SEVENTY YEARS ON THE FRONTIER.
[Illustration: Alexander Majors.]
SEVENTY YEARS ON THE FRONTIER
ALEXANDER MAJORS' MEMOIRS
OF A
LIFETIME ON THE BORDER
WITH A PREFACE BY
"BUFFALO BILL" (GENERAL W. F. CODY)
EDITED BY
COLONEL PRENTISS INGRAHAM
CHICAGO AND NEW YORK
RAND, MCNALLY & COMPANY, PUBLISHERS
1893
COPYRIGHT, 1893, BY RAND, MCNALLY & CO.
Seventy Years on the Frontier
DEDICATION.
AS A TRIBUTE OF MY SINCERE REGARD FOR
W. F. CODY
AS BOY AND MAN, MY FRIEND FOR TWO SCORE YEARS,
I DEDICATE TO HIM
THIS BOOK OF BORDER LIFE.
ALEXANDER MAJORS.
[Illustration]
CONTENTS.
PAGE.
PREFACE, BY BUFFALO BILL 9
NOTE TO READER 13
CHAPTER.
I. Reminiscences of Youth 15
II. Missouri in Its Wild and Uncultivated State 25
III. A Silver Expedition 32
IV. The Mormons 43
V. The Mormons' Mecca 63
VI. My First Venture 71
VII. Faithful Friends 78
VIII. Our War with Mexico 85
IX. Doniphan's Expedition 90
X. The Pioneer of Frontier Telegraphy 99
XI. An Overland Outfit 102
XII. Kit Carson 107
XIII. Adventures of a Trapper 119
XIV. Trapping 125
XV. An Adventure with Indians 128
XVI. Crossing the Plains 137
XVII. "The Jayhawkers of 1849" 150
XVIII. Mirages 157
XIX. The First Stage into Denver 164
XX. The Gold Fever 168
XXI. The Overland Mail 173
XXII. The Pony Express and Its Brave Riders 182
XXIII. The Battle of the Buffaloes 194
XXIV. The Black Bear 201
XXV. The Beaver 215
XXVI. A Boy's Trip Overland 221
XXVII. The Denver of Early Days 228
XXVIII. The Denver of To-day and Its Environs 232
XXIX. Buffalo Bill from Boyhood to Fame 243
XXX. The Platte Valley 247
XXXI. Kansas City before the War 253
XXXII. The Graves of Pioneers 258
XXXIII. Silver Mining 267
XXXIV. Wild West Fruits 272
XXXV. How English Capitalists Got a Foothold 277
XXXVI. Montana's Towns and Cities 285
XXXVII. California's Great Trees 290
XXXVIII. The Flowers of the Far West 294
XXXIX. Colorado 304
XL. The Surgeon Scout 317
Conclusion 320
[Illustration: W. F. Cody
"Buffalo Bill."]
PREFACE.
As there is no man living who is more thoroughly competent to write a
book of the Wild West than my life-long friend and benefactor in my
boyhood, Alexander Majors, there is no one to whose truthful words I
would rather accept the honor of writing a preface.
An introduction to a book of Mountain and Plain by Mr. Majors certainly
need hardly be written, unless it be to refer to the author in a way
that his extreme modesty will not permit him to speak of himself, for he
is not given to sounding his own praise, being a man of action rather
than words, and yet whose life has its recollections of seventy years
upon the frontier, dating to a period that tried men's souls to the
fullest extent, and when daring deeds and thrilling adventures were of
every-day occurrence. Remembrance of seventy years of life in the Far
West and amid the Rocky Mountains!
What a world of thought this gives rise to, when we recall that a
quarter of a century ago there was not a railroad west of the Missouri
River, and every pound of freight, every emigrant, every letter, and
every message had to be carried by wagon or on horseback, and at the
risk of life and hardships untold.
The man who could in the face of all dangers and obstacles originate and
carry to success a line of freighter wagons, a mail route from the
Atlantic to the Pacific, and a Pony Express, flying at the utmost speed
of a hare through the land, was no ordinary individual, as can be well
understood. And such a man Alexander Majors was. He won success; and
to-day, on the verge of four score years, lives over again in his book
the thrilling scenes in his own life and in the lives of others.
Family reverses after the killing of my father in the Kansas War, caused
me to start out, though a mere boy, in 1855 to seek to aid in the
support of my mother and sisters, and it was to Mr. Alexander Majors
that I applied for a situation. He looked me over carefully in his
kindly way, and after questioning me closely gave me the place of
messenger boy, that was, one to ride with dispatches between the
overland freighters--wagon trains going westward into the almost unknown
wild dump of prairie and mountain.
That was my first meeting with Alexander Majors, and
up to the present time our friendship has never had a break
in it, and, I may add, never will through act of mine.
Having thus shown my claim to a thorough knowledge of my distinguished
old friend, let me now state that his firm was known the country over as
Majors, Russell & Woddell, but it was to Mr. Majors particularly that
the heaviest duties of organizing and management fell, and he never
shirked a duty or a danger, as I well remember.
Severe in discipline, he was yet never profane or harsh, and a Christian
and temperance man through all; he governed his men kindly, and was wont
to say that he would have no one under his control who would not
promptly obey an order without it was emphasized with an oath. In fact,
he had a contract with his men in which they pledged themselves not to
use profanity, get drunk, gamble, or be cruel to animals under pain of
dismissal, while good behavior was rewarded. Every man, from wagon-boss
and teamster down to rustler and messenger-boy, seemed anxious to gain
the good will of Alexander Majors and to hold it, and to-day he has
fewer foes than any one I know, in spite of his position as chief of
what were certainly a wild and desperate lot of men, where the revolver
settled all difficulties.
It was Mr. Majors' firm that originated and put in the Pony Express
across the plains and made it the grand success it proved to be.
It was his firm that so long and successfully carried on the business of
overland freighting in the face of every obstacle, and also the Overland
Stage Drive between the Missouri River and Pacific Ocean, and in his
long life on the border he has become known to all classes and
conditions of men, so that in writing now his memoirs, no man knows
better whereof he speaks than he does.
In each instance where he has written to his old-time comrades for data,
he has taken only that which he knew could be verified, and has thrown
out material sufficient to double his book in size, where he felt the
slightest doubt that it could not be relied upon to the fullest extent.
His work, therefore, is a history of the Wild West, its pages authentic,
and though many of its scenes are romantic and thrilling, it is what has
hitherto been an unwritten story of facts, figures, and reality; and
now, that in his old age he finds his occupation gone, I feel and hope
that his memoirs will find a ready sale.
W. F. CODY,
"Buffalo Bill."
TO THE READER.
In preparing the material of my book, I desire here to give justice
where justice is due, and express myself as under obligations for
valuable data and letters, which I fully appreciate; and publicly thank
for their kindness in this direction those whose names follow:
COL. W. F. CODY ("Buffalo Bill") of Nebraska.
COL. JOHN B. COLTON, Kansas City, Mo.
MR. V. DEVINNY, Denver, Colo.
MR. E. L. GALLATIN, Denver, Colo.
JUDGE SIMONDS, Denver, Colo.
MR. JOHN T. RENNICK, Oak Grove, Mo.
MR. GEO. W. BRYANT, Kansas City, Mo.
MR. GEORGE E. SIMPSON, Kansas City, Mo.
MR. JOHN MARTIN, Denver, Colo.
MR. DAVID STREET, Denver, Colo.
MRS. NELLIE CARLISLE, Berkeley, Cal.
MR. A. CARLISLE, Berkeley, Cal.
MR. GREEN MAJORS, San Francisco, Cal.
MR. ERGO ALEX. MAJORS, Alameda, Cal.
MR. SETH E. WARD, Westport, Mo.
ROBERT FORD, Great Falls, Mont.
DOCTOR CASE, Kansas City, Mo.
BENJ. C. MAJORS, May Bell P. O., Colo.
PROF. ROBERT CASEY, Denver, Colo.
JOHN BURROUGHS, Colorado.
EUGENE MUNN, Swift, Neb.
REV. DR. JOHN R. SHANNON, Denver, Colo.
THOS. D. TRUETT, Leadville, Colo.
WILL C. FERRIL.
Yours with respect,
ALEXANDER MAJORS.
Seventy Years on the Frontier.
CHAPTER I.
REMINISCENCES OF YOUTH.
My father, Benjamin Majors, was a farmer, born in the State of North
Carolina in 1794, and brought when a boy by my grandfather, Alexander
Majors, after whom I am named, to Kentucky about the year 1800. My
grandfather was also a farmer, and one might say a manufacturer, for in
those days nearly all the farmers in America were manufacturers,
producing almost everything within their homes or with their own hands,
tanning their own leather, making the shoes they wore, as well as
clothing of all kinds.
My mother's maiden name was Laurania Kelly; her father, Beil Kelly, was
a soldier in the Revolutionary War, and was wounded at the battle of
Brandywine.
I was born in 1814, on the 4th day of October, near Franklin, Simpson
County, Kentucky, being the eldest of the family, consisting of two boys
and a girl. When I was about five years of age my father moved to
Missouri, when that State was yet a Territory. I remember well many of
the occurrences of the trip; one was that the horses ran away with the
wagon in which my father, myself, and younger brothers were riding. My
father threw us children out and jumped out himself, though crippled in
one foot at the time. One wheel of the wagon was broken to pieces, which
caused us a delay of two days.
After crossing the Ohio River, in going through the then Territory of
Illinois, the settlements were from ten to twenty miles apart, the
squatters living in log cabins, and along one stretch of the road the
log cabin settlements were forty miles apart. When we arrived at the
Okaw River, in the Territory of Illinois, we found a squatter in his
little log cabin whose occupation was ferrying passengers across the
river in a small flatboat which was propelled by a cable or large rope
tied to a tree on each side of the river, it being a narrow but deep
stream. The only thing attracting my special attention, as a boy, at
that point was a pet bear chained to a stake just in front of the cabin
where the family lived. He was constantly jumping over his chain, as is
the habit of pet bears, especially when young.
From this place to St. Louis, a distance of about thirty-five miles,
there was not a single settlement of any kind. When we arrived on the
east bank of the Mississippi River, opposite the now city of St. Louis,
we saw a little French village on the other side. The only means of
crossing the river was a small flatboat, manned by three Frenchmen, one
on each side about midway of the craft, each with an oar with which to
propel the boat. The third one stood in the end with a steering oar, for
the purpose of giving it the proper direction when the others propelled
it. This ferry would carry four horses or a four-horse wagon with its
load at one trip. These men were not engaged half their time in ferrying
across the river all the emigrants, with their horses, cattle, sheep,
and hogs, who were moving from the East to the West and crossing at St.
Louis. Of course the current would carry the boat a considerable
distance down the river in spite of the efforts of the boatmen to the
contrary. However, when they reached the opposite bank the two who
worked the side oars would lay down their oars, go to her bow, where a
long rope was attached, take it up, put it over their shoulders, and let
it uncoil until it gave them several rods in front of the boat. Then
they would start off in a little foot-path made at the water's edge and
pull the boat to the place prepared for taking on or unloading, as the
case might be. There they loaded what they wanted to ferry to the other
side, and the same process would be gone through with as before.
Reaching the west bank of the river we found the village of St. Louis,
with 4,000 inhabitants, a large portion of whom were French, whose
business it was to trade with the numerous tribes of Indians and the few
white people who then inhabited that region of country, for furs of
various kinds, buffalo robes and tongues, as this was the only traffic
out of which money could be made at that time.
The furs bought of the Indians were carried from St. Louis to New
Orleans in pirogues or flatboats, which were carried along solely by the
current, for at that time steam power had never been applied to the
waters of the Mississippi River. Sixty-seven years later, in 1886, I
visited St. Louis and went down to the wharf or steamboat landing, and
looking across to East St. Louis, which in 1818 was nothing but a
wilderness, beheld the river spanned by one of the finest bridges in the
world, over which from 100 to 150 locomotives with trains attached were
daily passing. Three big steam ferryboats above and three below the
bridge were constantly employed in transferring freight of one kind or
another. What a change had taken place within the memory of one man!
While looking in amazement at the great and mighty change, a nicely
dressed and intelligent man passed by; I said to him:
"Sir, I stood on the other bank of this river when a little boy, in the
month of October, 1818, when there was no improvement whatever over
there" (pointing to the east shore). I also stated to him that a little
flatboat, manned by three Frenchmen, was the only means for crossing the
river at that time. The gentleman took his pencil and a piece of paper
and figured for a few moments, and then turning to me said: "Do you
know, sir, those three Frenchmen, with their boat, who did all the work
of ferrying, and were not employed half the time, could not, with the
facilities you speak of, in 100 years do what is now being done in one
day with our present means of transportation."
Since that time, which was six years ago, another bridge has been built
to meet the necessities of the increasing business of that city, which
shows that progress and increase of wealth and development are still on
the rapid march.
The next thing of note, after passing St. Louis, occurred one evening
after we camped. My mother stepped on the wagon-tongue to get the
cooking utensils, when her foot slipped and she fell, striking her side
and receiving injuries which resulted in her death eighteen months
later.
On that journey my father traveled westward, crossing the Missouri River
at St. Charles, Mo., following up the river from that point to where
Glasgow is now situated, and there crossed the river to the south side,
and wintered in the big bottoms. In the spring of 1819 he moved to what
afterward became La Fayette County, and took up a location near the Big
Snye Bear River.
In February, the winter following, my dear mother died from the injuries
she received from the accident previously alluded to. The Rev. Simon
Cockrell, a baptist preacher, who at that time was over eighty years of
age, preached her funeral sermon. He was the first preacher I had ever
seen stand up before a congregation with a book in his hand. Although
my mother died when I was little more than six years of age, my memory
of her is apparently as fresh and endearing as though her death had
occurred but a few days ago. Many acts I saw her do, and things I heard
her say, impressed me with her courage and goodness, and their memory
has been a help to me throughout the whole career of my long life. No
mother ever gave birth to a son who loved her more, or whose tender
recollections have been more endearing or lasting than mine.
I have never encountered any difficulty so great, no matter how
threatening, that I have not been able to overcome fearlessly when the
recollection of my dear mother and the spirit by which she was animated
came to me. Even to this day, and I am an old man in my eightieth year,
I can not dwell long in conversation about her without tears coming to
my eyes. There are no words in the English language to express my
estimate and appreciation of the dear mother who gave me birth and
nourishment. I would that all men loved and held the memories of their
mothers more sacred than I think many of them do. One of the greatest
safeguards to man throughout the meanderings of his life is the love of
a father, mother, brother and sister, children and friends; it is a
great solace and anchor to right-thinking men when they may be hundreds
and thousands of miles away. Love of family begets true patriotism in
his bosom, for, in my opinion, there is no such thing as true patriotism
without love of family.
Returning to the events of 1821, we had in the neighborhood of the Snye
Bear River a great Indian scare. This happened in the month of August,
when I was in my seventh year, after my father had built a log cabin for
himself in that part of the country which afterward became Lafayette
County, Mo. My mother had died the winter before, leaving myself, the
eldest, a brother next, and a sister little more than two years old.
Mrs. Ferrin, a settler who lived on the outskirts of the little
settlement of pioneers, was alone, except for a baby a year old. She
left the child and went to the spring for water. When she had filled her
bucket and rose to the top of the bank, she imagined she saw Indians.
She dropped her bucket, ran to the cabin, took the child in her arms,
and fled with all her might to Thomas Hopper's, the nearest neighbor. As
soon as she came near enough to be heard, she shouted "Indians" at the
top of her voice. Polly Hopper, a young girl of seventeen, hearing Mrs.
Ferrin shouting "Indians," seized a bridle and ran to a herd of horses
that were near by in the shade of some trees, caught a flea-bitten gray
bell mare, the leader of the herd, she being gentle and easier to catch
than the others, mounted the animal without saddle, riding after the
fashion of men, and started to alarm the settlement.
My father was lying in bed taking a sweat to abate a bilious fever. A
family living near by were caring for us children, and nursing my father
in his sickness. My brother and I were playing a little distance from
the cabin when we heard the screams of the woman, shouting "Indians"
with every jump the horse made, her hair streaming out behind like a
banner in the wind. We were on the very outside boundary of the
settlement, and some signs of Indians had been discovered a few days
previous by some neighbors who were out hunting for deer. This fact had
been made known to the little settlement, and the day this scare took
place had been selected for the men to meet at Henry Rennick's to
discuss ways and means for building a stockade for the protection of
their families in case the Indians should make an attempt of a hostile
nature. So the first thoughts of the families at home were to start for
Rennick's, where the men were. This accounts for the young woman going
by our house, as she had to pass our cabin to reach that place. My
father, sick as he was, jumped out of bed when she passed giving the
alarm, took a heavy gun from the rack, hung his shot pouch over his
shoulder, took my little sister in his arms, and, like the rest, started
for Rennick's, my little brother and I toddling along behind him.
A family living near by, consisting of the mother, Mrs. Turner, two
daughters, a son, and a little grandson, also started for Rennick's.
They would run for a short distance, and then stop and hide in the high
weeds until they could get their breath. The old lady had a small dog
she called Ging. He was on hand, of course, and just as much excited as
all the rest of the dogs in the neighborhood, and the people themselves.
The screams of the girl Polly Hopper, and the ringing of the bell on the
animal she was riding, aroused the dogs to the highest pitch of
excitement. In those days dogs were a necessity to the frontiersman for
his protection, and as much of a necessity on that account as any other
animal he possessed, and consequently every settler owned from three to
five dogs, and some more. They were the watch-guards against Indians and
prowling beasts, both by night and day, and could not have been
dispensed with in the settling of the frontier.
To return to our trip to Rennick's: When the old lady and her flock
would run into the weeds to hide and regain their breath, this little
dog Ging could not be controlled, for bark he would. The old lady when
angry would use "cuss words," and she used them on this dog, and would
jump out of her hiding-place and start on the trail again. Of course
when the dog barked he exposed her hiding-place. They would run a little
farther, and when their breath would fail, they would make another
hiding in the weeds, but would scarcely get settled when the dog would
begin his barking again. The old lady, with another string of "cuss
words," would jump out of the weeds and try the trail again a short
distance. This was repeated until they reached Rennick's almost
prostrate, as the distance was considerably over a mile, and the day an
exceedingly hot one about noon. My father, though sick, was more
fortunate with his little group of children. When he felt about to
faint, he would turn with us into the high weeds and sit there quietly,
and, not having any dog with us to report our whereabouts, we were
completely hidden by the high weeds, and had a hundred Indians passed
they would not have discovered our hiding-place.
In due time we arrived safe at Rennick's, and strange to say, my father
was a well man, and did not go to bed again on account of the fever.
When Polly Hopper reached Rennick's and ran into the crowd, she was in a
fainting condition. The men took her off the horse, laid her on the
ground, and administered cold water and other restoratives. She soon
regained consciousness and strength, and of course was regarded as a
heroine in the neighborhood after that memorable day. One can well
imagine the excitement among the men whose families were at home and
exposed, as they thought, to the mercies of the savages. They scattered
immediately toward their homes as rapidly as their horses would carry
them, fearing they might find their families murdered. For hours after
we reached Rennick's there continued to be arrivals of women and
children, many times in a fainting condition, and all exhausted from the
fright, the heat, and the speed at which they had run.
Mr. Rennick, who was one of the first pioneers, soon had more visitors
than he knew what to do with, and more than his log cabin could shelter.
These people remained in and around the cabin for two days, and until
the men rode the country over and found the alarm had been a false one
and there were no Indians in the neighborhood.
One of the first occurrences of note in the early settlement of the West
was the visitation of grasshoppers, in September, 1820, an occurrence
which had never been known by the oldest inhabitants of the Mississippi
Valley. They came in such numbers as to appear when in the heavens as
thin clouds of vapor, casting a faint shadow upon the earth. In
twenty-four hours after their appearance every green thing, in the
nature of farm product, that they could eat or devour was destroyed. It
so happened, however, that they came so late in the season that the
early corn had ripened, so they could not damage that, otherwise a
famine would have resulted. The next appearance of these pests was over
forty years later, in Western Missouri, Nebraska, and Kansas, which all
well remember, as there were two or three seasons in close proximity to
each other in the sixties when Western farmers suffered to a great
extent from their ravages.
For five years, from 1821 to 1826, nothing worthy of note occurred, but
everything moved along as calmly as a sunny day.
In the month of April, 1826, a terrible cyclone passed through that
section of the country, leaving nothing standing in its track.
Fortunately the country was but sparsely settled, and no lives were
lost. It passed from a southwesterly direction to the northeast, tearing
to pieces a belt of timber about half-a-mile wide, in that part of the
country which became Jackson County, and near where Independence was
afterward located, passing a little to the west of that point.
The next cyclone that visited that country was in 1847; this also passed
from the southwest to the northeast, passing across the outskirts of
Westport, which is now a suburb of Kansas City. The third and last
cyclone that visited that section of the country, about eight years ago,
blew down several houses in Kansas City, and killed a number of children
who were attending the High School, the building being demolished by the
storm.
[Illustration: POLLY'S WARNING.]