days that was the only
guide I had. On the second day out, I came to a little creek,
where there was a clearing. Here were running water and clover.
I lost no time in feeding the horses. It was 11 o'clock in the
forenoon and I made camp and cooked a meal. The horses were
greedily eating in the clover and I lay down in the June sunshine
for a nap. In my pack I had an army Remington six-shooter. It
occurred to me that I should have this gun handy and I got it out,
cleaned it, oiled it and loaded it. Then I went back to take my
nap. "I don't know how long I slept, but it was considerably after
noon when I waked and discovered that my horses were missing.
I was some scared. On the edge of the clearing there was a
giant fir that had been uprooted and I climbed up on the roots
of this tree to look out over the trail. Up and down the river I
could see nothing. But, looking up into the woods on the little
creek, I got a glimpse of the gray horse. Then I hiked out through
the timber to overtake the horses. I had a hackamore on the
roan, as he was hard to catch sometimes, but the gray had no
rope at all, as he followed the roan. I hurried on after them,
thinking that the roan was leading the way into the hills.
"I gained on the horses and just as I was about to speak
to the gray horse I made a discovery that a man was leading the
roan ahead. Looking again, I discovered that this man wore a
gun that looked to me to be about three feet long. Later I dis
covered it was a regulation revolver. There was but one thing
for me to do and that was to work around in front and get the
drop on the fellow before he saw me.
"Keeping behind trees as much as possible, I flanked the
horsethief and finally got around in front of him. The roan
horse saw me and lifted his head. I thought he was going to
whinny and I made one quick jump behind a tree. I pulled my

FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS 221
gun and held it on the fellow, who had not heard me. I told
him to drop that rope and hold up his hands.
"He complied quickly. Then he told me his gun was not
loaded and offered to show me. I told him I would find out for
myself and ordered him to hold his hands higher. He stretched
up his arms and I relieved him of his gun. It was not such a
very big gun, either, when I came to get it in my hand.
"Well, I had my horses back, but I had a horsethief on my
hands, and I didn't know what to do with him. I told him to
take the rope and lead the roan back to camp ahead of me. All
the while I was wondering how to get rid of him and he seemed
to read my thoughts. When we got to the clearing he asked me
what I was going to do with him. I told him I was going to blow
the top of his head off, but he didn 't believe me. He told me a
tale of woe of a mother and some brothers and sisters, of sickness
and hunger. He said he had a fever sore on his leg and showed
me. He said he hadn't had anything to eat for two days and he
showed that, too. ' There 's the grub, ' I said. ' Cook your dinner. '
' ' He went to work, cooking. While he was getting his meal,
I tried to decide what to do with him. I couldn 't have him with
me, for he was the limit. While I was thinking it over, I looked
down the trail and saw a man coming with three packhorses. I
was glad and went to meet him. It was then 3 o'clock in the
afternoon. The man coming was a miner — an Irishman — bound
for Bear gulch in Montana, where he had been the season before.
I helped him unpack and led him to where I had made camp.
There he saw my horsethief friend and exclaimed, 'What in hell
is this fellow doing here? ' I told him the story and the Irishman
suggested that we kill him and throw him into- the river.
"I dissuaded him, however, and suggested that we keep the
fellow's gun and give him in exchange one of the miner's horses
which was lame. Finally we did this, giving him an old quilt for
a saddle, starting him off down the trail and telling him to keep
going. We never saw or heard of him again. The Irishman and
I became great friends. I called him 'Jack' and that is what he
called me. We came on up the river together.
"When we got to Spokane falls, we stopped to rest our horses
and ourselves. One afternoon we were fishing below the falls,
when Jack said to me. 'This is going to be a great place. We
can take up a couple of claims here, build a station and take care
of the freighters. Some day there will be a railway through here
and this will be a great place. I have twenty-five hundred dollars
on me and I'll furnish all the money that's necessary.' That
was the first time either of us had ever mentioned money. I had
a good deal myself, but I hadn't said anything about it. I told
Jack that probably all he said was true, but it would take a long
time and I knew as good a place where there would be things

222 FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS
doing right away. So we left Spokane falls. The place where
we camped is now almost in the heart of the city. That was one
of the chances I missed, but I have also had a good many chances
to be dead and I am still alive. So I figure I am ahead of the
game. ' '
The two Jacks came on up the river to Missoula. It was on
that visit that Major Catlin first met Judge Woody, who was
clerk in the postoffice. Catlin wrote a letter home — the first in a
year — and went to mail it. He laid down a quarter and got a
three-cent stamp. Woody started to give him stamps to make up
the quarter, which was the smallest coin there was then, but
Catlin told him he didn't need any stamps and to keep the change.
They went on to Bear gulch, where the Irishman said good
bye to Catlin. The latter went on to Carpenter bar, where he
remained until June, 1868. Then he came back to Missoula.
Before he came west in 1866, Catlin had heard that some
cousins of his, named Elliott, who had come west, had been killed
by Indians. When he was in Boise on his way to the coast from
Bannack, Catlin met a man who had been in the Bitter Root val
ley, living with a family named Elliott, whose family names he
happened to mention. One was Lynde, not a usual name, and
Catlin identified these Elliotts as his cousins. He wrote to them
and agreed to visit them. When he returned to Missoula in the
summer of 1868 it was for the purpose of keeping this promise.
He went up the valley and found his relatives. In the
autumn of 1868 he bought the squatter right to a ranch which
has since become known as the Watts ranch, near Hamilton. In
1870, Major Catlin married. His home, after he sold the ranch,
was at Stevensville for many years. Ever since 1868, the Bitter
Root has been his home and he has no longing for any other. He
is of those who have sought widely for a better place and have
failed to find it. In his years of residence in the valley, lie has
had many experiences that are interesting. Reference has bein
made in these stories of his participation in the battle of the Big
Hole, when he commanded the civilian volunteers who marched
with Gibbon after Chief Joseph. That is a story which must
some time be told in detail. It was my intent when I started to
write this one, to tell of the wanderings of Major Catlin in his
survey of the northwest which preceded his decision to settle per
manently in the Bitter Root valley. He is a Montanan from
choice and he does not regret the choice.
During his years in Stevensville, Major Catlin was the
trusted friend of old Chief Chariot. During the dark days of
Flathead starvation, before the tribe consented to the change to
the Jocko valley, the sullen old chief was fed from the Catlin
hotel. Always he retained his affection for Major Catlin.
About 10 years ago, I wanted to get a photograph of Chariot.

FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS 223
At that time, he was hostile to the idea of having his picture
made and all attempts to get the desired photograph had proved
futile. One day I asked Major Catlin to drive with me to the-
Jocko agency, there to see if he could coax Chariot into consent.
It was a delightful trip we made — one of the drives which I shall
never forget. The weather was fine and the country was beauti
ful. Best of all, we got the photograph.
Major Catlin had a heart-to-heart talk with Chariot and the
latter let his wife be photographed as an experiment. Then the
major talked with him some more and the old ch'ief agreed to
pose if Major Catlin would stand with him. This we arranged
easily. The major stood far enough away to be cut out, while
Chariot posed proudly in the very center of the photographic
plate. It was one of the few times that I ever saw Chariot smile.
He was genuinely glad to see his old friend again and, contrary
to his custom, he made no attempt to conceal his delight. There
was a long visit — a regular Indian visit, and the major and I
were late to dinner when we got back to Missoula that night. But
we had same photographs of Chariot in the box under the buggy
seat. I mention this incident to show the sort of man this pioneer
is. He has the friendship of a host of people whom he has known
and who have known him during the years that have elapsed
since he entered Montana in 1866. His has been a busy life. There
is something to show for it all. He has written a record in Mon
tana history of which any man might well be proud. And his
philosophy is good. He regrets none of the chances which he
passed up and whicii he rejoices in having passed up so many
"chances to be dead." He is very much alive — contented and
happy to be a Montanan. And, after all, what better lot than
that could befall any man ?
January 20, 1912.

Duncan McDonald

THE CANYON OF FIRST THINGS

ONE OF THE FAMOUS passes through the western
Montana mountains is Hell Gate canyon. This
rift in the rugged hills is, for the most part,
cut only wide enough for the river which courses west
ward between its walls. Here and there a pocket has
been formed by erosion ; occasionally there is a widening where a
side stream finds its way into, the river, flowing from the eternal
snows into the sunny tide of the faraway Pacific. This pic
turesque pass extends from the junction of the Deer Lodge and
Little Blackfoot rivers — where the Deer Lodge valley ends — to
the high-walled exit, 75 miles to the west, where the canyon
widens into the broad sweep of the Missoula valley. Once its
forest was broken only by the channel of the river which coursed
its entire length. Indian trails wound through its groves of pine
and fir and tamarack or climbed its steep and rocky sides when
the course became too narrow. Now the skill and persistence of
man has changed the course of the stream — building dykes here
and digging new a channel there — until there has been room
enough made for two great trails of steel and the beaten highway
over which speeds the automobile and along which drags the
slower-moving wagon of the wood-hauler or the farmer. It is
Hell Gate canyon yet, but it is not the Hell Gate through which
the Indian, the trapper and the prospector moved. Its high walls
have changed but little, save where they have been tunneled for a
way for the railway or where a shelf has been blasted out upon
which to lay the lines of steel. But its narrow floor bears now
slight resemblance to the Hell Gate canyon which the first white
man found as they groped their way through the mountains, seek
ing the new country beyond.
In an earlier story of the Old Trails, I have written of the
origin of the name — Hell Gate — of this mountain pass. "The
place of ambush ' ' was what the Indians called it. The voyageurs
caught the idea in "Le Porte du Infer" and this was naturally
anglicized into Hell Gate. It is a forbidding name. Far pleas
anter in sound is "Missoula" which we got directly from the
Indian words. We should be glad that Worden and Higgins
225

226 FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS
didn't bring the name along when they moved the town of Hell
Gate to Missoula, but gave the pleasanter name to the new loca
tion. However, the Frenchmen's name clung to the river and to
the canyon and it is through Hell Gate that the traveler reaches
the Bitter Root country. And, it is a matter of habit to become
accustomed to almost anything, so has ' ' Hell Gate ' ' lost its disa
greeable suggestiveness. It has become associated with the really
beautiful canyon which it designates rather than the painful
memories of warfare and carnage from which it was derived.
Even now, after the canyon has been remodeled by man and much
of the picturesqueness has been destroyed by the diversion of the
stream into a channel like a canal, there remains much beauty in
Hell Gate canyon. Though it was but a highway for the Indian
it has been the scene of some of the most important events con
nected with the white man's development of the west. Pictures
quely beautiful, it has yet played a wonderful part in the utilitar
ian movements of the civilization of the west.
Hell Gate might appropriately be called "The Canyon of
First Things." Though Lewis and Clark missed the Hell Gate
pass in their westward journey and crossed into the Bitter Root
from the Big Hole over the difficult Gibbon pass, when they
might have had easier traveling by the longer way around had
they swung north to Silver Bow creek — there has been hardly any
other first thing associated with the development of this region
which has not been initiated in Hell Gate canyon. Wonderful
indeed is the history of this mountain pass ! Remarkable has been
its importance in relation to the reclamation of the one-time
wilderness about it !
In Hell Gate canyon it was that Granville Stuart and his
companions discovered the first gold found in Montana — a dis
covery which started the tide of immigration toward Montana,
fully two decades earlier than it would have ordinarily set in. In
Hell Gate canyon was driven the golden spike which completed
the construction of the Northern Pacific and, later and within
sight of the scene of Villard 's triumph, the hammers swung
which pounded home the last spike in the building of the Mil
waukee. In Hell Gate canyon was done the first commercial
lumbering in Montana. Through Hell Gate canyon journeyed the
first white settlers of Montana — Father DeSmet and his com
panions. At the mouth of Hell Gate canyon was signed the first
treaty with Montana Indians. In the shadow of Hell Gate can
yon 's portal were planted the first apple trees in Montana. Close
to the canyon was born the first white child to see the light in
Montana. There are many interesting chapters of Montana his
tory which center here. Volumes might be written of the move
ments which have had their origin here.
There are other stories — many of them — which might be

FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS 227
told of events which have had their stage-setting in Hell Gate
canyon. Not all peaceful have been the incidents in its history.
As its name came from its baptism in Indian blood, so has the
canyon held true to its appellation in many of its subsequent
events. In Hell Gate canyon the now great lumber industry of
western Montana was inaugurated by a battle over a millsite and
there are in Missoula some men who were participants in the
"Cramer gulch war." It was in Hell Gate canyon that bandits
perpetrated their daring holdups of the limited express; the
death of Dan O'Neal, the more successful resistance by George
Wilson, the pursuit of the holdups and their thrilling escape in
one instance and their final capture in another — all these are
chapters in the sanguinary side of Hell Gate canyon.
Then there is the story of the years-long battle of engineers
with the river — battle for the right of way through the canyon.
This long struggle cost millions of dollars and not a few human
lives. The river did not surrender easily to the endeavor to direct
its course anew. It clung tenaciously to the broad curves which
it had always followed through open glades ; it left reluctantly its
sharp turns around sheer, rocky course it had followed since the
hills were cleft and the canyon formed. For fully 10 years this
contest waged and then, when it had been seemingly won, there
came the greatest show of strength the river had ever given.
Seventy-five miles of the Northern Pacific's new double track
and 75 miles of the Milwaukee's just-cqmpleted line were swept
away. Devastation was complete and the struggle had to be
waged again. The engineers think they have triumphed now. But
they thought so once before.
It is an interesting retrospect — this look backward over the
history of Hell Gate canyon. It suggests a host of stories. Hell
Gate canyon's record might well be used to fill these "Old Trail"
columns for a good many Sundays. It was, however, my purpose
at this time to refer to the importance of the part which the
canyon has played in the great historic drama of Montana. There
are few places in the state in which so much history has been
crowded into so small a space. Every day there are hundreds of
people who travel up and down the canyon in the trains of two
great railways. They must, perforce, admire the beauty of the
scenes through which they pass. Not many of them realize that
the now open course of the canyon was once a densely timbered
place. Much of its beauty remains, but it has lost a good deal
of the picturesque charm which they describe who were early
travelers over its old trail.
Though the white man's main thoroughfare east and west
runs the whole length of Hell Gate canyon, this was not the main-
traveled trail of the Indian in his pilgrimages over the hills to
the buffalo country. His way led from Hell Gate up the Big

228 FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS
Blackfoot and thence into the Sun river country. He went up the
Hell Gate trail, however, for the flints with which he tipped his
arrows. The stream which runs down from Granite mountain and
enters the Hell Gate at Drummond is even now called Flint creek.
There were also pilgrimages to the Deer Lodge valley — called by
the red men "The Lodge of the Whitetailed Deer," the name
being derived from the abundance of whitetails in the vicinity of
the lodge-shaped mound at Warm Springs. But as a general-
utility trail, the path up Hell Gate was little used by the west-
side Indians. However, it was one of the early trails blazed by
the whites. The voyageurs seem to have adopted it early. When
the center of activity in Montana became fixed for a time in the
placer region around Alder gulch, it was the natural route for
westward travel and, before long the pack trail of the earliest
travelers became widened into the stage road and the route of
the first northern transcontinental railway was thus fixed. But,
even then, it was a beautiful place. There are many references
in the annals of the stagecoach days, to the beauty and pleasure
of the ride from Deer Lodge to Missoula. One of the pleasantest
stories of stagecoach travel is that recently written by Mrs. Carrie
A. Strahorn of Spokane. An early experience of hers, which
she charmingly relates, was the ride down Hell Gate canyon. Mrs.
Strahorn, in the late 70 's, was traveling through the west with
her husband. They left Helena in the morning and in the old
Concord coach came by .way of Deer Lodge to Missoula. They
had supper at the old McBurney house in Deer Lodge and then,
after a brief rest, climbed back into the coach for the night ride
westward. The trip from Deer Lodge to Missoula, Mrs. Strahorn
describes thus :
"A night in an overcrowded coach is never a joy to be antici
pated, but it is a deal of discomfort to be avoided. Just as one
loses himself in a moment 's drowsiness the wheels either fall into
a chuckhole that will send one pawing air for something to grap
ple, or if the wheels strike a rock in the roadway it will stagger
the whole coach and give such a lurching as will throw one 's head
nearly off the shoulders. Then some one gets cramps and every
one else must readjust his position to accommodate the peculiarity
of that knotting muscle. As the night progresses and nearly
everyone is overcome with the stupor of fatigue, someone becomes
reminiscent and wants to tell a life history that should have
closed before that trip began. No one wants to hear it, yet no one
has the courage or the discourtesy to say so, and the narrator
croons on until he has added to the record all the chestnut stories
of the tenderfoot, and he himself has fallen to the foot of the
ladder as an entertainer. We had one such who also related such
thrilling Indian tales of massacres in that very canyon through
whieh we were passing, that we fully expected some revenge to be

FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS 22«

taken upon our own stageload of people by the watchful Indians.
"But mornings have a way of coming around about once in
so often and so it came again at last, shedding a rich glow over
the mountain tops and revealing through the dissolving night, the
beauteous landscape along some of the headwaters of the Colum
bia river. "From Deer Lodge to Missoula, we forded the river seven
times and crossed it twice on bridges. It was a veritable Lover's
Lane leading through bowers of wild roses ; oftentimes the rose
bushes arched over the stageroad and joined their blooms in a
wealth of beauty and untrammeled luxuriance, filling the air with
their fragrance and our hearts with admiration and joy. It was
an expanse of earth set apart for wild growth, not only of flowers
but of wild berries and wild animals.
"From the seat with the driver there were views of long
avenues ahead and almost too often glinting water in the distance
betokened another fording of the river. Though clear as crystal,
it was deep and swift and when the leaders of our four-horse
team reluctantly made the leap down the steep bank it always
sent creepers up my spine. The water grew deeper at every ford,
from the many lateral feeders of canyon springs, and my breath
stopped and choked a little higher in my throat, as I leaned for
ward with contracted muscles as if it helped the horses drag their
heavy burden over the rocky river bed.
"Grand old pine trees, tall and stately, were gathered in
forests on either side, with the ground beneath fr.ee of underbrush
except for the rose and berry bushes in the more sunny openings
near the streams. It looked like one grand, continuous park, with
the half -dead pines covered with an inch of green moss, hiding all
marks of death's decay.
' ' A dark, moving object ahead of us in the roadway suddenly
appeared in full view and the jehu pulled in the reins to get a
steady look ahead. Then he exclaimed with a strong oath, 'that
damn thing ahead of us is a bear.' He called to the passengers
to get their shooting irons ready for there might be trouble ahead.
Those inside thought of the dreaded Indians and were greatly
relieved to know that it was only a bear that caused the call to
arms. The horses reared and plunged from instinctive fear and
we gained only a little on the king of the American wilds.
"The driver lashed the poor brutes into a chase until there
was grave fear that- they would wheel suddenly backward and
cause a serious accident. But the bear reached the river first,
and by the time the stage was at the ford old Bruin was lifting
his head out of the water away down on the opposite bank, where
he emerged and shook his shaggy coat and scrambled into the
brush. ' ' It was the only spirited event of the trip, and early in tho

230 FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS
afternoon we were in the great Montana garden of the Hell Gate
river. It seemed a curious name to give to such a beautiful
stream, but it comes from the black and intricate passage of the
same name near Missoula. Missoula was not of enough importance
to have a place on the map, but it was a productive section that
has since made itself known to the world. Peaches, pears and
melons — my, how good they were after a long famine of such
luxuries ! ' '
A pleasant picture, is it not ? Riding down the canyon now,
in one of the 60-mile-an-hour trains that traverse the route of the
old stagecoach, it is not difficult to picture the canyon as it looked
in those days. Here and there are some of the old giant-pines
that have some way escaped the woodman.- Again one sees long
stretches of new forest, growing up to hide the scars left by the
relentless advance of the lumberman. In the summer, the wild
roses may yet be seen blossoming everywhere. If you know
where to look for them you can see some relics of the old stage
coach days. There are some of them left, though the newest rail
way construction and the latest spring flood removed some of
them which had endured until just a few years ago.
There are many farms scattered along the canyon now. Some
of them were there in the stagecoach days, but most of them have
come in the wake of the axeman and his clearing. The present
beauty of the Hell Gate canyon is different from that which
impressed the early traveler. The newness is gone, but there
linger some of the old charm ; the hills are there and the snowfed
streams. The bear has hiked back into the mountain ledges, but
one does not have to stray far from the beaten path to find him
self in a deer countrv.
Verily, it is a wonderful trail, this which leads down Hell
Gate canyon. It has felt the footfall of many a traveler, it has
been the scene of many an event of stirring interest ; in its span
of 75 miles there has been much history written.
Indian, priest, prospector, explorer, engineer, freighter,
fighter, fugitive, victor, vanquished — all have had places in the
long procession which has moved up and down, for a full genera
tion through Hell Gate canyon. The patter of moccasined feet
have given way to the scraping of steel shoes against the rocks as
the packtrain wound its way over the trail. The rattling stage
coach and the rumbling wagon have followed, only to give place,
in turn, to the trains which now whirl over the newer steel trails.
Into Gold creek, whose sands yielded the first Montana ' ' colors, ' '
down to Bear gulch and on, through, to Cedar rushed the stam
pede of goldseekers along the Hell Gate trail. Over this trail,
too, < ame the Black Robes, pioneers of pioneers, to bring the word
of God to the Indians of the west. Along this trail came the

FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS 231
railway engineers, seeking a coastward route. Here, later
swarmed the builders and the railway became a fact.
Down Hell Gate canyon, too, galloped the last stern mes
sengers dispatched by the Montana Vigilantes — galloped in the
dark nor checked their course until the final chapter had been
written in the tale of just vengeance and four forms that had
once been men dangled from a crude gallows at old Hell Gate
town. Mining and lumber and horticulture in Montana, all date
back to beginnings in Hell Gate canyon. Out of the discoveries
and the experiments; in Hell Gate there have come the great indus
tries of the state — the hastened development and the sturdy popu
lation of a great state. There is no ride in Montana more inter
esting than the journey down Hell Gate canyon. It is interesting
if you travel by rail, but it is specially interesting if you make
the trip over the wagon road, taking time to look carefully as you
journey over this historic ground. There is scarcely a mile of the
trail through Hell Gate which is not associated with some import
ant event in Montana history.
Really, there could be a big book written about the history
of Hell Gate canyon. I don't propose to write a big book about
it, but I think that the oldtrail jaunts for a considerable period
this summer would better be taken over this much-traveled, little
understood Hell Gate trail. There will be no rose trees arching
over the road, but the whole trip will be haloed in pleasant
memories. January 27, 1912.

m&yyyy

'¦¦-.-¦>' ^m

U

t:liWMM,

Granville Stuart

THE FIRST PAY GRAVEL

THE HELL GATE CANYON must be given the credit of
furnishing the first "colors" whieh directed attention to
the' wealth "of the bars in Montana's streams and gulches.
To Granville Stuart and his brothers the credit is due for making
known to the world the existence of gold in these streams, no
matter whether or not they were the first to find the shining
particles which denoted the presence of wealth. The discovery
made by the Stuarts unquestionably hastened the development of
Montana by two decades by attracting here the tide of goldseekers
which had been sweeping to the coast and to the diggings in Idaho
gulches. There is some controversy as to who was the actual dis
coverer of Montana gold, but there is noi controversy at all as to
where the discovery was made. It was in Hell Gate, the Canyon
of First Things.
When I say that there is controversy over the matter of the
individual who made the discovery, I do not mean that Mr.
Stuart has ever sought to gain any laurels to which he was not
entitled. He has always been frank in his statements that others
had found gold before his party panned the sands in Gold creek
or washed the gravel of Pioneer creek. But there have risen late
ly some iconoclasts who have sought to deride the assertion that
it was the Stuarts who originally made known to the world the
presence of paying gold values in Montana. It is they who have
stirred whatever controversy there is. Their statements, I believe,
are not worth consideration. Montana owes much to Granville
Stuart, than whom no state ever had a more faithful or more
accurate historian, and one of the items in the bill which he holds
against the state which has been for so many ears his home, is the
fact that it was his pen which summoned to Montana the rush
of immigration which peopled the gulches and valleys many years
ahead of the date when the natural course of settlement would
have drifted this way.
It was on Gold creek or one of its tributaries that the first
"colors" were found which established the claim of Montana to
the title, ' ' Treasure State. ' ' Here in upper Hell Gate canyon, was
enacted the scene which was the initial movement in the great
233

234 FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS
drama which was staged in western Montana in the days of the
gold stampedes. It was one more of the incidents of history
which fix the right of Hell Gate to be known as the Canyon of
First Things. What a momentous day that was, when eager eyes
watched the sediment in the bottom of that old gold pan !
Following each motion of the expert hand which alternately
dipped the pan into the water and then swished around the mix
ture in the shallow container, these expectant eyes gleamed as the
sediment in the pan diminished in quantity under the skillful
manipulation of the hands which rocked it in the peculiar fashion
of the man who knows how to pan gold. These eyes gleamed
because they saw the black sand appear as the lighter stuff was
washed away ; then they glistened as they saw the specks of yellow
appear in the mass of black. They knew they had found gold !
It is claimed that Father DeSmet and Father Ravalli early
knew that there was gold in the streams of western Montana, but
they kept the secret as they wished their Indian charges to become
better prepared to withstand the contact with the stampede which
was inevitable when it became known that Montana's bars were
treasure-laden. I have talked with men who said they had heard
the pioneer priests say that they had early found indications of
the presence of gold in this region. Lieutenant Mullan is also cited
as another of the possessors of early knowledge of the existence
of gold here. Instances are given, too, of Indians who smoked
pipes which were thickly studded with find gold, contained in the
clay of which they were made. Lewis and Clark had found gold
signs and some of the members of their expedition had been
enthusiastic over some of their discoveries in this line ; but they
were not gold hunters and they did not make much of their find
in the wilderness.
There is that other story of a mysterious, long-bearded man
coming into Fort Benton in the earliest days of its existence with
a sack of gold dust which he sold to the trader there. There is,
too, a story reported by Lieutenant Bradley of Fort Missoula in
1875, in effect that he had been told of another unnamed east-side
prospector of the fifties. Perhaps this was the same one. He is
encountered wherever you go if you are seeking information as
to the early history of Montana mining. But nobody knows who
he was and nobody knew then where he got his gold. He is as
mysterious as the Lost Cabin mine.
It is refreshing, in delving through the literature which deals
with this subject, to encounter the perfect frankness with which
Granville Stuart wrote of his discovery and the freedom with
which he yields credit to all who had seen gold before he saw it
in Montana sands. In his history of Montana, Joaquin Miller
pays this tribute to Mr. Stuart :
"His (Stuart's) direct narrative untangles the skein where

FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS 235
the threads so often cross and become entwined one with another;
and where you would, but for this little book, find only confusion
and tumultuous clashing of accounts, all is made as plain as a
newly blazed trail. You follow this trail confidently, for it is as
true on its face as the mint mark on Montana gold, which he was
along with those who were with him, really the first to discover. ' '
And, farther on in his history, the great Californian writes :
"You will observe how generously he gives the credit of the dis
covery of gold in Montana to the credit of another. But I repeat
that the verdict of time will tell the coming generations that
James and Granville Stuart and their immediate following, who
persisted in their work and finally pushed reluctant fortunes to
the wall, were the real first finders of gold in paying quantities
at the feet of 'The Shining Mountains.' "
I have before me a copy of a letter which Granville Stuart
wrote in 1875, telling of the incidents which led to the discovery
of gold in Montana. It is an interesting story and it is best told
in the straightforward style of the old pioneer, now the second-
oldest citizen of Montana in point of residence. It is not only
intensely interesting, but it gives an insight into the character of
the man, revealing as it does his utter unselfishness. Nowhere
does he endeavor to direct all the limelight to himself ; he freely
gives to others whatever credit is their due for their part in the
discovery which was destined to make Montana quickly great and
wonderfully rich. Mr. Stuart says, in this letter, which was writ
ten to the New Northwest, published in Deer Lodge :
"In the year 1852 a half-breed named Francois, but who was
known among his associates by the name of Benetsee, and who had
just returned from California to the Rocky mountains, began to
prospect on what is now known as Gold creek, in Deer Lodge
county, and found light float gold; but, as his prospecting was
necessarily of a very superficial character, he found no mines
that would pay. The fact of gold being found there, however,
became noised about among the few mountaineers still in the
country, and in the spring of 1856 a party, among whom were
Robert Hereford, late of Helena, John Saunders, called "Long
John," (who could throw a stone with almost the force and pre
cision of a rifle ball), Bill Madison and one or two others, who
were passing ' Benetsee ' creek on their way to Salt Lake from the
Bitter Root valley, where they had spent the winter trading with
the Indians and prospecting a little, found more gold than had
been obtained by Benetsee. One piece weighed about 10 cents,
and they gave it to old Captain Grant, who used to show it, up to
the time of his death in 1862, as the first piece of gold found in
the country. ' ' The matter rested here until the spring of 1858 when Thom
as Adams (now of Washington city), Reece Anderson, E. H.

236 FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS
Burr, John IT. Powell and James and Granville Stuart searched
for gold in that vicinity and found as high as 10 cents to the
pan of gravel; but, as they had neither provisions (they were
living on wild meat straight, without salt) nor tools, they could
not accomplish anything,' more especially as the Blackfeet stole
four of their horses and so harassed them that they: abandoned
the country for a time, returning, however, in the fall of 1860,
firm in the faith that this was a rich gold country. In the mean
time, during the summer : of I860,1 a mining enthusiast named
Henry Thomas (but who, as soon as his peculiarities became
known, was designated as 'Gold Tom, ' by which he ever after
wards went), came by the way of 'Pend d'Oreille lake and began
to prospect on Benetsee creek about one mile west of where Pio
neer City now stands. Almost Unaided, he sank a shaft over
thirty feet deep in the glacial detritus along the creek, getting a
little gold all the way down. He also washed some on the sur
face at this point during this and the following summer, but
only made about $1.50 a day, owing to the great disadvantage
under which he worked. His windlass and four little sluice
boxes, hewed out with an axe and how fast falling into decay
may still be seen where he worked. Alas ! poor Tom ! The writer
lost sight of him in '66 or '67 and often wonders if he fell a vic-
time to the ignus f atui of Coeur d Alene, Peace River, Stickeen,
Cassiar, White Pine, Pioche, Yellowstone, and last, but not
least, the Black Hills, and, wherever he may be, may fortune
smile upon him with a broader grin than fell to the lot of any of
the pioneers at 'Pioneer Creek' in 1860-1-2. He usually pre
ferred to be alone, and would spend days and weeks among the
mountains with no other companions than his horses and trusty
rifle ; yet he was not at all misanthropic. In the fall of 1860 and
spring of 1861 Anderson and the Stuarts prospected in the dry
gulches, putting into Benetsee creek and found what they con
sidered good paying mines, but they did little towards working
them that season for two reasons : First, they had very few and
imperfect tools and no lumber until they could get it whip-
sawed ; and second, all the party except the writer went to Fort
Benton for the purpose of purchasing supplies from the steam
boats expected up the river that year. The one boat (The Chip-
peway) that started up was burned near the mouth of Milk river,
and the summer was lost waiting for her. On this boat were
William Graham of Philipsburg and Frank L. Worden of Mis
soula. Early in the spring of 1862 the Stuarts, Adams, Burr and
Powell began to mine, having had lumber sawed by hand at 10
cents a foot, and picks and shovels packed up from Walla Walla,
425 miles distant, by Worden and Higgins' train, that brought
their goods to Hell Gate, and on the eighth day of May they set
the first string of sluices ever used in Montana, and began to

OLLOWING OLD TRAILS 237

mine by the old pick and shovel process. In 1861 the Stuarts had
written to their brother Thomas, who was in Colorado, to come
out here, as they thought this a better and richer country than
that, which opinion, by the way, they have seen no reason to
change, and still adhere to. Thomas showed the letter to many
friends of his, and the result was that quite a number left there
in the spring of 1862 for Deer Lodge. The first of these, a party
of 12, arrived at Pioneer on the twentieth of June, and among
them was J. M. Bozeman, who was murdered by the Indians on
the Yellowstone in 1867, and after whom the flourishing town of
Bozeman, in Gallatin valley was named. The party found good
prospects in a branch of the Benetsee, or Gold Creek, as it now
began to be called, which branch took the name of Pike's Peak
gulch, from the fact of the discoverers being from Pike's Peak,
as Colorado was then generally called. Other parties also began
to straggle in from Pike's Peak and Utah, and about the 29th of
June Samuel T. Hauser, Frank Louthan, John Alt and W. B.
Dance arrived, being the advance guard of a number who came
up on the steamers from St. Louis, and who were on their way
to Florence, in the Salmon river mines, not having heard of the
discoveries at Gold Creek, where, however, many of them stopped,
and are now among our oldest and most respected citizens. ' '
And so it came to pass. As you ride through Hell Gate
canyon in this year of 1912, seated comfortably in the train which
speeds through historic scenes, you may observe, if you will, the
turbid current of Gold creek as it flows down into the Hell Gate.
In the spring and summer season the flow of this historic stream
is yellow with the washings from the placer camps above, for it
is true that there are yet miners working the gravel which yielded
the first Montana ' ' colors. ' ' In old Pioneer, in Pike 's Peak, in
the gulch below Yamhill — in these first diggings of Montana,
there are yet men taking out gold. Verily, "the first shall be
last." When I first visited the Pioneer diggings, there yet were
standing the old sluice boxes which had been installed when the
first mining was done there. Perhaps some trace of the old
workings yet remains ; there was some of the old plant to be seen
when I was last at the camp, a few years ago. Crude were the
beginnings but they led to greater things; there followed the
modest discovery on Gold creek, the wonderfully rich finds in
Alder, Last Chance, Cedar and Bear — bars which yielded mil
lions and from some of which, nuggets and dust are even now
being taken. It was one of the great first things — this casual
prospect work by Granville Stuart.
It was not all good, however, which came with the influx of
white population after the discovery of gold. Black sheep dwell
in every fold and there were plenty of them in the flock of

238 FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS
humans which surged into the gold-bearing valleys and gulches
of Montana. The story is familiar of how the flock purged itself ;
the history of the Montana Vigilantes is one of the most thrilling
narratives ever written. In this connection it is interesting to
note that one of the first — if not the very first — miners' court
was held on Gold creek. In the month of July, 1862, an old
Frenchman stole some horses and other property from the Gold
creek settlers. James Stuart and a neighbor pursued the thief
and overtook him on Prickly Pear creek, below Helena's present
location. His captors returned to camp with him and he was
given a trial before a court of miners. His guilt was clearly
established but he expressed repentance so profound that the
regulation penalty for horse-stealing was not enforced. Instead,
the old fellow was given 12 hours' time in which to get out of
the country, and, when the miners came to consider his age and
his condition of utter destitution, they — in court assembled —
subscribed $15 to give him a start. The cash donation was sup
plemented with a generous gift of provisions and the old man left
the district forever.
Other gulches yielded greater riches; other camps drew
greater crowds ; other communities developed greater crimes
than the offense of this old Frenchman; other courts imposed
greater sentences ; Montana became a country of superlatives as
the development of her placer diggings went on. The pick
became the successor to the pan as the ledge replaced the gravel
as the source of gold. Great cities took the place of primitive
camps. Established courts dispensed justice in the stead of the
Vigilante tribunal — more formally, perhaps, but never more
effectively. Montana became a state with all a state's preroga
tives. The growth was rapid and substantial. But it all dates
back to the day when the Stuarts and their companions washed
out the "colors" which gave them the assurance that there was
vast treasure locked in the hills of Montana — -hidden in "The
Shining Mountains."
If I were an artist — I presume every man has ideas which
he believes would make great paintings and longs for the ability
to depict them — if I were an artist, there are two pictures which.
I would like to paint. One of these would be the raising of the
Cross of Christ in the Bitter Root valley, when Father DeSmet
in 1841 brought the message, of the Gospel to the Indians of the
mountains. The other would be the scene in the Canyon of
First Things, when those pioneers washed out the first ' ' colors ' '
from the gravel on Gold creek and gave to the world a new
treasure house which has yielded its millions and which has giv
en greatness to a new state. I like to think of those young men,
earnest and eager, as they leaned over the man with the pan,
watching him to see what his expert touch would prove as to the

FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS 239
sands of the beautiful stream along which they stood. To me it
is one of the wonderfully interesting scenes in all history. To
me it possesses a special fascination. To me it seems to be the
one picture which marks the beginning of Montana — Montana,
prepared by the other picture, for the great future which is hers.
Out from Hell Gate canyon sped the news of new gold.
Back came the response in the form of strong, active, earnest
men. Then out from Hell Gate canyon these men scattered and
found other gulches rich in dust. The farmer came and the
manufacturer; the stage coach and the railway. A great state
has grown from that discovery in the Canyon of First Things.
February 10, 1912.

Entrance to Hell Gate Canyon — From a Sketch for Stevens' Report in 1855.

STARTING THINGS FOR MONTANA

WE ARE now entering into an interesting anniversary
period m Montana. This month and this year are the
semi-centennial dates for a good many important events
in this state 's history. It is half a century since the individuality
of this region became in some measure established. February,
1862, was a noteworthy month because it gave the first white
child born upon Montana soil. March, 1862, brought the first
white wedding upon Montana ground, and the same month fur
nished the first trial by law. And all of these important events
occurred at old Hell Gate town, the western end of the Canyon
of First Things.
We of the western slope of Montana should not be blamed
if we are sometimes a bit boastful of the part which our delight
ful region played in the beginnings of Montana history. It may
seem like too much reiteration for me to refer so frequently in .
these stories to the Canyon of First Things, but when the history
of Hell Gate canyon is considered, there is so much of it which
represents the beginnings of things which have become great in
the development of the state, that I am sure the return to these
items of important history will not be found wearisome. In the
pursuit of these old trails, we have followed the track of the pio
neer placer miners of Montana; we have traced the path of some
of the early lumbermen; these have taken us through the wind
ings of the Canyon of First Things and the journeys have sug
gested not a few byways which we may further pursue with
interest and, I hope, with some degree of profit.
In the jaunts we have taken over the old Hell Gate trail,
through the Canyon of First Things, we have found "signs"
which warrant a further exploration of this wonderful old trail,
along which are scattered so many rich incidents in Montana
history that we find ourselves treasure-trove. This beautiful old
canyon, now a busy thoroughfare of modern commerce, is peo
pled with figures of the past which move before us and beckon
us on; they invite excursions that will lead our feet into paths
which have long been untrodden but which were one time the
arteries through which poured the new life which was being
241

242 FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS
injected into the wilderness for the evolution of a new state, for
the making of a new people.
In one of these trips over old trails, we spent a day in old
Hell Gate town. This village marked the western end of the
trail which in those days led through the Canyon of First
Things. From Hell Gate three old trails led west and south-
one over the Coeur d'Alene pass, one through the Coriacan
defile and one into the Bitter Root valley.' But the one way
east was through the wonderful canyon which stretched its way
through the rugged cleft in the mountain wall — the trail which
led to the first things which give such fascinating interest to the
history of the western region of Montana.
While the canyon itself contributed many of these interest
ing incidents, the old town which was its western terminal, must
be credited with no small part in getting the civilization of Mon
tana started in the right direction.
Almost within the limits of this little, old town was born the
first white child to see the light in Montana. Here, too, was
solemnized the first wedding of white people to be performed in
Montana. The first trial of a lawsuit to be held in Montana was
in this old town. Also the first saloon to be established in Mon
tana was built here, a fact which is here mentioned because that
saloon building furnished the stage setting for some of the stir
ring scenes and some of the notable events which were here
enacted in later months.
It will be remembered, perhaps, that the second building
erected in the town of Hell Gate was P. J. Bolte 's saloon. That
was in 1861. The saloon business was not very good and Bolte
lasted less than a year. But in that year his place was immor
talized. It was transformed by the course of events into the first
court of justice in the great state of Montana. Just what hap
pened to Bolte in the long run is not quite clear, but the records
show plainly that his saloon is entitled to high place in Montana 's
hall of fame.
It would be fine if it could be recorded that Bolte 's saloon
was permanently transfigured into a palace of justice, but this
cannot be said truthfully. Bolte himself didn't last long in the
saloon business, it is true, and he closed his gin mill not long
after the memorable session of justice was held. Bolte made his
exit, as far as local records show, but he left his building behind
him and its reappearance in the activities of the town was as the
rendezvous of the northern branch of the road agents, which inev
itably led to its selection as the scene of the last gala performance
of the Vigilantes when they galloped down the canyon from Alder
and did their last job of cleaning house. In our former visit at
Hell Gate, we got a glimpse of this lively action; one of these
days we may see it in detail; but this jaunt has to do with some

FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS 243
of the first things which happened in Hell Gate and the court of
justice which was held in Bolte 's saloon was one of them.
Looking back, just for a moment, over our own trail, it will
be recalled that last week we saw the first miners ' court being
held in the Canyon of First Things. That was in 1862 — in the
summer. The miners on Gold creek held a court of their own
and tried a Frenchman who had stolen some of their horses. They
convicted him and then raised money enough to enable him to
get out of the country. But this was not the first court held in
Montana. In March of that same year, in Bolte 's saloon in Hell
Gate, had been held a regular court session. It was the first
tribunal of any sort ever held upon Montana soil unless we count
the courtmartial which Captains Lewis and Clark held while they
were marching through this territory, when they convicted and
whipped one of their soldiers.
It seems, however, to be the common opinion of the chron
iclers of Montana history that the tribunal held in Bolte 's Hell
Gate saloon was the first court held in this state. It was in
March. The incident is one which has not been given, it seems
to me, the importance it should have in the records of our state.
Bolte 's saloon was a little, log building. It was located not
far from the Worden-Higgins store, which was the first building
erected in the camp and the first store to be built in the state.
There was nothing impressive about the structure. It was built
of cottonwood logs, as were all of Hell Gate's houses. It had
one door in front! Its windows were diminutive. Even in day
light, the interior was not bright. Yet this dingy interior was
the scene of the first formal administration of justice in Mon
tana. The scene was another of those which would form the sub
jects of powerful historic paintings.
Along the side of the little building extended the rude bar.
In the rear were two or three crude tables where the patrons
of the place played cards. A stone fireplace furnished the heat
and supplemented the light which sifted in through the windows.
There was nothing of the dignity and impressiveness of the mod
ern temple of justice here, but the sequel showed that justice is
not dependent upon frescoed walls or carved furniture for its
right administration. I presume some of our recent writers upon
the judiciary of Montana would say that the quality of the jus
tice which was dispensed in this rude building, temporarily trans
formed into a courtroom, was better than a good deal which has
been administered since that time in this state.
Those who are in any way familiar with the history of west
ern Montana will not be surprised to know that Baron 0 'Keef f e
was one of the parties of this first Montana trial. He was a
famous litigant and, at this time, he had been in Montana long
enough to have demonstrated his scrapping ability. When mat-

244 FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS
ters had become more settled in Missoula county and it was pos
sible toi go to court more easily than it was in 1862, the baron
kept the courts busy, for he was jealous of his rights and he
resented any infringement upon them.
Henry Brooks was the justice of the peace. He held a com
mission presumably under the laws of Washington ; there was
something a little mysterious about that commission, but it went,
just the same, and there seems to have been no serious flaw in it.
If there had been, the keen eye of The O'Keeffe would surely
have discovered it, as the baron was a stickler for technicalities.
The official duties of Brooks consisted principally in performing
the marriage ceremony. His judicial functions were 'not often
invoked. I don't know whether or not he ever tried any other
case than this, but this was enough to make his name endure in
the history of Montana, and it makes the trip over the Hell Gate
trail more interesting.
The complaining witness in this first trial was a Frenchman,
whose name was Tin Cup Joe. Probably he had another name,
but there is no record of it, and even Judge Woody does not
remember what it was. When his memory fails, I am not one to
waste time in the endeavor to discover details that he has forgot
ten. Tin Cup Joe had some horses and he accused Baron
O'Keeffe of having ill-treated one of the animals so seriously as
to cause its death. There were no laws in the statutes of Wash
ington then to provide a penalty for cruelty to animals or the
baron would probably have appeared as defendant in a criminal
action. It seems that Tin Cup Joe was not particularly outraged by
the cruelty which he alleged had been practiced upon his horse ;
he was aggrieved to the extent of the value which he placed upon
the animal and he brought suit to recover the sum of $40. His
complaint alleged that The O 'Keef f e had beaten the horse with a
fork handle and had then pushed the animal into a hole, the dual
assault having inflicted injuries so severe that the poor horse
died. The only place which Justice Brooks could find for hold
ing court was Bolte 's saloon, and there he set up his tribunal.
There Baron O'Keeffe was brought before the bar — but' not
Bolte 's bar. The complaint was read to him in due form, and
he demanded a jury trial. Thereupon, the justice impaneled a
jury of six good men and true.
"I do not remember all of the jurors," said Judge Woody
in telling me the story of this case, "but one of them was A.
Sterny Blake, and another was W. B. S. Higgins. Another was
Bart Henderson, who afterward went to the Yellowstone coun
try. " W. B. S. Higgins was not a relative of Captain Higgins,
but he had built the first residence in Hell Gate and he was
for years prominently identified with the affairs of Missoula

FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS 245
county. Sterny Blake was well known all over western Mon
tana. He settled finally near Victor, where he died recently ;
he was a member of the legislature from Missoula county and in
other ways served the community usefully.
Judge Woody acted as attorney for the plaintiff. Baron
O'Keeffe conducted his own case. The initial stages of the
trial progressed without incident and with due regard for the
form and the dignity of the law. It was when the cross-ques
tioning began that the harmony of the occasion was disturbed.
The baron took exception to the course of the young attorney
for the plaintiff. The attorney was not to be bluffed any more
in those days than he is now, and he retorted in kind. The
court was unable to maintain order, and the din of charge and
counter-charge became violent.
The little room was crowded. The baron had a consider
able retinue of adherents and the folks around Hell Gate were
for the most part friends of Woody. The interest of the crowd
became intense. The repartee between the contenders finally
passed the bounds of self-restraint and The 0 'Keef fe made a pass
at his opponent. Woody countered and came back with a good,
stiff punch.
It was like a spark in a keg of powder. The pent-up
excitement of the crowd that packed Bolte 's transformed saloon
needed only the sound of a blow to break it loose. In an instant
there was pandemonium. The partisans of the two principals
fought because they wanted to. The innocent bystanders fought
because they had to; there was no room for anything else. It
was just the sort of melee that delighted the heart of the sturdy
scion of Ireland's nobility and he snorted like a war-horse.
When the battle ended, it was a draw. The settling of the
dust and the parting of the combatants disclosed the fact that
the court and the jury had been successful in fighting their
way out of the crowd, out of the building and out of sight. It
looked very much as if the trial could not proceed. There was
no court and the jury was missing.
The erstwhile combatants now became fellows in an earnest
quest for the missing representatives of the law. Fortunately,
there were not many buildings in Hell Gate and the search was
ultimately successful. The court was found nursing some bruises
in the Worden store — somewhat peeved, but too flustered to
think of the prerogative of imposing a penalty for contempt.
Some of the jurors were also in the store. Others were in their
homes and were routed out and brought back to Bolte 's.
The trial proceeded in due form without further interrup
tion. The jury retired and was not long in its deliberations.
The verdict gave Tin Cup Joe the full $40 for which he sued,
and also attached the costs of the suit to the defendant. This

246 FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS
brought the total assessment against Baron O'Keeffe up to $90.
Then there was more trouble. The baron declared he had
been outraged and that the whole proceeding was a travesty upon
justice. He would appeal, he said, and made preparations to
take the case to a higher court. But the nearest district court
was in Colville, three hundred miles away, and the expense of
the appeal and a trial at Colville would be so great that he
couldn't take the chance of losing again. So he paid up.
Thus ended the first trial in Montana. The building in
which it was held has long since disappeared. Of old Hell Gate
there remains but the little old log building which was the first
Worden store. But the site is yet pointed out, and it is a notable
spot in Montana's history. We are inclined to laugh, of course,
at the ludicrous features of this primitive dispensation of jus
tice, and it must be admitted that the story gives the trial a
farcical aspect. But read the story again and you will note
that the jury returned its verdict and that the loser paid. That
is the main thing.
I asked Judge Woody what became of Justice Brooks. "He
was assassinated," said the judge. "In 1865, over in Uncle
Ben's gulch, near Blackfoot City, some unknown person fired a
shot through a glass door, behind which Brooks was standing,
and killed him. Nobody was able to tell who fired the shot or
why it was fired. It was a complete mystery. Brooks had no
personal enemies that we ever knew of."
It was Brooks who performed the first marriage ceremony
for white people in Montana. This was also at Hell Gate and
was in the same month that he presided at the trial in Bolte 's
saloon. On March 5, Brooks united in the bonds of matrimony
George P. White and Mrs. Josephine Meininger. His commis
sion as justice gave him this authority. His neighbors, in recog
nition of the importance of the event, dubbed him "Bishop,"
and as ' ' Bishop Brooks ' ' he was always known after that.
The Whites lived below Hell Gate for many years ; this first
Montana wedding was the beginning of a happy union. It is of
record that the first Montana wedding did not lead to a divorce.
It was in 1862, but a month earlier than these other first
events, that the first white child was born in Montana. Febru
ary 13, 1862, Jefferson Henry Pelky was born in Grass Valley,
just below Hell Gate. He is living in Missoula now. The other
day he registered at the Missoula county court house for the
elections this year. He has lived all his life either in Washing
ton or Montana, and is well known hereabouts.
It was fifty years ago that these things happened — these
important first things. It is half a century this week since the
first white child was born upon Montana soil. Next month it
will be half a century since the first marriage ceremony was per-

FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS 247
formed between whites ; next month, too, it will be half a cen
tury since the first formal trial was held here.
Fifty years is not a long span, yet how much has trans
pired in this great region. From these first things, how much
has developed. Here in this Hell Gate ronde were enacted only
fifty years ago these first events of their kind in Montana.
From that rude, little court have grown our present tribunals;
that first white wedding has been followed by many other hap
py unions ; there have been other boys born. But the real home
life of the state dates back to those beginnings in this valley.
The civilization of the state may be said to date back to those
beginnings. There is no trail — old or new — which possesses greater inter
est in its associations than this one which leads down through
the Canyon of First Things. It has been interesting to me to
trace back the path which leads from those beginnings to the
present. I hope it is interesting to those who read these little
stories. Clustered in places — scattered in others — along this
famous old trail, there are many more incidents which have left
their lasting imprint upon the history of our state and upon the
civilization of our people. If we continue these journeys over
old Montana trails, I do not know of any trips that we can
take whieh will be more intensely interesting than some of those
which follow the old Hell Gate trail or some of its byways. We
are delightfully situated here for the pleasant study of the local
phases of Montana history. There are many other trips than
those we have taken. I have enjoyed them ; I hope others have
had the same pleasure in them.
February 17, 1912.

Old Worden Store at Hell Gate

A JOURNEY'S END

THE Vigilantes of Montana laid the cornerstone of the
structure of justice in the state. Their quick, decisive
action transformed the new settlements from a condition
of chaos into a state of orderliness. They made human life safe
and they insured protection of property. They wrought this
transformation with almost incredible swiftness. Once their
minds had been made up to clean house, they cleaned house.
Ridgepoles, trees, corral gates — whatever were handy — were
extemporized as gallows frames, and from them dangled lifeless
forms which, but a few days before, had been animate with all
the evil and devilishness that could be devised by minds steeped
in crime. Swift and sure was the justice which was dealt out by
the Vigilante courts and when its dispensation had been ended,
Montana was clean.
Over Montana trails galloped the avenging troop, fleet,
determined and brave. When these trails had been traversed
by this avenging horde, these trails were clean. There was
safety assured to such as might travel after. The right to live
had been re-established; the right to hold property had been
vindicated; Montana's reign of terror was at an end. The last
night ride which the Vigilantes made was down the old trail to
Hell Gate. Through the darkness they rode, and swiftly, that
no warning might precede them. Relentlessly they galloped
along the trail from Cottonwood, nor paused longer than was
necessary to come upon their quarry unsuspected. And their
ride was not in vain.
It is interesting to note that the very building which has
been the scene of the first trial by jury, under statute law, in
Montana, was the scene, also, of the last of the Vigilante execu
tions. Bolte, who built this saloon and who operated it at the
time Justice Brooks commandeered it for a court room, didn't
last long in the saloon business at Hell Gate. After a year of
endeavor properly to irrigate the population of western Montana,
he gave it up as a bad job and Hell Gate became a dry town.
Came then Cyrus Skinner, bad man and murderer, north
ern agent for the organized band of desperadoes, and took pos-
249

250 FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS
session of Bolte 's place, where he conducted a saloon and road-
house which soon became the rendezvous of suspicious characters.
It was in 1862 that Bolte quit the business ; it was a year later
that Skinner came. Not much was known of him by the Hell
Gate people, but they could easily form their estimate of his
caliber. It was not the custom in those days to be too inquisitive
as to a man 's antecedents. If he behaved himself, there would be
no questions asked. But it was soon evident that Skinner was
not a desirable citizen. However, there was nothing in particu
lar that the Hell Gate people could charge against him and he
was allowed to conduct his shady resort. He was left pretty
much alone by the townspeople, but he had always some strang
ers loafing about his place and he didn't seem to miss the com
pany of the home folks.
The story of the beginning of the Vigilante operation is
familiar history. The placer camps had been ridded of their
undesirables and discoveries had been made which pointed to
the presence of accomplices of the road agents in Hell Gate. A
flying squadron of cavalry was organized to sweep through the
outlying camps to gather in the stragglers of the road-agent com
bination. In the troop whieh rode toward Hell Gate by way of
Deer Lodge, there were eight tried men. Swiftly they rode and,
wherever they encountered one of the road agents' men, there
was a trial, a vote and an execution. On Cottonwood they had
executed two men. Then, with a farmer named Jemmy Allen as
their guide, they galloped out of Deer Lodge and swung into the
trail to Hell Gate. It was January, cold and dark. As we ride
down through Hell Gate canyon now, comfortable in steam-heated
cars, we do not realize the discomforts of that ride. There was a
lot of snow that winter and the weather was intensely cold. Hell
Gate canyon was a dense forest in those days. Into its shadows
the Vigilantes rode. At the other end of the Hell Gate trail they
expected to find the men they sought.
They had left Deer Lodge in the night. At the very outset,
the horse of one of them broke through the ice, crossing Deer
Lodge river, and his rider was rescued with difficulty. He had
been placed on a fleet horse and had galloped to the Allen ranch,
where the entire party halted, later, for the rest of the night.
Early next morning the little cavalcade was on the trail again.
The snow in the canyon was three feet deep and progress was
slow that day. Only about sixteen miles were covered. Camp
was made in the snow and next morning a march was made to
the camp of the Mullan road workmen. Here was welcome and
shelter for another night, and the hardy riders needed it.
Up at daylight and in their saddles, the Vigilantes pushed
on through the snow. They rode to the mouth of Hell Gate can
yon and rested beside Rattlesnake creek, in hiding, until dark.

FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS 251
Then they rode down toward Hell Gate town. Their guide halted
the troop about two hundred yards from the village and went
forward to investigate. Returning, he reported that there was
evidently no suspicion of the presence of the avenging party.
Skinner was at his saloon and things seemed to be running just
as usual. There was a hurried conference and the men from Alder
gulch mounted. ' It was their intention to take Skinner complete
ly by surprise, and they entered the village with their horses on
the dead run. Either their speed was too great or else, in the
darkness they made a mistake— for they galloped right past the
Skinner place and were some distance beyond before they dis
covered their mistake. They turned quickly and rode back, but
the noise of their charge had attracted attention and Skinner
stood in the doorway of his saloon as they came up.
He was evidently, even then, unsuspicious. For he was taken
completely off his guard. The saloon was promptly surrounded
and Skinner was told to throw up his hands. He complied. His
woman evidently did not even then realize what was going on;
she seemed to think the place was being robbed, for, when she
was commanded to hold up her hands, too, she remarked that
the visitors must have learned that from the Bannack stage folks.
Skinner was disarmed and bound.
Alex Carter, another of the road agents who was sought, was
found in the house next to Skinner's. He was lying in a drunken
stupor on a lounge when the vigilantes entered ; they covered him
at once and took his pistol from him. He was securely bound
before he came to his senses ; when he realized what had hap
pened, he asked for a smoke and then inquired for news. He was
told of what had been going on and was given the names of the
men who had been hanged. He nodded as name after name was
called off and, when the narration was ended, he said: "All
right; not an innocent man hung yet."
Carter and Skinner were taken to the Higgins store and were
tried there. The trial lasted three hours, and while it was in
progress Skinner's woman appeared and sought to intercede for
him. She was sent back home under guard. This was fortunate,
as the escort discovered, lying wounded in the Skinner house,
Johnny Cooper, one of the most-wanted of the whole band of
Montana desperadoes. He had been shot in three places in a
quarrel with Carter the night before; he said Carter had tried
to steal his pistol. Cooper was at once secured and placed so he
could do no harm. One of the Vigilantes had known Cooper over
the range and identified him.
Meanwhile, in the Higgins store, the trial of Skinner and
Carter was going on. Carter admitted that he, with Ives and
Irwin, had driven off a bunch of horses, but he denied that he

252 FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS
had been a party to the murder of the herder of the horses,
though this was proved during the trial. He remained steadfast
in his refusal to confess to his participation in the Ives stage
robberies and murders, but his part in these crimes was so well
known that there was no trouble in bringing conclusive proof.
Skinner would make no admission at all. He stood pat.
It was midnight of the night of January 25 before the trial
ended. The evidence had all been heard ; the eases had been dis
cussed by the members of the tribunal and the time had come
for the vote which was to decide the fate of the two prisoners. It
must have been a dramatic scene. We are told that there was no
undue haste. Everything was as deliberate as would be the pro
ceedings of a modern court of justice.
The little room of the store was dimly lighted. In its center
sat the men who were on trial. Facing them were the members
of the group which constituted court, jury, sheriff and execu
tioner — if need be. Another moment would tell the wretches in
the center whether they would be merely banished from the terri
tory or would be exiled to eternity.
There was a pause. The president of the court announced
that the vote would be taken by members of the court stepping
to one side of the room or to the other. No man, however nerved
to duty by the consciousness that he is punishing the worker of
the most dastardly crime, steps blithely to vote the death penalty.
So these men who had ridden desperately through the snowy
night to capture the thieves and murderers before them, now hesi
tated when it came to the final act in the trial.
One of the jury moved toward the side of the store which
had been designated as the position of those whose vote was
"Guilty." Another followed him and another. Then it was
easier. The spell of the occasion was broken. There was a
movement and every man of the jury took place where his very
position spoke the fateful word, though he uttered no sound.
What a tense moment that must have been which preceded
the movement of the first juror. How those wretches, facing cer
tain death yet hoping that at the very last something might inter
vene, must have gazed at the men who held their lives in their
hands. How they must have scanned the faces of their judges,
eagerly hoping to discover there some ray of mercy. Villains
though they were, villains of the deepest dye, one can but sympa
thize with them as they looked at face after face of the stern men
before them. And then, when hope went glimmering, how their
muscles must have stiffened, how their teeth must have set, in an
effort to maintain some show of bravado even to the end.
Guilty — that was the verdict, and there was no recommenda
tion for mercy. It was the end. These two murderers had shown
no mercy to their victims ; they had shot down men in cold blood,

FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS 253
robbing their bodies and driving away their stock with perfect
indifference. It was meet that they should be dealt with exactly
as they had dealt with others. And so they were.
Out into the night the condemned men were led. There were
no trees which could be used as a gallows; there was no high
building which could be extemporized into a scaffold. Torches
were made and lighted and by their flickering light the men were
conducted to the Higgins corral, below the store. Two stout poles
were planted so as to be supported by the corrall fence, over
which they leaned. Some boxes were brought from the store, to
serve as drops.
Upon these boxes Skinner and Carter were made to step.
From them they jumped into another world. The ropes stretched
taut ; the poles sprung ; there was a convulsive struggle and two
of the black band had gone to join their fellows. The improvised
gallows had done its work well.
There was short shrift for these two men. The blackest
rascal of them all was yet to be hanged. Back there in Skinner's
house lay Johnny Cooper, wounded perhaps unto death, but not
to die of those wounds. A shorter route across the Great Divide
had been discovered upon the journey in which there is no back
trail. As Johnny Cooper was a bigger rascal than the others, he had
been reserved for a separate trial, that the others might not get
any of the worst of it by association with him. Cooper had been
one of the lieutenants of the notorious Ives. He and Carter had
been ready to start for Canada the night before the Vigilantes
came, but they quarreled, Cooper said, over the gun and Cooper
had been shot. Their pack was found and their horses, all ready.
Cooper, as has been said, was recognized by a man who had
known him over the divide. This man testified against him and,
though Cooper steadfastly denied all the evidence, it was sub
stantiated by the previous confessions of others of the gang. His
conduct in and around Hell Gate added strength to the other tes
timony ; he had taken horses ; had blackmailed a Frenchman out
of a considerable sum of gold; had sought to marry this same
Frenchman's young daughter and had been threatening when
refused. The vote for his conviction was unanimous. He was
hanged at the Higgins corral, as Skinner and Carter had been.
Hell had another guest.
As far as I know, the records of the Vigilantes do not show
what became of Nelly, Skinner's woman. Nor does the history
of Hell Gate contain further mention of her that I have discov
ered. She is the pitiful figure in this scene of vengeance. A bit
of human flotsam, it is true ; a scarlet woman, I grant ; shunned
by the world, of course, but she was loyal to her consort. To
the last she sought to save him from his inevitable fate. The

254 FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS
Vigilantes had no terrors for her — if only she could save the
worthless neck of Skinner. Perhaps she stood out there in the
darkness watching with fascinated, horror-stricken eyes the trage
dy being enacted there in the glare of the torches, while all about
was snow and winter. We do not know. She was there and she
was loyal — that we do know. Unfortunate though she was — let
us forget all but her loyalty and her devotion.
Yet other work remained for tlie troop before morning. If
they waited it would be too late ; the news of their night 's work
would be all through the valley as soonTah it was light. There
were some others of the gang to be captiRted, and it was known
that they were in the valley somewhere. Three men hanged at
Hell Gate, the Vigilantes mounted again and galloped off through
the night to the entrance of the Coriacan defile, where the cabin
of Baron O'Keeffe was built. There they found Bob Zachery.
Of the incidents of this capture, I have already written in another
of these stories. Baron O'Keeffe was roused from slumber; he
thought he was being robbed; he did not know that the man in
his house was a road agent ; when he realized it and understood
the purpose of the visit, he begged that the execution be pulled
off somewhere else, as he did not want to have any ghosts about
his place. So Bob Zachery was taken away and hanged. George
Shears was found at the Van Dorn ranch and hanged. Bill
Graves was found early next day up in the Bitter Root valley.
He was a road agent, a gun man and an all-around bad fellow—
but he was taken and hanged. He went across the Great Divide
alone, though he had always boasted that he would take a Vigilan
te or two with him when he went.
Next day, the little troop of Vigilantes galloped off again
through the snow into the forest that filled the Canyon of First
Things. No need to hurry now. The work was done for which
these men had ridden through the wintry forest. The homeward
trip might be leisurely taken. There was nobody ahead of them
now who would flee if informed that they were coming. They
had written another chapter in the history of Montana's house-
cleaning. They had written it vigorously and so plainly that all
might read. They had served another warning that the men who
lived in Montana must be decent.
Three dangling forms at the Higgins corral had been left as
a sign that the law must be obeyed. Three other bodies, strung
up later, added emphasis to the message. It could not be mis
taken. So well had these men done their work that there was no
more of the sort to be done in Montana at that time, save for
the one or two isolated cases which called for severe action. But
the final chapter in the history of the Vigilantes had been writ
ten. The last of the villains had been run to earth. The last
names had been checked off the list. Montana was made clean.

FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS 255
Hell Gate buzzed with excitement. It had been through the
most stirring hours of its whole history; there had been much
crowded into that one night. And when the Vigilantes rode away
there were no mourners in the little town — none unless it was
that woman of Skinner 's. We do not know of her grief ; we can
only imagine it from the devotion which she displayed in the hour
of peril for her man.
Soon there were four graves in the field below Hell Gate.
There was never a headstone set up at any one of them. Less
than ten years ago their mounds might be seen, but lately the disc
harrow and the gang plow have leveled them, and wheat grows
where road agents were planted.
The horses which belonged to the men who> were hanged were
sold to pay the debts which these men owed in the community.
So were their other effects. The pack which Cooper and Carter
had tied to their horse just before the quarrel, contained pro
visions which they had obtained from Higgins' store. It was
shown that they had not paid for the goods ; Captain Higgins had
been willing to let them have the stuff if they would get out of
the country. When the Vigilantes were told this, they paid Hig
gins the value of the supplies.
So in Hell Gate, where was held the first trial by law in Mon
tana, there was also held the last of the Vigilante courts, unless
we count as sessions those later, isolated cases. This was the last
real "killing" by the miners' tribunal. Up at the other end of
Hell Gate canyon, as we have previously seen, there had been
held, two years earlier than this, the first session of this miners'
court. Now, at the other end of the canyon, was the last of those
memorable trials. It furnishes one of the most interesting chap
ters in the fascinating story of the Canyon of First Things.
February 24, 1912.

The Great Fall!

-Photo by Elrod.

THE MAN WHO LOOKED AHEAD

IF, OFFHAND, you were to ask a Great Falls citizen who dis
covered the great falls of the Missouri, he would tell you —
also offhand — that it was Paris Gibson. If you were to tell
him that your history gave the name of a different discoverer,
the Great Falls citizen would, on second thought, admit that
Lewis and Clark had something to do with it, but he would insist
that Senator Gibson showed them the way to the falls or they
would never have found
them. Such is the admira
tion which Great Falls holds
for her first citizen, Senator
Paris Gibson. It is beauti
ful and it is deserved — this
admiration. It is not often
given, however, to a man to
live to receive the homage of
his townsmen to the degree
that it has been the good
fortune of Mr. Gibson to en
joy. Usually, there is a
bronze statue somewhere,
with a tablet reciting the
virtues and the achieve
ments of the man whose me
morial it is — but this comes
after the man is dead and it
does him no good.
In the case of Senator
Gibson, however, it is a long
look ahead to the bronze sta
tue — for he is hale and
hearty — and he is living to
see his ideals realized and
his fondest hopes fulfilled. there is

^^'"'tJ^m-,

i 7 TF*-"- > ^£>

•*n
HHHilf
'Tijpp
Paris Gibson
Where, years ago, he found a bare and treeless plain
now a beautiful city with magnificent parks and long, shaded
257
258 FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS
streets. Where he found a broad prairie bearing naught but
bunch grass, there are now fields of oats, wheat and flax which
are establishing world-records for production.
Thirty years ago this summer, Senator Gibson saw this city
and these great fields of grain where no eye but his could behold
aught but naked prairie. He was called a dreamer. So he was,
but he has lived to behold the realization of his dreams. The
visions which then excited only ridicule have become actualities.
Ridicule has given way to respect. The sunset days of Paris
Gibson are bright. He dwells in an atmosphere of content, amid
scenes of his own creation. The city which he saw, thirty years
ago, in prophetic vision, has become a real city, inhabitated by
people who hold toward its founder feelings of unbounded
affection. It was the shrewd, observant eye of the Yankee which was
able to picture upon the bank of the Missouri the splendid city
which has grown so true to the plan which the brain behind the
Yankee eye evolved three decades back. That same penetrating
view was able to discern the wonderful possibilities which lay
dormant in the wonderful series of cascades over which the vast
current of the river pours for twelve miles. It was the Yankee
persistence and power which enlisted capital in the development
of these natural advantages. For Paris Gibson is a Yankee from
the state of Maine — just as far east as they make Yankees.
As a young man, Mr. Gibson had come west. He had con
structed the first flour mill at what is now Minneapolis. He had
prospered until a nation-wide panic swept his little fortune
away. So toward the sunset he journeyed again and upon this
journey he beheld for the first time the falls of the Missouri.
He had just left the Falls of St. Anthony on the Mississippi and
the Montana cascades appealed to him as being possessed of
great possibilities. He set himself the task of their development
and with this self-assigned duty there came the building of a
great city upon the plain which overlooks" the broad sweep of
the river, just before it takes the plunge over the falls.
Of the trials through which Mr. Gibson passed and of the
discouragements which he overcame before he could report prog
ress, it is not necessary to say anything here. They were great
and they would have put any ordinary man out of the running.
But Senator Gibson was never an ordinary man. Always he was
in the exceptional rating. And he had in mind the ideal which
he had formed for the development of the advantages at the big
falls. He never lost sight of this.
His persistence and courage triumphed — this is enough for
the present story. He won out. There is a city where there was
only a wilderness ; there are fine farms where there was an arid
waste ; there are elms and maples where there was only grease-

FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS 259
wood; there are immense industrial plants along the waterfalls
and from these same cascades there goes, over hundreds of miles
of wire, the force which gives life to the state's greatest industry
and keeps moving the wheels of vast enterprises. Viewing the
situation now and considering how comparatively brief has been
the time which has elapsed since Mr. Gibson first saw the falls,
it seems incredible that a transformation so wonderful could
have been made in this short span.
Of the falls of the Missouri, but one cascade remains unhar
nessed. There are dams and busy industrial plants at Black Eagle
falls and at Rainbow falls. The Great falls alone, twelve miles
below the city, tumble unhindered over the rocks which they have
worn for ages with their ceaseless flow. But this is the last
season which these wonderful falls will have of freedom. Already
a cofferdam is reaching out from one bank above them and
another is soon to extend from the other side, preparatory to
the construction of a great power dam here. Another year will
find this, the last and greatest of the falls, working for Montana.
It was my pleasure and good fortune, one day last week, to
spend an hour with Senator Gibson at Great Falls. More than
twelve years .ago, when engaged in the preparation of some work
connected with the movement to protect the public lands of Mon
tana from the landgrabbers, I had talked with Mr. Gibson under
almost the same conditions whieh governed the pleasant inter
view last week. I had met him prior to that time. I had seen
him in the capital, Helena, I mean, and I had listened to his
memorial commencement address at the state university, when he
uttered words which rang throughout the state and which were
instrumental in starting the aggressive campaign against the
wholesale appropriation of lands in violation of the nation's laws.
I thought I understood him pretty well. Always, I had
admired him. But that visit which I had with Senator Gibson
in Great Falls gave me a new insight into the man's character
and heightened my admiration and respect for him. More than
ever I became convinced of the sincerity of the man, of his
unselfishness and of the utter impersonality of his crusade for
the protection of the public domain. As I drove with him across
the prairie, out to his farm, I became imbued with some of his
confidence in the success of the cultivation of the lands of north
ern Montana ; I grew to share with positiveness his belief that
these lands would be wrested from the range and would eventual
ly become productive.
Only at intervals during the time that had intervened, had I
met Senator Gibson, and then only casually. The acquaintance
which was renewed last week, rather unexpectedly, was always
pleasant as far as I was concerned. To Senator Gibson, of course,
it was but a passing incident. It impressed me strongly. I have

260 FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS
never forgotten the details of that long-ago visit and now I have
the added memory of this later glimpse of the man who made
Great Falls and who, more than any other man, is responsible
for the present wonderful agricultural development of the lands
of northern and eastern Montana.
When I met Senator Gibson last week, he had been home
but a few hours from a long eastern trip. His eye flashed and
his cheek glowed as he received the cordial greetings of his towns
people and as he looked about over the familiar scenes and
breathed the air of his beloved valley. Hardly a man passed who
had not a word of welcome and a kindly greeting. Senator Gib
son belongs to Great Falls and its people are proud of the pos
session. It must be a pleasant experience to receive such uni
formly pleasant words and to look into faces which are all smiles.
As I watched the Great Falls people welcome their best friend,
I envied him. I wishe'd I had some occupation other than the
newspaper business, for I knew that, in this calling, such an
experience as that could never be mine.
With frequent interruptions of this sort, Senator Gibson
talked to me — talked of the great wealth which lies in the unde
veloped lands of Montana, wealth which is just becoming realized
and which is to make Montana known as the great granary of the
world ; talked of wheat yields, of oat crops and of flax produc
tion; talked of acreage and bushels, of the varieties and the
quality of grain ; talked of the quality of men, too, and of the
citizenry whieh is transforming Montana into a farm state.
This is an obsession with Senator Gibson. He knows dry
land farming by rote; he is wise in the lore of irrigation; he
knows the quality of soils; he knows land law. What a promoter
he would make ! Were his talents to be devoted to the advance
ment of some special interest, write it down that the cause which
he espoused would prosper ; his magnetism would carry it through
to success. But those talents have been given away for a life
time — literally given away. They have been employed in the
development of an idea and for the purpose of building a state.
They have been given freely. Montana owes a great debt of
gratitude to this man — northern Montana, specially, is under
obligations to him.
He talked on and on, giving me figures upon figures, piling
citation upon citation, quoting reference upon reference. Most
of these I remember now, but as I write this they seem to have
no place in the recollection which I have of the interesting talk
to which I listened. It was the man and the principle which he
discussed which formed the picture which I carried away from
that pleasant afternoon's experience. Had I been the veriest
skeptic, Senator Gibson would have convinced me. I could not
have listened to his earnest exposition of Montana's agricultural

FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS 261
possibilities and not have been made sure that the man was right.
There was conviction in what he said and in the way he said it.
When my brief afternoon visit with Senator Gibson was
over, I resumed my necessarily hurried tour of the valley about
Great Falls. When this was finished, a couple of days later, I
realized more fully how completely the Gibson idea is to be
realized when the work already undertaken is completed.
It was a delightful trip in which I participated. There was
no wind and the beautiful February afternoon afforded every
condition necessary to thorough enjoyment. We saw the Black
Eagle and Rainbow falls, where the Missouri is now doing so
much to contribute to the success of Montana industrial enter
prises. We saw the Giant spring. Then we swung out over the
old Fort Benton trail.
All the while we had been upon historic ground, but the new
things are so prominent there now, that it was not easy to realize
the fact. The old tree has gone from below Black Eagle falls,
the old tree in which was the eagles' nest from which Lewis and
Clark obtained the name for the cascade. There are dams across
the river at each of these falls now. There are great mechanical
plants with their attendant activities. So it was not until we hit
the trail for Benton that it seemed that we were really on one
of the historic highways of the state.
But even this has changed. The fence of the farmer has
forced wide detours in the old trail and the cabins of the home
steader dot the rolling prairie. There is plowed ground every
where and there are preparations making for the breaking of new
acres this spring. Along this old trail, there will this season wave
the banners of the wheat fields; there will be new laurels won
for Montana farms. Even in the dull grays and browns of
February, the scene is pleasing.
From the Benton trail we turned down to the river again to
visit the Great falls. We didn't know the way nor did our
driver. If we hadn't been just as persistent and determined as
were Lewis and Clark, we would never have seen the Great falls
on that trip. If the doughty old explorers had any more trouble
than we did in finding the falls, they are entitled to more credit
than is usually given them. But we eventually got upon the
right road, after receiving friendly assistance from women at
more than one homestead cabin — the men were all afield. Almost
before we knew it, our automobile turned into the box canyon,
making its way along the fine road that has been dug from the
rock wall. Down to the river bottom we dropped and there we
were, facing the great cataract. It is an impressive sight. Not
long will it be possible to behold it under such circumstances, for
the preparations are already making for the construction of a

262 FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS
mammoth concrete dam which will harness to labor the last of
the falls of the Missouri.
At the falls we were met by Otto Schoenf eldt, himself a
Montana landmark. He showed us about, Elrod took some photo
graphs, we rested a bit and then struck out again for the Benton
trail. Next spring, it will not be possible to obtain such a photo
graph of the falls as Elrod obtained that afternoon. Another
year will find the falls robbed of their freedom, harnessed to
work for man.
Then will the Gibson dream of the utilization of the falls of
the Missouri be fulfilled. The whole line of cascades will in a
year be at work. It knocks the romance out of the falls to some
extent, but it makes the contrast all the more interesting. It is
just the working-out of the scheme of destiny which Paris Gibson
foresaw and it is coming just as he saw it.
Back we rode over the Benton trail. The auto chugged
steadily as we sped down the long, easy grade. Lower sank the
sun until it rested upon the crest of the Rocky mountains, away
to the west. • The sky took on the tints of evening and, ahead of
us, the electric lights began to shine in the dusk which enveloped
the city. One by one, these lights gleamed out through the gray
twilight, outlining the city — once a city of dreams, now a verity
indeed. Over that trail along which we traveled, years ago there had
journeyed the pioneers of a great state. Down that slope had
been transported, slowly and laboriously, the supplies of the new
territory. Hopeful and confident over that trail had marched
the men who made Montana. And around us and before us was
the realization of their hopes, the fulfillment of their expecta
tions. The transformation has been wonderful; there are other
changes ahead, even more remarkable.
There, in the city toward which we were speeding, was the
white-haired man to whom is due more of the credit for these
changes than to any other. Having seen what we had and under
standing what had been before, it was easy for me to accept the
assertion which he had made to me the afternoon before — ' ' Mon
tana will one day be the greatest agricultural state in the Union. ' '
March 2, 1912.

FIGHTING FOR LOGS

AMONG the "first things" of Montana's history which I
mentioned last week as credited to Hell Gate canyon, the
lumber industry had place. It was in the splendid stand
of forest which originally covered the canyon that the first exten
sive commercial lumbering in Montana was done. Back in the
40 's Father Ravalli had built a crude sawmill in the Bitter Root
at St. Mary 'a mission ; there had been another at St. Ignatius ; in
the placer camps or near there, there had been lumbering on a
limited scale to supply the local needs, but the first operations
on a general commercial scale were in the forest of Hell Gate
canyon. It was a splendid forest — that which the pioneers found
all the way down this mountain pass. Its existence was, in a
great measure, responsible for the location of the city of Mis
soula ; the first building here was the old mill and it was built as
close to the timber supply as it was possible to get water power
readily applied. When the completion of the railway afforded a
means for transportation which made the marketing of lumber
practicable and the demand for the local product had become
greater by reason of the rapid development which followed upon
the heels of the railway building era, the men with experience
in lumbering and with eyes to the main chance inaugurated the
attack upon the forest which, in a few years, denuded the canyon
of its timber but which, meanwhile, had founded the industry
which has been such an important factor in the commercial
development of western Montana.
There were many people from the lumber regions of Canada
among the earlier settlers of western Montana ; there were others
from the woods of Wisconsin; there were men who had driven
long teams of oxen in the timber of Maine. It was natural that
the fine stand of pine and fir in Hell Gate canyon should appeal
to these men; it was but a second step that small mills should
appear, here and there, along the Hell Gate trail. Two years
after the Northern Pacific trains began to run through, there
were some important mill settings in Missoula county. There was
so much good timber close at hand that there had not been much
"cruising" up the Blackfoot; it was known in a general way that
263

264 FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS
there was a wonderful body of timber back from the Hell Gate
but it had not become necessary to draw upon this immense
supply. There had been, as was evidenced a few years later,
some quiet scouting in through the backwoods, but at this time
the activity was confined to the canyon and its immediate adja
cent gulches.
The Hammond people, who later organized the Big Blackfoot
company, were operating several small mills in the canyon when
the Northern Pacific came through. They had one mill on the
flat between the present town of Bonner and the mouth of the
Big Blackfoot. They had another setting at Bonita. George Fen
wick was in charge of the Bonner mill; he afterward became
superintendent of the great plant of the Big Blackfoot company
and is now in the management of the Hammond redwood mills in
California. Robert Coombs was boss at the Bonita mill; he is
remembered by all the older residents of western Montana — a
graduate of the woods of New Brunswick, big husky and bluster
ing. Goodhearted he was, however, and loyal to his friends.
The lumbering methods in those days were crude in compari
son with those of the mills of today. The timber was big and
handy ; there were no inspectors to check up stumpage ; the cost
of the raw material was not so great that it was necessary to
employ rigid economy; it was cut and slash. It was a splendid
stand of timber around Bonita. You can see some of the old trees
standing yet; they were not easy to get, perhaps, or somebody
was in a hurry and passed them up. There are some big stumps
there, too, which show where there were trees which the early-
day lumbermen did get. When the Hammond mill was located
at the Bonita setting it was in the midst of some of the finest
timber seen in Montana. There was great logging then.
Gradually the timber close at hand was worked off. It became
necessary to extend the log haul to keep the mill supplied. It
would seem like a short haul now, but when the logs had been
rolled right on the mill skidway from the place where they had
been felled, it seemed a long way to go. But the timber was about
gone on the Bonita flat and Kenneth Ross, in the fall of 1885, was
sent up Cramer gulch to construct a logging camp. The camp
was built and made ready for occupancy. It was intended to use
it the next year. The haul to the Bonita mill was about two and
a half miles from the camp.
"Bill" Thompson — afterward mayor of Butte — was in the
lumber business in Silver Bow county. He wanted some timber
and he, too, had his eye on Cramer gulch. On October 6, 1886,
a gang of fifty French-Canadians under the management of a
man named LaLong and in the employ of Thompson, invaded
Cramer gulch and proceeded to make free with the timber there.
Their double-bitted axes slashed rapidly and they lost no time in

FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS 265
getting them into action. It was good slashing and they made
the most of it. As fast as they could they placed the Thompson
brand upon the logs which they felled and the invasion of the
gulch was accomplishing results that bade fair to spoil the tim
ber reserve of the Hammond mill.
Cramer gulch runs into Hell Gate canyon right at Bonita.
Cramer creek swings around Beavertail hill just as it approaches
the canyon. It is a pretty drive out of Bonita and along the
creek. There is second-growth pine now all along the slopes
which were the scene of the timber war which was inaugurated
by the invasion of Thompson's men and the aspect is altogether
peaceful. There are farms on some of the land which was logged
in those days. There is nothing in the scene to suggest the lively
skirmishing which inaugurated the lumber operations in the
gulch, which is known in local history as the Cramer gulch war.
But it was lively enough for awhile and there are some men
in Missoula and its neighborhood who remember the stirring times
when a man had to keep his eye peeled and his axe sharp ; when
the foremen wore sixshooters at their hips and when a word was
all that was necessary to start a fight. The fight started, as I
have said, with the arrival of Thompson 's French-Canadians. It
was a bloodless war but there was some fighting. There were
reputations made and lost in Cramer gulch.
The Hammond people were just getting ready to log the
gulch when the Thompson crowd arrived. A road had been
graded for the log haul and three men were building a bridge
over a long slough, to connect the camp with the mill, when the
invaders appeared. One of these men was James D. Corbett,
ex-alderman in Missoula now.. He was fresh from Wisconsin that
year and his first impression of Montana was that all the timber
it contained was growing in Cramer gulch and, coupled with that
impression, was the conviction that it must be unusually good
timber, as everybody seemed to be fighting for it.
' ' I was working with a man named Clark on the bridge that
day, ' ' said Mr. Corbett, when I asked him, the other day, for his
recollections of the Cramer gulch war. "Our foreman was Bill
Hurley and we were planking the bridge when the Thompson
crowd came along and went up the gulch. They went up about
as far as the camp that had been built and they began slashing
right away. They were good timbermen, all right, and they got
down to business without any delay. It wasn 't long before Bob
Coombs heard of it and he came up from the mill with a gang to
drive out the Thompson crowd. He came along over the bridge
where we were working. Pretty soon he went back. And the
Thompson crowd stayed. But there were some things which hap
pened between."
After Coombs and his men had gone up the gulch, the three

266 FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS
men at the bridge concluded that there would be something
doing worth seeing. -So they followed up the gulch to see
what happened. The Thompson crowd didn 't take kindly to the
invitation which Coombs gave them' to get out of the gulch ; per
haps it was not courteous enough, but whatever the cause, they
didn't go. On the contrary they showed fight. There were sev
eral hand-to-hand fights over the possession of the logs which the
Thompson men were trying to load. The Frenchmen lost out in
some of these fights but they were raillied by their logging
foreman — "Miles, they called him," said Corbett, "but I don't
remember his other name" — and they just shoved back Coombs
and his men.
Coombs retreated. He was pretty angry and was talking
with a good deal of emphasis. When he got to where Corbett
and Clark had been watching the engagement, he asked them why
they didn't go in and help. "I told him," said Corbett, "that it
seemed to be about man for man as they lined up then and a man
that wanted anything better than that was a poor fighter. ' '
That didn't tend to soothe Coombs any and he jumped down
with his gun in his hand and for the first time in his life the
youngster from Wisconsin looked down the barrel of a Colt's
revolver. Clark grabbed up a peevy and rushed up. "If you
shoot, I'll stick this peevy through you," said he. Coombs then
put up his gun and the Hammond forces retired to headquarters
at Bonita. Hurley, Corbett and Clark went back to their work
on the bridge.
Over in the Rock Creek timber there was a lumberman at
work, a fighting lumberjack named Bill Harris. He had been
having trouble with Thompson and he was ordered to take charge
of the Hammond forces in Cramer gulch. When he went over
to Bonita in the morning he found his gang ready and he also
found orders from Bonner to fire Corbett and Clark ; these orders
said they were tough men and added, ' ' We don 't want that kind
of men." Bill Harris went up the gulch. He stopped at the bridge
and asked if Corbett and Clark were there. They responded.
"Take your axes and come along with me," said he. Then he
asked them what had been the trouble with them the day before.
They told him they were new men from the east and were not
used to being talked to as Coombs had talked to them ; they hadn't
any fight with anybody and didn't propose to take up any fight
that was not their own. They were willing to fight when there
was anything that was up to them ; but they were not going to be
poked around with a gun.
" I '11 not fire them, ' ' was the word that Bill Harris sent back
to headquarters. "They are the kind I want." He then and
there attached Corbett and Clark as his bodyguard and all they

OL LOW ING OLD TRAILS 267

had to do that winter was to follow him through the timber, car
rying their axes and backing him up in his encounters with the
enemy. They followed him up the gulch that morning and they
worked with him all winter.
When Coombs had gone up on his first expedition to chase
the Thompson gang out of the gulch, the Thompson foreman had
offered to fight him or any man in his crowd to decide the owner
ship of the timber in the gulch. When Bill Harris went up to
take up the fight, he asked if that offer held good. He said he
would fight any one in the Thompson crowd, the winner to have
the right to the timber. Then he said he would fight any two of
them; later he declared he would fight three of them if there
were three who would face him. But his challenge scared them
and there was no acceptance of its terms.
Harris had a reputation which helped him. He was known
as a fighter and he had worsted the Thompson fellows in the
fight over the Rock creek timber, so they didn't feel like tackling
him. It would be interesting to know what Bill Harris would
have done, had his challenge been accepted. He was a good bluf
fer and he would have made it stick some way.
The war developed into a bushwacking contest after that.
It was a case of get all the logs possible and get them fast. As
soon as a tree was felled, it was branded either with the Ham
mond or the Thompson brand and, theoretically became the prop
erty of the outfit which had branded it. But sometimes the
theory didn 't work. Bill Harris and his two companions, Corbett
and Clark, would come upon a gang of the Thompson crowd, load
ing logs. The Frenchmen would put their peeveys on it to roll
it up the skids. Harris would knock off the peeveys. The oppo
sition foreman would replace the peeveys and tell his men to
"roll her up. " Clark was a combative chap and he would say to
Harris, "Tear his head off."
Perhaps there would be some shoving ; maybe there would be
a blow or two struck. All sorts of tricks were played. Chains
were loosened and loads dumped. It became a contest of petty
annoyances. ' ' In the mixup of some of these fights, ' ' says Cor
bett, "I have seen excited men try to cut log chains with their
axes. They would act like crazy men."
All through that period Bob Coombs and Bill 0 'Connell of
the Bonita force would make trips up the gulch, each wearing a
big gun on his hip. It used to make the men laugh. As far as
known these guns were never drawn except on that first day
when Coombs sought to make Corbett fight. The real fighting
was done by Harris. He had a good equipment and he was get
ting two logs to Thompson's one. The Hammond logs were not
cut up ; the trees were merely trimmed where they fell and loaded

268 FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS
on trucks to be taken down to the yard at the mouth of the gulch,
where they were cut into saw lengths.
But the conditions were becoming critical. The men were
getting nervous under the strain ; they didn 't want to fight over
something which seemed to them little worth a battle, but they
had esprit du corps sufficient to make them loyal to the interests
with which their employment had allied them and there was like
lihood that the mixups which were becoming more and more fre
quent would precipitate something serious. At headquarters,
there were, fortunately, wiser heads and a compromise was
reached by which each outfit was to get out what logs it could
and to be undisturbed.
"We let them use all our roads, and we used theirs," says
Corbett, "and that is the way we logged Cramer gulch. Our
plank bridge was not included in the agreement, however, and no
Thompson team was allowed to drive over that. They had to
build a road away around that slough. That made it harder for
them." The Hammond forces had also the advantage of better teams.
The horses were all big and active, while the Thompson teams
were all inferior. And the Hammond men always felt that they
were just a little, at least, the better men with axe and peevy.
They logged fast, anyway, and there were few gulches in Mon
tana which were stripped of their timber faster than was Cramer
gulch that winter.
"There were many funny things about that winter's log
ging, ' ' said Mr. Corbett the other day as he reviewed the experi
ence. "It was my first Montana job and it was all so new that I
remembered about all of it. Coombs and 0 'Connell wore guns
on their hips all winter, even after the truce was declared, and
Bob never did forgive me for refusing to mix in a fight that was
nothing to me. Though we were logging under agreement there
were plenty of little annoyances all through the season. If there
was a chance to put something in the other fellow's way, we
didn't overlook it, but there was no more fighting heat after the
first scrap. Clark was really sorry, I think, when the chance for
fighting was passed up. Bill Harris kept us two as a bodyguard
all winter, even after the agreement was made. He was taking
no chances after he had run the bluff about fighting three of
their best men for the right to log the gulch. Sometimes we would
have arguments, Bill Harris doing all the talking for our side,
and then Clark would always say, ' Tear into him, Bill. ' ' '
Now the timber is all cut in Cramer gulch and there is
another growth of pine, half a generation old, on the slopes where
the logging war was fought. The edge of the forest has been
forced back until it is a long haul from forest to mill. The primi
tive little sawmills that cut the canyon forest have yielded place

FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS 269
to the great, modern plants, central in location, to which logs are
hauled by steam over roads of steel. Millions of feet of lumber
are turned out now where thousands were then. The lumber
industry has become one of the mainstays of western Montana.
There is no more slashing timber ; the government reserves eon-
tain much of the forest now — carefully conserved, and the rest
is held in private ownership. The logs cost more than they did
in those days, though the logging methods are more scientific
and more economical ; but there is a stumpage price now or else
the standing timber has been bought at something beside the
bargain-sale figures of those days. Section lines are more rigid
now than they were years ago ; there are instances where they
stretched a good deal when the loggers got to work. Things have
changed in every department of the lumber business. It is a far
cry back to the Cramer gulch war, but that engagement was one
of the "first things" to be credited to Hell Gate canyon.
February 3, 1912.

HOW THE GRANITE MOUNTAIN
WAS FOUND

UP GRANITE MOUNTAIN from Philipsburg leads one of
the most interesting of Montana's old trails. It is a quiet-
enough trail now. One may travel up and down from
Philipsburg to the town of Granite at the mountain's top and
back again and not meet a soul. But time was when this was a
busy highway. It was teeming with life its entire length. Great
teams strained up the long grade, laden with supplies for the
thousands of people whose home was in the picturesque town,
whose buildings found resting places between the great boulders
of granite or else upon shelves whieh were dug out of the moun
tain side — people whose living depended upon the great silver
mines of the mountain, the most wonderful producers of the
white metal ever known. Passenger conveyances moved more
rapidly up and down the wonderful old mountain, moved over
what was probably the finest mountain road in the whole west —
a veritable boulevard for smoothness and constructed upon a
grade which \was as easy as possible when the altitudes of its
terminals are considered.
It was an experience never to be forgotten, to travel the old
Granite-Mountain road in those days. It was thoroughly busy,
every foot of it, and it was busy for nearly every one of the
twenty-four hours which made up the day ; sometimes the folks
wished for more hours ; it seemed impossible to crowd into the
allotted number the amount of business which had to be done.
Along the trail ran the cable line, whose suspended cars trans
ported the silver ore from the wonderful mines on the mountain
to the mills at the base of the great, old hill. Ceaseless was the
movement of the endless line of cars and down below the great
stamps beat incessantly upon the stream of ore which poured
beneath them, hammering out the wealth which the rock con
tained. It was the greatest silver camp on earth.
Maybe there have been livelier towns somewhere, than were
these two — Philipsburg and Granite — at the ends of the Granite
mountain trail in the days when silver was a monetary metal.
Maybe there have, but if there have been, their names and loca-
270

FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS 271
tions are not a matter of record. It would be a difficult matter
to convince anybody who saw these camps in those days that
there could be any town livelier. There was no night in either
town. The day was 24 hours long. Every hour was busy and
the lights made the midnight season as bright as midday. But
there was little disorder; the folks were all too busy.
Of necessity, a trail which connected two such towns as these
would, itself, be busy. And the road up the mountain fulfilled
the law of probability to a nicety. It was a mighty industrious
thoroughfare. The demonetization of silver sapped the life blood
of the great industry which made these towns what they were.
Almost within the span of a single day, these camps were trans
formed from hives of industry into deserted villages. It was one
of the interesting experiences of my life that I was present dur
ing the exodus of the miners from Granite mountain; it was a
memorable event. There were not vehicles enough to transport
those who wished to ride down the mountain and many of them
walked ; trunks were piled high upon great hayracks and shipped
down to the railway station; there were tears in a good many
eyes, for Granite's people loved their town. But it is not my
purpose to describe further or to discuss at all the dropping of
the curtain upon the activities of Granite mountain. This is to
be a story of the man who made Granite mountain famous, and
who, incidentally, made a whole bunch of millionaires.
When the history of Montana is written, there should be a
long chapter given to the story of Charles D. McLure. He took
many millions out of Montana ground. A large portion of this
wealth went to make the famous St. Louis group of millionaires.
Mr. McLure retained some of it. A vast slice of it went back
into the development of the state 's mining industry and there are
many mills among the Montana Rockies which are monuments to
the courage of this remarkable man, many hoists which are testi
monials to his daring. When he was confident that there was ore
to be found, he never hesitated a minute to risk his all to find it.
In the face of discouragement, he became the bolder and more
determined. The harder he had to fight, the better he fought.
And it stands today as his record that he was almost invariably
right. He was right because he did not form his opinion offhand.
When he made inquiry it was searching. He investigated thor
oughly; he approached his problem from all angles. When he
had completed his study, he knew what he was about and he
either rejected the proposition or adopted it. When he had
adopted and approved a property, he knew no rest until he had
demonstrated by development the correctness of his theory re
garding it. Obstacles which would have dismayed an ordinary
man, he brushed aside as if they were nothing. He had his goal

272 FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS
set and he worked straight toward it. He did not drive blindly
at it, but he worked intelligently and effectively ; he planned his
campaign and he followed his plan through thick and thin.
Charles D. McLure was not born to the mining business, but
he was born to the frontier, and of a race of frontiersmen. It
was in Carrolton, Mo., that he first saw the light. The year of
his birth was 1844. For two generations his forbears had been
in the vanguard of the westward advance ; their names are promi
nent in the records of more than one state and always they figure
with distinction. They were pioneers of pioneers, inured to
hardship, trained to advance, drilled never to retreat. Born of
this fighting blood and in an era of knight-errantry, it is not to
be wondered at that the year 1860 found a sixteen-year-old boy
working with freighting outfit through Nebraska to Denver, and
that the name of that boy was McLure.
By inheritance fearless, by instinct adventurous, by training
a dead shot, and by inclination a fighter — young McLure, by
these traits and by his sterling honesty, soon won the
complete confidence of his employers and, while yet but a lad in
his teens, he was assigned to many confidential and perilous mis
sions. One of these was the driving of a herd of cattle from
Denver to Montana, the route being over trails dimly blazed and
through the Sioux-infested valley of the Platte. Swimming diffi
cult streams, fighting at times against great odds, inspiring his
men always with his own indomitable spirit — the youngster
accomplished the remarkable feat of arriving at his destination
without the loss of a man or an animal.
Five years of this experience found McLure with an accumu
lation sufficient to enable him to have a freighting outfit of his
own. In 1865 he was in the transportation business between
Salt Lake and the new camps of Montana. He was successful,
but he was not satisfied. Freighting did not seem to him to be
the right way to make money. The lure of the placers seized
upon him and he joined in the quest for gold. Selling his freight
ing outfit, his first mining venture was in old Confederate gulch ;
this was followed by digressions into fields of lesser renown and
attended by varying success. His rich streaks were not more
infrequent than those of the average placer miner, but the pur
suit impressed him as too uncertain and he turned his attention
to quartz mining. He associated himself with two uncles, the
Parkinsons, and the later 60 's found the partners established in
the Union ville district, above Helena, where McLure located one
particularly valuable lode, an extension of the Whitlach Union.
But it was haphazard work and unsatisfactory to McLure.
He was soon convinced that success in quartz mining depended
upon a thorough knowledge of geology and metallurgy and, hav
ing reached this conclusion, he proceeded with characteristic

FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS 273

energy to equip himself for the pursuit which was to become his
life work, and in which he was destined to achieve conspicuous
success. He went back to Missouri and studied, studied with all
the energy of which he was capable and with such effect that he
was able, when he returned to Montana, to take charge of 'the;
old Centennial mill in Butte. il; ;
The year 1877 found McLure in Philipsburg, already a! min
ing town of fame, where he assumed direction of the famous old
Hope mill. Here in this wonderful old property; McLure'found
the field for which he was born ; here was the place which he was1
predestined to occupy ; here was the wealth — yet hidden-Lwhieh
he was fore-ordained to uncover and give to the world. For this,
his years of preparation had fitted him, all unconsciously to him
self, but when the emergency rose he was able to meet it and
when the opportunity came he grasped it with the grip of a win
ner. For this very situation he had learned how to meet sudden
contingencies; for this, he had learned to handle meU; for this,
he had gained experience in smoking out hidden foes ; for this he
had studied the flow of streams, the nature of rocks, the char
acter of ores and the details of the extraction of metals. Life on
the plains, on the trail, in the mountains and among the mines
had fitted him admirably; he was prepared in the best school
of all, the school of experience.
This is not a mining treatise or I might tell — if I could— of
the changes he made in the Hope mill, which increased its
efficiency and marked McLure as a remarkable metallurgist. The
Hope mill is the oldest reduction plant in Montana. Its story is
a tale in itself. For years and years its stamps have pounded,
pounded, pounded — when all else was silent at the foot of Granite
mountain ; for years it has produced its wealth of metal when all
other sources in the district failed; always the Hope has made
good its name and has kept alive the confidence of the Philips
burg people, whom I regard as the pluckiest lot of folks in Mon
tana. It is a remarkable mine, the Hope, and its mill is a won
derful institution. It has produced a vast amount of wealth in
the long years of its almost uninterrupted operation and it has
graduated some remarkable men — but none greater, none entitled
to higher place in the esteem of Montana, than Charles D.
McLure. He took up the improvement of the Hope mill just as he
¦ took up everything else — with a determination to win. It was
while he was winning with the Hope that his attention was
directed to the Granite mine, then a mere prospect in the for
bidding granite region overlooking the Flint creek valley. McLure
had been looking over the country, but with characteristic con
servatism, had said nothing. He had learned a lot. All of the
mining in the district had been in the secondary formation ; after

274 FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS
a year of study, McLure prospected away from this into the
older rock. That prospecting made the Granite Mountain mine.
Dr. Josiah M. Merrill was the assayer at the Hope. He soon
acquired a respect for the new superintendent; it was he who
first directed the attention of McLure to the prospect on the hill.
Merrill was one of the owners of the Granite Mountain location.
It was not a promising prospect. The outcrop was large, but
there was nothing to indicate anything more than low-grade
mineral. The country, itself, was forbidding. Rugged, precip
itous, crowded with huge boulders, supporting no vegetation but
its clothing of lodgepole pine — there was little to tempt the miner
or to invite the prospector. There had been a short tunnel and a
fifty-foot winze driven; this represented all the work that had
been done on the property. None of the owners had much confi
dence in the prospect.
Illustrative of the estimation in which it was held, I was
told, the other day, of an interesting circumstance connected with
the early history of Granite Mountain mine. The fifty-foot winze
referred to had been sunk by contract; the contractor was to'
receive a quarter interest in the property for his work. When
he had finished, Holland, one of the locators, measured the winze
and found it one foot short ; applying for the stock, which was
to be his payment, the contractor was told to finish the job.
Rather than sink that other foot, he let the whole thing go by
default. Thus lightly he threw over his shoulder a quarter inter
est in the greatest silver mine the world has ever known. It would
be interesting to know just how he felt a few years later.
In his prospecting on the surface, McLure picked up a bit
of float. He put it in his pocket and took it home for assay. The
next day he asked for a bond on the property. This was in 1880.
There were three owners— Merrill, Holland and Estell. The
bond was given for $40,000 ; Holland and Estell would not take
stock in payment; Merrill accepted stock merely because he
feared the deal would not go through if he refused. It is said
by those who are in a position to know, that the owners would
have accepted much less than the figure agreed upon. But
McLure was not a bickerer ; he either accepted or rejected and
the development of the great Granite Mountain was begun.
It was a vast undertaking. It must be remembered that the
Northern Pacific had not yet pushed its way through Hell Gate
canyon, at the foot of Flint creek. The location was remote and
inaccessible. Capital was shy of quartz-mine investment. Dollars
were not easily coaxed for mine development in Montana. But
McLure got together enough to start the work. Miners began the
attack upon the great ledge on the summit of the divide. It was
hard mining ; steadily the capital dwindled, but McLure was posi
tive, and his confidence was unshaken, though the hoped-for

FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS 275
results seemed as far away as when the work was started. But
he knew that, somewhere ahead in that solid granite mass there
was rich ore. He was determined to find it. And the miners
drilled on and on.
But even the infectious confidence of McLure had its limits
as a persuasive influence, and there came a day when there was
no more money available or in prospect. McLure counted up and
found that he had just enough to pay the men for that shift. This
did not mean with him that the work would be abandoned, but it
looked dark, and it seemed certain that the development would be
postponed. There was discouragement, but no dismay; the ore
was there ; he knew it ; it was just a question of getting funds to
reach it.
There had been no values discovered in the work that had
been done. It was the last shift, but the miners worked doggedly
on. Through the day there had been no change in the conditions
underground. The last shot was tamped home, the fuse was
lighted and the miners prepared to leave the work which they had
pushed so persistently under the determined driving of the man
at the head of the work. That last shot was fired. It threw
bonanza ore upon the muckers' planks. The Granite Mountain
was discovered and Charles D. McLure became in that moment
one of the greatest mining men of his time.
From that evening in 1880 until now the great Granite
Mountain fissure has steadily yielded its wealth of the white
metal into the markets of the world. It has made millionaires of
the backers of the plucky, persistent man who grimly and gamely
fought against odds to uncover the bonanza which made Granite
Mountain a household word. The mine developed under scientific
management into a model of underground development ; a shaft
more than one thousand eight hundred feet deep is entered at the
one thousand foot level by a tunnel three miles long. The great
ore body has shown no sign of exhaustion ; in its miles of levels
the great mine yet holds vast bodies of workable ore. The low
price of silver caused the cessation of operations at the mine;
water fills its depths to the height of the drainage tunnel. Some
day the market may warrant the resumption of work here.
But always the Granite Mountain and the marvelous wealth
it produced will remain as a monument to the man who found it
in the face of difficulties. He, through his keen insight, con
tributed to the wealth of Montana more than $25,000,000. His
whole record is constructive ; he has risked more than any other
mining man in Montana, but it has been no haphazard risk; it
has been the venture of the far-seeing man, of the man who
knows. Montana owes much to Charles D. McLure, who first
saw her soil as a freighter and who became one of her greatest
men. March 9, 1912.

Father Ravalli

HOW THE BLACK ROBES CAME

ONE OF the mural paintings which will decorate the new
state capitol is to bear the title, ' ' The Quest for Truth. ' '
Over in the interesting studio of Artist E. S. Paxson the
other day, I watched the progress which his wonderfully clever
hand is making with this great picture. The theme and the
inspiration of the work which the strong brush of Paxson is evolv
ing are found in the earnest and persistent endeavor of the Bitter
Root Indians to reach St. Louis with a message to the Black
Robes, asking them to come across the great mountains and to
bring to these people the Message of the Cross. Some inkling
these Indians had had of the religion of the white man and they
wanted to know more of it ; they desired the truth.
The Paxson picture shows a trail through the woods, along
which are traveling the messengers from the Bitter Root on their
way to the east, where they hoped to deliver to the Black Robes
the petition of their people, asking for a priest to tell them the
Story of the Living God. It is an impressive scene which Mr.
Paxson is depicting. It seems to me he has caught the very
spirit of that wonderful journey. There is the same expression
upon each of the stern faces — an expression which tells the ear
nestness of their purpose and the sincerity of the longing which
prompted the journey. As I watched the artist work, the whole
story came back to me. It is a tale which has been told many
times, but it is a story ever new and to me it is the most remark
able chapter in the history of Montana's earliest days.
Back in the seventeenth century, French missionaries had
labored among the Indians along the St. Lawrence river. Some
of their names have been preserved and one of these is the name
of Father Ignace Jogues, whose work had been among the Cana
dian Iroquois. This great priest was successful among this peo
ple and his name was revered by them; he gave his life to his
cause, but his example lingered and it was from his converts that
the message of the Gospel first came to the Flathead Indians in
their ancestral home in the Bitter Root.
So careful a student of history as Father Palladino has been
able to find no direct purpose for the emigration, but it is an
277

278 FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS
established fact that a band of these St. Lawrence Iroquois jour
neyed westward to the Rocky mountains earlier than 1820. The
leader of this band was Ignace La Mousse, who is known in the
history of the Flatheads as Big Ignace — in recognition of his
remarkable physical prowess — or as Old Ignace — in tribute to his
marked morality. These wandering Iroquois came, in the course
of their journeying, to the Bitter Root valley, where they were
hospitably received. The beauty of the valley and the gentleness
of its people impressed Big Ignace and his companions so favor
ably that they made their place their journey's end. They mar
ried there and were adopted into the tribe.
It was through the recital of Big Ignace that the Flatheads
first learned of the Black Robes and of the religion of the Cross.
He taught his new people much of the Catholic religion, which
the Iroquois had known for two centuries, and explained some
thing of its rites and its doctrines. It is said that Ignace taught
his new people the Lord's Prayer; we know that he taught them
the sign of The Cross and others of the practices of the church.
He found ready listeners among the gentle Flatheads, who
learned from him the observance of Sunday and who, under his
instruction, placed rude crosses to mark the burial places of their
dead. Naturally, the Flatheads wanted to know more of this. won
derful religion of the white man; they readily agreed with the
suggestion of Ignace that it would be good if they could induce
the Black Robes to come and teach them. They learned from him
that in a great city, far down the big water, there were men of
the Black Robes and if they could reach these men, there would
be teachers sent to the valley to instruct them. It was a bold
undertaking — the distance was great and the trail was unknown,
for the greater part of its length. The way led through the val
leys of hostile tribes and there were unknown dangers all along
the route. But the Flatheads were fearless and they were earnest in
their desire to know the new religion. Volunteers were found for
the mission and four Indians set out for St. Louis in 1831. That
these brave seekers for the truth made the journey successfully
we know, for the records at the cathedral of St. Louis show that
two of them, who had been baptized as Narcisse and Paul, died
while waiting in the great city and were buried there. The
names of their companions are not known, nor is there any
knowledge of what became of them. They did not reach their
home again and were probably killed by hostiles on the back
trail. They were successful in finding Explorer Clark, who had
passed through their valley years before, but there was nobody
who could translate their dialect and they were unable to make
known their desires and the wish of the people who had sent

FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS 279
them. It was years afterward that the Jesuits became acquainted
with the mission of the brave men.
In 1835, Insula, known as Little Chief, led a party of Flat-
heads through hostile lands, fighting all the way, to Green river
in Wyoming, where it had been rumored missionaries might be
found. This delegation met the Whitman party but was dissap-
pointed, the records say, in not finding the Black Robes and
would not treat with the Protestant missionaries. Insula led his
warriors back to the Bitter Root.
Late in the summer of 1835, after the return of Insula, Big
Ignace himself offered to take to the Black Robes the message
of the Flatheads. He started with the intention of going back
to his old home in Canada, but learning of the easier way to St.
Louis, he went there with his boys. He had a journey fraught
with privation and danger, but he and the lads escaped them
all and, after much suffering, reached St. Louis late in the fall.
His sons were baptized and Ignace presented to the bishop the
plea of the Flatheads. Receiving assurance that a priest would
be sent as soon as possible, Ignace turned his face westward and
happily started for the home valley. He and the boys reached
the mountains safely.
There was joy among the Flatheads whieh was succeeded by
disappointment when two years passed and no Black Robes came.
Impatient, Ignace offered again to make the journey to St. Louis.
He was joined by three Flatheads and one Nez Perce. They fell
in, on the east side, with a party of whites and with them traveled
safely until they reached the South Platte in the Sioux country,
where they were attacked. The Sioux made prisoners of the
whites, that they might not interfere in the fight, and offered
Ignace the privilege of a non-combatant, but the brave Iroquois
chose to cast his lot with his friends and lined up with them for
the fierce combat which ensued. There were three hundred of
the Sioux, but the five reds from the Bitter Root fought desper
ately and before they were all killed, there had been fifteen
Sioux sent across the great divide. Thus perished Ignace, the
instrument of Providence who delivered to the Flatheads their
first knowledge of the Cross. And thus failed the fourth expedi
tion. The news of the death of their braves finally reached the
Bitter Root Indians at their home. There was much mourning
and the great council was assembled. The Flatheads were deter
mined and undismayed; in council they resolved to dispatch
other messengers. Two younger Iroquois volunteered — they only
could make themselves understood among the whites. These were
Left-Handed Peter and Young Ignace. They left the Bitter Root
in the summer of 1839 and, associating themselves with some
Hudson Bay men, went down the river in canoes and were sue-

Photograph by McKay.

Arrival of Father Ravalli at St. Mary's

.Painting by Paxson.

FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS 281

eessful in presenting the case of the Flatheads to the bishop once
more. Peter and Igance made a strong impression at the Jesuit col
lege; they could speak French and the priests hung upon their
words, intensely interested. The Indians told the long story of
the quest for the truth which the Flatheads had so bravely and
patiently prosecuted; they told of the other expeditions and of
the disappointment of the Indians that no priest had come to
them. They won their cause. The promise was given that a
priest would be sent in the spring. It was arranged that Peter
should return at once to his people with the good news, while
Ignace should wait to guide the priest who would be sent in the
spring. The priest who volunteered for the work among the Flat-
heads was Peter De Smet, whose name is now revered in Mon
tana. It was first proposed to send two priests, but it was found
that the funds were insufficient and the young Jesuit bravely
set forth alone. April 5, 1840, Father De Smet and Ignace start
ed for Montana's mountains. At almost that same date Left-
Handed Peter arrived at the camp of the Flatheads on Eight
Mile creek in the Bitter Root, with the news that a Black Robe
was coming. He had made the journey from St. Louis in safety
and his people received him with joy. Receiving his information,
the Flatheads decided to send a party to meet the Black Robe,
and ten picked warriors were detailed to go forward, while the
tribe would follow and make camp for the reception of the man
of God. Father De Smet and Ignace traveled safely in company with
a fur-trading party as far as Green river, where they found the
ten Flathead warriors waiting for them. At once, the young
priest bade farewell to his traveling companions and, joining his
new friends, prepared for the journey to the shining mountains.
The day was Sunday, July 5, when Father De Smet was greeted
by the Flatheads. There was, of course, no traveling that day,
but the priest held a service before a motley congregation of
Indians, hunters and freighters. An altar was erected upon a
knoll and was covered with boughs and flowers. Before this
Father De Smet said mass.
The next morning the northward march was begun. Up the
Green river valley into the lava region in Idaho, through narrow
defiles and over the secondary divide to the headwaters of the
Snake river, Young Ignace led the priest and there in the valley
that is called Pierre Hole, Father De Smet was amazed to find
the main body of the Flatheads, who had traveled 300 miles to
meet him. Detached bands of Nez Perces, Kalispells and Pend
d'Oreilles had joined the Flatheads with the result that there

282 FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS
were more than 1,500 Indians in the great camp upon which the
travelers came all unexpectedly.
Father De Smet was deeply stirred by his reception. His
entrance into the camp was a triumphal ovation. Men, women
and children were demonstrative in their welcome. It was the
hour for which the tribe had waited for many years ; it was the
man whom they had yearned for nearly a generation, the Black
Robe. All sought to touch his hand he was led in triumph to
the tepee of the chief, whose formal welcome was stately and
royal in his dignity. The chief, Big Face, offered to resign his
temporal authority to the Black Robe whose coming had been so
earnestly desired and whose arrival was so sincerely welcome.
Embarrassed, the young priest explained the purpose of his
mission — he had come to teach, not to rule. There was a brief
conference, at which hours were appointed for services, when the
Indians should assemble for prayers and instruction. One of the
chiefs, who had heard from Big Ignace the story of the manner
of worship, presented the priest with a little bell, with which
to summon to prayer, and was overjoyed when the gift was
accepted. That evening the bell tinkled its call and before the lodge of
the priest there gathered nearly two thousand Indians to recite
prayers in common. The prayer concluded, the Indians — to the
complete surprise of the priest — burst forth in a hymn of praise
of their own composition. Triumphant it rang, the song of praise
of these thankful children of nature, and the priest was com
pletely captivated.
So came the Gospel to the Flatheads. Thus did they receive
the Black Robe who had bravely come forth to deliver to them
the Marvelous Message. Long had these simple children of the
wilderness waited for the day ; devoutly had they hoped for the
new light in which they had groped so patiently and so hope
fully. For this day they had faced death and danger, unflinch
ingly; for this they had risked the lives of their bravest young
men ; for this their good and brave friend, Big Ignace, had sacri
ficed his life. It was the supreme hour and they were filled with
happiness. Camp was soon moved up to what we now call Henry 's lake.
After a sojourn of a few days at the lake, the Indians moved
again and their next stop was on the Beaverhead river, where —
near the mouth of the Big Hole basin — was held the first formal
religious service in Montana, There was another camp in the
Big Hole and then a change over the mountains to a point near
the Three Forks of the Missouri. All this time Father DeSmet
carried on his work of instruction ; they were busy, happy days
for him. Until August 27, when he parted with the main body of the

FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS 283
tribe in the Gallatin valley, Father DeSmet remained constantly
with the Flatheads. Bidding them goodbye, he. started back to
St. Louis through the Yellowstone country, to prepare for his
return to live permanently with the Indians. Through the hos
tile buffalo country he journeyed, receiving homage from the
Blackfeet, and he reached St. Louis late in December. His report
was received with enthusiasm and he kindled amongst all his
associates a desire to join him in the work that was planned that
winter. In the spring of ]841, Father DeSmet started back to the
mountains. With him were two zealous young priests, Father
Mengarini and Father Point. Three lay brothers accompanied
the priest, Joseph Specht, Charles Huet and William Claessens,
all earnest for the work ahead. They had as guide a squawman
named John Gray; their drivers were two Canadians and an
Irishman. Their outfit consisted of saddle horses, pack animals
and four carts and one wagon, drawn by oxen. These were the
first wheeled vehicles to be brought to Montana.
The journey was without untoward incident and ten lodges
of Flatheads were found at the rendezvous which had been agreed
upon in the Wind river country. In the party which met the
priests were friends of Father DeSmet. Gabriel Prudhomme, an
adopted halfbreed who had been the priest 's interpreter the year
before; Charles and Francis, the sons of Big Ignace who had
been baptized in St. Louis ; Young Ignace, who had been the
father's guide on the first trip ; Simon, the oldest man in the
tribe, whom Father DeSmet had baptized the year previous.
These were the first to greet the party.
The Flatheads were on their annual hunting trip ; from the
main camp fresh horses were obtained and their provisions were
replenished. It was decided that the Indians should finish their
hunt and that they should meet the priests in their home valley
at its conclusion. It was August 30 when Father DeSmet reached
the main camp of the hunters and the reunion was joyous.
While the Indians hunted, the missionaries journeyed
slowly, coming up the Beaverhead, over the low divide and into
the Deer Lodge valley. The route lay down the Hell Gate can
yon to where Missoula now stands and thence up the Bitter Root
valley to a point near the present site of Stevensville. The jour
ney's end was reached September 24.
Father DeSmet named the place St. Mary 's and this was the
name bestowed upon the mission which was formally established
the following month, when the Flatheads had returned from their
hunt. Here was the first white settlement in Montana ; here was
the first permanent human habitation builded in this great state.
And the first settlers were men of God. Few commonwealths
have had such an auspicious beginning.

284 FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS
On the first Sunday in October, 1841, St. Mary's mission
was formally inaugurated. A large cross of logs had been pre
pared by the fathers and the lay brothers and this was raised in
the center of the beautiful valley which was the ancestral home
of the Indians whose persuasion had led the priests there. With
the raising of the cross, the foundations were laid for the mis
sion buildings. There was an exultant religious service, in which
priests and people joined with equal fervor. Above, the snowclad
peak of St. Mary 's pointed heavenward ; the blue sky was the
dome of the cathedral in which this mass was sung and that moun
tain grand was the pinnacle of the spire. Never was there more
inspiring setting for scene like this. It was the dawn of civiliza
tion in this region and the Cross was in the vanguard of the vast
procession which was to follow in the peopling of this land.
It is easy to imagine the ecstacy which thrilled the souls of
those fervent young priests. In all Montana there is no other spot
which I like more to visit than the place where St. Mary's mis
sion stands. Such a visit is an inspiration. The place is hal
lowed by wonderful memories. The simple mission has become
hemmed in, now, by the busy workaday world, but it is yet there
with its message of peace and righteousness, and the blue sky
arches as gloriously above as it did upon that fair October day;
the fields stretch away as beautiful as they were then ; the won
derful river flows as blue and clear as then; the peak of St.
Mary's points ever heavenward as faithfully as it did of yore.
And, hallowing and sanctifying all, is the memory of the good
men who established the mission, who first blazed the trail to
Montana — and of the good men who came after, especially that
good man Father Anthony Ravalli whose life closed amid these
loved scenes and whose last resting place is marked by the simple
shaft of white marble which rises back of the little chapel which
he builded, in which he labored for the good of mankind and
within whose walls he finally lay down and passed into his long
sleep. It is hallowed ground.
March 16, 1912.

THE CASE OF JOE SARISH

IF EVER you go to Philipsburg, do not fail to meet Joe Sarish.
By all means you should go to Philipsburg, for your acquain
tance with Montana is not complete if you have not seen this
remarkable town. Your visit will be interesting and instructive,
whether you meet Joe Sarish or not, but it will be made memor
able if you do meet him and hear him tell some of the stories
which make up the chapters of a life-history which teems with
thrilling events.
Joe Sarish is 83 years old now. Of the eighty-three years of
his life, fifty-five have been spent in the west and forty of them
in Granite county. He came west from his native home on the
Atlantic coast in 1855 and ever since then he has been of the west
a part. Teamster and miner, pony-express rider and Indian fighter,
he fought and worked to make clear and safe the way to the
northwest. Few men have passed through a greater variety of
experiences, few have survived greater danger, few have come
unscathed through such grave perils.
And now, in the sunset days of his long and eventful life,
Joe Sarish is the guest of Granite county. He does not regard
it as a humiliation that he is a county charge. Rather, he con
siders he paid his taxes for all the years of his activity. ' ' Some
times it was only a road tax," he says, "but I never missed pay
ing that. Always I paid my tax, whatever it was, and the county
is now responsible for me."
Thus philosophically does Joe Sarish discuss the situation.
Just as calmly does he talk about it as if he were a millionaire,
talking about his investments. As long as he was able, he paid his
share of the expense of maintaining the county. That was his
provision against a rainy day. Now the rainy day has come, he
does not hesitate to demand what he regards as his right.
In all Granite county, I believe, there is no man, woman or
child who begrudges Joe Sarish the living which he claims and
receives from the common fund. The old man comes and goes at
will; he drops in, here and there, and chats with his friends;
his round of visits is always pleasant; there is ever a kind word
285

286 FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS
for him. His tobacco and his bit of whisky are provided by old-
time friends; he is kept decently clothed; there is none of his
material wants which is not satisfied ; he lives as comfortably as
if he had found the rich lead for which he prospected so many
years : he is well off as if the pot of gold had been found at the
end of the trail which he so bravely blazed that others might fol
low in safety and in comfort.
But Joe Sarish is about the only one who regards his situa
tion in this easy light. It seems to me — and I believe the opinion
is pretty generally shared — that the case of Joe Sarish is another
of the instances which reflects seriously upon the fame of Mon
tana ; it is a blot upon the scutcheon of the state that there should
be even one of her pioneers, living in a poorhouse, a county
charge. Joe Sarish is not the only one and there are some of the
others who rebel bitterly against the unkind fate which has placed
them where they are. It is not creditable to this great state that
any trailblazer should be dependent upon local charity for exist
ence. Montana should have a pioneers ' home.
But little recks Joe Sarish of the ethics of his case. He lives
among friends ; he moves amid the scenes which have been his
familiar environment for almost half a century ; he receives from
his home community the support which he made sure of, years
ago, when he was strong and vigorous and paid his tax for the
support of those who were less fortunate than he. It is the most
natural thing in the world that the generation which has come
after his time should take care of him. His philosophy is won
derfully sound, it seems to me. He holds his head as high and he
looks you as squarely in the eye as if he had a bank account. He
is independent. There is none of the suffering and anguish which
would come to a more sensitive soul, thus destitute as life's sun
sets. It is fortunate that it is so — fortunate for Joe Sarish and
fortunate for the state. He accepts as his just due the living
which is doled out to him and the state is spared the bitter
reproaches which would be heaped upon her head were there any
rancor in the heart of Joe Sarish.
Joe Sarish is alert, despite his more than 80 years. His head
is carried erect and his eye is bright. A white beard is about all
there is in his makeup to suggest the years which he bears. A
couple of years ago it became necessary to amputate Joe Sarish's
leg just below the knee — some trouble with the bone was the cause.
Twice since there have been further amputations and he has but
a stump left. Each time Joe Sarish has refused to have any
anesthetic and the surgeons have used merely local applications.
The man who had faced all the dangers of the frontier and who
had escaped the perils of trail and battle, that man was not
frightened by the steel of the surgeon.
Joe Sarish was born in New Jersey in 1829. There were not

FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS 287
many thrillers in New Jersey in those days. He lived the unevent
ful life of the eastern youth, on the sand flats of his native state,
until he was 25 years old. That was in 1854. The California
gold fever was at its height then and Joe Sarish was inoculated.
In March, 1854, Joe Sarish turned his back upon New Jersey
and started for the gold mines of the Pacific coast. He was at
fever heat ; the lure of the mines had seized him and his inborn
instinct had manifested itself ; he knew — as every true prospector
knows — that his treasure was waiting for him and he had but to
travel to the sunset coast to obtain it.
"I goes horseback across the country to Saint Joe," says Joe
Sarish when you ask him how it all happened. He takes it all as
a matter of fact and he does not see why anybody should have
special interest in what he did all those years ago. He is not elo
quent — words do not come easily to him when he is trying to tell
something. It is only when he talks unconsciously that he really
tells what you want to know.
Once, Joe Sarish 's friend, Frank Brown, got the old man to
write the story of his life for the files of the pioneers' society.
Joe's story, as he wrote it, is told in less than 500 words. It is
brief. But Joe Sarish says it tells the whole story. Five fierce
battles with Indians are described in five short lines. But that's
the whole thing — so Joe Sarish says.
When he talks about it and doesn 't stop to think that you are
learning something from him — then you get some idea of what
Joe Sarish has passed through. Then you are glad that Montana
is taking some sort of care of this old man, even if it is but the
care which she gives to the common pauper.
' ' I goes horseback across the country to Saint Joe, ' ' says the
old man. From the Jersey coast to St. Joseph, even now, is a long
jaunt. It is a ride halfway across the continent. To the average
Atlantic-coast native, it is a journey to be long planned and to
be undertaken with considerable trepidation. If it is such a trip
now, what was it then? Now the journey is merely a matter of
buying a railway ticket and getting aboard a train. In 1854, it
was a journey of many days. Joe Sarish made the journey on
horseback. He met many people and he had many adventures.
But none of- the latter were serious and all the people he met
treated him kindly.
Jogging along, down the Ohio valley and across the great
basin of the Mississippi, the young argonaut made his way to the
Missouri city which was then the outfitting point for the far west.
He says there was nothing in the trip to St. Joe that is worth talk
ing about. He just rode it on horseback — that's all.
He just did it — that 's all. Such is the story of nearly every
one of the army of pioneers. To them there is nothing of glory
in the deeds which they performed. The work was cut out for

288 FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS
them and they did it. They never reckoned the obstacles and
they never counted the dangers. The work was there and it had
to be done. They had been placed there to do it. So they did it.
And they can see no reason for making any fuss about that.
When Joe Sarish got to St. Joe, he wasted no time in getting
busy. ' ' I drove team outen there for Limston, Holiday & Com
pany, to Salt Lake, arriving there in June, 1855."
Joe Sarish was in the real west. There was so much doing,
right at hand, that he never' had time to make the journey to the
coast. He was thoroughly occupied with other things and he
knew his pot of gold would wait. There would be time enough,
later, to look for it. So for five years he drove team for the
Limston outfit.
These were the years of the Mormon massacres. Joe Sarish' s
memories of the years he drove team out of Salt Lake dwell large
ly with these deplorable incidents. The persecution of the non-
Mormons made a deep impression upon him. Of all the events of
these years that one which is pleasantest in the recollection of
the old pioneer, he describes as follows :
' ' In 1857 I had charge of a mule train for Limston & Holiday
and went to Fort Laramie on the Platte for supplies. While we
were at Laramie, Johnson's army came by on the road to Salt
Lake to regulate the Mormons. This outfit went into camp near
Fort Bridger, at a place they called Camp Scott. The following
spring they went into Salt Lake and the Mormons quit their
killing — or didn 't do quite so much of it after that. ' '
It was while he was trainmaster for the Limston outfit that
Joe Sarish had his first important Indian fight. This was while
he was on one of his eastward trips for supplies. At Sandy, east
of Green river, his train was attacked by Crows. Joe Sarish
held his train together and he and his men stood off the Indians
in a day-long fight. Some of his animals were killed and there
were injuries to some of his men. But the Indians were forced
to retreat and Joe Sarish, having work to do, did it.
One other Indian fight he had in those years, which he
remembers well. It was with the Bannacks and occurred at Point
of Rocks. This threatened to be serious ; but the Indians found
they were against experienced plainsmen and after a sharp
encounter, in which the reds showed their bravery and revealed
the fact that they were well equipped, the freighters succeeded
in getting the field clear and the Bannacks withdrew to the hills.
There was warning in this attack — warning that the Ban
nacks were ugly. Joe Sarish gave the warning and urged that
the trail be protected for the emigrants. But, as was too fre
quently the case, the military disregarded the advice of the man
who knew and took no action. Just a month later a large emi
grant train was attacked by the Bannacks at the same place.

FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS 289
Nearly 200 were killed. Only 40 of the large party succeeded in
fighting their way through the reds and in getting to Salt Lake
with word of the disaster. All of the women and children were
either killed by the Indians or else were victims of exposure and
hardship. Then, and not till then, the Johnson headquarters got busy.
A detachment of troops was dispatched from Salt Lake on the
trail of the hostiles. When the pursuit was ended the Bannack
tribe was almost exterminated. The massacre at Point of Rocks
was avenged and the troops were accorded much praise. But the
same action might have been taken in time to prevent the mas
sacre, had the advice of Sarish been heeded. There are scores of
similar instances in the history of the settlement of the west. It
was a long time before the military learned to trust the plains
men and the mountaineers, who knew the west and knew its
Indians. So passed the five years until 1860. Ben Holiday had organ
ized the famous pony express and was picking out his riders. The
history of the pony express has been written so often that it is
well known. In all the story of the west there is nothing more
thrilling than the experiences of the men who rode this famous
courier service. They were horsemen, riders, fighters, daredevils
and, always, loyal to the core.
Holiday knew what he required and he was a good judge of
men. It is not strange that one of the men he chose was Joe
Sarish. For five years Joe Sarish had been in service ; he knew
the country; he was a horseman and he had proved that he was
a fighter. Holiday called him and he very promptly accepted
the call. Thus it happened that the first dispatches which were taken
west from Salt Lake were borne by Joe Sarish. He rode from
Echo canyon, west to Bear river, a distance of 40 miles. If you
know the Utah country, you know what a beautiful ride that
must have been. But Joe Sarish doesn't remember whether it
was a pleasant trip or not — he says it was hard riding. He wore
out a good many horses and he wore himself pretty hard, but he
pulled through. He rode as all the men rode in the pony express
— rode to get there. There was no sparing man or horse in that
dash. The relays were short ; all that was in a horse was pumped
out of him in the mad spurt and when the man had ridden his
last relay, he was thoroughly spent.
Just gristle and nerve were those riders. Joe Sarish was one
of the best of them, which means that his gristle was a bit harder
and his nerve a bit stronger than the average of this picked lot
of men. For three years he endured the grind. Back and forth
over that racecourse he rode like the wind. Forty miles west and
forty miles east and then back again. We think the man who

290 FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS
rides a trained galloper over a smooth course is a wonderful
rider. What must we say of the men who were the riders in that
great race against time?
In 1863, summer, Joe Sarish left the road and turned north
ward to resume the quest for gold which he had undertaken nine
years before. From Fort Bridger he came to Bannack and there
he began his mining experience. He had been a long time reach
ing the land of pay gravel and when he found it, the location was
not that for which he had started when he left his Jersey home.
But he had found the place where gold was. That was what he
had started to find.
From that summer until the wear and tear of life compelled
him to desist, Joe Sarish mined. Always, just ahead, was the
treasure. And there was Joe Sarish, always on its trail. His con
fidence never weakened; he dug and washed on many bars;
always he was certain that he was near his goal; just there, he
was sure to find the foot of the rainbow.
From Bannack to Stapleton 's bar ; then to Alder ; from there
to Bivens gulch ; thence to Ophir gulch and to McKay. Then he
drifted to Pioneer; there and at Cataract and Henderson he
mined forty years. Here in the gravel of Granite county he
worked with the habitual hope of the lifelong prospector. Each
year found his hope stronger and his inspiration keener. For had
he not worked just so much nearer to the goal which was cer
tainly his.
In these years he made money— lots of it. There were bright
colors in his pan many times. But he cared not for the sums he
wrested from the gravel in this course ; they were all insignificant
beside that great treasure which he knew was yet to be his.
And he mined on and on. As long as his strength lasted, he
wrought with the pick and the pan which had been his compan
ions for so many years. And, ever, just ahead, was that treasure
which he had seen in his vision as he left his Jersey home, years
before most of us were born.
He never found the pot of gold. But let us not say that he
found no treasure. For Joe Sarish made many friends, whose
loyalty is now his sustaining source; they stay with him 'and as
long as he has them, he has something dearer than gold. And he
will always have them.
And Joe Sarish found contentment. He looks back over his
years of activity and he knows he gave to the world the best there
was in him. He never faltered when duty called ; he never sought
to evade responsibility. And, as he gave to the world all he had
to give — gave it unhesitatingly and without grudging the gift of
service— so now the world owes it to him to see that he is com
fortable. I would feel sorry for Joe Sarish if I thought he wanted

FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS 291
sympathy or if he needed it. I don't believe he does. I am
rather inclined to the belief that he is to be envied. I know of
no man who is more thoroughly contented than he. I know of
no man who feels more completely independent than does he,
dependent though he is upon public bounty. He is a philosopher
and his philosophy is of the sunshiny sort. He is an epicurean
in a modest kind of way.
But I do feel that the case of Joe Sarish should appeal
to the state of Montana to the extent that she make some pro
vision for the proper care of her pioneers.
April 27, 1912.

A Lost Pilgrim — Painting by Paxson.

A LOST PILGRIM

IN HIS studio in Missoula, these days, E. S. Paxson is paint
ing the historical pictures which are to be his contribution to
the decoration of the new state capitol. He is working stead
ily and his heart is in his work. Mr. Paxson has studied Mon
tana history carefully; he has learned Montana geography in
many years of travel — horseback and afoot — over her mountains
and valleys ; his brush has depicted many scenes which have pre
served historic incidents which otherwise might have been for
gotten ; he is splendidly equipped for the performance of the
work which has been assigned to him as one of the Montana dec
orators of the Montana capitol.
Mr. Paxson knows the intimate history of the state well —
that history which has been overlooked to a great extent by the
men and women who have written of the making of Montana,
because it was common and every-day history. In his riding
and tramping through Montana, he has picked up a wonderful
lot of information. He has old sketches and photographs whicii
are of inestimable value to the student of Montana history. He
has a fund of stories which are delightfully interesting to one
who likes to know the little things which early Montanans did as
well as the big things and how they lived as well as how they
fought — there is delight in sitting in the Paxson studio and listen
ing to his comment as he paints.
There are a good many incidents of importance in which
Mr. Paxson has had personal part. He doesn't say much about
them if he thinks one is taking notes, but when his brush travels
over the canvas before him, he is likely to become reminiscent. It
was in such a mood that I found him the other day. He told me
two or three mighty good stories. Back in the seventies Mr. Pax
son lived in "Deer Lodge City on Cottonwood" and he harks
back to those days when his thoughts turn reminiscently toward
history. Mr. Paxson was painting a mountain trail as I watched him
the other day. It was a real trail and, as I watched him develop
the details of the path over the hill, I knew that he was picturing
a trail which he had traveled, somewhere and sometime, so per-
293

294 FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS
fectly was it fitting into the scene. Nobody could paint a trail
like that who had not traveled through Montana hills. Now and
then he nodded, as he recalled some new detail of the old path
and placed it in the picture.
"All trails look alike to the man who doesn't know the moun
tains, ' ' observed the artist at length, ' ' but when a man is used to
them, the trails are as distinct in their individuality as are the
streets of a city to the man who is bred in town. It is not easy to
get lost in the hills if you know the hills, themselves. But the
tenderfoot who seeks to acquaint himself with a trail before he
has general knowledge of the mountains — he is pretty sure to lose
his bearings. There were lots of fellows lost in the placer stam
pedes and later just because they didn't know the mountains,
even in a general way. And the tenderfoot is usually the most
cock-sure fellow in the world until he has had his experience. It
takes the school of experience to teach a fellow the ways of the
hills. He can't learn them from the telling and he can't learn
them from a map."
Back in 1878, Colonel Paxson lived in Deer Lodge. In the
fall of that year, he was visited by a brother, Everett, and a
friend, Carroll Smith, right from the east. In November, 1878,
the colonel and his tenderfoot guests started on a hunting trip.
They were going to spend several weeks in the North Boulder
country. They had an experience which Paxson told me, by
way of illustrating the ways of a tenderfoot on the trail. A
young friend of mine, who is also a friend of Mr. Paxson 's, heard
the story and was interested. She asked if she might not write it
for me and I willingly consented. Here is the story as Colonel
Paxson and Miss Kettlewell have prepared it :

The party kept in the valley, following the Deer Lodge
stream, for some time ; then branched off across the bench land ;
and at nightfall made their camp on Oro Fino creek, a small
stream tributary to the Deer Lodge. Next morning they broke
camp and pushed on to the northeast; by noon they had
reached the first slopes of Dog Creek divide, a range of hills
some 20 or 30 miles from Deer Lodge. Here, on the south side
of the ridge, they made a temporary camp and looked about for
signs of game. In the old snow which had drifted into the
gulches the previous winter, they found a promising num
ber of signs of bear, elk and deer. The three hunters felt cer
tain of success and with high expectations crossed the divide.
Late in the afternoon they came to the Dry Powder Horn, which
empties into the North Boulder. Here, in a cold, drizzly rain,
they established what proved to be their permanent camp, though
their intentions then were to remain here but a day or two and
then work on up to the head of Boulder.

FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS 295
Leaving his brother and Smith to finish making camp and
to prepare supper, E. S. Paxson started down the gulch to the
mouth of the creek, a half-mile distant. He was anxious to look
around a little down there to see what the prospects were for big
game. Before he left camp he warned his companions :
"You boys better not come down," he said, "but if you do,
don't go beyond the mouth of the creek. You'd probably go
back up the wrong gulch and get lost."
Having reached the foot of the gulch where Dry Powder
Horn flows into Boulder, he discovered that just below, the
larger stream overflowed into a large meadow, where alder trees
and willows grew thickly and where beaver dams were numerous.
He skirted this meadow, making a circle of perhaps three-quar
ters of a mile, and noting on his way three or four other small
streams flowing down gulches, which were replicas of the one in
which the camp was situated. Before he had completed the
circuit and come again to the mouth of the creek, the rain had
turned to snow and the air was growing unpleasantly chill. By
the time he had returned to camp it was snowing fast and the
temperature had dropped. He found his brother turning savory
strips of bacon which were sizzling in a long-handled pan over
the fire. Everett had heard someone coming but had not
looked up.
Well, Carroll, I'm glad you're back," he said. "Somehow
1 had a feeling you ought not to go down there alone. ' '
What, isn't Carroll here? Where 'd he go? Down to the
creek ?
"Oh! That's you, Edgar. Yes, he went just a little after
you. I wish he 'd come. I 'm getting mighty uneasy about him. ' '
"Oh, he'll get back all right. Did you tell him to be
careful?" ' ' Told him the same 's you did when you left, and added that
he'd better remember he was only a 'pilgrim' and didn't know
enough about mountains to run loose in them yet."
In silence the two brothers waited Smith 's return. Neither
wished to show his anxiety. Everett finished cooking the meal;
his brother began to putter with the saddles, making minor,
unnecessary repairs. Finally they ate alone. They would not
admit that they thought anything was wrong. For more than
two hours they sat by the camp fire; it was now so cold that a
cup of water a few feet from the blaze would freeze.
"Everett, Carrol's lost. He's gone down there and seen
tracks and followed them until dark and, then he 's turned around
and come up the first gulch he found. No telling where he
is now." "I'm afraid of it. I'm going to take my Winchester down
to the mouth and signal him. ' '

296 FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS
Everett rose and walked quickly down the gulch. While
his brother was gone, Mr. Paxson cut brush and heaped it upon
the fire and gathered wood for the night's supply. Then he
found a gigantic dead pine back of the camp and kindled that
for a guiding light for the lost man. There was enough pitch in
the tree and enough wind blowing to create an immense blaze.
The flames leaped higher and higher till it seemed that they must
illumine the whole sky. The heat melted the snow for a hundred
feet around the base of the tree. Surely Smith would see that
and would make his way to camp.
Mr. Paxson waited now for his brother's coming. Almost an
hour passed and he did not return. Thoroughly alarmed' now
lest both of them should be lost, he seized his rifle and ran to the
top of the ridge east of the camp. He fired once and waited;
way off to the left came a faint answering report. He fired three
or four more shots at intervals of 15 minutes and each time the
answering shot grew louder until Everett was within hailing
distance. When he had reached the camp fire again he threw himself
down on the ground and said weakly. "Well, I'll never leave
this camp again alone. I did the very thing Carroll has done. ' '
"Well, we'd better sleep now. Let's fix the fire and turn
in. We'll look for Carroll in the morning," suggested Mr.
Paxson. By morning there was over a foot of snow on the ground
and more was falling. The horses were pawing through the snow
uneasily, in search for their breakfast. As soon as it was day
light the two men started out on horseback to search systemati
cally for Carroll. They rode in great circles, up stream, and
down stream, or across stream ; they climbed ridges and descend
ed into gullies ; all day they huned but not one trace of the miss
ing man could they discover. By nightfall the snow upon the
ground had risen to a level two feet. The horses could no longer
paw through it to obtain their food. It was evident that the two
men were helpless to search farther.
"Everett, we've got to go to Deer Lodge to get help, and
feed for the horses. We'll have to start as soon as it's light."
Accordingly, the brothers started back, on the fourth day,
across the long stretch of country between the Boulder and Deer
Lodge, on which not a trail was visible, across which there was not
a thing to guide them save E. S. Paxson 's instinct for direction.
They were in a wilderness of snow. Every mountain path had
long since been choked up ; the bench lands stretched for miles
and miles trackless and barren wastes, perched here and there by
the tops of tall pines and sturdy tamaracks; elevated now and
again by low, rolling hills; and unmarked, across all that vast
expanse, by the roof of any human being's dwelling.

FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS 297
It was dark before the two riders came out upon the bench,
overlooking Deer Lodge, where Montana college now stands.
From this point they could see the little settlement lying muffled
and silent, with scarce any signs of life save the faint lights
which gleamed from its windows and the sparks which shot up
into the darkness from its chimneys. But these signs were
enough to warm the hearts and reanimate the almost frozen bod
ies of the two men, for they meant that here at least were help
and warmth, and food, and shelter from the bitter cold.
"Thank God, we're going to make it," said E. S. Paxson.
"Yes, it looks that way," responded his brother with a sigh
of intense weariness.
The hardships of their ride had been fearful ; but it was not
of themselves that they were thinking as they slipped numbly
from their horses in front of the Scott House and stumbled into
the light and warmth of the low-ceiled, smoke-filled room where
15 or 20 men were lounging and discussing the present disagree
able condition of the weather.
' ' Smith 's lost ! ' ' The laconic announcement brought every
man to his feet at once. They crowded about the two snow-cov
ered men and tried to drag from them their story. The older
settlers, especially the genial, jovial "master of the inn," Sam
Scott, Avere inclined to show no great anxiety over the matter,
assuring the men that Smith had undoubtedly got out of the
hills and was quite safe. The others, however, were unf eignedly
alarmed and eagerly agreed to go and help search for him.
Mr. Paxson and his brother were utterly exhausted from
lack of sleep and worry, and retired as soon as they had eaten
supper and ordered their provisions to be packed for the return
trip. The next morning, the snow was still falling and of the
eight or ten men who had volunteered their help, not one was
willing to start back with them. Not that they didn't want to
find Smith, they said, but it would be useless; he'd be dead if
they did find him; they'd probably all perish themselves.
Their arguments availed nothing. The horses were standing
saddled and packed in front of the hotel. E. S. Paxson left the
group and mounted his horse.
"Boys, I'm going," he said.
His brother followed.
"I'm going, too."
' ' Hold on there, f ellows ! You musn 't go alone. I '11 go with
you." Nat Evans, one of the bravest and most respected young
men in the Deer Lodge valley, had volunteered.
"Well, boys, if I had a horse I'd go, too."
This was Burt Hawley, another fine, sturdy, young settler.
Tom Stewart offered him his ; and thus the searching party was
made up. The four men were well supplied with food and ammu-

298 FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS
nition and carried as many oats as they could crowd into the
pack or hang in bags upon their saddles.
At 8 o 'clock they were ready. They started, these four, with
no interest and no motive but to save a comrade's life. For
some miles they rode in silence; they were smothered in snow;
the great flakes were falling thick around them ; the tracks made
by their horses the night before had been entirely filled up. The
futileness of their attempt came to Evans forcefully. He voiced
his misgivings. "Edgar, do you really believe you can make your way back
to that camp?"
"I got out of there yesterday, all right. I guess I can get
back." That night they camped on Oro Fino. It was frightfully
cold, but they found one or two places where their horses could
feed. Early the next morning they started on and crossed the
Dog Creek divide. When they had almost reached their camp,
they began to smell smoke. The Paxsons declared that they had
put the fire out before they left and, at any rate, the snow would
have done so soon if they had failed to. There could be but one
solution ; there was but one thought in the minds of all of them.
It was that Smith was there.
They descended into the gulch of the Dry Powder Horn and
rode joyfully into what had been their camp. But they found no
camp fire, no trace of human being. Instead they found a fire
smouldering in the grass under the snow. Their hearts sank
like lead. But they were brave men, so they set to work. They
built a corral for the horses in a grove of cottonwoods. They
made their own camp, and for three days, from early morning
until late at night they searched. They went in every direction
for miles, with unfailing energy and dauntless resolution.
But it had been eight days now since Carroll had disap
peared. They knew no man could live more than seven without
food. It was evident that their search had been in vain. Their
dear comrade had died and they had been unable to rescue him.
That last morning dawned clear and beautiful on the Dog Creek
hills. The snow clouds had risen and the sun was shining now
on the rounded hill tops and glistening in the valleys. The four
men started back toward Deer Lodge, a mournful band; and
that afternoon they crossed the ridge and came in sight of Deer
Lodge valley. For a second time Edgar and Everett Paxson
crossed the dreary stretch of snow , which now, with the bright
sun upon it, would not have been called dreary had it not been
for the sadness in their hearts. As the party went down the
south slope of Dog creek, their passing scared up a large bunch
of antelope upon the left. But the animals were safe, perhaps
one or two were shot at, but the men had had hunt enough. Fur-

FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS 299
ther on, they saw five or six large elk herded together, and once,
as they passed a clump of pines, there was a flash of yellow, a
blinding sheet of snow and a mountain lion had jumped out
almost under the leading horse's feet. There was a hound with
the hunters and he gave chase and treed the lion, but the animal
jumped and landed in the snow thirty feet from the tree and
disappeared. Then they came to Deer Lodge ; it was again night, but the
stars were shining and there was bustle and activity in the little
town. The four made their way slowly and sadly to the Scott
House, but here they were greeted by the smiling, joyful crowd
of men. Smith, the lost man, was within, alive !
Yes, he was alive, but that was all. When his four com
rades went into the room where he lay weak and demented by
his cruel experience, he failed to recognize them. For three
weeks he lay in a semi-conscious state ; Mr. Paxson and his brother
took turns at nursing him, but he did not know either of them;
he did not even know what had happened. In his delirium he
talked only of "snow — snow — snow — the squirrel — the camp —
and snow. ' ' But gradually his strength returned ; his mind grew
clear; he was able to get up and go about his work as before.
Then he told them his experiences.
He had done the very thing that Mr. Paxson had surmised.
When he reached the mouth of the creek he went a short distance
to the west, following the Boulder stream. He saw deer tracks
in the fresh snow. He followed them. Fascinated, unheeding,
he passed three gulches. It was growing dark, but still he kept
on, his gun held in readiness, for every instant he expected to
come upon the deer. Suddenly he stopped, for the first time
he realized that darkness would be upon him before he could get
back to camp. His eyes followed the tracks longingly as far as
they could be seen in the gathering dusk ; then at last he turned.
Then ensued an experience never to be forgotten.
Smith was in the wrong gulch. It was some time before he
realized it, but finally he understood. Strange landmarks made
it certain. He couldn't lose these queer crags and cliffs. He
fled from them only to find himself before them again in a short
time. He was lost. He sank down limply upon a log. Snow was
falling in great, white flakes, obscuring everything. He fired
his rifle and listened for a response. Again, again; no answer
ing shot. Another, and this time he fancied he heard a response.
Madly he rushed through the storm only to learn that his imagi
nation had played him false.
That night he managed to build a fire which kept him alive.
The next day he resumed his wandering, half crazed with fear,
night bringing him back to the ashes of his fire. That night he

300 FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS
was startled by the sound of a rifle shot and he hastened in the
direction from which it seemed to come. In his flight he fell
into a beaver dam and, thoroughly chilled, he had to go back to
his fire. Through the night he half dozed. Daylight found him
almost dead with exhaustion and yielding to torpor whieh he
knew would be fatal.
He was freezing to death. His solitude was broken by the
incessant scolding of a pine squirrel. The little creature had
come out from his hole to investigate this new world of snow.
He had run along the ground under the log and there he had
found something he had never seen before — something that didn't
belong there. He began to scold. Then he barked. The man
stirred, opened his eyes and looked around crossly to see what
was disturbing his rest. He wanted to sleep. When Smith
moved, the squirrel fled and all was quiet again. The man fell
asleep almost instantly and would never have wakened had it
not been for the squirrel, who again came out of his hole and
began to chatter more persistently than before. Smith awak
ened. He was indignant. He spied the squirrel and reached
quickly for his gun. "I'll bet I'll fix that thing so it won't
bother me," he muttered. He shot and the little creature
dropped upon the snow. Smith rose and mechanically picked it
up. He held it in his hand. He was sorry he had. killed it.
Then, like a flash came the thought into his numb conscious
ness : ' ' This is food. I can eat it. ' '
Like a cannibal, he tore the tiny body into pieces and, like
a cannibal, ate the warm flesh. Then he felt thirsty, so he went
slowly to the creek at the foot of the gulch and stooped to drink.
The food had revived him ; he could think and feel more clearly
now; and as he stood there, a possible means of saving himself
dawned upon him.
"You fool," he said to himself, "follow the creek. It will
take you somewhere out of these hills. ' '
So he staggered into the creek and on and on, as though
in a dream. He was no longer weary; he didn't know he was
lost ; it was not his own will but nature that was compelling him
to go on. He stopped frequently to rest and once, as he sat
upon the bank, he saw a mink in the water's edge and stopped
to watch it for half an hour with childlike intensity of interest.
But as he had thought, the stream would take him some
where ; so he came out at least sixty miles from the camp on the
Dry Powder Horn, to the place where they had been building a
stage station on the route between Dillon and Helena. Here
were one or two cabins, the first signs of civilization Smith had
seen since he left Deer Lodge nine days before.
With his last ounce of strength he plowed through the snow
to the nearest cabin, opened the door and stumbled in, begging

FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS 301
for food. The settler's wife was alone in the cabin at the time.
For an instant she was terror-stricken. Smith was wild-eyed
and haggard, his blue flannel blouse was torn almost to shreds,
and the soles of his shoes were worn quite away. Then she imme
diately guessed that this was Smith, the lost man, who had
been reported in the valley; she prepared for him some simple,
nourishing food. She knew she dared not give him all he craved.
He devoured what was set before him and was wild for more.
He would have fought for more had not the woman's husband
and a companion come into the cabin at that moment. They
grabbed Smith and with unnatural energy he struggled with
them for a few minutes. Then he collapsed. They tried to
. question him ; he could tell them nothing. He did not remem
ber his name and declared, over and over again : ' ' No, I 'm not
lost. I'm hungry."
The settlers cared for him tenderly and the next morning
took him on the stage back to Deer Lodge, where a few hours
later the friends who had given him up for dead, found him.

This is the story as Mr. Paxson told it and his young friend
wrote it. It is a story which is of the every-day life of the
pioneer and on that account valuable. Of the principals of the
tale, all but one are yet in active life in Montana. Mr. Paxson
lives among admiring and appreciative neighbors in Missoula.
His brother died in 1905. Carroll Smith is high in the service
of the Anaconda Copper Mining company. Bert Hawley is a
prominent farmer in the Bitter Root.
April 7, 1912.

HISTORIC TRAILBLAZING

THERE lies on my desk, as I write, a letter which is old
but which has preserved through 30 years its interest and
which, viewed in this long perspective, seems even more
impressive, probably, than it did when it was received in Mis
soula in the spring of 1883. It is a letter written by the man
who made the first exploration of the western Montana moun
tain passes to ascertain the feasibility of railway construction
which should unite Puget sound with St. Paul — Lieutenant
Mullan. The letter was written after the retirement of this renowned
trailblazer. He had an office in Washington at the time and
the communication was addressed to F. L. Worden, the founder
of Missoula, and one of the comrades of Lieutenant Mullan dur
ing the years he spent in this region. The letter was, primarily,
a business communication, but it contains paragraphs which are
historically interesting.
"You say," writes Lieutenant — then Captain — Mullan,
' ' when the N. P. R. R. is completed, to give you a call. I expect
to do so.
"You say: 'Just to think that 20-odd years ago, you and I
were struggling through Hell Gate canyon, never dreaming of
making the trip in Pullman sleepers.' Now, my dear sir, per
mit me to say that, if there was ever any conviction firmly
lodged in my mind, it was the conviction that the day was com
ing when a line of Pullman sleepers would cross down through
Hell Gate canyon. With me it was more than a dream — it was
a conviction. It was for that purpose that our surveys were
made and our wagon-road construction was conceived and, under
my direction, were executed and, while there were plenty of
persons who, 25 or 30 years ago, conceived that I had a mania
on wagon roads and railroads, yet I thought I could see in the
distance, coursing across the plains from Minnesota to Oregon,
by the northern route, through the Mullan pass and down the
Hell Gate canyon, this same line of Pullman sleepers, making an
overland trip from St. Paul to the Columbia in five days, so
that now, when we are on the eve of realizing the benefits of
302

FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS 303
this overland construction, you can well imagine that my heart
wells up with gladness at seeing realized one of the fondest
germs of my life and fulfillment of so many years of hard and
patient toil in the mountains, where I was so largely a pioneer,
30 years ago.
"I watch constantly the developments in your section of
Montana, because there is no strip of the continent to which I am
more wedded than the strip which includes the Rocky mountains
of Montana, particularly the Bitter Root valley, my home in
'53-4, and your town of Missoula, where time and again I have
camped with not a house within 100 miles and where I crossed
the Hell Gate river in '54 amidst circumstances that vividly call
to mind the dangers and disasters attending my little party
while crossing the swollen stream during the June and July
freshets of '54.
"When I took hold of the celebrated land case of the settlers
in the Bitter Root valley against the N. P. R. R. Co., in which
I succeeded in wresting from said company that entire valley
and dedicating it to the permanent homes of the settlers then
residing therein, it is no want of modesty in me to say that I
threw into said case my whole spirit and zeal, because of the
attachment I had for the early pioneers in that valley, which is
the gem of the mountains.
"I look forward to the completion of this road at the end
of the next six months, and if it is not impossible at that time,
I shall visit your section of the country on a flying trip to the
Pacific, and, if not then, at some future time when it will suit
my convenience and my business."
When I started to copy these paragraphs, I intended to
reproduce only the first two, as they deal with the blazing of
the trail which Mullan explored and established, but the rest of
the letter seemed to me so characteristic of the writer, as I pic
tured him from the descriptions which I have had from those
who were his intimates and from what I know of his work in
this region, that I have given them all.
Missoula and the Bitter Root country have and always
should have a lively local interest in Lieutenant Mullan. Dur
ing all the years of his exploration and in the subsequent con
struction period, he made his headquarters in this region. His
first permanent winter camp was Cantonment Stevens, located
near where Corvallis now stands. From there he conducted his
reconnaissances to ascertain the depth of the snowfall on the
mountain passes and his observation of altitudes. His construc
tion camps were located all the way along the river between Mis
soula and the summit of the Coeur d'Alene pass.
It is the testimony of those who knew Lieutenant Mullan
intimately, confirmed by the deliberate judgment of Governor

304 FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS
Stevens, and borne out by the accuracy of the reports which he
made, that he was an indefatigable worker, a conscientious zealot
and an inspiring enthusiast. The second paragraph of his let
ter, which I have quoted, substantiates this verdict ; it shows the
earnestness of the man and reveals the sincerity of his purpose.
The first trail which the Stevens explorers were shown by
the Indians was that whicii led from the Bitter Root up the
Blackfoot, across the Cadotte pass, to Fort Benton. This was the
Indian trail to the buffalo country ; it was the route which the
red men recommended to the pioneers in the quest of a way
across the mountains. It was the natural way, perhaps, but it
did not suit Lieutenant Mullan. He felt certain that there was
an easier crossing of the divide and he looked about until he
found it. And so we have the Mullan pass.
It was in 1853 that the Stevens expedition made its first
trip through this region. Its purpose was two-fold. The explo
ration was expected to develop a northern transcontinental route
and Governor Stevens was laying the foundations for the treaties
with the Indian tribes which would make the construction as
peaceable as possible. The second expedition entered Montana
from the west, two years later, and it was crowned with com
plete success; we have seen how satisfactorialy Governor Ste
vens dealt with the Indian tribes on both sides of the range.
Upon Lieutenant Mullan developed the responsibility of the
exploration of the region which is now western Montana. He
explored every Indian trail he could find; he took observations
and made careful measurements ; he studied the Indians, the ani
mals, the vegetation, the water supply — there was nothing which
was overlooked which could. in any way contribute to the useful
information regarding the proposed railway route.
Western Montana owes much to the devoted service of this
man. The whole west is his debtor, but that obligation seems to
me to rest more heavily upon our neighborhood than upon any
other section. He was one of our people.

INDEX TO FOLLOWING OLD TRAILS

Page.
Alexander, Chief of the Pend
d'Oreilles ... 79
Allen, Jemmy . . 250
Anderson, Reece . . 235
Armintinger, Francois . 32
Bannack, Montana . . 177
Barrett, Martin . 137-142
Barrett, Mrs. Alice Cook . 174

Barrette, Louis

. 36, 43

Bass, D. C. .

19

Benetsee .

. 235

Big Canoe, Chief .

80

Big Hole Basin

61

Big Hole, Battle of the

211

Big Sam

. 151

Bitter Root Valley .

20

Blackfeet Indians .

.71, 97

Blackfoot Valley

. 97-102

Blodgett, Joe .

66

Bolte, P. J. . 132, 133,

242, 250

Bozeman, J. M.

. 237

Bradley, Joe .

. Ill

Bradley, Lieutenant

. 234

Brooks, Henry

244, 246

Buckhous, Henry .

. 132

Buford. J. W. .

. 162

Burr, E. H.

. 236

Canistrelli, Rev.

89

Garrington, General

88, 89, 91, 92, 9S

, 95, 214

Carter, Alex . 30,

133, 251

Catlin, J. B. . 66

, 209-216

Cedar Creek .

41

Chariot, Chief of the

Flatheads 83-90,

222, 223

Chase, H. M. .

. 122

Chatfield, J. .

. 136

Chinn, Bill .

. 145

Christmas, Montana's

first

187-194

Coeur d'Alene

158-164

Conrad, W. G.

. 141

Cook, Alice E. (Mrs.

M.

Barrett)

175-178

Cook, William

. 134

Coombs, Robert

. 264

Cooper, Johnny 133,

251, 253

Page.
Corbett, J. D. . . . 265
Coriacan Defile . . 27-33
Coues, Dr. Elliott . . 17
Cox .... 189
Craft, Matt . . .134
Cramer Gulch . . 264, 265
Crow .... 134
Crutchfield, Charles M. . 17-19
Cumming, Alfred . . 105
Cunningham, Dick . 144
Daly, Marcus ... 17
Davis, Martin . . . 144
De Smet, Father .
. 28, 63, 123, 159, 234, 281
Demmons, Jeff . . 100
Dinsmore, Sam . . 20
Doney, Major Bill Doranl34-136
Doty . . 106, 107
Dutch John . . 139
Eddv. Dr. 39-51
Edmunds, Senator . 168-175
Elliott Familv . . 222
Estell .... 274
Estes, Mr. S. . . . 176
Eugenie . . . . 64, 65
Evans, Nat . . . 297
Fenwick, George . . 264
Fischer, Mrs. . . 218
Flathead Indians 61, 71, 77, 278
Fort Fizzle . 57
Fort Owen ... 57
Fort Skeedaddle . . 57
Fort Skalkaho . . 57
Frenchtown . . . 22-26
Gibbon, General . . 61
Gibbon Pass . . . 61-63
Gibson, Paris . . . 257
Gold, Discovery of . . 233
Gold Creek . 165, 233
Granite Mountain Mine . ' 270
Grant, Captain . 132. 235
Grass Vallev . .23, 24
Grassi, Father . 135
Graves. Bill . . . 254
Great Falls . 257-262
Grover, Steve . 212, 217

INDEX {continued')

Page.
Hammond, .Lumber Co-. . 264
Hamilton . . 17
Harris, Bill . . . 266
Hauser, S. T. . . . 237
Hawley, Burt . . 297
Hellgate, Town of .
. . 23, 70, 71, 225, 242
Hereford, Robert . . 235
Higgins, C. P.
70, 100, 102, 135, 160
Higgins, W. B. S. 132, 244
Hoecken, Father . 81, 159
Holland . . .274
Hollensteiner. Ranch . 58
Hurley, Bill . . 265
Ignace, Big . . 278, 279
Ignace, Young . 280, 281
Iliff, D. C. . . 125-128
Insula, Chief of Flatheads 279
Irvine, Tom . . . 143
Jocko . . 132
Jocko Valley 87
Joseph, Chief of the Nez
Perces . . . 57-60, 160
Etching, Bob . 36
Klingensmith, O. A. 50
Koriaka . . . . 29, 31
Lewis and Clark Expedition
. . . . . 61
Lumphrey, Mary . . 93
Lyons, Billy . 144
MacArthur, Neil . . 29
McDonald, Angus . 132
McDonald, Duncan .
152, 153, 167-179
McLaughlin . 271-275
McLure, C. P. . 271-275
McMillan, Factor . 189
Madison, Bill . . . 235
Maginnis, Major . . 87
Maginnis Gulch Stampede 143
Marion, Gen. Joseph 24
Martin, Emanuel . 66
Meininger, Jim . 144
Mengarini, Father . 283
Merrill, Josiah M. 274
Michel, Chief of the
Kootenais . . 79
Michel Revais 84

Page.
Miller, Joaquin, quoted . 235
Missoula, Origin of the Name 69
Moiese .... 94
Moose, Charlie la . . 32
Morehouse, Charles .. 42-46
Morgan. Frederick . . 85
Morrigeau, Alex . . 145
Mullan, Lieut.30, 161, 302, 304
Mullan Road . . ' . 110
Narcisse .... 278
Nez Perces Indians . . 55
Northern Pacific Railroad
Finished . . .165
Norwood, Lord . 169-172
O 'Connell, Bill . . 267
O'Keefe, Baron 28, 29, 30, 243
O'Keefe, David . .30
O'Keefe Canyon . 27
Owen, Major . . 59
Paint, Indian War . . 151
Palladino, Father . 69, 277
Parkinson, . . . 272
Pattee, David . . 132
Paxson, E. S. . . 277, 293
Pearson, W. H. 110, 113, 116

Pelky, Jefferson IT.
Perkins Peter, Left Handed
Phillipsburg
Pioneer Plummer, Henry
Powell, J. H. .'
Prescott, Clarence
QuartzRamsay, S. G.
Ravalli, Father

246
.36, 37
279, 281
270, 273
236, 237
. 139236
. 141 36
. Ill
60, 159, 284

212184
71, 87, 88. 167

Ravalli Hotel, Hamilton
Mont. .
Read, J. O.
Revais, Michel
Ronan, Major
Roop . . 135
Ross, Kenneth . . 264
Ross Hole .61, 62
Saltese . .111
Saint Mary's Mission 283-284
Saint John's Day . . 24
Sanpar, N. . . 132
Sarish, Joe . 285-291

INDEX {continued)

Page.
Saunders, John . . 235
Sawhill, Joe . . . Ill
S-hoenfeldt . . .262
Shears, George . . 254
Sheehan, John . . 144
Shockley . . .136
Skinner, Cyrus 30, 133, 249
Slade . . .124
Smith, Carrol . . .293
Sterling, Frederick . 99
Stevens, A. M. . . 36
Stevens, Gen. .
76, 100, 102, 103-109, 160, 304
Storv, Nelson . . .212
Strahorn. Mrs. Carrie A.228-230
Stuart, Granville 226, 233-238
Sun Cure Trail . 17

Sun River
Sunrise City
Sunrise Creek
Thielen, Adam

104 38
38. 39
39-43

Page.
. 236
. 264
. 134
. 244
41, 48-53
.87, 88

Thomas, Henry
Thompson, Bill
Tipton, Milton
Tin Cup Joe .
Trout Creek
Vest, Senator .
Victor, Chief of the Flatheads
 79
Vigilantes of Montana .
. . . 131, 249, 255
Villard, Henry . . 165
Violette, A. J. . . 206
Walker .... 219
White, G. P. . . . 246
White Ranch ... 23
Windfall . . 34-40, 41
Winter, Charles . . 23
Woody, F. II. 23, 61, 117-
. 122, 204, 205, 206, 222
Worden, Frank L. 131, 236
Zachary, Bob . 30, 133, 254

.

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