_The Return to Missouri._
It was too late in the fall when this decision was reached to make
the trip by land, and we began to look about for an opportunity to go
by the river. Two men were fitting up a flat boat at Fort Benton, a
hundred miles down the river from Helena. We all--William, his wife
and little daughter, Curl and myself got in William's two-horse wagon
and made our way over to Fort Benton. There were no white people
living between the two places, and we were told that it was not safe
to attempt the journey, as the Indians had killed and robbed many
persons on that road. We were too well acquainted with Indians to be
much afraid of them, so we decided to go. We saw no Indians, but I was
robbed one night. William and his family slept in the wagon, Curl and
I under it. One night a coyote slipped up and stole a sack of venison
from under the back part of my pillow. That was the second experience
of that kind. The other, which I think I have related, happened years
before in California.
When I left with Turner at St. Joseph I was on the west side of the
Missouri River. When I reached Fort Benton I was on the east side, and
that was the first time I had seen the river since I had left it at
St. Joseph. I had gone entirely around it.
The boat that was being rigged out was a curious affair. It had
no steam, no sails and no oars--just a flat bottomed scow with a
rudder--designed to float with the current. The only equipment for
navigation besides the rudder was a number of long poles to be used in
aiding the boat off of sand bars. About two-thirds of the floor space
of the boat was housed in by stretching dry raw hides two deep over
a heavy frame work, leaving port holes at convenient places through
which our guns could be directed at the Indians in case of attack. The
boat was built by Sloan and Parcell, two men from Iowa, and they were
very proud of their craft.
When everything was ready, fifty passengers got aboard, including two
families, and the cable was cut. The current was swift and we went
down at a gait so rapid that it was almost alarming, but we soon grew
accustomed to it. While in the mountains we frequently came to shoals
and riffles over which the boat dashed at a speed that turned us
dizzy, but we had to stay with it and trust to the man at the rudder
to keep her straight ahead.
At the mouth of the Yellowstone, we passed a tribe of Indians in camp.
The boat drifted around a little curve and up within forty yards of
the bank on which the camp was situated before we noticed them. They
were more surprised, I think, than we, for they stood looking until
we passed entirely out of sight. It snowed all that day, and next
morning we were drifting through mushy ice which sometimes threatened
to squeeze our boat. We were in constant fear of a gorge and tried
several times to reach the shore and land, but could not get through
the ice. Had our boat encountered a gorge it is probable that the
whole crew would have been drowned. Late in the afternoon a south wind
began to blow and in a few hours the river was nearly clear. This was
a great relief.
We had calculated on reaching St. Joseph in a month and had laid in
provisions accordingly. When we struck the Bad Lands the current of
the river became so sluggish that we could scarcely perceive that we
were traveling. We had plenty of flour, but no meat, so every now and
then, slow as we were going, we had to tie up and get out and kill a
deer or an antelope. Sometimes this required a good deal of time, as
our luck in hunting was bad. The current got so slow and the prospects
of getting into swifter water looked so bad, that we rigged up a set
of oars out of long cottonwood poles cut on the banks and flattened.
With these we set the men at work by turns, two to each oar, night and
day and made much better progress. I think if we had waited for the
current we should not have reached home before June of the next year.
When we reached Yankton we got additional supplies and finally reached
Sioux City, where we found an opportunity to take the stage to Omaha,
and did so. At Omaha we got a steamboat to St. Joseph, and reached
home late in October, two months and a half out of Fort Benton.
I found conditions in Missouri much better than when I left. The war
was really over. The militia had all been discharged and there was
now no longer any excuse for killing and robbing men. After such
a long period of lawlessness it required some time, of course, to
reduce everything to order and to secure a rigid enforcement of the
law, but I was surprised and gratified at the progress that had been
made. I passed a very pleasant winter with relatives and friends,
and it began to look like I would be able to settle down and live in
peace. There were those in the community who were disappointed with
the results of the war to themselves because they had expected to get
possession of the land belonging to Confederate soldiers. In fact, our
negroes told me during the war that certain men had said the Gibson
boys could never come back to this country, and they intended to get
their land. Of course, my presence at home with every prospect of
remaining naturally displeased those who had designs upon my land and
that which belonged to my brothers, and I could hardly hope to remain
unmolested--especially as all the public officials were ready to give
willing ear to every report against me.
About the first of March, after I had lived publicly and peaceably
in my home community and in St. Joseph all winter, a man named Joe
Lemons, who was the tool of other men whom I knew, swore out a warrant
charging me with stealing his horse during the war. As soon as I heard
the warrant was out my blood went up to the old war heat, but I said
nothing. I made no attempt to escape or to conceal myself, but went
about my business. A few days later I had business in St. Joseph and
went up as usual, determined to have no trouble if I could avoid it.
I was standing in front of Nave and McCord's wholesale grocery house,
talking to my brother Isaac, when Phelps, a deputy sheriff, came up
and asked me if my name was Jim Gibson. I told him my name was John
Gibson. He then said, "I guess I have got a writ for you." I said,
"Have you? Let's hear it." He had a heavy shawl or blanket around
his shoulders, such as men wore in those days. His hands were both
concealed beneath the shawl, and when I asked to hear the writ he
drew his left hand with the writ in it from under his shawl and in so
doing moved the shawl from over his right hand and I saw that he held
a six-shooter with that hand. I did not move or make any attempt to
resist him, but stood until he, trembling like a leaf, had read the
writ. When he had finished, I waited for him to say what should be
done next, but he stood some moments greatly embarrassed, and said
nothing. Finally I said, "Well, what about it?" His courage then came
to him sufficiently for him to say: "You will have to go to the court
house with me." I said, "all right," and turned and asked brother
Isaac to go along with me. We started to the court house and just
then old Fish, the sheriff, came galloping up with his big spurs on
his heels and jumped off his horse. He blustered up and slapped me on
the shoulder and said, "you d----d horse thief----give up your arms."
I put my hand on his breast and shoved him off the sidewalk, and in
stepping off the curbstone he fell. He got up and he and Phelps stood
looking at me. I did not say "what about it" any more, but started on
toward the court house. When I had got about ten steps away Fish said
to Phelps, "Why don't you shoot him?" Phelps said he did not want to
kill anybody and Fish then said, "Give me the gun, I will shoot him."
With that he snatched the gun from Phelps and pointed it at me. I
jerked my gun from my side and leveled it at him. He lowered his gun
instantly and I turned and walked on. Fish then began to yell, "Catch
him! Catch him!" keeping all the time a good, safe distance behind.
He followed me to Edmond Street, all the time keeping up his yell and
by that time he had raised half the town, it seemed to me. Everybody,
policemen and all, ran out to see what was the trouble with old Fish.
I passed on up Edmond Street and came to a man with a stick of wood
in his hand. He raised it and told me to stop. I told him to drop his
stick and not to bother me. He obeyed and I walked on. I turned on
Fourth Street and went into a feed stable, and through it to an alley,
and then around to the south side of the stable. No one was near me
and I stopped. I had stood but an instant when a brother of Phelps,
the deputy sheriff, came running toward me. I drew my gun and asked
him what he wanted. He turned and ran. There was a board fence about
five feet high in front of him. He sprang up on it on his breast and
turned a somersault over it into the alley and struck the ground flat
on his back. I had to laugh at the frightened fool and that put me in
a better humor. I went to Fourth Street and went into the back door of
a barber shop. The front door was closed, but there was a great throng
standing outside and Fish was still yelling. The crowd was quiet and
orderly. I had been in the shop a few minutes when I heard some one
say, "Don't go in there, that man will shoot you!" Another man said,
"If you will go in I will go with you?" At that time I did not intend
to hurt anyone and if Fish had let me alone I would have been at the
court house, for I knew there was no case against me. But just as the
conversation I have related took place Fish and his man jumped in at
the back door, Fish with his navy cocked and pointed at my breast.
He called out in a loud voice, "Now, you d----d horse thief----give
up your arms!" That was too much for me to take a second time. The
last word was not out of his mouth until the muzzle of my six-shooter
was against his neck and hell was blazing inside of me. I pulled the
trigger, the cap burst with loud noise but the gun, for the first time
in my experience with it, failed to go. Fish thought he was shot and
fell backward out at the door. Three policemen entering by the front
door came up behind and grabbed me and took my guns away from me. By
this time Fish had come to himself and jumped back in the back door
and shot at me. I knocked the muzzle of the gun up and the ball went
into the ceiling. My little finger hit the end of the gun just as it
was discharged and the ball grazed the flesh off down to the bone. A
policeman caught Fish and pushed him back and said, "Nobody but a d----d
coward would shoot a prisoner."
Fish and his brave deputies then formed a procession and started me
off to the court house. Phelps, to whom I had really surrendered on
the reading of the writ, and who I think understood all along that
there would have been no trouble but for Fish's insulting bluster,
led me by the arm. Fish walked behind with my two navies--one in each
hand, and one other deputy loaded down with guns rode Fish's horse by
my side. Another deputy, whose name I will not mention, an old school
mate of mine, remained far behind, thinking, I suppose, that I had
not seen him. I had met him on Felix Street a half hour before Phelps
presented the writ to me and as soon as Phelps came up I knew where
he had received information that I was in town. This deputy knew that
I would not resist arrest if treated with anything like decency, and
might have had me go with him to the court house upon his request
even without a writ, but this method did not suit the bragging,
make-believe methods of the men who were vainly trying to convince the
community of their bravery.
As the procession moved with the desperate man up Fifth Street,
attracting the attention of everybody, greatly to the satisfaction of
the brave fellows who had made the capture, I said to Phelps, that he
need not hold my arm as I would not attempt to run. Fish, who heard
the remark, said to Phelps, "Turn him loose and let him run." I halted
and turned to Fish and said, "If you will give me one of my navies I
will run!" I would have done exactly what I said, and Fish knew it, I
think, for he would not give me the gun. I had no idea he would accept
my challenge, but I stopped his pretense at bravery and showed him to
be exactly the coward that he was.
When we reached the office, Fish, who was an old-timer at the
business, went through my pockets. He knew just where to lay his hand
to get my money and took from my inside vest pocket eighty dollars in
greenbacks, but before he did this he made my brother leave the office
so he could not see how much money he took from me. After getting my
money he turned me into the jail and locked me in a cold cell without
fire or blankets. I lay on the cold rocks and shivered all night with
my finger bleeding on me.
Next day was a busy one for Fish. My friends came in by the dozen to
see me and Fish would not let them talk to me through the hole in
the wall out of his presence, so they kept him standing by most of
the day to hear what was said. My old friend Curl came in. He asked
me if I wanted to get out. I told him I thought I would get out in
a short time. Curl said, "If you want out today I will go and get
enough men to take you out." Fish did not open his mouth, but I told
Curl I thought I had better wait and give bond. Shortly after that
Judge Parker, who stood in with Fish, fixed my bond at twenty thousand
dollars, thinking, I suppose, that I could not give it and that I
would have to lie in jail until my trial came off. They were mistaken
in this. I gave the twenty thousand bond--and could have given a
hundred thousand as well--and was released. I walked down town and
presently met Fish. He ran up and shook hands with me as though he was
greatly pleased to see me, and said, "I thought you had gone." I said,
"No, this is my home and I intend to remain here." I never saw Fish
after that that he did not go out of his way to speak to me and shake
hands with me. I knew his object was to make fair weather with me, but
he had nothing to fear. I was over my anger and would not have harmed
a hair of his head so long as he did not provoke me as he had done on
the day of my arrest.
After meeting Fish I went on, and on Third Street I met two policemen.
They asked me to go into a saloon and have a drink. I went in and
took a toddy and while there one of them slipped a Colt's navy in my
hand and told me to protect myself. I felt much safer with such and
old acquaintance with me, for I did not know when some of my old war
enemies might undertake to make trouble for me.
Two indictments were pending against me--one for horse stealing and
one for an assault upon Fish with intent to kill. I went about my
affairs until court convened. On the morning the case was called Fish
and Lemons were both present. I went in and sat down very close to
them and where I could look directly in their faces. Neither of them
would look at me, but kept their eyes upon the floor or wandering
about the court room. My counsel, Judge Tutt, took a change of venue
and the cases were sent to Platte City.
Judge Parker gave me an order upon Fish for my money and my guns.
Brother William, who had returned from the west, went with me to get
them. We got the money and one gun. Fish said the other gun had been
taken to Easton by one of his deputies and that he would get it for us
later. In a few days William and I went back for the other gun and on
our way to the court house met Fish, hurrying away to catch a train,
so he said. When we asked him about the gun he said he would not stop
to talk to us as he was in a great hurry. William told him he would
stop, that he came for that gun and intended to have it. Fish insisted
that he did not have time to get it for us. William said, "time or no
time, we will have that gun and have it now!" So we turned him round
and marched him to the court house and got the navy and told him he
might then go to his train.
Court convened in Platte City in May. I felt sure that neither Fish
nor Lemons would appear against me. Fish had said that he had found
a man that would shoot and that he had taken desperate chances in
attempting to arrest me. I knew he was afraid of his shadow and that
Platte County was the scene of many of his misdeeds during the war. As
for Lemons, and the horse stealing charge, I felt equally sure there
would be no prosecution, but on the day court convened I went down
prepared for trial. I reached Platte City the day before the case was
to be called. I met the sheriff of that county and told him about my
case. He asked me who the sheriff of Buchanan County was, and when
I told him he said Fish would never come to Platte County; that he
had done too much mischief there during the war, hanging and robbing
gray-haired men.
Next morning when court opened I walked inside the bar and directly
in front of the judge. No one knew me. The judge opened his docket
and commenced calling over the cases. In a few moments he called my
case and no one answered. He called the second time and I arose and
said, "the defendant is present and ready for trial." "Where is he?"
asked the judge. "I am the man," said I. The judge then asked where my
counsel was. I told him I had none; that Judge Tutt of St. Joseph had
promised to look after my cases, but he had not yet arrived. The judge
then told the sheriff to go to the front door and call the prosecuting
witnesses three times. The sheriff did so but no one answered. The
cases were dismissed and I was released from my heavy bonds and went
out of the court room a free man, much to the satisfaction of my good
friends, Matt Evans, Bennett Reece, Ham Ray, Tom Finch and others who
had gone along as witnesses.
The cases were dismissed in May, 1867. I came home from Platte City
and from that day to this have never heard of them. Lemons said his
horse was taken from the stable at twelve o'clock, broad daylight. The
truth is that at ten o'clock the night before he claimed his horse was
taken, and while I was not in the country, that same man, with others,
led away from my place eleven head of horses and mules and no member
of my family ever saw them again. I never thought of calling them to
account for it. It was war times, and, after the war was over, I felt
too thankful to have escaped with my life ever to attempt to hold the
conduct of any man during that period against him.
I went to work at whatever I could find to do to make an honest
living. All my toil and hardship on the plains, by which I had
accumulated a comfortable fortune before the war, had been spent in
vain, and I had to begin anew and under very trying conditions. I
asked nothing but to be let alone, and it now looked as if this wish
of my heart might be gratified.
In a short time my prospects were much improved, and on the 25th day
of August, 1868, I was married. Since that time I have, aside from a
few months spent in Colorado during the early eighties, farmed and
dealt in cattle in Missouri and Nebraska. I own the farm on which I
live, have reared my children to maturity, and educated them as best
I could, and, though often lonely when I think of my brothers and
companions of earlier years, I am, in spite of my eighty-three years,
enjoying good health and the added blessing of many friends.
THE END.
* * * * *
Transcriber's Notes
The Table of Contents was not in the original book but has been added
for convenience. Minor punctuation typos have been silently corrected.
Retained some spelling and hyphenation variations such as Zach/Zack
and breast-works/breastworks.
Page 59: Changed "Hedgepath's" to "Hedgepeth's."
(Orig: called Hedgepath's cut-off, and the South road to Salt Lake)
Page 69: "we" may be a typo for "he."
(Orig: and we wanted to take the body back home.)
Page 95: "Sierre" may be a typo for "Sierra."
(Orig: up Carson River and over the Sierre Nevada mountains)
Page 159: Changed "surrnder" to "surrender."
(Orig: detachment detailed to come and receive the surrnder)
Page 160: Changed "fequently" to "frequently."
(Orig: my sister, whom I have fequently mentioned.)
Page 162: Changed "bue" to "but."
(Orig: bue the enemy were not acquainted with the by paths)
Page 188: Changed "capturned" to "captured."
(Orig: the fate of Charley Pullins who was capturned)
Page 206: Changed "vension" to "venison."
(Orig: a coyote slipped up and stole a sack of vension)
End of Project Gutenberg's Recollections of a Pioneer, by J. Watt Gibson