inspection of the government posts at Fort Shaw and Benton, he stopped
for dinner at Clark’s old ranch. The general inquired for Malcolm
Clark. He said that Clark had been a schoolmate of his at West Point,
but had gone west to trade with the Blackfeet Indians while he was yet
but a young man. When the story of Clark’s career and of his death
had been told, and the grave of his early associate shown him, he had
been but a few moments on the spot when he showed signs of grief and
requested to be left alone for a while. He stayed for some time and
when he came away traces of tears could be seen on the cheeks of the
brave old warrior.
Charles Carson was killed by Piegans, near Dearborn river, in 1866. He
was a nephew of Kit Carson, of frontier fame. He was killed and buried
near the ford on the Dearborn.
Mrs. Jennie Smith, who at one time lived in Helena, was scalped alive
by Sioux Indians at the mouth of Musselshell river in 1869. The
unfortunate woman recovered and was still living in 1879.
Jack Leader was killed by Sioux at the mouth of the Musselshell river
in 1869.
A man named Lowe was killed by Blackfeet. His remains are buried on
the old Helena and Benton road at the crossing of what is now known as
“Deadman Coulee.” The place received its name because it is the place
of the death and burial of Mr. Lowe.
Macgregor and Tabor were killed by Sioux, and another man wounded, near
Fort Peck in 1868. Also two unknown men were killed by Sioux near the
same place and in the same year.
Ross and McKnight were killed in 1868, by Sioux, at the mouth of
Musselshell river. McKnight was a brother to the Hon. J. H. McKnight of
this city. At the time the tongue of their wagon had broken, and, while
they were cutting a tree to make a new one, they were killed.
Nat Crabtree was killed by Piegans, near Camp Cook, in 1868.
Old man Lee was killed, and Charley Williams and Drew Denton wounded
by Sioux, near Carroll, 1870. Denton’s life was saved by the bullet
striking his pocket in which he had a plug of tobacco and some letters.
A Frenchman was killed by Piegans in the summer of 1868 on Sun river,
south of where now stands Pressle Rowls house.
McArdle and a comrade were killed by Crow Indians near Benton in 1869.
Tom Ross was killed by Sioux near Fort Peck in 1873.
Michael Thebault was killed by Piegans on the Teton in 1868.
James Quail was killed by Piegans, near Silver creek, in 1869. He was
killed only half a mile from where I was mining at the time, and about
nine miles from Helena. He was getting his horse, which was grazing on
the slope of a hill near his cabin, when he was shot and killed by an
Indian who robbed him of his horse and of a gold watch on which his
name was engraved. The watch was seen afterwards in the possession of
an Indian in a Piegan camp on the Marias river.
Clark was killed by Piegans on Sun river in 1868, of whom I have given
an account in my letter, “Indian wars and tragedies on Sun river.”
Dauphant was killed by Sioux near the mouth of Milk river in 1865.
Charley Desronin was killed by Indians near the Bear Paw mountains in
1870.
Little Frenchie was killed by Assinnaboines on Milk river in 1869.
A man who was taking care of some cattle for Carroll and Steell was
killed by Indians on Milk river in 1869, and Sam Rex was killed by
Bloods the same year on Eagle creek.
Fifteen men and one woman and two children were killed by Sioux in
1863. They were returning from the mines, and on their way by the
Missouri river route in a Mackinaw boat, which they had built at Fort
Benton. Their names I cannot give, except one whose name was Thomas
Mitchell, and who joined the party at one of the trading posts further
down the river.
It was plain to be seen that the Indians did not kill them for their
gold, for it was spilled on the shore where the mutilated bodies of
the men lay. The woman was hanging to a limb of a tree, the limb being
driven through her chin; the two children, one on each side of the
mother, were hanging in the same manner, and the bodies were full of
arrows.
Jim Matkins was wounded by Piegans, near Benton, in 1868. Mr. Matkins
was one of my best friends. At the time he was shot by the Indians he
was an employe of the “Diamond R. Company,” a firm that had several ox
teams engaged in hauling freight from Fort Benton to various towns and
points in the territory. He related to me the following particulars of
the chase he had with the Indians at the time he was shot. He said:
“One day at Fort Benton I loaded sixteen of the company’s wagons with
freight for Helena. Tom Clary and J. C. Adams had charge of the outfit.
They pulled out that day and camped the following night at Eight Mile
spring. I was clerking for the company at the time. I could not get the
bills of lading ready at the time they left; so, late in the evening,
after dark, I got on my saddle horse and started for their camp. After
I had gone about three miles I heard the clatter of horses’ hoofs,
and, looking back, I saw eight Indians coming as fast as their horses
could carry them, and bullets began whizzing by me; but what frightened
me the worst was their fearful “Indian yell.” I put the spurs to my
horse and rode for dear life towards Clary and Adams’ camp, which was
five miles further. I had a Winchester rifle that had sixteen loaded
cartridges; I fired several shots at the Indians. In this way I kept
them at bay for a while. But there was one who had a very fast horse
and he was the only Indian that could keep pace with me, for mine was
a good runner; but this redskin could run up to my side whenever he
wanted to. After running in this way for about three miles, and in a
shower of bullets, I discovered that I was shot in the hip. I could
see but one Indian and he had slacked up his pace to load his gun.
I dismounted and took as good aim as I could in the dark and fired
four shots. I believe that I wounded him or his horse, for he came no
further. I could feel that my boot was filling up with blood and I was
getting very weak; it was as much as I could do to mount my horse.
When I arrived at the camp I told all that had occurred. I was put in
a wagon drawn by two yoke of oxen, and Clary and Adams, with two other
men took me back to Benton that night, and my wound was dressed. The
bullet is still in my hip.”
Mr. Matkins afterwards died from the effects of this injury. He is
buried in the Highland cemetery at Great Falls.
This recalls one Decoration day when the Grand Army veterans were on
their way to the cemetery with beautiful flowers to cover the graves of
their comrades. I spoke to one of them: “Say, comrade, I am a veteran
pioneer. An old comrade of mine is buried in that cemetery. He was shot
by the Indians and died from the effects. I have a few wild flowers
with me and I am going to decorate his grave. Won’t you ‘take me in’
and let me march with you?” I did not march, but the wild flowers were
placed on poor Jim Matkin’s grave.
Old man Long, Foster and Jordan were killed by Sioux near the mouth of
Pouchette creek.
Henry Simpson was killed near my ranch on Sun river in 1870. He was
shot twice.
A shepherd by the name of Hunt was killed near Grassy Lake, eight miles
north of my home, in 1883. He was found with several bullet holes
through the body.
George Horn was killed by Assinnaboines on Cow creek in 1874.
Bill Morrison and John Hughes were killed by River Crows on Arrow creek
in 1877.
Antelope Charley and Cook were killed by Piegans at the mouth of Eagle
creek in 1873.
Little Rock was killed by Sioux on Judith mountain in 1874.
Buckshot and Poulett were killed by Assinnaboines at Rocky spring in
1871.
Joseph Gipperich was killed by Bloods on Saint Mary’s river in 1872.
E. B. Richardson and Charles Steel, James Downey, Charles Buck, J. J.
Barker and an African were killed by the Nez Perces in October, 1877,
near Cow creek, during the tour of Chief Joseph through the country.
One man, name unknown, was found dead near the Marias in 1875. He was
killed by some of the Northern Indians.
One man, name unknown, was killed by Piegans on Sun river in 1868. No
clue to the murderers could be had.
Seven unknown travelers were killed by Sioux on the Missouri river,
above Fort Peck, in 1868. It was supposed that they were on their way
from the East to the gold mines, for they were well equipped for a long
journey.
Two men, names unknown, were killed by Sioux at the mouth of the
Musselshell in 1868.
Four men, names unknown, were killed by Sioux at the mouth of the
Musselshell in 1873.
One man, name unknown, was killed by Piegans on Warm Spring creek, near
the Judith river, in 1874.
The remains of a man were found a few miles up the Missouri river, from
the mouth of Sun river, in 1887. His identification could not be had.
The opinion was that death had come from exposure.
The above are a few of the shadows that darkened the life of the
pioneer.
It is human nature that every person is pleased to hear others saying
something good about him. Joaquin Miller said of the pioneers of
Montana that some fell from overtoil, others in battle with savages;
some died even as they sat for the first time by the new-laid
hearthstone waiting for wife and babes to arrive with the first flowers
of spring; and that the world does not, perhaps, understand what it
cost to come here in the early days.
And, as Mr. Miller says, the Pilgrim fathers set forth in the ship and
landed on Plymouth Rock; the Cavaliers of Virginia sailed pleasantly
up the James river and scarcely knew what a camp in the wilderness
was until they sat down in their future home; the Argonauts of
California, many of them, merely sailed from port to port; but Montana
was a thousand miles from any ocean, a wilderness in the center of an
untrodden country with savages in her every pass and valley, and so,
necessarily, every man that came here among the first was in some way
a soldier, yes, a veteran soldier, who had mustered, camped, marched
and battled, endured hunger and exposure to all kinds of weather--all
that the bravest soldier endures--before he ever came within sight of
the Mecca that he was toiling to reach. He truly says that there was
a great difference between the Montana veteran and the bravest of the
brave in any war that has ever been; that the soldiers Caesar, Napoleon
and Grant had their governments to clothe, feed, pay and pension them,
but the hero of Montana stood alone.
I have just given the names of seventy-six of those heroes who fell
victims to the wrath of the redskins, and of several that were wounded
and died afterwards. The names of the fourteen men, the woman and the
two children, I have not, but their relatives were informed of their
sad death. Of the other party of men, women and children no further
account of them but the finding of their bodies could be obtained. And,
in addition to all, we have twenty-two unknown who were killed; not a
trace of their identification could be found--no one knew either their
names or where their homes were--therefore, an account of their death
could not be given to friends or relatives, who may never know what has
become of their dear ones who went West years before.
Think of the affectionate sister who had ceased receiving letters from
her brother who had gone to the unsettled West to try and better his
condition in life. She said: “My brother John used to write to me
often, but now, for a long time he has not written. It may be that
he is in the mountains prospecting, and that he has no way to send a
letter to me. I expect the next letter, when it comes, will be full of
good news.” Month after month has passed and she is patiently waiting
for that newsy letter to arrive. Poor girl! She does not know the
fate that has befallen her brother. And thus of a loving wife, with a
babe on her arm, and with her other arm embracing her kind and loving
husband when he left home to go to the gold fields of the “Rockies” to
hunt enough of the yellow metal to pay off the mortgage that was on
their little home. She said that her husband had been gone nearly four
years; that during the first three years he wrote every month, and, in
every letter there was some money for her, and that in the last letter
he stated that he had good prospects and hopes of “striking it” before
she would get another, and would be home with enough money to pay off
everything. And she, too, is waiting, waiting. It has not entered her
mind that her beloved husband has been----.
Again a fond and loving mother, bent with age, and who parted with her
only son several years before. For a long time after he left for the
gold regions, she said: “He used to write to me very often and always
send me some money, and one time he sent me a nice specimen from the
mines, but now I have not heard from him for a long time and I am
afraid something has happened to him. I am getting so I can’t sleep at
night thinking of my darling boy.” He was advertised in the newspaper
nearest where his last address was, and the editor of the paper, for
the sake of a broken-hearted mother, left the advertisement in double
the time the contract called for, besides inserting, “other papers
please copy.” But no one responded. All this time an unheard voice was
saying: “He is one of the unknown that were killed by the Indians in
an isolated place in the Rocky mountains a long time ago.” It may be
that some of the relatives of those unfortunates are still hoping that
the lost son, brother, husband, or father is yet alive; but the fact
is, their remains are resting in an unmarked grave on the plains, or,
may be, far in some lonely gulch in the mountains, and the once little
mound is now leveled by the elements and the secret spot robed with
herbs and wild grasses, so that even his fellow pioneer who buried him
cannot designate the place where the remains sleep and rest forever.
One night, when lying in nay blankets under the spreading bows of a
pine tree, thinking of those lonely graves that are scattered here and
there through the west, in which lay the “unknown,” the following lines
occurred to me:
Slain by Indians a pioneer was found,
His home or his kindred nobody knew;
Over his cold form bendeth
The grasses in tears of dew.
A fellow pioneer, as best he could,
Laid the body in a newly made grave;
And after the task was done, he said:
Here’s where lies one that was brave.
Many memorial days have passed;
But no mother, no sister has ever come,
To lay beautiful flowers
On the grave of the unknown one.
There is a broken heart somewhere,
Bleeding from a terrible wound;
A hope that has nearly perished,
For the dear one that cannot be found.
There is a grave--in those grasses,
A pioneer’s grave--and lo!
Him whom those green sods cover;
His name no one knows.
But the name of the unknown
In the Great Book is recorded,
As well as those of the world’s rulers,
Kings, princes and potentates.
And, when comes the last day,
They, too, will be gathered
The same as those rulers--
Not one neglected.
Some people, after reading this letter, may say that it was wrong
for those daring men and brave women to go into such a country,
occupied only by savages. Well, that may be so, but the unexplored
West never would be developed were it not for the immigrants, miners
and prospectors who had the ambition, courage and pluck to commence
to conquer. They are the “John the Baptists” of civilization, and the
founders of states that are represented by stars in our banner and of
those yet to come.
I came to Montana when a young man, now I am old, enjoying excellent
health, but I may be robbed of this greatest gift to man, and I may,
like “Job,” be reduced to poverty, but there is nothing that can rob me
of the pride and glory of being a “hero of Montana,” one of those who
stood by its cradle.
ROBERT VAUGHN.
March 4, 1898.
THE INDIAN PRAYING.
The winter of 1869 and 1870 was my first winter in Sun River valley.
For a while I boarded with Mr. and Mrs. Armstrong, who kept the Leaving
Station adjoining my ranch. This place was so named because it was
at this point the road leaves (Leaving) the Sun River valley to Fort
Benton. (This was the winter that Col. Baker made a raid on the Indian
village on the Marias river.) Also this same winter and spring the
smallpox caused many deaths among the Indians. Several whites died also
from the same disease. Two stage drivers who drove from Benton to the
Leaving died; and as they stopped at the station where I boarded, I
took the smallpox in a mild form and was very sick for two weeks, but
it left no marks. About this time I concluded to fence the farm. Early
in the spring I went to a bend in the Missouri river about ten miles
south to cut posts and poles for this purpose. Here there were several
log buildings that had been erected sometime in the early sixties by
some of the Catholic missionaries and used as an Indian Mission (old
St. Peter’s Mission). In 1868 it was abandoned for missionary purposes.
After that it was occupied in winter by Indians. In the same bend is
now what is known as “The Churchill Ranch.” During the time I was
chopping I lived in an old empty cabin that had been built by some
trappers; it was in the edge of the woods about a quarter of a mile
from the old Mission buildings. There was neither a door nor a window,
but it had a good fireplace; I hung a blanket for a door, and cut lots
of wild rye-grass for my bed. Although alone, I was very comfortable
and slept well at night, for I worked hard all day. There were in all
about thirty Indians in the old buildings, many of whom were sick with
the smallpox; and a great many had died of the same disease. Their mode
of burying the dead was to wrap the corpse in a buffalo robe and lay
it under a tree in some secret place in the woods and cover it with
leaves and branches off the trees; others were placed on a scaffold in
trees, as heretofore described. There were a great many buried in this
way in the woods where I was working. One Indian buried his wife and
two children two days before I came. The female relations showed great
grief by hacking their legs from the ankle to the calf into many small
cuts barely through the skin; and they would sit alone with a robe over
their heads and mourn and sigh. Once in the dead of the night, when I
was asleep, some unearthly noise awoke me. It was at my cabin door. I
raised on my elbow in my bed which was on the ground. As usual, when
danger came, I grabbed my old gun which was under my head and pointed
it at the door where the blanket hung. I listened, and finally decided
that it was a human voice. It was a kind of chanting talking and in the
most mournful tone, with now and then a deep, pitiful sigh as though it
came from the bottom of the heart. It was the most mournful and pitiful
utterance ever made by a human voice. It was kept up for at least
twenty minutes. There was living with the Indians a half-breed who
could speak English. His name was Simpson. (Afterwards he was killed by
the Indians on the hill across Sun river from my ranch.) Next morning I
told the half-breed of what took place at my cabin the previous night
and he interpreted to me that it was an Indian, “the husband and father
of the woman and two children that died the other day,” and that he was
praying, and asking me to ask the Great Spirit to stop the smallpox.
A few minutes later the Indian and the half-breed came together to
see me; the Indian said to me that his wife and two of his children
were already dead and that more of his relations were sick. He firmly
believed that I could do a great deal towards preventing the disease.
I told him that the Great Spirit was listening to his praying last
night and heard every word, and as soon as the “warm winds” came the
smallpox would be no more. This appeared to be of great consolation to
him. It was plain to be seen that the poor fellow loved his family.
He was the Indian that saved Mr. and Mrs. Kennedy’s lives only few
months before at the Kennedy ranch near the mouth of the Prickly Pear
canyon when the Indians took them out of their home and were going to
kill them, but this Indian came forward and stood between Mr. and Mrs.
Kennedy and the other Indians that would be murderers. He raised his
gun and spoke in a firm voice: “If you kill this man and woman you
must kill me first.” He stood them off and saved the lives of two good
citizens. He was well known by the whites and was always friendly and
honorable. He went by the name of “Cut Lip Jack.” This kind and brave
Indian is dead, but Mr. and Mrs. Kennedy are alive and live in Missoula
county, Montana. Will Kennedy of this city is their nephew.
ROBERT VAUGHN.
Jan. 14, 1898.
INDIANS STEALING MY HORSES.
In the month of August, 1871, I went near the mouth of Sun river to
make hay. John Traxler, the man I had hired, was with me. I had a very
fine span of gray mares which were brought to Montana from the State of
Missouri, and they had cost me three hundred dollars. We pitched our
tent on the open prairie and away from the brush, for it was a safer
place in an Indian country, beside the mosquitoes were very bad. Each
of us had an old army needle gun with several rounds of ammunition.
When night came we picketed the horses about five hundred yards off
where there was good grass; the picket pins were iron and the ropes
were new, so we had the horses well secured. We went to bed and covered
our heads to keep the mosquitoes from biting us. When morning came
I went to change the pickets for the horses so that they could get
fresh grass, and John went to prepare breakfast. But to my surprise
the horses were gone, and on investigation I found that the ropes
had been cut near the picket pins, I decided at once that they had
been stolen and so reported to John. He could see that I was feeling
very badly over losing my fine team. “Well,” he said, “I will let you
have all the money I’ve got to get another team.” After breakfast and
discussing what was best to do, we went to see in what direction the
horses had been taken. We found moccasin tracks near where the horses
had been picketed, and we tracked them going north. It was plain to
be seen that Indians were the thieves. John went up the valley and
I took the direction the horses had gone, each of us taking his gun
and ammunition; we soon lost sight of each other. After I had gone
about four miles, and on the flat north of Alkali Springs, I found the
tracks of the horses and they were very plain, for the gray mares were
shod. Going a little further I discovered where they had been changing
saddles, for there were pieces of buffalo robes and old Indian blankets
that were full of horse hair and wet with sweat from horses; no doubt
there the change had been made from the Indian ponies to the gray mare.
I followed the tracks crossing the Benton road and in the direction of
the Teton river. After traveling in a northerly direction for fifteen
miles I changed my course and headed for the ranch. I was eight miles
from home. I got home in the afternoon and found John there. Early
next morning I went to Fort Shaw and told my story to the commanding
officer, who was General Gibbon. He at once called for Bostwick, the
interpreter, and asked him what Indians were camping up the valley.
Bostwick replied that they were Gray Eagle’s party. “Go and bring Gray
Eagle here to me,” the general said. Bostwick, with six mounted men,
went after the old chief, and in about three hours they had him and two
of his staff in the general’s headquarters. The general told Gray Eagle
(through Bostwick, the interpreter), that some of his men had stolen
my horses and if they were not returned immediately that he and his
people would be severely punished, and he further said that he was in
this country with his soldiers to look after such thieves as they. The
old Indian listened eagerly, and said, that he was very sorry that my
horses had been stolen; but he assured us that there were none of his
men out that night, and said in the most emphatic manner that none of
his men stole the horses; but that he would do all in his power to find
them and bring them back to me. After considerable discussion about the
matter, the general told the chief that if he would get those horses
and bring them to the fort that he would give him a sack of sugar, and
I said that I would give a sack of flour. Again the general said: “If
you let me know who stole Mr. Vaughn’s horses, I will give you a sack
of coffee and a sack of bacon.”