1870 when two homesteaders, returning to their families from a trip to
Brownville for provisions, were brutally murdered by a half-breed named
Jim Whitewater. Jim was just returning from a buffalo hunt and had
secured a supply of whiskey from a man named Wehn, at Fairbury. Being
more than half drunk, he conceived the idea that the bravest thing he
could do would be to kill some white people; and it happened that he
came across the poor homesteaders just at that time. It was about dusk
and the poor fellows had halted for the night, by the side of a draw
where the grass was tall enough to cut for their horses. They had
unharnessed their teams, tied them to the wagons and were in the act of
mowing grass for them when a pistol shot rang out and one of them fell
mortally wounded; the other, being attacked, and though mortally hurt,
tried to defend himself with the scythe that he had been using, and in
doing so cut the Indian's hand, almost severing the thumb. The scene of
this terrible affair was just over the Gage county line in Jefferson
county and consequently it devolved on the sheriff of that county to
discover and arrest the murderer. As Whitewater had been seen in the
vicinity, suspicion pointed to him and his arrest followed. He soon
escaped from the officers and was hidden for two weeks, when the Indian
police discovered his place of concealment in the timber on Wolf creek.
His own brother, assisted by other Indians, captured him by strategy,
bound him securely with their lariats and delivered him at the agency.
The writer had gone to Beatrice on business and was not expected back
until the next day, but in his absence his wife, then a young woman of
about twenty, took energetic measures to insure the safety of the
prisoner by ordering him placed in irons, and kept under a strong guard
until the agent's return. In the meantime, having finished the business
at Beatrice and there being a full moon, the writer decided to drive the
twenty miles to the agency between sundown and midnight, which he did,
arriving there shortly after midnight. Of course, until his arrival, he
had no intimation that Whitewater had been captured. Before leaving home
the Indians had reported that they had reason to believe that he was
hiding somewhere on Wolf creek, as his wife had taken dried buffalo meat
to that locality, and as the writer, in returning, had to drive for
about forty rods through the heavy timber bordering that creek and cross
it at a deep and rather dangerous ford, and knowing that Whitewater had
declared that he would take both the agent and the sheriff with him to
the other world, and that he was heavily armed, the writer is not
ashamed to confess to a feeling of nervousness almost akin to fear, as
he was about to enter that stretch of timber shaded road dimly lighted
by the full moon. He first carefully let down the curtains of the
carriage and then made his team dash at full speed through the long
stretch of timber, plunge and flounder through the ford, and out once
more upon the open prairie, the driver expecting at almost any moment
to hear the crack of a pistol. On arriving within sight of the agency
building, instead of finding it dark and silent as he had expected, the
writer was greatly surprised to see it well lighted and many Indian
police standing about it as if on guard. The next morning the writer
with several Indian chiefs and the Indian police started for Fairbury
with the prisoner; the Indians riding two abreast and carrying a large
United States flag at the head of the procession. The trip was made via
Beatrice and the distance traveled was about fifty miles. The Indians
feared an attack from the Rose creek settlers; neighbors and friends of
the murdered men, and as they approached Fairbury the entire line of
Indians commenced a melodious chant which the interpreter explained as
nothing less than an appeal to the Great Spirit asking him to incline
the hearts of the people to treat the Indians kindly and fairly. On
arriving at Fairbury the cavalcade halted in the public square and was
soon surrounded by the entire population of the hamlet. It was nearly
dark, but the good ladies of the place set about preparing a bountiful
meal for the hungry Indians, to which they did ample justice. There
being no jail in the place, we waived a hearing and started the next
morning for Pawnee City, where prison accommodations could be had.
Shortly after leaving Fairbury the interpreter told the Indians that
evidently the Great Spirit had heard their appeal, to which they all
vociferously assented. Jim was kept at Pawnee City until his trial,
which took place at Fairbury before Judge O. P. Mason, who sentenced him
to imprisonment for life. Whitewater was one of three individuals among
the Otoes who could read and write, the other two being Battiste Barneby
and Battiste Deroin, both of whom were very capable interpreters.
Polygamy being allowable among the Otoes, Deroin was one who had availed
himself of its privileges, his two wives being sisters. On learning that
Whitewater had been imprisoned for life, his wife soon found another
husband, greatly to his sorrow and chagrin. It was during Whitewater's
imprisonment that the reservation was sold and the Indians removed.
Eighteen years after his conviction he received a pardon and left the
penitentiary to rejoin the tribe. What retribution he meted out to those
who aided in his capture or to his wife's second husband, the writer has
never learned.
A year before the writer took charge of the Otoes and Missouris, a
delegation of their chiefs had accompanied their agent Major Smith, to
Washington and made a treaty under which the whole reservation of
160,000 acres was to be sold at $1.50 per acre. The writer was informed
by Major Smith that a railroad company would become the ultimate
beneficiary, provided the treaty was ratified by the senate, and that he
had been promised a section of land if the scheme proved successful.
Smith urged the writer to use all the influence possible to secure the
ratification of the treaty and before the writer had taken any steps to
secure its defeat, he also received an intimation, if not an absolute
promise, from interested parties, that in the event of its ratification,
he should have his choice of any section of land on the domain.
Believing that such a treaty was adverse to the interests and welfare of
the Indians, the writer at once set about to accomplish its defeat, in
which, through the aid of eastern friends, he was finally successful.
Coronado's chronicler mentions, among other nations with whom the
expedition came in contact, the _Missourias_ as being very fierce and
warlike, and it may be a matter of local historical interest to state
that the Missouri "nation" with which Coronado became acquainted, and
from which one of the world's largest rivers and one of the largest and
richest states take their names, reduced to a remnant of less than one
hundred individuals, found an abiding place within the limits of Gage
county for more than a generation. Placed on a reservation with the
Otoes and under the care of the same agent, they still retained their
own chief and their own language, though circumstances gradually induced
the adoption of the Otoe tongue. The old chief of the Missouris was
called Eagle and was known as a war chief. It was his province to
command and direct all hunting operations. He was a man of very striking
appearance, over six feet in height, straight as an arrow, with fine
features and apparently about seventy-five years of age in 1869. He was
an hereditary chief, and probably a lineal descendant of one of the
kings of the Missouri nation that Coronado and his followers met. Old
Eagle was the only chief of the Missouris, and was respected and highly
esteemed by both the Missouris and the Otoes. During a buffalo hunt, in
which the writer participated with the Indians, Eagle chief was the
highest authority in regard to all matters pertaining to the chase and
attack on the herd. In 1869 the head chief of the Otoes was Arkeketah
who was said to have been appointed to that position by Major Daily. He
was a polygamist and very much opposed to the ways of the white man. In
fact he was such a reactionary and stumbling-block to the progress of
the tribe that the writer finally deposed him and advanced Medicine
Horse to the position of head chief.
The number of Indians living within the borders of Gage county in 1869
was probably not far from eight hundred. The reservation, comprising two
hundred and fifty square miles, extended some distance into Kansas and
also took in a part of Jefferson county in this state, but the Indians
were all domiciled in Gage county. Their principal village was situated
close to the site now occupied by the town of Barnston and where a fine
spring afforded an ample supply of water. The wigwams were of a type
adopted by the Indians long before the discovery of America, and most of
them were large enough to accommodate several families. It was a custom
of the Otoes to vacate the wigwams and live during the winter in tipis
which were pitched in the timber where fuel was close at hand. In 1869
only three persons in the confederated tribes wore citizens clothes, the
rest were all blanket Indians, who, during warm weather, went almost
naked, and habitually painted their faces and shaved heads, with
vermillion and indigo.
The principal burial place of the Otoes was on a bluff overlooking the
river bottoms, and within a short distance of where Barnston now stands.
For years it was visited, as one of the curiosities of the reservation,
by the white settlers and strangers, chiefly on account of the weird and
ghostly funeral oaks that stood on the brink of the bluff, bearing,
lashed to their gnarled and crooked limbs, gruesome burdens of dead
Indians, wrapped in bark and partly mummified by the sun and wind; there
was probably a score of these interesting objects resting peacefully on
the boughs of these three oaks; they had been there for many years, and
might possibly have remained to this day had not a great prairie fire
during the summer of 1871 destroyed the oaks and their ghastly burden,
leaving only an assortment of charred bones and skulls to mark the site.
A strange and pathetic tragedy, in connection with this old burial
place, transpired shortly before the writer took charge of the agency
and its affairs; and it was from the interpreter, Battiste Deroin, that
the particulars were obtained. The incident may be worth preserving by
the local historian, as illustrating the absolute faith of the Indians
in a continued existence of the spirit beyond the grave. Dogs were
frequently strangled at children's funerals in order that the dog's
spirit might accompany that of the child, and it was a common sight to
see a dog's body sitting upright with its back to a stake and securely
tied in that position, in the vicinity of the old burial place. The man
who figured in this tragedy was very aged and feeble, and the little
child was very dear to him; he doubtless knew that he had not long to
live and that he very soon would have to travel over the same lonely
trail that the little child was about to take. Doubtless he realized
fully what a comfort it would be to each, if they could take the long
journey together. The Otoes always buried their dead in a sitting
posture; and the old man, when seated in the grave, held the body of the
child in his arms. The relatives took a last farewell of both the dead
child and its living caretaker; the grave was covered with a buffalo
robe supported on poles or heavy sticks, and the mass of earth taken
from the grave was piled thereon; this being their usual mode of burial.
The custom of strangling a horse or pony at the burial of an Indian
brave was a common occurrence among the Otoes prior to 1870 and the old
burial place on the bluff was somewhat decorated with horses' skulls
laid upon the graves of warriors who are supposed to have gone to heaven
on horseback. The tail of the horse sacrificed was usually fastened to a
pole that stood at the head of the grave.
The first school established within the limits of the county was a
mission school under the care of the Rev. Mr. Murdock, and the old stone
building, built for it on Mission creek, was the first stone building in
the county. It was a ruin in 1869.
In 1869 there were still some beavers to be found along the Blue; and at
that time the river abounded with large gars, some of which were three
or four feet in length; a fish which has since become entirely extinct
in the Blue, probably because the water is no longer clear. The gar was
one of the primitive fishes of the silurian age; it was very destructive
of all other fish. White people never ate it, but the Indians thought
it fairly good. The Indians obtained most of their fish by shooting with
arrows from the river banks. They often succeeded in shooting very large
fish owing to the clearness of the water. This could not be done now
that the prairies have been put into cultivation, as that has destroyed
the clearness of the water.
As late as 1869 there were some wild deer in the county and little
spotted fawns were occasionally caught. The writer procured two of the
latter from the Indians and gave them to Ford Roper's family in
Beatrice; they became very tame and were frequently seen on the streets
of the town. In 1870 the writer, while driving from Blue Springs to
Beatrice, met a large buck with antlers, as it emerged from an opening
in the bluffs.
Among the first settlers of the county were some families from Tennessee
who settled near the present town of Liberty on Plum creek. They did
their own spinning and weaving, and having been accustomed to raising
cotton and mixing it with the wool for spinning, they undertook to raise
it here. The writer remembers seeing their cotton patches, but never saw
them gathering cotton.
The first bridge built in the county to cross the river, was built on
Market street, Beatrice, about the year 1870. It was a very narrow
wooden structure, only wide enough for one wagon at a time to pass over.
The firm of Peavy and Curtiss of Pawnee City were the contractors and
the contract price was $4,000. It was regarded as a public improvement
of very great importance to the town.
RANCHING IN GAGE AND JEFFERSON COUNTIES
BY PETER JANSEN
I came to Beatrice, Nebraska, in 1874, after having been through
Minnesota, Dakota, and Kansas, looking for a place where a settlement of
our people, the Mennonites, could be established. Of all the land I had
looked over, I liked southeastern Nebraska best, and the little town of
Beatrice on the banks of the Big Blue, then consisting of maybe fifty
dwellings and a few stores on lower Court street, seemed very
picturesque and attractive. After forty years I have not changed my
opinion. We found a suitable tract of prairie just across the line in
Jefferson county, which we bought of the Burlington and Missouri River
railroad at $3.50 per acre on easy payments. Beatrice remained our chief
place of business. Smith Brothers had just started a banking business in
one-half of a little shack, the other half being occupied by a
watchmaker carrying a small stock of jewelry. Klein & Lang had a general
store on the corner of Second and Court streets, and here we did nearly
all of our trading. The "Pacific House" on Second street was the only
hotel. Here I made headquarters for some time. Mr. and Mrs. Randall, the
hosts, were very kind to me. The latter died a few years later in the
prime of her life.
We soon commenced to build up what was for years known as "Jansen's
Ranch," about twenty miles southwest of Beatrice, and stock it with
sheep, which we brought from Wisconsin. The first summer I had a
temporary sheep corral about where the West Side schoolhouse now stands.
We used to drive from the ranch to Beatrice diagonally across the
prairie; very few section lines had been established, and there was only
one house between the two points.
Major Wheeler, of stage route fame, lived at the Pacific house and took
a kindly interest in the young emigrant boy. I remember on one occasion
I had brought in a carload of valuable breeding sheep and quartered them
for the night in the corral of the livery stable across the street from
the hotel, run then by S. P. Lester. I was afraid of strange dogs
attacking them, and sat up all night on the porch watching. In the
morning, while washing up in the primitive wash-room, I overheard the
major telling Mr. Randall about it. He concluded by saying: "That young
fellow is all right; a boy who sits up all night with a few sheep will
certainly succeed." I felt proud over the praise, and it encouraged me
very much.
We were told by the few settlers who had preceded us that the upland
prairie would not grow anything and that the bottom land was the only
place where crops could be raised with any assurance of success.
However, we were going to try farming, anyway. I bought a yoke of young
oxen and a breaking plow and started in. The oxen were not well broken,
and the plow was new and would not scour. Besides, I did not know
anything about breaking prairie or driving oxen. The latter finally
became impatient and ran away, dragging the plow with them. It was a hot
day in May, and they headed for a nearby slough, going into the water up
to their sides. I had by that time discarded my shoes and followed them
as fast as I could. When I reached the slough, quite out of breath and
thoroughly disgusted, I sat down and nearly cried and wished I were back
in Russia where I did not have to drive oxen myself. About this time the
nearest neighbor, a Mr. Babcock, living four miles away, happened along
driving a team of old, well broken oxen. He asked what my trouble was,
and after I told him in broken English, he said: "Well, Pete, take off
your trousers and go in and get your oxen and plow out, and I will help
you lay off the land and get your plow agoing," which he did, and so
started me farming.
My younger brother, John, and I bached it for two years. One of us would
herd the sheep and the other stay at home and do the chores and cooking.
We took turns about every week. We had a room partitioned off in the end
of the sheep shed, where we lived.
Game was plentiful those days, and during the fall and winter we never
lacked for meat.
I had by that time, I regret to say, acquired the filthy American habit
of chewing (I have quit it long since), and enjoyed it very much while
doing the lonely stunt of herding the flock.
One day we had gotten a new supply of groceries and also a big plug of
what was known as "Star" chewing tobacco. Next morning I started out on
my pony with the sheep, the plug in my pocket, and anticipating a good
time. Soon a severe thunder storm came up, and lightning was striking
all around me. I felt sure I would be hit and they would find me dead
with the big plug of tobacco in my pocket. My mother knew nothing of my
bad habit, and I also knew that it would nearly kill her to find out, so
I threw the plug far away and felt better--for awhile. The clouds soon
passed away, however, and the sun came out brightly and soon found me
hunting for that plug, which, to my great disappointment, I never
recovered.
Those early winters, seems to me, were severer than they are now, and
the snow storms or blizzards much fiercer, probably because the wind had
an unrestricted sweep over the vast prairies.
In a few years our flocks had increased, so that we built a corral and
shed a mile and a half away, where we kept our band of wethers and a
herder.
About Christmas, I think it was in 1880, a blizzard started, as they
usually did, with a gentle fall of snow, which lasted the first day.
During the night the wind veered to the north, and in the morning we
could not see three rods; it seemed like a sea of milk! We were very
anxious to know the fate of our herder and his band of sheep, and
towards noon I attempted to reach them, hitching a pair of horses to a
sleigh and taking a man along. We soon got lost and drove around in a
circle, blinded by the snow, for hours, my companion giving up and
resigning himself to death. We probably would have both perished had it
not been for the sagacity of my near horse, to which I finally gave the
reins, being benummed myself. He brought us home, and you may believe
the barking of the shepherd dogs sounded very musical to me as we neared
the barn.
We got our fuel from the Indian reservation about eight miles south of
us on the creek, where now stands the thriving town of Diller. The
Indians were not allowed to sell any timber, but a generous gift of
tobacco was too tempting to them to resist.
Rattlesnakes were found frequently in those days, and their venomous
bites caused great agony and sometimes death. One Sunday afternoon, wife
and myself were sitting on the porch of our small frame house, while our
baby was playing a few feet away in a pile of sand. Our attention was
attracted by her loud and gleeful crooning. Looking up, we saw her
poking a stick at a big rattler, coiled, ready to spring, about three
feet away. I have always detested snakes and would give even a harmless
bull-snake a wide berth. However, I took one big jump and landed on Mr.
Rattler with both feet, while my wife snatched the baby out of harm's
way.
The next ten years made a great change. We had proven that farming on
the tablelands could be made a success, railroads had been built, and
towns and villages had sprung up like mushrooms. We even got a
telephone. The wilderness had been conquered.
When I look back upon those first years of early settlement, with their
privations and hardships, I cannot refrain from thinking they were the
happiest ones of my life, especially after I got married in 1877 and my
dear wife came to share joy and sorrow with me. To her I attribute to a
very large extent what little I may have achieved in the way of helping
to build up this great commonwealth.
[Illustration: MRS. FRANCES AVERY HAGGARD
Third State Regent, Nebraska Society, Daughters of the American
Revolution. 1898]
EARLY RECOLLECTIONS OF GAGE COUNTY
BY MRS. E. JOHNSON
Emerson aptly said, "America is another word for opportunity." We
realize this most truly when we compare present prosperity with early
day living in the middle West.
In 1878 my brother, A. M. McMaster, and family, arrived in Nebraska
City. They came overland to Gage county and settled on section 15, two
and a half miles northeast of Filley and one mile south of what was then
known as Melroy postoffice, so-called in honor of two little boys born
the same year the postoffice was established, Mell Gale and Roy
Tinklepaugh, whose parents were among the earliest settlers in this
neighborhood.
My brother built his house of lumber he had shipped to Nebraska City.
Beatrice was our market place. We sold all our grain, hogs, and produce
there. Eggs were five cents a dozen and butter six cents a pound. The
first year we came we bought five hundred bushels of corn at twelve
cents a bushel delivered, and cribbed it.
There was an Indian trail across the farm, and often the Indians would
pass going from the Omaha reservation to the Otoe reservation at
Barnston; the children would become frightened and hide under the bed;
the Indians would often call and ask for flour and meat.
There was not a house between Elijah Filley's stone barn and Beatrice on
the Scott street road, and no bridges. The trail we followed going to
Beatrice led us north to Melroy, making the traveling distance one and a
half miles farther than in these times of well preserved section lines
and graded country roads. This stone barn of Elijah Filley's was an
early landmark. I have heard Mr. Filley tell interesting anecdotes of
his early years here, one of an Indian battle near the present site of
Virginia.
Before the town of Filley was in existence, there was a postoffice
called "Cottage Hill," which is shown on old time maps of the state.
One of the curiosities of the early times was a cow with a wooden leg,
running with a herd of cattle. The hind leg was off at the knee joint.
She was furnishing milk for the family of her owner, a Mr. Scott living
on Mud creek, near the town of Filley.
Mr. Scott often told of pounding their corn to pulverize it. The nearest
mill was at Nebraska City. This difficult traffic continued until 1883,
when the Burlington came through Filley.
Two or three years after we had located here, two young men came along
from Kansas looking for work. My brother was away from home, working at
carpentry, and his wife, fearing to be alone, would lock the stair door
after they retired and unlock it in the morning before they appeared.
They gathered the corn and then remained and worked for their board. One
day, one of the young men was taken sick. The other was sent for Dr.
Boggs. He lost his way in a raging blizzard and came out five miles
north of where he intended to, but reached the doctor and secured
medicine, the doctor not being able to go. The next day Dr. Boggs, with
his son to shovel through the drifts, succeeded in getting there. The
young man grew worse, they sent for his mother, and she came by stage.
The storm was so fierce the stage was left there for a week; the horses
were taken to Melroy postoffice. The young man died and was taken in the
stage to Beatrice to be shipped home, men going with shovels to dig a
road. Arriving there it was found that the railroad was blocked. As they
could not ship the body, they secured a casket and the next day brought
it back to our house. My brother was not at home, and they took the
corpse to a neighbor's house. The next day they buried him four miles
east, at what is now known as Crab Orchard.
True, life in those days tended to make our people sturdy, independent
and ingenious, but for real comfort it is not strange that we prefer
present day living, with good mail service, easy modes of
transportation, modern houses, and well equipped educational
institutions.
BIOGRAPHY OF FORD LEWIS
BY (MRS. D. S.) H. VIRGINIA LEWIS DALBEY
As my father, Ford Lewis, was one of the pioneer land owners in Nebraska
and assisted actively in settling the southeast part of the state, I
have been requested to give a brief sketch of his life and early
experiences in this state. My only regret in writing this is that he is
not here to speak for himself. Ford Lewis was born in Deckertown, New
Jersey, July 25, 1829, son of Phoebe and Levi Lewis, the latter engaged
in mercantile business both in Hamburg and Hackettstown, New Jersey.
After finishing his education at William Rankin's Classical School and
studying under Chris Marsh, author of double entry bookkeeping, he
assisted his father in the mercantile business for some time. However,
he preferred other pursuits and after a successful test of his judgment
in real estate, started west. At Syracuse, New York, he was induced to
engage in partnership under the name of Chapman & Lewis, watch case
manufacturers and importers of watch movements; keeping standard time
for the New York Central and other roads and supplying railroad
officials, conductors, and engineers with the highest grade of watches.
Selling his interest in 1856, he accepted the general agency of the
Morse Publishing House, New York, making his headquarters at Charleston,
South Carolina, in winter and at Cleveland, Ohio, in summer, until 1859,
when he went to Jerseyville, Illinois, with his parents and sister,
buying and selling real estate in that city and Jersey county until
1867, when, with Congressman Robert M. Knapp, he visited Nebraska, and
made his first investment in government land, many of his United States
patents being signed by Presidents Grant and Johnson.
Ford Lewis was in pioneer days one of the largest owners of farm lands
in Nebraska, his holdings being chiefly in Pawnee, Otoe, Gage, Johnson,
and Lancaster counties. On one of his advertising cards he states that,
"occupied for eighteen years past in the purchase and sale of over
80,000 acres of other lands, these, on account of their well known
intrinsic value have been reserved intact."
Mr. Lewis founded the towns of Lewiston in Pawnee county and Virginia in
Gage county, naming the latter in honor of his daughter.