in a happy death. She said to your sorrowful father: “My dear, do
not let this worry you. Trust in the Lord and he will support you. I
have trusted in Christ through all my life; now I trust in Him and He
comforts me, for the Lord doeth all things well. I am ready to meet
Him. I am ready to die. Take good care of our darling babe and tell
her that we lived happy. God bless the little angel. It seems hard to
us that we must part after living but a little while together, but it
is God’s will; it is well. Do not be sad! be happy. The ring you made
for me in Helena I will take to the grave with me. Call my loved ones
to my side and let me kiss them and bid them good bye. Tell the folks
I die happy. Blessed be the Saviour who died on the cross. Oh Lord!
I am ready--take me, Oh Lord! Take me at midnight or in the dawning
of the morning. Dear Lord, take me. Let me go home in peace. The
valley is lighter. I see the great white throne. I want to go home.”
She frequently said: “I want to go home” or “Take me home,” during
her last hours on earth. Thus your dear mother passed away in peace,
prepared to meet the God in whom she had placed her trust. I imagined
hearing the soft wings of the angels fluttering in the room when they
came to take her home and their soft whisperings saying: “She is dying
happy. She is clinging to the cross;” then a voice: “Open the gates of
heaven; she is coming home.” Her remains are sheltered safe from sorrow
in the cemetery at Great Falls. Dear is the spot where she sleeps.
“Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear
no evil, for Thou art with me.”
Now, my dear little daughter, I am about to close this
joy-mingled-with-grief letter, hoping that you and I will be loving
companions to each other to scatter flowers over your dear mother’s
grave for many decoration days to come.
Remember dear mother’s words, her Saviour’s cause extend--
Live pure and holy here, as through life’s way you wend--
And when the journey is over and you come to the valley,
May her words be your words: “Tell the folks I die happy.”
The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ be with you. May He be your guide.
Put your trust in Him. And that He will comfort you in life and in
death is the prayer of your affectionate father,
ROBERT VAUGHN.
P. S.--This letter and your mother’s jewels, which she willed to you, I
will deposit in the First National Bank of Great Falls for safe keeping
for you.
R. V.
Sun River, Mont., Feb. 18, 1888.
FROM THE FARM TO THE CITY OF GREAT FALLS.
[Illustration: GREAT FALLS, MONTANA.]
In the year 1889, after meeting with my great loss in the death of my
wife, I sold my farm in the Sun river valley and came to Great Falls,
and built the “Arvon Block,” and the “Vaughn Building,” in which I now
live, in rooms fifteen and sixteen, with my dear little ten-year-old
daughter. Like the man who chased his shadow, I have chased myself from
place to place for the period of sixty-one years, and for the distance
of six thousand miles, and at last have caught up with myself. Now it
is in order to give a sketch of my first visit to this spot where I now
reside. It was in the winter of 1870, and it was rather a cold day,
when, mounted on my gray mustang and looking down from the summit of
the hill on the west side, where now stands the residence of Hon. T.
E. Collins, I first saw the beautiful landscape, the site of the city
of Great Falls. As I bent in my saddle to view the panorama before me,
I longed to be an artist, that I might portray it. It was a picture
that I shall never forget. On the south side of Sun river lay an Indian
village, two tepees were on the north side, and one on Indian hill. The
latter, I was afterwards told, sheltered a lookout who watched for the
approach of an enemy and to observe in what direction the buffalo herds
were moving. On Prospect Hill was a band of antelope, and through the
low divide, west of J. P. Lewis’, a herd of buffalo were slowly moving
in single file towards the river. In the grove some of these monarchs
were rubbing against the trees, and, I should judge, were enjoying
themselves immensely. Further east, on what is now Boston Heights,
several hundred more were feeding on the grasses of the bench lands.
While viewing the open plains, stretching on to where the Highwood
and Little Belt ranges rose, covered with the first fall of snow, the
winding rivers, the confluence of the Sun and the Missouri, following
the latter in its course until lost to view between high bluffs, I
forgot all save the scene before me, hearing only the roaring of the
waters as they rushed over the Missouri falls further down the river.
Just then I saw an Indian about half way between myself and the two
tepees; he was on foot and coming towards me. As I had not lost any
Indians, I put the spurs to my horse and headed for home. When I had
gone about a mile I looked back and saw the Indian standing where I had
been but a few minutes before. Today I once more looked down from the
summit of the same hill, but what a changed picture was spread before
me! The plains that were “then” dotted with buffaloes are “now” covered
with pleasant homes and imposing business blocks. Where was once an
Indian village, today the stock farm of Hon. Paris Gibson is located.
The two tepees are replaced by The American Brewing and Malting
company’s plant, and at the foot of Prospect Hill, where the antelopes
were, a water plant for a city of fifteen thousand inhabitants is
in full operation. On the commanding bluff, “then” occupied by the
lookout tepee, “now” the lofty smokestack of the Boston and Montana
copper smelter stands in bold relief against the blue background of
the sky, a landmark for hundreds of settlers for many miles around.
The Missouri river is spanned by several steel bridges which carriages
and locomotives cross at will. The buffalo trails have given place
to electric railways, and the grove, where these shaggy-looking
animals used to rub their coats, is now a beautiful park echoing with
children’s laughter. But the greatest change of all has been wrought at
the falls of the Missouri. Its mighty voice “then” paramount, “now”
has been overpowered and well nigh silenced by the humming of dynamos
and the sound of the great ore crushers as they labor on day and night,
the slaves of the white man’s civilization. A brief sketch of these
falls is proper at this time. The falls of the Missouri river were
first made known in 1805. Thomas Jefferson, the third president of
the United States, was a leading figure in the purchase of Louisiana,
which embraced the country west of the Mississippi from its mouth north
to the forty-ninth parallel at the Lake of the Woods. The forty-ninth
parallel constituted the northern boundary to the Rocky mountains; the
western line was the summit of the Rockies to the Arkansas river, to
the one-hundredth meridian, thence south to the Red river, thence down
that river to the ninety-fourth meridian, thence southerly along that
meridian to the Sabin river, thence down the Sabin river to the Gulf of
Mexico.
[Illustration: COPPER SMELTER AT GREAT FALLS, MONTANA.]
In 1803 Jefferson sent a message to congress, asking for an
appropriation of $2,500 for the exploration of the Missouri and
Columbia rivers. The result was that the amount was granted. Lewis and
Clark were chosen to take charge of the expedition.
The expedition spent the winter of 1803-1804 near the mouth of the
Missouri river. The Northwest was then a wilderness. The expedition
ascended the Missouri river to Fort Mandan north of Bismarck, where
they laid over during the winter of 1804-1805. Their means of transport
were several rowboats. July, 1805, they arrived at the falls of the
Missouri river, where they spent two weeks surveying and making a
portage. Lewis and Clark were the first white men who visited the falls
of the Missouri river, or at least they were the first to make its
existence known to the world.
The lower falls, known, as the Great Falls, is a perpendicular fall
of about ninety feet. The river at this point is estimated to contain
a volume of water about three times greater than that of the Ohio at
Pittsburg. This immense volume is here confined between rocky walls
on either side, from two hundred to five hundred feet in height and
about three hundred yards in width. Next to the right bank nearly
half the stream descends vertically with such terrific force as
to send continuous and always beautiful clouds of spray sometimes
two hundred feet or more in the air. The other side of the river
is precipitated over successive ledges of from ten to twenty feet,
forming a magnificent view some two hundred yards in breadth and ninety
feet in perpendicular elevation. A vast basin of surging, foaming
waters succeeds below, its deep green color and commotion betraying a
prodigious volume and depth.
[Illustration: From Painting by C. M. Russell.
LEWIS AND CLARK MEETING THE MANDAN INDIANS.]
Five miles above are the Crooked and Rainbow Falls, the latter fifty
feet in perpendicular descent. Here the entire river, one thousand two
hundred feet wide, hurls itself over an unbroken rocky rim, as regular
in its outline as a work of art, into a vast rock-bound amphitheater,
where when the sun is shining a rainbow spans the river from bank to
bank. This with the sprays, the roar and commotion of the water make a
fascinating scene. From this rainbow the falls received its name.
Another two miles up the stream is the Black Eagle Falls. Here the
entire river takes a vertical plunge of twenty-six feet. On an island,
and just below this falls, there formerly was a large cottonwood tree,
in the branches of which a black eagle had built its nest. It is from
this that the Black Eagle Falls received its name.
The river where these falls are located flows through a grand natural
canyon, where in its ceaseless flow, has cut a path for itself through
the rock of the plains, sometimes to a depth of five hundred and fifty
feet. The series of falls and cascades add a wild beauty to the scene.
In no place has there been found so great a water power. Within a
distance of ten miles, including falls and cataracts, there is a
descent of five hundred and twelve feet.
ROBERT VAUGHN.
June 27th, 1899.
MONTANA’S PIONEERS.
Who were the pioneers of Montana? They were the brave men and noble
women who came here first; they were descendants of many countries,
and were the most courageous of the nations from which they came. They
were the heroes who rescued this beautiful mountain land from the hands
of the savages and laid the foundation and moulded the destiny of this
great state.
The cut-throats, robbers and murderers who were here in the early days
were not worthy of being called pioneers, for they made a desperate
effort to demolish what the real pioneers were building up. To expose
their kind, I will refer to two of this class who were hung at Virginia
City in the presence of several hundred citizens. They belonged to a
gang of highwaymen and murderers. Each stood on a separate box with a
rope around his neck, which was attached to a crossbeam, and, while
in this position, one was using the most profane language and cursing
every one present; just then a friend of the victim whom he had robbed
and killed shoved the box from under his feet; while this one was
dangling in the air the other one looked at him, and with an oath
said: “Kick away old boy, I will be in hell with you in a minute,”
then jumped off the box himself and into eternity. Though these men
were human beings, the wicked and vicious habits they had contracted
had destroyed all the humanity they possessed. Now, in consequence,
nothing was left of them but the brute, for they neither feared God nor
respected their fellowmen. Between those ruffians and the Indians the
pioneer had his hands full. He had to work for himself, and at the
same time he was ready at a moment’s notice to defend the right and his
fellow-man with as much pluck and bravery as any soldier ever displayed.
[Illustration: A GROUP OF PIONEERS.]
Many think that most of the early settlers of Montana were of the rough
element, but this impression is wrong. Most of the old pioneers were of
the best law-abiding citizens that could be found in any country, men
of culture as well as courage. Many of them afterwards helped to frame
the constitution and the laws that govern the state at the present
time (1899). Edgerton, her first governor, was here before the name
“Montana” was thought of.
Ex-Governor S. T. Houser is now carrying a scar which he received at
the time the James Stuart party, of which he was a member, had that
terrible battle with the Indians on the Yellowstone in 1863. W. A.
Clark, recently elected United States senator, and Ex-United States
Senator Wilbur F. Sanders, and others who have already represented
Montana in the halls of congress, also have worked in the prospector’s
hole. Granville Stuart, who was appointed Envoy Extraordinary and
Minister Plenipotentiary to Paraguay and Uruguay in 1894, and served
a term of four years, were here among the first comers. Nathaniel P.
Langford (now of St. Paul, Minn.), the author of “Vigilante Days and
Ways,” and who at one time was bank examiner for Montana, Idaho and
Washington, was one of the first pioneers. Ex-Chief Justice W. Y.
Pemberton was one of the pick and shovel brigade. Judge Knowles, Judge
Hedges, and many others who are now holding high positions were with
us. Judge Frank H. Woody is a Montana pioneer, for he came to what
is now Montana in 1856, when the western portion of this state was a
part of Washington Territory. Many of the leading lawyers that are now
pleading at the bar of the state also have spoken in those “miner’s
courts which were held in the open air.” Jack Fisk, Will H. and Robert
N. Sutherlin and others who are to-day among the leading journalists of
the state, were here before a single type was set. And there are scores
of the veterans of early days, who, when the opportunity was given,
have ranked themselves with the best business men of the state. When
the roll is called of the self-made men of Montana, her pioneers will
head the list.
And there were men who held divine services wherever the opportunity
was given them; they were no cowards, either, for it took a pretty good
man to fight the devil on his own half acre and whip him, too. I am
glad to state that there are some of these old reverends “still in the
ring.”
Peace be to the memory of those who have gone to receive their rewards
for the good work they have done. With all respect to the Christian
people, Catholics and Protestants alike, they did considerable for
Montana in the early days and more than anyone knows, for a great deal
of their work was done in the “Sacred chamber” without making any
noise. I now recall two old prospectors who were up in the mountains
searching for gold. After delving all day, they cooked and ate their
supper, and then sat by the camp fire. One was telling about the dear
ones at home, and that he was almost certain that they were thinking of
him that very night. The other one spoke of his wife and three little
children whom he had not seen for four years, but that he was writing
to them constantly and he was receiving letters in return, and said he
was in hopes of “striking it” soon and then he would go home. They sat
up rather late that night; the moon had gone down, and the shade of the
dark green pines made it still darker. It was in autumn when the leaves
were falling. As the fire was getting low, they both went to bed side
by side. It was a calm, still night; the rustling of the dead leaves
that were strewn on the ground could be heard as some wild animal was
passing their silent chamber, with occasionally the rumbling sound of
a piece of rock which had broken loose from some distant cliff and
went rolling down the mountain to the canyon below, re-echoed by the
screeching of night birds, while the cataracts of many ripples swelled
the midnight melody. Not a word was spoken for some time, each thinking
that the other was asleep. But one began saying his evening prayers in
a low, murmuring voice, which was as follows:
“Near the camp fire’s flickering light
In my blanket bed I lie,
Gazing through the shades of night
At the twinkling stars on high;
O’er me spirits in the air
Silent vigils seem to keep,
As I breathe my childhood prayer
Now I lay me down to sleep!
“Sadly sings the whippoorwill
In the boughs of yonder tree,
Laughingly the dancing rill
Swells the midnight melody;
Indians may be lurking near
In the canyon dark and deep,
Low I breathe in Jesus’ ear
I pray the Lord my soul to keep,
“’Mid the stars one face I see,
One the Saviour called away,
Mother, who, in my infancy,
Taught my baby lips to pray,
Her sweet spirit hovers here
In this lonely mountain brake,
Take me to her, Saviour, dear,
If I should die before I wake!
“Fainter grows the flickering light
As each ember slowly dies,
Plaintively the birds of night
Fill the air with saddening cries;
Over me they seem to cry,
‘You may nevermore awake,’
Now I lisp, if I should die,
I pray the Lord my soul to take!
“Now I lay me down to sleep,
I pray the Lord my soul to keep,
If I should die before I wake,
I pray the Lord my soul to take.”
These things that I have mentioned indicate that there was much of
the better element here in the early days, and also a great deal of
intelligence among those who wore the buckskin shirt, and to them a
large portion of the credit should be given that Montana is today one
of the brightest gems in our star spangled banner.
ROBERT VAUGHN.
March 4, 1899.
THE DARK SIDE OF THE LIFE OF THE PIONEER.
In another letter giving an account of Indian depredations, I stated:
“I will not attempt to follow their war path, for it is too long,”
but allow me at this time to vary a little from that assertion. My
object in doing so is to add to the already written history of this
portion of the Northwest, where I have lived from my early manhood, and
this portion of the country which was then in its infancy as far as
civilization and settlement were concerned, therefore, to use a common
expression, “we growed up together.”
Though a frontier life is free and fascinating, still, like everything
else, there is a dark side to it, and this letter is principally
intended to show the “dark side” of the life of the pioneer.
As a frontiersman, I, myself, may not care to again experience what I
have passed through, yet, with all its perils and dangers I would not
give my pioneer days in the West for all the balance of my life.
The following events occurred in Northern Montana. All are facts,
and some of them I know of my own personal knowledge. Some of those
whose names appear hereafter were killed by Indians, others died from
exposure. I have often thought of the many victims that have fallen in
the West; even their death never has been known nor heard of by anyone.
Many remains of white men have been found without a trace of anything
to lead to their identification.
Once there were three of us in the mountains prospecting. In a
sheltered place under a projecting cliff there lay the skeleton of a
man. It appeared that he had laid down to rest or to sleep. Nothing
could be found to indicate whose remains it was. The clothing was
weatherbeaten and torn, and an old silver watch and a gun laid on the
ground with the scattering bones. The hair was light in color. It
was one of those instances of “somebody’s boy” dying without even a
stranger to record his last words.
By examining the following list the reader will find that the
identification or names of twenty per cent of the unfortunate victims
herein mentioned were not known, and that all included in the list,
except six or seven, were killed in what was then Choteau county. They
are but few in comparison to all that were killed in what is now the
state of Montana.
First on the list is Little Tex, who was killed in 1866 by Blood
Indians at the agency on what was then known as the government farm,
on Sun river; then Indians set fire to the buildings. There is no
certainty as to the number that perished.
Early in the spring of 1866 three men were murdered by Blackfeet
not far from old St. Peter’s mission, which was then located on the
Missouri river near Ulm on the Montana Central railroad. April 6th of
the same year John Fitzgerald, an employe of the mission, was killed
almost in sight of the buildings by Bloods. His grave and that of a
man by the name of Johnson, a blacksmith, who was formerly at Fort
Benton, and about fifteen other graves, mostly of Indians, are at the
foot of the hill and near the Montana Central track, about half a mile
from Ulm. The next day after the killing of Fitzgerald, Father Giorda,
and all the inmates of the mission left for Helena, fearing that more
trouble might come.
Lagree and Hunicke were murdered by Blackfeet and Bloods at Three
Tree Coulee, Jan. 9, 1866. James Chembers was killed by Blackfeet at
Dearborn in 1866, and old man Thebeaw killed at Dearborn the same year.
The murder of the builders of the town of Ophir occurred in May, 1865.
Ophir was a new place located at the mouth of the Marias river, twelve
miles below Fort Benton. At this period there had been only one or two
houses built. The men, eleven in number, were about one mile above
the location cutting logs and some of them were chopping wood for the
steamers that were coming up the Missouri to Fort Benton. They were
at work when the Indians killed them; not one escaped. When the news
reached Fort Benton a party went and buried the unfortunate victims on
the bank of the Missouri river near where they were killed. Thirty-four
years have passed since then and the gradual cutting of the bank by
the swift current has washed away that little graveyard, and now the
resting place of these founders of states and builders of cities has
been swept from the face of the earth and its occupants swallowed up by
that mighty stream.
Six men were killed by Bloods on Old Man’s river early in 1865. The
victims came from Fort Garry (now Winnipeg), and were reported to
possess a large amount of money. Their leader was an old white-haired
man.
William Berry was killed by Bloods on Elbow river, and Joe Monroe was
killed by Bloods on Old Man’s river in 1874.
Miller was killed by Bloods on Old Man’s river in 1872.
McMillan was wounded by Assinnaboines, near Bow river, in 1874.
Two unknown men were killed by Assinnaboines, near Milk river, in 1874.
The bodies were found tied to trees and riddled with bullets. Cottle
and another man were killed in their house on Flat creek in 1877. The
Nez Perces were supposed to be the murderers, as a few stragglers of
that tribe were seen in the vicinity about the time the deed was done.
A party of men, women and children were killed by Bloods near Porcupine
mountain in 1865. Their identification could not be obtained.
A soldier was killed by Piegan Indians on Marias hill, not far from
Fort Benton, in 1873.
Wey and Mitchell were killed by Piegans on Badger creek in 1875. Five
days before they were killed, both stayed over night at my ranch
and bought some oats to feed their horses while on this unfortunate
prospecting trip.
Joe Day and Howard were killed by Piegans, near the Marias river, in
1875.
John Rock was killed by Blackfeet, at the mouth of Sun river, in 1875.
An account of him I have given in my letter “From the Mines to the
Farm.”
Jack Gorman and Frank Keisser were killed by Assinnaboines, on the Milk
river, the same year.
Frank Robinson was killed by Gros Ventres Indians, near Cow creek, in
1877.
Joseph Spearson was killed by Bloods, on Belly river, in 1870.
Nelse Kyse, George Huber and one man, name unknown, were killed by
Sioux Indians, on Squaw creek, near the mouth of Musselshell river.
Andy Harris was killed by Assinnaboines on Milk river in the winter of
1867, and a soldier was killed by Piegans at Camp Cook in the spring of
that year.
Bozell A. Bair was wounded by Piegans on Eagle creek in 1867.
Paul Vermette was killed on the Teton river in 1866.
Champion was killed by Arrapahoe Indians at Fort Hawley in 1867.
Malcolm Clark was killed by Piegans in 1869. Clark had been a classmate
of General Sherman’s at West Point. The former, after finishing his
term, instead of entering the army, came west as an employe of one of
the fur companies which operated in the upper Missouri river country.
After following the Indian trading business for many years he located
in the Prickly Pear canyon, about twenty miles north of Helena, and
kept a stage station. The place is now known as “The Mitchell Ranch.”
Once a party of Piegan warriors came to the premises. One of the
Indians, who was well acquainted with Clark, approached the door and
asked for the latter; just as Clark stepped into the door he was shot
and killed by this Indian. Several shots were fired into the house. A
bullet struck Clark’s wife, and one of his sons was shot in the nose;
in course of time both recovered from their wounds, but the tragedy
caused the mother to go insane and she died a few years ago still in
that condition. Clark is buried near the house, and now his resting
place is marked by a railing crowning the grave. A few months later the
“Col. Baker Indian Massacre on the Marias river” occurred. And when the
firing commenced on the Piegan camp the murderer of Clark was there
sick in bed; when he was told that the soldiers had come there to kill
him, he took a long knife and plunged it into his heart.