BLACK HILLS OF SOUTH DAKOTA (1878 to 1885)
In 1879 my folks came across the plains from Fort Pierre to the Black
Hills and the first town we came to, of any size, was Scooptown and from
there to Deadwood was mostly mountains and several toll gates. It cost a
dollar to go through those places—that meant the people that kept those
gates kept the road repaired so it would be passable—but those roads
were sure tough. I remember when we drove our team up the street of
Deadwood the mud was about two feet deep and we could hardly get
through, as Deadwood was one street about a mile long in a deep canyon.
It was laid out in three sections: first Elizabeth Town, Chinatown and
then Deadwood proper. We camped in Elizabeth Town for several
weeks—lived in a tent.
It was a great sight at that time around the old Gem Theatre, which was
a big dance hall and gambling house. There was no law prohibiting minors
from going into those places and I sure got an eyeful! The first unusual
sight I remember was seeing a woman with a black and swollen eye. And in
most of those dives there were women dealing faro bank and poker—and I
was fascinated with the names they went by. There was Big Gussie, who
was Bed Rock Tom’s common-law wife. She was considered a very capable
gambler and would take and pay all bets as cool and calm as a bank
teller—and just as accurate.
I used to admire those old characters. There was Colorado Johnny, Tom
Allen, Deaf Jimmie and several others ... I have forgotten their names.
Those men were all faro dealers—and wore long whiskers ... and the
barbers sure got well paid to keep those whiskers in perfect style—and
the fine clothes and jewelry they wore must have cost a small fortune.
As I remember there was 28 legitimate faro banks in town about that
time, besides several questionable ones. Those games had a limit in the
amount you could bet on the turn of a card, which was usually $12.50 and
$25.00, but one or two houses had $125.00 and $250.00 limit—that means
you can only bet the low limit where there is only one card left in the
deck to act. You can bet it to win or lose. Most everybody played faro
them days—but I believe the Chinaman was the greatest gambler of them
all. About 11 o’clock at night was their favorite time to start out to
gamble. They would put on their best clothes—which was the very finest
of goods them days—white socks, silk top shoes, and they would leave
Chinatown for the white man’s game. I have seen 25 of them, dressed this
way, one behind the other heading for the faro game—and they sounded
like a bunch of geese honking to each other in their talk. They liked to
all get around one gambling table and if one of them seemed to be lucky,
the rest of them would follow him with their bets. In fact, it seemed to
be a kind of a system they had—and often they would win several thousand
dollars in a night.
While we were living in Deadwood, there was an old man kept a little
grocery store close to where we were camped, and an old Irish woman kept
a boarding house nearby. It was hard to get white sugar most of the
time, and the people had to use brown sugar, which came in barrels, and
when the weather was damp and rainy that sugar seemed to draw moisture
and got quite heavy. And each time the old lady got sugar she accused
the old man of putting water in it to make it weigh more. One morning he
saw her coming. He got a bucket of water and was standing by the barrel
when she walked in. She ran up to him and stuck her first in his face
and said, “I caught you at last—I always knew you were watering that
sugar!” She didn’t make much fuss about it afterwards. She seemed
pleased to know she had caught him and that her suspicions had proved to
be right.
After a few months in Deadwood my folks moved to the little town of
Galena, where Colonel Davey owned the Sitting Bull mine, and my folks
started a store and boarding house and I went to school for a short
time. There was two Irishmen run a store there by the name of McQuillian
and Finnegan. They also had a cow ranch about 75 miles east of Galena.
Finnegan run the ranch, McQuillian run the store. Finnegan used to come
to Galena sometimes on horseback. His saddle, chaps and outfit was
something wonderful to me—and his stories of the range made me feel I
wanted to be a cowboy. I asked him for a job and he laughed at me, told
me I was too young. Also my folks wanted me to go to school.
But the spirit of the wild country had got in my blood and one day I run
away from school and started for the Finnegan Ranch, caught a ride when
I could and walked part of the way, but finally got there, and told
Finnegan I was going to stay. So he gave me a job close herding some
cows for breeding purposes. The first thing he learned me was to read
his brand which was “F M.” There was thousands of brands on the range
those days, and I was supposed to keep all other brands of cattle out of
his bunch.
The old man had several cowboys working for him, but he was chief cook,
bottle washer and boss. He used to tell me he was the best cowboy of
them all. But the fact of the matter was he couldn’t do much of anything
in the way of a cowboy, and the men used to make fun of him behind his
back. But I learned pretty quick that he liked to be swelled about what
he could do and I sure poured it to him, and he liked me fine. He used
to tell me what a fine cook he was—his cooking was rotten and consisted
of bacon and beans and sourdough bread. I remember he had an old knotty
pine log in front of the cabin, and I don’t think he ever started to
cook a meal that he didn’t grab the axe and hit that old knotty pine log
a few licks. He never got any wood off of it, but would try it every
time, then throw the axe away, and hunt up some chips, or anything else
he could find to start a fire. When he made bread, he had flour from his
eyebrows to his toes.
In 1879 the country was sure wild. Deer, antelope, buffalo and bear were
very plentiful; very few white people, but lots of Indians and some of
them were still on the warpath in them days; also quite a sprinkling of
road agents. I remember one old road agent named Laughing Sam. He was
very polite in his holdups. He held up a freighter one time and all he
had that Sam wanted was chewing tobacco. The freighter begged Sam to not
take all his tobacco, as he could not get any more until he got to
Sidney, Nebraska, which was about 200 miles, but Sam said he was sorry
on account of the law he could not go to Sidney, so took all of the
tobacco.
In those days everything was freighted from Fort Pierre, South Dakota,
and Sidney, Nebraska, to the Black Hills by ox teams and mule teams. I
have seen 27 ten-yoke teams of oxen all in one outfit. At the head of
this caravan rode the wagon boss. He was quite a dandy in those
days—fancy saddle, boots and pearl handle six-shooter. It was a great
sight to see an outfit like that moving across the country; with those
men shouting at their teams, whips popping and wagons rattling. It
sounded like a young army in action.
The town of Deadwood was the terminal of all freight and stage outfits,
and as there was very little law and order those days, it was sure a
wild town. There was another town about 20 miles before you got to
Deadwood. It was called Scooptown those days, but afterwards was changed
to the more dignified name of Sturgis, which it still has today. I have
seen that town at night full of bull whackers, mule skinners, cowboys
and soldiers, and the dance halls going full blast—when I think back at
it today, it seems like a dream.
I knew an old-time bull whacker. He went by the name of Baltimore Bill.
He got into a gun fight one night in one of those dance halls. He got
three fingers shot off, but killed the other fellow. He was arrested for
murder and laid in jail for about a year pending his trial. He was
finally acquitted on the grounds of self-defense. I worked with Bill
afterwards and was well acquainted with him. He said he had a very
narrow escape from hanging. He said when the “prosecutin’” attorney got
through making his plea to the jury, he felt he (Bill) was the lowest
human alive and deserved hanging, “but, oh boy, when my attorney got
through with my defense, I was a damn good man!”
Fort Meade was located three miles from Scooptown and was occupied by
colored soldiers, and a very noted nigger ran a dance hall and gambling
house in Scooptown.
One night some of those negro soldiers were drinking in this house and
got into a row with the proprietor, whose name was Abe Hill, and he hit
one of them on the head with a bottle. A few nights after this, these
soldiers stole some guns and ammunition out of the Fort and came in to
shoot Abe Hill’s place up. There were about twenty of them, and they
raided that old dance hall and in fact nearly all the town. There was a
cowboy in Abe’s place that night. His name was Bob Bell and he didn’t
know what all the noise was about. He stepped from the gambling part
into the dance hall, thinking it was a little celebration and was shot
four or five times. Poor Bob never knew what hit him.
I was in town that night, and when the shooting began I ran back off the
main street, but bullets seemed to be hitting all around me. The first
thing I came to that looked like protection was a wagon with a mule tied
to it. I ducked under the wagon—but between the bullets hitting the
wagon and that old mule bucking on the end of the halter, I put in a
quarter of an hour very uncomfortable. But the mule and myself escaped
unhurt.
Part of that regiment of negro soldiers were afterwards transferred to
Wyoming to stop a war that broke out between the stock men and cattle
rustlers, and they pulled off another job about like they did in
Scooptown.
There was a little town established at the end of the Burlington
Railroad on Powder River. It was named Sugs. The town consisted mostly
of saloons and the sporting element. Those negro soldiers got into some
difficulty with some of the citizens of the town and decided to have
revenge. They were camped a little ways outside of Sugs in tents. So one
night they stole some ammunition and guns like they had done before at
Scooptown, and started in to town to shoot it up.
It was quite a dark night and the only lights the town had was coal oil
lamps. The town had about 500 population and one street. Those soldiers
lined up at the end of the street and started shooting at every
building, tent, or any form they saw, and everybody that could run for
cover—in half finished cellars, out houses or any hole they could get
into.
There was an old man there—(he was a Jew)—who had started a little
hardware store, and had a few dish pans hung on the wall of his tent
store, and about the first bullet that hit anything of consequence was
those dish pans. They were hung one on top of another, and the bullet
went through all of them. And while everyone was running for cover the
Jew saw his pans wrecked. He stopped right there and said, “Oh my God,
look at what they have done to my hardware.”
Now there was two cattle rustlers came to town that night, making their
get-away, headed north, and had put their horses away, and got a room in
the only hotel in town, which was at the opposite end from where the
soldiers entered. Those men had gone to bed and when they heard the
shooting they thought it was a posse after them, and as they didn’t have
time to get to their horses, they decided to put up a fight. They both
had Winchesters. They put all their bullets in their hats, came out of
the hotel, and laid down in the middle of the street, and when they saw
this body of soldiers moving their way shooting everywhere, they opened
fire on them. I believe they killed three of those negro soldiers and
wounded several more. It became so hot for the soldiers they broke and
run. Meantime the officer at the Post had heard of the trouble, ordered
out his whole force, and came riding into town and demanded law and
order. It was quite a while before the officer could be made to
understand his own men had caused all the excitement, as he did not know
they had stolen away.